The Second Christmas Megapack

by Robert Reginald

  Three such expeditions through the country, with all sorts of haps and mishaps and adventures, took up the time until near the 15th of December, when, having selected a spot for their colony, they weighed anchor to go to their future home.

  Plymouth Harbor, as they found it, is thus described:

  “This harbor is a bay greater than Cape Cod, compassed with a goodly land, and in the bay two fine islands uninhabited, wherein are nothing but woods, oaks, pines, walnuts, beeches, sassafras, vines, and other trees which we know not. The bay is a most hopeful place, innumerable stores of fowl, and excellent good; and it cannot but be of fish in their season. Skate, cod, and turbot, and herring we have tasted of—abundance of mussels (clams) the best we ever saw; and crabs and lobsters in their time, infinite.”

  On the main land they write:

  “The land is, for a spit’s depth, excellent black mold and fat in some places. Two or three great oaks, pines, walnut, beech, ash, birch, hazel, holly, and sassafras in abundance, and vines everywhere, with cherry-trees, plum-trees, and others which we know not. Many kind of herbs we found here in winter, as strawberry leaves innumerable, sorrel, yarrow, carvel, brook-lime, liver-wort, water-cresses, with great store of leeks and onions, and an excellent strong kind of flax and hemp.”

  It is evident from this description that the season was a mild one even thus late into December, that there was still sufficient foliage hanging upon the trees to determine the species, and that the pilgrims viewed their new mother-land through eyes of cheerful hope.

  And now let us look in the glass at them once more, on Saturday morning of the 23d of December.

  The little Mayflower lies swinging at her moorings in the harbor, while every man and boy who could use a tool has gone on shore to cut down and prepare timber for future houses.

  Mary Winslow and Rose Standish are sitting together on deck, fashioning garments, while little Love Winslow is playing at their feet with such toys as the new world afforded her—strings of acorns and scarlet holly-berries and some bird-claws and arrowheads and bright-colored ears of Indian corn, which Captain Miles Standish has brought home to her from one of their explorations.

  Through the still autumnal air may now and then be heard the voices of men calling to one another on shore, the quick, sharp ring of axes, and anon the crash of falling trees, with shouts from juveniles as the great forest monarch is laid low. Some of the women are busy below, sorting over and arranging their little household stores and stuff with a view to moving on shore, and holding domestic consultations with each other.

  A sadness hangs over the little company, for since their arrival the stroke of death has more than once fallen; we find in Bradford’s brief record that by the 24th of December six had died.

  What came nearest to the hearts of all was the loss of Dorothea Bradford, who, when all the men of the party were absent on an exploring tour, accidentally fell over the side of the vessel and sunk in the deep waters. What this loss was to the husband and the little company of brothers and sisters appears by no note or word of wailing, merely by a simple entry which says no more than the record on a gravestone, that, “on the 7th of December, Dorothy, wife of William Bradford, fell over and was drowned.”

  That much-enduring company could afford themselves few tears. Earthly having and enjoying was a thing long since dismissed from their calculations. They were living on the primitive Christian platform; they “rejoiced as though they rejoiced not,” and they “wept as though they wept not,” and they “had wives and children as though they had them not,” or, as one of themselves expressed it, “We are in all places strangers, pilgrims, travelers and sojourners; our dwelling is but a wandering, our abiding but as a fleeting, our home is nowhere but in the heavens, in that house not made with hands, whose builder and maker is God.”

  When one of their number fell they were forced to do as soldiers in the stress of battle—close up the ranks and press on.

  But Mary Winslow, as she sat over her sewing, dropped now and then a tear down on her work for the loss of her sister and counselor and long-tried friend. From the lower part of the ship floated up, at intervals, snatches of an old English ditty that Margery was singing while she moved to and fro about her work, one of those genuine English melodies, full of a rich, strange mournfulness blent with a soothing pathos:

  “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun Nor the furious winter rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.”

  The air was familiar, and Mary Winslow, dropping her work in her lap, involuntarily joined in it:

  “Fear no more the frown of the great, Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat, To thee the reed is as the oak.”

  “There goes a great tree on shore!” quoth little Love Winslow, clapping her hands. “Dost hear, mother? I’ve been counting the strokes—fifteen—and then crackle! crackle! crackle! and down it comes!”

  “Peace, darling,” said Mary Winslow; “hear what old Margery is singing below:

  “Fear no more the lightning’s flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash— Thou hast finished joy and moan. All lovers young—all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.”

  “Why do you cry, mother?” said the little one, climbing on her lap and wiping her tears.

  “I was thinking of dear Auntie, who is gone from us.”

  “She is not gone from us, mother.”

  “My darling, she is with Jesus.”

  “Well, mother, Jesus is ever with us—you tell me that—and if she is with him she is with us too—I know she is—for sometimes I see her. She sat by me last night and stroked my head when that ugly, stormy wind waked me—she looked so sweet, oh, ever so beautiful!—and she made me go to sleep so quiet—it is sweet to be as she is, mother—not away from us but with Jesus.”

  “These little ones see further in the kingdom than we,” said Rose Standish. “If we would be like them, we should take things easier. When the Lord would show who was greatest in his kingdom, he took a little child on his lap.”

  “Ah me, Rose!” said Mary Winslow, “I am aweary in spirit with this tossing sea-life. I long to have a home on dry land once more, be it ever so poor. The sea wearies me. Only think, it is almost Christmas time, only two days now to Christmas. How shall we keep it in these woods?”

  “Aye, aye,” said old Margery, coming up at the moment, “a brave muster and to do is there now in old England; and men and boys going forth singing and bearing home branches of holly, and pine, and mistletoe for Christmas greens. Oh! I remember I used to go forth with them and help dress the churches. God help the poor children, they will grow up in the wilderness and never see such brave sights as I have. They will never know what a church is, such as they are in old England, with fine old windows like the clouds, and rainbows, and great wonderful arches like the very skies above us, and the brave music with the old organs rolling and the boys marching in white garments and singing so as should draw the very heart out of one. All this we have left behind in old England—ah! well a day! well a day!”

  “Oh, but, Margery,” said Mary Winslow, “we have a ‘better country’ than old England, where the saints and angels are keeping Christmas; we confess that we are strangers and pilgrims on earth.”

  And Rose Standish immediately added the familiar quotation from the Geneva Bible:

  “For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country. For if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out they had leisure to have returned. But now they desire a better—that is, an heavenly; wherefore God is not ashamed of them to be called their God.”

  The fair young face glowed as she repeated the heroic words, for already, though she knew it not, Rose Standish was feeling the approaching sphere of the angel life. Strong in spirit, as delicate in frame, she had given herself and drawn her martial husband to the support of a great and noble cause; but while the spirit was ready, the fles
h was weak, and even at that moment her name was written in the Lamb’s Book to enter the higher life, in one short month’s time from that Christmas.

  Only one month of sweetness and perfume was that sweet rose to shed over the hard and troubled life of the pilgrims, for the saints and angels loved her, and were from day to day gently untying mortal bands to draw her to themselves. Yet was there nothing about her of mournfulness; on the contrary, she was ever alert and bright, with a ready tongue to cheer and a helpful hand to do; and, seeing the sadness that seemed stealing over Mary Winslow, she struck another key, and, catching little Love up in her arms, said cheerily,

  “Come hither, pretty one, and Rose will sing thee a brave carol for Christmas. We won’t be down-hearted, will we? Hark now to what the minstrels used to sing under my window when I was a little girl:

  “I saw three ships come sailing in, On Christmas day, on Christmas day, I saw three ships come sailing in, On Christmas day in the morning.

  “And what was in those ships all three, On Christmas day, on Christmas day, And what was in those ships all three, On Christmas day in the morning?

  “Our Savior Christ and his laydie, On Christmas day, on Christmas day, Our Savior Christ and his laydie, On Christmas day in the morning.

  “Pray, whither sailed those ships all three, On Christmas day, on Christmas day? Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem, On Christmas day in the morning.

  “And all the bells on earth shall ring, On Christmas day, on Christmas day; And all the angels in heaven shall sing, On Christmas day in the morning.

  “Then let us all rejoice amain, On Christmas day, on Christmas day; Then let us all rejoice amain, On Christmas day in the morning.”

  “Now, isn’t that a brave ballad?” said Rose. “Yea, and thou singest like a real English robin,” said Margery, “to do the heart good to hear thee.”

  CHAPTER IV. ELDER BREWSTER’S CHRISTMAS SERMON

  Sunday morning found the little company gathered once more on the ship, with nothing to do but rest and remember their homes, temporal and spiritual—homes backward, in old England, and forward, in Heaven. They were, every man and woman of them, English to the backbone. From Captain Jones who commanded the ship to Elder Brewster who ruled and guided in spiritual affairs, all alike were of that stock and breeding which made the Englishman of the days of Bacon and Shakespeare, and in those days Christmas was knit into the heart of every one of them by a thousand threads, which no after years could untie.

  Christmas carols had been sung to them by nurses and mothers and grandmothers; the Christmas holly spoke to them from every berry and prickly leaf, full of dearest household memories. Some of them had been men of substance among the English gentry, and in their prosperous days had held high festival in ancestral halls in the season of good cheer. Elder Brewster himself had been a rising young diplomat in the court of Elizabeth, in the days when the Lord Keeper of the Seals led the revels of Christmas as Lord of Misrule.

  So that, though this Sunday morning arose gray and lowering, with snowflakes hovering through the air, there was Christmas in the thoughts of every man and woman among them—albeit it was the Christmas of wanderers and exiles in a wilderness looking back to bright home-fires across stormy waters.

  The men had come back from their work on shore with branches of green pine and holly, and the women had, stuck them about the ship, not without tearful thoughts of old home-places, where their childhood fathers and mothers did the same.

  Bits and snatches of Christmas carols were floating all around the ship, like land-birds blown far out to sea. In the forecastle Master Coppin was singing:

  “Come, bring with a noise, My merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts’ desiring. Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here. The while the meat is shredding For the rare minced pie, And the plums stand by To fill the paste that’s a-kneading.”

  “Ah, well-a-day, Master Jones, it is dull cheer to sing Christmas songs here in the woods, with only the owls and the bears for choristers. I wish I could hear the bells of merry England once more.”

  And down in the cabin Rose Standish was hushing little Peregrine, the first American-born baby, with a Christmas lullaby:

  “This winter’s night I saw a sight— A star as bright as day; And ever among A maiden sung, Lullay, by-by, lullay!

  “This lovely laydie sat and sung, And to her child she said, My son, my brother, and my father dear, Why lyest thou thus in hayd? My sweet bird, Tho’ it betide Thou be not king veray; But nevertheless I will not cease To sing, by-by, lullay!

  “The child then spake in his talking, And to his mother he said, It happeneth, mother, I am a king, In crib though I be laid, For angels bright Did down alight, Thou knowest it is no nay; And of that sight Thou may’st be light To sing, by-by, lullay!

  “Now, sweet son, since thou art a king, Why art thou laid in stall? Why not ordain thy bedding In some great king his hall? We thinketh ’tis right That king or knight Should be in good array; And them among, It were no wrong To sing, by-by, lullay!

  “Mary, mother, I am thy child, Tho’ I be laid in stall; Lords and dukes shall worship me, And so shall kinges all. And ye shall see That kinges three Shall come on the twelfth day; For this behest Give me thy breast, And sing, by-by, lullay!”

  “See here,” quoth Miles Standish, “when my Rose singeth, the children gather round her like bees round a flower. Come, let us all strike up a goodly carol together. Sing one, sing all, girls and boys, and get a bit of Old England’s Christmas before tomorrow, when we must to our work on shore.”

  Thereat Rose struck up a familiar ballad-meter of a catching rhythm, and every voice of young and old was soon joining in it:

  “Behold a silly, tender Babe, In freezing winter night, In homely manger trembling lies; Alas! a piteous sight, The inns are full, no man will yield This little Pilgrim bed; But forced He is, with silly beasts In crib to shroud His head. Despise Him not for lying there, First what He is inquire: An orient pearl is often found In depth of dirty mire.

  “Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish, Nor beasts that by Him feed; Weigh not His mother’s poor attire, Nor Joseph’s simple weed. This stable is a Prince’s court, The crib His chair of state, The beasts are parcel of His pomp, The wooden dish His plate. The persons in that poor attire His royal liveries wear; The Prince Himself is come from Heaven, This pomp is prized there. With joy approach, O Christian wight, Do homage to thy King; And highly praise His humble pomp, Which He from Heaven doth bring.”

  The cheerful sounds spread themselves through the ship like the flavor of some rare perfume, bringing softness of heart through a thousand tender memories.

  Anon, the hour of Sabbath morning worship drew on, and Elder Brewster read from the New Testament the whole story of the Nativity, and then gave a sort of Christmas homily from the words of St. Paul, in the eighth chapter of Romans, the sixth and seventh verses, which the Geneva version thus renders:

  “For the wisdom of the flesh is death, but the wisdom of the spirit is life and peace.

  “For the wisdom of the flesh is enmity against God, for it is not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be.”

  “Ye know full well, dear brethren, what the wisdom of the flesh sayeth. The wisdom of the flesh sayeth to each one, ‘Take care of thyself; look after thyself, to get and to have and to hold and to enjoy.’ The wisdom of the flesh sayeth, ‘So thou art warm, full, and in good liking, take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry, and care not how many go empty and be lacking.’ But ye have seen in the Gospel this morning that this was not the wisdom of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, though he was Lord of all, became poorer than any, that we, through His poverty, might become rich. When our Lord Jesus Christ came, the wisdom of the flesh despised Him; the wisdom of the flesh had no room for Him at the inn.

  “There was room enough always for Herod and his concubines, for the wisdom of the flesh set great store by the
m; but a poor man and woman were thrust out to a stable; and there was a poor baby born whom the wisdom of the flesh knew not, because the wisdom of the flesh is enmity against God.

  “The wisdom of the flesh, brethren, ever despiseth the wisdom of God, because it knoweth it not. The wisdom of the flesh looketh at the thing that is great and strong and high; it looketh at riches, at kings’ courts, at fine clothes and fine jewels and fine feastings, and it despiseth the little and the poor and the weak.

  “But the wisdom of the Spirit goeth to worship the poor babe in the manger, and layeth gold and myrrh and frankincense at his feet while he lieth in weakness and poverty, as did the wise men who were taught of God.

  “Now, forasmuch as our Savior Christ left His riches and throne in glory and came in weakness and poverty to this world, that he might work out a mighty salvation that shall be to all people, how can we better keep Christmas than to follow in his steps? We be a little company who have forsaken houses and lands and possessions, and come here unto the wilderness that we may prepare a resting-place whereto others shall come to reap what we shall sow. And tomorrow we shall keep our first Christmas, not in flesh-pleasing, and in reveling and in fullness of bread, but in small beginning and great weakness, as our Lord Christ kept it when He was born in a stable and lay in a manger.

  “Tomorrow, God willing, we will all go forth to do good, honest Christian work, and begin the first house-building in this our New England—it may be roughly fashioned, but as good a house, I’ll warrant me, as our Lord Christ had on the Christmas Day we wot of. And let us not faint in heart because the wisdom of the world despiseth what we do. Though Sanballat the Horonite, and Tobias the Ammonite, and Geshem the Arabian make scorn of us, and say, ‘What do these weak Jews? If a fox go up, he shall break down their stone wall;’ yet the Lord our God is with us, and He can cause our work to prosper.