Bill got hurt in the summer, and he’s been in bed ever since. So we are giving him a Christmas–tree and all. He gets a bunch of things–an air gun, and a train that goes around when you wind her up. They’re great!”
“You boys are doing this?”
“Well, it’s our club at the settlement, and of course Miss Gray thought of it, and she’s givin’ Bill the train. Come along, mister.”
But Mr. Carter declined.
“All right,” said the boy. “I guess, what with Pete and all, Bill will have Christmas enough.”
“Who is Pete?”
“Bill’s dog. He’s had him three weeks now–best little pup you ever saw!”
A dog which Bill had had three weeks–and in a neighbourhood not a quarter of a mile from the avenue. It was three weeks since Skiddles had disappeared. That this dog was Skiddles was of course most improbable, and yet the philanthropist was ready to grasp at any clue which might lead to the lost terrier.
“How did Bill get this dog?” he demanded.
“I found him myself. Some kids had tin-canned him, and he came into our entry. He licked my hand, and then sat up on his hind legs. Somebody’d taught him that, you know. I thought right away, ‘Here’s a dog for Bill!’ And I took him over there and fed him, and they kept him in Bill’s room two or three days, so he shouldn’t get scared again and run off; and now he wouldn’t leave Bill for anybody. Of course, he ain’t much of a dog, Pete ain’t,” he added “he’s just a pup, but he’s mighty friendly!”
“Boy,” said Mr. Carter, “I guess I’ll just go round and”–he was about to add,” have a look at that dog,” but fearful of raising suspicion, he ended–“and see Bill.”
The tenements to which the boy led him were of brick, and reasonably clean. Nearly every window showed some sign of Christmas.
The tree-bearer led the way into a dark hall, up one flight–Mr. Carter assisting with the tree–and down another dark hall, to a door, on which he knocked. A woman opened it.
“Here’s the tree!” said the boy, in a loud whisper. “Is Bill’s door shut?”
Mr. Carter stepped forward out of the darkness. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “I met this young man in the street, and he asked me to come here and see a playmate of his who is, I understand, an invalid. But if I am intruding–“
“Come in,” said the woman, heartily, throwing the door open. “Bill will be glad to see you, sir.”
The philanthropist stepped inside.
The room was decently furnished and clean. There was a sewing machine in the corner, and in both the windows hung wreaths of holly. Between the windows was a cleared space, where evidently the tree, when decorated, was to stand.
“Are all the things here?” eagerly demanded the tree-bearer.
“They’re all here, Jimmy,” answered Mrs. Bailey. “The candy just came.”
“Say,” cried the boy, pulling off his red flannel mittens to blow on his fingers, “won’t it be great? But now Bill’s got to see Santa Claus. I’ll just go in and tell him, an’ then, when I holler, mister, you come on, and pretend you’re Santa Claus.” And with incredible celerity the boy opened the door at the opposite end of the room and disappeared.
“Madam,” said Mr. Carter, in considerable embarrassment, “I must say one word. I am Mr. Carter, Mr. Allan Carter. You may have heard my name?”
She shook her head. “No, sir.”
“I live not far from here on the avenue. Three weeks ago I lost a little dog that I valued very much I have had all the city searched since then, in vain. To-day I met the boy who has just left us. He informed me that three weeks ago he found a dog, which is at present in the possession of your son. I wonder–is it not just possible that this dog may be mine?”
Mrs. Bailey smiled. “I guess not, Mr. Carter. The dog Jimmy found hadn’t come off the avenue–not from the look of him. You know there’s hundreds and hundreds of dogs without homes, sir. But I will say for this one, he has a kind of a way with him.”
“Hark!” said Mr. Carter.
There was a rustling and a snuffing at the door at the far end of the room, a quick scratching of feet. Then:
“Woof! woof! woof!” sharp and clear came happy impatient little barks. The philanthropist’s eyes brightened. “Yes,” he said, “that is the dog.”
“I doubt if it can be, sir,” said Mrs. Bailey, deprecatingly.
“Open the door, please,” commanded the philanthropist, “and let us see.” Mrs. Bailey complied. There was a quick jump, a tumbling rush, and Skiddles, the lost Skiddles, was in the philanthropist’s arms. Mrs. Bailey shut the door with a troubled face.
“I see it’s your dog, sir,” she said, “but I hope you won’t be thinking that Jimmy or I–“
“Madam,” interrupted Mr. Carter, “I could not be so foolish. On the contrary, I owe you a thousand thanks.”
Mrs. Bailey looked more cheerful. “Poor little Billy!” she said. “It’ll come hard on him, losing Pete just at Christmas time. But the boys are so good to him, I dare say he’ll forget it.”
“Who are these boys?” inquired the philanthropist. “Isn’t their action–somewhat unusual?”
“It’s Miss Gray’s club at the settlement, sir,” explained Mrs. Bailey. “Every Christmas they do this for somebody. It’s not charity; Billy and I don’t need charity, or take it. It’s just friendliness. They’re good boys.”
“I see,” said the philanthropist. He was still wondering about it, though, when the door opened again, and Jimmy thrust out a face shining with anticipation.
“All ready, mister!” he said. “Bill’s waitin’ for you!”
“Jimmy,” began Mrs. Bailey, about to explain, “the gentleman–“
But the philanthropist held up his hand, interrupting her. “You’ll let me see your son, Mrs. Bailey?” he asked, gently.
“Why, certainly, sir.”
Mr. Carter put Skiddles down and walked slowly into the inner room. The bed stood with its side toward him. On it lay a small boy of seven, rigid of body, but with his arms free and his face lighted with joy. “Hello, Santa Claus!” he piped, in a voice shrill with excitement.
“Hello, Bill!” answered the philanthropist, sedately.
The boy turned his eyes on Jimmy.
“He knows my name,” he said, with glee.
“He knows everybody’s name,” said Jimmy. “Now you tell him what you want, Bill, and he’ll bring it to-morrow.
“How would you like,” said the philanthropist, reflectively, “an–an–” he hesitated, it seemed so incongruous with that stiff figure on the bed–“an airgun?”
“I guess yes,” said Bill, happily.
“And a train of cars,” broke in the impatient Jimmy, “that goes like sixty when you wind her?”
“Hi!” said Bill.
The philanthropist solemnly made notes of this.
“How about,” he remarked, inquiringly, “a tree?”
“Honest? “said Bill.
“I think it can be managed,” said Santa Claus. He advanced to the bedside.
“I’m glad to have seen you, Bill. You know how busy I am, but I hope–I hope to see you again.”
“Not till next year, of course, ” warned Jimmy.
“Not till then, of course,” assented Santa Claus. “And now, good-bye.”
“You forgot to ask him if he’d been a good boy,” suggested Jimmy.
“I have,” said Bill. “I’ve been fine. You ask mother.”
“She gives you–she gives you both a high character,” said Santa Claus. “Good-bye again,” and so saying he withdrew. Skiddles followed him out. The philanthropist closed the door of the bedroom, and then turned to Mrs. Bailey.
She was regarding him with awestruck eyes.
“Oh, sir,” she said, “I know now who you are–the Mr. Carter that gives so much away to people!”
The philanthropist nodded, deprecatingly.
“Just so, Mrs. Bailey,” he said. “And there is one gift–or loan rather–which I should like to make to you. I should like to leave the little dog with you till after the holidays. I’m afraid I’ll have to claim him then; but if you’ll keep him till after Christmas–and let me find, perhaps, another dog for Billy–I shall be much obliged.”
Again the door of the bedroom opened, and Jimmy emerged quietly.
“Bill wants the pup,” he explained.
“Pete! Pete!” came the piping but happy voice from the inner room.
Skiddles hesitated. Mr. Carter made no sign.
“Pete! Pete!” shrilled the voice again.
Slowly, very slowly, Skiddles turned and went back into the bedroom.
“You see,” said Mr. Carter, smiling, “he won’t be too unhappy away from me, Mrs. Bailey.”
On his way home the philanthropist saw even more evidences of Christmas gaiety along the streets than before. He stepped out briskly, in spite of his sixty-eight years; he even hummed a little tune.
When he reached the house on the avenue he found his secretary still at work.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Mathews,” he said, “did you send that letter to the woman, saying I never paid attention to personal appeals? No? Then write her, please, enclosing my check for two hundred dollars, and wish her a very Merry Christmas in my name, will you? And hereafter will you always let me see such letters as that one–of course after careful investigation? I fancy perhaps I may have been too rigid in the past.”
