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Citation |
- Permanent Link:
- https://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00082963/00001
Material Information
- Title:
- Little knights and ladies verses for young people
- Creator:
- Sangster, Margaret Elizabeth Munson, 1838-1912 ( Author, Primary )
Harper & Brothers ( Publisher )
- Place of Publication:
- New York
- Publisher:
- Harper and Brothers
- Publication Date:
- 1895
- Language:
- English
- Physical Description:
- viii, 2, 147, [5] p., [4] leaves of plates : ill., port. ; 18 cm.
Subjects
- Subjects / Keywords:
- Children's poetry ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile poetry ( lcsh ) Children's poetry -- 1895 ( lcsh ) Publishers' catalogues -- 1895 ( rbgenr ) Baldwin -- 1895 ( local )
- Genre:
- Children's poetry
Publishers' catalogues ( rbgenr ) poetry ( marcgt )
- Spatial Coverage:
- United States -- New York -- New York
- Target Audience:
- juvenile ( marctarget )
Notes
- General Note:
- Title page printed in red and black.
- General Note:
- Publisher's catalogue follows text.
- General Note:
- Partly reprinted from various periodicals.
- Statement of Responsibility:
- by Margaret E. Sangster.
Record Information
- Source Institution:
- University of Florida
- Holding Location:
- University of Florida
- Rights Management:
- This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
- Resource Identifier:
- 025575350 ( ALEPH )
ALH7520 ( NOTIS ) 06462418 ( OCLC ) 12038364 ( LCCN )
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| Little
Knights and Ladies
Verses for Young People
BY
MARGARET E. SANGSTER
AUTHOR OF i
“ON THE ROAD HOME†ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER AND BROTHERS
MDCCCXCV
CHEST
Copyright, 1895, by Harper & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.
TO
THE CHILDREN’S ORDER
OF
‘“‘ THE ROUND TABLEâ€
The verses in this collection were nearly
all originally written for the several publi-
cations of Messrs. Harper & Brothers. A
few were first published in The Congrega-
tionalist, Ladies’ Home Journal, Youth's Com-
panion, and The Christian Intelligencer.
CONTENTS
Page
MY LADDIE . ......... +T
JEANIE’S CHRISTMAS JOURNEY. . . . 4
THE BISHOP AND THE BABY . . . . IQ
MAID OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. . . 22
A GENTLEMAN... . . 25
A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER . . . . . . 27
MAKING BELIEVE . . . . . . . . 29
THE MAGICAL DOOR . .... . . 31
A SKATING SONG . .... . «33
THE WHITE DAYS OF WINTER. . . . 35
VOICES. . . 2... ww ee ee 87
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD. . . . . 39
TWO LITTLE GIRLS. . . . . 1... 40
THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR. . . . . . 42
THE MOTHER’S LETTER . . . . . . 44
I WOULDN’T BE CROSS . ... . . 48
SOMETHING NEW ...... . . 50
THE DEAR LITTLE HEADS IN THE PEW. 52
BEADS FOR A NAME ..... . . 54
TWO WISHES, . . . . . . «658
vii
DO ALL THAT YOU CAN. . ...
EDITH BAXTER . . . . 6 we
WATCHING FOR FATHER. . . .
CHILDREN, SING! . . ....
MISS FRET AND MISS LAUGH...
ASONG ..... ee ee
THE BOOK OF THE YEAR. Pa
MY BRAVE LADDIE. . .....
IN BLUEBERRY-TIME . . . .. .
GARDENS . . . 2 ew ee ee
THE AUTUMN WALK . _
‘““THE RIPENED LEAVES†. . .
VACATION OVER. .
PUMPKIN PIE. eae ee
THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA’AM . . . .
PROUD MOTHERS ......
INDIAN SUMMER. . .. ..
BY THE WAVES .
THE FOUR WINDS . .. . .
THE LITTLE ONES HE BLESSED.
A DRUMMER... ....
THE POET’S VACANT THRONE
A MOTHER’S BOY
BEES IN THE MEADOW
LITTLE HANS. 28
THE CALL OF THE CROW .
TWO BOYS. . . . 2... eee
“THE MERRY WIND... . .
vili
Page
59
61
64
65
67
68
70
72
74°
77
79
81
83
85
87
Or
92
94
95
97
99
IO
103
104
105
106
107
A LITTLE FAIRY .....
PICKING BERRIES .... .
CAUGHT IN A SHOWER .. .
A LITTLE MARAUDER. . .
MUD PIES. .......
ELSIE’S THANKSGIVING . . .
OUR LITTLE ECHO... . .
THE COMPANY WHO TRY.
WORK FOR LITTLE FOLLOWERS
A FELLOW’S MOTHER .
WHERE THE TROLLS ARE BUSY
GIRLS OF THE PERIOD . . .
AFTER THE MATCH .’. .
JOE. . . we ee
A LOST CHRISTMAS. . . . .
‘A CHILD'S PUZZLES. . . .
AT EASTER... . 1.
THE LITTLE GREEN BEDS
THE SNOW-FLAKE . .
THE LITTLE ‘‘ FRESH-AIRS†.
TO-DAY .°. 0. 6. we wee
A NEW YEAR. . .... .
Page
108
. 109
Iio
III
. I12
113
117
. 118
120
. 123
I25
126
128
129
. 131
134
136
138
140
142
144
147
LITTLE KNIGHTS AND LADIES
MY LADDIE
My laddie, my laddie, with the mane of tawny
gold,
The soft blue eyes, the open brow, the
mouth like Cupid’s bow—
My laddie, my laddie, you are scarcely six
years old, ,
But the ages have been garnering the won-
ders you shall know.
For you has Science hoarded her secrets
strange and rare;
For you have wise men toiled and delved,
for you have brave men fought ;
To make your’ pathway beautiful, have sea
and earth and air
Through centuries of waiting in mystic pa-
tience wrought.
No battle of the hoary past but had its gage
for you ;
No rune of solemn Norn or Fate but sends
its thrilling strain
A I
To you, for whose glad coming all forces, old
and new,
Are blending in concurrent notes, are sound-
ing time’s refrain.
My laddie, O my laddie, I am wistful as I
clasp
Your little hand within my own, and think
how many men,
Gone far from earth and memory, beyond our
mortal grasp,
Are living and are breathing, dear child, in
you again :—
The line of Flemish weavers, who were stout
and tough as steel ;
The brave old Holland gentlemen, called,
“ Beggars of the Seaâ€;
The coifed and wimpled Puritans, sweet
maids and matrons leal,—
Who poured their weakness and_ their
strength in the blood of you and me.
My laddie of the golden hair, there stand at
God’s right hand
His saints who went through blood and
flame, the yeomen of our line ;
2
And there are seraphs singing in the ¢ glorious
better land
Whose heart-beats kept, when here on earth,
the pace of yours and mine.
Kneel, little laddie, at my side, there’s no de-
fence like this,
An evening prayer in childish trust, and let
him scoff who may,—
A daily prayer to God above, a gentle moth-
er’s kiss,
Will keep my little laddie safe, however long
the day.
Those staunch old burghers of the past, these
nearer gentlemen,
Sans peur et sans reproche, who look through
your sweet eyes of blue,
Were honest men, clean-handed, and they told
the truth ;—what then?
Tis all I crave, my laddie, when I pray to
God with you.
JEANIE’S CHRISTMAS JOURNEY
LITTLE Jeanie’s bright eyes nave a look of
the morn,
And her sunny hair shines like the gloss of
the corn.
When the eyes'shall be dim and the locks
shall be gray,
I think she’ll remember a strange Christmas
day
She had in her life when her birthdays were few,
And little of danger or sorrow she knew.
With Father and Mother away at the West,
The child was as lone as a bird in the nest,
Uncared for, untended, though Aunty was
there— ‘
An Aunty whose kisses were frosty and rare,
Who had meetings to go to and people to see,
And to all Jeanie’s questions would answer
“Dear me! -
Just do as you please, pet, and keep out of
hamâ€;
Then, over the work of the letters whose charm
4
2
Enchanted her heart, would forget the poor
child,
Who was left very much like a weed to run
wild.
. It was late in December, and Christmas was
near,
When home should be bubbling with mirth
and good cheer ;
But no one seemed thinking of Christmas a
bit,
And much Jeanie marvelled and puzzled, till it
Grew plain to her mind that no Christmas
could come
Toa child without father and mother at home,
And dear brother Tom—oh, she couldn’t tell
where,
Every night she asked God to keep Tom in
His care,
And to let him be found soon; for Aunty had
said
That he had been naughty, and so he had fled.
Had Jeanie been naughty, she’d never have
stayed
Away from dear Mother, ashamed and afraid.
So, “Jesus, forgive him, and make him be
good,â€
Prayed Jeanie, the darling, and did what she
could,
5
The day before Christmas, nor cedar, nor pine,
Nor red-berried holly had Jeanie to twine.
“You may hang up your stocking,†her
Aunty had said,
But not of herself mused the fair drooping
head, .
Her swift little fingers were aching to sew
On something for Mother; but hours would go,
While Aunty thought nothing of presents to
make,
And the fond little heart felt as though it
would break.
“At least,†she concluded, “Tl do what I
can:
My Father would say *twas a beautiful plan:
T’ll give my best things to some child who has
none, .
And I'll not even save the prettiest one.
T’ll go out with my gifts now, and make some
one glad,
And then perhaps Jesus will see that ’'m sad,
And show me the way to my Father and
Mother,
And help me to find, where he’s hidden, my
brother.â€
In her warm Mother Hubbard and cunning
gray poke,
A mite of a thing in the hat and the cloak,
6
With a doll in her arm, and a basket quite
full,
She tripped in to Aunty, just home from a
school
Where poor little children were brought from
‘the street, :
And fed, and taught verses, and given a treat
On the bright Christmas-eve. Now Aunty
was tired ;
The day had not been as she planned and de-
sired,
So, scarcely attending to what Jeanie asked,
In the glow of the grate as she cozily basked.
“Yes, run away, little one,†quickly she said,
“But be back before tea,†and away Jeanie
sped.
She knew where, far up on a steep winding
star,
A poor crippled Hetty no pleasures could
share,
Save what from her window she caught as
they passed—
Procession or pageant moving too fast.
“T never,†mused Jeanie, with face growing
grave,
_ And brown eyes with look burning: earnest
and brave—
“T never had ‘sperience’ of trouble before,
7
And here’s Hetty cannot step out of the door ;
I'll give her my dolly, my own precious child.â€
At the stair foot she kissed it, then cried, and
then smiled,
Climbed up to the attic—she knew it, you see ;
For Mother had been there in days that were
free
From the “sperience†of trouble ; flashed in
like a beam
Of gay winter sunshine; flashed out like a
dream ;
And Hetty with rapture was clasping a doll
That could walk and could laugh and a ditty
could troll.
*T was gathering dusk, and. beginning to snow,
And the small Mother Hubbard skipped quick
to and fro—
Skipped over the sidewalk, and tried a blithe.
race—
Such fun !—with the white floating feathers to
chase. .
Her basket was heavy, so, one at a time,
She dropped little gifts, caring not for the
grime
Of the poor beggar’s hand, thinking only to
* please
These children who looked as if ready to ~
freeze."
8
There was left in her basket one treasure most
dear :
To make it had taken her more than a year,
And now it was dark, but the streets were
ablaze,
And crowded with shoppers, and scarce through
the maze,
In the fast-growing gloom, could Jeanie pro-
ceed.
She must give the bright scrap-book to some
one in need
Of pictures: and stories and verses so sweet.
The gay dancing measure went out of her
feet,
For Jeanie was weary, and deep was the
snow.
Alas! tea was over—oh, long, long ago.
And Aunty, now frightened, sent this way and
that
For a wee Mother Hubbard and Greenaway
hat.
And neighbors were searching, and soon the
police
Would be hunting a child with a soft golden
fleece
And eager brown eyes, through the cold and
the storm.
Oh! where could be loitering the dear little
form?
9
Meanwhile little Jeanie had come to a place
Where the yellow lamps flared on full many a
face .
With homesickness written in every hard line.
There were women with brows that were pa-
tient and fine, .
And rosy-cheeked girls, cheery, honest, and
true,
Who would shrink from no labor their hands
found to do;
There were old men, with beards that hung
low on the breast,
And lads looking forth to the green, ample
West ;
There were flaxen-haired babies, and children
blue-eyed,
In shawls and odd kerchiefs that primly were
tied,
And Jeanie looked round for the one who
should fold
To her bosom the book that was better than
gold.
Such a tiny, quaint woman she picked from
the throng,
A child with a face that was gleeful and strong.
“Merry Christmas!†cried Jeanie, and gave
her the book.
Then right in her eyes saw so happy a look
10
That she pressed through the crowd, lest the
chance she should miss,
And with arms round her neck, gave the
stranger a kiss.
“ All aboard!†rang the order. With hurry
and rout
Were the travellers marshalled, spectators sent
out.
“All aboard!†rang the shout, then were |
whistles amain,
And steamed from the station the emigrant
train,
And somehow, hand clasped in the dear Nor-
way girl’s,
The pretty hat crushed o’er the cloud of her
curls, .
Little Jeanie went too, with a heart throbbing
fast,
And ‘a passionate feeling of freedom at last,
Quite sure it was Jesus had led her along,
And made her a place in this strange-speaking
_ throng,
“Dear Saviour!’ she whispered, with lowly
bent head—
“ Please keep me all safe, like a lamb of Thy
fold ;
Please think of my name when the names are
all told,
11
And take me, I pray, to my Father and Mother
_ To-morrow, and help us find Tom, my dear
brother !â€
Then softly and safely—for Jesus would keep
The dear trustful child—she fell soundly
asleep ;
And Gretchen’s mamma, seeing some great
mistake,
Such care as she could then decided to take ;
And covered her snugly till night wore its way
To the dawn of the Christmas—earth’s holiest
day.
I think, on this night the bright angels above
Recall in their music that errand of love
When the hills of Judea were kindled to flame,
And heaven taught earth to repeat the blest
name
Of the mighty Redeemer, the conquering One,
Divine and eternal, yet Mary’s fair Son.
Little Jean slept all night, and when morning -
had broke,
By signs to a uniformed man Gretchen spoke,
And Gretchen’s mamma; and with angry
surprise
He fastened on Jeanie a keen pair of eyes,
The dress, the distinction, the bright little face
In this rabble of peasants he knew had no place,
12
Yet tenderly, too (he'd a child of his own),
He lifted her up, and with arm round her
thrown,
Said: “Where did you come from? Who
are you, my dear?
I see you are lost ; but, pray, who brought you
here?â€
“JT think it was Jesus,†the little one said.
“Tam going out West °—with a nod of her
head.
“Tt’s Christmas, you know, and I’m going to
Mother
And. Father, and maybe to Tom, my big
brother.â€
“Well! well!†said the man, very crusty and
cross,
But he carried her high on his shoulder ; “a
loss
Like this was enough just to drive her folks
wild,â€
“He muttered. “They should have looked
after the child.â€
The train slackened speed, and went slowly
and stopped,
And here little Jean at a station was dropped.
Her friend said “Good-bye,†and a telegram
sent,
13
Which erelong gave Aunty a moment’s con-
tent. .
The people came round, as the train whirled
away,
And Jeanie stood sobbing, the morn was so
gray,
And she was so lonesome and hungry and cold,
Her hair was so tangled ; the bitter tears rolled
_ Down her cheeks one by one, a forlorn little
waif.
And still the dear Saviour was keeping her safe. °
For suddenly, swift from an incoming car
Rushed a lady whose face was as pure as a star,
And caught little Jean, Mother Hubbard and
all, .
And kissed her, and wondered, and wrapped:a
great shawl
Round the shivering figure. “ My daughter !
you here?
Where’s Aunty? and where did you come
from, my dear?â€
And Father was there, oh, so strong and so -
tall!
And straightway the child forgot terror and all
Her sadness and trouble, and laughed out in
cheer :
“Merry Christmas has come. I’m so glad
you are here.
14
I was going to look for you, Father and
Mother,
I thought I could help you to search for my
brother.â€
Ah! how they had chafed at the weary delay,
Which had kept them en route until dawned
Christmas-day !
And now they thanked God that their steps
had been led
To Jeanie, unhurt in a hair of her head.
*Twas a change to be whisked to a drawing-
room car,
Through great sunny windows to gaze out afar,
Over white fields of snow, over bridges and
streams, .
While people and houses rushed past her like
dreams ;
And Father found somewhere a sweet Paris doll
That was almost as lovely as Hetty’s ; and all
That she said Mother answered with gentle
caress,
Or a look that made up for a month of distress.
And just as the twilight fell murky and gray,
They came to the end of this wonderful day.
And reaching home, Aunty, as pale as a ghost,
Cried: “Jean, of all children, you've worried
me most.
15
I told you, I’m certain, to stay by the door ;
And here you've been flying the country half
over.â€
Many days onward passed, and from Tom
came no word ;
But Jeanie felt sure that her prayers would
be heard,
And that Christ, when He saw that such an-
swer was best,
Would bring home the fugitive lost in the -
West.
In a little log-house on a prairie’s green rim
Death struggled with life for a youth, in
whose dim
Sunken eyes a fierce fever to ashes had burned,
And life turned the scale ; and, oh, wildly he
yearned
For a look, for a thought, of the far-away home,
Neglected and scorned, he had fled from to
roam
With the vile and the wicked, in sin and in
shame,
Insulting the Saviour, forgetting His name.
A kind hand had tended him ; motherly care
Had given him nursing. A child, grave and
fair,
16
With patience had sat by his side for long hours,
And sometimes she brought him sweet grasses
and ftowers ;
And one day from folds of soft linen she took
Her treasure of treasures, a wonderful book.
“ You may see it,†she said, in her soft broken
speech.
“Be careful; don’t hurt it. Ach! why!â€
for a dereeth,
Shrill, frightened—a scream in a sob that was
lost—
Came quick from the bed, and the wan hands
were. crossed;
_As over a relic of saint at a shrine,
On a name written bold o’er a faint pencilled
line.
It was “Jeanie, Tom’s sister.†Beneath it
were these
Simple words—how they hurt him!— Dear
Lord, if you please,
Make Tom to be good ; mite him home to
our Mother ;
And, oh, for Christ’ s: sake, let us love one
enoiice "
This Christmas, if you at our Jeanie should
peep,
You would see in her hands, at her side, a
bright heap
B 17
Of playthings for Hetty, of games and of toys
For her pensioners cheery, the small ragged
boys.
