It was the evening before the wedding-day. The sisters had returned three months before, and George had been some time at home, and was soon to be ordained as pastor over the church where for generations his fathers had worshiped. Having assisted Lizzy in arranging the bridal paraphernalia for to-morrow morning’s ceremony, I went down stairs to bid Hattie good-night before I went home. She was standing by the window, with her head leaning on Fred’s shoulder. One of his arms was around her, and with the other he was holding back the curtain that the brilliant moonlight might fall full on the beautiful face that was raised to his with an expression of confiding affection. A sudden recollection flashed upon my mind, and crossing the room, I threw my arms around them as they stood together, and said to my brother, “Fred, _have you_ found out what there is to like in Hattie Atherton?” “I have found,” replied Fred, drawing her fondly to his heart, “that there is every thing in her to like except her name; she will change that to-morrow, and then she will be perfect.” * * * * * TO MARY. BY LUCY CABELL. ’Twere vain, dear Mary, to attempt To sound your praise in rhyme; Though oft I’ve gazed upon your face, You’re fairer every time. The stars are bright—but your sweet eyes, Are lovelier far than they, And diamonds, were they half as sweet, Have scarce a brighter ray. And, oh, such winning fondness lies, In your gay, gladsome smile, I scarce can look on you, and think I do not dream the while. And then your form—light as the air, And perfect as a fairy; Though many strive for beauty’s prize, None can compare with Mary. Oh, Mary, may thy future life, Be bright, as thou art now, And not a shade of sorrow rest, Upon thy snow-white brow. And when thy gentle spirit soars, From its abode of love, Oh, may it leave this world of cares, To dwell with God above. * * * * * LITTLE WILLIE. BY MRS. H. MARION STEPHENS. My beautiful—my beautiful, Upon thy baby brow, The stern, relentless hand of death Has placed his signet now! The golden threads that span thy life, Are breaking, one by one; Let me not hold his spirit back— Oh, God! thy will be done! My beautiful—my beautiful! Thy life has been a dream; A moment more, and it has passed, Like sunshine on a stream; Or like a bud, whose perfumed leaves Unfolded for an hour, To gaze with rapture on its God— Then droop beneath his power.