Aunt Penelope’s presents were lovely. Aunt Penelope’s stories were

charming. There was generally a moral wrapped up in them, like the motto

in a cracker-bonbon; but it was quite in the inside, so to speak, and

there was abundance of smart paper and sugar-plums.

All things considered, it was certainly most proper that the

much-injured Dot should be dressed out in her best, and have access to

dessert, the dining-room, and Aunt Penelope, whilst Sam was kept

upstairs. And yet it was Dot who (her first burst of grief being over),

fought stoutly for his pardon all the time she was being dressed, and

was afterwards detected in the act of endeavoring to push fragments of

raspberry tart through the nursery key-hole.

“You GOOD thing!” Sam emphatically exclaimed, as he heard her in fierce

conflict on the other side of the door with the nurse who found

her—“You GOOD thing! leave me alone, for I deserve it.”

He really was very penitent. He was too fond of Dot not to regret the

unexpected degree of distress he had caused her; and Dot made much of

his penitence in her intercessions in the drawing-room.

“Sam is so very sorry,” she said, “he says he knows he deserves it. I

think he ought to come down. He is so _very_ sorry!”

Aunt Penelope, as usual, took the lenient side, joining her entreaties

to Dot’s, and it ended in Master Sam’s being hurriedly scrubbed and

brushed, and shoved into his black velvet suit, and sent downstairs,

rather red about the eyelids, and looking very sheepish.

“Oh, Dot!” he exclaimed, as soon as he could get her into a corner, “I

am so very, very sorry! particularly about the tea-things.”

“Never mind,” said Dot, “I don’t care; and I’ve asked for a story, and

we’re going into the library.” As Dot said this, she jerked her head

expressively in the direction of the sofa, where Aunt Penelope was just

casting on stitches preparatory to beginning a pair of her famous ribbed

socks for Papa, whilst she gave to Mamma’s conversation that sympathy,

which (like her knitting-needles) was always at the service of her large

circle of friends. Dot anxiously watched the bow on the top of her cap

as it danced and nodded with the force of Mamma’s observations. At last

it gave a little chorus of jerks, as one should say, “Certainly,

undoubtedly.” And then the story came to an end, and Dot, who had been

slowly creeping nearer, fairly took Aunt Penelope by the hand, and

carried her off, knitting and all, to the library.

“Now, please,” said Dot, when she had struggled into a chair that was

too tall for her.

“Stop a minute!” cried Sam, who was perched in the opposite one, “the

horsehair tickles my legs.”

“Put your pocket-handkerchief under them, as I do,” said Dot. “_Now_,

Aunt Penelope.”

“No, wait,” groaned Sam; “it isn’t big enough; it only covers one leg.”

Dot slid down again, and ran to Sam.

“Take my handkerchief for the other.”

“But what will you do?” said Sam.

“Oh, I don’t care,” said Dot, scrambling back into her place. “Now,

Aunty, please.”

And Aunt Penelope began.

THE LAND OF LOST TOYS.

“I suppose people who have children transfer their childish follies and

fancies to them, and become properly sedate and grown-up. Perhaps it is

because I am an old maid, and have none, that some of my nursery whims

stick to me, and I find myself liking things, and wanting things, quite

out of keeping with my cap and time of life. For instance. Anything in

the shape of a toy-shop (from a London bazaar to a village window, with

Dutch dolls, leather balls, and wooden battle-dores) quite unnerves me,

so to speak. When I see one of those boxes containing a jar, a churn, a

kettle, a pan, a coffee-pot, a cauldron on three legs, and sundry

dishes, all of the smoothest wood, and with the immemorial red flower on

one side of each vessel, I fairly long for an excuse for playing with

them, and for trying (positively for the last time) if the lids _do_

come off, and whether the kettle will (literally, as well as

metaphorically) hold water. Then if, by good or ill luck, there is a

child flattening its little nose against the window with longing eyes,

my purse is soon empty; and as it toddles off with a square parcel under

one arm, and a lovely being in black ringlets and white tissue paper in

the other, I wish that I were worthy of being asked to join the ensuing

play. Don’t suppose there is any generosity in this. I have only done

what we are all glad to do. I have found an excuse for indulging a pet

weakness. As I said, it is not merely the new and expensive toys that

attract me; I think my weakest corner is where the penny boxes lie, the

wooden tea-things (with the above-named flower in miniature), the

soldiers on their lazy tongs, the nine-pins, and the tiny farm.

“I need hardly say that the toy booth in a village fair tries me very

hard. It tried me in childhood, when I was often short of pence, and

when ‘the Feast’ came once a year. It never tried me more than on one

occasion, lately, when I was revisiting my old home.

“It was deep Midsummer, and the Feast. I had children with me of course

(I find children, somehow, wherever I go), and when we got into the

fair, there were children of people whom I had known as children, with

just the same love for a monkey going up one side of a yellow stick and

coming down the other, and just as strong heads for a giddy-go-round on

a hot day and a diet of peppermint lozenges, as their fathers and

mothers before them. There were the very same names—and here and there

it seemed the very same faces—I knew so long ago. A few shillings were

indeed well expended in brightening those familiar eyes: and then there

were the children with me. . . . Besides, there really did seem to be an

unusually nice assortment of things, and the man was very intelligent

(in reference to his wares: . . . . Well, well! It was two o’clock P. M.

when we went in at one end of that glittering avenue of drums, dolls,

trumpets, accordions, work-boxes and what not; but what o’clock it was

when I came out at the other end, with a shilling and some coppers in my

pocket, and was cheered, I can’t say, though I should like to have been

able to be accurate about the time, because of what followed.)

“I thought the best thing I could do was to get out of the fair at once,

so I went up the village and struck off across some fields into a little

wood that lay near. (A favorite walk in old times.) As I turned out of

the booth, my foot struck against one of the yellow sticks of the

climbing monkeys. The monkey was gone, and the stick broken. It set me

thinking as I walked along.

“What an untold number of pretty and ingenious things one does (not wear

out in honorable wear and tear, but) utterly lose, and wilfully destroy,

in one’s young days—things that would have given pleasure to so many

more young eyes, if they had been kept a little longer—things that one

would so value in later years, if some of them had survived the

dissipating and destructive days of Nurserydom. I recalled a young lady

I knew, whose room was adorned with knick-knacks of a kind I had often

envied. They were not plaster figures, old china, wax-work flowers under

a glass, or ordinary ornaments of any kind. They were her old toys.

Perhaps she had not had many of them, and had been the more careful of

those she had. She had certainly been very fond of them, and had kept

more of them than any one I ever knew. A faded doll slept in its cradle

at the foot of her bed. A wooden elephant stood on the dressing-table,

and a poodle that had lost his bark put out a red-flannel tongue with

quixotic violence at a windmill on the opposite corner of the

mantelpiece. Everything had a story of its own. Indeed the whole room

must have been redolent with the sweet story of childhood, of which the

toys were the illustrations, or like a poem of which the toys were the

verses. She used to have children to play with them sometimes, and this

was a high honor. She is married now, and has children of her own, who

on birthdays and holidays will forsake the newest of their own

possessions to play with ‘mamma’s toys.’

“I was roused from these recollections by the pleasure of getting into

the wood.

“If I have a stronger predilection than my love for toys, it is my love

for woods, and, like the other, it dates from childhood. It was born and

bred with me, and I fancy will stay with me till I die. The soothing

scents of leaf mould, moss, and fern (not to speak of flowers)—the pale

green veil in spring, the rich shade in summer, the rustle of the dry

leaves in autumn, I suppose an old woman may enjoy all these, my dears,

as well as you. But I think I could make ‘fairy jam’ of hips and haws in

acorn cups now, if any child would be condescending enough to play with

me.

“_This_ wood, too, had associations.

“I strolled on in leisurely enjoyment, and at last seated myself at the

foot of a tree to rest. I was hot and tired; partly with the mid-day

heat and the atmosphere of the fair, partly with the exertion of

calculating change in the purchase of articles ranging in price from

three farthings upwards. The tree under which I sat was an old friend.

There was a hole at its base that I knew well. Two roots covered with

exquisite moss ran out from each side, like the arms of a chair, and

between them there accumulated year after year a rich, though tiny store

of dark leaf-mould. We always used to say that fairies lived within,

though I never saw anything go in myself but wood beetles. There was one

going in at that moment.

“How little the wood was changed! I bent my head for a few seconds, and,

closing my eyes, drank in the delicious and suggestive scents of earth

and moss about the dear old tree. I had been so long parted from the

place that I could hardly believe that I was in the old familiar spot.

Surely it was only one of the many dreams in which I had played again

beneath those trees! But when I reopened my eyes there was the same

hole, and, oddly enough, the same beetle or one just like it. I had not

noticed till that moment how much larger the hole was than it used to be

in my young days.

“‘I suppose the rain and so forth wears them away in time,’ I said

vaguely.

“‘Suppose it does,’ said the beetle politely; ‘will you walk in?’

“I don’t know why I was not so overpoweringly astonished as you would

imagine. I think I was a good deal absorbed in considering the size of

the hole, and the very foolish wish that seized me to do what I had

often longed to do in childhood, and creep in. I _had_ so much regard

for propriety as to see that there was no one to witness the escapade.

Then I tucked my skirts round me, put my spectacles into my pocket for

fear they should get broken, and in I went.

“I must say one thing. A wood is charming enough (no one appreciates it

more than myself), but, if you have never been there, you have no idea

how much nicer it is inside than on the surface. Oh, the mosses—the

gorgeous mosses! The fretted lichens! The fungi like flowers for beauty,

and the flowers like nothing you have ever seen!

“Where the beetle went to I don’t know. I could stand up now quite well,

and I wandered on till dusk in unwearied admiration. I was among some

large beeches as it grew dark, and was beginning to wonder how I should

find my way (not that I had lost it, having none to lose), when suddenly

lights burst from every tree, and the whole place was illuminated. The

nearest approach to this scene that I ever witnessed above ground was in

a wood near the Hague in Holland. There, what look like tiny glass

tumblers holding floating wicks, are fastened to the trunks of the fine

old trees, at intervals of sufficient distance to make the light and

shade mysterious, and to give effect to the full blaze when you reach

the spot where the hanging chains of lamps illuminate the ‘Pavilion’ and

the open space where the band plays, and where the townsfolk assemble by

hundreds to drink coffee and enjoy the music. I was the more reminded of

the Dutch ‘bosch’ because, after wandering some time among the lighted

trees, I heard distant sounds of music, and came at last upon a glade

lit up in a similar manner, except that the whole effect was

incomparably more brilliant.

