The Second Christmas Megapack

by Robert Reginald

  Yet, if the truth must be confessed, John had not much “sense of sin,” so called. He looked on himself as an unfortunate and rather ill-used man, for had he not tried very hard to be good, and gone a great while against the stream of evil inclination? and now, just for one yielding, he was pitched out of place, and everybody was turned against him! He thought this was hard measure. Didn’t everybody hit wrong sometimes? Didn’t rich fellows have their wine, and drink a little too much now and then? Yet nobody was down on them.

  “It’s only because I’m poor,” said John. “Poor folks’ sins are never pardoned. There’s my good wife—poor girl!” and John’s heart felt as if it were breaking, for he was an affectionate creature, and loved his wife and babies, and in his deepest consciousness he knew that he was the one at fault. We have heard much about the sufferings of the wives and children of men who are overtaken with drink; but what is not so well understood is the sufferings of the men themselves in their sober moments, when they feel that they are becoming a curse to all that are dearest to them. John’s very soul was wrung within him to think of the misery he had brought on his wife and children—the greater miseries that might be in store for them. He was faint of heart; he was tired; he had eaten nothing for hours, and on ahead he saw a drinking saloon. Why shouldn’t he go and take one good drink, and then pitch off a ferry-boat into the East River, and so end the whole miserable muddle of life altogether?

  John’s steps were turning that way, when one of the Shining Ones, who had watched him all day, came nearer and took his hand. He felt no touch; but at that moment there darted into his soul a thought of his mother, long dead, and he stopped irresolute, then turned to walk another way. The hand that was guiding him led him to turn a corner, and his curiosity was excited by a stream of people who seemed to be pressing into a building. A distant sound of singing was heard as he drew nearer, and soon he found himself passing with the multitude into a great prayer-meeting. The music grew more distinct as he went in. A man was singing in clear, penetrating tones:

  “What means this eager, anxious throng, Which moves with busy haste along; These wondrous gatherings day by day; What means this strange commotion, say? In accents hushed the throng reply, ‘Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!’”

  John had but a vague idea of religion, yet something in the singing affected him; and, weary and footsore and heartsore as he was, he sank into a seat and listened with absorbed attention:

  “Jesus! ’Tis he who once below Man’s pathway trod in toil and woe; And burdened ones where’er he came Brought out their sick and deaf and lame. The blind rejoiced to hear the cry, ‘Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!’

  “Ho, all ye heavy-laden, come! Here’s pardon, comfort, rest, and home. Ye wanderers from a Father’s face, Return, accept his proffered grace. Ye tempted ones, there’s refuge nigh— ‘Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!’”

  A plain man, who spoke the language of plain working-men, now arose and read from his Bible the words which the angel of old spoke to the shepherds of Bethlehem:

  “Fear not, for behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people, for unto you is born this day a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.”

  The man went on to speak of this with an intense practical earnestness that soon made John feel as if he, individually, were being talked to; and the purport of the speech was this: that God had sent to him, John Morley, a Savior to save him from his sins, to lift him above his weakness, to help him overcome his bad habits; that His name was called Jesus, because he shall save his people from their sins. John listened with a strange new thrill. This was what he needed—a Friend, all-powerful, all-pitiful, who would undertake for him and help him to overcome himself—for he sorely felt how weak he was. Here was a Friend that could have compassion on the ignorant and them that were out of the way. The thought brought tears to his eyes and a glow of hope to his heart. What if He would help him? for deep down in John’s heart, worse than cold or hunger or weariness, was the dreadful conviction that he was a doomed man, that he should drink again as he had drunk, and never come to good, but fall lower and lower, and drag all who loved him down with him.

  And was this mighty Savior given to him?

