A Yankee Girl at Shiloh

by Alice Turner Curtis

“And, if ’tis not too muddy, can we not walk as far as Lick Creek and try for fish?” asked Berry, her brown eyes shining with eagerness at the thought of a long tramp with her father through the winter woods, and, best of all, the fun of catching a pickerel or bass from the waters of Lick Creek. For, in the two years that Berry had lived on this remote mountain slope, she had been her father’s constant companion in his out-of-door life, and it was for that reason that her mother had decided to dress the little girl in suitable clothing. If Berry had been obliged to wear dainty clothes, if her hair had been long and hung down her back in curls or braids, and her feet covered only by thin kid shoes, she would never have known every nook and crevice along the table-land, rolling and ridgy, a few miles above Pittsburg Landing, a place that was to become an historic spot.

“No fishing to-day,” her father declared; and, as at that moment Mrs. Arnold called them to breakfast, he did not add that he intended going in the opposite direction that morning to visit the rude log chapel known as Shiloh church, where Sunday services were occasionally held, and where Mr. Arnold now and then busied himself in repairing windows, painting the outer door, and doing such light work as his strength was equal to, in improving the condition of the neglected building. Berry was of great assistance to her father in this work; he had taught her how to use a plane, and smooth off a piece of wood until it was fit for use. She knew the names and use of all the tools he used about his carpentering work; and as a trip to Shiloh church meant a picnic dinner cooked in the open air, Berry was always well pleased when her father set off in that direction; and on hearing that he intended to start as soon as the sun was well up she quite forgot her plan to visit Lick Creek.

Berry helped her mother clear the table and wash the dishes while her father selected the few tools he would need, and also packed a small basket with food for their midday meal; and when he called “All ready for the trail,” Berry slipped on her brown corduroy jacket and her knitted cap of scarlet wool and was ready to start.

“If there is a letter from Francis in the mail-box I will bring it home as fast as I can, Mother,” she promised, as Mrs. Arnold stood on the porch to watch them start.

“We will be home before sunset,” Mr. Arnold promised, and followed Berry, who was running down the trail.

Mrs. Arnold stood looking after them for a moment, smiling at Berry’s delight in starting off for a day in the woods, and thinking gratefully of her husband’s improvement in health. Their cabin was several miles from any neighbors, and Mrs. Arnold had in the first months of their stay often been homesick for the friends and home she had left so far away among the peaceful hills of Vermont. But gradually the peace and quiet of their simple life in the hillside cabin, Berry’s happiness in playing out-of-doors, and, best of all, the improvement in Mr. Arnold’s health, reconciled her to the exile from New England. Often she accompanied her husband and Berry on their excursions, but this morning she intended writing a long letter to her soldier son.

Before Berry and her father reached the mail-box, that was fastened to a stout oak tree on the highway, the veil of snow had nearly disappeared, and the piles of brown leaves along the trail glistened in the morning sun. There was nothing in the box, and Mr. Arnold and Berry turned back into a path that would lead them direct to Shiloh church. A flock of bluejays started up from the underbrush and went scolding and screaming into the branches of a tall chestnut tree, their blue feathers and crested heads catching the sunlight and brightening the shadowy path. Berry gazed after them wonderingly. “I do think it’s a pity they squawk so,” she said thoughtfully, “when they are so lovely to look at. And the mocking-birds are so plain and gray.”

Berry had become familiar with the birds who nested near the woodland cabin, and had learned much about their ways. She knew that the handsome jay was a thief who ate the eggs from the nests of other birds and sometimes even destroyed the birds. She knew where the fine cardinal in his scarlet coat, and Madam Cardinal in her more modest colors, made their nest in the underbrush along the banks of the ravine; and the tiny wrens who fluttered about the trail were her friends. But, best of all, Berry loved the mocking-birds, with their musical trills and clear song. Even in January they could be heard near the cabin; not with their springtime song, but with soft notes and hopeful calls. The little girl often put bits of bread and cake on the porch rail, and it was not long before the birds had discovered this unexpected bounty and came fluttering down to look for it; and gradually the family had all made friends among their bird neighbors, giving them names, and keeping a sharp outlook for the young birds who were their springtime visitors.

“What are you going to do to-day, Father?” Berry questioned as they came in sight of the log building that stood on the crest of the ridge.

“I am going to fix the benches. Some of them are dropping to pieces,” responded her father. “I have a good store of fine oak wood dry and ready for use in the shed near the church, and we can soon make the old seats as good as new.”