Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
THE LITTLE COLONEL
By Annie Fellows Johnston
1895
TO ONE OF KENTUCKY'S DEAREST LITTLE DAUGHTERS
The Little Colonel
HERSELF--THIS REMEMBRANCE OF A HAPPY SUMMER IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"'CAUSE I'M SO MUCH LIKE YOU,' WAS THE STARTLING ANSWER".
"THE SAME TEMPER SEEMED TO BE BURNING IN THE EYES OF THE CHILD".
"WITH THE PARROT PERCHED ON THE BROOM SHE WAS CARRYING".
"THE LITTLE COLONEL CLATTERED UP AND DOWN THE HALL".
"SINGING AT THE TOP OF HER VOICE".
"'TELL ME GOOD-BY, BABY DEAR,' SAID MRS. SHERMAN".
"'AMANTHIS,' REPEATED THE CHILD DREAMILY".
"SHE CLIMBED UP IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR".
"THE SWEET LITTLE VOICE SANG IT TO THE END".
CHAPTER I.
It was one of the prettiest places in all Kentucky where the Little
Colonel stood that morning. She was reaching up on tiptoes, her eager
little face pressed close against the iron bars of the great entrance
gate that led to a fine old estate known as "Locust."
A ragged little Scotch and Skye terrier stood on its hind feet beside
her, thrusting his inquisitive nose between the bars, and wagging his
tasselled tail in lively approval of the scene before them.
They were looking down a long avenue that stretched for nearly a quarter
of a mile between rows of stately old locust-trees.
At the far end they could see the white pillars of a large stone house
gleaming through the Virginia creeper that nearly covered it. But they
could not see the old Colonel in his big chair on the porch behind the
cool screen of vines.
At that very moment he had caught the rattle of wheels along the road,
and had picked up his field-glass to see who was passing. It was only
a coloured man jogging along in the heat and dust with a cart full of
chicken-coops. The Colonel watched him drive up a lane that led to the
back of the new hotel that had just been opened in this quiet country
place. Then his glance fell on the two small strangers coming through
his gate down the avenue toward him. One was the friskiest dog he had
ever seen in his life. The other was a child he judged to be about five
years old.
Her shoes were covered with dust, and her white sunbonnet had slipped
off and was hanging over her shoulders. A bunch of wild flowers she had
gathered on the way hung limp and faded in her little warm hand. Her
soft, light hair was cut as short as a boy's.
There was something strangely familiar about the child, especially in
the erect, graceful way she walked.
Old Colonel Lloyd was puzzled. He had lived all his life in
Lloydsborough, and this was the first time he had ever failed to
recognize one of the neighbours' children. He knew every dog and horse,
too, by sight if not by name.
Living so far from the public road did not limit his knowledge of what
was going on in the world. A powerful field-glass brought every passing
object in plain view, while he was saved all annoyance of noise and
dust.
"I ought to know that child as well as I know my own name," he said to
himself. "But the dog is a stranger in these parts. Liveliest thing I
ever set eyes on! They must have come from the hotel. Wonder what they
want."
He carefully wiped the lens for a better view. When he looked again he
saw that they evidently had not come to visit him.
They had stopped half-way down the avenue, and climbed up on a rustic
seat to rest.
The dog sat motionless about two minutes, his red tongue hanging out as
if he were completely exhausted.
Suddenly he gave a spring, and bounded away through the tall blue grass.
He was back again in a moment, with a stick in his mouth. Standing
up with his fore paws in the lap of his little mistress, he looked so
wistfully into her face that she could not refuse this invitation for a
romp.
The Colonel chuckled as they went tumbling about in the grass to find
the stick which the child repeatedly tossed away.
He hitched his chair along to the other end of the porch as they kept
getting farther away from the avenue.
It had been many a long year since those old locust-trees had seen a
sight like that. Children never played any more under their dignified
shadows.
