A NUTTING FROLIC.
Come, Robin and Lulu, Cornelia and Fred,
And Daisy and Mollie, and Tommy and Ned,
Call Rover and Fido, and hurry away;
The nuts are just ripe for our frolic to-day.
The frost on the pasture this morning is white;
For sharp was the cold in the silence of night.
All the better; we'll race just to keep ourselves warm,
And rush to the woods like the winds in a storm.
Poor Bunny will scamper far out of our sight,
And watch our proceedings with eyes shining bright.
We'll spare him a feast, for we couldn't be mean,
And leave nothing there for a squirrel to glean.
Bring baskets and buckets and poles, if you please;
We all will take turns at a shake of the trees;
But the boys will work hardest, and laugh at the toil,
And the girls shall go home with the best of the spoil.
Too bad we can't carry our lame little Ted,
And that we have such fun, while he's lying in bed.
I'll tell you, we'll save just the finest for him,
And give him three cheers when the day's growing dim.
Then home over lots with the stores we have won,
For long winter evenings of frolic and fun,
When we'll study our lessons, or merrily play,
And eat the sweet nuts that we'll gather to-day.
I think some of the older readers of the Post-office Box will enjoy this beautiful description of the bells for which the little Roman children listen every winter evening. Some of you who have been abroad have heard them, and others who have never been across the sea are ready to learn all they can about the grand old city which once was the mistress of the whole known world:
THE BELLS OF SANTA MARIA MAGGIORE.
Any one who has been in Rome and lived on the Esquiline Hill must have been struck by the beautifully toned bells of Santa Maria Maggiore, the largest and finest church of the district. According to the legend, it was built in the year 354, on the spot where a miraculous shower of snow fell during the month of August—a most unlikely time for snow to fall anywhere, and most of all in Rome, where the heat is generally unbearable at that time. There is no end to the freaks of legend, or to the simplicity of credulous people who take legend for history. This legendary fall of snow is actually commemorated in the church at the present day by a service in the course of which white rose leaves are showered down from the roof of a side chapel to imitate falling snow.
To return to the bells. The stranger dwelling on the Esquiline must not only have been struck by their beauty when they rung at the usual hours during the day, he must have been also surprised by hearing a sonorous peal ringing out on the clear winter air two hours after dark. This is a most unusual time for the church bells to ring, as in the large churches of Rome there is, generally speaking, no evening service. Two hours after sunset in winter is a very convenient time for putting little children to bed; so the Roman mothers inhabiting the Esquiline are accustomed to tell their little ones that it is the Madonna, who is ringing the bells and calling out in bell-language, "Bambini, a letto!" or "Babies, to bed!" Then the little dark-eyed, curly-haired Roman cherubs, however much inclined to be refractory otherwise, are contented to let their mothers undress them. Then they say their little prayers, and go quietly to bed. If you ask seriously about the cause of the bells ringing at that unusual hour, the following pretty story about the campanile, or bell tower, which is of later date than the church itself, will be told you.
One dark winter night a wealthy Roman citizen was out late, and lost his way in the Campagna, or waste land outside the city. The Campagna is rather a dangerous place to get lost in, as it is wild and uncultivated, full of ruins and deep pits. It was infested at that time, besides, by robbers and lawless people of every kind. He wandered about for some time in darkness so thick that he could not see his finger before him. Sometimes he thought he had discovered some well-known landmark, and fancied that now he would soon find the right path, but after groping about for a while in the black darkness he would suddenly discover that he had been moving about in a circle, and was no nearer the goal than before. Weary, exhausted, and utterly discouraged, dreading, besides, with every step he took, to fall into some pit and break his neck, he almost resolved in despair to give up the effort to reach home that night. It was a starless, inclement night, and bitterly cold. He was just about to sink upon the wet ground, and yield to the sleep brought on by cold and exhaustion, from which he would probably never have wakened more; already his eyes were closing. Suddenly he thought he heard the tinkle of a well-known bell. He listened intently, and recognized the bells of the new bell tower of Santa Maria Maggiore, which were being rung that evening for some unknown cause. This sound revived his drooping courage. He knew now where he was. After some more groping, guided still by the sound of the bells, he succeeded in finding the highway, and reached his home at last in safety. In grateful remembrance of his escape, being a wealthy man, he bequeathed a large sum of money forever to the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore; it was to be employed to pay the ringers to ring a peal every evening, two hours after dark, during six months of the year. This has been done faithfully during many centuries. So should any poor wayfarer lose his way in the wild Campagna on a gloomy winter night, he may have a chance of finding it again in safety. They are very beautiful bells, and when they ring out full and clear about half past seven on a winter evening, the Roman mothers, as I mentioned above, say to their little children: "Hark to the bells, which say, Babies, to bed! Pray for all poor wanderers this night."
E. M. Traquair.
Table Rock, Nebraska.