Christmas Carols and Midsummer Songs

GRACIE'S FANCIES

By Brenda AubertA WHIRR of wings, and a rush of feet!And quick through the driving snow andGrace, at the window, with wondering eyesWatches 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. PiattSOME sweet things go just to make room forothers: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 followThe 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 brighterThan 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 allAs 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 andglory —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 faintlyThrough music of the sleigh-bells: somethingtrue,Such as their young grandmothers, shy and saintly,Heard under stars of winter – told anew!The little children, one and all, are cryingFor just a few more fairies – but, you knowThey 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 andgrass:Who tended flowers, my girl, while you were playingSome double game, or wearing out your glass.They sleep – but what sweet things they have beenmaking,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 masterKeeps 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 remembersHis birthday back through centuries, he appearsA trifle sad, and looks into the embers —Then shakes down from his cheek a shower oftears.He thinks of little hands that reached out lightlyTo 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 missthem!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-veilshaded;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 yearningFor earth and grass, the dove's wing and thesky."One sails to wake a world that has been lyingHid in its leaves, far in the lonesome West,In an enchanted sleep, with strange winds sighingAmong 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. WhitonMAMMA, what is Christmas?" How can Isay?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 playIn 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 seekTo 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 singingIn bush and brake,And all the honey flower bells dimly ringing,And grasses shake —And grasses shake before the reapers' coming.;While through and throughThis sweetness locusts shrill and bees are humming,I'll sing to youA little song, with bird-notes all a-twitter,With honey flowingFrom 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 filledSo full, you seeIt needs (and also honey round it spilled)A sweet song be.– M. E. W.

"SAINT EMILY."

By E. F. FryeWHEN grass grows green in spring-timeAnd trees are budding gay,When the breath of bursting lilacsMakes sweet the air of May,When cowslips fringe the brooksides,And violets gem the dells,And tremble mid the grassesThe wind-flower's slender bells,When the fragrant lily risesFrom its sheltering sheath of green,In the city's narrow alleysSaint 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 softlyMoves dear Saint Emily;And here a rose she proffers,And there a bud lays she.The close abode of sicknessShe fills with fragrant bloom;Her gentle presence passesLike music through the roomAnd many a moaning suffererHushes his sad complaint,And follows with his weary eyesThe movements of this saint.When autumn paints the woodlandsWith scarlet and with gold,When the blue gentian's lids uncloseIn frosty meadows cold,From the little troop of childrenThat crowd some Orphan HomeThe joyous shout arises,"Saint Emily has come!"And round her close they gather,An eager little band,While from the well-stored basketShe fills each outstretched handWith purple hillside asters,And wondrous golden-rod,And all the lingering flowers that loveTo 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 wellAre buried in the snow,Not quite unknown that presenceTo 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 poorWith bounties that the bounteous GodHas strewn beside our door —To gladden little children,To comfort dying hours,To bear to wretched hearts and homesThe gospel of the flowers.What marvel if glad blessingsSurround Saint Emily!What marvel if some loving eyesIn her an angel see! —And, too, what marvel if the thoughtIs borne to me and thee,That many a kindly boy and girlAs sweet a saint might be.

BLUE AND GOLD

By Mrs. Clara Doty BatesTHE warm June day was fullOf color as it could hold;"Now, which is the sweetest blue,And which is the brightest gold,In all that your little eyes can see,In cloud-land, earth, or the water-world?"I said to the children three.We were on the fresh new grass,And the pretty hammock hungLike a web between the trees,And in it the baby swung.'Twas as if a spider, busy and sly,Had spun its meshes there, white and light,And caught a butterfly.A moment's silence fellOn all, till Teddy guessed —He had eyes for every bird,And eyes, too, for its nest —And he cried – the eager little soul —"The bluest blue is the bluebird,And gold is the oriole."Then Flora, who loved flowers,But had not spoken yet,Whispered that gold was a crocus,And blue a violet.And Edith, the more emphatic one,Said: "No; the bluest blue is the sky,And the goldenest gold the sun!"I pointed to the webThat swung so white and light,In which the baby cooedAs a nestling pigeon might;"I can answer best of all," I said,"For there is in water-world, earth or skiesNo blue so sweet as that baby's eyes,No gold so bright as his head!"

