Part 2
He stumbled on, when through the blast A piteous cry was heard, And close beside him, heaped in snows, A wailing infant stirred.
“Now, who has laid thee here, sweet babe, To perish in the storm? ’Tis Christmas Eve; I’ll take thee home, My cloak shall wrap thee warm.”
The tiny creature, as he spoke, He gathered to his breast, And there beyond, his cottage shone, In Christmas firelight dressed.
Within the good-wife’s tender arms The shivering waif was set, And children’s faces bent above, And eyes with pity wet.
Warm and content, the stranger babe Gazed wondering o’er the room, And spied at last the children’s tree, A Christmas rose in bloom.
Eager they ran to show the lights, And round their treasure pressed; When lo! a glimmering cloud of mist Enwrapped the wondrous guest.
On silver-shining wings he rose, His fair head bore a crown, And vanishing, with baby hands He wafted blessings down.
Next morning, where amid the snows The Babe had made his bed, Fair as a star, and dazzling white, The Christ-Flower raised its head.
They bore it home, and every year In depths of winter wild, Chrysanthemums bloom in that cot, Where came the Holy Child.
A DEAR LITTLE BOY
A gay soldier-jacket, A suitcase to pack it, A box full of candy, A fine Jack-a-dandy, Kind Christmas is bringing to me. A red-crested Polly, A garland of holly, A nut and a raisin, A fine trumpet brazen,-- Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
Some nails and a hammer To make a fine clamor, A pony to ride on, Some stilts I can stride on, Kind Christmas is bringing to me. A yellow canary My pets for to vary, A jar full of cookies, Some nice picture-bookies,-- Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
Some sleigh-bells to jingle, Like those of Kriss Kringle, Two little black kittens, A pair of red mittens, Kind Christmas is bringing to me. A purse full of money, A snowy-white bunny,-- A horse fit for rocking, Some sweets for my stocking,-- Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
My trundle-bed scorning, When comes the glad morning, My gifts I’ll find early, With fine hurly-burly, What Christmas is bringing to me. “Get up!” I’ll be saying, “I want to go playing! My breakfast be hasting, There’s no time for wasting!” Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
“And grandmother’s ‘fairing’?” She’s too old for caring! “And wee sister Jennie?” She’s too small for any. Kind Christmas is coming to ME! “My father and mother?” Oh, they will not bother, If I am not sighing, Nor fretting nor crying, Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
“L’OISEAU DE DIEU”[3]
(_A Legend of Normandy_)
When sweet Babe Jesus sleeping lay And shivered with the cold; The wee brown wren took thought to Him, Her down she plucked and brought to Him, Enwrapped Him, fold on fold.
When sweet Babe Jesus craved a robe, A-couching in the hay, Her own warm plumes she laid on Him, A feathered garb she made on Him, That blessed Christmas Day.
Babe Jesus lacked a coverlet; The rude wind stole within; The wren brought leaves and spread on Him, Russet and gold she shed on Him, And lapped Him softly in.
Dear bird of brown, thou tender heart, Thou gav’st the Babe thine all! To praise thee is most meet to us, Thy pitying deeds are sweet to us, God’s blessing on thee fall!
FOOTNOTE
[3] God’s Bird.
CHRISTMAS IN NORWAY
A flock of crows a caucus held Upon a certain day, And talked of many a sober theme, In sober, serious way.
They touched on corn, on growing crops, They praised the plough and hoe; And bolder ones of scarecrows spoke With bated breath and low.
At length, a crow advanced in years, His speech a feeble caw, Arose to tell of things that he In foreign countries saw.
“One Christmas Day I chanced to be In Norway,” quoth the bird; “And ’twas the coldest winter wind That e’er my feathers stirred.
“My mate was ill and could not fly, And, anxious at her plight, I pondered where to seek her food Through all the bitter night.
“The morning broke on icy trees, And fields adrift with snow, And faint with hunger, numb with cold I scarce knew where to go.
“Beyond the wood a farmhouse stood, And there at length I flew, Hoping to find a seed or crumb To feed my mate so true.
