New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1872-06-09

/ seated.
81 mayn't get another chance" be said.
"You and the boys have been very kind to
me, kinder than / deserve; but sometimes
| I've fancied that my not saying anything
! about myself had given you the idea that
| all was not right in my past. ] want to say
that came down to Virginia with clean
J record"
"We never doubted it in our hearts, Blad-
| burn
IF didn't write, home" he continued,
| sit was because / hadn't any home, neither
| kith nor kin. When / said the old folks
were dead, said it. Am l boring yOus If
| / ought / was"
mo. to Bladburn l have often wanted
| you to talk TO me about yourself, not trOIA
| idle curiosity, trust, but because / liked
you that rainy night when you came TO
camp, and have gone on liking you ever
| since This isn't too much TO say, when
! Heaven only knows how soon l may be past
| saying it or you listening to il"
That's it," said Bladburn, hurriedly,
| ''that's why ] want to talk with you. I've
fancy that 1 shant come ont Of our first
battle"
The words gave me queer start, for
had been trying several days to throw of
similar presentiment concerning him "a
foolish presentiment that grew out of
dream.
In case anything of that kind turns up"
he continued, I'D like You to have my
Latin grammar here-yOu've seen me read
ing it. You might stick it away in book
case, for the sake of old time. 1t goes
against me to think of it falling into rough
hands, or being kicked about camp and
trampled under foot"
He was drumming softly with his fingers
on the volume in the bosom Of his blouse.
Il didn't count to speak of this to liv
ing soul, !" he went, mOtiOning me not to an
swer him "but something took hold of me
tonight and made me follow you up here
Perhaps if l told you all you would be the
more willing to look after the little book in
case it goes i'll with me. When the war
broke out / was teaching school down in
Maine, in the same village where my father
was school master before me. The old man
when he died left me quite alone. / lived
pretty much by myself, having no interests
outside OF the district school, which seemed
in a manner my personal property. Eight
years ago last spring a new pupil was
brought to the school, slight slip Of
a girl, with a sad kind of face and
quiet ways. Perhaps it was be-
cause she wasn't very strong, and perhaps
because she wasn't used over well by those
who had charge Of her, or perhaps it was
because my lie was lonely, that my heart
warmed to the child. 1t all seems like
dream now, since that April morning when
little Mary stood in front of my desk with
her pretty eyes looking down bashfully and
her soft hair falling over her face. Ore day
look up, and six years have gone by-as
they 90 by N dreams-and among the
scholars is a tall girl of sixteen. with serious,
womanly eyes which / can not trust myself
to look upon. The old life has come to an
end. The child has become a woman, and
can teach the master now. So help me
Heaven, / didn't think that l loved her until
that day
"Long after the children had gone home
| sat in the schOOl-rOOm with my face rest
ing on my hands. There was her desk, the
afternoon shadows falling across it. 1t
never looked so empty and cherries before.
/ went and stood by the little chair as l
had stood hundreds of times. On the desk
was pile Of books, ready to be taken away,
and among the rest a small Latin grammar
which we had studied together. What lit
tie despairs and triumphs and happy hours
were associated with it ! | took it up Gu
riOusly, as if it were some precious dead
thing, and turned over the pages, and could
hardly see them. Turning the pages idly,
came to a leaf on which something was
written with ink, in the familiar girlish
hand. 1t was only the words Dear John,
through which she had drawn two hasty
pencil lines-I wish she had not drawn
those lines y added Bladburn, under his
breath.
He was silent a minute or two, looking
off toward the camps, where the lights
were fading out one by one.
Il had no right 10 go and love Mary. /
was twice her age, an awkward, unsOcia-
BILE man, that would have blighted ner
youth. was as wrong as wrong can be. / !
locked the grammar in my desk and the |
secret in my heart for year. | couldn't !
bear to meet her in the village, and kept |
MA VIC
likely to be. Then she came to me and sat /
down at my feet penitently, just as she |
used to do when she was a child, and |
asked me what she had done TO anger me; /
and then, Heaven forgive me! l told her all, /
and asked her if she could say with her /
lips the words she had written, and she /
nestled in my arms all a-trembling like
bird and said them over and over again.
when MaFY's family heard of our en-
there was trouble. They looked /
higher for Mary than a middle-aged school
master. No blame tot hem. They forbade |
me the house, her uncles but we met in
the village and at the neighbOrs' houses,
and / was happy, knowing she loved me-
Matters were in this state when the war
came on. ! had strong call to look after
the old flag, and / hung my head that day
when the company raised in my village
marched by the schOOlhOuse to the rail
road station but ] couldn't tear myself |
away. About this time the minister's son,
who had been away to college, came to the
village. He met Mary here and there, and
they became great friends. He was
likely fellow, near her own age, and it was
natural they like one another. Sometimes |
WINGED at seeing him made free of the
home from which / was shut ont then l
would open the grammer at the leaf where
Dear john was written up in the corner,
and my trouble was gone. Mary was sOr-
rowful and pale these days, and think her
people were worrying her.
1T was one evening two or three DAYS
before we got the news of Bull Run. | had
gone down TO the cemetery to trim the
spruce hedge set around the old mans lot,
and was just stepping into the inclosure,
when l heard voices from the opposite side.
One was Mary's, and the other / knew to
be young MarstOR's, the minister's son.
lidn't mean to listen, but what Mary was
saying struck me dumb. We must never
meet again. she was saying, in a wild way.
We must say gOOd-by here forever. Good
"! GOODBYE and | could hear her sobbing.
Then, presently, she sand, hurriedIy: No, |
10! my hand, not my lipsp Then it seemed
le kissed her hands, and the two parted,
me going toward the parsonage, and the
,ther out by the gate near where l stood.
81 don't know how long / stood there, |
tut the night dews had wet me to the skin
when / stole out of the graveyard and |
lcrOss the road to the schoOl-hOuse. l nm
Ocked the door and took the Latin gram
mar from the desk and hid it in nv bosom.
There was not a sound nor a light any,
where as l walked out of the village. And
ow," said Blackburn, rising suddenly from |
he tree-trunk, IF the little book ever falls ,
q your way, won't you see that it comes to
70 harm, for my sake, and for the sake of
he little woman who was true to me. and !
idn't love me9 Wherever she Is tonight. !