THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST

As I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day,
I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way;
I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to me
That elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be!
The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs--
High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings,
But not so high as when a little boy I did my best
To scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!

The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prize
That dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise,
And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb,
He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him!
Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm--
But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm!
The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the rest
Ran every risk to carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!

I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through,
That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue,
And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when she
Discovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree;
How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs,
She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs,
And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attest
That they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest!

Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there,
While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair,
The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go,
As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below!
And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chide
The callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside:
“Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest--
I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!”

For many, very many years that mother-bird has come
To rear her pretty little brood within that cosey home.
She is the selfsame bird of old--I’m certain it is she--
Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me.
Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name
(And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same);
Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breast
To climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest!

I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree,
And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as it _used_ to be,
I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow,
For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago!
The elm looks shorter than it did when Brother Rufe and I
Beheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high;
He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out West
His little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest!

Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be--
I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me!
They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to know
When Brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago.
So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men,
They could recall with proper pride their country life again;
And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the best
Would be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest!

BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not--
These three bloomed in a garden spot;
And once, all merry with song and play,
A little one heard three voices say:
“Shine and shadow, summer and spring,
O thou child with the tangled hair
And laughing eyes! we three shall bring
Each an offering passing fair.”
The little one did not understand,
But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.

Buttercup gambolled all day long,
Sharing the little one’s mirth and song;
Then, stealing along on misty gleams,
Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams.
Playing and dreaming--and that was all,
Till once a sleeper would not awake;
Kissing the little face under the pall,
We thought of the words the third flower spake;
And we found betimes in a hallowed spot
The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.

Buttercup shareth the joy of day,
Glinting with gold the hours of play;
Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose,
When the hands would fold and the eyes would close;
And after it all--the play and the sleep
Of a little life--what cometh then?
To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep
A new flower bringeth God’s peace again.
Each one serveth its tender lot--
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.

GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE

Out on the mountain over the town,
All night long, all night long,
The trolls go up and the trolls go down,
Bearing their packs and singing a song;
And this is the song the hill-folk croon,
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon--
This is ever their dolorous tune:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold--
Bright red gold for dearie!”

Deep in the hill a father delves
All night long, all night long;
None but the peering, furtive elves
Sees his toil and hears his song;
Merrily ever the cavern rings
As merrily ever his pick he swings,
And merrily ever this song he sings:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold--
Bright red gold for dearie!”

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed
All night long, all night long,
Happy to smooth thy curly head,
To hold thy hand and to sing _her_ song:
’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,
Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,
And the burthen it beareth is not of gold;
But it’s “Love, love! nothing but love--
Mother’s love for dearie!”

THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME

Dearest, how hard it is to say
That all is for the best,
Since, sometimes, in a grievous way
God’s will is manifest.

See with what hearty, noisy glee
Our little ones to-night
Dance round and round our Christmas tree
With pretty toys bedight.

Dearest, one voice they may not hear,
One face they may not see--
Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer
Cometh to you and me?

Cometh before our misty eyes
That other little face,
And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,
That love in the old embrace.

Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,
Bringing his peace to men,
And he bringeth to you and to me the light
Of the old, old years again.

Bringeth the peace of long ago,
When a wee one clasped your knee
And lisped of the morrow--dear one, you know--
And here come back is he!

Dearest, ’tis sometimes hard to say
That all is for the best,
For, often, in a grievous way
God’s will is manifest.

But in the grace of this holy night
That bringeth us back our child,
Let us see that the ways of God are right,
And so be reconciled.