{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_18908/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_18908","id":"gutenberg_18908","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18908","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - Religious","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Short Stories","Christmas","Christmas -- Literary collections","Christmas -- Poetry"],"text":"E-text prepared by David Starner, Jeffrey Johnson, and the Project\nGutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/)\n\n\n\nTranscriber's conventions used in the preparation of this e-text:\n\n Carets (^) indicate superscripts.\n\n \"* * * * *\" is used as a divider\n between entries, and\n \" - - - - -\" as an internal divider within entries.\n\n A detailed transcriber's note is at the end of the text.\n\n\n\n\n\nOur American Holidays\n\nEdited by\n\nRobert Haven Schauffler\n\nand Others\n\nA series of anthologies for the use of students and teachers in schools\nand colleges; consisting of the best verse, plays, stories, addresses,\nspecial articles, orations, etc. Applicable to the holidays listed as\nfollows:\n\n CHRISTMAS.........................._December 25th_\n DEMOCRACY DAYS....................................\n EASTER............................_March or April_\n GOOD WILL DAYS....................................\n HALLOWE'EN.........................._October 31st_\n INDEPENDENCE DAY........................_July 4th_\n LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY................._February 12th_\n THE MAGIC OF BOOKS....................._Book Week_\n THE MAGIC OF MUSIC...................._Music Week_\n MEMORIAL DAY............................_May 30th_\n MOTHER'S DAY................_Second Sunday in May_\n PAN-AMERICAN DAY......................_April 14th_\n PEACE DAYS........................................\n ROOSEVELT DAY......................._October 27th_\n THANKSGIVING..........._Last Thursday in November_\n WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.............._February 22nd_\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\nOur American Holidays\n\nCHRISTMAS\n\nIts Origin, Celebration and Significance As Related in Prose and Verse\n\nEdited by\n\nROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\nNew York\nDodd, Mead and Company\n1968\n\n * * * * *\n\nCopyright 1907 by\nDodd, Mead & Company\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPreface\n\nIntroduction\n\n I\n ORIGIN\n\n Is There a Santa Claus?............... _F.P. Church_\n O Little Town of Bethlehem............ _Phillips Brooks_\n The Glad Evangel...................... _Kate Douglas Wiggin_\n The Shepherds......................... _William Drummond_\n A Christmas Carol..................... _James Russell Lowell_\n A Christmas Hymn...................... _Alfred Domett_\n Sons of the Morning................... _Reginald Heber_\n God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.......... _Dinah Maria Mulock_\n The Christmas Silence................. _Margaret Deland_\n A Christmas Lullaby................... _John Addington Symonds_\n Hymn for the Nativity................. _Edward Thring_\n Masters in this Hall................... _Anonymous_\n The Adoration of the Wise Men......... _Cecil Frances Alexander_\n The Shepherds in Judea................ _Mary Austin_\n Christmas Carol....................... _James S. Park_\n Neighbors of the Christ Night......... _Nora Archibald Smith_\n Cradle Hymn........................... _Isaac Watts_\n An Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour.... _Robert Herrick_\n Christmas Song........................ _Edmund Hamilton Sears_\n A Hymn on the Nativity of My Saviour.. _Ben Jonson_\n The Shepherd's Song................... _Edmund Bolton_\n A Christmas Carol..................... _Aubrey de Vere_\n A Christmas Hymn...................... _Anon_\n Christmas Day......................... _Charles Wesley_\n Christmas............................. _Anonymous_\n Christmas............................. _Nahum Tate_\n \"While Shepherds Watched\n Their Flocks by Night\"............. _Margaret Deland_\n Colonial Christmases.................. _Alice Morse Earle_\n The Angels............................ _William Drummond_\n Hymn for Christmas.................... _Felicia Hemans_\n New Prince, New Pomp.................. _Robert Southwell_\n The Three Kings....................... _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_\n Hymn on the Nativity.................. _John Milton_\n\n II\n CELEBRATION\n\n Christmas Eve at Mr. Wardle's......... _Charles Dickens_\n A Visit from St. Nicholas............. _Clement C. Moore_\n A Christmas Piece..................... _Fred S. Cozzens_\n Wassailer's Song...................... _Robert Southwell_\n Christmas Eve......................... _Hamilton Wright Mabie_\n Christmas In The Olden Time........... _Walter Scott_\n Sly Santa Claus....................... _Mrs. C.S. Stone_\n The Waits............................. _Margaret Deland_\n The Knighting of the Sirloin.......... _Anonymous_\n The Christmas Goose at the Cratchits'. _Charles Dickens_\n God Bless Us Every One................ _James Whitcomb Riley_\n Bells Across the Snow................. _Frances Ridley Havergal_\n Christmas Bells....................... _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_\n Minstrels and Maids................... _William Morris_\n Inexhaustibility of the\n Subject of Christmas................ _Leigh Hunt_\n Song of the Holly..................... _William Shakespeare_\n Under the Holly-Bough................. _Charles Mackay_\n Ceremonies for Christmas.............. _Robert Herrick_\n Santa Claus........................... _Anonymous_\n The Ceremonies for Christmas Day...... _Robert Herrick_\n December.............................. _Harriet F. Blodgett_\n The Festival of St. Nicholas.......... _Mary Mapes Dodge_\n The Christmas Holly................... _Eliza Cook_\n To the Fir-Tree....................... _From the German_\n The Mahogany-Tree..................... _William Makepeace Thackeray_\n Christmas............................. _Washington Irving_\n Church Decking at Christmas........... _William Wordsworth_\n So, Now is Come Our Joyful'st Feast... _George Wither_\n Fairy Faces........................... _Anonymous_\n Merry Christmas....................... _Anonymous_\n A Merry Christmas to You.............. _Theodore Ledyard Cuyler_\n Christmas Bells....................... _Anonymous_\n The Birth of Christ................... _Alfred Tennyson_\n The Christmas Carol................... _William Wordsworth_\n Christmas at Fezziwig's Warehouse..... _Charles Dickens_\n Christmas Bells....................... _John Keble_\n\n III\n SIGNIFICANCE AND SPIRIT\n\n A Christmas Carmen.................... _John G. Whittier_\n The Spirit Of Christmas............... _Charles Dickens_\n On Good Wishes at Christmas........... _Friswell_\n A Christmas Song...................... _William Cox Bennett_\n Sery.................................. _Richard Watson Gilder_\n A Christmas Song...................... _Tudor Jenks_\n Christmas............................. _Alexander Smith_\n Christmas Carol....................... _Phillips Brooks_\n The End of the Play................... _William Makepeace Thackeray_\n Christ's Nativity..................... _Henry Vaughan_\n Christmas Dreams...................... _Christopher North_\n Keeping Christmas..................... _Henry Van Dyke_\n Mark Well My Heavy, Doleful Tale...... _Anonymous_\n A Christmas Carol..................... _Christina G. Rossetti_\n The Glorious Song of Old.............. _Edmund H. Sears_\n A Christmas Carol for Children........ _Martin Luther_\n On Santa Claus........................ _George A. Baker, Jr._\n A Christmas Carol..................... _Josiah Gilbert Holland_\n An Offertory.......................... _Mary Mapes Dodge_\n Christmas Song........................ _Lydia A.C. Ward_\n A Christmas Carol..................... _Christian Burke_\n A Simple Bill of Fare\n for a Christmas Dinner.............. _H.H._\n A Ballade of Old Loves................ _Carolyn Wells_\n Ballade of Christmas Ghosts........... _Andrew Lang_\n Hang Up the Baby's Stocking........... [Emily Huntington Miller]\n The Newest Thing in Christmas Carols.. _Anonymous_\n A Christmas Letter from Australia..... _Douglas Sladen_\n Christmas............................. _Rose Terry Cooke_\n\n IV\n STORIES\n\n The Fir Tree.......................... _Hans Christian Andersen_\n Little Roger's Night in the Church.... _Susan Coolidge_\n Mr. Bluff's Experiences of Holidays... _Oliver Bell Bunce_\n Santa Claus at Simpson's Bar.......... _Bret Harte_\n\n V\n OLD CAROLS AND EXERCISES\n\n God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen\n Old Christmas Returned\n Christmas Carol\n In Excelsis Gloria\n The Boar's Head Carol\n Christmas Carol\n\n\n ADDITIONAL PIECES\n\n A Christmas Insurrection.............. _Anne P.L. Field_\n The Night After Christmas............. _Anne P.L. Field_\n When the Stars of Morning Sang........ _Anne P.L. Field_\n A Prayer at Bethlehem................. _Anne P.L. Field_\n The Christmas Fires................... _Anne P.L. Field_\n The Mother (A Story).................. _Robert Haven Schauffler_\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\nThe Publishers desire to acknowledge the kindness of Messrs. Charles\nScribner's Sons; Houghton, Mifflin and Company; Little, Brown and\nCompany; Dodd, Mead and Company; Bobbs-Merrill Company and others, who\nhave granted us permission to reproduce selections from works bearing\ntheir copyright.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nChristmas is our most important holiday, and its literature is\ncorrespondingly rich. Yet until now no adequate bundle of Christmas\ntreasures in poetry and prose has found its way into the library of\nSanta Claus.\n\nWhile this book brings to children of all ages, in school and at home,\nthe best lyrics, carols, essays, plays and stories of Christmas, its\nscope is yet wider. For the Introduction gives a rapid view of the\nholiday's origin and development, its relation to cognate pagan\nfestivals, the customs and symbols of its observance in different lands,\nand the significance and spirit of the day. This Introduction endeavors\nto be as suggestive as possible to parents and teachers who are\npersonally conducted and introduced to the host of writers learned and\nquaint, human and pedantic, humorous and brilliant and profound, who\nhave dealt technically with this fascinating subject.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nIt was the habit of him whose birthday we celebrate to take what was\ngood in men and remould it to higher uses. And so it is peculiarly\nfitting that the anniversary of Christmas, when it was first celebrated\nin the second century of our era should have taken from heathen\nmythology and customs the more beautiful parts for its own use.\n\"Christmas,\" says Dean Stanley, \"brings before us the relations of the\nChristian religion to the religions which went before; for the birth at\nBethlehem was itself a link with the past.\"\n\nThe pagan nations of antiquity[A] always had a tendency to worship the\nsun, under different names, as the giver of light and life. And their\nfestivals in its honor took place near the winter solstice, the shortest\nday in the year, when the sun in December begins its upward course,\nthrilling men with the first distant promise of spring. This holiday was\ncalled _Saturnalia_ among the Romans and was marked by great merriment\nand licence which extended even to the slaves. There were feasting and\ngifts and the houses were hung with evergreens. A more barbarous form of\nthese rejoicings took place among the rude peoples of the north where\ngreat blocks of wood blazed in honor of Odin and Thor, and sacrifices of\nmen and cattle were made to them. Mistletoe was cut then from the sacred\noaks with a golden sickle by the Prince of the Druids, between whom and\nthe Fire-Worshippers of Persia there was an affinity both in character\nand customs.\n\n[Footnote A: An account of the early history of Christmas may be found\nin Chamber's Book of Days.]\n\nThe ancient Goths and Saxons called this festival Yule, which is\npreserved to us in the Scottish word for Christmas and also in the name\nof the Yule Log. The ancient Teutons celebrated the season by decking a\nfir tree, for they thought of the sun, riding higher and higher in the\nheavens, as the spreading and blossoming of a great tree. Thus our own\nChristmas fir was decked as a symbol of the celestial sun tree. The\nlights, according to Professor Schwartz, represent the flashes of\nlightning overhead, the golden apples, nuts and balls symbolize the sun,\nthe moon and the stars, while the little animals hung in the branches\nbetoken sacrifices made in gratitude to the sun god.[B]\n\n[Footnote B: A delightful account of the origin of the Christmas tree\nmay be found in Elise Traut's Christmas in Heart and Home.]\n\nAs Christianity replaced paganism, the Christians, in the tolerant\nspirit of their Master, adopted these beautiful old usages, merely\nchanging their spirit. So that the Lord of Misrule who long presided\nover the Christmas games of Christian England was the direct descendant\nof the ruler who was appointed, with considerable prerogatives, to\npreside over the sports of the Saturnalia. In this connection the narrow\nPuritan author of the \"Histrio-Mastix\" laments: \"If we compare our\nBacchanalian Christmasses with these Saturnalia, we shall find such a\nnear affinitye between them, both in regard to time and in manner of\nsolemnizing, that we must needs conclude the one to be but the very\nissue of the other.\"\n\n\"Merrie old England,\" writes Walsh,[C] \"was the soil in which Merrie\nChristmas took its firmest root.\" Even in Anglo-Saxon days we hear of\nAlfred holding high revelry in December, 878, so that he allowed the\nDanes to surprise him, cut his army to pieces and send him a fugitive.\nThe court revelries increased in splendor after the conquest. Christmas,\nit must be remembered was not then a single day of sport. It had the\npreliminary novena which began December 16, and it ended on January 6,\nor Twelfth Night. All this period was devoted to holiday making.\n\n[Footnote C: Curiosities of Popular Customs.]\n\nIt was a democratic festival. All classes mixed in its merry-makings.\nHospitality was universal. An English country gentleman of the fifteenth\nand sixteenth centuries held open house. With daybreak on Christmas\nmorning the tenants and neighbors thronged into the hall. The ale was\nbroached. Blackjacks and Cheshire cheese, with toast and sugar and\nnutmeg, went plentifully round. The Hackin, or great sausage, must be\nboiled at daybreak, and if it failed to be ready two young men took the\ncook by the arm and ran her around the market-place till she was ashamed\nof her laziness.\n\nWith the rise of Puritanism the very existence of Christmas was\nthreatened. Even the harmless good cheer of that season was looked upon\nas pagan, or, what was worse, Popish. 'Into what a stupendous _height_\nof more than pagan impiety,' cried Prynne (...) 'have we not now\n_degenerated!_' Prynne's rhetoric, it will be seen, is not without an\nunconscious charm of humor. He complained that the England of his day\ncould not celebrate Christmas or any other festival 'without drinking,\nroaring, healthing, dicing, carding, dancing, masques and stage-plays\n(...) which Turkes and Infidels would abhor to practise.'\n\nPuritanism brought over with it in the Mayflower the anti-Christmas\nfeeling to New England. So early as 1621 Governor Bradford was called\nupon to administer a rebuke to 'certain lusty yonge men' who had just\ncome over in the little ship Fortune. 'On ye day called Christmas day,'\nsays William Bradford, 'ye Gov^r caled them out to worke (as was used),\nbut ye most of this new company excused themselves and said it went\nagainst their consciences to worke on ye day. So ye Gov^r tould them\nthat if they made it matter of conscience, he would spare them till they\nwere better informed. So he led away ye rest, and left them; but when\nthey came home at noone from their worke, he found them in ye streete at\nplay, openly: some pitching ye barr, and some at stoole-ball and such\nlike sports. So he went to them and tooke away their implements, and\ntould them that it was against his conscience that they should play and\nothers worke. If they made ye keeping of it matter of devotion, let them\nkepe their houses, but ther should be no gameing or revelling in ye\nstreets. Since which time nothing hath been attempted that way, at least\nopenly.'\n\nIn England the feeling culminated in 1643, when the Roundhead Parliament\nabolished the observance of saints' days and \"the three grand festivals\"\nof Christmas, Easter, and Whitsuntide, \"any law, statute, custom,\nconstitution, or canon to the contrary in any wise notwithstanding.\" The\nking protested. But he was answered. In London, nevertheless, there was\nan alarming disposition to observe Christmas. The mob attacked those who\nby opening their shops flouted the holiday. In several counties the\ndisorder was threatening. But Parliament adopted strong measures, and\nduring the twelve years in which the great festivals were\ndiscountenanced there was no further tumult, and the observance of\nChristmas as a general holiday ceased.\n\nThe General Court of Massachusetts followed the example of the English\nParliament in 1659 when it enacted that 'anybody who is found observing,\nby abstinence from labor, feasting, or any other way, any such day as\nChristmas day, shall pay for every such offense five shillings.'\n\nThe restoration of English royalty brought about the restoration of the\nEnglish Christmas. It was not till 1681, however, that Massachusetts\nrepealed the ordinance of 1659. But the repeal was bitter to old\nPuritanism, which kept up an ever attenuating protest even down to the\nearly part of the present century.\n\nThere are many superstitions connected with the coming of Christmas\nitself. The bees are said to sing, the cattle to kneel, in honor of the\nmanger, and the sheep to go in procession in commemoration of the visit\nof the angel to the shepherds.\n\nHowison in his \"Sketches of Upper Canada\" relates that on one moonlit\nChristmas Eve he saw an Indian creeping cautiously through the woods. In\nresponse to an inquiry, he said. 'Me watch to see deer kneel. Christmas\nnight all deer kneel and look up to Great Spirit.'\n\nIn the German Alps it is believed that the cattle have the gift of\nlanguage on Christmas Eve. But it is a sin to attempt to play the\neavesdropper upon them. An Alpine story is told of a farmer's servant\nwho did not believe that the cattle could speak, and, to make sure, he\nhid in his master's stable on Christmas Eve and listened. When the clock\nstruck twelve he was surprised at what he heard. 'We shall have hard\nwork to do this day week,' said one horse. 'Yes; the farmer's servant is\nheavy,' answered the other horse. 'And the way to the churchyard is long\nand steep,' said the first. The servant was buried that day week.\n\nThere is a beautiful superstition about the cock that Shakespeare put\ninto the mouth of Marcellus, in _Hamlet_--\n\n \"Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes\n Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,\n The bird of dawning singeth all night long:\n And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad;\n The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,\n No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm;\n So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.\"\n\nNo other holiday has so rich an heritage of old customs and observances\nas Christmas. The Yule Log has from time immemorial been haled to the\nopen fire-place on Christmas Eve, and lighted with the embers of its\npredecessor to sanctify the roof-tree and protect it against those evil\nspirits over whom the season is in everyway a triumph. Then the wassail\nbowl full of swimming roasted apples, goes its merry round. Then the\ngift-shadowing Christmas tree sheds its divine brilliance down the path\nof the coming year; or stockings are hung for Santa Claus (St. Nicholas)\nto fill during the night. Then the mistletoe becomes a precarious\nshelter for maids, and the Waits--descendants of the minstrels of\nold--go through the snow from door to door, singing their mellow old\ncarols, while masquerades and the merry Christmas game of Snapdragon are\nnot forgotten.[D]\n\n[Footnote D: An exhaustive study of the history and customs of Christmas\nhas been made by W.F. Dawson in \"Christmas and its Associations.\"]\n\nEven the Christmas dinner has its special observances. In many an\nEnglish hall the stately custom still survives of bearing in a boar's\nhead to inaugurate the meal, as a reminder of the student of Queens\nCollege, Oxford, who, attacked by a boar on Christmas day, choked him\nwith a copy of Aristotle and took his head back for dinner. The mince\npie, sacred to the occasion, is supposed to commemorate in its mixture\nof oriental ingredients the offerings made by the wise men of the East.\nAs for turkey and plum pudding, they have a deep significance, but it is\nclearer to the palate than to the brain.\n\nElise Traut relates the legend that on every Christmas eve the little\nChrist-child wanders all over the world bearing on its shoulders a\nbundle of evergreens. Through city streets and country lanes, up and\ndown hill, to proudest castle and lowliest hovel, through cold and storm\nand sleet and ice, this holy child travels, to be welcomed or rejected\nat the doors at which he pleads for succor. Those who would invite him\nand long for his coming set a lighted candle in the window to guide him\non his way hither. They also believe that he comes to them in the guise\nof any alms-craving, wandering person who knocks humbly at their doors\nfor sustenance, thus testing their benevolence. In many places the aid\nrendered the beggar is looked upon as hospitality shown to Christ.\n\nThis legend embodies the true Christmas spirit which realizes, with a\nrush of love to the heart, the divinity in every one of \"the least of\nthese\" our brethren. Selfishness is rebuked, the feeling of universal\nbrotherhood is fostered, while the length of this holiday season by\nencouraging the reunion of families and of friends, provides a wonderful\nrallying place for early affections. A wholesome and joyous current of\nreligious feeling flows through the entire season to temper its\nextravagance and regulate its mirth.\n\n\"Under the sanctions of religion,\" writes Hervey,[E] \"the covenants of\nthe heart are renewed.... The lovers of Earth seem to have met\ntogether.\"\n\n[Footnote E: For a beautiful and extended discussion of the significance\nof the day, see Hervey's \"The Book of Christmas.\"]\n\nChristmas is the birthday of one whose chief contribution to the human\nheart and mind was his message of boundless, universal love, He brought\nto the world the greatest thing in the world and that is why the season\nof his birth has won such an intimate place in our hearts and why its\njubilant bells find this echo there:\n\n \"Ring out the old, ring in the new,\n Ring, happy bells, across the snow;\n The year is going, let him go;\n Ring out the false, ring in the true.\n\n \"Ring out the grief that saps the mind,\n For those that here we see no more;\n Ring out the feud of rich and poor,\n Ring in redress to all mankind.\n\n \"Ring out a slowly dying cause,\n And ancient forms of party strife;\n Ring in the nobler modes of life,\n With sweeter manners, purer laws.\n\n \"Ring out the want, the care, the sin,\n The faithless coldness of the times;\n Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,\n But ring the fuller minstrel in.\n\n \"Ring out false pride in place and blood,\n The civic slander and the spite;\n Ring in the love of truth and right,\n Ring in the common love of good.\n\n \"Ring out old shapes of foul disease;\n Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;\n Ring out the thousand wars of old,\n Ring in the thousand years of peace.\n\n \"Ring in the valiant man and free,\n The larger heart, the kindlier hand;\n Ring out the darkness of the land,\n Ring in the Christ that is to be.\"\n\n R.H.S.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nORIGIN\n\n\n\nIS THERE A SANTA CLAUS?\n\n_The following, reprinted from the editorial page of the New York Sun,\nwas written by the late Mr. Frank P. Church:_\n\n\nWe take pleasure in answering at once and thus prominently the\ncommunication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification\nthat its faithful author is numbered among the friends of _The Sun_:\n\n Dear Editor: I am 8 years old.\n Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.\n Papa says \"If you see it in _The Sun_ it's so.\"\n Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?\n Virginia O'Hanlon.\n\nVirginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the\nscepticism of a sceptical age. They do not believe except they see. They\nthink that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little\nminds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are\nlittle. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in\nhis intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as\nmeasured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and\nknowledge.\n\nYes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love\nand generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and\ngive to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be\nthe world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if\nthere were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no\npoetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no\nenjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which\nchildhood fills the world would be extinguished.\n\nNot believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies!\nYou might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on\nChristmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa\nClaus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but\nthat is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in\nthe world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever\nsee fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that\nthey are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there\nare unseen and unseeable in the world.\n\nYou may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise\ninside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the\nstrongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men\nthat ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love,\nromance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal\nbeauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world\nthere is nothing else real and abiding.\n\nNo Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand\nyears from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he\nwill continue to make glad the heart of childhood.\n\n * * * * *\n\n O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM\n\n PHILLIPS BROOKS\n\n O little town of Bethlehem,\n How still we see thee lie!\n Above thy deep and dreamless sleep\n The silent stars go by;\n Yet in thy dark streets shineth\n The everlasting Light;\n The hopes and fears of all the years\n Are met in thee to-night.\n\n For Christ is born of Mary,\n And, gathered all above,\n While mortals sleep, the angels keep\n Their watch of wondering love.\n O morning stars, together\n Proclaim the holy birth!\n And praises sing to God the King,\n And peace to men on earth.\n How silently, how silently,\n The wondrous gift is given!\n So God imparts to human hearts\n The blessings of His heaven.\n No ear may hear His coming,\n But in this world of sin,\n Where meek souls will receive Him still,\n The dear Christ enters in.\n\n O holy Child of Bethlehem!\n Descend to us, we pray;\n Cast out our sin, and enter in,\n Be born in us to-day.\n We hear the Christmas angels\n The great glad tidings tell;\n Oh, come to us, abide with us,\n Our Lord Emmanuel!\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE GLAD EVANGEL\n\n KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN\n\nWhen the Child of Nazareth was born, the sun, according to the Bosnian\nlegend, \"leaped in the heavens, and the stars around it danced. A peace\ncame over mountain and forest. Even the rotten stump stood straight and\nhealthy on the green hill-side. The grass was beflowered with open\nblossoms, incense sweet as myrrh pervaded upland and forest, birds sang\non the mountain top, and all gave thanks to the great God.\"\n\nIt is naught but an old folk-tale, but it has truth hidden at its heart,\nfor a strange, subtle force, a spirit of genial good-will, a new-born\nkindness, seem to animate child and man alike when the world pays its\ntribute to the \"heaven-sent youngling,\" as the poet Drummond calls the\ninfant Christ.\n\nWhen the Three Wise Men rode from the East into the West on that \"first,\nbest Christmas night,\" they bore on their saddle-bows three caskets\nfilled with gold and frankincense and myrrh, to be laid at the feet of\nthe manger-cradled babe of Bethlehem. Beginning with this old, old\njourney, the spirit of giving crept into the world's heart. As the Magi\ncame bearing gifts, so do we also; gifts that relieve want, gifts that\nare sweet and fragrant with friendship, gifts that breathe love, gifts\nthat mean service, gifts inspired still by the star that shone over the\nCity of David nearly two thousand years ago.\n\nThen hang the green coronet of the Christmas-tree with glittering\nbaubles and jewels of flame; heap offerings on its emerald branches;\nbring the Yule log to the firing; deck the house with holly and\nmistletoe,\n\n \"And all the bells on earth shall ring\n On Christmas day in the morning.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE SHEPHERDS\n\n WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN\n\n O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night!\n Night to blest days in which a sun doth rise\n Of which that golden eye which clears the skies\n Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light!\n And blessed ye, in silly pastor's sight,\n Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies\n That heaven-sent youngling, holy-maid-born wight,\n Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies!\n\n Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread,\n Though withered--blessed grass that hath the grace\n To deck and be a carpet to that place!\n Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed,\n Before the Babe, the shepherds bowed on knees;\n And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL\n\n \"What means this glory round our feet,\"\n The Magi mused, \"more bright than morn?\"\n And voices chanted clear and sweet,\n \"To-day the Prince of Peace is born!\"\n\n \"What means that star,\" the Shepherds said,\n \"That brightens through the rocky glen?\"\n And angels, answering overhead,\n Sang, \"Peace on earth, good-will to men!\"\n\n 'Tis eighteen hundred years and more\n Since those sweet oracles were dumb;\n We wait for Him, like them of yore;\n Alas, He seems so slow to come!\n\n But it was said, in words of gold,\n No time or sorrow e'er shall dim,\n That little children might be bold\n In perfect trust to come to Him.\n\n All round about our feet shall shine\n A light like that the wise men saw,\n If we our loving wills incline\n To that sweet Life which is the Law.\n\n So shall we learn to understand\n The simple faith of shepherds then,\n And, clasping kindly hand in hand,\n Sing, \"Peace on earth, good-will to men!\"\n\n But they who do their souls no wrong,\n But keep at eve the faith of morn,\n Shall daily hear the angel-song,\n \"To-day the Prince of Peace is born!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS HYMN\n\n ALFRED DOMETT\n\n It was the calm and silent night!\n Seven hundred years and fifty-three\n Had Rome been growing up to might,\n And now was Queen of land and sea.\n No sound was heard of clashing wars;\n Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain;\n Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars,\n Held undisturb'd their ancient reign,\n In the solemn midnight\n Centuries ago.\n\n 'T was in the calm and silent night!\n The senator of haughty Rome\n Impatient urged his chariot's flight,\n From lordly revel rolling home.\n Triumphal arches gleaming swell\n His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;\n What reck'd the Roman what befell\n A paltry province far away,\n In the solemn midnight\n Centuries ago!\n\n Within that province far away\n Went plodding home a weary boor:\n A streak of light before him lay,\n Fall'n through a half-shut stable door\n Across his path. He pass'd--for nought\n Told what was going on within;\n How keen the stars! his only thought;\n The air how calm and cold and thin,\n In the solemn midnight\n Centuries ago!\n\n O strange indifference!--low and high\n Drows'd over common joys and cares:\n The earth was still--but knew not why;\n The world was listening--unawares.\n How calm a moment may precede\n One that shall thrill the world for ever!\n To that still moment none would heed,\n Man's doom was link'd, no more to sever,\n In the solemn midnight\n Centuries ago.\n\n It _is_ the calm and solemn night\n A thousand bells ring out, and throw\n Their joyous peals abroad, and smite\n The darkness, charm'd and holy now.\n The night that erst no name had worn,\n To it a happy name is given;\n For in that stable lay new-born\n The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,\n In the solemn midnight\n Centuries ago.\n\n * * * * *\n\n BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING\n\n REGINALD HEBER\n\n Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning!\n Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!\n Star of the East, the horizon adorning,\n Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!\n\n Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining,\n Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall;\n Angels adore Him in slumber reclining,\n Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!\n\n Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,\n Odors of Edom and offerings divine?\n Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,\n Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?\n\n Vainly we offer each ample oblation;\n Vainly with gifts would His favor secure:\n Richer by far is the heart's adoration;\n Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.\n\n Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning!\n Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!\n Star of the East, the horizon adorning,\n Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!\n\n * * * * *\n\n GOD REST YE, MERRY GENTLEMEN\n\n DINAH MARIA MULOCK\n\n God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing you dismay,\n For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.\n The dawn rose red o'er Bethlehem, the stars shone through the gray,\n When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.\n\n God rest ye, little children; let nothing you affright,\n For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night;\n Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay,\n When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas-day.\n\n God rest ye, all good Christians; upon this blessed morn\n The Lord of all good Christians was of a woman born:\n Now all your sorrows He doth heal, your sins He takes away;\n For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE CHRISTMAS SILENCE\n\n MARGARET DELAND\n\n Hushed are the pigeons cooing low\n On dusty rafters of the loft;\n And mild-eyed oxen, breathing soft,\n Sleep on the fragrant hay below.\n\n Dim shadows in the corner hide;\n The glimmering lantern's rays are shed\n Where one young lamb just lifts his head,\n Then huddles 'gainst his mother's side.\n\n Strange silence tingles in the air;\n Through the half-open door a bar\n Of light from one low-hanging star\n Touches a baby's radiant hair.\n\n No sound: the mother, kneeling, lays\n Her cheek against the little face.\n Oh human love! Oh heavenly grace!\n 'Tis yet in silence that she prays!\n\n Ages of silence end to-night;\n Then to the long-expectant earth\n Glad angels come to greet His birth\n In burst of music, love, and light!\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS LULLABY\n\n JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS\n\n Sleep, baby, sleep! The Mother sings:\n Heaven's angels kneel and fold their wings.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n With swathes of scented hay Thy bed\n By Mary's hand at eve was spread.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n At midnight came the shepherds, they\n Whom seraphs wakened by the way.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n And three kings from the East afar,\n Ere dawn came, guided by the star.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n They brought Thee gifts of gold and gems,\n Pure orient pearls, rich diadems.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n Thou who liest slumbering there,\n Art King of Kings, earth, ocean, air.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n Sleep, baby, sleep! The shepherds sing:\n Through heaven, through earth, hosannas ring.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n * * * * *\n\n HYMN FOR THE NATIVITY\n\n EDWARD THRING\n\n Happy night and happy silence downward softly stealing,\n Softly stealing over land and sea,\n Stars from golden censors swing a silent eager feeling\n Down on Judah, down on Galilee;\n And all the wistful air, and earth, and sky,\n Listened, listened for the gladness of a cry.\n\n Holy night, a sudden flash of light its way is winging:\n Angels, angels, all above, around;\n Hark, the angel voices, hark, the angel voices singing;\n And the sheep are lying on the ground.\n Lo, all the wistful air, and earth, and sky,\n Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.\n\n Happy night at Bethlehem; soft little hands are feeling,\n Feeling in the manger with the kine:\n Little hands, and eyelids closed in sleep, while angels kneeling,\n Mary mother, hymn the Babe Divine.\n Lo, all the wistful air, and earth, and sky,\n Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.\n\n Wide, as if the light were music, flashes adoration:\n \"Glory be to God, nor ever cease,\"\n All the silence thrills, and speeds the message of salvation:\n \"Peace on earth, good-will to men of peace.\"\n Lo, all the wistful air, and earth, and sky,\n Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.\n\n Holy night, thy solemn silence evermore enfoldeth\n Angels songs and peace from God on high:\n Holy night, thy watcher still with faithful eye beholdeth\n Wings that wave, and angel glory nigh,\n Lo, hushed is strife in air, and earth, and sky,\n Still thy watchers hear the gladness of the cry.\n\n Praise Him, ye who watch the night, the silent night of ages:\n Praise Him, shepherds, praise the Holy Child;\n Praise Him, ye who hear the light, O praise Him, all ye sages;\n Praise Him, children, praise Him meek and mild.\n Lo, peace on Earth, glory to God on high,\n Listen, listen to the gladness of the cry.\n\n * * * * *\n\n MASTERS IN THIS HALL\n\n ANONYMOUS\n\n \"To Bethlem did they go, the shepherds three;\n To Bethlem did they go to see whe'r it were so or no,\n Whether Christ were born or no\n To set men free.\"\n\n Masters, in this hall,\n Hear ye news to-day\n Brought over sea,\n And ever I you pray.\n\n _Nowell! Nowell! Nowell! Nowell!\n Sing we clear!\n Holpen are all folk on earth,\n Born is God's Son so dear._\n\n Going over the hills,\n Through the milk-white snow,\n Heard I ewes bleat\n While the wind did blow.\n Nowell, &c.\n\n Shepherds many an one\n Sat among the sheep;\n No man spake more word\n Than they had been asleep.\n Nowell, &c.\n\n Quoth I 'Fellows mine,\n Why this guise sit ye?\n Making but dull cheer,\n Shepherds though ye be?\n Nowell, &c.\n\n 'Shepherds should of right\n Leap and dance and sing;\n Thus to see ye sit\n Is a right strange thing.'\n Nowell, &c.\n\n Quoth these fellows then\n 'To Bethlem town we go,\n To see a Mighty Lord\n Lie in manger low.'\n Nowell, &c.\n\n 'How name ye this Lord,\n Shepherds?' then said I.\n 'Very God' they said,\n 'Come from Heaven high.'\n Nowell, &c.\n Then to Bethlem town\n We went two and two,\n And in a sorry place\n Heard the oxen low.\n Nowell, &c.\n\n Therein did we see\n A sweet and goodly May,\n And a fair old man;\n Upon the straw she lay.\n Nowell, &c.\n\n And a little CHILD\n On her arm had she;\n 'Wot ye who this is?'\n Said the hinds to me.\n Nowell, &c.\n\n Ox and ass him know,\n Kneeling on their knee:\n Wondrous joy had I\n This little BABE to see.\n Nowell, &c.\n\n This is CHRIST the Lord,\n Masters, be ye glad!\n Christmas is come in,\n And no folk should be sad.\n Nowell, &c.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE ADORATION OF THE WISE MEN\n\n CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER\n\n Saw you never in the twilight,\n When the sun had left the skies,\n Up in heaven the clear stars shining,\n Through the gloom like silver eyes?\n So of old the wise men watching,\n Saw a little stranger star,\n And they knew the King was given,\n And they follow'd it from far.\n\n Heard you never of the story,\n How they cross'd the desert wild,\n Journey'd on by plain and mountain,\n Till they found the Holy Child?\n How they open'd all their treasure,\n Kneeling to that Infant King,\n Gave the gold and fragrant incense,\n Gave the myrrh in offering?\n\n Know ye not that lowly Baby\n Was the bright and morning star,\n He who came to light the Gentiles,\n And the darken'd isles afar?\n And we too may seek his cradle,\n There our heart's best treasures bring,\n Love, and Faith, and true devotion,\n For our Saviour, God, and King.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE SHEPHERDS IN JUDEA\n\n MARY AUSTIN\n\n Oh, the Shepherds in Judea,\n They are pacing to and fro,\n For the air grows chill at twilight\n And the weanling lambs are slow!\n\n Leave, O lambs, the dripping sedges, quit the bramble and the brier,\n Leave the fields of barley stubble, for we light the watching fire;\n Twinkling fires across the twilight, and a bitter watch to keep,\n Lest the prowlers come a-thieving where the flocks unguarded sleep.\n\n Oh, the Shepherds in Judea,\n They are singing soft and low--\n Song the blessed angels taught them\n All the centuries ago!\n\n There was never roof to hide them, there were never walls to bind;\n Stark they lie beneath the star-beams, whom the blessed angels find,\n With the huddled flocks upstarting, wondering if they hear aright,\n While the Kings come riding, riding, solemn shadows in the night.\n\n Oh, the Shepherds in Judea,\n They are thinking, as they go,\n Of the light that broke their watching\n On the hillside in the snow!--\n\n Scattered snow along the hillside, white as springtime fleeces are,\n With the whiter wings above them and the glory-streaming star--\n Guiding-star across the housetops; never fear the Shepherds felt\n Till they found the Babe in manger where the kindly cattle knelt.\n\n Oh, the Shepherds in Judea!--\n Do you think the Shepherds know\n How the whole round earth is brightened\n In the ruddy Christmas glow?\n\n How the sighs are lost in laughter, and the laughter brings the tears,\n As the thoughts of men go seeking back across the darkling years\n Till they find the wayside stable that the star-led Wise Men found,\n With the Shepherds, mute, adoring, and the glory shining round!\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n JAMES S. PARK\n\n So crowded was the little town\n On the first Christmas day,\n Tired Mary Mother laid her down\n To rest upon the hay.\n (Ah, would my door might have been thrown\n Wide open on her way!)\n\n But when the Holy Babe was born\n In the deep hush of night,\n It seemed as if a Sabbath morn\n Had come with sacred light.\n Child Jesus made the place forlorn\n With his own beauty bright.\n\n The manger rough was all his rest;\n The cattle, having fed,\n Stood silent by, or closer pressed,\n And gravely wondered.\n (Ah, Lord, if only that my breast\n Had cradled Thee instead!)\n\n * * * * *\n\n NEIGHBORS OF THE CHRIST NIGHT\n\n NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH\n\n Deep in the shelter of the cave,\n The ass with drooping head\n Stood weary in the shadow, where\n His master's hand had led.\n About the manger oxen lay,\n Bending a wide-eyed gaze\n Upon the little new-born Babe,\n Half worship, half amaze.\n High in the roof the doves were set,\n And cooed there, soft and mild,\n Yet not so sweet as, in the hay,\n The Mother to her Child.\n The gentle cows breathed fragrant breath\n To keep Babe Jesus warm,\n While loud and clear, o'er hill and dale,\n The cocks crowed, \"Christ is born!\"\n Out in the fields, beneath the stars,\n The young lambs sleeping lay,\n And dreamed that in the manger slept\n Another white as they.\n\n - - - - -\n\n These were Thy neighbors, Christmas Child;\n To Thee their love was given,\n For in Thy baby face there shone\n The wonder-light of Heaven.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CRADLE HYMN\n\n ISAAC WATTS\n\n Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber;\n Holy angels guard thy bed;\n Heavenly blessings without number\n Gently falling on thy head.\n\n Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment,\n House and home, thy friends provide;\n All without thy care, or payment,\n All thy wants are well supplied.\n\n How much better thou'rt attended\n Than the Son of God could be,\n When from heaven He descended,\n And became a child like thee!\n\n Soft and easy is thy cradle;\n Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,\n When His birthplace was a stable,\n And His softest bed was hay.\n\n See the kindly shepherds round him,\n Telling wonders from the sky!\n When they sought Him, there they found Him,\n With his Virgin-Mother by.\n\n See the lovely babe a-dressing;\n Lovely infant, how He smiled!\n When He wept, the mother's blessing\n Soothed and hushed the holy child.\n\n Lo, He slumbers in His manger,\n Where the honest oxen fed;\n --Peace, my darling! here's no danger!\n Here's no ox a-near thy bed!\n\n Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,\n Trust and love Him all thy days;\n Then go dwell forever near Him,\n See His face, and sing His praise!\n\n I could give thee thousand kisses,\n Hoping what I most desire;\n Not a mother's fondest wishes\n Can to greater joys aspire.\n\n * * * * *\n\n AN ODE ON THE BIRTH OF OUR\n SAVIOUR\n\n ROBERT HERRICK\n\n In numbers, and but these few,\n I sing thy birth, O Jesu!\n Thou pretty baby, born here\n With sup'rabundant scorn here;\n Who for thy princely port here,\n Hadst for thy place\n Of birth, a base\n Out-stable for thy court here.\n\n Instead of neat enclosures\n Of interwoven osiers,\n Instead of fragrant posies\n Of daffodils and roses,\n Thy cradle, kingly stranger,\n As gospel tells,\n Was nothing else\n But here a homely manger.\n\n But we with silks, not crewels,\n With sundry precious jewels,\n And lily work will dress thee,\n And, as we dispossess thee\n Of clouts, we'll make a chamber,\n Sweet babe, for thee\n Of ivory,\n And plaster'd round with amber.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS SONG\n\n EDMUND HAMILTON SEARS\n\n Calm on the listening ear of night\n Come heaven's melodious strains,\n Where wild Judea stretches far\n Her silver-mantled plains;\n Celestial choirs from courts above\n Shed sacred glories there;\n And angels with their sparkling lyres\n Make music on the air.\n\n The answering hills of Palestine\n Send back the glad reply,\n And greet from all their holy heights\n The day-spring from on high:\n O'er the blue depths of Galilee\n There comes a holier calm,\n And Sharon waves, in solemn praise,\n Her silent groves of palm.\n\n \"Glory to God!\" The lofty strain\n The realm of ether fills:\n How sweeps the song of solemn joy\n O'er Judah's sacred hills!\n \"Glory to God!\" The sounding skies\n Loud with their anthems ring;\n \"Peace on the earth; good-will to men,\n From heaven's eternal King!\"\n\n Light on thy hills, Jerusalem!\n The Saviour now is born:\n More bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains\n Breaks the first Christmas morn;\n And brighter on Moriah's brow,\n Crowned with her temple-spires,\n Which first proclaim the new-born light,\n Clothed with its Orient fires.\n\n This day shall Christian lips be mute,\n And Christian hearts be cold?\n Oh, catch the anthem that from heaven\n O'er Judah's mountains rolled!\n When nightly burst from seraph-harps\n The high and solemn lay,--\n \"Glory to God! on earth be peace;\n Salvation comes to-day!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY\n SAVIOUR\n\n BEN JONSON\n\n I sing the birth was born to-night\n The author both of life and light;\n The angels so did sound it.\n And like the ravished shepherds said,\n Who saw the light, and were afraid,\n Yet searched, and true they found it.\n\n The Son of God, th' eternal king,\n That did us all salvation bring,\n And freed the soul from danger;\n He whom the whole world could not take,\n The Word, which heaven and earth did make,\n Was now laid in a manger.\n\n The Father's wisdom willed it so,\n The Son's obedience knew no No,\n Both wills were in one stature;\n And as that wisdom had decreed,\n The Word was now made flesh indeed,\n And took on him our nature.\n\n What comfort by him do we win,\n Who made himself the price of sin,\n To make us heirs of glory!\n To see this babe all innocence;\n A martyr born in our defence:\n Can man forget the story?\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE SHEPHERD'S SONG\n\n EDMUND BOLTON\n\n Sweet music, sweeter far\n Than any song is sweet:\n Sweet music, heavenly rare,\n Mine ears, O peers, doth greet.\n You gentle flocks, whose fleeces pearled with dew,\n Resemble heaven, whom golden drops make bright,\n Listen, O listen, now, O not to you\n Our pipes make sport to shorten weary night:\n But voices most divine\n Make blissful harmony:\n Voices that seem to shine,\n For what else clears the sky?\n Tunes can we hear, but not the singers see,\n The tunes divine, and so the singers be.\n\n Lo, how the firmament\n Within an azure fold\n The flock of stars hath pent,\n That we might them behold,\n Yet from their beams proceedeth not this light,\n Nor can their crystals such reflection give.\n What then doth make the element so bright?\n The heavens are come down upon earth to live\n But hearken to the song,\n Glory to glory's King,\n And peace all men among,\n These quiristers do sing.\n Angels they are, as also (shepherds) He\n Whom in our fear we do admire to see.\n\n Let not amazement blind\n Your souls, said he, annoy:\n To you and all mankind\n My message bringeth joy.\n For lo! the world's great Shepherd now is born,\n A blessed Babe, an Infant full of power:\n After long night uprisen is the morn,\n Renowning Bethlem in the Saviour.\n Sprung is the perfect day,\n By prophets seen afar:\n Sprung is the mirthful May,\n Which winter cannot mar.\n In David's city doth this Sun appear\n Clouded in flesh, yet, shepherds, sit we here!\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n AUBREY DE VERE\n\n They leave the land of gems and gold,\n The shining portals of the East;\n For Him, the woman's Seed foretold,\n They leave the revel and the feast.\n\n To earth their sceptres they have cast,\n And crowns by kings ancestral worn;\n They track the lonely Syrian waste;\n They kneel before the Babe new born.\n\n O happy eyes that saw Him first;\n O happy lips that kissed His feet:\n Earth slakes at last her ancient thirst;\n With Eden's joy her pulses beat.\n\n True kings are those who thus forsake\n Their kingdoms for the Eternal King;\n Serpent, her foot is on thy neck;\n Herod, thou writhest, but canst not sting.\n\n He, He is King, and He alone\n Who lifts that infant hand to bless;\n Who makes His mother's knee His throne,\n Yet rules the starry wilderness.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS HYMN\n\n ANON\n\nWritten in the Chapel of the Manger, in the Convent Church of Bethlehem,\nPalestine:\n\n In the fields where, long ago,\n Dropping tears, amid the leaves,\n Ruth's young feet went to and fro,\n Binding up the scattered sheaves,\n In the field that heard the voice\n Of Judea's shepherd King,\n Still the gleaners may rejoice,\n Still the reapers shout and sing.\n\n For each mount and vale and plain\n Felt the touch of holier feet.\n Then the gleaners of the grain\n Heard, in voices full and sweet,\n \"Peace on earth, good will to men,\"\n Ring from angel lips afar,\n While, o'er every glade and glen,\n Broke the light of Bethlehem's star.\n\n Star of hope to souls in night,\n Star of peace above our strife,\n Guiding, where the gates of death\n Ope to fields of endless life.\n Wanderer from the nightly throng\n Which the eastern heavens gem;\n Guided, by an angel's song,\n To the Babe of Bethlehem.\n\n Not Judea's hills alone\n Have earth's weary gleaners trod,\n Not to heirs of David's throne\n Is it given to \"reign with God.\"\n But where'er on His green earth\n Heavenly faith and longing are,\n Heavenly hope and life have birth,\n 'Neath the smile of Bethlehem's star.\n\n In each lowly heart or home,\n By each love-watched cradle-bed,\n Where we rest, or where we roam,\n Still its changeless light is shed.\n In its beams each quickened heart,\n Howe'er saddened or denied,\n Keeps one little place apart\n For the Hebrew mother's Child.\n\n And that inner temple fair\n May be holier ground than this,\n Hallowed by the pilgrim's prayer,\n Warmed by many a pilgrim's kiss.\n In its shadow still and dim,\n Where our holiest longings are,\n Rings forever Bethlehem's hymn,\n Shines forever Bethlehem's star.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS DAY\n\n CHARLES WESLEY\n\n Hark! the herald angels sing\n Glory to the new-born King!\n Peace on earth and mercy mild,\n God and sinners reconciled.\n\n Joyful all ye nations rise,\n Join the triumph of the skies,\n With the angelic host proclaim\n Christ is born in Bethlehem!\n\n Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace!\n Hail the Sun of Righteousness!\n Light and life to all he brings,\n Risen with healing in his wings.\n\n Mild, he lays his glory by;\n Born, that man no more may die,\n Born to raise the sons of earth,\n Born to give them second birth.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS\n\n ANON\n\n Once in Royal David's city\n Stood a lowly cattle shed,\n Where a mother laid her baby\n In a manger for His bed.\n Mary was that mother mild,\n Jesus Christ that little child.\n\n He came down to earth from Heaven,\n Who is God and Lord of all.\n And his shelter was a stable,\n And his cradle was a stall.\n With the poor and mean and lowly,\n Lived on earth our Saviour Holy.\n\n And our eyes at last shall see Him\n Through His own redeeming love,\n For that child so dear and gentle\n Is our Lord in Heaven above;\n And He leads His children on\n To the place where He is gone.\n\n Not in that poor, lowly stable,\n With the oxen standing by,\n We shall see Him; but in Heaven,\n Set at God's right hand on high,\n When, like stars, His children crowned\n All in white, shall wait around.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS\n\n NAHUM TATE\n\n While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night,\n All seated on the ground,\n The angel of the Lord came down,\n And glory shone around.\n\n \"Fear not,\" said he (for mighty dread\n Had seized their troubled mind);\n \"Glad tidings of great joy I bring\n To you and all mankind.\n\n \"To you, in David's town, this day\n Is born of David's line\n The Saviour who is Christ the Lord;\n And this shall be the sign:\n\n \"The heavenly Babe you there shall find\n To human view display'd,\n All meanly wrapt in swathing bands,\n And in a manger laid.\"\n\n Thus spake the Seraph; and forthwith\n Appear'd a shining throng\n Of angels, praising God, and thus\n Address'd their joyful song:\n\n \"All glory be to God on high,\n And to the earth be peace;\n Good-will henceforth from heaven to men\n Begin, and never cease!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT\"\n\n MARGARET DELAND\n\n Like small curled feathers, white and soft,\n The little clouds went by,\n Across the moon, and past the stars,\n And down the western sky:\n In upland pastures, where the grass\n With frosted dew was white,\n Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay,\n That first, best Christmas night.\n\n The shepherds slept; and, glimmering faint,\n With twist of thin, blue smoke,\n Only their fire's crackling flames\n The tender silence broke--\n Save when a young lamb raised his head,\n Or, when the night wind blew,\n A nesting bird would softly stir,\n Where dusky olives grew--\n\n With finger on her solemn lip,\n Night hushed the shadowy earth,\n And only stars and angels saw\n The little Saviour's birth;\n Then came such flash of silver light\n Across the bending skies,\n The wondering shepherds woke, and hid\n Their frightened, dazzled eyes!\n\n And all their gentle sleepy flock\n Looked up, then slept again,\n Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars\n Brought endless Peace to men--\n Nor even heard the gracious words\n That down the ages ring--\n The Christ is born! the Lord has come,\n Good-will on earth to bring!\n\n Then o'er the moonlit, misty fields,\n Dumb with the world's great joy,\n The shepherds sought the white-walled town,\n Where lay the baby boy--\n And oh, the gladness of the world,\n The glory of the skies,\n Because the longed-for Christ looked up\n In Mary's happy eyes!\n\n * * * * *\n\nCOLONIAL CHRISTMASES\n\nALICE MORSE EARLE\n\n[From \"Customs and Fashions in Old New England.\"]\n\nThe first century of colonial life saw few set times and days for\npleasure. The holy days of the English Church were as a stench to the\nPuritan nostrils, and their public celebration was at once rigidly\nforbidden by the laws of New England. New holidays were not quickly\nevolved, and the sober gatherings for matters of Church and State for a\ntime took their place. The hatred of \"wanton Bacchanallian Christmasses\"\nspent throughout England, as Cotton said, in \"revelling, dicing,\ncarding, masking, mumming, consumed in compotations, in interludes, in\nexcess of wine, in mad mirth,\" was the natural reaction of intelligent\nand thoughtful minds against the excesses of a festival which had ceased\nto be a Christian holiday, but was dominated by a lord of misrule who\ndid not hesitate to invade the churches in time of service, in his noisy\nrevels and sports. English Churchmen long ago revolted also against such\nChristmas observance.\n\nOf the first Pilgrim Christmas we know but little, save that it was\nspent, as was many a later one, in work....\n\nBy 1659 the Puritans had grown to hate Christmas more and more; it was,\nto use Shakespeare's words, \"the bug that feared them all.\" The very\nname smacked to them of incense, stole, and monkish jargon; any person\nwho observed it as a holiday by forbearing of labor, feasting, or any\nother way was to pay five shillings fine, so desirous were they to\n\"beate down every sprout of Episcopacie.\" Judge Sewall watched jealously\nthe feeling of the people with regard to Christmas, and noted with\npleasure on each succeeding year the continuance of common traffic\nthroughout the day. Such entries as this show his attitude: \"Dec. 25,\n1685. Carts come to town and shops open as usual. Some somehow observe\nthe day, but are vexed I believe that the Body of people profane it, and\nblessed be God no authority yet to compel them to keep it.\" When the\nChurch of England established Christmas services in Boston a few years\nlater, we find the Judge waging hopeless war against Governor Belcher\nover it, and hear him praising his son for not going with other boy\nfriends to hear the novel and attractive services. He says: \"I dehort\nmine from Christmas keeping and charge them to forbear.\"\n\nChristmas could not be regarded till this century as a New England\nholiday, though in certain localities, such as old Narragansett--an\nopulent community which was settled by Episcopalians--two weeks of\nChristmas visiting and feasting were entered into with zest by both\nplanters and slaves for many years previous to the revolution.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE ANGELS\n\n WILLIAM DRUMMOND\n\n Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears.\n We bring the best of news; be not dismayed:\n A Saviour there is born more old than years,\n Amidst heaven's rolling height this earth who stayed.\n\n In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid,\n A weakling did him bear, who all upbears;\n There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid,\n To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres:\n Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth.\n\n This is that night--no, day, grown great with bliss,\n In which the power of Satan broken is:\n In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth!\n Thus singing, through the air the angels swarm,\n And cope of stars re-echoed the same.\n\n Or say, if this new Birth of ours\n Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers,\n Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear\n All doubts, and manifest the where.\n\n Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek\n Him in the morning's blushing cheek,\n Or search the beds of spices through,\n To find him out?\n\n _Star_.--No, this ye need not do;\n But only come and see Him rest,\n A princely babe, in's mother's breast.\n\n * * * * *\n\n HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS\n\n FELICIA HEMANS\n\n Oh! lovely voices of the sky\n Which hymned the Saviour's birth,\n Are ye not singing still on high,\n Ye that sang, \"Peace on earth\"?\n To us yet speak the strains\n Wherewith, in time gone by,\n Ye blessed the Syrian swains,\n Oh! voices of the sky!\n\n Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams\n That hour Heaven's glory shed,\n Around the palms, and o'er the streams,\n And on the shepherd's head.\n Be near, through life and death,\n As in that holiest night\n Of hope, and joy, and faith--\n Oh! clear and shining light!\n\n * * * * *\n\n NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP\n\n ROBERT SOUTHWELL\n\n Behold a simple, tender Babe,\n In freezing winter night,\n In homely manger trembling lies;\n Alas! a piteous sight.\n\n The inns are full; no man will yield\n This little Pilgrim bed;\n But forced he is with silly beasts\n In crib to shroud his head.\n\n Despise him not for lying there;\n First what he is inquire:\n An Orient pearl is often found\n In depth of dirty mire.\n\n Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish,\n Nor beasts that by him feed;\n Weigh not his mother's poor attire,\n Nor Joseph's simple weed.\n\n This stable is a Prince's court,\n The crib his chair of state;\n The beasts are parcel of his pomp,\n The wooden dish his plate.\n\n The persons in that poor attire\n His royal liveries wear;\n The Prince himself is come from heaven:\n This pomp is praised there.\n\n With joy approach, O Christian wight!\n Do homage to thy King;\n And highly praise this humble pomp,\n Which he from heaven doth bring.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE THREE KINGS\n\n HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW\n\n Three Kings came riding from far away,\n Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;\n Three Wise Men out of the East were they,\n And they traveled by night and they slept by day,\n For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.\n\n The star was so beautiful, large and clear,\n That all the other stars of the sky\n Became a white mist in the atmosphere;\n And by this they knew that the coming was near\n Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.\n\n Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,\n Three caskets of gold with golden keys;\n Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows\n Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,\n Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.\n\n And so the Three Kings rode into the West,\n Through the dusk of night over hill and dell,\n And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,\n And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,\n With the people they met at some wayside well.\n\n \"Of the child that is born,\" said Baltasar,\n \"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;\n For we in the East have seen his star,\n And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,\n To find and worship the King of the Jews.\"\n\n And the people answered, \"You ask in vain;\n We know of no king but Herod the Great!\"\n They thought the Wise Men were men insane,\n As they spurred their horses across the plain\n Like riders in haste who cannot wait.\n\n And when they came to Jerusalem,\n Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,\n Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;\n And said, \"Go down unto Bethlehem,\n And bring me tidings of this new king.\"\n\n So they rode away, and the star stood still,\n The only one in the gray of morn;\n Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,\n Right over Bethlehem on the hill,\n The city of David where Christ was born.\n\n And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,\n Through the silent street, till their horses turned\n And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;\n But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,\n And only a light in the stable burned.\n\n And cradled there in the scented hay,\n In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,\n The little child in the manger lay,\n The Child that would be King one day\n Of a kingdom not human, but divine.\n\n His mother, Mary of Nazareth,\n Sat watching beside his place of rest,\n Watching the even flow of his breath,\n For the joy of life and the terror of death\n Were mingled together in her breast.\n\n They laid their offerings at his feet:\n The gold was their tribute to a King;\n The frankincense, with its odor sweet,\n Was for the Priest, the Paraclete;\n The myrrh for the body's burying.\n\n And the mother wondered and bowed her head,\n And sat as still as a statue of stone;\n Her heart was troubled yet comforted,\n Remembering what the angel had said\n Of an endless reign and of David's throne.\n\n Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,\n With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;\n But they went not back to Herod the Great,\n For they knew his malice and feared his hate,\n And returned to their homes by another way.\n\n * * * * *\n\n HYMN ON THE NATIVITY\n\n JOHN MILTON\n\n It was the winter wild,\n While the heaven-born child\n All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;\n Nature, in awe of him,\n Had doffed her gaudy trim,\n With her great Master so to sympathize:\n It was no season then for her\n To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.\n\n Only with speeches fair\n She wooes the gentle air,\n To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;\n And on her naked shame,\n Pollute with sinful blame,\n The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw;\n Confounded, that her Maker's eyes\n Should look so near upon her foul deformities.\n\n But he, her fears to cease,\n Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:\n She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding\n Down through the turning sphere,\n His ready harbinger,\n With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;\n And, waving wide her myrtle wand,\n She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.\n\n No war or battle's sound\n Was heard the world around:\n The idle spear and shield were high uphung;\n The hooked chariot stood\n Unstained with hostile blood;\n The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;\n And kings sat still with awful eye,\n As if they surely knew their sovereign lord was by.\n\n But peaceful was the night,\n Wherein the Prince of Light\n His reign of peace upon the earth began:\n The winds, with wonder whist,\n Smoothly the waters kissed,\n Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,\n Who now hath quite forgot to rave,\n While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.\n\n The stars, with deep amaze,\n Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,\n Bending one way their precious influence;\n And will not take their flight,\n For all the morning light,\n Or Lucifer had often warned them thence:\n But in their glimmering orbs did glow,\n Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.\n\n And, though the shady gloom\n Had given day her room,\n The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,\n And hid his head for shame.\n As his inferior flame\n The new-enlightened world no more should need;\n He saw a greater sun appear\n Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.\n\n The shepherds on the lawn,\n Or ere the point of dawn,\n Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;\n Full little thought they then\n That the mighty Pan\n Was kindly come to live with them below;\n Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,\n Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.\n\n When such music sweet\n Their hearts and ears did greet,\n As never was by mortal fingers strook,\n Divinely warbled voice\n Answering the stringed noise,\n As all their souls in blissful rapture took:\n The air, such pleasure loath to lose,\n With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.\n\n Nature, that heard such sound,\n Beneath the hollow round\n Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling,\n Now was almost won,\n To think her part was done,\n And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;\n She knew such harmony alone\n Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.\n\n At last surrounds their sight\n A globe of circular light,\n That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed;\n The helmed cherubim,\n And sworded seraphim,\n Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,\n Harping in loud and solemn quire,\n With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born heir.\n\n Such music as 'tis said\n Before was never made,\n But when of old the sons of morning sung,\n While the Creator great\n His constellations set,\n And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,\n And cast the dark foundations deep,\n And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.\n\n Ring out, ye crystal spheres,\n Once bless our human ears,\n If ye have power to touch our senses so;\n And let your silver chime\n Move in melodious time;\n And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow;\n And, with your ninefold harmony,\n Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.\n\n For, if such holy song\n Enwrap our fancy long,\n Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;\n And speckled Vanity\n Will sicken soon and die,\n And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;\n And Hell itself will pass away,\n And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.\n\n Yea, Truth and Justice then\n Will down return to men,\n Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,\n Mercy will sit between,\n Throned in celestial sheen,\n With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;\n And Heaven, as at some festival,\n Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.\n\n But wisest Fate says no,\n This must not yet be so;\n The babe yet lies in smiling infancy,\n That on the bitter cross\n Must redeem our loss,\n So both himself and us to glorify:\n Yet first, to those chained in sleep,\n The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,\n\n With such a horrid clang\n As on Mount Sinai rang,\n While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake;\n The aged earth aghast,\n With terror of that blast,\n Shall from the surface to the centre shake;\n When, at the world's last session,\n The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.\n\n And then at last our bliss,\n Full and perfect is,\n But now begins; for, from this happy day,\n The old dragon, underground,\n In straiter limits bound,\n Not half so far casts his usurped sway;\n And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,\n Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.\n\n The oracles are dumb;\n No voice or hideous hum\n Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.\n Apollo from his shrine\n Can no more divine,\n With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.\n No nightly trance, or breathed spell,\n Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.\n\n The lonely mountains o'er,\n And the resounding shore,\n A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;\n From haunted spring and dale,\n Edged with poplar pale,\n The parting Genius is with sighing sent;\n With flower-inwoven tresses torn,\n The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.\n\n In consecrated earth,\n And on the holy hearth,\n The Lars and Lemures mourn with midnight plaint.\n In urns and altars round,\n A drear and dying sound\n Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;\n And the chill marble seems to sweat,\n While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.\n\n Peor and Baaelim\n Forsake their temples dim\n With that twice-battered God of Palestine;\n And mooned Ashtaroth\n Heaven's queen and mother both,\n Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;\n The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn;\n In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.\n\n And sullen Moloch, fled,\n Hath left in shadows dread\n His burning idol all of blackest hue:\n In vain with cymbals' ring\n They call the grisly king,\n In dismal dance about the furnace blue:\n The brutish gods of Nile as fast,\n Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.\n\n Nor is Osiris seen\n In Memphian grove or green,\n Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;\n Nor can he be at rest\n Within his sacred chest,\n Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;\n In vain with timbrelled anthems dark\n The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.\n\n He feels from Judah's land\n The dreaded infant's hand,\n The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne;\n Nor all the gods beside\n Longer dare abide,\n Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine;\n Our babe, to show his Godhead true,\n Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.\n\n So, when the sun in bed,\n Curtained with cloudy red,\n Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,\n The flocking shadows pale\n Troop to the infernal jail,\n Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave;\n And the yellow-skirted fays\n Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.\n\n But see, the Virgin blest\n Hath laid her babe to rest;\n Time is our tedious song should here have ending:\n Heaven's youngest-teemed star\n Hath fixed her polished car,\n Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;\n And all about the courtly stable\n Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nCELEBRATION\n\n\n\nCHRISTMAS EVE AT MR. WARDLE'S\n\nFrom \"Pickwick Papers\"\n\nCHARLES DICKENS\n\nFrom the center of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just\nsuspended with his own hands a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same\nbranch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and\nmost delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which Mr.\nPickwick with a gallantry which would have done honour to a descendant\nof Lady Trollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her\nbeneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum.\nThe old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all\nthe dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the\nyounger ladies not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious\nveneration of the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is\nvery much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed\nand struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated,\nand did everything but leave the room, until some of the less\nadventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at\nonce found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed\nwith a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes,\nand Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular\nabout the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other\nfemale servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they\nkissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portion of the\nyoung-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under\nthe mistletoe, directly it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood\nwith his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost\nsatisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to\nhis own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie,\nthat had been carefully put by for somebody else.\n\nNow the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow and curls in a\ntangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before\nmentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased\ncountenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with\nthe black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies,\nmade a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm around Mr. Pickwick's\nneck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr.\nPickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the\nwhole body, and kissed by every one of them.\n\nIt was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group,\nnow pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin and\nthen on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals of\nlaughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more\npleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a\nsilk-handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into\ncorners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man's buff, with\nthe utmost relish of the game, until at last he caught one of the poor\nrelations; and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did\nwith a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause\nof all beholders. The poor relations caught just the people whom they\nthought would like it; and when the game flagged, got caught themselves.\nWhen they were all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great game at\nsnapdragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the\nraisons gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a\nsubstantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than\nan ordinary washhouse copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and\nbubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly\nirresistible.\n\n\"This,\" said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, \"this is, indeed,\ncomfort.\"\n\n\"Our invariable custom,\" replied Mr. Wardle. \"Everybody sits down with\nus on Christmas eve, as you see them now--servants and all; and here we\nwait till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile away\nthe time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the\nfire.\"\n\nUp flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred, and the\ndeep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest\ncorner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.\n\n\"Come,\" said Wardle, \"a song--a Christmas song. I'll give you one, in\ndefault of a better.\"\n\n\"Bravo,\" said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n\"Fill up,\" cried Wardle. \"It will be two hours good, before you see the\nbottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up\nall round, and now for the song.\"\n\nThus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice,\ncommenced without more ado--\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing\n Let the blossoms and buds be borne:\n He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,\n And he scatters them ere the morn.\n An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,\n Or his own changing mind an hour,\n He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,\n He'll wither your youngest flower.\n\n Let the summer sun to his bright home run,\n He shall never be sought by me;\n When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,\n And care not how sulky he be;\n For his darling child is the madness wild\n That sports in fierce fever's train;\n And when love is too strong, it don't last long,\n As many have found to their pain.\n\n A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light\n Of the modest and gentle moon,\n Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,\n Than the broad and unblushing noon,\n But every leaf awakens my grief,\n As it lieth beneath the tree;\n So let Autumn air be never so fair,\n It by no means agrees with me.\n\n But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,\n The hearty, the true, and the bold;\n A bumper I drain, and with might and main\n Give three cheers for this Christmas old.\n We'll usher him in with a merry din\n That shall gladden his joyous heart,\n And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,\n And in fellowship good, we'll part.\n\n In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide\n One jot of his hard-weather scars;\n They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace\n On the cheeks of our bravest tars.\n Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,\n And it echoes from wall to wall--\n To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,\n As the King of the Seasons all!\n\n * * * * *\n\n A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS\n\n CLEMENT C. MOORE\n\n 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house\n Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;\n The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,\n In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;\n The children were nestled all snug in their beds,\n While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;\n And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,\n Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,--\n When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,\n I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.\n Away to the window I flew like a flash,\n Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.\n The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,\n Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;\n When what to my wondering eyes should appear,\n But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,\n With a little old driver, so lively and quick\n I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.\n More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,\n And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:\n \"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!\n On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!\n To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!\n Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!\"\n As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,\n When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,\n So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,\n With a sleigh full of toys,--and St. Nicholas too.\n And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof\n The prancing and pawing of each little hoof,\n As I drew in my head and was turning around,\n Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.\n He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,\n And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;\n A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,\n And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.\n His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!\n His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;\n His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,\n And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.\n The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,\n And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.\n He had a broad face, and a little round belly\n That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.\n He was chubby and plump,--a right jolly old elf--\n And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.\n A wink of his eye and a twist of his head\n Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.\n He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,\n And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,\n And laying his finger aside of his nose,\n And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.\n He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,\n And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;\n But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:\n \"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nA CHRISTMAS PIECE\n\nOf garnered rhyme, from hidden stores of olden time that since the\nlanguage did begin, have welcomed merry Christmas in, and made the\nwinter nights so long, fleet by on wings of wine and song; for when the\nsnow is on the roof, the house within is sorrow proof, if yule log\nblazes on the hearth, and cups and hearts o'er-brim with mirth. Then\nbring the wassail to the board, with nuts and fruit--the winter's hoard;\nand bid the children take off shoe, to hang their stockings by the flue;\nand let the clear and frosty sky, set out its brightest jewelry, to show\nold Santa Claus the road, so he may ease his gimcrack load. And with the\ncoming of these times, we'll add some old and lusty rhymes, that suit\nthe festive season well, and sound as sweet as Christmas bell.\n\nNow just bethink of castle gate, where humble midnight mummers wait, to\ntry if voices, one and all, can rouse the tipsy seneschal, to give them\nbread and beer and brawn, for tidings of the Christmas morn; or bid each\nyelper clear his throat, with water of the castle moat, for thus they\nused, by snow and torch, to rear their voices at the porch:\n\n _Fred S. Cozzens._\n\n * * * * *\n\n WASSAILER'S SONG\n\n ROBERT SOUTHWELL\n\n Wassail! wassail! all over the town,\n Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;\n Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;\n We be good fellows all;--I drink to thee.\n\n Here's to our horse, and to his right ear,\n God send master a happy new year;\n A happy new year as e'er he did see,--\n With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.\n\n Here's to our mare, and to her right eye,\n God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;\n A good Christmas pie as e'er I did see,--\n With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.\n\n Here's to our cow, and to her long tail,\n God send our measter us never may fail\n Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,\n And our jolly wassail it's then you shall hear.\n\n Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;\n Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!\n Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,\n And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.