 IS CHRISTMAS GIFT by Jacob A. Reis. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anita Sloma Martinez. Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you? A sallow man with a hopeless look in his heavy eyes rose slowly in his seat and stood facing the judge. There was a pause in the hum and bustle of the court as men turned to watch the prisoner. He did not look like a man who would take a neighbor's life and yet so nearly had he done so. Of set purpose it had been abundantly proved that his victim would carry the disfiguring scar of the bullet to the end of his life and only by what seemed an almost miraculous chance had escaped death. The story as told by witnesses and substantially uncontradicted was this. Portugese and Vito Amela, whom he shot, were neighbors under the same roof. Amela kept the grocery on the ground floor. Portugese lived upstairs in the tenement. He was a prosperous, peaceful man with a family of bright children with whom he romped and played happily when home from his barbershop. The black hand fixed its evil eye upon the family group and saw its chance. One day a letter came demanding a thousand dollars. Portugese put it aside with the comment that this was New York, not Italy. Other letters followed, threatening harm to his children. Portugese paid no attention, but his wife worried. One day the baby, little Vito, was missing and in his sterics she ran to her husband's shop crying that the black hand had stolen the child. The barber hurried home and sought high and low. At last he came upon the child sitting on Amela's doorstep. He had wandered away and brought up at the grocery. Asked where he had been, the child pointed to the store. Portugese flew in and demanded to know what Amela was doing with his boy. The grocer was in a bad humor and swore at him. There was an altercation and Amela attacked the barber with a broom beating him and driving him away from his door. Black with anger Portugese ran to his room and returned with a revolver. In the fight that followed he shot Amela through the head. He was arrested and thrown into jail. In the hospital the grocer hovered between life and death for many weeks. Portugese lay in the tomb awaiting trial for more than a year leaving still that he was the victim of a black hand conspiracy. When at last the trial came up his savings were all gone and of the once prosperous and happy man only a shadow was left. He sat in the courtroom and listened in moody silence to the witnesses who told how he had unjustly suspected and nearly murdered his friend. He was speedily convicted and the day of his sentence was fixed for Christmas Eve. It was certain that it would go hard with him. The Italians were too prone to shoot in stabs of the newspapers and the judges were showing no mercy. The witnesses had told the truth but there were some things they did not know and that did not get into the evidence. The prisoner's wife was ill from grief and want. Their savings of years gone to lawyer's fees. They were on the verge of starvation. The children were hungry. With the bells ringing in the glad holiday they were facing bitter homelessness in the winter streets for the rent was in arrears and the landlord would not wait. And papa away now for the second Christmas and maybe for many yet to come. Ten the lawyer and jury had said this was New York not Italy. In the tombs the prisoner said it over to himself bitterly. He had thought only of defending his own. So now he stood looking the judge and the jury in the face yet hardly seeing them. He saw only the prison gates opening for him and the gray walls shutting him out from his wife and little ones for. How many Christmases was it? One, two, three. He felt accounting them over mentally and did not hear when his lawyer whispered and nudged him with his elbow. The clerk repeated his question but he merely shook his head. What should he have to say? Had he not said it to these men and they did not believe him? About little Vita who was lost and his wife who cried her eyes out because of the black hand letters. He there was a step behind him and a voice he knew spoke. It was the voice of Amela his neighbor with whom he had used to be friends before before that day. Please your honor, let this man go. It is Christmas and we should have no unkind thoughts. I have none against Filippo here and I ask you to let him go. It grew very still in the courtroom as he spoke and paused for an answer. Lawyers looked up from their briefs in astonishment. The jurymen in the box leaned forward and regarded the convicted man and his victim with rapt attention. Such a plea had not been heard in that place before. Portugies stood mute. The voice sounded strange and far away to him. He felt a hand upon his shoulder that was the hand of a friend and shifted his feet uncertainly but made no response. The gray-haired judge regarded the two gravely but kindly. Your wish comes from a kind heart, he said. But this man has been convicted. The law must be obeyed. There is nothing in it that allows us to let a guilty man go free. The jurymen whispered together and one of them arose. Your honor, he said. A higher law than any made by man came into the world at Christmas that we love one another. These men would obey it. Will you not let them? The jury pray is one man that you let mercy go before justice on this holy eve. A smile lit up Judge O'Sullivan's face. Felipe Portugies, he said. You are a very fortunate man. The law bids me send you to prison for ten years and but for a miraculous chance would have condemned you to death. But the man you maimed for life pleads for you and the jury that convicted you begs that you go free. The court remembers that you have suffered and it knows the plight of your family upon whom the heaviest burden of your punishment would fall. Go, then, to your home. And to you, gentlemen, a happy holiday such as you have given him and his. This court stands adjourned. The voice of the crier was lost in a storm of applause. The jury rose to their feet and cheered judge, complainant and defendant. Portugies, who had stood as one dazed, raised eyes that brimmed with tears to the bench and to his old neighbor. He understood at last. Amela threw his arm around him and kissed him on both cheeks, his disfigured face beaming with joy. One of the jurymen, a Jew, put his hand impulsively in his pocket, emptied it into his hat and passed the hat to his neighbor. All the others followed his example. The court officer dropped in half a dollar as he stuffed its contents into the happy Italian's pocket. For little Vito, he said, and shook his hand. Ah! said the foreman of the jury looking after the reunited friends leaving the courtroom arm in arm. It is good to live in New York. A merry Christmas to you, Judge. End of His Christmas Gift by Jacob A. Reese. The Holy Night by Selma Lagerlof translated by Velma Swanson Howard. When I was five years old, I had such a great sorrow I hardly know if I've had a greater sense. It was then that my grandmother died. Up to that time she used to sit every day on the corner sofa in her room and tell stories. I remember that grandmother told story after story from morning till night and that we children sat beside her quite still and listened. It was a glorious life. No other children had such happy times as we did. It isn't much that I recollect about my grandmother. I remember that she had very beautiful snow-white hair and stooped when she walked and that she always sat and knitted a stocking. And I even remember that when she had finished a story she used to lay her hand on my head and say, All this is as true, as true as that I see you and you see me. I also remember that she could sing songs but this she did not do every day. One of the songs was about a knight and a sea troll and had this refrain It blows cold, cold weather at sea Then I remember a little prayer she taught me and a verse of a hymn. Of all the stories she told me I have but a dim and imperfect recollection. Only one of them do I remember so well that I should be able to repeat it. It is a little story about Jesus' birth. Well this is nearly all that I can recall about my grandmother except the thing which I remember best and that is the great loneliness when she was gone. I remember the morning when the corner sofa stood empty and when it was impossible to understand how the days would ever come to an end. That I remember, that I shall never forget. And I recollect that we children were brought forward to kiss the hand of the dead and that we were afraid to do it. But then someone said to us that it would be the last time to thank grandmother for all the pleasure she had given us. And I remember how the stories and songs were driven from the homestead shut up in a long black casket and how they never came back again. I remember that something was gone from our lives. It seemed as if the door to a whole beautiful enchanted world where before we had been free to go in and out had been closed and now there was no one who knew how to open that door. And I remember that little by little we children learned to play with dolls and toys and to live like other children and then it seemed as though we no longer missed our grandmother or remembered her. But even today, after forty years as I sit here and gather together these legends about Christ which I heard out there in the Orient there awakes within me the little legend of Jesus's birth that my grandmother used to tell. And I feel impelled to tell it once again and to let it also be included in my collection. It was Christmas Day and all the folks had driven to church except grandmother and I. I believe we were all alone in the house. We had not been permitted to go along because one of us was too old and the other too young. And we were sad, both of us, because we had not been taken to early mass to hear the singing and to see the Christmas candles. But as we sat there in our loneliness grandmother began to tell a story. There was a man, said she, who went out in the dark night to borrow live coals to kindle a fire. He went from hut to hut and knocked. Dear friends helped me, said he. My wife has just given birth to a child and I must make a fire to warm her and the little one. But it was way in the night and all the people were asleep. No one replied. The man walked and walked. At last he saw the gleam of a fire a long way off. Then he went in that direction and saw that the fire was burning in the open. A lot of sheep were sleeping around the fire and an old shepherd sat and watched over the flock. When the man who wanted to borrow fire came up to the sheep he saw that three big dogs lay asleep at the shepherd's feet. All three awoke when the man approached and opened their great jaws as though they wanted to bark but not a sound was heard. The man noticed that the