such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness,
were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and
mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family;
indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small
atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every
one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were
steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being
changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous
to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning
out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which
the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were
supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell
like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and
a pastry-cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to
that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit
entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like a speckled
cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of
ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, too, that he
regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since
their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her
mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour.
Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody thought or said it
was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat
heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a
thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth
swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and
considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a
shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew
round the hearth in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a
one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass--two
tumblers and a custard-cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden
goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while
the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob
proposed:
"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"
Which all the family reëchoed.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
XXVII
CHRISTMAS IN SEVENTEEN SEVENTY-SIX[S]
ANNE HOLLINGSWORTH WHARTON
"On Christmas day in Seventy-six,
Our gallant troops with bayonets fixed,
To Trenton marched away."
CHILDREN, have any of you ever thought of what little people like you
were doing in this country more than a hundred years ago, when the cruel
tide of war swept over its bosom? From many homes the fathers were
absent, fighting bravely for the liberty which we now enjoy, while the
mothers no less valiantly struggled against hardships and discomforts in
order to keep a home for their children, whom you only know as your
great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, dignified gentlemen and
beautiful ladies, whose painted portraits hang upon the walls in some of
your homes. Merry, romping children they were in those far-off times,
yet their bright faces must have looked grave sometimes, when they heard
the grown people talk of the great things that were happening around
them. Some of these little people never forgot the wonderful events of
which they heard, and afterward related them to their children and
grandchildren, which accounts for some of the interesting stories which
you may still hear, if you are good children.
The Christmas story that I have to tell you is about a boy and girl who
lived in Bordentown, New Jersey. The father of these children was a
soldier in General Washington's army, which was encamped a few miles
north of Trenton, on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River.
Bordentown, as you can see by looking on your map, if you have not
hidden them all away for the holidays, is about seven miles south of
Trenton, where fifteen hundred Hessians and a troop of British light
horse were holding the town. Thus you see that the British, in force,
were between Washington's army and Bordentown, besides which there were
some British and Hessian troops in the very town. All this seriously
interfered with Captain Tracy's going home to eat his Christmas dinner
with his wife and children. Kitty and Harry Tracy, who had not lived
long enough to see many wars, could not imagine such a thing as
Christmas without their father, and had busied themselves for weeks in
making everything ready to have a merry time with him. Kitty, who loved
to play quite as much as any frolicsome Kitty of to-day, had spent all
her spare time in knitting a pair of thick woollen stockings, which
seems a wonderful feat for a little girl only eight years old to
perform! Can you not see her sitting by the great chimney-place, filled
with its roaring, crackling logs, in her quaint, short-waisted dress,
knitting away steadily, and puckering up her rosy, dimpled face over the
strange twists and turns of that old stocking? I can see her, and I can
also hear her sweet voice as she chatters away to her mother about "how
'sprised papa will be to find that his little girl can knit like a
grown-up woman," while Harry spreads out on the hearth a goodly store of
shellbarks that he has gathered and is keeping for his share of the
'sprise.
"What if he shouldn't come?" asks Harry, suddenly.
"Oh, he'll come! Papa never stays away on Christmas," says Kitty,
looking up into her mother's face for an echo to her words. Instead she
sees something very like tears in her mother's eyes.
"Oh, mamma, don't you think he'll come?"
"He will come if he possibly can," says Mrs. Tracy; "and if he cannot,
we will keep Christmas whenever dear papa does come home."
"It won't be half so nice," said Kitty, "nothing's so nice as _really_
Christmas, and how's Kriss Kringle going to know about it if we change
the day?"
"We'll let him come just the same, and if he brings anything for papa we
can put it away for him."
This plan, still, seemed a poor one to Miss Kitty, who went to her bed
in a sober mood that night, and was heard telling her dear dollie,
Martha Washington, that "wars were mis'able, and that when she married
she should have a man who kept a candy-shop for a husband, and not a
soldier--no, Martha, not even if he's as nice as papa!" As Martha made
no objection to this little arrangement, being an obedient child, they
were both soon fast asleep.
