II CELEBRATION

CHRISTMAS EVE AT MR. WARDLE'S

From "Pickwick Papers"

CHARLES DICKENS

From the center of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended with his own hands a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which Mr. Pickwick with a gallantry which would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Trollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the younger ladies not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration of the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portion of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, directly it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for somebody else.

Now the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow and curls in a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before mentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with the black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm around Mr. Pickwick's neck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them.

It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group, now pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin and then on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals of laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a silk-handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into corners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man's buff, with the utmost relish of the game, until at last he caught one of the poor relations; and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught just the people whom they thought would like it; and when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When they were all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great game at snapdragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the raisons gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary washhouse copper, in which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly irresistible.

"This," said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, "this is, indeed, comfort."

"Our invariable custom," replied Mr. Wardle. "Everybody sits down with us on Christmas eve, as you see them now—servants and all; and here we wait till the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and wile away the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire."

Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred, and the deep red blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest corner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.

"Come," said Wardle, "a song—a Christmas song. I'll give you one, in default of a better."

"Bravo," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Fill up," cried Wardle. "It will be two hours good, before you see the bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up all round, and now for the song."

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice, commenced without more ado—

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing

Let the blossoms and buds be borne:

He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,

And he scatters them ere the morn.

An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,

Or his own changing mind an hour,

He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,

He'll wither your youngest flower.

Let the summer sun to his bright home run,

He shall never be sought by me;

When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,

And care not how sulky he be;

For his darling child is the madness wild

That sports in fierce fever's train;

And when love is too strong, it don't last long,

As many have found to their pain.

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light

Of the modest and gentle moon,

Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,

Than the broad and unblushing noon,

But every leaf awakens my grief,

As it lieth beneath the tree;

So let Autumn air be never so fair,

It by no means agrees with me.

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,

The hearty, the true, and the bold;

A bumper I drain, and with might and main

Give three cheers for this Christmas old.

We'll usher him in with a merry din

That shall gladden his joyous heart,

And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,

And in fellowship good, we'll part.

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide

One jot of his hard-weather scars;

They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace

On the cheeks of our bravest tars.

Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,

And it echoes from wall to wall—

To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,

As the King of the Seasons all!

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

CLEMENT C. MOORE

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,—

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!

Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With a sleigh full of toys,—and St. Nicholas too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof,

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face, and a little round belly

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump,—a right jolly old elf—

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

A CHRISTMAS PIECE

Of garnered rhyme, from hidden stores of olden time that since the language did begin, have welcomed merry Christmas in, and made the winter nights so long, fleet by on wings of wine and song; for when the snow is on the roof, the house within is sorrow proof, if yule log blazes on the hearth, and cups and hearts o'er-brim with mirth. Then bring the wassail to the board, with nuts and fruit—the winter's hoard; and bid the children take off shoe, to hang their stockings by the flue; and let the clear and frosty sky, set out its brightest jewelry, to show old Santa Claus the road, so he may ease his gimcrack load. And with the coming of these times, we'll add some old and lusty rhymes, that suit the festive season well, and sound as sweet as Christmas bell.

Now just bethink of castle gate, where humble midnight mummers wait, to try if voices, one and all, can rouse the tipsy seneschal, to give them bread and beer and brawn, for tidings of the Christmas morn; or bid each yelper clear his throat, with water of the castle moat, for thus they used, by snow and torch, to rear their voices at the porch:

Fred S. Cozzens

WASSAILER'S SONG

ROBERT SOUTHWELL

Wassail! wassail! all over the town,

Our toast it is white, and our ale it is brown;

Our bowl is made of a maplin tree;

We be good fellows all;—I drink to thee.

Here's to our horse, and to his right ear,

God send master a happy new year;

A happy new year as e'er he did see,—

With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our mare, and to her right eye,

God send our mistress a good Christmas pie;

A good Christmas pie as e'er I did see,—

With my wassailing bowl I drink to thee.

Here's to our cow, and to her long tail,

God send our measter us never may fail

Of a cup of good beer: I pray you draw near,

And our jolly wassail it's then you shall hear.

Be here any maids? I suppose here be some;

Sure they will not let young men stand on the cold stone!

Sing hey O, maids! come trole back the pin,

And the fairest maid in the house let us all in.

Come, butler, come, bring us a bowl of the best;

I hope your soul in heaven will rest;

But if you do bring us a bowl of the small,

Then down fall butler, and bowl and all.

- - - - -

And here's a Christmas carol meant for children, and most excellent, and though the monk that wrote it was hung, yet still his verses may be sung.

A CAROL

As I in a hoarie winter's night

Stood shivering in the snow,

Surpriz'd I was with sudden heat,

Which made my heart to glow;

And lifting up a fearefull eye

To view what fire was neere,

A prettie babe, all burning bright,

Did in the aire appeare;

Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,

Such flouds of teares did shed,

As though his flouds should quench his flames,

Which with his teares were bred:

Alas! (quoth he) but newly borne,

In fierie heats I frie,

Yet none approach to warm their hearts,

Or feele my fire, but I;

My faultless brest the furnace is,

The fuell, wounding thornes:

Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,

The ashes, shames and scornes;

The fuell justice layeth on,

And mercy blows the coales,

The metalls in this furnace wrought,

Are Men's defiled soules:

For which, as now on fire I am,

To work them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath,

To wash them in my blood.

With this he vanisht out of sight,

And swiftly shrunke away,

And straight I called unto minde

That it was Christmasse Day.

CHRISTMAS EVE

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE

[From "My Study Fire."]

The world has been full of mysteries to-day; everybody has gone about weighted with secrets. The children's faces have fairly shone with expectancy, and I enter easily into the universal dream which at this moment holds all the children of Christendom under its spell. Was there ever a wider or more loving conspiracy than that which keeps the venerable figure of Santa Claus from slipping away, with all the other oldtime myths, into the forsaken wonderland of the past? Of all the personages whose marvelous doings once filled the minds of men, he alone survives. He has outlived all the great gods, and all the impressive and poetic conceptions which once flitted between heaven and earth; these have gone, but Santa Claus remains by virtue of a common understanding that childhood shall not be despoiled of one of its most cherished beliefs, either by the mythologist, with his sun myth theory, or the scientist, with his heartless diatribe against superstition. There is a good deal more to be said on this subject, if this were the place to say it; even superstition has its uses, and sometimes, its sound heart of truth. He who does not see in the legend of Santa Claus a beautiful faith on one side, and the naive embodiment of a divine fact on the other, is not fit to have a place at the Christmas board. For him there should be neither carol, nor holly, nor mistletoe; they only shall keep the feast to whom all these things are but the outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace.

