Alone in the dreary, pitiless street,

      With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet,

      All day have I wandered to and fro,

      Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go;

      The night's coming on in darkness and dread,

      And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head.

      Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?

      Is it because I am nobody's child?

      Just over the way there's a flood of light,

      And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright;

      Beautiful children, in robes so fair,

      Are caroling songs in their rapture there.

      I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,

      Would pity a poor little beggar like me,

      Wandering alone in the merciless street,

      Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?

      Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down

      In its terrible blackness all over the town?

      Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,

      On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die,

      When the beautiful children their prayers have said,

      And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed?

      For no dear mother on me ever smiled.

      Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child?

      No father, no mother, no sister, not one

      In all the world loves me—e'en the little dogs run

      When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see

      How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!

      Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie

      Gazing far up in the dark blue sky,

      Watching for hours some large bright star,

      I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

      And a host of white-robed, nameless things

      Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings;

      A hand that is strangely soft and fair

      Caresses gently my tangled hair,

      And a voice like the carol of some wild bird—

      The sweetest voice that was ever heard—

      Calls me many a dear, pet name,

      Till my heart and spirit are all aflame.

      They tell me of such unbounded love,

      And bid me come to their home above;

      And then with such pitiful, sad surprise

      They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes,

      And it seems to me, out of the dreary night

      I am going up to that world of light,

      And away from the hunger and storm so wild;

      I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.

      Like a dream, it all comes o'er me as I hear the Christmas bells;

      Like a dream it floats before me, while the Christmas anthem swells;

      Like a dream it bears me onward in the silent, mystic flow,

      To a dear old sunny Christmas in the happy long ago.

      And my thoughts go backward, backward, and the years that intervene

      Are but as the mists and shadows when the sunlight comes between;

      And all earthly wealth and splendor seem but as a fleeting show,

      As there comes to me the picture of a Christmas long ago.

      I can see the great, wide hearthstone and the holly hung about;

      I can see the smiling faces, I can hear the children shout;

      I can feel the joy and gladness that the old room seem to fill,

      E'en the shadows on the ceiling—I can see them dancing still.

      I can see the little stockings hung about the chimney yet;

      I can feel my young heart thrilling lest the old man should forget.

      Ah! that fancy! Were the world mine, I would give it, if I might,

      To believe in old St. Nicholas, and be a child to-night.

      Just to hang my little stocking where it used to hang, and feel

      For one moment all the old thoughts and the old hopes o'er me steal.

      But, oh! loved and loving faces, in the firelight's dancing glow,

      There will never come another like that Christmas long ago!

      For the old home is deserted, and the ashes long have lain

      In the great, old-fashioned fireplace that will never shine again.

      Friendly hands that then clasped ours now are folded 'neath the snow;

      Gone the dear ones who were with us on that Christmas long ago.

      Let the children have their Christmas—let them have it while they may;

      Life is short and childhood's fleeting, and there'll surely come a day

      When St. Nicholas will sadly pass on by the close-shut door,

      Missing all the merry faces that had greeted him of yore;

      When no childish step shall echo through the quiet, silent room;

      When no childish smile shall brighten, and no laughter lift the gloom;

      When the shadows that fall 'round us in the fire-light's fitful glow

      Shall be ghosts of those who sat there in the Christmas long ago.

      One sweetly solemn thought

      Comes to me o'er and o'er,—

      I am nearer home to-day

      Than I've ever been before;—

      Nearer my Father's house

      Where the