“Certainly, sir,” answered the bewildered secretary. He began fumbling excitedly for his note-book.
“I found the little dog,” continued the philanthropist. “You will be glad to know that.”
“You have found him?” cried the secretary. “Have you got him back, Mr. Carter? Where was he?”
“He was–detained–on Oak Street, I believe,” said the philanthropist. “No, I have not got him back yet. I have left him with a young boy till after the holidays.”
He settled himself to his papers, for philanthropists must toil even on the twenty-fourth of December, but the secretary shook his head in a daze. “I wonder what’s happened?” he said to himself.
XXV. THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE
BY LUCY WHEELOCK
Two little children were sitting by the fire one cold winter’s night. All at once they heard a timid knock at the door and one ran to open it.
There, outside in the cold and darkness, stood a child with no shoes upon his feet and clad in thin, ragged garments. He was shivering with cold, and he asked to come in and warm himself.
“Yes, come in,” cried both the children. “You shall have our place by the fire. Come in.”
They drew the little stranger to their warm seat and shared their supper with him, and gave him their bed, while they slept on a hard bench.
In the night they were awakened by strains of sweet music, and looking out, they saw a band of children in shining garments, approaching the house. They were playing on golden harps and the air was full of melody.
Suddenly the Strange Child stood before them: no longer cold and ragged, but clad in silvery light.
His soft voice said: “I was cold and you took Me in. I was hungry and you fed Me. I was tired and you gave Me your bed. I am the Christ-Child, wandering through the world to bring peace and happiness to all good children. As you have given to Me, so may this tree every year give rich fruit to you.”
So saying, He broke a branch from the fir-tree that grew near the door, and He planted it in the ground and disappeared. And the branch grew into a great tree, and every year it bore wonderful fruit for the kind children.
XXVI. THE FIRST NEW ENGLAND CHRISTMAS*
“From Stone and Fickett’s “Every Day Life in the Colonies;” copyrighted 1905, by D. C. Heath & Co. Used by permission.
G. L. STONE AND M. G. FICKETT
It was a warm and pleasant Saturday–that twenty-third of December, 1620. The winter wind had blown itself away in the storm of the day before, and the air was clear and balmy. The people on board the Mayflower were glad of the pleasant day. It was three long months since they had started from Plymouth, in England, to seek a home across the ocean. Now they had come into a harbour that they named New Plymouth, in the country of New England.
Other people called these voyagers Pilgrims, which means wanderers. A long while before, the Pilgrims had lived in England; later they made their home with the Dutch in Holland; finally they had said goodbye to their friends in Holland and in England, and had sailed away to America.
There were only one hundred and two of the Pilgrims on the Mayflower, but they were brave and strong and full of hope. Now the Mayflower was the only home they had; yet if this weather lasted they might soon have warm log-cabins to live in. This very afternoon the men had gone ashore to cut down the large trees.
The women of the Mayflower were busy, too. Some were spinning, some knitting, some sewing. It was so bright and pleasant that Mistress Rose Standish had taken out her knitting and had gone to sit a little while on deck. She was too weak to face rough weather, and she wanted to enjoy the warm sunshine and the clear salt air. By her side was Mistress Brewster, the minister’s wife. Everybody loved Mistress Standish and Mistress Brewster, for neither of them ever spoke unkindly.
The air on deck would have been warm even on a colder day, for in one corner a bright fire was burning. It would seem strange now, would it not, to see a fire on the deck of a vessel? But in those days, when the weather was pleasant, people on shipboard did their cooking on deck.
The Pilgrims had no stoves, and Mistress Carver’s maid had built this fire on a large hearth covered with sand. She had hung a great kettle on the crane over the fire, where the onion soup for supper was now simmering slowly.
Near the fire sat a little girl, busily playing and singing to herself. Little Remember Allerton was only six years old, but she liked to be with Hannah, Mistress Carver’s maid. This afternoon Remember had been watching Hannah build the fire and make the soup. Now the little girl was playing with the Indian arrowheads her father had brought her the night before. She was singing the words of the old psalm:
“Shout to Jehovah, all the earth,
Serve ye Jehovah with gladness; before Him bow with singing mirth.”
“Ah, child, methinks the children of Old England are singing different words from those to-day,” spoke Hannah at length, with a faraway look in her eyes.
“Why, Hannah? What songs are the little English children singing now?” questioned Remember in surprise.
“It lacks but two days of Christmas, child, and in my old home everybody is singing Merry Christmas songs.”
“But thou hast not told me what is Christmas!’ persisted the child.
“Ah, me! Thou dost not know, ’tis true. Christmas, Remember, is the birthday of the Christ-Child, of Jesus, whom thou hast learned to love,” Hannah answered softly.
“But what makes the English children so happy then? And we are English, thou hast told me, Hannah. Why don’t we keep Christmas, too?”
“In sooth we are English, child. But the reason why we do not sing the Christmas carols or play the Christmas games makes a long, long story, Remember. Hannah cannot tell it so that little children will understand. Thou must ask some other, child.”
Hannah and the little girl were just then near the two women on the deck, and Remember said:
“Mistress Brewster, Hannah sayeth she knoweth not how to tell why Love and Wrestling and Constance and the others do not sing the Christmas songs or play the Christmas games. But thou wilt tell me wilt thou not?” she added coaxingly.
A sad look came into Mistress Brewster’s eyes, and Mistress Standish looked grave, too. No one spoke for a few seconds, until Hannah said almost sharply:
“Why could we not burn a Yule log Monday, and make some meal into little cakes for the children?”
“Nay, Hannah,” answered the gentle voice of Mistress Brewster. “Such are but vain shows and not for those of us who believe in holier things. But,” she added, with a kind glance at little Remember, “wouldst thou like to know why we have left Old England and do not keep the Christmas Day? Thou canst not understand it all, child, and yet it may do thee no harm to hear the story. It may help thee to be a brave and happy little girl in the midst of our hard life.”
“Surely it can do no harm, Mistress Brewster,” spoke Rose Standish, gently. “Remember is a little Pilgrim now, and she ought, methinks, to know something of the reason for our wandering. Come here, child, and sit by me, while good Mistress Brewster tells thee how cruel men have made us suffer. Then will I sing thee one of the Christmas carols.”
With these words she held out her hands to little Remember, who ran quickly to the side of Mistress Standish, and eagerly waited for the story to begin.
“We have not always lived in Holland, Remember. Most of us were born in England, and England is the best country in the world. ‘Tis a land to be proud of, Remember, though some of its rulers have been wicked and cruel.
“Long before you were born, when your mother was a little girl, the English king said that everybody in the land ought to think as he thought, and go to a church like his. He said he would send us away from England if we did not do as he ordered. Now, we could not think as he did on holy matters, and it seemed wrong to us to obey him. So we decided to go to a country where we might worship as we pleased.”
“What became of that cruel king, Mistress Brewster?”
“He ruleth England now. But thou must not think too hardly of him. He doth not understand, perhaps. Right will win some day, Remember, though there may be bloody war before peace cometh. And I thank God that we, at least, shall not be called on to live in the midst of the strife,” she went on, speaking more to herself than to the little girl.
“We decided to go to Holland, out of the reach of the king. We were not sure whether it was best to move or not, but our hearts were set on God’s ways. We trusted Him in whom we believed. Yes,” she went on, “and shall we not keep on trusting Him?”
And Rose Standish, remembering the little stock of food that was nearly gone, the disease that had come upon many of their number, and the five who had died that month, answered firmly: “Yes. He who has led us thus far will not leave us now.”
They were all silent a few seconds. Presently Remember said: “Then did ye go to Holland, Mistress Brewster?”
“Yes,” she said. “Our people all went over to Holland, where the Dutch folk live and the little Dutch children clatter about with their wooden shoes. There thou wast born, Remember, and my own children, and there we lived in love and peace.”
“And yet, we were not wholly happy. We could not talk well with the Dutch, and so we could not set right what was wrong among them. ‘Twas so hard to earn money that many had to go back to England. And worst of all, Remember, we were afraid that you and little Bartholomew and Mary and Love and Wrestling and all the rest would not grow to be good girls and boys. And so we have come to this new country to teach our children to be pure and noble.”
After another silence Remember spoke again: “I thank thee, Mistress Brewster. And I will try to be a good girl. But thou didst not tell me about Christmas after all.”
“Nay, child, but now I will. There are long services on that day in every church where the king’s friends go. But there are parts of these services which we cannot approve; and so we think it best not to follow the other customs that the king’s friends observe on Christmas.
“They trim their houses with mistletoe and holly so that everything looks gay and cheerful. Their other name for the Christmas time is the Yuletide, and the big log that is burned then is called the Yule log. The children like to sit around the hearth in front of the great, blazing Yule log, and listen to stories of long, long ago.
“At Christmas there are great feasts in England, too. No one is allowed to go hungry, for the rich people on the day always send meat and cakes to the poor folk round about.
“But we like to make all our days Christmas days, Remember. We try never to forget God’s gifts to us, and they remind us always to be good to other people.”
“And the Christmas carols, Mistress Standish? What are they?”
“On Christmas Eve and early on Christmas morning,” Rose Standish answered, “little children go about from house to house, singing Christmas songs. ‘Tis what I like best in all the Christmas cheer. And I promised to sing thee one, did I not?”
Then Mistress Standish sang in her dear, sweet voice the quaint old English words:
As Joseph was a-walking,
He heard an angel sing:
“This night shall be the birth-time Of Christ, the heavenly King.
“He neither shall be born
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise,
But in an ox’s stall.
“He neither shall be clothed
In purple nor in pall,
But in the fair white linen
That usen babies all.
“He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden manger
That resteth in the mould.”
As Joseph was a-walking
There did an angel sing,
And Mary’s child at midnight
Was born to be our King.
Then be ye glad, good people,
This night of all the year,
And light ye up your candles,
For His star it shineth clear.
Before the song was over, Hannah had come on deck again, and was listening eagerly. “I thank thee, Mistress Standish,” she said, the tears filling her blue eyes. “‘Tis long, indeed, since I have heard that song.”
“Would it be wrong for me to learn to sing those words, Mistress Standish?” gently questioned the little girl.
“Nay, Remember, I trow not. The song shall be thy Christmas gift.”
Then Mistress Standish taught the little girl one verse after another of the sweet old carol, and it was not long before Remember could say it all.
The next day was dull and cold, and on Monday, the twenty-fifth, the sky was still overcast. There was no bright Yule log in the Mayflower, and no holly trimmed the little cabin.
The Pilgrims were true to the faith they loved. They held no special service. They made no gifts.
Instead, they went again to the work of cutting the trees, and no one murmured at his hard lot.
“We went on shore,” one man wrote in his diary, “some to fell timber, some to saw, some to rive, and some to carry; so no man rested all that day.”
As for little Remember, she spent the day on board the Mayflower. She heard no one speak of England or sigh for the English home across the sea. But she did not forget Mistress Brewster’s story; and more than once that day, as she was playing by herself, she fancied that she was in front of some English home, helping the English children sing their Christmas songs. And both Mistress Allerton and Mistress Standish, whom God was soon to call away from their earthly home, felt happier and stronger as they heard the little girl singing:
He neither shall be born
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise,
But in an ox’s stall.
XXVI. THE CRATCHITS’ CHRISTMAS DINNER
(Adapted)
CHARLES DICKENS
Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather was severe) the people made a rough but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music, in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little snowstorms.
The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with the dirtier snow upon the ground, which last deposit had been ploughed up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons; furrows that crossed and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off, and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, halF frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were blazing away to their dear heart’s content. There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the dearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.
For the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another from the parapets, and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball–better-natured missile far than many a wordy jest–laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went wrong. The poulterers’ shops were still half open, and the fruiterers’ were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, potbellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence.
There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish friars, and winking, from their shelves, in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustering high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shop-keeper’s benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people’s mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and passionless excitement.
The grocers’! oh, the grocers’! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at, if they chose.
But soon the steeples called good people all to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers’ shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood, with Scrooge beside him, in a baker’s doorway, and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good-humour was restored directly. For they said it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was!
In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners, and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker’s oven, where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too.
“Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?” asked Scrooge.
“There is. My own.”
“Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?” asked Scrooge.
“To any kindly given. To a poor one most.”
“Why to a poor one most?” asked Scrooge.
“Because it needs it most.”
They went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker’s) that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully, and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.
And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge’s clerk’s; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit’s dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen “bob” a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (Bob’s private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own, and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.
“What has ever got your precious father, then?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha warn’t as late last Christmas Day by half an hour!”
“Here’s Martha, mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
“Here’s Martha, mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah! There’s such a goose, Martha!”
“Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.
“We’d a deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl, “and had to clear away this morning, mother!”
“Well, never mind so long as you are come,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!”
“No, no! There’s father coming!” cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.
“Hide, Martha, hide!”
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him, and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!
“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking around.
“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.
“Not coming?” said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim’s blood horse all the way from the church, and had come home rampant. “Not coming upon Christmas Day?”
Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.
“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.
“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”
Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs–as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby–compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds–a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course–and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on. and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it into the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, “Hurrah!”
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone–too nervous to bear witnesses–to take the pudding up, and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose–a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and a pastry-cook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered–flushed, but smiling proudly–with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody thought or said it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, tipples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of glass–two tumblers and a custard-cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:
“A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”
Which all the family reechoed.
“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
XXVII. CHRISTMAS IN SEVENTEEN SEVENTY-SIX*
*From “A Last Century Maid and Other Stories for Children,” by A.H.W. Lippincott, 1895.
ANNE HOLLINGSWORTH WHARTON
“On Christmas day in Seventy-six,
Our gallant troops with bayonets fixed, To Trenton marched away.”
Children, have any of you ever thought of what little people like you were doing in this country more than a hundred years ago, when the cruel tide of war swept over its bosom? From many homes the fathers were absent, fighting bravely for the liberty which we now enjoy, while the mothers no less valiantly struggled against hardships and discomforts in order to keep a home for their children, whom you only know as your great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, dignified gentlemen and beautiful ladies, whose painted portraits hang upon the walls in some of your homes. Merry, romping children they were in those far-off times, yet their bright faces must have looked grave sometimes, when they heard the grown people talk of the great things that were happening around them. Some of these little people never forgot the wonderful events of which they heard, and afterward related them to their children and grandchildren, which accounts for some of the interesting stories which you may still hear, if you are good children.
The Christmas story that I have to tell you is about a boy and girl who lived in Bordentown, New Jersey. The father of these children was a soldier in General Washington’s army, which was encamped a few miles north of Trenton, on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River. Bordentown, as you can see by looking on your map, if you have not hidden them all away for the holidays, is about seven miles south of Trenton, where fifteen hundred Hessians and a troop of British light horse were holding the town. Thus you see that the British, in force, were between Washington’s army and Bordentown, besides which there were some British and Hessian troops in the very town. All this seriously interfered with Captain Tracy’s going home to eat his Christmas dinner with his wife and children. Kitty and Harry Tracy, who had not lived long enough to see many wars, could not imagine such a thing as Christmas without their father, and had busied themselves for weeks in making everything ready to have a merry time with him. Kitty, who loved to play quite as much as any frolicsome Kitty of to-day, had spent all her spare time in knitting a pair of thick woollen stockings, which seems a wonderful feat for a little girl only eight years old to perform! Can you not see her sitting by the great chimney-place, filled with its roaring, crackling logs, in her quaint, short-waisted dress, knitting away steadily, and puckering up her rosy, dimpled face over the strange twists and turns of that old stocking? I can see her, and I can also hear her sweet voice as she chatters away to her mother about “how ‘sprised papa will be to find that his little girl can knit like a grown-up woman,” while Harry spreads out on the hearth a goodly store of shellbarks that he has gathered and is keeping for his share of the ‘sprise.
“What if he shouldn’t come?” asks Harry, suddenly.
“Oh, he’ll come! Papa never stays away on Christmas,” says Kitty, looking up into her mother’s face for an echo to her words. Instead she sees something very like tears in her mother’s eyes.
“Oh, mamma, don’t you think he’ll come?”
“He will come if he possibly can,” says Mrs. Tracy; “and if he cannot, we will keep Christmas whenever dear papa does come home.”
“It won’t be half so nice,” said Kitty, “nothing’s so nice as REALLY Christmas, and how’s Kriss Kringle going to know about it if we change the day?”
“We’ll let him come just the same, and if he brings anything for papa we can put it away for him.”