“As I stood for a moment doubting whether I should proceed, and a good

deal puzzled about the whole affair, I caught sight of a large spider

crouched up in a corner with his stomach on the ground and his knees

above his head, as some spiders do sit, and looking at me, as I fancied,

through a pair of spectacles. (About the spectacles I do not feel sure.

It may have been two of his bent legs in apparent connection with his

prominent eyes.) I thought of the beetle, and said civilly, ‘Can you

tell me, sir, if this is Fairyland?’ The spider took off his spectacles

(or untucked his legs), and took a sideways run out of his corner.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a Providence. The fact is, it’s the Land of Lost

Toys. You haven’t such a thing as a fly anywhere about you, have you?’

“‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry to say I have not.’ This was not strictly

true, for I was not at all sorry; but I wished to be civil to the old

gentleman, for he projected his eyes at me with such an intense (I had

almost said greedy) gaze, that I felt quite frightened.

“‘How did you pass the sentries?’ he inquired.

“‘I never saw any,’ I answered.

“‘You couldn’t have seen anything if you didn’t see them,’ he said; ‘but

perhaps you don’t know. They’re the glow-worms. Six to each tree, so

they light the road, and challenge the passers-by. Why didn’t they

challenge you?’

“‘I don’t know,’ I began, ‘unless the beetle——’

“‘I don’t like beetles,’ interrupted the spider, stretching each leg in

turn by sticking it up above him, ‘all shell and no flavor. You never

tried walking on anything of that sort, did you?’ and he pointed with

one leg to a long thread that fastened a web above his head.

“‘Certainly not,’ said I.

“‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t bear you,’ he observed slowly.

“‘I’m quite sure it wouldn’t,’ I hastened to reply. ‘I wouldn’t try for

worlds. It would spoil your pretty work in a moment. Good-evening.’

“And I hurried forward. Once I looked back, but the spider was not

following me. He was in his hole again, on his stomach, with his knees

above his head, and looking (apparently through his spectacles) down the

road up which I came.

“I soon forgot him in the sight before me. I had reached the open place

with the lights and the music; but how shall I describe the spectacle

that I beheld?

“I have spoken of the effect of a toy-shop on my feelings. Now imagine a

toy-fair, brighter and gayer than the brightest bazaar ever seen, held

in an open glade, where forest-trees stood majestically behind the

glittering stalls, and stretched their gigantic arms above our heads,

brilliant with a thousand hanging lamps. At the moment of my entrance

all was silent and quiet. The toys lay in their places looking so

incredibly attractive that I reflected with disgust that all my ready

cash, except one shilling and some coppers, had melted away amid the

tawdry fascinations of a village booth. I was counting the coppers

(sevenpence halfpenny), when all in a moment a dozen sixpenny fiddles

leaped from their places and began to play, accordions of all sizes

joined them, the drumsticks beat upon the drums, the penny trumpets

sounded, and yellow flutes took up the melody on high notes, and bore it

away through the trees. It was weird fairy-music but quite delightful.

The nearest approach to it that I know of above ground is to hear a wild

dreamy air very well whistled to a pianoforte accompaniment.

“When the music began, all the toys rose. The dolls jumped down and

began to dance. The poodles barked, the pannier donkeys wagged their

ears, the windmills turned, the puzzles put themselves together, the

bricks built houses, the balls flew from side to side, the battle-doors

and shuttle-cocks kept it up among themselves, and the skipping-ropes

went round, the hoops ran off, and the sticks went after them, the

cobbler’s wax at the tails of all the green frogs gave way, and they

jumped at the same moment, whilst an old-fashioned go-cart ran madly

about with nobody inside. It was most exhilarating.

“I soon became aware that the beetle was once more at my elbow.

“‘There are some beautiful toys here,’ I said.

“‘Well, yes,’ he replied, ‘and some odd-looking ones, too. You see,

whatever has been really used by any child as a plaything gets a right

to come down here in the end; and there is some very queer company, I

assure you. Look there.’

“I looked, and said, ‘It seems to be a potato.’

“‘So it is,’ said the beetle. ‘It belonged to an Irish child in one of

your great cities. But to whom the child belonged I don’t know, and I

don’t think he knew himself. He lived in a corner of a dirty,

over-crowded room, and into this corner, one day, the potato rolled. It

was the only plaything he ever had. He stuck two cinders into it for

eyes, scraped a nose and mouth, and loved it. He sat upon it during the

day, for fear it should be taken from him, but in the dark he took it

out and played with it. He was often hungry, but he never ate that

potato. When he died it rolled out of the corner, and was swept into the

ashes. Then it came down here.’

“‘What a sad story!’ I exclaimed.

“The beetle seemed in no way affected.

“‘It is a curious thing,’ he rambled on, ‘that potato takes quite a good

place among the toys. You see, rank and precedence down here is entirely

a question of age; that is, of the length of time that any plaything has

been in the possession of a child; and all kinds of ugly old things hold

the first rank; whereas the most costly and beautiful works of art have

often been smashed or lost, by the spoilt children of rich people, in

two or three days. If you care for sad stories, there is another queer

thing belonging to a child who died.’

“It appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind of

needlework upon it.

“‘It belonged to a little girl in a rich household,’ the beetle

continued; ‘she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse. We have lots of

her toys, and very pretty ones too. At last some one taught her to make

caterpillars in wool-work. A bit of work was to be done in a certain

stitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairy

caterpillar. The child took to this, and cared for nothing else. Wool of

every shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of all

colors. Her only complaint was that they did not turn into butterflies.

However, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and she went on, hoping

that they would do so, and making new ones. One day she was heard

talking and laughing in her bed for joy. She said that all the

caterpillars had become butterflies of many colors, and that the room

was full of them. In that happy fancy she died.’

“‘And the caterpillars came down here?’

“‘Not for a long time,’ said the beetle; ‘her mother kept them while

_she_ lived, and then they were lost and came down. No toys come down

here till they are broken or lost.’

“‘What are those sticks doing here?’ I asked.

“The music had ceased, and all the toys were lying quiet. Up in a corner

leaned a large bundle of walking-sticks. They are often sold in

toy-shops, but I wondered on what grounds they came here.

“‘Did you ever meet with a too benevolent old gentleman wondering where

on earth his sticks go to?’ said the beetle. ‘Why do they lend them to

their grandchildren? The young rogues use them as hobby-horses and lose

them, and down they come, and the sentinels cannot stop them. The real

hobby-horses won’t allow them to ride with them, however. There was a

meeting on the subject. Every stick was put through an examination.

‘Where is your nose? Where is your mane? Where are your wheels?’ The

last was a poser. Some of them had got noses, but none of them had got

wheels. So they were not true hobby-horses. Something of the kind

occurred with the elder whistles.’

“‘The what?’ I asked.

“‘Whistles that boys make of elder sticks with the pith scooped out,’

said the beetle. ‘The real instruments would not allow them to play with

them. The elder-whistles said they would not have joined had they been

asked. They were amateurs, and never played with professionals. So they

have private concerts with the combs and curl-papers. But, bless you,

toys of this kind are endless here! Teetotums made of old cotton reels,

tea-sets of acorn cups, dinner-sets of old shells, monkeys made of bits

of sponge, all sorts of things made of breastbones and merrythoughts,

old packs of cards that are always building themselves into houses and

getting knocked down when the band begins to play, feathers, rabbits’

tails——’

“‘Ah! I have heard about rabbits’ tails,’ I said.

“‘There they are,’ the beetle continued; ‘and when the band plays you

will see how they skip and run. I don’t believe you would find out that

they had no bodies, for my experience of a warren is, that when rabbits

skip and run it is the tails chiefly that you do see. But of all the

amateur toys the most successful are the boats. We have a lake for our

craft, you know, and there’s quite a fleet of boats made out of old cork

floats in fishing villages. Then, you see, the old bits of cork have

really been to sea, and seen a good deal of service on the herring nets,

and so they quite take the lead of the smart shop ships, that have never

been beyond a pond or a tub of water. But that’s an exception. Amateur

toys are mostly very dowdy. Look at that box.’

“I looked, thought I must have seen it before, and wondered why a very

common-looking box without a lid should affect me so strangely, and why

my memory should seem struggling to bring it back out of the past.

Suddenly it came to me—it was our old Toy Box.

“I had completely forgotten that nursery institution till recalled by

the familiar aspect of the inside, which was papered with proof-sheets

of some old novel on which black stars had been stamped by way of

ornament. Dim memories of how these stars, and the angles of the box,

and certain projecting nails interfered with the letter-press and

defeated all attempts to trace the thread of the nameless narrative,

stole back over my brain; and I seemed once more, with my head in the

Toy Box, to beguile a wet afternoon by apoplectic endeavors to follow

the fortunes of Sir Charles and Lady Belinda, as they took a favorable

turn in the left-hand corner at the bottom of the trunk.

“‘What are you staring at?’ said the beetle.

“‘It’s my old Toy Box!’ I exclaimed.

“The beetle rolled on to his back, and struggled helplessly with his

legs: I turned him over. (Neither the first nor the last time of my

showing that attention to beetles.)

“‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘set me on my legs. What a turn you gave me!

You don’t mean to say you have any toys here? If you have, the sooner

you make your way home the better.’

“‘Why?’ I inquired.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s a very strong feeling in the place. The toys

think that they are ill-treated, and not taken care of by children in

general. And there is some truth in it. Toys come down here by scores

that have been broken the first day. And they are all quite resolved

that if any of their old masters or mistresses come this way they shall

be punished.’

“‘How will they be punished?’ I inquired.

“‘Exactly as they did to their toys, their toys will do to them. All is

perfectly fair and regular.’

“‘I don’t know that I treated mine particularly badly,’ I said; ‘but I

think I would rather go.’

“‘I think you’d better,’ said the beetle. ‘Good-evening!’ and I saw him

no more.

“I turned to go, but somehow I lost the road. At last, as I thought, I

found it, and had gone a few steps when I came on a detachment of wooden

soldiers, drawn up on their lazy tongs. I thought it better to wait till

they got out of the way, so I turned back, and sat down in a corner in

some alarm. As I did so, I heard a click, and the lid of a small box

covered with mottled paper burst open, and up jumped a figure in a blue

striped shirt and a rabbit-skin beard, whose eyes were intently fixed on

me. He was very like my old Jack-in-a-box. My back began to creep, and I

wildly meditated escape, frantically trying at the same time to recall

whether it were I or my brother who originated the idea of making a

small bonfire of our own one 5th of November, and burning the old

Jack-in-a-box for Guy Fawkes, till nothing was left of him but a

twirling bit of red-hot wire and a strong smell of frizzled fur. At this

moment he nodded to me and spoke.

