The captain, who was still standing near, turned to him and said angrily, “If you harm a hair of her head, I’ll shoot you like a dog! March on,” he commanded sternly, for some of the soldiers had lifted their guns. On the twelfth of September the southerners left Frederick and the Union forces marched in, to leave the following day for South Mountain and Antietam. It was common talk among the northern soldiers that some old lady had kept a Union flag flying from her window during the Rebels’ possession of the town, and that it had been fired on. As the Federal troops were leaving the city General Reno noticed a crowd of people in front of Barbara Fritchie’s home, reined in his horse and heard the story. On being told that she was more than ninety years old, he exclaimed, “The spirit of 1776!” and his men gave a mighty shout that echoed along the street. Some of the boys in blue ran to the window and grasped her hand, saying, “God bless you, old lady!” and “May you live long, you dear old soul!” The general dismounted to shake hands with the aged heroine, who gave him some home-made currant wine, served in the blue delft from which Washington had drunk. He asked if she would sell him the flag. This she refused to do, but gave him a bunting flag. “Frank,” he said to his brother as they rode away, “whom does she remind you of?” “Mother.” The general nodded his head. The next day Reno fell at South Mountain, mortally wounded, and Barbara’s flag was placed on his casket when it was sent north to his Massachusetts home. Three months later Dame Fritchie died, at fourscore and sixteen, and was buried in the little graveyard of the Reformed Church in Frederick. Her story was published in the newspapers and gained credence in Maryland and in Washington. It was accepted as a fitting symbol of a real and great emotion of the people. Mrs. Southworth, the novelist, hearing it from friends and from a neighbor who was a connection of the Fritchie family, sent it to Whittier, adding, “This story of a woman’s heroism seemed as much to belong to you as a book picked up with your autograph on the fly-leaf.” Within a fortnight after its receipt the Quaker poet, in his most heroic mood, wrote his Barbara Fritchie ballad, remarkable for its lofty patriotism. Though he had no military training his lines are full of the spirit of army life, the tread of marching soldiers, the orders short and sharp, a stirring setting for the courageous act of an old lady of ninety-six. “It ought to have fallen into better hands,” Whittier wrote to Mrs. Southworth. “If it is good for anything thee deserves the credit of it.” The poem was sent to the _Atlantic Monthly_, whose editor replied, “Enclosed is a check for fifty dollars, but Barbara’s weight should be in gold!”