Geordie had left the room when Absalom spoke; he now returned with a small, homemade banjo--produced, I suppose, from the mysterious locked box he keeps there--and Absalom, tuning it, began to pick and sing an indescribably bloody and doleful song, "The Doom of the Mohuns," which fairly made my blood run cold. This finished, "Blant's Revengement" was demanded and sung, the words of it being as follows: Blant Marrs he was a fighting boy, Most handy with his gun. On Trigger Branch of Powderhorn His famous deeds were done. For thirty year' the war it raged All o'er a strip of bottom. Sometimes the Marrses triumphed strong, Again, the Cheevers got 'em. His paw lamed up, his uncles kilt, Five year' Blant mourned his land, Until, good-grown, beside the fence He took his battle-stand. Then Ben and Jeems they bit the dust And perished in their gore, And many Cheevers his good gun Felt sharp, and dreaded sore. Elhannon, Todd and Dalton then Planned Blant for to layway All unbeknownst, while travelling Upon a fair spring day. Beneath a cliff where Trigger bends In ambush they lay low. Oh, Blant, you better say your prayers! Death lurks at your elbow! Oh, Blant, I wish you was safe at home; I think you'll never be; I would not give a tallow-dip For all your chance I see! He comes, he hears a swift lock click, And, swifter than the wind, He turns, six barrels emptying Before they can begin. Elhannon nevermore will see The sun rise o'er the peak; And Todd and Dalt, up from their wounds, Far, absent countries seek. During the singing, the other boys cast envious glances in Nucky's direction, and Philip probably voiced the sentiments of all when he exclaimed, "Dag gone, I wisht I had a big brother as mean as Blant!" VIII DRESS, CHIVALRY AND THE TROJAN WAR _Sunday Evening._ When we were ready to start for church this morning, I was surprised to see Nucky halt before me, and eye me frowningly from head to foot. "What makes you allus wear ole ugly clothes?" he inquired. "Haint you got no pretty ones, like t'other women?" I looked down at my black crêpe de chine,--of course I have worn deep mourning since I lost Mother, and for six years before I had not had on a color. "You don't like it?" I asked. "I'd as soon look at a coal-bank, or a buzzard," he replied. It suddenly struck me that the dear ones I have loved and lost would be of much the same opinion. "Wait a minute, boys," I said. I flew back and pulled from my trunk a white dress and some black ribbons laid away a year ago. When I emerged, there was a chorus of pleased "gee-ohs" and a decided accession of friendliness, the boys trying who could be first in helping me over the frightful mudholes between the school and the village. I see my duty clear now,--white dresses instead of black.