 The Philanthropists' Christmas by James Weber-Lynne. Did you see this committee yesterday, Mr. Matthews? Asked the philanthropist. His secretary looked up. Yes, sir. You recommend them, then? Yes, sir. For fifty thousand? For fifty thousand? Yes, sir. Their corresponding subscriptions are guaranteed. I went over the list carefully, Mr. Carter. The money is promised and by responsible people. Very well, said the philanthropist. You may notify them, Mr. Matthews, that my fifty thousand will be available as the bills come in. Yes, sir. Old Mr. Carter laid down the letter he had been reading and took up another. As he perused it his white eyebrows rose in irritation. Mr. Matthews, he snapped. Yes, sir. You are careless, sir. I beg your pardon, Mr. Carter. Questioned the secretary, his face flushing. The old gentleman tapped impatiently the letter he held in his hand. Do you pay no attention, Mr. Matthews, to my rule, that no personal letters containing appeals for aid are to reach me? How do you account for this, may I ask? I beg your pardon, said the secretary again. You will see, Mr. Carter, that the letter is dated three weeks ago. I have had the woman's case carefully investigated. She is undoubtedly of good reputation and undoubtedly need. And as she speaks of her father as having associated with you, I thought perhaps you would care to see her letter. A thousand worthless fellows associated with me, said the old man harshly. In a great factory, Mr. Matthews, a boy works alongside of the men he is put with. He does not pick and choose. I daresay this woman is telling the truth. What of it? You know that I regard my money as a public trust. Were my energy, my concentration to be wasted by innumerable individual assaults, what would become of them? My fortune would slip through my fingers as unprofitably as sand. You understand, Mr. Matthews? Let me see no more individual letters. You know that Mr. Whitmore has full authority to deal with them. May I trouble you to ring? I am going out. A man appeared very promptly in answer to the bell. Sniffen, my overcoat, said the philanthropist. It is ear, sir, answered Sniffen, helping the thin old man into the great fur folds. There is no word of the dog, I suppose. Sniffen? None, sir. The police was here again yesterday, sir, but they said as thou. The police? The words were fierce with a scorn. Eight thousand incompetence. He turned abruptly and went toward the door, where he halted a moment. Mr. Matthews, since that woman's letter did reach me, I suppose, I must pay for my carelessness, or yours, send her, what does she say, four children? Send her a hundred dollars. But, for my sake, send it anonymously. Write her that I pay no attention to such claims. He went out, and Sniffen closed the door behind him. Takes losing the little dog-art, don't he? remarked Sniffen sadly to the secretary. I'm afraid they're in a chance of finding him now. He ain't been stolen, or he ain't been found, or they'd have brung him back for the reward. He's been knocking on the head, like his not. He wasn't much of a dog to look at. You see, just a pup, I'd call him. And after he learned that trick of slipping his collar off, well, I fancy Mr. Carter's seen the last of him. I do indeed. Mr. Carter, meanwhile, was making his way slowly down the snowy avenue, upon his accustomed walk. The walk, however, was dull today, for skittles. His little terrier was not with him to add interest and excitement. Mr. Carter had found skittles in the country a year and a half before. Skittles, then a puppy, was at the time in a most undignified and undesirable position, stuck in a drained tile, and unable either to advance or to retreat. Mr. Carter had shoved him forward after a heroic struggle, whereupon skittles had licked his hand. Something in the little dog's eye or his action had induced the rich philanthropist to bargain for him and buy him at a cost of half a dollar. Thereafter, skittles became his daily companion, his chief distraction, and finally the apple of his eye. Skittles was of no known parentage, hardly of any known breed, but he suited Mr. Carter. What, the millionaire reflected with a proud cynicism, were his own antecedents if it came to that. But now skittles had disappeared. As Sniffin said, he had learned the trick of slipping free from his collar. One morning the great front doors had been left open for two minutes while the hallway was aired. Skittles must have slipped down the marble steps unseen, and dodged round the corner. At all events he had vanished, and although the whole police force of the city had been roused to secure his return, it was aroused in vain, and for three weeks, therefore, a small, straight, white-bearded man in a fur overcoat had walked in mournful irritation alone. He stood upon a corner, uncertainly. One way led to the park, and this he usually took. But today he did not want to go to the park. It was too reminiscent of skittles. He looked the other way. Down there, if one went far enough, lay slums. And Mr. Carter hated the sight of slums. They always made him miserable and discontented. With all his money and his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such a misery in the world? Worse still came the intrusive question at times. Had all his money anything to do with the creation of this misery? He owed no tenements. He paid good wages in every factory. He had given sums, such as few men have given in the history of philanthropy. Still, there were the slums. However, the worst slums lay some distance off, and he finally turned his back on the park and walked on. It was the day before Christmas. You saw it in people's faces. You saw it in the holly wreaths that hung in windows. You saw it even as you passed, thus blended for bidding houses on the avenue, in the green that here and there banked massive doors. But most of all, you saw it in the shops. Up here the shops were smallish, and chiefly of the provision variety. So there was no bewildering display of gifts, but there were Christmas trees everywhere of all sizes. It was astonishing how many people in that neighbourhood seemed to favour the old-fashioned idea of a tree. Mr. Carter looked at them with his irritation softening. If they made him feel a trifle more lonely, they allowed him to feel also a trifle less responsible, for, after all, it was a fairly happy world. At this moment he perceived a curious phenomenon a short distance before him, another Christmas tree, but one which moved apparently of its own volition along the sidewalk. As Mr. Carter overtook it, he saw that it was born, or dragged, rather by a small boy who wore a bright red flannel cap and mittens of the same peculiar material. As Mr. Carter looked down at him, he looked up at Mr. Carter and spoke cheerfully. Going my way, Mr. Why? said the philanthropist, somewhat taken back. I was. Mind-dragging this a little way? asked the boy confidently. My hands is cold. Won't you enjoy it more if you manage to take it home by yourself? Oh, it ain't for me, said the boy. Your employer, said the philanthropist severely, is certainly careless if he allows his trees to be delivered in this fashion. I ain't delivering it either, said the boy. This is Bill's tree. Who is Bill? He's a fella with a back that's no good. Is he your brother? No. Take the tree a little way, will you, while I warm myself? The philanthropist accepted the burden. He did not know why. The boy released, ran forward, jumped up and down, slapped his red flannel mittens on his legs, and then ran back again. After repeating these maneuvers two or three times, he returned to where the old gentleman stood holding the tree. Thanks, he said. Say, Mr., you look like Santa Claus yourself, standing by the tree with your fur cap and your coat. I bet you don't have to run to keep warm, hey? There was high admiration in his look. Suddenly his eyes sparkled with an inspiration. Say, Mr., he cried. Will you do something for me? Come into Bill's. He lives only a block from here and just let him see you. He's only a kid and he'll think he's seen Santa Claus. Sure. We can tell him you're so busy tomorrow you have to go to lots of places today. You won't have to give him anything. We're looking out for all that. Bill got hurt in the summer, and he's been in bed ever since. So we are giving him a Christmas, tree and all. He gets a bunch of things, an air-gun and a tray that goes round when you wind her up. They're great. You boys are doing this? Well, it's our club at the settlement, and of course Ms. Gray thought of it, and she's given Bill the train. Come along, Mr. But Mr. Carter declined. All right, said the boy. I guess what with Pete and all, Bill will have Christmas enough. Who is Pete? Bill's dog. He had him three weeks now, best little puppy ever saw. A dog which Bill had had three weeks and in a neighbourhood not a quarter of a mile from the avenue. It was three weeks since Skittles had disappeared. That this dog was Skittles was, of course, most improbable, and yet the philanthropist was ready to grasp at any clue which might lead to the lost terrier. How did Bill get this dog? He demanded. I found him myself. Some kids had tin-canned him, and he came into our entry. He licked my hand, and then sat up on his hind legs. Somebody taught him that, you know. I thought right away, here's a dog for Bill. And I took him over there and fed him, and they kept him in Bill's room two or three days so he shouldn't get scared again and run off. And now he wouldn't leave Bill for anybody. Of course he ain't much of a dog. Pete ain't. He added. He's just a pup, but he's mighty friendly. Boy, said Mr. Carter, I guess I'll just go round and end. He was about to add, have a look at that dog, but fearful of raising suspicion, he ended, and see Bill. The tenements to which the boy led him were of brick and reasonably clean. Nearly every window showed some sign of Christmas. The tree-bearer