THE CHRISTMAS CHILD
AND OTHER VERSE FOR CHILDREN
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS SECRETS (_page 27_)]
THE CHRISTMAS CHILD
AND OTHER
VERSE FOR CHILDREN
BY
NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH
AUTHOR OF “THE HOME-MADE KINDERGARTEN,” “THREE LITTLE MARYS,”
“UNDER THE CACTUS FLAG,” ETC.
_With Illustrations_
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1920
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO MY MOTHER
(_A Christmas Wish_)
This is the day of the Mother and Child,
Of Blessed Babe and of Mary mild;
Centuries old yet eternally young,
Chanted in praises of every tongue,--
Lily divine of Motherhood,
Child who has taught us Brotherhood!
This is the season of Mother and Child,--
Then let me wish for thee, mother mild,
Who of thy love didst bring me here,
Gave me this life that I hold so dear,
All that thy heart can treasure,
Joy beyond earthly measure!
“_And I, for one, would much rather,
Could I merit so sweet a thing,
Be the poet of little children
Than the laureate of a king._”
LUCY LARCOM
Acknowledgments are made to the following periodicals in which these
little verses for children first appeared: _The Ladies’ Home Journal_,
_The Outlook_, _The Interior_, _Little Folks_, _The Kindergarten and
First Grade_, _The Housewife_, _The Churchman_, _American Primary
Teacher_, _The Continent_, _John Martin’s Book_, _Mother’s Magazine_,
_Woman’s Home Companion_, _Sunday School Times_, _Youth’s Companion_,
_Woman’s World_, _Table Talk_, _Journal of Education_, _St. Nicholas_,
_Young People’s Weekly_, _The Primary School_, _The Ladies’ World_.
Also to Doubleday, Page and Company and Houghton Mifflin Company for
permission to use verses which have appeared in their publications.
CONTENTS
TO MY MOTHER (A CHRISTMAS WISH) v
THE CHRISTMAS CHILD 1
THE CHRISTMAS TRAVELERS 2
SANTA CLAUS IS COMING! 4
NEIGHBORS OF THE CHRIST-NIGHT 6
THE BENEVOLENT GNOME 8
THE CHRIST-CANDLE 11
THE GOOD FIR-TREE 13
A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS CAROL 15
THE GOOD SHIP SANTA CLAUS 16
GRACE FOR CHRISTMAS EVE 19
CHRISTMAS HELPERS 20
A CHRISTMAS ACROSTIC 23
THE MAN IN THE MOON 24
TO A CHILD ON CHRISTMAS 26
CHRISTMAS SECRETS 27
HOW THE CHRIST-FLOWER BLOOMED 29
A DEAR LITTLE BOY 32
“L’OISEAU DE DIEU” 35
CHRISTMAS IN NORWAY 37
THE HAUGHTY ASPEN 40
REMEMBER! 42
A NEW YEAR’S SONG 44
THE BOASTFUL SNOWFLAKE 46
THE GOOSE FAIR AT WARSAW 47
THE FAIRY RING 49
I WONDER! 52
EVERYBODY’S BABY 54
WHICH IS THE ROYAL BABY? 56
FLOWER SONG 58
SWEET SLEEP 59
THE MAKING OF THE FLAG 60
THE ANSWER OF THE FLAG 63
PROTECT THE FLAG 66
A COLLAR OF HONOR 67
THE CHILDREN’S SHIP 69
SOLDIER OR SLACKER 71
LEARNING TO KNIT 72
THE TIMID OYSTER 74
DINNER-TIME 76
THE WANDERING EELS 78
EASTER BLOSSOMS 81
THE LIFE-PRESERVERS 82
TALKING THROUGH THE HAT 84
THE DAY OF THE DOG 88
MEADOW TALK 91
KNOCKING ON WOOD 94
THE ROBIN AND THE ANGLEWORM 96
THE JOLLY DUGONG 98
THE DANDIFIED MANATEE 101
YOUNG SUNDAY HAT 103
THE LOLLIPOP BUSH 106
DIFFERENCE IN TASTES 108
THE WORD OF A GENTLEMAN 109
NO MAN’S LAND 112
KAMATU SAN AND ’LIZABETH ANN 114
THE LITTLE ’PRENTICE LAD 116
THE SUNFLOWER’S STORY 120
A BANANA STORY 122
SONG OF THE CARNAHUBA PALM 124
LITTLE DORRIT’S PLAYGROUND 127
THE THREAD-AND-NEEDLE TREE 129
PEDDLING POETRY 132
THE LITTLE ARTIST 135
THE FEAST OF THE DOLL 138
THE FEAST OF ARMS 139
THE FEAST OF LAUGHTER 141
THE DOLL’S CALENDAR 144
ILLUSTRATIONS
CHRISTMAS SECRETS _Frontispiece_
THE PRESENTS HE BOUGHT WERE A WONDERFUL SIGHT 8
“GO STAND THOU IN THE FROZEN MOON!” 24
THE GEESE ARE TROOPING TO WARSAW 48
HE IS GRAVELY SALUTED BY EACH BOLD MARINE 68
TALKING THROUGH THE HAT 84
“MY PITCHER! WILL YOU MEND IT, SIR?” 110
THE FEAST OF THE DOLL 138
The first two illustrations are redrawn from _John Martin’s Book, the
Child’s Magazine_, the third from _Little Folks_, and the others from
_St. Nicholas_, all with the kind permission of the editors.
THE CHRISTMAS CHILD
The Christmas child is a lovely child,
Though he be not fair of face,
For his heart is full of generous thoughts
And his eyes are full of grace.
The Christmas child is a helpful child,
Howsoever poor he live;
For his ears are lent to his brother’s need,
And his hands outstretched to give.
THE CHRISTMAS TRAVELERS[1]
(A CHRISTMAS PROCESSIONAL)
I
To seek the Babe of Bethlehem,
Three Kings of Orient came;
Wise Baltasar and Melchior,
With Gaspar, great in fame.
Across the lonely desert
They took their trackless way,
To find their King and worship Him
That wondrous Christmas Day.
A heav’nly guide their Lord did send,
A radiant jewel-star,
Serene and bright it journey’d on,
And sent its rays afar.
Around the shepherds as they lay,
It shed its glorious light;
The angels came in multitude,
And fill’d the sky of night.
