A Little Book for Christmas by Cyrus Townsend Brady

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Let us therefore on this Holy Natal Day, from which the whole world
dates its time, begin on our knees before that altar which is at once
manger, cross, throne. Let us join thereafter in holy cheer of praise
and prayer and exhortation and Christmas carol, and then let us go forth
with a Christmas spirit in our hearts resolved to communicate it to the
children of men, and not merely for the day but for the future. To make
the right use of these our privileges, this it is to save the world.

In this spirit, therefore, so far as poor, fallible human nature permits
him to realize it and exhibit it, the author wishes all his readers
which at present comprise his only flock--

A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

[Illustration]

IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_In Which it is Shown how Different the Same Things may Be_

_A Story for Girls_

In Philadelphia the rich and the poor live cheek by jowl--or rather,
back to back. Between the streets of the rich and parallel to them, run
the alleys of the poor. The rich man's garage jostles elbows with the
poor man's dwelling.

In a big house fronting on one of the most fashionable streets lived a
little girl named Ethel. Other people lived in the big house also, a
father, a mother, a butler, a French maid, and a host of other servants.
Back of the big house was the garage. Facing the garage on the other
side of the alley was a little, old one-story-and-a-half brick house.
In this house dwelt a little girl named Maggie. With her lived her
father who was a labourer; her mother, who took in washing; and half a
dozen brothers, four of whom worked at something or other, while the two
littlest went to school.

Ethel and Maggie never played together. Their acquaintance was simply a
bowing one--better perhaps, a smiling one. From one window in the big
playroom which was so far to one side of the house that Ethel could see
past the garage and get a glimpse of the window of the living-room in
Maggie's house, the two little girls at first stared at each other. One
day Maggie nodded and smiled, then Ethel, feeling very much frightened,
for she had been cautioned against playing with or noticing the children
in the alley, nodded and smiled back. Now neither of the children felt
happy unless they had held a pantomimic conversation from window to
window at some time during the day.

It was Christmas morning. Ethel awoke very early, as all properly
organized children do on that day at least. She had a beautiful room in
which she slept alone. Adjacent to it, in another room almost as
beautiful, slept Celeste, her mamma's French maid. Ethel had been
exquisitely trained. She lay awake a long time before making a sound or
movement, wishing it were time to arise. But Christmas was strong upon
her, the infection of the season was in her blood. Presently she slipped
softly out of bed, pattered across the room, paused at the door which
gave entrance to the hall which led to her mother's apartments, then
turned and plumped down upon Celeste.

"Merry Christmas," she cried shaking the maid.

To awaken Celeste was a task of some difficulty. Ordinarily the French
woman would have been indignant at being thus summarily routed out
before the appointed hour but something of the spirit of Christmas had
touched her as well. She answered the salutation of the little girl
kindly enough, but as she sat up in bed she lifted a reproving finger.

"But," she said, "you mus' keep ze silence, Mademoiselle Ethel. Madame,
votre maman, she say she mus' not be disturb' in ze morning. She haf
been out ver' late in ze night and she haf go to ze bed ver' early. She
say you mus' be ver' quiet on ze Matin de Noel!"

"I will be quiet, Celeste," answered the little girl, her lip quivering
at the injunction.

It was so hard to be repressed all the time but especially on Christmas
Day of all others.

"Zen I will help you to dress immediatement, and zen Villiam, he vill
call us to see ze tree."

Never had the captious little girl been more docile, more obedient.
Dressing Ethel that morning was a pleasure to Celeste. Scarcely had she
completed the task and put on her own clothing when there was a tap on
the door.

"Vat is it?"

"Mornin', Miss Celeste," spoke a heavy voice outside, a voice subdued to
a decorous softness of tone, "if you an' Miss Ethel are ready, the tree
is lit, an'--"

"Ve air ready, Monsieur Villiam," answered Celeste, throwing open the
door dramatically.

Ethel opened her mouth to welcome the butler--for if that solemn and
portentous individual ever unbent it was to Miss Ethel, whom in his
heart of hearts he adored--but he placed a warning finger to his lip
and whispered in an awestruck voice:

"The master, your father, came in late last night, Miss, an' he said
there must be no noise or racket this morning."

