Page 73—Stealing Land

Page 73—Stealing LandThe Thieves' LadderThe girls were helping in the house,With bustle and with show,And told the boys to go away,And not disturb them so.And the boys went whistling down the streets,And looking in the shopsAt tempting heaps of oranges,And piles of sugar-drops."Here, Willie, to the grocer's run;Be sharp, now—there's a man,And bring me home a pound of plumsAs quickly as you can!"Don't touch a plum—be sure you don't;To-morrow you shall eat.""I won't." he said, and, like a top,Went spinning down the street.The grocer weigh'd them in his scales,And there was one too much;He took it out, and all was right,The scale was to a touch.He wrapp'd them up in whitey-brown,And tied them with a string,And put the money in the till,As 'twere a common thing.Young Willie watched, with greedy eyes,As this affair went on.The plums—they look'd so very nice!He wouldn't take butone.So going quick behind a post,He tore the paper soThat he could take out two or three,And nobody would know.There was a little voice that said,Close by, in Willie's heart,"Don't tear the hole—don't take the plum—Don't play a thievish part!"The little voice—it spoke in vain!He reach'd his mother's door;She did not see the hole he'd made,His trouble then was o'er.And what a trifling thing it seem'd,To take one single plum!A little thing we hold betweenOur finger and out thumb.And yet upon that Christmas eve,That period so brief,Young Willie set his foot upon"The ladder of the thief!"And as he lay awake that night,He heard his parents speak;He heard distinctly what they said,The blood rush'd to his cheek.He lay and listn'd earnestly;They might have found him out,And he might get a flogging too,'Twas that he thought about.A guilty person cannot rest,He always is in fear;Not knowing what may happen nextTo make his guilt appear.So, when he heard his mother speak,He rose up in his bed,And did not lose a syllableOf every word she said:—"We have not any turnips, John,I could not spare the pence;But you can go and get us someThrough Farmer Turner's fence."There's nobody to see you now,The folks are off the road;The night looks dark and blustering,And no one is abroad."It is not far—you'll soon be back—I'll stand outside to hear;The watchman now is off his track,And won't be coming near."The father he went softly out,And down the lane he crept,And stole some turnips from the fieldWhilst honest people slept!'Tis not the words that parents say,It is their very deed;Their children know the difference,And follow where they lead.How often, if their lives are good,Their children's are the same;Whilst, if they're thievish, drunken,Their children come to shame!Now, Willie laid him down in bed,His conscience found relief;"I'm not the only one," he said—"My father is a thief!"How foolish 'twas to be afraidAbout a little plum!"He pull'd the bed-clothes o'er his head,And dream'd of feasts to come.On Christmas-day they had the pies.The turnips, and the beef;And Willie's foot was firm uponThe ladder of the thief.And ere the snow was on the plain,And Christmas-day came round,And boys were sliding, once again,Upon the frozen ground,He, step by step, had further goneUpon that dreadful roadThat brings a man to misery,And takes him far from God.He cheated with his marbles first,And then at other play;He pilfered any little thingThat came within his way.His parents did not punish him;He went from bad to worse,Until he grew so confident,He stole a lady's purse.Then he was seized, and brought beforeThe city magistrate;And the police and lady cameThe robbery to state.And Willie he was proved a thief,And nothing had to say;So to the dreadful prison-houseHe soon was led away.In vain he cried, and pleaded hardThey would not take him there;He would not do such things againIf they would hear his prayer.It was too late! The prison door,With bolt, and bar, and chain,Was opened to take Willie in,And then was shut again.He saw the handcuffs on the wall,The fetters on the floor;And heavy keys with iron ringsTo lock the dungeon door.He saw the little, lonely cellsWhere prisoners were kept,And all the dreary passages,And bitterly he wept.And through the strong-barred iron grate,High up and far away,He saw a piece of clear blue skyOut in the blessed day.And "Oh!" he said, "my brothers nowAre out of school again,And playing marbles on the path,Or cricket on the plain."And here am I, shut up so closeWithin this iron door;If ever I get out againI'll give this business o'er."And Willie went to sleep that nightIn his dark cell alone;But often in his troubled dreamsHe turned with heavy moan.What sound is that at early mornThat breaks upon his ear?A funeral bell is tolling slow,It tolls so very near.And in the court he sees a crowd,So haggard and so pale,And they are whispering fearfullyA sad and awful tale.And all seem looking at a manWho stands with fetters bound,And guards and executionerAre gathered close around.And he beheld that wretched man,Who trembled like a leaf:His foot no more would stand uponThe ladder of the thief.For he had climbed it step by step,Till murder closed the whole;The hangman came to take his life,But where would be his soul?And still the bell went tolling on;It tolled so heavilyAs that young man went up the stairs,Out to the gallows-tree.It tolled—it tolled—Oh! heavy sound!It stopped—the deed is o'er;And that young man upon the earthWill now be seen no more:Oh! parents watch your little ones,Lest you have such a grief;Help not their tender feet to climbThe ladder of the thief.I have not heard young Willie's end,I hope he learned that day;But 'tis a thing most difficultTo leave a wicked way.SewellThe Prisoner's Van.Previous-Index-NextPage 74—Santa Claus LandI have given no Fairy Tales in this Childland. For in thismatter-of-factage belief in Fairy Tales and all kinds of wonderful fictions is fast vanishing. Santa Claus, the "bestest" "goodest" fairy of all alone remains: and even he is gradually being doubted by all but the most innocent children, but as he as a personality is still largely amongst us, I give his popular history culled from many sources.Santa Claus LandAt the top of the earth, which they call the North Pole,Is where Santa Claus lives, a right jolly old soul!And the ice and the snow lie so thick on the groundThe sun cannot melt them the whole summer round.All wrapped up in furs from his head to his toes,No feeling of coldness dear Santa Claus knows,But travels about with a heart full of joy,As happy as if he were only a boy.His cheeks are like roses; his eyes are as brightAs stars that shine out overhead in the night,And they twinkle as merrily too all the while,And broad as a sunbeam is Santa Claus' smile.He never is idle except when asleep,And even in dreams at his labours will keep,And all thro' the day and the night, it is true,He is working and planning, dear children, for you.On top of his tower with spy-glass in hand,He goes every morning to look o'er the land,And though there are hills all around, I suppose,He sees, oh, much further than any one knows.He peeps into houses whose doors are tight shut;He looks through the palace, and likewise the hut;He gazes on cities, and villages small,And nothing, no, nothing is hidden at all.He knows where the good children live beyond doubt,He knows where the bad boys and girls are about,And writes down their names on a page by themselves;In a book that he keeps on his library shelves.For good little children, the gentle and kind,The prettiest presents of toys are designed,And when Christmas comes round, as it does once a year,'Tis certain that Santa Claus then will appear.His work-shop is, oh! such a wonderful place,With heaps of gay satins, and ribbons, and lace;With houses and furniture, dishes and pans,And bracelets and bangles, and all sorts of fans.There are horses that gallop, and dollies that walk,And some of the pretty doll-babies can talk.There are pop-guns, and marbles, and tops for the boys,And big drums and trumpets that make a big noise.There are games for all seasons, the base-ball and kite,And books which the children will seize with delight,And the skates and the sleds, far too many to count,And the bicycles ready for wheelmen to mount.There are farm-yards in plenty, with fences and trees,And cows, sheep, and oxen, all taking their ease,And turkeys and ducks, and fine chickens and hens,And dear little piggies to put in their pens.There are gay Noah's Arks, just as full as can beOf animals, really a wonder to see;There are lions and tigers, and camels and bears,And two of each kind, for they travel in pairs.There are elephants stretching their noses quite long;And reindeer and elks with their antlers so strong,And queer kangaroos all the others amid,With their dear little babies in pockets well hid.Is Santa Claus happy? There's no need to ask,For he finds such enjoyment indeed in his task,That he bubbles with laughter, and whistles and sings,While making and planning the beautiful things.He's a jolly good fellow, but ever so shy,And likes to do all his good deeds on the sly,So there's no use spoiling a good winter's napFor you'll not catch a glimpse of the jolly old chap.When Christmas Eve comes, into bed you must creep,And late in the night when you are asleep,He is certain to come; so your stockings prepare,And hang them up close by the chimney with care.The baby's wee stockings you must not forget,For Santa will have something nice for the pet,And those who are thoughtful for others will findThe good saint at Christmas time has them in mind.There is Tommy, who tended the baby with care,A nice train of cars he shall have for his share,And how happy will Eliza be when she looksFor her presents, and finds such a budget of books.For dear little Mary, a doll there will be;And for Alice and Jenny a gay Christmas tree;And wee little Georgie, the baby, will findA big stick of candy, just suiting his mind.Oh, a jolly good sight is this funny old chapWhen he's dressed in his bear-skin and fur-bordered cap,All ready to start on his way through the cold,In a sleigh covered over with jewels and gold.While his deer from the mountains all harnessed with care,Like race-horses prance through the clear frosty air;'Tis fun just to watch them, and hear the bells ring,And the stars seem to think it a comical thing.For old Santa is bundled so close to the chin,That there is not a chance for the cold to get in,His cheeks are so rosy, his eyes how they flash!No horses nor driver e'er cut such a dash!He cracks his long whip, and he whistles a tune,While he winks at the stars, and he bows to the moon,And over the tree-tops he drives like the wind,And leaves all the night-birds a long way behind.His steeds speed away on a journey so fleet,That they seem to have wings to their swift-flying feet,For there's work to be done by a cheery old man,And his coursers will help him as well as they can.His sleigh is with toys and trinkets well packed,You never beheld one with pleasures so stacked;And though of good children he has such a list,Not one is forgotten, not one will be missed.An army he gives to the boy who is neat,And never is rude in the house or the street;And a farm to the lad who goes smiling to school,Who knows all his lessons and minds every rule.And if you would please him—dear Bertie and Jack—;And win a nice prize from the old fellow's pack,Be good little children, your parents obey,And strive to be happy at work or at play.At Christmas old Santa Claus toils like a Turk,For the cheery old fellow is fond of his work.With his queer looking team through the air he will go,And alight on the house-tops all covered in snow.Then down through the chimneys he'll dart without noiseAnd fill up the stockings with candy and toys.There'll be presents for Julia, and Nellie, and Jack,And plenty more left in the old fellow's pack.And if Frank behaves well, and minds what is said,Quits teasing the cat and goes early to bed;He'll find for his present a sled or a gun,A ready companion in frolic and fun.On Santa Claus hurries, and works with a will,For many tall Christmas trees he has to fill,And loads them with treasures from out his rich store,Till they blossom as trees never blossomed before.Though round as a dumpling, and ever so fat,In running and climbing he's spry as a cat,And if the long ladder should happen to break,And he should fall down, what a crash it would make!I told you his home was up North by the Pole,In a palace of hives lives this worthy old soul,And though out of doors it may furiously storm,Indoors as we know, it is sunny and warm.When Christmas is over old Santa Claus goesTo his home in the North, and his well-earned repose,And when he is rested and feeling tip-top,The good-natured workman goes back to his shop.And there he will labor from morning till night,To make others happy his aim and delight,And if his good-will the dear children would earn,They must strive to be happy and good in return.He comes like an angel of light from above,To do on the earth sweetest errands of love;And our hearts and our homes to so fill with good cheerThat we cannot help knowing when Christmas is near.Then let us be glad, so that Christmas may beA real Merry Christmas to you and to me!And now that the story is ended we'll giveThree cheers for old Santa Claus! Long may he live!Previous-Index-NextPage 75—Santa Claus LandChildren Praying for Christmas Presents.A Visit From St. Nicholas'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.The children were nestled all snug in there beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;And mamma in her kerchief and I in my capHad just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,When out in the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash;The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;When what to my wondering eyes should appearBut a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,With a little old driver so lively and quickI knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too;And then in a twinkling I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head and was turning around,Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound,He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack,His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf—And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;A wink of his eye and a twist of his headSoon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out sight;"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."Clement C. MooreWhat Santa Claus BringsLovely little girls and boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.Boxes filled with wooden bricks,Monkeys climbing yellow sticks.Dollies' houses painted red,Tiny soldiers made of lead,Noah's Arks, and Ninepins too,Jack in boxes, painted blue.Cups and Saucers, Pots and Pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with Tops and Tables,Fairy Tales and Aesop's Fables,Clockwork Mice, and Coloured MarblesPainted Bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen hair and moving eyes.Cows and horses, Chickens, Cats,Rattles, Windmills, Boats and Bats,Ducks and Geese, and golden Fishes,Skipping ropes and copper Dishes.Books and coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.Little MaryDear little Mary,With eyes so blue,What has Santa ClausBrought for you?He has brought me a cup,And a curly sheep,And a cradle where dollyMay go to sleep.The best of allIs this funny boxThat winds with a keyJust like the clocks.And when you've woundThe spring up tight,The monkey dancesWith all his might,And Fido barksAnd the puppies play:We're all very happyThis Christmas day.ChristmasDainty little stockingsHanging in a row,Blue, and grey, and scarlet,In the firelight's glow.Curly-pated sleepersSafely tucked in bed;Dreams of wondrous toy-shopsDancing through each head.Funny little stockingsHanging in a rowStuffed with sweet surprises,Down from top to toe.Skates, and balls, and trumpets,Dishes, tops, and drums,Books and dolls and candles,Nuts and sugar-plums.Little sleepers waking:Bless me, what a noise!Wish you merry Christmas,Happy girls and boys!The NurserySanta Claus making Toys.Previous-Index-NextPage 76—Santa Claus LandSanta Claus looking up names of Good Boys and Girls.ChristmasWhen the children have been good,That is, be it understood,Good at meal-times, good at play,Good all night and good all day,—They shall have the pretty thingsMerry Christmas always brings.Santa Claus starting to distribute Toys.A Christmas Eve AdventureOnce on a time, in a queer little town,On the shore of the Zuyder Zee,When all the good people were fast asleep,A strange thing happened to me.Alone, the night before Christmas,I sat by the glowing fire,Watching the flame as it rose and fell,While the sparks shot high and higher.Suddenly one of these sparks beganTo flicker and glimmer and winkLike a big bright eye, till I hardly knewWhat to do or to say or to think.Quick as a flash, it changed to a face,And what in the world did I seeBut dear old Santa Claus nodding his head,And waving his hand to me!"Oh! follow me, follow me!" soft he cried,—And up through the chimney with himI mounted, not daring to utter a wordTill we stood on the chimney's rim."Now tell me, I beg you, dear Santa Claus,Where am I going with you?"He laughingly answered, "Why, don't you know?To travel the whole world through!"From my crystal palace, far in the North,I have come since dark,—and seeThese curious things for the little folkWho live on the Zuyder Zee."Then seating himself in his reindeer sledge,And drawing me down by his side,He whistled, and off on the wings of the windWe flew for our midnight ride.But first, such comical presents he leftFor the little Dutch girls and boys,—Onions and sausages, wooden-faced dolls,Cheeses and gingerbread toys!Away we hurried far to the South,To the beautiful land of France;And there we showered the loveliest gifts,—Flaxen-haired dolls that could dance.Soldiers that marched at the word of command,Necklaces, bracelets and rings,Tiny gold watches, all studded with gems,And hundreds of exquisite things.Crossing the Channel, we made a short callIn Scotland and Ireland, too;Left a warm greeting for England and Wales,Then over the ocean we flewStraight to America, where by myself,Perched on a chimney high,I watched him scramble and bustle aboutBetween the earth and the sky.Many a stocking he filled to the brim,And numberless Christmas treesBurst into bloom at his magical touch!Then all of a sudden a breezeCaught us and bore us away to the South,And afterwards blew us "out West;"And never till dawn peeped over the hillsDid we stop for a moment's rest."Christmas is coming!" he whispered to me,"You can see his smile in the sky,—I wish Merry Christmas to all the world!My work is over,—good-bye!"Like a flash he was gone, and I was alone,—For all of this happened to meOnce on a time, in a queer little townOn the shore of the Zuyder Zee!M. M.Little BennieI had told him, Christmas morning,As he sat upon my knee,Holding fast his little stockings,Stuffed as full as can be,And attentive listening to me,With a face demure and mild,That old Santa Claus, who filled them,Did not love a naughty child."But we'll be good, won't we, moder?"And from off my lap he slid,Digging deep among the goodiesIn his crimson stockings hid.While I turned me to my table,Where a tempting goblet stood,Brimming high with a dainty custard,Sent me by a neighbour good.But the kitten, there before me,With his white paw, nothing loth,Sat, by way of entertainment,Lapping off the shining froth;And, in not the gentlest humourAt the loss of such a treat,I confess I rather rudelyThrust him out into the street.Then how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;Gathering up the precious storeHe had busily been pouringIn his tiny pinafore,With a generous look that shamed meSprang he from the carpet bright,Showing, by his mien indignant,All a baby's sense of right."Come back Harney," called he loudly,As he held his apron white,"You shall have my candy wabbit;"But the door was fastened tight.So he stood, abashed and silent,In the centre of the floor,With defeated look, alternateBent on me and on the door.Then, as by some sudden impulse,Quickly ran he to the fire,And while eagerly his bright eyesWatched the flames grow high and higher,In a brave, clear key he shouted,Like some lordly little elf,"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,Make my mother 'have herself.""I'll be a good girl, Bennie,"Said I, feeling the reproof;And straightway recalled poor Harney,Mewing on the galley roof.Soon the anger was forgotten,Laughter chased away the frown,And they gambolled 'neath the live oaks,Till the dusky night came down.In my dim, fire-lighted chamberHarney purred beneath my chair,And my play-worn boy beside meKnelt to say his evening prayer:"God bess fader, God bess moder,God bess sister," then a pause,And the sweet young lips devoutlyMurmured "God bess Santa Kaus."He is sleeping: brown and silkenLie the lashes, long and meek,Like caressing, clinging shadows,On his plump and peachy cheek;And I bend above him, weeping,Thankful tears; O undefiled;For a woman's crown of glory,For the blessing of a child.Annie C. KetchumPrevious-Index-NextPage 77—Santa Claus LandSanta Claus filling the Stockings.Old Santa ClausOld Santa Claus sat alone in his den,With his leg crossed over his knee;While a comical look peeped out at his eyes,For a funny old fellow was he.His queer little cap was tumbled and torn,And his wig it was all awry;But he sat and mused the whole day long,While the hours went flying by.He had been busy as busy can be,In filling his pack with toys;He had gathered his nuts and baked his pies,To give to the girls and boys.There were dolls for the girls, and whips for the boys,With wheelbarrows, horses and drays,And bureaus and trunks for Dolly's new clothes;All these in his pack he displays.Of candy too, both twisted and striped,He had furnished a plentiful store,While raisins and figs, and prunes and grapes,Hung up on a peg by the door."I am almost ready," quoth he, quoth he,"And Christmas is almost here;But one thing more—I must write a book,And give to each one this year."So he clapped his specs on his little round nose,And seizing the stump of a pen,He wrote more lines in one little hourThan you ever could write in ten.He told them stories all pretty and new,And wrote them all out in rhyme;Then packed them away with his box of toysTo distribute one at a time.And Christmas Eve, when all were in bed,Right down the chimney he flew;And stretching the stocking-leg out at the top,He clapped in a book for you.Santa Claus and the MouseOne Christmas Eve, when Santa ClausCame to a certain house,To fill the children's stockings there,He found a little mouse."A merry Christmas, little friend,"Said Santa, good and kind."The same to you, sir!" said the mouse,"I thought you wouldn't mindIf I should stay awake to night,And watch you for a while.""You're very welcome, little mouse,"Said Santa, with a smile.And then he filled the stockings up,Before the mouse could wink,—From toe to top, from top to toe,There wasn't left a chink."Now, they won't hold another thing,"Said Santa Claus with pride.A twinkle came in mousie's eyes,But humbly he replied:"It's not nice to contradict—Your pardon I implore,—But in the fullest stocking there,I could put one thing more.""Oh, ho!" laughed Santa, "silly mouse!Don't I know how to pack?By filling stockings all these years,I should have learned the knack."And then he took the stocking downFrom where it hung so high,And said: "Now put in one thing more;I give you leave to try."The mousie chuckled to himself,And then he softly stoleRight to the stocking's crowded toe,And gnawed a little hole!"Now, if you please, good Santa Claus,I've put in one thing more;For you will own, that little holeWas not in there before."How Santa Claus did laugh and laugh;And then he gaily spoke;"Well, you shall have a Christmas cheese,For that nice little joke."A Nice Little Present"Our Santa Claus," cried Bettie,"Is nice as any other;He brought the nicest presentTo me and to my mother."It was—oh, you can't guess it—A darling little brother.He kicks and cries, and shuts his eyes,And he's sweet enough to eat."I'd rather have my baby brotherThan dolls or candy—so would my mother."The Night Before ChristmasCurly heads, so softly pillowed;Chubby arms outspread;Thousand fancies swiftly flyingThrough each little head.Clasping treasures newly garnered,Dolly, book, and ball,Still they dream of coming pleasuresGreater than them all.Christmas-trees of gorgeous beauty,Filled with presents rare;Toys unheard of, joys unnumbered,All delights are there.Angel forms, with smiling faces,Hover round the bed;Angel feet make echoing musicAs they lightly tread.Angel voices, softly thrilling,Chant a lullaby:"Darlings, dream, and sweetly slumber,We are watching by."Who from dreams like these would wakenTo a world of pain?"Hush, then, dear ones! Have we roused you?Turn and dream again."Baby waking up nearly caught Santa Claus.Previous-Index-NextPage 78—Santa Claus LandAnnie and Willie Praying.Annie And Willie's Prayer'Twas the eve before Christmas; good night had been said,And Annie and Willie had crept into bed.There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,And each little bosom was heaving with sighs;For to-night their stern father's command had been given,That they should retire precisely at sevenInstead of at eight; for they had troubled him moreWith questions unheard of than ever before.He had told them he thought this delusion a sin;No such creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been;And he hoped, after this, he should never more hearHow he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.And this was the reason that two little headsSo restlessly tosses on their soft, downy beds.Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;Not a word had been spoken by either till then;When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,And he whispered: "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast asleep?""Why, no, Brother Willie," a sweet voice replies;"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes;"For somehow it makes me so sorry becauseDear Papa has said there is no Santa Claus.Now we know there is, and it can't be deniedFor he came every year before dear mamma died;"But then, I've been thinking, that she used to pray,—And God would hear everything dear mamma would say,—And, maybe, she asked him to send Santa Claus hereWith the sack full of presents he brought every year.""Well, why tannot we p'ay, dust as mamma did, den,And ask Dod to send him with presents aden?""I've been thinking so, too;" and without a word moreFour little bare feet bounded out on the floor,And four little knees on the soft carpet pressed,And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast,"Now, Willie, you know, we must firmly believeThat the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;"You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'And by that you will know that your turn has come then.—"Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me,And grant us the favours we're asking of Thee."I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and a ring,And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to seeThat Santa Claus loves us as much as does he."Don't let hem get fretful and angry again,At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen.""Dear Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to nightAnd bring us some p'esents before it is 'ight;"I want he sood div' me a nice little sled,Wid bight shinin' 'unners, and all painted 'edA box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,Amen. And den, Desus, I'll be a dood boy."Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads,And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds;They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep,And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck tenEre the father had thought of his children again;He seems now to hear Annie's self-suppressed sighs,And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes."I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,"And should not have sent them so early to bed:But then I was troubled: My feelings found vent;For the bank-stock to-day has gone down two percent.;"But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss;But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door—To my darlings I have never spoke harshly before."So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers;His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears,And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears."Strange, strange! I'd forgotten," he said with a sigh,"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nighI'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down,Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing gown.Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in the street,A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet!Nor stopped he until he had bought everything,From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring:Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store,That the various presents outnumbered a score.Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load,With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stow'd.Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,And the side of a table spread out for her tea;A work-box, well-filled, in the centre was laid,And on it the ring for which Annie had pray'd.A soldier in uniform stood by a sled,With bright shining runners, and all painted red.There were balls, dogs, horses; books pleasing to see;And birds of all colours were perched in the tree;While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,As if getting ready more presents to drop.Now, as the fond father the picture surveyed,He thought for his trouble he'd amply been paid;As he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,"I'm happier to night than I have been for a year;"I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before;What care I if bank-stock fell two per cent. more!Henceforward I'll make it a rule, I believe,To have Santa Clause visit us each Christmas-eve."So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,And, slipping downstairs, retired for the night.As soon as the beams of the bright morning sunPut the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one,Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,And at the same moment the presents espied.Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found.And they laughed and they cried in their innocent glee,And shouted for papa to come quick and seeWhat presents old Santa Claus brought in the night(Just the things they wanted!), and left before light."And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,"You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know;"While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,Determined no secret between them should be;And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had saidThat their blessed mamma, so long ago dead,Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair,And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer."Den we dot up and p'ayed just as well as we tood,And Dod answered our p'ayer, now wasn't He dood?""I should say that He was, if He sent you all these,And knew just what presents my children would please."("Well, well, let them think so, dear little elf!'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.")Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent,And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent?'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly upstairsAnd made you His agent to answer their prayers.Mrs. Sophia P. SnowPrevious-Index-NextPage 79—Santa Claus LandBoy Nailing up his Father's Trousers.Budds' Christmas StockingIt was Christmas-time, as all the world knew;It stormed without, and the cold wind blew,But within all was cheerful, snug, and bright,With glowing fires and many a light.Budd B. was sent quite early to bed,His stocking was hung up close to his head,And he said to himself "When all grows stillI will find a big stocking for Santy to fill."Now, good, honest Hans, who worked at the house,Had gone to his bed as still as a mouse;The room where he slept was one story higherThan Budd's little room, with gaslight and fire.Now, Hans loved "the poy," and petted him too,And often at night, when his task was all through,He would tell him strange stories of over the sea,While Budd listened gravely or laughed out in glee.This night Hans had promised to wake Budd at four;He would softly come down and open his door;But suddenly Budd bounded out of his bed,And stole softly up to the room overhead.On his hands and his knees he crept softly in,"I'll borrow Han's stocking," he said, with a grin;Old Santy will fill it up to the top,And Hans—oh, such fun! will be mad as a hop."He moved very slowly, and felt near the bed;No stocking was there, but down on his headCame a deluge of water, well sprinkled with ice,While honest Hans held him as if in a vice."Vat is dat?" he cried out; "von robber I find,Den I pound him, and shake him, so much as I mind""It's me," called out Budd; "Stop, Hans! oh, please do;I'm only a boy; I could not rob you."But Hans did not pause—his temper was hot—And he dragged the young robber at once from the spot,When he reached the hall light great was his surpriseTo find his young master with tears in his eyes."I wanted your stocking," muttered Budd B.;It is bigger than mine; boo hoo! I can't see,And I'm all wet and cold." thus cried Budd aloud,Until guests and his parents ran up in a crowd.He was wrapped up with care and taken to bed,But, strangest of all, not a harsh word was said.He flattered himself as he fell asleepThat Hans and his friends the secret would keep.Next morning, when Christmas songs filled all the air,Budd found, to his grief and boyish despair,That his neck was so stiff that he could not turn his head,And must spend the whole day alone in his bed.What was worse, his own stocking hung limp on a chair,And on it these words were written most fair:"To him who is greedy I leave less than all;The world is so large and my reindeer so small."My pack is elastic when children are kind,But it shuts with a snap and leaves nothing behind,When a boy or girl is selfish or mean.Good-bye, little Budd, I am off with my team.(Signed) Santa Claus."ChristmasAgain the Christmas holidays have come,We soon will hear the trumpet and the drum;We'll hear the merry shout of the girls and boysRejoicing o'er their gifts of books and toys.Old Santa Claus comes by at dead of night,And down the chimney creeps—a funny sight;He fills the stockings full of books and toys,But puts in whips for naughty girls and boys.One Christmas-eve the moon shone clear and bright;I thought I'd keep awake and watch all night,But it was silent all around and stilled,Yet in the morn I found my stockings filled.Christmas MorningThey put me in a square bed, and there they bade me sleep;I must not stir; I must not wake; I must not even peep;Right opposite that lonely bed, my Christmas stocking hung;While near it, waiting for the morn, my Sunday clothes were flung.I counted softly, to myself, to ten and ten times ten,And went through all the alphabet, and then began again;I repeated that Fifth-Reader piece—a poem called "Repose,"And tried a dozen various ways to fall into a dose—When suddenly the room grew light. I heard a soft, strong bound,'Twas Santa Claus, I felt quite sure, but dared not look around.'Twas nice to know that he was there, and things were going rightly,And so I took a little nap, and tried to smile politely."Ho! Merry Christmas!" cried a voice; I felt the bed a-rocking;Twas daylight—brother Bob was up! and oh, that splendid stocking!St. NicholasSign for Santa, asking for Bicycle or Pony.Previous-Index-NextPage 80—Santa Claus LandWhat the Rich Man's Child got.Little Nellie's Visit From Santa ClausSanta Claus is coming to-night, papa;Please let me sit up and see him, mamma;Loaded with presents, I'm sure he'll be.He'll have something nice for you and for me."Mamma, do find something fresh and quite new,For dear old Santa Claus, when he comes through,I'll give it myself; I'll keep wide awake;I know he'll be glad my present to take."Now all go to bed as quick as you please,I'll wait for him," said the bright little tease,"He surely will ring, no doubt about that,I'll bid him come in and then have a chat."Soon came a quick step on the piazza floor,Just then a loud ring was heard at the door.The little miss rose with dignified air,Quick ushered him in, and set him a chair.All covered o'er with little bells tinkling,Shaking and laughing, twisting and wriggling,A funny old man, with little eyes blinking,Looking at Nellie, what was he thinking?Not a word did he say—tired of waiting,Nellie arose, her little heart quaking,Held out her present, courage most failing,"Santa Claus, take this"—now she is smiling."His furry old hand, twisting and trembling,Took the sweet gift—"You dear little darling,"Uttered quite softly, tenderly kissing,The bright little face, ne'er a bit shrinking.Lots of presents quickly bestowing,Thanking her kindly—he must be going,Shaking and laughing, his little bells jingling,Down the steps, hastening off in a twinkling.Brave little lady! all are now saying,Santa Claus truly! bright eyes are asking;See her dear papa, secretly laughingAt her true faith in Santa Claus' coming.Yes! she believes it, ever so truly,Dear precious darling! rob her not surely,Of childhood's sweet faith, now in its glory,While she's relating her own simple story.Mrs. C. E. WilburChristmas Stockings'Tis Christmas day,And little MayPeeps from her bed in the morning grey.She looks around,But not a soundBreaks on the quietness profound.So, heaving sighs,She shuts her eyes,And hard to go to sleep she tries.But sleep has fledThat little bed.And weary moves the curly head,Until the light(Oh, welcome sight!)Has banished every trace of night.Then out of bed,With hurried tread,She runs to waken brother Fred;For oh, what joys,In the shape of toys,Does Christmas bring to girls and boys!Fred gives a groan,Or a sleepy moan,And mutters, "Do let me alone!"But bonnie MayWill not have nay;She whispers, "It is Christmas day!"Oh, magic sound!For Fred turns round,And in a trice is on the ground."Our stockings, where?""They're on that chair.""Oh, what has Santa Claus put there?"May laughs with glee,The sight to see,Of stockings filled from toe to kneeWith parcels queer,That stick out here,Before, behind, in front and rear."Oh, Fred! a dolly!I'll call her Molly.""Why, may, a penknife here; how jolly!""A necktie blue!A paintbox too!""Oh, Fred, a pair of kid gloves new!""May, here's a gun!Won't we have fun,Playing at soldiers!—You'll be one.""Now that is all.No; here's a ball;Just hold it, or these things will fall.""What's in the toe,May, do you know?Biscuits and figs!—I told you so.""I think," said May,That Christmas dayShould come at least every second day."And so say we;But then you seeThat Santa Claus would tired be.And all his toysAnd Christmas joysWould vanish then from girls and boys.From "The Prize"Hang Up Baby's StockingHang up the baby's stocking:Be sure you don't forget:The dear little dimpled darlingHas never seen Christmas yet.But I told him all about it,And he opened his big blue eyes;I'm sure he understood it,He looked so funny and wise.Ah, what a tiny stocking;It doesn't take so much to holdSuch little toes as baby'sSafe from the frost and cold.But then, for the baby's ChristmasIt never will do at all;For Santa Claus wouldn't be lookingFor anything half so small.I know what will do for baby;I've thought of a first-rate plan;I'll borrow a stocking of grandma—The longest that I ever can.And you shall hang it by mine, mother,Right here in the corner—so;And write a letter for baby.And fasten it on the toe."Old Santa Claus, this is a stockingHung up for our baby dear;You never have seen our darling,He has not been with us a year,"But he is a beautiful baby;And now, before you go,Please cram this stocking with presents,From the top of it down to the toe."Put in a baby's rattle,Also a coral ring,A bright new ribbon for his waist;Some beads hung on a string"And mind a coloured ball please,And a tiny pair of shoes;You'll see from this little stocking,The size you have to choose."Santa ClausA health to good old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.Ho comes from utmost fairylandAcross the wintry snows;He makes the fir-tree and the spruceTo blossom like the rose.Over the quaint old gables,Over the windy ridge,By turret wall and chimney tall,He guided his fairy sledge;He steals upon the slumbersOf little rose-lipped girls,And lays his waxen dollies downBeside their golden curls.He scatters blessings on his way,And sugar-coated plums;He robs the sluggard from his restWith trumpets, guns, and drums.Small feet, before the dawn of day,Are marching to and fro,Drums beat to arms through all the house,And penny trumpets blow.A health to brave old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.S. H. WhitmanPrevious-Index-NextPage 81—Play LandFather making Shadow-Rabbit for Daughter.The Rabbit on the WallThe children shout with laughter,The uproar louder grows;Even grandma chuckles faintly,And Johnny chirps and crows.There ne'er was gilded painting,Hung up in lordly hall,Gave half the simple pleasureAs this rabbit on the wall.The cottage work is over,The evening meal is done;Hark! thro' the starlight stillnessYou hear the river run.The little children whisper,Then speak out one and all;"Come, father, make for Johnny,The rabbit on the wall."He—smilingly assenting,They gather round his chair;"Now, grandma, you hold Johnny;Don't let the candle flare."So speaking, from his fingersHe throws a shadow tall,That seems, a moment after,A rabbit on the wall.Holiday TimeWith these three little girls and two little boysThere is sure to be plenty of laughter and noise;But nobody minds it, because don't you see,At school they are quiet with lessons to say—But when the holidays come they can play the whole day.The Fairy QueenLet us laugh and let us sing,Dancing in a merry ring;We'll be fairies on the green,Sporting round the Fairy Queen.Like the seasons of the year,Round we circle in a sphere;I'll be Summer, you'll be Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Harry will be Winter wild;Little Annie, Autumn mild;Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Spring and Summer glide away,Autumn comes with tresses grey;Winter, hand in hand with Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Faster! faster! round we goWhile our cheeks like roses glow;Free as birds upon the wing,Dancing in a fairy ring.Come and Play in the GardenLittle sister, come away,And let us in the garden play,For it is a pleasant day.On the grassplot let us sit,Or, if you please, we'll play a bit,And run about all over it.But the fruit we will not pick,For that would be a naughty trick,And, very likely, make us sick.Nor will we pluck the pretty flowersThat grow about the beds and bowers,Because, you know, they are not ours.We'll pluck the daisies, white and red,Because mamma has often said,That we may gather them instead.And much I hope we always mayOut very dear mamma obey,And mind whatever she may say.Little RompI am tired to death of keeping stillAnd being good all day.I guess my mamma's companyForgot to go away,I've wished and wished they'd think of it,And that they would get through;But they must talk for ever first,They almost always do.I heard Tom calling to me once,He's launched his boat, I know;I wanted to get out and help,But mamma's eyes said no.The ladies talk such stuff to me,It makes me sick to hear—"How beautiful your hair curls!" or,"How red your cheeks are, dear!"I'd ten times rather run a race,Then play my tunes and things;I wouldn't swop my dogs and ballsFor forty diamond rings.I've got no 'finement, aunty says,I 'spect she knows the best;I don't need much to climb a tree,Or hunt a squirrel's nest."Girls are like berries," papa says,"Sweeter for running wild,"But Aunt Melissa shakes her head,And calls me "Horrid child!"I'll always be a romp she knows—But sure's my name is Sadie,I'll fool 'em all some dreadful day,By growing up a lady.Hide and Seek"We will have a game of hide and seek,Now mind you do not look."And Willie went and hid himselfIn a dark and lonely nook.Then the children went to find him;They hunted all about.It was a funny way in whichAt last they found him out.Just as they got where he was hid,In his nose he felt a ticklingThat made him sneeze, and so you seeThey found him in a twinkling.Child and Dog playing Adventurers.Previous-Index-NextPage 82—Play LandOur Tea Party.Tired of PlayTired of play! tired of play!What hast thou done this livelong day?The birds are silent, and so is the bee;The sun is creeping up temple and tree;The doves have flown to the sheltering evesAnd the nests are dark with the drooping leaves.Twilight gathers and day is done,How hast thou spent it, restless one?Playing? But what has thou done beside,To tell thy mother at eventide?What promise of morn is left unbroken?What kind word to thy playmate spoken?Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven,How with thy faults has duty striven,What hast thou learned by field and hill?By greenwood path, and singing rill?Well for thee if thou couldst tell,A tale like this of a day spent well,If thy kind hand has aided distress,And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness;If thou hast forgiven a brother's offence,And grieved for thine own with penitence;If every creature has won thy loveFrom the creeping worm to the brooding dove,Then with joy and peace on the bed of rest,Thou wilt sleep as on thy mother's breast.Sea-side PlayTwo little boys, all neat and clean,Came down upon the shore:They did not know old Ocean's ways—They'd ne'er seen him before.So quietly they sat them down,To build a fort of sand;Their backs were turned to the sea,Their faces toward the land.They had just built a famous fort—The handkerchief flag was spread—When up there came a stealthy wave,And turned them heels over head.After School HoursSchool is closed and tasks are done,Flowers are laughing in the sun;Like the songsters in the air,Happy children, banish care!Riding on a GateSing, sing,What shall we sing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.If you have not a horse,Or haven't a swing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.Cry, cry,Finger in eye,Go home to motherAnd tell her why;You've been riding,And why not I?Each in turn, isn't that the ruleFor work or play, at home or school.Walking SongCome, my children, come away,For the sun shines bright to-day;Little children, come with me,Birds, and brooks, and posies see;Get your hats and come away,For it is a pleasant day.Bring the hoop and bring the ball,Come with happy faces all,Let us make a merry ring,Talk, and laugh, and dance, and singQuickly, quickly come away,For it is a pleasant day.The Lost PlaymateThe old school-house is still to day,The rooms have no gay throng;No ringing laugh is on the air,There is no snatch of song.The white-haired master sits uponThe seat beneath the tree,And thinks upon the vanished face,With all its boyish glee.But a few short days ago, the ladWas gayest of the gay,Quick at the page of knowledge, andThe heartiest in play.The pride of the home beside the stream,With his pigeons in their cots,And finding life a very dream,In pleasant homely spots.His school companions loving him,And old folks speaking praise,Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,And cheery, happy ways.All in the village knew the boy,From parson down to clerk,And his whistle in the village streetWas clear as the song of lark.But like a dream he's passed away,And from the chamber dim,In the fair light of summer day,The peasants carry him.And playmates gather at the grave,The old schoolmaster there,While blossomed boughs wave over-head,And all around is fair.True is the grief that brings the tear,There is no empty show;The simple neighbours see their loss,And there is heart-felt woe.They talk of the bright and lively lad,Cut down in boyish prime,And old folks think how strange is life,More strange with passing time!Oh! simple sight on green hill-side,Away from pomp and power;Here are the truths so oft deniedTo the imperial hour.Dear child, how precious are the tears,Suffusing friendly eyes!Sublimity is in their gleam,A light from God's own skies.Naughty Mice Teasing the Poor Kitten.Previous-Index-NextPage 83—Play LandChinese Toy Merchant.In the Toy ShopCups and saucers, pots and pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with tops and tables,Fairy tales, and Aesop's fables.Clockwork mice, and colored marbles,Painted bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen curls and moving eyes.Cows and horses, chickens, cats,Rattles, windmills, boats and bats,Ducks and geese, and golden fishes,Skipping ropes, and copper dishes.Books with coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Here you are, all sorts of toys.Neat Little Clara"Little Clara, come away,Little Clara, come and play;Leave your work, Maria's here,So come and play with me, my dear.""I will come, and very soon,For I always play at noon;But must put my work away,Ere with you I come and play.First my bodkin I must placeWith my needles in their case;I like to put them by with care,And then I always find them there.There's my cotton, there's my threadThimble in its little bed;All is safe—my box I lock,Now I come—'tis twelve o'clock."Playing Store"Ting-a-ling!" Now theyHave opened the store,Never was suchAn assortment before;Mud pies in plenty,And parcels of sand,Pebbles for sugar plums,Always on hand.Plenty of customersComing to buy,"Brown sugar, white sugarWhich will you try?Paper for money;Their wealth, too, is vast;In spite of the plenty,They scatter it fast.Quick little handsTie bundles with care,Summer's glad musicIs filling the air;Birdies fly over,And wonder, no doubt,What all these gaylittle folks are about.Our Shop.FishingHe took a stick, he took a cord,He took a crooked pin,And went a-fishing in the sandAnd almost tumbled in.But just before he tumbled in,By chance it came about,He hooked a whiting and a sole,And made them tumble out.Hide and SeekWhen the clean white cloth is laid,And the cups are on the table,When the tea and toast are made,That's a happy time for Mabel.Stealing to her mother's side,In her ear she whispers low,"When papa comes I'll hide;Don't tell him where I go,"On her knees upon the floor,In below the sofa creeping;When she hears him at the door,She pretends that she is sleeping."Where is Mabel?" father cries,Looking round and round about.Then he murmurs in surprise,"Surely Mabel can't be out."First he looks behind his chair,Then he peers beneath the table,Seeking, searching everywhereAll in vain for little Mabel;But at last he thinks he knows,And he laughs and shakes his head,Says to mother, "I supposeMabel has been put to bed."But when he sits down to tea,From beneath the sofa creeping,Mabel climbs upon his knee,Clasps her hands: "I was not sleeping."When he asks, "Where is my girl'sVery secret hiding-place?"Mabel only shakes her curls,Laughing, smiling, in his face.Johnny Giving his Sister a Ride.Previous-Index-Next

