"THAT OLD-TIME CHILD, ROBERTA" "A country lane between fields of clover Rippling in sunshine over and over. There the whirl of gay revelrie, Butterflies waltzing mad with glee, Honey-bees, powdered in dust of gold, Chassezing around like gay knights of old, Clad in silken doublet and hose; Lookout, lookout, if you tread on their toes." Suddenly Polly broke away, pulled up an iron-weed growing on the road-side, and fell to whipping a large purple thistle. Her thirst grew; she left the thistle and fell to whipping the rank grass. Then was heard an angry buzz, as the assaulted bees swarmed out of their defenses and literally stormed her. They settled all over her. Head, face, bare feet and legs were attacked all at once. They stung her terribly. The death of their comrade was summarily avenged. She rent the air with her cries, and backed toward Mam' Sarah, fighting them off as she went from different parts of her body. Mam' Sarah covered up her retreat as well as she could, saying: "I natchel hate ter see fo'ks in trubble, but I ain' er bit sorry fur you. I never seed ennybody fo' that wuz allers on the war-paf. Them bees haden' dun nuffin' ter you. They is prezak lak humans. Ef you let 'em erlone you won't hear from 'em; but fite 'em en they'll fite you back, erver time." At the same time that Mam' Sarah and Roberta were fussing over Polly, a line of glittering points were coming up the rise near the bend of the river. A column of Confederate soldiers appeared, marching shoulder to shoulder, their arms shining in the morning sun. On they came, crossing the fields with the springing step of hope and the steady step of high, dauntless courage, making directly for the works the Federals had thrown up and protected with the bodies of felled trees. Well-nigh impregnable, those works, from their vast advantage of position, but in their line of march it was the policy of their leaders to fight every thing of like nature that came in the way, to hide, if possible, their real weakness in numbers. So they were told to take those works, and take them they would. Knowing not the hesitancy of doubt, nor the trammels of fear, what recked they of danger or of death, as they sprung to their work? Alas! the awful death-trap that caught them, held them, while that deadly fusilade opened upon them, reddened with their warm, young blood the soil of their native State—mowed them down, ruthlessly, those hapless Kentuckians. For ruthless it ever seems, when youth and hope and glorious promise are offered in vain. At last they fell back, the living; what flesh and blood could do otherwise? Fell back, but undismayed, and fighting stubbornly inch by inch, as they bore off their wounded. O, those darlings of old Kentucky! whose light went out on that July morning nearly thirty years ago, those eager souls that God sealed with His eternal peace ere aught had ruffled them, other than the zest of a hurdle-race or quail hunt on their native bluegrass; many of them scarce passed the mile-stones of boyhood, fresh from the classroom and tender home circle. Yet, they plunged into the awful fire of that needless sacrifice, like veterans, to whom the smoke and crash of charging squadrons is a pastime. No braver souls than they ever perished; none more loyal to the land that gave them birth. Well may Kentucky embalm their worth in enduring tablets of brass and marble. Let her see to it that she keeps their memory green in her heart, for they loved her with a love passing the love of woman. When Mam' Sarah heard the firing she caught hold of Roberta's hand and started to run, calling on the others to follow. She heard voices shouting to her, in reality the voices of the negroes who had gone down to the tobacco fields, calling to her to turn back. But, in her excitement she thought they were war cries, and ran as fast as she could away from them. "Let's go to the play-house under the hill, Mam' Sarah," said quick-witted Roberta. That play-house was a rocky recess, once the bed of some subterranean stream, and protected from view by a sycamore's gnarled, knotted branches extending down, and hung with matted wild grape tendrils. Mam' Sarah had often gone down there and spread her linen on the grass to bleach, and she generally took the children along for company. That's how they happened to find out the rocky recess or cave, for it ran under the hill a considerable distance. They hadn't been in there long before a shadow darkened the entrance to the recess. A figure crept toward them with the muzzle of a gun pointing straight at them. "O, don't shoot!" they cried in terror. "I won't," responded a boyish voice, and when their tears subsided they saw it was a mere lad, wounded