Holly Hill was the place for Christmas! From Bob down to brown-eyed
Evelyn, with her golden hair floating all around her, every one hung up
a stocking, and the visit of Santa Claus was the event of the year.
They went to sleep on the night before Christmas--or rather they went
to bed, for sleep was long far from their eyes,--with little squeakings
and gurglings, like so many little white mice, and if Santa Claus
had not always been so very punctual in disappearing up the chimney
before daybreak, he must certainly have been caught; for by the time
the chickens were crowing in the morning there would be an answering
twitter through the house, and with a patter of little feet and subdued
laughter small white-clad figures would steal through the dim light
of dusky rooms and passages, opening doors with sudden bursts, and
shouting “Christmas gift!” into darkened chambers, at still sleeping
elders, then scurrying away in the gray light to rake open the hickory
embers and revel in the exploration of their crowded stockings.
Such was Christmas morning at Holly Hill in the old times before the
war. Thus it was, that at Christmas 1863, when there were no new toys
to be had for love or money, there were much disappointment and some
murmurs at Holly Hill. The children had never really felt the war until
then, though their father, Major Stafford, had been off, first with
his company and then with his regiment, since April, 1861. Now from
Mrs. Stafford down to little tot Evelyn, there was an absence of the
merriment which Christmas always brought with it. Their mother had done
all she could to collect such presents as were within her reach, but
the youngsters were much too sharp not to know that the presents were
“just fixed up”; and when they were all gathered around the fire in
their mother’s chamber, Christmas morning, looking over their presents,
their little faces wore an expression of pathetic disappointment.
“I don’t think much of _this_ Christmas,” announced Ran, with
characteristic gravity, looking down on his presents with an air of
contempt. “A hatchet, a ball of string, and a hare-trap isn’t much.”
Mrs. Stafford smiled, but the smile soon died away into an expression
of sadness.
“I too have to do without my Christmas gift,” she said. “Your father
wrote me that he hoped to spend Christmas with us, and he has not come.”
“Never mind; he may come yet,” said Bob encouragingly. (Bob always was
encouraging. That was why he was “Old Bob.”) “An axe was just the
thing I wanted, mamma,” said he, shouldering his new possession proudly.
Mrs. Stafford’s face lit up again.
“And a hatchet was what I wanted,” admitted Ran; “now I can make my own
hare-traps.”
“An’ I like a broked knife,” asserted Charlie stoutly, falling
valiantly into the general movement, whilst Evelyn pushed her long hair
out of her eyes, and hugged her baby, declaring:
“I love my dolly, and I love Santa Tlaus, an’ I love my papa,” at which
her mother took the little midget to her bosom, doll and all, and hid
her face in her tangled curls.