New-York tribune., 1900-04-22

thini< that SO humble an ambition could never
be realized?
remember always. when l think of her, the
'ehSeiesS husband staring at with unmeaning
eyes-the two children on the earthen floor
paying with the tin trumpet
Tefhaps 1t was omen that tin trumpet
nave seen her many times since then /
nave seen her driving down to the little station in
'he cool fresh morning, with the milk bottles in
iiiii"s rows behind her; trudging UP the
i'aiio oW winding path, beset with dancing cicalas
ana Shihing black bees, and here and there by
glorious swallow tailed butterflies. like flames
OF brocaded gold. Sometimes I have seen her
uIsglng in the valley below, where the melons
lie yellow in the sun, and thyme and southern
"oou grow as weeds beside the way. But
Wherever and whenever I have seen her. she
mas always been at work and alone
She always wears the same dress-or one like
H-laded to the color of the brown earth The
straw of her wide Tapping hat is burned to the
same TINT. She is grayer now than when first
saw her and her face is scorched and wrinkled
INTO the appearance Of extreme old age and the
vacant husband still sits in the hoyeI on the
NIL like grim speechless vampire sucking the
poor fruit Of her labor
But the tin trumpet has hung on the wall for
many a year.
lhey went out, those little pickers of zam-
p'snans and figs, into the world beyond the
sunny herb scented Esterel. The elder. released
from his service drifted away into other maths
gong in the end. of course, to swell the rufian-
ism OF lowest Paris. The younger came back
broken down by fever poisoned by the deadly
hliasma Of some pestienta African marsh
back TO the mother whom he was to helm and
the little bare hut the hillside
Neither Of these two men had ever struck a
blow at an enemy. Neither had lifted a finger
IN the defence Of his country. Yet both were to
ole Tor it-one, years later by the hand of the
eNecutIoner-one, only to-day, in the grip of
disease.
For the last act in this humble drama ended
To-Day AS l came through the lonely rough
road leading through the forest to St Raphael
only an hour ago, l heard the cracking of a
whip in the stiffness, and the rumble of wheels
Presently one Of the great stonecarts of the
quarry came in sight, rocking stormily among
the ruts. and drawn by couple of mules and
looked up in sudden surprise, for upon the high
seat holding the reins in her motonless hands,
sat my old milkwoman of the hill
Her face was still and gray. and impassive
as stone under the shadow of the faded hat.
Her bent brown figure hardly moved to the jolt
ing of the cart. Her eyes, staring past me- had
the look of some dumb beast of burden which
has been goaded beyond even despair
Three or four quarrymen beside the cart
with whips in their hands. urging the mules
on with occasional cut, and a resonant Italian
curse; and in the cart lay coffin, which
some had flung the dingy French flag from
the door Of the dirty little cafe-ft covering for
a soldier of France, whose life had been offered
up on the altar of his country's folly.
I stood aside. an1 the strange procession swept
past me. There was something Infinitely savage
and barbaric about it-infinitely savage, but in
finitely sad The big, black mules. with their
high peaked collars, the shape Of which had per-