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Various
Christmas Carols and Midsummer Songs
GRACIE'S FANCIES
By Brenda Aubert
A WHIRR of wings, and a rush of feet!
And quick through the driving snow and
Grace, at the window, with wondering eyes
Watches their coming in shy surprise:
A flock of snow-birds, tiny and brown,
On the gnarled old plum-tree settle down!
A moment she watches the chirping band,
Her sweet face resting upon her hand,
"O mamma, look! it is snowing brown"
She cries as the birdlings flutter down.
Then cries – and a laugh slips out with the words
"Why, mamma, the snow-flakes have turned to birds
WAITING A WINTER'S TALE
By Mrs. Sallie M. B. Piatt
SOME sweet things go just to make room for
others:
The blue field-blossom hurries from the dew,
(My little maiden, hush your noisy brothers!)
And see, the wild-rose reddens where it grew!
The green leaf fades that you may see the yellow;
We have the honey when we miss the bee;
Who wants the apples, scarlet-stained and mellow,
Must give the buds upon his orchard-tree;
Then, for those finely painted birds that follow
The sun about and scent their songs with flowers,
We have, when frosts are sharp and rains beat hollow,
These pretty, gray crumb-gathering pets of ours;
The butterflies (you could not catch) were brighter
Than anything that we have left in air;
But these still-flying shapes of snow are whiter,
I fancy, than the very lilies were.
Then, is the glimmer of fire-flies, cold and eerie,
Far in the dusk, so pleasant after all
As is this home-lamp playing warm and cheery,
Among your shadow-pictures on the wall?
But I forget. There ought to be a story,
A lovely story! Who shall tell it, then?
The boys want war – plumes, helmets, shields and
glory —
They'd like a grand review of Homer's men.
Their jealous sisters say it's tiresome hearing
(A girl is not as patient as a boy,)
Of that old beauty – yes, the much-recurring,
About-three-thousand-years-old, Helen of Troy.
They'd rather hear some love-tale murmured faintly
Through music of the sleigh-bells: something
true,
Such as their young grandmothers, shy and saintly,
Heard under stars of winter – told anew!
The little children, one and all, are crying
For just a few more fairies – but, you know
They go to sleep when golden-rod is dying,
And do not wake till there is no more snow.
They sleep who kept your Jersey cow from straying,
My boy, while you were deep in books and
grass:
Who tended flowers, my girl, while you were playing
Some double game, or wearing out your glass.
They sleep – but what sweet things they have been
making,
By golden moons, to give you a surprise —
Beat slower, little hearts with wonder aching,
Keep in the dark yet, all you eager eyes!
The fairies sleep. But their high lord and master
Keeps wide-awake, and watches every hearth;
Great waters freeze that he may travel faster —
He puts a girdle round about the earth!
Just now in the dim North, as he remembers
His birthday back through centuries, he appears
A trifle sad, and looks into the embers —
Then shakes down from his cheek a shower of
tears.
He thinks of little hands that reached out lightly
To catch his beard and pull it with a will,
Now round their buried rosebuds folded whitely,
Forever and forever, oh, how still!
"Ah, where are all the children? How I miss
them!
So many worlds-full are gone since I came!
I long to take them to my heart and kiss them,
And hear those still small voices laugh my name.
"Some over whom no violet yet is growing;
Some under broken marble, ages old;
Some lie full fathom five where seas are flowing;
Some, among cliffs and chasms, died a-cold;
"Some through the long Wars of the Roses faded;
Some did walk barefoot to the Holy Land;
Some show young faces with the bride's-veil
shaded;
Some touch me with the nun's all-gracious hand;
"Some in the purple with crown-jewels burning,
Some in the peasant's hodden-gray go by,
Some in forlornest prisons darkly yearning
For earth and grass, the dove's wing and the
sky.
"One sails to wake a world that has been lying
Hid in its leaves, far in the lonesome West,
In an enchanted sleep, with strange winds sighing
Among the strange flowers in her dreaming breast.
And One – I held Him first – the immortal Stranger!
I smell, to-night, the frankincense and myrrh;
I see the star-led wise men and the manger;
And his own Mother – I remember her!
"But – where's my cloak? Is this a time for sorrow?
… And where's the story, do you ask of me?
To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow!
And shall you have it then? Why – we shall see!
CHRISTMAS
By Mrs. L. C. Whiton
MAMMA, what is Christmas?" How can I
say?
I will try to answer you "true as true."
