Ah! that is all changed now. Now that I am old, and have little left to give, you are willing to turn me off for another. Such ingratitude is hard to bear. It is that which has bleached my locks, and chilled me to the heart; for I have given you the very best I had. Think, now. Look back,—away back to the time when I was in my prime. Did I not give you those lovely spring children of mine? Don’t you remember my young April, so tender, so full of feeling, laughing and crying in a breath? She brought the crocuses and violets, but seemed too bashful to offer them. And do you so soon forget my pretty, smiling May, with her apple-blossoms and her singing-birds? My June brought you green carpets inlaid with buttercups and daisies, and her warm-hearted sisters gave you all their beautiful flowers.
And then my later children, how generous they were! how free of their gifts? Think of all the apples they gave you; think of the abundance of ripened grain,—grain which will last till the new friend that is coming shall be able to furnish more. And fortunate that it is so; for let me tell you that it will be a long time before this young upstart, this inexperienced New Year, can do much for you in the way of providing.
But, although I have done my very best, you are impatient to see me off. Now, why this haste? Why treat me so coldly? When once gone, you will see me no more. Other friends leave you in sadness to return in joy; but I go, never to return.
And in this pack I carry all the joys and the merry times of ’77: you can never have them back again. Do you grieve for that? Take comfort, then, in the thought that I carry, also, all the sorrows of ’77. But there is something which cannot be taken away,—memory. All the days and hours of ’77 are in this pack; but the memory of them remains. Be thankful; for if memory, too, could be carried away,—why, then, in looking back, what a dreary blank there would be!
Well, children, I am going. Good-by! Do you wonder that I go off so smilingly? ’Tis because Old Santa Claus—dear, jolly Old Santa Claus—comes to cheer me in these last days. Ah, were it not for him, how gloomy would these last days be! But it is not permitted me to be sad. He comes with his jingling of bells, and his mirth, and his “Merry, merry Christmas!” and so, thanks to him, I leave you with a smiling face.
And now farewell forever! But when young ’78 comes, happy and bright, laden with good wishes, and rejoicing your hearts with his beautiful gifts, look back, I pray you, and bestow one thought upon poor old ’77.
Whole Word in Pantomime:[1] Farewell.
Scene.—Inside of room. When the curtain rises, a young sailor is seen taking leave of his mother. Both are standing. Her head is slightly turned away; her right hand is clasped in his. With the left she holds a handkerchief to her eyes, as if weeping. Her little boy stands near, holding by her dress, and looking up in the sailor’s face. His playthings are scattered on the floor. Faint noise of singing heard, as if in the distance: it is the singing of sailors, and seems to come nearer and nearer, and very near. Sailor presses the mother’s hand in both of his; catches up his little brother, and kisses him; then rushes out. Mother sinks down, as if overcome with grief, and sits with face bowed upon both hands. Little boy looks out at the door. Singing grows fainter and fainter, and dies away in the distance, while curtain falls slowly.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] If preferred, the pantomime may be substituted for the Old-Year’s Address.