It was a
remarkably fine evening, certainly, but a very damp one. Heavy dew dripped
from the trees. I found, as my weed grew shorter, that my fondness for the
romantic in Nature waned, and slowly retraced my steps to the house,
muttering to myself some of Edgar Poe's ghostly lines:--
"I stand beneath the mystic moon;
An opiate vapor, dewey, dim
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain-top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley."
I was about entering, when a figure advanced suddenly from behind a pillar
of the veranda, holding a something in its hand which glittered in the
moonlight, and which rattled as it dropped from the perpendicular to the
horizontal, pointing at me.
"Who goes there?" said the apparition, in a hoarse voice. "Stand, and give
the countersign!"
I recognized the voice of the soldier-servant of the morning. There he was
again, that indefatigable coachman, doing duty as sentinel with a musket in
his hands. Not knowing what else to say, I replied,--
"It is I, a friend!"
My good grammar was thrown away upon the brute.
"The countersign," he repeated.
"Pooh, pooh!" said I, "I do not know anything about the countersign. I am
Mr. Shyster, who came up this morning, when you and the General were doing
light-artillery practice on the lawn. Please let me go to my room."
But the brute stood immovable. As I advanced, I heard him cock his musket.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115