“Good-will,” they sang, “to ev’ry man
And glory in the height.”
II
To seek the Babe of Bethlehem,
We come this Christmas Day,
A pilgrim band, our Promis’d Land,
The Manger where He lay.
No splendid robes enfold us,
No regal gifts we bring,
With simple faith we celebrate
The birthday of our King.
Oh, star divine, still shine on us,
Still let thy radiance burn,
Till into David’s city
Our lowly footsteps turn!
There, like the shepherds, wondering,
We’ll worship, kneeling still;
There, like the angel multitude,
Our song the heavens fill,
And tell the birth of peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.
FOOTNOTE
[1] Music from Mendelssohn, Opus 72, No. 1.
SANTA CLAUS IS COMING!
Up among the chimneys high,
Hark the merry sound!
The reindeer’s tramp, the ring of bells,
All the city round.
Santa Claus is coming with his pack of toys,
Santa Claus is coming to his girls and boys.
Santa Claus is coming; he’ll be welcome here,
For he only comes to see us once a year!
Clad in fur from head to foot,
Warm and soft he goes,
With silver hair and dimpled chin,
Cheek that’s like a rose.
Santa Claus is coming with his pack of toys,
Santa Claus is coming to his girls and boys.
Santa Claus is coming; he’ll be welcome here,
For he only comes to see us once a year!
Stop the sleigh, the reindeer halt!
We are waiting here,
And every stocking’s hanging up,
Come down, Santa dear!
Santa Claus is coming with his pack of toys,
Santa Claus is coming to his girls and boys.
Santa Claus is coming; he’ll be welcome here,
For he only comes to see us once a year!
NEIGHBORS OF THE CHRIST-NIGHT
_Remember, little dearest one,
The beasts on Christmas Day,
And give to each his bite and sup,
To each his meed of hay,
For so it was on the Christ-night._
Deep in the shelter of the cave,
The ass with drooping head
Stood weary in the shadow, where
His master’s hand had led.
About the manger oxen lay,
Bending a wide-eyed gaze
Upon the little new-born Babe,
Half worship, half amaze.
High in the roof the doves were set,
And cooed there, soft and mild,
Yet not so sweet as in the hay,
The Mother to her Child.
The gentle cows breathed fragrant breath
To keep Babe Jesus warm,
While loud and clear, o’er hill and dale,
The cocks crowed, “Christ is born!”
Out in the fields, beneath the stars,
The young lambs sleeping lay,
And dreamed that in the manger slept
Another, white as they.
These were Thy neighbors, Christmas Child
To Thee their love was given,
For in Thy baby face there shone
The wonder-light of Heaven.
THE BENEVOLENT GNOME
An elderly gnome of benevolent turn
And master of treasures untold,
Once lived in a forest and guarded his mines
And stored up his jewels and gold.
Alone lived the gnome and no kindred had he,
No gnomelets to hand down his name;
No creature to cheer him, not even a cat,
No housemates to praise him or blame.
And Christmas was coming!
With none could he share,
No tree could he help to adorn,
No stocking replenish, no storeroom refill!
Was ever a gnome more forlorn?
But sudden one morning he happened to think,
Though kin in the wood he had none,
Yet neighbors in feathers and neighbors in fur
Were plenty as motes in the sun.
“The fox,” thought the gnome,
“What a joy it would be
To give him a plan of each farm,
A guide to each hen-roost adjoining his den
And thus to protect him from harm.
The owl,” he thought, “is an excellent bird
Though somewhat addicted to gloom.
I’ll buy him a grammar and teach him to say
No longer ‘To who!’ but ‘To whom!’
“The squirrel is restless. Some potion or balm
Would quiet his nerves for a space;
A bottle of tonic would pleasure the fish
And set their cold blood in a race.
A cheese for the wood-mice I’ll quickly procure;
A string of gay beads for the crow;
Some greens for the rabbit, some furs for the snake,
And skis for the buck and the doe.”
With bark for his notebook, a thorn for his pen,
His list was soon plainly writ down,
And, clinking his money in holiday mood,
Our hero set out for the town.
The presents he bought were a wonderful sight,
They hung from each tree in the wood;
No beast was forgotten, no matter how small,
No bird, were he evil or good.
The elderly gnome of benevolent turn
No longer was lonely or sad;
In sharing with others he’d found his content,
In gladdening, he was made glad.
[Illustration: THE PRESENTS HE BOUGHT WERE A WONDERFUL SIGHT]
THE CHRIST-CANDLE
A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS EVE
I
’Tis Holy Night in the hamlet olden,
Darkness lowers her curtain down;
With fingers of sleep the eyes are holden,
Naught is awake in the dreaming town.
Shineth one light in a cottage window,
Set for the Christ-child’s tender feet,
Lest that they stumble, lest that they falter,
Passing to-night thro’ the silent street.
Shine, sweet light, from thy humble dwelling,
Brightly beam on the toilsome way;
Long must he journey--the darling Christ-child--
Far and far has he still to stray.
II
The world is asleep and the world is weary,
Scarce it remembers the Holy Night;
Error and wretchedness, sinful, dreary,
Cover and darken the spirit-sight.
Stay not to come to us, blesséd Christ-child,
Tho’ we be slumbering, tho’ we forget,
Tho’ they be scanty, the lights that await thee,
Heavenly Messenger, stay not yet!
Here is my light in my true heart’s window,
Angel of Christmastide, come to me;
If thou wilt enter so lowly a chamber,
Here shall thy home and thy shelter be.
THE GOOD FIR-TREE
There were two little fir-trees that happened to grow
In the shade of the forest wide,
And one was a good tree and one was as bad
As you’d find in a day-long ride.
He never would listen, he never would mind
The words of the motherly tree;
And it needn’t surprise you to learn he was soon
As crooked as crooked could be.
The good little fir-tree delighted to hear
The counsels of wisdom that fell
From the myriad lips of the motherly tree,
And he pondered them all right well.
“Strike deep with your rootlets,” the mother advised;
“Hold firmly your head in the air;
There are wonderful things that may happen to come
To a fir-tree that’s perfect and fair.”
The bad little sapling was sulky and rude;
He said a fine tree never grew
In such a deep shade as that tangled-up wood;
He was bound to be crooked, he knew.
His needles they withered; he blighted at heart;
And his fate at the end it was dire;
For they pulled him up bodily, rootlet and crown.
