THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF.

"Nay, nay, my child," he gravely said, "You have spoken to your shame, For the good, good Father overhead, "Feeds all the birds the same.

"He hears the ravens when they cry,
He keeps the fowls of the air;
And a single sparrow cannot lie
On the ground without his care.”

"Yea, father, yea; and tell me this,"
Her words came fast and wild, ·
"Are not a thousand sparrows less
To Him than a single child?

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“Even though it sinned and strayed from home?" The father groaned in pain

As she cried, "O, let our Hansei come
And live with us again !

"I know he did what was not right

Sadly he shook his head;

"If he knew I longed for him to-night, He would not come," he said.

“He went from me in wrath and pride ;
God! shield him tenderly !

For I hear the wild wind cry outside,
Like a soul in agony."

"Nay, it is a soul!" O, eagerly

The maiden answered then;

And, father, what if it should be he,

Come back to us again!"

She stops

the portal open flies;

Her fear is turned to joy :

"Hansei!" the startled father cries

And the mother sobs, "My boy!"

'Tis a bowed and humbled man they greet,
With loving lips and eyes,

Who fain would kneel at his father's feet,
But he softly bids him rise ;

And he says, "I bless thee, O mine own ;
Yea, and thou shalt be blest!

While the happy mother holds her son

Like a baby on her breast.

Their house and love again to share

The Prodigal has come!

And now there will be no empty chair,
Nor empty heart in their home.

And they think, as they see their joy and pride
Safe back in the sheltering fold,

Of the child that was born at Christmas-tide
In Bethlehem of old.

And all the hours glide swift away

With loving, hopeful words,

Till the Christmas sheaf at break of day
Is alive with happy birds!

[NOTE. In Norway the last sheaf from the harvest-field is never threshed, but it is always reserved till Christmas Eve, when it is set up on the roof as a feast for the hungry birds.]

LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

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LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

ACROSS the German Ocean,

In a country far from our own,
Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village

Where the houses were poor and small,
But the home of little Gottlieb
Was the poorest one of all.

He was not large enough to work,

And his mother could do no more (Though she scarcely laid her knitting down), Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes,
And turn, and patch, and darn ;

For never any women yet

Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night, beside her chair,
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan

The wonderful things he would do for her,
When he grew to be a man.

One night she sat and knitted,
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
Upon his vision beamed.

'Twas only a week till Christmas,
And Gottlieb knew that then
The Christ-child, who was born that day,
Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said, "He will never find us, Our home is so mean and small. And we, who have most need of them Will get no gifts at all.”

When all at once, a happy light
Came into his eyes so blue,
And lighted up his face with smiles,
As he thought what he could do.

Next day when the postman's letters

;

Came from all over the land Came one for the Christ-child, written In a child's poor, trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled
What in the world to do ;

So he went to the Burgomaster,
As the wisest man he knew.

And when they opened the letter,
They stood almost dismayed
That such a little child should dare
To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered,
And scarce knew what to speak,
And hastily he brushed aside

A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

Then up he spoke right gruffly,

And turned himself about : "This must be a very foolish boy, And a small one, too, no doubt."

But when six rosy children

That night about him pressed, Poor, trusting little Gottlieb

Stood near him, with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer,
Through all their noisy play;
Though he tried his very best to put
The thought of him away.

A wise and learned man was he,
Men called him good and just;
But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
By that weak child's simple trust.

Now when the morn of Christmas came,
And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother,

But he scarce might speak for fear, When he saw her wondering look, and saw The Burgomaster near.

He wasn't afraid of the Holy Babe,

Nor his mother, meek and mild;

But he felt as if so great a man
Had never been a child.

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