0034m
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!
0036m
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.
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.
0042m
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.
0045m
THE warm June day was full
Of color as it could hold;
"Now, which is the sweetest blue,
And which is the brightest gold,
In all that your little eyes can see,
In cloud-land, earth, or the water-world?"
I said to the children three.
We were on the fresh new grass,
And the pretty hammock hung
Like a web between the trees,
And in it the baby swung.
'Twas as if a spider, busy and sly,
Had spun its meshes there, white and light,
And caught a butterfly.
A moment's silence fell
On all, till Teddy guessed—
He had eyes for every bird,
And eyes, too, for its nest—
And he cried—the eager little soul—
"The bluest blue is the bluebird,
And gold is the oriole."
Then Flora, who loved flowers,
But had not spoken yet,
Whispered that gold was a crocus,
And blue a violet.
And Edith, the more emphatic one,
Said: "No; the bluest blue is the sky,
And the goldenest gold the sun!"
I pointed to the web
That swung so white and light,
In which the baby cooed
As a nestling pigeon might;
"I can answer best of all," I said,
"For there is in water-world, earth or skies
No blue so sweet as that baby's eyes,
No gold so bright as his head!"
AND where's the Land of Used-to-be, does little baby wonder?
Oh, we will clap a magic saddle over papa's knee,
And ride away around the world, and in and out and under,
The whole of all the golden sunny summer-time, and see!
Leisurely and lazy-like we'll jostle on our journey,
And let the pony bathe his hooves and cool them in the dew,
As he sidles down the shady way, and lags along the ferny
And the green grassy edges of the lane we travel through.
And then we'll canter on to catch the bubble of the thistle,
As it bumps among the butterflies, and glimmers down the sun,
To leave us laughing, all content to hear the robin whistle,
Or guess what Katydid is saying little Katy's done.
And pausing here a minute, where we hear the squirrel chuckle
As he darts from out the underbrush and scampers up the tree,
We will gather buds and locust-blossoms, leaves and honeysuckle,
To wreathe around our foreheads, riding into Used-to-be;
For here's the very rim of it that we go swinging over—
Don't you hear the fairy bugles, and the tinkle of the bells?
And see the baby bumble-bees that tumble in the clover,
And dangle from the tilted pinks and tipsy pimpernels?
And don't you see the merry faces of the daffodillies,
And the jolly johnny-jump-ups, and the buttercups a-glee,
And the low, lolling ripples ring around the water-lilies,
All greeting us with laughter to the Land of Used-to-be?
And here among the blossoms of the blooming vines and grasses,
With a haze forever hanging in a sky forever blue,
And with a breeze from over seas to kiss us as it passes,
We will romp around forever as the little fairies do;
For all the elves of earth and air are swarming here together—
The prankish Puck, king Oberon, and queen Titania too;
And dear old Mother Goose herself, as sunny as the weather,
Comes dancing down the dewy walks to welcome me and you!
ADROLL conversation I once overheard—
Two children, a cat, a cow, and a bird.
The names of the children were Eddie and Jane;
The names of the others I did not hear plain.
How came I to hear them? I think I won't
tell:
You may guess, if you please; and if you guess
well
You'll guess that I heard it as many a man hears,
With his fancy alone, and not with his ears.
Such a wonderful plaything never was known!
Like a real live dolly, and all for their own!
Two happier children could nowhere be found,
No, not if you travelled the whole world around.
They had drawn her this morning where daisies
grew—
White daisies, all shining and dripping with dew;
Long wreaths of the daisies, and chains, they had
made;
In the baby's lap these wreaths they had laid,
The children were drawing, with caution and care,
Their sweet baby-sister, to give her the air,
In a dainty straw wagon with wheels of bright red,
And a top of white muslin which shaded her head.
She was only one year and a few months old;
Her eyes were bright blue and her hair was like
gold;
She laughed all the time from morning till night,
Till Eddie and Jane were quite wild with delight=.
And were laughing to watch her fat little hands
Untwisting and twisting the stems and the strands.
Just then, of a sudden, a lark flew by
And sang at the top of his voice in the sky;
"Ho! ho! Mr. Lark," shouted Jane,"come down here!
We're not cruel children. You may come without fear.
