In a town else dark.—The moths, begar!
Are not quite yet all dead!” “How? how”
“A mute, meek mournful little mouse!—
Mosby has wiles which subtle are—
But woman’s wiles in wiles of war!”
“Tut, Major! by what craft or guile—”
“Can’t tell! but he’ll be found in wait.
Softly we enter, say, the town—
Good! pickets post, and all so sure—
When—crack! the rifles from every gate,