"Haven't a sewed button on a single clothes," he cried, triumphantly; "patents, every one of 'em, fastened on like copper rivets, and nothing but studs and collarbuttons on my shirts. Haven't had a button sewed on for three years. Patent buttons last for years after the garments have gone to decay."

And the woman fled down the winding passage and the labyrinthine stairs with a hollow groan, while the other members of the staff, breaking through their heroic reserve, clustered around the youngest man and congratulated him upon the emancipation of his sex.

-Burlington Hawkeye.

TROUBLE BORROWERS.

There's many a trouble

Would break like a bubble,

And into the waters of Lethe depart,

Did we not rehearse it,

And tenderly nurse it,

And give it a permanent place in the heart.

There's many a sorrow

Would vanish to-morrow,

Were we but willing to furnish the wings;
So sadly intruding

And quietly brooding,

It hatches out all sorts of horrible things.

How welcome the seeming

Of looks that are beaming,
Whether one's wealthy or whether one's poor!
Eyes bright as a berry,

Cheeks red as a cherry,

The groan and the curse and the heartache can cure.

Resolve to be merry,

All worry to ferry

Across the famed waters that bid us forget;

And no longer fearful,

But happy and cheerful,

We feel life has much that's worth living for yet.

A BOY HERO.

O'er "The Devil's Gulch," a chasm wild,
Sprung a mighty bridge; a roaring tide
Rushed headlong through the depths below.
From a watch-tower high, a shining glow
The watchman, nightly, made to shed
Its warning signals of green or red,
As the mighty engine thundered down,
At morn and eve, from a far-off town.

A great storm rages o'er steep and fell,
And "The Devil's Gulch" is a roaring hell
Of waters, foaming wild and white,
While darkness deepens into night.
Carl Springel takes his poor old crutch
(The watchman's son, he's lame, and Dutch),
And goes forth, hobbling through the night.
Though his steps are heavy, his heart is light,
For he carries to his father dear

His evening meal and helpful cheer.
What cares he for the wind and rain?
First, love and duty, then home again.

Now he rounds the curve of the mountain track-
What is that he hears?--a deafening crack!

Then a rumbling crash through the blinding storm,-
The bridge! oh, the bridge! the bridge is gone!
"Oh, father! father!" hear him cry,
But his voice is lost in the howling sky;
And the train-the train is speeding down,
With its living load from the distant town!
Though bitter grief his heart doth rack,
He sees the hand-car on the track,
He sees the lantern's blood-red gleam,
He hears the engine's whistle scream!
He climbs on the car! the crank he turns,
First slow, then faster; his heart it burns
With anguish, sorrow, hopes and fears;
He tugs and strains! and now he hears
The train come thundering through the night,
And now he sees the head-light bright.
He knows he's numbered with the dead!
But waves the lantern above his head.

He shouts: "The bridge! the bridge is down!
The bridge is down! the bridge is—"

Drowned in the awful din of train and storm.
The engine strikes! and his mangled form
Is dashed a hundred feet aside-

But the train stops short of the roaring tide.

In Germany the tale is told,

On a tombstone white, in words of gold:
"Carl Springel's grave,
Aged fourteen.

The crippled hero and martyr gave
His life two hundred lives to save."

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.-J. G. HOLLAND. This beautiful extract, from "Arthur Bonnicastle," will be read with deep and tender interest by many whose experience it truthfully portrays.

I stand in a darkened room before a little casket that holds the silent form of my first-born. My arm is around the wife and mother, who weeps over the lost treasure and cannot, till tears have had their way, be comforted. I had not thought that my child could die-that my child could die. I knew that other children had died, but I felt safe. We laid the little fellow close by his grandfather at last; we strew his grave with flowers, and then return to our saddened home with hearts united in sorrow as they had never been united in joy, and with sympathies forever opened toward all who are called to a kindred grief.

