The Progress., 1893-08-05

( what Is thine, L have others glad &c
do my bidding"
She starts into the street, and as
Jeans blue eyes catch sight of her a
smile comes over his face, the boyish
hands grasping firmer the sticks he
is so proud to WELD She is coming
once more to say goodbye, once
more to bid Godspeed and bring him
safe again. Once more before the
sergeants stop her, to hold him close
in those arms where he has lain all
his short yo1ng life. She shall sec
what good soldier he makes. Never
a tear shall come. though his heart
aches so sadly at parting.
Jean. Jean Baptistc, my son. 7
have repented. Thou dost not be-
long to the great Napoleon; thou art
mine and cannot give thee up.
Come with me; thy Maman' heart is
breaking. Come, lad. come" She
holds him for moment as though
death itself could not part them, then
suddenly realizing her helplessness,
/ loosens her arms, sobbing aloud.
Jeans heart is full-so full he finds
it difficult TO speak-but straighten-
ing himself to his childish height,
folds her quickly in a last embrace,
whispering in her ear:
"Remember. Granny, what all the
world is singing-listen now to the
music-'Ye sons of France, awake to
! glory Dear old Maman. remember
that until | come again, then | will
leave thee no more" 1t is over in a
moment and she is thrust back upon
the sidewalk. but the boys blue eyes
are following, and the tears of the
little soldier are dropping unheeded
upon the precious new drum while
the sunny, loving head mods back
across the sea of people that inter
vene. Then the hands take up the
sticks again as the roll OF the drums
long and loud fills the ears of the
people, and the troops go down the
street beneath the hOwer-decked
arches, leaving behind only the ring
ing tramp of their retreating feet.
10 is eventide in Belgium; the
battle is over-finished now, and the
world is beginning to grow dark.
Strewn here and there, hacked,
mutilated, trampled upon, lie those
who have fought like wild creatures
when at bay. So well they have
fought, so true to their colors, that
in the very thick of the fight, in the
heat of the battle, they have been
summoned to promotion, their bodies
lying now useless burdens, from
which the spirits fed into eternity
are answering the muster call in a
strange land to the voice of kingly
leader. Slowly Jean raises himself,
then sinks back, for there is an odd
pain in his side and a trickle of
something like warm blood all down
his face. As he falls against what
seems log it groans, and a French
mans voice, weak with pain, bids
him be still. All, yes, he remembers
now how he had played the refrain
of the Marseillaise to the lion-hearted
soldiers when suddenly something
whistled through the air and the
world grew dark. Could it be death, /
this feeling upon him? Death, and |
he so young and far from France? |
Poor old grandame, what would she I
do when they told her that the little .
bright-haired drummer boy would
never lead the troops proudly home
again. Death! no, no, it must not
be. He has promised to return, to
leave her side no more; and never
yet has any promise to the dear old
Maman been broken. 1t must not be;
he will fight it off, keep it at bay
until help shall come 1t is odd. but
that warm stream against his face
makes him feel light-headed. The
Frenchman's voice sounds in his ear:
Poor lad, art thou the brave
drummer that led us out from France?
If thou art. play to me, Baptiste; our
journey is long one and the Mar
seillaise will cheer our hearts Here"
as the boy makes another useless eff
fort to sit up "Here, lad, lean
against me. Dost thou not know me?
| am Francois who taught thy fingers
right well to use the sticks Yet
never did / think t'would be to plav
thy dirge and mine. Jean, Jean
Baptiste, art thou dying? Dost thou
not hear me bid the play?''
dying? No, no; l am going home
to granny-tO the dear old maman."
The lads brain is dazed, for he fam
,les it is Bettine's voice calling:
Jean-Jean Baptiste. | have re-
Dented! Thou dOst not belong to the
great Napoleon-thou art mine.
Come with me-thy Maman's heart
$ breaking" The Maman's heart
must not break. A light comes to (
lis face as his comrade props him up {
md the hands which still clasp the
precious sticks begin to feebly touch {
he drum Not feebly now. for the {
ife blood rushing down warns the
Door cramped fingers. bringing a !
)yief power. Over the battlefield
oils the drum call OF the Marseil-
aise. ringing out a brave Defiance