“To think that this is Christmas Day!”
Said Harold to his aunt,
“I know it really is, and yet,
Believe it—well, I can’t!
I’ve had a tree, my stocking, too,
This morning full I found,
But how can I believe it
With no snow upon the ground?
Look at the sea so bright and blue,
And feel the soft, warm air,
And there are roses all in bloom,
And lilies, I declare!
I think that California
Is lovely, but it’s queer,
How different Christmas is at home
From what it is out here.”
“Ah, Harold!” gently said his aunt,
“No matter where you go,
In country strewn with flowers like this,
Or clad in ice and snow,
The birthday of the Christ-child is
The same in every place,
And happy greetings in His name,
Bring smiles to every face.”