by A. A. Milne
* * *
George Eliot.
Papa Panov's Special Christmas
Leo Tolstoy
Papa Panov's Special Christmas
It was Christmas Eve and although it was still afternoon, lights had begun to appear in the shops and houses of the little Russian village, for the short winter day was nearly over. Excited children scurried indoors and now only muffled sounds of chatter and laughter escaped from closed shutters.
* * *
Old Papa Panov, the village shoemaker, stepped outside his shop to take one last look around. The sounds of happiness, the bright lights and the faint but delicious smells of Christmas cooking reminded him of past Christmas times when his wife had still been alive and his own children little. Now they had gone. His usually cheerful face, with the little laughter wrinkles behind the round steel spectacles, looked sad now. But he went back indoors with a firm step, put up the shutters and set a pot of coffee to heat on the charcoal stove. Then, with a sigh, he settled in his big armchair.
* * *
Papa Panov did not often read, but tonight he pulled down the big old family Bible and, slowly tracing the lines with one forefinger, he read again the Christmas story. He read how Mary and Joseph, tired by their journey to Bethlehem, found no room for them at the inn, so that Mary's little baby was born in the cowshed.
* * *
"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" exclaimed Papa Panov, "if only they had come here! I would have given them my bed and I could have covered the baby with my patchwork quilt to keep him warm."
* * *
He read on about the wise men who had come to see the baby Jesus, bringing him splendid gifts. Papa Panov's face fell. "I have no gift that I could give him," he thought sadly.
* * *
Then his face brightened. He put down the Bible, got up and stretched his long arms t the shelf high up in his little room. He took down a small, dusty box and opened it. Inside was a perfect pair of tiny leather shoes. Papa Panov smiled with satisfaction. Yes, they were as good as he had remembered -- the best shoes he had ever made. "I should give him those," he decided, as he gently put them away and sat down again.
* * *
He was feeling tired now, and the further he read the sleepier he became. The print began to dance before his eyes so that he closed them, just for a minute. In no time at all Papa Panov was fast asleep.
* * *
And as he slept he dreamed. He dreamed that someone was in his room and he knew at once, as one does in dreams, who the person was. It was Jesus.
* * *
"You have been wishing that you could see me, Papa Panov." he said kindly, "then look for me tomorrow. It will be Christmas Day and I will visit you. But look carefully, for I shall not tell you who I am."
* * *
When at last Papa Panov awoke, the bells were ringing out and a thin light was filtering through the shutters. "Bless my soul!" said Papa Panov. "It's Christmas Day!"
* * *
He stood up and stretched himself for he was rather stiff. Then his face filled with happiness as he remembered his dream. This would be a very special Christmas after all, for Jesus was coming to visit him. How would he look? Would he be a little baby, as at that first Christmas? Would he be a grown man, a carpenter -- or the great King that he is, God's Son? He must watch carefully the whole day through so that he recognized him however he came.
* * *
Papa Panov put on a special pot of coffee for his Christmas breakfast, took down the shutters and looked out of the window. The street was deserted, no one was stirring yet. No one except the road sweeper. He looked as miserable and dirty as ever, and well he might! Whoever wanted to work on Christmas Day -- and in the raw cold and bitter freezing mist of such a morning?
* * *
Papa Panov opened the shop door, letting in a thin stream of cold air. "Come in!" he shouted across the street cheerily. "Come in and have some hot coffee to keep out the cold!"
* * *
The sweeper looked up, scarcely able to believe his ears. He was only too glad to put down his broom and come into the warm room. His old clothes steamed gently in the heat of the stove and he clasped both red hands round the comforting warm mug as he drank.
* * *
Papa Panov watched him with satisfaction, but every now and them his eyes strayed to the window. It would never do to miss his special visitor.
* * *
"Expecting someone?" the sweeper asked at last. So Papa Panov told him about his dream.
* * *
"Well, I hope he comes," the sweeper said, "you've given me a bit of Christmas cheer I never expected to have. I'd say you deserve to have your dream come true." And he actually smiled.
