"Well," said Kindly, who had an organizing head, "we'll have a Children's Party. I'll ask all under fifteen, and if some older ones come in, no matter; I hope they will. Of course the fathers and mothers are to come and look on, and have a real good time. We will have them in the New Hall. I wonder why they call it the New Hall; there never was any old one. We will have some plain cake and lemonade, music, dancing, little games, and above all a CHRISTMAS TREE. There shall be gifts on it for all the children under twelve. The people who are well to do will give something to buy the gifts for the children of their own standing, and you and I will make up what is wanting for the poor ones. We'll have little games as well as a dance. Mrs. Toombs,—Sally Wilkins that used to be,—the minister's wife, has a deal of skill in setting little folks to play; she has not had much use for it, poor thing, since her marriage, six or seven years ago. What a wild romp she used to be! but as good as Sunday all the time. Sally will manage the games; I'll see to the dancing."
"The children can't dance," said Uncle Nathan; "you know there never was a dancing-school in town."
"Yes they can," said Kindly. "The girls will dance by nature, and the boys will fall in, rather more clumsily of course. But it will do well enough for us. Besides, they have all had more practice than you think for. You shall get the pine-tree, or hemlock, and buy the things,—I'll tell you what, to-morrow morning,—and I will manage the rest."
The next morning it was fine, bright weather; and the garments blossomed white on the clotheslines all round the village; and with no small delight the housewives looked on these perennial hanging-gardens, periodically blooming, even in a New England winter. Uncle Nathan mentioned his sister's plan to one of his neighbors, who said, "Never'll go here!" "But why not?" "Oh, there's Deacon Willberate and Squire Allen are at loggerheads about the allusion to slavery which Rev. Mr. Freeman made in his prayer six months ago. They had a quarrel then, you know, and have not spoken since. If the Deacon likes it, the Squire won't, and vice versa. Then, Colonel Stearns has had a quarrel and a lawsuit with John Wilkinson about that little patch of meadow. They won't go; each is afraid of meeting the other. Half the parish has some miff against the other half. I believe there never was such a place for little quarrels since the Dutch took Holland. There's a tempest in every old woman's teapot. Widow Seedyweedy won't let her daughters come, because, as she says, you are a temperance man, and said, at the last meeting, that rum made many a widow in Soitgoes, and sent three quarters of the paupers to the almshouse. She declared, the next day, that you were 'personal, and injured her feelings; and 'twas all because you was rich and she was a poor lone widow, with nothing but her God to trust in.'"
"Oh, dear me," said Uncle Nathan, "it is a queer world,—a queer world; but after all it's the best we've got. Let us try to make it better still."
Aunt Kindly could not sleep much all night for thinking over the details of the plan. Before morning it all lay clear in her mind. Monday afternoon she went round to talk with the neighbors and get all things ready. Most of them liked it; but some thought it was "queer," and wondered "what our pious fathers would think of keeping Christmas in New England." A few had "religious scruples," and would do nothing about it. The head of the Know-nothing lodge said it was "a Furrin custom, and I want none o' them things; but Ameriky must be ruled by 'Mericans; and we'll have no Disserlutions of the Union, and no Popish ceremonies like a Christmas Tree. If you begin so, you'll have the Pope here next, and the fulfilment of the seventeenth chapter of Revelations."
Hon. Jeduthan Stovepipe also opposed it. He was a rich hatter from Boston, and a "great Democrat;" who, as he said, had lately "purchased grounds in Soitgoes, intending to establish a family." He "would not like to have Cinderella Jane and Edith Zuleima mix themselves up with widow Wheeler's children,—whose father was killed on the railroad five or six years before,—for their mother takes in washing. No, Sir," said he; "it will not do. You have no daughters to marry, no sons to provide for. It will do well enough for you to talk about 'equality,' about 'meeting the whole neighborhood,' and that sort of thing; but I intend to establish a family; and I set my face against all promiscuous assemblages of different classes of society. It is bad enough on Sundays, when each man can sit buttoned up in his own pew; but a festival for all sorts and conditions of children,—its is contrary to the genius of our republican institutions." His wife thought quite differently; but the poor thing did not dare say her soul was her own in his presence. Aunt Kindly went off with rather a heavy heart, remembering that Jeduthan was the son of a man sent to the State Prison for horse stealing, and born in the almshouse at Bankton Four Corners, and had been bound out as apprentice by the selectmen of the town.
At the next house, Miss Robinson liked it; but hoped she "would not ask that family o'niggers,—that would make it so vulgar;" and she took a large pinch of Scotch snuff, and waddled off to finish her ironing. Mrs. Deacon Jackson—she was a second wife, with no children—hoped that "Sally Bright would not be asked, because her father was in the State Prison for passing counterfeit money; and the example would be bad, not friendly to law and order." But as Aunt Kindly went out, she met the old Deacon himself,—one of those dear, good, kind souls, who were born to be deacons of the Christian religion, looking like one of the eight beatitudes; and as you stopped to consider which of that holy family he most resembled, you found he looked like all of them. "Well!" said he, "now ma'am, I like that. That will be a Christian Christmas,—not a Heathen Christmas. Of course you'll ask all the children of 'respectable people;' but I want the poor ones, too. Don't let anybody frighten you from asking Sip Tidy's children. I don't know that I like colored folks particularly, but I think God does, or he would not have colored 'em, you know. Then do let us have all of Jo Bright's little ones. When I get into the State Prison, I hope somebody'll look after my family. I know you will. I don't mean to go there; but who knows? 'If everybody had his deserts, who would escape a flogging?' as the old saying is. Here's five dollars towards expenses; and if that ain't enough, I'll make it ten. Elizabeth will help you make the cake, &c. You shall have as many eggs as you want. Hens hain't laid well since Thanksgiving; now they do nothing else."
Captain Weldon let one iron cool on the anvil, and his bellows sigh out its last breath in the fire and burn the other iron, while he talked with Aunt Kindly about it. The Captain was a widower, about fifty years old, with his house full of sons and daughters. He liked it. Patty, his oldest daughter, could help. There were two barrels of apples, three or four dollars in money, and more if need be. "That is what I call the democracy of Christianity," said the good man. "I shall see half the people in the village; they'll be in here to get their horses corked before the time comes, and I'll help the thing along a little. I'll bring the old folks, and we'll sing some of the old tunes; all of us will have a real old-fashioned good time." Almira, his daughter, about eighteen years old, ran out to talk with Kindly, and offered to do all sorts of work, if she would only tell her what. "Perhaps Edward will come, too," said Kindly. "Do you want him?" asked Almira. "Oh, certainly; want all the LOVERS," replied she,—not looking to see how her face kindled, like a handsome morning in May.
One sour old man, who lived off the road, did not like it. 'Twas a Popish custom; and said, "I always fast on Christmas." His family knew they did, and many a day besides; for he was so covetous that he grudged the water which turned his own mill.