Part 1

Chapter 14,062 wordsPublic domain

AROUND THE YULE LOG

WILLIS BOYD ALLEN

_Author of “The Boyhood of John Kent,” “Snowed In,” “Christmas at Surf Point,” “The Pine Cone Series,” “Navy Blue,” etc._

BOSTON

The Pilgrim Press

CHICAGO

CONTENTS

PAGE I. Around the Yule Log 7 II. The Shadow of Christmas Present 9 III. ’Lijah 36 IV. A Christmas Reverie 49 V. The Cracked Bell 57 VI. Christmas Folk-Lore 70 VII. Mrs. Brownlow’s Christmas Party 83 VIII. Christmas on Wheels 98 IX. Treasure Trove; a Christmas Story 109 X. Charity and Evergreen 119 XI. Through the Storm 141

AROUND THE YULE LOG

It is the waning of the year. As the twilight, often hastened by the soft blur of falling snow, encroaches more and more upon the brief day, we gather closely about our firesides, and there, heart to heart, are wont to listen as at no other period of this prosaic nineteenth century life, to tales of olden time. More than ever are we drawn together at the season of our Saviour’s birth, when the yule log glows amain and the sweet spirit of Christmas kindles within us a warmth and gladness that responds to the cheerful blaze upon the hearth.

Christmas day! Does it not grow dearer to us every year? The summers come and go; we rush to and fro on our little errands of business and pleasure; great joys dawn in our lives, dark shadows of bitter disappointment creep over them; we are glad, sorrowful, eager, weary, well, ill; Life’s heart beats strongly, and Death is busy in its midst; we strive for the Beautiful, the True, and the Good; we hide our faces in helpless agony of shame and remorse; yet again comes the dear Day of days, with its blessed associations, memories, hopes.

CHRISTMAS! Do you remember what that word meant to you when you were a child? What a mysterious halo of light surrounded the day! How the very sound of its name suggested the fragrance of the fir-tree and wax-candles and marvelous toys, and the far-off tinkle of sleigh bells, or beat of tiny reindeer hoofs upon the snowy roof! Has the approach of Christmas but an indifferent charm in this grown-up work-a-day world of ours? If so, let us strive and pray for those delicate sensibilities of childhood that caught and reveled in the fragrant atmosphere of the day; that could hear, knowing naught beyond the bliss it brought, the voice of the Founder of Christmas blessing little children as it blessed them in distant Palestine eighteen centuries ago. Let us forgive our debtors this day as we would be forgiven; let no child’s cry fall unheeded on our ears; let our hearts be open to the tenderest, purest, most sacred thoughts, and to every ennobling influence; let us be alert and watchful, on this bright morning-day of the year; let the sun shine into and through us, shedding its warmth and brightness upon all about us; let us be once more as little children, and put out our hands trustingly, to be led.

_Hope--Joy--Bethlehem--Christmas--Christ!_ How softly the words chime together, like Christmas bells! With their sweet music comforting and gladdening our hearts, may we gather by the fireside to-night, to listen to these simple tales AROUND THE YULE LOG.

THE SHADOW OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT

It was at precisely eight o’clock, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of December, that Mr. Broadstreet yawned, glanced at the time-piece, closed the book he had been reading, and stretched himself out comfortably in his smoking-chair before the cannel fire which snapped and rustled cosily in the broad grate. The book was “A Christmas Carol,” and the reader, familiar as he was with its pages, had been considerably affected by that portion relating to Tiny Tim, as well as cheered by the joyful notes with which the Carol ends.

For some minutes he sat silently surveying the pattern on his slippers, and apparently working it out again on his own brow. Now, Mr. Broadstreet was not a man to act upon impulse. A lawyer in large and profitable practice, and a shrewd man of business as well, he was never known to do, say, or decide anything without deliberation.

“Hold on a bit,” he would say to an eager client, “softly, softly, my friend, you’re too fast for me. Now, what did you say was done with the property?” and so on to the end of the story. If there was any money in the case, Mr. Broadstreet was pretty sure to draw it out, for the benefit of his clients, and, remotely of course, himself.

