The Boy of Chancellorville and Other Civil War Stories

The Bayof Cnancellorville

and Other Civil War Stories

The Boy of Cnancellorville and Other Civil War Stories

EDITED BY

James Marten OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS Oxford New York Athens Auckland Bangkok Bogota* Buenos Aires Cape Town Dar es Salaam Delhi Florence Hong Kong Istanbul Karachi Kolkata Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Mumbai Nairobi Paris Sao Paulo Shanghai Singapore Taipei Tokyo Toronto Warsaw with associated companies in Berlin Ibadan Copyright © 2002 by James Marten Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 www.oup.com Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Marten, James Alan. The Boy of Chancellorville and other Civil War stories / James Marten. p. cm.

Summary: A collection of stories by American authors set during the Civil War which reveal the conflict's effects on children of differing viewpoints, ages, genders, races, and locations. Brief introductions place each story in literary context and explain the author's connection to the war. ISBN 0-19-514163-6 1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861-1865—Juvenile fiction. 2. Children's stories, American. [1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861-1865—Fiction. 2. Short stories.] I. Title.

PZ5.M352 Bo 2002 [Fic]—dc21

2001046117 987654321

Printed in the United States of America Design and layout: Nora Wertz

CONTENTS Introduction: A Wonderful Panorama . . . . James Marten

6

Dog Carlos Louise E. Chollet

9

Wnning His Way

. . . . 23

Charles Carleton Coffin The Boy of Chancellorville Edmund Kirke

. . . . 40

Nelly's Hospital Louisa May Alcott

.... 55

The Two Christmas Evenings Lydia Maria Child

. . . . 74

Eleanor's Colonel Annah Robinson Watson

. . . . 95

The Return of a Private

... 102

Hamlin Garland The Doll Charles Waddell Chesnutt

... 112

INTRODUCTION

A WONDERFUL PANORAMA James Marten

I

n her autobiographical short story, "Bayou l'Ombre: An Incident of War," about her family's stay on an isolated Louisiana plantation during the Civil War, Grace King describes the excitement of three southern sisters when they heard that the war had finally begun. Their French-born nurse had told them all about the heroic battles and exciting events of the wars that the French emperor Napoleon Bonaparte had fought 50 years before: the colorful uniforms, the courageous officers, the dramatic charges, the sad but noble deaths. They believed they knew everything they needed to know about war. With the outbreak of conflict in their own country, the girls could hardly credit their luck: "a wonderful panorama was suddenly unfolded before them," and they eagerly awaited the excitement and glory. Little excitement and even less glory came into the girls' lives; in fact, when a patrol of Union soldiers eventually turned up on their plantation with a ragged band of Confederate captives, the sisters patriotically helped the Confederates to escape, only to learn that, in fact, the men in blue were actually Rebels in disguise and that the men that they freed were actually Union soldiers in Confederate uniforms! The war did, indeed, provide a panorama of experiences for children in the North and the South, many of which will appear in the stories that follow. Each relates a version of the war that rarely appears in the countless books and movies that have been produced over the last 130 years. Historians and writers have rarely described children's roles in the Civil War, although they played important parts in its drama—enlisting as drummer boys and underage sol-

6

Introduction

diers, picking lint for bandages, raising money for hospitals and other soldiers' causes, eagerly attending war rallies and political meetings, buying up games and toys and books related to the war. The tales in this anthology explore these and many other children's experiences during the Civil War. The stories can be divided into several categories. "Winning His Way" and "The Boy of Chancellorville" describe the adventures and sacrifices that Union soldiers faced. "The Two Christmas Evenings," "Nelly's Hospital," and "Eleanors Colonel" show some of the ways that children experienced the war on the home front. The sometimes awkward reunions of families at the end of the war is the subject of "The Return of a Private." And the first and last stories deal with African-Americans before and after the war. In the first, "Dog Carlos," the Civil War inevitably changes the life of a young slave. The last, "The Doll," takes place years after the Confederacy surrendered, but shows the long shadows the war and slavery cast over race relations in the United States. An extensive search revealed virtually no fiction produced by African-American writers about Civil War children. Most black

7

Introduction authors, even those who had been children during the war, wrote instead about slavery or about the aftermath of war. There were, however, many stories by white authors about black children published in northern children's magazines while the conflict raged. "Dog Carlos" is valuable because it presents its hero as a unique, smart, and sensitive individual—something that most whites writing about African-Americans in the nineteenth century failed to do. Readers will soon learn that 19th-century writing is quite different from what they may be used to reading. Authors often tried to recreate the sounds of regional accents; as a result, several stories feature very odd-looking "dialect" spoken by African-American and southern characters. Some readers may be surprised that these pieces of fiction were actually intended for young people, because the vocabulary is more advanced than that of most writing for children today. But most were written specifically for children—the exceptions are the selections by Hamlin Garland and Charles Chesnutt. Virtually all of these stories are written from the northern point of view, which reflects the simple fact that most children's magazines and most children's authors were from the North. These authors were writing for a white audience. Before emancipation, it was illegal for slaves to read and write—and for whites to teach a slave to read or write—and even after African-American children in the South began attending school during and after the Civil War, few of their parents could afford to subscribe to the magazines in which these stories appeared. The stories that follow do not tell the history of the Civil War, or even the history of children during the Civil War. But they do offer an introduction to children's involvement in the war as described by authors during the war and the generation that followed it.

8

DOG CARLOS Louise E. Chollet

Northern children rarely read anything about the institution of slavery in the years leading up to the Civil War, despite the great debate raging in Congress, in newspapers, and even within families. Children's magazines ignored politics and concentrated instead on teaching young readers to be obedient, moral, and modest. Schoolbooks and even Sunday school journals avoided the subject of slavery, fearing that controversial issues would scare away potential subscribers. Publishers had reason to worry. In the 1830s, when Lydia Maria Child began writing about the evils of slavery in her pioneering children's magazine The Juvenile Miscellany, readers turned away, and she had to stop publication. This changed after the Civil War broke out in 1861. AfricanAmerican characters became much more important in stories written for young Northerners, the cruelty they endured under slavery was described in detail, and a number of authors even included black heroes in their adventure stories. The story that follows, published just after the end of the war, tells about the experiences of a young slave boy named Carlos, who, like many African-Americans in children's stories of the time, displays amazing bravery. Unfortunately, he is also an example of a common problem in stories written by white authors of the time about black people: the hard-to-read dialogue. Slaves didn't really sound that way, and modern readers may believe that the presentation of those characters is crude and even racist. Yet this combination of sympathy and stereotype is an important part of mid-19th century literature. At the end of this story, a black soldier calls himself "Cuffy"; this word referred to African-Americans during slavery.

9

D

Louise E. Chollet

og Carlos was not a Newfoundland, a mastiff, a terrier, or a dog of any of the breeds with which you are used to romp. He had a smooth, yellow skin, large, soft eyes, could fetch and carry, and understand all that was said to him. He was about sixteen years old, stood five feet three inches high, and would sell at any day in the market for five or six hundred dollars. You see, therefore, that he was a fine and valuable animal, and that Mr. Seabrook, who had just given Dog Carlos to his nephew Jack for his own, had made him a very handsome present indeed; but it happened, as soon as Dog Carlos understood that he had a new master, that, from a good and docile dog, he instantly became a bad, designing one, and made up his mind to run away. I say made up his mind, because he had a mind, and two legs, and a soul, and was in fact a lively mulatto lad, who, happening to have been born in South Carolina, had been given when only six years of age by Mr. Seabrook to his son Harry, as his dog; that is the name by which such little slaves are called. Carlos came at Harry's whistle, did his errands, and trotted after him when he rode out on horseback, like any other puppy, running fast enough to keep Harry's Kentucky pony in sight, till his legs were tired, when his young master would pick him up and perch him behind, where he clung looking very like a little yellow monkey. If Harry was good-natured, Carlos sometimes got pennies and candles; if Harry was cross, Carlos was apt to fall heir to cuffs on the ear, and cuts of the whip; but you are not to think very hardly of this Southern boy, or plume yourself on being so much better, unless you are quite certain that, if you had a boy or a dog all to yourself, and were sure that papa and mamma would either 10

Dog Carlos

know nothing or say nothing about it, you would not cuff and strike him when you were very much out of humor, as I have seen certain little Northerners do to their brothers, and sisters, and pets, even with the fear of punishment before their eyes. Carlos had always been told that he was the happiest fellow in the world, and that the text in the Bible which principally concerned him was, "Servants, obey your masters." I do not think he quite believed it in his heart, for the same differences appear in black children as in white. You know certain Toms and Lucys, who, if they found it in their books, would go solemnly up to class, and say, the moon is about as large as a pint-bowl, is made of green cheese, and rises in the west, and sets in the east; whereas you, my clever young friend, are not to be made game of in that fashion by any book that ever was printed. Just so Carlos said, "Yes; mas'r," with the rest; but sometimes he thought, in a puzzled way, how very odd it was that the alphabet should be as bad for him as catching the "country fever," when it was such an excellent thing for Mas'r Harry, and that, when poor niggers needed so much comfort, there should be just that one line about "Servants, obey your masters," which he was so tired of hearing; and when Harry died, and Mr. Seabrook, to whom now the very sight of Carlos was painful, gave him away to his nephew, Carlos, as we have said, made up his mind to run away; for there were dreadful stories whispered about what had been done on the Ashleigh plantation, and Jack Ashleigh, though hardly as old as Carlos himself, was much too ready with the toe of his boot, and the lash of his whip, to be a very comfortable master for anything but a hippopotamus. 11

Louise E. Chollet

Making up one's mind, however, builds no bridges; and while Carlos was still thinking the matter over, Master Jack suddenly took it into his head to go home, taking his pony, his gun, and Dog Carlos with him; and that made running away, as an old teacher of mine used to say, "quite another pair of sleeves"; for Jack's father, scowling, angry Mr. Ashleigh, like other tyrants, had his spies, miserable souls, who tried to find favor with their cruel master by repeating to him what was said and done among the other slaves; and beside these, something more honest, but quite as dangerous,—a leash of bloodhounds, whom Carlos could never pass without fancying that he felt them growling and tearing at his throat: and I suspect he must have looked at this time downcast and doubtful, for his young master took occasion to remonstrate with him in the following gentle manner. "You black imp, what are you sulking about now? Look here, Carlos, do you feel this?" "Yes, mas'r," answered Carlos; and it is likely that he did, as "this" was a stinging cut of Jack's riding whip. "O, you do, eh! Well, this is the sort of medicine we keep for sulky niggers; so look out, and don't be trying on your airs here. We don't spoil our niggers, like Uncle Seabrook, you had better believe." Carlos did believe it with all his heart, and thought all the more about that plan of running away; but also, that, till he found a chance, the best policy was to be so alert and so docile, that "Mas'r Jack" should find no need for his favorite medicine. This was not what Jack had expected, and I am afraid not what he wanted. He thought Carlos's education had been so neglected 12

Dog Carlos

in the whipping line, that, as a consequence, he should be lazy and saucy; and, being disappointed in that, seemed to feel as if Carlos's good behavior put him in the wrong, and was so sharp and savage with him, such a lynx for his failings, and such a mole for his good points, that I believe Carlos would have been wiser to have deserved his flogging, and taken it at once. About the time of Carlos's coming, Mr. Ashleigh had forbidden his slaves to hold their prayer-meetings. I do not know whether he was afraid that God would hear them, for it is quite certain that he could never have believed what he said, that these poor cowed creatures met to plan mischief against their white masters; but at any rate, he put Wesley, their preacher, a house servant, and a feeble old man, at hard labor in the fields, flogged the rest liberally, and there was an end of the meetings, on pain of more floggings for every one caught at them. They went on, however, for all that, in the rice houses, in the swamps, sometimes in their own settlement with closed doors; and Carlos went to them, partly because he had a good old mother who loved Jesus, and partly, that he took a sort of stubborn comfort in breaking rules; and coming home one night, he was unlucky enough to run full on Master Jack. "What are you doing out here at this time of night?" asked Jack, not from particular suspicion, but simply because he could never let him alone. Now Carlos was not afraid of a whipping for himself, but he knew that to tell the truth here would just send old Wesley, Maum Bella, Hercules, Sue, Lizzie and a dozen others, to the whipping-post. Not many of the slaves would have hesitated in 13

Louise E. Chollet

such a case over a falsehood; they learn to lie early, of one Mr. Fear. But Carlos was as sturdy a fellow as some honest white boys that I know, and that good old mother who loved Jesus had taught him to hate a lie; so he tried evasion. "I'se been roun' all ober, mas'r." "That isn't the question; where have you been?" insisted Jack, suspecting that at last this dog was going to be obstinate. "I'se bery sorry, mas'r." "You black rascal! Are you going to answer me?" "Mas'r hab to 'scuse me; couldn't do dat no how." "O, you can't! Perhaps I can find you a tongue. Now," striking him with his fist, "will you answer?—now, will you answer?" Carlos took the blows quietly, without flinching or dodging; and if his young master's face was fierce and angry, the dog's was solemn and determined. Carlos is in a bad predicament; for if, as Mas'r Jack declares, he is to be whipped till he tells, it looks very much as if Carlos was to be whipped to death. One, two, three whippings; each one worse than the one preceding. This is the next day. "Take him away," cries Jack, savagely, "and bring him up early in the morning. I'll have his heart out, but he shall speak." Carlos limped away, bleeding and faint, and not one of those for whom he suffered dared so much as look towards him; but when it was dark enough to hide them, Maum Bella came and washed his mangled back, and Sue brought corn-pones, and Lizzie a roasted chicken, and old Wesley his blessing, and Carlos had come at last to what he had been dreaming about so long,— the running away. 14

Dog Carlos

Mr. Ashleigh's house was surrounded by rice-fields,—mudfields you would have been apt to call them as they looked just then; in front was the river, behind were great forests,—so dense, that to look in among the thick-growing trunks you might have fancied that night was kept in there. You crossed the rice-fields on dams, narrow-raised walks, only wide enough for a single horse; and directly in front of Mr. Ashleighs house was a little wharf, where vessels stopped to load up with rice, and to which was moored a boat, as if waiting for Carlos. On the other side of the river was a railroad, clearly running somewhere, away from mas'r's. Carlos took the rails for his guide and traveled just as they told him all night; but when it came time for stars, and owls, and runaways to hide themselves, he looked about him a little doubtfully, for the stars and owls had a place, but he had none. On one side was the river, on the other the forest. The river, of course, was out of the question, he not being a fish; and if he concealed himself in the bush, or climbed a tree, the dogs would soon have him out. I think the poor boy had a notion that "Mas'r Jack," and the terrible hounds, could find him anywhere; still he had thought of nothing better to do, when, luckily for him, he came on a hut built of rough boards, very much in the style of a pig-pen, having a small space left open for a door, in which sat a wrinkled old negro, with hair as white as snow, singing in a cracked, feeble voice, "Bery early in the mornin' when the Lor' pass by, when the Lor' pass by, and invite me to come," over and over again, to a tune as monotonous as the words. Now this was only a "pig-minder,"—a poor old slave who followed his pigs 15

Louise E. Chollet

about all day in the forest, wherever they chose to go, and slept at night in this miserable hut; but old Cupid was also a famous engineer on the underground railway, which you know is the line on which runaway slaves come North, and had helped off so many poor creatures in his day, that he knew as many hiding places as a chipmunk. "Lor' bress ye, honey chile," he said to Carlos, "I knowed ye for one ob my chillen, de fust minnit I sot eyes on yer. 'Pears like de Lor' done sen 'em all dis yer way, kase he knows I'se de bes'. I'se done gone hide heap ob niggas, and dey'm neber cotched ef I hide em, neber. Jes you come now wid ole Cupid. De Lor' sen yer, shore, and he look sharp dey no foun' yer, 'pend on dat." Now, just about this time there was a fine commotion on the Ashleigh plantation. Carlos was missing, and the boat was gone, and it was tolerably clear that he had crossed the river and had a fair start, and the hounds are baying in the yard, and Master Jack and his father are in such a rage that I should say, if they catch him, Carlos's chance was poorer than ever. On 16

Dog Carlos

crossing the river, the dogs, who had been given Carlos's clothes to scent, found the track at once, and trailed Carlos as straight to the forest as if they had seen him go, and turned in among the trees where he had turned, till they came to old Cupid's hut, which was now quite empty; and there the younger dogs began to give tongue, and yelp, and run wildly about, while the experienced and reliable dogs nosed here and there in a puzzled way: for here the trail went on towards the heart of the forest, and here it doubled on itself and came back to the brook, and went up the brook, and down the brook, till they could make nothing of it, and when they crossed the brook, there it was on the other side, striking off again into the forest; and how could even the best-regulated dog stick to such a scent as that? So there was Jack, and Mr. Ashleigh, and the overseer, all of different minds; for Jack was sure that Carlos was dodging them somewhere in the forest, while the elder gendemen were as positive that he had gone on farther; and there were the dogs puzzling, and yelping about them, and, in the midst of the clamor, who should come on them but Cupid, driving his pigs. "Confound it, keep off, you'll spoil the scent," shouted Jack. "And have you seen a little yellow boy go by here this morning?" asked Mr. Ashleigh in the same breath. "Iss, mas'r, bery fine mornin," answered Cupid, his hand at his ear to show how very deaf he was. "You fool! we want to know if you have seen a runaway boy,— a yellow boy, saucy-looking fellow, carries himself very straight," chimed in the overseer. "Iss, mas'r, bery fine pigs; a'n't no finer dan dese yer. Mas'r Sandford's a'n't no count at all side on 'em." 17

Louise E. Chollet

"What is the use talking to that idiot ?" said Jack, impatiently. "Don't you see he is as deaf as a post,—and when did any one ever get the truth out of a nigger? Come on to Sandford's. If he's gone on, we'll soon overhaul him. If he is skulking about here, a day or two will starve him out, and when he does show himself, he will have a warm time of it." And as nobody had anything better to offer, off they went, dogs and men, in bad humor enough. And now where do you suppose Carlos was hiding all this time? Why, very nearly over their heads. That sly old Cupid had made him walk on half a mile beyond the hut, and then back to the brook, and up and back down on both its banks, and off into the forest on the other side, and back again once more to the water. You know that water completely destroys the scent, and puts the best hound at fault, and wading into it, they came, about a quarter of a mile up, on a great old oak leaning over the brook, and forking out in three huge branches, some thirty or forty feet from the ground. A superb trumpet-creeper wound about the trunk of the oak, and twined and twisted in and over and around the three branches, till its thick glossy leaves and scarlet flowers completely covered the space which they enclosed, and made of it a sort of nest into which Carlos had climbed from the water-side, and, forcing his way with some trouble between the twisted and matted stems, sat securely, munching at the pone and chicken which he had not dared to touch before, and looking down at his baffled and spiteful hunters. When they were gone, he was so dead tired, that notwithstanding his strange perch, he fell almost instantly into a heavy sleep, from which he waked every few 18

Dog Carlos

moments with a jerk, fancying that he was tumbling from the tree, or felt the grip of a hound at his throat, till dark, when he scrambled down to pass the night in the hut, where Cupid had taken care to bring him his supper. So passed a week, the days in the tree, the nights in the hut, till, feeling himself tolerably secure, Carlos set out again with the rails for a guide, pushing on at night, hiding by day in the bush, and keeping clear of the plantations, till his corn pone was gone. Then Carlos, who had the appetite of a young wolf, reflected that he could neither dine upon the moss, dangling from the trees above his head, or on the moccasin-snakes upon which he had once or twice nearly trodden; and coming on cleared grounds, and outbuildings, and finally a broad avenue of oaks, skulked along its edge, keeping well in the shadow, till he saw at a little distance the pillars and piazzas of the planter's house, the low roofs of the negro quarters, and just before him a cabin. The door was closed, and the board shutter of the little window; but a light showed through a crevice in the last, and pulling it cautiously open, Carlos saw a cleanly swept room, a plump bed, a clear bright fire, and, sitting before it, a negro woman with a gay handkerchief bound about her head, and her skirt turned back over her knees, who, looking suddenly up, caught sight of Carlos's wild, bright eyes, and haggard face, before he could draw back. "Come in," she said quietly opening the door; "no need be feared ob me. I'se all alone; allers alone now. My chillen all done gone; two sole away, free dead, and one lef' he mas'r, like you 'pears like. Come in, chile,—tell ye no be 'feared, dey 'm neber 19

