Connecticut western news., 1895-02-28

At the word of command the other soldiers took up the line of march, and faint and fainter grew the roar and rumble of the departing legions. rolling on irresistibly to match their blue bill lows with the blue waves of the distant sea.
 Twenty years after the furling of the flags the battlefield of Jonesboro was Q corn1ield, and the rustling rows of the crested corn hid from view the almost obliterated traces of strife. Peace and plenty reigned, and the one armed vet eran of the north was hobnobbing with the peg legged veteran of the south as they laughingly recounted tho experi- ences of the war.
 Asheville had become great resort for summer visitors from all sections on ac- count of its quietude, its healthful air and water and its splendid scenic sur roundings.
 As the train slowed up at the little station a man. apparently blessed with all the activity of youth, but bearing about him that unmistakable air of ma turity that indicates intimate knowl- edge of and rough Experience with life, stepped on the platform and strolled up the hill toward the hotel.
 The dusky twilight of the dying sum- mer day softened the rugged outlines of the gloomy mountains, and the tinkle of crystal stream made music in the thickets below.
 Suddenly the stranger was startled by xx-i1A fr1rr of 10 road came . horse at full speed, and in the buggy, swaying to and fro at his heels, there was a flutter of white.
 Springing forward and dropping his belongings, the stranger clutched the reins of the frightened animal and ar rested his mad career, but the shock was so sudden that the occupant of the buggy was tossed into the bushes by the road side.
 Releasing the horse, which stood trembling with fear and excitement, the stranger gently lifted the prostrate form. and as the crowd from the hotel came rushing to the spot she opened her eyes in a dazed and startled way.
 Are you hurt much?" asked the stranger.
 No, thank you, I was only fright ened. I had just got into the buggy and was going for ride when he be- came frightened and ran away Oh, how can I ever thank you?'
 Best by not mentioning it again, " said the stranger brusquely, handing her his card as he resigned her to her friends and walked away.
 (N,, tho follox-,nrr y,,or,,po ger arose late after his fatiguing jour ney, and when ho went down to break fast beside bis plate was little per fumed note, and he opened it apd read it, half amused and half in wonder:
 MR. Orro BARDEN-Permit re to thank you and to convey to you the grateful feelings of my friends for your brave action in rcscuing me from my pcIilous position yesterday. AS partial recognition of your kindness, wish to extend to you an invitation to enjoy pie nic excursion with us today. It is my birth day. Please do not fail to come. Gratefully,
 ANNIE FoSTAINE-
 On a blank leaf from his notebook Barden wrote line accepting the invi- tation and then leisurely finished his breakfast. .......-.. @
 Tho day was perfect, and as the spe- cial guest of the heroine of the day he thought he had never felt quite so near at peace with himself and all mankind as he did while lounging on the green grass beneath the shadow of the tall hemlocks at the foot of the mountain with pretty Annie Fontaire -
 Chatting in desultory way, Barden suddenly recalled the day and the drama of 20 years ago.
 Do you know, said he, "that was one. of those Tanks that marched with Sherman to the sea?''
 .'Indeed? Why, you must have been very youthful soldier''
 l was drummer boy, and this day 20 years ago was in the battle of Jonesboro !"
 And so was l." said she, with q saucy smile, flor that was my birthday and the place of my nativity"
 '.Whatn' he cried, springing to his feet excitedly. ''Then you are, you must be''-
 "Shell Annie. she replied:
 There are some stories that ought to be concluded before they are begun. but this, which is as true as-yes, truer than most history, reached its natural con- clusion then and there, and the Penn | sylvania drummer boy now owns one of | the finest fruit farms around Jonesboro, and the mistress of that southern home l is Shell Annie. Atlanta Journal. |