“When I put my hand _down_,” he was fond of remarking, with significant gesture upon the office desk, “I never take it up again without something in it.”

In the course of his long practice, aided by a series of fortunate speculations, he had amassed such a goodly sum that his name stood near the head of the list of “Our Prominent Taxpayers;” he drove a fine span of horses, and was free enough with his money, in a general way. That is, when some large philanthropic movement was on foot, Alonzo M. Broadstreet, Esq., was pretty sure to be down for a round sum. He paid his share in church and politics, and annually sent a check to the Board of Foreign Missions. He made it a rule, however, never to encourage pauperism by promiscuous almsgiving, and never tried a case or gave legal advice, for love. Poor people who called at his office for assistance always found him unaccountably busy, and street beggars had long since learned to skip his door on their morning basket-visits.

To-night Mr. Broadstreet had picked up the “Carol” in a specially complacent mood. He had spent liberally in Christmas gifts for his wife and children, letting himself almost defy his better judgment by purchasing for the former an expensive pin she had seen and fancied in a show window the week before. Just as he had completed the bargain a rescript had come down from the Supreme Court affirming judgment in his favor in a case which meant at least a five-thousand-dollar fee.

Notwithstanding the memory of his recent good luck, he continued, on this particular evening, of all evenings in the year, to knit his brows and give unmistakable evidence that some emotion or reflection, not altogether pleasant, was stirring him powerfully.

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Broadstreet presently, half aloud, as if he were addressing some one in the center of the glowing coals. “Nonsense!” he repeated, looking hard at a grotesque, carved figure that supported the mantel: “I’m _not_ like Scrooge. I give freely and I spend freely. That fire don’t look much like the one old Scrooge warmed his gruel over, does it now?”

The marble figure making no answer to this appeal, but continuing his stony gaze, Mr. Broadstreet shifted his position again uneasily. “Don’t I give away hundreds of dollars every year to the Societies, and haven’t I left them a round ten thousand in my will? Won’t somebody mourn for _me_, eh?”

But the carved lips replied never a word, only seeming to curl slightly as the firelight played upon them, thereby assuming such an unpleasantly scornful expression that Mr. Broadstreet began to feel more uncomfortable than ever.

Rising hastily from his chair and throwing the book down upon the table, he walked on to the window, rubbed a little place clear upon the frosty pane, and looked out.

The night was gloomy enough to make the plainest of homes seem cheery by contrast. Since morning the skies had been dully gray, so that every one who went out wore arctics and carried umbrellas, and was provoked because no storm came. At about the time when the sun might be supposed to be setting, somewhere behind that dismal wall of clouds, a few tiny, shivering flakes had come floating down or up, one could hardly tell which, and had mingled with the dust that, driven by the biting wind, had filled the air, and piled itself in little ridges along the sidewalk, and blinded the eyes of men and beasts throughout the dreary day. Before long the snow overcame the low-born friend with whom it had at first treacherously allied itself, laid it prostrate on the earth, and calling in all its forces rioted victoriously over the field. The storm now took full possession of the city, whitening roofs and pavements, muffling every footfall and wheel-rattle, filling the streets up to their slaty brims with whirling mists of sleety snow, and roaring furiously through the tree-tops and around corners. As Mr. Broadstreet gazed through his frosty loophole, with mind full of the story he had just finished, he almost fancied he could discern the shadowy forms of old Marley and his fellow-ghosts moaning and wringing their hands as they swept past in trailing white robes.

He turned away with a half-shiver and once more ensconced himself in his warm easy chair, taking up the Carol as he did so, and turning its leaves carelessly until he came to a picture of the Ghost of Christmas Present. It was wonderfully well-drawn, following the text with great care, hitting off the idea of the jovial, holly-crowned Spirit to the very life. And then the heap of good things that lay in generous piles about the room! Mr. Broadstreet could almost catch a whiff of fragrance from the turkeys and geese and spicy boughs. Indeed, so strong was the illusion that he involuntarily glanced over his shoulder at the marble-topped table near by, half expecting to see an appetizing dish of eatables at his side. No one had entered, however, and the table was as usual, with only its album and gilt-mounted screen, flanked by a few books that were too choice to be hidden away on the library shelves. When he looked back at the picture in the book, he started and rubbed his eyes. He thought--but it could not have been possible--that the central figure on the page moved slightly; and he was positive that one of the Ghost’s arms, in the engraving, had been raised, while now both were at his side.