  “Yes,” cried the man who was speaking; “to you; to you, who have lost name and place; to you, that nobody cares for; to you, who have been down in the gutter. God has sent you a Savior to take you up out of the mud and mire, to wash you clean, to give you strength to overcome your sins, and lead you home to his blessed kingdom. This is the glad tidings of great joy that the angels brought on the first Christmas day. Christ was God’s Christmas gift to a poor, lost world, and you may have him now, today. He may be your own Savior—yours as much as if there were no other one on earth to be saved. He is looking for you today, coming after you, seeking you; he calls you by me. Oh, accept him now!”

  There was a deep breathing of suppressed emotion as the speaker sat down, a pause of solemn stillness.

  A faint strain of music was heard, and the singer began singing a pathetic ballad of a lost sheep and of the Shepherd going forth to seek it:

  “There were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold, But one was out on the hills away, Far off from the gates of gold— Away on the mountains wild and bare, Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.

  “‘Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine; Are they not enough for Thee?’ But the Shepherd made answer: “tis of mine Has wandered away from me; And although the road be rough and steep I go to the desert to find my sheep.’”

  John heard with an absorbed interest. All around him were eager listeners, breathless, leaning forward with intense attention. The song went on:

  “But none of the ransomed ever knew How deep were the waters crossed; Nor how dark was the night that the Lord went through Ere He found His sheep that was lost. Out in the desert He heard its cry— Sick and helpless, and ready to die.”

  There was a throbbing pathos in the intonation, and the verse floated over the weeping throng; when, after a pause, the strain was taken up triumphantly:

  “But all through the mountains thunder-riven, And up from the rocky steep, There rose a cry to the gates of heaven, ‘Rejoice! I have found my sheep!’ And the angels echoed around the throne, ‘Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!’”

  All day long, poor John had felt so lonesome! Nobody cared for him; nobody wanted him; everything was against him; and, worst of all, he had no faith in himself. But here was this Friend, seeking him, following him through the cold alleys and crowded streets. In heaven they would be glad to hear that he had become a good man. The thought broke down all his pride, all his bitterness; he wept like a little child; and the Christmas gift of Christ—the sense of a real, present, loving, pitying Savior—came into his very soul.

  He went homeward as one in a dream. He passed the drinking-saloon without a thought or wish of drinking. The expulsive force of a new emotion had for the time driven out all temptation. Raised above weakness, he thought only of this Jesus, this Savior from sin, who he now believed had followed him and found him, and he longed to go home and tell his wife what great things the Lord had done for him.

  SCENE V

  Meanwhile a little drama had been acting in John’s humble home. His wife had been to the shop that day and come home with the pittance for her work in her hands.

  “I’ll pay you full price today, but we can’t pay such prices any longer,” the man had said over the counter as he paid her. “Hard times—work dull—we are cutting down all our work-folks; you’ll have to take a third less next time.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said meekly, as she took her bundle of work and turned wearily away, but the invisible arm of the Shining One was round her, and the words again thrilled through her that she had read that morning: “He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence, and precious shall their blood be in his sight.” She saw no earthly helper; she heard none and felt none, and yet her soul was sust
ained, and she came home in peace.

  When she opened the door of her little room she drew back astonished at the sight that presented itself. A brisk fire was roaring in the stove, and the tea-kettle was sputtering and sending out clouds of steam. A table with a white cloth on it was drawn out before the fire, and a new tea set of pure white cups and saucers, with teapot, sugar-bowl, and creamer, complete, gave a festive air to the whole. There were bread, and butter, and ham-sandwiches, and a Christmas cake all frosted, with little blue and red and green candles round it ready to be lighted, and a bunch of hot-house flowers in a pretty little vase in the centre.

  A new stuffed rocking-chair stood on one side of the stove, and there sat Miss Florence De Witt, our young princess of Scene First, holding little Elsie in her lap, while the broad, honest countenance of Betty was beaming with kindness down on the delighted face of Tottie. Both children were dressed from head to foot in complete new suits of clothes, and Elsie was holding with tender devotion a fine doll, while Tottie rejoiced in a horse and cart which he was maneuvering under Betty’s superintendence.

