A Christmas Peep.
I passed a toy window,
And many pretty things
Old Santa Claus had labeled,
And tied with silken strings.
A kite was bought for Jimmie,
A little stove for Kate,
A doll for Capitola,
For Charlie a new slate.
A silver knife for father,
For mother, dear, a fan,
And the prettiest little fiddle
Was bought for baby Dan.
Hang up your little stockings,
And keep the fireside bright,
Old Santa Claus is coming,
His sleigh is out to-night.
Ten dollars worth of candy
Was emptied in his sleigh,
And peanuts by the barrel,
To be eaten Christmas day.
His lap was full of toys,
Little drums and little ships,
Little buggies, little ponies,
And little riding whips.
The baby dolls were sleeping
In their cradles snug,
But the others all were peeping
From underneath his rug.
Old Santa was so happy,
That as he drove along
He jingled ever sleigh bell,
And sang a Christmas song.
So don’t forget him, children,
He’s on the way to night,
Hang up your little stockings,
And keep the fireside bright.
Winnie’s Christmas Eve.
Poor little Winnie had plodded the street,
Up and down through the rain and sleet,
Singing her innocent songs all day,
In a sweet and merry childish way;
Asking sometimes for the night a bed,
A bowl of milk, or a crust of bread.
She had sung on the corners and city square,
But no one had time to remember her there;
Numbers had passed her who never before
Failed to toss in her basket a penny or more.
It is Christmas; their hearts are so happy and light--
But poor little Winnie’s forgotten to-night.
Chilly and rayless the sky seems to frown,
The clouds, too, are shaking the soft snow-flakes down;
Over her pretty face, waltzing they fall
Into her bonnet and folds of the shawl;
Think of it, fathers, with firesides warm,
Poor little Winnie is out in the storm.
Backward and forward the tired feet go,
From her lips little ripples of music still flow.
Homeless and hungry, still begging for bread,
Receiving a curse and reproaches instead;
Shiv’ring with fear in the pitiless light,
Poor little Winnie is starving to-night.
Alone in the street, yet the little lips move,
Trying to echo those accents of love.
Ah! think of that, mothers! those syllables sweet
Of your darlings, how fondly the same you repeat!
You are trying so faithful to lead them aright
When poor little Winnie is freezing to-night.
See her! How slowly she’s moving along--
Her lips are too icy to echo the song.
How changed are her features! How feeble! how weak!
A pallor creeps over her forehead and cheek--
Perhaps it is only the flickering light,
Ah! no; little Winnie is dying to-night.
The revel is over in parlor and park,
The bonfire vanished, the street is so dark;
The snow-flakes are falling in many a heap,
The city is quiet, at rest, and asleep;
But there in the shadows, scarce out of sight,
Little Winnie lies dead in a snow-drift to-night.
My Heart’s Little Room.