“Yas’m!” Lily agreed hopefully, looking admiringly at her little mistress.
“Why did I not think of it before!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, who had been puzzled to know how to obtain clothing for the negro girl. With Northern armies advancing into Tennessee, and with General Johnston at the head of the Southern forces at Nashville, the family in the mountain cabin would have no opportunity to procure clothing. Mrs. Arnold realized that it might be months before it would be safe to venture to any of the neighboring towns, and that they must take every possible care of their supplies; therefore Berry’s suggestion that Lily should wear the outgrown garments of Francis seemed to solve a difficult problem, and Mrs. Arnold, closely followed by Berry and Lily, hastened to open the old trunk in the small chamber where Lily slept, where Francis’s part-worn clothing was packed.
“Here are some very good shoes,” said Mrs. Arnold, as she took out a pair of stout leather shoes. “Try them on, Lily.” The negro girl promptly obeyed, and they proved a fairly good fit.
Then Mrs. Arnold drew forth the brown corduroy knickerbockers, and the patched flannel blouse which her boy, who was now so far away with the Army of the Potomac in Virginia, had worn in the early days of their stay in the mountain cabin.
Lily was soon dressed in these comfortable garments, and Berry jumped about in delight as she exclaimed: “Now, Lily, we’ll see who can run the faster, and if I win you can’t say it is because you wear long skirts.”
“Dat’s de truf, Missie Berry. But I reckons yo’ll win anyways,” responded Lily, her solemn eyes fixed admiringly on Berry.
That afternoon Berry raked the leaves from her garden bed, and began to make plans for the border of wild flowers that she would transplant from the slopes of the ravine, or from sheltered places in the wood. On the previous day she and Lily had discovered the butterwort in bloom near the wide brook, where she had encountered the threatening stranger, its pale yellow flowers nodding from their slender stems above its flat rosette of curious leaves. It was one of the earliest blooms of the year in that part of Tennessee, and Berry was eager to bring home enough of the plants to brighten her garden border, as she knew the butterwort would continue to blossom through March; and early in the afternoon, with Lily as her companion, she started off toward the brook. Lily carried the large basket in which they planned to bring the plants home.
There were many hints that spring was close at hand. Robins and cardinals flitted about among the tree-tops, squirrels scolded and chattered, and little wood-mice now and then scampered out from shelter. As the girls came out from the forest Berry stopped suddenly and looked about in delight. “The red-bud is in blossom!” she exclaimed, for the tall, slender “Judas-Trees” growing along the borders of the forest, and standing in small clumps in the open clearing, had put forth their crimson buds and blossoms, brightening the leafless branches, and making the woods glow with color.
“I knows dat tree; it’s de witch tree!” Lily declared solemnly. “Dat tree grow all ’bout in Alabamy. An’ all de niggers uster tell dat, ’long ’bout midnight, witches comes ter dese trees an’ meets up wid one anudder, an’ makes der plans!” and Lily shook her head, as if feeling it was hardly safe to speak of such dangerous subjects.
“Do you really believe it is a witch’s tree?” asked Berry.