Ethel nodded sadly, her eyes filling at her disappointment; William then
marched down the hall with a stately magnificence peculiar to butlers,
and opened the door into the playroom. He flung it wide and stood to one
side like a grenadier, as Celeste and Ethel entered. There was a
gorgeous tree, beautifully trimmed. William had bought the tree and
Celeste's French taste had adorned it. It was a sight to delight any
child's eyes and the things strewn around it on the floor were even more
attractive. Everything that money could buy, that Celeste and William
could think of was there. Ethel's mother had given her maid carte
blanche to buy the child whatever she liked, and Ethel's father had
done the same with William. The two had pooled their issue and the
result was a toyshop dream. Ethel looked at the things in silence.

"How do you like it, Miss?" asked William at last rather anxiously.

"Mademoiselle is not pleased?" questioned the French woman.

"It--it--is lovely," faltered the little girl.

"We haf selected zem ourselves."

"Yes, Miss."

"Didn't mamma--buy anything--or papa--or Santa?"

"Zey tell us to get vatever you vould like and nevair mind ze money."

"It was so good of you, I am sure," said Ethel struggling valiantly
against disappointment almost too great to bear. "Everything is
beautiful but--I--wish mamma or papa had--I wish they were here--I'd
like them to wish me a Merry Christmas."

The little lip trembled but the upper teeth came down on it firmly. The
child had courage. William looked at Celeste and Celeste shrugged her
shoulders, both knowing what was lacking.

"I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry Christmas, an'"--the
butler began bravely, but the situation was too much for him. "There
goes the master's bell," he said quickly and turned and stalked out of
the room gravely, although no bell had summoned him.

"You may go, Celeste," said Ethel with a dignity not unlike her mother's
manner.

[Illustration: "I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry
Christmas."]

The maid shrugged her shoulders again, left the room and closed the
door. Everything was lovely, everything was there except that personal
touch which means so much even to the littlest girl. Ethel was used
to being cared for by others than her parents but it came especially
hard on her this morning. She turned, leaving the beautiful things as
they were placed about the tree, and walked to the end window whence she
could get a view of the little house beyond the garage over the back
wall.

There was a Christmas tree in Maggie's house too. It wouldn't have made
a respectable branch for Ethel's tree, and the trimmings were so cheap
and poor that Celeste would have thrown them into the waste basket
immediately. There were a few common, cheap, perishable little toys
around the tree on the floor but to Maggie it was a glimpse of heaven.
She stood in her little white night-gown--no such thing as dressing for
her on Christmas morning--staring around her. The whole family was
grouped about her, even the littlest brothers, who went to school
because they were not big enough to work, forgot their own joy in
watching their little sister. Her father, her mother, the big boys all
in a state of more or less dishevelled undress stood around her,
pointing out first one thing and then another which they had been able
to get for her by denying themselves some of the necessities of life.
Maggie was so happy that her eyes brimmed, yet she did not cry. She
laughed, she clapped her hands, and kissed them all round and finally
found herself, a big orange in one hand, a tin trumpet in the other,
perched upon her father's broad shoulders leading a frantic march around
the narrow confines of the living-room. As she passed by the one window
she caught a glimpse of the alley. It had been snowing throughout the
night and the ground was white.

"Oh," she screamed with delight, "let me see the snow on Christmas
morning."

Her father walked over to the window, parted the cheap lace curtains,
while Maggie clapped her hands gleefully at the prospect. Presently she
lifted her eyes and looked toward the other window high up in the air,
where Ethel stood, a mournful little figure. Maggie's papa looked too.
He knew how cheap and poor were the little gifts he had bought for his
daughter.

"I wish," he thought, "that she could have some of the things that child
up there has."

Maggie however was quite content. She smiled, flourished her trumpet,
waved her orange, but there was no answering smile on Ethel's face now.
Finally the wistful little girl in the big house languidly waved her
hand, and then Maggie was taken away to be dressed lest she should catch
cold after the mischief was done.

"I hope that she's having a nice Christmas," said Maggie, referring to
Ethel.

"I hope so too," answered her mother, wishing that her little girl
might have some of the beautiful gifts she knew must be in the great
house.

"Whatever she has," said Maggie, gleefully, "she can't have any nicer
Christmas than I have, that you and papa and the boys gave me. I'm just
as happy as I can be."

