"It was great! You ought to heard the drums an' smelt the smoke, an'
felt your feet marchin' under you, an' your knapsack poundin' your
back--yes, sir, an' bein' hungry an' thirsty an' wore out! You'd ought
to seen how ragged the boys got, an' heard 'em whistlin' 'Through
Georgy' while they sewed on patches--oh, you'd ought to _whistled_
'Through Georgy'!"

The girl, watching the kindled old face, saw a shadow creep over it.

"I useter--I useter--but someway I've lost it. It's pretty hard to've
_marched_ through Georgy an' forgot the tune about. Some days I
'most get holt of it again--I thought I could, on the organ, but I
can't, not the hull of it. Someway I've lost it--it's pretty hard. It
ha'nts me--if you ever be'n ha'nted, you know how bad it is."

No, the girl who was leaning on the fence had never been ha'nted, but
her eyes were wide with pity for the old soul who had marched through
Georgia and forgotten the tune.

"Some days I 'most ketch it. I don't suppose"--the old voice halted
diffidently--"I don't suppose _you'd_ whistle it, would you? Jest
through once--"

But she could not whistle even once "Through Georgia." "I'm so sorry!"
she cried. "I can't whistle, or sing, or anything. I wish I could!"
She wished she were Billy; Billy could have done it.

Old '61 marched on, up the dusty road, and the girl went back to her
tree. She had not sold any daisy-handkerchiefs, but she had her story to
tell the girls. She lay in the grass thinking of it. Once or twice she