Though this has no value, excepting
The love it contains in its fold,—
Yet, love that is true and unfading
To me is more precious than gold.
So, when you shall weigh in Worth’s balance
The gifts you receive on this day;
Surely mine will not be found wanting,
For Love will be sure to out-weigh.
Were I sure, that, receiving this missive
You should feel just one pang of regret
That I cannot be with you this evening,
It would fully repay me, and yet
I know you’ll transmit one thought message
To me, from afar o’er the plain;
While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing
And telling their story again.
While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing
In accents of joy and of praise;
For the Babe in the manger, so blessed,
As they rang in the dear by-gone days,—
May they ring as of yore,—And the blessing
Of “Peace and Good Will” which they gave
In the ringing descend o’er our Spirits,—
Like music which wafts o’er the wave.
Buckfield, Me., 1911.
THE HUNTER
Traditions of a hunter tells—
A hardy man, and stout;
Who ne’er used snow-shoes—for his feet
Were large enough without!
With dog and gun, across-lots, he
Would roam ’mong bush and stump;
Nor swerved he from the snow-drifts deep,—
He’d very seldom slump!
But once, ’tis said, he sank far down
While crossing o’er a field;
The damp snow caved upon his feet
And there he stuck—and squealed!
Then, standing like a statue
Beneath the sun’s warm glow—
His feet, like steamship’s anchor
Fast pinioned under snow.