Kitabı oku: «Christmas Carols and Midsummer Songs»

CHRISTMAS CAROLS

 
Wake from your sleep, sweet Christians, now, and listen.
A little song
We have, so sweet it like a star doth glisten,
And dance along.
Now wake and hark: all brightly it is glowing
With yule flames merry,
And o'er it many a holly sprig is growing;
And scarlet berry.
A bough of evergreen, with wax-lights gleaming,
It bravely graces;
And o'er its lines the star that's eastward beaming
Leaves golden traces.
Also, our little song; it sweetly praiseth,
Like birds in flocks
When morning from her bed of roses raiseth
Her golden locks.
But this it is that makes most sweet our story,
When all is said:
It holds a little Child with rays of glory
Around His head.
 

– M. E. W.

CHRISTMAS CAROLS AND MIDSUMMER SONGS

 
Out of the Northland bleak and bare,
O wind with a royal roar,
Fly, fly,
Through the broad arched sky,
Flutter the snow, and rattle and cry
At every silent door —
Loud, loud, till the children hear,
And meet the day with a ringing cheer:
"Hail to the Christmas-tide!"
 
 
INTO the silent waiting East
T here cometh a shining light —
Far, far,
Through a dull gray bar
Closing over a dying star
That watched away the night —
Rise, rise, shine and glow,
Over a wide white world of snow,
Sun of the Christmas-tide!
 
 
Out of the four great gates of day
A tremulous music swells;
Hear, hear,
Now sweet and clear,
Over and under and far and near,
A thousand happy bells:
Joy, joy, and jubilee!
Good-will to men from sea to sea,
This merry Christmas-tide!
 
 
Lo! in the homes of every land
The children reign to-day;
They alone,
With our hearts their throne,
And never a sceptre but their own
Small hands to rule and sway!
Peace, peace – the Christ-child's love —
Flies over the world, a white, white dove,
This happy Christmas-tide!
 

THE SILENT CHILDREN

By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps

 
THE light was low in the school-room;
The day before Christmas day
Had ended. It was darkening in the garden
Where the Silent Children play.
 
 
Throughout that House of Pity,
The soundless lessons said,
The noiseless sport suspended,
The voiceless tasks all read,
 
 
The little deaf-mute children,
As still as still could be,
Gathered about the master,
Sensitive, swift to see,
 
 
With their fine attentive fingers
And their wonderful, watchful eyes —
What dumb joy he would bring them
For the Christmas eve's surprise!
 
 
The lights blazed out in the school-room
The play-ground went dark as death;
The master moved in a halo;
The children held their breath:
 
 
"I show you now a wonder —
The audiphone," he said.
He spoke in their silent language,
Like the language of the dead.
 
 
And answering spake the children,
As the dead might answer too:
"But what for us, O master?
This may be good for you;
 
 
"But how is our Christmas coming
Out of a wise machine?
For not like other children's
Have our happy hours been;
 
 
"And not like other children's
Can they now or ever be!"
But the master smiled through the halo:
"Just trust a mystery,
Then to the waiting marvel
The listening children leant:
Like listeners, the shadows
Across the school-room bent,
O my children, for a little,
As those who suffer must!
Great 'tis to bear denial,
But grand it is to trust."
 
 
While Science, from her silence
Of twice three thousand years,
Gave her late salutation
To sealed human ears.
 
 
Quick signalled then the master:
Sweet sang the hidden choir —
Their voices, wild and piercing,
Broke like a long desire
 
 
That to content has strengthened.
Glad the clear strains outrang:
"Nearer to Thee, oh, nearer!"
The pitying singers sang,
 
 
Happy that Christmas evening:
Wise was the master's choice,
Who gave the deaf-mute children
The blessed human voice.
 
 
Wise was that other Master,
Tender His purpose dim,
Who gave His Son on Christmas,
To draw us "nearer Him."
 
 
"Nearer to Thee, oh, nearer,
Nearer, my God' to Thee! "
Awestruck, the silent children
Hear the great harmony.
 
 
We are all but silent children,
Denied and deaf and dumb
Before His unknown science —
Lord, if Thou wilt, we come!
 

A DAY IN WINTER

By Mrs. L. C. Whiton

 
THROUGH the crimson fires of morning
Streaming upward in the East,
Leaps the sun, with sudden dawning,
Like a captive king released;
And December skies reflected
In the azure hue below
Seem like summer recollected
In the dreaming of the snow. —
It is winter, little children, let the summer,
singing, go!
 