And they used him to kindle the fire!
But oh, the good fir-tree, he never had hoped
And scarce could believe such a thing--
The children discovered his place in the wood
And round him they danced in a ring.
They carried him homeward, and--what do you think?--
’Twas the happiest lot that could be,--
And fairest of fortunes that ever befell--
Why, they made him a Christmas Tree!
A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS CAROL
What is the fairest Christmas gift
A little child can bring?
A heart, as pure and white as plume
That drops from angel’s wing.
Oh, glad hearts sing,
And joy bells ring,
In the bright December weather.
What is the sweetest Christmas song
A little child can sing?
A song of love, of heavenly love,
That flows for everything.
Oh, glad hearts sing,
And joy bells ring,
In the bright December weather.
What is the dearest Christmas tune
The belfry chimes can ring?
A birthday carol they can sound,
The birthday of the King.
Oh, glad hearts sing,
And joy bells ring,
In the bright December weather.
THE GOOD SHIP SANTA CLAUS
Let’s take a shiny airship and let’s name it Santa Claus,
And go a-whisking off across the blue,
And let’s do a lot of errands for the very best of saints,
Who hasn’t time for all he wants to do.
There are polar bears complaining up among the northern snows
That they haven’t any honey for their cubs;
And mother mermaids moaning on the bottom of the sea
’Cause they have to do their washing without tubs.
There are mud-larks by the dozen who, I’m credibly informed,
Have never had a chance to lark in mud,
And sea cows ruminating where the water grasses grow,
Who have never had a new taste for their cud.
There are monkeys in menageries who tell me that it’s years
Since they had a single cocoanut to throw,
And that as for tails prehensile, they have nothing to prehense,
So the object’s a deception and a show.
There are jackdaws kept in cages with no single thing to steal,
And you know a daw would rather steal than eat;
There are kangaroos with pouches just as empty as a gourd
Who’d be pleased to fill them up with something sweet;
And centipedes who should, by rights, have long ago been shod,
Who’ve never even seen a boot or shoe,
And owls who keep protesting that they wouldn’t be so dull
If they only had a lesson-book or two.
And we shan’t forget the parrots, who with beaks designed to hook,
Never had an hour’s fishing in their days,
Nor the bats, who, if they’d spectacles that really fitted well,
Would travel in more reputable ways.
What ho! What ho! the Santa Claus! Swoop down from out the sky!
We’re ready with our bundles. Heave ahoy!
Stand fast and pack her solid to the very outer rim,
And tuck in every chink a Christmas toy.
As we skim across the water we will drop the presents in
For those who dare not venture on the land.
And when we reach the forest, we will hang them on the trees
And mark them so the least can understand.
What ho! What ho! the Santa Claus! The time is growing short--
Pull all the anchors up and let her go!
No beast must be forgotten from the East unto the West,
Nor from land of southern sun to land of snow.
GRACE FOR CHRISTMAS EVE[2]
The Baby born in Bethlehem
A sorry shelter had,
While we, who gather here to-night
Are warm and softly clad.
The Baby born in Bethlehem
Was fed on humble fare,
And yet our board is richly spread
With dainty food and rare.
Our beds are downy-smooth and white,
He slumbered in the hay;
’Tis good that we remember this,
Each blesséd Christmas Day.
And good that we remember, too,
To pay our thanks and praise
To Heavenly Love that brought us here
And gave this Day of Days.
FOOTNOTE
[2] From dramatic version of _The Birds’ Christmas Carol_, by Kate
Douglas Wiggin.
CHRISTMAS HELPERS
I went to the forest and asked of the trees,
As bowing and swaying, they bent to the breeze,
“Now, tell me, my brothers, now, tell, if you please,
Just what can you do for Christmas?”
And straightway they answered, the dark, lofty trees
As spicy and fragrant, they waved in the breeze,
“We’re trying our best to grow tall, if you please,
We’re trying to grow for Christmas!”
I passed by the draper’s and saw in a box,
Such masses of stockings, both plain and with clocks;
And eager I asked them, “My sweet little socks,
Now what will you do for Christmas?”
And straightway they answered from out of their box,
Those stout-footed stockings, both plain and with clocks,--
“We’ll try to fulfill the first duty of socks,--
We’ll try to keep whole for Christmas!”
I entered the toy shop and said to the toys--
Such wonderful treasures for girls and for boys!
“You dear, pretty playthings, you holiday joys,
Pray, what will you do for Christmas?”
And straightway they answered, those shining new toys,
Those marvelous presents for girls and for boys,
“To play with a child is the chief of our joys;
We’ll visit them all on Christmas.”
To cloudland I wandered and asked of the snow,
As dancing and whirling, it sped to and fro,
“Now, tell me, fair snowflakes,--I long so to know,
Just what are your plans for Christmas!”
And straightway they answered, the soft flakes of snow,
As circling and floating, they flew to and fro,
“We think we should do the best thing, do you know,
If we fell thick and white for Christmas.”
I climbed to the belfry and questioned the bell,
All murm’ring with sound, like the heart of a shell,
“Now, tell me, my silver-tongue, truthfully tell,
What song will you sing on Christmas?”
And straightway the resonant voice of the bell
All vibrant with sound like a tropical shell,
Replied, “The glad message I’ll joyfully tell,
I’ll ring the Good News on Christmas!”
I asked of the tapers, the stars and each light
That blooms in the heavenly garden of night:--
“Now, tell me, ye shining ones, lovely and bright,
What best can you do for Christmas?”
And straightway they answered, star, taper and light,
All blooming and fair in the garden of night;--
“O’er land and o’er ocean, we’ll beam clear and bright,
We’ll shine out our best for Christmas!”
A CHRISTMAS ACROSTIC
C arollers singing at morning gray;
H olly and ivy in brave array;
R inging of bells in the tow’r aloft,
I ncense below and a chanting soft,--
S o should it be on Christmas!
T elling the tale of the Wonderful Child,
M ary, his worshiping Mother mild,
A ngels adoring in Heav’n above
S inging their praises of infinite love,
_So should it be on Christmas,
Ever should be on Christmas!_
THE MAN IN THE MOON
(_A German Folk-Tale_)
In Germany, the story goes,
Once lived a thieving peasant,
Who pilfered from his neighbor’s stores
What to his taste was pleasant.
