HERZENRUHE.
A STORY has come down to us of a cricket that, hidden away in an old oak
chest, found its way to the New World in the hold of the Mayflower. When
night came, and the strange loneliness of those winter wilds made the
bravest heart appalled; when little children held with homesick longing
to their mother's hands, and talked of England's bonny hedgerows, then
the brave little cricket came out on the hearthstone; and its familiar
chirp, bringing back the cheer of the happy past, comforted the
children, and sang new hopes into the hearts of their elders.
With every vessel that has touched the New World's shores since that
time have come these fireside voices. Whether stowed away in the ample
chests of the first Virginians, or bound in the bundles of the last
steerage passengers just landed at Castle Garden, some quaint custom of
a distant Fatherland has always folded its wings, ready to chirp on the
new hearthstone, the familiar even-song of the old.
That is how the American celebration of Christmas has become so
cosmopolitan in its character. It is a chorus of all the customs that,
cricket-like, have journeyed to us, each with its song of an "auld lang
syne."
"I should like to have a little of everything this year," remarked Miss
Caroline, as, pencil in hand, she prepared to make a long memorandum.
It was two weeks before Christmas, and she had called a family council
in her room, after Jack had gone to bed.
Mrs. Marion and Lois were there, busily embroidering.
"It is the first time we have had a home of our own for so many years,
or been where there is a child in the family," added Miss Harriet, "that
we ought to make quite an occasion of it."
"Now, my idea," remarked Miss Caroline, "is to begin back with the
mistletoe of the Druids, and then the holly and plum-pudding of old
England. I'm sorry we can't have the Yule log and the wassail-bowl and
the dear little Christmas waits. It must have been so lovely. But we
can have a tree Christmas eve, with all the beautiful German customs
that go with it. Jack must hang up his stocking by the chimney, whether
he believes in Santa Claus or not. Then we must read up all the
Scandinavian and Dutch and Flemish customs, and observe just as many as
we can."
"And all this just for Jack and Lee," said Mrs. Marion, thoughtfully.
"Bless you, no," exclaimed Miss Caroline. "Jack is going to invite ten
poor children that the Junior Mercy and Help Department have reported.
He is so grateful for being able to walk a little, that he wants to give
up his whole Christmas to them."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Lois. "I'm through with my last
present now, and am ready for anything, from serving a dinner to the
slums to playing a bagpipe for its entertainment."
As she spoke she snipped the last thread of silk with her little silver
scissors, and tossed the piece of embroidery into Bethany's lap.
Bethany spread it out admiringly. "You are a true artist, Lois," she
said. "These sweet peas look as if they had just been gathered. They
would almost tempt the bees."
"They're not as natural as Ray's buttercups," answered Lois. "You can't
guess whom she's making that table-cover for?"
Mrs. Marion held it up for them to see. "For that dear old grandmother
where we were entertained at Chattanooga last summer," she said. "Don't
you remember Mrs. Warford, Bethany? She couldn't hear well enough to
enjoy the meetings, or to talk to us much, but her face was a perpetual
welcome. She asked me into her room one day, and showed me a great bunch
of red clover some one had sent her from the country. She seemed so
pleased with it, and told me about the clover chains she used to make,
and the buttercups she used to pick in the meadows at home, with all the
artlessness of a child. That is why I chose this design."
"There never was another like you, Cousin Ray," said Bethany. "You
remember everything and everybody at Christmas, and I don't see how you
ever manage to get through with so much work."
"Love lightens labor," quoted Miss Harriet, sententiously. "At least
that's what my old copy-book used to say."
"And it also said, if I remember aright," said Miss Caroline, a little
severely, "'Plan out your work, and work out your plan.' It's high time
we were settling down to business, if we expect to accomplish anything."
While this Christmas council was in session in Miss Caroline's room,
another was being held in an old farm-house in the northern part of the
State, by Gottlieb Hartmann's wife and daughter. Everything in the room
gave evidence of German thrift and neatness, from the shining brass
andirons on the hearth, to the geraniums blooming on the window-sill.
"Herzenruhe" was the name of the home Gottlieb Hartmann had left behind
him in the Fatherland, when he came to America a poor emigrant boy; and
that was the name now carved on the arch that spanned the wide
entrance-gate, leading to the home and the well-tilled acres that he had
earned by years of steady, honest toil.
It was indeed "heart's-ease," or heart-rest, to every wayfarer sheltered
under its ample roof-tree.
