any longer. You see he married about forty years ago; his wife was a
Grundy, daughter of old Mrs. Grundy, of Fifth Avenue, of whom you've all
heard. She married him for his money, and couldn't put up with his plain
way of living and his careless jollity. He is such an easy-going, good
natured old soul, that she manages him without any trouble. So the first
thing she did was to make him change his name to St. Nicholas; then she
made him give up his old house, and move into town; then she sent away
the reindeers, for she didn't know what Ma _would_ say to such an
outlandish turn-out; then she threw away his pipe because it was vulgar,
and the first Christmas Eve that he went off and stayed out all night
she had hysterics, and declared she'd go home to her Ma, and get a
divorce if he ever did such a thing again. She'd have put a stop to his
giving away toys every year, too, only she thought it looked well, and
as it was, she wouldn't let him make them himself any more, but
compelled him to spend enormous sums in bringing them from Paris, and
Vienna, and Nuremberg.
So now Santa Claus is St. Nicholas, and lives in a brown stone house on
Fifth Avenue, a great deal handsomer than he can afford, and keeps a
carriage, not because he wants it, but because Mrs. Shoddy, next door,
keeps one; and loves, not to be jolly himself and to make everybody else
so, but to please his wife's mother. He has to give an awful pull, what
with his wife's extravagance, and the high prices of Parisian and
Viennese toys, to make both ends meet, although he does speculate in
stocks, and is very lucky. Instead of looking forward to Christmas with
pleasure, and thinking what a good time he will have, he pulls out his
ledger, and groans, and wonders how on earth he's going to make his
presents this year, and thinks he would stop giving them entirely, only
he's so mortally afraid of his mother-in-law, and he knows what she'd
say if he did. So he borrows money wherever he can, and sends over to
Paris for fans, and opera-glasses, and bon-bon boxes, and jewelry, and
when they come he sits down in his parlor and lets his wife tell him
just what to do with them. So she takes out her list and runs over the
names; she has all the rich people down, for she is a religious woman,
and the Bible says "unto him that hath, it shall be given." This is the
way she talks: "The little Croesuses must have some very elegant things,
of course; their mother's a horrid old cat, but Croesus could help you
very much in business. And there are the Centlivres; we must pick out
something magnificent for them; they give a party Christmas night: of
course the presents will be on exhibition, and I shall sink with shame
if any one else's are handsomer than ours." So she goes on, until all
the rich people are disposed of. Then Santa Claus asks: "How about the
Brinkers, my dear?" The Brinkers are great favorites of his. "Good
gracious, dearest! How often have I told you, you mustn't manifest such
an interest in those Brinkers? What would Ma say if she knew you
associated with such common people!" "But, I'm Dutch myself, pet." "Of
course you are, darling, but there's no need of letting every one know
it!" St. Nicholas hardly dares to do it, but he finally suggests very
meekly: "The poor children, my darling." "Bother the poor children, my
dear!" They're a most affectionate couple, you know. Then St. Nicholas
sighs and sighs, and sends for his messengers, and they all come in with
long faces, and take off big packages to the Croesuses and the
Centlivres, and the rest of them. The messengers do their work entirely
as a matter of business, so there isn't a sign of a laugh, nor a symptom
of a chuckle in the air next day. The little Croesuses first cry,
because they haven't received more, and then fight over what they have;
then they eat too much French candy, and get sick and cross, and the
whole house is filled with their noise. So mamma has a headache; and
papa longs for his office, and misses the tick-tick of the stock
telegraph, and thinks what a confounded nuisance holidays are. That is
what Christmas is like in good society.
But I must tell you a secret. Away up in the fourth-story of his grand
house, where his wife never goes, St. Nicholas has a little workshop,
and there he sits whenever he gets a chance, making the most wonderful
dolls, and gorgeous soldiers, and miraculous jumping-jacks, and tin
horns--such quantities of tin horns! Some one ought to speak to him
about those tin horns. But after all they please the poor children, so
we suppose it's all right. Now do you know what he does with these
things? On Christmas Eve he gets his old sled down from the stable away
up by the North Pole, and as soon as his wife is fast asleep, he puts on
his old furs and gets out from under his shirts in his bureau drawer a
Dutch pipe, three times as big as the one his wife threw away, and off
he goes. He tumbles down all the poor people's chimneys, and fills up
the stockings to overflowing, and plants gorgeous Christmas trees in all
the Mission schools.
