CHRISTMAS GIFTS.
The sunlight of a bright Christmas morning had hardly dawned upon the
earth, when from many a planter’s home in the sunny south was heard the
joyful cry of “Christmas Gift,” “Christmas Gift,” as the negroes ran
over and against each other, hiding ofttimes, until some one came
within hailing distance, when their loud “Christmas Gift” would make
all echo again. On this occasion, every servant at Maple Grove was
remembered, for Anna and ’Lena had worked both early and late in
preparing some little present, and feeling amply compensated for their
trouble, when they saw how much happiness it gave. Mabel, too, while
she stayed, had lent a helping hand, and many a blessing was that
morning invoked upon her head from the hearts made glad by her generous
gifts. Carrie, when asked to join them, had turned scornfully away,
saying “she’d plenty to do, without working for niggers; who could not
appreciate it.”
So all her leisure hours were spent in embroidering a fine cambric
handkerchief, intended as a present for Mrs. Graham, and which with a
delicate note was, the evening previous, sent to Woodlawn, with
instructions to have it placed next morning on Mrs. Graham’s table. Of
course Mrs. Graham felt in duty bound to return the compliment, and
looking over her old jewelry, she selected a diamond ring which she had
formerly worn, but which was now too small for her fat chubby fingers.
This was immediately forwarded to Maple Grove, reaching there just as
the family were rising from the breakfast-table.
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful—splendid—magnificent!” were Carrie’s
exclamations, while she praised Mrs. Graham’s generosity, secretly
wondering if “Durward did not have something to do with it.”
On this point she was soon set right, for the young man himself erelong
appeared, and after bidding them all a “Merry Christmas,” presented
Anna with a package which, on being opened, proved to be a large and
complete copy of Shakspeare, elegantly bound, and bearing upon its
heavy golden clasp the words “Anna Livingstone, from Durward,”
“This you will please accept from me,” said he. “Mother, I believe, has
sent Carrie something, and if ’Lena will step to the door, she will see
her gift from father, who hopes it will give her as much pleasure to
accept it, as it does him to present it.”
“What can it be?” thought Carrie, rising languidly from the sofa, and
following ’Lena and her sister to the side door, where stood one of Mr.
Graham’s servants, holding a beautiful gray pony, all nicely equipped
for riding.
Never dreaming that this was intended for ’Lena, Carrie looked vacantly
around, saying, “Why, where is it? I don’t see anything.”
“Here,” said Durward, taking the bridle from the negro’s hand, and
playfully throwing it across ’Lena’s neck, “Here it is—this pony, which
we call Vesta. Vesta, allow me to introduce you and your new mistress,
Miss ’Lena, to each other,” and catching her up, as if she had been a
feather, he placed her in the saddle. Then, at a peculiar whistle, the
well-trained animal started off upon an easy gallop, bearing its burden
lightly around the yard, and back again to the piazza.
“Do you like her ?” he asked of ’Lena, extending his arms to lift her
down.
For a moment ’Lena could not speak, her heart was so full. But at last,
forcing down her emotion, she replied, “Oh, very, very much; but it
isn’t for me, I know—there must be some mistake. Mr. Graham never
intended it for me.”
“Yes, he did,” answered Durward. “He has intended it ever since the
morning when you and I rode to Woodlawn. A remark which your cousin
John made at the table, determined him upon him buying and training a
pony for you. So here it is, and as I have done my share toward
teaching her, you must grant me the favor of riding her to Frankfort
day after to-morrow.”
“Thank you, thank you—you and Mr. Graham too—a thousand times,” said
’Lena, winding her arms around the neck of the docile animal, who did
her best to return the caress, rubbing her face against ’Lena, and
evincing her gentleness in various ways.
By this time Mr. Livingstone had joined them, and while he was admiring
the pony, Durward said to him, “I am commissioned by my father to tell
you that he will defray all the expense of keeping Vesta.”
“Don’t mention such a thing again,” hastily interposed Mr. Livingstone.
“I can keep fifty horses, if I choose, and nothing will give me more
pleasure than to take care of this one for ’Lena, who deserves it if
any one does.”
“That’s my Christmas gift from you, uncle, isn’t it?” asked ’Lena, the
tears gushing from her shining, brown eyes. “And now please may I
return it?”
“Certainly,” said he, and with a nimble spring she caught him around
the neck, imprinting upon his lips the first and only kiss she had ever
given him; then, amid blushes and tears, which came from a heart full
of happiness, she ran away upstairs followed by the envious eyes of
Carrie, who repaired to her mother’s room, where she stated all that
had transpired—“How Mr. Graham had sent ’Lena a gray pony—how she had
presumed to accept it—and how, just to show off before Mr. Bellmont,
she had wound her arms around its neck, and then actually _kissed pa_!”
Mrs. Livingstone was equally indignant with her daughter, wondering if
Mr. Graham had lost his reason, and reckoning his wife knew nothing
about Vesta! But fret as she would, there was no help for it. Vesta
belonged to ’Lena—Mr. Livingstone had given orders to have it
well-cared for—and worse than all the rest, ’Lena was to accompany
Durward to Frankfort. Something must be done to meet the emergency, but
what, Mrs. Livingstone didn’t exactly know, and finally concluded to
wait until she saw Mrs. Graham.
Meantime grandma had claimed from her son her promised Christmas gift,
which was nothing less than “the freedom of old Aunt Polly.”
“You won’t refuse me, John, I know you won’t,” said she, laying her
bony hand on his. “Polly’s arnt her freedom forty times over, even
s’posin’ you’d a right to her in the fust place which I and Nancy
Scovandyke both doubt; so now set down like a man, make out her free
papers, and let me carry ’em to her right away.”
Without a word Mr. Livingstone complied with his mother’s request,
saying, as he handed her the paper, “It’s not so much the fault of the
south as of the north that every black under heaven is not free.”
Grandma looked aghast. Her son, born, brought up, and baptized in a
purely orthodox atmosphere, to hold such treasonable opinions in
opposition to everything he’d ever been taught in good old
Massachusetts! She was greatly shocked, but thinking she could not do
the subject justice, she said, “Wall, wall, it’s of no use for you and
I to arger the pint, for I don’t know nothin’ what I want to say, but
if Nancy Scovandyke was here, she’d convince you quick, for she’s good
larnin’ as any of the gals nowadays.”
So saying, she walked away to Polly’s cabin. The old negress was better
to-day, and attired in the warm double-gown which Mabel had purchased
and ’Lena had made, she sat up in a large, comfortable rocking-chair
which John Jr. had given her at the commencement of her illness, saying
it was “his Christmas gift in advance.” Going straight up to her,
grandma laid the paper in her lap, bidding her “read it and thank the
Lord.”
“Bless missus’ dear old heart,” said Aunt Polly, “I can’t read a word.”
“Sure enough,” answered Mrs. Nichols, and taking up the paper she read
it through, managing to make the old creature comprehend its meaning.
“Praise the Lord! praise Master John, and all the other apostles!”
exclaimed Aunt Polly, clasping together her black, wrinkled hands,
while tears of joy coursed their way down her cheeks. “The breath of
liberty is sweet—sweet as sugar,” she continued, drawing long
inspirations as if to make up for lost time.
Mrs. Nichols looked on, silently thanking God for having made her an
humble instrument in contributing so much to another’s happiness.
“Set down,” said Aunt Polly, motioning toward a wooden bottomed chair;
“set down, and let’s us talk over this great meracle, which I’ve prayed
and rastled for mighty nigh a hundred times, without havin’ an atom of
faith that ’twould ever be.”
So Mrs. Nichols sat down, and for nearly an hour the old ladies talked,
the one of her newly-found freedom, and the other of her happiness in
knowing that “’twasn’t for nothin’ she was turned out of her old home
and brought away over land and sea to Kentucky.”