There is a tongue in every leaf,A voice in every rill—A voice that speaketh everywhere,In flood, and fire, through earth and air!A tongue that's never still!'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffusedThrough everything we see,That with our spirits communethOf things mysterious—life and death,Time and eternity!I see Him in the blazing sun,And in the thunder-cloud;I hear Him in the mighty roarThat rusheth through the forest hoarWhen winds are raging loud.I feel Him in the silent dews,By grateful earth betray'd;I feel Him in the gentle showers,The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,The sunshine and the shade.I see Him, hear Him, everywhere,In all things—darkness, light,Silence and sound; but, most of all,When slumber's dusty curtains fall,I' the silent hour of night.
There is a tongue in every leaf,A voice in every rill—A voice that speaketh everywhere,In flood, and fire, through earth and air!A tongue that's never still!
'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffusedThrough everything we see,That with our spirits communethOf things mysterious—life and death,Time and eternity!
I see Him in the blazing sun,And in the thunder-cloud;I hear Him in the mighty roarThat rusheth through the forest hoarWhen winds are raging loud.
I feel Him in the silent dews,By grateful earth betray'd;I feel Him in the gentle showers,The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,The sunshine and the shade.
I see Him, hear Him, everywhere,In all things—darkness, light,Silence and sound; but, most of all,When slumber's dusty curtains fall,I' the silent hour of night.
For all that God in mercy sends:For health and children, home and friends,For comfort in the time of need,For every kindly word and deed,For happy thoughts and holy talk,For guidance in our daily walk—For everything give thanks!For beauty in this world of ours,For verdant grass and lovely flowers,For song of birds, for hum of bees,For the refreshing summer breeze,For hill and plain, for streams and wood,For the great ocean's mighty flood—In everything give thanks!For the sweet sleep which comes with night,For the returning morning's light,For the bright sun that shines on high,For the stars glittering in the sky;For these and everything we see,O Lord! our hearts we lift to TheeFor everything give thanks!
For all that God in mercy sends:For health and children, home and friends,For comfort in the time of need,For every kindly word and deed,For happy thoughts and holy talk,For guidance in our daily walk—For everything give thanks!
For beauty in this world of ours,For verdant grass and lovely flowers,For song of birds, for hum of bees,For the refreshing summer breeze,For hill and plain, for streams and wood,For the great ocean's mighty flood—In everything give thanks!
For the sweet sleep which comes with night,For the returning morning's light,For the bright sun that shines on high,For the stars glittering in the sky;For these and everything we see,O Lord! our hearts we lift to TheeFor everything give thanks!
Up from all the city's by-ways,From the breathless, sickening heat,To the wide-swung gate of heaven,Eager throng the little feet.Not a challenge has the warderFor these souls so sinless white;Round each brow the Saviour's blessingCircles like a crown of light.See, the Lord Himself stands waiting,Wide His loving arms are spread;On his heart of hearts is pillowedEvery weary baby's head.But below, with tear-wet faces,And with hearts all empty grown,Stand the mourning men and women,Vainly calling back their own.Upward floats the voice of mourning—"Jesus, Master, dost thou care?"Aye, He feels each drop of anguish—"He doth all our sorrows bear."Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden;Look beyond the clouds and see,With your dear one on His bosom,Jesus stands and calls to thee.Waits with yearning, all unfathomed—Love you cannot understand,Lures you upward with the beckoningOf your buried baby's hand.
Up from all the city's by-ways,From the breathless, sickening heat,To the wide-swung gate of heaven,Eager throng the little feet.
Not a challenge has the warderFor these souls so sinless white;Round each brow the Saviour's blessingCircles like a crown of light.
See, the Lord Himself stands waiting,Wide His loving arms are spread;On his heart of hearts is pillowedEvery weary baby's head.
But below, with tear-wet faces,And with hearts all empty grown,Stand the mourning men and women,Vainly calling back their own.
Upward floats the voice of mourning—"Jesus, Master, dost thou care?"Aye, He feels each drop of anguish—"He doth all our sorrows bear."
Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden;Look beyond the clouds and see,With your dear one on His bosom,Jesus stands and calls to thee.
Waits with yearning, all unfathomed—Love you cannot understand,Lures you upward with the beckoningOf your buried baby's hand.