led the way into a dark hall. Up one flight, Mr. Carter assisting with a tree, and down another dark hall, to a door on which he knocked. A woman opened it. Here's the tree, said the boy, in a loud whisper. Is Bill's door shut? Mr. Carter stepped forward out of the darkness. I beg your pardon, madame, he said. I met this young man in the street, and he asked me to come here and see a playmate of his who is, I understand, an invalid, but if I am intruding. Come in, said the woman heartily, throwing the door open. Bill will be glad to see you, sir. The philanthropist stepped inside. The room was decently furnished and clean. There was a sewing machine in the corner, and in both the windows hung wreaths of holly. Between the windows was a cleared space, where evidently the tree, when decorated, was to stand. Are all the things here? eagerly demanded the tree-bearer. They're all here, Jimmy, answered Mrs. Bailey. The candy just came. Say, cried the boy, pulling off his red flannel mittens to blow on his fingers. Won't it be great? But now Bill's got to seek Santa Claus. I'll just go in and tell a man. Then, when I holler, Mr., you come on and pretend you're Santa Claus. And with incredible celerity, the boy opened the door at the opposite end of the room and disappeared. Madam, said Mr. Carter, in considerable embarrassment. I must say one word. I am Mr. Carter, Mr. Allen Carter. You may have heard my name. She shook her head. No, sir. I leave not far from here in the avenue. Three weeks ago I lost a little dog that I valued very much. I have had all the cities searched since then in vain. Today I met the boy who has just left us. He informed me that three weeks ago he found a dog which is at present in the possession of your son. I wonder, is it not just possible that this dog may be mine? Mrs. Bailey smiled. I guess not, Mr. Carter. The dog Jimmy found hadn't come off the avenue, not from the look of him. You know there's hundreds and hundreds of dogs without home, sir, but I will say for this one, he has a kind of a way with him. Hark! said Mr. Carter. There was a rustling and a snuffing at the door at the far end of the room, a quick scratching of feet. Then, woof, woof, woof! Sharp and clear came happy impatient little barks. The philanthropist's eyes brightened. Yes, he said, that is the dog. I doubt if it can be, sir, said Mrs. Bailey deprecatingly. Open the door, please, commanded the philanthropist, and let us see. Mrs. Bailey complied. There was a quick jump, a tumbling rush, and skittles. The lost skittles was in the philanthropist's arms. Mrs. Bailey shut the door with a troubled face. I see it's your dog, sir, she said, but I hope you won't be thinking that Jimmy or I, madame, interrupted Mr. Carter, I could not be so foolish. On the contrary, I owe you a thousand thanks. Mrs. Bailey looked more cheerful. Poor little Billy, she said. It'll come hard on him losing Pete just at Christmas time, but the boys are so good to him I dare say he'll forget it. Who are these boys? inquired the philanthropist. Isn't their action somewhat unusual? It's Miss Gray's club at the settlement, sir, exclaimed Mrs. Bailey. Every Christmas they do this for somebody. It's not charity. Billy and I don't need charity or take it. It's just friendliness. They're good boys. I see, said the philanthropist. He was still wondering about it, though, when the door opened again and Jimmy thrust out a face shining with anticipation. Already, mister? he said. Bill's waiting for you. Jimmy began Mrs. Bailey about to explain. The gentleman— but the philanthropist held up his hand, interrupting her. You let me see your son, Mrs. Bailey. He asked gently. Why, certainly, sir. Mr. Carter put skittles down and walked slowly into the inner room. The bed stood with its side toward him. On it lay a small boy of seven, rigid of body, but with his arms free and his face lighted with joy. Hello, Santa Claus. He piped, in a voice shrill with excitement. Hello, Bill, answered the philanthropist, saidedly. The boy turned his eyes on Jimmy. He knows my name, he said with glee. He knows everybody's name, said Jimmy. Now you tell him what you want, Bill, and he'll bring it tomorrow. How would you like, said the philanthropist, reflectively, and—and he hesitated. It seemed so incongruous with that stiff figure on the bed, and air-gun. I guess yes, said Bill happily. And a train of cars broke in the impatient Jimmy. That goes like sixty when you wind her. Hi, said Bill. The philanthropist solemnly made notes of this. How about, he remarked, inquiringly a tree. Honest, said Bill. I think it can be managed, said Santa Claus. He advanced to the bedside. I'm glad to have seen you, Bill. You know how busy I am, but I hope—I hope to see you again. Not till next year, of course, warned Jimmy. Not till then, of course, said Santa Claus, and now goodbye. You forgot to ask him if he'd been a good boy, suggested Jimmy. I have, said Bill. I've been fine, you ask mother. She gives you—she gives you both a high character, said Santa Claus. Good-bye again. And so, saying he withdrew. Skittles followed him out. The philanthropist closed the door of the bedroom and then turned to Mrs. Bailey. She was regarding him with awestruck eyes. Oh, sir! she said, I know now who you are, the Mr. Carter that gives so much away to people. The philanthropist nodded deprecatingly. Just so, Mrs. Bailey, he said, and there is one gift, or loan, rather, which I should like to make to you. I should like to leave the little dog with you till after the holidays. I'm afraid I'll have to claim him then, but if you'll keep him till after Christmas and let me find, perhaps, another dog for Billy, I shall be much obliged. Again the door of the bedroom opened and Jimmy merged quietly. Bill wants the pup, he explained. Pete! Pete! came the piping but happy voice from the inner room. Skittles hesitated. Mr. Carter made no sign. Pete! Pete! shrill the voice again. Slowly, very slowly, Skittles turned and went back into the bedroom. You see! said Mr. Carter, smiling. He won't be too unhappy away from me, Mrs. Bailey. On his way home, the philanthropist saw even more evidence as a Christmas gaity along the streets than before. He stepped out briskly in spite of his sixty-eight years. He even hummed a little tune. When he reached the house on the avenue, he found his secretary still at work. Oh, by the way, Mr. Matthews, he said, did you send that letter to the woman saying I never paid attention to personal appeals? No, didn't write her pleas in closing my check for two hundred dollars and wish her a very merry Christmas in my name, will you? And hereafter, will you always let me see such letters as that one, of course, after careful investigation? I fancy perhaps I may have been too rigid in the past. Certainly, sir, answered the bewildered secretary. He began fumbling excitedly for his notebook. I found the little dog. Continue to the philanthropist. You will be glad to know that. You have found him? cried the secretary. Have you got him back, Mr. Carter? Where was he? He was detained on Oak Street, I believe, said the philanthropist. No, I have not got him back yet. I have left him with a young boy till after the holidays. He settled himself to his papers. Four philanthropists must toil even on the twenty-fourth of December. But the secretary shook his head in a daze. I wonder what's happened? He said to himself, End of The Philanthropist's Christmas by James Webber Lynn The Queerest Christmas by Grace Margaret Gallagher This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Queerest Christmas by Grace Margaret Gallagher Betty stood at her door, gazing drearily down the long empty corridor in which the breakfast gong echoed mournfully. All the usual brisk scenes of that hour, groups of girls in Peter Thompson suits, or starched shirt wastes, or a pair of energetic ones red-cheeked and shining eyed from me running the snow, had vanished as by the hand of some evil magician. Silent and lonely was the corridor. And it's the day before Christmas, groaned Betty. Two chill little tears hung on her eyelashes. The night before, in the excitement of getting the girls off with all their trunks and packages intact, she had not realized the homesickness of the deserted school. Now it seemed to pierce her very bones. Oh dear, why did Father have to lose his money? It was easy enough last September to decide I wouldn't take the expensive journey home these holidays, and for all of us to promise we wouldn't give each other as much as a Christmas card. But now the two chill tears slipped over the edge of her eyelashes. Well, I know how I'll spend this whole day. I'll come right up here after breakfast and cry and cry and cry. Somewhat fortified by this cheering resolve, Betty went to breakfast. Whatever the material joys of that meal might be, it certainly was not a feast of reason and a flow of soul. Betty, whose sense of humour never perished, even in such a frost, looked round the table at the eight grim-faced girls doomed to a Christmas in school, and quoted mischievously to herself, on with the dance, let joy be unconfined. Breakfast bolted, she lagged back to her room, stopping to stare out of the corridor windows. She saw nothing of this snowy landscape, however. Instead a picture, the gayest medley of many colours and figures danced before her eyes, Christmas trees thumping in through the door, mysterious bundles scurried into dark corners, little brothers and sisters flying about with festoons of mistletoe, scarlet ribbon and holly, everywhere sound and laughter and excitement. The motto of Betty's family was, Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. Therefore the preparations of a fortnight were always crowded into a day. For the year before, Betty had rushed till her nerves were taut, and her temper snapped, had shaken the twins, raged at the housemaid, and had gone to bed at midnight, weeping