The _lex talionis_ has no place in Christmas giving. Do not think
or feel that you must give to someone because someone gave to
you. There is no barter about it. You give because you love and
without a thought of return. Credit others with the same feeling
and be governed thereby. I know one upon whose Christmas list
there are over one hundred and fifty people, rich and poor, high
and low, able and not able. That man would be dismayed beyond
measure if everyone of those people felt obliged to make a return
for the Christmas remembrances he so gladly sends them.
In giving remember after all the cardinal principle of the day.
Let your gift be an expression of your kindly remembrance, your
gentle consideration, your joyful spirit, your spontaneous
gratitude, your abiding desire for peace and goodwill toward men.
Hunt up somebody who needs and who without you may lack and
suffer heart hunger, loneliness, and disappointment.
Nor is Christmas a time for gluttonous eating and drinking. To
gorge one’s self with quantities of rich and indigestible food is
not the noblest method of commemorating the day. The rules and
laws of digestion are not abrogated upon the Holy day. These are
material cautions, the day has a spiritual significance of which
material manifestations are, or ought to be, outward and visible
expressions only.
Christmas is one of the great days of obligation in the Church
year, then as at Easter if at no other time, Christians should
gather around the table of the Lord, kneeling before God’s altar
in the ministering of that Holy Communion which unites them with
the past, the present, and the future—the communion of the saints
of God’s Holy Church with His Beloved Son. Then and thus in body,
soul, and spirit we do truly participate in the privilege and
blessing of the Incarnation, then and there we receive that
strength which enables everyone of us to become factors in the
great extension of that marvellous occurrence throughout the ages
and throughout the world.
Let us therefore on this Holy Natal Day, from which the whole
world dates its time, begin on our knees before that altar which
is at once manger, cross, throne. Let us join thereafter in holy
cheer of praise and prayer and exhortation and Christmas carol,
and then let us go forth with a Christmas spirit in our hearts
resolved to communicate it to the children of men, and not merely
for the day but for the future. To make the right use of these
our privileges, this it is to save the world.
In this spirit, therefore, so far as poor, fallible human nature
permits him to realize it and exhibit it, the author wishes all
his readers which at present comprise his only flock—
A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING
_In Which it is Shown how Different the Same Things may Be_
_A Story for Girls_
In Philadelphia the rich and the poor live cheek by jowl—or
rather, back to back. Between the streets of the rich and
parallel to them, run the alleys of the poor. The rich man’s
garage jostles elbows with the poor man’s dwelling.
In a big house fronting on one of the most fashionable streets
lived a little girl named Ethel. Other people lived in the big
house also, a father, a mother, a butler, a French maid, and a
host of other servants. Back of the big house was the garage.
Facing the garage on the other side of the alley was a little,
old one-story-and-a-half brick house. In this house dwelt a
little girl named Maggie. With her lived her father who was a
labourer; her mother, who took in washing; and half a dozen
brothers, four of whom worked at something or other, while the
two littlest went to school.
Ethel and Maggie never played together. Their acquaintance was
simply a bowing one—better perhaps, a smiling one. From one
window in the big playroom which was so far to one side of the
house that Ethel could see past the garage and get a glimpse of
the window of the living-room in Maggie’s house, the two little
girls at first stared at each other. One day Maggie nodded and
smiled, then Ethel, feeling very much frightened, for she had
been cautioned against playing with or noticing the children in
the alley, nodded and smiled back. Now neither of the children
felt happy unless they had held a pantomimic conversation from
window to window at some time during the day.
It was Christmas morning. Ethel awoke very early, as all properly
organized children do on that day at least. She had a beautiful
room in which she slept alone. Adjacent to it, in another room
almost as beautiful, slept Celeste, her mamma’s French maid.
Ethel had been exquisitely trained. She lay awake a long time
before making a sound or movement, wishing it were time to arise.
But Christmas was strong upon her, the infection of the season
was in her blood. Presently she slipped softly out of bed,
pattered across the room, paused at the door which gave entrance
to the hall which led to her mother’s apartments, then turned and
plumped down upon Celeste.
“Merry Christmas,” she cried shaking the maid.
To awaken Celeste was a task of some difficulty. Ordinarily the
French woman would have been indignant at being thus summarily
routed out before the appointed hour but something of the spirit
of Christmas had touched her as well. She answered the salutation
of the little girl kindly enough, but as she sat up in bed she
lifted a reproving finger.
“But,” she said, “you mus’ keep ze silence, Mademoiselle Ethel.
Madame, vôtre maman, she say she mus’ not be disturb’ in ze
morning. She haf been out ver’ late in ze night and she haf go to
ze bed ver’ early. She say you mus’ be ver’ quiet on ze Matin de
Noël!”
“I will be quiet, Celeste,” answered the little girl, her lip
quivering at the injunction.
It was so hard to be repressed all the time but especially on
Christmas Day of all others.
“Zen I will help you to dress immediatement, and zen Villiam, he
vill call us to see ze tree.”
Never had the captious little girl been more docile, more
obedient. Dressing Ethel that morning was a pleasure to Celeste.
Scarcely had she completed the task and put on her own clothing
when there was a tap on the door.
“Vat is it?”
“Mornin’, Miss Celeste,” spoke a heavy voice outside, a voice
subdued to a decorous softness of tone, “if you an’ Miss Ethel
are ready, the tree is lit, an’—”
“Ve air ready, Monsieur Villiam,” answered Celeste, throwing open
the door dramatically.
Ethel opened her mouth to welcome the butler—for if that solemn
and portentous individual ever unbent it was to Miss Ethel, whom
in his heart of hearts he adored—but he placed a warning finger
to his lip and whispered in an awestruck voice:
“The master, your father, came in late last night, Miss, an’ he
said there must be no noise or racket this morning.”
Ethel nodded sadly, her eyes filling at her disappointment;
William then marched down the hall with a stately magnificence
peculiar to butlers, and opened the door into the playroom. He
flung it wide and stood to one side like a grenadier, as Celeste
and Ethel entered. There was a gorgeous tree, beautifully
trimmed. William had bought the tree and Celeste’s French taste
had adorned it. It was a sight to delight any child’s eyes and
the things strewn around it on the floor were even more
attractive. Everything that money could buy, that Celeste and
William could think of was there. Ethel’s mother had given her
maid carte blanche to buy the child whatever she liked, and
Ethel’s father had done the same with William. The two had pooled
their issue and the result was a toyshop dream. Ethel looked at
the things in silence.
“How do you like it, Miss?” asked William at last rather
anxiously.
“Mademoiselle is not pleased?” questioned the French woman.
“It—it—is lovely,” faltered the little girl.
“We haf selected zem ourselves.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Didn’t mamma—buy anything—or papa—or Santa?”
“Zey tell us to get vatever you vould like and nevair mind ze
money.”
“It was so good of you, I am sure,” said Ethel struggling
valiantly against disappointment almost too great to bear.
“Everything is beautiful but—I—wish mamma or papa had—I wish they
were here—I’d like them to wish me a Merry Christmas.”
The little lip trembled but the upper teeth came down on it
firmly. The child had courage. William looked at Celeste and
Celeste shrugged her shoulders, both knowing what was lacking.
“I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry Christmas,
an’”—the butler began bravely, but the situation was too much for
him. “There goes the master’s bell,” he said quickly and turned
and stalked out of the room gravely, although no bell had
summoned him.
[Illustration: “I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry
Christmas.”]
“You may go, Celeste,” said Ethel with a dignity not unlike her
mother’s manner.
The maid shrugged her shoulders again, left the room and closed
the door. Everything was lovely, everything was there except that
personal touch which means so much even to the littlest girl.
Ethel was used to being cared for by others than her parents but
it came especially hard on her this morning. She turned, leaving
the beautiful things as they were placed about the tree, and
walked to the end window whence she could get a view of the
little house beyond the garage over the back wall.
There was a Christmas tree in Maggie’s house too. It wouldn’t
have made a respectable branch for Ethel’s tree, and the
trimmings were so cheap and poor that Celeste would have thrown
them into the waste basket immediately. There were a few common,
cheap, perishable little toys around the tree on the floor but to
Maggie it was a glimpse of heaven. She stood in her little white
night-gown—no such thing as dressing for her on Christmas
morning—staring around her. The whole family was grouped about
her, even the littlest brothers, who went to school because they
were not big enough to work, forgot their own joy in watching
their little sister. Her father, her mother, the big boys all in
a state of more or less dishevelled undress stood around her,
pointing out first one thing and then another which they had been
able to get for her by denying themselves some of the necessities
of life. Maggie was so happy that her eyes brimmed, yet she did
not cry. She laughed, she clapped her hands, and kissed them all
round and finally found herself, a big orange in one hand, a tin
trumpet in the other, perched upon her father’s broad shoulders
leading a frantic march around the narrow confines of the
living-room. As she passed by the one window she caught a glimpse
of the alley. It had been snowing throughout the night and the
ground was white.