A remote cabin home had received a great
box,
Which the key in dear Gretchen’s letter un-
locks. ;
There’s a cap for mamma, there are mittens
and hood, :
And @ wonderful book from the “ little one
good
Who travelled that eve on the emigrant train,
Whom the Christ-child took care of, as all
might see plain.â€
With hundreds of. gay-colored tapers ablaze,
Jean’s Christmas-tree shines, while they carol
their praise,
Tom, Father and Mother, and dear little girl,
To Him whose white banner ’tis bliss to un-
fur]—
To Jesus, who came when the Bethlehem star
Sent silvery beams to the nations afar ;
To Jesus, whom Mary, the mother so sweet,
Held close, while the Wise Men were bowed
at His feet ;
To Jesus, the mighty, the conquering One,
Divine and eternal, yet Mary’s fair Son.
18
THE BISHOP AND THE BABY
A poor little pale-faced baby,
Lost and hungry and cold,
With the chill wind pinching her tear-wet
cheeks
And ruffling her bright hair’s gold.
For just’ when the busy people
Were hurrying here and yon,
Buying their gifts for the Christmas-tree,
Her mother .was suddenly gone.
She did not cry, poor midget,
But lifted pitiful eyes
At the crowds of careless strangers,
At the gray, indifferent skies.
Jostled and pushed and frightened,
A tiny waif of the street,
With the wintry darkness falling,
And the snowflakes gathering fleet.
19
She was seen by a great kind giant ;
With swinging stride he came,
Even then the angels in heaven
Wrote Saint before his name.
From the height of his splendid stature
He stooped to the little maid,
Lifted her up in tender arms,
And bade her not be afraid.
Against his broad breast nestled,
She clung like a soft spring flower
That a breeze had caught and carried
To a strong and sheltering tower.
In his thick, warm cloak he wrapped her,
The little shivering child.
“Tl find your mother, baby,â€
The bishop said, and smiled.
That smile like a flash of the sunrise—
°Tis but a memory dim,
For the years are hastening onward,
And we are mourning him.
The white, cold snows are drifting
Where to-day he lies asleep.
After his life’s long warfare
The soldier’s rest is deep.
20
But of dear things said about him,
Of victories that he won,
No sweeter tale is told than this,
Of his grace to a little one.
MAID OF THE LEGION OF HONOR *
Dip you happen to hear the other day
How France had sent to a little maid
Her gift of gifts, for which brave men pray ;
A child of ten, who, unafraid,
Ready and steady, and full of nerve
Faced a danger, and did a deed,
One day last summer, that well may serve
As a lesson of valor for all to heed?
This dear little Jenny was by herself
Picking the berries that, ripe and sweet,
Grew high on the rocks which shelf on shelf
Made steps for the nimble and fearless feet.
Down below were the narrow lines
That marked a path for the rushing cars,
Speeding along, with many a throng,
Under the sky, by sun and stars.
* Jenny Creek, of Milford, Ohio, has received from
France a gold medal with the insignia of the Legion of
Honor, a tribute for her heroism in saving a World’s
Fair train last summer. Details were published in the
New York Tribune of May 28, 1894.
22
Oh! but the berries were ripe and sweet,
And the small brown fingers stained and
red,
She picked them merrily, paused to eat,
The sun-bonnet slipped from the curly head ;
Something fluttered the little heart,
A stir, a rustle, a puff of smoke!
The trestle on fire! With sudden start
From her holiday pleasure the child awoke.
It was time for the train, and, far away,
Its faint, fine whistle her quick ear caught !
There wasn’t a second to lose, to stay,
For the hesitant process of slow- paced
thought.
The trestle on fire! the coming train,
Packed with people, would plunge beneath
To the yawning gulf! The child’s quick
brain
Leaped to the rescue as sword from sheath.
Swift as the flash of the fiery death,
Jenny of Milford took her stand,
Tore her petticoat off in a breath,
A scarlet flag in her sturdy hand.
Round the bend, the engineer,
Eye on the watch, would see it float ;
Hers was the chance! She lifted clear
Cry on cry from her shrill young throat.
23
Well, this is the rest of it: Just in time
The train was stopped, by the length of
itself,
And women and men poured out to climb
To Jenny’s perch on the rocky shelf.
Hugged her, kissed her, paled to the lips,
As they saw the woe of the might have
been,
And some wentshome on the ocean ships,
And remembered our bit of a heroine.
The great World’s Fair is over and done,
The pure White City we see no more,
But Jenny, taller, a twelvemonth gone,
Runs to open her father’s door.
A messenger waits with a packet sealed ;
The medal that, won at the point of the
lance
Men wear as the lily upon the shield,
“The Legion of Honor,†’tis hers, from
France.
A GENTLEMAN
I KNEw him for a gentleman
By signs that never fail ;
His coat was rough and rather worn,
His cheeks were thin and pale—
A lad who had his way to make,
With little time for play—
‘I knew him for a gentleman
By certain signs to-day.
He met his mother on the street ;
Of came his little cap.
My door was shut ; he waited there
Until I heard his rap.
He took the bundle from my hand,
And when I dropped my pen
He sprang to pick it up for me,
This gentleman of ten,
He does not push and crowd along ;
His voice is gently pitched ;
He does not fling his books about
As if he were bewitched.
25
He stands aside to let you pass ;
He always shuts the door ;
He runs on errands willingly
To forge and mill and store.
He thinks of you before himself ;
He serves you if he can;
For, in whatever company,
The manners make the man.
At ten or forty “tis the same,
The manner tells the tale ;
And I discern the gentleman
By signs that never fail,
A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER
Tue days are short, and the nights are long,
And the wind is nipping cold ;
The tasks are hard, and the sums are wrong,
And the teachers often scold.
But Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the way?
“Tt will all come right
By to-morrow night,â€
Says Johnny McCree to-day.
The plums are few, and the cake is plain,
The shoes are out at the toe ;
For money you look in the purse in vain—
It was all spent long ago.
But Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the street?
Would you have the blues
For a pair of shoes,
While you have a pair of feet?
27
The’ snow is deep, there are paths to break ;
But the little arm is strong ;
And work is play if you'll only take
Your work with a bit of song.
And Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the road?
_ He will do his best,
* And will leave the rest
To the care of his Father, God.
The mother’s face is often sad,
She scarce knows what to do;
But at Johnny’s kiss she is bright and glad—
She loves him ; and wouldn’t you?
For Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the way?
The trouble will go,
And “TI told you so,â€
Our brave little John will say.
MAKING BELIEVE
Ir was just a little lass, playing house upon
the grass,
With acorn cups and saucers, and a smooth
white stone .
Spread with bits of broken glass; and she
smiled to see me pass
Every morning on my walk—she, as I, alone.
So I said, “ My pretty maid ?â€â€”watching as
she daily played,
Not a doll to help her, crooning to herself—
She her work awhile delayed—eggs and sugar
to be weighed,
And all the funny dishes to be set on the
shelf.
And with brown eyes open wide, as my ask-
ing look: she spied,
“ Well, what is it, lady?†did the darling
say.
Then, but not to hurt her pride, very honestly
I tried .
To find out the secret of her happy day.
29
“Tell me, sweet one, if you know what it is
that makes you so
Merry and contented in your garden here,
Cheeks like roses all aglow. Why, I almost
see you grow
Brighter in the sunshine, like the flowers,
my dear,†,
“Mother says,†she answered sweet, eyes down
dropping to her feet,
Bravely lifted then, and fixed upon my face,
“That you never must deceive, but that you
may make believe,
Till you'll build a palace in a very humble
place.’â€
Blessings on the little maid quite contentedly
who played,
“Making b’lieve’’ her common things were
very rare and fine;
In the realm of fancy strayed, found the sun-
light in the shade,
And taught me how to make her pretty
secret mine,
THE MAGICAL DOOR
THERE’s a door in the wall of the ages—
A door that no man sees ;
For the angel who writes in the Book of
-Time
Is the keeper of the keys.
Once in the year it opens,
At the solemn midnight hour,
When the children sleep, and the old clocks
keep
Awake in the tall church tower,
And then, as it swings on its hinges,
Whoever might peer inside
Would catch a glimpse of the centuries
That behind in the silence hide.,
Egypt and Rome and Tyre,
All in that mythical place
Where the old years rest that were once pos-
sessed
By the wonderful human race.
The shadowy door swings open,
And a pilgrim enters in,
31
Bowed with a twelve-months’ struggle
In this world of strife and sin.
Watt him a farewell greeting!
He will pass no more this way—
This weary year who must disappear
In the haven of yesterday.
The door still swingeth open,
And outward another comes,
With a stir of banners and bugles
And the beat of friendly drums ;
His hands are full of beauty—
The cluster, the song, the sheaf,
The snow-flake’s wing, and the budding
spring,
And the foam on the crested reef.
This is the New Year, darlings,
Oh! haste’ to give him cheer.
Only the Father knoweth
The whole of his errand here.
This is the New Year, darlings ;
A year for work and play,
For doing our best, and for trusting the rest
To the Maker of night and day. —
[Page r
MY LADDIE
A SKATING SONG
Hurradu for the wind that is keen and chill,
As it skirts the meadows and sweeps the hill!
Hurrah for the pulses of swift delight
That tingle and beat in the Winter's night,
When over the crystal lake we glide,
Flying like birds o’er the ‘frozen tide!
Hurrah for the lad with the sparkling eye,
For the joyous laugh and the courage high !
“Hurrah for the health that is glad and strong,
So that life is gay as a merry song,
For the motion fearless, smooth, and fleet,
When skates are wings to the flying feet !
Hurrah for the landscape broad and fair
Spread boldly out in the brilliant air!
Hurrah for the folds of the sheeted snow,
On the mountains high, in the valleys low!
Hurrah for the track where the skaters glide,
Fearless as over a highway tried !
Hurrah for the girls who skate so well—
Dorothy, Winifred, Kate, and Nell!
c 33
Hurrah for the race we’re bound to win,
And the curves and figures we mean to spin!
Hurrah for the joy that wings our feet,
When, like dancers gay, we pass and meet!
Who chooses may boast of the summer-time,
Hurrah! we cry, for the frost and rime,
For the icicles pendent from roof and eaves,
For snow that covers the next year’s sheaves !
Hurrah for the gleaming, glassy lake -
Where the skaters bold their pleasures take !
THE WHITE DAYS OF WINTER
THE white days of winter, darling,
When softly the snow-flakes fall,
Till a royal garment of ermine
Folds tenderly over all.
Field, and hillock, and valley,
Hushed in the sweetest sleep,
For the snow comes down from our Father,
His loving charge to keep.
Under the snow-robe, darling,
There is wonderful brooding heat,
That is taking care of the daisies,
And saving the next year’s wheat.
And we'd have no flowers, dearest,
When the spring’s green days come back,
If the white days did not bring us
The feathery flakes in their track.
And the golden days, my darling,
‘The days of lily and rose,
And the scarlet days of the maple,
All follow the path of the snows; |
35
For the year goes round, my darling,
With the sunbeam and the shower,
And our Father’s watch is over
Its every passing hour.
The swift, white day, my darling,
When the sleigh-bells’ merry chime
Is echoing o’er the roadway,
Is the fun and frolic time.
But the still white eve, my dearest,
Is sweeter to you and me,
When we have the song and story,
And the prayer at the mother’s knee,
Our little home, my darling,
Oh, whatever wind, may blow,
The south with its quiver of sunbeams,
The north with its flakes of snow,
Our little home, my dearest,
Is under the dear Lord’s care,
And we fear no ill nor sorrow,
Lovingly sheltered there.
VOICES
Wuat does the brook say, flashing its feet
Under the lilies’ blue, brimming bowls,
Brightening the shades with its tender song,
Cheering all drooping and sorrowful souls?
It says not “ Be merry,†but, deep in the wood,
Rings back, “ Little maiden, be good, be good.â€
What does the wind say, pushing slow sails
Over the great troubled path of the sea;
Whirling the mill on the breezy height,
Shaking the fruit from the orchard tree?
It breathes not “Be happy,†but sings loud
and long, *
“O bright little maiden, be strong, be strong.â€
What says the river, gliding along
To its home on far-off Ocean’s breast ;
Fretted by rushes, hindered by bars,
Ever weary, but singing of rest ?
It says not “Be bright,†byt, in whisperings
grave,
“Dear little maiden, be patient, be brave.â€
37
What do the stars say, keeping their watch
Over the slumbers the long, lone night,
Never closing their bonny bright eyes,
Though great storms blind them, and tem-
pests fright ?
They say not “ Be splendid,†but write on the
blue,
In clear silver letters, ‘“ Maiden, be true.â€
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD
“Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird?
And why do you hurry away ?
Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred,
In the sweet golden sunshine to-day.â€
“TI know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright,
And the leaves are asleep on the tree,
But three times the dream of a cold winter’s
night
Has come to my children and me.
‘So, good-bye to you, darling, for off we must
80,
To the land where the oranges bloom,
For we birdies would freeze in the storms and
the snow, >
And forget how to sing in the gloom.â€
“Will you ever come back to your own little
nest ?â€
“Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here,
We'll return to the orchard we all love the best,
And then we will sing to you, dear.â€
39
TWoO LITTLE GIRLS
Tuis little girl is very poor ;
She has troubles, she finds, she can scarce en-
dure ;
And yet, my dear, she has playthings plenty—
Dolls as many as two-and-twenty,
Houses and arks and picture-books,
Something pretty wherever she looks.
But half the time she’s puzzled to know
What to do with the wonderful show,
Tired of dollies two-and-twenty,
And bored with her various toys a-plenty.
That little girl is very rich,
With an old doll like a perfect witch,
A broken chair and a bit of delf,
And a wee cracked cup on the closet shelf.
She can play with only a row of pins;
Houses and gardens, arks and inns,
She makes with her chubby fingers small,
And she never asks for a toy at all.
Unseen around her the fairies stray,
Giving her bright thoughts every day.
40
‘
Poor little girl and rich little girl,
How nice it would be if in time’s swift whirl
You could—perhaps not change your places,
But catch a glimpse of each other’s faces ;
For each to the other could something give,
Which would make the child life sweeter to
live,
For both could give and both could share
Something the other had to spare.
THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR
Noszopy sits in the little arm-chair ;
It stands in a corner dim;
But a white-haired mother gazing there,
And yearningly thinking of him,
Sees through the dust of the long ago
The bloom of her boy’s sweet face,
As he rocks so merrily to and fro,
With a laugh that cheers the place.
Sometimes he holds a book in his hand,
Sometimes a pencil and slate,
And the lesson is hard to understand,
. And the figures hard to mate ;
But she sees the nod of his father’s head,
So proud of the. little son,
And she hears the word so often said,
“No fear for our little one.â€
They were wonderful days, the dear sweet
days,
When a child with sunny hair
Was hers to scold, to kiss, and to praise,
At her knee in the little chair.
42
She lost him back in the busy years,
When the great world caught the man,
And he strode away past hopes and fears,
To his place in the battle’s van.
But now and then in a wistful dream,
Like a picture out of date,
She sees a head with a golden gleam
Bent over a pencil and slate; .
And she lives again the happy day,
The day of her young life’s spring, -
When the small arm-chair stood just in the
way,
The centre of everything.
THE MOTHER’S LETTER
OH! postman on your weary round, what
have you in your bag?
The tale of death, the tale of birth ; it is not
strange you lag
That last slow mile, as, one by one, you hand
the letters in—
Sweet messengers of love and faith, ’mid strife
and woe and sin.
In yonder dingy boarding-house there stands
a tempted boy—
The devil whispers in his ear: ‘Come, taste
my brimming joy.
Come, sell your soul, what matters it about
another world ? :
This world is here: come, drink my wine
with sparkling zest impearled.â€
Oh! postman, ringing at the door, you’re
haply just in time ;
You hand his mother’s letter in; its sweet-
ness cannot chime
44
With siren pleadings from the pit ; let’s look
upon the page,
And see how mothers meet the foe, when
souls are thrown for gage.
“Dear Ned,†she writes, “old Ponto fails, the
dog is growing gray.
I think he misses you, my dear ; you've been
so long away.
What rambles o’er the hills you two in other
days have had ;
I pet old Ponto for your sake, my precious,
precious lad.
“The little sister grows apace ; you'd hardly
know her now ; /
She gets to have a look of you about the .
open brow ;
I tel her: ‘Polly, study hard, be just like
brother Ned.
Wherever others stood, my dear, he always
stood up head.’ :
“I go to meeting every week, of course; but
in the pew
You wouldn’t think, dear boy, how much
your mother misses you.
45
They've got new singers in the choir, a tenor
-and a bass,
And little Susie Spaulding, with a voiée to
match her face.
“She, Susie, is a darling, and she often sits
with me,
And puss, though growing wheezy, climbs
purring to her knee.
The bird is dead—I’m sorry—but he was ten
in May,
One cannot keep canary birds forever and a
day.â€
“Lame Willie always asks for Ned: ‘When
did you hear and what ?â€
I wish you could write often, dear; but mind,
I say this not
To blame you—men must work in town,
and mothers understand ;
I always trust the golden heart behind the
good right hand!
“God bless you, Ned. Vacation time is
speeding on so fast,
Tl have you when the daisies bloom, ere
strawberries are past.
46.
I love you, love you, darling Ned ; this stupid
letter take,
And pardon any errors for your own dear
mother’s sake.â€
Oh! postman, trudging in the dark, an angel
went before
And left a blessing on the note you handed
in that door.
And, skulking outward on the blast, the devil
left his prey,
Apollyon put to flight before a mother’s love
to-day.
And mother, with your boy away, and so
much out of sight,
Do more than love, and more than pray, to
shield him in the fight:
_ Write often of the simple things that hold
him to the farm,
And let his childhood round his life weave
fast its mystic charm.
I WOULDN’T BE CROSS
I wouLpn’T be cross, dear, it’s never worth
while ;
Disarm the vexation by wearing a smile ;
Let hap a disaster, a trouble, a loss,
Just meet the thing boldly, and never be cross.
I wouldn’t be cross, dear, with people at
home,
They love you so fondly, whatever may come.
