"Well, Jean," said the old nobleman, kindly shaking the conscript's hand, "you must go, it seems, this time. I am sorry we could not buy you off again; but you are built of too tempting soldier-stuff to remain a peaceful village blacksmith."

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte," said the sergeant, "it is n't often we find such stalwart fellows nowadays. The villagers all speak well of him, and seem to begrudge him even to the Emperor."

"Yes," replied the Count; "Jean is a good boy. I know him well; he was the foster-brother of my son. Here, Jean, is a letter to the Captain. You may meet him somewhere. You may possibly serve in the same regiment. If so, I commend him to you. He is not so strong as you are, and he is brave to rashness. Watch over him, I pray you."

"Ah, Monsieur le Comte, believe me, I would gladly give my life for dear Captain Henri."

"I do believe you, Jean. Adieu!"

"Adieu!"

Jean Moreau, the handsome young blacksmith, left in his native hamlet a widowed mother, a good, sensible woman, formerly nurse at the chateau, but who, since the Revolution, had adopted the calling of a blanchisseuse, or laundress. "Mother Moreau," as everybody called her, had another son than Jean, fortunately too young to be drafted as a conscript. Years before, this good woman had taken home a poor little orphan girl, who had grown up to be as a daughter to her, and more than a sister to Jean. Marie Lenoir, the pretty young blanchisseuse, was in truth his betrothed wife. The little bouquet of May rosebuds and forget-me-nots in his button-hole was her parting gift. As on the hill by the chateau he turned for his last look at the dear little hamlet, nestled in the pleasant valley, he was not ashamed to press those flowers to his lips,—not ashamed of the tears that fell on them. He was too manly to fear being thought unmanly.

Months went by,—months of sad anxiety to Mother Moreau and Marie Lenoir, for they heard very unfrequently from Jean, and knew that he was always in danger. He did not take kindly to a soldier's life, but he tried faithfully to do his duty, so could not be altogether unhappy. After he had once seen the great Emperor, he felt the enthusiasm which that wonderful man always inspired, and longed to do something grand to merit his praise. Then, by a strange and happy chance, he found himself in the same regiment with his beloved foster-brother, Captain De Lorme.

At length there rang over France the news of the great battle of Austerlitz, where the Emperor commanded in person, and defeated his foes with fearful slaughter. After a time of painful suspense, the Count De Lorme had word that his son had been badly wounded, and set out at once for the hospital in which the young officer had been left. But many weeks went by, and no tidings, good or evil, came to the friends of the conscript. Mother Moreau, who was a brave woman, inured to trouble, kept up a hopeful heart; but Marie Lenoir rapidly lost the roses from her cheeks and the spring from her step, while the laughing light of her soft brown eyes gave place to a look of sadness and fear.

But where was Jean? Not dead, as his friends feared. Not buried forever out of their loving sight, in the soldier's crowded and bloody grave. He was lying at the same hospital which had received his foster-brother, very ill from several severe wounds; and when at last he rose from his bed, and staggered out into the court, one sleeve of his military coat hung limp and empty at his side. If Jean Moreau had not given his life for Captain Henri, he had laid down in his service what was almost as dear,—his good right arm. This was the story of it. In a part of the field where the battle raged most fiercely, Captain De Lorme's company, in which Jean was then enrolled, was engaged. At one time they were right under the eye of the Emperor, and fought with renewed ardor and courage.

The enemy was in great force here, and desperate charges were made on both sides. Seeing the standard-bearer of his regiment fall, and the banner in the hands of the enemy, Captain De Lorme dashed forward to recover it. This he did, and was gallantly fighting his way back to the French ranks, when he fell, pierced in the breast by a ball, and bleeding from more than one bayonet-thrust. In an instant there stood over him the tall, powerful form of the young blacksmith. Flinging down his musket, and seizing the sword which the wounded officer had dropped, he kept off all assailants, or cut them down with terrible strokes of that keen and bloody weapon, flashing about him, here, there, on every side, like red lightning. Lifting the fainting young noble, together with the standard, and bearing them on his left arm, Jean actually fought his way out of the enemy's ranks, step by step, defending both his precious charges. He received several wounds, but none that disabled him, till a musket-ball went crashing through the bones of his right arm, and it dropped helpless at his side. When at last he fell, and closed his brave eyes in a long, deep swoon, which he believed the sleep of death, he was at the foot of a little eminence on which Napoleon sat on his war-horse, surveying the terrible scene of carnage,—the surging sea of battle that raged around him. Jean wondered if the smoke of the cannon veiled from his calm eyes the agony of dying men, and if their groans came to his ears between the volleys of musketry, in the pauses of stormy battle music.

As soon as Jean was able to leave his ward, he was permitted to visit his captain, who, however, was still very low from a fever induced by his wounds. For the most time he was unconscious or delirious, and recognized no one. The old Count was with him, but evidently knew not who had saved the life that flickered faintly in the breast of his son, and Jean was not the man to inform him.

About a fortnight later, near the close of a weary day, two discharged and maimed soldiers approached the secluded hamlet of De Lorme. The elder was crippled by a shot in the knee, the younger had lost an arm,—his right arm. He was pale and thin from illness, and on one cheek was a bright red seam, from a deep sabre-cut. So Jean, the handsome young conscript, came home.

He had borne his misfortune very cheerfully at first, but now at every step he grew gloomy and lost courage. To his comrade, Jaques Paval, he frankly confided his trouble.

It was a fear that, maimed and disfigured as he was, his Marie would no longer be willing to accept him for her husband. This fear grew so strong on him, that, when they came in sight of the dear old cottage, he paused in an olive-grove, and sent his friend forward to prepare his betrothed and his mother for the sad change they must see in him.



Jaques found Marie leaning over the gate, looking down the street. She was always looking out for returned soldiers now. She seemed disappointed that Jaques was not Jean, but greeted him kindly, and soon drew from him all he had to tell of her doubting lover. Calling Mother Moreau, and Jean's young brother, she ran before them down the street, and soon cheered the sinking heart under the olive-trees with a glad embrace and a welcome home. Then came the young brother, laughing loud to keep from crying, and affecting not to see that dangling coat-sleeve, or to miss the grasp of the lost right hand. Then the mother, thanking God, as she fell on the breast of her son, putting the hair from his scarred forehead and blessing him. Pretty Marie had shrunk a little from that ugly red mark on his cheek, but the mother kissed that very spot most tenderly, with murmurs of pitying love.

The next day, Jean generously offered to free Marie from her engagement; but she would not be freed, reproaching him with tears for thinking so poorly of her as to suppose she would forsake him when he needed her most.

"But, Marie," he said, "we shall be so poor. My pension will be small, and I can do little with only a left arm."

"But, Jean, I am young and strong, and—"

"God and the saints will help us," interposed Mother Moreau.

Jean and Marie responded by silently crossing themselves; and the marriage was fixed for the first Sunday of the next month.

On the evening before the wedding the Count De Lorme, who had lately returned to the chateau, sent word to Mother Moreau, that, with the permission of the wedding-party, he would be present at the church, to give away the bride.

With that perfect punctuality which is a part of true politeness, he came at the exact time appointed; and, leaning on his arm, there came a slight, pale young officer, Captain Henri, now Colonel De Lorme. With respectful eagerness Jean stepped forward to greet him, and, in his joy and faithful devotion, would have kissed the hand held forth, but that De Lorme, with a sudden impulse of affection, extended his arms, and the brothers in heart embraced. This is a custom in France with men, but only when they are equal in rank. At this moment the young noble caught sight of that mournful empty sleeve. A look of pain crossed his face; he gently lifted the sleeve and pressed it to his lips.

"Jean," he said at last, in a soft, unsteady voice, "I bring you good news! The Emperor himself witnessed your gallant conduct in rescuing me and our colors, and if you had not been disabled, you would have been promoted. As it is, you will receive the pension of a lieutenant. And, Jean, I give you joy, mon frere (my brother), he sends you this, the highest reward of a brave soldier of France, the best wedding present for a hero."

With these words the young Colonel placed on the breast of the poor conscript a shining ornament,—the grand cross of the Legion of Honor!

So the wedding of Jean and Marie was a merry one after all. The good old Count not only gave away the bride, but gave with her a nice little dot, or portion. All the villagers who were rich enough gave them presents, and the poor gave blessings, which doubtless turned into good things in time.

Marie Moreau proved such an energetic, devoted wife, that Jean felt that he had more than got his right arm back again; yet he was no idler, for he found that with practice he could do many things with his left arm, and at length adopted the business of a vine-grower.

As he grew older, his beard grew heavier, so that in a few years little Henri, his son, had to part, with his chubby fingers, the thick, crisp hair, to get at that sabre-scar, when he wanted to hear the story of the hard fight for the young captain and the banner, and of the great Emperor on the hill overlooking everything with his keen, gray, unflinching eyes.



A CHARADE.

My first is often caught in church, Is dear to dog and cat, Oft shuns the couch of kings, to bless The slave upon his mat; And like the "willow," in the song, Is "all around my hat."

My second an exclamation is, A single, simple sound, That tells of fear, surprise, or joy, For friends, or treasures found; And sometimes holds a world of woe Within its little round.

My third's a lordly name, a land For which the Genoese Went forth upon his god-like quest, And ploughed through unknown seas, And gave to Europe old a world Of golden mysteries.

