the rye bread is really forgotten. Everybody is busy; the cook is
getting the supper, and father in the drawing-room has the door
locked. Some one has said there will be no Christmas tree, for
there are no shops here; but why was mother away for four days, and
why did that pedler who came by a few days ago stay so long? Irina
finds a book, curls up on a rug, and tries to read, but she does
not understand Kryloff’s “Fables” very well; the day out-doors has
made her drowsy and she does not quite know what becomes of the time
until her brothers shake her a little, the clock rings out “Cuckoo”
six times, and then open comes the door. There _is_ a Christmas
tree after all, a tall one with a shining star at the top. Hundreds
of burning candles light it up, and tiny wax figures dance among
hanging oranges. At the foot of the tree lie four or five heaps of
parcels,—ah, then, mother _was_ shopping; no one is forgotten and
every one is merry. Then comes Pavel to say that supper is ready.
But the white cloth looks very different from usual; it is not laid
smoothly at all. Underneath it has been spread a layer of hay, and
each one as he sits down pulls out a straw. Irina gives a cry of joy:
her piece is quite complete, with its yellow, dried flower—which
shows that she will be lucky all the next year.
There is no meat at this Christmas Eve supper, only fish dishes and
the special _Kostya_, or puddings which belong to the season very
much as do mince pie and plum pudding in England. Of these puddings
there are two kinds,—the white _Kostya_, made of rice, almonds, and
raisins, and the black _Kostya_, made of honey, barley, and walnuts.
During supper the children from the village school which Irina’s
mother has started come and sing carols outside the window until
Pavel with a handful of coins tells them to be off. Other young
villagers follow to acknowledge their gifts with more singing. Lastly
comes the church choir, who are invited in to supper after Irina and
her brothers have returned to the tree and their new toys. For each
there is a gift and from each a torrent of good wishes.
This practice of carol singing is probably in its origin akin to
the religious processions which one may see on any holy day in
all the villages of Greece, the Balkan provinces, and up through
Russia,—wherever, in fact, the Greek church has diverted into the
service of religion the old customs of the people. For centuries back
and probably long before the Christian era, it was the practice of
the young people here and elsewhere to gather into bands and go about
the country roads at this time of year singing hymns which were
at first, no doubt, songs of rejoicing that the shortest days were
over and the sun returning to the world again. Nowadays the songs
are chants or carols, and the village boys are proud to carry in
religious processions pictures of the saints and the banners of the
church.
A Visit from St. Nicholas
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap—
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys—and St. Nicholas, too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, New York_
A CHRISTMAS TREE AT THE IMMIGRANT STATION, NEW YORK]
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang in his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”
The Cratchits’ Christmas Dinner
You might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered
phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course; and in
truth, it was something like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made
the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot;
Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda
sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took
Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and
mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths,
lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be
helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was
succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly
all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast;
but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued
forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board, and even
Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with
the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there
ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and
cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the
apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for
the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight
(surveying one small atom of a bone on the dish), they hadn’t ate it
all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits
in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But
now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the
room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take the pudding up and
bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in
turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the
back yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose; a
supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts
of horrors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper.
A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an
eating-house and a pastry cook’s next door to each other, with a
laundress next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute
Mrs. Cratchit entered, flushed, but smiling proudly, with the pudding
like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of
half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly
stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, too, that he
regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since
their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her
mind she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of
flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or
thought it was at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would
have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to
hint at such a thing. At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was
cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the
jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put
upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all
the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called
a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the
family display of glass—two tumblers and a custard-cup without a
handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks,
while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then
Bob proposed:
“A merry Christmas to all, my dears. God bless us!”
Which all the family reëchoed.
“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim the last of all.
