came the babble of tiny voices drawing nearer. Anything so gay and
charming was never dreamed of before,--half a laugh, half a song, the
tones blended into an enchanting peal, like bells on a frolic. Above the
old tower the sounds clustered and increased,--then a long, distressed
cry came from the owl, and a bubbling laugh floated in on the wind.
Roger could not stand it. Wild to see, he flew to the window, and tried
to stretch his neck in such a way as to catch what was going on above;
but it was a vain attempt, and just then the church-bells began to ring
all together, a chime, a Christmas chime, only the sounds were
infinitely small, as if baby hands had laid hold on the ropes. But his
sharpened senses brought every note and change to Roger's ears, and they
were so merry and so lovely that he felt he must get nearer or die; and
almost before he knew it he was climbing the dark belfry-stairs as fast
as his feet could carry him, never thinking of fear or darkness, only of
the elfin bells which were pealing overhead.
Up, up, through the long slits in the tower the moon could be seen
sailing in the cold, clear blue. Higher, higher,--at last he gained the
belfry. There hung the four great bells, but nobody was pulling at their
heavy ropes. On each iron tongue was perched a fay; on the chains which
suspended them clustered others, all keeping time by the swaying of
their bodies as they swung to and fro, just grazing either side, and
bringing forth a clear, delicate stroke, sweet as laughter,--just loud
enough for fairy ears.
Through the windows the crowd of floating fays could be seen whirling
about in the moonlight like glittering gossamer. They floated in and out
of the tower, they mounted the great bells and sat atop in swarms, they
chased and pushed each other, playing all sorts of pranks. Below, others
were attacking the owl's nest. Roger could hear their hoots and grunts
and the gleeful laughter of the elves. The moon made the tower light as
noon; all the time the elves sang or talked,--which, he could not tell;
there were words, but all so blent with laughs and mirthful trills that
it was nothing less than music.
To and fro, to and fro, keeping time to a fairy rhythm, they swayed in
unison with the tiny peal they rang. Little quarrels arose. Once Roger
watched an elf trying to mount the clapper, and whenever he neared the
top a mischievous comrade pushed him off again. Then the elf pouted,
and, flying away, he returned with a holly-leaf. Small as it was, it
curled over his head like a huge umbrella. With the spiky point he slyly
pricked the elf above; and he, taken by surprise, lost his hold, and
came tumbling down, while the other danced for glee and clapped his
hands mockingly. Pretty soon, however, all was made up again,--they
kissed and were friends,--and Roger saw them perched opposite each
other, and moving to and fro like children in a swing.
How long the pretty sight lasted he could not tell. So fearful was he of
marring the sport that he never stirred a finger; but all at once there
came a strain of music in the air, solemn, and sweeter than ever mortal
heard before. In a moment the elves left their sports; they clustered
like bees together in the window, and then flew from the tower in one
sparkling drift, and were gone, leaving Roger alone, and the owls
hooting below in the ivy.
And then he felt afraid,--which he had not been as long as the fays were
there,--and down he ran in a fright over the stone steps of the stairs,
and entered the church again. The red glow of the fire was grateful to
him, for he was shivering with cold and excitement; but hardly had he
regained his old seat, when, lo! a great marvel came to pass. The wide
window over the altar swung open, and a train of angels slowly floated
through. How he knew them to be angels, Roger could not have told; but
that they were, he was sure,--Christmas angels, with faces of calm,
glorious beauty, and robes as white as snow. Over the altar they
hovered, and a wonderful song rose and filled the church--no bird's
strain was ever half so sweet. The words were few, but again and again
and again they came: "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace,
good-will to men!"
Roger knew the oft-repeated words,--they were those of the great
evergreen motto which overarched the chancel; but I think he never
forgot the beautiful meaning they seemed to bear as the angels sang them
over and over. It was so wondrous sweet that he could not feel
afraid,--he could only gaze and gaze, and hold his breath lest he should
lose a note.