It is just the loveliest, lovely day,
That is steeped in rose-color all the way through!
When miniature toy-shops in stockings are found,
That are left in the chambers without a sound;
And papa gives gifts with a tender cheer;
And brother "hurrahs for the top of the year;"
And sister looks on with her wistful eyes,
With a soft, sweet smile at every surprise:
And Christmas means this:
A little child's bliss,
And the love of the dear Christ felt like a kiss.
And a piled-up glory is hard to express;
And "What is Christmas?" is wonder for all.
It is when the earth puts on holiday dress,
Made spotless fair with snowflakes that fall;
When hearts are lavish with treasures of love,
And the pale, pure stars shine brighter above;
And the dancing firelight seems to play
In the most mysterious, haunting way;
And the house fairies wander from sweet to sweet,
With an unexplored kingdom laid at their feet:
And Christmas means this:
A little child's bliss,
And the love of the dear Christ felt like a kiss.
And still "What is Christmas?" Darling, come here.
It is meant for the birthday, "true as true,"
Of a beautiful child that was born in Judea,
That His mother loved, as I love you;
That grew up to teach you how you should seek
To be in your spirit "lowly and meek,"
And onward higher and higher to go,
Till you changed to an angel, whiter than snow;
And offered freely (that all might take)
The gift of Himself for the whole world's sake!
And Christmas means this:
A little child's bliss,
And the love of the dear Christ felt like a kiss.
MIDSUMMER SONGS
And flow, since all the little birds are singing
In bush and brake,
And all the honey flower bells dimly ringing,
And grasses shake —
And grasses shake before the reapers' coming.;
While through and through
This sweetness locusts shrill and bees are humming,
I'll sing to you
A little song, with bird-notes all a-twitter,
With honey flowing
From tilted flower-cups with dew a-glitter,
With fireflies glowing;
And over it roses in knots, and myrtle,
As thickly lay
(And violets) as on a maiden's kirtle,
A holiday.
Sweetened all through with flowers, with which 'tis filled
So full, you see
It needs (and also honey round it spilled)
A sweet song be.
– M. E. W.
"SAINT EMILY."
By E. F. Frye
WHEN grass grows green in spring-time
And trees are budding gay,
When the breath of bursting lilacs
Makes sweet the air of May,
When cowslips fringe the brooksides,
And violets gem the dells,
And tremble mid the grasses
The wind-flower's slender bells,
When the fragrant lily rises
From its sheltering sheath of green,
In the city's narrow alleys
Saint Emily is seen.
A modest little maiden,
She walks secure from harm;
A basket, flower-laden,
Swings lightly on her arm,
And right and left she scatters,
Alike to bad and good,
The beauties of the garden,
The treasures of the wood.
When summer days drag slowly,
In languor, heat, and pain,
To those who lie in hospital,
Never to rise again,
Dreaming, with fevered longing,
Of shady country homes,
Where roses hang in clusters,
And honeysuckle blooms,
From cot to cot so softly
Moves dear Saint Emily;
And here a rose she proffers,
And there a bud lays she.
The close abode of sickness
She fills with fragrant bloom;
Her gentle presence passes
Like music through the room
And many a moaning sufferer
Hushes his sad complaint,
And follows with his weary eyes
The movements of this saint.
When autumn paints the woodlands
With scarlet and with gold,
When the blue gentian's lids unclose
In frosty meadows cold,
From the little troop of children
That crowd some Orphan Home
The joyous shout arises,
"Saint Emily has come!"
And round her close they gather,
An eager little band,
While from the well-stored basket
She fills each outstretched hand
With purple hillside asters,
And wondrous golden-rod,
And all the lingering flowers that love
To dress the autumn sod;
And pallid cheeks flush rosy,
And heavy eyes grow bright,
And little hearts forlorn and lone,
Stir with a deep delight.
And when the woods are naked,
And flowers no longer blow,
When the green nooks they love so well
Are buried in the snow,
Not quite unknown that presence
To children sick in bed,
Bearing bright wreaths of autumn leaves,
And strings of berries red.
A heaven-sent mission, surely,
To cheer the sick and poor
With bounties that the bounteous God
Has strewn beside our door —
To gladden little children,
To comfort dying hours,
To bear to wretched hearts and homes
The gospel of the flowers.
What marvel if glad blessings
Surround Saint Emily!
What marvel if some loving eyes
In her an angel see! —
And, too, what marvel if the thought
Is borne to me and thee,
That many a kindly boy and girl
As sweet a saint might be.