The days of that cold winter of 1776 wore on; so cold it was that the
sufferings of the soldiers were great, their bleeding feet often leaving
marks on the pure white snow over which they marched. As Christmas drew
near there was a feeling among the patriots that some blow was about to
be struck; but what it was, and from whence they knew not; and, better
than all, the British had no idea that any strong blow could come from
Washington's army, weak and out of heart, as they thought, after being
chased through Jersey by Cornwallis.
Mrs. Tracy looked anxiously each day for news of the husband and father
only a few miles away, yet so separated by the river and the enemy's
troops that they seemed like a hundred. Christmas Eve came, but brought
with it few rejoicings. The hearts of the people were too sad to be
taken up with merry-making, although the Hessian soldiers in the town,
good-natured Germans, who only fought the Americans because they were
paid for it, gave themselves up to the feasting and revelry.
"Shall we hang up our stockings?" asked Kitty, in rather a doleful
voice.
"Yes," said her mother, "Santa Claus won't forget you, I am sure,
although he has been kept pretty busy looking after the soldiers this
winter."
"Which side is he on?" asked Harry.
"The right side, of course," said Mrs. Tracy, which was the most
sensible answer she could possibly have given. So:
"The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there."
Two little rosy faces lay fast asleep upon the pillow when the good old
soul came dashing over the roof about one o'clock, and after filling
each stocking with red apples, and leaving a cornucopia of sugar-plums
for each child, he turned for a moment to look at the sleeping faces,
for St. Nicholas has a tender spot in his great big heart for a
soldier's children. Then, remembering many other small folks waiting for
him all over the land, he sprang up the chimney and was away in a trice.
Santa Claus, in the form of Mrs. Tracy's farmer brother, brought her a
splendid turkey; but because the Hessians were uncommonly fond of
turkey, it came hidden under a load of wood. Harry was very fond of
turkey, too, as well as of all other good things; but when his mother
said, "It's such a fine bird, it seems too bad to eat it without
father," Harry cried out, "Yes, keep it for papa!" and Kitty, joining in
the chorus, the vote was unanimous, and the turkey was hung away to
await the return of the good soldier, although it seemed strange, as
Kitty told Martha Washington, "to have no papa and no turkey on
Christmas Day."
The day passed and night came, cold with a steady fall of rain and
sleet. Kitty prayed that her "dear papa might not be out in the storm,
and that he might come home and wear his beautiful blue stockings"; "And
eat his turkey," said Harry's sleepy voice; after which they were soon
in the land of dreams. Toward morning the good people in Bordentown were
suddenly aroused by firing in the distance, which became more and more
distinct as the day wore on. There was great excitement in the town; men
and women gathered together in little groups in the streets to wonder
what it was all about, and neighbours came dropping into Mrs. Tracy's
parlour, all day long, one after the other, to say what they thought of
the firing. In the evening there came a body of Hessians flying into the
town, to say that General Washington had surprised the British at
Trenton, early that morning, and completely routed them, which so
frightened the Hessians in Bordentown that they left without the
slightest ceremony. It was a joyful hour to the good town people when
the red-jackets turned their backs on them, thinking every moment that
the patriot army would be after them. Indeed, it seemed as if wonders
would never cease that day, for while rejoicings were still loud, over
the departure of the enemy, there came a knock at Mrs. Tracy's door, and
while she was wondering whether she dared open it, it was pushed ajar,
and a tall soldier entered. What a scream of delight greeted that
soldier, and how Kitty and Harry danced about him and clung to his
knees, while Mrs. Tracy drew him toward the warm blaze, and helped him
off with his damp cloak! Cold and tired Captain Tracy was, after a
night's march in the streets and a day's fighting; but he was not too
weary to smile at the dear faces around him, or to pat Kitty's head when
she brought his warm stockings and would put them on the tired feet,
herself.
