OH the ruffles there were on that little
dress, Fanny!
Her mamma does dress her so sweetly, you
know;
And the prettiest sash of pale rose-colored
satin
Tied at her waist in a butterfly-bow.
And her soft, flossy hair, almost a rose-yellow,
Like the roses we had in our garden last year,
Cut short round the fairest blue-veined little
forehead—
Oh, if Miss Marion wasn't a dear!
Just perfect she was, the mite of a darling,
From her flower of a head to her pink
slipper-toes!
You will laugh, but she seemed as I looked
at her, Fanny,
A little girl copied right after a rose!
Well, you know how it is: they have petted
the darling,
Her papa and mamma, her uncles and
aunts—
Till, saving the moon, which they can't get
for princes,
There isn't a thing but she has if she wants.
So, last night at the Christmas-tree, Fanny,
—It was so funny I laugh at it now—
There was Miss Marion sweeter than honey,
All in her ruffles and butterfly-bow;
She had presents, I thought, enough for a
dozen,
But she seemed heavy-hearted in spite of
it all;
Her sweet little mouth was all of a quiver,
And there was a teardrop just ready to
fall.
The aunts and the cousins all round her came
crowding;
"And what is the matter, my darling, my
dear?"
She didn't look sulky, but grieved; and I
saw it
Roll down her pink cheek, that trembling
tear;
And she lisped out so honest, "Mamie and
Bessie,
And the rest, have pwesents—and 'twas
my Tristmas-tree;
And when I tame in, I fought that the pwes-
ents—
The whole of them on it—of tourse were
for me! "
I scarcely could blame her—she didn't seem
angry,
But grieved to the heart, the queer little
mite!
And 'twasn't her fault—she'd been fed so
much honey,
All the sweet in the world she took as her
right.
THE Brownie who lives in the forest,
Oh, the Christmas bells they ring!
Has done for the farmer's children
Full many a kindly thing:
When their cows were lost in the gloaming,
He has driven them safely home;
He has led their bees to the flowers,
To fill up their golden comb;
At her spinning the little sister
Had napped till the setting sun—
She awoke, and the kindly Brownie
Had gotten it neatly done;
Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing!
The mother she was away,
And the Brownie played with the baby,
And tended it all the day;
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The Brownie who lives in the torest,
Oh, the Christmas bells they ring!
Has done for the farmer's children
Full many a kindly thing.
'Tis true that they never spied him,
Though their eyes were so sharp and bright,
But there were the tasks all nicely done,
And never a soul in sight.
But the poor little friendly Brownie,
His life was a weary thing;
For he never had been in holy church
And heard the children sing;
And he never had had a Christmas,
Nor bent in prayer his knee;
He had lived for a thousand years,
And all weary-worn was he.
Or that was the story the children
Had heard at their mother's side;
And together they talked it over,
One merry Christmas-tide.
The pitiful little sister
With her braids of paly gold,
And the little elder brother,
And the darling five-year-old,
All stood in the western window—
'Twas toward the close of day—
And they talked about the Brownie
While resting from their play.
"The Brownie, he has no Christmas,"
The dear little sister said;
A-shaking sadly as she spoke
Her glossy, yellow head;
"The Brownie, he has no Christmas;
While so many gifts had we,
Last night they fairly bent to the floor
The boughs of the Christmas-tree."
Then the little elder brother,
He spake up in his turn,
His sweet blue eyes were beaming,
And his cheeks began to burn:
"Let us make up for the Brownie
A Christmas bundle now,
To leave in the forest pathway
Where the great oak branches bow.
"We'll mark it, 'For the Brownie,'
And 'A Merry Christmas Day! '
And he will be sure to find it,
For he must go home that way!"
Then the tender little sister
With her braids of paly gold,
And the little elder brother,
And the darling five-year-old,
Made up a Christmas bundle
All tied with ribbons gay,
And marked it, "For the Brownie,"
With "A Merry Christmas Day!"
And then in the winter twilight,
With shouts of loving glee,
They hied to the wood, and left their gift
Under the great oak-tree.
While the farmer's fair little children
Slept sweet that Christmas night,
Two wanderers through the forest
Came in the clear moonlight.
And neither of them was the Brownie,
But sorry were both as he;
And their hearts, with every footstep,
Were aching heavily.
A slender man with an organ
Strapped on by a leathern band,
And a little girl with a tambourine
A-holding close to his hand.
And the little girl with the tambourine,—
Her gown was thin and old;
And she toiled through the great white forest,
A-shining with the cold.
"And what is there here to do?" she said;
"I'm froze i' the light o' the moon!
Shall we play to these sad old forest trees
Some merry and jigging tune?
"And, father, you know it is Christmas-time;
And had we staid i' the town,
And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees,
A gift might have fallen down!
"You cannot certainly know it would not!
I'd ha' gone right under the tree I
Are you sure that never one Christmas
Is meant for you and me?"
"These dry, dead leaves," he answered her,
"Which the forest casteth down,
Are more than you'd get from a Christmas-tree
In the merry and thoughtless town.
"Though to-night be the Christ's own birth-
day night,
And all the world has grace,
There is not a home in all the world
Which has for us a place."
Slow plodding adown the forest path,
"Now, what is this?" he said;
Then he lifted the children's bundle,
And "For the Brownie," read.
The tears came into his weary eyes:
"Now if this be done," said he,
"Somewhere in the world perhaps there is
A place for you and me!"
Then the bundle he opened softly:
"This is children's tender thought;
Their own little Christmas presents
They have to the Brownie brought.
"If there lives such tender pity
Toward a thing so dim and low,
There must be kindness left on earth
Of which I did not know.
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"Oh, children, there's never a Brownie
That sorry, uncanny thing;
But nearest and next are the homeless
When the Christmas joy-bells ring."
Loud laughed the little daughter,
As she gathered the toys in her gown:
"Oh, father, this oak is my Christmas-tree,
And my present has fallen down!"
Then away they went through the forest,
The wanderers, hand in hand;
And the snow, they were both so merry,
It glinted like golden sand.
Down the forest the elder brother,
In the morning clear and cold,
Came leading the little sister,
And the darling five-year-old.
"Oh," he cries, "he's taken the bundle!"
As carefully round he peers;
"And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas
After a thousand years!"
THE fiddlers were scraping so cheerily, O,
With a one, two, three, and a one, two, three,
And the children were dancing so merrily, O,
All under the shade of the Christmas-tree.
O, bonny the fruit on its branches which
grows!
And the mistletoe bough from the ceiling hung!
The fiddlers they rosined their squeaking
bows,
And the brave little lads their partners
swung.
Oh, the fiddlers they played such a merry tune,
With a one, two, three, and a one, two, three,
And the children they blossomed like roses
in June,
All under the boughs of the Christmas-tree.
9080Original Size
And the fiddlers were scrap-
ing so merrily, O,
With a one, two, three, and
a one, two, three;
And the children were dan-
cing so cheerily, O,
All under the shade of the
Christmas-tree—
The girl-fairy in cobweb
frock.
When, all of a sudden, a fairy-
land crew
Came whirling airily into the room,
As light as the fluffy balls, they flew,
Which fly from the purple thistle-bloom.
There were little girl-fairies in cobweb frocks
All spun by spiders from golden threads,
With butterfly-wings and glistening locks,
And wreaths of dewdrops around their
heads!
9081Original Size
There were little boy-fairies in jew-
elled coats
Of pansy velvet, of cost un-
told,
With chains of daisies around
their throats,
And their heads all powdered
with lily-gold!
The boy-fairy in jewelled
coat.
The fiddlers they laughed till
they scarce could see,
And then they fiddled so cheerily, O,
And the fairies and children around the tree,
They all went tripping so merrily, O.
The fiddlers they boxed up their fiddles all;
The fairies they silently flew away;
But every child at the Christmas ball
Had danced with a fairy first, they say.
So they told their mothers—and did not you
Ever have such a lovely time at your play,
My boy and my girl, that it seemed quite true
That you'd played with a fairy all the day?
OUR Puritan fathers, stern and good,
Had never a holiday;
Sober and earnest seemed life to them—
They only stopped working to pray.
And the little Puritan maidens learned
Their catechisms through;
And spun their stents, and wove, themselves,
Their garments of homely blue.
And they never made merry on Christmas
Day—
That savored of Pope and Rome;
And there was never a Christmas-tree
In any Puritan home.
There never was woven a Christmas wreath,
Carols the children never sung,
And Christmas Eve, in the chimney-place,
There was never a stocking hung.
Sweet little Ruth, with her flaxen hair
All neatly braided and tied,
Was sitting one old December day
At her pretty mother's side.
She listened, speaking never a word,
With her serious, thoughtful look,
To the Christmas story her mother read
Out of the good old Book.
"I'll tell thee, Ruth!" her mother cried,
Herself scarce more than a girl,
As she smoothed her little daughter's hair,
Lest it straggle out into a curl,
"If thy stent be spun each day this week,
And thou toil like the busy bee,
A Christmas present on Christmas Day
I promise to give to thee."
And then she talked of those merry times
She never could quite forget;
The Christmas cheer, the holly and yule—
She was hardly a Puritan yet.
She talked of those dear old English days,
With tears in her loving eyes;
And little Ruth heard like a Puritan child,
With a quiet though glad surprise.
But nevertheless she thought of her gift,
As much as would any ot you;
And busily round, each day of the week,
Her little spinning-wheel flew.
Tired little Ruth! but oh, she thought
She was paid for it after all,
When her mother gave her on Christmas Day
A little Puritan doll.
'Twas made of a piece of a homespun sheet,
Dressed in a homespun gown
Cut just like Ruth's, and a little cap
With a stiff white muslin crown.
A primly folded muslin cape—
I don't think one of you all
Would have been so bold as to dare to play
With that dignified Puritan doll.
Dear little Ruth showed her delight
In her pretty, quiet way;
She sat on her stool in the great fire-place,
And held her doll all day.
And then (she always said "good-night"
When the shadows began to fall,
She was so happy she went to sleep
Still holding her Puritan doll.
THERE are silver pines on the win-
dow-pane,
A forest of them," said he;
"And a huntsman is there with a silver horn,
Which he bloweth right merrily.
"And there are a flock of silver ducks
A-flying over his head;
And a silver sea and a silver hill
In the distance away," he said.
"And all this is on the window-pane,
My pretty mamma, true as true!"
She lovingly smiled; but she looked not up,
And faster her needle flew.
A dear little fellow the speaker was—
Silver and jewels and gold,
Lilies and roses and honey-flowers,
In a sweet little bundle rolled.
He stood by the frosty window-pane
Till he tired of the silver trees,
The huntsman blowing his silver horn,
The hills and the silver seas;
And he breathed on the flock of silver ducks,
Till he melted them quite away;
And he saw the street, and the people pass—
And the morrow was Christmas Day.
"The children are out, and they laugh and
shout,
I know what it's for," said he;
"And they're dragging along, my pretty
mamma,
A fir for a Christmas-tree."
He came and stood by his mother's side:
"To-night it is Christmas Eve;
And is there a gift somewhere for me.
Gold mamma, do you believe?"
Still the needle sped in her slender hands:
"My little sweetheart," said she,
"The Christ Child has planned this Christ-
mas, for you,
His gift that you cannot see."
The boy looked up with a sweet, wise look
On his beautiful baby-face:
"Then my stocking I'll hang for the Christ
Child's gift,
To-night, in the chimney-place."
On Christmas morning the city through,
The children were queens and kings,
With their royal treasuries bursting o'er
With wonderful, lovely things.
But the merriest child in the city full,
And the fullest of all with glee,
Was the one whom the dear Christ Child
had brought
The gift that he could not see.
"Quite empty it looks, oh my gold mamma,
The stocking I hung last night!"
"So then it is full of the Christ Child's
gift."
And she smiled till his face grew bright.
"Now, sweetheart," she said, with a patient
look
On her delicate, weary face,
"I must go and carry my sewing home,
And leave thee a little space.
"Now stay with thy sweet thoughts, heart's delight
And I soon will be back to thee."
"I'll play, while you're gone, my pretty
mamma,
With my gift that I cannot see."
He watched his mother pass down the street;
Then he looked at the window-pane
Where a garden of new frost-flowers had
bloomed
While he on his bed had lain.
Then he tenderly took up his empty sock,
And quietly sat awhile,
Holding it fast, and eying it
With his innocent, trusting smile.
"I am tired of waiting," he said at last;
"I think I will go and meet
My pretty mamma, and come with her
A little way down the street.
"And I'll carry with me, to keep it safe,
My gift that I cannot see."
And down the street 'mid the chattering crowd,
He trotted right merrily.
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"And where are you going, you dear little
man?
They called to him as he passed;
"That empty stocking why do you hold
In your little hand so fast?"
Then he looked at them with his honest eyes,
And answered sturdily:
"My stocking is full to the top, kind sirs,
Of the gift that I cannot see."
They would stare and laugh, but he trudged
With his stocking fast in his hand:
"And I wonder why 'tis that the people all
Seem not to understand!"
"Oh, my heart's little flower!" she cried to
him,
A-hurrying down the street;
"And why are you out on the street alone?
And where are you going, my sweet?"
"I was coming to meet you, my pretty
mamma,
With my gift that I cannot see;
But tell me, why do the people laugh,
And stare at my gift and me?"
Like the Maid at her Son, in the Altar-piece,
So loving she looked, and mild:
"Because, dear heart, of all that you met,
Not one was a little child."
O thou who art grieving at Christmas-tide,
The lesson is meant for thee;
That thou mayst get Christ's loveliest gifts
In ways thou canst not see;
And how, although no earthly good
Seems into thy lot to fall,
Hast thou a trusting child-like heart,
Thou hast the best of all.
LONG, long ago, she ambled to town, her
flaxen curls bobbed up and down,