“‘Oh! that’s you, is it?’ he said.

“‘No, it is not,’ I answered, hastily; for I was quite demoralized by

fear and the strangeness of the situation.

“‘Who is it, then?’ he inquired.

“‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ I said; and really I was so confused that I

hardly did.

“‘Well, _we_ know,’ said the Jack-in-a-box, ‘and that’s all that’s

needed. Now, my friends,’ he continued, addressing the toys who had

begun to crowd round us, ‘whoever recognizes a mistress and remembers a

grudge—the hour of our revenge has come. Can we any of us forget the

treatment we received at her hands? No! When we think of the ingenious

fancy, the patient skill, that went to our manufacture; that fitted the

delicate joints and springs, laid on the paint and varnish, and gave

back-hair combs, and ear-rings to our smallest dolls, we feel that we

deserved more care than we received. When we reflect upon the kind

friends who bought us with their money, and gave us away in the

benevolence of their hearts, we know that for their sakes we ought to

have been longer kept and better valued. And when we remember that the

sole object of our own existence was to give pleasure and amusement to

our possessors, we have no hesitation in believing that we deserved a

handsomer return than to have had our springs broken, our paint dirtied,

and our earthly careers so untimely shortened by wilful mischief or

fickle neglect. My friends, the prisoner is at the bar.’

“‘I am not,’ I said; for I was determined not to give in as long as

resistance was possible. But as I said it I became aware, to my

unutterable amazement, that I was inside the go-cart. How I got there is

to this moment a mystery to me—but there I was.

“There was a great deal of excitement about the Jack-in-a-box’s speech.

It was evident that he was considered an orator, and, indeed, I have

seen counsel in a real court look wonderfully like him. Meanwhile, my

old toys appeared to be getting together. I had no idea that I had had

so many. I had really been very fond of most of them, and my heart beat

as the sight of them recalled scenes long forgotten, and took me back to

childhood and home. There were my little gardening tools, and my slate,

and there was the big doll’s bedstead, that had a real mattress, and

real sheets and blankets, all marked with the letter D, and a workbasket

made in the blind school, and a shilling School of Art paint box, and a

wooden doll we used to call the Dowager, and innumerable other toys

which I had forgotten till the sight of them recalled them to my memory,

but which have again passed from my mind. Exactly opposite to me stood

the Chinese mandarin, nodding as I had never seen him nod since the day

when I finally stopped his performances by ill-directed efforts to

discover how he did it.

“And what was that familiar figure among the rest, in a yellow silk

dress and maroon velvet cloak and hood trimmed with black lace? How

those clothes recalled the friends who gave them to me! And surely this

was no other than my dear doll Rosa—the beloved companion of five years

of my youth, whose hair I wore in a locket after I was grown up. No one

could say I had ill-treated _her_. Indeed, she fixed her eyes on me with

a most encouraging smile—but then she always smiled, her mouth was

painted so.

“‘All whom it may concern, take notice,’ shouted the Jack-in-a-box, at

this point, ‘that the rule of this honorable court is tit for tat.’

“‘Tit, tat, tumble two,’ muttered the slate in a cracked voice. (How

well I remembered the fall that cracked it, and the sly games of tit tat

that varied the monotony of our long multiplication sums!)

“‘What are you talking about?’ said the Jack-in-a-box, sharply; ‘if you

have grievances, state them, and you shall have satisfaction, as I told

you before.’

“‘——and five make nine,’ added the slate promptly, ‘and six are

fifteen, and eight are twenty-seven—there we go again! I wonder why I

never get up to the top of a line of figures right. It will never prove

at this rate.’

“‘His mind is lost in calculations,’ said the Jack-in-a-box,

‘besides—between ourselves—he has been “cracky” for some time. Let

some one else speak, and observe that no one is at liberty to pass a

sentence on the prisoner heavier than what he has suffered from her. I

reserve _my_ judgment to the last.’

“‘I know what that will be,’ thought I; ‘oh dear! oh dear! that a

respectable maiden lady should live to be burnt as a Guy Fawkes!’

“‘Let the prisoner drink a gallon of iced water at once, and then be

left to die of thirst.’

“The horrible idea that the speaker might possibly have the power to

enforce his sentence diverted my attention from the slate, and I looked

round. In front of the Jack-in-a-box stood a tiny red flower-pot and

saucer, in which was a miniature cactus. My thoughts flew back to a

bazaar in London where, years ago, a stand of these fairy plants had

excited my warmest longings, and where a benevolent old gentleman whom I

had not seen before, and never saw again, bought this one and gave it to

me. Vague memories of his directions for re-potting and tending it

reproached me from the past. My mind misgave me that after all it had

died a dusty death for lack of water. True, the cactus tribe being

succulent plants do not demand much moisture, but I had reason to fear

that, in this instance, the principle had been applied too far, and that

after copious baths of cold spring water in the first days of its

popularity it had eventually perished by drought. I suppose I looked

guilty, for it nodded its prickly head towards me, and said, ‘Ah! you

know me. You remember what I was, do you? Did you ever think of what I

might have been? There was a fairy rose which came down here not long

ago—a common rose enough, in a broken pot patched with string and white

paint. It had lived in a street where it was the only pure beautiful

thing your eyes could see. When the girl who kept it died there were

eighteen roses upon it. She was eighteen years old, and they put the

roses in the coffin with her when she was buried. That was worth living

for. Who knows what I might have done? And what right had you to cut

short a life that might have been useful?’

“Before I could think of a reply to these too just reproaches, the

flower-pot enlarged, the plant shot up, putting forth new branches as it

grew; then buds burst from the prickly limbs, and in a few moments there

hung about it great drooping blossoms of lovely pink, with long white

tassels in their throats. I had been gazing at it some time in silent

and self-reproachful admiration when I became aware that the business of

this strange court was proceeding, and that the other toys were

pronouncing sentence against me.

“‘Tie a string round her neck and take her out bathing in the brooks,’ I

heard an elderly voice say in severe tones. It was the Dowager Doll. She

was inflexibly wooden, and had been in the family for more than one

generation.

“‘It’s not fair,’ I exclaimed, ‘the string was only to keep you from

being carried away by the stream. The current is strong, and the bank

steep by the Hollow Oak Pool, and you had no arms or legs. You were old

and ugly, but you would wash, and we loved you better than many waxen

beauties.’

“‘Old and ugly!’ shrieked the Dowager. ‘Tear her wig off! Scrub the

paint off her face! Flatten her nose on the pavement! Saw off her legs

and give her no crinoline! Take her out bathing, I say, and bring her

home in a wheel-barrow with fern roots on the top of her.’

“I was about to protest again, when the paint-box came forward, and

balancing itself in an artistic, undecided kind of way on two

camel’s-hair brushes which seemed to serve it for feet, addressed the

Jack-in-a-box.

“‘Never dip your paint into the water. Never put your brush into your

mouth——’

“‘That’s not evidence,’ said the Jack-in-a-box.

“‘Your notions are crude,’ said the paint-box loftily; ‘it’s in print,

and here, all of it, or words to that effect;’ with which he touched the

lid, as a gentleman might lay his hand upon his heart.

“‘It’s not evidence,’ repeated the Jack-in-a-box. ‘Let us proceed.’

“‘Take her to pieces and see what she’s made of, if you please,’

tittered a pretty German toy that moved to a tinkling musical

accompaniment. ‘If her works are available after that it will be an era

in natural science.’

“The idea tickled me, and I laughed.

“‘Hard-hearted wretch!’ growled the Dowager Doll.

“‘Dip her in water and leave her to soak on a white soup plate,’ said

the paint-box; ‘if that doesn’t soften her feelings, deprive me of my

medal from the School of Art.’

“‘Give her a stiff neck!’ muttered the mandarin. ‘Ching Fo! give her a

stiff neck.’

“‘Knock her teeth out,’ growled the rake in a scratchy voice; and then

the tools joined in chorus.

“‘Take her out when its fine and leave her out when it’s wet, and lose

her in——’

“‘The coal hole,’ said the spade.

“‘The hay field,’ said the rake.

“‘The shrubbery,’ said the hoe.

“This difference of opinion produced a quarrel, which in turn seemed to

affect the general behavior of toys, for a disturbance arose which the

Jack-in-a-box vainly endeavored to quell. A dozen voices shouted for a

dozen different punishments and (happily for me) each toy insisted upon

its own wrongs being the first to be avenged, and no one would hear of

the claims of any one else being attended to for an instant. Terrible

sentences were passed, which I either failed to hear through the clamor

then, or have forgotten now. I have a vague idea that several voices

cried that I was to be sent to wash in somebody’s pocket; that the

work-basket wished to cram my mouth with unfinished needlework; and that

through all the din the thick voice of my old leather ball monotonously

repeated:

“‘Throw her into the dust-hole.’

“Suddenly a clear voice pierced the confusion, and Rosa tripped up.

“‘My dears,’ she began, ‘the only chance of restoring order is to

observe method. Let us follow our usual rule of precedence. I claim the

first turn as the prisoner’s oldest toy.’

“‘That you are not, Miss,’ snapped the dowager; ‘I was in the family for

fifty years.’

“‘In the family. Yes, ma’am; but you were never her doll in particular.

I was her very own, and she kept me longer than any other plaything. My

judgment must be first.’

“‘She is right,’ said the Jack-in-a-box, ‘and now let us get on. The

prisoner is delivered unreservedly into the hands of our trusty and

well-beloved Rosa—doll of the first class—for punishment according to

the strict law of tit for tat.’

“‘I shall request the assistance of the pewter tea-things,’ said Rosa,

with her usual smile. ‘And now, my love,’ she added, turning to me, ‘we

will come and sit down.’

“Where the go-cart vanished to I cannot remember, nor how I got out of

it; I only know that I suddenly found myself free, and walking away with

my hand in Rosa’s. I remember vacantly feeling the rough edge of the

stitches on her flat kid fingers, and wondering what would come next.

“‘How very oddly you hold your feet, my dear,’ she said; ‘you stick out

your toes in such an eccentric fashion, and you lean your legs as if

they were table legs, instead of supporting yourself by my hand. Turn

your heels well out, and bring your toes together. You may even let them

fold over each other a little; it is considered to have a pretty effect

among dolls.’

“Under one of the big trees Miss Rosa made me sit down, propping me

against the trunk as if I should otherwise have fallen; and in a moment

more a square box of pewter tea-things came tumbling up to our feet,

where the lid burst open, and all the tea-things fell out in perfect

order; the cups on the saucers, the lid on the teapot and so on.

