A noise—a tramp amid the crisping snow— Startled his ear! A large, imploring eye Gleamed at the window with unearthly glow! Was’t the grim panther which had ventured nigh? Or ghost condemned—or spirit of the sky? To grasp the gun his hand contained no force— His arm fell trembling and he knew not why! He ope’d the door—there stood a shivering horse, While clung upon his mane a stiff and muffled corse. Oh Death! who calls thy aspect terrible? Is’t he who gazes on the gentle maid Wrapped in her careful shroud; for whom a knell Steals o’er the village like a twilight shade; And on whose breast and in whose hands are laid White violets and lilies of the vale, Gems which bloom downward? Or, like them arrayed, Beholds the child as its own pillow pale, And hears the father’s groan and mother’s piercing wail? Who calls thy aspect terrible? Do they Who gaze on brows the lightning stoops to scathe? Or darker still, on those who fall a prey To jealousy’s unsmotherable wrath? Or they who walk in War’s ensanguined path And hear the prayers and curses of distress? These call thy aspect terrible! oh Death! More terrible, by far, let those confess, The frozen rider in that frozen wilderness! * * * * * THE MAN WITH THE BIG BOX. BY G. G. FOSTER. Mr. Robert Short—or, as he was called for shortness, Bob Short—was a genius. He could write a passable poem, and on one occasion—perhaps I should say two—had imprinted a sonnet upon each virgin sole of a pair of stainless satin slippers, kindly loaned him by the fair owner who was to trample upon his mounting aspirations. But some, who accidentally read the verses in the evening—ladies’ slippers _will_ come off and get passed round the room, you know—asserted that Bob had put his foot into it more completely than the lady. And then the pretty excuses he made for the minuteness of the hand, or rather foot writing—“they were really so very small he could scarcely crowd his rhymes upon them, in any character!” It was quite charming and irresistible! Mr. Short rose cent. per cent. in moral and social stature, and eventually swelled to the size of a lion. Don’t be alarmed, ladies—we mean a New York lion—not a real king of the forest, with yellow mane, eyes of fire, and a roar like Niagara Falls; but that much more harmless and docile animal, a civil, social lion—the lion of ladies in want of distinction, the lion of the _bas bleu_, the lion of Waverley Place and other high latitudes.