and bleeding. "Are you much hurt?" asked Roberta. "O, no; just a scratch." His chin fell on his chest. A dry sob burst from him. "I wish now I had been killed with the rest of 'em." "Have you got a mother?" Roberta asked. "Yes, I've got a mother; but what will she say when I tell her I left Bert lying yonder in that death-trap? That's what's the matter. I wanted to find Bert and take him away with me. I hunted for him all along among those trees, and I got cut off from our boys. I think I must have lost my head, for I forgot which way they went." "Who is Bert?" asked Roberta. "Bert was my brother, and the best boy that ever lived. Curse them!" he cried, shaking his clenched fist; "curse the Yankees. What right have they on Kentucky soil, anyhow?" "O, don't curse them," said the child; "my papa is a Yankee." "Is he?" He stopped short and looked at her with a kind of pity. "I am sorry for you, that's all; sorry from my heart. I'd rather be a negro trader." "I'm sorry too," said Roberta. There was a droop about the corners of her mouth. "But don't you worry about your brother. Mam' Sarah and me will find him and do all we can for him." "Will you?" said the hoy eagerly; "will you, really? O! that will be too kind for any thing. I can never forget it, never." "But how am I to know him? Is he like you?" "Yes, he is like me; we were twins; but ten million times better looking. He looked like an angel, as he is, as he is." Great throes convulsed his chest in his efforts to control himself. "I don't want to be a baby, but I was never away from Bert a day in my life. Say, I can tell you how to know him. He has a picture of mother and a Testament in his pocket, with his name written on the fly-leaf, 'Albert Kurl.'" "Well, we will find him," said Roberta. There was a whispered consultation between the three, Mam' Sarah, Roberta and the soldier. It seemed entirely satisfactory. And then Mam' Sarah told Roberta they must hurry home on account of her mammy. "We kin cum back, honey, en find him." And come back they did. They found him and washed the blood away from the poor mangled features, straightening out the twisted limbs as well as they could. Roberta took charge of the little pocket Bible with his name written on the fly-leaf, and the picture of his mother, such a stately, beautiful lady. Albert Kurl's body was not the only one they looked for. Mam' Sarah's tears fell like rain, as she went from one to another searching for curly-haired Mars Charley, the little boy she nursed. She would have known him, she was sure, no matter how he looked. But, thank God, he was not there. She remembered so well the morning he rode off on his prancing horse, with the bands playing Dixie. "Charlie," called Aunt Betsy, "take this Bible with you." "O Auntie," laughed the merry young fellow, "I can't, but I'll promise to say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep' every night." "O, what duz make fo'ks git so mad with ech other?" said Mam' Sarah. "It will all cum rite, if they'll only hol' back en trust God." Just before tea, Roberta ran down to uncle Squire's cabin, on the hill back of the spring-house. She told him she had a secret for his ears alone, made him look under the bed, the cup-board, chairs, and every place, to be sure there were no eaves-droppers. Then she sat down on a stool and slided it along towards him. He edged his chair a little closer towards her, so by the time she began her communication their heads almost touched. It was comical to see the old man's various facial expressions while the child talked. He would squint his eyes like he was trying to sight something away ahead of him, puffed out his cheeks till they resembled an inflated bellows. Finally, slapped his thigh vigorously, blurting out, "You iz er sharp one, Lil Misus, you won' never 'go fru er thicket en pick up er 'oop-pole', he-he-he." "Can you manage it for me, Uncle Squire?" asked the child anxiously. "Ob cose I kin, Lil Misus, ob cose I kin. Squire's your man." "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. That afternoon I am going to tell you about, when the forks of the road were reached, Squire lifted the children down, cautioning them against lingering too late, mounted his wagon and was about starting when there appeared a little ahead two horsemen riding abreast and coming directly toward the children. They were dressed in gray, and sat their horses with the air of "Charlie has come to his own again," softly singing snatches of "My Old Kentucky Home." Roberta could hardly believe her eyes. "O, Uncle Squire, it's the rebels, it's the rebels!" "Yes, it's 'pintly dem," he answered, a broad grin overspreading his face. When they came up