A Merry Christmas

by Louisa May Alcott

  “‘Ah, what rides we had after that! What happy hours trotting merrily through the green woods, galloping over the breezy hills, and pacing slowly along quiet lanes, where I often lunched luxuriously on clover tops while Miss Merry took a sketch of some picturesque scene with me in the foreground.

  “‘I liked that very much. We had long chats at such times, and I was convinced that she understood me perfectly. She was never frightened when I danced for pleasure on the soft turf. She never chided me when I snatched a bite from the young trees as we passed through sylvan ways, never thought it any trouble to let me wet my tired feet in babbling brooks, and always kindly dismounted long enough to remove the stones that plagued me.

  “‘Then how well she rode! So firm yet light in the seat, so steady a hand on the reins, so agile a foot to spring on and off, and such infectious spirits. No matter how despondent or cross I might be, I felt happy and young again whenever dear Miss Merry was on my back.’

  “Here Rosa gave a frisk that sent the straw flying and made me shrink into a corner. She pranced about the box, neighing so loudly that she woke the big, brown colt in the next stall and set poor Buttercup to lowing for her lost calf, which she had managed to forget about for a few moments in sleep.

  “‘Ah, Miss Merry never ran away from me! She knew my heels were to be trusted, and she let me play as I would, glad to see me lively. Never mind, Miss Belinda, come out and I’ll behave as befits my years,’ laughed Rosa, composing herself, and adding in a way so like a woman that I could not help smiling in the dark—

  “‘When I say “years,” I beg you to understand that I am not as old as that base man declared, but just in the prime of life for a horse. Hard usage has made me seem old before my time, but I am good for years of service yet.’

  “‘Few people have been through as much as you have, Rosa, and you certainly have earned the right to rest.’ I said consolingly, for her little whims and vanities amused me.

  “‘You know what happened next,’ she continued, ‘but I must seize this opportunity to express my thanks for all the kindness I’ve received since Miss Merry bought me, in spite of the ridicule and dissuasion of all her friends.

  “‘I know I didn’t look a good bargain. I was very thin and lame and shabby, but she saw and loved the willing spirit in me. She pitied my hard lot and felt that it would be a good deed to buy me even if she never got much work out of me.

  “‘I shall always remember that, and whatever happens to me hereafter, I never shall be as proud again as I was the day she put my new saddle and bridle on me. I was led out, sleek, plump, and handsome with blue rosettes at my ears, my tail cut in the English style, and on my back, Miss Merry sat in her London hat and habit, all ready to head a cavalcade of eighteen horsemen and horsewomen.

  “‘We were the most perfect pair of all, and when the troop pranced down the street six abreast, my head was the highest, my rider the straightest, and our two hearts the friendliest in all the goodly company.

  “‘Nor is it pride and love alone that bind me to her. It is gratitude as well. She often bathed my feet herself, rubbed me down, watered me, blanketed me, and came daily to see me when I was here alone for weeks in the winter. Didn’t she write to the famous friend of my race for advice, and drive me seven miles to get a good smith to shoe me well? Didn’t she give me weeks of rest without shoes in order to save my poor, contracted feet? And am I not now fat and handsome, and barring the stiff knees, a very presentable horse? If I am, it is all owing to Miss Merry, and for that reason, I want to live and die in her service.

  “‘She doesn’t want to sell me and only told you to do so because you didn’t want to care for me while she is gone. Dear Miss Belinda, please keep me! I’ll eat as little as I can. I won’t ask for a new blanket, though this old army one is thin and shabby. I’ll trot for you all winter and try not to show it if I am lame. I’ll do anything a horse can, no matter how humble, in order to earn my living. Don’t, I beg you, send me away among strangers who have neither interest nor pity for me!’

  “Rosa had spoken rapidly, feeling that her plea must be made now or never. Before another Christmas, she might be far away and speech of no use to win her wish. I was greatly touched, even though she was only a horse. She was looking earnestly at me as she spoke and made the last words very eloquent by preparing to bend her stiff knees and lie down at my feet. I stopped her and answered with an arm about her neck and her soft nose in my hand—

  “‘You shall not be sold, Rosa! You shall go and board at Mr. Town’s great stable, where you will have pleasant society among the eighty horses who usually pass the winter there. Your shoes shall be taken off so that you might rest until March at least. Your care will be only the best, my dear, and I will come and see you. In the spring, you shall return to us, even if Miss Merry is not here to welcome you.’

