"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 natch.e.l.ly 'spize babies, ennyhow. If I wuz er blue-gum n.i.g.g.e.r, 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 pa.s.sing, 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 peac.o.c.k, 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, b.u.t.tered 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 b.u.t.terflies 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 b.u.t.terflies lie in their shroud; but grape-vines are loaded with rich purple cl.u.s.ters, 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 gla.s.s 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Have you come for your gun?" the child asked. "Yes, and to see you," was the reply.]

"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?"