“What is that for?” asked Dolly, pointing solemnly with her little forefinger, and speaking under her breath.
“Dear child, that is the picture of my poor boy who died—ever so many years ago. That is my cross—we have all one—to carry.”
Dolly did not half understand these words, but she saw tears in the gentle old lady’s eyes and was afraid to ask more.
She accepted thankfully and with her nicest and best executed courtesy a Christmas cooky representing a good-sized fish, with fins all spread and pink sugar-plums for eyes, and went home marveling yet more about this mystery of Christmas.
As she was crossing the green to go home the Poganuc stage drove in, with Hiel seated on high, whipping up his horses to make them execute that grand entrée which was the glory of his daily existence.
Now that the stage was on runners, and slipped noiselessly over the smooth frozen plain, Hiel cracked his whip more energetically and shouted louder, first to one horse then to another, to make up for the loss of the rattling wheels; and he generally had the satisfaction of seeing all the women rushing distractedly to doors and windows, and imagined them saying, “There’s Hiel; the stage is in!”
“Hulloa, Dolly!” he called out, drawing up with a suddenness which threw the fore-horses back upon their haunches. “I’ve got a bundle for your folks. Want to ride? You may jest jump up here by me and I’ll take you ’round to your father’s door”; and so Dolly reached up her little red-mittened hand, and Hiel drew her up beside him.
“’Xpect ye want a bit of a ride, and I’ve got a bundle for Widder Badger, down on South Street, so I guess I’ll go ’round that way to make it longer. I ’xpect this ’ere bundle is from some of your ma’s folks in Boston—’Piscopals they be and keeps Christmas. Good-sized bundle ’tis; reckon it’ll come handy in a good many ways.”
So, after finishing his detour, Hiel landed his little charge at the parsonage door.
“Reckon I’ll be over when I’ve put up my hosses,” he said to Nabby when he handed down the bundle to her. “I hain’t been to see you much lately, Nabby, and I know you’ve been a-pinin’ after me, but fact is—”
“Well, now, Hiel Jones, you jest shet up with your imperence,” said Nabby, with flashing eyes; “you jest look out or you’ll get suthin.”
“I ’xpect to get a kiss when I come ’round to-night,” said Hiel, composedly. “Take care o’ that air bundle, now; mebbe there’s glass or crockery in’t.”
“Hiel Jones,” said Nabby, “don’t give me none o’ your saace, for I won’t take it. Jim Sawin said last night you was the brassiest man he ever see. He said there was brass enough in your face to make a kettle of.”
“You tell him there’s sap enough in his head to fill it, anyway,” said Hiel. “Good bye, Nabby, I’ll come ’round this evenin’,” and he drove away at a rattling pace, while Nabby, with flushed cheeks and snapping eyes, soliloquized:
“Well, I hope he will come! I’d jest like a chance to show him how little I care for him.”
Meanwhile the bundle was soon opened, and contained a store of treasures: a smart little red dress and a pair of red shoes for Dolly, a half dozen pocket-handkerchiefs for Dr. Cushing, and Robinson Crusoe and Sanford and Merton, handsomely bound, for the boys, and a bonnet trimming for Mrs. Cushing. These were accompanied by a characteristic letter from Aunt Debby Kittery, opening as follows:
“DEAR SISTER:
“Mother worries because she thinks you won’t get any Christmas presents. However, this comes to give every one of you some of the crumbs which fall from the church’s table, and Mother says she wishes you all a pious Christmas, which she thinks is better than a merry one. If I didn’t lay violent hands on her she would use all our substance in riotous giving of Christmas presents to all the beggars and chimney sweeps in Boston. She is in good health and talks daily of wanting to see you and the children; and I hope before long you will bring some of them, and come and make us a visit.
“Your affectionate sister,
“DEBBY KITTERY.”