Suddenly there was a sharp, quick bark outside the door. "What's that?"
cried Harry.
"Oh, I forgot. Open the door. Here, Fido, Fido!"
Into the room there sprang a beautiful little King Charles spaniel,
white, with tan spots, and ears of the longest, softest, and silkiest.
"What a little dear!" exclaimed Kitty; "where did it come from?"
"From the battle of Trenton," said her father. "His poor master was
shot. After the red-coats had turned their backs, and I was hurrying
along one of the streets where the fight had been the fiercest, I heard
a low groan, and, turning, saw a British officer lying among a number of
slain. I raised his head; he begged for some water, which I brought him,
and bending down my ear I heard him whisper, 'Dying--last battle--say a
prayer.' He tried to follow me in the words of a prayer, and then,
taking my hand, laid it on something soft and warm, nestling close up to
his breast--it was this little dog. The gentleman--for he was a real
gentleman--gasped out, 'Take care of my poor Fido; good-night,' and was
gone. It was as much as I could do to get the little creature away from
his dead master; he clung to him as if he loved him better than life.
You'll take care of him, won't you, children? I brought him home to you,
for a Christmas present."
"Pretty little Fido," said Kitty, taking the soft, curly creature in her
arms; "I think it's the best present in the world, and to-morrow is to
be real Christmas, because you are home, papa."
"And we'll eat the turkey," said Harry, "and shellbarks, lots of them,
that I saved for you. What a good time we'll have! And oh, papa, don't
go to war any more, but stay at home, with mother and Kitty and Fido and
me."
"What would become of our country if we should all do that, my little
man? It was a good day's work that we did this Christmas, getting the
army all across the river so quickly and quietly that we surprised the
enemy, and gained a victory, with the loss of few men."
Thus it was that some of the good people of 1776 spent their Christmas,
that their children and grandchildren might spend many of them as
citizens of a _free nation_.
FOOTNOTE:
[S] From "A Last Century Maid and Other Stories for Children," by A. H.
W. Lippincott, 1895.
XXVIII
CHRISTMAS UNDER THE SNOW[T]
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
IT WAS just before Christmas, and Mr. Barnes was starting for the
nearest village. The family were out at the door to see him start, and
give him the last charges.
"Don't forget the Christmas dinner, papa," said Willie.
"'Specially the chickens for the pie!" put in Nora.
"An' the waisins," piped up little Tot, standing on tiptoe to give papa
a good-bye kiss.
"I hate to have you go, George," said Mrs. Barnes anxiously. "It looks
to me like a storm."
"Oh, I guess it won't be much," said Mr. Barnes lightly; "and the
youngsters must have their Christmas dinner, you know."
"Well," said Mrs. Barnes, "remember this, George: if there is a bad
storm don't try to come back. Stay in the village till it is over. We
can get along alone for a few days, can't we, Willie?" turning to the
boy who was giving the last touches to the harness of old Tim, the
horse.
"Oh, yes! Papa, I can take care of mamma," said Willie earnestly.
"And get up the Christmas dinner out of nothing?" asked papa, smiling.
"I don't know," said Willie, hesitating, as he remembered the proposed
dinner, in which he felt a deep interest.
"What could you do for the chicken pie?" went on papa with a roguish
look in his eye, "or the plum-pudding?"
"Or the waisins?" broke in Tot anxiously.
"Tot has set her heart on the raisins," said papa, tossing the small
maiden up higher than his head, and dropping her all laughing on the
door-step, "and Tot shall have them sure, if papa can find them in
S----. Now good-bye, all! Willie, remember to take care of mamma, and I
depend on you to get up a Christmas dinner if I don't get back. Now,
wife, don't worry!" were his last words as the faithful old horse
started down the road.
Mrs. Barnes turned one more glance to the west, where a low, heavy bank
of clouds was slowly rising, and went into the little house to attend to
her morning duties.