Page 73—Stealing LandThe Thieves' LadderThe girls were helping in the house,With bustle and with show,And told the boys to go away,And not disturb them so.And the boys went whistling down the streets,And looking in the shopsAt tempting heaps of oranges,And piles of sugar-drops."Here, Willie, to the grocer's run;Be sharp, now—there's a man,And bring me home a pound of plumsAs quickly as you can!"Don't touch a plum—be sure you don't;To-morrow you shall eat.""I won't." he said, and, like a top,Went spinning down the street.The grocer weigh'd them in his scales,And there was one too much;He took it out, and all was right,The scale was to a touch.He wrapp'd them up in whitey-brown,And tied them with a string,And put the money in the till,As 'twere a common thing.Young Willie watched, with greedy eyes,As this affair went on.The plums—they look'd so very nice!He wouldn't take butone.So going quick behind a post,He tore the paper soThat he could take out two or three,And nobody would know.There was a little voice that said,Close by, in Willie's heart,"Don't tear the hole—don't take the plum—Don't play a thievish part!"The little voice—it spoke in vain!He reach'd his mother's door;She did not see the hole he'd made,His trouble then was o'er.And what a trifling thing it seem'd,To take one single plum!A little thing we hold betweenOur finger and out thumb.And yet upon that Christmas eve,That period so brief,Young Willie set his foot upon"The ladder of the thief!"And as he lay awake that night,He heard his parents speak;He heard distinctly what they said,The blood rush'd to his cheek.He lay and listn'd earnestly;They might have found him out,And he might get a flogging too,'Twas that he thought about.A guilty person cannot rest,He always is in fear;Not knowing what may happen nextTo make his guilt appear.So, when he heard his mother speak,He rose up in his bed,And did not lose a syllableOf every word she said:—"We have not any turnips, John,I could not spare the pence;But you can go and get us someThrough Farmer Turner's fence."There's nobody to see you now,The folks are off the road;The night looks dark and blustering,And no one is abroad."It is not far—you'll soon be back—I'll stand outside to hear;The watchman now is off his track,And won't be coming near."The father he went softly out,And down the lane he crept,And stole some turnips from the fieldWhilst honest people slept!'Tis not the words that parents say,It is their very deed;Their children know the difference,And follow where they lead.How often, if their lives are good,Their children's are the same;Whilst, if they're thievish, drunken,Their children come to shame!Now, Willie laid him down in bed,His conscience found relief;"I'm not the only one," he said—"My father is a thief!"How foolish 'twas to be afraidAbout a little plum!"He pull'd the bed-clothes o'er his head,And dream'd of feasts to come.On Christmas-day they had the pies.The turnips, and the beef;And Willie's foot was firm uponThe ladder of the thief.And ere the snow was on the plain,And Christmas-day came round,And boys were sliding, once again,Upon the frozen ground,He, step by step, had further goneUpon that dreadful roadThat brings a man to misery,And takes him far from God.He cheated with his marbles first,And then at other play;He pilfered any little thingThat came within his way.His parents did not punish him;He went from bad to worse,Until he grew so confident,He stole a lady's purse.Then he was seized, and brought beforeThe city magistrate;And the police and lady cameThe robbery to state.And Willie he was proved a thief,And nothing had to say;So to the dreadful prison-houseHe soon was led away.In vain he cried, and pleaded hardThey would not take him there;He would not do such things againIf they would hear his prayer.It was too late! The prison door,With bolt, and bar, and chain,Was opened to take Willie in,And then was shut again.He saw the handcuffs on the wall,The fetters on the floor;And heavy keys with iron ringsTo lock the dungeon door.He saw the little, lonely cellsWhere prisoners were kept,And all the dreary passages,And bitterly he wept.And through the strong-barred iron grate,High up and far away,He saw a piece of clear blue skyOut in the blessed day.And "Oh!" he said, "my brothers nowAre out of school again,And playing marbles on the path,Or cricket on the plain."And here am I, shut up so closeWithin this iron door;If ever I get out againI'll give this business o'er."And Willie went to sleep that nightIn his dark cell alone;But often in his troubled dreamsHe turned with heavy moan.What sound is that at early mornThat breaks upon his ear?A funeral bell is tolling slow,It tolls so very near.And in the court he sees a crowd,So haggard and so pale,And they are whispering fearfullyA sad and awful tale.And all seem looking at a manWho stands with fetters bound,And guards and executionerAre gathered close around.And he beheld that wretched man,Who trembled like a leaf:His foot no more would stand uponThe ladder of the thief.For he had climbed it step by step,Till murder closed the whole;The hangman came to take his life,But where would be his soul?And still the bell went tolling on;It tolled so heavilyAs that young man went up the stairs,Out to the gallows-tree.It tolled—it tolled—Oh! heavy sound!It stopped—the deed is o'er;And that young man upon the earthWill now be seen no more:Oh! parents watch your little ones,Lest you have such a grief;Help not their tender feet to climbThe ladder of the thief.I have not heard young Willie's end,I hope he learned that day;But 'tis a thing most difficultTo leave a wicked way.SewellThe Prisoner's Van.Previous-Index-NextPage 74—Santa Claus LandI have given no Fairy Tales in this Childland. For in thismatter-of-factage belief in Fairy Tales and all kinds of wonderful fictions is fast vanishing. Santa Claus, the "bestest" "goodest" fairy of all alone remains: and even he is gradually being doubted by all but the most innocent children, but as he as a personality is still largely amongst us, I give his popular history culled from many sources.Santa Claus LandAt the top of the earth, which they call the North Pole,Is where Santa Claus lives, a right jolly old soul!And the ice and the snow lie so thick on the groundThe sun cannot melt them the whole summer round.All wrapped up in furs from his head to his toes,No feeling of coldness dear Santa Claus knows,But travels about with a heart full of joy,As happy as if he were only a boy.His cheeks are like roses; his eyes are as brightAs stars that shine out overhead in the night,And they twinkle as merrily too all the while,And broad as a sunbeam is Santa Claus' smile.He never is idle except when asleep,And even in dreams at his labours will keep,And all thro' the day and the night, it is true,He is working and planning, dear children, for you.On top of his tower with spy-glass in hand,He goes every morning to look o'er the land,And though there are hills all around, I suppose,He sees, oh, much further than any one knows.He peeps into houses whose doors are tight shut;He looks through the palace, and likewise the hut;He gazes on cities, and villages small,And nothing, no, nothing is hidden at all.He knows where the good children live beyond doubt,He knows where the bad boys and girls are about,And writes down their names on a page by themselves;In a book that he keeps on his library shelves.For good little children, the gentle and kind,The prettiest presents of toys are designed,And when Christmas comes round, as it does once a year,'Tis certain that Santa Claus then will appear.His work-shop is, oh! such a wonderful place,With heaps of gay satins, and ribbons, and lace;With houses and furniture, dishes and pans,And bracelets and bangles, and all sorts of fans.There are horses that gallop, and dollies that walk,And some of the pretty doll-babies can talk.There are pop-guns, and marbles, and tops for the boys,And big drums and trumpets that make a big noise.There are games for all seasons, the base-ball and kite,And books which the children will seize with delight,And the skates and the sleds, far too many to count,And the bicycles ready for wheelmen to mount.There are farm-yards in plenty, with fences and trees,And cows, sheep, and oxen, all taking their ease,And turkeys and ducks, and fine chickens and hens,And dear little piggies to put in their pens.There are gay Noah's Arks, just as full as can beOf animals, really a wonder to see;There are lions and tigers, and camels and bears,And two of each kind, for they travel in pairs.There are elephants stretching their noses quite long;And reindeer and elks with their antlers so strong,And queer kangaroos all the others amid,With their dear little babies in pockets well hid.Is Santa Claus happy? There's no need to ask,For he finds such enjoyment indeed in his task,That he bubbles with laughter, and whistles and sings,While making and planning the beautiful things.He's a jolly good fellow, but ever so shy,And likes to do all his good deeds on the sly,So there's no use spoiling a good winter's napFor you'll not catch a glimpse of the jolly old chap.When Christmas Eve comes, into bed you must creep,And late in the night when you are asleep,He is certain to come; so your stockings prepare,And hang them up close by the chimney with care.The baby's wee stockings you must not forget,For Santa will have something nice for the pet,And those who are thoughtful for others will findThe good saint at Christmas time has them in mind.There is Tommy, who tended the baby with care,A nice train of cars he shall have for his share,And how happy will Eliza be when she looksFor her presents, and finds such a budget of books.For dear little Mary, a doll there will be;And for Alice and Jenny a gay Christmas tree;And wee little Georgie, the baby, will findA big stick of candy, just suiting his mind.Oh, a jolly good sight is this funny old chapWhen he's dressed in his bear-skin and fur-bordered cap,All ready to start on his way through the cold,In a sleigh covered over with jewels and gold.While his deer from the mountains all harnessed with care,Like race-horses prance through the clear frosty air;'Tis fun just to watch them, and hear the bells ring,And the stars seem to think it a comical thing.For old Santa is bundled so close to the chin,That there is not a chance for the cold to get in,His cheeks are so rosy, his eyes how they flash!No horses nor driver e'er cut such a dash!He cracks his long whip, and he whistles a tune,While he winks at the stars, and he bows to the moon,And over the tree-tops he drives like the wind,And leaves all the night-birds a long way behind.His steeds speed away on a journey so fleet,That they seem to have wings to their swift-flying feet,For there's work to be done by a cheery old man,And his coursers will help him as well as they can.His sleigh is with toys and trinkets well packed,You never beheld one with pleasures so stacked;And though of good children he has such a list,Not one is forgotten, not one will be missed.An army he gives to the boy who is neat,And never is rude in the house or the street;And a farm to the lad who goes smiling to school,Who knows all his lessons and minds every rule.And if you would please him—dear Bertie and Jack—;And win a nice prize from the old fellow's pack,Be good little children, your parents obey,And strive to be happy at work or at play.At Christmas old Santa Claus toils like a Turk,For the cheery old fellow is fond of his work.With his queer looking team through the air he will go,And alight on the house-tops all covered in snow.Then down through the chimneys he'll dart without noiseAnd fill up the stockings with candy and toys.There'll be presents for Julia, and Nellie, and Jack,And plenty more left in the old fellow's pack.And if Frank behaves well, and minds what is said,Quits teasing the cat and goes early to bed;He'll find for his present a sled or a gun,A ready companion in frolic and fun.On Santa Claus hurries, and works with a will,For many tall Christmas trees he has to fill,And loads them with treasures from out his rich store,Till they blossom as trees never blossomed before.Though round as a dumpling, and ever so fat,In running and climbing he's spry as a cat,And if the long ladder should happen to break,And he should fall down, what a crash it would make!I told you his home was up North by the Pole,In a palace of hives lives this worthy old soul,And though out of doors it may furiously storm,Indoors as we know, it is sunny and warm.When Christmas is over old Santa Claus goesTo his home in the North, and his well-earned repose,And when he is rested and feeling tip-top,The good-natured workman goes back to his shop.And there he will labor from morning till night,To make others happy his aim and delight,And if his good-will the dear children would earn,They must strive to be happy and good in return.He comes like an angel of light from above,To do on the earth sweetest errands of love;And our hearts and our homes to so fill with good cheerThat we cannot help knowing when Christmas is near.Then let us be glad, so that Christmas may beA real Merry Christmas to you and to me!And now that the story is ended we'll giveThree cheers for old Santa Claus! Long may he live!Previous-Index-NextPage 75—Santa Claus LandChildren Praying for Christmas Presents.A Visit From St. Nicholas'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.The children were nestled all snug in there beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;And mamma in her kerchief and I in my capHad just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,When out in the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash;The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;When what to my wondering eyes should appearBut a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,With a little old driver so lively and quickI knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too;And then in a twinkling I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head and was turning around,Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound,He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack,His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf—And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;A wink of his eye and a twist of his headSoon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out sight;"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."Clement C. MooreWhat Santa Claus BringsLovely little girls and boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.Boxes filled with wooden bricks,Monkeys climbing yellow sticks.Dollies' houses painted red,Tiny soldiers made of lead,Noah's Arks, and Ninepins too,Jack in boxes, painted blue.Cups and Saucers, Pots and Pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with Tops and Tables,Fairy Tales and Aesop's Fables,Clockwork Mice, and Coloured MarblesPainted Bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen hair and moving eyes.Cows and horses, Chickens, Cats,Rattles, Windmills, Boats and Bats,Ducks and Geese, and golden Fishes,Skipping ropes and copper Dishes.Books and coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.Little MaryDear little Mary,With eyes so blue,What has Santa ClausBrought for you?He has brought me a cup,And a curly sheep,And a cradle where dollyMay go to sleep.The best of allIs this funny boxThat winds with a keyJust like the clocks.And when you've woundThe spring up tight,The monkey dancesWith all his might,And Fido barksAnd the puppies play:We're all very happyThis Christmas day.ChristmasDainty little stockingsHanging in a row,Blue, and grey, and scarlet,In the firelight's glow.Curly-pated sleepersSafely tucked in bed;Dreams of wondrous toy-shopsDancing through each head.Funny little stockingsHanging in a rowStuffed with sweet surprises,Down from top to toe.Skates, and balls, and trumpets,Dishes, tops, and drums,Books and dolls and candles,Nuts and sugar-plums.Little sleepers waking:Bless me, what a noise!Wish you merry Christmas,Happy girls and boys!The NurserySanta Claus making Toys.Previous-Index-NextPage 76—Santa Claus LandSanta Claus looking up names of Good Boys and Girls.ChristmasWhen the children have been good,That is, be it understood,Good at meal-times, good at play,Good all night and good all day,—They shall have the pretty thingsMerry Christmas always brings.Santa Claus starting to distribute Toys.A Christmas Eve AdventureOnce on a time, in a queer little town,On the shore of the Zuyder Zee,When all the good people were fast asleep,A strange thing happened to me.Alone, the night before Christmas,I sat by the glowing fire,Watching the flame as it rose and fell,While the sparks shot high and higher.Suddenly one of these sparks beganTo flicker and glimmer and winkLike a big bright eye, till I hardly knewWhat to do or to say or to think.Quick as a flash, it changed to a face,And what in the world did I seeBut dear old Santa Claus nodding his head,And waving his hand to me!"Oh! follow me, follow me!" soft he cried,—And up through the chimney with himI mounted, not daring to utter a wordTill we stood on the chimney's rim."Now tell me, I beg you, dear Santa Claus,Where am I going with you?"He laughingly answered, "Why, don't you know?To travel the whole world through!"From my crystal palace, far in the North,I have come since dark,—and seeThese curious things for the little folkWho live on the Zuyder Zee."Then seating himself in his reindeer sledge,And drawing me down by his side,He whistled, and off on the wings of the windWe flew for our midnight ride.But first, such comical presents he leftFor the little Dutch girls and boys,—Onions and sausages, wooden-faced dolls,Cheeses and gingerbread toys!Away we hurried far to the South,To the beautiful land of France;And there we showered the loveliest gifts,—Flaxen-haired dolls that could dance.Soldiers that marched at the word of command,Necklaces, bracelets and rings,Tiny gold watches, all studded with gems,And hundreds of exquisite things.Crossing the Channel, we made a short callIn Scotland and Ireland, too;Left a warm greeting for England and Wales,Then over the ocean we flewStraight to America, where by myself,Perched on a chimney high,I watched him scramble and bustle aboutBetween the earth and the sky.Many a stocking he filled to the brim,And numberless Christmas treesBurst into bloom at his magical touch!Then all of a sudden a breezeCaught us and bore us away to the South,And afterwards blew us "out West;"And never till dawn peeped over the hillsDid we stop for a moment's rest."Christmas is coming!" he whispered to me,"You can see his smile in the sky,—I wish Merry Christmas to all the world!My work is over,—good-bye!"Like a flash he was gone, and I was alone,—For all of this happened to meOnce on a time, in a queer little townOn the shore of the Zuyder Zee!M. M.Little BennieI had told him, Christmas morning,As he sat upon my knee,Holding fast his little stockings,Stuffed as full as can be,And attentive listening to me,With a face demure and mild,That old Santa Claus, who filled them,Did not love a naughty child."But we'll be good, won't we, moder?"And from off my lap he slid,Digging deep among the goodiesIn his crimson stockings hid.While I turned me to my table,Where a tempting goblet stood,Brimming high with a dainty custard,Sent me by a neighbour good.But the kitten, there before me,With his white paw, nothing loth,Sat, by way of entertainment,Lapping off the shining froth;And, in not the gentlest humourAt the loss of such a treat,I confess I rather rudelyThrust him out into the street.Then how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;Gathering up the precious storeHe had busily been pouringIn his tiny pinafore,With a generous look that shamed meSprang he from the carpet bright,Showing, by his mien indignant,All a baby's sense of right."Come back Harney," called he loudly,As he held his apron white,"You shall have my candy wabbit;"But the door was fastened tight.So he stood, abashed and silent,In the centre of the floor,With defeated look, alternateBent on me and on the door.Then, as by some sudden impulse,Quickly ran he to the fire,And while eagerly his bright eyesWatched the flames grow high and higher,In a brave, clear key he shouted,Like some lordly little elf,"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,Make my mother 'have herself.""I'll be a good girl, Bennie,"Said I, feeling the reproof;And straightway recalled poor Harney,Mewing on the galley roof.Soon the anger was forgotten,Laughter chased away the frown,And they gambolled 'neath the live oaks,Till the dusky night came down.In my dim, fire-lighted chamberHarney purred beneath my chair,And my play-worn boy beside meKnelt to say his evening prayer:"God bess fader, God bess moder,God bess sister," then a pause,And the sweet young lips devoutlyMurmured "God bess Santa Kaus."He is sleeping: brown and silkenLie the lashes, long and meek,Like caressing, clinging shadows,On his plump and peachy cheek;And I bend above him, weeping,Thankful tears; O undefiled;For a woman's crown of glory,For the blessing of a child.Annie C. KetchumPrevious-Index-NextPage 77—Santa Claus LandSanta Claus filling the Stockings.Old Santa ClausOld Santa Claus sat alone in his den,With his leg crossed over his knee;While a comical look peeped out at his eyes,For a funny old fellow was he.His queer little cap was tumbled and torn,And his wig it was all awry;But he sat and mused the whole day long,While the hours went flying by.He had been busy as busy can be,In filling his pack with toys;He had gathered his nuts and baked his pies,To give to the girls and boys.There were dolls for the girls, and whips for the boys,With wheelbarrows, horses and drays,And bureaus and trunks for Dolly's new clothes;All these in his pack he displays.Of candy too, both twisted and striped,He had furnished a plentiful store,While raisins and figs, and prunes and grapes,Hung up on a peg by the door."I am almost ready," quoth he, quoth he,"And Christmas is almost here;But one thing more—I must write a book,And give to each one this year."So he clapped his specs on his little round nose,And seizing the stump of a pen,He wrote more lines in one little hourThan you ever could write in ten.He told them stories all pretty and new,And wrote them all out in rhyme;Then packed them away with his box of toysTo distribute one at a time.And Christmas Eve, when all were in bed,Right down the chimney he flew;And stretching the stocking-leg out at the top,He clapped in a book for you.Santa Claus and the MouseOne Christmas Eve, when Santa ClausCame to a certain house,To fill the children's stockings there,He found a little mouse."A merry Christmas, little friend,"Said Santa, good and kind."The same to you, sir!" said the mouse,"I thought you wouldn't mindIf I should stay awake to night,And watch you for a while.""You're very welcome, little mouse,"Said Santa, with a smile.And then he filled the stockings up,Before the mouse could wink,—From toe to top, from top to toe,There wasn't left a chink."Now, they won't hold another thing,"Said Santa Claus with pride.A twinkle came in mousie's eyes,But humbly he replied:"It's not nice to contradict—Your pardon I implore,—But in the fullest stocking there,I could put one thing more.""Oh, ho!" laughed Santa, "silly mouse!Don't I know how to pack?By filling stockings all these years,I should have learned the knack."And then he took the stocking downFrom where it hung so high,And said: "Now put in one thing more;I give you leave to try."The mousie chuckled to himself,And then he softly stoleRight to the stocking's crowded toe,And gnawed a little hole!"Now, if you please, good Santa Claus,I've put in one thing more;For you will own, that little holeWas not in there before."How Santa Claus did laugh and laugh;And then he gaily spoke;"Well, you shall have a Christmas cheese,For that nice little joke."A Nice Little Present"Our Santa Claus," cried Bettie,"Is nice as any other;He brought the nicest presentTo me and to my mother."It was—oh, you can't guess it—A darling little brother.He kicks and cries, and shuts his eyes,And he's sweet enough to eat."I'd rather have my baby brotherThan dolls or candy—so would my mother."The Night Before ChristmasCurly heads, so softly pillowed;Chubby arms outspread;Thousand fancies swiftly flyingThrough each little head.Clasping treasures newly garnered,Dolly, book, and ball,Still they dream of coming pleasuresGreater than them all.Christmas-trees of gorgeous beauty,Filled with presents rare;Toys unheard of, joys unnumbered,All delights are there.Angel forms, with smiling faces,Hover round the bed;Angel feet make echoing musicAs they lightly tread.Angel voices, softly thrilling,Chant a lullaby:"Darlings, dream, and sweetly slumber,We are watching by."Who from dreams like these would wakenTo a world of pain?"Hush, then, dear ones! Have we roused you?Turn and dream again."Baby waking up nearly caught Santa Claus.Previous-Index-NextPage 78—Santa Claus LandAnnie and Willie Praying.Annie And Willie's Prayer'Twas the eve before Christmas; good night had been said,And Annie and Willie had crept into bed.There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,And each little bosom was heaving with sighs;For to-night their stern father's command had been given,That they should retire precisely at sevenInstead of at eight; for they had troubled him moreWith questions unheard of than ever before.He had told them he thought this delusion a sin;No such creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been;And he hoped, after this, he should never more hearHow he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.And this was the reason that two little headsSo restlessly tosses on their soft, downy beds.Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;Not a word had been spoken by either till then;When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,And he whispered: "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast asleep?""Why, no, Brother Willie," a sweet voice replies;"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes;"For somehow it makes me so sorry becauseDear Papa has said there is no Santa Claus.Now we know there is, and it can't be deniedFor he came every year before dear mamma died;"But then, I've been thinking, that she used to pray,—And God would hear everything dear mamma would say,—And, maybe, she asked him to send Santa Claus hereWith the sack full of presents he brought every year.""Well, why tannot we p'ay, dust as mamma did, den,And ask Dod to send him with presents aden?""I've been thinking so, too;" and without a word moreFour little bare feet bounded out on the floor,And four little knees on the soft carpet pressed,And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast,"Now, Willie, you know, we must firmly believeThat the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;"You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'And by that you will know that your turn has come then.—"Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me,And grant us the favours we're asking of Thee."I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and a ring,And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to seeThat Santa Claus loves us as much as does he."Don't let hem get fretful and angry again,At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen.""Dear Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to nightAnd bring us some p'esents before it is 'ight;"I want he sood div' me a nice little sled,Wid bight shinin' 'unners, and all painted 'edA box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,Amen. And den, Desus, I'll be a dood boy."Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads,And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds;They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep,And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck tenEre the father had thought of his children again;He seems now to hear Annie's self-suppressed sighs,And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes."I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,"And should not have sent them so early to bed:But then I was troubled: My feelings found vent;For the bank-stock to-day has gone down two percent.;"But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss;But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door—To my darlings I have never spoke harshly before."So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers;His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears,And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears."Strange, strange! I'd forgotten," he said with a sigh,"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nighI'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down,Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing gown.Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in the street,A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet!Nor stopped he until he had bought everything,From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring:Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store,That the various presents outnumbered a score.Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load,With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stow'd.Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,And the side of a table spread out for her tea;A work-box, well-filled, in the centre was laid,And on it the ring for which Annie had pray'd.A soldier in uniform stood by a sled,With bright shining runners, and all painted red.There were balls, dogs, horses; books pleasing to see;And birds of all colours were perched in the tree;While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,As if getting ready more presents to drop.Now, as the fond father the picture surveyed,He thought for his trouble he'd amply been paid;As he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,"I'm happier to night than I have been for a year;"I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before;What care I if bank-stock fell two per cent. more!Henceforward I'll make it a rule, I believe,To have Santa Clause visit us each Christmas-eve."So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,And, slipping downstairs, retired for the night.As soon as the beams of the bright morning sunPut the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one,Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,And at the same moment the presents espied.Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found.And they laughed and they cried in their innocent glee,And shouted for papa to come quick and seeWhat presents old Santa Claus brought in the night(Just the things they wanted!), and left before light."And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,"You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know;"While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,Determined no secret between them should be;And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had saidThat their blessed mamma, so long ago dead,Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair,And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer."Den we dot up and p'ayed just as well as we tood,And Dod answered our p'ayer, now wasn't He dood?""I should say that He was, if He sent you all these,And knew just what presents my children would please."("Well, well, let them think so, dear little elf!'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.")Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent,And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent?'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly upstairsAnd made you His agent to answer their prayers.Mrs. Sophia P. SnowPrevious-Index-NextPage 79—Santa Claus LandBoy Nailing up his Father's Trousers.Budds' Christmas StockingIt was Christmas-time, as all the world knew;It stormed without, and the cold wind blew,But within all was cheerful, snug, and bright,With glowing fires and many a light.Budd B. was sent quite early to bed,His stocking was hung up close to his head,And he said to himself "When all grows stillI will find a big stocking for Santy to fill."Now, good, honest Hans, who worked at the house,Had gone to his bed as still as a mouse;The room where he slept was one story higherThan Budd's little room, with gaslight and fire.Now, Hans loved "the poy," and petted him too,And often at night, when his task was all through,He would tell him strange stories of over the sea,While Budd listened gravely or laughed out in glee.This night Hans had promised to wake Budd at four;He would softly come down and open his door;But suddenly Budd bounded out of his bed,And stole softly up to the room overhead.On his hands and his knees he crept softly in,"I'll borrow Han's stocking," he said, with a grin;Old Santy will fill it up to the top,And Hans—oh, such fun! will be mad as a hop."He moved very slowly, and felt near the bed;No stocking was there, but down on his headCame a deluge of water, well sprinkled with ice,While honest Hans held him as if in a vice."Vat is dat?" he cried out; "von robber I find,Den I pound him, and shake him, so much as I mind""It's me," called out Budd; "Stop, Hans! oh, please do;I'm only a boy; I could not rob you."But Hans did not pause—his temper was hot—And he dragged the young robber at once from the spot,When he reached the hall light great was his surpriseTo find his young master with tears in his eyes."I wanted your stocking," muttered Budd B.;It is bigger than mine; boo hoo! I can't see,And I'm all wet and cold." thus cried Budd aloud,Until guests and his parents ran up in a crowd.He was wrapped up with care and taken to bed,But, strangest of all, not a harsh word was said.He flattered himself as he fell asleepThat Hans and his friends the secret would keep.Next morning, when Christmas songs filled all the air,Budd found, to his grief and boyish despair,That his neck was so stiff that he could not turn his head,And must spend the whole day alone in his bed.What was worse, his own stocking hung limp on a chair,And on it these words were written most fair:"To him who is greedy I leave less than all;The world is so large and my reindeer so small."My pack is elastic when children are kind,But it shuts with a snap and leaves nothing behind,When a boy or girl is selfish or mean.Good-bye, little Budd, I am off with my team.(Signed) Santa Claus."ChristmasAgain the Christmas holidays have come,We soon will hear the trumpet and the drum;We'll hear the merry shout of the girls and boysRejoicing o'er their gifts of books and toys.Old Santa Claus comes by at dead of night,And down the chimney creeps—a funny sight;He fills the stockings full of books and toys,But puts in whips for naughty girls and boys.One Christmas-eve the moon shone clear and bright;I thought I'd keep awake and watch all night,But it was silent all around and stilled,Yet in the morn I found my stockings filled.Christmas MorningThey put me in a square bed, and there they bade me sleep;I must not stir; I must not wake; I must not even peep;Right opposite that lonely bed, my Christmas stocking hung;While near it, waiting for the morn, my Sunday clothes were flung.I counted softly, to myself, to ten and ten times ten,And went through all the alphabet, and then began again;I repeated that Fifth-Reader piece—a poem called "Repose,"And tried a dozen various ways to fall into a dose—When suddenly the room grew light. I heard a soft, strong bound,'Twas Santa Claus, I felt quite sure, but dared not look around.'Twas nice to know that he was there, and things were going rightly,And so I took a little nap, and tried to smile politely."Ho! Merry Christmas!" cried a voice; I felt the bed a-rocking;Twas daylight—brother Bob was up! and oh, that splendid stocking!St. NicholasSign for Santa, asking for Bicycle or Pony.Previous-Index-NextPage 80—Santa Claus LandWhat the Rich Man's Child got.Little Nellie's Visit From Santa ClausSanta Claus is coming to-night, papa;Please let me sit up and see him, mamma;Loaded with presents, I'm sure he'll be.He'll have something nice for you and for me."Mamma, do find something fresh and quite new,For dear old Santa Claus, when he comes through,I'll give it myself; I'll keep wide awake;I know he'll be glad my present to take."Now all go to bed as quick as you please,I'll wait for him," said the bright little tease,"He surely will ring, no doubt about that,I'll bid him come in and then have a chat."Soon came a quick step on the piazza floor,Just then a loud ring was heard at the door.The little miss rose with dignified air,Quick ushered him in, and set him a chair.All covered o'er with little bells tinkling,Shaking and laughing, twisting and wriggling,A funny old man, with little eyes blinking,Looking at Nellie, what was he thinking?Not a word did he say—tired of waiting,Nellie arose, her little heart quaking,Held out her present, courage most failing,"Santa Claus, take this"—now she is smiling."His furry old hand, twisting and trembling,Took the sweet gift—"You dear little darling,"Uttered quite softly, tenderly kissing,The bright little face, ne'er a bit shrinking.Lots of presents quickly bestowing,Thanking her kindly—he must be going,Shaking and laughing, his little bells jingling,Down the steps, hastening off in a twinkling.Brave little lady! all are now saying,Santa Claus truly! bright eyes are asking;See her dear papa, secretly laughingAt her true faith in Santa Claus' coming.Yes! she believes it, ever so truly,Dear precious darling! rob her not surely,Of childhood's sweet faith, now in its glory,While she's relating her own simple story.Mrs. C. E. WilburChristmas Stockings'Tis Christmas day,And little MayPeeps from her bed in the morning grey.She looks around,But not a soundBreaks on the quietness profound.So, heaving sighs,She shuts her eyes,And hard to go to sleep she tries.But sleep has fledThat little bed.And weary moves the curly head,Until the light(Oh, welcome sight!)Has banished every trace of night.Then out of bed,With hurried tread,She runs to waken brother Fred;For oh, what joys,In the shape of toys,Does Christmas bring to girls and boys!Fred gives a groan,Or a sleepy moan,And mutters, "Do let me alone!"But bonnie MayWill not have nay;She whispers, "It is Christmas day!"Oh, magic sound!For Fred turns round,And in a trice is on the ground."Our stockings, where?""They're on that chair.""Oh, what has Santa Claus put there?"May laughs with glee,The sight to see,Of stockings filled from toe to kneeWith parcels queer,That stick out here,Before, behind, in front and rear."Oh, Fred! a dolly!I'll call her Molly.""Why, may, a penknife here; how jolly!""A necktie blue!A paintbox too!""Oh, Fred, a pair of kid gloves new!""May, here's a gun!Won't we have fun,Playing at soldiers!—You'll be one.""Now that is all.No; here's a ball;Just hold it, or these things will fall.""What's in the toe,May, do you know?Biscuits and figs!—I told you so.""I think," said May,That Christmas dayShould come at least every second day."And so say we;But then you seeThat Santa Claus would tired be.And all his toysAnd Christmas joysWould vanish then from girls and boys.From "The Prize"Hang Up Baby's StockingHang up the baby's stocking:Be sure you don't forget:The dear little dimpled darlingHas never seen Christmas yet.But I told him all about it,And he opened his big blue eyes;I'm sure he understood it,He looked so funny and wise.Ah, what a tiny stocking;It doesn't take so much to holdSuch little toes as baby'sSafe from the frost and cold.But then, for the baby's ChristmasIt never will do at all;For Santa Claus wouldn't be lookingFor anything half so small.I know what will do for baby;I've thought of a first-rate plan;I'll borrow a stocking of grandma—The longest that I ever can.And you shall hang it by mine, mother,Right here in the corner—so;And write a letter for baby.And fasten it on the toe."Old Santa Claus, this is a stockingHung up for our baby dear;You never have seen our darling,He has not been with us a year,"But he is a beautiful baby;And now, before you go,Please cram this stocking with presents,From the top of it down to the toe."Put in a baby's rattle,Also a coral ring,A bright new ribbon for his waist;Some beads hung on a string"And mind a coloured ball please,And a tiny pair of shoes;You'll see from this little stocking,The size you have to choose."Santa ClausA health to good old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.Ho comes from utmost fairylandAcross the wintry snows;He makes the fir-tree and the spruceTo blossom like the rose.Over the quaint old gables,Over the windy ridge,By turret wall and chimney tall,He guided his fairy sledge;He steals upon the slumbersOf little rose-lipped girls,And lays his waxen dollies downBeside their golden curls.He scatters blessings on his way,And sugar-coated plums;He robs the sluggard from his restWith trumpets, guns, and drums.Small feet, before the dawn of day,Are marching to and fro,Drums beat to arms through all the house,And penny trumpets blow.A health to brave old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.S. H. WhitmanPrevious-Index-NextPage 81—Play LandFather making Shadow-Rabbit for Daughter.The Rabbit on the WallThe children shout with laughter,The uproar louder grows;Even grandma chuckles faintly,And Johnny chirps and crows.There ne'er was gilded painting,Hung up in lordly hall,Gave half the simple pleasureAs this rabbit on the wall.The cottage work is over,The evening meal is done;Hark! thro' the starlight stillnessYou hear the river run.The little children whisper,Then speak out one and all;"Come, father, make for Johnny,The rabbit on the wall."He—smilingly assenting,They gather round his chair;"Now, grandma, you hold Johnny;Don't let the candle flare."So speaking, from his fingersHe throws a shadow tall,That seems, a moment after,A rabbit on the wall.Holiday TimeWith these three little girls and two little boysThere is sure to be plenty of laughter and noise;But nobody minds it, because don't you see,At school they are quiet with lessons to say—But when the holidays come they can play the whole day.The Fairy QueenLet us laugh and let us sing,Dancing in a merry ring;We'll be fairies on the green,Sporting round the Fairy Queen.Like the seasons of the year,Round we circle in a sphere;I'll be Summer, you'll be Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Harry will be Winter wild;Little Annie, Autumn mild;Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Spring and Summer glide away,Autumn comes with tresses grey;Winter, hand in hand with Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Faster! faster! round we goWhile our cheeks like roses glow;Free as birds upon the wing,Dancing in a fairy ring.Come and Play in the GardenLittle sister, come away,And let us in the garden play,For it is a pleasant day.On the grassplot let us sit,Or, if you please, we'll play a bit,And run about all over it.But the fruit we will not pick,For that would be a naughty trick,And, very likely, make us sick.Nor will we pluck the pretty flowersThat grow about the beds and bowers,Because, you know, they are not ours.We'll pluck the daisies, white and red,Because mamma has often said,That we may gather them instead.And much I hope we always mayOut very dear mamma obey,And mind whatever she may say.Little RompI am tired to death of keeping stillAnd being good all day.I guess my mamma's companyForgot to go away,I've wished and wished they'd think of it,And that they would get through;But they must talk for ever first,They almost always do.I heard Tom calling to me once,He's launched his boat, I know;I wanted to get out and help,But mamma's eyes said no.The ladies talk such stuff to me,It makes me sick to hear—"How beautiful your hair curls!" or,"How red your cheeks are, dear!"I'd ten times rather run a race,Then play my tunes and things;I wouldn't swop my dogs and ballsFor forty diamond rings.I've got no 'finement, aunty says,I 'spect she knows the best;I don't need much to climb a tree,Or hunt a squirrel's nest."Girls are like berries," papa says,"Sweeter for running wild,"But Aunt Melissa shakes her head,And calls me "Horrid child!"I'll always be a romp she knows—But sure's my name is Sadie,I'll fool 'em all some dreadful day,By growing up a lady.Hide and Seek"We will have a game of hide and seek,Now mind you do not look."And Willie went and hid himselfIn a dark and lonely nook.Then the children went to find him;They hunted all about.It was a funny way in whichAt last they found him out.Just as they got where he was hid,In his nose he felt a ticklingThat made him sneeze, and so you seeThey found him in a twinkling.Child and Dog playing Adventurers.Previous-Index-NextPage 82—Play LandOur Tea Party.Tired of PlayTired of play! tired of play!What hast thou done this livelong day?The birds are silent, and so is the bee;The sun is creeping up temple and tree;The doves have flown to the sheltering evesAnd the nests are dark with the drooping leaves.Twilight gathers and day is done,How hast thou spent it, restless one?Playing? But what has thou done beside,To tell thy mother at eventide?What promise of morn is left unbroken?What kind word to thy playmate spoken?Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven,How with thy faults has duty striven,What hast thou learned by field and hill?By greenwood path, and singing rill?Well for thee if thou couldst tell,A tale like this of a day spent well,If thy kind hand has aided distress,And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness;If thou hast forgiven a brother's offence,And grieved for thine own with penitence;If every creature has won thy loveFrom the creeping worm to the brooding dove,Then with joy and peace on the bed of rest,Thou wilt sleep as on thy mother's breast.Sea-side PlayTwo little boys, all neat and clean,Came down upon the shore:They did not know old Ocean's ways—They'd ne'er seen him before.So quietly they sat them down,To build a fort of sand;Their backs were turned to the sea,Their faces toward the land.They had just built a famous fort—The handkerchief flag was spread—When up there came a stealthy wave,And turned them heels over head.After School HoursSchool is closed and tasks are done,Flowers are laughing in the sun;Like the songsters in the air,Happy children, banish care!Riding on a GateSing, sing,What shall we sing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.If you have not a horse,Or haven't a swing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.Cry, cry,Finger in eye,Go home to motherAnd tell her why;You've been riding,And why not I?Each in turn, isn't that the ruleFor work or play, at home or school.Walking SongCome, my children, come away,For the sun shines bright to-day;Little children, come with me,Birds, and brooks, and posies see;Get your hats and come away,For it is a pleasant day.Bring the hoop and bring the ball,Come with happy faces all,Let us make a merry ring,Talk, and laugh, and dance, and singQuickly, quickly come away,For it is a pleasant day.The Lost PlaymateThe old school-house is still to day,The rooms have no gay throng;No ringing laugh is on the air,There is no snatch of song.The white-haired master sits uponThe seat beneath the tree,And thinks upon the vanished face,With all its boyish glee.But a few short days ago, the ladWas gayest of the gay,Quick at the page of knowledge, andThe heartiest in play.The pride of the home beside the stream,With his pigeons in their cots,And finding life a very dream,In pleasant homely spots.His school companions loving him,And old folks speaking praise,Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,And cheery, happy ways.All in the village knew the boy,From parson down to clerk,And his whistle in the village streetWas clear as the song of lark.But like a dream he's passed away,And from the chamber dim,In the fair light of summer day,The peasants carry him.And playmates gather at the grave,The old schoolmaster there,While blossomed boughs wave over-head,And all around is fair.True is the grief that brings the tear,There is no empty show;The simple neighbours see their loss,And there is heart-felt woe.They talk of the bright and lively lad,Cut down in boyish prime,And old folks think how strange is life,More strange with passing time!Oh! simple sight on green hill-side,Away from pomp and power;Here are the truths so oft deniedTo the imperial hour.Dear child, how precious are the tears,Suffusing friendly eyes!Sublimity is in their gleam,A light from God's own skies.Naughty Mice Teasing the Poor Kitten.Previous-Index-NextPage 83—Play LandChinese Toy Merchant.In the Toy ShopCups and saucers, pots and pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with tops and tables,Fairy tales, and Aesop's fables.Clockwork mice, and colored marbles,Painted bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen curls and moving eyes.Cows and horses, chickens, cats,Rattles, windmills, boats and bats,Ducks and geese, and golden fishes,Skipping ropes, and copper dishes.Books with coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Here you are, all sorts of toys.Neat Little Clara"Little Clara, come away,Little Clara, come and play;Leave your work, Maria's here,So come and play with me, my dear.""I will come, and very soon,For I always play at noon;But must put my work away,Ere with you I come and play.First my bodkin I must placeWith my needles in their case;I like to put them by with care,And then I always find them there.There's my cotton, there's my threadThimble in its little bed;All is safe—my box I lock,Now I come—'tis twelve o'clock."Playing Store"Ting-a-ling!" Now theyHave opened the store,Never was suchAn assortment before;Mud pies in plenty,And parcels of sand,Pebbles for sugar plums,Always on hand.Plenty of customersComing to buy,"Brown sugar, white sugarWhich will you try?Paper for money;Their wealth, too, is vast;In spite of the plenty,They scatter it fast.Quick little handsTie bundles with care,Summer's glad musicIs filling the air;Birdies fly over,And wonder, no doubt,What all these gaylittle folks are about.Our Shop.FishingHe took a stick, he took a cord,He took a crooked pin,And went a-fishing in the sandAnd almost tumbled in.But just before he tumbled in,By chance it came about,He hooked a whiting and a sole,And made them tumble out.Hide and SeekWhen the clean white cloth is laid,And the cups are on the table,When the tea and toast are made,That's a happy time for Mabel.Stealing to her mother's side,In her ear she whispers low,"When papa comes I'll hide;Don't tell him where I go,"On her knees upon the floor,In below the sofa creeping;When she hears him at the door,She pretends that she is sleeping."Where is Mabel?" father cries,Looking round and round about.Then he murmurs in surprise,"Surely Mabel can't be out."First he looks behind his chair,Then he peers beneath the table,Seeking, searching everywhereAll in vain for little Mabel;But at last he thinks he knows,And he laughs and shakes his head,Says to mother, "I supposeMabel has been put to bed."But when he sits down to tea,From beneath the sofa creeping,Mabel climbs upon his knee,Clasps her hands: "I was not sleeping."When he asks, "Where is my girl'sVery secret hiding-place?"Mabel only shakes her curls,Laughing, smiling, in his face.Johnny Giving his Sister a Ride.Previous-Index-Next

