OLD CAROL.

A WINTER'S TALE.

So late! and all the passers gone,

So cold the snowy street,

The little flower-girl wandered lone
With bare and weary feet.

So tired the winds are loud and bleak,
Down drops her little head;

She sleeps! the tears are on her cheek,-
Her violets are dead.

Soft! soft! the Christmas morn grows bright,
The winds no more are wild,

There comes all clad in golden light

A little angel-child.

He stopped and marked that cold, cold place, He saw her down-dropt head,

The poor thin hands, the tear-stained face,—

Her violets are dead.

Upon her head and eyelids wet,

His hands he gently laid,

Then touched each withered violet,

And blest the little maid,

Then passed away: the glad bells broke

Upon the frosty air,

The little flower-girl turned and woke-
Her flowers are fresh and fair!

FREDERICK E. WEATHERLY.

A MOVING APPEAL.

WHAT shall we do, I want to know?

What shall we do, I wonder?

It really is the mistletoe,

And here we're standing under!

I never was in such a fix-
You see I'm blushing, don't you?
Boys are so rude--you know their tricks-
You'll promise not to, won't you?
My brother Harry talks such stuff—
I feel inclined to whip him;
He says a boy's an "awful muff”
To let such chances slip him.
It is so horrid being kiss'd-

Excepting by your brother;
Well, if you will, I can't resist ;
Oh, don't; why not another!

FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.

A CHRISTMAS ODE TO THE GOOSE.

THE eagle, sov'reign of the skies,

Let others sing, with praise profuse,

More justly shall my lay arise

In grateful homage to the Goose.

Did flesh of eagle ever grace

A feast throughout the whole year's cycle? While goose at Christmas holds proud place, And favour finds with great St. Michael.

And was't the bird of Jove whose cries

Saved Jove's own temple from the foe? No:-'twas the goose that made the noise, And let Rome's guards the danger know.

For lo, the arch-benumber,

So thus, the goose high place may claim

In cause domestic or heroic,

In this she holds a classic fame,

In that, her claim might move a Stoic.

Jack Frost, has taken wing

Kind thoughts have brought the summer, Fair hopes awaked the spring!

EDEN HOOPER.

SKATES AND LIFE.

THE frost was hard, the sky was clear,
The ground like iron plates;

I got my tin on Saturday,
And bought a pair of skates.

I bought a pair of patent skates,
The "Art of Skating" too;
Which took a pretty tidy lump
From off my weekly screw.

I took them home, and in my boots
I drill'd a pair of holes ;

And tried the little spikes upon
My gutta-percha soles.

Into my nobby walking-stick

I stuck an iron nail,

And practised walking with a chair,
By holding on the rail.

I sat up late to read the "Art,"
It wasn't very long;

And when I'd learnt it off, I vowed
Next morn to come out strong.

I went to bed, but told them first
To call me up at six;

I dreamt all night of flying round
Upon the ice like bricks.

I dreamt of joining in quadrilles,
Of cutting Figure Eight,—-

I dreamt I cut all others out,
I went at such a rate.

But when I came to Figure Eight
A knock came at my door;

I found that Figure Six was come,
And I must sleep no more.

I started up and donned my clothes,
I comb'd and brush'd my hair;

I didn't stop to shave myself,

But bolted down the stair.