Bells Across the Snow

Bells Across the Snow. 

by F. R. Havergal

(This poem may be recited by one pupil, or divided as follows :)

First pupil: Christmas, merry Christmas !

Is it really come again ?

With its memories and greetings,

With its joys and with its pain ;

There s a minor in the carol,

And a shadow in the light,

And a spray of cypress twining

With the holly wreath to-night.

And the hush is never broken

By laughter, light and low,

As we listen in the starlight

To the " bells across the snow."

Second pupil: Christmas, merry Christmas !

'Tis not so very long

Since other voices blended

With the carol and the song !

If we could but hear them singing

As they are singing now,

If we could but see the radiance

Of the crown on each dear brow ;

There would be no sigh to smother,

No hidden tear to flow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the '" bells across the snow." 

Third pupil: O Christmas, merry Christmas!

This never more can be;

We cannot bring again the days

Of our unshadowed glee.

But Christmas, happy Christmas,

Sweet herald of good will,

With holy songs of glory,

Brings holy gladness still.

For peace and hope may brighten,

And patient love may glow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the "bells across the snow."

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve. 

by Frank E. Broun

Outside my window whirls the icy storm,

And beats upon its panes with fingers white;

Within, my open fire burns bright and warm,

And sends throughout the room its ruddy light.

Low on the hearth my good grimalkin lies,

His supple, glossy limbs outstretched along;

Now gently sleeps with softly closed eyes,

Now, half awakened, purrs his even-song.

Near to the fire, touched by its gentle heat,

A silent, welcome friend, my armchair stands.

Its cushioned depths invite me to its seat,

And promise rest for weary head and hands.

Within its depths mine eyes unheeded close,

And comes to me a vision wondrous sweet.

Such sights and sounds no wakeful hours disclose

As then my resting, dreaming senses greet.

I am where gentle shepherds on the plain

Keep sleepless, faithful watch o'er resting sheep;

I hear them chant the Psalmist's sweet refrain,

That Israel's God will sure his promise keep.

Then quick the air is full of heav'nly song,

And radiant light illumines all the ground,

While angel voices sweet the strain prolong,

And angel faces shine in glory round.

I see the shepherds' faces pale with fear,

Then glow with joy and glad surprise, for then

" Glory to God ! " from angel lips they hear,

Ana " Peace on earth good will to men."

And then the light marks out a shining way,

And swift the shepherds are the path to take.

I long to go O laggard feet, why stay?

Alas ! the vision fades, and I awake.

Within, the smold'ring fire is burning dim;

Without, the whirl and beat of storm have ceased.

I still can hear the angels' peaceful hymn,

And know the vision hath my peace increased.

The Little Christmas Tree

The Little Christmas Tree

by Susan Coolidge

The Christmas day was coming, the Christmas eve drew 

near,

The fir-trees they were talking low at midnight cold and

clear

And this is what the fir-trees said, all in the pale moon-

light,

"Now which of us shall chosen be to grace the holy

night?

The tall trees and the goodly trees raised each a lofty 

head.

In glad and secret confidence, though not a word they 

said

But one, the baby of the band, could not restrain a sigh--

"You all will be approved," he said, "but oh! what

chance have I?"

Then axe on shoulder, to the grove a woodman took his

way.

One baby-girl he had at home, and he went forth to find

A little tree as small as she, just suited to his mind.

Oh, glad and proud the baby-fir, amid its brethren tall,

To be thus chosen and singled out, the first among them

all !

He stretched his fragrant branches, his little heart beat

fast,

He was a real Christmas tree ; he had his wish at last.

One large and shining apple with cheeks of ruddy gold,

Six tapers, and a tiny doll were all that he could hold.

" I am so small, so very small, no one will mark or know

How thick and green my needles are, how true my

branches grow ;

Few toys and candles could I hold, but heart and will

are free,

And in my heart of hearts I know I am a Christmas

tree."

The Christmas angel hovered near; he caught the

grieving word,

And, laughing low, he hurried forth, with love and pity

stirred.