THE LAND OF USED-TO-BE

By James Whitcomb RileyAND where's the Land of Used-to-be, does little baby wonder?Oh, we will clap a magic saddle over papa's knee,And ride away around the world, and in and out and under,The whole of all the golden sunny summer-time, and see!Leisurely and lazy-like we'll jostle on our journey,And let the pony bathe his hooves and cool them in the dew,As he sidles down the shady way, and lags along the fernyAnd the green grassy edges of the lane we travel through.And then we'll canter on to catch the bubble of the thistle,As it bumps among the butterflies, and glimmers down the sun,To leave us laughing, all content to hear the robin whistle,Or guess what Katydid is saying little Katy's done.And pausing here a minute, where we hear the squirrel chuckleAs he darts from out the underbrush and scampers up the tree,We will gather buds and locust-blossoms, leaves and honeysuckle,To wreathe around our foreheads, riding into Used-to-be;For here's the very rim of it that we go swinging over —Don't you hear the fairy bugles, and the tinkle of the bells?And see the baby bumble-bees that tumble in the clover,And dangle from the tilted pinks and tipsy pimpernels?And don't you see the merry faces of the daffodillies,And the jolly johnny-jump-ups, and the buttercups a-glee,And the low, lolling ripples ring around the water-lilies,All greeting us with laughter to the Land of Used-to-be?And here among the blossoms of the blooming vines and grasses,With a haze forever hanging in a sky forever blue,And with a breeze from over seas to kiss us as it passes,We will romp around forever as the little fairies do;For all the elves of earth and air are swarming here together —The prankish Puck, king Oberon, and queen Titania too;And dear old Mother Goose herself, as sunny as the weather,Comes dancing down the dewy walks to welcome me and you!

A BABY SHOW

By H. HA DROLL conversation I once overheard —Two children, a cat, a cow, and a bird.The names of the children were Eddie and Jane;The names of the others I did not hear plain.How came I to hear them? I think I won'ttell:You may guess, if you please; and if you guesswellYou'll guess that I heard it as many a man hears,With his fancy alone, and not with his ears.Such a wonderful plaything never was known!Like a real live dolly, and all for their own!Two happier children could nowhere be found,No, not if you travelled the whole world around.They had drawn her this morning where daisiesgrew —White daisies, all shining and dripping with dew;Long wreaths of the daisies, and chains, they hadmade;In the baby's lap these wreaths they had laid,The children were drawing, with caution and care,Their sweet baby-sister, to give her the air,In a dainty straw wagon with wheels of bright red,And a top of white muslin which shaded her head.She was only one year and a few months old;Her eyes were bright blue and her hair was likegold;She laughed all the time from morning till night,Till Eddie and Jane were quite wild with delight=.And were laughing to watch her fat little handsUntwisting and twisting the stems and the strands.Just then, of a sudden, a lark flew byAnd sang at the top of his voice in the sky;"Ho! ho! Mr. Lark," shouted Jane,"come down here!We're not cruel children. You may come without fear.We've something to show you. In all your lifemaybeYou'll never see anything sweet as our baby!"'Twas an odd thing, now, for a lark to do —I hope you won't think my story's untrue —But this is the thing that I saw and I heard:That lark flew right down, like a sociable bird,As soon as they called him, and perched on a tree,And winked with his eye at the children and me,And laughed out, as much as a bird ever can,As he cried, "Ha! ha! Little woman and man!"You'll be quite surprised and astonished, maybe,To hear that I do not think much of your baby.Why, out in the field here I've got in my nest,All cuddled up snug 'neath my wife's warm breast,Four little babies – two sisters, two brothers —And all with bright eyes, as bright as their moth-er's;Your baby's at least ten times older than they,But they are all ready to fly to-day;"They'll take care of themselves in another week,Before your poor baby can walk or can speak.It has often surprised me to see what poor thingsAll babies are that are born without wings;And but one at a time! Dear me, my wifeWould be quite ashamed of so idle a life!"And the lark looked as scornful as a lark knowshow,As he swung up and down on a slender bough.A cat had been eying him there for a while,And sprang at him now from top of a stile.But she missed her aim – he was quite too high;And oh, how he laughed as he soared in the sky!Then the cat scrambled up, disappointed and cross;She looked all about her, and felt at a lossWhat next she should do. So she took up thethreadOf the lark's discourse, and ill-naturedly said:"Yes, indeed, little master and miss, I declare,It's enough to make any mother-cat stareTo see what a time you do make, to be sure.Over one small creature, so helpless and poorAs your babies are! Why, I've six of my own:When they were two weeks old they could run alone;They're never afraid of dogs or of rats —In a few weeks more they'll be full-grown cats;"Their fur is as fine and as soft as silk —Two gray, and three black, and one white as newmilk.A fair fight for a mouse in my familyIs as pretty a sight as you'll ever see.It is all very well to brag of your baby —One of these years it will be something, maybe!"And without even looking at the baby's face,The cat walked away at a sleepy pace."Moo, Moo!" said a cow, coming up. "Moo,Moo!Young people, you're making a great to-doAbout your baby. And the lark and the cat,They're nothing but braggers – I wouldn't givethat."(And the cow snapped her tail as you'd snap yourthumb)"For all the babies, and kittens, and birds, that comeIn the course of a year! It does make me laughTo look at them all, by the side of a calf!"Why, my little Brindle as soon as 'twas bornStood up on its legs, and sniffed at the corn;Before it had been in the world an hourIt began to gambol, and canter, and scourAll over the fields. See its great shining eyes,And its comely red hair that so glossy liesAnd thick! he has never felt cold in his life;But the wind cuts your baby's skin like a knife."Poor shivering things! I have pitied them oft,All muffled and smothered in flannel soft.Ha! ha! I am sure the stupidest gabyCan see that a calf's ahead of a baby!"And the cow called her calf, and tossed up herheadLike a person quite sure of all she has said.Then Jane looked at Eddy, and Eddy at Jane;Said Eddy, "How mean! I declare, they're toovain"To live – preposterous things! They don't knowWhat they're talking about! I'd like them to showa bird, or a kitten, or a learned calf.That can kiss like our baby, or smile, or laugh!""Yes, indeed, so should I!' said Jane in a rage;"The poor little thing! She's advanced for her age,For the minister said so the other day —She's worth a hundred kittens or calves to play."And as for young birds – they're pitiful things!I saw a whole nest once, all mouths and bare wings,And they looked jis if they'd been picked by thecookTo broil for breakfast. I'm sure that they shookWith cold if their mother got off for a minute —I'm glad we have flannel, and wrap babies in it!"So the children went grumbling one to the other,And when they reached home they told their mother.The dear baby, asleep, in its crib she laid,And laughed as she kissed the children, and said:"Do you think I believe that the sun can shineOn a boy or a girl half so sweet as mine?The lark, and the cat, and the cow were all right —Each baby seems best in its own mother's sight!"

