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? "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 or 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 Christmas Saint, And in his fatherly kind ear rehearsed the fir-tree's plaint. Saints are all powerful, we know, so it befell that day, Oh, glad and proud the baby fir, amid its brethren tall, 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, 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 the silent night a patient vigil kept. Though scorched and brown his needles were, he had no heart to grieve, "I have not lived in vain," he said, "thank God for Christmas-eve!" "St. Nicholas." Susan Coolidge. FLOWERS IN WINTER. And not the chill of death! I hail the joyful emblem,- I listen in the evening I watch the heaping snowdrifts, And I think, with grateful spirit, And gentle in the flowers. The piercing blasts are blowing; Breathes forth such charming fragrance, I forget the shortened daylight, And heaven seems hovering near me, And I see amid the darkness - Samuel Francis Smith. From "Poems of Home and Country." A FIELD FLOWER. ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1803. HERE is a flower, a little flower, hour, And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the Sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, The purple heath and golden broom But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Within the garden's cultured round The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 'Tis Flora's page;-in every place, On waste and woodland, rock and plain, The Rose has but a summer-reign, The DAISY never dies. -James Montgomery. FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR. FAR AREWELL, old year; we walk no more together; And, crowned with yellow brake and withered heather, Here in the dim light of a gray December, I knew not then what precious gifts were hidden I only saw the dreary clouds unbroken, And in that winter gloom I found no token Oh, dear old year, I wronged a Father's kindness, |