A Literary Advent Calendar

An advent calendar with a literary theme. This blog came about because I wanted to give my daughter, who lives alone, an advent calendar during the 2020 pandemic. A daily blog post with a seasonal quote or poem was a way of saying 'you are in my heart'.

22. About a Boy by Nick Hornby

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December 22, 2020

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.

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23. The Proud Little Christmas Tree by Sarah Scott

December 23, 2020

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...

15. How the Grinch Stole Christmas! by Dr. Seuss

December 15, 2020

How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Dr. Seuss Christmas doesn’t come from a store, maybe Christmas perhaps means a little bit more.

21. The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

December 21, 2020

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.