But here a burst of little ones comes into the garden, anxious for my leave and help to cut boughs of the holly and the box to clothe the rooms for Christmas, and to divert thoughts of the bare boughs that stand without. And it is well that my musings should thus be interrupted, and should thus end. Among the bare branches of the saddest thought there may still be found warm-berried evergreens, planted by God’s love here and there. And all that tells here of Death and Winter, tells of that which is temporary and evanescent, now that the LIFE has come into the world. Even the cold stripped trees and the buried flowers,--there is hope in their death,--and how much are we better than they! And thus the Poet whom I quoted above goes on to thought of that Spring from the contemplation of the rending winds and stripping Winter here: “Safe home, safe home in port!-- Rent cordage, shattered deck, Torn sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck. _But, oh, the joy upon the shore, To tell our voyage perils o’er!_ “The prize, the prize secure! The athlete nearly fell, Bare all he could endure, And bare not always well; _But he may smile at troubles gone, Who sets the victor garland on._” Well, I must muse no longer, I see, but give up myself to the will of the children. Come along, then, and let us make all bright and cheery at this joyous season. Tall sprays of thick-berried holly; golden winter cherries, laurel, and yew, and box; ay, and if you will, Cyril shall climb the old mossy gnarled apple-tree, and bring down a branching bunch of that pale-green, Druid-loved parasite, with its berries like opal beads. In this happy time the children may well claim to have their “time to laugh,” and to rejoice; and the elders may look on or join with kindly geniality. Yea, we may say, “It is _meet_ that we should make merry and be glad;--for this our earth was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.” Laugh and be happy, therefore, at the Christmas time. Only in enjoying the holiday, let not its etymology and true meaning be altogether lost sight of. And remember that it is only the thought of the Spring of Eternity that can take away the sadness from the contemplation of Time’s bare boughs. [Illustration] LONDON: ROBERT K. BURT, PRINTER, WINE OFFICE COURT, FLEET STREET. Transcriber’s Notes Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained. Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. Text uses both “chesnut” and “chestnut”; both retained here.