 A Christmas Carol by Charles Kingsley This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org A Christmas Carol It chanced upon the merry, merry Christmas Eve. I went sighing past the church across the moorland dreary. O never sin and want and woe this earth will leave, and the bells but mock the wailing round they sing so cheery. How long, O Lord, how long before Thou come again? Still in cellar and in garret and on moorland dreary, the orphans moan and widows weep and poor men toil in vain. Till earth is sick with hope deferred, though Christmas bells be cheery. Then arose a joyous clamour from the wildfowl on the meere. Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing, and a voice within cried, Listen, Christmas Carols, even hear. Though Thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars and snows are singing. Blind, I live, I love, I reign, and all the nations through, with the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing. Do Thou fulfill Thy work, but as yon wildfowl do. Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing. End of A Christmas Carol by Charles Kingsley A Christmas Eve in the Far South Seas by Lewis Beck This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Donald McBride and myself were the only Britishers living on one of the North Pacific Island lagoons when Christmas of 1880 drew near, and we determined to celebrate it in a manner that would fill our German and American trading rivals throughout the group with envy. McBride was a bony red-headed Scotchman with a large heart and a small, jealous half-caste wife. The latter acquisition ruled him with a rod of iron, much to his financial and moral benefit, but nevertheless agreed with me that we, Donald, she and myself, ought to show the Americans and the Dutchmen how an English Christmas should be celebrated. But as Sarah was a half-caste native of the Paloose, and had never been to a civilized country, she also concurred with me that Donald and myself should run the show, which, although I was not a married man, was to take place in my house on account of the greater space available. Donald, she said, wanted to have a haquiz, so we bought a nanny goat from Ludwig Wolfen, the German trader at Mulla, and one evening, the 23rd of December, I helped Sarah to drive and drag the unsuspecting creature home to her husband's place to the slaughter. I may as well say at once that McBride's nanny goat Haggis was a hideous failure, and my boat's crew, to whom it was handed over, with many strong expressions about McBride's beastly, provincial taste, said that it smelt good, like shark's liver, but it was not at all so juicy. Meanwhile Wolfen, a fat, good-hearted tootin, with a face like a full moon and a fog, called upon me and remarked in a squashy tonal voice, super-induced by too many years of lagerbier and its resultant adipose tissue, that he and Peter Hoosman, his neighbor, would feel very much hurt if we did not invite them to participate in the festivities. I said that blaze he had were so we called dear old McBride, and myself would be delighted. Whereupon Wolfen, who had once, when he was a sailor on an English ship, spent a Christmas in a public house somewhere in the vicinity of the East India Docks, said that the correct thing for us to do would be to have a Christmas cake. Also, he suggested we should invite Tom Devine and Charlie Dubu, the two American traders who lived across the lagoon to join the party. Being aware of the fact that from trade jealousies there had hitherto been a somewhat notorious bitterness of feeling between my German fellow trader and the two Americans, I shook his hand warmly, said that I was delighted to see that he could forgive and forget, and that I should that moment send my boat across the lagoon to Devine and Charlie Dubu, with a written invitation, and asked them to favor us with their company. Also, that as Mrs. Charlie, who was a Samoan half-caste girl, was skilled in baking bread, perhaps she would lend Ms. Doms, McBride, Wolfen, and Huseman her assistance in making a Christmas cake, the size of which she caused the native population to sit up and respect us as men of more than ordinary intelligence and patriotism. On the evening of the twenty-four, three whale boats attended by a flutilla of small native canoes sailed into the little sandy beach nook upon the shores of which the trading station was situated. The three boats were steered by the Messors, Peter Huseman, Charles D. Boyd, and Thomas Devine, who were accompanied by their wives, children, and numerous female relatives, all of the latter being clad in their holiday attire of new mats, but with their hair excessively anointed with scented coconut oil, scarlet hibiscus flowers behind their ears and necklaces of sweet-smelling pieces of pandanus droops. McBride, Mrs. McBride, and I received them the moment they stepped out of the boats, and then Ludwig Wolfen, who was disposed in the background with an accordion and seated on a gin case, played the star-spangled banner to the accompaniment of several native drums beaten by his wife and her sister and brothers. Then my boatman, a stalwart Maori half-caste, advanced from out the thronging crowd of natives, which surrounded us and planted in the sand a British red incense attached to a tall bamboo pole and called for three cheers for the Queen of England and three for the President of the United States. This at once gave offence to Ludwig Wolfen, who asked what was the matter with the Emperor of Germany, whereupon Bill Gray, the Mayor, took off his coat and asked him what he meant, and a fierce encounter was only avoided by half a dozen strapping natives seizing billing and making him sit down on the sand, while the wrathful Ludwig was hustled by Donald McBride and Mrs. Ludwig and threatened with a hammering if he insulted the gathering by his ill-timed and injudicious remarks about a foreign potentate. Ludwig, I regret to say, had begun his Christmas on the previous evening. But we were all too merry and too filled with right good-down comradeship to let such a trifle as this disturb the harmony of our first Christmas-four gathering, and presently Bill Gray, his dark handsome face wreathed in a sunny smile, came up to the sulky and rightly indignant trader with outstretched hand, and said he was sorry. And Wolfen good-hearted German that he was, grasped it warmly, and said he was sorry, too. And then we all trooped up to the house and sat down, only to rise up again with our glasses clinking together as we drank to our wives and ourselves in the coming Christmas, and to the brown smiling faces of the people around us who wondered why we grew so merry so suddenly, for sometimes as they knew we had all quarreled with one another and bitter words had passed. For so it ever is, and ever shall be, even in the far south seas, when questions of trade and money come between good fellowship and old-time camaraderie. And then sweet dark-eyed Sarah, McBride's young wife, took up her guitar and sang us love songs in the old Lusitanian tongue of her father, and Tom Devine, the ex-boat-steer in Charlie Du Bois, the reckless, and Peter Huseman, the red-faced white-haired old Dutchman, all joined hands and danced around a rough table while Billy Gray and Ludwig Wolfen stood on the top of it and sang or tried to sing, home sweet home. And the rider of this memory of those old Pacific days sat in a chair in the doorway and wondered where we should all be the next year. For as we sang and danced in the twang-twang of Sarah's guitar, sound it through the silent night, without. Tom Devine, the American, held up his hand to McBride, and silence fell. Bois, he said, let us drink to the memory of the far-off faces of those dear ones whom we never may see again. He paused a moment and then caught sight of Sarah as she bent over her guitar with downcast eyes. And to those who are with us now, our wives and our children and our friends, drink, my boys, and the first man who, either tonight or tomorrow, talks about business and dirty, filthy dollars shall get fired out right away before he knows where he is. For this is a Christmas time. And Sarah McBride, why the devil don't you play something? Keep me from making a fool of myself. So Sarah, with a twist of her life-body and a merry gleam in her full big eyes, sang another song, and then long bony McBride came over to her and kissed her on her fair, smooth forehead, whispered something that we did not hear and pointed to Charlie Du Bois, who stood glass in hand at the furthest corner of the big room, his thin suntan face, his grave and sober as that of an English judge. Gentlemen, then, so to loce to the chairman in the doorway, just fancy us South Sea loafers calling ourselves gentlemen. Gentlemen, we are here to spend a good time, and I move that we quit speech-making and start the women on that cake. Tom Devine and myself are, as you know, members of two of the first families in America, and only came to the South Seas to wear out our old clothes. Shut up, said Devine. We don't want to hear anything about the first American families. This is an English Christmas with full-blooded South Sea trimmings. Off you go, you women, and start on the cake. So Charlie Du Bois, shut up, and then the women headed by Sarah and Mary Devine, trooped off to the cookhouse to beat up eggs for the cake, and left us to ourselves. When it drew near midnight, they returned, and Peter Huseman arose and twisting his grizzled mustaches, said, Mine boys, will you let me tell you that now is coming, dear mourn, then Jesus Christ was born. And will you please, Mary Devine, tell those natives outside to stop those damned drums, while I speak, and come hear you, McBride, your red head, and you, Ludwig the Wolf, and you, Tom Devine, and you, Charlie Du Bois, you wicket-dumped devil, and you, Tom Denison, you saucy Australian boy, met your curled mustache, and your sveltoid tuxuit, and let us join our hands together, and all agree to have no more quarrelings and no more angry voids. For why should we quarrel, as our good friend says, our dirty dollars, when there is room enough for us all on this magoon to get a decent livings? And then we should try and remember that thee, none of us is going to live forever, and then, thee is dead, thee is dead a damned long time. But now, my friends, I will say no more, for I am dry, so here's to all our good healths, and let us promise one another not to have no more angry birds. And so we gathered around the big table, and grasping each other's hands, raised our glasses, and drank together without speaking, for there was something we knew not what that lay behind Dutch Peter's little speech which made us think. Presently when a big and gaudy German made cuckoo-clock in the room struck twelve, even reckless Charlie De Boy forgot his old joke about Tom Denison's damned old squawking British duck, as he called the little painted bird. But we all went outside and sat smoking our pipes on the wide veranda, and watching the flashing torchlights of the fishing canoes, as they paddled slowly to and fro over the smooth waters of the sleeping lagoon. Then almost ere we knew it, the quick red sun had turned the long black line of palms on