Mrs. Mulford was a woman who doted on ruins. Nothing in the present
was as beautiful as she had enjoyed in the past; and it seemed utterly
impossible for her to imagine that there was anything in the future
that could compensate her for the trials she had endured.
In her girlhood Mrs. Mulford had been surrounded with the luxuries of
life; and after her marriage her surroundings were but a trifle less
magnificent. In such an air of luxury and ease, her children were
being reared when suddenly a great change came.
Mr. Mulford was a rash speculator, and on that memorable "Black
Friday," the idol he had worshiped, the god of gold, proved itself to
be nothing but clay, and was as dust in his hands. He could not rally
from the shock; pride, ambition, courage, were all annihilated; and
Mrs. Mulford, to whom beggary seemed worse than death, could only
mingle her tears with his in speechless agony.
Arthur, the eldest child, a boy of fourteen, endeavored to comfort his
grief-stricken parents.
"I will work for you, father. I can easily get a place in a store."
"My boy! my boy!" said the poor man, clasping his son affectionately
in his arms; "stay by your mother, and the girls, they will need you,
dear boy!" And he imprinted a kiss on the glowing cheek, that had in
it a father's blessing and farewell.
The next morning Mrs. Mulford was a widow, and her children
fatherless. A trifle the creditors allowed her was all she had to
depend upon, the money she had inherited from her father having been
swept away by the financial tornado.
She had taken a little place in the country, and with Arthur's help,
and Bridget's,--who had followed the fortunes of her mistress--had
succeeded in making things look quite cozy and attractive.
"Sure, ma'am," said Bridget, in her homely attempts to comfort her
mistress, who dragged herself about like a sable ghost, "if ye'd only
smile once in a while ye'd be surprised at the comfort ye'd get!"
"Ah, Bridget," Mrs. Mulford replied, with a long-drawn sigh, "my
smiling days are over. I try to be patient, but I cannot be cheerful."
"Ah, but, it's the cheerful patience that brings the sunshine; and ye
really shouldn't grieve the children so."
"Do they mind it, Bridget?"
"Sure, an' they do! Master Arthur, bless the boy! says it's just like
a tomb where ye are; and Miss Minnie and Maud have their little hearts
nearly torn out of them; and they are such wee, little birdies!"
But Mrs. Mulford could not be easily beguiled from her sorrow,
especially as she was obliged to have recourse to her needle to eke
out the limited allowance, and every stitch she took was but an
additional reminder of the depth to which she was reduced.
To such a disposition the needle is but a weapon of despair, bringing
neither comfort nor hope, nor in any way lightening the burdens of
life. The recurrence of an anniversary was, to Mrs. Mulford's mind
like the unveiling of a monument to the departed, and was usually
spent in solitude and tears.
She had managed to exist through the Thanksgiving season, and Bridget
had done her best to make the occasion worthy to be remembered--by
the children at least; and if it hadn't been for that kitchen goddess,
I don't see how the house could have held together.
She had always some comical story to tell the children, something to
excite their wonder or admiration, and every few days would surprise
them with some fresh molasses candy or cunning little cakes baked in
curious patty pans.
Minnie and Maud rather enjoyed their poverty, as it allowed them more
freedom and exemption from little rules that society enjoined. It was
such fun to roll in the snow, and draw each other on the sled, without
any caution in regard to ruffles and frills that used to be such a
torment to them, and such a restraint on their buoyant natures.
[Illustration: Announcement to Shepherds]
Christmas was drawing near, and its approach filled Mrs. Mulford with
uncontrollable despondency. It had been a gay season in her young
days, and her own children knew it as the season of especial
rejoicings and unlimited toys and candies. Now it was all so changed!
Even a moderate expenditure was not to be thought of, when it was so
difficult to procure even the necessaries of life, and she really
wished the day was over, for she dreaded its arrival. The furniture
never looked so dingy and faded, nor the curtains so coarse, nor her
surroundings so pitiful, as when she looked around and thought that
Christmas was coming.
Neither did the past ever seem so beautiful and glowing as when she
cast a retrospective glance in that direction at this memorable
season. But in the kitchen all was animation and excitement; as
different an atmosphere as if there were ever so many degrees of
latitude between them; Mrs. Mulford occupying the frigid, and Bridget
the torrid zone. Every afternoon and early in the morning, Minnie and
Maud were down in a corner of the kitchen very busy over some mystery,
in which Bridget was as much interested as they were themselves.
Arthur bustled about from one room to another, always the active,
cheery, hopeful boy, who kept everybody informed of what was going on
in the outside world; and he, too, evidently had some weighty secret
pressing against the buttons of his jacket. Christmas eve came, and
the children began to think it never would be dark enough for them to
get ready for Santa Claus.
