Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A CHRISTMAS STORY, by ALICE CARY



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A CHRISTMAS STORY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Up, gregory! The cloudy east
Last Line: At midnight on the snow.
Subject(s): Christmas; Nativity, The


TO BE READ BY ALL WHO DEAL HARDLY
WITH YOUNG CHILDREN.

PART I.

UP, Gregory! the cloudy east
Is bright with the break o' the day;
'T is time to yoke our cattle, and time
To eat our crust and away.
Up, out o' your bed! for the rosy red
Will soon be growing gray.

Aye, straight to your feet, my lazy lad,
And button your jacket on --
Already neighbor Joe is afield,
And so is our neighbor John --
The golden light is turned to white,
And 't is time that we were gone!

Nay, leave your shoes hung high and dry --
Do you fear a little sleet?
Your mother to-day is not by half
So dainty with her feet,
And I'll warrant you she hadn't a shoe
At your age upon her feet!

What! shiv'ring on an April day?
Why this is pretty news!
The frosts before an hour will all
Be melted into dews,
And Christmas week will do, I think,
To talk about your shoes!

Waiting to brew another cup
Of porridge? sure you're mad --
One cup at your age, Gregory,
And precious small, I had.
We cannot bake the Christmas cake
At such a rate, my lad!

Out, out at once! and on with the yoke,
Your feet will never freeze!
The sun before we have done a stroke
Will be in the tops o' the trees.
A-Christmas Day you may eat and play
As much as ever you please!

So out of the house, and into the sleet,
With his jacket open wide,
Went pale and patient Gregory --
All present joy denied --
And yoked his team like one in a dream,
Hungry and sleepy-eyed.

PART II.

It seemed to our little harvester
He could hear the shadows creep;
For the scythe lay idle in the grass,
And the reaper had ceased to reap.
'T was the burning noon of the leafy June,
And the birds were all asleep.

And he seemed to rather see than hear
The wind through the long leaves draw,
As he sat and notched the stops along
His pipe of hollow straw.
On Christmas Day he had planned to play
His tune without a flaw.

Upon his sleeve the spider's web
Hung loose like points of lace,
And he looked like a picture painted there,
He was so full of grace.
For his cheeks they shone as if there had blown
Fresh roses in his face.

Ah, never on his lady's arm
A lover's hand was laid
With touches soft as his upon
The flute that he had made,
As he bent his ear and watched to hear
The sweet, low tune he played.

But all at once from out his cheek
The light o' the roses fled --
He had heard a coming step that crushed
The daisies 'neath its tread.
O happiness! thou art held by less
Than the spider's tiniest thread!

A moment, and the old harsh call
Had broken his silver tune,
And with his sickle all as bright
And bent as the early moon,
He cut his way through the thick set hay
In the burning heat o' the June.

As one who by a river stands,
Weary and worn and sad,
And sees the flowers the other side --
So was it with the lad.
There was Christmas light in his dream at night,
But a dream was all he had.

Work, work in the light o' th' rosy morns,
Work, work in the dusky eves;
For now they must plough, and now they must plant,
And now they must bind the sheaves.
And far away was the holiday
All under the Christmas leaves.

For still it brought the same old cry,
If he would rest or play,
Some other week, or month, or year,
But not now -- not to-day!
Nor feast, nor flower, for th' passing hour,
But all for the far away.

PART III.

Now Christmas came, and Gregory
With the dawn was broad awake;
But there was the crumple cow to milk,
And there was the cheese to make;
And so it was noon ere he went to the town
To buy the Christmas cake.

"You'll leave your warm, new coat at home,
And keep it fresh and bright
To wear," the careful old man said,
"When you come back to-night."
"Aye," answered the lad, for his heart was glad,
And he whistled out o' their sight.

The frugal couple sat by the fire
And talked the hours away,
Turning over the years like leaves
To the friends of their wedding-day --
Saying who was wed, and who was dead,
And who was growing gray.

And so at last the day went by,
As, somehow, all days will;
And when the evening winds began
To blow up wild and shrill,
They looked to see if their Gregory
Were coming across the hill.

They saw the snow-cloud on the sky,
With its rough and ragged edge,
And thought of the river running high,
And thought of the broken bridge;
But they did not see their Gregory
Keeping his morning's pledge!

The old wife rose, her fear to hide,
And set the house aright,
But oft she paused at the window side,
And looked out on the night.
The candles fine, they were all a-shine,
But they could not make it light.

The very clock ticked mournfully,
And the cricket was not glad,
And to the old folks sitting alone,
The time was, oh! so sad;
For the Christmas light, it lacked that night
The cheeks of their little lad.

The winds and the woods fall wrestling now,
And they cry, as the storm draws near,
"If Gregory were but home alive,
He should not work all this year!"
For they saw him dead in the river's bed,
Through the surges of their fear.

Of ghosts that walk o' nights they tell --
A sorry Christmas theme --
And of signs and tokens in the air,
And of many a warning dream,
Till the bough at the pane through th' sleet and rain
Drags like a corpse in a stream.

There was the warm, new coat unworn,
And the flute of straw unplayed;
And these were dreadfuller than ghosts
To make their souls afraid,
As the years that were gone came one by one,
And their slights before them laid.

The Easter days and the Christmas days
Bereft of their sweet employ,
And working and waiting through them all
Their little pale-eyed boy,
Looking away to the holiday
That should bring the promised joy.

"God's mercy on us!" cried they both,
"We have been so blind and deaf;
And justly are our gray heads bowed
To the very grave with grief."
But hark! is't the rain that taps at the pane,
Or the fluttering, falling leaf?

Nay, fluttering leaf, nor snow, nor rain,
However hard they strive,
Can make a sound so sweet and soft,
Like a bee's wing in the hive.
Joy! joy! oh joy! it is their boy!
Safe, home, in their arms alive!

Ah, never was there pair so rich
As they that night, I trow,
And never a lad in all the world
With a merrier pipe to blow,
Nor Christmas light that shone so bright
At midnight on the snow.





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