LITTLE SUNBEAM'S CHRISTMAS STORY.
God bless you, kind gentlemen, for your merry Christmas, and thank you kindly for these nice things; but you must not be angry if I say I'm almost sorry it is Christmas day, for you see it makes me think about last Christmas and the Christmas before.
I am Mr. Willsup's little girl—Mr. Willsup that is dead, you know. I suppose you think I ought to wear black; and so I would, but mother says we are too poor, and we must only mourn in our hearts. I do mourn in my heart, oh! so much, I can't tell you. I don't like to acknowledge it, and it gives me an ugly pain and a dreadful sinking about my heart when I think of it, but it was on a Christmas night that we lost poor father, and I'm afraid he wasn't right, you understand, at the time.
There was a time when father was such a nice, good man, and when we weren't poor, as we are now. We didn't always live up in this cold, bare garret. We used to live in a fine, large house, all to ourselves; and we had a nice garden in front, full of pretty flowers, and a long back porch with a buying running over it; and we had a beautiful parlor where we talked to the visitors only—not to sleep in and cook in as we do here, when we have any fire; and I had the cosiest little bedroom you ever saw, with a little altar in the corner, and on it a statue of the Blessed Virgin, white as snow; and Chip, that's a canary-bird, hung in his cage in the window when it was fine weather, and cat sugar like a good fellow; and then we had silver forks and spoons; and Zephyr, that's the horse, and Dash, our dog, and Pussy, and oh! so many nice things, I never could tell you all in a long time. But we haven't got any of them now, for we are poor, and father's dead, and we must only mourn in our hearts.
I hardly know how to tell you all about it, for though I am little I've seen a good deal; so much bad and trouble that my mind goes quite round and round sometimes thinking over it. If you ever saw poor father after we got to be poor, that wouldn't tell you how he looked as I recollect him. Oh! he was so much changed! I used to be so proud of him, and delighted to go out to walk with him in the street or across the fields; and I used to love him so much—not that I didn't always love him just as much as ever, only I didn't get so much chance to love him, you understand, when he got to stay away from home and be—oh! my heart, how it aches!
Father was a handsome-looking man once, and so smart. Everybody bowed to him in the street. But he got rough and careless, I know, and it made me feel sorry to see him go out without brushing his hat, or asking me to do it for him, as he used to do. And then his face turned to such a different look from old times. It got puffed up and red, and his eyes that I remember were so bright and so deep, for I used to climb up on his knee often, and look 'way down into them, and then he would laugh and ask me if I could see his thoughts, and I almost fancied I could sometimes, and give me a sweet kiss, and call me his darling Susy; but when he changed, you know, his eyes seemed to be, how shall I say it? so flat and soft, and he never seemed to be looking anywhere in particular half the time.
You see it was business and appointments that changed him. When I wished him to stay home and we would all enjoy ourselves—for we had the pleasantest times together, father, mother, and me, and baby, that's dead; and perhaps Dash and Pussy too sometimes, you know—then he would be obliged to excuse himself on account of business and appointments, which I fear were not always with the best of people, for when he said he was going out mother would sigh so deep and so long; and then when he came home late at night I often woke up and heard mother coaxing him and soothing him, and I am sure frequently crying and sobbing, and that would make me cry too, all alone by myself; and so the time went on, till father began to take less and less notice of either mother or of me. As for dear little baby, even when she sickened and died, I don't think he seemed to understand it, and he stood by the grave and looked at the little coffin being let down as if he were dreaming.
It was not long before father left off doing almost any business in the daytime, and only went out at night. I noticed then that we began to sell some of our nice furniture, and our silver forks and spoons. I suppose, as we scarcely ever had any visitors now, we did not need them; but the house began to look bare and desolate and strange, as if it wasn't our house; and the servant quarrelled with mother and left us, and we didn't get another, but mother did the work herself, and it made her sick, for she wasn't used to it. Sam, our man, went away, because after the horse and carriage was sold he had nothing to do. I recollect hearing him say to mother:
"I'd stand by you and Susy, miss, as I've always stood by you, and it's not wages, but times is changed, and I know you ain't able to have me." And then he pulled his hat down over his eyes so far that he had to lift it up again before he could see his way out of the front door; and then ran across the garden and down the street, as if he were running away from somebody. I cried a good deal when mother told me he was not going to come back, for I loved Sam very much, and I'm not I ashamed of if either, though Pinkey Silver said I ought to be, for he was just like a brother to me, and a better brother than Pinkey Silver's brother ever was.
Once, on a Christmas eve, I was going to hang up my stocking, as I had always done, for good Santa Claus to put something in it, when mother burst out into such a violent fit of crying that I was afraid she would die. When she could speak to me she wanted me to let Santa Claus go to some other children this year; but I determined to give him a chance to leave me, say, a doll, if he happened to have one left over, and so I slipped down-stairs in my night-gown, after mother had gone to her room, and hung my stocking up in the old place. Just as I had done it, father came staggering in. He was very bad, and fell over several things. The noise brought mother down-stairs, and father looking at me said so savagely that it sent all the blood to my heart:
"What devilish nonsense is the girl about?"
"Oh! don't blame the child," said mother, turning pale and getting between him and me. "You know it is Christmas eve, John."
Then he swore many awful oaths, and said he didn't care for Christmas, and that he was not going to be taunted with his poverty by his own children, and went stamping around the room in a furious passion. Mother went up to him to coax him, and put her arms around his neck; but he threw her off and knocked her down and, though you mayn't believe it, he actually lifted up his foot and stamped upon her face. That is why mother looks so bad now, with those great scars, but she was very beautiful before that, as everybody knows. When mother fell, Dash sprang up from the hearth where he lay curled up, and barked at father.
