MERRY DAYS AND SAD ONES.
“I DON’T care, I got the start of all of you,” said Ronald, as the
family were discussing over the breakfast table, Christmas morning, the
question who was the first to wish the others “a merry Christmas.” “I
heard the clock strike four, and I jumped right out of bed, and ran
into the entry, and wished you all a merry Christmas.”
“Well, that wasn’t fair—I was asleep, and didn’t hear you,” said Kate.
“So was I asleep,” “And I,” “And I,” added one and another.
“That makes no difference, so long as _I_ was awake,” replied Ronald.
“Ronald,” said Marcus, “reminds me of a fellow I have either heard or
dreamed about, who bragged that he got up and wished all the kingdoms
of the earth a happy new year at one lick. For my part, if any body has
got any good wishes for me, I should prefer to be informed of it when I
am awake. And I don’t care much about being lumped in with all the
kingdoms of the earth, either.”
“Well, sir, I wish you a merry Christmas, _all to yourself_,—I believe
you are awake now,” said Ronald, with a sly chuckle.
“There, I may as well give in—I wont try to say anything more,” added
Marcus, as the laugh went round the table at his expense.
After breakfast no little curiosity was excited by a package which
Marcus handed to Oscar. It was received by Marcus the day before, by
express, with a note requesting him to deliver it to Oscar, Christmas
morning. After removing sundry cords and wrappers, the contents stood
disclosed. There was a fine pair of skates, from his father; a gold
pen, from his mother; a pair of wrought slippers, from Alice, his
oldest sister; a beautiful book-mark from Ella, another sister; a book
from his brother Ralph; and a package of confectionery from George, his
youngest brother. Brief notes accompanied several of the presents.
There were also two letters in the package, the handwriting of one of
which, Oscar did not recognize. It proved to be from a young
acquaintance in Boston named William Davenport, who went by the
familiar name of “Whistler” among his comrades. It was written in
fulfilment of a promise he had made, before Oscar left Boston. The
other letter was from his mother, and, like all similar favors from
that source, was full, margin and all, of kind words, good advice, and
family news. It contained an item of intelligence, however, that cast
something of a damper over the spirits of Oscar. It was as follows:—
“The brig Susan has been heard from at last. You know we have
been looking for her ever since October. She foundered in a
gale in September, off the South American coast, and the men
took to the boats. One of the boats was picked up, after
floating about for several days, and the men in it were saved,
after enduring great hardships, and have arrived here. Nothing
has been heard of the other boat, on board which was poor
Jerry. His parents are much distressed about him; but your
father thinks he may be safe yet, as the boat may have reached
the shore, or may have fallen in with some outward-bound
vessel. Let us hope for the best, as long as we can.”
The “poor Jerry” referred to, was a cousin to Oscar. The two boys had
once been very intimate, somewhat to the damage of Jerry’s character;
and it was in a great measure owing to this intimacy that Jerry
absconded from his home, in Brookdale, about a year previous to this
time, and shipped for a voyage around Cape Horn.
There was to be a children’s Christmas party at the town hall, in the
evening, and the presents designed for the other members of the family
were reserved to grace the “tree” that was to be one of the chief
attractions of the occasion. Marcus and the children constituted a part
of the committee of arrangements for the festival, and were occupied
with their duties through a good part of the day. At an early hour in
the evening, the whole family proceeded to the town hall, where they
found the chief portion of the town’s population assembled, especially
the younger part. The hall, with its evergreen decorations, its
numerous lights, and its sea of happy faces, presented an enlivening
spectacle. At the hour appointed for opening the exercises, the
clergyman of the village ascended the platform, and after a few
remarks, invoked a blessing upon those assembled. Then came an
introductory declamation, by one of the academy boys, followed by the
recitation of an appropriate poem by a fair-haired little girl of six
summers. Next appeared upon the platform our two young friends Ronald
and Otis, who confronted each other in blank silence a minute or two,
and then retreated to the ante-room, without exchanging a word. Some of
the audience were in painful suspense, during this scene, supposing it
to be a failure; while others began to whisper that it was a tableau,
and not a dialogue, though they were puzzled to tell what it
represented, or why the figures should walk to and from the stage, in
sight of the audience.
