to stop it. I went over in Kentucky more than once an' heard Henry Clay
speak. I don't believe there was ever another such a talker as he was.
He had sense an' knowledge as well as voice. He done his best to smooth
over this quarrel between North and South that others was eggin' on all
the time, but he couldn't, and I reckon when Henry Clay, the greatest man
God ever made, failed, it wasn't worth while for anybody else to try.
Ride on, young fellers, an' get yourselves killed. You ain't twenty,
an' I'm over eighty, but I guess I'll be lookin' at the green trees when
you're under the ground. Ride on in the rain an' the cold, an' I'll go
inside the shop an' warm myself by the forge fire."

The three boys rode on in sober silence. The words of the ancient
philosopher were soaking in with the rain.

"Suppose we don't come back from Stone River," said Pennington.

"We take our chances, of course," said Dick.

"And suppose what he said about the South should prove true," said Warner,
thoughtfully. "One part of it, at least, is bound to come true. That
phrase of his sticks in my mind: 'Mebbe the South can be whipped, but she
can't be moved.' The Southern states, as he says, will be here just the
same after the war is over, no matter who wins."

But such thoughts as these could not endure long in minds so young.
They passed through the village and soon were in the forests of red
cedar. The rain ceased, but in its place came a thick and heavy fog.
The mud grew deeper than ever. Progress became very slow. It was
difficult in the great foggy veil for the regiments to keep in touch with
one another, and occasional shots in front warned them that the enemy