"That Old-Time Child, Roberta" Part 7

"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 bluegra.s.s, 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 bluegra.s.s, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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."