peace unto men.

Again, with his little brood ’round him,
   He sits by the fair mother-wife;
He knows that the angels have crowned him
   With the truest, best riches of life;
And the hearts of the children, untroubled,
   Are filled with the gay Christmas-tide;
And the gifts for sweet Maudie are doubled,
   Tis her birthday, beside.

Again,—ah, dear Jesus, have pity—
   He finds in the chill, waning day,
That one has come home from the city—
   Frail Maudie, whom love led astray.
She lies with her babe on her bosom—
   Half-hid by the snow’s fleecy spread;
A bud and a poor trampled blossom—
   And both are quite dead.

So fair and so fragile! just twenty—
   How mocking the bells sound to-night!
She starved in this great land of plenty,
   When she tried to grope back to the light.
Christ. are Thy disciples inhuman,
   Or only for men hast Thou died?
No mercy is shown to a woman
   Who once steps aside.

Again he leans over the shrouded
   Still form of the mother and wife;
Very lonely the way seems, and clouded,
   As he looks down the vista of life.
With the sweet Christmas chimes there is blended
   The knell for a life that is done,
And he knows that his joys are all ended
   And his waiting begun.

So long have the years been, so lonely,
   As he counts them by Christmases gone.
“I am homesick,” he murmurs; “if only
   The Angel would lead the way on.
I am cold, in this chill winter weather;
   Why, Maudie, dear, where have you been?
And you, too, sweet wife—and together—
   O Christ, let me in”

The children ran in from the hallway,
   “Were you calling us, grandpa?” they said.
Then shrank, with that fear that comes alway
   When young eyes look their first on the dead.
The freedom so longed for is given.
   The children speak low and draw near:
“Dear grandpa keeps Christmas in Heaven
   With grandma, this year.”

AFTER THE ENGAGEMENT

Well, Mabel, ’tis over and ended—
   The ball I wrote was to be;
And oh! it was perfectly splendid—
   If you could have been here to see.
I’ve a thousand things to write you
   That I know you are wanting to hear,
And one, that is sure to delight you—
   I am wearing Joe’s diamond, my dear!

Yes, mamma is quite ecstatic
   That I am engaged to Joe;
She thinks I am rather erratic,
   And feared that I might say “No.”
But, Mabel, I’m twenty-seven
   (Though nobody dreams it, dear),
And a fortune like Joe’s isn’t given
   To lay at one’s feet each year.

You know my old fancy for Harry—
   Or, at least, I am certain you guessed
That it took all my sense not to marry
   And go with that fellow out west.
But that was my very first season—
   And Harry was poor as could be,
And mamma’s good practical reason
   Took all the romance out of me.

She whisked me off over the ocean,
   And had me presented at court,
And got me all out of the notion
   That ranch life out west was my forte.
Of course I have never repented—
   I’m not such a goose of a thing;
But after I had consented
   To Joe—and he gave me the ring—

I felt such a queer sensation.
   I seemed to go into a trance,
Away from the music’s pulsation,
   Away from the lights and the dance.
And the wind o’er the wild prairie
   Seemed blowing strong and free,
And it seemed not Joe, but Harry
   Who was standing there close to me.

And the funniest feverish feeling
   Went up from my feet to my head,
With little chills after it stealing—
   And my hands got as numb as the dead.
A moment, and then it was over:
   The diamond blazed up in my eyes,
And I saw in the face of my lover
   A questioning, strange surprise.

Maybe ’twas the scent of the flowers,
   That heavy with fragrance bloomed near,
But I didn’t feel natural for hours;
   It was odd now, wasn’t it, dear?
Write soon to your fortunate Clara,
   Who has carried the prize away,
And say you’ll come on when I marry,—
   I think it will happen in May.

A HOLIDAY

The Wife

The house is like a garden,
   The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
   And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
   And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
   Will make a holiday.

The Husband

Impossible!  You women do not know
The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late,
So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.

The Wife

The feast will be like Hamlet
   Without a Hamlet part:
The home is but a house, dear,
   Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for
   You need not toil to buy;
Oh! give me back one thing I lack—
   The love-light in your eye.

The Husband

Of course I love you, and the children too
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you
I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.

The Wife (turning)

He does not mean to wound me,
   I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us
   And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure,
   A little time for play;
A word to prove the life of love
   And frighten Care away!
Tho’ poor my lot in some small cot
   That were a holiday.

The Husband (musing)

She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex—
Zounds! but ’tis difficult to please the sex.
I’ve housed and gowned her like a very queen
Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday:
Some women are like that, do what you may.

FALSE

False!  Good God, I am dreaming!
   No, no, it never can be—
You who are so true in seeming,
   You, false to your vows and me?
My wife and my fair boy’s mother
   The star of my life—my queen—
To yield herself to another
   Like some light Magdalene!

Proofs! what are proofs—I defy them!
   They never can shake my trust;
If you look in my face and deny them
   I will trample them into the dust.
For whenever I read of the glory
   Of the realms of Paradise,
I sought for the truth of the story
   And found it in your sweet eyes.

Why, you are the shy young creature
   I wooed in her maiden grace;
There was purity in each feature,
   And my heaven I found in your face.
And, “not only married but mated,”
   I would say in my pride and joy;
And our hopes were all consummated
   When the angels gave us our boy.

Now you could not blot that beginning
   So beautiful, pure and true,
With a record of wicked sinning
   As a common woman might do.
Look up in your old frank fashion,
   With your smile so free from art;
And say that no guilty passion
   Has ever crept into your heart.

How pallid you are, and you tremble!
   You are hiding your face from view!
“Tho’ a sinner, you cannot dissemble”—
   My God! then the tale is true?
True, and the sun above us
   Shines on in the summer skies?
And men say