"O, you dear, good, Uncle Squire," cried the delighted child. "I feel like
hugging you."
The old man twisted around in his seat and went through his facial
pantomimes again, pretty much on the principle of a dog wagging his tail
when he is fed.
Roberta was feeding him with the daintiest of food, the nectar of the gods
to all of us, old and young, high and low.
Although it was July, there was a bed of glowing embers on the stone
hearth, where Uncle Squire was cooking his supper. He liked the
independence of it. A pot of steaming coffee stood close beside the fire,
slices of middling meat were broiling on the coals, and an ash cake slowly
browning. He nodded his head toward them, on hospitable thoughts intent.
"Iz you hongry, Lil Missus?"
"Well, I believe I am, rather, Uncle Squire, and your supper looks nice,
but I think I will save myself for Aunt Judy's waffles. I took her a
basketful of fresh eggs, and she promised me some waffles and scrambled
eggs. You know I adore waffles and scrambled eggs, Uncle Squire."
Suddenly the child burst into a ringing peal of laughter. Something very
funny was evidently suggested by the eggs.
"O, Uncle Squire," she cried, "did I tell you how I got the best of Jemimy
at last?"
"Iz dat de hen dat's been so bobstreperous, you bin tellen' me erbout, Lil
Missus?"
"The very same, Uncle Squire. O 'twas nice, the way I managed her
yesterday. I let all of the good hens out, and I said, 'Jemimy, you've got
to stay in. You haven't been doing your duty lately at all. I am just
ashamed of you. You will ruin your reputation. People will stop coming
here to get your eggs to set with." Aunt Betsy says, "Jemimy, A bird that
can sing, and wont sing, ought to be made to sing, and I am going to do my
duty by you. I am just going to keep you in here until you get in the
habit, the habit, you hear, Jemimy, of laying one egg a day.' You know,
Uncle Squire, habit is every thing. Jemimy cackled, just like she was
going right at it. But I said, 'No, Jemimy, you've fooled me before.' Then
she ruffled up her feathers and flew around, determined to get out. I was
firm with her, Uncle Squire, and wouldn't let her out. This evening I went
there and found two beautiful eggs, fresh laid, in her nest."
"You iz er sharp one, Lil Missus; I allers sed it. Who'd s'poze now you
cud make dat hen underston' lak er human creeter, dat she gotter turn over
er new leaf en do better. Pear-lak, sum chillen's born'd en de wurl'
now-er-days wid ez much sense ez grow'd-up fo'ks."
As they sat there a rumble of thunder was heard. Roberta listened
intently: "'Tater wagens, Uncle Squire, _big_ 'tater wagens, rumbling over
the bridge."
"Yes, Lil Missus, it's comen'. En de stormier 'tis, en de darker 'tis, de
better fur him en me."
That night about nine o'clock Mrs. Marsden heard a low but distinct rap on
the shutters of the sitting-room window opening on the porch. She happened
to be there alone. It startled her for an instant, but she soon recovered
composure and asked:
"Who is it?"
"A friend," was the reply.
"What do you want"
"Shelter for a few hours, a bite to eat, and--I will tell you more anon."
"These are dreadful times, and I am not in the habit of taking strangers
in at this hour of the night."
"All right," said he on the outside; then added with the glibness of a
Fourth of July stump speaker, "that is, if you can reconcile it with your
conscience to turn the cold shoulder on a fellow being in the desperate
strait I am in."
"Where did you come from?" was next asked.
"From those who are wandering up and down the earth, seeking how they may
devour me."
"Where are you going to?"
"Destination unknown. Depends somewhat on yourself."
Without another word, Mrs. Marsden turned the lamp down low, and hurried
towards the front hall door.
"Take a light with you, Julia," called Aunt Betsy, from the bed-room
adjoining.
"Not for the world, Auntie."
Her acute ear had caught the tramp of horses' hoofs coming through the
avenue. When she opened the door, a tall man dressed in the Federal
uniform stood outside, his hair disheveled by wind, and face shining with
dashes of rain. She locked and bolted the door after him, and led the way
to the dining-room, where Roberta sat playing "checkers" with a
boyish-looking soldier, also dressed in Federal uniform.
"Give this gentleman some cake and wine, dear," she said to Roberta, "and
entertain him until I return; and you," to the other soldier, "go outside
for a little; Squire will show you where to go."
Her surmises were correct. Heavy spurred boot-heels crossed the porch
floor; there was a thundering knock with the butt-end of a riding-whip on
the outside of the door.