"Willie," she said, when they were all in the snug little log-cabin in
which they lived, "I'm sure there's going to be a storm, and it may be
snow. You had better prepare enough wood for two or three days; Nora
will help bring it in."
"Me, too!" said grave little Tot.
"Yes, Tot may help too," said mamma.
This simple little home was a busy place, and soon every one was hard at
work. It was late in the afternoon before the pile of wood, which had
been steadily growing all day, was high enough to satisfy Willie, for
now there was no doubt about the coming storm, and it would probably
bring snow; no one could guess how much, in that country of heavy
storms.
"I wish the village was not so far off, so that papa could get back
to-night," said Willie, as he came in with his last load.
Mrs. Barnes glanced out of the window. Broad scattering snowflakes were
silently falling; the advance guard, she felt them to be, of a numerous
host.
"So do I," she replied anxiously, "or that he did not have to come over
that dreadful prairie, where it is so easy to get lost."
"But old Tim knows the way, even in the dark," said Willie proudly. "I
believe Tim knows more'n some folks."
"No doubt he does, about the way home," said mamma, "and we won't worry
about papa, but have our supper and go to bed. That'll make the time
seem short."
The meal was soon eaten and cleared away, the fire carefully covered up
on the hearth, and the whole little family quietly in bed. Then the
storm, which had been making ready all day, came down upon them in
earnest. The bleak wind howled around the corners, the white flakes by
millions and millions came with it, and hurled themselves upon that
house. In fact, that poor little cabin alone on the wide prairie seemed
to be the object of their sport. They sifted through the cracks in the
walls, around the windows, and under the door, and made pretty little
drifts on the floor. They piled up against it outside, covered the
steps, and then the door, and then the windows, and then the roof, and
at last buried it completely out of sight under the soft, white mass.
And all the time the mother and her three children lay snugly covered up
in their beds fast asleep, and knew nothing about it.
The night passed away and morning came, but no light broke through the
windows of the cabin. Mrs. Barnes woke at the usual time, but finding it
still dark and perfectly quiet outside, she concluded that the storm was
over, and with a sigh of relief turned over to sleep again. About eight
o'clock, however, she could sleep no more, and became wide awake enough
to think the darkness strange. At that moment the clock struck, and the
truth flashed over her.
Being buried under snow is no uncommon thing on the wide prairies, and
since they had wood and cornmeal in plenty, she would not have been much
alarmed if her husband had been home. But snow deep enough to bury them
must cover up all landmarks, and she knew her husband would not rest
till he had found them. To get lost on the trackless prairie was
fearfully easy, and to suffer and die almost in sight of home was no
unusual thing, and was her one dread in living there.
A few moments she lay quiet in bed, to calm herself and get control of
her own anxieties before she spoke to the children.
"Willie," she said at last, "are you awake?"
"Yes, mamma," said Willie; "I've been awake ever so long; isn't it most
morning?"
"Willie," said the mother quietly, "we mustn't be frightened, but I
think--I'm afraid--we are snowed in."
Willie bounded to his feet and ran to the door.
"Don't open it!" said mamma hastily; "the snow may fall in. Light a
candle and look out the window."
In a moment the flickering rays of the candle fell upon the window.
Willie drew back the curtain. Snow was tightly banked up against it to
the top.
"Why, mamma," he exclaimed, "so we are! and how can papa find us? and
what shall we do?"
"We must do the best we can," said mamma, in a voice which she tried to
make steady, "and trust that it isn't very deep, and that Tim and papa
will find us, and dig us out."
By this time the little girls were awake and inclined to be very much
frightened, but mamma was calm now, and Willie was brave and hopeful.
They all dressed, and Willie started the fire. The smoke refused to
rise, but puffed out into the room, and Mrs. Barnes knew that if the
chimney were closed they would probably suffocate, if they did not
starve or freeze.
