 CHRISTMAS TREES A CHRISTMAS CIRCULAR LETTER By Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. The city had withdrawn into itself, and left at last the country to the country. When between worlds of snow not come to lie, and worlds of foliage not yet laid, there drove a stranger to our yard, who looked the city, yet did in country fashion, in that there he sat and waited, till he drew us out, a buttoning coats, to ask him who he was. He proved to be the city come again, to look for something it had left behind, and could not do without, and keep its Christmas. He asked if I could sell my Christmas trees, my woods. The young fir balsams, like a place where the houses all were churches, and have spires. I hadn't thought of them as Christmas trees. I doubt if I was tempted for a moment to sell them off their feet to go in cars, and leave the slope behind the house all bare, where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon. I'd hate to have them know it if I was. But more I'd hate to hold my trees except as others hold theirs, or refuse for them beyond the time of profitable growth, the trial by market, everything must come to. I dallied so much with the thought of selling. Then whether from mistaken courtesy and fear of seeming short of speech, or whether from hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said, There aren't enough to be worthwhile. I could soon tell how many they would cut. You let me look them over. You could look, but don't expect I'm going to let you have them. Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close that lop each other of boughs, but not a few quite solitary and having equal boughs all round and round. The latter he nodded yes to, or paused to say beneath some lovelier one, with a buyer's moderation. That would do. I thought so too, but wasn't there to say so. We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over, and came down on the north. He said, A thousand. A thousand Christmas trees? At what apiece? He felt some need of softening that to me. A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars. Then I was certain I had never meant to let him have them. Never show surprise. But thirty dollars seemed so small beside the extent of pasture I should strip. Three cents, for that was all they figured out apiece. Three cents, so small besides the dollar of friends I should be riding to within the hour, would pay in cities for good trees like those. Regular vestry trees, whole Sunday schools could hang enough on to pick off enough. A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had. Worth three cents more to give away than to sell. As many be shown by a simple calculation. Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter. I can't help wishing I could send you one, in wishing you herewith a merry Christmas. And of poem this recording is in the public domain. The Conscience Pudding by E. Nesbitt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corrie Samuel in December 2007. The Conscience Pudding from The New Treasure Seekers by E. Nesbitt. It was Christmas, nearly a year after mother died. I cannot write about mother, but I will just say one thing. If she had only been away for a little while, and not for always, she shouldn't have been so keen on having a Christmas. I didn't understand this then, but I am much older now, and I think it was just because everything was so different and horrid we felt we must do something, and perhaps we were not particular enough what. Things make you much more unhappy when you loaf about than when you were doing events. Father had to go away just about Christmas. He had heard that his wicked partner, who ran away with his money, was in France and he thought he could catch him, but really he was in Spain, where catching criminals is never practised. We did not know this till afterwards. Before Father went away he took Dora and Oswald into his study and said, I'm awfully sorry I've got to go away, but it is very serious business and I must go. You'll be good while I'm away, kiddies, won't you? We promised faithfully. Then he said, There are reasons. You wouldn't understand if I tried to tell you, but you can't have much for Christmas this year. But I've told Matilda to make you a good plain pudding. Perhaps next Christmas will be brighter. It was, for the next Christmas saw us the affluent nephews and nieces of an Indian uncle, but that is quite another story, as good old Kipling says. When Father had been seen off at Lewisham Station with his bags and a plaid rug in a strap, we came home again, and it was horrid. There were papers and things littered all over his room where he had packed. We tidied the room up. It was the only thing we could do for him. It was Dickey who accidentally broke his shaving-glass, and H.O. made a paper boat out of a letter we found out afterwards Father particularly wanted to keep. This took us some time, and when we went into the nursery the fire was black out and we could not get it alight again even with a whole daily chronicle. Matilda, who was our general then, was out, as well as the fire, so we went and sat in a kitchen. There is always a good fire in kitchens. The kitchen hearth rug was not nice to sit on, so we spread newspapers on it. It was sitting in the kitchen, I think, that brought to our minds my Father's parting words about the pudding, I mean. Oswald said, Father said we couldn't have much for Christmas for secret reasons, and he said he had told Matilda to make us a plain pudding. The plain pudding instantly cast its shadow over the deepening gloom of our young minds. I wonder how plain she'll make it, Dicky said. As plain as plain you may depend, said Oswald. Ah, here am I, where are you, pudding, that's her sort. The others groaned, and we gathered close around the fire till the newspapers rustled madly. I believe I could make a pudding that wasn't plain if I tried, Alice said. Why shouldn't we? No chink, said Oswald, with brief sadness. How much would it cost? No-well asked, and added that Dora had two pints, and H.O. had a French halfpenny. Dora got the cookery book out of the dresser drawer, where it laid doubled up among clothes, pegs, dirty dusters, scallop shells, string, penny novelettes, and the dining room corkscrew. The general we had then, it seemed as if she did all the cooking on the cookery book, instead of on the baking board, there were traces of so many bygone meals upon its pages. It doesn't say Christmas pudding at all, said Dora. Try plum, the resourceful Oswald instantly counseled. Dora turned the greasy pages anxiously. Some pudding, five-one-eight. A rich with flower, five-one-seven. Christmas, five-one-seven. Cold brandy sauce four, two-four-one. We shouldn't care about that, so it's no use looking. Good without eggs, five-one-eight. Plain, five-one-eight. We don't want that, anyhow. Christmas five-one-seven, that's the one. It took her a long time to find the page. The Oswald got a shovel of coals and made up the fire. It blazed up like the devouring elephant the Daily Telegraph always calls it. Then Dora read, Christmas plum pudding, time six hours. To eat it in, said H.O. No silly to make it. Fortsher head Dora, Dicky replied. Dora went on, twenty-seventy-two. One pound and half of raisins, half a pound of currants, three-quarters of a pound of breadcrumbs, half a pound of flour, three-quarters of a pound of beef-suit, nine eggs, one wine-glassful of brandy, half a pound of citrine and orange peel, half a nutmeg, and a little ground ginger. I wonder how little ground ginger. A teacup full would be enough, I think, Alice said. We must not be extravagant. We haven't got anything yet to be extravagant with, said Oswald, who had toothache that day. What would you do with the things if you got them? You'd chop the suet as fine as possible. I wonder how fine that is, replied Dora, and the book together, and mix it with the breadcrumbs and flour, add the currants washed and dried? Not starched, then, said Alice. The citrine and orange peel cut into thin slices. I wonder what they call thin. Matilda's thin bread and butter is quite different from what I mean by it. And the raisins stoned and divided. How many heaps would you divide them into? Seven, I suppose, said Alice. One for each person and one for the pot. I mean pudding. Mix it all well together with the grated nutmeg and ginger, then stir in nine eggs well beaten and the brandy—we'll leave that out, I think— and again mix it thoroughly together that every ingredient may be moistened. Put it into a buttered mould, tie over tightly, and boil for six hours. Serve it ornamented with holly and brandy poured over it. I should think holly and brandy poured over it would be simply beastly, said Dicky. I expect the book knows. I daresay holly and water would do as well, though. This pudding may be made a month before. It's no use reading about that, though, because we've only got four days to Christmas. It's no use reading about any of it, said Oswald, with thoughtful repeatedness, because we haven't got the things and we haven't got the coin to get them. We might get the tins somehow, said Dicky. There must be lots of kind people who would subscribe to a Christmas pudding for poor children who hadn't any, Noel said. Well, I'm going skating at Penn's, said Oswald. It's no use thinking about puddings. We must put up with it plain. So he went, and Dicky went with him. When they returned to their home in the evening the fire had been lighted again in the nursery, and the others were just having tea. We toasted our bread and butter on the bear's side, and it gets a little warm among the butter. This is called a French toast. I like English better, but it is more expensive, Alice said. Matilda is in a frightful rage about your putting those coals on a kitchen fire, Oswald. She says we shan't have enough to last over Christmas as it is. And Father gave her a talking-to before he went about them, asked her if she ate them, she says, but I don't believe he did. Anyway, she's locked the coal cellar door, and she's got the key in her pocket. I don't see how we can boil the pudding. What pudding, said Oswald, dreamily. He was thinking of a chap he had seen at Penn's, who had cut the date 1899 on the ice with four strokes. The pudding, Alice said. Oh, we've had such a time, Oswald. First Dora and I went to the shops to find out exactly what the pudding would cost. It's only two-and-eleven pints, hate me, counting in the holly. It's no good, Oswald repeated. He is very patient, and will say the same thing any number of times. It's no good. You know we've got no tin. Ah, said Alice, Potato and I went out. And we called at some of the houses in Granville Park and Dartmouth Hill, and we got a lot of sixpences and shillings besides Pennies, and one old gentleman gave us half a crown. He was so nice, quite bold, with a knitted red and blue waistcoat. We've