Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been
built, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it
was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their
place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up
where the air was clearest and purest; however that might be no one who
had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the
world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky;
others as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.
But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There
was an old man living not far from the church who said that his mother
had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the
only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes,
you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It
was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the
church their offerings to the Christ-Child; and when the greatest and
best offering was laid on the altar there used to come sounding through
the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some
said that the wind rang them, and others, that they were so high that
the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had
never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful
of their gifts for the Christ-Child, and that no offering was brought
great enough to deserve the music of the chimes.
Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one
trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything
that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who
thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But
although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the
roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.
Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where
nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when
the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother.
They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of
the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan which
they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the
beautiful celebration.
"Nobody can guess, Little Brother," Pedro would say; "all the fine
things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the
Christ-Child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could
see Him?"
The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes
flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough
Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the
afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before
nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the
lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed they were about to
enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they
saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to
look at it.
It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and
tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made
of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound
asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All
this Pedro saw in a moment and he knelt down beside her and tried to
rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have
tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could
rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a
moment he stood up again, and said:
"It's no use, Little Brother. You will have to go on alone."
"Alone?" cried Little Brother. "And you not see the Christmas festival?"
"No," said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in
his throat. "See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the
chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her.
Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can
bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing,
and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket."
"But I cannot bear to leave you, and go on alone," said Little Brother.
"Both of us need not miss the service," said Pedro, "and it had better
be I than you. You can easily find your way to church; and you must see
and hear everything twice, Little Brother--once for you and once for me.
I am sure the Christ-Child must know how I should love to come with you
and worship Him; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up
to the altar without getting in any one's way, take this little silver
piece of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking.
Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with
you."
In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city and winked hard
to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding
farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the
music and splendour of the Christmas celebration that he had been
planning for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in
the snow.
The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that
it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ
played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound,
and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble
around him.
At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be
laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down
their gifts to the Christ-Child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some
baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the
aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years
and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with
all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There
went a great murmur through the church as the people saw the king take
from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it
gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the Holy Child. "Surely,"
every one said, "we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has
ever happened before."
But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower and the people
shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they
never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever
rang at all.
The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly
the organist stopped playing, and every one looked at the old minister,
who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a
sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people
strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly,
swinging through the air, the the sound of the chimes in the tower. So
far away, and yet so clear the music seemed--so much sweeter were the
notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away
up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as
still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they
all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what
great gift had awakened the long silent bells.
But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little
Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking,
and had laid Pedro's little piece of silver on the altar.
FOOTNOTE:
[H] Copyright, 1906. Used by special permission of the publishers, the
Bobbs-Merrill Company.
XIII
THE BIRDS' CHRISTMAS[I]
F. E. MANN
_Founded on fact._
"CHICKADEE-DEE-DEE-DEE! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee! Chicka----" "Cheerup,
cheerup, chee-chee! Cheerup, cheerup, chee-chee!" "Ter-ra-lee,
ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee!"
"Rap-atap-atap-atap!" went the woodpecker; "Mrs. Chickadee may speak
first."
"Friends," began Mrs. Chickadee, "why do you suppose I called you
together?"
"Because it's the day before Christmas," twittered Snow Bunting. "And
you're going to give a Christmas party," chirped the Robin. "And you
want us all to come!" said Downy Woodpecker. "Hurrah! Three cheers for
Mrs. Chickadee!"
"Hush!" said Mrs. Chickadee, "and I'll tell you all about it. To-morrow
is Christmas Day, but I don't want to give a party."
"Chee, chee, chee!" cried Robin Rusty-breast; "chee, chee, chee!"
"Just listen to my little plan," said Mrs. Chickadee, "for, indeed, I
want you all to help. How many remember Thistle Goldfinch--the happy
little fellow who floated over the meadows through the summer and fall?"
"Cheerup, chee-chee, cheerup, chee-chee, I do," sang the Robin; "how he
loved to sway on thistletops!" "Yes," said Downy Woodpecker, "and didn't
he sing? All about blue skies, and sunshine and happy days, with his
'Swee-e-et-sweet-sweet-sweet-a-twitter-witter-witter-witter-wee-twea!'"
"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee," said Snow Bunting. "We've all heard of Thistle
Goldfinch, but what can he have to do with your Christmas party? He's
away down South now, and wouldn't care if you gave a dozen parties."
"Oh, but he isn't; he's right in these very woods!"