\n\n Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best;\n I hope your soul in heaven will rest;\n But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,\n Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.\n\n - - - - -\n\nAnd here's a Christmas carol meant for children, and most excellent, and\nthough the monk that wrote it was hung, yet still his verses may be\nsung.\n\n A CAROL\n\n As I in a hoarie winter's night\n Stood shivering in the snow,\n Surpriz'd I was with sudden heat,\n Which made my heart to glow;\n And lifting up a fearefull eye\n To view what fire was neere,\n A prettie babe, all burning bright,\n Did in the aire appeare;\n Who, scorched with excessive heat,\n Such flouds of teares did shed,\n As though his flouds should quench his flames,\n Which with his teares were bred:\n\n Alas! (quoth he) but newly borne,\n In fierie heats I frie,\n Yet none approach to warm their hearts,\n Or feele my fire, but I;\n My faultless brest the furnace is,\n The fuell, wounding thornes:\n Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,\n The ashes, shames and scornes;\n The fuell justice layeth on,\n And mercy blows the coales,\n The metalls in this furnace wrought,\n Are Men's defiled soules:\n For which, as now on fire I am,\n To work them to their good,\n So will I melt into a bath,\n To wash them in my blood.\n With this he vanisht out of sight,\n And swiftly shrunke away,\n And straight I called unto minde\n That it was Christmasse Day.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCHRISTMAS EVE\n\nHAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE\n\n[From \"My Study Fire.\"]\n\nThe world has been full of mysteries to-day; everybody has gone about\nweighted with secrets. The children's faces have fairly shone with\nexpectancy, and I enter easily into the universal dream which at this\nmoment holds all the children of Christendom under its spell. Was there\never a wider or more loving conspiracy than that which keeps the\nvenerable figure of Santa Claus from slipping away, with all the other\noldtime myths, into the forsaken wonderland of the past? Of all the\npersonages whose marvelous doings once filled the minds of men, he alone\nsurvives. He has outlived all the great gods, and all the impressive and\npoetic conceptions which once flitted between heaven and earth; these\nhave gone, but Santa Claus remains by virtue of a common understanding\nthat childhood shall not be despoiled of one of its most cherished\nbeliefs, either by the mythologist, with his sun myth theory, or the\nscientist, with his heartless diatribe against superstition. There is a\ngood deal more to be said on this subject, if this were the place to say\nit; even superstition has its uses, and sometimes, its sound heart of\ntruth. He who does not see in the legend of Santa Claus a beautiful\nfaith on one side, and the naive embodiment of a divine fact on the\nother, is not fit to have a place at the Christmas board. For him there\nshould be neither carol, nor holly, nor mistletoe; they only shall keep\nthe feast to whom all these things are but the outward and visible signs\nof an inward and spiritual grace.\n\nRosalind and myself are thoroughly orthodox when it comes to the keeping\nof holidays; here at least the ways of our fathers are our ways also.\nOrthodoxy generally consists in retaining and emphasizing the\ndisagreeable ways of the fathers, and as we are both inclined to\nheterodoxy on these points, we make the more prominent our observance of\nthe best of the old-time habits. I might preach a pleasant little sermon\njust here, taking as my text the \"survival of the fittest,\" and\nillustrating the truth from our own domestic ritual; but the season\npreaches its own sermon, and I should only follow the example of some\nministers and get between the text and my congregation if I made the\nattempt. For weeks we have all been looking forward to this eventful\nevening, and the still more eventful morrow. There have been hurried and\nwhispered conferences hastily suspended at the sound of a familiar step\non the stair; packages of every imaginable size and shape have been\nsurreptitiously introduced into the house, and have immediately\ndisappeared in all manner of out-of-the-way places; and for several\nweeks past one room has been constantly under lock and key, visited only\nwhen certain sharp-sighted eyes were occupied in other directions.\nThrough all this scene of mystery Rosalind has moved sedately and with\nsealed lips, the common confidant of all the conspirators, and herself\nthe greatest conspirator of all. Blessed is the season which engages the\nwhole world in a conspiracy of love!\n\nAfter dinner, eaten, let it be confessed, with more haste and less\naccompaniment of talk than usual, the parlor doors were opened, and\nthere stood the Christmas tree in a glow of light, its wonderful\nbranches laden with all manner of strange fruits not to be found in the\nbotanies. The wild shouts, the merry laughter, the cries of delight as\none coveted fruit after another dropped into long-expectant arms still\nlinger in my ears now that the little tapers are burnt out, the boughs\nleft bare, and the actors in the perennial drama are fast asleep, with\nnew and strange bedfellows selected from the spoils of the night.\nCradled between a delightful memory and a blissful anticipation, who\ndoes not envy them?\n\nAfter this charming prelude is over, Rosalind comes into the study, and\nstudies for the fortieth time the effect of the new design of decoration\nwhich she had this year worked out, and which gives these rather somber\nrows of books a homelike and festive aspect. It pleases me to note the\nspray of holly that obscures the title of Bacon's solemn and weighty\n\"Essays,\" and I get half a page of suggestions for my notebook from the\nfact that a sprig of mistletoe has fallen on old Burton's \"Anatomy of\nMelancholy.\" Rosalind has reason to be satisfied, and if I read her face\naright she has succeeded even in her own eyes in bringing Christmas,\nwith its fragrant memories and its heavenly visions, into the study. I\ncannot help thinking, as I watch her piling up the fire for a blaze of\nunusual splendor, that if more studies had their Rosalinds to bring in\nthe genial currents of life there would be more cheer and hope and\nlarge-hearted wisdom in the books which the world is reading to-day.\n\nWhen the fire has reached a degree of intensity and magnitude which\nRosalind thinks adequate to the occasion, I take down a well-worn volume\nwhich opens of itself at a well-worn page. It is a book which I have\nread and re-read many times, and always with a kindling sympathy and\naffection for the man who wrote it; in whatever mood I take it up there\nis something in it which touches me with a sense of kinship. It is not a\ngreat book, but it is a book of the heart, and books of the heart have\npassed beyond the outer court of criticism before we bestow upon them\nthat phrase of supreme regard. There are other books of the heart around\nme, but on Christmas Eve it is Alexander Smith's \"Dreamthorp\" which\nalways seems to lie at my hand, and when I take it up the well-worn\nvolume falls open at the essay on \"Christmas.\" It is a good many years\nsince Rosalind and I began to read together on Christmas Eve this\nbeautiful meditation on the season, and now it has gathered about itself\nsuch a host of memories that it has become part of our common past. It\nis, indeed, a veritable palimpsest, overlaid with tender and gracious\nrecollections out of which the original thought gains a new and subtle\nsweetness. As I read it aloud I know that she sees once more the\nfamiliar landscape about Dreamthorp, with the low, dark hill in the\nbackground, and over it \"the tender radiance that precedes the moon\";\nthe village windows are all lighted, and the \"whole place shines like a\ncongregation of glowworms.\" There are the skaters still \"leaning against\nthe frosty wind\"; there is the \"gray church tower amid the leafless\nelms,\" around which the echoes of the morning peal of Christmas bells\nstill hover; the village folk have gathered, \"in their best dresses and\ntheir best faces\"; the beautiful service of the church has been read and\nanswered with heartfelt responses, the familiar story has been told\nagain simply and urgently, with applications for every thankful soul,\nand then the congregation has gone to its homes and its festivities.\n\nAll these things, I am sure, lie within Rosalind's vision, although she\nseems to see nothing but the ruddy blaze of the fire; all these things I\nsee, as I have seen them these many Christmas Eves agone; but with this\nfamiliar landscape there are mingled all the sweet and sorrowful\nmemories of our common life, recalled at this hour that the light of the\nhighest truth may interpret them anew in the divine language of hope. I\nread on until I come to the quotation from the \"Hymn to the Nativity,\"\nand then I close the book, and take up a copy of Milton close at hand.\nWe have had our commemoration service of love, and now there comes into\nour thought, with the organ roll of this sublime hymn, the universal\ntruth which lies at the heart of the season. I am hardly conscious that\nit is my voice which makes these words audible: I am conscious only of\nthis mighty-voiced anthem, fit for the choral song of the morning stars:\n\n \"Ring out, ye crystal spheres,\n And bless our human ears,\n If ye have power to touch our senses so;\n And let your silver chime\n Move in melodious time;\n And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;\n And, with your ninefold harmony,\n Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.\n\n \"For, if such holy song\n Enwrap our fancy long,\n Time will run back and fetch the age of gold;\n And speckled vanity\n Will sicken soon and die,\n And leprous sin will melt from earthly mold;\n And hell itself will pass away,\n And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.\n\n - - - - -\n\n \"The oracles are dumb,\n No voice or hideous hum\n Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving;\n Apollo from his shrine\n Can no more divine\n With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving,\n No nightly trance or breathed spell\n Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.\n\n \"The lonely mountains o'er,\n And the resounding shore,\n A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;\n From haunted spring, and dale\n Edged with poplars pale,\n The parting genius is with sighing sent;\n With flower-enwoven tresses torn,\n The nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn.\"\n\n - - - - -\n\nLike a psalm the great Hymn fills the air, and like a psalm it remains\nin the memory. The fire has burned low, and a soft and solemn light\nfills the room. Neither of us speaks while the clock strikes twelve. I\nlook out of the window. The heavens are ablaze with light, and somewhere\namid those circling constellations I know that a new star has found its\nplace, and is shining with such a ray as never before fell from heaven\nto earth.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME\n\n WALTER SCOTT\n\n On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;\n The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;\n The hall was dressed with holly green;\n Forth to the wood did merry men go,\n To gather in the mistletoe.\n Thus opened wide the baron's hall\n To vassal, tenant, serf and all;\n Power laid his rod of rule aside\n And ceremony doffed his pride.\n The heir, with roses in his shoes,\n That night might village partner choose;\n The lord, underogating, share\n The vulgar game of \"Post and Pair.\"\n All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,\n And general voice, the happy night\n That to the cottage, as the crown,\n Brought tidings of salvation down.\n\n The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,\n Went roaring up the chimney wide;\n The huge hall-table's oaken face,\n Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,\n Bore then upon its massive board\n No mark to part the squire and lord.\n Then was brought in the lusty brawn\n By old blue-coated serving man;\n Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,\n Crested with bays and rosemary.\n Well can the green-garbed ranger tell\n How, when and where the monster fell;\n What dogs before his death he tore,\n And all the baitings of the boar.\n The wassal round, in good brown bowls,\n Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.\n There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by\n Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pye;\n Nor failed old Scotland to produce,\n At such high-tide, her savory goose.\n\n Then came the merry maskers in,\n And carols roared with blithesome din.\n If unmelodious was the song,\n It was a hearty note, and strong;\n Who lists may in their murmuring see\n Traces of ancient mystery;\n White shirts supplied the masquerade,\n And smutted cheeks the visors made;\n But O, what maskers richly dight,\n Can boast of bosoms half so light!\n England was \"merry England\" when\n Old Christmas brought his sports again;\n 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,\n 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;\n A Christmas gambol oft would cheer\n The poor man's heart through half the year.\n\n * * * * *\n\n SLY SANTA CLAUS\n\n MRS. C.S. STONE\n\n All the house was asleep,\n And the fire burning low,\n When, from far up the chimney,\n Came down a \"Ho! ho!\"\n And a little, round man,\n With a terrible scratching,\n Dropped into the room\n With a wink that was catching.\n Yes, down he came, bumping,\n And thumping, and jumping,\n And picking himself up without sign\n of a bruise!\n\n \"Ho! ho!\" he kept on,\n As if bursting with cheer.\n \"Good children, gay children,\n Glad children, see here!\n I have brought you fine dolls,\n And gay trumpets, and rings,\n Noah's arks, and bright skates,\n And a host of good things!\n I have brought a whole sackful,\n A packful, a hackful!\n Come hither, come hither, come hither\n and choose!\n\n \"Ho! ho! What is this?\n Why, they all are asleep!\n But their stockings are up,\n And my presents will keep!\n So, in with the candies,\n The books, and the toys;\n All the goodies I have\n For the good girls and boys.\n I'll ram them, and jam them,\n And slam them, and cram them;\n All the stockings will hold while the\n tired youngsters snooze.\"\n\n All the while his round shoulders\n Kept ducking and ducking;\n And his little, fat fingers\n Kept tucking and tucking;\n Until every stocking\n Bulged out, on the wall,\n As if it were bursting,\n And ready to fall.\n\n And then, all at once,\n With a whisk and a whistle,\n And twisting himself\n Like a tough bit of gristle,\n He bounced up again,\n Like the down of a thistle,\n And nothing was left but the prints of his shoes.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE WAITS\n\n MARGARET DELAND\n\n At the break of Christmas Day,\n Through the frosty starlight ringing,\n Faint and sweet and far away,\n Comes the sound of children, singing,\n Chanting, singing,\n _\"Cease to mourn,\n For Christ is born,\n Peace and joy to all men bringing!\"_\n\n Careless that the chill winds blow,\n Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer,\n Noiseless footfalls in the snow\n Bring the happy voices nearer;\n Hear them singing,\n _\"Winter's drear,\n But Christ is here,\n Mirth and gladness with Him bringing!\"_\n\n \"Merry Christmas!\" hear them say,\n As the East is growing lighter;\n \"May the joy of Christmas Day\n Make your whole year gladder, brighter!\"\n Join their singing,\n _\"To each home\n Our Christ has come,\n All Love's treasures with Him bringing!\"_\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE KNIGHTING OF THE SIRLOIN OF BEEF BY CHARLES THE SECOND\n\n ANON\n\n The Second Charles of England\n Rode forth one Christmas tide,\n To hunt a gallant stag of ten,\n Of Chingford woods the pride.\n\n The winds blew keen, the snow fell fast,\n And made for earth a pall,\n As tired steeds and wearied men\n Returned to Friday Hall.\n\n The blazing logs, piled on the dogs,\n Were pleasant to behold!\n And grateful was the steaming feast\n To hungry men and cold.\n\n With right good-will all took their fill,\n And soon each found relief;\n Whilst Charles his royal trencher piled\n From one huge loin of beef.\n\n Quoth Charles, \"Odd's fish! a noble dish!\n Ay, noble made by me!\n By kingly right, I dub thee knight--\n Sir Loin henceforward be!\"\n\n And never was a royal jest\n Received with such acclaim:\n And never knight than good Sir Loin\n More worthy of the name.\n\n * * * * *\n\nTHE CHRISTMAS GOOSE AT THE CRATCHITS'\n\nCHARLES DICKENS\n\nYou might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered\nphenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course; and in truth,\nit was something like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy\n(ready before-hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter\nmashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the\napple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him\nin a tiny corner, at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for\neverybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their\nposts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for\ngoose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set\non, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs.\nCratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge\nit in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of\nstuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board,\nand even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table\nwith the handle of his knife, and feebly cried hurrah!\n\nThere never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was\nsuch a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were\nthe themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple-sauce and\nmashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family;\nindeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small\natom of a bone on the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every\none had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were\nsteeped in sage and onion to the eye-brows! But now, the plates being\nchanged by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous\nto bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.\n\nSuppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning\nout! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard, and\nstolen it, while they were merry with the goose; a supposition at which\nthe two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were\nsupposed.\n\nHallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell\nlike a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and\na pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress next door to\nthat! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered,\nflushed, but smiling proudly, with the pudding like a speckled\ncannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of\nignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.\n\nOh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he\nregarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since\ntheir marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind,\nshe would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour.\nEverybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it\nwas at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would have been\nflat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a\nthing.\n\nAt last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth\nswept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and\nconsidered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a\nshovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew\nround the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a\none; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass--two\ntumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.\n\nThese held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden\ngoblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while\nthe chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob\nproposed:\n\n\"A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!\"\n\nWhich all the family re-echoed.\n\n\"God bless us every one!\" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.\n\n * * * * *\n\n GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE\n\n JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY\n\n [From \"Sketches in Prose.\"]\n\n \"God bless us every one!\" prayed Tiny Tim,\n Crippled, and dwarfed of body, yet so tall\n Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him,\n High towering over all.\n\n He loved the loveless world, nor dreamed, indeed,\n That it, at best, could give to him, the while,\n But pitying glances, when his only need\n Was but a cheery smile.\n\n And thus he prayed, \"God bless us every one!\"\n Enfolding all the creeds within the span\n Of his child-heart; and so, despising none,\n Was nearer saint than man.\n\n I like to fancy God, in Paradise,\n Lifting a finger o'er the rhythmic swing\n Of chiming harp and song, with eager eyes\n Turned earthward, listening--\n\n The Anthem stilled--the angels leaning there\n Above the golden walls--the morning sun\n Of Christmas bursting flower-like with the prayer,\n \"God bless us Every One!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n BELLS ACROSS THE SNOWS\n\n FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL\n\n O Christmas, merry Christmas!\n Is it really come again,\n With its memories and greetings,\n With its joy and with its pain?\n There's a minor in the carol,\n And a shadow in the light,\n And a spray of cypress twining\n With the holly wreath to-night.\n And the hush is never broken\n By laughter light and low,\n As we listen in the starlight\n To the \"bells across the snow.\"\n\n O Christmas, merry Christmas!\n 'Tis not so very long\n Since other voices blended\n With the carol and the song!\n If we could but hear them singing\n As they are singing now,\n If we could but see the radiance\n Of the crown on each dear brow;\n There would be no sigh to smother,\n No hidden tear to flow,\n As we listen in the starlight\n To the \"bells across the snow.\"\n\n O Christmas, merry Christmas!\n This never more can be;\n We cannot bring again the days\n Of our unshadowed glee.\n But Christmas, happy Christmas,\n Sweet herald of good-will,\n With holy songs of glory\n Brings holy gladness still.\n For peace and hope may brighten,\n And patient love may glow,\n As we listen in the starlight\n To the \"bells across the snow.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS BELLS\n\n HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW\n\n I heard the bells on Christmas Day\n Their old, familiar carols play,\n And wild and sweet\n The words repeat\n Of peace on earth, good-will to men!\n\n And thought how, as the day had come,\n The belfries of all Christendom\n Had rolled along\n The unbroken song\n Of peace on earth, good-will to men!\n\n Till, ringing, swinging on its way,\n The world revolved from night to day\n A voice, a chime,\n A chant sublime\n Of peace on earth, good-will to men!\n\n Then from each black, accursed mouth\n The cannon thundered in the South\n And with the sound\n The carols drowned\n Of peace on earth, good-will to men!\n\n It was as if an earthquake rent\n The hearth-stones of a continent,\n And made forlorn\n The households born\n Of peace on earth, good-will to men!\n\n And in despair I bowed my head;\n \"There is no peace on earth,\" I said;\n \"For hate is strong\n And mocks the song\n Of peace on earth, good-will to men!\"\n\n Then pealed the bells more loud and deep.\n \"God is not dead; nor doth He sleep!\n The Wrong shall fail,\n The Right prevail,\n With peace on earth, good-will to men!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n MINSTRELS AND MAIDS\n\n WILLIAM MORRIS\n\n Outlanders, whence come ye last?\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n Through what green seas and great have ye past?\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n From far away, O masters mine,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n We come to bear you goodly wine,\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n From far away we come to you,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n To tell of great tidings strange and true,\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n News, news of the Trinity,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n And Mary and Joseph from over the sea!\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n For as we wandered far and wide,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n What hap do you deem there should us betide!\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n Under a bent when the night was deep,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n There lay three shepherds tending their sheep.\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n \"O ye shepherds, what have ye seen,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?\"\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n \"In an ox-stall this night we saw,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n A babe and a maid without a flaw.\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n \"There was an old man there beside,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n His hair was white and his hood was wide.\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n \"And as we gazed this thing upon,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n Those twain knelt down to the Little One,\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n \"And a marvellous song we straight did hear,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n That slew our sorrow and healed our care.\"\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n News of a fair and marvellous thing,\n _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._\n Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing!\n _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._\n\n * * * * *\n\nINEXHAUSTIBILITY OF THE SUBJECT OF CHRISTMAS\n\nLEIGH HUNT\n\nSo many things have been said of late years about Christmas, that it is\nsupposed by some there is no saying more. O they of little faith! What!\ndo they suppose that every thing has been said that _can_ be said about\nany one Christmas thing?\n\n About beef, for instance?\n About plum-pudding?\n About mince-pie?\n About holly?\n About ivy?\n About rosemary?\n About mistletoe? (Good Heavens! what an immense number of things\n remain to be said about mistletoe!)\n About Christmas Eve?\n About hunt-the-slipper?\n About hot cockles?\n About blind-man's-buff?\n About shoeing the wild-mare?\n About thread-the-needle?\n About he-can-do-little-that-can't-do-this?\n About puss-in-the-corner?\n About snap-dragon?\n About forfeits?\n About Miss Smith?\n About the bell-man?\n About the waits?\n About chilblains?\n About carols?\n About the fire?\n About the block on it?\n About school-boys?\n About their mothers?\n About Christmas-boxes?\n About turkeys?\n About Hogmany?\n About goose-pie?\n About mumming?\n About saluting the apple-trees?\n About brawn?\n About plum-porridge?\n About hobby-horse?\n About hoppings?\n About wakes?\n About \"feed-the-dove\"?\n About hackins?\n About yule-doughs?\n About going-a-gooding?\n About loaf-stealing?\n About _Julklaps_? (Who has exhausted that subject,\n we should like to know?)\n About wad-shooting?\n About elder-wine?\n About pantomimes?\n About cards?\n About New-Year's Day?\n About gifts?\n About wassail?\n About Twelfth-cake?\n About king and queen?\n About characters?\n About eating too much?\n About aldermen?\n About the doctor?\n About all being in the wrong?\n About charity?\n About all being in the right?\n About faith, hope, and endeavor?\n About the greatest plum-pudding for the greatest number?\n\n_Esto perpetua_,--that is, faith, hope and charity, and endeavor; and\nplum-pudding enough by and by, all the year round, for everybody that\nlikes it. Why that should not be the case, we cannot see,--seeing that\nthe earth is big, and human kind teachable, and God very good, and\ninciting us to do it. Meantime, gravity apart, we ask anybody whether\nany of the above subjects are exhausted; and we inform everybody, that\nall the above customs still exist in some parts of our beloved country,\nhowever unintelligible they may have become in others. But to give a\nspecimen of the non-exhaustion of any one of their topics.\n\nBeef, for example. Now, we should like to know who has exhausted the\nsubject of the fine old roast Christmas piece of beef, from its original\nappearance in the meadows as part of the noble sultan of the herd,\nglorious old Taurus,--the lord of the sturdy brow and ponderous agility,\na sort of thunderbolt of a beast, well chosen by Jove to disguise in,\none of Nature's most striking compounds of apparent heaviness and\nunencumbered activity,--up to its contribution to the noble\nChristmas-dinner, smoking from the spit, and flanked by the outposts of\nBacchus. John Bull (cannibalism apart) hails it like a sort of relation.\nHe makes it part of his flesh and blood; glories in it; was named after\nit; has it served up, on solemn occasions, with music and a hymn, as it\nwas the other day at the royal city dinner:--\n\n \"Oh the roast beef of old England!\n And oh the old English roast beef!\"\n\n\"_And_ oh!\" observe, not merely \"oh!\" again; but \"and\" with it; as if,\nthough the same piece of beef, it were also another,--another and the\nsame,--cut, and come again; making two of one, in order to express\nintensity and reduplication of satisfaction:--\n\n \"Oh the roast beef of old England!\n _And_ oh the old English roast beef!\"\n\nWe beg to assure the reader, that a whole _Seer_ might be written on\nthis single point of the Christmas-dinner; and \"shall we be told\" (as\norators exclaim), \"and this, too, in a British land,\" that the subject\nis \"_exhausted_\"!\n\nThen plum-pudding! What a word is that! how plump and plump again! How\nround and repeated and plenipotential! (There are two p's, observe, in\nplenipotential; and so there are in plum-pudding. We love an exquisite\nfitness,--a might and wealth of adaptation). Why, the whole round cheek\nof universal childhood is in the idea of plum-pudding; ay, and the\nweight of manhood, and the plenitude of the majesty of city dames.\nWealth itself is symbolized by the least of its fruity particles. \"A\nplum\" is a city fortune,--a million of money. He (the old boy, who has\nearned it)--\n\n \"Puts in his thumb,\n\n_videlicet_, into his pocket,\n\n And pulls out a plum,\n And says, What a _good man_ am I!\"\n\nObserve a little boy at a Christmas-dinner, and his grandfather opposite\nhim. What a world of secret similarity there is between them! How hope\nin one, and retrospection in the other, and appetite in both, meet over\nthe same ground of pudding, and understand it to a nicety! How the\nsenior banters the little boy on his third slice! and how the little boy\nthinks within himself that he dines that day as well as the senior! How\nboth look hot and red and smiling, and juvenile. How the little boy is\nconscious of the Christmas-box in his pocket! (of which, indeed, the\ngrandfather jocosely puts him in mind); and how the grandfather is quite\nas conscious of the plum, or part of a plum, or whatever fraction it may\nbe, in his own! How he incites the little boy to love money and good\ndinners all his life! and how determined the little boy is to abide by\nhis advice,--with a secret addition in favor of holidays and\nmarbles,--to which there is an analogy, in the senior's mind, on the\nside of trips to Hastings, and a game at whist! Finally, the old\ngentleman sees his own face in the pretty smooth one of the child; and\nif the child is not best pleased at his proclamation of the likeness (in\ntruth, is horrified at it, and thinks it a sort of madness), yet nice\nobservers, who have lived long enough to see the wonderful changes in\npeople's faces from youth to age, probably discern the thing well\nenough, and feel a movement of pathos at their hearts in considering the\nworld of trouble and emotion that is the causer of the changes. _That_\nold man's face was once like that little boy's! _That_ little boy's will\nbe one day like that old man's! What a thought to make us all love and\nrespect one another, if not for our fine qualities, let at least for the\ntrouble and sorrow which we all go through!\n\nAy, and joy too; for all people have their joys as well as troubles, at\none time or another,--most likely both together, or in constant\nalternation: and the greater part of troubles are not the worst things\nin the world, but only graver forms of the requisite motion of the\nuniverse, or workings towards a better condition of things, the greater\nor less violent according as we give them violence, or respect them like\nawful but not ill-meaning gods, and entertain them with a rewarded\npatience. Grave thoughts, you will say, for Christmas. But no season has\na greater right to grave thoughts, in passing; and, for that very\nreason, no season has a greater right to let them pass, and recur to\nmore light ones.\n\nSo a noble and merry season to you, my masters; and may we meet, thick\nand three-fold, many a time and oft, in blithe yet most thoughtful\npages! Fail not to call to mind, in the course of the 25th of this\nmonth, that the divinest Heart that ever walked the earth was born on\nthat day: and then smile and enjoy yourselves for the rest of it; for\nmirth is also of Heaven's making, and wondrous was the wine-drinking at\nGalilee.\n\n * * * * *\n\n SONG OF THE HOLLY\n\n WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE\n\n Blow, blow thou winter wind--\n Thou art not so unkind\n As man's ingratitude!\n Thy tooth is not so keen,\n Because thou art not seen,\n Although thy breath be rude.\n Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:\n Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.\n Then heigh ho! the holly!\n This life is most jolly!\n\n Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky--\n Thou dost not bite so nigh\n As benefits forgot!\n Though thou the waters warp,\n Thy sting is not so sharp\n As friend remembered not.\n Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly,\n Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.\n Then heigh ho, the holly!\n This life is most jolly!\n\n * * * * *\n\n UNDER THE HOLLY-BOUGH\n\n CHARLES MACKAY\n\n Ye who have scorned each other,\n Or injured friend or brother,\n In this fast-fading year;\n Ye who, by word or deed,\n Have made a kind heart bleed,\n Come gather here!\n Let sinned against and sinning\n Forget their strife's beginning,\n And join in friendship now.\n Be links no longer broken,\n Be sweet forgiveness spoken\n Under the Holly-Bough.\n\n Ye who have loved each other,\n Sister and friend and brother,\n In this fast-fading year:\n Mother and sire and child,\n Young man and maiden mild,\n Come gather here;\n And let your heart grow fonder,\n As memory shall ponder\n Each past unbroken vow;\n Old loves and younger wooing\n Are sweet in the renewing\n Under the Holly-Bough.\n\n Ye who have nourished sadness,\n Estranged from hope and gladness\n In this fast-fading year;\n Ye with o'erburdened mind,\n Made aliens from your kind,\n Come gather here.\n Let not the useless sorrow\n Pursue you night and morrow,\n If e'er you hoped, hope now.\n Take heart,--uncloud your faces,\n And join in our embraces\n Under the Holly-Bough.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS\n\n ROBERT HERRICK\n\n Come, bring with a noise,\n My merry, merry boys,\n The Christmas log to the firing,\n While my good dame, she\n Bids ye all be free,\n And drink to your heart's desiring.\n\n With the last year's brand\n Light the new block, and\n For good success in his spending,\n On your psalteries play,\n That sweet luck may\n Come while the log is a-teending.\n\n Drink now the strong beer,\n Cut the white loaf here,\n The while the meat is a-shredding;\n For the rare mince-pie,\n And the plums stand by,\n To fill the paste that's a kneading.\n\n * * * * *\n\n SANTA CLAUS\n\n ANON\n\n He comes in the night! He comes in the night!\n He softly, silently comes;\n While the little brown heads on the pillows so white\n Are dreaming of bugles and drums.\n He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,\n While the white flakes around him whirl;\n Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home\n Of each good little boy and girl.\n\n His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;\n It will carry a host of things,\n While dozens of drums hang over the side,\n With the sticks sticking under the strings:\n And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,\n Not a bugle blast is blown,\n As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,\n And drops to the hearth like a stone.\n\n The little red stockings he silently fills,\n Till the stockings will hold no more;\n The bright little sleds for the great snow hills\n Are quickly set down on the floor.\n Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,\n And glides to his seat in the sleigh;\n Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard\n As he noiselessly gallops away.\n\n He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,\n Of his goodies he touches not one;\n He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast\n When the dear little folks are done.\n Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can;\n This beautiful mission is his;\n Then, children, be good to the little old man,\n When you find who the little man is.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS DAY\n\n ROBERT HERRICK\n\n Kindle the Christmas brand, and then\n Till sunset let it burn;\n Which quench'd, then lay it up again\n Till Christmas next return.\n\n Part must be kept wherewith to teend\n The Christmas log next year,\n And where 'tis safely kept, the fiend\n Can do no mischief there.\n\n * * * * *\n\n DECEMBER\n\n HARRIET F. BLODGETT\n\n I\n\n Oh! holly branch and mistletoe.\n And Christmas chimes where'er we go.\n And stockings pinned up in a row!\n These are thy gifts, December!\n\n II\n\n And if the year has made thee old,\n And silvered all thy locks of gold,\n Thy heart has never been a-cold\n Or known a fading ember.\n\n III\n\n The whole world is a Christmas tree,\n And stars its many candles be.\n Oh! sing a carol joyfully\n The year's great feast in keeping!\n\n IV\n\n For once, on a December night\n An angel held a candle bright.\n And led three wise men by its light\n To where a child was sleeping.\n\n * * * * *\n\nTHE FESTIVAL OF ST. NICHOLAS\n\nMARY MAPES DODGE\n\nWe all know how, before the Christmas-tree began to flourish in the\nhome-life of our country, a certain \"right jolly old elf,\" with \"eight\ntiny reindeer,\" used to drive his sleigh-load of toys up to our\nhousetops, and then bound down the chimney to fill the stockings so\nhopefully hung by the fireplace. His friends called him Santa Claus; and\nthose who were most intimate ventured to say, \"Old Nick.\" It was said\nthat he originally came from Holland. Doubtless he did; but, if so, he\ncertainly, like many other foreigners, changed his ways very much after\nlanding upon our shores. In Holland, St. Nicholas is a veritable saint,\nand often appears in full costume, with his embroidered robes glittering\nwith gems and gold, his mitre, his crosier, and his jewelled gloves.\n_Here_ Santa Claus comes rollicking along on the 25th of December, our\nHoly Christmas morn; but in Holland, St. Nicholas visits earth on the\n5th, a time especially appropriated to him. Early on the morning of the\n6th, which is St. Nicholas Day, he distributes his candies, toys and\ntreasures, and then vanishes for a year.\n\nChristmas Day is devoted by the Hollanders to church-rites and pleasant\nfamily visiting. It is on St. Nicholas Eve that their young people\nbecome half wild with joy and expectation. To some of them it is a sorry\ntime; for the saint is very candid, and, if any of them have been bad\nduring the past year, he is quite sure to tell them so. Sometimes he\ncarries a birch-rod under his arm, and advises the parents to give them\nscoldings in place of confections, and floggings instead of joys.\n\nIt was well that the boys hastened to their abodes on that bright winter\nevening; for, in less than an hour afterwards, the saint made his\nappearance in half the homes of Holland. He visited the king's palace,\nand in the self-same moment appeared in Annie Bouman's comfortable home.\nProbably one of our silver half-dollars would have purchased all that\nhis saintship left at the peasant Bouman's. But a half-dollar's worth\nwill sometimes do for the poor what hundreds of dollars may fail to do\nfor the rich: it makes them happy and grateful, fills them with new\npeace and love.\n\nHilda van Gleck's little brothers and sisters were in a high state of\nexcitement that night. They had been admitted into the grand parlor:\nthey were dressed in their best, and had been given two cakes apiece at\nsupper. Hilda was as joyous as any. Why not? St. Nicholas would never\ncross a girl of fourteen from his list, just because she was tall and\nlooked almost like a woman. On the contrary, he would probably exert\nhimself to do honor to such an august-looking damsel. Who could tell? So\nshe sported and laughed and danced as gayly as the youngest, and was the\nsoul of all their merry games. Father, mother and grandmother looked on\napprovingly; so did grandfather, before he spread his large red\nhandkerchief over his face, leaving only the top of his skull-cap\nvisible. This kerchief was his ensign of sleep.\n\nEarlier in the evening, all had joined in the fun. In the general\nhilarity, there had seemed to be a difference only in bulk between\ngrandfather and the baby. Indeed, a shade of solemn expectation, now and\nthen flitting across the faces of the younger members, had made them\nseem rather more thoughtful than their elders.\n\nNow the spirit of fun reigned supreme. The very flames danced and\ncapered in the polished grate. A pair of prim candles, that had been\nstaring at the astral lamp, began to wink at other candles far away in\nthe mirrors. There was a long bell-rope suspended from the ceiling in\nthe corner, made of glass beads, netted over a cord nearly as thick as\nyour wrist. It generally hung in the shadow, and made no sign; but\nto-night it twinkled from end to end. Its handle of crimson glass sent\nreckless dashes of red at the papered wall, turning its dainty blue\nstripes into purple. Passers-by halted to catch the merry laughter\nfloating through curtain and sash into the street, then skipped on their\nway with the startled consciousness that the village was wide awake. At\nlast matters grew so uproarious that the grandsire's red kerchief came\ndown from his face with a jerk. What decent old gentleman could sleep in\nsuch a racket! Mynheer van Gleck regarded his children with\nastonishment. The baby even showed symptoms of hysterics. It was high\ntime to attend to business. Mevrouw suggested that, if they wished to\nsee the good St. Nicholas, they should sing the same loving invitation\nthat had brought him the year before.\n\nThe baby stared, and thrust his fist into his mouth, as Mynheer put him\ndown upon the floor. Soon he sat erect, and looked with a sweet scowl at\nthe company. With his lace and embroideries, and his crown of blue\nribbon and whalebone (for he was not quite past the tumbling age), he\nlooked like the king of babies.