Caroline to purple, and then to shining green, and Christmas Day had come. Tonight, as a chill December wind wails through the leafless elms and chestnuts of this quiet kentage village, I think of that far away Christmas Eve, and the rough honest sun-brown faces of the men who were around me impressed my hand when Peter Hughesman spoke of home and Christmas and Tom Divine of the dear faces whom we never might see again. For only one with the rider is left. McBride and his gentle sweet-faced Sarah went to their death the year or two later in the savage and murderous salamence. Wolfen and his wife and children perished at sea when the seedy foster schooner turned turtle off the marshals. And Divine and Charlie de Boye, comrades to the last, sailed away to the Maluccas in a ten-ton boat that we're never heard of again. Their fate is one of the many mysteries of the deep. Peter Hughesman is alive and well, and only a year ago I grasped his now trembling hand in mighty London and spoke of our meeting on Milly Lagoon. And then again in a garish and tinseled city bar we raised our glasses and drank to the memory of those who had gone before. End of A Christmas Eve in the Far South Seas by Louis Beck Bethlehem Gate by Alfred Gurney 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 Thomas Peter Bethlehem Gate, a picture by Dante Gabriel Rosetti Of old through gates that closed on them, two exiles went with eyes downcast. The present now retrieves the past. God's Eden is in Bethlehem. An Eden that no walls enclose by Mary's arms encompass it, a living shrine, a house of bread, a very haven of repose. Behold the Prince of Peace. Around his cradle angry tempest's rage, he needs must go on pilgrimage, an exile, homeless and discrowned. And yet his rank to designate, the unquenched star of Bethlehem, shines forth a radiant diadem, while angels on his footsteps wait. In now the Father's face they see, a triumph song in now they sing, and wondering and worshipping attend his pilgrim family. Two guard the frowning gateway. One is of a solemn countenance. To him a rapid backward glance reveals a massacre begun. The other, forward gazing, sees the glory of the age to come, the fruitfulness of martyrdom, of deaths that are nativities. Oh weeping mothers, dry your tears, the mother whom this canvas shows, nor fears, nor weeps, although she knows an anguish deeper than your fears. She knows a comfort deeper still, for all who fare on pilgrimage, by suffering from age to age, God seals the vassals of his will. Her burden is upholding her, and guided by the Holy Dove, she sees the victory of love beyond the cross and sepulchre. Deshield her, Joseph stands, his care, the shadow of God's providence, how fragrant is the frankincense of their uninterrupted prayer. Through ever-open gates they press, a new and living way they tread, so gain they the true house of bread, a garden for a wilderness. A flight it seems to us, to them it is a going forth to win the world from Satan and from sin, and build the new Jerusalem. Lord Christ, for every seeking soul, thou art thyself the door, the way. All, all shall find one coming day, thy heart, their everlasting goal. Lock Leven, 1884. End of Bethlehem Gate, by Alfred Gurney Volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day and circling all our limited world like a magic ring left nothing out for us to miss or seek. Bound together all our home enjoyments, affections and hopes, grouped everything and every one around the Christmas fire, and made the little picture shining in our bright young eyes complete. Time came, perhaps, also soon, when our thoughts overleaped that narrow boundary. When there was someone, very dear, we thought then, very beautiful and absolutely perfect, wanting to the fullness of our happiness. When we were wanting to, or we thought so, which did just as well, at the Christmas hearth by which that someone sat. And when we intertwined with every wreath and garland of our life, that's someone's name. That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases, which have long arisen from us to show faintly after summer rain in the palest edges of the rainbow. That was the time for the beatified enjoyment of the things that were to be and never were, and yet the things that were so real in our resolute hope that it would be hard to say now what realities achieved since have been stronger. What, did that Christmas really never come when we and the priceless pearl who was our young choice were received, after the happiest of totally impossible marriages, by the two united families previously at Daggers, drawn on our account? When brothers and sisters-in-law who had always been rather cool to us before our relationship was affected, perfectly doted on us, and when mothers and fathers overwhelmed us with unlimited incomes? Was that Christmas dinner never really eaten, after which we arose in generously and eloquently rendered honor to our late rival, present in the company, then in there exchanging friendship and forgiveness, and founding an attachment not to be surpassed in Greek or Roman story, which subsisted until death? Has that same rival long ceased to care for that same priceless pearl, and married for money, and become usurious? Above all, do we really know, now, that we should probably have been miserable if we had won and worn the pearl, and that we are better without her? That Christmas when we had recently achieved so much fame, when we had been carried in triumph somewhere for doing something great and good, when we had won an honored and ennobled name and arrived and were received at home in a shower of tears and joys? Is it possible that that Christmas has not come yet? And is our life here at the best so constituted, that pausing as we advance at such a noticeable milestone in the track as this great birthday? We look back on the things that never were, as naturally and full as gravely as on the things that have been and are gone, or have been and still are. If it be so, and so it seems to be, must we come to the conclusion that life is little better than a dream, and little worth the loves and strivings that we crowd into it? No. Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear reader, on Christmas day, nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty, kindness, and forbearance. It is in the last virtues especially, that we are, or should be, strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of our youth, for who shall say that they are not our teachers to deal gently even with the unpalpable nothings of the earth? Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our Christmas associations, and of the lessons that they bring, expands. Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by the Christmas earth. Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your shelter underneath the holly. We know you, and have not outlived you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts, and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to heaven. Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? Let our thoughts, fluttering like butterflies among these flowers of children, bear witness. Before this boy, there stretches out a future, brighter than we ever looked on in our old romantic time, but bright with honour and with truth. Around this little head on which the sunny curls lie heaped, the graces sport as prettily, as airily as when there was no scythe within the reach of time to shear away the curls of our first love. Upon another girl's face near it, placid her but smiling bright, a quiet and contented little face we see home, fairly written. Shining from the word as rays shine from a star, we see how when our graves are old, other hopes than ours are young, other hearts than ours are moved, how other ways are smoothed, how other happiness blooms, ripens, and decays. No, not decays, for other homes and other bands of children not yet in being, nor for ages yet to be, arise and bloom and ripen to the end of all. Welcome everything. Welcome alike what has been and what never was, and what we hope may be. Do your shelter underneath the holly, do your places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open-hearted. In Yonder's shadow do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze an enemy's face? Like Christmas day we do forgive him. If the injury he has done us may admit of such companionship, let him come here and take his place. If otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence, assure that we will never injure nor accuse him. On this day we shut out nothing. Pause, says a low voice. Nothing. Think. On Christmas day we will shut out from our fireside. Nothing. Not the shadow of a vast city where the withered leaves are lying deep. The voice replies. Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe. Not the shadow of the city of the dead. Not even that. Of all days in the year we will turn our faces toward that city upon Christmas day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved among us. City of the dead. In the blessed name wherein we are gathered together at this time, and in the presence that is here among us according to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us. Yes, we can look upon these children angels that are light so solemnly, so beautifully among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think how they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the patriarchs did, the playful children are unconscious of their guests, but we can see them. Can see a radiant arm around one favorite neck, as if they were attempting of that child away. Among the celestial figures there is one, a poor mishappened boy on earth of a glorious beauty now, of whom his dying mother said it grieved her much to leave him here alone for so many years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her, being such a little child. But he went quickly, and was laid upon her breast, and in her hand she leads him. There was a gallant boy who fell far away, upon a burning sand beneath a burning sun, and said, Tell them at home with my last love how much I could have wished to kiss them once, but that I died contented, and had done my duty. Or there was another over whom they read the words, therefore we commit his body to the deep, and so consigned him to the lonely ocean, and sailed on. Or there was another who lay down to his rest in the dark shadow of great forests, and on earth awoke no more. Shall they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a time? There was a dear girl, almost a woman, never to be one, who made a morning Christmas in a house of joy and went her trackless way to the silent city. Do we recollect her? Worn out, faintly whispering what could not be heard and falling into that last sleep for weariness? Oh, look upon her now! Oh, look upon her beauty, her serenity, her changeless youth, her happiness! The daughter of Jairus was recalled to life to die, but she, more blessed, has heard the same voice saying unto her, A rise for ever! We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom we often pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, and merely imagined how we would speak and walk and think and talk when we came to be old. His destined habitation, in the city of the dead, received him in his prime. Shall he be shut out from our Christmas remembrance? Would his love have so excluded us? Lost friend, lost child, lost parent-sister, brother-husband, wife, we will not so discard you. You shall hold your cherished places in our Christmas hearts, and by our Christmas fires, and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, we will shut out nothing. The winter sun goes down over town and village. On the sea it makes a rosy path, as if the sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in the prospect. On the hillside beyond the shapelessly diffused town, and in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village steeple, remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers, growing in grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather. There are flaming logs heaped high. There are joyful faces. There is healthy music of voices. Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of the household gods, but be those remembrances admitted with tender encouragement. They are of the time and all its comforting and peaceful reassurances, and of the history that reunited even upon earth, the living and the dead, and of the broad beneficence and goodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds. End of What Christmas Is As We Grow Older by Charles Dickens Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Christmas Cakes by Alice Urquhart-Fuel This is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Betty B. Christmas Cakes As the holidays draw near again, the busy housewife begins to turn her thoughts toward Christmas sweets and goodies, for Christmas would not be complete for the kiddies without the usual cakes and candies which mother is sure to prepare. What kind of cake shall we have this year? This question is being asked in many homes, and the answer to it may be found, in part at least, in the suggestions that follow. There are several new cake recipes and two attractive and unusual designs for decorating Christmas cakes, which will make a special appeal to the little ones. The orange marmalade cake that follows is delicious and has the advantage of keeping well. In fact, it improves with age just as a fruit cake does. This cake may be made a week or more before Christmas and frosted on all sides with brown sugar frosting. The marmalade keeps the cake moist and fresh and it will remain so for some time, even after it is cut. Orange Marmalade Cake One third cup butter or one quarter cup vegetable fat. One cup sugar. Two eggs. One half cup milk. One cup orange marmalade. One and three quarter cup sifted flour. Three teaspoonfuls baking powder. One teaspoonful cinnamon. Cream the butter. Add the sugar gradually and eggs well beaten. Mix and sift the dry ingredients and add alternately with the milk. Add orange marmalade and bake in a loaf pan. This cake requires a moderate oven and should be baked about 50 minutes. Frost with brown sugar frosting and wrap in paraffin paper, if the cake is to be kept any length of time. Eggs are scarce in the winter months and this recipe for eggless fruit cake should make a strong appeal. Fruit Cake Without Eggs One cup sour milk. One cup sugar. Two cups flour. One half teaspoonful salt. One half teaspoonful cinnamon. One half teaspoonful cloves. One half teaspoonful nutmeg. Two tablespoonful soda. One half cup raisins. One half cup sliced citron. Four tablespoonfuls melted butter. Add the sugar to the sour milk. Mix and sift the dry ingredients and add gradually. Add fruit and melted butter last. Beat well. Bake in a slow oven for one hour. Dates or figs may be substituted for one half the citron or other combinations of fruit made instead. Four minute fruit cake. Two thirds cup soft butter or chicken fat. Two and a half cups brown sugar. Four eggs. One cup milk. Three and a half cup sifted flour. Two tablespoonfuls cocoa. One half teaspoonful mace. One teaspoonful cinnamon. Two tablespoonfuls baking powder. One half pound raisins. One quarter pound stoned dates cut fine. One quarter pound currants. Put all the ingredients into a bowl together and beat vigorously with a wooden spoon for four minutes. Bake in loaf pans for 45 minutes. This is a very satisfactory fruit cake and a great time saver. Orange gelatin cake. Bake sponge cake in deep brown layer cake pans. Mold orange jelly in the same pans which have first been moistened with cold water. Have one layer of the jelly to every two layers of the cake. When the jelly is firm dip the pan for a second in hot water. Then place one of the sponge cake layers on top of the jelly. And on top of this place a large cake plate upside down. Hold the three firmly together and turn the plate over so that the cake will rest on it. And the jelly will turn out from the mold on top. Now place another layer of sponge cake on top of the jelly and frost with orange frosting. Milk chocolate frosting makes a nice change for Christmas cakes and is always a favorite with children. Since it produces quite a different flavor from ordinary chocolate frosting. Milk chocolate frosting. One cup sugar. One half cup boiling water. Whites of two eggs. One teaspoon full lemon juice. One large cake milk chocolate. Which has been melted over hot water. Put sugar and water into a saucepan. Stir until it boils. And then boil without stirring until the syrup will spin a thread when dropped from a fork. Remove from fire and pour slowly over the whites of eggs that have been beaten until stiff. Beat until thick enough to spread. Spread this frosting on the cake. And when dry cover it with milk chocolate which has been melted over hot water. The water under the chocolate must be considerably below the boiling point. The chocolate will make a thick coating over the white frosting and will dry quickly. Another use for milk chocolate in making Christmas sweets may be found in substituting it for confectioner's chocolate when dipping bonbons. Try dipping white and pink marshmallows in melted milk chocolate. And allowing them to dry on paraffin paper. One could hardly find a more simple form of candy for the kitties than this. And yet they resemble the rich french candies in appearance. Decorating Christmas cakes. The attractive appearance of the Christmas cakes is of prime importance. And children especially are interested in fancy decorations. The cake illustrated on page 359 is baked in a pan made to represent a Christmas star. These six pointed star cake pans may be purchased at any 10 cent store. The cake is frosted with white frosting and decorated with tiny red candies. The candies outline the star and are put on just as the frosting begins to dry. A pair of tweezers will be found convenient for handling the candies. The top of the cake is decorated with candies and with some of the frosting forced through pastry tubes in various fancy shapes. A sprig of evergreen completes this very attractive Christmas cake. The cake on page 360 made to represent a snow covered house is quite suitable for a children's Christmas party. The little house is worked out in considerable detail even to the chimney for Santa Claus. The cake is made in two sections and is baked in two bread pans. When the cake is cold cut the top from one of the loaves so that an even rectangular piece is formed with a flat surface on top. This is the body of the house. The roof is made by cutting the other loaf to form the sloping sides as shown in the illustration. Place the roof on top of the body and secure with several toothpicks so there will be no danger of slipping. The cake left over after cutting the roof may be kept and served with a hot sauce for a dessert. The chimney of the house is made from a piece of stale bread. Cut the chimney the correct shape with a sharp knife and then toast the bread lightly to give it firmness. Secure this chimney to one end of the house with toothpicks. The entire cake may now be frosted with white frosting. Just before the frosting begins to dry, sprinkle coarse granulated sugar over the sides of the roof to represent snow. This will glisten and give a very attractive appearance. The door and windows are outlined with Angelica cut into thin strips. The lower edge of the roof is also outlined with Angelica and the door knob made from a tiny red candy. If one wishes to make it even more realistic the chimney may be frosted with red frosting made by the addition of vegetable coloring to white frosting. A small figure of Santa Claus either standing near the base of the chimney or on the roof would give an added touch to the cake. End of Christmas Cakes A Christmas Crime by William Henry Bishop This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. A Christmas Crime Miss Diggilbert was a stately looking girl in a soft white gown with a scarf of the same material tied lightly about her shoulders. There was a sort of Marie-Andoinette suggestion in her aspect and also as it were the shadow of a brooding sorrow hanging over her. She was from somewhere or other. We haven't always time in this busy world of ours to find out where everybody is from. There was a general impression that she had lately come back from abroad. She was visiting in town. She was a friend of our hostess Mrs. Grumbled or had been particularly recommended to her and that lively young matron had invited her for this dinner. People came rather late and Mrs. Grumbled busy with about a hundred things at once, as was her usual custom, was not able to tell much about this guest in advance either. Mr. Grusseltree, who took Miss Diggilbert in, was particularly impressed by her. Indeed he induced the hostess to change the arrangement already made and give her to him. Towards him, on the contrary, she showed as much asperity as politeness permitted. If he drew from her an occasional rare pale smile, it was only by the exertion of his utmost powers of entertainment. Who was Mr. Grusseltree? Oh, Grusseltree was a kind of law unto himself. He was one of those persons such as we meet with in our journeys about the clap end of town. In short, Grusseltree was Grusseltree. It was Christmas Eve. After dinner, a couple of standard young banjo players of North America gave some selections. Miss Amy Goboy, of the amateur comedy company, recited a sweet thing or two, and then we settled down upon the floor to tell ghost stories. We spread out a lot of cushions comfortably all around, and in the midst, set a large teen pan containing a plate, in which burned a mixture of salt and alcohol. This cast a pale flickering light over all the faces, and gave the proper weird and ghostly effect. In spite of this, however, the ghost stories rather languished. Mr. Grusseltree now, all at once, drew a heavy sigh, keeping Miss Ernest and the Gilbert, it might be noted, well under observation. Speaking of Christmas presents, said he when nobody at all had been speaking of Christmas presents. Speaking of Christmas presents, fellow sufferers, I'd like to submit a case to you. Anything up to a packing case? Now is your time. There are stockings here that will hold it. Speak for yourself, Mr. Chinkerton, said Mrs. Grumbled. I thought it more magnanimous to speak for Miss Goboy or Miss