with the children they drew rein, and one of them reached out his hand to Roberta. It was the soldier boy. "Have you come for your gun?" asked she. "Have you come for your gun?" the child asked. "Yes, and to see you," was the reply. View Illustration Enlarged "Yes, and to see you." The child had no coquetry in her nature, else would have noticed the earnest look in the boy's brown eyes that accompanied his significantly spoken words. As it was, she only smiled and said: "Well, I kept it for you; and are you as hungry as you were that night?" "Well, yes, I reckon so. Soldiers generally are; at least our boys are. But why do you ask? I wanted you to forget how many beat biscuits I ate." "Because I've got a nice lunch here that I will give you. Aunt Judy fixed it up for me to have a tea party in the woods." "Who were you going to have at your tea party—Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox?" "No, indeed," said the child, a fine scorn kindling her features; "no, indeed. We were going to have General Morgan and Uncle Charlie and you. Of course it was make-believe. That's the way we play, but we like it ever so much." "Well, if I take your chicken fixings you can't have any tea party." "O yes, I can. I can just make-believe some hungry soldier has come along and eaten it all up." "There is no make-believe about that," laughed the soldier; "that's real." There was a smothered sound in the direction of Polly. The boy turned toward her, evidently seeing her for the first time. "What's the matter with you, tar baby?" "I wuz gwiner tell you erbout de time de Union sojer stole Miss Betsy's bee-hives, en he wuz dat hongry he pitch en ter de honey fo' de bees got out, en one git en hees frote en stung him; Lawdy, how he hollered! But I won't, cors you called me tar baby." "I beg your pardon, I meant no offense. I just have an unfortunate habit of calling things by their names. I am like the hungry old lady who sung: "'Alack-alack, alack-alack! A dinner's a dinner, a snack's a snack. I can call them none other, alack-alack!' "But I think I have gotten the gist of your story from the preamble; so am not inconsolable. Anyhow," he turned to Roberta, "if you wait here a little you can have a sure-enough General Morgan and Uncle Charlie at your tea party. They are just behind. Only, if they are as hungry as I am, I don't know how they will like that make-believe part." Away ran the child to Squire that she might tell him Uncle Charlie was just behind, and urge him forward to meet him. The soldier looked after her with a rueful expression. "'Le roi est mort; vive le roi!'" he said—("'The king is dead; live the king!') My little sweetheart is a gem, if she did go back on me for Uncle Charlie." While Lewie Kurl talked with Roberta the animal he rode seemed laboring under strange excitement. She looked back at the horses in old Squire's wagon, neighed joyously and with spirit. Absorbed in his conversation, Lewie let the reins fall loosely about the mare's neck. In an instant she turned and made for the wagon. Then began a pantomimic show of affectionate demonstrations. The old comrades of the stable and meadow kissed and caressed each other fondly. It required a firm hold upon the reins to separate them. When Lewie rejoined his companion his mare tossed her mane angrily at the turn affairs had taken. Little shivers of dissatisfaction ran over her. She continued to look back and neigh, almost viciously, and one of the horses in old Squire's wagon responded in like manner. Back again to the bluegrass, Horse and rider too; Back again to the old haunts, Comrades tried and true. Forgot, the weary marches; Forgot, the hunger and cold. Back again to the bluegrass, And hearts whose worth is gold. As old Squire and the children moved on a squad of soldiers mounted the crest of the hill, then halted. They met right there a man in citizen's clothes, on horseback, with a pair of fat saddle-bags swung across the pommel of his saddle. The men in gray surrounded him instantly; one seized hold of his bridle-rein, another made threatening demonstrations toward his saddle-bags. "O, Uncle Squire," cried Roberta, "that's Mr. Shanks, that's Sallie's dear grandpapa! O, my heart just trembles for him. I hope they won't do any thing to him." "Yes, dat's him. He dun kotch up wid at las'. He gwiner be paid back fur all hees meanness at las'." "Where are you going?" asked he who held the bridle-rein. "Home, to my family." "What have you got in your saddle-bags?" was next asked. "Nothing but a calico dress for my wife." "Well, hand it out; I know a 'print' when I see it," responded he who had made the threatening demonstrations towards the saddle-bags—was even