CHRISTMAS IN SONG AND STORY

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2693, 24 December 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

CHRISTMAS IN SONG AND STORY

THE SOLDIER WHO STOOD GUARD

“Wfiad l to me, Mummy; wead to Baby.” The invitation card for the Christmas Eve reception slipped through her fingers. The brief desire to accept its summons slipped away as softly. She looked at her boy. His great eyes were eloquent. She lifted the book, and began where- the postman's arrival had in terrupted the story of Eield’s “Little Boy . Blue.” „ “ „ . „ “And the’soldier was passing fair; “W’at’s a sojeiv, Mummy; w’at’s ft sojor?” , % ■ “One who ’keeps watch over his nation ; one who guards.” He was silent while she read: “But the little toy friends are true ! Ay, faithful to littie boy blue they stand. ... And they wonder, 'as waiting these long years through . . . What has become of Little Boy Blue! ... Her' voice grew tremulous at the period. “Me want sojer, Mummy; Baby want a cbjer.” She sought out his cap and cloak, and pinned on her own hat with sudden resolution. Tramfare and a new niching—she couldn’t wear the old one gain—would swell the expense of that holiday reception to the price of the toy her child craved. Besides it was almost Christmas.

“We will get the prettiest soldier man we can find,” she promised, smiling in deep content. It was an event buying the soldier. And they took turns in carrying him home The boy sat him on the chair and repeated the line of the poem, “No don’t ’on do till I tome!”

‘W’at do Baby’s sojer guard? came the solemn question, the now word rolling trippingly from the moist, red lips. “Mamma’s world,” said the woman. “Mummy’s worl’,” he repeated, wonder-eyed. “Mamma’s world—her boy’s love!” and she clasped her son in passionately possessive arms.

The grey-haired woman went over the house again. Her young son’s bride was comng to enter into possession tomorrow—the day before Christmas. They were on. their wedding journey now. She, the mother, was to live with her widowed sister, far away. “Your wife will be happier so,” she had said, and—oh, bitterness—was uncontradicted. This was her last day as mistress in the home where her boy was born, where she had known so much joy and sorrow, where the cradle had rocked and noiseless wheels had seemed to roll across her heart as they bore away her husband’s body under its burden of flowers.

She closed the blinds against- the brilliant winter sunshine pouring-in the parlor, and, picked up a thread from the' new carpet. Up the stairs the trembling limbs toiled; the mistress glanced from room to room. A cloud had suddenly dulled the sunlight and a depressing grayness seemed to veil the familiar objects in gloom. There -was one drawer slie had not yet cleaned out because it stuck. Perhaps it would yield to her shaking fingers yet, if she persisted. She would have gone yesterday but for this drawer that her sick heart made a pretext of to linger on in the home no longer hers. She knelt before the old nursery bureau. The drawer gave'way. At first it seemed empty. Then, out of the shadows. gleamed, a glint of blue. She put in her hand, and—alone, kneeling—drew back to light the little leaden soldier, bought at this very season, just before Christmas, so long ago —the soldier-, that was to guard a mother’s world, the love of her boy ! But the musket of the soldier was broken, and rust had eaten into the iron standard down to his leaden feet.

She 'linelt with the toy on her palm. “Will it ever hold the same old place?” she mused.

Then, as one who tempts an omen, slue tried to stand the Guard of her World on the nursery floor. The little soldier wdbbled, trembled, and, as her thin, cold fingers left him, stood erect!

A burst of sunlight, as from gates sprung ajar, illuminated the window, beyond which the wintry _ splendor sparkled' in a long perspective. The canary in his cage at the window-broke into song. Wheels cracked on the frozen gravel and stopped at the door. “Mother!” A man - knelt beside her and clasped the drooping , figure in strong, young arms. “Mother, Louise and I have been talking over your strange desire to leave, and we shortened our journey to come home and tell you.it won’t;do. It would be too hard on your spoiled boy, and just at Christmas time, too, Mother.” “I’m sure it would,” chimed in the sweet voice of the bride, “and ! need you so, too. I thought if we<both begged hard you’d stay.” •' The, woman looked frpm one face to the other with swimming eyes. “What is this?” and the new wife knelt by the rust-eaten toy. “Oh, oh, it’s one of Harry’s old playthings! See how bravely, the little fellow stands—he almost seems like a» sentinel—a sentinel on guard over something precious!” “It is,” said the mother, holding fast to her stalwart son; “oh, it:is! I’ll tell you both some day how the toy has watched over my world.”

