'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day,While at a family feast,A little girl of five years oldThe merriment increased,By crying out,—as glasses heldThe ice she ne'er had seen,—"Oh see! what pretty little stones.What for? Where have they been?""Here, give her one," the host exclaimed,Pleased with her childish glee."'Twill show her as no words could showWhat ice is, and must be."She grasped the "white stone" in her hand,All watching eagerly,When suddenly she let it fall,And cried, "It's burning me."But, anxious still to see it more,She asked a servant nearTo hand it in a napkin wrapped—Then there would be no fear.Again the ice was in her hand,Her plaything for the day,When all at once she cried aloud,"The stone is running away."A glass of water now was used,Sure that would keep it hers.But no! with all her loving watchThe same result occurs.The plaything gone, at evening hourShe sat on uncle's knee."Who makes those white stones, you or God?"She asked, inquiringly."In Miss Brown's land [a Boston friend]God makes them," answered he."But in Brazil a factory-manMakes them for you and me."A moment's pause. Then said the child,—Heaven's blessing on her fall,—"Why doesn't God get from BrazilA man to make them all?"
'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day,While at a family feast,A little girl of five years oldThe merriment increased,By crying out,—as glasses heldThe ice she ne'er had seen,—"Oh see! what pretty little stones.What for? Where have they been?""Here, give her one," the host exclaimed,Pleased with her childish glee."'Twill show her as no words could showWhat ice is, and must be."She grasped the "white stone" in her hand,All watching eagerly,When suddenly she let it fall,And cried, "It's burning me."But, anxious still to see it more,She asked a servant nearTo hand it in a napkin wrapped—Then there would be no fear.Again the ice was in her hand,Her plaything for the day,When all at once she cried aloud,"The stone is running away."A glass of water now was used,Sure that would keep it hers.But no! with all her loving watchThe same result occurs.The plaything gone, at evening hourShe sat on uncle's knee."Who makes those white stones, you or God?"She asked, inquiringly."In Miss Brown's land [a Boston friend]God makes them," answered he."But in Brazil a factory-manMakes them for you and me."A moment's pause. Then said the child,—Heaven's blessing on her fall,—"Why doesn't God get from BrazilA man to make them all?"
'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day,While at a family feast,A little girl of five years oldThe merriment increased,
By crying out,—as glasses heldThe ice she ne'er had seen,—"Oh see! what pretty little stones.What for? Where have they been?"
"Here, give her one," the host exclaimed,Pleased with her childish glee."'Twill show her as no words could showWhat ice is, and must be."
She grasped the "white stone" in her hand,All watching eagerly,When suddenly she let it fall,And cried, "It's burning me."
But, anxious still to see it more,She asked a servant nearTo hand it in a napkin wrapped—Then there would be no fear.
Again the ice was in her hand,Her plaything for the day,When all at once she cried aloud,"The stone is running away."
A glass of water now was used,Sure that would keep it hers.But no! with all her loving watchThe same result occurs.
The plaything gone, at evening hourShe sat on uncle's knee."Who makes those white stones, you or God?"She asked, inquiringly.
"In Miss Brown's land [a Boston friend]God makes them," answered he."But in Brazil a factory-manMakes them for you and me."
A moment's pause. Then said the child,—Heaven's blessing on her fall,—"Why doesn't God get from BrazilA man to make them all?"
"Mamma, where is the sun to-day,While all this rain comes down?"Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Who has not asked beforeThis question o'er and o'er?"Behind the clouds so thick and blackThe sun is shining still,"The mother quickly answered back,Her child with faith to fill.The child looked up in strange surprise,In doubt almost a pain,Then turned again her wistful eyesTo watch the pouring rain."I don't believe 'tis shining still,"She muttered to herself.Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Why doubt e'en mother's word,Because of feelings stirred?"I won't believe it till I seeThe sun behind that cloud,"She still went on, defiantly,To say in accents loud.Now, while she gazed as if to seeThe truth made known by sight,Behold the cloud did suddenlyBecome imbued with light."There, there, mamma, the sun, the sun!"The little doubter cried.And, full of joy at victory won,She danced with childish pride.The mother watched with tearful eyesHer child's transparent joy,But dared not quench the glad surprise,Or victory's power destroy."Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed,"Of hidden things made plain,When in the depths of life she's tried,And all fond hopes are slain."While thus she mused, as mothers will,The little daughter fairRushed to her arms, all smiling still,And said, while nestling there,"Behind the clouds the sundoesshine,E'en while the rain comes down."Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,This wisdom is indeedFor future hours of need.
