I

MARSE BILLY'S CLOSE CALL.

BY PAULINE SHACKLEFORD COLYAR.

HEARD Uncle Mose singing as I neared his cabin, and I paused upon the threshold to listen. The sound was faint and muffled, coming, as it did, from the other side of the mud-daubed logs, but it brought to mind many happy moments of my childhood. He sang it to-day just as he did that morning so long ago, when we were gathering chincapins together in the back grove, and I asked him why people called a rabbit a "Molly Cotton-tail."

"De raccoon's tail am ringed all 'roun',

De 'possum's tail am bar',

Po' rabbit got no tail at all,

Nuffin' but er lettle bunch o' ha'r."

"The top of the morning to you, Uncle Mose," I called out, pushing open the door.

"G'long, Marse Torm!" he retorted, laughing, while he peered at me from his accustomed corner by the great wide-mouthed fireplace; "dat's de way you allus comes- -same ez er gus' o' win'."

I dropped upon the chair opposite him, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness within I noticed a superannuated trunk, thickly studded with brass-headed nails and to which a few stray patches of hair still clung, drawn up in front of the old man. In his lap he held a gorgeous flowered satin waistcoat, a pair of antiquated mutton-leg trousers and a yellow silk tie. In the open trunk lay a claw-hammer coat in affectionate proximity to a battered beaver hat.

"Dis heah's whut I wants ter be buried in," he vouchsafed, as he deposited the tie in a vacant niche. "Dey's de same clo'es whar I wo' de day I driv ole Miss thoo de Yankee lines, comin' out f'um Natchez-ole Miss, she settin' back in de kerrige, wid er big hoop-skyert on, an' two saddles and two pa'r boots fur de sojers, all hid under it."

He was leaning over the trunk now and I could not see his face, but he straightened himself suddenly, and with a burst of hilarity continued:

"De picket, he come up, an' he sez, sezee, 'Nuffin' contrabang in dar?' Ole Miss, she sorter cl'ar her th'oat, an' she 'low, smilin', 'Naw, suh, nuffin' 'tall.'

"Well, honey, dat did suttinly flo' dat picket, kaze ole Miss done fill de big kerrige up lebbel full, an' nary soul in dar 'cep' her.

"Does you know whut you puts me in min' ob?' he ax ole Mistiss, an' when she ain't answer, he sez, 'Why, madame, you puts me in min' o' de ole tukkey hin whar dey sot on er hund'ed aigs, an' tole her ter spread herse'f.'

"Ole Miss, she riz her chin in de a'r, an' she nomernate ter me, 'Dribe on, Moses!' an' I driv, too, chile, an' I ain't so much ez crack er smile, aldough dat picket wuz mos' bustin' his sides."

For a moment Uncle Mose sat reflectively, rubbing the stubby growth of beard upon his chin; then, as he smoothed out his satin waistcoat and laid it beside the coat, he announced :

"But dat wuzn't nowhar ter der time Marse Billy had his close call. Yas, suh, dat wuz de las' ye'r o' de wah, an' ole Mose wuz straight ez er arrer, an' he could sling on de style, sho' nuff, wid dese heah duds on."

He chuckled softly, locked the trunk, and hobbling to the fireplace, deposited the key in a gourd which hung there.

"Miss Kate, she done it all, too, aldough she wuzn't but sixteen," he asserted, as he resumed his seat.

"Who was that? Aunt Kate? What did she do?" I inquired.
"Now you's crowdin' me!" warned Uncle Mose.
"Dat's de way you

allus does-axin' all dat 'dout ketchin' yo' bref."

