Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Title Page
 But the fair guerdon when we hope...
 Arma virumque cano
 A highwayman's heath
 U migraturus habita
 My mind is the anomalous condition...
 Oh, that a man might know the end...
 I will do it
 What is there in the world to distinguish...
 I am a man of no strength
 St. George! A stirring life they...
 Fills the room up of my empty...
 I have fought a good fight
 He that hath found some fledged-birds...
 Back Cover

Title: The story of a short life
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00082155/00001
 Material Information
Title: The story of a short life
Physical Description: 201 p., 6 leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 22 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Ewing, Juliana Horatia Gatty, 1841-1885
Thomas Y. Crowell & Co ( Publisher )
Norwood Press ( Printer )
J.S. Cushing & Co ( Printer )
Berwick & Smith ( Printer )
Publisher: Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.
Place of Publication: New York ;
Manufacturer: Norwood Press ; J.S. Cushing & Co. ; Berwick & Smith
Publication Date: c1893
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Soldiers -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Parent and child -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Sisters -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Dogs -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Blind children -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children -- Death -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Families of military personnel -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Imagination -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1893
Genre: novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- New York -- New York
United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Statement of Responsibility: by Juliana Horatia Ewing.
General Note: Frontispiece printed in colors and text in a wide, gilt floral border.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00082155
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002225960
notis - ALG6242
oclc - 213481651

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Title Page
        Page 1
        Page 2
    But the fair guerdon when we hope to find
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Arma virumque cano
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 22a
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
    A highwayman's heath
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
    U migraturus habita
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
    My mind is the anomalous condition of hating war
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 70a
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
    Oh, that a man might know the end of this day's business
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
    I will do it
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
    What is there in the world to distinguish virtue from dishonor
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 112a
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 120a
        Page 121
    I am a man of no strength
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
    St. George! A stirring life they lead
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
    Fills the room up of my empty child
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 164a
        Page 165
        Page 166
    I have fought a good fight
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
    He that hath found some fledged-birds nest
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

co Ave

i! flu,

':0 L
VR62ji IR

..... V IO

5 5!1


NP, C :Z:L




i W-1


I :


The Baidwin Library
~(J of

*-r._..p.~* ________ ___

\Ye l E Len


o p.\ e


-. 6;sz~~->


, k o -,.I







lKnrluoob I3rt~ss:
J. S. Cushina & Co.- Berwick & Smith.
Bosarc, Mass., U.S.A.

"But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, '- r
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
And slits the thin spun life, -' But not the praise.' -

"It is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to heroic L -
action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense, sugar-plums of '
any kind in this world or the next! In the meanest mortal '.
there lies something nobler. Difficulty, abnegation, mar-
tyrdom, death are the allurements that act on the heart of man.
Kindle the inner genial life of him, you have a flame that burns i
up all lower considerations .... Not by flattering our appe- \ .
tites; no, by awakening the Heroic that slumbers in every "
heart ."



"Arma virumque cano."--Eneid.
"Man-and the horseradish-are most biting when
,' grated."-- Jean Paul Richter.

"MosT annoying!" said the Master of the
House. His thick eyebrows were puckered
just then with the vexation of his thoughts;
but the lines of annoyance on his forehead were
to some extent fixed lines. They helped to
S make him look older than his age-he was not
.' forty-and they gathered into a fierce frown
as his elbow was softly touched by his little
The child was defiantly like his father, even
to a knitted brow, for his whole face was
I"- / \

he fouard to kp, ad which was sym-


.,- '. crumpled with the vigor of some resolve which
24...... ,_ he found it hard to keep, and which was sym- '!
r bolized by his holding the little red tip of his
.__ *.': tongue betwixt finger and thumb.
"Put your hands down, Leonard! Put your
'. tongue in, sir! What are you after? What do '
*,- you want? What are you doing here? Be off .
S to the nursery, and tell Jemima to keep you Ir
S k ..'
-, i there. Your mother and I are busy."
Far behind the boy, on the wall, hung the
..portrait of one of his ancestors-a youth of
'.." sixteen. The painting was by Vandyck, and it ''
'.was the most valuable of the many valuable '
things that strewed and decorated the room.
SA very perfect example of the great master's
* -:'' work, and uninjured by Time. The young .
Cavalier's face was more interesting than hand-
S. -: some, but so eager and refined that, set off as
it was by pale-hued satin and falling hair, he -
;r '. might have been called effeminate, if his brief
life, which ended on the field of Naseby, had
S.,_"' not done more than common to prove his man
.. L .,.
'-V '- 1.-._.*., ,, -. -

4 .t.,- Z it'- '. r -

7 ~ ~ C-~ Y"- N \- -, '"" % ,-

-V! -

:'.; i { ." .- < _.,

hood. A coat-of-arms, blazoned in the corner '.
o\ of the painting, had some appearance of having
been added later. Below this was rudely in-
S; scribed, in yellow paint, the motto which also
decorated the elaborate stone mantelpiece

Leonard was very fond of that picture. It
S^ was known to his childish affections as "Uncle
S Rupert." He constantly wished that he could
get into the frame and play with the dog- the "L ',
S dog with the upturned face and melancholy op,- -' .
eyes, and odd resemblance to a longhaired .
Cavalier-on whose faithful head Uncle
Rupert's slender fingers perpetually reposed.
Though not able to play with the dog, '-
.' q ^ ''" ", -o- :J
-, Leonard did play with Uncle Rupert-the -:-
, game of trying to get out of the reach of his .
S eyes.
"I play 'Puss-in-the-corner' with him," the
child was wont to explain; "but whichever .
corner I get into, his eyes come after me. The
dog looks at Uncle Rupert always, and Uncle
" r :" i: ',.t .-_. "

: '- <" .."-



Rupert always looks at me." "To see
if you are growing up a good boy and a gal-
lant young gentleman, such as he was." So
Leonard's parents and guardians explained the
matter to him, and he devoutedly believed them.
Many an older and less credulous spectator
stood in the light of those painted eyes, and
acknowledged their spell. Very marvellous was .
the cunning which, by dabs and streaks of
color, had kept the spirit of this long-dead
S youth to gaze at his descendants from a sheet
of canvas and stir the sympathy of strangers,
parted by more than two centuries from his
sorrows, with the mock melancholy of painted
tears. For whether the painter had just over-
done some trick of representing their liquidness,
or whether the boy's eyes had brimmed over as
he was standing for his portrait (his father and
elder brother had died in the civil war before '&
.,: him), there remains no tradition to tell. But
SVarndick "never painted a portrait fuller of sad
dignitjye ven in those troubled times.



Happily for his elders, Leonard invented for
himself a reason for the obvious tears.
S "I believe Uncle Rupert knew that they
were going to chop the poor king's head off,
and that's why he looks as if he were going to
It was partly because the child himself looked
S as if he were going to cry and that not frac-
''. tiously, but despite a struggle with himself- I '
.. that, as he stood before the Master of the "
5 House, he might have been that other master .-'
S of the same house come to life again at six years
of age. His long, fair hair, the pliable, nervous
S fingers, which he had put down as he was bid,
the strenuous tension of his little figure under a
sense of injustice, and, above all, his beautiful
eyes, in which the tears now brimmed over the
eyelashes as "the waters of a lake well up
through the reeds that fringe its banks. He
was very, very like Uncle Rupert when he
Turned those eyes on his mother in mute

a| .

I, -

d*.. 4,, '
; : fl', ,


'. .T

-. 4 91 ;-
: ,',- .4 _, '


,.- i

._. -- .
...-../ ...,

Cr .,
*-V*> ,SJ 4J2.4

-a-''z. C~ C 9!~L) r.Q.; c(t,.c







; ~

V. '

Lady Jane came to his defence.
'I think Leonard meant to be good. I made

n promise me to try and cure himself of the
lit of speaking to you when you are speaking
someone else. But, dear Leonard (and she
k the hand that had touched his father's
ow), "I don't think you were quite on honor ?"i
en you interrupted Father with this hand,
ugh you were holding your tongue-with the
er. That is what we call keeping a promise .
the ear and breaking it to the sense." j
All the Cavalier dignity came unstarched in
onard's figure. With a red face, he answered
ntly, "I'm very sorry. I meant to keep my
'Next time keep it well, as a gentleman r.
luld. Now, what do you want ?"
'Pencil and paper, please." V"
'There they are. Take them to the nursery,
Father told you."
Leonard looked at his father. He had not
n spoilt for six years by an irritable and ,

.- I "..

PI. 1 f -

:'i li I(~,?


.-/ 'S" o-- *
U-,LW indulgent parent without learning those arts '-
of diplomacy in which children quickly become
'- "Oh, he can stay," said the Master of the
ZCL House, "and he may say a word now and then,
, ^ if he doesn't talk too much. Boys can't sit:
_' -' mumchance always can they, Len? There, ".- '
;' kiss your poor old father, and get away, and '- ,
S keep quiet." '
Lady Jane made one of many fruitless efforts .
on behalf of discipline. ,'
I think, dear, as you told him to go, he had -
better go now."
"He will go, pretty sharp, if he isn't good.
Now, for pity's sake, let's talk out this affair,
"". and let me get back to my work." '
Have you been writing poetry this morning,
', father dear? Leonard inquired, urbanely.
He was now lolling against a writing-table of ,''
the first empire, wher,- h.r- :- i:'.t.i:'.r I.i\ likely ;
fallen leaves am ong I.|.t s bi,-, .;. '-, ri. '.,:l
elaborate candlestick., .rt:'.':1Ue lettr-cli:r s V

_.. :< '^? t,


and paper-weights, quaint pottery, big seals,
and spring flowers in slender Venetian glasses
of many colors.
"I wrote three lines, and was interrupted
four times," replied his sire, with bitter
"I think I'll write some poetry. I don't
mind being interrupted. May I have your
ink? "
"No, you may not!" roared the Master of
the House and of the inkpot of priceless china
which Leonard had seized. "Now, be off to
the nursery "
"I won't touch anything. I am going to
draw out of the window," said Leonard, calmly.
He had practised the art of being trouble-
some to the verge of expulsion ever since he
had had a whim of his own, and as skilfully as
he played other games. He was seated among
the cushions of the oriel window-seat (colored
rays from coats-of-arms in the upper panes
falling on his fair hair with a fanciful effect of

Sorte le

"He was seated among the cushions of the oriel

,.. ri.r. cj ^e l r^.. f .g# *V .' -. -. i ;.-*. j*;.- ".- *-;

;- _." '.: '?" b '
.canonizing him for his sudden goodness) almost
S-., ,. --! before his father could reply.
S. "I advise you to stay there, and to keep
quiet." Lady Jane took up the broken thread
''- of conversation in despair.
; "Have you ever seen him?" '
S"Yes; years ago."
-'-'" "You know I never saw either. Your sister 'It
t- was much older than you; wasn't she ?l,-
,'4 "The shadows move so on the grass, and
Su,-..... / think I shall
-.-.,- -- U."" k. .. ,' ? '.:' A.. '.'. m urmred
.. L".. k,, 4 ..'1:
L .
-' ".Tcn yiear. V\,-i mna be -ure, if I had
t... '..- 1 been ,-r~r Li up I 'I.ii'li reic'.c have allowed
..:. -. till e marri ., I c.inn t tlhinL 'A hat possessed .
m; if other .
'/ -..' canprint Old
i- '1
.,;.., rr "1 ;:,;.\r'i-. T. U. S.