My whole, a mighty conqueror, Filled earth with his renown; His life-bark rode on Fortune's flood; Till the heavens began to frown, And it struck upon a rock at last, In storm and night went down.

Nap-o-leon



ABOUT SOME SWISS CHILDREN.

THE DRUMMER-BOY.

A scene very similar to those we so often witnessed during the sad days of our war, occurred one sweet June morning, about sixty years ago, in a quaint little village in Switzerland, on the borders of France. A company of recruits were about departing to join a regiment in a neighboring town, from whence they were to march to Italy, where Napoleon, then First Consul, was conducting one of his great campaigns. Around these recruits, all of them young, gathered their friends and relatives, with tears and embraces and touching words of farewell.

About a young drummer-boy, named Leopold Koerner, gathered a little group on whose grief few could look without tears. First, around the lad's neck clung his pretty blue-eyed sister, Madeline; then his younger brother Heinrich, ever till this day a merry, light-hearted little fellow. Then came their sturdy old grandmother, trying to put a brave face on the matter, and winking vigorously to keep back the tears. Leopold's father had been killed in the great French Revolution,—his widow had died soon after, "of a decline," it was said; but doubtless sorrow helped her on toward the great, sweet rest. The children were left to the sole care of their grandmother. She was poor and old, but she had a stout, faithful heart,—she was devout and determined, and battled with want and poverty like a true soldier of the Lord. She kept the children together, and brought them up "in the way they should go."

It was for the sake of relieving this noble old friend of some of her heavy care, more than from any love of a soldier's life, that Leopold, at the age of fourteen, enlisted as a drummer.

At parting with her darling, the good woman said little, but to charge him to remember his father's honesty and bravery, his mother's goodness, and the love of the true hearts left behind him. "Make all thy noise with thy drum, lad; neither boast nor swear, and remember, the better man the better soldier."

"Keep up good heart, brother," said Heinrich, with a quivering lip, "thou wilt come back to us some day, safe and sound, a grand officer,—the General of all the drummers."

"Adieu, dear Leopold," sobbed Madeline; "O, what can I do without thee? I pray the holy saints and angels to turn the bullets away from thee. Take with thee our mother's prayer-book. The Forget-me-nots pressed in it are from her grave. I shall cry my prayers now; but they will all be for thee. Adieu! adieu!"

Just then came the command, "Forward, march!" Leopold hastily thrust his sister's gift into his bosom, kissed her for the last time, and with a sad wave of the hand to his old friends, moved on in his place, sturdily beating his drum, a tear-drop falling at every stroke.

Leopold first saw real hard fighting in Italy, at the great battle of Marengo. In the early part of the engagement, as his regiment was marching past a little hill, on which were a group of mounted officers, Leopold's boyish eye was caught by the figure of a tall, handsome young general, mounted on a magnificent white horse. He was very singularly and splendidly dressed, in a rich Eastern-looking uniform, of scarlet, azure, and gold. At his side hung a diamond-hilted sword, suspended by a girdle of gold brocade. On his head he wore a three-cornered chapeau, from which rose a long, white ostrich plume, and a superb heron feather. The band that held these was clasped with brilliants of great value.

"Ah, there is the great General Bonaparte!" cried Leopold, to a comrade. "I knew him at a glance."

"Which, my lad?"

"Why, that splendid officer, talking to the pale little man, in a gray surtout and leather breeches."

"Ah, no, my little comrade," replied the other drummer, laughing, "that is Murat, General of Cavalry,—the little man in the gray surtout is General Bonaparte. However, you need not blush for your hero; he is a wonderful fellow at the head of a charge. Wherever his white plume goes, victory follows. You should see Bonaparte watch it, gleaming above the fight, as the French cavalry goes thundering up against Austrian bayonets or batteries. They say the mad general sometimes shouts to the Austrian dragoons, 'Ho! who of you wants Murat's jewels? Let him come and take them!' And they come one after another, to go down under his sword, which falls upon them swift and sure as the lightning. Ah! he is a terrible fellow."

Leopold found a battle to be something yet more awful than he had imagined. The roar of artillery, the rattle of musketry, the clang of swords and bayonets, the stormy gallop of cavalry, the groans and shrieks of wounded and dying men, appalled his very soul. But though his cheeks grew deathly white, and his eyes large and wild, he had not one cowardly impulse to fly from his duty. Again and again, he gave the quick drum-beat for the advance.

In the height of the battle, Murat dashed forward in one of his overpowering cavalry charges. Leopold, in the midst of the horrors of the fight, gazed with wonder and admiration at the plumed and jewelled officer, on his magnificent white horse, with its trappings of gold and azure. It was like a beautiful vision in that awful place, and a wild huzza broke from the boy's lips. Just then a cannon-ball rushed before him, like a small whirlwind, and carried away his drum, in a thousand fragments. He saw the same ball pass harmlessly between the legs of the white horse of Murat, who was then engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with a tall Austrian dragoon. Relieved from duty, the boy stood watching the fiery general, forgetful of danger, scarcely hearing the horrible singing of the bullets through the air. He saw the tall dragoon go down, and another dash forward to fill his place. While General Murat was dealing with him, Leopold saw an Austrian officer spur forward, and wheel sharply a powerful black horse, with the intent to attack the rash French hero from behind. While his followers were engaging those of Murat, he plunged forward, with his gleaming sword lifted high in air. Leopold never know how he did it, but he broke frantically through the ranks of infantry, in among the furious, trampling cavalry, at the last moment, seized the Austrian's black horse by the bit, and throwing his whole weight upon it, brought him to his knees. As he did so, he screamed at the top of his voice, "This way, General Murat!" The consequence was, that the sword that would have struck down his general, fell on his own presumptuous arm, nearly severing it from his shoulder. But on the instant, the white-plumed hero wheeled, with his avenging sword uplifted, and the next thing the drummer-boy saw, as he lay bleeding on the ground, was a great black horse dashing riderless away.

General Murat saw at once the great service Leopold had done him, and all that the daring act had cost the poor lad. He paused there, and stood guard over the boy, till he had seen him carefully removed to the rear. Then with his sword in one hand, a pistol in the other, and the bridle in his teeth, he dashed forward again in a last wild, tremendous charge, which carried the day for the French.

The next morning, Leopold found himself an inmate of the crowded hospital, surrounded with the wounded and the maimed, the fevered and the dying. But he was especially well cared for, at the command of General Murat, to whose interest perhaps it was owing that his arm was saved, as at first the surgeons were for taking it off, and so making an end of a troublesome job. But with skilful treatment, aided by the lad's youth, good habits, and patience, the great wound healed at last.

One day, while Leopold yet lay on his cot, forbidden to stir, and feeling very lonely and homesick, the dreary hospital was illuminated by the entrance of General Murat, accompanied by his beautiful young wife, who was a sister of General Bonaparte. After bowing graciously to the other patients, they came to the little drummer-boy. The General inquired kindly after his wound, and Madame Murat thanked him in the sweetest manner for saving the life of her husband.

"Glory gives you a rough hand-shake at first, eh, my lad? But, never mind; it is a brusque way she has," said the General, smiling.

"I am thankful that she did not shake my hand off altogether, my General," replied Leopold. "I fear as it is, 't will be long ere I can hope to help drum the way to another victory."

"Ah, well, my child, when you get strong enough to handle the drum-sticks, we may find better work for you. We shall see. Adieu!"

"Adieu, my General! Adieu, Madame!"

Well, when Leopold applied for his old position in his regiment, he was informed by his Colonel that he was to be sent to the Polytechnic, a military school in Paris, to be educated for a cavalry officer, under the patronage of General Murat. This was a great up-lift in life for a poor peasant-boy; but he received the news with modest gratitude and joy, unmingled with the faintest trace of pride or conceit.

He obtained leave to visit his home on his way to Paris, and never forgot that humble home or its inmates, as he got on in his profession. He proved to be a good student, and grew up into a fine, soldier-like, honorable man.

General Murat and his wife continued to befriend him, even after they became king and queen of Naples.

In the battles of the Empire, the young lieutenant of cavalry so distinguished himself that he rose to a high rank. So one day, before his brown hair was turned gray, and before his good grandmother's white head had been hidden in the grave, Leopold Koerner entered his native village a General,—though not as his brother Heinrich had prophesied, "the General of all the drummers."

This was not his first visit home after leaving the Polytechnic. Once he had returned to purchase, with his well-saved pay, a small property for his brother, who had chosen the peaceful calling of a miller; and once again, to give away in marriage his sweet sister Madeline, who became the wife of the village Notary.

At this time Leopold offered to return to the bride her mother's prayer-book, which he had always worn, he said, over his heart, on weary marches, and into battle.

"No, my brother," said Madeline, "I will not take it. Wear it still, to remind thee of our mother and of Heaven. Prayer is a soldier's best breastplate."



A REBUS.

Entire, at an army's head I stand, Marches and sieges I command, The foremost fighter of the time: Behead me, on the mimic stage I pass for fine, poetic rage, Passion and agony sublime.

Behead again, complete the fall, From a mighty Major-General To an insect most exceedingly small. 'T is marvellous, yet we have seen Such magic changes before, I ween.

Grant-rant-ant.



LITTLE CARL'S CHRISTMAS-EVE.

