Oh, life! life was so sweet, and
love and friendship were so easy to come by and so hard to part withal,
and glad, oh, glad was she that no men of the French nation or any other
were on their march hitherward to be torn in cruel lacerations by those
wicked cartridges, so cleverly and artfully and cheerfully
constructed,--men with homes, wives, mothers, sisters, children, every
soldier representing to some anxious, tender heart a whole world, a
microcosm of affection, all illuminated with hope and joy or to be
clouded with grief and terror and loss and despair,--oh, glad, glad was
she that the French invasion was but a figment,--a tissue of
misconceptions and vague innuendoes and groundless assumptions.
And yet she was sad and sorry and ashamed, because of the futile bustle
and bluster and cheerful courageous activity about her. Not a cheek had
blenched; not a hand had trembled; not a voice had been lifted to
protest or counsel surrender, despite their meagre capacities for
defense and their number, but a handful. What would these men say to her
if they knew that their patriotism and their valor were expended in
vain,--above all, their mutual cause of quarrel wasted!--as pretty a bit
of neighborhood spite as ever stopped a bullet--all foolishly and
needlessly reconciled without a blow! She had saved them from a bloody
feud, the chances of which were terrifying to her for their own sakes.
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