This plan, still, seemed a poor one to Miss Kitty, who went to her bed in a sober mood that night, and was heard telling her dear dollie, Martha Washington. that “wars were mis’able, and that when she married she should have a man who kept a candy-shop for a husband, and not a soldier–no, Martha, not even if he’s as nice as papa!” As Martha made no objection to this little arrangement, being an obedient child, they were both soon fast asleep. The days of that cold winter of 1776 wore on; so cold it was that the sufferings of the soldiers were great, their bleeding feet often leaving marks on the pure white snow over which they marched. As Christmas drew near there was a feeling among the patriots that some blow was about to be struck; but what it was, and from whence they knew not; and, better than all, the British had no idea that any strong blow could come from Washington’s army, weak and out of heart, as they thought, after being chased through Jersey by Cornwallis.
Mrs. Tracy looked anxiously each day for news of the husband and father only a few miles away, yet so separated by the river and the enemy’s troops that they seemed like a hundred. Christmas Eve came, but brought with it few rejoicings. The hearts of the people were too sad to be taken up with merrymaking, although the Hessian soldiers in the town, good-natured Germans, who only fought the Americans because they were paid for it, gave themselves up to the feasting and revelry.
“Shall we hang up our stockings?” asked Kitty, in rather a doleful voice.
“Yes,” said her mother, “Santa Claus won’t forget you, I am sure, although he has been kept pretty busy looking after the soldiers this winter.”
“Which side is he on?” asked Harry.
“The right side, of course,” said Mrs. Tracy, which was the most sensible answer she could possibly have given. So:
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.”
Two little rosy faces lay fast asleep upon the pillow when the good old soul came dashing over the roof about one o’clock, and after filling each stocking with red apples, and leaving a cornucopia of sugar-plums for each child, he turned for a moment to look at the sleeping faces, for St. Nicholas has a tender spot in his great big heart for a soldier’s children. Then, remembering many other small folks waiting for him all over the land, he sprang up the chimney and was away in a trice.
Santa Claus, in the form of Mrs. Tracy’s farmer brother, brought her a splendid turkey; but because the Hessians were uncommonly fond of turkey, it came hidden under a load of wood. Harry was very fond of turkey, too, as well as of all other good things; but when his mother said, “It’s such a fine bird, it seems too bad to eat it without father,” Harry cried out, “Yes, keep it for papa!” and Kitty, joining in the chorus, the vote was unanimous, and the turkey was hung away to await the return of the good soldier, although it seemed strange, as Kitty told Martha Washington, “to have no papa and no turkey on Christmas Day.”
The day passed and night came, cold with a steady fall of rain and sleet. Kitty prayed that her “dear papa might not be out in the storm, and that he might come home and wear his beautiful blue stockings”; “And eat his turkey,” said Harry’s sleepy voice; after which they were soon in the land of dreams. Toward morning the good people in Bordentown were suddenly aroused by firing in the distance, which became more and more distinct as the day wore on. There was great excitement in the town; men and women gathered together in little groups in the streets to wonder what it was all about, and neighbours came dropping into Mrs. Tracy’s parlour, all day long, one after the other, to say what they thought of the firing. In the evening there came a body of Hessians flying into the town, to say that General Washington had surprised the British at Trenton, early that morning, and completely routed them, which so frightened the Hessians in Bordentown that they left without the slightest ceremony.
It was a joyful hour to the good town people when the red-jackets turned their backs on them, thinking every moment that the patriot army would be after them. Indeed, it seemed as if wonders would never cease that day, for while rejoicings were still loud, over the departure of the enemy, there came a knock at Mrs. Tracy’s door, and while she was wondering whether she dared open it, it was pushed ajar, and a tall soldier entered. What a scream of delight greeted that soldier, and how Kitty and Harry danced about him and clung to his knees, while Mrs. Tracy drew him toward the warm blaze, and helped him off with his damp cloak!
Cold and tired Captain Tracy was, after a night’s march in the streets and a day’s fighting; but he was not too weary to smile at the dear faces around him, or to pat Kitty’s head when she brought his warm stockings and would put them on the tired feet, herself.
Suddenly there was a sharp, quick bark outside the door. “What’s that?” cried Harry
“Oh, I forgot. Open the door. Here, Fido, Fido!”
Into the room there sprang a beautiful little King Charles spaniel, white, with tan spots, and ears of the longest, softest, and silkiest.
“What a little dear!” exclaimed Kitty; “where did it come from?”
“From the battle of Trenton,” said her father. “His poor master was shot. After the red-coats had turned their backs, and I was hurrying along one of the streets where the fight had been the fiercest, I heard a low groan, and, turning, saw a British officer lying among a number of slain. I raised his head; he begged for some water, which I brought him, and bending down my ear I heard him whisper, ‘Dying–last battle–say a prayer.’ He tried to follow me in the words of a prayer, and then, taking my hand, laid it on something soft and warm, nestling close up to his breast–it was this little dog. The gentleman–for he was a real gentleman–gasped out, ‘Take care of my poor Fido; good-night,’ and was gone. It was as much as I could do to get the little creature away from his dead master; he clung to him as if he loved him better than life. You’ll take care of him, won’t you, children? I brought him home to you, for a Christmas present.”
“Pretty little Fido,” said Kitty, taking the soft, curly creature in her arms; “I think it’s the best present in the world, and to-morrow is to be real Christmas, because you are home, papa.”
“And we’ll eat the turkey,” said Harry, “and shellbarks, lots of them, that I saved for you. What a good time we’ll have! And oh, papa, don’t go to war any more, but stay at home, with mother and Kitty and Fido and me.”
“What would become of our country if we should all do that, my little man? It was a good day’s work that we did this Christmas, getting the army all across the river so quickly and quietly that we surprised the enemy, and gained a victory, with the loss of few men.”
Thus it was that some of the good people of 1776 spent their Christmas, that their children and grandchildren might spend many of them as citizens of a free nation.
XXVIII. CHRISTMAS UNDER THE SNOW*
*From “Kristy’s Queer Christmas,” Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1904.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
It was just before Christmas, and Mr. Barnes was starting for the nearest village. The family were out at the door to see him start, and give him the last charges.
“Don’t forget the Christmas dinner, papa,” said Willie.
‘”Specially the chickens for the pie!” put in Nora.
“An’ the waisins,” piped up little Tot, standing on tiptoe to give papa a good-bye kiss.
“I hate to have you go, George,” said Mrs. Barnes anxiously. “It looks to me like a storm.”
“Oh, I guess it won’t be much,” said Mr. Barnes lightly; “and the youngsters must have their Christmas dinner, you know.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Barnes, “remember this, George: if there is a bad storm don’t try to come back. Stay in the village till it is over. We can get along alone for a few days, can’t we, Willie?” turning to the boy who was giving the last touches to the harness of old Tim, the horse.
“Oh, yes! Papa, I can take care of mamma,” said Willie earnestly.
“And get up the Christmas dinner out of nothing?” asked papa, smiling.
“I don’t know,” said Willie, hesitating, as he remembered the proposed dinner, in which he felt a deep interest.
“What could you do for the chicken pie?” went on papa with a roguish look in his eye, “or the plum-pudding?”
“Or the waisins?” broke in Tot anxiously.
“Tot has set her heart on the raisins,” said papa, tossing the small maiden up higher than his head, and dropping her all laughing on the door-step, “and Tot shall have them sure, if papa can find them in S–. Now good-bye, all! Willie, remember to take care of mamma, and I depend on you to get up a Christmas dinner if I don’t get back. Now, wife, don’t worry!” were his last words as the faithful old horse started down the road.
Mrs. Barnes turned one more glance to the west, where a low, heavy bank of clouds was slowly rising, and went into the little house to attend to her morning duties.
“Willie,” she said, when they were all in the snug little log-cabin in which they lived, “I’m sure there’s going to be a storm, and it may be snow. You had better prepare enough wood for two or three days; Nora will help bring it in.”
“Me, too!” said grave little Tot.
“Yes, Tot may help too,” said mamma.
This simple little home was a busy place, and soon every one was hard at work. It was late in the afternoon before the pile of wood, which had been steadily growing all day, was high enough to satisfy Willie, for now there was no doubt about the coming storm, and it would probably bring snow; no one could guess how much, in that country of heavy storms.
“I wish the village was not so far off, so that papa could get back to-night,” said Willie, as he came in with his last load.
