Herald and tribune. [volume] (Jonesborough, Tenn.) 1869-current, 1895-08-28
A WAR TIME ROMANCE.
The Woman Waits for n Letter that
Will Never Come,

| oho Oaiieu dl Tue post ONCE
just as she has done every few days for
years. A forlorn and fragile old lady,
whose old, worn and threadbare shawl
scarce conceals the poverty of her ap.
parel, and from below whose old fash.
Toned bonnet stray few thin locks of
hair, once coal black, but now of silver
gray. Her eyes are still clear, and dark
as OF yors, but with that sad, wistful
expression of one who has loved and
lost-one who has suffered too much.
Occasionally they light up with hope
as she steps to the delivery window,
and asks for her mail, and again she
seems young. But alas, the long ex-
pected letter does not come, and with
perceptibly weakening step she leaves
the corridor, and disappears in the hur.
rying, jostling crowd.
Her name? 1t matters not. They say
she is crazy, that she has for years in.
quired for a letter that never has, never
will ne written. Well, perhaps she is,
and yet who shall say? Gould one but
read her mind, or would she but speak
the memories which have slept there
very sadly-so long.
The shadows are falling gently over
quiet old Southern home, with its
quaint colonial architecture, over the
pale crepe myrtles and orange bios
SONS that line the broad piazza and
over the cotton fields which spread
away to the right in their snowy white.
ness From the negro quarters in the
rear comes the faint, sweet sounds of
guitar, as one dark skinned lover sings
queer old plantation melody to his
beloved. All else is strangely quiet
the silence broken only by tie .inces.
SAINT chirping of the crickets and the
croaking of the frogs along the old
bayou. The firehies flash In and out
among the trees, while off to the east
the pale silvery moon slowly, camly
shines above the horizon.
Only the old fashioned portico, hid
den in the shadows of the pillars,
darkeyed girl sobs her good bys to her
handsome young lover murmuring
prayers for his safe ruturn. He is 60
ing away, far from the old home and
from his sweetheart, to fight for his
country and to come back with fame
and honor for her. Again and again
he whispers words of consolation, but
she weeps softly, despairingly, and as
array of moonlight falls on her pale,
sweet face she is very earnest, as she
breathes forth her petition to heaven
for him. And, standing side by side
upon the old steps, as the first stars
glistened in the sapphire blue skies and
the shadows darken round the house,
they say farewell. She smiles bravely
as he brushes the tears from her dark
lashes, kisses him over and over again,
in sweet words commends him to the
care of God; and as he disappears in
the gloom picks up and holds-very
closely-a spray of myrtle which he
had worn.
Many suns have risen and set over
that old home with its orange scented
garden since thatnight of parting. Many
a young soldier had left for the war,
never to return. He was one of these.
No word of his fate was ever brought
back, yet she will not believe him dead,
and though years and years have pass
ed, and she is old and gray, she hopes
with the hope of love, and awaits his
return.
The old home is long since gone, and
in strange land her weary life is
drawing to close. In her heart she
still believes that he lives, and that he
will one day come to her. Occasion
ally she advertises in some Southern
journal for her lost lover 3 W whereabouts,
and as regularly calls at the post office
in the vain hope of receiving tidings of
him. Then she sadly goes to her poor
room, opens the old Bible and gazes
tenderly on her only treasure-a with.
cred spray of myrtle. Cincinnati Com.
mercial Gazette.