A Literary Advent Calendar

  Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas BY MAJOR HENRY LIVINGSTON, JR. ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danc’d in their heads, And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap — When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below; When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled,

  The Proud Little Christmas Tree Sarah Scott "This one! This one!" a small voice cries! "Oh yes! It's perfect and just the right size" The older voice agrees with laughter full of joy, Gazing with love, at an excited little boy. Sometime later, sitting proudly near the fire, The little Christmas tree is glad that he's not higher. For if he was, the boy would never reach His topmost branches, where he decorated each. And every spindle with a shiny coloured ball, Then ran around with tinsel, being careful not to fall. "Mummy! Daddy! Come now and see the tree! It's beautiful! All decorated, and all done, just by me!" With smiles on their faces, they all walked hand in hand, Eyes falling on the tree that's now looking so grand! They string tiny lights, it's quite the finishing touch. Nothing else is needed, except the presents, cards and such. Later on that night, when we all fall fast asleep, The little tree stands, his joy shining throug

  About a Boy Nick Hornby It struck him that how you spent Christmas was a message to the world about where you were in life.

  The Darkling Thrush Thomas Hardy I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter’s dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

  The Kickleburrys on the Rhine William Makepeace Thackeray Pray, dear madam, another glass; it is Christmas time, it will do you no harm.

  The Meeting Henry Wadsworth Longfellow After so long an absence At last we meet again: Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain? The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet’s two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough. We cordially greet each other In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown! We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year; But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here. We speak of friends and their fortunes, And of what they did and said, Till the dead alone seem living, And the living alone seem dead. And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.