by A. A. Milne
And when eight days were fulfilled his name was called
JESUS
The practical joke, or, The Christmas story of Uncle Ned
Anonymous
The practical joke, or, The Christmas story of Uncle Ned
Welcome, merry Christmas and New-Year! prized by children above all other days in the year. Ye are associated with pleasant recollections of old Santa Claus and sugar-plums—with bright visions of a cheerful fireside, merry games, pleasant stories, and happy, smiling faces. First comes Christmas Eve, when each young face beams with eager curiosity and delightful anticipation—all wondering and guessing what they shall find in their stockings next morning; while the eldest sister, with looks of mystery and of importance, shares her mother's councils, and helps to distribute the precious stores. Soon they are in bed, anxious to sleep off the long hours, dreaming of rocking-horses and doll-babies, tea-sets, wooden soldiers, and all the other delights of the toy-shop.
* * *
I never heard of a lazy child on a Christmas morning. The idle and the industrious are all up, "bright and early." The well-filled stockings are eagerly inspected, good wishes and pretty or useful presents given and received, and various plans proposed for the day's amusement. Night comes too soon for the tireless lovers of fun, who go unwillingly to bed, consoling themselves that one week more will bring New-Year.
* * *
Dear children, long may such innocent delights crown the year; and, in the midst of all, forget not the children of the famishing poor, who have no Christmas pleasures to look forward to; whose parents toil for their daily bread and scanty apparel all the year, and have no time nor means to provide themselves or their children with the comforts and luxuries you enjoy. Each one can spare a little to minister to the enjoyment of those poor suffering children, many of whom, perhaps, have no fathers to provide for them, some of them not even a home to shelter them. Share with them your abundance, and the blessings of the poor shall rest upon you. And now, my patient little readers, for the story.
* * *
One Christmas night we were all gathered around a cheerful fire in the old-fashioned parlor. Father, mother, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins, were all there. The blazing pine knots sent a cheerful light into every nook and corner of the big room; the ponderous presses, and quaint old desk and bookcase, reflecting the warm glow from their polished surfaces.
* * *
The straight, high-backed, mahogany chairs had been sadly knocked about in a game of blind-man's-buff, and looked as much out of place as a prim old maiden aunt in a game of romps. Nutshells and apple-parings, kiss-papers and mottoes, strewed the broad hearth, and gave pretty good token of the evening's cheer. The clock had just struck ten, and we youngsters were warned that it was bedtime, when there arose a loud call for a story. A story from Uncle Ned! We might all sit up to hear a story, if Uncle Ned would tell one.
* * *
He, good soul, never refused a kind request in his life, and we felt quite safe for the next half hour. I think I see him now, with his trim leg encased in a fine home-knit stocking—his bright shoe-buckles, and neat drab small-clothes—his queer-looking continental hat, with his gray locks appearing beneath it, and his hands resting upon the head of his silver-mounted cane.
* * *
The chairs were set in their places, stragglers called in, and all were seated in silence to hear.
UNCLE NED’S STORY
"Many years ago, when I was a slip of a lad like Tom there"—"Why, uncle," cried little Willy in amazement, "did you say you were no bigger than Tom? Were you ever as little as Tom, uncle?"—"Hush, Willy," said Tom, a well-grown boy of fourteen, "I 'm sure you need not make such a wonderment at that; I am not so very small, and I expect to be as big as Uncle Ned when I'm a man. How naughty of you to interrupt the story!"
* * *
"Well, Willy," said Uncle Ned, "I don't suppose I look much now as if I had once been a slender lad, with a soft fair brow, and rosy cheeks; but I was as full of fun and frolic as the best of you. I will tell you how I once came near losing my own life and that of a friend and playmate, by my love of mischief. It was a Christmas night. We were gathered round the fire just as we now are, cracking nuts, eating apples, and telling stories, when I proposed to Jack Thornton, and his little brother, that we should go for a skating frolic to 'the pond,' a beautiful sheet of water about a quarter of a mile distant. Instantly we were in motion, looking up our skates and mittens. Off we started, in high glee, promising ourselves fine fun on the ice. The moon shone brilliantly—every object could be seen with perfect distinctness. The little pond, which was supplied with the purest spring water, looked like a sheet of silver, sparkling in the moonlight. I well remember looking down through the clear and beautifully transparent ice, and seeing the pond-lilies, with their broad leaves of tender green, mingled with rushes and long grass, while the little fish danced like beams of silver-light in the clear water. The pond was of no great extent, but toward the middle it was quite deep, and formed a fine broad sheet of ice for skating.
