In an old abbey town, a long, long while ago there officiated as sexton
and gravedigger in the churchyard one Gabriel Grubb. He was an ill
conditioned cross-grained, surly fellow, who consorted with nobody but
himself and an old wicker-bottle which fitted into his large, deep
waistcoat pocket.
A little before twilight one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his
spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself toward the old
churchyard, for he had a grave to finish by next morning, and feeling
very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on
with his work at once.
He strode along until he turned into the dark lane which led to the
churchyard--a nice, gloomy, mournful place into which the towns-people
did not care to go except in broad daylight, consequently he was not a
little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song
about a Merry Christmas. Gabriel waited until the boy came up, then
rapped him over the head with his lantern five or six times to teach him
to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away, with his hand to his
head, Gabriel Grubb chuckled to himself and entered the churchyard,
locking the gate behind him.
He took off his coat, put down his lantern, and getting into an
unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good will.
But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no easy matter to
break it up and shovel it out. At any other time this would have made
Gabriel very miserable, but he was so pleased at having stopped the
small boy's singing that he took little heed of the scanty progress he
had made when he had finished work for the night, and looked down into
the grave with grim satisfaction, murmuring as he gathered up his
things:
"Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,
A few feet of cold earth when life is done."
"Ho! ho!" he laughed, as he set himself down on a flat tombstone, which
was a favorite resting-place of his, and drew forth his wicker-bottle.
"A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas box. Ho! ho! ho!"
"Ho! ho! ho!" repeated a voice close beside him.
"It was the echoes," said he, raising the bottle to his lips again.
"It was not," said a deep voice.
Gabriel started up and stood rooted to the spot with terror, for his
eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.
Seated on an upright tombstone close to him was a strange, unearthly
figure. He was sitting perfectly still, grinning at Gabriel Grubb with
such a grin as only a goblin could call up.
"What do you here on Christmas Eve?" said the goblin, sternly.
"I came to dig a grave, sir," stammered Gabriel.
"What man wanders among graves on such a night as this?" cried the
goblin.
"Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb!" screamed a wild chorus of voices that
seemed to fill the churchyard.
"What have you got in that bottle?" said the goblin.
"Hollands, sir," replied the sexton, trembling more than ever, for he
had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought his questioner might be
in the excise department of the goblins.
"Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard on such a night as
this?"
"Gabriel Grubb! Gabriel Grubb!" exclaimed the wild voices again.
"And who, then, is our lawful prize?" exclaimed the goblin, raising his
voice.