"It is now one; I shall march at six."

I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in
pervading the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family
swarming after me, all working, talking, prophesying and
lamenting, while I packed my "go-abroady" possessions, tumbled
the rest into two big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut,
and gave them in charge, with the direction,--

"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them."

Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead
of sugared, by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack--
it was only a traveling bag, but do let me preserve the
unities--hugged my family three times all round without a
vestige of unmanly emotion, till a certain dear old lady
broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort of wail--

"Oh, my dear, my dear, how can I let you go?"

"I'll stay if you say so, mother."

"But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you."

Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee
matron's composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would
have sent ten sons to the war, had she possessed them, as
freely as she sent one daughter, smiling and flapping on the
door-step till I vanished, though the eyes that followed me