Poems (Procter)/Birthday Gifts

by Adelaide Anne Procter

BIRTHDAY GIFTS. FOR A CHILD.

HY do you look sad, my Minnie? Tell me darling,—for to-dayIs the birthday of Our Lady, And Her children should be gay.

What?—You say that all the others, Alice, Cyril, Effic, Paul,All had got a gift to give Her, Only you had none at all.

Well, dear, that does seem a pity: Tell me how it came aboutThat the others bring a present, And my Minnie comes without.

Alice has a lovely Banner, All embroidered blue and gold:—Then you know that sister Alice Is so clever and so old.

Cyril has his two camellias; One deep red, and one pure white:They will stand at Benediction On the Altar steps to-night.

Effie, steady little Effie, Stitching many an hour away,She has clothed a little orphan All in honor of to-day.

With the skill the good Nuns taught her Angela herself has madeTwo tall stems of such real lilies, They do all but smell—and fade.

Then with look of grave importance Comes our quiet little Paul,With the myrtle from his garden:— He himself is not as tall.

Even Baby Agnes, kneeling With half shy, half solemn air,Held up one sweet rose to Mary, Lisping out her tiny prayer.

Well, my Minnie, say, how was it? Shall I guess? I think I knowAll the griefs. Well, I will count them: First, your rose-tree would not blow;

Then the fines have been so many All the pennies melt away;Then for work—I know my Minnie Cares so very much for play,

That these little clumsy fingers Scarcely yet have learnt to sew,Still less all the skilful fancies Angela and Alice know.

Yet my Minnie can't be treated Quite as Baby was to-day,When Mamma or Alice gave her Something just to give away.

Well, my darling, there are many Who have neither time nor skill,Gold nor silver, yet they offer Gifts to Mary if they will.

There are ways—Our Lady knows them, And Her children all should knowHow to find a flower for Mary Underneath the deepest snow;

How to make a lovely garland, Winter though it be and cold;How to buy the rarest offering, Costing—something—but not gold;

How to buy, and buy it dearly, Gifts that She will love to take;Nor to grudge the cost, but give it Cheerfully for Mary's sake.

Does that seem so strange, my darling? Nay dear, it is nothing new;All can give Her noble presents,— Shall I tell you of a few?

What were those the Magi offered, Frankincense and gold and myrrh:—Minnie thinks that Saints and Monarchs Are quite different from her!

. . . Sometimes it is hard to listen To a word unkind or coldAnd to smile a loving answer: Do it—and you give Her gold.

Thoughts of Her in work or playtime, Those small grains of incense rare,Cast upon a burning censer, Rise in perfumed clouds of prayer.

There are sometimes bitter fancies, Little murmurs that will stirEven a loving heart:—but crush them And you give Our Lady myrrh.

Give your little crosses to her, Which each day, each hour befall;They remind Her of Her Jesus, So she loves them best of all.

Some seem very poor and worthless, Yet however small and slight,Given to her by one who loves her, They are precious in her sight.

One may be so hard to carry That your hands will bleed and smart:—Go and take it to Her Altar, Go and place it in her heart;

Check your tears and try to love it, Love it as His sacred will:So you set the cross with jewels, Make your gift more precious still.

There are souls—alas! too many— Who forget that Jesus died,Who forget that sin forever Is the lance to pierce His side.

Hearts that turn away from Jesus; Sins that scourge Him and betray;Cold and cruel souls that even Crucify Him day by day.

Ah! poor sinners! Mary loves them, And she knows no royal gemHalf so noble or so precious As the prayer you say for them;

Or resign some little pleasure, Give it her instead, to winHelp for some poor soul in peril, Grace for some poor heart in sin,

Mercy for poor sinners,—pleading For their souls as for your own;—So you make a crown of jewels Kit to lay before Her throne.

Flowers—why I should never finish If I tried to count them too,—If I told you how to know them, In what garden-plot they grew.

Yet I think my darling guesses They are emblems, and we traceIn the rarest and the loveliest Acts of love and gifts of grace.

Modest violets, meek snowdrops, Holy lilies white and pure,Faithful tendrils—herbs for healing— If they only would endure!

And they will,—such flowers fade not; They are not of mortal birth;And such garlands given to Mary Die not like the gifts of Earth.

Well, my Minnie, can you tell me You have still no gift to layAt the feet of your dear Mother, Any hour, any day?

Give Her now—to-day—forever, One great gift,—the first, the best,—Give your heart to Her, and ask her How to give her all the rest.