"What are you going to do, Minnie?" inquired Mrs. Mulford, as Minnie
brought in the stockings to hang by the fire.
"Get ready for Santa Claus, mamma," was the reply. "You know that
to-morrow is Christmas!"
"But Santa Claus don't come to poor people, my child," and the tears
filled her eyes at the recollection of the generous gifts of former
years.
"Oh, yes he does, mamma," said Minnie, who was eleven years old, and
two years the senior of her sister; "yes he does! He knows where we
live." And she continued pinning the stockings upon the line she had
stretched across the mantel.
"I wish I could have afforded a tree!" sighed the mother, watching her
daughter's movements with considerable curiosity.
"We don't want a tree, do we, Maud? A stocking is ever so much nicer.
It looks so funny all stuffed out, and then you don't know what's in
it, and you have to shake it out, and hunt way in the toe! Then you
can put such tiny things in, to make everybody laugh."
Then she pinned on the names which Arthur had printed very nicely on
slips of paper, and stood off a little distance to admire her
handiwork.
Bridget was called in from the kitchen to see if it was all right, and
Arthur was induced to leave his work just for a minute to note the
effect of the display.
"Here now!" he exclaimed, "I told you to hang up the clothes bag for
me. You don't suppose that little thing will hold all my treasures, do
you? Is the chimney clear?" And he pretended to search anxiously for
anything that might prevent the descent of good old Santa Claus, whose
coming had never before been anticipated with such unqualified
delight.
Mrs. Mulford was in the midst of a troubled dream, when shouts of
"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" rang through the house, and
awakened her to the reality of the day she so long had dreaded.
She knew how dreadfully disappointed the children would be, it is so
hard for them to understand the exigencies of life, and wished she
might keep her room all day and have Bridget bring up her meals.
"If ye please, ma'am," said the worthy maid-of-all-work, not stopping
to knock at the door, "if ye please, ma'am, ye'd better come
down-stairs; the children are nigh about crazy waiting for ye;" and
the sunshine of her face illuminated the long room after she had
retreated down the stairway.
"They can't feel very bad," said Mrs. Mulford, as she slowly turned
from her room. "It seems to me I never heard them laugh so heartily.
Oh, to be a child again!" And she sighed heavily.
As she entered the sitting-room, what a sight met her eyes! There were
wreaths of green over her portrait and papa's; a narrow border running
round the mantel; and festoons falling in every direction.
"Come, mother," said Arthur, "you first; Bridget can hardly wait, and
our breakfast won't be worth eating."
"Oh, no," said the mother, "Maud should have the first chance; and the
impatient child eagerly availed herself of the privilege."
It was astonishing what an amount of goodies rolled out of that
stocking, and after they were laid aside there were one or two parcels
to be opened. There was a nice pair of warm gloves, just what she
wanted to use in drawing the sled, or making snow-balls; a new doll,
and a book full of pictures. Minnie's stocking was quite as
bountifully stocked, and every new surprise seemed to enkindle their
mirth and enthusiasm.
Arthur had filled his own stockings with all sorts of odds and ends,
on purpose to increase the fun and hilarity, and pretended to be
surprised that Santa Claus patronized second-hand shops. Bridget sat
down with the children to unload her collection of treasures, and even
Mrs. Mulford was forced to laugh heartily at her comical remarks,
especially when she drew out a potato, which was labeled, "The last of
the Murphys!" "May they always be first in the field!" said Bridget.
When Mrs. Mulford was finally induced to examine the contents of her
own stocking, the children, with Bridget, who was only an older child,
gathered around, and watched anxiously the proceedings.
There were a pair of nice brackets hanging outside, which Arthur had
cut with a penknife; and as she took up each article that had been
wrought by loving little fingers, the worsted pulse-warmers, the
pretty mats and tidies, she felt that it was indeed possible for love
to build upon the old ruins a beautiful palace for the heart to dwell
in.
"Forgive me, my dear children!" she exclaimed, embracing them each in
turn. "Bridget, my good girl, we will begin the world anew. I have
been a weak woman."
"Sorry a bit of it!" said Bridget, wiping away her tears with the
corner of her apron. "It's a heavy cross ye had, but we're all going
to help carry it."
"And, mother," broke in Arthur, "I've got a situation in a grocery
store."
"Arthur!"
"Yes. It isn't much, but I'll learn the business; and then, you know,
I can take care of you."
What a Christmas breakfast they had! It wasn't so much what was on the
table, although Bridget had made delicious waffles, and everything was
super-excellent, but it was the guest that sat at the board with them
that made it a feast to be remembered. While they were at the table,
talking over plans in which the mother manifested undoubted interest,
there was a sudden, sharp knock at the door that startled all the
inmates of the house.
