_Mrs. F._ Why! what a hor--a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see anything like it, Dora?

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Aunt H._ That's the style, marm.

_Mrs. F._ Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish bonnet! Really, how the fashions do change! Did you ever, Dora!

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Kitty._ (_Aside._) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot!

_Mrs. F._ It's very becoming--isn't it, Dora?

_Dora._ O, very, mamma.

_Mrs. F._ (_Aside to_ DORA.)--What a horrid fright!

_Dora._ Frightful, mamma!

_Mrs. F._ I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a charming taste--hasn't she, Dora?

_Dora._ Charming, mamma! (_They bow, and exeunt_, L., _with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their laughter._)

_Kitty._ Good day. Call again.--The hateful things! They are laughing at me. What ails this bonnet. (_Goes to gla.s.s._) Goodness gracious; what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me!

I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (_Tears off the bonnet._)

_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER, R.

_Mrs. C._ Have the Fastones gone?

_Kitty._ I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me look ridiculous!

_Aunt H._ Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks!

_Mrs. C._ Is _that_ your love of a bonnet, Kitty?

_Kitty._ No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful thing?

_Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox.

_Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan."

You've made a pretty mess of it!

_Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!

_Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?

_Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!

_Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._)

The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that I'll niver git on my head at all at all!

_Kitty._ That's my bonnet!

_Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.

_Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your bonnet.

_Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church to-morrow, sure.

_Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I have decided not to keep it.

_Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.

_Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.

_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing up old bunnets.

_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins.

Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more humble in my demeanor and in my dress.

_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display.

And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."

DRAFTED.

MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.

The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart:

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his looks.

Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks; He drafted! Great G.o.d, can it be that our President knows what he asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.

Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child at his play!

"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?

Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay.

Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with his name.

Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm, (Troubling only my G.o.d for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm,) That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes, That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?