“HOW TO DO IT.”
As the days passed, and Christmas-tide drew nearer, Berty’s wish
gained fuller and fuller possession of her childish heart. To get a
Christmas tree for these poor little children, who had no father or
mother, who had “only Bert,”—to make them for once perfectly happy,
as happy as rich Herr Westermann’s boys and girls,—and to do this all
herself,—how delightful, and yet how impossible the project seemed.
How bright and cheerful the old garret would appear, lighted up
by the glories of such a tree as the Westermann’s, for Bertha’s
dim German recollections were wonderfully freshened by Gottlieb’s
descriptions; how her mother would smile from her sweet rest in
Paradise upon the little pale girl to whose feeble care she had, with
such a failing heart, committed her little ones; how sweetly her
father would sleep in his bed there under the sea, if he knew how
happy his darlings were made.
Then the gifts, too. Oh, how Berty’s imagination revelled in those
gifts! Of course, there must be the blazing tapers, and the gold and
silver nuts, and the apples, and oranges, and candy; but there must
be also—what?—ah, a little cart for Fritzy, and—oh yes, a whole row
of pewter soldiers, and a whistle, and a rattle;—only think of a
baby who had never had a rattle! Then there must be a doll for Rosa,
and perhaps a cradle to rock it in; and Lieb must have a drum, for
he so dearly loves to make a noise, and perhaps a tin sword too,
and a soldier’s cap;—then he might “train” with the other boys upon
the street, perhaps even be Captain of a Company: how Lieb would
like that! And Lina must have a set of dishes, for Lina was such a
tidy little housekeeper she would be sure to like that best of all.
And Berty—ah! Berty would have _done it_; surely, that would be fun
enough: Berty was the little mother; surely, that was joy enough for
her.
O yes! it was easy enough to arrange all that; it was easy enough
to think _what_ to get; but _how_ to get it—that was quite another
thing. So, whenever this troublesome question came up, Berty was
fain, for a long time, to put it out of her head. But at last the
simple child bethought herself that this question, “How to do it,”
was by far the most important question of the two. If the Christmas
tree was ever to be anything more than a beautiful dream, this
question must be settled first of all. And so she set herself
resolutely to consider it.
The fairy godmother of Mrs. Flanagan’s tales was, as I said, the
first thought; but Bertha, having been born in Germany, instead
of Ireland, could never feel quite certain that she had a fairy
godmother. Biddy, to whom she applied in her perplexity, knew nothing
about German fairies; she could only speak confidently about the
“good little people” of her own green island, who were but too fond
of children, as she knew; for had not her own husband’s first cousin
had a child carried off by them, changed in its cradle for a fairy
babe,—a strange little being, which never grew older or larger, but
remained always a merry, silly child. Berty did not like this view
of the subject at all: but for the Christmas tree, she would have
been relieved to know that there was no such person about, for she
had no mind to have her Fritzy exchanged for any fairy folk. Ah, if
she would but bring the Christmas tree, and then fly away, and never,
never, come back any more! But, even if she had such a guardian, how
could she be sure that it had not been left in the “old country,”
along with the rest of their household treasures: the donkey, the
goat, the pet kid, the pink china shepherdess, the painted tea-set,
and the great old pewter tankard, which she dimly remembered.
Again she applied to Biddy:—did fairies ever emigrate? “Whisht,
child!” answered Mrs. Flanagan; “how can I tell? Sure, the fairy folk
are very wise, and is it likely they’d fash themselves with crossing
the salt wather? And Ameriky’s but a wild counthry, wid snakes, and
bears, and Injuns,—not tame and tidy like ould Ireland; and the weeny
people could never bide in cities. They must have their green rings
to dance upon, and all that. Troth, though, I _did_ see a place
in the park whin we wint there the day, so trim and green I tould
Mike it looked a likely spot for the good folk; but thin there’s
the p’leecemen. Whisht, child, how can _I_ tell? And why need ye be
talkin’ so much of them? Sure, Berty, they don’t like it; and it’s
not good to vex them.”
So at last, all things considered, Bertha came to the conclusion
that this fairy godmother was much too uncertain a personage to be
trusted with such an important and difficult matter as her Christmas
tree. But she could not manage alone,—how could she? It was almost
impossible for her, with all the help she had from the kind world, to
get food enough for all those children to eat, and clothing enough
for them to wear: how could she, whose only living was gained by
picking up what other people threw away as worthless, hope to indulge
in this luxury of giving, which few of the people around her, so much
better off than herself, could afford? No, she could never do it
alone. Who then would help her? Not Biddy: she was much too poor and
too busy to bother herself with such a matter. Not Madame Hansmann:
she might be willing, but her cross, beer-drinking son, with whom she
lived, and of whom she stood in such terror that she never permitted
the children to come to her except when he was absent, would never
allow it. Who, then, would help her? She had no one else.
“No one else!” It was to this sad conclusion of all her hopes and
schemes that Berty had come upon the evening when my story begins,
when she sat by the window, looking up at the dull rainy sky. It
was this dreary thought which made her turn back, with such a weary
sigh, to her unpleasant work at Gottlieb’s summons. Poor Berty! the
rags had never seemed so filthy, the bits of iron never so rusty,
the whole basket of odds and ends never so worthless, as they did
that night. She had no sympathy with Gottlieb’s rejoicing over his
two horse-shoes, no patience with Lina’s lingering over the bits of
an illustrated newspaper; and, when she crept into her bed in the
darkness, after Gottlieb had returned from his nightly chaffer with
“Moses,” the _Vaterunser_ was, I am sorry to say, forgotten.
“No one else!” What was it, then, that put into Berty’s mind, as she
lay there awake in the darkness, brooding over her fruitless plans,
the remembrance of that old talk of the children which had given rise
to them? What was it made her recall that sweet thought of little
Rosa’s, that it was the Christ-child brought the gifts,—or that still
sweeter faith of Lina’s, that JESUS would never forget them because
they were poor. What was it? Oh, my children! rather, _Who_ was it?
Who but that Friend, the best and dearest Who watches over us all,
even while we forget Him, and showers upon us new blessings, even
while we are unthankful for those He has already sent.
JESUS would not forget them: they had no father, no mother; but they
still had Him. I cannot tell you with what a flash of joy and hope
this thought filled little Bertha’s lonely heart. I suppose you could
never fully understand it until, like Bertha, you had “no one else”;
which, God grant, may never be your case; for it is a hard trial,
this having no one else, though it is an inestimable blessing to have
Him. And so Berty found it when she rose from her bed, and, kneeling
once more by the window, with her face turned toward the sky, laid
all her cares and hopes and wishes at His feet.
And I cannot think that Berty was wrong or foolish in this, even
though her trouble was about such a little thing; for I am sure that
He who cares for the sparrows, and who has provided so many beautiful
things for us to enjoy, cares even for our slightest pleasures, and
helps us to gain them when they are right.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]