Chapter 9

Glad children, see here!

I have brought you fine dolls,

And gay trumpets, and rings,

Noah's arks, and bright skates,

And a host of good things!

I have brought a whole sackful,

A packful, a hackful!

Come hither, come hither, come hither

and choose!

"Ho! ho! What is this?

Why, they all are asleep!

But their stockings are up,

And my presents will keep!

So, in with the candies,

The books, and the toys;

All the goodies I have

For the good girls and boys.

I'll ram them, and jam them,

And slam them, and cram them;

All the stockings will hold while the

tired youngsters snooze."

All the while his round shoulders

Kept ducking and ducking;

And his little, fat fingers

Kept tucking and tucking;

Until every stocking

Bulged out, on the wall,

As if it were bursting,

And ready to fall.

And then, all at once,

With a whisk and a whistle,

And twisting himself

Like a tough bit of gristle,

He bounced up again,

Like the down of a thistle,

And nothing was left but the prints of his shoes.

THE WAITS

MARGARET DELAND

At the break of Christmas Day,

Through the frosty starlight ringing,

Faint and sweet and far away,

Comes the sound of children, singing,

Chanting, singing,

"Cease to mourn,

For Christ is born,

Peace and joy to all men bringing!"

Careless that the chill winds blow,

Growing stronger, sweeter, clearer,

Noiseless footfalls in the snow

Bring the happy voices nearer;

Hear them singing,

"Winter's drear,

But Christ is here,

Mirth and gladness with Him bringing!"

"Merry Christmas!" hear them say,

As the East is growing lighter;

"May the joy of Christmas Day

Make your whole year gladder, brighter!"

Join their singing,

"To each home

Our Christ has come,

All Love's treasures with Him bringing!"

THE KNIGHTING OF THE SIRLOIN OF BEEF BY CHARLES THE SECOND

ANON

The Second Charles of England

Rode forth one Christmas tide,

To hunt a gallant stag of ten,

Of Chingford woods the pride.

The winds blew keen, the snow fell fast,

And made for earth a pall,

As tired steeds and wearied men

Returned to Friday Hall.

The blazing logs, piled on the dogs,

Were pleasant to behold!

And grateful was the steaming feast

To hungry men and cold.

With right good-will all took their fill,

And soon each found relief;

Whilst Charles his royal trencher piled

From one huge loin of beef.

Quoth Charles, "Odd's fish! a noble dish!

Ay, noble made by me!

By kingly right, I dub thee knight—

Sir Loin henceforward be!"

And never was a royal jest

Received with such acclaim:

And never knight than good Sir Loin

More worthy of the name.

THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE AT THE CRATCHITS'

CHARLES DICKENS

You might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course; and in truth, it was something like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner, at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried hurrah!

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone on the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eye-brows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take the pudding up, and bring it in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose; a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered, flushed, but smiling proudly, with the pudding like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for so large a family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass—two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

"A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"

Which all the family re-echoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

[From "Sketches in Prose."]

"God bless us every one!" prayed Tiny Tim,

Crippled, and dwarfed of body, yet so tall

Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him,

High towering over all.

He loved the loveless world, nor dreamed, indeed,

That it, at best, could give to him, the while,

But pitying glances, when his only need

Was but a cheery smile.

And thus he prayed, "God bless us every one!"

Enfolding all the creeds within the span

Of his child-heart; and so, despising none,

Was nearer saint than man.

I like to fancy God, in Paradise,

Lifting a finger o'er the rhythmic swing

Of chiming harp and song, with eager eyes

Turned earthward, listening—

The Anthem stilled—the angels leaning there

Above the golden walls—the morning sun

Of Christmas bursting flower-like with the prayer,

"God bless us Every One!"

BELLS ACROSS THE SNOWS

FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

Is it really come again,

With its memories and greetings,

With its joy and with its pain?

There's a minor in the carol,

And a shadow in the light,

And a spray of cypress twining

With the holly wreath to-night.

And the hush is never broken

By laughter light and low,

As we listen in the starlight

To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

'Tis not so very long

Since other voices blended

With the carol and the song!

If we could but hear them singing

As they are singing now,

If we could but see the radiance

Of the crown on each dear brow;

There would be no sigh to smother,

No hidden tear to flow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas!

This never more can be;

We cannot bring again the days

Of our unshadowed glee.

But Christmas, happy Christmas,

Sweet herald of good-will,

With holy songs of glory

Brings holy gladness still.

For peace and hope may brighten,

And patient love may glow,

As we listen in the starlight

To the "bells across the snow."

CHRISTMAS BELLS

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat