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Title: Christmas Eve
Author: Grant Balfour [
More Titles by Balfour]
'Twas Christmas Eve.
The mother and her little boy (his name
Was David Annandale) sat down to read
And converse hold before they sought repose.
A widow young, with richest auburn hair,
Bright hazel eyes 'neath finely arching brows,
Teeth of pearl, and sympathetic smile
Most sweet. No wonder that her child, a lad
Of six, with raven hair and ruddy cheeks,
Should find in her alone his heart's desire,
His reigning thought, the perfect one. His eyes
Lovelit no blemish saw in careworn looks.
Her stories, read and told with girlish zeal,
Of beaver, bear and wolf, and jet black squirrel,
But, best of all, of smiling Santa Claus,
Aroused an interest intense. The deep
Ravine itself and other themes all passed
Beneath her spell. And he, tho' entertained,
Was also purified and lifted up.
"My mother, dear," he said, "When I'm a man,
I'll work and work for you, and buy a castle
And a carriage; you will be a lady,
And nevermore be tired."
Tired himself at last,
His eyelids fell. He dreamed a moment deep,
Then wide awoke and starting up he wept,
And as he sobbed he said, "I've seen my kitten
In the cold ravine. Oh, let it in!"
This was a kitten lost a while before,
A creature in his heart as much as treasure
Real or ideal fills the heart
Of any ardent man. He ever longed
And hoped for its return. And every night
The door was opened and the yearning call
Went out into the empty air. And every
Night he saw the lost one's dish supplied,
Which morning found untouched. The mother did
Her best to stay his tears, and as she bent
And tucked him warm in bed she said that maybe
Santa Claus would bring another kitten.
"Tie a great big stocking, mother; make it
Open wide and warm." She did so, kissed him,
And he closed his eyes.
One hand alone,
Would fill that empty stocking, nor forget
A friend or neighbor would come later on,
But David's eyes when morning came would look
On emptiness, save for mother's hand. Nay, stay,--
At midnight, yea, at midnight, when the moon
Was still a silver lamp, a creature poor,
Benighted, wandered to the cottage door.
Ill-treated, cold, too sick to cry, it looked
With wistful eyes beneath the fastened door.
Then turned and went aside and trembling climbed
The sloping birchen tree and reached the roof.
Adown the chimney peered, then slowly crept,
Then fell. It lay upon the hearth a time.
But lured, it lapped the milk, and, strengthened, strove
To climb into the little sleeper's cot.
It strove but failed, and, guided by a gentle
Hand, it fell at last into the open
Stocking, head above, and finding comfort,
Softly purred and slept.
Ah, sleeping boy,
Thou dreamest not the joy awaiting thee--
The empty place within thy heart shall soon
Be filled, thy grief assuaged, thy hot tears dried.
'Tis little value--but 'tis much to thee--
Because thy love is wrapped up there, and love
Is value's measure in the heart of rich
And poor.
The boy awoke and rubbed his eyes.
The sun had risen o'er the grand ravine,
A silver scene, and sent its slanting rays
Of gold beneath the blind, across the cot.
He waited not, but crept along and looked
Below. Two eyes looked up. A moment mutual
Magnetized, transfixed! He drew the creature
From its woollen bed, he kissed it,--pressed it
To his cheek--and wept for joy. The mother
Woke. The midnight "gift" was seen and gladly
Welcomed home while David slept, and now
She also wept for joy. No home was happier
On that Christmas morn. No gift was costlier
Than the gift that meant the wasted worthless
Waif's return.
[The end]
Grant Balfour's poem: Christmas Eve
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