The Little Beggar-Girl.

I've just looked from the window
    To see the snow come down,
And make the streets look nice and white,
    That lately were so brown.

I've seen a little beggar-girl
    Go by in all the cold;
She had no shoes nor stockings on,
    Her dress was torn and old.

How thankful I should be to God,
    Who gives me clothes and food,
A nice warm fire, a pleasant home,
    And parents kind and good!

Mamma, I'll always try to help
    The hungry and the poor;
For those who are not warmed and fed,
    I pity, I am sure.

H. P. Nichols

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H. P. Nichols

The Angels.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

The Bird's Nest.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Sunday.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

Anger.

H. P. Nichols, Simple Poetry

English

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One of the Least of These.

'Twas on a day of cold and sleet,
A little nomad of the street
With tattered garments, shoeless feet,
    And face with hunger wan,
Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful,
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Betraying lines so pitiful
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Ere yet the service half was o'er,
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Her trembling form she sought to hide
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Half fearful lest some worshiper,
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Who Cares?

Down in a cellar cottage
In a dark and lonely street,
Was sat a widow and her boy,
With nothing left to eat.

The night was wild and stormy,
The wind howl'd round the door,
And heavy rain drops from above
Kept dripping to the floor.

They had no candle burning,
The fire was long since dead,
A wretched heap of straw was all
They had to call a bed.

They nestled close together,
On the cold and dampy ground,
And as the storm rush'd past them,
They trembled at the sound.

"Mother," the poor boy whispered,
"May I not go again?
I do not heed the wind, mother,
I'm not afraid of rain.

"May I not go and beg, mother,
For you are very ill;
Some one will give me something,
Mother, I'm sure they will?

...

John Hartley

St. Nicholas.

In the far-off Polar seas,
Far beyond the Hebrides,
Where the icebergs, towering high,
Seem to pierce the wintry sky,
And the fur-clad Esquimaux
Glides in sledges o'er the snow,
Dwells St. Nick, the merry wight,
Patron saint of Christmas night.

Solid walls of massive ice,
Bearing many a quaint device,
Flanked by graceful turrets twain,
Clear as clearest porcelain,
Bearing at a lofty height
Christ's pure cross in simple white,
Carven with surpassing art
From an iceberg's crystal heart.

Here St. Nick, in royal state,
Dwells, until December late
Clips the days at either end,
And the nights at each extend;
Then, with his attendant sprites,
Scours the earth on wintry nights,
Bringing home, in well-filled hands,
Childre...

Horatio Alger, Jr.

Winter.

With my breath so keen and chilling,
    I have stripped the branches bare;
And my snow-flakes white are filling,
    Feather-like, the frosty air.

Coming o'er the lofty mountains,
    There I left a robe of white;
I have locked the sparkling fountains,
    I have chained the river bright.

O'er the quiet valley winging,
    There I left my traces, too;
Hark! the merry sleigh-bells ringing,
    With their music call on you.

I have come! The school-boy shouting,
    Joyfully brings out his sled;
He has seen me, nothing doubting,
    As across the fields he sped.

I have come; but shall I find you
    Better than the former year?
If you've cast your faults behind you,
    I shall gladly greet you here.

H. P. Nichols

Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread.

Give us this day our daily bread;
    Oh! children, when you pray,
And morn and night repeat these words,
    Think what it is you say.

You never asked a piece of bread,
    And had that wish denied;
For food to eat, and some to spare,
    Has always been supplied.

But o'er the ocean, many a cheek
    With want grows thin and pale;
And many suffer like the boy
    Of whom I tell this tale.

He lay upon some scattered straw,--
    His strength was almost gone,--
And, in a feeble voice, he cried,
    "Give me three grains of corn!"

Three grains from out his jacket torn,
    His trembling mother drew,
'Twas all she had--she gave them him,
    Though she was starving too!

Be very grateful, children, then,
    F...

H. P. Nichols

A Winter Night

My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones,
The beggars pacing to and fro,
God pity all the poor to-night
Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June,
Warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
But somewhere, like a homeless child,
My heart is crying in the cold.

Sara Teasdale