“Wary, I flapped above the roof, When, what my eyes should greet, But, fixed to gable, door and gate, Great sheaves of golden wheat!
“Behind the shining window-panes, Stood children all a-row, And happy voices eager cried, ‘Bright Christmas! Master Crow!’
“Oh, blessings on those kindly folk At Christmas evermore, And blest be all that feed the birds In Norway’s rocky shore!”
He ceased. A chorus loud arose From birds both far and near; “Ah! would the children in this land Provide such Christmas cheer!”
THE HAUGHTY ASPEN
(_A German Legend_)
_As I went through the tangled wood I heard the Aspen shiver. “What dost thou ail, sweet Aspen, say, Why do thy leaflets quiver?”_
“’Twas long ago,” the Aspen sighed-- How long is past my knowing-- “When Mary Mother rode adown This wood where I was growing. Blest Joseph journey’d by her side, Upon his good staff resting, And in her arms the Heav’nly Babe, Dove of the World, was nesting. Fair was the mother, shining-fair, A lily sweetly blowing; The Babe was but a lily-bud, Like to his mother showing. The birds began, ‘Thy Master comes! Bow down, bow down before Him!’ The date, the fig, the hazel tree, In rev’rence bent to adore Him. I only, out of all the host Of bird and tree and flower,-- I, haughty, would not bow my head, Nor own my Master’s power. ‘Proud Aspen,’ quoth the Mother-Maid, ‘Thy Lord, dost thou defy Him? When emperors worship at His shrine, Wilt courtesy deny Him?’ I heard her voice; my heart was rent, My boughs began to shiver, And age on age, in punishment, My sorrowing leaflets quiver.”
_Still in the dark and tangled wood, Still doth the Aspen quiver. The haughty tree doth bear a curse, Her leaflets aye must shiver._
REMEMBER!
What’s the very best rhyme for December? Why, of course you must know ’tis REMEMBER! Remember the snowflakes, The green Christmas tree, The red holly berries Each season we see. Remember! December! Remember!
What word do bells ring in December? Why, of course you can hear ’tis REMEMBER! Remember the carols, The tinkle of sleighs, The chickadee singing In gloomiest days. Remember! December! Remember!
What story is told in December? To read it once is to remember, Remember the manger, The Baby that lay, His sweet mother watching, All cradled in hay. Remember! December! Remember!
What song do we sing in December, When the birth of the Babe we remember? The song of the angels, We echo it still; O’er all the earth singing Of peace and good will. Remember! December! Remember!
A NEW YEAR’S SONG
On New Year’s Eve in England, All in the olden day, The children went a-caroling, All in the olden way; And ever as they journey’d on, This chorus would you hear:-- “God send you happy, God send you happy, Pray God send you a happy New Year!”
Across the fields and meadows And through the frosty light, While starry eyes and starry skies Illumed the wintry night, The children caroled blithely on, In chorus sweet and clear:-- “God send you happy, God send you happy, Pray God send you a happy New Year!”
Our days are sadly modern, Our ways are modern, too; But hearts still beat as high with love As once they used to do-- So take the old-time message, Good friends, both far and near: “God send you happy, God send you happy, Pray God send you a happy New Year!”
THE BOASTFUL SNOWFLAKE
A snowflake remarked to his mother one day, His calm sweet mother of cloud so gray, “When _I_ fall to earth, there’s none but will know, For I’ll fall with a whiz, and a whir, and a go! I’ll pile up a drift by myself, all alone, As high as a steeple and hard as a stone. I’ll roll up a snowball as round as the moon, And big as the sun when he shines out at noon. I’ll make a great snow-man, so tall and so grand He can hold a whole boy in the palm of his hand. Here I go! See me fly! One and all, look at me! I’m a Snowflake from Cloudland--at last I am free!” He drifted to earth like a feather afloat, A gallant young sailor, a breeze for a boat, When a wonderful flower appeared to his view, All dewy with fragrance, all brilliant of hue. He longed to caress it, give one kiss so light, He yearned just to touch it, and paused in his flight-- Alas, for the snowflake--ambition grew weak, He died for the rose on a soft baby cheek!