He has a glorious good time, and laughs and chuckles tremendously,
except when, once in a while, he thinks of what would happen if his wife
found him out.
So there's a little fun going on after all.
Do you know, if it were not for this performance of his, we should wish
with all our heart that St. Nicholas were dead and buried. But we must
say, we wish his wife would die, and that all the Grundy family would
follow her good example, for between them they've spoiled a good many
jolly people besides St. Nicholas.
* * * * *
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND
There's a song in the air!
There's a star in the sky!
There's a mother's deep prayer
And a baby's low cry!
And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing,
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.
There's a tumult of joy
O'er the wonderful birth,
For the virgin's sweet boy
Is the Lord of the earth,
Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing,
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.
In the light of that star
Lie the ages impearled;
And that song from afar
Has swept over the world.
Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing
In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King.
We rejoice in the light,
And we echo the song
That comes down through the night
From the heavenly throng.
Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring,
And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King!
* * * * *
AN OFFERTORY
MARY MAPES DODGE
Oh, the beauty of the Christ Child,
The gentleness, the grace,
The smiling, loving tenderness,
The infantile embrace!
All babyhood he holdeth,
All motherhood enfoldeth--
Yet who hath seen his face?
Oh, the nearness of the Christ Child,
When, for a sacred space,
He nestles in our very homes--
Light of the human race!
We know him and we love him,
No man to us need prove him--
Yet who hath seen his face?
* * * * *
CHRISTMAS SONG
LYDIA A.C. WARD
Why do bells for Christmas ring?
Why do little children sing?
Once a lovely, shining star,
Seen by shepherds from afar,
Gently moved until its light
Made a manger-cradle bright.
There a darling baby lay
Pillowed soft upon the hay.
And his mother sang and smiled,
"This is Christ, the holy child."
So the bells for Christmas ring,
So the little children sing.
* * * * *
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
CHRISTIAN BURKE
The trees are hung with crystal lamps, the world lies still and white,
And the myriad little twinkling stars are sharp with keener light;
The moon sails up the frost-clear sky and silvers all the snow,
As she did, perchance, that Christmas night, two thousand years ago!
Good people, are you waking?
Give us food and give us wine,
For the sake of blessed Mary
And her Infant Son Divine,
Who was born the world's Redeemer--
A Saviour--yours and mine!
Long ago angelic harpers sang the song we sing to-day,
And the drowsy folk of Bethlehem may have listened as they lay!
But eager shepherds left their flocks, and o'er the desert wild
The kingly sages journeyed to adore the Holy Child!
Has any man a quarrel?
Has another used you ill?
The friendly word you meant to say,
Is that unspoken still?--
Then, remember, 'twas the Angels
Brought glad tidings of good will!
Of all the gifts of Christmas, are you fain to win the best?
Lo! the Christ-child still is waiting Himself to be your guest;
No lot so high or lowly but He will take His part,
If you do but bid Him welcome to a clean and tender heart.
Are you sleeping, are you waking?
To the Manger haste away,
And you shall see a wond'rous sight
Amid the straw and hay.--
'Tis Love Himself Incarnate
As on this Christmas Day!
* * * * *
A SIMPLE BILL OF FARE FOR A CHRISTMAS DINNER
H.H.
All good recipe-books give bills of fare for different occasions, bills
of fare for grand dinners, bills of fare for little dinners; dinners to
cost so much per head; dinners "which can be easily prepared with one
servant," and so on. They give bills of fare for one week; bills of fare
for each day in a month, to avoid too great monotony in diet. There are
bills of fare for dyspeptics; bills of fare for consumptives; bills of
fare for fat people, and bills of fare for thin; and bills of fare for
hospitals, asylums, and prisons, as well as for gentlemen's houses. But
among them all, we never saw the one which we give below. It has never
been printed in any book; but it has been used in families. We are not
drawing on our imagination for its items. We have sat at such dinners;
we have helped prepare such dinners; we believe in such dinners; they
are within everybody's means. In fact, the most marvellous thing about
this bill of fare is that the dinner does not cost a cent. Ho! all ye
that are hungry and thirsty, and would like so cheap a Christmas dinner,
listen to this:
BILL OF FARE FOR A CHRISTMAS DINNER
_First Course_--Gladness.
This must be served hot. No two housekeepers make it alike; no fixed
rule can be given for it. It depends, like so many of the best things,
chiefly on memory; but, strangely enough, it depends quite as much on
proper forgetting as on proper remembering. Worries must be forgotten.
Troubles must be forgotten. Yes, even sorrow itself must be denied and
shut out. Perhaps this is not quite possible. Ah! we all have seen
Christmas days on which sorrow would not leave our hearts nor our
houses. But even sorrow can be compelled to look away from its sorrowing
for a festival hour which is so solemnly joyous at Christ's Birthday.
Memory can be filled full of other things to be remembered. No soul is
entirely destitute of blessings, absolutely without comfort. Perhaps we
have but one. Very well; we can think steadily of that one, if we try.
But the probability is that we have more than we can count. No man has
yet numbered the blessings, the mercies, the joys of God. We are all
richer than we think; and if we once set ourselves to reckoning up the
things of which we are glad, we shall be astonished at their number.
Gladness, then, is the first item, the first course on our bill of fare
for a Christmas dinner.
_Entrées._--Love garnished with Smiles.
GENTLENESS, with sweet-wine sauce of Laughter.
GRACIOUS SPEECH, cooked with any fine, savory herbs, such as Frollery,
which is always in season, or Pleasant Reminiscence, which no one need
be without, as it keeps for years, sealed or unsealed.
_Second Course_--HOSPITALITY.
The precise form of this also depends on individual preferences. We are
not undertaking here to give exact recipes, only a bill of fare.
In some houses Hospitality is brought on surrounded with Relatives. This
is very well. In others, it is dished up with Dignitaries of all sorts;
men and women of position and estate for whom the host has special
likings or uses. This gives a fine effect to the eye, but cools quickly,
and is not in the long-run satisfying.
In a third class, best of all, it is served in simple shapes, but with a
great variety of Unfortunate Persons,--such as lonely people from
lodging-houses, poor people of all grades, widows and childless in their
affliction. This is the kind most preferred; in fact, never abandoned by
those who have tried it.
_For Dessert._--MIRTH, in glasses.
GRATITUDE and FAITH beaten together and piled up in snowy shapes. These
will look light if run over night in the moulds of Solid Trust and
Patience.
A dish of the bonbons Good Cheer and Kindliness with every-day mottoes;
Knots and Reasons in shape of Puzzles and Answers; the whole ornamented
with Apples of Gold in Pictures of Silver, of the kind mentioned in the
Book of Proverbs.
This is a short and simple bill of fare. There is not a costly thing in
it; not a thing which cannot be procured without difficulty.
If meat be desired, it can be added. That is another excellence about
our bill of fare. It has nothing in it which makes it incongruous with
the richest or the plainest tables. It is not overcrowded by the
addition of roast goose and plum-pudding; it is not harmed by the
addition of herring and potatoes. Nay, it can give flavor and richness
to broken bits of stale bread served on a doorstep and eaten by beggars.
We might say much more about this bill of fare. We might, perhaps,
confess that it has an element of the supernatural; that its origin is
lost in obscurity; that, although, as we said, it has never been printed
before, it has been known in all ages; that the martyrs feasted upon it;
that generations of the poor, called blessed by Christ, have laid out
banquets by it; that exiles and prisoners have lived on it; and the
despised and forsaken and rejected in all countries have tasted it. It
is also true that when any great king ate well and throve on his dinner,
it was by the same magic food. The young and the free and the glad, and
all rich men in costly houses, even they have not been well fed without
it.
And though we have called it a Bill of Fare for a Christmas Dinner, that
is only that men's eyes may be caught by its name, and that they,
thinking it a specialty for festival, may learn and understand its
secret, and henceforth, laying all their dinners according to its magic
order, may "eat unto the Lord."
* * * * *
A BALLADE OF OLD LOVES
CAROLYN WELLS
Who is it stands on the polished stair,
A merry, laughing, winsome maid,
From the Christmas rose in her golden hair
To the high-heeled slippers of spangled suède
A glance, half daring and half afraid,
Gleams from her roguish eyes downcast;
Already the vision begins to fade--
'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.
Who is it sits in that high-backed chair,
Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed,
With a mockery gay of a stately air
As she rustles the folds of her old brocade,--
Merriest heart at the masquerade?
Ah, but the picture is passing fast
Back to the darkness from which it strayed--
'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.
Who is it whirls in a ball-room's glare,
Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid,
Like a radiant lily, tall and fair,
While the violins in the corner played
The wailing strains of the Serenade?
Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last--
E'en now my fancy it will evade--
'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.
L'ENVOI
Rosamond! look not so dismayed,
All of my heart, dear love, thou hast
Jealous, beloved? Of a shade?--
'Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.
* * * * *
BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS
ANDREW LANG
Between the moonlight and the fire
In winter twilights long ago,
What ghosts we raised for your desire,
To make your merry blood run slow!
How old, how grave, how wise we grow!
No Christmas ghost can make us chill,
Save those that troop in mournful row,
The ghosts we all can raise at will!
The beasts can talk in barn and byre
On Christmas Eve, old legends know.
As year by year the years retire,
We men fall silent then I trow,
Such sights hath memory to show,
Such voices from the silence thrill,
Such shapes return with Christmas snow,--
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
Oh, children of the village choir,
Your carols on the midnight throw,
Oh, bright across the mist and mire,
Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!
Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,
Let's cheerily descend the hill;
Be welcome all, to come or go,
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
ENVOY
Friend, sursum corda, soon or slow
We part, like guests who've joyed their fill;
Forget them not, nor mourn them so,
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
* * * * *
HANG UP THE BABY'S STOCKING
[Emily Huntington Miller]
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 to 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."
* * * * *
THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS
ANONYMOUS
God rest you, merry gentlemen!
May nothing you dismay;
Not even the dyspeptic plats
Through which you'll eat your way;
Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills
The season bids you pay;
No, nor the ever tiresome need
Of being to order gay;
Nor yet the shocking cold you'll catch
If fog and slush hold sway;
Nor yet the tumbles you must bear
If frost should win the day;
Nor sleepless nights--they're sure to come--
When "waits" attune their lay;
Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness
Might turn macassar gray;
Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,
And ravenous of play;
Nor yet--in fact, the host of ills
Which Christmases array.
God rest you, merry gentlemen,
May none of these dismay!
* * * * *
A CHRISTMAS LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA
DOUGLAS SLADEN
'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; 'twas two years yesterday
Since from the Lusitania's bows I looked o'er Table Bay,
A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main,
Expecting when her sails unfurled to start for home again.
'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; to-day our hearts are one,
Though you are 'mid the English snows and I in Austral sun;
You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile high a mightier fire,
Our ladies cower until it's past in lawn and lace attire.
I fancy I can picture you upon this Christmas night,
Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height;
And then a sudden, silent pause intruding on your glee,
And kind eyes glistening because you chanced to think of me.
This morning when I woke and knew 'twas Christmas come again,
I almost fancied I could view white rime upon the pane,
And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground,
And see the drip that downward steals in icy casket bound.
I daresay you'll be on the lake, or sliding on the snow,
And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow,
Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made,--
The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.
It is not quite a Christmas here with this unclouded sky,
This pure transparent atmosphere, this sun mid-heaven-high;
To see the rose upon the bush, young leaves upon the trees,
And hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.
But cold winds bring not Christmastide, nor budding roses June,
And when it's night upon your side we're basking in the noon.
Kind hearts make Christmas--June can bring blue sky or clouds above;
The only universal spring is that which comes of love.
And so it's Christmas in the South as on the North-sea coasts,
Though we are staved with summer-drouth and you with winter frosts.
And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while,
Though all the watery hemisphere cuts off the mother isle.
Feel sure that we shall think of you, we who have wandered forth,
And many a million thoughts will go to-day from south to north;
Old heads will muse on churches old, where bells will ring to-day--
The very bells, perchance, which tolled their fathers to the clay.
And now, good-night! and I shall dream that I am with you all,
Watching the ruddy embers gleam athwart the panelled hall;
Nor care I if I dream or not, though severed by the foam,
My heart is always in the spot which was my childhood's home.
* * * * *
CHRISTMAS
ROSE TERRY COOKE
Here comes old Father Christmas,
With sound of fife and drums;
With mistletoe about his brows,
So merrily he comes!
His arms are full of all good cheer,
His face with laughter glows,
He shines like any household fire
Amid the cruel snows.
He is the old folks' Christmas;
He warms their hearts like wine;
He thaws their winter into spring,
And makes their faces shine.
Hurrah for Father Christmas!
Ring all the merry bells!
And bring the grandsires all around
To hear the tale he tells.
Here comes the Christmas angel,
So gentle and so calm;
As softly as the falling flakes
He comes with flute and psalm.
All in a cloud of glory,
As once upon the plain
To shepherd-boys in Jewry,
He brings good news again.
He is the young folks' Christmas;
He makes their eyes grow bright
With words of hope and tender thought,
And visions of delight.
Hail to the Christmas angel!
All peace on earth he brings;
He gathers all the youths and maids
Beneath his shining wings.
Here comes the little Christ-child,
All innocence and joy,
And bearing gifts in either hand
For every girl and boy.
He tells the tender story
About the Holy Maid,
And Jesus in the manger
Before the oxen laid.
Like any little winter bird
He sings his sweetest song,
Till all the cherubs in the sky
To hear his carol throng.
He is the children's Christmas;
They come without a call,
To gather round the gracious Child,
Who bringeth joy to all.
But who shall bring _their_ Christmas
Who wrestle still with life?
Not grandsires, youths, or little folks,
But they who wage the strife--
The fathers and the mothers
Who fight for homes and bread,
Who watch and ward the living,
And bury all the dead?
Ah! by their side at Christmas-tide
The Lord of Christmas stands:
He smooths the furrows from their brow
With strong and tender hands.
"I take my Christmas gift," He saith,
"From thee, tired soul, and he
Who giveth to My little ones
Gives also unto Me."
* * * * *
IV
STORIES
THE FIR TREE
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
Out in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place;
it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew
many larger comrades--pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree
wished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun and
the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about
talking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and
raspberries. Often they came with a whole pot-full, or had strung
berries on a straw; then they would sit down by the little Fir Tree and
say, "How pretty and small that one is!" and the Tree did not like to
hear that at all.
Next year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was
longer still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of
rings they have how many years they have been growing.
"Oh, if I were only as great a tree as the others!" sighed the little
Fir, "then I would spread my branches far around, and look out from my
crown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my
boughs, and when the wind blew I could nod just as grandly as the others
yonder."
He took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red clouds
that went sailing over him morning and evening.
When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a
hare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the little
Fir Tree. Oh! this made him so angry. But two winters went by, and when
the third came the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was
obliged to run around it.
"Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the
world," thought the Tree.
In the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest
trees; that was done this year too, and the little Fir Tree, that was
now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees
fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so
that the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender--they could hardly
be recognized. But then they were laid upon waggons, and horses dragged
them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited
them?
In the spring, when the swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked
them, "Do you know where they were taken? Did you not meet them?"
The swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful,
nodded his head, and said,
"Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the
ships were stately masts; I fancy that these were the trees. They smelt
like fir. I can assure you they're stately--very stately."