A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

103

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugarplums danced through their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap-
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter:
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny raindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name : "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!

On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blixen-
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So, up to the housetop the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys-and St. Nicholas too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

104

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow;
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

THE FROST.

BY H. F. GOULD.

THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train,—
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they!"

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest

In diamond beads; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake, he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those, who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever be breathed, wherever he stepped,

By the light of the morn, were seen

Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there,
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher, I'll burst in three;
And the glass of water they've left for me

Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!"

GREECE.

BY J. G. BROOK S.

LAND of the brave! where lie inurned
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,

In whom the fire of valour burned,
And blazed upon the battle's fray;
Land where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopyla of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Hellas' consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Her soul-entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung;

Till every grove and every hill,

And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes! living slaves!

Shall glory gild thy clime no more?