Tenstroke. Both those young ladies uttered shrill exclamations of protest and resentment at this audacity. Now suppose a man had bought a present for another man, and then yielded to the temptation of keeping it himself, went on Grusseltree. Mr. Grusseltree has yielded to a temptation. I'm not surprised at it at all. I think he'm quite capable of it, said Elsie Tenstroke. Tell us all about it, clamoured the company. Well, it's like this. You see before you one who whom which, but let it pass, despise me, if you will, but hear me. I know not why I speak to you of this now, but probably because there comes to every conscious burden criminal a moment when all considerations of prudence must be laid aside. Oh, indeed, said Mrs. Grumbled, and she vivaciously threw with him a small sofa pillow that made a convenient missile. I bought the nicest thing I could think of as a Christmas present for a friend, and then couldn't bear to give it to him. I robbed him, as it were. He bowed his head, as in gloomy remorse upon his hand, and I could never look him in the face again. It was only between you and yourself, wasn't it? Asked Amy Gowboy. He never knew it, and besides, a person has a right to change his mind. No, that was the worst of it. There was glaring testimony and proof. Witnesses could be produced to show that I had actually bought it for him. Well, it could be easily explained, and I suppose nothing came of it. My dear friend was ruined, and the article I had proposed to give him would have saved him. That's all. I am the cause of all his calamities. Will you stop your circumlocutions and go on? Demanded Mrs. Grumbled, peremptorily. I used to see the article in the show window day after day as I passed by. I thought I could get it at any time, and so was in no hurry. It's the very thing for Old Fred, I used to say to myself and the others. It will suit him to a tea. Old Fred shall have it, as sure as my name is Sam Grusseltree. One day it was missing, and I had a regular panic, but I found it had only been taken out of the window to be shined up a bit. That decided me. I bought it at once. Some poor devil of a mechanic had got it up for himself originally, and it was the only one of the kind. There never was a thing more exactly adopted to Fred's case. At the name of Fred, Mrs. Gilbert, who had sought hitherto indignified silence, had visibly started, and she began to pay close attention. What was it, demanded a chorus of voices. It was a most ingenious invention. I returned to America with it about three weeks afterwards. Do you want to drive us mad? Article, think, invention? What was it? What was it? It was an untold aphobo tychus tupharon. That's what it was. Is that all of it? Do you get a commission? Shall we leave orders for it at the grossers, the stationers, or the blacksmiths? Tell us instantly what you mean, and seize this aggravating conduct. That's a part of it. It was a musical early rising without alarm clock. Oh indeed, only an alarm clock? No, a without alarm clock. Instead of springing at you in a ferocious way, as those clocks usually do, like a kind of moral rattlesnake, it began gently, soothingly, with soft, mellifluous notes, and gradually increased the pressure, till you were thrilled all over, with an idea of the grandeur and glory of getting up to breakfast, and going about your day's work. I tell you what, when you had once known the untold aphobo tychus tupharon, it was invaluable. But at first, I had hesitated between that, and a thlaw pill acousticon. Is that all of it? And would your friend have liked that, too? Here was an amateur of all curious contrivances, and I'm sure he would. What was that curious contrivance? Oh, that was a combined crush hat and acoustic fan. You could use it at the opera, you know, or a concert for bringing the sounds nearer, and it might serve to fill up a gap in the conversation now and then. Or a gap in one's information. Even this would have saved him from much of the misery into which he fell. I was Fred Bradstock's worst enemy. Imagine the feelings with which I first met him after thus perloining his property. Miss Ernestine de Gilbert started now indeed. One would say she had some peculiar interest in this name. Mrs. Grumbled, endeavored in the dark to kick the narrator warningly with her small foot, but did not succeed in reaching him. If it's Fred Bradstock, you mean, here put in her husband, you were not troubled with confronting him very much of late. He's been at the antipodes or somewhere near it, for I don't know how long. He's in the Bermudas now, I believe, with a yachting party. Happily for me, yes, assented the narrator with a new axis of mournfulness. What I tell you of happened a good while ago. We are judged by our intentions, and I felt guilty before him, even from the first, though I little suspected then what genuine cause I was going to have for it. A gasp merging into a disdainful sniff, or a disdainful sniff merging into a gasp, came from the direction of Miss De Gilbert. The worst burden on me was the witnesses, who had known of my intentions. They all returned to this country at once. I had to be a whole core of detectives in myself to keep them and Fred apart. I paid the fare of one of them to Florida, got another away on some plausible pretext to Montreal, and let the third into such a good thing, in an interest of mine in a Montana stock ranch, that he couldn't possibly refuse to go there. Why not confess if you felt so badly about it, as you say? You do not know the untold aphobo, the persuader, when you talk like that. Will you believe that I, inheriting a nervous temperament and almost constitutionally incapable of sleeping after seven in the morning, actually cultivated the habit of taking opiates to enjoy as much as possible the delightful sensation of being waked up by the untold aphobo tacky staffer on? Are all your long names strictly necessary? demanded Miss Amy Goboy suspiciously. Are they really the names of the things? They strike me as very good names for the things, and I give them for what they are worth. You see, the case of Fred was peculiar. On the one hand he had some heart trouble, and couldn't be called by any of the existing alarm clocks, because the rattling metallic things might have scared him into an untimely grave. On the other hand he needed some assistance, for he could not be depended upon to wake up on his own account. Out of these conditions developed to the possibility for evil in my duplicity, in all its glaring horror. Charlie Chinkerton, a versatile genius, had placed himself at the piano, and was playing a slow accompaniment to the narrative. At the last words he struck two or three chords of heavily ominous import. I began to trace constantly in Fred's record the baneful influence of my theft. There was the case, for instance, where he lost the Grizzly in California. His guide inadvertently fails to call him, and the hand was up and away three hours before he put in an appearance. It was a stuffed Grizzly, it is true, but if he had been there he would have known it and saved the reputation of the party, for he had been taken in once with a stuffed deer in the Adirondacks. Grossel Tree, you are up to something in all this, said our hostess. I don't know what it is, but I think I ought to throw another suffer cushion at you. And she proceeded to do so. You are too good, said the storyteller, easily catching this ineffective missile. Then he continued. The untold, the musical early rising without alarm, Persuader, would have saved him from being left by the steam launch at the ocean yacht race. It would have saved him from being left at the Great Rockaway's Stibble Chases, and again, it would have saved him from being late at his broker's office the day that K.G. and Q-Stock jumped up twenty points in an hour. I need not go over the list of all the other appointments, whether of business or pleasure, he disastrously missed, through the same cause. But the really tragic episode was the breaking off of his engagement. Chinkerton here struck a most discordant crush upon the keys. This is really too much, exclaimed the hostess, whether she meant Chinkerton of the piano or some other circumstance. Miss D. Gilbert, who had shown signs of extreme rustlessness, for some time passed, attempted to rise from the improvised divine. It was not so easy a matter, however, in the toilette of the day, and before she had progressed far, Crustletrick, continuing imperturbably, but more rapidly, had said, They say the girl he was engaged to was a perfect fascinator, just too pretty for anything. She was from somewhere out of town. Spruton, Duville, Yonkers, Baltimore or something that way, she was rich. A scoff of indignation from Miss D. Gilbert engaged in her efforts to get up. Beautiful, refined, accomplished, most charming in every way. She was, as I have been told, all that the most ardent fancy could paint, and I, I, you conceived the bitterness of this avowal, was the sole cause of this breaking of that engagement. Miss D. Gilbert settled back with a sigh upon her cushions. Mrs. Grumbold telegraphed her reassuringly with eyes and lips. He does not know. I have not told anybody. It was apparent that Grustletrick could not be stopped. One thing was certain that he held the attention of the company, particularly that of its most perverse member, very fixedly. The union of those two admirable persons, exactly suited to each other, was prevented by the antolapho, the musical early rising producer. Once more, poor Fred was missing at the critical moment. The wedding? No, but almost the next thing to it. His fiancee's heart had been set on having him appear at a certain dinner, to meet her relatives, and so on. He did not appear, and she threw him over, and that was the end of it all. But it was only the fault of not having the missing machine, and not his own, in the list. I'll tell you all about it. One of the peculiarities of Miss, erm, of his suffianced, a part of her charm showing force and real character, was that she was implacable, unchanging as the laws of the Meads and Persians. It is a delicate matter to touch upon, and I don't pretend to fathom the subtle mysteries of the female heart, but I have somehow gathered that there was another girl at the dinner, who fluttered herself, she might have been a successful rival for Fred's affections, and it was thought he did not want to see her so publicly. Of course it is amply demonstrated that there was nothing in this, if only by the fact that Fred has never set eyes upon that one since. But will you tell us what a musical alarm clock can have had to do with his being late at dinner? He don't want us to believe his left old day, I suppose. It was in Philadelphia, now I think of it, it was in Philadelphia, they dined there in the middle of the day, for all I know it was twelve o'clock sharp. But even if it was, considering the occasion in that he was visiting there expressly on her account, he might have managed to get up by noon at least, once in his life. Oh, he did, he did! I happen to know that he did a lot of things that day, bright and early. He went out to Rhinmore, and attended the city troop races, he was on the jump from morning till night. But