You may count on the kinsfolk around you
to stand,
Oh, loyally true in a brotherly band!
So, since the fine gold far exceedeth the dross,
I wouldn’t be cross, dear, I wouldn’t be cross.
I wouldn't be cross with a stranger, ah no!
To the pilgrims we meet on the life path we
owe
This kindness to give them good cheer as
they pass,
To clear out the flint-stones, and plant the
soft grass.
48
No, dear, with a stranger, in trial or loss,
I perchance might be silent —I wouldn't be
cross.
No bitterness sweetens, no sharpness may heal
The wound which the soul is too proud to
reveal.
No envy hath peace: by a fret and a jar
The beautiful work of our hands we may mar.
Let happen what may, dear, of trouble and
loss, .
I wouldwt be cross, love, I wouldn’t be cross.
D y .
SOMETHING NEW
THERE’S something new at our house—I’m
s’prised you didn’t know it ;
It makes papa feel awful proud, although he
hates to show it.
The thing is not so very big, but money
couldn’t buy it; *
If any fellow thinks it could, I'd like to see
him try it.
It’s half a dozen things at once —a dove, a
love, a flower ;
Mamma calls it a hundred names, and new
ones every hour ;
It is a little music-box, with tunes for every
minute ;
You haven’t got one at your house, and so
you are not in it.
It puckers up its wee, wee mouth, as if it
: meant to whistle ;
A gold mine weighed against it then were
lighter than a thistle ;
590
Papa said so the other night—I thought it
sounded splendid,
And said it to. myself until I fell asleep, and
ended.
Of ‘course you guessed it by this time—our
gift that came from heaven ;
Mamma declares the darling thing was by
the angels given.
But then some folks are very slow, and some
are stupid ; maybe
I ought to say, right straight and plain, come
home and see our baby! :
THE DEAR LITTLE HEADS IN
THE PEW
In the morn of the holy Sabbath
I like in the church to see
The dear little children clustered
Worshipping there with me.
I am sure that the gentle pastor,
Whose words are like summer dew,
Is cheered as he gazes over
Dear little heads in the pew.
Faces earnest and thoughtful,
Innocent, grave, and sweet,
They look in the congregation
Like lilies among the wheat.
And I think that the tender Master,
Whose mercies are ever new,
Has a special benediction
For dear little heads in the pew.
Clear in the hymns resounding
To the organ’s swelling chord,
Mingle the fresh young voices,
Eager to praise the Lord.
52
And to me the rising anthem
Has a meaning deep and true ;—
The thought and the music blended,
For the dear little heads in the pew.
When they hear “The Lord is my Shep-
herd,â€
Or “Suffer the babes to come,â€
They are glad that the loving Jesus
Has given the lambs a home,
A place of their own with His people.
He cares for me and for you;
But close in His arms He gathers
- The dear little heads in the pew.
So I love in the great assembly,
On the Sabbath morn, to see
The dear little children clustered
And worshipping there with me ;
For I know that the gracious Saviour,
Whose mercies are ever new,
Has a special benediction
For the dear little heads in the pew.
BEADS FOR A NAME
LirTLe Ruth Endicott, tripping and airy,
Sweet as a snow-drop and wee as a fairy,
Found it hard work to sit still as a mouse
Through three long hours in the Lord’s
house,
Where all the children went gravely, you
know,
This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago.
Grandmother handed her fennel and dill,
Mother frowned often, and whispered “ Be
still!â€
Parson looked down from the pulpit’s high
perch,
Wondering that babies were restless in church ;
Sternly the tithing-man shook his gray head,
Till little Fidget turned blushingly red, ,
Yet in the whole congregation was not
One child so naughty as Ruth Endicott.
When they came home to the Thanksgiving
dinner
Father called to him the poor little sinner ;
54
Sweet as a snow-drop and wee as a fairy,
Never was culprit so dainty. arid airy,
So father thought, as the broad satin vest
Made for the gold-tinted ringlets a nest ;
Fathers were fathers, like ours, you know,
This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago.
Then he said, soberly, “‘ Dear little maid,
I am told that in church you laughed and
you played.
What shall I do with you, Ruth, little woman,
Punish or bribe you? The conduct was
human.
Yet as an Endicott, child, you must learn
Courtesy, fitness, the graces that earn
Man’s approbation, and—†Here he sighed
deep ;
Well might he-sigh, little Ruth was asleep!
_ When she awoke, a great string of bright
beads,
‘Each carven crisply with flowers and seeds,
‘Hung on the arm of her father’s oak chair,
“Here, little daughter,†he cried, “ye'll be
fair 5
Bargains are bargains ; these beads are your
own
When to church three times in order you’ve
gone,
55
And behaved there, my lass, as an Endicott
should,
Like a small princess, both’ ciate and good.â€
So the Judge bribed her, I happen to know,
This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago.
Little Ruth Endicott grew up as sweet.
As a flower that blooms on the edge of the
wheat, —
Married and queened it for many a year,
Fame of her beauty was told far and near,
Fame of her kindness, too, and her good
deeds, :
Came down the centuries with -her gold
beads,
Daughters and granddaughters born of her
line
Have the gold hair with the same ‘burnished
shine.
One of them wears the same sweet elfin
grace,
Looks at me now with the same snow-drop
face
Little Ruth Endicott wore in the glow
Of the hearthlight two hundred Thanksgiv-
ings ago,
And as I fingered her string of gold beads,
Curious, and carven with blossoms and seeds,
56
Gayly she smiled, “I deserve them in truth,
Christened so soberly old-fashioned Ruth,
After a grandmother ever so great,
Once a great lady, who wore them’ in state,
But who was shockingly naughty, I fear,
Just on the eve of her own seventh year,
» When, little darling, she fidgeted so
In church-time two hundred Thanksgivings
»
- ago.
TWO WISHES
“J wisH that the teacher had lessons to
learn,â€
Said Molly, the wise little elf;
“She would know they were hard, and be
sorry,
If she had to do them herself.â€
And the teacher, at home, in the gloaming,
Sighed gently, “I wish that they knew,
The dear little children, how easy
°Tis just to have lessons to do!â€
DO ALL THAT YOU CAN
“I cannoT do much,†said a little star,
“To make this dark world bright;
My silvery beams cannot pierce far
Into the gloom of night; :
Yet Iam a part of God’s great plan,
And so I will do the best that I can.â€
“What can be the use,†said a fleecy cloud,
“Of these few drops that I hold?
They will hardly bend the lily proud,
If caught in her chalice of gold;
-But I, too, am part of God’s great plan,
So my treasures I'll give as well as I can.â€
A child went merrily forth to play,
But a thought, like a silver thread,
Kept winding in and out all day
Through the happy golden head—
“Mother said: ‘ Darling, do all that you can,
For you are a part of God’s great plan.’â€
She knew no more than the twinkling star,
Or the cloud with its rain-cup full,
59
How, why, or for what all strange things
are—
She was only a child at school,
But she thought, “°Tis a part of God’s
great plan,
That even I should do all that I can.â€
So she helped another child along
When the way was rough to his feet,
And she sang from her heart a little song
That we all thought wondrous sweet ;
And her tather—a weary, toil-worn man—
Said, “I, too, will do the best that I can.â€
EDITH BAXTER
A BEAUTIFUL day in summer,
At Bath, beside the sea,
Where a bevy of careless children
' Were as gay as gay could be.
Some with their spades so tiny
Were turning over the sand,
Some were merrily racing
With the surf that dashed on the strand.
And others, bold and daring,
Plunged into the deep green wave,
At the touch of the grim old ocean
They felt so. blithe and brave.
Laughing, leaping, and diving,
The sturdy, frolicsome crew
Had never a thought of danger
Under the sky’s soft blue.
And nobody noticed Harry,
A dear little five-year-old,
61
With just a glimmer of sunshine
Tinting his curls of gold.
Till, after the rest, as swiftly
As a flash the darling went;
And a cry of sudden terror
-The giddy gladness rent.
The billows have caught the baby,
They are bearing him far away:
Alas for Harry’s mother
And her empty arms this day!
Some one has darted to save him,
Forth from an awe-struck throng,
A fearless heart to the rescue,
Steady and true and strong.
Buffeting surge and breaker,
Straight through the curdling foam,
On through the angry waters,
She is toiling to bring him home,
Only a child, with girlhood’s
Clear light in her candid eyes ;
Only a girl, but a woman
In her glory of sacrifice.
‘ 62
On the shore they watch and listen,
Spellbound in dumb despair,
Ah! hark to the shout of triumph,
That ends in a thankful prayer.
Edith has saved wee Harry.
*Twas a noble deed was done,
At Bath, that day, by the ocean,
In the light of the summer sun.
WATCHING FOR FATHER
Watcxine for somebody,. wide brown eyes,
Waiting to give him a rare surprise?
Oh, is it father, whose horse’s feet
Fall in the distance smooth and fleet-—
Father, whose heart for many a mile,
Forward has leaped to the dear old stile?
Oh, how they'll kiss him, and hold him fast,
When father is home with his bairns at
last !
6
“Hist!†cries sister to baby Will;
“Listen, darling! he mounts the hill.
Oh, how Selim flies over the ground!
Nearer and nearer the hoof-beats sound,â€
Flowers for father, and looks of joy,
Sweetest words shall their tongues employ.
Somebody’s coming—the dear, the wise ;
Shine out to greet him, you bright brown
eyes.
CHILDREN, SING!
CHILDREN, sing to Him whose love
Broods your happy lives above ;
Raise your tuneful voices high
To our Father in the sky—
For the flowers and for the wheat,
For the cold and for the heat,
For the fruit and for the grain,
For the sunshine and the rain.
Children, sing to Him whose care
Makes the land so rich and fair ;
Raise your tuneful voices high
To our Father in the sky—
For the mother’s look of grace,
For the baby’s little face,
For the morning’s smile of bliss,
For the happy good-night kiss.
Children, sing to Him whose hand
Rules and guards our native land;
65
Lift your joyous voices high
To our Father in the sky—
For the cheery bells that swing,
And for freedom peal and ring,
And for nation’s peace and wealth,
For our gladness and our health.
Children, sing to One whose love
Broods your merry days above ;
Lift your tuneful voices high
To our Father in the sky.
MISS FRET AND MISS LAUGH
CriEs little Miss Fret,
In a very great pet:
“T hate this warm weather; it’s horrid to
tan.
It scorches my nose,
And it blisters my toes,
And wherever I go I must carry a fan.â€
Chirps little Miss Laugh:
“Why, I couldn't tell half
The fun I am having this bright summer day.
I sing through the hours,
And cull pretty flowers,
And ride like a queen in the sweet-smelling
hay.â€
A SONG
For sowing and reaping, for cold and for
heat,
For sweets of the flowers, and gold of the
wheat,
For ships in the harbors, for sails on the
sea,
O! Father in heaven, our songs rise to Thee.
For parents who care for us day after day,
For sisters and brothers, for work and for
play,
For dear little babies so helpless and fair,
O! Father, we send Thee our praise and our
prayer.
For teachers who guide us so patiently on,
For frolics with mates when our lessons are
done, -
For shelter and clothing, for every day’ s food,
We bless Thee, our F ather, the giver of
good. -
68
For peace and for plenty, for freedom, for
rest, .
For joy in the land from the east to the
west,
For the dear starry flag, with its red, white,
and blue,
We thank Thee from hearts that are honest
and true.
For waking and sleeping, for blessings to be,
We children would offer our praises to Thee ;
For God is our Father, and bends from above
To keep the round world in the smile of
His love.
THE BOOK OF THE YEAR
OF all the beautiful fancies
That cluster about the year,
Tiptoeing over the threshold
When its earliest dawn is here,
The best is the simple legend
Of a book for you and me,
So fair that our guardian angels
Desire its lines to see:
Tis full of the brightest pictures
Of dream and story and rhyme,
And the whole wide world together
Turns only a page at a time.
Some of the leaves are dazzling
With the feather-flakes of the snow;
Some of them thrill to the music
Of the merriest winds that blow;
Some of them keep the secrets
That made the roses sweet;
79
Some of them sway and nestle :
With the golden heads of wheat.
I cannot begin to tell you
Of the lovely things to be
In the wonderful Year-book waiting,
A gift for you and me.
And a thought most strange and solemn
Is borne upon my mind:
On every page a column
For ourselves we'll surely find.
Write what we may upon it,
The record there will stay
Till the’ books of time aré opened
In the Court of the Judgment Day.
And should we not be careful
Lest the words our fingers write
Shall rise to shame our faces
When we stand in the dear Lord’s sight?
And should we not remember
.To dread no thought of blame,
If we sign each page that we finish
With faith in the dear Lord’s name?
71
MY BRAVE LADDIE
Tap, tap, along the pavement, tap,
It came, a little crutch.
A pale-faced Jad looked up at me;
“T do not mind it much,â€
He answered to my pitying look.
“It might be worse, you know;
Some fellows have to stay in bed,
While I quite fast can go.
“Oh yes;-I used to run about—
Perhaps I may again ;
The doctor says *tis wonderful
I have so little pain.
It hurts me now and then, of course—
Well, ever since the fall ;
But I’m so very glad, you see,:
That. I can walk at all.â€
Tap, tap, the little crutch went on;
I saw the golden hair,
The brown eyes wide and all aglow,
The noble, manly air ;
72
And somehow tears a moment came,
And made my vision dim,
While still the laddie’s cheerful- words
' Were sweet as sweetest hymn.
“TI am so very glad, you see,
That I can walk at all.â€
Why, that’s the way for us to feel
Whatever griefs befall.
I learned a lesson from the boy,
Who bore with knightly grace,
The pain that could not drive the smiles
From his heroic face.
IN BLUEBERRY-TIME
A QUIVER of heat on the upland,
And white lies the dust on the plain,
And dark in the west is the beauty.
Of the low cloud that bringeth the rain.
Swift home to the nest fly the robins,
And fleet to the hive wing the bees,
And straight to the mother the children
Run down the long path through the trees.
By the farm gate the mother is waiting,
Her hand hollowed over her eyes:
She wants the dear children about her
When tempests are-black in the skies.
And safe is the gray little farm-house,
Though storms may be raving aloof,
And the tramp of the rain-host as steady
As hoot-beats upon the old roof,
‘Tis blueberry-time, and the pasture
High up on the hill-side is sweet
With the fragrance of hay, and the incense
Of flowers you crush ‘neath your feet.
74
The stone-wall is crimsoned with briers,
The clematis tangles its spray,
The deep wine-red plume of the sumac
Uplifts like a soldier’s at bay.
With banners all bright for the autumn
Ere yet the long summer has fled,
The grace of the golden-rod swayeth,
The fair aster raiseth her head.
And countless green grasses are waving,
And ripples the brook as if rhyme
Were the syllabled music of Nature,
In beautiful blueberry-time.
“Bob White,†with his silvery whistle,
Sings shrill from the heart of the corn,
And clear over fir-top and elm-top
The caw of the black crow is borne;
And night falls in shadow and silence,
Save only the katydid’s strain,
And the hoot of the owl from the thicket,
_Or the whippoorwill’s plaintive refrain.
’Tis blueberry-time in the mountains,
The time of the quiver of heat,
The time of the sudden down-plashing
Of rain that is welcome and sweet.
The barefooted, brown, dimpled children
Troop out with their baskets and pails ;
75
The rabbits are scared at their laughter,
And, startled, forth flutter the quails.
Tis blueberry-time, and the mother
Remembers how she, in her day,
Tripped up the steep path by the pasture,
The path of her laddies to-day ; DS
And some one was waiting to greet her,
Up there by the old meadow bars,
And they loitered and lingered together
Till evening had lighted the stars.
Ah, well! time has passed; she is older.
“Wake, dear! It is bedtime,†she says
To father, who peacefully drowses,
Tired out after long working-days.
The rain dies away in soft patter ;
The children up-stairs are asleep.
God guards them; the dear little family
His angels are ordered to keep.
GARDENS
THE wide fair gardens, the rich lush gardens,
Which no man planted, and no man tills,
Their strong seeds drifted, their brave bloom
lifted,
Near and far o’er the vales and hills ;
Sip the bees from their cups of sweetness,
Poises above them the wild free wing,
And night and morn from their doors are
borne
The dreams of the tunes that blithe hearts
sing.
The waving gardens, the fragrant gardens
That toss in the sun by the broad high-
"way,
Growing together, gorse and heather,
Aster and golden-rod all the day.
Poppies dark with the wine of slumber,
Daisies bright with the look of dawn,
The gentian blue, and the long year through
The flowers that carry the seasons on.
77
And the dear old gardens, the pleasant gar-
dens
Where mother used to potter about,
Tying and pulling, and sparingly culling,
And watching each bud as its flower
laughed out ;
Hollyhocks here, and the prince’s feather,
Larkspur and primrose, and lilies white. -
Sweet were the dear old-fashioned gardens
Where we kissed the mother, and said
“Good-night.â€
THE AUTUMN WALK
In the sweet woodland ways, and by
The brook that mirrors clear the sky,
I find the last dear flowers growing,
The last blue asters bravely blowing ;
And, floating in a silver mist
In opal, rose, and amethyst,
A golden cloud of incense drifts
And in the soft air wafts and lifts.
Balsamic scent of pine and fir
Salutes the forest breeze, astir
With birds which leave the empty nest
And sail away in eager quest _
Of summer in some land afar
Where yet the glowing roses are.
Through branches dropping amber leaves,
Past fields and meadows shorn of sheaves,
O’er uplands fair, in valleys deep,
The spicy breaths of autumn creep.
The vines are bent with purple bloom
OF clusters dusky in the gloom,
79
And giving back the noontide’s sheen
In fiery lustre through the green
And tangled foliage of the grape.
O perfume rare, and perfect shape,
Swing wide and free, ye censers fair,
The year’s best wealth is garnered there.
Erelong the blue-fringed gentian’s flower
Will light for us a waning hour;
The pink marsh-mallow’s torch will shine
Upon the swamp-lands’ glimmering line ;
The common path will wave with gold,
Superb and lavish, bright and bold,
And wayside hard and fading sod
Laugh out ere pales the golden-rod.
From spring to autumn every mile
Hath known the bliss of Nature’s smile ;
From spring to autumn, day by day,
Who would, ’neath Nature’s roof might pray.
