“To us a Prince is given; a Child is born!”—
Thou sang’st of Bethlehem, and of Calvary,
The Maid immaculate, and the twisted thorn
Where’er thou art, not far, not far is He
Whose banner whitens in yon Christmas morn!
A MESSAGE.
Is there anything more tantalizing than to be caught with a toothache and swelled face just at Christmas time, when one’s hands are full of work that must be finished, of plans that have been begun in time and carried on prosperously to within a few days of their fulfilment? This is just what befell Mr. Stephen Walpole on the 20th of December in the year of grace 1870. You remember what a terrific winter that was? How the bleak north wind blew over ice and snow, and added tenfold horrors to the poor soldiers fighting in that terrible Franco-German war—how all our hearts shuddered in pity for them, as we sat stitching and knitting in their service by the glow of our Christmas fires! This 20th of December was, perhaps, the bitterest day of the whole season. The snow was deep on the ground, the ice hung in long spikes from rails and roofs, and the east wind blew cruelly over all. Stephen Walpole ought to have been out breasting it, but, instead of this, he sat at home moaning, in a voice that sounded like a fog-bell at sea, through poultices, wadding, and miles of flannel that swelled his head out of all human proportions.
“To think of a man being knocked down by a thing no bigger than a pin’s point!” he grumbled. “A prick of that miserable atom one calls a nerve turns the seat of one’s intellect into a monster calf’s head, and makes one a spectacle to gods and men. I could whip myself for being such a milksop as to knock under to it. I’d rather have every tooth in my head pulled out than play the woman like this.… Och! Whew!”