Why is not Christian here to-night?  In the school of music, away on the hill, he is singing a grand Christmas hymn, with a hundred young voices to join him.  It is very grand and sweet, full of thanks and of love.  It makes the little boy feel nearer to all his loved ones, and in his heart he is thanking the dear Father who has given them that best little Christmas present,—­the baby.

LOUISE, THE CHILD OF THE WESTERN FOREST.

There are many things happening in this world, dear children,—­things that happen to you yourselves day after day, which you are too young to understand at the time.  By and by, when you grow to be as old as I am, you will remember and wonder about them all.

Now, it was just one of these wonderful things, too great for the young children to understand, that happened to our little Louise and her brothers and sister when the Christmas time had come around again, and the baby was more than a year old.

It was a cold, stormy night; there were great drifts of snow, and the wind was driving it against the windows.  In the beautiful great parlor, beside the bright fire, sat the sweet, gentle mother, and in her lap lay the stout little Hans.  The children had their little chairs before the fire, and watched the red and yellow flames, while Louise had already taken out her knitting-work.

They were all very still, for their father seemed sad and troubled, and the children were wondering what could be the matter.  Their mother looked at them and smiled, but, after all, it was only a sad smile.  I think it is hardest for the father, when he can no longer give to wife and children their pleasant home; but, if they can be courageous and happy when they have to give it up, it makes his heart easier and brighter.

“I must tell the children’ to-night,” said the father, looking at his wife, and she answered quite cheerfully:  “Yes, tell them; they will not be sad about it I know.”

So the father told to his wondering little ones that he had lost all his money; the beautiful great house and gardens were no longer his, and they must all leave their pleasant home near the Rhine, and cross the great, tossing ocean, to find a new home among the forests or the prairies.

As you may suppose, the children didn’t fully understand this.  I don’t think you would yourself.  You would be quite delighted with the packing and moving, and the pleasant journey in the cars, and the new and strange things you would see on board the ship, and it would be quite a long time before you could really know what it was to lose your own dear home.

So the children were not sad; you know their mother said they would not be.  But when they were safely tucked up in their little beds, and tenderly kissed by the most loving lips, Louise could not go to sleep for thinking of this strange moving, and wondering what they should carry, and how long they should stay.  For she had herself once been on a visit to her uncle in the city, carrying her clothes in a new little square trunk, and riding fifty miles in the cars, and she thought it would be quite a fine thing that they should all pack up trunks full of clothing, and go together on even a longer journey.