Fayetteville observer. [volume] (Fayetteville, Tenn.) 1850-1966, 1868-05-14

abomlnatlOn. And as to keeping
you all night, you can't expect
that of decent folks-go!"
Drusilla came to the door and
said:
"Let him stay, auntie," with her
lips.again, but | took no notice.
So he went, and this time did
not come back, and | sat down by
the fire, and smelt the baking
cakes and the apples stewing; and
the tea drawing On the kitchen
stove; and l ought to have been
very comfortable, but l wasn't.
Something seemed tugging at my
heart all the time.
/ gave the fire a poke, and lit
another candle to cheer myself up,
and [ went to my work basket to
get the socks | had been knitting
for my Charlie, and as | went to
get it | saw something lying
on the floor. Ipicked it up. 1t
was an old tobacco pouch, ever SO
much like the one [ gave Charlie,
with fringe around it, and written
on it in ink: "From G. T. to r.
H." and inside was a bit of to-
bacco and an old pipe, and letter,
a rumpled old letter; and when |
spread it out / saw on the top,
"My dear son."
knew the beggar must have
dropped it, and my heart gave
one big thump, as though it had
turned into a hammer.
Perhaps the story was true,
and he had a mother. | shivered
all over, and the fire and the can
dies and the nice comfortable
smells might as well not have been
at all. Twas cold and wretched.
And over and over again had |
to say to myself what l heard
our pastor say SO often: "Never
give anything to chance beggars,
my dear friends; always bestow
your aims on worthy persons,
through well-organized societies"
before | could get bit Of COM
fort. And what an old fool | was
to cry, | thought, when | found
my cheeks wet.
But l did not cry long, for as I
sat there, dash and crash and
jingle came a sleigh over the
road, and stopped at our gate, and
1 heard my Charles voice cry
ing, "Halloa, motherl" And out
l went to the door, and had him
in my arms-my great tall, hand
some brown son. And there he
was in his uniform, with his pret-
ty shoulder straps, and as hearty
as if he never had been through
any hardships. He had to leave
me to put the horse up, and then
Ihad by the fire my own son. And
Drusilla, who had been up stairs
and had been crying-why, l
wonder?-came down in a futter
for they were like brother and
sister-and he kissed her and she
kissed him, and then away she
went to set the table, and the nice
hot things smoked on cloth as
white as snow; and how Charlie
enjoyed them! But once, in the
midst of all, T felt a frightened
feeling come over, and l know |
turned pale, for Drusilla said,
"What is the matter, Aunt Fair
fax?"
l said nothing; but it was this:
Kind O like the ghost of a step,
going, champ, champ, over the
frozen snow; kind o like the
ghost of avoice saying: ''Let me lie
on the floor before your fire, and
give me any kind of crust;"
kind o like some one that had a
mother down on the wintry road,
and freezing and starving to death
there. This is what it was. But
l put it away and only thought
| of Charlie.
We drew up together by the
fire when the tea was done, and
he told us things about the war
I'd never heard before-how the
soldiers suffered, and what weary
marches and short rations they
sometimes had. And then he
told me how his life had been in
danger; how he had been set upon
by the foe and badly wounded; /;
and how, at the risk of his own
life, a fellow soldier had saved
him, and carried him away, fight
ing his path back to camp.