THANKSGIVING AGAIN.
Seven years had passed and once more the Thanksgiving tide was in
Mapleton. This year it had come cold and frosty. Chill driving autumn
storms had stripped the painted glories from the trees, and remorseless
frosts had chased the hardy ranks of the asters and golden-rods back and
back till scarce a blossom could be found in the deepest and most
sequestered spots. The great elm over the Pitkin farm-house had been
stripped of its golden glory, and now rose against the yellow evening
sky, with its infinite delicacies of net work and tracery, in their way
quite as beautiful as the full pomp of summer foliage. The air without
was keen and frosty, and the knotted twigs of the branches knocked
against the roof and rattled and ticked against the upper window panes as
the chill evening wind swept through them.
Seven long years had passed since James sailed. Years of watching, of
waiting, of cheerful patience, at first, and at last of resigned sorrow.
Once they heard from James, at the first port where the ship stopped. It
was a letter dear to his mother's heart, manly, resigned and Christian;
expressing full purpose to work with God in whatever calling he should
labor, and cheerful hopes of the future. Then came a long, long silence,
and then tidings that the _Eastern Star_ had been wrecked on a reef in
the Indian ocean! The mother had given back her treasure into the same
beloved hands whence she first received him. "I gave him to God, and God
took him," she said. "I shall have him again in God's time." This was how
she settled the whole matter with herself. Diana had mourned with all the
vehement intensity of her being, but out of the deep baptism of sorrow
she had emerged with a new and nobler nature. The vain, trifling,
laughing Undine had received a soul and was a true woman. She devoted
herself to James's mother with an utter self-sacrificing devotion,
resolved as far as in her lay to be both son and daughter to her. She
read, and studied, and fitted herself as a teacher in a neighboring
academy, and persisted in claiming the right of a daughter to place all
the amount of her earnings in the family purse.
And this year there was special need. With all his care, with all his
hard work and that of his family, Deacon Silas never had been able to
raise money to annihilate the debt upon the farm.
There seemed to be a perfect fatality about it. Let them all make what
exertions they might, just as they were hoping for a sum that should
exceed the interest and begin the work of settling the principal would
come some loss that would throw them all back. One year their barn was
burned just as they had housed their hay. On another a valuable horse
died, and then there were fits of sickness among the children, and poor
crops in the field, and low prices in the market; in short, as Biah
remarked, "The deacon's luck did seem to be a sort o' streaky, for do
what you might there's always suthin' to put him back." As the younger
boys grew up the deacon had ceased to hire help, and Biah had transferred
his services to Squire Jones, a rich landholder in the neighborhood, who
wanted some one to overlook his place. The increased wages had enabled
him to give a home to Maria Jane and a start in life to two or three
sturdy little American citizens who played around his house door.
Nevertheless, Biah never lost sight of the "deacon's folks" in his
multifarious cares, and never missed an opportunity either of doing them
a good turn or of picking up any stray item of domestic news as to how
matters were going on in that interior. He had privately broached the
theory to Miss Briskett, "that arter all it was James that Diany (he
always pronounced all names as if they ended in y) was sot on, and that
she took it so hard, his goin' off, that it did beat all! Seemed to make
another gal of her; he shouldn't wonder if she'd come out and jine the
church." And Diana not long after unconsciously fulfilled Biah's
predictions.
Of late Biah's good offices had been in special requisition, as the
deacon had been for nearly a month on a sick bed with one of those
interminable attacks of typhus fever which used to prevail in old times,
when the doctor did everything he could to make it certain that a man
once brought down with sickness never should rise again.
But Silas Pitkin had a constitution derived through an indefinite
distance from a temperate, hard-working, godly ancestry, and so withstood
both death and the doctor, and was alive and in a convalescent state,
which gave hope of his being able to carve the turkey at his Thanksgiving
dinner.
The evening sunlight was just fading out of the little "keeping-room,"
adjoining the bed-room, where the convalescent now was able to sit up
most of the day. A cot bed had been placed there, designed for him to lie
down upon in intervals of fatigue. At present, however, he was sitting in
his arm-chair, complacently watching the blaze of the hickory fire, or
following placidly the motions of his wife's knitting-needles.
There was an air of calmness and repose on his thin, worn features that
never was there in days of old: the haggard, anxious lines had been
smoothed away, and that spiritual expression which sickness and sorrow
sometimes develops on the human face reigned in its place. It was the
"clear shining after rain."
"Wife," he said, "read me something I can't quite remember out of the
Bible. It's in the eighth of Deuteronomy, the second verse."
Mrs. Pitkin opened the big family Bible on the stand, and read, "And thou
shalt remember all the way in which the Lord thy God hath led thee these
forty years in the wilderness, to humble thee and to prove thee and to
know what is in thy heart, and whether thou wouldst keep his commandments
or no. And he humbled thee, and suffered thee to hunger, and fed thee
with manna, which thou knewest not, neither did thy fathers know, that he
might make thee know that man doth not live by bread alone, but by every
word that proceedeth out of the mouth of the Lord doth man live."
"There, that's it," interrupted the deacon. "That's what I've been
thinking of as I've lain here sick and helpless. I've fought hard to keep
things straight and clear the farm, but it's pleased the Lord to bring me
low. I've had to lie still and leave all in his hands."
"And where better could you leave all?" said his wife, with a radiant
smile.
"Well, just so. I've been saying, 'Here I am, Lord; do with me as seemeth
to thee good,' and I feel a great quiet now. I think it's doubtful if we
make up the interest this year. I don't know what Bill may get for the
hay: but I don't see much prospect of raisin' on't; and yet I don't
worry. Even if it's the Lord's will to have the place sold up and we be
turned out in our old age, I don't seem to worry about it. His will be
done."
There was a sound of rattling wheels at this moment, and anon there came
a brush and flutter of garments, and Diana rushed in, all breezy with the
freshness of out-door air, and caught Mrs. Pitkin in her arms and kissed
her first and then the deacon with effusion.
"Here I come for Thanksgiving," she said, in a rich, clear tone, "and
here," she added, drawing a roll of bills from her bosom, and putting it
into the deacon's hand, "here's the interest money for this year. I got
it all myself, because I wanted to show you I could be good for
something."
"Thank you, dear daughter," said Mrs. Pitkin. "I felt sure some way would
be found and now I see _what_." She added, kissing Diana and patting her
rosy cheek, "a very pleasant, pretty way it is, too."
"I was afraid that Uncle Silas would worry and put himself back again
about the interest money," said Diana.
