A Fairy Tale (Carmina Festiva) by Henry Van Dyke

Some three-score years and ten ago / A prince was born at Florida, Mo.; / And though he came _incognito_, / With just the usual yells of woe, / The watchful fairies seemed to know / Precisely what the row meant; / For when he was but five days old, / (December fifth as I've been told,) / They pattered through the midnight cold, / And came around his crib, to hold / A "Council of Endowment."

"I give him Wit," the eldest said, / And stooped above the little bed, / To touch his forehead round and red.

"Within this bald, unfurnished head, / Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread / And wave in years hereafter, / I kindle now the lively spark, / That still shall flash by day and dark, / And everywhere he goes shall mark / His way with light and laughter."

The fairies laughed to think of it / That such a rosy, wrinkled bit / Of flesh should be endowed with Wit!

But something serious seemed to hit / The mind of one, as if a fit / Of fear had come upon her.

"I give him Truth," she quickly cried, / "That laughter may not lead aside / To paths where scorn and falsehood hide, -- / I give him Truth and Honour!"

"I give him Love," exclaimed the third; / And as she breathed the mystic word, / I know not if the baby heard, / But softly in his dream he stirred, / And twittered like a little bird, / And stretched his hands above him.

The fairy's gift was sealed and signed / With kisses twain the deed to bind: / "A heart of love to human-kind, / And human-kind to love him!"

"Now stay your giving! " cried the Queen.

"These gifts are passing rich I ween; / And if reporters should be mean / Enough to spy upon this scene, / 'Twould make all other babies green / With envy at the rumour.

Yet since I love this child, forsooth, / I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth, / With spirits of Immortal Youth, / And call the mixture Humour!"

The fairies vanished with their glittering train; / But here's the Prince with all their gifts, -- _Mark Twain_.