"Oh! save!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones,

Help me out! help me out! I have broken my bones!" "Help you out!" said a Paddy, who passed, "what a

bother!

Why, there's two of you there; can't you help one another?"

O, Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough!
THOMAS MOORE.

TO A CHRISTMAS PUDDING.

RB from a chaos of good things evolved,

ORB

Rounded, while plastic, in a tightened rag; Globe whose creation's not in doubt involved, Whose mold and matrix was a pudding bag, No sphere of which astronomy can brag

Compares with thine. Perchance the sun may be
A world half fire, half scoria and slag,

Or it may not: what is the sun to me,
Since for my system's center I have thee?

I know thy "elements," when mixed and how-
Work of a culinary Providence.
Methinks I see the raw materials now,

Fluid and solid to a batter dense
Turned by the cook's "supreme intelligence."
Such was thy origin. Upon my life,

In thy concoction there was common-sense.
Toward thee I yearn, thou orb with richness rife,
"Planned, ordered, and perfected" by my wife.

Probers of earth, geologists, avaunt!

With all your strata-granite, flint, or slate;
Look at this" fissure," as with knife aslant
The "spotted globe " I glibly excavate.

What's your "formation of remotest date,"
Compared with this but now together thrown?
Behold the "specimen" upon my plate!

Is it not worth the soft impeachment own—
Tons of your "hard-pan" and your "pudding
stone"?

Sir Isaac Newton was a wondrous man,

So was Galileo, ditto Tycho Brahe;
Fellows that knew of orbs the girth and span,
And how to cook the public up a star.
But could they make a good plum-pudding?—bah!
What was their spice of learning good for?-say?
What use to us are twinkling spheres afar?

From "Charles's Wain," our beeves derive no hay,
The "Dipper's" empty, dry the "Milky Way."

Send your philosophers with me to dine,

I'll teach them something that will do them good— How to enjoy a meal of proper kind;

And that a dinner, rightly understood,

Is not (Heaven bless us!) a mere mass of food,
But Taste's rich offering, worth its weight in gold.
Meanwhile, my dinner waits-I must conclude.
Orb of my heart! no orbs that monarchs hold
Are worth one segment from thy circle rolled.

WILL THE NEW YEAR COME TO-NIGHT?

WILL the New Year come to-night, mamma? I'm

tired of waiting 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 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.