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 Saturday 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 muff 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!