Can any of us look back to the earlier days of our mortal pilgrimage and
remember the helpless sense of desolation and loneliness caused by being
forced to go off to the stillness and darkness of a solitary bed far
from all the beloved voices and employments and sights of life? Can we
remember lying, hearing distant voices, and laughs of more fortunate,
older people and the opening and shutting of distant doors, that told of
scenes of animation and interest from which we were excluded? How
doleful sounded the tick of the clock, and how dismal was the darkness
as sunshine faded from the window, leaving only a square of dusky
dimness in place of daylight!
All who remember these will sympathize with Dolly, who was hustled off
to bed by Nabby the minute supper was over, that she might have the
decks clear for action.
"Now be a good girl; shut your eyes, and say your prayers, and go right
to sleep," had been Nabby's parting injunction as she went out, closing
the door after her.
The little head sunk into the pillow, and Dolly recited her usual
liturgy of "Our Father who art in heaven," and "I pray God to bless my
dear father and mother and all my dear friends and relations, and make
me a good girl," and ending with
"'Now I lay me down to sleep.'"
But sleep she could not. The wide, bright, wistful blue eyes lay
shining like two stars toward the fading light in the window, and the
little ears were strained to catch every sound. She heard the shouts of
Tom and Bill and the loud barking of Spring as they swept out of the
door; and the sound went to her heart. Spring--her faithful attendant,
the most loving and sympathetic of dogs, her friend and confidential
counselor in many a solitary ramble--Spring had gone with the boys to
see the sight, and left her alone. She began to pity herself and cry
softly on her pillow. For a while she could hear Nabby's energetic
movements below, washing up dishes, putting back chairs, and giving
energetic thumps and bangs here and there, as her way was of producing
order. But by and by that was all over, and she heard the loud shutting
of the kitchen door and Nabby's voice chatting with her attendant as she
went off to the scene of gaiety.
In those simple, innocent days in New England villages nobody thought of
locking house doors at night. There was in those times no idea either of
tramps or burglars, and many a night in summer had Dolly lain awake and
heard the voices of tree-toads and whip-poor-wills mingling with the
whisper of leaves and the swaying of elm boughs, while the great outside
door of the house lay broad open in the moonlight. But then this was
when everybody was in the house and asleep, when the door of her
parents' room stood open on the front hall, and she knew she could run
to the paternal bed in a minute for protection. Now, however, she knew
the house was empty. Everybody had gone out of it; and there is
something fearful to a little lonely body in the possibilities of a
great, empty house. She got up and opened her door, and the "tick-tock"
of the old kitchen clock for a moment seemed like company; but pretty
soon its ticking began to strike louder and louder with a nervous
insistency on her ear, till the nerves quivered and vibrated, and she
couldn't go to sleep. She lay and listened to all the noises outside. It
was a still, clear, freezing night, when the least sound clinked with a
metallic resonance. She heard the runners of sleighs squeaking and
crunching over the frozen road, and the lively jingle of bells. They
would come nearer, nearer, pass by the house, and go off in the
distance. Those were the happy folks going to see the gold star and the
Christmas greens in the church. The gold star, the Christmas greens, had
all the more attraction from their vagueness. Dolly was a fanciful
little creature, and the clear air and romantic scenery of a mountain
town had fed her imagination. Stories she had never read, except in the
Bible and the Pilgrim's Progress, but her very soul had vibrated with
the descriptions of the celestial city--something vague, bright,
glorious, lying beyond some dark river; and Nabby's rude account of what
was going on in the church suggested those images.
Finally a bright thought popped into her little head. She could see the
church from the front windows of the house; she would go there and look.
In haste she sprang out of bed and dressed herself. It was sharp and
freezing in the fireless chamber, but Dolly's blood had a racing,
healthy tingle to it; she didn't mind cold. She wrapped her cloak around
her and tied on her hood and ran to the front windows. There it was, to
be sure--the little church with its sharp-pointed windows, every pane of
which was sending streams of light across the glittering snow. There was
a crowd around the door, and men and boys looking in at the windows.
