round, and it came slantwise and waned and disappeared in the immense
length of the Barrel. He stood near the tap with his brows knit as
upon some very important task, and all we, gunners and drivers of the
battery, began unhooking our mugs and passing them to him.

There were nearly a hundred, and he filled them all; not in jollity,
but like a man offering up a solemn sacrifice. We also, entering into
his mood, passed our mugs continually, thanking him in a low tone and
keeping in the main silent. A few linesmen lounged at the door; he
asked for their cups and filled them. He bade them fetch as many of
their comrades as cared to come; and very soon there was a circulating
crowd of men all getting wine of Brule and murmuring their
congratulations, and he was willing enough to go on giving, but we
stopped when we saw fit and the scene ended. I cannot tell what
prodigious measure of wine he gave away to us all that night, but when
he struck the roof of the cask it already sounded hollow. And when we
had made a collection which he had refused, he went to sleep by his
oxen, and we to our straw in other barns. Next day we started before
dawn, and I never saw him again.

This is the story of the wine of Brule, and it shows that what men
love is never money itself but their own way, and that human beings
love sympathy and pageant above all things. It also teaches us not to
be hard on the rich.

I walked along the valley of the Moselle, and as I walked the long
evening of summer began to fall. The sky was empty and its deeps
infinite; the clearness of the air set me dreaming. I passed the turn
where we used to halt when we were learning how to ride in front of
the guns, past the little house where, on rare holidays, the boys