“Tender and true, friend,
Yet all unavailing
To guard or to give you
One gift that can bless.
Should sorrow o’ertake
Or pain be assailing,
I could not assure you
One trial the less.
“Tender and true friend
As One—the all-loving,
Whose arm will encompass
Should evil be near.
Cling closely to Him—in firm
Faith in His proving
Tender and true, friend,
Through all the New Year.”
I hardly think you deserve to know what kind of time I had. You should not, only I want to tell so much I can’t keep from it! I was invited to a friend’s Christmas Eve tree party. She has a lovely, cozy little apartment. The tree was “a thing of beauty,” and we guests made a jam that occupied every available square inch of standing room. The elders proved to be more childish than the children themselves, clutching their presents as generous “Old Chris.” called their names, and screaming and laughing with glee at and with each other. Not the tree, nor the presents, nor the toilets, nor “the goodies” overcame me; but one superb, inexpressible specimen of the genus homo—an Apollo in silver locks, the frosty though kindly glow of at least seventy years. One sweeping glance sufficed for all the rest of that hilarious throng. Then I settled myself in the roomiest, deepest, sinkiest of spring-cushioned “arm-chairs,” and fastened my gaze on him, to wander no more while he stayed. His wife did not come. How I did wish she had, so I could see what manner of woman had dared to mate with that grand creature.
We, my hostess and myself, had a New Year’s Eve gathering. Nothing so commonplace as a tree, though. We put our heads together to devise something unique, and with that complacency characteristic of the “salt of the earth,” we feel assured we were a success. Here’s the program. See if you like it.
Salutatory, an impromptu poem, most carefully written out beforehand and read by me. This elicited great applause. Some amusing little characterizations by other ladies of our household. A metrical version of one of the many legends of that half-saint, half-angel of a woman—no, I don’t know where the woman came in—Elizabeth of Hungary, by my hostess, who is a woman of much culture and many gifts. This was received, as it should have been, with the hush and silence of deep feeling. Music and games. Then a fishing frolic; a big pond in which every guest was invited to fish, as he or she had a bite, which meant a present. You can believe the fun waxed “uproarious.” I was in the pond to do the biting and put the fishes on the hook; but didn’t I make them tug! Some of them got so many bites they sang out, “Fishes, you needn’t bite any more if you don’t want to.” Just on the stroke of midnight, madame recited a moan of farewell to the passing year, and in the next breath hallelujahed into the New. We all joined in at the top of our lungs, and immediately turned to each other with hearty hand-shakings, warm wishes and some kisses. Enjoying thus with much merry and kindly talk that held us together till 2 a. m. Then I spoke the lines I have copied for you and we broke up. We had our salon ornamented with American and French flags and evergreens from Fountainbleau.
They have a custom here of keeping “Twelfth Night.” I never heard of it elsewhere. The shops are full of cakes baked expressly, each one containing “a charm,” as tiny as possible. A nice china pig, or “baby” most frequently; at least I saw nothing else. If a gentleman gets the charm, he names some lady for his “queen” throughout the year; if a lady, she names her “king.” I got the “baby,” the weest of manikins in china. For the rest, the days come and go as swiftly as so many rays of light, scarcely here till they are gone. I have grown to begrudge the hours I have to give to sleep. I never go to bed till midnight, oftenest later, recklessly sacrificing my “beauty sleep!”—and then with the utmost reluctance, and in the main feeling as if just risen from refreshing slumber. It takes, I can tell you, all my awe of the laws of physiology to force me to that.
“Heaven of the weary head,
Bed, bed, delicious bed!”
I am not writing a book, painting a picture, composing an opera, inventing a new fangled bit of machinery, or even devising a new fashion in woman’s gear! No, nor am I planning any extra wickedness; have not committed such sins as banish sleep, and yet I shun sleep. What’s the trouble then? Of the most serious kind, because beyond remedy. Not all the narcotics known to science can lull me to that acceptance of “tired nature’s sweet restorer” that should come as naturally as breathing and loving; it is this, it is this:
“The years they are going,
And ah! I am growing
Quite old, yes, quite old, Gaffer Gray.”