a heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he .should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.-Exeunt. Shakespeare. IT BENNIE AND BLOSSOM. T was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it towards Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it, and read as follows: 66 "DEAR FATHER: When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Towards 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, rever ently. "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 circumstanceș-'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 cry to let him die in my stead. "I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort 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 I shall never, never come! God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie." Late that night the door of the "back 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. 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 where and why she had gone. 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. Thousands 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 towards 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 be praised." From the "New York Observer." THE HORSEBACK RIDE. HEN troubled in spirit, when weary of life, When I faint 'neath its burdens and shrink from its strife; When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking my taste, And its fairest scenes seem but a desolate waste, Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer, With friendship's soft accents, or sympathy's tear,No pity I ask, and no counsel I need. But bring me, O bring me, my gallant young steed, With his high-arched neck, and his nostrils spread wide, His eyes full of fire, and his step full of pride! Now we're off, like the winds to the plains whence they came, And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame! Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth his track,— See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back! |