Nonfiction | March 01, 1990

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A Confederate Officer, himself as raggedy as a scarecrow, together with a few of his men, and most of them shoeless and all of them is tattered and torn and patched pieces of uniform, is on his hands and knees crawling down the long straight row of a cornfield. They all go very slowly, carefully, as quiet as they can. Above all they do not want the famer in the log cabin, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, to find them here. For what they intend to do, the farmer could have them hanged.

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