St Nicholas [serial] . ABOUSCKA sits be-fore the fire,Upon a driving windsheap up thesnow,Her hut is snugand tight;The howling winds, they only makeBabousckas fire more bright! hears a knocking at the door, late — who can it be ?hastes to lift the wooden latch thought of fear has she);wind-blown candle in her handines out on strangers three. Their beards are white with age, and snow That in the darkness flies;Their floating locks are long and white, But kindly are the eyesThat sparkle underneath their brows, Like stars in frosty skies. : Babouscka, we have come from far; We ta
St Nicholas [serial] . ABOUSCKA sits be-fore the fire,Upon a driving windsheap up thesnow,Her hut is snugand tight;The howling winds, they only makeBabousckas fire more bright! hears a knocking at the door, late — who can it be ?hastes to lift the wooden latch thought of fear has she);wind-blown candle in her handines out on strangers three. Their beards are white with age, and snow That in the darkness flies;Their floating locks are long and white, But kindly are the eyesThat sparkle underneath their brows, Like stars in frosty skies. : Babouscka, we have come from far; We tarry but to say,A little Prince is born this night Who all the world shall join the search; come, go with us Who go these gifts to pay. Babouscka shivers at the door: I would I might beholdThe little Prince who shall be King;But ah, the night is cold,. -33 234 BABOUSCKA. [Jan. The wind so fierce, the snow so deep,And I, good sirs, am old ! The strangers three, no word they speak,But fade in snowy space. . Babouscka sits before the fire, And looks with wistful face :: I wish that I had questioned them,So I the way might trace! : When morning comes, with blessed light, I 11 early be staff in hand, I 11 go — perchance, Those strangers for the Child, some little toys I 11 carry for his sake. The morning came, and, staff in hand,She wandered in the snow; And asked the way of all she met,But none the way could show. It must be farther yet, she sighed; Then farther will I go. And still, t is said, on Christmas eve,When high the drifts are piled, With staff, and basket on her arm,Babouscka seeks the Child. At every door her face is seen —Her wistful face and mild ! At every door her gifts she leaves, And bends, and murmurs low,Above each little face half hidBy pillows white as snow: And is He here ? — then so
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidstnicholasserial251dodg