Patter, patter, patter,On the window-pane;Drip, drip, drip,Comes the heavy rain.Now the little birdiesFly away to bed,And each tender blossomDroops its pretty head.But the little rootlets,In the earth below,Open wide their tiny mouthsWhere the rain-drops flow;And the thirsty grassesSoon grow fresh and green,With the pretty daisiesSpringing up between.
Patter, patter, patter,On the window-pane;Drip, drip, drip,Comes the heavy rain.
Now the little birdiesFly away to bed,And each tender blossomDroops its pretty head.
But the little rootlets,In the earth below,Open wide their tiny mouthsWhere the rain-drops flow;
And the thirsty grassesSoon grow fresh and green,With the pretty daisiesSpringing up between.
A fashionable womanIn a fashionable pew;A fashionable bonnetOf a fashionable hue;A fashionable mantleAnd a fashionable gown;A fashionable ChristianIn a fashionable town;A fashionable prayer-book.And a fashionable choir;A fashionable chapelWith a fashionable spire;A fashionable preacherWith a fashionable speech;A fashionable sermonWith a fashionable reach;A fashionable welcomeAt the fashionable door;A fashionable pennyFor the fashionable poor;A fashionable heavenAnd a fashionable hell;A fashionable BibleFor this fashionable belle;A fashionable kneelingAnd a fashionable nod;A fashionable everything,But no fashionable God.
A fashionable womanIn a fashionable pew;A fashionable bonnetOf a fashionable hue;A fashionable mantleAnd a fashionable gown;A fashionable ChristianIn a fashionable town;A fashionable prayer-book.And a fashionable choir;A fashionable chapelWith a fashionable spire;A fashionable preacherWith a fashionable speech;A fashionable sermonWith a fashionable reach;A fashionable welcomeAt the fashionable door;A fashionable pennyFor the fashionable poor;A fashionable heavenAnd a fashionable hell;A fashionable BibleFor this fashionable belle;A fashionable kneelingAnd a fashionable nod;A fashionable everything,But no fashionable God.
"There is no God," he said, and turned awayFrom those who sought to lead him to the light;"Here is a violet, growing for a day,When winter comes, and all the world is white,It will be dead. And I am like the flower,To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust.Is life worth living for its little hourOf empty pleasure, if decay we must?"The autumn came, and under fallen leavesThe little violet was hid away."Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grievesFor what she loves is destined to decay.Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earthI shall be hidden, and above my headA stone will tell the record of my birthAnd of my nothingness when I am dead."Spring came, and from the mold the little flowerHe had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom.He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour,And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb."God of the flower," he said, with reverent voice,"The violet lives again, and why not I?At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice.The soul within me was not born to die!"
"There is no God," he said, and turned awayFrom those who sought to lead him to the light;"Here is a violet, growing for a day,When winter comes, and all the world is white,It will be dead. And I am like the flower,To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust.Is life worth living for its little hourOf empty pleasure, if decay we must?"
The autumn came, and under fallen leavesThe little violet was hid away."Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grievesFor what she loves is destined to decay.Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earthI shall be hidden, and above my headA stone will tell the record of my birthAnd of my nothingness when I am dead."
Spring came, and from the mold the little flowerHe had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom.He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour,And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb."God of the flower," he said, with reverent voice,"The violet lives again, and why not I?At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice.The soul within me was not born to die!"
The fault of the age is a mad endeavorTo leap to heights that were made to climb;By a burst of strength or a thought that is cleverWe plan to outwit and forestall Time.We scorn to wait for the thing worth having;We want high noon at the day's dim dawn,We find no pleasure in toiling and savingAs our forefathers did in the good times gone.We force our roses before their seasonTo bloom and blossom that we may wear;And then we wonder and ask the reasonWhy perfect buds are so few and rare.We crave the gain, but despise the getting;We want wealth, not as reward, but dower;And the strength that is wasted in useless frettingWould fell a forest or build a tower.To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning;To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight—Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning,To mental languor and moral blight?Better the old slow way of strivingAnd counting small gains when the year is done,Than to use our forces all in contrivingAnd to grasp for pleasures we have not won.
The fault of the age is a mad endeavorTo leap to heights that were made to climb;By a burst of strength or a thought that is cleverWe plan to outwit and forestall Time.
We scorn to wait for the thing worth having;We want high noon at the day's dim dawn,We find no pleasure in toiling and savingAs our forefathers did in the good times gone.
We force our roses before their seasonTo bloom and blossom that we may wear;And then we wonder and ask the reasonWhy perfect buds are so few and rare.
