In the far-off land of Norway,
Where the winter lingers late,
And long for the singing birds and flowers
The little children wait;
When at last the summer ripens
And the harvest is gathered in,
And food for the bleak, drear days to come
The toiling people win,--
Through all the land the children
In the golden fields remain
Till their busy little hands have gleaned
A generous sheaf of grain.
All the stalks by the reapers forgotten
They glean to the very least,
To save till the cold December,
For the sparrows' Christmas feast.
And then through the frost-locked country
There happens a wonderful thing:
The sparrows flock north, south, east, west,
For the children's offering.
Of a sudden, the day before Christmas,
The twittering crowds arrive,
And the bitter, wintry air at once
With their chirping is all alive.
They perch upon roof and gable,
On porch and fence and tree,
They flutter about the windows
And peer in curiously.
And meet the eyes of the children,
Who eagerly look out
With cheeks that bloom like roses red,
And greet them with welcoming shout.
On the joyous Christmas morning,
In front of every door
A tall pole, crowned with clustering grain,
Is set the birds before.
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