Once Upon a Time and Other Child-Verses

THE BROWNIE'S XMAS

THE Brownie who lives in the forest,Oh, the Christmas bells they ring!Has done for the farmer's childrenFull many a kindly thing:When their cows were lost in the gloaming,He has driven them safely home;He has led their bees to the flowers,To fill up their golden comb;At her spinning the little sisterHad napped till the setting sun —She awoke, and the kindly BrownieHad gotten it neatly done;Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing!The mother she was away,And the Brownie played with the baby,And tended it all the day;The Brownie who lives in the torest,Oh, the Christmas bells they ring!Has done for the farmer's childrenFull many a kindly thing.'Tis true that they never spied him,Though their eyes were so sharp and bright,But there were the tasks all nicely done,And never a soul in sight.But the poor little friendly Brownie,His life was a weary thing;For he never had been in holy churchAnd heard the children sing;And he never had had a Christmas,Nor bent in prayer his knee;He had lived for a thousand years,And all weary-worn was he.Or that was the story the childrenHad heard at their mother's side;And together they talked it over,One merry Christmas-tide.The pitiful little sisterWith her braids of paly gold,And the little elder brother,And the darling five-year-old,All stood in the western window —'Twas toward the close of day —And they talked about the BrownieWhile resting from their play."The Brownie, he has no Christmas,"The dear little sister said;A-shaking sadly as she spokeHer glossy, yellow head;"The Brownie, he has no Christmas;While so many gifts had we,Last night they fairly bent to the floorThe boughs of the Christmas-tree."Then the little elder brother,He spake up in his turn,His sweet blue eyes were beaming,And his cheeks began to burn:"Let us make up for the BrownieA Christmas bundle now,To leave in the forest pathwayWhere the great oak branches bow."We'll mark it, 'For the Brownie,'And 'A Merry Christmas Day! 'And he will be sure to find it,For he must go home that way!"Then the tender little sisterWith her braids of paly gold,And the little elder brother,And the darling five-year-old,Made up a Christmas bundleAll tied with ribbons gay,And marked it, "For the Brownie,"With "A Merry Christmas Day!"And then in the winter twilight,With shouts of loving glee,They hied to the wood, and left their giftUnder the great oak-tree.While the farmer's fair little childrenSlept sweet that Christmas night,Two wanderers through the forestCame in the clear moonlight.And neither of them was the Brownie,But sorry were both as he;And their hearts, with every footstep,Were aching heavily.A slender man with an organStrapped on by a leathern band,And a little girl with a tambourineA-holding close to his hand.And the little girl with the tambourine, —Her gown was thin and old;And she toiled through the great white forest,A-shining with the cold."And what is there here to do?" she said;"I'm froze i' the light o' the moon!Shall we play to these sad old forest treesSome merry and jigging tune?"And, father, you know it is Christmas-time;And had we staid i' the town,And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees,A gift might have fallen down!"You cannot certainly know it would not!I'd ha' gone right under the tree IAre you sure that never one ChristmasIs meant for you and me?""These dry, dead leaves," he answered her,"Which the forest casteth down,Are more than you'd get from a Christmas-treeIn the merry and thoughtless town."Though to-night be the Christ's own birth-day night,And all the world has grace,There is not a home in all the worldWhich has for us a place."Slow plodding adown the forest path,"Now, what is this?" he said;Then he lifted the children's bundle,And "For the Brownie," read.The tears came into his weary eyes:"Now if this be done," said he,"Somewhere in the world perhaps there isA place for you and me!"Then the bundle he opened softly:"This is children's tender thought;Their own little Christmas presentsThey have to the Brownie brought."If there lives such tender pityToward a thing so dim and low,There must be kindness left on earthOf which I did not know."Oh, children, there's never a BrownieThat sorry, uncanny thing;But nearest and next are the homelessWhen the Christmas joy-bells ring."Loud laughed the little daughter,As she gathered the toys in her gown:"Oh, father, this oak is my Christmas-tree,And my present has fallen down!"Then away they went through the forest,The wanderers, hand in hand;And the snow, they were both so merry,It glinted like golden sand.Down the forest the elder brother,In the morning clear and cold,Came leading the little sister,And the darling five-year-old."Oh," he cries, "he's taken the bundle!"As carefully round he peers;"And the Brownie has gotten a ChristmasAfter a thousand years!"