THE MOUSE AND THIfeMAN. It was five o’clock, in a pretty WestSide tea-room, the afternoon before Christmas. Dainty; white-capped wait, resses were speeding noiselessly to and fro among the palms and great clusters of fragrant; flowers. A sweet serenity was everywhere—in the air, in. rfhe handsome costumes of the diners, in their, smiles' and chatter. j . Suddenly there was a shrill scream and a resounding crash.-* Every laugh .was hushed, every head instantly turned, .and a few 1 jumped nervously and stood as if contemplating flight. For almost cfr'second there was a death-like silence, and then a-pretty-, petite brunette in a far-away corner pushed back her chair with a frightened gasp, . while her companion jumped upon a table with surprising speed and agility, and, clutching at her skirt wildly, gave an impromptu imitiation of a high soprano at her. first vocal lesson. Three giddy . young; buds at the next table I promptly followed her example. r j No one seemed to know quite what ’ bad happened| until a waitress came forward to explain. As she was about to speak there; was a shriek from an entirely different part of tbejroom, and several, who had needed but additional, sound to become panicstriken, rushed madly! fori the door. , Instantly a pandemonium reigned., In the midst of the confusion and excit- < ed Babel the head waitress appeared with .a broom and the only" smile in the - .

For Little Folks and Grown-Ups Too.

room, and yelled scornfully: “It’s nothing but a mouse i” If she thought to pour oil upon the troubled waters she but wagged a red flag at a bull. There was a chorus 'of shrieks 1 in every key that had a sharp in it,‘ a mad scramble for points of safety, a bewildering cloud of fluffy lace, and for once the highest was the dearest to feminine heart! The poor dazed mouse, really the most frightened of all infected with the general rush to the galleries, was frantically trying to climb into a tall and slippery jardiniere. In whatever direction lie ran there were, renewed screams from those nearest

his animated tail, and as he changed his mini regarding his line of march about twice as many .times a second as a weather-vane, the effect was nerveracking, to say the least. Each partic. ular female had apparently two aims at that- awful moment; to make more noise than the person next to her, and to keep her eyes riveted upon that whirring, whizzing piece of grey perpetual motion. One rather corpulent and decidely excited woman, growing dizzy in a vain attempt to do so, lost her balance and fell overboard, accompanied by the entire teaset, which added the needed jingle to make the crash complete. Just at this moment-a tall, handsome man stepped into the doorway,, and there was another chorus of shrieks, (but- oh, so much more musical this time). There was a modest slipping from the table, a coquettish little fluttering of lace, a hurried rearrangement of hats; and nobody seemed at all frightened (except the man and the mouse), and every one began to smile again, and the mouse was entirely forgotten—but not so the man!

HIS CHRISTMAS ROSE

(By Etta Squier Seley.)

Sammy was so small that it was hard to realise that he was ten years old. He had been tossed about all his lonely little life—living down amongst the wharves or in alleys- Of father and mother he had no memorj'. His only idea of home care was formed from the attentions bestowed upon him, from time to time, by some motherly soul living in the shanties on the tide flats or sheltered by the miserable houseboats built on soows and anchored along the shores of the river. He earned a pittance as a bootblack ,-and took care of himself; and such care! When I first met . him he was leaning against the door of the church listening to the boys sing. They were at work on Christmas rausic, that happy festival being not far distant. 1 had opened the door hastily, and he crouched in the shadow as if he expected a blow. He was wet, and shivering with cold, and I coaxed him inside to get warm. Our choir-boys were a sensible lot, and so made the poor lad feel somewhat at ■home—although he was greatly overawed at first by the strange surroundings From that night the choir-hoys took charge of Sammy. He became an attendant at the Sun-day-school, wa.i quite independent since he had been set up in a good o'ooth and his business prospered, and tried hard <V) use decent language and keep out of fights. That was the hardest—to keep out of fights and not to lose his standing with other boys on the street; but he managed it somehow.

