Hoary kind old Christmas, the Sabbe of the year. Families are reunited, hearts estranged by worldly tasks and cares through the live long year now warm towards each other. Friends sundered by travel and divers interest meet now to share their joys and learn to forget their sorrows. Soilworn artisans gather their families about them, and are made happy, they have struggled long and hardly through the Year sunrise has found them at their toil and midnight has surprised them fagging at the work bench. Still they have looked onward with pleasurable anticipation to the joys of Christmas like the storm tossed sailor to the beacon that speaks of safety and the wished for period has arrived.
Old age enjoys the hour with peaceful smiles.
Youth mingles in the sport with boisterous merriment. Sorrow is banished save when thoughts are turned to the absent. Then all hearts yield their sympathies to those who erstwhile share their happenings. In such circles we are remembered. There is ecspatic pleasure in the thought.