Poems (Curwen)/Mab's Lesson

by Annie Isabel Curwen

Mab's Lesson.

A little maid, with streaming curls,
 Of loveliest golden hue,
A little maid; with shining eyes
 Of sweet entrancing blue;
A little maid, whose charming face
 Looks rather pettish, too,

Sits in a great, warm, easy chair,
 'Mid cushions soft as down,
Within a cheerful, cosy room—
 But wherefore doth she frown?
Because papa has failed to bring
 Her something new from town.

"Fie, fie, Miss Mabel, do not pout,"
 Says nurse, in kindly tone;
"Think of the good things you possess,
 And the children who have none;
And Santa Claus will come to-night.—
 What! Crying, little one?

"Come, let us hang your stocking up,
 The hour is getting late,
And Santa Claus may be in haste
 And will not want to wait,"
Said nurse. But naughty Mab replied,
 "Old Santa Claus I hate."

"He never brings me what I want;
 I'm sick of all his toys;
Why can't I have a rocking horse,
 And tops and drums, like boys?
I don't want dulls; I want a watch
 And chain, like Cousin Floy's."

"It would serve you right, Miss Mabel,
 If good Santa passed you by,
And left your stocking empty,"
 Said the old nurse, with a sigh.
"He can please himself, I do not care,"
 Was Mabel's rude reply.

But by and bye, when nurse had left
 Her charge tucked up in bed,
Miss Mabel lay a-thinking o'er
 Some things her nurse had said;
Could it be true some children had
 Not e'en a crust of bread?

She heard the hailstones pelting
 'Gainst the window, as she lay,
And wished that Christmas Eve was o'er,
 And it were Christmas Day;
And that her naughty little tongue
 Had been less quick to say,

"I hate Old Santa Claus;" When lo,
 Her window opened wide,
And Santa, laden with his toys,
 Looked in, then sprang inside,
And with a very serious face
 Strode up to Mab's bedside,

And said, "This is the little girl
 Well housed, well fed, well shod,
Yet for her blessings never thinks
 Of thanking the good God;
And hates Old Santa, too; well, all
 She wants now is a rod."

Then taking one from out his bag
 He gravely placed it in
Mab's stocking, while his jovial face
 Wore a malicious grin,
And she lay hiding 'neath the clothes,
 Trembling in her skin.

Just then an ugly goblin came,
 And, with a wicked leer
That set poor Mabel's pearly teeth
 All chattering with fear,
Said,"Come, you've got to go with me;
 Get up, my pretty dear."

But Mabel answered in affright,"
 I can't; see how it snows;
I'll catch my death, if I go out
 In these, my thin night-clothes;
And Old Jack Frost will surely see,
 And nip my poor bare toes."

The goblin laughed derisively,
 "Ha, ha! You did not care
When you saw poor little children
 With their feet all blue and bare."
And seizing Mabel by the hand,
 He dragged her down the stair.

The men and maids were laughing loud,
 Down in the servants' hall,
And as they passed the drawing-room,
 Mab tried her best to call,
But her ready tongue somehow seemed tied,
 And would not act at all.

The goblin opened wide the door,
 And Mab's unwilling feet
Followed him down the slippery steps
 Into the frozen street;
Her pretty eyes were smarting with
 The wind and driving sleet.

At length they reached a dreadful slum,
 And there, to Mab's disgust,
She saw a little half-naked child
 Pick up a dirty crust
Out of the gutter—this it ate;—
 And then Mab's sobs were hushed,

As down, down, down, some reeking steps
 To a cellar damp and dim
The goblin went, and her little feet
 Went pattering after him;
When, hark! a child's sweet silvery voice
 Singing a Christmas hymn.

There, on a pallet made of rags,
 A childish form was lying:
No covering for her shrunken limbs,
 Though the little one was dying;
No food, no fire, and yet she sang,
 And Mab, amazed, ceased crying.

Then down the steps a woman came,
 Her wan, white face all gleaming
With joy, although a-down her cheeks
 Salt rivulets were streaming.
"Look, dear, what mammy's got," she cried,
 Her sunken eyes bright beaming.

Then from beneath her tattered shawl
 A hunch of bread she drew,
And held a battered orange up
 To the little sufferer's view,
Saying, "My child, is not God good,
 To send these things for you?"

And the child looked up, with smiling eyes,
 To the mother's worn, pinched face,
Then folding her little skeleton hands,
 Said, simply, "Please, say grace."—
Mab's tears rained down—On the cellar floor?
 No! On pillows adorned with lace.

For 'twas all a dream, and Mab awoke
 In her own warm, cosy bed;
She rubbed her eyes," Was it only a dream?
 It seemed so real," she said,
As she turned to look for the stocking nurse
 Had pinned to her little cot head.

There hung her stocking as limp as could be,
 Quite empty, there wasn't a doubt,
But just to make sure, Mab unpinned it,
 And then turned it the wrong side out;
Quite empty—but Mab shed never a tear,
 She would never more sulk or pout.

She thought awhile, then "It serves me right,"
 She said, with a sage little nod,"
Old Santa spoke truly—I never have felt
 As I ought to do, grateful to God."
"But," here she looked into the stocking again,
 "I'm glad Santa's not left the rod."
'Twas such a bright face met mother when she
 Came into the room that morn;
And she felt, as the little one told her tale
 That her child had been newly born:
Mab lives not for self, but for others now,
 And loves the poor and forlorn.