How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever!

To that still moment none would heed Man's doom was linked no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

It is the calm and solemn night: A thousand bells ring out and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness--charmed and holy now!

The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, newborn, The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 25: By Alfred Domett, (d[)o]m'et), an English writer (1811-1887).]

CHRISTMAS EVE AT FEZZIWIG'S[26]

Old Fezziwig in his warehouse laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:--

"Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! d.i.c.k!"

Ebenezer came briskly in, followed by his fellow-'prentice.

"Yo ho, my boys!" said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night. Christmas Eve, d.i.c.k! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up," cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack Robinson."

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it! They charged into the street with the shutters--one, two, three--had 'em in their places--four, five, six--barred 'em and pinned 'em--seven, eight, nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race horses.

"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from his desk, with wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, d.i.c.k! Chirrup, Ebenezer!"

Clear away? There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore. The floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug and warm, and dry and bright, as any ballroom you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers, whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and young women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin the baker. In came the cook, with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having enough to eat from his master. In they all came, one after another--some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling. In they all came, anyhow and everyhow.

Away they all went, twenty couples at once; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them!

When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "Well done!" Then there were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances; and there was cake, and there was a great piece of cold roast, and there was a great piece of cold boiled, and there were mince pies and other delicacies. But the great effect of the evening came after the roast and the boiled, when the fiddler, artful dog, struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Mr. Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with--people who _would_ dance, and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many--aye, four times--old Mr. Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to _her_, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it.... And when Mr.

Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance--advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsy, thread the needle, and back to your place--Fezziwig "cut" so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Christmas Eve at Fezziwig's.]

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs.

Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two apprentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away and the lads were left to their beds--which were under a counter in the back shop.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 26: From "A Christmas Carol," by Charles d.i.c.kens.]

THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY[27]

The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay-- Come give the holly a song; For it helps to drive stern winter away, With his garment so somber and long; It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves of burnished green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even the daisy is seen.

Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly, That hangs over peasant and king; While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 27: By Eliza Cook, an English poet (1818-1889).]

EXPRESSION: Imagine that you see Mr. Fezziwig with his apprentices preparing for the Christmas festivities. What is your opinion of him? Now read the story, paragraph by paragraph, trying to make it as interesting to your hearers as a real visit to Fezziwig warehouse would have been.

THE NEW YEAR'S DINNER PARTY[28]

The Old Year being dead, the New Year came of age, which he does by Calendar Law as soon as the breath is out of the old gentleman's body.

Nothing would serve the youth but he must give a dinner upon the occasion, to which all the Days of the Year were invited.

The Festivals, whom he appointed as his stewards, were mightily taken with the notion. They had been engaged time out of mind, they said, in providing mirth and cheer for mortals below; and it was time that they should have a taste of their bounty.

All the Days came to dinner. Covers were provided for three hundred and sixty-five guests at the princ.i.p.al table; with an occasional knife and fork at the sideboard for the Twenty-ninth of February.

I should have told you that cards of invitation had been sent out. The carriers were the Hours--twelve as merry little whirligig footpages as you should desire to see. They went all round, and found out the persons invited well enough, with the exception of Easter Day, Shrove Tuesday, and a few such Movables, who had lately shifted their quarters.

Well, they were all met at last, four Days, five Days, all sorts of Days, and a rare din they made of it. There was nothing but "Hail!

fellow Day!" "Well met, brother Day! sister Day!" only Lady Day kept a little on the aloof and seemed somewhat scornful. Yet some said that Twelfth Day cut her out, for she came in a silk suit, white and gold, like a queen on a frost-cake, all royal and glittering.

The rest came, some in green, some in white--but Lent and his family were not yet out of mourning. Rainy Days came in dripping, and Sunshiny Days helped them to change their stockings. Wedding Day was there in his marriage finery. Pay Day came late, as he always does. Doomsday sent word he might be expected.

April Fool (as my lord's jester) took upon himself to marshal the guests. And wild work he made of it; good Days, bad Days, all were shuffled together. He had stuck the Twenty-first of June next to the Twenty-second of December, and the former looked like a Maypole by the side of a marrow bone. Ash Wednesday got wedged in betwixt Christmas and Lord Mayor's Day.

At another part of the table, Shrove Tuesday was helping the Second of September to some broth, which courtesy the latter returned with the delicate thigh of a pheasant. The Last of Lent was springing upon Shrovetide's pancakes; April Fool, seeing this, told him that he did well, for pancakes were proper to a good fry-day.

May Day, with that sweetness which is her own, made a neat speech proposing the health of the founder. This being done, the lordly New Year from the upper end of the table, in a cordial but somewhat lofty tone, returned thanks.

They next fell to quibbles and conundrums. The question being proposed, who had the greatest number of followers--the Quarter Days said there could be no question as to that; for they had all the creditors in the world d.o.g.g.i.ng their heels. But April Fool gave it in favor of the Forty Days before Easter; because the debtors in all cases outnumbered the creditors, and they kept Lent all the year.

At last, dinner being ended, the Days called for their cloaks, and great coats, and took their leaves. Lord Mayor's Day went off in a Mist as usual; Shortest Day in a deep black Fog, which wrapped the little gentleman all round like a hedgehog.

Two Vigils, or watchmen, saw Christmas Day safe home. Another Vigil--a stout, st.u.r.dy patrol, called the Eve of St. Christopher--escorted Ash Wednesday.

Longest Day set off westward in beautiful crimson and gold--the rest, some in one fashion, some in another, took their departure.

FOOTNOTE: