The Holy Cross and Other Tales Part 15

Beside his loving mother-sheep A little lambkin is asleep; What does he know of midnight gloom--- He sleeps, and in his quiet dreams He thinks he plucks the clover bloom And drinks at cooling, purling streams.

And those same stars the baby knows Sing softly to the lamb's repose.

Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child-- The stars are dim--the night is wild; But o'er the cot and o'er the lea A sleepless eye forever beams-- A shepherd watches over thee In all thy little baby dreams; The shepherd loves his tiny sheep-- Sleep, precious little lambkin, sleep!

"That is very pretty, indeed!" exclaimed the bra.s.s candlestick.

"So it is," replied the little shoe, "but you should hear it sung by the fairy queen!"

"Did the operetta end with that lullaby?" inquired the cigar-case.

"Oh, no," said the little shoe. "No sooner had the queen finished her lullaby than an old gran'ma fairy, wearing a quaint mob-cap and large spectacles, limped forward with her crutch and droned out a curious ballad, which seemed to be for the special benefit of the boy and girl fairies, very many of whom were of the company. This ballad was as follows:

BALLAD OF THE JELLY-CAKE

A little boy whose name was Tim Once ate some jelly-cake for tea-- Which cake did not agree with him, As by the sequel you shall see.

"My darling child," his mother said, "Pray do not eat that jelly-cake, For, after you have gone to bed, I fear 't will make your stomach ache!"

But foolish little Tim demurred Unto his mother's warning word.

That night, while all the household slept, Tim felt an awful pain, and then From out the dark a nightmare leapt And stood upon his abdomen!

"I cannot breathe!" the infant cried-- "Oh, Mrs. Nightmare, pity take!"

"There is no mercy," she replied, "For boys who feast on jelly-cake!"

And so, despite the moans of Tim, The cruel nightmare went for him.

At first, she 'd tickle Timmy's toes Or roughly smite his baby cheek-- And now she 'd rudely tweak his nose And other petty vengeance wreak; And then, with hobnails in her shoes And her two horrid eyes aflame, The mare proceeded to amuse Herself by prancing o'er his frame--- First to his throbbing brow, and then Back to his little feet again.

At last, fantastic, wild, and weird, And clad in garments ghastly grim, A scowling hoodoo band appeared And joined in worrying little Tim.

Each member of this hoodoo horde Surrounded Tim with fierce ado And with long, cruel gimlets bored His aching system through and through, And while they labored all night long The nightmare neighed a dismal song.

Next morning, looking pale and wild, Poor little Tim emerged from bed-- "Good gracious! what can ail the child!"

His agitated mother said.

"We live to learn," responded he, "And I have lived to learn to take Plain bread and b.u.t.ter for my tea, And never, never, jelly-cake!

For when my hulk with pastry teems, I must _expect_ unpleasant dreams!"

"Now you can imagine this ballad impressed the child fairies very deeply," continued the little shoe. "Whenever the gran'ma fairy sang it, the little fairies expressed great surprise that boys and girls ever should think of eating things which occasioned so much trouble.

So the night was spent in singing and dancing, and our master would sleep as sweetly as you please. At last the lark--what a beautiful bird she is--would flutter against the window panes, and give the fairies warning in these words:

MORNING SONG

The eastern sky is streaked with red, The weary night is done, And from his distant ocean bed Rolls up the morning sun.

The dew, like tiny silver beads Bespread o'er velvet green, Is scattered on the wakeful meads By angel hands unseen.

"Good-morrow, robin in the trees!"

The star-eyed daisy cries; "Good-morrow," sings the morning breeze Unto the ruddy skies; "Good-morrow, every living thing!"

Kind Nature seems to say, And all her works devoutly sing A hymn to birth of day, So, haste, without delay, Haste, fairy friends, on silver wing, And to your homes away!

"But the fairies could never leave little master so unceremoniously.

Before betaking themselves to their pretty homes under the rocks near the brook, they would address a parting song to his eyes, and this song they called a matin invocation:

TO A SLEEPING BABY'S EYES

And thou, twin orbs of love and joy!

Unveil thy glories with the morn-- Dear eyes, another day is born-- Awake, O little sleeping boy!

Bright are the summer morning skies, But in this quiet little room There broods a chill, oppressive gloom-- All for the brightness of thine eyes.

Without those radiant orbs of thine How dark this little world would be-- This sweet home-world that wors.h.i.+ps thee-- So let their wondrous glories s.h.i.+ne On those who love their warmth and joy-- Awake, O sleeping little boy.

"So that ended the fairy operetta, did it?" inquired the match-box.

"Yes," said the little shoe, with a sigh of regret. "The fairies were such bewitching creatures, and they sang so sweetly, I could have wished they would never stop their antics and singing. But, alas! I fear I shall never see them again."

"What makes you think so?" asked the bra.s.s candlestick.