"Come in!" shouted together the host and hostess of a little German wayside inn, near the banks of the Rhine, and not far below the city of Basle, and the borders of Switzerland. It was Christmas-eve, and a tempestuous night. The wind was raving round the little inn, and tearing away at windows and doors, as though mad to get at the brave little light within, and extinguish it without mercy. The snow was falling fast, drifting and driving, obstructing the highway, blinding the eyes of man and beast.

The "come in" of the host and hostess was in answer to a loud, hurried rap at the door, by which there immediately entered two travellers. One, by his military dress, seemed a soldier, and the other appeared to be his servant. This was the case. General Wallenstein was on his way from Carlsruhe, to his home in Basle. He had been delayed several hours by an accident to his post-carriage and by the storm, and now found himself obliged to stop for the night at this lonely and comfortless little inn.

When the officer threw aside his plumed hat and military cloak of rich fur, and strode up to the fire, with his epaulettes flashing in the light, and his sword knocking against his heels, cling, clang, the gruff host was greatly impressed with his importance, and willingly went out to assist the postilion in the care of the horses. As for the old hostess, she bustled about with wonderful activity to prepare supper for the great man.

"Ho, Carl!" she cried, "thou young Rhine-sprite, thou water-imp, run to the wood for another bundle of fagots! Away, haste thee, or I 'll give thee back to thy elfin kinsfolk, who are ever howling for thee!"

At these strange, sharp words, a wild-looking little boy started up from a dusky corner of the room, where he had been lying with his head pillowed on a great tawny Swiss dog, and darted out of the door. He was coarsely dressed and bare-footed; yet there was something uncommon about him,—something grand, yet familiar in his look, which struck the traveller strangely.

"Is that your child?" he asked.

"No indeed," said the old dame; "I am a poor woman, and have seen trouble in my time, but, blessed be the saints! I 'm not the mother of water-imps."

"Why do you call the boy a water-imp?"

"I call him so, your excellency," said the woman, sinking her shrill voice into an awe-struck tone, "because he came from the water, and belongs to the water. He floated down the Rhine in the great flood, four years ago come spring, a mere baby, that could barely tell his name, perched on the roof of a little chalet, in the night, amid thunder, lightning, and rain! Now, it is plain that no human child could have lived through that. My good man spied him in the morning early, and took him off in his boat. I took him in for pity; but I have always been afraid of him, and every flood-time I think the Rhine is coming for his own again."

The traveller seemed deeply interested, and well he might be; for in the very flood of which the superstitious old dame spoke his only child, an infant boy, had been lost, with his nurse, whose cottage on the river-bank below Basle had been swept away by night.

"Was the child quite alone on the roof of the chalet?" he asked in an agitated tone.

"Yes," said the hostess, "all but an old dog, who seemed to belong to him."

"That dog must have dragged him up on to the roof, and saved him!" exclaimed the general; "is he yet alive?"

"Yes, just alive. He must be very old, for he is almost stone blind and deaf. My good man would have put him out of the way long ago, but for Carl; and as he shares his meals, and makes his bed with him, I suppose it is no loss to keep the brute."

"Show me the dog!" said the officer, with authority.

"Here he lies, your excellency," said the dame. "We call him Elfen-hund" (elf-dog).

General Wallenstein bent over the dog, touched him gently, and shouted in his ear his old name of "Leon." The dog had not forgotten it; he knew that voice, the touch of that hand. With a plaintive, joyful cry, he sprang up to the breast of his old master, nestled about blindly for his hands, and licked them unreproved; then sunk down, as though faint with joy, to his master's feet. The brave soldier was overcome with emotion; tears fell fast from his eyes. "Faithful creature," he exclaimed, "you have saved my child, and given him back to me." And kneeling down, he laid his hand on the head of the poor old dog and blessed him.

Just at this moment the door opened and little Carl appeared, toiling up the steps with his arms full of fagots, his cheerful face smiling brave defiance to winter winds, and night and snow.

"Come hither, Carl," said the soldier. The boy flung down his fagots and drew near.

"Dost thou know who I am?"

"Ah no,—the good Christmas King, perhaps," said the little lad, looking full of innocent wonderment.

"Alas, poor child, how shouldst thou remember me!" exclaimed General Wallenstein, sadly. Then clasping him in his arms, he said, "But I remember thee; thou art my boy, my dear, long-lost boy! Look in my face; embrace me; I am thy father!"

"No, surely," said the child, sorely bewildered, "that cannot be, for they tell me the Rhine is my father."

The soldier smiled through his tears, and soon was able to convince his little son that he had a better father than the old river that had carried him away from his tender parents. He told him of a loving mother who yet sorrowed for him, and of a little blue-eyed sister, who would rejoice when he came. Carl listened, and wondered, and laughed, and when he comprehended it all, slid from his father's arms and ran to embrace old Leon.

The next morning early General Wallenstein, after having generously rewarded the innkeeper and his wife for having given a home, though a poor one, to his little son, departed for Basle. In his arms he carried Carl, carefully wrapped in his warm fur cloak, and if sometimes the little bare feet of the child were thrust out from their covering, it was only to bury themselves in the shaggy coat of old Leon, who lay snugly curled up in the bottom of the carriage.

I will not attempt to tell you of the deep joy of Carl's mother, nor of the wild delight of his little sister, for I think such things are quite beyond any one's telling; but altogether it was to the Wallensteins a Christmas-time to thank God for, and they did thank him.



A CHARADE.

My first the softest, loveliest grace Nature to beauty gives; While love and truth and modesty Stay in the heart, it lives.

My second is so like my first, My first its shadow seems; It sweetens all the sunny day, All night in fragrance dreams.

My whole, sweet one, I love to trace, Soft glowing in that tell-tale face, When Arthur whispers in your ear Those "nothings" I must never hear: Ah! then it comes, all warm and clear, Your answering blush, Rose, my dear.

Blush-rose.



ABOUT SOME ITALIAN CHILDREN.

GIUSEPPE AND LUCIA.

In a little mountain town not far from the beautiful lake of Como, in the North of Italy, in the early part of the last war between the Austrians and the Italians, a poor peasant-woman lay dying. Beside her bed stood a fine, sturdy-looking lad, some fourteen years of age, listening reverently to the last words of his mother. On the bed, with her face hidden against that dear mother's breast, lay a little girl of six or seven, trying to keep down her sobs, and to take into her half-broken little heart the fond farewells, the tender and solemn advice of the beloved one who was going home to God.

The dying mother grieved to leave her poor children alone in the world, for they were fatherless, and had no near relatives; but she believed that the same Heavenly Father who was calling her from them would care for them and bring them home to her at last. To the tender love of that Father, and to the protection of the holy saints, she commended them, kissed them and blessed them, and went softly to sleep, to awake in Heaven.

After the burial of their mother, Giuseppe and Lucia found themselves nearly penniless. They had no friends except among the poor, so they must help themselves, or suffer extreme poverty. The boy possessed a great deal of musical talent, and played well upon several instruments. He resolved that somehow he would make this talent serve for the support of himself and his little sister. He could have enlisted as a drummer, but he regarded the Austrians, who then held that part of Italy, as the cruel oppressors of his country. He had an especial horror of them, from the fact that his father had been shot several years before, for joining an unsuccessful rising against them in Milan.

At last, Giuseppe Benedetti fixed upon a calling. With the small sum of money which a sale of the cottage furniture brought he purchased a set of puppets, or marionettes,—quaint little figures, that would dance very nimbly if not gracefully to the notes of the pipes, which he played like a master. This is a rather rude, but quite an inspiring musical instrument, belonging mostly to the mountain regions of Italy. Those who play it are called pifferari, or pipers.

When all was ready, Giuseppe and Lucia took an affectionate leave of their kind neighbors, and set bravely out on their travels, to seek their fortune. They tramped from town to town, sometimes getting very weary and discouraged, but often having very pleasant times together, and never suffering from actual want. One day they found themselves within a few hours' walk of Mancini, the little village in which their mother had died, and concluded to revisit it. At noon, they stopped to rest in an olive-grove by the wayside. After eating their simple dinner of brown bread and fresh figs, and drinking from a cool spring near by, Lucia, who never tired of the wonderful performances of the marionettes, asked her brother to play for them, and sat watching the dancing of the miniature men and women with true childish delight.

In the midst of their enjoyment, they were startled by the tramp of horses and men coming up the road. Giuseppe ran forwards, and looked down on a band of some two hundred Italian soldiers, led by a noble-looking man, mounted on a fiery white horse; but wearing, instead of a showy uniform, a red-flannel shirt, gray trousers, and a slouched felt hat. As this officer saw Giuseppe standing on the high bank, with little Lucia behind him, peering timidly between his legs, he reined up horse, and asked in a voice sweet and sad, yet grand and commanding, if there was a spring of water near by. Giuseppe replied by offering to show him the one he had found, and soon conducted him and his men to a little green nook, where the water gushed up sweet and fresh. The lad noticed that the noble-looking leader waited till all his soldiers had quenched their thirst before he drank.

When he was ready to resume the march, he thanked the peasant-boy, and kindly asked his name.

"Giuseppe Benedetti."

"Ah, Giuseppe! that is my name also," said the officer.

"Yes, General, Giuseppe Garibaldi," said the lad, smiling.

The General started, and asked how he knew him.