"Well, daughter," said the Deacon, "it's a pity we should go through all
we do in this world and not learn anything by it. I hope the Lord has
taught me not to worry, but just do my best and leave myself and
everything else in his hands. We can't help ourselves--we can't make one
hair white or black. Why should we wear our lives out fretting? If I'd a
known _that_ years ago it would a been better for us all."
"Never mind, father, you know it now," said his wife, with a face serene
as a star. In this last gift of quietude of soul to her husband she
recognized the answer to her prayers of years.
"Well now," said Diana, running to the window, "I should like to know
what Biah Carter is coming here about."
"Oh, Biah's been very kind to us in this sickness," said Mrs. Pitkin, as
Biah's feet resounded on the scraper.
"Good evenin', Deacon," said Biah, entering, "Good evenin', Mrs. Pitkin.
Sarvant, ma'am," to Diana--"how ye all gettin' on?"
"Nicely, Biah--well as can be," said Mrs. Pitkin.
"Wal, you see I was up to the store with some o' Squire Jones's bell
flowers. Sim Coan he said he wanted some to sell, and so I took up a
couple o' barrels, and I see the darndest big letter there for the
Deacon. Miss Briskett she was in, lookin' at it, and so was Deacon
Simson's wife; she come in arter some cinnamon sticks. Wal, and they all
looked at it and talked it over, and couldn't none o' 'em for their lives
think what it's all about, it was sich an almighty thick letter," said
Biah, drawing out a long, legal-looking envelope and putting it in the
Deacon's hands.
"I hope there isn't bad news in it," said Silas Pitkin, the color
flushing apprehensively in his pale cheeks as he felt for his spectacles.
There was an agitated, silent pause while he broke the seals and took out
two documents. One was the mortgage on his farm and the other a receipt
in full for the money owed on it! The Deacon turned the papers to and
fro, gazed on them with a dazed, uncertain air and then said:
"Why, mother, do look! _Is_ this so? Do I read it right?"
"Certainly, you do," said Diana, reading over his shoulder. "Somebody's
paid that debt, uncle!"
"Thank God!" said Mrs. Pitkin, softly; "He has done it."
"Wal, I swow!" said Biah, after having turned the paper in his hands, "if
this 'ere don't beat all! There's old Squire Norcross's name on't. It's
the receipt, full and square. What's come over the old crittur? He must
a' got religion in his old' age; but if grace made him do _that_, grace
has done a tough job, that's all; but it's done anyhow! and that's all
you need to care about. Wal, wal, I must git along hum--Mariar Jane'll be
wonderin' where I be. Good night, all on ye!" and Biah's retreating wagon
wheels were off in the distance, rattling furiously, for, notwithstanding
Maria Jane's wondering, Biah was resolved not to let an hour slip by
without declaring the wonderful tidings at the store.
The Pitkin family were seated at supper in the big kitchen, all jubilant
over the recent news. The father, radiant with the pleasantest
excitement, had for the first time come out to take his place at the
family board. In the seven years since the beginning of our story the
Pitkin boys had been growing apace, and now surrounded the table quite an
army of rosy-cheeked, jolly young fellows, who to-night were in a perfect
tumult of animal gaiety. Diana twinkled and dimpled and flung her
sparkles round among them, and there was unbounded jollity.
"Who's that looking in at the window?" called out Sam, aged ten, who sat
opposite the house door. At that moment the door opened, and a dark
stranger, bronzed with travel and dressed in foreign-looking garments,
entered.
He stood one moment, all looking curiously at him, then crossing the
floor, he kneeled down by Mrs. Pitkin's chair, and throwing off his cap,
looked her close in the eyes.
"Mother, don't you know me?"
She looked at him one moment with that still earnestness peculiar to
herself, and then fell into his arms. "O my son, my son!"
There were a few moments of indescribable confusion, during which Diana
retreated, pale and breathless, to a neighboring window, and stood with
her hand over the locket which she had always worn upon her heart.
After a few moments he came, and she felt him by her.
"What, cousin!" he said; "no welcome from you?" She gave one look, and he
took her in his arms. She felt the beating of his heart, and he felt
hers. Neither spoke, yet each felt at that moment sure of the other.
"I say, boys," said James, "who'll help bring in my sea chest?"
Never was sea chest more triumphantly ushered; it was a contest who
should get near enough to take some part in it's introduction, and soon
it was open, and James began distributing its contents.
"There, mother," said he, undoing a heavy black India satin and shaking
out its folds, "I'm determined you shall have a dress fit for you; and
here's a real India shawl to go with it. Get those on and you'll look as
much like a queen among women as you ought to."
Then followed something for every member of the family, received with
frantic demonstrations of applause and appreciation by the more juvenile.
"Oh, what's that?" said Sam, as a package done up in silk paper and tied
with silver cord was disclosed.
"That's--oh--that's my wife's wedding-dress," said James, unfolding and
shaking out a rich satin; "and here's her shawl," drawing out an
embroidered box, scented with sandal-wood.
The boys all looked at Diana, and Diana laughed and grew pale and red all
in the same breath, as James, folding back the silk and shawl in their
boxes, handed them to her.
Mrs. Pitkin laughed and kissed her, and said, gaily, "All right, my
daughter--just right."
What an evening that was, to be sure! What a confusion of joy and
gladness! What a half-telling of a hundred things that it would take
weeks to tell.
James had paid the mortgage and had money to spare; and how he got it
all, and how he was saved at sea, and where he went, and what befell him
here and there, he promised to be telling them for six months to come.
"Well, your father mustn't be kept up too late," said Mrs. Pitkin. "Let's
have prayers now, and then to-morrow we'll be fresh to talk more."
So they gathered around the wide kitchen fire and the family Bible was
brought out.
"Father," said James, drawing out of his pocket the Bible his mother had
given him at parting, "let me read my Psalm; it has been my Psalm ever
since I left you." There was a solemn thrill in the little circle as
James read the verses:
"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
these see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep. For he
commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind which lifteth up the waves
thereof. They mount up to the heaven; they go down again to the depths:
their soul is melted because of trouble. Then they cry unto the Lord in
their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh
the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad
because they be quiet, so he bringeth them unto their desired haven. Oh
that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful
works to the children of men!"
* * * * *
When all had left the old kitchen, James and Diana sat by the yet glowing
hearth and listened to the crickets, and talked over all the past and the
future.
"And now," said James, "it's seven years since I left you, and to-morrow
is the seventh Thanksgiving, and I've always set my heart on getting home
to be married Thanksgiving evening."