 
There are crisp winds gaily blowing
From the North and from the West;
'Bove the river strongly flowing
Lies the river's frozen breast:
O'er its shining silence crashing
Skim the skaters to and fro;
And the noonday splendors flashing
In the rainbow colors show. —
It is winter, little children, let the summer,
singing, go!
 
 
When the gorgeous day is dying,
There is swept a cloud of rose
O'er the hill-tops softly lying
In the flush of sweet repose;
And the nests, all white with snowing,
In the twilight breezes blow;
And the untired moon is showing
Her bare heart to the snow. —
It is winter, little children, let the summer,
singing, go!
 

"TWELVE O'CLOCK, AND ALL'S WELL!"

( A Christmas Rhyme of Might-Have-Been.)

By M. S. E. P

 
I KNOW of an Owl,
A story-book Owl,
And he dwells in a Cloudland tree,
So way-high-up you never see
A glimpse of the great white fowl.
 
 
And this ancient fowl,
This story-book Owl,
Sometimes to himself he speaks —
Once in a thousand years or so —
In a voice that crackles and creaks
And never is heard by the children below:
"Tu-whit! tu-whoo!
I sleep by day,
Of course I do —
It's the sensible way."
 
 
For when little children lie fast asleep,
And darkness enshrouds the world so deep,
And weary eyes close to gaze only in dreams,
This story-book bird
With the big round eyes,
Whom nothing escapes,
So knowing and wise,
Watches and peers, with never a wink,
Into crannies and nooks where one might think
No danger would come, so peaceful it seems.
 
 
And prying about, this story-book bird
In the snowy thick
Of a Christmas eve —
If you will believe —
Just in the nick
Found the strangest thing that ever you heard:
Santa Klaus asleep,
All down in a heap,
On the floor of his sleigh
Ready packed for the way!
 
 
And think of the stockings swaying
At 'leven o' the night,
With the silent firelight
All over them fitfully playing —
A dangling host
From the chimney nails
As warm as toast —
But empty, pitiful,
They promise a million wails
From just one city-full!
 
 
"Tu-whit! to-whoo!
Here's a to-do!"
Said the sleepless bird,
The wise old owl,
The watchful fowl.
He flew and he whirred,
Soft Cloudland exploring,
Led up like an arrow
By the wildest of snoring,
Till he stopped,
Then dropped
On the edge of a cloud —
Oh, the snoring was loud! —
Then stalked to that sleigh.
Ah, what a fine dose! —
He flashed out one claw, and
Tweaked Santa Klaus' nose.
 
 
Santa woke with a jump,
Sat up in his sleigh,
Rubbed his nose —
And I don't suppose
Understands to this day —
And gazing around he took in the plight,
He seized his reins in the funniest fright,
And down he came in the snowy midnight
All rosy and bright —
The great, merry elf,
Just like himself,
Bluster and noise, nonsense and fun,
With gifts for the children, everyone;
While, soft and far, every bell
Chimed "Twelve o' the clock and all's well!"
And the slumbering world might have heard
The great white wide-winged story-book bird
A-calling "Merry Christmas!" forth in glee
As he flew up to his Cloudland tree.
 
 
And the Owl never told – I alone knew —
So don't you tell, whatever you do.
How near the world came to a disaster most shocking,
Waking Christmas morning without a filled stocking!
 

HOLLY TREE

By Paul H. Hayne

("Hie on the holly tree!" – Old Ballad.)

 
THE firelight danced and wavered
In elvish, twinkling glee
On the leaves and crimson berries
Of the great green Christmas-Tree;
 
 
And the children who gathered round it
Beheld, with marvelling eyes,
Pendant from trunk and branches
How many a precious prize,
 
 
From the shimmer of gold and silver
Through a purse's cunning net,
To the coils of a rippling necklace
That quivered with beads of jet!
 
 
But chiefly they gazed in wonder
Where flickered strangely through
The topmost leaves of the holly,
The sheen of a silken shoe!
 
 
And the eldest spake to her father:
"I have seen – yes, year by year,
On the crown of our Christmas hollies,
That small shoe glittering clear;
 
 
"But you never have told who owned it,
Nor why, so loftily set,
It shines though the fadeless verdure —
You never have told us yet!"
 
