But Mrs. Claus misunderstood, Like every jealous wife; She would make bad things out of good, To feed her inward strife. Snapped she unto herself: "The minx Sha'n't have a single thing! I'll take 'em home again, methinks, Nor leave a stick or string!"

So said, so done; and all that night She followed Santa's wake, And as he stuffed the stockings tight, She every one did take, Stowing them all unseen away, In order grimly neat, Within the dark box of the sleigh, All underneath the seat.

And when gray dawn broke, and all The bells began to peal, And tiny forms down many a hall And stairway 'gan to steal, In vain each chimney-piece they sought— Those weeping girls and boys— For Christmas morn had come and brought No candy and no toys.

Charles Henry Lueders.



SANTA CLAUS TO LITTLE ETHEL.

(IN ANSWER TO HER LETTER, GIVING HIM A LIST OF HER CHRISTMAS WANTS.)

My dear little Ethel, I fear that the breath'll Be out of our bodies before we get through; Day in and day out We are rushing about, And you haven't a notion how much there's to do.

Ever since last December, When you may remember I paid you a visit at dear Elsinore, There's not been a minute With a resting-place in it, And my nose has not once been outside of the door.

My shop has been going, My bellows a-blowing, My hammers and tongs and a thousand odd tools, Never give up the battle, But click, bang, and rattle Like ten million children in ten thousand schools.

Dear me, but I'm weary! And yet, my small deary, I read all the letters as fast as they come; If I didn't,—good gracious! The house is not spacious, And the letters would soon squeeze me out of my home.

"I would like a nice sled, And a dolly's soft bed, With a night-gown and bed-clothes of pretty bright stuffs, And paints, and a case Where my books I may place, And besides all these things, Dolly's collars and cuffs."

That's a pretty big list! But may I be kissed On the back of my head by a crazy mule's hoof, If the list I don't fill, Though it takes all the skill Of every stout workman beneath my broad roof.

"Hans, Yakob, and Karl! Let me not hear a snarl, Or a growl, or a grumble come out of your heads; To work now, instanter! Trot, gallop, and canter, And finish this job ere you go to your beds!"

So I set them to work With a jump and a jerk, And everything's finished in beautiful style. Christmas Eve's here again, And I'm off with my train, Every reindeer prepared for ten seconds a mile.

I shall slip down the flue With this letter for you, So softly, for fear I your slumbers might break. Not a word will I speak, But I'll kiss your soft cheek, And be gone in a jiffy, before you awake.

Should you find I've forgot Any part of the lot That I ordered prepared and all marked with your name, Let me just add a word, So if that has occurred, You will know just exactly how I was to blame.

The fact is, my dear, As I go, year by year, Up and down these straight chimneys, while you are in bed, The bumps and the scratches That Santa Claus catches Have rubbed all the hair from the top of his head.

And my brain being bare Of my cover of hair, Is rapidly losing its power, my pet! Sometimes, after all's fixed, I get everything mixed, And you must forgive if I ever forget.

Good-by, Ethel dear! May the coming New Year Bring all kinds of blessings to you from above; Make you happier and better: And so my long letter Must close, with a great deal of Santa Claus's love.

Francis Wells.



The Season's Reveries.

"How many times have you sat at gaze Till the mouldering fire forgot to blaze, Shaping among the whimsical coals Fancies and figures and shining goals!"

Lowell.



GUESTS AT YULE.

Noel! Noel! Thus sounds each Christmas bell Across the winter snow. But what are the little footprints all That mark the path from the churchyard wall? They are those of the children waked to-night From sleep by the Christmas bells and light: Ring sweetly, chimes! Soft, soft, my rhymes! Their beds are under the snow.

Noel! Noel! Carols each Christmas bell. What are the wraiths of mist That gather anear the window-pane Where the winter frost all day has lain? They are soulless elves, who fain would peer Within and laugh at our Christmas cheer: Ring fleetly, chimes! Swift, swift, my rhymes! They are made of the mocking mist.

Noel! Noel! Cease, cease, each Christmas bell! Under the holly bough, Where the happy children throng and shout, What shadow seems to flit about? Is it the mother, then, who died Ere the greens were sere last Christmas-tide? Hush, falling chimes! Cease, cease, my rhymes! The guests are gathered now.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.



CHRISTMAS IN INDIA.

Dim dawn the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow— As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow That the day, the staring eastern day, is born. Oh, the white dust on the highway! Oh, the stenches in the by-way! Oh, the clammy fog that hovers over earth! And at home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry— What part have India's exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring— As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear one o'er the field-path who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly— Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"

High noon above the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us— As at home the Christmas Day is breaking wan, They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh, the toil that knows no breaking! Oh! the heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh, the black, dividing sea and alien plain! Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it, And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.

