“What did he stay there for?” said Carl. “Was he thinking?”
“He might have been,” said the stocking,—“indeed I rather think he was, for he stroked and patted me two or three times. Or he might have been listening the wind sing its Christmas song.”
“Ay—and sigh too. Most of all about the time of other people’s holidays. It’s a wild, sighing kind of a song at best—whistled and sung and sighed together,—sometimes round the house, and sometimes through a keyhole. I heard what it said that night well enough. You won’t understand it, but this was it:—
‘Christmas again! Christmas again! With its holly berries so bright and red. They gleam in the wood, they grow by the lane,— O hath not Christmas a joyful tread?
Christmas again! Christmas again! What does it find? and what does it bring? And what does it miss that should remain?— O Christmas time is a wonderful thing!
Christmas again! Christmas again! There are bright green leaves on the holly tree,— But withered leaves fly over the plain, And the forests are brown and bare to see.
Christmas again! Christmas again! The snow lies light and the wind is cold. But the wind it reacheth some hearts of pain,— And the snow—it falleth on heads grown old.
Christmas again! Christmas again! What kindling fires flash through the hall! The flames may flash, but the shadows remain,— And where do the shadows this night fall?
Christmas again! Christmas again!— It looks through the windows—it treads the floor. Seeking for what earth could not retain— Watching for those who will come no more.
Christmas again! Christmas again! Why doth not the pride of the house appear? Where is the sound of her silken train? And that empty chair—what doeth it here?
Christmas again! Christmas again! With hearts as light as did ever bound; And feet as pretty as ever were fain To tread a measure the hall around.
Christmas again! Christmas again!— Oh thoughts, be silent! who called for ye? Must Christmas time be a time of pain Because of the loved, from pain set free?
Christmas again! Christmas again!— Once Christmas and joy came hand in hand. The hall may its holiday look regain,— But those empty chairs must empty stand.’
“The wind took much less time to sing the song than I have taken to tell it,” said the stocking,—“a low sigh round the house and a whistle or two, told all. Then suddenly a door at the lower end of the hall flew open, and a boy sprang in, exclaiming—