WALES. Vol. IV.] DECEMBER, 1897. [No. 44. DECEMBER Eerie charm has chill December, wreaths of snow Ever drifting, ever shifting, where winds blow, See the erstwhile rushing river Still and lifeless, every quiver Fixed in ice; Waking glances wondering linger Where some subtle fairy finger, Limned a phantasy of [exquisite device. Skimming by like swift-winged swallow flying free, Darting hither, darting thither, full of glee, Skaters glide o'er glassy ocean, All aglow with magic motion ; And I ween Such exhilarating treasure, Ne'er was won by stately measure, In the halls of pomp and pleasure, Graced by queen. Llanidloes. Sweet the charms of stilly evening's firelight gleams Gilding gladness, softening sadness, weaving In the warmth of cosy ingle [dreams, Joys of home melodious mingle, Chiming sad, When, from shades of darkening embers, Glide the ghosts of dead Decombers, And a heart bereft remembers Joys we had. Hear the thrilling, rapture filling Christmas bells ! Swelling chorus, pouring o'er us, how it tells Of a time when white-winged legions, Flashing down the starry regions, Filled the morn; List! the seraphs still are singing, Heaven's rich hallelujahs ringing, Joys celestial, earthward winging,— Christ is born ! Lester Mills. MY SNOWDROP. The snow flakes are falling gentle and white, The flowers love gathered are withered to-night; I dream of my snowdrop, the snow flakes, and then See my snowdrop crushed beneath the feet of men. Snow flakes and snowdrop, thy beauty is dead, Like a dream in the night, thy charms have fled ; My snowdrop was kissed by the snow flakes, and then My snowdrop was lost beneath the feet of men. Howell Victor. THERE IS A LITTLE OLD WHITE CHAPEL DOWN AT HOME. There is a little white-washed chapel down at homo, Outside the garden, near my mother's door, I hear the old folk singing everywhere I roam, Singing, singing, singing as in days of yore ; Brave Welsh colliers' voices and toilers of the land, You Bing the hymns that my mother sang to me When I was a little child upon her kneo. 23 265 I am now an old man, and my hair is white and grey, I think of other days by that cottage door; I hear the old folk singing still as fresh to-day, Singing, singing, singing as in days of yore ; My heart leaps to join with the toilers of the land, And sing the hymns that my mother sang to me When I was a little child upon her knee. Howell Victor.