Not in the Ranks.The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight on our streets is one of the rarest now; indeed, it is so seldom seen that we involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something that brings sad and often cruel memories. The other day an old man wearing a coat of this kind, which reached to his heels, stopped at a cottage a little way out of town and asked leave to rest awhile on the porch.“I’m a bit tired,” he said to the woman who opened the door, “an’ if you don’t mind I’ll sit here and rest myself for a spell.”“You’re welcome,” said the woman kindly, with a glance atthe martial blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little while returned with a bowl of coffee and a plate of white biscuit.“Eat,” she said, gently; “I had a boy who was a soldier.”“But I’m not a soldier,” answered the old man. “I never was a soldier; my boy went to war and was killed. He was all I had, too. This coat was his; seems like he’s near me when I have it on. I gave him to his country; the handsomest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole regiment. God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No; I never was a soldier.”The woman went in and brought out some cake and the whitest honey, and added it to the coffee and biscuit.“Are you alone in the world?” she asked.“Oh, no,” answered the old man, cheerfully; “I’ve got a sister, but she’s old and lame, and she has a daughter that is sickly and ailing. You see I have them to work for, and they are a sight of comfort to me. Many’s the time I’d have broken down since Mary died but for them poor critters. Mary was my wife, ma’am; she was a master hand to nuss sick folks, and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go into the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these sixteen years ago; but she did a heap of good work first. Many a soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall! Mary, darlin’, God wanted ye in the ranks up there; I’ve often wished that I had been a soldier, if only to be fit for the little mother and Tim; but I never was.”He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and offered to pay for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn silver; but the woman shook her head.“Put back your money. My son was a soldier,” she said.“But I am not a soldier. Well, well,” (as he looked into her face,) “I thank you, and I take it for his sake.”He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned away. As he walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, the long skirt of his army overcoat struck bright and blue against the splendor of the sunset; he shaded his eyes with one trembling hand and looked wistfully at the rose and amethyst door that seemed to open in the west. What saw he there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a small, homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. Ay, and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he passed down into the shadows and disappeared.The woman at the gate looked after him.“No soldier!” she said gently, “but I wonder if the boy who died on his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or sacrificed as much to his country? All the soldiers didn’t go into the war with flying flags and rolling drums. Some of them stayed at home and fought harder battles. I’m glad I gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a brave one, too, and one day he will know it!”And I think she was right.—Detroit Free Press.
Not in the Ranks.The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight on our streets is one of the rarest now; indeed, it is so seldom seen that we involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something that brings sad and often cruel memories. The other day an old man wearing a coat of this kind, which reached to his heels, stopped at a cottage a little way out of town and asked leave to rest awhile on the porch.“I’m a bit tired,” he said to the woman who opened the door, “an’ if you don’t mind I’ll sit here and rest myself for a spell.”“You’re welcome,” said the woman kindly, with a glance atthe martial blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little while returned with a bowl of coffee and a plate of white biscuit.“Eat,” she said, gently; “I had a boy who was a soldier.”“But I’m not a soldier,” answered the old man. “I never was a soldier; my boy went to war and was killed. He was all I had, too. This coat was his; seems like he’s near me when I have it on. I gave him to his country; the handsomest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole regiment. God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No; I never was a soldier.”The woman went in and brought out some cake and the whitest honey, and added it to the coffee and biscuit.“Are you alone in the world?” she asked.“Oh, no,” answered the old man, cheerfully; “I’ve got a sister, but she’s old and lame, and she has a daughter that is sickly and ailing. You see I have them to work for, and they are a sight of comfort to me. Many’s the time I’d have broken down since Mary died but for them poor critters. Mary was my wife, ma’am; she was a master hand to nuss sick folks, and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go into the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these sixteen years ago; but she did a heap of good work first. Many a soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall! Mary, darlin’, God wanted ye in the ranks up there; I’ve often wished that I had been a soldier, if only to be fit for the little mother and Tim; but I never was.”He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and offered to pay for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn silver; but the woman shook her head.“Put back your money. My son was a soldier,” she said.“But I am not a soldier. Well, well,” (as he looked into her face,) “I thank you, and I take it for his sake.”He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned away. As he walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, the long skirt of his army overcoat struck bright and blue against the splendor of the sunset; he shaded his eyes with one trembling hand and looked wistfully at the rose and amethyst door that seemed to open in the west. What saw he there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a small, homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. Ay, and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he passed down into the shadows and disappeared.The woman at the gate looked after him.“No soldier!” she said gently, “but I wonder if the boy who died on his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or sacrificed as much to his country? All the soldiers didn’t go into the war with flying flags and rolling drums. Some of them stayed at home and fought harder battles. I’m glad I gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a brave one, too, and one day he will know it!”And I think she was right.—Detroit Free Press.
The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight on our streets is one of the rarest now; indeed, it is so seldom seen that we involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something that brings sad and often cruel memories. The other day an old man wearing a coat of this kind, which reached to his heels, stopped at a cottage a little way out of town and asked leave to rest awhile on the porch.
“I’m a bit tired,” he said to the woman who opened the door, “an’ if you don’t mind I’ll sit here and rest myself for a spell.”
“You’re welcome,” said the woman kindly, with a glance atthe martial blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little while returned with a bowl of coffee and a plate of white biscuit.
“Eat,” she said, gently; “I had a boy who was a soldier.”
“But I’m not a soldier,” answered the old man. “I never was a soldier; my boy went to war and was killed. He was all I had, too. This coat was his; seems like he’s near me when I have it on. I gave him to his country; the handsomest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole regiment. God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No; I never was a soldier.”
The woman went in and brought out some cake and the whitest honey, and added it to the coffee and biscuit.
“Are you alone in the world?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” answered the old man, cheerfully; “I’ve got a sister, but she’s old and lame, and she has a daughter that is sickly and ailing. You see I have them to work for, and they are a sight of comfort to me. Many’s the time I’d have broken down since Mary died but for them poor critters. Mary was my wife, ma’am; she was a master hand to nuss sick folks, and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go into the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these sixteen years ago; but she did a heap of good work first. Many a soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall! Mary, darlin’, God wanted ye in the ranks up there; I’ve often wished that I had been a soldier, if only to be fit for the little mother and Tim; but I never was.”
He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and offered to pay for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn silver; but the woman shook her head.
“Put back your money. My son was a soldier,” she said.
“But I am not a soldier. Well, well,” (as he looked into her face,) “I thank you, and I take it for his sake.”
He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned away. As he walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, the long skirt of his army overcoat struck bright and blue against the splendor of the sunset; he shaded his eyes with one trembling hand and looked wistfully at the rose and amethyst door that seemed to open in the west. What saw he there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a small, homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. Ay, and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he passed down into the shadows and disappeared.
The woman at the gate looked after him.
“No soldier!” she said gently, “but I wonder if the boy who died on his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or sacrificed as much to his country? All the soldiers didn’t go into the war with flying flags and rolling drums. Some of them stayed at home and fought harder battles. I’m glad I gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a brave one, too, and one day he will know it!”
And I think she was right.
—Detroit Free Press.