But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimmed and vanished, too!
Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not Thy wing of love
Come brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above!
Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shews us worlds of light,
We never saw by day.
_Moore._
* * * * *
SANTA CLAUS IN THE MINES.
In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up amid the snow-clad,
rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's
weeds, holding upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about
five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay upon a bear-skin before
the open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing
abstractedly into the fireplace.
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