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underneath with fine, dry splinters, then 

 leave it untouched till the Christmas Eve 

 shall come. 



Light it then with a handful of red live 

 coals. Watch them smoulder smoke kin- 

 dle to creeping flame. A little while, it roars 

 and flashes high in the chimney-throat, leap- 

 ing, hissing, crackling now blue, now yel- 

 low, at last clear red the glow, the glory, 

 of Christmas so fine, so hot, Kriss Kringle 

 might leave pack and reindeer to sun him 

 in its blaze. 



Eleven o' the clock. The blaze is a 

 steady burning. Twelve, red coals overflow 

 to the wide hearth. One, in the morning, 

 fine frosting lies on the coals. Two, three, 

 here is pallor of ashes enshrouding the red 

 heart. Back of them the big log shows 

 black and stark burned half to the heart, 

 still faintly asmoulder. As cocks crow in 

 the dawn it gives out the barest crackle; 

 the hand may pass unscathed where last 

 night was such fierce shining. 



Once, twice, many times, flame shall lick 

 and roar ere the stout timber crumbles to 

 ashes. Sit in the light, the warmth, of it ; 

 take thus strength to your soul, your spirit. 

 So shall you front, clear-eyed and smiling, the 

 stress, the shining, of the brave New Year. 



