Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics)
    50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics)
    50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics)
    Ebook762 pages6 hours

    50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics)

    By Hezekiah Butterworth, James Whitcomb Riley, John Bowring and

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    CONTENTS:

    HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH
    1. First New England Christmas

    JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
    2. A Defective Santa Claus

    JOHN BOWRING
    3. Watchman, Tell Us of the Night

    JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
    4. A Christmas Carmen

    JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
    5. The Mystic's Christmas

    L. FRANK BAUM
    6. Little Bun Rabbit

    LEO TOLSTOY
    7. A Russian Christmas Party

    LEO TOLSTOY
    8. Papa Panov's Special Christmas

    LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON
    9. Christmas

    LEWIS CARROLL
    10. Christmas Greetings from a Fairy to a Child

    LOPE DE VEGA
    11. A Christmas Cradlesong

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    12. A Stolen Christmas

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    13. Christmas Jenny

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    14. Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    15. Josiah's First Christmas

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    16. The Brownie's Xmas

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    17. The Christmas Ball

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    18. The Christmas Ghost

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    19. The Christmas Masquerade

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    20. The Gospel According to Joan

    MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
    21. The Snowflake Tree

    MARY LOUISA MOLESWORTH
    22. Not Quite True

    MARY LOUISA MOLESWORTH
    23. The Christmas Princess

    FRANCIS PHARCELLUS CHURCH
    24. Is There a Santa Claus?

    MONTAGUE RHODES JAMES
    25. The Story of a Disappearance and an Appearance

    MOTHER GOOSE
    26. Little Jack Horner

    MRS. W. H. CORNING
    27. A Western Christmas

    NAHUM TATE
    28. Christmas

    OLIVE THORNE MILLER
    29. The Telltale Tile

    O.HENRY
    30. An Unfinished Christmas Story

    RICHMAL CROMPTON
    31. The Christmas Present

    RICHMAL CROMPTON
    32. William's New Year's Day

    ROBERT BROWNING
    33. Christmas Eve

    ROBERT BURNS
    34. Auld Lang Syne

    SAKI
    35. Bertie's Christmas Eve

    SAKI
    36. Reginald on Christmas Presents

    SAKI
    37. Reginald's Christmas Revel

    SARA TEASDALE
    38. Christmas Carol

    STEPHEN LEACOCK
    39. A Christmas Letter

    STEPHEN LEACOCK
    40. Merry Christmas

    STEPHEN LEACOCK
    41. The Errors of Santa Claus

    THOMAS CHATTERTON
    42. A Hymn for Christmas Day

    THOMAS HARDY
    43. The Oxen

    THOMAS NELSON PAGE
    44. How the Captain Made Christmas

    VIKTOR RYDBERG
    45. Robin Goodfellow

    WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
    46. Dr. Birch and His Young Friends

    WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
    47. Mrs Perkins's Ball

    WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
    48. Our Street

    WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
    49. The Kickleburys on the Rhine

    WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
    50. The Rose and the Ring
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOregan Publishing
    Release dateNov 23, 2018
    ISBN9782291045885
    50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics)

    Read more from Hezekiah Butterworth

    Related to 50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics)

    Related ebooks

    Anthologies For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Hunting Heroines

      Dec 31, 2020

      Hunting Heroines
      5 min read

    • Article

      London’s Frost Fairs

      Nov 6, 2020

      London’s Frost Fairs
      2 min read

    • Article

      A Wimple Plan

      Dec 11, 2020

      A Wimple Plan
      3 min read

    • Article

      Capital escapes

      Oct 8, 2021

      Capital escapes
      5 min read

    • Article

      What’s In A (pen) Name?

      Jan 7, 2021

      What’s In A (pen) Name?
      4 min read

    • Article

      A cruel Renaissance

      Apr 14, 2022

      A cruel Renaissance
      8 min read

    • Article

      Mysterious World

      Aug 27, 2020

      Mysterious World
      1 min read

    • Article

      Floral Glamour

      Feb 6, 2024

      Floral Glamour
      1 min read

    • Article

      Rebecca

      Aug 18, 2021

      Rebecca
      3 min read

    • Article

      Dawn Of A dynasty

      Aug 11, 2023

      Dawn Of A dynasty
      5 min read

    • Article

      Lutefisk!

      Aug 2, 2022

      Lutefisk!
      3 min read

    • Article

      The Discovery Of A Unique World War II Domestic Air Raid Shelter

      Apr 9, 2022

      In February 2021, after moving to Falkirk, I noticed a brick building at the bottom of my new garden. Covered in decades of household rubbish, green waste and unchecked growth, I was unsure if this building was a forsaken garden shed or, perhaps, som

      7 min read

    • Article

      A Danger To All Women

      Jun 17, 2021

      Sarah-Jane Davidson, 39, Dundee Carrying in the cage, I placed it gently on the hallway table as my son’s and daughter’s faces lit up. ‘This is Peggy and Polly,’ I grinned, stroking the fluffy heads of the green and grey parakeets. ‘Hello, hello,’ bo

      4 min read

    • Article

      A Boy and His Horse

      Feb 1, 2022

      The novel My Friend Flicka by Mary O’Hara was published in 1941. O’Hara had worked as a scriptwriter for silent-era films in Hollywood before she and her Swedish-born husband bought a ranch, in 1930 in Wyoming, where they bred horses. In summer, O’Ha

      3 min read

    • Article

      Did You Know?

      Dec 29, 2020

      In the 1870s, postal workers in the Belgian city of Liege attempted to train 37 cats to deliver the mail (fastened around their necks in waterproof bags). The experiment was not a success: the cats just wandered off. In 1903, Sherlock Holmes creator

      1 min read

    • Article

      The Trans Retelling Of Jack Sheppard

      Jul 9, 2018

      In Confessions of the Fox, Jordy Rosenberg’s buzzy first novel, historian Dr. Voth discovers a suspicious manuscript that upends centuries-old assumptions about notorious jail breaker Jack Sheppard. The document reveals that 18th century street prowl

      1 min read

    • Article

      Planof Action

      Oct 5, 2021

      Planof Action
      6 min read

    • Article

      Move over Mrs Beeton

      May 24, 2023

      Move over Mrs Beeton
      4 min read

    • Article

      Emily, Rewritten

      Jan 6, 2023

      The most mysterious member of the Brontë family, Emily Brontë died on 19 December 1848 at the young age of 30, leaving just one novel, Wuthering Heights, and a collection of poetry as her legacy. Yet, she is still recognised as one of the world’s gre

      3 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for 50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics)

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2 (Golden Deer Classics) - Hezekiah Butterworth

