The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1863-08-27
Bohn mOrgasa's substitute,

| Sets at the opening day .-..
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50an MOrgaga's Substitute.
A Story of the Present War.
1t had been the day for drafting in a little
town in the hill country of Connecticut 1t
was nighttall now and a man walked slowly
| home to the wife who watched and waited for
him He was tall handsome felow-thirty
| five, perhaps vigorous Of limb, strong of mus
Gle with kindly yet earnest eyes, well-cut fea-
lures, and an expression of fearless integrity
| You would have known him at once for what
he was-a good, unselfsh, courageous, honest
man, worthy of winning, capable Of holding a
Woman's love-
She who listened for his coming heard the
SLOW step upon the gravel, and sprang from
the door to meet him. You could see, even
IN that dim light, what a bright, CHEEKY, pref
| ty woman she was with her loving eyes-her
dark, satin smooth hair; her red, tender lips;
and the fresh rose on her cheeks. She went
up to her husband, and put her hands on his
arm lovingly.
Il know you have bad news for me John y
| Yes, Mary l must go. | was the third
one drafted"
| The wife felt her limbs shake, and she
! thought at first that she could not stand All
the forces OF her nature seemed giving way,
but she rallied bravely For his sake she would
be calm and strong; but she could not speak
just then. She led him into the house, where
their children Were-fve Of them; the eldest
only ten in the July just gone. There was
something in their fathers manner which
checked the noisy demonstrations with which
they were wont to greet him, and they only
gave him a few silent kisses as he sat down
III the great chair by the west window. He
buried his face in his hands for while, and
then he lifted it and looked round on the lit
tie group Of his loved ones. Three girls and
two boys, and ms wife, their mother looking
in spite of years of care, as fair almost as
young, as the day he brought her home his
|new-made bride. His chest heaved with
long and bitter sigh-a sort Of sob of despair,
rather-and then he said, as if he feared even
She his other self, might misunderstood him:
God knows, it is not for my own sake,
Mary! | do not think | am afraid to die
would go with more than wiIingness-with
.ioy-if | had not so much to leave. If | fail,
what will become of you and the children ?
cannot bear to think of what you might suf-
fer with no one to stand between you and the
cares and sorrows of the world. Mary, this
drafting Unfortunately does not seem Just
Surely the single men ought to go first -
His wife stole her little hand into his very
gently. .........
DO not think of US she said, with true
woman's self-forgetfuIness. ut is not that.
We should do well enough. You need not
fear that we should come to want. But @,
John
And just there she broke down utterly, and
cried out, with burst of passionate tears;
mo, | cannot bear it? You will die. I
shall never see your face again If could
know that you would come back even were
it manned and helpless, wouldnot murmur;
but to think that you might die there, and |
could not help YOU that your eyes would seek
mine, your hands grope for mine, and not
there-O, John, | shall go mad with hopeless
hOrrOr!"-
1t was his turn to be comforter now. lie
drew her into the shelter Of his arms he rest
ed her poor head ON his breast he whispered,
tenderly:
'Allwhofght do not die Mary God watch
es over us there as well as here. Some wo
mans husband Dnst go poor child Some
thing may happen yet that | shall not have
to-"
y
der the wide heavens by which he could es-
cape The words with him were but the va
guest utterance Of soothing; but she caught
at them eagerly.
you could procure substitute, perhaps
is that what you mean?"
Il wouldif | could, he answered, evasively.
remembering in his own mind the difficulty
that richer men than he had experienced in
procuring them in those quiet, thinly peopled,
agricultural towns. Il am very tired, Mary
can you give me some tea ?'
Cheered a little by her new hope and anx-
ious, above ALL to cheer him and make him
comfortable, the wife got up and went into
the kitchen. The biscuit for supper were al
ready made, and in few minutes tea was up
on the table. John Morgan drank cup after
cup of it, with an eager, teverish thirst; but
eating with him was mere feint When the
meal was over, the children were put to bed
all but the two oldest girls. They stole out
to the open door. and sat down III the Septem-
Der moonlight, their arms around each other
feeling, with sort Of dumb pain, that shd
ow which they could not resist had fallen up
on the household. Their mother meantime, had
lighted her lamp and taken her work-a
child's frock, which she was hnishing-to the
little round stand She would not let this
evening seem more unlike other evenings than
she could help.
Soon there came a footstep up the gravel
walk; this time quick. firm tread The girls
4 in the door made way for the new conner to
enter, and he came in and stood silently for a
moment in the centre Of the little sitting
room.
He was a slender, elegantly moulded man
/ You could see at a glance that the fibre of his
manhood had never yet been tested by any
tough struggle with fate. Yet one would not
/ have doubted his untried courage. 1t shone in
his steady blue eyes, sad with unspoken pain;
it betrayeditself in the curl of his lip the curve
Of his nostril. They say nosoldiers ever fought
more braveiy than the gentry Of England
white Of hand naughty Of look, delicate Of
feature. Some such blood flowed in the veins
Of Ash Thornycroft. BE was the only son Of
a rich mill owner whose foreman John Nor
gan was. He was no stranger at the little
cottage and even in this sorrowful hour there
was no danger OF his being unwelcome. He
was the first 10 speak.
1t is hard on you, Morgan this draft. My
father was saying to night that he did not
know how he should contrive to spare you
So well as you're doing now, too-aIready
comfort and cOpDetpnca for Won and vOurS