Daily independent. [volume] (Elko, Nev.) 188?-1915, 1890-06-23
= THE BOMB-SHELL.
Faithful to His Duty Honest Pierre De-
stroys His Pretty Littlo Home.

bank OF the Seine, tiny cottage
nestled in a mass of verdure, the roof
almost hidden by tangle of ivy, Glenn
ats and honeysuckle. In the garden,
which was shaded by old chestnut trees,
band of bullfinches and chaffinches held
joyous meetings and charmed the ear
with their merry chatter.
Pierre Barlat, the master Of this pref
ty home, was an honest, handwriting
fellow, genial comrade, though
stranger to the tavern, and disdainful of
all pleasures excepting those of family
life; Jeanne, his wife, was robust and
comedy peasant, whose red lips smiled
frankly, displaying her wonderfully
white teeth.
1t was pleasure to watch this happy
mother taking care Of her three small
children, for there was never a trace of
hurry or Impotence in her bearing; and
hers was no light task-three babies to
care for, and their clothes to make and
wash, besides the other household
duties! She did it all, singing 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 chill
dren to bring up! 1t was a great I'M
dertazing, but work was always to be
found, and strength and industry were
not wanting. In few years Pierre
would BIO foreman, and then his pay
would be much larger; the children
would be old enough to go to school,
and, while they were away, Jeanne
.,,.k ~.
work; in that way there could be money
saved up, and some day the little cot
tage would be their own propertyt
When the children were quite grown
up, they would work, as their parents
had done, while Pierre and Jeanne
could rest, in their old age, and live on
their savings. Such were the dreams
in which these two simple souls de-
lighted.
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 would
be such pity, thought Pierre and
Jeanne, to lose the little 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 per-
suaded 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 a
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 fried fish, a rabbit
fricassoe, and some bottles of wine
would make q meal At for Lucullus.
When Pierre felt himself householder,
however, ho said to his wife: Come, let
us dine at home," and there was an in
tonation of tenderness in his voice as he
pronounced the last two words. There
were severa! good reasons for the change
in their plans: first of all the cook at
ing tho same gravy with such horrid
taste of burnt fat!
1t was in the midst of such happiness
as this that the war of 1870 came to dis
turb Pierre Barlat.
We now find him in the fort on Mont
Valcrion; he is a gunner. While he is
standing ct his post, General Noel, the
commander, comes up,
"Canonnier," he says suddenly, as he
stands erect, and lowers his glass.
"GeneralH' responds Pierre, with the
military salute.
"Can you see the Sevres bridgep"
"Perfectly, General" "a
"And little cottage half buried in
the trees, on the left?"
81 SEQ it," says Pierre, turning pale.
"There is a nest of Prussians in that
spot. Send them a she'll, my good fell
low"
In spite Of the bleak north wind that
is making the officers shiver in their fur
| pelisses, Pierre feels himself bathed in
q cold sweat. No ono observes this,
however, and he carefully points and
| fires his piece, while the officers watch
the effect. As the smoke clears away