With doll in arms to court she came,—
A mite of tender years
Between her sobs she put the case,
Her eyes brimmed up with tears.
“They’ve put my mamma into jail—
And oh, I love her so!
She’s very good—my mamma is—
Please, won’t you let her go?”
“Just look! She made this doll for me”
(She held it up to view).
The judge did look. “Don’t cry,” he said,
“We’ll see what we can do.”
[Pg 11]
“What charge against the prisoner, clerk?”
“Sold apples in the street.
She had no license, and, when fined,
The fine she could not meet.”
“My mamma’s good. Please, let her go.”
The judge looked down and smiled;
“So well you’ve pleaded, she shall be
Your Christmas Present, child.”
“Now take this paper, little one,
It sets your mother free.
She should be very proud of you;
Go, tell her so, from me.”
With doll in arms away she went,
And soon the prison gained;
And when her mother clasped her close,
The happy child explained:
“A kind, good man like Santa Claus,
With hair as white as snow,
He let you out because—because
I asked him too, you know!”
Night of the winter—winter and night in the city of Nome,
There where the many are dwelling, but no man yet has a home!
Desolate league upon league, ice-pack and tundra and hill;
And the dark of the year when the gold-hunter’s rocker and dredge are still!
[Pg 13]
By the fire that is no man’s hearth,—by the fire more precious than gold,—
They are passing the time as they may, encompassed by storm and by cold:
And their talk is of pay-streak and bedrock, of claim by seashore or creek,
Of the brigantine fast in the ice-pack this many and many a week;
Wraiths of the mist and the snow encumber her canvas and deck,—
And the Eskimos swear that a crew out of ghostland are crowding the wreck!
Thus, in the indolent dark of the year, in the city of Nome,
They were passing the time as they might, but ever their thoughts turned home.
Said the Man from the East, “In God’s country now (where we’d all like to be),
You may bet your life there’s a big boom on for the Christmas Tree;
And we’d have one here, but there isn’t a shrub as high as my hand,
Nor the smell of spruce, for a hundred miles, in all this land!”
Then the Man from the South arose: “I allow, if the Tree could be found,
I’d ’tend to the fruit myself, and stand ye a treat all round!”
“Done!” said the Man from the West (the youngest of all was he).
“I’ll lose my claim in the ruby sand—or I’ll find the Tree!”
[Pg 14]
The restless Aurora is waving her banners wide through the dome,
And the Man from the West is off, while yet they are sleeping in Nome!
Off, ere the low-browed dawn, with Eskimo, sledge, and team:
He is leaving the tundra behind, he is climbing the source of the stream!
On, beyond Sinrock—on, while the miles and the dim hours glide—
On, toward the evergreen belt that darkens the mountain side!
’Tis a hundred miles or more; but his team is strong, is swift,
And brief are his slumbers at night, in the lee of the feathery drift!
There were watchful eyes, there were anxious hearts in the city of Nome;
And they cheered with a will when the Man from the West with his prize came home!
And they cheered again for the Christmas Tree that was brought from far,
Chained to his sledge, like a king of old to the conqueror’s car!
Said the Man from the South, “I’ll ’tend to the fruit that grows on the Tree!”
Said the Man from the East, “Leave the Christmas dinner and trimmings to me!”
[Pg 15]
Hark to a story of Christmas Eve
In the lonely days of yore:
’Tis of the measureless, savage woods
By the great lake’s windy shore—
Of mother and child, in a firelit span,
Where the wilderness bows to the toil of man!
“Christmas is coming, and father’ll be here;
Through the woods he is coming, I know!
Over his shoulder his ax is laid,
And his beard is white with snow!
Yes, but look in the fire, my child,
At the strange cities there, so bright and so wild!”
[Pg 16]
“Mother, what are those restless flames
That close by the window pass?”
“Only the firelight fairies, child,
That dance on the window-glass!
But look, how the sparks up the chimney fly,
Up, and away, to the snowy sky!”
“Oh, listen, what are those shuddering cries,—
Mother, what can they be?”
“Only the branches that grate on the roof,
When the wind bends down the tree!
Now sing me the song I’ve taught to you,
That I, myself, as a little child knew!”
“But, mother, those flames dart back and forth—
Like balls of fire they play!
And those shuddering cries are at the door;
‘You must let us in,’ they say!”—
“My child! Your father’s whistle I hear—
Say a prayer for him—he is coming near!”
She has seized the tongs, she has snatched a brand,
And waved it abroad at the door!
