Forgot, the weary marches;
Forgot, the hunger and cold.
Back again to the bluegrass,
And hearts whose worth is gold.

As old Squire and the children moved on a squad of soldiers mounted the
crest of the hill, then halted. They met right there a man in citizen's
clothes, on horseback, with a pair of fat saddle-bags swung across the
pommel of his saddle. The men in gray surrounded him instantly; one seized
hold of his bridle-rein, another made threatening demonstrations toward
his saddle-bags.

"O, Uncle Squire," cried Roberta, "that's Mr. Shanks, that's Sallie's dear
grandpapa! O, my heart just trembles for him. I hope they won't do any
thing to him."

"Yes, dat's him. He dun kotch up wid at las'. He gwiner be paid back fur
all hees meanness at las'."

"Where are you going?" asked he who held the bridle-rein.

"Home, to my family."

"What have you got in your saddle-bags?" was next asked.

"Nothing but a calico dress for my wife."

"Well, hand it out; I know a 'print' when I see it," responded he who had
made the threatening demonstrations towards the saddle-bags--was even then
diving in them.