"Butterfly a-flyin' in de Chinaberry tree (Butterfly, flutter by!), Kitty gull a-cryin' on the sunset sea (Fly, li'l gull, fly high!), Bully bat a-follerin' de moon in de sky, Widder bird a-hollerin', 'Hi, dar! Hi!' Tree toad a-trillin' (Sleep, li'l honey! De moon cost a shillin' But we ain't got money!), Sleep, li'l honey, While de firefly fly, An' Chuck-Will's Widder holler, 'Hi, dar! Hi!'" Before dawn the intense stillness was broken by the rushing music of the birds--a careless, cheery torrent of song poured forth from bramble and woodland. Distant and nearer cockcrows rang out above the melodious tumult, through which a low, confused undertone, scarcely apparent at first, was growing louder--the dull sound of the stirring of many men. Men? The valley was suddenly alive with them, choking the roads in heavy silent lines; they were in the lanes, they plodded through the orchards, they swarmed across the hills, column on column, until the entire country seemed flowing forward in steady streams. Sandy River awoke, restlessly listening; lights glimmered behind darkened windows; a heavier, vaguer rumor grew, hanging along the hills. It increased to a shaking, throbbing monotone, like the far dissonance of summer thunder! And now artillery was coming, bumping down the dim street with clatter of chain and harness jingling. Up at the great house on the hill they heard it--the boy in his white nightdress leaning from the open window, and his sleepy sister kneeling beside him, pushing back her thick hair to peer out into the morning mist. On came the battery, thudding and clanking, horses on a long swinging trot, gun, caisson, forge, mounted artillerymen succeeding each other, faster, faster under the windows. A guidon danced by; more guns, more caissons, then a trampling, plunging gallop, a rattle of sabres--and the battery had passed. "What is that heavy sound behind the hills?" whispered the boy. "The river rushing over the shallows--perhaps a train on the trestle at Oxley Court House--" She listened, resting her rounded chin on her hands. "It is thunder, I think. Go to bed now for a while----" "Hark!" said the boy, laying his small hand on hers. "It is thunder," she said again. "How white the dawn is growing. Listen to the birds--is it not sweet?" "Celia," whispered the boy, "that is not thunder. It is too hushed, too steady--it hums and hums and hums. Where was that battery galloping? I am going to dress." She looked at him, turned to the east and stared at the coming day. The air of dawn was full of sounds, ominous, sustained vibrations.