And the song rang on, clear and triumphant, even as the white-robed
choir parted and floated like soft summer clouds to and fro in the
church, pausing ever and anon as in blessing. They touched the leaves of
the Christmas green as they passed; they hung over the organ and brushed
the keys with their wings; a long time they clustered above the benches
of the poor, as if to leave a fragrance in the air; and then they rested
before a tablet which had been put up but a few months before, and which
bore the name of the rector's eldest son, and the dates of his birth and
death. Roger had been told of this brave lad, and how he had lost his
life in plunging from his ship to save the drowning child of an
emigrant; and now the angel-song seemed sweeter than ever, as over and
again they chanted, "Good-will to men,--good-will to men."
At last one of the white-winged ones left the others, and hovered awhile
above the Squire's pew, near which our little boy was hidden. A
prayer-book lay open on the rail, and over this the fair angel bent as
in benediction. A girl had sat there once,--the Squire's only daughter.
Roger remembered her well, and the mourning of the whole parish when,
only a twelvemonth ago, the lovely child had been buried from their
sight; and now, as he timidly glanced into the glorious face above him,
it seemed to him to have the same look, only so ineffably beautiful that
he closed his dazzled eyes to shut out the vision and the light that
shone from the white wings,--only for a moment, then he opened them
again, as a gentle rustling filled the air, and he saw the bending
figure stoop, leave a kiss or a blessing on the pages of the open book,
and then glide away with the others. Again the group hovered above the
altar,--louder and clearer rose the triumphant strain, and, noiseless as
a cloud, the snowy train floated to the window. For one moment their
figures could be seen against the sky, then the song died away,--they
were gone, and Roger saw them no more.
And now the light of dawn began to creep into the windows, twittering
sounds showed the birds awakening outside, and a pink streak appeared in
the sky. Too much rapt by his vision to feel impatience, the boy sat and
waited; and by and by a jingling in the lock showed Grandfather at
hand,--the door opened, and he came in.
You can guess his surprise when his little grandson flew to meet him
with his wonderful story. As for the story, he pooh-poohed
_that_,--sleeping in such a strange place might well bring about a queer
dream, he said; but he took the boy home to the cottage, and Granny,
full of wonderment and sympathy, speedily prepared a breakfast for her
darling after his adventure. But, even with his mouth full of scalding
bread and milk, Roger would go on telling of angels and fairies, and the
owls' talk in their nest, till both grandparents began to think him
bewitched.
Perhaps he was, for to this day he persists in the story. And though the
villagers that morning exclaimed that at no time had their old church,
in its Christmas dress, looked so beautiful before, and though the organ
sent forth a rarer, sweeter music than fingers had ever drawn from it,
still nobody believed a word of it. And though the poor mother, kneeling
in her lonely pew, and missing her darling from beside her, felt a
strange peace and patience enter her heart, and came away calmed and
blessed, still no one listened to the story. "Roger had dreamed it all,"
they said; and perhaps he had,--only the owls knew.
* * * * *
MR. BLUFFS EXPERIENCES OF HOLIDAYS
OLIVER BELL BUNCE
"I hate holidays," said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little
irritation, on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant,
after which he resumed: "I don't mean to say that I hate to see people
enjoying themselves. But I hate holidays, nevertheless, because to me
they are always the dreariest and saddest days of the year. I shudder at
the name of holiday. I dread the approach of one, and thank Heaven when
it is over. I pass through, on a holiday, the most horrible sensations,
the bitterest feelings, the most oppressive melancholy; in fact, I am
not myself at holiday-times."
"Very strange," I ventured to interpose.
"A plague on it!" said he, almost with violence. "I'm not inhuman. I
don't wish anybody harm. I'm glad people can enjoy themselves. But I
hate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason: I am a
bachelor; I am without kin; I am in a place that did not know me at
birth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere for
me. I have friends, of course; I don't think I've been a very sulky,
shut-in, reticent fellow; and there is many a board that has a place for
me--but not at Christmas-time. At Christmas, the dinner is a family
gathering; and I've no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on
this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for
a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all its
kindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced selfish.
Each little set gathers within its own circle; and people like me, with
no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of
all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I'm without
an invitation.
