Twilight Stories

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

 Up from the meadows rich with corn,
  Clear in the cool September morn,

 The clustered spires of Frederick stand
  Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

 Round about them orchards sweep,
  Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,

 Fair as a garden of the Lord
  To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

 On that pleasant morn of the early fall,
  When Lee marched over the mountain-wall—

 Over the mountains winding down,
  Horse and foot, into Frederick town—

 Forty flags with their silver stars,
  Forty flags with their crimson bars,

 Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
  Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
  Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

 Bravest of all in Frederick town,
  She took up the flag the men hauled down:

 In her attic window the staff she set,
  To show that one heart was loyal yet.

 Up the street came the rebel tread,
  Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

 Under his slouched hat, left and right,
  He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

 "Halt"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast,
  "Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.

 It shivered the window, pane and sash;
  It rent the banner with seam and gash.

 Quick as it fell from the broken staff,
  Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

 She leaned far out on the window sill,
  And shook it forth with a royal will.

 "Shoot if you must this old gray head,—
  But spare your country's flag," she said.

 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
  Over the face of the leader came;

 The nobler nature within him stirred
  To life at that woman's deed and word.

 "Who touches a hair of yon gray head
  Dies like a dog!  March on!" he said.

 All day long through Frederick street
  Sounded the tread of marching feet.

 All day long that free flag tossed
  Over the heads of the rebel host;

 Ever its torn folds rose and fell
  On the loyal winds that loved it well;

 And through the hill-gaps, sunset light
  Shone over it with a warm good-night.

 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
  And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

 Honor to her!—and let a tear
  Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
  Flag of Freedom and Union wave!

 Peace, and order, and beauty, draw
  Round thy symbol of light and law;

 And ever the stars above look down
  On thy stars below at Frederick town!

               JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

 A sturdy cow-boy I would be
      And chase this buffalo out in the West.
  An Indian pony I know I could ride,
      And "round up" with all the rest.