"But, dear me, Jim, we can't. There isn't time."
"Why not?--we've got all the time there is!"
"But the wedding-dress can't be made, possibly."
"Oh, that can wait till the week after. You are pretty enough without
it!"
"But what will they all say?"
"Who cares what they say? I don't," said James. "The fact is, I've set my
heart on it, and you owe me something for the way you treated me the last
Thanksgiving I was here, seven years ago. Now don't you?"
"Well, yes, I do, so have it just as you will." And so it was accomplished
the next evening.
And among the wonders of Mapleton Miss Briskett announced it as chief,
that it was the first time she ever heard of a bride that was married
first and had her wedding-dress made the week after! She never had heard
of such a thing.
Yet, strange to say, for years after neither of the parties concerned
found themselves a bit the worse for it.
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS OF NEW ENGLAND.
The shores of the Atlantic coast of America may well be a terror to
navigators. They present an inexorable wall, against which forbidding and
angry waves incessantly dash, and around which shifting winds continually
rave. The approaches to safe harbors are few in number, intricate and
difficult, requiring the skill of practiced pilots.
But, as if with a pitying spirit of hospitality, old Cape Cod, breaking
from the iron line of the coast, like a generous-hearted sailor intent on
helpfulness, stretches an hundred miles outward, and, curving his
sheltering arms in a protective circle, gives a noble harborage. Of this
harbor of Cape Cod the report of our governmental Coast Survey thus
speaks: "It is one of the finest harbors for ships of war on the whole of
our Atlantic coast. The width and freedom from obstruction of every kind
at its entrance and the extent of sea room upon the bay side make it
accessible to vessels of the largest class in almost all winds. This
advantage, its capacity, depth of water, excellent anchorage, and the
complete shelter it affords from all winds, render it one of the most
valuable ship harbors upon our coast."
We have been thus particular in our mention of this place, because here,
in this harbor, opened the first scene in the most wonderful drama of
modern history.
Let us look into the magic mirror of the past and see this harbor of Cape
Cod on the morning of the 11th of November, in the year of our Lord 1620,
as described to us in the simple words of the pilgrims: "A pleasant bay,
circled round, except the entrance, which is about four miles over from
land to land, _compassed about to the very sea_ with oaks, pines,
junipers, sassafras, and other sweet weeds. It is a harbor wherein a
thousand sail of ship may safely ride."
Such are the woody shores of Cape Cod as we look back upon them in that
distant November day, and the harbor lies like a great crystal gem on the
bosom of a virgin wilderness. The "fir trees, the pine trees, and the
bay," rejoice together in freedom, for as yet the axe has spared them; in
the noble bay no shipping has found shelter; no voice or sound of
civilized man has broken the sweet calm of the forest. The oak leaves,
now turned to crimson and maroon by the autumn frosts, reflect themselves
in flushes of color on the still waters. The golden leaves of the
sassafras yet cling to the branches, though their life has passed, and
every brushing wind bears showers of them down to the water. Here and
there the dark spires of the cedar and the green leaves and red berries
of the holly contrast with these lighter tints. The forest foliage grows
down to the water's edge, so that the dash of the rising and falling tide
washes into the shaggy cedar boughs which here and there lean over and
dip in the waves.
No voice or sound from earth or sky proclaims that anything unwonted is
coming or doing on these shores to-day. The wandering Indians, moving
their hunting-camps along the woodland paths, saw no sign in the stars
that morning, and no different color in the sunrise from what had been in
the days of their fathers. Panther and wild-cat under their furry coats
felt no thrill of coming dispossession, and saw nothing through their
great golden eyes but the dawning of a day just like all other days--when
"the sun ariseth and they gather themselves into their dens and lay them
down." And yet alike to Indian, panther, and wild-cat, to every oak of
the forest, to every foot of land in America, from the stormy Atlantic to
the broad Pacific, that day was a day of days.
There had been stormy and windy weather, but now dawned on the earth one
of those still, golden times of November, full of dreamy rest and tender
calm. The skies above were blue and fair, and the waters of the curving
bay were a downward sky--a magical under-world, wherein the crimson oaks,
and the dusk plumage of the pine, and the red holly-berries, and yellow
sassafras leaves, all flickered and glinted in wavering bands of color as
soft winds swayed the glassy floor of waters.
In a moment, there is heard in the silent bay a sound of a rush and
ripple, different from the lap of the many-tongued waves on the shore;
and, silently as a cloud, with white wings spread, a little vessel glides
into the harbor.
A little craft is she--not larger than the fishing-smacks that ply their
course along our coasts in summer; but her decks are crowded with men,
women, and children, looking out with joyous curiosity on the beautiful
bay, where, after many dangers and storms, they first have found safe
shelter and hopeful harbor.
That small, unknown ship was the _Mayflower;_ those men and women who
crowded her decks were that little handful of God's own wheat which had
been flailed by adversity, tossed and winnowed till every husk of earthly
selfishness and self-will had been beaten away from them and left only
pure seed, fit for the planting of a new world. It was old Master Cotton
Mather who said of them, "The Lord sifted three countries to find seed
wherewith to plant America."
Hark now to the hearty cry of the sailors, as with a plash and a cheer
the anchor goes down, just in the deep water inside of Long Point; and
then, says their journal, "being now passed the vast ocean and sea of
troubles, before their preparation unto further proceedings as to seek
out a place for habitation, they fell down on their knees and blessed the
Lord, the God of heaven, who had brought them over the vast and furious
ocean, and delivered them from all perils and miseries thereof."
Let us draw nigh and mingle with this singular act of worship. Elder
Brewster, with his well-worn Geneva Bible in hand, leads the thanksgiving
in words which, though thousands of years old, seem as if written for the
occasion of that hour:
"Praise the Lord because he is good, for his mercy endureth forever. Let
them which have been redeemed of the Lord show how he delivereth them
from the hand of the oppressor, And gathered them out of the lands: from
the east, and from the west, from the north, and from the south, when
they wandered in deserts and wildernesses out of the way and found no
city to dwell in. Both hungry and thirsty, their soul failed in them.
Then they cried unto the Lord in their troubles, and he delivered them in
their distresses. And led them forth by the right way, that they might go
unto a city of habitation. They that go down to the sea and occupy by the
great waters: they see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep.
For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, and it lifteth up the
waves thereof. They mount up to heaven, and descend to the deep: so that
their soul melteth for trouble. They are tossed to and fro, and stagger
like a drunken man, and all their cunning is gone. Then they cry unto the
Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He
turneth the storm to a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. When
they are quieted they are glad, and he bringeth them unto the haven where
they would be."
