“‘Grace,’ he say, blowin hard, ‘is dis you? My Gawd, sister, dey is atter me. I started to slip thoo de lines an’ dey seed me an’ so I had to run fur my life. Do you heer um?’ “We all listen an’ sho ’nough we heerd de Yankees comin’ as fast as dey kin lick it. Young Miss carn’t speak; she des throwed ’er arms ’roun ’er brurr’s neck an’ tried to pull ’im in de house. But he say, ‘No, no; I mus’ run furder; dey gwine s’arch dis house fust place, kase we-all fur de Souf—good-bye!’ an’ ’fo’ Miss Grace could open ’er mouf he’s off thoo de woods an’ out o’ sight in de dark, dough he wasn’t runnin’ out’n a slow dog-trot kase he was too broke down. In a minute ’bout ten men jump de fence an’ come to us. “‘Here he is!’ one of um say, an’ he stuck a pistol in my face fur de worl’ like he gwine blow my brains out. Dis was a sho ’nough s’prise to me, I tell you, fur it was a powerful good chance fur young Miss ter tell um, yes, I was de one, an’ git um to stop runnin’ after her brurr. I didn’t know what she was gwine to do ’bout it, but it didn’t suit me one bit. I never seed de line o’ pickets I’d try to run thoo, an’ my time hadn’t come to die nohow. “But one of de men say, ‘No, it was a white man, an’ a reb to boot kase I seed his face an’ his newniform. Dis is des a’ ol’ nigger dat stays ’roun’ dis house.’ Den he up an’ ’dress young Miss. ‘Young lady,’ he ax ’er, ‘is a man pass heer des now?’ “Well, suh, I ’lowed she wouldn’t find ’er tongue, she was so bad put out, but she up an’ say: ‘No, suh, not sence I been standin’ here,’ an’ she say it as cool as ef she was des givin’ ’im a passin’ s’lute. But I reckon dat officer seed thoo ’er kase he said: ‘Some o’ you fellers run down dat way an’ fo’ of us will s’arch de house. Miss,’ he say to Miss Grace, ‘we all know you is fur de downfall o’ de republic, an’ you mus’ ’scuse me fur not takin’ yo’ word, but we is been fooled so many times by you women in de Souf dat we got to be partic’lar.’ “Wid dat, fo’ of um go thoo we-all’s house fum bottom to top an’ ol’ Miss was mighty nigh ’stracted. She riz bodily fum ’er bed an’ fronted um. It was a big wonder to me dat dem Yankees ain’t shot ’er daid in ’er tracks fur de way she belittled um. “‘You dirty gang o’ raid-hand murderers an’ cut-th’oats,’ she say, ‘I hope an’ pray high heaven will fall down on you an’ crush you in everlastin’ punishment. You ain’t satisfied wid takin’ our sons an’ husbands fum us, but you must go an’ tromple our houses wid yo’ muddy feet an’ fo’ce yo’ ugly se’ves into de sick rooms o’ yo’ betters. Dat shows yo’ raisin’; no Southern gen’man ain’t gwine be so brutish.’