“My sister Patty was six years old. We loved each other dearly. The
picture-book was almost as much hers as mine. We sat so long together on
one big foot-stool by the fire, with our arms around each other, and the
book resting on our knees, that Kitty called down blessings on my
godmother’s head for having sent a volume that kept us both so long out
of mischief.
“‘If books was allus as useful as that, they’d do for me,’ said she; and
though this speech did not mean much, it was a great deal for Kitty to
say; since, not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought
that ‘little enough good comes of larning.’
“Patty and I had our favorites amongst the pictures. Bogy, now, was a
character one did not care to think about too near bed-time. I was tired
of Guy Fawkes, and thought he looked more natural made of straw, as Dick
did him. The Dunce was a little too personal; but old Father Christmas
took our hearts by storm; we had never seen anything like him, though
now-a-days you may get a plaster figure of him in any toy-shop at
Christmas-time, with hair and beard like cotton wool, and a
Christmas-tree in his hand.
“The custom of Christmas-trees came from Germany. I can remember when
they were first introduced into England, and what wonderful things we
thought them. Now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars
openly discuss whether the presents have been ‘good,’ or ‘mean’ as
compared with other trees in former years. The first one that I ever saw
I believed to have come from good Father Christmas himself; but little
boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement.
They are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back
drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill—which I feel to this
day—when the folding-doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of
tapers, mamma, like a Fate, advances with her scissors to give every one
what falls to his lot.
“Well, young people, when I was eight years old I had not seen a
Christmas-tree, and the first picture of one I ever saw was the picture
of that held by Old Father Christmas in my godmother’s picture book.
“‘What are those things on the tree?’ I asked.
“‘Candles,’ said my father.
“‘No, father, not the candles; the other things?’
“‘Those are toys, my son.’
“‘Are they ever taken off?’
“‘Yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand around
the tree.’
“Patty and I grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice
murmured, ‘How kind of Old Father Christmas!’
“By-and-by I asked, ‘How old is Father Christmas?’
“My father laughed, and said, ‘One thousand eight hundred and thirty
years, child,’ which was then the year of our Lord, and thus one
thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great Christmas
Day.
“‘He _looks_ very old,’ whispered Patty.
“And I, who was, for my age, what Kitty called ‘Bible-learned,’ said
thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, ‘Then he’s older than
Methusaleh.’
“But my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty.
“November and December went by, and still the picture-book kept all its
charm for Patty and me; and we pondered on and loved Old Father
Christmas as children can love and realize a fancy friend. To those who
remember the fancies of their childhood I need say no more.
“Christmas week came, Christmas Eve came. My father and mother were
mysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlor (we had only one
parlor), and Patty and I were not allowed to go in. We went into the
kitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us. Kitty was ‘all over
the place,’ as she phrased it, and cakes, mince-pies, and puddings were
with her. As she justly observed, ‘There was no place there for children
and books to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be
at the oven all along. The cat was enough for _her_ temper,’ she added.
“As to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out
into the Christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps,
and a stupidity that was, I think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to
fly at intervals, like a football, before Kitty’s hasty slipper.
“We had more sense, or less courage. We bowed to Kitty’s behests, and
went to the back door.
“Patty and I were hardy children, and accustomed to ‘run out’ in all
weathers, without much extra wrapping up. We put Kitty’s shawl over our
two heads, and went outside. I rather hoped to see something of Dick,
for it was holiday time; but no Dick passed. He was busy helping his
father bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold
sprigs of holly for the morrow—That was the idea of church decoration
in my young days. You have improved on your elders there, young people,
and I am candid enough to allow it. Still, the sprigs of red and green
were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious
devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into
life and leaf again for very Christmas joy; and, if one only knelt
carefully, they did not scratch his nose.
“Well, Dick was busy, and not to be seen. We ran across the little yard
and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or
anybody. From this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping
prettily away to a little hill about three-quarters of a mile distant;
which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be
a place of cure for whooping-cough, or ‘kincough,’ as it was vulgarly
called. Up to the top of this Kitty had dragged me, and carried Patty,
when we were recovering from the complaint, as I well remember. It was
the only ‘change of air’ we could afford, and I dare say it did as well
as if we had gone into badly-drained lodgings at the seaside.
“This hill was now covered with snow and stood off against the gray sky.
The white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk. The only gay things
to be seen were the berries on the holly hedge, in the little
lane—which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the
Hall—and the fat robin, that was staring at me. I was looking at the
robin, when Patty, who had been peering out of her corner of Kitty’s
shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and
cried,
“‘Look!’”