There was a scene of exultation and clamor in the parsonage as these presents were pulled out and discussed; and when all possible joy was procured from them in the sitting-room, the children rushed in a body into the kitchen and showed them to Nabby, calling on her to join their acclamations.
On the whole, when Dolly had said her prayers that night and thought the matter over, she concluded that her Christmas Day had been quite a success.
THE SECOND CHRISTMAS
Once more had Christmas come round in Poganuc; once more the Episcopal church was being dressed with ground-pine and spruce; but this year economy had begun to make its claims felt. An illumination might do very well to open a church, but there were many who said “to what purpose is this waste?” when the proposition was made to renew it yearly. Consequently it was resolved to hold the Christmas Eve service with only that necessary amount of light which would enable the worshipers to read the prayers.
On this Christmas Eve Dolly went to bed at her usual hour with a resigned and quiet spirit. She felt herself a year older, and more than a year wiser, than when Christmas had first dawned upon her consciousness.
Mis’ Persis appeared on the ground by day-dawn. A great kettle was slung over the kitchen fire, in which cakes of tallow were speedily liquefying; a frame was placed quite across the kitchen to sustain candle-rods, with a train of boards underneath to catch the drippings, and Mis’ Persis, with a brow like one of the Fates, announced: “Now we can’t hev any young ’uns in this kitchen to-day”; and Dolly saw that there was no getting any attention in that quarter.
Mis’ Persis, in a gracious Saturday afternoon mood, sitting in her own tent-door dispensing hospitalities and cookies, was one thing; but Mis’ Persis in her armor, with her loins girded and a hard day’s work to be conquered, was quite another: she was terrible as Minerva with her helmet on.
Dinner-baskets for all the children were hastily packed, and they were sent off to school with the injunction on no account to show their faces about the premises till night. The Doctor, warned of what was going on, retreated to his study at the top of the house, where, serenely above the lower cares of earth, he sailed off into President Edwards’ treatise on the nature of true virtue, concerning which he was preparing a paper to read at the next association meeting.
That candles were a necessity of life he was well convinced, and by faith he dimly accepted the fact that one day in the year the whole house was to be devoted and given up to this manufacture; and his part of the business, as he understood it, was, clearly, to keep himself out of the way till it was over.
“There won’t be much of a dinner at home, anyway,” said Nabby to Dolly, as she packed her basket with an extra doughnut or two. “I’ve got to go to church to-day, ’cause I’m one of the singers, and your ma’ll be busy waitin’ on her; so we shall just have a pick-up dinner, and you be sure not to come home till night; by that time it’ll be all over.”
Dolly trotted off to school well content with the prospect before her: a nooning, with leave to play with the girls at school, was not an unpleasant idea.
But the first thing that saluted her on her arrival was that Bessie Lewis—her own dear, particular Bessie—was going to have a Christmas party at her house that afternoon, and was around distributing invitations right and left among the scholars with a generous freedom.
“We are going to have nuts, and raisins, and cakes, and mottoes,” said Bessie, with artless triumph. The news of this bill of fare spread like wildfire through the school.
Never had a party been heard of which contemplated such a liberal entertainment, for the rising generation of Poganuc were by no means wearied with indulgence, and raisins and almonds stood for grandeur with them. But these mottoes, which consisted of bits of confectionery wrapped up in printed couplets of sentimental poetry, were an unheard-of refinement. Bessie assured them that her papa had sent clear to Boston for them, and whoever got one would
have his or her fortune told by it.
The school was a small, select one, comprising the children of all ages from the best families of Poganuc. Both boys and girls, and all with great impartiality, had been invited. Miss Titcome, the teacher, quite readily promised to dismiss at three o’clock that afternoon any scholar who should bring a permission from parents, and the children nothing doubted that such a permission was obtainable.
Dolly alone saw a cloud in the horizon. She had been sent away with strict injunctions not to return till evening, and children in those days never presumed to make any exceptions in obeying an absolute command of their parents.
“But, of course, you will go home at noon and ask your mother, and of course she’ll let you; won’t she, girls?” said Bessie.
“Oh, certainly; of course she will,” said all the older girls, “because you know a party is a thing that don’t happen every day, and your mother would think it strange if you didn’t come and ask her.” So, too, thought Miss Titcome, a most exemplary, precise and proper young lady, who always moved and spoke and thought as became a schoolmistress, so that, although she was in reality only twenty years old, Dolly considered her as a very advanced and ancient person—if anything, a little older than her father and mother.
Even she was of opinion that Dolly might properly go home to lay a case of such importance before her mother; and so Dolly rushed home after the morning school was over, running with all her might, and increasing in mental excitement as she ran. Her bonnet blew off upon her shoulders, her curls flew behind her in the wind, and she most inconsiderately used up the little stock of breath that she would want to set her cause in order before her mother.
Just here we must beg any mother and housekeeper to imagine herself in the very midst of the most delicate, perplexing and laborious of household tasks, when interruption is most irksome and perilous, suddenly called to discuss with a child some new and startling proposition to which at the moment she cannot even give a thought.
Mrs. Cushing was sitting in the kitchen with Mis’ Persis, by the side of a caldron of melted tallow, kept in a fluid state by the heat of a portable furnace on which it stood. A long train of half-dipped candles hung like so many stalactites from the frames on which the rods rested, and the two were patiently dipping set after set and replacing them again on the frame.
“As sure as I’m alive! if there isn’t Dolly Cushing comin’ back—runnin’ and tearin’ like a wild cretur’,” said Mis’ Persis. “She’ll be in here in a minute and knock everything down!”
Mrs. Cushing looked, and with a quick movement stepped to the door.
“Dolly! what are you here for? Didn’t I tell you not to come home this noon?”
“Oh, mamma, there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’s—Bessie’s party—and the girls are all going; mayn’t I go?”
“No, you can’t; it’s impossible,” said her mother. “Your best dress isn’t ready to wear, and there’s nobody can spend time to get you ready. Go right back to school.”
“But, mamma—”
“Go!” said her mother, in the decisive tone that mothers used in the old days, when arguing with children was not a possibility.
“What’s all this about?” asked the Doctor, looking out of the door.
“Why,” said Mrs. Cushing, “there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’s, and Dolly is wild to go. It’s just impossible for me to attend to her now.”
“Oh, I don’t want her intimate at Lewis’s,” said the Doctor, and immediately he came out behind his wife.
“There; run away to school, Dolly,” he said. “Don’t trouble your mother; you don’t want to go to parties; why, it’s foolish to think of it. Run away now, and don’t think any more about it—there’s a good girl!”
Dolly turned and went back to school, the tears freezing on her cheek as she went. As for not thinking any more about it—that was impossible.
When three o’clock came, scholar after scholar rose and departed, until at last Dolly was the only one remaining in the school-room.
When Dolly came home that night the coast was clear, and the candles were finished and put away to harden in a freezing cold room; the kitchen was once more restored, and Nabby bustled about getting supper as if nothing had happened.
“I really feel sorry about poor little Dolly,” said Mrs. Cushing to her husband.
“Do you think she cared much?” asked the Doctor, looking as if a new possibility had struck his mind.
“Yes, indeed, poor child, she went away crying; but what could I do about it? I couldn’t stop to dress her.”
“Wife, we must take her somewhere to make up for it,” said the Doctor.
Just then the stage stopped at the door and a bundle from Boston was handed in. Dolly’s tears were soon wiped and dried, and her mourning was turned into joy when a large jointed London doll emerged from the bundle, the Christmas gift of her grandmother in Boston.
Dolly’s former darling was old and shabby, but this was of twice the size, and with cheeks exhibiting a state of the most florid health.
Besides this there was, as usual in grandmamma’s Christmas bundle, something for every member of the family; and so the evening went on festive wings.