got eight and seven pence. Oswald did not feel quite sure Father would like us to go asking for shillings and sixpences, or even half-crowns from strangers, but he did not say so. The money had been asked for, and got, and it couldn't be helped. And perhaps he wanted the pudding. I'm not able to remember exactly why he did not speak up and say, This is wrong, but anyway he didn't. Alice and Dora went out and bought the things next morning. They bought double quantities, so that it came to five shillings and eleven pence, and was enough to make a noble pudding. There was a lot of holly left over for decorations. We used very little for the sauce. The money that was left we spent very anxiously in other things to eat, such as dates, and figs, and toffee. We did not tell Matilda about it. She was a red-haired girl, and apt to turn shirty at the least thing. Concealed under our jackets and overcoats, we carried the parcels up to the nursery, and hid them in the treasure chest we had there. It was the bureau drawer. It was locked up afterwards, because the treacle got all over the green bays and the little drawers inside it, while we were waiting to begin to make the pudding. It was the grocer told us we ought to put treacle in the pudding, and also about not so much ginger as a tea-cupful. When Matilda had begun to pretend to scrub the floor—she pretended this three times a week, so as to have an excuse not to let us in the kitchen—but I know she used to read novelettes most of the time, because Alice and I had a squint through the window more than once. We barricaded the nursery door and set to work. We were very careful to be quite clean. We washed our hands as well as the currents. I have sometimes thought we did not get all the soap off the currents. The pudding smelt like a washing-day when the time came to cut it open. And we washed a corner of the table to chop the suet on. Chopping suet looks easy till you try. Father's machine he weighs letters with did to weigh out the things. We did this very carefully, in case the grocer had not done so. Everything was right except the raisins—H.O. had carried them home. He was very young then, and there was a hole in the corner of the paper bag, and his mouth was sticky. Lots of people have been hanged to a gibbit in chains on evidence no worse than that, and we told H.O. so till he cried. This was good for him. It was not unkindness to H.O., but part of our duty. Chopping suet, as fine as possible, is much harder than any one would think, as I said before. So is crumbling bread, especially if your loaf is new like ours was. When we had done them, the breadcrumbs and the suet were both very large and lumpy, and of a dingy grey colour—something like pale slate pencil. They looked a better colour when we had mixed them with the flour. The girls had washed the currants with brown winds of soap and the sponge. Some of the currants got inside the sponge, and kept coming out in a bath for days afterwards. I see now that this was not quite nice. We cut the candied peel as thin as we wish people would cut our bread and butter. We tried to take the stones out of the raisins, but they were too sticky, so we just divided them up in seven lots. Then we mixed the other things in the wash hand basin from the spare bedroom that was always spare. We each put in our own lot of raisins and turned it all into a pudding basin and tied it up in one of Alice's pinafores, which was the nearest thing to a proper pudding cloth we could find, at any rate, clean. What was left sticking to the wash hand basin did not taste so bad. It's a little bit soapy, Alice said, but perhaps that will boil out, like stains in tablecloths. It was a difficult question how to boil the pudding. Matilda proved furious when asked to let us, just because someone had happened to knock her hat off the scullery door, and Pintcher had got it and done for it. However, part of the embassy nicked a saucepan while the others were being told what Matilda thought about the hat, and we got hot water out of the bathroom and made it boil over our nursery fire. We put the pudding in it. It was now getting on towards the hour of tea, and let it boil. With some exceptions, owing to the fire going down, and Matilda not hurrying up with coals, it boiled for an hour and a quarter. Then Matilda came suddenly in and said, I'm not going to have you messing about in here with my saucepans, and she tried to take it off the fire. You will see that we couldn't stand this. It was not likely. I do not remember who it was that told her to mind her own business, and I think I have forgotten who caught hold of her first to make her chuck it. I'm sure no needless violence was used. Anyway, while the struggle progressed, Alice and Dora took the saucepan away and put it in a boot cupboard under the stairs and put the key in their pocket. This sharp encounter made everyone very hot and cross. We got over it before Matilda did, but we brought her round before bedtime. Cals should always be made up before bedtime. It says so in the Bible. If this simple rule was followed, there would not be so many wars and martyrs and lawsuits and inquisitions and bloody deaths at the stake. All the house was still. The gas was out all over the house, except on the first landing, when several darkly shrouded figures might have been observed creeping downstairs to the kitchen. On the way, with superior precaution, we got out our saucepan. The kitchen fire was red, but low. The coal cellar was locked, and there was nothing in the scuttle but a little coal dust, and the piece of brown paper that is put in to keep the coals from tumbling out through the bottom where the hole is. We put the saucepan on the fire and plied it with fuel. Two chronicles, a telegraph, and two family herald novelettes were burned in vain. I'm almost sure the pudding did not boil at all that night. For mind, Alice said, we can each nick a piece of coal every time we go into the kitchen to-morrow. This daring scheme was faithfully performed, and by night we had nearly half a waste-paper basket of coal, coke, and cinders. And in the depth of night once more we might have been observed, this time with our collier-like waste-paper basket in our guarded hands. There was more fire left in the grate that night, and we fed it with the fuel we had collected. This time the fire blazed up, and the pudding boiled like mad. This was the time it boiled two hours—at least I think it was about that—but we dropped to sleep on the kitchen tables and dresser. You dare not be lowly in the night in a kitchen because of the beetles. We were aroused by horrible smell. It was the pudding-cloth burning. All the water had secretly boiled itself away. We filled it up at once with coal, and the saucepan cracked. Then we cleaned it, and put it back on the shelf, and took another and went to bed. You see what a lot of trouble we had over the pudding. Every evening till Christmas, which had now become only the day after tomorrow, we sneaked down in the inky midnight and boiled that pudding for as long as it would. On Christmas morning we chopped the holly for the sauce, but we put hot water instead of brandy, and moist sugar. Some of them said it was not so bad. Oswald was not one of these. Then came the moment when the plain pudding Father had ordered, smoked upon the board. Matilda brought it in, and went away at once. She had a cousin out of Woolwich Arsenal to see her that day, I remember. Those far-off days are quite distinct in memory's recollection still. Then we got out our own pudding from its hiding-place, and gave it one last hurried boil, only seven minutes, because of the general impatience which Oswald and Dora could not cope with. We had found means to secrete a dish, and we now tried to dish the pudding up, but it stuck to the basin, and had to be dislodged with a chisel. The pudding was horribly pale. We poured the holly sauce over it, and Dora took up the knife, and was just cutting it, when a few simple words from H.O. turned us from happy and triumphant cookery-artists, the persons in despair. He said, How pleased all those kind ladies and gentlemen would be, if they knew we were the poor children they gave the shillings and sixpences and things for? We all said, What? It was no moment for politeness. I say, H.O. said, they'd be glad if they knew it was us who was enjoying the pudding, and not dirty little really poor children. You should say you were, not you was, said Dora, but it was as in a dream and only from habit. Do you mean to say, Oswald spoke firmly, yet not angrily, that you and Alice went and begged for money for poor children, and then kept it? We didn't keep it, said H.O. We spent it. We've kept the things, you little duffer, said Dickie, looking at the pudding sitting alone and uncared for on its dish. You begged for money for poor children, and then kept it. It's stealing, that's what it is. I don't say so much about you, you're only a silly kid, but Alice knew better. Why did you do it? He turned to Alice, but she was now too deep in tears to get a word out. H.O. looked a bit frightened, but he answered the question. We have taught him this. He said, I thought they'd give us more if I said poor children than if I said just us. That's cheating, said Dickie, downright beastly mean low cheating. I'm not, said H.O., and you're another. Then he began to cry too. I do not know how the others felt, but I understand from Oswald that he felt that now the honour of the House of Bastable had been stamped on in the dust, and it didn't matter what happened. He looked at the beastly holly that had been left over from the source, and was stuck up over the pictures. It now appeared hollow and disgusting, though it had got quite a lot of berries, and some of it was the varied kind, green and white. The figs and dates and toffee were set out in the doll's dinner service. The very side of it all made Oswald blush sickly. He owns he would have liked to cuff H.O., and, if he did for a moment wished to shake Alice, the author for one can make allowances. Now Alice choked and spluttered, and wiped her eyes fiercely, and said, It's no use ragging H.O., it's my fault, I'm older than he is. H.O. said, It couldn't be Alice's fault, I don't see as it was wrong. That, not as, murmured Dora, putting her arm round the sinner who had brought this degrading blight upon our family tree. But such is girl's undetermined and affectionate silliness. Tells us all about it, H.O., dear. Why couldn't it be Alice's fault? H.O. cuddled up to Dora, and said snufflingly in his nose, because she hadn't got nothing to do with it. I collected it all. She never went into one of the houses. She didn't want to. And then took all the credit of getting the money, said Dickie savagely. Oswald said, Not much credit. And scornful tones. Oh! You are beastly the whole lot of you, except Dora, Alice