Gray dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together— As the sun is sinking slowly over home; And his last ray seems to mock us, shackled in a lifelong tether That drags us back, howe'er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment— India, she the grim stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut—we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus— As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O, my brothers, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For, if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

Rudyard Kipling.



CHRISTMAS VIOLETS.

Last night I found the violets You sent me once across the sea; From gardens that the winter frets, In summer lands they came to me.

Still fragrant of the English earth, Still humid from the frozen dew, To me they spoke of Christmas mirth, They spoke of England, spoke of you.

The flowers are scentless, black, and sere, The perfume long has passed away; The sea whose tides are year by year Is set between us, chill and gray.

But you have reached a windless age, The haven of a happy clime; You do not dread the winter's rage, Although we missed the summer-time.

And like the flower's breath over sea, Across the gulf of time and pain, To-night returns the memory Of love that lived not all in vain.

Andrew Lang.



DICKENS RETURNS ON CHRISTMAS DAY.

(A ragged girl in Drury Lane was heard to exclaim, "Dickens dead? Then will Father Christmas die, too?" June 9, 1870.)

"Dickens is dead!" Beneath that grievous cry London seemed shivering in the summer heat; Strangers took up the tale like friends that meet: "Dickens is dead!" said they, and hurried by; Street children stopped their games—they knew not why, But some new night seemed darkening down the street; A girl in rags, staying her way-worn feet, Cried, "Dickens dead? Will Father Christmas die?"

City he loved, take courage on thy way! He loves thee still in all thy joys and fears: Though he whose smiles made bright thine eyes of gray— Whose brave sweet voice, uttering thy tongueless years, Made laughters bubble through thy sea of tears— Is gone, Dickens returns on Christmas Day!

Theodore Watts.



A GRIEF AT CHRISTMAS.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

First Year.

The time draws near the birth of Christ The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and good-will, good-will and peace, Peace and good-will, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish'd no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll'd me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touched with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule.

With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve;

Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of our night With shower'd largess of delight, In dance and song and game and jest.

Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house;

Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time? They too will die.

With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol'd, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each.

Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho' every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang:

We ceased: a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet. "They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet," And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: "They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change;

"Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather'd power, yet the same Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil."

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born.

Second Year.

Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possessed the earth, And calmly fell on Christmas-eve:

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost.

As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

Who show'd a token of distress? No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less?

O last regret, regret can die! No—mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry.

Third Year.

The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist.

A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know.

Like strangers' voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow'd ground.

To-night ungather'd let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger's land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.

Our father's dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone.

No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use.

Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past.

But let no footsteps beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good.

Ring out wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night: Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor; Ring in redress of all mankind.

Ring out the slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in:

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Lord Tennyson.



MY SISTER'S SLEEP.

She fell asleep on Christmas-eve: At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain naught else might yet relieve.

Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down did pray.

Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed.

Without there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup.

Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round.

I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp, strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights.

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs.

Our mother rose from where she sat: Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that.

"Glory unto the Newly Born," So as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas-day, Though it would still be long till morn.

Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some one had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

With anxious, softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they Have broken her long-watched-for rest!

She stooped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word; There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little space.

Our mother bowed herself and wept; And both my arms fell, and I said, "God knows I knew that she was dead," And there, all white, my sister slept.

Then kneeling upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock, We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!"

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.



CHRISTMAS IN EDINBOROUGH.

I.

Sheath'd is the river as it glideth by, Frost-pearl'd are all the boughs of forests old, The sheep are huddling close upon the wold, And over them the stars tremble on high. Pure joys these winter nights around me lie; 'Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets At Christmas-time, and guess from brow and pace The doom and history of each one we meet, What kind of heart beats in each dusky case; Whiles, startled by the beauty of a face In a shop-light a moment. Or instead, To dream of silent fields where calm and deep The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep— Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead.

Alexander Smith.



CHRISTMAS IN EDINBOROUGH.

II.

Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas streets, But I am sitting in my silent room, Sitting all silent in congenial gloom To-night, while half the world the other greets With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats, I sit and muse on my poetic doom; Like the dim scent within a budded rose, A joy is folded in my heart; and when I think on poets nurtured 'mong the throes And by the lowly hearths of common men,— Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode With gorgeous music growing to a close, Deep muffled as the dead-march of a god,— My heart is burning to be one of those.

Alexander Smith.



AROUND THE CHRISTMAS LAMP.

