The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1894-11-04


favorite hooks and lounging places.
through the influence Of some
chance remark. the desultory com
We rsatiOn had drifted into our recalling
va rious unaccoUntable mental Impressions
and phenomena with their curious and
often startling results; and the Student
Traveller, who had listened attentively
Throughout after bit of genial banter at
his unaccustomed silence. began the rela7
ton Of the following pleasant tale. .-r
1t is a very short and simple story,
without a single thread OF tragedy in il,
though it has an odd beginning and an
asre cable ending for those who are not
sveTse TO occasional hearing of the hu.a-
bic hcart-dramas among lowly folk and
lives.
Ny own part in il was almost an inyol-
untary one; something as when a scene
shifter, half in dream and half from nahit,
might return to deserted and dark
eueo theater and roll off on this settns or
that until, all uninteutional with himself
real players have fitted themselves into
his half phantom performance, and
at the end he realizes he has almost un-
consciously been playwright, manager
prompter and audience, all in one.
1t began in the comfortable room Of my
inn, over against Convent Garden in
London, in which l had shut myself from
friends and Appropriateness in order TO
better accomplish some important liter
airy work.
l had been engaged to write a series Of
tales illustrative of lowly London life for
a famous London periodical. The labor
had proven a strangely sad pleasure but
had proceeded with extreme success and
qualification, when ! suddenly came to
a point where it seemed impossible for
me to coherently pen another sentence.
1t could not he accounted for on the
ground of overwork or lack Of material /
was in splendid physical condition; in
mood of superb mental citation. But there
remained the stubborn, insurmountable
fact that I could not write
This almost literary SynCopc had shut
down upon me now for two days The
first sheets of my manuscript We're due
in the printers hands at the end Of two
days more. SO much was at stake from
promptness or failure, that the sudden re-
alzation of all this affected me still more
disastrously / challenged my powers of
creation and composition in every man
ner possible to ordinary mastery OF such
situation; but it was Of no avail. l was
as helpless to perform my allotted task
as the scullery maid in the dark kitchen
below.
In this unpleasant strait I thought of
Chelsea Hospital for British army pen
sioners ! FASTENED to the fine old place,
rife with historic associations, happy in
NAAC tlibuSliA tIidls among us grim ana war
SCARED inmates, ] could no doubt find
some quaint, odd character around whom
tender romance could be woven
had no more than reached the grounds,
when | found a burial squad. just ready
to set ont with dead Comrade on that
last sad march the British pensioner ever
takes TO the slumberous shades of Bromp-
ton.
1t was headed by a firing party of
twelve, In old black waist belts with worn
cartouche-boXes in front and ancient bay
onets dangling behind. Next them stood
the tiny old Chelsea fifer, Little joe"
and the grave and pompous drummer
Harry McDuh.
These were succeeded by the coffin-now
resting on the graveled walk covered
with dingy black pail on which was laid
the single military trophy of the dead a
worn, three cornered hat of William the
Thirds day-and the rear file of pension
ers comprising a few ancient inmates of
the dead soldiers ward
1t was not large squad but it was an
unaccountably CHEEKY one. The old bows
were merrily taunting each other with
portentious prophecies of who should
next fill the box" that should thus be car
ried out Brompton way; but I could see
their bravo had in it a pitiful undertone
of dolor and despair.
Gathered about the halted procession
were an hundred or so more of these vet
eran paupers, some leaning listlessly
against the sunny facades of the building:
some gathered in fussy knots discussing
the merits of the departed: some idly
gazing at the little cortege with vacant
stony faces; and others with canes and
crutches pothering up and down the line
mngLng their cracked old voices in the
rough and unseemly bandinage
But the ancient pensioner sergeant in
charge Of the squad was now coming from
the governors rooms with the burial per-
NIT. Premonitory notes upon Little
Joe's' fife accompanied by drum mutter-
1ngs could be heard. The old fellows were
falling into line as the sergeant took his
place behind the rearmost file; and the six
veterans who were to bear the coffin I'd
on their shoulders were about to lift it
from the ground
Just then there appeared at the door
leading TO the corridors of the great hall
most ancient pensioner He raised his
hand fiutteringly and screeched out the
one word:
"Haltr'
IT'S old Billy BILLY and Mike hadn't
made up afore Mike croakedr and wait
d bit, sergeant, fur OF Billy!' were among
the expressions l heard running along the
line
He came putting, wheeling, Whispering
down the broad staircase and terrace
He pushed this one and that one aside
petulGntly When ne mad reached the
side Of the coffin, he tumbled down be-
side it and fumbling the pail and the hat
upon 1t distracty blurted out as the tears
rolled down his hard old face:
"Mike-Mil1e! to'rd tn last. We didn't
play fair, stealth my baccy an grub an
things in Ward 10, but 1 can't see We
goin' away t. tn Brompton trenches,
'thout sayin it's all right-all right now,
Mike"
Then old Billy kissed the pail and the
hat, sobhed a little, scrambled upon his
feet, glared upon his comrades dehantly
for his weakness and emotion, and then,
stamping along TO the sergeant in charge,
remarked sententiously;
PLANT i'm as soon as ye likes now, ser
geant Mike was a ard un, was alike.
But I've made my peace wi him. an III
sooner ee's under cover, tn better fur all
in Chelsy,"
The sergeant gave a low word Of COM
mand, the coffin was lifted to the shout
ders Of the men, ana the strange. limpincs
shuhing, hating CorteEe moved Slowly
away to the shrill but subdued notes OF
Little JOS fife and Harry McDuh's unified
drum, which hesitanty picked out the
familiar air Of the 18th psalm.
a la f1ar l.,,N4g Int