Grandther Baldwins Thanksgiving with Other Ballads and Poems | Page 4

Logs of hickory blaze and crackle in the fireplace huge anti high,
Curling wreaths of smoke mount upward to the gray November sky.
Ruddy lads and smiling lasses, just let loose from schooldom's cares,
Patter, patter, race and clatter, up and down the great hall stairs.
All the boys shall hold high revel; all the girls shall have their way,-
That's the law at Grand'ther Baldwin's upon each Thanksgiving Day.
From from the parlor's sacred precincts, hark! a madder uproar yet;
Roguish Charlie's playing stage-coach, and the stage-coach has upset!
Joe, black-eyed and laughter-loving, Grand'ther's specs his nose across,
Gravely winks at brother Willie, who is gayly playing horse.
Grandma's face is fairly radiant; Grand'ther knows not how to frown,
though the children, in their frolic, turn the old house upside down.
For the boys may hold high revel, and the girls must have their way;
That's the law at Grand'ther Baldwin's upon each Thanksgiving Day.
But the dinner--ah! the dinner--words are feeble to portray What a
culinary triumph is achieved Thanksgiving Day!
Fairly groans the board with dainties, but the turkey rules the roast,
Aldermanic at the outset, at the last a fleshless ghost.
Then the richness of the pudding, and the flavor of the pie, When

you've dined at Grandma Baldwin's you will know as well as I.
When, at length, the feast was ended, Grand'ther Baldwin bent his head,
And, amid the solemn silence, with a reverent voice, he said:--
"Now unto God, the Gracious One, we thanks and homage pay,
Who
guardeth us, and guideth us, and loveth us always!
"He scatters blessings in our paths, He giveth us increase, He crowns us
with His kindnesses, and granteth us His peace.
"Unto himself, our wandering feet, we pray that He may draw, And
may we strive, with faithful hearts, to keep His holy law!"
His simple words in silence died: a moment's hush. And then From all
the listening hearts there rose a solemn-voiced Amen !
ST. NICHOLAS.
In the far-off Polar seas,
Far beyond the Hebrides,
Where the
icebergs, towering high,
Seem to pierce the wintry sky,
And the
fur-clad Esquimaux
Glides in sledges o'er the snow,
Dwells St.
Nick, the merry wight,
Patron saint of Christmas night.
Solid walls of massive ice,
Bearing many a quaint device,
Flanked
by graceful turrets twain,
Clear as clearest porcelain,
Bearing at a
lofty height
Christ's pure cross in simple white,
Carven with
surpassing art
From an iceberg's crystal heart.
Here St. Nick, in royal state,
Dwells, until December late
Clips the
days at either end,
And the nights at each extend;
Then, with his
attendant sprites,
Scours the 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