What if they starve, or on red pillows lie
Beneath a burning sun?
It is enough to live their day, or die
Ere it has even begun;
They only ask what duty's voice would crave,
And march right on to glory or the grave.
THE THREE CHERRY-STONES.
ANONYMOUS.
Many years ago, three young gentlemen were lingering over their fruit
and wine at a tavern, when a man of middle age entered the room,
seated himself at a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter,
ordered a simple meal. His appearance was not such as to arrest
attention. His hair was thin and grey; the expression of his
countenance was sedate, with a slight touch, perhaps, of melancholy;
and he wore a grey surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly
had seen service, if the wearer had not.
The stranger continued his meal in silence, without lifting his eyes
from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the
thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen, struck him upon his right
ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready
intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party
that this petty impertinence was intentional.
The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely
perceptible smile passed over his features as he carefully wrapped it
in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket.
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