of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks
the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or--wait until tomorrow.
Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death; he shall
go with you."

"God bless you, sir!" said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard
and registered the request?

Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House
with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room
and a strap fastened upon his shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The
soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage and die for the act so
uncomplainingly deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom
took their way to their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the
mill depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped
that of the boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say
fervently:

"The Lord be praised!"

--From the New York Observer

If I had a horse I would call him "Gay,"
Feed and curry him well every day,
Hitch him up in my cart and take a ride,
With Baby Brother tucked in at my side.

LITTLE BROWN THRUSHES.

Little brown thrushes at sunrise in summer
After the May-flowers have faded away,
Warble to show unto every new-comer
How to hush stars, yet to waken the Day:
Singing first, lullabies, then, jubilates,
Watching the blue sky where every bird's heart is;
Then, as lamenting the day's fading light,
Down through the twilight, when wearied with flight,
Singing divinely, they breathe out, "good-night!"

Little brown thrushes with birds yellow-breasted
Bright as the sunshine that June roses bring,
Climb up and carol o'er hills silver-crested
Just as the bluebirds do in the spring,
Seeing the bees and the butterflies ranging,
Pointed-winged swallows their sharp shadows changing;
But while some sunset is flooding the sky,
Up through the glory the brown thrushes fly,
Singing divinely, "good-night and good-by!"
BY Mrs. WHITON-STONE.

This tall Giraffe,
Measures ten feet and a half,
And I wonder if his neck
Of rubber is made.
Out of the sun
He thinks he has run
But only his feet
Are in the shade.

THE STORY OF THE EMPTY SLEEVE.

Here, sit ye down alongside of me; I'm getting old and gray;
But something in the paper, boy, has riled my blood tod