As yet, the treasures of sacred song which are the liturgy of modern
Christians had not arisen in the church. There was no Watts, and no
Wesley, in the days of the Pilgrims; they brought with them in each
family, as the most precious of household possessions, a thick volume
containing, first, the Book of Common Prayer, with the Psalter appointed
to be read in churches; second, the whole Bible in the Geneva
translation, which was the basis on which our present English translation
was made; and, third, the Psalms of David, in meter, by Sternhold and
Hopkins, with the music notes of the tunes, adapted to singing. Therefore
it was that our little band were able to lift up their voices together in
song and that the noble tones of Old Hundred for the first time floated
over the silent bay and mingled with the sound of winds and waters,
consecrating our American shores.
"All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice:
Him serve with fear, His praise forthtell;
Come ye before Him and rejoice.
"The Lord, ye know, is God indeed;
Without our aid He did us make;
We are His flock, He doth us feed,
And for his sheep He doth us take.
"O enter then His gates with praise,
Approach with joy His courts unto:
Praise, laud, and bless His name always,
For it is seemly so to do.
"For why? The Lord our God is good,
His mercy is forever sure;
His truth at all times firmly stood,
And shall from age to age endure."
This grand hymn rose and swelled and vibrated in the still November air;
while in between the pauses came the warble of birds, the scream of the
jay, the hoarse call of hawk and eagle, going on with their forest ways
all unmindful of the new era which had been ushered in with those solemn
sounds.
CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST DAY ON SHORE.
The sound of prayer and psalm-singing died away on the shore, and the
little band, rising from their knees, saluted each other in that genial
humor which always possesses a ship's company when they have weathered
the ocean and come to land together.
"Well, Master Jones, here we' are," said Elder Brewster cheerily to the
ship-master.
"Aye, aye, sir, here we be sure enough; but I've had many a shrewd doubt
of this upshot. I tell you, sirs, when that beam amidships sprung and
cracked Master Coppin here said we must give over--hands couldn't bring
her through. Thou rememberest, Master Coppin?"
"That I do," replied Master Coppin, the first mate, a stocky, cheery
sailor, with a face red and shining as a glazed bun. "I said then that
praying might save her, perhaps, but nothing else would."
"Praying wouldn't have saved her," said Master Brown, the carpenter, "if
I had not put in that screw and worked the beam to her place again."
"Aye, aye, Master Carpenter," said Elder Brewster, "the Lord hath
abundance of the needful ever to his hand. When He wills to answer
prayer, there will be found both carpenter and screws in their season, I
trow."
"Well, Deb," said Master Coppin, pinching the ear of a great mastiff
bitch who sat by him, "what sayest thou? Give us thy mind on it, old
girl; say, wilt thou go deer-hunting with us yonder?"
The dog, who was full of the excitement of all around, wagged her tail
and gave three tremendous barks, whereat a little spaniel with curly
ears, that stood by Rose Standish, barked aloud.
"Well done!" said Captain Miles Standish. "Why, here is a salute of
ordnance! Old Deb is in the spirit of the thing and opens out like a
cannon. The old girl is spoiling for a chase in those woods."
"Father, may I go ashore? I want to see the country," said Wrestling
Brewster, a bright, sturdy boy, creeping up to Elder Brewster and
touching his father's elbow.
Thereat there was a crying to the different mothers of girls and boys
tired of being cooped up,--"Oh, mother, mother, ask that we may all go
ashore."
"For my part," said old Margery the serving-maid to Elder Brewster, "I
want to go ashore to wash and be decent, for there isn't a soul of us
hath anything fit for Christians. There be springs of water, I trow."
"Never doubt it, my woman," said Elder Brewster; "but all things in their
order. How say you, Mr. Carver? You are our governor. What order shall we
take?"
"We must have up the shallop," said Carver, "and send a picked company to
see what entertainment there may be for us on shore."
"And I counsel that all go well armed," quoth Captain Miles Standish,
"for these men of the forest are sharper than a thorn-hedge. What! what!"
he said, looking over to the eager group of girls and boys, "ye would go
ashore, would ye? Why, the lions and bears will make one mouthful of ye."
"I'm not afraid of lions," said young Wrestling Brewster in an aside to
little Love Winslow, a golden-haired, pale-cheeked child, of a tender and
spiritual beauty of face. "I'd like to meet a lion," he added, "and serve
him as Samson did. I'd get honey out of him, I promise."
"Oh, there you are, young Master Boastful!" said old Margery. "Mind the
old saying, 'Brag is a good dog, but holdfast is better.'"
"Dear husband," said Rose Standish, "wilt thou go ashore in this
company?"
"Why, aye, sweetheart, what else am I come for--and who should go if not
I?"
"Thou art so very venturesome, Miles."
"Even so, my Rose of the wilderness. Why else am I come on this quest?
Not being good enough to be in your church nor one of the saints, I come
for an arm of flesh to them, and so, here goes on my armor."
And as he spoke, he buried his frank, good-natured countenance in an iron
headpiece, and Rose hastened to help him adjust his corselet.
The clang of armor, the bustle and motion of men and children, the
barking of dogs, and the cheery Heave-o! of the sailors marked the
setting off of the party which comprised some of the gravest, and wisest,
as well as the youngest and most able-bodied of the ship's' company. The
impatient children ran in a group and clustered on the side of the ship
to see them go. Old Deb, with her two half-grown pups, barked and yelped
after her master in the boat, running up and down the vessel's deck with
piteous cries of impatience.
"Come hither, dear old Deb," said little Love Winslow, running up and
throwing her arms round the dog's rough neck; "thou must not take on so;
thy master will be back again; so be a good dog now, and lie down."
And the great rough mastiff quieted down under her caresses, and sitting
down by her she patted and played with her, with her little thin hands.
"See the darling," said Rose Standish, "what away that baby hath! In all
the roughness and the terrors of the sea she hath been like a little
sunbeam to us--yet she is so frail!"
"She hath been marked in the womb by the troubles her mother bore," said
old Margery, shaking her head. "She never had the ways of other babies,
but hath ever that wistful look--and her eyes are brighter than they
should be. Mistress Winslow will never raise that child--now mark me!"
"Take care!" said Rose, "let not her mother hear you."
"Why, look at her beside of Wrestling Brewster, or Faith Carver. They are
flesh and blood, and she looks as if she had been made out of sunshine.
'Tis a sweet babe as ever was; but fitter for the kingdom of heaven than
our rough life--deary me! a hard time we have had of it. I suppose it's
all best, but I don't know."
"Oh, never talk that way, Margery," said Rose Standish; "we must all keep
up heart, our own and one another's."
"Ah, well a day--I suppose so, but then I look at my good Master Brewster
and remember how, when I was a girl, he was at our good Queen Elizabeth's
court, ruffling it with the best, and everybody said that there wasn't a
young man that had good fortune to equal his. Why, Master Davidson, the
Queen's Secretary of State, thought all the world of him; and when he
went to Holland on the Queen's business, he must take him along; and when
he took the keys of the cities there, it was my master that he trusted
them to, who used to sleep with them under his pillow. I remember when he
came home to the Queen's court, wearing the great gold chain that the
States had given him. Ah me! I little thought he would ever come to a
poor man's coat, then!"
"Well, good Margery," said Rose, "it isn't the coat, but the heart under
it--that's the thing. Thou hast more cause of pride in thy master's
poverty than in his riches."
"Maybe so--I don't know," said Margery, "but he hath had many a sore
trouble in worldly things--driven and hunted from place to place in
England, clapt into prison, and all he had eaten up with fines and
charges and costs."
"All that is because he chose rather to suffer affliction with the people
of God than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season," said Rose; "he
shall have his reward by and by."
"Well, there be good men and godly in Old England that get to heaven in
better coats and with easy carriages and fine houses and servants, and I
would my master had been of such. But if he must come to the wilderness I
will come with him. Gracious me! what noise is that?" she exclaimed, as a
sudden report of firearms from below struck her ear. "I do believe there
is that Frank Billington at the gunpowder; that boy will never leave, I
do believe, till he hath blown up the ship's company."
In fact, it appeared that young master Frank, impatient of the absence of
his father, had toled Wrestling Brewster and two other of the boys down
into the cabin to show them his skill in managing his father's fowling-
piece, had burst the gun, scattering the pieces about the cabin.
Margery soon appeared, dragging the culprit after her. "Look here now,
Master Malapert, see what you'll get when your father comes home! Lord a
mercy! here was half a keg of powder standing open! Enough to have blown
us all up! Here, Master Clarke, Master Clarke, come and keep this boy
with you till his father come back, or we be all sent sky high before we
know."
* * * *
At even tide the boat came back laden to the water's edge with the first
gettings and givings from the new soil of America. There is a richness
and sweetness gleaming through the brief records of these men in their
journals, which shows how the new land was seen through a fond and tender
medium, half poetic; and its new products lend a savor to them of
somewhat foreign and rare.
Of this day's expedition the record is thus:
"That day, so soon as we could, we set ashore some fifteen or sixteen men
well armed, with some to fetch wood, for we had none left; as also to see
what the land was and what inhabitants they could meet with. They found
it to be a small neck of land on this side where we lay in the bay, and
on the further side the sea, the ground or earth, sand-hills, much like
the downs in Holland, but much better; the crust of the earth a spit's
depth of excellent black earth; all wooded with oaks, pines, sassafras,
juniper, birch, holly, vines, some ash and walnut; the wood for the most
part open and without underwood, fit either to walk or to ride in. At
night our people returned and found not any people or inhabitants, and
laded their boat with juniper, which smelled very sweet and strong, and
of which we burned for the most part while we were there."
"See there," said little Love Winslow, "what fine red berries Captain
Miles Standish hath brought."
"Yea, my little maid, there is a brave lot of holly berries for thee to
dress the cabin withal. We shall not want for Christmas greens here,
though the houses and churches are yet to come."
"Yea, Brother Miles," said Elder Brewster, "the trees of the Lord are
full of sap in this land, even the cedars of Lebanon, which he hath
planted. It hath the look to me of a land which the Lord our God hath
blessed."
"There is a most excellent depth of black, rich earth," said Carver, "and
a great tangle of grapevines, whereon the leaves in many places yet hung,
and we picked up stores of walnuts under a tree--not so big as our
English ones--but sweet and well-flavored."
"Know ye, brethren, what in this land smelleth sweetest to me?" said
Elder Brewster. "It is the smell of liberty. The soil is free--no man
hath claim thereon. In Old England a poor man may starve right on his
mother's bosom; there may be stores of fish in the river, and bird and
fowl flying, and deer running by, and yet though a man's children be
crying for bread, an' he catch a fish or snare a bird, he shall be
snatched up and hanged. This is a sore evil in Old England; but we will
make a country here for the poor to dwell in, where the wild fruits and
fish and fowl shall be the inheritance of whosoever will have them; and
every man shall have his portion of our good mother earth, with no lords
and no bishops to harry and distrain, and worry with taxes and tythes."
"Amen, brother!" said Miles Standish, "and thereto I give my best
endeavors with sword and buckler."
CHAPTER III.
CHRISTMAS TIDE IN PLYMOUTH HARBOR.
For the rest of that month of November the _Mayflower_ lay at anchor in
Cape Cod harbor, and formed a floating home for the women and children,
while the men were out exploring the country, with a careful and steady
shrewdness and good sense, to determine where should be the site of the
future colony. The record of their adventures is given in their journals
with that sweet homeliness of phrase which hangs about the Old English of
that period like the smell of rosemary in an ancient cabinet.
We are told of a sort of picnic day, when "our women went on shore to
wash and all to refresh themselves;" and fancy the times there must have
been among the little company, while the mothers sorted and washed and
dried the linen, and the children, under the keeping of the old mastiffs
and with many cautions against the wolves and wild cubs, once more had
liberty to play in the green wood. For it appears in these journals how,
in one case, the little spaniel of John Goodman was chased by two wolves,
and was fain to take refuge between his master's legs for shelter.
Goodman "had nothing in hand," says the journal, "but took up a stick and
threw at one of them and hit him, and they presently ran away, but came
again. He got a pale-board in his hand, but they both sat on their tails
a good while, grinning at him, and then went their way and left him."
Such little touches show what the care of families must have been in the
woodland picnics, and why the ship was, on the whole, the safest refuge
for the women and children.
We are told, moreover, how the party who had struck off into the
wilderness, "having marched through boughs and bushes and under hills and
valleys which tore our very armor in pieces, yet could meet with no
inhabitants nor find any fresh water which we greatly stood in need of,
for we brought neither beer nor water with us, and our victual was only
biscuit and Holland cheese, and a little bottle of aqua vitae. So we were
sore athirst. About ten o'clock we came into a deep valley full of brush,
sweet gaile and long grass, through which we found little paths or
tracks; and we saw there a deer and found springs of water, of which we
were heartily glad, and sat us down and drunk our first New England water
with as much delight as we ever drunk drink in all our lives."
