gure of the
major and old Peter, his pursuer. Jerozel Bronson, a half-witted lad who
comprehended nothing save an occasional genial word, leaned against the
fence and grinned like a skull. The major and the pursuer passed out of
view around the turn in the road where the great maples lazily shook the
dust that lay on their leaves.

For a moment the little group of women listened intently as if they
expected to hear a sudden shot and cries from the distance. They looked
at each other, their lips a little ways apart. The trees sighed softly
in the heat of the summer sun. The insects in the meadow continued their
monotonous humming, and, somewhere, a hen had been stricken with fear
and was cackling loudly.

Finally, Mrs. Goodwin said, "Well, I'm goin' up to th' turn a' th' road,
anyhow." Mrs. Willets and Mrs. Joe Petersen, her particular friends,
cried out at this temerity, but she said, "Well, I'm goin', anyhow."

She called Bronson. "Come on, Jerozel. You're a man, an' if he should
chase us, why, you mus' pitch inteh 'im. Hey?"

Bronson always obeyed everybody. He grinned an assent, and went with her
down the road.

A little boy attempted to follow them, but a shrill scream from his
mother made him halt.

The remaining women stood motionless, their eyes fixed upon Mrs. Goodwin
and Jerozel. Then at last one gave a laugh of triumph at her conquest of
caution and fear, and cried, "Well, I'm goin' too!"

Another instantly said, "So am I." There began a general movement. Some
of the little boys had already ventured a hundred feet away from the
main body, and at this unanimous advance they spread out ahead in little
groups. Some recounted terrible stories of rebel ferocity. Their eyes
were large with excitement. The whole thing with its possible dangers
had for them a delicious element. Johnnie Peterson, who could whip any
boy present, explained what he would do in case the enemy should happen
to pounce out at him.

The familiar scene suddenly assumed a new aspect. The field of corn
which met the road upon the left was no longer a mere field of corn. It
was a darkly mystic place whose recesses could contain all manner of
dangers. The long green leaves, waving in the breeze, rustled from the
passing of men. In the song of the insects there were now omens,
threats.

There was a warning in the enamel blue of the sky, in the stretch of
yellow road, in the very atmosphere. Above the tops of the corn loomed
the distant f