This has been a week of undeniably hard work for us all, and one, at
least, is by no means sorry that to-morrow is Christmas Eve.
Most of the time I seem to have spent on the top of a rickety step-ladder
in the school-room, having tin-tacks and boughs of holly and
gaily-coloured flags passed up to me by Mr. Weaverly and the mutually
distrustful Miss Sweet and Miss Matilda Coles. Tom Clemmer, helped by
half a dozen others, brought the great tree up from Windle Woods, and it
stands now in its tub of spangled cotton-wool, a gorgeous sight, every
branch weighed down with toy-shop treasures, the queen-doll at its apex
brandishing her gilt-starred sceptre high up among the oaken beams of the
ceiling. Every available chair or bench in the village has been
confiscated, and ranged round the room. The tables at the far end fairly
creak and groan under their burden of infantile good cheer. It is all
ready for to-morrow. We put in the finishing touches with the last gleam
of daylight this evening, Weaverly and I alone together. Then he locked
the door, speechlessly tired and happy, and faded away—a black but
benevolent ghost in goloshes—down the length of the darkening street.
As for me, I followed at a respectful distance with no object definitely
in view but to smoke a quiet pipe after the day’s work, and enjoy the
unwonted life and bustle of the village.
Thinking it over discriminately, it seemed to be a great thing, a real
advance on the true line of social progress, to be strolling about there,
taking unfeigned pleasure in the sight of two small shops doubtfully
illuminated with oil-lamps and candles, and in the sound made by perhaps
fifty people all told, as they clattered and chattered to and fro in a
single, narrow village street. There were folk, I knew, wandering just
as aimlessly in the crowded thoroughfares of great cities miles away,
whose ears were deafened with a prodigious uproar, and eyes blinded by a
myriad superfluous lights, but who were not half so entertained, so
thoroughly instilled with the sense of being one in a hustling, happy
Christmas multitude, as I. Then again, of all the thousands that the
city promenader meets in the crush of a London street between one
electric standard and the next, how many can he rightfully greet as
neighbour, or even remember to have seen before? While here was I, after
a good half-hour’s loitering up and down, who had encountered none but
old familiar faces, nor let one go by without the kind word or friendly
glance exchanged. Truly the scale, the mere arithmetic of life goes for
nothing: it is the proportional, the relative, that counts. There was
not so much folly as we imagine in the grave debate of the old
philosophers as to how many angels could stand upon a pin’s point.
I tarried awhile in the broad beam of light that fell from the window of
the village store, and, in the company of a dozen other loiterers,
feasted eyes on its Yule-tide splendour. From where I stood on the
opposite side of the way, it seemed no less than a palace of glittering
beauty. Candles of all colours in little tinselled sconces shone amidst
the wares of everyday—bacon and worsted stockings, loaves of bread and
tin saucepans, butter, neckties, bars of mottled soap, and trousers in
moleskin or corduroy. The ceiling of the shop, which at ordinary times
is hidden by hanging festoons of boots, basket-ware, hedging-gloves,
coils of rope, was intersected now by chains of coloured paper and
threadled holly-leaves. There was a suspended roasting-jack in a corner
slowly twirling round a grand set-piece of Christmas knick-knacks; and
there were two copper coalscuttles, the one filled with oranges, the
other heaped high with bunches of green grapes that made the mouth water
a dozen yards away. All these I gazed upon, and at the jostling throng
of housewives, at least half a score, within, and at the red-faced,
perspiring shopkeeper overdone with business; and from the bottom of my
heart, I rejoiced that they sufficed for me, that I should go to bed that
night with as complete a sense of having looked on at the great world’s
Yuletide gladness as if I had tired out feet and eyes and nerves in the
roaring maelstrom at the Elephant, or the Messina Strait of the Strand.
For indeed life and its disciplines, its experiences, its outcomes, can
be no mere matters of dimension: when we come at last to find eternity
and the angels, they are as like to be on a pin’s point as out-thronging
all the labyrinth of the Milky Way.
From the village store I moved on presently to the little sweetstuff
shop, and stood awhile looking in through the holly-garlanded door.
Susan sat in a wilderness of scalloped silver paper, presiding over a
lucky tub. There was no getting near her to-night for the mob of
children that surrounded her, and overflowed into the street; but she
bawled me an affectionate Christmas greeting, and passed me, by half a
dozen intervening hands—in exchange for a thrown halfpenny—a packet from
the lucky-dip, which proved to contain a cherubim modelled out of pink
scented soap. With this symbolic testimony to our old-time friendship
bulging my pocket, I went rambling on again, and in course of time
arrived at the Three Thatchers Inn. A tilt-cart was just driving away
from the door. A numerous company was gathered outside, speeding the
vehicle on its way with laugh and jest.
‘Ye’ve not fared so bad,’ roared old Daniel Dray, as he spied me in the
darkness, ‘though ye didn’t come to th’ drawin’. Ye’ve got a topside,
an’ a hand o’ pig-meat. Stall’ard here, he’s got wan o’ th’ turkeys, an’
young George Artlett th’ tother. A good club it ha’ been, considerin’.
An’ now the lot o’ us ha’ got to bide here ’til Dan’l gets hoame from
Stavisham wi’ th’ tack.’
This annual prize-drawing, and division of the Christmas Club funds, with
the subsequent wait in the cosy inn parlour while the things were fetched
from the town, was a great event in Windlecombe. On this one night in
the year, we cultivated as a fine art the pleasure of anticipation, and
each did his best to make the time go with mirth and neighbourly
good-will. The occasion was also, in some degree, a kind of benefit for
the landlord, to which all might contribute as a duty, if by any chance
the inclination lacked. Looking round the crowded room, I could think of
hardly one of the well-known faces that was missing. The old ferryman
was there—how he got there was a mystery; but there he was, in the corner
of the settle whence he had been absent so long. Even George Artlett had
stayed to await the arrival of his turkey, and now sat at my side
quaffing lemonade, his face as grave and thoughtful as ever, but his eyes
twinkling with a jollity I had never seen in them before.
