CORRESPONDENCE.
THE COST OF THE WAR.
[TO TH1 EDITOR OP THY " SPFCTATOR2
Sin,—It was Sunday, and over the quiet landscape brooded a Sabbath calm. In the fallow, where the teams had left them yesterday, the ploughs were idle, speaking of toil past and to
come, while far away up the slope to the crest of the knoll
stretched a broad field of fresh young wheat,—earnest of that toil's fruition, and symbol of life that springs ever anew from decay and death. There was scarce sufficient wind to
ruffle the tender green shoots, or stir the crisp brown carpet of leaves in the dark woods standing in ordered stillness along the course of the stream. Above the homestead a thin blue line of smoke curled lazily upward to lose itself in the grey
heavens. Though but the first month of the year, the air
was so soft that the cattle were grazing in the open meadow;
they raised their heads and drew round the gate when they
heard the " fogger's" or "fodderer's" step approaching.
" Cup, cup, cup," he called, and with meek dignity the' fragrant, dewy-lipped cows made their stately way across the road and into the yard, where racks of sweet-scented hay awaited them. The "fogger," a mild-faced old man with faded blue eyes, shut the yard-doors behind them, and his• duties for the day being over, he betook him to the little• thatched cottage under the wood where his wife sat solitary by the fire. Time was when a crowd of merry children had clustered about the hearth, but the nestlings had flown,.
leaving old John and his wife to end their married life as they had begun it, " just me an' my minus." The daughters.
were married or in service, the sons in various situations; one of the latter was a soldier fighting his country's battles in far-off India, and many a night the mother lay awake think- ing of her boy in that mysterious country, which she knew only as "over ther," "t'other country," or "furrin parts."
To-day when the fogger entered he found a visitor in the kitchen. It was Miss Grace from the parsonage, who often dropped in on Sundays, knowing she would find her humble- friends at home on that day. " Good arternoon, Mies," he said, touching his hat, but not removing it, for the labourer seldom sits bare-headed, even in the chimney-corner. "I was just a-actin' if them black men warn% pretty nigh all killed by this time," remarked his wife. "I seed t'other wik in the paper as more'n five hunderd on 'em ad been. ehooted, and that's a sight o' folk more'n ther be in our village."—"I am afraid there are a good many left to fight,. Sarah. How is your son Frank? "—" 'Ee war very well when we larst yeard from un—they'd 'ad a ter'ble lot o' fightie just afore 'ee sent 'is letter. Would you like to read it, Miss ?"—" Very much," and Miss Grace stretched out her- hand for the closely written sheets. At this moment there- was a knock at the door, and a little woman, dressed in black, with a deeply furrowed face, entered the room and nodded a greeting to the fogger and his wife. " Well, for sure, if it ain't Martha Roberts ! "said the latter,—" an 'ow be Martha ? "" —" Middlin', very middlin'. I thowt as 'ow I'd like to 'ave a walk over an' ast 'ow you was. I s'pwose you've yeard about my poor Barney ? " and Mrs. Roberts put up her handker- chief.—" Yes, pooer chap, but I never yeard 'ow %was nor nothink ; you med tell we, Patty, I can feel for you, seein' as I've a buoy over ther same as you 'ad. Oh blesh you, you needn't mind she," as the other glanced at the young lady,— " that's only Miss Grace from the vick'ridge, she likes to year about them as is gone far sojers."—" 'Twas young Mr. Home as comes from these parts an' is a orficer in Barney's and your Frank's rigiment—the Oxfordshire—as• wrote an' told I about it. In the tallygram as corned a month ago, it on'y said as 'ee wur killed. Poor Barney, 'ee knaw, was in Ireland, an' ee volumteered for to goo to the war. Well 'ee 'adn't a-bin ther two days afore- they gets a-fightin', an' in the battle Barney gets shot in the leg. One o' the orficers knelt down wi' the bullets all a-flyie like 'ail about 'em, an' ee tried to squench the blood, but 'twarn't no manner o' use, and up 'ee picked my buoy on 'is back, an' run wi' un to put un under a bit o' rock, but as 'co was a-goin' a bullet struck my Barney in the tempil of 'is 'ead, an' killed an dreckly minnit."—" Ah, 'is time was come," ejaculated the fogger, " an' when 'tie so, nothink can't save a man." Mrs. Roberts wiped her eyes. " Ay, 'twas the Lord's will to take un, an' we damn.% murmur agen 'im, but oh my buoy, my buoy !" and she sobbed helplessly. Sarah waited until her visitor's grief had somewhat abated, then she whispered to Mies Grace, "Read the letter ala-oud, Miss, mebbe it'll do she good to year it." The young lady began " Lundi Sotal camp 31/12/97. Dere mother i now takes thic pleasure of sneering your kind and most weloom litter" [" Em'ly wrote it when she wur larst a' twboam, fur rin no echolard," put in Sarah] " 'opin' this, We you well,s0A levee me at present. I am alright cepting for colds. Dere mother we had an awful Xmas day the awfullest as ever i knowed. I was on piquet duty an' I thinked of you and farther, did you think of me? We had a great fight yesterday, but I wasn't afraid. I'se got used to the bullets, but it was a horribil sight, the horribliest sight as ever I saw. I have got a dab at shooting niggers, it is all my delight, but it is rarther danerous. dere mother I am glad you had the shawl alright, rite to me soon—and now I must conclude, give my love to farther, and tell him not to fret for I am alright and jolly. your Loving son frank." " What does he mean about the shawl ? " asked Miss Grace, folding up the letter. ." 'Ee seed one o' the men a-knittin' a shawl far a friend one day, and Frank got 'im to lam 'ee to do't, so as 'ee could make one fur me, bless 'is 'art ! 'Ee sent it off, an' 'shored it too, so as it was bound to get 'ere all safe."—" That was very clever of him. Would you like me to write to him for you, Sarah, as you say you are no scholar, and cannot do it yourself ? "—" I should be more thankful than anuff if you Miss, for I can't write ; no more can't 'is father." With some trouble, paper, ink, and pen were produced. "Place to deerect it to wher 'ee is now, as he'll get it quicker'n if you sends to Freezypore an' they forwards un on; 'ere's 'is number .an' is comp'ny." The important task of directing the envelope safely accomplished, the visitor began on the letter. " What do you wish me to say ? "—" Gie un our luv, an' tell an that I thinks of un every day, an' many times a day; an' say as "ow we wur powerful glad to 'ave 'is letter, an' that we be well "ceptin' tis fur colds, an'—but ther, Miss, I wur allus a poor 'and at makin' out wot I wanted to say in a letter—you jest pat wot you thinks, 'twon't make no odds to 'ee ; 'ee'll be plased entiff to year, I'll war'nt." Miss Grace scratched away for some time in silence, then turning 'to John, who usually left the talking to his wife, she asked gently,—" Have you no message for your son ? " The mild old face twitched, tears filled the faded blue eyes. 4` My luv, an' tell un to goo down on 'is knees and thank the A'mighty fur 'avin' spered un "—the fogger's voice broke— "an', Miss, you med pat a text—you can put un tergether better nor what I can—isn't ther summat in the Psalms about the Lord bein' a shield an' a deefence, an' coverin"is 'end in the—the day of battle ? " The old man broke down, and hid his face in his hands. Both women, she who bad lost her son, and she whose son had been preserved, were weeping softly. Miss Grace finished the letter, and stole away.—
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