Sally Dupré was tired of scraping lint But her hands kept on. The hours, sunbonneted women, Passed and passed. “If he ever comes back to me!” She finished her scraping and wondered how to make coffee Out of willow-bark and life from a barren stick.⁠ ⁠… Spade the fugitive stared at the bleak North Star.⁠ ⁠… Luke Breckenridge, on picket out in the woods, Remembered a chambermaid at Pollet’s Hotel. And wanted a fight. He hadn’t been lucky, of late. Jim, his cousin, was lucky, out in the West, Riding a horse and capturing Yankee scouts. But his winter here had been nothing but work and mud, He’d nearly got courtmartialed a dozen times, Thought they knew how he could shoot. The chambermaid’s name Was Sophy. She was little and scared and thin, But he liked her looks and he liked the size of her eyes, He’d like to feed her up and see how she looked, If they ever got through with fighting the Yankees here. The Yankees weren’t all Kelceys. He knew that now,