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[Illustration: "COLONEL TAKE YOUR COLORS!"]




THE SOCK STORIES,

BY "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER.

RED, WHITE, AND BLUE

SOCKS.

Part First.

BEING

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SERIES.

BY

"AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER,

THE AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE WHITE ANGEL."

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER,

BY "AUNT FANNY" HERSELF.

          NEW YORK:
          LEAVITT & ALLEN, 21 & 23 MERCER ST.
          1863.




   Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by

  S. L. BARROW,

   In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
     for the Southern District of New York.

  JOHN F. TROW,
  Printer, Stereotyper, and Electrotyper,
  60 Greene Street, New York.




CONTENTS OF VOL. I.


                                           PAGE

  INTRODUCTION--THE STORY OF THE SOCKS,      7


  COLONEL FREDDY; OR, THE MARCH AND
    ENCAMPMENT OF THE DASHAHED ZOUAVES,

  CHAP. I.--RAISING A REGIMENT,             35
       II.--"MARCHING ALONG,"               55
      III.--CAMP LIFE,                      76




DEDICATION.


MY DEAR LITTLE COOLEY AND GEORGIE:

WHEN you see that this book is dedicated to you, I hope your bright eyes
will sparkle with pleasure; but I am afraid your pretty curly heads will
hardly retain a recollection of a little personage who once lived close
to your beautiful home on Staten Island. She remembers _you_, however,
and sends you this soldier story with her very best love--the love she
bears in her inmost heart for God and little children. And now she asks
you to hunt in every corner of those same precious little heads for a
kindly remembrance of your affectionate friend,

                                           "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER.




THE STORY OF THE SOCKS.

BY AUNT FANNY.


"OH dear! what _shall_ I do?" cried George, fretfully, one rainy
afternoon. "Mamma, do tell me what to do."

"And I'm _so_ tired!" echoed Helen, who was lazily playing with a kitten
in her lap. "I don't see why it should rain on a Friday afternoon, when
we have no lessons to learn. We can't go out, and no one can come to see
us. It's too bad, there!"

"Helen, do _you_ know better than _God_?" asked her mother, speaking
very gravely. "You forget that He sends the rain."

"I suppose I was thoughtless, mamma," answered the child; "I did not
mean to be wicked, but, dear me, the time passes _so_ slowly, with
nothing to do."

"Have you and George read all your books?"

"Oh yes! two or three times over," they both answered; "and oh, mamma,"
continued Helen, "if the one who wrote 'Two Little Heaps,' or the
'Rollo' book writer, or the author of 'The Little White Angel,' would
only write some more books, I, for one, would not care how hard it
rained. If I was grown up and rich, I wouldn't mind giving a dollar a
letter for those stories."

"Nor I," shouted George in an animated tone, quite different from the
discontented whine he had favored his mother with a few moments before;
"the best thing is to have them read aloud to you; that makes you
understand all about it so much better. I say, mamma, couldn't you write
a letter to one of those delightful people and beg them to hurry up with
more stories, especially some about bad children;--not exactly wicked,
you know, but full of mischief. _Then I am sure that they are all true._
Only wait till I'm a man! I'll just write the history of some jolly
fellows I know who are always getting into scrapes, but haven't a scrap
of meanness about them. That's the kind of book I like! I'll write
dozens of them, and give them to all the Sunday school libraries."

His mother smiled at this speech, and then said quietly, "I know a
gentleman who likes the story of 'The Little White Angel,' as much as
you do, and he has written a letter to request the author to write six
books for him."

"Six! hurrah!" shouted George, "how glad I am!" and he skipped up to
Helen, caught her by the hands, and the two danced round the room,
upsetting a chair, till Helen, catching her foot in the skirt of her
mother's dress, they both tumbled down on the carpet together.

"If you cut up such violent capers," said the kind mother, laughing,
"at the first part of my information, it may be dangerous to tell you
what the author replied."

"Oh no, do tell us!" cried the children. "We'll be as still as our
