Hilda's Christmas

Standing apart from the childish throng,

Little Hilda was silent and sad;

She could not join in the happy song,

She could not echo the voices glad.

"What can I do on Christmas day?

I am so little and we are so poor,"

She said to herself in a dreary way;

"I wish there was never a Christmas more."

"Mother is sick and father can't know

How children talk of their gifts and joy,

Or he'd surely try, he loves me so,

To get me just one single toy."

"But Christmas is n't for what you get,"

She heard a small, sweet, tender voice,—

"It's for what you give," said wee Janet,

And the words made Hilda's heart rejoice.

"It isn't our birthday," went on the mite,

"It is Christ's, you know; and I think he'd say

If he were to talk with us to-night

That he'd wish us to keep it his own way."

A plan came into Hilda's head;

It seemed to her she could hardly wait.

"I can't give nice things," she bravely said,

"But I'll do what I can to celebrate."

"I can give the baby a day of fun;

I can take my plant to the poor, lame boy;

I can do mother's errands—every one;

And my old kite I can mend for Roy.

"I can read to father and save his eyes;

I can feed the birds in the locust grove;

I can give the squirrels a fine surprise;

And Grandma shall have a letter of love."

Now when that busy day was done,

And tired Hilda crept to bed,

She forgot that she had no gift of her own,—

"What a lovely Christmas it was!" she said.