[Illustration: Decoration]
After the Christmas Dinner
When dinner had had time to settle and all the kitchen work was done,
Father took his seat at the end of the long table, with all the
household gathered about, the servants included and the baby without
fail, and read the story of The Child: “And it came to pass in those
days,” while Mother hushed the baby. Then we sang together “A Child
is Born in Bethlehem,” which was the simplest of our hymns, and also
the one we children loved best, for it told of how in heaven we were
to walk to church
“On sky-blue carpets, star-bedeckt,”
which was a great comfort. Children love beautiful things, and we had
few of them. The great and precious treasure in our house was the
rag carpet in the spare room, which we were allowed to enter only on
festive occasions such as Christmas. It had an orange streak in it
which I can see to this day. Whenever I come across one that even
remotely suggests it, it gives me yet a kind of solemn feeling. We
had no piano,—that was a luxury in those days,—and Father was not
a singer, but he led on bravely with his tremulous bass and we all
joined in, Ane the cook and Maria the housemaid furtively wiping
their eyes with their aprons, for they were good and pious folk and
this was their Christmas service. So we sang the ten verses to end,
with their refrain “Hallelujah! hallelujah!” that always seemed to me
to open the very gates of Yule.
[Illustration: “WE JOINED HANDS AND DANCED AROUND THE TREE”]
And it did, literally; for when the last hallelujah died away, the
door of the spare room was flung wide and there stood the Christmas
tree, all shining lights, and the baby was borne in, wide-eyed, to
be the first, as was proper; for was not this The Child’s holiday?
Unconsciously we all gave way to those who were nearest Him, who had
most recently come from His presence, and were therefore in closest
touch with the spirit of the holiday. So, when we joined hands and
danced around the tree, Father held the baby, and we laughed and were
happy as the little one crowed his joy and stretched the tiny arms
toward the light.
Hang up the Baby’s Stocking
Hang up the baby’s stocking:
Be sure you don’t forget;
The dear little dimpled darling!
She ne’er saw Christmas yet;
But I’ve told her all about it,
And she opened her big blue eyes;
And I’m sure she understood it—
She looked so funny and wise.
Dear! what a tiny stocking!
It doesn’t take much to hold
Such little pink toes as baby’s
Away from the frost and cold;
But then for the baby’s Christmas
It will never do at all;
Why, Santa wouldn’t be looking
For anything half so small.
I know what will do for the baby.
I’ve thought of the very best plan:
I’ll borrow a stocking of grandma,
The longest that ever I can;
And you’ll hang it by mine, dear mother,
Right here in the corner, so!
And write a letter to Santa,
And fasten it on the toe.
Write, “This is the baby’s stocking
That hangs in the corner here;
You never have seen her, Santa,
For she only came this year;
But she’s just the blessedest baby!
And now before you go,
Just cram her stocking with goodies,
From the top clean down to the toe.”
A German Christmas
In Germany a little girl begins to think about Christmas almost as
soon as she gets back from a summer holiday, for it is still very
much the custom there to make something yourself for those you love
best, and German girls learn while they are still little to embroider
beautifully all kinds of articles for household use,—a monogram
on a fine handkerchief, or spray of flowers on a bit of linen
to wear at the neck. An older girl makes such things as a canvas
traveller’s-case, or a set of shoe-bags, embroiders a sofa-cushion
or knits a silk necktie. Mothers and aunts are more likely to make
soberly useful gifts of stockings, underclothing, dresses; nothing is
thought out-of-place. But every one must give to every one else. That
is _law_. And every one aims to keep as a secret what she is making;
it must be hidden at least from the one for whom it is intended,
so there is quite an air of “I know something nice, but I cannot
tell it,” about a German household through all the weeks before the
holiday.
About a fortnight before Christmas the fair begins which Mrs.
Sidgwick tells us is to be seen “in any one of the old German cities
in the hill country, when the streets and the open places are covered
with crisp clean snow, and the mountains are white with it, and the
moon shines on the ancient houses, and the tinkle of sledge bells
reaches you when you escape from the din of the market, and look down
at the bustle of it from some silent place, a high window, perhaps,
or the high empty steps leading into the cathedral. The air is cold
and still, and heavy with the scent of the Christmas trees brought
from the forest for the pleasure of the children. Day by day you
see the rows of them growing thinner, and if you go to the market
on Christmas Eve itself you will find only a few trees left out in
the cold. The market is empty, the peasants are harnessing their
horses or their oxen, the women are packing up their unsold goods.
