And, having obtained his "moneys" and his shirt, he went. That is the last I ever saw of my little Iron-clad. I remember him with gratitude, for he did me good service, and he had but one fault, namely, that he was _not_ iron-clad! As for my uncle, for the first time in his life, I think, he said never a word, but stalked into the house. Dolly soon came running out to ask what was the matter; Popworth was actually packing his carpet-bag! I called Andrew, and ordered him to be in readiness with the buggy to take the old gentleman over to the railroad. "What! going?" I cried, as my uncle presently appeared, bearing his book and his baggage. "Nephew Frederick," said he, "after this treatment, can you ask me if I am going?" "Really," I shouted, "it is not my fault that the fellow proved an impostor. I employed him with the best of intentions, for your--and our--good!" "Nephew Frederick," said he, "this is insufferable; you will regret it! I shall never--NEVER" (as if he had been pronouncing my doom) "accept of your hospitalities again!" He did, however, accept some money which I offered him, and likewise a seat in the buggy. I watched his departure with joy and terror--for at any moment he might relent and stay; nor was I at ease in my mind until I saw Andrew come riding back alone. We have never seen the old gentleman since. But last winter I received a letter from him; he wrote in a forgiving tone, to inform me that he had been appointed chaplain in a prison, and to ask for a loan of money to buy a suit of clothes. I sent him fifty dollars and my congratulations. I consider him eminently qualified to fill the new situation. As a hardship, he can't be beat; and what are the rogues sent to prison for but to suffer punishment? Yes, it would be a joke if my little Iron-clad should end his career of imposture in that public institution, and sit once more under my excellent uncle! But I can't wish him any such misfortune. His mission to us was one of mercy. The place has been Paradise again, ever since his visit.--_Scribner's Magazine_, August, 1873. A BOSTON LULLABY Doff thy new spectacles, Peregrine, darling one; Minds are but obstacles When work is overdone. Lullaby, hushaby, slumber thou festinate, Hushaby, lullaby, never procrastinate. Lay down thy Ibsen, dear, Browning and Emerson; Sealed be thy cultured ear Save to my benison. Lullaby, hushaby, cherish obedience. Hushaby, lullaby, captivate somnolence. Dream thou of Lohengrin, Siegfried, Brünnhilde fair; Banish, my Peregrine, Thoughts of the Pilgrims spare. Lullaby, hushaby, sleep, dear, till night is done. Hushaby, lullaby, mother's phenomenon. ROBERT JONES BURDETTE THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD