Harper's Young People, December 30, 1879. Various

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      From the quaint old farm-house, nestling warmly

      'Neath its overhanging thatch of snow,

      Out into the moonlight troop the children,

      Filling all the air with music as they go,

      Gliding, sliding,

      Down the hill,

      Never minding

      Cold nor chill,

      O'er the silvered

      Moon-lit snow,

      Swift as arrow

      From the bow,

      With a rush

      Of mad delight

      Through the crisp air

      Of the night,

      Speeding far out

      O'er the plain,

      Trudging gayly

      Up again

      To where the firelight's

      Ruddy glow

      Turns to gold

      The silver snow.

      Finer sport who can conceive

      Than that of coasting New-Year's Eve?

      Half the fun lies in the fire

      That seems to brighter blaze and higher

      Than any other of the year,

      As though his dying hour to cheer,

      And at the same time greeting give

      To him who has a year to live.

      'Tis built of logs of oak and pine,

      Filled in with branches broken fine;

      It roars and crackles merrily;

      The children round it dance with glee;

      They sing and shout and welcome in

      The new year with a joyous din

      That rings far out o'er hill and dale,

      And warns the watchers in the vale

      'Tis time the church bells to employ

      To spread the universal joy.

      Then the hill is left in silence

      As the coasters homeward go,

      And the crimson of the fire-light

      Fades from off the trodden snow.

      So the years glide by as swiftly

      As the sleds rush down the hill,

      And each new one as it cometh

      Bringeth more of good than ill.

      Ethelreda, the Fairy of Northland,

      Was singing a song to herself,

      As she swung from a wreath of soft snow-flakes,

      And smiled to another bright elf.

      What token shall we send to our darling,

      Our name-child, fair Ethel, below

      In the house which is down in the valley

      All covered and calm in the snow?

      Shall we gather our glorious jewels,

      And wind them about her lithe form?

      They would glitter and glance in the sunshine,

      And merrily gleam in the storm.

      Shall we clothe her in whitest of ermine,

      And robe her as grand as a queen;

      Weave her laces of ice and of frost-work,

      A mantle of glistening sheen?

      She would shudder and cry at the clasping,

      She would moan aloud in her woe,

      And think the gay robes had been fashioned

      By cruelest, bitterest foe.

      I will none of these gifts for my darling,

      Neither jewels nor laces rare,

      Neither diamonds nor pearls of cold anguish—

      My gift shall be tender and fair.

      Early Ethel awoke Christmas morning,

      And found on her pillow that day

      A bunch of bright little snow-drops,

      From kind Ethelreda, the Fay!