with weariness. But in memory only, the joy of the day remained. I think I could endure this jail of a school, and not getting one single present, but it breaks my heart and to keep one least little thing to any one. Why, whoever heard of such a Christmas? Won't you hunt for that blue? Broken my thread again. Give me those scissors. Betty jumped out of her daydream. She had wandered into cork, and the three o'neals surrounded her, staring. I beg your pardon, I heard you, and it was so like home the day before Christmas. Did you hear the heathen rage? cried Catherine. Dall's fur onto Anne's mission! explained Constance. You're so forehanded that all your presents went a week ago, I suppose. Elinor swept a clear chair. The clan O'Neal is never forehanded. You'd think I was from the number of thumbs I've grown this morning. Oh, misery! Elinor jerked a snarl of thread out on the floor. Betty had never cared for cork, but now the hot-worried faces of its girls appealed her. Let me help. I'm a regular silkworm. The o'neals assented with eagerness, and Betty began to sew in a capable, swift way that made the other stare and sigh with relief. The dolls were many. The o'neals, slow. Betty worked till her feet twitched on the floor, yet she enjoyed the morning for it held an entirely new sensation, that of helping someone else get ready for Christmas. Done. We never should have finished if you hadn't helped. Thank you, Betty Luthor, very, very much. You're a duck. Let's run to luncheon together, quick. Somehow the big corridors did not seem half-so-bleak echoing to those warm O'Neal voices. This morning's just spun by, but—oh, this long dreary afternoon, sighed Betty as she wandered into the library. Oh, me! There goes Ilyce Johns with her arms loaded with presents to mail, and I can't give a single soul anything. Do you know where quotations for occasions has gone? Betty turned to face pretty Rosamond Howard, the only senior left behind. Gone to be rebound, I heard Miss Dice say so. Oh, dear! I needed it so. Could I help? I know a lot of rhymes and tags of proverbs and things like that. Oh, if you would help me, I'd be so grateful. Won't you come to my room? You see, I promised a friend in town who is to have a Christmas dinner, and has been very kind to me that I'd paint the place cards and write some quotation appropriate that you guessed. I'm shamefully late over it. My own gifts took such a time, but the painting at least is done. Rosamond led the way to her room and there displayed the cards which she had painted. You can't think of my helplessness if it were a Greek verb now or a lost and straight angle, but poetry! Betty trotted back and forth between the room and the library, delved into books, and even evolved a verse which she audaciously tagged old play in imitation of Sir Walter Scott. I think they are really and truly very bright, and I know Mrs. Furnall would be delighted. Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully. I can't begin to tell you how you've helped me. It was sweet in you to give me your whole afternoon. The dinner bell rang at that moment, and the two went down together. Come for a little run. I haven't been out all day. Whispered Rosamond slipping her hand into Betty's as they left the table. A great round moon swung cold and bright over the pines by the lodge. Down the road a bit just a little way to the church, suggested Betty. They stepped out into the silent country road. Why? The little mission is as gay as—as Christmas! I wonder why? Betty glanced at the bright windows of the small plain church. Oh, some Christmas Eve doings, she answered. Someone stepped quickly out from the church door. Oh, Miss Vernon, I am relieved. I had begun to fear you could not come. The girl saw it was a tall old rector, his white hair shining, silver bright in the moonbeams. We are just two girls from the school, sir, said Rosamond. Dear, dear, his voice was both impatient and distressed. I hoped you were my organist. We are all ready for our Christmas Eve service, but we can do nothing without the music. I can play the organ a little, said Betty. I'd be glad to help. You can? My dear child, how fortunate! But do you know the service? Yes, sir, it's my church. No vested choir stood ready to march triumphantly chanting into the choir stalls. Only a few boys and girls waited in the dim old choir loft, where Rosamond seated herself quietly. Betty's fingers trembled so at first that the music sounded dull and far away, but her courage crept back to her in the silence of the church and the organ seemed to help her with a brave power of its own. In the dark church only the altar and a great gold star above it shone bright. Through an open window somewhere behind her she could hear the winter wind rattling the ivy leaves and bending the trees. Yet, somehow, she did not feel lonesome and forsaken this Christmas Eve, far away from home, but safe and comforted and sheltered. The voice of the old rector reached her faintly in pauses, habit led her along the service, and the star at the altar held her eyes. Strange new ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain. Tears stole softly into her eyes as she felt in her heart a sweet glow. Slowly the Christmas picture that had flamed and danced before her all day painted in the glory of holly and mistletoe and tinsel faded out, and another shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light. My dear child, I thank you very much. The old rector held Betty's hand in both his. I cannot have a Christmas morning service. Our people have too much to do to come then, but I was especially anxious that our evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them, and your music has made it so. You have given me great aid. May your Christmas be a blessed one. I was glad to play, sir. Thank you, answered Betty simply. Let's run, she cried to Rosamond, and they raced back to school. She fell asleep that night without one smallest tear. The next morning Betty dressed hastily and catching up her mandolin set out into the corridor. Something swung against her hand as she opened the door. It was a great bunch of holly, glossy green leaves and glowing berries and hidden in the leaves a card. Betty, Merry Christmas, was all but only one girl wrote that dainty hand. A winter rose, whispered Betty happily, and stuck the bunch into the ribbon of her mandolin. Down the corridor she ran until she faced a closed door, then twanging her mandolin she burst out with all her power into a gay Christmas carol. High and sweet sang her voice in the silent corridor all through the gay carol. Then sweeter still it changed into a Christmas hymn. Then from behind the closed door sounded voices, Merry Christmas, Betty Luther. Then Constance O'Neill's deep smooth altar flowed into Betty's soprano, and at the last all nine girls joined in a death's defidellis. Christmas morning began with music and laughter. This is your place, Betty, you are Lord of Christmas morning. Betty stood blushing, red as the holly in her hand, before the breakfast table. Miss Heil, the teacher at the head of the table, had given up her place. The breakfast was a merry one. After it somebody suggested that they all go skating on the pond. Betty hesitated and glanced at Miss Heil and Miss Thrasher, the two sad looking teachers. She approached them and said, Won't you come skating too? Miss Thrasher, hardly older than Betty herself, and pretty in a white frightened way, refused, but almost cheerfully. I have a Christmas box to open and Christmas letters to write. Thank you very much. Betty's heart sank as she saw Miss Heil's face. Goodness, she's coming. Miss Heil was the most unpopular teacher in school. Neither ill-tempered nor harsh, she was so cold, remote and rigid in face, voice and manner that the warmest blooded shivered away from her, the least sensitive shrank. I have no skates, but I should like to borrow a pair to learn. If I may, I have never tried, she said. The tragedies of a beginner on skates are to the observers, especially if such be school girls, subjects for unalloyed mirth. The nine girls choked and turned their backs and even giggled, allowed as Miss Heil went prone, now backward with a whack, now forward in a limp crumple. But amusement became admiration. Miss Heil stumbled, fell, laughed merrily, scrambled up, struck out and skated. Presently she was swinging up the pond in stroke with Betty and Eleanor O'Neill. Miss Heil, you're great! cried Betty at the end of the morning. I've taught dozens and scores to skate, but never anybody like you. You've a genius for skating. Miss Heil's blue eyes shot a sudden flash at Betty that made her whole severe face light up. I've never had a chance to learn at home, there never is any ice, but I have always been athletic. Where is your home, Miss Heil? asked Betty. Kanpur, India. India, gasped Eleanor, how delightful! Oh, won't you tell us about it, Miss Heil? So it was that Miss Heil found herself talking about something besides triangles to girls who really wanted to hear, and so it was that the flash came often into her eyes. I have had a happy morning, thank you, Betty, and all. She said it very simply, yet a quick throb of pity and liking beat in Betty's heart. How stupid we are about judging people, she thought, yet Betty had always prided herself on her character reading. Hurrah! the male and ex-press are in. The girls ran excitedly to their rooms. Betty alone went to hers without interest. Why, Hilma, what's happened? The little round-faced Swedish maid mopped the big tears with her duster and choked out, nothing, ma'am. Of course there is, you're crying like everything. Hilma wept aloud. Christmas date is and mine family and mine friends have party now, all day. Where? Hilma jerked her head toward the window. Oh, you mean in town. Why can't you go? I work, and never before am I from home Christmas day. Betty shivered. Never before am I from home Christmas day, she whispered. She went close to the girl, very tall and slim and bright beside the dumpy flax and Hilma. What work do you do? The cook. He cooks the dinner in the supper. I put it on and waited on the young ladies and washed the dishes. The others all are gone. Betty laughed suddenly. Hilma, go put on your best clothes quick and go down to your party. I'm going to do your work. Hilma's eyes rounded with amazement. The cook he be mad. No, he won't. He won't care whether it's Hilma or Betty if things get done all right. I know how to wait on tables and wash dishes. There's no housekeeper here to object. Run along Hilma, be back by nine o'clock, and Merry Christmas. Hilma's face beamed through her tears. She was speechless with joy, but she seized Betty's slim brown hand and kissed it loudly. What larks! Is it a joke? Betty, you're the handsomest butler. Betty, in a white shirt waist suit, a jolly red bow pinned on her white apron and a little cap cocked on her dark hair waved them to their seats at the holly-deck table. Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Nobody is ill, Betty, Rosamond asked anxiously. If I had three guesses I should use every one that our maid wanted to go into town for the day and Betty took her place. It was Miss Heil's calm voice. Betty blushed. It was her turn now to flash back a glance and those two sparks kindled the fire of friendship. It was a jolly Christmas dinner with a butler eating with a family. And now the dishes thought Betty. It must be admitted the washing up after Christmas dinner of twelve is not a subject for much joy. I propose we all help Betty wash the dishes, cried Rosamond Howett. Out in the kitchen everyone laughed and talked and got in the way and had a good time and if the milk pitcher was knocked on the floor and the pudding bowl emptied in Betty's lap, why? It was all merry Christmas. After that they all skated again. When they came in little misthrasher, looking almost gay in a rosebread gown, met them in the corridor. I thought it would be fun, she said shyly, to have supper in my room. I have a big box from home. I couldn't possibly eat all the things myself and if you'll bring jaffing dishes and spoons and those things I'll cook it and we can sit round my open fire. Miss Thrasher's room was home-like with its fire of white birch and its easy chairs and Miss Thrasher herself proved to be a pleasant hostess. After supper Miss Hile told a tale of India. Miss Thrasher gave a rocky a mountain adventure and the girls contributed ghosts and burglar stories till each guest was in a thrill of delightful horror. We've had really a fine day. I expected to dive homesickness, but it's been jolly. So did I, but I have actually been happy. Thus the girls commented as they started for bed. I have enjoyed my day, said little Miss Thrasher. Very much. Yes indeed, it's been a merry Christmas. Miss Hile spoke almost eagerly. Betty gave a little jump. She realized each one of them was holding her hand and pressing it a little. Thank you. It's been a lovely evening. Good night. Rosamond had invited Betty to share her roommate's bed, but both girls were too tired and sleepy for any confidence. It's been the queerest Christmas, thought Betty as she drifted towards sleep. Why? I haven't given one single soul one single present. Yet she smiled, drowsily happy, and then the room seemed to fill with a bright warm light and round the bed there danced a great Christmas wreath made up of the faces of the three O'Neils and the thin old Rector with his white hair and pretty Rosamond and frightened Miss Thrasher and the homesick girl's end, lonely Miss Hile and tear-dimmed Hilma. And all the faces smiled and nodded and called, Merry Christmas, Betty. Merry Christmas. End of The Queerest Christmas by Grace Margaret Gallower A Rhyme for Christmas by John Challing Read for LibreVox.org by Alan Drake Publication delayed by the authors determined but futile attempt to find the rhyme. If browning only were here, this eulish time of year, this muleish time of year, stubbornly still refusing to add to the rhymes we've been using since the first Christmas glee, one might say, chantingly rendered by rudest hines of the pelt-clad shepherding kinds, who didn't know song from B-U-L-L foot. Happily the old Egyptian tar, though I'd hardly wagered bar, be your bumble for that, and that's flat. But the thing that I wanted to get at is a rhyme for Christmas. Nay, nay, nay, nay, not isthmus. The T and the H sounds covertly are gnawing the nice, irracular senses until one may hear them gnar. And the terminal two for maas is maas, so that will not do for us. Try for it, sigh for it, cry for it, die for it. Oh, but if browning were here to apply for it, he'd rhyme you Christmas, he'd make a mist pass over something or other, or find you the rhyme's very brother in lovers that kissed fast to baffle the moon. As he'd lose the tea-final, as fast tea, as it blended with two, mark the spinal elision, tip-clip as exquisitely nicely and hyper-exactly slice to precisely the extremist technical need. Or he'd twist glass, or he'd have a kissed lass, or shake neath our noses some great giant fist mass. No matter. If Robert were here, he could do it, though it took us till Christmas next year to see through it. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Story of Christmas by Nora A. Smith This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Story of Christmas by Nora A. Smith A great spiritual efficiency lies in storytelling. Frobel Christmas day, you know, dear children, is Christ's day, Christ's birthday, and I want to tell you why we love it so much, and why we try to make everyone happy when it comes each year. A long, long time ago, more than 1800 years, the baby Christ was born on Christmas day, a baby so wonderful and so beautiful, who grew up to be a man so wise, so good, so patient and sweet, that every year the people who know about him love him better and better, and are more and more glad when his birthday comes again. You see that he must have been very good and wonderful, for people have always remembered his birthday and kept it lovingly for 1800 years. He was born long years ago, in a land far, far away, across the seas. Before the baby Christ was born, Mary his mother had to make a long journey with her husband Joseph. They made this journey to be taxed or counted, for in those days this could not be done in the town where people happened to live, but they must be numbered in the place where they were born. In that far-off time the only way of travelling was on horse or camel, or a good, patient donkey. Camels and horses cost a great deal of money, and Mary was very poor, so she rode on a quiet, safe donkey, while Joseph walked by her side, leading him and leaning on his stick. Mary was very young and beautiful, I think, but Joseph was a great deal older than she. People dress nowadays in those distant countries, just as they did, so many years ago, so we know that Mary must have worn a long, thick dress, falling all about her in heavy folds, and that she had a soft white veil over her head and neck, and across her face. Mary lived in Nazareth, and the journey they were making was to Bethlehem, many miles away. They were a long time travelling, I am sure, for donkeys are slow, though they are so careful, and Mary must have been very tired before they came to the end of their journey. They had travelled all day, and it was almost dark when they came near to Bethlehem, to the town where the baby Christ was to be born. There was the place they were to stay, a kind of inn or lodging-house, but not at all like those you know about. They have them today in that far-off country, just as they built them, so many years ago. It was a low, flat-roofed stone building with no windows and only one large door. There were no nicely furnished bedrooms inside, and no soft white beds for the tired travellers. There were only little places built into the stones of the wall, something like the berth on a steamboat nowadays. Each traveller brought his own bedding. No pretty garden was in front of the inn, for the road ran close to the very door, so that its dust lay upon the door-sill. All around the house, to a high, rocky hill, at the back, a heavy stone fence was built, so that the people and the animals inside might be kept safe. Mary and Joseph could not get very near the inn, for the whole road in front was filled with camels and donkeys and sheep and cows, while a great many men were going to and fro, taking care of the animals. Some of these people had come to Bethlehem to pay their taxes, as Mary and Joseph had done, and others were staying for the night on their way to Jerusalem, a large city a little further on. The yard was filled, too, with camels and sheep, and men were lying on the ground beside them, resting and watching and keeping them safe. The inn was so full, and the yard was so full of people, that there was no room for anybody else, and the keeper had to take Joseph and Mary through the house and back to the high hill, where they found another place that was used for a stable. This had only a door and front, and deep caves were behind, stretching far into the rocks. This is the spot where Christ was born. Think, how poor a place! But Mary was glad to be there, after all, and when the Christ-child came, he was like other babies, and had so lately come from heaven that he was happy everywhere. There were mangers all around the cave, where the cattle and sheep were fed, and great heaps of hay and straw were lying on the floor. Then, I think, there were brown-eyed cows and oxen there, and quiet woolly sheep, and perhaps even some dogs that had come in to take care of the sheep. And there in the cave, by and by, the wonderful baby came, and they wrapped him up and laid him in a manger. All the stars in the sky shone brightly that night, for they knew the