hair on their backs stood up and that their sharp white teeth glistened in the firelight. They dashed toward him. He felt that one of them bit at his leg and one at his hand and that one clung to his throat. But their jaws and teeth wouldn't obey them and the man didn't suffer the least harm. Now the man wished to go farther to get what he needed but the sheep lay back to back so close to one another that he couldn't pass them. Then the man stepped upon their backs and walked over them and up to the fire and not one of the animals awoke or moved. Thus far grandmother had been allowed to narrate without interruption but at this point I couldn't help breaking in. Why didn't they do it, Grandma? I asked. That you shall hear in a moment said grandmother and went on with her story. When the man had almost reached the fire the shepherd looked up. He was a surly old man who was unfriendly and harsh toward human beings and when he saw the strange man coming he seized his long spiked staff which he always held in his hand when he tended his flock and threw it at him. The staff came right toward the man but before it reached him it turned off to one side and whizzed past him far out into the meadow. When grandmother had got this far I interrupted her again. Grandma, why wouldn't the stick hurt the man? Grandmother did not bother about answering me but continued her story. Now the man came up to the shepherd and said to him Good man, help me and lend me a little fire. My wife has just given birth to a child and I must make a fire to warm her in the little one. The shepherd would rather have said no but when he pondered that the dogs couldn't hurt the man and the sheep had not run from him and that the staff had not wished to strike him he was a little afraid and dared not deny the man that which he asked. Take as much as you need, he said to the man but by then the fire was nearly burnt out. There were no logs or branches left only a big heap of live coals and the stranger had neither a spade nor shovel wherein he could carry the red-hot coals. When the shepherd saw this he said again take as much as you need and he was glad that the man wouldn't be able to take away any coals. But the man stooped and picked coals from the ashes with his bare hands and laid them in his mantle and he didn't burn his hands when he touched them nor did the coals scorch his mantle but he carried them away as if they had been nuts or apples. But here the storyteller was interrupted for the third time. Grandma, why wouldn't the coals burn the man? That you shall hear, said Grandmother, and went on and when the shepherd, who was such a cruel and hard-hearted man, saw all this he began to wonder to himself what kind of a night is this? When the dogs do not bite the sheep are not scared the staff does not kill or the fire scorch. He called the stranger back and said to him what kind of a night is this and how does it happen that all things show you compassion? Then said the man I cannot tell you if you yourself do not see it and he wished to go his way that he might soon make a fire to warm his wife and child but the shepherd did not wish to lose sight of the man before he had found out what all this might portend he got up and followed the man till they came to the place where he lived then the shepherd saw that the man didn't have so much as a hut to dwell in but that his wife and babe were lying in a mountain grotto where there was nothing except the cold and naked stone walls the shepherd thought that perhaps the poor innocent child might freeze to death there in the grotto and although he was a hard man he was touched and thought he would like to help it and he loosened his knapsack from his shoulder took from it a soft white sheepskin gave it to the strange man and said that he should let the child sleep on it just as soon as he showed that he too could be merciful his eyes were opened and he saw what he had not been able to see before and heard what he could not have heard before he saw that all around him stood a ring of little silver-winged angels and each held a stringed instrument and all sang in loud tones that tonight the Saviour was born who should redeem the world from its sins then he understood how all things were so happy this night that they didn't want to do anything wrong and it was not only around the shepherd that there were angels but he saw them everywhere they sat inside the grotto they sat outside on the mountain and they flew under the heavens they came marching in great companies and as they passed they paused and cast a glance at the child there was such jubilation and such gladness and songs and play and all this he saw in the dark night whereas before he could not have made out anything he was so happy because his eyes had been opened that he fell upon his knees and thanked God here grandmother sighed and said what that shepherd saw we might also see for the angels fly down from heaven every Christmas Eve if we could only see them then grandmother laid her hand on my head and said you must remember this for it is as true as true as that I see you and you see me it is not revealed by the light of lamps or candles and it does not depend upon sun and moon but that which is needful is that we have such eyes as can see God's glory End of The Holy Night by Selma Lagerlof translated by Vilma Swanson Howard Recording by Maria Casper In Memoriam by Alfred Lord Tennyson This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information on to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Chad Horner from Liverpool In Memoriam The time draws near the birth of Christ The moon is head, the night is still The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the midst Four voices of four hamlets round From far and near On, mid and more Swell out and pale As if a door were shut between me and the sound Each voice, four changes on the wind That now, dilate and now decrease Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace Peace and goodwill to your mankind This year I slept and woke with pain I almost wished no more to wake And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again But they my troubled spirit roll For they controlled me when a boy They bring me sorrow, touched with joy The merry, merry bells of yule With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vex's household peace And chains regret to his decease How dare we keep our Christmas at youth Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shard largesse of delight In dance and song and game and jest Yet go and while the holy boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font Make one wreath more for use and want That guard the portals of the house Old sisters of a day gone by Grey nurses loving nothing new Why should they miss their yearly dew Before their time? They too will die With trembling fingers did we weave The holy round the Christmas hearth Our rainy cloud possessed the earth And sadly fell our Christmas eve At our old pastimes in the hall We gumbled making vain pretence Of gladness with an awful tense Of one mute shadow watching all We paused, the winds were in the beach We heard them sweep the winter land And in a circle hand in hand Sat silent, looking each at each Then echo like our voices rang We sung, though every eye was dim A merry song, we sang with him last year Impetuously we sang, we ceased A gentler feeling crept upon us Surely rest is mead, they rest We said, their sleep is sweet And silence followed, and we wept Our voices took a higher range Once more we sang, they do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy Nor change to us, although they change Wrapped from the fickle and the frail With gathered power, yet the same Peaches the keen, syrific flame From orb to orb from veil to veil Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn Draw forth the cheerful day from night Who, Father, touched the east in light The light that shone when hope was born And of end memoriam The Little Mixer by Lillian Nicholas Sheeran This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org There was no fault to be found With the present itself, the trouble lay In the method of transportation This thought was definite enough In Hannah's mind, but she had to rely Upon a seven-year-old vocabulary For expression, and grown-ups are Notably dull of comprehension Even mothers don't always understand Without being told exactly in so many words I didn't say the kimono wasn't nice Mama, explained Hannah And, of course, cousin Kerry was All for good to send it to me But Santa Claus is going to bring Virginia one tomorrow night Down the jimbly Rose Joseph slipped the absurd little Garmin over her daughter's dainty lingerie frock and stood her on a chair That she might view herself in the narrow Mirror between the windows of the living room The child was as lovely as a flower But vanity was still sound asleep In her soul, and she glanced Indifferently at the reflection Her body sagging with disappointment It is just like those little Japanese girls Were, her mother cried, in that Over-enthusiastic adult tone Which, warns a child, he is about To be the recipient of a gold brick I am sure Virginias can't be Any nicer than this one But Mama, Santa Claus is going To bring hers down the jimbly Mine, her voice dropped to a mournful Key, mine came through the door But darling, what difference does it make Just so you get it? Pity for her mother's barren childhood Shown in Hannah's soft black eyes That's no way for presents to come She explained Mama, it's Christmas It is Hanukkah, Mrs. Joseph Replied firmly, remember you are A Jewish dear, I can't never forget it Said the child with a catch in her voice Especially at Christmas But darling, the Jewish children Have Hanukkah, becomes about The same time as Christmas And amounts to the same thing Hannah shook her bronze curls Hanukkah is because the children Of Israel took Jerusalem And the temple away from the bad people She recited glibly And you say prayers And light candles, eight days And all your uncles and aunts And cousins send you things Santa Claus, he don't pay any Tension to Hanukkah Christmas is just one day Santa Claus comes down the chimney And brings things to all good children Except little Jews Because it is the birthday of our savior Mrs. Joseph was silent so long That Hannah felt that she had convinced Her mother of the superiority Of the Gentile Christmas Over the Jewish Hanukkah And she continued more in detail And the children's kin folks Would pose money and tell him what to buy And he brings the presents and nobody Asked to bother about it except him Hannah, Mrs. Joseph Interrupted coldly Who told you about the birthday Of the savior Nelly Halloran answered Hannah In Virginia too, they've got the same one The same what? The same savior, Hannah explained Darling, hasn't mama told you Many times that you must never Never talk about religion To Nelly in Virginia Oh, we don't mama, never Never, but of course we got To talk about Santa Claus and things There seemed to be no reasonable Objection to that So Mrs. Joseph dropped the subject She spent a great deal of time Folding the despised and rejected Kimono until its tissue Paper wrappings Presently she brought a narrow parcel From another room See what Uncle Aaron has sent you dear A little man You wind him up in the back with his key So, and then he dances And plays the fiddle Hannah forced the polite giggle At the little man's antics He too rested under the band Of having come through the door And her attention soon wandered Nelly got a jumping jack At the very top of her stocking Last Christmas, because she's such A jumping jack herself, her papa said You know mama, Santa Claus You're so handy and in little things In your stocking, it puts Your big things all around the room Sometimes he brings a tree And hangs them all on the tree Virginia and Nelly want a tree And a new doll Virginia gets a new doll every Christmas And she got every doll Santa ever brought her Even her little baby rubber doll She's eight years old and will have Eight dolls But Nelly hasn't She's scared she won't get one this Christmas Awful scared Why, dear, asked Mrs. Joseph When Hannah paused for breath Because the doll Santa brought Nelly last Christmas, you know what She was playing Indian with her brother One day and chopped her head off And Nelly's mama said She don't know whether old Santa's Going to forget that or not But Nelly, she says, she prays hard To the Virgin Mary every night If she don't go to sleep too quick Mama, what's a virgin? Mama, what's a virgin is a lady Who has never been married, answered Mrs. Joseph Putting the neglected Musician back into his box Hannah wrestled alone for a moment With a mighty ecclesiastical problem And then gave it up The Virgin Mary as God's mother Hannah continued That's her picture over our fireplace Pointing to a copy of a crude Thirteen-century Madonna and child In a carved Gothic frame Which Eli and Rose Joseph had bought In Italy while on their wedding trip Flanked now by candles burning In silver candelabra In honor of Hanukkah It gave the mantle a passing resemblance To a Catholic shrine I don't think God's mother Is very pretty, do you mama? And I think Nelly's little brother Is a heap prettier in God When he was a baby Mrs. Joseph showed signs Of having reached the limit Hannah, she said firmly, It is time you were in bed But papa hasn't come home yet Papa will be late tonight, dear The Christmas rush sighed Hannah Mama, you haven't looked down My throat today, she added Playing for time Mrs. Joseph went through The daily ritual It looks all right, she pronounced It is all right, came The triumph and answer It is never going to be sore again Virginia says, never mind What Virginia says, if your throat ever Hurts you the least little bit You are to come to me instantly And tell me, do you understand? Yes mama, but it Isn't going to hurt anymore Hannah insisted, come on upstairs To bed Still Hannah hung back She had not played her trump card yet And the time was short She caught her mother's slim white hand And hers in finger nervously at the rings Mama, she almost whispered Virginia says it's Jewish mama's fault That santicloss don't come to see Jewish children If the mamas would just go to santi And tell him to come You will, won't you mama, please mama? Hannah, not another word About Christmas and santicloss Not another word Hannah swallowed Something that came in her throat And bravely winked back tears Kept Mandy put me to bed No, dear, Mandy is busy in the kitchen Mama will put you to bed And tell you stories She bent down and kissed the child tenderly Hannah flung her arms About her mother's neck She loved the feel of the soft throat And the gently curving bosom Against her little cheek And the fragrance of her mother's hair And silken laces She didn't know that her mother looked Like a portrait by Raphael But she did know that her mama was the prettiest Mama in all the world And yet mama I'm so tired of stories About the children of Israel They never did anything funny Mandy tells me tales about the old Plantashun when her mama was a slave And old Mars and old Miss Going to town and giving santicloss Money so as he'd bring beads And juice harps and things To the little niggers And he never forgot one From the biggest to the littlest darky Santa didn't And he began to tremble with Repressed sobs I wished I was a little Darky It's awful sad to be a little Jewish Child at Christmas time And then the storm broke Two hours later Eli Joseph's Tired steps sounded on the veranda And Rose hurried to admit him Lifting a silencing hand As soon as he crossed the threshold Hannah has just gone to sleep She whispered, no, no, she's not Sick at all. He placed an arm Around her and drew her into the library Eli, your overcoat Is what she exclaimed Entwining her arms from his neck Snow, he said, is good-looking Boyish face lighting up with pleasure Seems we are to have a white Christmas After all, Christmas She cried. I wish I could never hear That word again. Well I'm glad it only comes once a year Tonight ends my siege, though Tomorrow night's dime goes on duty And I come home for dinner to stay Rose, darling, you look all tired out You shouldn't wait up for me It isn't that It's Hannah. She cried for more than An hour tonight And but for Mandy and her tales I believe She would still be crying And she detailed the scene to him But good gracious, Rose, let Santa Claus Bring her presents to her, said Eli When she had finished Hannah's nothing but a baby She is beginning to think for herself As you did at a very early age You reminded her And your father the strictest of Orthodox rabbis How old were you when you began Slipping off to the Reformed Temple I broke my father's heart, she said Sombrily, I'll be punished through Hannah Not unless you let Hannah think Faster than you do And remember, he added teasingly If you hadn't run off to the Reformed Temple You would never have met me At the step, she recalled I would never have met you inside Maybe I'm a lax, he acknowledged But it seems to me that If you are living a decent life yourself And giving the other fellow a square deal You are pretty nearly fulfilling the law In the prophets And what do you suppose is happening To Hannah with a Christian science family On one side, and Roman Catholics On the other, she demanded tragically She's decided not to Take any more medicine As Virginia Lawrence doesn't She has nearly hallowed Every expression about Virgin and the Saviour Not only that, but she has Made friends with a Christian science Practitioner through the Laurences And calls him my friend, Mr. Jackson She runs to meet him And walks the length of the block With him every time he passes Hannah is certainly a natural born Mixer, laughed the father We are saving ourselves trouble By giving her the best there is Eli, I'm afraid We have made a mistake moving out here Away from all her people No, we didn't make a mistake He declared earnestly The square was no place to bring a Hannah among those pardoned Jews We have the prettiest home on the Heights and the best people in town For our neighbours Our child is losing her identity As a Jewish Let her find it again As an American he would love Frankly, Rose, I don't lose any sleep Over trying to keep my identity As a Jew intact If a Jew doesn't like it here Let him go back to Palestine Or did the country that oppressed him, I say I've got the same amount of patience With these hyphenated Americans As I have with the Jews Who try to segregate themselves And dot the map with new Jerusalems Where's the sense In throwing yourself into the melting pot Glad of the chance and then Kicking because you come out something different Come on to bed, dear You're as pale as a ghost And I'm so tired I can't see straight Our baby is all right Don't you worry Snow falls on the just and the unjust There was quite as much of it In Hannah's backyard as In either Virginias or Nellies Perhaps even a little more had drifted Into the fence corners Hannah's joy in discovering that In this respect she had not been slighted She crowded her troubles into the background Immediately after breakfast Bundled up snugly she stood in her yard And threw snowballs toward her neighbor's homes While she squealed with delight In a very few minutes Three little girls were playing Where only one had played before The two newcomers Virginia Lawrence and Nellie Halloran Presented an interesting contrast Virginia slim and tall For her age With long flat yellow braids Handled the snow daintily Even gingerly Nellie, fat and dimpled her curls Towseled into a flame-colored halo Rolled over and over in the snow And then shook herself like a puppy Until the advent of Hannah A subtle antagonism That existed between the two children Virginia's favorite game Was playing Lady with a train Floating gracefully behind her Nellie's cheap joy in life Was seeing how long she could stand on her head Her short skirts abandoned the laws of gravity All the while Hannah, however, vibrated Obligingly between the two sports And kept the peace in violin Romping in the snow was hard play And presently the little girls sat Panting on the top step Of the Joseph's back porch Immediately Nellie produced a string Of amistice-colored beads From her coat pocket With the announcement that she would say Her prayer is well-resting To those asked Hannah Rosary beads, coarse, responded Nellie Hannah, you don't know anything I do, too But you don't even know about the mother of God Until I told you I reckon I thought God was an orphan Hannah pleaded in extenuation But what about God's papa She demanded a sudden inspiration You're so smarty, tell me about that Oh, God didn't have to have a father Nellie answered easily Everything is free in heaven So he didn't have to have a father To work for him when he was little Then why did he have to have a mama To tell him what to do, of course You know how it is If you ask your papa anything Don't he always say go ask your mama Hannah had noticed the shifting Of masculine responsibility More than once That's so she acquiesced And then a terrible thought struck her I don't want to go to heaven I don't want to go anywhere My papa can go, too Nellie's nimble Irish wits were ready I just said God didn't need any papa Of course our papa's Will go to heaven Because that's the only place they can quit working Didn't I hear my papa say One time he hoped he'd get a little rest In heaven because he never got any On this earth But you have to die before you get to heaven Inside Hannah Virginia who had maintained a most dignified Silence looked as if she