=OUR HOLIDAYS=
HISTORICAL STORIES
RETOLD FROM
ST. NICHOLAS MAGAZINE
IN FIVE VOLUMES
INDIAN STORIES
A mirror of Indian ideas, customs, and adventures.
COLONIAL STORIES
Stirring tales of the rude frontier life of early times.
REVOLUTIONARY STORIES
Heroic deeds, and especially children's part in them.
CIVIL WAR STORIES
Thrilling stories of the great struggle, both on land and sea.
OUR HOLIDAYS
Something of their meaning and spirit.
Each about 200 pages. Full cloth, 12mo.
THE CENTURY CO.
[Illustration: HO, FOR THE CHRISTMAS TREE!]
OUR HOLIDAYS
THEIR MEANING AND SPIRIT
RETOLD FROM ST. NICHOLAS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK MCMVI
THE DE VINNE PRESS
=CONTENTS=
PAGE
OUR HOLIDAYS 1
ST. SATURDAY _Henry Johnstone_ 3
HALLOWE'EN 7
ALL-HALLOW-EVE MYTHS _David Brown_ 9
ELECTION DAY 13
RIGHTS AND DUTIES OF CITIZENS _S.E. Forman_ 15
THANKSGIVING DAY 21
A THANKSGIVING DINNER THAT FLEW AWAY _H. Butterworth_ 23
WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY 35
THE BOYHOOD OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER _William H. Rideing_ 37
CHRISTMAS 51
HOW UNCLE SAM OBSERVES CHRISTMAS _Clifford Howard_ 53
NEW YEAR'S DAY 79
EXTRACT FROM "SOCIAL LIFE IN THE COLONIES" _Edward Eggleston_ 81
A CHINESE NEW YEAR'S IN CALIFORNIA _H.H._ 82
LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY 85
ABRAHAM LINCOLN _Helen Nicolay_ 87
THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS 99
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! _Walt Whitman_ 101
ST. VALENTINE'S BIRTHDAY 103
WHO BEGAN IT? _Olive Thorne_ 105
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY 111
THE BOYHOOD OF WASHINGTON _Horace E. Scudder_ 113
LONGFELLOW'S BIRTHDAY 123
LONGFELLOW AND THE CHILDREN _Lucy Larcom_ 125
INAUGURATION DAY 139
HOW A PRESIDENT IS INAUGURATED _Clifford Howard_ 141
EASTER DAY 153
A SONG OF EASTER _Celia Thaxter_ 155
THE GENERAL'S EASTER BOX _Temple Bailey_ 159
ARBOR DAY 175
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE _William Cullen Bryant_ 177
APRIL FOOL'S DAY 181
FOURTH-MONTH DUNCE _H.M.M._ 183
MEMORIAL DAY 185
THE BOY IN GRAY _Mary Bradley_ 187
FLAG DAY 193
THE STARS AND STRIPES _Henry Russell Wray_ 195
FOURTH OF JULY 199
A STORY OF THE FLAG _Victor Mapes_ 201
=PREFACE=
To most young people, holidays mean simply freedom from lessons and a
good time. All this they should mean--and something more.
It is well to remember, for example, that we owe the pleasure of
Thanksgiving to those grateful Pilgrims who gave a feast of thanks for
the long-delayed rain that saved their withering crops--a feast of wild
turkeys and pumpkin pies, which has been celebrated now for nearly three
centuries.
It is most fitting that the same honor paid to Washington's Birthday is
now given to that of Lincoln, who is as closely associated with the
Civil War as our first President is with the Revolution.
Although the birthdays of the three American poets, Whittier, Lowell,
and Longfellow, are not holidays, stories relating to these days are
included in this collection as signalizing days to be remembered.
In this book are contained stories bearing on our holidays and annual
celebrations, from Hallowe'en to the Fourth of July.
=Our Holidays=
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work.
SHAKSPERE. _King Henry IV_, Part I.
=ST. SATURDAY=
[Illustration]
BY HENRY JOHNSTONE
Oh, Friday night's the queen of nights, because it ushers in
The Feast of good St. Saturday, when studying is a sin,
When studying is a sin, boys, and we may go to play
Not only in the afternoon, but all the livelong day.
St. Saturday--so legends say--lived in the ages when
The use of leisure still was known and current among men;
Full seldom and full slow he toiled, and even as he wrought
He'd sit him down and rest awhile, immersed in pious thought.
He loved to fold his good old arms, to cross his good old knees,
And in a famous elbow-chair for hours he'd take his ease;
He had a word for old and young, and when the village boys
Came out to play, he'd smile on them and never mind the noise.
So when his time came, honest man, the neighbors all declared
That one of keener intellect could better have been spared;
By young and old his loss was mourned in cottage and in hall,
For if he'd done them little good, he'd done no harm at all.
In time they made a saint of him, and issued a decree--
Since he had loved his ease so well, and been so glad to see
The children frolic round him and to smile upon their play--
That school boys for his sake should have a weekly holiday.
They gave his name unto the day, that as the years roll by
His memory might still be green; and that's the reason why
We speak his name with gratitude, and oftener by far
Than that of any other saint in all the calendar.
Then, lads and lassies, great and small, give ear to what I say--
Refrain from work on Saturdays as strictly as you may;
So shall the saint your patron be and prosper all you do--
And when examinations come he'll see you safely through.
[Illustration: St. Saturday]
=Hallowe'en=
_October 31_
The Eve of All Saints' Day
This night is known in some places as Nutcrack Night, or Snapapple
Night. Supernatural influences are pretended to prevail and hence all
kinds of superstitions were formerly connected with it. It is now
usually celebrated by children's parties, when certain special games are
played.
=ALL-HALLOW-EVE MYTHS=
BY DAVID BROWN
As the world grows old and wise, it ceases to believe in many of its
superstitions. But, although they are no longer believed in, the customs
connected with them do not always die out; they often linger on through
centuries, and, from having once been serious religious rites, or
something real in the life of the people, they become at last mere
children's plays or empty usages, often most zealously enjoyed by those
who do not understand their meaning.
All-hallow Eve is now, in our country towns, a time of careless frolic,
and of great bonfires, which, I hear, are still kindled on the hill-tops
in some places. We also find these fires in England, Scotland, and
Ireland, and from their history we learn the meaning of our celebration.
Some of you may know that the early inhabitants of Great Britain,
Ireland, and parts of France were known as Celts, and that their
religion was directed by strange priests called Druids. Three times in
the year, on the first of May, for the sowing; at the solstice, June
21st, for the ripening and turn of the year; and on the eve of November
1st, for the harvesting, those mysterious priests of the Celts, the
Druids, built fires on the hill-tops in France, Britain, and Ireland, in
honor of the sun. At this last festival the Druids of all the region
gathered in their white robes around the stone altar or cairn on the
hill-top. Here stood an emblem of the sun, and on the cairn was a sacred
fire, which had been kept burning through the year. The Druids formed
about the fire, and, at a signal, quenched it, while deep silence rested
on the mountains and valleys. Then the new fire gleamed on the cairn,
the people in the valley raised a joyous shout, and from hill-top to
hill-top other fires answered the sacred flame. On this night, all
hearth-fires in the region had been put out, and they were kindled with
brands from the sacred fire, which was believed to guard the households
through the year.
But the Druids disappeared from their sacred places, the cairns on the
hill-tops became the monuments of a dead religion, and Christianity
spread to the barbarous inhabitants of France and the British Islands.
Yet the people still clung to their old customs, and felt much of the
old awe for them. Still they built their fires on the first of May,--at
the solstice in June,--and on the eve of November 1st. The church found
that it could not all at once separate the people from their old ways,
so it gradually turned these ways to its own use, and the harvest
festival of the Druids became in the Catholic Calendar the Eve of All
Saints, for that is the meaning of the name "All-hallow Eve." In the
seventh century, the Pantheon, the ancient Roman temple of all the gods,
was consecrated anew to the worship of the Virgin and of all holy
martyrs.
By its separation from the solemn character of the Druid festival,
All-hallow Eve lost much of its ancient dignity, and became the
carnival-night of the year for wild, grotesque rites. As century after
century passed by, it came to be spoken of as the time when the magic
powers, with which the peasantry, all the world over, filled the wastes
and ruins, were supposed to swarm abroad to help or injure men. It was
the time when those first dwellers in every land, the fairies, were said
to come out from their grots and lurking-places; and in the darkness of
the forests and the shadows of old ruins, witches and goblins gathered.
In course of time, the hallowing fire came to be considered a protection
against these malicious powers. It was a custom in the seventeenth
century for the master of a family to carry a lighted torch of straw
around his fields, to protect them from evil influence through the year,
and as he went he chanted an invocation to the fire. The chief thing
which we seek to impress upon your minds in connection with All-hallow
Eve is that its curious customs show how no generation of men is
altogether separated from earlier generations. Far as we think we are
from our uncivilized ancestors, much of what they did and thought has
come into our doing and thinking,--with many changes perhaps, under
different religious forms, and sometimes in jest where they were in
earnest. Still, these customs and observances (of which All-hallow Eve
is only one) may be called the piers, upon which rests a bridge that
spans the wide past between us and the generations that have gone
before.
=Election Day=
The first Tuesday after the first Monday in November.
This day is now a holiday so that every man may have an opportunity to
cast his vote. Unlike most other holidays, it does not commemorate an
event, but it is a day which has a tremendous meaning if rightly looked
upon and rightly used. Its true spirit and significance are well set
forth in the following pages. By act of Congress the date for the
choosing of Presidential electors is set for the first Tuesday after the
first Monday in November in the years when Presidents are elected, and
the different States have now nearly all chosen the same day for the
election of State officers.
=RIGHTS AND DUTIES OF CITIZENS=
BY S.E. FORMAN
Read the bill of rights in the constitution of your State and you will
find there, set down in plain black and white, the rights which you are
to enjoy as an American citizen. This constitution tells you that you
have the right to your life, to your liberty, and to the property that
you may honestly acquire; that your body, your health and your
reputation shall be protected from injury; that you may move freely from
place to place unmolested; that you shall not be imprisoned or otherwise
punished without a fair trial by an impartial jury; that you may worship
God according to the promptings of your own conscience; that you may
freely write and speak on any subject providing you do not abuse the
privilege; that you may peaceably assemble and petition government for
the redress of grievances. These are civil rights. They, together with
many others equally dear, are guaranteed by the State and national
constitutions, and they belong to all American citizens.
