The musicians clambered upon their platform， black， grinning， their fat cheeks already shining with perspiration， and began tuning their fiddles and sawing and whanging with their bows in anticipatory importance. Old Levi， Mrs. Merriwether’s coachman， who had led the orchestras for every bazaar， ball and wedding since Atlanta was named Marthasville， rapped with his bow for attention. Few except the ladies who were conducting the bazaar had arrived yet， but all eyes turned toward him. Then the fiddles， bull fiddles， accordions， banjos and knuckle-bones broke into a slow rendition of “Lorena”—too slow for dancing， the dancing would come later when the booths were emptied of their wares. Scarlett felt her heart beat faster as the sweet melancholy of the waltz came to her：
“The years creep slowly by， Lorena！
The snow is on the grass again.
The sun’s far down the sky， Lorena ...”
One-two-three， one-two-three， dip-sway—three， turn— two-three. What a beautiful waltz！ She extended her hands slightly， closed her eyes and swayed with the sad haunting rhythm. There was something about the tragic melody and Lorena’s lost love that mingled with her own excitement and brought a lump into her throat.
Then， as if brought into being by the waltz music， sounds floated in from the shadowy moonlit street below， the trample of horses’ hooves and the sound of carriage wheels， laughter on the warm sweet air and the soft acrimony of negro voices raised in argument over hitching places for the horses. There was confusion on the stairs and light-hearted merriment， the mingling of girls’ fresh voices with the bass notes of their escorts， airy cries of greeting and squeals of joy as girls recognized friends from whom they had parted only that afternoon.
Suddenly the hall burst into life. It was full of girls， girls who floated in butterfly bright dresses， hooped out enormously， lace pantalets peeping from beneath； round little white shoulders bare， and faintest traces of soft little bosoms showing above lace flounces； lace shawls carelessly hanging from arms； fans spangled and painted， fans of swan’s-down and peacock feathers， dangling at wrists by tiny velvet ribbons； girls with masses of golden curls about their necks and fringed gold earbobs that tossed and danced with their dancing curls. Laces and silks and braid and ribbons， all blockade run， all the more precious and more proudly worn because of it， finery flaunted with an added pride as an extra affront to the Yankees.
Not all the Sowers of the town were standing in tribute to the leaders of the Confederacy. The smallest， the most fragrant blossoms bedecked the girls. Tea roses tucked behind pink ears， cape jessamine and bud roses in round little garlands over cascades of side curls， blossoms thrust demurely into satin sashes， flowers that before the night was over would find their way into the breast pockets of gray uniforms as treasured souvenirs.
There were so many uniforms in the crowd—so many uniforms on so many men whom Scarlett knew， men she had met on hospital cots， on the streets， at the drill ground. They were such resplendent uniforms， brave with shining buttons and dazzling with twined gold braid on cuffs and collars， the red and yellow and blue stripes on the trousers， for the different branches of the service， setting off the gray to perfection. Scarlet and gold sashes swung to and fro， sabers glittered and banged against shining boots， spurs rattled and jingled.
Such handsome men， thought Scarlett， with a swell of pride in her heart， as the men called greetings， waved to friends， bent low over the hands of elderly ladies. All of them were so young looking， even with their sweeping yellow mustaches and full black and brown beards， so handsome， so reckless， with their arms in slings， with head bandages startlingly white across sun-browned faces. Some of them were on crutches and how proud were the girls who solicitously slowed their steps to their escorts’ hopping pace！ There was one gaudy splash of color among the uniforms that put the girls’ bright finery to shame and stood out in the crowd like a tropical bird—a Louisiana Zouave， with baggy blue and white striped pants， cream gaiters and tight little red jacket， a dark， grinning little monkey of a man， with his arm in a black silk sling. He was Maybelle Merriwether’s especial beau， René Picard. The whole hospital must have turned out， at least everybody who could walk， and all the men on furlough and sick leave and all the railroad and mail service and hospital and commissary departments between here and Macon. How pleased the ladies would be！ The hospital should make a mint of money tonight.
There was a ruffle of drums from the street below， the tramp of feet， the admiring cries of coachmen. A bugle blared and a bass voice shouted the command to break ranks. In a moment， the Home Guard and the militia unit in their bright uniforms shook the narrow stairs and crowded into the room， bowing， saluting， shaking hands. There were boys in the Home Guard， proud to be playing at war， promising themselves they would be in Virginia this time next year， if the war would just last that long； old men with white beards， wishing they were younger， proud to march in uniform in the reflected glory of sons at the front In the militia， there were many middle-aged men and some older men but there was a fair sprinkling of men of military age who did not carry themselves quite so jauntily as their elders or their juniors. Already people were beginning to whisper， asking why they were not with Lee.