Through the drifting snow a form she sees—
He is safe, in a moment more;
Safe—and afar are those shuddering cries,
And the baleful lights of the wolves’ red eyes!
Thus did it chance on a Christmas Eve,
In the days that are long since fled;
But a light so brave, and a gleam so true,
Through the waste of the years is shed,
As I think of that blazing, windblown brand,
Waved at the door by a slim, white hand!
Long, long ago, in dear Provence, we three!
Three children, ruddy with the midi sun
(And blither none the all-seeing sun might see),
How happy when the harvest-time was done,
The last slow drop from out the winepress run;
And when the frost at morn was thick like snow;
And when Clotilde at evening sang and spun,
And old folk, by the new fire’s ruddy glow,
Would tell, as I do now, the tales of long ago!
Those tales—ah, most of all, we begged to hear
The tales our grandsires from their grandsires had—
How, in the darkening undertime of year,
When with first-fallen snow the fields were clad,
That blessèd time when nothing can be sad
(Such peace through Christ’s dear might encircles all),
How, then, the sleeping hives made murmur glad—
The white ox knelt within his littered stall,
And voices strange and sweet were heard through heaven to call!
We were three children—René, Pierre, Annette.
The little sister listened, wonder-eyed;
Each held her hand (that touch, I feel it yet!),
And all three drank those tales of Christmas tide.
The leaden-footed time how shall we bide?
[Pg 20]
How many days and hours we know full well,
Almost the little minutes that divide!
Meanwhile, like music of a hidden bell,
Our beating hearts keep up the chime, Noël, Noël!
One thing there was, desired above all things:
“Say, will they come (as ever from of old)—
The wise, the good, the three great Eastern Kings,
Who brought rich gifts,—frankincense, myrrh, and gold?”
How often of their names had we been told—
Balthasar, Melchior, Gaspard,—splendid all,
Wide-turbaned, sandal-shod, and purple-stoled,
Perhaps upon white steeds, curbed-in, and tall,
Or else on camels with the velvet-soft footfall!
“Will they at vespers be, on Holy Night?
And will they stop and see the little shrine
Where Jesus lies beneath the Star’s true light,
As when, at first, they found him by that sign?”
“Hush, René, hush! and if the eve be fine,
Thou—yes, all three—shall go to meet the Kings.
But children—mark ye well these words of mine!
Each way, of four, to town the traveler brings;
So it may chance ye miss them in your wanderings.”
Such sage replies our questions would receive.
The Holy Time drew near, and yet more near;
At last, it was the morning of the Eve,
All day we swayed from lovely hope to fear.
[Pg 21]
“‘Too early?’ Nay, ’tis twilight, mother dear—
At least, so very soon the sun will set!”
“Your warmest coats—the air is sharp and clear.
And in your hurry, children, don’t forget
That baby feet tire soon—remember p’tite Annette!”
“No, no! I do not tire, though fast I run!”
Ah, how we laughed to see the red lips pout—
The small sweet pride that would not be outdone
In such a race, by brothers big and stout!
“Annette the first shall see the Kings, no doubt”—
It was our grandsire spake with twinkling eye.
“Yes, yes; she shall,” impatient to be out,
We answered. Once beneath the deepening sky,
We ever took the sunset way—as late birds thither fly!
For thus we reasoned with one grave consent:
If yonder star above our mountain’s crest
Should be that Eastern star for guidance lent,
Then must the Kings be journeying from the West.
So on we ran, past harvest fields at rest,
Past sheepfolds where the flock of summer dreamed
(Full soon they would be kneeling, as we guessed!)
And on, and on—and now, at times, it seemed
Far down the twilight road rich banners waved and gleamed.
But ever of enchanted weft they proved,
On sunset’s pageant field emblazoned low;
And caravans, still moving as we moved,
[Pg 22]
At length, for straggling olive trees would show.
Then, while less confident our pace would grow,
Wiser than I—a twelvemonth and a day,
Would René counsel: Might it not be so—
As we had heard our own dear mother say—
The roads are four—the Kings had come another way?
No time to lose. We took the homeward track,
The Kings at vespers might be lingering still.
Soon were we in the church. Alack, alack!
The Kings had passed; for though they bore good will
To our good parish, yet must they fulfil
The prayers of all; and there were other folk
Who, if unvisited, would take it ill.
“’Tis said they must reach Arle by midnight stroke;
Sweet spices they have left—judge by the censer’s smoke!”
We boys took manfully this frown of Fate;
But tears stood in petite Annette’s blue eyes.
