Christmas gold, p.432
Christmas Gold, page 432
“You’re laughing now, little master, are you? But let me tell you that drowning’s the death for a sailor, whatever you may think. So I’ve always maintained, and have given every navigable sea in the known world a chance, though here I am after all, laid up in arm-chairs and feather-beds, to wait for bronchitis or some other slow poison. Grumph!
“Well, we must all go as we’re called, sailors or landsmen, and as I was saying if I was never to sail a ship, I would have liked to drive a coach. A mail coach, serving His Majesty. (Her Majesty now God bless her!) carrying the Royal Arms, and bound to go, rough weather and fair. Many’s the time I’ve done it (in play you understand) with that whip and those gloves. Dear! dear! The pains I took to teach my sister Patty to be a highwayman, and jump out on me from the drying ground hedge in the dusk with a ‘Stand and deliver!’ which she couldn’t get out of her throat for fright, and wouldn’t jump hard enough for fear of hurting me.
“The whip and the gloves gave me joy, I can tell you; but there was more to come.
“Kitty the servant gave me a shell that she had had by her for years. How I had coveted that shell! It had this remarkable property: when you put it to your ear you could hear the roaring of the sea. I had never seen the sea, but Kitty was born in a fisherman’s cottage, and many an hour have I sat by the kitchen fire whilst she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean, and ever and anon she would snatch the shell from the mantelpiece and clap it to my ear, crying, ‘There child, you couldn’t hear it plainer than that. It’s the very moral!’
“When Kitty gave me that shell for my very own I felt that life had little more to offer. I held it to every ear in the house, including the cat’s; and, seeing Dick the sexton’s son go by with an armful of straw to stuff Guy Fawkes, I ran out, and in my anxiety to make him share the treat, and learn what the sea is like, I clapped the shell to his ear so smartly and unexpectedly, that he, thinking me to have struck him, knocked me down then and there with his bundle of straw. When he understood the rights of the case, he begged my pardon handsomely, and gave me two whole treacle sticks and part of a third out of his breeches’ pocket, in return for which I forgave him freely, and promised to let him hear the sea roar on every Saturday half-holiday till farther notice.
“And, speaking of Dick and the straw reminds me that my birthday falls on the fifth of November. From this it came about that I always had to bear a good many jokes about being burnt as a Guy Fawkes; but, on the other hand, I was allowed to make a small bonfire of my own, and to have eight potatoes to roast therein, and eight-pennyworth of crackers to let off in the evening. A potato and a pennyworth of crackers for every year of my life.
“On this eighth birthday, having got all the above named gifts, I cried, in the fulness of my heart, ‘There never was such a day!’ And yet there was more to come, for the evening coach brought me a parcel, and the parcel was my godmother’s picture-book.
“My godmother was a gentlewoman of small means; but she was accomplished. She could make very spirited sketches, and knew how to colour them after they were outlined and shaded in Indian ink. She had a pleasant talent for versifying. She was very industrious. I have it from her own lips that she copied the figures in my picture-book from prints in several different houses at which she visited. They were fancy portraits of characters, most of which were familiar to my mind. There were Guy Fawkes, Punch, his then Majesty the King, Bogy, the Man in the Moon, the Clerk of the Weather Office, a Dunce, and Old Father Christmas. Beneath each sketch was a stanza of my godmother’s own composing.
“My godmother was very ingenious. She had been mainly guided in her choice of these characters by the prints she happened to meet with, as she did not trust herself to design a figure. But if she could not get exactly what she wanted, she had a clever knack of tracing an outline of the attitude from some engraving, and altering the figure to suit her purpose in the finished sketch. She was the soul of truthfulness, and the notes she added to the index of contents in my picture-book spoke at once for her honesty in avowing obligations, and her ingenuity in availing herself of opportunities.
“They ran thus:—
“Number 1.—Guy Fawkes. Outlined from a figure of a warehouseman rolling a sherry cask into Mr Rudd’s wine vaults. I added the hat, cloak, and boots in the finished drawing.
“Number 2.—Punch. I sketched him from the life.
“Number 3.—His Most Gracious Majesty the King. On a quart jug bought in Cheapside.
“Number 4.—Bogy, with bad boys in the bag on his back. Outlined from Christian bending under his burden, in my mother’s old copy of the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ The face from Giant Despair.
“Number 5 and Number 6.—The Man in the Moon, and The Clerk of the Weather Office. From a book of caricatures belonging to Dr James.
“Number 7.—A Dunce. From a steel engraving framed in rosewood that hangs in my Uncle Wilkinson’s parlour.
“Number 8.—Old Father Christmas. From a German book at Lady Littleham’s.”
Chapter 2
Table of Contents
“My sister Patty was six years old. We loved each other dearly. The picture-book was almost as much hers as mine. We sat so long together on one big footstool by the fire, with our arms round each other, and the book resting on our knees, that Kitty called down blessings on my godmother’s head for having sent a volume that kept us both so long out of mischief.