The Thieves' LadderThe girls were helping in the house,With bustle and with show,And told the boys to go away,And not disturb them so.And the boys went whistling down the streets,And looking in the shopsAt tempting heaps of oranges,And piles of sugar-drops."Here, Willie, to the grocer's run;Be sharp, now—there's a man,And bring me home a pound of plumsAs quickly as you can!"Don't touch a plum—be sure you don't;To-morrow you shall eat.""I won't." he said, and, like a top,Went spinning down the street.The grocer weigh'd them in his scales,And there was one too much;He took it out, and all was right,The scale was to a touch.He wrapp'd them up in whitey-brown,And tied them with a string,And put the money in the till,As 'twere a common thing.Young Willie watched, with greedy eyes,As this affair went on.The plums—they look'd so very nice!He wouldn't take butone.So going quick behind a post,He tore the paper soThat he could take out two or three,And nobody would know.There was a little voice that said,Close by, in Willie's heart,"Don't tear the hole—don't take the plum—Don't play a thievish part!"The little voice—it spoke in vain!He reach'd his mother's door;She did not see the hole he'd made,His trouble then was o'er.And what a trifling thing it seem'd,To take one single plum!A little thing we hold betweenOur finger and out thumb.And yet upon that Christmas eve,That period so brief,Young Willie set his foot upon"The ladder of the thief!"And as he lay awake that night,He heard his parents speak;He heard distinctly what they said,The blood rush'd to his cheek.He lay and listn'd earnestly;They might have found him out,And he might get a flogging too,'Twas that he thought about.A guilty person cannot rest,He always is in fear;Not knowing what may happen nextTo make his guilt appear.So, when he heard his mother speak,He rose up in his bed,And did not lose a syllableOf every word she said:—"We have not any turnips, John,I could not spare the pence;But you can go and get us someThrough Farmer Turner's fence."There's nobody to see you now,The folks are off the road;The night looks dark and blustering,And no one is abroad."It is not far—you'll soon be back—I'll stand outside to hear;The watchman now is off his track,And won't be coming near."The father he went softly out,And down the lane he crept,And stole some turnips from the fieldWhilst honest people slept!'Tis not the words that parents say,It is their very deed;Their children know the difference,And follow where they lead.How often, if their lives are good,Their children's are the same;Whilst, if they're thievish, drunken,Their children come to shame!Now, Willie laid him down in bed,His conscience found relief;"I'm not the only one," he said—"My father is a thief!"How foolish 'twas to be afraidAbout a little plum!"He pull'd the bed-clothes o'er his head,And dream'd of feasts to come.On Christmas-day they had the pies.The turnips, and the beef;And Willie's foot was firm uponThe ladder of the thief.And ere the snow was on the plain,And Christmas-day came round,And boys were sliding, once again,Upon the frozen ground,He, step by step, had further goneUpon that dreadful roadThat brings a man to misery,And takes him far from God.He cheated with his marbles first,And then at other play;He pilfered any little thingThat came within his way.His parents did not punish him;He went from bad to worse,Until he grew so confident,He stole a lady's purse.Then he was seized, and brought beforeThe city magistrate;And the police and lady cameThe robbery to state.And Willie he was proved a thief,And nothing had to say;So to the dreadful prison-houseHe soon was led away.In vain he cried, and pleaded hardThey would not take him there;He would not do such things againIf they would hear his prayer.It was too late! The prison door,With bolt, and bar, and chain,Was opened to take Willie in,And then was shut again.He saw the handcuffs on the wall,The fetters on the floor;And heavy keys with iron ringsTo lock the dungeon door.He saw the little, lonely cellsWhere prisoners were kept,And all the dreary passages,And bitterly he wept.And through the strong-barred iron grate,High up and far away,He saw a piece of clear blue skyOut in the blessed day.And "Oh!" he said, "my brothers nowAre out of school again,And playing marbles on the path,Or cricket on the plain."And here am I, shut up so closeWithin this iron door;If ever I get out againI'll give this business o'er."And Willie went to sleep that nightIn his dark cell alone;But often in his troubled dreamsHe turned with heavy moan.What sound is that at early mornThat breaks upon his ear?A funeral bell is tolling slow,It tolls so very near.And in the court he sees a crowd,So haggard and so pale,And they are whispering fearfullyA sad and awful tale.And all seem looking at a manWho stands with fetters bound,And guards and executionerAre gathered close around.And he beheld that wretched man,Who trembled like a leaf:His foot no more would stand uponThe ladder of the thief.For he had climbed it step by step,Till murder closed the whole;The hangman came to take his life,But where would be his soul?And still the bell went tolling on;It tolled so heavilyAs that young man went up the stairs,Out to the gallows-tree.It tolled—it tolled—Oh! heavy sound!It stopped—the deed is o'er;And that young man upon the earthWill now be seen no more:Oh! parents watch your little ones,Lest you have such a grief;Help not their tender feet to climbThe ladder of the thief.I have not heard young Willie's end,I hope he learned that day;But 'tis a thing most difficultTo leave a wicked way.SewellThe Prisoner's Van.