then, self-contradictory person, cried Mrs. Grumbled, what are you telling us? Why could he not have gone to the dinner, as well as else were? He mistook the day, you know, that's the point, he thought it was another day. But in the name of long-suffering patience, what had your wretched alarm clock to do with his mistaking the day? Oh, don't speak of it in that way, he protested tenderly. Well, your absurd alarm clock then? Pardon me, not an alarm clock, it was a without alarm clock, it was a musical early rising, but what had that to do with his mistaking the day? Oh, yes, it had a calendar attachment. Didn't I tell you about that? Or did I only mention itself lighting candle? If he had seen the calendar, you know, if he had seen that index hand come round slowly, but inexorably pointing out your Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, no such dreadful error could have ever a reason. With this the company began to break up. While the preparations for departure were going on, Mr. Grusseltree and Ms. Ernest in The Gilbert gravitated together casually as it were and drew a little apart. How did you know who I was? asked the lady with a languid proud way of poising her head, from the description. Yours were the eyes, the hair, a certain stately courage I had heard of from Fred too often to be forgotten. There was a particular charming dimple near the left corner of the mouth. That will do on that score. When I discovered you here, I induced Mrs. Grumbold by special request to let me take you in. Did you indeed? I have suspected it. Well, I knew you too. You were one of his disillured companions. laughed her auditor with only a rather hollow sort of mirth, however. Tell me, she continued, was there a single word of truth in all your ridiculous story? I really mean that there is, that there was, about such a clock, and I really mean that Fred adores the very ground you walk on. He is one of the most wretched men in two hemispheres without you. There that will do also. Were you serious when you said that his health was not good, that he was disposed to heart disease? Oh, reflected Grusseltree, so the wind lies in that quarter. She takes a little interest after all. I honestly think his heart is in no danger, he said aloud, except insofar as it may be affected by his sufferings on your account. But you have given him such an absurd, stupid character, he is not the indolent person you represent him to be. He occupies himself in a great many useful ways besides in his sports. Go back and say something that will set those people right about him. It would hardly be necessary. I fear those people are already in the habit of taking Samuel Grusseltree's utterances with some grains of salt. Then what does this all mean, she asked, infinitely puzzled, that I would give half a possess, as the novelists say, to bring you and my old young friend, Frederick Broadstock, together again, if, in the meantime, nothing has happened to prevent it, why can it not be done? May I venture to ask, with infinite respect, whether anything has happened on your side? No, she replied diffidently, nothing. Then, as between two sensible and well-disposed human beings, frankly, why can it not be done? No, no, it cannot be done. I will not hear of it on any account. The fact is, he did not want to go to that dinner from the first, and I had to try and make him. I knew I must put my foot down in the beginning. Now tell me the real reason why he stayed away. I am sure you do not really think old Fred would get up false ones to account for it, expostulated his friend Grusseltree. He has never given any except that he forgot the day. Why not accept that one, then, by way of little variety? It's gospel truth, I assure you. Fred was in a strange town, he had a lot of things to do, and he's always something of a dreamer, you know. Bless you, what's the harm in a little ups and mindedness? The greatest men have been troubled that way. Look at me! I left my best umbrella in the omnibus this very morning. All Fred Bradstegnitz, my dear Ms. Digglebird, is an accomplished wife. With just the right kind of wife to infuse your own method and precision into, shall we say, his madness, he'd be a model of models in every particular. I dare say, rejoin his hearer, dryly. Let us hope he may get such a one. I have seen him knock his head against the wall on account of his conduct, a dozen times. It was so uncomplementary to her, he says. It can be explained. She treated me just as I deserved. She couldn't have done otherwise. I, of course, I could not, assented Ernest and Digglebird. But, flashing very much and almost tearful, why didn't he do something further? He might have persisted. He might have kept on trying to explain. As I understand it, you would not see him, and poor Fred was never glib with his pen. If I am right also, you return some of his letters unopened, am I right? She lowered her head a trifle, as a vinhoti admission that this was so. But, somehow, the shadow of a brooding sorrow did not seem to hang over Mr. Digglebird half as much now as formerly. Fred got it into his head at last, that you were glad the match was off, and that you liked someone else better. On this wrong tug, as we now see it was, he tried to brace up by devoting himself to other women. But it was all no go. I happened to see it for myself, and I tell you, there is not an unhappier man in Christendom today than that same Fred Bratstock. You must go at once and say something before all those people to set him right, exclaimed his hearer a little irrelevantly. Ladies and gentlemen, thereupon began Grattle Tree advancing in a sort of professional way. Ladies and gentlemen of the company, I wish to say that, while driven by a reckless despair to ease an overburdened conscience, I may, at the same time, have seemed to depreciate another person. Let me say that Fred Bratstock is no inmate of the Castle of Indolence, and that, while all the claims of the untold aphobo-tachystapharon remain as represented, anybody has got to get up very early in the morning, indeed, to catch him napping. I seem to feel, too, a certain prophetic sense that the end of his troubles may be near. I would withdraw no essential statement, but I suggest that all that part of the allegations relating to Fred Bratstock be stricken out, or construed only in that big weekend sense so proper to this genial East Thirty-fourth Street observance at this hospitable Christmas home, that is, this home-like Christmas occasion at this observant. In short, I am thoroughly convinced that so far from needing adventitious aids, the more persons you sent to wake in Fred Bratstock the sounder he would sleep, whereas the fewer and the less, don't make it worse, hastily whispered a voice at his sleeve, and the next moment she began hesitatingly, of course, if you say Fred is really sorry. In the very next mail, there went to the Bermuda's letter in which Fred Bratstock was assured that the chances of winning back his old sweet hurt were now most promising. I told them all after dinner, the letter concluded, a wild tale of a without alarm clock I had meant to give you. By hook and by crook, I fixed it all up with hair, and it's rather a handsome piece of work on my part. By the way, that clock isn't a bad one. I'll send you the maker's name. I dare say they are in the market by this time. Mr. Gilbert's yours, my boy. Come home and take her and the blessing of Samuel Grasseltree. At the very earliest moment, too, returned an answer from the Bermuda's. I'm coming home. Of course he is, lucky young dog. Why shouldn't he? Of course he is, interpolated Grasseltree complacently. I'm... I'm... Bless me, what's this? What's this? I'm on my wedding trip, married to a lovely girl I met in the islands. A fair been on some time, but you've been so dused off these last few years, no chance to tell you about it. Comparisons are odorous, but the Degil bird, well, the fact is, the Degil bird was a little inclined to be domineering. Excuse short letter, tell you all about it when we meet. Samuel Grasseltree was not an accomplished whistler, but on this occasion he whistled. For an instant he raised his hand against the without alarm clock as if to do it by an injury, but instead of yielding to this impulse, he took it down from the modest place it had occupied in his bedroom and placed it boldly on the most conspicuous wall of his apartment. After that he sat down and reflected on the diverse characters of the persons who had heard his story on Christmas Eve and particularly on certain positive traits in Miss Degil bird. He began to think he would take another European trip. End of A Christmas Crime by William Henry Bishop Christmas Ideas and Celebrations From Everywhere by Marian Brownfield. This is a LibriVox recording. A LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Betty B. Christmas Ideas and Celebrations From Everywhere Many of us would like new and effective ways of celebrating Christmas, befitting the new order of peace and goodwill that has come to mankind. Sometimes in the last few decades it has been with Christmas celebrations a case of, the world is too much with us, late and soon, getting and spending we lay waste our powers. Instead of so much gift giving, a revival of some of the beautiful and dignified old time ceremonies that make the significance of the season more vivid might have our consideration. The various customs of foreign lands at different periods of history perhaps will suggest new ways to us of borrowing or adapting an idea that will celebrate Christmas this year, either at home or in public places, with such picturesque beauty that a new spirit of service rather than gift barter will appeal to us. Christmas as the holiday that celebrates the Nativity of Christ was originally celebrated in very early spring, but as most all the nations of medieval Europe regarded the winter solstice as the turning point of the year. When nature began a renewed life, the custom gradually developed of celebrating this Christian holiday in the period during what is now the last of December and the first of January. In Norway the winter solstice was the time for holding a Yule Feast, originally in celebration of a pagan god. And among the Scandinavians the Yule Log and the Yule Cake were among the observances of Yuletide that was a season of rejoicing and visiting. In England Christmas celebrations of three or four hundred years ago charm us with their quaint and simple jollity. The English always remembered everyone from their neighbors down to their servants. In the country an English gentleman always invited his neighbors and tenants to his great hall at Daybreak on Christmas morning. There they were regaled upon toast, sugar, nutmeg, and good old Cheshire cheese. The house was decked with ivy and other greens. Under the title of a Christmas box the general English custom which still prevails to some extent a small gift of money was given to postmen and other delivery men the day after Christmas which was called Boxing Day. In eleven hundred Henry I granted a charter to London making it a city and the Christmas celebration it is recorded consisted of a feast for rich and poor. The people gathered in the streets around blazing