Chapter 2

"I am sorry, daughter, that you gave way to your temper so. For remember, you are only the sower that plants the seed, and God takes care of all the rest. If you really try to teach Polly, and she won't be taught, you mustn't make a personal thing of it, but just leave it with God. Then, again, daughter, unless you practice self-control, teaching others is a farce. I know Polly has been very trying, indeed. But I want you to show a real forgiving spirit, as one should always show when one is working for the Master. I want you to tell Polly you are sorry you struck her. For you are sorry, I know--I see it in your face."

A kind of staccato snuffle was heard in the direction of Polly.

Roberta gave another look at the surly, unprepossessing countenance, then said, in a low voice:

"I will, Mamma, if you will let me hide my face in your lap while I am saying it."

"But why hide your face in my lap, daughter?"

"Because--because--Mamma--I am afraid--if she looks at me as she did before, that I will slap her again. I don't believe I could keep from it this evening; I am all out of sorts."

Afterwards that observation of Polly's, "Dilsy never had no daddy," caused Roberta no little thought. Really, she was no better off than Dilsy, she reasoned, for of course the child did not take in the full significance of the imp's meaning. Nobody ever told her that her papa was dead. Indeed she had been taught to pray for him every night. She felt sure he was living. But, where? Why did he not come home and pet her, like other little girls' papas she knew--pet her, and make her beautiful, sad mother smile sometimes. For it seemed to the child that she grew sadder and sadder all the time. There was nobody she could talk to about him, for her mamma's eyes filled with tears at any chance allusion to him. Aunt Betsy nearly snapped her head off when she asked her a question, and Uncle Squire, chatty as he was upon every other subject, would squint his eyes in a knowing way, puff out his cheeks, and answer, "Lay o'ers ter ketch meddlers." Yes, there was one person she was sure she could coax into telling her why her papa never came home to see them all, and that was dear, good Mam' Sarah, the weaver. When Aunt Betsy scolded Mam' Sarah, she would get down on the floor by Aunt Betsy and hug her tight around the knees and say, "God love you, Mistiss," to show her she wasn't mad at her for scolding her. That was "religion," mamma said. Aunt Betsy would cry, and say:

"Get up, Sarah, you make me ashamed of myself."

Yes, she would go to Mam' Sarah at the loom-house. It was considered a great treat by Roberta to go down to the loom-house. That was where the wool, cotton, and flax was carded, spun, and wove, then manufactured into winter and summer clothes for the negroes on the place. Yard upon yard of beautiful red and black flannel, blue and brown linseys, and blue and white striped cottonades, for the women, jeans for the men, and that coarse fabric called tow-linen made from the refuse of flax. The wonderful counterpanes, I have mentioned before, were manufactured there and the linen for sheets and towels. Let me tell you something curious while I am on the subject of the loom-house: Roberta's grandmother raised silk-worms in the room adjoining. She fed them on mulberry leaves. Mam' Sarah told Roberta they made a noise like wind while they were feeding. Those worms spun fluffy balls of silk, called cocoons, that the old lady reeled her silk thread from. She had all the silk thread and embroidery floss she needed.

There were no silk-worms raised in Roberta's time, and the room was given up to other uses.

There was kept the huge iron mortar where the grains of corn were crushed to make the delicious hominy Kentuckians are so fond of. When rightly prepared each grain stands out like the beautiful white-plumed corn captains and colonels that dance up so gaily over beds of live coals. There were made also the tallow dips, almost the only light used in the old days on the farms in Kentucky. Pieces of cotton wick were cut the required length and fastened at regular intervals to sticks of wood. One of the rows of wicks was dipped in the melted tallow, taken out and suspended over a vessel to drip. Then another was dipped, and another, till the same process was gone through with all. That was repeated many times before the wicks held enough tallow to be used for candles. An improved method was to run the wicks through tin molds, the required size and shape, and fasten them at one end with a knot; then pour in the melted tallow, and set the molds aside for the tallow to harden. The candles were put in brass, silver, and bronze candlesticks, accompanied by quaint little waiters that held snuffers, used to nip off the charred wick, as the tallow melted away from it. Very primitive that, compared with the brilliant luminaries we have now.

