The Portland daily press., 1881-01-08
THE PRESS.
[Boston.Courier.l
Golden Thought Fairies.

THE POET.
His life was near the clouds. He lived IL
in one of those huge structures Wlthln
whose walls the busy feet of trade are all
day sounding. In the very topmost attic,
above the struggling humanity when tolled
through the week over ledgers and bales Oh
merchandise, his chamber opened out upon
the sky. Save for the dulled roar of the
day. varied by the treble of bells and clocks,
10 sounds were heard there, unless OF
buzzing Summer fly, or an ember falling on
the Winter hearth. The poet, while his In
feriors in station labored, went forth at VIII
to gather thoughts and fancies to weave IN
to tissue of tale or poem when the night
was still, and the wainscot mouse his only
fellow-laborer.
1t was Christmas eve, and he came back.
when the stars were beginning to shine,
from the wanderings of the day, and passed
up the echoing stairway TO his garrett. First
he put off his coat and stirred the lazy fire
in the crate, for he said-"To-night is
Christmas eve, and am here alone when
all the world is merry. So let us have ire
TO warm us, and a pipe to comfort our
soul.' Then he pushed his old easy-chair
in front of a window coming nearly to the
floor, so that sitting there he could look out
over the roofs at the sky. Then he took up
lllCu lung ouCHlulOo piPCs AAS uAu nv"
light a lamp, for he loved the fire-shadows
on the wall and, too, could more clearly
trace the moon-shadows east from tower
and spire. and follow the white puffs OF
smoke issuing from the chimneys as from
SO many small volcanoes. Then he began
to blow smoke clouds that rolled about him
and f1oated off TO help form moon-shadows.
Ii was very still. Outside, the night was
luminous with gem-like lustre. A few
large stars cleaned in the blue ether
through which the full moon was making
paths of light with its long rays. AS the
poets eyes turned thither, thin streamers
seemed to grow out of it, and noiselessly re-
treat again. As he sat there, exhausting
one pipe after another, these moon-rays in
creased in length and brilliancy. Like the
streamers of the Aurora Borealis they
heightened. widened and multiplied. AS
he followed their vibrations, wondering at
their soundless brilliant motion, his ears
were filled with melody, for with prelude,
which seemed to swell out of and shatter
into golden fragments the vast silence of
night, sound of bells came from the dis
tance far below. The tones foated up to
him, and in the hush of his lofty room the
poet caught the pulsaiion from their notes;
pulsations musical, yet falling mournfully
upon his ears. The night was rebed in
beauty, but it seemed to him forlorn. He
put down the long-stemmed pipe and began
to talk with himself
Christmas eve, to be sure! But what is
that to me, poor-oh, so poor-poet, living
away up above my fellows, without friend
to bestow gift upon, or even thought?
How happily those bells must sound to the
people for whom great fires are blazing, and
Christmas trees dancing with lights and
sparkling with gifts! Fathers are coming
with full pockets for the children and wiv es
who meet them open-armed at the door OF
home. at how many hearths the story of
the Christ~child will be told, and the beau
tiful legend of st. Nicholas send the young
people, wide-eyed with expectation off to
bedr'
The poet sighed, remembering that for
him there was no fire so hospitable as his
own, no Christmas tree, no welcoming kin
folks, no legends-nothing but his garret
and his pipe, and the misty roofs where the
moonlight coldly shimmered all night long.
"But then" ran on his soliloquy-"a after
all, this has another side. Pm not bound to
poster myself buying colored candy for
young Dick and flannel nightgowns for old
Harry, and all sorts of gimcracks for all sorts
of people. Nobody will complain because /
don't give 'em a present. Pm nothing to
nobody, and nobody's nothing to me-" and
it was quite sa rdonic, the way in which he
gloated over the bad grammar and bad SEN
timent of so bad saying.
But here vision befel him. The moon
flames grew brighter, and broadened into
thoroughfares of light, their flaming points
reaching down to the house tops. Tripping
down these golden avenues came troop of
cleaning fairies. Each one was clad in shin
ing armor, with tiny star in its cap. These
golden figures came gliding down the rays to
every house top, and then disappeared be-
meath the roofs After few moments the
poet saw the tiny stars glow again as their
owners reappeared. Then each little golden
figure took the star from its cap and tossed
it away into the air, where, after floating a
moment, il would suddenly leap out of sight
Instantly bright ray heightened cut to the
roofs, and each little figure stepping upon it,
returned by the cleaning path until lost in
the sky
"Ahr' said the poet, 81 see how that is.
The star is the signal you send up when you
want your road to come down for you.''
As he watched he noticed that every roof
was visited by these little golden folk, who,
after disappearing below, reappeared and
returned into the sky. They seemed to be
coming toward his building, and he waited
expectantly, wondering if he should have
visit from the fairies.
But even as he mused a flash of splendor
lighted up his room with all the colors Of
the rainbow. His dull walls became crys-
talline blue, the dark floor burned with gold.
And as he gazed he saw feecy cloud, glow
ing like silver that is FURNISHED. In its CEN
tire stood little golden figure, clad in shin
ing golden scales, and upon its head a cap
with silver star. The golden figure regard
ed the poet sternly, and a voice which
seemed to come from far away spoke in
tones like the metallic notes of silver clock
striking the hour.
II am Thought spirit of the Christmas
l was born for the Eve, and when it is
passed shall vanish away"
''And will you not come again?" asked
the poet, involuntarily.
''Why should L come again? l, who carry
the thoughts of love and worship to those
who, on this night, remember the fair
Christ-child, and honor, in love to all man
kind, his natal hour. To those wrapt in
self, as thou art, what can I bring that they
will receive?'
But, golden-spirit, what should know
of golden thoughts who have no object for
them? /, who am solitary in darkness when
all the world reioices in lightv'
At this the tones of the fairy grew milder
Poor mortal! Thou hast no use for the
golden-thought? Thou hast no wish to
make a single creature more glad on this
glad day? Thou hast had no youth? Thou
hast had from others no kindness when thy
years WcIc lew. 10Uu Adot Eau uO Ollc W
smile upon thy cradle, to nurture thy child
hood, to direct thy youth?" ..--
eyes, oh yes, spirit, have had them ALL"
"Thou hast had them all! And after
wards? Hast thou not wandered away from
those who would have loved thee? Hast
thou not brought thyself to scorn the days
that are behind thee-to forget the debts
which thy helpless infaucy and tottering
youth has made?"
''Yes, spirit. Those days were very fair
to me; but these, which have come after,
have been cruel"
care there none other than thysef who
suffer? Art thou, of all men, discharged
from the obligations of charity-the dictates
of mercy-the impulses of love? Art thou,
alone, released from reverence for the fair
Christ-child, whose nativity the voices of
bells and the voices of singers tonight are
praising? Is there no suffering thou canst
alleviate; no creature to whom thou canst
tell the Christmas story, or bring the Christ
mas good cheer?"
The poet was silent.
"Answer! If thou wilt, l bring the
golden thought. When this year is spent, if
thou receive it, it will have grown into thy
life and made it golden, and again thou
shalt see the ministering fairies of the
golden-thought, and know that thou hast
part in the thanks which rise, like fire-stars,