A Yankee Girl at Antietam

								

was nearly fifteen years old, and who knew so many wonderful stories,
and who sang such beautiful songs, and who owned a horse! Oh! There
never was anyone like Polly, even if she did think Maryland people
better than the people of Massachusetts; and now Roxy leaned her head on
the rough stones of the parapet and sobbed aloud, and was so filled with
unhappiness that she did not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs or the
jingle of bridle reins until two horsemen clattered onto the bridge
close beside her; then she turned quickly and gazed up at them in
amazement. It was Roxy’s first sight of Confederate soldiers, and as she
looked at the two war-worn men, in shabby gray uniforms, mounted on fine
well-cared-for horses, it was no wonder that the little girl forgot her
own troubles.
So far, in the summer of 1862, the war had not pressed hard on Maryland;
the state seemed chiefly a highway through which passed the Northern
troops; and Polly Lawrence had seen many marching men crossing that very
bridge.
The two horsemen did not at first notice Roxy. One of them drew a paper
from his pocket, opened it and said:
“This is the road to Sharpsburg. I’m sure of it,” and before he could
say more his companion exclaimed:
“Well, little miss! You look surprised! Have you never seen a soldier
before?” and he smiled down at Roxy.
“Oh, yes, sir! But all the soldiers I have seen wore blue clothes,” Roxy
answered.
“And where were these blue-clothed soldiers?” continued the man, as he
swung himself from the saddle and stood beside the little girl.
“They were in Washington,” replied Roxy, “but I saw my father’s regiment
when it marched down High Street in Newburyport!”
The man looked at her as if puzzled, and repeated “Newburyport?” and
then glanced at his companion who now dismounted and stood near his
horse’s head.
“That’s not a Maryland town, is it?” he questioned, and Roxy eagerly
replied:
“Oh, no! Newburyport is in Massachusetts. That’s my home, but my mother
and I are visiting Grandma Miller!”
The two men glanced at each other in evident surprise, and the man who
had first noticed Roxy said thoughtfully:
“I see! A little Yankee girl!” And at this Roxy’s smile vanished.
“‘Yankee girl!’ ‘Yankee girl!’ I wish I knew why you say that?” she
exclaimed, her gray eyes looking steadily at the tall, gray-clad
soldier.
“Oh, only because your home is in the North! I reckon your father is
proud to be called a Yankee,” he replied kindly, and at this Roxy’s face
brightened.
“Oh, thank you! Polly calls me ‘Yankee girl’ and I didn’t know why. But
I shan’t care now,” she said, with a friendly nod at the tall man.
“We might take a road that leads through the hills here,” suggested the
second soldier, and for a few moments the two soldiers bent their heads
over a small map and seemed to forget the little girl, who stood