There had been a light fall of snow during the night, and the tall oak trees that grew near the Arnolds’ log cabin, which stood on the slope of a wooded ridge overlooking the Tennessee River, were still sprinkled with clinging white flakes when the heavy door of the cabin was pushed open and a slender little figure appeared on the rough porch.
If a stranger had been passing along the trail that led near this secluded cabin he would perhaps have decided that it was a boy who darted out and jumped up and down exclaiming, “Snow! Snow! Just like Vermont snow!” for the curling brown hair was cut short, and the blue flannel blouse, the baggy knickerbockers of blue corduroy, as well as the stout leather shoes, were all in keeping as a suitable costume for a ten-year-old lad whose home was a log cabin in10 the rough region on the westerly bank of the Tennessee River, over two hundred miles from its mouth. And when some casual stranger, failing to see the blue corduroys, so mistook Berenice Arnold, and called her “my lad,” she was very well pleased.
On this January morning, in 1862, Berenice had been awakened at an unusually early hour by a call from her father, telling her to dress quickly and hasten down in time to see the snow, that lay like a white veil over the wooded slopes, before the sun came out from behind the distant mountains and swept it away.
“Snow! Berry! Not enough for a sleigh ride, but enough to make you think of Vermont,” he had called, as if announcing an unexpected delight. For the Arnolds had only lived in Tennessee for two years. Berry was nine years old when, with her father and mother and her older brother Francis, she had left the big white house in the pleasant Vermont village near Montpelier and come to this hillside cabin where Mr. Arnold hoped to regain something of his former health and strength. This was the second winter, and this fall of snow in early January was the first real snowfall since their arrival.11 There had been many “flurries,” but, until this January morning, not enough had fallen to whiten wood and trail; and the Arnolds ran to door and windows exclaiming over the new beauty of the slopes and forest beneath their white coverlets.
“What would Francis say to this?” exclaimed Berry, as her father came out and stood beside her.
Francis was now a soldier, with the Northern forces in Virginia, and Berry’s thoughts were often with her brother; wondering why he had been so determined, a year ago, to return to Vermont and enlist in a Northern regiment in the conflict to prevent the Southern States from leaving the union, and to bring an end to the slavery of the negroes in America. Francis had been only eighteen when he had become a soldier, and Berry knew that her father and mother had both been willing that he should go. The little girl had often puzzled about it, for she had heard her father say that when Abraham Lincoln became President the United States would soon understand each other and all the talk of war would come to an end. But even Mr. Lincoln had not been able to avert the conflict; and the12 hillside cabin, ten miles distant from the flourishing town of Corinth, was shadowed by the news of far-off battles.
“You must write Francis about it,” responded Berry’s father; “tell him the slope is as white as the main street at home in Vermont in midwinter.” And Berry nodded smilingly.
“It will be gone before noon, so we can go out to the river road, and see what the mail-rider left for us yesterday,” continued Mr. Arnold.
“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 would13 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 and14 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 New15 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 destroyed16 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,17 and we can soon make the old seats as good as new.”
“And may I put the new rail on the pulpit? I have polished it until it shines like glass,” said Berry, as they came out into the little clearing in which the church stood.
“Of course,” her father agreed, smiling down at his little daughter’s eager face. He was well pleased that Berry found pleasure in the outdoor life, that she was learning to do many things that little girls seldom have an opportunity to learn, and that she was as active and healthy as it was possible for a girl to be.
Before beginning the work he had planned Mr. Arnold stood looking at the wild country spread out before him. “Look, Berry,” he said, pointing to a ravine on the left, along which ran the main road to Corinth. “This spot is like a picture in a frame,” he continued, “the little streams of Owl Creek and Lick Creek, the road to Corinth, and the Tennessee River making the frame. It would make a safe camp for an army,” he added thoughtfully, but without an idea that within three months that very spot would be the scene of one of the most important battles of the Civil War; or that his little daughter18 who stood so quietly beside him would, by her courage and endurance, have rendered a great service to the cause of the Northern forces.
They had walked a long distance, and seated themselves on the broad step of the chapel for a rest.
“It is nearly noon; I’ll start our fire and get lunch under way,” said Mr. Arnold. But Berry was eager to do this; for she knew exactly how to lay a fire in the open; how to bake potatoes in hot ashes, and to broil bacon over the coals; and to set the tin pail, in which they made coffee, where it would boil slowly.
“All right,” agreed Mr. Arnold, “I’ll fetch the wood.”
Berry ran along the ridge to where a granite ledge made a good shelter for a blaze, and in a short time a little curl of smoke crept into the air, and the appetizing odor of broiling bacon and of fragrant coffee made Mr. Arnold declare that he was “hungry as a bear,” greatly to Berry’s delight.
“Wouldn’t it be splendid if Francis was here?” she said, as she and her father began their luncheon.
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“Not much hope of seeing Francis this winter,” replied Mr. Arnold.
“I hate war!” Berry declared, breaking open a well-baked potato, and proceeding to sprinkle salt on it. “If it were not for war Francis would be here this minute.”
“No; Francis would be in college,” her father rejoined.
“What’s college?” Berry demanded.
“Why, Berenice Isabel Arnold!” exclaimed her father in amazement. “I will have to turn schoolmaster and keep you shut in the house with books if you really do not know the meaning of ‘college’!”
Berry shook her head: her mouth was filled with hot potato, and she could not speak.
“College is a school where young men like Francis learn more important things than can be taught to younger boys,” explained her father. “And I have made up my mind, Berry; to-morrow your regular lessons begin.”
“Oh, Father! Not like the school at home?” Berry pleaded. “Not geography and maps, and arithmetic and sums, and grammar and compositions?”
“Exactly! It will never do for a little Yankee20 girl, even if she does live in Tennessee, to grow up without an education. School will begin to-morrow!” replied Mr. Arnold.
“Then Mollie Bragg will have to go to school with me,” Berry declared.