MERRY CHRISTMAS.
HILDEGARDE awoke in the dark, with the sound of bells in the air. Her
first thought was that of all women in similar case--fire! She sat up in
bed and listened; but these were no fire-bells that rang so joyously,
breaking through the hush of the winter morning with glad rejoicing.
"Glory to the newly born!" she said, softly, and was silent for a
little. Presently she waved her hand in a comprehensive greeting to the
friends on walls and shelves, whom she could not yet see.
"Merry Christmas!" she cried. "Merry Christmas, Sir Walter! Merry
Christmas, Viscount, and you too, Saint William! What a pity I cannot
say it in Dutch!"
She hummed a carol to herself, as she recalled the night before,
Christmas Eve, which she had spent with the Merryweathers. They had
gone together to the carol service at the little church, which they had
all helped to make beautiful with spruce and fir and hemlock. After that
they sang hymns and carols at home, in full chorus, with such hearty
good-will and earnest feeling as it was a joy to remember; and then came
the hanging of the stockings. An only child for so long, Hildegarde had
never seen before the bewildering, enchanting bustle of Christmas Eve in
a large family; the hanging of the stockings, six in a row, the whole
length of the great fireplace in the nursery; the delightful mysteries,
the parcels which no one saw, the whisperings which no one heard save
those to whom they were addressed, the tiptoeing hither and thither, the
rustle of tissue-paper,--ah! it was all very pleasant! The kind friends
had begged her to stay with them, and share the morning fun, which they
declared to be the best of all; but that Hildegarde could not do.
"Mamma and I have only each other!" she said. "You would not really have
me leave her alone, dear people!" and the Merryweathers were obliged to
confess that they would not, upon any account. So they had parted, with
many plans and promises for the next day,--the great, the blessed day of
the year. And now it was here! and oh, was it--could it really be
snowing?
Hildegarde listened, and heard a sound as of fairy hands beating softly
on the window-panes. It was growing lighter every moment, but the light
came through a soft, white dimness. Hildegarde ran to the window; the
ground was white, the dark branches of the evergreens were bending under
a weight of snow, and it was snowing still, not furiously, but in a
quiet, determined way, that meant business. Oh, joy! At last, the
longed-for winter had come! This ungrateful girl had already received
many favours from the Frost King; she had skated, she had had icicles to
eat, she had broken through the ice, and got a good wetting,--still she
was not content, but longed for snow; and now she had her heart's
desire.
"And we'll all go tobogganing,
Bog, bog, bogganing!"
she sang, as she dressed herself, stopping now and then to dance about
the room a little when she felt cold; for the morning was evidently
sharp, and the cold had got into the house in good earnest.
Running down-stairs, she found the breakfast-room warm and bright with a
crackling, leaping fire on the hearth. Mrs. Grahame was already down,
and her long, silent embrace was the first and best Christmas greeting.
Then it was "Merry Christmas!" and again "Merry Christmas!" as Auntie
came into the room, bringing the fragrant coffee, and the tray piled
high with good things.
"Oh, and the mail has come!" cried Hildegarde, fairly dancing round the
table to her place. "See, my love! Letters from everybody, heaps upon
heaps! Oh, what joy!"
There were greetings from all the distant friends, it seemed; from all
the good people at Bywood, from Rose and Doctor Flower, from the dear
old couple at Hartley's Glen.
"Oh, how good every one is!" cried Hildegarde. "And here is a
parcel--Mammina, what can this be? It looks like Aunt Emily's hand."
"It seems a desperate measure to propose," said Mrs. Grahame, "but I
_have_ heard of parcels being opened in such a case. I should not wish
to influence you--"
"Oh, my dear!" cried the girl, who had been acting on the suggestion,
and undoing the box tied carefully with floss silk. "My Respected
Parent, will you look at this?"
It was the prettiest watch, surely, that ever was seen, set with blue
enamel and pearls; and with it came a stately little note, assuring "my
grandniece" that this was a slight return indeed for the pleasure that
she had given to her affectionate E. D.
"Poor dear Aunt Emily!" cried Hildegarde. "She has so little pleasure, I
suppose every little attention counts for a good deal. Oh, aren't you
glad we sent her the Mechlin tabs? She and Hobson will have good times
over them, I am sure. Well, Auntie, what now?"
