- Software name: appdown
- Software type: Microsoft Framwork
- size: 242MB
Quiet for a minute, and then:
"Go down at once to the Provost-Marshal's office and tell Col. Billings to come to Headquarters at once. To come at once, without a moment's delay."He was answered with cheers. A demoniac yell from 10,000 fierce throats rang through the woods, and the next instant thunder and flames burst from the sweeping crescent of rebel cannon, and the ground in front of the foot of the hill was hidden from view by the tide of men rushing over it.
"Well, I don't think any the more o' them for it. We spiled our rations before the fightin' begun, they'd bin spiled if there'd bin no fightin', and I haint going to send no other words, if I've got to send any word.""Will the guerrillas begin shootin' at us as soon's we cross the river?"
The reception of the message had thrown the household into a flurry of joyful expectancy. It was far better news than the Deacon's last letter had led them to anticipate. After a few moments of tearful ejaculation and mutual kissing over it, mother and daughters began to get everything in readiness to give the returning ones the warmest, most cheerful welcome. Abraham Lincoln was summoned in from his rail-splitting, which he had been pursuing quite leisurely during the Deacon's absence, and stirred to spasmodic energy under Maria's driving to cut an additional supply of dry wood, and carry it into every room in the house, where little Sammy Woggles, the orphan whom the Deacon and Mrs. Klegg were bringing up, built cheer-shedding fires. Mrs. Klegg had her choicest young chickens killed, and after she and Amanda had robbed every other room of whatever they thought would add to the comfort of Si's, she set herself to work preparing a supper which would outdo all her previous efforts.
But no man on Fruyling's World could see the Alberts without preconceptions. They were not Alberts: they were slaves, as the men were masters. And slavery, named and accepted, has traditionally been harder on the master than the slave.The apples and nuts were brought in, together with some of Mrs. Klegg's famous crullers and a pitcher of sweet cider, and for awhile all were engaged in discussing the delicious apples. To paraphrase Dr. Johnson, God undoubtedly could make a better fruit than a Rome Beauty apple from a young tree, growing in the right kind of soil, but undoubtedly He never did. The very smell of the apple is a mild intoxication, and its firm, juicy flesh has a delicacy of taste that the choicest vintages of the Rhine cannot surpass.