dead drunk. But I will let the agent tell it in his own words: "I was sure I had found the right woman. But I went about it carefully, to find out whether she still kept the policy. I had to be cautious, you know, or I might drive the poor woman wild. 666 Have you nothing to maintain yourself by,' said I, 'save this toothpick factory?' 666 'Nothing whatever,' she replied. My husband ought to support us, but he don't. He's a good man when he's sober, but he ain't ever sober. He can make good wages when he ain't drunk, but he has been drunk ever since I knew him.' "Didn't he now be calm, madam-'control yourself'didn't he have a life insurance policy?' "No. Stop, though; yes, now I recollect; he did have one, but that was a good many years ago (sighing.) He only made one payment upon it, and then let it run out.' "Dun'no. Kickin' round the house somewhere, I s'pose. Saw it in an old barrel in the loft, last time I remember it; well that's on to a dozen years ago. But what use is it? It run out long ago.' "Madam,' said I, impressively, scarcely able to suppress my emotion for fear the policy was lost, 'the company I represent, never allows any policy to run out, no matter if nothing has been paid on it.' 66 With this she hastened to the loft, and to my unspeakable joy [here the insurance man produced a pocket handkerchief, and wiped away some tears] she soon returned with the policy for which I had been searching for fifteen years; torn some, 'tis true, and considerably soiled, but for the most part there. The endorsement was torn off, but the signature of our president was all right, and that was enough. Thereupon I paid the overjoyed woman, fifteen thousand dollars, the amount of the premium." "And the man not dead yet?" I inquired. "Well, yes;" said the insurance man; "he was dead drunk; but our company don't draw any fine distinctions under such circumstances." We all wept at this touching recital, and one of the party could not refrain from catching the old man in his arms. BINLEY AND "46." Upon Wahsatch's peaks of snow, The crags and chasms, high and low, From out the sky no star-ray shines While moaning through the tossing pines, The winds sweep to and fro, And seem in saddened mood To breathe a wail of woe. "Twas 'leven o'clock near Bridger's Gap, In a station that swayed in the tempest's sweep, Where a lightning jerker enjoyed his nap, When a call from the canyon broke his sleep, And he caught the words from the subtle clicks, "Send Binley down here with 46." Soon Binley had mounted his iron steed, As he opened the throttle-valve one notch more. Then over the winding truck he sped, Where the pathway with chasms and crags was lined The glare of his great light gleamed ahead, And the snow like a bride's veil streamed behind, And soon the sound of the clanking steel Was drowned in the echoes from hill to hill; He felt the engine sway and reel, But the throttle went one notch further still. And down the grade like a courser fleet, Plunging through mountains of drifted snow, The ponderous masses that block its way; To reach the canyons by break of day. And now old Binley feels the thrill That the soldier feels when he meets his foe; He opens the throttle-valve wider still, And his furnace burns with a fiercer glow, And in his honest old heart of oak There beats not the slightest pulse of fear. But soon the engine is running slower, And the panting monster is standing still. Thicker and faster the drifting snow Throws round its victim its winding sheet, Next morning a snow-plow forced its way There sat Binley beside his trust, With his hand on the throttle-valve, stiff and cold. MILL RIVER RIDE.-J. W. DONOVAN. Over the hills through the valley away, Crying aloud in a voice of command: Run! run! for your lives, high up on the land! Away, inen and children! up, quick, and be gone! The water's broke loose; it is chasing me on!" Away down the river like a spirit he runs Bear away! bear away in confusion and haste- Dealing death and destruction to all in its course! But bold Collins Graves has reached Williamsburg hills, In the valley of death swept away like a flower, Oh! God, what a sight for mortals to see! Whole households engulfed in the stream like a tree! For hundreds bewail the sad loss of their friends. All night through the darkness, loud groans may be heard, The flood has gone down, and the ruins along Of all that gave aid, or that battled those waves, Let us honor the gateman and keep his name bright. НИН THE HOLE IN THE CARPET. "I think this is the result of a burn," said Mrs. Wilson, pointing to an injury lately discovered in a new carpet. “It appears to me as if some careless servant had let fall a redhot poker upon it." "Oh, dear, no; it is not a bit like a burn; it is a cut, most assuredly," said Mr. Wilson, stooping to examine it. "A cut!" repeated the lady, with some energy and surprise. 66 A cut, my dear!" reiterated the husband; "it has been done with a knife, and most likely, while splitting wood, or perhaps cutting sand-paper for polishing the bars of the grate." Mrs. W.-"Why, my dear, the edges of the hole do not meet, as they would do if it were a cut; there is a space where the piece has been burnt out. Look again, and you will see what I mean." Mr. W.—“ So far from it, the edges have been ravelled out by the action of the broom in sweeping, and they positively wrap over. If you will give yourself the trouble to look carefully, you will find what I say is true." Mrs. W.-" As to trouble, Mr. Wilson, I am not generally very sparing of my trouble; and as to carefulness, I only wish everybody in this house were equally careful. But you are always saying these unkind things. Umph! a cut indeed! why, I can almost smell the singeing now." Mr. W.-"That is quite impossible." Mrs. W.—“ I suppose you will charge me with falsehood next. Do you mean to say that I tell you an untruth?” Mr. W.—“ I mean to say that it is a cut, and nothing but a cut. It is utterly impossible that that kind of a hole should result from a burn. Ah! you may look as angry as you please but I say again, it-is-a-cut." Mrs. W.-" Angry! did you say angry, Mr. Wilson? I really wish we could see ourselves. You are extremely ready to charge me with being angry. Now the truth is, I do not care that (furiously dashing a plate of nut shells, which she had just been cracking, behind the fire,) whether it is a cut or a burn; but I do care to be spoken to in this shameful man |