At midnight Jackson collected his men, fell back to the canal and began there to throw up the long line of entrenchments over which the vaunted British battalions never put their foot. Keane was stopped, shocked, chagrined; his troops dumbfounded. Three hundred and three lay dead or wounded in the field, and sixty-four had run off or been captured. And now before them, entrenched, lay the same intrepid backwoodsman who had violated all the rules of warfare in fighting them hand-to-hand in the night, when, if he had waited a few more hours, the city had been theirs. They had gone far enough. They would entrench and await Pakenham and the ten thousand embarking troops. They would take the city later. * * * * * _Shakespeare did not write his plays to live, but to make a living._ * * * * * _There is no greater coward than he who despairs._ A Master Hand for Marryin’ BY FLORENCE L. TUCKER (NOTE.—A real story and a touch of real mountain life.—Ed.) A young girl on a bare-backed mule rode up in front of a cabin at the foot of a hill in the Tennessee mountains. Slowly she surveyed the premises; beside the open door hung a gun and a powder horn and a string of red peppers; to the left, rearing itself against the hot afternoon sky, stood a gaunt martin pole, and around the corner of the house, inquisitive, but not unfriendly, advanced a lean, spotted hound. “Hullo,” she called in a quiet voice. From inside a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles was shined upon her, and the heads of two half-grown girls peered out. “Ther’s somebody at the gate, thar, Gabe,” said the woman. But the man had already taken in the figure in the pink calico frock and faded sunbonnet and was regarding it with a stealthy, sidewise glance from under his flop hat. Deliberately he rose, and was followed by the woman and the two girls. “It’s Whit Bozeman’s Luce, from over t’other side the mountain,” he said, halting in the doorway. Then to the girl waiting at the gate: “Hullo.” But the woman went out. “’Light an’ come in,” she said, advancing with some show of interest. “No, I ain’t hardly got time,” responded the girl. “Ole Gran’pap Bozeman is be’n tuk pow’rful bad with the mizry in his side, and I rid over to see ef I could git a black chickin. I come acrost to Weems, but nobody wasn’t to home, an’ I come on down here. I ’lowed I didn’t know none o’ you-all, but I’d hearn tell yer was mighty feelin fer folks in trouble, so I’d resk it.” “I seen yer at the meetin’ over at Big Valley,” said Gabe from his station in the door.