his generous plans. "I can try. If I only had some eggs--but seems to me
I have heard that snow beaten into cake would make it light--and there's
snow enough, I'm sure," she added with a faint smile, the first Willie
had seen for three days.
The smile alone he felt to be a great achievement, and he crept
carefully up the ladder, cracked the nuts to the last one, brought them
down, and mamma picked the meats out, while he dressed the two rabbits
which had come so opportunely to be their Christmas dinner.
"Wish you Merry Christmas!" he called out to Nora and Tot when they
waked. "See what Santa Claus has brought you!"
Before they had time to remember what a sorry Christmas it was to be,
they received their presents, a live bird, for each, a bird that was
never to be kept in a cage, but fly about the house till summer came,
and then to go away if it wished.
Pets were scarce on the prairie, and the girls were delighted. Nothing
papa could have brought them would have given them so much happiness.
They thought no more of the dinner, but hurried to dress themselves and
feed the birds, which were quite tame from hunger and weariness. But
after a while they saw preparations for dinner, too. Mamma made a crust
and lined a deep dish--the chicken pie dish--and then she brought a
mysterious something out of the cupboard, all cut up so that it looked
as if it might be chicken, and put it in the dish with other things, and
then she tucked them all under a thick crust, and set it down in a tin
oven before the fire to bake. And that was not all. She got out some
more cornmeal, and made a batter, and put in some sugar and something
else which she slipped in from a bowl, and which looked in the batter
something like raisins; and at the last moment Willie brought her a cup
of snow and she hastily beat it into the cake, or pudding, whichever you
might call it, while the children laughed at the idea of making a cake
out of snow. This went into the same oven and pretty soon it rose up
light and showed a beautiful brown crust, while the pie was steaming
through little fork holes on top, and sending out most delicious odours.
At the last minute, when the table was set and everything ready to come
up, Willie ran up to look out of the scuttle, as he had every hour of
daylight since they were buried. In a moment came a wild shout down the
ladder.
"They're coming! Hurrah for old Tim!"
Mamma rushed up and looked out, and saw--to be sure--old Tim slowly
coming along over the crust, drawing after him a wood sled on which were
two men.
"It's papa!" shouted Willie, waving his arms to attract their attention.
"Willie!" came back over the snow in tones of agony. "Is that you? Are
all well?"
"All well!" shouted Willie, "and just going to have our Christmas
dinner."
"Dinner?" echoed papa, who was now nearer. "Where is the house, then?"
"Oh, down here!" said Willie, "under the snow; but we're all right, only
we mustn't let the plum-pudding spoil."
Looking into the attic, Willie found that mamma had fainted away, and
this news brought to her aid papa and the other man, who proved to be a
good friend who had come to help.
Tim was tied to the chimney, whose thread of smoke had guided them home,
and all went down into the dark room. Mrs. Barnes soon recovered, and
while Willie dished up the smoking dinner, stories were told on both
sides.
Mr. Barnes had been trying to get through the snow and to find them all
the time, but until the last night had made a stiff crust he had been
unable to do so.
Then Mrs. Barnes told her story, winding up with the account of Willie's
Christmas dinner. "And if it hadn't been for his keeping up our hearts I
don't know what would have become of us," she said at last.
"Well, my son," said papa, "you did take care of mamma, and get up a
dinner out of nothing, sure enough; and now we'll eat the dinner, which
I am sure is delicious."
So it proved to be; even the cake, or pudding, which Tot christened snow
pudding, was voted very nice, and the hickory nuts as good as raisins.
When they had finished, Mr. Barnes brought in his packages, gave Tot and
the rest some "sure-enough waisins," and added his Christmas presents to
Willie's; but though all were overjoyed, nothing was quite so nice in
their eyes as the two live birds.
After dinner the two men and Willie dug out passages from the doors,
through the snow, which had wasted a good deal, uncovered the windows,
and made a slanting way to his shed for old Tim. Then for two or three
days Willie made tunnels and little rooms under the snow, and for two
weeks, while the snow lasted, Nora and Tot had fine times in the little
snow playhouses.
FOOTNOTE:
[T] From "Kristy's Queer Christmas," Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1904.
