THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.-C. C. MOORE.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the

house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there:
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,-
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;
When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

'Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys,--and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump,-a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.

'Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Every soul was abed, and as still as a mouse;
Those stockings so lately St. Nicholas' care
Were emptied of all that was eatable there.

The darlings had duly been tucked in their beds,
With very full stomachs and pains in their heads.
I was dozing away in my new cotton cap,
And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap,
When out in the nursery rose such a clatter,

I sprang from my sleep, crying, "What is the matter?"
I flew to each bedside, still half in a doze,

Tore open the curtains and threw off the clothes;
While the light of the taper served clearly to show
The piteous plight of those objects below.

For, what to the fond father's eyes should appear
But the pale little face of each sick little dear;
Each pet, having crammed itself full as a tick,
I knew in a moment, now felt like old Nick!
Their pulses were rapid, their breathings the same;
What their stomachs rejected I'll mention by name:
Now turkey, now stuffing, plum pudding, of course,
And custards, and crullers, and cranberry sauce-
Before outraged Nature all went to the wall,-
Yes, lollypops, flapdoodle, great things and small;
Like pellets, which urchins from pop-guns let fly,
Went figs, nuts and raisins, jam, jelly and pie,
Till each error of diet was brought to my view,
To the shame of mamma and of Santa Claus, too.
I turned from the sight, to my bedroom stepped back,
And brought out a vial marked Pulv. Ipecac.,

When my Nancy exclaimed-for their sufferings shocked

her

"Don't you think you had better, love, run for the doctor?" I ran-and was scarcely back under my roof,

When I heard the sharp clatter of old Jalap's hoof;

I might say that I hardly had turned myself round,
When the doctor came into the room with a bound.
He was spattered with mud from his hat to his boots,
And the clothes he had on seemed the drollest of suits;
In his haste he'd put all quite awry on his back,

And he looked like John Falstaff half fuddled with sack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! Had the doctor got merry?
His cheeks looked like Port and his breath smelt of Sherry;
He hadn't been shaved for a fortnight or so,

And the beard on his chin wasn't white as the snow.
But, inspecting their tongues, in despite of their teeth,
And drawing his watch from his waistcoat beneath,
He felt of each pulse, saying, "each little belly

Must get rid"-here he laughed-" of the rest of that jelly."
I gazed on each plump, chubby, sick little elf,
And groaned when he said so, in spite of myself.
But a wink of his eye, as he physicked dear Fred,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He didn't prescribe-but went straightway to work
And dosed all the rest-gave his trousers a jerk,
And adding directions while blowing his nose,
He buttoned his coat, from his chair he arose,
Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalap a whistle,
And Jalap dashed off as if pricked by a thistle.
But the doctor exclaimed, ere he drove out of sight.
"They'll be well by to-morrow-good night, Jones, good
night!"

THE OLD STORY.-ALICE CARY.

The waiting women wait at her feet,
And the day is fading into the night,

And close at her pillow, and round and sweet,
The red rose burns like a lamp alight,

And under and over the gray mists fold;

And down and down from the mossy eaves,
And down from the sycamore's long wild leaves
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so cold.

Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair;

And the waiting women that weep around,
Have taken the combs from her golden hair,
And it slideth over her face to the ground.

They have hidden the light from her lovely eyes;~
And down from the eaves where the mosses grow
The rain is dripping so slow, so slow,

And the night wind cries and cries and cries.

From her hand they have taken the shining ring, They have brought the linen her shroud to make: Oh, the lark she was never so loath to sing,

And the morn she was never so loath to awake!
And at their sewing they hear the rain,—
Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves,
And drip-drop over the sycamore leaves,
As if there would never be sunshine again.

The mourning train to the grave have gone,
And the waiting women are here and are there,
With birds at the windows, and gleams of the sun,
Making the chamber of death to be fair.

And under and over the mist unlaps,

And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray,
And driest bushes grow green with spray,
And the dimpled water its glad hands claps.
The leaves of the sycamore dance and wave,
And the mourners put off the mourning shor`s;
And over the pathway down to the grave

The long grass blows and blows and blows,
And every drip-drop rounds to a flower,

And love in the heart of the young man springs, And the hands of the maidens shine with rings, As if all life were a festival hour.

To whose sacred trust is given
The saving faith

Without which each mortal living
Dies the death?

Can the way of life be spoken
By a word

And all ears receive the token
In accord?

May the unerring word be written
In a book

And all seeking eyes be smitten
If they look?

No! my inmost soul makes answer
To my quest,

Right and wrong's perplexing riddle
Still is guessed.

No! I may not teach another
All of good;

Truth and error are but darkly
Understood.

Each may hold a little measure
Of the light,

Each may give his little treasure
Labeled right;

But the eternal search remaineth
Ours to find

Loftier and still loftier Pisgahs
Of the mind.

Something from the ancient sowing
We may reap,

But the manna of the Hebrew
Will not keep.

Give us daily bread, O Father!
Fashioned so

To our growing needs, that ever
We shall grow.

Thou who lead'st thy yearning children
Toward the light,

Know'st their strength is in the climbing
Not the height.

AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN.

MARK TWAIN (S. L. CLEMENS).

The facts in the following case came to me by letter from a young lady who lives in the beautiful city of San José; she is perfectly unknown to me, and simply signs herself