Auction Extraordinary.

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers,
And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers;
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter,
I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter:
It seemed that a law had been recently made,
That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid;
And in order to make them all willing to marry,
The tax was as large as a man could well carry,
The bachelors grumbled and said 'twas no use —
'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse,

And declared that to save their own heart's blood from spilling,
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling.
But the rulers determined them still to pursue,
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue:
A crier was sent through the town to and fro,
To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow,
And to call out to all he might meet in his way,
"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to day:
And presently all the old maids in the town,
Each in her very best bonnet and gown,
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale,
Of every description, all flocked to the sale.
The auctioneer then in his labor began,
And called out aloud, as he held up a man,
"How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy?
In a twink, every maiden responded, “I— I.”
In short, at a highly extravagant price,

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
(A smile from the dainty Lisette)
By people expert in the trade

Of forming a proper Coquette.

She's the winningest ways with the beaux
(Go on!-said the winning Lisette),
But there is n't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!

She knows how to weep and to sigh
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
But her weeping is all in my eye,—
Not that of the cunning Coquette!

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,
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 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

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 did n't hear me ask for just another June;

I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much care,
And may be for your sake, mamma, He does n't hear my prayer.

mean,

It cannot be; but you will keep the summer flowers green,
And plant a few—don't cry, mamma-
- a very few I
When I'm asleep, I'd sleep so sweet beneath the apple tree,
Where you and robin, in the morn, may come and sing to me.

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,
Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing;"
Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing;
Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing:
Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore.

I will remember thee, Marion Moore;
I shall remember, alas! to regret thee!
I will regret when all others forget thee;
Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee
Linger and burn till life's fever is o'er.

Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore!
Gone, like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth;
Gone, like the rill to the ocean that floweth;
Gone, as the day from the gray mountain goeth,
Darkness behind thee, but glory before.

Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore,

Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow;
Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow;
O! to be happy with thee on the morrow,

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;
There's not a wife in the west country

But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from cock-crow he had been traveling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.