back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march Toward night we went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not know it until—well, until it was too late."

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post."

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve,— given to me by circumstances,-'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead.

Com

"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. fort them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me; it is very hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him and my Saviour in a better-better life."

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said solemnly,-" Amen."

To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little

Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting for me,—but 1 shall never, never come! God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie.”

Late that night the door of the "hack stoop" opened softly, and a little figure glided out, and down the footpath that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands, as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child, than he for our little Blossom.

She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell her father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House.

The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, of overlooking and signing important papers,' when, without one word of announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes, and folded hands, stood before him.

"Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful

tones, "what do you want so bright and early in the morning?"

"Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom.

"Bennie? Who is Bennie?"

"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post."

"Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thou sands of lives might have been lost for his culpable negligence."

"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired too."

"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justification of an offence.

Blossom went to him: he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he was President of the United States too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read.

He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell.

Blossom heard this order given: "SEND THIS DISPATCH

AT ONCE."

The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the

life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or—wait until to-morrow; 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 the 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 his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently, "THE LORD ME PRAISED!"-N. Y. OBSERVER.

'SIXTY-FOUR AND 'SIXTY-FIVE.

NOME to the crowning of the King,

COME

The gracious heir of Time,

While cannons roar, and pæans ring,

And merry joybells chime;

While cares take wing, and everything

To pleasure seems alive,

Come to the crowning of the King,
The glorious 'Sixty-Five!

Last night we stirred the blazing fire,
When the midnight-hour was strikirg,

And bade them fill our glasses higher
With liquor to our liking;

And while we drank those toasts once more,
Which such sweet hours revive,

We closed the door on 'Sixty-Four
And welcomed 'Sixty-Five.

We did not shout when we hurried out
The Old Year, gaunt and hoary:
For we honored him for what had been,
And loved him for his glory.

And we thought of pleasures at an end,
And joys that come no more,

And we cried, "God rest our honest friend,
Departed 'Sixty-Four!"

And then we heard the sweet bells ring,

The wedding-bells Elysian,

And saw the fair brides of the year
Sweep past us like a vision;
And then a troop of rosy elves

Skipped lightly o'er the floor,
The babes of benediction born
In happy 'Sixty-Four.

But, then, alas! alas! alas!

We heard the roar of battle,

And saw, as in a burnished glass,

Brave men, like slaughtered cattle,Wounded and maimed with shot and shell,

And weltering in their gore,

Our true, our gallant boys who fell
In hapless 'Sixty-Four!

Oh! we pillow our dying darlings well,
And we damp their shrouds with tears,
From the child in its spotless innocence
To the grandsire full of years;