Part 2

No gift might she receive or give, Nor kneel to Mary's child: She watched from far the joyous troop That past the Crib defiled;

Far in the shadow of the porch, Yet even there espied: "Now, hence away, unhallowed Elf!" The sacristan did chide.

"Hence, till some witness thou canst bring Of gift received from thee, In His dear name, whose birth we sing, But this shall never be!"

Poor Elfinell--she turned away: "Though none for me may speak, Yet there be those may take my gift; And them I go to seek!"

So, flitting light through lonesome fields By summer long forgot, She crossed the valley drifted deep-- The brook in icy grot;

And gained, at last, a still, white wood All hung with flowers of snow: There, down she sat, and quaintly called In tender tones and low.

They heard and came--the doe and fawn, The squirrel and the hare, And dwellers shy in earthy homes, And wanderers of the air!

To these she gave fresh leaves of kale. To those the soft white bread, Or filberts smooth, or yellow corn; So each and all she fed.

She fed them from her hand--she sighed; "Might you but speak for me, And say, ye took my Christmas gift, Then, I the Crib might see!"

At this, those glad, wild creatures join, And close the child around; They draw her on, she scarce knows how, Across the snowy ground!

They crowd with soft, warm, furry touch; They stoop with frolic wing: Grown strangely bold, to haunts of men The elfin child they bring!

They reach the town, the minster door; The door they straightway pass; And up the aisle and by the priest That saith the holy mass.

Nor stay, until they reach the Crib With all its wreathen greens; And there above, with eyes of love, The witch-child looks and leans!

Spake, then, the priest to all his flock: "Forbid no more this child! To speak for her, God sendeth these, His loved ones of the wild!

"'Twas God that made them take her gift, Our stubborn hearts to shame! Melt, hearts of ours; and open, hands, And give in Christ's dear name."

Thus, Elfinell with gifts was showered, Upon a Christmas Day; The while, beside the altar's font, The ban was washed away.

A carven stall the minster shows, Whereon ye see the priest priest-- The kneeling child--and clustering forms Of friendly bird and beast.

BABUSHKA

(_A Russian Legend_)

Babushka sits before the fire Upon a winter's night; The driving winds heap up the snow, Her hut is snug and tight; The howling winds,--they only make Babushka's more bright!

She hears a knocking at the door: So late--who can it be? She hastes to lift the wooden latch, No thought of fear has she; The wind-blown candle in her hand Shines out on strangers three.

Their beards are white with age, and snow That in the darkness flies; Their floating locks are long and white, But kindly are their eyes That sparkle underneath their brows, Like stars in frosty skies.

"Babushka, we have come from far, We tarry but to say, A little Prince is born this night, Who all the world shall sway. Come, join the search; come, go with us, Who go our gifts to pay."

Babushka shivers at the door: "I would I might behold The little Prince who shall be King, But ah! the night is cold, The wind so fierce, the snow so deep, And I, good sirs, am old."

The strangers three, no word they speak, But fade in snowy space! Babushka sits before her fire, And dreams, with wistful face: "I would that I had questioned them, So I the way might trace!

"When morning comes with blessèd light, I'll early be awake; My staff in hand I'll go,--perchance, Those strangers I'll o'ertake; And, for the Child some little toys I'll carry, for His sake."

The morning came, and, staff in hand, She wandered in the snow. She asked the way of all she met, But none the way could show. "It must be farther yet," she sighed; "Then farther will I go."

And still, 'tis said, on Christmas Eve, When high the drifts are piled, With staff, with basket on her arm, Babushka seeks the Child: At every door her face is seen,-- Her wistful face and mild!

Her gifts at every door she leaves; She bends, and murmurs low, Above each little face half-hid By pillows white as snow: "And is He here?" Then, softly sighs, "Nay, farther must I go!"

A CHRISTMAS OFFERING

(_Florence, Italy_)

I shall never forget Cimabue's Madonna, No, nor the niche close by in the wall, Where, on the straw, the Bambino was lying, While the oxen knelt in the stall.

Rude are the images, tinsel the flowers; But a tear to the eye unconsciously starts, Beholding the tribute the children have rendered, In the votive gift of "hearts"!

Among them a little gold watch was hanging, That told of some sick child's treasured wealth, Sent with a prayer that his Christmas present Might be the good gift of health!

CHRISTMAS POST

In Sulz-am-Neckar, when night shuts down, And the Christmas Eve has come, All through the little snow-white town There's a joyous stir and hum.

Now here and now there, along the street, From windows wide open flung, Float childish laughter and prattle sweet In the kindly German tongue.

For the happy moment at last is here, When each child a letter sends, Directed to _Christkindlein_ dear-- The Children's Friend of Friends!

Then, out at the window--strung on a thread, The precious letter is cast; Though far and high on the night wind sped, 'Twill be found and read at last!

In Sulz-am-Neckar, prompt as the day, The children awake to find Among the Christmas branches gay _Christkindlein's_ answer kind!

THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF

(_Provençal_)

It was a gleaner in the fields,-- The fields gleaned long ago: The evening wind swept down from heights Already brushed with snow.

The gleaner turned to right, to left, With searching steps forlorn; The stubble-blade beneath her feet Was sharp as any thorn.

But as she stooped, and as she searched, Half blind with gathering tears, Beside her in the field stood One Whose voice beguiled her fears:

"What seek ye here, this bitter eve, The harvest long gone by?" She lifted up her weary face, She answered with a sigh:

"I seek but some few heads of wheat To nail against the wall, To feed at morn the blessed birds, When with loud chirps they call.

"Poor ever have I been, God knows! Yet ne'er so poor before, But they might taste their glad Noël Beside my cottage door."

Then answer made that Presence sweet, "Go home, and trust right well The birds beside your cottage door Shall find their glad Noël."

And so it was--from soundest sleep The gleaner woke at morn, To see, nailed up beside her door, A sheaf of golden corn!

And thereupon the birds did feast,-- The birds from far and wide: All know it was Our Lord Himself That goodly sheaf supplied!

THE BIRDS ON THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF

"And wherefore," the finch to the starling said, On the Christmas sheaf, as they hungrily fed, "Wherefore do now the children of men Open their hands, when, again and again, They drove us away from their plenteous store, From the corn in the field, from the threshing-floor?" "That," said the starling, "I'll try to explain: They are feasting, themselves, and they spare us this grain; For oft, as they feast and make merry, they sing, 'Peace upon earth and good will'----" "But this thing" (Said the finch), "we birds have been singing all year, Then, why not before have they shared their good cheer?"

WHAT THE PINE TREES SAID

I heard the swaying pine trees speak, As I went down the glen: "Next year," said one, "the wind shall seek, But find me not again!"

"I shall go forth upon the seas, A mast, or steering-beam; On me shall breathe the tropic breeze, Above, strange stars shall gleam.'

"And I--the ax shall cleave my grain, And many times divide; From my dear brood I'll shed the rain, And roof their ingleside."

Then up and spake a slender shaft, That like an arrow grew; "No breeze my leafless stem shall waft, No ax my trunk shall hew--

But though a single hour is mine, How happy shall I be! Young hearts shall leap, young eyes shall shine To greet their Christmas tree!"

TWO CHILD ANGELS

Two Child Angels on Christmas Night, They stood on the brow of Heaven's hill; The stars beneath them were glancing bright, And the air was clear and still.

"That is the Earth that dazzles so-- That shines with a glad and a radiant light-- That is the Earth where, long ago, I was born on the Christmas Night!"

Thus said the one, and the other replied, "Forever dear is the Earth in my sight; For there, full long ago, I died, On the holy Christmas Night!"

THE OLD DOLL

(_Just after Christmas_)

Little one, little one, open your arms, Now are your wishes come true, come true! Here is a love with a thousand charms, And see! she is reaching her hands out to you! Put the old doll by, asleep let her lie, And open your arms to welcome the new.

Little one, little one, play your sweet part, Mother-love lavishes treasure untold. Whisper fond words, and close to your heart, Your warm little heart, the new idol enfold. ('Tis so with us all,--to worship we fall Before the new shrine, forgetting the old!)

* * * * *

Little one, little one, wherefore that sigh? Weary of playing the long day through? But there's something that looks like a tear in your eye, And your lips--why, your lips are quivering, too! Do I guess aright?--it is coming night, And you cry for the old--you are tired of the new?

Little one, little one, old loves are best; And the heart still clings though the hands loose their hold! Take the old doll back, in your arms she shall rest, When you wander away to the dreamland fold. (With all, even so,--ere to sleep we go, The wavering heart wavers back to the old!)

II

_OTHER CHILDREN_

THE APPLE-BLOSSOM SWITCH

It was the daughter of a fairy witch,-- A sweet, though wayward child. "Go, naughty Elfinella, bring a switch From yonder fruit tree wild!"

(It was the charming time of all the year,-- The darling month of May And every bush and thicket, far and near, With leaves and flowers was gay.)

Poor Elfinella heard, and off she went, With lagging steps and slow, To where, amidst the wild, a fruit tree bent, Her branches spreading low.

With blossomy boughs the motherly old tree The tearful child begirt: "My twigs are clothed with flowers; and you will see The switch will never hurt!"

She broke a branch, with blossoms thickly set, And lightly homeward tripped,-- The switch was used--but little did she fret; For she with flowers was whipped!

THE INDIGNANT BABY

Baby was out with Papa for a walk. When their friends they met, it was "Oh!" and "Ah!" "What a darling she is!" "Can the little kid talk?" "Well--no; I don't think that she can," said Papa, "Though she seems to understand."

She was only two, but she understood, And her small, rosy mouth was made up to cry-- But no! she would _talk_--she would show that she could. And, "Mamma," and "pretty," and "laly"--"by-by," She said with a wave of her hand!

A QUESTION OF SPELLING

They were looking through their book With pictures of the Zoo; Both too young to read the text, But each the pictures knew.

Will was three, and Ray was five-- And five years old is _old_! When his wiser brother spoke, Will did as he was told!

"Look! I've found the _efalunt_!" "Don't say _efalunt_," said Ray. Said their mother: "You should tell Little brother what to say."

"Don't say efalunt--that's wrong; It's _efalint_!" said Ray. "_Efalint_!" said little Will, In his confiding way.

"YOURS SEVERELY"

(_The Letter of a Five Year Old_)

Once more she dipped her pen in ink, And wrote: "I love you dearly." "And now," she said, and stopped to think, "I'll put, 'I'm _Yours severely_.'"

A LACK OF ATTENTION

She had folded her hands, and had never stirred Nor even spoken one little word. In fact, she was good as good could be, While the grown folks talked, and sipped their tea At last, a small voice from the corner we heard: "Nobody pays any pension to me!"

"I OUGHT TO MUSTN'T"

The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low, And I opened the door just in time to see The last of the coveted caramels go, While a look imploring was cast on me, "I ought to mustn't, I know!"

The chair was so near, and the shelf was so low,-- To punish, alas! no courage I had: And I did as, perhaps, you yourself might do,-- I kissed her, right there, so sweet and so bad! But "I ought to mustn't," I knew!

A VAIN REGRET

He was six years old, just six that day, And I saw he had something important to say, As he held in his hand a broken toy: He looked in my face for an instant, and then He said, with a sigh, and a downcast eye, "If I could live my life over again, I think I could be a better boy!"

IN THE DARK LITTLE FLAT AT THE END OF THE COURT

What can the children in cities do, The children shut in from wholesome sport-- The children that live, all winter through, In the dark little flat at the end of the court?

Yet a comfort they have (and a beautiful one!), Though the days are chill and the days are short; At noon, for a moment, looks in the sun, In the dark little flat at the end of the court.

