"My name is Nicholas," replied the boy.
"Thou art a little saint," rejoined the stranger hopefully, "and thou shalt gladden many."
Wonderful boy of long ago!
Come now and tell—
As aged man, with beard of snow
And hair all white, what gave thy name,
Adown the years, the glow of fame?
Explain thy spell
O'er countless children waiting thee
In varied home,—
Afar inland, beside the sea,
In lonely cot, and crowded town,—
Awatching oft in midnight gown,
For thee to come.
Wert thou a selfish, cunning boy?
Ah no, ah no!
Tradition findeth no alloy
In thy make-up, but giveth thee
A generous heart, from baseness free,
Alike the snow.
White out and in, a giver pure,
With heart all warm,—
This! is thy spell, direct and sure,
O'er boy and girl; who think it good
To paint thy face in comic mood—
It does no harm.
But clothed in loving, reverent mien
Tradition gives—
Thou art, in this, by seniors seen,
To meet the life of one who was
The mother of Saint Nicholas:
In thee she lives.