THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE.

In a trice the dozen ruddy legs

Are bare; and speckled and brown

And blue and gray, from the wall-side peg
The stockings dangle down ;

And the baby with wondering eyes, looks out
To see what the clatter is all about.

"And what will Santa Claus bring?" they tease, "And, say, is he tall and fair? "

While the younger climb the good man's knees,
And the elder scale his chair;

And the mother jogs the cradle, and tries
The charm of the dear old lullabies.

So happily the hours fly past,

'Tis pity to have them o'er ;

But the rusty weights of the clock, at last
Are dragging near the floor;

And the knitting kneedles, one and all,
Are stuck in the round, red knitting-ball.

Now, all of a sudden the father twirls

The empty apple-plate;

"Old Santa Claus don't like his girls

And boys to be up so late!"

He says, "And I'll warrant our star-faced cow, He's waiting astride o' the chimney now."

Down the back of his chair they slide,

They slide down arm and knee:

"If Santa Claus is indeed outside,

He sha'n't be kept for me!"
Cry one and all; and away they go,
Hurrying, flurrying, six in a row.

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In the mother's eyes are happy tears

As she sees them flutter away;
"My man," she says, "it is sixteen years
Since our blessed wedding-day;
And I wouldn't think it but just a year
If it wasn't for all these children here."

And then they talk of what they will do
As the years shall come and go;

Of schooling for little Molly and Sue,
And of land for John and Joe;

And Dick is so wise, and Dolly so fair,

"They," says the mother, "will have luck to spare!

Aye, aye, good wife, that's clear, that's clear ! "

Then, with eyes on the cradle bent,

"And what if he in the wolf-skin here
Turned out to be President?

Just think! O, wouldn't it be fine, —
Such fortune for your boy and mine!

She stopped her heart with hope elate
And kissed the golden head:

Then, with the brawny hand of her mate
Folded in hers, she said:

"Walls as narrow, and a roof as low,

Have sheltered a President, you know."

And then they said they would work and wait,
The good, sweet-hearted pair-

You must have pulled the latch-string straight,
Had you in truth been there,

Feeling that you were not by leave

At the Sett'er's hearth that Christmas Eve.

THE OLD STORY.

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THE OLD STORY.

THE waiting-women wait at her feet,
And the day is fading into the night,
And close at her pillow, and round and sweet,
The red rose burns like a lamp a-light,
And under and over the gray mists fold;

And down and down from the mossy eaves,
And down from the sycamore's long wild leaves
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so cold.

Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair ;

And the waiting-women that weep around, Have taken the combs from her golden hair, And it slideth over her face to the ground. They have hidden the light from her lovely eyes ; And down from the eaves where the mosses grow The rain is dripping so slow, so slow,

And the night wind cries and cries and cries.

From her hand they have taken the shining ring,

They have brought the linen her shroud to make:

O, the lark she was never so loath to sing,

And the morn she was never so loath to awake!
And at their sewing they hear the rain, -
Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves,
And drip-drop over the sycamore leaves,
As if there would never be sunshine again.

The mourning train to the grave have gone,

And the waiting women are here and are there, With birds at the windows, and gleams of the sun, Making the chamber of death to be fair.

And under and over the mist unlaps,

And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray, And driest bushes grow green with spray, And the dimpled water its glad hands claps.

The leaves of the sycamore dance and wave,
And the mourners put off the mourning shows;
And over the pathway down to the grave

The long grass blows and blows and blows.
And every drip-drop rounds to a flower,

And love in the heart of the young man springs, And the hands of the maidens shine with rings, As if all life were a festival hour.

BALDER'S WIFE.

HER casement like a watchful eye

From the face of the wall looks down,

Lashed round with ivy vines so dry,

And with ivy leaves so brown.
Her golden head in her lily hand

Like a star in the spray o' th' sea,

And wearily rocking to and fro,

She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.

But let her sing what tune she may,

Never so light and never so gay,

It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

BALDER'S WIFE.

Like some bright honey-hearted rose

That the wild wind rudely mocks,

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She blooms from the dawn to the day's sweet close Hemmed in with a world of rocks.

The livelong night she doth not stir,

But keeps at her casement lorn,

And the skirts of the darkness shine with her

As they shine with the light o' the morn

And all who pass may hear her lay,
But let it be what tune it may,

It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water.

And there, within that one-eyed tower,

Lashed round with the ivy brown,

She droops like some unpitied flower

That the rain-fall washes down: The damp o' th' dew in her golden hair, Her cheek like the spray o' th' sea,

And wearily rocking to and fro

She sings so sweet and she sings so low
To the little babe on her knee.

But let her sing what tune she may,

Never so glad and never so gay,

It slips and slides and dies away

To the moan of the willow water,