We crave the gain, but despise the getting;We want wealth, not as reward, but dower;And the strength that is wasted in useless frettingWould fell a forest or build a tower.
To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning;To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight—Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning,To mental languor and moral blight?
Better the old slow way of strivingAnd counting small gains when the year is done,Than to use our forces all in contrivingAnd to grasp for pleasures we have not won.
He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said: "Mr. ——, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; splendid work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name.
"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving, "That's—lemme see—yes, that's Columbus, perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered—No; was it Columbus that dis—Oh! yes. Columbus, he discovered America—was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph, all of 'em are;done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd but they say that's the way they dressed in them days. Look at this one. Now isn't that splendid? William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son's head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a picture of that Patriarch so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they yoused to wear. See his legs; too! Trousers a little short maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you? There's something nice. That I think, is—is—that's a—a—yes, to be sure, Washington—you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country, George—Washington. He had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man abouthim crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge, but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories about him, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.
"Less see! Who have we next? Ah! Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a—oh! yes, flying a kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do now-a-days, and while she was a flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree and hit him on the head;—then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd a been hit, it'd just a made usmad like as not and set us a ravin'. But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See what a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword and I reckon he was no soldier;—fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one, myself, and I think all the better of him for it. Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't that gorgeous? See, how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I believe, Anyway some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward and says to the man with the stick, 'Why don't you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'll never speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story,isn't it? A good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked, and I don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club. And now we come to—to ah—to—Putnam—General Putnam:—he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death. Leastways the publisher said somehow that way, and I oncet read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck, but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty sure footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it? Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel Legislature, and then when the Ku Kluxes got after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em 'til theycouldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad. Hit straight from the shoulder and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up. And then, here's John Adams and Daniel Boone and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?"
It sounds rather queer, I must freely confess,To hear a man ask kind heaven to blessHimself and his neighbor, when over the wayHis drinking saloon stands open all day.Youmay call it a "drug store," but doesn't God know?Can you hide fromHiseye the sorrow and woe—The pain and the anguish, the grief and the shameThat comes from the house with a high-sounding name?Such ill gotten wealth will surely take wingAnd leave naught behind but the deadliest sting;And oh, the account must be settled some day,For the drug store saloon kept over the way.Can you face the just Judge and the souls you have wrecked?Oh, pause ere too late and note the effect.Do you know you're destroying both body and soulOf the men whose honor and manhood you've stole?Does the hard accusation arouse you to fright?Have you never looked at yourself in the lightOf a thief, nay, worse, a murderer, too?God brands you as such, and you know it is true!They're the deadliest poisons you have for sale—The liquors you keep—yet you always failTo mark them as such, and the men who drinkCan have what they want if they bring you the "chink."Don'tcall such a place adrug store, pray;But "drinking saloon," and you'd better sayOn the sign o'er the door in letters clear,"Ye abandon all hope who enter here!"
It sounds rather queer, I must freely confess,To hear a man ask kind heaven to blessHimself and his neighbor, when over the wayHis drinking saloon stands open all day.
Youmay call it a "drug store," but doesn't God know?Can you hide fromHiseye the sorrow and woe—The pain and the anguish, the grief and the shameThat comes from the house with a high-sounding name?
Such ill gotten wealth will surely take wingAnd leave naught behind but the deadliest sting;And oh, the account must be settled some day,For the drug store saloon kept over the way.
Can you face the just Judge and the souls you have wrecked?Oh, pause ere too late and note the effect.Do you know you're destroying both body and soulOf the men whose honor and manhood you've stole?
Does the hard accusation arouse you to fright?Have you never looked at yourself in the lightOf a thief, nay, worse, a murderer, too?God brands you as such, and you know it is true!
They're the deadliest poisons you have for sale—The liquors you keep—yet you always failTo mark them as such, and the men who drinkCan have what they want if they bring you the "chink."
Don'tcall such a place adrug store, pray;But "drinking saloon," and you'd better sayOn the sign o'er the door in letters clear,"Ye abandon all hope who enter here!"
The conference-meeting through at last,We boys around the vestry waitedTo see the girls come tripping pastLike snowbirds willing to be mated.Not braver he that leaps the wallBy level musket-flashes litten,Than I, who stepped before them all,Who longed to see me get the mitten.But no; she blushed and took my arm!We let the old folks have the highway,And started toward the Maple FarmAlong a kind of lover's by-way.I can't remember what we said,'Twas nothing worth a song or story;Yet that rude path by which we spedSeemed all transformed and in a glory.The snow was crisp beneath our feet,The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,Her face with youth and health was beaming.The little hand outside her muff—O sculptor, if you could but mould it!So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,To keep it warm I had to hold it.To have her with me there alone,—'Twas love and fear and triumph blended.At last we reached the foot-worn stoneWhere that delicious journey ended.The old folks, too, were almost home;Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,We heard the voices nearer come,Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.She took her ringlets from her hood,And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled;But yet I knew she understoodWith what a daring wish I trembled.A cloud past kindly overhead,The moon was slyly peeping through it,Yet hid its face, as if it said,"Come, now or never! do it!do it!"My lips till then had only knownThe kiss of mother and of sister,But somehow full upon her ownSweet, rosy, darling mouth—I kissed her!Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,O, listless woman! weary lover!To feel once more that fresh, wild thrillI'd give—but who can live youth over?
The conference-meeting through at last,We boys around the vestry waitedTo see the girls come tripping pastLike snowbirds willing to be mated.
Not braver he that leaps the wallBy level musket-flashes litten,Than I, who stepped before them all,Who longed to see me get the mitten.
But no; she blushed and took my arm!We let the old folks have the highway,And started toward the Maple FarmAlong a kind of lover's by-way.
I can't remember what we said,'Twas nothing worth a song or story;Yet that rude path by which we spedSeemed all transformed and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet,The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff—O sculptor, if you could but mould it!So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her with me there alone,—'Twas love and fear and triumph blended.At last we reached the foot-worn stoneWhere that delicious journey ended.
The old folks, too, were almost home;Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,We heard the voices nearer come,Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.
She took her ringlets from her hood,And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled;But yet I knew she understoodWith what a daring wish I trembled.
A cloud past kindly overhead,The moon was slyly peeping through it,Yet hid its face, as if it said,"Come, now or never! do it!do it!"
My lips till then had only knownThe kiss of mother and of sister,But somehow full upon her ownSweet, rosy, darling mouth—I kissed her!
Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,O, listless woman! weary lover!To feel once more that fresh, wild thrillI'd give—but who can live youth over?
Old Mose, who sold eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived, but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchases.
"Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed I has. Jest got in ten dozen from the kentry."
"Are they fresh?"
"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jest the same as ef I had led 'em myself."
"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket."
"All right, mum." He counts, "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein fresh.How's your son coming on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."
"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."
"Why, how ole am de boy?"
"He is eighteen."
"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and getting a salary already, eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her."
"She is married and living in Dallas."
"Wall, I declar'. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be jess about—"
"Thirty-three."
"Am dat so?" (counting), "firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am so singular dat you has sich old childruns. I can't b'leeve you has granchildruns. You don't look more den forty yeahs ole yerseff."
"Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old——"
"Fifty-free? I jess dun gwinter beleeve hit, fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six—I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake—fifty-nine,sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-tree, sixty-foah—Whew. Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob yeah when I feels I'se gettin' old myself. I ain't long fer dis world. You comes from an old family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole."
"Seventy-two."
"Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine—and your mudder? She was one ob the noblest looking ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she was done pass a centurion when she died."
"No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."
"Den she warn't no chicken when she died. I know dat—ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight—dar 108 nice fresh eggs—jess nine dozen, and here am one moah egg in case I has discounted myself."
Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said to her husband:
"I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stoodright there and heard Old Mose count them myself and there were nine dozen."