“Another year, my precious,—thou canst wait;
Besides, to-morrow morn a fine surprise
There’ll be for children who are sage and wise.
Gifts—but I may not tell you now, my child.”—
’Twas mother-love that did such cure devise
For bud-nipped hopes and hearts unreconciled;
We slept, and dreamed, on this—and then, the morning smiled!
[Pg 23]
Time passed. We never saw the Kings. Ah, well—
At least the two of us saw not, I know.
But how shall I the wonder of it tell?
There came a winter wild and dim with snow.
It seemed to us that sheeted ghosts did go
Upon the wind, that never ceased to moan.
And one of us with fever was laid low:
Like leaves the little hands were tossed and thrown,
And on her cheek the rose of fever was o’erblown!
The storm was done. The day threw off its shroud—
(’Twas Christmas Eve—till then by all forgot),
And suddenly, across a scarp of cloud
One crimson flame, a parting sunbeam shot.
It reached Annette upon the low, white cot,
It touched our mother’s face, Madonna-mild.
With dreaming eyes that saw us, yet saw not,
Petite Annette threw out her hand and smiled:
“Pierre! The Kings have come, and with them is a Child!”
Long, long ago in dear Provence was grief.
In vain the troubadour may sing Noël!
In vain the birds give thanks for Christmas sheaf,
In vain I heard, “God loved Annette so well
That He hath taken her to heaven to dwell.”
No comfort till René would whisper me:
“O brother, think upon it—who can tell?—
Perhaps there was no other way, to see!
And, Pierre, remember how she told the news to thee!”
“Great stir among the shepherd folk;
To Bethlehem they go,
To worship there a God whose head
On straw is laid full low;
Upon the lovely newborn Child
Their gifts will they bestow.
“But I, who am as poor as Job—
A widowed mother I,
Who for my little son’s sweet sake
For alms to all apply—
Ah, what have I that I can take
The Child of Love most high?
“Thy cradle and thy pillow, too,
My little lamb forlorn,
Thou sorely needest them—no, no,
I cannot leave thee shorn!
I cannot take them to the God
That in the straw was born.”
Oh, miracle! The nursing babe—
The babe e’en as he fed—
Smiled in his tender mother’s face,
And, “Go, go quick!” he said;
“To Jesus, to my Saviour, take
My kisses and my bed.”
[Pg 27]
The mother, all thrilled through and through,
To heaven her hands did raise;
She gave the babe her breast, then took
The cradle—went her ways,...
And now, at Bethlehem arrived,
To Mary Mother says:
“O Mary, Pearl of Paradise,
That heaven on earth hath shed,
O Virgin Mother, hear the word
My little babe hath said:
To Jesus, to my Saviour, take
My kisses and my bed.
“Here, Mary, here the cradle is;
Thy need is more than mine;
Receive, and in it lay thy Son,
Messiah all-divine!
And let me kiss, upon my knees,
That darling Babe of thine!”
The blessed Virgin, then, at once,
Right glad of heart, bent low,
And in the cradle laid her Child,
And kissed him, doing so.
Then with his foot St. Joseph rocked
The cradle to and fro.
“Now, thanks to thee, good woman, thanks,
For this that thou hast done.”
Thus say they both, with friendly looks.
“Of thanks I merit none;
Yet, holy Mother, pity me,
For sake of thy dear Son.”
[Pg 28]
Since then a happy soul was hers;
God’s blessing on her fell;
One of the Twelve her child became,
That with our Lord did dwell.
Thus was this story told to me,
Which I afar would tell.
’Tis Elfinell—a witch’s child,
From holy minster banned....
Again the old glad bells ring out
Through all the Christmas land.
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!”
[Pg 29]
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!
[Pg 30]
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 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
[Pg 32]
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!
[Pg 33]
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!”
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.
[Pg 35]
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!
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!)
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
[Pg 48]
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!
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.
[Pg 52]
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.
[Pg 53]
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!”
[Pg 54]
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.
In Rome, beside the Forum,
A cobbler had his shop,
Where, on his way to school,
The schoolboy loved to stop.
The sheets of well-tanned leather
Hung all about the wall;
The cobbler stitched and scolded,
Bent over last and awl.
’Twas not the cobbler’s scolding
At which the schoolboys laughed,
Nor did they care to watch
His cunning handicraft.
It was a dapper person
With coat as black as night,
That offered to the schoolboy
An all-year-round delight—
A droll yet silent person,
“Good morrow”—all his speech;
He stood upon a rostrum,
As though to teach or preach.
