The Pennyroyal of grace divine
In little cradles they do weave--
Little cradles therewith they line
On Christmas Eve.

And there, as midnight bells awake
The Day of Birth, as they do tell,
All into bud the small plants break
With sweetest smell.

All into bud that very hour;
And pure and clean, as they do say,
The Pennyroyal's full in flower
On Christmas Day.

_Far away in Sicily!--
Hark, the Christmas bells do chime!
So blossom love in thee and me
This Christmas time!_

W.B.

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[Illustration: _Lady_ (_to uniformed friend_). "I SHOULDN'T A BIT
MIND WEARING UNIFORM IF ONLY ONE COULD CHOOSE ONE'S OWN COLOURS AT
THE WAR OFFICE."]

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