  “‘Thanks, many, many thanks! But I wish I could do something to earn my board. I hate to be idle, though rest is delicious. Is there nothing I can do to repay you, Miss Belinda? Please answer quickly. I know the hour is almost over,’ cried Rosa, stamping with anxiety. Like all horses, she wanted the last word.

  “‘Yes, you can,’ I cried, as a sudden idea popped into my head. ‘I’ll write down what you have told me and send the little story to a certain paper I know of. The money I get for it will pay your board. So rest in peace, my dear. You will have earned your living after all, and you may rest knowing that your debt is paid.’

  “Before she could reply, the clock struck one. A long sigh of satisfaction was all the response in her power. But, we understood each other now, and cutting a lock from her hair for Miss Merry, I gave Rosa a farewell caress and went on my way. I couldn’t help wondering if I had made it all up or the charming beast had really broken a year’s silence and freed her mind.

  “However that may be, here is the tale. The sequel to it is that the bay mare has really gone to board at a first-class stable,” concluded Miss Belinda. “I call occasionally and leave my card in the shape of an apple, finding Madam Rosa living like an independent lady, her large box and private yard on the sunny side of the barn, a kind ostler to wait upon her, and much genteel society from the city when she is inclined for company.

  “What more could any reasonable horse desire?”

  Mrs. Podgers’ Teapot

  “AH, DEAR ME, DEAR ME; I’M A DEAL TOO comfortable!” Judging from appearances, Mrs. Podgers certainly had some cause for that unusual exclamation. To begin with, the room was comfortable. It was tidy, bright, and warm—full of cozy corners and capital contrivances for quiet enjoyment. The chairs seemed to extend their plump arms invitingly; the old-fashioned sofa was so hospitable that whoever sat down upon it was slow to get up; the pictures, though portraits, did not stare one out of countenance but surveyed the scene with an air of tranquil enjoyment; and the unshuttered windows allowed the cheery light to shine out into the snowy street through blooming screens of Christmas roses and white chrysanthemums.

  The fire was comfortable; for it was neither hidden in a stove nor imprisoned behind bars, but went rollicking up the wide chimney with a jovial roar. It flickered over the supper table as if curious to discover what savory foods were concealed under the shining covers. It touched up the old portraits till they seemed to wink; it covered the walls with comical shadows, as if the portly chairs had set their arms akimbo and were dancing a jig. The fire flashed out into the street with a voiceless greeting to every passerby; it kindled mimic fires in the brass andirons and the teapot simmering on the hob, and best of all, it shone its brightest on Mrs. Podgers, as if conscious that it couldn’t do a better thing.

  Mrs. Podgers was comfortable as she sat there, buxom, blooming, and brisk, in spite of her forty years and her widow’s cap. Her black gown was illuminated to such an extent that it couldn’t look sombre. Her cap had given up trying to be prim long ago, and cherry ribbons wouldn’t have made it more becoming as it set off her crisp, black hair and met in a coquettish
bow under her plump chin. Her white apron encircled her trim waist, as if conscious of its advantages, and the mourning pin upon her bosom actually seemed to twinkle with satisfaction at the enviable post it occupied.

  The sleek cat, purring on the hearth, was comfortable; so was the agreeable fragrance of muffins that pervaded the air, so was the drowsy tick of the clock in the corner. And if anything was needed to give a finishing touch to the general comfort of the scene, the figure pausing in the doorway supplied the want most successfully.

  Heroes are always expected to be young and comely, also fierce, melancholy, or at least what novel readers call “interesting”; but I am forced to own that Mrs. Podger was none of these. Half the real beauty, virtue, and romance of the world gets put into humble souls, hidden in plain bodies. Mr. Jerusalem Turner was an example of this; and, at the risk of shocking sentimental readers, I must frankly state that he was fifty, stout, and bald, also that he used bad grammar, had a double chin, and was only the clerk in a prosperous grocery store. A hale and hearty old gentleman with cheerful brown eyes, a ruddy countenance, and curly gray hair sticking up all round his head, he had an air of energy and independence that was pleasant to behold. There he stood, beaming upon the unconscious Mrs. Podgers, softly rubbing his hands and smiling to himself with the air of a man enjoying the chief satisfaction of his life, as he was.