Then, the dazzled baby drops his toy, Down tumbles the four-year-old's tottering fort-- "Sunshine!" they all cry out, in their joy, In the dark little flat at the end of the court.

THE LITTLE GIRL FROM TOWN

Us children liked her, though she was so queer, When she came out to Pleasantville, last year; She "mustn't walk upon the grass," she said: We asked her _why_?--and she just shook her head!

Oh, yes, us children liked the little kid, Although she didn't know one thing _we_ did, And said the oddest things you ever heard; She saw a goose, and asked, "_What kind o' bird?_"

Us children liked the little kid, oh, yes! She wa'n't a bit afraid to tear her dress; One day, when she went barefoot, just like us, She got a stone-bruise; but she didn't _fuss_!

Oh, yes! us children liked her, but oh, my! We had to teach her how to play "high spy"; She came to see us,--called our house "_a flat_"-- I wonder now--what _could_ she mean by that?

FOR EVERY DAY

A flower for every day That slips the sheath of jealous Night in May! The violet at our feet, The lilac's honeyed bough, The wind-flower frail and sweet, The apple-blossom now-- Each keeps its promise, as Love keeps its vow: A flower for every day in flowerful May!

A song for every day That breaks in music from the heart of May! The warbler mid new leaves, The lark in fields remote, The housewren at our eaves, The oriole's haunting note When orchard blooms down fitful zephyrs float: A song for every day in songful May!

A joy for every day That stirs the heart to count its joys in May! Now Fear and Doubt take flight, Borne down the season's stream; Grief grows a shape of light, And melts, a tender dream! Now but to be alive is boon supreme-- A joy for every day in joyful May!

Be thanks for every day That from thy heaven thou dost send in May! My morn an anthem wake, My noon sweet incense bear Of labor for thy sake, My evening breath a prayer. For bloom--for song--for joy--shed everywhere, Be thanks to thee each day in thankful May!

THE DAY-DREAMER

There's a day-dream strange and sweet, Softly hovering in the air: Now it stays the restless feet, Now, it smoothes the wayward hair.

Now, it droops the curly head, Propped upon the window-sill-- Parts the lips of rosebud red, While the eyes with fancies fill.

Sunbeams from the summer sky Kiss the arm so round and bare: There's a day-dream sweet and shy, Softly hovering in the air!

Is that dream of field or wood, Mossy bank, or violet dell, Thrush's nest, with downy brood Lately prisoned in the shell?

Comes that dream from fairyland, Blown about in wondrous ways, Like a skein of gossamer fanned By a troop of laughing fays?

Or, upon some elfin brook, Wing of dragon-fly for sail, Passing many a wildflower nook Did it drift so light and frail?

Little dreamer, if I dared, I would say, "your day-dream tell!" But it never can be shared, And one word would break its spell!

BORN DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND

(_At an Asylum_)

A flower-soft hand once took my own,-- That touch I never shall forget! A strange voice spoke--so strange a tone Mine ear had never met!

It said, "Come--see--my--garden,--Come!" (The flower-soft fingers closer twined): The voice of one born deaf and dumb, The touch of one born blind!

They thrilled me so, the tears came fast; But in glad haste she led the way; Through hall and open door we passed Into a garden gay.

Her share was but a little space. It bloomed with pansies dark and bright; And each looked up with elfin grace, As though to win her sight.

She smiled--the pansy-faces smiled Through tears--or was it morning dew? Down knelt the deaf and dumb, blind child "I do--give--all--to--you!"

I could not stay those fingers swift, She plucked me all the flowers she had! I never shall have any gift So sweet as this,--so sad!

THE CRADLE-CHILD

Forgotten, in a chamber lone, The hooded Cradle, brown and old, Began to rock, began to moan, "Where are the babes I used to hold?"

"To men and women they are grown, And through the world their way must make." The Cradle rocked and made its moan, "My babes no single step could take!"

"A helmsman one, on wide seas blown, His sinewy hands the wheel employs." The Cradle rocked and made its moan, "My babes could scarcely grasp their toys."

"And one, with words of winning tone, God's shepherd, goes the lost to seek." The Cradle rocked and still made moan, "The babes I held no word could speak!"

"And one, with children of her own,-- Her life is toil and love and prayer!" The Cradle rocked and still made moan, "My babes of babes could take no care!"

"Now all that once were mine are flown But one, that still with me shall bide"-- (The Cradle ceased to rock, to moan)-- "The sweetest one--the babe who died!"

SOME LADIES OF THE OLDEN TIME

A long time ago in Childhood's Land, A troop of sweet ladies I knew, If the truth must be told, I myself Was their lady's maid, patient and true!

I served them, I dressed them, I took them to walk, I made the fine clothes that they wore; Very dainty,--and delicate, too, were they all, For they never arose until four!

Wide were their flounces of crimson or white, A little old fashioned for now; Prim were their figures--ah, yes, I must own, Their heads they never could bow!

Their heads were so round and so small and so green-- Not clever nor learnèd were they; But then, they were only Four o'Clock Ladies, And their life, 'twas a short one and gay!

A WATER LILY

Did I behold the Lady of the Lake Part the cool water with a slender hand? And brought she for her loved knight errant's sake Out of some liquid crypt the magic brand?

I dreamed it was the Lady of the Lake-- I did but dream! Again I looked, and knew The water lily, white as winter's flake, But with a heart all gold and fragrant dew.

THE KINDERBANK[4]

THE LITTLE MOTHERS

It was a day in warm July, It was a far countree; The bees were humming in the flowers That filled the linden tree.

The linden made a cooling shade For many a yard around, And flecks of sunlight here and there Did dot the shady ground.

A long, low, easy seat there was Beneath the linden green; And _Kinderbank_ across the back In letters large was seen.

I did not need that word to read, To know the Children's Seat; For there the grass was trodden down By many little feet.

Upon this day the _Kinderbank_ Was full as it could be, With children sitting in a row, A pleasant sight to see.

Each little woman bent her head, Too busy far to speak; Each had a lock of yellow hair Slipped down across her cheek.

Each little woman pursed her lips Into a rosebud small, And never knew how fast time flew-- So busy were they all.

One made the knitting-needles click, With shining head bent low, And earnest eyes intent to see The winter stocking grow.

Another, toiling at a seam, The thread drew in and out; And once she sighed--so hard she tried To make the stitches stout!

But ever, as they worked away, And would not look around, They watched the little ones that played Before them on the ground.

The little ones they laughed and cooed, And talked their baby-talk; Their feet so bare were rosy-fair-- For only one could walk!

His flaxen hair in ringlets stood Upon his serious head; His eyes so blue were serious, too; And, drawing near, I said:

"Whose precious baby boy is this, So thoughtful and so sweet?" Then up and spoke a little maid, Of those upon the seat:

"This baby--he belongs to me. He goes just where I go; And I'm his Little Mother--yes, _My_ mother told me so!

"She said that he was mine 'all day.' And so it must be true; I brushed his hair--I take good care, As she herself would do.

"And I'm quite sure that I can cure, And drive the pain away, With kisses, if my baby hurts His little hand at play!"

"And whose are all these babies here? "Why--we--oh, don't you know?" We all are Little Mothers--yes, _Our_ mothers told us so!"

The Little Mothers all looked up, And each did nod her head: "Our mothers told us so!" "Ah, then 'Tis true, indeed," I said.

I left them as I found them, there Beneath the linden tree; And often since that day I've thought I'd like to go and see

If still the Little Mothers sit Upon the Children's Seat, And watch their babies as they play And tumble at their feet.

[4] In German, the Children's Seat.

BUONAMICO

_A Legend of Florence_

I

When Monte Morello is capped with snow, And the wind from the north comes whistling down, It is chill to rise with the morning star, In the "City of Flowers"--in Florence town.

II