One of the most pleasing sights at this festive season is the group of
boys and girls returned from school. Go where you will, a cluster of
their joyous chubby faces present themselves to our notice. In the
streets, at the panorama, or playhouse, our elbows are constantly
assailed by some eager urchin whose eyes just peep beneath to get a
nearer view.
I am more delighted in watching the vivacious workings of their
ingenuous countenances at these Christmas shows, than at the sights
themselves.
From the first joyous huzzas, and loud blown horns which announce their
arrival, to the faint attempts at similar mirth on their return, I am
interested in these youngsters.
Observe the line of chaises with their swarm-like loads hurrying to
tender and exulting parents, the sickly to be cherished, the strong to
be amused; in a few mornings you shall see them, new clothes, warm
gloves, gathering around their mother at every toy-shop, claiming the
promised bat, hoop, top, or marbles; mark her kind smile at their
ecstacies; her prudent shake of the head at their multitudinous demands;
her gradual yielding as they coaxingly drag her in; her patience with
their whims and clamour while they turn and toss over the play-things,
as now a sword, and now a hoop is their choice, and like their elders
the possession of _one_ bauble does but make them sigh for another.
View the fond father, his pet little girl by the hand, his boys walking
before on whom his proud eye rests, while ambitious views float o’er his
mind for them, and make him but half attentive to their repeated
inquiries; while at the Museum or Picture-gallery, his explanations are
interrupted by the rapture of discovering that his children are already
well acquainted with the different subjects exhibited.
Stretching half over the boxes at the theatre, adorned by maternal love,
see their enraptured faces now turned to the galleries wondering at
their height and at the number of regular placed heads contained in
them, now directed towards the green cloud which is so lingeringly kept
between them and their promised bliss. The half-peeled orange laid aside
when the play begins; their anxiety for that which they understand;
their honest laughter which runs through the house like a merry peal of
sweet bells; the fear of the little girl lest they should discover the
person hid behind the screen; the exultation of the boy when the hero
conquers.
But, oh, the rapture when the pantomime commences! Ready to leap out of
the box, they joy in the mischief of the clown, laugh at the thwacks he
gets for his meddling, and feel no small portion of contempt for his
ignorance in not knowing that hot water will scald and gunpowder
explode; while with head aside to give fresh energy to the strokes, they
ring their little palms against each other in testimony of exuberant
delight.
Who can behold them without reflecting on the many passions that now lie
dormant in their bosoms, to be in a few years agitating themselves and
the world. Here the coquet begins to appear in the attention paid to a
lace frock or kid gloves for the first time displayed, or the domestic
tyrant in the selfish boy, who snatches the largest cake, or thrusts his
younger brother and sister from the best place.
At no season of the year are their holidays so replete with pleasures;
the expected Christmas-box from grand-papa and grand-mamma; plum-pudding
and snap-dragon, with blindman’s-buff and forfeits; perhaps to witness a
juvenile play rehearsed and ranted; galantée-show and drawing for
twelfth-cake; besides Christmas gambols in abundance, new and old.
Even the poor charity-boy at this season feels a transient glow of
cheerfulness, as with pale blue face, frost-nipped hands and
ungreatcoated, from door to door, he timidly displays the unblotted
scutcheon of his graphic talents, and feels that the pence bestowed are
his _own_, and that for once in his life he may taste the often desired
tart, or spin a top which no one can snatch from him in capricious
tyranny.
[Illustration: ~Ancient Representation of the Nativity.~]