\n\nThe other children, each holding a pretty willow basket, formed at once\nin a ring, and moved slowly around the little fellow, lifting their eyes\nmeanwhile; for the saint to whom they were about to address themselves\nwas yet in mysterious quarters.\n\nMevrouw commenced playing softly upon the piano; soon the voices\nrose,--gentle, youthful voices, rendered all the sweeter for their\ntremor,--\n\n \"Welcome, friend! St. Nicholas, welcome!\n Bring no rod for us to-night!\n While our voices bid thee welcome,\n Every heart with joy is light.\n\n \"Tell us every fault and failing;\n We will bear thy keenest railing\n So we sing, so we sing:\n Thou shalt tell us everything!\n\n \"Welcome, friend! St. Nicholas, welcome!\n Welcome to this merry band!\n Happy children greet thee, welcome!\n Thou art gladdening all the land.\n\n \"Fill each empty hand and basket;\n 'T is thy little ones who ask it.\n So we sing, so we sing:\n Thou wilt bring us everything!\"\n\nDuring the chorus, sundry glances, half in eagerness, half in dread, had\nbeen cast towards the polished folding-doors. Now a loud knocking was\nheard. The circle was broken in an instant. Some of the little ones,\nwith a strange mixture of fear and delight, pressed against their\nmother's knee. Grandfather bent forward, with his chin resting upon his\nhand; grandmother lifted her spectacles; Mynheer van Gleck, seated by\nthe fireplace, slowly drew his meerschaum from his mouth; while Hilda\nand the other children settled themselves beside him in an expectant\ngroup.\n\nThe knocking was heard again.\n\n\"Come in,\" said the mevrouw, softly.\n\nThe door slowly opened; and St. Nicholas, in full array, stood before\nthem. You could have heard a pin drop. Soon he spoke. What a mysterious\nmajesty in his voice! what kindliness in his tone!\n\n\"Karel van Gleck, I am pleased to greet thee, and thy honored _vrouw_,\nKathrine, and thy son, and his good _vrouw_, Annie.\n\n\"Children, I greet ye all,--Hendrick, Hilda, Broom, Katy, Huygens and\nLucretia. And thy cousins,--Wolfert, Diedrich, Mayken, Voost and\nKatrina. Good children ye have been, in the main, since I last accosted\nye. Diedrich was rude at the Haarlem fair last fall; but he has tried to\natone for it since. Mayken has failed, of late, in her lessons; and too\nmany sweets and trifles have gone to her lips, and too few stivers to\nher charity-box. Diedrich, I trust, will be a polite, manly boy for the\nfuture; and Mayken will endeavor to shine as a student. Let her\nremember, too, that economy and thrift are needed in the foundation of a\nworthy and generous life. Little Katy has been cruel to the cat more\nthan once. St. Nicholas can hear the cat cry when its tail is pulled. I\nwill forgive her, if she will remember from this hour that the smallest\ndumb creatures have feeling, and must not be abused.\"\n\nAs Katy burst into a frightened cry, the saint graciously remained\nsilent until she was soothed.\n\n\"Master Broom,\" he resumed, \"I warn thee that boys who are in the habit\nof putting snuff upon the foot-stove of the school-mistress may one day\nbe discovered, and receive a flogging--\"\n\n(Master Broom colored, and stared in great astonishment.)\n\n\"But, thou art such an excellent scholar, I shall make thee no further\nreproof.\n\n\"Thou, Hendrick, didst distinguish thyself in the archery match last\nspring, and hit the _doel_,[A] though the bird was swung before it to\nunsteady thine eye. I give thee credit for excelling in manly sport and\nexercise; though I must not unduly countenance thy boat-racing, since it\nleaves thee too little time for thy proper studies.\n\n[Footnote A: Bull's-eye.]\n\n\"Lucretia and Hilda shall have a blessed sleep to-night. The\nconsciousness of kindness to the poor, devotion in their souls, and\ncheerful, hearty obedience to household rule, will render them happy.\n\n\"With one and all I avow myself well content. Goodness, industry,\nbenevolence and thrift have prevailed in your midst. Therefore, my\nblessing upon you; and may the New Year find all treading the paths of\nobedience, wisdom and love! To-morrow you shall find more substantial\nproofs that I have been in your home. Farewell!\"\n\nWith these words came a great shower of sugar-plums upon a linen sheet\nspread out in front of the doors. A general scramble followed. The\nchildren fairly tumbled over each other in their eagerness to fill their\nbaskets. Mevrouw cautiously held the baby down upon the sheet till the\nchubby little fists were filled. Then the bravest of the youngsters\nsprang up and threw open the closed doors. In vain they searched the\nmysterious apartment. St. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen.\n\nSoon they all sped to another room, where stood a table, covered with\nthe whitest of linen damask. Each child, in a flutter of pleasure, laid\na shoe upon it, and each shoe held a little hay for the good saint's\nhorse. The door was then carefully locked, and its key hidden in the\nmother's bedroom. Next followed good-night kisses, a grand family\nprocession to the upper floor, merry farewells at bedroom doors, and\nsilence, at last, reigned in the Van Gleck mansion.\n\nEarly the next morning, the door was solemnly unlocked and opened in the\npresence of the assembled household; when, lo! a sight appeared, proving\ngood St. Nicholas to be a saint of his word.\n\nEvery shoe was filled to overflowing; and beside each stood a\nmany-colored pile. The table was heavy with its load of\npresents,--candies, toys, trinkets, books and other articles. Every one\nhad gifts, from grandfather down to the baby.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY\n\n ELIZA COOK\n\n The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay--\n Come give the holly a song;\n For it helps to drive stern winter away,\n With his garment so sombre and long;\n\n It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,\n And its leaves of burnished green,\n When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,\n And not even the daisy is seen.\n Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,\n That hangs over peasant and king;\n While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,\n To the Christmas holly we'll sing.\n\n The gale may whistle, the frost may come\n To fetter the gurgling rill;\n The woods may be bare, and warblers dumb,\n But holly is beautiful still.\n In the revel and light of princely halls\n The bright holly branch is found;\n And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls,\n While the brimming horn goes round.\n\n The ivy lives long, but its home must be\n Where graves and ruins are spread;\n There's beauty about the cypress tree,\n But it flourishes near the dead;\n The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe,\n But it tells of tears and blood;\n I sing the holly, and who can breathe\n Aught of that that is not good?\n\n Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,\n That hangs over peasant and king;\n While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,\n To the Christmas holly we'll sing.\n\n * * * * *\n\n TO THE FIR-TREE\n\n FROM THE GERMAN\n\n O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!\n Your leaves are constant ever,\n Not only in the summer time,\n But through the winter's snow and rime\n You're fresh and green forever.\n\n O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!\n I still shall love you dearly!\n How oft to me on Christmas night\n Your laden boughs have brought delight.\n O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!\n I still shall love you dearly.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE MAHOGANY-TREE\n\n WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY\n\n Christmas is here;\n Winds whistle shrill,\n Icy and chill,\n Little care we;\n Little we fear\n Weather without,\n Sheltered about\n The Mahogany-Tree.\n\n Once on the boughs\n Birds of rare plume\n Sang in its bloom;\n Night-birds are we;\n Here we carouse,\n Singing, like them,\n Perched round the stem\n Of the jolly old tree.\n\n Here let us sport,\n Boys, as we sit--\n Laughter and wit\n Flashing so free.\n Life is but short--\n When we are gone,\n Let them sing on,\n Round the old tree.\n\n Evenings we knew,\n Happy as this;\n Faces we miss,\n Pleasant to see.\n Kind hearts and true,\n Gentle and just,\n Peace to your dust!\n We sing round the tree.\n\n Care like a dun,\n Lurks at the gate;\n Let the dog wait;\n Happy we'll be!\n Drink, every one;\n Pile up the coals;\n Fill the red bowls,\n Round the old tree!\n\n Drain we the cup.--\n Friend, art afraid?\n Spirits are laid\n In the Red Sea.\n Mantle it up;\n Empty it yet;\n Let us forget,\n Round the old tree!\n\n Sorrows begone!\n Life and its ills,\n Duns and their bills,\n Bid we to flee.\n Come with the dawn,\n Blue-devil sprite;\n Leave us to-night,\n Round the old tree!\n\n * * * * *\n\nCHRISTMAS\n\nWASHINGTON IRVING\n\n But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair on\n his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that,\n seeing I cannot have more of him.\n\n Hue and Cry after Christmas.\n\n\n A man might then behold\n At Christmas, in each hall,\n Good fires to curb the cold,\n And meat for great and small.\n The neighbors were friendly bidden,\n And all had welcome true,\n The poor from the gates were not chidden,\n When this old cap was new.\n Old Song.\n\n\n\nThere is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over\nmy imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural\ngames of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in\nthe May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through\nbooks, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they\nbring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which,\nperhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more\nhomebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they\nare daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by\ntime, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those\npicturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in\nvarious parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages,\nand partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry,\nhowever, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and\nholiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes--as the\nivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower,\ngratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering\nremains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.\n\nOf all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the\nstrongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and\nsacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit\nto a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the\nchurch about this season are extremely tender and inspiring: they dwell\non the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral\nscenes that accompanied its announcement; they gradually increase in\nfervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in\nfull jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I\ndo not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear\nthe full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a\ncathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant\nharmony.\n\nIt is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from the days of yore, that\nthis festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of\npeace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of\nfamily connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred\nhearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are\ncontinually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a\nfamily, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder,\nonce more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of\nthe affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing\nmementos of childhood.\n\nThere is something in the very season of the year, that gives a charm to\nthe festivity of Christmas. At other times, we derive a great portion of\nour pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth\nand dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we \"live abroad\nand everywhere.\" The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the\nbreathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the\ngolden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and\nheaven with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence,--all\nfill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of\nmere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled\nof every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for\nour gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of\nour landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they\ncircumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling\nabroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social\ncircle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more\naroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and\nare brought more closely together by dependence on each other for\nenjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the\ndeep wells of living kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our\nbosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of\ndomestic felicity.\n\nThe pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room\nfilled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze\ndiffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights\nup each countenance with a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face\nof hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile--where is\nthe shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent--than by the winter\nfireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the\nhall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles\ndown the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober\nand sheltered security, with which we look around upon the comfortable\nchamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity?\n\nThe English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every\nclass of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays\nwhich agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were\nin former days particularly observant of the religious and social rights\nof Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some\nantiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the\ncomplete abandonment to mirth and good fellowship, with which this\nfestival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, unlock\nevery heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended\nall ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls\nof castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas\ncarol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality.\nEven the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green\ndecorations of bay and holly--the cheerful fire glanced its rays through\nthe lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the\ngossip knot huddled round the hearth beguiling the long evening with\nlegendary jokes, and oft-told Christmas tales.\n\nOne of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it\nhas made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken\noff the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of\nlife, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but\ncertainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and\nceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the\nsherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and\ndispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and\nlustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously:\ntimes wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest\nmaterials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters\nand manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of\ndissipation and less enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader,\nbut a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet\nchannels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic\nlife. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it\nhas lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings,\nits honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted\nantiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed\naway with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they\nwere celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken\ngallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light showy\nsaloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.\n\nShorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas\nis still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying\nto see that home feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful a\nplace in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for\nthe social board that is again to unite friends and kindred--the\npresents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and\nquickeners of kind feelings--the evergreens distributed about houses and\nchurches, emblems of peace and gladness--all these have the most\npleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent\nsympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their\nminstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night with the effect\nof perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and\nsolemn hour \"when deep sleep falleth upon man,\" I have listened with a\nhushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion,\nhave almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace\nand good-will to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought\nupon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty!\nThe very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of\nthe country, \"telling the night-watches to his feathery dames,\" was\nthought by the common people to announce the approach of the sacred\nfestival:\n\n \"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes\n Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated,\n This bird of dawning singeth all night long:\n And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;\n The nights are wholesome--then no planets strike,\n No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,\n So hallowed and so gracious is the time.\"\n\nAmidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and\nstir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can\nremain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling--the\nseason for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but\nthe genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again\nrises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea of\nhome, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the\ndrooping spirit--as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness\nof the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.\n\nStranger and sojourner as I am in the land--though for me no social\nhearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm\ngrasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold--yet I feel the\ninfluence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of\nthose around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of\nheaven; and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with\ninnocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a\nsupreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away\nfrom contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit down\ndarkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may\nhave his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he\nwants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a\nmerry Christmas.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHURCH DECKING AT CHRISTMAS\n\n WILLIAM WORDSWORTH\n\n Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave\n Less scanty measure of those graceful rites\n And usages, whose due return invites\n A stir of mind too natural to deceive;\n Giving the memory help when she could weave\n A crown for Hope!--I dread the boasted lights\n That all too often are but fiery blights,\n Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve.\n Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring,\n The counter Spirit found in some gay church\n Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch\n In which the linnet or the thrush might sing,\n Merry and loud, and safe from prying search,\n Strains offered only to the genial spring.\n\n * * * * *\n\n SO, NOW IS COME OUR JOYFULST FEAST\n\n GEORGE WITHER\n\n So, now is come our joyfulst feast,\n Let every man be jolly;\n Each room with ivy leaves is drest,\n And every post with holly.\n Though some churls at our mirth repine,\n Round your foreheads garlands twine;\n Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,\n And let us all be merry.\n\n Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke,\n And Christmas logs are burning;\n Their ovens they with baked meats choke,\n And all their spits are turning.\n Without the door let sorrow lie;\n And if for cold it hap to die,\n We'll bury't in a Christmas pie,\n And evermore be merry.\n\n Now every lad is wondrous trim,\n And no man minds his labour;\n Our lasses have provided them\n A bag-pipe and a tabor;\n Young men and maids, and girls and boys,\n Give life to one another's joys;\n And you anon shall by their noise\n Perceive that they are merry.\n\n Rank misers now do sparing shun;\n Their hall of music soundeth;\n And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,\n So all things there aboundeth.\n The country folks themselves advance\n For crowdy-mutton's[A] come out of France;\n And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,\n And all the town be merry.\n\n[Footnote A: Fiddlers.]\n\n * * * * *\n\n FAIRY FACES\n\n ANON\n\n Out of the mists of childhood,\n Steeped in a golden glory,\n Come dreamy forms and faces,\n Snatches of song and story;\n Whispers of sweet, still faces;\n Rays of ethereal glimmer,\n That gleam like sunny heavens,\n Ne'er to grow colder or dimmer:\n Now far in the distance, now shining near,\n Lighting the snows of the shivering year.\n\n Faces there are that tremble,\n Bleared with a silent weeping,\n Weird in a shadowy sorrow,\n As if endless vigil keeping.\n Faces of dazzling brightness,\n With childlike radiance lighted,\n Flashing with many a beauty,\n Nor care nor time had blighted.\n But o'er them all there's a glamour thrown.\n Bright with the dreamy distance alone.\n\n Aglow in the Christmas halo,\n Shining with heavenly lustre,\n These are the fairy faces\n That round the hearthstone cluster.\n These the deep, tender records,\n Sacred in all their meetness,\n That, wakening purest fancies,\n Soften us with their sweetness;\n As, gathered where flickering fagots burn,\n We welcome the holy season's return.\n\n * * * * *\n\n MERRY CHRISTMAS\n\n ANON\n\n In the rush of the merry morning,\n When the red burns through the gray,\n And the wintry world lies waiting\n For the glory of the day;\n Then we hear a fitful rushing\n Just without upon the stair,\n See two white phantoms coming,\n Catch the gleam of sunny hair.\n\n Are they Christmas fairies stealing\n Rows of little socks to fill?\n Are they angels floating hither\n With their message of good-will?\n What sweet spell are these elves weaving,\n As like larks they chirp and sing?\n Are these palms of peace from heaven\n That these lovely spirits bring?\n\n Rosy feet upon the threshold,\n Eager faces peeping through,\n With the first red ray of sunshine,\n Chanting cherubs come in view;\n Mistletoe and gleaming holly,\n Symbols of a blessed day,\n In their chubby hands they carry,\n Streaming all along the way.\n\n Well we know them, never weary\n Of this innocent surprise;\n Waiting, watching, listening always\n With full hearts and tender eyes,\n While our little household angels,\n White and golden in the sun,\n Greet us with the sweet old welcome,--\n \"Merry Christmas, every one!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nA MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU\n\nTHEODORE LEDYARD CUYLER\n\nMy own boyhood was spent in a delightful home on one of the most\nbeautiful farms in Western New York--an experience that any city-bred\nboy might envy. We had no religious festivals except Thanksgiving Day\nand Christmas, and the latter was especially welcome, not only on\naccount of the good fare but its good gifts. Christmas was sacred to\nSanta Claus, the patron saint of good boys and girls. We counted the\ndays until its arrival. If the night before the longed-for festival was\none of eager expectation in all our houses, it was a sad time in all\nbarn-yards and turkey-coops and chicken-roosts; for the slaughter was\nterrible, and the cry of the feathered tribes was like \"the mourning of\nHadadrimmon.\" As to our experiences within doors, they are portrayed in\nDr. Clement C. Moore's immortal lines, \"The Night Before Christmas,\"\nwhich is probably the most popular poem for children ever penned in\nAmerica. As the visits of Santa Claus in the night could only be through\nthe chimney, we hung our stockings where they would be in full sight.\nThree score and ten years ago such modern contrivances as steam pipes,\nand those unpoetical holes in the floor called \"hot-air registers,\" were\nas entirely unknown in our rural regions as gas-burners or telephones.\nWe had a genuine fire-place in our kitchen, big enough to contain an\nenormous back-log, and broad enough for eight or ten people to form \"a\ncircle wide\" before it and enjoy the genial warmth.\n\nThe last process before going to bed was to suspend our stockings in the\nchimney jambs; and then we dreamed of Santa Claus, or if we awoke in the\nnight, we listened for the jingling of his sleigh-bells. At the peep of\nday we were aroused by the voice of my good grandfather, who planted\nhimself in the stairway and shouted in a stentorian tone, \"I wish you\nall a Merry Christmas!\" The contest was as to who should give the\nsalutation first, and the old gentleman determined to get the start of\nus by sounding his greeting to the family before we were out of our\nrooms. Then came a race for the chimney corner; all the stockings came\ndown quicker than they had gone up. What could not be contained in them\nwas disposed upon the mantelpiece, or elsewhere. I remember that I once\nreceived an autograph letter from Santa Claus, full of good counsels;\nand our colored cook told me that she awoke in the night and, peeping\ninto the kitchen, actually saw the veritable old visitor light a candle\nand sit down at the table and write it! I believed it all as implicitly\nas I believed the Ten Commandments, or the story of David and Goliath.\nHappy days of childish credulity, when fact and fiction were swallowed\nalike without a misgiving! During my long life I have seen many a\nday-dream and many an air-castle go the way of Santa Claus and the\nwonderful \"Lamp of Aladdin.\"\n\nIn after years, when I became a parent, my beloved wife and I,\ndetermined to make the Christmastide one of the golden days of the\ntwelve months. In mid-winter, when all outside vegetation was bleak and\nbare, the Christmas-tree in our parlor bloomed in many-colored beauty\nand bounty. When the tiny candles were all lighted the children and our\ndomestics gathered round it and one of the youngsters rehearsed some\npretty juvenile effusion; as \"they that had found great spoil.\" After\nthe happy harvesting of the magic tree in my own home, it was my custom\nto spend the afternoon or evening in some mission-school and to watch\nthe sparkling eyes of several hundreds of children while a huge\nChristmas-tree shed down its bounties. Fifty years ago, when the\ndegradation and miseries of the \"Five-Points\" were first invaded by\npioneer philanthropy, it was a thrilling sight to behold the denizens of\nthe slums and their children as they flocked into Mr. Pease's new \"House\nof Industry\" and the \"Brewery Mission\" building. The angelic host over\nthe hills of Bethlehem did not make a more welcome revelation to them\n\"who had sat in darkness and the shadow of death.\" In these days the\nsqualid regions of our great cities are being explored and improved by\nvarious methods of systematic beneficence. \"Christian Settlements\" are\nestablished; Bureaus of Charity are formed and Associations for the\nrelief of the poor are organized. A noble work; but, after all, the most\neffective \"bureau\" is one that, in a water-proof and a stout pair of\nshoes, sallies off on a wintry night to some abode of poverty with not\nonly supplies for suffering bodies, but kind words of sympathy for\nlonesome hearts. A dollar from a warm hand with a warm word is worth two\ndollars sent by mail or by a messenger-boy. The secret of power in doing\ngood is _personal contact_. Our incarnate \"Elder Brother\" went in person\nto the sick chamber. He anointed with His own hand the eyes of the blind\nman and He touched the loathsome leper into health. The portentous chasm\nbetween wealth and poverty must be bridged by a span of personal\nkindness over which the footsteps must turn in only one direction. The\npersonal contact of self sacrificing benevolence with darkness, filth\nand misery--that is the only remedy. Heart must touch heart. Benevolence\nalso cannot be confined to calendars. Those good people will exhibit the\nmost of the spirit of our Blessed Master who practice Christmas-giving\nand cheerful, unselfish and zealous Christmas-living through all the\ncircling year.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS BELLS\n\n ANON\n\n There are sounds in the sky when the year grows old,\n And the winds of the winter blow--\n When night and the moon are clear and cold,\n And the stars shine on the snow,\n Or wild is the blast and the bitter sleet\n That beats on the window-pane;\n But blest on the frosty hills are the feet\n Of the Christmas time again!\n Chiming sweet when the night wind swells,\n Blest is the sound of the Christmas Bells!\n\n Dear are the sounds of the Christmas chimes\n In the land of the ivied towers,\n And they welcome the dearest of festival times\n In this Western world of ours!\n Bright on the holly and mistletoe bough\n The English firelight falls,\n And bright are the wreathed evergreens now\n That gladden our own home walls!\n And hark! the first sweet note that tells,\n The welcome of the Christmas Bells!\n\n The owl that sits in the ivy's shade,\n Remote from the ruined tower,\n Shall start from his drowsy watch afraid\n When the clock shall strike the hour;\n And over the fields in their frosty rhyme\n The cheery sounds shall go,\n And chime shall answer unto chime\n Across the moonlit snow!\n How sweet the lingering music dwells,--\n The music of the Christmas Bells.\n\n It fell not thus in the East afar\n Where the Babe in the manger lay;\n The wise men followed their guiding star\n To the dawn of a milder day;\n And the fig and the sycamore gathered green,\n And the palm-tree of Deborah rose;\n 'Twas the strange first Christmas the world had seen--\n And it came not in storm and snows.\n Not yet on Nazareth's hills and dells\n Had floated the sound of Christmas Bells.\n\n The cedars of Lebanon shook in the blast\n Of their own cold mountain air;\n But nought o'er the wintry plain had passed\n To tell that the Lord was there!\n The oak and the olive and almond were still,\n In the night now worn and thin;\n No wind of the winter-time roared from the hill\n To waken the guests at the inn;\n No dream to them the music tells\n That is to come from the Christmas Bells!\n\n The years that have fled like the leaves on the gale\n Since the morn of the Miracle-Birth,\n Have widened the fame of the marvellous tale\n Till the tidings have filled the earth!\n And so in the climes of the icy North,\n And the lands of the cane and the palm,\n By the Alpine cotter's blazing hearth,\n And in tropic belts of calm,\n Men list to-night the welcome swells,\n Sweet and clear, of Christmas Bells!\n\n They are ringing to-night through the Norway firs,\n And across the Swedish fells,\n And the Cuban palm-tree dreamily stirs\n To the sound of those Christmas Bells!\n They ring where the Indian Ganges rolls\n Its flood through the rice-fields wide;\n They swell the far hymns of the Lapps and Poles\n To the praise of the Crucified.\n Sweeter than tones of the ocean's shells\n Mingle the chimes of the Christmas Bells!\n\n The years come not back that have circled away\n With the past of the Eastern land,\n When He plucked the corn on the Sabbath day\n And healed the withered hand:\n But the bells shall join in a joyous chime\n For the One who walked the sea,\n And ring again for the better time\n Of the Christ that is to be!\n Then ring!--for earth's best promise dwells\n In ye, O joyous Prophet Bells!\n\n Ring out at the meeting of night and morn\n For the dawn of a happier day!\n Lo, the stone from our faith's great sepulchre torn\n The angels have rolled away!\n And they come to us here in our low abode,\n With words like the sunrise gleam,--\n Come down and ascend by that heavenly road\n That Jacob saw in his dream.\n Spirit of love, that in music dwells,\n Open our hearts with the Christmas Bells!\n\n Help us to see that the glad heart prays\n As well as the bended knees;\n That there are in our own as in ancient days\n The Scribes and the Pharisees;\n That the Mount of Transfiguration still\n Looks down on these Christian lands,\n And the glorified ones from that holy hill\n Are reaching their helping hands.\n These be the words our music tells\n Of solemn joy, O Christmas Bells!\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE BIRTH OF CHRIST\n\n ALFRED TENNYSON\n\n The time draws near the birth of Christ;\n The moon is hid--the night is still;\n The Christmas bells from hill to hill\n Answer each other in the mist.\n\n Four voices of four hamlets round,\n From far and near, on mead and moor,\n Swell out and fail, as if a door\n Were shut between me and the sound.\n\n Each voice four changes on the wind,\n That now dilate and now decrease,\n Peace and good-will, good-will and peace,\n Peace and good-will to all mankind.\n\n Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn!\n Draw forth the cheerful day from night;\n O Father! touch the east, and light\n The light that shone when hope was born!\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n WILLIAM WORDSWORTH\n\n The minstrels played their Christmas tune\n To-night beneath my cottage eaves;\n While, smitten by a lofty moon,\n The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,\n Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen\n That overpowered their natural green.\n\n Through hill and valley every breeze\n Had sunk to rest, with folded wings:\n Keen was the air, but could not freeze\n Nor check the music of the strings;\n So stout and hardy were the band\n That scraped the chords with strenuous hand!\n\n And who but listened--till was paid\n Respect to every inmate's claim:\n The greeting given, the music played,\n In honor of each household name,\n Duly pronounced with lusty call,\n And \"Merry Christmas\" wished to all!\n\n How touching, when, at midnight, sweep\n Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,\n To hear, and sink again to sleep!\n Or, at an earlier call, to mark\n By blazing fire, the still suspense\n Of self-complacent innocence;\n\n The mutual nod,--the grave disguise\n Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er;\n And some unbidden tears that rise\n For names once heard, and heard no more;\n Tears brightened by the serenade\n For infant in the cradle laid.\n\n Hail ancient Manners! sure defence,\n Where they survive, of wholesome laws;\n Remnants of love whose modest sense\n Thus into narrow room withdraws;\n Hail, Usages of pristine mould,\n And ye that guard them, Mountains old!\n\n * * * * *\n\nCHRISTMAS AT FEZZIWIG'S WAREHOUSE\n\nCHARLES DICKENS\n\n\"Yo ho! my boys,\" said Fezziwig. \"No more work to-night; Christmas Eve,\nDick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up,\" cried old\nFezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, \"before a man can say Jack\nRobinson....\"\n\n\"Hilli-ho!\" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with\nwonderful agility. \"Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room\nhere! Hilli-ho, Dick! Cheer up, Ebenezer!\"\n\nClear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or\ncouldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in\na minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from\npublic life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were\ntrimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug,\nand warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see\nupon a winter's night.\n\nIn came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk and\nmade an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs.\nFezziwig, one vast, substantial smile. In came the three Misses\nFezziwig, beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts\nthey broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business\nIn came the housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the cook with\nher brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over\nthe way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master,\ntrying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one who was\nproved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress; in they all came,\nanyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands\nhalf round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again;\nround and round in various stages of affectionate grouping, old top\ncouple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off\nagain, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a\nbottom one to help them.\n\nWhen this result was brought about the fiddler struck up \"Sir Roger de\nCoverley.\" Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top\ncouple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or\nfour and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled\nwith; people who would dance and had no notion of walking.\n\nBut if they had been thrice as many--Oh, four times as many--old\nFezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig.\nAs to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term.\nIf that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A positive\nlight appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part\nof the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any given time\nwhat would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig\nhad gone all through the dance; advance and retire; both hands to your\npartner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again\nto your place; Fezziwig \"cut\"--cut so deftly that he appeared to wink\nwith his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.\n\nWhen the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs.\nFezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and\nshaking hands with every person individually, as he or she went out,\nwished him or her a Merry Christmas!\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS BELLS\n\n JOHN KEBLE\n\n Wake me to-night, my mother dear,\n That I may hear\n The Christmas Bells, so soft and clear,\n To high and low glad tidings tell,\n How God the Father loved us well;\n How God the Eternal Son\n Came to undo what we had done.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nSIGNIFICANCE AND SPIRIT\n\n\n\n\n A CHRISTMAS CARMEN\n\n JOHN G. WHITTIER\n\n I\n\n Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands,\n The chorus of voices, the clasping of hands;\n Sing hymns that were sung by the stars of the morn,\n Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was born!\n With glad jubilations\n Bring hope to the nations!\n The dark night is ending and dawn has begun:\n Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,\n All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!\n\n II\n\n Sing the bridal of nations! with chorals of love\n Sing out the war-vulture and sing in the dove,\n Till the hearts of the peoples keep time in accord\n And the voice of the world is the voice of the Lord!\n Clasp hands of the nations\n In strong gratulations:\n The dark night is ending and dawn has begun;\n Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,\n All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!\n\n III\n\n Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace;\n East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease:\n Sing the song of great joy that the angels began,\n Sing of glory to God and of good-will to man!\n Hark! joining in chorus\n The heavens bend o'er us!\n The dark night is ending and dawn has begun;\n Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,\n All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!\n\n * * * * *\n\nTHE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS\n\nFrom \"Pickwick Papers.\"\n\nCHARLES DICKENS\n\nAnd numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief\nseason of happiness and enjoyment. How many families whose members have\nbeen dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of\nlife, are then re-united, and meet once again in that happy state of\ncompanionship and mutual good-will, which is a source of such pure and\nunalloyed delight, and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of\nthe world, that the religious belief of the most civilized nations, and\nthe rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the\nfirst joys of a future state of existence, provided for the blest and\nhappy! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies, does\nChristmas time awaken!\n\nWe write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which,\nyear after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of\nthe hearts that throb so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of the\nlooks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we\ngrasped, have grown cold; the eyes we sought, have hid their lustre in\nthe grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling\nfaces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstance\nconnected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each\nrecurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but\nyesterday. Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions\nof our childish days, that can recall to the old man the pleasures of\nhis youth, and transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of\nmiles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!\n\n * * * * *\n\nON GOOD WISHES AT CHRISTMAS\n\nFRISWELL\n\nAt Christmas, which is a good holiday for most of us, but especially for\nthat larger and better half of us, the young, there is, as everybody\nknows, a profusion of good things. The final cause of a great many\nexistences is Christmas Day. How many of that vast flock of geese, which\nare now peacefully feeding over the long, cold wolds of Norfolk, or are\ndriven gabbling and hissing by the gozzard to their pasture--how many of\nthose very geese were called into being simply for Christmas Day! In the\ntowns, with close streets and fetid courts, where the flaring gas at the\ncorner of an alley marks the only bright spot, a gin-palace, there a\ngoose-club is held; and there, for a short time, is the resting-place,\nside by side with a bottle of gin, of one of those wise-looking and\nself-concentrated gobblers, whose name men have generally, and, as we\nthink, unjustly, applied to the silly one amongst themselves.