  “Ah, dear me, dear me, I’m a deal too comfortable!” sighed Mrs. Podgers, addressing the teapot.

  “Not a bit, Mum; not a bit.”

  In walked the gentleman, and up rose the lady, saying, with a start and an aspect of relief:

  “Bless me, I didn’t hear you! I began to think you were never coming to your tea, Mr. ’Rusalem.”

  Everybody called him Mr. ’Rusalem, and many people were ignorant that he had any other name. He liked it, for it began with the children, and the little voices had endeared it to him, not to mention the sound of it from Mrs. Podgers’ lips for ten years.

  “I know I’m late, Mum, but I really couldn’t help it. Tonight’s a busy time, and the lads are just good for nothing with their jokes and spirits, so I stayed to steady ’em and do a little job that turned up unexpected.”

  “Sit right down and have your tea while you can, then. I’ve kept it warm for you, and the muffins are done lovely.”

  Mrs. Podgers bustled about with an alacrity that seemed to give an added relish to the supper; and when her companion was served, she sat smiling at him with her hand on the teapot, ready to replenish his cup before he could ask for it.

  “Have things been fretting of you, Mum? You looked downhearted as I came in, and that ain’t accordin’ to the time of year, which is merry,” said Mr. ’Rusalem, stirring his tea with a sense of solid satisfaction that would have sweetened a far less palatable draught.

  “It’s the teapot. I don’t know what’s got into it tonight, but, as I was waiting for you, it set me thinking of one thing and another, till I declare I felt as if it had up and spoke to me, showing me how I wasn’t grateful enough for my blessings, but a deal more comfortable than I deserved.”

  While speaking, Mrs. Podgers’ eyes rested on an inscription that encircled the corpulent little silver pot: “To our Benefactor—They who give to the poor lend to the Lord.” Now one wouldn’t think there was anything in the speech or the inscription to disturb Mr. ’Rusalem; but there seemed to be, for he fidgeted in his chair, dropped his fork, and glanced at the teapot with a very odd expression. It was a capital little teapot, solid, bright as hands could make it, and ornamented with a robust young cherub perched upon the lid, regardless of the warmth of his seat. With her eyes still fixed upon it, Mrs. Podgers continued meditatively:

  “You know how fond I am of the teapot for poor Podgers’ sake. I really feel quite superstitious about it; and when thoughts come to me, as I sit watching it, I have faith in them, because they always remind me of the past.”

  Here, after vain efforts to restrain himself, Mr. ’Rusalem broke into a sudden laugh, so hearty and infectious that Mrs. Podgers couldn’t help smiling, even while she shook her head at him.

  “I beg pardon, Mum; it’s hysterical; I’ll never do it again,” panted Mr. ’Rusalem, as he got his breath and went soberly on with his supper.

  It was a singular fact that whenever the teapot was particularly alluded to, he always behaved in this incomprehensible manner—laughed, begged pardon, said it was hysterical, and promised never to do it again. It used to trouble Mrs. Podgers very much, but she had grown used to it; and having been obliged to overlook many oddities in the departed Podgers, she easily forgave ’Rusalem his only one.

  After the laugh there was a pause, during which Mrs. Podgers sat absently polishing up the silver cherub, with the memory of the little son who died two Christmases ago lying heavy at her heart, and Mr. ’Rusalem seemed to be turning something over in his mind as he watched a bit of butter sink luxuriously into the warm bosom of a muffin. Once or twice he paused as if listening. Several times he stole a look at Mrs. Podgers and presently said, in a somewhat anxious tone:

  “You was saying just now that you was a deal too comfortable in order to realize your blessings?”

  “Yes, I should. I’m getting lazy, selfish, and forgetful of other folks. You leave me nothing to do and make everything so easy for me that I’m growing young and giddy again. Now that isn’t as it should be, ’Rusalem.”

  “It meets my views exactly, Mum. You’ve had your hard times, your worriments and cares, and now it’s right to take your rest.”