Christ-child was born, and the angels in heaven sang together for joy. The angels knew about the lovely child, and were glad that he had come to help the people on earth to be good. There lay the beautiful baby with a manger for his bed, and oxen and sheep all sleeping quietly around him. His mother watched him and loved him, and by and by many people came to see him, for they had heard that a wonderful child was to be born in Bethlehem. All the people in the inn visited him, and even the shepherds left their flocks in the fields, and sought the child and his mother. But the baby was very tiny, and could not talk any more than any other child, so he lay in his mother's lap or in the manger, and only looked at the people, so after they had seen him and loved him they went away again. After a time when the baby had grown larger, Mary took him back to Nazareth, and there he lived and grew up. And he grew to be such a sweet, wise, loving boy, such a tender, helpful man, and he said so many good and beautiful things that everyone who knew him loved him. Many of the things he said are in the Bible, you know, and the great many beautiful stories of the things he used to do while he was on earth. He loved little children like you very much, and often used to take them up in his arms and talk to them. And this is the reason we love Christmas Day so much, and try to make everybody happy when it comes around each year. This is the reason, because Christ, who was born on Christmas Day, has helped us all to be good so many, many times, and because he was the best Christmas present the world ever had. End of The Story of Christmas by Nora A. Smith This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Story That Never Ends by Mrs. C. J. Woodbury Tommy was very angry. He rushed upstairs and into his mother's room, utterly forgetting his knock or am I welcome, mother? Bang! echoed the door behind him with a noise that resounded over the whole house. Why he was angry was plain enough. His eye was black, nose bleeding, coat torn, collar hanging. His mother took it off as he bent over the wash bowl. Oh, Tommy, she said, you've been fighting again. Well, mother, he exclaimed, what did you expect me to do? That Bob Sykes threw rocks at me again and called me names. He said I was hush, said his mother. You can only grow more angry as you speak. Is it hard for you now to remember the rule? The good things about others? The naughty things about yourself? Good. There is nothing good about him. I hate him. I wish he was dead. I do. I wish I could kill him. Sternley, his mother, took him by the arm and led him before the mirror. One look at the face he saw there silenced him. To all intents and purposes, you have killed him. Whosoever hated his brother is a murderer. You cannot but remember who said it, Tommy. It is late in the afternoon. The sun is going down. Tomorrow is his birthday. Hadn't you better forgive Bob? The sun may go down and the sun may come up for all I care, he answered. I'll never forgive him. Without further word, his mother bathed his heated face and led him to her bed. Lie down undressed, she said. You are overexcited. Quiet will help you. He lay and looked at her as she sat quietly and gravely at her work under the picture. Ever since he could remember, her chair at this hour of the day had been in that corner and low over it had always hung. Just as it hung now, that picture so often explained to him, the walk to Emmaus. How calm and quiet his mother was and the room, how still and cool after that crowded street. Shutting his aching eyes, he could see it again now, the swearing mob of boys and men shoving him on their brutal faces and gestures, the quarrel, the blows, those he had given and taken. He felt them again and the burning choke of a final grip and wrestle. Oh, how his head throbbed and ached. It seemed as if the blood would burst through. He opened his eyes again. The room was growing darker. He almost forgot his pain for a few moments, noticing how the sunlight was straightened to a narrow lane which reached from the extreme southern end of the window to the floor in front of his mother's chair. He watched the last rays as they slowly left the floor and stole up her dress to her lap and her breast, leaving all behind and below in shadow. Now they had reached her face. It was bent over her work. Well, he knew that was some Christmas gift, maybe for him. Some Christmas gift and tomorrow was Christmas. He looked again to see if he could discover what she was making, but the light had left her now and had risen to the picture. Queer picture that was. What funny clothes those men wore. Those long gabardines, mother had called them, reaching almost to the ground. Shoes that showed the toes and hoods for hats. One of them had none. How closely they looked at him. They didn't even see which way they were going. And what a long way it was. Stretching out there, dusty and hot, the room was quite dark now. Save for the light on the narrow road there. What was yonder little village in the distance? What kind of a place was Emmaus? His mother had told him about it. Only one street, a long and narrow one, and very few trees. And one or two trading shops only. And the houses low and flat roofed with no glass in them. And the sun shining down hot and straight between them. And oh, how his head ached. He was out there looking for Bob Sykes. Maybe that was he lying on this rude bench with the low cedar bush over it. If it were, he would settle matters with him quick. He would show him. But it wasn't Bob. It was only a sheepdog asleep. So Tommy turned away and walked slowly along the middle of the street. His face burned with the heat of the sun on his bruises. He was very thirsty, climbing a little hill over which the road lay. He saw on the other side of it another boy coming toward him. He was a rather peculiar looking boy with a face thoughtful but pleasant. He was carrying a heavy shaped skin bag over his shoulder. Tommy determined to ask him if he knew where there was some water. Hello, he said, as the boy drew near. The boy stopped and smiled at Tommy without making a reply. Where are you going? Said Tommy. I am carrying this bag of tools to my father, the boy answered. Do you live here? asked Tommy. It doesn't seem like much of a place. No, said the boy. It isn't much of a place, but I live here. What sort of tools have you got in your bag? Who is your father? My father is a carpenter, answered the boy. Tommy gave a long, low whistle. A carpenter. Why, my father owns a store, and we live in one of the best houses in town. Fairfield is the name of my town. The boy seemed neither to notice the whistle nor the brag, but allowing the bag to slip from his shoulders to the ground stood, still smiling before Tommy. Tommy, who somehow had forgotten his pain and thirst, felt embarrassed for a moment. He never before had made that announcement without its awakening at least a little sensation, even if it were no more than a boast in return. This is a dull old town, he finally said. Many jolly boys around? A good many, answered the boy. Do you get any time to play? I suppose, though, you don't. You have to work most of the time, added Tommy, encouragingly. I work a good deal, said the boy. I get time to play, however. I like it. Which? The work or the play? Both. Well, said Tommy after a pause. Do you ever have any trouble with the boys you play with? No, said the boy. I don't think so. Well, you must be a queer sort of boy. Now, there's a bob's cycles. Perhaps you've noticed that my eye is hurt, and my face scratched some. Well, we had a little difficulty just a few moments ago. He insulted me, and I won't take an insult from anyone, and I told him to shut up his mouth. And he sassed me back and called me names, and said I was stuck up, and thought I was better than the other boys, and he'd show me that I wasn't. Of course, I wouldn't stand that, so I've had a fight, and it isn't the first one either. Yes, said the boy, I know that. I feel very sorry for Bob. He hasn't any mother to go to, you know. He had to wash the blood and dirt off his face as best he could at the town pump, and then wait around the streets until his father came from work. It is pretty hard for a boy to have no place to lay his head. Why, do you know Bob's cycles? Asked Tommy. Yes, answered the boy. I've been with him a good deal. Queer now, mused Tommy. I don't remember of ever seeing you around. But now, tell me what you would have done if he had provoked you, and insulted you too. I would have forgiven him, answered the boy. Well, I did. There was one spell I just started in and forgave him every day for a week. That was seven times. I would have forgiven him seventy times seven. That is just what my mother always says. Perhaps you know my mother. She knows me too, replied the boy. That is odd. I didn't think she knew any of the boys, Bob knows. Bob does not know me, replied the boy. I know him. Just then Tommy's attention was attracted by a flock of little brown birds passing over their heads. One of the birds flew low and fluttered as if wounded and fell in the dust near, where it lay beating its little wings, panting and dying. The boy tenderly picked it up. Somebody's hit him with a slingshot, said Tommy carelessly. The boy smoothed the bruised wing and straightened the crushed and broken body. The bird ceased fluttering. I'm most sorry, said Tommy. I didn't forgive Bob. It makes me feel bad, what you told me about him having no home. Now, mother is something like you. She don't mind one's being poor. Why, if I took Bob home with me, mother wouldn't seem to see his clothes and ragged shoes. She'd just talk to him and treat him like he was the best dressed boy in town. There's Bill Logan came home to dinner with me once. Mother made me ask him, he is a real poor boy. Has to work. His mother washes. He didn't know what to do nor how to act. He kept his hands in his pockets most all the time. Aunt Lily said it was shocking, but mother said, never mind. She said she was glad he had his pockets, for his hands were rough and not too clean, and she thought they mortified him. Father went and kissed her then. Don't tell this. I don't know what makes me run on and tell you all these things. I never spoke of them before, but I know father was a poor young working man when he married mother. The boy raised his hand and the sparrow gave a Twitter of delight and flew heavenward. Why, exclaimed Tommy in amazement, you've cured him. He's all right. How did you do it? Do you feel sorry for the sparrows as well as Bob? I pity every sparrow that is hurt, said the boy, and isn't Bob of more consequence than a sparrow? I wish, said Tommy, I hadn't fought with Bob. It was most all my fault. I have a good mind to tell him, so I wish I was better acquainted with you. If I played with such a boy as you are now, I'd be better I am certain. Suppose you come after school nights and play in our yard. Never mind your clothes. Can't you come? Yes, I will come if you want me to, answered the boy, looking steadfastly at him a moment, but now I must be about my father's business. He stooped, lifted the bag of tools to his shoulders, and before Tommy could stay him, had moved some steps away. Don't go yet. Tell me some more about what you'd do. And Tommy turned to follow him. But was it the boy, and was that a bag of tools on his back? It had grown strangely longer and heavier now, so that it dragged on the ground, and the face was the face of the picture, and low it turned toward him, and the hand was raised in benediction and farewell. I am with you always, and he was gone. Oh, come back, come back, sobbed Tommy, reaching out his arms and struggling to run after him. Poor boy, said his mother, wiping the blinding tears from his eyes. Your sleep didn't do you much good. I've not been asleep, said Tommy. I've been, I've been talking with, with him. And he spoke low, with a longing reverence, and pointed to the picture. It was a dream, my child. Mother, it was a vision. I saw him when he was a little boy in his own town, Nazareth, and mother, I even told him it wasn't much of a place to live in. He talked to me about Bob. He said you knew him. I saw him cure a little bird, and oh mother, he said he would be with me always. He is a little boy like me. I know what to do now, he showed me. I must find Bob. I must have him forgive me. I want to bring him home with me into my bed for tonight. He stopped. Mother, he said solemnly, tomorrow is his birthday. End of A Story That Never Ends by Mrs. C. J. Woodbury To an old fogey who contends that Christmas is played out by Owen Seaman, recorded for Librox.org by Corey Samuel in December 2007. Oh, frankly bald and obviously stout, and so you find that Christmas as a fate dispassionately viewed is getting out of date. The studied festival air is overdone, the humour of it grows a little thin. You fail, in fact, to gather where the fun comes in. Visions of very heavy meals arise that tend to make your organism shiver, roast beef that irks, and pies that agonise the liver. Those pies at which you annually wince, hearing the tale how happy months will follow, proportioned to the total mass of mints you swallow. Visions of youth whose reverence is scant, who with the brutal verve of boyhood's prime insist on being taken to the pantomime, of infants sitting up extremely late, who run you onto boggons down the stair, or make you fetch a rug and simulate a bear. This takes your faultless trousers at the knees, the other hurts them rather more behind, and both affect a fracture in your ease of mind. My good dispeptic, this will never do, your weary withers must be sadly rung, yet once I well believe that even you were young. Time was when you devoured, like other boys, plum-putting sequent on a turkey hen, with Krakomotto's hinting of the joys of men. Time was when, mid the maidens, you would pull the fiery raisin with profound delight, when sprigs of mistletoe seemed beautiful and right. Old Christmas changes not. Long, long ago he won the treasure of eternal youth. Yours is the dotage, if you want to know the truth. Come now, I'll cure your case and ask no fee. Make others' happiness this once your own. All else may pass. That joy can never be outgrown. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Merry Christmas. It was the night before Christmas, a visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clark Moore. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recorded by Gemma Blythe. It was the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled off snug in their beds while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads. And mama and her kudjiff and I and my cap had just settled our brains for a long winter snap. When out and along there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter, away to the window. I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave the luster of me a dead object below. When what to my wondering eye should appear, but a many a just may an eight-tiny reindeer. With little old travel, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles, his courses lay came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name. Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen, on Comet, on Cupid, on Donder and Blitzen, to the top of the porch, to the top of the wall. Now Dash away, Dash away, Dash away all, as dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky. So up to the house stopped the courses they flew, with a sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas too. And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof the prancing and pouring of each little oof. As I drew in my head and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his back. His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. His drool little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard of his chin was as wide as the snow. The stump of a pop he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke had encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and blumberot, jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself. A wink in his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk and laying his finger side on his nose and giving a nod of the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, had the Christmas to all and to all a good night. And it was the night before Christmas by Clement C. Moore. Vera's First Christmas Adventure by Arnold Bennett This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org Read for LibriVox by Andy Minter 1. Five days before Christmas, Cheswardine came home to his wife from a weak sojourn in London on business. Vera, in her quality of the best dressed woman in Bursley, met him on the doorstep, or thereabouts, of their charming but childless home, a tide in a teagun that would have ravished a far less impressionable male than her husband. While he, in his quality of a prosaic and flourishing earthenware manufacturer, pretended to take the teagun as a matter of course, and gave her the sober, solid kiss of a man who has been married six years and is getting used to it, still the teagun had pleased him, and by certain secret symptoms Vera knew that it had pleased him. She hoped much from that teagun. She hoped that he had come home in a more pacific temper than he had shown when he left her, and that she would carry her point after all. 2. Now naturally, when a husband in easy circumstances, the possessor of a pretty and pampered wife spends a week in London and returns five days before Christmas, certain things are rightly and properly to be expected from him. It would need outstanding courage and amazing lack of a sense of the amenity of conjugal existence in such a husband to enable him to disappoint such reasonable expectations, and Cheswardine, though capable of pulling the kerb very tight on the caprices of his wife, was a highly decent fellow. He had no intention to disappoint. He knew his duty. So that during afternoon tea with the teagun in a cosy corner of the great Chippendale drawing-room, he began to unfasten a small wooden case which he had brought into the house in his own hand, opened it with considerable precaution, making a fine mess of packing stuff on the carpet, and gradually drew to light a pair of vases of Phoenician glass. He put them on the mantelpiece. There, he said, proudly and with a virtuous air. They were obviously costly antique vases, exquisite in form, exquisite in the graduated tints of their pale blue and rose. Seventeenth century, he said. They're very nice, Vera agreed, with a show of enthusiasm. What are they for? Your Christmas present, Cheswardine explained, and added, my dear. Oh, Stephen! she murmured. A kiss on these occasions is only just, and Cheswardine had one. Duvenes told me they were quite unique, he said modestly, and I believe them. You might imagine that a pair of Phoenician vases of the seventeenth century, stated by Duvenes to be unique, would have satisfied a woman who had a generous dress allowance and lacked absolutely nothing that was essential. But Vera was not satisfied. She was, on the contrary, profoundly disappointed. For the presence of those vases proved that she had not carried her point. They deprived her of hope. The unpleasantness before Cheswardine went to London had been more or less apropos of a Christmas present. Vera had seen in Bostock's vast emporium, in the neighbouring town of Hanbridge, a music-stool, in the style known as Art Nouveau, which had enslaved her fancy. She had taken her husband to see it. And it had not enslaved her husband fancy in the slightest degree. It was made in light woods, and the woods were curved and twisted, as though they had recently spent seven years in a purgatory for sinful trees. Here and there, in the design, Onyx stones