Blowing in the Yule from the grim old tower that had stood eight hundred years against the blasts of the North Sea was one of the customs of the Old Town that abide, that I know. At sun-up, while yet the people were at breakfast, the town band climbed the many steep ladders to the top of the tower, and up there, in fair weather or foul,—and sometimes it blew great guns from the wintry sea,—they played four old hymns, one to each corner of the compass, so that no one was forgotten. They always began with Luther’s sturdy challenge, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” while down below we listened devoutly. There was something both weird and beautiful about those far-away strains in the early morning light of the northern winter, something that was not of earth and that suggested to my child’s imagination the angel’s song on far Judean hills. Even now, after all these years, the memory of it does that. [Illustration: Decoration] Christmas Eve in Merry England On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the mass was sung; That only night in all the year, Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry-men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then open’d wide the baron’s hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside And Ceremony doff’d his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The Lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of “post and pair.” All hail’d, with uncontroll’d delight, And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall table’s oaken face, Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord; Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving man; Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell, How, when, and where, the monster fell; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassel round, in good brown bowls, Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely trowls; There the huge sirloin reek’d; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce, At such high tide her savory goose. Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roar’d with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But, O! what maskers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light!