TEACHING A LESSON

They were gazing through the window,
On a cold December day,
At the pretty toys for children,
That were shown in fine array.
One was robed in richest raiment,
With a face so bright and glad;
One was dressed in poorest garments,
With a face so wan and sad.
While they gazed upon the window,
Said the rich one to the poor:
"Ain't it nice that Christmas is coming,
For that brings old Santa sure.
"Oh! he's going to bring a dolly,
And a lovely Christmas tree,
And some toys and nuts and candy
And some story-books for me.
"Don't you know what he will bring you?—
Lots of pretty toys, I guess!
And a cloak and pair of mittens,
And, perhaps, a pretty dress."
But the little child made answer,
With a deep, unbidden sigh:
"Santa never comes to see me,
And I never knew just why.
"Nor I don't have pretty playthings
Like some other children do;
Nor the toys and nuts and candy
That old Santa brings to you.
"For we live down in an alley,
In a house that's poor and old;
And we scarcely can keep warm
When the nights are chill and cold.
"And my mama sews to keep us,
So it's all that she can do
With the little that she's earning
Just to feed and clothe us two.
"So, perhaps, that's why old Santa
Never knocks upon our door,
'Cause he don't care for the children
Of the people who are poor."
To the little child of plenty,
'Twas a story strange, but true,
That her Santa was so partial,
And would give to such a few.
Home she ran and told her mama
All the story, strange and sad:
"He's a naughty, naughty Santa,
So I'll make the children glad.
"I will just make up some bundles
Of the things he brings to me,
Then I'll play that I am Santa,
With a pretty Christmas tree.
"And I'll go down the alley
And that little girl I'll find;
That will teach him such a lesson!
One, I think, he'll always mind.
"Then I'll write a different letter
From the ones he's had before;
And I'll tell him it's his duty
Just to stop at every door.
"That, I guess, will set him thinking
All about his conduct here;
Then the poor he will remember
When he comes another year."
So out went the little Santa
With the bundles from her tree;
And she passed not by a doorway
Where she found that want might be.
And the lesson for old Santa
In her childish way she taught
To the selfish ones about her,
Who for others had no thought.

THE LITTLE CRIB BED

There's a little crib bed that is unused now,
And is stowed in the garret with care;
For the wee baby girl that slept in that bed
Will never again dream there.
There's a little old pillow of matted down,
But no more 'twill be tumbled at night;
For the little babe's head that rested there
Now sleeps on a pillow more light.
There's a little odd quilt of an ancient style,
That was pieced from the dresses she wore;
But it lies in the bed now undisturbed,
For the baby will kick it no more.
So this little crib bed is stowed away now,
And the pillow is minus its case;
And the little, odd quilt, now faded and old,
Is neatly tucked in its place.
In memory again we only shall see
The babe in her little, snug fold;
But we treasure the bed, with pillow and quilt,
For the baby it used to hold.
Yet how happy the times in the olden days,
When the baby was sung off to sleep,
And the sweet curls lay on the pillow of down,
With the quilt tucked over her feet.
But the baby has gone to a chamber above,
That is furnished in colors of light;
And the bed where she rests is one of ease,
With a cover all spotless and white.
In her picture again we only shall see
The ringlets of gold on her head;
For her hair—is done up and she's grown too tall
To sleep in that little crib bed.

ROBIN'S FAREWELL