Now on this particular Christmas Day the meeting of which I spoke at the beginning of the chapter had a special significance. The fifteen or sixteen persons composing it had met together to celebrate, not Christmas merely, but the birth of a babe who was hourly expected. It would not be fair to say that they were special friends or relations of the parents in a community where no enmity existed and where all were more or less related to one another, better to say that they were just those who could most conveniently be there on a day when every household was celebrating in purest fashion the coming of the Babe of Bethlehem. And these particular friends were in specially bright and happy mood, for to them the expected event bore a double character. So they passed the time in the pleasant exercises of which I have spoken, their petitions being singularly free from suggestions that the mother elect or the coming babe were in any danger, until suddenly the door of the one inner apartment was thrown open, and a splendidly handsome man appeared bearing the welcome infant, which plunged, squalled, and gave other vigorous tokens of his conscious entrance to the world of sense.
As if with one accord and in perfect harmony all burst into the glorious old song “Angels from the realms of glory,” singing with all their heart in their voices. And as the lovely strains of the refrain died away, a sweet voice from within cried, “Thank you all, dear ones; I’m so happy.” A glad response went up from all, and then, after duly admiring the boy, the visitors strolled away, all but two, to spread the glad news among the community that another dear life had arrived to share their happy lot.
Now this was a particularly happy occasion, for the parents of the new comer were, in a society where all were friends, all were stalwart, healthy and handsome, pre-eminently so. Grace, the mother, who had only been married to Philip Adams some eighteen months, had been the acknowledged beauty of the island, no mean honour where all the girls were beautiful. She was also exceedingly beloved by all the women and men alike, nor was there a trace of jealousy of her, that hateful weed that poisons so many lives. Moreover, she was an accomplished musician, and had for a long time filled the post of teacher of that precious acquirement of singing (they had no instruments), with the result that their choir, which comprised nearly the whole of them, would have taken high rank anywhere, except that the vocal exercises were almost wholly confined to hymns, just a very few old songs, such as the “Land o’ the Leal,” “Robin Adair,” “Allan Water,” etc., making up the balance.
Philip, her husband, was a prime favourite too, but for his high manly qualities allied to a simple and gentle nature that invited as well as gave confidence to all. He was awarded, without claiming it, the chief place in the island as the strongest swimmer, the swiftest runner and the most expert boatman, as well as the hardest worker of them all. And those were the qualities that appealed to these children of nature next to their supreme adoration of the good and true. Physically he was easily first of the community, standing six feet six inches on his bare feet, forty-five inches round the chest, with a perfect mouth of teeth; and at the time of the birth of his first child he had never known an hour’s illness in his life.
Thus it will be seen that the entrance of our hero upon life’s arena was one that any monarch might vainly covet for his child, one indeed that left nothing to be desired, even though his surroundings were almost as primitive as those which encompassed the birth of the Babe of Bethlehem. In fact, I feel sure that I shall be accused of painting too idyllic a picture of the conditions which obtained in Norfolk Island at that date, and I hope and believe in a great measure in both Norfolk and Pitcairn Islands to-day; but when I recall the great mass of unbiassed testimony to all these facts which is easily available, I feel much comforted in the belief that my readers will rejoice with me in the knowledge that so happy a people have been and are existing in the simple light of the Gospel.
But we must return to the scene in the house after the guests had gone singing away. The two remaining were John Young, father of the mother, and Christian Adams, father of Philip, their respective wives being in the inner room with the mother. As soon as Philip had handed back his son to the women he returned to the society of the elder men, who were both of them splendid specimens of manhood in the prime of middle age or between forty and fifty. It must be noted in passing that, strange as it may seem to our exotic notions of hospitality, there was nothing set before these guests to drink: the water jar stood in the corner with a coco-nut shell to drink out of; there was no tobacco, there were no chairs, only clean soft mats upon the spotless floor; and yet they were perfectly happy because none of these things had become desirable or necessary to them.
As Philip stretched his great limbs on the mat by the side of his father, the latter looked round at him lovingly and said, “What are you going to call the babe, Philip?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Philip. “I’ve thought of the finest name for him you ever heard, and I want you to guess what it is. I’ve told Grace about it, and she is delighted, says it’s just a splendid idea. Now guess.”
The two elder men ran through practically every name on the island; truly there was not much variety, for, as some of you know, these happy folk have always seemed averse from using any but a certain set of well-known names. But to all their suggestions Philip laughingly shook his head until his father’s brow clouded a little and he said, “I hope you haven’t got any high-falutin names out of some book; it will savour of sinful pride if you have.”
“No, father,” cried Philip, “but what do you say to Christmas Bounty Adams?”