It was the cobbler’s raven,
“Good morrow!” clear and loud
He called, with mimic laughter
That charmed the truant crowd,
[Pg 60]
Until, at last, reminded
Of school and pedagogue,
Of lecture, and of ferrule
To point his apologue.
And now, would Master Corvus,
To while the time away,
Look ’round, to see what mischief
He might devise to-day.
Alas, the raven’s cunning
No bound nor measure knew;
Alas, the cobbler’s temper—
It never better grew!
And when his choicest leather
Embossed with claw and beak,
He saw—upon the raven
Swift vengeance he did wreak!
Which done, morose and sullen,
He sat him down once more;
Nor scolded when the schoolboys
Called through the open door:
“Good morrow, Master Corvus!”...
No shrill and joyous croak
Responded from within;
And then their anger broke.
“How daredst thou kill the raven,—
The better man of two?”
They seized and beat the cobbler,
Till he for life did sue.
[Pg 61]
Then took they Master Corvus
From where he lifeless lay—
Their dear and droll companion,
And carried him away.
Said one, “There is a duty
Which to our friend we owe:
In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we’ll show!”
“That will we!” cried they warmly
(Young Romans long ago)—
“In life we gave him honor,
And honor still we’ll show!”
Next day, along the Forum,
With slow and measured tread,
Defiled the long cortège
Of Master Corvus dead.
His bier was heaped with garlands,
A piper went before;
And (as they had been kinsmen)
Two blacks the casket bore.
Then, down the Via Sacra
The sad procession moved,
While at their doors and windows
The people all approved.
And thus to Master Corvus
Full rites his friends did pay,
And buried him, ’tis said,
Beside the Appian Way,
[Pg 62]
With lightly sprinkled earth
Above his glossy breast—
With stone, and due inscription,
Hic jacet—and the rest.
’Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter,
And so with my hero it was, I think,
“P. Abbott,”—if Philip or Paul or Peter,
’Twill never be known; there’s a missing link.
The legend declares (without praise or censure)
A youth had been challenged to sleep all night
In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure,
But madcap adventures were his delight.
In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey,
You may see the stone that was brought from Scone,
And above it, the armchair, old and shabby,
Where every king has once had his throne.
Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser,
And at least three queens of the English land—
In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor,
Crown on the head and scepter in hand.
Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches
It once did hold, both of gems and gold;
But you still may see the Gothic niches
Where the sick awaited the cure of old.
[Pg 63]
Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess,
Alike might they hope for the good saint’s aid;
And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches
As token that not in vain had they prayed.
’Twas St. Edward’s Day, and the throng, gladhearted
With the blessing of peace had gone its way;
The last red beam of the sun had departed,
And twilight spread through the chapel gray.
And the marble kings on their marble couches
Once more they are lying in state, alone
Save for a nimble shadow that crouches
Behind the stone that was brought from Scone;
And the aged verger was never the wiser,
As he passed that stone and the oaken chair;
Though watchful was he as watchful miser,
He never discovered my hero was there.
When the keys at his leather girdle jingled,
How loud did they sound in young Abbott’s ear!
And when they were still, how the silence tingled!
How dim was the light!—yet why should he fear?
The night was before him, the shadows were dreary
As forth from his hiding-place he crept.
There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary,
And into the chair he crept and slept.
[Pg 64]
Never before, and nevermore since then,
Hath any but royalty sat in that chair;
But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then—
Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!
But with the dawn his slumbers were broken,
And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright.
“’Twere folly,” he cried, “if I left no token
To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night.”
So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly,
As pleased him best, on that ancient seat.
And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly—
But never a one forbade the feat!
Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted;
And when the old verger returned for the day,
“I warrant,” he muttered, with bent brows knitted,
“Something uncanny hath passed this way!”
With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages,
This of a mischievous youth is shown:
“P. Abbott,”—a name that has lasted for ages,
Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!
My story’s of the olden day
Beside the hurrying, blue Rhine water,—
My story’s of a runaway,—
The Giant Niedeck’s little daughter!
[Pg 65]
She wanders at her own sweet will,
Her flaxen ringlets wide she tosses:
A dozen steps—she climbs the hill,
A dozen more—a vineyard crosses!
The pine trees young aside are brushed,
As though they were but nodding grasses;
She laughs aloud—the birds are hushed,
And hide away until she passes!
She heeds them not,—the giant mite,
So bent upon her own wild pleasure;
And now she sees a wondrous sight,
A curious thing for her to treasure!
