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The End Of The Play
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY The play is done...

Daily Bread
I. A QUESTION OF NOURISHMENT. "And how is he?" ...

The Angels
WILLIAM DRUMMOND Run, shepherds, run where B...

The Voyage Of The Wee Red Cap
RUTH SAWYER DURAND It was the night of St. Stephen...

Christmas At Fezziwig's Warehouse
CHARLES DICKENS Yo ho! my boys, said Fezziwig. No mo...

The Call Of The Woodsman
The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722...

Christmas Eve
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE [From My Study Fire.] The w...





The Shepherds






WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN

O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night!
Night to blest days in which a sun doth rise
Of which that golden eye which clears the skies
Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light!
And blessed ye, in silly pastor's sight,
Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies
That heaven-sent youngling, holy-maid-born wight,
Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies!

Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread,
Though withered--blessed grass that hath the grace
To deck and be a carpet to that place!
Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed,
Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed on knees;
And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees.





Next: A Christmas Carol

Previous: The Glad Evangel



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