said, stamping her foot in rage and despair. I tore my frock on a nail going out, and I didn't want to go back, and I got H.O. to go to the houses alone, and I waited for him outside. And I asked him not to say anything, because I didn't want Dora to know about the frock. It's my best. And I don't know what he said inside, he never told me. But I'll bet anything he didn't mean to cheat. You said lots of kind people would be ready to give money to get pudding for poor children, so I asked them to. Oswald, with his strong right hand, waved a wave of passing things over. We'll talk about that another time, he said. Just now we've got weightier things to deal with. He pointed to the pudding, which had grown cold during the conversation to which I have alluded. H.O. stopped crying, but Alice went on with it. Oswald now said, we're a base, an outcast family. Until that pudding's out of the house, we shan't be able to look anyone in the face. We must see that that pudding goes to poor children, not grizzling, grumpy, whiny, piney pretending poor children, but real poor ones, just as poor as they can stick. And the figs, too, and the dates, said Noel, with regretting tones. Every fig, said Dickie sternly. Oswald is quite right. This honourable resolution made us feel a bit better. We hastily put on our best things and washed ourselves a bit, and hurried out to find some really poor people to give the pudding to. We cut it in slices ready, and put it in a basket with the figs and dates and toffee. We would not let H.O. come with us at first, because he wanted to. And Alice would not come because of him. So at last we had to let him. The excitement of tearing into your best things heals the hurt that wounded honour feels, as the poetry writer said, or at any rate it makes the hurt feel better. We went out into the streets. They were pretty quiet. Nearly everybody was eating its Christmas dessert. But presently we met a woman in an apron. Oswald said very politely, Please, are you a poor person? And she told us to get along with us. The next we met was a shabby man with a hole in his left boot. Again Oswald said, Please, are you a poor person, and have you any poor little children? The man told us not to come any of our games with him, or we should laugh on the wrong side of our faces. We went on, sadly. We had no heart to stop and explain to him that we had no games to come. The next was a young man in the obelisk. Dora tried this time. She said, Oh, if you please we've got some Christmas pudding in this basket, and if you're a poor person you can have some. Poor as Job, said the young man, in a hoarse voice, and he had to come up out of a red comforter to say it. We gave him a slice of the pudding, and he bit into it without thanks or delay. The next minute he had thrown the pudding slap in Dora's face, and was clutching Dickie by the collar. Blimey, if I don't chuck you in the river, the whole blooming lot of you! He exclaimed. The girls screamed, the boys shouted, and though Oswald threw himself on the insulter of his sister with all his manly vigour, yet but for a friend of Oswald's, who is in the police, passing at that instant, the author shudders to think what might have happened, for he was a strong young man, and Oswald has not yet come to his full strength, and the craggy runs all too near. Our policeman led our assailant aside, and we waited anxiously as he told us to. After long uncertain moments, the young man in the comforter loathed off grumbling, and our policeman turned to us. Said you give him a dollop of pudding, and a toasted of soap and hair oil. I suppose the hair oil must have been the brown winteriness of the soap coming out. We were sorry, but it was still our duty to get rid of the pudding. The quaggy was handy, it is true, but when you have collected money to feed poor children, and spent it on pudding, it is not right to throw that pudding in the river. People did not subscribe shillings and sixpences and half-crowns to feed a hungry flood with Christmas pudding. Yet we shrank from asking any more people whether they were poor persons, or about their families, and still more from offering the pudding to chance people who might bite into it, and taste the soap before we had time to get away. It was Alice, the most paralysed with disgrace of all of us, who thought of the best idea. She said, Let's take it to the workhouse. At any rate they're all poor there, and they may not go out without leave, so they can't run after us to do anything to us after the pudding. No one would give them leave to go out to pursue people who have brought them pudding, and wreck vengeance on them, and at any rate we shall get rid of the conscience pudding. It's a sort of conscience money, you know, only it isn't money but pudding. The workhouse is a good way, but we stuck to it, though very cold, and hungrier than we thought possible when we started, for we had been so agitated, we had not even stayed to eat the plain pudding our good father had so kindly and thoughtfully ordered for our Christmas dinner. The big bell at the workhouse made a man open the door to us when we rang it. Oswald said, and he spoke, because he is next eldest to Dora, and she had had jolly well enough of saying anything about pudding. He said, please, we've brought some pudding for the poor people. He looked us up and down, and he looked at our basket, then he said, you'd better see the matron. We waited in a hall, feeling more and more uncomfy, and less and less like Christmas. We were very cold indeed, especially our hands and our noses, and we felt less and less able to face the matron if she was horrid, and one of us at least wished we had chosen the quaggy for the pudding's long home, and made it up to the robbed poor in some other way afterwards. Just as Alice was saying earnestly, in the burning cold ear of Oswald, let's put down the basket and make a bolt for it, oh, Oswald, let's! A lady came along the passage. She was very upright, and she had eyes that went through you like blue gimlets. I should not like to be obliged to thought that lady if she had any design and mine was opposite. I'm glad this is not likely to occur. She said, what's all this about a pudding? A cho said at once, before we could stop him. They say I've stolen the pudding, so we brought it here for the poor people. No, we didn't. That wasn't why. The money was given. It was meant for the poor. Shut up, A cho! Said the rest of us all at once. Then there was an awful silence. The lady gimleted us, again one by one with her blue eyes. Then she said, come into my room, you all look frozen. She took us into a very jolly room with velvet curtains and a big fire, and the gas lighted, because now it was almost dark, even out of doors. She gave us chairs, and Oswald felt as if his was a doc, he felt so criminal, and the lady looked so judgular. Then she took the armchair by the fire herself, and said, who's the eldest? I am, said Dora, looking more like a frightened white rabbit than I've ever seen her. Then tell me all about it. Dora looked at Alice, and began to cry. That slab of pudding in the face had totally unnerved the gentle girl. Alice's eyes were red, and her face was puffy with crying, but she spoke up for Dora, and said, oh, please let Oswald tell. Dora can't. She's tired with the long walk, and a young man threw a piece of it in her face, and the lady nodded, and Oswald began. He told the story from the very beginning, as he has always been taught to, though he hated to lay bare the family honor's wound before a stranger, however judgelike and gimlet-eyed. He told all, not concealing the pudding-throwing, nor what the young man had said about soap. So he ended, we want to give the conscience pudding to you. It's like conscience money. You know what that is, don't you? But if you really think it is soapy, and not just the young man's horridness, perhaps you'd better not let them eat it. But the figs and things were all right. When he had done, the lady said, for most of us were crying more or less. Come, cheer up. It's Christmas time, and he's very little, your brother, I mean. And I think the rest of you seem pretty well able to take care of the honor of the family. I'll take the conscience pudding off your minds. Where are you going now? Home, I suppose, Oswald said, and he thought how nasty and dark and dull it would be, the fire out most likely, and farther away. And your father's not at home, you say, the blue gimlet lady went on. What do you say to having tea with me, and then seeing the entertainment we have got up for our old people? Then the lady smiled, and the blue gimlets looked quite merry. The room was so warm and comfortable, and the invitation was the last thing we expected. It was jolly of her, I do think. No one thought quite at first of saying how pleased we should be to accept her kind invitation. Instead we all just said, oh! But in a tone which must have told her we meant, yes, please, very deeply. Oswald, this has more than once happened, was the first to restore his manners. He made a proper bow like he has been taught, and said, thank you very much, we should like it very much, it is very much nicer than going home, thank you very much. I need not tell the reader that Oswald could have made up a much better speech if he had had more time to make it up in, or if he had not been so filled with mixed flusteredness and purification by the shameful events of the day. We washed our faces and hands, and had a first-rate muffin and crumpet tea with slices of cold meats and many nice jams and cakes. A lot of other people were there, most of them people who were giving the entertainment to the aged poor. After tea it was the entertainment, songs, and conjuring, and a play called Box and Cox, very amusing, and a lot of throwing things about in it, bacon, and chops and things, and niggaminstrels. We clapped till our hands were sore. When it was over we said good-bye. In between the songs and things Oswald had had time to make up a speech of thanks to the lady. He said, We all thank you heartily for your goodness. The entertainment was beautiful. We shall never forget your kindness and hospitableness. The lady laughed, and said she had been very pleased to have us. A fat gentleman said, And your teas, I hope you enjoyed those, eh? Oswald had not had time to make up an answer to that, so he answered straight from the heart, and said, Rather! And everyone laughed, and slapped us boys on the back, and kissed the girls, and the gentleman who played the bones in the niggaminstrels saw us home. We ate the cold pudding that night, and H.O. dreamed that something came to eat him like it advises you two in the advertisements on hoardings. The grown-up said it was the pudding, but I don't think it could have been that, because as I have said more than once, it was so very plain. Some of H.O.'s brothers and sisters thought it was a judgment on him for pretending about who the poor children were he was collecting the money for. Oswald's not believe such a little boy as H.O. would have a real judgment made just for him and nobody else, whatever he did. But it certainly is odd. H.O. was the only one who had bad dreams, and he was also the only one who got any of the things we bought with that ill-gotten money, because, you remember, he picked a hole in a raisin paper as he was bringing the parcel home. The rest of us had nothing, unless you count the scrapings of the pudding-basin, and those don't really count at all. End of The Conscience Pudding by E. Nespit. Room-a-room, brave gallant, room. Within this court, I do resort to show some sport and pastime. Gentlemen and ladies, in the Christmas time. After this note of preparation, old Father Christmas capers into the room, saying, oh, oh, oh, here comes I, old Father Christmas. Welcome or welcome not. I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot. Oh, oh, oh, oh. I was born in a rocky country where there was no wood to make me a cradle. I was rocked in a stouring bowl, which made me round-shouldered then, and I'm round-shouldered still. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. He then frisks about the room until he thinks he has sufficiently amused the spectators when he makes his exit with this speech. Who went to the orchard to steal apples to make goosebri pies against Christmas? Not me. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. Enter Turkish night. Here comes I, a Turkish night. Come from the Turkish land to fight. And if Saint George do meet me here, I'll try his courage without fear. Here comes I, Saint George, that worthy champion bold. And with my sword and spear, I won three crowns of gold. I fought the dragon bold and brought him to the slaughter. Surely not. By that I won fair Sabra, the king of Egypt's daughter. Saint George, I pray be not too bold. If thy blood is hot, I'll soon make it cold. Oh, Turkish night, I pray for bear. I'll make thee dread my sword and spear. They fight until the Turkish night falls. I have a little bottle which goes by the name of Ailey campaign. If the man is alive, let him rise and fight again. The night here rises on one knee and endeavors to continue the fight, but is again struck down. Oh, pardon me, Saint George. Oh, pardon me I crave. Oh, pardon me this once, and I will be thy slave. I'll never pardon a Turkish night. Therefore arise and try thy might. The night gets up, and they again fight. Till the night receives a heavy blow and then drops on the ground as dead. How? Is there a doctor to be found to cure a deep and deadly wound? Ah, yes, there is a doctor to be found to cure a deep and deadly wound. What can you cure? I can cure the itch, the palsy, and gout. If the devil's in him, I'll pull him out. Yee-ah, yee-ah, yee-ah, oh. Ah! The doctor here performs a cure with sundry grimaces and Saint George and knight again fight when the latter is knocked down and left for dead. Then another performer enters, and on seeing the dead body says, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. If Uncle Tom Pearce won't have him, Aunt Molly must. Here comes I, old, old squire, as black as any fryer, as ragged as a colt, to leave fine clothes for malt. Here comes I, old hub-ub-ub-ub. Upon my shoulders I carried a club, and in my hand a flying head. So am not I a valiant man. Here comes I, great head and little wit. Put your hand in your pocket and give what you think fit. Gentlemen and ladies, sitting down at your ease. Put your hand in your pockets. Give me what you please. Gentlemen and ladies, the sport is almost ended. Come pay to the box. It is highly commended. The box it would speak if it had but a tongue. Come throw in your money and think it no wrong. The End of a Cornish Mummer's Play The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. This reading by Patty Brugman. One dollar and eighty-seven cents, that was all, and sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher, until one's cheeks burned with a silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it, one dollar and eighty-seven cents, and the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it, which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating. While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home, a furnished flat at eight dollars per week. It did not beg her description, but it certainly had that word on the look-out for the men you can see squad. In the vestibule below was a letter box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Although appertaining thereon too was a card bearing the name Mrs. James Dillingham Young. The Dillingham had been flung into the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week. Now when the income was shrunk to twenty, though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming deed. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat, above, he was called Jim and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good. Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with a powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day and she had only one dollar and eighty seven cents with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always were. Only a dollar and eighty seven cents to buy a present for Jim, her Jim. Only a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him, something fine and rare and sterling, something just a bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim. There was a pier glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an eight dollar flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della being slender had mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length. Now there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the air shaft, Della would have let her hair hang down the window some day to dry just to depreciate her majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been a janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, King would have pulled out his watch every time he passed just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket, on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the sign read, Madame Sofroni, hair goods of all kinds. Queen flied up Della ran and collected herself panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the Sofroni. Will you buy my hair, Astella? I'll buy your hair, said Madame. Take your hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it. Down rippled the brown cascade. Twenty dollars, said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand. Give it to me quick, said Della. Oh, when the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings, forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present. She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores. She had turned them all inside out. It was a platinum fob chain, simple and chased in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meritricular ornamentation, as all good things should do. It was even worthy of the watch. As soon as she saw it, she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value. The description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch, Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain. When Della reached home, her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got at her curling-irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages. Made by generosity added to love, which is always a tremendous task, dear friends, a mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, long, carefully and critically. If Jim doesn't kill me, she said to herself, before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do? Oh, what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents? At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove, hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat in the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard a step on the stair, a way down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying a little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered, Please, God, make him think I am still pretty. The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two, and to be burdened with a family, he needed a new overcoat, and he was without gloves. Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter, at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed on Della, and there was an expression in him that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her, fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face. Della wriggled off the table and went for him. Jim, darling, she cried, Don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold, because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again, you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say Merry Christmas, Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice, what a beautiful, nice gift that I've got for you. You've cut your hair, as Jim laboriously as if he had not arrived at that patent fact, yet even after the hardest mental labor. Cut it off and sold it, said Della. Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I? Jim looked about the room curiously. You say your hair is gone, you said, with an air almost of idiocy. You needn't look for it, said Della. It's sold. I tell you, sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered. She went on with sudden serious sweetness, but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on Jim? Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He unfolded his, Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year, what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table. Don't make any mistake, Della, he said, about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less, but if you learn to wrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first. White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper and then an ecstatic scream of joy and then, alas, a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the Lord of the Flat. For there lay the combs, the set of combs side and back that Della had worshipped long in the Broadway window, beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled rims, just the shade to wear in her beautiful, vanished hair. They were expensive combs she knew and her heart had simply craved and yearned for them without the least hope of possession, and now they were hers. But the tresses that should have adorned the covered adornments were gone. She hugged them to her bosom and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and smile and say, My hair grows fast, Jim. And then Della leaped up like a singed cat and cried, Oh, oh. Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull, precious metal seemed to flash with the reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all of her time to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on. Instead of a bang, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. Delle, said he, Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep them awhile. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on. The Magi, as you know, were wise men, wonderfully wise men, who brought gifts to the babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said, that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest, they are the Magi. Thou end. God bless us every one by James Whitcomb Riley. 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 Jan McGillivray. God bless us every one, prayed Tiny Tim, crippled and dwarfed of body, yet so tall of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him, high towering over all. He loved the loveless world, nor dreamed indeed that it at best could give to him the while, but pitting in glances, when his only need was but a cheery smile. And thus he prayed, God bless us every one, enfolding all the creeds within the span of his child-heart, and so despising none, was nearer saint than man. I like to fancy God in paradise, lifting a finger or the rhythmic swing of chiming harp and song, with eager eyes turned earthward, listening. The anthems stilled, the angels leaning there above the golden walls, the morning sun of Christmas bursting flower-like with the prayer, God bless us every one. And of God bless us every one, by James Whitcomb Riley. Hang Up the Baby's Stocking, by Emily Huntington Miller. 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 Jan McGillivray. Hang Up the Baby's Stocking. Be sure you don't forget. The dear little dimpled darling, she never saw Christmas yet. But I've told her all about it, and she opened her big blue eyes. And I'm sure she understood it. She looked so funny and wise. Dear, what a tiny stocking. It doesn't take much to hold such little pink toes as babies away from the frost and cold. But then for the baby's Christmas, it will never do at all. Why Santa wouldn't be looking for anything half so small. I know what will do for the baby. I've thought of the very best plan. I'll borrow a stocking of grandma, the longest that ever I can. And you'll hang it by mine, dear mother. Right here in the corner, so. And write a letter to Santa. And fasten it onto the toe. Right this is the baby's stocking that hangs in the corner here. You never have seen her, Santa, for she only came this year. But she's just the blessedest baby. And now, before you go, just cram her stocking with goodies from the top clean down to the toe. End of Hang Up the Baby's Stocking by Emily Huntington Miller. Who Do McFiggins Christmas by Stephen Leacock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Who Do McFiggins Christmas. This Santa Claus business is played out. It's sneaking, underhand method, and the sooner it's exposed, the better. For a parent, to get up under cover of the darkness of night and palm off a ten-cent necktie on a boy who had been expecting a ten-dollar watch and then say that an angel sent it to him is low, undeniably low. I had a good opportunity of observing how the thing worked this Christmas in the case of a young Who Do McFiggins, the son and heir of the McFiggins at whose house I board. Who Do McFiggins is a good boy. A religious boy. He had been given to understand that Santa Claus would bring nothing to his father and mother because grown-up people don't get presents from the angels. So he saved up all his pocket money and bought a box of cigars for his father and a seventy-five cent diamond brooch for his mother. His own fortunes he left in the hands of the angels. But he prayed, and he prayed every night for weeks that Santa Claus would bring him a pair of skates, and a puppy-dog, and an air-gun, and a bicycle, and a Noah's Ark, and a sleigh, and a drum, all together about a hundred and fifty dollars worth of stuff. I went into Who Do's room quite early Christmas morning. I had an idea that the scene would be interesting. I woke him up, and he sat up in bed, his eye glistening with radiant expectation, and began hauling things out of his stocking. The first parcel was bulky. It was done up quite loosely and had an odd look, generally. Ha-ha! Who Do cried gleefully as he began undoing it. I'll bet it's the puppy-dog all wrapped up in paper. And was it the puppy-dog? No, by no means. It was a pair of nice, strong number four boots, laces and all labeled Who Do from Santa Claus, and underneath ninety-five net. The boy's jaw fell with delight. It's boots, he said, and plunged his hand in again. He began hauling away at another parcel with renewed hope on his face. This time the thing seemed like a little round box. Who Do tore the paper off it with a fervor-ish hand. He shook it, something rattled inside. It's a watch and chain, it's a watch and chain, he shouted. Then he pulled the lid off. And was it a watch and chain? No. It was a box of nice, brand-new celluloid collars, a dozen of them all alike, and all his own size. The boy was so pleased that you could see his face crack up with pleasure. He waited a few minutes until his intense joy subsided. Then he tried again. This time the packet was long and hard. It resisted the touch and had a sort of funnel shape. It's a toy pistol, said the boy, trembling with excitement. Gee, I hope there are lots of caps with it. I'll fire some off now and wake up father. No, my poor child, you will not wake your father with that. It is a useful thing, but it needs not caps, and it fires no bullets. And you cannot wake a sleeping man with a toothbrush. Yes, it was a toothbrush. Regular beauty, pure bone all through, and ticketed with a little paper, Who Do, from Santa Claus. Again the expression of intense joy passed over the boy's face, and the tears of gratitude started from his eye. He wiped them away with his toothbrush and passed on. The next packet was much larger and evidently contained something soft and bulky. It had been too long to go into the stocking and was tied outside. I wonder what this is, Who Do mused, half afraid to open it. Then his heart gave a great leap, and he forgot all his other presence in the anticipation of this one. It's a drum all wrapped up. Drum nothing. It was pants. A pair of the nicest little short pants, yellowish-brown short pants, with dear little stripes of color running across both ways. And here again Santa Claus had written, Who Do, from Santa Claus, One Fort Net. But there was something wrapped up in it. Oh yes, there was a pair of braces wrapped up in it. Braces with a little steel sliding thing so that you could slide your pants up to your neck if you wanted to. The boy gave a dry sob of satisfaction. Then he took out his last present. It's a book, he said, as he unwrapped it. I wonder if it is fairy stories or adventures. Oh, I hope it's adventure. I'll read it all morning. No, Who Do. It was not precisely adventures. It was a small family Bible. Who Do had now seen all his presence, and he arose and dressed. He still had the fun of playing with his toys. That is always the cheap delight of Christmas morning. First he played with his toothbrush. He got a whole lot of water and brushed all his teeth with it. This was huge. Then he played with his collars. He had no end of fun with them, taking them all out one by one and swearing at them, and then putting them back and swearing at the whole lot together. The next toy was his pants. He had immense fun there, putting them on and taking them off again, and then trying to guess which side was which by merely looking at them. After that he took his book and read some adventures called Genesis till breakfast time. Then he went downstairs and kissed his father and mother. His father was smoking a cigar, and his mother had her new brooch on. Who Do's face was thoughtful, and a light seemed to have broken in upon his mind. Indeed, I think it altogether likely that next Christmas he will hang on to his own money and take chances on what the angels bring. End of Who Do Macphiggans Christmas by Stephen Leacock. The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen. It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had anyone given her even a penny. Shivering with the cold and hunger, she crept along, poor little child. She looked the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not. Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's Eve, yes, she remembered that. In a corner between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold, and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches and could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her, besides it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only a roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah, perhaps a burning match might be some good. If she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall just to warm her fingers, she drew out one. Scratch! How it sputtered as it burnt. It gave a warm, bright light like a little candle as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light, it seemed to the little girl that she was sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass ornament. How the fire burned and seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them when low the flame of the match went out. The stove vanished, as she had only the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand. She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into flame, and where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, as she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white tablecloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a steaming roast goose stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor with a knife and fork in its breast to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her. She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchants. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures like those she had seen in the show windows looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out. The Christmas lights rose higher and higher till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. Someone is dying, thought the little girl. For her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God. She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her. Then the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance. "'Grandmother,' cried the little one, "'oh, take me with you. I know you will go away when the match burns out. You will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large, glorious Christmas tree.' And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there, and the matches glowed with the light that was brighter than the noonday, and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God. In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall. She had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year, and the new year's sun rose and shone upon a little corpse. The child still sat in the stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt. She tried to warm herself, said some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother on New Year's Day. Little Tree by E.E. Cummings, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Little tree, little silent Christmas tree, you are so little, you are more like a flower. Who found you in the green forest, and were you very sorry to come away? See, I will comfort you, because you smell so sweetly. I will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight, just as your mother would. Only don't be afraid. Look, the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark box, dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine. The balls, the chains, red and gold, the fluffy threads. Put up your little arms, and I'll give them all to you to hold. Every finger shall have its ring, and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy. Then, when you're quite dressed, you'll stand in the window for everyone to see, and how they'll stare. Oh, but you'll be very proud, and my little sister and I will take hands, and looking up at our beautiful tree, we'll dance and sing. Noel, Noel. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Magi by William Butler Yates, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. Now, as at all times, I can see in the mind's eye. In their stiff painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky, with all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, and all their helms of silver hovering side by side, and all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied. The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mrs. Santa Claus by Carolyn S. Bailey. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mrs. Santa Claus by Carolyn S. Bailey. It was Christmas Eve. Old Santa Claus was just ready to start out upon his long journey over the snowy treetops and roofs to find the waiting chimneys and the little empty stockings. Such a busy day as it had been, with the brownies finishing the packing and Mrs. Santa Claus sewing buttons on the last doll's dress and tying the last hair ribbon and smoothing the last curl. But everything was ready. The sleigh was packed from top to bottom, so full that it seemed as if old Santa Claus could never squeeze in himself. There were tops and drums and jack-in-the-boxes and steam engines and hundreds of dolls and barrels of chocolate drops and peppermint canes were hanging out from the back. The reindeer were harnessed and prancing, dasher and dancer and donner and vixen and the rest. The sleigh bells were ringing gaily, and old Santa Claus jumped in and took the reins. Good-bye, mother, he called to Mrs. Santa Claus, who stood in the door to watch the sleigh start. Anything I can bring you from the city, dear? I think I need a new pair of spectacles, said Mrs. Santa Claus. My eyes are growing dim with so much sewing. If the stores are open when you finish tonight, just bring me a stronger pair of glasses. I will. Good-bye, shouted Santa Claus. With a dash and a jingle of bells, the reindeer jumped to the top of the trees and started, and Mrs. Santa Claus went in to sit in her rocking chair by the fire and doze. The workshop was very still. Christmas Eve, you know, is the only time of the whole year when Santa Claus's workmen may rest, so the little brownies who paint the sleds and nail the dollhouses and test the steamboats were curled up in heaps on all the benches, fast asleep and snoring. The candy-cettles were polished and hung in a row upon the kitchen wall. Mrs. Santa Claus sat and rocked by the fire and thought of all the dolls she had dressed. There were four hundred with silk dresses, she said to herself, and two hundred with blue. There were five hundred baby dolls, and I never finished dressing them until to-day. I wonder if Santa packed them all. I must go and see. So Mrs. Santa Claus lighted a candle and went out to the sewing-room and peered about in every corner. There were piles of silk and velvet and satin and ribbon all over the floor, but oh, there sat three dolls—a baby doll, a doll in pink, and a doll in blue. Santa Claus had forgotten them. What shall I do? What shall I do? cried Mrs. Santa Claus, looking out of the window to see if Santa were anywhere in sight. But he was not. We counted them all, and there were just enough to go around. Three little girls will have no dolls on Christmas morning. I shall have to go with them myself. Out in the barn there was just one reindeer standing in his stall. One who had a lame foot, so he could not take the long journey with the others. He was contentedly munching hay, but Mrs. Santa Claus tucked the dolls under her arm, put on her little red shawl, tied her cap strings tighter, and hurried out to the barn. Come, Blitzen, she said, as she saddled him and jumped on his back. We must go as fast as ever we can after Santa Claus. He has left three dolls behind. So Blitzen dropped his hay, and they started. Over the woods and the fields and the fences they dashed so fast that the wind was left far behind. They looked very funny indeed, for Mrs. Santa Claus had forgotten to take off her apron, and her cap was all awry, but on they hurried. And when they came to the towns, Blitzen stopped at every roof that Mrs. Santa Claus might look down the chimney. But Santa Claus had always been there first, and the stockings were filled, and the dolls were waiting. We counted them all, Mrs. Santa Claus kept saying to herself, someone will need a doll. And sure enough she came to a very wee chimney of a very wee house, and there was a stocking hung, but there was only an apple in it, nothing else. So Mrs. Santa Claus dropped the beautiful doll that was dressed in pink silk into the stocking, and started on once more. Presently they came to another house, and when Mrs. Santa Claus looked down the chimney, she saw no stocking at all hanging by the fireplace, and there was no fire even. There was nothing in the room but a table, and a broken chair, and a bed where a little girl, so thin and pale, lay sleeping. And Mrs. Santa Claus dropped the doll in the blue silk dress, right down into the little girl's arms, and hurried on again. When they had come to the very end of the town, Mrs. Santa Claus saw a little girl standing out in the street. She had a bundle of papers to sell, and no one had seen her because she was so small, and she was waiting out in the cold and the snow. Mrs. Santa Claus dropped the baby doll down to the little girl's lap, and then she turned Blitzen toward home again. It was almost Christmas morning when they reached the barn, and, oh, they were very tired. When Santa Claus came back with his empty sleigh and the new spectacles, he found Mrs. Santa Claus fast asleep in her rocking chair by the fire. Poor mother, he said, she's been sewing too much. And Mrs. Santa Claus woke up, but she never told about the three dolls. End of Mrs. Santa Claus by Carolyn S. Bailey, read by Kara Schellenberg on December 6, 2007, in Oceanside, California. Mr. Bluff's Experiences of Holidays by Oliver Belpons This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mr. Bluff's Experiences of Holidays I hate holidays, said Bachelor Bluff to me, with some little irritation on a Christmas a few years ago. Then he paused an instant after which he resumed, I don't mean to say that I hate to see people enjoying themselves, but I hate holidays, nevertheless, because, to me, they are always the saddest and dreariest days of the year. I shudder at the name of holiday. I dread the approach of one and thank heaven when it is over. I pass through on a holiday, the most horrible sensations, the bitterest feelings to the most oppressive melancholy. In fact, I am not myself at holiday times. Very strange. I ventured to interpose. A plague on it, said he, almost with violence. I am not inhuman. I don't wish anybody harm. I am glad people can enjoy themselves, but I hate holidays all the same. You see, this is the reason. I am a bachelor. I am without kin. I am in a place that did not know me at birth. And so, when holidays come around, there is no place anywhere for me. I have friends, of course, I don't think I have been a very sulky shut-in, reticent fellow, and there is many a board that has a place for me, but not at Christmas time. At Christmas the dinner is a family gathering, and I have no family. There is such a gathering of kindred on this occasion, such a reunion of family folk, that there is no place for a friend, even if the friend be liked. Christmas with all its kindliness and charity and goodwill is, after all, deused selfish. Each little set gathers within its own circle, and people like me, with no particular circle, are left in the lurch. So you see, on the day of all the days in the year that my heart pines for good cheer, I am without an invitation. Oh, it's because I pined for good cheer, said the bachelor sharply, interrupting my attempt to speak, that I hate holidays. If I were an infernally selfish fellow I wouldn't hate holidays. I'd go off and have some fun all to myself, somewhere, or somehow. But you see, I hate to be in the dark when all the rest of the world is in light. I hate holidays because I ought to be merry and happy on holidays and can't. Don't tell me, he cried, stopping the word that was on my lips. I tell you, I HATE holidays. The shops look merry, do they, with their bright toys and their green branches. The Pam to Mime is crowded with merry hearts, is it? The circus and the show are brimful of fun and laughter, are they? Well, they all make me miserable. I haven't any pretty-faced girls or bright-eyed boys to take to the circus or the show, and all the nice girls and fine boys of my acquaintance have their uncles or their grand-dads or their cousins to take them to those places. So, if I go, I must go alone, but I don't go. I can't bear the chill of seeing everybody happy and knowing myself so lonely and desolate. I haven't found it, sir. I have too much heart to be happy under such circumstances. I am too humane, sir. And the result is, I hate holidays. It's miserable to be out, and yet I can't stay at home, for I get thinking of Christmases past. I can't read. The shadow of my heart makes it impossible. I can't walk, for I see nothing but pictures through the bright windows and happy groups of pleasure-seekers. The fact is, I have nothing to do but to hate holidays. But will you not dine with me? Of course I had to plead engagement with my own family circle, and I couldn't quite invite Mr. Bluff home that day, when cousin Charles and his wife and sister Susan and her daughter and three of my wife's kin had come in from the country, all to make a merry Christmas with us. I felt sorry, but it was quite impossible, so