Philander sat on the Canada Line, playing with his Yard-stick, and perhaps about to take the measure of an unmade piece of calico; when Mabel, with a wild cry of joy, sprang from a small boat to his side.  The meeting was too much.  They divided a good square faint between them this time.  At last Philander found his utterance, and said, "Do they think of me at Home, do they ever think of me?" "No," she replied, "but they do at the recruiting office." "Ha! 'tis well." "Nay, dearest," Mabel pleaded, "come home and go to the war like a man!  I will take your place in the Dry Goods store.  True, a musket is a little heavier than a yardstick, but isn't it a rather more manly weapon?" "I don't see it," was Philander's reply; "besides, this war isn't conducted accordin' to the Constitution and Union.  When it is--when it is, Mabeyuel, I will return and enlist as a Convalescent!" "Then, sir," she said, with much American disgust in her countenance, "then, sir, farewell!" "Farewell!" he said, "and When this Cruel War is Over, pray that we may meet again!" "Nary!" cried Mabel, her eyes flashing warm fire,--"nary.  None but the Brave deserve the Sanitary Fair!  A man who will desert his country in its hour of trial would drop Faro checks into the Contribution Box on Sunday.  I hain't got time to tarry--I hain't got time to stay!--but here's a gift at parting: a White Feather: wear it in your hat!" and She was Gone from his gaze, like a beautiful dream. Stung with remorse and mosquitoes, this miserable young man, in a fit of frenzy, unsheathed his glittering dry-goods scissors, cut off four yards (good measure) of the Canada Line, and hanged himself on a Willow Tree.  Requiescat in Tape.  His stick drifted to My Country, 'tis of thee!  And may be seen, in connection with many others, on the stage of any New York theatre every night. The Canadians won't have any line pretty soon.  The skedaddlers will steal it.  Then the Canadians won't know whether they're in the United States or not, in which case they may be drafted. Mabel married a Brigadier-General, and is happy. ____________________ A ROMANCE--ONLY A MECHANIC. In a sumptuously furnished parlor in Fifth Avenue, New York, sat a proud and haughty belle.  Her name was Isabel Sawtelle.  Her father was a millionaire, and his ships, richly laden, ploughed many a sea. By the side of Isabel Sawtelle sat a young man with a clear, beautiful eye, and a massive brow. "I must go," he sed, "the foreman will wonder at my absence." "The foreman?" asked Isabel in a tone of surprise. "Yes, the foreman of the shop where I work." "Foreman--shop--work! What! do you work." "Aye, Miss Sawtelle!  I am a cooper!" and his eyes flashed with honest pride. "What's that?" she asked; "it is something about barrels, isn't it!" "It is!" he said, with a flashing nostril.  "And hogsheads." "Then go!" she said in a tone of disdain--"go away!"