t have I brought a gift the Child
May not despise, however small;
For here I lay my heart to-day,
And it is full of love to all.
Take Thou the poor but loyal thing,
My only tribute, Christ, my King!

BABOUSCKA

ADELAIDE SKEEL

If you were a Russian child you would not watch to see Santa Klaus come
down the chimney; but you would stand by the windows to catch a peep at
poor Babouscka as she hurries by.

Who is Babouscka? Is she Santa Klaus' wife?

No, indeed. She is only a poor little crooked wrinkled old woman, who
comes at Christmas time into everybody's house, who peeps into every
cradle, turns back every coverlid, drops a tear on the baby's white
pillow, and goes away very sorrowful.

And not only at Christmas time, but through all the cold winter, and
especially in March, when the wind blows loud, and whistles and howls and
dies away like a sigh, the Russian children hear the rustling step of the
Babouscka. She is always in a hurry. One hears her running fast along the
crowded streets and over the quiet country fields. She seems to be out of
breath and tired, yet she hurries on.

Whom is she trying to overtake?

She scarcely looks at the little children as they press their rosy faces
against the window pane and whisper to each other, "Is the Babouscka
looking for us?"

No, she will not stop; only on Christmas eve will she come up-stairs into
the nursery and give each little one a present. You must not think she
leaves handsome gifts such as Santa Klaus brings for you. She does not
bring bicycles to the boys or French dolls to the girls. She does not come
in a gay little sleigh drawn by reindeer, but hobbling along on foot, and
she leans on a crutch. She has her old apron filled with candy and cheap
toys, and the children all love her dearly. They watch to see her come,
and when one hears a rustling, he cries, "Lo! the Babouscka!" then all
others look, but one must turn one's head very quickly or she vanishes. I
never saw her myself.

Best of all, she loves little babies, and often, when the tired mothers
sleep, she bends over their cradles, puts her brown, wrinkled face close
down to the pillow and looks very sharply.

What is she looking for?

Ah, that you can't guess unless you know her sad story.

Long, long ago, a great many yesterdays ago, the Babouscka, who was even
then an old woman, was busy sweeping her little hut. She lived in the
coldest corner of cold Russia, and she live