\n\nBut it is only the profusion of good things, of cakes, puddings, spices,\noranges, and fruits, from sunny Italy and Spain, from India and from\nAsia, from America, North and South, and even from distant Australia; it\nis not that amongst us, as long ago with the _Franklin_ in Chaucer, that\nat this time--\n\n \"It snowes in our house\n Of meate and drinke;\"\n\nit is not that we have huge loads of beef chines, ribs, sirloins, legs,\nnecks, breasts, and shoulders of mutton, fillets of veal, whole hogs,\nand pigs in various stages, from the tender suckling to the\nstiff-jointed father of a family, whose \"back hair\" makes good\nclothes-brushes, and whose head is brought in at college feasts; it is\nnot that the air gives up its choicest fowl, and the waters yield their\nbest fish: plentiful as these are with us, they are nothing in profusion\nto the kindly greeting and good wishes that fly about in the cold\nweather, and that circulate from land's end to land's end. The whole\ncoast of England is surrounded by a general \"shake hands.\" The\ncoast-guard on their wintry walks do not greet each other more surely\nthan old friends all over England do: one clasps another, and another a\nthird, till from Dover to London and so on to York, from Yarmouth on the\neast to Bristol on the west, from John O'Groat's house at the extreme\nnorth to the Land's End, the very toe-nail of England on the south--a\nkindly greeting, we may be sure, will pass. And a cheerful thing it is,\non this day of universal equality, on this day which--\n\n \"To the cottage and the crown,\n Brought tidings of salvation down,\"\n\nto think that we can touch and hold each other with friendly hands all\nover our land. We all of us shake hands on Christmas Day. Leigh Hunt had\na quaint fancy that he had, as it were, by lineal descent, shaken hands\nwith Milton. He would argue thus: he knew a man who had shaken hands\nwith Dr. Johnson, who had clasped the hand of him who had shaken\nDryden's right hand, who himself had thus greeted Andrew Marvell, who\nknew Master Elwood, the Quaker friend of Milton, who knew Milton\nhimself; and thus, though our Sovereign has her hand kissed, not shaken,\nby her subjects, yet doubtless she will clasp the hands of her children,\nwho, shaking those of others, will let the greeting and the good wishes\ndescend to the lowest on that ladder of society which we are all trying\nto climb.\n\nAs for hearty good wishes, spoken in all kinds of voices, from the\ndeepest bass to the shrillest treble, we are sure that they circulate\nthroughout the little island, and are borne on the wings of the post all\nover the seas. Erasmus, coming to England in Henry VIII's time, was\nstruck with the deep heartiness of our wishes--good, ay, and bad too;\nbut he most admired the good ones. Other nations ask in their greetings\nhow a man carries himself, or how doth he stand with the world, or how\ndoth he find himself; but the English greet with a pious wish that God\nmay give one a good morning or a good evening, good day, or \"god'd'en,\"\nas the old writers have it; and when we part we wish that \"God may be\nwith you,\" though we now clip it into \"Good b'ye.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS SONG\n\n WILLIAM COX BENNETT\n\n Blow, wind, blow,\n Sing through yard and shroud;\n Pipe it shrilly and loud,\n Aloft as well as below;\n Sing in my sailor's ear\n The song I sing to you,\n \"Come home, my sailor true,\n For Christmas that comes so near.\"\n\n Go, wind, go,\n Hurry his home-bound sail,\n Through gusts that are edged with hail,\n Through winter, and sleet, and snow;\n Song, in my sailor's ear,\n Your shrilling and moans shall be,\n For he knows they sing him to me\n And Christmas that comes so near.\n\n * * * * *\n\n SERY\n\n RICHARD WATSON GILDER\n\n With wild surprise\n Four great eyes\n In two small heads,\n From neighboring beds\n Looked out--and winked--\n And glittered and blinked\n At a very queer sight\n In the dim starlight.\n\n As plain as can be\n A fairy tree\n Flashes and glimmers\n And shakes and shimmers.\n Red, green and blue\n Meet their view;\n Silver and gold\n Their sharp eyes behold;\n Small moon, big stars;\n And jams in jars,\n And cakes, and honey\n And thimbles, and money,\n Pink dogs, blue cats,\n Little squeaking rats,\n And candles, and dolls,\n And crackers, and polls,\n A real bird that sings,\n And tokens and favors,\n And all sorts of things\n For the little shavers.\n\n Four black eyes\n Grow big with surprise;\n And then grow bigger\n When a tiny figure,\n Jaunty and airy,\n (Is it a fairy?)\n From the tree-top cries,\n \"Open wide! Black Eyes!\n Come, children, wake now!\n Your joys you may take now!\"\n\n Quick as you can think\n Twenty small toes\n In four pretty rows,\n Like little piggies pink,\n All kick in the air--\n And before you can wink\n The tree stands bare!\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS SONG\n\n TUDOR JENKS\n\n When mother-love makes all things bright,\n When joy comes with the morning light,\n When children gather round their tree,\n Thou Christmas Babe,\n We sing of Thee!\n\n When manhood's brows are bent in thought,\n To learn what men of old have taught,\n When eager hands seek wisdom's key,\n Wise Temple Child,\n We learn of Thee!\n\n When doubts assail, and perils fright,\n When, groping blindly in the night,\n We strive to read life's mystery,\n Man of the Mount,\n We turn to Thee!\n\n When shadows of the valley fall,\n When sin and death the soul appall,\n One light we through the darkness see--\n Christ on the Cross,\n We cry to Thee!\n\n And when the world shall pass away,\n And dawns at length the perfect day,\n In glory shall our souls made free,\n Thou God enthroned,\n Then worship Thee.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCHRISTMAS\n\n(A Selection from \"Dreamthorp\")\n\nALEXANDER SMITH\n\nSitting here, I incontinently find myself holding a levee of departed\nChristmas nights. Silently, and without special call, into my study of\nimagination come these apparitions, clad in snowy mantles, brooched and\ngemmed with frosts. Their numbers I do not care to count, for I know\nthey are the numbers of many years. The visages of two or three are sad\nenough, but on the whole 'tis a congregation of jolly ghosts. The\nnostrils of my memory are assailed by a faint odor of plum-pudding and\nburnt brandy. I hear a sound as of light music, a whisk of women's\ndresses whirled round in dance, a click as of glasses pledged by\nfriends. Before one of these apparitions is a mound, as of a new-made\ngrave, on which the snow is lying. I know, I know! Drape thyself not in\nwhite like the others, but in mourning stole of crape; and instead of\ndance music, let there haunt around thee the service for the dead! I\nknow that sprig of mistletoe, O Spirit in the midst! Under it I swung\nthe girl I loved--girl no more now than I am a boy--and kissed her spite\nof blush and pretty shriek. And thee, too, with fragrant trencher in\nhand, over which blue tongues of flame are playing, I do know--most\nancient apparition of them all. I remember thy reigning night. Back to\nvery days of childhood am I taken by the ghostly raisins simmering in a\nghostly brandy flame. Where now the merry boys and girls that thrust\ntheir fingers in thy blaze? And now, when I think of it, thee also would\nI drape in black raiment, around thee also would I make the burial\nservice murmur.\n\n - - - - -\n\nThis, then, is Christmas, 1862. Everything is silent in Dreamthorp. The\nsmith's hammer reposes beside the anvil. The weaver's flying shuttle is\nat rest. Through the clear wintry sunshine the bells this morning rang\nfrom the gray church tower amid the leafless elms, and up the walk the\nvillagers trooped in their best dresses and their best faces--the latter\na little reddened by the sharp wind: mere redness in the middle aged; in\nthe maids, wonderful bloom to the eyes of their lovers--and took their\nplaces decently in the ancient pews. The clerk read the beautiful\nprayers of our Church, which seem more beautiful at Christmas than at\nany other period. For that very feeling which breaks down at this time\nthe barriers which custom, birth, or wealth have erected between man and\nman, strikes down the barrier of time which intervenes between the\nworshipper of to-day and the great body of worshippers who are at rest\nin their graves. On such a day as this, hearing these prayers, we feel a\nkinship with the devout generations who heard them long ago. The devout\nlips of the Christian dead murmured the responses which we now murmur;\nalong this road of prayer did their thoughts of our innumerable dead,\nour brothers and sisters in faith and hope, approach the Maker, even as\nours at present approach Him. Prayers over, the clergyman--who is no\nBoanerges, of Chrysostom, golden-mouthed, but a loving, genial-hearted,\npious man, the whole extent of his life from boyhood until now, full of\ncharity and kindly deeds, as autumn fields with heavy wheaten ears; the\nclergyman, I say--for the sentence is becoming unwieldy on my hands, and\none must double back to secure connexion--read out in that silvery voice\nof his, which is sweeter than any music to my ear, those chapters of the\nNew Testament that deal with the birth of the Saviour. And the red-faced\nrustic congregation hung on the good man's voice as he spoke of the\nInfant brought forth in a manger, of the shining angels that appeared in\nthe mid-air to the shepherds, of the miraculous star that took its\nstation in the sky, and of the wise men who came from afar and laid\ntheir gifts of frankincense and myrrh at the feet of the child. With the\nstory every one was familiar, but on that day, and backed by the\npersuasive melody of the reader's voice, it seemed to all quite new--at\nleast, they listened attentively as if it were. The discourse that\nfollowed possessed no remarkable thoughts; it dealt simply with the\ngoodness of the Maker of heaven and earth, and the shortness of time,\nwith the duties of thankfulness and charity to the poor; and I am\npersuaded that every one who heard returned to his house in a better\nframe of mind. And so the service remitted us all to our own homes, to\nwhat roast-beef and plum-pudding slender means permitted, to gatherings\naround cheerful fires, to half-pleasant, half-sad remembrances of the\ndead and the absent.\n\nFrom sermon I have returned like the others, and it is my purpose to\nhold Christmas alone. I have no one with me at table, and my own\nthoughts must be my Christmas guests. Sitting here, it is pleasant to\nthink how much kindly feeling exists this present night in England. By\nimagination I can taste of every table, pledge every toast, silently\njoin in every roar of merriment. I become a sort of universal guest.\nWith what propriety is this jovial season, placed amid dismal December\nrains and snows! How one pities the unhappy Australians, with whom\neverything is turned topsy-turvy, and who holds Christmas at midsummer!\nThe face of Christmas glows all the brighter for the cold. The heart\nwarms as the frost increases. Estrangements which have embittered the\nwhole year, melt in to-night's hospitable smile. There are warmer\nhandshakings on this night than during the by-past twelve months. Friend\nlives in the mind of friend. There is more charity at this time than at\nany other. You get up at midnight and toss your spare coppers to the\nhalf-benumbed musicians whiffling beneath your windows, although at any\nother time you would consider their performance a nuisance, and call\nangrily for the police. Poverty, and scanty clothing, and fireless\ngrates, come home at this season to the bosoms of the rich, and they\ngive of their abundance. The very red-breast of the woods enjoys his\nChristmas feast. Good feeling incarnates itself into plum-pudding. The\nMaster's words, \"The poor ye have always with you,\" wear at this time a\ndeep significance. For at least one night on each year over all\nChristendom there is brotherhood. And good men, sitting amongst their\nfamilies, or by a solitary fire like me, when they remember the light,\nthat shone over the poor clowns huddling on the Bethlehem plains\neighteen hundred years ago, the apparition of shining angels overhead,\nthe song \"Peace on earth and good-will toward men,\" which for the first\nhallowed the midnight air,--pray for that strain's fulfilment, that\nbattle and strife may vex the nations no more, that not only on\nChristmas eve, but the whole year round, men shall be brethren owning\none Father in heaven.\n\n - - - - -\n\nOnce again, for the purpose of taking away all solitariness of feeling,\nand of connecting myself, albeit only in fancy, with the proper gladness\nof the time, let me think of the comfortable family dinners now being\ndrawn to a close, of the good wishes uttered, and the presents made,\nquite valueless in themselves, yet felt to be invaluable from the\nfeelings from which they spring; of the little children, by sweetmeats\nlapped in Elysium; and of the pantomime, pleasantest Christmas sight of\nall, with the pit a sea of grinning delight, the boxes a tier of beaming\njuvenility, the galleries, piled up to the far-receding roof, a mass of\nhappy laughter which a clown's joke brings down in mighty avalanches. In\nthe pit, sober people relax themselves, and suck oranges, and quaff\nginger-pop; in the boxes, Miss, gazing through her curls, thinks the\nFairy Prince the prettiest creature she ever beheld, and Master, that to\nbe a clown must be the pinnacle of human happiness: while up in the\ngalleries the hard literal world is for an hour sponged out and\nobliterated; the chimney-sweep forgets, in his delight when the\npoliceman comes to grief, the harsh call of his master, and Cinderella,\nwhen the demons are foiled, and the long parted lovers meet and embrace\nin a paradise of light and pink gauze, the grates that must be scrubbed\nto-morrow. All bands and trappings of toil are for one hour loosened by\nthe hands of imaginative sympathy. What happiness a single theatre can\ncontain! And those of maturer years, or of more meditative temperament,\nsitting at the pantomime, can extract out of the shifting scenes\nmeanings suitable to themselves; for the pantomime is a symbol or\nadumbration of human life. Have we not all known Harlequin, who rules\nthe roast, and has the pretty Columbine to himself? Do we not all know\nthat rogue of a clown with his peculating fingers, who brazens out of\nevery scrape, and who conquers the world by good humour and ready wit?\nAnd have we not seen Pantaloons not a few, whose fate it is to get all\nthe kicks and lose all the halfpence, to fall through all the trap\ndoors, break their shins over all the barrows, and be forever captured\nby the policeman, while the true pilferer, the clown, makes his escape\nwith the booty in his possession? Methinks I know the realities of which\nthese things are but the shadows; have met with them in business, have\nsat with them at dinner. But to-night no such notions as these intrude;\nand when the torrent of fun, and transformation, and practical joking\nwhich rushed out of the beautiful fairy world gathered up again, the\nhigh-heaped happiness of the theatre will disperse itself, and the\nChristmas pantomime will be a pleasant memory the whole year through.\nThousands on thousands of people are having their midriffs tickled at\nthis moment; in fancy I see their lighted faces, in memory I see their\nmirth.\n\nBy this time I should think every Christmas dinner at Dreamthorp or\nelsewhere has come to an end. Even now in the great cities the theatres\nwill be dispersing. The clown has wiped the paint off his face.\nHarlequin has laid aside his wand, and divested himself of his\nglittering raiment; Pantaloon, after refreshing himself with a pint of\nporter, is rubbing his aching joints; and Columbine, wrapped up in a\nshawl, and with sleepy eyelids, has gone home in a cab. Soon, in the\ngreat theatre, the lights will be put out, and the empty stage will be\nleft to ghosts. Hark! midnight from the church tower vibrates through\nthe frosty air. I look out on the brilliant heaven, and see a milky way\nof powdery splendour wandering through it, and clusters and knots of\nstars and planets shining serenely in the blue frosty spaces; and the\narmed apparition of Orion, his spear pointing away into immeasurable\nspace, gleaming overhead; and the familiar constellation of the Plough\ndipping down into the west; and I think when I go in again that there is\none Christmas the less between me and my grave.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n PHILLIPS BROOKS\n\n The earth has grown old with its burden of care,\n But at Christmas it always is young,\n The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair,\n And its soul full of music bursts forth on the air,\n When the song of the angels is sung.\n\n It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night!\n On the snowflakes which cover thy sod\n The feet of the Christ-child fall gentle and white,\n And the voice of the Christ-child tells out with delight\n That mankind are the children of God.\n\n On the sad and the lonely, the wretched and poor,\n The voice of the Christ-child shall fall;\n And to every blind wanderer open the door\n Of hope that he dared not to dream of before,\n With a sunshine of welcome for all.\n\n The feet of the humblest may walk in the field\n Where the feet of the Holiest trod,\n This, then, is the marvel to mortals revealed\n When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed,\n That mankind are the children of God.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE END OF THE PLAY\n\n WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY\n\n The play is done--the curtain drops,\n Slow-falling to the prompter's bell:\n A moment yet the actor stops,\n And looks around, to say farewell.\n It is an irksome word and task;\n And, when he's laughed and said his say,\n He shows, as he removes his mask,\n A face that's anything but gay.\n\n One word, ere yet the evening ends,\n Let's close it with a parting rhyme;\n And pledge a hand to all young friends,\n As fits the merry Christmas time.\n On life's wide scene you, too, have parts\n That fate erelong shall bid you play;\n Good-night!--with honest, gentle hearts\n A kindly greeting go alway!\n\n Good-night!--I'd say the griefs, the joys,\n Just hinted in this mimic page,\n The triumphs and defeats of boys,\n Are but repeated in our age.\n I'd say your woes were not less keen,\n Your hopes more vain than those of men,\n Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen\n At forty-five played o'er again.\n\n I'd say we suffer and we strive,\n Not less nor more as men than boys,\n With grizzled beards at forty-five\n As erst at twelve in corduroys;\n And if, in time of sacred youth,\n We learned at home to love and pray,\n Pray Heaven that early love and truth\n May never wholly pass away.\n\n And in the world as in the school\n I'd say how fate may change and shift,\n The prize be sometimes to the fool,\n The race not always to the swift:\n The strong may yield, the good may fall,\n The great man be a vulgar clown,\n The knave be lifted over all,\n The kind cast pitilessly down.\n\n Who knows the inscrutable design?\n Blessed be He who took and gave!\n Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,\n Be weeping at her darling's grave?\n We bow to Heaven that willed it so,\n That darkly rules the fate of all,\n That sends the respite or the blow,\n That's free to give or to recall.\n\n This crowns his feast with wine and wit,--\n Who brought him to that mirth and state?\n His betters, see, below him sit,\n Or hunger hopeless at the gate!\n Who bade the mud from Dives's wheel\n To spurn the rags of Lazarus?\n Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,\n Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.\n\n So each shall mourn, in life's advance,\n Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;\n Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,\n And longing passion unfulfilled.\n Amen!--whatever fate be sent,\n Pray God the heart may kindly glow,\n Although the head with cares be bent,\n And whitened with the winter snow!\n\n Come wealth or want, come good or ill,\n Let young and old accept their part,\n And bow before the awful will,\n And bear it with an honest heart.\n Who misses or who wins the prize,\n Go, lose or conquer, as you can;\n But if you fail, or if you rise,\n Be each, pray God, a gentleman!\n\n A gentleman, or old or young!\n (Bear kindly with my humble lays;)\n The sacred chorus first was sung\n Upon the first of Christmas days;\n The shepherds heard it overhead,--\n The joyful angels raised it then:\n \"Glory to Heaven on high,\" it said,\n \"And peace on earth to gentle men!\"\n\n My song, save this, is little worth;\n I lay the weary pen aside,\n And wish you health and love and mirth,\n As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.\n As fits the holy Christmas birth,\n Be this, good friends, our carol still:\n Be peace on earth, be peace on earth\n To men of gentle will!\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRIST'S NATIVITY\n\n HENRY VAUGHAN\n\n Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!\n It is the Birthday of thy King.\n Awake! awake!\n The sun doth shake\n Light from his locks, and, all the way\n Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.\n\n Awake! awake! hark how th' wood rings,\n Winds whisper, and the busy springs\n A concert make!\n Awake! awake!\n Man is their high-priest, and should rise\n To offer up the sacrifice.\n\n I would I were some bird, or star,\n Fluttering in woods, or lifted far\n Above this inn,\n And road of sin!\n Then either star or bird should be\n Shining or singing still to thee.\n\n I would I had in my best part\n Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart\n Where so clean as\n Thy manger was!\n But I am all filth, and obscene;\n Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.\n\n Sweet Jesu! will then. Let no more\n This leper haunt and soil thy door!\n Cure him, ease him,\n O release him!\n And let once more, by mystic birth,\n The Lord of life be born in earth.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCHRISTMAS DREAMS\n\nCHRISTOPHER NORTH\n\nTo-morrow is Merry Christmas; and when its night descends there will be\nmirth and music, and the light sounds of the merry-twinkling feet within\nthese now so melancholy walls--and sleep now reigning over all the house\nsave this one room, will be banished far over the sea--and morning will\nbe reluctant to allow her light to break up the innocent orgies.\n\nWere every Christmas of which we have been present at the celebration,\npainted according to nature--what a Gallery of Pictures! True that a\nsameness would pervade them all--but only that kind of sameness that\npervades the nocturnal heavens. One clear night always is, to common\neyes, just like another; for what hath any night to show but one moon\nand some stars--a blue vault, with here a few braided, and there a few\ncastellated, clouds? yet no two nights ever bore more than a family\nresemblance to each other before the studious and instructed eye of him\nwho has long communed with Nature, and is familiar with every smile and\nfrown on her changeful, but not capricious, countenance. Even so with\nthe Annual Festivals of the heart. Then our thoughts are the stars that\nillumine those skies--and on ourselves it depends whether they shall be\nblack as Erebus, or brighter than Aurora.\n\n\"Thoughts! that like spirits trackless come and go\"--is a fine line of\nCharles Lloyd's. But no bird skims, no arrow pierces the air, without\nproducing some change in the Universe, which will last to the day of\ndoom. No coming and going is absolutely trackless; nor irrecoverable by\nNature's law is any consciousness, however ghostlike; though many a one,\neven the most blissful, never does return, but seems to be buried among\nthe dead. But they are not dead--but only sleep; though to us who recall\nthem not, they are as they had never been, and we, wretched ingrates,\nlet them lie for ever in oblivion! How passing sweet when of their own\naccord they arise to greet us in our solitude!--as a friend who, having\nsailed away to a foreign land in our youth, has been thought to have\ndied many long years ago, may suddenly stand before us, with face still\nfamiliar and name reviving in a moment, and all that he once was to us\nbrought from utter forgetfulness close upon our heart.\n\nMy Father's House! How it is ringing like a grove in spring, with the\ndin of creatures happier, a thousand times happier, than all the birds\non earth. It is the Christmas Holidays--Christmas Day itself--Christmas\nNight--and Joy in every bosom intensifies Love. Never before were we\nbrothers and sisters so dear to one another--never before had our hearts\nso yearned towards the authors of our being--our blissful being! There\nthey sat--silent in all that outcry--composed in all that\ndisarray--still in all that tumult; yet, as one or other flying imp\nsweeps round the chair, a father's hand will playfully strive to catch a\nprisoner--a mother's gentler touch on some sylph's disordered symar be\nfelt almost as a reproof, and for a moment slacken the fairy flight. One\nold game treads on the heels of another--twenty within the hour--and\nmany a new game never heard of before nor since, struck out by the\ncollision of kindred spirits in their glee, the transitory fancies of\ngenius inventive through very delight. Then, all at once, there is a\nhush, profound as ever falls on some little plat within a forest when\nthe moon drops behind the mountain, and small green-robed People of\nPeace at once cease their pastime, and vanish. For she--the\nSilver-Tongued--is about to sing an old ballad, words and air alike\nhundreds of years old--and sing she doth, while tears begin to fall,\nwith a voice too mournfully beautiful long to breathe below--and, ere\nanother Christmas shall have come with the falling snows, doomed to be\nmute on earth--but to be hymning in Heaven.\n\nOf that House--to our eyes the fairest of earthly dwellings--with its\nold ivyed turrets, and orchard-garden bright alike with fruit and with\nflowers, not one stone remains. The very brook that washed its\nfoundations has vanished along with them--and a crowd of other\nbuildings, wholly without character, has long stood where here a single\ntree, and there a grove, did once render so lovely that small demesne;\nwhich, how could we, who thought it the very heart of Paradise, even for\none moment have believed was one day to be blotted out of being, and we\nourselves--then so linked in love that the band which bound us\naltogether was, in its gentle pressure, felt not nor understood--to be\nscattered far and abroad, like so many leaves that after one wild\nparting rustle are separated by roaring wind-eddies, and brought\ntogether no more! The old Abbey--it still survives; and there, in that\ncorner of the burial-ground, below that part of the wall which was last\nin ruins, and which we often climbed to reach the flowers and\nnests--there, in hopes of a joyful resurrection, lie the Loved and\nVenerated--for whom, even now that so many grief-deadening years have\nfled, we feel, in this holy hour, as if it were impiety so utterly to\nhave ceased to weep--so seldom to have remembered!--And then, with a\npowerlessness of sympathy to keep pace with youth's frantic grief, the\nfloods we all wept together--at no long interval--on those pale and\nplacid faces as they lay, most beautiful and most dreadful to behold, in\ntheir coffins.\n\nWe believe that there is genius in all childhood. But the creative joy\nthat makes it great in its simplicity dies a natural death or is killed,\nand genius dies with it. In favored spirits, neither few nor many, the\njoy and the might survive; for you must know that unless it be\naccompanied with imagination, memory is cold and lifeless. The forms it\nbrings before us must be inspired with beauty--that is, with affection\nor passion. All minds, even the dullest, remember the days of their\nyouth; but all cannot bring back the indescribable brightness of that\nblessed season. They who would know what they once were, must not merely\nrecollect but they must imagine, the hills and valleys--if any such\nthere were--in which their childhood played, the torrents, the\nwaterfalls, the lakes, the heather, the rocks, the heaven's imperial\ndome, the raven floating only a little lower than the eagle in the sky.\nTo imagine what he then heard and saw, he must imagine his own nature.\nHe must collect from many vanished hours the power of his untamed heart,\nand he must, perhaps, transfuse also something of his maturer mind into\nthese dreams of his former being, thus linking the past with the present\nby a continuous chain, which, though often invisible, is never broken.\nSo is it too with the calmer affections that have grown within the\nshelter of a roof. We do not merely remember, we imagine our father's\nhouse, the fireside, all his features then most living, now dead and\nburied; the very manner of his smile, every tone of his voice. We must\ncombine with all the passionate and plastic power of imagination the\nspirit of a thousand happy hours into one moment; and we must invest\nwith all that we ever felt to be venerable such an image as alone can\nsatisfy our filial hearts. It is thus that imagination, which first\naided the growth of all our holiest and happiest affections, can\npreserve them to us unimpaired--\n\n \"For she can give us back the dead,\n Even in the loveliest looks they wore.\"\n\nThen came a New Series of Christmases, celebrated, one year in this\nfamily, another year in that--none present but those whom Charles Lamb\nthe Delightful calleth the \"old familiar faces;\" something in all\nfeatures, and all tones of voice, and all manners, betokening origin\nfrom one root--relations all, happy, and with no reason either to be\nashamed or proud of their neither high nor humble birth, their lot being\ncast within that pleasant realm, \"the Golden Mean,\" where the dwellings\nare connecting links between the hut and the hall--fair edifices\nresembling manse or mansion-house, according as the atmosphere expands\nor contracts their dimensions--in which Competence is next-door neighbor\nto Wealth, and both of them within the daily walk of Contentment.\n\nMerry Christmases they were indeed--one Lady always presiding, with a\nfigure that once had been the stateliest among the stately, but then\nsomewhat bent, without being bowed down, beneath an easy weight of most\nvenerable years. Sweet was her tremulous voice to all her\ngrandchildren's ears. Nor did these solemn eyes, bedimmed into a\npathetic beauty, in any degree restrain the glee that sparkled in orbs\nthat had as yet shed not many tears, but tears of joy or pity. Dearly\nshe loved all those mortal creatures whom she was soon about to leave;\nbut she sat in sunshine even within the shadow of death; and the \"voice\nthat called her home\" had so long been whispering in her ear, that its\naccents had become dear to her, and consolatory every word that was\nheard in the silence, as from another world.\n\nWhether we were indeed all so witty as we thought ourselves--uncles,\naunts, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, cousins, and \"the rest,\" it\nmight be presumptuous in us, who were considered by ourselves and a few\nothers not the least amusing of the whole set, at this distance of time\nto decide--especially in the affirmative; but how the roof did ring with\nsally, pun, retort, and repartee! Ay, with pun--a species of\nimpertinence for which we have therefore a kindness even to this day.\nHad incomparable Thomas Hood had the good fortune to have been born a\ncousin of ours, how with that fine fancy of his would he have shone at\nthose Christmas festivals, eclipsing us all! Our family, through all its\ndifferent branches, has ever been famous for bad voices, but good ears;\nand we think we hear ourselves--all those uncles and aunts, nephews and\nnieces, and cousins--singing now! Easy it is to \"warble melody\" as to\nbreathe air. But we hope harmony is the most difficult of all things to\npeople in general, for to us it was impossible; and what attempts ours\nused to be at Seconds! Yet the most woful failures were rapturously\nencored; and ere the night was done we spoke with most extraordinary\nvoices indeed, every one hoarser than another, till at last, walking\nhome with a fair cousin, there was nothing left it but a tender glance\nof the eye--a tender pressure of the hand--for cousins are not\naltogether sisters, and although partaking of that dearest character,\npossess, it may be, some peculiar and appropriate charms of their own;\nas didst thou, Emily the \"Wild-cap!\"--That _soubriquet_ all forgotten\nnow--for now thou art a matron, nay a Grandam, and troubled with an elf\nfair and frolicsome as thou thyself wert of yore, when the gravest and\nwisest withstood not the witchery of thy dancings, thy singings, and thy\nshowering smiles.\n\nOn rolled Suns and Seasons--the old died--the elderly became old--and\nthe young, one after another, were wafted joyously away on the wings of\nhope, like birds almost as soon as they can fly, ungratefully forsaking\ntheir nests and the groves in whose safe shadow they first essayed their\npinions; or like pinnaces that, after having for a few days trimmed\ntheir snow-white sails in the land-locked bay, close to whose shores of\nsilvery sand had grown the trees that furnished timber both for hull and\nmast, slip their tiny cables on some summer day, and gathering every\nbreeze that blows, go dancing over the waves in sunshine, and melt far\noff into the main. Or, haply, some were like fair young trees,\ntransplanted during no favorable season, and never to take root in\nanother soil, but soon leaf and branch to wither beneath the tropic sun,\nand die almost unheeded by those who knew not how beautiful they had\nbeen beneath the dews and mists of their own native climate.\n\nVain images! and therefore chosen by fancy not too plainly to touch the\nheart. For some hearts grew cold and forbidding with selfish\ncares--some, warm as ever in their own generous glow, were touched by\nthe chill of Fortune's frowns, ever worst to bear when suddenly\nsucceeding her smiles--some, to rid themselves of painful regrets, took\nrefuge in forgetfulness, and closed their eyes to the past--duty\nbanished some abroad, and duty imprisoned others at home--estrangements\nthere were, at first unconscious and unintended, yet erelong, though\ncauseless, complete--changes were wrought insensibly, invisibly, even in\nthe innermost nature of those who being friends knew no guile, yet came\nthereby at last to be friends no more--unrequited love broke some\nbonds--requited love relaxed others--the death of one altered the\nconditions of many--and so--year after year--the Christmas Meeting was\ninterrupted--deferred--till finally it ceased with one accord, unrenewed\nand unrenewable. For when Some Things cease for a time--that time turns\nout to be forever.\n\nSurvivors of those happy circles! wherever ye be--should these imperfect\nremembrances of days of old chance, in some thoughtful pause of life's\nbusy turmoil, for a moment to meet your eyes, let there be towards the\ninditer a few throbs of revived affection in your hearts--for his,\nthough \"absent long and distant far,\" has never been utterly forgetful\nof the loves and friendships that charmed his youth. To be parted in\nbody is not to be estranged in spirit--and many a dream and many a\nvision, sacred to nature's best affections, may pass before the mind of\none whose lips are silent. \"Out of sight out of mind\" is rather the\nexpression of a doubt--of a fear--than a belief or a conviction. The\nsoul surely has eyes that can see the objects it loves, through all\nintervening darkness--and of those more especially dear it keeps within\nitself almost undimmed images, on which, when they know it not, think it\nnot, believe it not, it often loves to gaze, as on relics imperishable\nas they are hallowed.\n\nAll hail! rising beautiful and magnificent through the mists of\nmorning--ye Woods, Groves, Towers, and Temples, overshadowing that\nfamous Stream beloved by all the Muses! Through this midnight\nhush--methinks we hear faint and far-off sacred music--\n\n \"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,\n The pealing anthem swells the note of praise!\"\n\nHow steeped now in the stillness of moonlight are all those pale,\npillared Churches, Courts and Cloisters, Shrines and Altars, with here\nand there a Statue standing in the shade, or Monument sacred to the\nmemory of the pious--the immortal dead. Some great clock is striking\nfrom one of many domes--from the majestic Tower of St. Mary\nMagdalen--and in the deepened hush that follows the solemn sound, the\nmingling waters of the Cherwell and the Isis soften the severe silence\nof the holy night.\n\nRemote from kindred, and from all the friendships that were the native\ngrowth of the fair fields where our boyhood and our youth had roamed and\nmeditated and dreamed, those were indeed years of high and lofty mood\nwhich held us in converse with the shades of great Poets and ages of old\nin Rhedicyna's hallowed groves, still, serene, and solemn, as that Attic\nAcademe where divine Plato, with all Hybla on his lips, discoursed such\nexcellent music that his life seemed to the imagination spiritualized--a\ndim reminiscence of some former state of being. How sank then the\nChristmas Service of that beautiful Liturgy into our hearts! Not\nfaithless we to the simple worship that our forefathers had loved; but\nConscience told us there was no apostasy in the feelings that rose\nwithin us when that deep organ began to blow, that choir of youthful\nvoices so sweetly to join the diapason,--our eyes fixed all the while on\nthat divine Picture over the Altar, of our Saviour\n\n \"Bearing his cross up rueful Calvary.\"\n\nThe City of Palaces disappears--and in the setting sunlight we behold\nmountains of soft crimson snow! The sun hath set, and even more\nbeautiful are the bright-starred nights of winter, than summer in all\nits glories beneath the broad moons of June. Through the woods of\nWindermere, from cottage to cottage, by coppice-pathways winding up to\ndwellings among the hill-rocks where the birch-trees cease to grow--\n\n \"Nodding their heads, before us go,\n The merry minstrelsy.\"\n\nThey sing a salutation at every door, familiarly naming old and young by\ntheir Christian names; and the eyes that look upward from the vales to\nthe hanging huts among the plats and cliffs, see the shadows of the\ndancers ever and anon crossing the light of the star-like window, and\nthe merry music is heard like an echo dwelling in the sky. Across those\nhumble thresholds often did we on Christmas-week nights of\nyore--wandering through our solitary silvan haunts, under the branches\nof trees within whose hollow trunks the squirrel slept--venture in,\nunasked perhaps, but not unwelcome, and, in the kindly spirit of the\nseason, did our best to merrify the Festival by tale or song. And now\nthat we behold them not, are all those woods, and cliffs, and rivers,\nand tarns, and lakes, as beautiful as when they softened and brightened\nbeneath our living eyes, half-creating, as they gazed, the very world\nthey worshipped! And are all those hearths as bright as of yore, without\nthe shadow of our figure! And the roofs, do they ring as mirthfully,\nthough our voice be forgotten. We hang over Westmoreland, an\nunobserved--but observant star. Mountains, hills, rocks, knolls, vales,\nwoods, groves, single trees, dwelling--all asleep! O Lakes! but we are\nindeed, by far too beautiful! O fortunate Isles! too fair for human\nhabitation, fit abode for the Blest! It will not hide itself--it will\nnot sink into the earth--it will rise; and risen, it will stand steady\nwith its shadow in the overpowering moonlight, that ONE TREE! that ONE\nHOUSE!--and well might the sight of ye two together--were it\nharder--break our heart. But hard at all it is not--therefore it is but\ncrushed.\n\nCan it be that there we are utterly forgotten! No star hanging higher\nthan the Andes in heaven--but sole-sitting at midnight in a small\nchamber--a melancholy man are we--and there seems a smile of\nconsolation, O Wordsworth! on thy sacred Bust.\n\nAlas! how many heavenly days, \"seeming immortal in their depth of rest,\"\nhave died and been forgotten! Treacherous and ungrateful is our memory\neven of bliss that overflowed our being as light our habitation. Our\nspirit's deepest intercommunion with nature has no place in her\nrecords--blanks are there that ought to have been painted with\nimperishable imagery, and steeped in sentiment fresh as the morning on\nlife's golden hills. Yet there is mercy in this dispensation--for who\ncan bear to behold the light of bliss re-arising from the past on the\nghastlier gloom of present misery? The phantoms that will not come when\nwe call on them to comfort us, are too often at our side when in our\nanguish we could almost pray that they might be reburied in oblivion.\nSuch hauntings as these are not as if they were visionary--they come and\ngo like forms and shapes still imbued with life. Shall we vainly stretch\nout our arms to embrace and hold them fast, or as vainly seek to\nintrench ourselves by thought of this world against their visitation?\nThe soul in its sickness knows not whether it be the duty of love to\nresign itself to indifference or to despair. Shall it enjoy life, they\nbeing dead? Shall we, the survivors, for yet a little while, walk in\nother companionship out into the day, and let the sunbeams settle on\ntheir heads as they used to do, or cover them with dust and ashes, and\nshow to those in heaven that love for them is now best expressed by\nremorse and penitence?\n\nSometimes we have fears about our memory--that it is decaying; for,\nlately, many ordinary yet interesting occurrences and events, which we\nregarded at the time with pain or pleasure, have been slipping away\nalmost into oblivion, and have often alarmed us of a sudden by their\nreturn, not to any act of recollection, but of themselves, sometimes\nwretchedly out of place and season, the mournful obtruding upon the\nmerry, and worse, the merry upon the mournful--confusion, by no fault of\nours, of piteous and gladsome faces--tears where smiles were a duty as\nwell as a delight, and smiles where nature demanded, and religion\nhallowed, a sacrifice of tears.\n\nFor a good many years we have been tied to town in winter by fetters as\nfine as frost-work filigree, which we could not break without destroying\na whole world of endearment. That seems an obscure image; but it means\nwhat the Germans would call in English--our winter environment. We are\nimprisoned in a net; yet we can see it when we choose--just as a bird\ncan see, when he chooses, the wires of his cage, that are invisible in\nhis happiness, as he keeps hopping and fluttering about all day long, or\nhaply dreaming on his perch with his poll under his plumes--as free in\nconfinement as if let loose into the boundless sky. That seems an\nobscure image too; but we mean, in truth, the prison unto which we doom\nourselves no prison is; and we have improved on that idea, for we have\nbuilt our own--and are prisoner, turnkey, and jailer all in one, and\n'tis noiseless as the house of sleep. Or what if we declare that\nChristopher North is a king in his palace, with no subjects but his own\nthoughts--his rule peaceful over those lights and shadows--and\nundisputed to reign over them his right divine.