In every home in the city one of the trees that scented the open air
about a week ago is shining now with lights and little gilded nuts
and apples, and is helping to make that Christmas smell, all compact
of the pine forest, wax candles, cakes, and painted toys, you must
associate so long as you live with Christmas in Germany.”
We have Christmas trees in plenty, but to the German mind we have
them all wrong. In the first place, their trees are small, and every
one, from the Emperor down to the poorest laborer, has a tree.
But he has it at home, on Christmas Eve if he can, less often on
Christmas Day, and only sometimes on the day after, which they call
the Second Christmas Day. A German family never invites a _party_ to
its Christmas tree, only relatives or intimate friends. As a rule,
there is one tree, fixed on a small stand in the centre of a large
square table covered with a snow-white cloth, and around the tree
the presents are arranged, those for each person in a separate pile.
The tree is lighted for beauty, and is decorated with ornaments of
glass and tinsel, sweetmeats, apples, gilded nuts, and a few very
small toys. Some of the sweetmeats made for German trees are very
elaborate. There are _Kringeln_, transparent sugar candies twisted
in figure eights or circles, so that they easily hang on. There are
sugar candy animals of every shape and color; and here and there a
fascinating scene in colored sugar on a white background, a sportsman
in a red coat, perhaps, pointing his gun at an enormous rabbit that
sits up almost touching the end of the gun-barrel. The celebrated
_Lübecker Marzipan_ (a kind of almond paste which you have tasted,
maybe, on bride-cake) imitates all kinds of fruit and vegetables so
well that they can easily be mistaken for real.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, New York_
DRESSING DOLLS IN GERMANY FOR AMERICAN CHRISTMAS TREES]
The trees are set in the front rooms and the curtains are drawn up to
give any passer-by a glimpse of their beauty. The family gathers in
the room behind, sometimes a carol or hymn is sung, and at its end
suddenly the parlor doors fly back, showing the little green tree all
alight and the piles of presents for every one. Then comes a scramble
and search for one’s own pile,—a long silence while parcels are
opened breathlessly. Such a handshaking and embracing and thanking as
follows!
In some families where there are several children and plenty of
money, each person may have a tree of his own, and at any rate will
have his own table covered with presents and things to eat. Of such a
family the mother writes:—
Every time the three babies go into the garden they expect to meet
the Christ Child with His arms full of gifts. They firmly believe
that it is thus their presents are brought, and it is such a charming
idea that Christmas would be worth celebrating for its sake alone.
The library is uninhabitable for several days before and after, as
it is there that we have the trees and presents. All down one side
are the trees, and the other three sides are lined with tables, a
separate one for each person in the house. When trees are lighted,
and stand in their radiance shining down on the happy faces, I forget
all the trouble it has been, and the number of times I have had to
run up and down stairs, and the various aches in head and feet, and
enjoy myself as much as anybody. First the June baby is ushered in,
then the others and ourselves according to age, then the servants,
then come the head inspector and his family, and other inspectors
from the different farms, the mamsells, the bookkeepers and
secretaries, and then all the children, troops and troops of them—the
big ones leading the little ones by the hand and carrying the babies
in their arms, and the mothers peeping round the door. As many as can
get in stand in front of the trees, and sing two or three carols;
then they are given their presents, and go off triumphantly, making
room for the next batch. My three babies sung lustily, too, whether
they happened to know what was being sung or not....
When they came to say good night they were all very pale and subdued.
The April baby had an exhausted-looking Japanese doll with her,
which she said she was taking to bed, not because she liked him, but
she was so sorry for him, he seemed so very tired. They kissed me
absently, and went away, only the April baby glancing at the trees as
she passed and making them a courtesy.
“Good-by, trees,” I heard her say; and then she made the Japanese
doll bow to them, which he did, in a very languid and blase fashion.
“You’ll never see such trees again,” she told him, giving him a
vindictive shake, “for you’ll be brokened long before next time.”
She went out, but came back as though she had forgotten something.
“Thank the Christkind so much, Mummy, won’t you, for all the lovely
things He brought us. I suppose you’re writing to Him now, isn’t
you?”
Crowded Out
Nobody ain’t Christmas shoppin’
Fur his stockin’,
Nobody ain’t cotch no turkey,
Nobody ain’t bake no pie.