We've something to show you. In all your life
maybe
You'll never see anything sweet as our baby!"
'Twas an odd thing, now, for a lark to do—
I hope you won't think my story's untrue—
But this is the thing that I saw and I heard:
That lark flew right down, like a sociable bird,
As soon as they called him, and perched on a tree,
And winked with his eye at the children and me,
And laughed out, as much as a bird ever can,
As he cried, "Ha! ha! Little woman and man!
"You'll be quite surprised and astonished, maybe,
To hear that I do not think much of your baby.
Why, out in the field here I've got in my nest,
All cuddled up snug 'neath my wife's warm breast,
Four little babies—two sisters, two brothers—
And all with bright eyes, as bright as their moth-
er's;
Your baby's at least ten times older than they,
But they are all ready to fly to-day;
"They'll take care of themselves in another week,
Before your poor baby can walk or can speak.
It has often surprised me to see what poor things
All babies are that are born without wings;
And but one at a time! Dear me, my wife
Would be quite ashamed of so idle a life!"
And the lark looked as scornful as a lark knows
how,
As he swung up and down on a slender bough.
A cat had been eying him there for a while,
And sprang at him now from top of a stile.
But she missed her aim—he was quite too high;
And oh, how he laughed as he soared in the sky!
Then the cat scrambled up, disappointed and cross;
She looked all about her, and felt at a loss
What next she should do. So she took up the
thread
Of the lark's discourse, and ill-naturedly said:
"Yes, indeed, little master and miss, I declare,
It's enough to make any mother-cat stare
To see what a time you do make, to be sure.
Over one small creature, so helpless and poor
As your babies are! Why, I've six of my own:
When they were two weeks old they could run alone;
They're never afraid of dogs or of rats—
In a few weeks more they'll be full-grown cats;
"Their fur is as fine and as soft as silk—
Two gray, and three black, and one white as new
milk.
A fair fight for a mouse in my family
Is as pretty a sight as you'll ever see.
It is all very well to brag of your baby—
One of these years it will be something, maybe!"
And without even looking at the baby's face,
The cat walked away at a sleepy pace.
"Moo, Moo!" said a cow, coming up. "Moo,
Moo!
Young people, you're making a great to-do
About your baby. And the lark and the cat,
They're nothing but braggers—I wouldn't give
that."
0051m
(And the cow snapped her tail as you'd snap your
thumb)
"For all the babies, and kittens, and birds, that come
In the course of a year! It does make me laugh
To look at them all, by the side of a calf!
"Why, my little Brindle as soon as 'twas born
Stood up on its legs, and sniffed at the corn;
Before it had been in the world an hour
It began to gambol, and canter, and scour
All over the fields. See its great shining eyes,
And its comely red hair that so glossy lies
And thick! he has never felt cold in his life;
But the wind cuts your baby's skin like a knife.
"Poor shivering things! I have pitied them oft,
All muffled and smothered in flannel soft.
Ha! ha! I am sure the stupidest gaby
Can see that a calf's ahead of a baby!"
And the cow called her calf, and tossed up her
head
Like a person quite sure of all she has said.
Then Jane looked at Eddy, and Eddy at Jane;
Said Eddy, "How mean! I declare, they're too
vain
"To live—preposterous things! They don't know
What they're talking about! I'd like them to show
a bird, or a kitten, or a learned calf.
That can kiss like our baby, or smile, or laugh!"
"Yes, indeed, so should I!' said Jane in a rage;
"The poor little thing! She's advanced for her age,
For the minister said so the other day—
She's worth a hundred kittens or calves to play.
"And as for young birds—they're pitiful things!
I saw a whole nest once, all mouths and bare wings,
And they looked jis if they'd been picked by the
cook
To broil for breakfast. I'm sure that they shook
With cold if their mother got off for a minute—
I'm glad we have flannel, and wrap babies in it!"
So the children went grumbling one to the other,
And when they reached home they told their mother.
The dear baby, asleep, in its crib she laid,
And laughed as she kissed the children, and said:
"Do you think I believe that the sun can shine
On a boy or a girl half so sweet as mine?
The lark, and the cat, and the cow were all right—
Each baby seems best in its own mother's sight!"