  LIGHTLY holding her mother’s hand, A little girl tripped o’er her father’s land; Squire of all the acres he, As far as the little one’s eyes could see, And his wife and his daughter, his “Baby May,” Were “seeing the folks” this Christmas Day. Six years old was the baby girl, And her brain was all in a dreamy whirl With the puddings and pies and the Christmas-trees And the bells and carols, and, if you please, The night before had St. Nicholas been With the loveliest dolly that ever was seen. “How good of the saint, mamma, to leave Such beautiful things upon Christmas Eve!” She had cried, as against her baby breast She hushed her dear little doll to rest. And then the wonders of Christmas Day Had almost taken her breath away. And now through the village she gaily trips, As the greeting comes from a score of lips: “A Merry Christmas and bright New Year!” And the air is heavy with Christmas cheer— Goose and pudding and beef galore— And the fires glow bright through each open door The village is quite a fairy place; And in every cottage at which they call The green and holly are on the wall; And all the family gathered there Are seated around the Christmas fare. “How happy they are!” says Baby May, As she looks at the feast and the feasters gay; And then there comes to her childish mind A scene or two of a different kind— Of weeping women and frowning men, And nobody seems so happy then! She had grasped the fact in her childish way That the poor had “troubles” and “rents” to pay— That children ailed, and that some men’s wives Were “nearly worried out of their lives.” She had heard the gossip, as children do, And to-day it came back to her mind anew. She thought of the village of then and now, And there came a cloud on her baby brow; She knew there was sorrow where now was mirth, And she whispered, “Mamma, when He made the earth, What a pity it was God did not say, ‘Let it be always Christmas Day’!” |
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