Over in the big house, Ethel was also wishing. She was so unhappy since
she had seen Maggie in the arms of her big, bearded father, standing by
the window, that she could control herself no longer. She turned away
and threw herself down on the floor in front of the tree and buried her
face in her hands bursting into tears.

It was Christmas morning and she was all alone.

[Illustration]

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

[Illustration]

"_Christmas Then and Now_"

The Stars look down
On David's town,
While angels sing in Winter night;
The Shepherds pray,
And far away
The Wise Men follow guiding light.

Little Christ Child
By Mary Mild
In Manger lies without the Inn;
Of Man the Son,
Yet God in One,
To save the lost in World of Sin.

Still stars look down
On David's town
And still the Christ Child dwells with men,
What thought give we
To such as He,
Or souls who live in Sin as then?

Show we our love
To Him above
By offering others' grief to share;
And Christmas cheer
For all the year
Bestow to lighten pain and care.

"The Stars Look Down."

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Words by Music by
CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY. ALSOP LEFFINGWELL.

_Moderato_.

[Illustration: [Music]

The Stars look down
On David's town,
While angels sing in Winter night;
The shepherds pray,
And far away,
The Wise Men follow Guiding light.
Little Christ Child,
By Mary Mild,
In manger lies without the inn;
Of Man the Son,
Yet God in One,
To save the lost in
world of sin.

Still stars look down
on David's town
And still the Christ Child dwells with men.
What thought give we
To such as He,
Or souls who live in Sin, as then?
Show we our love
To Him above
By off'ring others' grief to share,
And Christmas cheer
For all the year
Bestow to lighten Pain and Care.]

THE LONE SCOUT'S CHRISTMAS

_Wherein is Set Forth the Courage and Resourcefulness of Youth_

_A Story for Boys_

Every boy likes snow on Christmas Day, but there is such a thing as too
much of it. Henry Ives, alone in the long railroad coach, stared out of
the clouded windows at the whirling mass of snow with feelings of
dismay. It was the day before Christmas, almost Christmas Eve. Henry did
not feel any too happy, indeed he had hard work to keep down a sob. His
mother had died but a few weeks before and his father, the captain of a
freighter on the Great Lakes, had decided, very reluctantly, to send him
to his brother who had a big ranch in western Nebraska.

Henry had never seen his uncle or his aunt. He did not know what kind
of people they were. The loss of his mother had been a terrible blow to
him and to be separated from his father had filled his cup of sorrow to
the brim. His father's work did not end with the close of navigation on
the lakes, and he could not get away then although he promised to come
and see Henry before the ice broke and traffic was resumed in the
spring.

The long journey from the little Ohio town on Lake Erie to western
Nebraska had been without mishap. His uncle's ranch lay far away from
the main line of the railroad on the end of the branch. There was but
one train a day upon it, and that was a mixed train. The coach in which
Henry sat was attached to the end of a long string of freight cars.
Travel was infrequent in that section of the country. On this day Henry
was the only passenger.

The train had been going up-grade for many miles and had just about
reached the crest of the divide. Bucking the snow had become more and
more difficult; several times the train had stopped. Sometimes the
engine backed the train some distance to get headway to burst through
the drift. So Henry thought nothing of it when the car came to a gentle
stop.

The all-day storm blew from the west and the front windows of the car
were covered with snow so he could not see ahead. Some time before the
conductor and rear brakeman had gone forward to help dig the engine out
of the drift and they had not come back.

Henry sat in silence for some time watching the whirling snow. He was
sad; even the thought of the gifts of his father and friends in his
trunk which stood in the baggage compartment of the car did not cheer
him. More than all the Christmas gifts in the world, he wanted at that
time his mother and father and friends.

"It doesn't look as though it was going to be a very merry Christmas for
me," he said aloud at last, and then feeling a little stiff from having
sat still so long he got up and walked to the front of the car.

It was warm and pleasant in the coach. The Baker heater was going at
full blast and Henry noticed that there was plenty of coal. He tried to
see out from the front door; but as he was too prudent to open it and
let in the snow and cold he could make out nothing. The silence rather
alarmed him. The train had never waited so long before.

Then, suddenly, came the thought that something very unusual was wrong.
He must get a look at the train ahead. He ran back to the rear door,
opened it and standing on the leeward side, peered forward. The engine
and freight cars were not there! All he saw was the deep cut filled
nearly to the height of the car with snow.

Henry was of a mechanical turn of mind and he realized that doubtless
the coupling had broken. That was what had happened. The trainmen had
not noticed it and the train had gone on and left the coach. The break
had occurred at the crest of the divide and the train had gone rapidly
down hill on the other side. The amount of snow told the boy that it
would not be possible for the train to back up and pick up the car. He
was alone in the wilderness of rolling hills in far western Nebraska.
And this was Christmas Eve!

It was enough to bring despair to any boy's heart. But Henry Ives was
made of good stuff, he was a first-class Boy Scout and on his scout coat
in the trunk were four Merit Badges. He had the spirit of his father,
who had often bucked the November storms on Lake Superior in his great
six-hundred-foot freighter, and danger inspired him.

He went back into the car, closed the door, and sat down to think it
over. He had very vague ideas as to how long such a storm would last and
how long he might be kept prisoner. He did not even know just where he
was or how far it was to the end of the road and the town where his
uncle's ranch lay.

It was growing dark so he lighted one of the lamps close to the heater
and had plenty of light. In doing so he noticed in the baggage rack a
dinner pail. He remembered that the conductor had told him that his wife
had packed that dinner pail and although it did not belong to the boy he
felt justified in appropriating it in such circumstances. It was full of
food--eggs, sandwiches, and a bottle of coffee. He was not very hungry
but he ate a sandwich. He was even getting cheerful about the situation
because he had something to do. It was an adventure.

While he had been eating, the storm had died away. Now he discovered
that it had stopped snowing. All around him the country was a hilly,
rolling prairie. The cut ran through a hill which seemed to be higher
than others in the neighbourhood. If he could get on top of it he might
see where he was. Although day was ending it was not yet dark and Henry
decided upon an exploration.

Now he could not walk on foot in that deep and drifted snow without
sinking over his head under ordinary conditions, but his troop had done
a great deal of winter work, and strapped alongside of his big,
telescope grip were a pair of snow-shoes which he himself had made, and
with the use of which he was thoroughly familiar.

"I mustn't spoil this new suit," he told himself, so he ran to the
baggage-room of the car, opened his trunk, got out his Scout uniform and
slipped into it in a jiffy. "Glad I ran in that 'antelope dressing
race,'" he muttered, "but I'll beat my former record now." Over his
khaki coat he put on his heavy sweater, then donned his wool cap and
gloves, and with his snow-shoes under his arm hurried back to the rear
platform. The snow was on a level with the platform. It rose higher as
the coach reached into the cut. He saw that he would have to go down
some distance before he could turn and attempt the hill.

He had used his snow-shoes many times in play but this was the first
time they had ever been of real service to him. Thrusting his toes into
the straps he struck out boldly.

[Illustration: "Thrusting his toes into the straps he struck out
boldly."]

To his delight he got along without the slightest difficulty although
he strode with great care. He gained the level and in ten minutes found
himself on the top of the hill, where he could see miles and miles of
rolling prairie. He turned himself slowly about, to get a view of the
country.

As his glance swept the horizon, at first it did not fall upon a single,
solitary thing except a vast expanse of snow. There was not a tree even.
The awful loneliness filled him with dismay. He had about given up when,
in the last quarter of the horizon he saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile
away, what looked like a fine trickle of blackish smoke that appeared to
rise from a shapeless mound that bulged above the monotonous level.

"Smoke means fire, and fire means man," he said, excitedly.

The sky was rapidly clearing. A few stars had already appeared.
Remembering what he had learned on camp and trail, he took his bearing
by the stars; he did not mean to get lost if he left that hill. Looking
back, he could see the car, the lamp of which sent broad beams of light
through the windows across the snow.

Then he plunged down the hill, thanking God in his boyish heart for the
snow-shoes and his knowledge of them.

It did not take him long to reach the mound whence the smoke rose. It
was a sod house, he found, built against a sharp knoll, which no doubt
formed its rear wall. The wind had drifted the snow, leaving a half-open
way to the door. Noiselessly the boy slipped down to it, drew his feet
from the snow-shoes and knocked. There was a burst of sound inside. It
made his heart jump, but he was reassured by the fact that the voices
were those of children. What they said he could not make out; but,
without further ado, he opened the door and entered.

It was a fairly large room. There were two beds in it, a stove, a table,
a chest of drawers and a few chairs. From one of the beds three heads
stared at him. As each head was covered with a wool cap, drawn down over
the ears, like his own, he could not make out who they were. There were
dishes on the table, but they were empty. The room was cold, although it
was evident that there was still a little fire in the stove.

"Oh!" came from one of the heads in the bed. "I thought you were my
father. What is your name?"

"My name," answered the boy, "is Henry Ives. I was left behind alone in
the railroad car about a mile back, and saw the smoke from your house
and here I am."

"Have you brought us anything to burn?" asked the second head.

"Or anything to eat?" questioned the third.

"My name is Mary Wright," said the first speaker, "and these are my
brothers George and Philip. Father went away yesterday morning with the
team, to get some coal and some food. He went to Kiowa."

"That's where I am going," interrupted Henry.

"Yes," continued Mary, "I suppose he can't get back because of the snow.
It's an awful storm."

"We haven't anything to eat, and I don't know when father will be back,"
said George.

"And it's Christmas Eve," wailed Philip, who appeared to be about seven.

He set up a howl about this which his brother George, who was about
nine, had great difficulty in quieting.

"We put the last shovelful of coal in the stove," said Mary Wright,
"and got into bed to keep warm."

"I'll go outside while you get up and dress," said Henry considerately,
"and then we will try and get to the car. It is warm there, and there is
something to eat."

"You needn't go," said the girl; "we are all dressed." She threw back
the covers and sprang out of bed. She was very pretty and about Henry's
own age, he discovered, although she was pale and haggard with cold and
hunger.

"Goody, goody!" exclaimed little Philip, as his feet landed on the
floor. "Maybe we'll have some Christmas, too."

"Maybe we will," said Henry, smiling at him. "At least we will have
something to eat."

"Well, let's start right away then," urged George.

This brought Henry face to face with a dilemma. "I have only one pair
of snow-shoes," he said at last, "and you probably don't know how to use
them anyway, and you can't walk on the snow."

"I have a sled," suggested George.

"That won't do," said Henry. "I've got to have something that won't sink
in the snow--that will lie flat, so I can draw you along."

"How about that table?" said the girl.

"Good suggestion," cried Henry.

It was nothing but a common kitchen table. He turned it upside down,
took his Scout axe from its sheath, knocked the legs off, fastened a
piece of clothesline to the butts of two of them.

"Now if I could have something to turn up along the front, so as not to
dig into the snow," he said, "it would be fine." He thought a moment.
"Where is that sled of yours, George?"

"Here," said George, dragging it forth. The runners curved upwards.
Henry cut them off, in spite of Philip's protests. He nailed these
runners to the front of the table and stretched rope tightly across them
so that he had four up-curves in front of the table.

"Now I want something to stretch on these things, so as to let the sled
ride over the snow, instead of digging into it," he said to the girl.

She brought him her father's old "slicker." Henry cut it into suitable
shape and nailed and lashed it securely to the runners and to the table
top. Now he had a flat-bottomed sled with a rising front to it that
would serve. He smiled as he looked at the queer contrivance and said
aloud: "I wish Mr. Lesher could see that!"

"Who is Mr. Lesher?" asked George.

"Oh, he's my Scoutmaster back in Ohio. Now come on!"

He opened the door, drew the sled outside, pushed it up on the snow and
stepped on it. It bore his weight perfectly.

"It's all right," he cried. "But it won't take all three of you at
once."

"I'll wait," said Mary, "you take the two boys."

"Very well," said Henry.

"You'll surely come back for me?"

"Surely, and I think it's mighty brave of you to stay behind. Now come
on, boys," he said.

Leaving Mary filled with pleasure at such praise, he put the two boys
carefully into the sled, stepped into his snow-shoes and dragged them
rapidly across the prairie. It was quite dark now, but the sky was clear
and the stars were bright. The storm had completely stopped. He
remembered the bearings he had taken by the stars, and reached the high
hill without difficulty. Below him lay the car.

Presently he drew up before the platform. He put the boys in the car,
told them to go up to the fire and warm themselves and not to touch
anything. Then he went back for the girl.

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