“Oh,” she screamed with delight, “let me see the snow on
Christmas morning.”
Her father walked over to the window, parted the cheap lace
curtains, while Maggie clapped her hands gleefully at the
prospect. Presently she lifted her eyes and looked toward the
other window high up in the air, where Ethel stood, a mournful
little figure. Maggie’s papa looked too. He knew how cheap and
poor were the little gifts he had bought for his daughter.
“I wish,” he thought, “that she could have some of the things
that child up there has.”
Maggie however was quite content. She smiled, flourished her
trumpet, waved her orange, but there was no answering smile on
Ethel’s face now. Finally the wistful little girl in the big
house languidly waved her hand, and then Maggie was taken away to
be dressed lest she should catch cold after the mischief was
done.
“I hope that she’s having a nice Christmas,” said Maggie,
referring to Ethel.
“I hope so too,” answered her mother, wishing that her little
girl might have some of the beautiful gifts she knew must be in
the great house.
“Whatever she has,” said Maggie, gleefully, “she can’t have any
nicer Christmas than I have, that you and papa and the boys gave
me. I’m just as happy as I can be.”
Over in the big house, Ethel was also wishing. She was so unhappy
since she had seen Maggie in the arms of her big, bearded father,
standing by the window, that she could control herself no longer.
She turned away and threw herself down on the floor in front of
the tree and buried her face in her hands bursting into tears.
It was Christmas morning and she was all alone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
“_Christmas Then and Now_”
The Stars look down On David’s town, While angels sing in Winter night;
The Shepherds pray, And far away The Wise Men follow guiding light.
Little Christ Child By Mary Mild In Manger lies without the Inn;
Of Man the Son, Yet God in One, To save the lost in World of Sin.
Still stars look down
On David’s town And still the Christ Child dwells with men,
What thought give we To such as He, Or souls who live in Sin as then?
Show we our love To Him above By offering others’ grief to share;
And Christmas cheer For all the year Bestow to lighten pain and care.
[Illustration: The Stars Look Down (music page one)]
[Illustration: The Stars Look Down (music page two)]
[Illustration]
THE LONE SCOUT’S CHRISTMAS
_Wherein is Set Forth the Courage and Resourcefulness of Youth_
_A Story for Boys_
Every boy likes snow on Christmas Day, but there is such a thing
as too much of it. Henry Ives, alone in the long railroad coach,
stared out of the clouded windows at the whirling mass of snow
with feelings of dismay. It was the day before Christmas, almost
Christmas Eve. Henry did not feel any too happy, indeed he had
hard work to keep down a sob. His mother had died but a few weeks
before and his father, the captain of a freighter on the Great
Lakes, had decided, very reluctantly, to send him to his brother
who had a big ranch in western Nebraska.
Henry had never seen his uncle or his aunt. He did not know what
kind of people they were. The loss of his mother had been a
terrible blow to him and to be separated from his father had
filled his cup of sorrow to the brim. His father’s work did not
end with the close of navigation on the lakes, and he could not
get away then although he promised to come and see Henry before
the ice broke and traffic was resumed in the spring.
The long journey from the little Ohio town on Lake Erie to
western Nebraska had been without mishap. His uncle’s ranch lay
far away from the main line of the railroad on the end of the
branch. There was but one train a day upon it, and that was a
mixed train. The coach in which Henry sat was attached to the end
of a long string of freight cars. Travel was infrequent in that
section of the country. On this day Henry was the only passenger.
The train had been going up-grade for many miles and had just
about reached the crest of the divide. Bucking the snow had
become more and more difficult; several times the train had
stopped. Sometimes the engine backed the train some distance to
get headway to burst through the drift. So Henry thought nothing
of it when the car came to a gentle stop.
The all-day storm blew from the west and the front windows of the
car were covered with snow so he could not see ahead. Some time
before the conductor and rear brakeman had gone forward to help
dig the engine out of the drift and they had not come back.
