When I read this little thing the other day it broke me alf up. It took me back to my childhood days when I lay in my little trundle bed, and was wakeful, and had a raging thirst, insomuch that I used to want a drink of water every fifteen seconds. Mamma didn't ask if I would "go to sleep for ma, to-day." She used to turn the bed-clothes back over the footboard, so that she could have plenty of sea room, and then she would take an old sewing-machine belt, and it would sigh through the agitated air for a few moments pretty plenty, till the writer of these lines would conclude to sob himself to sleep, and anon through the night he would dream that he had backed up against the Hill Smeltingg works. That's the kind of "Go to sleep for ma to-day," that comes up vividly to my mind. But I must give another stanza or two from Julia's collection--as showing how this gifted writer can with a word dispel the chilling temperature of December, and run the thermometer up to 100 degrees in the shade. I will quote from the death of "Little Henry:"= ```It was on the eleventh of December, ````On a cold and windy day, ```Just at the close of evening, ````When the sunlight fades away, ```Little Henry he was dying, ````In his little crib he lay, ```With the soft winds around him sighing, ````From early morn till close of day.= One of Julia's poems opens out in such a cheerful, pleasant way, that I wish I could give it all, but space forbids. She tunes her lyre so that it will mash all right, and then says:= ````Come all kind friends, both far and near, ````O, come, and see what you can hear.= Then she proceeds to slaughter some one. In looking over her poems one is struck with the terrible mortality which they show. Julia is worse than a Gatling gun. I have counted twenty-one killed and nine wounded, in the small volume which she has given to the public. In giving the circumstances which attended the death of one of her subjects, and the economical principles of the deceased, she says:= ```And he was sick and very bad, ````Poor boy, he thought, no doubt, ```If he came home in a smoking car` ```His money would hold out. ```He started to come back alone, ````He came one-third the way. ```One evening, in the car alone, ````His spirit fled away.= That's the way Julia kills off a young man just as we get interested in him. You just begin to like one of her heroes or heroines and Julia proceeds to lay said hero or heroine out colder than a wedge. A sad, sad thing, which goes to the tune of Belle Mahone, starts out as follows:= ````"Once there lived a lady fair, ````With black eyes and curly hair; ````She has left this world of care, `````Sweet Carrie Monroe,"= To which I have added in my poor weak way--= ```She could not her sorrows bear, ```For she was a dumpling rare; ```She has clum the golden stair, `````Sweet Carrie Monroe.= ```'Twas indeed a day of gloom` ``When we gathered in her room, ```While she cantered up the flume,