 
Twas then that the museful father
In slow sad accents said,
While the firelight hovered eerily
About his downcast head:
 
 
"My children… you had a sister;
(It was long, long, long ago,)
She came like an Eden rosebud
'Mid the dreariest winter snow,
 
 
"And for four sweet seasons blossomed
To cheer our hearts and hearth,
When the song of the Bethlehem angels
Lured her away from earth —
 
 
"A little before she left us,
We had deftly raised to view,
On the topmost branch of the holly,
Yon glimmering, tiny shoe;
 
 
"For again 'twas the time of Christmas,
As she lay with laboring breath;
But… our minds were blinded strangely,
And we did not dream of death.
 
 
"We knew that no toy would please her
Like a shoe, so fair and neat,
To fold, with its soft caressing,
Her delicate, sylph-like feet!
 
 
"Truly, a smile like a sunbeam
Brightened her eyes of blue,
And once.. twice.. thrice.. she tested
The charm of her fairy shoe!
 
 
"Ah! then the bright smile flickered,
Faded, and drooped away,
As faintly, in tones that faltered,
I heard our darling say:
 
 
"1 My shoe! papa, please hang it
Once more on the holly bough,
Just where I am sure to see it,
When I wake… an hour from now!
 
 
"But alas! she never wakened!
Close-shut were the eyes of blue
Whose last faint gleam had fondled
The curves of that dainty shoe!
 
 
"Ah, children, you understand me —
Your eyes are brimmed with dew,
As they watch on the Christmas holly
The sheen of a silken shoe!"
 

A TALE OF A COMET

By J. T. Trowbridge

 
WE had seen the streaming meteors' light,
With their trails of fire, the autumn
night,
And talked of falling sky-rocks hurled
From some long-since exploded world;
Of comets frisking among the stars.
With tails like fiery trains of cars,
And asked, "Should the reckless engineer
Of some rakish comet steer
Crashing into our atmosphere,
How would the planet's shell resist him?"
Then we conversed of the solar system,
And lunar men;
And Doctor Ben
Brought out his globe, at half-past ten,
And lectured, giving conclusive reasons
For tides, eclipses, climes and seasons;
Till, weary at last, I went to bed,
With a jumble of wonderful things in my
head —
Moons and comets and meteorites,
Globes and circles and polar nights;
And there I lay thinking,
And drowsily winking
At something – a ray – thro' my bed-curtains
blinking;
 
 
Too bright for a star, and growing still brighter,
Making the moon-lighted chamber yet lighter,
Which very much astonished the writer!
 
 
I gazed from the casement,
And wondered, with ever-increasing amazement,
What the look of alarm on the Moon's frowning
face meant.
 
 
His nose peering out from a very close cap,
His fingers in mittens, his chin in a wrap,
Like a tourist prepared for a very cold snap!
 
 
On, on he sped, through the regions of space,
With very short legs at a very long pace,
His well-filled knapsack lashed to his back,
Extra shoes and canteen strapped under his pack,
His coat-tails flying away on his track —
Entangled far off in the Pleiades,
On the horns of the Bull and Orion's knees.
For there was the Moon, and, strange to say,
There too was the Earth, just over the way,
Like the Doctor's globe, or a huge balloon,
Forty times larger, perhaps, than the Moon,
All covered with circles, and looming in space:
There were groups upon it, and every face
Was turned one way; and very long-jointed
Telescopes at the sky were pointed; —
And there, with a terrible rushing and humming
And hissing of breath, was a Comet a-coming!
 
 
So long and so queer, and as it came nearer
It grew every moment longer and queerer!
Until I made out such a comical chap,
In a red-flannel coat with a very long flap,
On, on he came,
With nose like a flame,
So red I was sure the fellow'd been drinking
(His canteen was empty, I knew by the clinking)
 
 
"And what can a sober Comet be thinking,"
I cried "not to see there, plain as the day,
The Earth, like a target, hung right in his way?"
 
 
The groups were beginning to hurry about,
And hustle and bustle and signal and shout,
And the Moon looked scared, while I shrieked out,
 
 
"Dear sir, I beg pardon, I don't know your name —
I pray you'll consider, and if it's the same
To you, here's a planet! I don't think you knew it;
But, sir, it will be
A great favor to me
And a very large circle of friends, as you see,
If you will drive round it instead of right thro' it!"
 
