for me.

_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up
for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing
up old bunnets.

_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins.
Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance
with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will
make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more
humble in my demeanor and in my dress.

_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your
decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of
fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display.
And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far
more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."

DRAFTED.

MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.

The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an
agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not
fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end
the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of
resignation fills the mother's heart:

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;
No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his
looks.
Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my
kitchen at tasks;
He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he
asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the
best;
Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been
at rest.
Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day
Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child
at his play!

"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his
gun,
And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of
Bull Run?
Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall,
"There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert,
"if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day
When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot
for Clay.
Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame
We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with