ear his step far down the street.)
Two purl--two plain. The sock can
wait;
I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!)

The Dear Folks in
Devon

Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ-
mas, and to-night
I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly
berries bright.
The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd
dearly love to see,
And those dear folks down in Devon,
how they'll talk and think of me.

Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas
morn, and if there's one
As comes across from Canada straight
from their absent son,
My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my
Dad'll likely say:
"Don't seem like Christmas time no more,
with our dear lad away."

I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef,
and Brother Jimmy's wife
Will say her never tasted such, no, not in
all her life.
And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt
in your mouth, 'tis true,
But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as
mothers always do!

Ah me! If I could just have wings, and
in the dimsey light
Go stealing up the cobbled path this
lonesome Christmas night,
Lift up the latch with gentle hand--My!
What a shout there'd be!
From those dear folks down in Devon!
What a welcomin' for me!

The Reason

"Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that
turneth aside to tarry for a night?"--Jer. xiv. 8.

Nay, do not get the venison pasty
out;
I shall not greatly put myself about
Hungry, he may be; yes, and we shall
spare
Some bread and cheese, 'tis truly whole-
some fare.
We have to-morrow's dinner still to find;
It's well for you I have a frugal mind.

Not the best bed! No, no. Whatever
next?
Why with such questionings should I be
vext?
The man is naught to us; why should
we care?
The little attic room will do; 'tis bare,
But he'll be gone before to-morrow's light;
He has but come to tarry for a night.

I shall not speak with him. Oh, no, not I,
Lest I should pity overmuch, or buy
Some paltry ware of his. Nay, I'll to
bed,
And he can sup alone, well warmed and
fed;
'Tis much to take him in a night like this.