Whose heart doth hold the Christmas glow Hath little need of Mistletoe; Who bears a smiling grace of mien Need waste no time on wreaths of green; Whose lips have words of comfort spread Needs not the holly-berries red— His very presence scatters wide The spirit of the Christmastide.

Whatever be the depth of woe Along the path that I must go, I'll sing my song— My song of joy for all the love That's lavished on us from above, And count no loss of treasure-trove When things go wrong. I'll sing the sunlight, and the bright Soft smiling stars that gem the night; For gifts of good That God hath spread along my way, The lilt of birds in tuneful play, The harvests full and flowers gay, The whole day long I'll sing my song Of gratitude!

Although man is already ninety per cent water, the Prohibitionists are not yet satisfied.

I have no dog, but it must be Somewhere there's one belongs to me-- A little chap with wagging tail, And dark brown eyes that never quail, But look you through, and through, and through, With love unspeakable and true.

A nasty day! A nasty day! 'Twas thus I heard a critic say Because the skies were bleak and gray— And yet it somehow seemed to me The day was all that it should be. I looked it very closely o'er; Its hours still were twenty-four, With sixty minutes each—no less— For deeds of good and helpfulness; And every second full of chance To give the day significance; And every hour full of growth For everybody but the sloth— I couldn't see it quite that way, For though the skies were bleak and gray The day itself, it seemed to me, Was all a day could rightly be.

If I must have an ill, may it be real, That I may meet it eye to eye and fight, And wheresoever it may strength reveal Get after it with all my main and might. The woe that but impends and wears the mind With worry deep and most vexatious care, Is harder fighting than the realler kind, For when you come to strike—it isn't there!

I can't tell a lie - not even when I hear one.