“‘Take a little tea, my love?’ said Miss Rosa pressing a pewter teacup

to my lips.

“I made believe to drink, but was only conscious of inhaling a draught

of air with a slight flavor of tin. In taking my second cup I was nearly

choked with the teaspoon, which got into my throat.

“‘What are you doing?’ roared the Jack-in-a-box at this moment; ‘you are

not punishing her.’

“‘I am treating her as she treated me,’ answered Rosa, looking as severe

as her smile would allow. ‘I believe that tit for tat is the rule, and

that at present it is my turn.’

“‘It will be mine soon,’ growled the Jack-in-a-box, and I thought of the

bonfire with a shudder. However, there was no knowing what might happen

before his turn did come, and meanwhile I was in friendly hands. It was

not the first time my dolly and I had set together under a tree, and,

truth to say, I do not think she had any injuries to avenge.

“‘When your wig comes off,’ murmured Rosa, as she stole a pink kid arm

tenderly round my neck, ‘I’ll make you a cap with blue and white

rosettes, and pretend that you have had a fever.’

“I thanked her gratefully, and was glad to reflect that I was not yet in

need of an attention which I distinctly remember having shown to her in

the days of her dollhood. Presently she jumped up.

“‘I think you shall go to bed now, dear,’ she said, and, taking my hand

once more, she led me to the big doll’s bedstead, which, with its pretty

bedclothes and white dimity furniture, looked tempting enough to a

sleeper of suitable size. It could not have supported one-quarter of my

weight.

“‘I have not made you a night-dress, my love,’ Rosa continued; ‘I am not

fond of my needle, you know. _You_ were not fond of your needle, I

think. I fear you must go to bed in your clothes, my dear.’

“‘You are very kind,’ I said, ‘but I am not tired, and—it would not

bear my weight.’

“‘Pooh! pooh!’ said Rosa. ‘My love! I remember passing one Sunday in it

with the rag-doll, and the Dowager, and the Punch and Judy (the amount

of pillow their two noses took up I shall never forget!), and the old

doll that had nothing on, because her clothes were in the dolls’ wash

and did not get ironed on Saturday night, and the Highlander, whose

things wouldn’t come off, and who slept in his kilt. Not bear you?

Nonsense! You must go to bed, my dear. I’ve got other things to do, and

I can’t leave you lying about.’

“‘The whole lot of you did not weigh one-quarter of what I do,’ I cried

desperately. ‘I cannot, and will not get into that bed; I should break

it all to pieces, and hurt myself into the bargain.’

“‘Well, if you will not go to bed, I must put you there,’ said Rosa, and

without more ado, she snatched me up in her kid arms, and laid me down.

“Of course it was just as I expected. I had hardly touched the two

little pillows (they had a meal-bag smell from being stuffed with bran),

when the woodwork gave way with a crash, and I fell—fell—fell—

“Though I fully believed every bone in my body to be broken, it was

really a relief to get to the ground. As soon as I could, I sat up, and

felt myself all over. A little stiff, but, as it seemed, unhurt. Oddly

enough, I found that I was back again under the tree; and more strange

still, it was not the tree where I sat with Rosa, but the old oak-tree

in the little wood. Was it all a dream? The toys had vanished, the

lights were out, the mosses looked dull in the growing dusk, the evening

was chilly, the hole no larger than it was thirty years ago, and when I

felt in my pocket for my spectacles I found that they were on my nose.

“I have returned to the spot many times since, but I never could induce

a beetle to enter into conversation on the subject, the hole remains

obstinately impassable, and I have not been able to repeat my visit to

the Land of Lost Toys.

“When I recall my many sins against the playthings of my childhood, I am

constrained humbly to acknowledge that perhaps this is just as well.”

* * * * * *

SAM SETS UP SHOP.

“I think you might help me, Dot,” cried Sam in dismal and rather injured

tones.

It was the morning following the day of the earthquake, and of Aunt

Penelope’s arrival. Sam had his back to Dot, and his face to the fire,

over which indeed he had bent for so long that he appeared to be half

roasted.

“What do you want?” asked Dot, who was working at a doll’s night-dress

that had for long been partly finished, and now seemed in a fair way to

completion.

“It’s the glue-pot,” Sam continued. “It does take so long to boil. And I

have been stirring at the glue with a stick for ever so long to get it

to melt. It is very hot work. I wish you would take it for a bit. It’s

as much for your good as for mine.”

“Is it?” said Dot.

“Yes it is, Miss,” cried Sam. “You must know I’ve got a splendid idea.”

“Not another earthquake, I hope?” said Dot, smiling.

“Now, Dot, that’s truly unkind of you. I thought it was to be

forgotten.”

“So it is,” said Dot, getting up. “I was only joking. What is the idea!”

“I don’t think I shall tell you till I have finished my shop. I want to

get to it now, and I wish you would take a turn at the glue-pot.”

Sam was apt to want a change of occupation. Dot, on the other hand, was

equally averse from leaving what she was about till it was finished, so

they suited each other like Jack Sprat and his wife. It had been an

effort to Dot to leave the night-dress which she had hoped to finish at

a sitting; but when she was fairly set to work on the glue business she

never moved till the glue was in working order, and her face as red as a

ripe tomato.

By this time Sam had set up business in the window-seat, and was

fastening a large paper inscription over his shop. It ran thus:—

MR. SAM,

_Doll’s Doctor and Toymender to Her

Majesty,_

_the Queen, and all other Potentates._

“Splendid!” shouted Dot, who was serving up the glue as if it had been a

kettle of soup, and who looked herself very like an overtoasted cook.

Sam took the glue, and began to bustle about.

“Now, Dot, get me all the broken toys, and we’ll see what we can do. And

here’s a second splendid idea. Do you see that box? Into that we shall

put all the toys that are quite spoiled and cannot possibly be mended.

It is to be called the Hospital for Incurables. I’ve got a placard for

that. At least it’s not written yet, but here’s the paper, and perhaps

you would write it, Dot, for I am tired of writing and I want to begin

the mending.”

“For the future,” he presently resumed, “when I want a doll to scalp or

behead, I shall apply to the Hospital for Incurables, and the same with

any other toy that I want to destroy. And you will see, my dear Dot,

that I shall be quite a blessing to the nursery; for I shall attend the

dolls gratis, and keep all the furniture in repair.”

Sam really kept his word. He had a natural turn for mechanical work,

and, backed by Dot’s mechanical genius, he prolonged the days of the

broken toys by skillful mending, and so acquired an interest in them

which was still more favorable to their preservation. When his birthday

came round, which was some months after these events, Dot (assisted by

Mamma and Aunt Penelope), had prepared for him a surprise that was more

than equal to any of his own “splendid ideas.” The whole force of the

toy cupboard was assembled on the nursery table, to present Sam with a

fine box of joiner’s tools as a reward for his services, Papa kindly

acting as spokesman on the occasion.

And certain gaps in the china tea-set, some scars on the dolls’ face,

and a good many new legs, both amongst the furniture and the animals,

are now the only remaining traces of Sam’s earthquake.

THREE CHRISTMAS-TREES.

This is a story of Three Christmas-Trees. The first was a real one, but

the child we are to speak of did not see it. He saw the other two, but

they were not real; they only existed in his fancy. The plot of the

story is very simple; and, as it has been described so early, it is easy

for those who think it stupid to lay the book down in good time.

Probably every child who reads this has seen one Christmas-tree or more;

but in the small town of a distant colony with which we have to do, this

could not at one time have been said. Christmas-trees were then by no

means so universal, even in England, as they now are, and in this little

colonial town, they were unknown. Unknown that is, till the Governor’s

wife gave her great children’s party. At which point we will begin the

story.

The Governor had given a great many parties in his time. He had

entertained big wigs and little wigs, the passing military and the local

grandees. Everybody who had the remotest claim to attention had been

attended to: the ladies had had their full share of balls and pleasure

parties: only one class of the population had any complaint to prefer

against his hospitality; but the class was a large one—it was the

children. However, he was a bachelor, and knew little or nothing about

little boys and girls: let us pity rather than blame him. At last he

took to himself a wife; and among the many advantages of this important

step, was a due recognition of the claims of these young citizens. It

was towards happy Christmas-tide, that “the Governor’s amiable and

admired lady” (as she was styled in the local newspaper) sent out notes

for his first children’s party. At the top of the note paper was a very

red robin, who carried a blue Christmas greeting in his mouth, and at

the bottom—written with the A. D. C.’s best flourish—were the magic

words, _A Christmas Tree_. In spite of the flourishes—partly perhaps,

because of them—the A. D. C.’s handwriting, though handsome, was rather

illegible. But for all this, most of the children invited contrived to

read these words, and those who could not do so were not slow to learn

the news by hearsay. There was to be a Christmas-Tree! It would be like

a birthday party, with this above ordinary birthdays, that there were to

be presents for every one.

One of the children invited lived in a little white house, with a spruce

fir-tree before the door. The spruce fir did this good service to the

little house, that it helped people to find their way to it; and it was

by no means easy for a stranger to find his way to any given house in

this little town, especially if the house were small and white, and

stood in one of the back streets. For most of the houses were small, and

most of them were painted white, and the back streets ran parallel with

each other, and had no names, and were all so much alike that it was

very confusing. For instance, if you had asked the way to Mr.

So-and-So’s, it is very probable that some friend would have directed

you as follows: “Go straight forward and take the first turning to your

left, and you will find that there are four streets, which run at right

angles to the one you are in, and parallel with each other. Each of them

has got a big pine in it—one of the old forest trees. Take the last

street but one, and the fifth white house you come to is Mr.

So-and-So’s. He has green blinds and a colored servant.” You would not

always have got such clear directions as these, but with them you would

probably have found the house at last, partly by accident, partly by the

blinds and colored servant. Some of the neighbors affirmed that the

little white house had a name; that all the houses and streets had

names, only they were traditional and not recorded anywhere; that very

few people knew them, and nobody made any use of them. The name of the

little white house was said to be Trafalgar Villa, which seemed so

inappropriate to the modest peaceful little home, that the man who lived

in it tried to find out why it had been so called. He thought that his

predecessor must have been in the navy, until he found that he had been

the owner of what is called a “dry-goods store,” which seems to mean a

shop where things are sold which are not good to eat or drink—such as

drapery. At last somebody said, that as there was a public-house called

the “Duke of Wellington” at the corner of the street, there probably had

been a nearer one called “The Nelson,” which had been burnt down, and

that the man who built “The Nelson” had built the house with a spruce

fir before it, and that so the name had arisen. An explanation which was

just so far probable, that public-houses and fires were of frequent

occurrence in those parts.