Rosalind and myself are thoroughly orthodox when it comes to the keeping of holidays; here at least the ways of our fathers are our ways also. Orthodoxy generally consists in retaining and emphasizing the disagreeable ways of the fathers, and as we are both inclined to heterodoxy on these points, we make the more prominent our observance of the best of the old-time habits. I might preach a pleasant little sermon just here, taking as my text the "survival of the fittest," and illustrating the truth from our own domestic ritual; but the season preaches its own sermon, and I should only follow the example of some ministers and get between the text and my congregation if I made the attempt. For weeks we have all been looking forward to this eventful evening, and the still more eventful morrow. There have been hurried and whispered conferences hastily suspended at the sound of a familiar step on the stair; packages of every imaginable size and shape have been surreptitiously introduced into the house, and have immediately disappeared in all manner of out-of-the-way places; and for several weeks past one room has been constantly under lock and key, visited only when certain sharp-sighted eyes were occupied in other directions. Through all this scene of mystery Rosalind has moved sedately and with sealed lips, the common confidant of all the conspirators, and herself the greatest conspirator of all. Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love!

After dinner, eaten, let it be confessed, with more haste and less accompaniment of talk than usual, the parlor doors were opened, and there stood the Christmas tree in a glow of light, its wonderful branches laden with all manner of strange fruits not to be found in the botanies. The wild shouts, the merry laughter, the cries of delight as one coveted fruit after another dropped into long-expectant arms still linger in my ears now that the little tapers are burnt out, the boughs left bare, and the actors in the perennial drama are fast asleep, with new and strange bedfellows selected from the spoils of the night. Cradled between a delightful memory and a blissful anticipation, who does not envy them?

After this charming prelude is over, Rosalind comes into the study, and studies for the fortieth time the effect of the new design of decoration which she had this year worked out, and which gives these rather somber rows of books a homelike and festive aspect. It pleases me to note the spray of holly that obscures the title of Bacon's solemn and weighty "Essays," and I get half a page of suggestions for my notebook from the fact that a sprig of mistletoe has fallen on old Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy." Rosalind has reason to be satisfied, and if I read her face aright she has succeeded even in her own eyes in bringing Christmas, with its fragrant memories and its heavenly visions, into the study. I cannot help thinking, as I watch her piling up the fire for a blaze of unusual splendor, that if more studies had their Rosalinds to bring in the genial currents of life there would be more cheer and hope and large-hearted wisdom in the books which the world is reading to-day.

When the fire has reached a degree of intensity and magnitude which Rosalind thinks adequate to the occasion, I take down a well-worn volume which opens of itself at a well-worn page. It is a book which I have read and re-read many times, and always with a kindling sympathy and affection for the man who wrote it; in whatever mood I take it up there is something in it which touches me with a sense of kinship. It is not a great book, but it is a book of the heart, and books of the heart have passed beyond the outer court of criticism before we bestow upon them that phrase of supreme regard. There are other books of the heart around me, but on Christmas Eve it is Alexander Smith's "Dreamthorp" which always seems to lie at my hand, and when I take it up the well-worn volume falls open at the essay on "Christmas." It is a good many years since Rosalind and I began to read together on Christmas Eve this beautiful meditation on the season, and now it has gathered about itself such a host of memories that it has become part of our common past. It is, indeed, a veritable palimpsest, overlaid with tender and gracious recollections out of which the original thought gains a new and subtle sweetness. As I read it aloud I know that she sees once more the familiar landscape about Dreamthorp, with the low, dark hill in the background, and over it "the tender radiance that precedes the moon"; the village windows are all lighted, and the "whole place shines like a congregation of glowworms." There are the skaters still "leaning against the frosty wind"; there is the "gray church tower amid the leafless elms," around which the echoes of the morning peal of Christmas bells still hover; the village folk have gathered, "in their best dresses and their best faces"; the beautiful service of the church has been read and answered with heartfelt responses, the familiar story has been told again simply and urgently, with applications for every thankful soul, and then the congregation has gone to its homes and its festivities.

All these things, I am sure, lie within Rosalind's vision, although she seems to see nothing but the ruddy blaze of the fire; all these things I see, as I have seen them these many Christmas Eves agone; but with this familiar landscape there are mingled all the sweet and sorrowful memories of our common life, recalled at this hour that the light of the highest truth may interpret them anew in the divine language of hope. I read on until I come to the quotation from the "Hymn to the Nativity," and then I close the book, and take up a copy of Milton close at hand. We have had our commemoration service of love, and now there comes into our thought, with the organ roll of this sublime hymn, the universal truth which lies at the heart of the season. I am hardly conscious that it is my voice which makes these words audible: I am conscious only of this mighty-voiced anthem, fit for the choral song of the morning stars:

"Ring out, ye crystal spheres,

And bless our human ears,

If ye have power to touch our senses so;

And let your silver chime

Move in melodious time;

And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;

And, with your ninefold harmony,

Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.

"For, if such holy song

Enwrap our fancy long,

Time will run back and fetch the age of gold;

And speckled vanity

Will sicken soon and die,

And leprous sin will melt from earthly mold;

And hell itself will pass away,

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

- - - - -

"The oracles are dumb,

No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving;

Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving,

No nightly trance or breathed spell

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

"The lonely mountains o'er,

And the resounding shore,

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;

From haunted spring, and dale

Edgéd with poplars pale,

The parting genius is with sighing sent;

With flower-enwoven tresses torn,

The nymphs in twilight shades of tangled thickets mourn."

- - - - -

Like a psalm the great Hymn fills the air, and like a psalm it remains in the memory. The fire has burned low, and a soft and solemn light fills the room. Neither of us speaks while the clock strikes twelve. I look out of the window. The heavens are ablaze with light, and somewhere amid those circling constellations I know that a new star has found its place, and is shining with such a ray as never before fell from heaven to earth.

CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME

WALTER SCOTT

On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;

The hall was dressed with holly green;

Forth to the wood did merry men go,

To gather in the mistletoe.

Thus opened wide the baron's hall

To vassal, tenant, serf and all;

Power laid his rod of rule aside

And ceremony doffed his pride.

The heir, with roses in his shoes,

That night might village partner choose;

The lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of "Post and Pair."

All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,

And general voice, the happy night

That to the cottage, as the crown,

Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,

Went roaring up the chimney wide;

The huge hall-table's oaken face,

Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,

Bore then upon its massive board

No mark to part the squire and lord.

Then was brought in the lusty brawn

By old blue-coated serving man;

Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,

Crested with bays and rosemary.

Well can the green-garbed ranger tell

How, when and where the monster fell;

What dogs before his death he tore,

And all the baitings of the boar.

The wassal round, in good brown bowls,

Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.

There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by

Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pye;

Nor failed old Scotland to produce,

At such high-tide, her savory goose.

Then came the merry maskers in,

And carols roared with blithesome din.

If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note, and strong;

Who lists may in their murmuring see

Traces of ancient mystery;

White shirts supplied the masquerade,

And smutted cheeks the visors made;

But O, what maskers richly dight,

Can boast of bosoms half so light!

England was "merry England" when

Old Christmas brought his sports again;

'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,

'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;

A Christmas gambol oft would cheer

The poor man's heart through half the year.

SLY SANTA CLAUS

MRS. C.S. STONE

All the house was asleep,

And the fire burning low,

When, from far up the chimney,

Came down a "Ho! ho!"

And a little, round man,

With a terrible scratching,

Dropped into the room

With a wink that was catching.

Yes, down he came, bumping,

And thumping, and jumping,

And picking himself up without sign

of a bruise!

"Ho! ho!" he kept on,

As if bursting with cheer.

"Good children, gay children,

Glad children, see here!

I have brought you fine dolls,

And gay trumpets, and rings,

Noah's arks, and bright skates,

And a host of good things!

I have brought a whole sackful,

A packful, a hackful!

Come hither, come hither, come hither

and choose!

"Ho! ho! What is this?

Why, they all are asleep!

But their stockings are up,

And my presents will keep!

So, in with the candies,

The books, and the toys;

All the goodies I have

For the good girls and boys.

I'll ram them, and jam them,

And slam them, and cram them;

All the stockings will hold while the

tired youngsters snooze."

All the while his round shoulders

Kept ducking and ducking;

And his little, fat fingers

Kept tucking and tucking;

Until every stocking

Bulged out, on the wall,

As if it were bursting,

And ready to fall.

And then, all at once,

With a whisk and a whistle,

And twisting himself

Like a tough bit of gristle,

He bounced up again,

Like the down of a thistle,

And nothing was left but the prints of his shoes.

THE WAITS

MARGARET DELAND

At the break of Christmas Day,

Through the frosty starlight ringing,

Faint and sweet and far away,

Comes the sound of children, singing,

Chanting, singing,

"Cease to mourn,

For Christ is born,

Peace and joy to all men bringing!"

Careless that the chill winds blow,

Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer,

Noiseless footfalls in the snow

Bring the happy voices nearer;

Hear them singing,

"Winter's drear,

But Christ is here,

Mirth and gladness with Him bringing!"

"Merry Christmas!" hear them say,

As the East is growing lighter;

"May the joy of Christmas Day

Make your whole year gladder, brighter!"

Join their singing,

"To each home

Our Christ has come,

All Love's treasures with Him bringing!"

THE KNIGHTING OF THE SIRLOIN OF BEEF BY CHARLES THE SECOND

ANON

The Second Charles of England

Rode forth one Christmas tide,

To hunt a gallant stag of ten,

Of Chingford woods the pride.

The winds blew keen, the snow fell fast,

And made for earth a pall,

As tired steeds and wearied men

Returned to Friday Hall.

The blazing logs, piled on the dogs,

Were pleasant to behold!

And grateful was the steaming feast

To hungry men and cold.

With right good-will all took their fill,

And soon each found relief;

Whilst Charles his royal trencher piled

From one huge loin of beef.

Quoth Charles, "Odd's fish! a noble dish!

Ay, noble made by me!

By kingly right, I dub thee knight—

Sir Loin henceforward be!"

And never was a royal jest

Received with such acclaim:

And never knight than good Sir Loin

More worthy of the name.

THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE AT THE CRATCHITS'

CHARLES DICKENS

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 like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; 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 in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around 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 flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the 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 on 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 eye-brows! 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 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 had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for so large a 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, apples 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 re-echoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

[From "Sketches in Prose."]

"God bless us every one!" prayed Tiny Tim,

Crippled, and dwarfed of body, yet so tall

Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him,

High towering over all.

He loved the loveless world, nor dreamed, indeed,

That it, at best, could give to him, the while,

But pitying glances, when his only need

Was but a cheery smile.

And thus he prayed, "God bless us every one!"

Enfolding all the creeds within the span

Of his child-heart; and so, despising none,

Was nearer saint than man.

I like to fancy God, in Paradise,

Lifting a finger o'er the rhythmic swing

Of chiming harp and song, with eager eyes

Turned earthward, listening—

The Anthem stilled—the angels leaning there

Above the golden walls—the morning sun

Of Christmas bursting flower-like with the prayer,

"God bless us Every One!"

BELLS ACROSS THE SNOWS

FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

Is it really come again,

With its memories and greetings,

With its joy and with its pain?

There's a minor in the carol,

And a shadow in the light,

And a spray of cypress twining

With the holly wreath to-night.

And the hush is never broken

By laughter light and low,

As we listen in the starlight

To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

'Tis not so very long

Since other voices blended

With the carol and the song!

If we could but hear them singing

As they are singing now,

If we could but see the radiance

Of the crown on each dear brow;

There would be no sigh to smother,

No hidden tear to flow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

This never more can be;

We cannot bring again the days

Of our unshadowed glee.

But Christmas, happy Christmas,

Sweet herald of good-will,

With holy songs of glory

Brings holy gladness still.

For peace and hope may brighten,

And patient love may glow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the "bells across the snow."

CHRISTMAS BELLS

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, swinging on its way,

The world revolved from night to day

A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursèd mouth

The cannon thundered in the South

And with the sound

The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent,

And made forlorn

The households born

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

"There is no peace on earth," I said;

"For hate is strong

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep.

"God is not dead; nor doth He sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

MINSTRELS AND MAIDS

WILLIAM MORRIS

Outlanders, whence come ye last?

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

Through what green seas and great have ye past?

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

From far away, O masters mine,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

We come to bear you goodly wine,

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

From far away we come to you,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

To tell of great tidings strange and true,

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

News, news of the Trinity,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

And Mary and Joseph from over the sea!

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

For as we wandered far and wide,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

What hap do you deem there should us betide!

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

Under a bent when the night was deep,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

There lay three shepherds tending their sheep.

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

"O ye shepherds, what have ye seen,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?"

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

"In an ox-stall this night we saw,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

A babe and a maid without a flaw.

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

"There was an old man there beside,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

His hair was white and his hood was wide.

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

"And as we gazed this thing upon,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

Those twain knelt down to the Little One,

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

"And a marvellous song we straight did hear,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

That slew our sorrow and healed our care."

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

News of a fair and marvellous thing,

The snow in the street and the wind on the door

Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing!

Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor

INEXHAUSTIBILITY OF THE SUBJECT OF CHRISTMAS

LEIGH HUNT

So many things have been said of late years about Christmas, that it is supposed by some there is no saying more. O they of little faith! What! do they suppose that every thing has been said that can be said about any one Christmas thing?

About beef, for instance?

About plum-pudding?

About mince-pie?

About holly?

About ivy?

About rosemary?

About mistletoe? (Good Heavens! what an immense number of things remain to be said about mistletoe!)

About Christmas Eve?

About hunt-the-slipper?

About hot cockles?

About blind-man's-buff?

About shoeing the wild-mare?

About thread-the-needle?

About he-can-do-little-that-can't-do-this?

About puss-in-the-corner?

About snap-dragon?

About forfeits?

About Miss Smith?

About the bell-man?

About the waits?

About chilblains?

About carols?

About the fire?

About the block on it?

About school-boys?

About their mothers?

About Christmas-boxes?

About turkeys?

About Hogmany?

About goose-pie?

About mumming?

About saluting the apple-trees?

About brawn?

About plum-porridge?

About hobby-horse?

About hoppings?

About wakes?

About "feed-the-dove"?

About hackins?

About yule-doughs?

About going-a-gooding?

About loaf-stealing?

About Julklaps? (Who has exhausted that subject, we should like to know?)

About wad-shooting?

About elder-wine?

About pantomimes?

About cards?

About New-Year's Day?

About gifts?

About wassail?

About Twelfth-cake?

About king and queen?

About characters?

About eating too much?

About aldermen?

About the doctor?

About all being in the wrong?

About charity?

About all being in the right?

About faith, hope, and endeavor?

About the greatest plum-pudding for the greatest number?

Esto perpetua,—that is, faith, hope and charity, and endeavor; and plum-pudding enough by and by, all the year round, for everybody that likes it. Why that should not be the case, we cannot see,—seeing that the earth is big, and human kind teachable, and God very good, and inciting us to do it. Meantime, gravity apart, we ask anybody whether any of the above subjects are exhausted; and we inform everybody, that all the above customs still exist in some parts of our beloved country, however unintelligible they may have become in others. But to give a specimen of the non-exhaustion of any one of their topics.

Beef, for example. Now, we should like to know who has exhausted the subject of the fine old roast Christmas piece of beef, from its original appearance in the meadows as part of the noble sultan of the herd, glorious old Taurus,—the lord of the sturdy brow and ponderous agility, a sort of thunderbolt of a beast, well chosen by Jove to disguise in, one of Nature's most striking compounds of apparent heaviness and unencumbered activity,—up to its contribution to the noble Christmas-dinner, smoking from the spit, and flanked by the outposts of Bacchus. John Bull (cannibalism apart) hails it like a sort of relation. He makes it part of his flesh and blood; glories in it; was named after it; has it served up, on solemn occasions, with music and a hymn, as it was the other day at the royal city dinner:—

"Oh the roast beef of old England!

And oh the old English roast beef!"

"And oh!" observe, not merely "oh!" again; but "and" with it; as if, though the same piece of beef, it were also another,—another and the same,—cut, and come again; making two of one, in order to express intensity and reduplication of satisfaction:—

"Oh the roast beef of old England!

And oh the old English roast beef!"

We beg to assure the reader, that a whole Seer might be written on this single point of the Christmas-dinner; and "shall we be told" (as orators exclaim), "and this, too, in a British land," that the subject is "exhausted"!

Then plum-pudding! What a word is that! how plump and plump again! How round and repeated and plenipotential! (There are two p's, observe, in plenipotential; and so there are in plum-pudding. We love an exquisite fitness,—a might and wealth of adaptation). Why, the whole round cheek of universal childhood is in the idea of plum-pudding; ay, and the weight of manhood, and the plenitude of the majesty of city dames. Wealth itself is symbolized by the least of its fruity particles. "A plum" is a city fortune,—a million of money. He (the old boy, who has earned it)—

"Puts in his thumb,

videlicet, into his pocket,

And pulls out a plum,

And says, What a good man am I!"

Observe a little boy at a Christmas-dinner, and his grandfather opposite him. What a world of secret similarity there is between them! How hope in one, and retrospection in the other, and appetite in both, meet over the same ground of pudding, and understand it to a nicety! How the senior banters the little boy on his third slice! and how the little boy thinks within himself that he dines that day as well as the senior! How both look hot and red and smiling, and juvenile. How the little boy is conscious of the Christmas-box in his pocket! (of which, indeed, the grandfather jocosely puts him in mind); and how the grandfather is quite as conscious of the plum, or part of a plum, or whatever fraction it may be, in his own! How he incites the little boy to love money and good dinners all his life! and how determined the little boy is to abide by his advice,—with a secret addition in favor of holidays and marbles,—to which there is an analogy, in the senior's mind, on the side of trips to Hastings, and a game at whist! Finally, the old gentleman sees his own face in the pretty smooth one of the child; and if the child is not best pleased at his proclamation of the likeness (in truth, is horrified at it, and thinks it a sort of madness), yet nice observers, who have lived long enough to see the wonderful changes in people's faces from youth to age, probably discern the thing well enough, and feel a movement of pathos at their hearts in considering the world of trouble and emotion that is the causer of the changes. That old man's face was once like that little boy's! That little boy's will be one day like that old man's! What a thought to make us all love and respect one another, if not for our fine qualities, let at least for the trouble and sorrow which we all go through!

Ay, and joy too; for all people have their joys as well as troubles, at one time or another,—most likely both together, or in constant alternation: and the greater part of troubles are not the worst things in the world, but only graver forms of the requisite motion of the universe, or workings towards a better condition of things, the greater or less violent according as we give them violence, or respect them like awful but not ill-meaning gods, and entertain them with a rewarded patience. Grave thoughts, you will say, for Christmas. But no season has a greater right to grave thoughts, in passing; and, for that very reason, no season has a greater right to let them pass, and recur to more light ones.

So a noble and merry season to you, my masters; and may we meet, thick and three-fold, many a time and oft, in blithe yet most thoughtful pages! Fail not to call to mind, in the course of the 25th of this month, that the divinest Heart that ever walked the earth was born on that day: and then smile and enjoy yourselves for the rest of it; for mirth is also of Heaven's making, and wondrous was the wine-drinking at Galilee.

SONG OF THE HOLLY

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Blow, blow thou winter wind—

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude!

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky—

Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot!

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly,

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

Then heigh ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly!

UNDER THE HOLLY-BOUGH

CHARLES MACKAY

Ye who have scorned each other,

Or injured friend or brother,

In this fast-fading year;

Ye who, by word or deed,

Have made a kind heart bleed,

Come gather here!

Let sinned against and sinning

Forget their strife's beginning,

And join in friendship now.

Be links no longer broken,

Be sweet forgiveness spoken

Under the Holly-Bough.

Ye who have loved each other,

Sister and friend and brother,

In this fast-fading year:

Mother and sire and child,

Young man and maiden mild,

Come gather here;

And let your heart grow fonder,

As memory shall ponder

Each past unbroken vow;

Old loves and younger wooing

Are sweet in the renewing

Under the Holly-Bough.

Ye who have nourished sadness,

Estranged from hope and gladness

In this fast-fading year;

Ye with o'erburdened mind,

Made aliens from your kind,

Come gather here.

Let not the useless sorrow

Pursue you night and morrow,

If e'er you hoped, hope now.