THE GOOSE FAIR AT WARSAW
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack! The geese are trooping to Warsaw! In Warsaw there’s a giant Fair, And through the chill December air, O’er hills and uplands brown and bare, Waddling here and waddling there, The geese go forth to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack! The geese are trooping to Warsaw! For every winter, I’ve been told, A Goose Fair in that town they hold, And be they young or be they old, Sweet maiden geese, or ganders bold, They all must fare to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack! The geese are trooping to Warsaw! A million geese, or so they say, In noisy flocks are on the way. There’ll be the very deuce to pay If such an army goes astray, Of geese that tramp to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack! The geese are trooping to Warsaw! The goose-herds drive them, all a-row, And very well indeed they know That geese can never barefoot go, O’er frozen ground and eke on snow, The many miles to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack! The geese are trooping to Warsaw! But ere they leave their master’s land, They walk through tar and then through sand, And so on well-shod feet they stand, As, in a feathered army grand, The geese march on to Warsaw.
_Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack! With arching neck and curving back, The booted geese go cackling down To meet their fate in Warsaw town. Hiss! Hiss!_
THE FAIRY RING[4]
Throned on a grassy knoll, I watch The elfin host come trooping by, And hear the whir of fairy wings, The goblin voices, shrill and high. Behind them glides a magic train Of Kings and Princes, armor-clad, And serving as their squires bold Boots, Ashiepattle, Cinderlad. With silken rustle, flash of gem, Queen and Czaritsa sweep along, While red-capped Troll and rainbow Sprite Peep out amid the enchanted throng.
Ting-ling, ting-ling, how sweet the ring, Like golden bells, of fairy laughter; Rap-tap, rap-tap, how sharp the clap Of fairy footfalls following after!
Where witch-grass grows and fern-seed lies, A fairy ring is dimly seen; And there a glitt’ring host is met To dance upon the moonlit green. Riquet, the Tufted, lightly turns The Fair One with the Golden Hair; And Prince Desire and Mignonette Form yet another graceful pair. Tall as a tower stands Galifron; The Desert Fay, with snakes bedight, First pirouettes with him and then With wee Tom Thumb, King Arthur’s Knight.
Ting-ling, ting-ling, how sweet the ring, Like golden bells, of fairy laughter; Rap-tap, rap-tap, how sharp the clap Of fairy footfalls following after!
Sweet, unseen harpers harp and sing, Faint elfin horns the air repeat; Rapunzel shakes her shining braids, The White Cat trips with velvet feet. Rose-red, Snow-white, the faithful Bear, Cross hands with gallant Percinet; While Tattercoats, in turn, salutes Yvon, the Fearless, and Finette.--But hark! the cock begins to crow; The darkness turns to day, and where The fairy dancers trod the green, Now is the space but empty air.
FOOTNOTE
[4] From _The Fairy Ring_. By permission of Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co.
I WONDER![5]
I wonder if, in Samarcand, Grave camels kneel in golden sand, Still lading bales of magic spells, And charms a lover’s wisdom tells, To fare across the desert main And bring the Princess home again-- I wonder!
I wonder in Japan to-day If grateful beasts find out the way To those who succored them in pain, And bring their blessings back again; If cranes and sparrows take the shape, And all the ways of mortals ape-- I wonder!
In Bagdad may there still be found That blackish powder, finely ground, Which changes all who on it feast, Monarch or slave, to bird or beast? Do Caliphs taste and, unafraid, Turn storks and weeping night-owls aid? I wonder!
I wonder if in far Cathay The nightingale still trills her lay Beside the Porcelain Palace door, And courtiers praise her as before? If emperors dream of bygone things, And, musing, weep the while she sings? I wonder!
Such things have never chanced to me. I wonder if, to eyes that see, These magic visions still appear In daily living, now and here? If every flower is touched with glory? If e’en the grass-blades tell a story? I wonder!
FOOTNOTE
[5] From _Tales of Wonder_. By permission of Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co.