  The little princess had pleased herself in getting up all this tableau. Doing good was a novelty to her, and she plunged into it with the zest of a new amusement. The amazed look of the poor woman, her dazed expressions of rapture and incredulous joy, the shrieks and cries of confused delight with which the little ones met their mother, delighted her more than any scene she had ever witnessed at the opera—with this added grace, unknown to her, that at this scene the invisible Shining Ones were pleased witnesses.

  She had been out with Betty, buying here and there whatever was wanted—and what was not wanted for those who had been living so long without work or money?

  She had their little coal-bin filled, and a nice pile of wood and kindlings put behind the stove. She had bought a nice rocking-chair for the mother to rest in. She had dressed the children from head to foot at a ready-made clothing store, and bought them toys to their hearts’ desire, while Betty had set the table for a Christmas feast.

  And now she said to the poor woman at last:

  “I’m so sorry John lost his place at father’s. He was so kind and obliging, and I always liked him; and I’ve been thinking, if you’d get him to sign the pledge over again from Christmas Eve, never to touch another drop, I’ll get papa to take him back. I always do get papa to do what I want, and the fact is, he hasn’t got anybody that suited him so well since John left. So you tell John that I mean to go surety for him; he certainly won’t fail me. Tell him I trust him.” And Miss Florence pulled out a paper wherein, in her best round hand, she had written out again the temperance pledge, and dated it “Christmas Eve, 1875.”

  “Now, you come with John tomorrow morning, and bring this with his name to it, and you’ll see what I’ll do!” and, with a kiss to the children, the little good fairy departed, leaving the family to their Christmas Eve.

  What that Christmas Eve was, when the husband and father came home with the new and softened heart that had been given him, who can say? There were joyful tears and solemn prayers, and earnest vows and purposes of a new life heard by the Shining Ones in the room that night.

  “And the angels echoed around the throne, Rejoice! for the Lord brings back his own.”

  SCENE VI

  “Now, papa, I want you to give me something special today, because it’s Christmas,” said the little princess to her father, as she kissed and wished him “Merry Christmas” next morning.

  “What is it, Pussy—half of my kingdom?”

  “No, no, papa; not so much as that. It’s a little bit of my own way that I want.”

  “Of course; well, what is it?”

  “Well, I want you to take John back again.”

  Her father’s face grew hard.

  “Now, please, papa, don’t say a word till you have heard me. John was a capital gardener; he kept the green-house looking beautiful; and this Mike that we’ve got now, he’s nothing but an apprentice, and stupid as an owl at that! He’ll never do in the world.”

  “All that is very true,” said Mr. De Witt, “but John drinks, and I won’t have a drinking man.”

  “But, papa, I mean to take care of that. I’ve written out the temperance pledge, and dated it, and got John to sign it, and here it is,” and she handed the paper to her father, who read it carefully, and sat turning it in his hands while his daughter went on:

  “You ought to have seen how poor, how very poor they were. His wife is such a nice, quiet, hardworking woman, and has two such pretty children. I went to see them and carry them Christmas things yesterday, but it’s no good doing anything if John can’t get work. She told me how the poor fellow had been walking the streets in the cold, day after day, trying everywhere, and nobody would take him. It’s a dreadful time now for a man to be out of work, and it isn’t fair his poor wife and children should suffer. Do try him again, papa!”

  “John always did better with the pineapples than anybody we have tried,” said Mrs. De Witt at this point. “He is the only one who really understands pineapples.”

  At this moment the door opened, and there was a sound of chirping voices in the hall. “Please, Miss Florence,” said Betty, “the little folks says they wants to give you a Christmas.” She added in a whisper: “They thinks much of giving you something, poor little things—plaze take it of ’em.” And little Tottie at the word marched in and offered the young princess his dear, beautiful, beloved string of glass beads, and Elsie presented the cross of red berries—most dear to her heart and fair to her eyes. “We wanted to give you something,” she said bashfully.

  “Oh, you lovely dears!” cried Florence; “how sweet of you! I shall keep these beautiful glass beads always, and put the cross up over my dressing-table. I thank you ever so much!”

