Now we stand around the open grave that is soon to be filled by another victim of a trade that feeds scores and starves millions--that saves one life and causes a thousand deaths--that consigns youth, innocence and beauty, equally with old age, to a premature grave. Now we lower this last victim--still young, beautiful, intelligent, full of sweetness of disposition and kindness of heart--into her grave. Now we look at the little cherub, the darling, sweet, much loved Adaleta, her orphan child, and now at her sister's grave, then at the weeping circle, who stand and sob as the falling clods bring forth that hollow sound, never heard in any other place. Now the voice of him who says: "'Tis the last of earth," "Let us pray," breaks the charmed circle of intense silence. Why is every eye upturned at the close? Did each listening ear fancy it heard the sound of an angel's voice in the air, breathing the words,--"Will he Come?" "Will he Come?" And did they expect to see the face of Little Katy in the clouds, looking down upon those she loved, paying this tribute to her mother, now sleeping by her side in the grave; now with her child in the spirit land of the blest? Now the tall corn is waving o'er the mountain and glen, And the sickle is reaping both the corn and the men; And the child that was sleeping where the lamps dimly shone, Like the corn, now is with'ring, in the vale all alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night, all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone. Where the chill rain was falling, sat the poor child asleep; Where the lights nightly burning, city vigils help keep-- Where the ague was creeping through the blood and the bone Of the child that was sleeping on the curb-stone alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone. In a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake, With a voice wildly crying, "Will he come, for my sake?" Then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone, Poor fading light--ceases burning--and with God she's alone. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone. In the dark grave sleeping, while poor Katy's at rest, While the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o'er her breast-- While the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away, Let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay. "Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone, "Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," in the grave all alone. A VOICE FROM KATY'S GRAVE. Among the many poetical effusions which have been elicited by reading the story of "Little Katy," I think the following, which appeared in the New York Tribune, will be read with pleasure. It is from the pen of Mrs. B. F. Foster, of New York:--