      50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 2

      Hezekiah Butterworth James Whitcomb Riley John Bowring John Greenleaf Whittier L. Frank Baum Leo Tolstoy Letitia Elizabeth Landon Lewis Carroll Lope de Vega Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Mary Louisa Molesworth Francis Pharcellus Church Montague Rhodes James Mother Goose Mrs. W. H. Corning Nahum Tate Olive Thorne Miller O. Henry Richmal Crompton Robert Browning Robert Burns Saki Sara Teasdale Stephen Leacock Thomas Chatterton Thomas Hardy Thomas Nelson Page Viktor Rydberg William Makepeace Thackeray

      Copyright © 2018 by Oregan Publishing

      All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

      Contents

      Hezekiah Butterworth

      1. First New England Christmas

      James Whitcomb Riley

      2. A Defective Santa Claus

      John Bowring

      3. Watchman, Tell Us of the Night

      John Greenleaf Whittier

      4. A Christmas Carmen

      John Greenleaf Whittier

      5. The Mystic's Christmas

      L. Frank Baum

      6. Little Bun Rabbit

      Leo Tolstoy

      7. A Russian Christmas Party

      Leo Tolstoy

      8. Papa Panov's Special Christmas

      Letitia Elizabeth Landon

      9. Christmas

      Lewis Carroll

      10. Christmas Greetings from a Fairy to a Child

      Lope de Vega

      11. A Christmas Cradlesong

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      12. A Stolen Christmas

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      13. Christmas Jenny

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      14. Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      15. Josiah's First Christmas

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      16. The Brownie's Xmas

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      17. The Christmas Ball

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      18. The Christmas Ghost

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      19. The Christmas Masquerade

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      20. The Gospel According to Joan

      Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

      21. The Snowflake Tree

      Mary Louisa Molesworth

      22. Not Quite True

      Mary Louisa Molesworth

      23. The Christmas Princess

      Francis Pharcellus Church

      24. Is There a Santa Claus?

      Montague Rhodes James

      25. The Story of a Disappearance and an Appearance

      Mother Goose

      26. Little Jack Horner

      Mrs. W. H. Corning

      27. A Western Christmas

      Nahum Tate

      28. Christmas

      Olive Thorne Miller

      29. The Telltale Tile

      O.Henry

      30. An Unfinished Christmas Story

      Richmal Crompton

      31. The Christmas Present

      Richmal Crompton

      32. William's New Year's Day

      Robert Browning

      33. Christmas Eve

      Robert Burns

      34. Auld Lang Syne

      Saki

      35. Bertie's Christmas Eve

      Saki

      36. Reginald on Christmas Presents

      Saki

      37. Reginald's Christmas Revel

      Sara Teasdale

      38. Christmas Carol

      Stephen Leacock

      39. A Christmas Letter

      Stephen Leacock

      40. Merry Christmas

      Stephen Leacock

      41. The Errors of Santa Claus

      Thomas Chatterton

      42. A Hymn for Christmas Day

      Thomas Hardy

      43. The Oxen

      Thomas Nelson Page

      44. How the Captain Made Christmas

      Viktor Rydberg

      45. Robin Goodfellow

      William Makepeace Thackeray

      46. Dr. Birch and His Young Friends

      William Makepeace Thackeray

      47. Mrs Perkins’s Ball

      William Makepeace Thackeray

      48. Our Street

      William Makepeace Thackeray

      49. The Kickleburys on the Rhine

      William Makepeace Thackeray

      50. The Rose and the Ring

      1. First New England Christmas

      Hezekiah Butterworth

      First New England Christmas

      They thought they had come to their port that day,

      But not yet was their journey done;

      And they drifted away from Provincetown Bay

      In the fireless light of the sun.

      With rain and sleet were the tall masts iced,

      And gloomy and chill was the air,

      But they looked from the crystal sails to Christ,

      And they came to a harbor fair.

      The white hills silent lay,—

      For there were no ancient bells to ring,

      No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,

      No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,

      That gray, cold winter day.

      The snow came down on the vacant seas,

      And white on the lone rocks lay,—

      But rang the axe 'mong the evergreen trees

      And followed the Sabbath day.

      Then rose the sun in a crimson haze,

      And the workmen said at dawn:

      "Shall our axes swing on this day of days,

      When the Lord of Life was born?"

      The white hills silent lay,—

      For there were no ancient bells to ring,

      No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,

      No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,

      That gray, cold Christmas Day.

      "The old town's bells we seem to hear:

      They are ringing sweet on the Dee;

      They are ringing sweet on the Harlem Meer,

      And sweet on the Zuyder Zee.

      The pines are frosted with snow and sleet.

      Shall we our axes wield

      When the chimes at Lincoln are ringing sweet

      And the bells of Austerfield?"

      The air was cold and gray,—

      And there were no ancient bells to ring,

      No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,

      No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,

      That gray, cold Christmas Day.

      Then the master said, "Your axes wield,

      Remember ye Malabarre Bay;

      And the covenant there with the Lord ye sealed;

      Let your axes ring to-day.

      You may talk of the old town's bells to-night,

      When your work for the Lord is done,

      And your boats return, and the shallop's light

      Shall follow the light of the sun.

      The sky is cold and gray,—

      And here are no ancient bells to ring,

      No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,

      No chapel of baron, or lord, or king.

      This gray, cold Christmas Day.

      "If Christ was born on Christmas Day,

      And the day by Him is blest,

      Then low at His feet the evergreens lay

      And cradle His church in the West.

      Immanuel waits at the temple gates

      Of the nation to-day ye found,

      And the Lord delights in no formal rites;

      To-day let your axes sound!"

      The sky was cold and gray,—

      And there were no ancient bells to ring,

      No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,

      No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,

      That gray, cold Christmas Day.

      Their axes rang through the evergreen trees

      Like the bells on the Thames and Tay;

      And they cheerily sang by the windy seas,

      And they thought of Malabarre Bay.

      On the lonely heights of Burial Hill

      The old Precisioners sleep;

      But did ever men with a nobler will

      A holier Christmas keep,

      When the sky was cold and gray,—

      And there were no ancient bells to ring,

      No priests to chant, no choirs to sing,

      No chapel of baron, or lord, or king,

      That gray, cold Christmas Day?

      2. A Defective Santa Claus

      James Whitcomb Riley

      Part 1

      Allus when our Pa he's away

      Nen Uncle Sidney comes to stay

      At our house here--so Ma an' me

      An' Etty an' Lee-Bob won't be

      Afeard ef anything at night

      Might happen--like Ma says it might.

      (Ef Trip wuz big, I bet you he

      'Uz best watch-dog you ever see!)

      An' so last winter--ist before

      It's go' be Chris'mus-Day,--w'y, shore

      Enough, Pa had to haf to go

      To 'tend a lawsuit--"An' the snow

      Ist right fer Santy Claus!" Pa said,

      As he clumb in old Ayersuz' sled,

      An' said he's sorry he can't be

      With us that night--'Cause, he-says-ee,

      "Old Santy might be comin' here--

      This very night of all the year

      I' got to be away!--so all

      You kids must tell him--ef he call--

      He's mighty welcome, an' yer Pa

      He left his love with you an' Ma

      An' Uncle Sid!" An' clucked, an' leant

      Back, laughin'--an' away they went!

      An' Uncle wave' his hands an' yells

      Yer old horse ort to have on bells!

      But Pa yell back an' laugh an' say

      "I 'spect when Santy come this way

      It's time enough fer sleighbells nen!"

      An' holler back Good-by! again,

      An' reach out with the driver's whip

      An' cut behind an' drive back Trip.

      An' so all day it snowed an' snowed!

      An' Lee-Bob he ist watched the road,

      In his high-chair; an' Etty she

      U'd play with Uncle Sid an' me--

      Like she wuz he'ppin' fetch in wood

      An' keepin' old fire goin' good,

      Where Ma she wuz a-cookin' there

      An' kitchen, too, an' ever'where!

      An' Uncle say, "'At's ist the way

      Yer Ma's b'en workin', night an' day,

      Sence she hain't big as Etty is

      Er Lee-Bob in that chair o' his!"

      Nen Ma she'd laugh 't what Uncle said,

      An' smack an' smoove his old bald head

      An' say "Clear out the way till I

      Can keep that pot from b'ilin' dry!"

      Nen Uncle, when she's gone back to

      The kitchen, says, "We ust to do

      Some cookin' in the ashes.--Say,

      S'posin' we try some, thataway!"

      An' nen he send us to tell Ma

      Send two big 'taters in he saw

      Pa's b'en a-keepin' 'cause they got

      The premiun at the Fair. An' what

      You think?--He rake a grea'-big hole

      In the hot ashes, an' he roll

      Them old big 'taters in the place

      An' rake the coals back--an' his face

      Ist swettin' so's he purt'-nigh swear

      'Cause it's so hot! An' when they're there

      'Bout time 'at we fergit 'em, he

      Ist rake 'em out again--an' gee!--

      He bu'st 'em with his fist wite on

      A' old stove-led, while Etty's gone

      To git the salt, an' butter, too—

      Ist like he said she haf to do,

      No matter what Ma say! An' so

      He salt an' butter 'em, an' blow

      'Em cool enough fer us to eat—

      An' me-o-my! they're hard to beat!

      An' Trip 'ud ist lay there an' pant

      Like he'd laugh out loud, but he can't.

      Nen Uncle fill his pipe—an' we

      'Ud he'p him light it—Sis an' me,—

      But mostly little Lee-Bob, 'cause

      He's the best Lighter ever wuz!

      Like Uncle telled him wunst when Lee-

      Bob cried an' jerked the light from me,

      He wuz so mad! So Uncle pat

      An' pet him. (Lee-Bob's ust to that—

      'Cause he's the little-est, you know,

      An' allus has b'en humored so!)

      Nen Uncle gits the flat-arn out,

      An', while he's tellin' us all 'bout

      Old Chris'mus-times when he's a kid,

      He ist cracked hickernuts, he did,

      Till they's a crockful, mighty nigh!

      An' when they're all done by an' by,

      He raked the red coals out again

      An' telled me, "Fetch that popcorn in,

      An' old three-leggud skillut—an'

      The led an' all now, little man,—

      An' yer old Uncle here 'ull show

      You how corn's popped, long years ago

      When me an' Santy Claus wuz boys

      On Pap's old place in Illinoise!—

      An' your Pa, too, wuz chums, all through,

      With Santy!—Wisht Pa'd be here, too!"

      Nen Uncle sigh at Ma, an' she

      Pat him again, an' say to me

      An' Etty,—"You take warning fair!—

      Don't talk too much, like Uncle there,

      Ner don't fergit, like him, my dears,

      That 'little pitchers has big ears!'"

      But Uncle say to her, "Clear out!—

      Yer brother knows what he's about.—

      You git your Chris'mus-cookin' done

      Er these pore childern won't have none! »

      Nen Trip wake up an' raise, an' nen

      Turn roun' an' nen lay down again.

      An' one time Uncle Sidney say,—

      "When dogs is sleepin' thataway,

      Like Trip, an' whimpers, it's a sign

      He'll ketch eight rabbits—mayby nine—

      Afore his fleas'll wake him—nen

      He'll bite hisse'f to sleep again

      An try to dream he's go' ketch ten."

      An' when Ma's gone again back in

      The kitchen, Uncle scratch his chin

      An' say, "When Santy Claus an' Pa

      An' me wuz little boys—an' Ma,

      When she's 'bout big as Etty there;—

      W'y,—'When we're growed—no matter where,'

      Santy he cross' his heart an' say,—

      'I'll come to see you, all, some day

      When you' got childerns—all but me

      An' pore old Sid!'" Nen Uncle he

      Ist kindo' shade his eyes an' pour'

      'Bout forty-'leven bushels more

      O' popcorn out the skillut there

      In Ma's new basket on the chair.

      An' nen he telled us—an' talk' low,

      So Ma can't hear, he say:—"You know

      Yer Pa know', when he drived away,

      Tomorry's go' be Chris'mus-Day;—

      Well, nen tonight, he whisper, see?—

      It's go' be Chris'mus-Eve," says-ee,

      "An', like yer Pa hint, when he went,

      Old Santy Claus (now hush!) he's sent

      Yer Pa a postul-card, an' write

      He's shorely go' be here tonight....

      That's why yer Pa's so bored to be

      Away tonight, when Santy he

      Is go' be here, sleighbells an' all,

      To make you kids a Chris'mus-call!"

      An' we're so glad to know fer shore

      He's comin', I roll on the floor—

      An' here come Trip a-waller'n' roun'

      An' purt'-nigh knock the clo'eshorse down!—

      An' Etty grab Lee-Bob an' prance

      All roun' the room like it's a dance—

      Till Ma she come an' march us nen

      To dinner, where we're still again,

      But tickled so we ist can't eat

      But pie, an' ist the hot mincemeat

      With raisins in.—But Uncle et,

      An' Ma. An' there they set an' set

      Till purt'-nigh supper-time; nen we

      Tell him he's got to fix the Tree

      'Fore Santy gits here, like he said.

      We go nen to the old woodshed—

      All bundled up, through the deep snow—

      An' snowin' yet, jee-rooshy-O!

