CHRISTMAS TREES.
THEIR SHADY SIDE.
The few words I am about to write upon the subject of Christmas Trees for children may perhaps be best illustrated by what originally gave rise to these remarks—namely, the first festivity of the kind attended by my own juveniles. It was given by a friend, whose rooms were narrow in proportion to the numbers of small people she expected, and seniors were therefore not included in the invitations. I was asked, however, to go on the morning of the party to inspect the tree when it was set up and loaded with its treasures. A goodly array they surely formed. Toys of every kind, most of them very costly; for my friend had been regardless of expense. He calculated that eighty pounds would scarcely cover the outlay upon the articles provided. When I considered how easy to please in their playthings children often are; how tenderly the battered doll or dilapidated horse is sometimes cherished; how the sixpenny toy with the charm of novelty upon it, will put out of favour its guinea predecessor—for children, unlike adults, do not estimate things because of their money value—I could not help thinking this was a sad waste of money. The delicate machinery of those expensive mechanical toys would also run great risk of being put out of order or broken among the crowd of eager children, with no parents present to guard them from injury. Altogether, the gorgeous Christmas tree seemed destined to be ‘a thing of beauty and of joy’ for a very short time indeed.
The eventful evening arrived, and great was the excitement. My small daughter was a pretty child, and very comely she looked in her dainty lace-trimmed frock and pink ribbons, when, with her young brother, she came fluttering into my boudoir; nurse, proud and pleased, escorting the pair and carrying their wraps. With true feminine instinct, the little damsel betook herself to the tall pier-glass, surveying her finery therein with much satisfaction. ‘I daresay,’ she said, turning round after a prolonged gaze, ‘that I shall be the nicest-dressed little girl at the party!’
‘No, indeed—that you won’t,’ promptly interposed nurse. ‘Don’t you go to think such a thing, dear. You’ll see, when you get into the room, there’ll be a-many little ladies just as nice as yourself, perhaps even nicer.’ Which speech was a sacrifice of candour on the part of nurse, who was given to regard her young charge as being as good as the best, though she felt called on by duty to nip vanity in the bud.
The morning after a night’s dissipation is generally a trying one, when excitement has passed off and reaction set in. Late hours and hot rooms, fruits and pastries and unwholesome liquids at times when healthy slumbers would otherwise have been the order of the night, are apt to have a damaging effect upon the temper. The present occasion was no exception to the rule. My children were not looking their happiest when they appeared carrying a load of things which they laid roughly down and proceeded to turn over with a listless air.
‘What lovely toys!’ I exclaimed. It was truly an embarras de richesses. There were treasures that, if gradually bestowed, would have driven the recipients wild with delight. ‘What fortunate young people you are!’ I added, examining the glittering heap that they were surveying so discontentedly. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘The little B——s got much better things!’ they murmured.
‘This doll, so beautifully dressed’——
‘Ah, if you had seen the one Mary got!’ pouted the little girl, pushing with her foot the despised doll. ‘It opened and shut its eyes, and had a pearl necklace and embroidered shoes. And Mary was so conceited and disagreeable about it; and so ill-natured, she’d scarcely let me look at it. I hate Mary B——!’
‘You were great friends with her,’ cried the young brother, ‘until she got that better doll; and you were just as conceited, too, about your own, until hers cut it out.’
‘Oh, you needn’t talk, after the way you behaved to poor little Fred H——. Would you believe it, mamma? he quarrelled with that poor child—a little mite of a fellow, not half his size—hustling and bullying him, and wanting to drag away his book that he got for a prize.’
‘No; I did not want to drag it away from him. Don’t tell stories. ’Twas to be an exchange. I got a ridiculous toy-horse—a little rubbishy thing, only fit for a baby like him; and he said he would take it and give me the book—a lovely Robinson Crusoe, that he couldn’t read. And then the stupid little fellow howled when I went to get it from him.’
‘And you flew into a rage, and smashed the toy; and the governess said it was a shame, and’——
‘Oh, come!’ I said, interrupting recriminations that were getting angry, and putting a stop to the dispute.
It was not the moment for impressing moral truths upon the young pair; but while deferring these to a more fitting opportunity, I made my own reflections upon Christmas trees in general and this party in particular.
It was plain that envy, hatred, and much uncharitableness had resulted from it—feelings latent, alas! in our poor human nature, that need not premature development. Discontent too, and rivalry and greed were, it would seem from the nature of the entertainment, liable to be aroused in childish breasts. So I locked away the disparaged prizes, until later on, when the satiety produced by a glut had passed off and envious comparisons were forgotten.
We had merry gatherings of small people at wholesome hours, and happy little feasts, and games and romps in every-day clothes. But this was my children’s first—and last—Christmas Tree.