T
O Heaven's Meadows, bright with flowers and sunshine,
The little children go,
When they have had enough of life's sad dreaming,
And leave the earth below.
But as they had not time to learn their lessons
Before they went away,
There is a school, where all the angel children
Must work four hours a day.
With golden pencils upon silver tablets,
They copy fairy tales,
And learn to keep their halos bright and shining,
And sing, and play their scales.
And twice a week they glide with merry laughter
All down the Milky Way,
And homeward in the evening wander softly
Upon a sunset ray.
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But Sunday is the day they love and long for,
Then all the children go
And play from morn till night within a meadow
Where flowers in thousands grow.
The meadow is not green, but blue and golden
The flowers like dewdrops bright;
When it is night, they burn and glow and glisten—
Men call them stars of light.
Through Heaven's gate they all must pass to find it,
Where Peter with the key
Keeps watch and warns the little angels kindly
How good they all must be.
They must not fly about or run too quickly,
Nor go too far away,
And when upon his golden key he calls them,
Then they must all obey.
One day it was so very hot in Heaven
That good St. Peter slept,
And when the little angel children saw it,
Away they quickly crept.
Ah! then they ran and flew about with laughter,
And fluttered far and wide,
So far they wandered that of Heaven's meadow
They reached the other side.
They came to where the strong, tall, wooden paling
Shuts all that place away,
Where idle, careless, mischief-loving, naughty,
The Imps of Darkness stray.
And there the angels stopped, devoutly wishing
Some opening there might be,
So that they might each one in turn peep through it,
And see what they could see.
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But not a chink or hole, for all their seeking,
No gleam of light pierced through,
So with their little wings outspread and eager,
Right to the top they flew.
And looking down they saw with awe and wonder.
Imps all as black as soot;
Each had two horns and each a tail to play with,
And hoof, instead of foot.
They heard the rustle of the angel feathers,
They felt the cool sweet air,
And, lifting up their little coal-black faces,
They saw Heaven's children there.
Then with one voice they cried: "Oh! angel Children,
You look so good and fair,
We pray you, let us come up into Heaven
And play a little there.
"We will not tweak nor pull your shining feathers,
But be so very good;
We will not try and steal your little halos,
But all do as we should."
Then quick they flew away for Jacob's ladder,
(Peter was still asleep),
And placed it safely, where from Heaven to Imp-land
The way was dark and steep.
Then every little imp, with shouts and laughter,
Helped by an angel's hand,
Scrambled right over the great wooden paling,
And stood in Heaven's land.
They all, with air sedate and pious faces,
Discreetly walked around,
Their tails like trains upon their arms upholding,
And eyes upon the ground.
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The little angels fluttered round in rapture,
And showed the lovely flowers,
And bade them listen to the thrilling voices
Of birds in Heaven's bowers.
And gently led them by the crystal streamlets,
Bade them on dewdrops feast,
And showed them where the silver moon was rising
To light them from the east.
Alas! when all the little demons saw her,
The moon, so large and round,
They all began to roar, and growl, and gibber,
And leap from off the ground;
And mocked the great white moon with ugly faces,
Turned somersaults in air,
And when the angels prayed them cease, in terror,
They vowed they did not care.
They trampled down the grass in Heaven's Meadow,
They tore the flowers about,
And flung them on the earth beyond the paling,
With gibe, and jeer, and shout.
They chased the birds that sang among the tree-tops
And hushed their music sweet,
They pulled the little angels' tender feathers
And trod upon their feet.
Then to the good St. Peter cried the angels
To help them in their pain,
And if he would but this one time forgive them,
They would be good again.
Then rose St. Peter from his peaceful dreaming—
An angry saint was he—
He wrung his hands and clasped his head in horror,
And seized his golden key.
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Then blew a mighty blast in wrath upon it;
Back all the angels flew,
And wide he threw the door of heaven open,
And thrust the children through.
And then he called two great and powerful angels,
The strongest of the race,
To chase the little demons out of Heaven,
And clear the holy place.
They gathered up the little imps in armfuls,
Bore them with mighty stride,
And flung them over the strong wooden paling
Down on the other side.
And though they fought and lashed their tails and whimpered,
And kicked with might and main,
To Heaven's Meadow, bright with sun and flowers
They never came again.
For two long months the little angel-children
Were not allowed to play
Before the door of Heaven in the meadow,
But stayed in all the day.
And when again they sought the Heavenly Meadow
Each child with humble mind
Must lay aside its little shining halo,
And leave its wings behind.
But all the flowers that on that day of sorrow,
Flung out and scattered were,
Took root and bloom again in earth's green meadows,
As daisies white and fair.
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