Take heart,—uncloud your faces,

And join in our embraces

Under the Holly-Bough.

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS

ROBERT HERRICK

Come, bring with a noise,

My merry, merry boys,

The Christmas log to the firing,

While my good dame, she

Bids ye all be free,

And drink to your heart's desiring.

With the last year's brand

Light the new block, and

For good success in his spending,

On your psalteries play,

That sweet luck may

Come while the log is a-teending.

Drink now the strong beer,

Cut the white loaf here,

The while the meat is a-shredding;

For the rare mince-pie,

And the plums stand by,

To fill the paste that's a kneading.

SANTA CLAUS

ANON

He comes in the night! He comes in the night!

He softly, silently comes;

While the little brown heads on the pillows so white

Are dreaming of bugles and drums.

He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,

While the white flakes around him whirl;

Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home

Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;

It will carry a host of things,

While dozens of drums hang over the side,

With the sticks sticking under the strings:

And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,

Not a bugle blast is blown,

As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,

And drops to the hearth like a stone.

The little red stockings he silently fills,

Till the stockings will hold no more;

The bright little sleds for the great snow hills

Are quickly set down on the floor.

Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,

And glides to his seat in the sleigh;

Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard

As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,

Of his goodies he touches not one;

He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast

When the dear little folks are done.

Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can;

This beautiful mission is his;

Then, children, be good to the little old man,

When you find who the little man is.

THE CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS DAY

ROBERT HERRICK

Kindle the Christmas brand, and then

Till sunset let it burn;

Which quench'd, then lay it up again

Till Christmas next return.

Part must be kept wherewith to teend

The Christmas log next year,

And where 'tis safely kept, the fiend

Can do no mischief there.

DECEMBER

HARRIET F. BLODGETT

I

Oh! holly branch and mistletoe.

And Christmas chimes where'er we go.

And stockings pinned up in a row!

These are thy gifts, December!

II

And if the year has made thee old,

And silvered all thy locks of gold,

Thy heart has never been a-cold

Or known a fading ember.

III

The whole world is a Christmas tree,

And stars its many candles be.

Oh! sing a carol joyfully

The year's great feast in keeping!

IV

For once, on a December night

An angel held a candle bright.

And led three wise men by its light

To where a child was sleeping.

THE FESTIVAL OF ST. NICHOLAS

MARY MAPES DODGE

We all know how, before the Christmas-tree began to flourish in the home-life of our country, a certain "right jolly old elf," with "eight tiny reindeer," used to drive his sleigh-load of toys up to our housetops, and then bound down the chimney to fill the stockings so hopefully hung by the fireplace. His friends called him Santa Claus; and those who were most intimate ventured to say, "Old Nick." It was said that he originally came from Holland. Doubtless he did; but, if so, he certainly, like many other foreigners, changed his ways very much after landing upon our shores. In Holland, St. Nicholas is a veritable saint, and often appears in full costume, with his embroidered robes glittering with gems and gold, his mitre, his crosier, and his jewelled gloves. Here Santa Claus comes rollicking along on the 25th of December, our Holy Christmas morn; but in Holland, St. Nicholas visits earth on the 5th, a time especially appropriated to him. Early on the morning of the 6th, which is St. Nicholas Day, he distributes his candies, toys and treasures, and then vanishes for a year.

Christmas Day is devoted by the Hollanders to church-rites and pleasant family visiting. It is on St. Nicholas Eve that their young people become half wild with joy and expectation. To some of them it is a sorry time; for the saint is very candid, and, if any of them have been bad during the past year, he is quite sure to tell them so. Sometimes he carries a birch-rod under his arm, and advises the parents to give them scoldings in place of confections, and floggings instead of joys.

It was well that the boys hastened to their abodes on that bright winter evening; for, in less than an hour afterwards, the saint made his appearance in half the homes of Holland. He visited the king's palace, and in the self-same moment appeared in Annie Bouman's comfortable home. Probably one of our silver half-dollars would have purchased all that his saintship left at the peasant Bouman's. But a half-dollar's worth will sometimes do for the poor what hundreds of dollars may fail to do for the rich: it makes them happy and grateful, fills them with new peace and love.

Hilda van Gleck's little brothers and sisters were in a high state of excitement that night. They had been admitted into the grand parlor: they were dressed in their best, and had been given two cakes apiece at supper. Hilda was as joyous as any. Why not? St. Nicholas would never cross a girl of fourteen from his list, just because she was tall and looked almost like a woman. On the contrary, he would probably exert himself to do honor to such an august-looking damsel. Who could tell? So she sported and laughed and danced as gayly as the youngest, and was the soul of all their merry games. Father, mother and grandmother looked on approvingly; so did grandfather, before he spread his large red handkerchief over his face, leaving only the top of his skull-cap visible. This kerchief was his ensign of sleep.

Earlier in the evening, all had joined in the fun. In the general hilarity, there had seemed to be a difference only in bulk between grandfather and the baby. Indeed, a shade of solemn expectation, now and then flitting across the faces of the younger members, had made them seem rather more thoughtful than their elders.

Now the spirit of fun reigned supreme. The very flames danced and capered in the polished grate. A pair of prim candles, that had been staring at the astral lamp, began to wink at other candles far away in the mirrors. There was a long bell-rope suspended from the ceiling in the corner, made of glass beads, netted over a cord nearly as thick as your wrist. It generally hung in the shadow, and made no sign; but to-night it twinkled from end to end. Its handle of crimson glass sent reckless dashes of red at the papered wall, turning its dainty blue stripes into purple. Passers-by halted to catch the merry laughter floating through curtain and sash into the street, then skipped on their way with the startled consciousness that the village was wide awake. At last matters grew so uproarious that the grandsire's red kerchief came down from his face with a jerk. What decent old gentleman could sleep in such a racket! Mynheer van Gleck regarded his children with astonishment. The baby even showed symptoms of hysterics. It was high time to attend to business. Mevrouw suggested that, if they wished to see the good St. Nicholas, they should sing the same loving invitation that had brought him the year before.

The baby stared, and thrust his fist into his mouth, as Mynheer put him down upon the floor. Soon he sat erect, and looked with a sweet scowl at the company. With his lace and embroideries, and his crown of blue ribbon and whalebone (for he was not quite past the tumbling age), he looked like the king of babies.

The other children, each holding a pretty willow basket, formed at once in a ring, and moved slowly around the little fellow, lifting their eyes meanwhile; for the saint to whom they were about to address themselves was yet in mysterious quarters.

Mevrouw commenced playing softly upon the piano; soon the voices rose,—gentle, youthful voices, rendered all the sweeter for their tremor,—

"Welcome, friend! St. Nicholas, welcome!

Bring no rod for us to-night!

While our voices bid thee welcome,

Every heart with joy is light.

