A Little Book for Christmas by Cyrus Townsend Brady
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Cyrus Townsend Brady >> A Little Book for Christmas
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6 [Illustration: The author making his book, as pictured by his friend,
Will Crawford.]
A Little Book for Christmas
Containing a Greeting, a Word of Advice, Some Personal Adventures, a
Carol, a Meditation, and Three Christmas Stories for All Ages
By
Cyrus Townsend Brady
Author of
"And Thus He Came, A Christmas Fantasy," "Christmas When the West Was
Young," etc., etc.
With Illustrations and Decorations by
Will Crawford
G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1917
DEDICATED
TO
MRS. LEONARD L. HILL
AND HER CHARMING COMPANIONS OF THE AMERICAN CRITERION SOCIETY OF NEW
YORK BY THEIR CHAPLAIN
[Illustration]
PREFACE
Christmas is one of the great days of obligation and observance in the
Church of which I am a Priest; but it is much more than that, it is one
of the great days of obligation and observance in the world. Furthermore
it is one of the evidences of the power of Him Whose birth we
commemorate that its observation is not limited by conditions of race
and creed. Those who fail to see in Him what we see nevertheless see
something and even by imperfect visions are moved to joy. The world
transmutes that joy into blessing, not merely by giving of its substance
but of its soul because men perceive that it is for the soul's good and
because they hope to receive its benefits although they well know that
giving is far better than receiving, in the very words of Him Who gave
us the greatest of all gifts--Himself.
As a Priest of the Church, as a Missionary in the Far West, as the
Rector of large and important parishes I have been brought in touch with
varied life. Christmas in all its phases is familiar to me. The author
of many books and stories as well as the preacher of many sermons, it is
natural that Christmas should have engaged a large part of my attention.
Out of the abundance of material which I have accumulated in the course
of a long ministry and a longer life I have gathered here a sheaf of
things I have written about Christmas; personal adventures, stories
suggested by the old yet ever-new theme; meditations, words of advice
which I am old enough to be entitled to give; and last but not least
good wishes and good will. I might even call this little volume _A Book
of Good Will toward Men_. And so fit it not only for Christmas but for
all other seasons as well.
If it shall add to your joy in Christmas, dear reader, and better still,
if it shall move you to add to the joy of some one else at
Christmas-tide or in any other season, I shall be well repaid for my
efforts and incidentally you will also be repaid for your purchase.
CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY.
THE HEMLOCKS, PARK HILL,
YONKERS, N.Y.
1917
NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The author is in debt to his long-time and greatly beloved friend the
Rev. Alsop Leffingwell for the beautiful musical setting of the little
carol which this book contains.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
I.--A CHRISTMAS GREETING 1
"_Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men_"
II.--FROM A FAR COUNTRY 13
A story for grown-ups
_Being a new variation of an ancient theme_
III.--ON CHRISTMAS GIVING 59
_Being a word of much needed advice_
IV.--IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING 69
A story for girls
_In which it is shown how different the same thing may be_
V.--A CHRISTMAS CAROL 81
_To be sung to the music accompanying it_
VI.--THE LONE SCOUT'S CHRISTMAS 85
A story for boys
_Wherein is set forth the courage of youth_
VII.--LOOKING INTO THE MANGER 115
_A Christmas meditation_
VIII.--CHRISTMAS IN THE SNOWS 141
_Being some personal adventures in the Far West_
IX.--A CHRISTMAS WISH 173
_For everybody everywhere_
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE AUTHOR MAKING HIS BOOK _Frontispiece_
"I SOUGHT DAT SANTY CLAUS TAME DOWN DE CHIMNEY," SAID THE YOUNGER OF THE
TWAIN 46
"I AM SURE, MISS, THAT THEY DO WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS" 76
"THE STARS LOOK DOWN" 84
"THRUSTING HIS TOES INTO THE STRAPS HE STRUCK OUT BOLDLY" 96
"THE WORLD BOWS DOWN TO A MOTHER AND HER CHILD--AND THE MOTHER HERSELF
IS AT THE FEET OF THE CHILD" 124
[Illustration]
A CHRISTMAS GREETING
"_Good Will Toward Men"--St. Luke 11-14._
There was a time when the spirit of Christmas was of the present. There
is a period when most of it is of the past. There shall come a day
perhaps when all of it will be of the future. The child time, the
present; the middle years, the past; old age, the future.