Then one Sunday he was not in his class, and we all knew something had happened —something was wrong. We found him at the hospital; he had fallen under a car, and both his poor little legs were broken, but he had not lost his cheerfulness. “Hard luck, Sammy,” I said to him. “Yep,” he replied, “hard luck, but I’d ruther have it me legs than me arms.” It was always so; he saw the bright side of the dark clouds. Very slowly for Sammy the days dragged! by, but the choir-boys came .often to see him, and sometimes rcau to him; and he would soon be out, the nurse said.

It was the day before Christmas when she told me be might go the next day, but must use his crutches a long time. That very afternoon Sammy’s teacher sent him a beautiful, lon^-steinmed,. red rose. The little card wiht it read : With much love and best wishes for Sammy, and in remembrance of : the Blessed . Christ Child. I was-witlx him when it came, and for the first time since I had known the boy. I saw him cry. He held tliejrose first against one cheek and then the other,, and great sobs shook his whole body- At last he. drew'a sleeve across his eyes. and. said, brokenly: “I reckon —you think I’m a—a great .cry-baby—-an! I reckon I am-r-but-I never had a rose—before in my life—’n’, I-; guess; I ain’t very • strong—or I wouldn’t bawl about it.” - . s ;. ..

“It’s a beauty,” I remarked. “Ain’t it a peach, though?” he said, smiling through his tears. “What d ? ye s’pose ever made her send it to me, though?” . • '■ “Why, because she cared abut your being sick and hopes you will soon be well again; as we all;do. And besides, you know what else the card says, and to-morrow'is Christmas!” . . .

lie sat. looking out of the window a long time- then, holding the rose caressingly against his cheek. ->:•••' . When I left I-gaid, “Well, boy, you and your rose leave. together in the morning, I suppose ?” ' He laughed as he said, “Well, you kin jes’ bet yer head the rose goes, if I dO.” .1- ' :

, The service Christmas morning was unusually well attended, and we felt from our pastor’s voice that something moved hfni profoundly. For one,- I i confess I was openly curious, for it was rare indeed for. that voice to tremble or hesitate .in any part of the, service. After the benediction he turned to the altar and lifted something carefully. When he faced us again I saw he held a long-stemmed, red,rose and a;piece of red: wrapping-paper. . : ; - ! “My people,” He said, “you see what I hold here.” Then he related in a few words the story of Sammy, and of the gift of the rose, of which I had told him the night before. “I found this at the foot-, of the altar .across -. this • morning,” he continued, “and with it this note—sadly misspelled, it is true, but overflowing with Christian charity and the true;spirit of Christmastide. I will read it: “ /Dear, rector.

“ T leev this rose hear. 1 was goin to tak it hom Hut when i got to the .' church suthun kep a-sayin pig pig pig. so i rekun the-lord dont want me to keep it when sum- uther kid needs it morn i do. pleze send it bale to jimy toss'at ifiio hospital, he cant never get out. And* dont you tell him i Jhad it tel him its frum> the . christ child.’” , .

He paused. “Who may reckon the price- of this gift?”,he said. Turning again, he presented the rose before the altar, as lie would the regular alms-offering. As one person the congregation rose, and then sank to its knees as the rector left the sanctuary A great wonder hold us all. Who that day had given best? We of our plenty, or Sammy, who had given the sweetest thing which had ever come into-his life, nor sought praise for himself in the giving? ■

IS THERE A SANTA CLAUS?