All in a garden, near at hand,
Some cabbages were growing,
And forth he slipped, one Christmas Eve,
No shame, no reverence, knowing,
To fill his basket in the dark,
When none abroad were going.
He still was pulling, might and main,
His greediness unbounded,
When on the hard and frosty road
A horse’s tramp resounded.
White shone the steed, the rider white,
His face showed many a wrinkle;
Low bent the thief, for silver-bright
The stars began to twinkle.
“’Tis good Saint Nicholas!” he cried,
“I hear his hand-bell tinkle!”
The stately Bishop drew his rein--
He spied the peasant hiding;
“’Tis Holy Christmas Eve,” called he,
“Thy guilt’s the more abiding!
Go stand thou in the frozen moon,
And come thou downward never!
So long as earth lasts, nothing shall
Thee and thy booty sever!”
* * * * *
Still in the moon the culprit dwells,
’Mid cabbages forever!
[Illustration: “GO STAND THOU IN THE FROZEN MOON!”]
TO A CHILD ON CHRISTMAS
(ACROSTIC)
C hildren should on Christmas be
H and in hand around a tree.
R inging voices should resound
I n a carol’s joyful round,
S inging of the Baby born
T o the world on Christmas morn.
M usic such as this can say
A ll glad things in gladdest way;
S ongs of love on Christmas Day!
CHRISTMAS SECRETS
I just love secrets; it’s such fun
To hint and whisper, hide and run,
And Christmas time of all the year
Is just when there’s the greatest fear
That folks will find out what you’re doin’
And bring your plans to rack and ruin.
My Christmas shoppin’--it’s all done
And presents bought for every one.
Nobody knows exceptin’ me
What all the things are goin’ to be.
They’re always askin’, but I say:
“You’d better wait till Christmas Day!”
I’ve bought my father somethin’ white
And thin and smooth; you fold it tight
And in your pocket is its house;
It snuggles there just like a mouse.
I told my father all of this,
But he says _he_ can’t guess what ’tis!
My mother’s present is to wear,
There’s two of it, it’s called a pair;
It’s smooth and shiny, black and white,
It goes by day and goes by night.
My mother guessed a bird, with wings--
When ever did you hear such things!
I bought my sister somethin’ red,
You tie it tight around your head;
It’s silky-smooth as any rose.
What can it be, do you suppose?
My sister guessed a bathin’ hat--
As if I’d give a thing like that!
They’re not good guessers, though they’re dear;
They’ll never know my plans, that’s clear.
When Christmas comes, what glad surprise
And thanks will shine from all their eyes.
There’s not a clam down by the sea
Can hold his tongue so well as Me!
HOW THE CHRIST-FLOWER BLOOMED
(_From a German Legend_)
Dark was the sky that Christmas Eve,
The heavy clouds hung low;
The charcoal burner scarce could trace
His pathway through the snow.
Black Forest trees stood thick and tall,
Black Forest drifts were deep;
Yet light of heart he hastened home
The Christmas feast to keep.
A cheese of goat’s milk, coarse black bread--
The morrow’s scanty meal,
From prying frost and envious sleet
He struggled to conceal.
He stumbled on, when through the blast
A piteous cry was heard,
And close beside him, heaped in snows,
A wailing infant stirred.
“Now, who has laid thee here, sweet babe,
To perish in the storm?
’Tis Christmas Eve; I’ll take thee home,
My cloak shall wrap thee warm.”
The tiny creature, as he spoke,
He gathered to his breast,
And there beyond, his cottage shone,
In Christmas firelight dressed.
Within the good-wife’s tender arms
The shivering waif was set,
And children’s faces bent above,
And eyes with pity wet.
Warm and content, the stranger babe
Gazed wondering o’er the room,
And spied at last the children’s tree,
A Christmas rose in bloom.
Eager they ran to show the lights,
And round their treasure pressed;
When lo! a glimmering cloud of mist
Enwrapped the wondrous guest.
On silver-shining wings he rose,
His fair head bore a crown,
And vanishing, with baby hands
He wafted blessings down.
Next morning, where amid the snows
The Babe had made his bed,
Fair as a star, and dazzling white,
The Christ-Flower raised its head.
They bore it home, and every year
In depths of winter wild,
Chrysanthemums bloom in that cot,
Where came the Holy Child.
A DEAR LITTLE BOY
A gay soldier-jacket,
A suitcase to pack it,
A box full of candy,
A fine Jack-a-dandy,
Kind Christmas is bringing to me.
A red-crested Polly,
A garland of holly,
A nut and a raisin,
A fine trumpet brazen,--
Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
Some nails and a hammer
To make a fine clamor,
A pony to ride on,
Some stilts I can stride on,
Kind Christmas is bringing to me.
A yellow canary
My pets for to vary,
A jar full of cookies,
Some nice picture-bookies,--
Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
Some sleigh-bells to jingle,
Like those of Kriss Kringle,
Two little black kittens,
A pair of red mittens,
Kind Christmas is bringing to me.
A purse full of money,
A snowy-white bunny,--
A horse fit for rocking,
Some sweets for my stocking,--
Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
My trundle-bed scorning,
When comes the glad morning,
My gifts I’ll find early,
With fine hurly-burly,
What Christmas is bringing to me.
“Get up!” I’ll be saying,
“I want to go playing!
My breakfast be hasting,
There’s no time for wasting!”
Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
“And grandmother’s ‘fairing’?”
She’s too old for caring!
“And wee sister Jennie?”
She’s too small for any.
Kind Christmas is coming to ME!
“My father and mother?”
Oh, they will not bother,
If I am not sighing,
Nor fretting nor crying,
Oh, what a rich boy I shall be!
“L’OISEAU DE DIEU”[3]
(_A Legend of Normandy_)
When sweet Babe Jesus sleeping lay
And shivered with the cold;
The wee brown wren took thought to Him,
Her down she plucked and brought to Him,
Enwrapped Him, fold on fold.
When sweet Babe Jesus craved a robe,
A-couching in the hay,
Her own warm plumes she laid on Him,
A feathered garb she made on Him,
That blessed Christmas Day.
Babe Jesus lacked a coverlet;
The rude wind stole within;
The wren brought leaves and spread on Him,
Russet and gold she shed on Him,
And lapped Him softly in.
Dear bird of brown, thou tender heart,
Thou gav’st the Babe thine all!
