FEBRUARY 12, 18 —.

Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day; 'Twould have been sad to see it go away, If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lights Glimmered awhile across the Jersey heights, Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, came And set some New York windows all aflame. (From a clear sunset I can always borrow God's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.)

But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight, My mind would take a heavy, care-winged flight Up to a small back garret, far away, Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day.

Want—want—want—want! it hung 'round everywhere; It threw its odors on the sickly air! The room was somewhat smaller, to begin, Than I would put a span of horses in; The floor was rough and damp as floor could be; No picture on the walls but Poverty; The bed was ragged, scanty, hard, and drear; A rough-made, empty crib was standing near; The "window" 'd never felt the sun's warm stare, Or breathed a breath of good old-fashioned air;

A little, worn-out doll some child had had, Looking, like its surroundings, rough and sad, And dressed in rags and pinched and famine-faced, But bearing still some marks of girlish taste; A gaunt, gray kitten, showing every sign That it was on the last life of its nine, Though trying hard to feel quite sleek and fat, And not a very care-worn, desolate cat; A man, so grieved my heart can see him now, With frightful sorrow printed on his brow;

A rough, wood coffin stood there near the bed, Looking uneasy even for the dead; A little, pallid face I saw therein— A niceish-looking child she must have been, As sweet as ever need to feed a glance, If she had only had one-half a chance. But still, she woke a thought I could not smother— "That child was murdered in some way or other."

And my opinion didn't seem much amiss When the man spoke up, something like to this:

All this, above the shoulder, I could see, Of an old preacher who had come with me— A man who, 'mongst those garrets, earns, they say, A house and lot in heaven every day.