A curtain before the platform now fell, and after a few minutes was
again raised, disclosing to the audience a charming tableau of
Minnehaha, the Indian maid. The two boys who had acted in the mute
scene, just before, now re-appeared, and went through very creditably
with a dialogue, Ronald, the leading speaker, having suddenly forgotten
his part, on his first appearance. Then followed several songs,
declamations and tableaux, after which the main attraction of the
evening was introduced, by the raising of the curtain which concealed
the Christmas tree from view. A loud and merry shout arose from the
young folks, which was prolonged for a minute or two, and followed by
general expressions of admiration from all present. There stood the
tree, a tall, straight and symmetrical evergreen, illuminated with
candles, arrayed among its branches, and adorned with artificial
icicles and snow flakes. The fruits, however, with which every bough
and twig seemed bending, were the most interesting objects of
contemplation to the hundred pairs of youthful eyes fixed earnestly
upon the tree. Many of these fruits, it is true, were hidden from
sight, by a rind of paper, cloth or wood; but imagination readily
supplied all deficiencies of this kind, and the little eyes gazed, and
sparkled, and longed, just as though they pierced through all the outer
coverings that concealed the tempting clusters which hung upon the
boughs.
After a few moments, Santa Claus suddenly appeared, and walking across
the platform, took his station by the side of the tree, amid rapturous
applause from the company. He appeared to be a venerable personage,
with a flowing gray beard, and was completely encased in furs, from top
to toe—fur boots, fur leggings, fur tunic, fur mittens, and a fur cap
which enveloped all of his head except the face. After silence had been
secured, he spoke, in tones which seemed very soft and gentle to
proceed from so rough and ancient a personage, and which not a few of
the audience declared “sounded just like the voice of Marcus Page.” He
said he had brought “heaps” of presents, and had almost broken his back
with the effort. He hoped he had brought something for everybody; but
if he had not, he trusted they would not blame him, for he had done the
best he could. He requested the children not to crowd around the tree,
and invited the recipients to walk up one by one as their names were
called. He then commenced gathering the fruit, to each of which was
attached the name of the person it was intended for. And now the sport
began in earnest. What a queer assortment of articles to gather from
one tree! There were gold rings, breastpins, lockets, pencils, and
pens; silver spoons and thimbles; work-boxes, wooden dogs, and stuffed
rabbits; books, fancy boxes, and popped corn; sleds, skates, and
mittens; pin-cushions, needle-books, and bags of candy; dolls, pocket
knives and cologne bottles. But time and patience would fail to mention
half the things that good Santa Claus handed down to the company. It
was an hour before the distribution was finished. The company then
adjourned to the room below, where they found an abundance of simple
country refreshments provided. A speech or two followed, and with three
cheers for Christmas day, and three more for Santa Claus, the
entertainment ended.
There was the usual exchange of good wishes and little keep-sakes, on
New Year’s morning, but the day was not otherwise distinguished as a
festival, and the schools kept, and business went on, as on other days.
As the family were seated at the breakfast table, a light rap upon the
door was heard, and on answering the call, Jessie Hapley, pale and
agitated, was found upon the steps.
“Mrs. Page,” she said, as soon as that lady appeared, “mother wants to
know if you will come right over—she is afraid Benny is dying;” and the
poor girl burst into tears as she delivered the message.
“Benny dying!” exclaimed Mrs. Page, “why, I had no idea he was so sick
as that—how long has he been so?”
“He grew worse very fast last night,” replied Jessie. “Henry has gone
for the doctor, and mother thought perhaps you could tell what to do,
till he comes.”
“Yes, I will go over immediately,” replied Mrs. Page, and she went for
her bonnet and shawl, and a minute after started by the shortest cut
across the fields for the house of sorrow.
