Chapter VI: Part II (3)

Little Margaret, who paid small attention to cautions, and who expected that everybody in the world was bound to be kind to her and help take care of her, took this ride as a matter of course, and was soon seated beside Teddy, with Sally Amelia tucked safely under her arm. Jake decided to walk down the hill. “It’s a pretty steep pitch for this part of the world,” he explained, “and the harness ain’t none of the safest; I guess I better walk.”

Teddy looked at the harness and trembled. What would his mother say if she could hear that? Even now it was not too late to ask Jake to set them back again on the dusty road, but how he would laugh and call him a coward! Teddy couldn’t, and the down-hill ride began.

What made that poor old half-blind horse stumble on a hidden root that particular morning and pitch the crazy old cart forward with such a sudden lunge as to send Teddy rolling down the hill faster than the horse could have traveled? Above all, how did it happen that Margaret did not fall out, but lay flat in the bottom of the cart and screamed? Nobody knows how any of it happened. They only know that when the almost distracted Jake had succeeded in getting the horse on his feet, and lifting Margaret in his arms, and trying his best to hush her had stumbled with all speed to the spot where Teddy had stopped rolling, the poor little fellow had fainted, and had to be carried by Jake to the very door of his mother’s house, Margaret trudging solemnly along by his side, occasionally asking pitifully why Teddy went to “s’eep,” and why he didn’t wake up.

Poor Teddy “waked up” almost too soon for his comfort. It had been a terrible pain, when he tried to pick himself up from the road, which had made him faint.

Days afterwards, as he lay in his white bed with his leg done in “splints,” whatever they were, and watched the long, bright spring days full of Southern sunshine and sweet smells, and thought how long it would be before he could run about again, he would sigh out wearily, “O, muvver! if I only hadn’t!” Of course his mother tried to comfort him. Once she said: “But, Teddy dear, you did not mean to do wrong. You supposed of course that because Jake was considered an honest, clean-souled man, mother would be willing to have you ride with him. It was what we call an error in judgment. If I were you I would be glad that you escaped with only a broken leg, and that dear little Margaret was not hurt at all, and then try to forget about it.”

Teddy considered this for some minutes with a grave face, and in his eyes an earnest longing to take the comfort to his heart. But at last he spoke, in the slow, old-fashioned way he sometimes had: “No, muvver, it was an error in want-to! I knew ‘not to ride with any strange person’ meant with any person that you had not let me ride with before; and I knew I wasn’t doing real heart right; so if Margaret had been hurt it would have been my fault. O, muvver! if I only hadn’t!”

PANSY.

ABOUT WASHINGTON.

BY THE PANSIES.

I READ a letter written by Mrs. President Adams in 1796. In it she complains that there are not nearly lamps enough to light the White House decently, and that the making of the daily fires in all the rooms, “to keep off the ague,” occupies the entire time of one or two servants. She says there are no looking-glasses in the house but “dwarfs.” I think Mrs. President Harrison must have found a very different state of things. It is just like women to complain about there not being looking-glasses!

JOHN WEST.

* * * * *

MY great-grandfather used to be in Washington in Congress, when Daniel Webster was there. My father has told me all about it; they had great speeches. Grandfather heard Henry Clay when he made his wonderful speech. I’d like to have been with him! Father read to us last night about the speech, and in the book it said there were at that time two little boys, one eight years old and the other ten, whom nobody knew anything about until afterwards. One of them went to a primary school in Boston and studied a primer, and the other didn’t go to school at all, but had to work hard. The primer boy was named Sumner, and the other boy was Abraham Lincoln. I guess if the people in Washington had known what those two boys were going to do a little later, they would have been astonished.

LINCOLN STEVENSON.

* * * * *

MY father and mother lived in Washington in 1860. Father says it wasn’t much like a city then; there were no street cars, and they did not light the streets, only Pennsylvania Avenue, and they got their water from pumps or springs. There were no sewers, and the streets were not paved, and the parks were all full of weeds. He told me about it one day last spring when we were in Washington, and sat under the trees in beautiful Stanton Square. I could hardly believe that the lovely city ever looked as he described it. And to think that that was only a little over thirty years ago! Father says the changes seem like a dream to him.

LILIAN PRESCOTT.

* * * * *

IN 1808 there were only about five thousand people in Washington, and lots of fun was made of the city. A great many people wanted the Capitol moved farther North, and the papers were filled with jokes about the “City in the mud,” “City of streets without houses,” “Capitol of huts,” and all that sort of thing. I wish some of those simpletons who wrote that way could ride down Pennsylvania Avenue now! But they can’t, because they are all dead.

ARTHUR BURKHARDT.

* * * * *

MY mother used to be in Washington when the Northwest, where so many elegant houses are, was just a great swamp! When we were there a year ago she took me to walk on Connecticut Avenue, and showed me where she and Aunt Nannie used to play hide-and-seek. The elegant building belonging to the British Legation stands there now, and in every direction the houses and lawns are lovely! I asked mamma how they came to be allowed to play on such an elegant street, and she laughed, and said nobody in those days thought of such a thing as its ever being elegant around there. It seems queer to think what changes there must have been in a few years. My Auntie lives on Connecticut Avenue now, and I think it is one of the prettiest streets in Washington.

ALICE BARNES.

* * * * *

MY brother Robert liked the great dome best, but I was very fond of the bronze door at the main entrance of the Capitol. I had just been studying all about Columbus when I went to Washington, and it was so interesting to see his history carved on the door. Then I staid in the rotunda a long time. I like round rooms when they are very large. The paintings are beautiful. There was one of Columbus landing, and one which showed the Pilgrims just starting, and one of Pocahontas being baptized. I like to look at pictures of things that I know about. Of course I went up the round-and-round iron stairway which leads to the dome. I stood under the statue of Freedom and looked down at the city. It was beautiful.

CARRIE FOSTER.

* * * * *

WE went, last winter, to the Library of Congress. My uncle went almost every day, and I had to go with him, because I had nowhere else to go while he was there; but I had a nice book to read, and I liked it. The room is made of iron—I mean the shelves and rafters and all those things are—and the roof is of copper. It is said to be the only library in the world that is entirely fire proof. There are more than six hundred thousand books, and thousands and thousands of pamphlets in this library. Every book which has been copyrighted has to send two copies to the library. It is about ninety years since books were first gathered there. It was in 1800 that Congress voted to use five thousand dollars toward buying books for a library. I suppose they thought that would get books enough to last for a century, but hundreds of thousands of dollars have been spent for them since. I saw the new library building going up. It is to cost nearly five millions. When it is finished they will have room for four million books! It is to have a gallery three hundred and fifty feet long, for pictures and beautiful things.

My uncle says this letter is too long; but I do not know what to leave out, so I will send it.

MARGARET WINTERS.

* * * * *

I WENT to Congress two or three times last winter. They behave better in the Senate than they do in the House. In fact, I don’t think the people in the House were gentlemanly. They smoked, and they quarreled, and three or four tried to talk at once!

ANNA BROOKS.

[This by no means exhausts the items of interest
about Washington, but the article grows so long that
we must omit the others, sorry as we are to do so.
It is certainly a great pleasure to find our Pansies
so wide awake, and so successful in selecting items
which cannot fail to interest others. Remember the
next city, and be in time for us to make careful
selections.—EDITORS.]

MAJOR’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

II.

ALTHOUGH I am a dog myself I do wonder how some of my race can afford to waste so much love upon masters who have so little love for them, or, it would seem, for any one else.

Now, for instance, there is Mr. Billings who lives on the hill; just think how he ill-treats and almost starves his dog, cuffing, scolding, licking him; and yet that poor fellow is just as glad to see him the next time as though he had been petted, and is ready to hunt, drive cows or sheep, or watch all night.

I have known that dog ever since he came into the neighborhood, and I knew old man Billings long before.

Being up that way I had a few words with friend Dash the day he arrived. I found him to be friendly—a dog that any man might love and be proud of. I was awfully sorry for him then, and have been ever since, for I did not think much of his master.

Sometimes, when I see the poor fellow coming, looking so lean and hungry, I run out into the road with the best bone I have on hand, for a bit of a lunch, and leave it where I know Dash will find it. My! it does me good to see him take it down.

I often think of him trotting for fifteen or twenty miles after that team, and as likely as not without a mouthful of breakfast before starting.

This is not mere surmise; he told me so one day—said he had been all day with nothing to eat but a scrap or two which he happened to find on the way; for he had not time to hunt for anything while in town, because he had to stay and watch the things in the wagon. It’s too bad, too bad!

Just think what Dash has done for that man!

You never heard about it?

Well, I will tell you. It was in the spring of last year—the time for washing sheep. When Mr. Billings went for his sheep, all his children who were big enough to help drive went along.

As he never pets anything that he has, so he never petted his sheep, therefore as soon as they heard him call they were much more afraid of him than they would have been of our master, I really believe, so away they went as fast as their legs could carry them.

If it had not been for Dash, Mr. Billings and all his boys could never have penned those creatures. But he seemed to know just what to do, and it was not long before they seemed to feel as though they had found a friend instead of an enemy in this dog; he worked like a good fellow, as he is.

After much skillful maneuvering, hard running and gentle barking, the sheep were all finally gotten into the pen, where Billings and his boys could take them one by one and wash them with the water which fell over the dam.

After the father and older boys were gone, little Bennie Billings, who is only a few months more than three years old, crawled through the garden fence and started after the others.

His mother did not miss him, thinking he had gone with his brothers. As it was, Bennie came trotting along while the rest were absorbed in the work of washing sheep, and so was not noticed by any one of them.

But faithful Dash had his eye upon him all the while, and felt that it was more important that he should look after the boy than the lambs.

He tried hard to keep between Bennie and the water, but this he was not long able to do.

Sliding down the bank the boy crawled out upon a slippery rock, and from that fell into the water.

It was deep, and Dash had all he could do to drag the little fellow to the land. He could not pull him out; but holding on as well as he could, he growled very loud.

Dash was getting pretty tired, and the case was growing desperate, when a neighbor hearing the growl, came to the rescue.

Poor Bennie was almost gone; he would not have lived much longer; but if help had not come, Dash would have died with the little chap he was trying to save.

Think of that father kicking Dash after that, or ever forgetting to give him all he needed to eat! You would think the boy’s mother would look after her child’s rescuer; but it is said she has little to do with.

It would not seem so strange if the faithful fellow were not all the time doing things worthy of being remembered.

It was only last fall, when the corn was well grown, that this hard master came home one rainy night and forgot to fasten the gate after him. There were a great many cattle upon the road, and Dash told me he could hear the bell upon one old cow dingling away as plain as day all the time the master was unharnessing the horses. He said he ran out by the gate and barked as loud as he could when Mr. Billings was going into the house; but it did no good. So there was nothing for him to do but go and stay there all night in the hard rain.

Telling me about it he said: “I wouldn’t have minded it, though it was so cold and wet, if master had noticed it; if he had just said, ‘Good faithful fellow, you saved our garden and cornfield!’ but he never noticed me except to scold me for getting in the way when I came into the kitchen to warm myself a little, though he knew there were more than twenty head of cattle which would have been in that garden and cornfield if I had not kept them out.”

But for all that he would do the same things over again, or anything else that he can do for the comfort and help of his hard master.

I suspect Dash misses these little kindnesses more for the reason that he has not always been used to such treatment.

You see he once had a good master; but the man was taken ill and had to go away, and for some reason could not take Dash with him.

One day when we met down town near the post-office he told me this story.

By some mishap the house of his former master took fire. How it happened he did not seem to know. The mistress had gone into a neighbor’s house for a few moments, and had left her baby asleep in the cradle, in charge of a little girl, while Dash watched at the front gate to see that no tramp came in.

Said he, “I smelt something, and looked around just in time to see that little girl as she ran out of the front door crying ‘Fire!’

“In a moment I thought of Baby, and saw that the girl had left it in the house; so I dashed through the door and into the thick smoke, and finding the cradle I caught the child by his frock, and pulling with all my might I got him out on the floor and dragged him to the door. Just as I got him to the first step, where we could breathe again, the mother arrived.

“But she came too late to have saved her baby if it had been in the cradle then, for that was already in full blaze. As it was, the poor thing was almost smothered with the smoke.

“How that mother hugged and kissed me! She made so much ado about it that I felt almost ashamed. Yet I must confess it was gratifying to know that the mother appreciated what I had done.

“Well, after that there was nothing in the house too good for me to eat, no place where I was not welcome, no kennel too nice for me to sleep in, nor was there any lack of petting.”

Just imagine what a change from a home such as that, to the miserable one he now has to endure.

I do feel so sorry for him!

Sometimes I feel as though I should not be as faithful as Dash is if I were in his place; yet I must not forget that duty is duty, and that one must not do wrong because he has not been treated as he should be.

If this poor fellow’s case were a solitary one, it would not seem so bad; but I am sorry to say that all over our land there are as faithful fellows as Dash treated no better than he.

Think of those dogs with drunken masters! Think how much they have to endure of hunger and cold and abuse, though they are as faithful as life. I can hardly keep from growling when I think of it!

But I must not talk in this way any longer to-day. I have spent the hour speaking of another, so we must wait till some other time before I can tell you anything more of my own experience.

Indeed I was not intending to talk all the time about myself; I would like to set before you a little of the lives of the best of our race, such as will afford you excellent examples for imitation, that your lives may be good and true.

R.

VESUVIUS.

NEARLY two thousand years ago there was a mountain, and its name was Vesuvius. From the foot of it to the very top it was almost like a garden.

At the bottom were two great cities, called Herculaneum and Pompeii. The mountain is there now, and near it is the city of Naples in Italy.

One day, when everything was going on in those great cities just as usual, an awful sound was heard like the firing of ten thousand of the biggest cannon; the earth shook as if it was going to pieces, then it grew dark like night. The sky was filled with flying cinders, or something like ashes; the air had a sulphurous smell. All the people wondered. Some ran into the street, some took to the boats and rowed away as fast as possible, some screamed. Children clung to their mothers, hiding their faces in their dresses. Animals broke away and ran furiously, dashing themselves against the rocks or plunging into the sea; the very birds sighed as they swept through the sky.

The mountain—this Vesuvius—was on fire; the fire was spouting from its top in terrific forms. Smoke, such as you have never seen it, leaped as the darkest thunder clouds upward, while melted earth and rock ran down the sides of Vesuvius like a devouring flood. Before it, the gardens fled away. On it came, rushing, foaming, burning. It leaped upon the houses and buried them, whole streets at once. So suddenly it came that few of the people escaped. What a time was that!

Think of a whole city, like Philadelphia, buried ten or twenty feet deep, so that in the place of the grand palaces, stores and temples, nothing was seen but a smoking furnace—red-hot lava!

Not a great while since people began to dig. They dug and dug, and after years of digging there were the streets again and buildings, the merchant selling his goods, babies sleeping in their mamma’s arms, a bride and groom standing up to be married, a funeral procession coming from a house, a miser counting his money, a cruel father beating his child, a loving mother kissing her son, a marriage feast in this house, a dying parent in that. Just as the fierce, quick flood of lava found them, so it buried them, and so they were found after nearly two thousand years!

Since that awful day the volcano, Vesuvius, has been on fire again and again.

L.

AURORA LEIGH.

(_English Literature Papers._)

HOW many of my Pansies are acquainted with her? She is “a woman in a book,” and the book was written by a woman of whom you have surely heard—Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I want you to know something about this story book and its author. There are those who think the story is too “grown-up” to interest children; but that is because they do not understand certain kinds of children very well. When I was a little girl of ten, I was very fond of narrative poems, and read some which were judged far above my understanding.

Would you like a picture of Aurora’s room, as she describes it? Listen:

“I had a little chamber in the house
As green as any privet hedge a bird
Might choose to build in. . . .
The walls were green, the carpet was pure green,
The straight small bed was curtained greenly,
And the folds hung green about the window,
Which let in the out-door world with all its greenery.
You could not push your head out and escape
A dash of dawn-dew from the honeysuckle.”

Poor Aurora lost her mother when she was four years old, and her dear, dear father when she was just a little girl. Then she sailed across the ocean from her home in Italy to her father’s old home in England. When she first saw English soil, this is the way she felt:

. . . “oh, the frosty cliffs looked cold upon me!
Could I find a home among those mean red houses,
Through the fog?. . . Was this my father’s England?
. . . . . .
I think I see my father’s sister stand
Upon the hall-step of her country house
To give me welcome. She stood straight and calm,
Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight
As if for taming accidental thoughts
From possible quick pulses. Brown hair
Pricked with gray by frigid use of life.
A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines;
A close mild mouth . . . eyes of no color;
Once they might have smiled, but never, never
Have forgot themselves in smiling.”

You cannot imagine, I think, any life more unlike what Aurora had been used to in her home in Florence, than the one to which she came in England. She describes her aunt’s life as—

“A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage,
Accounting that to leap from perch to perch
Was act and joy enough for any bird.
Dear Heaven, how silly are the things
That live in thickets, and eat berries!
I, alas, a wild bird scarcely fledged,
Was brought to her cage, and she was there to meet me.
Very kind! ‘Bring the clean water; give out the fresh seed!’”

You wonder what sort of a little girl she was? She tells us:

“I was a good child on the whole,
A meek and manageable child. Why not?
I did not live to have the faults of life.
There seemed more true life in my father’s grave
Than in all England. . . . . .
At first I felt no life which was not patience;
Did the thing she bade me, without heed
To a thing beyond it; sat in just the chair she placed
With back against the window, to exclude
The sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn,
Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woods
To bring the house a message.”

So quiet was she, and pale, and sad, that her aunt’s friends visiting there, whispered about her that “the child from Florence looked ill, and would not live long.” This made her glad, for she was homesick for her father’s grave. But her cousin, Romney Leigh, a boy somewhat older than herself, took her to task for this. He said to her:

“You’re wicked now. You wish to die,
And leave the world a-dusk for others,
With your naughty light blown out.”

Well, she did not die, but lived to be a sweet, proud, brave, foolish, sorrowful, glad, happy woman! You think my words contradict one another? No; they may belong to one life, and often do.

I do not mean that you will be interested in all her story—hers and “Cousin Romney’s”—not yet awhile. Some day you will read it, study it, I hope, for the beauty of the language, and for the moral power there is in it. Just now, my main object is to introduce you, so that when you hear the name “Aurora Leigh,” you may be able to say: “I know her; she is one of Mrs. Browning’s characters—a little girl from Florence, who lived with an aunt in England.” Or when you hear Mrs. Browning’s name, you will say, or think: “She wrote a long poem once, named Aurora Leigh.”

Why should you care to know that? Because, my dear, it is a little crumb of knowledge about English Literature, a study which I am hoping you are going to greatly enjoy by and by.

Oh! Mrs. Browning wrote many other poems, though the one about which we have been talking is perhaps considered her greatest. There are some which I think you must know and love. For instance:

“Little Ellie sits alone
’Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass;
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.

“She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water’s flow;
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.

“Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses
Fills the silence like a speech;
While she thinks what shall be done—
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach.”

There are seventeen verses; of course I have not room for them, but you will like to find the poem and read for yourselves. It is entitled “The Romance of the Swan’s Nest.”

Then there is that wonderful poem of hers called “The Cry of the Children.” Surely you ought to know of that. It was suggested to her by reading the report which told about children being employed in the mines and manufactories of England. It is said that Mrs. Browning’s poem was the means of pushing an act of Parliament which forbade the employment of young children in this way. The poem has thirteen long verses, every one of which you should carefully read. Let me give you just a taste:

“Do you hear the children weeping, O, my brothers!
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears!
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west;
But the young, young children, O, my brothers!
They are weeping bitterly.
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
. . . . . .

“‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happen
That we die before our time;
Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen
Like a snowball in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her;
There’s no room for any work in the coarse clay;
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’
If you listen by that grave in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries.
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes.
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled
In the shroud by the kirk-chime.
‘It is good, when it happens,’ say the children,
‘That we die before our time.’”

It will never do to take more room with this paper, and I have told you almost nothing about the dear lady who voiced the children’s cry so wonderfully, and to such purpose! Suppose you let me take her story, little bits of it, for the next PANSY. Besides, I want to introduce you to her dear “Flush.”

PANSY.

BABY’S CORNER.

A GOOD TIME.

THIS is Trudy. She is all ready to go with papa.

They are going up in the woods to the “sugar bush.”

It is April—a bright, sunshiny day, but the wind is cold, so she has to wear her warm coat and hood.

As Trudy ran along through the woods she saw a little bluebird singing on a branch, and she found yellow violets and tiny blue flowers with a long name. They had just poked up their heads through the snow. Brave little blossoms they were!

Wooden pails hung on all the maple-trees. The sap was running into them. When the pails were full of sap John, the hired man, brought it into the little sugar house and boiled it, and made nice cakes of maple sugar.

The house had a great fireplace. A bright fire was crackling there.

Trudy sat down on a stool and warmed her toes.

There was a big black kettle over the fire; it was almost full of sap. It bubbled and boiled and made a good smell.

John stirred it with a long wooden spoon. He stirred and stirred a long time, and the fire snapped and the sap boiled, and Trudy watched, and by and by it was done!

Then papa got a pan of snow, and John dropped little bits from the spoon all over the snow.

When it was cool Trudy put in her thumb and finger, and plump! went one of the little brown balls into her mouth. Oh! but it was good. Trudy thought maple candy was ever so much better than the pink and white stuff she bought at the stores.

She ate and ate, till papa said, “No more, dearie.” So she carried the rest of it to little brother.

They rode home on the wood sled, drawn by two big oxen. Trudy said it was just the “beautifulest time” she ever had in her life.

She whispered to papa that she thought God was very good to make so many big trees full of candy just to please little girls and boys.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THERE you have a fine Holland house, a palace rather. Come, let us go in. Just think, you have a royal invitation. Well, here we are. In this elegant room is a kingly throne. In that beautiful chair sits the little Queen of Holland.

Doesn’t this Miss look like a wise sovereign, able to command armies and navies and make laws?

Now you laugh. But come out into her big back yard, and you shall see our little maid rule her subjects. See how obedient they are, running to her or fleeing from her as fast as their legs can carry them—and their wings too—

“Wings!”

Why, bless you, yes. This little Queen has one hundred and fifty cooing doves. She is their beloved mistress, feeding and fondling them, calling them by name, they laughing, singing, talking for her, after the dear dove fashion.

But look! there comes the Shetland pony, and quick as a cat she is on his back, and away they go down the road, gallopty, gallop, she tossing back a kiss to her mamma, the Queen Regent, who looks from the palace window. There she comes back, her face full of roses and laughter.

Twenty minutes more, and she is a student like any of you, with spelling-book, pen or geography, or thumbing the piano or reading aloud to her mother. She is her mother’s constant companion. She is up at 7 A. M., and kneeling at her mother’s knee, says her morning prayers.

She is often dressed completely in white, even to gloves and stockings. Watch and see what she will be in coming years.

L.

A WONDERFUL STONE.

A MR. MENINGER of New Orleans, while visiting in the town of Chilpanzingo, Mex., saw a rock there which he—and others—says foretells rain twenty-four hours in advance!

In fair weather it is grayish, very smooth and cold, but when it is going to rain it becomes a dingy red at the base, pink at the top, and it becomes warmer and warmer till the rain falls. If there is much lightning, the stone becomes charged (filled) like an electrical jar, so that you cannot safely approach it.

After the rain it goes back to its first state of color and coldness.

L.

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS.

WHY so soon with flocks returning?
O, dear father, tell us why:
Scarce the night lamps ceased their burning,
Scarce the stars dimmed in the sky
When we heard the distant bleating
Of the flock come o’er the lea;
While the stars were still retreating
Thou wert coming o’er the lea;
Home so early in the morning!
Sheep and lambs so fast you’re leading
To the fold at early dawning,
At the time of sweetest feeding!

Ill, dear father, art thou? Surely
Suffering art thou? Tell us true!
Has some lambie been unruly—
Wandered far away from view?
Must thou go across the mountain,
Starting in the morning gray,
Search by vale, and rock, and fountain
For the lost one, gone astray?
But thy face is bright and beaming,
And thy step is free and glad,
And thy eyes with joy are gleaming
Surely nothing makes thee sad!

Thus she chattered to her father,
Shepherd of Judean plain;
Eager for some reason given
Which might satisfy her brain;
But the father, heart o’erflowing
With the story he could tell,
Felt the spirit in him burning—
Felt his soul within him swell—
And, with tender touch, down bending
Gently drew her to his breast;
His life-calling sweetly lending
Skill for what he loved the best.

Then his home flock, like the other,
In the home fold where they dwelt—
Father, children, precious mother—
All before Jehovah knelt;
Knelt to thank the covenant-keeping
God of Jacob, who alone
In their waking and their sleeping,
Safely shelters all his own.
This—and then began the story
Of the night before that morn,
When the angels came from glory,
Telling that the Christ was born.

(_The story._)

On the hillside near our flocks were sleeping,
While we, reclining by, our watch were keeping;
The sun had set in a glow of splendor,
And the stars looked down so pure and tender
That we felt a hush pervading
Every breast; for the fading
Of the day had been so slow,
And the twilight’s gentle glow
Had left the earth so still
That over plain and hill
A gentle sleep seemed holding all
As quiet as beneath a pall

Of death. When every heart
Was hushed, and sure to start
At slightest move or sound,
From sky or earth or ground,
We would not break with song
The silence, which so strong
Had reigned supreme the while,
But sought we to beguile
With word of prophecy the hour,
Talking of Him whose conquering power
Our fallen Israel should restore,
And make her glory as of yore.

The Lord seemed wondrous near us then;
As when our father Jacob dreamed, or when
The great law-giver stood on hallowed ground
And heard Jehovah speak in words profound;
When, suddenly, burst on the ravished ear
A voice like music, or like trumpet clear,
And words most wonderful did there proclaim:
Tidings, glad tidings of the glorious Name!
He bade us haste to Bethlehem away
To find the Babe there born to us this day;
And then, when Paradise I see complete,
May it such strains to these glad ears repeat!
Then as from cloud the pealing thunder breaks
Till ’neath its voice the very mountain shakes,
So burst in chorus the celestial choir,
Each tongue aflame with heaven’s own altar fire,
To celebrate, as by Jehovah sent,
The long foretold and now fulfilled event—
Our own Messiah’s birth in Bethlehem town!
The Christ of God from heaven to earth come down!
The singing ceased, and all was still again
Save the sweet echo of “Good-will to men”;
The choir had flown; our flocks were all at rest,
And could we, after such a vision blest,

Await the dawning to behold the Stranger
Which cradled lay in Bethlehem’s lowly manger?
If we forgot our flocks, in haste to see the sight
Revealed to us by angel hosts last night,
Was it so strange, when honored thus were we
To be the first of all our race to see,
Worship and welcome to this world the King
Of whom the Prophets old did write and sing?
And so we hastened, sped, and tarried not
Until we found, O, joy! the very spot
Where lay this lily from sweet Paradise,
Angelic beauty there, before our eyes!

We bent, we worshiped, kissed the Babe so fair,
Then hastened back through all the perfumed air
To find our flocks by angel guards attended,
Better by them than by our skill defended.
Then each with gladness homeward sped away
To tell the tidings of this wondrous day.
The questions asked as round the father’s knee
The children pressed in eager ecstasy,
I will not try to tell. I cease
My story of the “Prince of Peace,”
This only adding—though the talk was long—
There followed it this burst of sacred song:

(_The song._)

O, thou Infant holy!
In thy cradle lowly,
Feeble stranger seeming,
Though almighty. Deeming
It thy pleasure,
Even in this measure,
In this casket fair
Human woe to share.

We thy praises sing;
To thy cradle bring
Love, and thanks and treasure,
Offerings without measure;
Just now come from glory,
We have heard thy story
Sung by angel chorus,
While God’s light shone o’er us.

O, thou Baby stranger!
Hiding in a manger,
By crowded inn rejected,
By pilgrims all neglected,
For thee our hearts are burning
With a holy yearning.
Be thou our guest;
Our arms would now enfold thee,
Our hearts would gladly hold thee;
We love thee best.
G. R. ALDEN.

THE SPOOL-COTTON GIRL.