      Uncle he said, an' he'p us wade

      Back where's the Chris'mus-Tree he's made

      Out of a little jackoak-top

      He git down at the sawmill-shop—

      An' Trip 'ud run ahead, you know,

      An' 'tend-like he 'uz eatin' snow—

      When we all waddle back with it;

      An' Uncle set it up—an' git

      It wite in front the fireplace—'cause

      He says "'Tain't so 'at Santy Claus

      Comes down all chimblies,—least, tonight

      He's comin' in this house all right—

      By the front-door, as ort to be!—

      We'll all be hid where we can see!"

      Nen he look up, an' he see Ma

      An' say, "It's ist too bad their Pa

      Can't be here, so's to see the fun

      The childern will have, ever' one!"

      Part 2

      Well, we!—We hardly couldn't wait Till it wuz dusk, an' dark an' late Enough to light the lamp!—An' Lee- Bob light a candle on the Tree— Ist one—'cause I'm 'The Lighter'!—Nen He clumb on Uncle's knee again An' hug us bofe;—an' Etty git Her little chist an' set on it Wite clos't, while Uncle telled some more 'Bout Santy Claus, an' clo'es he wore

      All maked o' furs, an' trimmed as white As cotton is, er snow at night! An' nen, all sudden-like, he say,— Hush! Listen there! Hain't that a sleigh An' sleighbells jinglin'? Trip go whooh! Like he hear bells an' smell 'em, too. Nen we all listen.... An'-sir, shore Enough, we hear bells—more an' more A-jinglin' clos'ter—clos'ter still Down the old crook-road roun' the hill.

      An' Uncle he jumps up, an' all The chairs he jerks back by the wall An' th'ows a' overcoat an' pair O' winder-curtains over there An' says, Hide quick, er you're too late!— Them bells is stoppin' at the gate!— Git back o' them-'air chairs an' hide, 'Cause I hear Santy's voice outside!

      Bang! bang! bang! we heerd the door— Nen it flewed open, an' the floor Blowed full o' snow—that's first we saw, Till little Lee-Bob shriek' at Ma

      There's Santy Claus!—I know him by His big white mufftash!—an' ist cry An' laugh an' squeal an' dance an' yell— Till, when he quiet down a spell,

      Old Santy bow an' th'ow a kiss To him—an' one to me an' Sis— An' nen go clos't to Ma an' stoop An' kiss her—An' nen give a whoop That fainted her!—'Cause when he bent An' kiss her, he ist backed an' went Wite 'ginst the Chris'mus-Tree ist where The candle's at Lee-Bob lit there!— An' set his white-fur belt afire— An' blaze streaked roun' his waist an' higher Wite up his old white beard an' th'oat!—

      Nen Uncle grabs th' old overcoat An' flops it over Santy's head, An' swing the door wide back an' said, Come out, old man!—an' quick about It!—I've ist got to put you out! An' out he sprawled him in the snow— Now roll! he says—Hi-roll-ee-O!— An' Santy, sputter'n' Ouch! Gee-whiz! Ist roll an' roll fer all they is! An' Trip he's out there, too,—I know, 'Cause I could hear him yappin' so— An' I heerd Santy, wunst er twic't, Say, as he's rollin', Drat the fice't! Nen Uncle come back in, an' shake Ma up, an' say, Fer mercy-sake!— He hain't hurt none! An' nen he said,— You youngsters h'ist up-stairs to bed!— Here! kiss yer Ma 'Good-night,' an' me,— We'll he'p old Santy fix the Tree— An' all yer whistles, horns an' drums I'll he'p you toot when morning comes!

      It's long while 'fore we go to sleep,— 'Cause down-stairs, all-time somepin' keep A-kindo' scufflin' roun' the floors— An' openin' doors, an' shettin' doors— An' could hear Trip a-whinin', too, Like he don't know ist what to do—

      An' tongs a-clankin' down k'thump!— Nen some one squonkin' the old pump— An' Wooh! how cold it soun' out there! I could ist see the pump-spout where t's got ice chin-whiskers all wet An' drippy—An' I see it yet!

      An' nen, seem-like, I hear some mens A-talkin' out there by the fence, An' one says, Oh, 'bout twelve o'clock! Nen, 'nother'n says, Here's to you, Doc!— God bless us ever' one! An' nen I heerd the old pump squonk again. An' nen I say my prayer all through Like Uncle Sidney learn' me to,— O Father mine, e'en as Thine own, This child looks up to Thee alone: Asleep or waking, give him still His Elder Brother's wish and will. An' that's the last I know.... Till Ma She's callin' us—an' so is Pa,—

      He holler Chris'mus-gif'! an' say,— I'm got back home fer Chris'mus-Day!— An' Uncle Sid's here, too—an' he Is nibblin' 'roun' yer Chris'mus-Tree!

      Nen Uncle holler, I suppose Yer Pa's so proud he's froze his nose He wants to turn it up at us, 'Cause Santy kick' up such a fuss— Tetchin' hisse'f off same as ef He wuz his own fireworks hisse'f! An' when we're down-stairs,—shore enough, Pa's nose is froze an' salve an' stuff All on it—an' one hand's froze, too, An' got a old yarn red-and-blue Mitt on it—"An' he's froze some more Acrost his chist, an' kindo' sore

      All roun' his dy-fram, Uncle say.— But Pa he'd ort a-seen the way Santy bear up last night when that- Air fire break out, an' quicker'n scat He's all a-blazin', an' them-'air Gun-cotton whiskers that he wear Ist flashin'!—till I burn a hole In the snow with him, and he roll The front-yard dry as Chris'mus jokes Old parents plays on little folks! But, long's a smell o' tow er wool, I kep' him rollin' beautiful!—

      Till I wuz shore I shorely see He's squenched! W'y, hadn't b'en fer me, That old man might a-burnt clear down Clean—plum'—level with the groun'! Nen Ma say, There, Sid; that'll do!— Breakfast is ready—Chris'mus, too.— Your voice 'ud soun' best, sayin' Grace— Say it. An' Uncle bow' his face An' say so long a Blessing nen, Trip bark' two times 'fore it's A-men!"

      3. Watchman, Tell Us of the Night

      John Bowring

      Watchman, Tell Us of the Night

      Watchman, tell us of the night,

      What its signs of promise are.

      Traveler, o'er yon mountain's height,

      See that glory beaming star.

      Watchman, does its beauteous ray

      Aught of joy or hope foretell?

      Traveler, yes – it brings the day,

      Promised day of Israel.

      Watchman, tell us of the night;

      Higher yet that star ascends.

      Traveler, blessedness and light,

      Peace and truth its course portends.

      Watchman, will its beams alone

      Gild the spot that gave them birth?

      Traveler, ages are its own;

      See, it bursts o'er all the earth.

      Watchman, tell us of the night,

      For the morning seems to dawn.

      Traveler, darkness takes its flight,

      Doubt and terror are withdrawn.

      Watchman, let thy wanderings cease;

      Hie thee to thy quiet home.

      Traveler, lo! the Prince of Peace,

      Lo! the Son of God is come!

      4. A Christmas Carmen

      John Greenleaf Whittier

      A Christmas Carmen

      I

      Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands,

      The chorus of voices, the clasping of hands;

      Sing hymns that were sung by the stars of the morn,

      Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was born!

      With glad jubilations

      Bring hope to the nations!

      The dark night is ending and dawn has begun:

      Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,

      All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

      II

      Sing the bridal of nations! with chorals of love

      Sing out the war-vulture and sing in the dove,

      Till the hearts of the peoples keep time in accord,

      And the voice of the world is the voice of the Lord!

      Clasp hands of the nations

      In strong gratulations:

      The dark night is ending and dawn has begun;

      Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,

      All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

      III

      Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace;

      East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease

      Sing the song of great joy that the angels began,

      Sing of glory to God and of good-will to man!

      Hark! joining in chorus

      The heavens bend o'er us!

      The dark night is ending and dawn has begun;

      Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,

      All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!

      5. The Mystic's Christmas

      John Greenleaf Whittier

      The Mystic's Christmas

      All hail! the bells of Christmas rang,

      All hail! the monks at Christmas sang,

      The merry monks who kept with cheer

      The gladdest day of all their year.

      But still apart, unmoved thereat,

      A pious elder brother sat

      Silent, in his accustomed place,

      With God's sweet peace upon his face.

      Why sitt'st thou thus? his brethren cried.

      "It is the blessed Christmas-tide;

      The Christmas lights are all aglow,

      The sacred lilies bud and blow.

      "Above our heads the joy-bells ring,

      Without the happy children sing,

      And all God's creatures hail the morn

      On which the holy Christ was born!

      "Rejoice with us; no more rebuke

      Our gladness with thy quiet look."

      The gray monk answered: "Keep, I pray,

      Even as ye list, the Lord's birthday.

      "Let heathen Yule fires flicker red

      Where thronged refectory feasts are spread;

      With mystery-play and masque and mime

      And wait-songs speed the holy time!

      "The blindest faith may haply save;

      The Lord accepts the things we have;

      And reverence, howsoe'er it strays,

      May find at last the shining ways.

      "They needs must grope who cannot see,

      The blade before the ear must be;

      As ye are feeling I have felt,

      And where ye dwell I too have dwelt.

      "But now, beyond the things of sense,

      Beyond occasions and events,

      I know, through God's exceeding grace,

      Release from form and time and place.

      "I listen, from no mortal tongue,

      To hear the song the angels sung;

      And wait within myself to know

      The Christmas lilies bud and blow.

      "The outward symbols disappear

      From him whose inward sight is clear;

      And small must be the choice of clays

      To him who fills them all with praise!

      "Keep while you need it, brothers mine,

      With honest zeal your Christmas sign,

      But judge not him who every morn

      Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born!"

      6. Little Bun Rabbit

      L. Frank Baum

      Little Bun Rabbit

      "Oh, Little Bun Rabbit, so soft and so shy,

      Say, what do you see with your big, round eye?"

      On Christmas we rabbits, says Bunny so shy,

      Keep watch to see Santa go galloping by.

      Little Dorothy had passed all the few years of her life in the country, and being the only child upon the farm she was allowed to roam about the meadows and woods as she pleased. On the bright summer mornings Dorothy's mother would tie a sun-bonnet under the girl's chin, and then she romped away to the fields to amuse herself in her own way.

      She came to know every flower that grew, and to call them by name, and she always stepped very carefully to avoid treading on them, for Dorothy was a kind-hearted child and did not like to crush the pretty flowers that bloomed in her path. And she was also very fond of all the animals, and learned to know them well, and even to understand their language, which very few people can do. And the animals loved Dorothy in turn, for the word passed around amongst them that she could be trusted to do them no harm. For the horse, whose soft nose Dorothy often gently stroked, told the cow of her kindness, and the cow told the dog, and the dog told the cat, and the cat told her black kitten, and the black kitten told the rabbit when one day they met in the turnip patch.

      Therefore when the rabbit, which is the most timid of all animals and the most difficult to get acquainted with, looked out of a small bush at the edge of the wood one day and saw Dorothy standing a little way off, he did not scamper away, as is his custom, but sat very still and met the gaze of her sweet eyes boldly, although perhaps his heart beat a little faster than usual.

      Dorothy herself was afraid she might frighten him away, so she kept very quiet for a time, leaning silently against a tree and smiling encouragement at her timorous companion until the rabbit became reassured and blinked his big eyes at her thoughtfully. For he was as much interested in the little girl as she in him, since it was the first time he had dared to meet a person face to face.

      Finally Dorothy ventured to speak, so she asked, very softly and slowly,

      "Oh, Little Bun Rabbit, so soft and so shy,

      Say, what do you see with your big, round eye?"

      Many things, answered the rabbit, who was pleased to hear the girl speak in his own language; in summer-time I see the clover-leaves that I love to feed upon and the cabbages at the end of the farmer's garden. I see the cool bushes where I can hide from my enemies, and I see the dogs and the men long before they can see me, or know that I am near, and therefore I am able to keep out of their way.

      Is that the reason your eyes are so big? asked Dorothy.

      I suppose so, returned the rabbit; you see we have only our eyes and our ears and our legs to defend ourselves with. We cannot fight, but we can always run away, and that is a much better way to save our lives than by fighting.

      Where is your home, bunny? enquired the girl.

      I live in the ground, far down in a cool, pleasant hole I have dug in the midst of the forest. At the bottom of the hole is the nicest little room you can imagine, and there I have made a soft bed to rest in at night. When I meet an enemy I run to my hole and jump in, and there I stay until all danger is over.

      You have told me what you see in summer, continued Dorothy, who was greatly interested in the rabbit's account of himself, but what do you see in the winter?

      In winter we rabbits, said Bunny so shy, Keep watch to see Santa go galloping by.

      And do you ever see him? asked the girl, eagerly.

      Oh, yes; every winter. I am not afraid of him, nor of his reindeer. And it is such fun to see him come dashing along, cracking his whip and calling out cheerily to his reindeer, who are able to run even swifter than we rabbits. And Santa Claus, when he sees me, always gives me a nod and a smile, and then I look after him and his big load of toys which he is carrying to the children, until he has galloped away out of sight. I like to see the toys, for they are so bright and pretty, and every year there is something new amongst them. Once I visited Santa, and saw him make the toys.