But this had nothing to do with the story. Only we must say, as we said

before, and as we should have said had we been living there then, the

child we speak of lived in the little white house with one spruce fir

just in front of it.

Of all the children who looked forward to the Christmas-tree, he looked

forward to it the most intensely. He was an imaginative child, of a

simple, happy nature, easy to please. His father was an Englishman, and

in the long winter evenings he would tell the child tales of the old

country, to which his mother would listen also. Perhaps the parents

enjoyed these stories the most. To the boy they were new, and

consequently delightful, but to the parents they were old; and as

regards some stories, that is better still.

“What kind of a bird is this on my letter?” asked the boy on the day

which brought the Governor’s lady’s note of invitation. “And oh! what is

a Christmas-tree?”

“The bird is an English robin,” said his father. “It is quite another

bird to that which is called a robin here: it is smaller and rounder;

and has a redder breast and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings at

home through the winter. A Christmas-tree is a fir-tree—just such a one

as that outside the door—brought into the house and covered with lights

and presents. Picture to yourself our fir-tree lighted up with tapers on

all the branches, with dolls, and trumpets, and bonbons, and drums, and

toys of all kinds hanging from it like fir-cones, and on the tip-top

shoot a figure of a Christmas Angel in white, with a star upon its

head.”

“Fancy!” said the boy.

And fancy he did. Every day he looked at the spruce firs, and tried to

imagine it laden with presents, and brilliant with tapers, and thought

how wonderful must be that “old country”—_Home_, as it was called, even

by those who had never seen it—where the robins were so very red, and

where at Christmas the fir-trees were hung with toys instead of cones.

It was certainly a pity that, two days before the party, an original

idea on the subject of snowmen struck one of the children who used to

play together, with their sleds and snow-shoes, in the back streets. The

idea was this: That instead of having a common-place snowman, whose legs

were obliged to be mere stumps, for fear he should be top-heavy, and who

could not walk, even with them; who, in fact, could do nothing but stand

at the corner of the street, holding his impotent stick, and staring

with his pebble eyes, till he was broken to pieces or ignominiously

carried away by a thaw,—that, instead of this, they should have a real,

live snowman, who should walk on competent legs, to the astonishment,

and (happy thought!) perhaps to the alarm of the passers-by. This

delightful novelty was to be accomplished by covering one of the boys of

the party with snow till he looked as like a real snowman as

circumstances would admit. At first everybody wanted to be the snowman,

but, when it came to the point, it was found to be so much duller to

stand still and be covered up than to run about and work, that no one

was willing to act the part. At last it was undertaken by the little boy

from the Fir House. He was somewhat small, but then he was so

good-natured he would always do as he was asked. So he stood manfully

still, with his arms folded over a walking-stick upon his breast, while

the others heaped the snow upon him. The plan was not so successful as

they had hoped. The snow would not stick anywhere except on his

shoulders, and when it got into his neck he cried with the cold; but

they were so anxious to carry out their project, that they begged him to

bear it “just a little longer:” and the urchin who had devised the

original idea wiped the child’s eyes with his handkerchief, and (with

that hopefulness which is so easy over other people’s matters) “dared

say that when all the snow was on, he wouldn’t feel it.” However, he did

feel it, and that so severely that the children were obliged to give up

the game, and, taking the stick out of his stiff little arms, to lead

him home.

It appears that it is with snowmen as with some other men in conspicuous

positions. It is easier to find fault with them than to fill their

place.

The end of this was a feverish cold, and, when the day of the party

came, the ex-snowman was still in bed. It is due to the other children

to say that they felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and that

it greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them to think that they

had prevented his sharing in the treat. The most penitent of all was the

deviser of the original idea. He had generously offered to stay at home

with the little patient, which was as generously refused; but the next

evening he was allowed to come and sit on the bed, and describe it all

for the amusement of his friend. He was a quaint boy, this urchin, with

a face as broad as an American Indian’s, eyes as bright as a squirrel’s,

and all the mischief in life lurking about him, till you could see

roguishness in the very folds of his hooded Indian winter coat of blue

and scarlet. In his hand he brought the sick child’s presents: a dray

with two white horses, and little barrels that took off and on, and a

driver, with wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything, in fact, that

was suitable to the driver of a brewer’s dray, except that he had blue

boots and earrings, and that his hair was painted in braids like a

lady’s, which is clearly the fault of the doll manufacturers, who will

persist in making them all of the weaker sex.

“And what was the Christmas-tree like?” asked the invalid.

“Exactly like the fir outside your door,” was the reply. “Just about

that size, and planted in a pot covered with red cloth. It was kept in

another room till after tea, and then when the door was opened it was

like a street fire in the town at night—such a blaze of light—candles

everywhere! And on all the branches the most beautiful presents. I got a

drum and a penwiper.”

“Was there an angel?” the child asked.

“Oh, yes!” the boy answered. “It was on the tip-top branch, and it was

given to me, and I brought it for you, if you would like it; for, you

know, I am so very, very sorry I thought of the snowman and made you

ill, and I do love you, and beg you to forgive me.”

And the roguish face stooped over the pillow to be kissed; and out of a

pocket in the hooded coat came forth the Christmas Angel. In the face it

bore a strong family likeness to the drayman, but its feet were hidden

in folds of snowy muslin, and on its head glittered a tinsel star.

“How lovely!” said the child. “Father told me about this. I like it best

of all. And it is very kind of you, for it is not your fault that I

caught cold. I should have liked it if we could have done it, but I

think to enjoy being a snowman, one should be snow all through.”

They had tea together, and then the invalid was tucked up for the night.

The dray was put away in the cupboard, but he took the angel to bed with

him.

And so ended the first of the Three Christmas-Trees.

* * * * * *

Except for a warm glow from the wood fire in the stove, the room was

dark; but about midnight it seemed to the child that a sudden blaze of

light filled the chamber. At the same moment the window curtains were

drawn aside, and he saw that the spruce fir had come close up to the

panes, and was peeping in. Ah! how beautiful it looked! It had become a

Christmas-tree. Lighted tapers shone from every familiar branch, toys of

the most fascinating appearance hung like fruit, and on the tip-top

shoot there stood the Christmas Angel. He tried to count the candles,

but somehow it was impossible. When he looked at them they seemed to

change places—to move—to become like the angel, and then to be candles

again, whilst the flames nodded to each other and repeated the blue

greeting of the robin, “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” Then he

tried to distinguish the presents, but, beautiful as the toys looked, he

could not exactly discover what any of them were, or choose which he

would like best. Only the Angel he could see clearly—so clearly! It was

more beautiful than the doll under his pillow; it had a lovely face like

his own mother’s, he thought, and on its head gleamed a star far

brighter than tinsel. Its white robes waved with the flames of the

tapers, and it stretched its arms towards him with a smile.

“I am to go and choose my present,” thought the child; and he called

“Mother! mother dear! please open the window.”

But his mother did not answer. So he thought he must get up himself, and

with an effort, he struggled out of bed.

But when he was on his feet, everything seemed changed! Only the

fire-light shone upon the walls, and the curtains were once more firmly

closed before the window. It had been a dream, but so vivid that in his

feverish state he still thought it must be true, and dragged the

curtains back to let in the glorious sight again. The fire-light shone

upon a thick coating of frost upon the panes, but no further could he

see, so with all his strength he pushed the window open and leaned out

into the night.

The spruce fir stood in its old place; but it looked very beautiful in

its Christmas dress. Beneath it lay a carpet of pure white. The snow was

clustered in exquisite shapes upon its plumy branches; wrapping the tree

top with its little cross shots, as a white robe might wrap a figure

with outstretched arms.

There were no tapers to be seen, but northern lights shot up into the

dark blue sky, and just over the fir-tree shone a bright, bright star.

“Jupiter looks well to-night,” said the old Professor in the town

observatory, as he fixed his telescope; but to the child it seemed as

the star of the Christmas Angel.

His mother had really heard him call, and now came and put him back to

bed again. And so ended the second of the Three Christmas-Trees.

* * * * * *

It was enough to have killed him, all his friends said; but it did not.

He lived to be a man, and—what is rarer—to keep the faith, the

simplicity, the tender-heartedness, the vivid fancy of his childhood. He

lived to see many Christmas-Trees “at home,” in that old country where

the robins are red-breasts, and sing in winter. There a heart as good

and gentle as his own became one with his; and once he brought his young

wife across the sea to visit the place where he was born. They stood

near the little white house, and he told her the story of the

Christmas-trees.

“This was when I was a child,” he added.

“But that you are still,” said she; and she plucked a bit of the

fir-tree and kissed it, and carried it away.

He lived to tell the story to his children, and even to his

grandchildren; but he never was able to decide which of the two was the

more beautiful—the Christmas-Tree of his dream, or the Spruce Fir as it

stood in the loveliness of that winter night.

This is told, not that it has anything to do with any of the Three

Christmas-Trees, but to show that the story is a happy one, as is right

and proper; that the hero lived, and married, and had children, and was

as prosperous as good people, in books, should always be.

Of course he died at last. The best and happiest of men must die; and it

is only because some stories stop short in their history, that every

hero is not duly buried before we lay down the book.

When death came for our hero he was an old man. The beloved wife, some

of his children, and many of his friends had died before him, and of

those whom he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin. He had

had a short illness, with little pain, and was now lying on his

death-bed in one of the big towns in the North of England. His youngest

son, a clergyman, was with him, and one or two others of his children,

and by the fire sat the doctor.

The doctor had been sitting by the patient, but now that he could do no

more for him he had moved to the fire; and they had taken the ghastly,

half-emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside, and had

spread it with a fair linen cloth, and had set out the silver vessels of

the Supper of the Lord.

The old man had been “wandering” somewhat during the day. He had talked

much of going home to the old country, and with the wide range of dying

thoughts he had seemed to mingle memories of childhood with his hopes of

Paradise. At intervals he was clear and collected—one of those moments

had been chosen for his last sacrament—and he had fallen asleep with

the blessing in his ears.

He slept so long and so peacefully that the son almost began to hope

there might be a change, and looked towards the doctor, who still sat by

the fire with his right leg crossed over his left. The doctor’s eyes

were also on the bed, but at that moment he drew out his watch and

looked at it with an air of professional conviction, which said, “It’s

only a question of time.” Then he crossed his left leg over his right,

and turned to the fire again. Before the right leg should be tired, all

would be over. The son saw it as clearly as if it had been spoken, and

he too turned away and sighed.

As they sat, the bells of a church in the town began to chime for

midnight service, for it was Christmas Eve, but they did not wake the

dying man. He slept on and on.

The doctor dozed. The son read in the Prayer Book on the table, and one

of his sisters read with him. Another, from grief and weariness, slept

with her head upon his shoulder. Except for a warm glow from the fire,

the room was dark. Suddenly the old man sat up in bed, and, in a strong

voice, cried with inexpressible enthusiasm.

“_How beautiful!_”

The son held back his sisters, and asked quietly,

“_What_, my dear father?”

“The Christmas-Tree!” he said, in a low, eager voice. “Draw back the

curtains.”

They were drawn back; but nothing could be seen, and still the old man

gazed as if in ecstacy.

“Light!” he murmured. “The Angel! the Star!”

Again there was silence; and then he stretched forth his hands, and

cried passionately,

“The Angel is beckoning to me! Mother! mother dear! Please open the

window.”

The sash was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those

of the dying man were gazing. There was no Christmas-Tree—no tree at

all. But over the housetops the morning star looked pure and pale in the

dawn of Christmas Day. For the night was past, and above the distant hum

of the streets the clear voices of some waits made the words of an old

carol heard—words dearer for their association than their poetry—

“While shepherds watched their flocks by night

All seated on the ground,

The Angel of the Lord came down,

And glory shone around.”

When the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked back

to the bed the old man had lain down again, and like a child, was

smiling in his sleep—his last sleep.

And this was the Third Christmas-Tree.

AN IDYL OF THE WOOD.

“Tell us a story,” said the children, “a sad one, if you please, and a

little true. But, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired of

people who live happily ever after.”

“I heard one lately,” said the old man who lived in the wood; “it is

founded on fact, and it is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or

no I cannot pretend to say. That is a matter of taste: what is a bad

ending?”

“A story ends badly,” said the children with authority, “when people

die, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince and

princess.”

“A most lucid explanation,” said the old man. “I think my story will do,

for the principal character dies, and there is no wedding.”

“Tell it, tell it!” cried his hearers, “and tell us also where you got

it from.”

“Who knows the riches of a wood in summer?” said the old man. “In

summer, do I say? In spring, in autumn, or in winter either. Who knows

them? You, my children? Well, well. Better than some of your elders,

perchance. You know the wood where I live; the hollow tree that will

hold five children, and Queen Mab knows how many fairies. (What a castle

it makes! And if it had but another floor put into it, with a sloping

ladder—like one of the round towers of Ireland—what a house for

children to live in! With no room for lesson-books, grown-up people, or

beds!)

“You know the way to the hazel copse, and the place where the wild

strawberries grow. You know where the wren sits on her eggs, and, like

good children, pass by with soft steps and hushed voices, that you may

not disturb that little mother. You know (for I have shown you) where

the rare fern grows—a habitat happily yet unnoted in scientific pages.

_We_ never add its lovely fronds to our nosegays, and if we move a root

it is but to plant it in another part of the wood, with as much mystery

and circumspection as if we were performing some solemn druidical rite.

It is to us as a king in hiding, and the places of its abode we keep

faithfully secret. It will be thus held sacred by us until, with all the

seeds its untouched fronds have scattered, and all the off-shoots we

have propagated, it shall have become as plentiful as Heaven intends all

beautiful things to be. Every one is not so scrupulous. There are

certain ladies and gentlemen who picnic near my cottage in the hot

weather, and who tell each other that they love a wood. Most of these

good people have nevertheless neither eyes nor ears for what goes on

around them, except that they hear each other, and see the cold

collation. They will picnic there summer after summer, and not know

whether they sit under oaks or ashes, beeches or elms. All birds sing

for them the same song. Tell _them_ that such a plant is rare in the

neighborhood, that there are but few specimens of it, and it will not

long be their fault if there are any. Does any one direct them to it,

they tear it ruthlessly up, and carry it away. If by any chance a root

is left, it is left so dragged and pulled and denuded of earth, that

there is small chance that it will survive. Probably, also, the ravished

clump dies in the garden or pot to which it is transplanted, either from

neglect, or from ignorance of the conditions essential to its life; and

the rare plant becomes yet rarer. Oh! without doubt they love a wood. It

gives more shade than the largest umbrella, and is cheaper for summer

entertainment than a tent: there you get canopy and carpet, fuel and

water, shade and song, and beauty—all gratis; and these are not small

matters when one has invited a large party of one’s acquaintance. There

are insects, it is true, which somewhat disturb our friends; and as they

do not know which sting, and which are harmless, they kill all that come

within their reach, as a safe general principle. The town boys, too!

They know the wood—that is to say, they know where the wild fruits

grow, and how to chase the squirrel, and rob the bird’s nests, and snare

the birds. Well, well, my children; to know and love a wood truly, it

may be that one must live in it as I have done; and then a lifetime will

scarcely reveal all its beauties, or exhaust its lessons. But even then,

one must have eyes that see, and ears that hear, or one misses a good

deal. It was in the wood that I heard this story that I shall tell you.”

“How did you hear it?” asked the children.

“A thrush sang it to me one night.”

“One night?” said the children. “Then you mean a nightingale.”

“I mean a thrush,” said the old man. “Do I not know the note of one bird

from another? I tell you that pine tree by my cottage has a legend of

its own, and the topmost branch is haunted. Must all legends be above

the loves and sorrows of our self-satisfied race alone?”

“But did you really and truly hear it?” they asked.

“I heard it,” said the old man. “But, as I tell you, one hears and one

hears. I don’t say that everybody would have heard it, merely by

sleeping in my chamber; but, for the benefit of the least imaginative, I

will assure you that it is founded on fact.”

“Begin! begin!” shouted the children.

“Once upon a time,” said the old man, “there was a young thrush, who was

born in that beautiful dingle where we last planted the —— fern. His

home-nest was close to the ground, but the lower one is, the less fear

of falling; and in woods, the elevation at which you sleep is a matter

of taste, and not of expense or gentility. He awoke to life when the

wood was dressed in the pale fresh green of early summer; and believing,

like other folk, that, his own home was at least the principal part of

the world, earth seemed to him so happy and so beautiful an abode, that

his heart felt ready to burst with joy. The ecstacy was almost pain,

till wings and a voice came to him. Then, one day, when, after a gray

morning, the sun came out at noon, drawing the scent from the old pine

that looks in at my bedroom window, his joy burst forth, after long

silence, into song, and flying upwards he sat on the topmost branch of

the pine and sang as loud as he could sing to the sun and the blue sky.

“‘Joy! joy!’ he sang. ‘Fresh water and green woods, ambrosial sunshine

and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling leaves, glade, and

sward, and dell. Lichens and cool mosses, feathered ferns and flowers.

Green leaves! Green leaves! Summer! summer! summer!’

“It was monotonous, but every word came from the singer’s heart, which

is not always the case. Thenceforward, though he slept near the ground,

he went up every day to this pine, as to some sacred high place, and

sang the same song, of which neither he nor I were ever weary.

“Let one be ever so inoffensive, however, one is not long left in peace

in this world, even in a wood. The thrush sang too loudly of his simple

happiness, and some boys from the town heard him and snared him, and

took him away in a dirty cloth cap, where he was nearly smothered. The

world is certainly not exclusively composed of sunshine, and green

woods, and odorous pines. He became almost senseless during the hot

dusty walk that led to the town. It was a seaport town, about two miles

from the wood, a town of narrow, steep streets, picturesque old houses,

and odors compounded of tar, dead fish, and many other scents less

agreeable than forest perfumes. The thrush was put into a small

wicker-cage in an upper room, in one of the narrowest and steepest of

the streets.

“‘I shall die to-night,’ he piped. But he did not. He lived that night,

and for several nights and days following. The boys took small care of

him, however. He was often left without food, without water, and always

with too little air. Two or three times they tried to sell him, but he

was not bought, for no one could hear him sing. One day he was hung

outside the window, and partly owing to the sun and fresh air, and

partly because a woman was singing in the street, he began to carol his

old song.

“The woman was a street singer. She was even paler, thinner, and more

destitute-looking than such women usually are. In some past time there

had been beauty and feeling in her face, but the traces of both were

well-nigh gone. An indifference almost amounting to vacancy was there

now, and, except that she sang, you might almost have fancied her a

corpse. In her voice also there had once been beauty and feeling, and

here again the traces were small indeed. From time to time, she was

stopped by fits of coughing, when an ill-favored hunchback, who

accompanied her on a tambourine, swore and scowled at her. She sang a

song of sentiment, with a refrain about

‘Love and truth,

And joys of youth—’

on which the melody dwelt and quavered as if in mockery. As she sang a

sailor came down the street. His collar was very large, his trousers

were very wide, his hat hung on the back of his head more as an ornament

than for shelter; and he had one of the roughest faces and the gentlest

hearts that ever went together since Beauty was entertained by the

Beast. His hands were in his pockets, where he could feel one shilling

and a penny, all the spare cash that remained to him after a friendly

stroll through the town. When he saw the street singer, he stopped,

pulled off his hat, and scratched his head, as was his custom when he

was puzzled or interested.

“‘It’s no good keeping an odd penny,’ he said to himself; ‘poor thing,

she looks bad enough!’ And, bringing the penny to the surface out of the

depths of his pocket, he gave it to the woman. The hunchback came

forward to take it, but the sailor passed him with a shove of his elbow,

and gave it to the singer, who handed it over to her companion without

moving a feature, and went on with her song.

“‘I’d like to break every bone in your ugly body,’ muttered the sailor,

with a glance at the hunchback, who scowled in return.

“‘I shall die of this close street, and of all I have suffered,’ thought

the thrush.

“‘Green leaves! green leaves!’ he sang, for it was the only song he

knew.

“‘My voice is gone,’ thought the hunchback’s companion. ‘He’ll beat me

again to-night; but it can’t last long:

“Love and truth,

And joys of youth—”’

she sang, for that was all the song she had learned; and it was not her

fault that it was inappropriate.

“But the ballad singer’s captivity was nearly at an end. When the

hunchback left her that evening to spend the sailor’s penny with the few

others which she had earned, he swore that when he came back he would

make her sing louder than she had done all day. Her face showed no

emotion, less than it did when he saw it hours after, when beauty and

feeling seemed to have returned to it in the peace of death, when he

came back and found the cage empty, and that the long prisoned spirit

had flown away to seek the face of love and truth indeed.”