He sought and found St Nicholas, the dear old Christ-

mas saint,

And in his fatherly kind ear rehearsed the fir-tree's

plaint.

Saints are all-powerful, we know, so it befell that day,

The baby laughed, the baby crowed, to see the tapers

bright;

The forest baby felt the joy, and shared in the delight.

And when at last the tapers died, and when the baby

slept,

The little fir in silent night a patient vigil kept;

Though scorched and brown its needles were, it had no

heart to grieve.

"I have not lived in vain," he said ; "thank God for

Christmas eve!"

The Russian Santa Claus

The Russian Santa Claus.

By Lizzie M. Hadley.

Over the Russian snows one day,

Upon the eve of a Christmas day,

While still in the heavens shone afar,

Like a spark of fire, that wondrous star,

Three kings with jewels and gold bedight

Came journeying on through the wintry night.

Out of the East they rode amain,

With servants and camels in their train.

Laden with spices, myrrh, and gold,

Gems and jewels of worth untold,

Presents such as to-day men bring,

To lay at the feet of some Eastern king.

Wrinkled and feeble, old and gray,

Dame Babousca, that Christmas day,

Looked from her hut beside the moor,

Where the four roads crossed by her cottage door,

And saw the kings on their camels white,

A shadowy train in the wintry night.

They knocked at her cabin door to tell

That wonderful story we know so well,

Of the star that was guiding them all the way

To the place where the little Christ-Child lay,

And they begged that she, through the sleet and snow,

To the nearest village with them would go.

But naught cared she for that unknown Child,

And winds about her blew fierce and wild,

For the night was stormy, dark, and cold,

And poor Babousca was weak and old,

And in place of the pitiless winter's night,

Her lowly hut seemed a palace bright.

So to their pleadings she answered " Nay,"

And watched them all as they rode away

But when they had gone and the night was still,

Her hut seemed lonely, and dark, and chill,

And she almost wished she had followed them

In search of the Babe of Bethlehem.

And then as the longing stronger grew,

She said, "I will find Him," but no one knew,

Where was the cradle in which He lay

When He came to earth upon Christmas day,

For the kings and their trains were long since gone,

And none could tell of the Babe, new born.

Then filling a basket with toys, she said,

As over the wintry moor she sped,

"I will go to the busy haunts of men,

There I shall find the kings, and then,

Together we'll go that Child to meet,

And jewels and toys we'll lay at His feet.

The kings with their trains have long been clay,

The hut on the moor has mouldered away,

But old and feeble, worn and gray,

Every year upon Christmas day,

It matters not though the winds blow chill,

Old Babousca is seeking still.

And every year when the joy-bells chime,

To tell of the blessed Christmas time,

When in Holland they tell to the girls and boys,

Of good Saint Nicholas and his toys,

In Russia, the little children say,

" Old Babousca has passed this way."

A Christmas Garden

A Christmas Garden.

(A prose recitation, or suggestion for composition.)

       There is a story told of a magician who conjured up a garden in the winter time. The wand of the wizard, however, is not necessary to dislose even in a northern climate in the cold months the beautiful contents of Nature's world. The varieties of evergreen, pine, hemlock, fir, cedar, and larch provide a variety of green foliage through the dreary-weather. The rich, clustering berries, besides their ornamental character, furnish food for the snowbirds. The Christmas rose, wax-like in its white purity, will bloom out of doors long after frost if a glass is turned over the plant on cold nights. The ivy remains glossy, its green berry another addition to our winter bouquet.

       Farther south, but still within our United States, the scarlet holly grows in luxuriance. So full of holiday association is this tree that its branches are carefully transported a thousand miles for use during Christmas week. Its crisp leaves, lively color, and happy sentiment make the holly, pre-eminent as a winter ornament, prince in our Christmas garden.

       A contrast is furnished by the delicate sprays of the mistletoe growing upon the limbs of the oak,

elm, and apple trees. The white berry attaches itself, curiously enough, without roots of any kind, and becomes an enduring plant.