"A new calamity!" sighed Mrs. Mulford, falling back into the old
attitude.
"It must be Santa Claus himself!" exclaimed Bridget, putting her head
through the kitchen door. Arthur admitted the gentleman, so swathed in
an immense scarf about the neck and chin as to leave one in doubt as
to whether he were friend or foe.
"Well, well!" said the stranger, divesting himself of his wraps, and
stamping the snow from his boots in the little hall; "Such a tramp as
I have had! Where's Carrie?"
"Carrie?" inquired Arthur, fearing he had admitted a lunatic.
"Yes, Carrie. My niece, Carrie Wharton. Are you her boy?"
"I don't know, sir."
"No more do I. She was Carrie Wharton, married Ned Mulford, and a long
tramp I've had to find her."
"Have you any bad news?" inquired Arthur, laying a detaining hand on
the stranger's arm; "because, if you have, I'd rather you wouldn't
mention it to-day. My name is Arthur Mulford, and we've had such a
happy Christmas."
"No fear, my boy, bless your tender heart! Why, I've come from Santa
Claus myself, and am chock full of sunshine that turns into gold."
Saying which, he entered the room where Mrs. Mulford and her children
were sitting, and Bridget hurrying to clear off the breakfast things.
"Carrie!" said the stranger in eager tones, advancing toward Mrs.
Mulford, who seemed to have heard a voice from the far-away past. She
was in her own home again, a careless child; father and mother were
living, death had never crossed her threshold, and all was joy and
happiness. A bewildered moment, and then a flash of recognition.
"Uncle Nathan!"
"Yes, dear child! Would I could have got to you sooner;" and he held
the weary head close to his generous heart, and smoothed the worn
brow.
"I felt I was growing old, and had a hankering after a home to die in,
and always the face of my little niece, Carrie, seemed to give me the
heartiest welcome."
"Then you didn't die," said Arthur, looking on the scene as if it were
a part of a fairy story.
"Of course I didn't. Came near it, a dozen times, but always escaped.
Couldn't see why I was spared and better folks taken, but it's all
clear now. Why, I had as hard work finding out anything about Ned
Mulford, or Ned Mulford's widow, as if I'd been trying to find Captain
Kidd."
"It's because of our poverty," sighed the widow.
"Yes, I suppose so. It's the way of the world! But who cares? We'll
begin the world anew."
Mrs. Mulford stared at hearing her own words repeated, and Bridget,
who kept an ear on the proceedings, stood for a moment in open-mouthed
amazement, much as if she feared that there was to be another great
convulsion of nature.
"Yes," continued Uncle Nathan, "yes, that's what brought me back.
Money don't make a home, I know that well enough, for I've seen it
tried. Arthur, what are your plans?"
"I was going into Mr. Chase's grocery the first of January."
"Do you want to? Any taste for hams, herrings, tape, and
shoe-strings?"
"No, sir," replied Arthur, laughing at the combination, "but I'd like
to help mother. I promised father to see after her."
"You've done your duty. But my opinion is you'd rather go to college
than into a grocery."
"Oh, sir!" and the flush on the boy's face was not to be
misunderstood.
"College it is, then. Carrie, you are to be my housekeeper; these are
my little girls;" clasping the children in a hearty embrace, "and see
if we don't turn out a happier family than any Barnum ever exhibited."
The Christmas dinner was a marvel of cookery, and Uncle Nathan
enlivened the meal with accounts of his adventures.
"And this was the Christmas I had dreaded!" said Mrs. Mulford, as she
retired to her room.
The children had reluctantly gone to bed, fearing that this good
"Santa Claus," as they persisted in calling Uncle Nathan, would
disappear in the night, and leave them as suddenly as he came.
Arthur dreamed of his books and college, and woke up half a dozen
times in the night to assure himself that the great man sleeping so
soundly beside him was not simply the magician of the "Arabian
Nights."
Mrs. Mulford's pride was truly humbled by this manifestation of God's
goodness, and long and earnestly she prayed that henceforth, whatever
trials might come upon her, she might bear the burden with cheerful
patience, trusting in God to lead her through the shadows into the
sunshine of a more perfect day. And in after life no memory was more
precious to her than that of a Christmas morning when the children
taught her a lesson of unselfishness and duty.
Come into our homes, oh ye Christmas angels! Brush away the cobwebs
that regret and selfishness have strewn around, and put in their stead
the wreaths and vines that are fragrant with the immortality of love!
No home so poor that will not be the brighter for your coming! No
heart that is not enriched by your presence, oh ever blessed Christmas
guests!
"There are as many lovely things,
As many pleasant tones,
For those who dwell by cottage hearths
As those who sit on thrones."