  “Then why don’t you take yours? I’m sure you’ve earned it drudging thirty years in the store, with more extra work than holidays for your share.”

  “Oh well, Mum, it’s different with me, you know. Business is amusing; and I’m so used to it I shouldn’t know myself if I was out of the store for good.”

  “Well, I hope you are saving up something against the time when business won’t be amusing. You are so generous, I’m afraid you forget you can’t work for other people all your days.”

  “Yes, Mum, I’ve put a little sum in a safe bank that pays good interest, and when I’m past work, I’ll fall back and enjoy it.”

  To judge from the cheerful content of the old gentleman’s face he was enjoying it already, and he looked about him with the air of a man who had made a capital investment and was in the receipt of generous dividends. Seeing Mrs. Podgers’ bright eye fixed upon him, as if she suspected something and would have the truth out of him in two minutes, he recalled the conversation to the point from which it had wandered.

  “If you would like to try how a little misery suits you, Mum, I can accommodate you, if you’ll step upstairs.”

  “Good gracious, what do you mean? Who’s up there? Why didn’t you tell me before?” cried Mrs. Podgers, in a flutter of interest, curiosity, and surprise, as he knew she would be.

  “You see, Mum, I was doubtful how you’d like it. I did it without stopping to think, and then I was afraid you’d consider it a liberty.”

  Mr. ’Rusalem spoke with some hesitation; but Mrs. Podgers didn’t wait to hear him, for she was already at the door, lamp in hand, and would have been off had she known where to go, “upstairs” being a somewhat vague expression. The old gentleman led the way to the room he had occupied for thirty years, in spite of Mrs. Podgers’ frequent offers of a better and brighter one. He was attached to it, small and dark as it was; for the joys and sorrows of more than half his life had come to him in that little room, and somehow, when he was there, it brightened up amazingly. Mrs. Podgers looked well about her but saw nothing new, and her conductor said, as he paused beside the bed:

  “Let me tell you how I found it before I show it. You see, Mum, I had to step down the street just at dark, and passing the windows I give a glance in, as I’ve a bad habit of doing when the lamps is lighted and you a-setting there alone. Well, Mum, what did I see outside but a ragged little chap a-flattening his nose against the glass, and staring in with all his
eyes. I didn’t blame him much for it, and on I goes without a word. When I came back, I see him a-lying close to the wall, and mistrusting that he was up to some game that might give you a scare, I speaks to him. Well, he don’t answer. I touches him; he don’t stir. Then I picks him up, and seeing that he’s gone in a fit or a faint, I makes for the store with a will. He come to rapid; and finding that he was most froze and starved, I fed and warmed and fixed him a trifle, and then tucked him away here; for he’s got no folks to worry for him, and was too used up to go out again tonight. That’s the story, Mum, and now I’ll produce the little chap if I can find him.”

  With that, Mr. ’Rusalem began to grope about the bed, chuckling, yet somewhat anxious, for not a vestige of an occupant appeared, till a dive downward produced a sudden agitation of the clothes, a squeak, and the unexpected appearance out at the foot of the bed of a singular figure that dodged into a corner with one arm up, as if to ward off a blow, while a sleepy little voice exclaimed beseechingly, “I’m up, I’m up; don’t hit me!”

  “Lord, love the child; who’d think of doing that! Wake up, Joe, and see your friends,” said Mr. ’Rusalem, advancing cautiously.

  At the sound of his voice, down went the arm, and Mrs. Podgers saw a boy of nine or ten, arrayed in a flannel garment that evidently belonged to Mr. ’Rusalem; for though none too long, it was immensely broad, and the voluminous sleeves were pinned up, showing a pair of wasted arms, chapped with cold and mottled with bruises. A large blue sock still covered one foot. The other was bound up as if hurt. A tall cotton nightcap, garnished with a red tassel, looked like a big extinguisher on a small candle; and from under it, a pair of dark, hollow eyes glanced sharply with a shrewd, suspicious look that made the little face more pathetic than the marks of suffering, neglect, and abuse, which told the child’s story without words. As if quite reassured by ’Rusalem’s presence, the boy shuffled out of his corner, saying coolly, as he prepared to climb into his nest again: