Part 15

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

"Who is Bennie?"

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

"O, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I remember. It was a fatal sleep. You see, my child, it was a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost by 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 the offense.

Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder and turned up the pale face toward his. How tall he seemed! And he was the President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a minute through Blossom's mind, but she told her simple, 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: "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 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 today. To steal a purse is mean enough, the most of men agree; But stealing reputation seems a meaner thing to me.

A letter in the Herald says some generals allow That there wa'n't no fight where Lookout rears aloft its shaggy brow; But this coat sleeve swinging empty here beside me, boy, to-day, Tells a mighty different story in a mighty different way.

When sunbeams flashed o'er Mission Ridge that bright November morn, The misty cap on Lookout's crest gave token of a storm; For grim King Death had draped the mount in grayish, smoky shrouds-- Its craggy peaks were lost to sight above the fleecy clouds.

Just at the mountain's rocky base we formed in serried lines, While lightning with its jagged edge played on us from the pines; The mission ours to storm the pits 'neath Lookout's crest that lay; We stormed the very "gates of hell" with "Fighting Joe" that day.

The mountain seemed to vomit flames; the boom of heavy guns Played to Dixie's music, while a treble played the drums: The eagles waking from their sleep, looked down upon the stars Slow climbing up the mountain side, with morning's broken bars.

We kept our eyes upon the flag that upward led the way Until we lost it in the smoke on Lookout side that day; And then like demons loosed from hell we clambered up the crag, "Excelsior," our motto, and our mission, "Save the flag."

In answer to the rebel yell we gave a ringing cheer; We left the rifle-pits behind, the crest loomed upward near; A light wind playing 'long the peaks just lifted death's gray shroud; We caught the gleam of silver stars just breaking through the cloud.

A shattered arm hung at my side that day on Lookout's crag, And yet I'd give the other now to save the dear old flag. The regimental roll when called on Lookout's crest that night Was more than doubled by the roll Death called in realms of light.