But soon he found he must not hope
From these soft flakes to fly:

Down they came feathering on his head,
His back, his tail, his eye!

No gardeners appeared that day;
The Rector’s step came by,

And Robin fluttered o’er the snow
To try and catch his eye.

But being Christmas Eve, perhaps
His sermons filled his mind,

For on he walked, and never heard
The little chirp behind.

Half-blinded, on and on he roamed,
Quite through the Squire's park ;

At last he stood before the house,
But all was cold and dark,

Now suddenly his heart beats high!
He sees a brilliant glare,
Shutters unfurl before his eyes,
A sturdy form stands there!

He almost frantic grew, poor bird!
Fluttered, and tapped the pane,

Pressed hard his breast against the glass,
And chirped,—but all in vain!

 

 

So on he went, and as it chanced,
He passed into a lane,

And once again he saw a light
Inside a window-pane.

Chanced, did we say? let no such word
Upon our page appear:

Not chance, but watchful Providence,
Had led poor Robin here.

"Twas Jem the Sexton’s house from which
Shone forth that cheering light,

For Jem had drawn the curtain back
To gaze upon the night.

And now, with lantern in his hand,
He hobbles down the lane,

Muttring and grumbling to himself,
Because his foot’s in pain.

He gains the church, then for the key
Within his pocket feels,

And as he puts it in the door
Robin is at his heels.

Jem thought, when entering the church,
That he was all alone,

Nor dreamed a little stranger bird
Had to its refuge flown.

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