The Thieves' Ladder

The girls were helping in the house,With bustle and with show,And told the boys to go away,And not disturb them so.And the boys went whistling down the streets,And looking in the shopsAt tempting heaps of oranges,And piles of sugar-drops.

"Here, Willie, to the grocer's run;Be sharp, now—there's a man,And bring me home a pound of plumsAs quickly as you can!"Don't touch a plum—be sure you don't;To-morrow you shall eat.""I won't." he said, and, like a top,Went spinning down the street.

The grocer weigh'd them in his scales,And there was one too much;He took it out, and all was right,The scale was to a touch.He wrapp'd them up in whitey-brown,And tied them with a string,And put the money in the till,As 'twere a common thing.

Young Willie watched, with greedy eyes,As this affair went on.The plums—they look'd so very nice!He wouldn't take butone.So going quick behind a post,He tore the paper soThat he could take out two or three,And nobody would know.

There was a little voice that said,Close by, in Willie's heart,"Don't tear the hole—don't take the plum—Don't play a thievish part!"The little voice—it spoke in vain!He reach'd his mother's door;She did not see the hole he'd made,His trouble then was o'er.

And what a trifling thing it seem'd,To take one single plum!A little thing we hold betweenOur finger and out thumb.And yet upon that Christmas eve,That period so brief,Young Willie set his foot upon"The ladder of the thief!"

And as he lay awake that night,He heard his parents speak;He heard distinctly what they said,The blood rush'd to his cheek.He lay and listn'd earnestly;They might have found him out,And he might get a flogging too,'Twas that he thought about.

A guilty person cannot rest,He always is in fear;Not knowing what may happen nextTo make his guilt appear.So, when he heard his mother speak,He rose up in his bed,And did not lose a syllableOf every word she said:—

"We have not any turnips, John,I could not spare the pence;But you can go and get us someThrough Farmer Turner's fence."There's nobody to see you now,The folks are off the road;The night looks dark and blustering,And no one is abroad.

"It is not far—you'll soon be back—I'll stand outside to hear;The watchman now is off his track,And won't be coming near."The father he went softly out,And down the lane he crept,And stole some turnips from the fieldWhilst honest people slept!

'Tis not the words that parents say,It is their very deed;Their children know the difference,And follow where they lead.How often, if their lives are good,Their children's are the same;Whilst, if they're thievish, drunken,Their children come to shame!

Now, Willie laid him down in bed,His conscience found relief;"I'm not the only one," he said—"My father is a thief!"How foolish 'twas to be afraidAbout a little plum!"He pull'd the bed-clothes o'er his head,And dream'd of feasts to come.

On Christmas-day they had the pies.The turnips, and the beef;And Willie's foot was firm uponThe ladder of the thief.And ere the snow was on the plain,And Christmas-day came round,And boys were sliding, once again,Upon the frozen ground,

He, step by step, had further goneUpon that dreadful roadThat brings a man to misery,And takes him far from God.He cheated with his marbles first,And then at other play;He pilfered any little thingThat came within his way.

His parents did not punish him;He went from bad to worse,Until he grew so confident,He stole a lady's purse.Then he was seized, and brought beforeThe city magistrate;And the police and lady cameThe robbery to state.

And Willie he was proved a thief,And nothing had to say;So to the dreadful prison-houseHe soon was led away.In vain he cried, and pleaded hardThey would not take him there;He would not do such things againIf they would hear his prayer.

It was too late! The prison door,With bolt, and bar, and chain,Was opened to take Willie in,And then was shut again.He saw the handcuffs on the wall,The fetters on the floor;And heavy keys with iron ringsTo lock the dungeon door.

He saw the little, lonely cellsWhere prisoners were kept,And all the dreary passages,And bitterly he wept.And through the strong-barred iron grate,High up and far away,He saw a piece of clear blue skyOut in the blessed day.

And "Oh!" he said, "my brothers nowAre out of school again,And playing marbles on the path,Or cricket on the plain."And here am I, shut up so closeWithin this iron door;If ever I get out againI'll give this business o'er."

And Willie went to sleep that nightIn his dark cell alone;But often in his troubled dreamsHe turned with heavy moan.What sound is that at early mornThat breaks upon his ear?A funeral bell is tolling slow,It tolls so very near.

And in the court he sees a crowd,So haggard and so pale,And they are whispering fearfullyA sad and awful tale.And all seem looking at a manWho stands with fetters bound,And guards and executionerAre gathered close around.

And he beheld that wretched man,Who trembled like a leaf:His foot no more would stand uponThe ladder of the thief.For he had climbed it step by step,Till murder closed the whole;The hangman came to take his life,But where would be his soul?

And still the bell went tolling on;It tolled so heavilyAs that young man went up the stairs,Out to the gallows-tree.It tolled—it tolled—Oh! heavy sound!It stopped—the deed is o'er;And that young man upon the earthWill now be seen no more:

Oh! parents watch your little ones,Lest you have such a grief;Help not their tender feet to climbThe ladder of the thief.I have not heard young Willie's end,I hope he learned that day;But 'tis a thing most difficultTo leave a wicked way.

Sewell

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I have given no Fairy Tales in this Childland. For in thismatter-of-factage belief in Fairy Tales and all kinds of wonderful fictions is fast vanishing. Santa Claus, the "bestest" "goodest" fairy of all alone remains: and even he is gradually being doubted by all but the most innocent children, but as he as a personality is still largely amongst us, I give his popular history culled from many sources.Santa Claus LandAt the top of the earth, which they call the North Pole,Is where Santa Claus lives, a right jolly old soul!And the ice and the snow lie so thick on the groundThe sun cannot melt them the whole summer round.All wrapped up in furs from his head to his toes,No feeling of coldness dear Santa Claus knows,But travels about with a heart full of joy,As happy as if he were only a boy.His cheeks are like roses; his eyes are as brightAs stars that shine out overhead in the night,And they twinkle as merrily too all the while,And broad as a sunbeam is Santa Claus' smile.He never is idle except when asleep,And even in dreams at his labours will keep,And all thro' the day and the night, it is true,He is working and planning, dear children, for you.On top of his tower with spy-glass in hand,He goes every morning to look o'er the land,And though there are hills all around, I suppose,He sees, oh, much further than any one knows.He peeps into houses whose doors are tight shut;He looks through the palace, and likewise the hut;He gazes on cities, and villages small,And nothing, no, nothing is hidden at all.He knows where the good children live beyond doubt,He knows where the bad boys and girls are about,And writes down their names on a page by themselves;In a book that he keeps on his library shelves.For good little children, the gentle and kind,The prettiest presents of toys are designed,And when Christmas comes round, as it does once a year,'Tis certain that Santa Claus then will appear.His work-shop is, oh! such a wonderful place,With heaps of gay satins, and ribbons, and lace;With houses and furniture, dishes and pans,And bracelets and bangles, and all sorts of fans.There are horses that gallop, and dollies that walk,And some of the pretty doll-babies can talk.There are pop-guns, and marbles, and tops for the boys,And big drums and trumpets that make a big noise.There are games for all seasons, the base-ball and kite,And books which the children will seize with delight,And the skates and the sleds, far too many to count,And the bicycles ready for wheelmen to mount.There are farm-yards in plenty, with fences and trees,And cows, sheep, and oxen, all taking their ease,And turkeys and ducks, and fine chickens and hens,And dear little piggies to put in their pens.There are gay Noah's Arks, just as full as can beOf animals, really a wonder to see;There are lions and tigers, and camels and bears,And two of each kind, for they travel in pairs.There are elephants stretching their noses quite long;And reindeer and elks with their antlers so strong,And queer kangaroos all the others amid,With their dear little babies in pockets well hid.Is Santa Claus happy? There's no need to ask,For he finds such enjoyment indeed in his task,That he bubbles with laughter, and whistles and sings,While making and planning the beautiful things.He's a jolly good fellow, but ever so shy,And likes to do all his good deeds on the sly,So there's no use spoiling a good winter's napFor you'll not catch a glimpse of the jolly old chap.When Christmas Eve comes, into bed you must creep,And late in the night when you are asleep,He is certain to come; so your stockings prepare,And hang them up close by the chimney with care.The baby's wee stockings you must not forget,For Santa will have something nice for the pet,And those who are thoughtful for others will findThe good saint at Christmas time has them in mind.There is Tommy, who tended the baby with care,A nice train of cars he shall have for his share,And how happy will Eliza be when she looksFor her presents, and finds such a budget of books.For dear little Mary, a doll there will be;And for Alice and Jenny a gay Christmas tree;And wee little Georgie, the baby, will findA big stick of candy, just suiting his mind.Oh, a jolly good sight is this funny old chapWhen he's dressed in his bear-skin and fur-bordered cap,All ready to start on his way through the cold,In a sleigh covered over with jewels and gold.While his deer from the mountains all harnessed with care,Like race-horses prance through the clear frosty air;'Tis fun just to watch them, and hear the bells ring,And the stars seem to think it a comical thing.For old Santa is bundled so close to the chin,That there is not a chance for the cold to get in,His cheeks are so rosy, his eyes how they flash!No horses nor driver e'er cut such a dash!He cracks his long whip, and he whistles a tune,While he winks at the stars, and he bows to the moon,And over the tree-tops he drives like the wind,And leaves all the night-birds a long way behind.His steeds speed away on a journey so fleet,That they seem to have wings to their swift-flying feet,For there's work to be done by a cheery old man,And his coursers will help him as well as they can.His sleigh is with toys and trinkets well packed,You never beheld one with pleasures so stacked;And though of good children he has such a list,Not one is forgotten, not one will be missed.An army he gives to the boy who is neat,And never is rude in the house or the street;And a farm to the lad who goes smiling to school,Who knows all his lessons and minds every rule.And if you would please him—dear Bertie and Jack—;And win a nice prize from the old fellow's pack,Be good little children, your parents obey,And strive to be happy at work or at play.At Christmas old Santa Claus toils like a Turk,For the cheery old fellow is fond of his work.With his queer looking team through the air he will go,And alight on the house-tops all covered in snow.Then down through the chimneys he'll dart without noiseAnd fill up the stockings with candy and toys.There'll be presents for Julia, and Nellie, and Jack,And plenty more left in the old fellow's pack.And if Frank behaves well, and minds what is said,Quits teasing the cat and goes early to bed;He'll find for his present a sled or a gun,A ready companion in frolic and fun.On Santa Claus hurries, and works with a will,For many tall Christmas trees he has to fill,And loads them with treasures from out his rich store,Till they blossom as trees never blossomed before.Though round as a dumpling, and ever so fat,In running and climbing he's spry as a cat,And if the long ladder should happen to break,And he should fall down, what a crash it would make!I told you his home was up North by the Pole,In a palace of hives lives this worthy old soul,And though out of doors it may furiously storm,Indoors as we know, it is sunny and warm.When Christmas is over old Santa Claus goesTo his home in the North, and his well-earned repose,And when he is rested and feeling tip-top,The good-natured workman goes back to his shop.And there he will labor from morning till night,To make others happy his aim and delight,And if his good-will the dear children would earn,They must strive to be happy and good in return.He comes like an angel of light from above,To do on the earth sweetest errands of love;And our hearts and our homes to so fill with good cheerThat we cannot help knowing when Christmas is near.Then let us be glad, so that Christmas may beA real Merry Christmas to you and to me!And now that the story is ended we'll giveThree cheers for old Santa Claus! Long may he live!

Santa Claus Land

At the top of the earth, which they call the North Pole,Is where Santa Claus lives, a right jolly old soul!And the ice and the snow lie so thick on the groundThe sun cannot melt them the whole summer round.

All wrapped up in furs from his head to his toes,No feeling of coldness dear Santa Claus knows,But travels about with a heart full of joy,As happy as if he were only a boy.

His cheeks are like roses; his eyes are as brightAs stars that shine out overhead in the night,And they twinkle as merrily too all the while,And broad as a sunbeam is Santa Claus' smile.

He never is idle except when asleep,And even in dreams at his labours will keep,And all thro' the day and the night, it is true,He is working and planning, dear children, for you.

On top of his tower with spy-glass in hand,He goes every morning to look o'er the land,And though there are hills all around, I suppose,He sees, oh, much further than any one knows.

He peeps into houses whose doors are tight shut;He looks through the palace, and likewise the hut;He gazes on cities, and villages small,And nothing, no, nothing is hidden at all.

He knows where the good children live beyond doubt,He knows where the bad boys and girls are about,And writes down their names on a page by themselves;In a book that he keeps on his library shelves.

For good little children, the gentle and kind,The prettiest presents of toys are designed,And when Christmas comes round, as it does once a year,'Tis certain that Santa Claus then will appear.

His work-shop is, oh! such a wonderful place,With heaps of gay satins, and ribbons, and lace;With houses and furniture, dishes and pans,And bracelets and bangles, and all sorts of fans.

There are horses that gallop, and dollies that walk,And some of the pretty doll-babies can talk.There are pop-guns, and marbles, and tops for the boys,And big drums and trumpets that make a big noise.

There are games for all seasons, the base-ball and kite,And books which the children will seize with delight,And the skates and the sleds, far too many to count,And the bicycles ready for wheelmen to mount.

There are farm-yards in plenty, with fences and trees,And cows, sheep, and oxen, all taking their ease,And turkeys and ducks, and fine chickens and hens,And dear little piggies to put in their pens.

There are gay Noah's Arks, just as full as can beOf animals, really a wonder to see;There are lions and tigers, and camels and bears,And two of each kind, for they travel in pairs.

There are elephants stretching their noses quite long;And reindeer and elks with their antlers so strong,And queer kangaroos all the others amid,With their dear little babies in pockets well hid.

Is Santa Claus happy? There's no need to ask,For he finds such enjoyment indeed in his task,That he bubbles with laughter, and whistles and sings,While making and planning the beautiful things.

He's a jolly good fellow, but ever so shy,And likes to do all his good deeds on the sly,So there's no use spoiling a good winter's napFor you'll not catch a glimpse of the jolly old chap.

When Christmas Eve comes, into bed you must creep,And late in the night when you are asleep,He is certain to come; so your stockings prepare,And hang them up close by the chimney with care.

The baby's wee stockings you must not forget,For Santa will have something nice for the pet,And those who are thoughtful for others will findThe good saint at Christmas time has them in mind.

There is Tommy, who tended the baby with care,A nice train of cars he shall have for his share,And how happy will Eliza be when she looksFor her presents, and finds such a budget of books.

For dear little Mary, a doll there will be;And for Alice and Jenny a gay Christmas tree;And wee little Georgie, the baby, will findA big stick of candy, just suiting his mind.

Oh, a jolly good sight is this funny old chapWhen he's dressed in his bear-skin and fur-bordered cap,All ready to start on his way through the cold,In a sleigh covered over with jewels and gold.

While his deer from the mountains all harnessed with care,Like race-horses prance through the clear frosty air;'Tis fun just to watch them, and hear the bells ring,And the stars seem to think it a comical thing.

For old Santa is bundled so close to the chin,That there is not a chance for the cold to get in,His cheeks are so rosy, his eyes how they flash!No horses nor driver e'er cut such a dash!

He cracks his long whip, and he whistles a tune,While he winks at the stars, and he bows to the moon,And over the tree-tops he drives like the wind,And leaves all the night-birds a long way behind.

His steeds speed away on a journey so fleet,That they seem to have wings to their swift-flying feet,For there's work to be done by a cheery old man,And his coursers will help him as well as they can.

His sleigh is with toys and trinkets well packed,You never beheld one with pleasures so stacked;And though of good children he has such a list,Not one is forgotten, not one will be missed.

An army he gives to the boy who is neat,And never is rude in the house or the street;And a farm to the lad who goes smiling to school,Who knows all his lessons and minds every rule.

And if you would please him—dear Bertie and Jack—;And win a nice prize from the old fellow's pack,Be good little children, your parents obey,And strive to be happy at work or at play.

At Christmas old Santa Claus toils like a Turk,For the cheery old fellow is fond of his work.With his queer looking team through the air he will go,And alight on the house-tops all covered in snow.