To praise thee is most meet to us,
Thy pitying deeds are sweet to us,
God’s blessing on thee fall!
FOOTNOTE
[3] God’s Bird.
CHRISTMAS IN NORWAY
A flock of crows a caucus held
Upon a certain day,
And talked of many a sober theme,
In sober, serious way.
They touched on corn, on growing crops,
They praised the plough and hoe;
And bolder ones of scarecrows spoke
With bated breath and low.
At length, a crow advanced in years,
His speech a feeble caw,
Arose to tell of things that he
In foreign countries saw.
“One Christmas Day I chanced to be
In Norway,” quoth the bird;
“And ’twas the coldest winter wind
That e’er my feathers stirred.
“My mate was ill and could not fly,
And, anxious at her plight,
I pondered where to seek her food
Through all the bitter night.
“The morning broke on icy trees,
And fields adrift with snow,
And faint with hunger, numb with cold
I scarce knew where to go.
“Beyond the wood a farmhouse stood,
And there at length I flew,
Hoping to find a seed or crumb
To feed my mate so true.
“Wary, I flapped above the roof,
When, what my eyes should greet,
But, fixed to gable, door and gate,
Great sheaves of golden wheat!
“Behind the shining window-panes,
Stood children all a-row,
And happy voices eager cried,
‘Bright Christmas! Master Crow!’
“Oh, blessings on those kindly folk
At Christmas evermore,
And blest be all that feed the birds
In Norway’s rocky shore!”
He ceased. A chorus loud arose
From birds both far and near;
“Ah! would the children in this land
Provide such Christmas cheer!”
THE HAUGHTY ASPEN
(_A German Legend_)
_As I went through the tangled wood
I heard the Aspen shiver.
“What dost thou ail, sweet Aspen, say,
Why do thy leaflets quiver?”_
“’Twas long ago,” the Aspen sighed--
How long is past my knowing--
“When Mary Mother rode adown
This wood where I was growing.
Blest Joseph journey’d by her side,
Upon his good staff resting,
And in her arms the Heav’nly Babe,
Dove of the World, was nesting.
Fair was the mother, shining-fair,
A lily sweetly blowing;
The Babe was but a lily-bud,
Like to his mother showing.
The birds began, ‘Thy Master comes!
Bow down, bow down before Him!’
The date, the fig, the hazel tree,
In rev’rence bent to adore Him.
I only, out of all the host
Of bird and tree and flower,--
I, haughty, would not bow my head,
Nor own my Master’s power.
‘Proud Aspen,’ quoth the Mother-Maid,
‘Thy Lord, dost thou defy Him?
When emperors worship at His shrine,
Wilt courtesy deny Him?’
I heard her voice; my heart was rent,
My boughs began to shiver,
And age on age, in punishment,
My sorrowing leaflets quiver.”
_Still in the dark and tangled wood,
Still doth the Aspen quiver.
The haughty tree doth bear a curse,
Her leaflets aye must shiver._
REMEMBER!
What’s the very best rhyme for December?
Why, of course you must know ’tis REMEMBER!
Remember the snowflakes,
The green Christmas tree,
The red holly berries
Each season we see.
Remember! December! Remember!
What word do bells ring in December?
Why, of course you can hear ’tis REMEMBER!
Remember the carols,
The tinkle of sleighs,
The chickadee singing
In gloomiest days.
Remember! December! Remember!
What story is told in December?
To read it once is to remember,
Remember the manger,
The Baby that lay,
His sweet mother watching,
All cradled in hay.
Remember! December! Remember!
What song do we sing in December,
When the birth of the Babe we remember?
The song of the angels,
We echo it still;
O’er all the earth singing
Of peace and good will.
Remember! December! Remember!
A NEW YEAR’S SONG
On New Year’s Eve in England,
All in the olden day,
The children went a-caroling,
All in the olden way;
And ever as they journey’d on,
This chorus would you hear:--
“God send you happy, God send you happy,
Pray God send you a happy New Year!”
Across the fields and meadows
And through the frosty light,
While starry eyes and starry skies
Illumed the wintry night,
The children caroled blithely on,
In chorus sweet and clear:--
“God send you happy, God send you happy,
Pray God send you a happy New Year!”
Our days are sadly modern,
Our ways are modern, too;
But hearts still beat as high with love
As once they used to do--
So take the old-time message,
Good friends, both far and near:
“God send you happy, God send you happy,
Pray God send you a happy New Year!”
THE BOASTFUL SNOWFLAKE
A snowflake remarked to his mother one day,
His calm sweet mother of cloud so gray,
“When _I_ fall to earth, there’s none but will know,
For I’ll fall with a whiz, and a whir, and a go!
I’ll pile up a drift by myself, all alone,
As high as a steeple and hard as a stone.
I’ll roll up a snowball as round as the moon,
And big as the sun when he shines out at noon.
I’ll make a great snow-man, so tall and so grand
He can hold a whole boy in the palm of his hand.
Here I go! See me fly! One and all, look at me!
I’m a Snowflake from Cloudland--at last I am free!”
He drifted to earth like a feather afloat,
A gallant young sailor, a breeze for a boat,
When a wonderful flower appeared to his view,
All dewy with fragrance, all brilliant of hue.
He longed to caress it, give one kiss so light,
He yearned just to touch it, and paused in his flight--
Alas, for the snowflake--ambition grew weak,
He died for the rose on a soft baby cheek!
THE GOOSE FAIR AT WARSAW
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack!
The geese are trooping to Warsaw!
In Warsaw there’s a giant Fair,
And through the chill December air,
O’er hills and uplands brown and bare,
Waddling here and waddling there,
The geese go forth to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack!
The geese are trooping to Warsaw!
For every winter, I’ve been told,
A Goose Fair in that town they hold,
And be they young or be they old,
Sweet maiden geese, or ganders bold,
They all must fare to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack!
The geese are trooping to Warsaw!
A million geese, or so they say,
In noisy flocks are on the way.
There’ll be the very deuce to pay
If such an army goes astray,
Of geese that tramp to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack!
The geese are trooping to Warsaw!
The goose-herds drive them, all a-row,
And very well indeed they know
That geese can never barefoot go,
O’er frozen ground and eke on snow,
The many miles to Warsaw.
Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack!
The geese are trooping to Warsaw!
