restored Peter to himself and that just estimate of the fitness of things, which teaches that it is not easy—even for a man who is as sober as a powder-horn—to pull a pair of long boots over another pair; particularly if the latter happen to be wet and muddy. Convinced of this important truth, Peter put his boots under his arm, and departed to get the straps repaired, and try the efficacy of hook-em-sniveys where the law could not interfere. And such was the close of this remarkable episode in the life of the grim little man and the queer little man, whose monomania had boots for its object. * * * * * THE IDIOT BOY. There is a lowly mountain home That nestles near a clear blue stream, A shady nook—a fitting spot For pilgrim rest, or poet’s dream. Two tall elm trees their branches fling Across the humble roof-tree there While fearlessly the robins sing, And woodland flowers perfume the air. Not ten yards from the cottage door A rocky wall the streamlet meets, And wildly, quickly dashing o’er With its rude song the valley greets. While far and wide the glittering spray Like showers of diamonds fill the air, The golden sunbeams with them play And arch the beauteous rainbow there. A shelving rock, like semi-bridge, From the rude bank hangs jutting o’er, While round the rough and frowning ridge Twine moss and vine and creeping flower. A winding pathway, near the stream, Leads to this wild and dizzy height; Once gained the waters flash and gleam Like jewels on the gazer’s sight. Beyond, the hills, in robe of green, Mount upward to the calm blue sky, While at their feet the silver sheen Of a broad river meets the eye. Here in this cot, a space below, A widow dwells in silent grief, Earth has no balm to sooth her wo, No magic song, no healing leaf. Long weary years have slowly fled Since death first filled her home with gloom. Numbered her husband with the dead And traced for her a widow’s doom. One sunbeam there, one ray of joy On that low cottage shed its light, A fair-haired child, an idiot boy Was to her heart like stars to night. I’ve seen a vine, a fragile vine, When strong support had failed, Around a weaker cling and twine, Till drooping both in dust they trailed. I’ve seen a lonely captive find Sweet solace in his hours of grief, Yea food for heart, and thought for mind, In a frail plant—one pale green leaf.