  “Are those John’s children?” asked Mr. De Witt, winking a tear out of his eye—he was at bottom a soft-hearted old gentleman.

  “Yes, papa,” said Florence, caressing Elsie’s curly hair—“see how sweet they are!”

  “Well—you may tell John I’ll try him again.” And so passed Florence’s Christmas, with a new, warm sense of joy in her heart, a feeling of something in the world to be done, worth doing.

  “How much joy one can give with a little money!” she said to herself as she counted over what she had spent on her Christmas. Ah yes! and how true that “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” A shining, invisible hand was laid on her head in blessing as she lay down that night, and a sweet sense of a loving presence stole like music into her soul. Unknown to herself, she had that day taken the first step out of self-life into that life of love and care for others which brought the King of Glory down to share earth’s toils and sorrows. And that precious experience was Christ’s Christmas gift to her.

  THE FIRST CHRISTMAS OF NEW ENGLAND, by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  CHAPTER I. THE LANDING

  The shores of the Atlantic coast of America may well be a terror to navigators. They present an inexorable wall, against which forbidding and angry waves incessantly dash, and around which shifting winds continually rave. The approaches to safe harbors are few in number, intricate and difficult, requiring the skill of practiced pilots.

  But, as if with a pitying spirit of hospitality, old Cape Cod, breaking from the iron line of the coast, like a generous-hearted sailor intent on helpfulness, stretches an hundred miles outward, and, curving his sheltering arms in a protective circle, gives a noble harborage. Of this harbor of Cape Cod the report of our governmental Coast Survey thus speaks: “It is one of the finest harbors for ships of war on the whole of our Atlantic coast. The width and freedom from obstruction of every kind at its entrance and the extent of sea room upon the bay side make it accessible to vessels of the largest class in almost all winds. This advantage, its capacity, depth of water, excellent anchorage, and the complete shelter it affords from all winds, render it one of the most valuable ship harbors upon our coast.”

  We have been th
us particular in our mention of this place, because here, in this harbor, opened the first scene in the most wonderful drama of modern history.

  Let us look into the magic mirror of the past and see this harbor of Cape Cod on the morning of the 11th of November, in the year of our Lord 1620, as described to us in the simple words of the pilgrims: “A pleasant bay, circled round, except the entrance, which is about four miles over from land to land, compassed about to the very sea with oaks, pines, junipers, sassafras, and other sweet weeds. It is a harbor wherein a thousand sail of ship may safely ride.”

  Such are the woody shores of Cape Cod as we look back upon them in that distant November day, and the harbor lies like a great crystal gem on the bosom of a virgin wilderness. The “fir trees, the pine trees, and the bay,” rejoice together in freedom, for as yet the axe has spared them; in the noble bay no shipping has found shelter; no voice or sound of civilized man has broken the sweet calm of the forest. The oak leaves, now turned to crimson and maroon by the autumn frosts, reflect themselves in flushes of color on the still waters. The golden leaves of the sassafras yet cling to the branches, though their life has passed, and every brushing wind bears showers of them down to the water. Here and there the dark spires of the cedar and the green leaves and red berries of the holly contrast with these lighter tints. The forest foliage grows down to the water’s edge, so that the dash of the rising and falling tide washes into the shaggy cedar boughs which here and there lean over and dip in the waves.

  No voice or sound from earth or sky proclaims that anything unwonted is coming or doing on these shores today. The wandering Indians, moving their hunting-camps along the woodland paths, saw no sign in the stars that morning, and no different color in the sunrise from what had been in the days of their fathers. Panther and wildcat under their furry coats felt no thrill of coming dispossession, and saw nothing through their great golden eyes but the dawning of a day just like all other days—when “the sun ariseth and they gather themselves into their dens and lay them down.” And yet alike to Indian, panther, and wildcat, to every oak of the forest, to every foot of land in America, from the stormy Atlantic to the broad Pacific, that day was a day of days.