A Yankee Girl at Antietam

								

slope.
She slipped through the narrow opening, and now walked more slowly, and
looked anxiously toward the road, fearful that some passer-by might see
her; and as she drew near the thicket behind which she knew the hungry
man lay hidden, she began to listen for some sound. Perhaps he would
call out to her, she thought.
But there was now no movement among the blossoming branches of the
dogwood; and with a little sigh of disappointment Roxy set the basket
down where the man had told her to leave whatever she brought him. But
she stood close beside it until a long brown arm reached through the
underbrush and seized it.
“Bless you, little girl,” came a whispered voice.
And Roxy responded eagerly: “You are welcome.”
“Don’t stand there! Run home. Somebody may see you,” said the voice
again. “And promise me again that you’ll be my friend and keep my
secret, and never tell anyone that you have seen me.”
“I won’t tell; truly I won’t,” Roxy promised. “But what are you running
away from?”
“From a southern prison. I’m a Yankee soldier. I was taken prisoner at
Manassas; and I’m sure those rebs on horseback were after me. Where is
this place, anyway?” and now the young man pushed his head and shoulders
out from behind the bushes, quite forgetting his cautions to his new
friend.
“It’s Antietam,” replied Roxy; “where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere where there are Yankees. I’ve been hiding in the woods and
swamps for days, and I’ve lost my bearings,” he replied, as he pulled a
leg from the chicken and began to eat ravenously.
“I’m a Yankee, and so is my mother, and we are living up in that house,”
said Roxy, pointing toward the farmhouse. “You needn’t hide,” she
continued, “for I have heard my grandma say that Maryland is loyal to
the Union. You come up to our house and Grandma will give you better
things than cold chicken to eat; and—and”—Roxy hesitated a moment—“I
guess she could give you some clothes.”
For a few moments the young man ate steadily; the greater part of the
chicken disappeared, and he had seized on the cakes before he spoke
again.
“A Yankee girl, are you? Tell me your name.”
“My name is Roxana Elizabeth Delfield, and I’m ’most ten,” Roxy replied,
and added quickly: “My father is a Yankee soldier,” and now the young
man fixed his glance upon her, and a little smile crept over his thin
face.
“Seeing you is the first good luck I’ve had for months,” he said slowly,
and Roxy smiled happily.
“Come up to Grandma’s,” she urged. “You can rest, and then you can get
some shoes; and then my mother will help you go wherever you want to. I
know she will.”
But the young man shook his head. “I don’t dare take a chance. Someone
might be on the watch for me. You keep your promise, little Yankee girl.
Don’t speak of me!” and again Roxy promised. “I can’t go on before