Young Daniel knew that no one would desire to curtail this part of the
prize-drawing ceremony, and there was little fear of his wheels being
heard in the sloppy street for a good two hours to come. We stretched
out our legs to the cheery blaze, and felt that for once we had succeeded
in wing-clipping old Father Time.
‘Beef-club drawin’ agen, Dan’l!’
‘Ay! beef-club drawin’ agen, Tom.’
In a break in the general clamour, the two veterans exchanged the thought
slowly and pensively, looking down their long pipe-stems into the fire.
‘An’ no one gone, Dan’l.’
‘Ne’er a wan, Tom, thank God.’
‘How quirk ’a do hould hisself, to be sure,’ said old Tom Clemmer after a
pause, and none doubted who he meant. ‘Ah! an’ how ’a do brisk along
still! Another year o’ him by—’tis another blessin’. Here’s to un, wi’
all our love an’ dooty!’
It was a silent toast, but drunk deep. George Artlett’s glass was
lighter than any when he set it down.
‘But ’tain’t been allers so,’ old Clemmer went on ruminatively. ‘How
many drawin’s ha’ ye seen, Dan’l, boy an’ man?—threescore belike, and I
bean’t fur ahent ye. An’ many’s th’ time as summun’s money ha’ laid on
th’ table wi’ only widder or poor-box to claim it; an’ he, poor soul,
quiet i’ th’ litten-yard up there. Ay! ’tis a lucky drawin’ wi’ nane but
livin’ hands to draw.’
Daniel Dray took up the prize-list and scanned it curiously, his white
head thrown back, his spectacles straddling the extreme tip of his nose.
‘An’ what,’ said he, ‘will a single man, onmarried, do wi’ a whole gurt
turkey-burd? An’ him wi’ never a wife! ’Tis wicked waste, neighbours!
Him an’ th’ parrot, they’ll ha’ nought but turkey-meat i’ th’ house from
now to Lady-time.’
Stallwood’s beady black eyes disappeared in a wide smile.
‘I knowed a man once,’ he said, ‘out in Utah State in Murriky, ’twur—as
got a brace o’ ostriches at a Christmas drawin’; an’ when it come to
carvin’ at dinner-time, th’ pore feller, he got no more ’n half a bite
fer hisself because—’ He stopped, suddenly recollecting George Artlett’s
lustrating presence, ‘Ah! he wur married, I tell ye, an’ never a wured o’
a lie!’
‘What’ll ’a do wi’ it, Dan’!?’ The old ferryman leant from his corner
eagerly, staring at the wall as though he saw there the picture that rose
in his mind. ‘What’ll ’a do wi’ it? Jest think on ’t! Nobbut hisself
in a quiet kitchen o’ Christmas morning—his boots on, an’ nane to rate un
for spannellin’ about—click-clack from the roastin’ jack, an’ tick-tack
from th’ clock, an’ a good cuss now an’ agen from th’ ould parrot, but
never a wured o’ wimmin’s wrath. Ah, life!—’tis all jest a gurt
beef-club drawin’! Some on us draws peace an’ quiet an’ turkey-burds,
an’ some draws—’
His lips closed on his pipe-stem with a snap. A commiserate shake of the
head went round the company.
‘An’ here,’ went on old Daniel, still conning the prize-list, ‘here be
Jack Farley wi’ bare money an’ fower ounces o’ tobacker—him as doan’t
smoke, an’ has sixteen i’ family. Lor’, Jack! how that there deuce-ace
do foller ye i’ life!’
Jack Farley sat in the draughtiest seat by the door, his invariable
modest choice of station. No one had ever seen him without a smile on
his emaciated, sun-blackened face; and now he was smiling more
determinedly than ever.
‘I dunno’, Dan’1,’ he expostulated gently. ‘’Twur a real double-six when
’er an’ me come together all they years ago. An’ th’ chillern, they be
good throws, every wan. An’ that there noo little ’un, Dan’l—nauthin’ o’
th’ deuce-ace about him, I tell ye! But them as putts to sea, Dan’l,
they must look fer rough weather, time and agen.’
He squared himself and gazed about him as though his weekly carter-wage
of fourteen shillings were as many pounds. Then he beat his mug upon the
table jovially. ‘An’ now,’ said he, ‘I’ll sing ye “Th’ Mistletoe
Bough!”’
It was the beginning of the real entertainment of the evening. Vocal
music in the Three Thatchers at ordinary times was accounted a rather
disreputable thing—a mere tap-room vulgarism—by the habitual parlour
company; but on certain rare nights in the year, of which this was one,
every man present was expected to sing. One by one now, in Jack Farley’s
wake, followed the rest of the assembly, and every song had a chorus that
shook the very roof-beams of the house. No man thought of looking at the
clock until, in the midst of a doleful melody from the landlord, old Tom
Clemmer suddenly sprang to his one available foot.
‘’Tis th’ cart!’ he cried, and made for the door. In the general
stampede after him, I heard Captain Stallwood’s grumbling voice:
‘Ut bean’t right nohow fer people as caan’t use tobacker to draw un away
from them as can. I means to ha’ that there fower ounces, Dan’l. An’
Jack Farley—th’ ould swab!—’a must make out as best ’a can wi’ th’
turkey-burd.’