The Logan County banner. [volume] (Logan, W. Va.) 1889-1903, 1892-04-21

sense u gratitnde that lie hardly rec
ognized and expressed IL; but at last
he said: Thank You"
She was large, strong farm wife.
and as she took the cup she smiled at
his satisfaction. Its more filing than
water, /" said she. Il saw you here. and
that you was mot one Of the begging
kind. SO outs to YOU"
II stopped at one house down here"
ne replied, but not to beg. / don't beg.
| wanted to ask question. The sec.
ond house, he added, tentatively.
'Oh, yes. The old Ames place. 1
guess You didn't stop long. II Hiram
Ames had been alive there, he'd have
kept you week. But he's dead. She
talked on garrulously. pleased to have
a new listener. She did not know
many people. Why. you're sick,' she
laid, suddenly.
But the tramp shook his head
little tired, that's all, and disap-
pointed. Eve come good ways to see
Hiram Ames. / could have told him
something about his brother"
what, Jed? He went to war and
was missing after one Of those battles
They gave up all hopes OF him, and
now there's beautiful monument to
him in the burying-ground. right be-
side of Hiram's. You don't mean to
tell me he isn't dead?"
He is as good as Dead said the
tramp, rising.
He thanked the woman again, and
made her half-military salute. Then
he moved on, in a rising cloud of dust,
till in the distance his figure appeared
vaguely large and multiplied. And the
old wife, shading her eyes and looking
after him, cried:
~ daciare If Ii don seem like a4=lot
Of men, all keeping step together. = = =
In the heart of the village large,
official-looking man roughly took the
tramp by the shoulder, and said;
Here, you come with me-"
i've done nothing" he protested.
"And you won't have chance to.
day. I'll put lock on you for to-
night, and Tomorrow you leave town. +"
He thrust the tramp into the naked
calaboose, turned the key, and left him
there. The tramp went to the single
window and looked out. He saw roofs
and places that memory made familiar
The spire of the church steeple rose
tapering. and through the trees he
caught glimpses of white marbles in
the burial place. There lay the man
he had tramped far-to see. His mind
reverted to the kindly old woman who
had gossiped to him, and then to the
graves again.
That monument to the missing sol
der. now. Could he see it? That tall
one, perhaps mo, it was too preten-
tious The epitaph of a private of the
line would be lost on it. 1t would
be curious reading, that epitaph. Some.
thing like this: "Jeduthun Ames
Born 1910. A soldier. Missing after
Shiloh" There could be nothing more.
He could have told a longer story
had Hiram lived He could have told
1t in the glance of an eye. Then he
could have spoken of wounds, hospital,
western service. TWAS not worth
while now.
The past seemed insignificant to this
tramp The years of his wandering
were but a point of time, and the pres
emit day never-ending. His mind dweit
upon it-how, with the sun. he had en-
tered upon familiar scenes and knew
that his journeys end was reached.
That sunrise was far in the past now,
and The day was eternity.
BY and by he lay down on the floor.
The sun had set, and a rain commenced.
1t made the air damp and chilly, and
the tramp shivered He rose restlessly,
and returned to the window, but the
outside was lost in blackness. From
time to time jagged lightning tore the
clouds apart, and through the rents
the torrents poured.
He stood there and muttered some
thing to himself-it may have been y
prayer after which he swallowed the
contents of little vial
Then he lay down again. He moaned
little, and shivered as with cold.
Presently he breathed heavily; he was
asleep.
As it was rainy, the constable did not
provide the tramp with supper; and the
next morning he found him still lying
on the floor.
Come, get up!" cried the consta BILE,
and with his foot he turned the~tramp
over to awaken him. With supersti-
tious terror he then saw the man was
dead.
Afterwards they inferred the body
of the tramp in the Ames burial lot,
and cut the date of his death on the
monument of the missing soldier
Geo. l. Putnam, in Harper's Weekly.