THE ROBIN’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

By C. E. B.

T WAS Christmas-time: a dreary night:

The snow fell thick and fast,
And o’er the country swept the wind,
A. keen and wintry blast,

The little ones were all in bed,
Crouching beneath the clothes,

Half-trembling at the angry wind,
Which wildly fell and rose,

Old Jem the Sexton rubbed his leg,
For he had got the gout;

He said he thought it wondrous hard
That he must sally out.

Not far from Jem’s, another house,
Of different size and form,

Rose high its head, defying well
The fierce and pelting storm.

It was the Squire’s lordly home.
A rare old Squire he,

As brave and true an Englishman
As any one could see,

The Squire's lady and himself
Sat cozily together,

When suddenly he roused himself,
To see the kind of weather.

Lifting the shutters’ ponderous bar,
He threw them open wide,

And very dark, and cold, and drear,
He thought it looked outside,

Ah, Squire! little do you think
A trembling beggar’s near,
Although his form you do not see,

His voice you do not hear.

Yes, there he stands,—so very close,
He taps the window-pane;

And when he sees you turn away,
He feebly taps again.

But all in vain; the heavy bar
Was fastened as before;

The Squire's burly form retraced
His highly polished floor.

Now, is there any one who thinks
It cannot be worth while

To write about a Robin’s fate,
And treat it with a smile?

If so, I bid them to their mind
Those words of Scripture call,
Which say that not without God’s will
Ken little birds can fall,