Bell-Bird.
It is Christmas Eve! and the long soft shadows of a summer night are quickly falling on the garden, fields, and meadows of a New Zealand home. The feathery edge of the forest-clad hills behind the house stands out dark against the yellow light still lingering in the west; undulating grassy slopes creep down to where the graceful tree-ferns form a billowy mass of light and shade near the deep, dark creek, that divides the fields. The murmuring of the stream, in hidden depths below, rises like a lullaby, while countless shrill crickets sing their merry carols amid the trees. No sound of joyous bells is borne upon the air, as on the English Christmas Eves of pleasant memory, only the Bell-bird’s[1] chimes from the bush, and the distant cow-bell’s tinkle mid the shadowy Manuka clumps, where sentinel cabbage-palms[2] up-raise their helmeted heads erect and stern. Fair is that house built up by English hands in the New World; fair, not with the slowly gathered beauty of centuries gone by, the clinging ivy and the gaily painted lichens on the stones, but with the quick rich growth of the southern lands. The quaint low wooden gables are wreathed with creepers of many a shade and hue, and over the broad verandah and open casement doors, the scarlet passion-flowers gleam like burning stars amid their masses of glossy leaves, and the green egg-shaped fruit of its more modest cousin hang in rich profusion on the trellised arbour near by, the scene of many a childish frolic and out-door tea-party. Sweet scents arise from the nooks of the garden which is left half wild, where many an English flower carefully tended, tells of hearts in which still cling fond memories of a childhood’s home afar. Through the sombre pines that edge the spreading lawn, are seen the last long silvery streaks, quivering on the distant sea; overhead the busy starlings flit to and fro, or, perching on some tapering branch, give forth their short-lived song, while, now and again, the harsh call of the brown owl pierces the deepening shades. But suddenly is heard the sound of merry voices, and two little children run down the winding path leading to the house, then stop near to a rose-bed rich in bloom.
“It’s Christmas Eve, you know, little Cis,” said Hal, a merry strong-limbed, dark-eyed boy between nine and ten years old, to his little sister who stood near.
She was a quaint little maid of seven in whose wavy golden hair one might well think the summer sunbeams lingered; her large blue eyes, dark lashed, in her solemn moments looked like clear deep wells, but could dance with light and laughter at a tale of fun. Hers was a sweet child-nature “so easily moved to smiles or tears,” so full of sympathy was her loving little heart.
“It is Christmas Eve, you know, little Cis, and we must get some nice flowers to give mother to-morrow morning, mustn’t we?”
“Yes, Hal, and I want to find a lot of dear little red rose-buds,—oh! here’s one, and here’s another, I’m so glad!”
“Why red ones, Cis?”
“’Cos mother likes red ones, I know; she told me about the prickly tree with red berries on it, which she used to gather bunches of at Christmas time when she was a little girl like me,—I expect she gave some to her mother, and I wonder if she pricked her fingers as I do mine—never mind, I am not going to cry, Hal, because it’s for mother. Do the thorns hurt you, Hal?”
“Yes, Cis, but I am a boy you know, and boys don’t cry; I am getting white rose-buds, because in mother’s tales about Christmas, there is always a lot of white snow. I wonder why God does not send us any snow here!”