Uncle Mose and I understood each other thoroughly, so I sat awaiting his pleasure, while he lighted his pipe. He puffed at it vigorously for a few moments and then, crossing his legs, began:

"Yas, suh, dat wuz yo' Aunt Kate, an' dis heah's whut I names yo' Unk Billy's close call. You see, Miss Kate, she allus mighty venturesome, an' up twell de time she growed ter er young lady fokes joke her 'bout bein' er Tormboy. But shucks! Miss Kate ain't keerin', an' when she fo' ye'r ole she clamb er tree same ez er squirrel, an' stick on er hoss lak er cucklebuh. Her an' Marse Billy, beinst ez dey live on j'inin' places, wuz playin' togedder an' sweetheartin' all dey libes. Marse Billy, he rid ober arter he done 'listed, wid his sojer clo'es on, an' his pa's sode clinkin' 'g'in his spurs, to tell we all good-bye. He jes er boy hisse'f-tryin' ter sprout er mustache, but dey 'lect him cap'in o' his comp'ny, an' bofe famblies wuz monst'ous sot up 'bout it. Dat ebenin', whilst de new moon wuz shinin', he say he bleeged ter start. He shake han's wid de niggers, an' kiss all de white fokes good-bye 'cep' Miss Kate, an' him an' her, dey walk orf togedder, down todes de big gate. I come 'long berhine 'em, leadin' Flash, his wah hoss, an' by de water oak, on de fur side o' de pawn, I see Miss Kate pin er long white plume in his hat. I sorter cough easy, ter gib noticement ez I wuz dar, but Lawd, honey, when young fokes is co'tin' dey 'pears ter be deef an' bline, too.

Marse Billy, he tek her in his arms, an' he kiss her saf' an' lovin', an' she tu'n white ez er ghos', but her big brown eyes dey shinin' lak fire. 'I wish ter Gawd I could go wid you, an' fight fur my country, too,' she tell him." Uncle Mose rested both hands upon his knees, a meditative, far-away look in his eyes.

"She stan' dar smilin' at him, and wavin' her leetle lace hankcher, jes ez long ez she kin see him, an' ain't nobody but me eber know how she fling herse'f on de groun' arter he done went, an' lay dar sobbin' an' cryin' wuss 'an she done de day Marse Billy kilt her pet rabbit wid his blow-gun. “Well, suh, dem wuz turrible times! Ole Miss she look lak she 'mos' 'stracted ev'y time she read in de papers 'bout de big battles whar dey fit, kase she cyant git no news o' yo' pa. You see, he wuz up in Ferginny, an' wunst he come home wid his arm broke, an' den ag'in dey shoot him in de leg, but scusin' er ball clippin' off Marse Billy's white plume, he writ Miss Kate ez how he ain't got er scratch. So one ebenin' whilst Ole Miss and Miss Kate wuz settin' on de big front po'ch knittin' socks an' scrapin' lint fur de sojers, a scout rid up ter de steps. His hoss wuz blowin', an' foamy wid sweat, he done come so farst, an' ez he lif' his cap, he say, sorter chokin', lak he cyant ketch his bref, 'Miss Kate, try ter be brave. I'se fetchin' you Billy's love, an' he want me ter tell you he's gwinter die wid yo' name on his lips. Billy's been captured inside de Yankee lines, an' termorrer dey's ter hang him in Natchez fer er spy.'"

Uncle Mose's pipe had gone out, so he laid it on the floor beside him, and sat there rubbing his gnarled hands.

"Dat young sojer an' Ole Miss, dey breck down an' 'mos' cry dey eyes out, but aldough Miss Kate's lips wuz p'int'ly trimblin', she ain't drapt nary tear.

"Dat's de time Miss Kate show her raisin'," he remarked, after a while, with a touch of pride in his tone. "When trouble gits rank, de quality allus comes up ter de scratch, an' dar ain't no scrub stock 'bout we all. ""Unk Mose,' Miss Kate say, quiet lak, 'before' sun-down dis ebenin' you mus' git us ter Natchez.'

"Twuz two o'clock den, an' my pa'r ole mules (whar wuz all de sojers done lef' us) dey stove up an' po', an' fo'teen miles ter go. But I 'spon' ter her, 'Yes'm, we'll be dar on time.' So dreckly dey wuz all ready-Ole Miss, an' Miss Sue, an' Miss Kate, an' aldough de harness ain't nuffin but cotton ropes, an' de collars made outen shucks, I put on dis heah weskit wid de flowers lookin' ez fresh as dem in Ole Miss' flower gyarden, an' I cock my stovepipe hat on de side o' my haid, an' I driv thoo dem streets 'mos' big ez old Marster hisse'f.