\n\nThe opening year in a town, now answers in all things to our heart's\ndesire. How beautiful the smoky air! The clouds have a homely look as\nthey hang over the happy families of houses, and seem as if they loved\ntheir birthplace;--all unlike those heartless clouds that keep\n_stravaiging_ over mountain-tops, and have no domicile in the sky! Poets\nspeak of living rocks, but what is their life to that of houses? Who\never saw a rock with eyes--that is, with windows? Stone-blind all, and\nstone-deaf, and with hearts of stone; whereas who ever saw a house\nwithout eyes--that is, windows? Our own is an Argus; yet the good old\nConservative grudges not the assessed taxes--his optics are as cheerful\nas the day that lends them light, and they love to salute the setting\nsun, as if a hundred beacons, level above level, were kindled along a\nmountain side. He might safely be pronounced a madman who preferred an\navenue of trees to a street. Why, trees have no chimneys; and, were you\nto kindle a fire in the hollow of an oak, you would soon be as dead as a\nDruid. It won't do to talk to us of sap, and the circulation of sap. A\ngrove in winter, hole and branch--leaves it has none--is as dry as a\nvolume of sermons. But a street, or a square, is full of \"vital sparks\nof heavenly flame\" as a volume of poetry, and the heart's blood\ncirculates through the system like rosy wine.\n\nBut a truce to comparisons; for we are beginning to feel contrition for\nour crime against the country, and, with humbled head and heart, we\nbeseech you to pardon us--ye rocks of Pavey-Ark, the pillared palaces of\nthe storms--ye clouds, now wreathing a diadem for the forehead of\nHelvellyn--ye trees, that hang the shadows of your undying beauty over\nthe \"one perfect chrysolite,\" of blessed Windermere!\n\nOur meaning is transparent now as the hand of an apparition waving peace\nand good-will to all dwellers in the land of dreams. In plainer but not\nsimpler words (for words are like flowers, often rich in their\nsimplicity--witness the Lily, and Solomon's Song)--Christian people all,\nwe wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New-Year, in town or in\ncountry--or in ships at sea.\n\n * * * * *\n\nKEEPING CHRISTMAS\n\nRomans, xiv, 6: _He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord,_\n\nHENRY VAN DYKE\n\n[From \"The Spirit of Christmas.\"]\n\nIt is a good thing to observe Christmas day. The mere marking of times\nand seasons, when men agree to stop work and make merry together, is a\nwise and wholesome custom. It helps one to feel the supremacy of the\ncommon life over the individual life. It reminds a man to set his own\nlittle watch, now and then, by the great clock of humanity which runs on\nsun time.\n\nBut there is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and\nthat is, keeping Christmas.\n\nAre you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to\nremember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world\nowes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the\nbackground, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to\ndo a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your\nfellowmen are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their\nfaces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only\ngood reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of\nlife, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of\ncomplaints against the management of the universe, and look around you\nfor a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness--are you willing\nto do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.\n\nAre you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of\nlittle children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who\nare growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask\nyourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that\nother people have to bear in their hearts; to try to understand what\nthose who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting\nfor them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light\nand less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall\nbehind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts and a garden for your\nkindly feelings, with the gate open--are you willing to do these things\neven for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.\n\nAre you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the\nworld--stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death--and\nthat the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years\nago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep\nChristmas.\n\nAnd if you keep it for a day, why not always?\n\nBut you can never keep it alone.\n\n * * * * *\n\n MARK WELL MY HEAVY DOLEFUL TALE\n\n ANONYMOUS\n\n Mark well my heavy doleful tale,\n For Twelfth-day now is come,\n And now I must no longer sing,\n And say no words but mum;\n For I perforce must take my leave\n Of all my dainty cheer,\n Plum-porridge, roast beef, and minced pies,\n My strong ale and my beer.\n\n Kind-hearted Christmas, now adieu,\n For I with thee must part,\n And for to take my leave of thee\n Doth grieve me at the heart;\n Thou wert an ancient housekeeper,\n And mirth with meat didst keep,\n But thou art going out of town,\n Which makes me for to weep.\n\n God knoweth whether I again\n Thy merry face shall see,\n Which to good-fellows and the poor\n That was so frank and free.\n Thou lovedst pastime with thy heart,\n And eke good company;\n Pray hold me up for fear I swoon,\n For I am like to die.\n\n Come, butler, fill a brimmer up\n To cheer my fainting heart,\n That to old Christmas I may drink\n Before he doth depart;\n And let each one that's in this room\n With me likewise condole,\n And for to cheer their spirits sad\n Let each one drink a bowl.\n\n And when the same it hath gone round\n Then fall unto your cheer,\n For you do know that Christmas time\n It comes but once a year.\n But this good draught which I have drunk\n Hath comforted my heart,\n For I was very fearful that\n My stomach would depart.\n\n Thanks to my master and my dame\n That doth such cheer afford;\n God bless them, that each Christmas they\n May furnish thus their board.\n My stomach having come to me,\n I mean to have a bout,\n Intending to eat most heartily;\n Good friends, I do not flout.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI\n\n In the bleak mid-winter\n Frosty wind made moan,\n Earth stood hard as iron,\n Water like a stone;\n Snow had fallen, snow on snow,\n Snow on snow,\n In the bleak mid-winter\n Long ago.\n\n Our God, Heaven cannot hold him\n Nor earth sustain;\n Heaven and earth shall flee away,\n When he comes to reign.\n In the bleak mid-winter\n A stable-place sufficed\n The Lord God Almighty,\n Jesus Christ.\n\n Angels and archangels\n May have gathered there;\n Cherubim and seraphim\n Thronged the air.\n But only His Mother,\n In her maiden bliss,\n Worshipped her Beloved\n With a kiss.\n\n What can I give Him,\n Poor as I am?\n If I were a shepherd\n I would bring a lamb;\n If I were a wise man,\n I would do my part,--\n Yet what I can I give Him,\n Give my heart.\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE GLORIOUS SONG OF OLD\n\n EDMUND H. SEARS\n\n It came upon the midnight clear,\n That glorious song of old,\n From angels bending near the earth\n To touch their harps of gold,\n \"Peace on the earth, good-will to men,\n From heaven's all-gracious King\"--\n The world in solemn stillness lay\n To hear the angels sing.\n\n Still through the cloven skies they come\n With peaceful wings unfurled,\n And still their heavenly music floats\n O'er all the weary world;\n Above its sad and lowly plains\n They bend on hovering wing,\n And ever o'er its Babel-sounds\n The blessed angels sing.\n\n But with the woes of sin and strife\n The world has suffered long;\n Beneath the angel-strain have rolled\n Two thousand years of wrong.\n And man at war with man hears not\n The love-song which they bring;\n Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife,\n And hear the angels sing!\n\n And ye beneath life's crushing load,\n Whose forms are bending low,\n Who toil along the climbing way\n With painful steps and slow,\n Look now! for glad and golden hours\n Come swiftly on the wing:--\n Oh, rest beside the weary road\n And hear the angels sing!\n\n For lo! the days the hastening on\n By prophet-bards foretold,\n When with the ever-circling years\n Comes round the age of gold;\n When peace shall over all the earth\n Its ancient splendors fling,\n And the whole world give back the song\n Which now the angels sing.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR CHILDREN\n\n MARTIN LUTHER\n\n Good news from heaven the angels bring,\n Glad tidings to the earth they sing:\n To us this day a child is given,\n To crown us with the joy of heaven.\n\n This is the Christ, our God and Lord,\n Who in all need shall aid afford:\n He will Himself our Saviour be,\n From sin and sorrow set us free.\n\n To us that blessedness He brings,\n Which from the Father's bounty springs:\n That in the heavenly realm we may\n With Him enjoy eternal day.\n\n All hail, Thou noble Guest, this morn,\n Whose love did not the sinner scorn!\n In my distress Thou cam'st to me:\n What thanks shall I return to Thee?\n\n Were earth a thousand times as fair,\n Beset with gold and jewels rare,\n She yet were far too poor to be\n A narrow cradle, Lord, for Thee.\n\n Ah, dearest Jesus, Holy Child!\n Make Thee a bed, soft, undefiled,\n Within my heart, that it may be\n A quiet chamber kept for Thee.\n\n Praise God upon His heavenly throne,\n Who gave to us His only Son:\n For this His hosts, on joyful wing,\n A blest New Year of mercy sing.\n\n * * * * *\n\nON SANTA CLAUS\n\nGEORGE A. BAKER, JR.\n\nBrave old times those were. In the first half of the seventeenth\ncentury, we mean; before there was any such place as New York and\nManhattan Island was occupied mostly by woods, and had a funny little\nDutch town, known as New Amsterdam, sprouting out of the southern end of\nit. Those were the days of solid comfort, of mighty pipes, and unctuous\ndoughnuts. Winter had not yet been so much affected by artificiality as\nhe is now-a-days, and was contented to be what he is, not trying to pass\nhimself off for Spring; and Christmas--well, it was Christmas. Do you\nknow why? Because in those times Santa Claus used to live in a great old\nhouse in the midst of an evergreen forest, just back of the Hudson, and\nabout half-way between New Amsterdam and Albany. A house built out of\nfunny little Dutch bricks, with gables whose sides looked like\nstair-cases, and a roof of red tiles with more weathercocks and chimneys\nsticking out of it than you could count. Phew, how cold it was there!\nThe wind roared and shouted around the house, and the snow fell steadily\nhalf the year, so that the summers never melted it away till winter came\nagain. And Santa Claus thought that was the greatest pleasure in life:\nfor he loved to have enormous fires in the great fire-places, and the\ncolder it was, the bigger fires he would have, and the louder the winds\nroared around his chimney. There he sat and worked away all the year\nround, making dolls, and soldiers, and Noah's arks, and witches, and\nevery other sort of toy you can think of. When Christmas Eve came he'd\nharness up his reindeers, Dasher, and Prancer, and Vixen, and the rest\nof them, and wrap himself up in furs, and light his big pipe, and cram\nhis sled full of the doll-babies and Noah's arks, and all the other toys\nhe'd been making, and off he'd go with a great shout and tremendous\nringing of sleigh-bells. Before morning he'd be up and down every\nchimney in New Amsterdam, filling the stout grey yarn stockings with\ntoys, and apples, and ginger-bread, laughing and chuckling so all the\nwhile, that the laughs and chuckles didn't get out of the air for a week\nafterwards.\n\nBut the old house has gone to ruin, and Santa Claus doesn't live there\nany longer. You see he married about forty years ago; his wife was a\nGrundy, daughter of old Mrs. Grundy, of Fifth Avenue, of whom you've all\nheard. She married him for his money, and couldn't put up with his plain\nway of living and his careless jollity. He is such an easy-going, good\nnatured old soul, that she manages him without any trouble. So the first\nthing she did was to make him change his name to St. Nicholas; then she\nmade him give up his old house, and move into town; then she sent away\nthe reindeers, for she didn't know what Ma _would_ say to such an\noutlandish turn-out; then she threw away his pipe because it was vulgar,\nand the first Christmas Eve that he went off and stayed out all night\nshe had hysterics, and declared she'd go home to her Ma, and get a\ndivorce if he ever did such a thing again. She'd have put a stop to his\ngiving away toys every year, too, only she thought it looked well, and\nas it was, she wouldn't let him make them himself any more, but\ncompelled him to spend enormous sums in bringing them from Paris, and\nVienna, and Nuremberg.\n\nSo now Santa Claus is St. Nicholas, and lives in a brown stone house on\nFifth Avenue, a great deal handsomer than he can afford, and keeps a\ncarriage, not because he wants it, but because Mrs. Shoddy, next door,\nkeeps one; and loves, not to be jolly himself and to make everybody else\nso, but to please his wife's mother. He has to give an awful pull, what\nwith his wife's extravagance, and the high prices of Parisian and\nViennese toys, to make both ends meet, although he does speculate in\nstocks, and is very lucky. Instead of looking forward to Christmas with\npleasure, and thinking what a good time he will have, he pulls out his\nledger, and groans, and wonders how on earth he's going to make his\npresents this year, and thinks he would stop giving them entirely, only\nhe's so mortally afraid of his mother-in-law, and he knows what she'd\nsay if he did. So he borrows money wherever he can, and sends over to\nParis for fans, and opera-glasses, and bon-bon boxes, and jewelry, and\nwhen they come he sits down in his parlor and lets his wife tell him\njust what to do with them. So she takes out her list and runs over the\nnames; she has all the rich people down, for she is a religious woman,\nand the Bible says \"unto him that hath, it shall be given.\" This is the\nway she talks: \"The little Croesuses must have some very elegant things,\nof course; their mother's a horrid old cat, but Croesus could help you\nvery much in business. And there are the Centlivres; we must pick out\nsomething magnificent for them; they give a party Christmas night: of\ncourse the presents will be on exhibition, and I shall sink with shame\nif any one else's are handsomer than ours.\" So she goes on, until all\nthe rich people are disposed of. Then Santa Claus asks: \"How about the\nBrinkers, my dear?\" The Brinkers are great favorites of his. \"Good\ngracious, dearest! How often have I told you, you mustn't manifest such\nan interest in those Brinkers? What would Ma say if she knew you\nassociated with such common people!\" \"But, I'm Dutch myself, pet.\" \"Of\ncourse you are, darling, but there's no need of letting every one know\nit!\" St. Nicholas hardly dares to do it, but he finally suggests very\nmeekly: \"The poor children, my darling.\" \"Bother the poor children, my\ndear!\" They're a most affectionate couple, you know. Then St. Nicholas\nsighs and sighs, and sends for his messengers, and they all come in with\nlong faces, and take off big packages to the Croesuses and the\nCentlivres, and the rest of them. The messengers do their work entirely\nas a matter of business, so there isn't a sign of a laugh, nor a symptom\nof a chuckle in the air next day. The little Croesuses first cry,\nbecause they haven't received more, and then fight over what they have;\nthen they eat too much French candy, and get sick and cross, and the\nwhole house is filled with their noise. So mamma has a headache; and\npapa longs for his office, and misses the tick-tick of the stock\ntelegraph, and thinks what a confounded nuisance holidays are. That is\nwhat Christmas is like in good society.\n\nBut I must tell you a secret. Away up in the fourth-story of his grand\nhouse, where his wife never goes, St. Nicholas has a little workshop,\nand there he sits whenever he gets a chance, making the most wonderful\ndolls, and gorgeous soldiers, and miraculous jumping-jacks, and tin\nhorns--such quantities of tin horns! Some one ought to speak to him\nabout those tin horns. But after all they please the poor children, so\nwe suppose it's all right. Now do you know what he does with these\nthings? On Christmas Eve he gets his old sled down from the stable away\nup by the North Pole, and as soon as his wife is fast asleep, he puts on\nhis old furs and gets out from under his shirts in his bureau drawer a\nDutch pipe, three times as big as the one his wife threw away, and off\nhe goes. He tumbles down all the poor people's chimneys, and fills up\nthe stockings to overflowing, and plants gorgeous Christmas trees in all\nthe Mission schools.\n\nHe has a glorious good time, and laughs and chuckles tremendously,\nexcept when, once in a while, he thinks of what would happen if his wife\nfound him out.\n\nSo there's a little fun going on after all.\n\nDo you know, if it were not for this performance of his, we should wish\nwith all our heart that St. Nicholas were dead and buried. But we must\nsay, we wish his wife would die, and that all the Grundy family would\nfollow her good example, for between them they've spoiled a good many\njolly people besides St. Nicholas.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND\n\n There's a song in the air!\n There's a star in the sky!\n There's a mother's deep prayer\n And a baby's low cry!\n And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing,\n For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.\n\n There's a tumult of joy\n O'er the wonderful birth,\n For the virgin's sweet boy\n Is the Lord of the earth,\n Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing,\n For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.\n\n In the light of that star\n Lie the ages impearled;\n And that song from afar\n Has swept over the world.\n Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing\n In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King.\n\n We rejoice in the light,\n And we echo the song\n That comes down through the night\n From the heavenly throng.\n Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring,\n And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King!\n\n * * * * *\n\n AN OFFERTORY\n\n MARY MAPES DODGE\n\n Oh, the beauty of the Christ Child,\n The gentleness, the grace,\n The smiling, loving tenderness,\n The infantile embrace!\n All babyhood he holdeth,\n All motherhood enfoldeth--\n Yet who hath seen his face?\n\n Oh, the nearness of the Christ Child,\n When, for a sacred space,\n He nestles in our very homes--\n Light of the human race!\n We know him and we love him,\n No man to us need prove him--\n Yet who hath seen his face?\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS SONG\n\n LYDIA A.C. WARD\n\n Why do bells for Christmas ring?\n Why do little children sing?\n\n Once a lovely, shining star,\n Seen by shepherds from afar,\n Gently moved until its light\n Made a manger-cradle bright.\n\n There a darling baby lay\n Pillowed soft upon the hay.\n And his mother sang and smiled,\n \"This is Christ, the holy child.\"\n\n So the bells for Christmas ring,\n So the little children sing.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n CHRISTIAN BURKE\n\n The trees are hung with crystal lamps, the world lies still and white,\n And the myriad little twinkling stars are sharp with keener light;\n The moon sails up the frost-clear sky and silvers all the snow,\n As she did, perchance, that Christmas night, two thousand years ago!\n Good people, are you waking?\n Give us food and give us wine,\n For the sake of blessed Mary\n And her Infant Son Divine,\n Who was born the world's Redeemer--\n A Saviour--yours and mine!\n\n Long ago angelic harpers sang the song we sing to-day,\n And the drowsy folk of Bethlehem may have listened as they lay!\n But eager shepherds left their flocks, and o'er the desert wild\n The kingly sages journeyed to adore the Holy Child!\n Has any man a quarrel?\n Has another used you ill?\n The friendly word you meant to say,\n Is that unspoken still?--\n Then, remember, 'twas the Angels\n Brought glad tidings of good will!\n\n Of all the gifts of Christmas, are you fain to win the best?\n Lo! the Christ-child still is waiting Himself to be your guest;\n No lot so high or lowly but He will take His part,\n If you do but bid Him welcome to a clean and tender heart.\n Are you sleeping, are you waking?\n To the Manger haste away,\n And you shall see a wond'rous sight\n Amid the straw and hay.--\n 'Tis Love Himself Incarnate\n As on this Christmas Day!\n\n * * * * *\n\nA SIMPLE BILL OF FARE FOR A CHRISTMAS DINNER\n\nH.H.\n\nAll good recipe-books give bills of fare for different occasions, bills\nof fare for grand dinners, bills of fare for little dinners; dinners to\ncost so much per head; dinners \"which can be easily prepared with one\nservant,\" and so on. They give bills of fare for one week; bills of fare\nfor each day in a month, to avoid too great monotony in diet. There are\nbills of fare for dyspeptics; bills of fare for consumptives; bills of\nfare for fat people, and bills of fare for thin; and bills of fare for\nhospitals, asylums, and prisons, as well as for gentlemen's houses. But\namong them all, we never saw the one which we give below. It has never\nbeen printed in any book; but it has been used in families. We are not\ndrawing on our imagination for its items. We have sat at such dinners;\nwe have helped prepare such dinners; we believe in such dinners; they\nare within everybody's means. In fact, the most marvellous thing about\nthis bill of fare is that the dinner does not cost a cent. Ho! all ye\nthat are hungry and thirsty, and would like so cheap a Christmas dinner,\nlisten to this:\n\n BILL OF FARE FOR A CHRISTMAS DINNER\n\n_First Course_--Gladness.\n\nThis must be served hot. No two housekeepers make it alike; no fixed\nrule can be given for it. It depends, like so many of the best things,\nchiefly on memory; but, strangely enough, it depends quite as much on\nproper forgetting as on proper remembering. Worries must be forgotten.\nTroubles must be forgotten. Yes, even sorrow itself must be denied and\nshut out. Perhaps this is not quite possible. Ah! we all have seen\nChristmas days on which sorrow would not leave our hearts nor our\nhouses. But even sorrow can be compelled to look away from its sorrowing\nfor a festival hour which is so solemnly joyous at Christ's Birthday.\nMemory can be filled full of other things to be remembered. No soul is\nentirely destitute of blessings, absolutely without comfort. Perhaps we\nhave but one. Very well; we can think steadily of that one, if we try.\nBut the probability is that we have more than we can count. No man has\nyet numbered the blessings, the mercies, the joys of God. We are all\nricher than we think; and if we once set ourselves to reckoning up the\nthings of which we are glad, we shall be astonished at their number.\n\nGladness, then, is the first item, the first course on our bill of fare\nfor a Christmas dinner.\n\n_Entrees._--Love garnished with Smiles.\n\nGENTLENESS, with sweet-wine sauce of Laughter.\n\nGRACIOUS SPEECH, cooked with any fine, savory herbs, such as Frollery,\nwhich is always in season, or Pleasant Reminiscence, which no one need\nbe without, as it keeps for years, sealed or unsealed.\n\n_Second Course_--HOSPITALITY.\n\nThe precise form of this also depends on individual preferences. We are\nnot undertaking here to give exact recipes, only a bill of fare.\n\nIn some houses Hospitality is brought on surrounded with Relatives. This\nis very well. In others, it is dished up with Dignitaries of all sorts;\nmen and women of position and estate for whom the host has special\nlikings or uses. This gives a fine effect to the eye, but cools quickly,\nand is not in the long-run satisfying.\n\nIn a third class, best of all, it is served in simple shapes, but with a\ngreat variety of Unfortunate Persons,--such as lonely people from\nlodging-houses, poor people of all grades, widows and childless in their\naffliction. This is the kind most preferred; in fact, never abandoned by\nthose who have tried it.\n\n_For Dessert._--MIRTH, in glasses.\n\nGRATITUDE and FAITH beaten together and piled up in snowy shapes. These\nwill look light if run over night in the moulds of Solid Trust and\nPatience.\n\nA dish of the bonbons Good Cheer and Kindliness with every-day mottoes;\nKnots and Reasons in shape of Puzzles and Answers; the whole ornamented\nwith Apples of Gold in Pictures of Silver, of the kind mentioned in the\nBook of Proverbs.\n\nThis is a short and simple bill of fare. There is not a costly thing in\nit; not a thing which cannot be procured without difficulty.\n\nIf meat be desired, it can be added. That is another excellence about\nour bill of fare. It has nothing in it which makes it incongruous with\nthe richest or the plainest tables. It is not overcrowded by the\naddition of roast goose and plum-pudding; it is not harmed by the\naddition of herring and potatoes. Nay, it can give flavor and richness\nto broken bits of stale bread served on a doorstep and eaten by beggars.\n\nWe might say much more about this bill of fare. We might, perhaps,\nconfess that it has an element of the supernatural; that its origin is\nlost in obscurity; that, although, as we said, it has never been printed\nbefore, it has been known in all ages; that the martyrs feasted upon it;\nthat generations of the poor, called blessed by Christ, have laid out\nbanquets by it; that exiles and prisoners have lived on it; and the\ndespised and forsaken and rejected in all countries have tasted it. It\nis also true that when any great king ate well and throve on his dinner,\nit was by the same magic food. The young and the free and the glad, and\nall rich men in costly houses, even they have not been well fed without\nit.\n\nAnd though we have called it a Bill of Fare for a Christmas Dinner, that\nis only that men's eyes may be caught by its name, and that they,\nthinking it a specialty for festival, may learn and understand its\nsecret, and henceforth, laying all their dinners according to its magic\norder, may \"eat unto the Lord.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n A BALLADE OF OLD LOVES\n\n CAROLYN WELLS\n\n Who is it stands on the polished stair,\n A merry, laughing, winsome maid,\n From the Christmas rose in her golden hair\n To the high-heeled slippers of spangled suede\n A glance, half daring and half afraid,\n Gleams from her roguish eyes downcast;\n Already the vision begins to fade--\n 'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.\n\n Who is it sits in that high-backed chair,\n Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed,\n With a mockery gay of a stately air\n As she rustles the folds of her old brocade,--\n Merriest heart at the masquerade?\n Ah, but the picture is passing fast\n Back to the darkness from which it strayed--\n 'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.\n\n Who is it whirls in a ball-room's glare,\n Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid,\n Like a radiant lily, tall and fair,\n While the violins in the corner played\n The wailing strains of the Serenade?\n Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last--\n E'en now my fancy it will evade--\n 'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.\n\n L'ENVOI\n\n Rosamond! look not so dismayed,\n All of my heart, dear love, thou hast\n Jealous, beloved? Of a shade?--\n 'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.\n\n * * * * *\n\n BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS\n\n ANDREW LANG\n\n Between the moonlight and the fire\n In winter twilights long ago,\n What ghosts we raised for your desire,\n To make your merry blood run slow!\n How old, how grave, how wise we grow!\n No Christmas ghost can make us chill,\n Save those that troop in mournful row,\n The ghosts we all can raise at will!\n\n The beasts can talk in barn and byre\n On Christmas Eve, old legends know.\n As year by year the years retire,\n We men fall silent then I trow,\n Such sights hath memory to show,\n Such voices from the silence thrill,\n Such shapes return with Christmas snow,--\n The ghosts we all can raise at will.\n\n Oh, children of the village choir,\n Your carols on the midnight throw,\n Oh, bright across the mist and mire,\n Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!\n Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,\n Let's cheerily descend the hill;\n Be welcome all, to come or go,\n The ghosts we all can raise at will.\n\n ENVOY\n\n Friend, sursum corda, soon or slow\n We part, like guests who've joyed their fill;\n Forget them not, nor mourn them so,\n The ghosts we all can raise at will.\n\n * * * * *\n\n HANG UP THE BABY'S STOCKING\n\n [Emily Huntington Miller]\n\n Hang up the baby's stocking:\n Be sure you don't forget;\n The dear little dimpled darling!\n She ne'er saw Christmas yet;\n But I've told her all about it,\n And she opened her big blue eyes,\n And I'm sure she understood it--\n She looked so funny and wise.\n\n Dear! what a tiny stocking!\n It doesn't take much to hold\n Such little pink toes as baby's\n Away from the frost and cold.\n But then for the baby's Christmas\n It will never do at all;\n Why, Santa wouldn't be looking\n For anything half so small.\n\n I know what will do for the baby.\n I've thought of the very best plan:\n I'll borrow a stocking of grandma,\n The longest that ever I can;\n And you'll hang it by mine, dear mother,\n Right here in the corner, so!\n And write a letter to Santa,\n And fasten it on to the toe.\n\n Write, \"This is the baby's stocking\n That hangs in the corner here;\n You never have seen her, Santa,\n For she only came this year;\n But she's just the blessedest baby!\n And now, before you go,\n Just cram her stocking with goodies,\n From the top clean down to the toe.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS\n\n ANONYMOUS\n\n God rest you, merry gentlemen!\n May nothing you dismay;\n Not even the dyspeptic plats\n Through which you'll eat your way;\n Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills\n The season bids you pay;\n No, nor the ever tiresome need\n Of being to order gay;\n\n Nor yet the shocking cold you'll catch\n If fog and slush hold sway;\n Nor yet the tumbles you must bear\n If frost should win the day;\n Nor sleepless nights--they're sure to come--\n When \"waits\" attune their lay;\n Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness\n Might turn macassar gray;\n\n Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,\n And ravenous of play;\n Nor yet--in fact, the host of ills\n Which Christmases array.\n God rest you, merry gentlemen,\n May none of these dismay!\n\n * * * * *\n\nA CHRISTMAS LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA\n\nDOUGLAS SLADEN\n\n 'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; 'twas two years yesterday\n Since from the Lusitania's bows I looked o'er Table Bay,\n A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main,\n Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.\n\n 'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; to-day our hearts are one,\n Though you are 'mid the English snows and I in Austral sun;\n You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile high a mightier fire,\n Our ladies cower until it's past in lawn and lace attire.\n\n I fancy I can picture you upon this Christmas night,\n Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height;\n And then a sudden, silent pause intruding on your glee,\n And kind eyes glistening because you chanced to think of me.\n\n This morning when I woke and knew 'twas Christmas come again,\n I almost fancied I could view white rime upon the pane,\n And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground,\n And see the drip that downward steals in icy casket bound.\n\n I daresay you'll be on the lake, or sliding on the snow,\n And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow,\n Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made,--\n The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.\n\n It is not quite a Christmas here with this unclouded sky,\n This pure transparent atmosphere, this sun mid-heaven-high;\n To see the rose upon the bush, young leaves upon the trees,\n And hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.\n\n But cold winds bring not Christmastide, nor budding roses June,\n And when it's night upon your side we're basking in the noon.\n Kind hearts make Christmas--June can bring blue sky or clouds above;\n The only universal spring is that which comes of love.\n\n And so it's Christmas in the South as on the North-sea coasts,\n Though we are staved with summer-drouth and you with winter frosts.\n And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while,\n Though all the watery hemisphere cuts off the mother isle.\n\n Feel sure that we shall think of you, we who have wandered forth,\n And many a million thoughts will go to-day from south to north;\n Old heads will muse on churches old, where bells will ring to-day--\n The very bells, perchance, which tolled their fathers to the clay.\n\n And now, good-night! and I shall dream that I am with you all,\n Watching the ruddy embers gleam athwart the panelled hall;\n Nor care I if I dream or not, though severed by the foam,\n My heart is always in the spot which was my childhood's home.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS\n\n ROSE TERRY COOKE\n\n Here comes old Father Christmas,\n With sound of fife and drums;\n With mistletoe about his brows,\n So merrily he comes!\n His arms are full of all good cheer,\n His face with laughter glows,\n He shines like any household fire\n Amid the cruel snows.\n He is the old folks' Christmas;\n He warms their hearts like wine;\n He thaws their winter into spring,\n And makes their faces shine.\n Hurrah for Father Christmas!\n Ring all the merry bells!\n And bring the grandsires all around\n To hear the tale he tells.\n\n Here comes the Christmas angel,\n So gentle and so calm;\n As softly as the falling flakes\n He comes with flute and psalm.\n All in a cloud of glory,\n As once upon the plain\n To shepherd-boys in Jewry,\n He brings good news again.\n He is the young folks' Christmas;\n He makes their eyes grow bright\n With words of hope and tender thought,\n And visions of delight.\n Hail to the Christmas angel!\n All peace on earth he brings;\n He gathers all the youths and maids\n Beneath his shining wings.\n\n Here comes the little Christ-child,\n All innocence and joy,\n And bearing gifts in either hand\n For every girl and boy.\n He tells the tender story\n About the Holy Maid,\n And Jesus in the manger\n Before the oxen laid.\n Like any little winter bird\n He sings his sweetest song,\n Till all the cherubs in the sky\n To hear his carol throng.\n He is the children's Christmas;\n They come without a call,\n To gather round the gracious Child,\n Who bringeth joy to all.\n\n But who shall bring _their_ Christmas\n Who wrestle still with life?\n Not grandsires, youths, or little folks,\n But they who wage the strife--\n The fathers and the mothers\n Who fight for homes and bread,\n Who watch and ward the living,\n And bury all the dead?\n Ah! by their side at Christmas-tide\n The Lord of Christmas stands:\n He smooths the furrows from their brow\n With strong and tender hands.\n \"I take my Christmas gift,\" He saith,\n \"From thee, tired soul, and he\n Who giveth to My little ones\n Gives also unto Me.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nSTORIES\n\n\n\nTHE FIR TREE\n\nHANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN\n\nOut in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place;\nit could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew\nmany larger comrades--pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree\nwished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun and\nthe fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about\ntalking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and\nraspberries. Often they came with a whole pot-full, or had strung\nberries on a straw; then they would sit down by the little Fir Tree and\nsay, \"How pretty and small that one is!\" and the Tree did not like to\nhear that at all.\n\nNext year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was\nlonger still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of\nrings they have how many years they have been growing.\n\n\"Oh, if I were only as great a tree as the others!\" sighed the little\nFir, \"then I would spread my branches far around, and look out from my\ncrown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my\nboughs, and when the wind blew I could nod just as grandly as the others\nyonder.\"\n\nHe took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red clouds\nthat went sailing over him morning and evening.\n\nWhen it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a\nhare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the little\nFir Tree. Oh! this made him so angry. But two winters went by, and when\nthe third came the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was\nobliged to run around it.\n\n\"Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the\nworld,\" thought the Tree.\n\nIn the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest\ntrees; that was done this year too, and the little Fir Tree, that was\nnow quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees\nfell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so\nthat the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender--they could hardly\nbe recognized. But then they were laid upon waggons, and horses dragged\nthem away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited\nthem?\n\nIn the spring, when the swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked\nthem, \"Do you know where they were taken? Did you not meet them?\"\n\nThe swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful,\nnodded his head, and said,\n\n\"Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the\nships were stately masts; I fancy that these were the trees. They smelt\nlike fir. I can assure you they're stately--very stately.\"\n\n\"Oh that I were only big enough to go over the sea! What kind of thing\nis this sea, and how does it look?\"\n\n\"It would take too long to explain all that,\" said the Stork, and he\nwent away.\n\n\"Rejoice in thy youth,\" said the Sunbeams; \"rejoice in thy fresh growth,\nand in the young life that is within thee.\"\n\nAnd the wind kissed the Tree, and the dew wept tears upon it; but the\nFir Tree did not understand that.\n\nWhen Christmas-time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes\ntrees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir Tree, that\nnever rested but always wanted to go away. These young trees, which were\nalmost the most beautiful, kept all their branches; they were put upon\nwagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood.\n\n\"Where are they all going?\" asked the Fir Tree. \"They are not greater\nthan I--indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all their\nbranches? Whither are they taken?\"\n\n\"We know that! We know that!\" chirped the Sparrows. \"Yonder in the town\nwe looked in at the windows. We know where they go. Oh! they are dressed\nup in the greatest pomp and splendor that can be imagined. We have\nlooked in at the windows, and have perceived that they are planted in\nthe middle of the warm room, and adorned with the most beautiful\nthings--gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many hundreds of\ncandles.\"\n\n\"And then?\" asked the Fir Tree, and trembled through all its branches.\n\"And then? What happens then?\"\n\n\"Why, we have not seen anything more. But it was incomparable.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I may be destined to tread this glorious path one day!\" cried\nthe Fir Tree rejoicingly. \"That is even better than traveling across the\nsea. How painfully I long for it! If it were only Christmas now! Now I\nam great and grown up, like the rest who were led away last year. Oh, if\nI were only on the carriage! If I were only in the warm room, among all\nthe pomp and splendor! And then? Yes, then something even better will\ncome, something far more charming, or else why should they adorn me so?\nThere must be something grander, something greater still to come; but\nwhat? Oh, I'm suffering, I'm longing! I don't know myself what is the\nmatter with me!\"\n\n\"Rejoice in us,\" said Air and Sunshine, \"Rejoice in thy fresh youth here\nin the woodland.\"\n\nBut the Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter\nand summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it\nsaid, \"That's a handsome tree!\" and at Christmas-time it was felled\nbefore any one of the others. The axe cut deep into its marrow, and the\ntree fell to the ground with a sigh: it felt a pain, a sensation of\nfaintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at\nparting from its home, from the place where it had grown up: it knew\nthat it should never again see the dear old companions, the little\nbushes and flowers all around--perhaps not even the birds. The parting\nwas not at all agreeable.\n\nThe Tree only came to itself when it was unloaded in a yard, with other\ntrees, and heard a man say,\n\n\"This one is famous; we only want this one!\"\n\nNow two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into a\nlarge beautiful saloon. All around the walls hung pictures, and by the\ngreat stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers; there\nwere rocking-chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with\npicture-books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars, at\nleast the children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub\nfilled with sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was\nhung round with green cloth, and stood on a large many-colored carpet.\nOh, how the Tree trembled! What was to happen now? The servants, and the\nyoung ladies also, decked it out. On one branch they hung little nets,\ncut out of colored paper; every net was filled with sweetmeats; golden\napples and walnuts hung down as if they grew there, and more than a\nhundred little candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the\ndifferent boughs. Dolls that looked exactly like real people--the Tree\nhad never seen such before--swung among the foliage, and high on the\nsummit of the Tree was fixed a tinsel star. It was splendid,\nparticularly splendid.\n\n\"This evening,\" said all, \"this evening it will shine.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" thought the Tree, \"that it were evening already! Oh that the\nlights may be soon lit up! When may that be done? I wonder if trees will\ncome out of the forest to look at me? Will the sparrows fly against the\npanes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?\"\n\nYes, he did not guess badly. But he had a complete backache from mere\nlonging, and the backache is just as bad for a Tree as the headache for\na person.\n\nAt last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor! The\nTree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to\na green twig, and it was scorched.\n\n\"Heaven preserve us!\" cried the young ladies; and they hastily put the\nfire out.\n\nNow the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was so\nafraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite\nbewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were\nthrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have\noverturned the whole Tree; the older people followed more deliberately.\nThe little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute; then they\nshouted till the room rang: they danced gleefully round the Tree, and\none present after another was plucked from it.\n\n\"What are they about?\" laughed the Tree. \"What's going to be done?\"\n\nAnd the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they\nwere extinguished, and then the children received permission to plunder\nthe Tree. Oh! they rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked\nagain: if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to\nthe ceiling, it would have fallen down.\n\nThe children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the\nTree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but\nonly to see if a fig or an apple had not been forgotten.\n\n\"A story! a story!\" shouted the children: and they drew a little fat man\ntowards the Tree; and he sat down just beneath it,--\"for then we shall\nbe in the green wood,\" said he, \"and the tree may have the advantage of\nlistening to my tale. But I can only tell one. Will you hear the story\nof Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell down stairs, and still\nwas raised up to honor and married the Princess?\"\n\n\"Ivede-Avede!\" cried some, \"Klumpey-Dumpey!\" cried others, and there was\na great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was quite silent, and\nthought, \"Shall I not be in it? shall I have nothing to do in it?\" But\nhe had been in the evening's amusement, and had done what was required\nof him.\n\nAnd the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell down stairs, and yet\nwas raised to honor and married the Princess. And the children clapped\ntheir hands, and cried, \"Tell another! tell another!\" for they wanted to\nhear about Ivede-Avede; but they only got the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.\nThe Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in\nthe wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey fell down stairs, and\nyet came to honor and married the Princess!\n\n\"Yes, so it happens in the world!\" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it\nmust be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. \"Well, who\ncan know? Perhaps I shall fall down stairs too, and marry a Princess!\"\nAnd it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next\nevening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. \"To-morrow I shall not\ntremble,\" it thought. \"I will rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I\nshall hear the story of Klumpey-Dumpey again, and, perhaps, that of\nIvede-Avede too.\"\n\nAnd the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.\n\nIn the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.\n\n\"Now my splendor will begin afresh,\" thought the Tree. But they dragged\nhim out of the room, and up stairs to the garret, and here they put him\nin a dark corner where no daylight shone.\n\n\"What's the meaning of this?\" thought the Tree. \"What am I to do here?\nWhat is to happen?\"\n\nAnd he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had\ntime enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when\nat length some one came, it was only to put some great boxes in a\ncorner. Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition was\nthat it was quite forgotten.\n\n\"Now it's winter outside,\" thought the Tree. \"The earth is hard and\ncovered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm\nto be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How\ngood people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly\nsolitary!--not even a little hare! That was pretty out there in the\nwood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when\nhe jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely up\nhere!\"\n\n\"Piep! piep!\" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came\nanother little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among\nthe branches.\n\n\"It's horribly cold,\" said the two little Mice, \"or else it would be\ncomfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?\"\n\n\"I'm not old at all,\" said the Fir Tree. \"There are many much older than\nI.\"\n\n\"Where do you come from?\" asked the Mice. \"And what do you know?\" They\nwere dreadfully inquisitive. \"Tell us about the most beautiful spot on\nearth. Have you been there? Have you been in the store-room, where\ncheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one\ndances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?\"\n\n\"I don't know that!\" replied the Tree; \"but I know the wood, where the\nsun shines, and where the birds sing.\"\n\nAnd then it told all about its youth.\n\nAnd the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they\nlistened and said,\n\n\"What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!\"\n\n\"I?\" said the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told. \"Yes,\nthose were really quite happy times.\" But then he told of the\nChristmas-eve, when he had been hung with sweetmeats and candles.\n\n\"Oh!\" said the little Mice, \"how happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!\"\n\n\"I'm not old at all,\" said the Tree. \"I only came out of the wood this\nwinter. I'm only rather backward in my growth.\"\n\n\"What splendid stories you can tell!\" said the little Mice.\n\nAnd next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what the\nTree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it\nremember everything, and thought, \"Those were quite merry days! But they\nmay come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell down stairs, and yet he married the\nPrincess. Perhaps I may marry a Princess too!\" And then the Fir Tree\nthought of a pretty little birch tree that grew out in the forest: for\nthe Fir Tree, that birch was a real Princess.\n\n\"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?\" asked the little Mice.\n\nAnd then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every\nsingle word: and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of\nthe tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and on\nSunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not\npretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did\nnot like it so much as before.\n\n\"Do you only know one story?\" asked the Rats.\n\n\"Only that one,\" replied the Tree. \"I heard that on the happiest evening\nof my life; I did not think then how happy I was.\"\n\n\"That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and\ntallow candles--a store-room story?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the Tree.\n\n\"Then we'd rather not hear you,\" said the Rats.\n\nAnd they went back to their own people. The little Mice at last stayed\naway also; and then the Tree sighed and said,\n\n\"It was very nice when they sat round me, the merry little Mice, and\nlistened when I spoke to them. Now that's past too. But I shall remember\nto be pleased when they take me out.\"\n\nBut when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and\nrummaged in the garret: the boxes were put away, and the Tree brought\nout; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a servant\ndragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight shone.\n\n\"Now life is beginning again,\" thought the Tree.\n\nIt felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and now it was out in the\ncourtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite forgot to\nlook at itself, there was so much to look at all round. The courtyard\nwas close to a garden, and here everything was blooming; the roses hung\nfresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in\nblossom, and the swallows cried, \"Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my husband's\ncome!\" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.\n\n\"Now I shall live!\" said the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches\nfar out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow; and it lay in the\ncorner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still upon it, and\nshone in the bright sunshine.\n\nIn the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing, who had\ndanced round the tree at Christmas-time, and had rejoiced over it. One\nof the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.\n\n\"Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree,\" said the child, and he\ntrod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots.\n\nAnd the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the\ngarden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the\ndark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of\nthe merry Christmas-eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so\npleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.\n\n\"Past! past!\" said the old Tree. \"Had I but rejoiced when I could have\ndone so! Past! past!\"\n\nAnd the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole\nbundle lay there, it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and\nit sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot: and the children\nwho were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the fire, looked\ninto it, and cried, \"Puff! puff!\" But at each explosion, which was a\ndeep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter\nnight there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas-eve and of\nKlumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell;\nand then the Tree was burned.\n\nThe boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a\ngolden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that\nwas past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too: past!\npast!--and that's the way with all stories.\n\n * * * * *\n\nLITTLE ROGER'S NIGHT IN THE CHURCH\n\nSUSAN COOLIDGE\n\nThe boys and girls had fastened the last sprig of holly upon the walls,\nand then gone to their homes, leaving the old church silent and\ndeserted. The sun had set in a sky clear and yellow as topaz. Christmas\neve had fairly come, and now the moon was rising, a full moon, and all\nthe world looked white in the silver light. Every bough of every tree\nsparkled with a delicate coating of frost, the pines and cedars were\ngreat shapes of dazzling snow, even the ivy on the gothic tower hung a\nglittering arabesque on the gray wall. Never was there a lovelier night.\n\nThat light that you see yonder comes from the window of old Andrew, the\nsexton, and inside sits his grandson, little Roger, eating his supper of\nporridge. The kitchen is in apple-pie order, chairs and tables have been\nscrubbed as white as snow, the tins on the dresser shine like silver,\nthe hearth is swept clean, and Grandfather's chair is drawn into the\nwarmest corner. Grandfather is not sitting in it though; he has gone to\nthe church to put the fire in order for the night, lock up the doors,\nand make all safe.\n\nGrandmother, in her clean stuff gown and apron, is mounted upon a chair\nto stick a twig of holly on the tall clock in the corner. And now, as\nshe turns round, what a pleasant face she shows us, does she not? Old\nand wrinkled, to be sure, but so good-natured and gentle that she is\nprettier than many a young girl even now. Is it any wonder that little\nRoger there is so fond of her?\n\nNow another bit of holly is wanted on the chimney-piece; and it is while\nputting this up that the dear old dame gives sign that something has\ngone wrong. \"Ts, ts, ts,--deary me!\"\n\n\"What's the matter, Granny?\" said Roger.\n\n\"Why, Roger,\" replied Granny, carefully dismounting from her chair,\n\"look here, Grandfather has gone off and forgot his keys. He took 'em\nfrom the door this morning, because last year some of the young folks\nlet 'em drop in the snow, and had a sad time hunting for them. He knew\nthey would be in and out all day, so he just opened the door and brought\nthe keys home. Deary me! it's a cold night for old bones to be out of\ndoors. Would'st be afeard, little 'un, to run up with them?\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" said Roger, stoutly, as he crammed the last spoonful of\nporridge in his mouth, and seized hat and mittens from the table. \"I'll\ntake 'em down in a minute. Granny, and then run home. Mother'll want me\nin the morning, likely.\"\n\nFor Roger's parents lived in a cottage near the old people, and the boy\noften said that he had two homes, and belonged half in one and half in\nthe other, and the small press-bed in Granny's loft seemed as much his\nown as the cot in the corner of his mother's sleeping-room, and was\noccupied almost as often. So, after a good-night hug from Granny, off he\nran. The church was near, and the moon light as day, so he never thought\nof being afraid, not even when, as he brushed by the dark tower,\nsomething stirred overhead, and a long, melancholy cry came shuddering\nfrom the ivy. Roger knew the owls in the belfry well, and now he called\nout to them cheerily: \"To-whit-whit-whoo!\"\n\n\"Whoo-whoo-whit!\" answered the owls, startled by the cry. Roger could\nhear them fluttering in the nest.\n\nThe church-door stood ajar, and he peeped in. The glow from the open\ndoor of the stove showed Grandfather's figure, red and warm, stooping to\ncover the fire with ashes for the night. He was so busy he never knew\nthe boy was there till he got close to him and jingled the keys in his\near; but after one start he laughed, well pleased.\n\n\"I but just missed them,\" he said. \"Thou'rt a good boy to fetch them up.\nArt going home with me to-night?\"\n\n\"No, I'm to sleep at my mother's,\" said Roger, \"but I'll wait and walk\nwith you, Grandfather.\" So he slipped into a pew, and sat down till the\nwork should be finished, and they ready to go; and as he looked up he\nsaw all at once how beautiful the old church was looking.\n\nThe moon outside was streaming in so brightly, that you hardly missed\nthe sun, Roger could see distinctly way up to the carved beams of the\nroof, and trace the figures on the great arched windows over the altar,\nwhose colors had so often dazzled him on Sundays. The colors were soft\nand dim now, but the figures were there. Roger could see them\nplainly,--the sitting figure of the Lord Christ, with St. Matthew and\ntwo other apostles, and the fisher-lad with his basket of fish. He had\noften asked Granny to read him the story.\n\nThat gleam at the further end of the nave came from the organ-loft,\nwhere the moonbeams had found out the great brass pipes, and were\nplaying all manner of tricks with them. Almost the red of the\nholly-berries could be seen, and every pointed ivy-leaf and spike of\nevergreen in the wreathings of the windows stood out in bold relief\nagainst the shining panes. With this beautiful whiteness the red glow of\nthe fire blended, and flooded the chancel with a lovely pink light, in\nwhich shone the gilded letters on the commandment-tables, and the\nbrasses of the tablets on the walls. It was a wonderful thing to see.\n\nTo study the roof better, Roger thought he would lie flat on the cushion\nawhile, and look straight up. So he arranged himself comfortably, and\nsomehow--it _will_ happen, even when we are full of enjoyment and\npleasure--his eyes shut, and the first thing he knew he was rubbing them\nopen again, only a minute afterward, as it seemed; but Grandfather was\ngone. There was the stove closed for the night, and the great door at\nthe end of the aisle was shut. He jumped up in a fright, as you can\nimagine, and ran to see, and shook it hard. No: it was locked, and poor\nRoger was fastened in for the night.\n\nHe understood it all in a moment. The tall pew had hidden him from\nsight. Grandfather had thought him gone home; his mother would ever\ndoubt that he was safe at the other cottage; no one would miss him, and\nthere was no chance of being let out before morning.\n\nHe was only six years old, so no wonder that at first he felt choked and\nfrightened, and inclined to cry. But he was a brave lad, and that idea\nsoon left him. He began to think that he was not badly off, after\nall,--the church was warm, the pew-cushion as soft as his bed. No one\ncould get in to harm him. In fact, after the first moment, there was\nsomething so exciting and adventurous in the idea of spending the night\nin such a place, that he was almost glad the accident had happened. So\nhe went back to the pew, and tried to go to sleep again.\n\nThat was not so easy. Did you ever get thoroughly waked up in the night\nby a sudden fright? Do you remember how your eyes wouldn't stay shut\nafterward, even when you closed them tight, but jerked open almost\nagainst your will, as if a string was fastened to them and some one was\ntwitching it? Just so poor Roger felt. He lay still and kept himself\nquiet for a moment, and then some little noise would come, and his heart\nbeat and his eyes be wide open in a minute. It was a coal dropping from\nthe fire, or a slight crack on the frosty panes: once a little mouse\ncrept out from the chancel, glaring shyly about with his bright eyes,\nnibbled a moment at a leaf on the carpet and then crept back again. No\nother living thing disturbed the quiet.\n\nHe had heard the clock strike eleven a long time since, and was lying\nwith eyes half shut, gazing at the red fire-grate, and feeling at last a\nlittle drowsy, when all at once a strange rush and thrill seemed to come\nto him in the air, like a cool clear wind blowing through the church,\nand in one minute he was wide awake and sitting upright, with ears\nstrained to catch some sound afar off. It was too distant and faint for\nordinary sense, but a new and sharper power of hearing seemed given him.\nLittle voices were speaking high in the air, outside the church,--very\nodd ones, like birds' notes, and yet the words were plain. He listened\nand listened, and made out at last that it was the owls in the tower\ntalking together.\n\n\"Hoo, hoo, why don't you lie still there?\" said one.\n\n\"Whit-whoo-whit,\" said the other, \"I can't. I know what is coming too\nwell for that.\"\n\n\"What is coming,--what, what?\" said two voices together.\n\n\"Ah! you'll see soon,\" replied the first. \"The elves are coming, the\nhateful Christmas elves. You'll not get a wink of sleep to-night.\"\n\n\"Why not? What will they do to us?\" chirped the young ones.\n\n\"You'll see,\" hooted the old owl. \"You'll see! They'll pull your tails,\nand tickle your feathers, and prick you with thorns. I know them, the\ntricksy, troublesome things! I've been here many a long year. You were\nonly hatched last summer. To-whoo, to-whoo!\"\n\nJust at this moment the church-clock began to strike twelve. At the\nfirst clang the owls ceased to hoot, and Roger listened to the deep\nnotes, almost awe-struck, as they sounded one by one. He knew the voice\nof the clock well, but it never before sounded so loud or so solemn:\nfive--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve. It was Christmas\nDay.\n\nAs the last echo died away, a new sound took its place. From afar off\ncame the babble of tiny voices drawing nearer. Anything so gay and\ncharming was never dreamed of before,--half a laugh, half a song, the\ntones blended into an enchanting peal, like bells on a frolic. Above the\nold tower the sounds clustered and increased,--then a long, distressed\ncry came from the owl, and a bubbling laugh floated in on the wind.\nRoger could not stand it. Wild to see, he flew to the window, and tried\nto stretch his neck in such a way as to catch what was going on above;\nbut it was a vain attempt, and just then the church-bells began to ring\nall together, a chime, a Christmas chime, only the sounds were\ninfinitely small, as if baby hands had laid hold on the ropes. But his\nsharpened senses brought every note and change to Roger's ears, and they\nwere so merry and so lovely that he felt he must get nearer or die; and\nalmost before he knew it he was climbing the dark belfry-stairs as fast\nas his feet could carry him, never thinking of fear or darkness, only of\nthe elfin bells which were pealing overhead.\n\nUp, up, through the long slits in the tower the moon could be seen\nsailing in the cold, clear blue. Higher, higher,--at last he gained the\nbelfry. There hung the four great bells, but nobody was pulling at their\nheavy ropes. On each iron tongue was perched a fay; on the chains which\nsuspended them clustered others, all keeping time by the swaying of\ntheir bodies as they swung to and fro, just grazing either side, and\nbringing forth a clear, delicate stroke, sweet as laughter,--just loud\nenough for fairy ears.\n\nThrough the windows the crowd of floating fays could be seen whirling\nabout in the moonlight like glittering gossamer. They floated in and out\nof the tower, they mounted the great bells and sat atop in swarms, they\nchased and pushed each other, playing all sorts of pranks. Below, others\nwere attacking the owl's nest. Roger could hear their hoots and grunts\nand the gleeful laughter of the elves. The moon made the tower light as\nnoon; all the time the elves sang or talked,--which, he could not tell;\nthere were words, but all so blent with laughs and mirthful trills that\nit was nothing less than music.\n\nTo and fro, to and fro, keeping time to a fairy rhythm, they swayed in\nunison with the tiny peal they rang. Little quarrels arose. Once Roger\nwatched an elf trying to mount the clapper, and whenever he neared the\ntop a mischievous comrade pushed him off again. Then the elf pouted,\nand, flying away, he returned with a holly-leaf. Small as it was, it\ncurled over his head like a huge umbrella. With the spiky point he slyly\npricked the elf above; and he, taken by surprise, lost his hold, and\ncame tumbling down, while the other danced for glee and clapped his\nhands mockingly. Pretty soon, however, all was made up again,--they\nkissed and were friends,--and Roger saw them perched opposite each\nother, and moving to and fro like children in a swing.\n\nHow long the pretty sight lasted he could not tell. So fearful was he of\nmarring the sport that he never stirred a finger; but all at once there\ncame a strain of music in the air, solemn, and sweeter than ever mortal\nheard before. In a moment the elves left their sports; they clustered\nlike bees together in the window, and then flew from the tower in one\nsparkling drift, and were gone, leaving Roger alone, and the owls\nhooting below in the ivy.\n\nAnd then he felt afraid,--which he had not been as long as the fays were\nthere,--and down he ran in a fright over the stone steps of the stairs,\nand entered the church again. The red glow of the fire was grateful to\nhim, for he was shivering with cold and excitement; but hardly had he\nregained his old seat, when, lo! a great marvel came to pass. The wide\nwindow over the altar swung open, and a train of angels slowly floated\nthrough. How he knew them to be angels, Roger could not have told; but\nthat they were, he was sure,--Christmas angels, with faces of calm,\nglorious beauty, and robes as white as snow. Over the altar they\nhovered, and a wonderful song rose and filled the church--no bird's\nstrain was ever half so sweet. The words were few, but again and again\nand again they came: \"Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace,\ngood-will to men!\"\n\nRoger knew the oft-repeated words,--they were those of the great\nevergreen motto which overarched the chancel; but I think he never\nforgot the beautiful meaning they seemed to bear as the angels sang them\nover and over. It was so wondrous sweet that he could not feel\nafraid,--he could only gaze and gaze, and hold his breath lest he should\nlose a note.\n\nAnd the song rang on, clear and triumphant, even as the white-robed\nchoir parted and floated like soft summer clouds to and fro in the\nchurch, pausing ever and anon as in blessing. They touched the leaves of\nthe Christmas green as they passed; they hung over the organ and brushed\nthe keys with their wings; a long time they clustered above the benches\nof the poor, as if to leave a fragrance in the air; and then they rested\nbefore a tablet which had been put up but a few months before, and which\nbore the name of the rector's eldest son, and the dates of his birth and\ndeath. Roger had been told of this brave lad, and how he had lost his\nlife in plunging from his ship to save the drowning child of an\nemigrant; and now the angel-song seemed sweeter than ever, as over and\nagain they chanted, \"Good-will to men,--good-will to men.\"\n\nAt last one of the white-winged ones left the others, and hovered awhile\nabove the Squire's pew, near which our little boy was hidden. A\nprayer-book lay open on the rail, and over this the fair angel bent as\nin benediction. A girl had sat there once,--the Squire's only daughter.\nRoger remembered her well, and the mourning of the whole parish when,\nonly a twelvemonth ago, the lovely child had been buried from their\nsight; and now, as he timidly glanced into the glorious face above him,\nit seemed to him to have the same look, only so ineffably beautiful that\nhe closed his dazzled eyes to shut out the vision and the light that\nshone from the white wings,--only for a moment, then he opened them\nagain, as a gentle rustling filled the air, and he saw the bending\nfigure stoop, leave a kiss or a blessing on the pages of the open book,\nand then glide away with the others. Again the group hovered above the\naltar,--louder and clearer rose the triumphant strain, and, noiseless as\na cloud, the snowy train floated to the window. For one moment their\nfigures could be seen against the sky, then the song died away,--they\nwere gone, and Roger saw them no more.\n\nAnd now the light of dawn began to creep into the windows, twittering\nsounds showed the birds awakening outside, and a pink streak appeared in\nthe sky. Too much rapt by his vision to feel impatience, the boy sat and\nwaited; and by and by a jingling in the lock showed Grandfather at\nhand,--the door opened, and he came in.\n\nYou can guess his surprise when his little grandson flew to meet him\nwith his wonderful story. As for the story, he pooh-poohed\n_that_,--sleeping in such a strange place might well bring about a queer\ndream, he said; but he took the boy home to the cottage, and Granny,\nfull of wonderment and sympathy, speedily prepared a breakfast for her\ndarling after his adventure. But, even with his mouth full of scalding\nbread and milk, Roger would go on telling of angels and fairies, and the\nowls' talk in their nest, till both grandparents began to think him\nbewitched.\n\nPerhaps he was, for to this day he persists in the story. And though the\nvillagers that morning exclaimed that at no time had their old church,\nin its Christmas dress, looked so beautiful before, and though the organ\nsent forth a rarer, sweeter music than fingers had ever drawn from it,\nstill nobody believed a word of it. And though the poor mother, kneeling\nin her lonely pew, and missing her darling from beside her, felt a\nstrange peace and patience enter her heart, and came away calmed and\nblessed, still no one listened to the story. \"Roger had dreamed it all,\"\nthey said; and perhaps he had,--only the owls knew.\n\n * * * * *\n\nMR. BLUFFS EXPERIENCES OF HOLIDAYS\n\nOLIVER BELL BUNCE\n\n\"I hate holidays,\" said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little\nirritation, on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant,\nafter which he resumed: \"I don't mean to say that I hate to see people\nenjoying themselves. But I hate holidays, nevertheless, because to me\nthey are always the dreariest and saddest days of the year. I shudder at\nthe name of holiday. I dread the approach of one, and thank Heaven when\nit is over. I pass through, on a holiday, the most horrible sensations,\nthe bitterest feelings, the most oppressive melancholy; in fact, I am\nnot myself at holiday-times.\"\n\n\"Very strange,\" I ventured to interpose.\n\n\"A plague on it!\" said he, almost with violence. \"I'm not inhuman. I\ndon't wish anybody harm. I'm glad people can enjoy themselves. But I\nhate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason: I am a\nbachelor; I am without kin; I am in a place that did not know me at\nbirth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere for\nme. I have friends, of course; I don't think I've been a very sulky,\nshut-in, reticent fellow; and there is many a board that has a place for\nme--but not at Christmas-time. At Christmas, the dinner is a family\ngathering; and I've no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on\nthis occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for\na friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all its\nkindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced selfish.\nEach little set gathers within its own circle; and people like me, with\nno particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of\nall the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I'm without\nan invitation.\n\n\"Oh, it's because I pine for good cheer,\" said the bachelor, sharply,\ninterrupting my attempt to speak, \"that I hate holidays. If I were an\ninfernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and have\nsome fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate to be\nin the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays,\nbecause I ought to be merry and happy on holidays, and can't.\n\n\"Don't tell me,\" he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; \"I\ntell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their\nbright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with\nmerry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and\nlaughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any\npretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the\nshow, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their\nuncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those\nplaces; so, if I go, I must go alone. But I don't go. I can't bear the\nchill of seeing everybody happy, and knowing myself so lonely and\ndesolate. Confound it, sir, I've too much heart to be happy under such\ncircumstances! I'm too humane, sir! And the result is, I hate holidays.\nIt's miserable to be out, and yet I can't stay at home, for I get\nthinking of Christmases past. I can't read--the shadow of my heart makes\nit impossible. I can't walk--for I see nothing but pictures through the\nbright windows, and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I've\nnothing to do but to hate holidays.--But will you not dine with me?\"\n\nOf course, I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I\ncouldn't quite invite Mr. Bluff home _that_ day, when Cousin Charles and\nhis wife, and Sister Susan and her daughter and three of my wife's kin,\nhad come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I\nfelt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a \"merry\nChristmas,\" and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air.\n\nI did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the\nnext year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to\nhim after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let\nBachelor Bluff tell his adventure for himself:\n\n\"I went to church,\" said he, \"and was as sad there as everywhere else.\nOf course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine; but all\naround me were happy groups of people, who could scarcely keep down\n_merry_ Christmas long enough to do reverence to _sacred_ Christmas. And\nnobody was alone but me. Every happy paterfamilias in his pew tantalized\nme, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed so much better suited\nto every one else than me that I came away hating holidays worse than\never. Then I went to the play, and sat down in a box all alone by\nmyself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and\njokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured\nfreedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the\nonly person in the whole theater that was alone. And then there was such\nclapping of hands, and roars of laughter, and shouts of delight at all\nthe fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly\nenjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share and\ninterchange the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and\nI hated holidays infinitely worse than ever.\n\n\"By five o'clock the holiday became so intolerable that I said I'd go\nand get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide. A sumptuous\ndinner. A sumptuous dinner for one. A dinner with many courses, with\nwines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire,\nwith every condition of comfort--and I'd see if I couldn't for once\nextract a little pleasure out of a holiday!\n\n\"The handsome dining-room at the club looked bright, but it was empty.\nWho dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a\nflutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants\nwere, no doubt, glad of something to break the monotony of the hours.\n\n\"My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely; but the\nwhite, snowy cloths, the rich window-hangings, the warm tints of the\nwalls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air\nof elegance and cheerfulness; and then the table at which I dined was\nclose to the window, and through the partly-drawn curtains were visible\ncenters of lonely, cold streets, with bright lights from many a window,\nit is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the\nstreet. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it\nwould, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the\nbrilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.\n\n\"I dined well, and recalled in fancy old, youthful Christmases, and\npledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy was mellowing\ninto a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine\nto my lips, I was startled by a picture at the window-pane. It was a\npale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair, pressed\nagainst the glass. As I looked, it vanished. With a strange thrill at my\nheart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine\nand set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar-girl that had\ncrept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within;\nbut still the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow\non my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about\nto drink, when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so\nthin, with eyes so large, wild, and hungry-looking, and the black,\nunkempt hair, into which the snow had drifted, formed so strange and\nweird a frame to the picture, that I was fairly startled. Replacing,\nuntasted, the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane.\nThe face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the\nwindow. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts\nthrough the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying\nwayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not\nrepress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose\nonly Christmas was to watch, in cold and storm, the rich banquet\nungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the\ntable; but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish.\nI was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an\nunreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth\nmy detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a holiday\nwith any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by\ntoo much pleasure on one side, and too much misery on the other. And\nthen, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, 'How\nmany other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of\nenjoyment others possessed!\n\n\"Oh, yes, I know,\" sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of\nmine; \"of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-souled people\ndelight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to\naccept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little\ngirl--\"\n\n\"Dear little girl!\"\n\n\"Oh, I forgot,\" said Bachelor Bluff, blushing a little, in spite of a\ndesperate effort not to do so, \"I didn't tell you. Well, it was so\nabsurd! I kept thinking, thinking of the pale, haggard, lonely little\ngirl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the over-fed,\ndiscontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the\nwindow-pane; and I didn't get much happier thinking about it, I can\nassure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine--not that I enjoyed\nits flavor any more, but mechanically, as it were, and with a sort of\nhope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my\nannoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more\nvehemently than ever. I rose once in a while and went to the window, but\ncould see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged.\n\n\"At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and\nwent out; and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure\ncrouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough\nencounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very\nirritated and angry, and spoke harshly; and then, all at once, I am sure\nI don't know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men,\nhad no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a\nChristmas as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word, but\nbegan feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question\nor two, and then I don't quite know how it came about--isn't it very\nwarm here?\" exclaimed Bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about, and\nwiping the perspiration from his brow.\n\n\"Well, you see,\" he resumed nervously, \"it was very absurd, but I did\nbelieve the girl's story--the old story, you know, of privation and\nsuffering, and all that--and just thought I'd go home with the brat and\nsee if what she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the\nshops were closed, and not a purchase could be made. I went back and\npersuaded the steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which the\nhalf-wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing\nwith delight all the way.--And isn't this enough?\"\n\n\"Not a bit, Mr. Bluff. I must have the whole story.\"\n\n\"I declare,\" said Bachelor Bluff, \"there's no whole story to tell. A\nwidow with children in great need, that was what I found; and they had a\nfeast that night, and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a\ngarment or two the next day; and they were all so bright, and so merry,\nand so thankful, and so good, that, when I got home that night, I was\nmightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in\na state of great contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was\nreally merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor\nwretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas\nbanquet that their spirits infected mine.\n\n\"And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable\nto me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor hovering\nwistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so\nmany people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? 'Good\ngracious!' I exclaimed, 'to think of a man complaining of loneliness\nwith thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with\nendless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant\nand delightful things to do! Just to think of it!' It put me in a great\nfury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself\nand began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly\nforced myself to look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled\nmy conscience by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a\nholiday again, might my holidays end at once and forever!\n\n\"Did I go and see my _proteges_ again? What a question! Why--well, no\nmatter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a\nway to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's no fault\nof mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn't let me. But\njust let me tell you about New Year's--the New-Year's-day that followed\nthe Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me there was\nanother holiday only a week off. Bless you! I had so much to do that day\nthat I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long\nenough. I did make a few social calls, but then I hurried them over; and\nthen hastened to my little girl, whose face had already caught a touch\nof color; and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her\nribbons, took me to other poor folk, and--well, that's about the whole\nstory.\n\n\"Oh, as to the next Christmas. Well, I didn't dine alone, as you may\nguess. It was up three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that\nelegance that marked the dinner of the year before; but it was merry,\nand happy, and bright; it was a generous, honest, hearty, Christmas\ndinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn't talked so much\nabout the mysterious way a turkey had been left at her door the night\nbefore. And Molly--that's the little girl--and I had a rousing appetite.\nWe went to church early; then we had been down to the Five Points to\ncarry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner; in\nfact, we had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits, and so\nthe Christmas dinner was a great success.\n\n\"Dear me, sir, no! Just as you say. Holidays are not in the least\nwearisome any more. Plague on it! When a man tells me now that he hates\nholidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the button-hole\nat once, and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on\na holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, God\nbless all holidays!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nSANTA CLAUS AT SIMPSON'S BAR\n\nBRET HARTE\n\nIt was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. \"Hush!\"\nsaid Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of\nJohnny from his adjacent closet: \"Oh, dad!\"\n\nThe Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he\nreappeared. \"His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad,\" he explained, \"and he\nwants rubbin'.\" He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the table and\nshook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an\nembarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their\ncontents, and said hopefully, \"I reckon that's enough; he don't need\nmuch. You hold on, all o' you, for a spell, and I'll be back;\" and\nvanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. The\ndoor closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly\naudible:--\n\n\"Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?\"\n\n\"Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it's most powerful from\nyer to yer. Rub yer, dad.\"\n\nA silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny:--\n\n\"Hevin' a good time out yar, dad?\"\n\n\"Yes, sonny.\"\n\n\"Tomorrer's Chrismiss,--ain't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, sonny. How does she feel now?\"\n\n\"Better. Rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it all\nabout?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's a day.