then diving in them. "O, Uncle Squire," cried Roberta, "won't they give the calico dress back to him? Poor Mrs. Shanks needs it awfully. The one she has on is all faded, and her elbows are out." "If he's gotter calicer dress en thar fur her," grunted old Squire, "'twill be de fus'. I heered her say he never give her de rappens ob her finger, en dat she wuden min' hees whippen' her ef hee'd unly previde fur her." He who was diving in Mr. Shanks' saddle-bags, drew thence a long slip of white paper with something printed on it in black letters. He cleared his throat, and read aloud the following: "Fellow-citizens, I took up arms for my country in the War of 1812, and were it not for the infirmities of age, would be again in the saddle, to drive that notorious horse-thief and scoundrel, John Morgan, from the State." "You would, hey?" said the soldier. "Well, wait here a little, and see what General Morgan says about that." A dust was even then arising ahead, and in a few moments a squad of Confederates dashed up. The foremost one, a soldierly looking-man, with a pair of keen, humorous eyes, halted beside the group on the hill-side. "What are you detaining this gentleman for?" he asked, in a clear, ringing voice; "we are not making war on citizens." "Well; but, General, just see this circular," handing him one. General Morgan took it, glanced over it, then with a shrug of his shoulders and a "pshaw!" dropped it to the ground, and rode on. The vidette followed him. "Well; but, General, what must we do with the prisoner?" "Do?" responded the General, "Do? Why, turn him loose. He is nothing but a little constable." Up to the moment Roberta heard the circular read, her sympathies were all with Mr. Shanks, the poor man looked so terribly frightened. He had started out with his circulars, not knowing the Confederates were within a hundred miles; and he expected every moment to have a bullet put through his brain, or be swung up to the nearest limb. When she heard the circular read, the wind veered from another quarter altogether. As the soldiers rode off, the released prisoner came swiftly towards Squire and the children. "I wish you would let me empty these drotted things under them 'taters an' apples, thar," he said. Roberta came forward before Squire could reply. "No, indeed, you can't put those dreadful things in our wagon. No, indeed. I heard what you said about my Uncle Charlie, just the dearest and best man on this earth." "I never said nothing about your Uncle Charlie," said Mr. Shanks, recognizing the child. "Well, you said it about General Morgan, and that's the same thing. My Uncle Charlie is one of his captains, and I think General Morgan is the bestest man that ever lived not to do something awful to you. If I was you, I would turn over a new leaf, and stop writing bad things about people, your neighbors, too; and the Bible says, 'Love your neighbors as yourself.' Mamma read it to me last night." Who was that dashing towards them in a cloud of dust? Dust whitening his long, unkempt beard; whitening his brown, curly locks; belted all around with pistols and knives; teeth glistening through his tawny mustache; radiant, positively radiant with joy, as he leaped from his panting horse, and fairly crushed the startled child in his arms? She screamed aloud in nervous terror. "O, you goosey!" said he, "don't you know Uncle Charlie?" The next minute he had sprung on to the wagon wheel, squeezed old Squire's hand until the bones snapped, and snatched up a hatful of russets, craunching one of them between his white teeth, stopping after each bite to ask questions about everybody at home. Well, I reckon there were never three happier children than the three who returned home that afternoon, with the tall soldier walking beside them, leading his horse, and eating russet apples as fast as ever he could. Old Squire jolted slowly along behind, grinning from ear to ear. Uncle Charlie wouldn't sleep in the house that night, but wrapped himself in his blanket and laid down on the ground under a great elm tree in the corner of the yard, with his faithful horse close by. Mrs. Marsden and Roberta watched from an upper porch, and old Squire by the avenue gate. At least Roberta thought she watched, but next morning mamma told her with tears in her eyes that Uncle Charlie was gone, that somebody had given him away. Uncle Squire heard the Federals coming, and told him, and he barely had time to escape. In February of '64 old Squire came out from town one afternoon strutting, as Aunt Judy said, for all the world just "lak er turkey goberler." He made six consecutive trips to the sitting-room, carrying one stick of wood each time as a pretext, before he caught Roberta's eye. When he finally succeeded, he beckoned mysteriously to her, and she got right up and followed him from the room. He led her out of ear-shot of the others before he told her what he wanted. "Lil Missus, how's it happen dat you never axes me no mo' whar your par is?" "Because, Uncle Squire, I am afraid you will tell me 'lay o'ers to catch meddlers.'" "I neber sed erlong wid dat, honey, 'en you'd be de fus' one caught.' Well, if I never sect dat, thar's nuffin' sartin erbout who I means when I sez 'lay o'ers ter ketch meddlers'; you musen jump et conclugeons, honey. Ennyhow, you ax me ergin, en see what I'll say dis time." She asked him, her eager eyes uplifted to his face, her small hands clasped, wondering and hope bursting into instant full dawn. A way hope has of doing in youth. The old man went through his accustomed facial pantomime, slapped himself on the thigh, and blurted out: "In town wid de Unions. He is Kyurnel Robert Marsden now." "Who told you, Uncle Squire?" Her eyes were filled with sudden gathered tears, and her scarlet lips trembled. "Jim, dat is Kyurnel Tadlock's man, telled me. He seed him en know'd him. But he is mity sick, honey, mity sick." "O, Uncle Squire," cried the delighted child, "won't mamma go right straight in town and take me?" "Well, now, dat's er gray hoss ob ernuther color. Mebbe she mout, en mebbe she mouten." The child's countenance fell, her sensitive nature touched. Already a womanly intuition, wonderful in one so childlike and ignorant of the world's ways, begun to stir faintly. "If mamma can't leave Aunt Betsy, don't you reckon she will let me go with you in town to see him, Uncle Squire?" "You en your mar fur dat, honey. But Squire's your man." That night after Aunt Betsy had been given her medicine and tucked away, the child climbed to her mamma's lap and coddled down to her. Instinctively she wanted the magnetism of touch to help her. And then, with her warm breath playing about her mamma's cheek, and her little hand nestling in hers, she told her what Squire had heard. Mrs. Marsden was not especially startled. She had suffered so much it seemed to her sometimes that her feelings were numb. "Aren't you going in town to see him, Mamma?" the child asked. "Me! Oh, no; I couldn't. You don't know what you ask, darling." Tears gathered in the beautiful sad eyes. "Then, may I go, Mamma? May I? Squire will take good care of me." The mother-arms tightened around the childish form. An unwonted jealousy sprung up in the mother-heart. Hitherto she had had her all to herself. "Would you leave me, darling," she asked, "my one comfort? Suppose he should take you away from me, and carry you off where I could seldom see you, what would become of me?" The child looked up in the beautiful, agitated face with surprise. "He would never do that. Mamma, never. In the first place, nobody on earth could take me away from my darling mamma. Then he wouldn't take me away if he could. That would be too mean for any thing, and Squire says my papa is a splendid gentleman." Mrs. Marsden made no reply to this. She sat gazing dreamily into the glowing fire. Splendid? Yes, that was what she thought him before the hard feeling came between them. She recalled his eyes, glowing—tender. Her little daughter had them exactly. Those ardent glances had so bewitched her she could have followed them to the ends of the earth. "Suppose he should die, poor papa, all by himself? Squire says he is very, very sick." "God forbid!" cried Mrs. Marsden, "God forbid." "If papa has come all the way down to Kentucky," continued Roberta, "I don't believe he came down here just to fight us, I don't indeed. It looks to me more like he is hunting for somebody. And who should that somebody be but my own darling mamma?" "It isn't probable he is hunting me, darling. It has been ten long years since he went away. He knows where the old place is. He could have found me easily enough." "Well, but may be he wasn't exactly sure about you wanting him to come. He might have wanted ever so bad to come himself, and yet been afraid you didn't want him. I wouldn't go where I wasn't sure I was wanted," continued the child, a fine scorn curving her lips, "no, not for any thing." How much she looked like her father when she said that. "May I go, Mamma?" she coaxed again. "Say yes, dear Mamma. You don't know how I've longed to have a papa like other little girls." Then the sorely tried heart gave a great leap and got way beyond self. "Yes, you may go, darling," she cried; "and may the God of the pure in heart watch over you and bring you back safely to your lonely mother." The child coddled down again to her. "What must I tell him for