YOU KISSED ME.

You kissed me! My forehead drooped low on your breast
With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest,

While the holy emotion my tongue dared not speak
Flushed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek;
Your arms held me fast, oh! your arms were so bold;
Heart beat against heart in their passionate fold.
Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes,
As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies;
And your lips clung to mine till I prayed in my bliss
They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss.

You kissed me! My heart and my breath and my will
In delirious joy for the moment stood still;
Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,
No visions of pleasure, outside of your arms.
And were I this instant an angel possessed
Of the joy and the peace that are given the blest,
I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down,
And tear from my forehead the beautiful crown,
To nestle once more in that haven of rest,
With your lips upon mine, and my head on your breast.

You kissed me! My soul in a bliss so divine

Reeled and swooned like a drunken man foolish with wine; And I thought 'twere delicious to die there, if death Would come while my lips were yet moist with your breath;

'Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold While your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold,

And these are the questions I ask day and night:
Must my lips taste but once such exquisite delight?
Would you care if your breast was my shelter as then,
And if you were here would you kiss me again?

JOSEPHINE HUNT (Chicago Tribune.)

It was

In publishing this a few years ago, the New York Tribune said, "The above exquisite poem was written in 1857, when the young lady, the author, was under 20. addressed to a certain young gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. James Redpath thought so well of the poem that he published quite an edition on white satin ribbon. Whittier, the poet, wrote of it and its young author, that she had 'mastered the secret of English rhythm.'

Thereupon the "bad man" of the Chicago Tribune broke out as follows:

You kicked me! my head dropped low on my vest
With a feeling as if I would like to go west,
While the cock-and-bull story about my rich love
For your daughter-my Mabel, had flown like a dove.
Your fist held me fast-oh, my back was so cold;
Boot beat against pants, and each hearty kick told.
Your boot toe seemed knccking my spine through my eyes,
As the White Stocking boys knock the sky scraping flies.
Your foot clung to me till I prayed you might miss
Me just once, and your corn 'gainst the table leg kiss.

You missed me! my heart and my breath and my will
In delirious joy for a moment stood still,
Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,
No visions of happiness, outside of your arms,
And were I this instant an angel possessed
Of the peace and the joy that are given the blest,
I would fling my white robes unrepiningly down,

I would tear from my forehead its beautiful crown,

To listen once more to that old man's wild whoop,
As he busted his bunion out on the front stoop.

"The above exquisite poem was written in 1881, when the author was a young man under 30. It was addressed to a certain old gentleman, the hero of the occasion portrayed. A Chicago editor thought so well of the poem that he once published quite an edition on wood pulp paper. Whittier the poet wrote of it, and its young author, that he had evidently been there.'"

The same "bad man" quotes, on another occasion, without giving the author's name, the following lines :

FALLING leaf and fading tree
Lines of white in a sullen sea,
Shadows rising o'er you and me,

The swallows are making them ready to fly
Wheeling out on a windy sky;

Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye.

"Hush," a voice from the far away,
"Listen and learn," it seemed to say
"All the to-morrows shall be as to-day,
The cord is frayed, the cruse is dry,

The link must break and the lamp must die,
Then good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye."

"What are we waiting for, oh my heart?
Kiss me straight on the brows and part
Again! Again! My heart! My heart!
What are we waiting for you and I?
A pleading look, a stifled cry,

Then good-bye, friend, good-bye, good-bye."

After which followed this parody.

EASY chair and soft young man,
Lovely girl on his kneepan.

Let him hold her while he can.

Her father is taking the chain off the pup, On Tommy's pants he will shortly sup; Get up Myrtle! get up, get up.

"Biff," a voice from the far away, "Over the gate," it seemed to say; "Come round to-morrow the bill to pay." The dog is hungry, the moon is pale, God help the boy if the trousers fail, Set sail, Tommy, set sail, set sail.

"What is he waiting for, O, my heart?
Why don't he get another start?
Again! Again! My heart! My heart!
What are you waiting for Tommy dear?
Get up and hustle, the coast is clear;
Some day that front gate will be his bier."

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"THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS." Harper's Cyclopædia of Poetry says Clement C. Moore (1779-1863) was the son of a bishop, and a native of New York City. In 1844 he published a volume of poems dedicated to his children. One of them, founded on an old Dutch tradition, is generally known as "The

Night before Christmas," although the author christened it "A Visit from St. Nicholas."

'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 through 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 the 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 the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes did 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. Nic.
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 housetop 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 pedlar 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 of 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 the 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,
"Merry 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

We emptied of all that was eatable there,

The darlings had lately been tucked in their beds With very full stomachs, and pain 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 nuss'ry arose 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 little pale face of each sick little dear,

For each pet that had crammed itself full as a tick
I knew in a moment now felt like Old Nick.

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 shock ed 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 Jalop's hoof.
I might say that I hardly had turned myself round,
When the doctor came into the room with a bound;
He was covered with mud from his head to his foot,
And the suit he had on was his very worst suit,
He had hardly had time to put this on his back,
And he looked like a 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 had'nt 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 chubby plump sick little elf,

And groaned when he said so-in spite of myself,

But a wink of his eye when he physicked our Fred,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He didn't prescribe, but went straightway to work,
He 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 Jalop a whistle,
And Jalop dashed off as if pricked by a thistle;
The doctor exclaimed e'er he drove out of sight,
"They'll be better to-morrow-good night, Jones-good
night!"

'Tis nothing a private or two now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost-only one of the men, Moaning out all alone the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear Autumn moon,
Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle light wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above with their glittering eyes
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,-
For their mother,-may Heaven defend her

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night when the love yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips,-when low murmured vows,
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle : "Ha! Mary good-bye!"
And the life blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
The picket's off duty for ever.

THAD OLIVER.

ALONG THE ST. LAWRence.

ALL quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night, Except now and then a cashier

Is seen as he crosses with gripsack in hand And imagines a cop in the rear.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night, No sound save the rush of the water, While amateur warriors curled up in bed, Are dreaming of horrible slaughter.

"All hail to this snow-covered alien shore," Quoth the boodler, disporting a plug; "Far better the sweep of the boreal blast

Than a bed in the circumscribed jug.

"But, alas! for the fellows who lingered too late ;

We think of them ever with pain,

For they lost the rich spoils of municipal war

By waiting too late for the train.”

Was it the moonbeam so suddenly bright?

The starlight so wondrously flashing?
Ah, no: 'twas the glint of the glimmering glass,
And the cocktail is ebbing and splashing.

All quiet along the St. Lawrence to-night,
Though the cashier is crossing for ever;
While depositors rush on the bank which he left.
He draws on the bank of the river.

From The New York World.

:0:

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

I HAFE got a leedle boy

Vot gomes schust to my knee;

Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue As efer you dit see;

He runs and jumps, und smashes dings
In all parts of der house-

But what of dot? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dots out;

He spills mine glass of lager beer,

Puts schnuff into mine kraut;

He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese

Dot vas der roughest chouse;

I'd dake dot vrom no oder boy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk pan for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo,

To make der sthicks to beat it mit—
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I dinks mine head vas schplit apart,
He kicks up such a touse-
But never mind, der boys vas few
Like dot leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints my nose so red?
Who vas it cuts dot schmoot blace out
Vrom der hair upon mine head?
Und vere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse-
How gan I all dese dings eggsblain
To dot shmall Yawcob Strauss ?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
But ven he vas aschleep in ped
So quiet as a mouse,

I brays der Lord, "Dake anydings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

He hops und schumps und marks der time,
Und shows such taste and nous,
Dat dere's to equal him no vun,
Mine clever Eduard Strauss !

He fills our ears mit lofely sounds,
Applause "brings down der house,"
Dat happens to feu uder poys,

But leedle Eduard Strauss.

He dakes der viddle in his hands,
Und he schust blay it, too!
He dake der schtick to beat der time,
Mine gracious, dot vos drue.

His band blays not too loud nor zoft,
It kicks not up a touse,

Oh, peutiful! der schaps are few
Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

Und ven der beeble hear dot band
Dey at each oder glance,

Den vag deir heads, den move deir veet,
Und vish dot dey might dance.

Und ven dey blay der "Danube Blue,"
Vich vos vor an encore,

Dey velcome it as zomtings new,
Und call vor it vunce more.

Der beeble listen as dey blay

As guiet as a mouse,

Dere's none vor dance tunes any day
Like leedle Eduard Strauss.

CHARLES F. ADAMS.

LEEDLE EDUARD STRAUSS.

THEY haf von very clever man

At der Inventorees.

To see him schust conduct der band, Dats sometings if you please.

