’Twixt them and the read-guard; scrub-oaks near
He sidelong eyes, while hands move fleet;
Then mounts and spurs. One drop his cap—
“Let Mosby fine!” nor heeds mishap.
A gable time-stained peeps through trees:
“You mind the fight in the haunted house?
That’s it; we clenched them in the room—
An ambuscade of ghosts, we thought,
But proved sly rebels on a bouse!
Luke lies in the yard.” The chimneys loom: