it that I have stories to tell, all from my ownobservation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwellin fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like asummer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse youto transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human storiesbelong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you.The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an`old-fashioned one,'--though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very coldChristmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again--ah, it _was_ cold! Iwas a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, andin spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyedit; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with thehouses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure ofa breakfast in front of some window.
"There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, asthe owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and myfriends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For theterrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be foundthere, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morningour wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in greatexcitement.
"`The Manor House is open again,' he told me. `Come quickly. Throughthe windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms,and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt theywill not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should beglad of some crumbs.'
"I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house hadquite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in oneroom a large party was assembled at breakfast. We--for several of uswere there--hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but nonotice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away,remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look inagain some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought ofthem. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird,and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so longabsent, for I am of what some people call a `curious' disposition; Imyself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful.
"I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. Therewere several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls,very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhatdiscontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was overand all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with ayoung lady and stood looking out.
"Oh, how cold it is," said one of them shivering, "I wish papa and mammahad not come back to England. I liked India much better."
"So did I," said the other little girl. "I don't want to go a walk whenit's so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don't know what todo in the house. I'm tired of all our toys. We shall have new onesnext week when Christmas Day comes; that's a good thing."
The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In herheart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and shefelt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had themlong.
"I don't care much for Christmas except for the toys," said the firstlittle girl. "Do you, Miss Meadows?"
"Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear," she said. "And I think in your heartyou really care for it too--and Ivy also. You both know _why_ it shouldbe so cared for."
"Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to carefor it," said Norna, looking a little ashamed. "But it's different whenyou've lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories ofChristmas when she was little, that sounded very nice--all about carols,and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts.But we haven't any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at yourown home?"
Miss Meadows' eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away forhalf an instant and then she seemed all right again.
"I had lots of brothers and sisters," she said, "and that's even betterthan cousins."
It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a fewdays with Norna and Ivy.
"I wish we had!" sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got.
"But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up,"said Miss Meadows. "Perhaps it is too soon to settle about schoolfeasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?"
"No," sighed Ivy. "Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we.It's rubbish giving each other presents just to say they're presents."
"Yes," said Miss Meadows. "I think it is. But--"
She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly,--
"I do believe there's a real little robin redbreast. Don't let'sfrighten him away."
The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different.
"It's the first _real_ one we've ever seen," said she and Nornatogether.
"Poor little man!" said their governess; "he must be hungry to be sotame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure yourmamma won't mind. This terrace is a splendid place."
The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a fewmoments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread allready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks,of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and Iheard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself:
"I wish I could find out some little service for others that they coulddo, even this first Christmas," she said.
"They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I ameven grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs."
She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I couldhelp her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hearwhat it was.
I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way todo so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither.But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. Itwas a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of whichthe home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In thiscottage lived a couple and their two children--a boy and a girl. Theyhad always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little placelooked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy androsy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accidentto the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; andthough some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do tokeep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage everyday; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me.But this morning--not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast atthe Manor House--there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of thelittle kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. Nofire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched togetheron the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from eachother. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when theysaw me at the window they brightened up a little.
"There's robin," said Joyce. "Poor robin! we've nothing for you thismorning."
A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but acorner was torn, and so I could hear what they said.
"No indeed," said Jem; "we've had nothing ourselves--not since yesterdayat dinner time. And it is so cold."
I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I thinkthey understood me.
"Mother's gone to Farmer Bantry's," said Joyce, as if she was glad tohave some one--"even a bird," some folk who know precious little aboutus would say--to tell her troubles to. "They're cleanin' up forChristmas, and she'll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, shesaid. So we're tryin' to go to sleep again to make the time pass."
"There was two sixpences yesterday," said Jem, mournfully; "and onewould 'a got some coal, and t'other some bread and tea. But the doctorsaid as father must have so
mefin'--" (Jem was only five and Joyceeight)--"queer stuff--I forget the name--to wunst. So mother she wentto the shop, and father's got the stuff, and he's asleep; but we've nothad nuffin'."
"And Christmas is coming next week, mother says," Joyce added. "LastChristmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner."
I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort oftone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them betterthan by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirpsof sympathy, I flew off.
"Robin
An Enchanted Garden: Fairy Stories Page 14