"Mamma, where is the sun to-day,While all this rain comes down?"Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Who has not asked beforeThis question o'er and o'er?"Behind the clouds so thick and blackThe sun is shining still,"The mother quickly answered back,Her child with faith to fill.The child looked up in strange surprise,In doubt almost a pain,Then turned again her wistful eyesTo watch the pouring rain."I don't believe 'tis shining still,"She muttered to herself.Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Why doubt e'en mother's word,Because of feelings stirred?"I won't believe it till I seeThe sun behind that cloud,"She still went on, defiantly,To say in accents loud.Now, while she gazed as if to seeThe truth made known by sight,Behold the cloud did suddenlyBecome imbued with light."There, there, mamma, the sun, the sun!"The little doubter cried.And, full of joy at victory won,She danced with childish pride.The mother watched with tearful eyesHer child's transparent joy,But dared not quench the glad surprise,Or victory's power destroy."Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed,"Of hidden things made plain,When in the depths of life she's tried,And all fond hopes are slain."While thus she mused, as mothers will,The little daughter fairRushed to her arms, all smiling still,And said, while nestling there,"Behind the clouds the sundoesshine,E'en while the rain comes down."Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,This wisdom is indeedFor future hours of need.
"Mamma, where is the sun to-day,While all this rain comes down?"Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Who has not asked beforeThis question o'er and o'er?
"Behind the clouds so thick and blackThe sun is shining still,"The mother quickly answered back,Her child with faith to fill.
The child looked up in strange surprise,In doubt almost a pain,Then turned again her wistful eyesTo watch the pouring rain.
"I don't believe 'tis shining still,"She muttered to herself.Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,Why doubt e'en mother's word,Because of feelings stirred?
"I won't believe it till I seeThe sun behind that cloud,"She still went on, defiantly,To say in accents loud.
Now, while she gazed as if to seeThe truth made known by sight,Behold the cloud did suddenlyBecome imbued with light.
"There, there, mamma, the sun, the sun!"The little doubter cried.And, full of joy at victory won,She danced with childish pride.
The mother watched with tearful eyesHer child's transparent joy,But dared not quench the glad surprise,Or victory's power destroy.
"Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed,"Of hidden things made plain,When in the depths of life she's tried,And all fond hopes are slain."
While thus she mused, as mothers will,The little daughter fairRushed to her arms, all smiling still,And said, while nestling there,
"Behind the clouds the sundoesshine,E'en while the rain comes down."Ah, little girlOf flaxen curl,This wisdom is indeedFor future hours of need.
I know that all the boys and girlsWould be so glad to seeOur kitty do the little trickShe often does for me.When asked, "O kitty, where's the ball?"She to my shoulder leaps,And looks directly to the shelf,Where from a box it peeps.She will not cease to look and beg,Until I find the placeWhere she can take between her teethThe ball with easy grace.Then quickly to the floor she jumps;When, dropping first the ball,She runs behind the open doorThat leads into the hall.She waits, with only head in sight,The ball to see me throw;Then after it she scampers wellSome forty feet or so.She never fails to bring it back;Then lifts with wondrous graceHer velvet paw to take the ballFrom out its hiding place.This done, she nestles by my side,And purrs while I caress,Unconscious of the trick she's done,Since three months old or less.She thus will lie in calm reposeSo long as I am still;But if I move to touch the ball,Then all her nerves will thrill,Her eyes will shine, she'll quickly findHer place behind the door,And wait again to see the ballRoll on the long hall floor.Ah, kitty dear, who told you howTo join thought, act, and sight?Must not we think that in you dwellsThe germ of mental light,The germ that makes you kin to usIn kind though not degree,But which was quickened by His touchFor our supremacy?
