Читать книгу Children of Christmas, and Others - Edith Matilda Thomas - Страница 12

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Long, long ago, in dear Provence, we three!

Three children, ruddy with the midi sun

(And blither none the all-seeing sun might see),

How happy when the harvest-time was done,

The last slow drop from out the winepress run;

And when the frost at morn was thick like snow;

And when Clotilde at evening sang and spun,

And old folk, by the new fire’s ruddy glow,

Would tell, as I do now, the tales of long ago!

Those tales—ah, most of all, we begged to hear

The tales our grandsires from their grandsires had—

How, in the darkening undertime of year,

When with first-fallen snow the fields were clad,

That blessèd time when nothing can be sad

(Such peace through Christ’s dear might encircles all),

How, then, the sleeping hives made murmur glad—

The white ox knelt within his littered stall,

And voices strange and sweet were heard through heaven to call!

We were three children—René, Pierre, Annette.

The little sister listened, wonder-eyed;

Each held her hand (that touch, I feel it yet!),

And all three drank those tales of Christmas tide.

The leaden-footed time how shall we bide?

How many days and hours we know full well,

Almost the little minutes that divide!

Meanwhile, like music of a hidden bell,

Our beating hearts keep up the chime, Noël, Noël!

One thing there was, desired above all things:

“Say, will they come (as ever from of old)—

The wise, the good, the three great Eastern Kings,

Who brought rich gifts,—frankincense, myrrh, and gold?”

How often of their names had we been told—

Balthasar, Melchior, Gaspard,—splendid all,

Wide-turbaned, sandal-shod, and purple-stoled,

Perhaps upon white steeds, curbed-in, and tall,

Or else on camels with the velvet-soft footfall!

“Will they at vespers be, on Holy Night?

And will they stop and see the little shrine

Where Jesus lies beneath the Star’s true light,

As when, at first, they found him by that sign?”

“Hush, René, hush! and if the eve be fine,

Thou—yes, all three—shall go to meet the Kings.

But children—mark ye well these words of mine!

Each way, of four, to town the traveler brings;

So it may chance ye miss them in your wanderings.”

Such sage replies our questions would receive.

The Holy Time drew near, and yet more near;

At last, it was the morning of the Eve,

All day we swayed from lovely hope to fear.

“‘Too early?’ Nay, ’tis twilight, mother dear—

At least, so very soon the sun will set!”

“Your warmest coats—the air is sharp and clear.

And in your hurry, children, don’t forget

That baby feet tire soon—remember p’tite Annette!”

“No, no! I do not tire, though fast I run!”

Ah, how we laughed to see the red lips pout—

The small sweet pride that would not be outdone

In such a race, by brothers big and stout!

“Annette the first shall see the Kings, no doubt”—

It was our grandsire spake with twinkling eye.

“Yes, yes; she shall,” impatient to be out,

We answered. Once beneath the deepening sky,

We ever took the sunset way—as late birds thither fly!

For thus we reasoned with one grave consent:

If yonder star above our mountain’s crest

Should be that Eastern star for guidance lent,

Then must the Kings be journeying from the West.

So on we ran, past harvest fields at rest,

Past sheepfolds where the flock of summer dreamed

(Full soon they would be kneeling, as we guessed!)

And on, and on—and now, at times, it seemed

Far down the twilight road rich banners waved and gleamed.

But ever of enchanted weft they proved,

On sunset’s pageant field emblazoned low;

And caravans, still moving as we moved,

At length, for straggling olive trees would show.

Then, while less confident our pace would grow,

Wiser than I—a twelvemonth and a day,

Would René counsel: Might it not be so—

As we had heard our own dear mother say—

The roads are four—the Kings had come another way?

No time to lose. We took the homeward track,

The Kings at vespers might be lingering still.

Soon were we in the church. Alack, alack!

The Kings had passed; for though they bore good will

To our good parish, yet must they fulfil

The prayers of all; and there were other folk

Who, if unvisited, would take it ill.

“’Tis said they must reach Arle by midnight stroke;

Sweet spices they have left—judge by the censer’s smoke!”

We boys took manfully this frown of Fate;

But tears stood in petite Annette’s blue eyes.

“Another year, my precious,—thou canst wait;

Besides, to-morrow morn a fine surprise

There’ll be for children who are sage and wise.

Gifts—but I may not tell you now, my child.”—

’Twas mother-love that did such cure devise

For bud-nipped hopes and hearts unreconciled;

We slept, and dreamed, on this—and then, the morning smiled!

Time passed. We never saw the Kings. Ah, well—

At least the two of us saw not, I know.

But how shall I the wonder of it tell?

There came a winter wild and dim with snow.

It seemed to us that sheeted ghosts did go

Upon the wind, that never ceased to moan.

And one of us with fever was laid low:

Like leaves the little hands were tossed and thrown,

And on her cheek the rose of fever was o’erblown!

The storm was done. The day threw off its shroud—

(’Twas Christmas Eve—till then by all forgot),

And suddenly, across a scarp of cloud

One crimson flame, a parting sunbeam shot.

It reached Annette upon the low, white cot,

It touched our mother’s face, Madonna-mild.

With dreaming eyes that saw us, yet saw not,

Petite Annette threw out her hand and smiled:

“Pierre! The Kings have come, and with them is a Child!”

Long, long ago in dear Provence was grief.

In vain the troubadour may sing Noël!

In vain the birds give thanks for Christmas sheaf,

In vain I heard, “God loved Annette so well

That He hath taken her to heaven to dwell.”

No comfort till René would whisper me:

“O brother, think upon it—who can tell?—

Perhaps there was no other way, to see!

And, Pierre, remember how she told the news to thee!”