The spell was broken. Satherwaite sighed—why, he hardly knew—and turned away from the window. The tree was brilliantly lighted now, and the strings of cranberries caught the beams ruddily. Doak stirred the fire, and Doyle, turning from a whispered consultation with some of the others, approached Satherwaite.
“Would you mind playing Santa Claus—give out the presents, you know; we always do it that way?”
Satherwaite would be delighted; and, better to impersonate that famous old gentleman, he turned up the collar of his jacket, and put each hand up the opposite sleeve, looking as benignant as possible the while.
“That’s fine!” cried Smith; “but hold on, you need a cap!”
He seized one from the window-seat, a worn thing of yellowish-brown otter, and drew it down over Satherwaite’s ears. The crowd applauded, merrily.
“Dear little boys and girls,” began Satherwaite, in a quavering voice.
“No girls!” cried Doak.
“I want the cranberries!” cried Smith; “I love cranberries.”
“I get the popcorn, then!” That was the sedate Ailworth.
“You’ll be beastly sick,” said Doak, grinning jovially through his glasses.
Satherwaite untied the first package from its twig. It bore the inscription, “For Little Willie Kranch.” Every one gathered around while the recipient undid the wrappings, and laid bare a pen-wiper adorned with a tiny crimson football. Doak explained to Satherwaite that Kranch had played football just once, on a scrub team, and had heroically carried the ball down a long field, and placed it triumphantly under his own goal posts. This accounted for the laughter that ensued.
“Sammy Doak” received a note-book marked “Mathematics 3a.” The point of this allusion was lost to Satherwaite, for Doak was too busy laughing to explain it. And so it went, and the room was in a constant roar of mirth. Doyle was conferring excitedly with Ailworth across the room. By and by, he stole forward, and, detaching one of the packages from the tree, erased and wrote on it with great secrecy. Then he tied it back again, and retired to the hearth, grinning expectantly, until his own name was called, and he was shoved forward to receive a rubber pen-holder.
Presently, Satherwaite, working around the Christmas tree, detached a package, and frowned over the address.
“Fellows, this looks like—like Satherwaite, but”—he viewed the assemblage in embarrassment—“but I fancy it’s a mistake.”
“Not a bit,” cried Doyle; “that’s just my writing.”
“Open it!” cried the others, thronging up to him.
Satherwaite obeyed, wondering. Within the wrappers was a pocket memorandum book, a simple thing of cheap red leather. Some one laughed uncertainly. Satherwaite, very red, ran his finger over the edges of the leaves, examined it long, as though he had never seen anything like it before, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket.
“I—I—” he began.
“Chop it off!” cried some one joyously.
“I’m awfully much obliged to—to whoever—”
“It’s from the gang,” said Doyle.
“With a Merry Christmas,” said Ailworth.
“Thank you—gang,” said Satherwaite.
The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were crowding about Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket and, writing on it hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it from the tree, when the others turned again.
“Little Harry Doyle,” he read, gravely.
Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself.
“Open it up, old man!”
When he saw the gun-metal paper-knife, he glanced quickly at Satherwaite. He was very red in the face. Satherwaite smiled back, imperturbably. The knife went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic admiration.
“But, I say, old man, who gave—?” began Smith.
“I’m awfully much obliged, Satherwaite,” said Doyle, “but, really, I couldn’t think of taking—”
“Chop it off!” echoed Satherwaite. “Look here, Doyle, it isn’t the sort of thing I’d give you from choice; it’s a useless sort of toy, but I just happened to have it with me; bought it in the square on the way to give to some one, I didn’t know who, and so, if you don’t mind, I wish you’d accept it, you know. It’ll do to put on the table or—open cans with. If you’d rather not take it, why, chuck it out of the window!”
“It isn’t that,” cried Doyle; “it’s only that it’s much too fine—”
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” said Satherwaite. “Now, then, where’s ‘Little Alfie Ailworth’?”
Small candy canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more around the hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery, enjoyingly. Smith insisted upon having the cranberries, and wore them around his neck. The pop-corn was distributed equally, and the next day, in the parlor-car, Satherwaite drew his from a pocket together with his handkerchief.
Some one struck up a song, and Doyle remembered that Satherwaite had been in the Glee Club. There was an instant clamor for a song, and Satherwaite, consenting, looked about the room.
“Haven’t any thump-box,” said Smith. “Can’t you go it alone?”
Satherwaite thought he could, and did. He had a rich tenor voice, and he sang all the songs he knew. When it could be done, by hook or by crook, the others joined in the chorus; not too loudly, for it was getting late and proctors have sharp ears. When the last refrain had been repeated for the third time, and silence reigned for the moment, they heard the bell in the near-by tower. They counted its strokes; eight—nine—ten—eleven—twelve.
“Merry Christmas, all!” cried Smith.
In the clamor that ensued, Satherwaite secured his coat and hat. He shook hands all around. Smith insisted upon sharing the cranberries with him, and so looped a string gracefully about his neck. When Satherwaite backed out the door, he still held Doak’s pet pipe clenched between his teeth, and Doak, knowing it, said not a word.
“Hope you’ll come back and see us,” called Doyle.
“That’s right, old man, don’t forget us!” shouted Ailworth.
And Satherwaite, promising again and again not to, stumbled his way down the dark stairs.
Outside, he glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes. Then he grinned, and, scooping a handful of snow, sent it fairly against the glass. Instantly, the windows banged up, and six heads thrust themselves out.
“Good night! Merry Christmas, old man! Happy New Year!”
Something smashed softly against Satherwaite’s cheek. He looked back. They were gathering snow from the ledges and throwing snow-balls after him.
“Good shot!” he called. “Merry Christmas!”
The sound of their cries and laughter followed him far down the avenue.
POEMS
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
1807–1882
CHRISTMAS BELLS
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despai
r I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
ELIZA COOK
1818-1889
CHRISTMAS TIDE
When the merry spring time weaves
Its peeping bloom and dewy leaves;
When the primrose opes its eye,
And the young moth flutters by;
When the plaintive turtle dove
Pours its notes of peace and love;
And the clear sun flings its glory bright and wide—
Yet, my soul will own
More joy in winter’s frown,
And wake with warmer flush at Christmas tide.
The summer beams may shine
On the rich and curling vine,
And the noon-tide rays light up
The tulip’s dazzling cup:
But the pearly misletoe
And the holly-berries’ glow
Are not even by the boasted rose outvied;
For the happy hearts beneath
The green and coral wreath
Love the garlands that are twined at Christmas tide.
Let the autumn days produce
Yellow corn and purple juice,
And Nature’s feast be spread
In the fruitage ripe and red;
’Tis grateful to behold
Gushing grapes and fields of gold,
When cheeks are brown’d and red lips deeper dyed:
But give, oh! give to me
The winter night of glee,
The mirth and plenty seen at Christmas tide.
The northern gust may howl,
The rolling storm-cloud scowl,
King Frost may make a slave
Of the river’s rapid wave,
The snow-drift choke the path,
Or the hail-shower spend its wrath;
But the sternest blast right bravely is defied,
While limbs and spirits bound
To the merry minstrel sound,
And social wood-fires blaze at Christmas tide.
The song, the laugh, the shout,
Shall mock the storm without;
And sparkling wine-foam rise
’Neath still more sparkling eyes;
The forms that rarely meet
Then hand to hand shall greet,
And soul pledge soul that leagues too long divide.
Mirth, friendship, love, and light
Shall crown the winter night,
And every glad voice welcome Christmas tide.
But while joy’s echo falls
In gay and plenteous halls,
Let the poor and lowly share
The warmth, the sports, the fare;
For the one of humble lot
Must not shiver in his cot,
But claim a bounteous meed from wealth and pride.
Shed kindly blessings round,
Till no aching heart be found;
And then all hail to merry Christmas tide!
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
1772-1834
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
I.
The Shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
here the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung.
II.
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a Mother’s song,
Blest Angels heralded the Saviour’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
III.
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed;
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
IV.
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That Strife should vanish, Battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story,—
Did’st thou ne’er love to hear of Fame and Glory?
V.
And is not War a youthful King,
A stately Hero clad in Mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their Friend, their Playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.
VI.
“Tell this in some more courtly scene,
“To maids and youths in robes of state!
“I am a woman poor and mean,
“And therefore is my Soul elate.
“War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
“That from the aged Father tears his Child!
VII.
“A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
“He kills the Sire and starves the Son;
“The Husband kills, and from her board
“Steals all his Widow’s toil had won;
“Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
“All safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day.
VIII.
“Then wisely is my soul elate,
“That Strife should vanish, Battle cease:
“I’m poor and of a low estate,
“The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
“Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
“Peace, Peace on Earth, the Prince of Peace is born.”
ANNE BRONTË
1820-1849
MUSIC ON CHRISTMAS MORNING
Music I love—but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine—
As that we hear on Christmas morn
Upon the wintry breezes borne.
Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel’s voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;
To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.
While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight,
In those who watched their flocks by night.
With them I celebrate His birth—
Glory to God in highest Heaven,
Good-will to men, and peace on earth,
To us a Saviour-king is given;
Our God is come to claim His own,
And Satan’s power is overthrown!
A sinless God, for sinful men,
Descends to suffer and to bleed;
Hell must renounce its empire then;
The price is paid, the world is freed,
And Satan’s self must now confess
That Christ has earned a Right to bless:
Now holy Peace may smile from Heaven,<
br />
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
The captive’s galling bonds are riven,
For our Redeemer is our king;
And He that gave His blood for men
Will lead us home to God again.
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON
1809-1892
RING OUT, WILD BELLS
from In Memoriam
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
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