Late and early at the sands,
Is a cottage, where to-day
Katie lives with Willie Grey.

In a porch she sits, and, lo!
Swings a basket to and fro,
Vastly different from the one
That she swung in years agone;

This is long and deep and wide,
And has rockers at the side.

KEEPING HIS WORD.

"ONLY a penny a box," he said ;
But the gentleman turn'd away his head,
As if he shrank from the squalid sight

Of the boy who stood in the failing light.

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"O sir!" he stammer'd, "you cannot know,"

(And he brush'd from his matches the flakes of snow, That the sudden tear might have chance to fall,)

"Or I think, I think you would take them all.

Hungry and cold at our garret-pane,
Ruby will watch till I come again,

Bringing the loaf. The Sun has set,

And he hasn't a crumb of breakfast yet.

One penny, and then I can buy the bread!" The gentleman stopp'd: "And you?" he said; “I—I can put up with them,

But Ruby is only five years old.

hunger and cold,

I promised our mother before she went,
She knew I would do it, and died content,

I promised her, sir, through best, through worst,
I always would think of Ruby first."

The gentleman paused at his open door,
Such tales he had often heard before;

But he fumbled his purse in the twilight drear,
"I have nothing less than a shilling here."

"O sir! if you'll only take the pack
I'll bring you the change in a moment back;
Indeed you may trust me!" "Trust you? - no!
But here is the shilling; take it and go."

The gentleman loll'd in his cozy chair,
And watch'd his cigar-wreath melt in air,
And smiled on his children, and rose to see
The baby asleep on its mother's knee.

"And now it is nine by the clock," he said,
"Time that my darlings were all a-bed;
Kiss me 'good-night,' and each be sure,

When you're saying your prayers, remember the poor."

Just then came a message,

"A boy at the door,"

But ere it was utter'd he stood on the floor

Half-breathless, bewilder'd, and ragged and strange;

"I'm Ruby, -Mike's brother, -I've brought you the change

Mike's hurt, sir; 'twas dark; the snow made him blind,

And he didn't take notice the train was behind

Till he slipp'd on the track; and then it whizz'd by:
And he's home in the garret; I think he will die.

Yet nothing would do him, sir, nothing would do,
But out through the snow I must hurry to you:
Of his hurt he was certain you wouldn't have heard,
And so you might think he had broken his word."

When the garret they hastily enter'd, they saw
Two arms mangled, shapeless, outstretch'd from the straw.
. You did it, dear Ruby, God bless you!" he said,

-

And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back, and was dead.

The waves to sleep had gone ;
When little Hal, the Captain's son,
A lad both brave and good,
In sport up shroud and rigging ran,
And on the main truck stood!

A shudder shot through every vein,
All eyes were turn'd on high !
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;

No hold had he above, below;

Alone he stood in air:

To that far height none dared to go,
No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak!
With horror all aghast;

In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watch'd the quivering mast:
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue;

As riveted unto the spot,

Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck: he gasp'd, "O, God! thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasp'd,

66

And aim'd it at his son.

'Jump, far out, boy, into the wave!

Jump, or I fire," he said,

"That only chance your life can save;

Jump, jump!" The boy obey'd.

I'LL tell you how the Christmas came
To Rocket; no, you never met him,
That is, you never knew his name,
Although 'tis possible you've let him
Display his skill upon your shoes;

And who was Rocket? Well, an urchin,
A gamin, dirty, torn, and tatter'd,
Whose chiefest pleasure was to perch in

The Bowery gallery; there it matter'd
But little what the play might be,
Broad farce or point-lace comedy,
He meted out his just applause
By rigid, fix'd, and proper laws.

A father once he had, no doubt,

A mother on the Island staying, Which left him free to knock about,

And gratify a taste for straying Through crowded streets.

'Twas there he found

Companionship and grew renown'd.

An ash-box served him for a bed,

As good, at least, as Moses' rushes; And, for his daily meat and bread,

He earn'd them with his box and brushes.

An Arab of the city's slums,

With ready tongue and empty pocket, Unaided left to solve life's sums,

But plucky always, that was Rocket!

'Twas Christmas-eve, and all the day
The snow had fallen fine and fast;
In banks and drifted heaps it lay

Along the streets. A piercing blast
Blew cuttingly. The storm was past,
And now the stars look'd coldly down
Upon the snow-enshrouded town.
Ah, well it is if Christmas brings
Good-will and peace which poet sings!
How full are all the streets to-night
With happy faces, flush'd and bright!
The matron, in her silks and furs,
The pompous banker, fat and sleek,
The idle, well-fed loiterers,

The merchant trim, the churchman meek,
Forgetful now of hate and spite,
For all the world is glad to-night!
All, did I say? Ah, no, not all,
For sorrow throws on some its pall;
And here, within the broad, fair city,
The Christmas-time no beauty brings
To those who plead in vain for pity,

To those who cherish but the stings Of wretchedness and want and woe, Who never love's great bounty know; Whose grief no kindly hands assuage, Whose misery mocks our Christian age.