St. Paul daily globe., 1893-05-31
A WARTIME INCIDENT.
Written for the Globe by Frances Palm'


Written for the Globe by Frances Palmer
Kimball
"We have new neighbors down at the
cabin; did you know it. auntie?' The
boys had just returned from town and
came in full of news. as usual.
mo, | didn't know it. What kind of
people are they?"
Refugees. should say, from the
looks of their team. One old blind horse
and lame mule. But didn't see any
body stirring around as came by"
The cabin stood on one corner of our.
farm, and had been tenantless for a
long time; was considered uninhabita-
bic in fact. The next day went over
to see who was there, and to offer help,
in the usual country fashion. l found
only tall old man, real Tennessee
mountaineer, and slip of a girl, any
where from fifteen to twenty years old.
The man sat under a tree in the yard,
looking sick and miserable. The team
stood nunching their corn. tethered by
rope to box on the ground, taking
occasional nipS at the soft green grass
that was springing up in the warm spring
sunshine, between whiles. Inside the
little cabin the girl was busy over fire
she had built IN the tumble-down fire.
place, trying to cook some dinner. A
few old chairs, rickety table, hand
full of dishes and an old .hair-covered
trunk. thickly studded with tarnished
brasS-headed nails, and a bed on the
floor in one corner, was all that the
room contained. As stepped through
the open door the girl raised her head
and looked at me, a frown OIL her fore
head and angry defiance in her blue
eyes.
Good morning." said, 81 am your
nearest neighb0r, and came over to see
if could be any help to you in getting
settled"
She looked at me a moment, then
glanced about the room, and the least
ghost of a smile softened her eyes.
"Glad to see you. ma'am. Nom, |
reckon there amt anything you can do,
we've not got much to settle, you can
see," and flush of wounded pride rose
over her face. l stood silent for mo-
ment, not knowing what to say next,
then bethought me Of the basket in my
hand.
II knew that you had no garden, so
brought along something from mine"
handing her the opened basket.
Her eyes frightened, "Oh, | reckon
pappy can eat some O. that" she said.
rs your father sick?" I asked.
"Well not SO mighty sick, but you
see he's tired out, an most clean dis
couraged. Then be had the chills on
the way hyer." Her eyes went out
through the door and rested with in
finite love and tenderness, as mothers
might, on the bent form of the old man.
"Have you come far?" asked.
eyes m; right smart way. We're
from Tennessee, from the mountingS,
you know"
She seemed unwilling to talk, so
went home, but l could not get those
people out of my mind. They seemed
so friendless, there was such an air of
tragedy about them.
When my brother came home in the
evening | told him about the new neigh
bors, and urged him to GO and see if he
could do anything for them. He came
back presently, having found out moth
ing more abodt them, excepting that
their name was Smith, and that they
seemed to have money. The old man
had offered to pay rent for the cabin.
l made several little friendly visits,
but was unable to penetrate the mantle
of reserve in which the girl wrapped
herself. She asked me to call her Til
lie, instead of the more ceremonious
''NIiss Smith," that l had used, but be-
yond that. held herself aloof.
One day was i'll with head ache, and
sent one of the little boys over to ask
Tillie Smith if she would come and help
me. She came back with the messenger
and entered my room with face full of
sympathy.
"Pm mighty sorry your sick, ma 'am,"
she said "Ill do anything | can for
She changed my pillow, brought cool
water and bathed my face, dropped the
curtain to soften the light, then said:
81 reckon you'd better let me stroke
your head; 1 ginnerly done that for
nanny when she had headache"
She began to draw her fingers lightly
over my head. In short time L fell
asleep. When | awoke [ heard some
one stepping about IN the kitchen, and
ooking out saw that Tillie with little
jacks help had dinner ready. That
was the real beginning of our acquaint-
ance, and it grew rapidly.
Fourth of July came. There was to
be celebration in the town near by.
and TilHe and her father were going. [
paid dearly for my country's newly
won peace, and had no heart for merry
making, so did not go to town with the
family In the morning, but towards
| evening concluded to drive III and bring
| the little boys back with me. l had
nearly reached town when by the side
| of the road under tree, saw the di-
lapldated wagon and queer team of the
Smiths. The old man was lying in the
bottom of the wagon, with 1illie bend
ing over him. She lifted a tear-stalned,
swollen face at the sound of my
| wheels.
"Why, Tillie. what is the matter?" 1
asked.
"Oh, there's been trouble" she cried.
"Them men in town, they faulted my
pap. They called him 'secesh,' au' one
man hit him on the head. Oh, my pore
ole pappy! Oh, l wish this war had
never been. What power u hearts it's
done broke"
"Tillie; now 'Iillie, don't you be scarf.
| Pll be all right when [ git home," the
old man feebly said.
"Home You amt got Emo home,
pappy. Jest ole tumble-down cabin
| on somebody eise'S LAM"
| | leaned over the side of the wagon.