I HAD told him, Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,
Stuffed as full as full could be,
And attentive, listening to me,
With a face demure and mild,
That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
Did not love a naughty child.
"But we'll be good, won't we, Moder?"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid,
While I turned me to my table,
Where a tempting goblet stood,
With a dainty drink brimmed over,
Sent me by a neighbor good.
But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing loth,
Sat by way of entertainment,
Slapping off the shining froth;
And in not the gentlest humor
At the loss of such a treat,
I confess, I rather rudely
Thrust him out into the street.
Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled !
Gathering up the precious store,
He had busily been pouring
In his tiny pinafore.
With a generous look that shamed me,
Sprang he from the carpet bright,
Showing by his mien indignant,
All a baby's sense of right.
"Come back, Harney," called he loudly,
As he held his apron white,
"You sall have my candy wabbit !"
But the door was fastened tight;
So he stood, abashed and silent,
In the centre of the floor,
With defeated look alternate
Bent on me and on the door.
Then, as by some sudden impulse,
Quickly ran he to the fire,
And while eagerly his bright eyes
Watched the flames go higher and higher,
In a brave, clear key, he shouted,
Like some lordly little elf,
"Santa Kaus, come down de chimney,
Make my moder 'have herself!"
"I will be a good girl, Benny,"
Said I, feeling the reproof;
And straightway recalled poor Harney
Mewing on the gallery roof.
Soon the anger was forgotten,
Laughter chased away the frown,
And they gambolled 'neath the live-oaks.
Till the dusky night came down.
In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,
Harney purred beneath my chair,
And my play-worn boy beside me,
Knelt to say his evening prayer :
"God bess fader, God bess moder,
God bess sister" - then a pause,
And the sweet young lips devoutly
Murmured : "God bess Santa Kaus."
He is sleeping: brown and silken
Lie the lashes, long and meek,
Like caressing, clinging shadows
On his plump and peachy cheek ;
And I bend above him, weeping
Thankful tears, O Undefiled !
For a woman's crown of glory,
For the blessing of a child.
SUNDAY MORNING.
"WELL," Saturday to Sunday said,
"The people now have gone to bed;
All, after toiling through the week,
Right willingly their rest would seek ;-
Myself can hardly stand alone,
So very weary I have grown."
His speech was echoed by the bell,
As on his midnight couch he fell ;
And Sunday now the watch must keep.
So, rising from his pleasant sleep,
He glides, half-dozing, through the sky,
To tell the world that morn is nigh.
and, none too late, Knocks aloud at the sun's bright gate;
She slumbered in her silent hall,
Unprepared for his early call.
Sunday exclaims, "Thy hour is nigh!" "Well, well," says she, "I'll come by-and-by."
Gently, on tiptoe, Sunday creeps,—
Cheerfully from the stars he peeps, -
Mortals are all asleep below,
None in the village hears him go;
E'en chanticleer keeps very still,
For Sunday whispered 't was his will.
Now the world is awake and bright,
After refreshing sleep all night;
The Sabbath morn in sunlight comes,
Smiling gladly on all our homes.
He has a mild and happy air,
Bright flowers are wreathed among his hair.
He comes, with soft and noiseless tread,
To rouse the sleeper from his bed;
And tenderly he pauses near,
With looks all full of love and cheer,
Well pleased to watch the deep repose
That lingered till the morning rose,
How gaily shines the early dew,
Loading the grass with its silver hue !
And freshly comes the fragrant breeze,
Dancing among the cherry-trees;
The bees are humming all so gay,
They know not it is Sabbath-day.
The cherry-blossoms now appear, —
Fair heralds of a fruitful year;
There stands upright the tulip proud, -
Bethlehem-stars around her crowd,
And hyacinths of every hue,-
All sparkling in the morning dew.
How still and lovely all things seem !
Peaceful and pure as an angel's dream!
No rattling carts are in the streets ;-
Kindly each one his neighbor meets :
"It promises right fair to-day ;"-
Yes, praised be God!"— 't is all they say.
The birds are singing, “Come, behold
Our Sabbath morn all bathed in gold,
Pouring his calm, celestial light
Among the flowers so sweet and bright !"
The pretty goldfinch leads the row,
As if her Sunday-robe to show.
Mary, pluck those auriculas, pray,
And don't shake the yellow dust away;
Here, little Ann, are some for you,
I'm sure you want a nosegay too.
The first bell rings, away! away!
I met a little cottage girl :
She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
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