A Vintage Christmas

by Thomas Nelson

  The door bell rang again, and the waiter brought in another bulky parcel, and deposited it on the marble-topped centre table.

  “What’s here?” said Will, cutting the cord. “Whew! a perfect nest of packages! oolong tea! oranges! grapes! white sugar! Bless me, Ella must be going to housekeeping!”

  “Or going crazy!” said Tom; “and on my word,” said he, looking out of the window, “there’s a drayman ringing at our door, with a stove, with a teakettle set in the top of it!”

  “Ella’s cook stove, of course,” said Will; and just at this moment the young lady entered, with her purse hanging gracefully over her hand.

  “Now, boys, you are too bad!” she exclaimed, as each of the mischievous youngsters were gravely marching up and down, attired in a gray shawl.

  “Didn’t you get them for us? We thought you did,” said both.

  “Ella, I want some of that cotton flannel, to make me a pair of pantaloons,” said Tom.

  “I say, Ella,” said Will, “when are you going to housekeeping? Your cooking stove is standing down in the street; ’pon my word, John is loading some coal on the dray with it.”

  “Ella, isn’t that going to be sent to my office?” said Tom; “do you know I do so languish for a new stove with a teakettle in the top, to heat a fellow’s shaving water!”

  Just then, another ring at the door, and the grinning waiter handed in a small brown paper parcel for Miss Ella. Tom made a dive at it, and staving off the brown paper, developed a jaunty little purple velvet cap, with silver tassels.

  “My smoking cap, as I live!” said he; “only I shall have to wear it on my thumb, instead of my head—too small entirely,” said he, shaking his head gravely.

  “Come, you saucy boys,” said Aunt E., entering briskly, “what are you teasing Ella for?”

  “Why, do see this lot of things, aunt! What in the world is Ella going to do with them?”

  “O, I know!”

  “You know! Then I can guess, aunt, it is some of your charitable works. You are going to make a juvenile Lady Bountiful of El, eh?”

  Ella, who had colored to the roots of her hair at the exposé of her very unfashionable Christmas preparations, now took heart, and bestowed a very gentle and salutary little cuff on the saucy head that still wore the purple cap, and then hastened to gather up her various purchases.

  “Laugh away,” said she, gayly; “and a good many others will laugh, too, over these things. I got them to make people laugh—people that are not in the habit of laughing!”

  “Well, well, I see into it,” said Will; “and I tell you I think right well of the idea, too. There are worlds of money wasted, at this time of the year, in getting things that nobody wants, and nobody cares for after they are got; and I am glad, for my part, that you are going to get up a variety in this line; in fact, I should like to give you one of these stray leaves to help on,” said he, dropping a ten dollar note into her paper. “I like to encourage girls to think of something besides breastpins and sugar candy.”

  But our story spins on too long. If any body wants to see the results of Ella’s first attempts at good fairyism, they can call at the doors of two or three old buildings on Christmas morning, and they shall hear all about it.

  CHRISTMAS IN POGANUC

  THE FIRST CHRISTMAS

  Can any of us look back to the earlier days of our mortal pilgrimage and remember the helpless sense of desolation and loneliness caused by being forced to go off to the stillness and darkness of a solitary bed far from all the beloved voices and employments and sights of life? Can we remember lying, hearing distant voices, and laughs of more fortunate, older people and the opening and shutting of distant doors, that told of scenes of animation and interest from which we were excluded? How doleful sounded the tick of the clock, and how dismal was the darkness as sunshine faded from the window, leaving only a square of dusky dimness in place of daylight!

  All who remember these will sympathize with Dolly, who was hustled off to bed by Nabby the minute supper was over, that she might have the decks clear for action.

  “Now be a good girl; shut your eyes, and say your prayers, and go right to sleep,” had been Nabby’s parting injunction as she went out, closing the door after her.

  The little head sunk into the pillow, and Dolly recited her usual liturgy of “Our Father who art in heaven,” and “I pray God to bless my dear father and mother and all my dear friends and relations, and make me a good girl,” and ending with,

  “‘Now I lay me down to sleep.’”

