On this holy Christmas Eve?
Blow, blow, blow!
Pure and fleecy snow,
On this holy Christmas Eve.”
It was really strange what curious things the wind whistled that night, yet through all ran the refrain of the holy Christmas Eve.
Near the great belfry of Bruges was a stately mansion, where the fires burned brightly in the polished grates with a warm, rosy glow, making upon the wall grotesque shadows of a little boy and girl who were joyous with expectant happiness.
It was early, and the lamps were not yet lighted. The children danced up and down the warm, pleasant room, where they were to remain until the mother called them.
The dear, loving mother had been so busy in the great parlor, doing something full of mystery, yet the children were quite sure it was a delightful mystery, that would bring them a great store of happiness, and they were luxuriating in their own pleasant imaginings. The door was still locked, but the time was fast approaching for the grand opening.
“I can’t wait! I can’t wait much longer,” said the boy, impatiently. “What a lazy old thing Santa Claus is!”
“For shame, brother, to speak so of the good Santa Claus, who brings us such beautiful gifts. I will watch for him, the kind old Santa Claus, to come from the gift land for us in all the wind and snow,” and the little girl ran to the window and drew aside the rich, heavy curtain.