I am sure that I at least have received a great deal of kindness in my short life—and particularly since I have ceased to be what you used to call farouche.
23rd.—This day has been remarkably cold and wet, and stormy; nothing could appear more dreary; and when I looked out, I persuaded myself that I felt quite melancholy. We had, notwithstanding, been all as cheerful as usual, and had contrived plenty of amusements for ourselves, in addition to shuttlecock, which warms one so comfortably; but this very dark and gloomy day we could scarcely distinguish our little feathery plaything after three o’clock.
In the evening Mrs. P. taught us a new way of capping verses, which is a little more difficult, but I think much more amusing than the common method. Instead of each person being confined to a single line, as much of a poem is to be repeated as will complete the sense; and the succeeding quotations are all to allude, either to one general subject, or at least to something touched upon by the previous speaker.
I will give you a sample in which we all joined:—
Uncle. “Heap on more coals: the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our merry Christmas still.”
Aunt. Still linger in our northern clime
Some remnants of the good old time;
And still, within our vallies here,
We hold the kindred title dear.
Frederick. Decrepit now, December moves along
The plashy plains.
Caroline. Phœbus arise,
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;
Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed,
That she with roses thy career may spread.
Bertha. Sad wears the hour! heavy and drear
Creeps, with slow pace, the waning year;
And sullen, sullen heaves the blast
Its deep sighs o’er the lonely waste!
Wentworth. Who loves not more the night of June
Than dull December’s gloomy noon;
The moonlight, than the fog of frost?
And can we say which cheats the most?
Mrs. P. Mustering his storms, a sordid host,
Lo! Winter desolates the year.
Mary. Yet gentle hours advance their wing,
And Fancy, mocking winter’s night,
With flowers, and dews, and streaming light
Already decks the new-born spring.
December 24th.—
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.
How happy every one looks in these good Christmas times! Besides those feelings of gratitude and hope, which now come home to every Christian’s breast, it is delightful to see the satisfaction the rich feel in this country in sharing their comforts with the poor.
I need scarcely tell you, who know my uncle and aunt so well, how much they enjoy the pleasure of giving food and clothing and blankets to those who are in want; while to the cottagers who do not require such assistance, they make some useful present, such as a book, or some little article, which is sure to be highly valued, as it marks the approbation of their landlord. Of course the Franklins and our old basket-maker have not been forgotten. My aunt says she likes to make the poor more than commonly comfortable now, that they may remember the season with pleasure.