The Madonna of the Chair

Painting by Raphael

EIGHT BOOK SERIES

STANDARD
CATHOLIC READERS
BY GRADES

FIFTH YEAR

BY
MARY E. DOYLE

FORMERLY PRINCIPAL OF HOLY NAMES NORMAL SCHOOL,
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, AND SUPERVISOR OF TEACHING,
STATE NORMAL SCHOOL, SUPERIOR, WISCONSIN

NEW YORK ⁘ CINCINNATI ⁘ CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY

Copyright, 1909, 1913, by
MARY E. DOYLE.

Stand. Cath. Readers by Grades.
5th Year.

E. P. 6

PREFACE

The selections in this reader for the Fifth Year were chosen with reference both to their intrinsic literary quality and to the varying capabilities of the pupils who will read them. It is confidently hoped that they will reach some interest of each child, and, at the same time, help to form a correct literary standard and encourage a taste for the best reading.

In the preparation of this series of readers, valuable counsel and assistance have been given me by many friendly educators and those in authority. I am especially grateful to the Rt. Rev. John Lancaster Spalding of Peoria for helpful advice and encouragement in the planning and inception of the work; also, to the Rt. Rev. James McGolrick of Duluth, Minnesota, to the Rt. Rev. A. F. Schinner of Superior, Wisconsin, and to other prelates and clergy who have graciously given me assistance in various ways. Many thanks, too, for kindly suggestions and criticisms are hereby proffered to numerous friends among those patient and inspiring educators—the Sisters.

MARY E. DOYLE.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The selections from Whittier, Longfellow. Lowell, Miriam Coles Harris, and John Burroughs are used by special permission of, and arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Company, the publishers of the works of these authors. The selections from Helen Hunt Jackson are used by special arrangement with Little, Brown, & Company. Acknowledgments for the use of copyright material are also made: to Small, Maynard & Company for the poems by Father Tabb; to the editor and publisher of The Ave Maria for “Lucy’s Rosary,” by J. R. Marre, and other poems from that magazine; to Mary F. Nixon-Roulet for the selections of which she is the author; to Longmans, Green, & Company, for “The Reindeer,” by Andrew Lang; to Henry Coyle for the poems of which he is the author; and to the Congregation of the Mission of St Vincent de Paul, Springfield, Mass., for the extract from Mother Mary Loyola’s “Jesus of Nazareth,” of which book they are the publishers.

CONTENTS

FIFTH YEAR

LITTLE WOLFF AND HIS WOODEN SHOE

I

Once upon a time, so long ago that everybody has forgotten the date, there was a little boy whose name was Wolff. He lived with his aunt in a tall old house in a city whose name is so hard to pronounce that nobody can speak it. He was seven years old, and he could not remember that he had ever seen his father or his mother.

The old aunt who had the care of little Wolff was very selfish and cross. She gave him dry bread to eat, of which there was never enough; and not more than once in the year did she speak kindly to him.

But the poor boy loved this woman, because he had no one else to love; and there was never a day so dark that he did not think of the sunlight.

Everybody knew that Wolff’s aunt owned a house and had a stocking full of gold under her bed, and so she did not dare to send the little boy to the school for the poor as she would have liked to do. But a schoolmaster on the next street agreed to teach him for almost nothing; and whenever there was work he could do, he was kept at home.

The schoolmaster had an unkind feeling for Wolff because he brought him so little money and was dressed so poorly. And so the boy was punished very often, and had to bear the blame for all the wrong that was done in the school.

The little fellow was often very sad; and more than once he hid himself where he could not be seen and cried as though his heart would break. But at last Christmas came.

The night before Christmas there was to be singing in the church, and the schoolmaster was to be there with all his boys; and everybody was to have a very happy time looking at the Christmas candles and listening to the sweet music.

The winter had set in very cold and rough, and there was much snow on the ground; and so the boys came to the schoolhouse with fur caps drawn down over their ears, and heavy coats, and warm gloves, and thick high-topped boots. But little Wolff had no warm clothes. He came shivering in the thin coat which he wore on Sundays in summer; and there was nothing on his feet but coarse stockings very full of holes, and a pair of heavy wooden shoes.

The other boys made many jokes about his sad looks and his worn-out clothes. But the poor child was so busy blowing his fingers and thumping his toes to keep them warm that he did not hear what was said. And when the hour came, the whole company of boys, with the schoolmaster at the front, started to the church.

