_A Belgian Christmas_

The "happy year" of 1914

An hour from dawn: The snow sweeps on As it swept with sleet last night: The Earth around Breathes never a sound, Wrapped in its shroud of white.

A waked cock crows Under the snows; Then silence.--After while The sky grows blue, And a star looks through With a kind o' bitter smile.

A whining dog; An axe on a log, And a muffled voice that calls: A cow's long low; Then footsteps slow Stamping into the stalls.

A bed of straw Where the wind blows raw Through cracks of the stable door: A child's small cry, A voice nearby, That says, "One mouth the more."

A different note In a man's rough throat As he turns at an entering tread-- Satyrs! see! "My woman--she Was brought last night to bed!"

A cry of "Halt!"-- "Ach! ich bin kalt!" "A spy!"--"No."--"That is clear! There's a good shake-down I' the jail in town-- For her!"--And then, "My orders here."

A shot, sharp-rolled As the clouds unfold: A scream; and a cry forlorn.... Clothed red with fire, Like the Heart's Desire, Look down the Christmas Morn.

The babe with light Is haloed bright, And it is Christmas Day: A cry of woe; Then footsteps slow, And the wild guns, far away.