"What you talking about, ladies?" demanded the old cook, rising to the occasion. "You 'spec' a gemman lak yer gran'pa gwine sit in de cellar, lak--lak a 'tater!"--the simile suggested by a bushel-basket half full of Irish potatoes for late planting in the "garden spot." The "ladies," reassured by the joke, laughed shrilly, a little off the key, and clung to her comfortable fat arm that so inspired their confidence. "_I_ gwine sit in de cellar tell _I_ sprout lak a 'tater, ef disher tribulation ain't ober 'twell den," declared Uncle Ephraim. "Dar now! lissen ter dat!" as once more the clamorous air broke forth with sound. The "ladies" exclaimed in piteous accents. "Dat ain't nuffin ter hurt, honey," Aunt Chaney reassured her trembling charges. "Dese triflin' sodjers ain't got much aim. Yer gran'pa an' yer cousin Leonora wouldn't stay up dere in de lawbrary ef dere was destruction comin'." "Then why do _you_ come in the cellar?" asked the logical Adelaide. "Jes' ter git shet o' de terror ob seein' it, honey!" replied Aunt Chaney. "I ain't no perfessor ob war, nohow, an' my eyes ain't practised ter shellin' an' big shootin'." "Me, neither," said Adelaide. "Nor me," whimpered Geraldine. "De cannon-balls ain't gwine kill us, dough. We gwine live a long time," Aunt Chaney optimistically protested. "I ain't s'prised none ef when de war is ober an' we tell 'bout dis fight, we gwine make out dat when de shellin' wuz at de wust, you three ladies an' me jus' stood up on de highest aidge ob de rampart ob de fort, an' 'structed de men how ter fire de cannon, an' p'inted out de shells flyin' through de air wid dat ar actial little forefinger, an' kep' up de courage ob de troops." "On which side, Aunt Chaney?" asked Adelaide, the reasonable. "On bofe sides, honey," said Aunt Chaney, "'cordin' ter de politics ob dem we is talkin' to!" A rat whisked over the floor, across the dim slant of light that fell from the candle on the head of the barrel. Uncle Ephraim, his elbows on his knees, his gray head slightly canted in a listening attitude, smiled vaguely, pleased like a child himself with Aunt Chaney's sketch. "Oh, Aunt Chaney!--_do_ you s'pose we'll tell it _that_ way?" cried Adelaide, meditating on the flattering contrast. "Dat's de ve'y way de tales 'bout dis war is gwine be tole, honey, you mark my words," declared the prophetess. The contrast of the imaginative future account with the troublous actuality of the present so delighted Adelaide that she spelled it off on her fingers to Lucille, both repairing to the side of the barrel where the candle was glimmering, in order to have the light on their twinkling fingers in the manual alphabet. The humors of the expectation, the incongruity of their martial efficiency, the boastful resources of the future, elicited bursts of delighted gigglings, and when the next shell exploded, neither took notice of the hurtling bomb shrieking over the house and bound for the river.