s no scythe within
the reach of Time to shear away the curls of our first-love. Upon another
girl's face near it--placider but smiling bright--a quiet and contented
little face, we see Home fairly written. Shining from the word, as rays
shine from a star, we see how, when our graves are old, other hopes than
ours are young, other hearts than ours are moved; how other ways are
smoothed; how other happiness blooms, ripens, and decays--no, not decays,
for other homes and other bands of children, not yet in being nor for ages
yet to be, arise, and bloom, and ripen to the end of all!

Welcome, every thing! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was,
and what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your
places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open-hearted! In
yonder shadow, do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy's
face? By Christmas-day we do forgive him! If the injury he has done us may
admit of such companionship, let him come here and take his place. If
otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence, assured that we will never injure
nor accuse him.

On this day, we shut out nothing!

"Pause," says a low voice. "Nothing? Think!"

"On Christmas-day, we will shut out from our fireside, nothing."

"Not the shadow of a vast city where the withered leaves are lying deep?"
the voice replies. "Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not the
shadow of the City of the Dead?"

Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces toward that
city upon Christmas-day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved,
among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered
together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according
to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear
to us!

Yes. We can look upon these children-angels that alight, so solemnly, so
beautifully, among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think
how they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the Patriarchs
did, the playful children are unconscious of their guests; but we can see
them--can see a radiant arm around one favorite neck, as if there were a
tempting of that child away. Among the celestial figures there is one, a
poor mis-shapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now, of whom his dying
mother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone, for so many
years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her-