bonfires singing and dancing after feasting upon oxen, deer, ale, and mead. The wasale bowl, spoken of so often in many books describing England at the time of the Crusades, was another evidence of the ever ready hospitality that the English offered to all comers. Christmas music in England was delightful carols sung on Christmas Eve and sometimes early Christmas morning on the doorsteps by bands of children and young folks called waits who were rewarded at the end of the program with money or gifts or an invitation to enter and feast. Many of the celebrations strange as it may seem consisted of superstitious testings of fortune similar to those now practiced at Halloween Attempts to forecast love, marriage, and good luck for the household during the coming year were all among the entertainments of the season in old time England. An old rhyme that has come down to us which prophesies in this fashion is this one. A Monday Christmas. If Christmas day on Monday be a great winter that year you'll see and full of winds both loud and shrill but in summer truth to tell high winds shall there be and strong full of tempests lasting long while battles they shall multiply and great plenty of beasts shall die they that be born that day I wean they shall be strong each one and keen. The origin of the Christmas tree has never been fully determined some declare it Norse because in the northern mythology a certain world tree typified existence others declare the Christmas tree was used to celebrate the Roman Saturnalia a December festival for all classes and was imported into Germany with the conquering legions of Drusus but it is interesting to know that the Christmas tree with its dependent toys and mannequins is distinctly portrayed by Virgil the Roman poet the symbolism of the evergreen tree is interpreted with its lights and fruits the symbol of Christ who was the beginning of new life in the midst of wintry darkness of heathendom and the immortality of life the candle lights also symbolize the light that came into the world with the birth of Christ the gold thread that is entwined as decoration on some Christmas trees is called lametta and represents the golden locks of the Christ child the star is the emblem of the star in the east that guided the shepherds of Bethlehem in Norway sheaves of wheat to tie on shutters or roof poles to feed the birds are sold on the streets just as holly wreaths are sold in the united states isn't this a thoughtful decoration for the home in brazil christmas is celebrated in the home in a fashion that brings to mind the three wise men an altar sometimes the staircase is covered with fine linen on the top is placed the christ child in a cradle and below are placed the choices gifts of the soil to show that the first fruits and best fruits should be his spices and murr clusters of all kinds of fruit and rice and other grains deck this altar the church steps are covered with spice leaves to make the steps fragrant when walked upon and at night there is a christmas celebration with fireworks perhaps with our own new custom of christmas trees in public squares or parks in some of our large cities where some great singer freely gives beautiful music appropriate to the season we are not far away from such a celebration with fireworks strange as the idea may seem at first for fireworks lighting the heavens may easily take the form of christmas symbols and surely such a celebration is one that many rich and poor can enjoy end of christmas ideas and celebrations from everywhere a christmas dinner in the bay of bisque by anonymous this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org it was last christmas day the tablecloth was laid in the saloon of a male steamboat and the place was the bay of bisque we left south hampton at noon on the 24th of december 1873 and we were on our way to the brazils touching at carumia carill and lisbon 12 hours before embarkation i had no more idea of spending christmas day in the bay of bisque than of sending up my plate through roast beef at the north pole in fact my bachelor friends without domestic ties were invited and had accepted the invitation and with them and my wife and little ones i intended to dine and spend the evening of the 25th in strict accordance with tradition and national taste the reality was very different we want you mr. p to go to lisbon and madera and to do there whatever is required to ensure the speedy transmission of our correspondence from the gold coast the male steamer leaves south hampton tomorrow at 12 these were my sudden and unchallengeable instructions and thus it was that i found myself sitting down to dinner in the midst of the bay of bisque at five o'clock on the 25th day of last december we were a melancholy party it was not the roughness of the sea or the motion of the ship there was not a bit of a swell on as smooth as landsman's heart could desire were the waters of that dreaded 400 miles of open ocean between ushend and orty gole our boat was as steady as a castle there was no cause of discomfort on board indeed we should have been thankful for a little hardship our grievance i think was the delusive decoration of the saloon with holly the menu of roast turkey plum pudding and mince pies the hollow mockeries of an old english christmas dinner at home so well intended by steward and cook these things taunted us of the unlucky destiny which sent us into the middle of the lonely seas to spend our christmas night they set us picturing the dear family circles from which we had run away we took our places one and all without speaking a word the captain at the head of the table wore the pensive air of a family man two exploiters bound for the brazils had been toughened by hard experience that they were touched in a tender part at this moment of sitting down to christmas dinner in the midst of strangers on the desolate seas two engineers from yorkshire who had been cheerful in us itself till now were suddenly mute as fishes presently when the fish which we had just managed to taste was taken away and the turkey was being handed round a brazilian bound stranger made a desperate attempt to force a conversation thinking of the children i suppose said he to the captain haven't got any replied the captain with pensive gravity never was a failure more signal the well meaning inquirer gave it up and again silence reigned supreme there was nothing to fix the attention upon but the slight creaking of the ship and the swaying of the glass rack over the table the turkey would not go down for every one of us had a lump in the throat less digestible than anything the steward could give us when the few words which had been uttered had passed almost out of recollection and we were all mentally hundreds of miles away the captain added in the same serious and semi-tragical air i've got some little nephews and nieces though by way of explaining that he understood the tone of mind of his guests and was not altogether outside the range of sympathy it was just when the plum pudding made its appearance and when our young children should have been clapping their little hands round our tables that an awful discovery was made there were just 13 of us at dinner darker grew and deeper the silence and the bloom but the subject was in a manner congenial here was dismal ground on which we could all meet the captain began to tell stories of what had occurred within his own experience and what his father before him had told of the events associated with the sitting down of that unlucky number at table more especially on a great day like this in the calendar such was the impression i honestly avow of those stories upon my mind that when some months afterwards i saw on the london newspaper placards wreck of a royal male steamer i found myself saying ah that must be our unlucky boat i am glad to say my prevision was wrong but the lost vessel was one belonging to the same house my own poor little contribution to the melancholy batch of superstitious recollections was derived from an occasion when a dozen of us were dining at an hotel at bath and a thirteenth unexpectedly arrived a gentleman known and much esteemed by the twelve here comes the victim was the remark made as the thirteenth man sat down and within three months that thirteenth man was dead now i had never heard that the last arrival was necessarily the victim and i was endeavouring to remove any particularly pointed application of the narrative by the well-worn argument that out of a general company of thirteen middle-aged men it was not so very unlikely that one might die in the course of twelve months irrespective of the magic potency of fatal numbers but somehow my philosophy did not mend the matter after all the idea was not absolutely exhilarating that the chances might be in favour of at least one of this small party dying before christmas day 1874 pondering woefully on this point i glanced so optitiously towards the seat which had been occupied by the guest who had been the thirteenth to sit down to this saloon dinner and the place was vacant the circumstances of the hour had been nearly enough for every one of us the story of the thirteenth finished the christmas dinner of 1873 for him he lived three days longer to my certain knowledge and i trust he is good for a far happier dinner on the 25th of this present month but it must be admitted that the odds on that mournful day were against him dinner was over but we could not say we had dined the pudding had been tasted for the sake of the children but we were glad when it was all over the passengers one by one slunk away almost unobserved to their births no one made the attempt even to appear cheerful i believe i could have worked myself into a something resembling placid enjoyment of a cigar on deck with the genial irish doctor but just then as he told me we were steaming very near the spot where the london went down this was too much for one christmas day and i gave it up and went off like the rest to my cabin to mix up in dreams the thirteenth arrival at dinner the children and the wreck of the london it is astonishing how cheerful we all were next morning we had got over christmas day and had run through the bay and were plowing along joyfully at the rate of 12 knots off the coast of spain not one of us on board i think would have exchanged places on that boxing day with those dyspeptic friends at home whose two cheerful spirits had so haunted us the day before we were braced up and renewed for the business full of interest and novelty that lay before most of us but if the fate will let me eat my christmas dinner at home in this current december i expect some sort of recompense in double merriment for that melancholy dinner hour in the bay of bisque on the 25th of december 1873 end of a christmas dinner in the bay of bisque by anonymous the festival of st nicholas by mary mape's dodge this is a liberbox recording all liberbox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit liberbox.org recording by thomas peter the festival of st nicholas we all know how before the christmas tree began to flourish in the home life of our country a certain right jolly old elf with eight tiny reindeer used to drive his sleigh load of toys up to our