'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day,
While at a family feast,
A little girl of five years old
The merriment increased,
By crying out,—as glasses held
The ice she ne'er had seen,—
"Oh see! what pretty little stones.
What for? Where have they been?"
"Here, give her one," the host exclaimed,
Pleased with her childish glee.
"'Twill show her as no words could show
What ice is, and must be."
She grasped the "white stone" in her hand,
All watching eagerly,
When suddenly she let it fall,
And cried, "It's burning me."
But, anxious still to see it more,
She asked a servant near
To hand it in a napkin wrapped—
Then there would be no fear.
Again the ice was in her hand,
Her plaything for the day,
When all at once she cried aloud,
"The stone is running away."
A glass of water now was used,
Sure that would keep it hers.
But no! with all her loving watch
The same result occurs.
The plaything gone, at evening hour
She sat on uncle's knee.
"Who makes those white stones, you or God?"
She asked, inquiringly.
"In Miss Brown's land [a Boston friend]
God makes them," answered he.
"But in Brazil a factory-man
Makes them for you and me."
A moment's pause. Then said the child,—
Heaven's blessing on her fall,—
"Why doesn't God get from Brazil
A man to make them all?"