A Christmas Treasury: Classic Holiday Stories and Poems to Celebrate the Yuletide Season

by Charles Dickens, L Frank Baum, Louisa May Alcott, et al (Barnes

  Finally, the Mayor called a meeting of the Aldermen, and they all assembled in the City Hall. Nearly every one of them had a son or a daughter who was a chimney-sweep, or a little watch-girl, or a shepherdess. They appointed a chairman and they took a great many votes, and contrary votes; but they did not agree on anything, until some one proposed that they consult the Wise Woman. Then they all held up their hands, and voted to, unanimously.

  So the whole board of Aldermen set out, walking by twos, with the Mayor at their head, to consult the Wise Woman. The Aldermen were all very fleshy, and carried gold-headed canes which they swung very high at every step. They held their heads well back, and their chins stiff, and whenever they met common people they sniffed gently. They were very imposing.

  The Wise Woman lived in a little hut on the outskirts of the city. She kept a Black Cat; except for her, she was all alone. She was very old, and had brought up a great many children, and she was considered remarkably wise.

  But when the Aldermen reached her hut and found her seated by the fire, holding her Black Cat, a new difficulty presented itself. She had always been quite deaf, and people had been obliged to scream as loud as they could in order to make her hear; but, lately, she had grown much deafer, and when the Aldermen attempted to lay the case before her she could not hear a word. In fact, she was so very deaf that she could not distinguish a tone below G-sharp. The Aldermen screamed till they were quite red in their faces, but all to no purpose; none of them could get up to G-sharp, of course.

  So the Aldermen all went back, swinging their gold-headed canes, and they had another meeting in the City Hall. Then they decided to send the highest Soprano Singer in the church choir to the Wise Woman; she could sing up to G-sharp just as easy as not. So the high-Soprano Singer set out for the Wise Woman’s in the Mayor’s coach, and the Aldermen marched behind, swinging their gold-headed canes.

  The high-Soprano Singer put her head down close to the Wise Woman’s ear, and sang all about the Christmas Masquerade, and the dreadful dilemma everybody was in, in G-sharp—she even went higher, sometimes—and the Wise Woman heard every word. She nodded three times, and every time she nodded she looked wiser.

  “Go home, and give ’em a spoonful of castor-oil, all ’round,” she piped up; then she took a pinch of snuff, and wouldn’t say any more.

  So the Aldermen went home, and each one took a district and marched through it, with a servant carrying an immense bowl and spoon, and every child had to take a dose of castor-oil.

  But it didn’t do a bit of good. The children cried and struggled when they were forced to take the castor-oil; but, two minutes afterward, the chimney-sweeps were crying for their brooms, and the princesses screaming because they couldn’t go to court, and the Mayor’s daughter, who had been given a double dose, cried louder and more sturdily: “I want to go and tend my geese! I will go and tend my geese!”

  So the Aldermen took the high-Soprano Singer, and they consulted the Wise Woman again. She was taking a nap this time, and the Singer had to sing up to B-flat before she could wake her. Then she was very cross, and the Black Cat put up his back and spit at the Aldermen.

  “Give ’em a spanking all ’round,” she snapped out, “and if that don’t work put ’em to bed without their supper!”

  Then the Aldermen marched back to try that; and all the children in the city were spanked, and when that didn’t do any good they were put to bed without any supper. But the next morning when they woke up they were worse than ever.

  The Mayor and the Aldermen were very indignant, and considered that they had been imposed upon and insulted. So they set out for the Wise Woman’s again, with the high-Soprano Singer.

  She sang in G-sharp how the Aldermen and the Mayor considered her an imposter, and did not think she was wise at all, and they wished her to take her Black Cat and move beyond the limits of the city. She sang it beautifully; it sounded like the very finest Italian opera-music.

  “Deary me,” piped the Wise Woman, when she had finished, “how very grand these gentlemen are.” Her Black Cat put up his back and spit.

  “Five times one Black Cat are five Black Cats,” said the Wise Woman. And, directly, there were five Black Cats, spitting and miauling.

  “Five times five Black Cats are twenty-five Black Cats.” And then there were twenty-five of the angry little beasts.