      Oh, tell me about it! pleaded Dorothy.

      It was one morning after Christmas, said the rabbit, who seemed to enjoy talking, now that he had overcome his fear of Dorothy, "and I was sitting by the road-side when Santa Claus came riding back in his empty sleigh. He does not come home quite so fast as he goes, and when he saw me he stopped for a word.

      "'You look very pretty this morning, Bun Rabbit,' he said, in his jolly way; 'I think the babies would love to have you to play with.'

      "'I do n't doubt it, your honor,' I answered; 'but they 'd soon kill me with handling, even if they did not scare me to death; for babies are very rough with their playthings.'

      'That is true,' replied Santa Claus; 'and yet you are so soft and pretty it is a pity the babies can't have you. Still, as they would abuse a live rabbit I think I shall make them some toy rabbits, which they cannot hurt; so if you will jump into my sleigh with me and ride home to my castle for a few days, I 'll see if I can't make some toy rabbits just like you.

      "Of course I consented, for we all like to please old Santa, and a minute later I had jumped into the sleigh beside him and we were dashing away at full speed toward his castle. I enjoyed the ride very much, but I enjoyed the castle far more; for it was one of the loveliest places you could imagine. It stood on the top of a high mountain and is built of gold and silver bricks, and the windows are pure diamond crystals. The rooms are big and high, and there is a soft carpet upon every floor and many strange things scattered around to amuse one. Santa Claus lives there all alone, except for old Mother Hubbard, who cooks the meals for him; and her cupboard is never bare now, I can promise you! At the top of the castle there is one big room, and that is Santa's work-shop, where he makes the toys. On one side is his work-bench, with plenty of saws and hammers and jack-knives; and on another side is the paint-bench, with paints of every color and brushes of every size and shape. And in other places are great shelves, where the toys are put to dry and keep new and bright until Christmas comes and it is time to load them all into his sleigh.

      "After Mother Hubbard had given me a good dinner, and I had eaten some of the most delicious clover I have ever tasted, Santa took me up into his work-room and sat me upon the table.

      "'If I can only make rabbits half as nice as you are,' he said, 'the little ones will be delighted.' Then he lit a big pipe and began to smoke, and soon he took a roll of soft fur from a shelf in a corner and commenced to cut it out in the shape of a rabbit. He smoked and whistled all the time he was working, and he talked to me in such a jolly way that I sat perfectly still and allowed him to measure my ears and my legs so that he could cut the fur into the proper form.

      "'Why, I 've got your nose too long, Bunny,' he said once; and so he snipped a little off the fur he was cutting, so that the toy rabbit's nose should be like mine. And again he said, 'Good gracious! the ears are too short entirely!' So he had to get a needle and thread and sew on more fur to the ears, so that they might be the right size. But after a time it was all finished, and then he stuffed the fur full of sawdust and sewed it up neatly; after which he put in some glass eyes that made the toy rabbit look wonderfully life-like. When it was all done he put it on the table beside me, and at first I did n't know whether I was the live rabbit or the toy rabbit, we were so much alike.

      "'It 's a very good job,' said Santa, nodding his head at us pleasantly; 'and I shall have to make a lot of these rabbits, for the little children are sure to be greatly pleased with them.'

      "So he immediately began to make another, and this time he cut the fur just the right size, so that it was even better than the first rabbit.

      "'I must put a squeak in it,' said Santa.

      "So he took a box of squeaks from a shelf and put one into the rabbit before he sewed it up. When it was all finished he pressed the toy rabbit with his thumb, and it squeaked so naturally that I jumped off the table, fearing at first the new rabbit was alive. Old Santa laughed merrily at this, and I soon recovered from my fright and was pleased to think the babies were to have such pretty playthings.

      'After this,' said Santa Claus, 'I can make rabbits without having you for a pattern; but if you like you may stay a few days longer in my castle and amuse yourself.

      "I thanked him and decided to stay. So for several days I watched him making all kinds of toys, and I wondered to see how quickly he made them, and how many new things he invented.

      "'I almost wish I was a child,' I said to him one day, 'for then I too could have playthings.'

      'Ah, you can run about all day, in summer and in winter, and enjoy yourself in your own way,' said Santa; 'but the poor little children are obliged to stay in the house in the winter and on rainy days in the summer, and then they must have toys to amuse them and keep them contented.

      "I knew this was true, so I only said, admiringly, 'You must be the quickest and the best workman in all the world, Santa.'

      "'I suppose I am,' he answered; 'but then, you see, I have been making toys for hundreds of years, and I make so many it is no wonder I am skillful. And now, if you are ready to go home, I 'll hitch up the reindeer and take you back again.'

      "'Oh, no,' said I, 'I prefer to run by myself, for I can easily find the way and I want to see the country.'

      "'If that is the case,' replied Santa, 'I must give you a magic collar to wear, so that you will come to no harm.'

      So, after Mother Hubbard had given me a good meal of turnips and sliced cabbage, Santa Claus put the magic collar around my neck and I started for home. I took my time on the journey, for I knew nothing could harm me, and I saw a good many strange sights before I got back to this place again.

      But what became of the magic collar? asked Dorothy, who had listened with breathless interest to the rabbit's story.

      After I got home, replied the rabbit, "the collar disappeared from around my neck, and I knew Santa had called it back to himself again. He did not give it to me, you see; he merely let me take it on my journey to protect me. The next Christmas, when I watched by the road-side to see Santa, I was pleased to notice a great many of the toy rabbits sticking out of the loaded sleigh. The babies must have liked them, too, for every year since I have seen them amongst the toys.

      "Santa never forgets me, and every time he passes he calls out, in his jolly voice,

      'A merry Christmas to you, Bun Rabbit! The babies still love you dearly.'

      The Rabbit paused, and Dorothy was just about to ask another question when Bunny raised his head and seemed to hear something coming.

      What is it? enquired the girl.

      It 's the farmer's big shepherd dog, answered the Rabbit, and I must be going before he sees me, or I shall shall [both shalls in original] have to run for my life. So good bye, Dorothy; I hope we shall meet again, and then I will gladly tell you more of my adventures.

      The next instant he had sprung into the wood, and all that Dorothy could see of him was a gray streak darting in and out amongst the trees.

      7. A Russian Christmas Party

      Leo Tolstoy

      A Russian Christmas Party

      Count Rostow's affairs were going from bad to worse. He was of a warm, generous nature, with unlimited faith in his servants, and hence was blind to the mismanagement and dishonesty which had sapped his fortune. The possessor of a handsome establishment at the Russian capital, Moscow, the owner of rich provincial estates, and the inheritor of a noble name and wealth, he was nevertheless on the verge of ruin. He had given up his appointment as _Marechal de la Noblesse_, which he had gone to his seat of Otradnoe to assume, because it entailed too many expenses; and yet there was no improvement in the state of his finances.

      Nicolas and Natacha, his son and daughter, often found their father and mother in anxious consultation, talking in low tones of the sale of their Moscow house or of their property in the neighborhood. Having thus retired into private life, the count now gave neither fetes nor entertainments. Life at Otradnoe was much less gay than in past years; still, the house and domain were as full of servants as ever, and twenty persons or more sat down to dinner daily. These were dependants, friends, and intimates, who were regarded almost as part of the family, or at any rate seemed unable to tear themselves away from it: among them a musician named Dimmler and his wife, Loghel the dancing-master and his family, and old Mlle. Below, former governess of Natacha and Sonia, the count's niece and adopted child, and now the tutor of Petia, his younger son; besides others who found it simpler to live at the count's expense than at their own. Thus, though there were no more festivities, life was carried on almost as expensively as of old, and neither the master nor the mistress ever imagined any change possible. Nicolas, again, had added to the hunting establishment; there were still fifty horses in the stables, still fifteen drivers; handsome presents were given on all birthdays and fete days, which invariably wound up as of old with a grand dinner to all the neighborhood; the count still played whist or boston, invariably letting his cards be seen by his friends, who were always ready to make up his table, and relieve him without hesitation of the few hundred roubles which constituted their principal income. The old man marched on blindfold through the tangle of his pecuniary difficulties, trying to conceal them, and only succeeding in augmenting them; having neither the courage nor the patience to untie the knots one by one.

      The loving heart by his side foresaw their children's ruin, but she could not accuse her husband, who was, alas! too old for amendment; she could only seek some remedy for the disaster. From her woman's point of view there was but one: Nicolas's marriage, namely, with some rich heiress. She clung desperately to this last chance of salvation; but if her son should refuse the wife she should propose to him, every hope of reinstating their fortune would vanish. The young lady whom she had in view was the daughter of people of the highest respectability, whom the Rostows had known from her infancy: Julie Karaguine, who, by the death of her second brother, had suddenly come into great wealth.

      The countess herself wrote to Mme. Karaguine to ask her whether she could regard the match with favor, and received a most flattering answer. Indeed, Mme. Karaguine invited Nicolas to her house at Moscow, to give her daughter an opportunity of deciding for herself.

      Nicolas had often heard his mother say, with tears in her eyes, that her dearest wish was to see him married. The fulfilment of this wish would sweeten her remaining days, she would say, adding covert hints as to a charming girl who would exactly suit him. One day she took the opportunity of speaking plainly to him of Julie's charms and merits, and urged him to spend a short time in Moscow before Christmas. Nicolas, who had no difficulty in guessing what she was aiming at, persuaded her to be explicit on the matter, and she owned frankly that her hope was to see their sinking fortunes restored by his marriage with her dear Julie!

      Then, mother, if I loved a penniless girl, you would desire me to sacrifice my feelings and my honor--to marry solely for money?

      Nay, nay; you have misunderstood me, she said, not knowing how to excuse her mercenary hopes. I wish only for your happiness! And then, conscious that this was not her sole aim, and that she was not perfectly honest, she burst into tears.

      Do not cry, mamma; you have only to say that you really and truly desire it, and you know I would give my life to see you happy; that I would sacrifice everything, even my feelings.

      But this was not his mother's notion. She asked no sacrifice, she would have none; she would sooner have sacrificed herself, if it had been possible.

      Say no more about it; you do not understand, she said, drying away her tears.

      How could she think of such a marriage? thought Nicolas. Does she think that because Sonia is poor I do not love her? And yet I should be a thousand times happier with her than with a doll like Julie.

      He stayed in the country, and his mother did not revert to the subject. Still, as she saw the growing intimacy between Nicolas and Sonia, she could not help worrying Sonia about every little thing, and speaking to her with colder formality. Sometimes she reproached herself for these continual pin-pricks of annoyance, and was quite vexed with the poor girl for submitting to them with such wonderful humility and sweetness, for taking every opportunity of showing her devoted gratitude, and for loving Nicolas with a faithful and disinterested affection which commanded her admiration.

      Just about this time a letter came from Prince Andre, dated from Rome, whither he had gone to pass the year of probation demanded by his father as a condition to giving consent to his son's marriage with the Countess Natacha. It was the fourth the Prince had written since his departure. He ought long since to have been on his way home, he said, but the heat of the summer had caused the wound he had received at Austerlitz to reopen, and this compelled him to postpone his return till early in January.

      Natacha, though she was so much in love that her very passion for Prince Andre had made her day-dreams happy, had hitherto been open to all the bright influences of her young life; but now, after nearly four months of parting, she fell into a state of extreme melancholy, and gave way to it completely. She bewailed her hard fate, she bewailed the time that was slipping away and lost to her, while her heart ached with the dull craving to love and be loved. Nicolas, too, had nearly spent his leave from his regiment, and the anticipation of his departure added gloom to the saddened household.

      Christmas came; but, excepting the pompous high Mass and the other religious ceremonies, the endless string of neighbors and servants with the regular compliments of the season, and the new gowns which made their first appearance on the occasion, nothing more than usual happened on that day, or more extraordinary than twenty degrees of frost, with brilliant sunshine, a still atmosphere, and at night a glorious starry sky.

      After dinner, on the third day of Christmas-tide, when every one had settled into his own corner once more, ennui reigned supreme throughout the house. Nicolas, who had been paying a round of visits in the neighborhood, was fast asleep in the drawing-room. The old count had followed his example in his room. Sonia, seated at a table in the sitting-room, was copying a drawing. The countess was playing out a patience, and Nastacia Ivanovna, the old buffoon, with his peevish face, sitting in a window with two old women, did not say a word.

      Natacha came into the room, and, after leaning over Sonia for a minute or two to examine her work, went over to her mother and stood still in front of her.

      The countess looked up. Why are you wandering about like a soul in torment? What do you want? she said.

      Want! I want him! replied Natacha, shortly, and her eyes glowed. Now, here--at once!

      Her mother gazed at her anxiously.

      Do not look at me like that; you will make me cry.

      Sit down here.

      Mamma, I want him, I want him! Why must I die of weariness? Her voice broke and tears started from her eyes. She hastily quitted the drawing-room and went to the housekeeper's room, where an old servant was scolding one of the girls who had just come in breathless from out-of-doors.

      There is a time for all things, growled the old woman. You have had time enough for play.

      Oh, leave her in peace, Kondratievna, said Natacha. Run away, Mavroucha--go.

      Pursuing her wandering, Natacha went into the hall; an old man-servant was playing cards with two of the boys. Her entrance stopped their game and they rose. And what am I to say to these? thought she.

      Nikita, would you please go--what on earth can I ask for?--go and find me a cock; and you, Micha, a handful of corn.

      A handful of corn? said Micha, laughing.

      Go, go at once, said the old man.

      And you, Fedor, can you give me a piece of chalk?

      Then she went on to the servants' hall and ordered the samovar to be got ready, though it was not yet tea-time; she wanted to try her power over Foka, the old butler, the most morose and disobliging of all the servants. He could not believe his ears, and asked her if she really meant it. What next will our young lady want? muttered Foka, affecting to be very cross.

      No one gave so many orders as Natacha, no one sent them on so many errands at once. As soon as a servant came in sight she seemed to invent some want or message; she could not help it. It seemed as though she wanted to try her power over them; to see whether, some fine day, one or another would not rebel against her tyranny; but, on the contrary, they always flew to obey her more readily than any one else.

      And now what shall I do, where can I go? thought she, as she slowly went along the corridor, where she presently met the buffoon.

      Nastacia Ivanovna, said she, if I ever have children, what will they be?

      You! Fleas and grasshoppers, you may depend upon it!

      Natacha went on. Good God! have mercy, have mercy! she said to herself. Wherever I go it is always, always the same. I am so weary; what shall I do?

      Skipping lightly from step to step, she went to the upper story and dropped in on the Loghels. Two governesses were sitting chatting with M. and Mme. Loghel; dessert, consisting of dried fruit, was on the table, and they were eagerly discussing the cost of living at Moscow and Odessa. Natacha took a seat for a moment, listened with pensive attention, and then jumped up again. The island of Madagascar! she murmured, Ma-da-gas-car! and she separated the syllables. Then she left the room without answering Mme. Schoss, who was utterly mystified by her strange exclamation.

      She next met Petia and a companion, both very full of some fireworks which were to be let off that evening. Petia! she exclaimed, carry me down-stairs! And she sprang upon his back, throwing her arms round his neck; and, laughing and galloping, they thus scrambled along to the head of the stairs.

      Thank you, that will do. Madagascar! she repeated; and, jumping down, she ran down the flight.

      After thus inspecting her dominions, testing her power, and convincing herself that her subjects were docile, and that there was no novelty to be got out of them, Natacha settled herself in the darkest corner of the music-room with her guitar, striking the bass strings, and trying to make an accompaniment to an air from an opera that she and Prince Andre had once heard together at St. Petersburg. The uncertain chords which her unpractised fingers sketched out would have struck the least experienced ear as wanting in harmony and musical accuracy, while to her excited imagination they brought a whole train of memories. Leaning against the wall and half hidden by a cabinet, with her eyes fixed on a thread of light that came under the door from the rooms beyond, she listened in ecstasy and dreamed of the past.

      Sonia crossed the room with a glass in her hand. Natacha glanced round at her and again fixed her eyes on the streak of light. She had the strange feeling of having once before gone through the same experience--sat in the same place, surrounded by the same details, and watching Sonia pass carrying a tumbler. Yes, it was exactly the same, she thought.

      Sonia, what is this tune? she said, playing a few notes.

      What, are you there? said Sonia, startled. I do not know, she said, coming closer to listen, unless it is from 'La Tempete'; but she spoke doubtfully.

      It was exactly so, thought Natacha. She started as she came forward, smiling so gently; and I thought then, as I think now, that there is something in her which is quite lacking in me. No, she said aloud, you are quite out; it is the chorus from the 'Porteur d'Eau'--listen, and she hummed the air. Where are you going?

      For some fresh water to finish my drawing.

      You are always busy and I never. Where is Nicolas?

      Asleep, I think.

      Go and wake him, Sonia. Tell him to come and sing.

      Sonia went, and Natacha relapsed into dreaming and wondering how it had all happened. Not being able to solve the puzzle, she drifted into reminiscence once more. She could see him--_him_--and feel his impassioned eyes fixed on her face. Oh, make haste back! I am so afraid he will not come yet! Besides, it is all very well, but I am growing old; I shall be quite different from what I am now! Who knows? Perhaps he will come to-day! Perhaps he is here already! Here in the drawing-room. Perhaps he came yesterday and I have forgotten.

      She rose, laid down the guitar, and went into the next room. All the household party were seated round the tea-table,--the professors, the governesses, the guests; the servants were waiting on one and another--but there was no Prince Andre.

      Ah, here she is, said her father. Come and sit down here. But Natacha stopped by her mother without heeding his bidding.

      Oh, mamma, bring him to me, give him to me soon, very soon, she murmured, swallowing down a sob. Then she sat down and listened to the others. Good God! always the same people! always the same thing! Papa holds his cup as he always does, and blows his tea to cool it as he did yesterday, and as he will to-morrow.

      She felt a sort of dull rebellion against them all; she hated them for always being the same.

      After tea Sonia, Natacha, and Nicolas huddled together in their favorite, snug corner of the drawing-room; that was where they talked freely to each other.

      Do you ever feel, Natacha asked her brother, as if there was nothing left to look forward to; as if you had had all your share of happiness, and were not so much weary as utterly dull?

      Of course I have. Very often I have seen my friends and fellow-officers in the highest spirits and been just as jolly myself, and suddenly have been struck so dull and dismal, have so hated life, that I have wondered whether we were not all to die at once. I remember one day, for instance, when I was with the regiment; the band was playing, and I had such a fit of melancholy that I never even thought of going to the promenade.

      How well I understand that! I recollect once, Natacha went on, once when I was a little girl, I was punished for having eaten some plums, I think. I had not done it, and you were all dancing, and I was left alone in the school-room. How I cried! cried because I was so sorry for myself, and so vexed with you all for making me so unhappy.

      I remember; and I went to comfort you and did not know how; we were funny children then; I had a toy with bells that jingled, and I made you a present of it.

      Do you remember, said Natacha, long before that, when we were no bigger than my hand, my uncle called us into his room, where it was quite dark, and suddenly we saw----

      A negro! interrupted Nicolas, smiling at her recollection. To be sure. I can see him now; and to this day I wonder whether it was a dream or a reality, or mere fancy invented afterwards.

      He had white teeth and stared at us with his black eyes.

      Do you remember him, Sonia?

      Yes, yes--but very dimly.

      But papa and mamma have always declared that no negro ever came to the house. And the eggs; do you remember the eggs we used to roll up at Easter; and one day how two little grinning old women came up through the floor and began to spin round the table?

      Of course. And how papa used to put on his fur coat and fire off his gun from the balcony. And don t you remember----? And so they went on recalling, one after the other, not the bitter memories of old age, but the bright pictures of

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1