There is a certain something about a sick-room, my boy, that makes me think seriously of my latter end, and recognize physicians as true heroes of the bottle-field. The subdued swearing of the sufferer on his bed, the muffled tread of the venerable nurse, as she comes into the room to make sure that the brandy recommended by the doctor is not too mild for the patient, the sepulchral shout of the regimental cat as she recognizes the tread of Jacob Barker, the sergeant's bull-terrier, outside; all these are things to make the spectator remember that we are but dust, and that to return to dust is our dustiny. Early in the week, my boy, a noble member of the Pennsylvania Mud-larks was made sick in a strange manner. A draft of picked men from certain regiments was ordered for a perilous expedition down the river. You may be aware, my boy, that a draft is always dangerous to delicate constitutions; and, as the Mud-lark happened to burst into a profuse perspiration about the time he found himself standing in this draft, he, of course, took such a violent cold that he had to be put to bed directly. I went to see him, my boy; and whilst he was relating to me some affecting anecdotes of the time when he used to keep a bar, a member of the Medical Staff of the United States of America came in to see the patient. This venerable surgeon first deposited a large saw, a hatchet, and two pick-axes on the table, and then says he: "How do you find yourself, boy?" The Mud-lark took a small chew of tobacco with a melancholy air, and says he: "I think I've got the guitar in my head, Mr. Saw-bones, and am about to join the angel choir." "I see how it is," says the surgeon, thoughtfully; "you think you've got the guitar, when it's only the drum of your ear that is affected. Well," says the surgeon, with sudden pleasantness, as he reached after his saw and one of the pick-axes, "I must amputate your left leg at once." The Mud-lark curled himself up in bed like a wounded anaconda, and says he: "I don't see it in that light." "Well," says the surgeon, in a sprightly manner, "then suppose I put a fly-blister on your stomick, and only amputate your right arm?" The surgeon was formerly a blacksmith, my boy, and got his diploma by inventing some pills with iron in them. He proved that the blood of six healthy men contained enough iron to make six horse-shoes, and then invented the pills to cure hoarseness. The sick chap reflected on what his medical adviser had said, and then says he: "Your words convince me that my situation must be dangerous. I must see some relative before I permit myself to be dissected." "Whom would you wish me to send for?" says the surgeon. "My grandmother, my dear old grandmother," said the Mud-lark, with much feeling. The surgeon took me cautiously aside, and says he: