Dear Father, help me with the love
   That casteth out my fear,
 Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
   That thou art very near,

 That no temptation is unseen,
   No childish grief too small,
 Since thou, with patience infinite,
   Doth soothe and comfort all.

 I do not ask for any crown
   But that which all may win,
 Nor seek to conquer any world,
   Except the one within. 
 Be thou my guide until I find,
   Led by a tender hand,
 Thy happy kingdom in myself,
   And dare to take command.

PICCOLA[1]

[1] From Celia Thaxter’s Stories and Poems for Children (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.).

 Poor, sweet Piccola!  Did you hear
 What happened to Piccola, children dear? 
 ’T is seldom Fortune such favor grants
 As fell to this little maid of France.

 ’Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor
 Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
 Striving with poverty’s patient pain
 Only to live till summer again.

 No gifts for Piccola!  Sad were they
 When dawned the morning of Christmas-day;
 Their little darling no joy might stir,
 St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!

 But Piccola never doubted at all
 That something beautiful must befall
 Every child upon Christmas-day,
 And so she slept till the dawn was gray.

 And full of faith, when at last she woke,
 She stole to her shoe as the morning broke;
 Such sounds of gladness filled all the air,
 ’T was plain St. Nicholas had been there!

 In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild: 
 Never was seen such a joyful child. 
 “See what the good saint brought!” she cried,
 And mother and father must peep inside.

 Now such a story who ever heard? 
 There was a little shivering bird! 
 A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
 Had crept into Piccola’s tiny shoe!

 “How good poor Piccola must have been!”
 She cried, as happy as any queen,
 While the starving sparrow she fed and
      warmed,
 And danced with rapture, she was so
      charmed.

 Children, this story I tell to you,
 Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true. 
 In the far-off land of France, they say,
 Still do they live to this very day.

THE LITTLE FIR TREE

[When I was a very little girl some one, probably my mother, read to me Hans Christian Andersen’s story of the Little Fir Tree.  It happened that I did not read it for myself or hear it again during my childhood.  One Christmas day, when I was grown up, I found myself at a loss for the “one more” story called for by some little children with whom I was spending the holiday.  In the mental search for buried treasure which ensued, I came upon one or two word-impressions of the experiences