merchant hears of the army-worm and is alarmed, but the colonel writes back assuring letters that it is only the grasshopper, and the grasshopper has helped more than hurt--and draws. Then possibly the army-worm comes sure enough, and cripples him. But he keeps up his courage--and draws. The five thousand dollars appear to have been employed in digging or building a sluice through which a constant current of currency flows from the city to Rottenbottom and Millefleur. The merchant has gone into bank, and the tide flows on. At last the planter writes: "The most magnificent crop ever raised on Red River, just waiting for the necessary hands to gather it in!" Of course the necessary sums are supplied, and at last the crop gets to market. It finds the market low, and declining steadily week by week. The banks begin to press: money is tight, as it is now while I write. The crop is sacrificed, for the merchant cannot wait, and some fine morning the house of Negocier & Duthem is closed, and Colonel Beverage is bankrupt. And both are ruined? No. We will suppose the business-house is old and reputable: the banks are obliging and creditors prudently liberal, and by and by the firm resumes its old career. As for the colonel, the reader sees that to ruin him would be an absolute contradiction of nature. His friends or relations give him assistance, or he sells his diamonds, and soon you meet him at the St. Charles, as blooming, sanguine and splendiferous as ever. No, he cannot be ruined, but his is not an infrequent episode in the life of a Southern Planter. WILL WALLACE HARNEY. * * * * * BABES IN THE WOOD. I had two little babes, a boy and girl-- Two little babes that are not with me now: On one bright brow full golden fell the curl-- The curl fell chestnut-brown on one bright brow. I like to dream of them that some soft day, Whilst wandering from home, their fitful feet Went heedlessly through some still woodland way Where light and shade harmoniously meet; And that they wandered deeper and more deep Into the forest's fragrant heart and fair, Till just at evenfall they dropped asleep, And ever since they have been resting there. After their willful wandering that day Each is so tired it does not wake at all, Whilst over them the boughs that sigh and sway Conspire to make perpetual evenfall. And I, that must not join them, still am blest, Passionately, though this poor heart grieves; For memories, like birds, at my behest, Have covered them with tender thoughts, like leaves. EDGAR FAWCETT. MY CHARGE ON THE LIFE-GUARDS.