Then down through the chimneys he'll dart without noiseAnd fill up the stockings with candy and toys.There'll be presents for Julia, and Nellie, and Jack,And plenty more left in the old fellow's pack.

And if Frank behaves well, and minds what is said,Quits teasing the cat and goes early to bed;He'll find for his present a sled or a gun,A ready companion in frolic and fun.

On Santa Claus hurries, and works with a will,For many tall Christmas trees he has to fill,And loads them with treasures from out his rich store,Till they blossom as trees never blossomed before.

Though round as a dumpling, and ever so fat,In running and climbing he's spry as a cat,And if the long ladder should happen to break,And he should fall down, what a crash it would make!

I told you his home was up North by the Pole,In a palace of hives lives this worthy old soul,And though out of doors it may furiously storm,Indoors as we know, it is sunny and warm.

When Christmas is over old Santa Claus goesTo his home in the North, and his well-earned repose,And when he is rested and feeling tip-top,The good-natured workman goes back to his shop.

And there he will labor from morning till night,To make others happy his aim and delight,And if his good-will the dear children would earn,They must strive to be happy and good in return.

He comes like an angel of light from above,To do on the earth sweetest errands of love;And our hearts and our homes to so fill with good cheerThat we cannot help knowing when Christmas is near.

Then let us be glad, so that Christmas may beA real Merry Christmas to you and to me!And now that the story is ended we'll giveThree cheers for old Santa Claus! Long may he live!

Previous-Index-Next

Children Praying for Christmas Presents.

A Visit From St. Nicholas'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.The children were nestled all snug in there beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;And mamma in her kerchief and I in my capHad just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,When out in the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash;The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;When what to my wondering eyes should appearBut a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,With a little old driver so lively and quickI knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too;And then in a twinkling I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head and was turning around,Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound,He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack,His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf—And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;A wink of his eye and a twist of his headSoon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out sight;"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."Clement C. MooreWhat Santa Claus BringsLovely little girls and boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.Boxes filled with wooden bricks,Monkeys climbing yellow sticks.Dollies' houses painted red,Tiny soldiers made of lead,Noah's Arks, and Ninepins too,Jack in boxes, painted blue.Cups and Saucers, Pots and Pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with Tops and Tables,Fairy Tales and Aesop's Fables,Clockwork Mice, and Coloured MarblesPainted Bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen hair and moving eyes.Cows and horses, Chickens, Cats,Rattles, Windmills, Boats and Bats,Ducks and Geese, and golden Fishes,Skipping ropes and copper Dishes.Books and coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.Little MaryDear little Mary,With eyes so blue,What has Santa ClausBrought for you?He has brought me a cup,And a curly sheep,And a cradle where dollyMay go to sleep.The best of allIs this funny boxThat winds with a keyJust like the clocks.And when you've woundThe spring up tight,The monkey dancesWith all his might,And Fido barksAnd the puppies play:We're all very happyThis Christmas day.ChristmasDainty little stockingsHanging in a row,Blue, and grey, and scarlet,In the firelight's glow.Curly-pated sleepersSafely tucked in bed;Dreams of wondrous toy-shopsDancing through each head.Funny little stockingsHanging in a rowStuffed with sweet surprises,Down from top to toe.Skates, and balls, and trumpets,Dishes, tops, and drums,Books and dolls and candles,Nuts and sugar-plums.Little sleepers waking:Bless me, what a noise!Wish you merry Christmas,Happy girls and boys!The NurserySanta Claus making Toys.

A Visit From St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in there beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;And mamma in her kerchief and I in my capHad just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,When out in the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash;The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;

When what to my wondering eyes should appearBut a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,With a little old driver so lively and quickI knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too;And then in a twinkling I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head and was turning around,Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound,He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack,His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf—And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;A wink of his eye and a twist of his headSoon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out sight;"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."

Clement C. Moore

What Santa Claus Brings

Lovely little girls and boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.Boxes filled with wooden bricks,Monkeys climbing yellow sticks.

Dollies' houses painted red,Tiny soldiers made of lead,Noah's Arks, and Ninepins too,Jack in boxes, painted blue.

Cups and Saucers, Pots and Pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with Tops and Tables,Fairy Tales and Aesop's Fables,

Clockwork Mice, and Coloured MarblesPainted Bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen hair and moving eyes.

Cows and horses, Chickens, Cats,Rattles, Windmills, Boats and Bats,Ducks and Geese, and golden Fishes,Skipping ropes and copper Dishes.

Books and coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Santa brings all sorts of toys.

Little Mary

Dear little Mary,With eyes so blue,What has Santa ClausBrought for you?

He has brought me a cup,And a curly sheep,And a cradle where dollyMay go to sleep.

The best of allIs this funny boxThat winds with a keyJust like the clocks.

And when you've woundThe spring up tight,The monkey dancesWith all his might,

And Fido barksAnd the puppies play:We're all very happyThis Christmas day.

Christmas

Dainty little stockingsHanging in a row,Blue, and grey, and scarlet,In the firelight's glow.

Curly-pated sleepersSafely tucked in bed;Dreams of wondrous toy-shopsDancing through each head.

Funny little stockingsHanging in a rowStuffed with sweet surprises,Down from top to toe.

Skates, and balls, and trumpets,Dishes, tops, and drums,Books and dolls and candles,Nuts and sugar-plums.

Little sleepers waking:Bless me, what a noise!Wish you merry Christmas,Happy girls and boys!

The Nursery

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Santa Claus looking up names of Good Boys and Girls.

ChristmasWhen the children have been good,That is, be it understood,Good at meal-times, good at play,Good all night and good all day,—They shall have the pretty thingsMerry Christmas always brings.Santa Claus starting to distribute Toys.

Christmas

When the children have been good,That is, be it understood,Good at meal-times, good at play,Good all night and good all day,—They shall have the pretty thingsMerry Christmas always brings.

A Christmas Eve AdventureOnce on a time, in a queer little town,On the shore of the Zuyder Zee,When all the good people were fast asleep,A strange thing happened to me.Alone, the night before Christmas,I sat by the glowing fire,Watching the flame as it rose and fell,While the sparks shot high and higher.Suddenly one of these sparks beganTo flicker and glimmer and winkLike a big bright eye, till I hardly knewWhat to do or to say or to think.Quick as a flash, it changed to a face,And what in the world did I seeBut dear old Santa Claus nodding his head,And waving his hand to me!"Oh! follow me, follow me!" soft he cried,—And up through the chimney with himI mounted, not daring to utter a wordTill we stood on the chimney's rim."Now tell me, I beg you, dear Santa Claus,Where am I going with you?"He laughingly answered, "Why, don't you know?To travel the whole world through!"From my crystal palace, far in the North,I have come since dark,—and seeThese curious things for the little folkWho live on the Zuyder Zee."Then seating himself in his reindeer sledge,And drawing me down by his side,He whistled, and off on the wings of the windWe flew for our midnight ride.But first, such comical presents he leftFor the little Dutch girls and boys,—Onions and sausages, wooden-faced dolls,Cheeses and gingerbread toys!Away we hurried far to the South,To the beautiful land of France;And there we showered the loveliest gifts,—Flaxen-haired dolls that could dance.Soldiers that marched at the word of command,Necklaces, bracelets and rings,Tiny gold watches, all studded with gems,And hundreds of exquisite things.Crossing the Channel, we made a short callIn Scotland and Ireland, too;Left a warm greeting for England and Wales,Then over the ocean we flewStraight to America, where by myself,Perched on a chimney high,I watched him scramble and bustle aboutBetween the earth and the sky.Many a stocking he filled to the brim,And numberless Christmas treesBurst into bloom at his magical touch!Then all of a sudden a breezeCaught us and bore us away to the South,And afterwards blew us "out West;"And never till dawn peeped over the hillsDid we stop for a moment's rest."Christmas is coming!" he whispered to me,"You can see his smile in the sky,—I wish Merry Christmas to all the world!My work is over,—good-bye!"Like a flash he was gone, and I was alone,—For all of this happened to meOnce on a time, in a queer little townOn the shore of the Zuyder Zee!M. M.Little BennieI had told him, Christmas morning,As he sat upon my knee,Holding fast his little stockings,Stuffed as full as can be,And attentive listening to me,With a face demure and mild,That old Santa Claus, who filled them,Did not love a naughty child."But we'll be good, won't we, moder?"And from off my lap he slid,Digging deep among the goodiesIn his crimson stockings hid.While I turned me to my table,Where a tempting goblet stood,Brimming high with a dainty custard,Sent me by a neighbour good.But the kitten, there before me,With his white paw, nothing loth,Sat, by way of entertainment,Lapping off the shining froth;And, in not the gentlest humourAt the loss of such a treat,I confess I rather rudelyThrust him out into the street.Then how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;Gathering up the precious storeHe had busily been pouringIn his tiny pinafore,With a generous look that shamed meSprang he from the carpet bright,Showing, by his mien indignant,All a baby's sense of right."Come back Harney," called he loudly,As he held his apron white,"You shall have my candy wabbit;"But the door was fastened tight.So he stood, abashed and silent,In the centre of the floor,With defeated look, alternateBent on me and on the door.Then, as by some sudden impulse,Quickly ran he to the fire,And while eagerly his bright eyesWatched the flames grow high and higher,In a brave, clear key he shouted,Like some lordly little elf,"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,Make my mother 'have herself.""I'll be a good girl, Bennie,"Said I, feeling the reproof;And straightway recalled poor Harney,Mewing on the galley roof.Soon the anger was forgotten,Laughter chased away the frown,And they gambolled 'neath the live oaks,Till the dusky night came down.In my dim, fire-lighted chamberHarney purred beneath my chair,And my play-worn boy beside meKnelt to say his evening prayer:"God bess fader, God bess moder,God bess sister," then a pause,And the sweet young lips devoutlyMurmured "God bess Santa Kaus."He is sleeping: brown and silkenLie the lashes, long and meek,Like caressing, clinging shadows,On his plump and peachy cheek;And I bend above him, weeping,Thankful tears; O undefiled;For a woman's crown of glory,For the blessing of a child.Annie C. Ketchum

A Christmas Eve Adventure

Once on a time, in a queer little town,On the shore of the Zuyder Zee,When all the good people were fast asleep,A strange thing happened to me.

Alone, the night before Christmas,I sat by the glowing fire,Watching the flame as it rose and fell,While the sparks shot high and higher.

Suddenly one of these sparks beganTo flicker and glimmer and winkLike a big bright eye, till I hardly knewWhat to do or to say or to think.

Quick as a flash, it changed to a face,And what in the world did I seeBut dear old Santa Claus nodding his head,And waving his hand to me!

"Oh! follow me, follow me!" soft he cried,—And up through the chimney with himI mounted, not daring to utter a wordTill we stood on the chimney's rim.

"Now tell me, I beg you, dear Santa Claus,Where am I going with you?"He laughingly answered, "Why, don't you know?To travel the whole world through!

"From my crystal palace, far in the North,I have come since dark,—and seeThese curious things for the little folkWho live on the Zuyder Zee."

Then seating himself in his reindeer sledge,And drawing me down by his side,He whistled, and off on the wings of the windWe flew for our midnight ride.

But first, such comical presents he leftFor the little Dutch girls and boys,—Onions and sausages, wooden-faced dolls,Cheeses and gingerbread toys!

Away we hurried far to the South,To the beautiful land of France;And there we showered the loveliest gifts,—Flaxen-haired dolls that could dance.

Soldiers that marched at the word of command,Necklaces, bracelets and rings,Tiny gold watches, all studded with gems,And hundreds of exquisite things.

Crossing the Channel, we made a short callIn Scotland and Ireland, too;Left a warm greeting for England and Wales,Then over the ocean we flew

Straight to America, where by myself,Perched on a chimney high,I watched him scramble and bustle aboutBetween the earth and the sky.

Many a stocking he filled to the brim,And numberless Christmas treesBurst into bloom at his magical touch!Then all of a sudden a breeze

Caught us and bore us away to the South,And afterwards blew us "out West;"And never till dawn peeped over the hillsDid we stop for a moment's rest.

"Christmas is coming!" he whispered to me,"You can see his smile in the sky,—I wish Merry Christmas to all the world!My work is over,—good-bye!"

Like a flash he was gone, and I was alone,—For all of this happened to meOnce on a time, in a queer little townOn the shore of the Zuyder Zee!

M. M.

Little Bennie

I had told him, Christmas morning,As he sat upon my knee,Holding fast his little stockings,Stuffed as full as can be,And attentive listening to me,With a face demure and mild,That old Santa Claus, who filled them,Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be good, won't we, moder?"And from off my lap he slid,Digging deep among the goodiesIn his crimson stockings hid.While I turned me to my table,Where a tempting goblet stood,Brimming high with a dainty custard,Sent me by a neighbour good.

But the kitten, there before me,With his white paw, nothing loth,Sat, by way of entertainment,Lapping off the shining froth;And, in not the gentlest humourAt the loss of such a treat,I confess I rather rudelyThrust him out into the street.

Then how Bennie's blue eyes kindled;Gathering up the precious storeHe had busily been pouringIn his tiny pinafore,With a generous look that shamed meSprang he from the carpet bright,Showing, by his mien indignant,All a baby's sense of right.

"Come back Harney," called he loudly,As he held his apron white,"You shall have my candy wabbit;"But the door was fastened tight.So he stood, abashed and silent,In the centre of the floor,With defeated look, alternateBent on me and on the door.

Then, as by some sudden impulse,Quickly ran he to the fire,And while eagerly his bright eyesWatched the flames grow high and higher,In a brave, clear key he shouted,Like some lordly little elf,"Santa Kaus, come down the chimney,Make my mother 'have herself."

"I'll be a good girl, Bennie,"Said I, feeling the reproof;And straightway recalled poor Harney,Mewing on the galley roof.Soon the anger was forgotten,Laughter chased away the frown,And they gambolled 'neath the live oaks,Till the dusky night came down.

In my dim, fire-lighted chamberHarney purred beneath my chair,And my play-worn boy beside meKnelt to say his evening prayer:"God bess fader, God bess moder,God bess sister," then a pause,And the sweet young lips devoutlyMurmured "God bess Santa Kaus."

He is sleeping: brown and silkenLie the lashes, long and meek,Like caressing, clinging shadows,On his plump and peachy cheek;And I bend above him, weeping,Thankful tears; O undefiled;For a woman's crown of glory,For the blessing of a child.

Annie C. Ketchum

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Santa Claus filling the Stockings.

Old Santa ClausOld Santa Claus sat alone in his den,With his leg crossed over his knee;While a comical look peeped out at his eyes,For a funny old fellow was he.His queer little cap was tumbled and torn,And his wig it was all awry;But he sat and mused the whole day long,While the hours went flying by.He had been busy as busy can be,In filling his pack with toys;He had gathered his nuts and baked his pies,To give to the girls and boys.There were dolls for the girls, and whips for the boys,With wheelbarrows, horses and drays,And bureaus and trunks for Dolly's new clothes;All these in his pack he displays.Of candy too, both twisted and striped,He had furnished a plentiful store,While raisins and figs, and prunes and grapes,Hung up on a peg by the door."I am almost ready," quoth he, quoth he,"And Christmas is almost here;But one thing more—I must write a book,And give to each one this year."So he clapped his specs on his little round nose,And seizing the stump of a pen,He wrote more lines in one little hourThan you ever could write in ten.He told them stories all pretty and new,And wrote them all out in rhyme;Then packed them away with his box of toysTo distribute one at a time.And Christmas Eve, when all were in bed,Right down the chimney he flew;And stretching the stocking-leg out at the top,He clapped in a book for you.Santa Claus and the MouseOne Christmas Eve, when Santa ClausCame to a certain house,To fill the children's stockings there,He found a little mouse."A merry Christmas, little friend,"Said Santa, good and kind."The same to you, sir!" said the mouse,"I thought you wouldn't mindIf I should stay awake to night,And watch you for a while.""You're very welcome, little mouse,"Said Santa, with a smile.And then he filled the stockings up,Before the mouse could wink,—From toe to top, from top to toe,There wasn't left a chink."Now, they won't hold another thing,"Said Santa Claus with pride.A twinkle came in mousie's eyes,But humbly he replied:"It's not nice to contradict—Your pardon I implore,—But in the fullest stocking there,I could put one thing more.""Oh, ho!" laughed Santa, "silly mouse!Don't I know how to pack?By filling stockings all these years,I should have learned the knack."And then he took the stocking downFrom where it hung so high,And said: "Now put in one thing more;I give you leave to try."The mousie chuckled to himself,And then he softly stoleRight to the stocking's crowded toe,And gnawed a little hole!"Now, if you please, good Santa Claus,I've put in one thing more;For you will own, that little holeWas not in there before."How Santa Claus did laugh and laugh;And then he gaily spoke;"Well, you shall have a Christmas cheese,For that nice little joke."A Nice Little Present"Our Santa Claus," cried Bettie,"Is nice as any other;He brought the nicest presentTo me and to my mother."It was—oh, you can't guess it—A darling little brother.He kicks and cries, and shuts his eyes,And he's sweet enough to eat."I'd rather have my baby brotherThan dolls or candy—so would my mother."The Night Before ChristmasCurly heads, so softly pillowed;Chubby arms outspread;Thousand fancies swiftly flyingThrough each little head.Clasping treasures newly garnered,Dolly, book, and ball,Still they dream of coming pleasuresGreater than them all.Christmas-trees of gorgeous beauty,Filled with presents rare;Toys unheard of, joys unnumbered,All delights are there.Angel forms, with smiling faces,Hover round the bed;Angel feet make echoing musicAs they lightly tread.Angel voices, softly thrilling,Chant a lullaby:"Darlings, dream, and sweetly slumber,We are watching by."Who from dreams like these would wakenTo a world of pain?"Hush, then, dear ones! Have we roused you?Turn and dream again."Baby waking up nearly caught Santa Claus.

Old Santa Claus

Old Santa Claus sat alone in his den,With his leg crossed over his knee;While a comical look peeped out at his eyes,For a funny old fellow was he.

His queer little cap was tumbled and torn,And his wig it was all awry;But he sat and mused the whole day long,While the hours went flying by.

He had been busy as busy can be,In filling his pack with toys;He had gathered his nuts and baked his pies,To give to the girls and boys.

There were dolls for the girls, and whips for the boys,With wheelbarrows, horses and drays,And bureaus and trunks for Dolly's new clothes;All these in his pack he displays.

Of candy too, both twisted and striped,He had furnished a plentiful store,While raisins and figs, and prunes and grapes,Hung up on a peg by the door.

"I am almost ready," quoth he, quoth he,"And Christmas is almost here;But one thing more—I must write a book,And give to each one this year."

So he clapped his specs on his little round nose,And seizing the stump of a pen,He wrote more lines in one little hourThan you ever could write in ten.

He told them stories all pretty and new,And wrote them all out in rhyme;Then packed them away with his box of toysTo distribute one at a time.

And Christmas Eve, when all were in bed,Right down the chimney he flew;And stretching the stocking-leg out at the top,He clapped in a book for you.

Santa Claus and the Mouse

One Christmas Eve, when Santa ClausCame to a certain house,To fill the children's stockings there,He found a little mouse.

"A merry Christmas, little friend,"Said Santa, good and kind."The same to you, sir!" said the mouse,"I thought you wouldn't mind

If I should stay awake to night,And watch you for a while.""You're very welcome, little mouse,"Said Santa, with a smile.

And then he filled the stockings up,Before the mouse could wink,—From toe to top, from top to toe,There wasn't left a chink.

"Now, they won't hold another thing,"Said Santa Claus with pride.A twinkle came in mousie's eyes,But humbly he replied:

"It's not nice to contradict—Your pardon I implore,—But in the fullest stocking there,I could put one thing more."

"Oh, ho!" laughed Santa, "silly mouse!Don't I know how to pack?By filling stockings all these years,I should have learned the knack."

And then he took the stocking downFrom where it hung so high,And said: "Now put in one thing more;I give you leave to try."

The mousie chuckled to himself,And then he softly stoleRight to the stocking's crowded toe,And gnawed a little hole!

"Now, if you please, good Santa Claus,I've put in one thing more;For you will own, that little holeWas not in there before."

How Santa Claus did laugh and laugh;And then he gaily spoke;"Well, you shall have a Christmas cheese,For that nice little joke."

A Nice Little Present

"Our Santa Claus," cried Bettie,"Is nice as any other;He brought the nicest presentTo me and to my mother.

"It was—oh, you can't guess it—A darling little brother.He kicks and cries, and shuts his eyes,And he's sweet enough to eat.

"I'd rather have my baby brotherThan dolls or candy—so would my mother."

The Night Before Christmas

Curly heads, so softly pillowed;Chubby arms outspread;Thousand fancies swiftly flyingThrough each little head.

Clasping treasures newly garnered,Dolly, book, and ball,Still they dream of coming pleasuresGreater than them all.

Christmas-trees of gorgeous beauty,Filled with presents rare;Toys unheard of, joys unnumbered,All delights are there.

Angel forms, with smiling faces,Hover round the bed;Angel feet make echoing musicAs they lightly tread.

Angel voices, softly thrilling,Chant a lullaby:"Darlings, dream, and sweetly slumber,We are watching by."

Who from dreams like these would wakenTo a world of pain?"Hush, then, dear ones! Have we roused you?Turn and dream again."

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Annie and Willie Praying.