II

It was very fine in the church. Hundreds of wax candles were burning in their places, and the air was so warm that Wolff soon forgot his aching fingers. The boys sat still for a little while; and then while the singing was going on and the organ was making loud music, they began in low voices to talk to one another; and each told about the fine things that were going to be done at his home on the morrow.

The mayor’s son told of a monstrous goose that he had seen in the kitchen before he came away; it was stuffed, and stuck all over with cloves till it was as spotted as a leopard. Another boy whispered of a little fir tree in a wooden box in his mother’s parlor; its branches were full of fruits and nuts and candy and beautiful toys. And he said that he was sure of a fine dinner, for the cook had pinned the two strings of her cap behind her back, us she always did when something wonderfully good was coming.

Then the children talked of what the Christ Child would bring them, and of what He would put in their shoes, which, of course, they would leave by the fireplace when they went to bed. And the eyes of the little fellows danced with joy as they thought of the bags of candy and the lead soldiers and the grand jumping jacks which they would draw out in the morning.

But little Wolff said nothing. He knew that his selfish old aunt would send him to bed without any supper, as she always did. But he felt in his heart that he had been all the year as good and kind as he could be; and so he hoped that the blessed Christ Child would not forget him nor fail to see his wooden shoes which he would put in the ashes in the corner of the fireplace.

III

At last the singing stopped, the organ was silent, and the Christmas music was ended. The boys arose in order and left the church, two by two, as they had entered it; and the teacher walked in front.

Now, as he passed through the door of the church, little Wolff saw a child sitting on one of the stone steps and fast asleep in the midst of the snow. The child was thinly clad, and his feet, cold as it was, were bare.

In the pale light of the moon, the face of the child, with its closed eyes, was full of a sweetness which is not of this earth, and his long locks of yellow hair seemed like a golden crown upon his head. But his poor bare feet, blue in the cold of that winter night, were sad to look upon.

The scholars, so warmly clad, passed before the strange child, and did not so much as glance that way. But little Wolff, who was the last to come out of the church, stopped, full of pity, before him.

“Ah, the poor child!” he said to himself. “How sad it is that he must go barefoot in such weather as this! And what is still worse, he has not a stocking nor even a wooden shoe to lay before him while he sleeps, so that the Christ Child can put something in it to make him glad when he wakens.”

Little Wolff did not stand long to think about it; but in the goodness of his heart he took off the wooden shoe from his right foot and laid it by the side of the sleeping child. Then, limping along through the snow, and shivering with cold, he went down the street till he came to his cheerless home.

“You worthless fellow!” cried his aunt. “Where have you been? What have you done with your other shoe?”

Little Wolff trembled now with fear as well as with the cold; but he had no thought of deceiving his angry aunt. He told her how he had given the shoe to a child that was poorer than himself. The woman laughed an ugly, wicked laugh.

“And so,” she said, “our fine young gentleman takes off his shoes for beggars! He gives his wooden shoe to a barefoot! Well, we shall see. You may put the shoe that is left in the chimney, and, mind what I say! If anything is left in it, it will be a switch to whip you with in the morning. To-morrow, for your Christmas dinner, you shall have nothing but a hard crust of bread to eat and cold water to drink. I will show you how to give away your shoes to the first beggar that comes along!”

The wicked woman struck the boy upon the cheek with her hand, and then made him climb up to his bed in the loft. Sobbing with grief and pain, little Wolff lay on his hard, cold bed, and did not go to sleep till the moon had gone down and the Christmas bells had rung in the glad day of peace and good will.

In the morning when the old woman arose grumbling and went downstairs, a wonderful sight met her eyes. The great chimney was full of beautiful toys and bags of candy and all kinds of pretty things; and right in the midst of these was the wooden shoe which Wolff had given to the child, and near it was its mate in which the wicked aunt had meant to put a strong switch.

The woman was so amazed that she cried out and stood still as if in a fright. Little Wolff heard the cry and ran downstairs as quickly as he could to see what was the matter. He, too, stopped short when he saw all the beautiful things that were in the chimney. But as he stood and looked, he heard people laughing in the street. What did it all mean?

By the side of the town pump many of the neighbors were standing. Each was telling what had happened at his home that morning. The boys who had rich parents and had been looking for beautiful gifts had found only long switches in their shoes.

