The morning beams are always new
And scatter blessings free,
And the Christmas Day
Is as new as they,
He was never old to me, my love;
May he never grow old to thee!”
So runs a sweet old song, sung by a true English poet in days long ago gone by, and the clear, clean, glad and wholesome spirit of it is surely worth cherishing. Let none of us say we “hate” Christmas. Whatever our memories, bitter or sweet, they do not belong to the festival, but only to ourselves. Suppose therefore we lose sight of ourselves—our precious selves—just for once in our lives, and consider others a little? If we do this, we shall find it easy to be “merry,” easy to smile, easy to say a kind word, easy to do a kind action, easy to “bring home the holly,” and very easy to hang up the mistletoe and waft a kiss from under it to any cross old boy who declines to be as happy as we would like to make him!
ENGLAND
1901-1902