The smoke in a few minutes choked them, and, seeing that something must
be done, she put the two girls, well wrapped in blankets, into the shed
outside the back door, closed the door to keep out the smoke, and then
went with Willie to the low attic, where a scuttle door opened onto the
roof.
"We must try," she said, "to get it open without letting in too much
snow, and see if we can manage to clear the chimney."
"I can reach the chimney from the scuttle with a shovel," said Willie.
"I often have with a stick."
After much labour, and several small avalanches of snow, the scuttle was
opened far enough for Willie to stand on the top round of the short
ladder, and beat a hole through to the light, which was only a foot
above. He then shovelled off the top of the chimney, which was
ornamented with a big round cushion of snow, and then by beating and
shovelling he was able to clear the door, which he opened wide, and Mrs.
Barnes came up on the ladder to look out. Dreary indeed was the scene!
Nothing but snow as far as the eye could reach, and flakes still
falling, though lightly. The storm was evidently almost over, but the
sky was gray and overcast.
They closed the door, went down, and soon had a fire, hoping that the
smoke would guide somebody to them.
Breakfast was taken by candle-light, dinner--in time--in the same way,
and supper passed with no sound from the outside world.
Many times Willie and mamma went to the scuttle door to see if any one
was in sight, but not a shadow broke the broad expanse of white over
which toward night the sun shone. Of course there were no signs of the
roads, for through so deep snow none could be broken, and until the sun
and frost should form a a crust on top there was little hope of their
being reached.
The second morning broke, and Willie hurried up to his post of lookout
the first thing. No person was in sight, but he found a light crust on
the snow, and the first thing he noticed was a few half-starved birds
trying in vain to pick up something to eat. They looked weak and almost
exhausted, and a thought struck Willie.
It was hard to keep up the courage of the little household. Nora had
openly lamented that to-night was Christmas Eve, and no Christmas dinner
to be had. Tot had grown very tearful about her "waisins," and Mrs.
Barnes, though she tried to keep up heart, had become very pale and
silent.
Willie, though he felt unbounded faith in papa, and especially in Tim,
found it hard to suppress his own complaints when he remembered that
Christmas would probably be passed in the same dismal way, with fears
for papa added to their own misery.
The wood, too, was getting low, and mamma dared not let the fire go out,
as that was the only sign of their existence to anybody; and though she
did not speak of it, Willie knew, too, that they had not many candles,
and in two days at farthest they would be left in the dark.
The thought that struck Willie pleased him greatly, and he was sure it
would cheer up the rest. He made his plans, and went to work to carry
them out without saying anything about it.
He brought out of a corner of the attic an old box-trap he had used in
the summer to catch birds and small animals, set it carefully on the
snow, and scattered crumbs of corn-bread to attract the birds.
In half an hour he went up again, and found to his delight he had caught
bigger game--a poor rabbit which had come from no one knows where over
the crust to find food.
This gave Willie a new idea; they could save their Christmas dinner
after all; rabbits made very nice pies. Poor Bunny was quietly laid to
rest, and the trap set again. This time another rabbit was caught,
perhaps the mate of the first. This was the last of the rabbits, but the
next catch was a couple of snowbirds. These Willie carefully placed in a
corner of the attic, using the trap for a cage, and giving them plenty
of food and water.
When the girls were fast asleep, with tears on their cheeks for the
dreadful Christmas they were going to have, Willie told mamma about his
plans. Mamma was pale and weak with anxiety, and his news first made her
laugh and then cry. But after a few moments given to her long pent-up
tears, she felt much better and entered into his plans heartily.
The two captives up in the attic were to be Christmas presents to the
girls, and the rabbits were to make the long anticipated pie. As for
plum-pudding, of course that couldn't be thought of.
"But don't you think, mamma," said Willie eagerly, "that you could make
some sort of a cake out of meal, and wouldn't hickory nuts be good in
it? You know I have some left up in the attic, and I might crack them
softly up there, and don't you think they would be good?" he concluded
anxiously.