earthly vision. I miss the clasp of vanished hands, I crave the sound
of voices stilled. As we old and older grow, there is a note of sadness
in our glee. Whether we will or not we must twine the cypress with the
holly. The recollection of each passing year brings deeper regret. How
many have gone from those circles that we recall when we were children?
How many little feet that pattered upon the stair on Christmas morning
now tread softer paths and walk in broader ways; sisters and brothers
who used to come back from the far countries to the old home--alas, they
cannot come from the farther country in which they now are, and perhaps,
saddest thought of all, we would not wish them to come again. How many,
with whom we joined hands around the Christmas tree, have gone?

Circles are broken, families are separated, loved ones are lost, but the
old world sweeps on. Others come to take our places. As we stood at the
knee of some unforgotten mother, so other children stand. As we
listened to the story of the Christ Child from the lips of some grey old
father, so other children listen and we ourselves perchance are fathers
or mothers too. Other groups come to us for the deathless story. Little
heads which recall vanished halcyon days of youth bend around another
younger mother. Smaller hands than ours write letters to Santa Claus and
hear the story, the sweetest story ever told, of the Baby who came to
Mary and through her to all the daughters and sons of women on that
winter night on the Bethlehem hills.

And we thank God for the children who take us out of the past, out of
ourselves, away from recollections that weigh us down; the children that
weave in the woof and warp of life when our own youth has passed, some
of the buoyancy, the joy, the happiness of the present; the children in
whose opening lives we turn hopefully to the future. We thank God at
this Christmas season that it pleased Him to send His beloved Son to