Dolly's soul was fired. But the elm boughs a little obstructed her
vision; she thought she would go down and look at it from the yard. So
down-stairs she ran, but as she opened the door the sound of the chant
rolled out into the darkness with sweet and solemn cadence:
"_Glory be to God on high; and on earth peace, good will toward men._"
Dolly's soul was all aglow--her nerves tingled and vibrated; she thought
of the bells ringing in the celestial city; she could no longer contain
herself, but faster and faster the little hooded form scudded across the
snowy plain and pushed in among the dark cluster of spectators at the
door. All made way for the child, and in a moment, whether in the body
or out she could not tell, Dolly was sitting in a little nook under a
bower of spruce, gazing at the star and listening to the voices:
"_We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee, we glorify Thee, we
give thanks to Thee for Thy great glory, O Lord God, Heavenly King, God,
the Father Almighty._"
Her heart throbbed and beat; she trembled with a strange happiness and
sat as one entranced till the music was over. Then came reading, the
rustle and murmur of people kneeling, and then they all rose and there
was the solemn buzz of voices repeating the Creed with a curious lulling
sound to her ear. There was old Mr. Danforth with his spectacles on,
reading with a pompous tone, as if to witness a good confession for the
church; and there were Squire Lewis and old Ma'am Lewis; and there was
one place where they all bowed their heads and all the ladies made
courtesies--all of which entertained her mightily.
When the sermon began Dolly got fast asleep, and slept as quietly as a
pet lamb in a meadow, lying in a little warm roll back under the shadows
of the spruces. She was so tired and so sound asleep that she did not
wake when the service ended, lying serenely curled up, and having
perhaps pleasant dreams. She might have had the fortunes of little
Goody Two-Shoes, whose history was detailed in one of the few children's
books then printed, had not two friends united to find her out.
Spring, who had got into the slip with the boys, and been an equally
attentive and edified listener, after service began a tour of
investigation, dog-fashion, with his nose; for how could a minister's
dog form a suitable judgment of any new procedure if he was repressed
from the use of his own leading faculty? So, Spring went round the
church conscientiously, smelling at pew doors, smelling of the greens,
smelling at the heels of gentlemen and ladies, till he came near the
door of the church, when he suddenly smelt something which called for
immediate attention, and he made a side dart into the thicket where
Dolly was sleeping, and began licking her face and hands and pulling her
dress, giving short barks occasionally, as if to say, "Come, Dolly, wake
up!" At the same instant Hiel, who had seen her from the gallery, came
down just as the little one was sitting up with a dazed, bewildered air.
"Why, Dolly, how came you out o' bed this time o' night? Don't ye know
the nine o'clock bell's jest rung?"
Dolly knew Hiel well enough--what child in the village did not? She
reached up her little hands, saying in an apologetic fashion:
"They were all gone away, and I was so lonesome!"
Hiel took her up in his long arms and carried her home, and was just
entering the house door with her as the sleigh drove up with Parson
Cushing and his wife.
"Wal, Parson, your folks has all ben to the 'lumination--Nabby and Bill
and Tom and Dolly here; found her all rolled up in a heap like a rabbit
under the cedars."
"Why, Dolly Cushing!" exclaimed her mother. "What upon earth got you
out of bed this time of night? You'll catch your death o' cold."
"I was all alone," said Dolly, with a piteous bleat.
"Oh, there, there, wife; don't say a word," put in the parson. "Get her
off to bed. Never mind, Dolly, don't you cry;" for Parson Cushing was a
soft-hearted gentleman and couldn't bear the sight of Dolly's quivering
under lip. So Dolly told her little story, how she had been promised a
sugar dog by Nabby if she'd be a good girl and go to sleep, and how she
couldn't go to sleep, and how she just went down to look from the yard,
and how the music drew her right over.
"There, there," said Parson Cushing, "go to bed, Dolly; and if Nabby
don't give you a sugar dog, I will. This Christmas dressing is all
nonsense," he added, "but the child's not to blame--it was natural."
"After all," he said to his wife the last thing after they were settled
for the night, "our little Dolly is an unusual child. There were not
many little girls that would have dared to do that. I shall preach a
sermon right away that will set all this Christmas matter straight,"
said the Doctor. "There is not a shadow of evidence that the first
Christians kept Christmas. It wasn't kept for the first three centuries,
nor was Christ born anywhere near the 25th of December."
* * * * *
The next morning found little Dolly's blue eyes wide open with all the
wondering eagerness of a new idea.