Three such expeditions through the country, with all sorts of haps and
mishaps and adventures, took up the time until near the 15th of December,
when, having selected a spot for their colony, they weighed anchor to go
to their future home.
Plymouth Harbor, as they found it, is thus described:
"This harbor is a bay greater than Cape Cod, compassed with a goodly
land, and in the bay two fine islands uninhabited, wherein are nothing
but woods, oaks, pines, walnuts, beeches, sassafras, vines, and other
trees which we know not. The bay is a most hopeful place, innumerable
stores of fowl, and excellent good; and it cannot but be of fish in their
season. Skate, cod, and turbot, and herring we have tasted of--abundance
of mussels (clams) the best we ever saw; and crabs and lobsters in their
time, infinite."
On the main land they write:
"The land is, for a spit's depth, excellent black mould and fat in some
places. Two or three great oaks, pines, walnut, beech, ash, birch, hazel,
holly, and sassafras in abundance, and vines everywhere, with cherry-
trees, plum-trees, and others which we know not. Many kind of herbs we
found here in winter, as strawberry leaves innumerable, sorrel, yarrow,
carvel, brook-lime, liver-wort, water-cresses, with great store of leeks
and onions, and an excellent strong kind of flax and hemp."
It is evident from this description that the season was a mild one even
thus late into December, that there was still sufficient foliage hanging
upon the trees to determine the species, and that the pilgrims viewed
their new mother-land through eyes of cheerful hope.
And now let us look in the glass at them once more, on Saturday morning
of the 23d of December.
The little _Mayflower_ lies swinging at her moorings in the harbor, while
every man and boy who could use a tool has gone on shore to cut down and
prepare timber for future houses.
Mary Winslow and Rose Standish are sitting together on deck, fashioning
garments, while little Love Winslow is playing at their feet with such
toys as the new world afforded her--strings of acorns and scarlet holly-
berries and some bird-claws and arrowheads and bright-colored ears of
Indian corn, which Captain Miles Standish has brought home to her from
one of their explorations.
Through the still autumnal air may now and then be heard the voices of
men calling to one another on shore, the quick, sharp ring of axes, and
anon the crash of falling trees, with shouts from juveniles as the great
forest monarch is laid low. Some of the women are busy below, sorting
over and arranging their little household stores and stuff with a view to
moving on shore, and holding domestic consultations with each other.
A sadness hangs over the little company, for since their arrival the
stroke of death has more than once fallen; we find in Bradford's brief
record that by the 24th of December six had died.
What came nearest to the hearts of all was the loss of Dorothea Bradford,
who, when all the men of the party were absent on an exploring tour,
accidentally fell over the side of the vessel and sunk in the deep
waters. What this loss was to the husband and the little company of
brothers and sisters appears by no note or word of wailing, merely by a
simple entry which says no more than the record on a gravestone, that,
"on the 7th of December, Dorothy, wife of William Bradford, fell over and
was drowned."
That much-enduring company could afford themselves few tears. Earthly
having and enjoying was a thing long since dismissed from their
calculations. They were living on the primitive Christian platform; they
"rejoiced as though they rejoiced not," and they "wept as though they
wept not," and they "had wives and children as though they had them not,"
or, as one of themselves expressed it, "We are in all places strangers,
pilgrims, travelers and sojourners; our dwelling is but a wandering, our
abiding but as a fleeting, our home is nowhere but in the heavens, in
that house not made with hands, whose builder and maker is God."
When one of their number fell they were forced to do as soldiers in the
stress of battle--close up the ranks and press on.
But Mary Winslow, as she sat over her sewing, dropped now and then a tear
down on her work for the loss of her sister and counselor and long-tried
friend. From the lower part of the ship floated up, at intervals,
snatches of an old English ditty that Margery was singing while she moved
to and fro about her work, one of those genuine English melodies, full of
a rich, strange mournfulness blent with a soothing pathos:
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages."
The air was familiar, and Mary Winslow, dropping her work in her lap,
involuntarily joined in it:
"Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat,
To thee the reed is as the oak."
"There goes a great tree on shore!" quoth little Love Winslow, clapping
her hands. "Dost hear, mother? I've been counting the strokes--fifteen--
and then crackle! crackle! crackle! and down it comes!"
"Peace, darling," said Mary Winslow; "hear what old Margery is singing
below:
"Fear no more the lightning's flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash--
Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lovers young--all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust."
"Why do you cry, mother?" said the little one, climbing on her lap and
wiping her tears.
"I was thinking of dear Auntie, who is gone from us."
"She is not gone from us, mother."
"My darling, she is with Jesus."
"Well, mother, Jesus is ever with us--you tell me that--and if she is
with him she is with us too--I know she is--for sometimes I see her. She
sat by me last night and stroked my head when that ugly, stormy wind
waked me--she looked so sweet, oh, ever so beautiful!--and she made me go
to sleep so quiet--it is sweet to be as she is, mother--not away from us
but with Jesus."
"These little ones see further in the kingdom than we," said Rose
Standish. "If we would be like them, we should take things easier. When
the Lord would show who was greatest in his kingdom, he took a little
child on his lap."
"Ah me, Rose!" said Mary Winslow, "I am aweary in spirit with this
tossing sea-life. I long to have a home on dry land once more, be it ever
so poor. The sea wearies me. Only think, it is almost Christmas time,
only two days now to Christmas. How shall we keep it in these woods?"
"Aye, aye," said old Margery, coming up at the moment, "a brave muster
and to do is there now in old England; and men and boys going forth
singing and bearing home branches of holly, and pine, and mistletoe for
Christmas greens. Oh! I remember I used to go forth with them and help
dress the churches. God help the poor children, they will grow up in the
wilderness and never see such brave sights as I have. They will never
know what a church is, such as they are in old England, with fine old
windows like the clouds, and rainbows, and great wonderful arches like
the very skies above us, and the brave music with the old organs rolling
and the boys marching in white garments and singing so as should draw the
very heart out of one. All this we have left behind in old England--ah!
well a day! well a day!"
"Oh, but, Margery," said Mary Winslow, "we have a 'better country' than
old England, where the saints and angels are keeping Christmas; we
confess that we are strangers and pilgrims on earth."
And Rose Standish immediately added the familiar quotation from the
Geneva Bible:
"For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country.
For if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out
they had leisure to have returned. But now they desire a better--that is,
an heavenly; wherefore God is not ashamed of them to be called their
God."