"My father served under you at the siege of Rome, and he had a picture of you."

"Ah, your father, I remember him; where is he now?"

"He was shot at Milan, General."

The noble face of Garibaldi grew stern, but softened again as he looked pityingly on the orphans. After giving them a little money—he was himself too poor to give them much—he turned away and began consulting with one of his officers in regard to their march. Giuseppe understood that their plan was to go on to Mancini, where they expected to raise some more men, and to camp for the night near the village. After a few energetic words away he dashed, followed by his brave, devoted band.

When they were gone, Giuseppe and Lucia lay down on the soft turf, and talked of all they had seen and heard, till, overcome by the heat and lulled by the murmur of the brook, they fell asleep. They slept till late in the afternoon, when they were awakened by the tramp of soldiers again coming up the road.

"Here comes more of our brave Italians," exclaimed Lucia.

"No, these are Austrians," said Giuseppe, looking down upon them from the olive-grove. "I know them by their hateful colors, black and yellow. I 'm afraid they are after Garibaldi. If they overtake him they will cut his little band to pieces, for here is a whole regiment of the bloodthirsty tyrants."

Just then an Austrian officer caught sight of the lad, and leaped his horse up the bank, followed by a file of soldiers. "Tell me, my boy," he said, with a terrible scowl, "have you seen anything of Garibaldi and his men?"

Giuseppe stood quite still, but replied not a word. The officer drew his sword and threatened him with instant death, yet still he would not speak. But poor Lucia could not see her brother murdered; she flung herself between him and the officer, crying out, "Yes, we did see him; but please don't hurt him, or any of his brave soldiers."



The Austrian laughed a cruel sort of a laugh, and asked, "Which way did they go?"

Poor Lucia could not say any more for sobbing, but pointed with her hand up the road,—never in her innocence thinking of misleading him. It was enough; in another moment he was leading on his men, with the hope of soon surprising and destroying the Italians.

When they were out of hearing, Giuseppe flung himself on the ground, crying bitterly. "Ah, little Lucia," he said, "how could you betray our General, the hope of Italy? Why did you not let the Austrian kill me?"

"O brother, brother," replied the child, weeping, "how could I let him? I love you better even than Garibaldi; besides, he is such a great fighter, may be he will kill them all."

"No, no," groaned the poor lad, "they are too many for him, if they take him by surprise."

Suddenly he sprang up, his face looking all bright and eager, and said, "Little sister, now you have done our General so much mischief, are you brave enough to try to save him?"

"Why, what can such a little thing as I do?"

"I will tell you. You can stay here with the pipes and marionettes, while I run over the mountain by a little path,—a cross-cut I know,—and warn Garibaldi that the Austrians are after him. I will be back by midnight, I hope, but you must stay here till I come; there will be moonlight, and it will not be cold. Dare you stay alone?"

"Yes," answered Lucia, firmly, though turning quite pale; "the blessed Mother of our Lord will watch over me, and may be our mother will come with her. I think she 's a saint; I am sure she ought to be made one."

With a tender kiss on the lips of his heroic little sister, Giuseppe sprang away and soon disappeared over a ridge of the mountain. After some narrow escapes in pursuing his perilous path along precipices and over torrents, he reached Mancini in time not only to warn Garibaldi, but to allow him to march back through a deep ravine and intercept the Austrians. Taken by surprise, and in the dim evening light mistaking Garibaldi's dashing little band for a large force, they made little resistance, but such as were not killed in the first charge, fled or surrendered. After sending his prisoners to one of his secret mountain strongholds, Garibaldi despatched a trooper with Giuseppe to the olive-grove, whore Lucia had been left alone. They found her safe, quietly sleeping, with her sweet little face upturned in the soft moonlight. The trooper took her up before him, on his strong, black horse, and the three returned to Garibaldi's camp.

Giuseppe and his little sister remained with the brave mountain men for several weeks. The little girl became a great pet with the rough but kindly soldiers, and many a night she sat with them beside the camp-fire, sometimes on Garibaldi's knee, and sung sweet, wild songs, while Giuseppe played on his pipes, and the funny little marionettes danced right merrily.

But at last, General Garibaldi found for the good little girl a home with a kind lady, who promised to bring her up as her own child. That home was in a pretty villa, on the lovely shore of Lake Como. Giuseppe remained with Garibaldi, and became a soldier.

After the Austrians had been driven from Milan, he entered that city in the suite of his beloved general. One day, he went to the spot just outside the walls, where a few years before his poor father was shot. He picked a wild poppy, and put it in his bosom, thinking that it might be it had received its rich red color from the life-blood of that brave father. Then, as he looked over the beautiful city, and saw waving from every public building the banner of the gallant King of Sardinia, instead of the ugly flag of Austria, he thanked God for Victor Emanuel, Garibaldi, and liberty.



A CHARADE.

My first we wish our dear ones' lives to be, And all the joys and loves that Hope discloses, And fairy-tales, and picnics by the sea, Purses, and golden curls, and times of roses, And lashes dark, to shade a beauty's glances, And rides, and sails, and pantomimes, and dances.

My second is the place where thousands meet, Like ships at sea, who never meet again,— Fair maids, and soldiers brave, and children sweet, And ruddy boys, and silver-haired old men; The surging mob, the monks' procession holy, Gay bridal trains, and funerals moving slowly.

My whole, he was a Southern leader brave, Whose flaming sword to Richmond barred the way; 'Mid smoke and shot, he saw his banners wave, He rode victorious, joying in the fray. Till fickle Fortune set the hero learning 'Tis a long lane, or street, that knows no turning.

Long-street.



HOME STORIES.

MY PET FROM THE CLOUDS.

How odd it was! Such a funny little event! I have often told the story to my one little chick, but it has always seemed to me too absurd to put into print; yet you see I have finally made up my mind to tell you all about it.

I was seven years old that summer,—seven, "going on" eight, as we country children used to say. It was the term during which I commenced the study of geography,—dear old Peter Parley's charming little book, which first formally introduced me to the great world we live in, or rather on, and first made me realize that it was round, and all that. It was on an afternoon in the early part of July, I am not sure, though, that it was n't in the latter part of June, that it happened,—the singular event I am going to tell you about. It had been dreadfully hot all day,—so hot that the very hillsides seemed to pant, like the sides of the poor cattle, in the parched pastures. I thought it extremely lucky that my geography lesson that day was in Greenland. I don't believe I could have been equal to a lesson in Mesopotamia. I remember saying to Bob Linn, at recess, that I wished I was a seal, riding on an iceberg; and he said he wished he was a white bear, climbing the North Pole and sliding down backwards. That was so like Bob Linn. He used to climb the lightning-rod of the meeting-house, and ring the bell at very improper hours, till Deacon Jones tarred it,—the rod, not the bell. I wonder where he is now,—Bob, not the Deacon. He was the first schoolmate to whom I told what had happened that July, or June afternoon. As I think I have said, it was a very hot day; but, just before school was dismissed, there came up a refreshing thunder-shower. How we revived, in the cool, moist air, like the poor wilted field-flowers! The shrunken stream in the glen grew, and took heart, and went tumbling down the rocks, in its old, headlong spring-fashion. The cattle stopped panting and whisking off flies, and stood dripping and chewing, while a smile of brightening greenness ran over the faded face of the pasture.

I had a half-mile walk home. One of the girls who lived nearer the school-house invited me to stay all night with her; but I thought that I, who was old enough to study about oceans, avalanches, earthquakes, and volcanoes, ought not to be afraid of such rain, thunder, and lightning as we had in our free, enlightened, and Christian country. So I thanked her "no," which was very well; for, if I had stayed, that wouldn't have happened that did happen,—or, at least, I would n't have seen it. Well, I set out for home, bravely breasting the wind, and really enjoying the rain, in spite of my new sun-bonnet getting every minute more limp and flappy. I remember wondering if it was raining at that very time in China, right under my feet. If so, study on it as I would, I could n't make it seem any other way than that it rained upwards there. I was thinking of such things, and not expecting anything particular to happen, till I got in sight of home, past the old Phillips place, where it did happen. It was here I first noticed over my head the blackest of black clouds, big with barrels of rain. I started into a run, to get out of the way, when—now it is coming, what I was going to relate! No, I must first tell you that there was near me then no house, nor tree, nor even bush, that it could have dropped or jumped off from. Now it really is coming! Well, right down before my eyes, straight out of that cloud, fell—a little frog!! There, it is out! I like to take people by surprise, and not, like some story-tellers, drag my listeners all "round Robin Hood's barn" before I get at a thing.

I stood stock still for a moment, in wonder and astonishment. Then, half afraid, I picked the little creature up out of the sand. He was of a greenish-brown, brightening to gold in the sun. His limbs were extremely delicate, and his eyes were as bright as diamonds. I carried him gently home, and ran with him in the greatest excitement to my mother, exclaiming, "O mamma! do look at this lovely little frog! It is n't human! It came right down to me out of the sky. I do believe it is an angel-frog!"

My mother laughed, but, on being told the story of Froggy's descent from the clouds, said it was a great marvel and mystery where he came from, and how he got there. Glad of a chance to display my learning, I said, "Why, mamma, you know the stars are round balls, like our earth, swinging in the air; and may be he was whirled off one of them, or maybe he jumped off the horn of the moon last night, and has been travelling ever since. Poor little fellow! how tired he must be!"

