From the quaint old farm-house, nestling warmly 'Neath its overhanging thatch of snow, Out into the moonlight troop the children, Filling all the air with music as they go, Gliding, sliding, Down the hill, Never minding Cold nor chill, O'er the silvered Moon-lit snow, Swift as arrow From the bow, With a rush Of mad delight Through the crisp air Of the night, Speeding far out O'er the plain, Trudging gayly Up again To where the firelight's Ruddy glow Turns to gold The silver snow. Finer sport who can conceive Than that of coasting New-Year's Eve? Half the fun lies in the fire That seems to brighter blaze and higher Than any other of the year, As though his dying hour to cheer, And at the same time greeting give To him who has a year to live. 'Tis built of logs of oak and pine, Filled in with branches broken fine; It roars and crackles merrily; The children round it dance with glee; They sing and shout and welcome in The new year with a joyous din That rings far out o'er hill and dale, And warns the watchers in the vale 'Tis time the church bells to employ To spread the universal joy. Then the hill is left in silence As the coasters homeward go, And the crimson of the fire-light Fades from off the trodden snow. So the years glide by as swiftly As the sleds rush down the hill, And each new one as it cometh Bringeth more of good than ill.

THE FAIRY'S TOKEN

Ethelreda, the Fairy of Northland, Was singing a song to herself, As she swung from a wreath of soft snow-flakes, And smiled to another bright elf. What token shall we send to our darling, Our name-child, fair Ethel, below In the house which is down in the valley All covered and calm in the snow? Shall we gather our glorious jewels, And wind them about her lithe form? They would glitter and glance in the sunshine, And merrily gleam in the storm. Shall we clothe her in whitest of ermine, And robe her as grand as a queen; Weave her laces of ice and of frost-work, A mantle of glistening sheen? She would shudder and cry at the clasping, She would moan aloud in her woe, And think the gay robes had been fashioned By cruelest, bitterest foe. I will none of these gifts for my darling, Neither jewels nor laces rare, Neither diamonds nor pearls of cold anguish— My gift shall be tender and fair. Early Ethel awoke Christmas morning, And found on her pillow that day A bunch of bright little snow-drops, From kind Ethelreda, the Fay!

THE BRAVE SWISS BOY

[Begun in No. 1 of Harper's Young People, November 4.]

VIII.—THE REWARD OF FIDELITY

Walter met with a friendly reception from General De Bougy—a brave old warrior who had served under Napoleon, and fought at Waterloo, where he had been severely wounded, and had lost his right foot by a cannon-ball. His hair was gray, and his countenance weather-beaten; but in spite of his age and infirmities he enjoyed tolerably good health, and was always in good humor. Having from long experience become a keen observer of those around him, it was not long before he recognized the merits of his new servant, to whom he soon became as much attached as his nephew had been.

Walter had been about three months in the general's service, and it seemed to all appearance as if he was likely to become a permanency there, when a letter arrived from Paris, the reading of which suddenly changed the customary gayety of the old man into the deepest gloom.

"This is a sad affair," said he to Walter, who happened to be in the room at the time. "My poor nephew!"

"Mr. Lafond? What is the matter with him?" inquired Walter, earnestly.

"He is ill, dangerously ill, poor fellow, so the doctor informs me," replied the general. "You can read the letter yourself. He seems to complain of being surrounded by strangers, with no one in the house that he can rely on. If I were not such an old cripple, I would go and help him to the best of my ability; for although he has led a thoughtless, reckless life, a more thorough-hearted gentleman does not live. Poor Adolphe!"

"I must go to him, sir," said Walter, suddenly, after hastily reading the letter, the perusal of which had driven all the color from his cheeks.

"You! Why, it is not long since you left him; and what do you want to go back for?" inquired the general, in surprise.

"Can you not guess, sir? I must go and nurse him. He must at least have one person near him to pay him some attention."

"If you care for him so," exclaimed the general, "why did you leave his service?"

This led Walter to explain to the old gentleman the reasons which had compelled him to give up his situation, and again to beg permission to act the part of nurse to his former master. A tear sparkled in the old man's eye as the youth declared the attachment he had always cherished for Mr. Lafond. "Go to him, then," said he. "I can not trust him to a more faithful attendant; and as soon as I can I will follow you, and take my place with you by his bedside. Poor Adolphe! Had he only possessed firmness of character, and avoided bad company, he might have been well and strong to-day. But his unhappy weakness has brought him to the grave before his time, in spite of all my warnings, and entreaties. As he has sowed, so must he reap. Ah, Walter, his fate is a terrible proof of the consequences of evil habits. But all regrets are useless now. Let us lose no time in giving what little help we can."

Making all the necessary preparations for the journey without a moment's delay, Walter soon reached Paris. When he entered the chamber of Mr. Lafond he was shocked at the change which a few short months had made in his appearance. It was evident that the doctor had rather disguised than exaggerated the danger he was in. The sunken eyes and withered face showed only too plainly that the space of time allotted to him on earth was but short. Walter sank on his knees by the bedside and taking the pale and wasted hand in his, breathed a prayer that God might see fit to deal mercifully with a life yet so young; while the invalid smiled faintly, and stroked the cheek of his faithful attendant.

"Dear Walter, how good of you to come back!" murmured the invalid. "I thought you would not leave me to die alone. I feared that your prediction would prove true, and therefore I did not wish you to go home. I wanted to have a true friend with me at the last moment which I feel can not be far off now."

The faithful Switzer saw that Mr. Lafond too well knew the critical condition he was in to be deceived by any false hopes, and he therefore did everything in his power to make the last days of the dying man as free from pain and discomfort as possible. Who could tell what might be the effect, even at so late a period, of careful nursing and devoted attention? But all his thoughtful and loving care seemed in vain.

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