But, in the meanwhile, Wolff and his aunt stood still and looked at the wonderful gifts around the two wooden shoes. Who had placed them there? And where now was the kind, good giver?

Then, as they still wondered, they heard the voice of some one reading in the little chapel over the way: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these—” And then, in some strange way, they understood how it had all come about; and even the heart of the wicked aunt was softened. And their eyes were filled with tears and their faces with smiles, as they knelt down together and thanked the good God for what He had done to reward the kindness and love of a little child.

—Adapted from the French of François Coppée.

THE EAGLE AND THE SWAN

Imagine yourself, on a day early in November, floating slowly down the Mississippi River. The near approach of winter brings millions of waterfowl on whistling wings from the countries of the North to seek a milder climate in which to sojourn for a season.

The eagle is seen perched on the highest branch of the tallest tree by the margin of the broad stream. His glistening but pitiless eye looks over water and land and sees objects afar off. He listens to every sound that comes to his quick ear, glancing now and then to the earth beneath, lest the light tread of the rabbit may pass unheard.

His mate is perched on the other side of the river, and now and then warns him by a cry to continue patient. At this well-known call he partly opens his broad wings and answers to her voice in tones not unlike the laugh of a madman. Ducks and many smaller waterfowl are seen passing rapidly towards the South; but the eagle heeds them not—they are for the time beneath his attention.

The next moment, however, the wild, trumpet-like sound of a distant swan is heard. The eagle suddenly shakes his body, raises his wings, and makes ready for flight. A shriek from his mate comes across the stream, for she is fully as watchful as he.

The snow-white bird is now in sight; her long neck is stretched forward; her eyes are as watchful as those of her enemy; her large wings seem with difficulty to support the weight of her body. Nearer and nearer she comes. The eagle has marked her for his prey.

As the swan is about to pass the dreaded pair, the eagle starts from his perch with an awful scream. He glides through the air like a falling star, and, like a flash of lightning, comes upon the timid bird, which now, in agony and despair, seeks to escape the grasp of his cruel talons. She would plunge into the stream, did not the eagle force her to remain in the air by striking at her from beneath.

The hope of escape is soon given up by the swan. She has already become much weakened. She is about to gasp her last breath, when the eagle strikes with his talons the under side of her wing and forces the dying bird to fall in a slanting direction upon the nearest shore.

The eagle’s mate has watched every movement that he has made, and if she did not assist him in capturing the swan, it was because she felt sure that his power and courage were quite enough for the deed. She now sails to the spot where he is waiting for her, and both together turn the breast of the luckless swan upward and gorge themselves with gore.

—J. J. Audubon.

LUCY’S ROSARY

I love to see her well-worn beads

Slip through her tender hand;

They fall like rich enchanted seeds

Cast in a fruitful land.

From each small bead full silently

A floweret fair doth grow—

A winsome thing with soft bright eye,

Yet strong in grace, I know.

Wild winds may rave and storms may shout,

Her blossoms will not fall;

The angels gird them round about

With hedgerows thick and tall.

The Blessed Mary smiles on them,

Just as, in days of yore,

She smiled when in old Bethlehem

Her little Babe she bore.

And saints adown the golden stair

With noiseless steps oft creep,

To tend these shining flowers of prayer,

When Lucy is asleep.

When autumn dies, these radiant flowers

Shall safe transplanted be,

To bloom in Eden’s greenest bowers

For all eternity.

Before the Godhead they shall raise

Their perfumes pure and sweet,

And bloom in silent hymns of praise

At Lady Mary’s feet.

—J. R. Marre.

From The Ave Maria.

THE TAXGATHERER

“And pray, who are you?”

Said the violet blue

To the Bee, with surprise

At his wonderful size,

In her eyeglass of dew.

“I, madam,” quoth he,

“Am a publican Bee,

Collecting the tax

Of honey and wax.

Have you nothing for me?”

—Rev. John B. Tabb.

THE WISDOM OF ALEXANDER

The bannered hosts of Macedon stood arrayed in splendid might. Crowning the hills and filling the valleys, far and wide extended the millions in arms who waited on the word of the young Alexander—the most superb array of human power which sceptered ambition ever evoked to do its bidding.

That army was to sweep nations off the earth and make a continent its camp, following the voice of one whose sword was the index to glory, whose command was the synonym of triumph. It now stood expectant, for the king yet lingered.

While his war horse fretted at the gate, and myriads thus in silence waited his appearance, Alexander took his way to the apartment of his mother. The sole ligament which bound him to virtue and to feeling was the love of that mother, and the tie was as strong as it was tender.

In mute dejection they embraced; and Alexander, as he gazed upon that affectionate face, which had never been turned to him but in tenderness and yearning love, seemed to ask, “Shall I ever again behold that sweet smile?” The anxiety of his mother’s countenance denoted the same sad curiosity; and without a word, but with the selfsame feeling in their hearts, they went out together to seek the oracles in the temple of Philip, to learn their fate.

Alone, in unuttered sympathy, the two ascended the steps of the sacred temple and approached the shrine. A priest stood behind the altar. The blue smoke of the incense curled upward in front, and the book of oracles was before him.

“Where shall my grave be digged?” said the king; and the priest opened the book and read, “Where the soil is of iron, and the sky of gold, there shall the grave of the monarch of men be digged.”

To the utmost limit Asia had become the possession of the Macedonian. Fatigued with conquest, and anxious to seek a country where the difficulty of victory should enhance its value, the hero was returning to Europe. A few days would have brought him to the capital of his kingdom, when he fell suddenly ill. He was lifted from his horse, and one of his generals, unlacing his armor, spread it out for him to lie upon, and held his golden shield to screen him from the mid-day sun.

When the king raised his eyes and beheld the glittering canopy, he was conscious of the omen. “The oracle has said that where the ground should be of iron, and the sky of gold, there should my grave be made! Behold the fulfillment! It is a mournful thing! The young cypress is cut down in the vigor of its strength, in the first fullness of its beauty. The thread of life is snapped suddenly, and with it a thousand prospects vanish, a thousand hopes are crushed! But let the will of fate be done! She has long obeyed my behest! I yield myself now to hers! Yet, my mother!”

And the monarch mused in melancholy silence. At length he turned to his attendants and ordered his tablets to be brought; and he took them, and wrote, “Let the customary alms, which my mother shall distribute at my death, be given to those who have never felt the miseries of the world, and have never lost those who were dear to them;” and sinking back upon his iron couch, he yielded up his breath. They buried him where he died, and an army wept over his grave!

When the intelligence of the death of Alexander was brought to his mother, as she sat among her ladies, she was overwhelmed by anguish.

“Ah! why,” she exclaimed, “was I exalted so high, only to be plunged into such depth of misery? Why was I not made of lower condition, so, haply, I had escaped such grief? The joy of my youth is plucked up, the comfort of my age is withered! Who is more wretched than I?” And she refused to be comforted.

The last wish of her son was read to her, and she resolved to perform that one remaining duty and then retire to solitude, to indulge her grief for the remainder of her life. She ordered her servants to go into the city and bring to the palace such as the will of Alexander directed—selecting those who were the poorest. But the messengers, ere long, returned, and said that there were none of that description to be found among the poor. “Go then,” said the queen, “and apply to all classes, and return not without bringing some who have never lost any who were dear to them.” And the order was proclaimed through all the city, and all heard it and passed on.

The neighboring villages gave no better success; and the search was extended through all the country; and they went over all Macedonia, and throughout Greece, and at every house they stood and cried, “If there are any here who have never known misery, and never lost those that were dear to them, let them come out, and receive the bounty of the queen;” but none came forth. And they went to the haunts of the gay, and into the libraries of the philosophers; to the seats of public office, and to the caves of hermits; they searched among the rich, and among the poor—among the high and among the low; but not one person was found who had not tasted misery; and they reported the result to the queen.

“It is strange!” said she, as if struck with sudden astonishment. “Are there none who have not lost their friend? And is my condition the condition of all? It is not credible. Are there none here, in this room, in this palace, who have always been happy?” But there was no reply to the inquiry.

“You, young page, whose countenance is gay, what sorrow have you ever known?”

“Alas! madam, my father was killed in the wars of Alexander, and my mother, through grief, has followed him!”

The question was put to others; but every one had lost a brother, a father, or a mother. “Can it be,” said the queen, “can it be that all are as I am?”

“All are as you are, madam,” said an old man that was present, “excepting in these splendors and these consolations. By poverty and humility you might have lost the alleviations, but, you could not have escaped the blow. There are nights without a star; but there are no days without a cloud. To suffer is the lot of all; to bear, the glory of a few.”

“I recognize,” said the queen, “the wisdom of Alexander!” and she bowed in resignation, and wept no more.

—Horace Binney Wallace.

THANKSGIVING

With gratitude, O God, we praise

Thy holy name to-day, and raise

Our hearts to thee;

For all Thy gifts sent from above,

For life and strength and trust and love,

For liberty.

For summer days, for smiles and tears,

For all our joys and hopes and fears,

For storm and fair;

For toil and weariness and rest;

For sleep; for strength to bear the test

Of pain and care;

For food and raiment, and increase

Of harvest plenty, and for peace,

On earth good will.

O God, our Father, we this day

Give thanks for all, and now we pray

Be with us still!

—Henry Coyle.

Beautiful Mother, we deck thy shrine;

All that is brightest and best of ours

Found in our gardens, we reckon thine,—

God thought of thee when He made the flowers.

—Rev. K. D. Beste.

THE ENCHANTED BARK

Fair and softly, and step by step, did Don Quixote and his squire wend their way through field and wood and village and farmland. Many and strange were their adventures—so many and strange, indeed, that I shall not try to relate the half of them.

At length, on a sunny day, they came to the banks of the river Ebro. As the knight sat on Rozinante’s back and gazed at the flowing water and at the grass and trees which bordered the banks with living green, he felt very happy. His squire, however, was in no pleasant humor, for the last few days had been days of weary toil.

Presently Don Quixote observed a little boat which was lying in the water near by, being moored by a rope to the trunk of a small tree. It had neither oars nor sail, and for that reason it seemed all the more inviting.

The knight dismounted from his steed, calling at the same time to his squire to do the same.

“Alight, Sancho,” he said. “Let us tie our beasts to the branches of this willow.”

Sancho obeyed, asking, “Why do we alight here, master?”

“You are to know,” answered Don Quixote, “that this boat lies here for us. It invites me to embark in it and hasten to the relief of some knight, or other person of high degree, who is in distress.”

“I wonder if that is so,” said Sancho.

“Certainly,” answered his master. “In all the books that I have read, enchanters are forever doing such things. If a knight happens to be in danger, there is sometimes only one other knight that can rescue him. So a boat is provided for that other knight, and, in the twinkling of an eye, he is whisked away to the scene of trouble, even though it be two or three thousand leagues.”

“That is wonderful,” said Sancho.

“Most assuredly,” answered Don Quixote; “and it is for just such a purpose that this enchanted bark lies here. Therefore let us leave our steeds here in the shade and embark in it.”

“Well, well,” said Sancho, “since you are the master, I must obey. But I tell you this is no enchanted bark. It is some fisherman’s boat.”

“They are usually fishermen’s boats,” said Don Quixote. “So, let us begin our voyage without delay.”

He leaped into the little vessel. Sancho followed, and untied the rope. The boat drifted slowly out into the stream.

When Sancho saw that they were out of reach of the shore and had no means of pushing back, he began to quake with fear.

“We shall never see our noble steeds again,” he cried. “Hear how the poor donkey brays and moans because we are leaving him. See how Rozinante tugs at his bridle. Oh, my poor, dear friends, good-by!”

Then he began such a moaning and howling that Don Quixote lost all patience with him.

“Coward!” he cried. “What are you afraid of? Who is after you? Who hurts you? Why, we have already floated some seven or eight hundred leagues. If I’m not mistaken, we shall soon pass the equinoctial line which divides the earth into two equal parts.”

“And when we come to that line, how far have we gone then?” asked Sancho.

“A mighty way,” answered the knight.

They were now floating down the river with some speed. Below them were two great water mills near the middle of the stream.

“Look! look, my Sancho!” cried Don Quixote. “Do you see yon city or castle? That is where some knight lies in prison, or some princess is detained against her will.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sancho. “Don’t you see that those are no castles? They are only water mills for grinding corn.”

“Peace, Sancho! I know they look like water mills, but that is a trick of the enchanters. Why, those vile fellows can change and overturn everything from its natural form. You know how they transformed my Dulcinea.”

The boat was now moving quite rapidly with the current. The people in the mills saw it and came out with long poles to keep it clear of the great water wheels. They were powdered with flour dust, as millers commonly are, and therefore looked quite uncanny.

“Hello, there!” they cried. “Are you mad, in that boat? Push off, or you’ll be cut to pieces by the mill wheels.”

“Didn’t I tell you, Sancho, that this is the place where I must show my strength?” said Don Quixote. “See how those hobgoblins come out against us! But I’ll show them what sort of person I am.”