Mr. Broadstreet turned back the leaf with some misgiving, and looked carefully behind it. Nothing but blank white paper.

“H’m,” muttered Mr. Broadstreet to himself, “how a man’s fancy does play strange tricks with--Halloo!”

He was once more glancing at the picture, when the jolly Ghost gave him an unmistakable wink.

To say that the lawyer started, was astonished, struck dumb--would be mild. He sat staring at the page, not wholly believing his own eyes, and yet not liking to look upon such a--to say the least--peculiar picture.

While he was in this bewildered state of mind a rich, jovial voice was heard, apparently at a great distance, and at the same time proceeding directly from the book he held in his hand; and--yes, no doubt about it--the Ghost’s bearded lips were moving.

“Well?” said the Ghost of Christmas Present, still seeming very, very far off.

“Well, sir?” stammered Mr. Broadstreet, in return.

“You see I’m not dead yet, although some of your good people on this side of the water pay precious little attention to me.”

“Why, really,” said Mr. Broadstreet, instinctively arguing the opposite side of the question, “as to that, I’m not so sure. Take Christmas cards, now. A few years ago they were unknown; now they’re as common as valentines.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the Ghost, “I know. You see I have my room pretty well decorated with them.”

The lawyer scrutinized the background of the picture more carefully, and, sure enough, the walls were covered with what at first seemed a rich sort of illuminated paper, but proved to be composed entirely of Christmas cards, many of which he had never seen. Even in the momentary glance he gave, he observed that those which had taken prizes and had been most largely advertised during the past few winters, were tucked away in obscure corners, while several which were exceedingly simple in design and text occupied the most prominent positions.

“Yes,” the Ghost went on, “the cards are well enough in their way, and so are the other displays and festivities of the day. But it is the spirit of Christmas that you need. Charity, charity in its good old sense: open hearts and kind deeds, with less thought of self-pleasing. While these dainty little gifts are being manufactured, purchased, sent, and thrown away, hundreds of people are at starvation’s door in your own city; thousands of people know little or nothing of the real meaning of the day, or of its Founder.”

As the Ghost spoke, its voice seemed to come nearer, and at the same time the book grew so large and heavy that Mr. Broadstreet was fain to set it down upon the carpet. He no longer feared the Ghost, nor did it seem strange that it should converse with him in this manner.

“Wherein are we deficient?” he asked eagerly. “Or what more can we do? The charitable institutions of Boston are among the best in the world, the sky is full of her church-steeples, her police and missionary forces are vigilant and effective in their work.”

The Ghost of Christmas Present gave a toss to his long hair and beard.

“How much have you done to carry the spirit of Christmastide beyond your own threshold? Who in this great city will cherish the day and love it more dearly for your warm human friendship and kindly act, until it symbolizes to them whatever is purest and merriest and holiest in life?”

The Ghost’s voice, now grown very near, was rather sad than stern, and its eyes were fixed intently upon Mr. Broadstreet’s face.

Mr. Broadstreet hesitated. With cross-examination he was familiar enough, but he did not relish the part of witness. So confused was he that he hardly noticed that book and picture were now so large that they quite filled the end of the room in which he was sitting, and seemed like another apartment opening out of his own.

“I--I--hardly know,” he stammered. “Really, I’ve spent a good deal of money; my Christmas bills are always tremendous, but I suppose it’s mostly in the family.”

“Mind,” interrupted the Ghost, almost sharply, “I don’t say anything against the good cheer and merriment at home. But there are many homes within a stone’s throw of your chair, where there will be no fine dinner, no presents, no meeting of friends, no tree,--nothing but anxiety and doubt and despair. Your dressing-gown would provide for several of them.”