Well, there were hanks of different colored yarns and strings of red peppers hanging from the ceiling of the loom-house. Great beams ran through, called "warping bars," where the various warp threads were measured and cut for the loom. There were scutchens for dressing flax, carding combs, spinning wheels, and the great wooden loom with shafts reaching almost to the ceiling.

It was prime fun for Roberta to go down to the loom-house in the long winter evenings, and, sitting down before the open fire-place, help Polly and the others card the wool in long, smooth "curls," and pile them in even layers, ready for the spinner.

It required deft fingers, too, to gather together all the bits of wool caught on the many sharp teeth of the carding comb, and that, by working the two parts of the comb up and down, like a see-saw, then turning them over and smoothing the rolls with the back.

Those were busy days on the farms in old Kentucky, and happy days, besides. The very best days for many, both white and black. That afternoon I will tell you about especially, Mam' Sarah had a bright-colored rag carpet in the loom. There she sat, her eyes fixed intently on the pattern before her, shuttles carrying the black, red, and orange filling flying in and out under her deft, busy fingers. Many a strip of that gay filling had the little girl cut, sewed, and wrapped. Mam' Sarah raised her eyes and smiled at the child, but didn't stop working.

"Don't it tire you Mam' Sarah?" Roberta once compassionately asked.

"No, indeed, honey! Pear-lak I got sumfin' in my elbers en sumfin' in my knees that keeps on goen, sumfin' like springs. I never gits tired. I likes it."

That was the secret, Mam' Sarah liked it. One can keep on forever when one "likes it." "A merry heart goes all the day, a sad one tires in a mile."

Roberta climbed upon a stool and sat there watching Mam' Sarah. She was a nice person to watch. She had such kind eyes and such a pleasant mouth. Roberta thought Mam' Sarah's mouth was just made to say "honey." Just like a "prune" and "prism" mouth I've read of somewhere. Her skin was the color of coffee, with a little cream in it. She always wore a head-handkerchief, generally white, and one similar, folded over the bosom of her dress. Mam' Sarah was very tall, and she had the best lap in the world to coddle down in, Roberta thought.

Presently Mam' Sarah took her foot off the treadle, went to the fire-place, lit her pipe, returned to her seat and puffed away in peaceful silence. Roberta waited for her to get through, for she knew how dearly she loved her pipe. After a little Mam' Sarah laid her pipe aside and looked at the child.

"What's de matter, honey?" she asked. "Your putty eyes full of tears. Ennybody hurt your feelens?"

The touch of sympathy coming at that tender moment, like a rose-leaf upon a full vessel of water, caused the pent-up emotion to overflow.

Roberta climbed in Mam' Sarah's lap, put her head down on her shoulder and sobbed like her heart would burst. The old woman caressed the golden head, and droned out a quaint lullaby, accompanying it with a kind of swaying motion of her body as though soothing an infant to slumber:

"Who's dis, who's dis, er coddlen down here? I spec dis iz black mammy's gyurl; Her skin so white iz mammy's delite. And her long golden ha'r in kyurl. Shoo-oo-oo, shoo-oo-oo-- Rest, white chile, rest, on black mammy's breast.

"Who's dis, who 's dis, er coddlen down here, Wid her eyes full of greeven' tears? Fru de chink of the do', let de lite po', De shadders, my little gyurl skeers. Shoo-oo-oo, shoo-oo-oo-- Rest, white chile, rest, on black mammy's breast.

"This iz the way I useter nuss you when you wuz er baby. You wuz warken' about fo' you know'd who your mammy wuz. You see, your mar wuz so troubled after your par went erway, she diden' take no entres' in enny thing much; po' thing! po' thing! You'd axel cum enter this wurl' with out a rag ter your back, if I haden' hunted up sum baby cloze your mar wo', en git em ready."

"What made my papa go away, Mam' Sarah?" asked the child, quickly.

"I dunno fur sarten, honey, wot did make him go erway. You see, he wuzen' lak our fo'ks. Cum frum the Norf. Pear-lak he cuden' take ter our ways, sumhow. Mars Robert was razed in town, en he diden' lak it out here in the country. I heered him say he wuz so tired of the country, hee'd be glad never ter see another blade of grass grow. Mis Betsy tho't that was orful. He wuz allers arfter your mar ter sell all of us, en sell the place en go Norf with him ter live. Sumhow he diden' lak culured peepel ter wate on him. Jes lak hees sister, who cum down here to visit Mis July, en bro't her little gal with her. When enny of us wud go ni the child, shee'd draw bak en say, 'och-y,' jes lak our black skins wuz nasty. She seed Judy with her hans en the biskit do', and she wuden' eat the biskits. She said the blak rubbed orf in 'em. Shee'd never heered of worfles 'til she cum out here, en she wuden' tech 'em, cors she tho't we made the holes in em with our fingers. Yer mar felt mity bad cors de chile wuden' eat nuffin', for she wuz a po' little wite-face thing ennyhow.

"Well, you wanter know erbout your par en your mar. It ain' nuffin' but natchel, en I'll tell you the best I know how. One day I wuz cleneen' your mar's room. Your par en your mar wuz en de setten' room, en I heered him say:

"'It's unly a queshun of er little time, en they'll all be free. Sell 'em now wile you kin en put the money en your pocket. Ef you wate, they'll be er dead loss ter you. You made one fulis mistake en not selling Squire; don't make another.'

"Lemme tell you wot he mean by that, honey. Squire's mammy, Free Fanny, cum down here fum the city, en tried ter buy Squire fum yer mar. She orfered her er big price fur Squire; she wuz rich, en mity keen ter git her unly son. But Squire, he jes' went on so, got down on his knees ter your mar en begged her not to sell him ter his mammy. Axel cried, en got your mar ter cryen', en Mis Betsy en Mars Charley. You never seed enny thin' lak et. En your mar tole Free Fanny she wud leave it with Squire, en do jes' ez he sed. Yer par wuz jes' out-dun. Pear-lak he cuden' git over your mar payen' mo' tenshun ter Squire then ter him.

"I nerver know'd why Squire diden' want your mar ter sell him ter hees own mammy. It looked unnatchel. Free Fanny, that's hees mammy, wuz mity rich, en owned six colored peeple hersef. Shee's liven' yet en the city, en when she dies Squire will get her money.

"Well, when yer par sed that, your mar sed:

"'I cuden' sell them ef I wanter; you know that, Robert, en I don' wanter.'

"Then your par, he spoke up sharp:

"'It's nonsense, it's wuss than nonsense fur the liven' ter be so bound by the dead. Sarcumstances are allers changen'. I say you've got no rite ter think of everbody fo' you duz me. En its jes' cum ter this pass, you've got ter chuse twixt them en me. You've got ter sell 'em en sell this place en go with me, war I kin make the liven' I wuz eddiketed for, or I'll brake luse mysef, en go. I can't stan' this life no longer.'

"Then your mar sed:

"'I wud be miserbel, Robert, ef I broke my father's will. It would kill me, I do believe. Besides, I wuden' sell em, ef I diden' have er cent ter buy er crust of braid with, even ef I wuzen' boun' by the will. En ez fur sellen' this place, war I wuz born'd en raze, I never spec' ter. I wan'er live en die rite here. Besides, there's Aunt Betsy. She wud never consent ter go away fum here, en I cuden' leave her by hersef.'

