In a dim and dingy attic,
Away from the pomp and glare,
A widow sits by a flickering lamp,
Bowed down by toil and care.
On her toil-worn hand her weary head,
At her feet a shoe half-bound,
On the bare, brown table a loaf of bread,
And hunger and want around.
By her side at the broken window,
With her rosy feet all bare,
Her little one carols a Christmas tune
To the chimes on the frosty air.
And the mother dreams of the by-gone years
And their merry Christmas-bells,
Till her cheeks are wet with womanly tears,
And a sob in her bosom swells.
[Illustration: AND THE MOTHER DREAMS OF THE BY GONE YEARS, AND THEIR
MERRY CHRISTMAS BELLS]
The child looked up; her innocent ears
Had caught the smothered cry;
She saw the pale face wet with tears
She fain would pacify.
"Don't cry, mama," she softly said--
"Here's a Christmas gift for you,"
And on the mother's cheek a kiss
She printed warm and true.
"God bless my child!" the mother cried
And caught her to her breast--
"O Lord, whose Son was crucified,
Thy precious gift is best.
"If toil and trouble be my lot
While on life's sea I drift,
O Lord, my soul shall murmur not,
If Thou wilt spare Thy gift."