P s ■S3UL0ST (CHRISTMAS v 1 i^^Ci*- i^^SjC.' ;,, ,, te.V'f-' , ""^"^^-^^^ rinss 3 _4^ Copglit]^" COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT Digitized by the Internet Arciiive in 2010 witii funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/lostchristmasothOOsmit THE LOST CHRISTMAS AND OTHER POEMS By MAY RILEY SMITH 1, -> NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 31 West Twenty-third Street 4^ THE LiSRARY OF GC'iMGSESS, Two Copies Reoeived OEC. 30 l§Of COPVRIGMT ENTRY CLA«S Ct- XXa NO. / •) / ^ I COPY la. id. / T5 2.?^ Copyright CRADLE AND ARMCHAIR By A. D. F. Randolph & Company, 1893 THE LOST CHRISTMAS By May Riley Smith igoi tec r. c c MV MOTHER. The sweetest face in all the world to me. Set in a frajne of shining silver hair^ With eyes whose language is fidelity : This is my mother. Is she not most fair ? Ten little heads have found their sweetest rest upon the pillow of her loving breast : The world is wide ; yet ttowhere does it keep So safe a haven^ so secure a rest. "'TIS counted something great to be a queen ^ A fid bend a kingdom to a woman's will. To be a another such as mine, I ween. Is something better and more noble still. mother / in the changeful years now flown, Since, as a child, I leaned upon your knee, Life has not brought to 7ne, nor fortune shown, Such tender love 1 such yearning sympathy ! Let fortune smile or frown, whichever she will ; It matters not, I scorn her fickle ways ! 1 never shall be quite bereft until I lose my mother^ s honest blam,e and praise I CONTENTS. ♦ Page She came to Me 9 The Baby over the Way ...... ii Four 14 Elizabeth 17 A Little Pillow 18 " Lost — A Girl " 20 My Baby's Mouth 22 Nests 24 The Child that belongs to Me ... 27 In the Door 30 Tired Mothers 32 The Santa Claus Story 35 Compensation 38 Two Valentines 42 Joe's Mercies 47 My Little Boy 51 What can I do? ss Who hath made Them to Differ - » - 57 Papa's Birthday 60 v"i Contents, Page The Lost Christmas 6i A Sweet Old Legend . 65 Ploughed Under 68 Waiting 70 In Vanity Fair 73 If ...... 77 Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe .... 80 In Memory of Mr. Crowley of Central Park 85 Linings 88 A Prayer 91 A Little Cynic ......... 93 Christmas Eve 98 Jamie's Prayer loi Shocking 103 The Scarecrow 106 If We knew 108 A Little Robber in " Suffer Little Children to come unto Me" 113 " A Little Child shall lead Them " . 115 Our Bobby was Pinching the Kitten . 120 He knows best . 123 Comfort 126 A Subpcena 128 SHE CAME TO ME. ^OT with the rustle of strange wings, Not as an angel garmented ; No aureole shone round her head, She did not speak of heavenly things. She came and stood beside my knee, Leaning upon it as of old ; Until my sorrow, fold on fold, Like an old garment fell from me. The very frock she used to wear, The lace about her sweet, round wrist ; The warm moist hand that I had kissed ; The wayward trick of the bright hair. lo She Came to Me, That on her lifted forehead fell, — I saw it all in rapt surprise, As smiling upward with her eyes She said, " I 'm all well now — all well." O little queen, whose realm on earth In ruin lies ! leave not the road Between thy world and ours untrod ; Come sometimes back to the old hearth ! We will not bar the chamber door, To hinder thy departing feet : We know thou canst not tarry, Sweet, But come, O come to us once more 1 THE BABY OVER THE WAY. CROSS in my neighbor's window, With its folds of satin and lace, I see, with its crown of ringlets, A baby's innocent face. The throng in the street look upward. And every one, grave or gay, Has a nod and a smile for the baby. In the mansion over the way. Just here in my cottage window. His chin in his dimpled hands, And a patch on his faded apron. The child that I live for stands. He has kept my heart from breaking For many a weary day ; And his face is as pure and handsome As the baby's over the way. 12 The Baby over the Way. Sometimes, when we sit together, My grave little man of three, Sore vexes me with the question, ** Does God up in Heaven like me? " And I say, " Yes, yes, my darling," Though I almost answer " Nay " : As I see the nursery candles. In the mansion over the way. And oft when I draw the stocking From his little tired feet. And loosen the clumsy garments From his limbs so round and sweet, I grow too bitter for singing. My heart too heavy to pray, As I think of the dainty raiment Of the baby over the way. Oh God in Heaven forgive me For all I have thought and said ! My envious heart is humbled : My neighbor's baby is dead ! The Baby over the Way. 13 I saw the little white cofifin As they carried it out to-day, And the heart of a mother is breaking In the mansion over the way! The light is fair in my window, The flowers bloom at my door; My boy is chasing the sunbeams That dance on the cottage floor. The roses of health are crowning My darling's forehead to-day ; But the baby is gone from the window Of the mansion over the way ! FOUR. H, wind of the sweet May morning ! Tell me the rarest thing, The fittest for birthday token, That your rosy hands can bring. Oh, army of loving mothers. Lend me your counsel, pray. And tell me a gift for a darling Who is four years old to-day ! I have hunted the clover meadow And the blossoming orchards through For a bit of the robin's crimson, Or the jay-bird's dainty blue; But robin, at home with her babies, Was having a holiday. And when I made love to the blue-bird. She whistled and fluttered away. Four, 15 And then I thought of the violet, Sweetest and best of them all, So I ran to catch the perfume That her purple cloak let fall ; But in vain did I try to gather What never a cup can hold, Though for every breath of fragrance You offer a world of gold. I searched in the highest grasses For an echo of mellow song That the thrush had left behind her As she merrily flitted along ; But she flew away to the alders And hid in her own brown nest, And crooned to the little thrushes That twittered under her breast. I sought for a gift uncommon. Oh, say, was I proud and wrong, To ask for the blue-bird's color, Or to seek to capture a song? 1 6 Four, Was it like a covetous mother To try in her hand to bring An odor of purple violets, That sweet, intangible thing? But stay ! I have thought of a token ! Surely I was not wise ; Can you guess what gift I bring you. By the light that shines in my eyes? *T is your mother's love, my darling. And it knows no change, nor death, It is truer than blue-jay's color. And sweeter than violets' breath ! Though you may not grasp nor hold it In the palm of your small brown hand, Yet you can carry it with you When you go to the Better Land. Then, wind of the soft May morning, Have you any thing better to lay At the feet of a little darling Who is four years old to-day? ELIZABETH. CANNOT tell How it befell As you came sailing straight to me, That no sweet hail, Nor rustling sail Proclaimed my coming argosy. Yet every day Upon its way Your boat was speeding sure and fast ; Until my eyes With glad surprise Beheld and welcomed you at last. I cannot see How it could be I saw no signal from your hand ; Yet this I know, With happy glow, Your boat to-day is at my strand. A LITTLE PILLOW. TTTLE pillow, do you think, With your frills and bows of pink, You can faithful be and true, To the trust I give to you? In your laces, here and there, I have stitched a silent prayer For the little child, whose face Soon will give a needed grace To the work my hands have wrought With full many a tender thought. Underneath each knot of pink Hides a sleepy elf, I think, Who, with tricks so sly and wise, Fastens down the baby's eyes ; Wraps him round from brow to feet With a rest so soft and sweet. A Little Pillow. 