"Tell us every fault and failing;

We will bear thy keenest railing

So we sing, so we sing:

Thou shalt tell us everything!

"Welcome, friend! St. Nicholas, welcome!

Welcome to this merry band!

Happy children greet thee, welcome!

Thou art gladdening all the land.

"Fill each empty hand and basket;

'T is thy little ones who ask it.

So we sing, so we sing:

Thou wilt bring us everything!"

During the chorus, sundry glances, half in eagerness, half in dread, had been cast towards the polished folding-doors. Now a loud knocking was heard. The circle was broken in an instant. Some of the little ones, with a strange mixture of fear and delight, pressed against their mother's knee. Grandfather bent forward, with his chin resting upon his hand; grandmother lifted her spectacles; Mynheer van Gleck, seated by the fireplace, slowly drew his meerschaum from his mouth; while Hilda and the other children settled themselves beside him in an expectant group.

The knocking was heard again.

"Come in," said the mevrouw, softly.

The door slowly opened; and St. Nicholas, in full array, stood before them. You could have heard a pin drop. Soon he spoke. What a mysterious majesty in his voice! what kindliness in his tone!

"Karel van Gleck, I am pleased to greet thee, and thy honored vrouw, Kathrine, and thy son, and his good vrouw, Annie.

"Children, I greet ye all,—Hendrick, Hilda, Broom, Katy, Huygens and Lucretia. And thy cousins,—Wolfert, Diedrich, Mayken, Voost and Katrina. Good children ye have been, in the main, since I last accosted ye. Diedrich was rude at the Haarlem fair last fall; but he has tried to atone for it since. Mayken has failed, of late, in her lessons; and too many sweets and trifles have gone to her lips, and too few stivers to her charity-box. Diedrich, I trust, will be a polite, manly boy for the future; and Mayken will endeavor to shine as a student. Let her remember, too, that economy and thrift are needed in the foundation of a worthy and generous life. Little Katy has been cruel to the cat more than once. St. Nicholas can hear the cat cry when its tail is pulled. I will forgive her, if she will remember from this hour that the smallest dumb creatures have feeling, and must not be abused."

As Katy burst into a frightened cry, the saint graciously remained silent until she was soothed.

"Master Broom," he resumed, "I warn thee that boys who are in the habit of putting snuff upon the foot-stove of the school-mistress may one day be discovered, and receive a flogging—"

(Master Broom colored, and stared in great astonishment.)

"But, thou art such an excellent scholar, I shall make thee no further reproof.

"Thou, Hendrick, didst distinguish thyself in the archery match last spring, and hit the doel,[A] though the bird was swung before it to unsteady thine eye. I give thee credit for excelling in manly sport and exercise; though I must not unduly countenance thy boat-racing, since it leaves thee too little time for thy proper studies.

"Lucretia and Hilda shall have a blessed sleep to-night. The consciousness of kindness to the poor, devotion in their souls, and cheerful, hearty obedience to household rule, will render them happy.

"With one and all I avow myself well content. Goodness, industry, benevolence and thrift have prevailed in your midst. Therefore, my blessing upon you; and may the New Year find all treading the paths of obedience, wisdom and love! To-morrow you shall find more substantial proofs that I have been in your home. Farewell!"

With these words came a great shower of sugar-plums upon a linen sheet spread out in front of the doors. A general scramble followed. The children fairly tumbled over each other in their eagerness to fill their baskets. Mevrouw cautiously held the baby down upon the sheet till the chubby little fists were filled. Then the bravest of the youngsters sprang up and threw open the closed doors. In vain they searched the mysterious apartment. St. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen.

Soon they all sped to another room, where stood a table, covered with the whitest of linen damask. Each child, in a flutter of pleasure, laid a shoe upon it, and each shoe held a little hay for the good saint's horse. The door was then carefully locked, and its key hidden in the mother's bedroom. Next followed good-night kisses, a grand family procession to the upper floor, merry farewells at bedroom doors, and silence, at last, reigned in the Van Gleck mansion.

Early the next morning, the door was solemnly unlocked and opened in the presence of the assembled household; when, lo! a sight appeared, proving good St. Nicholas to be a saint of his word.

Every shoe was filled to overflowing; and beside each stood a many-colored pile. The table was heavy with its load of presents,—candies, toys, trinkets, books and other articles. Every one had gifts, from grandfather down to the baby.

THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY

ELIZA COOK

The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay—

Come give the holly a song;

For it helps to drive stern winter away,

With his garment so sombre and long;

It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,

And its leaves of burnished green,

When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,

And not even the daisy is seen.

Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,

That hangs over peasant and king;

While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,

To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

The gale may whistle, the frost may come

To fetter the gurgling rill;

The woods may be bare, and warblers dumb,

But holly is beautiful still.

In the revel and light of princely halls

The bright holly branch is found;

And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls,

While the brimming horn goes round.

The ivy lives long, but its home must be

Where graves and ruins are spread;

There's beauty about the cypress tree,

But it flourishes near the dead;

The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe,

But it tells of tears and blood;

I sing the holly, and who can breathe

Aught of that that is not good?

Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,

That hangs over peasant and king;

While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,

To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

TO THE FIR-TREE

FROM THE GERMAN

O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!

Your leaves are constant ever,

Not only in the summer time,

But through the winter's snow and rime

You're fresh and green forever.

O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!

I still shall love you dearly!

How oft to me on Christmas night

Your laden boughs have brought delight.

O Fir-tree green! O Fir-tree green!

I still shall love you dearly.

THE MAHOGANY-TREE

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

Christmas is here;

Winds whistle shrill,

Icy and chill,

Little care we;

Little we fear

Weather without,

Sheltered about

The Mahogany-Tree.

Once on the boughs

Birds of rare plume

Sang in its bloom;

Night-birds are we;

Here we carouse,

Singing, like them,

Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,

Boys, as we sit—

Laughter and wit

Flashing so free.

Life is but short—

When we are gone,

Let them sing on,

Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,

Happy as this;

Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!

We sing round the tree.

Care like a dun,

Lurks at the gate;

Let the dog wait;

Happy we'll be!

Drink, every one;

Pile up the coals;

Fill the red bowls,

Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.—

Friend, art afraid?

Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;

Empty it yet;

Let us forget,

Round the old tree!

Sorrows begone!

Life and its ills,

Duns and their bills,

Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn,

Blue-devil sprite;

Leave us to-night,

Round the old tree!

CHRISTMAS

WASHINGTON IRVING

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair on

his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that,

seeing I cannot have more of him.

Hue and Cry after Christmas.

A man might then behold

At Christmas, in each hall,

Good fires to curb the cold,

And meat for great and small.

The neighbors were friendly bidden,

And all had welcome true,

The poor from the gates were not chidden,

When this old cap was new.

Old Song.

There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes—as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring: they dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement; they gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from the days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year, that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence,—all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of our landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity.