Then he stood up in the boat and began to call the millers all sorts of bad names.

“You paltry cowards!” he cried. “Release at once the captive whom you are detaining within your castle. For I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the Knight of the Lions, whom heaven has sent to set your prisoner free.”

He drew his sword and began to thrust the air with it, as though fighting with an invisible enemy. But the millers gave little heed to his actions, and stood ready with their poles to stop the boat.

Sancho threw himself on his knees in the bottom of the boat and began to pray for deliverance. And, indeed, it seemed as though their time had come, for they were drifting straight into the wheel. Quickly the millers bestirred themselves, and thrusting out their poles they overturned the boat.

Don Quixote and Sancho were, of course, spilled out into the stream. It was lucky that both could swim. The weight of the knight’s armor dragged him twice to the bottom; and both he and his squire would have been drowned had not two of the millers jumped in and pulled them out by main force.

Hardly had our exhausted heroes recovered their senses when the fisherman who owned the boat came running down to the shore. When he saw that the little craft had been broken to pieces in the millwheel, he fell upon Sancho and began to beat him unmercifully.

“You shall pay me for that boat,” he cried.

“I am ready to pay for it,” said Don Quixote, “provided these people will fairly and immediately surrender the prisoners whom they have unjustly detained in their castle.”

“What castle do you mean? and what prisoners?” asked the millers. “Explain yourself, sir. We don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I might as well talk to a stump as try to persuade you to do a good act,” answered Don Quixote. “Now I see that two rival enchanters have clashed in this adventure. One sent me a boat, the other overwhelmed it in the river. It is very plain that I can do nothing where there is such plotting and counter-plotting.”

Then he turned his face toward the mill and raised his eyes to the window above the wheel.

“My friends!” he cried at the top of his voice, “my friends, whoever you are who lie immured in that prison, hear me! Pardon my ill luck, for I cannot set you free. You must needs wait for some other knight to perform that adventure.”

Having said this, he ordered Sancho to pay the fisherman fifty reals for the boat. Sancho obeyed sullenly, for he was reluctant to part with the money.

“Two voyages like that will sink all our stock,” he muttered.

The fisherman and the millers stood with their mouths open, wondering what sort of men these were who had come so strangely into their midst. Then, concluding that they were madmen, they left them, the millers going to their mill, and the fisherman to his hut.

As for Don Quixote and Sancho, they trudged sorrowfully back to their beasts; and thus ended the adventure of the enchanted bark.

—Retold from Cervantes.

A LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS

The tales of good St. Nicholas

Are known in every clime;

Told in painting, and in statues,

And in the poet’s rhyme.

In England’s Isle, alone, to-day,

Four hundred churches stand

Which bear his name, and keep it well

Remembered through the land.

And all the little children

In England know full well

This tale of good St. Nicholas,

Which I am now to tell.

The sweetest tale, I think, of all

The tales they tell of him;

I never read it but my eyes

With tears begin to swim.

There was a heathen king who roved

About with cruel bands,

And waged a fierce and wicked war

On all the Christian lands.

And once he took as captive

A little fair-haired boy,

A Christian merchant’s only son,

His mother’s pride and joy.

He decked him in apparel gay,

And said, “You’re just the age

To serve behind my chair at meat,

A dainty Christian page.”

Oh, with a sore and aching heart

The lonely captive child

Roamed through the palace, big and grand,

And wept and never smiled.

And all the heathen jeered at him,

And called him Christian dog,

And when the king was angry

He kicked him like a log.

One day, just as the cruel king

Had sat him down to dine,

And in his jeweled cup of gold

The page was pouring wine,

The little fellow’s heart ran o’er

In tears he could not stay,

For he remembered suddenly,

It was the very day

On which the yearly feast was kept

Of good St. Nicholas,

And at his home that very hour

Were dancing on the grass,

With music, and with feasting, all

The children of the town.

The king looked up, and saw his tears;

His face began to frown:

“How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tears

Are running in my cup;

’Twas not with these, but with good wine,

I bade thee fill it up.

“Why weeps the hound?” The child replied,

“I weep, because to-day,

In name of good St. Nicholas,

All Christian children play;

And all my kindred gather home,

From greatest unto least,

And keep to good St. Nicholas,

A merry banquet feast.”

The heathen king laughed scornfully:

“If he be saint indeed,

Thy famous great St. Nicholas,