Part 32 (2/2)

A few words sufficed for explanation. Captain Leigh laid his hand on Tobe's shoulder, and spoke his name. At the sound of the voice he loved so well, his eyes opened, and he said faintly, ”Ma.s.s Cap'n, I done de bes' I knowed.

I keep de boots.'”

”O Tobe!” groaned the captain, ”I wish you had given them up. I would have lost everything rather than have had this.”

”Ma.s.s Cap'n.”

”Yes, Tobe, what is it?”

”De little chillens, Ma.s.s Cap'n; I meaned ter wait on 'em right smart. Tell 'em”--His voice grew fainter, and his eyes closed.

”Yes, my boy: what shall I tell them?”

”Tell 'em I didn't lose de boots; I kep 'em de bes'--I knowed.”

There was a faint sigh, a flutter of the eyelids, and the little life that had been so truly ”de bes' he knowed” (ah! if we could all say that!) was ended.

Very reverently Captain Leigh lifted the boots, all wet and stained with blood. ”I will never wear those boots again,” he said; ”but I will never part with them. They shall be Tobe's monument.”

In the hall of Captain Leigh's house is a deep niche, and in it, on a marble slab covered with a gla.s.s case, stands a pair of cavalry boots with dark stains upon them, and on the edge of the slab, in golden letters, is the inscription:

”In memory of Tobe, Faithful unto death.”

THE CROWDED STREET.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-s.h.i.+fting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come!

The mild, the fierce, the stony face-- Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pa.s.s to toil, to strife, to rest-- To halls in which the feast is spread-- To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair, Where children pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye!

Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow!

Who is now fluttering in thy snare?

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air?

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