Time had been (but they only whispered this among themselves on rare
spring days like this) when the little feet chased each other up and
down the long walk, as much at home as the pewees in the beeches.
Suddenly the little maid stood up straight, and began to sniff the air,
as if some delicious odour had blown across the lawn.
"Fritz," she exclaimed, in delight, "I 'mell 'trawberries!"
The Colonel, who could not hear the remark, wondered at the abrupt pause
in the game. He understood it, however, when he saw them wading through
the tall grass, straight to his strawberry bed. It was the pride of his
heart, and the finest for miles around. The first berries of the season
had been picked only the day before. Those that now hung temptingly red
on the vines he intended to send to his next neighbour, to prove his
boasted claim of always raising the finest and earliest fruit.
He did not propose to have his plans spoiled by these stray guests.
Laying the field-glass in its accustomed place on the little table
beside his chair, he picked up his hat and strode down the walk.
Colonel Lloyd's friends all said he looked like Napoleon, or rather like
Napoleon might have looked had he been born and bred a Kentuckian.
He made an imposing figure in his suit of white duck.
The Colonel always wore white from May till October.
There was a military precision about him, from his erect carriage to the
cut of the little white goatee on his determined chin.
No one looking into the firm lines of his resolute face could imagine
him ever abandoning a purpose or being turned aside when he once formed
an opinion.
Most children were afraid of him. The darkies about the place shook in
their shoes when he frowned. They had learned from experience that "ole
Marse Lloyd had a tigah of a tempah in him."
As he passed down the walk there were two mute witnesses to his old
soldier life. A spur gleamed on his boot heel, for he had just returned
from his morning ride, and his right sleeve hung empty.
He had won his title bravely. He had given his only son and his strong
right arm to the Southern cause. That had been nearly thirty years ago.
He did not charge down on the enemy with his usual force this time. The
little head, gleaming like sunshine in the strawberry patch,
reminded him so strongly of a little fellow who used to follow him
everywhere,--Tom, the sturdiest, handsomest boy in the county,--Tom,
whom he had been so proud of, whom he had so nearly worshipped.
Looking at this fair head bent over the vines, he could almost forget
that Tom had ever outgrown his babyhood, that he had shouldered a rifle
and followed him to camp, a mere boy, to be shot down by a Yankee bullet
in his first battle.
The old Colonel could almost believe he had him back again, and that he
stood in the midst of those old days the locusts sometimes whispered
about.
He could not hear the happiest of little voices that was just then
saying, "Oh, Fritz, isn't you glad we came? An' isn't you glad we've got
a gran'fathah with such good 'trawberries?"
It was hard for her to put the "s" before her consonants.
As the Colonel came nearer she tossed another berry into the dog's
mouth. A twig snapped, and she raised a startled face toward him.
"Suh?" she said, timidly, for it seemed to her that the stern, piercing
eyes had spoken.
"What are you doing here, child?" he asked, in a voice so much kinder
than his eyes that she regained her usual self-possession at once.
"Eatin' 'trawberries," she answered, coolly.
"Who are you, anyway?" he exclaimed, much puzzled. As he asked the
question his gaze happened to rest on the dog, who was peering at him
through the ragged, elfish wisps of hair nearly covering its face, with
eyes that were startlingly human.
"'Peak when yo'ah 'poken to, Fritz," she said, severely, at the same
time popping another luscious berry into her mouth. Fritz obediently
gave a long yelp. The Colonel smiled grimly.
"What's your name?" he asked, this time looking directly at her.
"Mothah calls me her baby," was the soft-spoken reply, "but papa an' Mom
Beck they calls me the Little Cun'l."
"What under the sun do they call you that for?" he roared.
"'Cause I'm so much like you," was the startling answer.
"Like me!" fairly gasped the Colonel. "How are you like me?"
"Oh, I'm got such a vile tempah, an' I stamps my foot when I gets mad,
an' gets all red in the face. An' I hollahs at folks, an' looks jus' zis
way."
