By the firelight’s quivering crimson, While the winter sun sinks low, Let us watch till the first vague star, wife, Has dawned o’er the glooming snow; For if ever our lost ones may wander from the realms of their rest, I believe That they seek us as visiting angels in the dusk of the Christmas Eve. And our lonelier anguish of longing, Our thrills of in tenser despair, Are born—who may tell?—of a viewless embrace Or a shadowy hand on our hair! O, the darlings are near us to-night, wife, as we watch the soft hearth-glimmer weave Strange pictures on ceiling and curtain in the dusk of the Christmas Eve! And pitiful memory’s enchantment Has mingled the gloom round us cast, With a glow as from ashes of embers That crumble on hearths of the past! And a note of boy-laughter, long vanish’d, or the gold of a ringlet, each leaves An echo—a gleam—that forever must haunt the dusk of our Christmas Eves! And the children draw near once again, wife, And, marveling, hark to the quaint Immemorial holiday legend Of the beautiful reindeer-drawn saint. Let us murmur it now, till the shadows of the desolate chamber believe That they fall, as of old, round the dear ones in the dusk of the Christmas Eve! Let us murmur it softly; who knows, wife, But a whisper will float, in reply, Clear and sweet through the compassing dimness As proof that our darlings are nigh? For if ever their footsteps may wander from the heavenly home, I believe They will seek us as visitant angels in the dusk of the Christmas Eve! EDGAR FAWCETT. [_December 31._] GOD MAGNIFIED IN HIS WORKS.[C] By G. CHAPLIN CHILD, M. D.