finer groups in their processions than are
produced by the congregation of their parti-
coloured neighbours.

THE LADY HERTHA.

The ancient Germans thought all blessings came
From a fair goddess—Hertha was her name.
She bade the spring awake the sleeping earth;
She nursed the tender flow'rets at their birth;
She scattered verdure over hill and plain;
She cover'd the broad field with golden grain;
She call'd sweet waters from the barren rock;
She guarded from the wolf the timid flock;
The trees she loaded with their luscious store;
And, when the time of flowers and fruits was o'er,
Upon the earth her veil of snow she threw,
And watch'd its slumbers with her eyes of blue;
She the first distaff to the housewife brought,
And how to use the plough the peasant taught.

When nature wore a garb of dainty green,
And cluster'd wealth upon the vine was seen;
When the hot sun glow'd in a cloudless sky,
Men did not think the Lady Hertha nigh;
They thought, while all were basking in her love,
She smiled upon them from her home above.
But when the winter came, and nights were drear,
They thought the Lady Hertha hover'd near.
And then their love was not unmixed with fear.

   Throw open, throw open the windows wide,
   For now is the season of glad Yule-tide.
   The Lady will pass through the frosty air,
   In snow-white garb, and with flowing hair.

   Hear you her voice as she floats along,—
   Through the wintry blast sounds her liquid song;
   Twelve days will she wander—that Lady fair—
   In snow-white garb, and with flowing hair.

   A heavy mischief will fall, no doubt,
   On him who shuts the Wand'rer out.
   So open the windows wide. Take care
   To welcome the Lady with flowing hair.

   Good housewives, mind that your floors are clean;
   Let no unseemly speck be seen.
   Ye sluttish drones, beware, beware—
   There is wrath in the Lady with flowing hair.

Years passed away. The land had lost its youth,
And holy men had come to teach the truth:
Some said that Hertha was a phantom vain—
The mere creation of a heated brain;
While others taught she was a sprite of ill,
Who roam'd about the soul of man to kill.
Her sacred car, which once the priest alone,
Trembling with awe, might lay his hand upon,
And which, with curtains closely hung around,
Seemed to enclose some mystery profound,
Was now thrown open to the vulgar gaze,
And serv'd, perhaps, the winter's fire to raise.
The ruthless axe hew'd down her holy wood:
A church was built where once her altar stood.

Though now the people seek not to adore
Her, whom they worshipp'd in the days of yore,
Still, it is thought, the Lady lingers near
The sons of those to whom she was so dear.
Her Yule-tide visits are not yet forgot.
But Christmas draws her to the ancient spot.

Throw open, throw open the windows wide,
For now on the blast doth the Lady ride;
Her garb is a shroud, and her eyeballs glare—
Still, welcome the lady with flowing hair.

Ye maids and ye mistresses, busily spin,
Although from your fingers ye wear the skin;
If on Three-kings' day still the flax is there,
You will anger the lady with flowing hair.

The wheel is broke of my Lady's car,
To fetch strong wood she will come from afar;
This good Yule-log will the wheel repair,
Let it stand by the door of the Lady fair.

Now through the air the witches shout,
And the Were-wolf is roaming about—about.
His teeth are sharp and his claws can tear;
But he dreads the lady with flowing hair.

   'Tis Christmas-eve, the shepherd walking
   Across the heath is sagely talking
   Unto himself about the weather,
   And putting this and that together.
   He loves to pass in neighbours' eyes
   For one who is most weather-wise.
   The Lady Hertha—well he knows—
   As mistress of rains, fogs, and snows,
   On the twelve mystic nights arranges
   For the whole year the weather's changes.
   Thus, if 'tis fine on day the first,
   The year's first month won't be the worst,
   While wet twelve nights, he well remembers,
   Are certain signs of damp Decembers.
   Now, though to make up the amount
   Of Twelve, the Eve we do not count,
   Still one who would be extra-knowing
   Will mark which way the wind is blowing.
   And shrewdly guess, by that same wind,
   Which way the Lady is inclined.

The breeze blows from the east, no doubt—
Our shepherd flings his cloak about
His shivering limbs; the night is chilly—
He thinks it would be wondrous silly
Longer about the heath to roam,
And so he makes his best way home.

"I've seen a many ugly beasts, but never saw before
A cur so ill-conditioned as that strange one at my door;
There's evil in his shaggy hair, there's evil in his growl;
There's evil in his shining eyes—I hope he will not howl.
A howling dog is bad enough at any time I know;
If such a dog as that should howl, what would it not foreshow?"

   He passes by the ugly cur,
   Rejoicing that it does not stir;
   But still a prey to anxious doubt,
   Although his heart is pretty stout.
   He enters, but he does not find
   Aught that will cheer his troubled mind.
   His wife has—Heaven knows whither—gone,
   And he—poor man!—is quite alone.

      Faintly burns the lamp!
   Dark and deep is every nook,
   Ghostly eyes appear to look
   From their hiding-place.
   Every shadow forms a face;
      Chilly is the air and damp,
      Faintly burns the lamp!

      Faintly burns the lamp!
   Strangely do the embers glow;
   And the ruddy light they throw