The fair young face glowed as she repeated the heroic words, for already,
though she knew it not, Rose Standish was feeling the approaching sphere
of the angel life. Strong in spirit, as delicate in frame, she had given
herself and drawn her martial husband to the support of a great and noble
cause; but while the spirit was ready, the flesh was weak, and even at
that moment her name was written in the Lamb's Book to enter the higher
life, in one short month's time from that Christmas.
Only one month of sweetness and perfume was that sweet rose to shed over
the hard and troubled life of the pilgrims, for the saints and angels
loved her, and were from day to day gently untying mortal bands to draw
her to themselves. Yet was there nothing about her of mournfulness; on
the contrary, she was ever alert and bright, with a ready tongue to cheer
and a helpful hand to do; and, seeing the sadness that seemed stealing
over Mary Winslow, she struck another key, and, catching little Love up
in her arms, said cheerily,
"Come hither, pretty one, and Rose will sing thee a brave carol for
Christmas. We won't be down-hearted, will we? Hark now to what the
minstrels used to sing under my window when I was a little girl:
"I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day, on Christmas day,
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day in the morning.
"And what was in those ships all three
On Christmas day, on Christmas day,
And what was in those ships all three
On Christmas day in the morning?
"Our Saviour Christ and his laydie,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day,
Our Saviour Christ and his laydie
On Christmas day in the morning.
"Pray, whither sailed those ships all three,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day?
Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem,
On Christmas day in the morning.
"And all the bells on earth shall ring
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
And all the angels in heaven shall sing
On Christmas day in the morning.
"Then let us all rejoice amain,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
Then let us all rejoice amain
On Christmas day in the morning."
"Now, isn't that a brave ballad?" said Rose. "Yea, and thou singest like
a real English robin," said Margery, "to do the heart good to hear thee."
CHAPTER IV.
ELDER BREWSTER'S CHRISTMAS SERMON.
Sunday morning found the little company gathered once more on the ship,
with nothing to do but rest and remember their homes, temporal and
spiritual--homes backward, in old England, and forward, in Heaven. They
were, every man and woman of them, English to the back-bone. From Captain
Jones who commanded the ship to Elder Brewster who ruled and guided in
spiritual affairs, all alike were of that stock and breeding which made
the Englishman of the days of Bacon and Shakespeare, and in those days
Christmas was knit into the heart of every one of them by a thousand
threads, which no after years could untie.
Christmas carols had been sung to them by nurses and mothers and
grandmothers; the Christmas holly spoke to them from every berry and
prickly leaf, full of dearest household memories. Some of them had been
men of substance among the English gentry, and in their prosperous days
had held high festival in ancestral halls in the season of good cheer.
Elder Brewster himself had been a rising young diplomat in the court of
Elizabeth, in the days when the Lord Keeper of the Seals led the revels
of Christmas as Lord of Misrule.
So that, though this Sunday morning arose gray and lowering, with snow-
flakes hovering through the air, there was Christmas in the thoughts of
every man and woman among them--albeit it was the Christmas of wanderers
and exiles in a wilderness looking back to bright home-fires across
stormy waters.
The men had come back from their work on shore with branches of green
pine and holly, and the women had, stuck them about the ship, not without
tearful thoughts of old home-places, where their childhood fathers and
mothers did the same.
Bits and snatches of Christmas carols were floating all around the ship,
like land-birds blown far out to sea. In the forecastle Master Coppin was
singing:
"Come, bring with a noise,
My merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing;
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your hearts' desiring.
Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here.
The while the meat is shredding
For the rare minced pie,
And the plums stand by
To fill the paste that's a-kneading."
"Ah, well-a-day, Master Jones, it is dull cheer to sing Christmas songs
here in the woods, with only the owls and the bears for choristers. I
wish I could hear the bells of merry England once more."
And down in the cabin Rose Standish was hushing little Peregrine, the
first American-born baby, with a Christmas lullaby:
"This winter's night
I saw a sight--
A star as bright as day;
And ever among
A maiden sung,
Lullay, by-by, lullay!
"This lovely laydie sat and sung,
And to her child she said,
My son, my brother, and my father dear,
Why lyest thou thus in hayd?
My sweet bird,
Tho' it betide
Thou be not king veray;
But nevertheless
I will not cease
To sing, by-by, lullay!
"The child then spake in his talking,
And to his mother he said,
It happeneth, mother, I am a king,
In crib though I be laid,
For angels bright
Did down alight,
Thou knowest it is no nay;
And of that sight
Thou may'st be light
To sing, by-by, lullay!
"Now, sweet son, since thou art a king,
Why art thou laid in stall?
Why not ordain thy bedding
In some great king his hall?
We thinketh 'tis right
That king or knight
Should be in good array;
And them among,
It were no wrong
To sing, by-by, lullay!
"Mary, mother, I am thy child,
Tho' I be laid in stall;
Lords and dukes shall worship me,
And so shall kinges all.
And ye shall see
That kinges three
Shall come on the twelfth day;
For this behest
Give me thy breast,
And sing, by-by, lullay!"
"See here," quoth Miles Standish, "when my Rose singeth, the children
gather round her like bees round a flower. Come, let us all strike up a
goodly carol together. Sing one, sing all, girls and boys, and get a bit
of Old England's Christmas before to-morrow, when we must to our work on
shore."
Thereat Rose struck up a familiar ballad-meter of a catching rhythm, and
every voice of young and old was soon joining in it:
"Behold a silly,[1] tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies;
Alas! a piteous sight,
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little Pilgrim bed;
But forced He is, with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there,
First what He is inquire:
An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
"Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a Prince's court,
The crib His chair of state,
The beasts are parcel of His pomp,
The wooden dish His plate.
The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear;
The Prince Himself is come from Heaven,
This pomp is prized there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise His humble pomp,
Which He from Heaven doth bring."
[Footnote 1: Old English--simple.]
The cheerful sounds spread themselves through the ship like the flavor of
some rare perfume, bringing softness of heart through a thousand tender
memories.
Anon, the hour of Sabbath morning worship drew on, and Elder Brewster
read from the New Testament the whole story of the Nativity, and then
gave a sort of Christmas homily from the words of St. Paul, in the eighth
chapter of Romans, the sixth and seventh verses, which the Geneva version
thus renders:
"For the wisdom of the flesh is death, but the wisdom of the spirit is
life and peace.
"For the wisdom of the flesh is enmity against God, for it is not subject
to the law of God, neither indeed can be."
"Ye know full well, dear brethren, what the wisdom of the flesh sayeth.
