But if we did forget to provide the liquids, I am glad we had the foresight to provide other viands enough to feed a regiment, because a whole army came.

“Evelina,” gasped Jane, as we stood on the edge of the bluff that commands a view of almost all the Harpeth Valley stretched out like the very garden of Eden itself, crossed by silver creeks, lined with broad roads and mantled in the richness of the harvest haze, “can all those wagons full of people be coming to accept our invitation?”

“Yes, they’re our guests,” I answered, with the elation of generations of rally-givers rising in my breast, as I saw the stream of wagons and carriages and buggies, with now and then a motor-car, all approaching Glendale from all points of the compass.

“Have we enough to feed them.  Jasper?” she turned and asked in still further alarm.

“Nothing never give out in Glendale yit, since we took the cover offen the pits for Old Hickory in my granddad’s time,” he answered, with a trace of offense in his voice, as he stood over a half tub of butter mixing in his yarbs with mutterings that sounded like incantations.  I drew Jane away for I felt that it was no time to disturb him, when the basting of his baked meats was just about to begin.

I was glad that about all the countryside had gathered, unhitched their wagons, picketed their horses, and got down to the enjoyment of the day before the motor-cars bringing the distinguished guests had even started from Bolivar.  It was great to watch the farmers slap neighbors on the back, exchange news and tobacco plugs, while the rosy women folks grouped and ungrouped in radiant good cheer with children squirming and tangling over and under and around the rejoicings.

“This, Evelina,” remarked Jane, with controlled emotion in her voice and a mist in her eyes behind their glasses, “is not only the bone and sinew but also the rich red blood in the arteries of our nation.  I feel humbled and honored at being permitted to go among them.”

And the sight of dear old Jane “mixing” with those Harpeth Valley farmer folk was one of the things I have put aside to remember for always.  They all knew me, of course, and I was a bit teary at their greetings.  Big motherly women took me in their arms and younger ones laid their babies in my arms and laughed and cried over me, while every few minutes some rugged old farmer would call out for Colonel Shelby’s “little gal” and look searchingly in my face for the likeness to my fire-eating, old Confederate, politician father.

But it was Jane that took them by storm and kept them, too, through the crisis of the day.  Jane is the reveille the Harpeth Valley has been waiting for for fifty years.  I thought I was, but Jane is it.

And it was into an atmosphere of almost hilarious enjoyment that the distinguished Commission arrived a few minutes before noon, just as Jasper’s barbecue-pits were beginning to send forth absolutely maddening aromas.