I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye.

Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter canst thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not G.o.d's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

_Celia Thaxter._

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love.

O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth!

And praises sing to G.o.d the King, And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given!

So G.o.d imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven.

No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem!

Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day.

We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!

_Phillips Brooks._

THE SANDMAN

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down, And now the sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town.

"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And, as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away, Yes, in another land, He gathers up at break of day His store of shining sand.

No tempests beat that sh.o.r.e remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes!

And every child right well he knows-- Oh, he is very wise!

But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting on the street.

Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

_Margaret Vandegrift._

RED RIDING-HOOD

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap; The wind that through the pine-trees sung The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung; While, through the window, frosty-starred, Against the sunset purple barred, We saw the sombre crow flap by, The hawk's gray fleck along the sky,

The crested blue-jay flitting swift, The squirrel poising on the drift, Erect, alert, his broad gray tail Set to the north wind like a sail.

It came to pa.s.s, our little la.s.s, With flattened face against the gla.s.s, And eyes in which the tender dew Of pity shone, stood gazing through The narrow s.p.a.ce her rosy lips Had melted from the frost's eclipse: "Oh, see," she cried, "the poor blue-jays!

What is it that the black crow says?

The squirrel lifts his little legs Because he has no hands, and begs; He's asking for my nuts, I know; May I not feed them on the snow?"

Half lost within her boots, her head Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, She floundered down the wintry lawn; Now struggling through the misty veil Blown round her by the shrieking gale; Now sinking in a drift so low Her scarlet hood could scarcely show Its dash of color on the snow.

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn Her little store of nuts and corn, And thus her timid guests bespoke: "Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak,-- Come, black old crow,--come, poor blue-jay, Before your supper's blown away!

Don't be afraid, we all are good; And I'm mamma's Red Riding-Hood!"

O Thou whose care is over all, Who heedest even the sparrow's fall, Keep in the little maiden's breast The pity which is now its guest!

Let not her cultured years make less The childhood charm of tenderness, But let her feel as well as know, Nor harder with her polish grow!

Unmoved by sentimental grief That wails along some printed leaf, But prompt with kindly word and deed To own the claims of all who need, Let the grown woman's self make good The promise of Red Riding-Hood!

_John G. Whittier._

THE SONG SPARROW

There is a bird I know so well, It seems as if he must have sung Beside my crib when I was young; Before I knew the way to spell The name of even the smallest bird, His gentle, joyful song I heard.

Now see if you can tell, my dear, What bird it is, that every year, Sings "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."

He comes in March, when winds are strong, And snow returns to hide the earth; But still he warms his head with mirth, And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade, and every day Repeats his sweet, contented lay; As if to say we need not fear The season's change, if love is here, With "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."

He does not wear a Joseph's coat Of many colors, smart and gay; His suit is Quaker brown and gray, With darker patches at his throat.

And yet of all the well-dressed throng, Not one can sing so brave a song.

It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing to hear His "Sweet--sweet--sweet--very merry cheer."

_Henry van d.y.k.e._

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white; The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.

_Thomas Hood._

TALKING IN THEIR SLEEP