Now not a window small or big
But wears a wrath or holly sprig;
Nor any shop too poor to show
Its spray of pine or mistletoe.
Now city airs are spicy sweet
With Christmas trees along each street,
Green spruce and fir whose boughs will hold
Their tinseled balls and fruits of gold.
Now postmen pass in threes and fours
Like bent, blue-coated Santa Claus.
Now people hurry to and fro
With little boys and girls in tow,
And not a child but keeps some trace
Of Christmas secrets in his face.
American novelist and poetess
author of the famous children's book,
"Hitty Her First Hundred Years"