Newspaper Page Text
210
and blue, and green, and purple, hung
among the leaves; and as they lifted it
out of the wagon, the light was reflected
in rainbows all around it. Oh! how
beautiful!
The little outcast had never heard of
Aladdin, and of the magic fruit from
the garden within the earth, or he would
have been sure that he saw it then. He
had never heard of or seen a Chrismas
tree, and now it seemed to him but as a
part of the wonderful vision upon which
he had been gazing through the wall.
Holding the snow-covered brushes in
his hand, he drew nearer and nearer,
his eager gaze riveted upon the tree
which the servants were taking in.
The gate was left open, the hall door
was open, the tree was lifted in, and
shouts of welcome hailed its arrival.
The red frocks were there, the merry
voices were there, and through the open
door there came such a delicious sense
of warmth from the great stove in the
hall 1
“There is your tree,” said the kind
elder brother, “ the very tree which we
cut in the woods: but I took it to Scho
pik 1o fix. He knows all about such
matters ; and now mother will place it
where Santa Claus can find it.”
And the dear son’s arm stole around
the dear mother’s waist, who kissed his
brow.
“But come in; come in; shut the
door. How much cold air you’re let
ting in. Ah! we’ve left the gate open.
I’ll close that first.”
As he turned back from the gate, he
saw the little child standing without.
“ Who is it,” he asked upon his re
turn, “standing without —a child with
brushes in his hand? Does any one
know him ?”
A servant answered respectfully :
“I know nothing of him, sir, except
that he lives in the alley back of us, and
I believe they are very poor.”
This was all said in the hall, the wan
derer did not hear it. The door was
closed in his face.
Within —light, and plenty, and merry
hearts. Cheerful wealth!
Without —cold, and want, and thin
clothing, the houseless, and snow.
Pining want!
The little outcast turned away as if
from Heaven. One confused dream of
breauty —the green-house, with its beau
tiful flowers and sweet odors, the red
cloaks, the pretty children, the wonder
ful tree, the warm stove, mixed con
fusedly in his mind with kneeling cattle
and the angel’s song! The snow fell
all around and on him, but for once un
heeded ; holding his brushes tight, he
wandered on. Christmas was in his
thoughts —Christmas was everywhere.
The shop windows were gorgeous, and
he saw them as one who, till then, had
been blind. The churches were being
dressed, and as he looked in, the smell
of the pine tree, the fir tree, and the
box together, seemed to him the breath
BURKE’S WEEKLY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
from the green-house. Christmas was
there !
He wandered to the markets. There,
too, were wreaths for sale, and one as
illy clad as he was showed him her cov
ered basket with tiny bundles of hot
house flowers for sale. There, too, was
the breath of the green house; there,
too, was Christmas ! and still the kneel
ing cattle, and the angel’s song, mixed
with all.
Os Christmas as it was ; of that divine
story of wonderful love, so old and so
new —so oft repeated, but never tiring—
so touching equally to the heart of peas
ant and of prince, for He who so loved
was King of Kings, and they, the be
loved ones, were of the poor and hum
ble —of all this he knew nothing. Only
this he knew: Christmas to him was
beauty and fragrance.
But now the day was wearing on ; he
had done nothing. In that cold, snowy
weather, no one wanted shoes cleaned,
and he had neither money nor supper
to take back home with him ! Home ?
had he one? Yes, but no Christmas
there—no light, no warmth, no sweet
ness. The poor sick mother, whose
strength had ebbed away from over
work, and the crippled brother, were
there expecting him. If they could on
ly see what he had seen ! but he would
tell them of it.
He took his seat upon the stone steps
of the great hotel. It was almost din
ner time. How delicious was the smell
which issued from the basement kitch
en ! and he so cold, so hungry, and all
around him only snow !
At that moment a quick step ap
proached, and he looked up. A young
man stopped close to the step upon
which he was seated, and looked up the
street, as if expecting someone, then
down, as a timid voice said :
“ Please, sir, would you like your
shoes cleaned to-day ?”
“ Hardly,” was the reply, “when I
am going straight back through the
snow. Phew! how cold it is!” draw
ing up the collar of his coat as he spoke.
“ What on earth are you doing here,
you poor perished thing? How many
of these miserable beggars there are !”
But even as the impatient words left
his lips, something in the wan, pleading
look of the poor child touched his heart
something in the earnest, wistful gaze
—something in the hungry, famished
eyes. He was walking away, then came
back irresolute; walked away again,
again returned with a
“ Hang it, I cant! Christmas times !
Poor little wretch, how cold he must
be, impostor or no ; and what a sweet
face he has. Come here, little one,”
he said, beckoning him into an office
close by. “ Tell me your story, but tell
me the truth ; what are you doing here,
this miserable day ? Have you no
home ?”
