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I run to peep within the door, by morning's early light, 'Tis empty still-Oh, say, mamma, will New Year come

to-night?

Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? the snow

is on the hill, The ice must be two inches thick upon the meadow rill. I heard you tell papa last night his son must have a sled (I didn't mean to hear, mamma), and a pair of skates,

you said.

I prayed for just those things, mamma, oh, I shall

be full of glee, And the orphan boys in the village-school will all be

envying me; But I'll give them toys, and lend them books, and make

their New Year glad, For, God, you say, takes back His gifts when little folks

are bad.

And won't you let me go, mamma, upon the New Year's

Day, And carry something nice and warm to poor old widow

Gray ? I'll leave the basket near the door, within the garden

gate,Will the New Year come to-night, mammal-it seems

so long to wait.

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my

sleep My stocking hung so full, I thought-mamma, what

makes you weep?

But it only held a little shroud -a shroud and nothing

more: An open coffin-open for me—was standing on the floor. It seemed so very strange, indeed, to find such gifts

instead Of all the toys I wished so much, the story-book and

sled; But while I wondered what it meant, you came with

tearful joy And said, “Thou’lt find the New Year first; God calleth

thee, my boy!"

It is not all a dream, mamma, I know it must be true; But have I been so bad a boy God taketh me from you? I don't know what papa will do when I am laid to

rest, And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your

breast.

The New Year comes to-night, mamma,—your cold hand

on my cheek, And raise my head a little more,-it seems so hard to

speak; You need not fill my stocking now, I cannot go and

peep, Before to-morrow's sun is up, I'll be so sound asleep.

I shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the

sled; But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on

my head ? He used to hide my books away, and tear the pictures

too, But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to do.

And, if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-book and

slate To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you would not let

me hate; And, dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New Year

Day, The basket full of something nice for poor old widow

Gray?

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, it seems so very

soon, I think God didn't hear me ask for just another June; I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too

much care, And maybe for your sake, mamma, He doesn't hear my

prayer.

It cannot be; but you will keep the summer flowers

green, And plant a few—don't cry, mamma-a very few I

mean, When I'm asleep, I'd sleep so sweet beneath the apply

tree, Where you and robin, in the morn, may come and sing

to me.

The New Year comes—good night, mamma—“I lay me
. down to sleep,
I pray the Lord”—tell poor papa—“my soul to keep;
If I”-how cold it seems-how dark-kiss me, I cannot

seeThe New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old yeardies with me.

CORA M. EAGER

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

The women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.

PY the flow of the inland river,
D Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep on the ranks of the dead :-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the one, the Blue,

Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,

The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,
Alike for the friend and the foe:
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day,
Under the roses, the Blue,

Under the lilies, the Gray.
So, with an equal splendor,

The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all :

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the Summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain : -
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done ;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won :-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.

F. M. FINCH.

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