CHRISTMAS TREASURES.

I COUNT my treasures o'er with care:
The little toy that baby knew,
A little sock of faded hue,

A little lock of golden hair.

Long years ago this Christmas time
My little one, my all to me,

Sat robed in white upon my knee,
And heard the merry Christmas chime.

"Tell me, my little golden-head,

If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright, What treasure for my boy?" I said.

And then he named the little toy,

While in his honest, mournful eyes
There came a look of sweet surprise,

That spoke his quiet, trustful joy.

And as he lisped his evening prayer,

He asked the boon with childish grace,
Then, toddling to the chimney-place,

He hung his little stocking there.

That night, as lengthening shadows crept,
I saw the white-winged angels come
With heavenly music to our home,
And kiss my darling as he slept.

They must have heard his baby prayer,
For in the morn, with smiling face,
He toddled to the chimney-place,
And found the little treasure there.

They came again one Christmas Tide,
That angel host so fair and white,
And, singing all the Christmas night,
They lured my darling from my side.

A little sock, a little toy,

A little lock of golden hair,

The Christmas music on the air,

A watching for my baby boy.

But if again that angel train

And golden head come back to me
To bear me to eternity,

My watching will not be in vain.

EUGENE FIELD.

CHRISTMAS OUTCASTS.

CHRIST died for all; and on the hearts of all
Who gladly decorate their cheerful homes
At Christmas Tide, this blessed truth should fall,
That they may mix some honey with the gall
Of those to whom a Christmas never comes.

The poor are everywhere in Nature's course,

Yet they may still control some sweetened crumbs,
No matter what they lack in hearts or purse;
But there are those whose better fate is worse,
To whom no day of Christmas ever comes.

The man who wildly throws away his chance,
An outcast from all cheerful hearts and homes,
Who may not mingle where the happy dance,
Nor gain from loving eyes one kindly glance,
Is he to whom no Christmas ever comes.

The man condemned in hidden ways to grope,
At sight of whom each kindly voice is dumb,
Or he whose life is shortened in its scope,
Who waits for nothing but the hangman's rope,
Is he to whom a Christmas cannot come.

Christ died for all; he came to find the lost,
Whether they bide in palaces or slums,

No matter how their lines of life are crossed.
And they who love him best will serve him most
By helping those to whom no Christmas comes.

New York Sun.

CHRISTMAS BELLS.

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 shine 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;

'T was 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 passed
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 shells
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!

CHRISTMAS SHADOWS.

THE needles have dropped from her nerveless hands,
As she watches the dying embers glow;

For out from the broad old chimney-place
Come ghostly shadows of "long ago,"

Shadows that carry her back again

To the time of her childhood's artless joy; Shadows that show her a tiny row

Of stockings awaiting the Christmas toy;

Shadows that show her the faces loved
Of many a half-forgotten friend,
And the Christmas Eve, it is passing by,
While Past and Present in shadows blend.
Alone in the dear old homestead now,

With only the shadows of " Auld Lang Syne,"
The clock is ticking the moments on,

While the tears in her aged eyes still shine.

If only out from the silent world,

The world of shadows which mocks her so, One might return to his vacant chair,

To sit with her in the firelight's glow! If only- Was that a white, white hand

That seemed to beckon her out of the gloom?

Or was it the embers' last bright flash

That startled the shadows round the room?

The Christmas Eve, it has passed at length;
A glorious day from the night is born;

The shadows are gone from earth away,

And the bells are ringing for Christmas morn.
But, ah! by the broad old chimney-place
The angel of death keeps watch alone,

For straight to the Christ-child's beckoning arms
A longing spirit hath gladly flown.

UPON THE THRESHOLD.

ONCE more we stand with half-reluctant feet
Upon the threshold of another year;
That line where Past and Present seem to meet
In stronger contrast than they do elsewhere.

Look back a moment. Does the prospect please,
Or does the weary heart but sigh regret?

Can Recollection smile, or, ill at ease

With what is past, wish only to forget?

Say, canst thou smile when Memory's lingering gaze Önce more recalls the dying year to sight? Wouldst thou live o'er again those changing days, Or bid them fade forever into night?