”‘If books was allus as useful as that, they’d do for me,’ said she; and though this speech did not mean much, it was a great deal for Kitty to say; since, not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought that ‘little enough good comes of larning.’
“Patty and I had our favourites amongst the pictures. Bogy, now, was a character one did not care to think about too near bed-time. I was tired of Guy Fawkes, and thought he looked more natural made of straw, as Dick did him. The Dunce was a little too personal; but Old Father Christmas took our hearts by storm; we had never seen anything like him, though now-a-days you may get a plaster figure of him in any toy-shop at Christmas-time, with hair and beard like cotton-wool, and a Christmas-tree in his hand.
“The custom of Christmas-trees came from Germany. I can remember when they were first introduced into England, and what wonderful things we thought them. Now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars openly discuss whether the presents have been ‘good,’ or ‘mean,’ as compared with other trees of former years.
“The first one that I ever saw I believed to have come from good Father Christmas himself; but little boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement. They are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill—which. I feel to this day—when the folding-doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of tapers, Mamma, like a Fate, advances with her scissors to give every one what falls to his lot.
“Well, young people, when I was eight years old I had not seen a Christmas-tree, and the first picture of one I ever saw was the picture of that held by Old Father Christmas in my godmother’s picture-book.
”‘What are those things on the tree?’ I asked.
”‘Candles,’ said my father.
”‘No, father, not the candles; the other things?’
”‘Those are toys, my son.’
”‘Are they ever taken off?’
”‘Yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand round the tree.’
“Patty and I grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice murmured, ‘How kind of Old Father Christmas!’
“By-and-by I asked, ‘How old is Father Christmas?’
“My father laughed, and said, ‘One thousand eight hundred and thirty years, child,’ which was then the year of our Lord, and thus one thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great Christmas Day.
”‘He looks very old,’ whispered Patty.
“And I, who was, for my age, what Kitty called ‘Bible-learned,’ said thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, ‘Then he’s older than Methuselah.’
“But my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty.
“November and December went by, and still the picture-book kept all its charm for Patty and me; and we pondered on and loved Old Father Christmas as children can love and realise a fancy friend. To those who remember the fancies of their childhood I need say no more.
“Christmas week came, Christmas Eve came. My father and mother were mysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlour (we had only one parlour), and Patty and I were not allowed to go in. We went into the kitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us. Kitty was ‘all over the place,’ as she phrased it, and cakes, mince-pies, and puddings were with her. As she justly observed, ‘There was no place there for children and books to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be at the oven all along. The cat was enough for her temper,’ she added.
“As to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out into the Christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps, and a stupidity that was, I think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to fly at intervals, like a football, before Kitty’s hasty slipper.
“We had more sense, or less courage. We bowed to Kitty’s behests, and went to the back door.
“Patty and I were hardy children, and accustomed to ‘run out’ in all weathers, without much extra wrapping up. We put Kitty’s shawl over our two heads, and went outside. I rather hoped to see something of Dick, for it was holiday time; but no Dick passed. He was busy helping his father to bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold sprigs of holly for the morrow—that was the idea of church decoration in my young days. You have improved on your elders there, young people, and I am candid enough to allow it. Still, the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into life and leaf again for very Christmas joy!
“And, if one only knelt carefully, they did not scratch his nose,” added Godfather Garbel, chuckling and rubbing his own, which was large and rather red.
“Well,” he continued, “Dick was busy, and not to be seen. We ran across the little yard and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or anybody. From this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping prettily away to a little hill about three-quarters of a mile distant; which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be a place of cure for whooping-cough, or ‘kinkcough,’ as it was vulgarly called. Up to the top of this Kitty had dragged me, and carried Patty, when we were recovering from the complaint, as I well remember. It was the only ‘change of air’ we could afford, and I dare say it did as well as if we had gone into badly-drained lodgings at the seaside.
“This hill was now covered with snow, and stood off against the grey sky. The white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk. The only gay things to be seen were the red berries on the holly hedge, in the little lane—which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the Hall—and a fat robin redbreast who was staring at me. I was watching the robin, when Patty, who had been peering out of her corner of Kitty’s shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and cried,—
”‘Look!’”
Chapter 3
Table of Contents
“I looked. An old man was coming along the lane. His hair and beard were as white as cotton-wool. He had a face like the sort of apple that keeps well in winter; his coat was old and brown. There was snow about him in patches, and he carried a small fir-tree.
“The same conviction seized upon us both. With one breath we exclaimed, ‘It’s Old Father Christmas!’
“I know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did not happen to be acquainted, and that he was taking a little fir-tree up to the Hall, to be made into a Christmas-tree. He was a very good-humoured old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by smiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, ‘Aye, aye, to be sure!’ at likely intervals.
“As he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so affably, that I was bold enough to cry, ‘Good-evening, Father Christmas!’
”‘Same to you!’ said he, in a high-pitched voice.
”‘Then you are Father Christmas,’ said Patty.