had been set in the wood. The seat itself was beautifully soft. What captured Vera was chiefly the fact that it did not open at the top, as most elaborate music-stools do, but at either side. You pressed a button, Onyx, and the panel fell down, displaying your music in little compartments, ready to hand. And the eastern moiety of the music-stool was for piano pieces, and the western moiety for songs. In short, it was the last word of music-stools. Nothing could possibly manure. But Cheswardine did not like it, and did not conceal his opinion. He argued that it would not go with the Chippendale furniture. And Vera said that all beautiful things went together, and Cheswardine admitted that they did, rather dryly. You see, they took the matter seriously, because the house was their hobby. They were always changing its interior, which was more than they could have done for a child, even if they had had one. And Cheswardine's finer and soberer taste was always fighting against Vera's predilection for the novel and the bizarre. Apart from clothes, Vera had not much more than the taste of a mouse. They did not quarrel in boss-stocks. Indeed, they did not quarrel anywhere. But after Vera had suggested that he might, at any rate, humour her by giving her the music-stool for a Christmas present, she seemed to think that this would somehow help it to go with the Chippendale. And Cheswardine had politely but firmly declined, there had been a certain coolness and quite six tears. Vera had caused it to be understood that even if Cheswardine was not interested in music, and even if he did hate music, and did call the broadwood Ebony grand ugly, that was no reason why she should be deprived of a pretty and original music-stool that would keep her music tidy, and that would be hers. As for it not going with the Chippendale, that was simply an excuse, etc. Hence it is not surprising that the Venetian vases of the 17th century left Vera cold, and that the domestic prospects for Christmas were a little cold. However, Vera, with wifely and submissive tact, made the best of things, and that evening she began to decorate the hall, dining-room and drawing-room with holly and mistletoe. Before the pair retired to rest, the true Christmas feeling, slightly tinged with a tender melancholy, permeated the house, and the servants were growing excited in advance. The servants weren't going to have a dinner party with crackers and port, and a table-centre unmatched in the five towns. The servants weren't going to invite their friends to an evening's jollity. The servants were merely going to work somewhat harder, and have somewhat less sleep. But such is the magical effect of holly and mistletoe, twine-drowned picture-cords and hung-under chandeliers, that the excitement of the servants was entirely pleasurable. And as Vera shut the bedroom door, she said with a delightful forgiving smile, I saw a lovely cigar-cabinet at Bostock's yesterday. Oh! said Cheswardine, touched. He had no cigar-cabinet, and he wanted one, and Vera knew that he wanted one. And Vera slept in the sweet consciousness of her thoughtful wifeliness. The next morning, at breakfast, Cheswardine demanded, getting pretty hard up, aren't you, Maria? He called her Maria when he wished to be arch. Well, she said, as a matter of fact I am, what with the— and he gave her a five-pound note. It happened so every year he provided her with the money to buy him a Christmas present. But it is, I hope, unnecessary to say that the connection between her present to him and the money he furnished was never crudely mentioned. She made an opportunity, before he left for the works, to praise the Venetian vases, and she insisted that he should wrap up well, because he was showing signs of one of his bad colds. Two. In the early afternoon, she went to Bostock's Emporium at Hanbridge to buy the cigar-cabinets and a few domestic trifles. Bostock's is a good shop. I do not say that it has the classic and serene dignity of brunts over the way, where one orders one's dining-room sweets and one's frocks for the January dances, but it is a good shop, and one of the chief glories of the Paris of the Five Towns. It has frontages in three streets, and it might be called the shop of the Hundred Windows. You can buy pretty nearly anything at Bostock's from an Art Nouveau music stool up to the highest cheese, for there is a provision department. You can't get cheese at Brunt's. Vera made her uninteresting purchases first in the basement, and then she went upstairs to the special Christmas department, which certainly was wonderful, a blaze and splendour of electric light, a glitter of gilded, iridescent toys and knickknacks, a smiling, excited, pushing multitude of faces, young and old, and the cashiers in their cages gathering in money as fast as they could lay their tired hands on it. A joyous, brilliant scene, calculated to bring soft tears of satisfaction to the Board of Directors that presided over Bostock's. It was a record Christmas for Bostock's. The electric cars were thundering over the frozen streets in all the Five Towns to bring customers to Bostock's. Children dreamt of Bostock's. Fathers went to scoff, and remained to pay. Brunt's was not exactly alarmed, for nothing could alarm Brunt's, but there was just a sort of suspicion of something in the air at Brunt's that did not make for odious self-conceit. People seemed to become intoxicated when they went into Bostock's to close their heads in a frenzy of buying. And there the art nouveau music stool stood in the corner, where Vera had originally seen it. She approached it, not thinking of the terrible danger. The compartments for music lay invitingly open. A four pounds nine and six Mrs. Chester Dine said a shop walker who knew her. She stopped to finger it. Well, of course everybody is acquainted with that peculiar ecstasy that undoubtedly does overtake you in good shops sometimes, especially at Christmas. I prefer to call it ecstasy rather than intoxication, but I have heard it called even drunkenness. It is a magnificent and overwhelming experience, like good wine, a blind instinct ceases your reason and throws her out of the window of your soul, and then assumes an entire control of the volitional machinery. You listen to no arguments, you care for no consequences, you want a thing, you must have it, you do have it. Vera was caught unawares by this magnificent and overwhelming experience, just as she stooped to finger the music stool. A fig for the cigar cabinet, a fig for her husband's objections. After all, she was a grown-up woman, twenty-nine or thirty, and entitled to a certain freedom. She was not and would not be a slave. It would look perfect in the drawing-room. I'll take it, she said. Yes, Mrs. Chester Dine, the unique thing, quite unique, Pencathman. And Vera followed Pencathman to a cash desk, and received half a guinea out of a five-pound note. I want it carefully packed, said Vera. Yes, ma'am, it will be delivered in the morning. She was just beginning to realise that she had been under the sinister influence of the ecstasy, and that she had not bought the cigar cabinet, and that she had practically no more money, and that Stephen's rule against credit was the strictest of all his rules, when she caught sight of Mr. Charles Woodruff buying toys doubtless for his nephews and nieces. Mr. Woodruff was the bachelor friend of the family. He had loved Vera before Stephen loved her, and he was still attached to her. Stephen and he were chums of the most advanced kind, why Stephen and Vera thought nothing of bickering in front of Mr. Woodruff, who rated them both, and sided with neither. Hello! said Woodruff, flushing and moving his long clumsy limbs when she touched him on the shoulder. I'm just buying a few toys. She helped him to buy toys, and then he asked her to go and have tea with him at the newly opened sub-rosa tea-rooms in Maychin Street. She agreed, and in passing the music stool gave a small parcel which she was carrying to Pencithman, and told him he might as well put it in the music stool. She was glad to have tea with Charlie Woodruff. It would distract her, prevent her from thinking. The ecstasy had almost died out, and she had a violent desire not to think. 3. A terrible blow fell upon her the next morning. Stephen had one of his bad colds—one of his worst. The mere cold she could have supported with fortitude, but he was forced to remain indoors, and his presence in the house she could not support with fortitude. The music stool would be sure to arrive before lunch, and he would be there to see it arrive. The ecstasy had fully expired now, and she had more leisure to think than she wanted. She could not imagine what mad instinct had compelled her to buy the music stool. Once out of the shop these instincts are always difficult to imagine. She knew that Stephen would be angry. He might perhaps go to the length of returning the music stool whence he came. For though she was a pretty and pampered woman, Stephen had a way, in the last resort, of being master of his own house. And she could not even placate him with the gift of a cigar cabinet. She could not buy a five-guinea cigar cabinet with ten and six. She had no other money in the world. She never had money, yet money was always running through her fingers. Stephen treated her generously, gave her an ample allowance, but he would under no circumstances permit credit. Nor would he pay her allowance in advance. She had nothing to expect till the new year. She attended to his cold, and telephoned to the works for a clock to come up. And she refrained from telling Stephen that he must have been very careless while in London to catch a cold like that. Her self-denial in this respect surprised Stephen, but he put it down to the beneficent influence of Christmas and the Venetian vases. Bostock's pear-horse van arrived before the Garden Gate earlier than her worst fears had anticipated. And Bostock's men were evidently in a tremendous hurry that morning. In quite an abnormally small number of seconds, the wooden case containing the fragile music-stool was lying in the inner hall, waiting to be unpacked. Having signed the delivery-book, Vera stood staring at the accusatory package. Stephen was lounging over the dining-room fire, perhaps dozing. She would have the thing swiftly transported upstairs and hidden in an attic for a time. But just then Stephen popped out of the dining-room. Stephen's masculine curiosity had been aroused by the advent of Bostock's van. He had observed the incoming of the package from the window, and he had ventured to the hall to inspect it. The event had roused him wonderfully from the heavy torpor which a cold induces. He wore a dressing-gown, the pockets of which bulged with handkerchiefs. You oughtn't to be out here, Stephen, said his wife. Nonsense, he said. Why, upon my soul, this steam-heat is warmer than the dining-room fire. Vera, silenced by the voice of truth, could not reply. Stephen bent his great height to inspect the package. It was an appetising Christmas package. Straw escaped from between its ribs, and it had an air of being filled with something at once large and delicate. Oh! observed Stephen humorously. Ah! so this is it, is it? Ah! oh! very good! And he walked round it. How on earth had he learnt that she had bought it? She had not mentioned the purchase to Mr. Woodruff. Yes, Stephen, she said timidly, that's it, and I hope. He thought to hold a tiny few cigars, that ought, remarked Stephen complacently. He took it for the cigar cabinet. She paused, struck. She had to make up her mind in an instant. Oh! yes, she murmured. A thousand? Yes, a thousand, she said. I thought so, murmured Stephen. I mustn't kiss you, because I've got a cold, said he. But all same, I'm awfully obliged, Vera. Suppose we have it open now, eh? Then we could decide where it is to go, and I could put my cigars in it. Oh! no, she protested. Oh! no, Stephen, that's not fair. It mustn't be open before Christmas morning. But I gave you my vases yesterday. That's different, she said. Christmas is Christmas. Oh! very well, he yielded. That's all right, my dear. Then he began to sniff. There's a deuce-todd smell from it, he said. Eh! perhaps it's the wood, she faltered. I hope it isn't, he said. I expect it's the straw. A deuce-todd smell. We'll have the thing put in the side-hole next to the clock. It'll be out of the way there. And I can come and gaze at it when I feel depressed. Eh, Maria? He was undoubtedly charmed at the prospect of owning so large and precious as a cigar-cabinet. Considering that the parcel which he had given to Penkithman to put in the music-stool comprised a half-pound of boss-stocked, very ripest, Gorgonzola cheese, bought at the Cook's special request, the smell which proceeded from the mysterious inwards of the packing-case did not surprise Vera at all, but it disconcerted her nonetheless, and she wondered how she could get the cheese out. For thirty hours the smell from the unopened packing-case waxed in vigor and strength. Stephen's cold grew worse and prevented him from appreciating its full beauty, but he savored enough of it to induce him to compare it facetiously with the effluvium of a dead rat, and he said several times that boss-stocked really ought to use better straw. He was frequently to be seen in the hall, gloating over his cigar-cabinet. Once he urged Vera to have it opened and so get rid of the straw, but she refused, and found the nerve to tell him that he was exaggerating the odor. She was at a loss what to do. She could not get up in the middle of the night and unpack the package and hide its guilty secret. Indeed, to unpack the package would bring about her ruin instantly, but the package unpacked. Stephen would naturally expect to see the cigar-cabinet, and so the hours crept on to Christmas and Vera's undoing. She gave herself a headache. It was just thirty hours after the arrival of the package, when Mr. Woodruff dropped in for tea. Stephen was asleep in the dining-room, which apartment he particularly affected during his colds. Woodruff was shown into the drawing-room, where Vera was having her headache. Vera brightened. In fact, she suddenly grew very bright, and she gave Woodruff tea and took some herself, and Woodruff passed an enjoyable twenty minutes. The two Venetian vases were on the mantelpiece. Vera rose into ecstasies about them, and called upon Charlie Woodruff to rise too. He got up from his chair to examine the vases, which Vera had placed close together side by side at the corner of the mantelpiece nearest to him. Vera and Woodruff also stood close together side by side, and just as Woodruff was about to handle the vases, Vera knocked his arm. His arm collided with one vase, that vase collided with the next, and both fell to earth, to the hard, unfeeling, unyielding tiles of the hearth. Four. They were smashed to atoms. Vera screamed. She screamed twice and ran out of the room. Stephen, Stephen! She cried hysterically. Charlie has broken my vases, both of them. It is too bad of him. He's really too clumsy. There was a terrific bother. Stephen wakened violently, and in a moment all three were staring ineffectually at the thousand crystal fragments on the hearth. But began Charlie Woodruff. And that was all he did say. He and Vera and Stephen had been friends since infancy, so she had the right not to conceal her feelings before him. Stephen had the same right, and they both exercised it. But began Charlie again. Oh, never mind. Stephen stopped him curtly. Accidents can't be helped. I shall get another pair, said Woodruff. No, you won't, replied Stephen. You can't. There isn't another pair in the world, see? The two men simultaneously perceived that Vera was weeping. She was very pretty in tears, but that did not prevent the masculine world from feeling awkward and self-conscious. Charlie had notions about going out and burying himself. Come, Vera, come, her husband enjoined, blowing his nose with unnecessary energy. Bad as his cold was. I like those vases more than anything you've ever given me. Vera blubbered, charmingly patting her eyes. Stephen glanced at Woodruff. As who should say? Well, my boy, you uncork those tears. I'll leave you to deal with them. You see, I'm an invalid and a dressing-gum. I leave you. And went. No, no, but look, look here, I say. Charlie Woodruff expostulated to Vera when he was alone with her. He often started an expostulation with that singular phrase. I'm awfully sorry. I don't know how it happened. You must let me give you something else. Vera shook her head. No, she said, I wanted Stephen awfully to give me that music stool that I told you about a fortnight ago. But he gave me the vases instead, and I liked them ever so much better. I shall give you the music stool. If you wanted it a fortnight ago, you want it now. It won't make up for the vases, of course, but— No, no, said Vera positively. Why not? I do not wish you to give me anything. It wouldn't be quite nice, Vera insisted. But I give you something every Christmas. Do you? Asked Vera innocently. Yes, and you and Stephen give me something. Besides, Stephen doesn't quite like the music stool. What's that got to do with it? You'll like it. I'm giving it to you, not him. I shall go over to Bostock's tomorrow morning and get it. I forbid you to. I shall. Woodruff departed. Within five minutes the Chesward Ein Coachman was driving off in the dog cart to Handbridge, with the packing-case in the back of the cart, and a note. He brought back the cigar cabinet. Stephen had not stirred from the dining-room, afraid to encounter a tearful wife. Presently his wife came into the dining-room, bearing the vast load of the cigar cabinet in her delicate arms. I thought it might amuse you to fill it with your cigars, just to pass the time, she said. Stephen thought it was well women take the cake. It was a thought that occurs frequently to the husbands of Vera's. There was ripe gorgonzola at dinner. Stephen met it as one meets a person whom one fancies one has met somewhere, but cannot remember where. The next afternoon the music stool came for the second time into the house. Charlie brought it in his dog cart. It was unpacked ostentatiously by the radiant Vera. What could Stephen say in depreciation of this gift from their oldest and best friend? As a fact he could and did say a great deal, but he said it when he happened to be all alone in the drawing-room, and had observed the appalling way in which the music stool did not go with the gibbendale. Look at the deep thing, he exclaimed to himself. Look at it! However, the Christmas dinner party was a brilliant success, and after it Vera sat on the Art Nouveau music stool and twitted songs and what with her being so attractive and birdlike, and what with the Christmas feeling in the air. Well, Stephen resigned himself to the music stool. Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads, and Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave a luster of midday to objects below. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew at a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his courses they came, and he whistled and he shouted and he called them by name. Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen, on Comet, on Cupid, on Dunder and Blitzen, to the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now Dash away, Dash away, Dash away all. And as dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they met with an obstacle mount to the sky, so up to the housetops the courses they flew, with a sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling eye heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof, as I drew in my head and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk, and laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.