In the rush of early morning,
When the red burns through the gray,
And the wintry world lies waiting
For the glory of the day,
Then we hear a fitful rustling
Just without upon the stair
See two small white phantoms coming
Catch the gleam of sunny hair.
Are they Christmas fairies stealing
Rows of little socks to fill?
Are they angels gloating hither
With their message of good-will?
What sweet spell are these elves weaving,
As like larks they chirp and sing?
Are these palms of peace from heaven
That these lovely spirits bring?
Rosy feet upon the threshold,
Eager faces peering through
With the first red ray of sunshine,
Chanting cherubs come in view;
Mistletoe and gleaming holy
Symbols of a blessed day,
In their chubby hands they carry,
Streaming all along the way.
Well we know them, never weary
Of this innocent surprise;
Waiting, watching, listening always
With full hearts and tender eyes.
While our little household angels,
White and golden in the sun,
Greet us with the sweet old welcome,–
“Merry Christmas, every one!”
From: “Independent Statesman,” (Concord, NH) Thursday, December 23, 1875; Issue 13; column A