The earth is but a splendid shrine
For worship of the One Divine,
And every plant its censer lifts,
And every tree its incense drifts,
Where stream and wood and hill and road
Thrill to one chord, the praise of God,
80
“THE RIPENED LEAVESâ€
Sap the leaves upon the branches
One sunny autumn day:
“We've finished all our work, and now
We can no longer stay.
So our gowns of red and yellow,
And our cloaks of sober brown,
Must be worn before the frost comes
And we go rustling down.
“We've had a jolly summer,
With the birds that built their nests
Beneath our green umbrellas,
And the squirrels that were our guests.
But we cannot wait for winter,
And we do not care for snow ;
When we hear the wild northwesters
We loose our clasp and go,
“But we hold our heads up bravely
Unto the very last,
And shine in pomp and splendor
As away we flutter fast.
81
In the mellow autumn noontide
We' kiss and say good-by,
And through the naked branches
Then may children see the sky.â€
VACATION OVER
Back again to school, dears,
Vacation days are done ;
You've had your share of frolic,
And lots of play and fun.
You've fished in many a brook, dears,
And climbed up many a hill;
Now back again to school, dears,
To study with a will.
We all can work the better
For having holiday,
For playing ball and tennis,
And riding on the hay.
The great old book of Nature
Prepares us plain to see
How very well worth learning
‘ All other books may be.
So back again to school, dears,
Vacation-time is done ;
You’ve had a merry recess,
With lots and lots of fun.
83
\
You've been like colts in pasture,
Unused to bit and rein;
Now steady, ready, children,
It’s time to march and train,
°Tis only dunces loiter
When sounds the school-bell’s call ;
So fall in ranks, my boys and girls,
And troop in, one and all.
For school is very pleasant
When, after lots of fun,
Vacation days are over,
And real work’s begun.
PUMPKIN PIE
THROUGH sun and shower the pumpkin
grew, .
When the days were long and the skies were
blue.
And it felt quite vain when its giant size
Was such that it carried away the prize
At the County Fair, when the people came ;
And it wore a ticket and bore a name.
Alas for the pumpkin’s pride! One day
A boy and his mother took it away.
It was pared and sliced, and pounded and
stewed,
And the way it was treated was harsh and
rude.
It was sprinkled with sugar and seasoned
with spice ;
The boy and his mother pronounced it nice.
85 .
It was served in a paste, it was baked and
browned,
And at last on a pantry shelf was found.
And on Thursday John and Mary and Mabel
Will see it on aunty’s laden table.
For the pumpkin grew ’neath a Summer sky
Just to turn at Thanksgiving into pie.
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| Little
Knights and Ladies
Verses for Young People
BY
MARGARET E. SANGSTER
AUTHOR OF i
“ON THE ROAD HOME†ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER AND BROTHERS
MDCCCXCV
CHEST
Copyright, 1895, by Harper & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.
TO
THE CHILDREN’S ORDER
OF
‘“‘ THE ROUND TABLEâ€
The verses in this collection were nearly
all originally written for the several publi-
cations of Messrs. Harper & Brothers. A
few were first published in The Congrega-
tionalist, Ladies’ Home Journal, Youth's Com-
panion, and The Christian Intelligencer.
CONTENTS
Page
MY LADDIE . ......... +T
JEANIE’S CHRISTMAS JOURNEY. . . . 4
THE BISHOP AND THE BABY . . . . IQ
MAID OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. . . 22
A GENTLEMAN... . . 25
A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER . . . . . . 27
MAKING BELIEVE . . . . . . . . 29
THE MAGICAL DOOR . .... . . 31
A SKATING SONG . .... . «33
THE WHITE DAYS OF WINTER. . . . 35
VOICES. . . 2... ww ee ee 87
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD. . . . . 39
TWO LITTLE GIRLS. . . . . 1... 40
THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR. . . . . . 42
THE MOTHER’S LETTER . . . . . . 44
I WOULDN’T BE CROSS . ... . . 48
SOMETHING NEW ...... . . 50
THE DEAR LITTLE HEADS IN THE PEW. 52
BEADS FOR A NAME ..... . . 54
TWO WISHES, . . . . . . «658
vii
DO ALL THAT YOU CAN. . ...
EDITH BAXTER . . . . 6 we
WATCHING FOR FATHER. . . .
CHILDREN, SING! . . ....
MISS FRET AND MISS LAUGH...
ASONG ..... ee ee
THE BOOK OF THE YEAR. Pa
MY BRAVE LADDIE. . .....
IN BLUEBERRY-TIME . . . .. .
GARDENS . . . 2 ew ee ee
THE AUTUMN WALK . _
‘““THE RIPENED LEAVES†. . .
VACATION OVER. .
PUMPKIN PIE. eae ee
THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA’AM . . . .
PROUD MOTHERS ......
INDIAN SUMMER. . .. ..
BY THE WAVES .
THE FOUR WINDS . .. . .
THE LITTLE ONES HE BLESSED.
A DRUMMER... ....
THE POET’S VACANT THRONE
A MOTHER’S BOY
BEES IN THE MEADOW
LITTLE HANS. 28
THE CALL OF THE CROW .
TWO BOYS. . . . 2... eee
“THE MERRY WIND... . .
vili
Page
59
61
64
65
67
68
70
72
74°
77
79
81
83
85
87
Or
92
94
95
97
99
IO
103
104
105
106
107
A LITTLE FAIRY .....
PICKING BERRIES .... .
CAUGHT IN A SHOWER .. .
A LITTLE MARAUDER. . .
MUD PIES. .......
ELSIE’S THANKSGIVING . . .
OUR LITTLE ECHO... . .
THE COMPANY WHO TRY.
WORK FOR LITTLE FOLLOWERS
A FELLOW’S MOTHER .
WHERE THE TROLLS ARE BUSY
GIRLS OF THE PERIOD . . .
AFTER THE MATCH .’. .
JOE. . . we ee
A LOST CHRISTMAS. . . . .
‘A CHILD'S PUZZLES. . . .
AT EASTER... . 1.
THE LITTLE GREEN BEDS
THE SNOW-FLAKE . .
THE LITTLE ‘‘ FRESH-AIRS†.
TO-DAY .°. 0. 6. we wee
A NEW YEAR. . .... .
Page
108
. 109
Iio
III
. I12
113
117
. 118
120
. 123
I25
126
128
129
. 131
134
136
138
140
142
144
147
LITTLE KNIGHTS AND LADIES
MY LADDIE
My laddie, my laddie, with the mane of tawny
gold,
The soft blue eyes, the open brow, the
mouth like Cupid’s bow—
My laddie, my laddie, you are scarcely six
years old, ,
But the ages have been garnering the won-
ders you shall know.
For you has Science hoarded her secrets
strange and rare;
For you have wise men toiled and delved,
for you have brave men fought ;
To make your’ pathway beautiful, have sea
and earth and air
Through centuries of waiting in mystic pa-
tience wrought.
No battle of the hoary past but had its gage
for you ;
No rune of solemn Norn or Fate but sends
its thrilling strain
A I
To you, for whose glad coming all forces, old
and new,
Are blending in concurrent notes, are sound-
ing time’s refrain.
My laddie, O my laddie, I am wistful as I
clasp
Your little hand within my own, and think
how many men,
Gone far from earth and memory, beyond our
mortal grasp,
Are living and are breathing, dear child, in
you again :—
The line of Flemish weavers, who were stout
and tough as steel ;
The brave old Holland gentlemen, called,
“ Beggars of the Seaâ€;
The coifed and wimpled Puritans, sweet
maids and matrons leal,—
Who poured their weakness and_ their
strength in the blood of you and me.
My laddie of the golden hair, there stand at
God’s right hand
His saints who went through blood and
flame, the yeomen of our line ;
2
And there are seraphs singing in the ¢ glorious
better land
Whose heart-beats kept, when here on earth,
the pace of yours and mine.
Kneel, little laddie, at my side, there’s no de-
fence like this,
An evening prayer in childish trust, and let
him scoff who may,—
A daily prayer to God above, a gentle moth-
er’s kiss,
Will keep my little laddie safe, however long
the day.
Those staunch old burghers of the past, these
nearer gentlemen,
Sans peur et sans reproche, who look through
your sweet eyes of blue,
Were honest men, clean-handed, and they told
the truth ;—what then?
Tis all I crave, my laddie, when I pray to
God with you.
JEANIE’S CHRISTMAS JOURNEY
LITTLE Jeanie’s bright eyes nave a look of
the morn,
And her sunny hair shines like the gloss of
the corn.
When the eyes'shall be dim and the locks
shall be gray,
I think she’ll remember a strange Christmas
day
She had in her life when her birthdays were few,
And little of danger or sorrow she knew.
With Father and Mother away at the West,
The child was as lone as a bird in the nest,
Uncared for, untended, though Aunty was
there— ‘
An Aunty whose kisses were frosty and rare,
Who had meetings to go to and people to see,
And to all Jeanie’s questions would answer
“Dear me! -
Just do as you please, pet, and keep out of
hamâ€;
Then, over the work of the letters whose charm
4
2
Enchanted her heart, would forget the poor
child,
Who was left very much like a weed to run
wild.
. It was late in December, and Christmas was
near,
When home should be bubbling with mirth
and good cheer ;
But no one seemed thinking of Christmas a
bit,
And much Jeanie marvelled and puzzled, till it
Grew plain to her mind that no Christmas
could come
Toa child without father and mother at home,
And dear brother Tom—oh, she couldn’t tell
where,
Every night she asked God to keep Tom in
His care,
And to let him be found soon; for Aunty had
said
That he had been naughty, and so he had fled.
Had Jeanie been naughty, she’d never have
stayed
Away from dear Mother, ashamed and afraid.
So, “Jesus, forgive him, and make him be
good,â€
Prayed Jeanie, the darling, and did what she
could,
5
The day before Christmas, nor cedar, nor pine,
Nor red-berried holly had Jeanie to twine.
“You may hang up your stocking,†her
Aunty had said,
But not of herself mused the fair drooping
head, .
Her swift little fingers were aching to sew
On something for Mother; but hours would go,
While Aunty thought nothing of presents to
make,
And the fond little heart felt as though it
would break.
“At least,†she concluded, “Tl do what I
can:
My Father would say *twas a beautiful plan:
T’ll give my best things to some child who has
none, .
And I'll not even save the prettiest one.
T’ll go out with my gifts now, and make some
one glad,
And then perhaps Jesus will see that ’'m sad,
And show me the way to my Father and
Mother,
And help me to find, where he’s hidden, my
brother.â€
In her warm Mother Hubbard and cunning
gray poke,
A mite of a thing in the hat and the cloak,
6
With a doll in her arm, and a basket quite
full,
She tripped in to Aunty, just home from a
school
Where poor little children were brought from
‘the street, :
And fed, and taught verses, and given a treat
On the bright Christmas-eve. Now Aunty
was tired ;
The day had not been as she planned and de-
sired,
So, scarcely attending to what Jeanie asked,
In the glow of the grate as she cozily basked.
“Yes, run away, little one,†quickly she said,
“But be back before tea,†and away Jeanie
sped.
She knew where, far up on a steep winding
star,
A poor crippled Hetty no pleasures could
share,
Save what from her window she caught as
they passed—
Procession or pageant moving too fast.
“T never,†mused Jeanie, with face growing
grave,
_ And brown eyes with look burning: earnest
and brave—
“T never had ‘sperience’ of trouble before,
7
And here’s Hetty cannot step out of the door ;
I'll give her my dolly, my own precious child.â€
At the stair foot she kissed it, then cried, and
then smiled,
Climbed up to the attic—she knew it, you see ;
For Mother had been there in days that were
free
From the “sperience†of trouble ; flashed in
like a beam
Of gay winter sunshine; flashed out like a
dream ;
And Hetty with rapture was clasping a doll
That could walk and could laugh and a ditty
could troll.
*T was gathering dusk, and. beginning to snow,
And the small Mother Hubbard skipped quick
to and fro—
Skipped over the sidewalk, and tried a blithe.
race—
Such fun !—with the white floating feathers to
chase. .
Her basket was heavy, so, one at a time,
She dropped little gifts, caring not for the
grime
Of the poor beggar’s hand, thinking only to
* please
These children who looked as if ready to ~
freeze."
8
There was left in her basket one treasure most
dear :
To make it had taken her more than a year,
And now it was dark, but the streets were
ablaze,
And crowded with shoppers, and scarce through
the maze,
In the fast-growing gloom, could Jeanie pro-
ceed.
She must give the bright scrap-book to some
one in need
Of pictures: and stories and verses so sweet.
The gay dancing measure went out of her
feet,
For Jeanie was weary, and deep was the
snow.
Alas! tea was over—oh, long, long ago.
And Aunty, now frightened, sent this way and
that
For a wee Mother Hubbard and Greenaway
hat.
And neighbors were searching, and soon the
police
Would be hunting a child with a soft golden
fleece
And eager brown eyes, through the cold and
the storm.
Oh! where could be loitering the dear little
form?
9
Meanwhile little Jeanie had come to a place
Where the yellow lamps flared on full many a
face .
With homesickness written in every hard line.
There were women with brows that were pa-
tient and fine, .
And rosy-cheeked girls, cheery, honest, and
true,
Who would shrink from no labor their hands
found to do;
There were old men, with beards that hung
low on the breast,
And lads looking forth to the green, ample
West ;
There were flaxen-haired babies, and children
blue-eyed,
In shawls and odd kerchiefs that primly were
tied,
And Jeanie looked round for the one who
should fold
To her bosom the book that was better than
gold.
Such a tiny, quaint woman she picked from
the throng,
A child with a face that was gleeful and strong.
“Merry Christmas!†cried Jeanie, and gave
her the book.
Then right in her eyes saw so happy a look
10
That she pressed through the crowd, lest the
chance she should miss,
And with arms round her neck, gave the
stranger a kiss.
“ All aboard!†rang the order. With hurry
and rout
Were the travellers marshalled, spectators sent
out.
“All aboard!†rang the shout, then were |
whistles amain,
And steamed from the station the emigrant
train,
And somehow, hand clasped in the dear Nor-
way girl’s,
The pretty hat crushed o’er the cloud of her
curls, .
Little Jeanie went too, with a heart throbbing
fast,
And ‘a passionate feeling of freedom at last,
Quite sure it was Jesus had led her along,
And made her a place in this strange-speaking
_ throng,
“Dear Saviour!’ she whispered, with lowly
bent head—
“ Please keep me all safe, like a lamb of Thy
fold ;
Please think of my name when the names are
all told,
11
And take me, I pray, to my Father and Mother
_ To-morrow, and help us find Tom, my dear
brother !â€
Then softly and safely—for Jesus would keep
The dear trustful child—she fell soundly
asleep ;
And Gretchen’s mamma, seeing some great
mistake,
Such care as she could then decided to take ;
And covered her snugly till night wore its way
To the dawn of the Christmas—earth’s holiest
day.
I think, on this night the bright angels above
Recall in their music that errand of love
When the hills of Judea were kindled to flame,
And heaven taught earth to repeat the blest
name
Of the mighty Redeemer, the conquering One,
Divine and eternal, yet Mary’s fair Son.
Little Jean slept all night, and when morning -
had broke,
By signs to a uniformed man Gretchen spoke,
And Gretchen’s mamma; and with angry
surprise
He fastened on Jeanie a keen pair of eyes,
The dress, the distinction, the bright little face
In this rabble of peasants he knew had no place,
12
Yet tenderly, too (he'd a child of his own),
He lifted her up, and with arm round her
thrown,
Said: “Where did you come from? Who
are you, my dear?
I see you are lost ; but, pray, who brought you
here?â€
“JT think it was Jesus,†the little one said.
“Tam going out West °—with a nod of her
head.
“Tt’s Christmas, you know, and I’m going to
Mother
And. Father, and maybe to Tom, my big
brother.â€
“Well! well!†said the man, very crusty and
cross,
But he carried her high on his shoulder ; “a
loss
Like this was enough just to drive her folks
wild,â€
“He muttered. “They should have looked
after the child.â€
The train slackened speed, and went slowly
and stopped,
And here little Jean at a station was dropped.
Her friend said “Good-bye,†and a telegram
sent,
13
Which erelong gave Aunty a moment’s con-
tent. .
The people came round, as the train whirled
away,
And Jeanie stood sobbing, the morn was so
gray,
And she was so lonesome and hungry and cold,
Her hair was so tangled ; the bitter tears rolled
_ Down her cheeks one by one, a forlorn little
waif.
And still the dear Saviour was keeping her safe. °
For suddenly, swift from an incoming car
Rushed a lady whose face was as pure as a star,
And caught little Jean, Mother Hubbard and
all, .
And kissed her, and wondered, and wrapped:a
great shawl
Round the shivering figure. “ My daughter !
you here?
Where’s Aunty? and where did you come
from, my dear?â€
And Father was there, oh, so strong and so -
tall!
And straightway the child forgot terror and all
Her sadness and trouble, and laughed out in
cheer :
“Merry Christmas has come. I’m so glad
you are here.
14
I was going to look for you, Father and
Mother,
I thought I could help you to search for my
brother.â€
Ah! how they had chafed at the weary delay,
Which had kept them en route until dawned
Christmas-day !
And now they thanked God that their steps
had been led
To Jeanie, unhurt in a hair of her head.
*Twas a change to be whisked to a drawing-
room car,
Through great sunny windows to gaze out afar,
Over white fields of snow, over bridges and
streams, .
While people and houses rushed past her like
dreams ;
And Father found somewhere a sweet Paris doll
That was almost as lovely as Hetty’s ; and all
That she said Mother answered with gentle
caress,
Or a look that made up for a month of distress.
And just as the twilight fell murky and gray,
They came to the end of this wonderful day.
And reaching home, Aunty, as pale as a ghost,
Cried: “Jean, of all children, you've worried
me most.
15
I told you, I’m certain, to stay by the door ;
And here you've been flying the country half
over.â€
Many days onward passed, and from Tom
came no word ;
But Jeanie felt sure that her prayers would
be heard,
And that Christ, when He saw that such an-
swer was best,
Would bring home the fugitive lost in the -
West.
