was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those
of the dying man were gazing. There was no Christmas tree--no tree at
all. But over the house-tops the morning star looked pure and pale in
the dawn of Christmas Day. For the night was past, and above the
distant hum of the streets the clear voices of some waits made the
words of an old carol heard--words dearer for their association than
their poetry:

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around."

When the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked back
to the bed the old man had lain down again, and, like a child, was
smiling in his sleep--his last sleep.

And this was the Third Christmas Tree.

* * * * *

AN IDYLL OF THE WOOD.

"Tell us a story," said the children, "a sad one, if you please, and a
little true. But, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired of
people who live happily ever after."

"I heard one lately," said the old man who lived in the wood; "it is
founded on fact, and is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or no
I cannot pretend to say. That is a matter of taste: what is a bad
ending?"

"A story ends badly," said the children with authority, "when people
die, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince and
princess."

"A most lucid explanation," said the old man. "I think my story will
do, for the principal character dies, and there is no wedding."

"Tell it, tell it!" cried his hearers, "and tell us also where you got
it from."

"Who knows the riches of a wood in summer?" said the old man. "In
summer, do I say? In spring, in autumn, or in winter either. Who knows
them? You, my children? Well, well. Better than some of your elders,
perchance. You know the wood where I live; the hollow tree that will
hold five children, and Queen Mab knows how many fairies. (What a
castle it makes! And if it had but another floor put into it, with a
sloping ladder--like one of the round towers of Ireland--what a house
for children to live in! With no room for lesson-books, grown-up
people, or beds!)

"You know the way to the hazel copse, and the place where the wild
strawberries grow. You know where the wren sits on her eggs, and, like
good children, pass by with soft steps and hushed voices, that you may
not disturb that little mother. You know (fo