  But sleep she could not. The wide, bright, wistful blue eyes lay shining like two stars toward the fading light in the window, and the little ears were strained to catch every sound. She heard the shouts of Tom and Bill and the loud barking of Spring as they swept out of the door; and the sound went to her heart. Spring—her faithful attendant, the most loving and sympathetic of dogs, her friend and confidential counselor in many a solitary ramble—Spring had gone with the boys to see the sight, and left her alone. She began to pity herself and cry softly on her pillow. For a while she could hear Nabby’s energetic movements below, washing up dishes, putting back chairs, and giving energetic thumps and bangs here and there, as her way was of producing order. But by and by that was all over, and she heard the loud shutting of the kitchen door and Nabby’s voice chatting with her attendant as she went off to the scene of gaiety.

  In those simple, innocent days in New England villages nobody thought of locking house doors at night. There was in those times no idea either of tramps or burglars, and many a night in summer had Dolly lain awake and heard the voices of tree-toads and whip-poor-wills mingling with the whisper of leaves and the swaying of elm boughs, while the great outside door of the house lay broad open in the moonlight. But then this was when everybody was in the house and asleep, when the door of her parents’ room stood open on the front hall, and she knew she could run to the paternal bed in a minute for protection. Now, however, she knew the house was empty. Everybody had gone out of it; and there is something fearful to a little lonely body in the possibilities of a great, empty house. She got up and opened her door, and the “tick-tock” of the old kitchen clock for a moment seemed like company; but pretty soon its ticking began to strike louder and louder with a nervous insistency on her ear, till the nerves quivered and vibrated, and she couldn’t go to sleep. She lay and listened to all the noises outside. It was a still, clear, freezing night, when the least sound clinked with a metallic resonance. She heard the runners of sleighs squeaking and crunching over the frozen road, and the lively jingle of bells. They would come nearer, nearer, pass by the house, and go off in the distance. Those were the happy folks going to see the gold star and the Christmas greens in the church. The gold star, the Christmas greens, had all the more attraction from their vagueness. Dolly was a fanciful little creature, and the clear air and romantic scenery of a mountain town had fed her imagination. Stories she had never read, except in the Bible and the Pilgrim’s Progress, but her very soul had vibrated with the descriptions of the celestial city—something vague, bright, glorious, lying beyond some dark river; and Nabby’s rude account of what was going on in the church suggested those images.

  Finally a bright thought popped into her little head. She could see the church from the front windows of the house; she would go there and look. In haste she sprang out of bed and dressed herself. It was sharp and freezing in the fireless chamber, but Dolly’s blood had a racing, healthy tingle to it; she didn’t mind cold. She wrapped her cloak around her and tied on her hood and ran to the front windows. There it was, to be sure—the little church with its sharp-pointed windows, every pane of which was sending streams of light across the glittering snow. There was a crowd around the door, and men and boys looking in at the windows. Dolly’s soul was fired. But the elm boughs a little obstructed her vision; she thought she would go down and look at it from the yard. So down-stairs she ran, but as she opened the door the sound of the chant rolled out into the
darkness with sweet and solemn cadence:

  “Glory be to God on high; and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

  Dolly’s soul was all aglow—her nerves tingled and vibrated; she thought of the bells ringing in the celestial city; she could no longer contain herself, but faster and faster the little hooded form scudded across the snowy plain and pushed in among the dark cluster of spectators at the door. All made way for the child, and in a moment, whether in the body or out she could not tell, Dolly was sitting in a little nook under a bower of spruce, gazing at the star and listening to the voices:

  “We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee, we glorify Thee, we give thanks to Thee for Thy great glory, O Lord God, Heavenly King, God, the Father Almighty.”

  Her heart throbbed and beat; she trembled with a strange happiness and sat as one entranced till the music was over. Then came reading, the rustle and murmur of people kneeling, and then they all rose and there was the solemn buzz of voices repeating the Creed with a curious lulling sound to her ear. There was old Mr. Danforth with his spectacles on, reading with a pompous tone, as if to witness a good confession for the church; and there were Squire Lewis and old Ma’am Lewis; and there was one place where they all bowed their heads and all the ladies made courtesies—all of which entertained her mightily.

