evices, signs, and flags of the Confederacy shall be suppressed."
So says Picayune Butler. _Good._ I devote all my red, white, and blue
silk to the manufacture of Confederate flags. As soon as one is
confiscated, I make another, until my ribbon is exhausted, when I will
sport a duster emblazoned in high colors, "Hurra! for the Bonny blue
flag!" Henceforth, I wear one pinned to my bosom--not a duster, but a
little flag; the man who says take it off will have to pull it off for
himself; the man who dares attempt it--well! a pistol in my pocket
fills up the gap. I am capable, too.

This is a dreadful war, to make even the hearts of women so bitter! I
hardly know myself these last few weeks. I, who have such a horror of
bloodshed, consider even killing in self-defense murder, who cannot
wish them the slightest evil, whose only prayer is to have them sent
back in peace to their own country,--_I_ talk of killing them! For what
else do I wear a pistol and carving-knife? I am afraid I _will_ try
them on the first one who says an insolent word to me. Yes, and repent
for it ever after in sack-cloth and ashes. _O!_ if I was only a man!
Then I could don the breeches, and slay them with a will! If some few
Southern women were in the ranks, they could set the men an example
they would not blush to follow. Pshaw! there are _no_ women here! We
are _all_ men!

May 10th.

Last night about one o'clock I was wakened and told that mother and
Miriam had come. Oh, how glad I was! I tumbled out of bed half asleep
and hugged Miriam in a dream, but waked up when I got to mother. They
came up under a flag of truce, on a boat going up for provisions,
which, by the way, was brought to by half a dozen Yankee ships in
succession, with a threat to send a broadside into her if she did not
stop--the wretches knew it _must_ be under a flag of truce; no boats
leave, except by special order to procure provisions.

What tales they had to tell! They were on the wharf, and saw the ships
sail up the river, saw the broadside fired into Will Pinckney's
regiment, the boats we fired, our gunboats, floating down to meet them
all wrapped in flames; twenty thousand bales of cotton blazing in a
single pile; molasses and sugar thrown over everything. They stood
there opposite to where one of the ships landed, expecting a broadside,
and resolute not to be shot in the back. I wish I had been there! And
Capta