Pray ask yourself what means to them
That Christ is born in Bethlehem !
But Rocket? On this Christmas-eve
You might have seen him standing where
The city's streets so interweave
They form that somewhat famous square
Called Printing-House. His face was bright,
And at this gala, festive season
You could not find a heart more light,
I'll tell you in a word the reason:
By dint of patient toil in shining
Patrician shoes and Wall-street boots,
He had within his jacket's lining
A dollar and a half, - the fruits
Of pinching, saving, and a trial
Of really Spartan self-denial.
That dollar and a half was more
Than Rocket ever own'd before:
A princely fortune, so he thought,
And with those hoarded dimes and nickels
What Christmas pleasures may be bought!
A dollar and a half! It tickles
The boy to say it over, musing
Upon the money's proper using:
“I'll go a gobbler, leg and breast,
With cranberry-sauce and fixin's nice,
And pie, mincé pie, the very best,
And puddin', - say a double slice !
And then to doughnuts how I'll freeze;
With coffee, - guess that ere's the cheese!
And after grub I'll go to see
Seven Goblins of Dundee.'
If this yere Christmas ain't a buster,
I'll let yer rip my Sunday duster!
So Rocket mused as he hurried along,
Clutching his money with grasp yet tighter, And humming the air of a rollicking song,
With a heart as light as his clothes, or lighter. Through Centre-street he makes his way, When, just as he turns the corner at Pearl, He hears a voice cry out in dismay,
And sees before him a slender girl,
As ragged and tatter'd in dress as he,
With hand stretch'd forth for charity.
In the street-light's fitful and flickering glare
He caught a glimpse of the pale, pinch'd face,
So gaunt and wasted, yet strangely fair,
With a lingering touch of childhood's grace
On her delicate features. Her head was bare,
And over her shoulders disorder'd there hung
A mass of tangled, nut-brown hair.
In misery old as in years she was young, She gazed in his face; and, O! for the eyes, The big, blue, sorrowful, hungry eyes,—
That were fix'd in a desperate frighten❜d stare.
Hundreds have jostled her by to-night,
The rich, the great, the good, and the wise;
Hurrying on to the warmth and light
Of happy homes, they have jostled her by ;
And the only one who has heard her cry,
Or, hearing, has felt his heartstrings stirr'd,
Is Rocket, this youngster of coarser clay,
This gamin, who never so much as heard
The beautiful story of Him who lay
In the manger of old on Christmas-day!
With artless pathos and simple speech,
She stands and tells him her pitiful tale :
Ah, well if those who pray and preach
Could catch an echo of that sad wail!
She tells of the terrible battle for bread,
Tells of a father brutal with crime,
Tells of a mother lying dead,
At this the gala Christmas-time ;
Then adds, gazing up at the starlit sky,
"I'm hungry and cold, and I wish I could die.”
What is it trickles down the cheek
Of Rocket? can it be a tear?
He stands and stares, but does not speak;
He thinks again of that good cheer
Which Christmas was to bring; he sees
Visions of turkey, steaming pies,
The play-bills; then, in place of these,
The girl's beseeching, hungry eyes:
One mighty effort, gulping down
The disappointment in his breast,
A quivering of the lip, a frown,
And then, while pity pleads her best,
He snatches forth his cherish'd hoard,
And gives it to her like a lord!
"Here, freeze to that; I'm flush, yer see;
And then you needs it more 'an me!"
With that he turns and walks away
So fast the girl can nothing say,
So fast he does not hear the prayer
That sanctifies the Winter air:
But He who bless'd the widow's mite
Look'd down and smiled upon the sight.
No feast of steaming pies or turkey,
No ticket for the matinee;
All drear and desolate and murky,
In truth, a very dismal day.
With dinner on a crust of bread,
And not a penny in his pocket,
A friendly ash-box for a bed,
Thus came the Christmas-day to Rocket; And yet, and here's the strangest thing, As best befits the festive season,
The boy was happy as a king,
I wonder can you guess the reason?
I WAS sitting in my study,
Writing letters, when I heard,
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
Mamma mustn't be 'isturb'd.
But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer fing to do.
Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?
Tan't I wite a letter too?"
"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty, now."
"No, no, mamma; me wite letter;
Tan if 'ou will show me how."
I would paint my darling's portrait
As his sweet eyes search'd my face,
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form of childish, witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said, "I'll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead."
So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted
'Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said, "Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news."
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clatter'd loud the little shoes.
Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee,
"Mamma's witing lots of letters;
"I'se a letter, Mary, — see!"
No one heard the little prattle,
As once more he climb'd the stair, Reach'd his little cap and tippet, Standing on the entry chair.
No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
In the crisp October air.
Down the street the baby hasten'd
Till he reach'd the office door :
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman ;
Is there room for any more?
'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa,
Papa lives with God, 'ou know;
Mamma sent me for a letter;
Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"
But the clerk in wonder answer'd, "Not to-day, my little man."
"Den I'll find anozzer office,
'Cause I must do if I tan."
Fain the clerk would have detain'd him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening,-
By the busy crowd swept on.
|