Christmas Part 16

Faces of dazzling brightness, With childlike radiance lighted, Flas.h.i.+ng with many a beauty, Nor care nor time had blighted.

But o'er them all there's a glamour thrown.

Bright with the dreamy distance alone.

Aglow in the Christmas halo, s.h.i.+ning with heavenly l.u.s.tre, These are the fairy faces That round the hearthstone cl.u.s.ter.

These the deep, tender records, Sacred in all their meetness, That, wakening purest fancies, Soften us with their sweetness; As, gathered where flickering f.a.gots burn, We welcome the holy season's return.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

ANON

In the rush of the merry morning, When the red burns through the gray, And the wintry world lies waiting For the glory of the day; Then we hear a fitful rus.h.i.+ng Just without upon the stair, See two white phantoms coming, Catch the gleam of sunny hair.

Are they Christmas fairies stealing Rows of little socks to fill?

Are they angels floating hither With their message of good-will?

What sweet spell are these elves weaving, As like larks they chirp and sing?

Are these palms of peace from heaven That these lovely spirits bring?

Rosy feet upon the threshold, Eager faces peeping through, With the first red ray of suns.h.i.+ne, Chanting cherubs come in view; Mistletoe and gleaming holly, Symbols of a blessed day, In their chubby hands they carry, Streaming all along the way.

Well we know them, never weary Of this innocent surprise; Waiting, watching, listening always With full hearts and tender eyes, While our little household angels, White and golden in the sun, Greet us with the sweet old welcome,-- "Merry Christmas, every one!"

A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU

THEODORE LEDYARD CUYLER

My own boyhood was spent in a delightful home on one of the most beautiful farms in Western New York--an experience that any city-bred boy might envy. We had no religious festivals except Thanksgiving Day and Christmas, and the latter was especially welcome, not only on account of the good fare but its good gifts. Christmas was sacred to Santa Claus, the patron saint of good boys and girls. We counted the days until its arrival. If the night before the longed-for festival was one of eager expectation in all our houses, it was a sad time in all barn-yards and turkey-coops and chicken-roosts; for the slaughter was terrible, and the cry of the feathered tribes was like "the mourning of Hadadrimmon." As to our experiences within doors, they are portrayed in Dr. Clement C. Moore's immortal lines, "The Night Before Christmas,"

which is probably the most popular poem for children ever penned in America. As the visits of Santa Claus in the night could only be through the chimney, we hung our stockings where they would be in full sight.

Three score and ten years ago such modern contrivances as steam pipes, and those unpoetical holes in the floor called "hot-air registers," were as entirely unknown in our rural regions as gas-burners or telephones.

We had a genuine fire-place in our kitchen, big enough to contain an enormous back-log, and broad enough for eight or ten people to form "a circle wide" before it and enjoy the genial warmth.

The last process before going to bed was to suspend our stockings in the chimney jambs; and then we dreamed of Santa Claus, or if we awoke in the night, we listened for the jingling of his sleigh-bells. At the peep of day we were aroused by the voice of my good grandfather, who planted himself in the stairway and shouted in a stentorian tone, "I wish you all a Merry Christmas!" The contest was as to who should give the salutation first, and the old gentleman determined to get the start of us by sounding his greeting to the family before we were out of our rooms. Then came a race for the chimney corner; all the stockings came down quicker than they had gone up. What could not be contained in them was disposed upon the mantelpiece, or elsewhere. I remember that I once received an autograph letter from Santa Claus, full of good counsels; and our colored cook told me that she awoke in the night and, peeping into the kitchen, actually saw the veritable old visitor light a candle and sit down at the table and write it! I believed it all as implicitly as I believed the Ten Commandments, or the story of David and Goliath.

Happy days of childish credulity, when fact and fiction were swallowed alike without a misgiving! During my long life I have seen many a day-dream and many an air-castle go the way of Santa Claus and the wonderful "Lamp of Aladdin."

In after years, when I became a parent, my beloved wife and I, determined to make the Christmastide one of the golden days of the twelve months. In mid-winter, when all outside vegetation was bleak and bare, the Christmas-tree in our parlor bloomed in many-colored beauty and bounty. When the tiny candles were all lighted the children and our domestics gathered round it and one of the youngsters rehea.r.s.ed some pretty juvenile effusion; as "they that had found great spoil." After the happy harvesting of the magic tree in my own home, it was my custom to spend the afternoon or evening in some mission-school and to watch the sparkling eyes of several hundreds of children while a huge Christmas-tree shed down its bounties. Fifty years ago, when the degradation and miseries of the "Five-Points" were first invaded by pioneer philanthropy, it was a thrilling sight to behold the denizens of the slums and their children as they flocked into Mr. Pease's new "House of Industry" and the "Brewery Mission" building. The angelic host over the hills of Bethlehem did not make a more welcome revelation to them "who had sat in darkness and the shadow of death." In these days the squalid regions of our great cities are being explored and improved by various methods of systematic beneficence. "Christian Settlements" are established; Bureaus of Charity are formed and a.s.sociations for the relief of the poor are organized. A n.o.ble work; but, after all, the most effective "bureau" is one that, in a water-proof and a stout pair of shoes, sallies off on a wintry night to some abode of poverty with not only supplies for suffering bodies, but kind words of sympathy for lonesome hearts. A dollar from a warm hand with a warm word is worth two dollars sent by mail or by a messenger-boy. The secret of power in doing good is _personal contact_. Our incarnate "Elder Brother" went in person to the sick chamber. He anointed with His own hand the eyes of the blind man and He touched the loathsome leper into health. The portentous chasm between wealth and poverty must be bridged by a span of personal kindness over which the footsteps must turn in only one direction. The personal contact of self sacrificing benevolence with darkness, filth and misery--that is the only remedy. Heart must touch heart. Benevolence also cannot be confined to calendars. Those good people will exhibit the most of the spirit of our Blessed Master who practice Christmas-giving and cheerful, unselfish and zealous Christmas-living through all the circling year.

CHRISTMAS BELLS

ANON

There are sounds in the sky when the year grows old, And the winds of the winter blow-- When night and the moon are clear and cold, And the stars s.h.i.+ne on the snow, Or wild is the blast and the bitter sleet That beats on the window-pane; But blest on the frosty hills are the feet Of the Christmas time again!

Chiming sweet when the night wind swells, Blest is the sound of the Christmas Bells!

Dear are the sounds of the Christmas chimes In the land of the ivied towers, And they welcome the dearest of festival times In this Western world of ours!

Bright on the holly and mistletoe bough The English firelight falls, And bright are the wreathed evergreens now That gladden our own home walls!

And hark! the first sweet note that tells, The welcome of the Christmas Bells!

The owl that sits in the ivy's shade, Remote from the ruined tower, Shall start from his drowsy watch afraid When the clock shall strike the hour; And over the fields in their frosty rhyme The cheery sounds shall go, And chime shall answer unto chime Across the moonlit snow!

How sweet the lingering music dwells,-- The music of the Christmas Bells.

It fell not thus in the East afar Where the Babe in the manger lay; The wise men followed their guiding star To the dawn of a milder day; And the fig and the sycamore gathered green, And the palm-tree of Deborah rose; 'Twas the strange first Christmas the world had seen-- And it came not in storm and snows.

Not yet on Nazareth's hills and dells Had floated the sound of Christmas Bells.

The cedars of Lebanon shook in the blast Of their own cold mountain air; But nought o'er the wintry plain had pa.s.sed To tell that the Lord was there!

The oak and the olive and almond were still, In the night now worn and thin; No wind of the winter-time roared from the hill To waken the guests at the inn; No dream to them the music tells That is to come from the Christmas Bells!

The years that have fled like the leaves on the gale Since the morn of the Miracle-Birth, Have widened the fame of the marvellous tale Till the tidings have filled the earth!

And so in the climes of the icy North, And the lands of the cane and the palm, By the Alpine cotter's blazing hearth, And in tropic belts of calm, Men list to-night the welcome swells, Sweet and clear, of Christmas Bells!

They are ringing to-night through the Norway firs, And across the Swedish fells, And the Cuban palm-tree dreamily stirs To the sound of those Christmas Bells!

They ring where the Indian Ganges rolls Its flood through the rice-fields wide; They swell the far hymns of the Lapps and Poles To the praise of the Crucified.

Sweeter than tones of the ocean's sh.e.l.ls Mingle the chimes of the Christmas Bells!

The years come not back that have circled away With the past of the Eastern land, When He plucked the corn on the Sabbath day And healed the withered hand: But the bells shall join in a joyous chime For the One who walked the sea, And ring again for the better time Of the Christ that is to be!

Then ring!--for earth's best promise dwells In ye, O joyous Prophet Bells!

Ring out at the meeting of night and morn For the dawn of a happier day!

Lo, the stone from our faith's great sepulchre torn The angels have rolled away!

And they come to us here in our low abode, With words like the sunrise gleam,-- Come down and ascend by that heavenly road That Jacob saw in his dream.

Spirit of love, that in music dwells, Open our hearts with the Christmas Bells!

Help us to see that the glad heart prays As well as the bended knees; That there are in our own as in ancient days The Scribes and the Pharisees; That the Mount of Transfiguration still Looks down on these Christian lands, And the glorified ones from that holy hill Are reaching their helping hands.

These be the words our music tells Of solemn joy, O Christmas Bells!

THE BIRTH OF CHRIST

ALFRED TENNYSON

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.

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!

THE CHRISTMAS CAROL

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH