“True, yes,” continued the Doctor. “I don’t like the sight of a recruiting party, or the sound of the drum much better than the poor woman in yonder house, who will die of heart-break after all—of horror and pining for her son. But there is something that I like still less; the first giddiness and trembling of the strong man, the sinking feebleness of the young mother, the dimming of the infant’s eyes; and the creeping fog along the river-bank, the stench in the hot weather, and the damp in the cold, that tell us that fever has lodged among us. I know then that we shall have, many times over, the slaughter of war, without any comfort from thoughts of glory to ourselves or duty to our country. There is neither glory nor duty in dying like vermin in a ditch.” “I don’t see,” said Warrender, “that the sergeant will carry off any of our youngsters now. If he had come with his drum three months since, some might have gone with him to get away from the fever, as a more terrible thing than war; but at present I think he will find that death has left us no young men to spare.” And so it proved. The sergeant and his party soon marched up to the brow, and disappeared, delivering the prophecy that Bleaburn would now lose its reputation for eagerness to support king and country. And in truth, Bleaburn was little heard of from that time till the peace. Mary could not stay now. She had been detained very long from home—in America—and somebody was waiting very impatiently there to give her a new and happy home. This is said as if we were speaking of a real person—and so we are. There was such a Mary Pickard; and what she did for a Yorkshire village in a season of fever is TRUE. THE REVENGE OF ÆSOP. IMITATED FROM PHÆDRUS. A blockhead once a stone at Æsop threw: ‘A better marksman, friend, I never knew,’ Exclaimed the wit, and gaily rubbed his leg; ‘A hand so dexterous ne’er will come to beg. ‘Excuse these pence; how poor I am, you know! ‘If _I_ give these, what would the rich bestow? ‘Look, look! that well-drest gentleman you see; ‘Quick, prove on him the skill misspent on me! ‘Here, take the stone. Be cool—a steadfast eye— ‘And make your fortune with one lucky shy.’ The blockhead took the counsel of the wit; He poised the pebble, and his mark he hit. ‘Arrest the traitor! He has struck the king!’ And Æsop, smiling, saw the ruffian swing. THE GOLDEN FAGOTS. A CHILD’S TALE. An old woman went into a wood to gather fagots. As she was breaking, with much difficulty, one very long, tough branch across her knee, a splinter went into her hand. It made a wound from which the blood flowed, but she bound her hand up with a ragged handkerchief, and went home to her hut.