We have almost given him up as incorrigible. Patriotic songs are fast following each other,--and certainly the applause is “sui generis.” Crutches pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on the table, with an energy and fervor which threaten their own destruction; but the sightless singers receive it all apparently with the greatest satisfaction, deeming that the greater the noise, the greater the pleasure, and probably such is the case. Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He has already twice repeated it, but he cannot hope to be heard in this confusion. See!--he is trying again: “I want you all to be quite still now, and listen to this song; make no noise, if you please.” An instant hush, and eager expectation on every face. The singer begins the well-known “Laughing Chorus,”--well-known here, but evidently a perfect novelty to these listeners. For a few moments there is an effort to maintain quiet, but suddenly their pent-up feelings break forth, and peal after peal of heartiest laughter rings through the room. In vain they try to stop--a moment’s pause, and the singer’s voice is heard, seeming only to give the key-note, which one after another takes up, till, in the wild storm that follows, they are entirely unaware that he has come to a conclusion--that it is all over and done, and the singers are leaving. Just at this moment my eye is caught by our friend, the sergeant, his head resting on the table, his face almost purple, and his whole frame literally convulsed with laughter. “Corning! Corning! stop! you will be sick.” But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; and he cannot even recover himself sufficiently to join in the vote of thanks which the men are offering to the kind friend who had given them this enjoyment. The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. at once, “How is Harry, to-day?” “Not in the least the worse, by his own account; but I hear Little Corning is in bed--actually made sick, from the effects of the concert.” This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, knowing that he was far from strong. A little later in the morning, something called me over to the ward in which he was, and as I entered I heard a groan; to my surprise, it came from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in bed, and evidently suffering. “Why, sergeant,” said I, “I am sorry to see that the concert has had such a bad effect.” But at my approach the groan was turned into a hearty laugh, though it was quite plain that the suffering continued. “Oh! Miss ----, don’t, please don’t! I can’t begin again. I ache all over in each separate muscle, and I’ve lost all faith in you.” “I don’t want you to begin again; but what do you mean by having ‘lost faith in me?’” “Why, don’t you remember, you always said a good laugh was the best medicine?--and it’s come near killing me--oh, dear! oh, dear!”