'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,
This plenty to wear, and this plenty to eat,
When the soldiers who fight for us,--die for us,--lie,
With nothing around and above, but the sky;
When their clothes are so light, and the rations they deal,
Are only a morsel of bacon and meal:
And how can I fold my thick blankets around,
When I know that my father's asleep on the ground?
I'm ashamed to be happy, or merry, or free,
As if war and its trials were nothing to me:
Oh! I never can know any frolic or fun,--
Any real, mad romps,--till the battles are done!'
And the face of the boy, so heroic and fair,
Is touched with the singular shadow of care.
Sophy ceases her warbling, subdues her soft mirth,
And draws her low ottoman up to the hearth:

'But, brother, what good would it do to refuse
The comforts and blessings God gives us, or use
Them quite with indifference, as much as to say,
We care not how soon they are taken away!
I am sure I would give my last blanket, and spread
My pretty, blue cloak, at night, over my bed,--
(Mamma, you know, covers herself with her shawl,
Since we've sent all our blankets,)--but, then, it's too small!
Would Papa be less hungry or cold, do you think,
If _we_ had too little to eat or to drink?
So I mean to be busy,--I mean to be glad;
Mamma says there's time enough yet to be sad;
I'll work for the soldiers,--I'll pray, and I'll plan,
And just be as happy as ever I can;
I've made the grey shirt, and I've finished the socks:--
So come, let us help,--they are packing the box.'

How grateful the task is to Alice! her cares
Are quite put aside, and her countenance wears
A look of enjoyment as eager, as bright,
As Santa Claus brings little dreamers to-night;
For Douglass away in his camp, is to share
The daintiest cates that her larder can spare.

The turkey, well seasoned, and tenderly browned,
Is flanked by the spiciest _a la mode_ 'round;'
The great 'priestly ham,' in its juiciest pride,
Is there,--with the tenderest surloin beside;
Neat bottles, suggestive of ketchups and wines,
And condiments racy, of various kinds;
And firm rolls of butter as yellow as gold,
And patties and biscuit most rare to behold,
And sauces that richest of odors betray,--
Are marshalled in most appetizing array.
Then Beverly brings of his nuts a full store,
And Archie has apples, a dozen or more;
While Sophy, with gratified housewifery, makes
Her present of spicy 'Confederate cakes.'

And then in a snug little corner, there lies
A pacquet will brighten the orphan boy's eyes;
For Beverly claims it a pleasure to use
His last cherish'd hoardings in buying him shoes.
Sophy's socks too are there; and she catches afar--
'There's _somebody_ cares for me, Colonel Dunbar!'

What subtlest of essences, sovereign to cheer--
What countless, uncatalogu'd tokens are here!
What lavender'd memories, tenderly green,
Lie hidden, these grosser of viands between!
What food for the heart-life,--unreckon'd, untold--
What manna enclosed in its chalice of gold!
What caskets of sweets that Love only unlocks,--
What mysteries Douglass will find in the box!