 
He put up his head with a stupefied stare,
And says he, "I declare!
No, I wasn't aware!
And I'm going at such a deuce of a rate —
I'd stop if I could, but I fear it's too late!
Bless my stars! here I am!" He had just time
to stoop,
When through it, head-foremost, he went at a
swoop,
As a circus rider dives through a hoop!
With a crash,
And a smash,
And a roar as of thunder,
It quivered,
And shivered,
And flew asunder:
The Moon, looking down, shed tragical tears;
While, winking hard and holding his ears,
The Comet came out on the other side,
Wheeled round, swore loud, and ruefully eyed
The ruin; sneezed two or three times; then drew
His long tail after him down the blue.
 
 
Heavens and earth! what have I done!
This does beat everything under the sun!
I don't care the wink of a star," said he,
"For all the damage done to me – "
 
 
(Feeling his nose, and then with a flirt
Carefully brushing away the dirt
From his coat and its stained and draggled skirt) —
"But look at this dear little, queer little planet!
I've done the business for her, and I van, it
Is quite too bad! The fairest of creatures —
 
 
How well I remember her pleasant features,
The smile on her face and the light in her eye,
When I've touched my hat to her, hurrying by,
Many a time, on my way through the sky!
I'd mend the poor thing if I could – and I'll try!"
 
 
How he got it, or where,
I cannot declare;
But thereupon he drew up a chair.
Hung his long coat-tail over the back,
Sat down by the pieces and opened his pack,
Brought forth from its depths a stout needle and
thread,
And there he sat squinting and scratching his head,
As if rather doubtfully questioning whether
'Twas possible ever to patch her together!
Meanwhile – but how can I hope to tell
Half that to my friends befell
On the shattered and scattered shell?
How depict the huge surprise
Of some, at the very astonishing rise
Of their real estate, shot off in the skies?
How describe the flying blocks,
The fall of steeples and railroad stocks,
The breaking of banks, and the stopping of clocks;
And all the various knocks and shocks; —
Frantic reporters rushing about,
And correspondents setting out
In a big balloon, intending from it
To interview our friend, the Comet!
While the wide-awake daily press unfurled
Its rival bulletins: "End of the World!!
Frightful collision! America hit!!!
Full particulars! Canada hurled
 
 
Over New England! The Union split!!!
In INTERRUPTION OF TRAVEL AND TRADE!
The Comet coming to our aid!"
 
 
For now the Comet – odd to see!
Although it didn't seem odd to me —
With thimble and glue-pot, sewing and gluing
The shattered globe, was cheerfully doing
All he could to restore the ruin;
Patiently replacing all
The scattered fragments, great and small;
Stitching here and sticking there,
With a hopeful smile and a satisfied air,
Putting the planet into repair!
When all was done, with a dexterous twirl
Of his fingers, he set it once more a-whirl,
While the Moon looked pleased as a smiling
girl.
 
 
Off he sped; and the planet spun
Away on its axis round the sun;
When, watching with curious eyes, I found
He hadn't made it precisely round!
The zones, moreover, were strangely mixed:
Constantinople was squeezed betwixt
St. Petersburg and Baltimore;
South Carolina and Labrador
To Massachusetts were snugly tied;
New York and Paris were side by side;
And, oddest of all earthly fates,
England was in the United States!
 
 
Greenland (he couldn't have made a greater
Mistake) was on the new equator!
While in each crack of the crust some bit
Of broken China was made to fit.
 
 
Whereupon I cried, with a wild halloo,
"Hold on! come back! this never will do!
Just see what a botch you've made!" Before
He had time to turn, with a clang and a roar,
And a glare of its one great Cyclops eye,
The Lightning Express went whizzing by
 
 
With a rushing of steam,
And a howl and a scream,
That waked me from my curious dream;
Which the Doctor avers (and he makes it plain)
Must all have passed through my busy brain
With the passing of the midnight train!
 

OH, HAPPY NIGHT!

By M. E. B

 
O happy night! that brings the morn
To dawn above the Lord new born,
And bids the angels sing again
Their message to the sons of men —
We hail thee! we hail thee!
 
 
O happy manger! that hath known
This precious burden as thine own,
Beyond all gifts the world doth hold,
Of pomp and pow'r and gems and gold
We hail thee! we hail thee!=
 
 
O happy star! whose radiance sweet
Did lead the wise men's eager feet
To seek the way, unknown, untried,
That led them to the manger's side —
We hail thee! we hail thee!
 
 
O happy day! that gave to men
The Babe Divine of Bethlehem,
The King of Kings, the Undefiled,
In semblance of a little child —
We hail thee! we hail thee!
 
 
O happy Babe! whose wondrous eyes
Still hold the light of Paradise,
Look down in blessing from above
While Prince of Peace, and Lord of Love,
We hail thee! we hail thee!
 

WILLIE WEE

By Mrs. A. M. Diaz

 
TWO lads were conversing as happy as kings,
Of the coming of Christmas and all that it
brings,
Of the Christmas-tree and its many delights,
Of the city shop-windows and other fine sights,
When out spake wee Will, sometimes called "Willie
wee,"
Though often "sweet William," or "little Willee,"
– Four years and a half or three-quarters was he —
"Say! What kind of a tree is a Chrissermus-tree?"
And the while they discoursed, as his wonder grew',
With questions like these he followed them through:
"Does it have big branches that spread all around?
Do its roots stay deep down in the dark ground?
Does it grow, grow, grow, way up very high?
If you climb to the top will your head bump the sky?
Do any plums grow on it, or apples, or cherries?
Or any good nuts, or pretty red berries?
Does it bloom out all over with flowers white as
snow,
As that tree does down there in our garden below?
Do robins and king-birds build nests in that tree?
And other birdies too?" asked little Willee.
 
 
"Yes," answered Ned, wise, school-boy Ned:
"A Christmas-tree, young curly-head,
Has branches, sure, but has no roots,
And on its branches grow no fruits;
Yet bright red apples there you'll see,
And oranges of high degree —
Apples and oranges on one tree!"
"That sounds very strange," quoth little Willee.
"No flowers bloom there, snowy white,
Yet with these fruits – a curious sight —
Are oft seen flowers both red and white!
Should you climb to the top without a fall,
Your head might bump against the wall,
But not against the sky, you see,
For indoors-stands the Christmas-tree!"
"You tell very big stories," quoth little Willee.
"No birdie there doth build its nest,
No king-bird, blue-bird, robin redbreast,
Yet eggs thereon are often seen.
Of beautiful colors, pink, and green,
And purple, and lavender, fit for a queen.
Even eggs with pictures on them are found.
And with golden bands which circle around.
But from all these eggs so fair to see
Are hatched no birds in that Christmas-tree;
Instead, are hatched candy and gumdrops!" said he.
"Are you telling the truth?" asked little Willee.
 
 
"I've not told half, I do declare,
Of all those wondrous branches bear.
Bear? They bear dolls and whips and drums,
Tops, whistles, taffy, sugar-plums,
And candy sheep, and candy cats,
And candy birds, and candy rats,
And India-rubber girls and boys,
Bear trumpets and all kinds of toys,
Bear books, and jumping-jacks, and mittens,
And little cotton-flannel kittens;
And over the whole of this Christmas-tree
Candles are burning right merrily!
What think you of this? my sweet Willie-wee?"
"I think you are fooling!" said little Willee.
 
 
Next morning young Willie, with serious air,
Put earth in a flower-pot, and buried up there
A seed of an apple with very great care.
"Pray, what are you doing, you rogue Willie-wee?"
"I am planting a seed for a Chrissermas tree!
Is not that good to do?" asked little Willee.
– There came from that seed a green little shoot
Which put out its leaves and firmly took root,
And so finely did thrive that at last it was found
Too large for the house and was set in the ground,
Where it grew up, a tree, one scarcely knew how.
Look down by the wall; it is standing there now.
It blossoms in springtime, and many a nest
Has been built there by king-bird and robin redbreast;
And other birdies too oft come to the tree
And sing there and swing there, oh, so merrily;
They make it all summer our joy and delight;
And in fall of the year 'tis a beautiful sight
When the clustering wealth of its apples is seen —
Its ruby red apples all set in their green!
 