But ere they leave their master’s land,
They walk through tar and then through sand,
And so on well-shod feet they stand,
As, in a feathered army grand,
The geese march on to Warsaw.
_Hiss! Hiss! Quack! Quack!
With arching neck and curving back,
The booted geese go cackling down
To meet their fate in Warsaw town.
Hiss! Hiss!_
[Illustration: THE GEESE ARE TROOPING TO WARSAW]
THE FAIRY RING[4]
Throned on a grassy knoll, I watch
The elfin host come trooping by,
And hear the whir of fairy wings,
The goblin voices, shrill and high.
Behind them glides a magic train
Of Kings and Princes, armor-clad,
And serving as their squires bold
Boots, Ashiepattle, Cinderlad.
With silken rustle, flash of gem,
Queen and Czaritsa sweep along,
While red-capped Troll and rainbow Sprite
Peep out amid the enchanted throng.
Ting-ling, ting-ling, how sweet the ring,
Like golden bells, of fairy laughter;
Rap-tap, rap-tap, how sharp the clap
Of fairy footfalls following after!
Where witch-grass grows and fern-seed lies,
A fairy ring is dimly seen;
And there a glitt’ring host is met
To dance upon the moonlit green.
Riquet, the Tufted, lightly turns
The Fair One with the Golden Hair;
And Prince Desire and Mignonette
Form yet another graceful pair.
Tall as a tower stands Galifron;
The Desert Fay, with snakes bedight,
First pirouettes with him and then
With wee Tom Thumb, King Arthur’s Knight.
Ting-ling, ting-ling, how sweet the ring,
Like golden bells, of fairy laughter;
Rap-tap, rap-tap, how sharp the clap
Of fairy footfalls following after!
Sweet, unseen harpers harp and sing,
Faint elfin horns the air repeat;
Rapunzel shakes her shining braids,
The White Cat trips with velvet feet.
Rose-red, Snow-white, the faithful Bear,
Cross hands with gallant Percinet;
While Tattercoats, in turn, salutes
Yvon, the Fearless, and Finette.--But
hark! the cock begins to crow;
The darkness turns to day, and where
The fairy dancers trod the green,
Now is the space but empty air.
FOOTNOTE
[4] From _The Fairy Ring_. By permission of Messrs. Doubleday, Page &
Co.
I WONDER![5]
I wonder if, in Samarcand,
Grave camels kneel in golden sand,
Still lading bales of magic spells,
And charms a lover’s wisdom tells,
To fare across the desert main
And bring the Princess home again--
I wonder!
I wonder in Japan to-day
If grateful beasts find out the way
To those who succored them in pain,
And bring their blessings back again;
If cranes and sparrows take the shape,
And all the ways of mortals ape--
I wonder!
In Bagdad may there still be found
That blackish powder, finely ground,
Which changes all who on it feast,
Monarch or slave, to bird or beast?
Do Caliphs taste and, unafraid,
Turn storks and weeping night-owls aid?
I wonder!
I wonder if in far Cathay
The nightingale still trills her lay
Beside the Porcelain Palace door,
And courtiers praise her as before?
If emperors dream of bygone things,
And, musing, weep the while she sings?
I wonder!
Such things have never chanced to me.
I wonder if, to eyes that see,
These magic visions still appear
In daily living, now and here?
If every flower is touched with glory?
If e’en the grass-blades tell a story?
I wonder!
FOOTNOTE
[5] From _Tales of Wonder_. By permission of Messrs. Doubleday, Page &
Co.
EVERYBODY’S BABY
Pray, where does the bonniest baby dwell,
The sweetest that ever did grow?
Say, where shall I find it, now truthfully tell,
Please show me the way I must go.
_The bonniest baby that ever did grow,
Without a “perhaps,” or a “maybe,”
It is hers, it is mine, it is his, it is thine;
Oh, it’s everybody’s baby!_
But choices in babies there surely must be,
Though all may be charming and pretty;
The fairest, the rarest, the dearest of all,
Must needs be the theme of my ditty.
_The very same story I can but repeat,
Without a “perhaps,” or a “maybe,”
It is hers, it is mine, it is his, it is thine;
Oh, it’s everybody’s baby!_
There isn’t a baby on earth, you maintain,
That isn’t a duck and a treasure,
A beauty, a jewel, a poppet, a pet,
The life of the house and its pleasure?
_I stoutly maintain it; I state it again,
Without a “perhaps,” or a “maybe,”
It is hers, it is mine, it is his, it is thine,
It is everybody’s baby!_
WHICH IS THE ROYAL BABY?[6]
A cradle of gold has the Czarevitch,
With gold-leaf drapery shrouded;
Two chairs, with a pillow, my baby’s bed
In a tenement chamber crowded;
But my pretty one nestles as softly down
As the wee little lad that’s born to a crown--
So, which is the royal baby?
In Caucasus linen the Czarevitch goes,
And wonderful diamonds hold it;
This treasure of mine wears a cotton gown,
And ribbons of blue enfold it;
But his eyes shine out from a kingly face,
And he wears his robe with a sov’reign grace,--
So, which is the royal baby?
Tall Cossacks keep watch o’er the Czarevitch,
And sentries are set at his portal;
My little one has but a single guard,--
He who keepeth all things mortal;
But nobody grudges my baby’s life
Like the Russian princeling’s, born to strife,--
So, which is the royal baby?
Three nurses, they say, has the Czarevitch,
With degrees from a royal college.
Alas, for my sweeting! He has but one,
And love is her only knowledge!
But the Queen of the Russias may not stay
With her prince, like me, for the livelong day,--
So, which is the royal baby?
FOOTNOTE
[6] Written in 1905
FLOWER SONG
(_Adapted from Froebel_)
Why is the flower’s breath so sweet?
Ah, who can tell the reason!
Perhaps the angel-children fair,
Come in the blossom season,
And with their blessed hands they touch
Each bud so small,
Each posy tall;--
To think so were no treason.
No baby eye, however bright,
May see their garments flowing,
Among the blooms they softly pass,
Rich odors round them strowing,
Ah, honey-sweet the flower they touched!
Sweet as the breeze
That rocks the trees
When apple-buds are blowing.
SWEET SLEEP[7]
Sweet sleep, fleet sleep,
Come to Baby here!
With thy calm hand,
With thy cool hand,
Touch these eyelids dear.
Dream-land, gleam-land,
Ope thy golden doors.
