Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1890-08-29
THE BOMB SHELL.
A Little Story From the French-what tn
Gunner Shot Away.


Near the Sevres bridge, on the left
bank of the Seine, a tiny cottage nest.
led in a mass of verdure. the roof al
most hidden by tangle OF ivy.
clematis, and honeysuckle. In the
garden, which was shaded by old chest
nut trees a band of bulltinches and
chafiisches held joyous meetings and
charmed the ear with their merry
chatter.
Pierre Barlat, the master of this
pretty home. was an honest, hard
working fellow. genial comrade.
though n stranger to the tavern. and
disdainful of all pleasures excepting
those Of family life; Jeanne, his wife,
a robust and comely peasant. whose red
lips smiled frankly, displaying her
wonderfully white teeth.
1t was a pleasure to watch this happy
mother taking care of her three small
children, for there was never trace OF
hurry or impatience in her bearing;
and hers was no light task-three
babies to care for, and their clothes to
make and wash, besides tho other
household duties She did il all, sing
Ing gayly, and in the evening. when
the little ones were asleep, passed an
hour with her husband in the garden,
chatting idly.
The conversation generally consisted
in plans for the future. Three children
to bring up! 1t was great undertake
ing, but work was always to be found.
and strength and industry were not
wanting. In a few years Pierre would
be foremaR and then his pay would be
much larger; the children would be old
enough to go to school. and while they
were away, Jeanne could earn little
with her laundry work; in that way
there could be money saved up, and
some day the little cottage would be
their own property! When the child
rem were quite grown up. they would
work, as their parents had done. while
Pierre and Jeanne could rest, in their
old age, aud live on their savings. Such
were the dreams In which these tive
simple souls delighted.
Years passed, and the dreams began
to be realized. Pierre had worked un-
ceasingly. for the idea of owning his
house had grown upon him.
1t weuld be such a pity, thought
home; and the trees in the garden!-
they had planted them-and to let
others gather the fruit would seem like
robbery.
At last, therefore. the owner was
persuaded to come to terms. the deed
of sale was signed one Sunday morning.
and as Pierre Barlat came out Of the
notary's house with the deed in his
pocket proud smile spread over his
face. and he felt that he would not care
to "call the king his cousin"
He had at first agreed with his wife
to celebrate the occasion by dining at
the inn. where 4 fried fish, n rabbit
fricassee, and some bottles of wine
would make a meal fit for Lucullus,
When Pierre felt hlmSelfa householder,
however he said to his wife: Come,
let US dine at home" and there was an
information of tenderness in his voice
as he pronounced the last two words.
There were several good reasons for
the change in their plans; first of all
the cook at the inn was not good one,
always serving the same gravy, with
such horrid taste of burnt fat! They
would be much more comfortable too
in their own garden-bower, with the
Seine at their feet, and the great piano.
rama of Paris before them. gilded by
tho sun.
1t was in the midst of such happiness
rs this that the war of 1870 came to dis
turb Pierre Barlat.
We now find him In the fort on Mont
Valeriea; he is gunner. While he is
standing 1T his post, General Noel. the
commander comes up. accompanied by
his staff, and leaning against the can
pou, puts his field glass to his eyes and
.ooks through it toward the Sevres
bridge
"Canonnier," he says suddenly, as ho
stands erect. and lowers his glass.
"Generaln responds Pierre, with the
military salute.
Can you see the Sevres bridgep"
Perfectly. General"
"Snd little cottage half buried in
the trees. on the left?"
Il see it." says Pierre turning pale.
There is a nest of Prussians in that
spot. Send them a shell. my good fell
low"
In spite OF the bleak north wind that
is making the officers SILVER in their
fur pellisses, Pierre feels himself bathed
in cold sweat. No one observes this,
however, and he carefully points and
fires his piece, while the officers watch
the effect. AS the smoke clears away
the General exclaims:
well aimed! The howell was not
very solid-it is nothing but heap of
ruins"
Tears glisten in the gunner's eyes.
and the General seeing them, asks in
his brusque tone,
WHY, what is the matter with the
fellow"
Pardon me. General, answers Pierre
who has recovered his self-contrcl
that house was mipe-it was all /
possessed In the Mnrldr'- Ennch