“But how about the thrush?”

“The sailor had scarcely swallowed the wrath which the hunchback had

stirred in him, when his ear was caught by the song of the thrush above

him.

“‘You sing uncommon well, pretty one,’ he said, stopping and putting his

hat even farther back than usual to look up. He was one of those good

people who stop a dozen times in one street, and look at everything as

they go along; whereby you may see three times as much of life as other

folk, but it is a terrible temptation to spend money. It was so in this

instance. The sailor looked till his kindly eyes perceived that the bird

was ill-cared for.

“‘It should have a bit of sod, it _should_,’ he said, emphatically,

taking his hat off, and scratching his head again; ‘and there’s not a

crumb of food on board. Maybe, they don’t understand the ways of birds

here. It would be a good turn to mention it.’

“With this charitable intention he entered the house, and when he left

it, his pocket was empty, and the thrush was carried tenderly in his

handkerchief.

“‘The canary died last voyage,’ he muttered apologetically to himself,

‘and the money always does go somehow or other.’

“The sailor’s hands were about three times as large and coarse as those

of the boy who had carried the thrush before, but they seemed to him

three times more light and tender—they were handy and kind, and this

goes farther than taper fingers.

“The thrush’s new home was not in the narrow streets. It was in a small

cottage in a small garden at the back of the town. The canary’s old cage

was comparatively roomy, and food, water, and fresh turf were regularly

supplied to him. He could see green leaves too. There was an apple tree

in the garden, and two geraniums, a fuchsia, and a tea-rose in the

window. Near the tea-rose an old woman sat in the sunshine. She was the

sailor’s mother, and looked very like a tidily kept window plant

herself. She had a little money of her own, which gave her a certain

dignity, and her son was very good to her; and so she dwelt in

considerable comfort, dividing her time chiefly between reading in the

big Bible, knitting socks for Jack, and raising cuttings in bottles of

water. She had heard of hothouses and forcing frames, but she did not

think much of them. She believed a bottle of water to be the most

natural, because it was the oldest method she knew of, and she thought

no good came of new-fangled ways, and trying to outdo Nature.

“‘Slow and sure is best,’ she said, and stuck to her own system.

“‘What’s that, my dear?’ she asked, when the sailor came in and held up

the handkerchief. He told her.

“‘You’re always a-laying out your money on something or other,’ said the

old lady, who took the privilege of her years to be a little testy.

‘What did you give for _that_?’

“‘A shilling, ma’am.’

“‘Tst! tst! tst!’ said the old lady, disapprovingly.

“‘Now, mother, don’t shake that cap of yours off your head,’ said the

sailor. ‘What’s a shilling? If I hadn’t spent it, I should have changed

it; and once change a shilling, and it all dribbles away in coppers, and

you get nothing for it. But spend it in a lump, and you get something

you want. That’s what I say.’

“‘_I_ want no more pets,’ said the old lady stiffly.

“‘Well, you won’t be troubled with this one long,’ said her son; ‘it’ll

go with me, and that’s soon enough.’

“Any allusion to his departure always melted the old lady, as Jack well

knew. She became tearful, and begged him to leave the thrush with her.

“‘You know, my dear, I’ve always looked to your live things as if they

were Christians; and loved them too (unless it was that monkey that I

never _could_ do with!) Leave it with me, my dear. I’d never bother

myself with a bird on board ship, if I was you.’

“‘That’s because you’ve got a handsome son of your own, old lady,’

chuckled the sailor; ‘I’ve neither chick nor child, ma’am, remember, and

a man must have something to look to. The bird’ll go with me.’

“And so it came to pass that just when the thrush was becoming

domesticated, and almost happy at the cottage, that one morning the

sailor brought him fresh turf and groundsel, besides his meal-cake, and

took the cage down. And the old woman kissed the wires, and bade the

bird good-bye, and prayed Heaven to bring him safe home again; and they

went their way.

“The forecastle of a steamship (even of a big one) is a poor exchange

for a snug cottage to any one but a sailor. To Jack, the ship was home.

_He_ had never lived in a wood, and carrolled in tree-tops. He preferred

blue to green, and pine masts to pine trees; and he smoked his pipe very

comfortably in the forecastle, whilst the ship rolled to and fro, and

swung the bird’s cage above his head. To the thrush it was only an

imprisonment that grew worse as time went on. Each succeeding day made

him pine more bitterly for his native woods—the fresh air and green

leaves, and the rest and quiet, and sweet perfumes, and pleasant sounds

of country life. His turf dried up, his groundsel withered, and no more

could be got. He longed even to be back with the old woman—to see the

apple tree, and the window plants, and be still. The shudder of the

screw, the blasts of hot air from the engine and cook’s galley, the

ceaseless jangling, clanging, pumping noises, and all the indescribable

smells which haunt a steamship, became more wearisome day by day. Even

when the cage was hung outside, the sea breeze seemed to mock him with

its freshness. The rich blue of the waters gave him no pleasure, his

eyes failed with looking for green, the bitter, salt spray vexed him,

and the wind often chilled him to the bone, whilst the sun shone, and

icebergs gleamed upon the horizon.

“The sailor had been so kind a master, that the thrush had become deeply

attached to him, as birds will; and while at the cottage he had scarcely

fretted after his beloved wood. But with every hour of the voyage, home

sickness came more strongly upon him, and his heart went back to the

nest, and the pine-top, and the old home. When one sleeps soundly, it is

seldom that one remembers one’s dreams; but when one is apt to be roused

by an unexpected lurch of the ship, by the moan of a fog-whistle, or the

scream of an engine, one becomes a light sleeper, and the visions of the

night have a strange reality, and are easily recalled. And now the

thrush always dreamt of home.

“One day he was hung outside. It was not a very fine day, but he looked

drooping, and the pitying sailor brought him out, to get some air. His

heart was sore with home sickness, and he watched the sea-birds skimming

up and down with envious eyes. It seemed all very well for poor men, who

hadn’t so much as a wing to carry them over the water, to build

lumbering sea-nests, with bodies to float in the water like fish, and

wings of canvas to carry them along, and to help it out with noisy

steam-engines—and to endure it all. But for him, who could fly over a

hundred tree-tops before a man could climb to one, it was hard to swing

outside a ship, and to watch other birds use their wings, when his,

which quivered to fly homewards, could only flutter against the bars. As

he thought, a roll of the ship threw him forward, the wind shook the

wires of the cage, and loosened the fastening; and, when the vessel

righted, the cage-door swung slowly open.

“At this moment, a ray of sunshine streaked the deep blue water, and a

gleaming sea-bird, which had been sitting like a tuft of foam upon a

wave, rose with outstretched pinions, and soared away. It was too much.

With one shrill pipe of hope, the thrush fluttered from his cage, spread

his wings, and followed him.

“When the sailor found that the wind was getting up, he came to take the

cage down, and then his grief was sore indeed.

“‘The canary died last voyage,’ he said sadly. ‘The cage was bought on a

Friday, and I knew ill luck would come of it. I said so to mother; but

the old lady says there’s no such thing as luck, and she’s

Bible-learned, if ever a woman was. “That’s very true,” says I, “but if

I’d the money for another cage, I wouldn’t use this;” and I never will

again. Poor bird! it was a sweet singer.’ And he turned his face aside.

“‘It may have the sense to come back,’ said one of the crew. The sailor

scratched his head, and shook it sadly.

“‘Noah’s bird came back to him, when she found no rest,’ he said, ‘but I

don’t think mine will, Tom.’

“He was right. The thrush returned no more. He did not know how wide was

the difference between his own strength and that of the bird he

followed. The sea-fowl cut the air with wings of tenfold power; he

swooped up and down, he stooped to fish, he rested on the ridges of the

dancing waves, and then, with one steady flight, he disappeared, and the

thrush was left alone. Other birds passed him, and flew about him, and

fished, and rocked upon the waters near him, but he held steadily on.

Ships passed him also, but too far away for him to rest upon; whales

spouted in the distance, and strange fowl screamed; but not a familiar

object broke the expanse of the cold sea. He did not know what course he

was taking. He hoped against hope that he was going home. Although he

was more faint and weary than he had ever yet been, he felt no pain. The

intensity of his hope to reach the old wood made everything seem light;

even at the last, when his wings were almost powerless, he believed that

they would bear him home, and was happy. Already he seemed to rest upon

the trees, the waters sounded in his ears like the rustling of leaves,

and the familiar scent of the pine tree seemed to him to come upon the

breeze.

“In this he was not wrong. A country of pine woods was near; and land

was in sight, though too far away for him to reach it now. Not home, but

yet a land of wondrous summer beauty: of woods, and flowers, and

sun-flecked leaves—of sunshine more glowing than he had ever known—of

larger ferns, and deeper mosses, and clearer skies—a land of balmy

summer nights, where the stars shine brighter than with us, and where

fireflies appear and vanish, like stars of a lower firmament, amid the

trees. As the sun broke out, the scent of pines came strong upon the

land breeze. A strange land, but the thrush thought it was his own.

“‘I smell woods,’ he chirped faintly; ‘I see the sun. This is home!’

“All round him, the noisy crest of the fresh waves seemed to carol the

song he could no longer sing—‘Home, home! fresh water and green woods,

ambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks and rustling

leaves, glade and sward and dell, lichens and cool mosses, feathered

ferns and flowers. Green leaves! green leaves! Summer! summer! summer!’

“The slackened wings dropped, the dying eyes looked landward, and then

closed. But even as he fell, he believed himself sinking to rest on

Mother Earth’s kindly bosom, and he did not know it, when the cold waves

buried him at sea.”

“Oh, then, he _did_ die!” cried the children, who thought they were

tired of stories that end happily, yet, when they heard it, liked a sad

ending no better than other children do (in which, by-the-by, we hold

them to be in the right, and can hardly forgive ourselves for

chronicling this “ower true tale”).

“Yes,” said the old man, “he died; but it is said that the sweet dingle

which was his home—forsaken by the nightingale—is regarded by birds as

men regard a haunted house; for that at still summer midnight, when the

other thrushes sleep, a shadowy form, more like a skeleton leaf than a

living bird, swings upon the tall tree-tops where he sat of old, and,

rapt in a happy ecstacy, sings a song more sweet and joyous than thrush

ever sang by day.”

“Have you heard it?” asked the children.

The old man nodded. But not another word would he say. The children,

however, forthwith began to lay plans for getting into the wood some

midsummer night, to test with their own ears the truth of his story, and

to hear the spectre thrush’s song. Whether the authorities permitted the

expedition, and if not, whether the young people baffled their

vigilance—whether they heard the song, and if so, whether they

understood it—we are not empowered to tell here.

