Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1893-12-08
THE LAST TRAMP.


told it to me one day when we were talk
ing of the accidents of life-more aston
ishing and romantic hundred times than
the inventions of fiction. lie had seen
this little drama enacted under his eyes
and had known the actors in it.
"In Introduce you," he said to me,
land we will go together to Mezieres,
where we shall find still living one of the
heroes of this story. All the romances
have not yet been wrtten the most mar
velous have still to be published. And
who knows how much each of us will car
ry away with him, deeply buried in the
secret of his conscience, painfully stifled
under the stone that marks his grave?"
My friend Eugene Decary little thought
how nearly those wOi ds applied to him
self The story of Jean ChevaucheuX was
the last he was ever to tell me. Pure
spirit Poor heart, which beat so vainly
for all that was beautiful and good on
earth! That bright soul is fled; that warm
heart is silent now.
1t is he, however, who is going to speak:
My father lived at Rethel, in the High
street can still see his house, with its
slate roof and its jutting beams-a hospit-
able house if ever there was one. Poor
people knew how well it was to stop there.
They entered with empty wallets and went
from it with wallets filled.
We were Seated one evening by the fire
side, my father smoking his pipe and gaz-
ing into the sparkling ashes on the hearth,
my mother ironing the family linen,
reading when suddenly, outside, near the
street door, great noise was heard and
we saw lad with face of terror enter
hurriedly.
"What is the Natter"
"A soldier has fallen at your door over
come by fatigue" answered the lad.
My father loved soldiers. He sprang
from his seat and rushed out of doors, and
before | had taken half dozen steps to
follow him he was returning with young
soldier. so we'll supported that my father
was carrying him like sack Of corn. My
mother fastened to wheel big armchair
near to tho fire, and the young man was
assisted TO sit down in it-or rather he
was laid down in it-and my father, look
ing at him ptfully, said:
Is it possible you can be tramping the
roads in such condition."
The young soldier was indeed very pale
and thin, bis hair glued to his forehead
with perspiration, the veins on his tenn
pies swelled to the thickness of your little
finger, his face black with the dust of the
highway. We were then in the month of
October, and the air was beginning to be
cold, but great beads of sweat stood upon
the poor fellows brow rs if it had been in
the dog days. He must have had II long
walk His shoes were worn out and the
leather cut to pieces by sharp stones, as we
could see, The upper leather of the left
shoe had been torn from the sole, and the
foot within was bleeding.
He lay in the chair motionless, his head
thrown back, his eyes half open and white
as linen. My mother had already put some
soup on the fire, as well AS n pipkn of
wine
"Bahl" said my father. "the chief mat
ter is his feet"
He was on his knees before the poor fell
low, pulling, cutting, tearing off the frag-
ments of the boots. The young soldiers
feet were terribly swollen and covered
with blisters, resembling the feet of the
martyrs wealcd with cords, shown in the
pictures of some of the Spanish painters.
My father dipped his handkerchief in vim
egar and washed and dressed the wounds.
Make some lint" he said to me.
tore off some linen which my mother
handed To me from the press.
The soldier had by this time come to
himself, He looked at us-at my father,
mother, me ana two or three neiyhbors
who were there-one after the other, We
could see that he was trying to compre-
bend what was passing about him. 1t was
no longer the highway. the sharp stones
of the road. the great. houselcss wood.
that met his eyes. but comfortable room
with shining oak ceiling. II table covered
y with "A snowy cloth and ready laid. ant
: in a brown earthen tureen n stcamine
: mess of cabbage soup emitting an ape
thing odor.