promise are offered in vain. At last they fell back, the living; what
flesh and blood could do otherwise? Fell back, but undismayed, and
fighting stubbornly inch by inch, as they bore off their wounded. O, those
darlings of old Kentucky! whose light went out on that July morning nearly
thirty years ago, those eager souls that God sealed with His eternal peace
ere aught had ruffled them, other than the zest of a hurdle-race or quail
hunt on their native bluegrass; many of them scarce passed the mile-stones
of boyhood, fresh from the classroom and tender home circle. Yet, they
plunged into the awful fire of that needless sacrifice, like veterans, to
whom the smoke and crash of charging squadrons is a pastime.

No braver souls than they ever perished; none more loyal to the land that
gave them birth. Well may Kentucky embalm their worth in enduring tablets
of brass and marble. Let her see to it that she keeps their memory green
in her heart, for they loved her with a love passing the love of woman.

When Mam' Sarah heard the firing she caught hold of Roberta's hand and
started to run, calling on the others to follow. She heard voices shouting
to her, in reality the voices of the negroes who had gone down to the
tobacco fields, calling to her to turn back. But, in her excitement she
thought they were war cries, and ran as fast as she could away from them.

"Let's go to the play-house under the hill, Mam' Sarah," said quick-witted
Roberta.

That play-house was a rocky recess, once the bed of some subterranean
stream, and protected from view by a sycamore's gnarled, knotted branches
extending down, and hung with matted wild grape tendrils. Mam' Sarah had
often gone down there and spread her linen on the grass to bleach, and she
generally took the children along for company. That's how they happened to