When the Easter chimes are ringing,
And the church choir gladly singing,
Of that Easter long ago;
When we sing the old, old story,
How He rose from death to glory,
How I wonder! does Jesus know?
When we're singing of His dying,
And our music turns to sighing
O'er His suffering and His woe;
When we're singing of the morrow,
That will never more bring sorrow,
How I wonder! does Jesus know?
When we're singing of the flowers,
And of springtime and the showers
That doth make the grasses grow;
When our songs are all of praises
For the lilies and the daisies,
How I wonder! does Jesus know?
Does He hear us when we're singing?
Does He hear the church bells ringing
As they're swinging to and fro?
Does He hear us when we're praying?
Does He hear what we are saying?
How I wonder! does Jesus know?
Yes, up in that land of glory,
Where no one is ever sorry,
All our heavenly music goes.
So no longer will I wonder
If He hears us way up yonder,
For I'm sure that Jesus knows.

LILA'S CONCLUSION

You may talk about old Santa Claus,
With his sleigh and fleeting deer;
You may tell about his furry coat
And the jingling bells you hear.
You may talk about the Christmas trees
Which he loads with lots of toys;
You may tell about the dolls and sleds
That he brings for girls and boys.
You may picture him in story-books.
With a beard that's long and white;
You may paint him when he's going down
Through the chimneys in the night.
You may tell the story o'er and o'er
Just the way 'twas told to you;
And I've listened to it often,
But I've learned it isn't true.
You may write about his pretty deer,
As they climb upon the roofs,
But it's very plain to any one
That they can't climb up with hoofs.
And I know that Santa never went
Down a chimney in the night,
For they all are dark and small around,
And they'd squeeze him awful tight.
If he ever did get into one,
Then he never could get out,
For they picture him in story-books
With a form that's broad and stout.
Then he can't come through the outside doors,
For the bolts and locks are there;
Nor he can't get through the cellar door
To climb the cellar stair.
Nor he never could get over all
This whole world in a night,
To fill the little stockings up,
And get home before it's light.
Then no one ever seems to know
Where the dear old fellow dwells;
And no-one ever saw his sleigh,
Nor heard his jingling bells.
I've looked the maps all through and through,
But his home I cannot find;
So at last I've concluded this:
That he's only "in your mind."
And this pretty little tale you tell
To the babies may be told;
But 'twill hardly do for me to hear,
For I've grown too big and old.

EMMA'S IDEAL

I like to see a handsome boy,
With good and honest face;
The one who has a twinkling eye
And form of manly grace.
I like to see him go to school,
And like to see him play;
But much, I fear, of what he does
Is time just thrown away.
I much admire the little man
Who brings the coal and wood;
And helps his mama when she's tired,
As every good boy should.
I like the boy who never steals
The pie upon the shelf;
And never hunts the cookies up
To eat them all himself.
I like the boy who heeds advice,
And does as he should do;
And so I like the thoughtful lad
Who's good to sister too.
And thus you see my views are plain,
And when I older grow
I sometimes think—I guess—may be—
That I—shall have—a beau.
But he must be the model lad,
Who does not chew nor swear;
And he must be a temperance boy,
Who goes not on a tear.
He must not speak of parents dear,
Regardless of respect;
He must not call them fogies old,
Nor their advice reject.
And so the one that I will take,
And love him as a brother,
Will be the good, old-fashioned boy,
Who always minds his mother.