* * *
"I remembered having seen the day before an air-hole near a rock on the opposite shore. I had tried the ice near it, and found it strong enough to bear my weight; and concluding that by this time it was quite thick enough to bear two or three, I determined to play a trick upon Jack, who was exceedingly good natured, but a great brag. Nobody could outwit him, he thought. 'Come, Jack,' said I, 'follow me, and I will take you where you are afraid to go.'—'I afraid!' said he, 'catch me afraid—I can go anywhere you can—go ahead!' Away we shot, like swallows, toward the fatal air hole. 'Follow me,' I cried; 'keep up with me if you can.' Thus stimulated, Jack kept close in my rear. My object was to avoid the air-hole myself, and just give one of Jack's legs a ducking, without doing him any further injury. We wheeled in circles round and round, until, making a quick sweep, and calling upon him to keep close, I dexterously made a slight curve so as to avoid the hole, but down went poor Jack, one leg and foot quite buried in the freezing element. It was a favorite trick with the knowing ones, and was never taken amiss. But in this case the joke was carried too far. Jack pulled and struggled to draw out his foot, when suddenly the ice gave way, and down he sank into the deep water. I knew he could not swim—neither could I. I was aware it would not do to attempt to get him out by going near him on the ice, as our efforts would only crack the ice and throw me in too. But, as quick as thought, I ran on shore, threw off my skates, went to the edge of the rock, where fortunately he was within my reach, and, after many unsuccessful attempts, I succeeded in drawing him out. Poor Jack was almost exhausted; but I got him home, and he was undressed and put to bed. A severe fit of sickness followed from the cold he took that night. Aunt Dorothy always insisted that his sickness might have been prevented, if she had been permitted to give him a dose of her hot-drops, which she always kept by her—a specific for all complaints. But the physician who was called positively forbade it. Physicians do not like to have persons who are ignorant of the nature of diseases, and their proper remedies, tampering with the human frame. Although in some instances they may relieve in mild attacks, they often do a great deal of harm by giving favorite quack medicines, indiscriminately, for all complaints. However, by good nursing, Jack soon got well; and we received a good lesson, which I have never forgotten, in the almost fatal termination of the 'practical joke.' "
Widow Townsend's Visitor
Anonymous
Widow Townsend's Visitor
The fire crackled cheerfully on the broad hearth of an old-fashioned fireplace in an old-fashioned public house in an old fashioned village, down in that part of the Old Dominion called the "Eastern Shore." A cat and three kittens basked in the warmth, and a decrepit yellow dog, lying full in the reflection of the blaze, wrinkled his black nose approvingly, as he turned his hind feet where his fore feet had been. Over the chimney hung several fine hams and pieces of dried beef. Apples were festooned along the ceiling, a
nd other signs of plenty and good cheer were scattered profusely about. There were plants, too, on the window ledges, horse-shoe geraniums, and dew-plants, and a monthly rose, just budding, to say nothing of pots of violets that perfumed the whole place whenever they took it into their purple heads to bloom. The floor was carefully swept, the chairs had not a speck of dust upon leg or round, the long settle near the fireplace shone as if it had been just varnished, and the eight-day clock in the corner had had its white face newly washed, and seemed determined to tick the louder for it.
* * *
Two arm-chairs were drawn up at cozy distance from the hearth and each other; a candle, a newspaper, a pair of spectacles, a dish of red cheeked apples, and a pitcher of cider, filled a little table between them. In one of these chairs sat a comfortable-looking woman about forty-five, with cheeks as red as the apples, and eyes as dark and bright as they had ever been, resting her elbow on the table and her head upon her hand, and looking thoughtfully into the fire.
* * *
This was Widow Townsend, "relict" of Mr. Levi Townsend, who had been mouldering into dust in the neighboring churchyard for seven years and more. She was thinking of her dead husband, possibly because all her work being done, and the servant gone to bed, the sight of his empty chair at the other side of the table, and the silence of the room, made her a little lonely.
* * *
"Seven years," so the widow's reverie ran; "it seems as if it were more than fifty, and Christmas nigh here again, and yet I don't look so very old neither. Perhaps it's not having any children to bother my life out, as other people have. They may say what they like—children are more plague than profit, that's my opinion. Look at my sister Jerusha, with her six boys. She's worn to a shadow, and I am sure they have done it, though she never will own it."
* * *
The widow took an apple from the dish and began to peel it.
* * *
"How fond Mr. Townsend used to be of these apples! He'll never eat any more of them, poor fellow, for I don't suppose they have apples where he has gone to. Heigho! I remember very well how I used to throw apple-peel over my head when I was a girl to see who I was going to marry."
* * *
Mrs. Townsend stopped short and blushed, for in those days she did not know Mr. T., and was always looking eagerly to see if the peel had formed a capital S. Her meditations took a new turn.
* * *
"How handsome Sam Payson was, and how much I use to care about him! I wonder what has become of him! Jerusha says he went away from our village just after I did, and no one has ever heard of him since. What a silly thing that quarrel was! If it had not been for that—"
* * *
Here came a long pause, during which the widow looked very steadfastly at the empty arm-chair of Levi Townsend, deceased. Her fingers played carelessly with the apple-peel: she drew it safely towards her, and looked around the room.
* * *
"Upon my word, it is very ridiculous, and I don't know what the neighbors would say if they saw me."
* * *
Still the plump fingers drew the red peel nearer.
* * *
"But then they can't see me, that's a comfort; and the cat and old Bose never will know what it means. Of course I don't believe anything about it."
* * *
The peel hung gracefully from her hand.
* * *
"But still, I should like to try; it would seem like old times, and—"
* * *
Over her head it went, and curled up quietly on the floor at a little distance. Old Bose, who always slept with one eye open, saw it fall, and marched deliberately up to smell it.
* * *
"Bose—Bose—don't touch!" cried his mistress, and bending over it with beating heart, she turned as red as fire. There was as handsome a capital S as any one could wish to see.
* * *
A great knock came suddenly at the door. Bose growled, and the widow screamed and snatched up the apple-peel.
* * *
"It's Mr. T.—it's his spirit come back again, because I tried that silly trick," she thought fearfully to herself.
* * *
Another knock—louder than the first, and a man's voice exclaimed:
* * *
"Hello—the house!"
* * *
"Who is it?" asked the widow, somewhat relieved to find that the departed Levi was still safe in his grave on the hillside.
* * *
"A stranger," said the voice.
* * *
"What do you want?"
* * *
"To get a lodging here for the night."
* * *
The widow deliberated.
* * *
"Can't you go on? There's a house half a mile farther, if you keep to the right-hand side of the road, and turn to the left after you get by—"
* * *
"It's raining cats and dogs, and I'm very delicate," said the stranger, coughing. "I'm wet to the skin: don't you think you can accommodate me?—I don't mind sleeping on the floor."
* * *
"Raining, is it? I didn't know that," and the kind-hearted little woman unbarred the door very quickly. "Come in, whoever you may be; I only asked you to go on because I am a lone woman, with only one servant in the house."
* * *
The stranger entered, shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog upon the step, and scattering a little shower of drops over his hostess and her nicely swept floor.
* * *
"Ah, that looks comfortable after a man has been out for hours in a storm," he said, as he caught sight of the fire; and striding along toward the hearth, followed by Bose, who sniffed suspiciously at his heels, he stationed himself in the arm-chair—Mr. Townsend's arm-chair! which had been kept "sacred to his memory" for seven years. The widow was horrified, but her guest looked so weary and worn-out that she could not ask him to move, but busied herself in stirring up the blaze that he might the sooner dry his dripping clothes.
* * *
A new thought struck her: Mr. T. had worn a comfortable dressing-gown during his illness, which still hung in the closet at her right. She could not let this poor man catch his death, by sitting in that wet coat. If he was in Mr. Townsend's chair, why should he not be in Mr. Townsend's wrapper? She went nimbly to the closet, took it down, fished out a pair of slippers from a boot-rack below, and brought them to him.
* * *
"I think you had better take off your coat and boots—you will have the rheumatic fever, or something like it, if you don't. Here are some things for you to wear while they are drying. And you must be hungry, too; I will go into the pantry and get you something to eat."
* * *
She bustled away, "on hospitable thoughts intent," and the stranger made the exchange with a quizzical smile playing around his lips. He was a tall, well-formed man, with a bold but handsome face, sun-burned and heavily bearded, and looking anything but "delicate," though his blue eyes glanced out from under a forehead as white as snow. He looked around the kitchen with a mischievous air, and stretched out his feet decorated with the defunct Boniface's slippers.
* * *
"Upon my word, this is stepping into the old man's shoes with a vengeance! And what a hearty, good-humored looking woman she is! Kind as a kitten," and he leaned forward and stroked the cat and her brood, and then patted old Bose upon the head. The widow, bringing in sundry good things, looked pleased at his attention to her dumb friends.
* * *
"It's a wonder Bose does not growl; he generally does if strangers touch him. Dear me, how stupid!"
* * *
The last remark was neither addressed to the stranger nor to the dog but to herself She had forgotten that the little stand was not empty, and there was no room on it for the things she held.
* * *
"Oh, I'll manage it," said her guest, gathering up paper, candle, apples, and spectacles (it was not without a little
pang that she saw them in his hand, for they had been her husband's, and were placed each night, like the arm-chair, beside her) and depositing them on the settle.
* * *
"Give me the table-cloth, ma'am, I can spread it as well as any woman; I've learned that along with scores of other things, in my wanderings. Now let me relieve you of those dishes; they are far too heavy for those hands"—the widow blushed; "and now please, sit down with me, or I cannot eat a morsel."