..-.. ,,* .... -..- .y... I was at *
'' .- E t:lii it thi: t : L ij- .r,' i- ill-luck !"

C6: ,: -";cc) ..--- '.







"Are there any children ? "
"One son. And to crown all, his regiment
is at Asholt. Nice family party! "
"A young man! Has he been well brought
What does-"
Willyou hold your tongue, Leonard?-Is he
likely to have been well brought up? How-
ever, he's 'in the Service,' as they say. I wish
it didn't make one think of flunkeys, what with
the word service, and the liveries (I mean
uniforms), and the legs, and shoulders, and
swagger, and tag-rags, and epaulettes, and the
fatiguing alertness and attentiveness of men in
the Service.' "
The Master of the House spoke with the
pettish accent of one who says what he does
not mean, partly for lack of something better
to do, and partly, tr .c ,.ii.: -:'mi n.'i.Ard 'i..
tion upon his l'c',i :- I-l ui .-.I l: ui.il'
on a couch, but L.:i.. AJ.n'I ..i t u.ii ,l t. a1 u l a l .I
eyes gave an un.. rt' I ti .LI Sh- ...ime o't :11

-- l~i~~ -:

d_.^ ..... .
6 Mrt;-*10a



'.' is

If It' t~


ancient Scottish race, that had shed its blood
like water on many a battle-field, generations '
before the family of her English husband had
become favorites at the Court of the Tudors.
I have so many military belongings, both in
the past and the present, that I have a respect
for the Service-" -
He got up and patted her head, and smiled.
"I beg your pardon, my child. Et ego" -
and he looked at Uncle Rupert, who looked
sadly back again: "but you must make allow-
ances for me. Asholt Camp has been a thorn
in my side from the first. And now to have
the barrack-master, and the youngest subaltern
of a marching regiment -"
"He's our nephew, Rupert!"
"Mine-not yours. You've nothing to do
with him, thank goodness."
"Your people are my people. Now do not
worry yourself. Of course I shall call on your
sister at once. Will they be here for some
time ?"


"Five years, you may depend. He's just
S the sort of man to wedge himself into a snug
berth at Asholt. You're an angel, Jane; you
"always are. But fighting ancestors are one thing;
t a barrack-master brother-in-law is another."
L -I Has he done any fighting ?"
'. "Oh dear, yes! Bemedalled like that Guy
Fawkes General in the pawnbroker's window,
-\ that Len was s6 charmed by. But, my dear, I
assure you -
S Ionly just want to know what S. 0. R. T.
S E. M. E. A. means," Leonard hastily broke in.
"I've done it all now, and shan't want to know
S anything more."
Sorte mea is Latin for My fate, or My lot
in life. Letus sorte mea means Happy 'in my
S lot. It is our family motto. Now, if you ask
S another question, off you go After all, Jane,
'..i you must allow it's about as hard lines as could
be, to have a few ancestral acres and a nice old
place in one of the quietest, quaintest corners
j of Old England; and for Government to come

.." <.. ., -


.. ,^ "- and plant a Camp of Instruction, as they call it,
and pour in tribes of savages in war-paint to
S,'-build wigwams within a couple of miles of your
K' .. lodge-gates!" .

-'" "Dear Rupert! You are a born poet! You
'". : do magnify your woes -so grandly. What was
r. ^. the brother-in-law like when you saw him?"
"Oh, the regular type. Hair cut like a
S. '- pauper, or a convict (the Master of the House
Tossed his own locks as he spoke), "big, swag- i'
.' gering sort of fellow, swallowed the poker and
not digested it, rather good features, accli- .
I matized complexion, tight fit of hot-red cloth,
and general pipeclay."
Then he must be the Sapper!" Leonard -.
'^-. ; announced, as he advanced with a firm step and.
'. '.' kindling eyes from the window. "Jemima's .
-, '' brother is a Gunner. He dresses in blue.
-';. bt the'.' both pipeclay their gloves, and I pipe-
'I~~' ~~c l:i e.:1 mine this morning, when she did the
.''. -.- wa Il1rith You've no idea how nasty they look

.-. 'j' -

r -.
txk e
CJ c


S\ while it's wet, but they dry as white as snow,
S only mine fell among the cinders. The Sapper
Sis very kind, both to her and to me. He gave
her a brooch, and he is making me a wooden
fort to put my cannon in. But the Gunner is
such a funny man! I said to him, 'Gunner!
why do you wear white gloves?' and he said, -
'Young gentleman, why does a miller wear a
white hat ?' He's very funny. But I think
I like the tidy one best of all. He is so very .'
Beautiful, and I should think he must be very ,
brave. ..
That Leonard was permitted to deliver him- t ,'.
Self of this speech without a check can only -'
have been due to the paralyzing nature of the ''
r ., ~, .. '. .
j. shock which it inflicted on his parents, and of
which he himself was pleasantly unconscious. '
S. His whole soul was in the subject, and he spoke
_" with a certain grace and directness of address.
and with a clear and facile enunciation, whi.., 1 i' .
were among the child's most conspicuous nimarlk. .
of good breeding.
-- '+ --

.I *" ,. --
tI -
- 4., ,-
,;..... t./- "- ",..
^**-^-/^ ~ ~ W ''~< 'fl z^'v
13 ^

r ~;r~
I j
rr c

-: 1

~s~ 4~i

'` Ik'.~.



"This is nice! said the Master of the House
between his teeth with a deepened scowl.
The air felt stormy, and Leonard began to
coax. He laid his curls against his father's
arm, and asked, "Did you ever see a tidy
one, Father dear? He is a very splendid sort
of man."
"What nonsense are you talking? What
do you mean by a tidy one?"
There was no mistake about the storm now;
and Leonard began to feel helpless, and, as
usual in such circumstances, turned to Lady
"Mother told me! he gasped.
The Master of the House also turned to Lady
"Do you mean you have heard of this be-
fore ?"
She shook her head, and he seized his son
by the shoulder.
"If that woman has taught you to tell un-
truths -"

I ,




~b~iC, 41


S. ,.


Lady Jane firmly interposed.
Leonard never tells untruths, Rupert. :
Please don't frighten him into doing so. Now,
Leonard, don't be foolish and cowardly. Tell ,.' .
Mother quite bravely all about it. Perhaps she
has forgotten."
., The child was naturally brave; but the ele-
ments of excitement and uncertainty in his up-
S bringing were producing their natural results
in a nervous and unequable temperament. It ,i
is not the least serious of the evils of being ,.-r -
"spoilt," though, perhaps, the most seldom
recognized. Many a fond parent justly fears
to overdo "lessons," who is surprisingly blind
to the brain-fag that comes from the strain to
S live* at grown-up people's level; and to the -
nervous exhaustion produced in children, no .
S less than in their elders, by indulged restless- '
ness, discontent, and craving for fresh excite-
ment, and for. want of that sense of power and
repose which comes with habitual obedience
to righteous rules and regulations. Laws that

:. -.

I *' ,


can be set at nought are among the most
demoralizing of influences which can curse a
r,"t 'J nation; and their effects are hardly less dis-
,, astrous in the nursery. Moreover, an uncertain
W "J .discipline is apt to take even the spoilt by sur-
-' prise; and, as Leonard seldom fully understood
the checks he did receive, they unnerved him.
SHe was unnerved now; and, even with his
~. ,1, hand in that of his mother, he stammered over
.....his story with ill-repressed sobs and much
i ': mental confusion.
"W-we met him out walking. I m-
-1 -,- mean we were out walking. He was out rid-
ing. He looked like a picture in my t-t-
n o'if ", l"m -n quie a
.' tales from Froissart. He had a very curious
.I. .kind of a helmet n-not quite a helmet, and .
.. a beautiful green feather-at least, n-not
'- '-.' exactly a feather, and a beautiful red waistcoat,
;' '.'. 7-: only n-not a real waistcoat, b-but-"
i.. ;"Send him to. bed!" roared the Master of
-".- 1 the House. "Don't let him prevaricate any

....... : C _:

^ ^*^ ''r.^ ^
^-^6 ^YPSS'^^ ^^T

" He does poke with his spear in battle, I do believe;
but lie didn't poke us."

9 '~~


"No, Rupert, please! I wish him to try
and give a straight account. Now, Leonard,
don't be a baby; but go on and tell the truth,
like a brave boy."

he did so.
,' He c-carried a spear, like an old warrior. '- '
He truthfully did. On my honor! One end
was on the tip of his foot, and there was a flag
S at the other end-a real fluttering pennon- e L
S there truthfully was! He does poke with his ?'- ''
S spear in battle, I do believe; but he didn't poke
us. He was b-b-beautiful to b-b-be-
hold! I asked Jemima, Is he another brother, .
for you do have such very nice brothers?' and ..,'
S she said, 'No, he's-'" "-' '-
"Hang Jemima!" said the Master of the "
SHouse. "Now listen to me. You said your "--
S' mother told you. What did she tell you" .
"-. "Je-Je-Jemima said, 'No, he's a Orde. I'; '.
& fl--'
and asked the way-I qu-quite forget here .
to-I truthfully do. And next morn n I
'. '' ....

": r:r' I."' -s _, ^ '.

"' ,' -
,.i '-

-: -" :. t "- :''. -'.- -''i- ., j' -
'-. '*-, ,-J-y ^ 4 ._= .- -- ...- <.


S asked Mother what does Orderly mean ? And
S- she said tidy. So I call him the tidy one. Dear
Mother, you truthfully did at least," added
I)J..,. Leonard chivalrously, as Lady Jane's face gave
S no response, "at least, if you've forgotten, never
S-._,- mind: it's my fault."
A But Lady Jane's face was blank because .-
she was trying not to laugh. The Master
''"-1' of the House did not try long. He bit his
S lip, and then burst into a peal.
... ''. ..':.._I' "Better say no more to him," murmured
S.. Lady Jane. "I'll see Jemima now, if he may ,I-
.'i. ,stay with you."
..' He nodded, and throwing himself back on
'' the couch, held out his arms to the child.
i "Well, that'll do. Put these men out of
-. ''.' your head, and let me see your drawing."
Leonard stretched his faculties, and per- J,
"y','-" ceived that the storm was overpast. He '.
S,; -*.* Lclai rlber.-d on to his father's knee, and their
'-, Ih.i.is v ere soon bent lovingly together over
.. ,.' thl-i inL. h-smudged sheet of paper, on which

I 1W
,-'' W.--* '' ,'

:. j_ C;,, ,- .

y. -, a

' -~'




the motto from the chimney-piece was irregu-
larly traced.
You should have copied it from Uncle
Rupert's picture. It is in plain letters there."
Leonard made no reply. His head now lay
back on his father's shoulder, and his eyes
were fixed on the ceiling, which was of Eliza-
bethan date, with fantastic flowers in raised
plaster-work. But Leonard did not see them
at that moment. His vision was really turned
inwards. Presently he said, "I am trying to
think. Don't interrupt me, Father, if you
The Master of the House smiled, and gazed
complacently at the face beside him. No paint-
ing, no china in his possession, was more
beautiful. Suddenly the boy jumped down and
stood alone, with his hands behind his back,
and his eyes tightly shut.
"I am thinking very hard, Father. PIl.a',;
tell me again what our motto means."
"' Ltus sore mea, Happy in in', 1:t

,' ^,'"^ -'" ,." .-
-^ ^*/-11 .^ ^ *

"K r



~F 7_/ 7


t,~ i,-~


;d' i -
j ~~
.I-..' !L''
'Q? ,--,

i Y~t
" bhij 'r~-~?



What are you puzzling your little brains
AV "Because I know I know something so like
J> it, and I can't think what! Yes no Wait
a minute I've just got it! Yes, I remember
..... now: it was my Wednesday text!" !j -
He opened wide shining eyes, and clapped
his hands, and his clear voice rang with the
t~ added note of triumph, as he cried, "'The lot is
A fallen unto me in a fair ground. Yea, I have a
.; ,:.. goodly heritage.' "
The Master of the House held out his arms
i, without speaking; but when Leonard had
climbed back into them, he stroked the child's
,'. hair slowly, and said, "Is that your Wednesday
text ?
"Last Wednesday's. 1 learn a text every
day. Jemima sets them. She says her grand-
.- -" mother made her learn texts when she was a W'
little girl. Now, Father dear, I'll tell you what
S"I wish you would do: and I want you to do it
., once -this very minute." ,

.. -~; :. vi

't ~ 'JC A4'A,


"That is generally the date of your desires.
What is it ? "
"I don't know what you are talking about,
but I know what I want. Now you and I are
all alone to our very selves, I want you to come "
to the organ, and put that text to music like -i.--
' the anthem you made out of those texts Mother :
chose for you, for the harvest festival. I'll tell -.'
S you the words, for fear you don't quite re-
member them, and I'll blow the bellows. You
may play on all-fours with both your feet and I;. '1 ~
hands; you may pull out trumpet handle; you "
S may make as much noise as ever you like-
you'll see how I'll blow o!

Satisfied by the sounds of music that the
two were happy, Lady Jane was in no haste to
go back to the library; but, when she did re-
turn, Leonard greeted her warmly.
He was pumping at the bellows handle of the
chamber organ, before which sat the Master of '

-. 5.. _
", ,-: "

.a .,/ ),.l "' 2,,:- 'I 'jt


- 3'..?







rr ) I
S ., .

the House, not a ruffle on his brow, playing
with "all-fours," and singing as he played.
Leonard's cheeks were flushed, and he cried
impatiently, -
"Mother! Mother dear! I've been wanting
'. you ever so long! Father has set my text to
S music, and I want you to hear it; but I want
to sit by him and sing too. So you must come
and blow."
"Nonsense, Leonard! Your mother must do
S nothing of the sort. Jane! Listen to this!-
In a "fa-air grou-nd. Bit of pure melody,
that, eh? The land flowing with milk and
S honey seems to stretch before one's eyes-"
S "No father, that is unfair. You are not to
tell her bits in the middle. Begin at the be-
-'' ginning, and Mother dear, will you blow, and
let me sing?"
Certainly. Yes, Rupert, please. I've done
it before; and my back isn't aching to-day. Do
I lt ne !
'j. --Yes, do let her," said Leonard, conclusively;








-n S

__...-_-- -= .-



and he
his fath
when it
first bit
and qui
the Mas
with tl
his mo
sang al
un-to m
'In a
you hea

\I4. .
swung himself up into the seat beside
er without more ado.
v, Father, begin! Mother, listen And .
Comes to 'Yea,' and I pull trumpet -'
out, blow as hard as ever you can. This '.',
- when he only plays is very gentle, -,,
te easy to blow."
breathing of the organ filled a brief
then a prelude stole about the room. I .
d's eyes devoured his father's face, and f ,
ster of the House looking down on him, '
he double complacency of father and
er, began to sing:
lot-the lot is fallen un-to me'; and,
uth wide-parted with smiles, Leonard .
so: 'The lot -the lot is fallen-fallen
e.' I.
fa-air grou-nd.' "
! (Now, Mother dear, blow! and fancy '
.r trumpets !)
/ YEA! I have a good-ly Her-i-- t -.' '

S '.
S .. .
... S... .. ..
.-, v A- "it *_
,",-' -- "

-iiF~ ^^ 5^-


And after Lady Jane had ceased to blow, and
the musician to make music, Leonard still
danced and sang wildly about the room.
"Isn't it splendid, Al:tli-!-r? Father and I
C made it together out of my Wednesday text.
SUncle Rupert, can you hear it? I don't think '".,
Syou can. I believe you are dead and deaf, '
though you seem to see."
And standing face to face with the young
Cavalier, Leonard sang his Wednesday text all
1 1, "'; r' .- ,. y
S. V through:
4-' ",.,'-, "The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground;
S yea, I have a goodly heritage."
'.'.. But Uncle Rupert spoke no word to his
young kinsman, though he still "seemed to '
see" through eyes drowned in tears. r


-" --"an acre of barren ground; ling, heath, br
furse, anything."- Temfest, Act i. Scene I.

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife !
"r To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name."

TAKE a Highwayman's Heath.
Destroy every vestige of life with fire
*'1 axe, from the pine that has longest been a la



mark, to the smallest beetle smothered in
S smoking moss.
Burn acres of purple and pink heather, and
pare away the young bracken that sirii,.
S verdant from its ashes.
S Let flame consume the perfumed gorse in all
its glory, and not spare the broom, whose ii.-,re
S exquisite yellow atones for its lack of fra-r..rancl

*^ -..' .- ;. -- <- .__^ -'


In this common ruin be every lesser flower
involved: blue beds of speedwell by the
wayfarer's path the daintier milkwort, and
rougher red rattle--down to the very dodder r.
that clasps the heather, let them perish, and -
the face of Dame Nature be utterly blackened! '1
Then :
Shave the heath as bare as the back of your
hand, and if you have felled every tree, 'and
left not so much as a tussock of grass or a
scarlet toadstool to break the force of the
winds; then shall the winds come, from the
east and from the west, from the north and
from the south, and shall raise on your shaven
heath clouds of sand that would not discredit
a desert in the heart of Africa.
By some such recipe the ground was pre-
pared for that Camp of Instruction at Asholt
i which was, as we have seen, a thorn in the side .
of at least one of its neighbors. Then a due
portion of this sandy oasis in a wilderness of
lbeauty was mapped out into lines, with military .

'' .. ..;-" '<


:--I- .I-
~' I!

: '.', ., c?



~~~I'j ---

^ .^ ^ ,o c o .7 ,'. L _


'precision, and on these were built rows of little
-li. wooden huts, which were painted a neat and
SI' useful black.
The huts for married men and officers were
of varying degrees of comfort and homeliness,
-' but those for single men were like toy-boxes of
wooden soldiers; it was only by doing it very
Stidily that you could (so to speak) put your
pretty soldiers away at night when you had
S'.,,. ...i j -I done playing with them, and get the lid to shut
,- down.
'~ D dwBut then tidiness is a virtue which--like
at'.ience-is its own reward. And nineteen
Si. min ,vho keep themselves clean and their
.. b -l: ng:ings cleaner; who have made their
ii irc.:.en beds into easy chairs before most
pop"'l"' have got out of bed at all; whose tin
:''" are kept as bright as average teaspoons
: tlhe envy of housewives and the shame of
I' u, ':: .'" I aids!); who establish a common and a
i 1:.l,:la, side to the reversible top of their one
I'.'' table, and scrupulously scrub both; who W

4.. .4 l.- -
C,,, U ro (
., .,_ ...' ^..-.., ., ,


have a place for everything and a discipline
which obliges everybody to put everything in
its place;-nineteen men, I say, with such
habits, find more comfort and elbow-room in a
hut than an outsider might believe possible, and
hang up a photograph or two into the bargain. e i .
But it may be at once conceded to the credit
of the camp, that those who lived there thought
better of it than those who did not, and that "d
Those who lived there longest were apt to like
it best of all.
It was, however, regarded by different people J
from very opposite points of view, in each of
which was some truth.
There were those to whom the place and the .
*4, life were alike hateful.
They said that, from a soldier's stand-point,
S the life was one of exceptionally hard work, and
uncertain stay, with no small proportion of the .
hardships and even risks of active service, and t'" -. k ;
none of the more glorious chances of war.
That you might die of sunstroke on the '
4- -

(^4 .
'> 'k.


march, or contract rheumatism, fever, or dysen-
. s -.,,:-. tery, under canvas, without drawing Indian pay
and allowances; and that you. might ruin your
uniform as rapidly as in a campaign, and never
hope to pin a ribbon over its inglorious stains.
That the military society was too large to
find friends quickly in the neighborhood, and
that as to your neighbors in Camp, they were .
sure to get marching orders just when you had
learnt to like them. And if you did not like
them-! (But for that matter, quarrelsome
neighbors are much the same everywhere.
And a boundary road between two estates will
furnish as pretty a feud as the pump of a com-
mon back-yard.) -'
The haters of the Camp said that it had every ,
characteristic to disqualify it for a home; that
it was ugly and crowded without the appliances
of civilization; that it was neither town nor
country, and had the disadvantages of each
without the merits of either.
That it was unshaded and unsheltered, that


the lines were monotonous and yet confusing,
and every road and parade-ground more dusty
than another.
That the huts let* in the frost in winter and
the heat in summer, and were at once stuffy
and draughty.
That the low roofs were like a weight upon
your head, and that the torture was invariably
brought to a climax on the hottest of the dog-
S days, when they were tarred and sanded in
spite of your teeth; a process which did not
insure their being water-tight or snow-proof
when the weather changed.
That the rooms had no cupboards, but an
unusual number of doors, through which no tall
man could pass without stooping.
That only the publicity and squalor of the
'. back-premises of the Lines "- their drying
clothes, and crumbling mud walls, their coal-
boxes and slop-pails -could exceed the depress-
ing effects of the gardens in front, where such
plants as were not uprooted by the winds


perished of frost or drought, and where, if some
gallant creeper had stood fast and covered the
nakedness of your wooden hovel, the Royal
'Engineers would arrive one morning, with as
little announcement as the tar and sand men,
and tear down the growth of years before you
had finished shaving, for the purpose of repaint-
ing your outer walls.
On the other hand, there were those who had
a great affection for Asholt, and affection never
lacks arguments.
Admitting some hardships and blunders, the
defenders of the Camp fell back successfully
upon statistics for a witness to the general good
They said that if the Camp was windy the
breezes were exquisitely bracing, and the cli-
mate of that particular part of England such as
would qualify it for a health-resort for invalids,
-were it only situated in a comparatively inac-
cessible part of the Pyrenees, instead of being
within an hour or two of London.


That this fact of being within easy reach of
town made the Camp practically at the head-
quarters of civilization and refinement, whilst
the simple and sociable ways of living, neces-
sitated by hut-life in common, emancipated, its
select society from rival extravagance arid cum-
bersome formalities.
That the Camp stood on the borders of the
two counties of England which rank highest on
the books of estate and house-agents, and that
if you did not think the country lovely and the
neighborhood agreeable you must be hard to
That, as regards the Royal Engineers, it was
one of your privileges to be hard to please,
since you were entitled to their good offices;
and if, after all, they sometimes failed to cure
your disordered drains and smoky chimneys,
you, at any rate, did not pay as well as suffer,
which is the case in civil life.
That low doors to military quarters might be
regarded as a practical joke on the part of


authorities, who demand that soldiers shall be
both tall and upright, but that man, whether
military or not, is an adaptable animal and can
get used to anything; and indeed it was only
those officers whose thoughts were more active
than their instincts who invariably crushed their
best hats before starting for town.
That huts (if only they were a little higher !)
had a great many advantages over small houses,
which were best appreciated by those who had
tried drawing lodging allowance and living in
villas, and which would be fully known if ever
the Lines were rebuilt in brick.
That on moonlit nights the airs that fanned
the silent Camp were as dry and wholesome as
by day; that the song of the distant nightingale
could be heard there ; and finally, that from end
to end of this dwelling-place of ten thousand
to (on occasion) twenty thousand men, a woman
might pass at midnight with greater safety than
in the country lanes of a rural village or a police
protected thoroughfare of the metropolis.

_______ ^ s 1*- :?1"- '
I.- VI


But, in truth, the Camp's best defence in the
hearts of its defenders was that it was a camp, '
--military life in epitome, with all its defects
and all its charm; not the least of which, to
some whimsical minds, is, that it represents, as
no other phase of society represents, the human
-..- pilgrimage in brief.
Here be sudden partings, but frequent
re-unions; the charities and courtesies of an
uncertain life lived largely in common; the .
hospitality of passing hosts to guests who tarry
but a day.
Here, surely, should be the home of the sage
as well as the soldier, where every hut might
S fitly carry the ancient motto, Dwell as if about
Sto Depart," where work bears the nobler name
of duty, and where the living, hastening on his
business amid "the hurryings of this life,"1
must pause and stand to salute the dead as he
is carried by.
Bare and dusty are the Parade Grounds, but
B 1 Bunyan's Progress.

,: 1
.1~ -
~i ;


they are thick with memories. Here were
blessed the colors that became a young man's
shroud that they might not be a nation's shame.
Here march and music welcome the coming and
speed the parting regiments. On this parade
the rising sun is greeted with gun-fire and
trumpet clarions shriller than the cock, and
there he sets to a like salute with tuck of drum.
Here the young recruit drills, the warrior puts
on his medal, the old pensioner steals back to
watch them, and the soldiers' children play -
sometimes at fighting or flag-wagging,1 but
oftener at funerals !

1 "Flag-wagging," a name among soldiers' children for
" signalling."


', '" U/ migriaturus habita (Dwell as if about to Depart).
--- Old House Motto.

-. THE Barrack Master's wife was standing in
the porch of her hut, the sides of which were
of the simplest trellis-work of crossed fir-poles,
through which she could watch the proceedings
of the gardener without baking herself in the
sun. Suddenly she snatched up a green-lined
white umbrella, that had seen service in India,
."j: and ran out.
} ." O'Reilly what is that baby doing?
There! that white-headed child crossing the
parade with a basket in its little arms! It's
got nothing on its head. Please go and take
it to its mother before it gets sunstroke."
The gardener was an Irish soldier-an old


A *.Y soldier, as the handkerchief depending from his
S < cap, to protect the nape of his neck from the
sun, bore witness. He was a tall man, and
stepped without ceremony over the garden
S paling to get a nearer view of the parade.
But he stepped back again at once, and
S resumed his place in the garden.
&~ "He's Corporal Macdonald's child, madam.
.'- i The Blind' Baby, they call him. Not a bit of
. -' harm will he get. They're as hard as nails the
~x vs', whole lot of them. If I was to take him in
now, he'd be out before my back was turned.
.i, ,. His brothers and sisters are at the school, and
-. ,'J" Blind Baby's just as happy as the day is long,
. "-i/ playing at funerals all the time."
"Blind! Is he blind? Poor little soul! i
But he's got a great round potato-basket
.'"f in his arms. Surely they don't make that
afflicted infant fetch and carry?"
O'Reilly laughed so heartily, that he scan-
dalized his own sense of propriety.
"I ask your pardon, madam. But there's

51 J :


T >


>11 4',
3' ~,

"O'Reilly! what is that baby doing?"




no fear that Blind Baby'll fetch and carry.
Every man in the Lines is his nurse."
"But what's he doing with that round
hamper as big as himself?"
"It's just a make-believe for the Big Drum,
madam. The 'Dead March' is his whole de-
light. 'Twas only yesterday I said to his
father, 'Corporal,' I says, 'we'll live to see
Blind Baby a band-master yet,' I says; 'it's a
pure pleasure to see him beat out a tune with
his closed fist.'"
"Will I go and borrow a barrow now,
madam?" added O'Reilly, returning to his
duties. He was always willing and never
idle, but he liked change of occupation.
"No, .no. Don't go away. We shan't want
a wheelbarrow till we've finished trenching this
border, and picking out the stones. Then you
can take them away and fetch the new soil."
"You're at a deal of pains, madam, and it's
a poor patch when all's done to it."
"I can't live without flowers, O'Reilly, and



the Colonel says I may do what I like with
this bare strip."
S "Ah! Don't touch the dirty stones with
your fingers, ma'am. I'll have the lot picked
in no time at all."
S"You see, O'Reilly, you can't grow flowers
in sand unless you can command water, and
the Colonel tells me that when it's hot here
the water supply runs short, and we mayn't
water the garden from the pumps." .'j