"Why, you don't mean----"
"Indeed I do mean it, every single word. Yesterday I was flitting about
among the trees, pecking at a dead branch here, and a bit of moss there,
and before I knew it I found myself away over at the other side of the
woods! 'Chickadee-dee-dee, chickadee-dee-dee!' I sang, as I turned my
bill toward home. Just then I heard the saddest little voice pipe out:
'Dear-ie me! Dear-ie me!' and there on the sunny side of a branch
perched a lonesome bit of yellowish down. I went up to see what it was,
and found dear little Thistle Goldfinch! He was very glad to see me, and
soon told his short story. Through the summer Papa and Mamma Goldfinch
and all the brothers and sisters had a fine time, singing together,
fluttering over thistletops, or floating through the balmy air. But when
'little Jack Frost walked through the trees,' Papa Goldfinch said: 'It
is high time we went South!' All were ready but Thistle; he wanted to
stay through the winter, and begged so hard that Papa Goldfinch soberly
said: 'Try it, my son, but _do_ find a warm place to stay in at night.'
Then off they flew, and Thistle was alone. For a while he was happy. The
sun shone warm through the middle of the day, and there were fields and
meadows full of seeds. You all remember how sweetly he sang for us then.
But by and by the cold North Wind came whistling through the trees, and
chilly Thistle woke up one gray morning to find the air full of whirling
snowflakes. He didn't mind the light snows, golden-rod and some high
grasses were too tall to be easily covered, and he got seeds from them.
But now that the heavy snows have come, the poor little fellow is almost
starved, and if he doesn't have a warm place to sleep in these cold
nights, he'll surely die!"
Mrs. Chickadee paused a minute. The birds were so still one could hear
the pine trees whisper. Then she went on: "I comforted the poor little
fellow as best I could, and showed him where to find a few seeds: then I
flew home, for it was bedtime. I tucked my head under my wing to keep it
warm, and thought, and thought, and thought; and here's my plan:
"We Chickadees have a nice warm home here in the spruce trees, with
their thick, heavy boughs to shut out the snow and cold. There is plenty
of room, so Thistle could sleep here all winter. We would let him perch
on a branch, when we Chickadees would nestle around him until he was as
warm as in the lovely summer time. These cones are so full of seeds that
we could spare him a good many; and I think that you Robins might let
him come over to your pines some day and share your seeds. Downy
Woodpecker must keep his eyes open as he hammers the trees, and if he
spies a supply of seeds he will let us know at once. Snow Bunting is
only a visitor, so I don't expect him to help, but I wanted him to hear
my plan with the rest of you. Now you _will_ try, won't you, _every
one_?"
"Cheerup, cheerup, ter-ra-lee! Indeed we'll try; let's begin right away!
Don't wait until to-morrow; who'll go and find Thistle?"
"I will," chirped Robin Rusty-breast, and off he flew to the place which
Mrs. Chickadee had told of, at the other side of the wood. There, sure
enough, he found Thistle Goldfinch sighing: "Dear-ie me! dear-ie me! The
winter is so cold and I'm here all alone!" "Cheerup, chee-chee!" piped
the Robin:
"Cheerup, cheerup, I'm here!
I'm here and I mean to stay.
What if the winter is drear--
Cheerup, cheerup anyway!"
"But the snow is so deep," said Thistle, and the Robin replied:
"Soon the snows'll be over and gone,
Run and rippled away;
What's the use of looking forlorn?
Cheerup, cheerup, I say!"
Then he told Thistle all their plans, and wasn't Thistle surprised? Why,
he just couldn't believe a word of it till they reached Mrs. Chickadee's
and she said it was all true. They fed him and warmed him, then settled
themselves for a good night's rest.
Christmas morning they were chirping gaily, and Thistle was trying to
remember the happy song he sang in the summer time, when there came a
whirr of wings as Snow Bunting flew down.
"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee," said he, "can you fly a little
way?"
"Oh, yes," replied Thistle. "I _think_ I could fly a _long_ way."
"Come on, then," said Snow Bunting. "Every one who wants a Christmas
dinner, follow me!" That was every word he would say, so what could they
do but follow?
Soon they came to the edge of the wood, and then to a farmhouse. Snow
Bunting flew straight up to the piazza, and there stood a dear little
girl in a warm hood and cloak, with a pail of bird-seed on her arm, and
a dish of bread crumbs in her hand. As they flew down, she said:
"And here are some more birdies who have come for a Christmas dinner. Of
course you shall have some, you dear little things!" and she laughed
merrily to see them dive for the crumbs.
After they had finished eating, Elsie (that was the little girl's name)
said: "Now, little birds, it is going to be a cold winter, you would
better come here every day to get your dinner. I'll always be glad to
see you."
"Cheerup chee-chee, cheerup chee-chee! thank you, thank you," cried the
Robins.
"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee! thank you, thank you!" twittered
Snow Bunting.
