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Eliza Frances Andrews, The war-time journal of a Georgia girl, 1864-1865, I. Across Sherman's track (December 19-24, 1864） (search)
m of war had done to disfigure its fair face. Every few hundred yards we crossed beautiful, clear streams with luxuriant swamps along their borders, gay with shining evergreens and bright winter berries. But when we struck the Central R. R. at Gordon, the desolation was more complete than anything we had yet seen. There was nothing left of the poor little village but ruins, charred and black as Yankee hearts. The pretty little depot presented only a shapeless pile of bricks capped by a crumed Metta and me to share a nice cold supper with him; the bride offered us the only thing she had left — some real coffee, which the colonel had boiled at a fire kindled on the ground outside-and two ladies, strangers to us, who had got aboard at Gordon, sent us each a paper package containing a dainty little lunch of cold chicken and buttered biscuit. But Metta was too ill to eat. She had a high fever, and we both spent a miserable, sleepless night. At last day began to break, cold, clear,