  When the sermon began Dolly got fast asleep, and slept as quietly as a pet lamb in a meadow, lying in a little warm roll back under the shadows of the spruces. She was so tired and so sound asleep that she did not wake when the service ended, lying serenely curled up, and having perhaps pleasant dreams. She might have had the fortunes of little Goody Two-Shoes, whose history was detailed in one of the few children’s books then printed, had not two friends united to find her out.

  Spring, who had got into the slip with the boys, and been an equally attentive and edified listener, after service began a tour of investigation, dog-fashion, with his nose; for how could a minister’s dog form a suitable judgment of any new procedure if he was repressed from the use of his own leading faculty? So, Spring went round the church conscientiously, smelling at pew doors, smelling of the greens, smelling at the heels of gentlemen and ladies, till he came near the door of the church, when he suddenly smelt something which called for immediate attention, and he made a side dart into the thicket where Dolly was sleeping, and began licking her face and hands and pulling her dress, giving short barks occasionally, as if to say, “Come, Dolly, wake up!” At the same instant Hiel, who had seen her from the gallery, came down just as the little one was sitting up with a dazed, bewildered air.

  “Why, Dolly, how came you out o’ bed this time o’ night? Don’t ye know the nine o’clock bell’s jest rung?”

  Dolly knew Hiel well enough—what child in the village did not? She reached up her little hands, saying in an apologetic fashion:

  “They were all gone away, and I was so lonesome!”

  Hiel took her up in his long arms and carried her home, and was just entering the house door with her as the sleigh drove up with Parson Cushing and his wife.

  “Wal, Parson, your folks has all ben to the ’lumination—Nabby and Bill and Tom and Dolly here; found her all rolled up in a heap like a rabbit under the cedars.”

  “Why, Dolly Cushing!” exclaimed her mother. “What upon earth got you out of bed this time of night? You’ll catch your death o’ cold.”

  “I was all alone,” said Dolly, with a piteous bleat.

  “Oh, there, there, wife; don’t say a word,” put in the parson. “Get her off to bed. Never mind, Dolly, don’t you cry”; for Parson Cushing was a soft-hearted gentleman and couldn’t bear the sight of Dolly’s quivering under lip. So Dolly told her little story, how she had been promised a sugar dog by Nabby if she’d be a good girl and go to sleep, and how she couldn’t go to sleep, and how she just went down to look from the yard, and how the music drew her right over.

  “There, there,” said Parson Cushing, “go to bed, Dolly; and if Nabby don’t give you a sugar dog, I will. This Christmas dressing is all nonsense,” he added, “but the child’s not to blame—it was natural.”

  “After all,” he said to his wife the last thing after they were settled for the night, “our little Dolly is an unusual child. There were not many little girls that would have dared to do that. I shall preach a sermon right away that will set all this Christmas matter straight,” said the Doctor. “There is not a shadow of evidence that the first Christians kept Christmas. It wasn’t kept for the first three centuries, nor was Christ born anywhere near the 25th of December.”

  The next morning found little Dolly’s blue eyes wide open with all the wondering eagerness of a new idea.

  Dolly had her wise thoughts about Christmas. She had been terribly frightened at first, when she was brought home from the church; but when her papa kissed her and promised her a sugar dog she was quite sure that, whatever the unexplained mystery might be, he did not think the lovely scene of the night before a wicked one. And when Mrs. Cushing came and covered the little girl up warmly in bed, she only said to her, “Dolly, you must never get out of bed again at night after you are put there; you might have caught a dreadful cold and been sick and died, and then we should have lost our little Dolly.” So Dolly promised quite readily to be good and lie still ever after, no matter what attractions might be on foot in the community.