He had accumulated his property by careful economy, but he gave out with
the same conscientious spirit with which he gathered in. No matter when
the summons might come, at nightfall or at cock-crowing, he was ready to
give an account of his faithful stewardship. Not only had he divided his
bread with the hungry, but he had given time and personal care, and a
share in his own home-life, to those who were in need.
More than one young farmer, jogging past Herzenruhe in a wagon of his
own, looked gratefully up the long lane, and remembered that he owed the
steady habits of his manhood and his present prosperity to Gottlieb
Hartmann. For in all the years since he had had a place of his own,
there had seldom been a time when some homeless boy or another had not
been a member of his household.
He was an old man now, white-haired and rheumatic, and called
grandfather by all the country side; but he was still young at heart,
sweet and sound to the very core, like a hardy winter apple. His
children had all married and gone farther West, except his oldest
daughter, Carlotta, whom no one had ever been able to lure away from
her comfortable home-nest. She was an energetic, self-willed little
body, and had gradually assumed control until the entire household
revolved around her. Just now she had wheeled her sewing-machine beside
the table, on which the evening lamp stood, and was preparing to dress a
whole family of dolls to be packed in the Christmas boxes that were soon
to be sent West.
Her mother sat on one side of the fireplace, her sweet, wrinkled old
face bright with the loving thoughts that her needles were putting into
a little red mitten, destined for one of the boxes.
"It will be the first Christmas since I can remember," said Carlotta,
"that there will be no little ones here, and no tree to light. Ben's boy
was here last year, and all of Mary's children the year before. It's a
pity they are so far away. It will just spoil my Christmas."
Mr. Hartmann laid down the German Advocate he was reading.
"Ach, Lotta," he said, "I forgot to tell you. There will be a little lad
here to-morrow to take dinner with us. When I was in town to-day I met
our good friend, Frank Marion, and he had a boy with him whose father is
just dead, and he is the guardian."
"How many years has it been since Mr. Marion first came here?" asked
Carlotta. "Seems to me I was only a little girl, and now I have pulled
out lots of gray hairs already."
"It has been twenty years at least," answered her mother. "It was while
we were building the ice-house, I know."
"Yes," assented her husband, "I had gone into Ridgeville one Saturday to
get some new boots, and I met him in the shoestore. He was just a young
fellow making his first trip, and he seemed so strange and homesick that
when I found he was a country boy and a strong Methodist, I brought him
out here to stay over Sunday with us."
"I remember you brought him right into the kitchen where I was dropping
noodles in the soup," answered Mrs. Hartmann, "and he has seemed to feel
like one of the family ever since."
"Yes, he has never missed coming out here every time he has been in this
part of the State, from that day to this," said Mr. Hartmann, taking up
his paper again.
Meanwhile, in the Ridgeville Hotel, three miles away, Mr. Marion was
telling Lee of all the pleasant things that awaited him at Herzenruhe.
The boy was so impatient to start that he could hardly wait for the time
to come, and he dreamed all night of the country.
Mr. Marion saw very little of him during the visit. The delighted child
spent all his time in the barn, or in the dairy, helping Miss Carlotta.
"O, I wish we didn't ever have to go away," he said. "There's the
dearest little colt in the barn, and six Holstein calves, and a big pond
in the pasture covered with ice!"
Later he confided to Mr. Marion, "Miss Carlotta makes doughnuts every
Saturday, and she says there's bushels of hickory-nuts in the garret."
When Miss Carlotta found that Mr. Marion was going on to the next town
before starting home, she insisted on keeping Lee until his return.
"Let him get some of 'the sun and wind into his pulses.' It will be good
for him," she said.
"Nobody knows better than I," answered Mr. Marion, "the sweet
wholesomeness of country living. I should be glad to leave him in such
an atmosphere always. He would develop into a much purer manhood, and I
am sure would be far happier."
Miss Carlotta shook her head sagely. "We'll see," she said. "Don't say
anything to him about it, but we'll try him while you're gone, and then
I'll talk to father. He seems right handy about the chores, and there is
a good school near here."
Two days later, when Mr. Marion came back, he went out to the barn to
find Lee. The boy had just scrambled out of a haymow with his hat full
of eggs. His face was beaming.
"I've learned to milk," he said proudly, "and I rode to the post-office
this afternoon, horseback."
"Do you like it here, my boy?" asked Mr. Marion.
"Like it!" repeated Lee, emphatically. "Well I should say! Mr. Hartmann
is just the grandfatheriest old grandfather I ever knew, and they're all
so good to me."
It proved to be a very eventful journey for the boy; for after some
discussion about his board, it was arranged that he should come back to
the farm after the holidays.
"Do I have to wait till then?" he asked. "Why couldn't I stay right on,
now I'm here. You could send my clothes to me, and it wouldn't cost near
as much as to go home first."
"What will Bethany say?" asked Mr. Marion. "She is planning for a big
tree and lots of fun Christmas."
"But papa won't be there," pleaded Lee. "I'd so much rather stay here
than go back to town and find him gone."
"Then you shall stay," exclaimed Miss Carlotta, touched by the
expression of his face. "We'll have a tree here. You can dig one up in
the woods yourself."
When Mr. Marion drove away, Lee rode down the lane with him to open the
big gate. After he had driven through he turned for one more look.
The boy stood under the archway waving good-bye with his cap. The late
afternoon sun shone brightly on the happy face, and illuminated the
snow, still clinging to the quaintly carved letters on the arch above,
till it seemed they were all golden letters that spelled the name of
Herzenruhe.
* * * * *
This holiday season would have been a sad time for Bethany, had she
allowed herself to listen to the voices of Christmas past, but Baxter
Trent's example helped her. She turned resolutely away from her
memories, saying: "I will be like him. No heart shall ever have the
shadow of my sorrow thrown across it."
Full of one thought only, to bring some happiness into every life that
touched her own, she found herself sharing the delight of every child
she saw crowding its face against the great show windows. She
anticipated the pleasure that would attend the opening of each bundle
carried by every purchaser that jostled against her in the street. It
was impossible for her to breathe the general air of festivity at home,
and not carry something of the Christmas spirit to the office with her.
"Everybody has caught the contagion," she said gayly, coming into the
office Saturday afternoon, with sparkling eyes, and snowflakes still
clinging to her dark furs. "I saw that old bachelor, Mr. Crookshaw, whom
everybody thinks so miserly, going along with a little red cart under
his arm, and a tin locomotive bulging out of his pocket."
"Jack is missing a great deal," said David, "by not being down-town
every day."
"O no, indeed!" she exclaimed. "He is nearly wild now with the
excitement of the preparations that are going on at home. That reminds
me, he has written a special invitation for you to be present at the
lighting of his tree Christmas eve. He put it in my muff, so that I
could not possibly forget. I am sure you will enjoy watching the
children," she added, after she had told him of their various plans,
"and I hope you will be sure to come."
"Thank you," he responded, warmly. "That is the second invitation I have
had this afternoon. Mr. Marion has just been in to ask me to attend the
League's devotional meeting to-morrow night. He says it will be
especially interesting on account of the season, and insists that 'turn
about is fair play.' He went to our Atonement-day services, and he wants
me to be present at his Christmas services."
"We shall be very glad to have you come," said Bethany. "Dr. Bascom is
to lead the meeting instead of any of the young people, who usually take
turns. I can not tell how such a meeting might impress an outsider; to
me they are very inspiring and helpful."
That night, as she sat in her room indulging in a few minutes of
meditation before putting out the light, she reviewed her acquaintance
with David Herschel. Her conscience condemned her for the little use she
had made of her opportunity.
It had been four months since he had come into the office, and while
they had several times discussed their respective religions, she had
never found an occasion when she could make a personal appeal to him to
accept Christ. Once when she had been about to do so, he had abruptly
walked away, and another time, a client had interrupted them.
"I must speak to him frankly," she said. Then she knelt and prayed that
something might be said or sung in the service of the morrow that would
prepare the way for such a conversation.
David felt decidedly out of place Sunday evening as he took a seat in
the back part of the room, in the least conspicuous corner he could
find.
They were singing when he entered. He recognized the tune. It was the
one he had heard at Chattanooga--"Nearer, my God, to Thee." It seemed to
bring the whole scene before him--the sunrise--the vast concourse of
people, and the earnestness that thrilled every soul.
At the close of the song, another was announced in a voice that he
thought he recognized. He leaned forward to make sure. Yes, he had been
correct. It was Hewson Raleigh's--one of the keenest, most scholarly
lawyers at the bar, and a man he met daily.
He was leaning back in his seat, beating time with his left hand, as he
led the tune with his strong tenor voice. He sang as if he heartily
enjoyed it, and meant every word and note.
David moved over to make room for a newcomer. From his changed position
he could see a number of people he recognized: Mr. and Mrs. Marion, Lois
Denning, and the Courtney sisters. Bethany was seated at the piano.
Presently the door from the pastor's study opened, and Dr. Bascom came
in and took his seat beside the president of the League.
"Look at Dr. Bascom," he heard some one behind him whisper to her
escort. "What do you suppose could have happened? His face actually
shines."
David had been watching it ever since he took his seat. It was a benign,
pleasant face at all times, but just now it seemed to have caught the
reflection of a great light. Everybody in the room noticed it. David,
quick to make Old Testament comparisons, thought of Moses coming down
the mountain from a talk with God. He felt as positively, as if he had
seen for himself, that the minister had just risen from his knees, and
had come in among them, radiant from the unspeakable joy of that
communion. Every one present began to feel its influence.
The prophecy Dr. Bascom had chosen for reading, was one they had heard
many times, but it seemed a new proclamation as he delivered it:
"Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given."
Something of the gladness that must have rung through the song of the
heralds on that first Christmas night, seemed to thrill the minister's
voice as he read.
Then he turned to Luke's account of the shepherds abiding in the fields
by night--that beautiful old story, that will always be new until the
stars that still shine nightly over Bethlehem shall have ceased to be a
wonder.
As the service progressed, David began to feel that he was not in a
church, but that he had stumbled by mistake on some family reunion.
Everything was so informal. They told the experiences of the past week,
the blessings and the trials that had come to them since they had last
seen each other.
Sometimes they stood; oftener they spoke from where they sat, just as
they would have talked in some home-circle.
And through it all they seemed to recognize a Divine presence in the
room, to whom they spoke at intervals with reverence, with humility, but
with the deepest love and gratitude.
As David listened to voice after voice testifying to a personal
knowledge of Christ as a Savior, he was forced to admit to himself that
they possessed something to which he was an utter stranger.
When Hewson Raleigh arose, David listened with still greater interest.
He knew him to be an eloquent lawyer, and had heard him a number of
times in rousing political speeches, and once in a masterly oration over
the Nation's dead on Memorial-day. He knew what a power the man had with
a jury, and he knew what respect even his enemies had for his
unimpeachable veracity and honor.
Raleigh stood up now, quiet and unimpassioned as when examining a
witness, to give his own clear, direct, lawyer-like testimony.
He said: "There may be some here to-night to whom the prophecy that was
read, and the story of the Advent, are only of historic interest. To
such I do not come with the sayings of the prophets, or to repeat the
tidings of the shepherds, or to ask any one's credence because the
apostles and martyrs and Christians of all times believed. I tell you
that which I myself do know. The Holy Spirit has led me to the Christ.
If he were only an ethical teacher, if he were not the Son of God, he
could not have entered into my life, and transformed it as he has done.
My star of hope is far more real to me than the stars outside that
lighted my way to this room to-night. I have knelt at his feet and
worshiped, and gone on my way rejoicing. I know that through the
sacrifice he offered on Calvary my atonement is made, and I stand
before the Father justified, through faith in his only-begotten. The
voice that bears witness to this may not be audible to you; but though
all the voices in the universe were combined to dispute it, they would
be as nothing to that still, small voice within that whispers peace--the
witness of the Spirit."
On the Day of Atonement Marion and Cragmore had not been half so
surprised at hearing the League benediction intoned by rabbi and choir,
as was David when the familiar blessing of the synagogue was repeated in
unison by those of another faith:
"The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon
thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon
thee, and give thee peace."
David had heard so much of Methodists that he had expected noisy
demonstrations and great exhibitions of emotion. He had found
enthusiastic singing and hearty responses of amen during the prayers;
but while the prevailing spirit seemed one of intense earnestness, it
had the depth and quiet of some great, resistless under-current.
He slipped out of the room after the benediction, fearful of meeting
curious glances. A member of the reception committee managed to shake
hands with him, but his friends had not discovered his attendance.
Two things followed him persistently. The expression of Dr. Bascom's
face, and Hewson Raleigh's emphatic "I know."
He took the last train out to Hillhollow, wishing he had staid away from
the League meeting. It haunted him, and made him uncomfortable.
He walked the floor until long after midnight. Even sleep brought him no
rest, for in his dreams he was still groping blindly in the dark for
something--he knew not what--but something wise men had found long years
ago in a starlit manger, earth's "Herzenruhe."