Children of Christmas
Edith M. Thomas

Children of Christmas
AND OTHERS

BY
EDITH M. THOMAS
Author of “The Dancers and Other Legends and Lyrics”
“Cassia and Other Verse”

BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
The Gorham Press
1907

Copyright, 1907, by Edith M. Thomas
All Rights Reserved

The Gorham Press, Boston

CONTENTS

I
CHILDREN OF CHRISTMAS

[CRADLE SONG]
For one Born at Christmas

Happy thou, a winter comer,

Happier with the snows around thee

Than if rosy-fingered summer

In thy cradle-nest had crowned thee.

Tender is the night, and holy:

Little clouds, like cherub faces,

Up the moon path, drifting slowly,

Vanish in the heavenly spaces.

Clothed in splendor, past our earth night,

Sphere on sphere is chanting Nowel:

Child, thy birthnight keeps a Birthnight

Dearest in all Time’s bestowal!

He who slept within a manger

Guards the pillow thou art pressing—

Sent thee hither, little stranger,

Blest—to be our Christmas Blessing!

[HOW MANY]

Resting her curly head on my knee,

And slipping her small hand into mine,

My baby girl asks how many there’ll be

On Christmas day when we dine.

Though I’ve told her before, and she knows very well,

“There’ll be grandpa and grandma,” I repeat,

And Uncle Charlie and Aunt Estelle

And Cousin Marguerite.

And Uncle Philip and Cousin Kate,

And mamma’s old friend, Miss Madeline;

And—let me see—ah, yes, that is eight,

And Mr. Brownell makes nine!

As I close my story I hear a sigh,

The curly head closer nestles, and then,

In a sad little voice, “How many are I?”

“My darling! At least you are ten!”

[HER CHRISTMAS PRESENT]
A True Incident

With doll in arms to court she came,—

A mite of tender years

Between her sobs she put the case,

Her eyes brimmed up with tears.

“They’ve put my mamma into jail—

And oh, I love her so!

She’s very good—my mamma is—

Please, won’t you let her go?”

“Just look! She made this doll for me”

(She held it up to view).

The judge did look. “Don’t cry,” he said,

“We’ll see what we can do.”

“What charge against the prisoner, clerk?”

“Sold apples in the street.

She had no license, and, when fined,

The fine she could not meet.”

“My mamma’s good. Please, let her go.”

The judge looked down and smiled;

“So well you’ve pleaded, she shall be

Your Christmas Present, child.”

“Now take this paper, little one,

It sets your mother free.

She should be very proud of you;

Go, tell her so, from me.”

With doll in arms away she went,

And soon the prison gained;

And when her mother clasped her close,

The happy child explained:

“A kind, good man like Santa Claus,

With hair as white as snow,

He let you out because—because

I asked him too, you know!”

[A CHRISTMAS SPY]

When Phœbe brought the wood and coal;

To lay the fire, what did she see

But Baby—dropped upon one knee

And peering up the chimney-hole!

She never turned her little head,

With all its curly, yellow hair:

I asked, “What are you doing there?”

“Me look for Santa Taus!” she said.

[REFRESHMENTS FOR SANTA CLAUS]

“It may be late and stormy and cold

When Santa Claus reaches our street;

And Santa, you know, is very old,

So I’ll leave him something to eat.”

“And what do you think he would like, dear heart,”

“Something nice and sweet,” she said;

“Jelly and jam, and a cranberry tart,

And a teenty piece of bread!”

So there on the sideboard is Santa’s feast,

Which her own small hands have spread;

Jelly and jam,—three kinds at least,

And a tart—but where is the bread?”

[HOW THE CHRISTMAS TREE WAS BROUGHT TO NOME]

Night of the winter—winter and night in the city of Nome,

There where the many are dwelling, but no man yet has a home!

Desolate league upon league, ice-pack and tundra and hill;

And the dark of the year when the gold-hunter’s rocker and dredge are still!

By the fire that is no man’s hearth,—by the fire more precious than gold,—

They are passing the time as they may, encompassed by storm and by cold:

And their talk is of pay-streak and bedrock, of claim by seashore or creek,

Of the brigantine fast in the ice-pack this many and many a week;

Wraiths of the mist and the snow encumber her canvas and deck,—

And the Eskimos swear that a crew out of ghostland are crowding the wreck!

Thus, in the indolent dark of the year, in the city of Nome,

They were passing the time as they might, but ever their thoughts turned home.

Said the Man from the East, “In God’s country now (where we’d all like to be),

You may bet your life there’s a big boom on for the Christmas Tree;

And we’d have one here, but there isn’t a shrub as high as my hand,

Nor the smell of spruce, for a hundred miles, in all this land!”

Then the Man from the South arose: “I allow, if the Tree could be found,

I’d ’tend to the fruit myself, and stand ye a treat all round!”

“Done!” said the Man from the West (the youngest of all was he).

“I’ll lose my claim in the ruby sand—or I’ll find the Tree!”

The restless Aurora is waving her banners wide through the dome,

And the Man from the West is off, while yet they are sleeping in Nome!

Off, ere the low-browed dawn, with Eskimo, sledge, and team:

He is leaving the tundra behind, he is climbing the source of the stream!

On, beyond Sinrock—on, while the miles and the dim hours glide—

On, toward the evergreen belt that darkens the mountain side!

’Tis a hundred miles or more; but his team is strong, is swift,

And brief are his slumbers at night, in the lee of the feathery drift!

There were watchful eyes, there were anxious hearts in the city of Nome;

And they cheered with a will when the Man from the West with his prize came home!

And they cheered again for the Christmas Tree that was brought from far,

Chained to his sledge, like a king of old to the conqueror’s car!