"Yer par git up then, en slam the do, 'en I never heerd no mo'. 'Twuz the fus' out-en-out quarrel they ever had; but they had menny er one arfter that. Pear-lak one led ter ernuther; en thar wuz nobody ter take hold en help. Mis Betsy wud pitch in en say things that made 'em madder en madder. Well, one mawnen' early, Squire went ter the stable ter feed, en he sed Mars Robert dun took the horses en buggy, en er wagin fur hees trunk, en gorn. Erbout dinner time the men cum bak with the buggy en wagin, but no Mars Robert. Fum that day ter this he never cum bak."

"Did he never write to mamma?" asked the child, her cheeks burning.

"I berleeve he did, unct; sent her sum money or sumfin'. I heered Mis Betsy say, 'Put it en bank fur your unborn'd chile,' en your mar sed, 'I don' want it; I have enuff.'

"Tempers iz er mity bad thing, honey," continued Mam' Sarah. "Now, I don' mean that nasty sperit that makes er dog snap hees teef at you, cors your mar en par never had no temper lak dat, chile. Mo' lak spile chillen, that dun had ther way so long they cuden' give in, speshly your par. If your par haden' gorn so fur erway, your mar en him wud made up when you cum. Chillens teeches fo'ks er heep. But you see, honey, they never had no chance ter make up. My ole man en me haz menny ups en downs. Sumhow, when he gits sick, or I haz ter do sumfin' fur him, I furgit erbout bein' mad at him.

"Pear-lak, ter me, honey, en I've stidded on it er heep, the mo' you do fur fo'ks the better you laks 'em. 'Twud bin the same with your mar en your par, ef your par haden' gorn so fur away. When you marry, honey, you marry one of the nabor boys."

"I never mean to marry anybody," said Roberta, getting down from Mam' Sarah's lap, and shaking out the creases in her muslin dress. She was a dainty creature. "I am going to be an old maid and take care of mamma. May be I can make her laugh and sing, after a while, like Aunt Betsy says she used to. I'll never leave her, never, never. And then there's Aunt Betsy to take care of, and you, and Aunt Judy and all."

"Bless your sweet mouf. But we've gotter die fo' long, honey, en be put erway in the cold groun' fur the wurms ter make meals of; sum of us cheaten' the grave rite now. What iz you gwiner do then, honey?"

"Then," said the child, and her face was sober indeed, "when that comes to pass I shall be very, very sorry for a long time; but I will try to make others happy, as mamma does, and may be that will comfort me a little. I will get all the little girls together, like me, that haven't got any papas and mammas, and all the little hunchback darkies like Dilsy, and all the sorrowful people like mamma, and I'll love 'em and take care of 'em until the angel comes for us, the angel that God sends."

Thus the years rolled by until the war came. Peaceful, happy years they were to Roberta on the old farm; golden years, in which the child's character grew and strengthened, with no unkindly influence to warp it, and her nature, it seemed, became more responsive all the time to the love that was lavished upon her.

Mam' Sarah told Roberta that she was going down to the tobacco fields, early Sad-day morning, July 4, '63, and Roberta coaxed her mamma to let she and Polly and Dilsy go with her. Although Federal cannon were planted along the bluff overlooking Green River, their presence occasioned no especial uneasiness, nor suspicion of impending warfare. Mrs. Marsden as well as everybody else had grown accustomed to them. Almost during the entire civil war that point was thought important on account of the bridge; army stores were constantly shipped South that way.

So the three children started off, merry as larks, with their trusty companion.

On either side of the turnpike road were green fields flushed with light. The morning air stirred about them, redolent in sweet scents and attuned with the many voices of summer. They heard the drowsy hum of bees; and butterflies were there, thick as motes in the midday sun. Roberta's observant, nature-loving eyes roved delightedly from one point to another of the sunny landscape, while she repeated gaily to Mam' Sarah a little couplet. The child's memory was stored with quaint rhymes:

"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."