Mr. Broadstreet looked meekly at the embroidery upon his sleeves.

“What would you have me do?” he asked.

“Do you desire to perform your part toward making the morrow bright for some one who otherwise would find it all clouds? Do you wish to plant seeds of love and mercy and tenderness in some heart that has heretofore borne only thistles? To bring a smile to some weary face, warmth to shivering limbs, light and hope to dreary lives?”

“I do! I do!” exclaimed the rich man, eagerly starting up from his chair.

“And are you ready to sacrifice your ease and comfort, this stormy night, for such as they?”

Mr. Broadstreet seized his fur cap and ulster from the rack in the hall. “Try me!” he cried. “I’m ready for anything!”

The Ghost smiled pleasantly upon him, at the same time seeming to lift its hand involuntarily, as in blessing. Then it spoke for the last time.

“Hitherto you have known only the bright side of Christmas,” it said gently. “It has been full of joy to you and yours. But there are those among your fellow creatures, nay, among your very neighbors, who dwell in such continued misery that when Christmas comes it but reminds them of their unhappy state, and by its excess of light upon others deepens the gloom about themselves. This is the Shadow of Christmas Present, and it falls heavily upon many a heart and many a household, where the day, with its good cheer and blessed associations, should bring naught but delight.” The kind Spirit’s voice wavered slightly. “I, myself, can do but little to dispel this shadow. It grieves me sorely, year by year, but it remains, and I fear I sometimes but make it worse, with my bluff ways and keen winter breezes. It is for those who love me most to carry such light and comfort to those upon whom it rests, that it shall be banished never to return. The shadow grows less year by year, but it is still broad, broad.”

The Ghost was silent a moment. It beckoned to the other, and motioned to him to step behind it. “In my Shadow you shall move to-night,” it concluded, in a firmer voice. “It shall accompany you wherever you go, and your work shall be to turn it away, with whatever kind deeds your hand shall find to do, or cheering words you may have the power to speak.”

It said no more. Mr. Broadstreet, who, when a child, had often longed to peep behind a picture, found himself actually fulfilling his wish. As he drew nearer the printed page, he heard a dull roar, like surf beating upon a rocky coast. He advanced further, picking his way around the pile of poultry and vegetables and glistening holly upon which the Ghost sat enthroned. A moment more and the room vanished in utter blackness of night, the roar grew grander and deeper, until it throbbed in his ears like the diapason of a mighty organ, a fierce blast of snow-laden wind struck his bewildered face, the street-lamp upon the corner flickered feebly in a mist of flakes--he was standing before his own door, knee-deep in a snow-drift, and buffeted above, below, and on every side by the storm that was abroad that Christmas Eve.

As soon as Mr. Broadstreet recovered himself and cleared his eyes from the blinding snow, he saw a heavy, black Shadow on the sidewalk enveloping his own person and resting upon the figure of a man who had evidently just sheltered himself behind the high stone steps, for his footprints leading from the street were still quite fresh. As the man thrashed his arms and stamped vigorously, to start the blood through his benumbed feet, a bright button or two gleamed upon his breast through the cape of his greatcoat. Mr. Broadstreet now recognized him as the policeman whose beat it was, and whom he had occasionally favored with a condescending nod, as he came home late at night from the theater or the club. He had never addressed him by so much as a word, but now the Shadow was full upon him, and Mr. Broadstreet felt that here was his first opportunity.

“Good-evening, officer!” he shouted cheerily, through the storm. “Wish you a Merry Christmas to-morrow.”

“Thank you, sir; same to you,” replied the other, with a touch of the cap and a pleased glance at the great man. “Hard times for the boys to-night, though.”

“It _is_ hard,” said Mr. Broadstreet compassionately. “And you’re rather cold, I suppose?” he added awkwardly, after a pause.

“Rather!”

“Why, bless me,” a bright thought striking him, “wouldn’t you like a cup of hot coffee, now?”

The officer looked up again, surprised. “I would that, sir, first-rate,” he answered heartily.

Mr. Broadstreet stepped to the side door and pressed the electric knob.

