The First Christmas of New England (Musaicum Christmas Specials). Гарриет Бичер-Стоу

      Harriet Beecher Stowe

      The First Christmas of New England (Musaicum Christmas Specials)

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      2020 OK Publishing

      EAN 4064066385033

      Table of Contents

       Betty's Bright Idea

       The First Christmas Of New England

       Deacon Pitkin's Farm

      Betty's Bright Idea

       (Harriet Beecher Stowe)

       Table of Contents

       Scene I

       Scene II

       Scene III

       Scene IV

       Scene V

       Scene VI

       Some say that ever, 'gainst that season comes

       Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrate,

       The bird of dawning singeth all night long.

       And then, they say, no evil spirit walks;

       The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,

       No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,--

       So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

      And this holy time, so hallowed and so gracious, was settling down over the great roaring, rattling, seething life-world of New York in the good year 1875. Who does not feel its on-coming in the shops and streets, in the festive air of trade and business, in the thousand garnitures by which every store hangs out triumphal banners and solicits you to buy something for a Christmas gift? For it is the peculiarity of all this array of prints, confectionery, dry goods, and manufactures of all kinds, that their bravery and splendor at Christmas tide is all to seduce you into generosity, and importune you to give something to others. It says to you, "The dear God gave you an unspeakable gift; give you a lesser gift to your brother!"

      Do we ever think, when we walk those busy, bustling streets, all alive with Christmas shoppers, and mingle with the rushing tides that throng and jostle through the stores, that unseen spirits may be hastening to and fro along those same ways bearing Christ's Christmas gifts to men-- gifts whose value no earthly gold or gems can represent?

      Yet, on this morning of the day before Christmas, were these Shining Ones, moving to and fro with the crowd, whose faces were loving and serene as the invisible stars, whose robes took no defilement from the spatter and the rush of earth, whose coming and going was still as the falling snow-flakes. They entered houses without ringing door-bells, they passed through apartments without opening doors, and everywhere they were bearing Christ's Christmas presents, and silently offering them to whoever would open their souls to receive. Like themselves, their gifts were invisible--incapable of weight and measurement in gross earthly scales. To mourners they carried joy; to weary and perplexed hearts, peace; to souls stifling in luxury and self-indulgence they carried that noble discontent that rises to aspiration for higher things. Sometimes they took away an earthly treasure to make room for a heavenly one. They took health, but left resignation and cheerful faith. They took the babe from the dear cradle, but left in its place a heart full of pity for the suffering on earth and a fellowship with the blessed in heaven. Let us follow their footsteps awhile.

      Scene I

       Table of Contents

      A young girl's boudoir in one of our American palaces of luxury, built after the choicest fancy of the architect, and furnished in all the latest devices of household decoration. Pictures, statuettes, and every form of _bijouterie_ make the room a miracle of beauty, and the little princess of all sits in an easy chair before the fire, and thus revolves with herself:

      "O, dear me! Christmas is a bore! Such a rush and crush in the streets, such a jam in the shops, and then _such_ a fuss thinking up presents for everybody! All for nothing, too; for nobody Wants anything. I'm sure _I_ don't. I'm surfeited now with pictures and jewelry, and bon-bon boxes, and little china dogs and cats--and all these things that get so thick you can't move without upsetting some of them. There's papa, he don't want anything. He never uses any of my Christmas presents when I get them; and mamma, she has every earthly thing I can think of, and said the other day she did hope nobody'd give her any more worsted work! Then Aunt Maria and Uncle John, they don't want the things I give them; they have more than they know what to do with, now. All the boys say they don't want any more cigar cases or slippers, or smoking caps. Oh, dear!"

      Here the Shining Ones came and stood over the little lady, and looked down on her with faces of pity, which seemed blent with a serene and half-amused indulgence. It was a heavenly amusement, such as that with which mothers listen to the foolish-wise prattle of children just learning to talk.

      As the grave, sweet eyes rested tenderly on her, the girl somehow grew graver, leaned back in her chair, and sighed a little.

      "I wish I knew how to be better!" she said to herself. "I remember last Sunday's text, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' That must mean something! Well, isn't there something, too, in the Bible about not giving to your rich neighbors that can give again, but giving to the poor that cannot recompense you? I don't know any poor people. Papa says there are very few deserving poor people. Well, for the matter of that, there aren't many _deserving rich_ people. I, for example, how much do I _deserve_ to have all these nice things? I'm no better than the poor shop-girls that go trudging by in the cold at six o'clock in the morning-- ugh! it makes me shiver to think of it. I know if I had to do that _I_ shouldn't be good at all. Well, I'd like to give to poor people, if I knew any."

      At this moment the door opened and the maid entered.

      "Betty, do you know any poor people I ought to get things for, this Christmas?"

      "Poor folks is always plenty, miss," said Betty.

      "O yes, of course, beggars; but I mean people that I could do something for besides just give cold victuals or money. I don't know where to hunt them up, and should be afraid to go if I did. O dear! it's no use. I'll give it up."

      "Why, Miss Florence, that 'ud be too bad, afther bein' that good in yer heart, to let the poor folks alone for fear of goin' to them. But ye needn't do that, for, now I think of it, there's John Morley's wife."

      "What, the gardener father turned off for drinking?"

      "The same, miss. Poor boy, he's not so bad, and he's got a wife and two