V.


"To-morrow is Christmas!"--and clapping his hands,
Little Archie in joyful expectancy stands,
And watches the shadows, now short and now tall,
That momently dance up and down on the wall.

Drawn curtains of crimson shut out the cold night,
And the parlor is pleasant with odours and light;
The soft lamp suspended, its mellowness throws
O'er cluster'd geranium, jasmine and rose;
The sleeping canary hangs caged midst the blooms,
A Sybarite slumberer steeped in perfumes;
For Alice still clings to her birds and her flowers,
Sweet tokens of kindlier, happier hours.

"To-morrow is Christmas!--but Beverly,--say,
Will it do to be glad when Papa is away?"
And the face that is tricksy and blythe as can be,
Tries vainly to temper its shadowless glee.

"For _you_, pet, I'm sure it is right to be glad;
'Tis a pitiful thing to see little ones sad;
But for Sophy and me, who are older, you know,--
We dare not be glad when we look at the snow!
I shrink from this comfort, this light and this heat,