When my father came in, he gave it as his opinion that the frog had been carried up by a waterspout, from a lake about twenty miles distant, kept up and borne along by currents of air. At all events, he was a hero and an adventurer, and I resolved to keep him as a curiosity. So I put him in a large rain-water trough, at the back of the house, where he lived in apparent content, the monarch of all he surveyed. During dry times, I kept him well supplied with fresh water from the well, and I frequently threw in broad dock-leaves, for him to take shelter under from the heat. He soon grew to know me, and would actually come at my call from the farthest end of the trough. He was very shy of others, and I was not sorry, for I wanted all his affection, and was proud of his discernment. This was thought so singular that I was often sent out with visitors, to show off my pet. I don't believe that the keeper of the hippopotamus can be prouder of his mud-loving monster than I was of my lively little friend.

My brother Will built for him a neat little ship, on which he sailed about, being captain, crew, cabin-boy, and all. One morning, while I was playing with him, he hopped down the hatchway. I shut him into the little cabin, and was careless enough to forget to let him out before going to school. When I came home, I found him lying on the cabin floor, still and lifeless! He had been suffocated in the close, hot air. I am not ashamed to own that I cried heartily over the poor limp little body. I wrapped it tenderly in a plantain-leaf, and laid it beside my last lost kitty.

In the evening, when I told my father of my loss, he by no means made light of it, knowing my pet was no common frog.

"Poor fellow!" he said, "it was as bad for him as the 'Black Hole of Calcutta.'" I did n't know what that meant then; I know now, but haven't time to tell you. Besides it is n't a pleasant story. Then papa added, "Perhaps, after all, it is only a case of suspended animation. Your little frog may have only been in a swoon. If you open his grave in the morning, you may find that he has come to."

That was a pleasant hope to go to bed on, and you may believe I rose bright and early in the morning, to run with my shingle-spade to the cemetery of all my dead pets. With an anxious heart, I removed the earth, and unfolded the plantain-leaf. Sure enough, there was my pet, "alive and kicking!" He hopped out on to a full-blown dandelion, and looked about him as pert and knowing as ever. I caught him up, and ran with him into the house, crying, "Froggy is resurrected!—Froggy is resurrected!"

After this, nothing especial happened to him for some months. He grew in intelligence and lively graces, but not in size, remaining precisely the same pretty, tiny creature as at the first. This fairy-like, unchangeable youthfulness, and his little, piping note, "most musical, most melancholy," made me still half believe that he was a frog of another and a higher race than ours,—star-born, or a native of cloud-land. After the frosty nights of November, I used to remove the thin ice from his tank, so that he could swim freely, and he did not seem to suffer much from the rigors of the season. But, on the first morning in December, I found to my grief that the shallow water in the trough was frozen solid, and—Froggy with it! I could see him tightly imprisoned in the clear ice, about midway from the surface. His limbs were extended, showing that he had bravely kicked against his hard fate to the last. I gave him up, then, and went into the house disconsolate. But my mother was still hopeful. Under her directions I heated the kitchen shovel, and with it thawed out a block of ice some inches square, with Froggy in the centre. This I placed on the hearth before the fire. You see I did not dare to break the ice, for fear of breaking with it the frozen limbs of my pet. I watched the melting of the block with affectionate interest. It was slow work, but it came to an end at last, and Froggy was free. Still, for a time he lay motionless, and I feared he was dead. Then, one limb twitched, then another, and then he was alive all over, and began to hop away from the fire. I rejoiced over him with great joy, put him in a tub of water, with a piece of bark to sail on, and began laying plans for keeping him in-doors all winter. But my mother said it was impossible,—that there was but one way to save the life of my pet, and that was to take him down to the millstream and fling him in. There the water was deep, and the frogs lived under the ice, cosey and comfortable all winter.

"O mamma," I said, "I can't make up my mind to do that. He would miss me so, and I don't believe that the other frogs would treat him well. He is n't of their kind, you know."

"I think it more likely," she answered, "that they will have sense enough to perceive his superiority, and will treat him accordingly,—perhaps make a Prince or President of him. He will come among them as a distinguished stranger,—a travelled adventurer."

This consoled and determined me. I put on my cloak and hood, and set out at once, for fear I should lose courage. I ran all the way, talking to my funny little pet, and saying, I doubt not, many silly things, but which, I am sure, went no further.

When I came to the bank of the stream, I thought perhaps he would hop in of his own accord. I bade him farewell, and held him out over the water. But I suppose it looked big and dreary to him, for he did not stir. I even fancied that he looked at me reproachfully for thinking that he would be so willing to leave me. I was obliged to give him a toss, and the next instant he disappeared forever under the dark, wintry waters, among the reeds and rushes.

So now you know all I know about My Pet from the Clouds.



A CHARADE.

FOR WILLIE WINKIE

So Will, my lad, you beg that I'll Concoct you a charade; Well, dear, here goes: My first is first Your favorite little maid; The hearts of roses too are it, And vine-blooms under which I sit;

And childhood's dreams, and sinless thoughts, And tones attuned to love, "The uses of adversity," The cooings of the dove, And Lilly's eyes, and Kitty's lips, And Tommy's 'lassed finger-tips.

My second was the royal name Of England's conquering foe. Who set his foot on Saxon necks Eight hundred years ago; The name too of a poet-king, Who still rules many a land; No soldier he, but a knightlier soul Did ne'er shake spear or brand.

My whole is no exotic rare, A common flower found everywhere; In form 't is somewhat like the pink, But its scent is finer, I declare, Than musk, or your patchouli. You 've guessed it now, I really think, So I'll refrain from wasting ink. Sweet Will, I am Yours truly, GRACE GREENWOOD.



THE TWO GEORGES.

A TRAGEDY.

The summer that I was eight years old I went to school, at our little brown country schoolhouse, alone; my elder sister going to a select school in the village, where she actually studied grammar and wrote compositions! Our school-mistress was Miss Grey, quite a pretty young lady, but folks said not a good teacher. They said she had "no government," and certainly we had a very easy time of it. She was what is called "absent-minded," and often forgot to hear some of our lessons, and we thought it would n't be polite to remind her of them. She had a soft and mournful voice, and a droopy sort of a look, especially about her hair. She dressed a little queer sometimes, and played on the accordion, so it was whispered about that she wrote poetry. I know she read it a good deal, and novels too. She had in her desk a very long romance, called "The Children of the Abbey," which she used to read at noontime and recess. She read it through, and then she appeared to read it backward, for it lasted nearly all summer. It seemed to me that the story went on and on, till it came to the last page of the book, then turned round and went the other way.

I said I went to school alone; yet after a while I had company, which no one else would have thought of much account, but which was quite a comfort to me. One day I made a purchase with my own money. It was only a little pocket-handkerchief, but such a handkerchief! On it was printed, in bright blue, a picture of General George Washington, in full regimentals, with his sword in his hand, flanked by the Ten Commandments, and with a scroll labelled "Constitution" for his base.

At first I looked upon that stern face, with its strong, tight mouth, like a steel-trap just sprung, with a good deal of reverence; but as I grew familiar with him I became fond of him, and part of the time treated him as a doll; indeed, he seemed to me more real than any doll I ever had, and far dearer. I folded him carefully every morning and laid him in my dinner-basket, over my rations, grieving that I was obliged from limited space to fold under his legs, giving them an amputated look. But I laid him out at full length in my desk, and often lifted the cover to take an admiring look at him, during the day. At night, I laid him in one of my dolls' beds, and actually "tucked in" the "Father of his Country," calling him "George, my boy," and telling him to be good, and not to get up in the morning and go to hacking away at cherry-trees, with that sword of his.

He was two in one,—George I. and II. He was little George, or the great General, just as the occasion demanded. On the Fourth of July, I remember, he appeared in all his glory to deliver an oration to "a large and appreciative audience" of dolls and kittens. He spoke in this wise: "Fellow-Citizens, and your wives and daughters, I 'm a warrior, not an orator. I only want to say—to say—to tell you that if it had n't been for me you would n't have had any Fourth of July the year round, nor any parades, nor rockets, nor squibs, nor star-spangled banners, nor pumpkin-pies, nor ginger-pop. We should all have been British, or Irish, and worn red coats, and ate blood-puddings, and drank ale, and hurrahed for King George forevermore. This is the truth, fellow-citizens, for I cannot tell a lie,—you know I cannot tell a lie. But I don't want to brag over you, and if you will still be good Yankee Christians, brave and industrious, I will still be the father of your country, world without end, Amen! Band, please strike up 'Hail Columbia!'"

By the middle of the summer the poor General's face became as badly soiled as ever it was after a long march, over dusty summer roads. Yet I declined to have him washed, fearing that, after all, his colors might not be "true blue."

