The Christmas Stocking

The Christmas Stocking.

Clarence H. Pearson

In the ghostly light I'm sitting, musing of long dead

Decembers,

While the fire-clad shapes are flitting in and out among

the embers

On my hearthstone in mad races, and I marvel, for in

seeming

I can dimly see the faces and the scenes of which I'm

dreaming.

O golden Christmas days of yore !

In sweet anticipation

I lived their joys for days before

Their glorious realization;

And on the dawn

Of Christmas morn

My childish heart was knocking

A wild tattoo,

As 'twould break through,

As I unhung my stocking. 

Each simple gift that came to hand,

How marvelous I thought it !

A treasure straight from wonderland,

For Santa Claus had brought it.

And at my cries

Of glad surprise

The others all came flocking

To share my glee

And view with me

The contents of the stocking

Years sped -- I left each well-loved scene

In Northern wilds to roam,

And there, 'mid tossing pine-trees green,

I made myself a home.

We numbered three

And blithe were we,

At adverse fortune mocking,

And Christmas-tide

By our fireside

Found hung the baby's stocking.

Alas! within our home to-night

No sweet young voice is ringing,

. And through its silent rooms no light,

Free, childish step is springing.

The wild winds rave

O'er baby's grave

Where plumy pines are rocking

And crossed at rest

On marble breast

The hands that filled my stocking

With misty eyes but steady hand

I raise my Christmas chalice;

Here's to the children of the land

In cabin or in palace;

May each one hold

The key of gold,

The gates of glee unlocking,

And hands be found

The whole world round

To fill the Christmas stocking