EVERYBODY’S BABY
Pray, where does the bonniest baby dwell, The sweetest that ever did grow? Say, where shall I find it, now truthfully tell, Please show me the way I must go.
_The bonniest baby that ever did grow, Without a “perhaps,” or a “maybe,” It is hers, it is mine, it is his, it is thine; Oh, it’s everybody’s baby!_
But choices in babies there surely must be, Though all may be charming and pretty; The fairest, the rarest, the dearest of all, Must needs be the theme of my ditty.
_The very same story I can but repeat, Without a “perhaps,” or a “maybe,” It is hers, it is mine, it is his, it is thine; Oh, it’s everybody’s baby!_
There isn’t a baby on earth, you maintain, That isn’t a duck and a treasure, A beauty, a jewel, a poppet, a pet, The life of the house and its pleasure?
_I stoutly maintain it; I state it again, Without a “perhaps,” or a “maybe,” It is hers, it is mine, it is his, it is thine, It is everybody’s baby!_
WHICH IS THE ROYAL BABY?[6]
A cradle of gold has the Czarevitch, With gold-leaf drapery shrouded; Two chairs, with a pillow, my baby’s bed In a tenement chamber crowded; But my pretty one nestles as softly down As the wee little lad that’s born to a crown-- So, which is the royal baby?
In Caucasus linen the Czarevitch goes, And wonderful diamonds hold it; This treasure of mine wears a cotton gown, And ribbons of blue enfold it; But his eyes shine out from a kingly face, And he wears his robe with a sov’reign grace,-- So, which is the royal baby?
Tall Cossacks keep watch o’er the Czarevitch, And sentries are set at his portal; My little one has but a single guard,-- He who keepeth all things mortal; But nobody grudges my baby’s life Like the Russian princeling’s, born to strife,-- So, which is the royal baby?
Three nurses, they say, has the Czarevitch, With degrees from a royal college. Alas, for my sweeting! He has but one, And love is her only knowledge! But the Queen of the Russias may not stay With her prince, like me, for the livelong day,-- So, which is the royal baby?
FOOTNOTE
[6] Written in 1905
FLOWER SONG
(_Adapted from Froebel_)
Why is the flower’s breath so sweet? Ah, who can tell the reason! Perhaps the angel-children fair, Come in the blossom season, And with their blessed hands they touch Each bud so small, Each posy tall;-- To think so were no treason.
No baby eye, however bright, May see their garments flowing, Among the blooms they softly pass, Rich odors round them strowing, Ah, honey-sweet the flower they touched! Sweet as the breeze That rocks the trees When apple-buds are blowing.
SWEET SLEEP[7]
Sweet sleep, fleet sleep, Come to Baby here! With thy calm hand, With thy cool hand, Touch these eyelids dear.
Dream-land, gleam-land, Ope thy golden doors. Let these wee feet, Let these soft feet, Tread thy rainbow floors.
White wings, bright wings, Baby, guard thy bed. Angels watch thee, Angels ward thee, Blessings ’round thee shed.
FOOTNOTE
[7] Music: Beethoven’s “Sonata Pathétique.” Opus 13.
THE MAKING OF THE FLAG
Fivescore and forty years ago, Fivescore and forty years,-- This land was but an infant, then, The child of blood and tears.
To-day a mighty nation, A hundred million souls Are nurtured by her splendid strength, Are mustered on her rolls.
But even in that long ago, That time of stress and strife, When Liberty, beset by foes, Was battling for her life,
E’en then, they waved a standard, They made Britannia yield; The crosses of her patron saints Still blazoned on its field.
But for new times, new customs; Columbia, from her throne, With goddess-pride demanded A banner of her own.
The Continental Congress, O’erheard Columbia’s call And to fulfill her mandate Its members gathered all.
“Resolved,” they vowed in conclave,-- So history relates. “A proud new Flag befits the pride Of these United States.
“Its stripes of white and crimson Shall thirteen states unite; The Union be denoted By thirteen stars of white.”
They sought no novel colors; What colors should there be Save white for Faith and blue for Hope And red for Liberty?
