It was a Sabbath morning in the latter part of October, clear and frosty. The sun had risen in a cloudless sky, the wind blew northward in rolling columns, the smoke from the village chimneys, and the leaves on the magnificent forest trees, which surrounded the village on the north, east, and south, had grown brown and sear, but the great plantations of the level valley on the west were still verdant. While on the west, faintly outlined in the distance, rose the Cumberland mountains.
An old man, with a basket on his arm, was walking down the broad sidewalk past the cottages, from which came the fragrant odor of coffee, a sure indication that breakfast was preparing. The old man chanced to cast his eyes towards the eastern part of the town, and paused in amazement.
In a field of about twenty acres, as if they had risen by magic, were scores of snowy tents. Sentries were on duty, their burnished arms glittering in the sun, and hundreds of gray-coated soldiers were passing and repassing, white clouds of smoke from their camp-fires rose in the frosty air.
While the old man was looking beyond the streets and houses at the encampment on the hill, a neighbor, walking up the other side of the street, hailed him with:
"Rather sudden appearance ain't it?" pointing to the camp, over which the Confederate flag was floating.
"When did they come, Mr. Williams?" said the first old man.
"Last night," replied Mr. Williams, crossing over to where the other stood. "Can't you guess what's in the wind?"
"No," was the answer.
Mr. Williams, a corpulent, smooth-faced man of sixty, smiled.
"Why, you see, the boys are strong enough now to take the Junction, and they are on their way."