\"\n\nThis exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a\nsilent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again:--\n\n\"Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to\neverybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar's a\nman they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o'\nChinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things\nto chillern,--boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what she\ntried to play upon me. Easy, now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to,--thet's\na mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest to\naggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar--Why, dad!\"\n\nIn the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh of\nthe near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct.\nJohnny's voice, too, was lowered as he went on: \"Don't you take on now,\nfor I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys doin' out thar?\"\n\nThe Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were\nsitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a\nlean buckskin purse on the table. \"Bettin' on suthin',--some little game\nor 'nother. They're all right,\" he replied to Johnny, and recommenced\nhis rubbing.\n\n\"I'd like to take a hand and win some money,\" said Johnny reflectively,\nafter a pause.\n\nThe Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, that\nif Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel, he'd have\nlots of money, etc., etc.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Johnny, \"but you don't. And whether you strike it or I win\nit, it's about the same. It's all luck. But it's mighty cur'o's about\nChrismiss,--ain't it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?\"\n\nPerhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his\nguests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man's reply was\nso low as to be inaudible beyond the room.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest, \"I've heerd\no' him before. Thar, that'll do dad. I don't ache near so bad as I did.\nNow wrap me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now,\" he added in a muffled\nwhisper, \"sit down yer by me till I go asleep.\" To assure himself of\nobedience he disengaged one hand from the blanket, and, grasping his\nfather's sleeve, again composed himself to rest.\n\nFor some moments the Old Man waited patiently. Then the unwonted\nstillness of the house excited his curiosity, and without moving from\nthe bed he cautiously opened the door with his disengaged hand, and\nlooked into the main room. To his infinite surprise it was dark and\ndeserted. But even then a smoldering log on the hearth broke, and by the\nupspringing blaze he saw the figure of Dick Bullen sitting by the dying\nembers.\n\n\"Hello!\"\n\nDick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadily toward him.\n\n\"Whar's the boys?\" said the Old Man.\n\n\"Gone up the canon on a little pasear. They're coming back for me in a\nminit. I'm waitin' round for 'em. What are you starin' at, Old Man?\" he\nadded, with a forced laugh; \"do you think I'm drunk?\"\n\nThe Old Man might have been pardoned the supposition, for Dick's eyes\nwere humid and his face flushed. He loitered and lounged back to the\nchimney, yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and laughed.\n\"Liquor ain't so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don't you git up,\" he\ncontinued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve from\nJohnny's hand. \"Don't you mind manners. Sit jest whar you be; I'm goin'\nin a jiffy. Thar, that's them now.\"\n\nThere was a low tap at the door. Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded\n\"Good-night\" to his host, and disappeared. The Old Man would have\nfollowed him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his\nsleeve. He could have easily disengaged it; it was small, weak and\nemaciated. But perhaps because it was small, weak and emaciated he\nchanged his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested his\nhead upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency of his earlier\npotations surprised him. The room flickered and faded before his eyes,\nreappeared, faded again, went out, and left him--asleep.\n\nMeantime Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions. \"Are\nyou ready?\" said Staples. \"Ready,\" said Dick; \"what's the time?\" \"Past\ntwelve,\" was the reply; \"can you make it?--it's nigh on fifty miles, the\nround trip hither and yon.\" \"I reckon,\" returned Dick shortly. \"Whar's\nthe mare?\" \"Bill and Jack's holdin' her at the crossin'.\" \"Let 'em hold\non a minit longer,\" said Dick.\n\nHe turned and reentered the house softly. By the light of the guttering\ncandle and dying fire he saw that the door of the little room was open.\nHe stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in. The Old Man had fallen\nback in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out in a line with\nhis collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled over his eyes. Beside him,\non a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket\nthat hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp with\nperspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glanced\nover his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything was quiet. With a\nsudden resolution he parted his huge mustaches with both hands, and\nstooped over the sleeping boy. But even as he did so a mischievous\nblast, lying in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the hearth,\nand lit up the room with a shameless glow, from which Dick fled in\nbashful terror.\n\nHis companions were already waiting for him at the crossing. Two of them\nwere struggling in the darkness with some strange misshapen bulk, which\nas Dick came nearer took the semblance of a great yellow horse.\n\nIt was the mare. She was not a pretty picture. From her Roman nose to\nher rising haunches, from her arched spine hidden by the stiff\n_machillas_ of a Mexican saddle, to her thick, straight, bony legs,\nthere was not a line of equine grace. In her half blind but wholly\nvicious white eyes, in her protruding under-lip, in her monstrous color,\nthere was nothing but ugliness and vice.\n\n\"Now, then,\" said Staples, \"stand cl'ar of her heels, boy, and up with\nyou. Don't miss your first holt of her mane, and mind ye get your off\nstirrup quick. Ready!\"\n\nThere was a leap, a scrambling, a bound, a wild retreat of the crowd, a\ncircle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred the earth, a\nrapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice of Dick\nsomewhere in the darkness. \"All right!\"\n\n\"Don't take the lower road back onless you're pushed hard for time!\nDon't hold her in down hill. We'll be at the ford at five. G'lang!\nHoopa! Mula! GO!\"\n\nA splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road, a clatter in the\nrocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.\n\n - - - - -\n\nSing, O Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen! Sing, O Muse, of chivalrous\nmen! the sacred quest, the doughty deeds, the battery of low churls, the\nfearsome ride and gruesome perils of the Flower of Simpson's Bar! Alack!\nshe is dainty, this Muse! She will have none of this bucking brute and\nswaggering, ragged rider, and I must fain follow him in prose, afoot!\n\nIt was one o'clock, and yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill. For in\nthat time Jovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and\npractised all her vices. Thrice had she stumbled. Twice had she thrown\nup her Roman nose in a straight line with the reins, and, resisting bit\nand spur, struck out madly across country. Twice had she reared, and,\nrearing, fallen backward; and twice had the agile Dick, unharmed,\nregained his seat before she found her vicious legs again. And a mile\nbeyond them, at the foot of a long hill, was Rattlesnake Creek. Dick\nknew that here was the crucial test of his ability to perform his\nenterprise, set his teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks,\nand changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression. Bullied and\nmaddened, Jovita began the descent of the hill. Here the artful Richard\npretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation and well-feigned\ncries of alarm. It is unnecessary to add that Jovita instantly ran away.\nNor need I state the time made in the descent; it is written in the\nchronicles of Simpson's Bar. Enough that in another moment, as it seemed\nto Dick, she was splashing on the overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek.\nAs Dick expected, the momentum she had acquired carried her beyond the\npoint of balking, and, holding her well together for a mighty leap, they\ndashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current. A few moments of\nkicking, wading, and swimming, and Dick drew a long breath on the\nopposite bank.\n\nThe road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level.\nEither the plunge into Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire,\nor the art which led to it had shown her the superior wickedness of her\nrider, for Jovita no longer wasted her surplus energy in wanton\nconceits. Once she bucked, but it was from force of habit; once she\nshied, but it was from a new, freshly-painted meeting-house at the\ncrossing of the country road. Hollows, ditches, gravelly deposits,\npatches of freshly-springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattling\nhoofs. She began to smell unpleasantly, once or twice she coughed\nslightly, but there was no abatement of her strength or speed. By two\no'clock he had passed Red Mountain and begun the descent to the plain.\nTen minutes later the driver of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and\npassed by a \"man on a Pinto hoss,\"--an event sufficiently notable for\nremark. At half past two Dick rose in his stirrups with a great shout.\nStars were glittering through the rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of\nthe plain, rose two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line of black\nobjects. Dick jingled his spurs and swung his _riata_, Jovita bounded\nforward, and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville, and drew up\nbefore the wooden piazza of \"The Hotel of All Nations.\"\n\nWhat transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a part of this\nrecord. Briefly I may state, however, that after Jovita had been handed\nover to a sleepy ostler, whom she at once kicked into unpleasant\nconsciousness, Dick sallied out with the barkeeper for a tour of the\nsleeping town. Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and gambling\nhouses; but, avoiding these, they stopped before several closed shops,\nand by persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused the proprietors\nfrom their beds, and made them unbar the doors of their magazines and\nexpose their wares. Sometimes they were met by curses, but oftener by\ninterest and some concern in their needs. It was three o'clock before\nthis pleasantry was given over, and with a small waterproof bag of India\nrubber strapped on his shoulders Dick returned to the hotel. And then he\nsprang to the saddle, and dashed down the lonely street and out into the\nlonelier plain, where presently the lights, the black line of houses,\nthe spires, and the flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again and\nwere lost in the distance.\n\nThe storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of\nadjacent landmarks were distinct, but it was half-past four before Dick\nreached the meeting-house and the crossing of the country road. To avoid\nthe rising grade he had taken a longer and more circuitous road, in\nwhose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound. It was a poor\npreparation for a steady ascent of five miles more; but Jovita,\ngathering her legs under her, took it with her usual blind, unreasoning\nfury, and a half hour later reached the long level that led to\nRattlesnake Creek. Another half hour would bring him to the Creek. He\nthrew the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped to her, and\nbegan to sing.\n\nSuddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would have unseated a less\npractised rider. Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped from\nthe bank, and at the same time from the road before her arose a shadowy\nhorse and rider. \"Throw up your hands,\" commanded the second apparition,\nwith an oath.\n\nDick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. He\nknew what it meant, and was prepared.\n\n\"Stand aside, Jack Simpson. I know you, you d----d thief! Let me pass,\nor--\"\n\nHe did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with a\nterrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shake of\nher vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on the\nimpediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman\nrolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundred yards\naway. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet,\ndropped helplessly at his side.\n\nWithout slacking his speed he lifted the reins to his left hand. But a\nfew moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths\nthat had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some\ntime. He had no fear of pursuit, but, looking up, he saw that the\neastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost\ntheir ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter\nsky. Day was upon him. Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he\nforgot the pain of his wound, and, mounting again, dashed on towards\nRattlesnake Creek. But now Jovita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick\nreeled in his saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.\n\nRide, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!\n\nFor the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion\nfrom a loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept down\nthe hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrong\nroad, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?\n\nIt was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen,\nmore than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless\nriver between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night\nRichard's heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickening\neast, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In\nthat brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room\nat Simpson's Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose\nupon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots,\nand saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped\nthe bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed\ninto the yellow water. A cry arose from the opposite bank as the head of\na man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battling\ncurrent, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirling\ndriftwood.\n\n - - - - -\n\nThe Old man started and woke. The fire on the hearth was dead, the\ncandle in the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was\nrapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the\ndripping, half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.\n\n\"Dick?\"\n\n\"Hush! Is he awake yet?\"\n\n\"No; but Dick--\"\n\n\"Dry up, you old fool! Get me some whiskey, quick!\" The Old Man flew,\nand returned with--an empty bottle! Dick would have sworn, but his\nstrength was not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the\nhandle of the door, and motioned to the Old Man.\n\n\"Thar's suthin' in my pack yer for Johnny. Take it off. I can't.\"\n\nThe Old Man unstrapped the pack, and laid it before the exhausted man.\n\n\"Open it, quick.\"\n\nHe did so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poor\ntoys,--cheap and barbaric enough, goodness knows, but bright with paint\nand tinsel. One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievably\nruined by water; and on the third--ah me! there was a cruel spot.\n\n\"It don't look like much, that's a fact,\" said Dick ruefully ... \"But\nit's the best we could do.... Take 'em Old Man, and put 'em in his\nstocking, and tell him--tell him, you know--hold me, Old Man--\" The Old\nMan caught at his sinking figure. \"Tell him,\" said Dick, with a weak\nlittle laugh,--\"tell him Sandy Claus has come.\"\n\nAnd even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one arm\nhanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson's Bar, and\nfell fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly\nafter, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable\nlove. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson's Bar that the whole\nmountain, as if caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nOLD CAROLS AND EXERCISES\n\n\n\n\n GOD REST YOU, MERRY GENTLEMEN\n\n OLD CAROL\n\n God rest you, merry gentlemen,\n Let nothing you dismay,\n For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,\n Was born upon this day.\n To save us all from Satan's pow'r\n When we were gone astray.\n O tidings of comfort and joy!\n For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,\n Was born on Christmas Day.\n\n In Bethlehem, in Jewry,\n This blessed Babe was born.\n And laid within a manger,\n Upon this blessed morn;\n The which His mother, Mary,\n Nothing did take in scorn.\n\n From God our Heavenly Father,\n A blessed angel came;\n And unto certain shepherds\n Brought tidings of the same:\n How that in Bethlehem was born\n The Son of God by name.\n\n \"Fear not,\" then said the angel,\n \"Let nothing you affright,\n This day is born a Saviour\n Of virtue, power, and might,\n So frequently to vanquish all\n The friends of Satan quite.\"\n\n The shepherds at those tidings\n Rejoiced much in mind,\n And left their flocks a-feeding\n In tempest, storm, and wind,\n And went to Bethlehem straightway,\n This blessed Babe to find.\n\n But when to Bethlehem they came,\n Whereat this infant lay,\n They found Him in a manger,\n Where oxen feed on hay,\n His mother Mary kneeling,\n Unto the Lord did pray.\n\n Now to the Lord sing praises,\n All you within this place,\n And with true love and brotherhood\n Each other now embrace;\n This holy tide of Christmas\n All others doth deface.\n O tidings of comfort and joy!\n For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,\n Was born on Christmas Day.\n\n * * * * *\n\n OLD CHRISTMAS RETURNED\n\n All you that to feasting and mirth are inclined,\n Come here is good news for to pleasure your mind,\n Old Christmas is come for to keep open house,\n He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse:\n Then come, boys, and welcome for diet the chief,\n Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.\n\n The holly and ivy about the walls wind\n And show that we ought to our neighbors be kind,\n Inviting each other for pastime and sport,\n And where we best fare, there we most do resort;\n We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief,\n Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.\n\n All travellers, as they do pass on their way,\n At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay,\n Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest,\n Since that he must be Old Christmas's guest;\n Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief,\n Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n As Joseph was a-waukin'\n He heard an angel sing,\n \"This night shall be the birthnight\n Of Christ our heavenly King.\n\n \"His birth-bed shall be neither\n In housen nor in hall,\n Nor in the place of paradise,\n But in the oxen stall.\n\n \"He neither shall be rocked\n In silver nor in gold,\n But in the wooden manger\n That lieth in the mould.\n\n \"He neither shall be washen\n With white wine nor with red,\n But with the fair spring water\n That on you shall be shed.\n\n \"He neither shall be clothed\n In purple nor in pall,\n But in the fair, white linen\n That usen babies all.\"\n\n As Joseph was a-waukin',\n Thus did the angel sing,\n And Mary's son at midnight\n Was born to be our King.\n\n Then be you glad, good people,\n At this time of the year;\n And light you up your candles,\n For His star it shineth clear.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \"IN EXCELSIS GLORIA\"\n\n When Christ was born of Mary free,\n In Bethlehem, in that fair citie,\n Angels sang there with mirth and glee,\n _In Excelsis Gloria!_\n\n Herdsmen beheld these angels bright,\n To them appearing with great light,\n Who said, \"God's Son is born this night,\"\n _In Excelsis Gloria!_\n\n This King is come to save mankind,\n As in Scripture truths we find,\n Therefore this song have we in mind,\n _In Excelsis Gloria!_\n\n Then, dear Lord, for Thy great grace,\n Grant us the bliss to see Thy face,\n That we may sing to Thy solace,\n _In Excelsis Gloria!_\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE BOAR'S HEAD CAROL\n\n (Sung at Queen's College, Oxford.)\n\n The boar's head in hand bear I,\n Bedecked with bays and rosemary;\n And I pray you, my masters, be merry,\n Quot estis in convivio.\n _Caput apri defero\n Reddens laudes domino._\n\n The boar's head, as I understand,\n Is the rarest dish in all this land,\n Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland\n Let us servire cantico.\n _Caput apri defero\n Reddens laudes domino._\n\n Our steward hath provided this\n In honour of the King of bliss;\n Which on this day to be served is\n In Reginensi Atrio.\n _Caput apri defero\n Reddens laudes domino._\n\n * * * * *\n\n CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n Listen, lordings, unto me, a tale I will you tell;\n Which, as on this night of glee, in David's town befell.\n Joseph came from Nazareth with Mary, that sweet maid;\n Weary were they nigh to death, and for a lodging prayed.\n\n In the inn they found no room; a scanty bed they made;\n Soon a babe, an angel pure, was in the manger laid.\n Forth He came, as light through glass, He came to save us all.\n In the stable, ox and ass before their Maker fall.\n\n Shepherds lay afield that night to keep the silly sheep,\n Hosts of angels in their sight came down from Heaven's high steep:--\n Tidings! tidings unto you! to you a child is born,\n Purer than the drops of dew, and brighter than the morn!\n\n Onward then the angels sped, the shepherds onward went,--\n God was in His manger bed; in worship low they bent.\n In the morning see ye mind, my masters one and all,\n At the altar Him to find, who lay within the stall.\n\n _Chorus_.\n\n Sing high, sing low,\n Sing to and fro,\n Go tell it out with speed,\n Cry out and shout,\n All round about,\n That Christ is born indeed!\n Pray whither sailed those ships all three\n On Christmas day in the morning?\n\n Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem\n On Christmas day, on Christmas day;\n Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem\n On Christmas day in the morning.\n\n And all the bells on earth shall ring\n On Christmas day, on Christmas day;\n And all the bells on earth shall ring\n On Christmas day in the morning.\n\n And all the angels in heaven shall sing\n On Christmas day, on Christmas day;\n And all the angels in heaven shall sing\n On Christmas day in the morning.\n\n And all the souls on earth shall sing\n On Christmas day, on Christmas day;\n And all the souls on earth shall sing\n On Christmas day in the morning.\n\n Then let us all rejoice amain\n On Christmas day, on Christmas day;\n Then let us all rejoice amain\n On Christmas day in the morning.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nADDITIONAL PIECES\n\n\n\n A CHRISTMAS INSURRECTION\n\n ANNE P.L. FIELD\n\n In the hush of a shivery Christmas-tide dawn\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n Three small frozen figures hung stiff and forlorn\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n Three dim ghostly forms in the glimmering gray\n Locked up in dark cold storage quarters were they\n Awaiting the coming of glad Christmas day\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n\n Suspended each one from a hickory twig\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n A turkey, a goose, and a little fat pig\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n With chestnuts the turkey was garnished and stuffed\n With onions and sage was the goose-carcass puffed,\n While piggy was spiced, and his neck was beruffed\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n\n Three spirits regretful were hovering near\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n \"Look!\" gobbled the turkey's, \"what tragedy's here!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n \"For this did they tempt me with fattening food,\n For this did I bring up my beautiful brood,\n I always thought farmers uncommonly rude!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n\n The goose spirit trembled, then hissingly said\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n \"Most men care for nothing except to be fed!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n \"What horror is this, filled with onions and sage\n To be served on a platter at my tender age!\n 'Tis enough any well-disposed fowl to enrage!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n\n The phantom pig grunted, \"Do please look at that!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n \"Oh! why did I grow up so rosy and fat!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n \"They put in my mouth a sweet, juicy corncob\n Just when of sensations my palate they rob,\n Do you wonder such sights make a spirit-pig sob!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n\n Conferring, the spirits resolved on a plan\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n By which to wreak vengeance on merciless man\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n \"We'll each disagree with the human inside,\n We'll cause indigestion and damage his pride,\n And the pains of this Christmas we'll spread far and wide!\"\n Sing hey! sing ho! heigho!\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS\n\n ANNE P.L. FIELD\n\n Twas the night after Christmas in Santa-Claus land\n And to rest from his labors St. Nicholas planned.\n The reindeer were turned out to pasture and all\n The ten thousand assistants discharged till the fall.\n The furry great-coat was laid safely away\n With the boots and the cap with its tassel so gay,\n And toasting his toes by a merry wood fire,\n What more could a weary old Santa desire?\n So he puffed at his pipe and remarked to his wife,\n \"This amply makes up for my strenuous life!\n From climbing down chimneys my legs fairly ache,\n But it's well worth the while for the dear children's sake.\n I'd bruise every bone in my body to see\n The darlings' delight in a gift-laden tree!\"\n Just then came a sound like a telephone bell--\n Though why they should have such a thing I can't tell--\n St. Nick gave a snort and exclaimed in a rage,\n \"Bad luck to inventions of this modern age!\"\n He grabbed the receiver--his face wore a frown\n As he roared in the mouth-piece, \"I will not come down\n To exchange any toys like an up-to-date store,\n Ring off, I'll not listen to anything more!\"\n Then he settled himself by the comforting blaze\n And waxed reminiscent of halcyon days\n When children were happy with simplest of toys:\n A doll for the girls and a drum for the boys--\n But again came that noisy disturber of peace\n The telephone bell--would the sound never cease?\n \"Run and answer it, wife, all my patience has fled,\n If they keep this thing up I shall wish I were dead!\n I have worked night and day the best part of a year\n To supply all the children, and what do I hear--\n A boy who declares he received roller-skates\n When he wanted a gun--and a cross girl who states\n That she asked for a new Victor talking machine\n And I brought her a sled, so she thinks I am 'mean!'\"\n Poor St. Nicholas looked just the picture of woe,\n He needed some auto-suggestion, you know,\n To make him think things were all coming out right,\n For he didn't get one wink of slumber that night!\n The telephone wire was kept sizzling hot\n By children disgusted with presents they'd got,\n And when the bright sun showed its face in the sky\n The Santa-Claus family were ready to cry!\n Just then something happened--a way of escape,\n Though it came in the funniest possible shape--\n An aeronaut, sorely in need of a meal,\n Descended for breakfast--it seemed quite ideal!\n For the end of it was, he invited his host\n Out to try the balloon, of whose speed he could boast.\n St. Nick, who was nothing if not a good sport,\n Was delighted to go, and as quick as a thought\n Climbed into the car for a flight in the air--\n \"No telephone bells can disturb me up there!\n And, wife, if it suits me I'll count it no crime\n To stay up till ready for next Christmas time!\"\n Thus saying--he sailed in the giant balloon,\n And I fear that he will not return very soon.\n Now, when you ask \"Central\" for Santa-Claus land\n She'll say, \"discontinued\"--and you'll understand.\n\n * * * * *\n\n WHEN THE STARS OF MORNING SANG\n\n ANNE P.L. FIELD\n\n When the stars of morning sang\n Long ago,\n Sweet the air with music rang\n Through the snow,\n There beside the mother mild\n Slept the blessed Christmas child,--\n Slumber holy, undefiled--\n Here below.\n\n When the wise men traveled far\n Through the night,\n Following the guiding star\n Pure and bright,\n Lo! it stood above the place\n Sanctified by Heaven's grace,\n And upon the Christ-Child's face\n Shed its light.\n\n When the world lay hushed and still\n Christmas morn,\n Suddenly were skies athrill--\n \"Christ is born!\"\n Angel voices, high and clear,\n Chanted tidings of good cheer,\n \"See, the Infant King is here,\n Christ is born!\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n A PRAYER AT BETHLEHEM\n\n ANNE P.L. FIELD\n\n O pulsing earth with heart athrill\n With infinite creative will!\n O watchful shepherds in whose eyes\n Sweet hopes and promises arise!\n O angel-host whose chanting choir\n Proclaims fulfillment of desire!\n O flaming star so purely white\n Against the black Judean night!\n O blessed Mary bending low\n With sense of motherhood aglow!\n O holy Babe with haloed head\n Soft pillowed in a manger bed!\n O Mystery divine and deep\n Help us Thy prophecies to keep!\n\n * * * * *\n\n THE CHRISTMAS FIRES\n\n ANNE P.L. FIELD\n\n The Christmas fires brightly gleam\n And dance among the holly boughs,\n The Christmas pudding's spicy steam\n With fragrance fills the house,\n While merry grows each friendly soul\n Over the foaming wassail bowl.\n\n Resplendent stands the glitt'ring tree,\n Weighted with gifts for old and young,\n The children's faces shine with glee,\n And joyous is each tongue,\n While lads and lassies come and go\n Under the festive mistletoe.\n\n When suddenly the frosty air\n Is filled with music, voices sweet,\n Lo! see the Christmas waits are there\n Snow-crowned and bare of feet,\n Yet high and clear their voices ring,\n And glad their Christmas carolling.\n\n * * * * *\n\n CAROL\n\n O Child of Mary's tender care!\n O little Child so pure and fair!\n Cradled within the manger hay\n On that divine first Christmas day!\n The hopes of every age and race\n Are centered in Thy radiant face!\n\n O Child whose glory fills the earth!\n O little Child of lowly birth!\n The shepherds, guided from afar,\n Stood worshiping beneath the star,\n And wise-men fell on bended knee\n And homage offered unto Thee!\n\n O Child of whom the angels sing!\n O little Child, our Infant King!\n What balm for every sorrow lies\n Within those clear, illumined eyes!\n O precious gift to mortals given\n To win us heritage in Heaven!\n\n * * * * *\n\nTHE MOTHER\n\nROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER\n\nAll day her watch had lasted on the plateau above the town. And now the\nsun slanted low over the dull, blue sheen of the western sea, playing\nchangingly with the angular mountain which rose abruptly from its surge.\n\nThe young matron did not heed the magic which was transforming the\ntheater of hills to the north and lingering lovingly at last on the\neastern summit. Nor had she any eyes for the changing hue of the\nivy-clad cubes of stone that formed the village over which her hungry\ngaze passed, sweeping the length and breadth of the plain below.\n\nShe seemed not much above thirty: tall, erect and lithe. Her throat,\nbared to the breeze, was of the purest modeling; her skin of a whiteness\nunusual in that warm climate. Her head, a little small for her rounded\nfigure, was crowned with a coil of chestnut hair, and her eyes glowed\nwith a look strange to the common light of every day. It was her soul\nthat was scanning that southward country.\n\nFrom time to time she would fondle a small object hidden beneath the\nwhite folds of her robe. Once she threw her arms out in a passionate\ngesture toward the plain, and tears overflowed the beautiful eyes. Again\nshe fell on her knees, and the throes of inner prayer found relief at\nher lips:\n\n\"Father, my Father, grant me to see him ere the dusk!\"\n\nOnce again she sank down, moaning:\n\n\"He is in Thine everlasting arms. But Thou, who knowest times and\nseasons, give him to me on this day of days!\"\n\nUnder the curve of a shielding hand her vision strained through the\nclear, pure air,--strained and found at last two specks far out in the\nplain, and followed them breathlessly as they crept nearer. One traveler\nwas clad in a dark garment, and stopped presently, leaving his\nlight-robed companion to hasten on alone toward the hungry-eyed woman on\nthe plateau.\n\nAll at once she gathered her skirt with a joyous cry and ran with lithe,\nelastic steps down through the village.\n\nThey met on a low, rounded hill near the plain.\n\n\"My son, my darling!\" she cried, catching him passionately to her bosom.\n\"We have searched, and waited, and agonized,\" she continued after a\npause, smiling at him through her happy tears. \"But it matters nothing\nnow. I have thee again.\"\n\n\"My mother,\" said the boy as he caressed her cheek, looking at her\ndreamily, \"I have been with my cousin. Even now he waits below for me. I\nmust bid thee farewell. I must pass from thy face forever.\"\n\nHis lip trembled a little, but he smiled bravely. \"For it is the will of\nGod, the Father.\"\n\nThe mother's face went ashen. She tottered and would have fallen but for\nhis slender arm about her.\n\nHer thoughts were whirling in wild confusion, yet she knew that she must\ndecide calmly, wisely, quickly.\n\nHer lips moved, but made no sound.\n\n\"Oh, lay Thy wise and gracious hand upon me!\" was what she breathed in\nsilence.\n\nThen her voice sounded rich and happy and fresh, as it had always\nsounded for him.\n\n\"His will be done. Thou comest to bid farewell to thy brothers and\nfather?\"\n\n\"It may not be,\" he answered. \"My lot henceforth is to flee the touch of\nthe world, the unsympathetic eye, the ribald tongue of those like my\nbrothers--the defilement of common life.\"\n\nThe mother pressed him closer.\n\n\"Say all that is in thine heart,\" she murmured. \"We will bide here.\"\n\nThey sank down together on the soft, bright turf, facing the brilliance\nof the west, she holding her child as of old in the hollow of her arm.\n\nHe began to speak.\n\n\"For long and long a voice within me said, 'Go and seek thy cousin.' So\nI sought and found, and we abode together in the woods and fields, and\nwere friends with our dear brothers the beasts, and the fishes, and the\nbirds. There, day by day, my cousin would tell me of the dream that\nfilled his soul and of the holy men who had put the dream there.\"\n\nThe mother's eyes grew larger with a swift terror, but she held her\npeace.\n\n\"And at the last, when the beauty, the wind, the sun, the rain, and the\nvoice of God, had purified me in some measure, my cousin brought me to\nvisit these holy men.\"\n\nThe clear, boyish voice rose and began to vibrate with enthusiasm.\n\n\"Ah, mother, _they_ are the chosen ones of God! Sweet and grave and\ngentle they are, and theirs is the perfect life. They dwell spotless and\napart from the world. They own one common purse, and spend their lives\nworking with their hands and pondering and dreaming on purity, goodness,\nand the commands of the great law.\"\n\nHe sprang up in his excitement from her encircling arm and stood erect\nand wide-eyed before her.\n\n\"Ah, mother, they are so good that they would do nothing on the Sabbath,\neven to saving their own lives or the lives of their animals, or their\nbrothers. They bathe very often in sacred water. They have no wives, and\nmortify the flesh, and--\"\n\n\"What is their aim in this?\" the mother interrupted gently.\n\nThe boy was aflame with his subject.\n\n\"Ah, that is it--the great goal toward which they all run,\" he cried.\n\"They are doing my Father's work, and I must help! Hear, hear what is\nbefore me: When a young novice comes to them they give him the symbols\nof purity: a spade, an apron, and a white robe to wear at the holy\nmeals. In a year he receives a closer fellowship and the baths of\npurification. After that he enters the state of bodily purity. Then\nlittle by little he enters into purity of the spirit, meekness,\nholiness. He becomes a temple of the Holy Spirit, and prophesies. Ah,\nthink, mother, how sweet it would be to lie entranced there for days and\nweeks in an earthly paradise, with no rough world to break the spell,\nwhile the angels sing softly in one's ears! I, even I, have already\ntasted of that bliss.\"\n\n\"Say on,\" she breathed. \"What does the holy man do then?\"\n\n\"Then,\" the inspired, boyish tones continued--\"then he performs\nmiracles, and finally--\" he clasped her hand convulsively--\"he becomes\nElias, the forerunner of the Messiah!\"\n\nFrom far out in the wilderness came a melancholy cry.\n\n\"It is John, my cousin,\" said the boy, radiant, half turning himself at\nthe sound. \"I must go to him.\"\n\nShe drew in her breath sharply, and rose to her feet.\n\n\"Bear a message to John,\" she said. \"Not pourings of water, nor white\nrobes; not times and seasons, nor feasts in darkness and silence, shall\nhasten the kingdom of heaven; neither formulas, nor phylacteries, nor\nmadness on the Sabbath. Above all, no selfish, proud isolation shall\nusher in the glorious reign of the Messiah. These holy men,--these\nEssenes,--are but stricter, sterner, nobler Pharisees. Tell thy cousin\nto take all the noble and fine, to reject all the selfish and unmeaning,\nin their lives. Doctrine is not in heaven. Not by fasts and scourgings,\nnot by vigils and scruples about the law; not by selfishly shutting out\nthe world, but by taking all poor, suffering, erring, striving humanity\ninto his heart will he become the true Elias.\"\n\nThere was a breathless, thrilling moment of perfect silence as the\nglowing eyes of the mother looked deep into the astonished, questioning\neyes of the son.\n\nThen she rested both hands on his shoulders and spoke almost in a\nwhisper.\n\n\"As for thee, the time is now come. Does my son know what this day\nmeans?\"\n\nHe looked at her wonderingly and was silent.\n\nThe mother spoke:\n\n\"For many years I have kept these things and pondered them in my heart.\nNow, _now_ the hour is here when thou must know them.\"\n\nShe bent so close that a strand of loosened hair swept his forehead.\n\n\"In the time before thou wert born came as in a dream a wondrous visitor\nto me straight from the Father. And that pure, ecstatic messenger\nannounced that the power of the Highest would overshadow me, and that my\nchild was to be the son of the Highest, who should save His people from\ntheir sins--the Prince of Peace--the Messiah!\"\n\nFrom the wilderness came a long, melancholy cry, but the rapt boy heard\nnot.\n\nThe mother continued in the soft, tender voice that began to tremble\nwith her in her ecstasy.\n\n\"This day is thy birthday. Twelve years ago this eventide, when thou\ncamest into the world of men, men came to worship and praise God for\nthee,--the lowliest and the highest,--as a token that thou wert to be\nnot only Son of God but Son of Man as well. Poor, ignorant shepherds\ncrowded about us in that little stable where we lay, and left the sweet\nsavor of their prayers, and tears, and rejoicings. And great, wise kings\nfrom another part of the earth came also.\"\n\nFrom beneath the folds of her robe she drew forth by a fine-spun chain\nan intricately chased casket of soft, yellow gold.\n\nThe boy took it dreamily into his hands, and as his fingers opened it,\nthere floated forth upon the air of the hills of Nazareth the sacred\nodor of incense mingled with a perfume indescribably delicate and\nprecious.\n\n\"Read!\" whispered the mother.\n\nThe boy held his breath suddenly.\n\nThere, on the lower surface of the lid, graven in rude characters, as if\non the inspiration of the moment, stood the single word\n\nLOVE\n\nShe flung wide her arms as if to embrace the universe.\n\n\"Love! Love! Love!\" she cried in her rich mother's voice. \"It is the\ngreatest thing in the world! It is the message of the Messiah!\"\n\nThe heavens over the sea were of molten gold, and a golden glow seemed\nto radiate from the boyish face that confronted them. In their\ntrance-like ecstasy the wonderful eyes gazed full into the blinding\nwest--gazed on and on until day had passed into night.\n\nOne iterant sound alone, as it drew closer, stirred the silence of that\nevening: it was the voice of one crying in the wilderness.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's notes.\n\n\n1. There is an editorial error in the original edition\nof this book: \"The Star Song\" by Robert Herrick is listed in the Table\nof Contents but not included in the text. For this edition \"The Star\nSong\" was removed from the Table of Contents.\n\n2. In the \"Inexhaustibility of the Subject of Christmas\" by Leigh Hunt the\nfollowing sentence:\n\n \"There are two p's, observe, in plenipotential; and so there are in\n plum-pudding. We love an exquisite fitness,--a might and wealth of\n adaptation).\n\nis transcribed:\n\n (There are two p's, observe, in plenipotential; and so there are in\n plum-pudding. We love an exquisite fitness,--a might and wealth of\n adaptation).\n\n3. In \"Christmas Holly:\"\n\n I sing the holly, and who can breathe\n Aught of that that is not good?\n Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,\n That hangs over peasant and king;\n\nwas changed as follows to correct an error and to preserve the symmetrical\nverse structure [4,8,8,8,4]:\n\n I sing the holly, and who can breathe\n Aught of that that is not good?\n\n Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,\n That hangs over peasant and king;\n\n4. In \"Sery\" by Richard Watson Gilder:\n\n At a very queer sight\n In the dim starlight.\n As plain as can be\n\n A fairy tree\n\nwas changed to:\n\n At a very queer sight\n In the dim starlight.\n\n As plain as can be\n A fairy tree\n\n5. In Christmas Dreams, the word \"stravaigging\" was corrected to\n\"stravaiging.\"\n\n6. \"Hang up the Baby's Stocking\" was not attributed in the Table of\nContents or in the text in the original edition. For clarity this edition\nattributed both as follows: [Emily Huntington Miller]. Attribution makes\nthe text more readable. Without it one could believe the poem to have\nbeen written by Andrew Lang; especially after Haven inserts an extra\npoem by Southwell, \"A Carol\" following \"The Wassailer's Song,\" which\nis unlisted in the contents.\n\n7. Finally, the 1907 edition includes a story called \"Golden Cobwebs\" at\nthe close of section IV that was not included in the 1968 edition used\nfor this transcription.","title":"Christmas : $b its origin, celebration and significance as related in prose and verse","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":59255}