'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 givenThat they should retire precisely at sevenInstead of at eight—for they troubled him moreWith questions unheard of than ever before:He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,No such a 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 tossed 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 whispered, "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep?""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 denied,For he came every year before mamma died;But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray,And God would hear everything mamma would say,And maybe she asked him to send Santa Claus hereWith the sack full of presents he brought every year.""Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did den,And ask Dod to send him with p'esents aden?""I've been thinking so too," and without a word moreFour little bare feet bounded out on the floor,And four little knees the carpet pressed,And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast."Now Willie, you know we must firmly believeThat the presents we asked for we're sure to receive;You must wait very 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 favor we are asking of thee.I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and 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 him get fretful and angry againAt dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen.""Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night,And b'ing us some p'esents before it is light;I want he should div' me a nice 'ittie s'ed,With bright shinin' 'unners, and all painted red;A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,Amen, and then 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 lost soon in slumber, both peaceful and deep,And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten,Ere the father had thought of his children again:He seems now to hear Annie's half-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 bank stock to-day has gone down ten per centBut 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 go up to their door,For I never spoke harsh to my darlings 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," said he with a sigh,"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh.""I'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 every thing,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 stowed.Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,By the side of a table spread out for her tea;A work-box well filled in the centre was laidAnd on it the ring for which Annie had prayed.A soldier in uniform stood by a sled"With bright shining runners, and all painted red."There were balls, dogs, and horses, books pleasing to see,And birds of all colors were perched in the tree!While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,As if getting ready more presents to drop.And as the fond father the picture surveyed,He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid,And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year;I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before,What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent moreHereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe,To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas Eve."So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,And, tripping down stairs, 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.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 that 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 dear blessèd mamma, so long ago dead,Used to kneel down by the side of her chair,And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer."Den we dot up and prayed dust well as we tould,And Dod answered our prayers: 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 him think so, the 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 up stairs,And made you His agent to answer their prayers.
'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 givenThat they should retire precisely at sevenInstead of at eight—for they troubled him moreWith questions unheard of than ever before:He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,No such a 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 tossed 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 whispered, "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep?""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 denied,For he came every year before mamma died;But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray,And God would hear everything mamma would say,And maybe she asked him to send Santa Claus hereWith the sack full of presents he brought every year.""Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did den,And ask Dod to send him with p'esents aden?""I've been thinking so too," and without a word moreFour little bare feet bounded out on the floor,And four little knees the carpet pressed,And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast.
"Now Willie, you know we must firmly believeThat the presents we asked for we're sure to receive;You must wait very 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 favor we are asking of thee.I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and 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 him get fretful and angry againAt dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen."
"Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night,And b'ing us some p'esents before it is light;I want he should div' me a nice 'ittie s'ed,With bright shinin' 'unners, and all painted red;A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,Amen, and then 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 lost soon in slumber, both peaceful and deep,And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.
Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten,Ere the father had thought of his children again:He seems now to hear Annie's half-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 bank stock to-day has gone down ten per centBut 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 go up to their door,For I never spoke harsh to my darlings 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," said he with a sigh,"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh.""I'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 every thing,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 stowed.Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,By the side of a table spread out for her tea;A work-box well filled in the centre was laidAnd on it the ring for which Annie had prayed.A soldier in uniform stood by a sled"With bright shining runners, and all painted red."There were balls, dogs, and horses, books pleasing to see,And birds of all colors were perched in the tree!While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,As if getting ready more presents to drop.And as the fond father the picture surveyed,He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid,And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year;I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before,What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent moreHereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe,To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas Eve."So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,And, tripping down stairs, 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.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 that 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 dear blessèd mamma, so long ago dead,Used to kneel down by the side of her chair,And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer."Den we dot up and prayed dust well as we tould,And Dod answered our prayers: 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 him think so, the 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 up stairs,And made you His agent to answer their prayers.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection presents them to view!The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,And every loved spot which my infancy knew;The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,And e'en the rude bucket, which hung in the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure;For often, at noon, when returned from the field,I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.And now, far removed from the loved situation,The tear of regret will intrusively swell,As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection presents them to view!The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,And every loved spot which my infancy knew;The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,And e'en the rude bucket, which hung in the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure;For often, at noon, when returned from the field,I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.And now, far removed from the loved situation,The tear of regret will intrusively swell,As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time."
"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
"Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.
"Ye-yes; O yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I—I—am rather out of practice!"
"O, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much."
"O, it is so graceful," said another young lady. A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swanlike."
"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have no skates."
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.
Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shoveled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr.Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvelous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions which they called a reel.
All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
"Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, "off with you, and show 'em how to do it."
"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arm with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!"
"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!"
This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.
"These—these—are very awkward skates," said Mr. Winkle, staggering.
"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety."
"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."
"Just going to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off!"
"Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There—that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam—not too fast!"
Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller in a very singular and un-swanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank—"Sam!"
"Sir!" shouted back Mr. Weller.
"Here! I want you."
"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor calling? Let go, sir."
With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and in so doing administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Winkle struck Wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly.
"I really think you had better," said Allen.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not."
"What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.
Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller and said, in a stern voice, "Take his skates off!"
"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
"Take his skates off!" repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly.
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in silence.
"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:
"You're a humbug, sir!"
"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.
"A humbug, sir! I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir!"
With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined his friends.