Alas, for the old, old story of sorrow
and suffering—so old, so trite, so com
mon, that it is generally considered by
those whom God has blessed with wealth
not worth the hearing, and when heard,
perforce, not worth the relieving—the
old story of orphanage and widowhood,
of debt and sickness. The young man’s
face grew tender as he listened, and
when won by his evident sympathy, the
little vagrant wound up his tale of suf
fering byrecounting his morning vision,
and forgetting cold and poverty, in his
recollection of warmth and beauty, his
face lit up with eagerness as he finished
by exclaiming :
“And do you believe it, sir? And
will the angels sing to-night? And will
the cocks crow and the cattle kneel
when they hear it?”
The young man sprang to his feet,
walked hastily to the door, then back.
An unwonted moisture was in his eyes,
an unwonted huskiness in his voice, as
he replied, with a laugh which sounded
strangely like a sob :
“They used to, when I was a boy.
But where did you say you lived ? and
where did you see and hear all of these
wonders ?”
So the child told all, and added that
he meant to go back that night, as he
was sure, if the angels could come down
through all the snow to sing, it would
be in the garden close to the house
where the flowers lived. If only Jiin
could hear them ! Again the moisture
in ths eyes, and then turning away sud
denly the stranger tossed him a small
coin, and said :
“Buy a dinner for your mother and
Jimmy, and go home. I'll see you
again.”
With a flush of joy, the child did as
he was told.
“They shall have a nice supper, and
I, I will hear the angels sing.”
Faster and faster the snow came down
that night; faster and faster, until the
whole earth was white ; faster and fast
er, while a sharp, keen wind heaped it
up in drifts against trees and fences and
houses. A white Christmas !
The moon and stars were all hidden
away by the dark gray clouds. The
lamps upon the streets shone out upon
the unblemished snow ; the stores were
lighted brilliantly, while the glowing
anthracite made summer within, and,
because it was Christmas eve, the work
ers of the da} r , regardless of cold and
wind and snow, rushed through the
streets, and into the warm stores to
make their purchases for the morrow,
and came out, some with baskets laden
with good cheer for the morrow’s feast,
—hams and turkeys, nuts, apples, pies
and cakes, —until they fairly staggered
with the load. Others, evidently asham
ed of their poverty, slinking away from
the scornful looks of the clerk, with the
meagre parcel hidden beneath the
threadbare coat.
Here and there the hard-worked la
borer could be seen emerging from the
toy-shop with pockets filled with hum
ble tin toys, which alone were within his
purchase, pulling the string of the dan-
cing Jack, as he went out, and laughing
to himself with delight as he thought of
the morning frolic, the laden stocking,
the blessing on Santa Claus.
And so the night wore on. One by
one, the buyers and the sellers retreated
to the warmth or the cold of their own
homes ; one by one, the palaces of light
with all their Christmas treasures, were
closed, and dark shutters hid away the
wonders within ; one by one, the stock
ings had been hung in many a house,
and the little, restless sleepers, happier
than they will ever be again, had hidden
away, head and all, ’neath the bed
clothes, feeling equally hope and fear of
the expected visitant.
In one humble home a scanty fire and
a simple meal gave happiness and com
fort to the sick mother and the crippled
child, who listened breathless to the
wonderful account of a home where on
ly flowers lived, and of the marvels yet
in store at twelve o'clock.
“ Listen, mother, listen ! the clock
strikes twice, and ‘half-past eleven, all's
well,’ from the -watchman at the corner.
When the clock strikes again I must go
—the angels might come while I was
away. There, mother, there, I must
go, at twelve o’clock, they said. I can t
see the cattle kneel, I know, for there
are none in the streets, because of the
snow ; but mother, mother, listen, there
is the cock crowing. It’s all true; I
must go.”
And, trembling with excitement as
the last quarter struck, the boy rushed
away.
The snow had ceased, the wind had
lulled, and leaden as the clouds still
were, the white, white snow everywhere
made it light. Over the clogged-up
pavement, through drifts almost as high
as himself, the boy made his way, un
mindful of the difficulties, unheeding the
bitter, biting cold. Hush ! listen ! —the
sound of music, of singing. It is the
angels! they will have gone before he
gets there ! Breathless, trembling with
excitement, he forced his way through
a drift which completely blocked the
road. He has passed it, but the broken
shoe is left behind; he cannot stop to
find it, and the numb foot is scarcely
colder than it was before. He has
reached the garden wall, and at the in
stant, as if by magic, the street, the gar
den, the house, is all aglow with light;
the house of glass, where all the flowers
live, shows like a lantern ; and floating
out upon the frozen air, a rich voice
sings the concluding stanzas of the old
Christmas carol:
“ The Holy Babe shall not be born
Amid the rich and great,
For Joseph is a carpenter,
And liveth not in state.
The Holy Babe shall not be laid
In palace, nor in hall,
But in a lowly cattle shed,
And in an oxen’s stall.
Thus lowly comes our Master, Christ,
Humble our Lord and King.
Yet shout aloud ye earth and heavens,
Angels and seraphs sing.