"They've all turned against me," said he, "even the dog. But I'll brain you", says he to Dash.
When I saw mother trying to get up, with the blood all streaming down her dress from her face and mouth, I got faint, and don't recollect any more until I woke up, it must have been noon next day, with a dreadful headache. I crept out of bed and went into the hall, and there I heard people talking down in the parlor. It was mother, Mrs. Thrifty, our next-door neighbor, and the doctor. The doctor and Mrs. Thrifty were trying to persuade mother to do something, but she kept saying, "Never! I couldn't—poor John!" and words like that.
Such terrible things had taken place and put my mind so astray that I quite forgot I shouldn't listen; but I soon remembered it, and went away. I wondered where father was, and thought I would look in his room to see if he was there. In the old times, before father changed, I used to be let come in, bright and early, to his room, and climb up on a chair and kiss him before he got up; and he used to call me his "Little Sunbeam" that came creeping in to say it was day. There he was now, lying on the bed without taking off his clothes or muddy boots, in a deep, heavy sleep. I did so want to love him, but I was afraid to wake him up to tell him so, he looked so frightful, gnashing his teeth in his dreams. But I thought I might be "Little Sunbeam" once more, even if he didn't know it, and I got a chair and climbed up and reached my arm over round his neck and gave him a kiss. It did not seem like father's face, but I suppose I had forgotten, it was so long since I kissed him before. Poor father! I began to mourn in my heart for him then, as mother says we must do now. I was afraid to stay there, but before I went away I knelt down beside the bed and prayed the Blessed Virgin to ask God to make him a good man again, and make him give up drinking, and make mother well, and let me be his "Little Sunbeam" as before. Then I slipped back to my room and dressed myself, and mother came up-stairs with her face all bandaged up, and she told me not to say anything to anybody about the last night.
That Christmas day wasn't like any Christmas day I can ever recollect. I didn't find any toys from Santa Claus in my stocking. We didn't go to mass, nor to see the little Jesus in the Crib, nor to hear the children sing around it. Nor we didn't have any plum pudding; and when I went out on the back porch—oh! dear, how my heart does ache—there lay poor old Dash, with his head split open, and quite dead.
You see I had so many things happen that I don't recollect how things turned out, except that mother and I left our house one day, because we got poor, mother said, and then we came here, and she says we are never to go back because our house is sold to strangers, to whom father was in debt. Pinkey Silver told me that the man who keeps the grog-shop where poor father was stabbed owns it now. And I must tell you about that.
It was the next Christmas day after the last one I told you about. We had nothing to eat all day. Toward evening mother told me to go to Mrs. Thrifty's and ask her to please lend us a loaf of bread. Mrs. Thrifty was gone to a party, and so I had to wait until near nine o'clock, when George Thrifty, that's Mrs. Thrifty's son, came in laughing and singing:
"Hie for merry Christmas!
Ho for merry Christmas!
Hurrah! for Christmas day!"
As soon as I told him what I wanted he ran and got a loaf of bread and a pie and some cakes, and gave it all to me; and then he put his hand in his pocket and turned it inside out, but there wasn't anything in it, and says he:
"Oh! little one, I'm as sorry as if I'd lost my grandmother; but I wish I hadn't spent all my Christmas, for I'd like to give you some money."
I thanked him very much and came away. As I was coming home I passed the grog-shop I spoke to you about. I heard loud, angry quarrelling and scuffling going on, and father's voice was among the rest. I was afraid to go away, for I did not like to leave father there to get hurt, and thought I had better go in and persuade him to come home with me. I had no sooner put my head in the door than the then who keeps the store told me to "be off, that he didn't want any beggars around his place."
"I don't want to beg," said I, "I want father," and just as I said that I saw a knife flash in the gaslight, and then—O my poor, mourning heart!—poor father staggered and reeled toward me, and as he saw me he cried out:
"Why, is it you, Little Sunbeam! O my God!" and then he fell down across the sill of the door, at my feet, dead.
You see, dear, good gentlemen, you must not be angry if I'm almost sorry it is Christmas. I know everybody ought to be happy when Christmas comes; and I saw a good many little boys and girls to-day as happy as I used to be, for I've been watching them through a little peep hole I scratched on the frosty window-pane, and it didn't seem real that they should be down there so happy, wishing each other "Merry Christmas," and I up here all alone, mourning in my heart. But you see what has done it all.
Do you think, dear, good gentlemen, that there are any other "Little Sunbeams" like me? Do you think there are any fathers that are changing like mine? Oh! please do run and tell them quick to stop and change back again, or they will get poor like mother and me, and have to live up in a cold, bare garret, and Santa Claus won't come down the chimney on Christmas eve, because their children won't have any stockings to hang up, and they will feel so hungry and so cold in the night. Oh! I could tell them, and mother could tell them, as she tells me, that drink brings a black curse on a family, and that God is angry when he hears the drunkard's children crying for bread. I don't like to cry when I think of that, but I couldn't help it this morning because it is Christmas day.
It's all over now, I do so wish that mother was here to say thank ye for all those nice things, but she won't be home till night, for she's gone over to Mrs. Nabob's to work, where they are to have a great party. But when she comes back I'll tell her all about it, and when we say our prayers to-night we'll ask God to bless the good, kind gentleman who thought about coming here to wish us a Merry Christmas.