Said the Man from the South, “I’ll ’tend to the fruit that grows on the Tree!”

Said the Man from the East, “Leave the Christmas dinner and trimmings to me!”

[HOLLY AND MISTLETOE]

Said the Holly to the Mistletoe:

“Of this holy-tide what canst know,—

Thou a pagan—thou

Of the leafless bough?

My leaves are green, my scarlet berries shine

At thought of things divine!”

To the Holly spake the Mistletoe:

“Matters not, my leafless boughs but show

Berries pale as pearl—

Ask yon boy and girl!

If human mirth and love be not some sign

Of share in things divine!”

[THE FIREBRAND]
(Northern Ohio, Christmas Eve, 1804)

Hark to a story of Christmas Eve

In the lonely days of yore:

’Tis of the measureless, savage woods

By the great lake’s windy shore—

Of mother and child, in a firelit span,

Where the wilderness bows to the toil of man!

“Christmas is coming, and father’ll be here;

Through the woods he is coming, I know!

Over his shoulder his ax is laid,

And his beard is white with snow!

Yes, but look in the fire, my child,

At the strange cities there, so bright and so wild!”

“Mother, what are those restless flames

That close by the window pass?”

“Only the firelight fairies, child,

That dance on the window-glass!

But look, how the sparks up the chimney fly,

Up, and away, to the snowy sky!”

“Oh, listen, what are those shuddering cries,—

Mother, what can they be?”

“Only the branches that grate on the roof,

When the wind bends down the tree!

Now sing me the song I’ve taught to you,

That I, myself, as a little child knew!”

“But, mother, those flames dart back and forth—

Like balls of fire they play!

And those shuddering cries are at the door;

‘You must let us in,’ they say!”—

“My child! Your father’s whistle I hear—

Say a prayer for him—he is coming near!”

She has seized the tongs, she has snatched a brand,

And waved it abroad at the door!

Through the drifting snow a form she sees—

He is safe, in a moment more;

Safe—and afar are those shuddering cries,

And the baleful lights of the wolves’ red eyes!

Thus did it chance on a Christmas Eve,

In the days that are long since fled;

But a light so brave, and a gleam so true,

Through the waste of the years is shed,

As I think of that blazing, windblown brand,

Waved at the door by a slim, white hand!

[THE FOUNDLING]

I

The good man sat before the fire,

And oftentimes he sighed;

The good wife softly wept the while

Her evening work she plied:

One year ago this happy time

The little Marie died!

II

“And surely, now, if she had lived,

She would have reached my knee!”

“And surely, now, if she had lived,

How cunning would she be!”

In fancy each a darling face

Beside their hearth could see.

III

The door swung wide—a gust of wind

The fitful candle blew;

’Twas Franz, the awkward stable-boy,

His clattering step they knew.

“But Franz, speak up, speak up, and tell

What thing has chanced to you!”

IV

His round blue eyes with wonder shone,

His bashful fears had fled:

“I saw—I saw the cattle kneel

Upon their strawy bed;

And in a manger lay the Child—

A light shone round His head!”

V

“He must have dreamed,” the good man said,

“A vision, it would seem.”

“Nay, master, for the light shone bright

On stall and loft and beam.”

Then said the good wife, “I, perhaps,

Might go and dream this dream!”

VI

No further words, but forth she fared,

With Franz to lead the way.

They reached the barn, whose sagging door

Shot out a yellow ray;

The kine did kneel upon the straw,

As truthful Franz did say!

VII

And there—oh, lovely, lovely sight,

Oh, pleading, tender sight!

Within a manger, lapped in hay,

A smiling, rosy mite

The good wife saw, and nearer held

The lantern’s yellow light.

VIII

She took the foundling in her arms,

And on its sleeping face

Her tears and kisses fell in one:

“How great is Heaven’s grace!

It is the Christ-Child’s gift to me,

To ease the aching place!”

[MEETING THE KINGS]
(Suggested by “A Provençal Christmas Postscript,” Thomas A. Janvier)

Long, long ago, in dear Provence, we three!

Three children, ruddy with the midi sun

(And blither none the all-seeing sun might see),

How happy when the harvest-time was done,

The last slow drop from out the winepress run;

And when the frost at morn was thick like snow;

And when Clotilde at evening sang and spun,

And old folk, by the new fire’s ruddy glow,

Would tell, as I do now, the tales of long ago!

Those tales—ah, most of all, we begged to hear

The tales our grandsires from their grandsires had—

How, in the darkening undertime of year,

When with first-fallen snow the fields were clad,

That blessèd time when nothing can be sad

(Such peace through Christ’s dear might encircles all),

How, then, the sleeping hives made murmur glad—

The white ox knelt within his littered stall,

And voices strange and sweet were heard through heaven to call!

We were three children—René, Pierre, Annette.

The little sister listened, wonder-eyed;

Each held her hand (that touch, I feel it yet!),

And all three drank those tales of Christmas tide.

The leaden-footed time how shall we bide?

How many days and hours we know full well,

Almost the little minutes that divide!

Meanwhile, like music of a hidden bell,

Our beating hearts keep up the chime, Noël, Noël!

One thing there was, desired above all things:

“Say, will they come (as ever from of old)—

The wise, the good, the three great Eastern Kings,

Who brought rich gifts,—frankincense, myrrh, and gold?”

How often of their names had we been told—

Balthasar, Melchior, Gaspard,—splendid all,

Wide-turbaned, sandal-shod, and purple-stoled,

Perhaps upon white steeds, curbed-in, and tall,

Or else on camels with the velvet-soft footfall!