Away, away in the Northland,
Where the hours of the day are few,
And the nights are so long in winter
That they cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer
To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bear's cubs
In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story—
I don't believe 'tis true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter
Lived in the world below,
And walked about it, preaching,
Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage,
In traveling round the earth,
Where a little woman was making cakes,
And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,
For the day was almost done,
He asked her, from her store of cakes,
To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,
But as it baking lay,
She looked at it, and thought it seemed
Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,
And still a smaller one;
But it looked, when she turned it over,
As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,
And rolled and rolled it flat;
And baked it thin as a wafer—
But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small
When I eat of them myself
Are yet too large to give away."
So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
For he was hungry and faint;
And surely such a woman
Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish
To dwell in a human form,
To have both food and shelter,
And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do,
And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
All day in the hard, dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney,
Never speaking a word,
And out of the top flew a woodpecker,
For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,
And that was left the same,
But all the rest of her clothes were burned
Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country schoolboy
Has seen her in the wood,
Where she lives in the trees till this very day,
Boring and boring for food.

Ye are builders little builders,
Not with mortar, brick and stone,
But your work is far more glorious—
Ye are building freedom's throne.

Where the ocean never slumbers
Works the coral 'neath the spray,
By and by a reef or island
Rears its head to greet the day

'Then the balmy rains and sunshine
Scatter treasures o'er the soil,
'Till a place for human footprints,
Crown the little builder's toil.

When the stately ships sweep o'er them,
Cresting all the sea with foam,
Little think these patient toilers,
They are building man a home.

Do you ask me, precious children,
How your little hands can build,
That you love the name of freedom,
But your fingers are unskilled?

Not on thrones or in proud temples,
Does fair freedom seek her rest;
No, her chosen habitations,
Are the hearts that love her best.

Would you gain the highest freedom?
Live for God and man alone,
Then each heart in freedom's temple,
Will be like a living stone.

Fill your minds with useful knowledge,
Learn to love the true and right;
Thus you'll build the throne of freedom,
On a pedestal of light.