Auntie brought in a huge box. "Dis ain't for you, Miss Hildy, chile, dis
for you' Ma. You can' 'spec' to have everyt'ing, young lady!"
"Flowers, Mammina! Oh, the lovely things! Do let me see--From Mr.
Raymond Ferrers! The dear thing! Why, we shall be a perfect bower, for I
know the Colonel is going to send you a box. Dear me! What a delightful
time we are having, aren't we, love?"
"If you don't eat your breakfast, Hilda, I shall have all these things
taken away, and kept till dinner."
"Oh, I will eat, I will indeed! See me! Observe me sacrificing myself to
rolls and orange marmalade! But do you see that it is snowing, my own?
And do you know what that means? Tobogganing this afternoon, if there is
any faith in Merryweathers."
Hildegarde was so excited it was really difficult for her to eat
anything like enough to satisfy the demands of Auntie.
"You ain't goin' to no chu'ch on no empty stomick!" that potentate
announced; and she actually stood over Hildegarde till a fair portion of
her good things was disposed of. Then, when church-time came, she must
see personally that both her "Missies" were properly wrapped, and
properly toasted before going out.
"You ain't no right to go out at all, Mis' Grahame, and you knows it
well as I do; but dere ain't no holdin' you some times, and dis is one
of 'em, I know. Nothin' for old woman to do, 'cept just see dat you's
fixed up right. You' bonnet ain't straight, mum; I should go crazy if
you started out like ob dat."
The chore-man had already been at work with shovel and broom, so that
there was a path cleared through the snow to the road; the snow was
already quite deep, and Hildegarde and her mother were glad of their
high snow-boots, as they picked their way along. Hildegarde stopped
every other moment to take a handful of snow from some hanging branch,
sometimes to eat it, oftener to toss it in the air for pure joy. It was
beautiful snow, soft and dry, the crystals showing with exquisite
distinctness.
"I feel about ten years old, darling!" the girl announced, as she
frisked hither and thither.
"So I perceive!" said Mrs. Grahame, who was walking soberly along, even
deigning to protect her bonnet with a prosaic umbrella.
"I feel rather doubtful about taking you, Hildegarde. Suppose you should
turn round and smile at the little boy behind you, as you did the first
time I took you to church!"
But by the time they reached the old stone church, Hildegarde was grave
enough. This was the best of all, she said to herself, as she took her
place in the choir, and heard Bell's firm touch on the keys of the organ
behind her.
The Pastoral Symphony! Hildegarde gave a long sigh of pure happiness,
and leaned back in her seat. She might have known Bell would play it!
She knew that her friend was to take the organist's place during the
Christmas vacation; but she did not know that somehow, in all the hurry
and happy bustle of yesterday, two young musicians had contrived, by
hook or by crook, to get an hour's practice together in the church, as a
Christmas surprise for her very own self, and when, above the deep,
throbbing tones of the organ, rose the exquisite voice of the violin,
Hildegarde felt her cup very full indeed, and hardly tried to check the
thankful tears that sprang to her eyes. The church was full of the warm
fragrance of balsam fir; the long garlands of green clothed the old gray
walls with a lovely grace; she saw her mother's face in the pew near by;
the music soared heavenward and her soul mounted with it. "Glory to God
in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will to men!" When it came her
turn to sing, she felt heaven near, indeed, and the peace of blessedness
descending on her.
By noon it had stopped snowing; by three o'clock the sky was clear and
the world lay white and glittering, a new thing under a sky of crystal.
"Just like the biggest plummy cake that ever was baked!" cried Willy
Merryweather as he capered about before his toboggan. The clan was
gathering for the first tobogganing of the season. Here was Mr.
Merryweather, tall and stalwart, in a fur cap big enough for the Czar of
all the Russias; Here were all the children, big and little, in "muffs
and furs and fluffs," all rosy and happy and beaming; here was
Hildegarde, in moccasins, and the prettiest scarlet blanket-suit;
finally, here was Jack Ferrers, striding across the fields at a
tremendous rate when he saw that the others were waiting for him.
"Oh, Jack! couldn't Hugh come?" cried Hildegarde, as her cousin came up.
"He looked pretty pale this morning, I thought, dear little fellow! Is
he feeling badly to-day?"
