The Poet jumped up and went to his writing-desk. "That reminds me,"
he said, and produced a folded scrap of paper. "I wrote it last
night. It's a sort of a little New Year's present--you need not read
it, you know."

"But I will": and she took the paper and read--

UPON NEW YEAR'S EVE

Now winds of winter glue
Their tears upon the thorn,
And earth has voices few,
And those forlorn.

And 'tis our solemn night
When maidens sand the porch,
And play at Jack's Alight
With burning torch,

Or cards, or Kiss i' the Ring--
While ashen faggots blaze,
And late wassailers sing
In miry ways.

Then, dear my wife, be blithe
To bid the New Year hail
And welcome--plough, drill, scythe,
And jolly flail.