The Grand Haven news. [volume] (Grand Haven, Mich.) 1858-18??, 1860-02-15
TR EN TON;
THE FOOTSTEPS IN THE SNOW.
A Tradition Of Christmas Night, 177G.
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1t was dark and dreary night, eighty
three years ago, when, in an ancient farm
house, that rises along yonder shore, an
old man and children had gathered around
their Christmas hearth.
1t was lovely picture.
That old man, sitting there on the
broad hearth, in the full glow Of the
flame-his dame, fine old matron by
his side--his children, band of red-lip-
ped maidens--some with slender forms,
just trembling on the verge of girlhood
Others warming and flushing in the
summer morn of womanhoodl And the
warm glow of the fire was upon the white
locks Of the poor old man, and on the
mild face Of his wife and the young bloom
of those fair daughters.
Had you, on that dark night-for it
was dark and cold-while the December
sky gloomed above, and the sleet swept
over the hills Of tho Deleware-have
drawn near that farmhouse window, and
looked in upon that Christmas hearth,
and drank in the full beauty Of that scene
you would confess with me that though
this world has many beautiful scenes
much Of the strangely beautiful in poetry
yet there, by that hearth, centered and
frightened and burned that poetry which
is most like Heaven, the poetry of Home
You have all heard the story of the
convict, who stood on the gallows, en-
brucd in crime-steeped to the lips in
blood-stood there, mocking even the
hangman! When, suddenly, as he stood
with the rope about his neck-his head
sunk-a single, burning scalding tear roll
ed down his check.
l was thinking" said he, in broken
voice, 81 was thinking of the Christmas
firep
Yes, in that moment, when the preach
or failed to warn, when even the hangman
could not awe-a thought came over the
conviccs heart, of that time when faith
er and his children, in fair land, gath
cred around their Christmas fire.
That thought melted his iron soul!
l care not for your ropes and your
gibbets," he said. "But now, in that
far land-there, over the waters-my
father, my brothers, my sisters are sitting
around their Christmas fire! They are
waiting for mel And l am here, here up
on the scaffoldw
Is there not deep poetry in the scene
that could thus touch murderer's soul,
and melt it into tears9
And now, rs the old man, his wife, his
daughters cluster around their fire, tell
me, why does that old mans head droop
slowly down, his eyes fill, his hand trem-
ble9
All, there is ono absent from the
Christmas hearth!
He is thinking of the absent one--his
manly, brave boy, who has been gone from
the farmhouse for year.
But hark Even MS the thought comes
over him, the silence of that fire-side is
broken by faint cry-a faint moan,
heard over the wastes of snow from afar.
The old man grasps lantern, and with
that young girl by his side, goes out upon
the dark night!
Look there--as following the sound Of
that moan-they 90 softly over the frozen
path; how the lantern flashes over their
forms-ovcr few white PAGES of frozen
snow--while beyond all is darknessl
Still that moan, so low, so faint, Sc
deep-toned, quivering on the air!
Something arrests the old mans eye
there in the snow-they bend down, he
and his daughter-they gaze upon that
sight.
1t is human footstep printed in the
snow, printed in human blood.
"My child" whispers the old man trcm.
ulously, "now pray to heaven for Wash
ington! For by this footstep, stamped
in blood, / Judge that his armyis passing
near this placep
Still that moan quivcrs on the air.
! Then the old man and that young cir