What do you suppose? Shouldn"t you have thought the poor little woman would have been glad to leave her desolate home on the plains to accompany these Kings on their journey?
But the foolish woman shook her head. No, the night was dark and cheerless, and her little home was warm and cosy. She looked up into the sky, and the Star was nowhere to be seen. Besides, she wanted to put her hut in order--perhaps she would be ready to go to-morrow. But the Three Kings could not wait; so when to-morrow"s sun rose they were far ahead on their journey. It seemed like a dream to poor Babouscka, for even the tracks of the camels" feet were covered by the deep white snow.
Everything was the same as usual; and to make sure that the night"s visitors had not been a fancy, she found her old broom hanging on a peg behind the door, where she had put it when the servants knocked.
Now that the sun was shining, and she remembered the glitter of the gold and the smell of the sweet gums and myrrh, she wished she had gone with the travelers.
And she thought a great deal about the dear Baby the Three Kings had gone to worship. She had no children of her own--n.o.body loved her--ah, if she had only gone! The more she brooded on the thought, the more miserable she grew, till the very sight of her home became hateful to her.
It is a dreadful feeling to realize that one has lost a chance of happiness. There is a feeling called remorse that can gnaw like a sharp little tooth. Babouscka felt this little tooth cut into her heart every time she remembered the visit of the Three Kings.
After a while the thought of the Little Child became her first thought at waking and her last at night. One day she shut the door of her house forever, and set out on a long journey. She had no hope of overtaking the Three Kings, but she longed to find the Child, that she too might love and worship Him. She asked every one she met, and some people thought her crazy, but others gave her kind answers. Have you perhaps guessed that the young Child whom the Three Kings sought was our Lord himself?
People told Babouscka how He was born in a manger, and many other things which you children have learned long ago. These answers puzzled the old dame mightily. She had but one idea in her ignorant head. The Three Kings had gone to seek a Baby. She would, if not too late, seek Him too.
She forgot, I am sure, how many long years had gone by. She looked in vain for the Christ-child in His manger-cradle. She spent all her little savings in toys and candy so as to make friends with little children, that they might not run away when she came hobbling into their nurseries.
Now you know for whom she is sadly seeking when she pushes back the bed-curtains and bends down over each baby"s pillow. Sometimes, when the old grandmother sits nodding by the fire, and the bigger children sleep in their beds, old Babouscka comes hobbling into the room, and whispers softly, "Is the young Child here?"
Ah, no; she has come too late, too late. But the little children know her and love her. Two thousand years ago she lost the chance of finding Him. Crooked, wrinkled, old, sick and sorry, she yet lives on, looking into each baby"s face--always disappointed, always seeking. Will she find Him at last?
Come, Bossy, come Bossy! Here I am with my cup, Come give me some milk, rich and sweet.
I will pay you well with red clover hay, The nicest you ever did eat.
DAISIES.
Daisies!
Low in the gra.s.s and high in the clover, Starring the green earth over and over, Now into white waves tossing and breaking, Like a foaming sea when the wind is waking, Now standing upright, tall and slender, Showing their deep hearts" golden splendor; Daintily bending, Airily lending
Garlands of flowers for earth"s adorning, Fresh with the dew of a summer morning; High on the slope, low in the hollow, Where eye can reach or foot can follow, Shining with innocent fearless faces Out of the depths of lonely places, Till the glad heart sings their praises --Here are the daisies!
The daisies!
Daisies!
See them ebbing and flowing, Like tides with the full moon going; Spreading their generous largess free For hand to touch and for eye to see; In dust of the wayside growing, On rock-ribbed upland blowing, By meadow brooklets glancing, On barren fields a-dancing, Till the world forgets to burrow and grope, And rises aloft on the wings of hope; --Oh! of all posies, Lilies or roses, Sweetest or fairest, Richest or rarest, That earth in its joy to heaven upraises, Give me the daisies!
Why? For they glow with the spirit of youth, Their beautiful eyes have the glory of truth, Down before all their rich bounty they fling --Free to the beggar, and free to the king
Loving they stoop to the lowliest ways, Joyous they brighten the dreariest days; Under the fringe of their raiment they hide Scars the gray winter hath opened so wide; Freely and brightly-- Who can count lightly Gifts with such generous ardor proffered, Tokens of love from such full heart"s offered, Or look without glances of joy and delight At pastures star-covered from morning till night, When the sunshiny field ablaze is With daisies!
Daisies, Your praise is, That you are like maidens, as maidens should be, Winsome with freshness, and wholesome to see, Gifted with beauty, and joy to the eye, Head lifted daintily--yet not too high-- Sweet with humility, radiant with love, Generous too as the sunshine above, Swaying with sympathy, tenderly bent On hiding the scar and on healing the rent, Innocent-looking the world in the face, Yet fearless with nature"s own innocent grace, Full of sweet goodness, yet simple in art, White in the soul, and pure gold in the heart --Ah, like unto you should all maidenhood be Gladsome to know, and most gracious to see; Like you, my daisies!
M. E. B
Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked into a pie.
When the pie was opened The birds began to sing.
Wasn"t that a dainty dish To set before the King?
The King was in the parlor Counting out his money; The Queen was in the kitchen Eating bread and honey; The maid was in the garden Hanging up the clothes, There came a little blackbird And picked off her nose.
DRIVING HOME THE COWS.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed gra.s.s, He turned them into the river lane; One after another he let them pa.s.s, Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Along by the willows and over the hill He patiently followed their sober pace-- The merry whistle for once was still And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy, and his father had said He never could let his youngest go, Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But, after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the footpath damp.
Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat"s flitting startled him.
Thrice since then have the lanes been white And the orchards sweet with apple bloom, And now when the cows came back at night The feeble father drove them home;
For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain, And the old man"s tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son"s again.
The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when his work was done, But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one.
Brindle and Ebony, Speckle and Bess, Tossing their horns in the evening wind, Cropping the b.u.t.tercups out of the gra.s.s, But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue, And worn and pale through its crisped hair Looked out a face that the father knew.
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn And yield their dead to life again, And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, For the hearts must speak when the lips are dumb, And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
To and fro, See us go!
Up so high, Down so low; Now quite fast, Now real slow.
Singing, Swinging, This is the way, to get fresh air In a pleasant way.
THE BABY"S KISS.
AN INCIDENT OF THE CIVIL WAR.
Rough and ready the troopers ride, Pistol in holster and sword by side; They have ridden long, they have ridden hard, They are travel-stained and battle-scarred; The hard ground shakes with their martial tramp, And coa.r.s.e is the laugh of the men of the camp.