Auction Extraordinary. I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, And declared that to save their own heart's blood from spilling, The bachelors all were sold off in a trice: And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. "She's painted already," quoth I; "Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette, "Now none of your joking,—but try And paint me a thorough Coquette." "Well, cousin," at once I began In the ear of the eager Lisette, "I'll paint you as well as I can That wonderful thing a Coquette. She wears a most beautiful face (Of course! - said the pretty Lisette), And is n't deficient in grace, Or else she were not a Coquette. And then she is daintily made Of forming a proper Coquette. She's the winningest ways with the beaux She knows how to weep and to sigh In short, she's a creature of art Will the New Year Come To-night, Mamma? Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? I'm tired of wait ing so, My stocking hung by the chimney side full three long days ago. I run to peep within the door, by morning's early light, 'Tis empty still-Oh, say, mamma, will the 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 did n't mean to hear, mamma), and a pair of skates you said. I prayed for just those things, mamma, O, 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, The New Year comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my sleep, But it only held a little shroud - a shroud and nothing more: It seemed so very strange, indeed, to find such gifts instead It is not all a dream, mamma, I know, it must be true; The New Year comes to-night, mamma,-your cold hand on my 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 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 know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much care, mean, It cannot be; but you will keep the summer flowers green, The New Year comes-good-night, mamma 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. Marion Moore. Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore, Gone, like the bird in the autumn that singeth; Gone, like the flower by the way-side that springeth; Gone, like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth Round the lone rock on the storm-beaten shore. Dear wert thou, Marion, Marion Moore, I will remember thee, Marion Moore; Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore! Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore, Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow; Who would not fly from this desolate shore. James G. Clark. The Well of St. Keyne. There is a well in Cornwall, the water of which possesses rare virtues. If the husband drinks first after the marriage, he gets the mastery for ife, and vice versa. A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne; And there was not a cloud in the sky. |