Let these wee feet,
Let these soft feet,
Tread thy rainbow floors.
White wings, bright wings,
Baby, guard thy bed.
Angels watch thee,
Angels ward thee,
Blessings ’round thee shed.
FOOTNOTE
[7] Music: Beethoven’s “Sonata Pathétique.” Opus 13.
THE MAKING OF THE FLAG
Fivescore and forty years ago,
Fivescore and forty years,--
This land was but an infant, then,
The child of blood and tears.
To-day a mighty nation,
A hundred million souls
Are nurtured by her splendid strength,
Are mustered on her rolls.
But even in that long ago,
That time of stress and strife,
When Liberty, beset by foes,
Was battling for her life,
E’en then, they waved a standard,
They made Britannia yield;
The crosses of her patron saints
Still blazoned on its field.
But for new times, new customs;
Columbia, from her throne,
With goddess-pride demanded
A banner of her own.
The Continental Congress,
O’erheard Columbia’s call
And to fulfill her mandate
Its members gathered all.
“Resolved,” they vowed in conclave,--
So history relates.
“A proud new Flag befits the pride
Of these United States.
“Its stripes of white and crimson
Shall thirteen states unite;
The Union be denoted
By thirteen stars of white.”
They sought no novel colors;
What colors should there be
Save white for Faith and blue for Hope
And red for Liberty?
And when they’d planned the banner,
The Fathers straight went down
With Washington to Betsy Ross,
Of Philadelphy town.
Her needlework was noted
Wherever art was prized;
The Flags she wrought were famous,
Her skill was recognized.
So Betsy, blooming Betsy,
A patriot’s widow, she,
Was first to cut and fashion
The Flag of Liberty.
Oh, Betsy, blessed Betsy,
What name or fame can be
So sweet as yours who ’broidered
The Banner of the Free?
The Flag your art created,
Where’er it be unfurled,
Proclaims the Rights of Freemen,
The Safety of the World.
THE ANSWER OF THE FLAG
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country,
Our red, white, and blue,
Say, whence are thy colors--
Each wonderful hue?
FLAG _speaks_:
Deep in the sunset sky,
When light was dying,
Streamed crimson banners, like
Wild armies flying.
Where, ’twixt two bands of gray,
One bar lay flaming,
Leaned I and plucked it out,
Mine for the claiming.
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country,
Right well hast thou done!
Thy red glows like rubies,
Like heart of the sun.
FLAG _speaks_:
When Summer lays her hand,
Softly caressing,
Over the rounded earth,
Leaving her blessing,
White sail the clouds above,
Clear as the morning;
From these I chose me one
For mine adorning.
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country,
Thy heav’n-pure white,
Like crystal in sunshine,
It dazzles the sight!
FLAG _speaks_:
Yet there remains my blue,
Jewel-besprinkled,
Like to some dusky pool,
Where the stars twinkled.
Night doffed her misty veil
When all were sleeping,
Unclasped her starry crown,
Gave to my keeping.
CHILD _speaks_:
Flag of our Country,
Thy blue is more rare
Than turquoise or gentian;
’Tis measureless air!
FLAG _speaks_:
Child, may my brilliant hues,
Chosen from heaven,
Serve as thy benison,
Prove as thy leaven;
Flaming may be thy heart,
Loving and giving,
Clear as the stars thy will,
Snow-white thy living!
PROTECT THE FLAG
We hail with delight a tattered flag
That’s darkened with battle-stains.
But never one that’s a battered flag,
The victim of storms and rains.
We may wave a banner, service-torn,
That led in a gallant fray,
But flaunt no ensign that’s weather-worn,
No bunting that’s had its day.
The flag that has served is a sacred flag,
No matter how worn it be;
The one that’s neglected is nobody’s flag,
That nobody cares to see.
Protect “Old Glory,” nor let it rack,
Like a storm-rent sail at sea;
No slight must sully, no insult stain
The star-sown flag of the Free.
A COLLAR OF HONOR
In France, sunny France, far away o’er the sea,
There are things that they do rather better than we;
Perhaps these are many, perhaps but a few--
Be that as it may, there’s one thing that they do:
They recognize merit where’er it is found
And ever its praises are willing to sound;
And even a dog, if he act well his part,
Is held in esteem in the popular heart.
You feel it, you know it, you see that it’s so,
When you meet in the street, as you stroll to and fro,
The dogs with their collars of honor.
A dog who has rescued in perilous strife
A poor human creature, and saved him his life,
Is counted thereafter a ward of the state,
The charge of officials, from petty to great.
His bed and his board are forever assured;
In health he is tended, in illness he’s cured.
A band of bright metal he wears round his throat,
And pride of it shows in each hair of his coat.
You feel it, you know it, you see that it’s so,
When you meet in the street, as you stroll to and fro,
The dogs with their collars of honor.
At Brest, should you go there, as I did one night,--
’Tis a post of the navy and well worth a sight,--
A Newfoundland dog you may happen to meet,
A hero whose praises the sailors repeat.
So many he’s rescued from tempest and wreck
That a grand decoration he wears at his neck.
It hangs from his collar, and when it is seen
He is gravely saluted by each bold marine.
E’en sentries do homage when trots up and down,
Bejeweled, beribboned, this pride of the town,
This dog with his collar of honor.
[Illustration: HE IS GRAVELY SALUTED BY EACH BOLD MARINE]
THE CHILDREN’S SHIP
(_Presented to the Picture-Book Fund for French Children_)
What ship is this comes speeding on?
They say she’s bound for France.
Why, sir, she’s called the “Children’s Ship”
And every wave’s a-dance
To push her swift across the sea,
For over there, they say,
There’s hosts of homeless little folk,
Who weep instead of play.
And what’s her freight, my little man,
What cargo does she bear?
Is’t food to eat, or milk to drink,
Or clothes for babes to wear?
Why, sir, our ship has none of these!
French children all are sad;
We’re sending heaps of laughing-stock
And stuff to make them glad.
Our ship is crammed with savings-banks,
From turret down to hold,
And some are full of silver coins
And some are full of gold,
This splendid treasure we’ve amassed
And all is freely sent
To buy those children picture-books,
And bring them back content.
They say the French, poor little things,
Can’t read an English word,
But picture-books are in a tongue
That every one has heard.
We’ve saved our pennies, day by day,
Nor given toys a glance
And now the money’ll change to smiles
For little folk in France.
SOLDIER OR SLACKER
It isn’t because he carries a gun
And sleeps in a tent when the day is done,
That a man is called a soldier;
Nor because he marches, with head held high
And a swift salute when the flag goes by,
For none of these make a soldier.
’Tis because he heeds when an order’s heard,
Because he obeys it with never a word,
That a man is called a soldier;
Because his weapons are shining bright,
His courage steady from morn till night,--
For these are the signs of a soldier.
’Tis slackers who argue and fail to obey,
’Tis slackers who pout when they can’t have their way,
They’re not for the life of a soldier.
’Tis slackers who idle and won’t do their bit,
They never could fight, for they haven’t the grit,
Oh, valor it takes for a soldier!
LEARNING TO KNIT
I want so much to learn to knit
That Grandma said if I would sit
Quite patiently, nor fret, nor pout,
Should all my work be raveled out,
She’d try to teach me, for I ought
To learn while still a child, she thought.
“You hold the needles so,” she said,
“And round your finger wind your thread.
Take up a stitch and knit it plain,
And then another one again;
Be sure and do not knit too tight,
Keep all the stitches well in sight.”
“Don’t split a stitch, don’t twist the wool;
Slip off the loop and never pull;
Don’t drop a stitch, do what you will,
For such a gap no art can fill.
See that the work looks smooth and plain;
If rough, then all your toil’s in vain!”
The while she talked, her fingers flew
As swift as birds across the blue;
Her needles twinkled like the rain
That dashes down the window-pane;
Her ball went round at such a pace
You held your breath to see it race.
I wonder if in Grandma’s day
_Their_ grandmas taught in such a way!
A modern child’s too slow, by far,
To learn from such a shooting-star;
As well a rabbit might, for fun,
Instruct a tortoise how to run!
THE TIMID OYSTER
Look upon the timid oyster,
Ever growing moist and moister,
As he hides within his cloister
By the sea.
To all common human seeing,
We can hardly help agreeing,
Never yet was calmer being
Than is he!
Yet with nerves he has his troubles,
And when thunder boils and bubbles,
Then his nervousness redoubles,
So they say.
He has nowhere to betake him,
When the thunder-terrors shake him,
No asylum can he make him,
Far away.
Timid, shrinking little oyster,
Do you never yearn to royster,
In your damp and dusky cloister,
’Mid the storm?
As we tenderly inspect you,
How we hanker to protect you,
From all storm-winds to deflect you,
Keep you warm.
Come to us when noise annoys you,
When sweet hope no longer buoys you,
When the thunder-peal destroys you,
Come at will.
Condiments we’ll have to meet you,
Ice and lemon bring to greet you,
But though grandly thus we’ll treat you,
We’ll be still!
DINNER-TIME
My mother says with changing days
Come just as many changing ways;
There’s change in dresses, change in hats
And eke in balls and cricket-bats.
Even in words the fashions vary;
What once was fine, grows ordinary.
Such questions trouble not my head,
But there’s one thing I really dread!
If dinner-time gets so belated
That every child on earth is fated
To go to bed before it’s ready,
How can he keep his courage steady?
In Froissart’s time, Kings dined at ten,
The morning ten, of course, and when
Their subjects called on them at five,
They found them only half alive,
With nightcaps on, and yawning so
That courtiers quick prepared to go.
Louis Quatorze, the Monarch Grand,
Had matters vastly better planned.
At twelve o’clock he dined and wined;
As good a time as one could find!
Charles Second dined at one, an hour
That lasted long as did his power,
For when he ceased to dine at all
At two they ate in palace-hall.
At four o’clock, in Cowper’s days,
The meal was served, the poet says,
A wretched time, mistake complete;
A time to play and not to eat!
When Waterloo had come and gone,
When gentle Peace ruled Albion,
And “Boney” ceased to play his tricks,
The dinner-hour was changed to six.
With glory fed, the nation well
Might thus retard the dinner-bell.
Dinner at six for long held sway,
But seven’s an hour approved to-day,
And mother asks her friends at eight.
I hear the doom pronounced by Fate--
Soon will they dine at midnight deep,
When every child is wrapped in sleep.
THE WANDERING EELS[8]
The times are out of joint, my dears,
The world no longer wags
As once it did when we were young;
Domestic virtue lags.
The lads are always in the street,
The lasses far from home,
And though you’d scarce believe it, dears,
E’en eels begin to roam!
Time was when every eel, my dears,
Went early to his bed,
And such a thing as midnight swim
Ne’er entered in his head.
But now by day he simply squirms
Where shallow waters be,
While when the curfew tolls, my dears,
He wriggles out to sea!
In Denmark they’re so bad, my dears,
These vicious, vagrant eels,
That government has laid a plot
Which deepest art conceals,
To make them think that day is night,
Or rather, night is day,
For only in the dark, my dears,
Will they set on their way.
From Denmark to its isles, my dears,
And from its headlands steep,
They’ve laid a cable strung with lamps,
Illumining the deep.
The sportive eels at night come out
To run away to sea,
And finding that it’s light, my dears,
Slip back again for tea!
A moral there is hid, my dears,
Within this watery tale,
And just as brightly does it shine
As any fish’s scale.
Whene’er you leave your house at night,
With frolics in your head,
And find the streets alight, my dears,
Just toddle home to bed!
FOOTNOTE
[8] In order to prevent eels from leaving the coasts of Denmark, the
government is laying a cable between the mainland and an adjacent
island, which is to be strung with electric lamps. This luminous
barrier is to keep the eels, who travel only at night, from emigrating
to deep water.
EASTER BLOSSOMS
Far away, down in the dark of the earth
While the cold March winds are blowing,
The grasses are making their way to birth,
And the Easter flowers are growing.
So deep in the heart of each little child,
No matter what may be the weather,
Kind thoughts may be growing, and virtues mild,
Be twining and blooming together.
THE LIFE-PRESERVERS
It happened on Ascension Day;
She came along the flowery way,
A tiny cricket bearing.
He lodged within a cage of wood,
Though prisoned, yet in heartsome mood,
For strong his chirp and daring.
’Twas Florence in a radiant spring,
Ah, could my verses to you bring
A glimpse of half its wonder!
Could make you taste the honeyed air,
And breathe the flowers everywhere,
The green grass waving under.