Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, With Other Ballads and Poems

Part 1

Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer

BALLADS

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

1875

Contents:

BALLADS. Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving St. Nicholas Barbara's Courtship The Confession Rose in the Garden Phoebe's Wooing The Lost Heart John Maynard Friar Anselmo

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In the Church at Stratford-on-Avon Mrs. Browning's Grave at Florence My Castle Apple-Blossoms Summer Hours June Little Charlie The Whippoorwill and I Carving a Name

IN TIME OF WAR. Gone to the War Where is my Boy To-night? A Soldier's Valentine Last Words Song of the Croaker King Cotton Out of Egypt The Price of Victory

HARVARD ODES. I. Fair Harvard, Dear Guide of Our Youth's Golden Days II. As We Meet in Thy Name, Alma Mater, Tonight III. Fair Harvard, The Months Have Accomplished Their Round IV. there's a Fountain of Fable, Whose Magical Power

OCCASIONAL ODES. Bi-Centennial Ode For the Consecration of a Cemetery

BALLADS.

GRAND'THER BALDWIN'S THANKSGIVING

UNDERNEATH protected branches, from the highway just aloof; Stands the house of Grand'ther Baldwin, with its gently sloping roof.

Square of shape and solid-timbered, it was standing, I have heard, In the days of Whig and Tory, under royal George the Third.

Many a time, I well remember, I have gazed with Childish awe At the bullet-hole remaining in the sturdy oaken door,

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled) Of the lurking, savage foeman from whose musket it was sped..

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn's harvest spoils, Holds the farmer's well-earned trophies--the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green, While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet, drowsy mien.

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o'er with nature's gold; Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost chill, There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard the hill.

Many a year has Grand'ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace, As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays, One by one have met life's duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood's merry tone, the fireside Grand'ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled) Of the lurking savage foeman from whose musket it was sped.

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn harvest spoils, Holds the farmer's well-earned trophies--the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green, While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet drowsy mien.

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o'er with nature's gold; Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost and chill, There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard on the hill.

Part 2

Many a year has Grand'ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace, As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays, One by one have met life's duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood's merry tone, By the fireside Grand'ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Yet once within the twelvemonth, when the days are short and drear, And chill winds chant the requiem of the slowly fading year,

When the autumn work is over, and the harvest gathered in, Once again the old house echoes to a long unwonted din.

Logs of hickory blaze and crackle in the fireplace huge anti high, Curling wreaths of smoke mount upward to the gray November sky.

Ruddy lads and smiling lasses, just let loose from schooldom's cares, Patter, patter, race and clatter, up and down the great hall stairs.

All the boys shall hold high revel; all the girls shall have their way,-- That's the law at Grand'ther Baldwin's upon each Thanksgiving Day.

From from the parlor's sacred precincts, hark! a madder uproar yet; Roguish Charlie's playing stage-coach, and the stage-coach has upset!

Joe, black-eyed and laughter-loving, Grand'ther's specs his nose across, Gravely winks at brother Willie, who is gayly playing horse.

Grandma's face is fairly radiant; Grand'ther knows not how to frown, though the children, in their frolic, turn the old house upside down.

For the boys may hold high revel, and the girls must have their way; That's the law at Grand'ther Baldwin's upon each Thanksgiving Day.

But the dinner--ah! the dinner--words are feeble to portray What a culinary triumph is achieved Thanksgiving Day!

Fairly groans the board with dainties, but the turkey rules the roast, Aldermanic at the outset, at the last a fleshless ghost.

Then the richness of the pudding, and the flavor of the pie, When you've dined at Grandma Baldwin's you will know as well as I.

When, at length, the feast was ended, Grand'ther Baldwin bent his head, And, amid the solemn silence, with a reverent voice, he said:--

"Now unto God, the Gracious One, we thanks and homage pay, Who guardeth us, and guideth us, and loveth us always!

"He scatters blessings in our paths, He giveth us increase, He crowns us with His kindnesses, and granteth us His peace.

"Unto himself, our wandering feet, we pray that He may draw, And may we strive, with faithful hearts, to keep His holy law!"

His simple words in silence died: a moment's hush. And then From all the listening hearts there rose a solemn-voiced Amen!

ST. NICHOLAS.

In the far-off Polar seas, Far beyond the Hebrides, Where the icebergs, towering high, Seem to pierce the wintry sky, And the fur-clad Esquimaux Glides in sledges o'er the snow, Dwells St. Nick, the merry wight, Patron saint of Christmas night.

Solid walls of massive ice, Bearing many a quaint device, Flanked by graceful turrets twain, Clear as clearest porcelain, Bearing at a lofty height Christ's pure cross in simple white, Carven with surpassing art From an iceberg's crystal heart.

Here St. Nick, in royal state, Dwells, until December late Clips the days at either end, And the nights at each extend; Then, with his attendant sprites, Scours the earth on wintry nights, Bringing home, in well-filled hands, Children's gifts from many lands.

Here are whistles, tops and toys, Meant to gladden little boys; Skates and sleds that soon will glide O'er the ice or steep hill-side. Here are dolls with flaxen curls, Sure to charm the little girls; Christmas books, with pictures gay, For this welcome holiday.

In the court the reindeer wait; Filled the sledge with costly freight. As the first faint shadow falls, Promptly from his icy halls Steps St. Nick, and grasps the rein: And afar, in measured time, Sounds the sleigh-bells' silver chime.

Like an arrow from the bow Speed the reindeer o'er the snow. Onward! Now the loaded sleigh Skirts the shores of Hudson's Bay. Onward, till the stunted tree Gains a loftier majesty, And the curling smoke-wreaths rise Under less inclement skies.

Built upon a hill-side steep Lies a city wrapt in sleep. Up and down the lonely street Sleepy watchmen pace their beat. Little heeds them Santa Claus; Not for him are human laws. With a leap he leaves the ground, Scales the chimney at a bound.

Part 3

Five small stockings hang below; Five small stockings in a row. From his pocket blithe St. Nick Fills the waiting stockings quick; Some with sweetmeats, some with toys, Gifts for girls, and gifts for boys, Mounts the chimney like a bird, And the bells are once more heard.

Santa Claus! Good Christmas saint, In whose heart no selfish taint

Findeth place, some homes there be Where no stockings wait for thee, Homes where sad young faces wear Painful marks of Want and Care, And the Christmas morning brings No fair hope of better things.

Can you not some crumbs bestow On these Children steeped in woe; Steal a single look of care Which their sad young faces wear; From your overflowing store Give to them whose hearts are sore? No sad eyes should greet the morn When the infant Christ was born.

BARBARA'S COURTSHIP.

'Tis just three months and eke a day, Since in the meadows, raking hay, On looking up I chanced to see The manor's lord, young Arnold Lee, With a loose hand on the rein, Riding slowly down the lane. As I gazed with earnest look On his face as on a book, As if conscious of the gaze, Suddenly he turned the rays Of his brilliant eyes on me. Then I looked down hastily, While my heart, like caged bird, Fluttered till it might be heard. Foolish, foolish Barbara!

We had never met before, He had been so long away, Visiting some foreign shore, I have heard my father say. What in truth was he to me, Rich and handsome Arnold Lee? Fate had placed us far apart; Why, then, did my restless heart Flutter when his careless glance Fell on me by merest chance? Foolish, foolish Barbara!

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