Louise E. Chollet

come yere";—and, taking hold of Carlos's arm, she pulled him in, plastered with swamp mud, his clothes torn to rags in the bush, and feeling like a frog, or some ugly crawling bug, that belongs in the damp and dirt, and has no business in clean, cheery rooms. "'Pears like yer feet's too tender to be trackin' it for de dogs to foller," she said, looking at him compassionately, as she went about the little room to get him supper; "whar's yer mammy?" Carlos answered with a backward jerk of his hand. "Watchin' and prayin' den, pore soul, like me," said the woman, sighing. "Such a weary days! Sometimes I mos' tink de Lor' no hear, no care, and den de Bible say de Lor' hear de sighin'; and I shore he mus' look down, and I'se pray ahead; and oh! de prayers dat done gone up to him! nuff to make noise in Heben; and de Lor' hab hear,—de good time's come." Carlos had heard much of a good time that was coming, but here was the first news he had of its arrival. He was too chilly, too full of aches, and too sleepy, to ask questions just then, however. He ate, as in a dream, the best supper that he had tasted in a month, had a general idea that the woman was washing off the mud, and that, while it was doing, he wished she would let him alone, because it made his dreams jerky, to be pulled about, and rubbed, and that, when it was done, it was very nice to be clean; and presently forgot everything, in the soft bed in which she tucked him up for the night, where he slept soundly, and did not even dream of Mas'r Jack. In the morning he learned what the good time was, and who brought it, from Sue, the woman who had received him, and who held forth as follows:— 20

Dog Carlos

"Lor' bress de chile! how you tink I sit yere, and no be up dar?" pointing towards the planter's house,—"kep' you yere dis way, and no feared? Ole mas'r run; ole miss run. Dey'm all gone, kase dem dear, good Yankees comin'; neber see sech scrummagery, and tearin', and hollerin'. And mas'r, he say, 'Why, ole Sue, you no come wid us?' and I say, 'No, tank you, mas'r; bery gran to go wid sech gran' gemmen, but den, you see, I'se ole woman now, and neber hed nuffin fur my own self yit; want to feel what it like, to hab you own mouf, and foots, and hans';— he! he! he! And dey all gone, and dem nigga stay what like, and we'm free, bress de Lor'! All de time I kep tinking, Lor', how you gwine ter do it? You'm break ebery yoke, shore, but what eber you'll do wid ole mas'r, dis chile no see; and har's ole mas'r lef us, and de freedom comin, shore nuf, and all jes' as easy as makin' hoecake." Carlos listened, his mouth literally wide open with astonishment. He had scarcely ever heard of the Yankees, on the Seabrook and Ashleigh plantations, and, though he had come so many miles for his liberty, he had always felt that somehow or other in the end Mas'r Jack would get him, and carry him back; and now here was the whole plantation, alive with negroes, hurrying out towards the road to meet their freedom, which was nothing more nor less than our General Sherman and his army marching into South Carolina; and on all sides Carlos heard, "Bress de Lor'!" and "Glory Hallelujah!" and wild singing of strange old tunes, such as are never heard here, and laugh and chatter, till above it all sounded a heavy, steady tramp, and then drum and fife, and cheers, and men singing 21

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about John Brown, and floating out fair and wide on the breeze our banner, and their banner, the stars and stripes. And as these poor, wondering, joyful free men and free women, for they were slaves no longer, stood looking on, I dare say our soldiers saw only a dingy, queer-looking mob, capering and grinning in a way to raise a good-natured laugh; and yet, dear children, ask your papa if here was not cracked the very toughest nut that has ever tried the teeth and the temper of those famous nut-crackers that sit in Congress, and make the laws, and keep us all straight, and tell us what is what generally. As for Carlos, there is an old and a false story about a wicked and cruel sorceress that had a disagreeable habit of turning men into beasts; but we have a new and a true story of a sweet and good enchantress called Liberty, that turns dogs into men; for Carlos is Dog Carlos no longer, but a soldier in the United States army, and promises to be a good and faithful one. And there is a story told of one of these colored soldiers, who would not suffer an impertinence while on guard, because, he said, "I don't care nuffin fur dis yer particular Cuffy, but you mus respec' dis uniform";—and if that particular Cuffy was not Carlos, I can only wish it had been, for the sake of my story.

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WINNING HIS WAY Charles Carleton Coffin

Few children's stories published during the Civil War matched the volume of patriotic and moral passion contained in the pages of "Winning His Way." In monthly segments appearing in Our Young Folks throughout 1865, the plot followed the adventures of Paul Parker, a kind, modest, and religious teenager growing up in a little town called New Hope. Surrounded by loving friends and family, Paul goes off to war. His incredible strength of character and dedication to duty make him a model soldier. The author, Charles Carleton Coffin, was a well-known writer of historical narratives, and during and just after the Civil War he published three books chronicling it: My Days and Nights on the Battle-Field (1864), Following the Flag (1865), and Four Years of Fighting (1866). Wartime writers for children emphasized the personal strengths that were necessary to win the war. Bravery and patriotism were important, but so were religious faith, kindness, and humility. Paul Parker demonstrated those traits at home and on the battlefield, providing the perfect model of a well-rounded, loyal northern boy. At the same time, the story also describes in detail the cruelty of Confederate officers, Southerners who lack the noble qualities that Paul exhibits. The following is the final segment of the series, which picks up with Paul's friends and relatives mourning his apparent death on the battlefield. By this time, however, readers know that Paul actually survived his terrible injury and is hanging on to life at the infamous Confederate prison, Andersonville.

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Charles Carleton Coffin

A

s the weeks passed by, bringing no intelligence to New Hope that Paul was living,—when there was no longer a doubt of his death,—Father Surplice held a memorial service. It was on Sunday, and all the people were at church. Appropriate for the occasion were the words which he read from the New Testament of the widow of Nam,—how, "as Jesus came nigh to the city, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow; and when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said, "Weep not!'" Consoling and comforting were his own words, which sank deep into the hearts of the stricken people; and though the good man said, "Weep not!" tears dropped from his own eyes, and fell upon the great Bible which lay open before him. It was a sad and solemn service. Though the heart of the mother was yearning for her son, yet she could say, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Mrs. Parker still lived in the little old cottage. The neighbors were very kind, and she wanted for nothing, for Colonel Dare remembered his promise. Peaceful was her life. The birds sang cheerful songs; sweet was the humming of the bees, fragrant the flowers in the garden, and steady the flowing of the river; and as she listened to the waterfall, she thought of Paul as standing by the River of Life. How, then, could she mourn for him? Yet she missed him. Sometimes she listened as if to hear his footsteps coming up the garden walk. Sometimes her eyes filled with tears, as her heart went out to the lonely battle-field where she thought him lying. O, if she could but behold him again,—clasp him in her arms,—and once more lay her hand upon his brow, and bless him with a mother's tenderest love! 24

Winning His Way

But he was gone, and for him she could work no more. His comrades were bearing on the flag, upholding it on bloody fields, fighting as he fought, suffering as he suffered, needing help and comfort and cheer from those at home. There was work to be done for them; so through the days she sat in the old kitchen, knitting and sewing for the soldiers, wishing that she had half a dozen hands instead of two, that she might help them more. There was one who came to aid her every day,—Azalia, who, in the silence and seclusion of her chamber, had looked out upon the yellow harvest-fields where the farmers were gathering the first ripe ears of seed-corn, and had tried to still the wild commotion in her heart by remembering that it was just and right for the Lord of the harvest to gather his "choicest grains." Down on the lowlands by the river the nurserymen were selecting their fairest trees, and transplanting them in their orchards on the pleasant hills beyond the stream. Why, then, should she complain if the kind Father had seen fit to do the same? It was consoling to take from her bureau drawer, where her keepsakes were stored, the letters which Paul had written, undo the black ribbon which she had tied around the package, and read again and again that which she almost knew by heart. What manly words were there: "Life is worth nothing unless devoted to noble ends. I can see the millions yet to come beckoning me to do my duty for their sake. What answer can I give them if I falter?" So read one of the letters. They were words which she could not forget. They were written from the trenches before Vicksburg, when the prospects of the country were dark and gloomy,—when craven men at home were crying, "Peace! Peace! Let us have peace 25

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at any price!" forgetting that there can be no reconcilement between right and wrong. Paul had sacrificed everything—life itself—for the sake of those who were to come after him,—for Truth and Justice. She thought of him as asleep beneath the sod of the battle-field where he fell,—of all that was mortal lying there, but of his soul as having passed up into heaven, perhaps even then beholding her from the celestial sphere. "What answer can I give to those who come after me?" The question haunted her through the waning days and the lonely nights. What could she do? How listless her life! of how little account! How feeble, forceless, and narrow all her efforts! What sacrifices had she made? None. She had lived for herself alone. Was this all of life? In the silent hours, when all around were hushed in slumber, her longing soul, with far-reaching sight, looked out upon the coming years, and beheld the opening prospect,—a country saved, a nation redeemed, justice and truth triumphant, and Peace, with her white wings, brooding over the land! This through sacrifice of blood, of strength, of ease and comfort. To withhold the sacrifice was to lose all. To her the coming millions were beckoning as they had beckoned to him. With prayers of consecration she gave herself to the country,—to go wherever duty called, to labor, to endure hardship, and brave scenes which would wring out her heart's blood,—to face disease and death itself, if need be, to hand down a priceless inheritance to the coming ages. "You will get sick, my child. You have not strength to be a nurse in the hospital," said her mother, when Azalia told her that she must go and take care of the soldiers. "I cannot spare you, my daughter," said her father, tenderly tak26

Winning His Way

ing her in his arms, and kissing her ruby lips. She was his only child, and he loved her dearly. "I don't think it is your duty to go; and how lonesome the house would be without my darling!" And so, knowing that it was her duty to do whatever her parents wished, she tried to be content. But the days dragged wearily. She was ever thinking of the soldiers,—thinking through the days and through the nights, till the bright bloom faded from her cheek. Her heart was far away. Her life was incomplete,—she felt that it was running to waste. Her father saw that his flower was fading. At last he said, "Go, my darling, and God be with you." "I don't think that Judge Adams ought to let Azalia go into the hospital. It isn't a fit place for girls," said Miss Dobb, when she heard that Azalia was to be a nurse. But giving no heed to Miss Dobb, with the blessing of her parents following her, she left her pleasant home, gave up all its ease and comfort, to minister to the sick and wounded, who had fought to save the country. She went to Washington, and thence to the hospitals at Annapolis. It was hard work to stand all day by the side of the sick, bathing their fevered brows, moistening their parched lips, binding up their bleeding wounds. It was painful to look upon the quivering flesh, torn and mangled by cannonshot. But she learned to bear it all,—to stand calmly by, waiting upon the surgeon while he ran his sharp knife into the live flesh. It was a pleasure to aid him in his work. Her step was light upon the floor; soothing and tender the touch of her hand. There was no light so sweet and pure as that which beamed from her earnest eyes. The sick waited impatiendy 27

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for her appearance in the morning, watched her footsteps through the day, thanked her for all she did, and said, "God bless you!" when she bade them good night. Men who were in the habit of uttering fearful oaths wept when she talked with them about their mothers; she wrote their letters, and read to them the words of affection which came from home. She sang the songs they loved to hear. It was like wine to the weak. The down-hearted took new courage, and those who were well enough to be hobbling about on crutches who were telling stories of the battles, forgot what they were saying while listening to her voice. Her presence was noonday, her absence night. Once, when through long watching and patient waiting her strength gave way, and the fever raged in her own veins, it was touching to see their sorrow. The loud talking spoke in whispers, and walked noiselessly along the wards, for fear of increasing the pain which racked her aching head; the sick ones, who missed the touch of her magic hand, and the sweet music of her voice, and the sunlight of her presence, whose fevers were raging because she was absent, when the physician went his rounds in the morning, at noon, and at night, inquired not about themselves, but her. When the fever passed,—when she was well enough to walk through the wards, and hold for a moment the hands which were stretched out on every side,—it was as if her very presence had power to heal. How blessed her work!—to give life and strength; to soothe pain, change sorrow to joy; to sit beside the dying, and talk of the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world; to wipe the dampness of death from their brows, listen to their last words, and, when the spirit had flown, to close the sighdess eyes, and cut from 28

Winning His Way

the pale brow a lock of hair for a fond mother far away, thinking ever of her dying boy. So the months went by,—autumn to winter, winter to spring, and spring to summer.

There was no change at Andersonville, but in the loathsome prison it was ever the same terrible scene of starvation, corruption, disease, despair, and death. Every morning those who had died during the night were collected by the prisoners and laid in rows by the prison gate, where, during the day they were piled upon the dead-cart and borne out to the trenches. There was no hope of relief for the living, and each prisoner looked forward with indifference to his inevitable fate. Above them floated the Rebel flag. They were kept there beneath its fold by Jefferson Davis and General Lee, till thirteen thousand had been starved and murdered. Paul knew that notwithstanding Uncle Peter's constant care and nursing, he was growing weaker; but he had learned to look death calmly in the face and so was undisturbed by the prospect. He knew that God, who takes care of the sparrows, would not forget his mother, and he felt that Azalia would sometimes shed a tear when she thought of him. But one morning there was an unusual stir among the prisoners. "You are to be exchanged and sent home," said the Rebel officers. They had been told the same thing so many times, and had been always so cruelly deceived, that they did not believe the statement till orders were issued for a portion of them to be ready to march to the cars at an appointed hour. Paul was among those who were 29

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ordered away. All were ready in an instant for they had no baggage to pack up, no knapsacks, no equipments, no overcoats,—nothing but the rags upon their bodies. Those who were so weak that they could scarcely creep from place to place rose and stood upon their feet when told that they were to go home. Paul felt a fresh wave of life sweep over him, thrilling every fibre of his wasted frame. Hope revived. Home! O the blissful thought! He rose weak and trembling from his bed on the cold, damp ground, wrapped his rags about him, and, leaning on a cane, supported by Uncle Peter, hobbled out and took his place in the long line of skeletons, and waited with eager eyes to see the gate turn upon its rusty hinges. It was hard to part with Uncle Peter, who had been so kind to him. "God bless you and reward you for all your kindness to me," said Paul, bidding him good by, and shaking hands for the last time. 30

Winning His Way

"I'se sorry to part with ye, Kurnel, but I bless de Lord you is gwine. We'll meet again, one of dese days, whar de Rebs won't trouble us, and whar we will be free foreber," said the old negro, looking up into heaven. He could not go. He was a slave. There was no freedom for him till the rebellion was crushed, or till the grave opened. The gates turned on their hinges, and the regiment of skeletons in rags took up its march. Such a procession never before was seen on earth. A thousand emaciated forms, tottering, reeling, hobbling on canes and crutches, wending their way to the cars,—not to luxurious cushioned seats, but to hard jolting cattle cars,—for a long ride of hundreds of miles before reaching the sea-coast. But hope inspired them. They were breathing fresh air, and were gazing on smiling fields, waving with grain. They were on their way home. The birds cheered them, singing of home. "Going home, going home!" said the car-wheels, as they passed from rail to rail. In joy and gladness they sang: "I'm going home, I'm going home, To die no more, to die no more."

It was as if they had left behind them forever all sorrow and suffering, and that for them there could be no more distress, or pain, or anguish. It was a long, weary, dusty ride. Some died on the way, but hope kept most of them alive. They reached the city of Charleston, passed from the cars to a steamboat, which was to take them down the harbor to the place of exchange. The waters danced joyfully around them, as if greeting them with gladness. The breezes came in from the dark blue 31

Charles Carleton Coffin

ocean and fanned their wasted cheeks. The waves, like a loving mother, gendy rocked them, and sung a soothing lullaby. But O what joy to behold once more the dear old flag! How serenely and lovingly it floated in the breeze! They saluted it with cheers,—shed tears of gratitude,—clasped each other by the hand,—rushed into each other's arms. Those who were able to stand danced in a delirium of joy! Paul was too weak to sit up. He could only lie upon the deck, and gaze upon the flag till his eyes filled with tears, and say: "Thank God, I have seen it once more!" Beneath that flag there was joy, peace, comfort, food, clothing, and freedom. Hospital nurses were there with blankets, and great kettles filled with soup and coffee. For the wounded there were bandages; for the sick there were cordials, wines, and medicines. There were tender-hearted men, ready to relieve all their sufferings. It was like passing from the prison of despair into a paradise of peace and rest, and in joy and gladness they began to sing, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."

The strong men on board of the ship, the nurses, and stout-hearted sailors wept like children, and spoke hard words against the Rebels when they looked upon the haggard countenances, the hollow cheeks, the sunken eyes, of the skeleton forms around them. Although Paul was so weak that he could hardly lift his hands to his head, although his comrades were passing away, although every day he saw their bodies, wrapped in hammocks and weighted with shot, cast into the sea, yet he never experienced such bliss, such contentment, as while lying on the deck through the long summer day, looking up to the old flag, and the clear sky, and out upon the 32

Winning His Way

calm and peaceful sea, thinking of the sea of glass and the great white throne, and the calmness, sereneness, and rest of heaven. And at night, when lulled to sleep by the rippling waves, how enchanting his dreams of home, of his mother, of the scenes of other days,—the old house, the swallows twittering around its eaves, the roses blooming beneath the window, the night-wind sweeping down the valley, the church bell ringing the evening hour, its deep tolling when the funeral train passed on to the cemetery in the shady grove,—his friends welcoming him home once more, Azalia among them, queen of the hour, peerless in beauty, with rose bloom on her cheek,—of Mr. Chrome, Judge Adams, and Colonel Dare, all saying, "We are glad to see you,"—dreaming, and waking to find it only a dream. But the ship was bearing him on. The distance was lessening. One more day, and the voyage would be at an end, the ship in port. O, if he could but see his mother once more,—feel her hand upon his brow, her kiss upon his lip,—then he could die content! A desire for life set in. Hope revived. He would fight death as he had fought the Rebels, and, God willing, he would win the victory.