The wind may shout as it likes without; It may rage, but cannot harm us; For a merrier din shall resound within, And our Christmas cheer will warm us. There is gladness to all at its ancient call, While its ruddy fires are gleaming, And from far and near, o'er the landscape drear, The Christmas light is streaming.

All the frozen ground is in fetters bound; Ho! the yule-log we will burn it; For Christmas is come in ev'ry home, To summer our hearts will turn it. There is gladness to all at its ancient call, While its ruddy fires are gleaming; And from far and near, o'er the landscape drear, The Christmas light is streaming.

J. L. Molloy.



CHRISTMAS-EVE.

Alone—with one fair star for company, The loveliest star among the hosts of night, While the gray tide ebbs with the ebbing light— I pace along the darkening wintry sea. Now round the yule-log and the glittering tree Twinkling with festive tapers, eyes as bright Sparkle with Christmas joys and young delight As each one gathers to his family.

But I—a waif on earth where'er I roam— Uprooted with life's bleeding hopes and fears, From that one heart that was my heart's sole home, Feel the old pang pierce through the severing years, And as I think upon the years to come, That fair star trembles through my falling tears.

Mathilde Blind.



WONDERLAND.

Lo! I will make my home In the beautiful Land of Books; Where the friends of childhood roam Through most delightful nooks.

I'll rent the unfinished floor In Aladdin's palace built, Whose walls, to the outer door, Are ivory and gilt.

And the Caliph—Haroun—there Will pass in his deft disguise; But him I'll know by his air So grand, and his eagle eyes.

And Cinderella, too, Will weep when her sisters whip her: And I'll be the Prince—or you— Who will find her crystal slipper.

And O, what fun it will be With Robin the Bobbin to feast, Or to frequently call and see The Beauty and the Beast.

For she and you and I And the Rusty Dusty Miller Will eat of a Christmas-Pie With Jack the Giant-Killer.

Then come, let us make our homes In the most frequented nooks Of the land of elves and gnomes, In the beautiful Land of Books!

Charles Henry Lueders.



WAITING.

As little children in a darkened hall At Christmas-tide await the opening door, Eager to tread the fairy-haunted floor Around the tree with goodly gifts for all, Oft in the darkness to each other call,— Trying to guess their happiness before— Or knowing elders eagerly implore To tell what fortune unto them may fall,—

So wait we in time's dim and narrow room, And, with strange fancies or another's thought, Try to divine before the curtain rise The wondrous scene; forgetting that the gloom Must shortly flee from what the ages sought,— The Father's long-planned gift of Paradise.

C. H. Crandall.



AUNT MARY.

A CORNISH CHRISTMAS CHANT.

Now of all the trees by the king's highway, Which do you love the best? O! the one that is green upon Christmas-day, The bush with the bleeding breast. Now the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our dear Aunt Mary's tree.

Its leaves are sweet with our Saviour's name, 'Tis a plant that loves the poor: Summer and winter it shines the same Beside the cottage door. O! the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our kind Aunt Mary's tree.

'Tis a bush that the birds will never leave: They sing in it all day long; But sweetest of all upon Christmas-eve Is to hear the robin's song. 'Tis the merriest sound upon earth and sea: For it comes from our own Aunt Mary's tree.

So, of all that grow by the king's highway, I love that tree the best; 'Tis a bower for the birds upon Christmas-day, The bush of the bleeding breast. O! the holly with her drops of blood for me: For that is our sweet Aunt Mary's tree.

Robert Stephen Hawker.



THE GLAD NEW DAY.

And why should not that land rejoice, And darkness flee away, When on its dim, benighted hills Has dawned the glad new day? For now behold the shepherds go, The wondrous babe to see; Ah, then methinks that all around Was one grand jubilee!

Rejoice, ye nations blest with peace, Let all the earth be glad; The Prince of Peace comes down to-day, In robes of pity clad. Yea, thus should all mankind rejoice On this glad day of love; But yet, alas! how far we are From those blest heights above!

Ah! for the time when men shall spend This day as all men should, When angels shall with joy attend, And dwell among the good. Then will this earth an Eden be, A Paradise of love; And all shall know the perfect bliss Of those bright realms above.

Thomas Moore.



UNDER THE HOLLY BOUGH.

Ye who have scorned each other In this fast fading year, Or wronged a friend or brother, Come gather humbly here: Let sinned against and sinning Forget their strife's beginning, Be links no longer broken Beneath the holly bough, Be sweet forgiveness spoken Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have loved each other In this fast fading year, Sister, or friend, or brother, Come gather happy here: And let your hearts grow fonder As mem'ry glad shall ponder Old loves and later wooing Beneath the holly bough, So sweet in their renewing Beneath the holly bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness In this fast fading year, Estranged from joy and gladness, Come gather hopeful here: No more let useless sorrow Pursue you night and morrow; Come join in our embraces Beneath the holly bough; Take heart, uncloud your faces Beneath the holly bough.

