He was not large enough to work,
  And his mother could do no more
(Though she scarcely laid her knitting down)
  Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes,
  And turn, and patch, and darn;
For never any woman yet
  Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night, beside her chair,
  Would Gottlieb sit, and plan
The wonderful things he would do for her,
  When he grew to be a man.

One night she sat and knitted,
 And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
 Upon his vision beamed.

’Twas only a week till Christmas,
 And Gottlieb knew that then
The Christ-child, who was born that day,
 Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said, “He will never find us,
 Our home is so mean and small. 
And we, who have most need of them,
 Will get no gifts at all.”

When all at once a happy light
 Came into his eyes so blue,
And lighted up his face with smiles,
 As he thought what he could do.

Next day when the postman’s letters
 Came from all over the land;
Came one for the Christ-child, written
 In a child’s poor trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled
 What in the world to do;
So he went to the Burgomaster,
 As the wisest man he knew.

And when they opened the letter,
  They stood almost dismayed
That such a little child should dare
  To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered,
  And scarce knew what to speak,
And hastily he brushed aside
  A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.

Then up he spoke right gruffly,
  And turned himself about: 
“This must be a very foolish boy,
  And a small one, too, no doubt.”

But when six rosy children
  That night about him pressed,
Poor, trusting little Gottlieb
  Stood near him, with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer,
  Through all their noisy play;
Though he tried his very best to put
  The thought of him away.

A wise and learned man was he,
  Men called him good and just;
But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
  By that weak child’s simple trust.

Now when the morn of Christmas came
  And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
  Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother,
  But he scarce might speak for fear,
When he saw her wondering look, and saw
  The Burgomaster near.

He wasn’t afraid of the Holy Babe,
  Nor his mother, meek and mild;
But he felt as if so great a man
  Had never been a child.

Amazed the poor child looked, to find
  The hearth was piled with wood,
And the table, never full before,
  Was heaped with dainty food.

Then half to hide from himself the truth
  The Burgomaster said,
While the mother blessed him on her knees,
  And Gottlieb shook for dread;