The Portland daily press., 1889-05-09

Asoldier of the French zouaves sick at Geneva,
And wasted, thinking oft of home and loved ones
His native hamlet often rose before his weary
That dear old spot in Brittany, beneath the smil-
He thought Of father bent with years. of mother.
rhe little sister, bright-eyed lass, with whom he
loved 10 play,
And turning TO a comrade near. his mate through
He whispered that could see my father
once again."
The grizzly surgeon, kind of heart. had heard the
weary sigh, ~ wy
And thought. as fell The soldiers wish, "The win
some boy may die,
face -"'--e'
May seem like ray of heavenly light within this
May M mis- closing hours witb.peace ,and when the
The message he may homeward bear will soothe
Straghtway with moistened eyes he wrote; the
Ana soon the good old patriot was Fastening to
The evenings shadows ON the walls of that rude
murmured "Hark'
bis mS ear nSa5d familiar seps"oOuage
The CHEEKY accents sounded sweet and comrades
round him woke.
Twas him, the peasant roughly clad, from far off
Brittany,
Who by the cot with sacred joy now bent his aged
knee.
my precious boy, so brave and fair, ah, mol you
must not die!
Your cheek sad snail bloom for what I've
But earnestly the soldier spoke,-"No dainty
Pm broken with fell disease and long for moth
er's kiss;
Yet dearly am blessed indeed to see your face
Your smile. the pressure of your hand, does al
most Danish pain"
shadow fell athwart the brow so scanned by toll
And silently to heavens throne was winged
80 God my weary. wasted boyl Thy servant
far has come,
And is il only in his grief to take his dead one
But lest the pale and haggard face that looked
Might guess his thoughts, all secretly he made
For mothers sake tue tried and true, 0 spare
Her pure, white heart is desolate, she hungers for
his love-"
Then. all at once,-as leaning DER bis dusty KNAPP
He touched with trembling hand loaf f,-came
:. answer to his prayer
Hoi W al iihPuise spirit puih that collulOn Dreau
He raised, and heard an angel say,-''The soldier
Here, here, my son. take this" he said, ",twas
made by mothers hand,
How oft you've tasted food like this in our dear
native land"
The sick lad turned his heavy eyes, they flashed
Once more in brighter mood he spoke, the self
same happy boy
AS when in peasant garb he watched the cages
Along the wave-washed Shore alert, bright-eyed
and rosy-lipped!
With thin palm stretched out greedily, "Give it to
"Pm hungry, father, sit you down my pallet now
BESIDE"
As In the olden days. his eyes lit up with childish
He saw the low, plain walls of home, he heard
the murm'ring sea.
Tie blood came back crimson tide to neck and
80 good' SO good, the bread from home-I'n,
better eUe7t n0tUr
And large tears rolled adown his cheeks-the
The witness OF hundred fights, had scarce less
moistened eye,
AS with a culver In his voice-"Ah, hearty, you're
He softly added "Eat your fill, and sweetly sleep
new moon shone Geneva o'er, but far on siye
The peasant sailed with son beloved the French
Zouaye so brave.
Pm getting stronger every day '-as oft would
When 1 get there our good black bread Pll
always love to eat
Made by my mother-bless the hand that shaped
To save honesick fellows life-Geneva fair
good-byel"