“Ah, ha!” chuckled Mammy, “Mr. Vivart gives you a lesson in manners.”
Hans, the German gardener, whose stories about Rhine castles and Black Forest witches and fairies were even more relished than the fruit and flowers he brought upstairs every morning, said: “I’m sure Kris Kringle will come; he might forget some children, but not White House ones, though I think it strange he does not hang his pretty things on a green tree instead of stuffing them in ugly stockings. How I wish you could see the beautiful trees which the boys and girls in Germany trim and light on Christmas Eve, and where they gather to sing songs, play games and exchange presents. Heaven seems very near at those times.”
Mrs. Andrew Jackson
“Your German trees may be lovely, Hans,” said Carita, a Mexican embroideress occasionally employed by my mother, “but they can’t compare with the fancy lamps which the Rio Grande ninitos hang on poles and bushes near their homes on Christmas Eve, and beneath which they find the next morning the beautiful gifts left for them by the Infant Jesus on His way from heaven to the Virgin’s arms.”
She often told us stories descriptive of Mexican customs, and had just commenced one about the Alcalde’s daughter when Mammy called us to put on our wraps to go riding with the President, who wished us to meet him at the front door. Something like the “Divinity that doth hedge a king” invested him in our eyes, and always granting, often anticipating, his wishes, we never dared oppose or disobey his orders. While waiting, George, the coachman, told us of some bad children who found in their Christmas stockings a bundle of peach tree switches wrapped in paper labeled: “To be applied when spanking has proved insufficient,” and said he hoped we would fare better. Now we had on several occasions come in close contact with peach tree switches, but we did not thank George for reminding us of the stinging experiences.
“To the Orphan Asylum,” said the President on entering the carriage, in which were several packages, and up in front was a basket of good things. He often drove there, taking me, cousin Rachel (his adopted son’s daughter and the apple of his eye), and John along. It was at that time a small, modest structure with a limited number of patients, but its foundress, Mrs. Van Ness, had secured for it some influential patrons, among whom President Jackson, to whom all orphans were objects of tender solicitude, was not the least zealous. The following conversation enlivened the ride:
John: “Uncle” (the name affectionately applied to him by his wife’s nieces and nephews), “did you ever see Sancta Claus?”
The President, eyeing John curiously over his spectacles: “No, my boy; I never did.”
John: “Mammy thinks he’ll not come to-night. Did you ever know him to behave that way?”