F O'Reilly smiled superior. "L p~' '
"The Colonel will get what water he wants, i*.-
ma'am. Never fear him! There's ways and '.
means. Look at the gardens of the Royal
Engineers' Lines. In the hottest of summer
''i weather they're as green as Old Ireland; and -i- '.
it's not to be supposed that the Royal Engi- 4, .
S" neers can requisition showers from the skies ;:
when they need them, more than the rest of
Her Majesty's forces."
"Perhaps the Royal Engineers do what I
.' mean to do--take more pains than usual; and t




put in soil that will retain some moisture. One
can't make poor land yield anything without
pains, O'Reilly, and this is like the dry bed of a
stream--all sand and pebbles."
"That's as true a word as ever ye spoke,
madam, and if it were not that wouldd be tak-
ing a liberty, I'd give ye some advice about
gardening in Camp. It's not the first time
I'm quartered in Asholt, and I know the ways
of it."
I shall be very glad of advice. You know
I have never been stationed here before."
"'Tis an old soldier's advice, madam."
So much the better," said the lady, warmly.
O'Reilly was kneeling to his work. He now
sat back on his heels, and not without a cer-
tain dignity that bade defiance to his surround-
ings he commenced his oration.
"Please GOD to spare you and the Colonel,
madam, to put in his time as Barrack Master
at this station, ye'll see many a regiment come
and go, and be making themselves at home all



along. And anny one that knows this place,
and the nature of the soil, tear-rs would over-
flow his eyes 'to see the regiments come for
drill, and betake themselves to gardening.
Maybe the boys have marched in footsore
and fasting, in the hottest of weather, to cold
comfort in empty quarters, and they'll not let 1
many hours flit over their heads before some of
S em '11 get possession of a load of green turf,
and be laying it down for borders around their -
huts. It's the young ones I'm speaking of;
and there ye'll see them, in the blazing sun,
with their shirts open, and not a thing on their
heads, squaring and fitting the turfs for bare
life, watering them out of old pie-dishes and ^ ^^
stable-buckets -and whatnot, singing and whis-
tling, and fetching and carrying between the
pump and their quarters, just as cheerful as so
'.,''' many birds building their nests in the spring."
"A very pretty picture, O'Reilly. Why
':h.l should it bring tears to your eyes ? An old ,,
soldier like you must know that one would
*'- '*, ,:2;

. ,-" .-,




never haye a home in quarters at all if one did
c ^| not begin to make it at once."
"True for you, madam. Not a doubt of it.
But it goes to your heart to see labor thrown
away; and it's not once in a hundred times
,, that grass planted like that will get hold of a '
S soil like this, and the boys themselves at drill all -'
along, or gone out under canvas in Bottomless "
S .' Bog before the week's over, as likely as not."
.' ';- "That would be unlucky. But one must
l-" .,'$. take one's luck as it comes. And you've not
told me, now, what you do advise for Camp
*'1" Gardens."
s "That's just what I'm coming to, ma'am.
See the old soldier What does he do ? Turns
r- the bucket upside down outside his hut, and
S sits on it, with a cap on his head, and a hand-
; .- kerchief down his back, and some tin tacks, and
$ .' a ball of string--trust a soldier's eye to get
the lines straight-every one of them begin-
',:.- ning on the ground and going nearly up to the
.. roof."

.4- -
-.--"' ^:',---

CC > '(


C. .lr'_, S -^ -^^ -- "^ ^ "Ss^ ^ **,,- ,_ ,.

"Beans, madam scarlet runners. These

are the things for Asholt. A few beans are
nothing in your baggage. They like a warm
Space, and when they're on the sunny side of
a hut they've got it, and no mistake. They're

S growing while you're on duty. The flowers are
the right soldier's color; and when it comes to
the beans, ye may put your hand out of the .. ;
window and gather them, and no trouble t ..I 'i
"The old soldier is very wise; but I .Itn-,k I
must have more flowers than that. So I i.. Iit, '
Sand if they die I am very sorry; and i' t:", -
live, and other people have them, I try t.:, -..:
Sglad. One ought to learn to be un-.:lhi, .
O'Reilly, and think of one's successors."
: "And that's true, madam; barring tr.it I
never knew any one's successor to ha' tl- ,
Same fancies as himself: one plants ti ,'--: t,: '
S give shelter, and the next cuts them d('.. n t:-
Slet in the air." ,'
^-4 '* .; *^ ;i

S2.. ,-- .'p,-'
S.'^ ,i--.- ; a.- r'

''!.' ."-_l- 52 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE..

V. "Well, I suppose the only way is to be pre-
pared for the worst. The rose we planted
yesterday by the porch is a great favorite of
mine; but the Colonel calls it 'Marching
Orders.' It used to grow over my window in 4
S -.' my old home, and I have planted it by every ',
Some I have had since; but the Colonel says "
w- whenever it settled and began to flower the
regiment got the route."
The Colonel must name it again, madam,"
said O'Reilly, gallantly, as he hitched up the
knees of his trousers, and returned to the
border. "It shall be 'Standing Orders' now,
if soap and water can make it blossom, and I'm
spared to attend to it all the time. Many a
hundred roses may you and the Colonel pluck i-
from it, and never one with a thorn "
"Thank you, O'Reilly; thank you very
Much. Soapy water is very good for roses, I
believe? "
"It is so, madam. I put in a good deal of
my time as officer's servant after I was in the

o-v "%" ..,,
"- i .. .. .. ...... -

Y 7p g'... c,




Connaught Rangers, and the Captain I was
with one time was as fond of flowers as your-
self. There was a mighty fine rose-bush by his
quarters, and every morning I had to carry out
his bath to it. He used more soap than most
gentlemen, and when he sent me to the town
for it--'It's not for myself, O'Reilly,' he'd
S say, 'so much as for the Rose. Bring large
' tablets,' he'd say, 'and the best scented ye
can get. The roses'll be the sweeter for it."
That was his way of joking, and never a smile
on his face. He was odd in many of his ways,
was the Captain, but he was a grand soldier
entirely; a good officer, and a good friend to
his men, and to the wives and children no less.
The regiment was in India when he died of
cholera, in twenty-four hours, do what I would.
'Oh, the cramp in my legs, O'Reilly!' he says.
. 'GoD bless ye, Captain,' says I, 'never mind
S your legs; I'd manage the cramp, sir,' I says,
if I could but keep up your heart.' Ye'll not t
do that, O'Reilly,' he says, 'for all your good-

.. ._. ":
JI ~ k- i-


every comfort; but the flowers throne there if -

Snye couldn't get the sight of him for roses. He .

.. -was a good officer, and beloved of his men; and
-better master never a man had ce. 'Ta

A r. ..'' h ,: :, .J -,:aki- -'R eilly drew his '
,, .-,.-, eshilentil hole we we ins, and then benth
a.. truth ; and cost Her Majesty morwhy he in lives than
Should have built healthy quarters wife s, and given us

evey comfort; ut the flowers thrdiscove that she if
'awe didn't, and the Captain's grave was filled till

S- ye co uldn't get te sight of him for roses. He to
was a good officer, and beloved of his menroad that rand
'2."":, better master never a man had!" \"
.-A I i .r -'' I aiim. I''Reilly drew his ii

.. ti b-: h -': ;i'.e ly n. ..- i I.i- *,cy, and then bent church,
ai '' .- i i tri: ii.. 'll,.;; wxhy he faiy led tout
:li i. i-t n *r -F a.:'mi I.: iii-ril .i discover that she
:* IiKF :! n 1' I. The matter was *

.it .- ii i :r:'l k i A- -tn-. 1ir *:| jrters were close to i'

t:,.. Ii .:.I i, li' i.: l a-"' .l' I rr t .gh t road that i-an
"p- -[- '-1- I. '-- l:'l I'.'-.'I i: r--i -iL, ,-, il.i-i. I-."yond the church,

,' a. '' it _i
a- i .L;.-''^1 <'' ^ ^ ^ t ''. 1 1I .-*: I .' Li .i iit r, 1I-l; l-' way. From this

_J ; ,- .r1 .
*t /'~ .-- ~ .: -A
1------' L--
-- -.I~ ) 4 % L 'r -t;- ~ rtIT J ... ( ~ w % r,

S- "--' i ,'

,8 ---M
,4 LJ7. -
S highway an open carriage and pair were being '
driven into the Camp as a soldier's funeral was .
marching to church. The band frightened the
horses, who were got past with some difficulty,
and having turned the sharp corner, were '
coming rapidly towards the Barrack Master's '
hut, when Blind Baby, excited by the band,
strayed from his parade-ground, tumbled, basket
S and all, into the ditch that divided it from the
road, picked up himself and his basket, and was i
sturdily setting forth across the road just as the '
".* frightened horses came plunging to the spot.
The Barrack Master's wife was not very
young, and not very slender. Rapid move-
\ ments were not easy to her. She was nervous '
also, and could never afterwards remember what
she did with herself in those brief moments
before she became conscious that the footman
had got to the horses' heads, and that .-1. b1-:c.
S self was almost under their feet, with 1-'.li .I
Baby in her arms. Blind Baby himself ,.. .i. l '
her to consciousness by the ungrateful I:;ili:,n-, ,.

;L "
," '' r / x ,,*-:,-r -"- ; ^
^.^ ^ ^ ^l*:^~ h.~ i "sr': ^-*;';
^*.cr^ -l^;* ''" ^ ^ '-^ ^
V;\ -,- ? / _' .1>--*" .. ~h^ *K 1' ^riR
*^^ *M-f
^b^ *w~c~
~trj~~ ~;

,r A'


,. in which he pummelled his deliverer with his
fists and howled for his basket, which had
S--,' rolled under the carriage to add to the con-
:.-.' fusion. Nor was he to be pacified till O'Reilly
... >AI took him from her arms.
Ky-- 5-k By this time men had rushed from every hut '"
S'.-', and kitchen, wash-place and shop, and were -.
L'' swarming to the rescue; and through the whole
S-: disturbance, like minute-guns, came the short
.-'.,'" barks of a black puppy, which Leonard had
Insisted upon taking with him to show to his
aunt despite the protestations of his mother:
for it was Lady Jane's carriage, and this was
,'' how the sisters met.

a. They had been sitting together for some
.i time, so absorbed by the strangeness and the
pleasure of their new relations, that Leonard
;'.'' I h!is puppy had slipped away unobserved,
..:'- '. I.:ii Lady Jane, who was near the window,
.ii :. to her sister-in-law: Adelaide, tell me,
Si .I.'ar, is this Colonel Jones ?" She spoke

.' : 'J

4j], 'pft ^. r
%S- tA' v -, "


with some trepidation. It is so easy for those '
S unacquainted with uniforms to make strange f
blunders. Moreover, the Barrack Master,
though soldierly looking, was so, despite a very
-.i,. unsoldierly defect. He was exceedingly stout, .
S., and as he approached the miniature garden
gate, Lady Jane found herself gazing with some _
anxiety to see if he could possibly get through. .
But O'Reilly did not make an empty boast
when he said that a soldier's eye was true. .'
i The Colonel came quite neatly through the toy f: .' ,
entrance, knocked nothing down in the porch, .''
S bent and bared his head with one gesture as he
passed under the drawing-room doorway, and
bowing again to Lady Jane, moved straight to r.'.. -:
S the side of his wife. ..
Something in the action-a mixture of -,
dignity and devotion, with just a touch of
defiance-went to Lady Jane's heart. SI.-
went up to him and held out both her hands: -
J' Please shake hands with me, Colonel Jon.- .-,'
; I am so very happy to have found a sister' .- ',




In a moment more she turned round, saying:

.- --- I must show you your nephew. Leonard "
.,'''' But Leonard was not there.-
,. I fancy I have seen him already," said the
S Colonel. "If he is a very beautiful boy, very
S- beautifully dressed in velvet, he's with O'Reilly,
watching the funeral."
.Lady Jane looked horrified, and Mrs. Jones

.. ij ,ked much relieved.
S He's quite safe if he's with O'Reilly. But
-. -'.e me my sunshade, Henry, please; I dare say '
S"'" 1 I.dy Jane would like to see the funeral too." Il
S-, It is an Asholt amenity to take care that you

n js no opportunity of seeing a funeral. It
S:uld not have occurred to Lady Jane to wish

t go, but as her only child had gone she went
..him. A..t u hJ

lingly to look tor
...,rner of the hut t
S .d.1 at that momen
: h afresh.
SThe drum beat ot
.-; i-ike upon the he;

". *L"- --'-
_, ., C ..,
." "r ; : A -" ;, .;
-,' _. W.q s. '

him. As they turned the
:hey came straight upon it,
t the Dead March broke

it those familiar notes which
art rather than the ear, the


-F I- A



r r


C- .-n *m SM,.-5


brass screamed, the ground trembled to the tramp T
of feet and the lumbering of the gun-carriage,
and Lady Jane's eyes filled suddenly with tears ,.. '.;:
at the sight of the dead man's accoutrements ,
lying on the Union Jack that serves a soldier tJ
,- \L' for a pall. As she dried them she saw Leonard. '
Drawn up in accurate line with the edge of
the road, O'Reilly was standing to salute; and
as near to the Irish private as he could squeeze
himself stood the boy, his whole body stretched '. e r.
to the closest possible imitation of his new and .
'"' deeply-revered friend, his left arm glued to his
"j side, and the back of his little right hand laid '

against his brow, gazing at the pathetic pageant
as it passed him with devouring eyes. And :.
,. behind them stood Blind Baby, beating upon
his basket.
.,For the basket had been recovered, and Blind
S Baby's equanimity also; and he wandered up
S and down the parade again in the sun,. I in
after the soldier's funeral had wailed its v.r, r, *,
j th- a aveyard, over the heather-covered 1ul
__ .. *
''-, ; _- ," -" .;-

< ,--s"' : "/ :"' ";-* :'.^. -, ... .;' '
and own he arad agin i thesulI.I~l-J

ale h slirs -1 4 dwie is~llr:
i 111~_ l~iveyar, over te heathe-cvrdI~ll..


~-'-"~~~~j CIQ


'war, and loving its discipline, which has been an incal
culpable contribution to the sentiment of duty the

for him of hard duty) is the type of all higher devotedness,
and is full of promise to other and better generations

George Eliot.
war, andloving is discipline, which as been an incal-

Rupert; and I like the Barrack Master very
much, too. Habl e contribution to t But he isof very active

devotion of the common soldier this leader (the asig
SI-' these two have knocked about the type of all higher devotedness,
and is full of promise to other and beappy with so little. Cot
S', -" ;.,d George E liot. -,

taggers could hardly live more as nice can be,t
SRuptheir ideas, or at any rate theiBarrack Master verynces,
--." .-,."''' much, too. He is stout! But he is very active 1,.
.:,- ,1 .-.i and upright, and his manners to his wife are 'o
-'. -. -v'-,... -A wonderfully pretty. Do you know, there is ,'.'"
"'e, o .t. : something to me most touching in the way ..
.-,,i .... -*-., these two have knocked about the world to- B
-^.' .*1: ::. gether, and seem so happy with so little. Cot-
'^' ,.* *;-""7}:,' tagers could hardly live more simply, and yet
:.'-'../_ :' their ideas, or at any rate their experiences,
*'. ,., seem so much larger than one's own."

Y'" ._ -' .- .,-"
?I"tA ; 1


"My dear Jane! if you've taken them up '-
from the romantic point of view all is, indeed,
accomplished. I know the wealth of your -
f'-.6, imagination, and the riches of its charity. If, ,,,v__
in such a mood, you will admit that Jones is
S stout, he must be fat indeed! Never again
upbraid me with the price that I paid for that
L Chippendale arm-chair. It will hold the Bar-
S rack Master."
"Rupert! -I cannot help saying it it ,
ought to have held him long ago. It makes
me miserable to think that they have never
been under our roof." .
"Jane! Be miserable if you must; but, at '
S least, be accurate. The Barrack Master was .
in India when I bought that paragon of all -
Chips, and he has only come home this year. .'i
Nay, my dear! Don't be vexed I give you
S my word, I'm a good deal more ashamed than .'' ..'N
I like to own to think how Adelaide has been '
treated by the family-with me as its head. ...
S Did you make my apologies to-day, and tell
.. ', ,,

f _. : .
4L,*"^ ^' ., .- _,1 ..-
,.,," .M -


her that I shall ride out to-morrow and pay my
respects to her and Jones ?"
"Of course. I told her you were obliged
to go to town, and I would not delay to call
-.% 1 and ask if I could be of use to them. I begged
-.- them to come here till their quarters are quite i:,
S"* .- finished; but they won't. They say they are -
-.ttr1,. I could not say much, because we .i
'..". i.lit to have asked them sooner. He is
ratl on his dignity with us, I think, and no

-. He's disgustingly on his dignity! They
S* ''. ii:th are. Because the family resented the
Iit.'.i at first, they have refused every kind of

,lp I. that one would have been glad to give him
'-" '.-\' '-I Aielaide's husband, if only to secure their ..
'I r-ii r" in a decent nnsition Neither interest '.'

ni'..r money would he accept, and Adelaide
ihs followed his lead. She has very little of
'hr own, unfortunately; and she knows how
m1 t.ither left things as well as I do, and never
w.uuld accept a farthing more than her bare





. V


rights. I tried some dodges, through Quills;
but it was of no use. The vexation is that he
has taken this post of Barrack Master as a sort
of pension, which need never have been. I
suppose they have to make that son an allow-
ance. It's not likely he lives on his pay. I '-
can't conceive how they scrub along."
S And as the Master of the House threw him-
self into the paragon of all Chips, he ran his
S fingers through hair, the length and disorder .
i of which would have made the Barrack Master k',
feel positively ill, with a gesture of truly dra- .
matic despair.
l "Your sister has made her room look wonder- '-
fully pretty. One would never imagine those :. r
huts could look as nice as they do inside. But
it's like playing with a doll's house. One feels --
inclined to examine everything, and to be quite. .
SL., pleased that the windows have glass in them '.
and will really open and shut."
The Master of the House raised his eyebrows '
funnily. '
,, .. ? ,
". ,. "^; .I, '

',' .- s : S f s ^ v ; ?. ? .-. .


". ;'i''" You did take rose-colored spectacles with
S you to the Camp! "
Lady Jane laughed.
I did not see the Camp itself through them.
What an incomparably dreary place it is! It
makes me think of little woodcuts in missionary ''!( ..
reports-'Sketch of a Native Settlement'-
rows of little black huts that look, at a distance,
as if one must creep into them on all-fours;
nobody about, and an iron church on the hill."
"Most accurately described! And you won-
d''' er that I regret that a native settlement should
have been removed from the enchanting dis-
tance of missionary reports to become my per-
manent neighbor ? "
Well, I must confess the effect it produces
on me is to make me feel quite ashamed of
the peace and pleasure of this dear old place,
the shade and greenery outside, the space above
my head, and the lovely things before my eyes
inside (for you know, Rupert, how I appreciate y.
your decorative tastes, though I have so few

r L\

~K ,
a' Kil


myself. I only scolded about the Chip because
I think you might have got him for less) -
when so many men bred to similar comforts,
and who have served their country so well, with
wives I dare say quite as delicate as I am, have
to be cooped up in those ugly little kennels in
that dreary place-"
S"What an uncomfortable thing a Scotch
conscience is! interrupted the Master of the
S House. By-the-by, those religious instincts,
S which are also characteristic of your race, must
S have found one redeeming feature in the Camp,
the 'iron church on the hill'; especially as I
imagine that it is puritanically ugly !"
There was a funeral going into it as we
S drove into Camp, and I wanted to tell you the
S horses were very much frightened."
"Richards fidgets those horses; they're quiet
-';-< enough with me."
S "They did not like the military band."
"They must get used to the band and to
other military nuisances. It is written in the

: -.
** '. ^ > ^ K s > f M l^ *. % ** l llli .* M ; l ( ^ i ^ ^ .


f i

I .
*' it- 'I ie

tr 3~~ '
*1' ~- (



stars, as I too clearly foresee, that we shall be '
driving in and out of that Camp three days
a-week. I can't go to my club without meeting
men I was at school with who are stationed at
Asholt, and expect me to look them up. As
to the women, I met a man yesterday who is
living in a hut, and expects a Dowager Coun-
t:v.-; mi,.1 h,- two daughters for the ball. He '-
I,-.- ;.,Ii up l his dressing-room to the Dowager, '
av'.l n-il: to.o: barrack-beds into the coal-hole
t,:.r :1c. i,-ii'-_ ladies, he says. It's an insanity!"
Su.- kldi..ti.:1i told me about the ball. The
C.1ri,' ,-_,* rI- very gay just now. They have .
hi.., trc tris:.::ls; and there is to be a grand
FI-.:i- D, tl s week."
.'-, -i., visitors have already informed me.
T lh: ,'. :.-tl to go. Louisa Mainwaring is look-
i!, hl..,.I:som,:ir than ever, and I have always ;1 -
'.:ar.:ic.:I vl.r is a girl with a mind. I took her
r... s:e the peep I have cut opposite to the
i-!.in-m. :tin. I could not imagine why those fine
e,,.:. .- I-Icr looked so blank. Presently she

r- A:& .

,,. 7__- -,
.,'. -FIELD DAYS. 67 .

said, 'I suppose you can see the Camp from
the little pine-wood ?' And to the little pine-
wood we had to go. Both the girls have got
stiff necks with craning out of the carriage ,'
window to catch sight of the white tents among ",, "
,' '- -. L : ,r"- ,,
S the heather as they came along in the train."
.r .s Isuppose we must take them to the Field
S Day; but I am very nervous about those horses,
"''. Rupert." 1. .
"The horses will be taken out before any firing
begins. As to bands, the poor creatures must
learn, like their master, to endure the brazen
liveliness of military music. It's no fault of
mine that our nerves are scarified by any
S sounds less soothing than the crooning of the
Swood-pigeons among the pines! "
S No one looked forward to the big Field Day
with keener interest than Leonard; and only a F;t', .
,r ^ i', ..i., 5
few privileged persons knew more about the
arrangements for the day than he had contrived
to learn.
S O'Reilly was sent over with a note from Mrs.

4 T4
.,w^ ,-'- ." ., '



Jones to decline the offer of a seat in Lady
Jane's carriage for the occasion. Leonard -
waylaid the messenger (whom he hardly rec-
;; ognized as a tidy one!), and O'Reilly gladly im-
parted all that he knew about the Field Day:
and this was a good deal. He had it from a
friend -a corporal in the Head Quarters Office.
As a rule, Leonard only enjoyed a limited 4t71
D ~popularity with his mother's visitors. He was
very pretty and very amusing, and had better
R j qualities even than these; but he was restless
Sand troublesome. On this occasion, however,
the young ladies suffered him to trample their
dresses and interrupt their conversation without
remonstrance. He knew more about the Field
Day than any one in the house, and, standing
among their pretty furbelows and fancywork in
stiff military attitudes, he imparted his news
Sx' lth an unsuccessful imitation of an Irish ac-

J.. _'Reilly says the March Past'll be at eleven
,i-','C a.c,,Lk on the Sandy Slopes."



SLouisa, is that Major O'Reilly of the
Rifles ? "
"I don't know, dear. Is your friend O'Reilly
in the Rifles, Leonard ? "
I don't know. I know he's an owld soldier
- he told me so."
"Old, Leonard; not owld. You mustn't talk
like that."
"I shall if I like. He does, and I mean to."
"I dare say he did, Louisa. He's always
"No he isn't. He didn't joke when the
funeral went past. He looked quite grave, as
if he was saying his prayers, and stood so."
How touching !"
"How like him "
"How graceful and tender hearted Irishmen
are! "
"I stood so, too. I mean to do as like him
as ever I can. I do love him so very very
"Dear boy !"


"You good, affectionate little soul!"
S" Give me a kiss, Leonard dear."
S"No, thank you. I'm too old for kissing.
He's going to march past, and he's going tc
look out for me with the tail of his eye, and
. I'm going to look out for him."
"Do, Leonard; and mind you tell us when L
you see him coming." _'I
:'..: .. ,I can't promise. I might forget. But per-
n haps you can know him by the good-conduct
stripe on his arm. He used to have two;
but he lost one all along of St. Patrick's
"That can't be your partner, Louisa!"
Officers never have good-conduct stripes."
Leonard, you ought not to talk to common
soldiers. You've got a regular Irish brogue, and j
you're learning all sorts of ugly words. You'll
grow up quite a vulgar little boy, if you don't
take care."
"I don't want to take care. I like being
Irish, and I shall be a vulgar little boy too, if

i~t- ~d~,i~C,


Ii a

a .. ,.- ..

"I really cannot go if my Sweep has to be left behind."'


I choose. But when I do grow up, I am going
to grow into an owld, owld, Owld Soldier "
Leonard made this statement of his inten-
tions in his clearest manner. After which,
having learned that the favor of the fair is
fickleness, he left the ladies, and went to look
for his Black Puppy.
The Master of the House, in arranging for
his visitors to go to the Field Day, had said
that Leonard was not to be of the party. He ,-
had no wish to encourage the child's fancy for
soldiers: and as Leonard was invariably rest-
less out driving, and had a trick of kicking
people's shins in his changes of mood and posi-
tion, he was a "most uncomfortable element in
a carriage full of ladies. But it is needless to
say that he stoutly resisted his father's decree;
and the child's disappointment was so bitter,
, and he howled and wept himself into such a
deplorable condition that the young ladies sac- '
rificed their own comfort and the crispness of
their new dresses to his grief, and petitioned '

z o


*'' ,' 4


the Master of the House that he might be
allowed to go.
The Master of the House gave in. He was \
accustomed to yield where Leonard was con- r.
cerned. But the concession proved only a
prelude to another struggle. Leonard wanted
the Black Puppy to go too...
On this point the young ladies presented no '
petition. Leonard's boots they had resolved to
endure, but not the dog's paws. Lady Jane,
too, protested against the puppy, and the mat-
ter seemed settled; but at the last moment,
when all but Leonard were in the carriage, and
the horses chafing to be off, the child made his
appearance, and stood on the entrance-steps
with his puppy in his arms, and announced, in
dignified sorrow, "I really cannot go if my
Sweep has to be left behind."
With one consent the grown-up people turned
to look at him.
Even the intoxicating delight that color gives "
can hardly exceed the satisfying pleasure in

I. ,


110 *-.-; 'k,

( r -'- --, ,

,II vi

.,1 ;'

, t ,K -_ I -..

which beautiful proportions steep the sense of
S' i sight; and one is often at fault to find the law
S that has been so exquisitely fulfilled, when the
S eye has no doubt of its own satisfaction.
The shallow stone steps, on the top of which 4
S Leonard stood, and the old doorway that framed
him, had this mysterious grace, and, truth to
-'".. say, the boy's beauty was a jewel not unworthy '
of its setting.
.. ,. ,- q,- A holiday dress of crimson velvet, with collar
and ruffles of old lace, became him very quaintly;
'-- and as he laid a cheek like a rose-leaf against
," the sooty head of his pet, and they both gazed
~ t"4. piteously at the carriage, even Lady Jane's con-
science was stifled by motherly pride. He was
her only child, but as he had said of the Or- T
,.t derly, "a very splendid sort of one." '
S The Master of the House stamped his foot
*t-.-. '"" with an impatience that was partly real and 'y-.-
." 'partly, perhaps, affected.
"Well, get in somehow, if you mean to. The
horses can't wait all day for you."

r G%
i :' ,-'.\ "

zS, 'yv < 1'"' ^- L^%*^---^/? *y^ y
I m lii^**-e S ^

'- -'' ;


No ruby-throated humming bird could have
darted more swiftly from one point to another
than Leonard from the old gray steps into the
carriage. Little boys can be very careful when
they choose, and he trode on no toes and crum- ., .",
I'-^\t' pled no finery in his flitting. :
To those who know dogs, it is needless to say
that the puppy showed an even superior discre-
tion. It bore throttling without a struggle. -
Instinctively conscious of the alternative of
,,, being shut up in a stable for the day, and left -t
there to bark its heart out, it shrank patiently
into Leonard's grasp, and betrayed no sign of
life except in the strained and pleading anxiety .
which a puppy's eyes so often wear.
: "Your dog is a very good dog, Leonard, I
must say," said Louisa Mainwaring ; "but he's -: '
.' very ugly. I never saw such legs !"
Leonard tucked the lank black legs under his
S velvet and ruffles. "Oh, he's all right," he said.
H-e'll be very handsome soon. It's his ugly


.- r -'
~~c'0 r,

I' rr'

'*, % '- *

"I wonder you didn't insist on our bringing
S Uncle Rupert and his dog to complete the
'party," said the Master of the House.
j5 f.-. The notion tickled Leonard, and he laughed
so heartily that the puppy's legs got loose, and
: required to be tucked in afresh. Then both '
S' remained quiet for several seconds, during
-which the puppy looked as anxious as ever;
,',Pi but Leonard's face wore a smile of dreamy ',
S--.content that doubled its loveliness.
k- But as the carriage passed the windows of
the library a sudden thought struck him, and
dispersed his repose.
f,. Gripping his puppy firmly under his arm,
..t. .L' he sprang to his feet-regardless of other
people's -and waving his, cap and feather
A- above his head he cried aloud, "Good-bye,
Uncle Rupert! Can you hear me? Uncle
-p ert, I say! I am--l tus-sorte-vmea!"

All the Camp was astir.
...-. .- aMen and bugles awoke with the dawn and

L, .._- ..



the birds, and now the women and children of T
all ranks were on the alert. (Nowhere does
so large and enthusiastic a crowd collect "to
see the pretty soldiers go by," as in those | s
places where pretty soldiers live.) -,
Soon after gun-fire O'Reilly made his way
from his own quarters to those of the Barrack
Master, opened the back door by some process
best known to himself, and had been busy for "
half an hour in the drawing-room before his '
proceedings woke the Colonel. They had been
as noiseless as possible; but the Colonel's
dressing-room opened into the drawing-room,
his bedroom opened into that, and all the
doors and windows were opened to court the
"Who's there?" said the Colonel from his
S pillow.
"'Tis O'Reilly, Sir. I ask your pardon, Sir;
but I heard that the Mistress was not well. Hr .
SShe'll be apt to want the reclining-chair, Sir;
S,, and 'twas damaged in the unpacking. I got --

At A
'.. ^ ,< -.. "

,, ,&P.' -, ._.-.
..' -
._S "'- 4Y", r" -
_'.'_, t ;. .-*' % ,:. -" -' _- -



the screws last night, but I was busy soldier-
... ing till too late; so I come in this morning,
for Smith's no good at a job of the kind at all.
He's a butcher to his trade."
"Mrs. Jones is much obliged to you for
S thinking of it, O'Reilly."
"'Tis an honor to oblige her, Sir. I done it
sound and secure. 'Tis as safe as a rock; but
I'd like to nail a bit of canvas on from the
1 \s porch to the other side of the hut, for shelter, i
" r' in case she'd be sitting out to taste the air and '
... see the troops go by. 'Twill not take me five
minutes, if the hammering wouldn't be too
J- much for the Mistress. 'Tis a hot day, Sir,
.-t. -_"^ for certain, till the guns bring the rain
'' down."
:-',^ "Put it up, if you've time."
"I will, Sir. I left your sword and gloves
,9, ~ on the kitchen-table, Sir; and I told Smith to i
water the rose before the sun's on to it."

S"Soldiering"-a barrack term for the furbishing up of
accoutrements, &c.

'" ;'m (,f

* .1 **-j

With which O'Reilly adjusted the cushions
of the invalid-chair, and having nailed up the
S bit of canvas outside, so as to form an im- '' -
promptu veranda, he ran back to his quarters *-
to put himself into marching order, for the
Field Day.
) The Field Day broke into smiles of sunshine
too early to be lasting. By breakfast-time the
rain came down without waiting for the guns; X"
S but those most concerned took the changes of
weather cheerfully, as soldiers should. Rain
.- damages uniforms, but it lays dust; and the
dust of the Sandy Slopes was dust indeed!
SAfter a pelting shower the sun broke forth
again, and from that time onwards the weather
Swas "Queen's Weather," and Asholt was at its
S best. The sandy Camp lay girdled by a zone
i of the verdure of early summer, which passed
by miles of distance, through exquisite grada-
tions of many blues, to meet the soft threaten-
ings of the changeable sky. Those lowering
and yet tender rain-clouds which hover over the '

7" !- ,

.~ ....- .... .,N .c '

-British Isles, guardian spirits of that scantly
recognizedd blessing a temperate climat-e;
"-:' ",- t .-*N
. '- .. 80 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE..*.
'\ British Isles, guardian spirits of that scantly j

i. ""- recognized blessing- a temperate climate;*
-.-, "'' Naiads of the waters over the earth, whose .1
--J ,.4 caprices betwixt storm and sunshine fling such
'. 1 beauty upon a landscape as has no parallel
'-. except in the common simile of a fair face *' -
'~--;.-'. quivering between tears and smiles.
Smiles were in the ascendant as the regi-
*;. ments began to leave their parade-grounds, and
., ;' -_- the surface of the Camp (usually quiet, even
to dulness) sparkled with movement. Along '.
every principal road the color and glitter of .
marching troops rippled like streams, and as
the band of one regiment died away another 1
broke upon the excited ear.
At the outlets of the Camp eager crowds i,,
waited patiently in the dusty hedges to greet
favorite regiments, or watch for personal friends
amongst the troops; and on the ways to the
; Sandy Slopes every kind of vehicle, from a drag
Sto a donkey-cart, and every variety of pedes-
trian, from an energetic tourist carrying a field- -',.

-, -- .- .1 :., *

w .'4 ^ -* "" '


glass to a more admirably energetic mother
carrying a baby, disputed the highway with -.
cavalry in brazen breastplates and horse-artil-
lery whose gallant show was drowned in its
own dust.
Lady Jane's visitors had expressed them-
selves as anxious not to miss anything, and
troops were still pouring out of the Camp when
the Master of the House brought his skittish-
horses to where a "block" had just occurred .'
