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.

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Have you nothing to maintain yourself by,' said I, 'save this toothpick factory?'

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'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.'

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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,
Night holds illimitable sway,
Where but a single hour ago

The crags and chasms, high and low,
Resplendent shone with day.

From out the sky no star-ray shines
Upon the awful solitude;

While moaning through the tossing pines,
Like some unquiet spirit's brood

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,
And the fires of the furnace glowed again,
As the ponderous monster devoured its feed,
And rolled from the side track on to the main.
Out on the night where the snowflakes fell,
Cut where the blasts of the tempests roar,
Binley shouted his friend farewell,

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 engine plows through the crusts of sleet,
And hurls a thousand feet below

The ponderous masses that block its way;
Throws them far to the left and right,
Into the black, oblivious night,

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,
As the piston flashes in faster stroke;
But firm as a rock stands the engineer,

And in his honest old heart of oak

There beats not the slightest pulse of fear.

But soon the engine is running slower,
Though its pathway lies on a level grade;
And then a tremor comes stealing o'er
Binley's hand on the throttle laid.
There's a slacking up of the driving-wheel,
While the engine struggles with human will;
Then slowly ceases the clank of steel,

And the panting monster is standing still.

Thicker and faster the drifting snow

Throws round its victim its winding sheet,
And quenches the glare of the head-light's glow,
As Binley mutters, "I give up beat."

Next morning a snow-plow forced its way
To the spot where the buried engine lay;
They hewed a path through the frozen crust,
And then was the ghastly story told;

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,
Spreading confusion and dreadful dismay,
Spurring his horse to his uttermost speed,
Halting a moment and changing his steed,—

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
While the roar of the torrent, like the roaring of guns,
Wakes the air with the echo of trembling might,
Till the flood from the reservoir rushes in sight.

Bear away! bear away in confusion and haste-
What of value remains will be swallowed in waste,-
The torrent rolls onward in terrible force,

Dealing death and destruction to all in its course!

But bold Collins Graves has reached Williamsburg hills,
Spreading terror and fright throughout all the mills;-
While the flood follows faster, increasing its speed,
New horsemen set forth on lightning-limbed steed.

In the valley of death swept away like a flower,
Six scores of brave workmen destroyed in an hour!
With the rough rugged rubbish that swept down the river,
'Mid groanings for help they have perished forever!

Oh! God, what a sight for mortals to see!

Whole households engulfed in the stream like a tree!
The day breaks in terror-in sorrow it ends,

For hundreds bewail the sad loss of their friends.

All night through the darkness, loud groans may be heard,
Yet hundreds are dumb, who can utter no word!

The flood has gone down, and the ruins along
The course of the rapids have passed into song.

Of all that gave aid, or that battled those waves,
No name will shine brighter than bold Collins Graves.
'Twas he that first rose at the sound of alarm,
And rode through the valley foretelling of harm ;—
Forgetting his danger in haste to do right-

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.

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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