Come to my mind Christmas Days of long ago. As a boy again I enter into
the spirit of the Christmas stockings hanging before my fire. I know
what the children think to-day. I recall what they feel.
Passes childhood, and I look down the nearer years. There rise before
me remembrances of Christmas Days on storm-tossed seas, where waves beat
upon the ice-bound ship. I recall again the bitter touch of
water-warping winter, of drifts of snow, of wind-swept plains. In the
gamut of my remembrance I am once more in the poor, mean, lonely little
sanctuary out on the prairie, with a handful of Christians, mostly
women, gathered together in the freezing, draughty building. In later
years I worship in the great cathedral church, ablaze with lights,
verdant and fragrant with the evergreen pines, echoing with joyful
carols and celestial harmonies. My recollections are of contrasts like
those of life--joy and sadness, poverty and ease.
And the pictures are full of faces, many of which may be seen no more by
earthly vision. I miss the clasp of vanished hands, I crave the sound
of voices stilled. As we old and older grow, there is a note of sadness
in our glee. Whether we will or not we must twine the cypress with the
holly. The recollection of each passing year brings deeper regret. How
many have gone from those circles that we recall when we were children?
How many little feet that pattered upon the stair on Christmas morning
now tread softer paths and walk in broader ways; sisters and brothers
who used to come back from the far countries to the old home--alas, they
cannot come from the farther country in which they now are, and perhaps,
saddest thought of all, we would not wish them to come again. How many,
with whom we joined hands around the Christmas tree, have gone?
Circles are broken, families are separated, loved ones are lost, but the
old world sweeps on. Others come to take our places. As we stood at the
knee of some unforgotten mother, so other children stand. As we
listened to the story of the Christ Child from the lips of some grey old
father, so other children listen and we ourselves perchance are fathers
or mothers too. Other groups come to us for the deathless story. Little
heads which recall vanished halcyon days of youth bend around another
younger mother. Smaller hands than ours write letters to Santa Claus and
hear the story, the sweetest story ever told, of the Baby who came to
Mary and through her to all the daughters and sons of women on that
winter night on the Bethlehem hills.
And we thank God for the children who take us out of the past, out of
ourselves, away from recollections that weigh us down; the children that
weave in the woof and warp of life when our own youth has passed, some
of the buoyancy, the joy, the happiness of the present; the children in
whose opening lives we turn hopefully to the future. We thank God at
this Christmas season that it pleased Him to send His beloved Son to
come to us as a little child, like any other child. We thank God that in
the lesser sense we may see in every child who comes to-day another
incarnation of divinity. We thank God for the portion of His Spirit with
which He dowers every child of man, just as we thank Him for pouring it
all upon the Infant in the Manger.
There is no age that has not had its prophet. No country, no people, but
that has produced its leader. But did any of them ever before come as a
little child? Did any of them begin to lead while yet in arms? Lodges
there upon any other baby brow "the round and top of sovereignty?" What
distinguished Christ and His Christian followers from all the world?
Behold! no mighty monarch, but "a little child shall lead them!"
You may see through the glass darkly, you may not know or understand
the blessedness of faith in Him as He would have you know it, but there
is nothing that can dim the light that radiates from that birth in the
rude cave back of the inn. Ah, it pierces through the darkness of that
shrouding night. It shines to-day. Still sparkles the Star in the East.
He is that Star.
There is nothing that can take from mankind--even doubting mankind--the
spirit of Christ and the Christmas season. Our celebrations do not rest
upon the conclusions of logic, or the demonstrations of philosophy; I
would not even argue that they depend inevitably or absolutely upon the
possession of a certain faith in Jesus, but we accept Christmas,
nevertheless; we endeavour to apply the Christmas spirit, for just once
in the year; it may be because we cannot, try as we may, crush out
utterly and entirely the divinity that is in us that makes for God. The
stories and tales for Christmas which have for their theme the hard
heart softened are not mere fictions of the imagination. They rest upon
an instinctive consciousness of a profound philosophic truth.
What is the unpardonable sin, I wonder? Is it to be persistently and
forever unkind? Does it mean perhaps the absolute refusal to accept the
principle of love which is indeed creation's final law? The lessons of
the Christmastide are so many; the appeals that now may be made to
humanity crowd to the lips from full minds and fuller hearts. Might we
not reduce them all to the explication of the underlying principle of
God's purpose to us, as expressed in those themic words of love with
which angels and men greeted the advent of the Child on the first
Christmas morning, "Good will toward men?"
Let us then show our good will toward men by doing good and bringing
happiness to someone--if not to everyone--at this Christmas season. Put
aside the memories of disappointments, of sorrows that have not
vanished, of cares that still burden, and do good in spite of them
because you would not dim the brightness of the present for any human
heart with the shadows of old regrets. Do good because of a future which
opens possibilities before you, for others, if not for yourselves.
Brethren, friends, all, let us make up our minds that we will be kindly
affectioned one to another in our homes and out of them, on this
approaching Christmas day. That the old debate, the ancient strife, the
rankling recollection, the sharp contention, shall be put aside, that
"envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness" shall be done away
with. Let us forgive and forget; but if we cannot forget let us at least
forgive. And so let there be peace between man and man at Christmas--a
truce of God.
Let us pray that Love shall come as a little child to our households.
That He shall be in our hearts and shall find His expression in all that
we do or say on this birthday of goodness and cheer for the world. Then
let us resolve that the spirit of the day shall be carried out through
our lives, that as Christ did not come for an hour, but for a lifetime,
we would fain become as little children on this day of days that we may
begin a new life of good will to men.
Let us make this a new birthday of kindness and love that shall endure.
That is a Christmas hope, a Christmas wish. Let us give to it the
gracious expression of life among men.
[Illustration]
FROM A FAR COUNTRY
[Illustration]
_Being a New Variation of an Ancient Theme_
A STORY FOR GROWN-UPS
I
"_A certain man had two sons_"--so begins the best and most famous story
in the world's literature. Use of the absolute superlative is always
dangerous, but none will gainsay that statement, I am sure. This story,
which follows that familiar tale afar off, indeed, begins in the same
way. And the parallelism between the two is exact up to a certain point.
What difference a little point doth make; like the little fire, behold,
how great a matter it kindleth! Indeed, lacking that one detail the
older story would have had no value; it would not have been told;
without its addition this would have been a repetition of the other.
When the modern young prodigal came to himself, when he found himself no
longer able to endure the husks of the swine like his ancient exemplar,
when he rose and returned to his father because of that distaste, he
found no father watching and waiting for him at the end of the road!
Upon that change the action of this story hangs. It was a pity, too,
because the elder brother was there and in a mood not unlike that of his
famous prototype.
Indeed, there was added to that elder brother's natural resentment at
the younger's course the blinding power of a great sorrow, for the
father of the two sons was dead. He had died of a broken heart.
Possessed of no omniscience of mind or vision, he had been unable to
foresee the long delayed turning point in the career of his younger son
and death came too swiftly to enable them to meet again. So long as he
had strength, that father had stood, as it were, at the top of the hill
looking down the road watching and hoping.
And but the day before the tardy prodigal's return he had been laid away
with his own fathers in the God's acre around the village church in the
Pennsylvania hills. Therefore there was no fatted calf ready for the
disillusioned youth whose waywardness had killed his father. It will be
remembered that the original elder brother objected seriously to fatted
calves on such occasions. Indeed, the funeral baked meats would coldly
furnish forth a welcoming meal if any such were called for.
For all his waywardness, for all his self-will, the younger son had
loved his father well, and it was a terrible shock to him (having come
to his senses) to find that he had returned too late. And for all his
hardness and narrowness the eldest son also had loved his father
well--strong tribute to the quality of the dead parent--and when he
found himself bereft he naturally visited wrath upon the head of him who
he believed rightly was the cause of the untimely death of the old man.
As he sat in the study, if such it might be called, of the departed,
before the old-fashioned desk with its household and farm and business
accounts, which in their order and method and long use were eloquent of
his provident and farseeing father, his heart was hot within his breast.
Grief and resentment alike gnawed at his vitals. They had received vivid
reports, even in the little town in which they dwelt, of the wild doings
of the wanderer, but they had enjoyed no direct communication with him.
After a while even rumour ceased to busy itself with the doings of the
youth. He had dropped out of their lives utterly after he passed over
the hills and far away.
The father had failed slowly for a time, only to break suddenly and
swiftly in the end. And the hurried frantic search for the missing had
brought no results. Ironically the god of chance had led the young man's
repentant footsteps to the door too late.
"Where's father?" cried John Carstairs to the startled woman who stared
at him as if she had seen a ghost as, at his knock, she opened the door
which he had found locked, not against him, but the hour was late and it
was the usual nightly precaution:
"Your brother is in your father's study, sir," faltered the servant at
last.
"Umph! Will," said the man, his face changing. "I'd rather see father
first."
"I think you had better see Mr. William, sir."
"What's the matter, Janet?" asked young Carstairs anxiously. "Is father
ill?"
"Yes, sir! indeed I think you had bettor see Mr. William at once, Mr.
John."
Strangely moved by the obvious agitation of the ancient servitor of the
house who had known him from childhood, John Carstairs hurried down the
long hall to the door of his father's study. Always a scapegrace,
generally in difficulties, full of mischief, he had approached that door
many times in fear of well merited punishment which was sure to be meted
out to him. And he came to it with the old familiar apprehension that
night, if from a different cause. He never dreamed that his father was
anything but ill. He must see his brother. He stood in no little awe of
that brother, who was his exact antithesis in almost everything. They
had not got along particularly well. If his father had been inside the
door he would have hesitated with his hand on the knob. If his father
had not been ill he would not have attempted to face his brother. But
his anxiety, which was increased by a sudden foreboding, for Janet, the
maid, had looked at him so strangely, moved him to quick action. He
threw the door open instantly. What he saw did not reassure him. William
was clad in funeral black. He wore a long frock coat instead of the
usual knockabout suit he affected on the farm. His face was white and
haggard. There was an instant interchange of names.
"John!"
"William!"
And then--
"Is father ill?" burst out the younger.
"Janet said--"
"Dead!" interposed William harshly, all his indignation flaming into
speech and action as he confronted the cause of the disaster.
"Dead! Good God!"
"God had nothing to do with it."
"You mean?"
"You did it."
"I?"
"Yes. Your drunken revelry, your reckless extravagance, your dissipation
with women, your unfeeling silence, your--"
"Stop!" cried the younger. "I have come to my senses, I can't bear it."
"I'll say it if it kills you. You did it, I repeat. He longed and prayed
and waited and you didn't come. You didn't write. We could hear nothing.
The best father on earth."
The younger man sank down in a chair and covered his face with his
hands.
"When?" he gasped out finally.
"Three days ago."
"And have you--"
"He is buried beside mother in the churchyard yonder. Now that you are
here I thank God that he didn't live to see what you have become."
The respectable elder brother's glance took in the disreputable younger,
his once handsome face marred--one doesn't foregather with swine in the
sty without acquiring marks of the association--his clothing in rags.
Thus errant youth, that was youth no longer, came back from that far
country. Under such circumstances one generally has to walk most of the
way. He had often heard the chimes at midnight, sleeping coldly in the
straw stack of the fields, and the dust of the road clung to his person.
Through his broken shoes his bare feet showed, and he trembled visibly
as the other confronted him, partly from hunger and weakness and
shattered nerves, and partly from shame and horror and for what reason
God only knew.
The tall, handsome man in the long black coat, who towered over him so
grimly stern, was two years older than he, yet to the casual observer
the balance of time was against the prodigal by at least a dozen years.
However, he was but faintly conscious of his older brother. One word and
one sentence rang in his ear. Indeed, they beat upon his consciousness
until he blanched and quivered beneath their onslaught.
"Dead--you did it!"
Yes, it was just. No mercy seasoned that justice in the heart of either
man. The weaker, self-accusing, sat silent with bowed head, his
conscience seconding the words of the stronger. The voice of the elder
ran on with growing, terrifying intensity.
"Please stop," interposed the younger. He rose to his feet. "You are
right, Will. You were always right and I was always wrong. I did kill
him. But you need not have told me with such bitterness. I realized it
the minute you said he was dead. It's true. And yet I was honestly
sorry. I came back to tell him so, to ask his forgiveness."
"When your money was gone."
"You can say that, too," answered the other, wincing under the savage
thrust. "It's as true as the rest probably, but sometimes a man has to
get down very low before he looks up. It was that way with me. Well,
I've had my share and I've had my fling. I've no business here.
