To those who cherish but the stings
Of wretchedness and want and woe,
Who never love's great bounty know,
Whose grief no kindly hands assuage,
Whose misery mocks our Christian age.
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 owned 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, mince 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
The '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 tattered in dress as he,
With hand stretched forth for charity.
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 cherished 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 blessed the widow's mite
Look down and smiled upon the sight.
No feast of steaming pies or turkey,
No ticket for the matinée,
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?
And Larrie O'Dee,
Had two little cottages out on the
With just room enough for two pig-pens between.
The widow was young and the widow was fair,
With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair;
And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn
With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn.
And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand,
of the widow were certain to land.
One morning said he:
"Och! Misthress McGee,
It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs,
Wid a fancy petition betwane our two pigs!"
"Indade sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee,
With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee.
'And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane;
Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near
That whiniver one grunts the other can hear,
And yit kape a cruel petition betwane."
"Shwate Widow McGee,"
Answered Larrie O'Dee,
fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs? Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks
Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe; An' a bobbin' yer head an' a shtompin' yer fate,
Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,
A-sphlittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kape us both warm !"
"Now, piggy," said she;
"Larrie's courtin' o' me,
Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you;
So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do:
For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout;
But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.
Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig
By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!"
"Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he.
And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.
THE cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was
stealing in at the windows of the common sleepingroom; when Nicholas, raising himself on his arm, looked among the prostrate forms in search of the boy Smike. "Now, then," cried Squeers, from the bottom of the stairs, "are you going to sleep all day, up there-" "We shall be down directly, sir."
"Down directly! Ah! you had better be down directly, or I'll be down upon some of you in less time than directly. Where's that Smike?"
Nicholas looked round again.
"He is not here, sir."
"Don't tell me a lie. He is."
"He is not. Don't tell me one."
Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and, swinging his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into the corner
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