Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems. Alger Horatio Jr.

earth on wintry nights,

           Bringing home, in well-filled hands,

           Children's gifts from many lands.

           Here are whistles, tops and toys,

           Meant to gladden little boys;

           Skates and sleds that soon will glide

           O'er the ice or steep hill-side.

           Here are dolls with flaxen curls,

           Sure to charm the little girls;

           Christmas books, with pictures gay,

           For this welcome holiday.

           In the court the reindeer wait;

           Filled the sledge with costly freight.

           As the first faint shadow falls,

           Promptly from his icy halls

           Steps St. Nick, and grasps the rein:

           And afar, in measured time,

           Sounds the sleigh-bells' silver chime.

           Like an arrow from the bow

           Speed the reindeer o'er the snow.

           Onward! Now the loaded sleigh

           Skirts the shores of Hudson's Bay.

           Onward, till the stunted tree

           Gains a loftier majesty,

           And the curling smoke-wreaths rise

           Under less inclement skies.

           Built upon a hill-side steep

           Lies a city wrapt in sleep.

           Up and down the lonely street

           Sleepy watchmen pace their beat.

           Little heeds them Santa Claus;

           Not for him are human laws.

           With a leap he leaves the ground,

           Scales the chimney at a bound.

           Five small stockings hang below;

           Five small stockings in a row.

           From his pocket blithe St. Nick

           Fills the waiting stockings quick;

           Some with sweetmeats, some with toys,

           Gifts for girls, and gifts for boys,

           Mounts the chimney like a bird,

           And the bells are once more heard.

           Santa Claus! Good Christmas saint,

           In whose heart no selfish taint

           Findeth place, some homes there be

           Where no stockings wait for thee,

           Homes where sad young faces wear

           Painful marks of Want and Care,

           And the Christmas morning brings

           No fair hope of better things.

           Can you not some crumbs bestow

           On these Children steeped in woe;

           Steal a single look of care

           Which their sad young faces wear;

           From your overflowing store

           Give to them whose hearts are sore?

           No sad eyes should greet the morn

           When the infant Christ was born.

      BARBARA'S COURTSHIP

           'Tis just three months and eke a day,

           Since in the meadows, raking hay,

           On looking up I chanced to see

           The manor's lord, young Arnold Lee,

           With a loose hand on the rein,

           Riding slowly down the lane.

           As I gazed with earnest look

           On his face as on a book,

           As if conscious of the gaze,

           Suddenly he turned the rays

           Of his brilliant eyes on me.

           Then I looked down hastily,

           While my heart, like caged bird,

           Fluttered till it might be heard.

              Foolish, foolish Barbara!

           We had never met before,

           He had been so long away,

           Visiting some foreign shore,

           I have heard my father say.

           What in truth was he to me,

           Rich and handsome Arnold Lee?

           Fate had placed us far apart;

           Why, then, did my restless heart

           Flutter when his careless glance

           Fell on me by merest chance?

              Foolish, foolish Barbara!

           There are faces—are there not?—

           That can never be forgot.

           Looks that seen but once impress

           With peculiar vividness.

           So it was with Arnold Lee.

           Why it was I cannot say

           That, through all the livelong day

           He seemed ever near to me.

           While I raked, as in a dream,

           Now the same place o'er and o'er,

           Till my little sister chid,

           And with full eyes opened wide,

           Much in wonder, gently cried,

           "Why, what ails thee, Barbara?"

           I am in the fields again;

           'Tis a pleasant day in June,

           All the songsters are in tune,

           Pouring out their matin hymn.

           All at once a conscious thrill

           Led me, half against my will,

           To look up. Abashed I see

           His dark eyes full fixed on me.

           What he said I do not know,

           But his voice was soft and low,

           As he spoke in careless chat,

           Now of this and now of that,

           While the murmurous waves of sound

           Wafted me a bliss profound.

              Foolish,