She drew her face down and puckered her lips into such a sullen pout
that it looked as if a thunder-storm had passed over it. The next
instant she smiled up at him serenely. The Colonel laughed. "What makes
you think I am like that?" he said. "You never saw me before."
"Yes, I have too," she persisted. "You's a-hangin' in a gold frame over
ou' mantel."
Just then a clear, high voice was heard calling out in the road.
The child started up in alarm. "Oh, deah," she exclaimed in dismay, at
sight of the stains on her white dress, where she had been kneeling on
the fruit, "that's Mom Beck. Now I'll be tied up, and maybe put to bed
for runnin' away again. But the berries is mighty nice," she added,
politely. "Good mawnin', suh. Fritz, we mus' be goin' now."
The voice was coming nearer.
"I'll walk down to the gate with you," said the Colonel, anxious to
learn something more about his little guest. "Oh, you'd bettah not,
suh!" she cried in alarm. "Mom Beck doesn't like you a bit. She just
hates you! She's goin' to give you a piece of her mind the next time she
sees you. I heard her tell Aunt Nervy so."
There was as much real distress in the child's voice as if she were
telling him of a promised flogging.
"Lloyd! Aw, Lloy-eed!" the call came again.
A neat-looking coloured woman glanced in at the gate as she was passing
by, and then stood still in amazement. She had often found her little
charge playing along the roadside or hiding behind trees, but she had
never before known her to pass through any one's gate.
As the name came floating down to him through the clear air, a change
came over the Colonel's stern face. He stooped over the child. His hand
trembled as he put it under her soft chin and raised her eyes to his.
"Lloyd, Lloyd!" he repeated, in a puzzled way. "Can it be possible?
There certainly is a wonderful resemblance. You have my little Tom's
hair, and only my baby Elizabeth ever had such hazel eyes."
He caught her up in his one arm, and strode on to the gate, where the
coloured woman stood.
"Why, Becky, is that you?" he cried, recognizing an old, trusted servant
who had lived at Locust in his wife's lifetime.
Her only answer was a sullen nod.
"Whose child is this?" he asked, eagerly, without seeming to notice her
defiant looks. "Tell me if you can."
"How can I tell you, suh," she demanded, indignantly, "when you have
fo'bidden even her name to be spoken befo' you?"
A harsh look came into the Colonel's eyes. He put the child hastily
down, and pressed his lips together.
"Don't tie my sunbonnet, Mom Beck," she begged. Then she waved her hand
with an engaging smile.
"Good-bye, suh," she said, graciously. "We've had a mighty nice time!"
The Colonel took off his hat with his usual courtly bow, but he spoke no
word in reply.
When the last flutter of her dress had disappeared around the bend of
the road, he walked slowly back toward the house.
Half-way down the long avenue where she had stopped to rest, he sat down
on the same rustic seat. He could feel her soft little fingers resting
on his neck, where they had lain when he carried her to the gate.
A very un-Napoleonlike mist blurred his sight for a moment. It had been
so long since such a touch had thrilled him, so long since any caress
had been given him.
More than a score of years had gone by since Tom had been laid in a
soldier's grave, and the years that Elizabeth had been lost to him
seemed almost a lifetime.
And this was Elizabeth's little daughter. Something very warm and sweet
seemed to surge across his heart as he thought of the Little Colonel. He
was glad, for a moment, that they called her that; glad that his only
grandchild looked enough like himself for others to see the resemblance.
But the feeling passed as he remembered that his daughter had married
against his wishes, and he had closed his doors for ever against her.
The old bitterness came back redoubled in its force.
The next instant he was stamping down the avenue, roaring for Walker,
his body-servant, in such a tone that the cook's advice was speedily
taken: "Bettah hump yo'self outen dis heah kitchen befo' de ole tigah
gits to lashin' roun' any pearter."