One Monday morning my mother sent by me a note to Miss Grey, inviting her to accompany me home that day, and spend a week with us. With my head full of thoughts of this invitation, I hurried away to school earlier than usual, and for the first time left General George behind me, lying on his bed in my chamber. I missed him sadly during the day, but came home in triumph at night, bringing Miss Grey with me. I took her at once about the premises, to show her my pets. I exhibited with much pride my tame hawk Toby, but she was afraid of him; though I assured her that he was a hawk of most exemplary character, and civilized to such a degree that he respected the rights of all the mother-hens and ducks, and never asked for spring-chickens, but contented himself with frogs, like a Frenchman. Then I took her to the woodshed, to see my cat, with almost a barrelful of young kittens. What a lovely sight it was! Then I led her to where my speckled hen kept house in a coop, with half a dozen cunning little chicks. The hen-mother was frightened as we came near, and called to her little ones to come in out of danger; but they would n't mind, and she was very angry, and ruffled up her feathers, and scolded furiously at their disobedience. "I think biddies are very unamiable creatures," said Miss Grey. I said nothing, but I thought to myself, "Ah, Miss Grey, if you were a mother, with ever so many children, playing around the door so peacefully, and you shut up in jail, for no crime but scratching up food in gardens for them, and you should love them dreadfully, and should see two giantesses, a big giantess and a middling-sized giantess, come tramping right in among them, and you not able to help them only by ruffling up your feathers and scolding, you 'd be a little unamiable too, perhaps, for I've heard my mother say that hen nature was a good deal like human nature." Then I showed her our gray goose's nest, with an egg in it. But when I expected her to be astonished, she only said, "Why, I thought the egg of the fowl that saved Rome was much larger than this." Now this goose laid the largest eggs of any goose in the neighborhood. "Did you expect it to be as big as the roc's egg in 'Sinbad the Sailor'?" I asked.

As we were passing through the yard, going to the stable, to see my brother's little colt, we encountered the week's washing, hanging on the line, and right before my eyes swung my handkerchief, with the beloved portrait almost washed out! Indeed, scarce a ghost of the great and worthy George remained. I caught it off and burst into tears, crying, "O, it's all faded out,—it's all faded out!"

"Why, you silly child," said Miss Grey, "don't cry so for a little scrap of a handkerchief like that."

"It ain't only a handkerchief," I sobbed, "it's General Washington and my boy George both together. I 've seen you cry, Miss Grey, over the 'Children of the Abbey,' and mother says they never lived; but General Washington did live, and was the Father of his Country; and then there were all the Ten Commandments, too. I declare Nancy is as bad as Moses was, when he smashed the tables of stone."

But Miss Grey only laughed at my sorrow, and went into the house. When I followed her, I whispered to mother, "Have we got the 'Children of the Abbey'? If we have, please give it to Miss Grey to amuse herself with."

Then I went up stairs and laid out my dead George, and had my foolish little cry out. After all, my great General had faded and wilted away into an unsightly little rag of a handkerchief. What a fall was there! We have seen some very like it in these days.

I had no heart to keep him by me any longer, so I gave him to my little brother, who put him to every possible use except that of a handkerchief. That was a hard campaign for the feeble old General. Sometimes he did service as the sail for a boat; sometimes green apples, or rabbit feed, or worms for bait were tied up in him. His feet, with what was left of the Constitution, were torn off and rammed into a small cannon's mouth for wadding; and, finally, he went up on the tail of a kite. In mid-air he became detached, and dropped into a tall thorn-tree. Here he got stuck fast, and so remained till he fluttered himself to pieces bit by bit.



A CHARADE.

My first the poet Cowper loved, A creature soft and fleet; To vote my second to valiant puss, The long-tailed sages meet.

It calls to prayer; at dead of night Rouses the city street; And to the bridal train sends out A greeting wild and sweet.

My whole would shine all dewy bright In your golden hair, Bell, to-night.

Hare-bell.



THE LITTLE WIDOW'S MITE.

On a nice little farm, on the shore of one of our beautiful Western lakes, lives a noble young German girl named Bertha Johansen, but oftener called "little woman," for her womanly qualities, and her staid, quaint ways; and for a while, among her family-friends, still oftener called "little widow," for a reason I will give by and by. Early in the war against the Rebellion, Bertha's father and three brothers enlisted in one regiment, and were very soon marched away to the front, taking with them the tender, tearful blessings of the lonely little household left behind. The good wife and mother, Ernestine Johansen, took upon her brave heart and strong hands the entire business of the little farm, having for a while only the assistance of a young adopted son, an orphan nephew, who had lived with the Johansens from his infancy. But after having seen his uncle and cousins go forth so bravely to their grand though dreadful duty, the lad Heinrich grew discontented and unhappy. He had a man's heart in his boyish breast,—a heart full of patriotic ardor and devotion; and at last his good aunt consented that he too should go to the war, in the only capacity in which he could be accepted, as a drummer boy, in a regiment just ready to march to the front.

Bertha had grieved deeply, though quietly, in the brave, uncomplaining, submissive spirit peculiar to her, at bidding adieu to her dear father,—to Gustave, and Fritz, and Carl, her brothers,—but she grieved no less at parting with Heinrich Holberg. The two children had always been to each other the best and dearest of friends. Almost from her babyhood, Heinrich had called Bertha his "little wife," and she had early learned to play the character, in the most demure and charming manner. She had for him a tender and clinging affection; she believed in him with all her heart, and he was not altogether unworthy of such love and confidence,—he was a very good boy, as boys go.

Well, Heinrich marched away with the rest of the admirable German band, proudly and gayly they said,—the pluckiest of drummer-boys. But he had seemed neither proud nor gay, a few hours before, when he had run down to the little lakeside farm, to take leave of his aunt and cousin. He had looked pale and very sad. He had said farewell in a voice choked with sobs, and when he ran down the little garden walk to the road, great tears were dropping fast on the bright buttons of his new uniform. His "little wife" went to her little chamber, knelt down beside her little bed, and said a little prayer for him,—then dashed the bitter dew from her sweet violet eyes, and went about her household duties, like the dear little woman that she was.

Alas, it was the same old sad story! The father was killed at Pittsburg Landing, and the oldest brother wounded and taken captive: he afterwards died in Libby Prison. The second brother returned home, after a year's hard marching and fighting, a pale, wan invalid, with one sleeve of his worn blue coat hanging empty. The third brother is now an officer in the triumphant Union army, and let us thank God for him, for his work is nearly done.

The sorrow of the little German household did not end with the death of the beloved father, and of brave Gustave, and the loss of the good right arm of poor Fritz. Heinrich was also taken prisoner, in a sudden night attack on his regiment in Tennessee, and carried off by one of the robber bands of the barbarous Forrest. His tender age, and gentle, prepossessing ways, won him no pity. He was shut up, with thousands of others, in one of those horrible slaughter-pens of the South, called a "stockade," where he languished for many months, bearing all his hardships with the utmost sweetness and patience, feeling that his suffering was but a drop to the great ocean of human agony and despair around him.

Heinrich had been religiously brought up, and while many brave men about him lost all faith and hope, and believed themselves forgotten by the God who made them, he believed that over their loathsome prison-yard hovered hosts of pitying angels, and that above and around the vast field of fraternal strife brooded an infinite fatherly love, and "the peace of God that passeth all understanding." He had never a doubt but that Heaven was very near to their prison-pen,—that the "many mansions" of the Father would be all open to those martyrs of freedom,—that there rest and sweet refreshment awaited them,—that there pitiless hate and cruel wounds, hunger and fierce heat and bitter cold, would torture them no more forever.

From the time of his capture, nothing more was heard of poor Heinrich in his sad home on the Lake shore, and he was at last given up as dead by all his friends, except little Bertha. She had a "feeling," she said, that he was living still, and would come back one day, if only she could keep up heart for him. He might be so weak and ill, she thought, that he would die if she once should give him up,—but not till then. O little woman, great was thy faith! Bertha knew not that she was already called by neighbors and friends "the little widow." She would have passionately rejected the title. She "could not make him dead."

She had little time for fretting about her absent friend. Her mother's brave spirit had bent under the successive burdens of sorrow, and her bodily strength for a while gave way. Carl, the invalid soldier, had much difficulty in managing the affairs of the farm, and nearly all the cares of the household came upon Bertha. O, nobly she bore herself under them. She so completely took the place of her sick mother, that all went well in that humble and peaceful home, till the bitterest trouble was past, and the good mother rallied and was able to take part of the burden of labor and care, which, however cheerfully borne, was quite too heavy for such young shoulders.

Bertha's wise little head was perplexed. There was to be a great Sanitary fair in the city near by, and she felt a passionate desire to contribute something towards the great and good work. What could she do? She was not rich enough to give money; she could not paint nor embroider; she had not the skill to manufacture elegant trifles; she was not old or pretty or fashionable enough to stand behind one of the tables. What could she do?

At last it occurred to her that she could contribute to the refreshment department a roll of butter of her own churning, from the milk of her own little snow-white cow. So, with her good mother's consent, she saved all the cream off the rich milk of her pet for a week, and dedicated the golden product to the soldiers. She had two churnings, and the result was five pounds of delicious butter. Her pleasant work was done in the open air, before the side-door of the cottage, in sight of the beautiful lake. On the day of her second churning, her thoughts were peculiarly sweet and cheerful. She sung as gayly as the robin, nestling in the vine-leaves over the cottage window. Her soul was as serene as the sky, her heart as tranquil as the lake, sleeping in the still sunshine.

As Bertha worked with all the strength of her vigorous little arms, and with a gay good-will, little jets of cream now and then spirted up around the dasher, sometimes sprinkling her round, rosy face, and once or twice reaching her smiling lips to dissolve in sweetness there; and she said to herself, "How many sweet and beautiful things have gone to make up this golden cream!—the tender bloom of the early summer clover and daisies, and dew and sunshine, and by and by, when it hardens into more golden butter, and goes to the 'Sanitary,' won't more beautiful things still be added to it?—pity, and love, and patriotism, and the blessing of God?" Then her thoughts wandered, and her face clouded, and she murmured, "O our poor sick and wounded soldiers! O the poor prisoners! O my poor, dear Heinrich!"

Just then she heard her mother call her in an eager, trembling voice. She ran into the cottage to see, seated in the neat kitchen, a young soldier, in a faded and tattered uniform,—a pale, emaciated figure, childlike in weakness, but old in suffering.

Bertha knew him rather by heart than by sight, and, falling on his neck, cried, "Dear, dear Heinrich! I have always said the Lord would bring you back, and He has, has n't he?"

"Yes, little wife, all that the Rebels have left of me."

The drummer-boy's story was sad and strange but such stories are painfully common now-a-days. He had escaped from the stockade with a party of friends; they had been chased by bloodhounds and all retaken. Heinrich escaped again, alone; he was befriended, fed, guided by loyal negroes; he made his way, on foot, through the mountains of Tennessee, and, after countless hardships and adventures, reached the glorious Northwest, and his home. He was ill with a disease brought on by starvation and exposure, and though he had no battle-wounds to show, there were, on his neck and arms, the terrible marks of the bloodhound's teeth,—surely honorable scars. On the whole, Bertha Johansen thought her cousin Heinrich a hero, and I think she was right.

But to return to the Sanitary butter,—"the little widow's mite." Bertha made it up into beautiful rolls, which she printed with a stamp representing buttercups and clover-flowers, and it looked deliciously tempting. "There is only five pounds," she said, as she walked towards the Fair Grounds, bearing her offering in a neat basket, covered with a snowy napkin. "Only five pounds; how I wish there were fifty. If our dear Lord were only here on earth, He could easily make them fifty. If He could multiply loaves of bread, I suppose He could rolls of butter. But, O dear, He is n't here!"

Dear Bertha, our Lord is always on earth, in the hearts of good men and women,—is always ready to work through them His miracles of love and mercy.

Bertha presented her humble gift most modestly to one of the lady managers, who received it very graciously. This lady was one of Bertha's neighbors, and knew of her beautiful life of duty, obedience, and cheerful self-sacrifices.

She told the simple story of the child to some friends about her, and showed the five rolls of golden butter. A group of gentlemen soon gathered near. "I will give a dollar a pound for that butter," said one. "I will give two," called out another. Then there was a laugh. Then other bids were made,—three, four, five dollars. It was getting to be a nice little frolic, and those grave business men entered into it like boys. Higher and higher they went, till at last Bertha's butter was knocked down at fifty dollars,—ten dollars a pound.

As the purchaser laid down a roll of "greenbacks" for the golden rolls of butter, a gust of wind caught the bills and blew them over the counter, where the lady secured them. "So riches fly away in your Sanitary Fairs," said the gentleman, smiling. "Yes," replied the lady, "but with healing on their wings."



A COUPLE OF CHARADES

I.

My first is the sweet diminutive Of a name we love to hear; The name of one—while here we live We find not earth or Heaven can give A friend more true and dear.

My second should bring pride and joy To parent-hearts, alway,— Should bear the fresh soul of the boy Into the earnest man's employ, And ne'er from honor stray.

My whole has ever stood for one Who rears, with toil and care, Block after block, stone after stone, On city street, or prairie lone, A building plain, or fair.

But now the name once honest, stands For one who has not feared To seek to level with the sands The glorious structure, by the hands Of Washington upreared.

II.

The stealthy fox, the prowling rat, The serpent, Heaven-accursed, The cruel tiger, and the cat, The weasel, and the vampyre bat, Have all been called my first.

My second is a shadowed place Of forest bloom and song, Where mosses creep o'er the rock's stern face, Vines climb and swing in wildest grace, And a streamlet laughs along.

My whole upbore the traitor's crest, And gloried in his crime; Yet England took him to her breast, Which once received a like brave guest,— Our Arnold, of old time.



BESSIE RAEBURN'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER I.

Bessie Raeburn was a very nice little girl indeed, truthful, trustful, generous, and affectionate. But she was by no means without some spicy little faults of her own. She was impulsive to rashness, and decidedly self-willed. She was given to odd little romantic fancies and secret schemes, which sometimes got her into trouble, when she attempted to carry them out. She was an only child, and much petted and indulged in a happy and luxurious home, having everything which a reasonable little lady in short frocks and long curls could ask for. Yet she was not contented; having a foolish ambition to distinguish herself by doing something quite out of the ordinary line of little girls,—something that would make people stare, and say "wonderful!" "surprising!" "a most extraordinary child!" She liked to say "I dare!" and "I 'm not afraid!" "I don't fear anything there is," she would say, "not even lions, or spiders, or bears, or bumblebees,—but I don't like them near me; they are disagreeable."

She learned to read when very young, and took most eagerly to books of travel and adventure. She passionately longed for adventures of her own, and often planned out exploits of a most perilous and surprising character.

One Christmas-eve, when Bessie was between seven and eight years of age, a wild little scheme came into her head, as she sat curled up on a sofa in the library, listening to her father, while he read to her sweet young mother a very sad account of the poor of New York, especially of the poor children, and of the noble efforts that were being made by a few good men and women to alleviate their wretched condition, to clothe them, teach them, and lift them into a better life.

"Ah, Charles," said Mrs. Raeburn, "what a sad, comfortless Christmas many of those poor little creatures will have,—children as dear to their parents as our little girl is to us. Only to think of it! cold, hungry, ignorant, helpless, and hopeless. It is dreadful."

"Why, mamma," exclaimed Bessie, "won't they have any Christmas gifts?"

"No, darling; I fear many must be without all the good and pleasant things by which we remind one another that our dear Lord's birthday has come round again."

"What, mamma! No toys, no nuts, no candies?"

"None, my child."

"Why, then, how can they wish one another a merry Christmas? I should think they would all have a crying Christmas together. I should think they would feel as though they had no Lord Jesus; as though he only belonged to the rich people. And yet, mamma, he was dreadful poor, and spent the first day of his life in a manger, with cows and things; though, to be sure, he had beautiful presents, those the wise old gentlemen that came from down East brought him, you know."

"Yes, dear, he was very poor, and in remembering him we should not forget the poor around us, and should always be ready to assist, as far as we can, the worthy and honest unfortunates who need our help. But it is your bedtime. You will wish to be up bright and early to-morrow."

Bessie sprang up promptly, and kissed her father good night. At the foot of the stairs she paused, and called him in her pretty imperious way, and he came to her, like the good, obedient papa that he was. Bessie kissed him again, and called him "a dear, handsome old darling," and then, with another last coquettish kiss through the balusters, she bounded laughingly past her mamma, up the stairs, into her little room and behind the door, from which point of vantage she emerged with a terrific "boo!" intended to startle her mamma out of her senses,—but I don't think it did.

Mrs. Raeburn, having heard her daughter repeat her simple prayer, kissed her and returned to the library; and soon after the maid, having seen her nicely in bed, and put everything in order for the morning, left her quite alone. And then the wonderful scheme that had flashed into her brain down stairs was thought over and resolutely arranged, and a famous little plot of mischievous benevolence it was, as you shall see.

Amid all the joyful excitement and merry confusion of Christmas morning, Bessie found time to think over her plan; and she would set her red lips very firmly whenever she felt her courage giving way the least in the world. She would be a heroine for once,—would have a real adventure of her own to relate to a wondering and admiring circle, that very Christmas night.

While mamma and servants were occupied in preparations for a large dinner-party, Bessie found opportunities for packing a little basket with tiny tarts, apples, nuts, and candies; then she put on her pretty winter coat, trimmed with fur, and her new velvet hat, with a long scarlet plume, the pride of her heart, and her warm tippet and soft gloves and high Balmoral boots. Then she took from her drawer a dainty porte-monnaie, well filled with bright new pennies and small silver coin, and containing a little compartment lined with crimson satin, wherein two gold dollars dwelt together in state, like a Mongolian king and queen. Then taking her basket on her arm, and thrusting her hands into her little muff, she stole down stairs on tiptoe, and made her escape from the house, unperceived by any one.

Mr. Raeburn lived in the aristocratic part of the city of New York; and Bessie, thinking that she could not there carry out her plan in a perfectly satisfactory manner, hailed a down-town stage. Driver and passengers looked surprised to see a child taking a trip all alone; but Bessie had such an old, authoritative manner, that they supposed that all was right. After a long, long ride, she alighted somewhere in the neighborhood of the poorest and least respectable part of the city. I may as well tell you now, if you have n't guessed it, Bessie was bound on a mission, a charitable visit to the poor,—the miserably poor, of whom she had heard her father read. She anxiously looked around her for a beggar-child, who should act as her guide to some home of unmerited misfortune, where virtuous poverty pined, and wept, and waited. Alas! there were plenty of sad little mendicants on the streets that day, but Bessie was not easily satisfied. "It must be a little girl," she said to herself, "very, very poor,—pale, and thin, and ragged, and sorrowful, but still pretty, and mild-looking. And she must have a pretty name too, like the little girls that beg in magazine stories, or sell matches, and are stolen by gypsies, and sing ballads for dreadful organ-grinders, and all that." It was a long time before she found one at all to her mind, but finally she was accosted by a little girl, who looked wretched enough, to be sure,—tattered, and sickly, and starved. She was not quite up to the mark as to prettiness, though she had soft, sorrowful eyes and a delicate mouth. Hunger, cold, and ill-treatment are not very favorable to beauty. Then the name she gave was decidedly unromantic,—Molly Magee. But the poor child told a piteous story, which soon brought tears to Bessie's gentle eyes,—how her father was dead of fever, and her mother a suffering invalid; how she was obliged to beg in the streets, from morning till night, to obtain food for that poor dear mother, three darling little brothers, and two sisters, twins and blind! It was a hard case, surely, and Bessie offered at once to go home with her petitioner, to see what she could do towards alleviating the family distress. The little mendicant hesitated at first, and attempted to dissuade her, but at last, as Bessie obstinately insisted on her own plan of benevolence, she yielded, and rather sullenly led the way homeward. Ah, what a way it was! down one dirty street and up another,—through vile courts and alleys reeking with filth, swarming with idle, loud-voiced men, wretched-looking women, slatternly girls, and forlorn children. Bessie's heart grew sick and her courage failed her. If she had known the way back, she would gladly have made an inglorious retreat!

The guide at last conducted her down a flight of slippery steps, leading to the basement of a squalid old tenement-house, in the five stories of which more than as many families were packed, layer on layer, and Bessie found herself in the very bosom of the distressed family of her humble little friend. This home of virtuous poverty was not exactly what she looked for. It was darker, dirtier, more confused and noisy; it smelt worse. There were the "three darling little brothers," to be sure, and they were quite satisfactorily ragged. But Bessie looked in vain for the twin-sisters, whose blindness had so engaged her sympathies. But she said to herself, "Perhaps they, too, have gone out begging, with a pair of twin dogs to lead them." The invalid mother was surely on the mend, for she looked quite stout, and her face was flushed, though that might be from fever. She sat by an old stove, smoking a short black pipe.



"Well, Molly, what have you brought us?" exclaimed this interesting invalid, in a voice by no means agreeable.

"I have n't got anything," was the reply; "but here's a rich little miss, as says she has got something for us; she would come herself, instead of giving it to me."

The woman took her pipe from her lips, and fixing a pair of hard, hungry eyes upon Bessie, as she stood smiling kindly, with her basket on her arm, like a dear little Red Ridinghood, broke out with, "And what put it into the head of such a fine lady to come anear the likes of us the day?"

"I wanted to see how poor people live," replied Bessie, honestly, "and I have brought you something for Christmas," she continued, stepping up a little timidly, and offering her basket.

The woman caught it eagerly, and turned its contents into her lap. "And is this all?" she growled. "A pretty dinner, indade, for a starving family; nuts and candies and the like! No bread, not the laste taste of butter or mate."

"O, I thought you would have such common things," said Bessie; "but I have some money to buy them with."

At this, a tall figure sprang up from a heap of rags in a dark corner, and came forward,—a very dirty, disreputable-looking man. Bessie, who had taken him for a sick man, was surprised to see that he also had a fine color in his cheeks, and even in his nose, but she noticed that he seemed very weak in his legs. "Hello! my little angel," he cried; "give me the money," and rudely caught the porte-monnaie from Bessie's hand.

His right to it was disputed by the woman, and they two quarrelled over pennies, dimes, and dollars, as "the three darling little brothers" quarrelled over apples, nuts, and candies.

"Who is that man?" asked Bessie, beginning to be frightened.

"It's father," replied Molly.

"Why, you told me your father was dead. What makes you tell such stories?" exclaimed Bessie, greatly shocked.

"She makes me," said Molly. "May be you would tell stories, rather than be beaten half to death."

At last the disreputable-looking man, having secured the lion's share of the money, snatched up an old hat and staggered towards the door. He stopped a moment beside Bessie, saying, "I 'm obliged to you, darling. This will get me something good for Christmas."

"Some new clothes?" asked Bessie.

"No, miss; something better nor clothes."

"Food?"

"No; something better nor food."

As he held a big bottle in his hand, Bessie next suggested "Medicine?"

"Why, bless your swate sowl, do I look like a sick man?"

"No, sir; but I thought you walked as though something was the matter with your legs."

Patrick Magee gave a loud, foolish laugh, as he stumbled up the slippery steps, and reeled down the dirty alley. When he was gone, Bessie proposed to take leave of her pensioners, saying, "I must go home now, or I shall miss my dinner, and they will be troubled about me. Will you show me as far as Broadway, Molly?"

"Not so fast, if you plase, miss," said Mrs. Magee. "You have seen how poor people live; now I want you to feel how they are clad, this biting winter weather. Take off your fine clothes, just, and change with Molly there."

"O please, madam, I would rather go home," cried poor Bessie. "Do let me go! Mamma has often said, that, if I could be poor for one hour even, I would know better how to pity the poor; but I really think I have seen enough to-day. I am very sorry for you, indeed. I 'll ask papa to help you, and give you all you want; only let me go home."

"So you shall, my pretty bird, but you must drop your fine feathers first. Off with them! And, Molly, take off all thim lovely holiday clothes of yours. Sure, exchange is no robbery."

Poor Bessie saw it was vain for her to resist, to plead, or to cry. In a very short time she found herself divested of every article of her nice warm apparel, and clad in the dirty, coarse, tattered street clothes of Molly Magee.

To do the beggar-child justice, she seemed shocked at this cruel proceeding, this wicked outrage, and pleaded for Bessie as long as she dared. But Bridget Magee, a bad-tempered woman at the best, had been drinking bad whiskey all the morning, and the brutal rage of drunkenness blazed in her hard black eyes. Molly was evidently in mortal fear of her, and could only give Bessie stolen glances of regret and sorrow. Very pretty she looked in Bessie's beautiful dress, though her face was far sadder than before. In the midst of her trouble, Bessie noticed this, and thought how different was the poor child from all the rest of the household of Magee. When the change was completed, Mistress Bridget whispered for a minute or two to the eldest of the three little boys, and then, turning to her victim, said, with a horrible laugh, "There now, ye poor little simpleton, follow where Larry will lade ye. Be off wid ye! I 'm thinking ye know a little more about poor folk than you did a bit ago, when ye came prancing into a dacent house to show off yer grand airs and yer finery. It's an adventure as will be good for your proud young stomach, miss."

As Bessie, too much frightened and shocked to speak, was hastening out after Larry, Molly sprang forward, caught her hand, kissed it, and sobbed out, "O, forgive me! forgive me! I did n't think they would treat you so, or I wouldn't have let you come!"

The next instant the poor girl was dashed backwards by a sudden blow from her mother's heavy hand, and Bessie saw her no more.

Master Larry Magee, a sharp-eyed and fleet-footed little vagabond, hurried Bessie off in a different direction from that in which she had come, and by many different and devious ways, for his object evidently was to confuse her, so that it would be impossible for her to act as a guide to the den of thieves in which she had been robbed. There was little danger. Poor child, she had not even thought to take note of the name of the miserable little alley to which she had been conducted by the melancholy Molly.

At first, in her joy at having escaped alive from that dreadful Irish ogress, Bessie was hardly sensible of the cold; but at length it pierced through her thin and ragged garments, and struck chills to her very heart. It seemed to clutch at her bare throat, and to snip her ears, under the old cotton handkerchief which covered her head. Her hands, muffless and gloveless, grew stiff, and the rosy tips of her fingers changed to a dismal purple; while her poor little toes, peering through great holes in shoes and stockings, looked as piteous as little baby birds, left unbrooded to the storm, in dilapidated nests.

After a long, bewildering, winding walk, or rather run, the two children reached a wide, respectable-looking street, when they came suddenly upon a policeman, at sight of which officer Master Larry halted, wheeled, and executed a brilliant retreat down a dark alley. But Bessie, who in her innocence believed in a policeman, as a sort of street guardian-angel, went confidently up to this one, the star on his breast shining as the star of hope to her, related to him her wonderful Christmas adventure, and begged him to conduct her home. To her surprise and grief, he refused to believe a word of the story, but, taking her for the little vagrant she seemed, gruffly ordered her to "move on," adding, "You can't gammon me: I 've heard too many such yarns."

My private opinion is, that that policeman was a crusty old bachelor, with not a chick nor child,—not even a little sister to his name.

With her feelings a good deal hurt, and her feet benumbed with cold, poor Bessie tottered on, she knew not whither. Happily, at the very next corner, she encountered another policeman,—a cheery, kindly, family-looking man. To him Bessie sobbed out her piteous story; and he, having a little girl of his own at home, was touched by her distress, and, looking into the clear depths of her innocent blue eyes, believed her. Immediately calling a cab he put her in, and got in himself, and taking off his warm blue overcoat, wrapped her in it, which was the street guardian-angel's way of brooding; and so they went away up town, to a large brown-stone house on Madison Avenue,—Bessie's home,—where they found everybody in great distress. Papa and mamma were almost wild with anxiety, for Bessie had been gone four long hours, and a dozen police officers were already searching for her, and street-criers were tramping up and down, ringing bells, and shouting dismally, "A child l-o-s-t!"