Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
Lady Yeardley’s Guest
By Margaret Junkin Preston (1820–1897)’T
And the snow with its sheeted pall
Had covered the stubbled clearings
That girdled the rude-built “Hall,”
But high in the deep-mouthed chimney,
’Mid laughter and shout and din,
The children were piling yule-logs
To welcome the Christmas in.
The mother half-musing said,
As she looked at the eager workers,
And laid on a sunny head
A touch as of benediction,—
“For Heaven is just as near
The father at far Patuxent
As if he were with us here.
And shake from their boughs the snow;
We’ll garland the rough-hewn rafters
As they garlanded long ago,—
Or ever Sir George went sailing
Away o’er the wild sea-foam,—
In my beautiful English Sussex,
The happy old walls at home.”
Set quickly all eyes astrain:
“See! see!”—and the boy’s hand pointed—
“There’s a face at the window-pane!”
One instant a ghastly terror
Shot sudden her features o’er;
The next, and she rose unblenching,
And opened the fast-barred door.
Who cometh for food and rest?
This night is a night above others
To shelter a straying guest.”
Deep out of the snowy silence
A guttural answer broke:
“I come from the great Three Rivers,
I am chief of the Roanoke.”
Unshrinking, the red man strode,
And loosed on the blazing hearthstone,
From his shoulder, a light-borne load;
And out of the pile of deer-skins,
With a look as serene and mild
As if it had been his cradle,
Stepped softly a four-year child.
Close pressed to the brawny knee,
The gaze that the silent savage
Bent on him was strange to see;
And then, with a voice whose yearning
The father could scarcely stem,
He said, to the children pointing,
“I want him to be like them!
I bring him, a moon of days,
To learn of the speaking paper;
To hear of the wiser ways
Of the people beyond the water;
To break with the plough the sod;
To be kind to papoose and woman;
To pray to the white man’s God.”
Pressed forward with sudden cheer;
“Thou shalt eat of my English pudding,
And drink of my Christmas beer.—
My darlings, this night, remember
All strangers are kith and kin,—
This night when the dear Lord’s Mother
Could find no room at the inn!”
Pealed gayly the Sunday chime,
And merrily forth the people
Flocked, keeping the Christmas time;
And the lady, with bright-eyed children
Behind her, their lips a-smile,
And the chief in his skins and wampum,
Came walking the narrow aisle.
Broke fiercely a sullen cry,
“Out! out! with the crafty red-skin!
Have at him! A spy! A spy!”
And quickly from belts leaped daggers,
And swords from their sheaths flushed bare,
And men from their seats defiant
Sprang, ready to slay him there.
As calm as a knight of yore,
Stepped bravely the fair-browed woman
The thrust of the steel before;
And spake with a queenly gesture,
Her hand on the chief’s brown breast;
“Ye dare not impeach my honor!
Ye dare not insult my guest!”
Half-shamed as the lady smiled,
And told them the red man’s story,
And showed them the red man’s child;
And pledged them her broad plantations,
That never would such betray
The trust that a Christian woman
Had shown on a Christmas Day!