The herald and mail. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 1873-188?, 1875-08-27

| nearI yearn1nR IOF your E6tuEn-n
message to a sister ?"
"No one watches for my return.
have not any sister-never had one.
ga father ?"
"He has been dead for years.
"And your mother ?" the stranger
pressed each question earnestly.
"My mother !" reiterated Jules
bowling his face upon his hands, the
tone of his voice deepening, Mother
Mother - he said, tearfulIy. sob dc
not even utter her name" he continued,
fixing his eyes upon the man. ''She is
dead. / have only one hour or two OF
life; then we will meet and before her
1 must lay a tarnished record" As he
spoke his strong frame shook with sup
pressed emotion.
70 So Do you remember your mother?
LIE Preux questioned, after amoment of
silence.
Yes, loved her, and was in return
beloved" was the quiet response.
Then can open my heart to you.
1t is comfort in this hour to pour out
my soul. Will you listen?"
" am listening, Jules, with sympa-
thy and interest,"
native village was called Folk. / can
many years ago, but / can still recall
the pressure of his hand upon my head,
as it rested there in his last blessing.
grew to manhood with but one affec-
tion, and that centered upon my moth
er. | was her sole companion; her
life was one of piety-devoted to the
pooc who received her only visits. To
the gentle teaching of that mother I
owe my little store of knowledge. From
early youth she had sought to instil
into my mind a lofty sense of duty. I
was called to serve my flag. Filled
with despair at the thought of leaving
her, 1 protested; in my hour of weak
ness she strengthened and encouraged
me. She bade me go for her sake. With
a tender smile upon her white lips she
blessed me, telling me that my country
claimed higher duty of me than my
holy duty to herself, adding it was the
will of God. Should you die before
me, my son, I will still have strength
to say, Father, into Thy haEds I COM
mend his spirit. Go, and, as you love
me. be faithful to your duty These
were her last words, and l departed.
We had returned from Spain, flushed
with the glory of conquest. 1 eGdeav-
ored to obtain leave, but, owing to the
determination of the emperor to invade
Germany, / was obliged to abandon
the thought. followed my regiment
to Strasbourg. One morning l received
a letter from my beloved mother, tell
ing me that she was i'll. A great longing
possessed me to see her. l requested
leave, but it was refused. I remembered
her last words: As you love me, be
faithful to your duty 1 resigned my
self. A week or more elapsed when a
letter from the curate of the parish
reached me. It told briefly that my
mother was dying-there was no hope.
My reason forsook me. At all risks j
determined to return home. The yearn-
ing TO at last pray beside her grave, if
l might not look upon her dear face,
tortured me day and night. Like many
of the simple peasants of our mountain
village, am imbued with superstitious
belief-a belief that has strengthened
with my years, and which | have cher
ished, and which no argument could
destroy. This superstition taught me
to believe that the first flower which
blooms above the grave of a loved one
possesses a peculiar charm the one
who gathers and retains it is never for
gotten by the dead. 1t was sacred and
comforting thought. With this belief
in my heart, death seemed robbed of
half its sting, and becomes only a sweet
sleep, like rest after fatigue. This
flower I desired to see bloom that
might gather it, and with it the blessed
assurance of immortal remembrance.
The night the troops left StrasboUrg I
fed. After a weary journey of ten days
/ reached Folk, to find, alas, only
grave. She had died blessing me. The
earth was still fresh and soft beneath
the green sod, but no flower had made
its appearance. i waited /; weeks passed.
At length l rose at dawn one morning
and wended my way to the little church
yard. The sky was covered with feecy
clouds, and the sun Use in golden
glory as / knelt beside the grave.
There, midst the green grass, I saw a
flower its tiny leaves were open, and
on the blue bosom rested softly, like
sweet promise, ray of morning sun
light. 1t was the little blossom For |
get.me-not.' My mothers soul seemed !
to look into my eyes pleadingly, while
Remember me, Jules, re-
me- Believing myself truly in
the sacred presence of the dead, i
my treasure in silence, and,
with tears of gratitude and nope, rose
to depart. Nothing now retained me at
Folk, and the words If you love me,
be faithful to your duty seemed to
hear at every turn; the very air was
filed with the sound. That duty made
me deliver myself up to Justice. 1 had
violated commands, and was a deserter.
1 obeyed, accepting calmly, resignedly,
the sentence awarded. l am about to
die. You say you are my friend. l have
but one request if you will grant it l
can die without regret, even peacefully. !
In Iocket suspended around my neck |
is the little flower l periled my life to
obtain. Promise that in death it shall !
not be separated from me-"
al promise" replied the officer,
deeply touched. The condemned man
grasped his hand warmly. "Comrade,"
he said, "may God bless you. If it |
was His will to grant me another life, 1 |
the affection your sympathy has in |
5pired /; but it cannot be. Farewell !"
They separated.
L uC NlhMI DAOhGg anu N4tlA ~ CSaAl4C !
the sound of the drum and the tramp |
Of armed men whose measured steps |
their mission LIE Preux |
greeted them with a silent bow, and |
hen went calmly forth to die.
His arms were folded upon his breast; |
| soft breeze stirred the curls that clus |
;ered above his brow; his eyes were |
ixed upon the eastern sky, where a
brilliant sunrise shed a golden glory, |
hitting the rose-leaf clouds that fioated |
IN and on, as though to chase the dark
shadow of night that was gradually |
aiding in the west.
As he passed down the long line of |
regrets and words of farewell |
where spoken in underbreath +; but, |
leaf to all, and with not one last look |
hat might have spoken his resolution,
ne moved on toward the place of execu-
lion. He reached the spot his eyes, Mt !
his request, were left unbound, and still |
-ivited Hngeringly, wistfully, upon the |
drifting clouds, he heard his death |
sentence read A moment more and |