19 That he cries in grieved surprise, When he opens wide his eyes, Just because he cannot keep All the treasures of his sleep ! To each feather soft and white I have whispered dreams so light, That the baby's sleep will be Full of peace and purity. What though velvet cheek and lips. With their rosiness eclipse Every touch of puny skill, I have wrought with loving will? How could anything compare With a baby fresh and fair? How could God's work pure and fine ; Ever harmonize with mine? Little pillow do you think, With your frills and bows of pink You can faithful be and true To the trust I give to you? "LOST— A GIRL." H, say ! have you seen my Alice Anywhere on Life's street, Among the army of children Everywhere that you meet? Her hair was in yellow tangles, There were prints of sweets on her face, She spoke in a broken language, And lisped with a child's rare grace. Has nobody seen this hoyden, This queer little girl in blue, With a rent in her wee white apron And a gap in each scarlet shoe? Her shoe-strings were always dangling, And her stockings sure to be Loosed and showing the dimples Set in each rosy knee. ''Lost — A Girl," 21 If angels had stolen our Alice Away from her life of play; If under a cover of daisies We had hidden our girl away; If I could know she had wandered The Heavenly gateway through, I should think some day to find her, My little daughter in blue. The birds have learned to answer When her name I sadly call, But the voice of my little truant Is silent, in room and hall. I see a beautiful woma7i With my grandchild at her knee, But my little heedless Alice Will never come back to me ! MY BABY'S MOUTH. HE had not compassed much of human speech With that small mouth, like two rose-petals curled ; But the short octave that her tongue could reach, Out-sweetened all the music in the world. Yet when my child was with me every day, I wore her heedlessly upon my breast, — My tender flower ! — It is our human way; We mothers are too thoughtless at the best. For had some angel stooped from heaven to touch With that same tenderness my brow • and hair, My Baby's Motif h, 23 I should have thrilled and trembled over- much, And set some consecrated signet there. I seal it now, God and the angels know ! And on the strength of every slighted kiss I will drink humbly my full cup of woe, Nor grudge the price for my neglected bliss. world, you nothing hold that I regret : I covet neither honors, wealth, nor place ; 1 want my baby's mouth all sweet and wet, Rubbing its dew against my lonely face ! NESTS. KNOW where meadow-grasses rank and high A cradle cover, Because two bobolinks with tell-tale cry Above them hover. Some mullein leaves beside my garden wall Grow unmolested ; And under their pale velvet parasol Sparrows have nested. An oriole toiled on from day to day — The cunning weaver ! — Tying her hammock to that leafy spray Above the river. Nests, 25 No wingless thief can climb that elm's frail stair ; Nor guest unbidden Can reach the snug, aerial chamber where Her eggs are hidden. A marsh-wren's cunning hermitage I see, As my boat passes, Moored to the green stems oi 2i fleur-de-lis With strong sea grasses. And stay ! I know another pretty nest Of braided willow. With dainty lace, and knots of ribbon drest, And feather pillow. And just one bird, with moist and downy head, Herein reposes ; He has no wings, — his shoulders grow instead Dimples and roses ! 2 6 Nests. You have a nest and little wingless bird At your house, may be; Of course you know without another word I mean — a baby ! THE CHILD THAT BELONGS TO ME. O pure is my child, that I dare to say His Maker would not despise To color the sky on some rare June day From the blue in his handsome eyes ; And I am as proud as mother can be Of this beautiful boy that belongs to me ! Sometimes when we walk where the lily blows, She frowns with a sullen grace ; The gentle violet jealous grows When my little one breathes in her face ; And even the rose bends courteously To the beautiful boy that belongs to me. 28 The Child that belongs to Me, His voice is as clear and sweet as the bell That swings in the robin's throat; I have asked him oft, but he cannot tell Wherever he caught its note ; And where is the bird more happy and free Than the beautiful boy that belongs to me ! Whenever I go to the market-place I carry him proud and high, That all may catch a glimpse of his face Before we have passed them by ; So eager am I that the world shall see This beautiful boy that belongs to me ! They tell me the world is a dreary place, And heavily sown with tears ; But when I look in my child's dear face, My heart is too glad for fears ; And all I can give seems a worthless fee For the beautiful boy that belongs to me. The Child that belongs to Me. 29 Nor will I burden my days with sighs, Lest God for my child should send ; For whether he lives or whether he dies, He is mine till Eternity's end. And I fear no harm to my child or me, Since both, O Father, belong to Thee ! IN THE DOOR. L^^|OR forty years this old gray sentinel Has braved the tempest and the driving rain ; For forty years its rusty hinge has creaked To let the sunshine in and out again. The little hands that reached to clasp the latch Are clean enough to-day, the angels know; For they were emptied of the toys of life, And folded passively long years ago. I brush away the cobwebs and the dust, And sit me down upon the sunken sill ; And through the gate and up the garden walk, I seem to see my children trooping still. In the Door. 31 Their merry voices cheer my lonesome ear; Their little garments brush me as they pass ; And all along the path their feet have come A trail of sunshine parts the bended grass. I am no longer tired, worn, and gray ; My children cling about me as of yore ; And with their hands clasped tightly in my own, We watch the sunset from the open door. TIRED MOTHERS. LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, Your tired knee, that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of shining hair: Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight, You do not prize this blessing overmuch — = You almost are too tired to pray, to-night ! But it is blessedness ! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-day. We are so dull and thankless ; and too slow To catch the sunshine e'er it slips away. Tired Mothers. 33 \nd now it seems surpassing strange to me, That while I wore the badge of mother- hood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good ! And if some night when you sit down to rest, You miss this elbow from your tired knee ; This restless, curling head from ofif your breast. This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; If the white feet into their grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heart- ache then ! 3 34 Tired Mothers. I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children, clinging to their gown ; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown ! If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor; If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear its music in my home once more; If I could mend a broken cart to-day. To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I. But, ah ! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head ; My singing birdling from its nest is flown : The little boy I used to kiss is dead ! THE SANTA CLAUS STORY. lOW sweet it all was! The red firelight, The cat purring soft on the rug, The wife flitting backwards and forwards. The egg-nog afoam in the mug. And when I looked up at the starlight. And down at this picture so fair, I just dropped my head, and in silence Gave thanks to the Giver right there. The parson came in, and we told him How happy our boy Fritzy was, A-hanging his little gray stocking, And prattling about Santa Claus. And how Alice said as she kissed me, A-reaching my neck on tip-toe : "I touldn't hold any more dladness, Dear papa, unless I should drow." 36 The Santa Claus Story, But the parson sat gloomy and solemn, And wife looked just ready to cry When he said, **Is it right, my good brother, To tell them that old-fashioned lie? You can't expect roses and lilies In a garden where thistles are sown, Nor truth from the lips of your children. If you let falsehood blacken your own." Then he said '' Merry Christmas," and left us. That dazed, and so kind of unstrung. That we stared at those little gray stockings. Till the bells in the church steeple rung. And their chimes took me back to my mother. And I stood a wee chap at her knee, And heard the same Santa Claus story That Alice and Fritz have, from me. The Santa Claus Story. 37 And if the Lord reckons it sinful I hope He will punish it light: Just think what a world full of sinners Have told that old story to-night ! COMPENSATION. HE folded up the worn and mended frock And smoothed it tenderly upon her knee, Then through the soft web of a wee red sock She wove the bright wool, musing thoughtfully, ** Can this be all ? The great world is so fair, I hunger for its green and pleasant ways ; A cripple prisoned in her restless chair, Looks from her window with a wistful gaze. "The fruits I cannot reach are red and sweet, The paths forbidden are both green and wide; Compensation, 39 O God ! there is no boon to helpless feet So altogether sweet as paths denied. Home is most fair: bright are my household fires, And children are a gift without alloy : But who would bound the field of her desires By the prim hedges of mere fireside joy? " I can but weave a faint thread to and fro, Making a frail woof in a baby's sock; Into the world's sweet tumult I would go, At its strong gates my trembling hand would knock." Just then the children came, the father too. Their eager faces lit the twilight gloom, " Dear heart," he whispered, as he nearer drew, " How sweet it is within this little room! 40 Compensation, *' God puts my strongest comfort here to draw When thirst is great, and common wells are dry. Your pure desire is my unerring law ; Tell me, dear one, who is so safe as I? Home is the pasture where my soul may feed, This room a paradise has grown to be, And only where these patient feet shall lead Can it be home for these dear ones and me. He touched with reverent hand the helpless feet, The children crowded close and kissed her hair. " Our mother is so good, and kind, and sweet, There 's not another like her anywhere ! " The baby in her low bed opened wide The soft blue flowers of her timid eyes, Compensation. 41 And viewed the group about the cradle side With smiles of glad and innocent surprise. The mother drew the baby to her breast And smiling said : *^ The stars shine soft to-night; My world is fair; its hedges, too, are best And whatsoever is, dear Lord, is right." TWO VALENTINES. ]NE was the loveliest thing ! A pink sachet Trimmed with soft ribbons and point applique, While heliotropes upon their rosy field The daintiest of perfumes seemed to yield. Tom thought it just the thing, and then he knew The nicest girl in town would think so too; And, best of all, within the folds was laid This valentine to please the little maid : ** What is daintier, can you tell, Than the lichen groves where the fairies dwell? Two Valentines. 43 What is a still more delicate thing Than the silken stuff of a butterfly's wing? What has a lining do you think As fair as the mushroom's fluted pink? "Are you so dull? Why, the rarest thing Is the heart of the girl whose praise I sing ! " This he addressed to Miss Maude Alice Browne. Another — how I blush to write it down — He sent in spite to poor lame Meg McCray, Who won the prize in algebra that day. *' There is a young person I know, Whose shoes are all out at the toe ; She has very large feet. Her gown is not neat, And her petticoats hang down below. 44 Two Valentines, " I maf ride a broom to the sky, A snow-storm may fall in July, And my slatternly friend Her habits maj/ mend ; But do you believe it? Not I." But can you tell me how it came about That Miss Maude Alice Browne, with laugh and shout, Received Meg's valentine? And, strange to tell, Miss Meg McCray received Miss Browne's as well. ' O Tom ! " Meg cried with innocent, round eyes, '* I 've had the dearest kind of a sur- prise ! Now who could love a poor, lame girl like me Enough to send this valentine? Just see ! Two Valentines. 45 " If I were rich like Miss Maude Alice Browne, And pretty, too — Why, Tom, what makes you frown ? — It could not be so sweet to me, you know, To feel that some kind person loves me so. " But now whenever things seem hard to bear, I think it will be easier not to care, And being lame will not seem quite so bad, The thought that some one cares makes me so glad. Tom looked perplexed. What could the fellow do But say, " Well, Meg, I 'm just as glad as you ! " And so he was: the jealous fiend had flown And in his eyes a true repentance shone. 46 Two Valentines, And Miss Maude Alice Browne cried with a laugh, ** Some one has sent me my own photo- graph ! Well it 's a joke, and here 's the best of it, It does n't hurt because it does n't hit ! " That night Tom's sister touched him on the knee : *' I say, dear Tom," she said mischievously, *' I wonder if the Lord will credit you With what you did^ or what you meant to do." JOE'S MERCIES. Well, I 've been counting my mercies, As my grandmother would say, And I have n't got many to brag of, If it is Thanksgiving Day. There 's mother, of course, and the baby, They 're down in big letters, you know. But between you and me, the remainder Don't make an exceeding long row. For grandma is very uncertain, And likely as not, before long. To quietly slip off and leave us — She is seventy, and not very strong. And I would n't give a brass button For a palace, no matter how fine. That has n't a grandmother in it That looks pretty nearly like mine. 48 Joe's Mercies. And then, you will own, It 's a trial, To be so exceedingly poor; It takes just a few extra mercies To make up for that, I am sure. To-day, we '11 have beef and rice pudding, Thanksgiving at that. What a feast ! One ought to expect a plump turkey And cranberry sauce, at least. And you can't guess how lonesome it is Jack, For a shaver no bigger than I, To manage without any father. And I hope that you won't have to try. And the more I try to be thankful And think of my blessings and such ; The more it appears, on that subject, What I have to say is not much. And as for the weather — it 's horrid ! Just look at the frost on the glass ! Why, I could n't catch sight of a circus If one should happen to pass. Joe's Mercies. 49 Say, Jacky just come to the window; What is it on Benny Bright's door? It 's a strip of white crape and a ribbon ! O Jack, had you seen it before ? And there goes a little white coffin And flowers. Yes, Jack, now I see ! It is Ben's little rosy-faced brother, Who always threw kisses at me. Oh, I am the worst of boys, Jacky, Don't any one dare tell me " No," I tell you I '11 whip the first fellow That offers to say it ain't so. But, Jack, it never once struck me Till I saw that small coffin, to-day, How much a little round baby, Like the one at our house, can weigh But I say, if in counting his mercies A boy is inclined to be slow, A hearse at the door of his neighbor Will quicken his senses, I know. 4 50 Joe's Mercies, At any rate that 's my opinion ; And I think, if the Lord does n't care, I '11 reckon my mercies all over ; For, Jacky, I didn't count fair. MY LITTLE BOY. HE old square clock had struck the hour of eight. Outside the starry lamps were shining high, The silver moon in regal splendor sate In the blue glory of the Christmas sky, And tired workers toiling homeward late Hummed Christmas carols as they plodded by. My little boy was standing by my chair, One small white foot was bare upon the floor; His shining eyes beheld a world all fair; His face was eloquent with hopes in store, For hanging in the chimney corner there Was the small fleecy sock my darling wore. 52 My Little Boy, He had been telling me in eager speech Of all the treasures Santa Claus would bring; There were no bounds his sweet faith could not reach, His trust was simple and unquestion- ing, While I had learned the whole that life could teach Of bitter doubt and cruel suffering ! I listened to him with a wistful prayer, I longed to make some helpful faith my own; That into my poor life of grief and care Might creep a truer grace than it had known — Some blessed trust that would not prove a snare. Some love more honest than the world had shown. My Little Boy, 53 And then I said, " The Christmas is to me . More sad, my boy, than you can understand ; It brings me gifts of pain and treachery, And deals them through a loved and trusted hand. It brings a broken truth my staff to be, And leaves me nothing that will hold or stand ! My blessed child broke in upon my woe, Half loving, half reproachfully he said, ''You still have something left; there's me, you know ! Why, one might think your little boy was dead ! I 'm little now, but when I larger grow I will take care of you, mamma," he said. I caught him with a passionate surprise ; I covered him with kisses burning sweet ! 54 My Little Boy, My life grew richer, looking in his eyes, Though other loves were poor and incomplete ; And praying God to make him good and wise, I tucked the cover soft about his feet. WHAT CAN I DO? HAT can I do, O heavy heart within, That shall atone For this most sacrilegious sin That I have done? For when my soul would seek the King alone A round bright head Lifts up its aureole before the throne And shines instead. Nor gates of pearl, nor walls of amethyst That flash and glow, Have grace and color like the eyes I kissed A year ago. 5 6 What can I do 7 And Christ forgive me ! All the bliss and balm Of that rare land Are held, for me, within the slender palm Of one small hand ! One day my soul may climb on holier round To Heaven's fair place : But now, ah me ! my fierce desire is bound By one sweet face. WHO HATH MADE THEM TO DIFFER. HO hath made them to differ — Your Httle child and mine? Each with a face Hke the flower, Each with the stamp divine ! Who hath made them to differ — The lamb in the sheltering fold, And the waif with never a pasture, Bleating for hunger and cold? Is it God that wrought the evil? Does He fashion the tender flower Only to trample its chalice Under the tread of His power? Is it God, the Father of Mercies, The Blameless, the Undefiled, Who hath wrought this pitiful evil In the life of a Httle child? 58 JVho hath made Them to differ. Hath He erred somehow Hke a mortal, That the children cry for bread? Is it God hath failed in His weaving And twisted and soiled the thread? Nay, nay, He is just, and our Father, He cannot beget a wrong ! We clash the keys of His organ And then blame Him for the song. We thrust our hands in His purpose. And tangle them in His wheel. And then cry out like children, For the hurt we needs must feel. We shatter our cup of blessing, Its portion we waste or spill. And then complain and wonder That the poor are hungry still. When wast Thou sick, O Saviour ! And I ministered not to Thee? *' If thou didst it not to my brother Thou didst it not unto me." IVho hath made Them to differ > 59 Then haste while the pool is troubled ! Haste in the name of Him ! And lift with the clasp of a mother Some sufferer over the brim ! PAPA'S BIRTHDAY. HAT is a birthday, papa? Is it something nice for you? Are they good for little fellows? And can / have one, too? This world is full of puzzles To bother boys about; But it 's a pretty hard one My papa can't make out. Mamma says love is fairest Of all the gifts we bring ; A very great deal sweeter Than any other thing. Then, if there 's nothing better, And mamma tells me true, Oh, take it for your birthday From your little boy to you ! THE LOST CHRISTMAS. " Seek ye first the King^ HE Russian peasants tell to-day A legend old and dear to them, ^ How, when the wise men went their way To find the Babe at Bethlehem, They paused to let their camels rest Beside a peasant's lowly door; And all intent upon their quest They talked their sacred errand o'er. " Come with us," said the eager three ; *' Come, seek with us the heavenly Child ; What prouder honor can there be For mortals, sinful and defiled? 62 The Lost Christmas. '' And bid each child in Sunday clothes Bring of his treasures the most rare, Bundles of myrrh and whitest doves, With ointment for the Christ- Kin| hair. " Who knows what blessing may befall If they but touch His garment's hem ? And only once for them and all Will Christ be born at Bethlehem ! " " Alas ! My task must first be done," The mother answered with a sigh ; *' But I would see the holy one. And I will follow by and by." The wise men frowned and onward went. Leaving the children all aglow. And pleading till the day was spent, " When may we go ? When may we go?" The Lost Christmas. 6^ And while their cheeks flushed rosy red, They shouted in a chorus sweet : "And may we touch His pretty head? And may we kiss His blessed feet?" But women still will brew and bake, No matter what sweet honors wait ; And petty tasks they undertake, Though angels tarry at the gate ! And when all things were in their place, And every child was neat and trim ; When each tear-stained and tired face Was bathed and tied its hood within ; The sky was purpling in the west. The silent night was hurrying on ; The three wise men had onward pressed, The star from out the east had gone ! What could the foolish mother do? She turned her footsteps home again ; And never, all her sad life through. Did she behold the three wise men. 64 The Lost Christmas, And thus through weak delaying she Her sweetest privilege had missed ; Nor ever did her children see The Holy Babe they might have kissed. A SWEET OLD LEGEND. FIRING that low footstool from the corner, Ted ; Mary and Jack you cannot crowd too near; While baby Bess will curl her pretty head Against my heart, that holds you all so dear. Now for the legend. Once, long years ago, When in our world the blessed Lord was seen, He walked one evening, tired, sad, and slow. With His disciples through the meadows green. 