These civil rights, like the air and the sunshine, come to us in these
days as a matter of course, but they did not come to our ancestors as a
matter of course. To our ancestors rights came as the result of
hard-fought battles. The reading of the bill of rights would cause your
heart to throb with gratitude did you but know the suffering and
sacrifice each right has cost.
Now just as our rights have not been gained without a struggle, so they
will not be maintained without a struggle. We may not have to fight with
cannon and sword as did our forefathers in the Revolution, but we may be
sure that if our liberty is to be preserved there will be fighting of
some kind to do. Such precious things as human rights cannot be had for
nothing.
One of the hardest battles will be to fulfil the duties which accompany
our rights, for every right is accompanied by a duty. If I can hold a
man to his contract I ought (_I owe it_) to pay my debts; if I may
worship as I please, I ought to refrain from persecuting another on
account of his religion; if my property is held sacred, I ought to
regard the property of another man as sacred; if the government deals
fairly with me and does not oppress me, I ought to deal fairly With it
and refuse to cheat it; if I am allowed freedom of speech, I ought not
to abuse the privilege; if I have a right to a trial by jury, I ought to
respond when I am summoned to serve as a juror; if I have a right to my
good name and reputation, I ought not to slander my neighbor; if
government shields me from injury, I ought to be ready to take up arms
in its defense.
Foremost among the rights of American citizenship is that of going to
the polls and casting a ballot. This right of voting is not a civil
right; it is a political right which grew out of man's long struggle for
his civil rights. While battling with kings and nobles for liberty the
people learned to distrust a privileged ruling class. They saw that if
their civil rights were to be respected, government must pass into their
own hands or into the hands of their chosen agents. Hence they demanded
political rights, the right of holding office and of voting at
elections.
The suffrage, or the right of voting, is sometimes regarded as a natural
right, one that belongs to a person simply because he is a person.
People will say that a man has as much right to vote as he has to
acquire property or to defend himself from attack. But this is not a
correct view. The right to vote is a _franchise_ or privilege which the
law gives to such citizens as are thought worthy of possessing it. It is
easy to see that everybody cannot be permitted to vote. There must be
certain qualifications, certain marks of fitness, required of a citizen
before he can be entrusted with the right of suffrage. These
qualifications differ in the different States. In most States every male
citizen over twenty-one years of age may vote. In four States, women as
well as men exercise the right of suffrage.
But the right of voting, like every other right, has its corresponding
duty. No day brings more responsibilities than Election Day. The
American voter should regard himself as an officer of government. He is
one of the members of the electorate, that vast governing body which
consists of all the voters and which possesses supreme political power,
controlling all the governments, federal and State and local. This
electorate has in its keeping the welfare and the happiness of the
American people. When, therefore, the voter takes his place in this
governing body, that is, when he enters the polling-booth and presumes
to participate in the business of government, he assumes serious
responsibilities. In the polling-booth he is a public officer charged
with certain duties, and if he fails to discharge these duties properly
he may work great injury. What are the duties of a voter in a
self-governing country? If an intelligent man will ask himself the
question and refer it to his conscience as well as deliberate upon it in
his mind, he will conclude that he ought to do the following things:
1. To vote whenever it is his privilege.
2. To try to understand the questions upon which he votes.
3. To learn something about the character and fitness of the men
for whom he votes.
4. To vote only for honest men for office.
5. To support only honest measures.
6. To give no bribe, direct or indirect, and to receive no bribe,
direct or indirect.
7. To place country above party.
8. To recognize the result of the election as the will of the
people and therefore as the law.
9. To continue to vote for a righteous although defeated cause as
long as there is a reasonable hope of victory.
"The proudest now is but my peer,
The highest not more high;
To-day of all the weary year,
A king of men am I.
"To-day alike are great and small,
The nameless and the known;
My palace is the people's hall,
The ballot-box my throne!"
WHITTIER.
=Thanksgiving Day=
Appointed by the President--usually the last Thursday in November.
Now observed as a holiday in all the States, but not a legal holiday in
all. The President's proclamation recommends that it be set apart as a
day of prayer and rejoicing. The day is of New England origin, the first
one being set by Governor Bradford of the Massachusetts colony on
December, 1621. Washington issued a thanksgiving proclamation for
Thursday, December 18, 1777, and again at Valley Forge for May 7, 1778.
The Thanksgiving of the present incorporates many of the genial features
of Christmas. The feast with the Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin-pie
crowns the day. Even the poorhouse has its turkey. The story of "An
Old-Time Thanksgiving," in "Indian Stories" of this series, well brings
out the original spirit of the day.
=A THANKSGIVING DINNER THAT FLEW AWAY=
BY H. BUTTERWORTH
"Honk!"
I spun around like a top, looking nervously in every direction. I was
familiar with that sound; I had heard it before, during two summer
vacations, at the old farm-house on the Cape.