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance with a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile—where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent—than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look around upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity?

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were in former days particularly observant of the religious and social rights of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly—the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes, and oft-told Christmas tales.

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously: times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred—the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings—the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness—all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour "when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, "telling the night-watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to announce the approach of the sacred festival:

"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes

Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated,

This bird of dawning singeth all night long:

And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;

The nights are wholesome—then no planets strike,

No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,

So hallowed and so gracious is the time."

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling—the season for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit—as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land—though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold—yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.

CHURCH DECKING AT CHRISTMAS

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Would that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave

Less scanty measure of those graceful rites

And usages, whose due return invites

A stir of mind too natural to deceive;

Giving the memory help when she could weave

A crown for Hope!—I dread the boasted lights

That all too often are but fiery blights,

Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve.

Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring,

The counter Spirit found in some gay church

Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch

In which the linnet or the thrush might sing,

Merry and loud, and safe from prying search,

Strains offered only to the genial spring.

SO, NOW IS COME OUR JOYFULST FEAST

GEORGE WITHER

So, now is come our joyfulst feast,

Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy leaves is drest,

And every post with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,

Round your foreheads garlands twine;

Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke,

And Christmas logs are burning;

Their ovens they with baked meats choke,

And all their spits are turning.

Without the door let sorrow lie;

And if for cold it hap to die,

We'll bury't in a Christmas pie,

And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,

And no man minds his labour;

Our lasses have provided them

A bag-pipe and a tabor;

Young men and maids, and girls and boys,

Give life to one another's joys;

And you anon shall by their noise

Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun;

Their hall of music soundeth;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,

So all things there aboundeth.

The country folks themselves advance

For crowdy-mutton's[A] come out of France;

And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,

And all the town be merry.

FAIRY FACES

ANON

Out of the mists of childhood,

Steeped in a golden glory,

Come dreamy forms and faces,

Snatches of song and story;

Whispers of sweet, still faces;

Rays of ethereal glimmer,

That gleam like sunny heavens,

Ne'er to grow colder or dimmer:

Now far in the distance, now shining near,

Lighting the snows of the shivering year.

Faces there are that tremble,

Bleared with a silent weeping,

Weird in a shadowy sorrow,

As if endless vigil keeping.

Faces of dazzling brightness,

With childlike radiance lighted,

Flashing with many a beauty,

Nor care nor time had blighted.

But o'er them all there's a glamour thrown.

Bright with the dreamy distance alone.

Aglow in the Christmas halo,

Shining with heavenly lustre,

These are the fairy faces

That round the hearthstone cluster.

These the deep, tender records,

Sacred in all their meetness,

That, wakening purest fancies,

Soften us with their sweetness;

As, gathered where flickering fagots burn,

We welcome the holy season's return.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

ANON

In the rush of the merry morning,

When the red burns through the gray,

And the wintry world lies waiting

For the glory of the day;

Then we hear a fitful rushing

Just without upon the stair,

See two white phantoms coming,

Catch the gleam of sunny hair.

Are they Christmas fairies stealing

Rows of little socks to fill?

Are they angels floating hither

With their message of good-will?

What sweet spell are these elves weaving,

As like larks they chirp and sing?

Are these palms of peace from heaven

That these lovely spirits bring?

Rosy feet upon the threshold,

Eager faces peeping through,

With the first red ray of sunshine,

Chanting cherubs come in view;

Mistletoe and gleaming holly,

Symbols of a blessed day,

In their chubby hands they carry,

Streaming all along the way.

Well we know them, never weary

Of this innocent surprise;

Waiting, watching, listening always

With full hearts and tender eyes,

While our little household angels,

White and golden in the sun,

Greet us with the sweet old welcome,—

"Merry Christmas, every one!"

A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU

THEODORE LEDYARD CUYLER

My own boyhood was spent in a delightful home on one of the most beautiful farms in Western New York—an experience that any city-bred boy might envy. We had no religious festivals except Thanksgiving Day and Christmas, and the latter was especially welcome, not only on account of the good fare but its good gifts. Christmas was sacred to Santa Claus, the patron saint of good boys and girls. We counted the days until its arrival. If the night before the longed-for festival was one of eager expectation in all our houses, it was a sad time in all barn-yards and turkey-coops and chicken-roosts; for the slaughter was terrible, and the cry of the feathered tribes was like "the mourning of Hadadrimmon." As to our experiences within doors, they are portrayed in Dr. Clement C. Moore's immortal lines, "The Night Before Christmas," which is probably the most popular poem for children ever penned in America. As the visits of Santa Claus in the night could only be through the chimney, we hung our stockings where they would be in full sight. Three score and ten years ago such modern contrivances as steam pipes, and those unpoetical holes in the floor called "hot-air registers," were as entirely unknown in our rural regions as gas-burners or telephones. We had a genuine fire-place in our kitchen, big enough to contain an enormous back-log, and broad enough for eight or ten people to form "a circle wide" before it and enjoy the genial warmth.

The last process before going to bed was to suspend our stockings in the chimney jambs; and then we dreamed of Santa Claus, or if we awoke in the night, we listened for the jingling of his sleigh-bells. At the peep of day we were aroused by the voice of my good grandfather, who planted himself in the stairway and shouted in a stentorian tone, "I wish you all a Merry Christmas!" The contest was as to who should give the salutation first, and the old gentleman determined to get the start of us by sounding his greeting to the family before we were out of our rooms. Then came a race for the chimney corner; all the stockings came down quicker than they had gone up. What could not be contained in them was disposed upon the mantelpiece, or elsewhere. I remember that I once received an autograph letter from Santa Claus, full of good counsels; and our colored cook told me that she awoke in the night and, peeping into the kitchen, actually saw the veritable old visitor light a candle and sit down at the table and write it! I believed it all as implicitly as I believed the Ten Commandments, or the story of David and Goliath. Happy days of childish credulity, when fact and fiction were swallowed alike without a misgiving! During my long life I have seen many a day-dream and many an air-castle go the way of Santa Claus and the wonderful "Lamp of Aladdin."