Good-bye." He turned abruptly away.
"Don't add more folly to what you have already done," returned William
Carstairs, and with the beginnings of a belated pity, he added, "stay
here with me, there will be enough for us both and--"
"I can't."
"Well, then," he drew out of his pocket a roll of bills, "take these and
when you want more--"
"Damn your money," burst out John Carstairs, passionately. He struck
the other's outstretched hand, and in his surprise, William Carstairs
let the bills scatter upon the floor. "I don't want it--blood money.
Father is dead. I've had mine. I'll trouble you no more."
He turned and staggered out of the room. Now William Carstairs was a
proud man and John Carstairs had offended him deeply. He believed all
that he had said to his brother, yet there had been developing a feeling
of pity for him in his heart, and in his cold way he had sought to
express it. His magnanimity had been rejected with scorn. He looked down
at the scattered bills on the floor. Characteristically--for he
inherited his father's business ability without his heart--he stooped
over and picked them slowly up, thinking hard the while. He finally
decided that he would give his brother yet another chance for his
father's sake. After all, they were brethren. But the decision came too
late. John Carstairs had stood not on the order of his going, but had
gone at once, none staying him.
William Carstairs stood in the outer door, the light from the hall
behind him streaming out into the night. He could see nothing. He called
aloud, but there was no answer. He had no idea where his younger brother
had gone. If he had been a man of finer feeling or quicker perception,
perhaps if the positions of the two had been reversed and he had been
his younger brother, he might have guessed that John might have been
found beside the newest mound in the churchyard, had one sought him
there. But that idea did not come to William, and after staring into the
blackness for a long time, he reluctantly closed the door. Perhaps the
vagrant could be found in the morning.
No, there had been no father waiting for the prodigal at the end of the
road, and what a difference it had made to that wanderer and vagabond!
II
We leave a blank line on the page and denote thereby that ten years have
passed. It was Christmas Eve, that is, it had been Christmas Eve when
the little children had gone to bed. Now midnight had passed and it was
already Christmas morning. In one of the greatest and most splendid
houses on the avenue two little children were nestled all snug in their
beds in a nursery. In an adjoining room sound sleep had quieted the
nerves of the usually vigilant and watchful nurse. But the little
children were wakeful. As always, visions of Santa Claus danced in their
heads.
They were fearless children by nature and had been trained without the
use of bugaboos to keep them in the paths wherein they should go. On
this night of nights they had left the doors of their nursery open. The
older, a little girl of six, was startled, but not alarmed, as she lay
watchfully waiting, by a creaking sound as of an opened door in the
library below. She listened with a beating heart under the coverlet;
cause of agitation not fear, but hope. It might be, it must be Santa
Claus, she decided. Brother, aged four, was close at hand in his own
small crib. She got out of her bed softly so as not to disturb Santa
Claus, or--more important at the time--the nurse. She had an idea that
Saint Nicholas might not welcome a nurse, but she had no fear at all
that he would not be glad to see her.
Need for a decision confronted her. Should she reserve the pleasure she
expected to derive from the interview for herself or should she share it
with little brother? There was a certain risk in arousing brother. He
was apt to awaken clamant, vociferous. Still, she resolved to try it.
For one thing, it seemed so selfish to see Santa Claus alone, and for
another the adventure would be a little less timorous taken together.
Slipping her feet into her bedroom slippers and covering her nightgown
with a little blanket wrap, she tip-toed over to brother's bed.
Fortunately, he too was sleeping lightly, and for a like reason. For a
wonder she succeeded in arousing him without any outcry on his part. He
was instantly keenly, if quietly, alive to the situation and its
fascinating possibilities.
"You must be very quiet, John," she whispered. "But I think Santa Claus
is down in the library. We'll go down and catch him."
Brother, as became the hardier male, disdained further protection of his
small but valiant person. Clad only in his pajamas and his slippers, he
followed sister out the door and down the stair. They went hand in hand,
greatly excited by the desperate adventure.
What proportion of the millions who dwelt in the great city were
children of tender years only statisticians can say, but doubtless there
were thousands of little hearts beating with anticipation as the hearts
of those children beat, and perhaps there may have been others who were
softly creeping downstairs to catch Santa Claus unawares at that very
moment.
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