It had been a terror to me. I always put a door, a fence, or a stone
wall between me and that sound as speedily as possible.
I had just come down from the city to the Cape for my third summer
vacation. I had left the cars with my arms full of bundles, and hurried
toward Aunt Targood's.
The cottage stood in from the road. There was a long meadow in front of
it. In the meadow were two great oaks and some clusters of lilacs. An
old, mossy stone wall protected the grounds from the road, and a long
walk ran from the old wooden gate to the door.
It was a sunny day, and my heart was light. The orioles were flaming in
the old orchards; the bobolinks were tossing themselves about in the
long meadows of timothy, daisies, and patches of clover. There was a
scent of new-mown hay in the air.
In the distance lay the bay, calm and resplendent, with white sails and
specks of boats. Beyond it rose Martha's Vineyard, green and cool and
bowery, and at its wharf lay a steamer.
I was, as I said, light-hearted. I was thinking of rides over the sandy
roads at the close of the long, bright days; of excursions on the bay;
of clam-bakes and picnics.
I was hungry; and before me rose visions of Aunt Targood's fish dinners,
roast chickens, berry pies. I was thirsty; but ahead was the old
well-sweep, and, behind the cool lattice of the dairy window, were pans
of milk in abundance.
I tripped on toward the door with light feet, lugging my bundles and
beaded with perspiration, but unmindful of all discomforts in the
thought of the bright days and good things in store for me.
"Honk! honk!"
My heart gave a bound!
_Where_ did that sound come from?
Out of a cool cluster of innocent-looking lilac bushes, I saw a dark
object cautiously moving. It seemed to have no head. I knew, however,
that it had a head. I had seen it; it had seized me once on the previous
summer, and I had been in terror of it during all the rest of the
season.
I looked down into the irregular grass, and saw the head and a very long
neck running along on the ground, propelled by the dark body, like a
snake running away from a ball. It was coming toward me, and faster and
faster as it approached.
I dropped all my bundles.
In a few flying leaps I returned to the road again, and armed myself
with a stick from a pile of cord-wood.
"Honk! honk! honk!"
It was a call of triumph. The head was high in the air now. My enemy
moved grandly forward, as became the monarch of the great meadow
farm-yard.
I stood with beating heart, after my retreat.
It was Aunt Targood's gander.
How he enjoyed his triumph, and how small and cowardly he made me feel!
"Honk! honk! honk!"
The geese came out of the lilac bushes, bowing their heads to him in
admiration. Then came the goslings--a long procession of awkward,
half-feathered things: they appeared equally delighted.
The gander seemed to be telling his admiring audience all about it: how
a strange girl with many bundles had attempted to cross the yard; how he
had driven her back, and had captured her bundles, and now was monarch
of the field. He clapped his wings when he had finished his heroic
story, and sent forth such a "honk!" as might have startled a
major-general.
Then he, with an air of great dignity and coolness, began to examine my
baggage.
Among my effects were several pounds of chocolate caramels, done up in
brown paper. Aunt Targood liked caramels, and I had brought her a large
supply.
He tore off the wrappers quickly. Bit one. It was good. He began to
distribute the bon-bons among the geese, and they, with much liberality
and good-will, among the goslings.
This was too much. I ventured through the gate swinging my cord-wood
stick.
"Shoo!"
He dropped his head on the ground, and drove it down the walk in a
lively waddle toward me.
"_Shoo_!"
It was Aunt Targood's voice at the door.
He stopped immediately.
His head was in the air again.
"_Shoo_!"
Out came Aunt Targood with her broom.
She always corrected the gander with her broom. If I were to be whipped
I should choose a broom--not the stick.
As soon as he beheld the broom he retired, although with much offended
pride and dignity, to the lilac bushes; and the geese and goslings
followed him.
"Hester, you dear child, come here. I was expecting you, and had been
looking out for you, but missed sight of you. I had forgotten all about
the gander."
We gathered up the bundles and the caramels. I was light-hearted again.
How cool was the sitting-room, with the woodbine falling about the open
windows! Aunt brought me a pitcher of milk and some strawberries; some
bread and honey; and a fan.
While I was resting and taking my lunch, I could hear the gander
discussing the affairs of the farm-yard with the geese. I did not
greatly enjoy the discussion. His tone of voice was very proud, and he
did not seem to be speaking well of me. I was suspicious that he did not
think me a very brave girl. A young person likes to be spoken well of,
even by the gander.
Aunt Targood's gander had been the terror of many well-meaning people,
and of some evildoers, for many years. I have seen tramps and
pack-peddlers enter the gate, and start on toward the door, when there
would sound that ringing warning like a war-blast. "Honk, honk!" and in
a few minutes these unwelcome people would be gone. Farm-house boarders
from the city would sometimes enter the yard, thinking to draw water by
the old well-sweep: in a few minutes it was customary to hear shrieks,
and to see women and children flying over the walls, followed by
air-rending "honks!" and jubilant cackles from the victorious gander and
his admiring family.
"Aunt, what makes you keep that gander, year after year?" said I, one
evening, as we were sitting on the lawn before the door. "Is it because
he is a kind of a watch-dog, and keeps troublesome people away?"
"No, child, no; I do not wish to keep most people away, not well-behaved
people, nor to distress nor annoy any one. The fact is, there is a
story about that gander that I do not like to speak of to every
one--something that makes me feel tender toward him; so that if he needs
a whipping, I would rather do it. He knows something that no one else
knows. I could not have him killed or sent away. You have heard me speak
of Nathaniel, my oldest boy?"
"Yes."
"That is his picture in my room, you know. He was a good boy to me. He
loved his mother. I loved Nathaniel--you cannot think how much I loved
Nathaniel. It was on my account that he went away.
"The farm did not produce enough for us all: Nathaniel, John, and I. We
worked hard and had a hard time. One year--that was ten years ago--we
were sued for our taxes.
"'Nathaniel,' said I, 'I will go to taking boarders.'
"Then he looked up to me and said (oh, how noble and handsome he
appeared to me!):
"'Mother, I will go to sea.'
"'Where?' asked I, in surprise.
"'In a coaster.'
"I turned white. How I felt!
"'You and John can manage the place,' he continued. 'One of the vessels
sails next week--Uncle Aaron's; he offers to take me.'
"It seemed best, and he made preparations to go.
"The spring before, Skipper Ben--you have met Skipper Ben--had given me
some goose eggs; he had brought them from Canada, and said that they
were wild-goose eggs.
"I set them under hens. In four weeks I had three goslings. I took them
into the house at first, but afterward made a pen for them out in the
yard. I brought them up myself, and one of those goslings is that
gander.
"Skipper Ben came over to see me, the day before Nathaniel was to sail.
Aaron came with him.
"I said to Aaron:
"'What can I give to Nathaniel to carry to sea with him to make him
think of home? Cake, preserves, apples? I haven't got much; I have done
all I can for him, poor boy.'
"Brother looked at me curiously, and said:
"'Give him one of those wild geese, and we will fatten it on shipboard
and will have it for our Thanksgiving dinner.'
"What brother Aaron said pleased me. The young gander was a noble bird,
the handsomest of the lot; and I resolved to keep the geese to kill for
my own use and to give _him_ to Nathaniel.
"The next morning--it was late in September--I took leave of Nathaniel.
I tried to be calm and cheerful and hopeful. I watched him as he went
down the walk with the gander struggling under his arms. A stranger
would have laughed, but I did not feel like laughing; it was true that
the boys who went coasting were usually gone but a few months and came
home hardy and happy. But when poverty compels a mother and son to part,
after they have been true to each other, and shared their feelings in
common, it seems hard, it seems hard--though I do not like to murmur or
complain at anything allotted to me.
"I saw him go over the hill. On the top he stopped and held up the
gander. He disappeared; yes, my own Nathaniel disappeared. I think of
him now as one who disappeared.
"November came--it was a terrible month on the coast that year. Storm
followed storm; the sea-faring people talked constantly of wrecks and
losses. I could not sleep on the nights of those high winds. I used to
lie awake thinking over all the happy hours I had lived with Nathaniel.
"Thanksgiving week came.
"It was full of an Indian-summer brightness after the long storms. The
nights were frosty, bright, and calm.
"I could sleep on those calm nights.
"One morning, I thought I heard a strange sound in the woodland pasture.
It was like a wild goose. I listened; it was repeated. I was lying in
bed. I started up--I thought I had been dreaming.
"On the night before Thanksgiving I went to bed early, being very tired.
The moon was full; the air was calm and still. I was thinking of
Nathaniel, and I wondered if he would indeed have the gander for his
Thanksgiving dinner: if it would be cooked as well as I would have
cooked it, and if he would think of me that day.
"I was just going to sleep, when suddenly I heard a sound that made me
start up and hold my breath.
"'_Honk_!'
"I thought it was a dream followed by a nervous shock.
"'_Honk! honk_!'
"There it was again, in the yard. I was surely awake and in my senses.
"I heard the geese cackle.
"'_Honk! honk! honk_!'
"I got out of bed and lifted the curtain. It was almost as light as day.
Instead of two geese there were three. Had one of the neighbors' geese
stolen away?
"I should have thought so, and should not have felt disturbed, but for
the reason that none of the neighbors' geese had that peculiar
call--that hornlike tone that I had noticed in mine.
"I went out of the door.
"The third goose looked like the very gander I had given Nathaniel.
Could it be?
"I did not sleep. I rose early and went to the crib for some corn.
"It was a gander--a 'wild' gander--that had come in the night. He seemed
to know me.
"I trembled all over as though I had seen a ghost. I was so faint that I
sat down on the meal-chest.
"As I was in that place, a bill pecked against the door. The door
opened. The strange gander came hobbling over the crib-stone and went to
the corn-bin. He stopped there, looked at me, and gave a sort of glad
"honk," as though he knew me and was glad to see me.
"I was certain that he was the gander I had raised, and that Nathaniel
had lifted into the air when he gave me his last recognition from the
top of the hill.
"It overcame me. It was Thanksgiving. The church bell would soon be
ringing as on Sunday. And here was Nathaniel's Thanksgiving dinner; and
brother Aaron's--had it flown away? Where was the vessel?
"Years have passed--ten. You know I waited and waited for my boy to come
back. December grew dark with its rainy seas; the snows fell; May
lighted up the hills, but the vessel never came back. Nathaniel--my
Nathaniel--never returned.
"That gander knows something he could tell me if he could talk. Birds
have memories. He remembered the corn-crib--he remembered something
else. I wish he _could_ talk, poor bird! I wish he could talk. I will
never sell him, nor kill him, nor have him abused. _He knows!_"
=Whittier's Birthday=
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Born December 17, 1807 Died September 7, 1892
Whittier is known not only as a poet, but as a reformer and author. He
was a member of the Society of Friends. He attended a New England
academy; worked on a farm; taught school in order to afford further
education, and at the age of twenty-two edited a paper at Boston. He was
a leading opponent of slavery and was several times attacked by mobs on
account of his opinions.
=THE BOYHOOD OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER=
BY WILLIAM H. RIDEING
The life of Whittier may be read in his poems, and, by putting a note
here and a date there, a full autobiography might be compiled from them.
His boyhood and youth are depicted in them with such detail that little
need be added to make the story complete, and that little, reverently
done as it may be, must seem poor in comparison with the poetic beauty
of his own revelations.
What more can we do to show his early home than to quote from his own
beautiful poem, "Snow-bound"? There the house is pictured for us, inside
and out, with all its furnishings; and those who gather around its
hearth, inmates and visitors, are set before us so clearly that long
after the book has been put away they remain as distinct in the memory
as portraits that are visible day after day on the walls of our own
homes. He reproduces in his verse the landscapes he saw, the legends of
witches and Indians he listened to, the schoolfellows he played with,
the voices of the woods and fields, and the round of toil and pleasure
in a country boy's life; and in other poems his later life, with its
impassioned devotion to freedom and lofty faith, is reflected as lucidly
as his youth is in "Snow-bound" and "The Barefoot Boy."
He himself was "The Barefoot Boy," and what Robert Burns said of himself
Whittier might repeat: "The poetic genius of my country found me, as the
prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plow, and threw her inspiring
mantle over me." He was a farmer's son, born at a time when farm-life in
New England was more frugal than it is now, and with no other heritage
than the good name and example of parents and kinsmen, in whom simple
virtues--thrift, industry, and piety--abounded.
His birthplace still stands near Haverhill, Mass.,--a house in one of
the hollows of the surrounding hills, little altered from what it was in
1807, the year he was born, when it was already at least a century and a
half old.
[Illustration: WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE, NEAR HAVERHILL, MASS.]
He had no such opportunities for culture as Holmes and Lowell had in
their youth. His parents were intelligent and upright people of
limited means, who lived in all the simplicity of the Quaker faith, and
there was nothing in his early surroundings to encourage and develop a
literary taste. Books were scarce, and the twenty volumes on his
father's shelves were, with one exception, about Quaker doctrines and
Quaker heroes. The exception was a novel, and that was hidden away from
the children, for fiction was forbidden fruit. No library or scholarly
companionship was within reach; and if his gift had been less than
genius, it could never have triumphed over the many disadvantages with
which it had to contend. Instead of a poet he would have been a farmer
like his forefathers. But literature was a spontaneous impulse with him,
as natural as the song of a bird; and he was not wholly dependent on
training and opportunity, as he would have been had he possessed mere
talent.
Frugal from necessity, the life of the Whittiers was not sordid nor
cheerless to him, moreover; and he looks back to it as tenderly as if it
had been full of luxuries. It was sweetened by strong affections, simple
tastes, and an unflinching sense of duty; and in all the members of the
household the love of nature was so genuine that meadow, wood, and
river yielded them all the pleasure they needed, and they scarcely
missed the refinements of art.
Surely there could not be a pleasanter or more homelike picture than
that which the poet has given us of the family on the night of the great
storm when the old house was snowbound:
"Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat.
And ever when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed.
The house-dog on his paws outspread,
Laid to the fire his drowsy head;
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall,
And for the winter fireside meet
Between the andiron's straddling feet
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And close at hand the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood."
For a picture of the poet himself we must turn to the verses in "The
Barefoot Boy," in which he says:
"O for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden-wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches, too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!"[1]
[Illustration: THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE, HAVERHILL, MASS.]
I doubt if any boy ever rose to intellectual eminence who had fewer
opportunities for education than Whittier. He had no such pasturage to
browse on as is open to every reader who, by simply reaching them out,
can lay his hands on the treasures of English literature. He had to
borrow books wherever they could be found among the neighbors who were
willing to lend, and he thought nothing of walking several miles for one
volume. The only instruction he received was at the district school,
which was open a few weeks in midwinter, and at the Haverhill Academy,
which he attended two terms of six months each, paying tuition by work
in spare hours, and by keeping a small school himself. A feeble spirit
would have languished under such disadvantages. But Whittier scarcely
refers to them, and instead of begging for pity, he takes them as part
of the common lot, and seems to remember only what was beautiful and
good in his early life.
Occasionally a stranger knocked at the door of the old homestead in the
valley; sometimes it was a distinguished Quaker from abroad, but oftener
it was a peddler or some vagabond begging for food, which was seldom
refused. Once a foreigner came and asked for lodgings for the night--a
dark, repulsive man, whose appearance was so much against him that Mrs.
Whittier was afraid to admit him. No sooner had she sent him away,
however, than she repented. "What if a son of mine was in a strange
land?" she thought. The young poet (who was not yet recognized as such)
offered to go out in search of him, and presently returned with him,
having found him standing in the roadway just as he had been turned away
from another house.
[Illustration: JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER]
"He took his seat with us at the supper-table," says Whittier in one of
his prose sketches, "and when we were all gathered around the hearth
that cold autumnal evening, he told us, partly by words and partly by
gestures, the story of his life and misfortunes, amused us with
descriptions of the grape-gatherings and festivals of his sunny
clime, edified my mother with a recipe for making bread of chestnuts,
and in the morning, when, after breakfast, his dark sallow face lighted
up, and his fierce eyes moistened with grateful emotion as in his own
silvery Tuscan accent he poured out his thanks, we marveled at the fears
which had so nearly closed our doors against him, and as he departed we
all felt that he had left with us the blessing of the poor."
Another guest came to the house one day. It was a vagrant old Scotchman,
who, when he had been treated to bread and cheese and cider, sang some
of the songs of Robert Burns, which Whittier then heard for the first
time, and which he never forgot. Coming to him thus as songs reached the
people before printing was invented, through gleemen and minstrels,
their sweetness lingered in his ears, and he soon found himself singing
in the same strain. Some of his earliest inspirations were drawn from
Burns, and he tells us of his joy when one day, after the visit of the
old Scotchman, his schoolmaster loaned him a copy of that poet's works.
"I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures,"
he says in his simple way.
Indeed, he began to rhyme very early and kept his gift a secret from
all, except his oldest sister, fearing that his father, who was a
prosaic man, would think that he was wasting time. He wrote under the
fence, in the attic, in the barn--wherever he could escape observation;
and as pen and ink were not always available, he sometimes used chalk,
and even charcoal. Great was the surprise of the family when some of his
verses were unearthed, literally unearthed, from under a heap of rubbish
in a garret; but his father frowned upon these evidences of the bent of
his mind, not out of unkindness, but because he doubted the sufficiency
of the boy's education for a literary life, and did not wish to inspire
him with hopes which might never be fulfilled.
His sister had faith in him, nevertheless, and, without his knowledge,
she sent one of his poems to the editor of _The Free Press_, a newspaper
published in Newburyport. Whittier was helping his father to repair a
stone wall by the roadside when the carrier flung a copy of the paper to
him, and, unconscious that anything of his was in it, he opened it and
glanced up and down the columns. His eyes fell on some verses called
"The Exile's Departure."
"Fond scenes, which delighted my youthful existence,
With feelings of sorrow I bid ye adieu--
A lasting adieu; for now, dim in the distance,
The shores of Hibernia recede from my view.
Farewell to the cliffs, tempest-beaten and gray,
Which guard the loved shores of my own native land;
Farewell to the village and sail-shadowed bay,
The forest-crowned hill and the water-washed strand."
His eyes swam; it was his own poem, the first he ever had in print.
[Illustration: WHITTIER'S STUDY AT AMESBURY, MASS.]
"What is the matter with thee?" his father demanded, seeing how dazed he
was; but, though he resumed his work on the wall, he could not speak,
and he had to steal a glance at the paper again and again, before he
could convince himself that he was not dreaming. Sure enough, the poem
was there with his initial at the foot of it,--"W., Haverhill, June 1st,
1826,"--and, better still, this editorial notice: "If 'W.,' at
Haverhill, will continue to favor us with pieces beautiful as the one
inserted in our poetical department of to-day, we shall esteem it a
favor."
Fame never passes true genius by, and when it came it brought with it
the love and reverence of thousands, who recognize in Whittier a nature
abounding in patience, unselfishness, and all the sweetness of Christian
charity.
[Footnote 1: The selections from Mr. Whittier's poems contained in this
article are included by kind permission of Messrs. Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.]
=Christmas=
_December 25_
A festival held every year in memory of the birth of Christ. Christmas
is essentially a day of rejoicing and thanksgiving and of good will
toward others. Many customs older than Christianity mark the
festivities. In our country the observance of the day was discouraged in
colonial times, and in England in 1643 Parliament abolished the day. Now
its celebration is world-wide and by all classes and creeds.
=HOW UNCLE SAM OBSERVES CHRISTMAS=
BY CLIFFORD HOWARD
Of course Uncle Sam is best acquainted with the good old-fashioned
Christmas--the kind we have known all about since we were little bits of
children. There are the Christmas trees with their pretty decorations
and candles, and the mistletoe and holly and all sorts of evergreens to
make the house look bright, while outside the trees are bare, the ground
is white with snow, and Jack Frost is prowling around, freezing up the
ponds and pinching people's noses. And then there is dear old Santa
Claus with his reindeer, galloping about on the night before Christmas,
and scrambling down chimneys to fill the stockings that hang in a row by
the fireplace.
It is the time of good cheer and happiness and presents for everybody;
the time of chiming bells and joyful carols; of turkey and candy and
plum-pudding and all the other good things that go to make up a truly
merry Christmas. And here and there throughout the country, some of the
quaint old customs of our forefathers are still observed at this time,
as, for instance, the pretty custom of "Christmas waits"--boys and girls
who go about from house to house on Christmas eve, or early Christmas
morning, singing carols.
But, aside from the Christmas customs we all know so well, Uncle Sam has
many strange and special ways of observing Christmas; for in this big
country of his there are many different kinds of people, and they all do
not celebrate Christmas in the same way, as you shall see.
=IN THE SOUTH=
Siss! Bang! Boom! Sky-rockets hissing, crackers snapping, cannons
roaring, horns tooting, bells ringing, and youngsters shouting with wild
delight. That is the way Christmas begins down South.
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS IN THE SOUTH]
It starts at midnight, or even before; and all day long fire-crackers
are going off in the streets of every city, town, and village of the
South, from Virginia to Louisiana. A Northern boy, waking up suddenly in
New Orleans or Mobile or Atlanta, would think he was in the midst of
a rousing Fourth-of-July celebration. In some of the towns the brass
bands come out and add to the jollity of the day by marching around and
playing "My Maryland" and "Dixie"; while the soldier companies parade up
and down the streets to the strains of joyous music and fire salutes
with cannons and rifles.
To the girls and boys of the South, Christmas is the noisiest and
jolliest day of the year. The Fourth of July doesn't compare with it.
And as for the darkies, they look upon Christmas as a holiday that was
invented for their especial happiness. They take it for granted that all
the "white folks" they know will give them presents; and with grinning
faces they are up bright and early, asking for "Christmus gif', mistah;
Christmus gif, missus." No one thinks of refusing them, and at the end
of the day they are richer and happier than at any other time during the
whole year.
Except for the jingle of sleigh-bells and the presence of Jack Frost, a
Christmas in the South is in other ways very much like that in the
North. The houses are decorated with greens, mistletoe hangs above the
doorways, Santa Claus comes down the chimneys and fills the waiting
stockings, while Christmas dinner is not complete without the familiar
turkey and cranberry sauce, plum puddings and pies.
=IN NEW ENGLAND=
For a great many years there was no Christmas in New England. The
Pilgrims and the Puritans did not believe in such celebrations. In fact,
they often made it a special point to do their hardest work on Christmas
day, just to show their contempt for what they considered a pagan
festival.
During colonial times there was a law in Massachusetts forbidding any
one to celebrate Christmas; and if anybody was so rash in those days as
to go about tooting a horn and shouting a "Merry Christmas!" he was
promptly brought to his senses by being arrested and punished.
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS SPORTS IN NEW ENGLAND]
Of course things are very different in New England now, but in many
country towns the people still make more of Thanksgiving than they do of
Christmas; and there are hundreds of New England men and women still
living who knew nothing of Christmas as children--who never hung up
their stockings; who never waited for Santa Claus; who never had a
tree; who never even had a Christmas present!
Nowadays, however, Christmas in New England is like Christmas anywhere
else; but here and there, even now, the effects of the early Puritan
ideas may still be seen. In some of the smaller and out-of-the-way towns
and villages you will find Christmas trees and evergreens in only a very
few of the houses, and in some places--particularly in New
Hampshire--one big Christmas tree does for the whole town. This tree is
set up in the town hall, and there the children go to get their gifts,
which have been hung on the branches by the parents. Sometimes the tree
has no decorations--no candles, no popcorn strings, no shiny balls.
After the presents are taken off and given to the children, the tree
remains perfectly bare. There is usually a short entertainment of
recitations and songs, and a speech or two perhaps, and then the little
folks, carrying their presents with them, go back to their homes.
=IN NEW MEXICO=
In certain parts of New Mexico, among the old Spanish settlements, the
celebration of Christmas begins more than a week before the day. In the
evenings, a party of men and women go together to the house of some
friend--a different house being visited each evening. When they arrive,
they knock on the door and begin to sing, and when those in the house
ask, "Who is there?" they reply, "The Virgin Mary and St. Joseph seek
lodgings in your house." At first the inmates of the house refuse to let
them in. This is done to carry out the Bible story of Joseph and Mary
being unable to find lodgings in Bethlehem. But in a little while the
door is opened and the visitors are heartily welcomed. As soon as they
enter, they kneel and repeat a short prayer; and when the devotional
exercises are concluded, the rest of the evening is spent in
merrymaking.
On Christmas eve the people of the village gather together in some large
room or hall and give a solemn little play, commemorating the birthday
of the Saviour. One end of the room is used as a stage, and this is
fitted up to represent the stable and the manger; and the characters in
the sacred story of Bethlehem--Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, the wise
men, and the angels--are represented in the tableaux, and with a
genuine, reverential spirit. Even the poorer people of the town take
part in these Christmas plays.
=AMONG THE SHAKERS=
The Shakers observe Christmas by a dinner at which the men and women
both sit down at the same table. This custom of theirs is the thing that
serves to make Christmas different from any other day among the Shakers.
During all the rest of the year the men and women eat their meals at
separate tables.