[DOT'S CHIMNEY.]
BY MRS. A. E. THOMAS.
Briskly fell the snow's white plumage,
Tossing o'er the barren moor,
While Kris Kringle's jolly features
So belied the weight he bore.
Fast the pearly flakes were falling,
Glad his hoary head to crown.
Making darkness light about him,
As though angels dropped them down.
Sings his heart its sweetest carol.
Twinkles his gray eyes so bright,
As he pictures the sweet children
In their happy homes to-night.
What cares he that snow is drifting,
And the cold is so intense,
When he sees dear Dottie's chimney
Peeping over yonder fence?
Down the chimney now he's creeping,
Dark and sooty, dim and drear,
Yet his heart is light, though heavy
On his back lies Christmas cheer.
"Quite a journey I've accomplished,"
As he shook himself quite free
From the soot. "Now where's Dot's stocking?
Here 'tis. But what do I see?
"Whose is this, and this, and that one?
One last year, but now three more.
I am old, just turned of eighty,
But can count—one, two, three, four.
Well, I'll fill them," said Kris Kringle;
"Maybe Dottie wants a pile
Of nice goodies. Here they go in.
Now, my boy, you're fixed in style."
He guessed rightly; Dot was greedy,
For he did love candies so.
This was why he hung so shyly
Four bright stockings in a row.
Morning came; Dot was in raptures.
What a pile of luscious things
Hung within that old black chimney!
But hark! now the door-bell rings.
In came Neighbor Gray a-sighing.
Times, he said, were very dull;
And his little Sam grew weaker.
Oh! his heart was very full.
Wife, he said, had watched beside him
Through the cold and bitter night,
And he came to ask for something—
Only "just a little mite."
Up jumped Dottie with a stocking,
Bursting with its festive bliss.
"Here," he said, to that poor neighbor,
"Give dear little Sammy this."
Just then came the widow's children—
Pretty, but so very poor—
Mag and Mamie, nearly frozen.
Travelling o'er the barren moor.
"Come in quick," said little Dottie.
"What's the matter? pray explain."
"We are going for the doctor,
'Cause the baby's got a pain."
Mag and May each had a stocking
When they left the farmer's door.
Oh! 'twas well that little Dottie
In his chimney hung up four.
[A NOVEL PRESENT.]
BY BERTHA WATSON.
Before you girls put on your thimbles, thread your needles, and puzzle your brains about something to make for Christmas, let me tell you of a beautiful present I once received, and how it was made.
It was an old woman who lived in a shoe, with so many children she didn't know what to do.