Inwardly quaking, and strengthening herself with silent prayer, she
opened the door. A squad of Federal soldiers stood before her. One of them
lifted his hat, and said courteously:
"We have come with authority from headquarters to search your house,
Madam; we understand you are harboring rebels."
"You are at liberty to search my house," she answered in a clear,
penetrating voice. "You will find some women and children, and one of your
cloth, here."
They searched sitting-room, bed-room, and passed into the dining-room; saw
a brother Federal there partaking of light refreshments; were pleasantly
accosted by him, and told he belonged to Company G, of Colonel M.'s
Michigan volunteers; had been sick and was out on furlough at the house of
a friend. One of them, a social kind of fellow, lingered on the threshold,
amused at the badinage passing between the soldier and the beautiful
child.
"Oh, no, you are not a rebel," the soldier was saying, "you can't make me
believe that; you've got too honest a face to be a rebel. Now, just
confess you are glad of the drubbing our boys gave 'em this morning."
"No, I'm not glad;" said Roberta, her eyes were filling with tears and her
lips quivering, "I'm just as sorry as I can be."
"Well, then, I'll tell you what I expect the trouble is. You've got a
sweetheart among them; and if I was you, I'd trade him off for a Union
sweetheart right away."
"I don't want any sweetheart at all; but if I wanted one I wouldn't have a
Yankee." Her eyes flashed and her cheeks crimsoned.
"Why not?" continued her tormentor. "They are lots nicer than the rebels;
have more to eat, and wear better clothes. Besides, didn't the rebels
steal your mamma's best horses, the last time they passed this way, and
leave her nothing but two starved, broken-down nags in their place? Didn't
they, now?"
"Yes," the child was reluctantly forced to admit. Suddenly her face
brightened; she almost trembled with eagerness. "Who stole my mamma's
negroes, I wonder; every one of them but Mam' Sarah, and Aunt Judy, and
Uncle Squire, and Polly and Dilsy--every one; who did that?"
That sally provoked such a peal of laughter and put everybody in such a
good humor, possibly the search was not prosecuted as vigorously as it
might have been otherwise.
The next morning about sunrise two Federal soldiers sat on their horses
before Mrs. Marsden's front door. The family were assembled on the porch.
They were always early risers, and their being up a little earlier than
usual would have caused no comment. Possibly the leave-taking might have
seemed a little queer to prying eyes.
"Take care of my gun," the youngest-looking of the soldiers whispered to
Roberta, "and if I live, I'll come back before long and get it."
"Will you?" said the child, delightedly. "Then I'll take care of it,
sure." An instant afterwards added, with the serio-comic imitation of the
fire of older tongues, so common at that time, "They will have to walk
over my dead body before they take it from me."
As the soldiers rode through the avenue the murkiness overhead cleared,
and shafts of clear gold fell earthward; each blade of grass sparkled like
a diamond, and tiny globules hung from the leaves of the trees, reflecting
countless dazzling prisms of light. A lark started up from the high grass
of the meadow, and soared aloft, dropping soft trills and quavers and
clear, fresh warbles from his happy little throat. Just outside of the
avenue gate they met a line of milch-cows en route for the "cuppen." They
moved swiftly as though there was purpose in their movements, and glanced
about with eager eyes. Slender streams of milk flowed from their swollen
teats, and marked their passage along the road-side. In barnyards near
calves were waiting, frantic to get at those same swollen teats. The black
boy who had them in charge opened the avenue gate for them, then stood and
looked after the soldiers, the very embodiment of shrewd, impish humor.
Hands burrowing in his pockets; his body, from the waist up, thrown back;
his mouth stretched in a broad grin, and indeed every feature replete
with fun. When they passed out of ear-shot, he put his thumb on the end of
his nose, and bawled out: "It's all in my eye, Betty Martin," and wound up
by turning somersaults on the grass by the roadside.
Later on the sun glared like a great ball of brass. Anon a light breeze
sprung up with a breath of moisture in it.
"That's good," said the oldest soldier, taking off his cap and baring his
forehead to it; "that's good. 'Twill make more bearable the rays of yonder
heater."
Their bodies were refreshed and spirits hopeful in proportion. They did
not converse much; seemed to be taken up with noting the country, as
though comparing it with some memoranda retained in recollection only.
They were evidently strangers to that locality, for they relied for
direction upon milestones and the sign-posts that appeared at intersecting
roads. At last, when they had passed over about ten miles, they came to an
Irishman beating rock by the roadside.
