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An Episode Of The Russo-turkish War

An Episode Of The Russo-turkish War image
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il his wind-shnken tent the soldier slt, laaide blm llares an oll-lamp smokily, i Vhose dim light glooms and llickers on the s sheet II mstling paper thnt with gua eyos id hearl, intent he reads. Now with ;i smile ] Fhe flaxen-bearded suuburnt face lights up,- Bmlle that in the smlllng breeds a pain ' vVithtn hls yearning hearl; the gentle hand , l'hat those sweet loving word hath traced, will he Kvcr agaln in hls protecling clasp I Eafotd ltï Who can teil? He cun but klss, SVith wild inti'iislty, the page that hand Hath louehed. Kuch line, each word read and n-ivad, AI last there Is Bo more. Wltli wlmming eyes He looks, and drinks her name into tiin soul. Yetsee those line, wltb peiicil wldely ruleil, Where largel sprawl big letters helplessly ; What do thcy say, those baby charaeters, Bo feebty iiuge? " l.iivód l'apa. " When will yon come home again? " My own dear Papu !" As hc rrads Ihis the tent to hlin growR darker. His itrong hand trembles, and the hot tears burn In his blue eyes, and blnrthe straggllnR wonls. What need lo see? The wonls are ïuumpad u pon Hls henrt, and hls wliole soul doth feel them tlleri'. Tho wind on gusty wing swêeps hy, and lo With lts wild vo'ioe, his eliild's sweet treble minzles In accenls faintly olear: 11 Loved Papa, " When will yon come agaln? 11 My own dear Papa !" And now his head is bowed into his hands. Hls brave beart for a moment m-, nis to climb Into hls throat and choke him. Hark ! what sound 'l'lms sharply leaps alone, and slays tlie sad Wind-voices of the Autumn nlght, with shrill And sudden blast? The bugle cali "To arms!" And start led sleepers, at lts flerce appeal Half dreamlng clutch thelr sword, and gasping awake, How many Boon to sleep agaln - in death ! And on that lather's heart the pealing ory strikes eold as ice, though soldier there's none braver. Por still above the bugle's th rilling brealh That pleading chlld-volce swectly eulls : I l.(i ad l'apa, " W hen will you come hoine again ? " My own deur Papa!" Across a rough hlllside the llght of dawn Doth coldly creep, with ruthless touch revealing All that by darkness hud been bid, and there, AmÓngBt Ihe Ktalwart forms that stlltening lie Upon the blood-soaked ground, where they He thlckesl There Isone found, with tlaxen halrand beard, Dark dyed with gore, a bullet in hls heart ! A Ciumpled paper In hls hand was eluteheci ; ■c::iirisi the cola Ups the rlgld hand dld preu Borne cblidUb wntiiiK by hls lite-blood italoed. What are the words? One scarce can rejul t hem now ; II Loved Papa. "■ When will yoa come hoine again ? 11 Mv own dear Paoa !"