CHRISTMAS MORN:

A POEM FOR A CHILD.

On this dear morn

Our Lord was born,
In a land, Etty, far away ;
Long years ago
Was born, and so

For ever blest is Christmas-day.

Bless God above

For His great love!
That babe who in that stable lay,
That manger bare
Made holy there,

Blessed for us is Christmas-day.

No lips can raise
Fit voice of praise

For all our thankful hearts would say,

THE WONDERFUL HORSE.

I'VE a tale to relate, such a wonderful tale,
That really I fear my description must fail;
'Tis about a fine horse who had powers so amazing,
He lived without eating, or drinking, or grazing;
In fact this fine horse was so "awfully " clever,
That left to himself he 'd have lived on for ever.

He stood in a room, with his nose in the air,

And his wide staring eyes looking no one knows where,
His tail undisturbed by the sting of a fly,
One foot slightly raised as if kicking he'd try,
This wonderful horse never slept or yet dozed,
At least if he did so, his eyes never closed.

All saddled and bridled by night and by day,
He was ready to bear his young master away.

"Now, Dobbin, my wonderful steed," said young Harry,
"I've a mind to see life, and intend you to carry
Me safe on your back far away from this room,

And land me all right with the Man in the Moon.

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Come, gee up, old Dobbin, look sharp, don't you see

I want to be there and get back before tea?"

But this obstinate horse never offered to prance,

Or made an attempt at the slightest advance;

Harry slashed him so hard, that he slashed off one ear,
Then his mane tumbled off, and poor Dobbin looked queer.

With spur, and with whip, and with terrible blows,
He soon was deprived of one eye, and his nose,
While the slightly-raised foot found a place on the floor,
The tail once so handsome was handsome no more,
And Harry, the tears raining down as he stood,
Cried, "Bother the horse, it is nothing but wood!"