“Oh, what a lovely toy I’ve found!”
She clapped her hands in childish wonder.
(The great trees trembled, miles around,
The rocks gave back a sound like thunder.)
A plowman with his horse,—the toy,—
A plowman at his daily drudging:
She snatched them up with eager joy;
And home the giant child went trudging.
She reached the castle out of breath,
And from her pocket (says my fable)
She drew the ploughman, scared to death,
And laid him swooning on the table.
And then away in haste she sped,
To bring her nurse and lady mother;
“Now, burn my wooden dolls,” she said.
“Live toys are best—I’ll have no other!”
[Pg 66]
The giant lady, fair and mild,
Thus spake unto her little daughter:
“Go, take the plowman back, my child,
To fields beside the blue Rhine water.
“Though weak and small, his heart is great;
And Liebchen, if we kept him here,
All day, beside his cottage gate,
Would weep for him his children dear.”
Then back the giant child did go,
And left the plowman where she found him;
And when the sun was sinking low,
He started up and looked around him.
“I must have dreamed,” he laughed outright,
As when some sudden fancy pleases;
“And I will tell my dream to-night
When Gretchen for a story teases!”
Oh, fine it is at Easter
To hunt the wild fowl’s nest!
A rush o’ wings—a feather
From aff a broodin’ breast—
A twinkle o’ the heather—
An’ weel ye ken the rest!
Before we’ve ta’en a dewbit,
A’ in the morning gray,
It’s callin’ ane anither
In haste to be away—
It’s cryin’, “Wish me, mither,
The best luck o’ the day!”
An’ mither’s gi’en us kisses,
Wi’ little sighs between;
[Pg 77]
An’ if a teardrop’s blinkin’
Within her tender een,
It’s, maybe, that she’s thinkin’
O’ Easters that hae been!
Then lads and lassies scatter,
To hunt the eggs sae white;
They thither run, an’ hither,
An’ shout in their delight!
An’ if twa hunt thegither,
They ken it isna right!
No laddie to a lassie
Of hidden nest may tell;
Nor lass of laddie ask it,
But she maun seek hersel’!
Wha brings the fullest basket—
Guid luck wi’ him shall dwell!
Oh, fine it is at Easter
To hunt the wild fowl’s nest;
An’ when the sun is beamin’,
It’s hame we’ll gang in haste;
For now the brose is steamin,’
The chair for us is placed!
But oh! for a’ the pleasure,
Ae thing I canna thole—
The puir wild birdie’s greetin’—
It’s pierced my verra soul!
I hear ilk ane repeatin’,
“It was my eggs ye stole!”
Thrifty the folk in the town of Soleure,
And they steadily ply their fathers’ trade;
Proud are they, too, that, year after year,
The watches and clocks of the world they have made.
[Pg 81]
Click go the seconds, kling go the hours,
In the town of Soleure the time is well kept!
Ever, new steel they cut and trim,
While into the street the filings are swept.
Only waste metal, unfit for use;
But it catches the sunshine and glitters still—
And what are those thrushes doing there,
Each with a scrap of steel in its bill?
The watchmaker’s boy has paused with his broom,
And he follows the birds with a boy’s keen eye;
Their secret he learns, and whither they go,
In the leafy tent of yon linden high!
Their secret he guards the springtime through,
And he smiles when he hears the young ones call;
“Never had birdlings a cradle like theirs—
Surely to them can no harm befall!”
When the leaves are flying and birds are flown,
’Tis out on the linden bough he swings—
The fearless lad that he is—and thence,
A wonderful nest of steel he brings!
It yet may be seen in the town of Soleure,
To show how the skill of the birds began
At the point where human skill fell short;
For they used what was waste in the hands of man.
Where, think you, a little gray finch in the far wide West
Chose (of all places!) to build and to brood her nest?
Well, I will tell you the tale that the hunter told:
(Strange things has he seen—this hunter grizzled and old.)
He spoke of the cattle that came to no herder’s call,
Roaming the fenceless prairie from springtime to fall.
A shot from his rifle laid low the king of the herd—
When, hark! the sharp cry of a circling and hovering bird!
What did it mean? The hunter drew in his rein,
And leaped to the ground, where dead lay the lord of the plain!
Stilled was the beating heart, and glazed were the eyes;
The fluttering bird circled higher, and sharper her cries;
While, finer and fainter, yet many, and all as keen,
Came cries from below, as in answer. What could it mean?
The hunter bent down; and his heart with wonder was stirred,
When he saw, between the wide horns, the nest of a bird,
[Pg 83]
Like a crown which the prairie’s monarch might choose to wear
On his shaggy forelock, and lined with the friendly hair!
The hunter stood still, abashed in the midst of the plain,
To hear the little gray mother’s cry of pain,
And the faint fine voices of nestlings answer the cry;
While their fearless friend lay dead between earth and sky!
Do not ask me why? or how?—
All in Fairyland it chanced,
As the leaves upon the bough
In the autumn breezes danced!
“Quip-a-quip-a-quip-a-queer!”
Said the Thrush unto his mate.
“We must soon be gone from here;
No one else would stay so late!”
Do not ask me why? or how?—
But his mate did sorely grieve:
“My dear nest upon this bough
It will break my heart to leave!”
[Pg 84]
Do not ask me how? or why?—
But the thrush’s children, too,
Perched around, began to cry,
“Oh, whatever shall we do?”
“Cheep-a-cheep-a-cheep-a-cheer!
Never such a nest as ours;
We would rather have it, here,
Than Bermuda and the flowers!”
“Cheep-a-cheep-a-cheep-a-cheer,”
Pleaded then the thrush’s mate:
“Let us take the nest, my dear,
It is light and we are eight!”
(Do not ask me why? or how?—)
But the thrushes, with a cheer,
Took that nest from off the bough—
“Quip-a-quip-a-quip-a-queer!
“Quip-a-quip-a-quip-a-queer!
Firmly, now, with beak and claw;
Spread your wings, and never fear,—
You to push, and you to draw!”
So the thrushes took their nest,
Every one his strength applied;
But the youngest ’twas thought best
Should be snugly tucked inside.
All in Fairyland it chanced!
There is nothing more to say;
Ere the morn was far advanced,
They were miles and miles away!
Out from the aërie beloved we flew,
Now through the white, and now through the blue;
Glided beneath us hilltop and glen,
River and meadow and dwellings of men!
We flew, we flew through the regions of light
And the wind’s wild pæan followed our flight!
Free of the world, we flew, we flew—
Bound to each other alone,—we two!
To the shivering migrant we called “Adieu!”
Mid the frost-sweet weather, we flew, we flew!
Till, hark from below! the hiss of lead,
And one of us dropped, as a plume is shed!
Around and around I flew, I flew,
Wheeling my flight, ever closer I drew!
There, on the earth, my belovèd lay,
With a crimson stain on her breast-plumes gray!
And creatures of earth we had scorned before,
Now measured the wings that would lift no more:
And I stooped, as an arrow is shot from the height,
And sought to bear her away in my flight flight—
Away to our aërie far to seek!
Well did I fight with talons and beak;
But the craven foe, in their numbers and might,
Bore her in triumph out of my sight!
Her children all were gathered round her,
One olden, golden day;
Between her tender, drooping eyelids
She watched them feed or play.
Upon the lion’s living velvet
She pillowed her fair head;
A white fawn pushed its dewy muzzle
Beneath the hand that fed.
A goldfinch clung upon a ringlet
That brushed her wide, smooth brow;
And, thence, right merrily he answered
His comrades on the bough.
But at her feet there lay a sleeper,
Of subtly-fashioned limb;
Whose motion, force and will to be,
Kept yet their prison dim.
And round about his couch of slumber
The rest a space did make:
“Your peace” (the Mother told her children)
“Is broken, if he wake!
“Lo! this—the best of all created—
Shall yet an evil bring:
And ye in doubt shall graze the pasture,
[Pg 88]
And ye in fear shall sing.
“For your dear sake, my lesser children,
I keep him long asleep;
Play on, sing on, a happy season—
His dreams be passing deep!”
Thus, while her children gathered round her,
And while Man sleeping lay,
The fair Earth-Mother softly murmured,
“It is your Golden Day!”
I would like to lift the curtain
Hides the past from mortal view,
For a glimpse of one Thanksgiving
[Pg 89]
When New England still was new.
I would like to see that feast day
Bradford for his people made,
Ere the onset of the winter,
That their hearts might be upstayed.
First he sent a score of yeomen,
Skilled in woodcraft, sure of aim;
All one day they spent in hunting,
That there might be store of game.
Fathers, brothers (aye, and lovers!),
Home they bring the glossy deer;
Some but praise their hunter’s prowess,
Some, soft-hearted, drop a tear.
I would like to see those housewives,
Busy matrons, maidens too,
Watching by the ripening oven,
Bending o’er the home-made brew.
