It's been more than 12 years and yet every December, I still find myself thinking of Philippine Christmas: the
I think, this sort of Christmas homesickness stays with you for the rest of your life.
THE LEAK IN THE DIKE
BY: PHOEBE CARY
The good dame
looked from her cottage
At the close of the
pleasant day,
And cheerily called
to her little son
Outside the door at
play:
“Come, Peter, come!
I want you to go,
While there is
light to see,
To the hut of the
blind old man who lives
Across the dike,
for me;
And take these
cakes I made for him—
They are hot and
smoking yet;
You have time
enough to go and come
Before the sun is
set.”
Then the good-wife
turned to her labor,
Humming a simple
song,
And thought of her
husband, working hard
At the sluices all
day long;
And set the turf
a-blazing,
And brought the
coarse black bread;
That he might find
a fire at night,
And find the table
spread.
And Peter left the
brother,
With whom all day
he had played,
And the sister who
had watched their sports
In the willow’s
tender shade;
And told them they
’d see him back before
They saw a star in
sight,
Though he would n’t
be afraid to go
In the very darkest
night!
For he was a brave,
bright fellow,
With eye and
conscience clear;
He could do
whatever a boy might do,
And he had not
learned to fear.
Why, he would n’t
have robbed a bird’s nest,
Nor brought a stork
to harm,
Though never a law
in Holland
Had stood to stay
his arm!
And now, with his
face all glowing,
And eyes as bright
as the day
With the thoughts
of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along
the way;
And soon his joyous
prattle
Made glad a
lonesome place—
Alas! if only the
blind old man
Could have seen
that happy face!
Yet he somehow
caught the brightness
Which his voice and
presence lent;
And he felt the
sunshine come and go
As Peter came and
went.
And now, as the day
was sinking,
And the winds began
to rise,
The mother looked from
her door again,
Shading her anxious
eyes;
And saw the shadows
deepen
And birds to their
homes come back,
But never a sign of
Peter
Along the level
track.
But she said: “He
will come at morning,
So I need not fret
or grieve—
Though it is n’t
like my boy at all
To stay without my
leave.”
But where was the
child delaying?
On the homeward way
was he,
And across the dike
while the sun was up
An hour above the
sea.
He was stopping now
to gather flowers,
Now listening to
the sound,
As the angry waters
dashed themselves
Against their
narrow bound.
“Ah! well for us,”
said Peter,
“That the gates are
good and strong,
And my father tends
them carefully,
Or they would not
hold you long!
You ’re a wicked
sea,” said Peter;
“I know why you
fret and chafe;
You would like to
spoil our lands and homes;
But our sluices
keep you safe!”
But hark! Through
the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear,
trickling sound;
And the child’s face
pales with terror,
And his blossoms
drop to the ground.
He is up the bank
in a moment,
And, stealing
through the sand,
He sees a stream
not yet so large
As his slender,
childish hand.
’T is a leak in the
dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful
scenes;
But, young as he
is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing
that means.
A leak in the dike! The stoutest
heart
Grows faint that
cry to hear,
And the bravest man
in all the land
Turns white with
mortal fear.
For he knows the
smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a
single night;
And he knows the
strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its
angry might.
And the boy! He has
seen the danger,
And, shouting a
wild alarm,
He forces back the
weight of the sea
With the strength
of his single arm!
He listens for the
joyful sound
Of a footstep
passing nigh;
And lays his ear to
the ground, to catch
The answer to his
cry.
And he hears the
rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise
and fall,
But never an answer
comes to him,
Save the echo of
his call.
He sees no hope, no
succor,
His feeble voice is
lost;
Yet what shall he
do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at
his post!
So, faintly calling
and crying
Till the sun is
under the sea;
Crying and moaning
till the stars
Come out for
company;
He thinks of his
brother and sister,
Asleep in their
safe warm bed;
He thinks of his
father and mother,
Of himself as
dying—and dead;
And of how, when
the night is over,
They must come and
find him at last:
But he never thinks
he can leave the place
Where duty holds
him fast.
The good dame in
the cottage
Is up and astir
with the light,
For the thought of
her little Peter
Has been with her
all night.
And now she watches
the pathway,
As yester eve she
had done;
But what does she
see so strange and black
Against the rising
sun?
Her neighbors are
bearing between them
Something straight
to her door;
Her child is coming
home, but not
As he ever came
before!
“He is dead!” she
cries; “my darling!”
And the startled
father hears,
And comes and looks
the way she looks,
And fears the thing
she fears:
Till a glad shout
from the bearers
Thrills the
stricken man and wife—
“Give thanks, for
your son has saved our land,
And God has saved
his life!”
So, there in the
morning sunshine
They knelt about
the boy;
And every head was
bared and bent
In tearful,
reverent joy.
’T is many a year
since then; but still,
When the sea roars
like a flood,
Their boys are
taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and
true and good.
For every man in
that country
Takes his son by
the hand,
And tells him of
little Peter,
Whose courage saved
the land.
They have many a
valiant hero,
Remembered through
the years:
But never one whose
name so oft
Is named with
loving tears.
And his deed shall
be sung by the cradle,
And told to the
child on the knee,
So long as the
dikes of Holland
Divide the land
from the sea!