I wished Mr. Bluff a merry Christmas and hurried homeward through the cold and nipping air. I did not meet Mr. Bluff again until a week after Christmas of the next year, when I learned some strange particulars of what occurred to him after our parting on the occasion just described. I will let Mr. Bluff tell his adventure for himself. I went to church, said he, and was as sad there as everywhere else. Of course, the evergreens were pretty, and the music fine, but all around me were happy groups of people who could scarcely keep down merry Christmas, long enough to do reverence to sacred Christmas. And nobody was alone but me. Every happy pedophemilias in his pew tantalized me, and the whole atmosphere of the play seemed so much better suited to everyone else than me, that I came away hating holidays worse than ever. Then I went to the play and sat down in a box all alone by myself. Everybody seemed on the best of terms with everybody else, and jokes and banter passed from one to another with the most good-natured freedom. Everybody but me was in a little group of friends. I was the only person in the whole theatre that was alone. And then there was such clapping of hands and roars of laughter and shouts of delight at all the fun going on upon the stage, all of which was rendered doubly enjoyable by everybody having somebody with whom to share, and interchange the pleasure that my loneliness got simply unbearable, and I hated holidays infinitely worse than ever. By five o'clock the holiday seemed so intolerable that I said I'd go and get a dinner. The best dinner the town could provide, a sumptuous dinner for one, a dinner with many courses, with wines of the finest brands, with bright lights, with a cheerful fire, with every condition of comfort, and I'd see if I couldn't for once extract a little pleasure out of a holiday. The handsome dining room at the club looked bright, but it was empty. Who dines at this club on Christmas but lonely bachelors? There was a flutter of surprise when I ordered a dinner, and the few attendants were no doubt glad of something to break the monotony of the hours. My dinner was well served. The spacious room looked lonely, but the white snowy cloths, the rich window hangings, the warm tints of the walls, the sparkle of the fire in the steel grate, gave the room an air of elegance and cheerfulness, and then the table at which I dined was close to the window, and through the partly drawn curtains were visible centers of lonely cold streets with bright lights from many a window. It is true, but there was a storm, and snow began whirling through the street. I let my imagination paint the streets as cold and dreary as it would, just to extract a little pleasure by way of contrast from the brilliant room of which I was apparently soul-master. I dined well, and recalled in fancy old youthful Christmases, and pledged mentally many an old friend in my melancholy was mellowing into a low, sad undertone, when, just as I was raising a glass of wine to my lips, I was startled by a picture at the window-pane. It was a pale, wild, haggard face, in a great cloud of black hair pressed against the glass. As I looked at vanished, with a strange thrill at my heart, which my lips mocked with a derisive sneer, I finished the wine and set down the glass. It was, of course, only a beggar girl that had crept up to the window and stole a glance at the bright scene within, but still, the pale face troubled me a little, and threw a fresh shadow on my heart. I filled my glass once more with wine, and was again about to drink when the face reappeared at the window. It was so white, so thin, with eyes so large, wild and hungry looking, and the black unkept hair, into which the snow had drifted formed so strange and weird a frame, to the picture that I was fairly startled. Replacing untasted the liquor on the table, I rose and went close to the pane. The face had vanished, and I could see no object within many feet of the window. The storm had increased, and the snow was driving in wild gusts through the streets, which were empty, save here and there a hurrying wayfarer. The whole scene was cold, wild, and desolate, and I could not repress a keen thrill of sympathy for the child, whoever it was, whose only Christmas was to watch in cold and storm, the rich banquet ungrateful enjoyed by the lonely bachelor. I resumed my place at the table, but the dinner was finished, and the wine had no further relish. I was haunted by the vision at the window, and began, with an unreasonable irritation at the interruption, to repeat with fresh warmth my detestation of holidays. One couldn't even dine alone on a holiday with any sort of comfort, I declared. On holidays one was tormented by too much pleasure on one side and too much misery on the other. And then, I said, hunting for justification of my dislike of the day, how many other people are, like me, made miserable by seeing the fullness of enjoyment others possess? Oh, yes, I know! sarcastically replied the bachelor to a comment of mine. Of course, all magnanimous, generous, and noble-sold people delight in seeing other people made happy, and are quite content to accept this vicarious felicity. But I, you see, and this dear little girl— Oh, I forgot, said bachelor Bluff, blushing a little in spite of a desperate effort not to do so. I didn't tell you, well, it was so absurd. I kept thinking, thinking of the pale-haggered lonely little girl on the cold and desolate side of the window-pane, and the overfed, discontented, lonely old bachelor on the splendid side of the window-pane, and I didn't get much happier thinking about it, I can assure you. I drank glass after glass of the wine, not that I enjoyed its flavour any more, but mechanically as it were, and with a sort of hope thereby to drown unpleasant reminders. I tried to attribute my annoyance in the matter to holidays, and so denounced them more vehemently than ever. I rose once in a while, and went to the window, but could see no one to whom the pale face could have belonged. At last, in no very amiable mood, I got up, put on my wrappers, and went out, and the first thing I did was to run against a small figure crouching in the doorway. A face looked up quickly at the rough encounter, and I saw the pale features of the window-pane. I was very irritated and angry, and spoke harshly, and then all at once. I am sure I don't know how it happened, but it flashed upon me that I, of all men, had no right to utter a harsh word to one oppressed with so wretched a Christmas as this poor creature was. I couldn't say another word, but began feeling in my pocket for some money, and then I asked a question or two. And then I don't quite know how it came about. Isn't it very warm here?" exclaimed a bachelor bluff rising and walking about and wiping the perspiration from his brow. Well, you see, he resumed nervously. It was very absurd, but I did believe the girl's story, the old story you know of probation and suffering, and just thought I'd go home with a brat and see what she said was all true. And then I remembered that all the shops were closed and not a purchase could be made. I went back and persuaded the steward to put up for me a hamper of provisions which the half-wild little youngster helped me carry through the snow, dancing with delight all the way. And isn't this enough? Not a bit, Mr. Bluff, I must have the whole story. I declare, said a bachelor bluff, there's no whole story to tell. A widow with children in great need, that was what I found, and they had a feast that night and a little money to buy them a load of wood and a garment or two the next day, and they were all so bright and so merry and so thankful and so good, that when I got home that night I was mightily amazed that, instead of going to bed sour at holidays, I was in a state of great contentment in regards to holidays. In fact, I was really merry. I whistled. I sang. I do believe I cut a caper. The poor wretches I had left had been so merry over their unlooked-for Christmas banquet that their spirits infected mine. And then I got thinking again. Of course, holidays had been miserable to me, I said. What right had a well-to-do, lonely old bachelor, hovering wistfully in the vicinity of happy circles, when all about that there were so many people as lonely as he, and yet oppressed with want? Good gracious, I exclaimed, to think of a man complaining of loneliness with thousands of wretches yearning for his help and comfort, with endless opportunities for work and company, with hundreds of pleasant and delightful things to do, just to think of it. It put me in a great fury at myself to think of it. I tried pretty hard to escape from myself and began inventing excuses and all that sort of thing, but I rigidly forced myself to look squarely at my own conduct, and then I reconciled my confidence by declaring that, if ever after that day I hated a holiday again, might my holidays end at once and for ever. Did I go and see my protégés again? What a question! Why, well, no matter. If the widow is comfortable now, it is because she has found a way to earn without difficulty enough for her few wants. That's no fault of mine. I would have done more for her, but she wouldn't let me. But just let me tell you about New Year's, the New Year's day that followed the Christmas I've been describing. It was lucky for me there was another holiday only a week off. Bless you. I had so much to do that day I was completely bewildered, and the hours weren't half long enough. I did make a few social calls, but then I heard them over and then hastened to my little girl whose face had already caught a touch of colour, and she, looking quite handsome in her new frock and her ribbons, took me to other poor folk, and, well, that's about the whole story. So, as to the next Christmas? Well, I didn't dine alone, as you may guess. It was up three stairs, that's true, and there was none of that elegance that marked the dinner of the year before, but it was merry and happy and pride. It was a generous, honest, hearty Christmas dinner, that it was, although I do wish the widow hadn't talked so much. About the mysterious way Turkey had been left at her door the night before. And Mali, that's the little girl, and I had a rousing appetite. We went to church early, then we had been down to the five points to carry the poor outcasts there something for their Christmas dinner. In fact, we had done wonders of work, and Mali was in high spirits, and so the Christmas dinner was a great success. Dear me, sir, no, just as you say, holidays are not, in the least, weirsome any more. Plague on it. When a man tells me now that he hates holidays, I find myself getting very wroth. I pin him by the buttonhole at once and tell him my experience. The fact is, if I were at dinner on a holiday, and anybody should ask me for a sentiment, I should say, God bless all holidays. End of Mr. Bluff's experience of holidays. My Oliver Bell Buns. The Night After Christmas by Ann P. L. Field. 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 Jan McGillivray. Twas the night after Christmas in Santa Claus land, and to rest from his labors St. Nicholas planned, the reindeer were turned out to pasture, and all the ten thousand assistants discharged till the fall. The furry greatcoat was laid safely away with the boots and the cap with its tassel so gay, and toasting his toes by a merry wood fire, what more could a weary old Santa desire? So he puffed at his pipe and remarked to his wife, This amply makes up for my strenuous life. From climbing down chimneys my legs fairly ache, but it's well worth the while for the dear children's sake. I bruise every bone in my body to see the darlings delight in a gift-laden tree. Just then came a sound like a telephone bell. Though why they should have such a thing I can't tell. St. Nick gave a snort and exclaimed in a rage, Bad luck to inventions of this modern age. He grabbed the receiver. His face wore a frown as he roared in the mouthpiece, I will not come down to exchange any toys like an up-to-date store. Ring off, I'll not listen to anything more. Then he settled himself by the comforting blaze and waxed reminiscent of Halcyon days when children were happy with simplest of toys, a doll for the girls and a drum for the boys. But again came that noisy disturber of peace, the telephone bell. Would the sound never cease? Run and answer it, wife, all my patience has fled. If they keep this thing up I shall wish I were dead. I have worked night and day the best part of a year to supply all the children, and what do I hear? A boy who declares he received roller skates when he wanted a gun, and a cross girl who states that she asked for a new Victor talking machine, and I brought her a sled so she thinks I am mean. Poor St. Nicholas looked just the picture of woe. He needed some auto-suggestion, you know, to make him think things were all coming out right, for he didn't get one wink of slumber that night. The telephone wire was kept sizzling hot by children disgusted with presents they'd got, and when the bright sun showed its face in the sky, the Santa Claus family were ready to cry. Just then something happened, a way of escape, though it came in the funniest possible shape, an aeronaut, sorely in need of a meal, descended for breakfast. It seemed quite ideal. For the end of it was he invited his host out to try the balloon of whose speed he could boast. St. Nick, who was nothing if not a good sport, was delighted to go, and as quick as a thought climbed into the car for a flight in the air. No telephone bells can disturb me up there, and wife, if it suits me I'll count it no crime to stay up till ready for next Christmas time. Thus saying, he sailed in the giant balloon, and I fear that he will not return very soon. Now, when you ask Central for Santa Claus land, she'll say discontinued, and you'll understand. End of The Night After Christmas by Ann P. L. Field. An Old Time Christmas from the Strength of Gideon and Other Stories by Paul Lauren Stunbar. Read for Librebox.org by Alan Davis Drake. An Old Time Christmas. When the holidays came round, the thoughts of Liza Ann Lewis always turned to the good times that she used to have at home, when, following the precedent of antebellum days, Christmas lasted all the week, and good cheer held sway. She remembered with regret the gifts that were given, the songs that were sung to the tinkling of the banjo and the dances with which they beguiled the night hours, and the eating. Could she forget it? The great turkey with the fat literally bursting from him, the yellow yam melting into deliciousness in the mouth, or its some more fortunate season, even the juicy possum grinning and brown and greasy death from the great platter. In the 10 years she had lived in New York, she had known no such feast day. Food was strangely dear in the metropolis, and then there was always the weekly rental of the poor room to be paid. But she had kept the memory of the old times green in her heart, and ever turned to it with the fondness of one, for something irretrievably lost. That is how Jimmy came to know about it. Jimmy was 13 and small for his age, and he could not remember any such times as his mother told him about, although he said with great pride to his partner and rival, Blinky Scott, Cheese, Blink, you ought to hear my old lady talk about the days they had down where we come from at Christmas. New York ain't in it with them. You can just bet. And Blinky, who was a New Yorker clean through with a New Yorker's contempt for anything outside of the city, had promptly replied with a downward spreading of his right hand, ah, forget it. Jimmy felt a little crestfallen for a minute, but he lifted himself in his own estimation by threatening to do Blinky, and the cloud rolled by. Liza Ann knew that Jimmy couldn't ever understand what she meant by an old-time Christmas unless she could show him by some faint approach to its merry-making, and it had been the dream of her life to do this. But every year she had failed, until now she was a little ahead. Her plan was too good to keep, and when Jimmy went out that Christmas Eve morning to sell his papers, she had disclosed it to him and bade him hurry home as soon as he was done, for they were to have a real old-time Christmas. Jimmy exhibited as much pleasure as he deemed consistent with his dignity, and promised to be back early to add his earnings to the fund for celebration. When he was gone, Liza Ann counted over her savings lovingly, and dreamed of what she could buy her boy, and what she would have for dinner the next day. Then a voice, a colored man's voice, she knew, floated up to her. Even in the alley below her window was singing, The Old Folks at Home. All up and down the whole creation, sadly I roam, Still longing for the old plantation, and for the old folks at home. She leaned out of the window and listened, and when the song had ceased and she drew her head in again, there were tears in her eyes, the tears of memory and longing. But she crushed them away, and laughed tremendously to herself as she said, What a regular old fool I'm a-gidden to be. Then she went out into the cold, snow-covered streets, for she had work to do that day that would add a might to her little Christmas store. Down in the street Jimmy was calling out the morning papers, and racing with Blinky Scott for prospective customers. These were only transients, of course, for each had his regular buyers whose preferences were scrupulously respected by both, in agreement with a strange silent compact. The electric cars went clanging to and fro, the streets were full of shoppers with bundles and bunches of holly, and all the sights and sounds were pregnant with the message of the joyous time. People were full of the holiday spirit. The papers were going fast, and the little colored boys' pockets were filled with the desired coins. It would have been all right with Jimmy if the policeman hadn't come up on him just as he was about to toss the bones. And when Blinky Scott had him faded to the amount of five hard-earned pennies. Well, they were trying to suppress youthful gambling in New York, and the officer had to do his duty. The others scuttled away. But Jimmy was so absorbed in the game that he didn't see the cop until he was right above him. So he was pinched. He blubbered a little and wiped his grimy face with his grimeer sleeve until it was one long brown smear. You know, this was Jimmy's first time. The big blue coat looked a little bit ashamed as he marched him down the street, followed at a distance by a few hooting boys. Some of the holiday shoppers turned to look at them as they passed and murmured. Poor little chap! I wonder what he's been up to now. Others said sarcastically. It seems strange that Copper didn't call for help. A few of his brother-offices grinned at him as he passed, and he blushed. But the dignity of the law must be upheld, and the crime of gambling among the newsboys was a growing evil. Yes, the dignity of the law must be upheld, and though Jimmy was only a small boy, it would be well to make an example of him. So his name and age were put down on the blotter. And over against them the offence with which he was charged. Then he was locked up to await trial the next morning. It's shameful, the bearded sergeant said, how the kids are carrying on these days. People are feeling pretty generous, and they'll toss them a nickel or a dime for the paper and tell them to keep the change for Christmas. And first thing you know the little beggars are shooting craps or pitching pennies. We've got to make an example of some of them. Liza Ann Lewis was tearing through her work that day to get home and do her Christmas shopping. And she was singing as she worked some such old song as she used to sing in the good old days back home. She reached her room late and tired, but happy. Visions of awakening uptime for her and Jimmy were on her mind. But Jimmy wasn't there. I wonder what that little scamp is, she said, smiling. I told him to hurry home. I reckon he's staying out later, even in papers, so as to bring home mull money. Hour after hour passed, and he did not come. And then she grew alarmed. At two o'clock in the morning she could stand it no longer, and she went over and awakened Blinky Scott, much to the young gentleman's disgust, who couldn't see why any woman need make such a fuss about a kid. He told her, leconically, that Jimmy was pinched for trolling the bones. She heard with a sinking heart, and went home to her own room to walk the floor all night and sob. In the morning with all her Christmas savings tied up in a handkerchief, she hurried down to Jefferson Market Courtroom. There was a full blotter that morning, and the judge was rushing through it. He wanted to get home to his Christmas dinner, but he paused long enough when he got to Jimmy's case to deliver a brief but stern lecture upon the evil of child gambling in New York. He said that, as it was Christmas Day, he would like to release the prisoner with a reprimand. But he thought that this had been done too often, and that it was high time to make an example of one of the offenders. Well, it was fine or imprisonment. Liza Ann struggled up through the crowd of spectators, and her Christmas treasure, added to what Jimmy had, paid his fine, and they went out of the courtroom together. When they were in the room again, she put the boy to bed, for there was no fire and no coal to make one. Then she wrapped herself in a shabby shawl, and sat huddled up over the empty stove. Down in the alley she heard the voice of the day before, singing, Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary, far from the old folks at home. And she burst into tears, end of an old-time Christmas.