Christmas Part 23

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 dread, beat down the woe, Let's cheerily descend the hill; Be welcome all, to come or go, The ghosts we all can raise at will.

ENVOY

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.

HANG UP THE BABY'S STOCKING

[Emily Huntington Miller]

Hang up the baby's stocking: Be sure you don't forget; The dear little dimpled darling!

She ne'er saw Christmas yet; But I've told her all about it, And she opened her big blue eyes, And I'm sure she understood it-- She looked so funny and wise.

Dear! what a tiny stocking!

It doesn't take much to hold Such little pink toes as baby's Away from the frost and cold.

But then for the baby's Christmas It will never do at all; Why, Santa wouldn't be looking For anything half so small.

I know what will do for the baby.

I've thought of the very best plan: I'll borrow a stocking of grandma, The longest that ever I can; And you'll hang it by mine, dear mother, Right here in the corner, so!

And write a letter to Santa, And fasten it on to the toe.

Write, "This is the baby's stocking That hangs in the corner here; You never have seen her, Santa, For she only came this year; But she's just the blessedest baby!

And now, before you go, Just cram her stocking with goodies, From the top clean down to the toe."

THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS

ANONYMOUS

G.o.d rest you, merry gentlemen!

May nothing you dismay; Not even the dyspeptic plats Through which you'll eat your way; Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills The season bids you pay; No, nor the ever tiresome need Of being to order gay;

Nor yet the shocking cold you'll catch If fog and slush hold sway; Nor yet the tumbles you must bear If frost should win the day; Nor sleepless nights--they're sure to come-- When "waits" attune their lay; Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness Might turn maca.s.sar gray;

Nor boisterous children, home in heaps, And ravenous of play; Nor yet--in fact, the host of ills Which Christmases array.

G.o.d rest you, merry gentlemen, May none of these dismay!

A CHRISTMAS LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA

DOUGLAS SLADEN

'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; 'twas two years yesterday Since from the Lusitania's bows I looked o'er Table Bay, A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main, Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.

'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; to-day our hearts are one, Though you are 'mid the English snows and I in Austral sun; You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile high a mightier fire, Our ladies cower until it's past in lawn and lace attire.

I fancy I can picture you upon this Christmas night, Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height; And then a sudden, silent pause intruding on your glee, And kind eyes glistening because you chanced to think of me.

This morning when I woke and knew 'twas Christmas come again, I almost fancied I could view white rime upon the pane, And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground, And see the drip that downward steals in icy casket bound.

I daresay you'll be on the lake, or sliding on the snow, And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow, Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made,-- The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.

It is not quite a Christmas here with this unclouded sky, This pure transparent atmosphere, this sun mid-heaven-high; To see the rose upon the bush, young leaves upon the trees, And hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.

But cold winds bring not Christmastide, nor budding roses June, And when it's night upon your side we're basking in the noon.

Kind hearts make Christmas--June can bring blue sky or clouds above; The only universal spring is that which comes of love.

And so it's Christmas in the South as on the North-sea coasts, Though we are staved with summer-drouth and you with winter frosts.

And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while, Though all the watery hemisphere cuts off the mother isle.

Feel sure that we shall think of you, we who have wandered forth, And many a million thoughts will go to-day from south to north; Old heads will muse on churches old, where bells will ring to-day-- The very bells, perchance, which tolled their fathers to the clay.

And now, good-night! and I shall dream that I am with you all, Watching the ruddy embers gleam athwart the panelled hall; Nor care I if I dream or not, though severed by the foam, My heart is always in the spot which was my childhood's home.

CHRISTMAS

ROSE TERRY COOKE

Here comes old Father Christmas, With sound of fife and drums; With mistletoe about his brows, So merrily he comes!

His arms are full of all good cheer, His face with laughter glows, He s.h.i.+nes like any household fire Amid the cruel snows.

He is the old folks' Christmas; He warms their hearts like wine; He thaws their winter into spring, And makes their faces s.h.i.+ne.

Hurrah for Father Christmas!

Ring all the merry bells!

And bring the grandsires all around To hear the tale he tells.

Here comes the Christmas angel, So gentle and so calm; As softly as the falling flakes He comes with flute and psalm.

All in a cloud of glory, As once upon the plain To shepherd-boys in Jewry, He brings good news again.

He is the young folks' Christmas; He makes their eyes grow bright With words of hope and tender thought, And visions of delight.

Hail to the Christmas angel!

All peace on earth he brings; He gathers all the youths and maids Beneath his s.h.i.+ning wings.

Here comes the little Christ-child, All innocence and joy, And bearing gifts in either hand For every girl and boy.

He tells the tender story About the Holy Maid, And Jesus in the manger Before the oxen laid.

Like any little winter bird He sings his sweetest song, Till all the cherubs in the sky To hear his carol throng.

He is the children's Christmas; They come without a call, To gather round the gracious Child, Who bringeth joy to all.

But who shall bring _their_ Christmas Who wrestle still with life?

Not grandsires, youths, or little folks, But they who wage the strife-- The fathers and the mothers Who fight for homes and bread, Who watch and ward the living, And bury all the dead?

Ah! by their side at Christmas-tide The Lord of Christmas stands: He smooths the furrows from their brow With strong and tender hands.

"I take my Christmas gift," He saith, "From thee, tired soul, and he Who giveth to My little ones Gives also unto Me."