* * *
When he had gone, Papa Panov put on cabbage soup for his dinner, then went to the door again, scanning the street. He saw no one. But he was mistaken. Someone was coming.
* * *
The girl walked so slowly and quietly, hugging the walls of shops and houses, that it was a while before he noticed her. She looked very tired and she was carrying something. As she drew nearer he could see that it was a baby, wrapped in a thin shawl. There was such sadness in her face and in the pinched little face of the baby, that Papa Panov's heart went out to them.
* * *
"Won't you come in," he called, stepping outside to meet them. "You both need a warm seat by the fire and a rest."
* * *
The young mother let him shepherd her indoors and to the comfort of the armchair. She gave a big sigh of relief.
* * *
"I'll warm some milk for the baby," Papa Panov said, "I've had children of my own -- I can feed her for you." He took the milk from the stove and carefully fed the baby from a spoon, warming her tiny feet by the stove at the same time.
* * *
"She needs shoes," the cobbler said.
* * *
But the girl replied, "I can't afford shoes, I've got no husband to bring home money. I'm on my way to the next village to get work."
* * *
A sudden thought flashed through Papa Panov's mind. He remembered the little shoes he had looked at last night. But he had been keeping those for Jesus. He looked again at the cold little feet and made up his mind.
* * *
"Try these on her," he said, handing the baby and the shoes to the mother. The beautiful little shoes were a perfect fit. The girl smiled happily and the baby gurgled with pleasure.
* * *
"You have been so kind to us," the girl said, when she got up with her baby to go. "May all your Christmas wishes come true!"
* * *
But Papa Panov was beginning to wonder if his very special Christmas wish would come true. Perhaps he had missed his visitor? He looked anxiously up and down the street. There were plenty of people about but they were all faces that he recognized. There were neighbors going to call on their families. They nodded and smiled and wished him Happy Christmas! Or beggars -- and Papa Panov hurried indoors to fetch them hot soup and a generous hunk of bread, hurrying out again in case he missed the Important Stranger.
* * *
All too soon the winter dusk fell. When Papa Panov next went to the door and strained his eyes, he could no longer make out the passers-by. Most were home and indoors by now anyway. He walked slowly back into his room at last, put up the shutters, and sat down wearily in his armchair.
* * *
So it had been just a dream after all. Jesus had not come.
* * *
Then all at once he knew that he was no longer alone in the room.
* * *
This was not dream for he was wide awake. At first he seemed to see before his eyes the long stream of people who had come to him that day. He saw again the old road sweeper, the young mother and her baby and the beggars he had fed. As they passed, each whispered, "Didn't you see me, Papa Panov?"
* * *
"Who are you?" he called out, bewildered.
* * *
> Then another voice answered him. It was the voice from his dream -- the voice of Jesus.
* * *
"I was hungry and you fed me," he said. "I was naked and you clothed me. I was cold and you warmed me. I came to you today in everyone of those you helped and welcomed."
* * *
Then all was quiet and still. Only the sound of the big clock ticking. A great peace and happiness seemed to fill the room, overflowing Papa Panov's heart until he wanted to burst out singing and laughing and dancing with joy.
* * *
"So he did come after all!" was all that he said.
Christmas
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Christmas
Now out upon you, Christmas!
Is this the merry time
When the red hearth blazed, the harper sung,
And the bells rung their glorious chime?
* * *
You are called merry Christmas—
Like many that I know,
You are living on a character
Acquired long ago.
* * *
The dim lamps glimmer o'er the streets;
Through the dun and murky air
You may not see the moon or stars,
For the fog is heavy there;
* * *
As if all high and lovely things
Were blotted from the sight,
And Earth had nothing but herself
Left to her own drear light.
* * *
A gloomy crowd goes hurrying by;
And in the lamplight's glare,
Many a heavy step is seen,
And many a face of care.
* * *
I saw an aged woman turn
To her wretched home again—
All day she had asked charity,
And all day asked in vain.
* * *
The fog was on the cutting wind,
The frost was on the flood;
And yet how many past that night
With neither fire nor food!
* * *
There came on the air a smother’d groan,
And a low and stifled cry,
And there struggled a child, a young fair child,
In its mortal agony.
* * *
"Now for its price," the murderer said;
"On earth we must live as we can;
And this is not a crime, but a sacrifice
In the cause of science and man."
* * *
Is this the curse that is laid on the earth?
And must it ever be so,
That there can be nothing of human good
But must from some evil flow?
* * *
On, on, and the dreary city's smoke
And the fog are left behind,
And the leafless boughs of the large old trees
Are stirred by the moaning wind;
* * *
And all is calm, like the happy dream
Which we have of an English home—
A lowly roof where cheerful toil
And healthy slumbers come.
* * *
Is there a foreign foe in the land,
That the midnight sky grows red—
That by homestead, and barn, and rick, and stack,
Yon cruel blaze is fed?
* * *
There were months of labour, of rain, and sun,
Ere the harvest followed the plough—
Ere the stack was reared, and the barn was filled,
Which the fire is destroying now.
* * *
And the dark incendiary goes through the night
With a fierce and wicked joy;
The wealth and the food which he may not share,
He will at least destroy.
* * *
The wind, the wind, it comes from the sea,
With a wailing sound it passed;
'Tis soft and mild for a winter's wind,
And yet there is death on the blast.
* * *
From the south to the north hath the Cholera come,
He came like a despot king;
He hath swept the earth with a conqueror's step,
And the air with a spirit's wing.
* * *
We shut him out with a girdle of ships,
And a guarded quarantine;
What ho ! now which of your watchers slept?
The Cholera's past your line!
* * *
There's a curse on the blessed sun and air,
What will ye do for breath?
For breath, which was once but a word for life,
Is now but a word for death.
* * *
Wo for affection! when love must look
On each face it loves with dread—
Kindred and friends—when a few brief hours
And the dearest may be the dead!
* * *
The months pass on, and the circle spreads;
And the time is drawing nigh,
When each street may have a darkened house,
Or a coffin passing by.
* * *
Our lot is cast upon evil days,
In the world's winter-time;
The earth is old, and worn with years
Of want, of wo, and of crime.
* * *
Then out on the folly of ancient times—
The folly which wished you mirth:
Look round on the anguish, look round on the vice,
Then dare to be glad upon earth!
L. E. L.
Christmas Greetings from a Fairy to a Child
Lewis Carroll
Christmas Greetings from a Fairy to a Child
Lady dear, if Fairies may
For a moment lay aside
Cunning tricks and elfish play,
'Tis at happy Christmas-tide.
* * *
We have heard the children say—
Gentle children, whom we love—
Long ago, on Christmas Day,
Came a message from above.
* * *
Still, as Christmas-tide comes round,
They remember it again—
Echo still the joyful sound
"Peace on earth, good-will to men!"
* * *
Yet the hearts must childlike be
Where such heavenly guests abide:
Unto children, in their glee,
All the year is Christmas-tide!
* * *
Thus, forgetting tricks and play
For a moment, Lady dear,
We would wish you, if we may,
Merry Christmas, glad New Year!
* * *
LEWIS CARROLL.
* * *
Christmas, 1867.
A Christmas Cradlesong
Lope de Vega
A Christmas Cradlesong
Holy angels and blest,
Through the palms as ye sweep
Hold their branches at rest
For my babe is asleep.
* * *
And ye Bethlehem palm-trees
As stormy winds rush
In tempest and fury
Your angry noise hush;-
Move gently, move gently,
Restrain your wild sweep;
Hold your branches at rest
My babe is asleep.
* * *
My babe all divine,
With earth’s sorrows oppressed,
Seeks slumber an instant
His grievings to rest;
He slumbers,- he slumbers,-
O, hush then and keep
Your branches all still,-
My babe is asleep.
* * *
Cold blasts wheel about him,-
A rigourous storm,-
And ye see how, in vain,
I would shelter his form;-
Holy angels and blest
As above me
ye sweep,
Hold these branches at rest,-
My babe is asleep.
A Christmas Dream, and How It Came to Be True
Louisa May Alcott
A Christmas Dream, and How It Came to Be True