Mrs. Barnes glanced out of the window. Broad scattering snowflakes were silently falling; the advance guard, she felt them to be, of a numerous host.
“So do I,” she replied anxiously, “or that he did not have to come over that dreadful prairie, where it is so easy to get lost.”
“But old Tim knows the way, even in the dark,” said Willie proudly. “I believe Tim knows more’n some folks.”
“No doubt he does, about the way home,” said mamma, “and we won’t worry about papa, but have our supper and go to bed. That’ll make the time seem short.”
The meal was soon eaten and cleared away, the fire carefully covered up on the hearth, and the whole little family quietly in bed. Then the storm, which had been making ready all day, came down upon them in earnest.
The bleak wind howled around the corners, the white flakes by millions and millions came with it, and hurled themselves upon that house. In fact, that poor little cabin alone on the wide prairie seemed to be the object of their sport. They sifted through the cracks in the walls, around the windows, and under the door, and made pretty little drifts on the floor. They piled up against it outside, covered the steps, and then the door, and then the windows, and then the roof, and at last buried it completely out of sight under the soft, white mass.
And all the time the mother and her three children lay snugly covered up in their beds fast asleep, and knew nothing about it.
The night passed away and morning came, but no light broke through the windows of the cabin. Mrs. Barnes woke at the usual time, but finding it still dark and perfectly quiet outside, she concluded that the storm was over, and with a sigh of relief turned over to sleep again. About eight o’clock, however, she could sleep no more, and became wide awake enough to think the darkness strange. At that moment the clock struck, and the truth flashed over her.
Being buried under snow is no uncommon thing on the wide prairies, and since they had wood and cornmeal in plenty, she would not have been much alarmed if her husband had been home. But snow deep enough to bury them must cover up all landmarks, and she knew her husband would not rest till he had found them. To get lost on the trackless prairie was fearfully easy, and to suffer and die almost in sight of home was no unusual thing, and was her one dread in living there.
A few moments she lay quiet in bed, to calm herself and get control of her own anxieties before she spoke to the children.
“Willie,” she said at last, “are you awake?”
“Yes, mamma,” said Willie; “I’ve been awake ever so long; isn’t it most morning?”
“Willie,” said the mother quietly, “we mustn’t be frightened, but I think–I’m afraid–we are snowed in.”
Willie bounded to his feet and ran to the door. “Don’t open it!” said mamma hastily; “the snow may fall in. Light a candle and look out the window.”
In a moment the flickering rays of the candle fell upon the window. Willie drew back the curtain. Snow was tightly banked up against it to the top.
“Why, mamma,” he exclaimed, “so we are! and how can papa find us? and what shall we do?”
“We must do the best we can,” said mamma, in a voice which she tried to make steady, “and trust that it isn’t very deep, and that Tim and papa will find us, and dig us out.”
By this time the little girls were awake and inclined to be very much frightened, but mamma was calm now, and Willie was brave and hopeful. They all dressed, and Willie started the fire. The smoke refused to rise, but puffed out into the room, and Mrs. Barnes knew that if the chimney were closed they would probably suffocate, if they did not starve or freeze.
The smoke in a few minutes choked them, and, seeing that something must be done, she put the two girls, well wrapped in blankets, into the shed outside the back door, closed the door to keep out the smoke, and then went with Willie to the low attic, where a scuttle door opened onto the roof.
“We must try,” she said, “to get it open without letting in too much snow, and see if we can manage to clear the chimney.”
“I can reach the chimney from the scuttle with a shovel,” said Willie. “I often have with a stick.”
After much labour, and several small avalanches of snow, the scuttle was opened far enough for Willie to stand on the top round of the short ladder, and beat a hole through to the light, which was only a foot above. He then shovelled off the top of the chimney, which was ornamented with a big round cushion of snow, and then by beating and shovelling he was able to clear the door, which he opened wide, and Mrs. Barnes came up on the ladder to look out. Dreary indeed was the scene! Nothing but snow as far as the eye could reach, and flakes still falling, though lightly.
The storm was evidently almost over, but the sky was gray and overcast.
They closed the door, went down, and soon had a fire, hoping that the smoke would guide somebody to them.
Breakfast was taken by candle-light, dinner–in time–in the same way, and supper passed with no sound from the outside world.
Many times Willie and mamma went to the scuttle door to see if any one was in sight, but not a shadow broke the broad expanse of white over which toward night the sun shone. Of course there were no signs of the roads, for through so deep snow none could be broken, and until the sun and frost should form a crust on top there was little hope of their being reached.
The second morning broke, and Willie hurried up to his post of lookout the first thing. No person was in sight, but he found a light crust on the snow, and the first thing he noticed was a few half-starved birds trying in vain to pick up something to eat. They looked weak and almost exhausted, and a thought struck Willie.
It was hard to keep up the courage of the little household. Nora had openly lamented that to-night was Christmas Eve, and no Christmas dinner to be had. Tot had grown very tearful about her “waisins,” and Mrs. Barnes, though she tried to keep up heart, had become very pale and silent.
Willie, though he felt unbounded faith in papa, and especially in Tim, found it hard to suppress his own complaints when he remembered that Christmas would probably be passed in the same dismal way, with fears for papa added to their own misery.
The wood, too, was getting low, and mamma dared not let the fire go out, as that was the only sign of their existence to anybody; and though she did not speak of it, Willie knew, too, that they had not many candles, and in two days at farthest they would be left in the dark.
The thought that struck Willie pleased him greatly, and he was sure it would cheer up the rest. He made his plans, and went to work to carry them out without saying anything about it.
He brought out of a corner of the attic an old boxtrap he had used in the summer to catch birds and small animals, set it carefully on the snow, and scattered crumbs of corn-bread to attract the birds.
In half an hour he went up again, and found to his delight he had caught bigger game–a poor rabbit which had come from no one knows where over the crust to find food.
This gave Willie a new idea; they could save their Christmas dinner after all; rabbits made very nice pies.
Poor Bunny was quietly laid to rest, and the trap set again. This time another rabbit was caught, perhaps the mate of the first. This was the last of the rabbits, but the next catch was a couple of snowbirds. These Willie carefully placed in a corner of the attic, using the trap for a cage, and giving them plenty of food and water.
When the girls were fast asleep, with tears on their cheeks for the dreadful Christmas they were going to have, Willie told mamma about his plans. Mamma was pale and weak with anxiety, and his news first made her laugh and then cry. But after a few moments given to her long pent-up tears, she felt much better and entered into his plans heartily.
The two captives up in the attic were to be Christmas presents to the girls, and the rabbits were to make the long anticipated pie. As for plum-pudding, of course that couldn’t be thought of.
“But don’t you think, mamma,” said Willie eagerly, “that you could make some sort of a cake out of meal, and wouldn’t hickory nuts be good in it? You know I have some left up in the attic, and I might crack them softly up there, and don’t you think they would be good?” he concluded anxiously.
“Well, perhaps so,” said mamma, anxious to please him and help him in his generous plans. “I can try. If I only had some eggs–but seems to me I have heard that snow beaten into cake would make it light–and there’s snow enough, I’m sure,” she added with a faint smile, the first Willie had seen for three days.
The smile alone he felt to be a great achievement, and he crept carefully up the ladder, cracked the nuts to the last one, brought them down, and mamma picked the meats out, while he dressed the two rabbits which had come so opportunely to be their Christmas dinner. “Wish you Merry Christmas!” he called out to Nora and Tot when they waked. “See what Santa Claus has brought you!”
Before they had time to remember what a sorry Christmas it was to be, they received their presents, a live bird, for each, a bird that was never to be kept in a cage, but fly about the house till summer came, and then to go away if it wished.
Pets were scarce on the prairie, and the girls were delighted. Nothing papa could have brought them would have given them so much happiness.
They thought no more of the dinner, but hurried to dress themselves and feed the birds, which were quite tame from hunger and weariness. But after a while they saw preparations for dinner, too. Mamma made a crust and lined a deep dish–the chicken pie dish–and then she brought a mysterious something out of the cupboard, all cut up so that it looked as if it might be chicken, and put it in the dish with other things, and then she tucked them all under a thick crust, and set it down in a tin oven before the fire to bake. And that was not all. She got out some more cornmeal, and made a batter, and put in some sugar and something else which she slipped in from a bowl, and which looked in the batter something like raisins; and at the last moment Willie brought her a cup of snow and she hastily beat it into the cake, or pudding, whichever you might call it, while the children laughed at the idea of making a cake out of snow. This went into the same oven and pretty soon it rose up light and showed a beautiful brown crust, while the pie was steaming through little fork holes on top, and sending out most delicious odours.