A YOUNG INQUIRER

By Charlotte Mellen PackardHOW does life look behind the Hill?All the suns I have ever seenPeeped from over a mountain screen,Stretched a finger of rosy lightThrough some crevice to paint "Good-night;"Up the darkness the great round moonFloated by like a red balloon,Hung and glittered awhile, untilIt went to the people behind the Hill.The earth spins round, the mountain is stillMen and women they come and they go,Children play in the valley below.Winds are roaring, or winds are whist,Sun may pass, there is rain and mist,The world we know is a bright world still,But ah, for the other behind the Hill!Voices are calling me day by day —I listen, and wonder whatever they say!The valleys are pleasant, and days are longWith play and study, with work and song —But a boy keeps planning for other things,There's room in his restless body for wings,And fancy will never fold them untilHe sees for himself what is over the Hill.But most I dream of the unknown seaWhere brave ships hasten like birds set free,Where plunging breakers ride high and loudTill the sailor is lost between wave and cloud.Oh the sunny lands, and the frozen zone,The forests where never a man is known!There are wonders and wonders waiting stillFor a boy who has never looked over the Hill!

IN MIDSUMMER

By Mrs. L. C. WhitonINTO silence of the morning's splendorThere is shaken a golden robin's dream;Kissed by sunshine to divine surrender,Bloom the snowy lilies in the stream;Soft south winds the hidden wild flowers Woo;And between the tangled leaves in view —Hush! I see the Summer,Summer, Summer floating through.Climbs the sun, with ecstasy of shining,From the blush of rising into gold;And the river's heart, with close defining,Tells the same sweet story it is told;Hills are veiled in tender mists anew;From the liquid skies' unshadowed blue-Hush! I see the Summer,Summer, Summer flooding through.

A MIDSUMMER SONG

By Mary E. WilkinsI WANT to sing a little song to please you,How midsummer comes following after June,And shall I pitch it by the lark or robin? —For songs in midsummer should be in tune.And shall I give it sweetness like the roses? —For midsummer has roses, as you know,As well as June; and sprinkled o'er with spicesFrom beds of pinks and poppies in a row?Perhaps like them; or, maybe 'twould be sweeter,My little song, and prettier sound to you,If I should make it make you think of lilies —For midsummer has always lilies too.Around the meadow-sweet the bees they clusterSo thick the children pick it not for fear —Like meadow-sweet and bees, if I could make it,A pretty little song 'twould be to hear!Down in the field a crowd of flowers are standing;The locusts pipe, the flowers keep sweet and still —With honey-balls of clover and the others,If only I my little song could fill!I want to sing a little song to please youOf midsummer that's following after June,But oh! of all her sweet, gay things, I cannotWith one put yet my little song in tune!I think you'll have to find a child or robin,Some ignorant and merry-hearted thing;For, I suppose, a song of the midsummerIt takes a heart more like a bird's to sing!

IN THE BLACK FOREST

By Celia ThaxterUP through the great Black Forest,So wild and wonderful,We climbed in the autumn afternoon'Mid the shadows deep and cool.We climbed to the Grand Duke's castleThat stood on the airy height;Above the leagues of pine-trees darkIt shone in the yellow light.Around the edge of her wee white capWe saw how the peasant womenWere toiling along the way,In the open spaces, here and there,That steeped in the sunshine lay.They gathered the autumn harvest —All toil-worn and weather-browned;They gathered the roots they had planted in spring,And piled them up on the ground.We heard the laughter of children,And merrily down the roadRan little Max with a rattling cart,Heaped with a heavy load.Upon orange carrots, and beets so red,And turnips smooth and white,With leaves of green all packed between,Sat the little Rosel bright.The wind – blew out her curls —A sweeter face I have never seenThan this happy little girl's.A spray of the carrot's foliage fine,Soft as a feather of green,Drooped over her head from behind her ear.As proud as the plume of a queen.Light was his burden to merry Max,With Rosel perched above,And he gazed at her on that humble throneWith the eyes of pride and love.With joyful laughter they passed us by,And up through the forest of pine,So solemn and still, we made our wayTo the castle of Eberstein.Oh, lofty the Grand Duke's castleThat looked o'er the forest gloom;But better I love to rememberThe children's rosy bloom.Oh, vast and dim and beautifulWere the dark woods' shadowy aisles.And all their silent depths seemed litWith the children's golden smiles.And sweet is the picture I brought awayFrom the wild Black Forest shade,Of proud and happy and merry Max,And Rosel, the little maid.

EDITH'S LESSON

By Mrs. Margaret E. SangsterOUT in the meadow the scented breezeWas full of the gossip of birds and bees;Out in the orchard the glad things flew,And o'er meadow and orchard the sky was blue —The sky was blue, and the clouds were white,And the summer morning was blithe and bright."It is quite too lovely in-doors to stay,"Said Edith, "whether I work or play."So slate and pencil and fairy-bookWere carried forth to a cozy nook,Where the shadows glanced, and the sunbeams shone,And the dear little girl could be alone.There were hard examples that must be done,For father to see ere the set of sun;And there was the merriest tale to read,Of a lady fair, on a milk-white steed, —Of a lady fair, and a stately lover,And the charm that lay in a four-leaf clover."Study the lesson!" the robin said,As he poised on the branch above her head,With a whirr of wings like the beat of drums;"Edith," the bee hummed, "mind the sums!"But shadow and shine in their airy playCoaxed for the story that matched the day."Any time will do for the tiresome task,"Said Edith at last, "and I think I'll askPapa to excuse my Arithmetic, —In such warm weather I might be sickIf I taxed this poor little brain of mine."So she listened, you see, to shadow and shine;And then full-length on the velvet grass,She dreamed of delights that would come to passWhen she, too large for the rigid ruleOf the happy home, or the stricter school,Should be a woman, and quite at easeEach hour to do what she might please."On silvery paper, with golden pen,"She mused,"I'd write love-stories then,And wherever I went, would people say,'The gifted Edith is here to-day! 'And maybe, – for stranger things have been, —I might Editor be of a Magazine!"No higher flight could her fancy take,Were the darling child asleep or awake;And presently there in that paradise,The lids fell over the heavy eyes,And the noon-bell's summons, loud and clear,Was heeded not by her slumbering ear.How long was her nap, I do not know,But she sauntered home when the sun was low';Dinner was over, and father frowned,And chided her gently for "idling round,"While gravely he bade her be sure and seeThat she solved her examples after tea.