  “Five times twenty-five Black Cats are one hundred and twenty-five Black Cats,” added the Wise Woman, with a chuckle.

  Then the Mayor and the Aldermen and the high-Soprano Singer fled precipitately out the door and back to the city. One hundred and twenty-five Black Cats had seemed to fill the Wise Woman’s hut full, and when they all spit and miauled together it was dreadful. The visitors could not wait for her to multiply Black Cats any longer.

  As winter wore on, and spring came, the condition of things grew more intolerable. Physicians had been consulted, who advised that the children should be allowed to follow their own bents, for fear of injury to their constitutions. So the rich Aldermen’s daughters were actually out in the fields herding sheep, and their sons sweeping chimneys or carrying newspapers; while the poor charwomen’s and coal-heavers’ children spent their time like princesses and fairies. Such a topsy-turvy state of society was shocking. Why, the Mayor’s little daughter was tending geese out in the meadow like any common goose-girl! Her pretty elder sister, Violetta, felt very sad about it, and used often to cast about in her mind for some way of relief.

  When cherries were ripe in spring, Violetta thought she would ask the Cherry-man about it. She thought the Cherry-man quite wise. He was a very pretty young fellow, and he brought cherries to sell in graceful little straw baskets lined with moss. So she stood in the kitchen-door, one morning, and told him all about the great trouble that had come upon the city. He listened in great astonishment; he had never heard of it before. He lived several miles out in the country.

  “How did the Costumer look?” he asked respectfully; he thought Violetta the most beautiful lady on earth.

  Then Violetta described the Costumer, and told him of the unavailing attempts that had been made to find him. There were a great many detectives out, constantly at work.

  “I know where he is!” said the Cherry-man. “He’s up in one of my cherry-trees. He’s been living there ever since cherries were ripe, and he won’t come down.”

  Then Violetta ran and told her father in great excitement, and he at once called a meeting of the Aldermen, and in a few hours half the city was on the road to the Cherry-man’s.

  He had a beautiful orchard of cherry-trees, all laden with fruit. And, sure enough, in one of the largest, way up amongst the topmost branches, sat the Costumer in his red velvet short-clothes and his diamond knee-buckles. He looked down between the green boughs. “Good-morning, friends,” he shouted.

  The Aldermen shook their gold-headed canes at him, and the people danced round the tree in a rage. Then they began to climb. But they soon found that to be impossible. As fast as they touched a hand or foot to the tree, back it flew with a jerk exactly as if the tree pushed it. They tried a ladder, but the ladder fell back the moment it touched the tree, and lay sprawling upon the ground. Finally, they brought axes and thought they could chop the tree down, Costumer and all; but the wood resisted the axes as if it were iron, and only dented them, receiving no impression itself.

  Meanwhile, the Costumer sat up in the tree, eating cherries, and throwing the stones down. Finally, he stood up on a stout branch and, looking down, addressed the people.

  “It’s of no use, your trying to accomplish anything in this way,” said he; “you’d better parley. I’m willing to come to terms with you, and make everything right, on two conditions.”

  The people grew quiet then, and the Mayor stepped forward as spokesman. “Name your two conditions,” said he, rather testily. “You own, tacitly, that you are the cause of all this trouble.”

  “Well,” said the Costumer, reaching out for a handful of ch
erries, “this Christmas Masquerade of yours was a beautiful idea; but you wouldn’t do it every year, and your successors might not do it at all. I want those poor children to have a Christmas every year. My first condition is, that every poor child in the city hangs its stocking for gifts in the City Hall on every Christmas Eve, and gets it filled, too. I want the resolution filed and put away in the city archives.”

  “We agree to the first condition!” cried the people with one voice, without waiting for the Mayor and Aldermen.

  “The second condition,” said the Costumer, “is that this good young Cherry-man here, has the Mayor’s daughter, Violetta, for his wife. He has been kind to me, letting me live in his cherry-tree, and eat his cherries, and I want to reward him.”

  “We consent!” cried all the people; but the Mayor, though he was so generous, was a proud man. “I will not consent to the second condition,” he cried angrily.

  “Very well,” replied the Costumer, picking some more cherries, “then your youngest daughter tends geese the rest of her life, that’s all!”

  The Mayor was in great distress; but the thought of his youngest daughter being a goose-girl all her life was too much for him. He gave in at last.

  “Now go home, and take the costumes off your children,” said the Costumer, “and leave me in peace to eat cherries!”

  Then the people hastened back to the city and found, to their great delight, that the costumes would come off. The pins staid out, the buttons staid unbuttoned, and the strings staid untied. The children were dressed in their own proper clothes and were their own proper selves once more. The shepherdesses and the chimney-sweeps came home, and were washed and dressed in silks and velvets, and went to embroidering and playing lawn-tennis. And the princesses and the fairies put on their own suitable dresses, and went about their useful employments. There was great rejoicing in every home. Violetta thought she had never been so happy, now that her dear little sister was no longer a goose-girl, but her own dainty little lady-self.

  The resolution to provide every poor child in the city with a stocking full of gifts on Christmas was solemnly filed, and deposited in the city archives, and was never broken.

  Violetta was married to the Cherry-man, and all the children came to the wedding, and strewed flowers in her path till her feet were quite hidden in them. The Costumer had mysteriously disappeared from the cherry-tree the night before, but he left, at the foot, some beautiful wedding presents for the bride—a silver service with a pattern of cherries engraved on it, and a set of china with cherries on it, in hand-painting, and a white satin robe, embroidered with cherries down the front.

  The Romance of a Christmas Card

  Kate Douglas Wiggin

  I

  It was Christmas Eve and a Saturday night when Mrs. Larrabee, the Beulah minister’s wife, opened the door of the study where her husband was deep in the revision of his next day’s sermon, and thrust in her comely head framed in a knitted rigolette.

  “Luther, I’m going to run down to Letty’s. We think the twins are going to have measles; it’s the only thing they haven’t had, and Letty’s spirits are not up to concert pitch. You look like a blessed old prophet to-night, my dear! What’s the text?”

  The minister pushed back his spectacles and ruffled his gray hair.

  “Isaiah VI, 8: ‘And I heard the voice of the Lord, saying whom shall I send? . . . Then said I, Here am I, send me!’”

  “It doesn’t sound a bit like Christmas, somehow.”

  “It has the spirit, if it hasn’t the sound,” said the minister. “There is always so little spare money in the village that we get less and less accustomed to sharing what we have with others. I want to remind the people that there are different ways of giving, and that the bestowing of one’s self in service and good deeds can be the best of all gifts. Letty Boynton won’t need the sermon!—Don’t be late, Reba.”

  “Of course not. When was I ever late? It has just struck seven and I’ll be back by eight to choose the hymns. And oh! Luther, I have some fresh ideas for Christmas cards and I am going to try my luck with them in the marts of trade. There are hundreds of thousands of such things sold nowadays; and if the ‘Boston Banner’ likes my verses well enough to send me the paper regularly, why shouldn’t the people who make cards like them too, especially when I can draw and paint my own pictures?”

  “I’ve no doubt they’ll like them; who wouldn’t? If the parish knew what a ready pen you have, they’d suspect that you help me in my sermons! The question is, will the publishers send you a check, or only a copy of your card?”

  “I should relish a check, I confess; but oh! I should like almost as well a beautifully colored card, Luther, with a picture of my own inventing on it, my own verse, and R. L. in tiny letters somewhere in the corner! It would make such a lovely Christmas present! And I should be so proud; inside of course, not outside! I would cover my halo with my hat so that nobody in the congregation would ever notice it!”

  The minister laughed.

  “Consult Letty, my dear. David used to be in some sort of picture business in Boston. She will know, perhaps, where to offer your card!”

  At the introduction of a new theme into the conversation Mrs. Larrabee slipped into a chair by the door, her lantern swinging in her hand.

  “David can’t be as near as Boston or we should hear of him sometimes. A pretty sort of brother to be meandering foot-loose over the earth, and Letty working her fingers to the bone to support his children—twins at that! It was just like David Gilman to have twins! Doesn’t it seem incredible that he can let Christmas go by without a message? I dare say he doesn’t even remember that his babies were born on Christmas eve. To be sure he is only Letty’s half-brother, but after all they grew up together and are nearly the same age.”

