The weekly register. [volume] (Point Pleasant, Va. [W. Va.]) 1862-1909, 1893-03-07
We you, old boya Come, down

nave you, OLD Doyf come, ooWn
with your whiskyI'
But Tom shook his head, and
needless of their jeers and laughter,
turned away leaving the sparkling
glass untasted.
The desperate charge was over,
and, like the heroes of Balaklava,
only a few returned. Captain Tom
was not among the number. He
lay PROSTATE on tho blood-stained
battle field; and the list of dead
that went up to New England bore
his name.
In her desolate cottage, his 'little
mother" read it, with the account of
the heroic onset, and mourned for
her slain soldier as only a fond
mother can.
Meanwhile, in Southern hos
pital, scores of wounded suffers lay,
burned by consuming fevers that
no skill could allay.
Cant save them-not one, said
the surgeon on his round. aThe
whole pack were drunk when they
went to battle, and this is the re-
suit. The whiskey has fed the
fever; you scel That fellow out
there" pointing to the tall fig ure of
Captain Tom, stretched upon a cot,
'smay get up-he was sober
The summer was we'll over. Up
amid the New England villages the
grain was waving yellow on the
hills, and in the orchards the fruit
hung in luscious, golden clusters.
But hundreds of homes were made
desolate by the loss of husbands,
and sons, and brothers; hundreds of
hearts ached with sorrow that no
earthly remedy could cure.
The "little mother" of tall Cap
tain Tom sat on the low sill of the
old fashioned kitchen, in the SHIN
mering light of the autumn moon.
Outunder the tawny chestnut trees,
where the brook was babbling,
and tho crickets chirping amid
the yellow grasses, her husband lay
in deaths dreamless sleep, and the
heart of the widow was sore with
her new sorrow.
"oh, my boyr she sobbed, tears
raining over her checks "mv tall,
handsome Tom! Never to see him
again-never to hear his voice
never to feel the embrace of his
strong arms. 1t is very bitterl Oh,
Tom, my boyl'
The crickets piped out their shrill
melody. the autumn wind rustIed
the tawny chestnuts, and the noisy
brook babbled. The old cottage,
under the misty splendor of the
autumn moor, with that bowed fig
ure on the doorstep, looked unut
terably lonely and desolate.
And the mothers poor heart was
full of worldIess agony, while her
strained, tear blinded eyes seemed
to see that nameless grave far down
in Southern vaIley-her sons
grave, above which tears could
never flow.
A quick sharp step crushed the
crisp grass; a tall shadow darkened
the autumn moonlight lying in sill
vcr riffs on the white boards of the
kitchen floor.
"Little mother" looked up. There
was a moment of breathless silence,
and then sudden cry-a cry of such
intense, unuttcrable joy, that all the
silent night took up the sound, and
hundreds of echoes repeated it amid
the surrounding hills.
"oh, Toni my boyl it is your"
ayes, it is 1, little motherl'
AT his right side an empty sleeve
hung, but with the left arm he
clasped her close, covering her wet
cheeks with passionate kisses.
"Oh, Tom, 1 have suffered so?"
she sobbed, at last. al thought
you were dead, my darlingl but you
have como back, my brave, hand
some soldier!"
She raished herself from his en-
brace, and, putting her hands on
his shoulders, looked steadily in his
eyes.
They met her searching gaze,
clear and fearless.
"Tom," she said, with little
laugh, that was half a sob, 'you've
come home to me pure and true as
you went-my good boy has kept
his promise!"
ayes thank Heavenl 1 have
kept my promisel' he answered,
with a solemn tenderness in his
handsome eyes; "and it has been
my salvationl The temptation was