The Story of Rocket's Christmas
When my grandmother was just a girl in the 1880s, she studied what was then known as Elocution. She learned a poem, allegedly by one Vandyke Brown, titled "Little Rocket's Christmas." I believe she performed it in class only once, but through the years she said it to herself at Christmas. At a family reunion in the summer of 1953 in Webb, MS, Grandmother Cowen recited the poem to all of us. None of us had ever heard her do so, including Grandpa Cowen and their four daughters. My mother, the third of those daughters, recorded her parents' performances on an early Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder. Grandpa Cowen delivered several wonderful oratorical numbers in that thunderous voice of his and Grandmother sang a couple of songs from long ago("Birdie's Ball" and "Frog Went a Courting") and then she did "Little Rocket's Christmas."
My mother later took that reel of tape to Memphis and had it transformed into an acetate disc for use on a phonograph. She had it done, incidentally, at Sam Phillips' Memphis Recording Studio where, a year later, a young Elvis Presley walked in and recorded his first song. Through the years we listened to that old record to hear those wonderful voices singing and reciting those early memories. I became a radio broadcaster and, in 1972, did my version of "Little Rocket's Christmas," produced with music. I played it for my radio audience for over 20 years at Christmas as my present to them.
My grandparents have been gone almost 50 years now along with my parents and all but one of those wonderful aunts. For this Christmas morn, I thought I'd post that poem for you to enjoy, along with this wonderful picture of a young Lawrence Ludlow Cowen and Effie Mae Arnold in their courting days before the turn of the 20th Century. Merry Christmas to you all.
LITTLE ROCKET'S CHRISTMAS.
VANDYKE BROWN.
I'LL tell you how the Christmas came
To Rocket-no, you never met him,
That is, you never knew his name,
Although 'tis possible you've let him
Display his skill upon your shoes;
A boot-black-arab,if you choose.
And who was Rocket? Well, an urchin,
A gamin, dirty, torn, and tattered,
Whose chiefest pleasure was to perch in
The Bowery gallery; there it mattered
But little what the play might be-
Broad farce or point-lace comedy-
He meted out his just applause
By rigid, fixed, and proper laws.
A father once he had, no doubt,
A mother on the Island staying, Which left him free to knock about
And gratify a taste for straying. An ash-box served him for a bed-
As good, at least, as Moses' rushes- And for his daily meat and bread,
He earned them with his box and brushes. An arab of the city's slums,
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With ready tongue and empty pocket, Unaided left to solve life's sums,
But plucky always-that was Rocket! 'Twas Christmas eve, and all the day
The snow had fallen fine and fast;
In banks and drifted heaps it lay
Along the streets. A piercing blast
Blew cuttingly. The storm was past,
And now the stars looked coldly down
Upon the snow-enshrouded town.
Ah, well it is if Christmas brings
Good-will and peace which poet sings!
How full are all the streets to-night
With happy faces, flushed and bright!
For all the world is glad to-night!
All, did I say? Ah, no, not all,
For sorrow throws on some its pall.
But Rocket? On this Christmas eve
You might have seen him standing where The city's streets so interweave
They form that somewhat famous square Called Printing House. His face was bright,
And at this gala, festive season
You could not find a heart more light-
I'll tell you in a word the reason:
By dint of patient toil in shining
Patrician shoes and Wall Street boots, He had within his jacket's lining
A dollar and a half-the fruits Of pinching, saving, and a trial Of really Spartan self-denial.
That dollar and a half was more
Than Rocket ever owned before.
A princely fortune, so he thought,
And with those hoarded dimes and nickels
What Christmas pleasures may be bought!
A dollar and a half! It tickles
The boy to say it over, musing
Upon the money's proper using;
" I'll go a gobbler, leg and breast,
With cranberry sauce and fixin's nice,
And pie, mince pie, the very best,
And puddin'-say a double slice!
And then to doughnuts how I'll freeze;
With coffee-guess that ere's the cheese!
And after grub I'll go to see
The 'Seven Goblins of Dundee.'
If this yere Christmas ain't a buster,
I'll let yer rip my Sunday duster!"
So Rocket mused as he hurried along,
Clutching his money with grasp yet tighter, And humming the air of a rollicking song,
With a heart as light as his clothes-or lighter. Through Centre Street he makes his way,
When, just as he turns the corner at Pearl, He hears a voice cry out in dismay,
And sees before him a slender girl,
As ragged and tattered in dress as he,
With hand stretched forth for charity."
In the street-light's fitful and flickering glare
He caught a glimpse of the pale, pinched face-
So gaunt and wasted, yet strangely fair
With a lingering touch of childhood's grace
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On her delicate features. Her head was bare And over her shoulders disordered there hung
A mass of tangled, nut-brown hair.
In misery old as in years she was young,
She gazed in his face. And, oh! for the eyes-
The big, blue, sorrowful, hungry eyes-
That were fixed in a desperate, frightened stare.
Hundreds have jostled her by to-night-
The rich, the great, the good, and the wise,
Hurrying on to the warmth and light
Of happy homes-they have jostled her by,
And the only one who has heard her cry,
Or, hearing, has felt his heartstrings stirred,
Is Rocket-this youngster of coarser clay,
This gamin, who never so much as heard
The beautiful story of Him who lay
In the manger of old on Christmas day!
With artless pathos and simple speech,
Sh<~ stands and tells him her pitiful tale;
She tells of the terrible battle for bread,
Tells of a father brutal with crime,
Tells of a mother lying dead,
At this, the gala Christmas-time;
Then adds, gazing up at the starlit sky,
"I'm hungry and cold, and I wish I could die."
What is it trickles down the cheek
Of Rocket-can it be a tear ?
He stands and stares, but does not speak;
He thinks again of that good cheer
Which Christmas was to bring; he sees
Visions of turkey, steaming pies, The play-bill-then, in place of these
The girl's beseeching, hungry eyes; One mighty effort, gulping down
The disappointment in his breast, A quivering of the lip, a frown,
And then, while pity pleads her best,
He snatches forth his cherished hoard,
And gives it to her like a lord!
" Here, freeze to that; I'm flush, yer see,
And then you needs it more 'an me! "
With that he turns and walks away,
So fast the girl can nothing say,
So fast he does not hear the prayer
That sanctifies the winter air.
But He who blessed the widow's mite
Looked down and smiled upon the sight.
No feast of steaming pies or turkey,
No ticket for the matin6e,
All drear and desolate and murky,
In truth, a very dismal day.
With dinner on a crust of bread,
And not a penny in his pocket, A friendly ash-box for a bed-
Thus came the Christmas day to Rocket, And yet-and here's the strangest thing-
As best befits the festive season, The boy was happy as a king-
I wonder can you guess the reason ?