  “You always judged David a little severely, Reba. Don’t despair of reforming any man till you see the grass growing over his bare bones. I always have a soft spot in my heart for him when I remember his friendship for my Dick; but that was before your time.—Oh! these boys, these boys!” The minister’s voice quavered. “We give them our very life-blood. We love them, cherish them, pray over them, do our best to guide them, yet they take the path that leads from home. In some way, God knows how, we fail to call out the return love, or even the filial duty and respect!—Well, we won’t talk about it, Reba; my business is to breathe the breath of life into my text: ‘Here am I, Lord, send me!’ Letty certainly continues to say it heroically, whatever her troubles.”

  “Yes, Letty is so ready for service that she will always be sent, till the end of time; but if David ever has an interview with his Creator I can hear him say: ‘Here am I, Lord; send Letty!’”

  The minister laughed again. He laughed freely and easily nowadays. His first wife had been a sort of understudy for a saint, and after a brief but depressing connubial experience she had died, leaving him with a boy of six; a boy who already, at that tender age, seemed to cherish a passionate aversion to virtue in any form—the result, perhaps, of daily doses of the catechism administered by an abnormally pious mother.

  The minister had struggled valiantly with his paternal and parochial cares for twelve lonely years when he met, wooed, and won (very much to his astonishment and exaltation) Reba Crosby. There never was a better bargain driven! She was forty-five by the family Bible but twenty-five in face, heart, and mind, while he would have been printed as sixty in “Who’s Who in New Hampshire” although he was far older in patience and experience and wisdom. The minister was spiritual, frail, and a trifle prone to self-depreciation; the minister’s new wife was spirited, vigorous, courageous, and clever. She was also Western-born, college-bred, good as gold, and invincibly, incurably gay. The minister grew younger every year, for Reba doubled his joys and halved his burdens, tossing them from one of her fine shoulders to the other as if they were feathers. She swept into the quiet village life of Beulah like a salt sea breeze. She infused a new spirit into the bleak church “soci
ables” and made them positively agreeable functions. The choir ceased from wrangling, the Sunday School plucked up courage and flourished like a green bay tree. She managed the deacons, she braced up the missionary societies, she captivated the parish, she cheered the depressed and depressing old ladies and cracked jokes with the invalids.

  “Ain’t she a little mite too jolly for a minister’s wife?” questioned Mrs. Ossian Popham, who was a professional pessimist.

  “If this world is a place of want, woe, wantonness, an’ wickedness, same as you claim, Maria, I don’t see how a minister’s wife can be too jolly!” was her husband’s cheerful reply. “Look how she’s melted up the ice in both congregations, so’t the other church is most willin’ we should prosper, so long as Mis’ Larrabee stays here an’ we don’t get too fur ahead of ’em in attendance. Me for the smiles, Maria!”

  And Osh Popham was right; for Reba Larrabee convinced the members of the rival church (the rivalry between the two being in rigidity of creed, not in persistency in good works) that there was room in heaven for at least two denominations; and said that if they couldn’t unite in this world, perhaps they’d get round to it in the next. Finally, she saved Letitia Boynton’s soul alive by giving her a warm, understanding friendship, and she even contracted to win back the minister’s absent son some time or other, and convince him of the error of his ways.

  “Let Dick alone a little longer, Luther,” she would say; “don’t hurry him, for he won’t come home so long as he’s a failure; it would please the village too much, and Dick hates the village. He doesn’t accept our point of view, that we must love our enemies and bless them that despitefully use us. The village did despitefully use Dick, and for that matter, David Gilman too. They were criticized, gossiped about, judged without mercy. Nobody believed in them, nobody ever praised them;—and what is that about praise being the fructifying sun in which our virtues ripen, or something like that? I’m not quoting it right, but I wish I’d said it. They were called wild when most of their wildness was exuberant vitality; their mistakes were magnified, their mad pranks exaggerated. If I’d been married to you, my dear, while Dick was growing up, I wouldn’t have let you keep him here in this little backwater of life; he needed more room, more movement. They wouldn’t have been so down on him in Racine, Wisconsin!”