r CHRISTMAS DAY, 1907. My Dear Little Friend, — Or course, there is a Santa Claus; Papa was not thinking of what lie was saying when he told you not. You ask him again and he will tell you so. Perhaps he meant there was no big, fatman Santa Claus who rides on the roof with reindeer, and comes down the chimney with gifts on Christmas night, for the real Santa Claus is a spirit—the Spirit of Love and Giving—that God puts into the hearts of men at the time of year when He gave His greatest Gift to the world. This is the spirit that comes into your papa’s heart at Christmas time and makes him try to make his little boy happy by giving many delightful things that day. He puts them _in your room at nighty so that you may find them first tiling when you awake on Christmas morning. He puts them in your stocking, so you will be sure to find them all, and so you can tell which are for you and which are for your brother. Now people want to make pictures of those they love, and they could not make a likeness of a spirit, so they made up a picture. Since the Santa Claus Spirit was jolly and generous they made him big and fat; because he has so many little children watching for him they make him look like a grandpa ; because lie comes in winter they Eut him in warm furs; because he rings so many gifts they pretend that he needs a sleigli to carry them; and because the best kind of Christmas is a cold one, with the snow flying and the north wind blowing, they pretend that he comes on a wind from far Snowland where the' reindeer are used to draw the sleigh. You ask your father again and I am sure he will tel] you there is a Santa Claus—'that there is just as surely a Santa Claus in his heart telling him how to please his boy at Christmas time as there is a God in Heaven all the time.

HIS BIRTHDAY.

(By Henderson Daingerfield Norman.) They brought Him their birthday presents— The incense and gold and myrrh; The sumptuous Christmas roses, The cedar and box and fir; They made all His temple splendid With tapers of purest ray, And they said: “ ’Tis a heavy burden — This keeping of Christmas day.”

The Child’s sweet eyes looked gravely At the glitter of wax and gold. The gifts that were hard t-o bring Him Were hard for his hands to hold. Gleaming and hard and splendid They all on the altar laj r , But the Child’s dear hands were empty As sadly He went His way.

He went where a single cradle Burned clear on a window-sill. A cake at the door was ready That the Christ Child might have His fill. Outside was the sheaf for Christmas, The barley, the wheat, and rye— That the birds might enjoy the Birthday Though the mow-drifts were white and high.

Within sat a girl-child, singing, A doll held against her breast, With queer little crooked stitches The gift was dressed. For a cluid hau prepared the present, Her heart with delight aglow That a poorer than she should have it— The thing she had treasured so.

The Lord Christ stood on the threshold. And, watching, His dear eyes smiled On the light, the cake, and the Christ, mas sheaf, And the child’s gift to a child. * The weary feet were rested, The heart from its sadness freed, With gifts were his pierced hands laden —• His birthday was kept indeed.

THE NEW CHRISTMAS DOLL , COMjPLAIiNS. (By Reynale Smith Pickering.) She never. admires my golden hair, She doesn’t rave over my eyes, She never looks, twice- at. the clothes that,l wear, r ..- -'/‘-'v Nor is she impressed with my size. And of all her strange supercilious , ' ways ' ‘ '“ J • ’* Are especially bard to explain, AVlien I see the affection she always dis- , . plays . ' , For little old Raggedy Jano. Now . Raggedy Jane is not pretty at all; Her hair is a fiery red, And she has but one leg, the result of a fall. And only one eye in her'head. Yet, when l am scolded for that, or for this, And. am spanked if I dare to complain; I notice • there’s always a smile or a ' kiss /!,!; For little old Raggedy Jane.

She is petted and rocked, and she gets every care ' That ever a fond mother planned, And two little hands are .always right - ■ there To attend to her slightest demand. And when the long shadows at eventide start, _ '.Quite: alone I: am forced to remain, While all through the night by a warm little heart! Sleeps lucky old Raggedy Jane.

Oh, it’s nice to be grand, and all that, I suppose, . !. But of late I’m beginning to reap The knowledge that happiness isn’t fine ' clothes, - r'Vv "/ ~ r And that beauty 1 is only. skin deep. So I wish that I wasn’t so handsomely • dressed; I’d.-he ; glad to be homely arid plain, . Could I change- my charms for the lovo • • that’s possessed' ' ' By little old Raggedy Jane.