“Massy sake! I thought the whole Southern consarn had broke down,” added Gran’ther Greene. “It will break down and cave in now. Our folks have got a footing in South Carolina now, and they’ll soon bring the rebels to terms,” said John, who was fully imbued with the enthusiasm, as well as the spirit of prophecy, which pervaded the earlier period of the great American Rebellion. “Let me tell you, gran’ther, the navy has done a big thing down there. Commodore Dupont will bring ’em to their senses in double-quick time. Charleston will have to take it next.” “Eat your supper, John, and talk about it afterwards,” interposed Mrs. Somers. “Supper!” exclaimed John: “who can eat with such news as this? Let me read it to you.” Mrs. Somers and the rest of the family were quite willing to hear what the navy had done at Port Royal; and John was permitted to read the stirring account of the action, which he interpolated with comments of his own, expressive of his admiration of the flag-officer and the blue-jackets generally, who had achieved the glorious victory. “I wish I had been there!” exclaimed John, when he had completed the reading of the narrative. “How I wish I had been there!” “You had better eat your supper now,” quietly remarked Mrs. Somers, who did not seem to relish the turn which the conversation had taken. “Here I am rotting on the stocks, lying round like a lubber, when the ship’s in a gale of wind,” said John, as he stuffed half a hot biscuit into his mouth, apparently to mollify the dissatisfaction with which he regarded his position. “Have some apple-sauce, John?” added Mrs. Somers. The young aspirant for distinction took some apple-sauce, and continued to eat, for a few moments, with a desperation dangerous to the well-being of his digestive organs, and which might reasonably have awakened a fear in the mind of his anxious mother that he would choke himself to death, instead of being killed by a splinter or a shell on board a man-of-war. John was silent for a time; but he kept up a vigorous thinking, and it is doubtful if he could have told whether he was eating hot biscuit or “salt-horse.” It would not have required a conjurer, either, to tell what he was thinking about; and the poor mother, with her husband far away in the rebel country (if, indeed, he was still living), and one son exposed to the perils of battle and march, walked mechanically from the table to the closet, as she proceeded to clear off the table, looking as sad as a vision of sorrow; and it needed no conjurer to tell what she was thinking about.