Christmas Eve

'Twas Christmas Eve. The mother and her little boy (his name Was David Annandale) sat down to read And converse hold before they sought repose. A widow young, with richest auburn hair, Bright hazel eyes 'neath finely arching brows, Teeth of pearl, and sympathetic smile Most sweet. No wonder that her child, a lad Of six, with raven hair and ruddy cheeks, Should find in her alone his heart's desire, His reigning thought, the perfect one. His eyes Lovelit no blemish saw in careworn looks.

Her stories, read and told with girlish zeal, Of beaver, bear and wolf, and jet black squirrel, But, best of all, of smiling Santa Claus, Aroused an interest intense. The deep Ravine itself and other themes all passed Beneath her spell. And he, tho' entertained, Was also purified and lifted up. "My mother, dear," he said, "When I'm a man, I'll work and work for you, and buy a castle And a carriage; you will be a lady, And nevermore be tired."

Tired himself at last, His eyelids fell. He dreamed a moment deep, Then wide awoke and starting up he wept, And as he sobbed he said, "I've seen my kitten In the cold ravine. Oh, let it in!" This was a kitten lost a while before, A creature in his heart as much as treasure Real or ideal fills the heart Of any ardent man. He ever longed And hoped for its return. And every night The door was opened and the yearning call Went out into the empty air. And every Night he saw the lost one's dish supplied, Which morning found untouched. The mother did Her best to stay his tears, and as she bent And tucked him warm in bed she said that maybe Santa Claus would bring another kitten. "Tie a great big stocking, mother; make it Open wide and warm." She did so, kissed him, And he closed his eyes.

One hand alone, Would fill that empty stocking, nor forget A friend or neighbor would come later on, But David's eyes when morning came would look On emptiness, save for mother's hand. Nay, stay,-- At midnight, yea, at midnight, when the moon Was still a silver lamp, a creature poor, Benighted, wandered to the cottage door. Ill-treated, cold, too sick to cry, it looked With wistful eyes beneath the fastened door. Then turned and went aside and trembling climbed The sloping birchen tree and reached the roof. Adown the chimney peered, then slowly crept, Then fell. It lay upon the hearth a time. But lured, it lapped the milk, and, strengthened, strove To climb into the little sleeper's cot. It strove but failed, and, guided by a gentle Hand, it fell at last into the open Stocking, head above, and finding comfort, Softly purred and slept.

Ah, sleeping boy, Thou dreamest not the joy awaiting thee-- The empty place within thy heart shall soon Be filled, thy grief assuaged, thy hot tears dried. 'Tis little value--but 'tis much to thee-- Because thy love is wrapped up there, and love Is value's measure in the heart of rich And poor.

The boy awoke and rubbed his eyes. The sun had risen o'er the grand ravine, A silver scene, and sent its slanting rays Of gold beneath the blind, across the cot. He waited not, but crept along and looked Below. Two eyes looked up. A moment mutual Magnetized, transfixed! He drew the creature From its woollen bed, he kissed it,--pressed it To his cheek--and wept for joy. The mother Woke. The midnight "gift" was seen and gladly Welcomed home while David slept, and now She also wept for joy. No home was happier On that Christmas morn. No gift was costlier Than the gift that meant the wasted worthless Waif's return.