Farm festivals / by Will Carleton [electronic text]

THE FESTIVAL OF GOOD CHEER;
OR,
CHRISTMAS MONOLOGUES.

[FARMER.]

Blow—blow—bushels o' snow— As if you had lost your senses! Rake with your might long winrows whiteAlong o' my walls an' fencesHover and crowd, ye black-faced cloud! Your look 's with comfort mingled; The more o' ye falls on these strong walls, The better my house is shingled. Swarm, swarm, pale bees o' the storm!You bid the world look whiter; Your very ire but pokes my fire, And makes the blaze burn brighter!

I ha' worked away more 'n one hot day, With the harvest-forge a-glowing,To kindle the cheer of Summer here, When cold winds should be blowing. I ha' braced my form 'gainst many a storm, When the gale blew helter-skelter— O'er side-hills steep, through snow-drifts deep, I ha' climbed, to make this shelter. My debts are raised, The Lord be praised! They left my old heart lighter; That mortgage I fed to the fire-mouths red— And it made the flame burn brighter!

There's a smile that speaks, in the plump red cheeks Of the apples in these dishes; They go down square, with a business air Of consultin' my stomach's wishes. I am feelin' the charms of comfort's arms,Which never opened wider, With the sober frown of my doughnuts brown,And the laugh of my sweet-kept cider.(Of course I know that this all must go,In a whirl of death or sorrow; But there's nothing lost in the work it cost,If I knew I should die to-morrow !)

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My mind will play, this Christmas-day,Round the sad-faced little stranger That smiled on them at Bethlehem; And I wish it had been my manger! I'd ha' told 'em square to get out o' there,For I hadn't o'er-much o' shed-room, And move that lad and what else they had, Straight into my parlor bedroom. 'Twas a story too true, and stranger, too,Than fairy tale or fable;An awkward thing for that preacher kingTo be tossed about in the stable!

'Twould ha' been a joy to ha' given that boy A quiet heart ovation, Before He was known as heir to a throne, Or had struck His reputation. But I think I've read some words He said, In one of His printed sermons, "Of the least of these," in which one sees The poor, the weak, the infirm 'uns;

So I b'lieve I know ten turkeys or so— Each one a fat old sinner— Who'll wend their way to the poorhouse t'day, And probably stay to dinner.

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Growl—growl—ye storm-dogs, howl As if ye was tryin' to tree me!For all o' your tricks, my grown-up chicksAre comin' to-day to see me!My best I've done for every one— My heart gets their caressing; It seems to me like a Christmas tree, Hung round with every blessing. (Of course I know that this all must go;—But grief wasn't made to borrow, And I'd get my pay for the fact to-day,If I knew I should die to-morrow!)

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[FARMER'S WIFE.]

Let's see—there'll be ten—eleven—twelve—on this side, The old table's growing too small; Our larder, as well as our hearts, must provide, And our hearts will make room for them all.

There'll be Jim with his jokes (and I hope they'll be new, Not those he has told twice before); There'll be Sam with his stories, more startling than true Which always remind him of more;

There'll be Kate with her fat little pig of a lad,Whose stomach unceasingly begs; And her other one, who, though not cut out for bad, Is a hurricane mounted on legs;

There'll be John, with his tiny brown tribe of brunettes,And Lue, with her one little blonde; And Tom, with two armfuls of wife and their pets,A trifle too startlingly fond!

For 'tis dangerous business—this loving too well— It somehow brings Heaven over-near; When our hearts their sweet stories too noisily tell, The angels are certain to hear;

The angels are certain to hear what we say, In their search for the brightest and best; And they're likely to carry our prizes away, To make Heaven more happy and blest.

Though our table be short, yet our hearts extend wide— This food's with no stinginess chilled; Let's see: there'll be ten—eleven—twelve—on this side— And—the chair that will never be filled.

Oh my poor darling boy, lying silent to-day, With the storm spading snow on your breast!

The angels, they found you, and made you their prey, In their search for the brightest and best!

My boy-love! I did not believe you would go! How I begged and implored you to wake, As you lay here so white, on that dark day of woe, That they brought you home, drowned, from the lake!

And whoever may come, and whatever betide, You still have your room and your chair; Is it true that I feel you sometimes at my side, And your lips on my forehead and hair?

The house will be running clear over with glee,We all shall be merry to-day; But Christmas is never quite Christmas to me, With one of my loved ones away.