I know that all the boys and girlsWould be so glad to seeOur kitty do the little trickShe often does for me.When asked, "O kitty, where's the ball?"She to my shoulder leaps,And looks directly to the shelf,Where from a box it peeps.She will not cease to look and beg,Until I find the placeWhere she can take between her teethThe ball with easy grace.Then quickly to the floor she jumps;When, dropping first the ball,She runs behind the open doorThat leads into the hall.She waits, with only head in sight,The ball to see me throw;Then after it she scampers wellSome forty feet or so.She never fails to bring it back;Then lifts with wondrous graceHer velvet paw to take the ballFrom out its hiding place.This done, she nestles by my side,And purrs while I caress,Unconscious of the trick she's done,Since three months old or less.She thus will lie in calm reposeSo long as I am still;But if I move to touch the ball,Then all her nerves will thrill,Her eyes will shine, she'll quickly findHer place behind the door,And wait again to see the ballRoll on the long hall floor.Ah, kitty dear, who told you howTo join thought, act, and sight?Must not we think that in you dwellsThe germ of mental light,The germ that makes you kin to usIn kind though not degree,But which was quickened by His touchFor our supremacy?
I know that all the boys and girlsWould be so glad to seeOur kitty do the little trickShe often does for me.
When asked, "O kitty, where's the ball?"She to my shoulder leaps,And looks directly to the shelf,Where from a box it peeps.
She will not cease to look and beg,Until I find the placeWhere she can take between her teethThe ball with easy grace.
Then quickly to the floor she jumps;When, dropping first the ball,She runs behind the open doorThat leads into the hall.
She waits, with only head in sight,The ball to see me throw;Then after it she scampers wellSome forty feet or so.
She never fails to bring it back;Then lifts with wondrous graceHer velvet paw to take the ballFrom out its hiding place.
This done, she nestles by my side,And purrs while I caress,Unconscious of the trick she's done,Since three months old or less.
She thus will lie in calm reposeSo long as I am still;But if I move to touch the ball,Then all her nerves will thrill,
Her eyes will shine, she'll quickly findHer place behind the door,And wait again to see the ballRoll on the long hall floor.
Ah, kitty dear, who told you howTo join thought, act, and sight?Must not we think that in you dwellsThe germ of mental light,
The germ that makes you kin to usIn kind though not degree,But which was quickened by His touchFor our supremacy?
EThese verses, true in every detail, are only preserved in remembrance of a pet cat of our family for many years.
EThese verses, true in every detail, are only preserved in remembrance of a pet cat of our family for many years.
A mountain hides within itselfThis message grand and true,Which at my bidding came to-dayFor me to give to you:"Drink deep of Nature's sweetest life,While learning how to wait.Stand strong against the tempest's strife,Not questioning the fate.Then shalt thou live above the dinOf petty things below,Absorbing depths of life within,The future to o'erflow."
A mountain hides within itselfThis message grand and true,Which at my bidding came to-dayFor me to give to you:"Drink deep of Nature's sweetest life,While learning how to wait.Stand strong against the tempest's strife,Not questioning the fate.Then shalt thou live above the dinOf petty things below,Absorbing depths of life within,The future to o'erflow."
A mountain hides within itselfThis message grand and true,Which at my bidding came to-dayFor me to give to you:
"Drink deep of Nature's sweetest life,While learning how to wait.Stand strong against the tempest's strife,Not questioning the fate.Then shalt thou live above the dinOf petty things below,Absorbing depths of life within,The future to o'erflow."
At the foot of Mount Holyoke.
Transcribers' NotesPunctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.Simple typographical errors were corrected; inconsistent hyphenation was retained.Footnotes have been moved to the ends of the poems that reference them.It sometimes was unclear whether or not a new stanza began on a new page.Page32: Unbalanced closing quotation mark retained after: God's thought.Page78: "In perfect harmony" was printed as "perect".
Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; inconsistent hyphenation was retained.
Footnotes have been moved to the ends of the poems that reference them.
It sometimes was unclear whether or not a new stanza began on a new page.
Page32: Unbalanced closing quotation mark retained after: God's thought.
Page78: "In perfect harmony" was printed as "perect".