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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.

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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 he 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.

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A wise and learned man was he,

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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,

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And hastened to his mother,

But he scarce might speak for fear, When he saw her wondering look, and saw

The Burgomaster near.

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He was n'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,

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Was heaped with dainty food.

Then half to hide from himself the truth

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The Burgomaster said,

While the mother blessed him on her knees,
And Gottlieb shook for dread ;

Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,
To such as me for aid,

Be grateful to your little son,

And the Lord to whom he prayed!"

Then turning round to Gottlieb,
"Your written prayer, you see,
Came not to whom it was addressed,

It only came to me!

"'T was but a foolish thing you did,

As you must understand;

For though the gifts are yours, you know,

You have them from my hand."

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,
Where he humbly stood apart,

"But the Christ-child sent them all the same,
He put the thought in your heart!"

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ABRAHAM LINCOLN

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Written by request, when the funeral procession of the martyred President passed through the streets of New York.

OH, slow to smite and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond are free:

We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloody close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light,

Among the noble host of those

Who perished in the cause of Right.

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THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,

Up the mountain pathway flew.

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed

Reach the dust-cloud in his course. More than maiden, more than wife,

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More than gold and next to life

Roushan the Robber loved his horse.

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Seven hundred and fourscore

Men at arms his livery wore,

Did his bidding night and day; Now, through regions all unknown, He was wandering, lost, alone, Seeking without guide his way.

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