"Oh, it's because I pine for good cheer," said the bachelor, sharply,
interrupting my attempt to speak, "that I hate holidays. If I were an
infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and have
some fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate to be
in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays,
because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays, and can't.
"Don't tell me," he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; "I
tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their
bright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with
merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and
laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any
pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the
show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their
uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those
places; so, if I go, I must go alone. But I don't go. I can't bear the
chill of seeing everybody happy, and knowing myself so lonely and
desolate. Confound it, sir, I've too much heart to be happy under such
circumstances! I'm too humane, sir! And the result is, I hate holidays.
It's miserable to be out, and yet I can't stay at home, for I get
thinking of Christmases past. I can't read--the shadow of my heart makes
it impossible. I can't walk--for I see nothing but pictures through the
bright windows, and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I've
nothing to do but to hate holidays.--But will you not dine with me?"
Of course, I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I
couldn't quite invite Mr. Bluff home _that_ day, when Cousin Charles and
his wife, and Sister Susan and her daughter and three of my wife's kin,
had come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I
felt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a "merry
Christmas," and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air.
I did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the
next year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to
him after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let
Bachelor Bluff tell his adventure for himself:
"I went to church," said he, "and was as sad there as everywhere else.
Of course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine; but all
around me were happy groups of people, who could scarcely keep down
_merry_ Christmas long enough to do reverence to _sacred_ Christmas. And
nobody was alone but me. Every happy paterfamilias in his pew tantalized
me, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed so much better suited
to every one else than me that I came away hating holidays worse than
ever. Then I went to the play, and sat down in a box all alone by
myself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and
jokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured
freedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the
only person in the whole theater that was alone. And then there was such
clapping of hands, and roars of laughter, and shouts of delight at all
the fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly
enjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share and
interchange the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and
I hated holidays infinitely worse than ever.
"By five o'clock the holiday became so intolerable that I said I'd go
and get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide. A sumptuous
dinner. A sumptuous dinner for one. A dinner with many courses, with
wines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire,
with every condition of comfort--and I'd see if I couldn't for once
extract a little pleasure out of a holiday!
"The handsome dining-room at the club looked bright, but it was empty.
Who dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a
flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants
were, no doubt, glad of something to break the monotony of the hours.
"My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely; but the
white, snowy cloths, the rich window-hangings, the warm tints of the
walls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air
of elegance and cheerfulness; and then the table at which I dined was
close to the window, and through the partly-drawn curtains were visible
centers of lonely, cold streets, with bright lights from many a window,
it is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the
street. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it
would, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the
brilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.
"I dined well, and recalled in fancy old, youthful Christmases, and
pledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy was mellowing
into a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine
to my lips, I was startled by a picture at the window-pane. It was a
pale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair, pressed
against the glass. As I looked, it vanished. With a strange thrill at my
heart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine
and set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar-girl that had
crept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within;
but still the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow
on my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about
to drink, when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so
thin, with eyes so large, wild, and hungry-looking, and the black,
unkempt hair, into which the snow had drifted, formed so strange and
weird a frame to the picture, that I was fairly startled. Replacing,
untasted, the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane.
The face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the
window. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts
through the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying
wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not
repress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose
only Christmas was to watch, in cold and storm, the rich banquet
ungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the
table; but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish.
I was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an
unreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth
my detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a holiday
with any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by
too much pleasure on one side, and too much misery on the other. And
then, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, 'How
many other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of
enjoyment others possessed!
"Oh, yes, I know," sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of
mine; "of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-souled people
delight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to
accept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little
girl--"
"Dear little girl!"
"Oh, I forgot," said Bachelor Bluff, blushing a little, in spite of a
desperate effort not to do so, "I didn't tell you. Well, it was so
absurd! I kept thinking, thinking of the pale, haggard, lonely little
girl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the over-fed,
discontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the
window-pane; and I didn't get much happier thinking about it, I can
assure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine--not that I enjoyed
its flavor any more, but mechanically, as it were, and with a sort of
hope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my
annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more
vehemently than ever. I rose once in a while and went to the window, but
could see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged.