THE CHRISTMAS BALL

THE fiddlers were scraping so cheerily, O,With a one, two, three, and a one, two, three,And the children were dancing so merrily, O,All under the shade of the Christmas-tree.O, bonny the fruit on its branches whichgrows!And the mistletoe bough from the ceiling hung!The fiddlers they rosined their squeakingbows,And the brave little lads their partnersswung.Oh, the fiddlers they played such a merry tune,With a one, two, three, and a one, two, three,And the children they blossomed like rosesin June,All under the boughs of the Christmas-tree.And the fiddlers were scrap-ing so merrily, O,With a one, two, three, anda one, two, three;And the children were dan-cing so cheerily, O,All under the shade of theChristmas-tree —The girl-fairy in cobwebfrock.When, all of a sudden, a fairy-land crewCame whirling airily into the room,As light as the fluffy balls, they flew,Which fly from the purple thistle-bloom.There were little girl-fairies in cobweb frocksAll spun by spiders from golden threads,With butterfly-wings and glistening locks,And wreaths of dewdrops around theirheads!There were little boy-fairies in jew-elled coatsOf pansy velvet, of cost un-told,With chains of daisies aroundtheir throats,And their heads all powderedwith lily-gold!The boy-fairy in jewelledcoat.The fiddlers they laughed tillthey scarce could see,And then they fiddled so cheerily, O,And the fairies and children around the tree,They all went tripping so merrily, O.The fiddlers they boxed up their fiddles all;The fairies they silently flew away;But every child at the Christmas ballHad danced with a fairy first, they say.So they told their mothers – and did not youEver have such a lovely time at your play,My boy and my girl, that it seemed quite trueThat you'd played with a fairy all the day?

THE PURITAN DOLL

OUR Puritan fathers, stern and good,Had never a holiday;Sober and earnest seemed life to them —They only stopped working to pray.And the little Puritan maidens learnedTheir catechisms through;And spun their stents, and wove, themselves,Their garments of homely blue.And they never made merry on ChristmasDay —That savored of Pope and Rome;And there was never a Christmas-treeIn any Puritan home.There never was woven a Christmas wreath,Carols the children never sung,And Christmas Eve, in the chimney-place,There was never a stocking hung.Sweet little Ruth, with her flaxen hairAll neatly braided and tied,Was sitting one old December dayAt her pretty mother's side.She listened, speaking never a word,With her serious, thoughtful look,To the Christmas story her mother readOut of the good old Book."I'll tell thee, Ruth!" her mother cried,Herself scarce more than a girl,As she smoothed her little daughter's hair,Lest it straggle out into a curl,"If thy stent be spun each day this week,And thou toil like the busy bee,A Christmas present on Christmas DayI promise to give to thee."And then she talked of those merry timesShe never could quite forget;The Christmas cheer, the holly and yule —She was hardly a Puritan yet.She talked of those dear old English days,With tears in her loving eyes;And little Ruth heard like a Puritan child,With a quiet though glad surprise.But nevertheless she thought of her gift,As much as would any ot you;And busily round, each day of the week,Her little spinning-wheel flew.Tired little Ruth! but oh, she thoughtShe was paid for it after all,When her mother gave her on Christmas DayA little Puritan doll.'Twas made of a piece of a homespun sheet,Dressed in a homespun gownCut just like Ruth's, and a little capWith a stiff white muslin crown.A primly folded muslin cape —I don't think one of you allWould have been so bold as to dare to playWith that dignified Puritan doll.Dear little Ruth showed her delightIn her pretty, quiet way;She sat on her stool in the great fire-place,And held her doll all day.And then (she always said "good-night"When the shadows began to fall,She was so happy she went to sleepStill holding her Puritan doll.