XXIX
MR. BLUFF'S EXPERIENCES OF HOLIDAYS[U]
OLIVER BELL BUNCE
"I HATE holidays," said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little
irritation, on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant,
after which he resumed: "I don't mean to say that I hate to see people
enjoying themselves. But I hate holidays, nevertheless, because to me
they are always the saddest and dreariest days of the year. I shudder at
the name of holiday. I dread the approach of one, and thank heaven when
it is over. I pass through, on a holiday, the most horrible sensations,
the bitterest feelings, the most oppressive melancholy; in fact, I am
not myself at holiday-times."
"Very strange," I ventured to interpose.
"A plague on it!" said he, almost with violence. "I'm not inhuman. I
don't wish anybody harm. I'm glad people can enjoy themselves. But I
hate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason: I am a
bachelor; I am without kin; I am in a place that did not know me at
birth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere
for me. I have friends, of course; I don't think I've been a very sulky,
shut-in, reticent fellow; and there is many a board that has a place for
me--but not at Christmas-time. At Christmas, the dinner is a family
gathering; and I've no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on
this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for
a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas, with all its
kindliness and charity and good-will, is, after all, deuced selfish.
Each little set gathers within its own circle; and people like me, with
no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of
all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I'm without
an invitation.
"Oh, it's because I pine for good cheer," said the bachelor, sharply,
interrupting my attempt to speak, "that I hate holidays. If I were an
infernally selfish fellow, I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and have
some fun all to myself, somewhere or somehow. But, you see, I hate to be
in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays
because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays and can't.
"Don't tell me," he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips; "I
tell you, I hate holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their
bright toys and their green branches? The pantomime is crowded with
merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and
laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any
pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the
show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their
uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those
places; so, if I go, I must go alone. But I don't go. I can't bear the
chill of seeing everybody happy, and knowing myself so lonely and
desolate. Confound it, sir, I've too much heart to be happy under such
circumstances! I'm too humane, sir! And the result is, I hate holidays.
It's miserable to be out, and yet I can't stay at home, for I get
thinking of Christmases past. I can't read--the shadow of my heart makes
it impossible. I can't walk--for I see nothing but pictures through the
bright windows, and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I've
nothing to do but to hate holidays. But will you not dine with me?"
Of course, I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I
couldn't quite invite Mr. Bluff home that day, when Cousin Charles and
his wife, and Sister Susan and her daughter, and three of my wife's kin
had come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I
felt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a "Merry
Christmas," and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air.
I did not meet Bachelor Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the
next year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to
him after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let
Bachelor Bluff tell his adventure for himself:
"I went to church," said he, "and was as sad there as everywhere else.
Of course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine; but all
around me were happy groups of people, who could scarcely keep down
_merry_ Christmas long enough to do reverence to _sacred_ Christmas. And
nobody was alone but me. Every happy paterfamilias in his pew tantalized
me, and the whole atmosphere of the place seemed so much better suited
to every one else than me that I came away hating holidays worse than
ever. Then I went to the play, and sat down in a box all alone by
myself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and
jokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured
freedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the
only person in the whole theatre that was alone. And then there was such
clapping of hands, and roars of laughter, and shouts of delight at all
the fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly
enjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share and
interchange the pleasure, that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and
I hated holidays infinitely worse than ever.
"By five o'clock the holiday became so intolerable that I said I'd go
and get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide. A sumptuous
dinner for one. A dinner with many courses, with wines of the finest
brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire, with every condition
of comfort--and I'd see if I couldn't for once extract a little pleasure
out of a holiday!
"The handsome dining-room at the club looked bright, but it was empty.
Who dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a
flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants
were, no doubt, glad of something to break the monotony of the hours.
"My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely; but the
white, snowy cloths, the rich window hangings, the warm tints of the
walls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air
of elegance and cheerfulness; and then the table at which I dined was
close to the window, and through the partly drawn curtains were visible
centres of lonely, cold streets, with bright lights from many a window,
it is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the
street. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it
would, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the
brilliant room of which I was apparently sole master.