Charles Mackay.



THE DAWN OF CHRISTMAS.

Acold it is and middle night: The moon looks down the snow, As if an angel, clad in white, Carried her lanthorn so That, going forth the streets of light, She made an earthward glow.

A drift enfolds the chapel eaves Like downy coverlet; And, garnered into whited sheaves, The graves are harvest-set Waiting the yeoman. All the panes Are rich with rimy fret.

The sexton mounts the outer stair Where chilly sparrows cower— And bells ring down the winter air From forth the snowy tower; For, muffled deep in drift, the clock Hath struck the Christmas hour.

And over barn, and buried stack, And out the naked copse, And where the owl sits plump and black Amid the chestnut tops— The branches echo back the bells, Like dulcet organ stops.

For blast of wind and creak of bough And rustle of the frost, And winter's inner voice—avow The holy hour is crossed, And far, mysterious music sounds, Sweet like a harping host.

H. S. M.



BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.

Between the moonlight and the fire, In winter evenings long ago, What ghosts I raised at your desire, To make your leaping blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we grow! What Christmas ghost can make us chill— Save these that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will?

The beasts can talk in barn and byre On Christmas-eve, old legends know. As one by one the years retire, We men fall silent then, I trow— Such sights has memory to show, Such voices from the distance thrill. Ah me! they come with Christmas snow, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Oh, children of the village choir, Your carols on the midnight throw! Oh, bright across the mist and mire, Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow! Beat back the shades, beat down the woe, Renew the strength of mortal will; Be welcome, all, to come or go, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

Friend, sursum corda, soon or slow We part, like guests who've joyed their fill; Forget them not, nor mourn them so, The ghosts we all can raise at will!

Andrew Lang.



THE VILLAGE CHRISTMAS.

Meantime the village rouses up the fire: While well attested, and as well believed, Heard solemn, goes the goblin story round, Till superstitious horror creeps o'er all. Or, frequent in the sounding hall, they wake The rural gambol. Rustic mirth goes round; The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart, Easily pleased; the long, loud laugh, sincere; The kiss, snatched hasty from the side-long maid, On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep; The leap, the slap, the haul; and, shook to notes Of native music, the respondent dance, Thus jocund fleets with them the winter-night.

James Thomson.



WINTER.

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee, Old winter, with a rugged beard as gray As the long moss upon the apple-tree; Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose, Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old winter! seated in thy great armed-chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them as thy lips declare Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night; Pausing at times to rouse the smouldering fire, Or taste the old October brown and bright.

Robert Southey.



DECEMBER.

And after him came next the chill December: Yet he, through merry feasting which he made, And great bonfires, did not the cold remember; His Saviour's birth his mind so much did glad: Upon a shaggy-bearded goat he rode, The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender years, They say, was nourisht by th' Idaean Mayd; And in his hand a broad deep bowle he beares, Of which he freely drinks an health to all his peeres.

Edmund Spenser.



CHRISTMAS WEATHER IN SCOTLAND.

A winter day! the feather-silent snow Thickens the air with strange delight, and lays A fairy carpet on the barren lea. No sun, yet all around that inward light Which is in purity,—a soft moonshine, The silvery dimness of a happy dream. How beautiful! afar on moorland ways, Bosomed by mountains, darkened by huge glens, (Where the lone altar raised by Druid hands Stands like a mournful phantom,) hidden clouds Let fall soft beauty, till each green fir branch Is plumed and tasselled, till each heather stalk Is delicately fringed. The sycamores, Through all their mystical entanglement Of boughs, are draped with silver. All the green Of sweet leaves playing with the subtle air In dainty murmuring; the obstinate drone Of limber bees that in the monk's-hood bells House diligent; the imperishable glow Of summer sunshine never more confessed The harmony of nature, the divine, Diffusive spirit of the beautiful. Out in the snowy dimness, half revealed Like ghosts in glimpsing moonshine, wildly run The children in bewildering delight. There is a living glory in the air,— A glory in the hushed air, in the soul A palpitating wonder hushed in awe.

Softly—with delicate softness—as the light Quickens in the undawned east; and silently— With definite silence—as the stealing dawn Dapples the floating clouds, slow fall, slow fall, With indecisive motion eddying down, The white-winged flakes,—calm as the sleep of sound, Dim as a dream. The silver-misted air Shines with mild radiance, as when through a cloud Of semilucent vapor shines the moon. I saw last evening (when the ruddy sun, Enlarged and strange, sank low and visibly, Spreading fierce orange o'er the west) a scene Of winter in his milder mood. Green fields, Which no kine cropped, lay damp; and naked trees Threw skeleton shadows. Hedges, thickly grown, Twined into compact firmness, with no leaves, Trembled in jewelled fretwork as the sun To lustre touched the tremulous water-drops. Alone, nor whistling as his fellows do In fabling poem and provincial song, The ploughboy shouted to his reeking train; And at the clamor, from a neighboring field Arose, with whirr of wings, a flock of rooks More clamorous; and through the frosted air, Blown wildly here and there without a law, They flew, low-grumbling out loquacious croaks. Red sunset brightened all things; streams ran red Yet coldly; and before the unwholesome east, Searching the bones and breathing ice, blew down The hill, with a dry whistle, by the fire In chamber twilight rested I at home.

But now what revelation of fair change, O Giver of the seasons and the days! Creator of all elements, pale mists, Invisible great winds and exact frost! How shall I speak the wonder of thy snow? What though we know its essence and its birth, Can quick expound, in philosophic wise, The how, and whence, and manner of its fall; Yet, oh, the inner beauty and the life— The life that is in snow! The virgin-soft And utter purity of the down-flake, Falling upon its fellow with no sound! Unblown by vulgar winds, innumerous flakes Fall gently, with the gentleness of love! The earth is cherished, for beneath the soft, Pure uniformity is gently born Warmth and rich mildness, fitting the dead roots For the resuscitation of the spring. Now while I write, the wonder clothes the vale, Calmed every wind and loaded every grove; And looking through the implicated boughs I see a gleaming radiance. Sparkling snow, Refined by morning-footed frost so still, Mantles each bough; and such a windless hush Breathes through the air, it seems the fairy glen About some phantom palace, pale abode Of fabled Sleeping Beauty. Songless birds Flit restlessly about the breathless wood, Waiting the sudden breaking of the charm; And as they quickly spring on nimble wing From the white twig, a sparkling shower falls Starlike. It is not whiteness, but a clear Outshining of all purity, which takes The winking eyes with such a silvery gleam. No sunshine, and the sky is all one cloud. The vale seems lonely, ghostlike; while aloud The housewife's voice is heard with doubled sound. I have not words to speak the perfect show; The ravishment of beauty; the delight Of silent purity; the sanctity Of inspiration which o'erflows the world, Making it breathless with divinity.

So thus with fair delapsion softly falls The sacred shower; and when the shortened day Dejected dies in the low streaky west, The rising moon displays a cold blue night, And keen as steel the east wind sprinkles ice. Thicker than bees, about the waxing moon Gather the punctual stars. Huge whitened hills Rise glimmering to the blue verge of the night, Ghostlike, and striped with narrow glens of firs Black-waving, solemn. O'er the Luggie-stream Gathers a veiny film of ice, and creeps With elfin feet around each stone and reed, Working fine masonry; while o'er the dam, Dashing, a noise of waters fills the clear And nitrous air. All the dark, wintry hours Sharply the winds from the white level moors Keen whistle. Timorous in his homely bed The school-boy listens, fearful lest gaunt wolves Or beasts, whose uncouth forms in ancient books He has beheld, at creaking shutters pull Howling. And when at last the languid dawn In wind redness re-illumines the east With ineffectual fire, an intense blue Severely vivid o'er the snowy hills Gleams chill, while hazy, half-transparent clouds Slow-range the freezing ether of the west. Along the woods the keenly vehement blasts Wail, and disrobe the mantled boughs, and fling A snow-dust everywhere. Thus wears the day: While grandfather over the well-watched fire Hangs cowering, with a cold drop at his nose.

Now underneath the ice the Luggie growls, And to the polished smoothness curlers come Rudely ambitious. Then for happy hours The clinking stones are slid from wary hands, And Barleycorn, best wine for surly airs, Bites i' th' mouth, and ancient jokes are cracked. And oh, the journey homeward, when the sun, Low-rounding to the west, in ruddy glow Sinks large, and all the amber-skirted clouds, His flaming retinue, with dark'ning glow Diverge! The broom is brandished as the sign Of conquest, and impetuously they boast Of how this shot was played,—with what a bend Peculiar—the perfection of all art— That stone came rolling grandly to the Tee With victory crowned, and flinging wide the rest In lordly crash! Within the village inn They by the roaring chimney sit, and quaff The beaded Usqueba with sugar dashed. O, when the precious liquid fires the brain To joy, and every heart beats fast with mirth And ancient fellowship, what nervy grasps Of horny hands o'er tables of rough oak! What singing of Lang Syne till tear-drops shine, And friendships brighten as the evening wanes!