"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee,
chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee! how kind you are!" sang the Chickadees.
And Thistle Goldfinch? Yes, he remembered his summer song, for he sang
as they flew away:
"Swee-e-et--sweet-sweet-sweet-a-twitter-witter-witter-witter--wee-twea!"
* * * * *
NOTES.--1: The Robin's song is from "Bird Talks,"
by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney.
2: The fact upon which this story is based--that
is of the other birds adopting and warming the
solitary Thistle Goldfinch--was observed near
Northampton, Mass., where robins and other
migratory birds sometimes spend the winter in the
thick pine woods.
FOOTNOTE:
[I] From "In the Child's World," by Emilie Poulssen, Milton Bradley Co.,
Publishers. Used by permission.
XIV
THE LITTLE SISTER'S VACATION[J]
WINIFRED M. KIRKLAND
IT WAS to be a glorious Christmas at Doctor Brower's. All "the
children"--little Peggy and her mother always spoke of the grown-up ones
as "the children"--were coming home. Mabel was coming from Ohio with her
big husband and her two babies, Minna and little Robin, the year-old
grandson whom the home family had never seen; Hazen was coming all the
way from the Johns Hopkins Medical School, and Arna was coming home from
her teaching in New York.
It was a trial to Peggy that vacation did not begin until the very day
before Christmas, and then continued only one niggardly week. After
school hours she had helped her mother in the Christmas preparations
every day until she crept into bed at night with aching arms and tired
feet, to lie there tossing about, whether from weariness or glad
excitement she did not know.
"Not so hard, daughter," the doctor said to her once.
"Oh, papa," protested her mother, "when we're so busy, and Peggy is so
handy!"
"Not so hard," he repeated, with his eyes on fifteen-year-old Peggy's
delicate face, as, wearing her braids pinned up on her head and a
pinafore down to her toes, she stoned raisins and blanched almonds,
rolled bread crumbs and beat eggs, dusted and polished and made ready
for the children.
Finally, after a day of flying about, helping with the many last things,
Peggy let down her braids and put on her new crimson shirtwaist, and
stood with her mother in the front doorway, for it was Christmas Eve at
last, and the station 'bus was rattling up with the first homecomers,
Arna and Hazen.
Then there were voices ringing up and down the dark street, and there
were happy tears in the mother's eyes, and Arna had taken Peggy's face
in her two soft-gloved hands and lifted it up and kissed it, and Hazen
had swung his little sister up in the air just as of old. Peggy's tired
feet were dancing for joy. She was helping Arna take off her things, was
carrying her bag upstairs--would have carried Hazen's heavy grip, too,
only her father took it from her.
"Set the kettle to boil, Peggy," directed her mother; "then run upstairs
and see if Arna wants anything. We'll wait supper till the rest come."
The rest came on the nine o'clock train, such a load of them--the big,
bluff brother-in-law, Mabel, plump and laughing, as always, Minna, elfin
and bright-eyed, and sleepy Baby Robin. Such hugging, such a hubbub of
baby talk! How many things there seemed to be to do for those precious
babies right away!
Peggy was here and there and everywhere. Everything was in joyous
confusion. Supper was to be set on, too. While the rest ate, Peggy sat
by, holding Robin, her own little nephew, and managing at the same time
to pick up the things--napkin, knife, spoon, bread--that Minna,
hilarious with the late hour, flung from her high chair.
It seemed as if they would never be all stowed away for the night. Some
of them wanted pitchers of warm water, some of them pitchers of cold,
and the alcohol stove must be brought up for heating the baby's milk at
night. The house was crowded, too. Peggy had given up her room to Hazen,
and slept on a cot in the sewing room with Minna.
The cot had been enlarged by having three chairs piled with pillows, set
along the side. But Minna preferred to sleep in the middle of the cot,
or else across it, her restless little feet pounding at Peggy's ribs;
and Peggy was unused to any bedfellow.
She lay long awake thinking proudly of the children, of Hazen, the tall
brother, with his twinkling eyes, his drolleries, his teasing; of
graceful Arna who dressed so daintily, talked so cleverly, and had been
to college. Arna was going to send Peggy to college, too--it was so good
of Arna! But for all Peggy's admiration for Arna, it was Mabel, the
eldest sister, who was the more approachable. Mabel did not pretend even
to as much learning as Peggy had herself; she was happy-go-lucky and
sweet-tempered. Then her husband was a great jolly fellow, with whom it
was impossible to be shy, and the babies--there never were such cunning
babies, Peggy thought. Just here her niece gave her a particularly
vicious kick, and Peggy opposed to her train of admiring thoughts, "But
I'm so tired."