At the last minute, when the table was set and everything ready to come up, Willie ran up to look out of the scuttle, as he had every hour of daylight since they were buried. In a moment came a wild shout down the ladder.
“They’re coming! Hurrah for old Tim!”
Mamma rushed up and looked out, and saw–to be sure–old Tim slowly coming along over the crust, drawing after him a wood sled on which were two men.
“It’s papa!” shouted Willie, waving his arms to attract their attention.
“Willie!” came back over the snow in tones of agony. “Is that you? Are all well?”
“All well!” shouted Willie, “and just going to have our Christmas dinner.”
“Dinner?” echoed papa, who was now nearer.
“Where is the house, then?”
“Oh, down here!” said Willie, “under the snow; but we’re all right, only we mustn’t let the plum-pudding spoil.”
Looking into the attic, Willie found that mamma had fainted away, and this news brought to her aid papa and the other man, who proved to be a good friend who had come to help.
Tim was tied to the chimney, whose thread of smoke had guided them home, and all went down into the dark room. Mrs. Barnes soon recovered, and while Willie dished up the smoking dinner, stories were told on both sides.
Mr. Barnes had been trying to get through the snow and to find them all the time, but until the last night had made a stiff crust he had been unable to do so. Then Mrs. Barnes told her story, winding up with the account of Willie’s Christmas dinner. “And if it hadn’t been for his keeping up our hearts I don’t know what would have become of us,” she said at last.
“Well, my son,” said papa, “you did take care of mamma, and get up a dinner out of nothing, sure enough; and now we’ll eat the dinner, which I am sure is delicious.”
So it proved to be; even the cake, or pudding, which Tot christened snow pudding, was voted very nice, and the hickory nuts as good as raisins. When they had finished, Mr. Barnes brought in his packages, gave Tot and the rest some “sure-enough waisins,” and added his Christmas presents to Willie’s; but though all were overjoyed, nothing was quite so nice in their eyes as the two live birds.
After dinner the two men and Willie dug out passages from the doors, through the snow, which had wasted a good deal, uncovered the windows, and made a slanting way to his shed for old Tim. Then for two or three days Willie made tunnels and little rooms under the snow, and for two weeks, while the snow lasted, Nora and Tot had fine times in the little snow playhouses.
XXIX. MR. BLUFF’S EXPERIENCES OF HOLIDAYS*
* Reprinted by permission of Moffat, Yird & Co., from Christmas. R.H. Schauffler, Editor.
OLIVER BELL BUNCE
“I hate holidays,” said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little irritation, on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant, after which he resumed: “I don’t mean to say that I hate to see people enjoying themselves. But I hate holidays, nevertheless, because to me they are always the saddest and dreariest days of the year. I shudder at the name of holiday. I dread the approach of one, and thank heaven when it is over. I pass through, on a holiday, the most horrible sensations, the bitterest feelings, the most oppressive melancholy; in fact, I am not myself at holiday-times.”
“Very strange,” I ventured to interpose.
“A plague on it!” said he, almost with violence. “I’m not inhuman. I don’t wish anybody harm. I’m glad people can enjoy themselves. But I hate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason: I am a bachelor; I am without kin; I am in a place that did not know me at birth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere for me. I have friends, of course; I don’t think I’ve been a very sulky, shut-in, reticent fellow; and there is many a board that has a place for me–but not at Christmastime. At Christmas, the dinner is a family gathering; and I’ve no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all its kindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced selfish. Each little set gathers within its own circle; and people like me, with no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I’m without an invitation.
“Oh, it’s because I pine for good cheer,” said the bachelor, sharply, interrupting my attempt to speak, “that I hate holidays. If I were an infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn’t hate holidays. I’d go off and have some fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate to be in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays and can’t.
“Don’t tell me,” he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; “I tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their bright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven’t any pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those places; so, if I go, I must go alone. But I don’t go. I can’t bear the chill of seeing everybody happy, and knowing myself so lonely and desolate. Confound it, sir, I’ve too much heart to be happy under such circumstances! I’m too humane, sir!
And the result is, I hate holidays. It’s miserable to be out, and yet I can’t stay at home, for I get thinking of Christmases past. I can’t read–the shadow of my heart makes it impossible. I can’t walk–for I see nothing but pictures through the bright windows, and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I’ve nothing to do but to hate holidays. But will you not dine with me?”
Of course, I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I couldn’t quite invite Mr. Bluff home that day, when Cousin Charles and his wife, and Sister Susan and her daughter, and three of my wife’s kin had come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I felt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a “Merry Christmas,” and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air.
I did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the next year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to him after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let Bachelor Bluff tell his adventure for himself.
“I went to church,” said he, “and was as sad there as everywhere else. Of course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine; but all around me were happy groups of people, who could scarcely keep down merry Christmas long enough to do reverence to sacred Christmas. And nobody was alone but me. Every happy paterfamilias in his pew tantalized me, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed so much better suited to every one else than me that I came away hating holidays worse than ever. Then I went to the play, and sat down in a box all alone by myself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and jokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured freedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the only person in the whole theatre that was alone. And then there was such clapping of hands, and roars of laughter, and shouts of delight at all the fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly enjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share and interchange the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and I hated holidays infinitely worse than ever.
“By five o’clock the holiday became so intolerable that I said I’d go and get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide. A sumptuous dinner for one. A dinner with many courses, with wines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire, with every condition of comfort–and I’d see if I couldn’t for once extract a little pleasure out of a holiday!
“The handsome dining-room at the club looked bright, but it was empty. Who dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants were, no doubt, glad of something to break the monotony of the hours.
“My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely; but the white, snowy cloths, the rich window hangings, the warm tints of the walls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air of elegance and cheerfulness; and then the table at which I dined was close to the window, and through the partly drawn curtains were visible centres of lonely, cold streets, with bright lights from many a window, it is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the street. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it would, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the brilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.
“I dined well, and recalled in fancy old, youthful Christmases, and pledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy was mellowing into a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine to my lips, I was startled by a picture at the windowpane. It was a pale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair, pressed against the glass. As I looked it vanished. With a strange thrill at my heart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine and set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar-girl that had crept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within; but still the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow on my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about to drink, when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so thin, with eyes so large, wild, and hungry-looking, and the black, unkempt hair, into which the snow had drifted, formed so strange and weird a frame to the picture, that I was fairly startled. Replacing, untasted, the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane. The face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the window. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts through the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not repress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose only Christmas was to watch, in cold and storm, the rich banquet ungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the table; but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish. I was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an unreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth my detestation of holidays. One couldn’t even dine alone on a holiday with any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by too much pleasure on one side, and too much misery on the other. And then, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, ‘How many other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of enjoyment others possess!’
“Oh, yes, I know,” sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of mine; “of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-souled people delight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to accept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little girl–“
“Dear little girl?”
“Oh, I forgot,” said Bachelor Bluff, blushing a little, in spite of a desperate effort not to do so. “I didn’t tell you. Well, it was so absurd! I kept thinking, thinking of the pale, haggard, lonely little girl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the over-fed, discontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the window-pane, and I didn’t get much happier thinking about it, I can assure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine–not that I enjoyed its flavour any more, but mechanically, as it were, and with a sort of hope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more vehemently than ever. I rose once in a while and went to the window, but could see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged.
“At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and went out; and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure crouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough encounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very irritated and angry, and spoke harshly; and then, all at once, I am sure I don’t know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men, had no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a Christmas as this poor creature was. I couldn’t say another word, but began feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question or two, and then I don’t quite know how it came about–isn’t it very warm here?” exclaimed Bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about, and wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“Well, you see,” he resumed nervously, “it was very absurd, but I did believe the girl’s story–the old story, you know, of privation and suffering, and just thought I’d go home with the brat and see if what she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the shops were closed, and not a purchase could be made. I went back and persuaded the steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which the half-wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing with delight all the way. And isn’t this enough?”
“Not a bit, Mr. Bluff. I must have the whole story.”
“I declare,” said Bachelor Bluff, “there’s no whole story to tell. A widow with children in great need, that was what I found; and they had a feast that night, and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a garment or two the next day; and they were all so bright, and so merry, and so thankful, and so good, that, when I got home that night, I was mightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in a state of great contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was really merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor wretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas banquet that their spirits infected mine.
“And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable to me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor hovering wistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed, ‘to think of a man complaining of loneliness with thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with endless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant and delightful things to do. Just to think of it! It put me in a great fury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself and began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly forced myself to look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled my confidence by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a holiday again, might my holidays end at once and forever!
“Did I go and see my proteges again? What a question! Why–well, no matter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a way to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That’s no fault of mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn’t let me. But just let me tell you about New Year’s–the New-Year’s day that followed the Christmas I’ve been describing. It was lucky for me there was another holiday only a week off. Bless you! I had so much to do that day I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren’t half long enough. I did make a few social calls, but then I hurried them over; and then hastened to my little girl, whose face had already caught a touch of colour; and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her ribbons, took me to other poor folk, and,–well, that’s about the whole story.
“Oh, as to the next Christmas. Well, I didn’t dine alone, as you may guess. It was up three stairs, that’s true, and there was none of that elegance that marked the dinner of the year before; but it was merry, and happy, and bright; it was a generous, honest, hearty Christmas dinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn’t talked so much about the mysterious way a turkey had been left at her door the night before. And Molly–that’s the little girl–and I had a rousing appetite. We went to church early; then we had been down to the Five Points to carry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner; in fact, we had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits, and so the Christmas dinner was a great success.
“Dear me, sir, no! Just as you say. Holidays are not in the least wearisome any more. Plague on it! When a man tells me now that he hates holidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the buttonhole at once, and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on a holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, ‘God bless all holidays!'”
MASTER SANDY’S SNAPDRAGON*
* This story was first published in Wide Awake, vol. 26.
ELDRIDGE S. BROOKS
There was just enough of December in the air and of May in the sky to make the Yuletide of the year of grace 1611 a time of pleasure and delight to every boy and girl in “Merrie England” from the princely children in stately Whitehall to the humblest pot-boy and scullery-girl in the hall of the country squire.
And in the palace at Whitehall even the cares of state gave place to the sports of this happy season. For that “Most High and Mighty Prince James, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland”–as you will find him styled in your copy of the Old Version, or what is known as “King James’ Bible”–loved the Christmas festivities, cranky, crabbed, and crusty though he was. And this year he felt especially gracious. For now, first since the terror of the Guy Fawkes plot which had come to naught full seven years before, did the timid king feel secure on his throne; the translation of the Bible, on which so many learned men had been for years engaged, had just been issued from the press of Master Robert Baker; and, lastly, much profit was coming into the royal treasury from the new lands in the Indies and across the sea.
So it was to be a Merry Christmas in the palace at Whitehall. Great were the preparations for its celebration, and the Lord Henry, the handsome, wise and popular young Prince of Wales, whom men hoped some day to hail as King Henry of England, was to take part in a jolly Christmas mask, in which, too, even the little Prince Charles was to perform for the edification of the court when the mask should be shown in the new and gorgeous banqueting hall of the palace.
And to-night it was Christmas Eve. The Little Prince Charles and the Princess Elizabeth could scarcely wait for the morrow, so impatient were they to see all the grand devisings that were in store for them. So good Master Sandy, under-tutor to the Prince, proposed to wise Archie Armstrong, the King’s jester, that they play at snapdragon for the children in the royal nursery.
The Prince and Princess clamoured for the promised game at once, and soon the flicker from the flaming bow lighted up the darkened nursery as, around the witchlike caldron, they watched their opportunity to snatch the lucky raisin. The room rang so loudly with fun and laughter that even the King himself, big of head and rickety of legs, shambled in good-humouredly to join in the sport that was giving so much pleasure to the royal boy he so dearly loved, and whom he always called “Baby Charles.”
But what was snapdragon, you ask? A simple enough game, but dear for many and many a year to English children. A broad and shallow bowl or dish half-filled with blazing brandy, at the bottom of which lay numerous toothsome raisins–a rare tidbit in those days–and one of these, pierced with a gold button, was known as the “lucky raisin.” Then, as the flaming brandy flickered and darted from the yawning bowl, even as did the flaming poison tongues of the cruel dragon that St. George of England conquered so valiantly, each one of the revellers sought to snatch a raisin from the burning bowl without singe or scar. And he who drew out the lucky raisin was winner and champion, and could claim a boon or reward for his superior skill. Rather a dangerous game, perhaps it seems, but folks were rough players in those old days and laughed at a burn or a bruise, taking them as part of the fun.
So around Master Sandy’s Snapdragon danced the royal children, and even the King himself condescended to dip his royal hands in the flames, while Archie Armstrong the jester cried out: “Now fair and softly, brother Jamie, fair and softly, man. There’s ne’er a plum in all that plucking so worth the burning as there was in Signer Guy Fawkes’ snapdragon when ye proved not to be his lucky raisin.” For King’s jesters were privileged characters in the old days, and jolly Archie Armstrong could joke with the King on this Guy Fawkes scare as none other dared.
And still no one brought out the lucky raisin, though the Princess Elizabeth’s fair arm was scotched and good Master Sandy’s peaked beard was singed, and my Lord Montacute had dropped his signet ring in the fiery dragon’s mouth, and even His Gracious Majesty the King was nursing one of his royal fingers.
But just as through the parted arras came young Henry, Prince of Wales, little Prince Charles gave a boyish shout of triumph.
“Hey, huzzoy!” he cried, “’tis mine, ’tis mine! Look, Archie; see, dear dad; I have the lucky raisin! A boon, good folk; a boon for me!” And the excited lad held aloft the lucky raisin in which gleamed the golden button.
“Rarely caught, young York,” cried Prince Henry, clapping his hands in applause. “I came in right in good time, did I not, to give you luck, little brother? And now, lad, what is the boon to be?”
And King James, greatly pleased at whatever his dear “Baby Charles” said or did, echoed his eldest son’s question. “Ay lad, ’twas a rare good dip; so crave your boon. What does my bonny boy desire?”
But the boy hesitated. What was there that a royal prince, indulged as was he, could wish for or desire? He really could think of nothing, and crossing quickly to his elder brother, whom, boy-fashion, he adored, he whispered, “Ud’s fish, Hal, what DO I want?”
Prince Henry placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder and looked smilingly into his questioning eyes, and all within the room glanced for a moment at the two lads standing thus.
And they were well worth looking at. Prince Henry of Wales, tall, comely, open-faced, and well-built, a noble lad of eighteen who called to men’s minds, so “rare Ben Jonson” says, the memory of the hero of Agincourt, that other
thunderbolt of war,
Harry the Fifth, to whom in face you are So like, as Fate would have you so in worth;
Prince Charles, royal Duke of York, Knight of the Garter and of the Bath, fair in face and form, an active, manly, daring boy of eleven–the princely brothers made so fair a sight that the King, jealous and suspicious of Prince Henry’s popularity though he was, looked now upon them both with loving eyes. But how those loving eyes would have grown dim with tears could this fickle, selfish, yet indulgent father have foreseen the sad and bitter fates of both his handsome boys.
But, fortunately, such foreknowledge is not for fathers or mothers, whatever their rank or station, and King James’s only thought was one of pride in the two brave lads now whispering together in secret confidence. And into this he speedily broke.
“Come, come, Baby Charles,” he cried, “stand no more parleying, but out and over with the boon ye crave as guerdon for your lucky plum. Ud’s fish, lad, out with it; we’d get it for ye though it did rain jeddert staves here in Whitehall.”
“So please your Grace,” said the little Prince, bowing low with true courtier-like grace and suavity, “I will, with your permission, crave my boon as a Christmas favor at wassail time in to-morrow’s revels.”
And then he passed from the chamber arm-in-arm with his elder brother, while the King, chuckling greatly over the lad’s show of courtliness and ceremony, went into a learned discussion with my lord of Montacute and Master Sandy as to the origin of the snapdragon, which he, with his customary assumption of deep learning, declared was “but a modern paraphrase, my lord, of the fable which telleth how Dan Hercules did kill the flaming dragon of Hesperia and did then, with the apple of that famous orchard, make a fiery dish of burning apple brandy which he did name ‘snapdragon.'”
