Only a tiny stocking hung in the fire light warm,
Only a weary pilgrim breasting the tide of the storm;
Only an anxious watcher piercing the heart of the gloom;
Only a prayerful whisper breaking the calm of the room.
Time creeps slowly forward while the swirling snow flakes fall
Upon field, and hill, and highway, and night enfolds them all;
But hark! a voice is shouting, then a welcome step draws near,
And the angel:—Joy, has banished the ghosts of doubt, of fear.
Only a sleepy fairy who trembles to behold
A host of precious trophies with a wonderment untold,
But the treasure highest valued, the pure, the perfect prize
Is love, the true love beaming from her own dear father’s eyes.
IN THE MIRROR.
In the mirror what do I see?
Velvety brown eyes peeping at me.
Long silken tresses glinting like gold,
Cheeks like the roses ere they unfold.
Hush! but a moment, do not say no;
Look at the elf that is charming me so.
Just a wee darling who to me flies
Saying: “Oh, tate me! tate or me ties.”