“Bring out a good cup of coffee for this man,” he said to the girl who answered the bell. “And, officer, buy the folks at home a trifle for me; Christmas, you know.” As he spoke, he put a big silver dollar into the astonished policeman’s hand, and at the same time the Shadow vanished, leaving the light from the bright, warm hall falling fairly upon the snow-covered cap and buttons.

A muffled roll and jingling of bells made themselves heard above the wind, and a street-car came laboring down the street through the heavy drifts. Mr. Broadstreet, without a thought as to the destination of the car, but impelled by some unseen force, clambered upon the rear platform. The conductor was standing like a snowman, covered with white from head to foot, collar up around his ears, and hands deep in his pockets. And the Shadow was there again. Broad and gloomy, it surrounded both conductor and passenger in its bleak folds.

“Tough night, sir,” remarked the former, presently.

“Yes, yes, it is, indeed,” replied Mr. Broadstreet, who was thinking what in the world he could give this man, except money. “And Christmas Eve, too!”

“That’s a fact,” said the conductor. “Just the luck of it, I say. Now to-morrow I get four hours lay-off in the afternoon, and my wife, she was planning to take the children and go to the play. But they’re none of ’em over strong, and ’t won’t do to take ’em out in this snow. Besides, like’s not ’twill storm all day.”

“Children?” exclaimed Mr. Broadstreet, seeing a way out of his difficulty; “how many?”

“Two girls and a boy, all under seven.”

“Got any Christmas presents for them?--don’t mind my asking.”

“Well, I’d just ’s lief show you what I _have_ got. ’T ain’t much, you know, but then it’s _somethin’_.”

He stepped inside the door, laid aside his snowy mittens, and taking from the corner of the seat a small brown parcel, carefully removed the string and wrappings.

“There,” he said, with a sort of pleading pride in his eyes, “I guess these’ll please ’em some. ’Taint much, you know,” he added again, glancing at his passenger’s fur cap, as he displayed the presents on the car-seat.

A very red-cheeked and blue-eyed doll, with a placid countenance quite out of keeping with her arms; these members being so constructed as to occupy only two positions, one of which expressed unbounded astonishment, and the other gloomy resignation; a transparent slate, with a dim cow under the glass, and “fifteen cents,” plainly marked in lead pencil on one corner of the frame, and a rattle for the girl baby.

As the conductor held up these articles in his stiff, red fingers, turning the doll about so as to show her flaxen braid to the best advantage, and inducing the arms to take the positions alluded to, the Shadow crept away, and had well-nigh disappeared. But it returned again, thicker than ever, when he said, with a little choke in his voice, “I did mean to get ’em a little tree, with candles on it, and a picture-book or two; but our pay ain’t overmuch, and we had sickness, and--and”--he was very busy doing up the bundle, and very clumsy he must have been, too, for it was a long time before the wide-looped, single bow-knot was tied, and the parcel carefully put away again.

Mr. Broadstreet winked hard, and his eyes shone.

“How long before you pass here on the way back?” he asked.

“About thirty-five minutes it’ll take us to get round, sir, on account of the snow. It’s my last trip.”

“Very well. Now, conductor--ahem! what did you say your name was?”

“Tryson, sir; David Tryson.”

“Then, ahem! Mr. Tryson--just ring your bell when you reach the corner there, on the up trip; and dodge into that store where the lights are. You’ll find a bundle waiting for you. Good-night conduct--Mr. Tryson, and a Merry Christmas to you and yours!”

“Good-night, sir! God bless you, sir! Merry”--but his passenger was gone.

As he reached the sidewalk, Mr. Broadstreet turned and looked after the car. Whether it was the light from the street lamp, or the broad flood of radiance that poured out from the windows of the toy-shop just beyond, he could not tell; but the rear platform was illuminated by a pure, steady glow, in the very center of which stood the conductor, smiling and waving his hand. No sign of a Shadow; not a bit of it. Mr. Broadstreet looked carefully about him, but it was nowhere to be seen. Even the snow, which all this time continued to fall without interruption, seemed to fill the air with tiny lamps of soft light.