'As for myself, I am not much clearer than Adolph as to how and why I saw and heard what I know that I did see and hear. I can only say that on that night of the twentieth December, 1860, the same on which, as it afterward appeared, the ordinance of secession was adopted at Charleston, I, in the little old two-story house in the Rue la Reynie Ogniard, witnessed what I have related. What may be the omens, you may judge as well as myself. How much of the sybil's prophecy is already history, you know already. That SHOULDER-STRAPS, which I take to be _the desire of military show without courage or patriotism_, are destroying the armies of the republic, I am afraid there is no question. Perhaps you can imagine why at the moment of hearing that there was a worm on my shoulder for a shoulder-strap, I for the instant believed that it was one of the hideous yellow monsters that I saw devouring the best officers of the nation, and shrunk and shrieked like a whipped child. Is not that a long story?' Martin concluded, lighting a fresh cigar and throwing himself back from the table. 'Very long, and a little mad; but to me absorbingly interesting,' was my reply, 'And in the hope that it may prove so to others, I shall use it as a strange, rambling introduction to a recital of romantic events which have occurred in and about the great city since the breaking out of the rebellion, having to do with patriotism and cowardice, love, mischief, and secession, and bearing the title thus suggested.' A part of which stipulation is hereby kept, with the promise of the writer that the remainder shall be faithfully fulfilled in forthcoming numbers. THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. Tell us--poor gray-haired children that we are-- Tell us some story of the days afar, Down shining through the years like sun and star. The stories that, when we were very young, Like golden beads on lips of wisdom hung, At fireside told or by the cradle sung. Not Cinderella with the tiny shoe, Nor Harsan's carpet that through distance flew, Nor Jack the Giant-Killer's derring-do. Not even the little lady of the Hood, But something sadder--easier understood-- The ballad of the Children in the Wood. Poor babes! the cruel uncle lives again, To whom their little voices plead in vain-- Who sent them forth to be by ruffians slain. The hapless agent of the guilt is here-- From whose seared heart their pleading brought a tear-- Who could not strike, but fled away in fear. And hand in hand the wanderers, left alone, Through the dense forest make their feeble moan, Fed on the berries--pillowed on a stone. Still hand in hand, till little feet grow sore, And fails the feeble strength their limbs that bore; Then they lie down, and feel the pangs no more. The stars shine down in pity from the sky; The night-bird marks their fate with plaintive cry; The dew-drop wets their parched lips ere they die.