at the turn to the Sandy Slopes.
What the shins and toes of the visitors
endured whilst that knot of troops of all arms
disentangled itself and streamed away in gay
S and glittering lines, could only have been con-
-.' cealed by the supreme powers of endurance
latent in the weaker sex; for with the sight of
Every fresh regiment Leonard changed his plans
for his own future career, and with every change
he forgot a fresh promise to keep quiet, and
took by storm that corner of the carriage which ',.
S for the moment offered the best point of view. i..

(9 W -42,,
f ~LJ;~~~
5 1 ~ i

_' N pi- -'--

',,' y n 82 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. '

3" Suddenly, through the noise and dust, and
above the dying away of conflicting bands into
--' the distance, there came another sound-
-a.t< a sound unlike any other- the skirling of the
pipes; and Lady Jane sprang up and put her 1.,.
arms about her son, and bade him watch for the
Highlanders, and if Cousin Alan looked up as c
he went past to cry "Hurrah for Bonnie
Scotland "
S.''.. For this sound and this sight the bagpipes
^, and the Highlanders -a sandy-faced Scotch
lad on the tramp to Southampton had waited
for an hour past, frowning and freckling his
face in the sun, and exasperating a naturally ,..
dour temper by reflecting on the probable pride
and heartlessness of folks who wore such soft '
complexions and pretty clothes as the ladies
and the little boy in the carriage on the other '
side of the road.
But when the skirling of the pipes cleft the
air his cold eyes softened as he caught sight of
Leonard's face, and the echo that he made to '

^ '; '': '4' ''
;t: 3
w ~-N -

'f ^ u, ^_ .-- ? *" -- : -> -, .. -

--- ,Y
-^ v -


The Highlanders.
;: (83) ,

F .

7 --- ,

Leonard's cheer was caught up by the good- "
-' ,'i humored crowd, who gave the Scotch regiment
a willing ovation as it swung proudly by. After
S which the carriage moved on, and for a. time
Leonard sat very still. He was thinking of
-. Cousin Alan and his comrades; of the tossing
plumes that shade their fierce eyes; of the c ;
_. swing of kilt and sporran with their unfettered
," ', limbs; of the rhythmic tread of their white feet "i
", '.,' and the fluttering ribbons on the bagpipes; and ',
- _..- 't-* of Alan's handsome face looking out of his '
., -. most becoming bravery. "
The result of his meditations Leonard
announced with his usual lucidity: ,
I am Scotch, not Irish, though O'Reilly is
: the nicest man I ever knew. But I must tell
him that I really cannot grow up into an Owld
Soldier, because I mean to be a young Highland '.
.:, officer, and look at ladies with my eyes like .
.'1 --and carry my sword so!" i

J, ,i
S ', "- -- '
,, l -*i. .- < ." c* .(;,1-T ...



Oh that a man might know the end of this dav's 2
business ere it comes! "- Julrius C esar.

YEARS of living amongst soldiers had in
creased, rather than diminished, Mrs. Jones's
relish for the sights and sounds of military
I life. 7
SuThe charm of novelty is proverbially grasa g ..'. ;
but it is not so powerful as that peculiar s h in

c choice of the sexton of a cemetery who iltr .

years, and then he went to a cemetery at scmel:
d instance to see how they managed matck r .
S there. And, indeed, poor humanity may Lie
very thankful for the e infatuation, since it gcl...-
far to make life pleasant in the living to plan
("" ^' '" I; '.' ; "
(-. ..
*., verythank u lfor the in tua s',..: i_ ", -.: -- ,

: V '
y .
'. .
,_"-..,3 -. 2. -,j- ... ...-. _. ,., -_. ,

'',-." '- A c..-_ -"-4 7--,- -' .-' -- ; '- .
.-Mae -i ,,

^\ 7xfr-i' 86 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE.

folk who do not make a point of being disk
-"^ In obedience to this law of nature. 1-.
Barrack Master's wife did exactly what O'Rl l, '-ii
had expected her to do. As she could ii.:.'.-''
'," drive to the Field Day, she strolled out t: -
S"-- the troops go by. Then the vigor derived fr.i.r '_
breakfast and the freshness of the morning .-ii-
; -.,' began to fail, the day grew hotter, the C.i,-i -
looked dreary and deserted, and, either til.iJ
~' Z-,. ,. physical weakness or from some untold .ii ..-.,
a nameless anxiety, a sense of trouble in the ..i _.
I began to oppress her.
"'" '- '"' it was almost a relief, like the solving of,'
.' K. riddle, to find Blind Baby sitting upon his I;;1
Drum, too low-spirited to play the Dead Ma:Ir.:1 .
S-- ,,l:.;. 1-. .11i the bands had *_.-., ,.-
:-;,t i ir Mi- l:ones made friends wi I-,
i-l''l... | I 'I ii, i im ,:,,:i f her hut for consolation

Sy as ever, standing
,, ,, bat. upon his basket in tim

,,- ,' <- -i.-.... .. .,

.^- .,; -\ ,,- -: ""^ *a .,^'

The Sexton's Holiday Trip.


-~i. :i~i~4 "P ~
_h~ ~"~2~9-

-..-, :^ .* -. _-- ^ ., .^ .,- ..-,-. ,5^ -
-- -
...m. k..,

:-''.'-., 88 THE STORY OF A SHORT LIFE. /
l:..- _.


to the tunes she played for him. But the day
and the hut grew hotter, and her back ached,
and the nameless anxiety re-asserted itself, and
was not relieved by Blind Baby's preference for
the Dead March over every other tune with
which she tried to beguile him.
And when he had gone back to his own
Parade, with a large piece of cake and many
assurances that the bands would undoubtedly

. i '- return, and the day wore on, and the hut
:' became like an oven (in the absence of any
appliances to mitigate the heat), the Barrack
V'-.- ', Master's wife came to the hasty conclusion
that Asholt was hotter than India, whatever
thermometers might say; and, too weary to
-.. '- seek for breezes outside, or to find a restful
"t "- \'' angle of the reclining chair inside, she folded '
her hands in her lap and abandoned herself
S. to the most universal remedy for most ills- '.
::t- .. tience. And patience was its own reward, l
t.- she fell asleep.
S Her last thoughts as she dozed off were of her

P ,
S -'. *A

*',/ 1- ,,. ', -" -,-, ,< >

-' "



_Q. -,-'->,r *- -


husband and her son, wishing that they were safe "
home again, that she might assure herself that it
was not on their account that there was trouble
in the air. Then she dreamed of being roused
I. by the Colonel's voice saying, "I have bad
S news to tell you-" and was really awakened .-
by straining in her dream to discover what hin-
S dered him from completing his sentence.
She had slept some time- it was now after-
noon, and the air was full of sounds of the r
returning bands. She went out into the road i
and saw the Barrack Master (he was easy to dis-
S tinguish at some distance !) pause on his home- .
ward way, and then she saw her son running to "/
join his father, with his sword under his arm;
and they came on together, talking as they
And as soon as they got within earshot she i
said, Have you bad news to tell m- .
The Colonel ran up and drew her i Lian' I -
within his arm.
,. "Come indoors, dear Love." '

,, '- ,..
.. *,, :_.

" '""' ', "- ,- .--
-/ -i. L. M ."2"' ... 3' ,' -'

t: .. .i. i.. -. -


^'-'a You are both well?"
S"Both of us. Brutally so."
"Quite well, dear Mother."
S-'-Her son was taking her other hand into
S caressing care; there could be no doubt about
S the bad news.
Please tell me what it is."
S"There has been an accident -"
"To whom?" ,-
c p "To your brother's child; that jolly little
chap -
-' Oh, Henry I how? "
S "He was standing up in the carriage, I
i believe, with a dog in his arms. George saw
S him when he went past --didn't you ? "
'-' "Yes. I wonder he didn't fall then. I
fancy some one had told him it was our regi-
-"'mruent. The dog was struggling, but he would -'
'- take off his hat to us-" ,
I''' li The young soldier choked, and added with
';difficulty, "I think I never saw so lovely a face.
'""*i".' -' .Poor little cousin!"

. r. ..,.

+ *-. + "- W,
tMS, WL*.
V*^ *


And he overbalanced himself ?"
Not when George saw him. I believe it was
when the Horse Artillery were going by at the
gallop. They say he got so much excited, and
the dog barked, and they both fell. Some say
there were people moving a drag, and some
that he fell under the horse of a patrol. Any-
how, I'm afraid he's very much hurt. They
.- took him straight home in an ambulance-wagon, .
-to save time. Erskine went with him. I sent -
F' off a telegram for them for a swell surgeon
From town, and Lady Jane promised a line if I''
send over this evening. O'Reilly must go after .
dinner and wait for the news." ..
O'Reilly, sitting stiffly amid the coming and .
.' going of the servants at the Hall, was too '-
Sdeeply devoured by anxiety to trouble himself .
as to whether the footman's survey of his uni- ,
form bespoke more interest or contempt. But '
when- just after gun-fire 'had sounded from
b, the distant Camp--Jemima brought him the
Slong-waited-for note, he caught the girl's hand,
S' '

.": .^ 1
r ,- -
... ... ._ .S- _3 ,A




r^ ,2_...,' ,]



Sp ,
',' ,'

" ~ 4- '_ '
,." ,' ,' ,'-

', ... ,

.' *7- I. k"' '"^ '
2- : v_ ; ,.

i S -' :

*.^ t -- -..-r .

i ,

^ '.^
o- *
*/,r -

and held it for some moments before he was

able to say, "Just tell me, miss; is it good

news or bad that I'll be carrying back in this

bit of paper?" And as Jemima only answered

by sobs, he added, almost impatiently, "Will he

live, dear? Nod your head if ye can do no


Jemima nodded, and the soldier dropped her
hand, drew a long breath, and gave himself one

of those shakes with which an Irishman so

S often throws off care.

A "Ah, then, dry your eyes, darlin'; while

there's life there's hope."

But Jemima sobbed still.

"The doctor from London says he may

live a good while, but but he's to be a

cripple all his days! "

"Now wouldn't I rather be meeting a tiger

S thiz evening than see the mistress's face when

1, -. -, ts that news!"

\And O'Reilly strode back to Camp.

G,:hing along through a shady part of the road

9 ttj~2ULA4..- 4

9, L.












-LA -. ..


in the dusk, seeing nothing but the red glow
S of the pipe with which he was consoling himself, ..
S the soldier stumbled against a lad sleeping on
the grass by the roadside. It was the tramping
I, Scotchman, and as he sprang to his feet the two
S Kelts broke into a fiery dialogue that seemed as
if it could only come to blows.
It did not. It came to the good-natured -'-
soldier's filling the wayfarer's pipe for him.
"Much good may it do ye And maybe the ..
next time a decent man that's hastening home .
on the wings of misfortune stumbles against ye, ,
ye'll not be so apt to take offence."
"I ask your pardon, man; I was barely -
wakened, and I took ye for one of these gay
S red-coats blustering hame after a bloodless
battle on the Field Day, as they ca' it."-,
"Bad luck to the Field Day! A darker .
never dawned; and wouldn't a bloodier battle
S have spared a child ?" -
"Your child? What's happened to the ,.

S, '

- .* ,,,,.-.
"'~ ~~ *' .L ,l.

Al- r
4. 4~J



My child indeed! And his mother a lady
of title, no less."
What's got him ?"
Fell out of the carriage, and was trampled
*into a cripple for all the days of his life. He
)that had set as fine a heart as ever beat on
being a soldier; and a grand one he'd have
made. 'Sure 'tis a nobleman ye'll be,' says I.
'Tis an owld soldier I mean to be, O'Reilly,'
says he. And "
Fond of the soldiers his mother a leddy ?
Man! Had he a braw new velvet coat and the
face of an angel on him? "
"He had so."
"And I that thocht they'd all this warld
could offer them! A cripple ? Ech sirs !"

University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs