it leads to some devil's trap or other, or to
some back-stairs to let the Rebs in on us
to cut our throats venn ve schlafen. Oh
vere are my tapfre Husaren?"

"Don't make a row with those cans,
now, at this time of night," said I.

"Oh no; and be burnt in our beds. Zat
is goot."

"They are only oil-jars."

"Yes; and what feeds fire better than
oil?"

"Well, if you will be unreasonable, throw
them out of window at once, and let me
go to sleep, there's a good fellow."

"I've a good mind to set the place alight
as a warning to Rebs how to behave another
time; that's me, cap."

"Rabenstein, I shall let you do nothing
half so rash and cruel. You must first
prove the oil was put here for the purpose
of basting us."

But it was all no use. Rabenstein was
half mad with suspicion and anger.

Opening the window my irascible and
suspicious lieutenant took two or three of
the cans and tossed them into the courtyard
below. It was no use my trying to
restrain him.

Presently a window below opened, and
the old man looked out and shouted up to us
to stop. "Here I say, strangers," he cried,
"none of those tricks: you are spilling all the
parafine oil the carrier left here for Mr.
Jackson's stores at Penaquoddy, and I'm
answerable for it."

"Didn't I tell you," said Rabenstein,
turning to me, then throwing out another
can, "he is going to set fire to the place,
and this is to make it go easy. He sent
for it."

"Look here, liftenant," shouted the old
man, "if you'll only let me and my missus
dress, we'll come at once and move those
oil-jars as they seem to kinder rile you."

Contented with this diplomatic arrangement,
Rabenstein yielded, and presently
out the oil-cans were carried by the old
farmer, his wife, and his old negro.

"So!" said Rabenstein, with fine German
emphasis, as the last oil-can was taken
down-stairs, and the door closed upon us.
"Nevertheless I shall not sleep unless you
watch, cap—we'll take it by turns."

The next day after breakfast a sullen
old negro, who kept slouching about with
a short axe in his hand, once more aroused
Rabenstein's suspicions.

"First sign he makes I'll make the
tallest dead body of that verdammter
nigger, verstehen sie?"

We were out that afternoon sitting on
the grass in the orchard beyond the garden
smoking our cigars, when all at once we
saw in the distance the old farmer lighting
a weed fire, the blue smoke of which soon
rose high above the roof of the farm-house.
Rabenstein instantly seized his crutches
and hurried to the spot.

"Look here, thou old coon," he shouted,
"you put out that fire, or I'll tie you to
one of these apple-trees, and leave you
there all night. I and the cap here won't
have signals made to Reb bush-whackers,
nohow, verstehen sie?"

"I didn't mean any harm, gentlemen,"
said the old farmer, reluctantly raking out
the fire. "I want to go on smoothly: we
ain't all thieves down here in Georgia,
though we may prefer Jeff Davis to your
old railsplitter."

"All I say is, you put out that fire,"
was Rabenstein's only answer; "we won't
have it, verstehen sie?"

We were just dozing off after our pipe
and a glass of cold monongahela, when a
horrible noise aroused us. It was a clatter
as of a hundred watchmen springing their
rattles at once.

"That's another signal," said Rabenstein;
"come, cap, draw your sword, and
let's have a shy at the Rebs. If we don't
frighten them a bit in this darned place we
shall be made mincemeat of, I know, before
another sundown, verstehen sie—ach für
meine alte Husaren—wo sind sie, tapfre
Krieger."

A dash over a hedge soon brought us
into a second orchard, and a little gap from
that led into a corn-field, from whence the
noise proceeded.

"Quick, threes about," said Rabenstein;
"now, cap, we'll just drop down on their
sentinel before the others come up."

We were quickly round the corner of a
stack, and there we found the enemy; a
little brown, sly urchin, who was eating a
slice of yellow pumpkin-pie with one hand,
while with the other he sprang a great,
flapping, bird-minder's wooden rattle.

I laughed, but Rabenstein was angry at
the mistake. He gave the boy a box on
the ears and confiscated his rattle.

That evening, at tea, over our johnny-
cakes and hyson, the old farmer and his
wife were most indignant at our behaviour,
our suspicions, and more especially our
treatment of their grandchild, the valorous
bird-minder. They wanted to be civil,
they said, and make the best of the
reverses of war, yet we still remained