Christmas stories

by Mary Jane Holmes

“At last they came into the grounds with a laugh and a bound, and from the ridge-pole of the Brockway house Fatherdy and Motherdy were watching them, while I, in my cage, looked eagerly and curiously at them. How pretty they were in their white dresses and gay sashes—Florence with her pale face and starry eyes of black, which seemed to see everything at once, and Johnnie with his great round blue eyes, the color of the robin’s eggs, and his beautiful golden hair falling in curls about his neck. ‘Black-Eyes’ and ‘Bright-Hair’ I named them at once, and I watched them as they started to run up the gravel walk. Bright-Hair, whose little feet had just commenced to walk, fell down, of course, and bumped his nose and soiled his clean white dress; but he did not seem to mind it at all, but, man-like, got up again and started after Black-Eyes, who had spied a little arbor under an apple-tree, which she decided was just the place for the mud pies she was longing to make, as no child’s life in the country is complete without a trial of making and baking pies. Then she saw me next, and both came rushing to me, and Bright-Hair wanted to ‘take, take,’ and stretched his little hands toward me, and tried to climb the lattice, in the archway of which I was hanging. But I was far above his reach, and looked down upon him fearlessly as he tried in vain to get me.

“What lovely children they were, and those were very happy days when I watched them flitting about the grounds or making their mud pies in the grapevine arbor. I think the cook must have been very good-natured, for she gave up her muffin-rings, and sponge-cake tins, and iron spoons, and a pan and dipper for the bakery, and even brought a box of dirt, which little Florence called flour; and then the mud pie business began in earnest, and Johnnie’s fat white arms were besmeared above his elbows, and his face was covered with mud, and Florence was not much better, as in her long-sleeved gingham apron she worked industriously at her pies and cakes, which were made into wonderful shapes, and baked on a griddle in the sun.

“Sometimes Maggie and Harry, and Grey and Sophie and Louise came to help, but the girls were almost too old for mud pies, and Grey was afraid of soiling his clothes, and Harry fonder of chasing a kitten which had strayed into the yard the day after the children came, and which my mistress kept as a plaything for them, and so Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair had the pies mostly to themselves. It was difficult to tell which Bright-Hair liked the best—the pies or the kitten, which he called the ‘cart,’ or the little robins, which were just learning to fly, and who hopped about in a very stupid way, while little Motherdy watched narrowly and nervously to see that no harm came to them, either from the cat, or Bright-Hair, who always started for them when he saw them in the grass, and seemed greatly disturbed because they flew away just before he had reached them.

“One afternoon there was a garden party for the children, and I think I never saw a finer sight than it was to see all those little girls and boys in their best clothes, which did not look quite so fresh and nice when they went home, as when they came. Oh, what fine times they had playing upon the lawn, and in the different arbors, which were fitted up with dollies, furniture, and called by different names. There was the ‘Doll’s Drawing-room,’ where the larger dolls sat solemn and still in their chairs, and there was a sleeping room for the dolls, and Apple-Tree Hotel and a restaurant near by, where the children had macaroons, and took weak lemonade through straws; but the thing which pleased them most was the wheel chair, in which all the children had a ride before the day was done.

“That afternoon, Motherdy kept her robins out of sight, and did not allow them once to fly down into the grass, lest some harm should befall them. She was not afraid of Bright-Hair nor Black-Eyes, nor Harry, nor Grey, nor Maggie, nor Gifford, she said, but she distrusted some of the larger boys, who ran so fast and made so much noise, and she kept her children at home greatly against their will. They were not afraid, and I think had really become attached to Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair, and so had the Fatherdy and Motherdy birds, who liked to see them round, and thought the grounds were prettier because they were there. I thought so, too, and when at last their father came and took them away, I felt more lonely and desolate than I had done in weeks, while my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Robin, with their four young ones, flew up to the ridge-pole of the house, and watched the huge thing which bore them away until it was out of sight, and there was nothing to be seen but a ring of smoke away to the west, where they were gone. I remember that my mistress came out to the arbor where the children had played, and cried a little as she picked up the spoons, and plates and dishes which had been used for their mud pies, some of which were still baking in the sun.

“I pass rapidly over the remainder of the summer and the fall, when Mr. and Mrs. Robin bade me good-by, and, with their family started for the South. How I longed to go with them, and how many messages I sent to Mr. Red and my own little ones, should they chance to meet them. And then the days were very long and dreary, until little Florence came again to pass the holidays with her auntie, and there was a Christmas-tree in the church, and I was taken there in my cage and hung near the chancel, where I could see all the fine doings which were so new and strange to me. But I soon began to understand it, and watched the ladies with a great deal of interest as they filled the tree with every conceivable toy for the children, who, when it was done, came crowding in, and filled nearly half the church. What carols they sang of the ‘Wonderful Night,’and ‘Jesus of Bethlehem,’ and how the organ filled the church and even made the floor tremble, as the organist played with both hands and feet, and the children’s voices rose louder and clearer as they sang of a Saviour’s birth. I really began to feel quite like a churchman myself, or at least like a church bird, though I did wonder why I was there. But I soon found out, for as name after name was called, and the children came trooping up to receive their gifts, I heard at last little Florence called, and, to my surprise, I was given to her as a Christmas gift from her auntie. I knew that she was very fond of me, and called me a great many pet names, and gave me more things to eat than I could possibly take, but I had never dreamed of belonging to her, and when I found that I was to go with her to her home in Chicago, where Bright-Hair lived, I felt at first sorry to leave my former mistress, who had been so kind to me. And there was Robin, whom I might never see again, and the beautiful garden where I had spent so many pleasant days. But it could not be helped, and within a week or two I was hanging in a bay window in my new home in the city, and I was very happy there, too, with Black-Eyes and Bright-Hair for my companions. Children do cheer up a house wonderfully, and I learned to listen to their merry voices, and wait anxiously for their appearance in the morning. As the winter wore away and the spring came on, little Florence, who was always a pale, delicate child, seemed to grow paler and thinner every day, until at last she refused to eat anything, and in the summer they took us all to their country home, a few miles from the city, where she improved rapidly, and ran about the grounds as merrily as ever. But when the autumn came and the winds blew cold from the lake, she began to droop again, and I heard them say they must take her South, where it was always warm and sunny.

“Then my heart began to beat so fast with wondering if she would take me with her. I half believed she would, she loved me so much—and she did, and we came to the same hotel where I was first a prisoner, and my cage was hung again in the old place, where through the trees of oak and orange I could see glimpses of the river, and the boats as they went up and down.”

“Really, now, it is all quite like a story. Have you seen Robin? and how did you get away?” Mr. Paroquet said, hopping up and down, first on one foot and then on the other, as if he were growing tired.

Mrs. Red noticed this, and hastened on.

“Yes, I have seen Robin; it was up the river, where he is spending the winter with Mrs. Robin, who is as bright, and pretty, and spirited as ever—but I must tell you how I came to be up the river myself. My dear little mistress, Florence, knew that my home was once in this part of the country, and a few days ago, when she gave me my breakfast of seeds and figs, she talked to me in her usual loving way, and said: