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A SPARTAN MOTHER
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rounded by a group of officers, who were trying to make her take a bite to eat, telling her over and over again of the most brilliant and daring deed they had ever witnessed, that of her hero son. At the sight of the doctor 's grim face, and at a significant gesture from him, they drew to one side.
"Mrs. Marye, I have just come from your son, ' ' he said quietly.
' * They tell me he is wounded. Can I see him now ? ' ' she asked, eagerly.
"Mrs. Marye— he is dead!"
The young doctor could never quite understand the care worn mother's look, voice or emotion on receiving this intelligence.
"Dead — yet, oh, doctor what a death for my son ! ' ' Her eyes glowed with anything but grief. "If he had died five hours ago, I must have died, too, of grief! But now, doctor, now it seems as tho I had lost my son and found him again." She paused a moment, a dreamy look coming into her eyes. Then softly: "And so he is dead — my brave, brave Bobbie! I am strangely happy, doctor, because of the way my boy died. I am ready to go with you."
The two passed silently down the little path where the mother had once led the curly-headed boy for summer evening walks, planning for him a brilliant future among the same stars that shone above them now. There was no thought of war then.
Under the shadow of a great tree, where the glow from the dying embers of his old home shone feebly, the only torch for his bier, lay the boy, still wrapped in his country's bulletpierced flag.
The doctor stood apart, watching the hundreds of fires that dotted the hillside and thinking of the boy's strange whispered words just before he expired. "Doctor," he had said, ' ' I must tell some one — put your head closer. It was my mother — my dear old mother — that saved our men and won the day. My only thought was to escape from death. I was flying to the enemy — a traitor ! I could not die with this ! ' '
Then the doctor stole silently away and left the desolated woman with her de,ad and the glorious memory that had sprung up out of the ruins !
The Awakening
By M. E. LEFFERTS
I was the one you sougbt to save, As you climbed the lofty tower ;
'Twas for my life you risked your own, At that last and fatal hour.
For me your fingers clutched the bell, As back and forth you bravely swung ;
And just because you love me so, With torn and bleeding hands you clung.
And no one heard the great bell clang, And no one saw you, pale with fright,
Descending the narrow stairs with pain, Out of the darkened tower at night.
Down the road the Governor came, While you stood with sick'ning fear,
And in the dust, at his feet, you knelt, As you bade him your sorrow hear.
Feebly your parcht lips told it all, Your torn hands spoke aloud ;
The Governor raised you to his side — To save my life, he vowed.
He called me from my prison cell — "Young man," he said, "you're free !
This maiden saved your life, not I ; She loves you well, you see."
You stood apart with downcast eyes,
Waiting for me to clasp you tight — When somebody said: "Cant you MOVE, young man?" And I saw on the screen — GOOD NIGHT !