By Mrs. CHARLOTTE B. MERRITT. Mrs. SARAH L. WARNER.

[Transcriber's note: Click here to hear a midi of this song. ]

1.
On this happy Birthday
Of our Saviour King,
Come, dear little children,
Sweetly let us sing
Of the Christ Child;
Of the Christ Child,
We will glad-ly sing.
2.
Bethlehem's star is shining,
Ho-ly is its ray,
To the world proclaiming
Christ was born to-day.
Of the Christ Child,
Of the Christ Child,
We will glad-ly sing.
3.
Wise men came to worship,
Wise men from a-far,
Guided by the glo-ry
Of that ho-ly star.
Of the Christ Child,
Of the Christ Child,
We will glad-ly sing.
4.
Now He reigns forever.
Loving you and me;
Joyful, let as praise Him
Round our Christmas tree.
To the Christ Child,
To the Christ Child,
We our tribute bring.

[A Christmas Party.]

By LIZZIE M. HADLEY.

(CHARACTERS: 1897, a bent and feeble old man with skull-cap and white beard, leaning on a cane. The number 1897 across his forehead or breast. South Wind, a slender brunette in veil, mantle, and cape of green cheese cloth, cape belted down in the back. As she enters she flourishes her arms to throw out veil and cape. Messenger, in lettered uniform. Four Heralds, uniformed somewhat like messenger. Nine Fairies, very small girls. Coronets of silver paper. Flowing robes of cheese cloth with angel sleeves worn over clothing sufficiently warm for the season. Colors to present the plants whose leaves they carry. Silver belts, shoe-buckles, and necklaces. Leaves cut from green paper, and letters from gilt. Kriss Kringle, Santa Claus, St. Nicholas, Knight Rupert, and Babousca in appropriate costumes. Nine Children, in ordinary clothes. North Wind, East Wind, and West Wind in costumes similar to South Wind, but varying in color,—white for north, blue for east, and red for west. The Winds stand behind St. Nicholas and keep up a restless blowing; that is, a fluttering and ballooning of capes and veils by flourishing arms.)

1897:

I'm growing old and feeble,
So much excitement's wrong;
Folks should have had their Christmas
When I was young and strong.
Instead of that, they take it
When I really ought to rest.
My last days should be peaceful
But—Father Time knows best
And now I must be stirring,
And call for Santa Claus;
I almost dread his coming,
There's always such a noise.
The winds shall be my heralds—
Come, North Wind, where are you?
Just whisper to old Santa
That here he'll soon be due.
Now while I am about it,
Perhaps it would be best
To call that windy herald
Whose home is in the west.
(Enter South Wind)
Here comes my daughter, South Wind.