THE GIFT THAT NONE COULD SEE

THERE are silver pines on the win-dow-pane,A forest of them," said he;"And a huntsman is there with a silver horn,Which he bloweth right merrily."And there are a flock of silver ducksA-flying over his head;And a silver sea and a silver hillIn the distance away," he said."And all this is on the window-pane,My pretty mamma, true as true!"She lovingly smiled; but she looked not up,And faster her needle flew.A dear little fellow the speaker was —Silver and jewels and gold,Lilies and roses and honey-flowers,In a sweet little bundle rolled.He stood by the frosty window-paneTill he tired of the silver trees,The huntsman blowing his silver horn,The hills and the silver seas;And he breathed on the flock of silver ducks,Till he melted them quite away;And he saw the street, and the people pass —And the morrow was Christmas Day."The children are out, and they laugh andshout,I know what it's for," said he;"And they're dragging along, my prettymamma,A fir for a Christmas-tree."He came and stood by his mother's side:"To-night it is Christmas Eve;And is there a gift somewhere for me.Gold mamma, do you believe?"Still the needle sped in her slender hands:"My little sweetheart," said she,"The Christ Child has planned this Christ-mas, for you,His gift that you cannot see."The boy looked up with a sweet, wise lookOn his beautiful baby-face:"Then my stocking I'll hang for the ChristChild's gift,To-night, in the chimney-place."On Christmas morning the city through,The children were queens and kings,With their royal treasuries bursting o'erWith wonderful, lovely things.But the merriest child in the city full,And the fullest of all with glee,Was the one whom the dear Christ Childhad broughtThe gift that he could not see."Quite empty it looks, oh my gold mamma,The stocking I hung last night!""So then it is full of the Christ Child'sgift."And she smiled till his face grew bright."Now, sweetheart," she said, with a patientlookOn her delicate, weary face,"I must go and carry my sewing home,And leave thee a little space."Now stay with thy sweet thoughts, heart's delightAnd I soon will be back to thee.""I'll play, while you're gone, my prettymamma,With my gift that I cannot see."He watched his mother pass down the street;Then he looked at the window-paneWhere a garden of new frost-flowers hadbloomedWhile he on his bed had lain.Then he tenderly took up his empty sock,And quietly sat awhile,Holding it fast, and eying itWith his innocent, trusting smile."I am tired of waiting," he said at last;"I think I will go and meetMy pretty mamma, and come with herA little way down the street."And I'll carry with me, to keep it safe,My gift that I cannot see."And down the street 'mid the chattering crowd,He trotted right merrily."And where are you going, you dear littleman?They called to him as he passed;"That empty stocking why do you holdIn your little hand so fast?"Then he looked at them with his honest eyes,And answered sturdily:"My stocking is full to the top, kind sirs,Of the gift that I cannot see."They would stare and laugh, but he trudgedWith his stocking fast in his hand:"And I wonder why 'tis that the people allSeem not to understand!""Oh, my heart's little flower!" she cried tohim,A-hurrying down the street;"And why are you out on the street alone?And where are you going, my sweet?""I was coming to meet you, my prettymamma,With my gift that I cannot see;But tell me, why do the people laugh,And stare at my gift and me?"Like the Maid at her Son, in the Altar-piece,So loving she looked, and mild:"Because, dear heart, of all that you met,Not one was a little child."O thou who art grieving at Christmas-tide,The lesson is meant for thee;That thou mayst get Christ's loveliest giftsIn ways thou canst not see;And how, although no earthly goodSeems into thy lot to fall,Hast thou a trusting child-like heart,Thou hast the best of all.

A LITTLE CALLER

LONG, long ago, she ambled to town, herflaxen curls bobbed up and down,Her best blue ribbons fluttered gay, and shehad some calling-cards of her own —Long, long ago, the people cried, "Thererides the sweet little Arabella,She goes for to make a wedding-call, to-day,on the Prince and Cinderella!"

