Below is a poem that for years has been in my family, whose members have included loggers and settlers in Minnesota and Oregon.

     Fir Hill’s just a tiny place with a lone fir right on top.

     You’d think that fir tree started growth and never meant to stop.

     While underneath this lone fir tree there peeps a cabin plain

     and a little girl with nose pressed tight against the window pane.

     The snow had fallen softly on the fir tree and now,

     the night was bright with starlight and stars danced on the snow.

     The little girl was waiting, for it was Christmas eve,

     a night of hope for children if we will but believe.

     In the tales of father Christmas and the helpers he employs,

     a night of joy and wishing for the little girls and boys.

     For candies, toys and cookies were in her dreams no doubt.

     But her mother had been watching for the miners round about.

     So, of money, there was little beyond their daily bread.

     Her father, could earn nothing, for he was confined to bed. ...

— Robert Wilson
734 Liberty St.

     To read the entire poem, see the Dec. 21, 2107 edition of The Ripon Commonwealth Press.