The prayers of all; and there were other folk
Who, if unvisited, would take it ill.
“’Tis said they must reach Arle by midnight stroke;
Sweet spices they have left—judge by the censer’s smoke!”
We boys took manfully this frown of Fate;
But tears stood in petite Annette’s blue eyes.
“Another year, my precious,—thou canst wait;
Besides, to-morrow morn a fine surprise
There’ll be for children who are sage and wise.
Gifts—but I may not tell you now, my child.”—