KATY-DID – KATY-DIDN'T

WHO was Katy, who was she,That you prate of her so long?Was she just a little lassieFull of smiles and wiles and song?Did she spill the cups o' dewFilled for helpless, thirsty posies?Did she tie a butterflyJust beyond the reach o' roses?Slandered she some sweet dumb thing?Called a tulip dull and plain,Said the clover had no fragrance,And the lily had a stain?Did she mock the pansies' faces,Or a grandpa-longlegs flout?Did she chase the frightened firefliesTill their pretty lamps went out?Well, whatever 'twas, O Katy!We believe no harm of you;And we'll join your stanch defenders,Singing "Katy-didn't," too.

SLIDING DOWN HILL

THERE is ice on the hill, hurrah, hurrah!We can slide quite down to the pas-ture-bar,Where the cows at night, in the summerweather,Would stand a-waiting and lowing together."Tie your tippet closer, John,"That was what their mother said;"All of you put mittens on —The broom will answer for a sled!"They had never a sled, but dragged in its room,Just as gayly, behind them, the worn kitchen-broom;John, Sammy, and Tom, and their sweet lit-tle sister,With her cheeks cherry-red, where the windhad kissed her."You can watch, sis, that's enough,"That was what her brother's said;"Keep your hands warm in your muff —Girls can't slide without a sled! ""Oh! where in the world is there aught so niceAs to slide down the pasture-hill on the ice?Quite down to the bar, sis, see, we are going,Where the cows each night in summer stood lowing."If I were a boy, like you – "This was what their sister said,Watching as they downward flew —"I would make a girl a sled!"

LITTLE PEACHLING

A Japanese Folk-lore StoryAT the foot of the Golden Dragon Hill,Ages ago, in a snug little houseWith a roof of dark-brown, velvety thatch,There lived an old woodman and his spouse.One morning his bill-hook the old man took:"To the mountain, to cut me a fagot, I'llhie,While you, O Koyo, the linen can washIn the river which rushes and gurgles by."Oh! the merry old man to the mountain hied,Past young rice-fields in the morning sun,Toward the dark fir-trees on the mountain side,Standing forth in its silence, every one.From wild camellias and white plum-trees,In his twinkling old eyes the spider-websswung;And he merrily brushed by the green bam-boos,With his bill-hook over his shoulder hung.And a uguisu sang in a tall cherry-treeAs the smiling old wife to the river-sidewent:"Oh, red is the sun!" she cheerily sang,As she patiently over her washing bent."Oh, red is the sun! and the rice-fields green —Now what is that in the river I see?It's the rosiest peach in the whole of Japan;And it's coming a-floating, a-floating to me."Now, here is a feast for my darling old man,Oh, the great Shogun not a finer can get!Some stewed lily-bulbs, and this beautiful peach,When he comes home from work, beforehim I'll set."Soon down from the mountain the old mancame,And fast on his back his fagot was bound."Oh! hasten you, husband," his loving wifecried,And taste this beautiful peach that I found."But just as he took it the peach split intwain,And a fat little baby with raven-black hairWas cradled right in the heart of the peach,And lay a-twinkling and blinking there."Oh! you brave little boy, you shall be ourown son;And Momotaro shall have for a name,Or Little Peachling, since out of a peach,You dear little fellow, this morning youcame."Oh! the rice-fields blossomed for twenty years,While the gurgling old river amongst themran;Oh! for twenty years grew the slim bamboo,And Little Peachling was grown to a man."Some millet-dumplings pray make for me,"To his good foster-mother he said oneday,"And off to the ogres' castle I'll go,And the whole of their treasure will bringaway."As thick in the ogres' treasure-vaultsThe jewels are lying as sea-shore sands;With blue snow-gates on the mountain-top,The ogres' castle all proudly stands —"With blue snow-gates that are stronger thansteel;But I will enter, and bring to youThe wealth from the ogres' treasure-vaults,Hung over with pearls, like flowers withdew.""I have made you the dumplings," his goodmother said,"But I fear lest the ogres should do youa harm."But the little Peachling danced gayly away,With the millet-dumplings under his arm.A dog leapt out of a cluster of pines:"And what have you there, Little Peachling,pray?""The best millet-dumplings in all Japan,And I'm to the ogres' castle away.""For one of your dumplings with you I'll go,And the ogres' castle will help subdue.""Well, you can bark at the castle-gate;So here is a dumpling, friend dog, for you."An ape swung down from a roadside tree:"Kia, kia, what have you, I say?""The best millet-dumplings in all Japan,And I'm to the ogres' castle away.""One of your dumplings pray give to me,And the ogres' castle I'll help subdue.""Well, you can climb o'er the castle-gate;So here is a dumpling, friend ape, for you.""Ken, ken=," cried a pheasant, "and what haveyou there,Little Peachling, tucked in your girdle, Ipray?""The best millet-dumplings in all Japan,And I'm to the ogres' castle away.""For one of your dumplings with you I'll go,And the ogres' castle will help subdue,""Well, you can fly o'er the castle-gate;So here is a dumpling, friend pheasant, foryou.Oh, the castle stood high on the mountain-top,And over its turrets a hurricane blew;But up to its terrible blue snow-gatesLittle Peachling marched with his retinue.Then the ogres swarmed out on the castle-towers,The drums beat loud, and the trumpetsbrayed,And magical arrows came rustling around —But our brave little rônin was not afraid.For his pheasant flew over the castle-wall,And his ape undid the castle-gate;And brave Little Peachling, his dog at heel,Into the castle then marched in state.His little dog snapped at the ogres' heels;His pheasant picked at their round greeneyes;And his ape tweaked away at the ogres' locks,As only an ape can do when he tries.And the little rônin, around him he laid,With his muramasa so thick and fast,That the king of the ogres was prisonermade;And the ogres' castle was taken at last.Oh, measures of pearls and wedges of gold!Oh, the jars of musk and the coral-bars,Amber and emeralds, tortoise-shells,And diamonds shining like strings of stars!Gold-brocade coats, and wonderful gemsThat regulated the green sea-tide!It's always the loveliest things in the worldWhich the treasure-castles of ogres hide.With the treasures, the dog, the pheasant andape,Little Peachling home to his parents ran;And the old woodman and his loving wifeWere the happiest couple in all Japan.