I would like to see the feasting
Where the snowy cloth is spread;
Here shall no one be forgotten,
Here shall all be warmed and fed.
Welcome, too, ye friendly shadows
At the white man’s feast and sport,
Tufted warriors, grave onlooking,
Massasoit and his court.
The Dialogue
Tip:
Dear Mistress, plainly I must speak;
For he, who should be dumb and meek,
The simple truth would never say
And his own foolish act betray betray—
Bounce (interrupting pleadingly):
Oh, do not heed her, Mistress dear;
Think how I love you, guard you, cheer!
[Pg 94]
Tip (proceeds with withering disregard):
When all we creatures were assigned
Our places with your human kind,
(’Twas long ago) while some became
Your slaves—as spiritless as tame,
We two, as friends, beneath your roof
Were lodged, because we each gave proof proof—
Bounce (licking Old Servant’s hand):
Yes, yes—I of my faithfulness—
Man calls on me in all distress!
Tip (severely):
You blundering, careless beast, be still!
My cleanliness, my grace, my skill,
Did, quite as much myself commend!
That we should live, not slave, but friend
To Master Man was then agreed:
But since of caution there is need,
We asked a written document;
To which our Master did consent.
Puffed up with confidence and pride,
He took the document to hide.
He hid it in his old bone-cave;
And then, no further thought he gave
The precious charter of our rights—
Engaged in noisy bouts and fights!
[Pg 95]
Bounce (excitedly):
There was foul play, O Mistress mine—
The other creatures did combine!
Tip:
Hush! ’twas your carelessness, in chief,
That gave the chance to knave and thief!
The jealous Ox and Horse conspired,
And then, the villain Rat they hired
To delve in darkness underground
Till he the precious charter found,
And brought the Horse and Ox, who thought
Their liberty could thus be bought,—
The tiresome creatures! To this day
They drudge and drudge, the same old way!
The Ox, the Ass, the Horse—these all
Divided with the Rat their stall,
And from their mangers grain they gave—
Such price they paid the thievish knave!
What loss was ours, we scarce can know—
The charter we could never show!
I might have had a dais spread
With crimson velvet, and been fed
On golden finches every day;
But, as for him (indicating Bounce), he’s naught to say
(He lost the charter of our rights)—
When flogged, or chained on moonlight nights!
Upon one subject, only, we
Can always heartily agree,
“Whose dog is Jack?” He belongs to this street.
Needs anti-fat—has too much to eat.
“Houseless and homeless?”—Well I guess not;
In the whole of this block there isn’t a tot
But has had Jack home to board and to sleep,
And he pays ’em in fun, every cent of his keep.
He’s the best-natured dog, and the smartest, too;
No end of the tricks we’ve taught him to do.
Got a heap of sense in his yellow hide!
He’s the wonderf’lest dog on the whole East Side;
Why, even the dog-man doesn’t know
[Pg 97]
What breed Jack is,—for he told me so!
The dog-catchers came a’most every day,
But Jack knew their cart, and he’d hide away;
Then out he’d come, laughing, when they’d got past.
Can’t guess how he ever was cotched at last;
But he was, and they boosted him into their cart,
And nobody there could take his part.
My! but the little kids cried like mad,
And us bigger ones, too,—we felt just as bad;
For he’d rode us all on his old yellow back.
It looked as though it was all up with Jack,
And I watched him go; but he cocked one eye
As much as to say, “I’ll be back by and by.”
The look that he gave me—it made me think;
And I thought of a plan as quick as wink
And I says, “Feller-citizens, ladies and gents,
I guess that we’ve each of us got a few cents,
And we’ll club together and have a show,
And charge a price, not high nor low;
And we’ll raise the money, right here and now,
That’ll buy Jack back by to-morrow—that’s how!
Tony, the Eyetalian boy, he’ll sing;
And Patsy McGovern’ll do his handspring;
And Ikey Aarons’ll swallow his knife,
And make us all think he’s taking his life,
And little Freda, she’ll pass round the hat,
She’ll smile and say nothing—she’s just good for that!”
Well, we emptied our pockets—you bet we did!—
Every one of us big ’uns and each little kid
Ran home for their banks as fast as they could;
And we raised the money, and all felt good;
And next day, early, we brought Jack back.
So, now, things run in the same old track,
But he’s got his license and don’t have to hide!
And we’ve bought him a byootiful collar beside.
Skye, of Skye, when the night was late,
And the burly porter drowsy grew,
Ran down to the silent pier, to wait
Till the boat came in with its hardy crew.
Skye, of Skye, as he sat on the pier,
Turned seaward ever a watchful eye,
And his shaggy ears were pricked to hear
The plash of oars, as the boat drew nigh.
Skye, of Skye, when they leaped ashore,
Greeted the crew with a joyful cry—
Kissed their hands, and trotted before
To the inn that stood on the hilltop high.
Within, was the porter sound asleep—
They could almost hear his lusty snore:
Then Skye, of Skye, with an antic leap,
Would pull on the bellrope that swung by the door.
Then was the bolt drawn quickly back back—
Then did the jolly crew stream in;
And—”Landlaird, bring us your best auld sack!”
And—”Aweel, aweel, where hae ye been?”
Then Skye, of Skye, on the beach-white floor,
Sanded that day by the housemaid neat,
Lay down to rest him—his vigils o’er,
[Pg 99]
With his honest nose between his feet.
But Skye, of Skye as he rolled his eye
On the friendly crowd, heard his master say,
“Na, na, that doggie ye couldna buy—
Not though his weight in gold ye would pay!”
Skye, of Skye, they have made him a bed
On the wind-swept cliff, by the ocean’s swell;
On the stone they have reared above his head,
You may see a little dog ringing a bell.
The master,—he loved my kitten, my kitten;
She was still too weak to stand,
When he placed her upon one hand,
And over it laid the other,
And looked at me kindly, and said,
“Tip, you’re a proud little mother!”
For they’d left me but one, my kitten, my kitten—
As sweet as a kitten could be—
And I loved her for all the three
They had taken away without warning.
I watched her from daylight till dark,
Watched her from night until morning!
I never left my kitten, my kitten
(For I feared—and I loved her so!)
Till I thought it time she should know
That cats in the house have a duty,
And a right to be proud of their skill,
[Pg 100]
As well as their grace and their beauty.
I only left my kitten, my kitten,
A few short moments in all,
To punish the mouse in the wall,
Each day growing bolder and bolder;
And I brought her the mouse to show
What kittens must do when older.
I brought her the mouse—my kitten, my kitten!
I tossed it, I caught it for her;
But she would not see, nor stir.
My heart it beat fast and faster;
And I caught her up in my mouth,
And carried her so, to the master.
I thought he would help—my kitten, my kitten!
And I laid her down at his feet—
(Never a kitten so sweet,
And he knew that I had no other!)
But he only said, “Poor Tip,
’Tis a sad day for you, little mother!”
Wept the Child that no one knew,
Wandering on, without a clew;
Wept so softly none did stay;
So, farther yet, he went astray.
Cried the Lamb that missed the fold,
Trembling more from fear than cold—
“I am lost, and thou art lost—
Both upon the wide world tossed!
Why not wander on together,
Through the bright or cloudy weather?”
Then the Child that no one knew
Looked through eyes that shone like dew.
Laughed, and wept, “Lost as I am,
Come with me, thou poor lost Lamb!”
[Pg 105]Moaned the youngling wood-dove left
By the flock, of flight bereft,
“Thou art lost, and we are lost—
All upon the wide world tossed!
Why not wander on together,
Through the bright or cloudy weather?”
Then the Child that no one knew
Closer to the nestling drew,
Hand beneath, and hand above,
Thus he held the quivering Dove.
Still they wander on together,
Through the bright or cloudy weather,—
Spotless Lamb and Dove and Child,
Comrades in the lonesome wild;
Child and Lamb and nestling Dove,—
Truth and Innocence and Love!
Blest their hearth, and blest their field,
Who to these a shelter yield.
Slow through the light and silent air,
Up climbs the smoke on its spiral stair—
The visible flight of some mortal’s prayer;
The trees are in bloom with the flowers of frost,
But never a feathery leaf is lost;
[Pg 107]
The spring, descending, is caught and bound
Ere its silver feet can touch the ground;
So still is the air that lies, this morn,
Over the snow-cold fields forlorn,
’Tis as though Italy’s heaven smiled
In the face of some bleak Norwegian wild;
And the heart in me sings—I know not why—
’Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky!
June in the sky! Ah, now I can see
The souls of roses about to be,
In gardens of heaven beckoning me,
Roses red-lipped, and roses pale,
Fanned by the tremulous ether gale!
Some of them climbing a window-ledge,
Some of them peering from wayside hedge,
As yonder, adrift on the aery stream,
Love drives his plumed and filleted team;
The Angel of Summer aloft I see,
And the souls of roses about to be!
And the heart in me sings—the heart knows why—
’Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky.
