Long time ago in Palestine, Upon a wintry morn, All in a lowly cattle-shed The Prince of Peace was born. The clouds fled from the gloomy sky, The winds in silence lay, And the stars shone bright with strange delight To welcome in that day. His parents they were simple folk And simple lives they led, And in the ways of righteousness This little child was bred. In gentle thought and gentle deed His early days went by, And the light His youthful steps did lead Came down from heaven on high. He was the friend of all the poor That wander here below; It was His only joy on earth To ease them of their woe. In pain He trod His holy path, By sorrow sorely tried; It was for all mankind He lived, And for mankind He died. Like Him let us be just and pure, Like Him be true alway, That we may find the peace of mind That never fades away. II _Westbury dropped in_ So came the deeps of winter--January in New England. With the Pride and the Hope back at school, Elizabeth and I, with the Joy, shut away from most of the sounds and strivings of men, looked out on the heaping drifts and gathered about blazing logs, piled sometimes almost to the chimney throat. It was our refreshment and exercise to bring in the logs. We were told that in a former day they had been dragged in by a horse, who drew them right up to the wide stone hearth. But we did not use Lord Beaconsfield for this work. For one thing, he would have been too big to get through the door; besides, we were strong, and liked the job. We had two pairs of ice-tongs, and we would put on our rubber boots, and take the tongs, and go out into the snow, and fasten to a log--one at each end--and drag it across Captain Ben's iron door-sill, and lift it in and swing it across the stout andirons with a skill that improved with each day's practice. They were good, lusty sticks--some of them nearly two feet through. These were the back-logs, and they would last two or three days, buried in the ashes, breaking at last into a mass of splendid coals. In New England one builds a fire scientifically, if he expects to keep warm by it. There must be a fore-stick and a back-stick, and a pyramid of other sticks, with proper draught below and flame outlets above. And he must not spare fuel--not if he expects heat. Westbury dropped in one afternoon just when we had completed a masterpiece in fire-building. He went up to warm his hands and regarded the blazing heap of hickory with critical appraisal. "That fire cost you two dollars," he remarked, probably recalling the number of days it had taken Old Pop and Sam to cut and cord the big hickory across the brook. "It's worth it," I said. "I've paid many a two dollars for luxuries that weren't worth five minutes of this." Westbury dropped into a comfortable chair, took out his knife, and picked up a piece of pine kindling.