The oldest of the travelers was accustomed to read the countenance, for he
was bred a lawyer, and gave up a large practice in criminal courts to join
the army. He observed a shrewdness in the Irishman's countenance that he
thought might possibly be of service; but it was a delicate matter to get
at in those times, when one might well be afraid often of the members of
one's own household.
"Good morning," he finally said.
"Good morning to ye," the Irishman responded without raising his eyes from
his rock pile.
"Have you heard the news?" was next asked.
"Faith, an' so much of it flies here and there, if a mon lets all of it
roost, 'twill stale his pace of mind like the thaving crows stale his
corn."
"What I mean is, the fight yesterday at Green River bridge. Ar'n't you
glad of the drubbing our boys gave the rebels? There's many a mother's son
of them lying in those green bottom lands there, that the morning's
reveille will never awaken more."
The face of the youngest soldier was turned away. His eyelashes were wet,
and his teeth gnawed his under lip. Once he drew his coat sleeve across
his eyes, and once he looked as if the conversation had become unbearable,
almost.
"Weel, an' when it comes to that, I am the last man to be glad at the
death of a sinner, an' I take it, many a sinner handed in his checks there
yistiddy."
After a few general remarks the soldiers rode on. When they had gone about
three hundred yards they stopped, held a brief consultation, and finally
returned. The oldest man, who seemed to be the speaker, said:
"We have been struck with your answers to our questions, and have come
back to confide to you our situation and ask your aid. We are not," he
continued, "what we seem to be."
"If ye are not what ye seem to be, what are ye?"
"We are escaped rebel prisoners trying to make our way south. At least I
am, and that young fellow there was in this fight yesterday and got cut
off from his command. We believe you are a friend to our cause, and we
must have your advice and aid, for we are here without knowledge of people
or country."
"Well," said the Irishman, "if ye are decaving me the sin is all yer own.
If ye be honest an' true men, follow my advice and all will be well. I
live just two miles up the road, the first white frame house on the left
hand side of the road, with a barn in front of it. The country is full of
spies, an' you must be careful. Just ye ride up where I live, get off your
horses and go in. Make my wife take the horses to the stable and feed 'em.
Then order your dinner, an' when you've eaten it, drive the wimmen and
children out of the house and raise the divil ginerilly."
The soldiers went on, and the Irishman resumed his work. In less than an
hour a neighbor rode up in hot haste, told him the Yankees had taken
possession of his house and driven wife and children into the road.
"Ye say they have?" responded he, laying down his hammer and serenely
lighting his pipe.
"Yes, yes! come on and do something for your family."
"Holy saints and angels, defend us! What kin I do? It's not me all by
meself, neighbor, that kin whip out the whole Yankee army. Gineril Lee
an' Stonewall Jackson have been thrying it for some time, an' faith, if
they can't, how kin I?"
The dismayed messenger returned to report to the excited wife and children
that the husband and father would do nothing for them. Again and again was
a messenger sent, but to no purpose. The Irishman sat and plied his hammer
to his rocks in serene quiet.
About four in the afternoon a rockaway drove up, stopped a few yards away,
and a lady got out, accompanied by a little girl, and approached the man
at the rock-pile. They were Mrs. Marsden and Roberta.
"May I ask," said the lady hesitatingly, "if two soldiers dressed in
Federal uniform have passed here this morning; and how long since? The
reason I ask is this, a flying rumor has reached me that two soldiers
wearing the Federal uniform were arrested not far from here and carried to
headquarters as Confederate spies."
"Faith, an' the shoe is on the other foot intirely, madam. It's meself
that's been arristed, or it amounts to about the same thing. Them same
soldiers you ax about have taken possession of my house, driv my wife an'
childers out of doors, and raised the divil ginerilly."
"O! I am so sorry to hear it," answered Mrs. Marsden. Then noticing a sly
twinkle in the man's eyes, utterly out of keeping with his words, the
quick-witted woman instantly caught on to the "cue."
"O! Mr. McGarvy!" she cried, "for you are Mr. McGarvy, ar'n't you? I
might have known you would have helped them to carry out the blind, if
they came anywhere near you; but I thought they were going a different
way."
She added, admiration kindling her features as she looked at him, "I don't
believe there is another man in Kentucky, sharp enough to conceive of such
a blind, or self-sacrificing enough to carry it out, and may God bless
you."
She turned away, her beautiful eyes filled with tears.
At sundown Mr. McGarvy hitched his horse to his cart, lit his pipe, and
jolted slowly homeward. His wife and children were still in the road, and
the soldiers still had possession of the house.
"I would not have believed it, Jim McGarvy," cried his wife, her bosom
panting with rage, "not if the Holy Mither of God had tould me."
"Have they hurt you, Rosy, darlint?"
"Not them, Jim McGarvy. They have been civil spoke enough. It's you that's
hurt me--you that have gone back on the wife of your bosom an' your own
flesh an' blood."
"Whisht, Rosy, darlint, whisht." He got as close to her as circumstances
would allow. "Them soldiers are our own boys, who are trying to make their
way south, I've jis' had them do all that for a blind, jis' for a blind,
the poor fellers. Sure, an' you know, Rosy, darlint, that Jim McGarvy is
a spotted man, an' the very first one in these parts that the inimy would
go for."
Wondrous the transformation.
"Is that thrue?" she cried, with beaming face, forgetting already the
day's worry, "are they raly our own boys? Sure, an' it's a dolt I am, not
to know what the tallest one meant when he whispered to me:
"When the South is free, I am for Jim McGarvy for any office he wants."
"Whisht, Rosy, darlint, birds of the air carry tidings; but come along now
and get us a hot supper, and a good one too to stay our stomachs, for I've
got to carry the boys further on their way to-night, the holy Mither of
God bless 'em!"
Now I am going to tell you how Roberta kept her promise about taking care
of the soldier boy's gun. Not many weeks after that memorable Fourth,
Squire came home in great excitement, saying the soldiers were searching
every house for contraband articles, and soon would be at theirs.
"I should be very sorry," said Mrs. Marsden, "to have to give up the suit
of gray jeans I've made for Charlie and the dear boy's boots."
"You won't have to give them up, mamma," responded Roberta, who had lain
awake night after night, planning what she should do in the event the
soldiers came after them. Now what do you suppose she did? Pushed boots
and clothes to the very bottom of the flour-barrel under the flour. Not
even our own Yankee Bligh could have detected their whereabouts. Then she
dressed the gun up in baby clothes, with long white robe and cloak and
pretty baby cap; tied a veil over the cap. When she was through, it really
looked very much like a baby. She gave the gun to Polly, and told her to
walk up and down the porch with it and sing a lullaby. Polly didn't like
counterfeit babies any more than she liked real babies.
"Lawdy! Lawdy! Lawdy!" said Polly, "iz you rite sho', Lil Missus, thar
ain' nuffin' in it that's gwiner blow my head orf?"
"Right sure, Polly. Uncle Squire cleaned it out yesterday."
"O, Lawdy, Lawdy, Lawdy! I dunno howter ketch on ter de creeter, nohow.
I'd redder nuss real live babies, I wud."
"Be a good girl, Polly. Take hold this way. Now sing:
"Dear little baby, shut your eyes,
Stars are shining in the skies;
Soon an angel will at you peep,
Whisper to you while you sleep.
Dear little baby, what do you hear?
Mamma's voice, sweet and clear.
Why, mamma's the angel, baby dear."
"I dunno it; I never heered it."
"Be a good girl, Polly, and I will give you my new China tea-set."
"I don' like cheeny dishes, caze I have ter wash 'em when dey gets dirty.
I'd redder eat orf chips en frow 'em erway."
"Well, then, I'll give you the pretty colored paper dolls I cut out of
Godey's Lady's Book; any thing, just so you make believe it's a real live
baby. Sing this, then:
"Folks, won't you go? Folks, won't you go?
Folks, won't you go to see the monkey show?"
"You know it, Polly; I heard you singing it yesterday."
(The soldiers were coming up the avenue.)
"The royal tiger will be there,
The ring-tailed monkey
And the polar bear;
The royal tiger will be there," etc.
"I'll cross my heart, I dunno it. I natchelly 'spize babies, ennyhow. If I
wuz er blue-gum nigger, I'd bite 'em," said Polly, showing her teeth
viciously.
"Well, then," said Roberta in desperation, "I'll give you my red sash that
you think so pretty; I will indeed."
That did the work; Polly's love of finery was intense. She began to sing
in a surly tone, that straightened out as visions suggested by the song
flitted before her. The circus was her delight.
If the soldiers, in passing, noticed the incongruous lullaby, they made
no comment. Possibly, they were not family men.
They went through the house; pushed their bayonets in the mattresses,
lifted them up and looked underneath; searched every nook and corner below
stairs, then tramped up. Roberta called to Polly:
"Is the baby asleep, Polly?"
"No; yes. Lawdy, Lawdy! I'ze gwiner drap it, sho'; it's sliden'."