Poor little Dolly! only that afternoon she had watered with her tears, at school, the dismal long straight seam, which stretched on before her as life sometimes does to us, bare, disagreeable and cheerless. She had come home crying, little dreaming of the joy just approaching; but before bed-time no cricket in the hearth was cheerier or more noisy. She took the new dolly to bed with her, and could hardly sleep, for the excitement of her company.
Meanwhile, Hiel had brought the Doctor a message to the following effect:
“I was drivin’ by Tim Hawkins’, and Mis’ Hawkins she comes out and says they’re goin’ to hev an apple-cuttin’ there to-morrow night, and she would like to hev you and Mis’ Cushin’ and all your folks come—Nabby and all.”
The Doctor and his lady of course assented.
“Wal, then, Doctor—ef it’s all one to you,” continued Hiel, “I’d like to take ye over in my new double sleigh. I’ve jest got two new strings o’ bells up from Boston, and I think we’ll sort o’ make the snow fly. S’pose there’d be no objections to takin’ my mother ’long with ye?”
“Oh, Hiel, we shall be delighted to go in company with your mother, and we’re ever so much obliged to you,” said Mrs. Cushing.
“Wal, I’ll be round by six o’clock,” said Hiel.
“Then, wife,” said the Doctor, “we’ll take Dolly, and make up for the loss of her party.”
Punctually at six, Hiel’s two horses, with all their bells jingling, stood at the door of the parsonage, whence Tom and Bill, who had been waiting with caps and mittens on for the last half hour, burst forth with irrepressible shouts of welcome.
“Take care now, boys; don’t haul them buffalo skins out on t’ the snow,” said Hiel. “Don’t get things in a muss gen’ally; wait for your ma and the Doctor. Got to stow the grown folks in fust; boys kin hang on anywhere.”
And so first came Mrs. Cushing and the Doctor, and were installed on the back seat, with Dolly in between. Then hot bricks were handed in to keep feet warm, and the buffalo robe was tucked down securely. Then Nabby took her seat by Hiel in front, and the sleigh drove round for old Mrs. Jones. The Doctor insisted on giving up his place to her and tucking her warmly under the buffalo robe, while he took the middle seat and acted as moderator between the boys, who were in a wild state of hilarity. Spring, with explosive barks, raced first on this and then on that side of the sleigh as it flew swiftly over the smooth frozen road.
The stars blinked white and clear out of a deep blue sky, and the path wound up-hill among cedars and junipers and clumps of mountain laurel, on whose broad green leaves the tufts of snow lay like clusters of white roses. The keen clear air was full of stimulus and vigor; and so Hiel’s proposition to take the longest way met with enthusiastic welco
me from all the party. Next to being a bird, and having wings, is the sensation of being borne over the snow by a pair of spirited horses who enjoy the race, apparently, as much as those they draw. Though Hiel contrived to make the ride about eight miles, it yet seemed but a short time before the party drove up to the great red farmhouse, whose lighted windows sent streams of radiant welcome far out into the night.
Our little Dolly had had an evening of unmixed bliss. Everybody had petted her, and talked to her, and been delighted with her sayings and doings, and she was carrying home a paper parcel of sweet things which good Mrs. Hawkins had forced into her hand at parting. She had spent a really happy Christmas!
CHARLES DICKENS
1812-1870
A CHRISTMAS DINNER
Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused—in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened—by the recurrence of Christmas. There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away; that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes—of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire—fill the glass and send round the song—and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse. Look on the merry faces of your children (if you have any) as they sit round the fire. One little seat may be empty; one slight form that gladdened the father’s heart, and roused the mother’s pride to look upon, may not be there. Dwell not upon the past; think not that one short year ago, the fair child now resolving into dust, sat before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and the gaiety of infancy in its joyous eye. Reflect upon your present blessings—of which every man has many—not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill your glass again, with a merry face and contented heart. Our life on it, but your Christmas shall be merry, and your new year a happy one!
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