”‘And a Happy New Year,’ was Father Christmas’s reply, which rather put me out. But he smiled in such a satisfactory manner, that Patty went on, ‘You’re very old, aren’t you?’
”‘So I be, miss, so I be,’ said Father Christmas, nodding.
”‘Father says you’re eighteen hundred and thirty years old,’ I muttered.
”‘Ay, ay, to be sure,’ said Father Christmas, ‘I’m a long age.’
“A very long age, thought I, and I added, ‘You’re nearly twice as old as Methuselah, you know,’ thinking that this might not have struck him.
”‘Ay, ay,’ said Father Christmas; but he did not seem to think anything of it. After a pause he held up the tree, and cried, ‘D’ye know what this is, little miss?’
”‘A Christmas-tree,’ said Patty.
“And the old man smiled and nodded.
“I leant over the wall, and shouted, ‘But there are no candles.’
”‘By-and-by,’ said Father Christmas, nodding as before. ‘When it’s dark they’ll all be lighted up. That’ll be a fine sight!’
”‘Toys too, there’ll be, won’t there?’ screamed Patty.
“Father Christmas nodded his head. ‘And sweeties,’ he added, expressively.
“I could feel Patty trembling, and my own heart beat fast. The thought which agitated us both, was this—‘Was Father Christmas bringing the tree to us?’ But very anxiety, and some modesty also, kept us from asking outright.
“Only when the old man shouldered his tree, and prepared to move on, I cried in despair, ‘Oh, are you going?’
”‘I’m coming back by-and-by,’ said he.
”‘How soon?’ cried Patty.
”‘About four o’clock,’ said the old man, smiling, ‘I’m only going up yonder.’
“And, nodding and smiling as he went, he passed away down the lane.
”‘Up yonder.’ This puzzled us. Father Christmas had pointed, but so indefinitely, that he might have been pointing to the sky, or the fields, or the little wood at the end of the Squire’s grounds. I thought the latter, and suggested to Patty that perhaps he had some place underground, like Aladdin’s cave, where he got the candles, and all the pretty things for the tree. This idea pleased us both, and we amused ourselves by wondering what Old Father Christmas would choose for us from his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his Christmas-trees.
”‘I wonder, Patty,’ said I, ‘why there’s no picture of Father Christmas’s dog in the book.’ For at the old man’s heels in the lane there crept a little brown and white spaniel, looking very dirty in the snow.
”‘Perhaps it’s a new dog that he’s got to take care of his cave,’ said Patty.
“When we went indoors we examined the picture afresh by the dim light from the passage window, but there was no dog there.
“My father passed us at this moment, and patted my head. ‘Father,’ said I, ‘I don’t know, but I do think Old Father Christmas is going to bring us a Christmas-tree to-night.’
”‘Who’s been telling you that?’ said my father. But he passed on before I could explain that we had seen Father Christmas himself, and had had his word for it that he would return at four o’clock, and that the candles on his tree would be lighted as soon as it was dark.
“We hovered on the outskirts of the rooms till four o’clock came. We sat on the stairs and watched the big clock, which I was just learning to read; and Patty made herself giddy with constantly looking up and counting the four strokes, towards which the hour hand slowly moved. We put our noses into the kitchen now and then, to smell the cakes and get warm, and anon we hung about the parlour door, and were most unjustly accused of trying to peep. What did we care what our mother was doing in the parlour?—we who had seen Old Father Christmas himself, and were expecting him back again every moment!
“At last the church clock struck. The sounds boomed heavily through the frost, and Patty thought there were four of them. Then, after due choking and whirring, our own clock struck, and we counted the strokes quite clearly—one! two! three! four! Then we got Kitty’s shawl once more, and stole out into the back-yard. We ran to our old place, and peeped, but could see nothing.
”‘We’d better get up on to the wall,’ I said; and with some difficulty and distress from rubbing her bare knees against the cold stones, and getting the snow up her sleeves, Patty got on the coping of the little wall, I was just struggling after her, when something warm and something cold coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs, made me shriek with fright. I came down ‘with a run’ and bruised my knees, my elbows, and my chin; and the snow that hadn’t gone up Patty’s sleeves, went down my neck. Then I found that the cold thing was a dog’s nose, and the warm thing was his tongue; and Patty cried from her post of observation, ‘It’s Father Christmas’s dog, and he’s licking your legs.’
“It really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel; and he persisted in licking me, and jumping on me, and making curious little noises, that must have meant something if one had known his language. I was rather harassed at the moment. My legs were sore, I was a little afraid of the dog, and Patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall without me.
”‘You won’t fall,’ I said to her. ‘Get down, will you?’ I said to the dog.
”‘Humpty Dumpty fell off a wall,’ said Patty.
”‘Bow! wow!’ said the dog.
“I pulled Patty down, and the dog tried to pull me down; but when my little sister was on her feet, to my relief, he transferred his attentions to her. When he had jumped at her, and licked her several times, he turned round and ran away.
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