In after years, when I became a parent, my beloved wife and I, determined to make the Christmastide one of the golden days of the twelve months. In mid-winter, when all outside vegetation was bleak and bare, the Christmas-tree in our parlor bloomed in many-colored beauty and bounty. When the tiny candles were all lighted the children and our domestics gathered round it and one of the youngsters rehearsed some pretty juvenile effusion; as "they that had found great spoil." After the happy harvesting of the magic tree in my own home, it was my custom to spend the afternoon or evening in some mission-school and to watch the sparkling eyes of several hundreds of children while a huge Christmas-tree shed down its bounties. Fifty years ago, when the degradation and miseries of the "Five-Points" were first invaded by pioneer philanthropy, it was a thrilling sight to behold the denizens of the slums and their children as they flocked into Mr. Pease's new "House of Industry" and the "Brewery Mission" building. The angelic host over the hills of Bethlehem did not make a more welcome revelation to them "who had sat in darkness and the shadow of death." In these days the squalid regions of our great cities are being explored and improved by various methods of systematic beneficence. "Christian Settlements" are established; Bureaus of Charity are formed and Associations for the relief of the poor are organized. A noble work; but, after all, the most effective "bureau" is one that, in a water-proof and a stout pair of shoes, sallies off on a wintry night to some abode of poverty with not only supplies for suffering bodies, but kind words of sympathy for lonesome hearts. A dollar from a warm hand with a warm word is worth two dollars sent by mail or by a messenger-boy. The secret of power in doing good is personal contact. Our incarnate "Elder Brother" went in person to the sick chamber. He anointed with His own hand the eyes of the blind man and He touched the loathsome leper into health. The portentous chasm between wealth and poverty must be bridged by a span of personal kindness over which the footsteps must turn in only one direction. The personal contact of self sacrificing benevolence with darkness, filth and misery—that is the only remedy. Heart must touch heart. Benevolence also cannot be confined to calendars. Those good people will exhibit the most of the spirit of our Blessed Master who practice Christmas-giving and cheerful, unselfish and zealous Christmas-living through all the circling year.

CHRISTMAS BELLS

ANON

There are sounds in the sky when the year grows old,

And the winds of the winter blow—

When night and the moon are clear and cold,

And the stars shine on the snow,

Or wild is the blast and the bitter sleet

That beats on the window-pane;

But blest on the frosty hills are the feet

Of the Christmas time again!

Chiming sweet when the night wind swells,

Blest is the sound of the Christmas Bells!

Dear are the sounds of the Christmas chimes

In the land of the ivied towers,

And they welcome the dearest of festival times

In this Western world of ours!

Bright on the holly and mistletoe bough

The English firelight falls,

And bright are the wreathed evergreens now

That gladden our own home walls!

And hark! the first sweet note that tells,

The welcome of the Christmas Bells!

The owl that sits in the ivy's shade,

Remote from the ruined tower,

Shall start from his drowsy watch afraid

When the clock shall strike the hour;

And over the fields in their frosty rhyme

The cheery sounds shall go,

And chime shall answer unto chime

Across the moonlit snow!

How sweet the lingering music dwells,—

The music of the Christmas Bells.

It fell not thus in the East afar

Where the Babe in the manger lay;

The wise men followed their guiding star

To the dawn of a milder day;

And the fig and the sycamore gathered green,

And the palm-tree of Deborah rose;

'Twas the strange first Christmas the world had seen—

And it came not in storm and snows.

Not yet on Nazareth's hills and dells

Had floated the sound of Christmas Bells.

The cedars of Lebanon shook in the blast

Of their own cold mountain air;

But nought o'er the wintry plain had passed

To tell that the Lord was there!

The oak and the olive and almond were still,

In the night now worn and thin;

No wind of the winter-time roared from the hill

To waken the guests at the inn;

No dream to them the music tells

That is to come from the Christmas Bells!

The years that have fled like the leaves on the gale

Since the morn of the Miracle-Birth,

Have widened the fame of the marvellous tale

Till the tidings have filled the earth!

And so in the climes of the icy North,

And the lands of the cane and the palm,

By the Alpine cotter's blazing hearth,

And in tropic belts of calm,

Men list to-night the welcome swells,

Sweet and clear, of Christmas Bells!

They are ringing to-night through the Norway firs,

And across the Swedish fells,

And the Cuban palm-tree dreamily stirs

To the sound of those Christmas Bells!

They ring where the Indian Ganges rolls

Its flood through the rice-fields wide;

They swell the far hymns of the Lapps and Poles

To the praise of the Crucified.

Sweeter than tones of the ocean's shells

Mingle the chimes of the Christmas Bells!

The years come not back that have circled away

With the past of the Eastern land,

When He plucked the corn on the Sabbath day

And healed the withered hand:

But the bells shall join in a joyous chime

For the One who walked the sea,

And ring again for the better time

Of the Christ that is to be!

Then ring!—for earth's best promise dwells

In ye, O joyous Prophet Bells!

Ring out at the meeting of night and morn

For the dawn of a happier day!

Lo, the stone from our faith's great sepulchre torn

The angels have rolled away!

And they come to us here in our low abode,

With words like the sunrise gleam,—

Come down and ascend by that heavenly road

That Jacob saw in his dream.

Spirit of love, that in music dwells,

Open our hearts with the Christmas Bells!

Help us to see that the glad heart prays

As well as the bended knees;

That there are in our own as in ancient days

The Scribes and the Pharisees;

That the Mount of Transfiguration still

Looks down on these Christian lands,

And the glorified ones from that holy hill

Are reaching their helping hands.

These be the words our music tells

Of solemn joy, O Christmas Bells!

THE BIRTH OF CHRIST

ALFRED TENNYSON

The time draws near the birth of Christ;

The moon is hid—the night is still;

The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,

Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound.

Each voice four changes on the wind,

That now dilate and now decrease,

Peace and good-will, good-will and peace,

Peace and good-will to all mankind.

Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn!

Draw forth the cheerful day from night;

O Father! touch the east, and light

The light that shone when hope was born!

THE CHRISTMAS CAROL

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The minstrels played their Christmas tune

To-night beneath my cottage eaves;

While, smitten by a lofty moon,

The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,

Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen

That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze

Had sunk to rest, with folded wings:

Keen was the air, but could not freeze

Nor check the music of the strings;

So stout and hardy were the band

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand!

And who but listened—till was paid

Respect to every inmate's claim:

The greeting given, the music played,

In honor of each household name,

Duly pronounced with lusty call,

And "Merry Christmas" wished to all!

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep

Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,

To hear, and sink again to sleep!

Or, at an earlier call, to mark

By blazing fire, the still suspense

Of self-complacent innocence;

The mutual nod,—the grave disguise

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er;

And some unbidden tears that rise

For names once heard, and heard no more;

Tears brightened by the serenade

For infant in the cradle laid.

Hail ancient Manners! sure defence,

Where they survive, of wholesome laws;

Remnants of love whose modest sense

Thus into narrow room withdraws;

Hail, Usages of pristine mould,

And ye that guard them, Mountains old!

CHRISTMAS AT FEZZIWIG'S WAREHOUSE

CHARLES DICKENS

"Yo ho! my boys," said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night; Christmas Eve, Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up," cried old Fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack Robinson...."

"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Cheer up, Ebenezer!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk and made an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast, substantial smile. In came the three Misses Fezziwig, beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business In came the housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the cook with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master, trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping, old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.

When this result was brought about the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been thrice as many—Oh, four times as many—old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any given time what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire; both hands to your partner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig "cut"—cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually, as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas!