A WEIRD WAR STORY.

Woodville Examiner, Volume XXVII, Issue 4514, 11 April 1913, Page 3 (Supplement)

A WEIRD WAR STORY.

A weird story is told of Soion Ivon by an ox-soldier of tho Scottish Rifles whowas wounded and disabled on the elopeA sergeant of the regiment lay a* full length shot through the brain, vet even in death the man looked like « lighting machine suddenly gone out of order. His rifle was pressed against his shoulder, Jus left hand grasped the barrel on tho under side, the forefinger of the right hand pressed the triggerlighrly, tho_ba.rr.ol rested out upon a rock, and his death-dulled, eye still glared' along the sights, for dissolution had come to him with awful suddenness, just as he had bent his head to fire ar those who shot him, and now his hands- - had stiffened in tho unbcndablo stiffness of eternal sleep. A Boer combatant saw tho sergeant as ho lay, and with rude hands he grasped tho rifle by the barrel and tried to jerk it from tho dead man’s grin, but as ho pulled ho brought tho rifle in it lino with his own breast, and the unyielding finger on the trigger did tho rest—tho rifle spoke from the dead soldier s hand, and the huTlct passed" tli rough the Boer’s heart, stretching, him dead beside the Briton. Tho e.oldior who relates the story wasiymg a few yards distant from his' noncommissioned officer wounded in the knee-joint, and. was an ovc-wi in css oftho tragic occurrence. LIE THAT LOST A FORTUNE. Many years ago a friend of tho writer’s was at school at Harrow, and returning along the road by the bathingplace—to Harrovians “dneker”— politely went to the assistance of a stout farmer on horseback, in difficulties with a gate-lock. Ho opened the ga to, and held it hick for tho rider to pa c s. “Thank you, my boy,” said the farmer, ono of the wealthy Middlesex graziers who own largo tracts of the Harrow and Pinner lands. “What may your name be?” “My uamoks Green,” returned tlioboy, with an ill-timed burst of the imagination. “And what is yonr. father?” “Oh, my father’s a cheesemonger. ,r ' Raid tho smart scholar, chuckling internally at his ready wit, “and he livesm London at tno Theobald’s Road,rather a, small shop, -with two steps leading down out of the street.” “I’m very much obliged to yon,” replied tho farmer, by no means—as it afterwards appeared —a man of straw. “You’re a capital young chap. I shan’t forget you.” “I>on’t,” was the scholar's finale thrust. “Remember Green, and a--cheesemonger in Theobald's Road.” Then up tho hill he went, almost ns much pleased with himself as if he had been asked to play against Eton at Lord’s. What his feelings may have beortwhen, ten years later, a young gentle—man of the name of Green was adver—tised for, whoso father kept a cheesemonger's shop in the Theobald’s Road, and who, in return for politely opening a gate at Harrow, on a certain day of a specified year, was loft a large legacy by tho wealthy farmer, recently dc- - ceased—what his feelings were then none of his relatives cared to inquirer too closely; but it was observed by all that, from that hour, the unhappyyoung man never lest an opjiortunity of insisting on tho incalculable blossingxof tho most rigid adherence to truth v of tho disasters invariably incident to. even a momentary deviation, from which virtue he himself -was a mosp marked and melancholy example. For neither was his name Green, nor anything approaching it, nor had his father, a quiet country gentlemanover, even in the remotest fashion, been interested in cheese; indeed, as his son has been heard pathetically toremark, in tho smallest ouantitj it invariably disagreed with him. NEARLY ALL GONE. When James T. Brady first opened lawyer’s office in New York ho took abasement room which had previously occupied by a. cobbler. Ho was somewhat annoyed by tho previous occupant’s callers and irritated by the fact that bo had few of his own. One day - an I rishman entered. “The cobbler’s gone, I see,” ho sate?’— “I should think ho has,” fartly responded Brady. "And what do you sell?” said ’bovisitor, looking at the solitary tableand a few I Kicks. “ Blockheads,” responded. Brady. “Begorra.” said tho Irishman, "vein list he doing a inightw fine business; yo ain’t got but one left.”" ~CUT DOWN. • From Germany comes this story aibnugi a novelist and an editor. The editm" had ordered a story of a certain length, and tho novelist had written several hundred words too many. In order t*. mako the story fit tho space at Lis disposal the last few paragraphs were cort- ; densed into a single non fence. This is. the way it road—“ Von Berkon took atsmall glass of whisky, his hat, his departure, no notice of his pursuers, a re-*— j volvc.r out of his pocket, and, finally , bis life!”