housetops and then bound down the chimney to fill the stocking so hopefully hung by the fireplace his friends called him santa claus and those who were most intimate ventured to say old nick it was said that he originally came from holland doubtless he did but if so he's certainly like many other foreigners changed his ways very much after landing upon our shores in holland st nicholas is a veritable saint and often appears in full costume with his embroidered robes glittering with gems and gold his mitre his crozier and his jeweled gloves here santa claus comes rollicking along on the 25th of december our holy christmas mourn but in holland st nicholas visits earth on the 5th a time especially appropriated to him early on the morning of the 6th which is st nicholas day he distributes his candies toys and treasures and then vanishes for a year christmas day is devoted by the hollanders to church rites and pleasant family visiting it is on st nicholas eve that the young people become half-wild with joy and expectation to some of them it is a sorry time for the saint is very candid and if any of them have been bad during the past year he is quite sure to tell them so sometimes he carries a birch rod under his arm and advises the parents to give them scoldings in place of confections and floggings instead of joys it was well that the boys hasten to their boats on that bright winter evening for in less than an hour afterwards the saint made his appearance in half the homes of holland he visited the king's palace and in the self-same moment appeared in annie bowman's comfortable home probably one of our silver half-dollars would have purchased all that his saint ship left at the peasant bowman's but a half-dollar's worth will sometimes do for the poor what hundreds of dollars may fail to do for the rich it makes him happy and grateful fills him with new peace and love hilda von glecks little brothers and sisters were in a high state of excitement that night they had been admitted into the grand parlor they were dressed in their best and had been given two cakes a piece at supper hilda was as joyous as any why not say nicholas would never cross a girl of 14 from his list just because she was tall and looked almost like a woman on the contrary he would probably exert himself to do honor to such an august looking damsel who could tell so she sported and laughed and danced as gaily as the youngest and was the soul of all their merry gains father mother and grandmother looked on approvingly so did grandfather before he spread his large red handkerchief over his face leaving only the top of a skullcap visible this kerchief was his ensign of sleep earlier in the evening all had joined in the fun in the general hilarity there had seemed to be a difference only in bulk between grandfather and the baby indeed a shade of solemn expectation now and then flitting across the faces of the younger members and made them seem rather more thoughtful than their elders now the spirit of fun reign supreme the very flames danced and capered in the polished great a pair of prim candles that had been staring at the astral lamp began to wink at other candles far away in the mirrors there was a long bell rope suspended from the ceiling in the corner made of glass beads netted over a cord nearly as thick as your wrist it generally hung in the shadow and made no sign but tonight it twinkled from end to end its handle of crimson glass and reckless dashes of red at the papered wall turning its dainty blue stripes into purple passes by halted to catch the merry laughter floating through curtain and sash into the street then skipped on their way with the startled consciousness that the village was wide awake at last matters grew so uproarious that the grandsire's red kerchief came down from his face with a jerk what decent old gentleman could sleep in such a racket men here von Gleck regarded his children with astonishment the baby even showed symptoms of hysterics it was high time to attend to business mevro suggested that if they wish to see the good st. nicolas they should sing the same loving invitation had brought him the year before the baby stared and thrust his fist into his mouth as minna put him down upon the floor soon he sat erect and looked with a sweet scowl at the company with his lace and embroideries and his crown of blue ribbon and whalebone for he was not quite past the tumbling age he looked like the king of babies the other children each holding a pretty willow basket formed at once in a ring and moved slowly around the little fellow lifting their eyes meanwhile for the saint to whom they were about to address themselves was yet in mysterious quarters mevro commenced playing softly upon the piano soon the voices rose gentle youthful voices rendered all the sweeter for the tremor welcome friend st. nicolas welcome bring no rod for us tonight while our voices bid thee welcome every heart with joy is light tell us every fault and failing we will bear thy keenest railing so we sing so we sing thou shalt tell us everything welcome friend st. nicolas welcome welcome to this merry band happy children greet thee welcome thou art gladdening all the land fill each empty hand in basket tis thy little ones who ask it so we sing so we sing thou wilt bring us everything during the chorus sundry glances half in eagerness half in dread had been cast towards the polished folding doors now a loud knocking was heard the circle was broken in an instant some of the little ones with a strange mixture of fear and delight pressed against the mother's knee grandfather bent forward with his chin resting upon his hand grandmother lifted her spectacles main here von gleck seated by the fireplace slowly drew his mirsham from his mouth while hilda and the other children settled themselves beside him in an expectant group the knocking was heard again come in said the mevra softly the door slowly opened and st. nicolas in full array stood before them you could have heard a pin drop soon he spoke what a mysterious majesty in his voice what kindliness in his tone carol von gleck i am pleased to greet thee and thy honored brow catherine and thy son and his good brow annie children i greet you all hendrick hilda broome katie huyens and lucrecia and thy cousins wolford deedrick maken wust and katrina good children you have been in the main since i last acoustic deedrick was rude at the harlem fair last fall but he has tried to atone for it since maken has failed of late in her lessons and too many sweets and trifles have gone to her lips and too few stivers to a charity box deedrick i trust will be a polite manly boy for the future and maken will endeavor to shine as a student let her remember too that economy and thrift are needed in the foundation of a worthy and generous life little katie has been cruel to the cat more than once say nicolas can hear the cat cry when its tail is pulled i will forgive her if she will remember from this hour that the smallest dumb creatures have feeling and must not be abused as katie burst into a frightened cry the saint graciously remained silent until she was soothed master broome he resumed i warned the other boys who are in the habit of putting snuff upon the footstool of the school mistress may one day be discovered and receive a flogging master broome colored and stared in great astonishment but thou art such an excellent scholar i shall make thee know further reproof thou henrick did distinguish thyself in the archery match last spring and hit to the dull though the bird was swung before it one study thine eye i give the credit for excelling in manly sport and exercise though i must not unduly countenance thy boat racing since it leaves the too little time for thy proper studies lucretia and hilda shall have a blessed sleep tonight the consciousness of kindness to the poor devotion in their souls and cheerful hearty obedience to household rule will render them happy with one and all i avow myself well content goodness industry benevolence and thrift have prevailed in your midst therefore my blessing upon you and may the new year find all treading the paths of obedience wisdom and love tomorrow you shall find more substantial proofs that i have been in your home farewell but these words came a great shower of sugar plums upon a linen sheet spread out in front of the doors a general scramble followed the children fairly tumbled over each other in their eagerness to fill their baskets merrow cautiously held the baby down upon the sheet till the chubby little fists were filled then the bravest of the youngsters sprang up and threw open the closed doors in vain they searched the mysterious apartment st. nicolas was nowhere to be seen soon they all sped to another room where stood a table covered with the whitest of linen damask each child in a flutter of pleasure laid a shoe upon it and each shoe held a little hay for the good saint's horse the door was then carefully locked and its key hidden in the mother's bedroom next followed goodnight kisses a grand family procession to the upper floor mary farewells at bedroom doors and silence at last reigned in the von gleck mansion early the next morning the door was solemnly unlocked and opened in the presence of the assembled household when low a sight appeared proving good st. nicolas to be a saint of his word every shoe was filled to overflowing and beside each stood a many-coloured pile the table was heavy with its load of presents candies toys trinkets books and other articles everyone had gifts from grandfather down to the baby end of the festival of st. nicolas by mary mape's dodge christmas at fezzy wigs warehouse by charles dickens this is a libra vox recording all libra vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libra vox.org recording by april 6090 california united states of america yo ho my boys said fezzy wig no more work tonight christmasy dick christmas eboniser let's have the shutters up cried old fezzy wig with a sharp clap of his hands before a man can say jack robinson hilly ho cried old fezzy wig skipping down from the high desk with wonderful agility clear away my lads and let's have lots of room here hilly ho dick cheer up eboniser clear away there was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away or couldn't have cleared away with old fezzy wig looking on it was done in a minute every movable was packed off as if it were dismissed from public life forever more the floor was swept and watered the lamps were trimmed fuel was heaped upon the fire and the warehouse was as snug and warm and dry and bright a ballroom as you would desire to see on a winter's night in came a fiddler with a music book and went up to the lofty desk and made an orchestra of it and tuned like 50 stomach aches in came mrs fezzy wig one vast substantial smile in came the three mrs fezzy wig beaming and lovable in came the six followers whose hearts they broke in came all the young men and women employed in the business in came the housemaid with her cousin the baker in came the cook with her brother's particular friend the milkman in came the boy from over the way who was suspected of not having bored enough from his master try to hide himself behind of the girl from next