A Yankee Girl at Antietam

								

cook, who declared her weight “up’ards ob two hunderd pounds.” Dulcie,
however, seldom left the farm, and when she did was obliged to take the
longer way by the road.
When Roxy reached the wall she climbed to its top and stood looking
anxiously along the gray road that skirted a wooded hill, and in a few
moments a brown horse, harnessed to a light wagon, and driven by a
bareheaded girl whose red hair gleamed in the June sunshine, trotted
into sight and came rapidly down the hill.
“There she comes! There’s Polly!” exclaimed Roxy scrambling down the
rough wall, and hurrying across the little field to the side of the road
where she stood eagerly awaiting the approach of her new friend, Polly
Lawrence, and in a few minutes the brown horse stopped directly beside
her, and the red-haired girl called out:
“Here we are, little Yankee girl; jump in,” and she reached down a
strong brown hand to help Roxy climb into the wagon.
“This is splendid!” Roxy declared happily, as she pushed herself well
back on the broad seat, and looked up admiringly at the tall girl beside
her.
Polly smiled, her white teeth reminding Roxy of the string of pearl
beads that her mother sometimes wore, and as she looked at her companion
she realized that everything about Polly seemed to hold the light and
the glimmer of sunshine. Not only did Polly’s waving hair hold golden
gleams, but there were twinkling lights in her blue eyes, and her skin
seemed to glow, and her teeth to shine.
“Oh, Polly! I do like to look at you!” Roxy exclaimed ardently, and at
this the older girl laughed aloud, and responded:
“Well, you can say as pleasant things as any Southern girl. Nobody would
think you were born in Massachusetts.”
“Why not, Polly?” Roxy questioned, leaning forward to look eagerly into
her companion’s face. “Why wouldn’t anyone think I was born in
Massachusetts?”
Polly continued to smile, but she answered quickly:
“I suppose because you have such good manners. But of course your mother
was born in Maryland.”
“Polly Lawrence! Stop this horse! Stop this minute!” demanded Roxy,
clutching at the reins and scrambling down from the wagon seat as if
meaning to jump to the ground. “I don’t want to ride with you. I guess
Maryland girls don’t have all the manners. I guess little girls in
Newburyport wouldn’t be s’prised to have other girls polite. I guess——”
But before Roxy could say another word Polly’s arm was about her, and
Polly was saying:
“Oh, Roxy! I did not mean to be rude. Truly, truly I didn’t. I only
meant to praise you!”
“Stop the horse! I don’t want to go to Sharpsburg. I want to go home,”
persisted Roxy. “If my mother was born in Maryland she went to school
in Massachusetts, and maybe that is where she learned good manners.”
Polly’s arm released its hold on Roxy, and she brought the brown horse