 
– And Willie? Yes, he grew up, too, young Willie-
wee,
And went as a sailor-boy over the sea.
He sailed in a ship to some far distant shore;
A storm came – and – and – we saw him no more.
It was long, long ago that deep sorrow we bore!
The lads who were talking, as happy as kings,
Of the coming of Christmas and all that it brings,
Are fathers now, so stately and tall.
Their children play by the garden wall,
And swing on the boughs of the apple tree,
Or climb to the top, the world to see;
(Some have gone from the home the world to see!)
And when autumn comes, and leaves turn brown,
And the ripened fruits are shaken down,
And here and there, on the orchard ground,
The red and the golden are heaped around —
'Tis the children who gather that tree by the wall,
And the apples from off its boughs that fall,
With kindly care are stored away,
Sure to appear on Christmas Day
In platter or basket for all to admire,
Or hung on strings before the fire,
There to swing and sputter and roast,
While many an one of the merry host
Gives a tender thought to that first Willie-wee
Who went as a sailor-boy over the sea.
The youngest of all; a new Willie-wee,
– A curly-haired rogue, and our darling is he! —
Now claims for his own uncle Will's Christmas-tree.
"Because," says the child, "he was named for me!"
 

ON CHRIST-DAY NIGHT

By Nora Perry

 
From room to room, from stair to stair;
All silken-clad; while standing there
Shut from the summer warmth and cheer,
The silken perfumed atmosphere
Of wealth and ease, a little maid
With beating heart, yet unafraid,
Enchanted, watched the fairy scene
Between the curtains' parted screen.
The fierce north wind came sweeping pa: t
And shook her with its wintry blast;
The frosty pavement of the street
Chilled to the bone her ill-clad feet;
Yet moment after moment fled
And there she stood, with lifted head,
Her eager eyes, as in a trance,
Fixed on the changes of the dance,
 

DULCET SOUNDS

 
STATELY mansion,
bright and gay
With festal light, made
darkness day
Far up and down the dusky
street
That Christmas night, while hurry-
ing feet
Sped swiftly by, nor scarce de-
layed
For all the dulcet sounds that
strayed
In merry measures from within,
Where harp and flute and violin,
In soft accordance, wild and sweet,
Made music for the dancers' feet.
All silken-clad those feet that kept
That time and tune, or lightly stept
Her eager ears still drinking in
The strains of flute and violin;
And still, as sped the moments past,
Colder and colder swept the blast.
 
 
But little heed had she, or care:
Her glance upon one vision fair,
One vision, one, beyond the rest —
A girl with roses on her breast,
And with a look upon her face,
The sweet girl-face of Heaven's own grace,
As through the dance she smiling led
Her youthful guests, with airy tread.
 
 
"Ah, would she smile on me like this
And would she give me kiss for kiss
If I could stand there at her side?"
The wistful watcher softly cried.
Even as she spoke she closer crept,
Upon the broad low terrace stept,
And nearer leaned. – Just then, just there,
A street light sent a sudden glare
Across her face. – One startled glance,
And from the changes of the dance.
With beating heart and eyes dilate.
The girlish mistress of the fête
Sprang swiftly forth. – A moment more
And through the window's opened door
Another guest was ushered in.
Her lip was pale, her cheek was thin,
 
 
No costly robe of silk and lace
Apparelled her, and 011 her face
And in her dark bewildered eyes
A shock of fear and shamed surprise
Did wildly, desperately gleam,
While here and there, as in a dream,
She vaguely heard, yet did not hear,
The sound of voices far and near.
 
 
She tried to speak: some word she said
Of all her troubled doubt and dread,
Some childish word – "what would they
do?"
Then all at once a voice rang through
Her troubled doubt, her troubled fear,
"What will they do, why, this – and this!"
And on her cold lips dropped a kiss,
And found her frozen figure crept
A tender clasp. – She laughed and wept
And laughed again, for this and this,
This tender clasp, this tender kiss,
Wras more than all her dream come true:
Was earth with Heaven's light shining through;
Was Christ's own promise kept aright —
His word fulfilled on Christ-day night!
 

GRACIE'S FANCIES

By Brenda Aubert

 
A WHIRR of wings, and a rush of feet!
And quick through the driving snow and
Grace, at the window, with wondering eyes
Watches their coming in shy surprise:
A flock of snow-birds, tiny and brown,
On the gnarled old plum-tree settle down!
A moment she watches the chirping band,
Her sweet face resting upon her hand,
"O mamma, look! it is snowing brown"
She cries as the birdlings flutter down.
Then cries – and a laugh slips out with the words
"Why, mamma, the snow-flakes have turned to birds
 

WAITING A WINTER'S TALE

By Mrs. Sallie M. B. Piatt

 
SOME sweet things go just to make room for
others:
The blue field-blossom hurries from the dew,
(My little maiden, hush your noisy brothers!)
And see, the wild-rose reddens where it grew!
 
 
The green leaf fades that you may see the yellow;
We have the honey when we miss the bee;
Who wants the apples, scarlet-stained and mellow,
Must give the buds upon his orchard-tree;
 
 
Then, for those finely painted birds that follow
The sun about and scent their songs with flowers,
We have, when frosts are sharp and rains beat hollow,
These pretty, gray crumb-gathering pets of ours;
 
 
The butterflies (you could not catch) were brighter
Than anything that we have left in air;
But these still-flying shapes of snow are whiter,
I fancy, than the very lilies were.
 
 
Then, is the glimmer of fire-flies, cold and eerie,
Far in the dusk, so pleasant after all
As is this home-lamp playing warm and cheery,
Among your shadow-pictures on the wall?
 
 
But I forget. There ought to be a story,
A lovely story! Who shall tell it, then?
The boys want war – plumes, helmets, shields and
glory —
They'd like a grand review of Homer's men.
 
 
Their jealous sisters say it's tiresome hearing
(A girl is not as patient as a boy,)
Of that old beauty – yes, the much-recurring,
About-three-thousand-years-old, Helen of Troy.
 
 
They'd rather hear some love-tale murmured faintly
Through music of the sleigh-bells: something
true,
Such as their young grandmothers, shy and saintly,
Heard under stars of winter – told anew!
The little children, one and all, are crying
For just a few more fairies – but, you know
They go to sleep when golden-rod is dying,
And do not wake till there is no more snow.
They sleep who kept your Jersey cow from straying,
My boy, while you were deep in books and
grass:
Who tended flowers, my girl, while you were playing
Some double game, or wearing out your glass.
 
 
They sleep – but what sweet things they have been
making,
By golden moons, to give you a surprise —
Beat slower, little hearts with wonder aching,
Keep in the dark yet, all you eager eyes!
 
 
The fairies sleep. But their high lord and master
Keeps wide-awake, and watches every hearth;
Great waters freeze that he may travel faster —
He puts a girdle round about the earth!
 
 
Just now in the dim North, as he remembers
His birthday back through centuries, he appears
A trifle sad, and looks into the embers —
Then shakes down from his cheek a shower of
tears.
 
 
He thinks of little hands that reached out lightly
To catch his beard and pull it with a will,
Now round their buried rosebuds folded whitely,
Forever and forever, oh, how still!
 
 
"Ah, where are all the children? How I miss
them!
So many worlds-full are gone since I came!
I long to take them to my heart and kiss them,
And hear those still small voices laugh my name.
 
 
"Some over whom no violet yet is growing;
Some under broken marble, ages old;
Some lie full fathom five where seas are flowing;
Some, among cliffs and chasms, died a-cold;
 
 
"Some through the long Wars of the Roses faded;
Some did walk barefoot to the Holy Land;
Some show young faces with the bride's-veil
shaded;
Some touch me with the nun's all-gracious hand;
 
 
"Some in the purple with crown-jewels burning,
Some in the peasant's hodden-gray go by,
Some in forlornest prisons darkly yearning
For earth and grass, the dove's wing and the
sky.
 
 
"One sails to wake a world that has been lying
Hid in its leaves, far in the lonesome West,
In an enchanted sleep, with strange winds sighing
Among the strange flowers in her dreaming breast.
 
 
And One – I held Him first – the immortal Stranger!
I smell, to-night, the frankincense and myrrh;
I see the star-led wise men and the manger;
And his own Mother – I remember her!
 
 
"But – where's my cloak? Is this a time for sorrow?
… And where's the story, do you ask of me?
 
 
To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow!
And shall you have it then? Why – we shall see!
 

CHRISTMAS

By Mrs. L. C. Whiton

 
MAMMA, what is Christmas?" How can I
say?
I will try to answer you "true as true."
It is just the loveliest, lovely day,
That is steeped in rose-color all the way through!
When miniature toy-shops in stockings are found,
That are left in the chambers without a sound;
And papa gives gifts with a tender cheer;
And brother "hurrahs for the top of the year;"
And sister looks on with her wistful eyes,
With a soft, sweet smile at every surprise:
And Christmas means this:
A little child's bliss,
And the love of the dear Christ felt like a kiss.
 
 
And a piled-up glory is hard to express;
And "What is Christmas?" is wonder for all.
It is when the earth puts on holiday dress,
Made spotless fair with snowflakes that fall;
When hearts are lavish with treasures of love,
And the pale, pure stars shine brighter above;
And the dancing firelight seems to play
In the most mysterious, haunting way;
And the house fairies wander from sweet to sweet,
With an unexplored kingdom laid at their feet:
And Christmas means this:
A little child's bliss,
And the love of the dear Christ felt like a kiss.
 
 
And still "What is Christmas?" Darling, come here.
It is meant for the birthday, "true as true,"
Of a beautiful child that was born in Judea,
That His mother loved, as I love you;
That grew up to teach you how you should seek
To be in your spirit "lowly and meek,"
And onward higher and higher to go,
Till you changed to an angel, whiter than snow;
And offered freely (that all might take)
The gift of Himself for the whole world's sake!
And Christmas means this:
A little child's bliss,
And the love of the dear Christ felt like a kiss.
 

MIDSUMMER SONGS

 
And flow, since all the little birds are singing
In bush and brake,
And all the honey flower bells dimly ringing,
And grasses shake —
 
 
And grasses shake before the reapers' coming.;
While through and through
This sweetness locusts shrill and bees are humming,
I'll sing to you
 
 
A little song, with bird-notes all a-twitter,
With honey flowing
From tilted flower-cups with dew a-glitter,
With fireflies glowing;
 
 
And over it roses in knots, and myrtle,
As thickly lay
(And violets) as on a maiden's kirtle,
A holiday.
 
 
Sweetened all through with flowers, with which 'tis filled
So full, you see
It needs (and also honey round it spilled)
A sweet song be.
 

– M. E. W.

"SAINT EMILY."

By E. F. Frye

 
WHEN grass grows green in spring-time
And trees are budding gay,
When the breath of bursting lilacs
Makes sweet the air of May,
When cowslips fringe the brooksides,
And violets gem the dells,
And tremble mid the grasses
The wind-flower's slender bells,
When the fragrant lily rises
From its sheltering sheath of green,
In the city's narrow alleys
Saint Emily is seen.
A modest little maiden,
She walks secure from harm;
A basket, flower-laden,
Swings lightly on her arm,
And right and left she scatters,
Alike to bad and good,
The beauties of the garden,
The treasures of the wood.
 
 
When summer days drag slowly,
In languor, heat, and pain,
To those who lie in hospital,
Never to rise again,
Dreaming, with fevered longing,
Of shady country homes,
Where roses hang in clusters,
And honeysuckle blooms,
From cot to cot so softly
Moves dear Saint Emily;
And here a rose she proffers,
And there a bud lays she.
The close abode of sickness
She fills with fragrant bloom;
Her gentle presence passes
Like music through the room
And many a moaning sufferer
Hushes his sad complaint,
And follows with his weary eyes
The movements of this saint.
 
 
When autumn paints the woodlands
With scarlet and with gold,
When the blue gentian's lids unclose
In frosty meadows cold,
From the little troop of children
That crowd some Orphan Home
The joyous shout arises,
"Saint Emily has come!"
And round her close they gather,
An eager little band,
While from the well-stored basket
She fills each outstretched hand
With purple hillside asters,
And wondrous golden-rod,
And all the lingering flowers that love
To dress the autumn sod;
And pallid cheeks flush rosy,
And heavy eyes grow bright,
And little hearts forlorn and lone,
Stir with a deep delight.
 
 
And when the woods are naked,
And flowers no longer blow,
When the green nooks they love so well
Are buried in the snow,
Not quite unknown that presence
To children sick in bed,
Bearing bright wreaths of autumn leaves,
And strings of berries red.
A heaven-sent mission, surely,
To cheer the sick and poor
With bounties that the bounteous God
Has strewn beside our door —
To gladden little children,
To comfort dying hours,
To bear to wretched hearts and homes
The gospel of the flowers.
What marvel if glad blessings
Surround Saint Emily!
What marvel if some loving eyes
In her an angel see! —
 
 
And, too, what marvel if the thought
Is borne to me and thee,
That many a kindly boy and girl
As sweet a saint might be.