A pinched, pale child with hungry eyes, Ragged and wolfish, but with wisps of glory Still haloing her hair, Comes with her bag of rubbish. Her eyes brighten; She sets down her heavy burden, She forgets the cold as she picks at the little tree, Plucks eagerly at the fragile cobwebs; They are so silvery few! But they do not go into the heavy sack. Her thin, blue fingers snap one of the green crosses; She twists the tinsel thread about it, And sticks it in her breast. Then she shoulders her bundle of trash, And stumbles away, smiling. The green crosses, alive in the dust! The Christmas Tree! The evergreen tree whose roots are cut— On the dump it will die! The Christmas Tree! What if this ornament of brief holidays, This plaything of a favored few, This strong, slow-murdered creature of pure woods, With its green crosses, Were really growing! If it were rooted in the hearts Of Christendom! How different a world would see this sunny morning! No war; no hate; No want nor selfishness; No ragged children, starved for tinsel joys, Furtively clutching at rejected beauty On a forgotten cross, The green cross of Love. THE MYSTIC CIRCLE Eight lusty bell-ringers In the loft of the campanile; Eight quick-eyed, firm-muscled, clean-lipped lads, Forming a mystic circle, Poised a-tiptoe, Hands above heads, Waiting. Eight stout ropes mysteriously pending From the unrevealing, dusty rafters. The bells are poised for the peal, Though they remain unseen, Waiting. The magic word is spoken by the leader— “_She_’s off!” (The unmistakable English accent.) The treble bell gives signal first, The racing merry scales descend. The cue is flashed from eye to eye; The Bob-major double, An intricate combination of sequences, A miracle of mathematics resolved into sound; A psalm of joy! While the sturdy arms pull in ordered eagerness, And the bright eyes shine.