The wisdom of the flesh sayeth to each one, 'Take care of thyself; look
after thyself, to get and to have and to hold and to enjoy.' The wisdom
of the flesh sayeth, 'So thou art warm, full, and in good liking, take
thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry, and care not how many go empty and
be lacking.' But ye have seen in the Gospel this morning that this was
not the wisdom of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, though he was Lord of all,
became poorer than any, that we, through His poverty, might become rich.
When our Lord Jesus Christ came, the wisdom of the flesh despised Him;
the wisdom of the flesh had no room for Him at the inn.
"There was room enough always for Herod and his concubines, for the
wisdom of the flesh set great store by them; but a poor man and woman
were thrust out to a stable; and _there_ was a poor baby born whom the
wisdom of the flesh knew not, because the wisdom of the flesh is enmity
against God.
"The wisdom of the flesh, brethren, ever despiseth the wisdom of God,
because it knoweth it not. The wisdom of the flesh looketh at the thing
that is great and strong and high; it looketh at riches, at kings'
courts, at fine clothes and fine jewels and fine feastings, and it
despiseth the little and the poor and the weak.
"But the wisdom of the Spirit goeth to worship the poor babe in the
manger, and layeth gold and myrrh and frankincense at his feet while he
lieth in weakness and poverty, as did the wise men who were taught of
God.
"Now, forasmuch as our Saviour Christ left His riches and throne in glory
and came in weakness and poverty to this world, that he might work out a
mighty salvation that shall be to all people, how can we better keep
Christmas than to follow in his steps? We be a little company who have
forsaken houses and lands and possessions, and come here unto the
wilderness that we may prepare a resting-place whereto others shall come
to reap what we shall sow. And to-morrow we shall keep our first
Christmas, not in flesh-pleasing, and in reveling and in fullness of
bread, but in small beginning and great weakness, as our Lord Christ kept
it when He was born in a stable and lay in a manger.
"To-morrow, God willing, we will all go forth to do good, honest
Christian work, and begin the first house-building in this our New
England--it may be roughly fashioned, but as good a house, I'll warrant
me, as our Lord Christ had on the Christmas Day we wot of. And let us not
faint in heart because the wisdom of the world despiseth what we do.
Though Sanballat the Horonite, and Tobias the Ammonite, and Geshem the
Arabian make scorn of us, and say, 'What do these weak Jews? If a fox go
up, he shall break down their stone wall;' yet the Lord our God is with
us, and He can cause our work to prosper.
"The wisdom of the Spirit seeth the grain of mustard-seed, that is the
least of all seeds, how it shall become a great tree, and the fowls of
heaven shall lodge in its branches. Let us, then, lift up the hands that
hang down and the feeble knees, and let us hope that, like as great
salvation to all people came out of small beginnings of Bethlehem, so the
work which we shall begin to-morrow shall be for the good of many
nations.
"It is a custom on this Christmas Day to give love-presents. What love-
gift giveth our Lord Jesus on this day? Brethren, it is a great one and a
precious; as St. Paul said to the Philippians: 'For unto you it is given
for Christ, not only that ye should believe on Him, but also that ye
should suffer for His sake;' and St. Peter also saith, 'Behold, we count
them blessed which endure.' And the holy Apostles rejoiced that they were
counted worthy to suffer rebuke for the name of Jesus.
"Our Lord Christ giveth us of His cup and His baptism; He giveth of the
manger and the straw; He giveth of persecutions and afflictions; He
giveth of the crown of thorns, and right dear unto us be these gifts.
"And now will I tell these children a story, which a cunning playwright,
whom I once knew in our Queen's court, hath made concerning gifts:
"A great king would marry his daughter worthily, and so he caused three
caskets to be made, in one of which he hid her picture. The one casket
was of gold set with diamonds, the second of silver set with pearls, and
the third a poor casket of lead.
"Now it was given out that each comer should have but one choice, and if
he chose the one with the picture he should have the lady to wife.
"Divers kings, knights, and gentlemen came from far, but they never won,
because they always snatched at the gold and the silver caskets, with the
pearls and diamonds. So, when they opened these, they found only a
grinning death's-head or a fool's cap.
"But anon cometh a true, brave knight and gentleman, who chooseth for
love alone the old leaden casket; and, behold, within is the picture of
her he loveth! and they were married with great feasting and content.
"So our Lord Jesus doth not offer himself to us in silver and gold and
jewels, but in poverty and hardness and want; but whoso chooseth them for
His love's sake shall find Him therein whom his soul loveth, and shall
enter with joy to the marriage supper of the Lamb.
"And when the Lord shall come again in his glory, then he shall bring
worthy gifts with him, for he saith: 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I
will give thee a crown of life; to him that overcometh I will give to eat
of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone with a new name
that no man knoweth save he that receiveth it. He that overcometh and
keepeth my words, I will give power over the nations and I will give him
the morning star.'
"Let us then take joyfully Christ's Christmas gifts of labors and
adversities and crosses to-day, that when he shall appear we may have
these great and wonderful gifts at his coming; for if we suffer with him
we shall also reign; but if we deny him, he also will deny us."
And so it happens that the only record of Christmas Day in the pilgrims'
journal is this:
"Monday, the 25th, being Christmas Day, we went ashore, some to fell
timber, some to saw, some to rive, and some to carry; and so no man
rested all that day. But towards night some, as they were at work, heard
a noise of Indians, which caused us all to go to our muskets; but we
heard no further, so we came aboard again, leaving some to keep guard.
That night we had a sore storm of wind and rain. But at night the ship-
master caused us to have some beer aboard."
So worthily kept they the first Christmas, from which comes all the
Christmas cheer of New England to-day. There is no record how Mary
Winslow and Rose Standish and others, with women and children, came
ashore and walked about encouraging the builders; and how little Love
gathered stores of bright checker-berries and partridge plums, and was
made merry in seeing squirrels and wild rabbits; nor how old Margery
roasted certain wild geese to a turn at a woodland fire, and conserved
wild cranberries with honey for sauce. In their journals the good
pilgrims say they found bushels of strawberries in the meadows in
December. But we, knowing the nature of things, know that these must have
been cranberries, which grow still abundantly around Plymouth harbor.
And at the very time that all this was doing in the wilderness, and the
men were working yeomanly to build a new nation, in King James's court
the ambassadors of the French King were being entertained with maskings
and mummerings, wherein the staple subject of merriment was the Puritans!
So goes the wisdom of the world and its ways--and so goes the wisdom of
God!