Annie And Willie's Prayer'Twas the eve before Christmas; good night had been said,And Annie and Willie had crept into bed.There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,And each little bosom was heaving with sighs;For to-night their stern father's command had been given,That they should retire precisely at sevenInstead of at eight; for they had troubled him moreWith questions unheard of than ever before.He had told them he thought this delusion a sin;No such creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been;And he hoped, after this, he should never more hearHow he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.And this was the reason that two little headsSo restlessly tosses on their soft, downy beds.Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;Not a word had been spoken by either till then;When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,And he whispered: "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast asleep?""Why, no, Brother Willie," a sweet voice replies;"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes;"For somehow it makes me so sorry becauseDear Papa has said there is no Santa Claus.Now we know there is, and it can't be deniedFor he came every year before dear mamma died;"But then, I've been thinking, that she used to pray,—And God would hear everything dear mamma would say,—And, maybe, she asked him to send Santa Claus hereWith the sack full of presents he brought every year.""Well, why tannot we p'ay, dust as mamma did, den,And ask Dod to send him with presents aden?""I've been thinking so, too;" and without a word moreFour little bare feet bounded out on the floor,And four little knees on the soft carpet pressed,And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast,"Now, Willie, you know, we must firmly believeThat the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;"You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'And by that you will know that your turn has come then.—"Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me,And grant us the favours we're asking of Thee."I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and a ring,And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to seeThat Santa Claus loves us as much as does he."Don't let hem get fretful and angry again,At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen.""Dear Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to nightAnd bring us some p'esents before it is 'ight;"I want he sood div' me a nice little sled,Wid bight shinin' 'unners, and all painted 'edA box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,Amen. And den, Desus, I'll be a dood boy."Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads,And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds;They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep,And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck tenEre the father had thought of his children again;He seems now to hear Annie's self-suppressed sighs,And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes."I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,"And should not have sent them so early to bed:But then I was troubled: My feelings found vent;For the bank-stock to-day has gone down two percent.;"But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss;But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door—To my darlings I have never spoke harshly before."So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers;His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears,And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears."Strange, strange! I'd forgotten," he said with a sigh,"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nighI'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down,Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing gown.Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in the street,A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet!Nor stopped he until he had bought everything,From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring:Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store,That the various presents outnumbered a score.Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load,With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stow'd.Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,And the side of a table spread out for her tea;A work-box, well-filled, in the centre was laid,And on it the ring for which Annie had pray'd.A soldier in uniform stood by a sled,With bright shining runners, and all painted red.There were balls, dogs, horses; books pleasing to see;And birds of all colours were perched in the tree;While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,As if getting ready more presents to drop.Now, as the fond father the picture surveyed,He thought for his trouble he'd amply been paid;As he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,"I'm happier to night than I have been for a year;"I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before;What care I if bank-stock fell two per cent. more!Henceforward I'll make it a rule, I believe,To have Santa Clause visit us each Christmas-eve."So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,And, slipping downstairs, retired for the night.As soon as the beams of the bright morning sunPut the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one,Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,And at the same moment the presents espied.Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found.And they laughed and they cried in their innocent glee,And shouted for papa to come quick and seeWhat presents old Santa Claus brought in the night(Just the things they wanted!), and left before light."And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,"You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know;"While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,Determined no secret between them should be;And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had saidThat their blessed mamma, so long ago dead,Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair,And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer."Den we dot up and p'ayed just as well as we tood,And Dod answered our p'ayer, now wasn't He dood?""I should say that He was, if He sent you all these,And knew just what presents my children would please."("Well, well, let them think so, dear little elf!'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.")Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent,And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent?'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly upstairsAnd made you His agent to answer their prayers.Mrs. Sophia P. Snow

Annie And Willie's Prayer

'Twas the eve before Christmas; good night had been said,And Annie and Willie had crept into bed.There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,And each little bosom was heaving with sighs;

For to-night their stern father's command had been given,That they should retire precisely at sevenInstead of at eight; for they had troubled him moreWith questions unheard of than ever before.

He had told them he thought this delusion a sin;No such creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been;And he hoped, after this, he should never more hearHow he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.

And this was the reason that two little headsSo restlessly tosses on their soft, downy beds.Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten;Not a word had been spoken by either till then;

When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,And he whispered: "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast asleep?""Why, no, Brother Willie," a sweet voice replies;"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes;

"For somehow it makes me so sorry becauseDear Papa has said there is no Santa Claus.Now we know there is, and it can't be deniedFor he came every year before dear mamma died;

"But then, I've been thinking, that she used to pray,—And God would hear everything dear mamma would say,—And, maybe, she asked him to send Santa Claus hereWith the sack full of presents he brought every year."

"Well, why tannot we p'ay, dust as mamma did, den,And ask Dod to send him with presents aden?""I've been thinking so, too;" and without a word moreFour little bare feet bounded out on the floor,

And four little knees on the soft carpet pressed,And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast,"Now, Willie, you know, we must firmly believeThat the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;

"You must wait just as still till I say the 'Amen,'And by that you will know that your turn has come then.—"Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me,And grant us the favours we're asking of Thee.

"I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and a ring,And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to seeThat Santa Claus loves us as much as does he.

"Don't let hem get fretful and angry again,At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen.""Dear Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to nightAnd bring us some p'esents before it is 'ight;

"I want he sood div' me a nice little sled,Wid bight shinin' 'unners, and all painted 'edA box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,Amen. And den, Desus, I'll be a dood boy."

Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads,And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds;They were soon lost in slumber both peaceful and deep,And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.

Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck tenEre the father had thought of his children again;He seems now to hear Annie's self-suppressed sighs,And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes.

"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,"And should not have sent them so early to bed:But then I was troubled: My feelings found vent;For the bank-stock to-day has gone down two percent.;

"But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss;But just to make sure I'll steal up to their door—To my darlings I have never spoke harshly before."

So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers;His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears,And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears.

"Strange, strange! I'd forgotten," he said with a sigh,"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nighI'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."

Then he turned to the stairs, and softly went down,Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing gown.Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in the street,A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet!

Nor stopped he until he had bought everything,From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring:Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store,That the various presents outnumbered a score.

Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load,With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stow'd.Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,And the side of a table spread out for her tea;

A work-box, well-filled, in the centre was laid,And on it the ring for which Annie had pray'd.A soldier in uniform stood by a sled,With bright shining runners, and all painted red.

There were balls, dogs, horses; books pleasing to see;And birds of all colours were perched in the tree;While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,As if getting ready more presents to drop.

Now, as the fond father the picture surveyed,He thought for his trouble he'd amply been paid;As he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,"I'm happier to night than I have been for a year;

"I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before;What care I if bank-stock fell two per cent. more!Henceforward I'll make it a rule, I believe,To have Santa Clause visit us each Christmas-eve."

So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,And, slipping downstairs, retired for the night.As soon as the beams of the bright morning sunPut the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one,

Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,And at the same moment the presents espied.Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found.

And they laughed and they cried in their innocent glee,And shouted for papa to come quick and seeWhat presents old Santa Claus brought in the night(Just the things they wanted!), and left before light.

"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,"You'll believe there's a Santa Claus, papa, I know;"While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,Determined no secret between them should be;

And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had saidThat their blessed mamma, so long ago dead,Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair,And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer.

"Den we dot up and p'ayed just as well as we tood,And Dod answered our p'ayer, now wasn't He dood?""I should say that He was, if He sent you all these,And knew just what presents my children would please."

("Well, well, let them think so, dear little elf!'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.")

Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent,And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent?'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly upstairsAnd made you His agent to answer their prayers.

Mrs. Sophia P. Snow

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Boy Nailing up his Father's Trousers.

Budds' Christmas StockingIt was Christmas-time, as all the world knew;It stormed without, and the cold wind blew,But within all was cheerful, snug, and bright,With glowing fires and many a light.Budd B. was sent quite early to bed,His stocking was hung up close to his head,And he said to himself "When all grows stillI will find a big stocking for Santy to fill."Now, good, honest Hans, who worked at the house,Had gone to his bed as still as a mouse;The room where he slept was one story higherThan Budd's little room, with gaslight and fire.Now, Hans loved "the poy," and petted him too,And often at night, when his task was all through,He would tell him strange stories of over the sea,While Budd listened gravely or laughed out in glee.This night Hans had promised to wake Budd at four;He would softly come down and open his door;But suddenly Budd bounded out of his bed,And stole softly up to the room overhead.On his hands and his knees he crept softly in,"I'll borrow Han's stocking," he said, with a grin;Old Santy will fill it up to the top,And Hans—oh, such fun! will be mad as a hop."He moved very slowly, and felt near the bed;No stocking was there, but down on his headCame a deluge of water, well sprinkled with ice,While honest Hans held him as if in a vice."Vat is dat?" he cried out; "von robber I find,Den I pound him, and shake him, so much as I mind""It's me," called out Budd; "Stop, Hans! oh, please do;I'm only a boy; I could not rob you."But Hans did not pause—his temper was hot—And he dragged the young robber at once from the spot,When he reached the hall light great was his surpriseTo find his young master with tears in his eyes."I wanted your stocking," muttered Budd B.;It is bigger than mine; boo hoo! I can't see,And I'm all wet and cold." thus cried Budd aloud,Until guests and his parents ran up in a crowd.He was wrapped up with care and taken to bed,But, strangest of all, not a harsh word was said.He flattered himself as he fell asleepThat Hans and his friends the secret would keep.Next morning, when Christmas songs filled all the air,Budd found, to his grief and boyish despair,That his neck was so stiff that he could not turn his head,And must spend the whole day alone in his bed.What was worse, his own stocking hung limp on a chair,And on it these words were written most fair:"To him who is greedy I leave less than all;The world is so large and my reindeer so small."My pack is elastic when children are kind,But it shuts with a snap and leaves nothing behind,When a boy or girl is selfish or mean.Good-bye, little Budd, I am off with my team.(Signed) Santa Claus."ChristmasAgain the Christmas holidays have come,We soon will hear the trumpet and the drum;We'll hear the merry shout of the girls and boysRejoicing o'er their gifts of books and toys.Old Santa Claus comes by at dead of night,And down the chimney creeps—a funny sight;He fills the stockings full of books and toys,But puts in whips for naughty girls and boys.One Christmas-eve the moon shone clear and bright;I thought I'd keep awake and watch all night,But it was silent all around and stilled,Yet in the morn I found my stockings filled.Christmas MorningThey put me in a square bed, and there they bade me sleep;I must not stir; I must not wake; I must not even peep;Right opposite that lonely bed, my Christmas stocking hung;While near it, waiting for the morn, my Sunday clothes were flung.I counted softly, to myself, to ten and ten times ten,And went through all the alphabet, and then began again;I repeated that Fifth-Reader piece—a poem called "Repose,"And tried a dozen various ways to fall into a dose—When suddenly the room grew light. I heard a soft, strong bound,'Twas Santa Claus, I felt quite sure, but dared not look around.'Twas nice to know that he was there, and things were going rightly,And so I took a little nap, and tried to smile politely."Ho! Merry Christmas!" cried a voice; I felt the bed a-rocking;Twas daylight—brother Bob was up! and oh, that splendid stocking!St. NicholasSign for Santa, asking for Bicycle or Pony.

Budds' Christmas Stocking

It was Christmas-time, as all the world knew;It stormed without, and the cold wind blew,But within all was cheerful, snug, and bright,With glowing fires and many a light.

Budd B. was sent quite early to bed,His stocking was hung up close to his head,And he said to himself "When all grows stillI will find a big stocking for Santy to fill."

Now, good, honest Hans, who worked at the house,Had gone to his bed as still as a mouse;The room where he slept was one story higherThan Budd's little room, with gaslight and fire.

Now, Hans loved "the poy," and petted him too,And often at night, when his task was all through,He would tell him strange stories of over the sea,While Budd listened gravely or laughed out in glee.

This night Hans had promised to wake Budd at four;He would softly come down and open his door;But suddenly Budd bounded out of his bed,And stole softly up to the room overhead.

On his hands and his knees he crept softly in,"I'll borrow Han's stocking," he said, with a grin;Old Santy will fill it up to the top,And Hans—oh, such fun! will be mad as a hop."

He moved very slowly, and felt near the bed;No stocking was there, but down on his headCame a deluge of water, well sprinkled with ice,While honest Hans held him as if in a vice.

"Vat is dat?" he cried out; "von robber I find,Den I pound him, and shake him, so much as I mind""It's me," called out Budd; "Stop, Hans! oh, please do;I'm only a boy; I could not rob you."

But Hans did not pause—his temper was hot—And he dragged the young robber at once from the spot,When he reached the hall light great was his surpriseTo find his young master with tears in his eyes.

"I wanted your stocking," muttered Budd B.;It is bigger than mine; boo hoo! I can't see,And I'm all wet and cold." thus cried Budd aloud,Until guests and his parents ran up in a crowd.

He was wrapped up with care and taken to bed,But, strangest of all, not a harsh word was said.He flattered himself as he fell asleepThat Hans and his friends the secret would keep.

Next morning, when Christmas songs filled all the air,Budd found, to his grief and boyish despair,That his neck was so stiff that he could not turn his head,And must spend the whole day alone in his bed.

What was worse, his own stocking hung limp on a chair,And on it these words were written most fair:"To him who is greedy I leave less than all;The world is so large and my reindeer so small.

"My pack is elastic when children are kind,But it shuts with a snap and leaves nothing behind,When a boy or girl is selfish or mean.Good-bye, little Budd, I am off with my team.(Signed) Santa Claus."

Christmas

Again the Christmas holidays have come,We soon will hear the trumpet and the drum;We'll hear the merry shout of the girls and boysRejoicing o'er their gifts of books and toys.

Old Santa Claus comes by at dead of night,And down the chimney creeps—a funny sight;He fills the stockings full of books and toys,But puts in whips for naughty girls and boys.

One Christmas-eve the moon shone clear and bright;I thought I'd keep awake and watch all night,But it was silent all around and stilled,Yet in the morn I found my stockings filled.

Christmas Morning

They put me in a square bed, and there they bade me sleep;I must not stir; I must not wake; I must not even peep;Right opposite that lonely bed, my Christmas stocking hung;While near it, waiting for the morn, my Sunday clothes were flung.

I counted softly, to myself, to ten and ten times ten,And went through all the alphabet, and then began again;I repeated that Fifth-Reader piece—a poem called "Repose,"And tried a dozen various ways to fall into a dose—

When suddenly the room grew light. I heard a soft, strong bound,'Twas Santa Claus, I felt quite sure, but dared not look around.'Twas nice to know that he was there, and things were going rightly,And so I took a little nap, and tried to smile politely.

"Ho! Merry Christmas!" cried a voice; I felt the bed a-rocking;Twas daylight—brother Bob was up! and oh, that splendid stocking!

St. Nicholas

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What the Rich Man's Child got.

Little Nellie's Visit From Santa ClausSanta Claus is coming to-night, papa;Please let me sit up and see him, mamma;Loaded with presents, I'm sure he'll be.He'll have something nice for you and for me."Mamma, do find something fresh and quite new,For dear old Santa Claus, when he comes through,I'll give it myself; I'll keep wide awake;I know he'll be glad my present to take."Now all go to bed as quick as you please,I'll wait for him," said the bright little tease,"He surely will ring, no doubt about that,I'll bid him come in and then have a chat."Soon came a quick step on the piazza floor,Just then a loud ring was heard at the door.The little miss rose with dignified air,Quick ushered him in, and set him a chair.All covered o'er with little bells tinkling,Shaking and laughing, twisting and wriggling,A funny old man, with little eyes blinking,Looking at Nellie, what was he thinking?Not a word did he say—tired of waiting,Nellie arose, her little heart quaking,Held out her present, courage most failing,"Santa Claus, take this"—now she is smiling."His furry old hand, twisting and trembling,Took the sweet gift—"You dear little darling,"Uttered quite softly, tenderly kissing,The bright little face, ne'er a bit shrinking.Lots of presents quickly bestowing,Thanking her kindly—he must be going,Shaking and laughing, his little bells jingling,Down the steps, hastening off in a twinkling.Brave little lady! all are now saying,Santa Claus truly! bright eyes are asking;See her dear papa, secretly laughingAt her true faith in Santa Claus' coming.Yes! she believes it, ever so truly,Dear precious darling! rob her not surely,Of childhood's sweet faith, now in its glory,While she's relating her own simple story.Mrs. C. E. WilburChristmas Stockings'Tis Christmas day,And little MayPeeps from her bed in the morning grey.She looks around,But not a soundBreaks on the quietness profound.So, heaving sighs,She shuts her eyes,And hard to go to sleep she tries.But sleep has fledThat little bed.And weary moves the curly head,Until the light(Oh, welcome sight!)Has banished every trace of night.Then out of bed,With hurried tread,She runs to waken brother Fred;For oh, what joys,In the shape of toys,Does Christmas bring to girls and boys!Fred gives a groan,Or a sleepy moan,And mutters, "Do let me alone!"But bonnie MayWill not have nay;She whispers, "It is Christmas day!"Oh, magic sound!For Fred turns round,And in a trice is on the ground."Our stockings, where?""They're on that chair.""Oh, what has Santa Claus put there?"May laughs with glee,The sight to see,Of stockings filled from toe to kneeWith parcels queer,That stick out here,Before, behind, in front and rear."Oh, Fred! a dolly!I'll call her Molly.""Why, may, a penknife here; how jolly!""A necktie blue!A paintbox too!""Oh, Fred, a pair of kid gloves new!""May, here's a gun!Won't we have fun,Playing at soldiers!—You'll be one.""Now that is all.No; here's a ball;Just hold it, or these things will fall.""What's in the toe,May, do you know?Biscuits and figs!—I told you so.""I think," said May,That Christmas dayShould come at least every second day."And so say we;But then you seeThat Santa Claus would tired be.And all his toysAnd Christmas joysWould vanish then from girls and boys.From "The Prize"Hang Up Baby's StockingHang up the baby's stocking:Be sure you don't forget:The dear little dimpled darlingHas never seen Christmas yet.But I told him all about it,And he opened his big blue eyes;I'm sure he understood it,He looked so funny and wise.Ah, what a tiny stocking;It doesn't take so much to holdSuch little toes as baby'sSafe from the frost and cold.But then, for the baby's ChristmasIt never will do at all;For Santa Claus wouldn't be lookingFor anything half so small.I know what will do for baby;I've thought of a first-rate plan;I'll borrow a stocking of grandma—The longest that I ever can.And you shall hang it by mine, mother,Right here in the corner—so;And write a letter for baby.And fasten it on the toe."Old Santa Claus, this is a stockingHung up for our baby dear;You never have seen our darling,He has not been with us a year,"But he is a beautiful baby;And now, before you go,Please cram this stocking with presents,From the top of it down to the toe."Put in a baby's rattle,Also a coral ring,A bright new ribbon for his waist;Some beads hung on a string"And mind a coloured ball please,And a tiny pair of shoes;You'll see from this little stocking,The size you have to choose."Santa ClausA health to good old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.Ho comes from utmost fairylandAcross the wintry snows;He makes the fir-tree and the spruceTo blossom like the rose.Over the quaint old gables,Over the windy ridge,By turret wall and chimney tall,He guided his fairy sledge;He steals upon the slumbersOf little rose-lipped girls,And lays his waxen dollies downBeside their golden curls.He scatters blessings on his way,And sugar-coated plums;He robs the sluggard from his restWith trumpets, guns, and drums.Small feet, before the dawn of day,Are marching to and fro,Drums beat to arms through all the house,And penny trumpets blow.A health to brave old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.S. H. Whitman

Little Nellie's Visit From Santa Claus

Santa Claus is coming to-night, papa;Please let me sit up and see him, mamma;Loaded with presents, I'm sure he'll be.He'll have something nice for you and for me.

"Mamma, do find something fresh and quite new,For dear old Santa Claus, when he comes through,I'll give it myself; I'll keep wide awake;I know he'll be glad my present to take.

"Now all go to bed as quick as you please,I'll wait for him," said the bright little tease,"He surely will ring, no doubt about that,I'll bid him come in and then have a chat."

Soon came a quick step on the piazza floor,Just then a loud ring was heard at the door.The little miss rose with dignified air,Quick ushered him in, and set him a chair.

All covered o'er with little bells tinkling,Shaking and laughing, twisting and wriggling,A funny old man, with little eyes blinking,Looking at Nellie, what was he thinking?

Not a word did he say—tired of waiting,Nellie arose, her little heart quaking,Held out her present, courage most failing,"Santa Claus, take this"—now she is smiling.

"His furry old hand, twisting and trembling,Took the sweet gift—"You dear little darling,"Uttered quite softly, tenderly kissing,The bright little face, ne'er a bit shrinking.

Lots of presents quickly bestowing,Thanking her kindly—he must be going,Shaking and laughing, his little bells jingling,Down the steps, hastening off in a twinkling.

Brave little lady! all are now saying,Santa Claus truly! bright eyes are asking;See her dear papa, secretly laughingAt her true faith in Santa Claus' coming.

Yes! she believes it, ever so truly,Dear precious darling! rob her not surely,Of childhood's sweet faith, now in its glory,While she's relating her own simple story.

Mrs. C. E. Wilbur

Christmas Stockings

'Tis Christmas day,And little MayPeeps from her bed in the morning grey.