"At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and
went out; and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure
crouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough
encounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very
irritated and angry, and spoke harshly; and then, all at once, I am sure
I don't know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men,
had no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a
Christmas as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word, but
began feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question
or two, and then I don't quite know how it came about--isn't it very
warm here?" exclaimed Bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about, and
wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"Well, you see," he resumed nervously, "it was very absurd, but I did
believe the girl's story--the old story, you know, of privation and
suffering, and all that--and just thought I'd go home with the brat and
see if what she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the
shops were closed, and not a purchase could be made. I went back and
persuaded the steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which the
half-wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing
with delight all the way.--And isn't this enough?"
"Not a bit, Mr. Bluff. I must have the whole story."
"I declare," said Bachelor Bluff, "there's no whole story to tell. A
widow with children in great need, that was what I found; and they had a
feast that night, and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a
garment or two the next day; and they were all so bright, and so merry,
and so thankful, and so good, that, when I got home that night, I was
mightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in
a state of great contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was
really merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor
wretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas
banquet that their spirits infected mine.
"And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable
to me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor hovering
wistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so
many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? 'Good
gracious!' I exclaimed, 'to think of a man complaining of loneliness
with thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with
endless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant
and delightful things to do! Just to think of it!' It put me in a great
fury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself
and began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly
forced myself to look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled
my conscience by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a
holiday again, might my holidays end at once and forever!
"Did I go and see my _protégés_ again? What a question! Why--well, no
matter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a
way to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's no fault
of mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn't let me. But
just let me tell you about New Year's--the New-Year's-day that followed
the Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me there was
another holiday only a week off. Bless you! I had so much to do that day
that I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long
enough. I did make a few social calls, but then I hurried them over; and
then hastened to my little girl, whose face had already caught a touch
of color; and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her
ribbons, took me to other poor folk, and--well, that's about the whole
story.
"Oh, as to the next Christmas. Well, I didn't dine alone, as you may
guess. It was up three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that
elegance that marked the dinner of the year before; but it was merry,
and happy, and bright; it was a generous, honest, hearty, Christmas
dinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn't talked so much
about the mysterious way a turkey had been left at her door the night
before. And Molly--that's the little girl--and I had a rousing appetite.
We went to church early; then we had been down to the Five Points to
carry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner; in
fact, we had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits, and so
the Christmas dinner was a great success.
"Dear me, sir, no! Just as you say. Holidays are not in the least
wearisome any more. Plague on it! When a man tells me now that he hates
holidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the button-hole
at once, and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on
a holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, God
bless all holidays!"
* * * * *
SANTA CLAUS AT SIMPSON'S BAR
BRET HARTE
It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. "Hush!"
said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of
Johnny from his adjacent closet: "Oh, dad!"
The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he
reappeared. "His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad," he explained, "and he
wants rubbin'." He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the table and
shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an
embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their
contents, and said hopefully, "I reckon that's enough; he don't need
much. You hold on, all o' you, for a spell, and I'll be back;" and
vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. The
door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly
audible:--
"Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?"
"Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it's most powerful from
yer to yer. Rub yer, dad."
A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny:--
"Hevin' a good time out yar, dad?"
"Yes, sonny."
"Tomorrer's Chrismiss,--ain't it?"
"Yes, sonny. How does she feel now?"
"Better. Rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it all
about?"
"Oh, it's a day."
This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a
silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again:--
"Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to
everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar's a
man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o'
Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things
to chillern,--boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what she
tried to play upon me. Easy, now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to,--thet's
a mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest to
aggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar--Why, dad!"
In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh of
the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct.
Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he went on: "Don't you take on now,
for I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys doin' out thar?"
The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were
sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a
lean buckskin purse on the table. "Bettin' on suthin',--some little game
or 'nother. They're all right," he replied to Johnny, and recommenced
his rubbing.
"I'd like to take a hand and win some money," said Johnny reflectively,
after a pause.