"I 'm sure I can't tell," replied the little shoe; "only everything is so strange-like and so changed from what it used to be that I hardly know whether indeed I am still the same little shoe I used to be."

"Why, what can you mean?" queried the old clock, with a puzzled look on her face.

"I will try to tell you," said the little shoe. "You see, my mate and our master and I were great friends; as I have said, we roamed and frolicked around together all day, and at night my little mate and I watched at master's bedside while he slept. One day we three took a long ramble, away up the street and beyond where the houses were built, until we came into a beautiful green field, where the gra.s.s was very tall and green, and where there were pretty flowers of every kind. Our little master talked to the flowers and they answered him, and we all had a merry time in the meadow that afternoon, I can tell you. 'Don't go away, little child,' cried the daisies, 'but stay and be our playfellow always.' A b.u.t.terfly came and perched on our master's hand, and looked up and smiled, and said: 'I 'm not afraid of _you_; you would n't hurt me, would you?' A little mouse told us there was a thrush's nest in the bush yonder, and we hurried to see it. The lady thrush was singing her four babies to sleep. They were strange-looking babies, with their gaping mouths, bulbing eyes, and scant feathers!

'Do not wake them up,' protested the lady thrush. 'Go a little further on and you will come to the brook. I will join you presently.' So we went to the brook."

"Oh, but I would have been afraid," suggested the pen-wiper.

"Afraid of the brook!" cried the little shoe. "Oh, no; what could be prettier than the brook! We heard it singing in the distance. We called to it and it bade us welcome. How it smiled in the suns.h.i.+ne!

How restless and furtive and nimble it was, yet full of merry prattling and noisy song. Our master was overjoyed. He had never seen the brook before; nor had we, for that matter. 'Let me cool your little feet,'

said the brook, and, without replying, our master waded knee-deep into the brook. In an instant we were wet through--my mate and I; but how deliciously cool it was here in the brook, and how smooth and bright the pebbles were! One of the pebbles told me it had come many, many miles that day from its home in the hills where the brook was born."

"Pooh, I don't believe it," sneered the vase.

"Presently our master toddled back from out the brook," continued the little shoe, heedless of the vase's interruption, "and sat among the cowslips and b.u.t.tercups on the bank. The brook sang on as merrily as before. 'Would you like to go sailing?' asked our master of my mate.

'Indeed I would,' replied my mate, and so our master pulled my mate from his little foot and set it afloat upon the dancing waves of the brook. My mate was not the least alarmed. It spun around gayly several times at first and then glided rapidly away. The b.u.t.terfly hastened and alighted upon the merry little craft. 'Where are you going?' I cried. 'I am going down to the sea,' replied my little mate, with laughter. 'And I am going to marry the rose in the far-away south,' cried the b.u.t.terfly. 'But will you not come back?' I cried.

They answered me, but they were so far away I could not hear them. It was very distressing, and I grieved exceedingly. Then, all at once, I discovered my little master was asleep, fast asleep among the cowslips and b.u.t.tercups. I did not try to wake him--only I felt very miserable, for I was so cold and wet. Presently the lady thrush came, as she had said she would. The child is asleep--he will be ill--I must hasten to tell his mother,' she cried, and away she flew."

"And was he sick?" asked the vase.

"I do not know," said the little shoe. "I can remember it was late that evening when the sweet lady and others came and took us up and carried us back home, to this very room. Then I was pulled off very unceremoniously and thrown under my little master's bed, and I never saw my little master after that.

"How very strange!" exclaimed the match-safe.

"Very, very strange," repeated the shoe. "For many days and nights I lay under the crib all alone. I could hear my little master sighing and talking as if in a dream. Sometimes he spoke of me, and of the brook, and of my little mate dancing to the sea, and one night he breathed very loud and quick and he cried out and seemed to struggle, and then, all at once, he stopped, and I could hear the sweet lady weeping. But I remember all this very faintly. I was hoping the fairies would come back, but they never came.

"I remember," resumed the little shoe, after a solemn pause, "I remember how, after a long, long time, the sweet lady came and drew me from under the crib and held me in her lap and kissed me and wept over me. Then she put me in a dark, lonesome drawer, where there were dresses and stockings and the little hat my master used to wear. There I lived, oh! such a weary time, and we talked--the dresses, the stockings, the hat, and I did--about our little master, and we wondered that he never came. And every little while the sweet lady would take us from the drawer and caress us, and we saw that she was pale and that her eyes were red with weeping."

"But has your little master never come back!" asked the old clock.

"Not yet," said the little shoe, "and that is why I am so very lonesome. Sometimes I think he has gone down to the sea in search of my little mate and that the two will come back together. But I do not understand it. The sweet lady took me from the drawer to-day and kissed me and set me here on the mantelpiece."

"You don't mean to say she kissed you?" cried the haughty vase, "you horrid little stumped-out shoe!"