A SWING

O THEY made her a swing on a gossamer-tree, on the lowest bough of a gossamer-tree;And she swung so far, I have heard, she couldseeThe next year's rose and honey-bee, and thegifts on the next year's Christmas-tree —But I fear 'tis a story, O dear me!

THE YOUNGEST TELLS HER STORY

YOU think that I can't tell a story —Just wait – no! 'tisn't 'bout JackMory;This morning, it was early quite,I saw a little fairy knight,With silver boots and silver shield,A-tramping through the clover-field.He held a spear that looked like grass,But 'twas a truly spear of glass;A silver bugle at his lips,He played with tiny finger-tips;He held a flag o' grass-green silk;A branch of lilies white as milk;He held – "How many hands had he?"You're cruel to make fun of me!No! I won't tell another bit;You've lost the sweetest part of it!

A SONG

SING a song of a little lass (red blow theroses, O ),About a lovely little lass, who was so like arose, you know,(Red blow the roses, O ), so very like whenplaced together,They only told her from a rose because shebloomed in winter weather.

HER PROOF

SHE lifted her finger with gesture slow:"'Tis true, for certain and sure, I know,And I think when I say so you ought to be-lieve —They kneel in their stalls on Christmas Eve."The red one, the white one, the speckledand brown,When the clock strikes twelve, will all kneeldown;And it happens so every Christmas Eve,– Well, I'll tell you this, if you won't believe:"Once, ages and ages ago it was,I thought I would see for myself, becauseI doubted a little, just like you,Whether or no the story was true;"And so one Christmas Eve I staidAwake till twelve – Oh, I was afraid!The wind was a-blowing, and no moon shone,But I went to the stable myself, alone."And when I had slid the big doors backI couldn't go in, it was so black;But – solemn and true – I do declareI heard the cows when they knelt down! There!"

ROSALINDA'S LAMB

THE Princess Rosalinda's lamb-Silken is his fleece, they say,And he feeds on pinks alway.Round his neck's a golden band,"Rosalinda" 's on it writ,And a padlock fastens it.Oh! of pinks he is so sweet,And he has such dainty feet —The Princess Rosalinda's lamb!If you find him, you who read,And him to his mistress lead,Rich reward she offers you:Lovely china mug of blue,Coral beads, a turquoise ring,Silver bangles – anythingThat you choose to have in mind;Ah, you're lucky if you findPrincess Rosalinda's lamb!

THE BABY'S REVERY

AN exquisite little maidenWith a head like a golden flower,She soberly stood at the windowIn the still, white twilight hour."Of what are you thinking, sweetheart?She was such a little child,She could not answer the question;She only dimpled and smiled.But I wondered, as she frolicked,Her mystic revery o'er,Was she a rose-shade less a childThan she had been before?Was she pausing, as a rose-budSeems pausing while it grows?Had I caught the blooming minuteOf a little human rose?

A SILLY BOY

O, A little boy sailed in a sugar-bowl,with silver spoons for oars,And his hold was full of sugar, the French-man's tea to sweeten;But when he safely moored his craft besidethose foreign shores —Alas, that silly little boy, his cargo he hadeaten!

A PRETTY AMBITION

THE mackerel-man drives down the street,With mackerel to sell,A-calling out with lusty shout:"Ha-il, Mack-e-rel!"When I'm a man I mean to driveA wagon full of posies,And sing so sweet to all I meet:"Hail, Hyacinths and Roses!"

THE SNOWFLAKE TREE

THE hawthorn is dead, the rose-leaveshave fledOn the north wind over the sea:Now the petals will fall that are rarest of all,Sweetheart, from the Snowflake Tree.The Tree, it doth stand in that marvellouslandWhose shore like a sapphire gleams,Where a crown hangs high in the northernsky,Forth raying its golden beams.It tosses its boughs with their crystallingblows;They crackle and tinkle for gleeWhen the north wind shrieks round theawful peaks,On the shores of the polar sea.And never a bird its blossoms has stirred,Or built on its branches a nest;For the perfume which floats from the blos-soms' throatsWould freeze the song in its breast.And my own little bird, were her goldilocksstirredBy the wind thro' its branches which blows,With her songs silenced all, forever would fallAsleep on the silver snows.But our hearth burns bright, little sweetheart,to-night,And we're far from the Snowflake Tree;Thou canst nestle in bed thy little gold head,And thy songs shall awaken with thee.

DOROTHY'S DREAM

SHE sat on her little wooden stool,With a wistful, thoughtful face,Her blue eyes staring straight aheadInto the chimney-placeWhere the oaken logs that winter night sentup a merry blaze."Now, what is the thought, Maid Dorothy,You think so long, I pray?""Oh, mother! last night I dreamed a dreamAbout that Christmas DayWhich they have in the green old Englandover the sea, you say.And I thought I had hung up a stockingRight over the chimney there;And it was not one of the coarse blue socksI knit myself to wear —But fine and soft; and, on the sides, some silk-en 'broidery fair."And out of the stocking I pulled a book —And it was a sin, you'll say —But my old 'New England Primer'I thought I would throw away;For it was not a book like this one, but hadcovers and pictures gay."And I pulled out a doll with real brown hairIn satins and laces drest —Oh! she truly cried, and she closed her eyesWhen I laid her down to rest.But I made up my mind I would always lovemy old poppet the best."Oh! I'm sure that the Governor's ladyHas never one ribbon so fineAs some in that stocking; of blue and goldAnd crimson like elder-wine.I could have tied up my hair with them ifthey had been really mine."But " – soberly said Maid Dorothy,A hundred years ago,"It was a dream – and dreams of courseBy opposites always go;And such fine things will never be in this vainworld, I know."