A Yankee Girl at Shiloh

								

“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 the 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 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