Hemlock ne'er blooms unless kissed by the Christchild,
Glossy-leaved hemlock tree!
Come little Christchild and breathe on its branches
That its fair blossoms we see;
Kissed by the lips of the Heavenly Christchild,
Blessed by the wind so free,
Grown o'er the treasure the Good Spirits planted
Wondrous its fruit must be!
Here is my hemlock tree,
Christchild kiss it for me.
Make every branch bear
A gift that is fair,
This glossy-leaved hemlock tree,
Evergreen hemlock tree."


"Alas for me," exclaimed Crescimir, "my happy Christchild days are over
and I fear he has forgotten where I live out in Alta California and
will never bring me anything again."

Just as the song was finished, a sound was heard at the door but
Crescimir thinking that it was the wind, gave no attention to it,
sitting down to his supper.

He had not eaten the first spoonful of his bread and milk when the door
opened and by the aid of the firelight, for the draught extinguished the
candle, he saw a pretty, little, golden haired child in a short, white
frock which reached to the knees; the child wore neither hat, shoes, nor
stockings and, what seemed most remarkable, was dry despite the heavy