Henry sat in silence for some time watching the whirling snow. He
was sad; even the thought of the gifts of his father and friends
in his trunk which stood in the baggage compartment of the car
did not cheer him. More than all the Christmas gifts in the
world, he wanted at that time his mother and father and friends.
“It doesn’t look as though it was going to be a very merry
Christmas for me,” he said aloud at last, and then feeling a
little stiff from having sat still so long he got up and walked
to the front of the car.
It was warm and pleasant in the coach. The Baker heater was going
at full blast and Henry noticed that there was plenty of coal. He
tried to see out from the front door; but as he was too prudent
to open it and let in the snow and cold he could make out
nothing. The silence rather alarmed him. The train had never
waited so long before.
Then, suddenly, came the thought that something very unusual was
wrong. He must get a look at the train ahead. He ran back to the
rear door, opened it and standing on the leeward side, peered
forward. The engine and freight cars were not there! All he saw
was the deep cut filled nearly to the height of the car with
snow.
Henry was of a mechanical turn of mind and he realized that
doubtless the coupling had broken. That was what had happened.
The trainmen had not noticed it and the train had gone on and
left the coach. The break had occurred at the crest of the divide
and the train had gone rapidly down hill on the other side. The
amount of snow told the boy that it would not be possible for the
train to back up and pick up the car. He was alone in the
wilderness of rolling hills in far western Nebraska. And this was
Christmas Eve!
It was enough to bring despair to any boy’s heart. But Henry Ives
was made of good stuff, he was a first-class Boy Scout and on his
scout coat in the trunk were four Merit Badges. He had the spirit
of his father, who had often bucked the November storms on Lake
Superior in his great six-hundred-foot freighter, and danger
inspired him.
He went back into the car, closed the door, and sat down to think
it over. He had very vague ideas as to how long such a storm
would last and how long he might be kept prisoner. He did not
even know just where he was or how far it was to the end of the
road and the town where his uncle’s ranch lay.
It was growing dark so he lighted one of the lamps close to the
heater and had plenty of light. In doing so he noticed in the
baggage rack a dinner pail. He remembered that the conductor had
told him that his wife had packed that dinner pail and although
it did not belong to the boy he felt justified in appropriating
it in such circumstances. It was full of food—eggs, sandwiches,
and a bottle of coffee. He was not very hungry but he ate a
sandwich. He was even getting cheerful about the situation
because he had something to do. It was an adventure.
While he had been eating, the storm had died away. Now he
discovered that it had stopped snowing. All around him the
country was a hilly, rolling prairie. The cut ran through a hill
which seemed to be higher than others in the neighbourhood. If he
could get on top of it he might see where he was. Although day
was ending it was not yet dark and Henry decided upon an
exploration.
Now he could not walk on foot in that deep and drifted snow
without sinking over his head under ordinary conditions, but his
troop had done a great deal of winter work, and strapped
alongside of his big, telescope grip were a pair of snow-shoes
which he himself had made, and with the use of which he was
thoroughly familiar.
“I mustn’t spoil this new suit,” he told himself, so he ran to
the baggage-room of the car, opened his trunk, got out his Scout
uniform and slipped into it in a jiffy. “Glad I ran in that
‘antelope dressing race,’” he muttered, “but I’ll beat my former
record now.” Over his khaki coat he put on his heavy sweater,
then donned his wool cap and gloves, and with his snow-shoes
under his arm hurried back to the rear platform. The snow was on
a level with the platform. It rose higher as the coach reached
into the cut. He saw that he would have to go down some distance
before he could turn and attempt the hill.
He had used his snow-shoes many times in play but this was the
first time they had ever been of real service to him. Thrusting
his toes into the straps he struck out boldly.
[Illustration: “Thrusting his toes into the straps he struck out
boldly.”]
To his delight he got along without the slightest difficulty
although he strode with great care. He gained the level and in
ten minutes found himself on the top of the hill, where he could
see miles and miles of rolling prairie. He turned himself slowly
about, to get a view of the country.
As his glance swept the horizon, at first it did not fall upon a
single, solitary thing except a vast expanse of snow. There was
not a tree even. The awful loneliness filled him with dismay. He
had about given up when, in the last quarter of the horizon he
saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, what looked like a fine
trickle of blackish smoke that appeared to rise from a shapeless
mound that bulged above the monotonous level.
“Smoke means fire, and fire means man,” he said, excitedly.
The sky was rapidly clearing. A few stars had already appeared.
Remembering what he had learned on camp and trail, he took his
bearing by the stars; he did not mean to get lost if he left that
hill. Looking back, he could see the car, the lamp of which sent
broad beams of light through the windows across the snow.
Then he plunged down the hill, thanking God in his boyish heart
for the snow-shoes and his knowledge of them.
It did not take him long to reach the mound whence the smoke
rose. It was a sod house, he found, built against a sharp knoll,
which no doubt formed its rear wall. The wind had drifted the
snow, leaving a half-open way to the door. Noiselessly the boy
slipped down to it, drew his feet from the snow-shoes and
knocked. There was a burst of sound inside. It made his heart
jump, but he was reassured by the fact that the voices were those
of children. What they said he could not make out; but, without
further ado, he opened the door and entered.
It was a fairly large room. There were two beds in it, a stove, a
table, a chest of drawers and a few chairs. From one of the beds
three heads stared at him. As each head was covered with a wool
cap, drawn down over the ears, like his own, he could not make
out who they were. There were dishes on the table, but they were
empty. The room was cold, although it was evident that there was
still a little fire in the stove.
“Oh!” came from one of the heads in the bed. “I thought you were
my father. What is your name?”
“My name,” answered the boy, “is Henry Ives. I was left behind
alone in the railroad car about a mile back, and saw the smoke
from your house and here I am.”
“Have you brought us anything to burn?” asked the second head.
“Or anything to eat?” questioned the third.
“My name is Mary Wright,” said the first speaker, “and these are
my brothers George and Philip. Father went away yesterday morning
with the team, to get some coal and some food. He went to Kiowa.”
“That’s where I am going,” interrupted Henry.
“Yes,” continued Mary, “I suppose he can’t get back because of
the snow. It’s an awful storm.”
“We haven’t anything to eat, and I don’t know when father will be
back,” said George.
“And it’s Christmas Eve,” wailed Philip, who appeared to be about
seven.
He set up a howl about this which his brother George, who was
about nine, had great difficulty in quieting.
“We put the last shovelful of coal in the stove,” said Mary
Wright, “and got into bed to keep warm.”
“I’ll go outside while you get up and dress,” said Henry
considerately, “and then we will try and get to the car. It is
warm there, and there is something to eat.”
“You needn’t go,” said the girl; “we are all dressed.” She threw
back the covers and sprang out of bed. She was very pretty and
about Henry’s own age, he discovered, although she was pale and
haggard with cold and hunger.
“Goody, goody!” exclaimed little Philip, as his feet landed on
the floor. “Maybe we’ll have some Christmas, too.”
“Maybe we will,” said Henry, smiling at him. “At least we will
have something to eat.”
“Well, let’s start right away then,” urged George.
This brought Henry face to face with a dilemma. “I have only one
pair of snow-shoes,” he said at last, “and you probably don’t
know how to use them anyway, and you can’t walk on the snow.”
“I have a sled,” suggested George.
“That won’t do,” said Henry. “I’ve got to have something that
won’t sink in the snow—that will lie flat, so I can draw you
along.”
“How about that table?” said the girl.
“Good suggestion,” cried Henry.
It was nothing but a common kitchen table. He turned it upside
down, took his Scout axe from its sheath, knocked the legs off,
fastened a piece of clothesline to the butts of two of them.
“Now if I could have something to turn up along the front, so as
not to dig into the snow,” he said, “it would be fine.” He
thought a moment. “Where is that sled of yours, George?”
“Here,” said George, dragging it forth. The runners curved
upwards. Henry cut them off, in spite of Philip’s protests. He
nailed these runners to the front of the table and stretched rope
tightly across them so that he had four up-curves in front of the
table.
“Now I want something to stretch on these things, so as to let
the sled ride over the snow, instead of digging into it,” he said
to the girl.
She brought him her father’s old “slicker.” Henry cut it into
suitable shape and nailed and lashed it securely to the runners
and to the table top. Now he had a flat-bottomed sled with a
rising front to it that would serve. He smiled as he looked at
the queer contrivance and said aloud: “I wish Mr. Lesher could
see that!”