In a little log-house on a prairie’s green rim
Death struggled with life for a youth, in
whose dim
Sunken eyes a fierce fever to ashes had burned,
And life turned the scale ; and, oh, wildly he
yearned
For a look, for a thought, of the far-away home,
Neglected and scorned, he had fled from to
roam
With the vile and the wicked, in sin and in
shame,
Insulting the Saviour, forgetting His name.
A kind hand had tended him ; motherly care
Had given him nursing. A child, grave and
fair,
16
With patience had sat by his side for long hours,
And sometimes she brought him sweet grasses
and ftowers ;
And one day from folds of soft linen she took
Her treasure of treasures, a wonderful book.
“ You may see it,†she said, in her soft broken
speech.
“Be careful; don’t hurt it. Ach! why!â€
for a dereeth,
Shrill, frightened—a scream in a sob that was
lost—
Came quick from the bed, and the wan hands
were. crossed;
_As over a relic of saint at a shrine,
On a name written bold o’er a faint pencilled
line.
It was “Jeanie, Tom’s sister.†Beneath it
were these
Simple words—how they hurt him!— Dear
Lord, if you please,
Make Tom to be good ; mite him home to
our Mother ;
And, oh, for Christ’ s: sake, let us love one
enoiice "
This Christmas, if you at our Jeanie should
peep,
You would see in her hands, at her side, a
bright heap
B 17
Of playthings for Hetty, of games and of toys
For her pensioners cheery, the small ragged
boys.
A remote cabin home had received a great
box,
Which the key in dear Gretchen’s letter un-
locks. ;
There’s a cap for mamma, there are mittens
and hood, :
And @ wonderful book from the “ little one
good
Who travelled that eve on the emigrant train,
Whom the Christ-child took care of, as all
might see plain.â€
With hundreds of. gay-colored tapers ablaze,
Jean’s Christmas-tree shines, while they carol
their praise,
Tom, Father and Mother, and dear little girl,
To Him whose white banner ’tis bliss to un-
fur]—
To Jesus, who came when the Bethlehem star
Sent silvery beams to the nations afar ;
To Jesus, whom Mary, the mother so sweet,
Held close, while the Wise Men were bowed
at His feet ;
To Jesus, the mighty, the conquering One,
Divine and eternal, yet Mary’s fair Son.
18
THE BISHOP AND THE BABY
A poor little pale-faced baby,
Lost and hungry and cold,
With the chill wind pinching her tear-wet
cheeks
And ruffling her bright hair’s gold.
For just’ when the busy people
Were hurrying here and yon,
Buying their gifts for the Christmas-tree,
Her mother .was suddenly gone.
She did not cry, poor midget,
But lifted pitiful eyes
At the crowds of careless strangers,
At the gray, indifferent skies.
Jostled and pushed and frightened,
A tiny waif of the street,
With the wintry darkness falling,
And the snowflakes gathering fleet.
19
She was seen by a great kind giant ;
With swinging stride he came,
Even then the angels in heaven
Wrote Saint before his name.
From the height of his splendid stature
He stooped to the little maid,
Lifted her up in tender arms,
And bade her not be afraid.
Against his broad breast nestled,
She clung like a soft spring flower
That a breeze had caught and carried
To a strong and sheltering tower.
In his thick, warm cloak he wrapped her,
The little shivering child.
“Tl find your mother, baby,â€
The bishop said, and smiled.
That smile like a flash of the sunrise—
°Tis but a memory dim,
For the years are hastening onward,
And we are mourning him.
The white, cold snows are drifting
Where to-day he lies asleep.
After his life’s long warfare
The soldier’s rest is deep.
20
But of dear things said about him,
Of victories that he won,
No sweeter tale is told than this,
Of his grace to a little one.
MAID OF THE LEGION OF HONOR *
Dip you happen to hear the other day
How France had sent to a little maid
Her gift of gifts, for which brave men pray ;
A child of ten, who, unafraid,
Ready and steady, and full of nerve
Faced a danger, and did a deed,
One day last summer, that well may serve
As a lesson of valor for all to heed?
This dear little Jenny was by herself
Picking the berries that, ripe and sweet,
Grew high on the rocks which shelf on shelf
Made steps for the nimble and fearless feet.
Down below were the narrow lines
That marked a path for the rushing cars,
Speeding along, with many a throng,
Under the sky, by sun and stars.
* Jenny Creek, of Milford, Ohio, has received from
France a gold medal with the insignia of the Legion of
Honor, a tribute for her heroism in saving a World’s
Fair train last summer. Details were published in the
New York Tribune of May 28, 1894.
22
Oh! but the berries were ripe and sweet,
And the small brown fingers stained and
red,
She picked them merrily, paused to eat,
The sun-bonnet slipped from the curly head ;
Something fluttered the little heart,
A stir, a rustle, a puff of smoke!
The trestle on fire! With sudden start
From her holiday pleasure the child awoke.
It was time for the train, and, far away,
Its faint, fine whistle her quick ear caught !
There wasn’t a second to lose, to stay,
For the hesitant process of slow- paced
thought.
The trestle on fire! the coming train,
Packed with people, would plunge beneath
To the yawning gulf! The child’s quick
brain
Leaped to the rescue as sword from sheath.
Swift as the flash of the fiery death,
Jenny of Milford took her stand,
Tore her petticoat off in a breath,
A scarlet flag in her sturdy hand.
Round the bend, the engineer,
Eye on the watch, would see it float ;
Hers was the chance! She lifted clear
Cry on cry from her shrill young throat.
23
Well, this is the rest of it: Just in time
The train was stopped, by the length of
itself,
And women and men poured out to climb
To Jenny’s perch on the rocky shelf.
Hugged her, kissed her, paled to the lips,
As they saw the woe of the might have
been,
And some wentshome on the ocean ships,
And remembered our bit of a heroine.
The great World’s Fair is over and done,
The pure White City we see no more,
But Jenny, taller, a twelvemonth gone,
Runs to open her father’s door.
A messenger waits with a packet sealed ;
The medal that, won at the point of the
lance
Men wear as the lily upon the shield,
“The Legion of Honor,†’tis hers, from
France.
A GENTLEMAN
I KNEw him for a gentleman
By signs that never fail ;
His coat was rough and rather worn,
His cheeks were thin and pale—
A lad who had his way to make,
With little time for play—
‘I knew him for a gentleman
By certain signs to-day.
He met his mother on the street ;
Of came his little cap.
My door was shut ; he waited there
Until I heard his rap.
He took the bundle from my hand,
And when I dropped my pen
He sprang to pick it up for me,
This gentleman of ten,
He does not push and crowd along ;
His voice is gently pitched ;
He does not fling his books about
As if he were bewitched.
25
He stands aside to let you pass ;
He always shuts the door ;
He runs on errands willingly
To forge and mill and store.
He thinks of you before himself ;
He serves you if he can;
For, in whatever company,
The manners make the man.
At ten or forty “tis the same,
The manner tells the tale ;
And I discern the gentleman
By signs that never fail,
A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER
Tue days are short, and the nights are long,
And the wind is nipping cold ;
The tasks are hard, and the sums are wrong,
And the teachers often scold.
But Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the way?
“Tt will all come right
By to-morrow night,â€
Says Johnny McCree to-day.
The plums are few, and the cake is plain,
The shoes are out at the toe ;
For money you look in the purse in vain—
It was all spent long ago.
But Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the street?
Would you have the blues
For a pair of shoes,
While you have a pair of feet?
27
The’ snow is deep, there are paths to break ;
But the little arm is strong ;
And work is play if you'll only take
Your work with a bit of song.
And Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the road?
_ He will do his best,
* And will leave the rest
To the care of his Father, God.
The mother’s face is often sad,
She scarce knows what to do;
But at Johnny’s kiss she is bright and glad—
She loves him ; and wouldn’t you?
For Johnny McCree,
Oh, what cares he,
As he whistles along the way?
The trouble will go,
And “TI told you so,â€
Our brave little John will say.
MAKING BELIEVE
Ir was just a little lass, playing house upon
the grass,
With acorn cups and saucers, and a smooth
white stone .
Spread with bits of broken glass; and she
smiled to see me pass
Every morning on my walk—she, as I, alone.
So I said, “ My pretty maid ?â€â€”watching as
she daily played,
Not a doll to help her, crooning to herself—
She her work awhile delayed—eggs and sugar
to be weighed,
And all the funny dishes to be set on the
shelf.
And with brown eyes open wide, as my ask-
ing look: she spied,
“ Well, what is it, lady?†did the darling
say.
Then, but not to hurt her pride, very honestly
I tried .
To find out the secret of her happy day.
29
“Tell me, sweet one, if you know what it is
that makes you so
Merry and contented in your garden here,
Cheeks like roses all aglow. Why, I almost
see you grow
Brighter in the sunshine, like the flowers,
my dear,†,
“Mother says,†she answered sweet, eyes down
dropping to her feet,
Bravely lifted then, and fixed upon my face,
“That you never must deceive, but that you
may make believe,
Till you'll build a palace in a very humble
place.’â€
Blessings on the little maid quite contentedly
who played,
“Making b’lieve’’ her common things were
very rare and fine;
In the realm of fancy strayed, found the sun-
light in the shade,
And taught me how to make her pretty
secret mine,
THE MAGICAL DOOR
THERE’s a door in the wall of the ages—
A door that no man sees ;
For the angel who writes in the Book of
-Time
Is the keeper of the keys.
Once in the year it opens,
At the solemn midnight hour,
When the children sleep, and the old clocks
keep
Awake in the tall church tower,
And then, as it swings on its hinges,
Whoever might peer inside
Would catch a glimpse of the centuries
That behind in the silence hide.,
Egypt and Rome and Tyre,
All in that mythical place
Where the old years rest that were once pos-
sessed
By the wonderful human race.
The shadowy door swings open,
And a pilgrim enters in,
31
Bowed with a twelve-months’ struggle
In this world of strife and sin.
Watt him a farewell greeting!
He will pass no more this way—
This weary year who must disappear
In the haven of yesterday.
The door still swingeth open,
And outward another comes,
With a stir of banners and bugles
And the beat of friendly drums ;
His hands are full of beauty—
The cluster, the song, the sheaf,
The snow-flake’s wing, and the budding
spring,
And the foam on the crested reef.
This is the New Year, darlings,
Oh! haste’ to give him cheer.
Only the Father knoweth
The whole of his errand here.
This is the New Year, darlings ;
A year for work and play,
For doing our best, and for trusting the rest
To the Maker of night and day. —
[Page r
MY LADDIE
A SKATING SONG
Hurradu for the wind that is keen and chill,
As it skirts the meadows and sweeps the hill!
Hurrah for the pulses of swift delight
That tingle and beat in the Winter's night,
When over the crystal lake we glide,
Flying like birds o’er the ‘frozen tide!
Hurrah for the lad with the sparkling eye,
For the joyous laugh and the courage high !
“Hurrah for the health that is glad and strong,
So that life is gay as a merry song,
For the motion fearless, smooth, and fleet,
When skates are wings to the flying feet !
Hurrah for the landscape broad and fair
Spread boldly out in the brilliant air!
Hurrah for the folds of the sheeted snow,
On the mountains high, in the valleys low!
Hurrah for the track where the skaters glide,
Fearless as over a highway tried !
Hurrah for the girls who skate so well—
Dorothy, Winifred, Kate, and Nell!
c 33
Hurrah for the race we’re bound to win,
And the curves and figures we mean to spin!
Hurrah for the joy that wings our feet,
When, like dancers gay, we pass and meet!
Who chooses may boast of the summer-time,
Hurrah! we cry, for the frost and rime,
For the icicles pendent from roof and eaves,
For snow that covers the next year’s sheaves !
Hurrah for the gleaming, glassy lake -
Where the skaters bold their pleasures take !
THE WHITE DAYS OF WINTER
THE white days of winter, darling,
When softly the snow-flakes fall,
Till a royal garment of ermine
Folds tenderly over all.
Field, and hillock, and valley,
Hushed in the sweetest sleep,
For the snow comes down from our Father,
His loving charge to keep.
Under the snow-robe, darling,
There is wonderful brooding heat,
That is taking care of the daisies,
And saving the next year’s wheat.
And we'd have no flowers, dearest,
When the spring’s green days come back,
If the white days did not bring us
The feathery flakes in their track.
And the golden days, my darling,
‘The days of lily and rose,
And the scarlet days of the maple,
All follow the path of the snows; |
35
For the year goes round, my darling,
With the sunbeam and the shower,
And our Father’s watch is over
Its every passing hour.
The swift, white day, my darling,
When the sleigh-bells’ merry chime
Is echoing o’er the roadway,
Is the fun and frolic time.
But the still white eve, my dearest,
Is sweeter to you and me,
When we have the song and story,
And the prayer at the mother’s knee,
Our little home, my darling,
Oh, whatever wind, may blow,
The south with its quiver of sunbeams,
The north with its flakes of snow,
Our little home, my dearest,
Is under the dear Lord’s care,
And we fear no ill nor sorrow,
Lovingly sheltered there.
VOICES
Wuat does the brook say, flashing its feet
Under the lilies’ blue, brimming bowls,
Brightening the shades with its tender song,
Cheering all drooping and sorrowful souls?
It says not “ Be merry,†but, deep in the wood,
Rings back, “ Little maiden, be good, be good.â€
What does the wind say, pushing slow sails
Over the great troubled path of the sea;
Whirling the mill on the breezy height,
Shaking the fruit from the orchard tree?
It breathes not “Be happy,†but sings loud
and long, *
“O bright little maiden, be strong, be strong.â€
What says the river, gliding along
To its home on far-off Ocean’s breast ;
Fretted by rushes, hindered by bars,
Ever weary, but singing of rest ?
It says not “Be bright,†byt, in whisperings
grave,
“Dear little maiden, be patient, be brave.â€
37
What do the stars say, keeping their watch
Over the slumbers the long, lone night,
Never closing their bonny bright eyes,
Though great storms blind them, and tem-
pests fright ?
They say not “ Be splendid,†but write on the
blue,
In clear silver letters, ‘“ Maiden, be true.â€
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD
“Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird?
And why do you hurry away ?
Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred,
In the sweet golden sunshine to-day.â€
“TI know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright,
And the leaves are asleep on the tree,
But three times the dream of a cold winter’s
night
Has come to my children and me.
‘So, good-bye to you, darling, for off we must
80,
To the land where the oranges bloom,
For we birdies would freeze in the storms and
the snow, >
And forget how to sing in the gloom.â€
“Will you ever come back to your own little
nest ?â€
“Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here,
We'll return to the orchard we all love the best,
And then we will sing to you, dear.â€
39
TWoO LITTLE GIRLS
Tuis little girl is very poor ;
She has troubles, she finds, she can scarce en-
dure ;
And yet, my dear, she has playthings plenty—
Dolls as many as two-and-twenty,
Houses and arks and picture-books,
Something pretty wherever she looks.
But half the time she’s puzzled to know
What to do with the wonderful show,
Tired of dollies two-and-twenty,
And bored with her various toys a-plenty.
That little girl is very rich,
With an old doll like a perfect witch,
A broken chair and a bit of delf,
And a wee cracked cup on the closet shelf.
She can play with only a row of pins;
Houses and gardens, arks and inns,
She makes with her chubby fingers small,
And she never asks for a toy at all.
Unseen around her the fairies stray,
Giving her bright thoughts every day.
40
‘
Poor little girl and rich little girl,
How nice it would be if in time’s swift whirl
You could—perhaps not change your places,
But catch a glimpse of each other’s faces ;
For each to the other could something give,
Which would make the child life sweeter to
live,
For both could give and both could share
Something the other had to spare.
THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR
Noszopy sits in the little arm-chair ;
It stands in a corner dim;
But a white-haired mother gazing there,
And yearningly thinking of him,
Sees through the dust of the long ago
The bloom of her boy’s sweet face,
As he rocks so merrily to and fro,
With a laugh that cheers the place.
Sometimes he holds a book in his hand,
Sometimes a pencil and slate,
And the lesson is hard to understand,
. And the figures hard to mate ;
But she sees the nod of his father’s head,
So proud of the. little son,
And she hears the word so often said,
“No fear for our little one.â€
They were wonderful days, the dear sweet
days,
When a child with sunny hair
Was hers to scold, to kiss, and to praise,
At her knee in the little chair.
42
She lost him back in the busy years,
When the great world caught the man,
And he strode away past hopes and fears,
To his place in the battle’s van.
But now and then in a wistful dream,
Like a picture out of date,
She sees a head with a golden gleam
Bent over a pencil and slate; .
And she lives again the happy day,
The day of her young life’s spring, -
When the small arm-chair stood just in the
way,
The centre of everything.
THE MOTHER’S LETTER
OH! postman on your weary round, what
have you in your bag?
The tale of death, the tale of birth ; it is not
strange you lag
That last slow mile, as, one by one, you hand
the letters in—
Sweet messengers of love and faith, ’mid strife
and woe and sin.
In yonder dingy boarding-house there stands
a tempted boy—
The devil whispers in his ear: ‘Come, taste
my brimming joy.
Come, sell your soul, what matters it about
another world ? :
This world is here: come, drink my wine
with sparkling zest impearled.â€
Oh! postman, ringing at the door, you’re
haply just in time ;
You hand his mother’s letter in; its sweet-
ness cannot chime
44
With siren pleadings from the pit ; let’s look
upon the page,
And see how mothers meet the foe, when
souls are thrown for gage.
“Dear Ned,†she writes, “old Ponto fails, the
dog is growing gray.
I think he misses you, my dear ; you've been
so long away.
What rambles o’er the hills you two in other
days have had ;
I pet old Ponto for your sake, my precious,
precious lad.
“The little sister grows apace ; you'd hardly
know her now ; /
She gets to have a look of you about the .
open brow ;
I tel her: ‘Polly, study hard, be just like
brother Ned.
Wherever others stood, my dear, he always
stood up head.’ :
“I go to meeting every week, of course; but
in the pew
You wouldn’t think, dear boy, how much
your mother misses you.
45
They've got new singers in the choir, a tenor
-and a bass,
And little Susie Spaulding, with a voiée to
match her face.
“She, Susie, is a darling, and she often sits
with me,
And puss, though growing wheezy, climbs
purring to her knee.
The bird is dead—I’m sorry—but he was ten
in May,
One cannot keep canary birds forever and a
day.â€
“Lame Willie always asks for Ned: ‘When
did you hear and what ?â€
I wish you could write often, dear; but mind,
I say this not
To blame you—men must work in town,
and mothers understand ;
I always trust the golden heart behind the
good right hand!
“God bless you, Ned. Vacation time is
speeding on so fast,
Tl have you when the daisies bloom, ere
strawberries are past.
46.
I love you, love you, darling Ned ; this stupid
letter take,
And pardon any errors for your own dear
mother’s sake.â€
Oh! postman, trudging in the dark, an angel
went before
And left a blessing on the note you handed
in that door.
And, skulking outward on the blast, the devil
left his prey,
Apollyon put to flight before a mother’s love
to-day.
And mother, with your boy away, and so
much out of sight,
Do more than love, and more than pray, to
shield him in the fight:
_ Write often of the simple things that hold
him to the farm,
And let his childhood round his life weave
fast its mystic charm.
I WOULDN’T BE CROSS
I wouLpn’T be cross, dear, it’s never worth
while ;
Disarm the vexation by wearing a smile ;
Let hap a disaster, a trouble, a loss,
Just meet the thing boldly, and never be cross.
I wouldn’t be cross, dear, with people at
home,
They love you so fondly, whatever may come.
You may count on the kinsfolk around you
to stand,
Oh, loyally true in a brotherly band!
So, since the fine gold far exceedeth the dross,
I wouldn’t be cross, dear, I wouldn’t be cross.
I wouldn't be cross with a stranger, ah no!
To the pilgrims we meet on the life path we
owe
This kindness to give them good cheer as
they pass,
To clear out the flint-stones, and plant the
soft grass.
48
No, dear, with a stranger, in trial or loss,
I perchance might be silent —I wouldn't be
cross.
No bitterness sweetens, no sharpness may heal
The wound which the soul is too proud to
reveal.
No envy hath peace: by a fret and a jar
The beautiful work of our hands we may mar.
Let happen what may, dear, of trouble and
loss, .
I wouldwt be cross, love, I wouldn’t be cross.
D y .
SOMETHING NEW
THERE’S something new at our house—I’m
s’prised you didn’t know it ;
It makes papa feel awful proud, although he
hates to show it.
The thing is not so very big, but money
couldn’t buy it; *
If any fellow thinks it could, I'd like to see
him try it.
It’s half a dozen things at once —a dove, a
love, a flower ;
Mamma calls it a hundred names, and new
ones every hour ;
It is a little music-box, with tunes for every
minute ;
You haven’t got one at your house, and so
you are not in it.
It puckers up its wee, wee mouth, as if it
: meant to whistle ;
A gold mine weighed against it then were
lighter than a thistle ;
590
Papa said so the other night—I thought it
sounded splendid,
And said it to. myself until I fell asleep, and
ended.
Of ‘course you guessed it by this time—our
gift that came from heaven ;
Mamma declares the darling thing was by
the angels given.
But then some folks are very slow, and some
are stupid ; maybe
I ought to say, right straight and plain, come
home and see our baby! :
THE DEAR LITTLE HEADS IN
THE PEW
In the morn of the holy Sabbath
I like in the church to see
The dear little children clustered
Worshipping there with me.
I am sure that the gentle pastor,
Whose words are like summer dew,
Is cheered as he gazes over
Dear little heads in the pew.
Faces earnest and thoughtful,
Innocent, grave, and sweet,
They look in the congregation
Like lilies among the wheat.
And I think that the tender Master,
Whose mercies are ever new,
Has a special benediction
For dear little heads in the pew.
Clear in the hymns resounding
To the organ’s swelling chord,
Mingle the fresh young voices,
Eager to praise the Lord.
52
And to me the rising anthem
Has a meaning deep and true ;—
The thought and the music blended,
For the dear little heads in the pew.
When they hear “The Lord is my Shep-
herd,â€
Or “Suffer the babes to come,â€
They are glad that the loving Jesus
Has given the lambs a home,
A place of their own with His people.
He cares for me and for you;
But close in His arms He gathers
- The dear little heads in the pew.
So I love in the great assembly,
On the Sabbath morn, to see
The dear little children clustered
And worshipping there with me ;
For I know that the gracious Saviour,
Whose mercies are ever new,
Has a special benediction
For the dear little heads in the pew.
BEADS FOR A NAME
LirTLe Ruth Endicott, tripping and airy,
Sweet as a snow-drop and wee as a fairy,
Found it hard work to sit still as a mouse
Through three long hours in the Lord’s
house,
Where all the children went gravely, you
know,
This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago.
Grandmother handed her fennel and dill,
Mother frowned often, and whispered “ Be
still!â€
Parson looked down from the pulpit’s high
perch,
Wondering that babies were restless in church ;
Sternly the tithing-man shook his gray head,
Till little Fidget turned blushingly red, ,
Yet in the whole congregation was not
One child so naughty as Ruth Endicott.
When they came home to the Thanksgiving
dinner
Father called to him the poor little sinner ;
54
Sweet as a snow-drop and wee as a fairy,
Never was culprit so dainty. arid airy,
So father thought, as the broad satin vest
Made for the gold-tinted ringlets a nest ;
Fathers were fathers, like ours, you know,
This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago.
Then he said, soberly, “‘ Dear little maid,
I am told that in church you laughed and
you played.
What shall I do with you, Ruth, little woman,
Punish or bribe you? The conduct was
human.
Yet as an Endicott, child, you must learn
Courtesy, fitness, the graces that earn
Man’s approbation, and—†Here he sighed
deep ;
Well might he-sigh, little Ruth was asleep!
_ When she awoke, a great string of bright
beads,
‘Each carven crisply with flowers and seeds,
‘Hung on the arm of her father’s oak chair,
“Here, little daughter,†he cried, “ye'll be
fair 5
Bargains are bargains ; these beads are your
own
When to church three times in order you’ve
gone,
55
And behaved there, my lass, as an Endicott
should,
Like a small princess, both’ ciate and good.â€
So the Judge bribed her, I happen to know,
This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago.
Little Ruth Endicott grew up as sweet.
As a flower that blooms on the edge of the
wheat, —
Married and queened it for many a year,
Fame of her beauty was told far and near,
Fame of her kindness, too, and her good
deeds, :
Came down the centuries with -her gold
beads,
Daughters and granddaughters born of her
line
Have the gold hair with the same ‘burnished
shine.
One of them wears the same sweet elfin
grace,
Looks at me now with the same snow-drop
face
Little Ruth Endicott wore in the glow
Of the hearthlight two hundred Thanksgiv-
ings ago,
And as I fingered her string of gold beads,
Curious, and carven with blossoms and seeds,
56
Gayly she smiled, “I deserve them in truth,
Christened so soberly old-fashioned Ruth,
After a grandmother ever so great,
Once a great lady, who wore them’ in state,
But who was shockingly naughty, I fear,
Just on the eve of her own seventh year,
» When, little darling, she fidgeted so
In church-time two hundred Thanksgivings
»
- ago.
TWO WISHES
“J wisH that the teacher had lessons to
learn,â€
Said Molly, the wise little elf;
“She would know they were hard, and be
sorry,
If she had to do them herself.â€
And the teacher, at home, in the gloaming,
Sighed gently, “I wish that they knew,
The dear little children, how easy
°Tis just to have lessons to do!â€
DO ALL THAT YOU CAN
“I cannoT do much,†said a little star,
“To make this dark world bright;
My silvery beams cannot pierce far
Into the gloom of night; :
Yet Iam a part of God’s great plan,
And so I will do the best that I can.â€
“What can be the use,†said a fleecy cloud,
“Of these few drops that I hold?
They will hardly bend the lily proud,
If caught in her chalice of gold;
-But I, too, am part of God’s great plan,
So my treasures I'll give as well as I can.â€
A child went merrily forth to play,
But a thought, like a silver thread,
Kept winding in and out all day
Through the happy golden head—
“Mother said: ‘ Darling, do all that you can,
For you are a part of God’s great plan.’â€
She knew no more than the twinkling star,
Or the cloud with its rain-cup full,
59
How, why, or for what all strange things
are—
She was only a child at school,
But she thought, “°Tis a part of God’s
great plan,
That even I should do all that I can.â€
So she helped another child along
When the way was rough to his feet,
And she sang from her heart a little song
That we all thought wondrous sweet ;
And her tather—a weary, toil-worn man—
Said, “I, too, will do the best that I can.â€
EDITH BAXTER
A BEAUTIFUL day in summer,
At Bath, beside the sea,
Where a bevy of careless children
' Were as gay as gay could be.
Some with their spades so tiny
Were turning over the sand,
Some were merrily racing
With the surf that dashed on the strand.
And others, bold and daring,
Plunged into the deep green wave,
At the touch of the grim old ocean
They felt so. blithe and brave.
Laughing, leaping, and diving,
The sturdy, frolicsome crew
Had never a thought of danger
Under the sky’s soft blue.
And nobody noticed Harry,
A dear little five-year-old,
61
With just a glimmer of sunshine
Tinting his curls of gold.
Till, after the rest, as swiftly
As a flash the darling went;
And a cry of sudden terror
-The giddy gladness rent.
The billows have caught the baby,
They are bearing him far away:
Alas for Harry’s mother
And her empty arms this day!
Some one has darted to save him,
Forth from an awe-struck throng,
A fearless heart to the rescue,
Steady and true and strong.
Buffeting surge and breaker,
Straight through the curdling foam,
On through the angry waters,
She is toiling to bring him home,
Only a child, with girlhood’s
Clear light in her candid eyes ;
Only a girl, but a woman
In her glory of sacrifice.
‘ 62
On the shore they watch and listen,
Spellbound in dumb despair,
Ah! hark to the shout of triumph,
That ends in a thankful prayer.
Edith has saved wee Harry.
*Twas a noble deed was done,
At Bath, that day, by the ocean,
In the light of the summer sun.
WATCHING FOR FATHER
Watcxine for somebody,. wide brown eyes,
Waiting to give him a rare surprise?
Oh, is it father, whose horse’s feet
Fall in the distance smooth and fleet-—
Father, whose heart for many a mile,
Forward has leaped to the dear old stile?
Oh, how they'll kiss him, and hold him fast,
When father is home with his bairns at
last !
6
“Hist!†cries sister to baby Will;
“Listen, darling! he mounts the hill.
Oh, how Selim flies over the ground!
Nearer and nearer the hoof-beats sound,â€
Flowers for father, and looks of joy,
Sweetest words shall their tongues employ.
Somebody’s coming—the dear, the wise ;
Shine out to greet him, you bright brown
eyes.
CHILDREN, SING!
CHILDREN, sing to Him whose love
Broods your happy lives above ;
Raise your tuneful voices high
To our Father in the sky—
For the flowers and for the wheat,
For the cold and for the heat,
For the fruit and for the grain,
For the sunshine and the rain.
Children, sing to Him whose care
Makes the land so rich and fair ;
Raise your tuneful voices high
To our Father in the sky—
For the mother’s look of grace,
For the baby’s little face,
For the morning’s smile of bliss,
For the happy good-night kiss.
Children, sing to Him whose hand
Rules and guards our native land;
65
Lift your joyous voices high
To our Father in the sky—
For the cheery bells that swing,
And for freedom peal and ring,
And for nation’s peace and wealth,
For our gladness and our health.
Children, sing to One whose love
Broods your merry days above ;
Lift your tuneful voices high
To our Father in the sky.
MISS FRET AND MISS LAUGH
CriEs little Miss Fret,
In a very great pet:
“T hate this warm weather; it’s horrid to
tan.
It scorches my nose,
And it blisters my toes,
And wherever I go I must carry a fan.â€
Chirps little Miss Laugh:
“Why, I couldn't tell half
The fun I am having this bright summer day.
I sing through the hours,
And cull pretty flowers,
And ride like a queen in the sweet-smelling
hay.â€
A SONG
For sowing and reaping, for cold and for
heat,
For sweets of the flowers, and gold of the
wheat,
For ships in the harbors, for sails on the
sea,
O! Father in heaven, our songs rise to Thee.
For parents who care for us day after day,
For sisters and brothers, for work and for
play,
For dear little babies so helpless and fair,
O! Father, we send Thee our praise and our
prayer.
For teachers who guide us so patiently on,
For frolics with mates when our lessons are
done, -
For shelter and clothing, for every day’ s food,
We bless Thee, our F ather, the giver of
good. -
68
For peace and for plenty, for freedom, for
rest, .
For joy in the land from the east to the
west,
For the dear starry flag, with its red, white,
and blue,
We thank Thee from hearts that are honest
and true.
For waking and sleeping, for blessings to be,
We children would offer our praises to Thee ;
For God is our Father, and bends from above
To keep the round world in the smile of
His love.
THE BOOK OF THE YEAR
OF all the beautiful fancies
That cluster about the year,
Tiptoeing over the threshold
When its earliest dawn is here,
The best is the simple legend
Of a book for you and me,
So fair that our guardian angels
Desire its lines to see:
Tis full of the brightest pictures
Of dream and story and rhyme,
And the whole wide world together
Turns only a page at a time.
Some of the leaves are dazzling
With the feather-flakes of the snow;
Some of them thrill to the music
Of the merriest winds that blow;
Some of them keep the secrets
That made the roses sweet;
79
Some of them sway and nestle :
With the golden heads of wheat.
I cannot begin to tell you
Of the lovely things to be
In the wonderful Year-book waiting,
A gift for you and me.
And a thought most strange and solemn
Is borne upon my mind:
On every page a column
For ourselves we'll surely find.
Write what we may upon it,
The record there will stay
Till the’ books of time aré opened
In the Court of the Judgment Day.
And should we not be careful
Lest the words our fingers write
Shall rise to shame our faces
When we stand in the dear Lord’s sight?
And should we not remember
.To dread no thought of blame,
If we sign each page that we finish
With faith in the dear Lord’s name?
71
MY BRAVE LADDIE
Tap, tap, along the pavement, tap,
It came, a little crutch.
A pale-faced Jad looked up at me;
“T do not mind it much,â€
He answered to my pitying look.
“It might be worse, you know;
Some fellows have to stay in bed,
While I quite fast can go.
“Oh yes;-I used to run about—
Perhaps I may again ;
The doctor says *tis wonderful
I have so little pain.
It hurts me now and then, of course—
Well, ever since the fall ;
But I’m so very glad, you see,:
That. I can walk at all.â€
Tap, tap, the little crutch went on;
I saw the golden hair,
The brown eyes wide and all aglow,
The noble, manly air ;
72
And somehow tears a moment came,
And made my vision dim,
While still the laddie’s cheerful- words
' Were sweet as sweetest hymn.
“TI am so very glad, you see,
That I can walk at all.â€
Why, that’s the way for us to feel
Whatever griefs befall.
I learned a lesson from the boy,
Who bore with knightly grace,
The pain that could not drive the smiles
From his heroic face.
IN BLUEBERRY-TIME
A QUIVER of heat on the upland,
And white lies the dust on the plain,
And dark in the west is the beauty.
Of the low cloud that bringeth the rain.
Swift home to the nest fly the robins,
And fleet to the hive wing the bees,
And straight to the mother the children
Run down the long path through the trees.
By the farm gate the mother is waiting,
Her hand hollowed over her eyes:
She wants the dear children about her
When tempests are-black in the skies.
And safe is the gray little farm-house,
Though storms may be raving aloof,
And the tramp of the rain-host as steady
As hoot-beats upon the old roof,
‘Tis blueberry-time, and the pasture
High up on the hill-side is sweet
With the fragrance of hay, and the incense
Of flowers you crush ‘neath your feet.
74
The stone-wall is crimsoned with briers,
The clematis tangles its spray,
The deep wine-red plume of the sumac
Uplifts like a soldier’s at bay.
With banners all bright for the autumn
Ere yet the long summer has fled,
The grace of the golden-rod swayeth,
The fair aster raiseth her head.
And countless green grasses are waving,
And ripples the brook as if rhyme
Were the syllabled music of Nature,
In beautiful blueberry-time.
“Bob White,†with his silvery whistle,
Sings shrill from the heart of the corn,
And clear over fir-top and elm-top
The caw of the black crow is borne;
And night falls in shadow and silence,
Save only the katydid’s strain,
And the hoot of the owl from the thicket,
_Or the whippoorwill’s plaintive refrain.
’Tis blueberry-time in the mountains,
The time of the quiver of heat,
The time of the sudden down-plashing
Of rain that is welcome and sweet.
The barefooted, brown, dimpled children
Troop out with their baskets and pails ;
75
The rabbits are scared at their laughter,
And, startled, forth flutter the quails.
Tis blueberry-time, and the mother
Remembers how she, in her day,
Tripped up the steep path by the pasture,
The path of her laddies to-day ; DS
And some one was waiting to greet her,
Up there by the old meadow bars,
And they loitered and lingered together
Till evening had lighted the stars.
Ah, well! time has passed; she is older.
“Wake, dear! It is bedtime,†she says
To father, who peacefully drowses,
Tired out after long working-days.
The rain dies away in soft patter ;
The children up-stairs are asleep.
God guards them; the dear little family
His angels are ordered to keep.
GARDENS
THE wide fair gardens, the rich lush gardens,
Which no man planted, and no man tills,
Their strong seeds drifted, their brave bloom
lifted,
Near and far o’er the vales and hills ;
Sip the bees from their cups of sweetness,
Poises above them the wild free wing,
And night and morn from their doors are
borne
The dreams of the tunes that blithe hearts
sing.
The waving gardens, the fragrant gardens
That toss in the sun by the broad high-
"way,
Growing together, gorse and heather,
Aster and golden-rod all the day.
Poppies dark with the wine of slumber,
Daisies bright with the look of dawn,
The gentian blue, and the long year through
The flowers that carry the seasons on.
77
And the dear old gardens, the pleasant gar-
dens
Where mother used to potter about,
Tying and pulling, and sparingly culling,
And watching each bud as its flower
laughed out ;
Hollyhocks here, and the prince’s feather,
Larkspur and primrose, and lilies white. -
Sweet were the dear old-fashioned gardens
Where we kissed the mother, and said
“Good-night.â€
THE AUTUMN WALK
In the sweet woodland ways, and by
The brook that mirrors clear the sky,
I find the last dear flowers growing,
The last blue asters bravely blowing ;
And, floating in a silver mist
In opal, rose, and amethyst,
A golden cloud of incense drifts
And in the soft air wafts and lifts.
Balsamic scent of pine and fir
Salutes the forest breeze, astir
With birds which leave the empty nest
And sail away in eager quest _
Of summer in some land afar
Where yet the glowing roses are.
Through branches dropping amber leaves,
Past fields and meadows shorn of sheaves,
O’er uplands fair, in valleys deep,
The spicy breaths of autumn creep.
The vines are bent with purple bloom
OF clusters dusky in the gloom,
79
And giving back the noontide’s sheen
In fiery lustre through the green
And tangled foliage of the grape.
O perfume rare, and perfect shape,
Swing wide and free, ye censers fair,
The year’s best wealth is garnered there.
Erelong the blue-fringed gentian’s flower
Will light for us a waning hour;
The pink marsh-mallow’s torch will shine
Upon the swamp-lands’ glimmering line ;
The common path will wave with gold,
Superb and lavish, bright and bold,
And wayside hard and fading sod
Laugh out ere pales the golden-rod.
From spring to autumn every mile
Hath known the bliss of Nature’s smile ;
From spring to autumn, day by day,
Who would, ’neath Nature’s roof might pray.
The earth is but a splendid shrine
For worship of the One Divine,
And every plant its censer lifts,
And every tree its incense drifts,
Where stream and wood and hill and road
Thrill to one chord, the praise of God,
80
“THE RIPENED LEAVESâ€
Sap the leaves upon the branches
One sunny autumn day:
“We've finished all our work, and now
We can no longer stay.
So our gowns of red and yellow,
And our cloaks of sober brown,
Must be worn before the frost comes
And we go rustling down.
“We've had a jolly summer,
With the birds that built their nests
Beneath our green umbrellas,
And the squirrels that were our guests.
But we cannot wait for winter,
And we do not care for snow ;
When we hear the wild northwesters
We loose our clasp and go,
“But we hold our heads up bravely
Unto the very last,
And shine in pomp and splendor
As away we flutter fast.
81
In the mellow autumn noontide
We' kiss and say good-by,
And through the naked branches
Then may children see the sky.â€
VACATION OVER
Back again to school, dears,
Vacation days are done ;
You've had your share of frolic,
And lots of play and fun.
You've fished in many a brook, dears,
And climbed up many a hill;
Now back again to school, dears,
To study with a will.
We all can work the better
For having holiday,
For playing ball and tennis,
And riding on the hay.
The great old book of Nature
Prepares us plain to see
How very well worth learning
‘ All other books may be.
So back again to school, dears,
Vacation-time is done ;
You’ve had a merry recess,
With lots and lots of fun.
83
\
You've been like colts in pasture,
Unused to bit and rein;
Now steady, ready, children,
It’s time to march and train,
°Tis only dunces loiter
When sounds the school-bell’s call ;
So fall in ranks, my boys and girls,
And troop in, one and all.
For school is very pleasant
When, after lots of fun,
Vacation days are over,
And real work’s begun.
PUMPKIN PIE
THROUGH sun and shower the pumpkin
grew, .
When the days were long and the skies were
blue.
And it felt quite vain when its giant size
Was such that it carried away the prize
At the County Fair, when the people came ;
And it wore a ticket and bore a name.
Alas for the pumpkin’s pride! One day
A boy and his mother took it away.
It was pared and sliced, and pounded and
stewed,
And the way it was treated was harsh and
rude.
It was sprinkled with sugar and seasoned
with spice ;
The boy and his mother pronounced it nice.
85 .
It was served in a paste, it was baked and
browned,
And at last on a pantry shelf was found.
And on Thursday John and Mary and Mabel
Will see it on aunty’s laden table.
For the pumpkin grew ’neath a Summer sky
Just to turn at Thanksgiving into pie.
THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA’AM
SPEAK of queen and empress,
Or of other ladies royal,
Not one of them has half the power
Or subjects half so loyal
As she, the little schoolma’am,
Who trips along the way
To take the chair she makes a throne
At nine o'clock each day.
Her rule is ever gentle;
Her tones are low and sweet ;
She is very trim and tidy
From her head unto her feet ;
And it matters very little
If her eyes be ‘brown or blue ;
They simply read your inmost heart
Whene’er she looks at you.
The children bring her presents,
Red apples, flowers galore,
For all the merry girls and boys
This queen of theirs adore.
87
The darling little schoolma’am,
Who reigns without a peer
In a hundred thousand class-rooms
This gayly flying year.
PROUD MOTHERS
“THERE never, no, never, were babies like
mine !â€
Clucks proud Mother Hen, as she leads
them about, .
Her fluffy and puffy and plump little nine.
Oh, sweet little chicks from the shell’s
prison out!
“Talk not of your beauties,†cries vain
Mother Mare ;
“Just look at my colt, with his rough coat
of frieze,
And his dear little feet, that are glad to go
bare,
Dressed up in white stockings half-way to
the knees.â€
“If you want a King’s treasure, come peep
in the crib—
My baby is here!†says the Queen, with a
laugh.
89
“JT might sing you his wonderful charms,
dear, full glib,
But a year would go by, and I could not:
tell half.â€
INDIAN SUMMER
A FLICKER of flame in the hollow,
Gold-threaded and amber the air ;
Loose leaflets, and others to follow,
Till oak bough and maple are bare.
Sweet, sweet the last sigh of the summer,
When gathered and bound are the sheaves ;
And a lorn empty nest, that was blithe with
the best,
Clings close to the wind-shaken eaves.
BY THE WAVES
Crisp and curling, soft unfurling
Caps of silver foam,
Haste ‘the breakers, frolic-makers,
Chasing playmates home.
Tripping, skipping, slipping, dripping,
Fast the children fly
Up the shingle, toes a-tingle—
So the day goes by.
Wavelets creaming, sunshine gleaming ;
In the shining sands,
Gay and merry, bold and cheery,
Delve the small brown hands.
Drifting, lifting, rifting, sifting,
Neath the smiling sky ;
On the shingle pleasures mingle,
And the day goes by.
Great clouds glowing, wild winds blowing,
Night draws on apace ;
Eyes deep yearning see the burning
Lamps in starry space.
92
Flying, sighing, low replying,
Thoughts salute the sky ;
Home we gather, oh! our Father,
And the day’ goes by.
THE FOUR WINDS
THE wind o’ the West
I love it best.
The wind o’ the East
“I love it least.
The wind o° the South
‘Has sweet in its mouth.
The wind o’ the North
Sends great storms forth.
Taken together, all sorts or weather
The four old fellows are sure to bring—
Hurry and flurry, rush and scurry,
Sighing and dying, and flitting and flying,
Through summer and autumn and winter
and spring,
THE LITTLE ONES HE BIESSED
I wonper if ever the children
Who were blessed by the Master of old
Forgot he had made them his treasures,
The dear little lambs of His fold.
I wonder if, angry and wilful,
They wandered afar and astray,
The children whose feet had been guided
- So safe and so soon in the way,
One would think that the mothers at evening
Soft smoothing the silk-tangled hair,
And low leaning down to the. murmur
Of sweet childish voices in prayer,
Oft bade the small pleaders to listen,
If haply again they might hear
The words of the gentle Redeemer
Borne swift to the reverent ear.
And my heart cannot cherish the fancy
That ever those children went wrong
And were lost from the peace and the shelter,
Shut out from the feast and the song.
95
To the days of gray hairs they remembered,
I think, how the hands that were riven
- Were laid on their heads when Christ uttered,
“Of such is the kingdom of heaven.â€
He. has. said it to you, little darling,
Who spell. it in God’s Word to-day ;
You, too, maybe sorry for sinning,
You also believe and obey ;
And “twill grieve the dear Saviour in heaven
If one: little child shall. go wrong,
Be lost from the fold and the shelter,
Shut out from the feast and the song.
[Page 4
JEANIE’S CHRISTMAS JOURNEY
A DRUMMER
I’m only a drummer; I’ve nothing to do
But to beat my brave drum and make music
for you.
I’m only a drummer, not quite twelve years
old, .
But I hope that my heart is full twenty years
bold.
I do not give orders, I've just to obey,
As quick as a flash; what my officers say.
There are fellows who think that my task
must be light,
Just beating a drum with a merry boy’s
might.
Yet drummers no taller than I am are’ found
In low little beds in the land’s holy ground.
They followed the flag, in the days long ago,
When it waved its defiance, whoe’er was the
foe.
G 97
They timed to the bugles, so shrill and so
sweet, :
And they faltered alone when the call was
retreat.
Oh, brave drummer boys! though you lived
or you died,
I look at your record and stand by your side,
And beat my brave drum with the gladness
of love—
°Tis the flag of our Union that’s flying above !
THE POET’S VACANT THRONE
From the chair the children gave him, where
he sat as on a throne,
While they clustered round him fondly, claim-
ing him as all their own,
He has gone, the poet stately, aureoled with
snowy hair ;
If we looked, we could not find him in this
wide world anywhere.
If we called, he would not answer —he, so
swift to smile and bless
Every little child who sought him with a
gracious tenderness ;
Though we wept, he would not hear us: he
has gone too far away,
And the children’s chair in Cambridge is a
vacant throne to-day.
But we'll hie to fair Mount Auburn, hand in
hand with April days,
There to wreathe the children’s garland, ’mid
' the green immortal bays ;
99
Shy arbutus, valley-lilies, violets breaking into
bloom,
Sparkling with the children’s tear-drops, shall
adorn the poet’s tomb.
There he slumbers, oh, so deeply! all his
earthly labors done,
Never more a care to vex him ‘neath the
ever-circling sun.
Ages hence, of tender memories, this shall
farthest fragrance send,
That the poet, sage, and scholar was the
children’s steadfast friend,
Like his Master, he would suffer tiny hands
to pluck his gown;
Fearlessly the small feet thronged him, unre-
buked by word or frown.
Surely he was met in heaven by a white-
robed shining band,
Since before our Father alway do the chil-
dren’s angels stand.
A MOTHER'S BOY
His cap is old, but his hair is gold,
And his face is clear as the sky;
And whoever he meets, on lanes or streets,
He looks him straight in the eye,
With a fearless pride that has naught to
hide,
Though he bows like a little knight,
Quite debonair, to a lady fair,
With a smile that is swift as light.
Does his mother call? Not kite, or ball,
Or the prettiest game, can stay
His eager feet as he hastes to greet
Whatever she means to say.
And the teachers depend on the little friend
At school in his place at nine,
With his lessons learned and his good marks
earned,
All ready to toe the line.
I wonder if you have seen him too,
This boy, who is not too big
IOI
For a morning kiss from mother and Sis,
Who isn’t a bit of a prig,
But gentle and strong, and the whole day
long
As merry as boy can be.
A gentleman, dears, in the coming years,
And at present the boy for me.
BEES IN THE MEADOW
Bees in the meadow,
Birds on the bough,
Bloom on the hillside—
Play-time is now.
Stones in the pasture,
Weeds in the bed;
Haying and harvest,
Hard work ahead.
Loud sings the robin,
“If you'd be gay,
Take to the work, lad,
The heart of the play.â€
LITTLE HANS
LitTLE Hans was helping mother
Carry home the lady’s basket ;
Chubby hands of course were lifting
One great handle—can you ask it?
As he tugged away beside her,
Feeling oh! so brave and strong,
Little Hans was softly singing
To himself a little song:
“Some time I'll be tall as father,
Though I think it’s very funny,
And [ll work and build big houses,
And give mother all the money,
For,†and little Hans stopped singing,
Feeling oh! so strong and grand,
“JT have got the sweetest mother
You can find in all the land.â€
THE CALL OF THE CROW
Caw! caw! caw!
Over the standing corn
The cheery cry is borne—
Caw! caw! caw!
Caw! caw! caw!
Into the school-room door,
Over the clean-swept floor—
Caw! caw! caw!
Caw! caw! caw!
The crow he is free to fly,
But the boy must cipher and sigh—
Caw! caw! caw!
Caw! caw! caw!
And I wish I could go with him
Where the woods are wild and dim—
Caw! caw! caw!
TWo BOYS
“A FELLOW can’t have any fun,â€
Says Harry at the pane;
“T wish the tiresome day were done—
I hate the horrid rain.
That koy looks jolly over there ;
His clothes are nice and old;
I’m sure his mother doesn’t care °
How often he takes cold.â€
“Some fellows do have lots of fun,â€
Sighs Jimmy in the street ;
“Up at the window there is one
Who has enough to eat,
And books to read and clothes to wear,
And pleasant things to see ;
I don’t believe that boy would care
To change awhile with me.â€
THE MERRY WIND
THE merry wind came racing
Adown the hills one day,
In gleeful frolic chasing
The rustling leaves away.
In clouds of red and yellow
He whirled the leaves along,
And then, the jolly fellow,
He sang a cheery song.
The merry wind was weary
At last of fun and play;
His voice grew faint and eerie,
And softly died away.
Far off a crow was calling,
And in the mellow sun
The painted leaves kept falling,
And fading, one by one.
A LITTLE FAIRY
WE have a little fairy,
Who flits about the house,
As gleeful as a cricket,
As quiet as a mouse,
She brings papa his slippers,
She runs up-stairs and down,
The dearest little fairy
In all the busy town.
PICKING BERRIES
Away to the hillside on swift little feet,
Trot quick through the meadows in shad-
ow and sun;
Broad brims and deep crowns over brows
that are sweet,
And round rosy cheeks that are dimpling
with fun.
And home from the hillside on slow little
feet,
With baskets as heavy as faces are bright ;
And who will be first the dear méther to
greet,
And see her surprise and her look of de-
light ?
But she never will dream, by the berries they
bring,
Of the millions they left where the sweet
berries grow,
Away on the hills where the merry birds sing,
And the brook dances down to the valley
below.
109
CAUGHT IN A SHOWER
Ou, where did it come from, I wonder?
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky,
And the first thing I heard was the thunder,
' The first thing I did was to cry.
There goes a bright flash! there’s another!
“I never was caught this way before,
I wish I was home with my mother,
And out of this terrible pour.
A LITTLE MARAUDER
Ou, Robin, my Robin, so clever and merry,
Pray, why do you never peck twice at a
cherry ?
You fly at the daintiest one you can see,
Eat a morsel yourself, and just spoil it for me.
Oh, Robin, sweet Robin, you dear little ware
‘den,
You’re welcome to feast on the fruit in my
garden :
I know what invaders you’re driving away
From flower and tree through the long sum-
mer day.
But, Robin, bright Robin, please listen to
reason :
You waste lots of cherries, my pet, every
season.
I finish my cake to the very last crumb—
Why cannot you finish your cherry or plum?
MUD PIES
SWEETENED with sugar, and sprinkled with
spice,
Apple turn-overs are really nice ;
But make-believe pies are a great deal more
fun,
When little cooks bake them out here in
the sun.
With soft coaxing touches they mix up the
dough—
Brown flour is said to be wholesome, you
know ;
And though little fingers may gather a stain,
Why, water and soap will soon wash them
again.
And after the wonderful baking is done—
The merriest baking out here in the sun—
The sweet little cooks will be happy to take,
If some one will give it, a true slice of cake.
ELSIE’S THANKSGIVING
Do ty, it’s almost Thanksgiving. Do you
know what I mean, my dear?
No? Well, I couldn’t expect it: you haven't
been with us a year.
And you came with my auntie from Paris,
far over the wide, blue sea,
And you'll keep your first Thanksgiving, my
beautiful Dolly, with me.
I'll tell you about it, my darling, for grand-
ma’s explained it all,
So that I understand why Thanksgiving al-
ways comes late in the fall,
When the nuts and the apples are gathered,
and the work in the fields is done,
And the fields, all reaped and silent, are
asleep in the autumn sun.
It is then that we praise our Father, who
sends the rain and the dew,
Whose wonderful loving-kindness is every
morning new ;
H 113
Unless we'd be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we
must sing and pray,
And ‘think about good things, Dolly, when
we keep Thanksgiving-day.
But I like it very much better when from
church we all go home,
And the married brothers and sisters and
‘the troops of cousins come,
And we're ever so long at the table, and
dance and shout and play,
In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends
Thanksgiving-day.
Now let me whisper a secret: I’ve had a,
trouble to bear ;
It has made me feel quite old, dear, and
perfectly crushed with care ;
°Twas about my prettiest kitten, the white
one with spots of black—
I loved her devotedly, Dolly. Ive been
avyfully angry with Faok ;
So mad that I couldn’t forgive him; and I
wouldn’t kiss him good-night,
For he lost my kitty on purppse, shut up in
a bag so tight;
114,
He carried her miles and miles, dear, and
dropped her down in the dark ;
I would not wonder a bit, dear, if he’ took
her. to Centra] Park.
And then he came home to supper, as proud
as a boy could be.
I wonder, Dolly, this minute how he dared -
to be looking at me,
When I called my Kitty and called her,
and of course she didn’t come,
And Jack pored over his Latin as if he
were deaf and dumb.
When I found out what he had done, dear,
it was just like lead in my heart ;
Though mamma is as kind as an angel, I
knew she would take his part.
Suppose Kitty did chase the chickens ?—they
might have kept out of her way.
I've been so sorrowful, Dolly, I've dreaded
Thanksgiving-day.
For I'll never pretend to be good, dear, when
I feel all wrong in my mind;
And as for giying up Kitty, Pm not in the
least resigned.
115
And I’ve known with deep grief, Dolly—
known it a long time back—
That I couldn’t keep Thanksgiving while I
hated my brother Jack.
For you cannot love God and praise Him
when you're cherishing anger this way ;
Ive tried hard to conquer it, Dolly—I gave
Jack two pears to-day ;
I've mended his mittens for himn— Why,
who is this creeping in?
Why, it’s surely my own white kitten, so
tired and grimed and thin!
And now we will keep Thanksgiving—Dolly
and Kitty and I;
I'll go to church in the morning. I’m so
glad, I’m afraid I'll cry.
Oh, Kitty! my lost, my treasure, you have
found your own way back,
And now I'll forget my troubles, and be
friends again with Jack.
OUR LITTLE ECHO
WE have an echo in our house,
An echo three years old,
With dimpled cheeks and wistful eyes,
And hair of sunny gold.
This little echo, soft and sweet,
Repeats what others say,
And trots about on tireless feet,
Up stairs and down all day.
It makes us very careful not
To use a naughty word,
Lest in the echo’s lisping tones
It should again be heard.
Which would be such a dreadful thing,
As any one may see,
Who has an echo in Ais house
A little over three.
THE COMPANY WHO TRY
Yes, I love the little winner
With the medal and the mark;
He has gained the prize he sought for,
He is joyous as a lark.
Every one will haste to praise him,
He is on the honor list ;
Ive a tender thought, my darlings,
For the one who tried, and missed.
One? Ah, me! They count by thousands,
Those who have not ‘gained thé race,
Though they did their best and fairest,
Striving for the winner’s place.
Only few can reach the laurel,
- Many see their chance flit by ;
I've a tender thought, my darlings,
For the earnest band who try.
°Tis the trying that is noble.
If you’re made of sterner stuff
Than the laggards who are daunted
When the bit of road is rough,
118
All will praise the happy winners ;
But, when they have hurried by,
I’ve a song to cheer, my darlings,
The great company who try.
‘
WORK FOR LITTLE FOLLOWERS
TuEReE’s always work in plenty for little
hands to do.
Something waiting every day, that none may
try but you;
Little burdens you may lift, happy steps that
you may take,
Heavy hearts that you may comfort for the
blessed Saviour’s sake,
There’s room for children’s service in this
busy world of ours ;
We need them as we need the birds and
need the summer flowers;
And their help at task and toiling the
Church of God may claim,
And gather little followers 7 Jesus’ holy
name.
There are words for little lips, sweetest
words of hope and cheer ;
They will have the spell of music for many
a tired ear.
120
Don’t you wish your gentle words might
lead some souls to look above,
Finding rest and peace and guidance in the
dear Redeemer’s love? -
There are orders meant for you, swift and
jubilant they ring,
Oh, the bliss of being trusted on the errands
of the King!
Fearless march in royal service; not an evil
can befall
Those who do the gracious bidding, hasting
at the Master’s call.
There are songs which children only are glad
enough to sing—
Songs that are full of sunshine -as the sun-
niest hour of spring.
Won't you sing them till our sorrows seem
the easier to bear,
As we feel how safe we’re sheltered in our
blessed Saviour’s care ?
Yes, there’s always work in plenty for the
little ones to do,
Something waiting every day that none may
try but you ;
121
Little burdens you may lift, happy steps that
you may take,
Heavy hearts that you may comfort, doing it
for Jesus’ sake.
A FELLOW’S MOTHER
“A FELLOW’s mother,†said Will the wise,
’ With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes,
“Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt
By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the
dirt. ,
“A fellow’s mother has bags and strings,
Rags and buttons, and lots of things ;
No matter how busy she is, she'll stop
To see how well you can spin your top.
“She does not care—not much, I mean—
If a fellow’s face is not always clean;
And if your trousers are torn at the knee,
She can put in a patch that you'd never see.
“A fellow’s mother is never mad,
And only sorry, if you’re bad;
And I'll tell you this: if you’re only true,
She’ll always forgive you, whate’er you do.
123
~ “Tm sure of this,†said Will the wise,
With a manly look in his laughing eyes ;
“Tl mind my mother, quick, every day—
A fellow’s a baby that won’t obey.â€
WHERE THE TROLLS ARE BUSY
Wuere the trolls are busy,
Underneath the snow,
There is stirring, there is whirring,
Of flowers that yet will blow.
The little trolls are spinning
The crocus garments gay,
Cups of honey, colors sunny,
To see the light one day.
Beneath the great oak’s foot, dears,
And by the frozen stream,
On her pillow Pussywillow
Is waking from a dream.
For, oh! the trolls are busy,
When wintry breezes blow,
Weaving flowers for summer hours,
Deep down beneath the snow.
GIRLS OF THE PERIOD
TueEy tell me ’twas the fashion,
Oh, long and long ago,
For girls to look like lilies white,
And sit at home and sew.
Forth strode their sturdy brothers,
On many a gallant quest ;
But the maids behind the lattice
Their weary souls possessed.
To-day the times have altered,
And pretty Kate and Nell
Are playing golf and tennis—
In sooth, they do it ‘well.
They ride across the country,
They climb the mountain side,
And with oars that feather lightly
Along the rivers glide.
If they've not yet been to college,
They are going, by-and-by,
To shake the tree of knowledge,
Though its branches touch the sky.
126
For all their Greek and Latin,
And poring over books,
With faces smooth as satin,
They keep their dainty looks.
_ Do you want a happy comrade,
Wherever you. may be? /
Be sure you'll find her quickly
. Where a troop of girls you see.
She'll keep that bright head steady,
Unharmed in any whirl,
And not a lad will love her less
Because she is a girl.
AFTER THE MATCH
Botu Nines could not beat, of course !
One must be the winner !
Shouting till our throats were hoarse,
Home we went to dinner.
And the little sister there
Met the Nine defeated
With so very sweet an air,
All their gloom retreated.
_©Oh, such meanness !â€â€ she exclaimed ;
“Why, your game was splendid.
Everybody felt ashamed
At the way it ended.
“You were fine!†she firmly said,
_ Beaming on her brothers ;
“Such a fuss! she shook her head,
“Just about the others!â€
JOE
BriGcuT brown eyes and tangled hair,
Rosy cheek beneath the tan,
Fearless head on shoulders square—
That is Joe, the little man,
Helping mother all he can. _
Father is away at sea
(Oh, the vessel tarries long !)
Lonely’ would the cottage be,
Many a weary day go wrong,
But for Joe, with shout and song.
Rough the weather, fierce the gales,
Wild ‘the nights upon the shore:
Oft the dear wife’s courage fails,
When she hears the breakers roar,
Lest her sailor come no more.
Joe, with lion heart and leal,
Tells her it is safe outside ;
That the deep sea does not feel
All the troubles of the tide;
That the good ship safe will ride.
129
Mother heeds her comforter :
He is only eight years old,
But his earnest words to her
Are as rubies set in gold—
Precious with: a worth untold.
A LOST CHRISTMAS
LirTLe Guapys lost her Christmas
Just a year ago,
When the world was bright with holly,
And glittering white with snow.
A hateful Fever Dragon,
With footsteps like a mouse,
All in the dead of night, my dears,
Crept softly through the house.
The dragon’s wicked art, dears,
Caught Gladys in a spell,
And in a tower’s very top
For weeks she had to dwell,
The doctor quarantined her,
And cut off her golden hair ;
And never a sound of Christmas
Stole up her guarded stair.
At last the strong health-angels
Came winging from the sky,
And before their breath of life, dears,
The fiend was fain to fly.
131
But spring, with birds and flowers,
Tripped down the hills amain
Before our little darling
Was safe and well again.
And thus she lost her Christmas !
It was so very sad,
To be lying ill with fever
When all the world was glad.
Not any Christmas pleasure,
But weary hours of pain ;
Forgotten, to be sure, dears,
When the child was well again.
This year, her happy mother,
With eyes that shine for joy,
Has planned a double Christmas,
With doll, and tree, and toy,
And a lovely Christmas party,
And a merry. Christmas play,
To make her precious treasure,
If possible, twice gay.
“Two Christmas days in one, dear,
Because of that you lost,
When the cruel fever burned you,
And in bed you raved and tossed.â€
“But zot all to myself, please ?â€â€™
Our little Gladys said,
132
For the Christ-child in His wisdom
The little maiden led.
A hospital for children,
Where little ones are brought
In sickness and in suffering,
Our Gladys has in thought.
There many a tiny cot, dears,
Will have its share’ of joy
From Gladys this dear Christmas,
In flower, and doll, and toy.
So *twas not wholly lost, dears,
Last year that Christmas-day,
Though the Christmas angels tarried
So long upon the way.
There are little faces beaming,
And eyes alight with cheer,
For a Christmas shared with Gladys
This happy, happy year.
A CHILD’S PUZZLES
Pray, where do the Old Years go, mamma,
When their work is over and done?
Does somebody tuck them away to sleep,
Quite out of the sight of the sun?
Or, perhaps, are they shut into crystal jars
And set away on a shelf,
In a beautiful closet behind the stars,
Each Year in a place by itself?
Was there ever a year that made a mistake,
And stayed when its time was o’er,
Till it had to hurry its poor old feet,
When the New Year knocked at the door?
I wish you a happy New Year, mamma—
I am sure new things are nice—
And this one comes with a merry face,
And plenty of snow and ice.
But I only wish I had kept awake
Till the Old Year made his bow,
For what he said when the clock struck
twelve
_I shall never find out now.
134
Do you think he was tired and glad to rest?
Do ‘you think that he said good-bye,
Or faded away alone in the dark,
Without so much as a sigh?
Do I bother you now? Must I run away?
Why, that’s what you always say ;
The New Year’s just the same as the Old—
I might as well go and play.
Oh, look at those sparrows, so pert and spry !
They are waiting to get their crumbs.
For the New Year's sake they shall have
some cake,
And I hope theyll fight for the plums.
AT EASTER
I DID not grow tired of winter, ©
I was glad of the snow and the cold;
I liked the weather when flake and feather
Were flying o’er field and wold;
But now I am glad of the sunshine
That is calling the robins back,
Of the beautiful flowers, the long bright
hours, |
And the bloom in the spring-time’s track.
I am making a splendid garden
With the plants that I love best ;
There sparrows will quarrel o’er mint and
laurel,
And orioles hang a nest.
I shall bring from the deep old forest
All fairylike things I see,
And trooping after, with song and laughter,
The fairies will follow me.
I have heard that Mother Nature,
A dame so wise and kind, *
136
Is always spinning a sweet beginning
For the lives she keeps in mind.
She tends the snow-drop hardy,
And the jonquil’s merry race,
She lines her pillows with pussy-willows,
And kisses the pansy’s face.
You see I am just eleven,
I have lots of things to do;
And all our learning is well worth earning,
If what folks tell be true. :
I am glad, so glad, ’tis Easter,
When the tiny bluebells chime ;
But, somehow, eleven is so near heaven,
I-am happy "most all the time.
THE LITTLE GREEN BEDS
THERE are little green beds in many a row
On our hill-sides fair and our valleys low,
And, lying still in their hollows deep,
The gallant soldiers are fast asleep.
Oh, gently we tread when we pass a mound,
Which, under the flag, is holy ground.
And over our country, here and there,
Those little green beds grow bright and fair
When the May flowers drop in the lap of
June,
And sweet in the pastures the wild bees croon.
With banner and bugle and beat of drum,
To honor the brave the people come.
They come with the roses red and white,
And the starry lilies as pure as light ;
They scatter the blossoms everywhere,
And the perfume thrills on the sighing air
As they wreathe with beauty each lowly
mound
That, under the flag, is holy ground.
138
O children, glad as the summer skies,
With your dancing dimples and laughing
eyes,
Little you dream of the wild work done
Ere the soldiers’ rest in these beds was won ;
And you only know that here brave ones lie
Fast asleep as the years go by.
Nothing they heed of the work or play
Of the busy world in the merry May.
Though life was sweet to the hero band,
They died for love of our native land ;
And so we garland each lowly mound
That, under the flag, is holy ground.
THE SNOW-FLAKE
Ir was a little snow-flake
With tiny winglets furled ;
Its warm cloud-mother held it fast
Above the sleeping world.
"All night the wild winds blustered
And blew o’er land and sea,
But the little snow-flake cuddled close,
As safe as safe could be.
Then came the cold, gray morning.
And the great cloud-mother said,
“ Now every little snow-flake
Must proudly lift its head,
And through the air go sailing,
Till it finds a place to alight,
For I must weave a coverlet
To clothe the world in white.â€
The little snow-flake fluttered
And gave a wee, wee sigh,
But fifty million other flakes
Came softly floating by.
140
And the wise cloud-mothers sent them
To keep the world’s bread warm,
Through many a winter sunset,
And many a night of storm.
THE LITTLE “FRESH-AIRSâ€
" Wuar shall we show them, the little Fresh-
Airs,
When out to the country they come from
town?
Why, the swallow’s nest and the oriole’s
breast,
And the fan-tailed pigeons gray and
brown,
The fluffy chicks and their clucking mother,
The little colt with his slender legs,
The lambkins, one just like another,
And the nooks in the barn where we hunt
for eggs.
Where will they sleep, the little Fresh-Airs,
In a hurry to get to their beds at night,
After a day of the merriest play—
A day that they say is “out of sight�
They will sleep in little white beds as soft
As the down that ruffles the goose’s throat;
142
[Page 142
THE LITTLE FRESH-AIRS
The pillows that wait for their drowsy heads
Will float them off in the dreamland’s
boat.
What shall we teach them, the little Fresh- *
Airs,
As they sit at our table and eat our food?
We will try to behave by the rule He gave
Who taught the world to be kind and
good.
And it wouldn’t be strange should our
mothers, think, .
When the small Fresh-Airs had said
good-bye,
We could be as ready, as prompt and steady,
As our guests themselves if we'd only try.
TO-DAY
WHEN is the golden time? you ask—
The golden time for love;
The time when earth is green beneath,
And skies are blue above ;
The time for sturdy health and strength,
The time for happy play.
When is the golden hour? you ask ;
I answer you, “ To-day.â€
To-day, that from the Maker’s hand
Slips on the great world sea
As stanch as ever ship that launched
To sail eternally ;
To-day, that wafts to you and me
A breath of Eden’s prime, —
That greets us, glad and large and free—
It is our golden time.
For Yesterday hath veiled her face,
And gone as far away
As sands that swept the pyramids
In Egypt’s ancient day.
144
No man shall look on Yesterday,
Or tryst with her again.
Forever gone her toils, her prayers,
Her conflicts, and cher pain.
To-morrow is not ours to hold;
May never come to bless
Or blight our lives with weal or ill,
With gladness or distress ;
No man shall clasp To-morrow’s hand,
Nor catch her on the way ;
For when we reach To-morrow’s land,
She'll be, by then, To-day.
You ask me for the golden time—
I bid you “seize the hour,â€
And fill it full of earnest work,
While yet you have the power.
To-day the golden time for joy
Beneath the household eaves ;
To-day the royal time for work,
For “bringing in the sheaves.â€
To-day the golden time for peace,
For righting olden feuds ;
For sending forth from every heart
Whatever sin intrudes ;
145
To-day the time to consecrate
Your life to God above ;
To-day the time to banish hate,
The golden time for love.
A NEW YEAR
Jusr at the turn of the midnight,
When the children are fast asleep,
The tired Old Year slips out by himself,
Glad of a chance to be laid on the shelf,
And the New Year takes a peep
At the beautiful world that is waiting
For the hours that he will bring:
For the wonderful things in his peddler’s
pack ;
Weather, all sorts, there will be no lack,
. And many a marvellous thing.
Flowers, by hosts and armies,
Stars and sunshine and rain!
The merry times and the sorrowful times,
Quickstep and jingle and dirge and chimes,
And the weaving of joy and pain.
When the. children wake in the morning,
Shouting their “Happy New Year,â€
147
The year will be started well on his way,
Swinging along through his first white day,
With the path before him clear.
a
Twelve long months for his journey ;
Fifty-two weeks of a spell; .
At the end of it all he'll slip out by himself,
Glad of a chance to be laid on the shelf,
At the stroke of the midnight bell.
THE END
By MRS. SANGSTER
ON THE ROAD Home. Poems. By
MarGARET E. SANGSTER. With Four
Illustrations. 16mo, Cloth, Ornament-
al, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $1 25.
Exquisite little melodies. . . . The musical
rhythm of Mrs, Sangster’s lines and the sym-
pathetic simplicity of her subjects have en-
deared the authoress to all classes of readers. —
Philadelphia Ledger.
Mrs. Sangster’s poems appeal to the general
reader by their winning tone, their sympathetic
ring, their depth of pathos at times, their helpful
aim, and graceful expression.—/ewish AZes-
senger, N.Y.
Mrs, Sangster is among the best of our living
poets. She has the genuine poetic feeling and
insight. Her verse abounds in a devout and
simple religious faith.— Boston Traveller.
Mrs. Sangster’s verses are unaffected, kindly
in thought and feeling, and are sure to find
many readers. Some of them display a pretty
fancy, but more of them disclose what is still
better—a warm heart.—/V. Y. Times.
PusiisHep By HARPER & BROTHERS, New York
OF The above work ts for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent
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By WILL CARLETON
Will Carleton’s ballads deal with simple
country folk, in simple and homely style ; but
of their kind they are genuine transcripts of
nature, admirable gezve pictures from life. All
of them exhibit an originality of conception and
power of execution which entitle the author to
claim rank as a master in this field of poetic
literature.—WV. Y. Evening Post,
RHYMES OF OUR PLANET. Illustrated.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (About
Ready.) :
FARM BALLADS, City BALLADS.
Farm LEGENDS. City LEGENDS.
FarM FESTIVALS. Ciry FESTIVALS.
Six Volumes, Square 8vo, Illustrated. Ornamental Cloth,
$2 00; Gilt Edges, $2 50; Full Seal, $4 00.
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By GEORGE DU MAURIER
TritBy.. A Novel. Illustrated by the
Author. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornament-
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Three-quarter Crushed Levant, $4 50.
It is a charming story told with exquisite
grace and tenderness.—/. Y. 77ibune.
One of the most unconventional and charm-
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It is a thoroughly unique story, and once
begun it is not put down until it is finished,—
N.Y. Sun.
‘ Trilby†suggests so much and furnishes
forth such a vast deal of delight, that it is a
book hard to describe or even to talk about.
—Hartford Courant.
PETER IBBETSON. With an Introduction
by his Cousin, Lady * * * * * (“* Madge
Plunketâ€). Edited and Illustrated by
GEORGE DU MAURIER. Post 8vo,
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That it is one of the most remarkable books
that have appeared for a long time is, however,
indisputable.—V. Y. Tribune.
One or two more such books, and the fame
of the artist would be dim beside that of the
novelist.--V. V. Evening Post.
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By RICHARD: HARDING DAVIS
THE PRINCESS ALINE. ‘A Story. Illus-
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_ Cloth, Ornameittal, $1°25.
THE EXILEs, AND OTHER STORIES. Il-
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OuR ENGLISH COUSINS. Illustrated.
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VAN BIBBER, AND OTHERS. Illustrated.
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THE WEST FROM A CAR-WINDOW. II-
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