'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 their beds,5While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,When out on 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 shatters and threw up the sash.The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,Gave a luster of midday to objects below;5When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,With a little old driver, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,10And 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 house-top the coursers they flew,5With the 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.10He 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,5And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;He had a broad face and a little round bellyThat shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.10He 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 head,Soon 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,5And 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 of sight,"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"10
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;5She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;10But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen."To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go:And take a lantern, child, to light15Your mother through the snow.""That, father, will I gladly do:'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two;And yonder is the moon."At this the father raised his hook,5And snapped a fagot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton stroke10Her feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.The storm came on before its time,She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb,15But never reached the town.The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.20At daybreak on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.They wept—and, turning homeward, cried,5"In heaven we all shall meet!"When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;10And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the low stone wall:And then an open field they crossed;The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost;15And to the bridge they came.They follow from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!20—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.O'er rough and smooth she trips along.5And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
Great, wide, wonderful, beautiful world,With the beautiful water about you curled,10And the wonderful grass upon your breast—World, you are beautifully dressed!The wonderful air is over me,And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree;It walks on the water and whirls the mills,15And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.You friendly earth, how far do you go,With wheat fields that nod, and rivers that flow,And cities and gardens, and oceans and isles,And people upon you for thousands of miles?Ah, you are so great and I am so small,5I hardly can think of you, world, at all;And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,A whisper within me seemed to say:"You are more than the earth, though you're such a dot;You can love and think, and the world cannot."10
Small service is true service while it lasts.Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one:The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
ConsiderThe lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:We are as they;5Like them we fade away,As doth a leaf.ConsiderThe sparrows of the air of small account:Our God doth view10Whether they fall or mount,—He guards us too.ConsiderThe lilies that do neither spin nor toil,Yet are most fair:15What profits all this careAnd all this toil?ConsiderThe birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;God gives them food:Much more our Father seeksTo do us good.5
Oh, hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight,Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;The woods and the glens from the tower which we see,They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,10It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.Oh, hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come,When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.5
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe—Sailed on a river of crystal light,Into a sea of dew."Where are you going, and what do you wish?"10The old moon asked the three."We have come to fish for the herring fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we!"Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.5The old moon laughed and sang a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.The little stars were the herring fish10That lived in that beautiful sea—"Now cast your nets wherever you wish—Never afeard are we";So cried the stars to the fishermen three:Wynken,15Blynken,And Nod.All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam—Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,20Bringing the fishermen home;"Twas all so pretty a sail it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea—But I shall name you the fishermen three:5Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes:And Nod is a little head,10And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one's trundle-bed.So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful things15As you rock in the misty sea,Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.20
Have you ever heard the wind go "Yoooo"?'Tis a pitiful sound to hear!It seems to chill you through and throughWith a strange and speechless fear.'Tis the voice of the night that broods outside5When folks should be asleep,And many and many's the time I've criedTo the darkness brooding far and wideOver the land and the deep:"Whom do you want, O lonely night,10That you wail the long hours through?"And the night would say in its ghostly way:"Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!"15My mother told me long ago(When I was a little lad)That when the wind went wailing soSomebody had been bad;And then, when I was snug in bed,Whither I had been sent,With the blankets pulled up round my head,5I'd think of what my mother'd said,And wonder what boy she meant!And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd askOf the wind that hoarsely blew,And the voice would say in its meaningful way:10"Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!"That this was true I must allow—You'll not believe it, though!15Yes, though I'm quite a model now,I was not always so.And if you doubt what things I say,Suppose you make the test;Suppose, when you've been bad some day20And up to bed are sent awayFrom mother and the rest—Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"And then you'll hear what's true;For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:"Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!5Yoooooooo!"
Robins in the tree top,Blossoms in the grass,Green things a-growingEverywhere you passSudden little breezes,5Showers of silver dew,Black bough and bent twigBudding out anew;Pine tree and willow tree,Fringed elm, and larch,—Don't you think that May-time'sPleasanter than March?Apples in the orchard5Mellowing one by one;Strawberries upturningSoft cheeks to the sun;Roses faint with sweetness,Lilies fair of face,10Drowsy scents and murmursHaunting every place;Lengths of golden sunshine,Moonlight bright as day—Don't you think that summer's15Pleasanter than May?Roger in the corn patchWhistling negro songs;Pussy by the hearth sideRomping with the tongs;20Chestnuts in the ashes,Bursting through the rind;Red leaf and gold leafRustling down the wind;Mother "doin' peaches"All the afternoon,—5Don't you think that autumn'sPleasanter than June?Little fairy snow-flakesDancing in the flue;Old Mr. Santa Claus,10What is keeping you?Twilight and firelightShadows come and go;Merry chime of sleigh bellsTinkling through the snow;15Mother knitting stockings,Pussy's got the ball,Don't you think that winter'sPleasanter than all?
God make my life a little light,Within the world to glow—A tiny flame that burneth bright,Wherever I may go.God make my life a little flower,5That bringeth joy to all,Content to bloom in native bower,Although its place be small.God make my life a little song,That comforteth the sad,10That helpeth others to be strong,And makes the singer glad.
FOOTNOTES:[1]From "A Boy's Book of Rhyme."[2]From "Poems of Childhood," published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons.[3]From "Poems of Childhood," published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons.[4]Selections from Thomas B. Aldrich are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his works.
[1]From "A Boy's Book of Rhyme."
[1]From "A Boy's Book of Rhyme."
[2]From "Poems of Childhood," published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons.
[2]From "Poems of Childhood," published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons.
[3]From "Poems of Childhood," published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons.
[3]From "Poems of Childhood," published by Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons.
[4]Selections from Thomas B. Aldrich are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his works.
[4]Selections from Thomas B. Aldrich are used by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his works.
Transcriber's Notes:On pages 22 and 24 the author's location was printed in all capitals instead of small capitals. These were changed to match the rest of the text.Page 53, the line number for line 5 was added.Page 59, the line number 5 was moved up one line.Page 63, single quotation mark changed to a double quotation mark. ("The lark lies)
Transcriber's Notes:
On pages 22 and 24 the author's location was printed in all capitals instead of small capitals. These were changed to match the rest of the text.
Page 53, the line number for line 5 was added.
Page 59, the line number 5 was moved up one line.
Page 63, single quotation mark changed to a double quotation mark. ("The lark lies)