The "ladies," reassured by the joke, laughed shrilly, a little off the key, and clung to her comfortable fat arm that so inspired their confidence.
"I gwine sit in de cellar tell I sprout lak a 'tater, ef disher tribulation ain't ober 'twell den," declared Uncle Ephraim. "Dar now! lissen ter dat!" as once more the clamorous air broke forth with sound.
The "ladies" exclaimed in piteous accents.
"Dat ain't nuffin ter hurt, honey," Aunt Chaney reassured her trembling charges. "Dese triflin' sodjers ain't got much aim. Yer gran'pa an' yer cousin Leonora wouldn't stay up dere in de lawbrary ef dere was destruction comin'."
"Then why do you come in the cellar?" asked the logical Adelaide.
"Jes' ter git shet o' de terror ob seein' it, honey!" replied Aunt Chaney. "I ain't no perfessor ob war, nohow, an' my eyes ain't practised ter shellin' an' big shootin'."
"Me, neither," said Adelaide.
"Nor me," whimpered Geraldine.
"De cannon-balls ain't gwine kill us, dough. We gwine live a long time," Aunt Chaney optimistically protested. "I ain't s'prised none ef when de war is ober an' we tell 'bout dis fight, we gwine make out dat when de shellin' wuz at de wust, you three ladies an' me jus' stood up on de highest aidge ob de rampart ob de fort, an' 'structed de men how ter fire de cannon, an' p'inted out de shells flyin' through de air wid dat ar actial little forefinger, an' kep' up de courage ob de troops."
"On which side, Aunt Chaney?" asked Adelaide, the reasonable.