"Ah, do, Miss Clara; I've something to tell you about a little boy I saw this morning," pleaded little golden-head, peering through an evergreen arch. "Do stay and see the Christmas tree lighted after dinner," besought all four, gathering closely around me.
But aunt Clara was engaged to dine at the square old house over the way, with the dear old lady who could not see the pine wreaths that made her old-fashioned parlor so sweet with their resinous, balmy fragrance.
"They remind me of the times when my girls and boys were all about me so gay and happy, and the old house resounded with their 'Merry Christmas.' 'Tis many a year now, dear Clara, since there was a merry Christmas here; but happy Christmases there have been, thank God, not a few. A happy Christmas, dear, to you, and thanks for brightening the day for me," said the old lady, with a gentle sigh, as I placed her at the quiet table.
A merry, merry Christmas to all the little "Merrys" who read this story. Do not forget that there are homes where live forlorn little Mikes and Jimmys, whom you can make glad in this glad time; and do not forget that there are sorrowing homes which the mere sight and sound of your bright young faces and voices will brighten and cheer.
I've a sweet little pet; she is up with the lark, And at eve she's asleep when the valleys are dark, And she chatters and dances the blessed day long, Now laughing in gladness, now singing a song. She never is silent; the whole summer day She is off on the green with the blossoms at play; Now seeking a buttercup, plucking a rose, Or laughing aloud at the thistle she blows.
She never is still; now at some merry elf You'll smile as you watch her, in spite of yourself; You may chide her in vain, for those eyes, full of fun, Are smiling in mirth at the mischief she's done; And whatever you do, that same thing, without doubt, Must the mischievous Annie be busied about; She's as brown as a nut, but a beauty to me, And there's nothing her keen little eyes cannot see.
She dances and sings, and has many sweet airs; And to infant accomplishments adding her prayers, I have told everything that the darling can do, For 'twas only last summer her years numbered two. She's the picture of health, and a southern-born thing Just as ready to weep as she's ready to sing, And I fain would be foe to lip that hath smiled At this wee bit of song of the _dear little_ child.