How Max Kept His Word. In a pleasant German city we were keeping Christmas Eve, But our hearts were sore foreboding as the sacred time drew on : Each from each we hid our sadness, smiled, and would not seem to grieve For our dearest, and our bravest, and our gayest who was gone. Dark a cloud hung o’er our country : we had felt War’s heavy hand ; Months ago our boy had left us, when the summer’s sun was bright : Gay and gladly he had started, proud to fight for fatherland, “ When we’ve beat the French,” he promised, “ I will come on Christmas night.” “ Tho’ I am not there to help you, you must deck the Christmas-tree ; You shall have such Christmas presents brought from Paris when I come ; Bertha, Fanni, you’ll remember each to make a gift for me ; For by Christmas Eve I promise, mother, surely to be home !” But the war was fierce and bitter, lasting longer than we thought, And the summer crept to autumn ; autumn changed to winter black ; Day by day their grievous tidings mourning friends and neighbours brought, Of the troops who marched to Paris and would nevermore come back. Still our Max wrote cheerful letters—every week the siege must yield : He might keep his German Christmas at the closing of the war. There was now no longer any fighting in the open field, And when Paris should surrender all the struggle would be o’er. So in spite of hearts’ foreboding, Christmas Eve broke cold and clear, And we dressed our tree with ribbons, set its tapers, hung its flowers, And the children clung about us, asking, “ Will not Max be here ?” “ For he promised !”—and he always kept his word, this Max of ours. In the centre of the branches we had set his Christmas-box— Clothes, and cake, and homely trifles, such as he would use and love ; Fanni’s water-colour paintings, Bertha’s pairs of knitted socks, And a twisted wreath of laurel hanging from the bough above. Then at close of winter daylight, hand in hand, we stood assembled Round our glittering tree of presents, and our eyes were strangely dim, While the father’s voice uprising, for a moment stopped and trembled, As, amid our girlish trebles, he began the Christmas hymn. Was it echo ? was it fancy ?—loud and bold and clear among us Rose the notes of truest tenor, ’mid our childish voices weak. We could none mistake its accents, for how often he had sung us All the songs that German people learn before they learn to speak. Bold and true and clear among us rang the holy Christmas greeting, Tho’ no step had crossed the threshold, tho’ no mortal voice we heard, Tho’ we knew that for our future was no hope of earthly meeting— Max had promised to be with us, and had come to keep his word ! Yes ! a random shell had struck him, and he died on Christmas Eve ; Someone wrote the news from Paris—sent a curly lock of hair ; Falling in his country’s service, we would never seem to grieve ; And, besides, we knew that at our Christmas meeting he was there !