And then the light marks out a shining way,
    And swift the shepherds are the path to take. 
  I long to go!  O laggard feet, why stay? 
    Alas! the vision fades, and I awake.

  Within, the smold’ring fire is burning dim;
    Without, the whirl and beat of storm have ceased. 
  I still can hear the angels’ peaceful hymn,
    And know the vision hath my peace increased.

_—­Frank E. Broun in The Outlook_.

* * * * *

=The Little Christmas Tree.=

  The Christmas day was coming, the Christmas eve drew near,
  The fir-trees they were talking low at midnight cold and clear
  And this is what the fir-trees said, all in the pale moonlight,
  “Now which of us shall chosen be to grace the holy night?”

  The tall trees and the goodly trees raised each a lofty head. 
  In glad and secret confidence, though not a word they said
  But one, the baby of the band, could not restrain a sigh—­
  “You all will be approved,” he said, “but, oh! what chance have I?”

  Then axe on shoulder to the grove a woodman took his way. 
  One baby-girl he had at home, and he went forth to find
  A little tree as small as she, just suited to his mind.

  Oh, glad and proud the baby-fir, amid its brethren tall,
  To be thus chosen and singled out, the first among them all! 
  He stretched his fragrant branches, his little heart beat fast,
  He was a real Christmas tree; he had his wish at last.

  One large and shining apple with cheeks of ruddy gold,
  Six tapers, and a tiny doll were all that he could hold.

  “I am so small, so very small, no one will mark or know
  How thick and green my needles are, how true my branches grow;
  Few toys and candles could I hold, but heart and will are free,
  And in my heart of hearts I know I am a Christmas tree.”

  The Christmas angel hovered near; he caught the grieving word,
  And, laughing low, he hurried forth, with love and pity stirred. 
  He sought and found St Nicholas, the dear old Christmas saint,
  And in his fatherly kind ear rehearsed the fir-tree’s plaint.

  Saints are all-powerful, we know, so it befell that day,
  The baby laughed, the baby crowed, to see the tapers bright;
  The forest baby felt the joy, and shared in the delight.

  And when at last the tapers died, and when the baby slept,
  The little fir in silent night a patient vigil kept;
  Though scorched and brown its needles were, it had no heart to grieve. 
  “I have not lived in vain,” he said; “thank God for Christmas eve!”

_—­Susan Coolidge_.

* * * * *

=The Russian Santa Claus.=

By LIZZIE M. HADLEY.

  Over the Russian snows one day,
  Upon the eve of a Christmas day,
  While still in the heavens shone afar,
  Like a spark of fire, that wondrous star,
  Three kings with jewels and gold bedight
  Came journeying on through the wintry night.