"What can he do that cometh after the King?" is the language of the Book. He who cometh after the QUEEN will vainly seek to write worthy comment on these words. But comment will be supplied by all the hearts that are rejoicing in the happiness of a Mother and of a Wife, and in the deliverance of a Nation from a great sorrow. * * * * * The Festive Bored. IN olden time the boar's head was a common Christmas adjunct to the board. The custom, it appears, has not entirely yet died out. If one believes one's eyes and ears, one can hardly ever join a family Christmas party, without finding at least one, if not more than one, bore's head there. * * * * * THE NATIONS' NEW-YEAR'S DAY. BENEATH the fading mistletoe in Time's wide-echoing Hall,-- The Yule-log's light still brisk and bright, on storied roof and wall-- The Spirits of the Nations, some strange, some kith and kin, Are met to flout the Old Year out and _fête_ the New Year in. With war-stains dim on robe and limb, fresh scars on cheek and brow, France strives to look as though no pains could crush, no losses bow: But her glance is quick and restless, and her hands are never still, As one that, fevered inly, masks but masters not her ill. As if in mock of Christmas wreaths,--their "peace, good-will to men"-- What fierce hate in her eyes whene'er proud Prussia meets their ken! Prussia that, stern and stately, her great sword, laurel-wreathed, Bears wary, so, 'tis hard to know if bare the blade, or sheathed. So light and lithe that stalwart frame in movement or at rest, You scarce would deem you caught the gleam of steel below her breast; Beneath the wide imperial robe, that, fire-new, sweeps the ground, With what now seems a diadem, and now a helmet, crowned. But mark yon maid, of loveliness more radiant and more rare Than all the showers of gems and flowers that star her night of hair; For strength and grace to fit that face, what music but the tongue Wherein stern DANTE chaunted, and silvery PETRARCH sung? Queen among Queens! But never Queen full-robed and crowned till now, The double diadem of Rome on her exultant brow! Who notes the dust, who recks the rust, that dulls or dims its sheen, Or asks how she came by it, or through what mire it has been? From sleep or strife new roused to life that lights her antique face, No monkish train nor slavish chain to cramp her strength and grace, What wonder if she hardly know in soberness to still The throbbing of late-loosened blood, the stir of waking will? Others are there, though notable, less notable than these: See Russia, blue-eyed giantess, still rude and ill at ease: But who can tell what undrawn wells of power and strength are there, Under the brow that looms so broad below her fell of hair?