The elm is a kind and goodly tree,
With its branches bending low;
The heart is glad when its form we see,
And we list to the river's flow.

Ay, the heart is glad and the pulses bound,
And joy illumines the face,
Whenever a goodly elm is found,

Because of its beauty and grace.
But kinder, I ween, more goodly in mien,
With branches more drooping and free,
The tint of whose leaves fidelity weaves,
Is the beautiful Christmas Tree.

The maple is supple and lithe and strong,
And claimeth our love anew,

When the days are listless and quiet and long,
And the world is fair to view;

And later,

as beauties and graces unfold, —

A monarch right regally drest,

With streamers aflame, and pennons of gold,

It seemeth of all the best.

More lissome, I ween, the brightness and sheen,
And the coloring sunny and free,

And the banners soft, that are held aloft

By the beautiful Christmas Tree.

St. Nicholas.

MRS. HATTIE S. RUSSELL.

A CHRISTMAS CAMP ON THE SAN GABR'EL.

LAMAR and his Rangers camped at dawn on the banks of the
San Gabr'el,

Under the mossy live-oaks, in the heart of a lonely dell;
With the cloudless Texas sky above, and the musquite grass

below,

And all the prairie lying still, in a misty, silvery glow.

The sound of the horses cropping grass, the fall of a nut, full ripe,

The stir of a weary soldier, or the tap of a smoked-out pipe,
Fell only as sounds in a dream may fall upon a drowsy ear,
Till the Captain said, ""T is Christmas Day! so, boys, we'll
spend it here;

"For the sake of our homes and our childhood, we 'll give the day its dues."

Then some leaped up to prepare the feast, and some sat still

to muse,

And some pulled scarlet yupon-berries and wax-white mistle

toe,

To garland the stand-up rifles, - for Christmas has no foe.

And every heart had a pleasant thought, or a tender memory, Of unforgotten Christmas Tides that nevermore might be ; They felt the thrill of a mother's kiss, they heard the happy psalm,

And the men grew still, and all the camp was full of a gracious calm.

"Halt!" cried the sentinel; and lo! from out of the brushwood near

There came, with weary, fainting step, a man in mortal fear,A brutal man, with a tiger's heart, and yet he made this plea : "I am dying of hunger and thirst, so do what you will with me."

They knew him well: who did not know the cruel San Sabatan, —
The robber of the Rio Grande, who spared not any man?
In low, fierce tones they spoke his name, and looked at a coil
of rope;

And the man crouched down in abject fear how could he dare to hope?

The Captain had just been thinking of the book his mother read, Of a Saviour born on Christmas Day, who bowed on the cross

his head;

Blending the thought of his mother's tears with the holy mother's grief,

And when he saw San Sabatan, he thought of the dying thief.

He spoke to the men in whispers, and they heeded the words

he said,

And brought to the perishing robber, water and meat and bread.

He ate and drank like a famished wolf, and then lay down to rest, And the camp, perchance, had a stiller feast for its strange Christmas guest.

But, or ever the morning dawned again, the Captain touched his hand:

"Here is a horse, and some meat and bread; fly to the Rio Grande!

Fly for your life! We follow hard; touch nothing on your

Your life was only spared because 't was Jesus Christ's birth

day."

He watched him ride as the falcon flies, then turned to the breaking day;

The men awoke, the Christmas berries were quietly cast away; And, full of thought, they saddled again, and rode off into the

west

May God be merciful to them, as they were merciful to their

guest!

AMELIA BARR.

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!