must speak Or explode No you don't Heaven begins here and now she recited And if you are good You are well and happy And that's heaven Tisn't scoffed Nellie Do you see any angel flying around in this Here yard? I don't Hannah rather took the Virginia's Argument and resolved to have conversation Where there's some time Undampened by Nellie's skepticism If there could be feasting on the joys Hannah had every intention of being At the banquet table At the present moment however the rosary beads Were of fascinating interest She must hold them in her own hands And watch the play of purple lights Upon the snow as she flashed them in the sun Questions about the crucifix she found Brought on in embarrassing Silence Nellie looked at Virginia Virginia looked at Nellie Then the two excused themselves For a whispered colloquy At the end of the yard When they returned Virginia acted as spokesman Fixing Nellie with an unrelenting eye That is Jesus nailed to the cross Hannah Some very wicked people did it There was nothing exciting in this to Hannah Wicked people were doing wicked things The world over all the time The statement fell flat Nellie disappointed at the lack of Dramatic effect Broke treating She said They did not Hannah's voice trembled The Jews are nice people They wouldn't do a wicked thing like that Virginia put an arm across Hannah's shoulders Now see what she's done She snapped at Nellie Oh I specked that Irish helped them Nellie added it magnanimously My papa says the Irish Are into everything Not having to bear the ignominy alone Hannah was comforted What makes you say prayers on the beach She asked Because I want Santa to bring me a doll tonight I wrote him about 16 letters And I'm going to say my rosary a dozen Times today Tomorrow was Christmas day And his face fell All her sorrows returned with a rush Have you got any more of those beads She asked Yes but they wouldn't do you any good Nellie answered with quick understanding You're not a Catholic Couldn't I be one? Holy water, the priest does it The leaven had begun to work What did your mama say About asking Santa Claus to come Virginia inquired With a quick glance toward the beads Hannah shook her head, speechless She pressed her lips into a tight line With an effort itself control But two large tears rolled down Her cheeks and splashed on her scarlet coat Again Virginia placed an arm Protectingly across Hannah's shoulders Nellie's bright blue eyes Grew soft with pity I tell you what she exclaimed I'll baptize Hannah Then she'll be a Gentile And Santa Claus will come no matter what And when your mama sees how nice it is She won't care But you said a priest has to baptize Anybody ejected Virginia He does, bless it's a time of danger And you can't get any priest Then any Catholic can baptize anybody My mama baptized our washerwoman's little baby Because they knew it was going to die Before Father Murphy could get there And ain't this a time of danger Nobody's dying, Virginia was Distressingly literal Hannah looked from one friend to the other Hoping against hope No, but there's danger Santa Claus won't come to see Hannah, lest something is done mighty quick Came Nellie's ready reply And can't we get a priest? You go get one Virginia, go get one Clearly there was no answer to this But you said a priest has to baptize anybody And you said a priest has to baptize anybody Clearly there was no answer to this The ceremony was set for early afternoon When grandmother Halloran took her nap And Nellie could borrow the Bottle of holy water from her shelf As to the place, there were six boys At the Hallorans always in the way Mrs. Lawrence had guessed Obviously the baptismal rite Would have to be performed at Hannah's house After lunch the children Assembled in the son parlor Of the Joseph's home In full view of Mrs. Joseph Who sat embroidering in the library The French door closed between them So that she could not hear Nellie had secured The bottle of holy water and a raid In her brother Joe's long black raincoat A towel about her neck For a stole Acted as priest Virginia not to be left out Of such an important affair Consented to be godmother In lieu of a prayer manual Nellie used one of Hannah's story books The verse which because she knew it by heart She could read exceptionally well Little boy blue Come blow your horn The sheep are in the metal And the cows are in the corn Then she poured a little of the holy water On Hannah's forehead Wet hair might occasion unanswerable questions And baptized her Hannah Agnes Anatius Joseph Called upon for a response The godmother recited very impressively The scientific statement of being Is found in the Christian science Textbook in Hannah was pronounced A Gentile and a Catholic One thing more remained to be done Hannah ran to her mother Cheeks aglow Mama may I trade my stripe ball To Nellie for some beads Why of course darling if you wish The exchange was made and some time Was spent in mastering the use Of the rosary All three of the children knew the our father There were some difference of opinion As to debts and trespasses Which is apt to hold in all mixed congregations The Hail Mary proved a bit difficult for Hannah And she fondly abandoned it I'll say hero Israel the lord our god The lord is one She said I already know that And a prayer is a prayer isn't it Nellie refilled the holy water bottle From a kitchen hydrant and hurried home To replace it before her grandmother Was awakened Hannah spent the next hour lying flat On her stomach printing letters Appealing to Virginia from time to time For aid as to the spelling Virginia being a very superior Speller Mrs. Joseph was busy with callers When Virginia went home And Hannah was left to her own devices Suddenly she thought of one stone That had been left unturned There was her friend Mr. Jackson To whom the Lawrence has always Appealed in times of stress She knew the formula, she knew his number Were on the list by the Lawrence's telephone His name, like Abubin Adams Led all the rest Maine, one, two, three, four It was easy as counting She slipped into the telephone closet And closed the door There was no trouble with Hannah that night She went to bed early and didn't care To have any stories told She could go to sleep by herself Quite the change of heart Eh? Eli'd commentate to Rose as they Sat by the living room fire after Telling their little girl goodnight She's been like that all day Playing as happily as you please Rose responded I suppose she got it all out of her system In last night's scene Eli drummed abstractly On the arm of his chair I don't feel quite right about it Even so, he said Maybe you will think me inconsistent She confessed blushing, but Hannah was so indifferent about The present center for Hanukkah I only showed her two I've saved the others to give her Christmas day So she will have something of her own To show when the other children bring theirs over Eli didn't seem any too pleased Poor little knight in murmur Yes Mrs. Joseph It was Bridget, Helen Ann's Old family servant Calling softly from the hall I'll be after taking the presents You stored away for us I'll have them on the back porch And carry them over when the children are all asleep Nellie's in bed like a little angel Bless her heart But the devilish boys do be a snoopin' In every crackin' corner Mrs. Joseph unlocked a closet Under the stairs and loaded Bridget's arms With heavy and bulky parcels Surent is a sad Christmas We'll be havin' sayin' the children Mr. Timmy Him that's old Mrs. Halloran Ann's youngest But old enough to know better He ups and runs away today And marries a Protestant girl And if you open your windy the bit Have a crack You'll hear the poor old lady this minute Wailin' like a banshee But Mr. Timothy is such a nice young man He must have married a lovely girl Bridget Said Rose Sure, and that may be, but she is a Protestant Mrs. Joseph She runs away from her folks And they get married by the justice of peace And no peace will come of such thing Lord and mercy on their souls O poor Grandma Halloran Ann For lovers said Eli when Bridget had gone I'll wager they had the very deuce of a time With both sides No sooner had they settled themselves again Than the door knocker sounded Eli admitted Mr. Jackson The Christian science practitioner I have only a minute he said I just dropped by to leave a doll My wife dressed for your little girl She chose one that we Thought looked like Hannah Oh, but this is kind of you Rose looked her gratitude Mr. Florence has told me how busy both You and your wife always are And to take time to think of our little girl I had intended to give it to her Myself, Mr. Jackson continued But after her talk with me today I decided she would enjoy it More if I asked Santa Claus to bring it His eyes twinkled reminiscently She called me up by telephone And asked me to give Santa Claus a treatment She seemed to think that he would pass her by I could assure her that he wouldn't As I had already seen the doll Hannah is a wonderful child We think so smile Eli I'm sure we thank you And wish you the very merriest Christmas And it will be a happy Christmas For me he answered I'm going to the station To meet my father and mother Some years ago they felt Estranged from me There are both staunch Presbyterians of the old school And it nearly broke their hearts When I went into Christian science work But they're beginning to look More tolerantly upon my calling And they are on their way now To spend Christmas with us You can guess how happy that makes me Peace on her, goodwill to men It is a wonderful thought It is indeed Eli Agreed heartily When the door had closed upon their visitor Rose and Eli stood staring At each other rather foolishly She was the first to speak Is there no end to the fight Between the old and the new generation We're just beginning To scrap with our new generation He said She called him up and asked for Christian Science help I wonder what else that little monkey Has been up to They soon found out That Christian had brought Rose tiptoed after Eli into the nursery And gradually turned on the light The first object to meet their eyes Was Hannah's stocking Hanged precariously to a pin Driven into the mantle Pin to the wall were several messages Neatly printed in pencil Which told their own tale Dear Santi Nelly baptized me Holy water Hannah Dear Santi Claus I'm a Gentile Nelly baptized me I'm a Gentile Catholic C.S. Hannah Dear Santi Bring me any nice things you got left Would love Hannah Dear Santi Don't let my mama and papa Get mad about you Hannah Eli began to chortle Clutched tightly in her left hand They saw a rosary of amethyst Colored beads Rose snapped off the light And pushed Eli out into the hall He sat down on the stairs And laughed until he cried The dog got a little mixer He chuckled A Gentile Catholic Christian Scientist is