The hospital steamer, with its freight of living skeletons, had accomplished its voyage in safety, and lay moored at the wharf in Annapolis. Nurses and sailors were carrying the emaciated forms from the ship to the shore, to the clean and tidy wards of the hospital. It was a sight which wrung tears from the eyes of those who did not often weep. The ship was a charnel-house. Death in its most 33

Charles Carleton Coffin

horrible forms was there,—from starvation, from corruption, scurvy, lockjaw, gangrene, consumption, and fever. How ghastly the scene! Men, once robust and strong, weak and helpless as babes, with hollow cheeks, toothless gums, thin, pale lips, colorless flesh, sunken eyes, long, tangled hair, uncombed for many months, skeleton fingers with nails like eagles' claws, lying in rags upon the deck—some, with strained eyes, looking up for the last time to the dear old flag which waved above them, for which they had fought, for which they had starved, for which they were dying, gazing in rapture on its blessed folds, till their eyes were fixed in death, and the slowly heaving heart stood still forever! They, and all their comrades, sleeping on a hundred battlefields, and mouldering in the trenches at Andersonville, were the victims of Jefferson Davis and General Lee, whose names shall rot through all coming time. There was work for the gentle-hearted nurses who stood waiting in the hospital wards,—work which required tenderest care;— removing the rags, washing the fevered skeletons, bathing the bleeding wounds where the sharp bones had pierced the skin; feeding them,—a crumb at a time; administering cordials drop by drop, to bring back with delicate nursing the receding tides of life. With a bleeding heart, but yet with steady nerves, Azalia passed among them, doing her appointed work. There was one who was lying as if asleep, with his hands clasped upon his breast. His beard had been long uncut. His cheeks were wasted, his eyes sunken, but he had a manly brow. A strange fear and trembling crept over her,—a shuddering of the heart. Alarmed and frightened at she knew not what, she brushed back the matted hair from his temples, and laid her hand upon his brow, cold and damp with the dews of 34

Winning His Way

death. The soldier opened his eyes, looked into her face, stared wildly around him, and tried to speak. It was but one word, and that a whisper,—her own name, "Azalia!" A cry rang through the ward, startling the physicians and the nurses, and waking those who were asleep. She clasped him in her arms, fell upon his face, and kissed his wasted lips. "O Paul! Can it be that you are here?" she said. The throbbing of her heart was like the fluttering of a frightened bird. Sweet, calm, and beautiful as the setting sun was the smile upon his face, and in his eyes the celestial light of Peace! They closed, and he lay again as if in slumber. "They told me that you were dead," she said. There was no reply; she laid her hand upon his heart, but could feel no beating there; touched her fingers to his fleshless wrist, but could find no throbbing of the pulse. The thin blood was receding from his colorless lips,—the tide was going out. "Doctor! Doctor! O come quick! Save him!" she cried. The doctor came and gazed upon the face of Paul. "He is not quite gone," he said, then moistened his lips with brandy. There was a quickening of the pulse. "If he rallies, we may save him," he said. They wrapped him in warm flannels, rubbed his fleshless limbs, and gave him cordials, drop by drop. How long the hours,—the weary hours of hope and fear,—of expectation and distress,—while the faltering spirit, as if tired of earth, was but fluttering awhile along the shore of Time before taking its returnless flight over the dark and silent river to another land! Through the night Azalia sat by his side, watching him with sleepless eyes, fanning his pale brow. 35

Charles Carleton Coffin

The morning sun beamed upon her still sitting there. Those who were accustomed to watch for her appearance in the early morning, resdess with fever, beheld her as clothed with celestial brightness, and said one to another, "There sits our Angel of Light!" Through the day she was there, watching the slow heavings of his heart, holding her breath while listening to assure herself that he was still breathing; hoping and fearing, holding her hands at times upon her own heart to still its wild, tumultuous beating,—giving him atom by atom the needful nourishment,—bending over him to smooth his pillow,—opening the casement for the winds to blow upon his bloodless cheek,—thus snatching him from the very jaws of death and winning him back to life!

A despatch came clicking into the telegraph office in New Hope that Paul Parker was alive,—that he had been a prisoner at Andersonville, was very feeble, but in a fair way to get well, and would soon be at home. It was from Azalia. Mr. Magnet read it in amazement, then ran as fast as he could to carry it to the little old cottage. "Good news!" he shouted, rushing into the house out of breath, without knocking. "Paul is alive! Paul is alive!" "My son alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Parker, her heart leaping wildly. "Yes; there is the despatch." She read it in fear and trembling, her brain in a whirl. She must fly to him! O if she only had wings! Paul alive! The old clock took up the word, "Alive—alive—alive," it said. A robin perched in the great maple sang all day, "He is coming home—is coming home," while the swallows from their nests under the eaves looked into the 36

Winning His Way

old kitchen through the open door, twittering together, as if saying, "How glad we are!" Never so bright the sunshine as on that morning, nor so fragrant the flowers! All nature was glad, and rejoiced in her joy. Mr. Magnet told the news through the village, the people listening in wonder. Mr. Chrome threw down his paint-brush, took off his old hat, swung it over his head, and gave three cheers. Through the day he kept saying to himself, "That beats the Dutch!" The children ran through the streets shouting, "Paul is alive! Paul is alive!" Father Surplice, Judge Adams, Colonel Dare, and the neighbors—a dozen at a time—went down to shake hands with Paul's mother, making it such a day of gladness as never was known before in New Hope. Impatiendy they waited for the day when Paul would be with them again. "We will let him know that we have not forgotten him," said Colonel Dare, "but it is little that we can do for one who has suffered so much." So also said Judge Adams, and Mr. Capias, and all the people. The day came at last. He was on board the train, feeble and weak, but Azalia was by his side, supporting his weary head,—sustaining him when his strength was gone. All New Hope was at the depot to receive him, looking with eager eyes down the level track to see the approaching train when it rounded the distant curve. "It is coming! There it is!" shouted the boys. They loved him, their dear old teacher. The train stopped, and the conductor came out with Paul leaning on his arm, Azalia following. The people were going to hurrah, but when they saw how poor, pale, and emaciated he was, 37

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how thin his cheeks, how hollow and sunken his eyes, how languid and weary, how little there was left of one who once was so manly, they held their breaths, and felt a strange choking in their throats. Blessed the meeting of mother and son! He had come back from the grave. He was even then almost a corpse, but he was alive! She had no words to utter; her joy was silent and deep. She could only clasp him in her arms, fold him to her heart, and, looking up to heaven, with streaming eyes, give silent thanks to God. The people bowed their heads and stood in silent reverence. Colonel Dare came with his carriage. Mr. Chrome took Paul in his arms, and lifted him into it as if he was but a child. The people came one after another and touched his hands. The children brought flowers and laid them in his arms. They all had words of welcome for Azalia. She had saved him. "God bless you, darling!" said her father, kissing her cheeks, still round and fair, though watching, anxiety, care, and sorrow had robbed them of the bright bloom of other days. "The Lord sent you in the way, as he sent Joseph into Egypt," said Father Surplice. Deep, tender, and hearty the love of friends! Daphne came with choicest delicacies. How pleasant to hear her voice! How cheery her laugh! Mr. Noggin brought a box of his best honey. Mr. Chrome, who loved to hunt and fish, brought quails and pigeons. Even Miss Dobb sent up to know if there was not something that she could get for him. The birds came, the robins and swallows, singing and twittering and brimming over with joy. How enchanting the music which came swelling up the valley from the water by the mill, from the woods beyond the river, from 38

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the crickets in the fields, from the church bell, blending with the night airs, and filling his soul with peace! But more blessed than everything else on earth was the holy light which beamed upon him from Azalia's eyes, which went down deep into his soul. "You have always been my angel of light and goodness, and nothing but death shall part us," he said, as she sat by his side. "I am glad if I have helped you, Paul," she said, laying her soft hand upon his brow, and kissing his lips. Pure and true the love which had deepened through many years, which had beamed from each other's eyes, but which till then had never been spoken. Like a brook gushing from springs in distant mountains, so, far back in childhood, had been the beginning of their affection, and now it was a river. Day by day his strength returned, the flesh came again upon his wasted limbs, and health bloomed upon his cheeks. Then they walked together in the garden, talking of the dear old times, and looking onward to a future more golden than the sunniest day of all the past. Beautiful and pleasant shall be the coming years to them! With smiling friends around them, living not for themselves, but to make the world better, to relieve suffering and sorrow, to help those who have been maimed and wounded while fighting for the old flag, they shall receive every day the richest rewards of life,—joy, happiness, contentment, peace, the blessing of God, the thanks of the poor, and the best wishes of all the "Young Folks" in the land.

39

THE BOY OF CHANCELLORVILLE Edmund Kirke

If Paul Parker was a grown-up version of the perfect Civil War soldier, the many drummer boys who served in both the Union and Confederate armies became the most popular boy-heroes. Scores of stories, poems, and pictures of young drummer boys appeared in magazines for children and adults alike. Although army regulations stated that no one under the age of 17 could serve in either army without his parents' permission, many young boys went off to war as drummer boys and musicians. Some, like Robert in "The Boy of Chancellorville," ended up in the thick of combat. Edmund Kirke presents a very pro-northern view of the war, with Confederate soldiers even more evil than those in "Winning His Way." They swear at and rob the inmates of "the Libby," a prison for Union officers in Richmond, Virginia. (Blank spaces replace the bad words.) He also tries to write their dialogue with a southern accent, which resembles the speech of the AfricanAmericans who appear in stories like "Dog Carlos." The battle of Chancellorsville was named after the family who owned the tavern and house that lay at a crossroads in the center of the fighting. The generation who fought the Civil War tended to call it "Chancellorville," without the "s" we use today.

O

n the second and third days of May, 1863, was fought the great and terrible battle of Chancellorville, and not until men beat their swords into ploughshares, and boys exchange their drums for Jews-harps and penny-whistles, will it be forgotten. But I do not 40

The Boy of Chancellorville

propose to write about it, for I cannot. No one can describe a battle without seeing it; and I did not see the battle of Chancellorville. But I did see, more than a year after it was fought, a little boy who was in it, and who, nearly all the intervening time, was a prisoner in the hands of the Rebels. He was only twelve years old, and you may think that what such a little fellow did, at such a time, could not be of much consequence to anybody. But it was. He saved one or two human lives, and lighted the passage of a score of souls through the dark valley; and so did more than any of our great generals on those bloody days. He saved lives, they destroyed them. You know that, if you break a small wheel in a cotton-mill, the entire machinery will stop; and if the moon—one of the smallest lumps of matter in the universe—should fall from its orbit, the whole planetary system might go reeling and tumbling about like a drunken man. So you see the great importance of little things,—and little folks are of much greater importance than little things. If they were not, the little boy I am writing about would not have done so much at Chancellorville, and I should not now be telling you his story. The battle was raging hotly on our left, when this little drummerboy was ordered to the rear by his Captain. "Go," the Captain said; "you're in danger here; back there you may be of use to the wounded." The little fellow threw his musket over his shoulder,—his drum he left behind when the battle began,—and, amid the pelting bullets, made his way back to the hospital. Our forces were driving the enemy, and all the ground over which they had fought was strewn with the dead and dying. Here and there, men with stretchers were going about among the wounded; but the stretchers were few, and 41

Edmund Kirke

the wounded were many; and as the poor maimed and bleeding men turned their pitiful eyes on the little boy, or in low, faint tones asked him for water, he could not help lingering among them, though the enemy's shells were bursting, and their bullets falling like hailstones all about him. Gray jackets were mingled with blue; but in a generous mind the cry of suffering dispels all distinction between friend and enemy; and Robert—that was his name—went alike to the wounded of both armies. Filling his canteen from a little stream which flowed through the batde-field, he held it to many a parched lip, and was rewarded with many a blessing from dying men,— blessings which will be to him a comfort and a consolation when he too shall draw near to death. He had relieved a score or more, when he noticed, stretched on

42

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the ground at a little distance, his head resting against a tree, a fairhaired boy of not more than seventeen. He was neatly dressed in gray, and had a noble countenance, with a broad, open forehead, and thick, curly hair, which clustered all about his temples. His face wore the hue of health, his eyes were bright and sparkling, and only the position of his hands, which were clasped tightly above his head, told that he was in pain and wounded. "Can I help you?" asked Robert, as he approached him. "Thank you. Yes," he answered, clutching the canteen, and taking a long draught of the water. "Thank you," he said again. "I saw you. I knew you would come to me." "Why! have the rest passed you by?" "Yes; for, you see, I'm a Rebel," he replied, smiling faintly. "But you don't care for that." "No, I don't. But are you badly hurt?" "Pretty badly, I fear. I'm bleeding fast,—I reckon it's all over with me";—and he pointed to a dark red stain on his jacket, just under his shoulder. His voice had a clear, ringing tone, and his face a calm, cheerful look; for to the brave death has no terrors. To the true man or boy it is only passage upward to a higher, better, nobler life in the heavens. Robert tore open the young man's clothes, and bound his handkerchief tightly about his wound; then, seeing an empty stretcher coming that way, he shouted to its bearers: "Quick! Take him to the hospital. He's bleeding to death!" "I don't like the color o' his clothes," said one of the men, as the two moved on with the stretcher. "I guess he kin wait till we look arter our own wounded." 43

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His face flushing with both shame and anger, Robert sprang to his feet, and, turning upon the men, said in an imperious tone, which sounded oddly enough from such a little fellow: "He can't wait. He will bleed to death, I tell you. Take him now; if you don't I'll report you,—I'll have you drummed out of the army for being brutes and cowards." The men set down the litter, and the one who had spoken, looking pleasandy at Robert for a moment, said: "Well, you are a bully boy. We don't keer for no reportin; but for sich a little chap as you, we'll do anything,—I'm blamed if we won't." "I thank you very much," said Robert, in an altered way, as he hastened to help the men lift the wounded youth upon the stretcher. The hospital was an old mill at a cross-roads, about a quarter of a mile away. It was built of logs, without doors or window-panes, and was fast falling to decay; but its floor, and nearly every square inch of shaded ground around it, were covered with the wounded and the dying. Thither they bore the Rebel boy, and, picking their way among the many prostrate and bleeding men, spread a blanket under a tree, and laid him gendy on it. Then Robert went for a surgeon. One shortly came, and after dressing the wound, he said in a kindly way: "It's a bad hurt, my lad, but keep up a good heart, and you'll soon be about. A little pluck does more for a wound than a good many bandages." "Oh! Now you've stopped the bleeding, I shan't die. I won't die— it would kill mother if I did." And so, you see, the Southern lad, even then, thought of his mother! and so do all brave boys, whether well or wounded. They think of her first, and of her last; for no other hand is so gende, no 44

The Bay of Chancellorville

other voice is so tender, no other heart so true and faithful as hers. No boy ever grew to be a great and good man, who did not love and reverence his mother. Even the Saviour of the world, when he hung upon the cross, thought of his, and said to John, "Behold thy mother!" With so many needing help, Robert could do little more for the Southern youth. He saw him covered warmly with a blanket, and heard him say, "Whether I get well or not, I shall never forget you" Then he left him, not to see him again till long afterwards. The surgeon was a kind-hearted man, and told Robert he should not go again upon the batde-ground; so he went about among the wounded in the hospital, tending them, writing last words to their loved ones at home, or reading to them from the blessed Book which God has given to be the guide of the living and the comfort of the dying. So the day wore away, until the red tide of battle surged again around the old mill at the cross-roads. The Rebels came on in overpowering force, and drove our men, as autumn leaves are driven before the whirlwind. Numbers went down at every volley; and right there, not a hundred yards away, a tall stalwart man fell, mortally wounded. A Rebel bullet had entered his side, and as the fallen man pressed his hand upon it, a dog which was with him began to lap the wound, as if he thought he could thus stay the crimson stream on which his master's soul was going to its Maker. Robert saw the man fall, and the dog standing by amid the leaden storm which was pouring in torrents all around them. Admiring the bravery of the dog, he stepped out from behind the tree where he had stood out of range of the bullets, and went to the wounded man. Gently lifting his head, he said to him, "Can I do anything for you?" 45

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"Yes!" gasped the man. "Tell them that I died—like a man—for my country." "Is that all? Nothing more?" asked Robert quickly, for he saw that the soldier was sinking rapidly. The dying man turned his eyes to the little boy's face, clasped his arm tighdy about the neck of his dog, made one or two efforts to speak, and then, murmuring faintly, "Take care—of—Ponto!" passed upward to that world where there are no wars and no fightings. The battle by this time had surged away to the northward, and a small party of cavalry-men had halted before the doorway of the hospital. Robert had closed the eyes of the fallen soldier, and was straightening his limbs upon the blood-dampened ground, when one of the horsemen called out to him: "What,—my little fellow! What are you doing out here, so far away from your mother?" Robert looked up, and, amid the group of officers, saw a tall, broad-shouldered, grave-looking man, with handsome, regular features, and hair and beard streaked with gray, but almost as white as cotton. He wore a high felt hat, an old gray coat, and blue trousers tucked into high-top boots; and rode a large, handsome horse, whose skin was as soft and glossy as a leopards. He carried no arms, but the three dingy stars on his collar showed that he held high rank among the Rebels. All this Robert had time to observe, as he very deliberately answered: "I came out here, sir, to help fight the wicked men who are trying to destroy their country." The officer's placid face flushed with anger; and, turning to an aide, he said, in a harsh, grating tone: "Take that boy to the rear. Send him to the Libby with the other prisoners." Robert did not then know that this officer was the famous General Lee,—the man who neither smokes, drinks, nor chews 46

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tobacco; who has, in short, none of the smaller vices, but all of the larger ones; for he deliberately, basely, and under circumstances of unparalleled meanness, betrayed his country, and, long after all hope of success was lost, carried on a murderous war against his own race and kindred. It was nearly sunset before Robert was sent off to the rear, and meanwhile a narrow trench was scooped in the ground, and the dead soldier was placed in it. Robert set a small stake at the head of the grave, and it stands there still; but no one knows who rests below, and no one will know till the morning of the resurrection; and yet it may be that even now, in some far-away Northern home, hearts are heavy, and eyes are red, with waiting and weeping for the father and the husband who never again will return to his loved among the living. Early on the following day, with about three hundred poor fellows, one half of whom were wounded, Robert was marched off to Richmond. The soldier's dog, when he saw his master laid away in the ground, howled and took on piteously, but soon afterwardsgrew friendly with Robert, and the two made all the weary journey together. It was in truth a weary journey, and I cannot find it in my heart to tell you about it, for I do not want to make you sad; and it would draw tears from hearts of stone to know all that the poor boy endured. It seemed more than human nature could bear, and yet it was only what thousands of our tired, footsore, wounded, and starving men have suffered on their long, dusty, and muddy march to the Richmond Bastile. Time and again the little boy would have fallen by the way, had not the poor dumb dog sustained him. They shared their meagre crust together; and often, when Robert's spirits drooped on the march, Ponto would gambol about him, and make 47

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him cheerful in spite of himself; and often, too, when he lay down to sleep on the damp ground, the dog would stretch his huge paws across his breast, and cover him, as well as he could, from the cold air, and the unhealthy night dew. At sunset, on the fourteenth day of May, the column, wayworn and footsore, with haggard faces and uncombed hair, was set down from the cars of the Virginia Central Railroad, and marched into the city of Richmond. Down the long, grass-grown streets they were hurried with clouded faces and heavy hearts; but when at last the cold, brown walls of the Libby rose before them darkly outlined on the gray sky, they almost shouted for joy,—for joy that their toilsome journey was over, though it had ended in prison. If they had known of the many weary months of cold and hunger and misery which some of them were to pass there, would they not rather have died than have entered the dark doorway of that living grave? All of you have read descriptions, or seen pictures, of the gloomy outside of this famous prison, so I need not tell you how it looks. It is indeed gloomy, but the inside is repulsive and unsighdy to the last degree. The room into which Robert and his companions were taken was a long, low apartment on the ground floor, with naked beams, broken windows, in whose battered frames the spider had woven his web, and bare, brown walls, from which hung scores of torn, dingy blankets, every one of them filled with a larger caravan of wild animals than any ever seen in a Northern town. The weary, travel-soiled company was soon ranged in four files along the floor of this room, and there they were made to wait two long hours for the Inspector. At last he came,—a coarse, brutal fellow, with breath perfumed with whiskey, and face bloated with drink and smeared with tobacco-juice. 48

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"Yer a sorry set!" he said, as he went down the lines, taking from the men their money and other valuables. "A sorry set!" he added, as he looked down on their ragged clothes, through which here and there the torn flesh was peeping. "A sorry set! Sorrier nur purtatertops in September; but yer green though,—greener nur laurelbushes, and ye bar [bear] better," again he said, as he stuffed a huge handful of United States notes into his pocket, and went on with his dirty work. At last he stopped before a coatless officer, with matted hair, only one boot, a tattered shirt, and no hat or neck-tie, but in their stead a stained bandage, from under which the blood still was trickling. "Who'd ha' thought o' raisin sich a crap from sich a hill o' beans!" he said, as he drew from the pocket of this officer a roll larger than usual, and in his greed paused to count the money. "We reap what we sow," said the officer, with a look of intense loathing; "you are sowing theft, you'll reap hell-fire—if I live to get out of this prison." "Yer sowin greenbacks, and ye'll reap a dungeon, if ye don't keep a civil tongue in yer head," responded the fellow, with a brutal sneer, as he went on down the column. Ponto had kept close at the heels of Robert, and, following him into the prison, had crouched down behind the line, and remained unobserved until the robbery was over. Then a dozen sentinels were ordered to take the prisoners to their quarters, and when they began to move, the dog attracted the notice of the Inspector. "Whose dog is that?" he roared, as Ponto started up the stairway, a little in advance of his young master. Robert was about to answer, but a kind-hearted sentinel, seeing from his looks that the dog was his, touched him on the shoulder, and whispered: "Not a word, Sonny! It mought git ye inter trouble." 49

