Read Ebook: Snowflakes by Karn Esther Nelson

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Ebook has 239 lines and 13285 words, and 5 pages

and peonies grew, The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue;

The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweet Lifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meet The first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet pea Wound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and we

To drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled, While sunflowers nodded to us as we filled Our baskets with blossoms for table bouquets, Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze; Or, with aprons outspread, in our childish delight, The butterfly chased in his foraging flight 'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief, That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf.

But long years ago the old garden was sold! Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold; Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath grass-tangles hid, For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'mid The flowers that blossom her pallet above, Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love; And singing their lullaby sweetest where lies My playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes.

And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness here Is past, to the place that my bosom holds dear I may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the tree Where robin and oriole chirrup in glee, While my soul slips away from the spot that I love, To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.

DANCE OF THE RIPPLES.

I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe, Where the moonbeams love to loiter; Watching the ripples come and go And the willow trees their shadows throw On the mystic, murm'ring water.

As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank, Where the pale rays glint and quiver Through the silvered leaves, a perfumed breeze So softly swayed the willow trees, And dappled the laughing river.

The waters murmured so low and sweet, Then an echo, soft and clear,-- Not the sound of lute or song of bird, But the sweetest music ever heard, Fell on my enchanted ear.

The silvered ripples all leaped for joy! And over the waters glancing I saw, in the light, a pretty sight; In an ecstasy of glad delight, The ripples all were dancing.

They danced in the midst where the stars look down-- No shadowy branch to hide them; They danced where the willows kiss the stream, Then back again in the moonlight's gleam, And the fish peeped out and eyed them.

They danced in the shade of the iron bridge, Where the aspen's shadows play; And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled, And spangles dropped on each little head, As they laughed and danced away.

THE PESSIMIST.

Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down, The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown; Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare, He rides on the wind to the great everywhere. He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown; And over each window in country and town, With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen, He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen, Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers, And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers. But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bells You hear the old pessimist counting his ills. With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he, "Such nasty cold weather I never did see; The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all, For danger of breaking a leg by a fall; Unless a few days bring a great change about, The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out." But roguish old Winter soon bundles his pack Of ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back, And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his stead The Goddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head; And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew, She stole from the heart of the violet blue; A voice--O, the music that swells on the air From fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,--everywhere, Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers, She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers. Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim, And says the fair goddess has no charms for him. "'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheat Will rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat; Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight, Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night. A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!" And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail. At last this fair goddess descends from the throne, Gives place to another we've all loved and known. Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain, With silken folds falling and rising again, As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays; Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze, Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers, That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers. As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads, O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds! Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled, The murmuring pessimist never is stilled. He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow, "I don't see the use of such hot weather now; 'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine-- Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine." And thus the old pessimist grumbles away The brightness and joy of the long summer day. He teases the evening, he teases the morn, Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born. She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine, Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine; And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree, And ears that are golden as golden can be. Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown, A garland of goldenrod forming her crown, In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands, And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands; While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust, Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust; The winter comes on altogether too fast, The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast; My bills, they increase, while my business is slow; I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know! There's no satisfaction on land or on sea, For nothing is what I desire it to be."

Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret, Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget? Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so great Forgetteth the things which His hands did create? The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night, Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight. He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue, And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew; Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed? Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade? In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside, It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied. The richest of treasures to thee will be given, If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven.

THE FIRST EASTER DAWN.

The night is past, the thunder's roar In distance dies away; And in the east, a gleam of light Foretells the coming day;

And women, bearing spices sweet, Are hast'ning on their way Toward that tomb, so dark and deep, Where Jesus' body lay.

"But who," these faithful women ask, And pause upon their way,-- "When we have reached our Master's tomb, Who'll roll the stone away?"

At last they reach the hallowed spot,-- The tomb that Joseph made, Wherein, three days before, their loved And loving Lord was laid.

The glory of the golden sun Fills budding woods with light, The morning dewdrops sparkle on The Easter lilies white.

Sweet odor from the hyacinth Upon the breeze is borne; All nature now proclaims with joy, "It is the world's first morn!"

The women stand beside the tomb In deep surprise and fear; For lo! the stone is rolled away-- Their Master is not there.

Impulsive Mary Magdalene Stays not, but hastens on That she may tell the wondrous news To Peter and to John.

She tells them and they come with her Unto the hallowed place, And find it just as she has said-- Of Jesus there's no trace.

Then silently they turn and go Each on his way--save one; 'Tis loving Mary Magdalene Who stays and weeps alone.

How Jesus, in His wondrous love, Had touched her heart within, And led her into righteous paths From those of vilest sin.

And as she weeps, she stoops and looks Into the sepulcher, And sees two angels sitting there Who kindly say to her:

"Why weepest thou, oh, woman?" And Magdalene replies, "Because they've taken away my Lord; I know not where He lies."

As Mary speaks she turns around-- Another form is there! She thinks it is the gardener, Who kindly says to her:

"Whom seekest thou, oh, woman? Why stand ye weeping there?" Says Mary, "If you've borne Him hence, Oh, please, sir, tell me where."

The Saviour's loving heart is touched; .

He draws a little closer now, That she her Lord may know, And answers only, "Mary," In accents soft and low.

She raises now her tearful eyes, They are no longer blind; For none but He could speak her name So tenderly and kind.

With beating heart and outstretched arms She flies her Lord to greet. "Rabboni!" then she kneels among The lilies at His feet.

He looks with tend'rest pity on That face with tears still wet, And says "You must not touch me now; I will not leave you yet.

"But by and by I will ascend Unto my God and thine; Go thou and tell, when thou dost find Those true disciples mine."

The day is spent, the lily folds Her leaves upon her breast; The violets close their dewy eyes And sweetly sink to rest.

The westland crimson glory fades From hilltop, wood, and lawn, Night's tender dews fall softly o'er The world's First Easter Dawn.

INDIA.

There's a country o'er the billows deep, As fair as fair can be; Its north is bounded by mountains high, With sunlit summits that kiss the sky, Its south by the boundless sea.

A stream flows down the mountain side, And swells to the great Ganges; Its placid depths, unknown, untold, Reflect the sunlight's orient gold, Then rest in southern seas.

The silken palms their branches wave As soft as summer sails; And drowsy winds, so passing fair, With odors laden, strange and rare, Blow soft o'er sunbright vales.

The date, the orange, the fig grow ripe In that golden country, where Through fragrant meads the pathways lead. Wouldst see God's handiwork indeed? Go view the sunset there!

'Tis veiled in clouds of splendid hue, In melting colors rare: Church domes in crimson waves are dyed, And everything seems glorified-- Thank God there are churches there!

Where once the starry heavens looked down, And wept a nation's blindness, Which knew no God to soothe its grief, And women--slaves! found no relief In love or human kindness,

Millions of homes to-day rejoice And praise our God above; Millions have learned the hymn to swell, Through missionaries, sent to tell Of Him whose name is Love.

But millions still are left in doubt, In darkness and alone; Their restless souls are wrung with grief, They find no respite or relief In heathen gods of stone.

They've never heard of Him who gave Their glorious sun-kissed shores; God grant that we our efforts lend To teach them of a loving Friend Whom Freedom's land adores.

Prosper, O Lord, this land of ours, So glad, so proud, so free, That we may missionaries send Till all that beauteous India land Has learned to worship Thee.

Nothing we give our Father's cause Escapes His watchful eyes; Each mite will be a jewel rare To deck the crown we'll surely wear Some day in Paradise.

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