In one of the principal streets of New York stood a boy of some twelve years. His clothing was poor, and too scanty to afford a sufficient protection against the inclemency of the season. Through the visor of his cap, which had become detached in the middle, having a connection only at the two extremities, might be seen his rich brown hair. Notwithstanding the drawback of his coarse and ill-fitting attire, it was evident that he possessed a more than ordinary share of boyish beauty. But just at present his brow is overcast with a shade of anxiety; and his frame trembles with the cold, from which he is so insufficiently shielded.
It is a handsome street, that in which he is standing. On either side he beholds the residences of those on whom Fortune has showered her favors. Bright lights gleam from the parlor windows, and shouts of mirth and laughter ring out upon the night.
All is joy and brightness and festivity within those palace-homes. The snow-flakes fall idly against the window-panes. They cannot chill the hearts within, nor place a bar upon their enjoyment; for this is Christmas Eve, long awaited, at length arrived. Christmas Eve, around which so many youthful anticipations cluster, has enjoyments peculiarly its own, over which the elements, however boisterous, have no control. Yet, to some, Christmas Eve brings more sorrow than enjoyment,—serving only to heighten the contrast between present poverty and discomfort and past affluence.
But all this time we have left our little hero shivering in the street.
Cold and uncomfortable as he was, as well as anxious in mind,—for he had lost his way, and knew not how to find it again,—he could not help forgetting his situation, for the time, in witnessing the scene which met his eye, as, for a moment, he stood in front of a handsome residence on the south side of the street. The curtains were drawn aside; so that, by supporting himself on the railing, he had an unobstructed view of the scene within.
It was a spacious parlor, furnished in a style elegant, but not ostentatious. In the centre of the apartment was a Christmas-tree, brilliant with tapers, which were gleaming from every branch and twig. Gifts of various kinds were hung upon the tree, around which were gathered a group of three children, respectively of eight, six, and four years. The eldest was a winsome fairy, with sparkling eyes and dancing feet. The others were boys, who were making the most of this rare opportunity of sitting up after nine o’clock. At a little distance stood Mr. Dinsmoor and his wife, gazing with unalloyed enjoyment at the happiness of their children.
While Lizzie was indulging in expressions of delight at the superb wax doll which St. Nicholas had so generously provided, her attention was for a moment drawn to the window, through which she distinctly saw the figure of our hero, who, as we have said, had in his eagerness raised himself upon the railing outside, in order to obtain a better view. She uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Why, mother! there’s a boy looking in at the window! Just look at him!”
Mrs. Dinsmoor looked in the direction indicated, and saw the little boy, without his perceiving that attention had been drawn towards him.
“Some poor boy,” she remarked to her husband, in a compassionate tone, “who loses for a moment the sensation of his own discomfort in witnessing our happiness. See how eagerly he looks at the tree! which no doubt appears like something marvellous to him.”