These answers
puzzled the old dame mightily. She had but one idea in her
ignorant head. The Three Kings had gone to seek a Baby. She
would, if not too late, seek Him too.
She forgot, I am sure, how many long years had gone by. She
looked in vain for the Christ-child in His manger-cradle. She
spent all her little savings in toys and candy so as to make
friends with little children, that they might not run away when
she came hobbling into their nurseries.
Now you know for whom she is sadly seeking when she pushes back
the bed-curtains and bends down over each baby's pillow.
Sometimes, when the old grandmother sits nodding by the fire, and
the bigger children sleep in their beds, old Babouscka comes
hobbling into the room, and whispers softly, "Is the young Child
here?"
Ah, no; she has come too late, too late. But the little children
know her and love her. Two thousand years ago she lost the
chance of finding Him. Crooked, wrinkled, old, sick and sorry,
she yet lives on, looking into each baby's face--always
disappointed, always seeking. Will she find Him at last?
Come, Bossy, come Bossy! Here I am with my cup,
Come give me some milk, rich and sweet.
I will pay you well with red clover hay,
The nicest you ever did eat.
DAISIES.
Daisies!
Low in the grass and high in the clover,
Starring the green earth over and over,
Now into white waves tossing and breaking,
Like a foaming sea when the wind is waking,
Now standing upright, tall and slender,
Showing their deep hearts' golden splendor;
Daintily bending,
Airily lending
Garlands of flowers for earth's adorning,
Fresh with the dew of a summer morning;
High on the slope, low in the hollow,
Where eye can reach or foot can follow,
Shining with innocent fearless faces
Out of the depths of lonely places,
Till the glad heart sings their praises
--Here are the daisies!
The daisies!
Daisies!
See them ebbing and flowing,
Like tides with the full moon going;
Spreading their generous largess free
For hand to touch and for eye to see;
In dust of the wayside growing,
On rock-ribbed upland blowing,
By meadow brooklets glancing,
On barren fields a-dancing,
Till the world forgets to burrow and grope,
And rises aloft on the wings of hope;
--Oh! of all posies,
Lilies or roses,
Sweetest or fairest,
Richest or rarest,
That earth in its joy to heaven upraises,
Give me the daisies!
Why? For they glow with the spirit of youth,
Their beautiful eyes have the glory of truth,
Down before all their rich bounty they fling
--Free to the beggar, and free to the king
Loving they stoop to the lowliest ways,
Joyous they brighten the dreariest days;
Under the fringe of their raiment they hide
Scars the gray winter hath opened so wide;
Freely and brightly--
Who can count lightly
Gifts with such generous ardor proffered,
Tokens of love from such full heart's offered,
Or look without glances of joy and delight
At pastures star-covered from morning till night,
When the sunshiny field ablaze is
With daisies!
Daisies,
Your praise is,
That you are like maidens, as maidens should be,
Winsome with freshness, and wholesome to see,
Gifted with beauty, and joy to the eye,
Head lifted daintily--yet not too high--
Sweet with humility, radiant with love,
Generous too as the sunshine above,
Swaying with sympathy, tenderly bent
On hiding the scar and on healing the rent,
Innocent-looking the world in the face,
Yet fearless with nature's own innocent grace,
Full of sweet goodness, yet simple in art,
White in the soul, and pure gold in the heart
--Ah, like unto you should all maidenhood be
Gladsome to know, and most gracious to see;
Like you, my daisies!
M.
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