But there was the doctor’s buggy-horse, a magnificent iron-gray, and Persimmon, her cousin’s riding-horse, a beautiful cream-colored mare with black, flowing mane and tail, and Green Persimmon, her colt, which was like its mother, and scarcely less beautiful.  Besides, there were horses and mules which, if not so ornamental, were indispensable.  Oh, these must be run off and saved,—­but how?  Goaded by these thoughts, and upon the impulse of the moment, the girl ordered a sidesaddle to be put upon old “Whitey,” and, hastily mounting, belabored the astonished beast until, yielding to the inevitable, he started off at a smart trot.

Once in the woods, Sally’s heart quailed within her; her terror was extreme.  The tramp, tramp of her steed she thought was as loud as thunder, and felt sure that thus she would be betrayed.  The agitation of the underbrush caused by the wind seemed to her to denote the presence of a concealed enemy.  She momentarily expected a “Yank” to step from behind a tree and seize her bridle.  As she rushed along, hanging branches (which at another time she would have stooped to avoid) severely scratched her face and dishevelled her hair; but never heeding, she urged on old Whitey until he really seemed to become inspired with the spirit of the occasion, to regain his youthful fire, and so dashed on until at length Sally drew rein at the bars of the horse-lot, where the objects of her solicitude were quietly grazing, with the exception of Green Persimmon, who seemed to be playing a series of undignified capers for the amusement of her elders.  To catch these was a work of time:  Sally looked on in an agony of impatience.  But, fortunately, a neighbor rode up just then with the news that for some unknown reason the Federal soldiers had, after halting awhile just beyond the forks of the road, marched back to the river and were recrossing.  With the usual inconsistency of her sex, Sally now began to cry, trembling so violently that she was fain to dismount, and submit to be coddled and petted awhile by the old servants.  She declared that she never could repass those dreadful woods, but later, a sense of duty overcame her nervousness, and (the family having returned), escorted by her cousins and followed by a faithful servant, she returned to her anxious friends, who in one breath scolded her for having dared so great risks and in the next praised her courage and devotion.

The visit of the raiders was, alas! not long delayed, but its attendant horrors may not here be described.  The terrible story may, perhaps, be told at another time,—­for the present, adieu.

CHAPTER VI.

The following story, originally written by me for the Southern Bivouac, is strictly true.  The successful forager was once a patient of mine, and is well known to me.  I also know that he perpetrated the joke as described.  The article is intended to appear as if written by a soldier’s son.