CHRISTMAS.

How did they keep his birthday then,

The little fair Christ, so long ago?

O, many there were to be housed and fed,

And there was no place in the inn, they said,

So into the manger the Christ must go,

To lodge with the cattle and not with men.

The ox and the ass they munched their hay

They munched and they slumbered, wondering not,

And out in the midnight cold and blue

The shepherds slept, and the sheep slept too,

Till the angels’ song and the bright star ray

Guided the wise men to the spot.

But only the wise men knelt and praised,

And only the shepherds came to see,

And the rest of the world cared not at all

For the little Christ in the oxen's stall;

And we are angry and amazed

That such a dull, hard thing should be!

How do we keep his birthday now?

We ring the bells and we raise the strain,

We hang up garland, everywhere

And bid the tapers, twinkle fair,

And feast and frolic — and then we go

Back to the Mine old lives again.

Are we so better, then, than they

Who failed the new-born Christ to see?

To them a helpless babe,— to us

He shines a Saviour glorious,

Our Lord, our Friend, our All — yet we

Are half asleep this Christmas day.