rable 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