Roberta looked through the window at the counterfeit baby; she flew out on
the porch, took it away from the awkward nurse, saying:
"You will never make a nurse, Polly; there's no use trying to teach you;"
carried it in and laid it on the dismantled bed, just in time to prevent
the drapery from slipping off and exposing the shining metal. She darkened
the room, and sat there patting it and singing to it till the search was
over and the soldiers gone. Then the child put her head in her mamma's
lap, and sobbed from pure nervousness. But she had kept her promise, the
loyal little soul. In years to come, she made and kept another promise,
that the first one led to, as links in a chain.
In the muddy back yard Polly was strutting, proud as a peacock, in her
scarlet sash. The ends swept the ground, and she glanced back over her
shoulder at them every step. Roberta burst out laughing, Polly looked so
ridiculous.
"O, Mamma!" she said, "do call Polly in and sing to her about--
"The little girl that was so vain,
Strutting up a dirty lane,
With mamma's best dress for a train,
O, fie, fie, fie! O, fie, fie, fie!
She'd better sweep cob-webs from the sky;
She'd better bake, she'd better stew,
She'd better knit, she'd better sew;
O, fie, fie, fie! O, fie, fie, fie!
The little girl put her finger in her eye,
Looked down at her shoe, and said 'boo-oo.'"
Now I am going to tell you how the soldier boy kept his promise.
Old Squire had loaded a wagon with pumpkins, golden-brown russet apples,
and splendid potatoes to take into town, a few miles off. He promised to
give the children a lift as far as the forks of the road. Roberta coaxed
Aunt Judy to fix her a nice lunch. They wanted to gather wild grapes and
nuts in the woods and have a tea-party besides. Aunt Judy fried her some
spiced apple turnovers, made beaten biscuits, crisp and brown, split them
while they were hot, buttered them, and put thin slices of pink ham
between. Then she got at least one half of an iced white mountain cake,
left from Sunday, and packed that in with the other things. Little did
Roberta suspect who would eat that lunch, and think it the best lunch ever
eaten.
It was good; Aunt Judy knew all about fixing lunches. She was a great
"Camp-meeting" woman.
Roberta took up the basket and flew out to the wood-pile, where Uncle
Squire was cutting wood. He saw her coming, and called out:
"Look out, honey! chips iz mity keerless things, you never know when they
gwiner fly at you, like some fo'ks I knows."
"Old man," called Judy from the kitchen, "that ash-hopper is plum dry.
Don' forgit ter put some water in it fo' you goze."
"Dat ash-hopper allers iz dry. It's like me since Mars Charlie's bin gorn.
Judy," he called out again, with a mighty bravado of voice, "I am got no
time ter be fillin' dat ash-hopper fo' I goze, you knows dat."
"I can wait, Uncle Squire," said the child, always willing to make peace
at any cost to her own convenience.
"'Twon' take no mo' dan er minit to fill it up, honey, I got de water
ready. I jes' wanter show her I wuzen' gwiner be bullied inter it."
The children thought it was prime fun to be jostled along in the wagon
with the pumpkins and potatoes. Inconveniences in youth are diversions
only. One seeks them.
If the children who read this story have never seen our glorious Kentucky
woods in October, they can have but faint idea of its beauty. It is just
like some vast cathedral--aisle upon aisle opening before one, columned
and gorgeous beyond description, in infinite variety of tint, shaded from
blood-red to pink, from orange to tawny yellow, from golden russet-brown
to more delicate wood-colors.
Under foot is a tesselated floor, mosaiced with the same gorgeous colors.
From every quarter is wafted herby odors. Here and there one comes to
trees whose leaves are all a vivid glowing crimson. You can't imagine any
thing more beautiful when the light shines through them. Through openings
in the columned aisles one sees fields steeped in golden glamour, where
float feathery tufts of down. There also linger a few late golden-rods,
and butterflies with limbs chilled by the crisp air.
Later on those same meadows are enveloped morn and eve in veils of
floating white mist; the golden-rod is gone; the butterflies lie in their
shroud; but grape-vines are loaded with rich purple clusters, ripened by
the frost. The beautiful persimmon trees glow with luscious fruit.
Roberta's mother used to gather the persimmon apples and pack them away in
glass jars, in alternate layers of fruit and sugar. They are as nice as
dates. Wherever you turn the ground is covered with nuts--hickories,
walnuts, and chestnuts. You can hear them "drop" every few seconds.
Sometimes I think our Kentucky woods were made for children.