WE read your Letters! no word lost;
All, all is rememberèd;
And often when there comes no Post,
Once more are the old ones read.

Of all she did we love to hear,
And how the days have sped;
But to our listening hearts most dear
Is something 'Christie said.'
Little Willie
POOR little Willie,
With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his look
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touched with
Gold of heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid
In a Workhouse Grave!

In the day we wandered foodless,
Little Willie cried for bread!
In the night we wandered homeless,
Little Willie cried for bed.
Parted at the Workhouse door,
Not a word we said:
Ah, so tired was poor Willie,
And so sweetly sleep the dead.

You remember little Willie;
Such a funny fellow! he
Sprang like a lily
From the dirt of poverty.
Poor little Willie!
Not a friend was nigh,
When, from the cold world,
He crouched down to die.

'Twas in the dead of winter
We laid him in the earth;
The world brought in the New Year,
Mocking us with mirth:
But, for lost little Willie,
Not a tear we crave;
Cold and Hunger cannot wake him,
In his Workhouse Grave.

We thought him beautiful,
Felt it hard to part;
We to him were dutiful;
Down, down, poor heart!
The storms they may beat;
The winter winds may rave;
Little Willie feels not
In his Workhouse Grave.

No room for little Willie;
In the world he had no part;
On him stared the Gorgon-eye,
Through which looks no heart.
Come to me, said Heaven;
And, if Heaven will save,
We will grieve not, though the door
Was a Workhouse Grave.