“Shall I send word for her?” I asked. Mighty ready was I for any reason that should bring Peg walking our way.
“It is what I would propose,” said he. “The sooner Peg knows of these, her troops, the sooner she can sketch her line of battle. Send your Jim; he has doubtless learned the way to Peg's on those rose errands.”
The General's humor would court a risk of being overtaxed with a too much concern for those roses to Peg. Some day I might ask him to observe as much, and to seek newer reason for his jesting. There is such a word as threadbare, but in conjunction with my floral sendings to Peg, which—and properly—still went on, and his endless references thereunto, the General would appear to live in ignorance of it. However, I did not proceed for his enlightenment at this time, but put it off to a more sour leisure and a cloudier day.
Jim was sitting near a hall window, ruefully considering the snow through the pane. Jim's tropic blood would shrink from winter, and, as though in sympathy with what were probably his feelings, he crooned in a most dismal vein:=
```"Rain come wet me, sun come dry me,
```Take keer, white man, don't come nigh
`````me."=
“Is that another of those inspirations of Polly Hines of the 'Possum Trot?” I asked.
“Why, no, Marse Major,” said Jim, “It's a good ol' Cumberland ditty jes' d'same. Jim sings 'em when he's thinkin' of d'folks in Tennessee. It sort o' he'ps Jim to see 'em. Thar's times when, if Jim sings long enough, d'folks back thar nacherally seems to rise right up befo' Jim.”
“Those are surely advantages,” said I, “and if I thought it might bring me such fortune, I would strike up a tune for myself. Since you appear to be in touch with them, tell me what is going on among our people at home.”