“Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens…”

“Oh, Marilla, looking forward to things is half the pleasure of them,” exclaimed Anne. “You mayn’t get the things themselves; but nothing can prevent you from having the fun of looking forward to them.”

In the bleak mid-winterFrosty wind made moan,Earth stood hard as iron,Water like a stone;Snow had fallen, snow on snow,Snow on snow,In the bleak mid-winterLong ago.

What can I give Him,Poor as I am?If I were a shepherdI would bring a lamb,If I were a wise manI would do my part,—Yet what I can I give Him,Give my heart.

It was the Winter wilde,While the Heav’n-born-childe,All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in aw to himHad doff’t her gawdy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother’s promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book.