The tall trees and the goodly trees raised each a lofty head, In glad and secret confidence, though not a word they said. But one, the baby of the band, could not restrain a sigh: "You all will be approved," he said, "but oh, what chance have I?

"I am so small, so very small, no one will mark or know How thick and green my needles are, how true my branches grow ;

Few toys or candles could I hold, but heart and will are free,

And in my heart of hearts I know I am a Christmas-tree."

The Christmas angel hovered near; he caught the grieving word,

And laughing low he hurried forth, with love and pity stirred;

He sought and found St. Nicholas, the dear old Christmas

Saint,

And in his fatherly kind ear rehearsed the fir-tree's plaint.

Saints are all powerful, we know, so it befell that day, That, ax on shoulder, to the grove a woodman took his way; One baby-girl he had at home, and he went forth to find A little tree as small as she, just suited to his mind.

Oh, glad and proud the baby fir, amid its brethren tall,
To be thus chosen and singled out, the first among them all!
He stretched his fragrant branches, his little heart beat

fast,

He was a real Christmas-tree; he had his wish at last.

One large and shining apple with cheeks of ruddy gold, Six tapers, and a tiny doll, were all that he could hold.

The baby laughed, the baby crowed, to see the tapers

bright;

The forest baby felt the joy, and shared in the delight.

And when at last the tapers died, and when the baby slept, The little fir in the silent night a patient vigil kept. Though scorched and brown his needles were, he had no heart to grieve,

"I have not lived in vain," he said, "thank God for Christmas-eve!"

AIR flowers that bloom so

Frichly,

As if the summer's breath

Were wafted o'er their birthplace,

And not the chill of death!

I hail the joyful emblem,

Fit cheer for hours of gloom,

Earth has its wintry trials,

But 'tis not all a tomb.

I listen in the evening
To the sighing of the gale;

I watch the heaping snowdrifts,
And hear the rattling hail;

And I think, with grateful spirit,
What a glorious God is ours,
Who is mighty in the tempest,

And gentle in the flowers.

The piercing blasts are blowing;
But every smiling cup

Breathes forth such charming fragrance,
And looks so sweetly up;

I forget the shortened daylight,
And the wintry chill and gloom,
And heaven seems hovering near me,
With its everlasting bloom.

And I see amid the darkness
Of the path that mortals tread,
In the land of grief and partings,
Of the mourning and the dead,
How God, with loving mercy,
Softening the painful blow,
Leaves joy, to gild our sorrow,
Like flowers in time of snow.

ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1803.

HERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing
hour,

And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field.
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honor yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the Sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom.
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed,
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honor of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page;-in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;

The Rose has but a summer-reign,

The DAISY never dies.

-James Montgomery.

F

FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR.

AREWELL, old year; we walk no more together;

I catch the sweetness of thy latest sigh,

And, crowned with yellow brake and withered heather, I see thee stand beneath this cloudy sky.

Here in the dim light of a gray December,
We part in smiles, and yet we met in tears;
Watching thy chilly dawn, I well remember
I thought thee saddest-born of all the years.

I knew not then what precious gifts were hidden
Under the mist that veiled thy path from sight;
I knew not then that joy would come unbidden,
To make thy closing hours divinely bright.

I only saw the dreary clouds unbroken,
I only heard the plash of icy rain,

And in that winter gloom I found no token
To tell me that the sun would shine again.

Oh, dear old year, I wronged a Father's kindness,
I would not trust him with my load of care;
I stumbled on in weariness and blindness,
And lo, he blessed me with an answered prayer!