Dolly had her wise thoughts about Christmas. She had been terribly
frightened at first, when she was brought home from the church; but when
her papa kissed her and promised her a sugar dog she was quite sure
that, whatever the unexplained mystery might be, he did not think the
lovely scene of the night before a wicked one. And when Mrs. Cushing
came and covered the little girl up warmly in bed, she only said to her,
"Dolly, you must never get out of bed again at night after you are put
there; you might have caught a dreadful cold and been sick and died, and
then we should have lost our little Dolly." So Dolly promised quite
readily to be good and lie still ever after, no matter what attractions
might be on foot in the community.
Much was gained, however, and it was all clear gain; and forthwith the
little fanciful head proceeded to make the most of it, thinking over
every feature of the wonder. The child had a vibrating, musical
organization, and the sway and rush of the chanting still sounded in her
ears and reminded her of that wonderful story in the "Pilgrim's
Progress", where the gate of the celestial city swung open, and there
were voices that sung, "Blessing and honor and glory and power be unto
Him who sitteth on the throne." And then that wonderful star, that shone
just as if it were a real star--how could it be! For Miss Ida Lewis,
being a young lady of native artistic genius, had cut a little hole in
the centre of her gilt paper star, behind which was placed a candle, so
that it gave real light, in a way most astonishing to untaught eyes. In
Dolly's simple view it verged on the supernatural--perhaps it was _the_
very real star read about in the Gospel story. Why not? Dolly was at the
happy age when anything bright and heavenly seemed credible, and had the
child-faith to which all things were possible.
"I wish, my dear," said Mrs. Cushing, after they were retired to their
room for the night, "that to-morrow morning you would read the account
of the birth of Christ in St. Matthew, and give the children some advice
upon the proper way of keeping Christmas."
"Well, but you know we don't _keep_ Christmas; nobody knows anything
about Christmas," said the Doctor.
"You know what I mean, my dear," replied his wife. "You know that my
mother and her family _do_ keep Christmas. I always heard of it when I
was a child; and even now, though I have been out of the way of it so
long, I cannot help a sort of kindly feeling toward these ways. I am not
surprised at all that the children got drawn over last night to the
service. I think it's the most natural thing in the world, and I know by
experience just how attractive such things are. I shouldn't wonder if
this other church should draw very seriously on your congregation; but I
don't want it to begin by taking away our own children. Dolly is an
inquisitive child; a child that thinks a good deal, and she'll be asking
all sorts of questions about the why and wherefore of what she saw last
night."
"Oh, yes, Dolly is a bright one. Dolly's an uncommon child," said the
Doctor, who had a pardonable pride in his children--they being, in fact,
the only worldly treasure that he was at all rich in.
He rose up early on the following Sabbath and proceeded to buy a sugar
dog at the store of Lucius Jenks, and when Dolly came down to breakfast
he called her to him and presented it, saying as he kissed her:
"Papa gives you this, not because it is Christmas, but because he loves
his little Dolly."
"But _isn't_ it Christmas?" asked Dolly with a puzzled air.
"No, child; nobody knows when Christ was born, and there is nothing in
the Bible to tell us _when_ to keep Christmas."
And then in family worship the Doctor read the account of the birth of
Christ and of the shepherds abiding in the fields who came at the call
of the angels, and they sung the old hymn:
"While shepherds watched their flocks by night."
"Now, children," he said when all was over, "you must be good children
and go to school. If we are going to keep any day on account of the
birth of Christ, the best way to keep it is by doing all our duties on
that day better than any other. Your duty is to be good children, go to
school and mind your lessons."
Tom and Bill were quite ready to fall in with their father's view of the
matter. As for Dolly, she put her little tongue advisedly to the back of
her sugar dog and found that he was very sweet indeed--a most tempting
little animal. She even went so far as to nibble off a bit of the green
ground he stood on--yet resolved heroically not to eat him at once, but
to make him last as long as possible. She wrapped him tenderly in cotton
and took him to the school with her, and when her confidential friend,
Bessie Lewis, displayed her Christmas gifts, Dolly had something on her
side to show, though she shook her curly head and informed Bessie in
strict confidence that there wasn't any such thing as Christmas, her
papa had told her so--a heresy which Bessie forthwith reported when she
went home at noon.
"Poor little child--and did she say so?" asked gentle old Grandmamma
Lewis. "Well, dear, you mustn't blame her--she don't know any better.
You bring the little one in here to-night and I'll give her a Christmas
cooky. I'm sorry for such children."
And so, after school, Dolly went in to see dear old Madam Lewis, who sat
in her rocking-chair in the front parlor, where the fire was snapping
behind great tall brass andirons and all the pictures were overshadowed
with boughs of spruce and pine. Dolly gazed about her with awe and
wonder. Over one of the pictures was suspended a cross of green with
flowers of white everlasting.
"What is _that_ for?" asked Dolly, pointing solemnly with her little
forefinger, and speaking under her breath.
"Dear child, that is the picture of my poor boy who died--ever so many
years ago. That is my cross--we have all one--to carry."
Dolly did not half understand these words, but she saw tears in the
gentle old lady's eyes and was afraid to ask more.
She accepted thankfully and with her nicest and best executed courtesy a
Christmas cooky representing a good-sized fish, with fins all spread and
pink sugar-plums for eyes, and went home marveling yet more about this
mystery of Christmas.
As she was crossing the green to go home the Poganuc stage drove in,
with Hiel seated on high, whipping up his horses to make them execute
that grand _entree_ which was the glory of his daily existence.
Now that the stage was on runners, and slipped noiselessly over the
smooth frozen plain, Hiel cracked his whip more energetically and
shouted louder, first to one horse then to another, to make up for the
loss of the rattling wheels; and he generally had the satisfaction of
seeing all the women rushing distractedly to doors and windows, and
imagined them saying, "There's Hiel; the stage is in!"
"Hulloa, Dolly!" he called out, drawing up with a suddenness which threw
the fore-horses back upon their haunches. "I've got a bundle for your
folks. Want to ride? You may jest jump up here by me and I'll take you
'round to your father's door;" and so Dolly reached up her little
red-mittened hand, and Hiel drew her up beside him.
"'Xpect ye want a bit of a ride, and I've got a bundle for Widder
Badger, down on South Street, so I guess I'll go 'round that way to make
it longer. I 'xpect this 'ere bundle is from some of your ma's folks in
Boston--'Piscopals they be and keeps Christmas. Good-sized bundle 'tis;
reckon it'll come handy in a good many ways."
So, after finishing his detour, Hiel landed his little charge at the
parsonage door.
"Reckon I'll be over when I've put up my hosses," he said to Nabby when
he handed down the bundle to her. "I hain't been to see you much lately,
Nabby, and I know you've been a-pinin' after me, but fact is--"
"Well, now, Hiel Jones, you jest shet up with your imperence," said
Nabby, with flashing eyes; "you jest look out or you'll get suthin."
"I 'xpect to get a kiss when I come 'round to-night," said Hiel,
composedly. "Take care o' that air bundle, now; mebbe there's glass or
crockery in't."
"Hiel Jones," said Nabby, "don't give me none o' your saace, for I won't
take it. Jim Sawin said last night you was the brassiest man he ever
see. He said there was brass enough in your face to make a kettle of."
"You tell him there's sap enough in his head to fill it, anyway," said
Hiel. "Good bye, Nabby, I'll come 'round this evenin'," and he drove
away at a rattling pace, while Nabby, with flushed cheeks and snapping
eyes, soliloquized:
"Well, I hope he will come! I'd jest like a chance to show him how
little I care for him."
Meanwhile the bundle was soon opened, and contained a store of
treasures: a smart little red dress and a pair of red shoes for Dolly, a
half dozen pocket-handkerchiefs for Dr. Cushing, and "Robinson Crusoe"
and "Sanford and Merton," handsomely bound, for the boys, and a bonnet
trimming for Mrs. Cushing. These were accompanied by a characteristic
letter from Aunt Debby Kittery, opening as follows:
"DEAR SISTER:
"Mother worries because she thinks you won't get any Christmas
presents. However, this comes to give every one of you some of the
crumbs which fall from the church's table, and Mother says she
wishes you all a pious Christmas, which she thinks is better than a
merry one. If I didn't lay violent hands on her she would use all
our substance in riotous giving of Christmas presents to all the
beggars and chimney sweeps in Boston. She is in good health and
talks daily of wanting to see you and the children; and I hope
before long you will bring some of them, and come and make us a
visit.
"Your affectionate sister,
"DEBBY KITTERY."
There was a scene of exultation and clamor in the parsonage as these
presents were pulled out and discussed; and when all possible joy was
procured from them in the sitting-room, the children rushed in a body
into the kitchen and showed them to Nabby, calling on her to join their
acclamations.
On the whole, when Dolly had said her prayers that night and thought the
matter over, she concluded that her Christmas Day had been quite a
success.