HIS LAST BATTLE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2249, 8 April 1897, Page 51

HIS LAST BATTLE.

On the corner of a city park stood an old i man, surrounded Uy a group of laughing | boys. His grey tangled hair was covered by a hat as worn and battered as its owner. His eyes were bloared and dim, his face flushed, his voice thick and hoarse. " It's a glorious country, boys," said the old soldier, with an all-embracing sweep of his right arm. "We must fight for her. 'Land of the free and home of the brave,' you know. Mustn't have no more Bulls Runs, boys. March to victory. Grant's the boy for me. We'll fight it out on this line if it takes all summer. ' And he attempted a feeble " hooray." The boys cheered. " Give us a speech, Billy," cried one. " Sing us a song," suggested another. " What ails your regimentals ? " asked a third, suddenly citching at a fluttering portion of the old man's coat. And then the laughirjg group shouted together, " Come, Billy. A song 1 A song 1 " The old man smiled, violently cleared his throat, and sang in a cracked and trembling voics, over which strong men wept and women sobbed in anguish 30 years ago, " It's just before the battle, mother, acd I'm | thinking now of you. While upon the field ! we're lying with the enemy in view." j It was a strange scene— the jeering boys, the" drunken soldier in his shabby' coat singiDg a song of a past generation. " Farswell, mother, you may never press me to your heart again," groaned the old man in the sad refrain. What- tender memories from the past stole across his heated brain with their soothing spell it is impossible to say, bub the singer paused, choked, buried his face in bis hands, and wept. The laughing boys grew very still. " Come, I say, don'fc do this," said one, awkwardly touching the shabby sleeve. "It won't do any good to cry." . "You're right," said the soldier, turning fiercely around. "It won't. It's too late for that or anything else. But when I marched away in my blue uniform at the very first of the war I didn't expect that some day I'd be hooted at by the town boys. I j was nothing but a boy myself, and I dreamed of glory and honour. I done my duty, boyp. I never flinched in a fight yet. I tramped through rain and Blush and mud, and never give up. I ate my rations and drank bad water and bad whisky, and made the best of it. Three months in a hospital and six months in Libby most finished me, but I pulled through. I never thought the folks I was fighting for would forget all about it, and that the boys would call me names if I got a glass too much. Ob, I know it's the liquor done it. Bub tramp all day through the mud, with the rain drizzling down and chilling you through and through,' and perhaps you'll want something to warm you, and if there's nothiDg but whisky perhaps you'll take that, though you'd a thousand times better^ die and be done with it. I know I ain't respectable, but if a man had caved my life and risked his own by doing it, I shouldn't say, ' Ob, he's nothing but a seedy old tramp. I don't owe him anything.' I don't want any of your pensions. The war didn't do nothirg bub make me a drunkard, boys. I hain't lost no limb, nor got a bulleb in "me. So hoot away. If it does you any good I guess I can stand it. But some time, if you happen to be old and friendless and wicked, just think of the old soldier. Well, I've made my Bpeech, boys, and it ain't the Fourth of July either. Bat I love the old flag, and I'd do what I've done right over again, I believe." And with that he limped away. The boys watched him in silence. " Well, I never felt so mean in my life," said Fred Jones at last. " I don't see what we've been thinking about." " And I don't see what our fathers have been thinking about nnt to thrash us for such actions," said Will Brown fiercely. "IE I ever catch a boy of mine," and he made a significant motion with his right hand. " I am as ashamed as any of you," said Paul Weeke, earnestly ; " and I gay, boy?, let'a go and tell him so. I don't want him to think we don't know enough to be grateful now." An hour later the same boys stood bashfully before the old soldier in the bare little room where he ate, slept, and lived. Iv a blundering fashion they expressed their sorrow, and begged him to forgive them, and in a broken voice he answered them, and bade them a kind good-bye. " I Bay, boys," said one, as they lingered at the crossing, "let's do all we can to make it pleasant for the old fellow," and the suggestion found a welcome in every heart. And so the good work began. The elders soon caught the spirit. Little kindnesses, respectful greetings, and even, invitations reached the lonely soldier. Bright young faces looked in upon him. Fresh young Voices spoke kind words to him. It was curious to watch the effect. He walked atraighter, grew more cleanly and tidy in his habits, and at last electrified his young friends by the announcement that, " live or die, not another drop of liquor would he drink." And he kept his word. The battle that was fought in that bare littlo room was fiercer than the conflict of the wilderness. Ib was more than a eeven days' fight. But out of it at last came an old man victorious, though white and haggard and weak. And when, a few years later, his marching orders came, strong young arms bore him tenderly to his last resting place, and young eyes were not ashamed to weep for the soldier who had • fought and won tbe victory. — The Congregationalist.

" The weather is very trying for everybody," says the pbysican. " Yes," replied Mr Meckton. -" I don't see bow my wife is going to bear up under it. When tho sun doesn't ■nine it gives her the blues, and when it does Bhe says it's fadiDtf the carpet^