It did not seem to Peggy that she had been asleep at all when she was
waked with a vigorous pounding on her chest and a shrill little voice in
her ear:
"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus! It's mornin'! It's Ch'is'mus!"
"Oh, no, it isn't, Minna!" pleaded Peggy, struggling with sleepiness.
"It's all dark still."
"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus!" reiterated Minna continuing to pound.
"Hush, dear! You'll wake Aunt Arna, and she's tired after being all day
on the chou-chou cars."
"Merry Ch'is'mus, Aunty Arna!" shouted the irrepressible Minna.
"Oh, darling, be quiet! We'll play little pig goes to market. I'll tell
you a story, only be quiet a little while."
It took Peggy's utmost effort to keep the little wriggler still for the
hour from five to six. Then, however, her shrill, "Merry Ch'is'mus!"
roused the household. Protests were of no avail. Minna was the only
granddaughter. Dark as it was, people must get up.
Peggy must dress Minna and then hurry down to help get breakfast--not so
easy a task with Minna ever at one's heels. The quick-moving sprite
seemed to be everywhere--into the sugar-bowl, the cooky jar, the
steaming teakettle--before one could turn about. Urged on by the
impatient little girl, the grown-ups made short work of breakfast.
After the meal, according to time-honoured Brower custom, they formed in
procession, single file, Minna first, then Ben with Baby Robin. They
each held aloft a sprig of holly, and they all kept time as they sang,
"God rest you, merry gentlemen," in their march from the dining-room to
the office. And there they must form in circle about the tree, and dance
three-times round, singing "The Christmas-tree is an evergreen," before
they could touch a single present.
The presents are done up according to custom, packages of every shape
and size, but all in white paper and tied with red ribbon, and all
marked for somebody with somebody else's best love. They all fall to
opening, and the babies' shouts are not the only ones to be heard.
Passers-by smile indulgently at the racket, remembering that all the
Browers are home for Christmas, and the Browers were ever a jovial
company.
Peggy gazes at her gifts quietly, but with shining eyes--little gold
cuff pins from Hazen, just like Arna's; a set of furs from Mabel and
Ben; but she likes Arna's gift best of all, a complete set of her
favourite author.
But much as they would like to linger about the Christmas tree, Peggy
and her mother, at least, must remember that the dishes must be washed
and the beds made, and that the family must get ready for church. Peggy
does not go to church, and nobody dreams how much she wants to go. She
loves the Christmas music. No hymn rings so with joy as:
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is king.
The choir sings it only once a year, on the Christmas morning. Besides,
her chum Esther will be at church, and Peggy has been too busy to go to
see her since she came home from boarding-school for the holidays. But
somebody must stay at home, and that somebody who but Peggy? Somebody
must baste the turkey, and prepare the vegetables and take care of the
babies.
Peggy is surprised to find how difficult it is to combine dinner-getting
with baby-tending. When she opens the oven-door, there is Minna's head
thrust up under her arm, the inquisitive little nose in great danger by
reason of sputtering gravy.
"Minna," protests Peggy, "you mustn't eat another bit of candy!" and
Minna opens her mouth in a howl, prolonged, but without tears and
without change of colour. Robin joins in, he does not know why. Peggy is
a doting aunt, but an honest one. She is vexed by a growing conviction
that Mabel's babies are sadly spoiled. Peggy is ashamed of herself;
surely she ought to be perfectly happy playing with Minna and Robin.
Instead, she finds that the thing she would like best of all to be doing
at this moment, next to going to church, would be to be lying on her
father's couch in the office all by herself, reading.
The dinner is a savoury triumph for Peggy and her mother. The gravy and
the mashed potato are entirely of Peggy's workmanship, and Peggy has had
a hand in most of the other dishes, too, as the mother proudly tells.
How that merry party can eat! Peggy is waitress, and it is long before
the passing is over, and she can sit down in her own place. She is just
as fond of the unusual Christmas good things as are the rest, but
somehow, before she is well started at her turkey, it is time for
changing plates for dessert, and before she has tasted her nuts and
raisins the babies have succumbed to sleepiness, and it is Peggy who
must carry them upstairs for their nap--just in the middle of one of
Hazen's funniest stories, too.
And all the time the little sister is so ready, so quickly serviceable,
that somehow nobody notices--nobody but the doctor. It is he who finds
Peggy, half an hour later, all alone in the kitchen. The mother and the
older daughters are gathered about the sitting-room hearth, engaged in
the dear, delicious talk about the little things that are always left
out of letters.
The doctor interrupts them.
"Peggy is all alone," he says.
"But we're having such a good talk," the mother pleads, "and Peggy will
be done in no time! Peggy is so handy!"