Lily was interested in all the tiny wild creatures who lived along the mountain slopes, or made their homes near the creeks. She had queer names for many of these, calling the foxes “Sly-foot,” and telling Berry many stories of the cleverness of Reynard. “Some darkies knows jes’ how ter talk ter de wil’ animiles. Dey shure does, Missie Berry. Dey knows w’ot ter say ter de fox. Dat same ole mammy w’ot tell me ’bout de witch tree she know how ter talk ter a fox or a sheep, or to de hawks dat hover ’roun’. She say to Sly-foot: ‘Be yo’ a good fox, or be yo’ snoopin’ ’roun’ after chickens?’ an’ she know by de way de fox look dat he unnerstood. Mebbe de fox talk back, I dunno ’bout dat,” Lily would conclude soberly; and as the two girls wandered about the mountain trails Lily’s keen eyes were always searching path and thicket for a sight of some well-concealed nest or the hiding-place of tiny woodland creatures. Of each one of these she would have some story to tell, either of the way the birds built their nests, or of how weasels would spring from unseen coverts upon rabbits or squirrels.

Lily had made a rough bag of a piece of cloth that she had begged from Mrs. Arnold, and Berry noticed that the negro girl was always on the alert to discover and secure any feather that might drift across their path, or that had lodged on some wayside bush. Lily had fastened this bag to her belt, and not a day passed that some downy feather was not secured and safely put away. Sometimes she would be fortunate enough to discover a tiny red feather of the scarlet tanager, or perhaps a blue-edged quill from the blue jay, and on these fortunate occasions she would rejoice triumphantly. “Dat shure am fine!” she would exclaim with chuckles of delight.

“What do you want with all those feathers, Lily?” Berry would ask, but Lily would only nod and say:

“Jes’ yo’ wait, Missie Berry. Some day yo’s gwine ter be s’prised!” and after a while Berry ceased to question her, believing that the gathering of these tiny feathers was only another of Lily’s peculiar ways.

Beside securing birds’ feathers Lily was always searching for the strong, pliant grasses that grew near the creeks. She would cut these grasses close to the ground with the greatest care, and tie them together. One day as the two girls climbed the slope toward Shiloh church Lily suddenly exclaimed:

“Dar! I b’en a-lookin’ fer cedar, and har it be,” and she left the trail and began to tug at the small trailing roots of a cedar tree. With the small knife that Lily always carried she cut and dug up portions of these roots, and then scraped off the soft bark, nodding and smiling her satisfaction. Berry’s mind was entirely filled with possible plans for visiting the blossoming red-bud trees at midnight, and with securing the necessary gifts by which the witches were to be made friendly and willing to answer her questions in regard to Mollie Bragg. A fine cake was not an easy thing to secure. The Arnolds’ store of sugar was now very small, and Berry remembered that, in order to make the birthday cake for Mollie, her mother had said they must henceforth be careful in their use of sugar. Beside that, Berry could not offer a good reason in asking her mother to make a cake.

There was, however, no lack of honey in the mountain cabin, for, in the early autumn, Mr. Arnold had the good fortune to discover a “honey-tree,” a partly hollow tree where wild bees had stored up honey, and Berry remembered with satisfaction that her mother had declared it to be of the finest quality. The little girl knew she could easily secure enough of this store of honey to satisfy any witch. But Lily had declared that witches were not easily influenced to friendly deeds, and Berry felt that the cake must in some way be obtained, and as soon as possible; for, with the approach of spring, Berry missed Mollie more and more, and was eager to try any plan by which she might get news of her absent playmate.

At the beginning of March, the week after Berry first heard of the possibility of securing the good-will of midnight witches, Mr. Arnold received news that General Buell, in command of Union forces in East Tennessee, had captured Nashville, the capital of Tennessee, and that General Johnston and the Confederate troops had moved southward to Murfreesboro. Thus, while the Confederates had won all the earlier battles of the conflict along the eastern line of defense, the capture of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, and the taking of Nashville had restored the confidence of the North, and created vague terrors in the South.

Berry heard her father and mother discuss these happenings, and her father even declared that if General Johnston, with his army of 20,000 men, should join General Beauregard at Corinth, there would be 50,000 Confederate troops ready to meet General Grant’s army if he moved against such a stronghold.

“Where would Grant’s army come from?” Berry asked eagerly. “Would it march up the road from Pittsburg Landing? Oh! I could see it march from the big oak tree that hangs over the ravine!” she exclaimed eagerly.

“Very likely Grant’s soldiers may be landed at Pittsburg and march over the ravine road,” Mr. Arnold responded thoughtfully; “but, if they do, we may not know anything about it. Armies do not advertise the time of their arrival, my dear. And, for my part, I hope General Grant will choose another approach to Corinth. But you must promise me, Berry, not to go near the ravine road. Even now the Confederates may be on guard at Pittsburg Landing, and we must all do our best to keep near the cabin until we really know what Grant will do.”

Berry promised, a little reluctantly. Pittsburg Landing was so far from the hillside cabin that Berry thought the road from there to Corinth, that led through a ravine not far distant, would be safe enough, even with soldiers at each end of it; and if armies, by any chance, should march that way Berry felt it a great pity to miss so wonderful a sight, for she was too young to realize all the terror and suffering brought by war, and she had not the faintest idea how soon she was to be almost in the centre of one of the most terrific battles of the Civil War up to the spring of 1862: the Battle of Shiloh.

When her father spoke of General Grant’s probable advance against Johnston’s army, Berry’s thoughts were chiefly occupied with plans for a midnight visit to the Judas-tree, and she did not really believe it possible that troops might soon be on the march along those quiet roads near her home. It was now early March; Mrs. Arnold and Lily were busy with making a supply of soap: setting a barrel half-filled with ashes over which water was turned, and which was called the “leach-barrel,” to drip into a big iron kettle; then the scraps of fat, that had been carefully saved for months, were boiled down over a fire in the yard, and strained; the lye from the wood-ashes was added, and again boiled, and a good supply of soft soap was the result.

These yard fires had to be carefully watched and tended; the soft soap, in its last process of boiling, had to be frequently stirred, and Berry and Lily spent the greater part of several days in the yard tending fires and kettles.

Beside soap-making there were other springtime affairs that required attention; it was time to tap the sugar-maples in the little grove on a distant hillside, and Mr. Arnold had begun to spade the plot used for a vegetable garden, so that every member of the little household was busy, and, until the day set for the visit to the maple grove, Berry and Lily did not go outside the fenced-in space about the cabin.

The day set for the visit to the maples was clear and sunny, and it was decided that the entire family should go, have a picnic dinner, and spend the greater part of the day on the hillside.

“We will find arbutus in bloom,” said Mrs. Arnold, as they started out, Berry and Lily leading the way along the woodland paths. Berry had now discarded the long-legged leather boots that she had worn during the winter months, and wore moccasins, that Mr. Arnold had made for her, and as she went rapidly along the leaf-covered trail she made no more noise than a woodland squirrel.

Berry and her father tapped the maples: this was done by making a small incision into the trunk of the tree about two feet above the ground, inserting a tiny spout, and setting a pail under it to hold the sap; the next morning Mr. Arnold would come and gather the sap, turn it into a large kettle, and boil it down to a syrup.

While Berry and her father went from tree to tree, Mrs. Arnold and Lily searched the hillside for the arbutus blossoms, and carefully placed damp moss about the blooms they gathered to keep them fresh.

Mr. Arnold was busy with his work and did not notice when Berry wandered farther up the hillside, and when he had finished setting the pails, and the little girl was not to be seen, he supposed she was with her mother and Lily searching for arbutus, and looked about for a suitable place to start a fire over which to boil the coffee, and cook the bacon and potatoes for their out-of-door dinner. When this was well under way he opened the basket containing the food, and decided to surprise Mrs. Arnold by having the meal all ready before calling her, and it was nearly an hour later when his familiar whistle brought Mrs. Arnold, closely followed by Lily, scrambling up the hillside, each carrying a clumsily-made basket of twisted spruce and fir branches well filled with moss and the delicate, fragrant arbutus blossoms.

“It is like a May day!” Mrs. Arnold declared smilingly. “And how good that bacon smells! Frederic, I never was so hungry,” and seating herself a short distance from the glowing bed of coals over which the bacon was cheerfully sizzling, Mrs. Arnold looked about for her little daughter, thinking Berry was close at hand.

Mr. Arnold refused any assistance, declaring no one could broil bacon over a wood fire as perfectly as he could do it; and not until Mrs. Arnold had been served with a well-roasted potato, bacon, and a plate of biscuit from the lunch basket set beside her, did Berry’s father and mother look about for her, and then discovered that Lily had also disappeared.

“Berry can’t be as hungry as I am or she would be on hand,” said Mrs. Arnold, as the sound of Mr. Arnold’s whistle echoed along the hillside.

“Hunting for flowers, but she’ll soon be here, with Lily at her heels,” responded Mr. Arnold, and added: “I wonder if we shall ever see little Mollie Bragg again?”

“I am sure we will,” Mrs. Arnold replied. “Poor child, I am glad she was not taken away before we could give her a happy birthday to remember,” and, talking of the Braggs, the time sped by, and yet no sign or sound of Berry or Lily. But neither Mr. nor Mrs. Arnold felt anxious as to the girls’ safety. Berry had her whistle, which she would surely sound if in any danger, and, with Lily close at hand, it did not seem probable that any accident had befallen their little daughter, and only the fact that the potatoes and bacon would not keep hot at last decided Mr. Arnold to repeat his call, and finally to start back toward the maple grove in search of Berry, quite sure that he would find Lily with her.

Berry had not intended to go out of sight of her father when she wandered up the ridge, but the discovery of an unexpected trillium in blossom led her to go further on hoping to find more, and, by the time her father had started his fire, Berry was on the further slope, out of hearing of Mr. Arnold’s shrill whistle. She had just decided to turn back when she noticed a tiny thread of smoke creeping up behind a ledge. Berry knew the dangers of a forest fire, and, thinking some careless woodsman had failed to put out his fire, she promptly started toward the smoke, meaning to put out the fire. Her moccasin-covered feet made no noise as Berry climbed over the ledge. As she looked down toward the thread of smoke Berry nearly lost her balance: for, just below, not twenty feet from the ledge of rocks where she crouched, was the threatening stranger whom she had met at the brook in January, and who had mistaken her for a boy. The man was crouched near a tiny fire over which he was roasting a partridge. If he had not been so intent upon his cooking he might have become conscious that someone was very close to him, for Orson was a thorough woodsman, with every sense on the alert. Berry, looking down upon him, realized that the man was camping there, as a rough shelter of boughs stood near by. She resolved to slip away as noiselessly as possible; with her eyes still fixed on the crouching figure, she cautiously moved one foot, and then the other, backward, holding to the rocks with both hands. There was a little noiseless movement along the ledge, and Berry felt both her feet held; a loose rock, started by her movements, had been gradually slipping, and now held Berry a prisoner. It had rolled against her ankles binding her to the side of the ledge.

“What can I do?” she wondered. To sound her whistle, even to endeavor to push the rock away, would instantly bring the man leaping up the ledge. “I must get clear myself, some way!” she resolved, but she could think of no way to free herself.