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

"WHAT is that, mother, that comes from the urn,
Fragrant and strong as we get it in turn?"
"An infusion of leaves from far Cathay,
Leaves of the alder, and leaves of the bay,

With a twang, and full flavoured, just as it should be,
And I think that there may be some leaves of the tea."

"What is that, mother, so coldly blue, Like a wintry sky of azure hue?"

"That is milk of the city, that mixture, my dear, The milk of the chalk-pit and pump that is near, That would not be owned by a sensible cow,

For she never could make it, she wouldn't know how."

"What is that, mother, yellow as gold?"
"Butter, my boy; not the butter of old.
In the hey-day of youth we said tit for tat,
'Twas a prophecy when we said butter for fat;

That is butter, to those whom the scoffer calls green,
To the elect it is oleomargarine."

"What is that, mother? 'Tis the pepper of trade, But the Lord only knows of what it is made;

Of roasted meal, of dust, and peas

With a dash of cayenne, to make one sneeze
It is hot and strong, but it's rather queer,

Of the ground pepper-corn, there is none of it here.
E. LAWSON FINERTY.

:0:

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

In the early part of the American civil war, one dark morning in the dead of winter, there died at the Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati, a young woman over whose head only two-and-twenty summers had passed. Once the pride of respectable parentage, her first wrong step was the small beginning of the "same old story over again," which has been the only life-history of thousands. Highly educated and accomplished in manners, she might have shone in the best of Society. But the evil hour that proved her ruin was but the door from childhood; and having spent a young life in disgrace and shame, the poor friendless one died the melancholy death of a broken-hearted outcast.

Among her personal effects was found in manuscript, the "Beautiful Snow," which was seen by Enos B. Reed, a gentleman of culture and literary tastes, who was at that time editor of the National Union. In the columns of that paper, on the morning following the girl's death, the poem appeared in print for the first time. When the paper containing the poem came out on Sunday morning, the body of the victim had not yet received burial. The attention of Thomas Buchanan Read, one of the first American poets, was soon directed to the newly-published lines, who was so taken with their stirring pathos that he followed the corpse to its final resting-place.

The above account of the origin of the poem is that given by Mr. James Hogg, as far back as 1874, and repeated by him in the columns of "Notes and Queries on July 3, 1875, but it is open to considerable doubt.

Some American writers ascribe it to Mr. James M. Watson, whilst others assert that it was written as far back as December, 1852, by Major W. A. Sigourney, and that his erring young wife was the miserable outcast described in the poem. Itis also stated that on the night of April 22, 1871, Major Sigourney was found dead in the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that he had shot himself.

It is possible that Mr. Watson amplified and improved the poem from the original draft of Major Sigourney, which as usually printed, is shorter and far less pathetic.

OH! the snow, the beautiful snow!
Filling the sky and the earth below;
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet :
Dancing-Flirting-Skimming along.

Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong;

Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek, Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak; Beautiful snow from the heavens above

Pure as an angel, gentle as love!

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow !
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go,
Whirling about in their maddening fun;
It plays in its glee with everyone—

Chasing-Laughing-Hurrying by. It lights on the face, and sparkles the eye. And the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals as they eddy around; The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How wildly the crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humour and song!
How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by,
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye!

Ringing Swinging-Dashing they go,
Over the crust of the beautiful snow-
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky
As to make one regret to see it lie,

To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet, Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell-
Fell like the snow-flakes from heaven to hell
Fell to be trampled as filth in the street-
Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat-

Pleading Cursing-Dreading to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy;
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating the living and fearing the dead,
Merciful God, have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like its crystal, and heart like its glow :
Once I was loved for my innocent grace-
Flattered and sought for the charms of my face!
Father-Mother-Sisters, and all,

God and myself I have lost by my fall;
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by,
Will make a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh;
For all that is on or above me I know,
There is nothing so pure as the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow,
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it should be when the night comes again
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting-Freezing--Dying alone.

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan,
To be heard in the streets of the crazy town.
Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow,
Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low
To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin,
And raise it to life and enjoyment again.

Groaning-Bleeding-Dying for thee.
The Crucified hung on the accursed tree.
His accents of mercy fell soft on thine ear-
"Is there mercy for me? Will He heed my prayer?
O God, in the stream that for sinners doth flow,
Wash me,
and I shall be whiter than snow.