And when they’d planned the banner, The Fathers straight went down With Washington to Betsy Ross, Of Philadelphy town.
Her needlework was noted Wherever art was prized; The Flags she wrought were famous, Her skill was recognized.
So Betsy, blooming Betsy, A patriot’s widow, she, Was first to cut and fashion The Flag of Liberty.
Oh, Betsy, blessed Betsy, What name or fame can be So sweet as yours who ’broidered The Banner of the Free?
The Flag your art created, Where’er it be unfurled, Proclaims the Rights of Freemen, The Safety of the World.
THE ANSWER OF THE FLAG
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country, Our red, white, and blue, Say, whence are thy colors-- Each wonderful hue?
FLAG _speaks_:
Deep in the sunset sky, When light was dying, Streamed crimson banners, like Wild armies flying. Where, ’twixt two bands of gray, One bar lay flaming, Leaned I and plucked it out, Mine for the claiming.
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country, Right well hast thou done! Thy red glows like rubies, Like heart of the sun.
FLAG _speaks_:
When Summer lays her hand, Softly caressing, Over the rounded earth, Leaving her blessing, White sail the clouds above, Clear as the morning; From these I chose me one For mine adorning.
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country, Thy heav’n-pure white, Like crystal in sunshine, It dazzles the sight!
FLAG _speaks_:
Yet there remains my blue, Jewel-besprinkled, Like to some dusky pool, Where the stars twinkled. Night doffed her misty veil When all were sleeping, Unclasped her starry crown, Gave to my keeping.
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country, Thy blue is more rare Than turquoise or gentian; ’Tis measureless air!
FLAG _speaks_:
Child, may my brilliant hues, Chosen from heaven, Serve as thy benison, Prove as thy leaven; Flaming may be thy heart, Loving and giving, Clear as the stars thy will, Snow-white thy living!
PROTECT THE FLAG
We hail with delight a tattered flag That’s darkened with battle-stains. But never one that’s a battered flag, The victim of storms and rains.
We may wave a banner, service-torn, That led in a gallant fray, But flaunt no ensign that’s weather-worn, No bunting that’s had its day.
The flag that has served is a sacred flag, No matter how worn it be; The one that’s neglected is nobody’s flag, That nobody cares to see.
Protect “Old Glory,” nor let it rack, Like a storm-rent sail at sea; No slight must sully, no insult stain The star-sown flag of the Free.
A COLLAR OF HONOR
In France, sunny France, far away o’er the sea, There are things that they do rather better than we; Perhaps these are many, perhaps but a few-- Be that as it may, there’s one thing that they do: They recognize merit where’er it is found And ever its praises are willing to sound; And even a dog, if he act well his part, Is held in esteem in the popular heart. You feel it, you know it, you see that it’s so, When you meet in the street, as you stroll to and fro, The dogs with their collars of honor.
A dog who has rescued in perilous strife A poor human creature, and saved him his life, Is counted thereafter a ward of the state, The charge of officials, from petty to great. His bed and his board are forever assured; In health he is tended, in illness he’s cured. A band of bright metal he wears round his throat, And pride of it shows in each hair of his coat. You feel it, you know it, you see that it’s so, When you meet in the street, as you stroll to and fro, The dogs with their collars of honor.
At Brest, should you go there, as I did one night,-- ’Tis a post of the navy and well worth a sight,-- A Newfoundland dog you may happen to meet, A hero whose praises the sailors repeat. So many he’s rescued from tempest and wreck That a grand decoration he wears at his neck. It hangs from his collar, and when it is seen He is gravely saluted by each bold marine. E’en sentries do homage when trots up and down, Bejeweled, beribboned, this pride of the town, This dog with his collar of honor.
THE CHILDREN’S SHIP
(_Presented to the Picture-Book Fund for French Children_)
What ship is this comes speeding on? They say she’s bound for France. Why, sir, she’s called the “Children’s Ship” And every wave’s a-dance To push her swift across the sea, For over there, they say, There’s hosts of homeless little folk, Who weep instead of play.