met with a sad mishap a few days since while crossing the
French Broad river, by which he lost his leg.

Any one who may find an extra leg below where the accident occurred will
confer a favor on Mr. Brant by returning same to No. 06-1/2 Pneumonia
street. It may be readily identified by any one, as it is made of an old
pickhandle and weighs four pounds.

J. Quincy Burns has written a war article for the Century Magazine,
regarding a battle where he was at. In this article he aims to describe
the sensations of a man who is ignorant of physical fear and yet yearns
to have the matter submitted to arbitration. He gives a thorough expose
of his efforts in trying to find a suitable board of arbitration as soon
as he saw that the enemy felt hostile and eager for the fray.

The forthcoming number of the Century will be eagerly snapped up by Mr.
Burns' friends who are familiar with his pleasing and graphic style of
writing. He describes with wonderful power the sense of utter exhaustion
which came over him and the feeling of bitter disappointment when he
realized that he was too far away to participate in the battle and too
fatigued to make a further search for suitable arbitrators.

While Cigarettes to Ashes Turn

I.

"He smokes--and that's enough," says Ma--
"And cigarettes, at that!" says Pa.

"He must not call again," says she--
"He _shall_ not call again!" says he.

They both glare at me as before--
Then quit the room and bang the door,--

While I, their willful daughter, say,
"I guess I'll love him, anyway!"

II.

At twilight, in his room, alone,
His careless feet inertly thrown

Across a chair, my fancy can
But worship this most worthless man!

I dream what joy it is to set
His slow lips round a cigarette,

With idle-humored whiff and puff--
Ah! this is innocent enough!

To mark the slender fingers raise
The waxen match's dainty blaze,

Whose chastened light an instant glows
On drooping lids and arching nose,

Then, in the sudden gloom, instead,
A tiny ember, dim and red,

Blooms languidly to ripeness, then
Fades slowly, and grows ripe again.

[Illustration: "HE SMOKES--AND THAT'S ENOUGH," SAYS MA--]

III.

I lean back, in my own boudoir--
The door is fast, the sash ajar;

And in the dark, I smiling stare
At one window over