she If she has ever happened to hear anything about Muhammad, believe me She's sleeping with her feet toward Mecca Over the little message Don't let my mama and my papa Get mad about you She touched her husband on the shoulder Eli, what shall we do about him? Do, he stood up And set his jaw determinedly You spoke just now of the fight Between the old and the new generations Do you see what we are coming to him If we don't concede our child Her legitimate rights She will seek them out and take them By force and never forgive us That's what every child Who has ever heard of Santa Claus Has a right to enjoy the myth Didn't I give a hundred dollars to the Elks And a hundred dollars to the big brothers Who were looking after the empty stockings Of the poor children While my own baby reached the bedroom door And was kicking off his house slippers Eli, where are you going? Downtown to see Santa Claus If I have to break open a dozen stores He answered determinedly It seemed that Santa Claus Never having visited Hannah before Had a mind to make up for lost time An overflowing stocking hung from the mantel The tree loaded with presents And tinsles stood by her bed Without the room replaced large gifts Everything a little girl might wish for Hannah was dazed She didn't see her mother and father Standing in the doorway of the nursery Their arms about each other and smiling She tugged at her window until it opened And then called an ellie Across the intervening space He came, he came she screamed As a tousled flame-colored head Showed at the window opposite Hannah brushed by her parents And running to the window nearest Virginia's room Repeated her message Then she came back into the nursery Still oblivious of mother and father And stared about in her ecstasy The occasion called for some expression Of Thanksgiving What could it be? The seven-year-old child hasn't words For such a big emotion She could think of but one thing to do Reverently bowing her little bronze head She made the sign of the cross Upside down End of The Little Mixer By Lillian Nicholson Sheeran The night after Christmas By Anonymous This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information Or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The night after Christmas Twas the night after Christmas And all through the house Not a creature was stirring Excepting a mouse The stockings were flung in haste Over the chair For hopes of St. Nicholas were no longer there The children were restlessly tossing In bed for the pie and the candy Were heavy as lead While mama in her kerchief And I in my gown Had just made up our mama In my gown Had just made up our minds That we would not lie down When out on the lawn There rose such a clatter I sprang from my chair To see what was the matter Away to the window I went with a dash Flung open the shutter and threw up the sash The moon on the breast Of the new fallen snow Gave a luster of noonday To objects below When what to my long anxious eye With a little old driver So solemn and slow I knew at a glance it must be Dr. Bro I drew in my head And was turning around When upstairs came the doctor With scarcely a sound He wore a thick overcoat Made long ago And the beard on his chin Was white with the snow He spoke a few words And went straight to his work He felt all the pulses He drew a side of his nose With a knot of his head To the chimney he goes A spoonful of oil, ma'am If you have it handy No nuts and no raisins No pies and no candy These tender young stomachs Cannot well digest All the sweets that they get Toys and books are the best But I know my advice Will not find many friends For the custom of Christmas Seedingly blind Well, a good night to you And I heard him exclaim As he drove out of sight These feastings and candies Make doctor's bills right End of the night after Christmas By Anonymous Savannah, Georgia He lived on the bank of a mighty river Broad and deep Which was always silently rolling on To a vast undiscovered ocean It had rolled on ever since the world began It had changed its course sometimes And turned into new channels Leaving its old ways dry and barren But it had ever been upon the flow And ever was to flow until time should be no more Against its strong unfalemable stream Nothing made head No living creature, no flower, no leaf No particle of animate or inanimate existence Ever strayed back from the undiscovered ocean The tide of the river set resistlessly toward it And the tide never stopped Any more than the earth stops in its circling round the sun He lived in a busy place And he worked very hard to live He had no hope of ever being rich enough to live A month without hard work But he was quite content, God knows To labour with a cheerful will He was one of an immense family All of whose sons and daughters Gained their daily bread by daily work Prolonged from their rising-up bedtimes Until they're lying down at night Beyond this destiny he had no prospect And he sought none There was over much drumming, trumpeting and speech-making In the neighbourhood where he dwelt But he had nothing to do with that Such clash and uproar came from the big-wig family At the unaccountable proceedings of which race He marvelled much They set up the strangest statues In iron, marble, bronze and brass Before his door, and darkened his house With the legs and tails of uncouth images of horses He wondered what it all meant Smiled in a rough good-humoured way he had And kept at his hard work The big-wig family Composed of all the statelyest people thereabouts And all the noisiest had undertaken to save him The trouble of thinking for himself And to manage him and his affairs Why, truly, said he, I have little time upon my hands And if you will be so good as to take care of me In return for the money I pay over For the big-wig family were not above his money I shall be relieved and much obliged Considering that you know best Hence the drumming, trumpeting and speech-making And the ugly images of horses Which he was expected to fall down and worship I don't understand all this Said he, rubbing his furrowed brow Confusedly But it has a meaning, maybe If I could find it out What it means Returned the big-wig family Suspecting something of what he said Honor and glory in the highest To the highest merit Oh, said he, and he was glad to hear that But when he looked among the images of iron, marble, bronze and brass He failed to find a rather meritorious countryman of his Once the son of a Warwickshire wool-dealer Or any single countryman whomsoever of that kind He could find none of the men whose knowledge had rescued him And his children from terrific and disfiguring disease Whose boldness had raised his forefathers From the condition of serfs Whose wise fancy had opened anew And high existence to the humblest Still had filled the working man's world with accumulated wonders Whereas he did find others whom he knew no good of And even others whom he knew much ill of Humph, said he, I don't quite understand it So he went home and sat down by his fireside To get it out of his mind Now his fireside was a bare one All hemmed in by blackened streets But it was a precious place to him The hands of his wife were hardened with toil And she was old before her time But she was dear to him His children stunted in their growth Bore traces of unwholesome nurture But they had beauty in his sight Above all other things it was an earnest desire Of this man's soul that his children should be taught If I am sometimes misled, said he For want of knowledge at least let them know better And avoid my mistakes If it is hard for me to reap the harvest of pleasure And instruction that is stored in books Let it be easier to them But the big-wig family broke out into violent family quarrels Learning what it was lawful to teach to this man's children Some of the family insisted on such a thing Being primary and indispensable above all other things And others of the family insisted on such another thing Being primary and indispensable above all other things And the big-wig family, rent into factions Wrote pamphlets, held convocations Delivered charges or rations All varieties of discourses Impounded one another in courts lay and courts ecclesiastical Threw dirt, exchanged pummelings And fell together by the ears in unintelligible animosity Meanwhile this man, in his short evening snatches At his fireside, saw the demon ignorance arise there And take his children to itself He saw his daughter perverted into a heavy, slaternly drudge He saw his son go moping down the ways of low sensuality To brutality and crime He saw the dawning light of intelligence in the eyes of his babies So changing into cunning and suspicion That he could have rather wished them idiots I don't understand this any better Said he But I think it cannot be right Nay, by the clouded heaven above me I protest against this as my wrong Becoming peaceable again For his passion was usually short-lived And his nature kind He looked about him on his Sundays and holidays And he saw how much monotony and weariness there was And thence how drunkenness arose With all its train of ruin Then he appealed to the bigwig family and said We are a laboring people And I have a glimmering suspicion in me That laboring people of whatever condition were made By a higher intelligence than yours, as I poorly understand it To be in need of mental refreshment and recreation See what we fall into when we rest without it Come, amuse me harmlessly Show me something, give me an escape But here the bigwig family fell into a state of uproar Absolutely deafening When some few voices were faintly heard Proposing to show him the wonders of the world The greatness of creation The mighty changes of time The workings of nature and the beauties of art To show him these things that is to say In any period of his life when he could look upon them There arose among the bigwigs such roaring and raving Such pulpiting and petitioning Such monitoring and memorializing Such name-calling and dirt-throwing Such a shrill wind of parliamentary questioning And feeble replying Where, I dare not, waited on, I would That the poor fellow stood aghast Staring wildly around Have I provoked all this? Said he with his hands to his affrighted ears By what was meant to be an innocent request Plainly arising out of my familiar experience And the common knowledge of all men who choose to open their eyes I don't understand And I am not understood What is to come of such a state of things? He was bending over his work, often asking himself the question When the news began to spread that a pestilence had appeared among the laborers And was slaying them by thousands Going forth to look about him, he soon found this to be true The dying and the dead were mingled in the close And tainted houses among which his life was passed The poison was