The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes, And we bade farewell to joy; For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie To the grave of the little boy. The birds still sing in the leafy tree That shadows the open door: We heed them not; for we think of the voice That we shall hear no more. We think of him at eventide, And gaze on his vacant chair With a longing heart, that will scarce believe That Charlie is not there. We seem to hear his ringing laugh, And his bounding step at the door; But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,— We shall never hear them more! We shall walk sometimes to his little grave, In the pleasant summer hours; We will speak his name in a softened voice, And cover his grave with flowers; We will think of him in his heavenly home,— His heavenly home so fair; And we will trust with a hopeful trust That we shall meet him there. BERTHA’S CHRISTMAS VISION. It was the night before Christmas. Snow was falling without; and the wind dashed the cold flakes, in eddying whirls, into the faces of those wayfarers whom business or pleasure kept out thus late. They drew their warm garments more closely about them, and hurried onward; little heeding the pelting of the storm while the vision of a cheerful hearth and a merry family circle danced before their eyes and warmed their hearts. Merry St. Nicholas, too, the patron saint of children, was abroad. It was a busy night with him. Thousands of parcels must be made up, and showered down as many chimneys into expectant stockings, before the morrow’s dawn. So he gives the reins to his coursers, and speeds swiftly along,— “through forest and brake; Through deep, drifting snow; over river and lake; Over hill, over dale, where the keen northern blast, With fierce, angry moaning, drives fearfully past.” In a large and pleasant room sat little Bertha, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. The fire crackled and burnt; and shadows, cast by its flickering light, danced on the wall. But little Bertha’s thoughts were far away, and she heeded them not. For many weeks, she had been looking forward to this very night; and now she was trying to conjecture what gifts good St. Nicholas had in store for her. At length she grew weary of conjecture, took a lamp from the table, and went up stairs to bed. It was a neat little chamber; and the counterpane on Bertha’s bed rivalled in whiteness the falling snow without. Bertha looked out of the window, against the panes of which the snow was beating noisily. “It is a cold night,” thought she. “St. Nicholas will have a hard time of it. What if he should not come at all?”