door but one who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress in they all came anyhow and anyhow away they all went 20 couple at once hands half round and back again the other way down the middle and up again round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping old top couple always turning up in the wrong place new top couple starting off again as soon as they got there all top couples at last and not a bottom one to help them when this result was brought about the fiddler struck it up sir roger day coverly then old fezzy wig stood out to dance with mrs fezzy wig top couple too with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them three or four and 20 pairs of partners people who were not to be trifled with people who would dance and had no notion of walking but if they had been thrice as many oh four times as many old fezzy wig would have been a match for them and so would mrs fezzy wig as to her she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term if that's not high praise tell me hire and I'll use it a positive light appeared to issue from fezzy wigs as calves they shown in every part of the dance like moons you couldn't have predicted at any given time what would become of them next and when old fezzy wig and mrs fezzy wig had gone all through the dance advance and retire both hands to your partner bow and curtsy corkscrew thread the needle and backing into your place fezzy wig cut cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs and came upon his feet again with a stagger when the clock struck 11 the domestic ball broke up mistery mrs fezzy wig took their stations one on either side of the door and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out wish him or hurry merry christmas end of christmas at fezzy wigs warehouse the heavenly christmas tree by fielder postoyevsky this is a livery box recording all livery box recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit liverybox.org recording by neslihan stamboli i am a novelist and i suppose i've made up this story i write i suppose though i know for a fact that i have made it up but yet i keep fancying that it must have happened somewhere at some time that it must have happened on christmas eve in some great town in a time of terrible frost i have a vision of a boy a little boy six years old or even younger this boy woke up that morning in a cold damp cellar he was dressed in a sort of little dressing gown and was shivering with cold there was a cloud a white steam from his breath and sitting on a box in the corner he blew the steam out of his mouth and amused himself in his dullness watching it float away but he was terribly hungry several times that morning he went up to the plank bed where his sick mother was lying on a mattress as thin as a pancake with some sort of bundle under her head for a pillow how had she come here she must have come with her boy from some other town and suddenly fallen ill the landlady who let the corners had been taken two days before to the police station the lodgers were out and about as the holiday was so near and the only one left had been lying for the last 24 hours dead drunk not having waited for christmas in another corner of the room a richard old woman of 80 who had once been a children's nurse but was now left to die friendless was moaning and groaning with rheumatism scolding and grumbling at the boy so that he was afraid to go near her corner he had got a drink of water in the outer room but could not find a crust anywhere and had been on the point of waking his mother a dozen times he felt frightened at last in the darkness it had long been dusk but no light was kindled touching his mother's face he was surprised that she did not move at all and that she was as cold as the wall it's very cold here he thought he stood a little unconsciously letting his hands rest on the dead woman's shoulders then he breathed on his fingers to warm them and then quietly fumbling for his cap on the bed he went out of the cellar he would have gone earlier but was afraid of the big dog which had been howling all day at the neighbor's door at the top of the stairs but the dog was not there now and he went out into the street mercy on us what a town he had never seen anything like it before in the town from which he had come it was always such black darkness at night there was one lamp for the whole street the little low-pitched wooden houses were closed up with shutters there was no one to be seen in the street after dusk all the people shut themselves up in their houses and there was nothing but the howling of packs of dogs hundreds and thousands of them barking and howling all night but there it was so warm and he was given food while here oh dear if he only had something to eat and what a noise and rattle here what light and what people horses and carriages and what a frost the frozen steam hanging clouds over the horses over their warmly breathing mouths their hoose clanked against the stones through the powdery snow and everyone pushed so and oh dear how he longed for some morsel to eat and how wretched he suddenly felt a policeman walked by and turned away to avoid seeing the boy here was another street oh what a wide one here he would be run over for certain how everyone was shouting racing and driving along and the light the light and what was this a huge glass window and through the window a tree reaching up to the ceiling it was a fir tree and on it were ever so many lights gold papers and apples and little dolls and horses and there were children clean and dressed in their best running about the room laughing and playing and eating and drinking something and then a little girl began dancing with one of the boys what a pretty little girl and he could hear the music through the window the boy looked and wondered and laughed though his toes were aching with the cold and his fingers were red and stiff so that it hurt him to move them and all at once the boy remembered how his toes and fingers hurt him and began crying and ran on and again through another window pain he saw another Christmas tree and on a table cakes of all sorts almond cakes red cakes and yellow cakes and three grand young ladies were sitting there and they gave the cakes to anyone who went up to them and the door kept opening lots of gentlemen and ladies went in from the street the boy crept up suddenly opened the door and went in though how they shouted at him and waved him back one lady went up to him hurriedly and slipped a co-pack into his hand and with her own hands opened a door into the street for him how frightened he was and the co-pack rolled away and clinked upon the steps he could not bend his red fingers to hold it tight the boy ran away and went on where he did not know he was ready to cry again but he was afraid and ran on and on and blew at his fingers and he was miserable because he felt suddenly so lonely and terrified and all at once mercy on us what was this again people were standing in a crowd admiring behind the glass window there were three little doors dressed in red and green dresses and exactly exactly as though they were alive one was a little old man sitting and playing a big violin the two others were standing close by and playing little violins and nodding in time and looking at one another and their lips moved they were speaking actually speaking only one couldn't hear through the glass and at first the boy thought they were alive and when he grasped that they were dolls he laughed he had never seen such dolls before and had no idea there were such dolls and he wanted to cry but he felt amused amused by the dolls all at once he fancied that someone caught his smock behind a wicked big boy was standing beside him and suddenly hit him on the head snatched off his cap and tripped him up the boy fell down on the ground at once there was a shout he was numb with fright he jumped up and ran away he ran and not knowing where he was going ran in at the gate of someone's courtyard and sat down behind a stack of wood they won't find me here besides it's dark he sat huddled up and was breathless from fright and all at once quite suddenly he felt so happy his hands and feet suddenly left off aching and grew so warm as warm as though he were on a stove then he shivered all over then he gave a start why he must have been asleep how nice to have a sleep here i'll sit here a little and go and look at the dolls again said the boy and smiled thinking of them just as though they were alive and suddenly he heard his mother singing over him mommy i'm asleep how nice it is to sleep here come to my christmas tree little one a soft voice suddenly whispered over his head he thought that this was still his mother but no it was not she who it was calling him he could not see but someone bent over and embraced them in the darkness and he stretched out his hands to him and and all at once oh what a bright light oh what a christmas tree and yet it was not a fir tree he had never seen a tree like that where was he now everything was bright and shining and all around him were dolls but no they were not dolls they were little boys and girls only so bright and shining they all came flying around him they all kissed him took him and carried him along with them and he was flying himself and he saw that his mother was looking at him and laughing joyfully mommy mommy oh how nice it is here mommy and again he kissed the children and wanted to tell them at once of those dolls in the shop window who are your boys who are your girls he asked laughing and admiring them this is christ's christmas tree they answered christ always has a christmas tree on this day for the little children who have no tree of their own and he found out that all these little boys and girls were children just like himself that some had been frozen in the baskets in which they had as babies been laid on the doorsteps of well-to-do petersburg people others had been boarded out with finished women by the foundling and had been suffocated others had died at their starved mother's breasts in the samara famine others had died in the third class railway carriages from the foul air and yet they were all here they were all like angels about christ and he was in the midst of them and held out his hands to them and blessed them and their sinful mothers and the mothers of these children stood on one side weeping each one knew her boy or girl and the children flew up to them and kissed them and wiped away their tears with their little hands and begged them not to weep because they were so happy and down below in the morning the porter found the little dead body of the frozen child on the wood stack they sought out his mother too she had died before him they met before the lord god in heaven why have i made up such a story so out of keeping with an ordinary diary and a writer is above all and i promised two stories dealing with real events but that's just it i keep fancying that all this may have happened really that is what took place in the cellar and on the wood stack but as for christ's christmas tree i cannot tell you whether that could have happened or not end of the heavenly christmas tree by fjodor tostojewski recording by nislihan stanbully