For King James VI of Scotland and I of England was, you see, something too much of what men call a pendant.
Christmas morning rose bright and glorious. A light hoarfrost whitened the ground and the keen December air nipped the noses as it hurried the song-notes of the score of little waifs who, gathered beneath the windows of the big palace, sung for the happy awaking of the young Prince Charles their Christmas carol and their Christmas noel:
A child this day is born,
A child of great renown;
Most worthy of a sceptre,
A sceptre and a crown.
Noel, noel, noel,
Noel sing we may
Because the King of all Kings
Was born this blessed day.
These tidings shepherds heard
In field watching their fold,
Were by an angel unto them
At night revealed and told.
Noel, noel, noel,
Noel sing we may
Because the King of all Kings
Was born this blessed day.
He brought unto them tidings
Of gladness and of mirth,
Which cometh to all people by
This holy infant’s birth.
Noel, noel, noel,
Noel sing we may
Because the King of all Kings
Was born this blessed day.
The “blessed day” wore on. Gifts and sports filled the happy hours. In the royal banqueting hall the Christmas dinner was royally set and served, and King and Queen and Princes, with attendant nobles and holiday guests, partook of the strong dishes of those old days of hearty appetites.
“A shield of brawn with mustard, boyl’d capon, a chine of beef roasted, a neat’s tongue roasted, a pig roasted, chewets baked, goose, swan and turkey roasted, a haunch of venison roasted, a pasty of venison, a kid stuffed with pudding, an olive-pye, capons and dowsets, sallats and fricases”–all these and much more, with strong beer and spiced ale to wash the dinner down, crowned the royal board, while the great boar’s head and the Christmas pie, borne in with great parade, were placed on the table joyously decked with holly and rosemary and bay. It was a great ceremony–this bringing in of the boar’s head. First came an attendant, so the old record tells us,
“attyr’d in a horseman’s coat with a Boares-speare in his hande; next to him another huntsman in greene, with a bloody faulchion drawne; next to him two pages in tafatye sarcenet, each of them with a messe of mustard; next to whom came hee that carried the Boareshead, crosst with a greene silk scarfe, by which hunge the empty scabbard of the faulchion which was carried before him.”
After the dinner–the boar’s head having been wrestled for by some of the royal yeomen–came the wassail or health-drinking. Then the King said:
“And now, Baby Charles, let us hear the boon ye were to crave of us at wassail as the guerdon for the holder of the lucky raisin in Master Sandy’s snapdragon.”
And the little eleven-year-old Prince stood up before the company in all his brave attire, glanced at his brother Prince Henry, and then facing the King said boldly:
“I pray you, my father and my Hege, grant me as the boon I ask–the freeing of Walter Raleigh.”
At this altogether startling and unlooked-for request, amazement and consternation appeared on the faces around the royal banqueting board, and the King put down his untasted tankard of spiced ale, while surprise, doubt and anger quickly crossed the royal face. For Sir Walter Raleigh, the favourite of Queen Elizabeth, the lord-proprietor and colonizer of the American colonies, and the sworn foe to Spain, had been now close prisoner in the Tower for more than nine years, hated and yet dreaded by this fickle King James, who dared not put him to death for fear of the people to whom the name and valour of Raleigh were dear.
“Hoot, chiel!” cried the King at length, spluttering wrathfully in the broadest of his native Scotch, as was his habit when angered or surprised. “Ye reckless fou, wha hae put ye to sic a jackanape trick? Dinna ye ken that sic a boon is nae for a laddie like you to meddle wi’? Wha hae put ye to’t, I say?”
But ere the young Prince could reply, the stately and solemn-faced ambassador of Spain, the Count of Gondemar, arose in the place of honour he filled as a guest of the King.
“My Lord King,” he said, “I beg your majesty to bear in memory your pledge to my gracious master King Philip of Spain, that naught save grave cause should lead you to liberate from just durance that arch enemy of Spain, the Lord Raleigh.”
“But you did promise me, my lord,” said Prince Charles, hastily, “and you have told me that the royal pledge is not to be lightly broken.”
“Ma certie, lad,” said King James, “ye maunay learn that there is nae rule wi’out its aicciptions.” And then he added, “A pledge to a boy in play, like to ours of yester-eve, Baby Charles, is not to be kept when matters of state conflict.” Then turning to the Spanish ambassador, he said: “Rest content, my lord count. This recreant Raleigh shall not yet be loosed.”
“But, my liege,” still persisted the boy prince, “my brother Hal did say–“
The wrath of the King burst out afresh.
“Ay, said you so? Brother Hal, indeed!” he cried.
“I thought the wind blew from that quarter,” and he angrily faced his eldest son. “So, sirrah; ’twas you that did urge this foolish boy to work your traitorous purpose in such coward guise!”
“My liege,” said Prince Henry, rising in his place, “traitor and coward are words I may not calmly hear even from my father and my king. You wrong me foully when you use them thus. For though I do bethink me that the Tower is but a sorry cage in which to keep so grandly plumed a bird as my Lord of Raleigh, I did but seek–“
“Ay, you did but seek to curry favour with the craven crowd,” burst out the now thoroughly angry King, always jealous of the popularity of this brave young Prince of Wales. “And am I, sirrah, to be badgered and browbeaten in my own palace by such a thriftless ne’er-do-weel as you, ungrateful boy, who seekest to gain preference with the people in this realm before your liege lord the King? Quit my presence, sirrah, and that instanter, ere that I do send you to spend your Christmas where your great-grandfather, King Henry, bade his astrologer spend his–in the Tower, there to keep company with your fitting comrade, Raleigh, the traitor!”
Without a word in reply to this outburst, with a son’s submission, but with a royal dignity, Prince Henry bent his head before his father’s decree and withdrew from the table, followed by the gentlemen of his household.
But ere he could reach the arrased doorway, Prince Charles sprang to his side and cried, valiantly: “Nay then, if he goes so do I! ‘Twas surely but a Christmas joke and of my own devising. Spoil not our revel, my gracious liege and father, on this of all the year’s red-letter days, by turning my thoughtless frolic into such bitter threatening. I did but seek to test the worth of Master Sandy’s lucky raisin by asking for as wildly great a boon as might be thought upon. Brother Hal too, did but give me his advising in joke even as I did seek it. None here, my royal father, would brave your sovereign displeasure by any unknightly or unloyal scheme.”
The gentle and dignified words of the young prince–for Charles Stuart, though despicable as a king, was ever loving and loyal as a friend–were as oil upon the troubled waters. The ruffled temper of the ambassador of Spain–who in after years really did work Raleigh’s downfall and death–gave place to courtly bows, and the King’s quick anger melted away before the dearly loved voice of his favourite son.
“Nay, resume your place, son Hal,” he said, “and you, gentlemen all, resume your seats, I pray. I too did but jest as did Baby Charles here–a sad young wag, I fear me, is this same young Prince.”
But as, after the wassail, came the Christmas mask, in which both Princes bore their parts, Prince Charles said to Archie Armstrong, the King’s jester:
“Faith, good Archie; now is Master Sandy’s snapdragon but a false beast withal, and his lucky raisin is but an evil fruit that pays not for the plucking.”
And wise old Archie only wagged his head and answered, “Odd zooks, Cousin Charlie, Christmas raisins are not the only fruit that burns the fingers in the plucking, and mayhap you too may live to know that a mettlesome horse never stumbleth but when he is reined.”
Poor “Cousin Charlie” did not then understand the full meaning of the wise old jester’s words, but he did live to learn their full intent. For when, in after years, his people sought to curb his tyrannies with a revolt that ended only with his death upon the scaffold, outside this very banqueting house at Whitehall, Charles Stuart learned all too late that a “mettlesome horse” needed sometimes to be “reined,” and heard, too late as well, the stern declaration of the Commons of England that “no chief officer might presume for the future to contrive the enslaving and destruction of the nation with impunity.”
But though many a merry and many a happy day had the young Prince Charles before the dark tragedy of his sad and sorry manhood, he lost all faith in lucky raisins. Not for three years did Sir Walter Raleigh–whom both the Princes secretly admired–obtain release from the Tower, and ere three more years were past his head fell as a forfeit to the stern demands of Spain. And Prince Charles often declared that naught indeed could come from meddling with luck saving burnt fingers, “even,” he said, “as came to me that profitless night when I sought a boon for snatching the lucky raisin from good Master