5 66 A Sweet Old Legend, Why was He sad? Dear child, I cannot say What burdens pressed upon His heart divine — Perhaps none had beheved on Him that day; Perhaps He thought upon your sins and mine. Along the way the sweet field lilies grew In rich apparel, finer than a king's ; Above His head the twittering sparrows flew — (He drew His sermons from these simple things). Now as they walked on holy thoughts intent, Upon the path a poor dead dog they spied : One spurned him with his foot as on he went, And "What an ugly beast," another cried. A Sweet Old Legend* 67 But in their Master's eyes compassion shone; He stooped and touched the creature's shaggy head, *• At least, my dear disciples, you will own His teeth are white as pearls," He gently said. Then they passed on. Dears, is it strange to you That mothers with their babies round Him pressed? That Peter learned to be so good and true, And John leaned close upon His loving breast? PLOUGHED UNDER. T grieves me much, the homes that I have spoiled, Of nest and burrow; As in my barley-field to-day I toiled, Ploughing the furrow. Armies of ants that grain by grain had laid Their snug embankment, Were overwhelmed by my unhappy raid — - Fort and encampment. The silver ropes a cunning gymnast spun Met such disaster That a wise fly who watched the spider run, Buzzed out with laughter ! Ploughed Under. 69 Beneath a roof, where dandelion stars The rafters gilded, Secured by no distrustful bolts or bars, Some birds had builded. I peeped within, despite a sentry bold Of doughty metal. Whose stinging impudence I knew of old — His name was Nettle ! It was not his rude protest made me spare My sparrow tenants ; I vanquished him, but left still fluttering there The flower pennants. And oh ! I grieve that I who hate to roam From my own burrow. Have turned blind little moles out of their home Beneath my furrow! WAITING. HEN the crickets chirp in the evening And the stars flash out in the sky, Lonely I sit in my doorway And watch the children go by ; I look at their fresh young faces, And hark to each merry word. For to me a child's own language Is the sweetest ever heard. I sit in my lonely doorway In the hour that I love the best, And think, as I see them passing, My child will come with the rest ; Think, as I hear the clicking Of the little garden gate, My darling's hand is upon it — Oh, why has she come so late? Waiting, 71 But the days have been slowly weaving Their warp of toil in my life ; The weeks have brought me their burden Of waiting and patience and strife; The flowers that came with the sunshine Have finished their errand so sweet, And Autumn is dropping her harvests Mellow and ripe at my feet. And yet my little girl comes not, So I think she has missed her way, And strayed from this cold, dark country To one of perpetual day. Perhaps. But I long to enfold her. To tangle my hand in her hair, To feast my starved mouth on her kisses, To hear her light foot on the stair. Some day I am sure I shall find her. But the road is lonesome between, My spirit grows sick and impatient For glimpses of pastures so green ; 72 Waiting, Waiting I sit in the doorway, In the hour my heart loves best, And think, when the children pass home- ward. My child will come with the rest. IN VANITY FAIR. RANDMOTHER sits in the cor- ner there Watching the comers to Vanity Fair, For Madame, her daughter, " receives " to-day, And a throng of carriages bars the way ; While color and perfume, and rare waltz- note In my lady's corridors blend and float. Yes, grandmother calls it " Vanity Fair," As she views the scene from her cushioned chair; With a curious shadow of grave surprise Troubling the depths of her fine old eyes At the shimmering robes, the laces fine, And the splendid jewels that flash and shine. 74 In Vanity Fair. As she watches her daughter debonnaire^ Greeting the guests to Vanity Fair, Does she not look like a picture old, With her stiff brocade, and her kerchiefs fold? Or a somewhat prim, old-fashioned flower In the hot-house air of my lady's bower? Standing under the candles' flare. In the tinted light of Vanity Fair, Is her granddaughter, with eyes so blue That a pair of stars mistook their hue For the larger heavens and softly hid Behind the cloud of each snowy lid ! And grandmother sighs with a troubled air "They will spoil you, dear, in Vanity Fair; They will brush the dew from your youth, I know, And I trust not fully the handsome beau Who bent to your hand with so fine a bow And gave you the crimson rose but now? '* In Vanity Fair, 75 And she mutters, " Poor little fly, take care Of the webs they weave in Vanity Fair ! " And no philosopher in the land Could make this grandmother understand That Vanity Fair, with its tricks and ways. Was much the same in her younger days. Grandmother, brooding on days that were, You are out of place in Vanity Fair ! As a sweet old psalm is out of chime With a prancing tune, or a laughing rhyme ; You are out of place in this modern room With its garish light, and its rich perfume. Let us wheel you out of the aching glare From the lights and sounds of Vanity Fair; Up the stairs to the restful gloom Of your own old-fashioned, quiet room. Where the same clock ticks the hours away That wakened you on your wedding-day. 76 In Vanity Fair, Let us leave all schemes that vex and snare To the belles and beaux of Vanity Fair. You have had your day; now your night is near, Let us come away to your chamber here, Where peaceful slumber your eyes invite, Turn the light low; sleep well; good- night ! IF. F, sitting with this little worn-out shoe And scarlet stocking lying on my knee, I knew the careless feet had pattered through The pearl - set gates that lie ' twixt Heaven and me, And I could see beyond the mists of blue God's tender hand, I could submissive be. If, in the morning, when the song of birds Reminds me of a music far more sweet, I listen for his pretty broken words And for the music of his dimpled feet, I could be almost happy, though I heard No answer, and but saw his vacant seat. 78 /f. I could be glad, if, when the day is done, And all its cares and heartaches laid away, I could look westward to the hidden sun. And, with a heart full of sweet yearn- ings, say, " To-night I 'm nearer to my little one By just the travel of a single day." If I could know those little feet were shod In sandals wrought of light in better lands, And that the foot-prints of a tender God Ran side by side with his in golden sands, I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod, Knowing he was in wiser, safer hands. If he had died, as little children do, I would not stain the wee sock on my knee With bitter tears, nor kiss the empty shoe Tf. 79 And cry, " Bring back my little boy to me ! " I could be patient, until patience grew . Into the gladness of Eternity. But oh, to know the feet once pure and white. The haunts of vice have boldly ven- tured in ! The hands that should have battled for the right Have been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin ! And should he knock at Heaven's gate to-night. My boy, alas, could scarce an entrance win! BUDGE, TOM, AND HONEST JOE. ITHIN it wanted just an hour of four; Without, the world in summer beauty lay, And wistfully beyond the school-room door Budge, Tom, and Joseph looked this hot June day. They knew that in the fields the clover spread A rosy carpet, velvety and sweet; They knew the path that to the old bridge led. Where children loved to sit and swing their feet. Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. 8i They knew that cherries hung upon the trees, That trusting fishes swarmed the singing brook; The robins seemed to call them from the leaves, "Come out! Come out! and leave that hateful book ! " Budge dropped his drowsy head upon his breast, Tom watched a fly upon the window- pane, While Joseph, less lethargic than the rest, Made horrid faces at his sister Jane. The teacher saw the action with a smile. Their flushed young faces made her pitiful ; ** Which will you do, go out and play awhile, Or stay with me," she said, '* till close of school? " 6 82 Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. Budge raised his sleepy head with glad surprise, (Just then a robin past the doorway flew!) He choked, grew rosy red, then dropped his eyes ; ** I guess — I'd rather — stay in here — with you." ** And you, my Tommy?" Should not Tommy dare To follow whither Spartan Budge had led? (The robin called, the sky was oh, so fair!) " I '11 stay with — Budge, I guess," he gasping said. But Joseph, with a look half bold, half shy. His brown toes twisting in an awkward way, Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. ^^ Said, with a slight contempt in tone and eye, ** There ain't no use to talk, / V rather play." The teacher smiled ; " I fear, my little Joe, You only have been honest of the three. I take each at his word ; so you may go, While Budge and Tommy will remain with me." Poor little boys ! for such a sacrifice This was a fee they could not under- stand ; But when they said good night she kissed them thrice, And patted each round head with gentle hand. And were they wholly wrong, and Joe all right? I leave the answer for your tongues to fill. 84 Budge, Tom, and Honest Joe. Talk it all over by the fire to-night. And gather from the story what you will. But often do the world^s sweet flatteries Remind me of a day long years ago, Around which cluster funny memories Of three small boys, Budge, Tom, and honest Joe. IN MEMORY OF MR. CROWLEY OF CENTRAL PARK. O citizen of inferior name Has yielded up life's languid spark, But a chimpanzee of goodly fame, — Mr. Crowley of Central Park, Who from interior Africa came. Many a slave of the pen we see. Who scribbles away from dawn till dark, Nor earns the fame of this chimpanzee, Who could neither write nor make his mark, Paradoxical though it be. Many a player his lines may croon. Nor happily win, when his form lies stark, 86 Mr. Crowley of Central Park. An editorial in the Tribune Like Mr. Crowley of Central Park, Late trapeze player ! Poor dead buffoon ! And many a poacher upon life's joys, Bagging his spoils with a snarl and bark, To meaner purpose his life employs Than Mr. Crowley of Central Park; — Jester at court of the girls and boys. For a chimpanzee that can cheat dull care. And break a tooth of that hungry shark ; Who lightens the pack that the poor must bear Like Mr. Crowley of Central Park, Is a better thing than the poacher there. No more, poor clown, will your pranks beguile Life's weary labor and ceaseless cark ; You will be set up in a life-like style, And hold levees in a crystal ark, With a very fixed and blase smile. Mr. Crowley of Central Park. 87 Then, au revoir, with a kind regret ! Death interfered in your jolly lark, And many a child's dear eyes are wet For Mr. Crowley of Central Park, — The dearest monkey they ever met ! LININGS. AY, nay, dear child, I cannot let you slight Those inner stitches on your gown's fair hem Because, you say, they will be out of sight. And no stern critic will discover them. You do but build a most inviting hedge, Behind which falsehood and deceit may lurk. When you embroider fair the outer edge, And to the inner give no honest work. The silken chain of habit which you wear So lightly now upon your careless youth Will strengthen strand by strand ; then have a care ! Else it may throttle the sweet soul of truth. Linings. 89 I hold that every stitch untruly set Weaves a soiled thread along your web of fate ; And each deceitful seam may prove a net To hurt and hinder, trust me, soon or late. Ah, dearest child, on everything you do Let the white seal of honor stamp its grace. Keep all your soul as clean with heaven's dew As the pink flower of your tender face. God makes no clumsy linings. Mark this bloom ! A " fairy's glove ; " and though it grieves my heart To send the smallest blossom to its tomb. We '11 tear this dainty little glove apart. 90 Linings. In this and every flower that we behold, From crimson rose to pansy's purple vest, God sews the .velvet on the inner fold, And makes His linings fairer than the rest. Is it not perfect, from the slender stem To the brown dapples on the curling rim? God folds not carelessly the foxglove's hem; Then try, my little child, to be like Him. A PRAYER. H, long strong breaths of salt sea air, Oh, north winds rough and south winds fair. Toss all your rosy gifts about. And blow afar our weary doubt ! Milk-white foam roses, break for me From the green gardens of the sea, And bring thy fragrance, briny sweet, To wrap our love from brow to feet ! Bring rosy color to her mouth ; And from the warm and humid South Waft spices to the fevered breath, And antidote the spell of death ! 92 A Prayer. And from thy green o'erflowing cup My hand shall dip a potion up, And in thy wine, to thee I '11 quaff With relish sweet and joyous laugh. Then bring to her the jewel health. For naught of all thy treasured wealth Is half so precious as this pearl ^ This drooping lily of a girl ! A LITTLE CYNIC. ANDELION and clover-top, Growing close together, Bobbed their bright young heads and talked In the sweet spring weather. Just across the little path In a grassy hollow, Buttercup was coquetting With a noisy swallow. *' Do you know," said Dandelion, Growing stiff and sullen, " That this minx, who used to rank With milk-weed and mullein, ** Goes to parties, matinees. And all such queer places, And is quite the rage they say, With her airs and graces?" 94 A Little Cynic. ^' Well," laughed Clover, merrily, *' This will we agree on, That she wears her honors well For such a plebeian ! " I should quite disgrace myself — Spill my dew at dinner, When it comes to etiquette I 'm a dreadful sinner." " There is Madam Hollyhock," Still pursued the other, " Used to be on friendly terms With my great grandmother. ** Then she wore a narrow skirt With a simple tunic ; Now she looks like some grand dame Just arrived from Munich ! " Then she leant upon the wall Or the lattice, may be, Now she rings the front door bell Just like any lady ! " A Little Cynic, 95 " Why, you must be jealous, dear! " Clover said serenely ; " For her colors are superb, And her manners queenly. " Her quaint bodice of pale green Fits her to perfection. And a ruffle more or less Is no great objection.'* Just then Violet passed by In her soft, blue bonnet; Dandelion's face grew dark With the frown upon it. " See ! " she cried, " the whole, glad world Greets her as she passes, While our lives are hidden here In the weeds and grasses ! ** How I hate her artless ways ! Hate her queer poke bonnet ! Hate her modest drooping face, With the soft smile on it ! 96 A Little Cynic, '' ' Modest Violet,' indeed, When her very glory Is the meek humility Granted her in story ! •'Tell me, does God love her best? Count her blue gown fairer? Are her graces sweet to Him? Is her perfume rarer? " " Hush ! " said Clover, sweetly grave, *' God is God forever ; Doubt whatever else you will, But His goodness never ! " Violet gives lavishly Of her wealth of sweetness ; And the world requites the debt From its own completeness. " Do not wrong the God above And our brown earth-mother. Why not like your own life best, Sighing for no other .^ A Little Cynic, 97 *' I would never change my lot With my wild bee lover For a world of violets ; No, not I ! " trilled Clover. '* Humph ! " that little cynic said With her bright eyes closing; And the rest I never heard, For she fell a-dozing. CHRISTMAS EVE. OD bless the little stockings All over the land to-night, Hung in the choicest corners In a glow of crimson light ! The tiny scarlet stocking, With a hole in heel and toe, Worn by wonderful journeys The darlings have had to go. And Heaven pity the children. Wherever their home may be, Who wake at the first gray dawning An empty stocking to see. Left in the faith of childhood Hanging against the wall. Just where the dazzling glory Of Santa's light will fall ! Christmas Eve, 99 Alas, for the lonely mother Whose home is empty and still, Who has no scarlet stockings With childish toys to fill ! But sits in the deepening twilight, With her face against the pane. And grieves for the little baby Whose grave lies out in the rain ! O empty shoes and stockings. Forever laid aside ! The tangled, broken shoe-strings That will never more be tied ! O little graves, at the mercy Of the cold December rain ! The feet in their snow-white sandals, That never can trip again ! But happier they who slumber With marble at foot and head, Than the child who has no shelter, No raiment, nor food, nor bed. loo Christmas Eve. Yes ! Heaven help the living ! Children of want and pain, Knowing no fold nor pasture — Outside to-night in the rain ! JAMIE'S PRAYER. AY'S weary burdens are laid by; The world's great throbbing heart is still ; The stars flash out, the moon's fair face Rests on the peak of yonder hill. I hear the katydids contend The rustling maple leaves among; And leaning toward the apple boughs, I hear the robin brood her young. It is the hour when children's prayers Like perfume from the lilies rise, When all the angels cry, " Oh, list ! " And God makes silence in the skies. Two small brown hands, unsoiled by sin, Are folded softly on my knee, And over them my child's dear head Is bowed in sweet humility. I02 Jamie's Prayer* Hark to the little honest prayer ! *' Dear God, I am too tired to pray, And 't ain't as if you did n't know Just all I 've said and done to-day. " I know it takes a sight of love To make a boy's sins white, but then You don't go back on what you say. And I am not afraid — Amen." SHOCKING! HE smallest wheel in the rector's clock, The busiest worker in that queer mill, Grew tired of hearing the same tick-tock, So a Sunday morning it stood stock- still ! And what befell? Why, the rector good Arrived at his church full a half hour late. With a flying gown — as no parson should — While all the parish amazed did wait. With childish wonder our little Sue, Who never had been in a church before Saw, from her high-backed, oaken pew, The rector enter the chancel door. 1 04 Shocking ! The wonder grew in the child's brown eyes, What she was thinking we could not tell, But a look of shame and of shocked sur- prise Over her face like a shadow fell. ' What did you see at the church, my sweet? " Said grandmother, kissing the lifted chin, When at dinner the two did meet. ''Oh, grandma! the preacher came flying in, So late that he did n't get on his clothes, And had just a great, long nightgown on ; He had to hurry so, I suppose ! " Said the innocent child, while her round eyes shone. " I guess he was drefful ashamed of hisself ; Would nt yott be, grandma, in his place? For he knelt right down on a little shelf. And held his two hands over his face ! Shocking! 105 And, grandma, it was a minute before He would lift his head and read from his book. He '11 not wear his nightgown, I guess any more. Oh, dear!" and she sighed, " how queer it did look ! " THE SCARECROW.* HOREAU surveyed the ef^gy with scorn. " Well ! well ! " laughed he, " some urchin must have planned This man of straw, No crow in all the land Was ever frightened from a feast of corn By such a sentinel. No blackbird born Would hesitate to perch upon its hand. Crows are too knowing not to under- stand That this poor, stufifed-out thing, battered and worn, With dangling arms and shapeless, jointless pegs. Was never made by God." Thoreau paused here * A true anecdote of Thoreau. The Scarecrow. 107 In his wise dissertation upon crows ; For lo ! the scarecrow moved its "joint- less " legs And walked away to a gray farmhouse near. That was a funny blunder of Thoreau's ! IF WE KNEW. F we knew the baby fingers Pressed against the window- pane Would be cold and stifif to-morrow — Never trouble us again ; Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the prints of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Ah, these little ice-cold fingers, How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track ! How these little hands remind us, As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns — but roses — For our reaping by and by ! If We knew. 109 Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown ; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone ; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake their white down in the air ! Lips from which the seal of silence None but God can roll away, Never blossomed in such beauty As adorns the mouth to-day; And sweet words that freight our memory With their beautiful perfume, Come to us in sweeter accents Through the portals of the tomb. Let us gather up the sunbeams Lying all around our path ; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; no If We knew. Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of to-day ; With a patient hand removing All the briars from our way. A LITTLE ROBBER. LITTLE robber whom I know Came to my house nine years ago, And, with the most provoking ease, Found out my casket and my keys, And of the treasures I possessed Purloined the dearest and the best. The way this robber came to me Is wrapped in sweetest mystery ; But the bewitching Httle thief. Without remorse or touch of grief, First stole, in many a pretty way, Three times eight jewels every day; Then, with his soft and rosy hands. He pulled down all my strong commands. The cherished plan, the ripened thought. By years of rich experience bought. My favorite opinions, too. He into wildest chaos threw. 112 A Little Rohher. Some prim old maxims, quaintly wrought With silver thread and pious thought, By long. consent had grown to be Proud souvenirs of ancestry ; These, by mere love of mischief led, He picked to pieces thread by thread, Until I feared my grandma's ghost Would chain me to a whipping-post ! When I reproached, his wondrous eyes Took on such look of grieved surprise, I could but say, " Take what you will. Your plunderings continue still; Purloin my time, my heart, my pelf, Take everything except — yourself! For what would all earth's treasures be Without your blessed company?" And so, throughout the years and days, Content this young marauder stays. To be my comfort and my joy. His name ? Why, he 's my little boy ! "SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME." T was long years ago that He uttered This message, so tender and sweet, As women were crowding about Him And laying their babes at His feet ; He looked, with a gentle compassion, On the mothers in old Galilee, While He comforted them with this saying, " Let the little ones come unto me." From over the hills of Judea, Down through the long line of the years, That Voice of ineffable sweetness Still comforts the mother's sad tears. O Heart that has bled for our sorrows ! O Voice that can quiet the sea ! Come often to me with Thy whisper : ** Let the little ones come unto me ! " 8 114 ** Suffer Little Children," O mothers, whose children are lying Out under the snow and the rain, Let the beautiful words of the Master, Give ease to your sorrow and pain ! He holds their bright heads on His bosom, He gathers them close to His knee ; And tenderly still He is saying, '* Let the little ones come unto me ! " "A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." HE land is wondrous fair," the angel said. " Its sapphire skies are wrought with tints of gold ; Its jewelled gates admit nor heat nor cold ; And all along the way that you shall tread A perfume marvellously sweet is shed From hlies that eternally unfold." The lovely woman raised her timid face, And to the messenger of death she spoke : ** I know that human sight can not invoke ii6 "A Little Child shall lead Them," A vision of such fair, surpassing grace, As those fair mansions in the heavenly- place, But life and I have never friendship broke. " Therefore I fain would stay," she pleaded low. The angel's face wore nothing of command ; He smiling said, " Behold, unarmed I stand ! I left behind my arrows and my bow. I shall not force you, lovely one, to go ; I only wait till you shall clasp my hand. " But even now your eyes are wet with tears : Come where a holy hand will wipe them dry ! Oh, be my bride, my own beloved ! and I "A Little Child shall lead Them." 117 Will kiss away your doubtings and your fears, And lead you gently through the eternal years, And prove a love that will not change or die!" The woman shrank from his caressing hand. " But life hath loyal love as well," she cried ; **A trusting heart would break of me denied ; A faithful foot would track me to your land. And at the gates of pearl would waiting stand. This life is fair and sweet to me," she sighed. ** The swaying reed hath not a frailer grace Than human love. It will not mourn you long; In Heaven your voice is needed in the song. ii8 '*A Little Child shall lead Them.** Through countless ages God has kept your place. Then, in my bosom hide your weeping face, And let me bear you to the waiting throng." " Nay, nay, sweet angel ! Spare me this alarm ; For I am timid of the lonesome way. A voice I love is begging me to stay ! A precious hand is clinging to my arm, — A hand that never brought me pain or harm ! Oh, leave me now» and come another day!" The angel drew her close and whispered sweet, " Dear Heart ! the streets are fair with children there, God's sunlight hides its kisses in their hair, "A Little Child shall lead Them." 119 And everywhere in Heaven- a child you meet." The woman clasped his hand, and toward the street So bright with children, smiling went the pair. OUR BOBBY WAS PINCHING THE KITTEN. UR Bobby was pinching the kitten, And kicking his primer about, And pulling a beetle to pieces, His face all awry in a pout; His mother, who, patient and loving, Could coax her dear Bobby no more, Now reached for the whip on the mantel — And looked at her boy on the floor. But grandma, with soft, muslin kerchief Pinned over her warm, loving breast. Where ten little heads had been pillowed And rocked into childhood's sweet rest. Looked up from the little wool stocking Just finished and laid on her knee, And said, " Dear, you '11 ruin his temper, You had far better let the child be. Our Bobby was pinching the Kitten. 121 " Don't whip him — his father before him Was punished and shut in the dark, And stood on one foot in the corner, And disciplined up to the mark; We gave him no credit for honor. But watched him as spiders watch flies. I wonder that it did n't teach him To practise deceit and tell lies. " We called it affection and duty — God knows we were fond of the boy — But I guess his remembrance of child- hood Is not quite a well-spring of joy. So put up that willow whip, daughter. And try little Bobby once more. You see he 's forgotten his passion, And lies half asleep on the floor." Then grandmother lifted her darling, And patted his head on her breast. And sang in a tremulous treble. Till all Bobby's woes were at rest. 122 Our Bobby was pinching the Kitten. And so the wee whip, bright and yellow, Was laid on the mantel again — And that is the way that the grandmas Spoil nine little boys out of ten. HE KNOWS BEST. F I could utter some new magic word To lull the pain in one poor troubled soul ; Or when Bethesda s shining pool is stirred Could lift some cripple in and make him whole ; If I could set some bruised and tired feet Where they could henceforth tread a smoother way, I would not ask a gift more fair and sweet, To bless me on this happy Christmas day. Ah, foolish heart, be still ! Nor any more Distrust the tenderness that is divine ! 124 ^<^ knows best. He knows wherever feet are bruised and sore, And gives them pity, gentler far than thine. Our keenest sorrow may be sent to bring The dearest guest our life has ever known, — Sweet patience, who in gathering the sting From other's lives forgets about her own. And there are old sweet words of truth and love, As full of meaning as a mother's kiss, Which fall like benedictions from above, And never weary in a world like this. Bethesda's pool is nearer than we think, It springs wherever there are tired feet; The gift you crave lies trembling on its brink, You still may make your Christmas day complete ! He knows best, 125 And though it may be hard to understand The way through which He leads your life and mine, May we not safely trust the gracious hand That brings to us so good a Christmas time? COMFORT. F I could lay my hand upon the heart That moulders underneath the church-yard snows, And bid the sleeping pulses wake and start, And to the faded lips restore the rose ; If I could lead the precious child you love With shrinking footsteps to his earthly place ; If I could bring him from the fold above, The tangled paths of life again to trace; Say ! would you bid him lay his glory by That you might hold him to your troubled breast? And would your yearning mother-heart deny The good to him that you might thus be blest? Comfort. 127 I know your answer ! Tenderly enough Has God's sweet mercy through His smiting shone. Young feet are tender, and the way is rough ; Be glad that you can tread the thorns alone ! It is not long. The way is short between, And we are near the gates of pearl and gold; And yonder rise the hills of living green, Where children never die, nor yet grow old! And when the storms shall beat, and rains shall fall, And when you faint beneath the sun's fierce ray, O friend be glad ! and sing above it all, ** My child is safe from all these ills to-day ! " A SUBPOENA. OISTEROUS Wind! Prince Weather's clown ! You have raised such a breeze in Blossom-town, That the undersigned bid you appear And answer the charges mentioned here. Robin is there quite red in the breast With rage, at the loss of a brand-new nest. Bumble-bee draggled from sting to chin Crawls from the pool you tumbled him in. Violet looks so wicked and sly With her tattered bonnet blown all awry ! Hyacinth, blue, and with head cast down, Has a breadth torn out of her bell-shaped gown. A Subpoena. 129 Butterfly holds up a crippled wing; — (How could you spoil such a dainty thing?) Some sweet young buds that were coming out Fetchingly gowned for their opening rout, You whirled away to a dance of your own With never a sign of a chaperone ! And worst of all, in your headlong race You drew your switches across the face Of that pet of the forest, Anemone, Bravest and frailest of flowers that be. Then haste, rude Jester ! Prince Weather's clown ! By the air-line route to Blossom-town. For, I give you warning, there *s much ado In the circles there, on account of you. .r^iftz^ . ^.- rii^v^ D:C 30 1901 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 762 995J^|L