XV.

CHRISTMAS IN NEW YORK.

Dear sisters:--Thanksgiving is the great Yankee jubilee of New England.

Then every living thing makes itself happy, except the turkeys, and geese, and chickens. They, poor martyrs, have been scared into the middle of next week by the yells, and shrieks, and awful cackling of the whole army of winged creatures that sit in ten thousand ovens, with their legs tied, their wings twisted, and the gravy a-dripping down their sides and bosoms, like rain from the eaves of a house. Of course, for that day, every barn-yard in New England goes into mourning. The poor hen is afraid to cackle when she lays an egg, for fear of having a gun cracked at her. Even the fat hogs look melancholy in their pens, for a smell of roasting spare-ribs comes over them, and they seem to ruminate mournfully on some means of saving their own bacon.

Of course, there must be some unhappiness even on a New England Thanksgiving, or earth would forget itself and turn into heaven all at once. Besides, who thinks of the scared gobblers, when he has a plump turkey roasted brown as a berry, scenting the whole house with richness?

I for one could not bring myself to the foul contemplation--excuse the wit--spontaneity is perhaps my fault.

Well, what Thanksgiving is to New England, Christmas-day is to New York.

Everybody goes to meeting in the morning, and everybody takes dinner with everybody else after that. For days before it comes the streets are full of covered wagons, and men and boys, loaded down with bundles, crowd against each other on every doorstep. In fact, half New York just throws itself away in presents on the other half, which pitches just as many back. Thus every street and house is a hubbub of gifts and a blaze of light, from Christmas Eve till after Christmas dinner.

Christmas Eve, dear sisters, belongs to the children. What there is of 'em in these parts, and the jubilation they have, rich and poor, black and white, is enough to warm the heart in one's bosom. There is a gorgeous old Dutch ghost that they think comes prowling over roofs and down chimneys in the night, to bring them presents. This comical old fellow sets up Christmas trees for the rich, and fills woollen stockings for the poor, and makes himself a magnificent old humbug that every child in the city worships and will believe in, though the little misguided souls know at the bottom of their hearts that, somehow or another, this Santa Claus and their own parents have a mysterious understanding and private moneyed transactions, that mix things terribly. Still, they really do believe in the old fellow, just as you and I believe in dreams. It is the last thing a little girl gives up, unless it is her dolls.

Speaking of dolls, I wish you could see the scrumptious little ladies that have been sold here this week. You and I were awful proud if we could get a rag-baby, with drops of ink for eyes, and its cheeks reddened with a little pokeberry juice; but the dolls they sell here are such beauties!--yellow hair, frizzed around the face like thistle-down; rosy cheeks, and eyes that shut with such sweet laziness if you lay the little things down. I declare, it's enough to make one long to be a child again, to take one of these dainty creatures in your arms.

The Sat.u.r.day before Christmas I went out with Cousin E. E. Dempster, to buy presents. She came in her carriage, with the driver and another chap in regimentals on the front seat, outside, and a great white bear-skin inside that just swallowed us up to the waist, as if we had settled down in a snow-bank of fur. Under that was a m.u.f.f for your feet, and some contrivance that must have been a foot-stove hid away, for it was as warm as toast.

Well, sisters, such things may be extravagant, I know; but they are nice, if it wasn't for one's conscience.

The carriage turned down Broadway, which is the street where the most splendid stores are found. It really was worth while to see how that driver--with his fur gloves that made his hands look like a bear's claw--guided them horses in and out, among the omnibus-stages, the carriages, and carts, that just turned the street into Bedlam. It fairly made me catch my breath to see how near the wheel would come to some other wheel, and then just miss it. Every stage that went lumbering by made me give a little scream, it came so near to running us down. But Cousin E. E. sat there buried in the white fur, as cosey as a goose on her nest. It aggravated me, and I asked her if she wasn't afraid nor nothing.

"Oh no," says she, a-leaning back and half shutting her eyes; "it is the coachman's business. I should discharge him if anything happened."

"But you couldn't discharge him after you were mashed to death under them great omnibus wheels," says I.

E. E. smiled. What a calm, lazy smile she has!

"No," says she; "but there would be a fuss, and my name would get into the paper. Everything has its compensation, Cousin Frost."

Before I could answer, the carriage stopped in front of a large, high store, with great, tall windows, all one shiny sheet of gla.s.s on each side of the door, through which you could see lots on lots of silver and gold and precious stones, all in confusion, but, oh, how gorgeous!

"This is Ball, Black & Co.'s," says she, a-going up to the door, which seemed to open of itself, and in we went.

You have read the "Arabian Nights' Entertainment." I remember the time well, because we all got "kept in" after school for being caught at it.

Well, that cave wasn't to be compared to what I saw in Messrs. Ball & Black's store. From floor to roof, all was one dazzle. Gold clocks, with silver horses tramping over 'em; colored men and women--reconstructed figures, I reckon; white stone women, a-standing, sitting down, scrouching themselves together, or riding lions a-horseback, bold as bra.s.s, filled one long room, like a regiment of military trainers. Then there were chandeliers of gla.s.s, in which no end of rainbows seemed to be tangled; dishes of sparkling gla.s.s, set in a frostwork of silver or gold, and--I may as well stop; no genius could give you an idea of the gorgeous things it was my privilege to see in those long rooms.

When we had wandered upstairs and downstairs again, Cousin E. E. stopped at one of the counters, and wanted to look at some rings. As for me I wanted to look at everything. What was one ring compared to whole stars, and bands, and cl.u.s.ters of shiny, white stones, that seemed to have been dug out of a rainbow--all mixed up with other stones, red as blood, green as spring gra.s.s, blue as the sky, and white as snow-crust. Why, sisters, that counter was just one bed of burning sunshine. It dazzled my eyes so that I can hardly remember anything distinct enough to describe it to you.

Well, Cousin E. E. bought her ring, which had a green stone set in it. I saw her hand a lot of money over the counter to pay for it, which riled my conscience a little; but I said nothing, the money being hers, not mine; still, how much good it might have done some missionary society.

Well, out of this store of gorgeousness we went, and got into the carriage again.

Cousin E. E. said she had bought so many things that this was about the last place she had to go to, and, as it was getting pretty near dark, I must go home with her and help fill up the Christmas tree. Cecilia would be dreadfully disappointed if it was not splendid, and they all thought so much of my taste.

I made no objections; why should I? Christmas Day in a boarding-house isn't full of ravishing promises, so I just snuggled down into the white fur again, and let the fellow with bear-skin claws drive me where he had a mind to.

XVI.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

Oh, sisters! there is something touching and splendid in a Christmas tree. Just fancy one of our mountain spruces, towering almost to the ceiling of a room, green as when it was cut from the woods. Think of this tree, hung all over with little wax candles, bunches of pale-green and purple grapes, teinty red apples, golden horns and baskets chuck full of sugar things. Stuffed humming-birds, looking chipper as life.

b.u.t.terflies, that seem to be flying through the green of the trees, and a whole camp-meeting of dolls sitting around the roots, and then tell me if the Christmas time of a New York child isn't like living among the people of a fairy book.

This was the sort of tree set up at Cousin Dempster's, Sunday night before this last Christmas day. Of course, we couldn't think of breaking the Sabbath, but the minute it was sundown, at it we went. Of course, we didn't want the little girl to know what we were a-doing; but the first we knew, in she hopped, as chipper as a humming-bird, and would keep interfering and changing things, in spite of all we could do.

At last, her mother got her dander up and told her to march right off to bed, just as a woman born in Vermont ought to order her own child; but the tantalizing thing just hitched up her shoulder, and said, "She wouldn't go, nor touch to the tree was for her own self. The house was her par's, and she'd do just as she'd a mind to in it."

With that, Cousin E. E. blazed into a pa.s.sion, and took her child by the arm, with a jerk that sent her flying into the hall. Then I heard a screeching and a scrambling up the stairs, and it seemed to me a slap or two--I hope I wasn't mistaken about that--then a door slammed, and Cousin E. E. came downstairs like a house o' fire, with both eyes blazing, and one cheek red as flame. Could it be that the slap I heard was from the other side, or had it been a free fight?

"That girl will be the death of me," says she, walking about like a lion in its cage. "I never knew a worse child."

"I'm sure I never did," says I, with more than my usual spontaneity, for I felt it.

"You never made a greater mistake," says E. E., fierce as a hen hawk.

"It is because she has so much more brains--spirit--genius than any other children. A more splendid character never lived than my daughter Cecilia."

I said nothing; maybe it would have been just as well if I had held my tongue before.

"She is a favorite everywhere," E. E. went on, cooling down like a brick oven after the coals are hauled out.

I said nothing.

"Ahead of girls twice her age," E. E. went on. "She speaks French like a native."

"Is there anything more to put on?" says I.

"Yes," says she, "we will have the presents ready for the morning. I meant to have some of Cecelia's friends here to-morrow night, but she wanted the tree to herself."

With this, E. E. brought an armful of boxes and things from the next room. The first thing she set up against the stem of the tree was a doll, dressed in a splendid silk ball-dress, with a long, sweeping train, and teinty rose-buds in her yellow curls. The blue eyes were natural as life, and her face was just lovely. Then she brought out a Saratoga trunk about as big as a foot-stool, which was crowded full of dolls' dresses, just such as a live young lady would be proud to wear.

"Isn't it beautiful?" says E. E.

"I should think so," says I; "how much did it cost?"

"A hundred and twenty-five dollars," says she. "I sent to Paris for it."

"A hundred and twenty-five dollars?" says I, lifting up both hands; "that would keep a poor family how long?"

"I don't know," says she, short as pie-crust, "but a poor family wouldn't amuse my Cecilia, and these will."