David Gray.



SIR GALAHAD.

When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail.

Lord Tennyson.



A THOUGHT FOR THE TIME.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah! would't were so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

John Keats.



BALLADE OF THE WINTER FIRESIDE.

An ingle-blaze and a steaming jug; A lamp and a lazy book; And, deep in a doubled, downy rug Your feet to the warmest nook. And wherever the eye may crook, A print or a tumbled tome— For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

What though the traveller toil and tug Where sleety drifts be shook? What though i' the churchyard graves be dug; And sweethearts be forsook? A hearth, and a careful cook, And cares may go or come! For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

But—curtains down and an elbow hug; A maid that comes to a look; A boy to carry a rimy log From over the frozen brook— And, a fig for the cawing rook, Or ghosts in the ruddy gloam! For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

Envoi.

And yet—or I be mistook— To a friend the cup should foam; For the kettle sings on the blackened hook, And hey! for the sweets of home!

H. S. M.



A CATCH BY THE HEARTH.

Sing we all merrily Christmas is here, The day that we love best Of days in the year.

Bring forth the holly, The box, and the bay, Deck out our cottage For glad Christmas-day.

Sing we all merrily, Draw round the fire, Sister and brother, Grandson and sire.



SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

H. Carey.



LITTLE MOTHER.

A GERMAN FANCY.

Little mother, why must you go? The children play by the white bedside, The world is merry for Christmas-tide, And what would you do in the falling snow?

They sleep by now in the ember-glow, Hushed to dream in a child's delight, For wonders happen on Christmas night: Little mother, why must you go?

The flakes fall and the night grows late. Oh, slender figure and small wet feet, Where do you haste through the lamp-lit street, And out and away by the fortress gate?

It is drear and chill where the dear lie dead, Yet light enough with the snow to see; But what would you do with that Christmas-tree At the tiny mound that is baby's bed?

A Christmas-tree with its tinsel gold! Oh, how should I not have a thought for thee, When the children sleep in their dream of glee, Poor little grave but a twelvemonth old!

Little mother, your heart is brave, You kiss the cross in the drifted snow, Kneel for a moment, rise and go And leave your tree by the tiny grave.

While the living slept by the warm fireside, And flakes fell white on your Christmas toy, I think that its angel wept for joy Because you remembered the one that died.

Rennell Rodd.



OCCIDENT AND ORIENT.

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas-day? A northern Christmas, such as painters love, And kinsfolk shaking hands but once a year, And dames who tell old legends by the fire? Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice, Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, And makes the old man merry with the young Through the short sunshine, through the longer night?

Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist, And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, And rose-buds mouldering on the dripping porch; On twilight, without rise or set of sun, Till beetles drone along the hollow lane And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then, At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, And shadows sweeping on from down to down Before the salt Atlantic gale! Yet come In whatsoever garb, or gay or sad, Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas-day.

How will it dawn, the coming Christmas-day? To sailors lounging on the lonely deck Beneath the rushing trade-wind? or, to him Who by some noisome harbor of the east Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales, Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning, Himself half heathen? How to those—brave hearts! Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, To free a tyrant's captives? How to those— New patriarchs of the new-found under world— Who stand like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, And count their flocks' increase? To them that day Shall dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze Of full midsummer sun: to them that morn Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft Shall tell of naught but summer; but to them, Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, They spring into the saddle, thrills may come From that great heart of Christendom which beats Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth; Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home, Of wise words, learnt beside their mother's knee; Of innocent faces, upturned once again In awe and joy to listen to the tale Of God made man, and in a manger laid: May soften, purify, and raise the soul From selfish cares, and growing lust of gain And phantoms of this dream, which some call life, Toward eternal facts; for here or there Summer or winter, 'twill be Christmas-day.

Blest day, which aye reminds us year by year What 'tis to be a man: to curb and spurn The tyrant in us: that ignobler self Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, No purpose, save its share in that wild war In which, through countless ages, living things Compete in internecine greed—ah, God! Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord? That we are brutes, great God, we know too well: Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flaunt Their plumes, unheeding of the fowler's step; Spiders who catch with paper, not with webs; Tigers who slay with cannon and sharp steel, Instead of teeth and claws; all these we are. Are we no more than these save in degree? No more than these; and born but to compete— To envy and devour, like beast or herb Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts, Taking the sword to perish with the sword Upon the universal battle-field, Even as the things upon the moor outside?

The heath eats up green grass and delicate flowers, The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch; And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, Eats what he lists;—the strong eat up the weak; The many eat the few; great nations, small; And he who cometh in the name of all Shall, greediest, triumph by the greed of all; And armed by his own victims, eat up all. While even out of the eternal heavens Looks patient down the great magnanimous God Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice All to himself. Nay, but himself to one Who taught mankind on that first Christmas-day What 'twas to be a man: to give not take; To serve not rule; to nourish not devour; To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live.

Oh, blessed day which givest the eternal lie To self and sense and all the brute within; Oh, come to us, amid this war of life, To hall and hovel, come, to all who toil In senate, shop, or study; and to those Who sundered by the wastes of half a world Ill warned, and sorely tempted, ever face Nature's brute powers and men unmanned to brutes, Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas-day. Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem, The kneeling shepherds and the Babe Divine, And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas-day.

Charles Kingsley.



THE BLESSED DAY.

Awake, my soul, and come away: Put on thy best array; Lest if thou longer stay Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day. Go run And bid good-morrow to the sun; Welcome his safe return To Capricorn, And that great morn Wherein a God was born, Whose story none can tell But He whose every word's a miracle.

To-day Almightiness grew weak; The Word itself was mute and could not speak.

That Jacob's star which made the sun To dazzle if he durst look on, Now mantled o'er in Bethlehem's night, Borrowed a star to show Him light! He that begirt each zone, To whom both poles are one, Who grasped the zodiac in His hand And made it move or stand, Is now by nature man, By stature but a span; Eternity is now grown short; A King is born without a court; The water thirsts; the fountain's dry; And life, being born, made apt to die.

Chorus.

Then let our praises emulate and vie With His humility! Since He's exiled from skies That we might rise,— From low estate of men Let's sing Him up again! Each man wind up his heart To bear a part In that angelic choir and show His glory high as He was low. Let's sing towards men good-will and charity, Peace upon earth, glory to God on high! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Jeremy Taylor.



CHRISTMAS IN CUBA.

On the hill-side droops the palm, The air is faint with flowers, In the wondrous, dream-like calm Of tropical morning hours. Like a mirror lies the bay, And softly on its breast, In the glow of coming day, The vessels sway at rest.

Through the tremulous air I hear The chiming of Christmas bells, As the sun rises burning and clear Over the ocean swells. And birds with singing sweet Proclaim the glorious morn When angels thronged to greet The Christ-child newly born.

But with strong desire I sigh For a frozen land afar, Under a cold gray sky, Where glistens the northern star; Where a winter of rest and sleep Embraces mountain and plain, And meadows their secret keep To tell it in spring again.

Dearer the pine-clad hills And valleys wrapped in snow, Dearer the ice-bound rills, And roaring winds that blow, Than this tropical calm, and perfume Of jasmine and lily and rose, These flowers that always bloom, This nature without repose.

Alas for the delight Of a distant fireside, Where loving hearts unite To keep this Christmas-tide! Where the hemlock and the pine Sweet memories recall, As their fragrant boughs entwine Around the panelled wall.

O Christ-child pure and fair, Draw near and dwell with me; Thy love is everywhere, On land and on the sea. I grasp Thy saving hand, And while to Thee I pray, Alone, in a foreign land, I bless this Christmas-day.

Helen S. Conant.



FAREWELL TO CHRISTMAS.

Now farewell, good Christmas, Adieu and adieu, I needs now must leave thee, And look for a new; For till thou returnest, I linger in pain, And I care not how quickly Thou comest again.

But ere thou departest, I purpose to see What merry good pastime This day will show me; For a king of the wassail This night we must choose, Or else the old customs We carelessly lose.

The wassail well spiced About shall go round, Though it cost my good master Best part of a pound: The maid in the buttery Stands ready to fill Her nappy good liquor With heart and good-will.

And to welcome us kindly Our master stands by, And tells me in friendship One tooth is a-dry. Then let us accept it As lovingly, friends; And so for this Twelfth-day My carol here ends.

New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1661.



THE NEW YEAR.

Hark, the cock crows, and yon bright star Tells us the day himself's not far; And see where, breaking from the night, He gilds the western hills with light. With him old Janus doth appear, Peeping into the future year, With such a look, as seems to say, The prospect is not good that way. Thus do we rise ill sights to see, And 'gainst ourselves to prophesy; When the prophetic fear of things A more tormenting mischief brings, More full of soul-tormenting gall, Than direst mischiefs can befall. But stay! but stay! methinks my sight, Better inform'd by clearer light, Discerns sereneness in that brow, That all contracted seem'd but now. His reversed face may show distaste, And frown upon the ills are past; But that which this way looks is clear, And smiles upon the new-born year.

He looks, too, from a place so high, The year lies open to his eye; And all the moments open are To the exact discoverer. Yet more and more he smiles upon The happy revolution. Why should we then suspect or fear The influences of a year, So smiles upon us the first morn, And speaks us good as soon as born? Plague on't! the last was ill enough, This cannot but make better proof; Or, at the worst, as we brush'd through The last, why so we may this too; And then the next in reason should Be superexcellently good: For the worst ills (we daily see) Have no more perpetuity Than the best fortunes that do fall; Which also bring us wherewithal Longer their being to support Than those do of the other sort; And who has one good year in three, And yet repines at destiny, Appears ungrateful in the case, And merits not the good he has.

Then let us welcome the new guest With lusty brimmers of the best; Mirth always should good fortune meet, And render e'en disaster sweet; And though the princess turn her back, Let us but line ourselves with sack, We better shall by far hold out Till the next year she face about.

Charles Cotton.



A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

The old year now away is fled, The new year it is entered, Then let us now our sins down-tread And joyfully all appear. Let's merry be this holiday, And let us now both sport and play, Hang sorrow, let's cast care away: God send you a happy New Year!

For Christ's circumcision this day we keep, Who for our sins did often weep; His hands and feet were wounded deep, And His blessed side with a spear. His head they crowned then with thorn, And at Him they did laugh and scorn, Who for to save our souls was born: God send us a happy New Year!

And now with New-Year's gifts each friend Unto each other they do send; God grant we may all our lives amend, And that the truth may appear. Now like the snake cast off your skin Of evil thoughts and wicked sin, And to amend this New Year begin: God send us a happy New Year!

And now let all the company In friendly manner all agree, For we are here welcome, all may see, Unto this jolly good cheer. I thank my master and my dame, The which are founders of the same; To eat, to drink now is no shame: God send us a merry New Year!

Come, lads and lasses every one, Jack, Tom, Dick, Bessy, Mary, and Joan, Let's cut the meat up unto the bone, For welcome you need not fear; And here for good liquor we shall not lack, It will whet my brains and strengthen my back; This jolly good cheer it must go to wrack: God send us a merry New Year!

Come, give's more liquor when I do call, I'll drink to each one in this hall; I hope that so loud I must not bawl, But unto me lend an ear; Good fortune to my master send, And to my dame which is our friend, Lord bless us all, and so I end: God send us a happy New Year!

New Christmas Carols, A.D. 1642.



NEW-YEAR'S GIFTS.

The young men and maids on New-Year's day, Their loves they will present With many a gift both fine and gay, Which gives them true content: And though the gift be great or small, Yet this is the custom still, Expressing their loves in ribbons and gloves, It being their kind good-will.

Young bachelors will not spare their coin, But thus their love is shown; Young Richard will buy a bodkin fine And give it honest Joan. There's Nancy and Sue with honest Prue, Young damsels both fair and gay, Will give to the men choice presents again For the honor of New-Year's day.

Fine ruffs, cravats of curious lace, Maids give them fine and neat; For this the young men will them embrace With tender kisses sweet: And give them many pleasant toys To deck them fine and gay, As bodkins and rings with other fine things For the honor of New-Year's day.

It being the first day of the year, To make the old amends, All those that have it will dress good cheer, Inviting all their friends To drink great James's royal health, As very well subjects may, With many healths more, which we have store, For the honor of New-Year's day.

A Cabinet of Choice Jewels, A.D. 1688.



THE END OF THE PLAY.

The play is done; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell; A moment yet the actor stops And looks around to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.

One word ere yet the evening ends; Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas-time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That fate erelong shall bid you play; Good-night! with honest, gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses or who wins the prize, Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays); The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days; The shepherds heard it overhead, The joyful angels raised it then; Glory to heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men.

My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still— Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

William Makepeace Thackeray.



FINIS.

Yule's come and Yule's gane, And we have feasted weel; Sae Jock mun to his flail again. And Jenny to her wheel.

Transcriber's Notes:

A number of the poems contain archaic and varied spelling. This has been left as printed, with the exception of the following few printer errors:

Page 84—plater'd amended to plaster'd—"And plaster'd round with amber."

Page 86—tyran's amended to tyrant's—"The tyrant's sword with blood is all defiled,"

Page 89—wind-winter amended to mid-winter—"In the bleak mid-winter Long ago."

Page 204—Iaean amended to Idaean—"They say, was nourisht by th' Idaean Mayd;"

Page 207—ore clamMorous amended to More clamorous—"More clamorous; and through the frosted air,"

The frontispiece illustrations has been moved to follow the title page. Captions have been added from the List of Illustrations.

THE END