VE

'Twas Christmas Eve.
The mother and her little boy (his name
Was David Annandale) sat down to read
And converse hold before they sought repose.
A widow young, with richest auburn hair,
Bright hazel eyes 'neath finely arching brows,
Teeth of pearl, and sympathetic smile
Most sweet. No wonder that her child, a lad
Of six, with raven hair and ruddy cheeks,
Should find in her alone his heart's desire,
His reigning thought, the perfect one. His eyes
Lovelit no blemish saw in careworn looks.

Her stories, read and told with girlish zeal,
Of beaver, bear and wolf, and jet black squirrel,
But, best of all, of smiling Santa Claus,
Aroused an interest intense. The deep
Ravine itself and other themes all passed
Beneath her spell. And he, tho' entertained,
Was also purified and lifted up.
"My mother, dear," he said, "When I'm a man,
I'll work and work for you, and buy a castle
And a carriage; you will be a lady,
And nevermore be tired."

Tired himself at last,
His eyelids fell. He dreamed a moment deep,
Then wide awoke and starting up he wept,
And as he sobbed he said, "I've seen my kitten
In the cold ravine. Oh, let it in!"
This was a kitten lost a while before,
A creature in his heart as much as treasure
Real or ideal fills the heart
Of any ardent man. He ever longed
And hoped for its return. And every night
The door was opened and the yearning call
Went out into the empty air. And every
Night he saw the lost one's dish supplied,
Which morning found untouched. The mother did
Her best to stay his tears, and as she bent
And tucked him warm in bed she said that maybe
Santa Claus would bring another kitten.
"Tie a great big stocking, mother; make it
Open wide and warm." She did so, kissed him,
And he closed his eyes.

One hand alone,
Would fill that empty stocking, nor forget
A friend or neighbor would come later on,
But David's eyes when morning came would look
On emptiness, save for mother's hand. Nay, stay,--
At midnight, yea, at midnight, when the moon
Was still a silver lamp, a creature poor,
Benighted, wandered to the cottage door.
Ill-treated, cold, too sick to cry, it looked
With wistful eyes beneath the fastened door.
Then turned and went aside and trembling climbed
The sloping birchen tree and reached the roof.
Adown the chimney peered, then slowly crept,