Hugh had not been like himself since the fall on the ice. He had a good
deal of headache, and seemed heavy and drowsy, not at all his own bright
self. Hildegarde spoke anxiously, and Jack answered her look as well as
her question.
"Not much the matter, I hope, but Uncle Tom thought he'd better keep
quiet this afternoon, so as to be all fit for the tree this evening. His
head does ache, Hilda, but he says it isn't bad, and he sent you all
kinds of messages, and said you were to have twice as good a time, for
his sake, as you would have had if he had been on hand. Poor little
chap! I promised him I would give you a famous time; so come on, Hilda,
and don't let me see those grave looks any more."
"You are darkening the sky, Hilda," cried Gerald, "and we can't have our
Christmas sunshine spoiled! Look at the Pater! Isn't he immense? Like a
Russian Boyar, or a Wallachian Hospodar, or something of that kind."
"We might all find some good, snowy title!" said Bell. "You shall be a
Starosta, Jerry, and Phil a Voevoda, and Mr. Ferrers a Magyar."
"Oh, there are plenty more titles!" said Jack. "We must have a Sotnik,
and a Hetman, and a--"
"Who is coming tobogganing?" cried Mr. Merryweather. "Is this a
_conversazione_, or an expedition?"
They all started off, talking and laughing, for the nearest hill. They
chose the well-known slope that swept round the foot of Braeside, beyond
the stone wall that separated it from Roseholme. Climbing the slope,
Hildegarde remembered the first time she had climbed it, and how she
climbed a tree, too, and was caught by Colonel Ferrers in the act, and
taken for a marauding boy. How long ago it all seemed; and how strange
to think of their ever having been strangers to their dear Colonel, or
to any of the good friends who had grown so near and so dear.
At the top, they paused to draw breath, for the ascent was steep; then
Mr. Merryweather, as commander-in-chief, marshalled his forces, and
arranged them in line of march.
"Let me see! Hilda, will you come with me? and Gertrude? So! Now, Phil,
you shall take Bell and Kitty; and you and Mr. Ferrers, Gerald, take the
little one. There! How will that do?"
All declared themselves satisfied, and proceeded to take their places on
the toboggans. The girls tucked up their skirts carefully, the boys
pressed their caps down firmly over their ears.
"All ready?" asked the Chief. "Now then! one, two, three--off!"
Down swept the toboggans; down, down, down! Hildegarde was clutching Mr.
Merryweather's leather belt, and she felt as if it were the only thing
that kept her from flying off entirely. The swift motion took her
breath away; the light snow, puffing in her face, rising up in clouds on
every side, half blinded her. On and on, gliding now over the long
meadow at the foot of the hill, still with the flight of an arrow; till
at last, with a skilful turn, they were brought up alongside the stone
wall that bounded the field, and landed in a good soft drift.
Up they all jumped, rosy and snow-powdered, shouting with glee.
"Oh! wasn't it glorious!" cried Hildegarde. "We kept the lead, didn't
we, Mr. Merryweather? And I kept the top of my head on, which is more
than could have been expected. I really never felt anything so
delightful in my life. Where are Jack and Gerald?"
"There they come! They went round the other way, down the steep side."
"The steep side! Oh, me! Is there a steeper side? Why, they must have
turned somersaults all the way down. Oh! oh, my poor dears!"
The boys came round the curve in fine style, shooting straight as a
dart, both leaning back, and evidently enjoying themselves to the full.
Suddenly, as if propelled by some invisible engine, they shot into the
air, the toboggan followed, and for a moment there was an extraordinary
vision of legs and arms, caps and splinters, all whirling together. Then
they plunged into an enormous drift, and disappeared.
The girls cried out in terror, but Mr. Merryweather and Phil shouted
with laughter, and ran to the spot.
"Gone to ground!" they cried. "Dig 'em out, Phil!" cried the Chief.
"Here's a foot; give a good pull, now!"
Phil gave a vigorous pull, and was rewarded by a kick which sent him
sprawling on his back in the snow. Then, laughing and spluttering, the
boys emerged from the drift, rubbing the snow from their eyes, and
shaking it from their clothing.
"I say!" cried Jack. "What do you keep in this field, sir? Was it a
torpedo, or an electric eel?"
"It's your uncle's field, young man!" replied Mr. Merryweather. "I
suspect it was nothing more than a rock, however. I thought the hill
was all smooth grass."
"You might try it, sir!" said Gerald. "If there is a sound bone in my
body, write me down Hollander. How are you, Ferrers? Anything broken?"
"No, indeed! Lost a button, and--where is my other mitten? Oh! thank
you, Hilda! Did we make a pretty picture, flying through the air?"
"Lovely!" said Hilda. "If I had only had my camera! But I was really
frightened. I am hardly sure now that you are not killed, you did go so
very hard!"
"The toboggan _is_ killed!" said Gerald, ruefully. "Kindling-wood, poor
old thing! Just look at it!" He dragged to light some forlorn remnants,
which certainly did not look as if they could be of service again save
in some humble capacity.
"Too bad!" said his father. "Fortune of war, my boy! But there is plenty
of room for you and Ferrers on the two others. We must see about this
stone, and get it out of the way."
Search revealed a big, jagged stone, so fitted into the slope of the
hill that the snow had lain smoothly over it; but it had caught the
toboggan in mid-flight. It was soon torn from its bed, rolled down the
hill, and deposited on the other side of the wall. Then they all climbed
the hill again, trying as they went to sing the Tobogganing Song;
failing for lack of breath, panting, singing again, and all the while
struggling upward, laughing and chattering and pelting each other with
the soft snow.
"When the field lies clear in the moon, boy,
And the wood hangs dark on the hill,
When the long white way shows never a sleigh,
And the sound of the bells is still,
"Then hurry, hurry, hurry!
And bring the toboggans along!
A last 'Never fear!' to Mother-my-dear,
Then off with a shout and a song.
"A-tilt on the billowy slope, boy,
Like a boat that bends to the sea,
With the heart a-tilt in your breast, boy,
And your chin well down on your knee,
"Then over, over, over,
As the boat skims over the main,
A plunge and a swoop, a gasp and a whoop,
And away o'er the glittering plain!
"The boat, and the bird, and the breeze, boy,
Which the poet is apt to sing,
Are old and slow and clumsy, I know,
By us that have never a wing.
"Still onward, onward, onward,
Till the brook joins the meadow below,
And then with a shout, see us tumbling out,
To plunge in the feathery snow.
"Back now by the side of the hedge, boy,
Where the roses in summer grow,
Where the snow lies deep o'er their winter sleep,
Up, up the big hill we go.
"And stumbling, tumbling, stumbling,
Hurrah! 'tis the top we gain!
Draw breath for a minute before you begin it--
Now over, and over again!"
"How are you, noble Hetman?" said Hildegarde, finding herself near
Gerald, as they gained the top of the hill. "Aren't you all full of
snow, my poors, and very cold and wet?"
"'Oh, days of me boyhood, I'm dreamin' of ye now!'" quoted Gerald. "I
never thought that my mother's words would come true in my person:
"'Woffsky-poffsky, Woffsky-poffsky,
Once he was a Cossack hetman;
But he fell into the Dnieper,
And became a Cossack wetman.'
"And to speak sooth, sweet chuck, there may be a matter of half a bushel
of snow--if you measure it by bushels,--it's a matter of fancy--down my
manly back at this moment."
"Oh, Gerald! But do go home, my dear, and change your things! You will
get your death of cold, if you go about in this state."
"I'll move into the adjoining territory at once!" said Gerald. "But calm
yourself, angelic being! Consider that in this manner I avoid all danger
of sunstroke! Every man his own refrigerator; patent applied for; no
Irish need apply."
"What is the use of talking to people like this!" cried Hildegarde.
"Jack, are you as wet as that? Because if you are,--"
"As wet as what?" said Jack. "I am not, anyhow, if you are going to
look at me in that way. Just wet enough to cool me off delightfully;
very sultry to-day, don't you think so?"
"Mr. Merryweather," cried Hildegarde. "Will you use your authority,
please, and try to get some sense out of these boys? They are both wet
through to the skin, and they will not--"
"Wet, are they?" said the Chief, cheerily. "Best thing in the world for
'em, my dear! Quicken the circulation, and keep the pores open. Now
then, boys and girls, we must pack closer this time. Sit close, Kitty!
Hilda, hold tight, my dear! All ready? Now, one, two, three, and off we
go!"
And off they went.