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, mamma?-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 An more: 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 see The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year— dies 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. Y the flow of the inland river, By thenow the feets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Waiting the judgment day; Under the one, the Blue, These in the robings of glory, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe:- So, with an equal splendor, On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, So, when the Summer calleth, 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 garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever, When they laurel the graves of our dead! F. M. FINCH. |