  Much was gained, however, and it was all clear gain; and forthwith the little fanciful head proceeded to make the most of it, thinking over every feature of the wonder. The child had a vibrating, musical organization, and the sway and rush of the chanting still sounded in her ears and reminded her of that wonderful story in the Pilgrim’s Progress, where the gate of the celestial city swung open, and there were voices that sung, “Blessing and honor and glory and power be unto Him who sitteth on the throne.” And then that wonderful star, that shone just as if it were a real star—how could it be! For Miss Ida Lewis, being a young lady of native artistic genius, had cut a little hole in the centre of her gilt paper star, behind which was placed a candle, so that it gave real light, in a way most astonishing to untaught eyes. In Dolly’s simple view it verged on the supernatural—perhaps it was the very real star read about in the Gospel story. Why not? Dolly was at the happy age when anything bright and heavenly seemed credible, and had the child-faith to which all things were possible.

  “I wish, my dear,” said Mrs. Cushing, after they were retired to their room for the night, “that to-morrow morning you would read the account of the birth of Christ in St. Matthew, and give the children some advice upon the proper way of keeping Christmas.”

  “Well, but you know we don’t keep Christmas; nobody knows anything about Christmas,” said the Doctor.

  “You know what I mean, my dear,” replied his wife. “You know that my mother and her family do keep Christmas. I always heard of it when I was a child; and even now, though I have been out of the way of it so long, I cannot help a sort of kindly feeling toward these ways. I am not surprised at all that the children got drawn over last night to the service. I think it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I know by experience just how attractive such things are. I shouldn’t wonder if this other church should draw very seriously on your congregation; but I don’t want it to begin by taking away our own children. Dolly is an inquisitive child; a child that thinks a good deal, and she’ll be asking all sorts of questions about the why and wherefore of what she saw last night.”

  “Oh, yes, Dolly is a bright one. Dolly’s an uncommon child,” said the Doctor, who had a pardonable pride in his children—they being, in fact, the only worldly treasure that he was at all rich in.

  He rose up early on the following Sabbath and proceeded to buy a sugar dog at the store of Lucius Jenks, and when Dolly came down to breakfast he called her to him and presented it, saying as he kissed her:

  “Papa gives you this, not because it is Christmas, but because he loves his little Dolly.”

  “But isn’t it Christmas?�
�� asked Dolly with a puzzled air.

  “No, child; nobody knows when Christ was born, and there is nothing in the Bible to tell us when to keep Christmas.”

  And then in family worship the Doctor read the account of the birth of Christ and of the shepherds abiding in the fields who came at the call of the angels, and they sung the old hymn:

  “While shepherds watched their flocks by night.”

  “Now, children,” he said when all was over, “you must be good children and go to school. If we are going to keep any day on account of the birth of Christ, the best way to keep it is by doing all our duties on that day better than any other. Your duty is to be good children, go to school and mind your lessons.”

  Tom and Bill were quite ready to fall in with their father’s view of the matter. As for Dolly, she put her little tongue advisedly to the back of her sugar dog and found that he was very sweet indeed—a most tempting little animal. She even went so far as to nibble off a bit of the green ground he stood on—yet resolved heroically not to eat him at once, but to make him last as long as possible. She wrapped him tenderly in cotton and took him to the school with her, and when her confidential friend, Bessie Lewis, displayed her Christmas gifts, Dolly had something on her side to show, though she shook her curly head and informed Bessie in strict confidence that there wasn’t any such thing as Christmas, her papa had told her so—a heresy which Bessie forthwith reported when she went home at noon.

  “Poor little child—and did she say so?” asked gentle old Grandmamma Lewis. “Well, dear, you mustn’t blame her—she don’t know any better. You bring the little one in here to-night and I’ll give her a Christmas cooky. I’m sorry for such children.”

  And so, after school, Dolly went in to see dear old Madam Lewis, who sat in her rocking-chair in the front parlor, where the fire was snapping behind great tall brass andirons and all the pictures were overshadowed with boughs of spruce and pine. Dolly gazed about her with awe and wonder. Over one of the pictures was suspended a cross of green with flowers of white everlasting.