The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 94, August, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 94, August, 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
It was, I supposed, about half a mile distant; but there was no knowing
how near the wet horsemen whom it signalled might be to my proposed
hiding place; and, accordingly, I got hastily down by the walnut, a good
squirrel-cover, without shelter or head-piece. I lay along that side of
it which was farthest from the road, and durst not move for fear of
capture. The woods were quite thick at that place, and from the hidden
pathway (now become scarce a highway) a body of the enemy might emerge
at any moment. The unwelcome music of their bugle broke the Sabbath
stillness of the morning, and interrupted the harmony of the falling
rain-drops as they pattered through the great cathedral branches
overhead. I spent, I presume, two hours in this lazy manner, without
thought of any food, and scarce daring to look about me. During the
first half of that period I heard the bugle thrice send its clear,
ringing notes--for it is sometimes lark-throated--through the
tree-aisles and under the half-arches above me, the tones lingering in
waves on the air, and not failing to startle me. At the first commanding
blast I got to watching for the troops that did not come forth at all.
Being quite three grasshopper's flights from the road, I could
reconnoitre the few rods of it passing near me with comparative ease and
safety, and the intentness of my look-out drove thoughts of discomfort
from my head. The silence grew oppressive to one who had been perforce
so long alone. The thought that at times man has to avoid his
fellow-beings in his misery, lest his misery be augmented, was
productive of a tender feeling of self-pity in my bosom, which, perhaps,
(strange to say,) was a source of some comfort to me. I had, I found,
awakened a present sympathy in my case, the passive part of my nature
having enlisted its kindly feelings in behalf of the bespattered,
dripping gentleman who lay there before it, a sad mass of ooze, soaking
on wet leaves. I was growing reflective over my woes, when the second
blast broke upon my ear, and I started much as young ladies do at the
sudden gun which, on the boards, sends the unholy Caspar to his account.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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