We speak of the merry month of May, and why not of the merry month of December? Well, there is an answer to that question; but, before I give it, I will consider what may be said on the bright side. True it is, that many of nature’s processes are now veiled from human sight; but not less true is it that they are secretly progressing. The seed-corn is garnered in the earth; the earth itself in many spots is sweetening; the leafless trees are preparing to burst into verdure next spring; and, had we power to observe what is going on in their secret vessels, how much should we find to delight and surprise us! what multitudes of contrivances of which we have no knowledge, and even too delicate and complex to be comprehended! Meanwhile, many of the trees, when unlopped, have forms so beautiful as to present a delicate tracery, reminding one of black lace (though that is a miserable comparison), when seen in the distance against the clear, grey sky. There is little to do in the field; but the flail resounds noisily within the barn; and the horses and cattle enjoy the comfortable warmth of the straw-yard. Then, within-doors, how snug and sociable is the fire-side! How the solitary enjoy the book, and the domestic party the long talks they had no leisure for in the summer! Christmas is coming; and is not that season proverbially merry, save where there is some sad domestic bereavement or affliction? How gay the shops are! with winter fabrics, and warm furs, and brilliant ribbons; with jolly sirloins, plump poultry, heaps of golden oranges, rosy apples, and all kinds of winter fruit! How gladly we think that the young folks will soon come home for the holidays! “I call to mind,” says the genial Southey,
“The schoolboy days, when, in the falling leaves
I saw, with eager hope, the pleasant sign
Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took
My wooden calendar, and counting up
Once more its often-told account, smoothed off
Each day, with more delight, the daily notch.”
Dearly do schoolboys love a hard winter, because it brings sliding, and skating, and snowballing in its train. Is not December, then, a merry month? Well, there is a reverse to the picture. In the first place, we poor, creaky invalids feel his cold touch in every joint, and at every shortening breath drawn from our wheezing chests, and very early in the month get shut up by the peremptory doctor; unless, indeed, we are too poor to be laid aside from the active toil that wins daily bread. Let the invalid with every comfort around her, think of those who have neither warm fires, nor warm clothing, nor warm bedding, nor warm food. See their sad, pinched faces, shrinking forms, chilblained hands, and ill-protected feet; think of their desolate dwellings, where the rain drips through the roof, where the broken pane is stuffed with rags, and where, for many hours daily, no fire burns on the hearth; and then refuse them sympathy and aid if you are not of the same flesh and blood, children of the same Creator! Oh, the time is drawing near when we may indeed warm our own hearts by warming the bodies of others! by putting shoes with warm stockings on bare feet, thick tweed on shoulders, and flannel on chests, coals in the grate, and wholesome, nourishing food on the table! Here is our encouragement—“And thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee, but thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.”
As I look up from my writing on this 4th of December, I see a blue, cloudless sky shining above steep, chalky hills that are clothed with the short, sweet turf loved by sheep, below which are green meadows, cut with dykes, to drain them during the winter; leafless hedges and scattered clumps of trees, principally oaks, still clad in a good many yellow leaves. The tiled roofs of many scattered cottages in the lanes are now visible, that cannot be seen in the summer: all looks bright and cheerful. Such is hardly a scene to remind one of the real severity of winter:—
“When all abroad the wind doth blow,