"All de ladies, 'cep Miss Kate, got dey faces kivered up wid veils when we stop at de prison, an' er rared back, good-lookin' young feller, wid er gun on his shoulder, keep er trompin' up an' down befo' de do'. Ef eber you heerd er voice soun' sweet an' pleadin' twuz Miss Kate when she talkin' wid dat gyard. He p'int'ly spresserfy ter her dat she cyant go in. But whut 'pendence is dar in er man when er 'oman gits holt o' him?

"Oh! suh, hab pity on us!' she tell him. 'Let us see him jes five minutes ter say our las' goodbye. Mebbe you done lef' somebody up home whar

loves you lak I does him.'

"Well, suh, 'twuzn't no wonder he say 'yas,' kase ef he hed ben er gineral stid o' er gyard, Miss Kate could er 'suaded him. He melt wuss 'an snow when de sun shine on it, an' when dey all come back ag'in, an' Miss Kate, she hol' out her leetle han' ter him, an' ax Gawd ter bless him, whilst de res 's clambin' in de kerrige, he wuz cryin' 'mos' bad ez we all.

"Den I sez ter myse'f, is dis heah nigger gittin' bline? I mek sho dar wuz jes three whut come wid me, an' now when we start orf dar wuz fo'.

"Yas, chile, yo' Aunt Kate done it-she dress Mars Billy up lak er lady, wid er veil ober his face, an' she smile on dat gyard twell she 'mos' 'tice his heart outen his jacket. He 'pear ter be er nice young feller, anyway, an' I 'low de good Lawd ain't sot it down ag'in him, kase he furgit ter count dat day.

"Marse Billy, he j'ined his company on de road home, an' you bet dar wuzn't no hangin' in Natchez nex' mawnin', but Gawd knows Marse Billy suttinly hed er monst'ous close call."

B

WAR SKETCHES.

BY GENERAL HORATIO C. KING.

EFO' de Wah" I was a student at Dickinson College, and among my classmates was a handsome Southerner, Jack C., from Winchester, Va., who became and remained until his death, a few years ago, my close and intimate friend. We exchanged visits in vacations, and I thus formed the acquaintance of a most lovely Southern family, typical in its hospitality and the warm welcome always extended their friend, a Yankee of Yankees ; for I was born in Maine.

At graduation our paths divided, and a little more than two years after was precipitated the terrible Civil War. Jack's household comprised his father and mother, who were of middle age, one brother, a young clergyman, and a sister, Miss Joe, who had been reared in refinement, and was scantily equipped to battle with the severe privations and domestic services which the fortunes of war thrust upon her, but for which, like thousands of her Southern sisters, she found herself more than a match. Although primarily opposed to the secession of Virginia, loyalty to the State carried this family, heart and soul, with the Confederacy, and as Winchester became almost at the outset debatable ground, Mr. C. accepted a public office in Richmond, while the elder brother was appointed a chaplain, and Jack entered the ranks of the Confederate army. I had been in the Union service a little over two years with the Army of the Potomac, when I received an order to report for duty to General Sheridan, in the Shenandoah Valley, with headquarters at Cedar Creek, about twenty miles beyond Winchester. Martinsburg was the base of supplies for the army, the railroad from Harper's Ferry to Winchester having been dismantled, and rendered unserviceable; and I reported at Martinsburg to take advantage of the first supply train, under the escort of a brigade, made necessary by the presence, not to say omnipresence, of Moseby's guerrillas, which regularly harassed the flanks, and on several occasions stampeded and carried off a portion of the train. It was late in October, and the nights were already pretty cold, when I reached Martinsburg. I found the town filled with wounded and stragglers, and visitors from the North in search of husbands and brothers killed or mutilated. At the depot, which I reached in the dusk of the evening, I found the platform completely filled with rude pine coffins, containing the killed, and awaiting shipment. To avoid the chilling air, for a stiff breeze was blowing, my clerk, orderly and myself tucked

The Fear of Moseby's Guerrillas.