The home journal. (Winchester, Tenn.) 1858-188?, 1881-06-29
A RACE FOR A WIFE.

A KACE FUN A w LIE.
[ have this story from friend who was
dear to me- He related it to me one day
as we were talking on the hazards of life,
more astonishing and more romantic ii
hundred times, than the inventions of
fiction He had seen this little drama
develop itself; he still knew the actors in
it. 81 will present you, hc said to me,
"and we will go together to Me2ieres,
where we will find one of the heroes of
this narrative still living, All the TO-
mances have not yet been written; the
most marvellous have still to be pub
lished. And who knows how many TO-
mances each one of us takes away with
him profoundly buried i'll the secrecy of
his conscience, painfully smothercd un-
der the tombstone% Eugene Decary
did not know how true his words were,
and the story OF Jean Chevaucheux was
the last that he told me. 1t is he who
will tell you the story.
by father used to live at Rethel, in
the high street, iii Il house | can still see
before ny eyes with its slate roof and
projecting beams, a hospitable house if
ever there was one. Poor folks new the
way to it. They entered with their wal
let empty and went away with it FULL
We were oil seated one night at the fire
side; my father was smoking his pipe
and Watching the fire burn, my mother
vas ironing and | was reading, when we
heard noise at the door, and saw enter
hoy with frightened looks.
"What Is the matter?
at is soldier very tired who has
Just fallen exhausted before the door"
Nv father loved soldiers He rose
hrusuuely, ran ont, and there he was,
before | had taken II step, coming IN
again with young soldier leaning upon
him, or, rather my father had taken
him up and was carrying him like sack
Of corn.
Nv mother hast2ncd to draw the big
armchair up 10 the fire. The soldier
was made to sit, or rather rcclme i'll it,
and my father said, looking at the pool
fellow:
"Is it possible, Walking i'll that
state?'
The fact is that the soldier was very
thin aud pale, his hair tiattened ON his
forehead, the VEINS Of his temples big us
your little finger, his face black with
dust. We were then in the month Of
October. and the weather was beginning
to grow fresh, but the poor fellow was
nevertheless sweating big drops as if IT
had been dog days. He must have had
long tramp HIS shoes were Ill shrcdS;
You could see where the stones had torn
the leather; the left foot was bleeding.
The soldier did not move, but remained
in the armchair, with his head thrown
back, his eyes hall open and white as a
sheet.
My mother had already put some soup
on the fire and painful of wine.
"Bah," said my father, 1.-The first
thing to he looked after is the feet.
And, kneeling down, he began to tear
and cut away the shreds OF leather. The
soldiers feet, all swollen, and full OF
bl!sters, looked like the feet OF the
martyrs, swollen with pain and weakened
by hard cords, which We see i'll the PIC
lures of the Spanish painters.
My father dipped his handkerchief III
vinegar and washed the wounds.
"You." he said to me, "make some
lint"
And began to tear up some old linen
that nv mother had taken out Of the
big cupboard.
~, lii. L., ,or,o 10
, hean"nne tne soiuier na,' I'll sntbor
n, ne looAeu az 10, ~ t u ,wo ~
,broo .o;.,l H.. To-, oor,o in ono
slor ,ho IT, tbs WI" U;a rardnr;ng ewes
soon,oJ SnV o: : ll.' o"nrnth;To II
wna eu " ii'eiio8alo ot w. stnnes tbo
@ro o ~ Longer ionSeI Illo iot ' ho sow hsfore
5i,a neseiVeu woouo 'iiav ;t uo 90" .";liuo of
.h;, l' puI gay room W.. Mi.ii ta q I9ifa
ond M oIk' clG'n Oh o ,ne oa p
sonn.howI am;tt;ra n savorv smell of
cabbage SOM
Tier no ,a;sod hi,solf nm leaning on
the arms Of tbe chair and said to my
father Will, on,,frsaJ eviction.
"iI, Wnrsianr Rnt Won do NOT know
mo -'i0-''A' "l' '' W.
"AL, wou .hot 5ooo NOT matter. VIC
w;,, ha.o wei, 'liac 80 - tho ILL
~, 'ooo.iio ace',''ii.e' W '"'
we, we ilad already dlned; pu. my ia'nu'
U ,9nea 10 pear the Soiultl colip""' :,
ro e SII GOWN 70 'aDle opposite , l.i,; =,
,ha oiuouing over mn nni iooNs
olooi Bi r buttons 'liut s,o' It'll o