THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF

It was a gleaner in the fields,—

The fields gleaned long ago:

The evening wind swept down from heights

Already brushed with snow.

The gleaner turned to right, to left,

With searching steps forlorn;

The stubble-blade beneath her feet

Was sharp as any thorn.

But as she stooped, and as she searched,

Half blind with gathering tears,

Beside her in the field stood One

Whose voice beguiled her fears:

“What seek ye here, this bitter eve,

The harvest long gone by?”

She lifted up her weary face,

She answered with a sigh:

“I seek but some few heads of wheat

To nail against the wall,

To feed at morn the blessed birds,

When with loud chirps they call.

“Poor ever have I been, God knows!

Yet ne'er so poor before,

But they might taste their glad Noel

Beside my cottage door.”

Then answer made that Presence sweet,

“Go home, and trust right well

The birds beside your cottage door

Shall find their glad Noel.”

And so it was — from soundest sleep

The gleaner woke at morn,

To see, nailed up beside her door,

A sheaf of golden corn!

And thereupon the birds did feast,—

The birds from far and wide:

All know it was Our Lord Himself

That goodly sheaf supplied!