Читать книгу A Yankee Girl at Antietam онлайн

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“Stop the horse! I don’t want to go to Sharpsburg. I want to go home,” persisted Roxy. “If my mother was born in Maryland she went to school in Massachusetts, and maybe that is where she learned good manners.”

Polly’s arm released its hold on Roxy, and she brought the brown horse to a standstill.

“You can get out here, Roxy,” she said gravely. “It won’t be far for you to walk home.” And without a word Roxy jumped from the wagon and turned on her homeward way.

“I don’t care,” she told herself. “Polly Lawrence talks as if people in Massachusetts were not as good as Maryland people. She always calls me ‘Yankee’ as if I was an Indian or—or something!” and with a little sob, Roxy trudged along the road over which she had only a brief time before rode so happily; and on reaching the stone bridge she stopped and leaned against its rough parapet, gazing down at the slow-moving waters of Antietam River.

For a little while Roxy could think only of her disappointment, and of Polly’s unkindness, and wish herself back in her own home in Newburyport, where she had never even heard the word “Yankee,” and where there were streets of pleasant houses, each one with its own garden, and where little girls visited each other every day, bringing their patchwork to sew; or if it was a “special party” the little girls would bring their fine dolls dressed in silk and muslin.