Among other incidents in which Thistles have been in evidence may be mentioned the confusion into which the army of Charles the Bold was thrown, in 1465, because of the deceptive appearance of the plants. The Burgundians were beseiging Paris, and while the army slept scouts brought word that great numbers of spears were assembled outside the city walls. A panic was narrowly averted, and later it was discovered that the stems and spines of some very tall Thistles had produced the deception. The leaves of the Thistles were commonly employed by the Roman soldiers to shade their helmets, and it is stated that when Hugh Spencer, favorite of Edward II, was hanged, the mob, in derision, placed a crown of thistle spines upon his head. Thistles seem to have figured in peace as well as war. In England the teasel is indispensable in the cloth mills, in which it is employed to dress the nap of the fabrics, and Virgil tells of the vest of Helen, which was embroidered to represent the plants, while the handles of the Cup of Eurymedon were entwined with them. Probably the crowning glory of the Thistle, if the story be true, lies in its contribution to architecture, in which capacity it deserves no less consideration than the Egyptian lotus. It appears from the narrative that a young girl of Corinth dying, her nurse placed on her grave a basket containing her toys, covering them with a large tile in order to shield the childish treasures from the weather. The basket was set by chance on the root of a Thistle. When the springtime came the plant grew until, meeting the tile, it was forced to turn downwards in graceful folds, which, catching the eye of Callimachus, he conceived the capital of the Corinthian columns. Charles S. Raddin. The smallest effort is not lost; Each wavelet on the ocean toss’d Aids in the ebb-tide of the flow; Each rain drop makes some flow’ret blow Each struggle lessens human woe. —Charles MacKay in the Chicago Record-Herald. WITH SILVER CHAINS AND GAY ATTIRE. After the cold, repeated rains, The crusted branches rub the panes, And ere the dawn the pelting hail Adds fury to the roaring gale. So wears the night—the morrow’s sun Proclaims the winter tempest done. And what a morn! A crystal dome Each rounded hill about our home! More radiant is the sight, I ween, Than e’er before has mortal seen. Betwixt their glassy walls on high The mountain corridors we spy, And lo! all chandeliered are they, Like costly palace of a day! From limb to limb with whitest wreaths The trees are festooned. All the heaths With sun-tipped, icy spikes are bright; And frost-stars glitter in the light. With untold wealth the earth is strewn, Each bush bears jewels, dimmed too soon.