"I dined well, and recalled in fancy old, youthful Christmases, and
pledged mentally many an old friend, and my melancholy was mellowing
into a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine
to my lips, I was startled by a picture at the window-pane. It was a
pale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair, pressed
against the glass. As I looked it vanished. With a strange thrill at my
heart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine
and set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar-girl that had
crept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within;
but still the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow
on my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about
to drink, when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so
thin, with eyes so large, wild, and hungry-looking, and the black,
unkempt hair, into which the snow had drifted, formed so strange and
weird a frame to the picture, that I was fairly startled. Replacing,
untasted, the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane.
The face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the
window. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts
through the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying
wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not
repress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose
only Christmas was to watch, in cold and storm, the rich banquet
ungratefully enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the
table; but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish.
I was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an
unreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth
my detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a holiday
with any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by
too much pleasure on one side, and too much misery on the other. And
then, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, 'How
many other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of
enjoyment others possess!'
"Oh, yes, I know," sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of
mine; "of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-souled people
delight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to
accept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little
girl----"
"Dear little girl?"
"Oh, I forgot," said Bachelor Bluff, blushing a little, in spite of a
desperate effort not to do so. "I didn't tell you. Well, it was so
absurd! I kept thinking, thinking of the pale, haggard, lonely little
girl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the over-fed,
discontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the
window-pane, and I didn't get much happier thinking about it, I can
assure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine--not that I enjoyed
its flavour any more, but mechanically, as it were, and with a sort of
hope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my
annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more
vehemently than ever. I rose once in a while and went to the window, but
could see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged.
"At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and
went out; and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure
crouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough
encounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very
irritated and angry, and spoke harshly; and then, all at once, I am sure
I don't know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men,
had no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a
Christmas as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word, but
began feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question
or two, and then I don't quite know how it came about--isn't it very
warm here?" exclaimed Bachelor Bluff, rising and walking about, and
wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"Well, you see," he resumed nervously, "it was very absurd, but I did
believe the girl's story--the old story, you know, of privation and
suffering, and just thought I'd go home with the brat and see if what
she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the shops were
closed, and not a purchase could be made. I went back and persuaded the
steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions, which the half-wild
little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing with delight
all the way. And isn't this enough?"
"Not a bit, Mr. Bluff. I must have the whole story."
"I declare," said Bachelor Bluff, "there's no whole story to tell. A
widow with children in great need, that was what I found; and they had a
feast that night, and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a
garment or two the next day; and they were all so bright, and so merry,
and so thankful, and so good, that, when I got home that night, I was
mightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in
a state of great contentment in regard to holidays. In fact, I was
really merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor
wretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas
banquet that their spirits infected mine.
"And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable
to me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor hovering
wistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about there were so
many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? 'Good
gracious!' I exclaimed, 'to think of a man complaining of loneliness
with thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with
endless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant
and delightful things to do. Just to think of it! It put me in a great
fury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself
and began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly
forced myself to look squarely at my own conduct. And then I reconciled
my conscience by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a
holiday again, might my holidays end at once and forever!
"Did I go and see my _protégés_ again? What a question! Why--well, no
matter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a
way to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's no fault
of mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn't let me. But
just let me tell you about New Year's--the New-Year's day that followed
the Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me there was
another holiday only a week off. Bless you! I had so much to do that day
I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long enough. I
did make a few social calls, but then I hurried them over; and then
hastened to my little girl, whose face had already caught a touch of
colour; and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her
ribbons, took me to other poor folk, and,--well, that's about the whole
story.
"Oh, as to the next Christmas. Well, I didn't dine alone, as you may
guess. It was up three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that
elegance that marked the dinner of the year before; but it was merry,
and happy, and bright; it was a generous, honest, hearty Christmas
dinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn't talked so much
about the mysterious way a turkey had been left at her door the night
before. And Molly--that's the little girl--and I had a rousing appetite.
We went to church early; then we had been down to the Five Points to
carry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner; in
fact, we had done wonders of work, and Molly was in high spirits, and so
the Christmas dinner was a great success.
"Dear me, sir, no! Just as you say. Holidays are not in the least
wearisome any more. Plague on it! When a man tells me now that he hates
holidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the buttonhole
at once, and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on
a holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, 'God
bless all holidays!'"
FOOTNOTE:
[U] Reprinted by permission of Moffat, Yard & Co., from _Christmas_. R.
H. Schauffler, Editor.
XXX
MASTER SANDY'S SNAPDRAGON[V]
ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS
THERE was just enough of December in the air and of May in the sky to
make the Yuletide of the year of grace 1611 a time of pleasure and
delight to every boy and girl in "Merrie England" from the princely
children in stately Whitehall to the humblest pot-boy and scullery-girl
in the hall of the country squire.
And in the palace at Whitehall even the cares of state gave place to the
sports of this happy season. For that "Most High and Mighty Prince
James, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and
Ireland"--as you will find him styled in your copy of the Old Version,
or what is known as "King James' Bible"--loved the Christmas
festivities, cranky, crabbed, and crusty though he was. And this year he
felt especially gracious. For now, first since the terror of the Guy
Fawkes plot which had come to naught full seven years before, did the
timid king feel secure on his throne; the translation of the Bible, on
which so many learned men had been for years engaged, had just been
issued from the press of Master Robert Baker; and, lastly, much profit
was coming into the royal treasury from the new lands in the Indies and
across the sea.
So it was to be a Merry Christmas in the palace at Whitehall. Great were
the preparations for its celebration, and the Lord Henry, the handsome,
wise and popular young Prince of Wales, whom men hoped some day to hail
as King Henry of England, was to take part in a jolly Christmas mask, in
which, too, even the little Prince Charles was to perform for the
edification of the court when the mask should be shown in the new and
gorgeous banqueting hall of the palace.
And to-night it was Christmas Eve. The Little Prince Charles and the
Princess Elizabeth could scarcely wait for the morrow, so impatient were
they to see all the grand devisings that were in store for them. So good
Master Sandy, under-tutor to the Prince, proposed to wise Archie
Armstrong, the King's jester, that they play at snapdragon for the
children in the royal nursery.
The Prince and Princess clamoured for the promised game at once, and
soon the flicker from the flaming bow lighted up the darkened nursery
as, around the witch-like caldron, they watched their opportunity to
snatch the lucky raisin. The room rang so loudly with fun and laughter
that even the King himself, big of head and rickety of legs, shambled in
good-humouredly to join in the sport that was giving so much pleasure to
the royal boy he so dearly loved, and whom he always called "Baby
Charles."
But what was snapdragon, you ask? A simple enough game, but dear for
many and many a year to English children. A broad and shallow bowl or
dish half-filled with blazing brandy, at the bottom of which lay
numerous toothsome raisins--a rare tidbit in those days--and one of
these, pierced with a gold button, was known as the "lucky raisin."
Then, as the flaming brandy flickered and darted from the yawning bowl,
even as did the flaming poison tongues of the cruel dragon that St.
George of England conquered so valiantly, each one of the revellers
sought to snatch a raisin from the burning bowl without singe or scar.
And he who drew out the lucky raisin was winner and champion, and could
claim a boon or reward for his superior skill. Rather a dangerous game,
perhaps it seems, but folks were rough players in those old days and
laughed at a burn or a bruise, taking them as part of the fun.
So around Master Sandy's Snapdragon danced the royal children, and even
the King himself condescended to dip his royal hands in the flames,
while Archie Armstrong the jester cried out: "Now fair and softly,
brother Jamie, fair and softly, man. There's ne'er a plum in all that
plucking so worth the burning as there was in Signor Guy Fawkes'
snapdragon when ye proved not to be his lucky raisin." For King's
jesters were privileged characters in the old days, and jolly Archie
Armstrong could joke with the King on this Guy Fawkes scare as none
other dared.
And still no one brought out the lucky raisin, though the Princess
Elizabeth's fair arm was scorched and good Master Sandy's peaked beard
was singed, and my Lord Montacute had dropped his signet ring in the
fiery dragon's mouth, and even His Gracious Majesty the King was nursing
one of his royal fingers.
But just as through the parted arras came young Henry, Prince of Wales,
little Prince Charles gave a boyish shout of triumph.
"Hey, huzzoy!" he cried, "'tis mine, 'tis mine! Look, Archie; see, dear
dad; I have the lucky raisin! A boon, good folk; a boon for me!" And the
excited lad held aloft the lucky raisin in which gleamed the golden
button.
"Rarely caught, young York," cried Prince Henry, clapping his hands in
applause. "I came in right in good time, did I not, to give you luck,
little brother? And now, lad, what is the boon to be?"