Marcus would gladly have accompanied his mother, but for fear that his
presence at such a time might be regarded an intrusion. Benny was one
of a class of little boys which Marcus had instructed in the Sabbath
school for some two years. Partly from the gentle, winning disposition
of the child, and partly on account of the unfavorable influences to
which he was exposed at home, Marcus felt an especial interest in him,
and had watched his decline with no little solicitude. For several
months past, Benny had been able to attend the Sabbath school only
occasionally; but every Sunday his young teacher carried or sent to him
an attractive book from the library, and in other ways manifested his
continued interest in the sick scholar. It was with a heavy heart,
therefore, that Marcus heard his mother summoned to Benny’s death-bed,
on this pleasant New Year’s morning. An hour later, on his way to the
academy, he stopped at Mr. Hapley’s door, to inquire after the patient,
and was told that the doctor was still with him, and that the result of
his efforts in behalf of the boy was yet uncertain.
In spite of the pleasant associations of the day, and the kindly
greetings with which his scholars met him, a cloud hung over the
spirits of Marcus, which he was unable to dispel. One incident
occurred, however, which was peculiarly grateful to his feelings. On
entering the school-room, he was followed by Harrison Clark, who,
taking from behind a blackboard a handsomely finished cane, handed it
to Marcus, and, with some embarrassment in his manner, said:—
“Mr. Page, will you accept of this as a New Year’s present? It isn’t of
much value, but I made it myself on purpose for you.”
“Ah, is this your work?” inquired Marcus, carefully examining the
article, which was really well made, in every part. “Did you do it all
yourself—head, ferule, rings and all?”
“Yes, sir—Mr. Tucker let me use his tools, and I did the whole of the
work myself,” replied Harrison.
“It is certainly very creditable to you,” continued Marcus. “I don’t
see how it could be improved. Yes, I will accept it with great
pleasure, and thank you for it, too. Coming as a present from you, I
shall value it ten times what it would cost to get such a cane
made—yes, a hundred times. I shall remember your kindness with
gratitude, perhaps after you have forgotten both me and the cane.”
“I don’t think I shall forget you very soon—you have been so good to
me,” replied the boy, with a look which testified to the sincerity of
the remark.
“And you have proved yourself worthy of my kindness, so I need not take
much credit for that,” rejoined Marcus.
The boy, who but lately was so bold and defiant in his bearing, blushed
at this not unmeaning compliment, and withdrew.
When Marcus returned home, in the afternoon, he again stopped to
inquire after the sick boy, and was requested to go in, as Benny had
expressed a desire to see him. He found the sufferer in a little bed
which had been made up for him in the front room, near the fire, for he
complained much of the cold. A faint smile lit up his face as Marcus
entered.
“How is he, Mrs. Hapley?” inquired Marcus, as he seated himself by the
bedside, and took Benny’s cold hand into his own.
“I think he is a little more comfortable than he was this morning,”
replied Mrs. Hapley. “He has been very much distressed for breath, most
of the day, but he seems to be better, now.”
“I am glad to hear that, and I hope he will continue to improve,” said
Marcus.
Benny, whose mild, lustrous eyes had been fastened upon Marcus from the
moment he entered the door, was too weak to speak aloud; but as he
seemed to have something to say, Marcus bent his ear down to the boy’s
mouth, and was addressed in a whisper as follows:—
“I’m not going to get well, and I don’t want to. I’m going to heaven
pretty soon. I have been longing to go, ever since I was taken sick,
and now I know I’m almost there. I love God, and Jesus, and the angels,
and all good folks. Do you remember what you told me about heaven, the
other day—how many millions of good little children are there, and how
Jesus calls them his lambs, and wipes away their tears, and takes them
in his arms? There wont he anything to make us sorry in heaven, will
there?”
“No,” replied Marcus, his mind recurring to that passage of Scripture,
“There shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither
shall there be any more pain.”
There was a brief interval of silence, broken only by an occasional
half-suppressed sigh that escaped from Jessie, who was seated in a
remote corner of the room, and by the slow and regular tread of Mr.
Hapley, who was pacing the floor of the chamber overhead, in an agony
of grief and remorse. Marcus afterwards learned that a few hours before
this, when Benny was thought to be dying, he had entreated his father
in a most affectionate and touching manner to abandon the besetting sin
which was bringing himself and his family to ruin and disgrace. The
strong man, after a brief but desperate struggle, promised the dying
boy that he would abandon his cups from that hour, and would try to
live in such a way that he might meet his little son in heaven.
Mrs. Hapley, who had been engaged in the kitchen, now came in, with a
bottle of hot water, to be applied to Benny’s feet; but he whispered to
her:—
“O, mother, I am _so_ cold! Wont you take me up in your arms, and hold
me before the fire?”
“Yes, dear,” replied his mother, and she took the boy gently into her
arms, wrapped a blanket around him, and sat down before the blazing
fire.
This movement seemed to be too much for the boy, for he gasped for
breath, and sank exhausted into his mother’s arms. After a few minutes
he recovered sufficiently to speak.
“Why, mother,” he said, “how fast it grows dark! I can’t hardly see
anything.”
“Jessie, ask your father to come down,” said Mrs. Hapley, trying to
speak calmly.
“It is dark here, but it is light _there_—O, how light!” whispered the
dying boy.
“Where?” inquired the mother, scarcely knowing what she asked.
“I don’t know where it is,” replied the boy. “I saw it coming, way off,
just now, like a bright cloud, and now it’s all around me. Why, mother,
don’t you see it? The room is all full of it!”
Mr. Hapley now entered the room, but, seemingly unable to endure the
scene, silently bowed his head against the wall. Jessie and Henry also
came in with their father.
“I want to kiss you all,” whispered Benny to his mother, after the
family had assembled.
His wish was complied with, and his mother, father, Jessie, Henry and
Marcus successively received and returned a parting kiss.
“Now one more for Sammy—you’ll give it to him when he comes back, wont
you, mother?” added Benny.
The promise was made, and the kiss given. But the poor boy did not know
that his absent brother was at that moment serving a sentence in jail
as a convicted felon. The result of Sam’s trial had been wisely
concealed from Benny, on account of his illness.
The circle had sat in silence for several minutes, when Mrs. Hapley
arose, and tenderly laying her precious charge upon the bed, kissed the
pale brow, and said, in a low, calm tone, which almost startled
herself:—
“It is all over—the bitterness of death is past!”
The spirit of the child had departed so peacefully, that she could not
tell when he drew the last breath. But the true and loving heart had
ceased to beat, and the mild eyes were set in death, and the last enemy
had accomplished his work surely, though noiselessly.
Marcus soon withdrew from the sorrowing circle, his own heart bowed in
grief as sincere if not as deep as that of the near relatives of the
deceased. It was the first time he had ever come into the immediate
presence of death, and had seen, as it were, the fatal arrow wing its
way into the living mark. It was, indeed, the first time that the grave
had claimed one in whom he felt so deep an interest, and towards whom
he held so near a relation; for he never could realize the death of his
father, followed as it was by years of anxious suspense and hope
deferred, and shrouded in impenetrable mystery up to this hour.
Mrs. Page and her sister went over to comfort and assist the stricken
family, while Marcus retired to his chamber, to commune with his own
thoughts. Though far from unfaithful to his trust as a religious
teacher, he now lamented that he had done so little for the spiritual
improvement of the dear boy whom death had just removed from the reach
of his influence. Never before did he realize so vividly the
uncertainty of life, the insignificance of worldly ambition, and the
inestimable value of those treasures which make us “rich toward God.”
And now, at the beginning of the new year, did he kneel down and ask
for divine aid, as he pledged himself to strive, with more fidelity
than ever before, to kindle in the young minds around him desires after
a higher and purer life.
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