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"Stop him! Cotch that dog!" shouted the Inspector, as Ponto, hearing the inquiry, and seeming to know by instinct that it referred to him, darted forward and disappeared in the room above. The Inspector and two or three sentries pursued him, and bounding after them two steps at a time, Robert soon saw what followed. The room was of the same size, and furnished in much the same way, as the one below stairs; but scattered about it, in messes of fifteen or twenty, were more than two hundred prisoners. In and out among these prisoners, ran the dog and his pursuers. It was an exciting chase; but they might as well have tried to catch a sunbeam, or a bird without salting its tail, as to take Ponto in such a crowd of friends. In and out among them—crouching behind boxes, leaping over barrels, running beneath benches, right under the legs of his pursuers—went Ponto, as if he were a streak of lightning out on a frolic; while the prisoners stood by, laughing, and shouting, and getting in the way as much as possible, to keep the loyal dog from the clutches of his Rebel enemies. Half an hour the chase lasted. Then the patience of the Inspector gave out, and puffing with heat and anger, he shouted, "One of you, shoot the critter." A sentinel leveled his musket, but a Union man threw up the barrel. "Don't fire here," he said, "you'll kill some of us." "Fire, you, fire! Don't mind him," shouted the enraged Inspector. "Do it, Dick Turner," said the man, planting himself squarely before him, "and I'll brain you on the spot," and—Turner prudently omitted to order the shooting. Taking advantage of this momentary lull, Ponto darted up into the officers' room, and was soon snugly hid away in the third story. Baffled and exasperated, Turner turned to the man, and growling 50

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out, "I'll have my revenge for this, my fine fellow," strode down the stairway. Robert's quarters were in the room where this scene occurred, and his new messmates received him very kindly. They gave him food, bathed his aching, swollen limbs, and soon made him a bed on the floor, with a blanket for a mattress, and Ponto for a coverlet. He was just falling into a doze, when he heard a voice at the landing ask, with an oath, "Where is that dog?" The lights were out, but by the lantern which the man carried, the boy saw that he was a short, slight, dapper individual, with a beardless face, a sneaking look, and a consequential air, which seemed to say: "Get out of my way, sir; I am Thomas P. Turner, by profession a Negrowhipper, but now keeper of Libby Prison, and I take off my hat to nobody." With him was the other Turner,—his tool, and the fit instrument of his contemptible tyranny. No one answered the question, and the two worthies groped their way about the room with the lantern. They caught sight of Roberts mess just in time to see Ponto again take himself off up the stairway. The sagacious creature had heard the ungendemanly allusion to himself, and like a sensible dog, determined to keep out of such low company. With the aid of his Union friends, that night and for a week afterwards, Ponto baffled his pursuers; but at last he was taken, and, much against his will, was set free,—for, you know, it is only men that deserve to be shut up in prison. What became of him Robert does not know; but if he is living, he is a decent dog; if dead, he has gone where the good dogs go,—that is certain. "So, he is your dog?" said Turner, halting before Robert, who had risen to his feet. 51

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"He is, sir," answered the little boy in a respectful tone, "and you will be cruel if you take him away from me." "Cruel! do you call me cruel!" cried Turner, flying into a passion. "I'll teach you manners, you young whelp." Turning then to his subordinate, he asked for the "other Yankee." The prisoner who had forbidden the firing was pointed out, and soon he and Robert were escorted to a dungeon, down in the cellar, under the sidewalk. The members of Roberts mess told Turner of his exhausted condition, and begged him not to consign a tired, sick boy to so horrible a place,—at least to let him rest where he was till the morning; but all they said was of no avail. They might as well have talked to an adder, for an adder is not more deaf, more venomous, than was that man! So Roberts long, weary journey ended in a dungeon. It was a horrid den,—a low, close, dismal place, with a floor encrusted with filth, and walls stained and damp with the rain, which in wet weather had dripped down from the sidewalk. Its every corner was alive with vermin, and it seemed only a fit habitation for some ferocious beast, which had to be shut out from the light of day, and kept from contact with all things human. Yet into it they thrust a sick, fragile boy; and he would have died there but for the kindhearted soldier who went with him. He wrapped him in his blanket; gave him every morsel of his own food; stretched himself on the naked floor, and held him for hours clasped to his own warm breast; and, in all ways, nursed and tended him as if he had been his own mother. So Robert lived through it, and, at the end of forty hours, God softened the hearts of his keepers. For a month afterwards Robert was confined to the hospital. 52

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The occupant of the next cot to his own was a Union Colonel, who, when they were well enough to go back to the prison, procured for him admission to the officers' quarters in the third story. This secured for him no better fare or accommodations than he would have had below with the private soldiers, but it gave him more air and larger space to move about in. There he lived for seven long months; sleeping, at night, on the hard floor; idling, by day, through the large rooms, or gazing out on the narrow prospect to be seen from the prison windows. But his time was not altogether idled away. Under the eye of the good Colonel, he went over his arithmetic and grammar, and learned French and Spanish. But it was a weary time. Exchanges were suspended, and there seemed to be no hope; yet at last deliverance came. Robert went seldom from his own floor, but one cold day in January, 1864, he was called by a simple errand to the lower story. He was about returning, his foot was even on the stairway, when he heard some one call his name. Looking around, he saw it was the sentinel,—a young man, with light, wavy hair, and an open, handsome countenance. His left coat-sleeve was dangling at his side, but he seemed strong, and otherwise capable of military duty. "Did you call me?" asked Robert. "Why!" cried the other, grasping his hand, "don't you know me? don't you remember Chancellorville?" It was the Rebel youth whose life Robert had saved on the battle-field. The musket dropped from his hand, and he hugged the little boy as if he had been his own brother. The other sentries, and even an officer, stood by, and said nothing; though all this was against prison regulations. After all,—after even the atrocities the Rebels have committed,—it is true that the 53

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same humanity beats under a gray coat that beats under a blue one. The next day a gendeman came into the room where Robert was quartered, and asked to see him. He was a stoutly built man, rather above the medium height, with a full, open face, large pleasant eyes, and an agreeable manner. He was dressed in dark-gray clothes, wore a broad felt hat, and everything about him seemed to denote that he was a kind-hearted gendeman. He asked Robert how old he was; where his home was; how long he had been in prison; and all about his mother; and, when he rose to go away, gave him his hand, and said: "You're a brave boy. I am sorry I haven't known of you before. But you shall go home now,—in a few days I shall be going to the lines, and will take you with me." Robert's eyes filled with tears, and he stammered out: "I thank you, sir. I thank you very much, sir." "You need not, my boy," said the gendeman, placing his hand kindly upon his head. "It is only right that we should let you go,— you saved the life of one of our men." In three days, with money in his pocket, given him by this gendeman, Robert was on his way to his mother. He is now at his home, fitting himself to act his part in this great world, in this earnest time in which we are living; and the kind-hearted man who set him free, charged with dishonest meanness and theft, is now shut up in that same horrid prison. Robert does not think him guilty, and he has asked me to tell you this about him, which I do gladly, and all the more gladly because I know him, and believe that, if there is an honorable, high-minded man in all Virginia, that man is ROBERT OULD.

54

NELLY'S HOSPITAL Louisa May Alcott

Inspired by the bustling patriotism of wartime Concord, Massachusetts, a young woman left her sheltered and happy middle-class girlhood to volunteer as a nurse to wounded Union soldiers. Louisa May Alcott, later famous for her novel, Little Women, arrived at the Union Hotel Hospital in Washington, D. C, late in 1862, just in time to help care for the thousands of men wounded at the battle of Fredericksburg. She emptied bedpans and washed sheets, changed bandages and cleaned horrible injuries, read books to soldiers and helped them write letters to loved ones, and saw some die from wounds or disease. After less than a month at the hospital, she took ill with typhoid and had to return home. She was never able to work as a nurse again. After she recovered, she began writing about her experiences in a series of stories that appeared in magazines and in a book called Hospital Sketches. She also wrote a long story about a little girl who wants to be a nurse. Although Nelly is too young to work in an actual hospital, like Alcott, she is inspired to create her own version of a hospital—one that cares for wounded animals she finds in her yard and neighborhood. In doing so, she joins the thousands of children in the North as well as the South who showed their patriotism by "playing war."

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lly sat beside her mother picking lint; but while her fingers flew, her eyes often looked wistfully out into the meadow, golden with buttercups, and bright with sunshine. Presently, she said, rather bashfully, but very earnesdy, "Mamma, I want to tell you a little plan I've made, if you'll please not laugh." 55

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"I think I can safely promise that, my dear," said her mother, putting down her work that she might listen quite respectfully. Nelly looked pleased, and went on confidingly. "Since brother Will came home with his lame foot, and I've helped you tend him, I've heard a great deal about hospitals, and liked it very much. Today I said I wanted to go and be a nurse, like Auntie Mercy; but Will laughed and told me I'd better begin by nursing sick birds and butterflies and pussies before I tried to take care of men. I did not like to be made fun of, but I've been thinking that it would be very pleasant to have a little hospital all my own, and be a nurse in it, because, if I took pains, so many pretty creatures might be made well, perhaps. Could I, mamma?" Her mother wanted to smile at the idea, but did not, for Nelly looked up with her heart and eyes so full of tender compassion, both for the unknown men for whom her little hands had done their best, and for the smaller sufferers near home, that she stroked the shining head, and answered readily: "Yes, Nelly, it will be a proper charity for such a young Samaritan, and you may learn much if you are in earnest. You must study how to feed and nurse your little patients, else your pity will do no good, and your hospital become a prison. I will help you, and Tony shall be your surgeon." "O mamma, how good you always are to me! Indeed, I am in truly earnest; I will learn, I will be kind, and may I go now and begin?" "You may, but tell me first where will you have your hospital?" "In my room, mamma; it is so snug and sunny and I never should forget it there," said Nelly. "You must not forget it anywhere. I think that plan will not do. 56

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How would you like to find caterpillars walking in your bed, to hear sick pussies mewing in the night, to have beedes clinging to your clothes, or see mice, bugs, and birds tumbling downstairs whenever the door was open?" said her mother. Nelly laughed at that thought a minute, then clapped her hands, and cried: "Let us have the old summer-house! My doves only use the upper part, and it would be so like Frank in the story-book. Please say yes again, mamma." Her mother did say yes, and, snatching up her hat, Nelly ran to find Tony, the gardener's son, a pleasant lad of twelve, who was Nellys favorite playmate. Tony pronounced the plan a "jolly" one, and, leaving his work, followed his young mistress to the summerhouse, for she could not wait one minute. 57

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"What must we do first?" she asked, as they stood looking in at the dim, dusty room, full of garden tools, bags of seeds, old flowerpots, and watering-cans. "Clear out the rubbish, miss," answered Tony. "Here it goes then," and Nelly began bundling everything out in such haste that she broke two flower pots, scattered all the squashseeds, and brought a pile of rakes and hoes clattering down about her ears. "Just wait a bit, and let me take the lead, miss. You hand me things, I'll pile 'em in the barrow and wheel 'em off to the barn; then it will save time, and be finished up tidy." Nelly did as he advised, and very soon nothing but dust remained. "What next?" she asked, not knowing in the least. "I'll sweep up while you see if Polly can come and scrub the room out. It ought to be done before you stay here, let alone the patients." "So it had," said Nelly, looking very wise all of a sudden. "Will says the wards—that means the rooms, Tony—are scrubbed every day or two, and kept very clean, and well venti—something—I can't say it; but it means having a plenty of air come in. I can clean windows while Polly mops, and then we shall soon be done." Away she ran, feeling very busy and important. Polly came, and very soon the room looked like another place. The four latticed windows were set wide open, so the sunshine came dancing through the vines that grew outside, and curious roses peeped in to see what frolic was afoot. Then walls shone white again, for not a spider dared to stay; the wide seat which encircled the room was dusdess now,—the floor as nice as willing hands could make it; and 58

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the south wind blew away all musty odors with its fragrant breath. "How fine it looks!" cried Nelly, dancing on the doorstep, lest a foot print should mar the still damp floor. "I'd almost like to fall sick for the sake of staying here," said Tony, admiringly. "Now, what sort of beds are you going to have, miss?" "I suppose it won't do to put butterflies and toads and worms into beds like the real soldiers where Will was?" answered Nelly, looking anxious. Tony could hardly help shouting at the idea; but, rather than trouble his little mistress, he said very soberly: "I'm afraid they wouldn't lay easy, not being used to it. Tucking up a butterfly would about kill him; the worms would be apt to get lost among the bedclothes; and the toads would tumble out the first thing." "I shall have to ask mamma about it. What will you do while I'm gone?" said Nelly, unwilling that a moment should be lost. "I'll make frames for nettings to the window, else the doves will come in and eat up the sick people." "I think they will know it is a hospital, and be too kind to hurt or frighten their neighbors," began Nelly, but as she spoke, a plump white dove walked in, looked about with its red-ringed eyes, and quiedy pecked up a tiny bug that had just ventured out from the crack where it had taken refuge when the deluge came. "Yes, we must have the nettings. I'll ask mamma for some lace," said Nelly, when she saw that; and, taking her pet dove on her shoulder, told it about her hospital as she went toward the house; for, loving creatures as she did, it grieved her to have any harm befall even the least or plainest of them. She had a sweet child-fancy that her playmates understood her language as she did theirs, and 59

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that birds, flowers, animals, and insects felt for her the same affection which she felt for them. Love always makes friends, and nothing seemed to fear the gentle child; but welcomed her like a little sun who shone alike on all, and never suffered an eclipse. She was gone some time, and when she came back her mind was full of new plans, one hand full of rushes, the other of books, while over her head floated the lace, and a bright green ribbon hung across her arm. "Mamma says that the best beds will be little baskets, boxes, cages, and any sort of thing that suits the patient; for each will need different care and food and medicine. I have not baskets enough, so, as I cannot have pretty white beds, I am going to braid pretty green nests for my patients, and while I do it, mamma thought you'd read to me the pages she has marked, so that we may begin right." "Yes, miss; I like that. But what is the ribbon for?" asked Tony. "O, that's for you. Will says that, if you are to be an army surgeon, you must have a green band on your arm; so I got this to tie on when we play hospital." Tony let her decorate the sleeve of his gray jacket, and when the nettings were done, the welcome books were opened and enjoyed. It was a happy time, sitting in the sunshine, with leaves pleasandy astir all about them, doves cooing overhead, and flowers sweedy gossiping together through the summer afternoon. Nelly wove her smooth, green rushes, Tony pored over his pages, and both found something better than fairy legends in the family histories of insects, birds, and beasts. All manner of wonders appeared, and were explained to them, till Nelly felt as if a new world had been given to her, so full of beauty, interest, and pleasure that she never 60

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could be tired of studying it. Many of these things were not strange to Tony, because, born among plants, he had grown up with them as if they were brothers and sisters, and the sturdy, brown-faced boy had learned many lessons which no poet or philosopher could have taught him, unless he had become as childlike as himself, and studied from the same great book. When the baskets were done, the marked pages all read, and the sun began to draw his rosy curtains round him before smiling "Good night," Nelly ranged the green beds round the room, Tony put in the screens, and the hospital was ready. The little nurse was so excited that she could hardly eat her supper, and direcdy afterwards ran up to tell Will how well she had succeeded with the first part of her enterprise. Now brother Will was a brave young officer, who had fought stoutly and done his duty like a man. But when lying weak and wounded at home, the cheerful courage which had led him safely through many dangers seemed to have deserted him, and he was often gloomy, sad, or fretful, because he longed to be at his post again, and time passed very slowly. This troubled his mother, and made Nelly wonder why he found lying in a pleasant room so much harder than fighting battles or making weary marches. Anything that interested and amused him was very welcome, and when Nelly, climbing on the arm of his sofa, told her plans, mishaps, and successes, he laughed out more heartily than he had done for many a day, and his thin face began to twinkle with fun as it used to do so long ago. That pleased Nelly, and she chatted like any affectionate little magpie, till Will was really interested; for when one is ill, small things amuse. "Do you expect your patients to come to you, Nelly?" he asked. 61

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"No, I shall go and look for them. I often see poor things suffering in the garden, and the wood, and always feel as if they ought to be taken care of, as people are." "You wont like to carry insane bugs, lame toads, and convulsive kittens in your hands, and they would not stay on a stretcher if you had one. You should have an ambulance and be a branch of the Sanitary Commission," said Will. Nelly had often heard the words, but did not quite understand what they meant. So Will told her of that great and never-failing charity, to which thousands owed their lives; and the child listened with lips apart, eyes often full, and so much love and admiration in her heart that she could find no words in which to tell it. When her brother paused, she said earnesdy: "Yes, I will be a Sanitary. This litde cart of mine shall be my amb'lance, and I'll never let my waterbarrels go empty, never drive too fast, or be rough with my poor passengers, like some of the men you tell about. Does this look like an ambulance, Will?" "Not a bit, but it shall, if you and mamma like to help me. I want four long bits of cane, a square of white cloth, some pieces of thin wood, and the gum-pot," said Will, sitting up to examine the little cart, feeling like a boy again as he took out his knife and began to whittle. Upstairs and downstairs ran Nelly till all necessary materials were collected, and almost breathlessly she watched her brother arch the canes over the cart, cover them with the cloth, and fit in an upper shelf of small compartments, each lined with cotton-wool to serve as beds for wounded insects, lest they should hurt one another or josde out. The lower part was left free for any larger creatures which 62

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Nelly might find. Among her toys she had a tiny cask which only needed a peg to be water-tight; this was filled and fitted in before, because, as the small sufferers needed no seats, there was no place for it behind, and, as Nelly was both horse and driver, it was more convenient in front. On each side of it stood a box of stores. In one were minute rollers, as bandages are called, a few bottles not yet filled, and a wee doll's jar of cold-cream, because Nelly could not feel that her outfit was complete without a medicine-chest. The other box was full of crumbs, bits of sugar, bird-seed, and grains of wheat and corn, lest any famished stranger should die for want of food before she got it home. Then mamma painted "U.S. San. Com." in bright letters on the cover, and Nelly received her charitable playthings with a long sigh of satisfaction. "Nine o'clock already. Bless me, what a short evening this has been," exclaimed Will, as Nelly came to give him her good-night kiss. "And such a happy one," she answered. "Thank you very, very much, dear Will. I only wish my little amb'lance was big enough for you to go in,—I'd so much like to give you the first ride." "Nothing I should like better, if it were possible, though I've a prejudice against ambulances in general. But as I cannot ride, I'll try and hop out to your hospital to-morrow, and see how you get on,"—which was a great deal for Captain Will to say, because he had been too listless to leave his sofa for several days. That promise sent Nelly happily away to bed, only stopping to pop her head out of the window to see if it was likely to be a fair day to-morrow, and to tell Tony about the new plan as he passed below. "Where shall you go to look for your first load of sick folks, miss?" he asked. 63

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"All around the gardens first, then through the grove, and home across the brook. Do you think I can find any patients so?" said Nelly. "I know you will. Good night, miss," and Tony walked away with a merry look on his face, that Nelly would not have understood if she had seen it. Up rose the sun bright and early, and up rose Nurse Nelly almost as early and as bright. Breakfast was taken in a great hurry, and before the dew was off the grass this branch of the S.C. was all astir. Papa, mamma, big brother and baby sister, men and maids, all looked out to see the funny little ambulance depart, and nowhere in all the summer fields was there a happier child than Nelly, as she went smiling down the garden path, where tall flowers kissed her as she passed and every blithe bird seemed singing a "Good speed!" "How I wonder what I shall find first," she thought, looking sharply on all sides as she went. Crickets chirped, grasshoppers leaped, ants worked busily at their subterranean houses, spiders spun shining webs from twig to twig, bees were coming for their bags of gold, and butterflies had just begun their holiday. A large white one alighted on the top of the ambulance, walked over the inscription as if spelling it letter by letter, then floated away from flower to flower, like one carrying the good news from far and wide. "Now every one will know about the hospital and be glad to see me coming," thought Nelly. And indeed it seemed so, for just then a blackbird, sitting on the garden wall, burst out with a song full of magical joy, Nellys kitten came running after to stare at the wagon, and rub her soft side against it, a bright-eyed toad looked out from his cool bower among the lily-leaves, and at that minute Nelly found 64

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her first patient. In one of the dewy cobwebs hanging from a shrub nearby sat a fat black yellow spider, watching a fly whose delicate wings were just caught in the net. The poor fly buzzed pitifully, and struggled so hard that the whole web shook; but the more he struggled, the more he entangled himself, and the fierce spider was preparing to descend that it might weave a shroud about its prey, when a little finger broke the threads and lifted the fly safely into the palm of the hand, where he lay faintly humming his thanks. Nelly had heard much about contrabands, knew who they were, and was very much interested in them; so, when she freed the poor black fly, she played he was her contraband, and felt glad that her first patient was one that needed help so much. Carefully brushing away as much of the web as she could, she left small Pompey, as she named him, to free his own legs, lest her clumsy fingers should hurt him; then she laid him in one of the soft beds with a grain or two of sugar if he needed refreshment, and bade him rest and recover from his fright, remembering that he was at liberty to fly away whenever he liked, because she had no wish to make a slave of him. Feeling very happy over this new friend, Nelly went on singing softly as she walked, and presendy she found a pretty caterpillar dressed in brown fur, although the day was warm. He lay so still she thought him dead, till he rolled himself into a ball as she touched him. "I think that you are either faint from the heat of this thick coat of yours, or that you are going to make a cocoon of yourself, Mr. Fuzz," said Nelly. "Now I want to see you turn into a butterfly, so I shall take you, and if you get lively again I will let you go. I shall play that you have given out on a march as the soldiers sometimes 65

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do, and been left behind for the Sanitary people to see to." In went sulky Mr. Fuzz, and on trundled the ambulance till a golden green rose-beetle was discovered, lying on his back, kicking as if in a fit. "Dear me, what shall I do for him?" thought Nelly. "He acts as baby did when she was so ill, and mamma put her in a warm bath. I haven't got my little tub here, or any hot water, and I'm afraid the beetle would not like it if I had. Perhaps he has pain in his stomach; I'll turn him over, and pat his back, as nurse does baby's when she cries for pain like that." She set the beetle on his legs, and did her best to comfort him; but he was evidently in great distress, for he could not walk, and instead of lifting his emerald overcoat, and spreading the wings that lay underneath, he turned over again, and kicked more violently than before. Not knowing what to do, Nelly put him into one of her soft nests for Tony to cure if possible. She found no more patients in the garden except for a dead bee, which she wrapped in a leaf, and took home to bury. When she came to the grove, it was so green and cool she longed to sit and listen to the whispers of the pines, and watch the larch-tassels wave in the wind. But, recollecting her charitable errand, she went rustling along the pleasant path till she came to another patient, over which she stood considering several minutes before she could decide whether it was best to take it to her hospital, because it was a little gray snake, with a bruised tail. She knew it would not hurt her, yet she was afraid of it; she thought it pretty, yet could not like it; she pitied its pain, yet shrunk from helping it, for it had a fiery eye, and a keep quivering tongue, that looked as if longing to bite. 66

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"He is a rebel, I wonder if I ought to be good to him," thought Nelly, watching the reptile writhe in pain. "Will said there were sick rebels in his hospital, and one was very kind to him. It says, too, in my little book, 'Love your enemies.' I think snakes are mean, but I guess I'll try and love him because God made him. Some boy will kill him if I leave him here and then perhaps his mother will be very sad about it. Come, poor worm, I wish to help you, so be patient, and don't frighten me." Then Nelly laid her little handkerchief on the ground, and with a stick gently lifted the wounded snake upon it, and, folding it together, laid it in the ambulance. She was thoughtful after that, and so busy puzzling her young head about the duty of loving those who hate us, and being kind to those who are disagreeable or unkind, that she went through the rest of the wood quite forgetful of her work. A soft "Queek, queek!" made her look up and listen. The sound came from the long meadow-grass, and, bending it carefully back, she found a half-fledged bird, with one wing trailing on the ground, and its eyes dim with pain or hunger. "You darling thing, did you fall out of your nest and hurt your wing?" cried Nelly, looking up into the single tree that stood nearby. No nest was to be seen, no parent birds hovered overhead, and little Robin could only tell its troubles in that mournful "Queek, queek, queek!" Nelly ran to get both her chests, and, sitting down beside the bird, tried to feed it. To her great joy it ate crumb after crumb as if it were half starved, and soon fluttered nearer with a confiding fearlessness that made her very proud. Soon baby Robin seemed quite comfortable, his eye brightened, he "queeked" no more, and but for 67

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the dropping wing would have been himself again. With one of her bandages Nelly bound both wings closely to his sides for fear he should hurt himself by trying to fly; and though he seemed amazed at her proceedings, he behaved very well, only staring at her, and ruffling up his few feathers in a funny way that made her laugh. Then she had to discover some way of accommodating her two larger patients so that neither should hurt nor alarm the other. A bright thought came to her after much pondering. Carefully lifting the handkerchief, she pinned the two ends to the roof of the cart, and there swung little Forked-tongue, while Rob lay easily below. By this time Nelly began to wonder how it happened that she found so many injured things than ever before. But it never entered her innocent head that Tony had searched the wood and meadow before she was up, and laid most of these creatures ready to her hands, that she might not be disappointed. She had not yet lost her faith in fairies, so she fancied they too belonged to her small sisterhood, and presently it did really seem impossible to doubt that the good folk had been at work. Coming to the bridge that crossed the brook she stopped a moment to watch the water ripple over the bright pebbles, the ferns bend down to drink, and the funny tadpoles frolic in quieter nooks, where the sun shone, and the dragon-flies swung among the rushes. When Nelly turned to go on, her blue eyes opened wide, and the handle of the ambulance dropped with a noise that caused a stout frog to skip into the water heels over head. Directly in the middle of the bridge was a pretty green tent, made of two tall burdock leaves. The stems were stuck into cracks between the boards, the tips were pinned together with a thorn, and one great buttercup 68

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nodded in the doorway like a sleepy sentinel. Nelly stared and smiled, listened, and looked about on every side. Nothing was seen but the quiet meadow and the shady grove, nothing was heard but the babble of the brook and the cheery music of the bobolinks. "Yes," said Nelly softly to herself, "that is a fairy tent, and in it I may find a baby elf sick with whooping-cough or scarlet-fever. How splendid it would be! only I could never nurse such a dainty thing." Stooping eagerly, she peeped over the buttercup's drowsy head, and saw what seemed a tiny cock of hay. She had no time to feel disappointed, for the haycock began to stir, and, looking nearer, she beheld two silvery gray mites, who wagged wee tails, and stretched themselves as if they had just waked up. Nelly knew that they were young field-mice, and rejoiced over them, feeling rather relieved that no fairy had appeared, though she still believed them to have had a hand in the matter. "I shall call the mice my Babes in the Wood, because they are lost and covered up with leaves," said Nelly, as she laid them in her snuggest bed, where they nestled close together, and fell fast asleep again. Being very anxious to get home, that she might tell her adventures, and show how great was the need of a sanitary commission in that region, Nelly marched proudly up the avenue; and, having displayed her load, hurried to the hospital, where another applicant was waiting for her. On the step of the door lay a large turtle, with one claw gone, and on his back was pasted a bit of paper, with his name,—"Commodore Waddle, U.S.N." Nelly knew this was a joke of Will's, but welcomed the ancient mariner, and called Tony to help her get him in. 69

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All that morning they were very busy settling the new-comers, for both people and books had to be consulted before they could decide what diet and treatment was best for each. The winged contraband had taken Nelly at her word, and flown away on the journey home. Little Rob was put in a large cage, where he could use his legs, yet not injure his lame wing. Forked-tongue lay under a wire cover, on sprigs of fennel, for the gardener said that snakes were fond of it. The Babes in the Wood were put to bed in one of the rush baskets, under a cotton-wool coverlet. Greenback, the beetle, found ease for his unknown aches in the warm heart of a rose, where he sunned himself all day. The Commodore was made happy in a tub of water, grass, and stones, and Mr. Fuzz was put in a well-ventilated glass box to decide whether he would be a cocoon or not. Tony had not been idle while his mistress was away, and he showed her the hospital garden he had made close by, in which were cabbage, nettle, and mignonette plants for the butterflies, flowering herbs for the bees, duckweed and hemp for the birds, catnip for the pussies, and plenty of room left for whatever other patients might need. In the afternoon, while Nelly did her task at lint-picking, talking busily to Will as she worked, and interesting him in her affairs, Tony cleared a pretty spot in the grove for the burying-ground, and made ready some small bits of slate on which to write the names of those who died. He did not have it ready an hour too soon, for at sunset two little graves were needed, and Nurse Nelly shed tender tears for her first losses as she laid the motherless mice in one smooth hollow, and the gray-coated rebel in the other. She had learned to care for him already, and when she found him dead, was very glad she had been kind to him, hoping 70

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that he knew it, and died happier in her hospital than all alone in the shadowy wood. The rest of Nelly's patients prospered, and of the many added afterward few died, because of Tony's skilful treatment and her own faithful care. Every morning when the day proved fair the little ambulance went out upon its charitable errand; every afternoon Nelly worked for the human sufferers whom she loved; and every evening brother Will read aloud to her from useful books, showed her wonders with his microscope, or prescribed remedies for the patients, whom he soon knew by name and took much interest in. It was Nellys holiday; but, though she studied no lessons, she learned much, and unconsciously made her pretty play both an example and a rebuke for others. At first it seemed a childish pastime, and people laughed. But there was something in the familiar words "Sanitary," "hospital," and "ambulance" that made them pleasant sounds to many ears. As reports of Nellys work went through the neighborhood, other children came to see and copy her design. Rough lads looked ashamed when in her wards they found harmless creatures hurt by them, and going out they said among themselves, "We won't stone birds, chase butterflies, and drown girls' little cats any more, though we won't tell them so." And most of the lads kept their word so well that people said there never had been so many birds before as all that summer haunted wood and field. Tender-hearted playmates brought their pets to be cured; even busy fathers had a friendly word for the small charity, which reminded them so sweetly of the great one which should never be forgotten; lonely mothers sometimes looked out with wet eyes as the little ambulance went by, recalling 71

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thoughts of absent sons who might be journeying painfully to some far-off hospital, where brave women waited to tend them with hands as willing, hearts as tender, as those the gentle child gave to her self-appointed task. At home the charm worked also. No more idle days for Nelly, or fretful ones for Will, because the little sister would not neglect the helpless creatures so dependent upon her, and the big brother was so ashamed to complain after watching the patience of these lesser sufferers, and merrily said he would try to bear his own wound as quietly and bravely as the "Commodore" bore his. Nelly never knew how much good she had done Captain Will till he went away again in the early autumn. Then he thanked her for it, and though she cried for joy and sorrow she never forgot it, because he left something behind him which always pleasantly reminded her of the double success her little hospital had won. When Will was gone and she had prayed softly in her heart that God would keep him safe and bring him home again, she dried her tears and went away to find comfort in the place where he had spent so many happy hours with her. She had not been there before that day, and when she reached the door she stood quite still and wanted very much to cry again, for something beautiful had happened. She had often asked Will for a motto for her hospital, and he promised to find her one. She thought he had forgotten it; but even in a hurry of that busy day he had found time to do more than keep his word, while Nelly sat indoors, lovingly brightening the tarnished buttons on the blue coat that had seen so many battles. Above the roof, where doves cooed in the sun, now rustled a white flag with the golden "S.C." shining on it as the west wind 72

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tossed it to and fro. Below, on the smooth panel of the door, a skilful pencil had drawn two arching ferns, in whose soft shadow, poised upon a mushroom, stood a little figure of Nurse Nelly, and underneath it another of Dr. Tony bottling medicine, with spectacles upon his nose. Both hands of the miniature Nelly were outstretched, as if beckoning to a train of insects, birds, and beasts, which was so long that it not only circled round the lower rim of this fine sketch, but dwindled in the distance to mere dots and lines. Such merry conceits as one found there! A mouse bringing the tail it had lost in some cruel trap, a dor-bug with a shade over its eyes, an invalid butterfly carried in a tiny litter by long-legged spiders, a fat frog with gouty feet hopping upon crutches, Jenny Wren sobbing in a nice handkerchief, as she brought dear dead Cock Robin to be restored to life. Rabbits, lambs, cats, calves, and turtles, all came trooping up to be healed by the benevolent little maid who welcomed them so heartily. Nelly laughed at these comical mites till the tears ran down her cheeks, and thought she never could be tired of looking at them. But presently she saw four lines clearly printed underneath her picture, and her childish face grew sweetly serious as she read the words of a great poet, which Will had made both compliment and motto:— He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all

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THE Two CHRISTMAS EVENINGS Lydia Maria Child

Virtually every man, woman, and child contributed in some way to the war efforts of the United or the Confederate States during the Civil War. Hundreds of thousands of men and even boys went into the army, but many more people stayed at home and worked in some way to raise money or to make the lives of soldiers easier. Children in both the North and the South picked lint—pulled or shaved from old rags or clothes, the lint would be used in bandaging wounds—and schools sometimes adopted a regiment or a hospital by sending them food or supplies. Many adults recalled the satisfaction they gained from helping out in their nations crisis when they were children. "Very important we children felt," wrote Clara Lenroot when she remembered spending Saturday afternoons at the Baptist church working "for the soldiers" with the older girls and women. Thousands of northern children participated in fairs sponsored by the United States Sanitary Commission. By producing and selling homemade baked and canned goods, crafts and toys, and other popular items; by holding theatrical, gymnastic, and singing performances; and by patronizing the hundreds of booths and displays at the giant, two-week Sanitary Fairs held throughout the North from 1863 to 1865, children helped to raise more than $4 million for medical supplies, nurses, doctors, and other necessities for the Union army. Author Lydia Maria Child shows her heartfelt anti-slavery beliefs in "The Two Christmas Evenings." Late in the war, she wrote The Freedmans Book to be used in educating the freed slaves—or the "conty-ban" ("contraband") as the youngest girl in the story calls them—the same group to whom the Rich family sends half of what they take in during their various performances.

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I

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t was a beautiful Christmas Eve. A light snow had fallen just before night, and made the city streets look clean. Icicles hanging from the roofs glittered in the moonlight, and the trees on the Common looked as if they had put on white feathers for a festival. Mrs. Rich's parlor was brighter than the moonlight splendor without. The folding-doors were open. A clear flame rose from the cannel-coal as it split and crackled in the grate; the gas burned brilliandy in the chandeliers; at the upper end of the room was an Evergreen Tree, with a sparkling crown of little lamps, and gay with festoons of ribbons and trinkets; the carpet was like a meadow enamelled with flowers; the crimson damask curtains glowed in the brilliant light; and the gilded paper on the walls gleamed here and there, like the bright edges of little sunset clouds. Mrs. Rich was just putting some finishing touches to the Tree, when the great clock on the staircase struck seven, and the pattering of feet was heard. The door opened, and Papa entered with a group of children. There was Frank, in all the dignity of his fourteen years; earnest-looking Isabel, who was about twelve; Ellen, not much over nine, whose honest face had an expression of thoughtfulness beyond her years; and little Alice, whom they named Pet Poodle, because she had such a quantity of soft, light curls falling about her face. In her first stammering of this name she called herself Petty Poo, and they all adopted her infantile abbreviation. The Evergreen Tree and the treasures with which it was covered produced but slight excitement in the minds of the older children. As they approached it, they said, "How tastefully you have arranged it, mamma!" and they quietly awaited the distribution of the gifts, like well-trained young ladies and gentlemen. But little Alice, who

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opened her blue eyes on the world only four years before, had not done wondering yet. She capered up to the tree, and, pointing to one thing after another, said, "Isn't dat pooty?" A large doll had been sent to her last Christmas, and when she spied one seated among the green boughs, she gave a little shout, and cried out, "Dare is nudder dolly for Petty Poo!" She was told Aunt Jane had sent it to her, and she received it with unalloyed satisfaction. "Tank Aunt Jane," said she. "Dis dolly's eyes is b'oo, and tudder dolly's is b'ack." Well pleased with this variety in her family, she hugged it up, and seated herself on the carpet to examine the little blue rosettes on the shoes. When Mr. Rich handed his son a handsomely illustrated copy of "The Arabian Nights," he received it with a bow, and, turning over the leaves carelessly, said, "I wonder what Uncle Joe sent me this for! I have one edition, and I don't want another." Isabel took a gold bracelet that was offered her, and, slipping it on her wrist, remarked to her brother, "I don't think this bracelet Cousin Emma has sent me cost so much as the one I sent her last Christmas." "And see this gutta-percha watch-chain that Cousin Joe has sent me," rejoined Frank. "You know I sent him a gold one last year." "If you read what is written on the card," said his father, "you will see that it was made in the Hospital, by his brave brother, Captain George." Frank glanced over the writing, and replied, "Yes, sir; but I should rather have had the gold one." Mary received a handsome French work-box, filled with elegant implements for sewing. She said, "I am much obliged to Aunt Jane"; but she set it aside after a slight examination, and returned to the tree again. Many more presents were distributed,—beaded nets for the hair, books, photo76

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graphs, bronze dogs, Parian images, and all sorts of things. But Petty Poo was the only one who seemed to take a very lively interest. She stood by the table hugging her doll, expressing her admiration of everything by little shouts, and holding out her hand now and then to receive a paper of sugared almonds, a china lamb, or a little horse on rollers. The last thing that was taken from the tree was a small basket, containing a dolls nightgown and nightcap. This furnished her with delightful employment. She seated herself on the carpet and undressed her doll, and when she had made her ready for the night, she said, "Now Petty Poo will go to bed, and take all her tings wid her; and dolly wid de b'ack eyes may s'eep in de drawer." When she had been kissed all round, she was carried upstairs, and mamma followed, to have another kiss from the little darling before her blue eyes closed for the night. When Mrs. Rich returned to the parlor, Isabel said archly, "Are you sure, mamma, that you took everything from the Christmas Tree?" and mamma, who knew she was about to be surprised, replied, "I believe so; but I will go and look, dear." Among the boughs she found a rustic watch-case, an embroidered ottomancover, and a pretty worsted shawl, on which Frank and Isabel and Ellen had each written their names, and added, "For my dear mother." Mrs. Rich smiled lovingly, as she wrapped the shawl about her, and put her watch in the case, and spread the cover on the ottoman, and said the colors were beautifully arranged. "We made them entirely ourselves," said the young folks; "and we had such a job to keep you from finding out what we were doing!" "Thank you, my dear children," replied the happy mother. She 77

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kissed them all, and they clung about her, and asked again and again if she really thought the things were pretty. "Perhaps you have not found all yet," said Ellen. "Please look again." After a diligent search, which was purposely prolonged a little, a box was found hidden away under the boughs. It contained a set of chessmen, a crocheted purse, and a worsted comforter for the neck, on which Frank and Isabel and Ellen had written, "For my dear father," with the names of each appended; and again they said, exultingly, "We made them all ourselves, papa." "Thank you, my children," replied Mr. Rich. "So, Frank, these chessmen are what you have so long been busy about at Uncle John's turning lathe." He smiled as he added, "I will not say I had rather have gold ones; for such neat workmanship done by my son is more valuable to me than gold could be. And Isabel, dear, I don't know whether this handsome purse cost so much as the skates I gave you for a Christmas present, but I certainly like it better than any purse I could buy." The brother and sister blushed a little, for they understood the rebuke conveyed in his words. But he patted their heads and kissed them, and as they nestled close up to him, he folded them all in his arms. "So my little Ellen has made me a red, white, and blue comforter," said he. "How grand I shall feel walking down State Street with this round my neck!" "Then you will wear it, papa?" said Ellen, with a glad little jump. "Wear it? Indeed I will," replied her father; "and proud I shall be of the loyal colors, and of my little daughter's work." "Ellen is very patriotic," said her mother. "I think papa would like to hear her play 'The Star-Spangled Banner.'" 78

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The little girl ran eagerly to the music-stool; for she had been practising the tune very diligently, in hopes she should be invited to play. Frank and Isabel kept their fingers moving to the music, and when it ceased, papa exclaimed, "Bravo!" He was really pleased with his little daughter's improvement, and that made her as lighthearted as a bird. While they were deciding what Isabel should play, the door-bell rang, and one cousin after another came in to talk over the Christmas gifts. Isabel glanced shyly at her father, when she said, "I am much obliged to you, Cousin Emma, for the bracelet you sent me. It is very handsome." And Frank was as red as a turkeys gills when he thanked Cousin Joe for the gutta-percha chain, and said it would be a valuable souvenir of his brave Cousin George. Cousin Max, who always thought whatever he had was better than other people could have, remarked that their presents were very handsome, but he didn't think they were equal to what they had on their tree at home. "The worst of it is, I have so many duplicates," said Cousin Emma. "Last year I had three bracelets, and this year I had two. When I put them all on, they reach almost up to my elbow." "My aunts and cousins, and particular friends, all take to sending me books in blue and gold," said Cousin Jane. "I get so tired of seeing those little volumes, all just alike! There they are always standing on my shelf, like 'four and twenty little dogs all in a row.'" "But they are not all alike inside" remarked Uncle Rich. "I suppose not," she replied; "but I am so tired of 'em, I never read 'em." "Here are some new charades," said Mrs. Rich, who wished to 79

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change the conversation. They were soon laughing over the charades, and then they sang some funny catches, and bade each other "Good night." The next evening, when little Alice went away with her nurse, after kissing them all "Good night," she peeped into the door again to say, "Dolly wid de b'oo eyes is going to s'eep in de drawer, and dolly wid de b'ack eyes is going to s'eep wid Petty Poo." They smiled upon her, and threw her kisses, and when the door closed after her, Mr. Rich remarked, "Even with Petty Poo the novelty of Christmas gifts don't last long. What part of your Christmas evening did you enjoy most, my children?" "When I was playing to you, and you liked it," replied Ellen. "When you and mamma seemed so pleased with the things we made for you," said Isabel. "And you, my son?" inquired Mr. Rich. Frank replied, that was the only part of the evening he cared much about. "I thought so," rejoined his father. "Have any of you thought what might be the reason?" The young folks were silent, each one trying to think what their father expected them to say. "I will tell you how I explain it," continued Mr. Rich. "I learned long ago that it is not the having things, but the doing things, which makes people happy. You enjoyed the presents you gave us, because you had expended ingenuity and industry upon them. Nothing you could have bought for us would have given either you or us half the pleasure." "And they were working for others, not for themselves," added 80

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their mother. "That greatly increased the charm." Her husband smiled approvingly, as he rejoined, "You have said the best word, my dear." The children looked in the fire thoughtfully. At last, Isabel broke the silence by saying, "When we went to bed last night, Ellen and I said we didn't know what was the reason we felt so little pleasure, when so many had tried to please us." Their father rejoined, "The trouble is, you have so many handsome things that the charm of novelty is lost. A poor child would feel as rich as Croesus with one of the many things you think so litde of." Isabel looked up eagerly and exclaimed, "Papa, that makes me think of something. We will agree with our uncles and aunts and cousins, not to exchange Christmas gifts next year. We will do something else." "What can we do?" asked Ellen. "I should admire to do something different." "We'll give dolls and picture-books and tops to the children in the Orphan Asylum," replied her sister. "That is a very good thought," said their mother. "And, papa, you said it made folks happy to do things themselves," remarked Ellen. "So we'll make up the dolls and dress them ourselves; and we'll knit comforters and mittens and hoods for the poor children; and we'll make balls for the boys; and ever so many things. Won't we, Issy?" "Where are you going to get money enough to buy the dolls' heads, and stuff to make the hoods and comforters of?" inquired Frank. 81

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His sisters looked puzzled. Mr. and Mrs. Rich said nothing; for they wanted the children to work out their own plan and depend on their own resources. After a little reflection, Isabel said, "We could have a Fair. Not a public fair, mamma; but a sort of pleasant party for our uncles and aunts and cousins and particular friends. We've got ever so many things laid up in our drawers, that we might sell as well as not." "O, but that would never do," rejoined Ellen; "for they were given to us, and we couldn't sell people their own things. But if they will agree not to give us any presents next Christmas, we can buy worsted and dolls' heads with our money, instead of buying bracelets and vases for them; and they have so many they don't want them." "That's true," answered Isabel; "and we could do without many of the things that we are buying every week." Their father looked highly pleased, and said, "That will be another good thing, to have a generous motive for practising economy. I will buy ten dollars' worth of whatever things you make yourselves." "And so will I," said their mother. "You might lend us the twenty dollars beforehand, and take your pay in the things we make," said Frank. "I will make some cups and balls for the girls, and some bats for the boys." His father looked at him with a significant smile, and said, "One thing you may be sure of, my son. The poor boys will be too glad of their wooden bats to complain because they are not gold ones." "Please, father, don't remind me of that again," replied Frank, coloring. 82

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"And please, father," said Isabel, "not to tell me I shall have nothing given me that costs so much as what I give away; for that was a mean little speech of mine, and I am ashamed of it." "Very well; I won't allude to it again," rejoined their father. Ellen, who always liked to apologize for any fault of her brother or sister, remarked, "If they hadn't have said it, I suppose they would have thought it; and you and mamma say you like to have us speak right out before you whatever we think." "That is true, my child," replied her mother. "We never want you to feel restrained before us. But I noticed that you made no complaint about your handsome work-box." "That was not because I was any better than Issy," said the sincere little girl; "for I did think that I had two work-boxes, and I did wish it had been something else. I didn't say so, because I thought what Frank and Issy said made you and papa look sober." "We do not blame any of you for your thoughts, or for speaking them openly before us," said Mrs. Rich; "though I cannot deny that Franks and Issy's remarks seemed to me in a wrong and mean spirit. But your indifference to the presents you receive is not your fault; and certainly it is not the fault of the kind relatives and friends who take so much pains to please you. The trouble is, both with you and your cousins, that you have too many things to care very much about anything. I am glad you are going to try the experiment of giving without receiving." It was a pleasure to the parents to see how the planning of things and the doing of things waked up the energies of their young folks. Almost every morning Isabel and Ellen would bound into the breakfast-room, with eager faces, saying, "Good morning, papa and 83

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mamma. We've got a new idea." The phrase became a family joke. "Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Rich, when they came jumping in as usual one morning. "What's coming on the carpet next? Some new idea I suppose. What a privilege it is to have a family so full of ideas!" "Why, papa," replied Ellen, "you know Issy acts charades beautifully. Frank has written one, and she's going to act it at the Fair, and charge the visitors five cents apiece. Perhaps we shall get as much as five dollars; and that would buy a good many dolls' heads or picture-books for the orphans." Another morning, Isabel was in great ecstasy over a plan Ellen had suggested. "O papa, it is such a bright idea!" exclaimed she. "We are going to have a Tableau of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. Petty Poo is going to be Europe, with some pearl beads on her neck and arms, and Frank's miniature ship beside her. We are going to paint little Cousin Joe yellowish brown, and dress him up like a Chinese Mandarin, and seat him on a tea-chest. That's for Asia, you know. We are going to paint little John reddish brown, with a coronet of feathers on his head; and Frank is going to make a bow and arrow for him. That's for America. You remember that bright-looking little black girl, Kitty Jones? We're going to ask her mother to lend her to us, and we'll dress her up for Africa. Frank says she ought to be leaning on an elephant's tusk, but I don't know where we could get one." "What's the child thinking of!" exclaimed Mr. Rich. "Why, you might as well give me a meeting-house steeple for a cane. What could such a little creature do with an elephant's tusk, five or six feet long; taller than I am?" 84

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"Perhaps we can find a baby elephant's tusk," replied Isabel. "We shall have to charge ten cents apiece for the Tableau, it will be so much trouble." The weeks passed on, bringing with them a succession of new projects. Many of them were nipped in the bud by adverse circumstances; but whether they ripened or not, they occupied the young brains of the children and gave their bodies healthy exercise. They were impatient for spring to come, that they might remove to their country-house in Dorchester. There they could pick up hens feathers, and color them pink with cochineal, and blue with indigo, for ornamenting the dolls' hats. Sometimes the cockerel dropped a gaudy feather that needed no coloring, and great was their joy over the prize. Then they wanted autumn to come, that they might find moss-acorns; for mamma had given them some pieces of her brown silk dress, and promised to show them how to make little emeryballs, that would look like real acorns when they were fastened in the mossy cups. An unthought-of value was imparted to every scrap of pretty ribbon or calico, and to broken strings of beads that had long been rolling about. Even little Alice caught the prevailing spirit, and was every day bringing a dolls sash, or some other of her little treasures, saying, "Dis is for de orfins." The children of this wealthy family had never before experienced the great pleasure of turning everything to some good use; and the novelty was very delightful to them. When relatives and friends heard the proposal not to exchange Christmas presents, they were very much surprised, and some were half disposed to be offended. The children soon reconciled them, however, by saying, "It is not because we are ungrateful for your 85

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presents, or unwilling to send presents to you. But we have thought of a new plan, and when you come to know something about it, we hope you will like it." They of course perceived that something uncommonly engrossing was going forward, but could not find out exacdy what; and this little air of mystery added a new charm to the enterprise. What with lessons in English and French, and music and dancing, and all their plans for the Fair, December came round again without the children's ever having occasion to say, "I wish I knew what to do." The large drawing-room was arranged for their accommodation on the eventful evening. At one extremity, English ivy was trained round a large hoop to form a frame-work for the Tableau. When the screen was removed, and pearl-white Alice, and yellowish-brown Joe, and reddish-brown John, and brown-black Kitty were seen grouped behind the ivy, they really made a very pretty picture. Little Joe looked very funny in his Chinese cap, with a peacock's feather in it, a little round button atop, and a long braid of hair tied on behind. Alice was charming in white muslin, with some small blue flowers and strings of pearl beads hanging among her flaxen curls. John had a coronet of turkey's feathers, and a short beaver-skin skirt, fastened round the waist with a gaudy belt of many colored wampum. Bead-embroidered moccasins covered his feet. In one hand he carried a bow and arrow, trimmed with red and yellow ribbon, and in the other a stuffed squirrel, to represent the fur trade. Kitty Jones wore a short skirt of yellow merino. Her arms and feet were bare, with the exception of strips of gilt paper on wrists and ankles. On her head was a crown of gilt paper sur86

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mounted by an ostrich-feather. Frank had fashioned a piece of wood into the resemblance of a small tusk, and painted it suitably, that she might represent the trade of Africa in gold and ivory and ostrich-feathers. The little ones behaved very properly, till Alice spied out her white poodle sniffing round the room in search of her. Then she forgot all the instructions she had received, and called out, "Poody! Poody!" That was a very improper proceeding for Europe, with a ship by her side to represent the commerce of the world. And it made Asia laugh out loud; which was an unheard of want of dignity in a Mandarin upon a state occasion. America grinned rather too broadly for a sedate Indian chief. Africa was perfectly motionless in every muscle; and looked a little bit afraid; which Frank said was very natural, considering Europe was so near with her ship, and still carrying on the slave-trade; a remark which his sisters and cousins thought quite witty. After the little ones were dismissed with kisses and candy, Frank came tottering in, bent half double, with a white wig on his head, an hour-glass in one hand and a scythe in the other. He was followed by Isabel, handsomely dressed in the newest mode. Afterward Ellen and her mother appeared, dressed just as women and little girls dressed forty years ago. "O how funny they look! Did you ever see such frights?" shouted the young folks. They all agreed that it was very easy to guess the first, and the second, and the whole of the charade had been acted. When they had taken off their disguises, friends and relatives began to compliment them. Ellen, who was always ready to praise her sister, because she really thought her something uncommon, replied, "Isabel acted her part 87

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beautifully; flirting her fan, courtesying, and swinging her crinoline; but I didn't do anything only walk round with an old bonnet on my head. I never could act charades well." "There is one thing she can do well," said Isabel. "She preaches beautifully." "O Isabel! How can you say so?" exclaimed Ellen, blushing scarlet. "It's nothing more than the truth," persisted Isabel. "I heard you preach a beautiful sermon at Carry Rice's party." The company, amused at her confusion, began to say, "Ellen, you must let us hear you preach. We will give you ten cents apiece for a sermon." This offer tempted her; she thought of the dolls and tops the money would buy. She allowed them to place her on a stool, but when she found herself there, with all of them looking at her, she felt very much heated, and said, bashfully, "Ladies and gentlemen, I don't know what to preach about. When I was at Carry Rice's, some of the girls and boys got into a quarrel, and I preached to them from the text, 'Return good for evil.' But you are not quarrelling. Besides, everybody preaches about the war now, and I do want the Rebels to be beaten; so that text won't do; and I don't know what text to take." "Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land, to all the inhabitants thereof," said her father, in a loud, clear voice. "That's a good text," said Ellen, brightening up. "Liberty ought to be proclaimed to all, because it ought to be. They say they used to whip the slaves down in Dixie for trying to learn to read and write. That was very wrong. There's little Kitty Jones, that was Africa to-night; she's as bright as a steel button. She 88

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learns her letters a great deal faster than our Alice; and it would be a sin and a shame to whip her for it. The slaveholders wouldn't like to have their children whipped for learning, and they ought to do to others as they would be done by. Besides, it would be better for the white folks down there if liberty was proclaimed to all. They wouldn't be so violent-tempered, and go round stabbing folks with bowie-knives, if they hadn't been used to beating and banging slaves about when they were boys. And if they hadn't slaves to wait upon 'em, they would find out what a great pleasure it is to learn how to do things, and to help themselves. So you see, if we beat the Rebels, and proclaim liberty to all, we shall return good for evil; and that text would have done for my sermon, if I had thought about it. But then I think the greatest reason why we ought to proclaim liberty to all is because we ought to. And I don't know as I have anything more to say to-night." As she descended from her eminence, all in a flutter, her friends came up to offer their money; and Uncle Joe patted her on the head as he said, "I've heard some sermons that were not so well worth ten cents." There was a short recess, and Isabel played lively tunes while the guests walked about and ate ice-creams, which the girls had made, under their mothers directions. Over the refreshment-table Frank had printed, in large letters, "Home Manufacture." All the articles were sold before ten o'clock; for the secret was discovered, and everybody wanted to help on the good work. The children were impatient to have the guests go, that they might count their money. They were greatly surprised and delighted to find they had received more than two hundred dollars. They kissed papa and mamma, 89

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and kissed each other, and said, over and over again, "Didn't we have a good time?" When they had sobered down a little, Isabel, looking up archly, said, "Papa and mamma, I've got a new idea." "I dare say she has," said Ellen; "she's always having new ideas." "And what is it now?" asked their mother. "We have got so much more money than we expected," replied Isabel, "that I think we can do two things. You know that slave woman down South, who hid Cousin George when the Rebels were after him? He wrote to us that she had a very pretty, bright litde girl. Seeing Kitty Jones tonight has made me think about her. I should like to spend half our money in picture-books and toys for the freed children." "Good! good!" exclaimed Ellen, clapping her hands. They all agreed with her, and when their articles were collected together, they were divided into two parcels, one of which was immediately sent off to the islands of South Carolina; the other half was reserved till the day before Christmas, when they were conveyed to the Orphan Asylum. Frank procured a pretty evergreen tree, and they all went to help the Superintendent arrange the articles upon it. The little inmates of the asylum were kept in the dark about the whole affair till evening, when they were marched into the room in procession, two and two. They were very shy in presence of the strangers. A few of them gazed with wonder on the lighted Christmas Tree, and some litde laughs were heard; but most of them stood with fingers on their mouths, looking down. When hoods and mittens, and balls and bats, and tops and skates, and dolls and picture-books were distributed among them, a few 90

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jumped and laughed; but most of them made little formal bows and courtesies, and said, "Thank'ee, ma'am," "Thank'ee, sir," as they had been taught to do. When the articles were all distributed, the Superintendent conducted them to the play-room. She returned a few minutes afterward, and said to Mr. Rich and his family, "They were constrained before strangers; but I have left the door of the play-room ajar, and I should like you to have a peep in." Such a merry scene! The orphans were jumping and skipping about, tossing up their balls and dancing their dolls. "See how high my ball goes!" shouted one. "See what a pretty dolly I've got!" said another. "O mamma! this pays us for all our work," said Isabel. "I thought you were paid in doing the work," rejoined her mother. 91

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"So we were," said Ellen; "but this pays us over again." While they were putting on their cloaks to return home, a chubby little orphan asked the Superintendent for a "fower." When asked what she wanted it for, she answered, "For de lady dat did give me de dolly." When she had received a geranium blossom, she went to Isabella and bashfully held up her flower. Isabella thanked her and kissed her, and she trotted off in a state of high satisfaction. When the family returned to their elegant parlor, there were only ashes in the grate, the gas burned low, with a seething sound, and the gleams of the gilded paper were hidden by a veil of shadow. But the cheeks of the children glowed as they had not glowed under the brilliancy of the last year's Christmas Eve. "O, what a pleasant world this is!" exclaimed Ellen. Isabel took up a graceful Parian vase for one flower, and said, "Mamma, won't this geranium keep longer if I put salt in the water?" Her mother smiled as she replied, "You are not apt to be so very careful of the flowers that are given you. But I see, my dear child, that you are learning by experience how much more blessed it is to give than to receive." The water in the vase was changed every day; and when the blossom fell, the petals were pressed in a book, and under them was written, "The Little Orphan's Gift, on Christmas Eve." The Fair and the visit to the Asylum furnished topics for household conversation for many a day afterward. When Petty Poo was asked what she did at the Fair, she answered, "Oo-up." "O, but you naughty little puss, you made Asia laugh," said Isabel. 92

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"And what did sister Ellen do?" asked her father. "Made booful preach," answered Petty Poo; and they all laughed, as if they had not heard their little darling say it twenty times before. "And where did you send your black dolly, with the two babies in her arms?" inquired her mother; and again they laughed when she lisped out, "To ittle conty-ban." In a few weeks they received a letter from Cousin George, in which he wrote: "Dear cousins, your box arrived safely, and the teachers distributed the things on New Year's Eve. I would have given fifty dollars if you could have looked upon the scene. Such uproarious joy I never witnessed. Such singing and shouting are never heard among white folks. I wrote to you that the slave woman, who saved me from the horrors of a Rebel prison by hiding me under some straw in her hut, was here at work for wages. Her little Chloe is not much older than Petty Poo, and is as pretty, in a different way. Such glorious brown eyes you never saw. When the doll with two babies was given her, she jumped and capered, and danced and sung, till my sides ached with laughing. All these people naturally express their feelings in music; and little Chloe, small as she is, has the gift. She sings whatever tune comes into her head, and makes words to suit it as she goes along. It would have done your hearts good to hear her sing: How kind de Yankee ladies is! So kind I nebber see! How kind de Yankee ladies is, To gib dese tings to me!

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I made a sketch of her merry little face on a leaf of my pocket-book, while she was singing, and if I had colored crayons here I think I could make you a pretty picture. It is a pity you could not have had her for your Tableau; though I have no doubt she would have laughed when the white poodle appeared on the stage, and in all probability she would have jumped down to catch him." Not long afterward Captain George came home on a fortnight's leave of absence. And, hurried as he was, he found time to make a picture of little Chloe in colored crayons. The yellow cheeks and the great brown eyes made it look like a coreopsis blossom in the sunshine; and the face had such a happy, merry expression, that everybody laughed who looked at it. Isabel printed under it: "From Cousin George. A Souvenir of our Useful Christmas." It was framed and hung in the breakfast-room; and one day they found that Frank had pasted on the back the following inscription: "This is a commentary on the 'booful preach' Ellen made at our Fair, from the text, 'Proclaim Liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof.'"

94

ELEANOR'S COLONEL Annah Robinson Watson

The relationship between northern soldiers and southern civilians was more complicated than one might expect. This was especially true when Yankees took over a town or city. Loyal Confederate children eyed the occupying soldiers with hatred, expecting the worst kind of treatment and imagining terrible atrocities. Yet the soldiers who came to occupy parts of the South were rarely so cruel. As one girl admitted in a letter to a friend just after Union troops marched into Richmond, she had "expected the Yanks would treat us so much worse than they really did." In fact, friendships often grew between lonely Northerners and the children living near their camps. After his unit pitched camp near an Arkansas farm, a Union officer offered to show a little girl named Dosia Williams what was hidden in a gold locket in return for a kiss. "I could not stand it," Dosia wrote as an adult—she had to see what was inside. She kissed the Yankee on the cheek and he showed her a tiny picture of a "lovely little girl about my age." Dosia's older sister firmly refused to do the same, because her father "told me not to kiss Yankees!" The colonel's eyes twinkled when he exclaimed, "And don't you ever do it! You stand by what your Pere tells you." After that, he and the Williams girls became "great friends, and his aides brought us candy and made much of us." The author of "Eleanor's Colonel" portrays a similar relationship between the children of a little town in Virginia and one of the officers commanding the invading Union troops. Eleanor declares her loyalty to the Confederacy early in the story by claiming that she is a "secesh"—a person who favored secession from the Union and supported the Confederacy. Yet she makes an unusual friend by the end of the story.

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leanor Fairfax lived in the Shenandoah Valley, one of the most beautiful parts of Virginia. Her home was the prettiest rose-covered cottage in a small village, and here her young mother lived, with only Mammy 'Liza, the old colored nurse, to help her take care of the household. Eleanor's father had gone off to the war with the Southern soldiers, and Mammy 'Liza's husband, Uncle Reuben, had gone, too, "to take care of young marstuh," he said. As yet, no Northern soldiers had been seen in the town, and Eleanor and her little friends often paused in their games to wonder what these soldiers were like, and whether they would ever really come. Eleanor was the eldest of three children, and often her mother would take her in her arms and talk long and seriously. "You must help mother," she would say tenderly, "father has gone, and mother has no one but Eleanor to help her." "Father is a Secesh, isn't he?" said Eleanor, slowly, one day, when they were talking. "Yes, father is a Secesh," answered the mother, smiling. "And you are a Secesh?" continued the little questioner. "Yes, of course; I am whatever father is." "Then I am a Secesh, too—a great big Secesh," exclaimed the little girl, sturdily. "I'd like to be a soldier, too, like father." "Well, a soldier must be loyal to his colors. That means he must be true and always keep his word. Even if the enemy should come and want to shoot him for it, that should make no difference to a really brave man, and he must always tell the truth, no matter what it costs." 96

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Eleanor looked very solemn as her mother said this, and exclaimed: "I'm not a coward, mother. If the Yankees came, I wouldn't be afraid one bit. I'd tell them right out I was a Secesh, and I'd try to get them to let you and little sister and Edward go free, and just take me." Tears came to the mother's eyes, though she laughed as she caught the small soldier to her breast. "Oh, there's no danger of that, darling," she said. "If the Yankees came they wouldn't want such a little rebel as you." It was only the next week that the Yankees came, sure enough, and pitched their tents in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley, just on the edge of the little town. This caused great excitement, for no one knew why the soldiers had come, whether there was to be a battle, or what was to happen. Even the children shared in the general feeling of anxiety and unrest. They had been in the habit of visiting each other freely, and of playing upon the beautiful green spaces between the houses; but now they were kept closely within doors, lest, as they thought to themselves, they should be captured by the Yankees and carried off to prison. But several days passed by, nothing terrible happened, the soldiers had done no harm to any one, and the citizens began to feel more comfortable, and the children to return to their usual occupations and pleasures. Day by day, in their games upon the meadow, they came nearer and nearer to the Federal camp. They watched eagerly all the movements of the soldiers, and one day a half dozen of the most daring among them decided to go nearer 97

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still, "just to see what the 'bluecoats' look like," they said to one another. The youngest of the group was Eleanor. She looked very serious, as if her little heart was burdened with matters of great importance. She may have been thinking that the time of trial had come—that if she saw the terrible Yankees she might tell them her father had gone to fight them, and that if they wanted anybody, they must take her, and let nothing hurt her dear mother, baby sister, and litde Edward. Anyway, she was one of the band of children, and they approached with quick-beating hearts the Federal camp, which was only a few hundred yards distant. As they neared the place they saw a group of soldiers out in front of the tents, and one of the number, the colonel, called out cheerily: "Come on, little people; I'm glad to see you." At this the children looked much startled. Two of the number took fright and beat a most inglorious retreat. Only four obeyed his summons. These came somewhat reluctantly and stood before him, silent, and with anxious eyes lifted to his face. The colonel began to talk to them, and at last said he wanted to know whether they were rebels or Yankees—whether they were on his side or were for Jeff Davis. The children were speechless, and turned to one another with wondering faces. But he continued: "Now, I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll make a very nice present to the little girl who gives me the best answer to that question." With a common impulse, the children drew back and began with great excitement to talk to one another. 98

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"What's he going to do with us?" asked one. "Maybe shoot us," answered a little girl, shivering, "unless we say were for the Yankees." "But that would be a story!" exclaimed Eleanor, hotly. "We're not for the Yankees, and you know it!" "I'd rather be for the Yankees than be shot," said little Eunice Clarke, looking frightened. At this moment the colonel called them: "Come on; I'm ready for your answers." A group of soldiers had gathered about him, attracted by the unusual scene, and the children looked fearfully at the "bluecoats." Eunice happened to be in front of the group. "Well, my little girl," asked the colonel, what are your sentiments? Whom are you for?" "I—I'm for the Yankees, sir!" she said in an almost inaudible tone. The colonel smiled and asked the next in line. "If you won't shoot me, I'll be a Yankee for—for a little while," she answered, twisting the corner of her apron. "And you?" was asked of the next; but the child covered her face with her hands and said nothing. Only Eleanor was left. She took a step toward the colonel. Her sunbonnet had fallen back, and her tangled brown curls were blown by the summer breeze. "And you, my little lady, whom are you for? The Yankees?" he asked. Eleanor lifted her brown eyes with a flash to his face, while her cheeks glowed, and her lips, though they quivered a moment, 100

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parted, as she cried, stamping her little foot: "No, no! I'm a Secesh. I'll live a Secesh, and I'll die a Secesh. That's what I am. Now, if you want to, take me and shoot me!" The men gave a loud cheer. "Hurrah for the little Secesh! Hurrah for the brave little Secesh!" they cried. "Hurrah for the little heroine!" exclaimed the colonel. "That's what she is—a little trump of a girl who's not afraid to tell the truth. She's a dear, loyal little rebel!" Then he caught her in his arms, lifted her to his shoulder, and, followed by the other children, carried her into the town to a shop, where, sure enough, he selected for her a beautiful gift. "Just look!" said Eunice Clarke, with wide-open eyes. "That's what she got for telling the truth. Just look! I don't believe I'll be afraid next time." After this the colonel took Eleanor to her own gate, and left her, saying tenderly, as he held her hand at parting: "I hope, my dear little rebel, you will always be as true as you have been today." Then he kissed her and went back to camp. This one colonel had in a sense captured the entire town, and for years the children talked about him, until he became their favorite hero. They called him always "Eleanors Colonel."

101

THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE Hamlin Garland

Very few soldiers wrote about their return to civilian life after the Civil War, and even fewer of the women and children who waited for husbands and fathers to come home described their reunions. One Civil War child who did was the writer Hamlin Garland, who as a little boy had seen his father march away from his Wisconsin farm to fight for the Union at Vicksburg and to take part in Shermans March through Georgia. When Richard Garland came back at the end of the war, his wife Belle and daughter Hattie rushed into his arms. But the little boys—five-year-old Hamlin and three-year-old Frank—held back. To Hamlin, Richard "was only a strange man with big eyes and care-worn face." His mother pushed him forward, and he eventually gave his father a shy hug. Little Frank, however, who had been only nine months old when Richard marched off to war, "would not even permit a kiss. The gaunt and grizzled stranger terrified him," despite Richard's urgent, repeated plea to "come here, my little man." A shiny red apple finally won Frank over. Once the awkward greetings were over, the family settled into an afternoon of eating and talking and resting, during which, Hamlin wrote many years later, his fathers voice "sinks deeper into my remembrance." At bedtime the children fell to sleep listening to stories "of the battles he had seen, and the marches he had made." Their father was home, and all was well. Twenty years later, Garland would write a story about the relief and confusion accompanying a veterans homecoming that closely resembled his own father's return.

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T

he nearer the train drew toward La Crosse, the soberer the litde group of "vets" became. On the long way from New Orleans they had beguiled tedium with jokes and friendly chaff; or with planning with elaborate detail what they were going to do now, after the war. A long journey, slowly, irregularly, yet persistendy pushing northward. When they entered on Wisconsin Territory they gave a cheer, and another when they reached Madison, but after that they sank into a dumb expectancy. Comrades dropped off at one or two points beyond, until there were only four or five left who were bound for La Crosse County. Three of them were gaunt and brown, the fourth was gaunt and pale, with signs of fever and ague upon him. One had a great scar down his temple; one limped; and they all had unnaturally large, bright eyes, showing emaciation. There were no bands greeting them at the station, no banks of gayly dressed ladies waving handkerchiefs and shouting "Bravo!" as they came in on the caboose of a freight train into the towns that had cheered and blared at them on their way to war. As they looked out or stepped upon the platform for a moment, while the train stood at the station, the loafers looked at them indifferendy. Their blue coats, dusty and grimy, were too familiar now to excite notice, much less a friendly word. They were the last of the army to return, and the loafers were surfeited with such sights. The train jogged forward so slowly that it seemed likely to be midnight before they should reach La Crosse. The little squad of "vets" grumbled and swore, but it was no use, the train would not hurry, and as a matter of fact, it was nearly two o'clock when the engine whisded "down brakes.". . . 103

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The station was deserted, chill, and dark, as they came into it at exacdy a quarter to two in the morning. Lit by the oil lamps that flared a dull red light over the dingy benches, the waiting room was not an inviting place. The younger man went off to look up a hotel, while the rest remained and prepared to camp down on the floor and benches. Smith was attended to tenderly by the other men, who spread their blankets on the bench for him, and by robbing themselves made quite a comfortable bed, though the narrowness of the bench made his sleeping precarious. It was chill, though August, and the two men sitting with bowed heads grew stiff with cold and weariness, and were forced to rise now and again, and walk about to warm their stiffened limbs. It didn't occur to them, probably, to contrast their coming home with their going forth, or with the coming home of the generals, colonels, or even captains—but to Private Smith, at any rate, there 104

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came a sickness at heart almost deadly, as he lay there on his hard bed and went over his situation. In the deep of the night, lying on a board in the town where he had enlisted three years ago, all elation and enthusiasm gone out of him, he faced the fact that with the joy of homecoming was mingled the bitter juice of care. He saw himself sick, worn out, taking up the work on his half-cleared farm, the inevitable mortgage standing ready with open jaw to swallow half his earnings. . . . Next day, the veterans set out together toward home, until they eventually turn off on other roads. Meanwhile, soldier Smiths wife, Emma, and their three children, Mary, nine years old, Tommy, six, and little Ted, four, wait through another endless day for his return. The little family had endured hard times during the war. One tenant of the half-paid-for farm had failed to produce any crops, and the late summer fields now stood ready for harvest—but there was no one to cut the grain. Nevertheless, the four of them had gone to a kind neighbor's house for Sunday dinner, unaware that their husband and father was trudging painfully toward them. After dinner, the women sit at the table, telling fortunes from the leaves in their teacups.

At last came Mrs. Smiths turn, and she was trembling with excitement as Mrs. Gray again composed her jolly face to what she considered a proper solemnity of expression. "Somebody is comin' to you" she said, after a long pause. "He's got a musket on his back. He's a soldier. He's almost here. See?" She pointed at two little tea-stems, which really formed a faint suggestion of a man with a musket on his back. He had climbed nearly to the edge of the cup. Mrs. Smith grew pale with excite105

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ment. She trembled so she could hardly hold the cup in her hand as she gazed into it. "It's Ed," cried the old woman. "He's on the way home. Heavens an' earth! There he is now!" She turned and waved her hand out toward the road. They rushed to the door to look where she pointed. A man in a blue coat, with a musket on his back, was toiling slowly up the hill on the sun-bright, dusty road, toiling slowly, with bent head half hidden by a heavy knapsack. So tired it seemed that walking was indeed a process of falling. So eager to get home he would not stop, would not look aside, but plodded on, amid the cries of the locusts, the welcome of the crickets, and the rustle of the yellow wheat. Getting back to God's country, and his wife and babies! Laughing, crying, trying to call him and the children at the same time, the little wife, almost hysterical, snatched her hat and ran out into the yard. But the soldier had disappeared over the hill into the hollow beyond, and, by the time she had found the children, he was too far away for her voice to reach him. And, besides, she was not sure it was her husband, for he had not turned his head at their shouts. This seemed so strange. Why didn't he stop to rest at his old neighbor's house? Tortured by hope and doubt, she hurried up the coulee as fast as she could push the baby wagon, the blue-coated figure just ahead pushing steadily, silently forward up the coulee. When the excited, panting little group came in sight of the gate they saw the blue-coated figure standing, leaning upon the rough rail fence, his chin on his palms, gazing at the empty house. 106

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His knapsack, canteen, blankets, and musket lay upon the dusty grass at his feet. He was like a man lost in a dream. His wide, hungry eyes devoured the scene. The rough lawn, the little unpainted house, the field of clear yellow wheat behind it, down across which streamed the sun, now almost ready to touch the high hill to the west, the crickets crying merrily, a cat on the fence nearby, dreaming, unmindful of the stranger in blue— How peaceful it all was. O God! How far removed from all camps, hospitals, battle lines. A little cabin in a Wisconsin coulee, but it was majestic in its peace. How did he ever leave it for those years of tramping, thirsting, killing? Trembling, weak with emotion, her eyes on the silent figure, Mrs. Smith hurried up to the fence. Her feet made no noise in the dust and grass, and they were close upon him before he knew of them. The oldest boy ran a little ahead. He will never forget that figure, that face. It will always remain as something epic, that return of the private. He fixed his eyes on the pale face covered with a ragged beard. "Who are you, sir?" asked the wife, or, rather, started to ask, for he turned, stood a moment, and then cried: "Emma!" "Edward!" The children stood in a curious row to see their mother kiss this bearded, strange man, the elder girl sobbing sympathetically with her mother. Illness had left the soldier partly deaf, and this added to the strangeness of his manner. But the youngest child stood away, even after the girl had recog107

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nized her father and kissed him. The man turned then to the baby, and said in a curiously unpaternal tone: "Come here, my little man; don't you know me?" But the baby backed away under the fence and stood peering at him critically. "My little man!" What meaning in those words! This baby seemed like some other woman's child, and not the infant he had left in his wife's arms. The war had come between him and his baby—he was only a strange man to him, with big eyes; a soldier, with mother hanging to his arm, and talking in a loud voice. "And this is Tom," the private said, drawing the oldest boy to him. "He'll come and see me. He knows his poor old pap when he comes home from the war." The mother heard the pain and reproach in his voice and hastened to apologize. "You've changed so, Ed. He can't know yeh. This is papa, Teddy; come and kiss him—Tom and Mary do. Come, won't you?" But Teddy still peered through the fence with solemn eyes, well out of reach. He resembled a half-wild kitten that hesitates, studying the tones of one's voice. "I'll fix him," said the soldier, and sat down to undo his knapsack, out of which he drew three enormous and very red apples. After giving one to each of the older children, he said: "Now I guess he'll come. Eh, my little man? Now come see your pap." Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted by the overzealous Tommy, and a moment later was kicking and squalling in his fathers arms. Then they entered the house, into the sitting room, poor, bare, art-forsaken little room, too, with its rag carpet, its 108

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square clock, and its two or three chromos and pictures from Harper's Weekly pinned about. "Emma, I'm all tired out," said Private Smith, as he flung himself down on the carpet as he used to do, while his wife brought a pillow to put under his head, and the children stood about munching their apples. "Tommy, you run and get me a pan of chips, and Mary, you get the tea-kettle on, and I'll go and make some biscuits." And the soldier talked. Question after question he poured forth about the crops, the cattle, the renter, the neighbors. He slipped his heavy government brogan shoes off his poor, tired, blistered feet, and lay out with utter, sweet relaxation. He was a free man again, no longer a soldier under command. At supper he stopped once, listened and smiled. That's old Spot. I know her voice. I s'pose that's her calf out there in the pen. I can't milk her to-night, though. I'm too tired. But I tell you, I'd like a drink o' her milk. What's become of old Rove?" "He died last winter. Poisoned, I guess." There was a moment of sadness for them all. It was some time before the husband spoke again, in a voice that trembled a little. "Poor old feller! He'd 'a' known me half a mile away. I expected him to come down the hill to meet me. It 'ud 'a' been more like comin' home if I could 'a' seen him comin' down the road an' waggin his tail, an' laughin that way he has. I tell yeh, it kind o' took hold o' me to see the blinds down an' the house shut up." "But, yeh see, we—we expected you'd write again 'fore you started. And then we thought we'd see you if you did come," she hastened to explain. 109

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"Well, I ain't worth a cent on writin'. Besides, it's just as well yeh didn't know when I was comin'. I tell you, it sounds good to hear them chickens out there, an' turkeys, an' the crickets. Do you know they don't have just the same kind o' crickets down South? Who's Sam hired t' help cut yer grain? "The Ramsey boys." "Looks like a good crop; but I'm afraid I won't do much gettin' it cut. This cussed fever an' ague has got me down pretty low. I don't know when I'll get rid of it. I'll bet I've took twenty-five pounds of quinine if I've taken a bit. Gimme another biscuit. I tell yeh, they taste good, Emma. I ain't had anything like it—Say, if you'd 'a' hear'd me braggin' to th' boys about your butter 'n biscuits I'll bet your ears 'ud 'a' burnt." The privates wife colored with pleasure. "Oh, you're always abraggin about your things. Everybody makes good butter." "Yes; old lady Snyder, for instance." "Oh, well, she ain't to be mentioned. She's Dutch." "Or old Mis' Snively. One more cup o' tea, Mary. That's my girl! I'm feeling better already. I just b'lieve the matter with me is, I'm starved." This was a delicious hour, one long to be remembered. They were like lovers again. But their tenderness, like that of a typical American family, found utterance in tones, rather than in words. He was praising her when praising her biscuit, and she knew it. They grew soberer when he showed where he had been struck, one ball burning the back of his hand, one cutting away a lock of hair from his temple, and one passing through the calf of his leg. The wife shuddered to think how near she had come to being a soldier's 110

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widow. Her waiting no longer seemed hard. This sweet, glorious hour effaced it all. Then they rose, and all went out into the garden and down to the barn. He stood beside her while she milked old Spot. They began to plan fields and crops for next year. His farm was weedy and encumbered, a rascally renter had run away with his machinery (departing between two days), his children needed clothing, the years were coming upon him, he was sick and emaciated, but his heroic soul did not quail. With the same courage with which he had faced his Southern march he entered upon a still more hazardous future. Oh, that mystic hour! The pale man with big eyes standing there by the well, with his young wife by his side. The vast moon swinging above the eastern peaks, the cattle winding down the pasture slopes with jangling bells, the crickets singing, the stars blooming out sweet and far and serene; the katydids rhythmically calling, the little turkeys crying querulously, as they settled to roost in the poplar tree near the open gate. The voices at the well drop lower, the little ones nestle in their father's arms at last, and Teddy falls asleep there. The common soldier of the American volunteer army had returned. His war with the South was over, and his fight, his daily running fight with nature and against the injustice of his fellow men was begun again.

111

THE DOLL Charles Waddell Chesnutt

Our last story takes place long after the Civil War. The cause of the war—slavery—remained an important issue in American life for many years after the war's end. The story is the only selection written by an African-American in this book. Charles Wadell Chesnutt was born in Ohio just before the war began. Although he was never a slave, he nevertheless identified closely with former slaves, and as an adult lived for a time in North Carolina. In many stories and several novels he tried to explain the difficulties faced by southern blacks after the Civil War. In this story, Waddell hints at a southern man's taking advantage of a black girl. "The Doll," published in 1912, actually takes place in an unnamed northern city long after the Civil War. But slavery and the war have left their mark on every character, especially Tom Taylor, the prosperous African-American barber at the center of the story. He is no longer a child, but a childhood incident casts a dark shadow over his adult life, and another child—his daughter—provides a glimpse of the future that is Tom's salvation. The story contains two phrases that should be explained: the "Jackson club" to which one of the white men belongs was a Democratic party organization honoring one of the founders of the Democratic party, Andrew Jackson. When Chesnutt writes that the barber's father showed "a thrift equal to that of a German immigrant," he is referring to the frugality and care for which families immigrating to America from Germany were stereotyped.

W

hen Tom Taylor, proprietor of the Wyandot Hotel barber shop, was leaving home, after his noonday luncheon, to return to his work, his daughter, a sprighdy, diminutive brown 112

The Doll maid, with very bright black eyes and very curly black hair, thrust into his coat pocket a little jointed doll somewhat the worse for wear. "Now, don't forget, papa," she said, in her shrill childish treble, "what's to be done to her. Her arms won't work, and her legs won't work, and she can't hold her head up. Be sure and have her mended this afternoon, and bring her home when you come to supper; for she's afraid of the dark, and always sleeps with me. I'll meet you at the corner at half-past six—and don't forget, whatever you do." "No, Daisy, I'll not forget," he replied as he lifted her to the level of his lips and kissed her. Upon reaching the shop he removed the doll from his pocket and hung it on one of the gilded spikes projecting above the wire netting surrounding the cashier's desk, where it would catch his eye. Some time during the afternoon he would send it to a toy shop around the corner for repairs. But the day was a busy one, and when the afternoon was well advanced he had not yet attended to it. Colonel Forsyth had come up from the South to attend a conference of Democratic leaders to consider presidential candidates and platforms. He had put up at the Wyandot Hotel, but had been mainly in the hands of Judge Beeman, chairman of the local Jackson club, who was charged with the duty of seeing that the colonel was made comfortable and given the freedom of the city. It was after a committee meeting, and about four in the afternoon, that the two together entered the lobby of the Wyandot. They were discussing the platforms to be put forward by the two great parties in the approaching campaign. 113

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"I reckon, judge," the colonel was saying, "that the Republican party will make a mistake if it injects the Negro question into its platform. The question is primarily a local one, and if the North will only be considerate about the matter, and let us alone, we can settle it to our entire satisfaction. The Negro's place is defined by nature, and in the South he knows it and gives us no trouble." "The Northern Negroes are different," returned the judge. "They are just the same," rejoined the colonel. "It is you who are different. You pamper them and they take liberties with you. But they are all from the South, and when they meet a Southerner they act accordingly. They are born to serve and to submit. If they had been worthy of equality they would never have endured slavery. They have no proper self-respect; they will neither resent an insult, nor defend a right, nor avenge a wrong." "Well, now, colonel, aren't you rather hard on them? Consider their past." "Hard? Why, no, bless your heart! I've got nothing against the nigger. I like him—in his place. But what I say is the truth. Are you in a hurry?" "Not at all." "Then come downstairs to the barber shop and I'll prove what

I say.n

The shop was the handsomest barber shop in the city. It was in the basement, and the paneled ceiling glowed with electric lights. The floor was of white tile, the walls lined with large mirrors. Behind ten chairs, of the latest and most comfortable design, stood as many colored barbers, in immaculate white jackets, each at work upon a white patron. An air of discipline and good order 114

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pervaded the establishment. There was no loud talking by patrons, no unseemly garrulity on the part of the barbers. It was very obviously a well-conducted barber shop, frequented by gentlemen who could afford to pay liberally for superior service. As the judge and the colonel entered, a customer vacated the chair served by the proprietor. "Next gendeman," said the barber. The colonel removed his collar and took his seat in the vacant chair, remarking, as he ran his hand over his neck, "I want a close shave, barber." "Yes, sir; a close shave." The barber was apparently about forty, with a brown complexion, clean-cut features and curly hair. Committed by circumstances to a career of personal service, he had lifted it by intelligence, tact and industry to the dignity of a successful business. The judge, a regular patron of the shop, knew him well and had often, while in his chair, conversed with him concerning his race—a fruitful theme, much on the public tongue. "As I was saying," said the colonel, while the barber adjusted a towel about his neck, "the Negro question is a perfectly simple one." The judge thought it hardly good taste in the colonel to continue in his former strain. Northern men might speak slightingly of the Negro, but seldom in his presence. He tried a little diversion. "The tariff," he observed, "is a difficult problem." "Much more complicated, suh, than the Negro problem, which is perfectly simple. Let the white man once impress the 115

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Negro with his superiority; let the Negro see that there is no escape from the inevitable, and that ends it. The best thing about the Negro is that, with all his limitations, he can recognize a finality. It is the secret of his persistence among us. He has acquired the faculty of evolution, suh—by the law of the survival of the fittest. Long ago, when a young man, I killed a nigger to teach him his place. One who learns a lesson of that sort certainly never offends again, nor fathers any others of his breed." The barber, having lathered the colonel's face, was stropping his razor with long, steady strokes. Every word uttered by the colonel was perfecdy audible to him, but his impassive countenance betrayed no interest. The colonel seemed as unconscious of the barbers presence as the barber of the colonel's utterance. Surely, thought the judge, if such freedom of speech were the rule in the South the colonel's contention must be correct, and the Negroes thoroughly cowed. To a Northern man the situation was hardly comfortable. "The iron and sugar interests of the South," persisted the judge, "will resist any reduction of the tariff." The colonel was not to be swerved from the subject, nor from his purpose, whatever it might be. "Quite likely they will; and we must argue with them, for they are white men and amenable to reason. The nigger, on the other hand, is the creature of instinct; you cannot argue with him; you must order him, and if he resists shoot him, as I did." "Don't forget, barber," said the colonel, "that I want a close shave." "No, sir," responded the barber, who having sharpened his 116

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razor, now began to pass it, with firm and even hand, over the colonel's cheek. "It must have been," said the judge, "an aggravated case, to justify so extreme a step." "Extreme, suh? I beg yo' pardon, suh, but I can't say I had regarded my conduct in that light. But it was an extreme case so far as the nigger was concerned. I am not boasting about my course; it was simply a disagreeable necessity. I am naturally a kind-hearted man, and don't like to kill even a fly. It was after the war, suh, and just as the Reconstruction period was drawing to a close. My mother employed a Negro girl, the child of a former servant of hers, to wait upon her." The barber was studying the colonel's face as the razor passed over his cheek. The colonel's eyes were closed, or he might have observed the sudden gleam of interest that broke through the barber's mask of self-effacement, like a flash of lightning from a clouded sky. Involuntarily the razor remained poised in midair, but, in less time than it takes to say it, was moving again, swiftly and smoothly, over the colonels face. To shave a talking man required a high degree of skill, but they were both adept, each in his own trade—the barber at shaving, the colonel at talking. "The girl was guilty of some misconduct, and my mother reprimanded her and sent her home. She complained to her father, and he came to see my mother about it. He was insolent, offensive and threatening. I came into the room and ordered him to leave it. Instead of obeying, he turned on me in a rage, suh, and threatened me. I drew my revolver and shot him. The result was unfortunate; but he and his people learned a lesson. We had no 117

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further trouble with bumptious niggers in our town." "And did you have no trouble in the matter?" asked the judge. "None, suh, to speak of. There were proceedings, but they were the merest formality. Upon my statement, confirmed by that of my mother, I was discharged by the examining magistrate, and the case was never even reported to the grand jury. It was a clear case of self-defense." The barber had heard the same story, with some details ignored or forgotten by the colonel. It was the barber's father who had died at the colonels hand, and for many long years the son had dreamed of this meeting. He remembered the story in this wise: His father had been a slave. Freed by the Civil War, he had entered upon the new life with the zeal and enthusiasm of his people at the dawn of liberty, which seem, in the light of later discouragements, so pathetic in the retrospect. The chattel aspired to own property; the slave, forbidden learning, to educate his children. He had worked early and late, had saved his money with a thrift equal to that of a German immigrant and had sent his children regularly to school. The girl—the barber remembered her very well—had been fair of feature, soft of speech and gentle of manner, a pearl among pebbles. One day her father's old mistress had met him on the street and, after a kindly inquiry about his family, had asked if she might hire his daughter during the summer, when there was no school. Her own married daughter would be visiting her, with a young child, and they wanted some neat and careful girl to nurse the infant. "Why, yas ma'am," the barbers father had replied. "I reckon it 118

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might be a good thing fer Alice. I wants her ter be a teacher; but she kin l'arn things from you, ma'am, that no teacher kin teach her. She kin l'arn manners, ma'am, an' white folks' ways, and nowhere better than in yo' house." So Alice had gone to the home of her father's former mistress to learn white folks' ways. The lady had been kind and gracious. But there are ways and ways among all people. When she had been three weeks in her new employment her mistress's son—a younger brother of the colonel—came home from college. Some weeks later Alice went home to her father. Who was most at fault the barber never knew. A few hours after119

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ward the father called upon the lady. There was a stormy interview. Things were said to which the ears of white ladies were unaccustomed from the lips of black men. The elder son had entered the room and interfered. The barber's father had turned to him and exclaimed angrily: "Go 'way from here, boy, and don't talk ter me, or I'm liable ter harm you." The young man stood his ground. The Negro advanced menacingly toward him. The young man drew his ready weapon and fatally wounded the Negro—he lived only long enough, after being taken home, to gasp out the facts to his wife and children. The rest of the story had been much as the colonel had related it. As the barber recalled it, however, the lady had not been called to testify, but was ill at the time of the hearing, presumably from the nervous shock. That she had secretly offered to help the family the barber knew, and that her help had been rejected with cold hostility. He knew that the murderer went unpunished, and that in later years he had gone into politics, and became the leader and mouthpiece of his party. All the world knew that he had ridden into power on his hostility to Negro rights. The barber had been a mere boy at the time of his father's death, but not too young to appreciate the calamity that had befallen the household. The family was broken up. The sordid details of its misfortunes would not be interesting. Poverty, disease and death had followed them, until he alone was left. Many years had passed. The brown boy who had wept beside his father's bier, and who had never forgotten nor forgiven, was now the 120

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grave-faced, keen-eyed, deft-handed barber, who held a deadly weapon at the throat of his father's slayer. How often he had longed for this hour! In his dreams he had killed this man a hundred times, in a dozen ways. Once, when a young man, he had gone to meet him, with the definite purpose of taking his life, but chance had kept them apart. He had imagined situations where they might come face to face; he would see the white man struggling in the water; he would have only to stretch forth his hand to save him; but he would tell him of his hatred and let him drown. He would see him in a burning house, from which he might rescue him; and he would call him murderer and let him burn! He would see him in the dock for murder of a white man, and only his testimony could save him, and he would let him suffer the fate that he doubly deserved! He saw a vision of his father's form, only an hour before thrilling with hope and energy, now stiff and cold in death; while under his keen razor lay the neck of his enemy, the enemy, too, of his race, sworn to degrade them, to teach them, if need be, with the torch and with the gun, that their place was at the white man's feet, his heel upon their neck; who held them in such contempt that he could speak as he had spoken in the presence of one of them. One stroke of the keen blade, a deflection of half an inch in its course, and a murder would be avenged, an enemy destroyed! For the next sixty seconds the barber heard every beat of his own pulse, and the colonel, in serene unconsciousness, was nearer death than he had ever been in the course of a long and eventful life. He was only a militia colonel, and had never been under fire, but his turbulent political career had been passed in a community 121

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where life was lightly valued, where hot words were often followed by rash deeds, and murder was tolerated as a means of private vengeance and political advancement. He went on talking, but neither the judge nor the barber listened, each being absorbed in his own thoughts. To the judge, who lived in a community where Negroes voted, the colonel's frankness was a curious revelation. His language was choice, though delivered with the Southern intonation, his tone easy and conversational, and, in addressing the barber direcdy, his manner had been courteous enough. The judge was interested, too, in watching the barber, who, it was evident, was repressing some powerful emotion. It seemed very probable to the judge that the barber might resent this cool recital of murder and outrage. He did not know what might be true of the Negroes in the South, but he had been judge of a police court in one period of his upward career, and had found colored people prone to sudden rages, when under the influence of strong emotion, handy with edged tools, and apt to cut thick and deep, nor always careful about the color of the cuticle. The barber's feelings were plainly stirred, and the judge, a student of human nature, was curious to see if he would be moved to utterance. It would have been no novelty—patrons of the shop often discussed race questions with the barber. It was evident that the colonel was trying an experiment to demonstrate his contention in the lobby above. But the judge could not know the barbers intimate relation to the story, nor did it occur to him that the barber might conceive any deadly purpose because of a purely impersonal grievance. The barber's hand did not even tremble. 122

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In the barbers mind, however, the whirlwind of emotions had passed lightly over the general and settled upon the particular injury. So strong, for the moment, was the homicidal impulse that it would have prevailed already had not the noisy opening of the door to admit a patron diverted the barber's attention and set in motion a current of ideas which fought for the colonels life. The barbers glance toward the door, from force of habit, took in the whole shop. It was a handsome shop, and had been to the barber a matter of more than merely personal pride. Prominent among a struggling people, as yet scarcely beyond the threshold of citizenship, he had long been looked upon, and had become accustomed to regard himself, as a representative man, by whose failure or success his race would be tested. Should he slay this man now beneath his hand, this beautiful shop would be lost to his people. Years before the whole trade had been theirs. One by one the colored master barbers, trained in the slovenly old ways, had been forced to the wall by white competition, until his shop was one of the few good ones remaining in the hands of men of his race. Many an envious eye had been cast upon it. The lease had only a year to run. Strong pressure, he knew, had been exerted by a white rival to secure the reversion. The barber had the hotel proprietor's promise of a renewal; but he knew full well that should he lose the shop no colored man would succeed him; a center of industry, a medium of friendly contact with white men, would be lost to his people—many a good turn had the barber been able to do for them while he had the ear—literally had the ear—of some influential citizen, or held some aspirant for public office by the throat. 123

Charles Waddell Chesnutt

Of the ten barbers in the shop all but one were married, with families dependent upon them for support. One was sending a son to college; another was buying a home. The unmarried one was in his spare hours studying a profession, with the hope of returning to practice it among his people in a Southern state. Their fates were all, in a measure, dependent upon the proprietor of the shop. Should he yield to the impulse which was swaying him, their livelihood would be placed in jeopardy. For what white man, while the memory of this tragic event should last, would trust his throat again beneath a Negro's razor? Such, however, was the strength of the impulse against which the barber was struggling that these considerations seemed likely not to prevail. Indeed, they had presented themselves to the barber's mind in a vague, remote, detached manner, while the dominant idea was present and compelling, clutching at his heart, drawing his arm, guiding his fingers. It was by their mass rather than by their clearness that these restraining forces held the barber's arm so long in check—it was society against self, civilization against the primitive instinct, typifying, more fully than the barber could realize, the great social problem involved in the future of his race. He had now gone once over the colonel's face, subjecting that gentleman to less discomfort than he had for a long time endured while undergoing a similar operation. Already he had retouched one cheek and had turned the colonels head to finish the other. A few strokes more and the colonel could be released with a close shave—how close he would never know!—or, one stroke, properly directed, and he would never stand erect again! Only the day 124

The Doll before, the barber had read, in the newspapers, the account of a ghastly lynching in a Southern state, where, to avenge a single provoked murder, eight Negroes had bit the dust and a woman had been burned at the stake for no other crime than that she was her husbands wife. One stroke and there would be one less of those who thus wantonly played with human life! The uplifted hand had begun the deadly downward movement—when one of the barbers dropped a shaving cup, which was smashed to pieces on the marble floor. Fate surely fought for the colonel—or was it for the barber? Involuntarily the latter stayed his hand—instinctively his glance went toward the scene of the accident. It was returning to the upraised steel, and its uncompleted task, when it was arrested by Daisy's doll, hanging upon the gilded spike where he had left it. If the razor went to its goal he would not be able to fulfill his promise to Daisy! She would wait for him at the corner, and wait in vain! If he killed the colonel he himself could hardly escape, for he was black and not white, and this was North and not South, and personal vengeance was not accepted by the courts as a justification for murder. Whether he died or not, he would be lost to Daisy. His wife was dead, and there would be no one to take care of Daisy. His own father had died in defense of his daughter; he must live to protect his own. If there was a righteous God, who divided the evil from the good, the colonel would some time get his just deserts. Vengeance was Gods; it must be left to Him to repay! The jointed doll had saved the colonel's life. Whether society had conquered self or not may be an open question, but it had 125

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stayed the barber's hand until love could triumph over hate! The barber laid aside the razor, sponged off the colonels face, brought him, with a movement of the chair, to a sitting posture, brushed his hair, pulled away the cloths from around his neck, handed him a pasteboard check for the amount of his bill, and stood rigidly by his chair. The colonel adjusted his collar, threw down a coin equal to double the amount of his bill and, without waiting for the change, turned with the judge to leave the shop. They had scarcely reached the door leading into the hotel lobby when the barber, over-wrought by the long strain, collapsed heavily into the nearest chair. "Well, judge," said the colonel, as they entered the lobby, "that was a good shave. What a sin it would be to spoil such a barber by making him a postmaster! I didn't say anything to him, for it don't do to praise a nigger much—it's likely to give him the big head—but I never had," he went on, running his hand appreciatively over his cheek, "I never had a better shave in my life. And I proved my theory. The barber is the son of the nigger I shot." The judge was not sure that the colonel had proved his theory, and was less so after he had talked, a week later, with the barber. And, although the colonel remained at the Wyandot for several days, he did not get shaved again in the hotel barber shop.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank several people who aided the preparation of this book. At Oxford University Press, Nancy Toff suggested the idea and made useful suggestions about what to include, and Karen Fein guided the manuscript through the publication process; Heather Hathaway and Catherine Clinton helped out in the vain search for war stories by African-American authors; and Wayne Riggs and his scanner did most of the heavy lifting in digitizing the stories.

Text Credits Louisa May Alcott, "Nellys Hospital," Our Young Folks 1 (April 1865), 267-276. Charles Waddell Chesnutt, "The Doll," Crisis 3 (April 1912), 248-52. Lydia Maria Child, "The Two Christmas Evenings," Our Young Folks 2 (January 1866), 2-13. Louise E. Chollet, "Dog Carlos," Our Young Folks 1 (October 1865), 644-51. Charles Carleton Coffin, "Winning His Way," Chapters 21—24, Our Young Folks 1 (December 1865), 779-88. Hamlin Garland, "The Return of a Private," Main-Travelled Roads (New York: Harper and Bros., 1899), 169-94. Edmund Kirke, "The Boy of Chancellorville," Our Young Folks 1 (September 1865), 600-8. Annah Robinson Watson, "Eleanors Colonel," St. Nicholas Magazine 27 (July 1900), 826-27.

Picture Credits Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum, Smithsonian Institution/Art Resource, NY: 42 (Wounded Soldier Being Given a Drink from a Canteen, 1864); Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division: frontis (Drummer Boy, LC-USZ62-12788), 7 (A Veteran on Furlough, LC-USZ62-706), 16: (In the Swamp, LC-USZ62-28494), 30 (A New Batch at Andersonville, LCUSZ62-15653), 91 (Christmas in Virginia—A Present From the Great House, LC-USZ62-30813), 99 (Sketch of Officer, LC-USZ62-79238), 104 (Home From the War, Harper's Weekly, June 13, 1863, p.381), 119 (Colored Students Learning Their Lessons on the Street, LC-USZ62-32799); New York Public Library: 57 (Campaign Sketches: The Letter from Home); The Union League Club of New York, Collections of the Union League Club, New York City: cover (The Wounded Drummer Boy).