She looks around,But not a soundBreaks on the quietness profound.

So, heaving sighs,She shuts her eyes,And hard to go to sleep she tries.

But sleep has fledThat little bed.And weary moves the curly head,

Until the light(Oh, welcome sight!)Has banished every trace of night.

Then out of bed,With hurried tread,She runs to waken brother Fred;

For oh, what joys,In the shape of toys,Does Christmas bring to girls and boys!

Fred gives a groan,Or a sleepy moan,And mutters, "Do let me alone!"

But bonnie MayWill not have nay;She whispers, "It is Christmas day!"

Oh, magic sound!For Fred turns round,And in a trice is on the ground.

"Our stockings, where?""They're on that chair.""Oh, what has Santa Claus put there?"

May laughs with glee,The sight to see,Of stockings filled from toe to knee

With parcels queer,That stick out here,Before, behind, in front and rear.

"Oh, Fred! a dolly!I'll call her Molly.""Why, may, a penknife here; how jolly!"

"A necktie blue!A paintbox too!""Oh, Fred, a pair of kid gloves new!"

"May, here's a gun!Won't we have fun,Playing at soldiers!—You'll be one."

"Now that is all.No; here's a ball;Just hold it, or these things will fall."

"What's in the toe,May, do you know?Biscuits and figs!—I told you so."

"I think," said May,That Christmas dayShould come at least every second day."

And so say we;But then you seeThat Santa Claus would tired be.

And all his toysAnd Christmas joysWould vanish then from girls and boys.

From "The Prize"

Hang Up Baby's Stocking

Hang up the baby's stocking:Be sure you don't forget:The dear little dimpled darlingHas never seen Christmas yet.

But I told him all about it,And he opened his big blue eyes;I'm sure he understood it,He looked so funny and wise.

Ah, what a tiny stocking;It doesn't take so much to holdSuch little toes as baby'sSafe from the frost and cold.

But then, for the baby's ChristmasIt never will do at all;For Santa Claus wouldn't be lookingFor anything half so small.

I know what will do for baby;I've thought of a first-rate plan;I'll borrow a stocking of grandma—The longest that I ever can.

And you shall hang it by mine, mother,Right here in the corner—so;And write a letter for baby.And fasten it on the toe.

"Old Santa Claus, this is a stockingHung up for our baby dear;You never have seen our darling,He has not been with us a year,

"But he is a beautiful baby;And now, before you go,Please cram this stocking with presents,From the top of it down to the toe.

"Put in a baby's rattle,Also a coral ring,A bright new ribbon for his waist;Some beads hung on a string

"And mind a coloured ball please,And a tiny pair of shoes;You'll see from this little stocking,The size you have to choose."

Santa Claus

A health to good old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.

Ho comes from utmost fairylandAcross the wintry snows;He makes the fir-tree and the spruceTo blossom like the rose.

Over the quaint old gables,Over the windy ridge,By turret wall and chimney tall,He guided his fairy sledge;

He steals upon the slumbersOf little rose-lipped girls,And lays his waxen dollies downBeside their golden curls.

He scatters blessings on his way,And sugar-coated plums;He robs the sluggard from his restWith trumpets, guns, and drums.

Small feet, before the dawn of day,Are marching to and fro,Drums beat to arms through all the house,And penny trumpets blow.

A health to brave old Santa Claus,And to his reindeer bold,Whose hoofs are shod with elder-down,Whose horns are tipped with gold.

S. H. Whitman

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Father making Shadow-Rabbit for Daughter.

The Rabbit on the WallThe children shout with laughter,The uproar louder grows;Even grandma chuckles faintly,And Johnny chirps and crows.There ne'er was gilded painting,Hung up in lordly hall,Gave half the simple pleasureAs this rabbit on the wall.The cottage work is over,The evening meal is done;Hark! thro' the starlight stillnessYou hear the river run.The little children whisper,Then speak out one and all;"Come, father, make for Johnny,The rabbit on the wall."He—smilingly assenting,They gather round his chair;"Now, grandma, you hold Johnny;Don't let the candle flare."So speaking, from his fingersHe throws a shadow tall,That seems, a moment after,A rabbit on the wall.Holiday TimeWith these three little girls and two little boysThere is sure to be plenty of laughter and noise;But nobody minds it, because don't you see,At school they are quiet with lessons to say—But when the holidays come they can play the whole day.The Fairy QueenLet us laugh and let us sing,Dancing in a merry ring;We'll be fairies on the green,Sporting round the Fairy Queen.Like the seasons of the year,Round we circle in a sphere;I'll be Summer, you'll be Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Harry will be Winter wild;Little Annie, Autumn mild;Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Spring and Summer glide away,Autumn comes with tresses grey;Winter, hand in hand with Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.Faster! faster! round we goWhile our cheeks like roses glow;Free as birds upon the wing,Dancing in a fairy ring.Come and Play in the GardenLittle sister, come away,And let us in the garden play,For it is a pleasant day.On the grassplot let us sit,Or, if you please, we'll play a bit,And run about all over it.But the fruit we will not pick,For that would be a naughty trick,And, very likely, make us sick.Nor will we pluck the pretty flowersThat grow about the beds and bowers,Because, you know, they are not ours.We'll pluck the daisies, white and red,Because mamma has often said,That we may gather them instead.And much I hope we always mayOut very dear mamma obey,And mind whatever she may say.Little RompI am tired to death of keeping stillAnd being good all day.I guess my mamma's companyForgot to go away,I've wished and wished they'd think of it,And that they would get through;But they must talk for ever first,They almost always do.I heard Tom calling to me once,He's launched his boat, I know;I wanted to get out and help,But mamma's eyes said no.The ladies talk such stuff to me,It makes me sick to hear—"How beautiful your hair curls!" or,"How red your cheeks are, dear!"I'd ten times rather run a race,Then play my tunes and things;I wouldn't swop my dogs and ballsFor forty diamond rings.I've got no 'finement, aunty says,I 'spect she knows the best;I don't need much to climb a tree,Or hunt a squirrel's nest."Girls are like berries," papa says,"Sweeter for running wild,"But Aunt Melissa shakes her head,And calls me "Horrid child!"I'll always be a romp she knows—But sure's my name is Sadie,I'll fool 'em all some dreadful day,By growing up a lady.Hide and Seek"We will have a game of hide and seek,Now mind you do not look."And Willie went and hid himselfIn a dark and lonely nook.Then the children went to find him;They hunted all about.It was a funny way in whichAt last they found him out.Just as they got where he was hid,In his nose he felt a ticklingThat made him sneeze, and so you seeThey found him in a twinkling.Child and Dog playing Adventurers.

The Rabbit on the Wall

The children shout with laughter,The uproar louder grows;Even grandma chuckles faintly,And Johnny chirps and crows.There ne'er was gilded painting,Hung up in lordly hall,Gave half the simple pleasureAs this rabbit on the wall.

The cottage work is over,The evening meal is done;Hark! thro' the starlight stillnessYou hear the river run.The little children whisper,Then speak out one and all;"Come, father, make for Johnny,The rabbit on the wall."

He—smilingly assenting,They gather round his chair;"Now, grandma, you hold Johnny;Don't let the candle flare."So speaking, from his fingersHe throws a shadow tall,That seems, a moment after,A rabbit on the wall.

Holiday Time

With these three little girls and two little boysThere is sure to be plenty of laughter and noise;But nobody minds it, because don't you see,At school they are quiet with lessons to say—But when the holidays come they can play the whole day.

The Fairy Queen

Let us laugh and let us sing,Dancing in a merry ring;We'll be fairies on the green,Sporting round the Fairy Queen.

Like the seasons of the year,Round we circle in a sphere;I'll be Summer, you'll be Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.

Harry will be Winter wild;Little Annie, Autumn mild;Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.

Spring and Summer glide away,Autumn comes with tresses grey;Winter, hand in hand with Spring,Dancing in a fairy ring.

Faster! faster! round we goWhile our cheeks like roses glow;Free as birds upon the wing,Dancing in a fairy ring.

Come and Play in the Garden

Little sister, come away,And let us in the garden play,For it is a pleasant day.

On the grassplot let us sit,Or, if you please, we'll play a bit,And run about all over it.

But the fruit we will not pick,For that would be a naughty trick,And, very likely, make us sick.

Nor will we pluck the pretty flowersThat grow about the beds and bowers,Because, you know, they are not ours.

We'll pluck the daisies, white and red,Because mamma has often said,That we may gather them instead.

And much I hope we always mayOut very dear mamma obey,And mind whatever she may say.

Little Romp

I am tired to death of keeping stillAnd being good all day.I guess my mamma's companyForgot to go away,I've wished and wished they'd think of it,And that they would get through;But they must talk for ever first,They almost always do.

I heard Tom calling to me once,He's launched his boat, I know;I wanted to get out and help,But mamma's eyes said no.The ladies talk such stuff to me,It makes me sick to hear—"How beautiful your hair curls!" or,"How red your cheeks are, dear!"

I'd ten times rather run a race,Then play my tunes and things;I wouldn't swop my dogs and ballsFor forty diamond rings.I've got no 'finement, aunty says,I 'spect she knows the best;I don't need much to climb a tree,Or hunt a squirrel's nest.

"Girls are like berries," papa says,"Sweeter for running wild,"But Aunt Melissa shakes her head,And calls me "Horrid child!"I'll always be a romp she knows—But sure's my name is Sadie,I'll fool 'em all some dreadful day,By growing up a lady.

Hide and Seek

"We will have a game of hide and seek,Now mind you do not look."And Willie went and hid himselfIn a dark and lonely nook.

Then the children went to find him;They hunted all about.It was a funny way in whichAt last they found him out.

Just as they got where he was hid,In his nose he felt a ticklingThat made him sneeze, and so you seeThey found him in a twinkling.

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Our Tea Party.

Tired of PlayTired of play! tired of play!What hast thou done this livelong day?The birds are silent, and so is the bee;The sun is creeping up temple and tree;The doves have flown to the sheltering evesAnd the nests are dark with the drooping leaves.Twilight gathers and day is done,How hast thou spent it, restless one?Playing? But what has thou done beside,To tell thy mother at eventide?What promise of morn is left unbroken?What kind word to thy playmate spoken?Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven,How with thy faults has duty striven,What hast thou learned by field and hill?By greenwood path, and singing rill?Well for thee if thou couldst tell,A tale like this of a day spent well,If thy kind hand has aided distress,And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness;If thou hast forgiven a brother's offence,And grieved for thine own with penitence;If every creature has won thy loveFrom the creeping worm to the brooding dove,Then with joy and peace on the bed of rest,Thou wilt sleep as on thy mother's breast.Sea-side PlayTwo little boys, all neat and clean,Came down upon the shore:They did not know old Ocean's ways—They'd ne'er seen him before.So quietly they sat them down,To build a fort of sand;Their backs were turned to the sea,Their faces toward the land.They had just built a famous fort—The handkerchief flag was spread—When up there came a stealthy wave,And turned them heels over head.After School HoursSchool is closed and tasks are done,Flowers are laughing in the sun;Like the songsters in the air,Happy children, banish care!Riding on a GateSing, sing,What shall we sing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.If you have not a horse,Or haven't a swing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.Cry, cry,Finger in eye,Go home to motherAnd tell her why;You've been riding,And why not I?Each in turn, isn't that the ruleFor work or play, at home or school.Walking SongCome, my children, come away,For the sun shines bright to-day;Little children, come with me,Birds, and brooks, and posies see;Get your hats and come away,For it is a pleasant day.Bring the hoop and bring the ball,Come with happy faces all,Let us make a merry ring,Talk, and laugh, and dance, and singQuickly, quickly come away,For it is a pleasant day.The Lost PlaymateThe old school-house is still to day,The rooms have no gay throng;No ringing laugh is on the air,There is no snatch of song.The white-haired master sits uponThe seat beneath the tree,And thinks upon the vanished face,With all its boyish glee.But a few short days ago, the ladWas gayest of the gay,Quick at the page of knowledge, andThe heartiest in play.The pride of the home beside the stream,With his pigeons in their cots,And finding life a very dream,In pleasant homely spots.His school companions loving him,And old folks speaking praise,Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,And cheery, happy ways.All in the village knew the boy,From parson down to clerk,And his whistle in the village streetWas clear as the song of lark.But like a dream he's passed away,And from the chamber dim,In the fair light of summer day,The peasants carry him.And playmates gather at the grave,The old schoolmaster there,While blossomed boughs wave over-head,And all around is fair.True is the grief that brings the tear,There is no empty show;The simple neighbours see their loss,And there is heart-felt woe.They talk of the bright and lively lad,Cut down in boyish prime,And old folks think how strange is life,More strange with passing time!Oh! simple sight on green hill-side,Away from pomp and power;Here are the truths so oft deniedTo the imperial hour.Dear child, how precious are the tears,Suffusing friendly eyes!Sublimity is in their gleam,A light from God's own skies.Naughty Mice Teasing the Poor Kitten.

Tired of Play

Tired of play! tired of play!What hast thou done this livelong day?The birds are silent, and so is the bee;The sun is creeping up temple and tree;

The doves have flown to the sheltering evesAnd the nests are dark with the drooping leaves.Twilight gathers and day is done,How hast thou spent it, restless one?

Playing? But what has thou done beside,To tell thy mother at eventide?What promise of morn is left unbroken?What kind word to thy playmate spoken?

Whom hast thou pitied and whom forgiven,How with thy faults has duty striven,What hast thou learned by field and hill?By greenwood path, and singing rill?

Well for thee if thou couldst tell,A tale like this of a day spent well,If thy kind hand has aided distress,And thou pity hast felt for wretchedness;

If thou hast forgiven a brother's offence,And grieved for thine own with penitence;If every creature has won thy loveFrom the creeping worm to the brooding dove,Then with joy and peace on the bed of rest,Thou wilt sleep as on thy mother's breast.

Sea-side Play

Two little boys, all neat and clean,Came down upon the shore:They did not know old Ocean's ways—They'd ne'er seen him before.

So quietly they sat them down,To build a fort of sand;Their backs were turned to the sea,Their faces toward the land.

They had just built a famous fort—The handkerchief flag was spread—When up there came a stealthy wave,And turned them heels over head.

After School Hours

School is closed and tasks are done,Flowers are laughing in the sun;Like the songsters in the air,Happy children, banish care!

Riding on a Gate

Sing, sing,What shall we sing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.

If you have not a horse,Or haven't a swing,A gate is a capitalSort of thing.

Cry, cry,Finger in eye,Go home to motherAnd tell her why;

You've been riding,And why not I?Each in turn, isn't that the ruleFor work or play, at home or school.

Walking Song

Come, my children, come away,For the sun shines bright to-day;Little children, come with me,Birds, and brooks, and posies see;Get your hats and come away,For it is a pleasant day.

Bring the hoop and bring the ball,Come with happy faces all,Let us make a merry ring,Talk, and laugh, and dance, and singQuickly, quickly come away,For it is a pleasant day.

The Lost Playmate

The old school-house is still to day,The rooms have no gay throng;No ringing laugh is on the air,There is no snatch of song.The white-haired master sits uponThe seat beneath the tree,And thinks upon the vanished face,With all its boyish glee.

But a few short days ago, the ladWas gayest of the gay,Quick at the page of knowledge, andThe heartiest in play.The pride of the home beside the stream,With his pigeons in their cots,And finding life a very dream,In pleasant homely spots.

His school companions loving him,And old folks speaking praise,Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,And cheery, happy ways.All in the village knew the boy,From parson down to clerk,And his whistle in the village streetWas clear as the song of lark.

But like a dream he's passed away,And from the chamber dim,In the fair light of summer day,The peasants carry him.And playmates gather at the grave,The old schoolmaster there,While blossomed boughs wave over-head,And all around is fair.

True is the grief that brings the tear,There is no empty show;The simple neighbours see their loss,And there is heart-felt woe.They talk of the bright and lively lad,Cut down in boyish prime,And old folks think how strange is life,More strange with passing time!

Oh! simple sight on green hill-side,Away from pomp and power;Here are the truths so oft deniedTo the imperial hour.Dear child, how precious are the tears,Suffusing friendly eyes!Sublimity is in their gleam,A light from God's own skies.

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Chinese Toy Merchant.

In the Toy ShopCups and saucers, pots and pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with tops and tables,Fairy tales, and Aesop's fables.Clockwork mice, and colored marbles,Painted bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen curls and moving eyes.Cows and horses, chickens, cats,Rattles, windmills, boats and bats,Ducks and geese, and golden fishes,Skipping ropes, and copper dishes.Books with coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Here you are, all sorts of toys.Neat Little Clara"Little Clara, come away,Little Clara, come and play;Leave your work, Maria's here,So come and play with me, my dear.""I will come, and very soon,For I always play at noon;But must put my work away,Ere with you I come and play.First my bodkin I must placeWith my needles in their case;I like to put them by with care,And then I always find them there.There's my cotton, there's my threadThimble in its little bed;All is safe—my box I lock,Now I come—'tis twelve o'clock."Playing Store"Ting-a-ling!" Now theyHave opened the store,Never was suchAn assortment before;Mud pies in plenty,And parcels of sand,Pebbles for sugar plums,Always on hand.Plenty of customersComing to buy,"Brown sugar, white sugarWhich will you try?Paper for money;Their wealth, too, is vast;In spite of the plenty,They scatter it fast.Quick little handsTie bundles with care,Summer's glad musicIs filling the air;Birdies fly over,And wonder, no doubt,What all these gaylittle folks are about.Our Shop.

In the Toy Shop

Cups and saucers, pots and pans,China figures, Chinese fans,Railway trains, with tops and tables,Fairy tales, and Aesop's fables.

Clockwork mice, and colored marbles,Painted bird that sweetly warbles,Dolls of every age and size,With flaxen curls and moving eyes.

Cows and horses, chickens, cats,Rattles, windmills, boats and bats,Ducks and geese, and golden fishes,Skipping ropes, and copper dishes.

Books with coloured pictures, too,And a thousand other things for you;Dainty maidens, merry boys,Here you are, all sorts of toys.

Neat Little Clara

"Little Clara, come away,Little Clara, come and play;Leave your work, Maria's here,So come and play with me, my dear."

"I will come, and very soon,For I always play at noon;But must put my work away,Ere with you I come and play.

First my bodkin I must placeWith my needles in their case;I like to put them by with care,And then I always find them there.

There's my cotton, there's my threadThimble in its little bed;All is safe—my box I lock,Now I come—'tis twelve o'clock."

Playing Store

"Ting-a-ling!" Now theyHave opened the store,Never was suchAn assortment before;Mud pies in plenty,And parcels of sand,Pebbles for sugar plums,Always on hand.

Plenty of customersComing to buy,"Brown sugar, white sugarWhich will you try?Paper for money;Their wealth, too, is vast;In spite of the plenty,They scatter it fast.

Quick little handsTie bundles with care,Summer's glad musicIs filling the air;Birdies fly over,And wonder, no doubt,What all these gaylittle folks are about.

FishingHe took a stick, he took a cord,He took a crooked pin,And went a-fishing in the sandAnd almost tumbled in.But just before he tumbled in,By chance it came about,He hooked a whiting and a sole,And made them tumble out.Hide and SeekWhen the clean white cloth is laid,And the cups are on the table,When the tea and toast are made,That's a happy time for Mabel.Stealing to her mother's side,In her ear she whispers low,"When papa comes I'll hide;Don't tell him where I go,"On her knees upon the floor,In below the sofa creeping;When she hears him at the door,She pretends that she is sleeping."Where is Mabel?" father cries,Looking round and round about.Then he murmurs in surprise,"Surely Mabel can't be out."First he looks behind his chair,Then he peers beneath the table,Seeking, searching everywhereAll in vain for little Mabel;But at last he thinks he knows,And he laughs and shakes his head,Says to mother, "I supposeMabel has been put to bed."But when he sits down to tea,From beneath the sofa creeping,Mabel climbs upon his knee,Clasps her hands: "I was not sleeping."When he asks, "Where is my girl'sVery secret hiding-place?"Mabel only shakes her curls,Laughing, smiling, in his face.Johnny Giving his Sister a Ride.

Fishing

He took a stick, he took a cord,He took a crooked pin,And went a-fishing in the sandAnd almost tumbled in.But just before he tumbled in,By chance it came about,He hooked a whiting and a sole,And made them tumble out.

Hide and Seek

When the clean white cloth is laid,And the cups are on the table,When the tea and toast are made,That's a happy time for Mabel.

Stealing to her mother's side,In her ear she whispers low,"When papa comes I'll hide;Don't tell him where I go,"

On her knees upon the floor,In below the sofa creeping;When she hears him at the door,She pretends that she is sleeping.

"Where is Mabel?" father cries,Looking round and round about.Then he murmurs in surprise,"Surely Mabel can't be out."

First he looks behind his chair,Then he peers beneath the table,Seeking, searching everywhereAll in vain for little Mabel;

But at last he thinks he knows,And he laughs and shakes his head,Says to mother, "I supposeMabel has been put to bed."

But when he sits down to tea,From beneath the sofa creeping,Mabel climbs upon his knee,Clasps her hands: "I was not sleeping."

When he asks, "Where is my girl'sVery secret hiding-place?"Mabel only shakes her curls,Laughing, smiling, in his face.

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