WORK AT THE COMMISSION ROOMS.

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CHAPTER XV.

Work at the Commission rooms.-A day at the rooms of the Sanitary Commission, by Mrs. Livermore.-Mode of raising supplies."Where there's a will, there's a way," by Mrs. Livermore.-" Women in the harvest-field," by Mrs. Livermore.-Mrs. Livermore's army. trip to Milliken's Bend.

SUBSEQUENT to our return from Young's Point, the work of the Commission moved forward more vigorously than ever, as appeals for help, from surgeons, officers and men, were brought by every mail. Life at the "Rooms" became intensified, and the pressure so great, that our sanitary labors were often continued at our homes till midnight, and the sufferings of the army then tucked under our pillows, to visit us in our dreams. Days, weeks and months rapidly succeeded each other, and as they rolled on, cheered us with benisons and hallelujahs that the crisis had passed, the army was relieved and invigorated, and the heroic regiments crowding transports on the Mississippi, to reinforce their veteran brothers for the bloody work before them. Each day repeated the other in our busy life at home, of which I am permitted to present a picture, from the graphic pen of Mrs. Livermore, who has already given a "Peep into the

Boxes," and who was my co-laborer in the toils and privileges of sanitary life.

A DAY AT THE ROOMS OF THE SANITARY COMMISSION.

It is early morning-not nine o'clock-for the children are flocking in merry droves to school, making the sweet air resonant with their joyous treble and musical laugh, as with clustering golden heads, and interlacing arms, they recount their varied experiences since the parting of the night before, and rapturously expatiate on the delights of a coming excursion, or promised picnic. With a good-bye kiss, we launch our own little folks, bonneted, sacqued, and ballasted with books like the rest, into the stream of childhood, that is setting in strong and full towards the school-room, and then catch the street car, that leaves us at the rooms of the "Chicago Sanitary Commission." But early as is our arrival, a dray is already ahead of us, unloading its big boxes and little boxes, barrels and firkins, baskets and bundles at the door of the Commission. The sidewalk is barricaded with multiform packages, which John the porter, with his inseparable truck, is endeavoring to stow away in the "Receiving Room." Here hammers, hatchets, wedges and chisels are in requisition, compelling the crammed boxes to disgorge their heterogeneous contents, which are rapidly assorted, stamped, repacked, and reshipped, their stay in the room rarely exceeding a few hours.

We enter the office. Ladies are in waiting, who desire information. The aid society in another State, of which they are officers, has raised at a Fourth of July festival some six hundred dollars, and they wish to know how it shall be dis

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posed of, so as to afford the greatest amount of relief to the sick and wounded of our army. They. are also instructed. to investigate the means and method of the Commission, so as to carry conviction to a few obstinate skeptics, who persist in doubting if the Sanitary Commission, after all, be the best means of communication with the hospitals. Patiently and courteously, the history, method, means, views and successes of the Commission are lucidly explained for the hundredth time in a month, and all needed advice and instruction imparted-and the enlightened women leave.

An express messenger enters. He brings a package, obtains his fee, gets receipted for the package, and without a word departs. Next comes a budget of letters-the morning's mail. One announces the shipment of a box of hospi tal stores, which will arrive to-day; another scolds roundly because a letter sent a week ago has not been answered -which has been answered, as the copying-book indisputably asserts, but has been miscarried; the third has a bugaboo, mythical story to relate of the surgeons and nurses in a distant hospital, with large development of alimentiveness, who save little for their patients, being mainly occupied in "seeking what they can devour" of the hospital delicacies; a fourth pleads earnestly and eloquently that the writer may be sent as a nurse to the sad, cheerless, far-away hospitals; a fifth is the agonized letter of a mother and widow, blistered with tears, begging piteously that the Commission will search out, and send to her, tidings of her only son,

"Scarce more than a boy with unshaven face
Who marched away with a star on his breast.'

and has not been heard from since the battle of Grand Gulf; a sixth seeks information concerning the organization of an aid society in a remote town, which has just awakened to its duty; a seventh is a letter from nine-year-old little girls, who have earned five dollars, and wish to spend it for the poor sick soldiers." God bless the dear children! An eighth begs that one of the ladies of the Commission will visit the society in her town, and rekindle the flagging zeal of the tired workers, who forget that our brave men do not stop in their marches, and postpone not their battles and their victories because of the heat, or of weariness; a ninth announces the death of one of our heroic nurses, who was sent by the Commission a few months ago to Tennessee, a blue-eyed, broad-browed, serious-faced, comely girl, with heart loyal as steel, and soul on fire with patriotic yearnings to do something for her country, and who has now given her life; and so on through a package of twenty, thirty and sometimes forty letters.

Now commences the task of replying to these multitudinous epistles; a work which is interrupted every five minutes by some new comer. A venerable, white-haired man, enters. He has been here before, and we immediately recognize him. "Have you heard from my son in Van Buren Hospital, at Milliken's Bend?" "Not yet, sir; you know it is only nine days since I wrote to inquire for him. I will telegraph, if you are not able to wait for a letter." "No matter,", and the old man's lip quivers, his figure trembles visibly, his eyes fill with tears, he chokes, and can say · We understand it all; our heart warms towards him, for our father, a thousand miles away, is like him, white

no more.

BROKEN-HEARTED FATHER-LITTLE MESSENGER-BOY. 243

haired, and feeble. We rise and offer our hand. The old man's closes convulsively upon it, he leans his head against the iron pillar near our desk, and his tears drip, drip, steadily on the hand he holds.

"He has only gone a little before you," we venture to say; "it is but a short distance from you to him now."

"Yes," added the broken-hearted father, "and he gave his life for a good cause; a cause worthy of it, if he had been a thousand times dearer to me than he was."

"And your boy's mother-how does she bear this grief?" He shakes his head, and again the tears drip, drip, on the hand he still retained.

"She'll see him before I do; this will kill her!"

What shall assuage the sorrow of these aged parents, bereft of the son of their old age, by the cruel war that slavery has invoked? Sympathy, tears, comfort are proffered the aching heart, and after a little, the sorrowing father turns again to his desolate home.

A childish figure drags itself into the room, shuffles heavily along, sinks into a chair, and offers a letter. What ails the little fellow, whose face is so bright and beautiful, and yet so tinged with sadness? We open the letter and read. He is a messenger-boy from Admiral Porter's gunboats, who is sent home with the Admiral's written request that the child be properly taken care of. Not yet thirteen years old, and yet he has been in battles, and has run the gauntlet of the Vicksburg batteries, which for ten miles belched forth redhot and steel-pointed shot and shell, which yet failed to sink the invulnerable iron-clads. Fever, too much medicine, neglect and exposure, have done their worst for the