  A POEM FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE LYCEUM. Clear the wintry sky was glowing, Sharp and loud the wind was blowing, Icy cold the stream was flowing In the little woodland dell, When, with pitcher clasped so tightly, Tripping cheerfully and lightly, With her soft eyes smiling brightly, To the spring came little Nell. Late to bed and early rising, With a patience quite surprising, And without the least advising, Faithful as a little dove— Thus she toiled for her sick mother, For, poor child! there was none other, Not a sister or a brother, Who could share her work of love. As she stooped to dip the water, Straight the cruel north wind caught her, Down upon the ground it brought her, And the little pitcher fell. But with merry laugh upspringing, And again the pitcher bringing, As she filled it, gayly singing, Homeward hastened little Nell. “Ho!” cried Jack Frost, “if I catch her, Such cold feet and hands I’ll fetch her, I will make her drop her pitcher— Little good-for-nothing thing! Let me only once get at her, It will be no trifling matter! I will make her teeth to chatter So, she will not dare to sing.” “Holy angels, guard us ever, God himself forsakes us never,” Sung the maiden, blithe as ever— “We are his forevermore.” Then the wild wind beating o’er her, Rudely on her way it bore her, Heaping up the snow before her, Till she reached the cottage door. Scarcely had her mother missed her. Hastening quickly to assist her, Tenderly she stooped and kissed her, And the poor, sick mother smiled. Closely to her heart she pressed her, Looking up to heaven she blessed her, And before her God, confessed her As His gift—that precious child. Now, one little word of teaching— Though I am not fond of preaching— Yet most earnestly beseeching, I would say to children small— Learn that duties, howe’er lowly, Done in love, will make life holy, And will bring, though ofttimes slowly, Sure and sweet reward to all. |
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