CHRISTMAS
Christmas light was slow in coming. There was a hush in the air as if
the earth were padded so that even the footsteps of Nature might not be
heard. Out of my window I saw that a great fall of snow had come in the
night. The whole landscape was covered by fleecy down--soft and white as
it used to be when I first saw it on the hills of New England. No wind
had moved it; it lay as it fell, like a white mantle thrown lightly over
the world. Great feathery flakes filled the air and gently descended
upon the earth, like that beautiful Spirit that made the plains of Judea
bright two thousand years ago. It seemed a fitting emblem of that nature
which covered the unloveliness of the world by His own beauty, and
changed the dark spots of earth to pure white.
It was an ideal Christmas morning,--clean and beautiful. Such a wealth
of purity was in the air that all the world was clothed with it. The
earth accepted the beneficence of the skies, and the trees bent in
thankfulness for their beautiful covering. It was a morning to make one
thoughtful,--to make one thankful, too, for home and friends and
country, and a future that could be earned, where the white folds of
usefulness and purity would cover man's inheritance of selfishness and
passion.
For an hour I watched the big flakes fall; and, as I watched, I dreamed
the dream of peace for all the world. The brazen trumpet of war was a
thing of the past. The white dove of peace had built her nest in the
cannon's mouth and stopped its awful roar. The federation of the world
was secured by universal intelligence and community of interest. Envy
and selfishness and hypocrisy, and evil doing and evil speaking, were
deeply covered by the snowy mantle that brought "peace on earth and good
will to men."
My dream was not dispelled by any rude awakening. As the house threw off
the fetters of the night and gradually struggled into activity, it was
in such a fresh and loving manner and with such thoughtful solicitude
for each member of our world, that I walked in my dream all day.
The snow fell rapidly till noon, and then the sun came forth from the
veil of clouds and cast its southern rays across the white expanse with
an effect that drew exclamations of delight from all who had eyes to
see. No wind stirred the air, but ever and anon a bright avalanche would
slide from bough or bush, sparkle and gleam as the sun caught it, and
then sink gently into the deep lap spread below. The bough would spring
as if to catch its beautiful load, and, failing in this, would throw up
its head and try to look unconcerned,--though quite evidently conscious
of its bereavement.
The appearance of the sun brought signs of life and activity. The men
improvised a snow-plough, the strong horses floundering in front of it
made roads and paths through the two feet of feathers that hid the
world.
After lunch, the young people went for a frolic in the snow. Two hours
later the shaking of garments and stamping of feet gave evidence of the
return of the party. Stepping into the hall I was at once surrounded by
the handsomest troupe of Esquimaux that ever invaded the temperate zone.
The snow clung lovingly to their wet clothing and would not be shaken
off; their cheeks were flushed, their eyes bright, and their voices
pitched at an out-of-doors key.
"Away to your rooms, every one of you, and get into dry clothes," said
I. "Don't dare show yourselves until the dinner bell rings. I'll send
each of you a hot negus,--it's a prescription and must be taken; I'm a
tyrant when professional."
We saw nothing more of them until dinner. The young ladies came in
white, with their maiden shoulders losing nothing by contact with their
snow-white gowns. All but Miss Jessie, whose dress was a pearl velvet,
buttoned close to her slender throat. I loved this style best, but I
could never believe that anything could be prettier than Jane's white
shoulders.
The table was loaded, as Christmas tables should be, and, as I asked
God's blessing on it and us, the thought came that the answer had
preceded the request and that we were blessed in unusual degree.
After dinner the rugs in the great room were rolled up, and the young
folks danced to Laura's music, which could inspire unwilling feet. But
there were none such that night. Tom and Kate led off in the newest and
most fantastic waltz, others followed, and Polly and I were the only
spectators. An hour of this, and then we gathered around the hearth to
hear Polly read "The Christmas Carol." No one reads like Polly. Her low,
soft voice seems never to know fatigue, but runs on like a musical
brook. When the reading was over, a hush of satisfied enjoyment had
taken possession of us all. It was not broken when Miss Jessie turned to
the piano and sang that glorious hymn, "Lead, Kindly Light." Jack was
close beside her, his blue eyes shining with an appreciation of which
any woman might be proud, and his baritone in perfect harmony with her
rich contralto. The young ladies took the higher part, Frank added his
tenor, and even Phil and I leaned heavily on Jarvis's deep bass. My
effort was of short duration; a lump gathered in my throat that caused
me to turn away. Polly was searching fruitlessly for something to dry
the tears that overran her eyes, and I was able to lend her aid, but the
accommodation was of the nature of a "call loan."
As we separated for the night, Jarvis said: "Lady mother, this day has
been a revelation to me. If I live a hundred years, I shall never forget
it." I was slow in bringing it to a close. As I loitered in my room, I
heard the shuffling of slippered feet in the hall, and a timid knock at
Polly's door. It was quickly opened for Jane and Jessie, and I heard
sobbing voices say:--
"Momee, we want to cry on your bed," and, "Oh, Mrs. Williams, why can't
all days be like this!"
Polly's voice was low and indistinct, but I know that it carried strong
and loving counsel; and, as I turned to my pillow, I was still dreaming
the dream of the morning.