I wonder where he is to-day, in what mature angelhood he stands, how he will look when I meet him, how he will make himself known to me, who have been his teacher! He was like me: will his grandfather know him? I never can cease thinking of him as cared for and led by the same hand to which my own youthful fingers clung, and as hearing from the fond lips of my own father, the story of his father's eventful life. I feel how wonderful to me has been the ministry of my children— how much more I have learned from them than they have ever learned from me--how by holding my own strong life in sweet subordination to their helplessness,

they have taught me patience, self-sacrifice, self-control, truthfulness, faith, simplicity and purity.

Ah! this taking to one's arms a little group of souls, fresh from the hand of God, and living with them in loving companionship through all their stainless years, is, or ought to be, like living in heaven, for of such is the heavenly kingdom. To no one of these am I more indebted than to the boy who went away from us before the world had touched him with a stain. The key that shut him in the tomb was the only key that could unlock my heart, and let in among its sympathies the world of sorrowing men and women who mourn because their little ones are not.

The little graves, alas! how many they are! The mourners above them, how vast the multitude! Brothers, sisters, I am one with you. I press your hands, I weep with you, I trust with you, I belong to you. Those waxen, folded hands; that still breast which I have so often pressed warm to my own; those sleep-bound eyes which have been so full of love and life; that sweet, unmoving alabaster face-ah! we have all looked upon them, and they have made us one and made us better. There is no fountain which the angel of healing troubles with his restless and life-giving wings so constantly as the fountain of tears, and only those too lame and bruised to bathe, miss the blessed influence.

O'BRANIGAN'S DRILL.-W. W. FINK.

The echoes of Sumter had thrilled through the land,
And Michael O'Branigan, born to command,

Obtained a commission. A word and a nod,

And his roster was filled with the sons of "the sod."

It is true that his knowledge of tactics was scant;

When he wished to "oblique" his command would be "Slant!"

But he knew the importance of practical skill;

And, marching his company out to a hill,

Proceeded with this introductory drill:

"Attintion! Right driss! Be that token is meant
That aich of ye keeps his nixt neighbor fernint.
Shtand up like meself, an' look martial an' brave
Wid a souldierly bearin'! Mulcahy, ye knave,
Don't ye offer to shtep from the ranks till ye've lave.
"Attintion! Fix bayonets! Jisht for the drill
We will play that the foe is a houldin' the hill.
Now, double quick! Charge! An' I'll lade the way;
An' this is yer watchword-fwhat is it? Hooray!
Attintion! Ha-halt, till I come til me breath!
Give O'Branigan time an' he'll lade ye til death!
Halt, Rafferty, Lafferty! Wait till I come!

Shtand shtill an' marrk time til the bate of the drum!
It isn't the rulable usage of war

To follow yer captain, unless he's before.

"Attintion! To prove to our foemen their folly,
We'll load up our rifles an' give them a volley;

An' to show how composed a bould souldier can shtand
I will shtep to the front while I give the command.
Make ready! Take aim! Patsy, point your gun higher!
Don't shut the wrong eye whin ye're aimin' it. Fire!
"Oh! murther! I'm kilt! Sargint Murphy, ye brute,
Don't ye know, whin ye ounly blank cartridges shoot,
If yer ramrod ye happen to lave in yer gun
It's more deadly than forty-two bullets in one?
Jisht look at me hat, wid its horrible rint,

An' it's iligant aigle to smithereens sint!

Ye're arrishted! Moind that, now! Ye'll pay for yer guilt! I'd av hung ye for murther an I had been kilt.

Faix, ye're sargint, to-day, of the guard, Murphy! Whisht!
Go report til yersilf as put under arrisht!"

So closed the first drill; but he proved, when the field
In the chaos of jarring artillery reeled,

That, to quote a plain soldier's description, "So far
As concerns the tough tussle and business of war,
O'Branigan's flannel-mouthed veterans were there."

-The Independent.