Nobody’s laid nuthin’ by;
Santa Claus don’t cut no figger
Fur his mammy’s little nigger.
Seems lak everybody’s rushin’
An’ er crushin’;
Crowdin’ shops an’ jammin’ trolleys,
Buyin’ shoes an’ shirts an’ toys
Fur de white folks’ girls an’ boys;
But no hobby-horse ain’t rockin’
Fur his little wore-out stockin’.
He ain’t quar’lin’, recollec’,
He don’t spec
Nuthin’—it’s his not expectin’
Makes his mammy wish—O Laws!—
Fur er nigger Santy Claus,
Totin’ jus’ er toy balloon
Fur his mammy’s little coon.
An English “Adoration”
Art in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was far more closely
connected with the church than it is to-day. The most beautiful
buildings were those of the church, and the art of painting was soon
called upon for their decoration. Books at that time were rare and
costly, and the stories of the saints whose “holydays” were times
of festivity for the people, were mostly handed down by word of
mouth, and often with a good deal of confusion of times and people.
And naturally, when the rich men of 1300 called in a workman to
decorate a church or to paint a panel which could be moved from one
building to another, they liked to see on their walls pictures of
their favorite saints and heroes, pictures which reminded them of the
stories they could not read. It made no difference to them if saint
and hero and king lived hundreds of years apart.
There is one such picture, one of the oldest in England, so old that
no one knows who painted it, which is interesting because it is so
easy to see that the king who ordered it painted was thinking of the
old Christmas story of the Adoration of the Magi, who were always
thought of in the Middle Ages as being kings. The picture is painted
on two wooden panels, joined with hinges so that it can be closed,
and is in bright colors against a background of gold.
[Illustration: two pictures]
The English king who probably ordered it to celebrate his coronation
was Richard II. of England, son of the famous Black Prince. One
likes to think that although he thought of himself as one of a long
line of kings ruling by divine right, whom it was natural to see
surrounded by persons royal and divine, yet he wished to be painted
not in the act of receiving but of giving homage. After all, in spite
of the king’s crown and the robe of state, too big for a child’s
figure, he was only a boy barely eleven, and whatever he became
later here he is shown offering his kingdom to the Holy Child in His
Mother’s arms.
There was a special reason for Richard’s having his picture resemble
pictures of the Adoration of the Magi for the Day of the Kings,
January 6, was not only his own birthday, but also the day upon which
he was crowned. And an account of his coronation tells us that after
the ceremony he made an offering at the Shrine of Our Lady at Pewe,
nearby, of “eleven angels,” one for each year of his young life.
Exactly what these eleven angels were no one now knows; they may have
been gold coins with an angel stamped upon them, or they may have
been small images. But perhaps he remembered his eleven years and
this offering when he told the painter to surround Mother Mary with
the eleven angels in sapphire blue whom you see in the picture. One
sees at least that they are _his_ angels, for each wears his special
badge, the Jewel of the White Hart, and the Collar of Broom-pods.
Almost all the Magi pictures represent one of the kings as kneeling,
with the two others standing behind him, and one can imagine Richard
boyishly choosing the other two kings. He was crowned in Westminster
Abbey, so it is natural enough that one of them should be Edward
the Confessor who founded the Abbey; the other, holding an arrow, is
St. Edmund, an early king of England who is said to have been shot
to death with arrows by the Danes, because he refused to abandon
Christianity. Joseph, too, is a customary figure in paintings of the
Adoration, but cannot you hear the boy king saying, “No, I do not
want St. Joseph; my father died in midsummer so I really became king
about the time of St. John’s Day, if I _am_ crowned at Epiphany;
so I will have St. John with a lamb and Edward the Confessor; and
Edward shall hold a ring?” There is a pretty story that St. John the
Evangelist, wandering in the disguise of a beggar, asked alms of King
Edward the Confessor; and, that the king, rather than refuse a poor
man, gave him a ring from his finger, because he had no money with
him. And it would be so like a boy not to care that the two St. Johns
were not at all the same. That which mattered is that one of the
angels was holding toward the Holy Child’s reaching hands the banner
of England as the gift of the kneeling boy.
[Illustration: Decoration]
The Children’s Own Saint