distilled into the always murky, always sickening air The robust and the weak, old age and infancy, the father and the mother All were stricken down alike What means of flight had he He remained there where he was And saw those who were dearest to him die A kind preacher came to him and would have said some prayers To soften his heart in his gloom, but he replied What avails it, missionary, to come to me? A man condemned to residence in this fetid place Where every sense bestowed upon me for my delight becomes a torment And where every minute of my numbered days is new mire Added to the heap under which I lie oppressed But give me my first glimpse of heaven Through a little of its light and air Give me pure water, help me to be clean Lighten this heavy atmosphere and heavy life in which our spirits sink And we become the indifferent and callous creatures you too often see us Gently and kindly take the bodies of those who die among us Out of the small room where we grow to be so familiar with the awful change That even its sanctity is lost to us And teacher, then I will hear, none know better than you how willingly Of him whose thoughts were so much with the poor And who had compassion for all human sorrow He was at work again, solitary and sad When his master came and stood near to him dressed in black He also had suffered heavily His young wife, his beautiful and good young wife, was dead So too his only child Master, it is hard to bear I know it But be comforted, I would give you comfort if I could The master thanked him from his heart but said Oh, you laboring men, the calamity began among you If you had but lived more healthily and decently I should not be the widowed and bereft mourner that I am this day Master, returned the other shaking his head I have begun to understand a little that most calamities will come from us As this one did, and that none will stop at our poor doors Until we are united with that great squabbling family yonder To do the things that are right We cannot live healthily and decently unless they who undertook to manage us Provide the means We cannot be instructed unless they will teach us We cannot be rationally amused unless they will amuse us We cannot but have some false gods of our own While they set up so many of theirs in all the public places The evil consequences of imperfect instruction The evil consequences of pernicious neglect The evil consequences of unnatural restraint And the denial of humanizing enjoyments will all come from us Then none of them will stop with us They will spread far and wide They always do They always have done just like the pestilence I understand so much I think At last But the master said again Are you laboring men? How seldom do we ever hear of you Except in connection with some trouble Master He replied I am nobody And little likely to be heard of Nor yet much wanted to be heard of perhaps Except when there is some trouble But it never begins with me And it never can end with me As sure as death it comes down to me And it goes up from me There was so much reason in what he said That the bigwig family getting wind of it And being horribly frightened by the late desolation Resolved to unite with him to do the things that were right At all events, so far as the said things were associated With the direct prevention, humanly speaking Of another pestilence But as their fear wore off which it soon began to do They resumed their falling out among themselves And did nothing Consequently the scourge appeared again Low down as before And spread avengingly upward as before And carried off vast numbers of the brawlers But not a man among them ever admitted If in the least degree he ever perceived That he had anything to do with it So nobody lived and died In the old, old, old way And this, in the main, is the whole of nobody's story Had he no name, you ask? Perhaps it was Legion It matters little what his name was Let us call him Legion If you were ever in the Belgian villages Near the field of Waterloo You will have seen in some quiet little church A monument erected by faithful companions In arms to the memory of Colonel A Major B Captains C, D and E Lieutenants F and G N signs H, I and J Seven non-commissioned officers And 130 rank and file Who fell in the discharge of their duty On the memorable day The story of nobody Is the story of the rank and file Of the earth They bear their share of the battle They have their part in the victory They fall They leave no name but in the mass The march of the proudest of us Leads to the dusty way by which they go Oh, let us think of them this year At the Christmas fire And not forget them when it is burnt out End of nobody's story by Charles Dickens Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Old Father Christmas by J. H. Ewing This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Michael Maggs Old Father Christmas Can you fancy young people? Said Godfather Garble Winking his prominent eyes And moving his feet backwards and forwards In his square shoes So that you could hear the squeakler The half a rum off Can you fancy my having been a very little boy And having a Godmother? But I had And she sent me presents on my birthdays too And young people did not get presents When I was a child as they get them now Rump We had not half so many toys as you have But we kept them twice as long I think we were fonder of them too Though they were neither so handsome Nor so expensive as these new fangled affairs You were always breaking about the house Rump You see Middle-class folk were more saving then My mother turned and dyed her dresses And when she had done with them The servant was very glad to have them But, bless me, your mother's maids dress So much finer than their mistress I do not think they would say Thank you for her best Sunday silk The bustle's the wrong shape Rump What's that you are laughing at, little miss? It's pannier, is it? Well, well, bustle or pannier Call it what you like But only donkeys wore panniers in my young days And many's the ride I've had in them Now, as I say My relations and friends thought twice Before they pulled out five shillings in a toy shop But they didn't forget me all the same On my eighth birthday My mother gave me a bright blue comforter Of her own knitting My little sister gave me a ball My mother had cut out the divisions From various bits in the rag-bag And my sister had done some of the seeming It was stuffed with bran and had a cork inside Which had broken from old age And could no longer fit the pickle-jar It belonged to This made the ball bound when we played Prisoner's Bass My father gave me the broken driving-whip That had lost the lash And an old pair of his gloves to play coachmen with These I had longed wish for Since next to sailing in a ship In my ideas came the honour and glory Of driving a coach My whole soul, I must tell you Had met upon being a sailor In those days I had rather put to sea Once on Farmer Fodder's duck-pond Than ride twice atop of his hay-wagon And between the smell of the hay And the softness of it And the height you are up above other folk And the danger of tumbling off if you don't look out For hay is elastic as well as soft Don't easily beat a ride on a hay-wagon for pleasure But as I say I'd rather put to sea on the duck-pond Though the best craft I could borrow Was the pig-sty door And a pole to punt with And the village boys jeering when I got aground Which was most of the time Besides the duck-pond never having a wave On it worth the name, punt as you would And so shallow you could not have got Drowned in it to save your life You're laughing now, little master, are you? But let me tell you that drowning's The death for a sailor whatever you may think So I've always maintained And have given every navigable sea In the known world a chance Though here I am after all Laid up in arm-chairs and feather-beds To await for bronchitis or some other slow poison Rumpf Well, we must all go as we're called Sailors or landsmen And as I was saying If I was never to sail a ship I would have liked to drive a coach A male coach serving his majesty Her majesty now, God bless her Carrying the royal arms and bound to go Rough weather and fare Many's the time I've done it In play you understand With that whip and those gloves Dear, dear, the pains I took To teach my sister Patty to be a highwayman And jump out on me from the drying Head in the dusk with a stand and deliver Which she couldn't get out of her throat For fright and wouldn't jump hard enough For fear of hurting me The whip and the gloves gave me joy I can tell you, but there was more to come Kitty the servant gave me a shell That she had had by her for years How I had coveted that shell It had this remarkable property When you put it to your ear You could hear the roaring of the sea I had never seen the sea But Kitty was born in a fisherman's cottage And many an hour have I sat by the kitchen fire Whilst she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean And ever and unknown She would snatch the shell from the mantelpiece And clap it to my ear crying There, child, you couldn't hear it plainer than that It's the very moral When Kitty gave me that shell for my very own I felt that life had little more to offer I held it to every ear in the house Including the cats And, seeing Dick the sexton son go by With an armful of straw to stuff Guy Fawkes I ran out and, in my anxiety to make him Share the treat and learn what the sea is like I clapped the shell to his ear So smartly and unexpectedly that he Thinking me to have struck him Knocked me down there and then with his bundle of straw When he understood the rites of the case He begged my pardon handsomely And gave me two whole treacle-sticks And part of a third out of his britch's pocket In return for which I forgave him freely And promised to let him hear the sea roar On every Saturday half-holiday till further notice And, speaking of Dick and the straw Reminds me that my birthday falls on the 5th of November From this it came about I had always to bear a good many jokes About being burnt as Guy Fawkes But on the other hand I was allowed to make A small bonfire of my own And to have eight potatoes to roast therein And eight pennies of crackers to let off in the evening A potato and a pennies of crackers For every year of my life On this 8th birthday Having got all the above-name gifts I cried in the fullness of my heart There never was such a day And yet there was more to come For the evening coach brought me a parcel And the parcel was my godmother's picture-book My godmother was a gentlewoman of small means But she was accomplished She could make very spirited sketches And knew how to colour them after they were outlined And shaded in Indian ink She had a pleasant talent for versifying She was very industrious I have it from her own lips That she copied the figures in my picture-book From prints in several different houses At which she visited There were fancy portraits of characters Most of which were familiar to my mind There were Guy Fawkes Punch His then Majesty the King Bogey The man in the moon The clerk of the weather-office A dunce And old Father Christmas Beneath each sketch was a stanza Of my godmother's own composing My godmother was very ingenious She had been mainly guided in her choice of these characters By the prints she happened to meet with As she did not trust herself to design a figure But if she could not get exactly what she wanted She had a clever knack of tracing An outline of the attitude from some engraving And altering the figure to suit her purpose In the finished sketch She was the soul of truthfulness And the note she added to the index of contents In my picture-book spoke at once for her honesty In avowing obligations and her ingenuity In availing herself of opportunities They ran thus Number one, Guy Fawkes Outlined from a figure of a warehouseman Rolling a sherry cask into Mr. Rudd's wine vaults I added the hat, cloak and boots in the finished drawing Number two, Punch I sketched him from the life Number three, His most gracious Majesty the King On a court-jug bought in Cheapside Number four, Bogey With bad boys in the bag on his back Outlined from a Christian Bending under his burden In my mother's old copy of The Pilgrim's Progress The face from giant despair Number five and number six The man in the moon and the clerk of the weather-office From a book of caricatures belonging to Dr. James Number seven, A dunce From a steel engraving framed in Rosewood That hangs in my uncle Wilkinson's parlour Number eight, Old Father Christmas From a German book at Lady Littleham's My sister Patty was six years old We loved each other dearly The picture-book was almost as much hers as mine We sat so long together On one big footstool by the fire With our arms round each other And the book resting on our knees That Kitty called down blessings on my godmother's head For having sent a volume that kept us both So long out of mischief If books was Alice as useful as that They do for me, said she And though this speech did not mean much It was a great deal for Kitty to say Since not being herself an educated person She naturally thought that little enough Good comes of learning Patty and I had our favourites amongst the pictures Bogey now was a character one did not care To think about too near bedtime I was tired of Guy Fawkes and thought That he looked more natural made of straw As dictated him The dunce was a little too personal But old Father Christmas took our hearts by storm We had never seen anything like him Though nowadays you may get a plaster figure of him In any toy shop at Christmas time With hair and beard like cotton wool And a Christmas tree in his hand The custom of Christmas trees came from Germany I can remember when they were first introduced into England And what wonderful things we sought them Now every village school has its tree And the scholars openly discuss whether the presents Have been good or mean As compared with other trees of former years The first one that I ever saw I believed to have come from the good Father Christmas himself But little boys have grown too wise now To be taken in for their own amusement They are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations In the back drawing room They hardly confess to the thrill Which I feel to this day When the folding doors are thrown open And amid the blaze of tapers Mamar like a fate Advances with her scissors To give everyone what falls to his lot Well, young people When I was eight years old I had not seen a Christmas tree And the first picture of one I ever saw Was the picture of that held by old Father Christmas In my godmother's picture book What are those things on the tree? I asked Candles, said my father No father, not the candles, the other things Those are toys, my son Are they ever taken off? Yes, they are taken off And given to the children who stand round the tree Patty and I grasped each other by the hand And with one voice murmured How kind of old Father Christmas By and by I asked How old is old Father Christmas? My father laughed and said One thousand eight hundred and thirty years, child Which was then the year of our lord And thus one thousand eight hundred and thirty years Since the first great Christmas day He looks very old, whispered Patty And I, who was for my age What Kitty called Bible-learned Said thoughtfully And with some puzzledness of mind Then he's older than Methuselah But my father had left the room And did not hear my difficulty November and December went by And still the picture book Kept all its charm for Patty and me And we pondered on and loved old Father Christmas As children can love and realise a fancy friend To those who remember the fancies of their childhood I need say no more Christmas week came Christmas Eve came My father and mother were mysteriously And unaccountably busy in the parlour We only had one parlour And Patty and I were not allowed to go in We went into the kitchen But even here was no place of rest for us Kitty was all over the place As she phrased it And cakes, mince pies and puddings were with her As she justly observed There was no place there for children And books to sit with their toes in the fire When our body wanted to be at the oven all along Their cat was enough for her temper She added As to Puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint Which drove her out into the Christmas frost She returned again and again with soft steps And a stupidity that was, I think, affected To the warm hearth Only to fly at intervals like a football Before Kitty's hasty slipper We have more sense, all less courage We bowed to Kitty's behests and went to the back door Patty and I were hardy children And accustomed to run out in all weathers Without much extra wrapping up We put Kitty's shawl over our two heads And went outside I rather hoped to see something of Dick For it was holiday time But no Dick passed He was busy helping his father To bore holes in the carved seats of the church Which were to hold sprigs of holly for the morrow That was the idea of church decoration in my young days You have improved on your elders there, young people And I am candid enough to allow it Still, the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing And, like your lovely wreaths and pious devices They made one feel as if the old blackwood Were bursting into life and leaf again For very Christmas joy And, if one only knelt carefully They did not scratch his nose Added Godfather Garble chuckling and rubbing his own Which was large and rather red Well, he continued Dick was busy and not to be seen We ran across the little yard And looked over the wall at the end To see if we could see anything or anybody From this point there was a pleasant meadow field Sloping prettily away to a little hill About three-quarters of our mile distance Which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond Was held to be a place of cure for whooping cough Or kink cough as it was vulgally called Up to the top of this kitty had dragged me And carried Patty when we were recovering From the complaint as I well remember It was the only change of air we could afford And I dare say it did as well as if we had gone Into badly drained lodgings at the seaside This hill was now covered with snow And stood off against the grey sky The white fields look vast and dreary in the dusk The only gay things to be seen were the red berries On the holly hedge in the little lane Which, running by the end of our backyard Led up to the hall and a fat robin red breast Who was staring at me I was watching the robin when Patty Who had been peering out of the corner Of Kitty's shawl gave a great jump That dragged the shawl from her heads and cried Look! I looked An old man was coming along the lane His hair and beard were white as cotton wool He had a face like the sort of apple That keeps well in winter His coat was old and brown There was snow about him in patches And he carried a small fir tree The same conviction seized upon us both With one breath we exclaimed It's of Father Christmas! I know now that it was only an old man of the place With whom we did not happen to be acquainted And that he was taking a little fir tree Up to the hall to be made into a Christmas tree He was a very good human old fellow And rather deaf For which he made up by smiling And nodding his head a good deal And saying, Hi, hi, to be sure! At likely intervals As he passed us and met our earnest gaze He smiled and nodded So affably that I was bold enough to cry Good evening, Father Christmas! Same to you, said he in a high-pitched voice Then you are Father Christmas, said Patty And a happy new year was Father Christmas's reply Which rather put me out But he smiled in such a satisfactory manner That Patty went on You're very old, aren't you? So I be, Miss, so I be! Said Father Christmas, nodding Father says you're 830 years old! I muttered Hi, hi, to be sure! Said Father Christmas, I'm a long age A very long age, thought I And I added, You're nearly twice as old as Methuselah, you know Thinking that this might not have struck him I, I, said Father Christmas But he did not seem to think anything of it After a pause he held up the tree and cried Do you know what this is, little miss? A Christmas tree, said Patty And the old man smiled and nodded I lent over the wall and shouted But there are no candles! Bye and bye, said Father Christmas Nodding as before When it's dark they'll all be lighted up I'd all be a fine sight Toys too, they'll be, won't they? Screamed Patty Father Christmas nodded his head And sweeties, he added, expressively I could feel Patty trembling And my own heart beat fast The thought which agitated us both was this Was Father Christmas bringing the tree to us But very anxiety and some modesty also Capped us from asking outright Only when the old man shouldered his tree And prepared to move on I cried in despair Oh, are you going? I'm coming back by and by, said he How soon, cried Patty About four o'clock, said the old man smiling I'm only going up yonder And, nodding and smiling as he went He passed away down the lane Up yonder This puzzled us Father Christmas had pointed But so indefinitely that he might have been pointing To the sky or the fields or the little wood At the end of the squire's grounds He brought the ladder and suggested to Patty That perhaps he had some place underground Like Aladdin's cave where he got the candles And all the pretty things for the tree This idea pleased us both And we amused ourselves by wondering What old Father Christmas would choose for us From his stores in that wonderful hole Where he dressed his Christmas trees I wonder, Patty, said I Why there's no picture of Father Christmas's dog in the book For, at the old man's heels in the lane There crept a little brown and white spaniel Looking very dirty in the snow Perhaps it's a new dog that he's got To take care of his cave, said Patty When we went indoors we examined the picture Refresh by the dim light from the passage window But there was no dog there My father passed us at this moment And patted my head Father, said I I don't know, but I do think old Father Christmas Is going to bring us a Christmas tree tonight Who's been telling you that, said my father But he passed on before I could explain That we had seen Father Christmas himself And had had his word for it That he would return at four o'clock And that the candles on his tree Would be lighted as soon as it was dark We hovered on the outskirts of the room Till four o'clock came We sat on the stairs and watched the big clock Which I was just learning to read And Patty made herself giddy With constantly looking up And counting the four strokes Towards which the hour hand slowly moved We put our noses into the kitchen now and then To smell the cakes and get warm And a non we hung about the parlor door And were most unjustly accused of trying to peep What did we care what our mother Was doing in the parlor? We who had seen Old Father Christmas himself And were expecting him back again every moment At last the church clock struck The sounds boomed heavily through the frost And Patty thought that there were four of them Then after due choking and wearing Our own clock struck And we counted the strokes quite clearly One, two, three, four Then we got Kitty's shawl once more And stole out into the backyard We ran to our old place and peeped But could see nothing We'd better get up onto the wall, I said And with some difficulty and distress From rubbing her bare knees against the cold stones And getting the snow up her sleeves Patty got on the coping of the little wall I was just struggling after her When something warm and something cold Coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs Made me shriek with fright I came down with a run And bruised my knees, my elbows and my chin And the snow that hadn't gone up Patty's sleeves Went down my neck Then I found that the cold thing was a dog's nose And the warm thing was his tongue And Patty cried from her post of observation It's Father Christmas's dog And he's licking your legs It really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel And he persisted in licking me and jumping on me And making curious little noises That must have meant something if one had known his language I was rather harassed at the moment My legs were sore I was a little afraid of the dog And Patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall without me You won't fall, I said to her Get down will you, I said to the dog Humpty-dumpty fell off a wall, said Patty Bow wow, said the dog I pulled Patty down And the dog tried to pull me down But when my little sister was on her feet To my relief he transferred his attentions to her When he had jumped at her and licked her several times He turned round and ran away He's gone, I said, I'm so glad But even as I spoke he was back again Crouching at Patty's feet And glaring at her with eyes the colour of his ears Now Patty was very fond of animals And when the dog looked at her She looked at the dog And then she said to me He wants us to go with him On which, as if he understood our language Although we were ignorant of his The spaniel sprang away And went off as hard as he could And Patty and I went after him A dim hope crossing my mind Perhaps Father Christmas has sent him for us This idea was rather favoured by the fact That the dog led us up the lane Only a little way Then he stopped by something lying in the ditch And once more we cried in the same breath It's old Father Christmas Returning from the hall The old man had slipped upon a bit of ice And lay stunned in the snow Patty began to cry I think he's dead, she sobbed He's so very old I don't wonder I mammered But perhaps he's not I'll fetch Father My father and Kitty were soon on the spot Kitty was as strong as a man And they carried Father Christmas between them Into the kitchen There he quickly revived I must do Kitty the justice to say That she did not utter a word of complaint At this disturbance of her labours And that she drew the old man's chair Close up to the oven with her own hand She was so much affected by the behaviour Of his dog that she admitted him Even to the hearth On which Puss, being acute enough to see How matters stood, lay down with her back So close to the spaniels That Kitty could not expel one Without kicking both For our parts we felt sadly anxious about the tree Otherwise we could have wished for no better treat Than to sit at Kitty's round table Taking tea with Father Christmas Our usual fare of thick bread and treacle Was to-night exchanged For a delicious variety of cakes Which were none the worse to us For being tasters and wasters That is, little bits of dough Or shortbread put in to try the state of the oven And certain cakes that had got broken Or burnt in the baking Well, there we sat Helping old Father Christmas to tea and cake And wondering in our hearts What could have become of the tree But you see, young people When I was a child Parents were stricter than they are now Even before Kitty died And she has been dead many a long year There was a change And she said that Children got to think anything became them I think we were taught more honest shame About certain things Than I often see in little boys and girls now We were ashamed of boasting Or being greedy or selfish We were ashamed of asking for anything That was not offered to us And of interrupting grown-up people Or talking about ourselves Why, papas and mamas nowadays Seem quite proud to let their friends See how bold and greedy And talkative their children can be A lady said to me the other day You wouldn't believe Mr. Garble How forward dear little Harry is for his age He has his word in everything And is not a bit shy And his papa never comes home from town But Harry runs to ask if he's brought him a present Papa says he'll be the ruin of him Madam said I Even without your word for it I am quite aware that your child is forward He is forward and greedy and intrusive As you justly point out And I wish you joy of him When those qualities are fully developed I think his father's fears are well founded But bless me Nowadays it's come and tell Mrs. Smith What a fine boy you are And how many houses you can build with your bricks Or the dear child wants everything he sees Or little pet never lets mama alone for a minute Does she love? But in my young days it was Self-praises no recommendation As Kitty used to tell me Or you're knocking too hard at number one As my father said when we talked about ourselves Or little boys should be seen but not heard As a rule of conduct in company Or don't ask for what you want But take what's given you and be grateful And so you see young people Patty and I felt a delicacy In asking old father Christmas about the tree It was not until we had had tea Three times round with tasters and wasters to match That Patty said very gently It's quite dark now And then she heaved a great sigh Burning anxiety overcame me I leant towards father Christmas and shouted I had found out that it was needful to shout I suppose the candles are on the tree now Just about putting them on said father Christmas And the presents too said Patty I had to be sure said father Christmas And he smiled delightfully I was thinking what further questions I might venture upon When he pushed his cup towards Patty saying Since you are so pressing miss I'll take another dish And Kitty swooping on us from the oven cried Make yourself at home sir There's more where these came from Make a long arm miss Patty and hand them cakes So we had to devote ourselves to the duties of the table And Patty holding the lid with one hand And pouring with the other Supplied father Christmas's wants with a heavy heart At last he was satisfied I said grace During which he stood And indeed he stood for some time afterwards with his eyes shut I fancy under the impression that I was still speaking He had just said a fervent amen And reseated himself When my father put his head into the kitchen And made this remarkable statement Old father Christmas is sent a tree to the young people Patty and I uttered a cry of delight And we forthwith danced around the old man saying Oh how nice, oh how kind of you Which I think must have bewildered him But he only smiled and nodded Come along said my father Come children, come Ruben, come Kitty And he went into the parlour And we all followed him My godmother's picture of a Christmas tree was very pretty And the flames of the candles were so naturally done in red and yellow That I always wondered that they did not shine at night But the picture was nothing to the reality We had been sitting almost in the dark For, as Kitty said Firelight was quite enough to burn at mealtimes And when the parlour door was thrown open And the tree with lighted tapers on all the branches burst upon our view The blaze was dazzling And through such a glory ran the little gifts And the bags of coloured muslin with acid drops And pink rose drops and comforts inside As I shall never forget We all got something And Patty and I, at any rate, believed that the things came from the stores of old Father Christmas We were not undeceived, even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of old clothes Which had been hastily put together to form his present We were all very happy Even Kitty, I think, though she kept her sleeves rolled up She seemed rather to grudge enjoying herself A weak point in some energetic characters She went back to her oven before the lights were out And the angel on the top of the tree was taken down She locked up our present, a little work-box, at once She often showed it off afterwards But it was kept in the same bit of tissue paper till she died Our present certainly did not last so long The old man died about a week afterwards So we never made his acquaintance as a common personage When he was buried his little dog came to us I suppose he remembered the hospitality he had received Patty adopted him and he was very faithful Puss always looked on him with favour I hoped during our rambles together in the following summer That he would lead us at last to the cave where the Christmas trees are dressed But he never did Our parents often spoke of his late master as Old Ruben But children are not easily disabused of a favour at Fancy And in Patty's thoughts and in mine The old man was long gratefully remembered as Old Father Christmas End of Old Father Christmas by J. H. Ewing