CHRISTMAS CRACKERS.

A FANTASIA.

It was Christmas Eve in an old-fashioned country-house, where Christmas

was being kept with old-fashioned form and custom. It was getting late.

The candles swaggered in their sockets, and the yule-log glowed steadily

like a red-hot coal.

“The fire has reached his heart,” said the tutor: “he is warm all

through. How red he is! He shines with heat and hospitality like some

warm-hearted old gentleman when a convivial evening is pretty far

advanced. To-morrow he will be as cold and grey as the morning after a

festival, when the glasses are being washed up, and the host is

calculating his expenses. Yes! you know it is so;” and the tutor nodded

to the yule-log as he spoke; and the log flared and crackled in return,

till the tutor’s face shone like his own. He had no other means of

reply.

The tutor was grotesque-looking at any time. He was lank and meagre,

with a long body and limbs, and high shoulders. His face was

smooth-shaven, and his skin like old parchment stretched over high

cheek-bones and lantern jaws; but in their hollow sockets his eyes

gleamed with the changeful lustre of two precious gems. In the ruddy

firelight they were like rubies, and when he drew back into the shade

they glared green like the eyes of a cat. It must not be inferred from

the tutor’s presence this evening that there were no Christmas holidays

in this house. They had begun some days before; and if the tutor had had

a home to go to, it is to be presumed that he would have gone.

As the candles got lower, and the log flared less often, weird lights

and shades, such as haunt the twilight, crept about the room. The

tutor’s shadow, longer, lanker, and more grotesque than himself, mopped

and mowed upon the wall beside him. The snapdragon burnt blue, and as

the raisin-hunters stirred the flaming spirit, the ghastly light made

the tutor look so hideous that the widow’s little boy was on the eve of

howling, and spilled the raisins he had just secured. (He did not like

putting his fingers into the flames, but he hovered near the more

adventurous school-boys, and collected the raisins that were scattered

on the table by the hasty _grabs_ of braver hands.)

The widow was a relative of the house. She had married a Mr. Jones, and

having been during his life his devoted slave, had on his death

transferred her allegiance to his son. The late Mr. Jones was a small

man with a strong temper, a large appetite, and a taste for drawing-room

theatricals. So Mrs. Jones had called her son Macready; “for,” she said,

“his poor papa would have made a fortune on the stage, and I wish to

commemorate his talents. Besides, Macready sounds better with Jones than

a commoner Christian name would do.”

But his cousins called him MacGreedy.

“The apples of the enchanted garden were guarded by dragons. Many

knights went after them. One wished for the apples, but he did not like

to fight the dragons.”

It was the tutor who spoke from the dark corner by the fireplace. His

eyes shone like a cat’s, and MacGreedy felt like a half-scared mouse,

and made up his mind to cry. He put his right fist into one eye, and had

just taken it out, and was about to put his left fist into the other,

when he saw that the tutor was no longer looking at him. So he made up

his mind to go on with the raisins, for one can have a peevish cry at

any time, but plums are not scattered broadcast every day. Several times

he had tried to pocket them, but just at the moment the tutor was sure

to look at him, and in his fright he dropped the raisins, and never

could find them again. So this time he resolved to eat them then and

there. He had just put one into his mouth when the tutor leaned forward,

and his eyes, glowing in the fire-light, met MacGreedy’s, who had not

even the presence of mind to shut his mouth, but remained spellbound,

with a raisin in his cheek.

Flicker, flack! The school-boys stirred up snapdragon again, and with

the blue light upon his features the tutor made so horrible a grimace

that MacGreedy swallowed the raisin with a start. He had bolted it

whole, and it might have been a bread pill for any enjoyment he had of

the flavor. But the tutor laughed aloud. He certainly was an alarming

object, pulling those grimaces in the blue brandy glare; and

unpleasantly like a picture of Bogy himself with horns and a tail, in a

juvenile volume upstairs. True, there were no horns to speak of among

the tutor’s grizzled curls, and his coat seemed to fit as well as most

people’s on his long back, so that unless he put his tail in his pocket,

it is difficult to see how he could have had one. But then (as Miss

Letitia said) “With dress one can do anything and hide anything.” And on

dress Miss Letitia’s opinion was final.

Miss Letitia was a cousin. She was dark, high-colored, glossy-haired,

stout, and showy. She was as neat as a new pin, and had a will of her

own. Her hair was firmly fixed by bandoline, her garibaldis by an

arrangement which failed when applied to those of the widow, and her

opinions by the simple process of looking at everything from one point

of view. Her _forte_ was dress and general ornamentation; not that Miss

Letitia was extravagant—far from it. If one may use the expression, she

utilized for ornament a hundred bits and scraps that most people would

have wasted. But, like other artists, she saw everything through the

medium of her own art. She looked at birds with an eye to hats, and at

flowers with reference to evening parties. At picture exhibitions and

concerts she carried away jacket patterns and bonnets in her head, as

other people make mental notes of an aerial effect, or a bit of fine

instrumentation. An enthusiastic horticulturist once sent Miss Letitia a

cut specimen of a new flower. It was a lovely spray from a

lately-imported shrub. A botanist would have pressed it—an artist must

have taken its portrait—a poet might have written a sonnet in praise of

its beauty. Miss Letitia twisted a piece of wire round its stem, and

fastened it on to her black lace bonnet. It came on the day of a review,

when Miss Letitia had to appear in a carriage, and it was quite a

success. As she said to the widow, “It was so natural that no one could

doubt its being Parisian.”

“What a strange fellow that tutor is!” said the visitor. He spoke to the

daughter of the house, a girl with a face like a summer’s day, and hair

like a ripe corn-field rippling in the sun. He was a fine young man, and

had a youth’s taste for the sports and amusements of his age. But lately

he had changed. He seemed to himself to be living in a higher, nobler

atmosphere than hitherto. He had discovered that he was poetical—he

might prove to be a genius. He certainly was eloquent, he could talk for

hours and did so—to the young lady with the sunshiny face. They spoke

on the highest subjects, and what a listener she was! So intelligent and

appreciative, and with such an exquisite _pose_ of the head—it must

inspire a block of wood merely to see such a creature in a listening

attitude. As to our young friend, he poured forth volumes; he was really

clever, and for her he became eloquent. To-night he spoke of Christmas,

of time-honored custom and old association; and what he said would have

made a Christmas article for a magazine of the first class. He poured

scorn on the cold nature that could not, and the affectation that would

not, appreciate the domestic festivities of this sacred season.

What, he asked, could be more delightful, more perfect, than such a

gathering as this, of the family circle round the Christmas hearth? He

spoke with feeling, and it may be said with disinterested feeling, for

he had not joined his family circle himself this Christmas, and there

was a vacant place by the hearth of his own home.

“He is strange,” said the young lady (she spoke of the tutor in answer

to the above remark); “but I am very fond of him. He has been with us so

long he is like one of the family; though we know as little of his

history as we did on the day he came.”

“He looks clever,” said the visitor. (Perhaps that is the least one can

say for a fellow-creature who shows a great deal of bare skull, and is

not otherwise good-looking.)

“He is clever,” she answered, “wonderfully clever; so clever and so odd

that sometimes I fancy he is hardly ‘canny.’ There is something almost

supernatural about his acuteness and his ingenuity, but they are so

kindly used; I wonder he has not brought out any playthings for us

to-night.”

“Playthings?” inquired the young man.

“Yes; on birthdays or festivals like this he generally brings something

out of those huge pockets of his. He has been all over the world, and he

produces Indian puzzles, Japanese flower-buds that bloom in hot water,

and German toys with complicated machinery, which I suspect him of

manufacturing himself. I call him God-papa Drosselmayer, after that

delightful old fellow in Hoffman’s tale of the Nut Cracker.”

“What’s that about crackers?” inquired the tutor, sharply, his eyes

changing color like a fire opal.

“I am talking of _Nussknacker und Mausekönig_,” laughed the young lady.

“Crackers do not belong to Christmas; fireworks come on the fifth of

November.”

“Tut, tut!” said the tutor; “I always tell your ladyship that you are

still a tom-boy at heart, as when I first came, and you climbed trees

and pelted myself and my young students with horse-chestnuts. You think

of crackers to explode at the heels of timorous old gentlemen in a

November fog; but I mean bonbon crackers, colored crackers, dainty

crackers—crackers for young people with mottoes of sentiment”—(here

the tutor shrugged his high shoulders an inch or two higher, and turned

the palms of his hands outwards with a glance indescribably

comical)—“crackers with paper prodigies, crackers with

sweetmeats—_such_ sweetmeats!” He smacked his lips with a grotesque

contortion, and looked at Master MacGreedy, who choked himself with his

last raisin, and forthwith burst into tears.

The widow tried in vain to soothe him with caresses, he only stamped and

howled the more. But Miss Letitia gave him some smart smacks on the

shoulders to cure his choking fit, and as she kept up the treatment with

vigor the young gentleman was obliged to stop and assure her that the

raisin had “gone the right way” at last. “If he were my child,” Miss

Letitia had been known to observe, with that confidence which

characterises the theories of those who are not parents, “I would &c.

&c. &c.;” in fact, Miss Letitia thought she would have made a different

boy of him—as, indeed, I believe she would.

“Are crackers all that you have for us, sir?” asked one of the two

school-boys, as they hung over the tutor’s chair. They were twins, grand

boys, with broad, good-humored faces, and curly wigs, as like as two

puppy dogs of the same breed. They were only known apart by their

intimate friends, and were always together, romping, laughing, snarling,

squabbling, huffing and helping each other against the world. Each of

them owned a wiry terrier, and in their relations to each other the two

dogs (who were marvellously alike) closely followed the example of their

masters.

“Do you not care for crackers, Jim?” asked the tutor.

“Not much, sir. They do for girls: but, as you know, I care for nothing

but military matters. Do you remember that beautiful toy of yours—‘The

Besieged City?’ Ah! I liked that. Look out, Tom! you’re shoving my arm.

Can’t you stand straight, man?”

“R-r-r-r—r-r, snap!”

Tom’s dog was resenting contact with Jim’s dog on the hearthrug. There

was a hustle among the four, and then they subsided.

“The Besieged City was all very well for you, Jim,” said Tom, who meant

to be a sailor; “but please to remember that it admitted of no attack

from the sea; and what was there for me to do? Ah, sir! you are so

clever, I often think you could help me to make a swing with ladders

instead of single ropes, so that I could run up and down the rigging

whilst it was in full go.”