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"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." But, "Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed by her three score years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town She took up the flag the men hauled down." We proceeded from this spot to the beautiful Mount Olivet cemetery.
"O, he must come! Barbara Frietchie and the flag! Just think!" "Isn't it grand?" "O, I'm so frightened!" These were the hurried sentences that made the buzz behind the scenes; while in front "all the world wondered." Meanwhile, lamps trembled, the curtain vibrated, the very framework swayed. "What is it? Fire?" queried a nervous voice from near the footlights.
I had brought with me from the Academy my scarlet sash, and wore it around my waist under my sword-belt. I also had my regulation gauntlets, and a campaign sombrero, and as I rode along I remembered the line about General Stonewall Jackson, in "Barbara Frietchie," The leader glancing left and right. I repeated it to myself, and scowled up at the trees and into the jungle.
He acquired his black eye in the same way in which all married men acquire a black eye by running against a doorjamb while trying to find the ice-water pitcher in the dark. He said so himself the next day. Even Barbara Frietchie is an exploded myth. She did not nail her country's flag to the window casement. Being a female, she could not nail a flag or anything else to a window.
The touch of restive scorn that could come out on Martha Josselyn's face just suited her part; and Leonard Brookhouse was very cool and courteous, and handsome and gentlemanly-triumphant as the Union officer. "Barbara Frietchie" was grand. Grahame Lowe played Stonewall Jackson.
Garrison was mobbed: Phillips, who might have amassed wealth, like Phocian, died in poverty: Sumner was murderously assaulted: John Brown, lost his life; and George L. Stearns, died of unresting toil during the war, and wrecked his fortune: but Whittier represented the heart of the American people, and after the publication of "Barbara Frietchie" the tide turned in his favor.
The touch of restive scorn that could come out on Martha Josselyn's face just suited her part; and Leonard Brookhouse was very cool and courteous, and handsome and gentlemanly-triumphant as the Union officer. "Barbara Frietchie" was grand. Grahame Lowe played Stonewall Jackson.
The wounded soldier sprang from his couch; the nun came nearer, with a quick light in her eye; Leslie Goldthwaite, in her mob cap, quilted petticoat, big-flowered calico train, and high-heeled shoes; two or three supernumeraries, in Rebel gray, with bayonets, coming on in "Barbara Frietchie"; and Sir Charles, bouncing out from somewhere behind, to the great hazard of the frame of lights, huddled together upon the stage and consulted.
"Oh, he must come! Barbara Frietchie and the flag! Just think!" "Isn't it grand?" "Oh, I'm so frightened!" These were the hurried sentences that made the buzz behind the scenes; while in front "all the world wondered." Meanwhile, lamps trembled, the curtain vibrated, the very framework swayed. "What is it? Fire?" queried a nervous voice from near the footlights.
Then one great cheer broke forth, and was prolonged to three. "Not be Barbara Frietchie!" Leslie would not have missed that thrill for the finest beauty-part of all. For the applause that was for the flag, of course, as Ginevra Thoresby said.
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