you, Mamma?" she asked. Mrs. Marsden started. She had not expected that. "Send him kind message, Mamma, just like your own sweet self. You are so good to everybody, and he is your little daughter's papa, and you love him dearly, don't you, dear Mamma?" Then the woman-heart gave a great leap and reached out to that other heart the child was pleading for, and it seemed as if they touched, although miles separated them, and pride lay prostrate. "I have erred," she reasoned dumbly, "erred in the sight of God and man. I have been hard, hard. What right have I to hold him to so strict an account? By my own contrition and unutterable yearning to behold his face, will I judge him, and naught else, the husband of my youth, once the delight of my eyes." Then, having gone thus far, she could stop at nothing. Her eyes shone, varying emotions chased over her beautiful face, her whole nature unbent, tender, as when she stood in that room in the old days and heard the benediction that pronounced them man and wife. "O, you dear child!" she cried, "surely God has put in your little hands the gift of healing. Tell him, tell him, your Father, that for ten long years, the string has been on the outside of the latch for him. Tell him"—then, utterly unable to say more, she bowed her head and wept. Roberta clung to her and caressed her. That phase of her mother's character touched her unspeakably, young as she was. She never forgot it. It was a revelation of how blessed a possession is the heart that is incapable of cherishing resentment. "O, you darling mother!" she cried, "I don't believe God's angels are any sweeter than you." When Roberta and old Squire reached the house where they had been told Colonel Marsden was lying sick they saw an officer sitting in the front room, writing busily by a table. He looked up as they entered, startled by the vision of childish beauty before him. Roberta's scarlet hood, edged with swansdown, was pushed back, and her hair lay in fluffy golden rings on her white forehead. Her cloak, the color of her hood, was bordered with the same snowy, feathery trimming. She carried in her hand a tiny, swansdown muff. The rich blood of health mantled her cheek. Her eyes were like stars. Where had he seen them before, those wondrously beautiful eyes? In person and manner Roberta was like her mother, but her features were her father's. A little aristocrat she was, from the poise of her golden head to the tip of her prunella boots. "Well," said the officer, laying down his pen, "what can I do for you, little lady?" The child turned to Squire, who came forward and stood in embarrassed silence, uneasily shifting his position from one foot to the other. He had been advised by saucy Polly "not ter skeer fo'ks ter def by de way he dun his face," and he was a little out of his moorings. But finally he managed to say: "It's Mars Robert Marsden, sah, dat me and Lil Missus wan'er see." "Well, who is Lil Missus? and what is she to Colonel Marsden?" His admiring gaze was directed again to the child. "Shee's his own flesh en blood, sah; nuffin' shorter; hees lil gal dat wuz born'd arfter he wen' back ter N'ark." "Whew," whistled the officer; "I didn't know Colonel Marsden was a family man. That accounts for many things, I have always thought peculiar in a man of his attractive personality. Well, I am sure I envy him his newly found daughter. Wait here a little, and I will see if the Colonel is awake. He is convalescent now, and will doubtless be glad to see you both." He returned in a moment and said, "Colonel Marsden is asleep, and I thought best not to awaken him; but you shall see him," he said to Roberta, "just as soon as he awakes." The child could not repress her eagerness. "I can't wait," she cried; "I want to see him so bad. Let me go in and look at him while he is asleep. I won't make any noise. That's the way I do mamma when she has headache." "Well," said the officer, smiling, "go right in." Squire started to follow. "No; you wait outside. Two at once might make him a little nervous. He has been a very sick man." Roberta crept softly in on tiptoe. The room was darkened, and there was no light save the reflection of the fire. Colonel Marsden was, in health, a superbly handsome man. But, as he lay there in the dim light, emaciated and pallid, there was something almost touching in the droop of his shoulders and the look of helpless weakness about the mouth. It was not long before he stirred uneasily and opened his eyes. His gaze fell directly on the child sitting beside him and looking at him with her whole heart in her eyes. "Who are you?" he asked. "I am Roberta Marsden. My papa's name is Robert, and my mamma called me Roberta after him."