also
[DEACON PITKIN'S FARM]
and
[THE FIRST CHRISTMAS OF NEW ENGLAND]
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
With Illustrations.
1875.

BETTY'S BRIGHT IDEA.

Some say that ever, 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrate,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long.
And then, they say, no evil spirit walks;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,—
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.

And this holy time, so hallowed and so gracious, was settling down overthe great roaring, rattling, seething life-world of New York in the goodyear 1875. Who does not feel its on-coming in the shops and streets, inthe festive air of trade and business, in the thousand garnitures bywhich every store hangs out triumphal banners and solicits you to buysomething for a Christmas gift? For it is the peculiarity of all thisarray of prints, confectionery, dry goods, and manufactures of all kinds,that their bravery and splendor at Christmas tide is all to seduce youinto generosity, and importune you to give something to others. It saysto you, "The dear God gave you an unspeakable gift; give you a lessergift to your brother!"

Do we ever think, when we walk those busy, bustling streets, all alivewith Christmas shoppers, and mingle with the rushing tides that throngand jostle through the stores, that unseen spirits may be hastening toand fro along those same ways bearing Christ's Christmas gifts to men—giftswhose value no earthly gold or gems can represent?

Yet, on this morning of the day before Christmas, were these ShiningOnes, moving to and fro with the crowd, whose faces were loving andserene as the invisible stars, whose robes took no defilement from thespatter and the rush of earth, whose coming and going was still as thefalling snow-flakes. They entered houses without ringing door-bells, theypassed through apartments without opening doors, and everywhere they werebearing Christ's Christmas presents, and silently offering them towhoever would open their souls to receive. Like themselves, their giftswere invisible—incapable of weight and measurement in gross earthlyscales. To mourners they carried joy; to weary and perplexed hearts,peace; to souls stifling in luxury and self-indulgence they carried thatnoble discontent that rises to aspiration for higher things. Sometimesthey took away an earthly treasure to make room for a heavenly one. Theytook health, but left resignation and cheerful faith. They took the babefrom the dear cradle, but left in its place a heart full of pity for thesuffering on earth and a fellowship with the blessed in heaven. Let usfollow their footsteps awhile.

SCENE I.

A young girl's boudoir in one of our American palaces of luxury, builtafter the choicest fancy of the architect, and furnished in all thelatest devices of household decoration. Pictures, statuettes, and everyform of bijouterie make the room a miracle of beauty, and the littleprincess of all sits in an easy chair before the fire, and thus revolveswith herself:

"O, dear me! Christmas is a bore! Such a rush and crush in the streets,such a jam in the shops, and then such a fuss thinking up presents foreverybody! All for nothing, too; for nobody Wants anything. I'm sure Idon't. I'm surfeited now with pictures and jewelry, and bon-bon boxes,and little china dogs and cats—and all these things that get so thickyou can't move without upsetting some of them. There's papa, he don'twant anything. He never uses any of my Christmas presents when I getthem; and mamma, she has every earthly thing I can think of, and said theother day she did hope nobody'd give her any more worsted work! Then AuntMaria and Uncle John, they don't want the things I give them; they havemore than they know what to do with, now. All the boys say they don'twant any more cigar cases or slippers, or smoking caps. Oh, dear!"

Here the Shining Ones came and stood over the little lady, and lookeddown on her with faces of pity, which seemed blent with a serene andhalf-amused indulgence. It was a heavenly amusement, such as that withwhich mothers listen to the foolish-wise prattle of children justlearning to talk.

As the grave, sweet eyes rested tenderly on her, the girl somehow grewgraver, leaned back in her chair, and sighed a little.

"I wish I knew how to be better!" she said to herself. "I remember lastSunday's text, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' That mustmean something! Well, isn't there something, too, in the Bible about notgiving to your rich neighbors that can give again, but giving to the poorthat cannot recompense you? I don't know any poor people. Papa says thereare very few deserving poor people. Well, for the matter of that, therearen't many deserving rich people. I, for example, how much do Ideserve to have all these nice things? I'm no better than the poorshop-girls that go trudging by in the cold at six o'clock in the morning—ugh!it makes me shiver to think of it. I know if I had to do that Ishouldn't be good at all. Well, I'd like to give to poor people, if Iknew any."

At this moment the door opened and the maid entered.

"Betty, do you know any poor people I ought to get things for, thisChristmas?"

"Poor folks is always plenty, miss," said Betty.

"O yes, of course, beggars; but I mean people that I could do somethingfor besides just give cold victuals or money. I don't know where to huntthem up, and should be afraid to go if I did. O dear! it's no use. I'llgive it up."

"Why, Miss Florence, that 'ud be too bad, afther bein' that good in yerheart, to let the poor folks alone for fear of goin' to them. But yeneedn't do that, for, now I think of it, there's John Morley's wife."

"What, the gardener father turned off for drinking?"

"The same, miss. Poor boy, he's not so bad, and he's got a wife and twoas pretty children as ever you see."

"I always liked John," said the young lady. "But papa is so strict aboutsome things! He says he never will keep a man a day if he finds out thathe drinks."

She was quite silent for a minute, and then broke out:

"I don't care; it's a good idea! I say, Betty, do you know where John'swife lives?"

"Yes, miss, I've been there often."

"Well, then, this afternoon I'll go with you and see if I can do anythingfor them."

SCENE II.

An attic room, neat and clean, but poorly furnished; a bed and a trundle-bed,a small cooking-stove, a shelf with a few dishes, one or two chairsand stools, a pale, thin woman working on a vest.

Her face is anxious; her thin hands tremble with weakness, and now andthen, as she works, quiet tears drop, which she wipes quickly. Poorpeople cannot afford to shed tears; it takes time and injures eyesight.

This is John Morley's wife. This morning he has risen and gone out in adesperate mood. "No use to try," he says. "Didn't I go a whole year andnever touch a drop? And now just because I fell once I'm kicked out! Nouse to try. When a fellow once trips, everybody gives him a kick. Talkabout love of Christ! Who believes it? Don't see much love of Christwhere I go. Your Christians hit a fellow that's down as hard as anybody.It's everybody for himself and devil take the hindmost. Well, I'll trudgeup to the Brooklyn Navy Yard and see if they'll take me on there—if theywon't I might as well go to sea, or to the devil," and out he flings.

"Mamma!" says a little voice, "what are we going to have for ourChristmas?"

It is a little girl, with soft curly hair and bright, earnest eyes, thatspeaks.

A sturdy little fellow of four presses up to the mother's knee andrepeats the question, "Sha'n't we have a Christmas, mother?"

It overcomes the poor woman; she leans forward and breaks into sobbing,—atempest of sorrow, long suppressed, that shakes her weak frame as shethinks that her husband is out of work, desperate, discouraged, andtempted of the devil, that the rent is falling due, and only the poor payof her needle to meet it with. In one of those quick flashes whichconcentrate through the imagination the sorrows of years, she seems tosee her little home broken up, her husband in the gutter, her childrenturned into the street. At this moment there goes up from her heart adespairing cry, such as a poor, hunted, tired-out creature gives whenbrought to the last gasp of endurance. It was like the shriek of the harewhen the hounds are upon it. She clasps her hands and cries out, "O myGod, help me."

There was no voice of any that answered; there was no sound of foot-fallon the staircase; no one entered the door; and yet that agonized cry hadreached the heart it was meant for. The Shining Ones were with her; theystood, with faces full of tenderness, beaming down upon her; they broughther a Christmas gift from Christ—the gift of trust. She knew not fromwhence came the courage and rest that entered her soul; but while herlittle ones stood wondering and silent, she turned and drew to herselfher well-worn Bible. Hands that she did not see guided her as she turnedthe pages, and pointed the words: He shall deliver the needy when hecrieth; the poor also and him that hath no helper. He shall spare thepoor and needy, and shall save the souls of the needy. He shall redeemtheir soul from deceit and violence, and precious shall their blood be inhis sight.

She laid down her poor wan cheek on the merciful old book, as on hermother's breast, and gave up all the tangled skein of life into the handsof Infinite Pity. There seemed a consoling presence in the room, and hertired heart found rest.

She wiped away her tears, kissed her children, and smiled upon them. Thenshe rose, gathered up her finished work, and attired herself to go forthand carry it back to the shop.

"Mother," said the children softly, "they are dressing the church, andthe gates are open, and people are going in and out; mayn't we play thereby the church?"

The mother looked out on the ivy-grown walls of the church, with itsflocks of twittering sparrows, and said:

"Yes, my little birds; you may play there if you'll be very good andquiet."

The mother had only her small, close attic room for her darlings, and tosatisfy all their childish desire for variety and motion, she had onlythe refuge of the streets. She was a decent, godly woman, and the boldmanners and evil words of street vagrants were terrible to her; and so,when the church gates were open for daily morning and evening prayers,she had often begged the sexton to let her little ones come in and hearthe singing, and wander hand in hand around the old church walls. He wasa kindly old man, and the children, stealing round like two still,bright-eyed little mice, had gained upon his heart, and he made themwelcome there. It gave the mother a feeling of protection to have themplay near the church, as if it were a father's house.

So she put on their little hoods and tippets, and led them forth, and sawthem into the yard; and as she looked to the old gray church, with itsrustling ivy bowers and flocks of birds, her heart swelled within her."Yea, the sparrow hath found a house and the swallow a nest where she maylay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my king and my God!"And the Shining Ones walking with her said, "Fear not; ye are of morevalue than many sparrows."

SCENE III.

The little ones went gayly into the yard. They had been scared by theirmother's tears; but she had smiled again, and that had made all rightwith them. The sun was shining brightly, and they were on the sunny sideof the old church, and they laughed and chirped and chittered to eachother as merrily as the little birds in the ivy boughs.

The old sexton came to the side door and threw out an armful of refusegreens, and then stopped a moment and nodded kindly at them.

"May we play with them, please, sir?" said the little Elsie, looking upwith great reverence.

"Oh, yes, to be sure; these are done with—they are no good now."

"Oh, Tottie!" cried Elsie, rapturously, "just think, he says we may playwith all these. Why, here's ever and ever so much green, enough to playhouse. Let's play build a house for father and mother."

"I'm going to build a big house for 'em when I grow up," said Tottie,"and I mean to have glass bead windows in it."

Tottie had once had presented to him a box of colored glass beads tostring, and he could think of nothing finer in the future than unlimitedglass beads.

Meanwhile, his sister began planting pine branches upright in the snow,to make her house.

"You see we can make believe there are windows and doors and a roof," shesaid, "and it's just as good. Now, let's make believe there is a bed inthis corner, and we will lie down to sleep."

And Tottie obediently couched himself in the allotted corner and shut hiseyes very hard, though after a moment he remarked that the snow got intohis neck.

"You must play it isn't snow—play it's feathers," said Elsie.

"But I don't like it," persisted Tottie, "it don't feel a bit likefeathers."

"Oh, well, then," said Elsie, accommodating herself to circumstances,"let's play get up now and I'll get breakfast."

Just now the door opened again, and the sexton began sweeping the refuseout of the church. There were bits of ivy and holly, and ruffles ofground-pine, and lots of bright red berries that came flying forth intothe yard, and the children screamed for joy. "O Tottie!" "O Elsie!" "Onlysee how many pretty things—lots and lots!"

The sexton stood and looked and laughed as he saw the little ones soeager for the scraps and remnants.

"Don't you want to come in and see the church?" he said. "It's all donenow, and a brave sight it is. You may come in."

They tipped in softly, with large bright, wondering eyes. The lightthrough the stained glass windows fell blue and crimson and yellow on thepillars all ruffled with ground-pine and brightened with scarlet
bitter-sweetberries, and there were stars and crosses and mottoes in green allthrough the bowery aisles, while the organist, hid in a thicket ofverdure, was practicing softly, and sweet voices sung:

"Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King."

The little ones wandered up and down the long aisles in a dream of aweand wonder. "Hush, Tottie!" said Elsie when he broke into an eagerexclamation, "don't make a noise. I do believe it's something likeheaven," she said, under her breath.

They made the course of the church and came round by the door again,where the sexton stood smiling on them.

"You can find lots of pretty Christmas greens out there," he said,pointing to the door; "perhaps your folks would like to have some."

"Oh, thank you, sir," exclaimed. Elsie, rapturously. "Oh, Tottie, onlythink! Let's gather a good lot and go home and dress our room forChristmas. Oh, won't mother be astonished when she comes home, we'llmake it so pretty!"

And forthwith the children began gathering into their little apronswreaths of ground-pine, sprigs of holly, and twigs of crimson bitter-sweet.The sexton, seeing their zeal, brought out to them a little cross,fancifully made of red alder-berries and pine.

Then he said, "A lady took that down to put up a bigger one, and she gaveit to me; you may have it if you want it."

"Oh, how beautiful," said Elsie. "How glad I am to have this for mother!When she comes back she won't know our room; it will be as fine as thechurch."

Soon the little gleaners were toddling off out of the yard—moving massesof green with all that their aprons and their little hands could carry.

The sexton looked after them. "Take heed that ye despise not these littleones," he said to himself, "for in heaven their angels—"

A ray of tenderness fell on the old man's head; it was from the ShiningOne who watched the children. He thought it was an afternoon sunbeam. Hisheart grew gentle and peaceful, and his thoughts went far back to adistant green grove where his own little one was sleeping. "Seems to meI've loved all little ones ever since," he said, thinking far back to theChristmas week when his lamb was laid to rest. "Well, she shall notreturn to me, but I shall go to her." The smile of the Shining One made awarm glow in his heart, which followed him all the way home.

The children had a merry time dressing the room. They stuck good bigbushes of pine in each window; they put a little ruffle of ground-pineround mother's Bible, and they fastened the beautiful red cross up overthe table, and they stuck sprigs of pine or holly into every crack thatcould be made, by fair means or foul, to accept it, and they wereimmensely satisfied and delighted. Tottie insisted on hanging up hisstring of many-colored beads in the window to imitate the effect of thestained glass of the great church window.

"It looks pretty when the light comes through," he remarked; and Elsieadmitted that they might play they were painted windows, with some showof propriety. When everything had been stuck somewhere, Elsie swept thefloor, and made up a fire, and put on the tea-kettle, to have everythingready to strike mother favorably on her return.

SCENE IV.

A freezing, bright, cold afternoon. "Cold as Christmas!" say cheeryvoices, as the crowds rush to and fro into shops and stores, and come outwith hands full of presents.

"Yes, cold as Christmas," says John Morley. "I should think so! Coldenough for a fellow that can't get in anywhere—that nobody wants andnobody helps! I should think so."

John had been trudging all day from point to point, only to hear the oldstory: times were hard, work was dull, nobody wanted him, and he feltmorose and surly—out of humor with himself and with everybody else.

It is true that his misfortunes were from his own fault; but thatconsideration never makes a man a particle more patient or good-natured—indeed,it is an additional bitterness in his cup. John was anEnglishman. When he first landed in New York from the old country, he hadbeen wild and dissipated and given to drinking. But by his wife's earnestentreaties he had been persuaded to sign the temperance pledge, and hadgone on prosperously keeping it for a year. He had a good place and goodwages, and all went well with him till in an evil hour he met some of hisformer boon-companions, and was induced to have a social evening withthem.

In the first half hour of that evening were lost the fruits of the wholeyear's self-denial and self-control. He was not only drunk that night,but he went off for a fortnight, and was drunk night after night, andcame back to find that his master had discharged him in indignation. Johnthinks this over bitterly, as he thuds about in the cold and callshimself a fool.

Yet, if the truth must be confessed, John had not much "sense of sin," socalled. He looked on himself as an unfortunate and rather ill-used man,for had he not tried very hard to be good, and gone a great while againstthe stream of evil inclination? and now, just for one yielding, he waspitched out of place, and everybody was turned against him! He thoughtthis was hard measure. Didn't everybody hit wrong sometimes? Didn't richfellows have their wine, and drink a little too much now and then? Yetnobody was down on them.

"It's only because I'm poor," said John. "Poor folks' sins are neverpardoned. There's my good wife—poor girl!" and John's heart felt as ifit were breaking, for he was an affectionate creature, and loved his wifeand babies, and in his deepest consciousness he knew that he was the oneat fault. We have heard much about the sufferings of the wives andchildren of men who are overtaken with drink; but what is not so wellunderstood is the sufferings of the men themselves in their sobermoments, when they feel that they are becoming a curse to all that aredearest to them. John's very soul was wrung within him to think of themisery he had brought on his wife and children—the greater miseries thatmight be in store for them. He was faint of heart; he was tired; he hadeaten nothing for hours, and on ahead he saw a drinking saloon. Whyshouldn't he go and take one good drink, and then pitch off a ferry-boatinto the East River, and so end the whole miserable muddle of lifealtogether?

John's steps were turning that way, when one of the Shining Ones, who hadwatched him all day, came nearer and took his hand. He felt no touch; butat that moment there darted into his soul a thought of his mother, longdead, and he stopped irresolute, then turned to walk another way. Thehand that was guiding him led him to turn a corner, and his curiosity wasexcited by a stream of people who seemed to be pressing into a building.A distant sound of singing was heard as he drew nearer, and soon he foundhimself passing with the multitude into a great prayer-meeting. The musicgrew more distinct as he went in. A man was singing in clear, penetratingtones:

"What means this eager, anxious throng,
Which moves with busy haste along;
These wondrous gatherings day by day;
What means this strange commotion, say?
In accents hushed the throng reply,
'Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!'"

John had but a vague idea of religion, yet something in the singingaffected him; and, weary and footsore and heartsore as he was, he sankinto a seat and listened with absorbed attention:

"Jesus! 'tis he who once below
Man's pathway trod in toil and woe;
And burdened ones where'er he came
Brought out their sick and deaf and lame.
The blind rejoiced to hear the cry,
'Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!'

"Ho, all ye heavy-laden, come!
Here's pardon, comfort, rest, and home.
Ye wanderers from a Father's face,
Return, accept his proffered grace.
Ye tempted ones, there's refuge nigh—
'Jesus of Nazareth passeth by!'"

A plain man, who spoke the language of plain working-men, now arose andread from his Bible the words which the angel of old spoke to theshepherds of Bethlehem:

"Fear not, for behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall beto all people, for unto you is born this day a Saviour, which is Christthe Lord."

The man went on to speak of this with an intense practical earnestnessthat soon made John feel as if he, individually, were being talked to;and the purport of the speech was this: that God had sent to him, JohnMorley, a Saviour to save him from his sins, to lift him above hisweakness, to help him overcome his bad habits; that His name was calledJesus, because he shall save his people from their sins. John listenedwith a strange new thrill. This was what he needed—a Friend, all-powerful,all-pitiful, who would undertake for him and help him toovercome himself—for he sorely felt how weak he was. Here was a Friendthat could have compassion on the ignorant and them that were out of theway. The thought brought tears to his eyes and a glow of hope to hisheart. What if He would help him? for deep down in John's heart, worsethan cold or hunger or weariness, was the dreadful conviction that he wasa doomed man, that he should drink again as he had drunk, and never cometo good, but fall lower and lower, and drag all who loved him down withhim.

And was this mighty Saviour given to him?

"Yes," cried the man who was speaking; "to you; to you, who have lostname and place; to you, that nobody cares for; to you, who have been downin the gutter. God has sent you a Saviour to take you up out of the mudand mire, to wash you clean, to give you strength to overcome your sins,and lead you home to his blessed kingdom. This is the glad tidings ofgreat joy that the angels brought on the first Christmas day. Christ wasGod's Christmas gift to a poor, lost world, and you may have him now,to-day. He may be your own Saviour—yours as much as if there were noother one on earth to be saved. He is looking for you to-day, comingafter you, seeking you; he calls you by me. Oh, accept him now!"

There was a deep breathing of suppressed emotion as the speaker sat down,a pause of solemn stillness.

A faint strain of music was heard, and the singer began singing apathetic ballad of a lost sheep and of the Shepherd going forth to seekit:

"There were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold,
But one was out on the hills away,
Far off from the gates of gold—
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

"'Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine;
Are they not enough for Thee?'
But the Shepherd made answer: ''Tis of mine
Has wandered away from me;
And although the road be rough and steep
I go to the desert to find my sheep.'"

John heard with an absorbed interest. All around him were eagerlisteners, breathless, leaning forward with intense attention. The songwent on:

"But none of the ransomed ever knew
How deep were the waters crossed;
Nor how dark was the night that the Lord went through
Ere He found His sheep that was lost.
Out in the desert He heard its cry—
Sick and helpless, and ready to die."

There was a throbbing pathos in the intonation, and the verse floatedover the weeping throng; when, after a pause, the strain was taken uptriumphantly:

"But all through the mountains thunder-riven,
And up from the rocky steep,
There rose a cry to the gates of heaven,
'Rejoice! I have found my sheep!'
And the angels echoed around the throne,
'Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!'"

All day long, poor John had felt so lonesome! Nobody cared for him;nobody wanted him; everything was against him; and, worst of all, he hadno faith in himself. But here was this Friend, seeking him, followinghim through the cold alleys and crowded streets. In heaven they would beglad to hear that he had become a good man. The thought broke down allhis pride, all his bitterness; he wept like a little child; and theChristmas gift of Christ—the sense of a real, present, loving, pityingSaviour—came into his very soul.

He went homeward as one in a dream. He passed the drinking-saloon withouta thought or wish of drinking. The expulsive force of a new emotion hadfor the time driven out all temptation. Raised above weakness, he thoughtonly of this Jesus, this Saviour from sin, who he now believed hadfollowed him and found him, and he longed to go home and tell his wifewhat great things the Lord had done for him.

SCENE V.

Meanwhile a little drama had been acting in John's humble home. His wifehad been to the shop that day and come home with the pittance for herwork in her hands.

"I'll pay you full price to-day, but we can't pay such prices anylonger," the man had said over the counter as he paid her. "Hard times—workdull—we are cutting down all our work-folks; you'll have to take athird less next time."

"I'll do my best," she said meekly, as she took her bundle of work andturned wearily away, but the invisible arm of the Shining One was roundher, and the words again thrilled through her that she had read thatmorning: "He shall redeem their soul from deceit and violence, andprecious shall their blood be in his sight." She saw no earthly helper;she heard none and felt none, and yet her soul was sustained, and shecame home in peace.

When she opened the door of her little room she drew back astonished atthe sight that presented itself. A brisk fire was roaring in the stove,and the tea-kettle was sputtering and sending out clouds of steam. Atable with a white cloth on it was drawn out before the fire, and a newtea set of pure white cups and saucers, with teapot, sugar-bowl, andcreamer, complete, gave a festive air to the whole. There were bread, andbutter, and ham-sandwiches, and a Christmas cake all frosted, with littleblue and red and green candles round it ready to be lighted, and a bunchof hot-house flowers in a pretty little vase in the centre.

A new stuffed rocking-chair stood on one side of the stove, and there satMiss Florence De Witt, our young princess of Scene First, holding littleElsie in her lap, while the broad, honest countenance of Betty wasbeaming with kindness down on the delighted face of Tottie. Both childrenwere dressed from head to foot in complete new suits of clothes, andElsie was holding with tender devotion a fine doll, while Tottie rejoicedin a horse and cart which he was maneuvering under Betty'ssuperintendence.

The little princess had pleased herself in getting up all this tableau.Doing good was a novelty to her, and she plunged into it with the zest ofa new amusement. The amazed look of the poor woman, her dazed expressionsof rapture and incredulous joy, the shrieks and cries of confused delightwith which the little ones met their mother, delighted her more than anyscene she had ever witnessed at the opera—with this added grace, unknownto her, that at this scene the invisible Shining Ones were pleasedwitnesses.

She had been out with Betty, buying here and there whatever was wanted,—andwhat was not wanted for those who had been living so long withoutwork or money?

She had their little coal-bin filled, and a nice pile of wood andkindlings put behind the stove. She had bought a nice rocking-chair forthe mother to rest in. She had dressed the children from head to foot ata ready-made clothing store, and bought them toys to their hearts'desire, while Betty had set the table for a Christmas feast.

And now she said to the poor woman at last:

"I'm so sorry John lost his place at father's. He was so kind andobliging, and I always liked him; and I've been thinking, if you'd gethim to sign the pledge over again from Christmas Eve, never to touchanother drop, I'll get papa to take him back. I always do get papa to dowhat I want, and the fact is, he hasn't got anybody that suited him sowell since John left. So you tell John that I mean to go surety for him;he certainly won't fail me. Tell him I trust him." And Miss Florencepulled out a paper wherein, in her best round hand, she had written outagain the temperance pledge, and dated it "Christmas Eve, 1875."

"Now, you come with John to-morrow morning, and bring this with his nameto it, and you'll see what I'll do!" and, with a kiss to the children,the little good fairy departed, leaving the family to their ChristmasEve.

What that Christmas Eve was, when the husband and father came home withthe new and softened heart that had been given him, who can say? Therewere joyful tears and solemn prayers, and earnest vows and purposes of anew life heard by the Shining Ones in the room that night.

"And the angels echoed around the throne,
Rejoice! for the Lord brings back his own."

SCENE VI.

"Now, papa, I want you to give me something special to-day, because it'sChristmas," said the little princess to her father, as she kissed andwished him "Merry Christmas" next morning.

"What is it, Pussy—half of my kingdom?"

"No, no, papa; not so much as that. It's a little bit of my own way thatI want."

"Of course; well, what is it?"

"Well, I want you to take John back again."

Her father's face grew hard.

"Now, please, papa, don't say a word till you have heard me. John was acapital gardener; he kept the green-house looking beautiful; and thisMike that we've got now, he's nothing but an apprentice, and stupid as anowl at that! He'll never do in the world."

"All that is very true," said Mr. De Witt, "but John drinks, and Iwon't have a drinking man."

"But, papa, I mean to take care of that. I've written out thetemperance pledge, and dated it, and got John to sign it, and here itis," and she handed the paper to her father, who read it carefully, andsat turning it in his hands while his daughter went on:

"You ought to have seen how poor, how very poor they were. His wife issuch a nice, quiet, hardworking woman, and has two such pretty children.I went to see them and carry them Christmas things yesterday, but it's nogood doing anything if John can't get work. She told me how the poorfellow had been walking the streets in the cold, day after day, tryingeverywhere, and nobody would take him. It's a dreadful time now for a manto be out of work, and it isn't fair his poor wife and children shouldsuffer. Do try him again, papa!"

"John always did better with the pineapples than anybody we have tried,"said Mrs. De Witt at this point. "He is the only one who reallyunderstands pineapples."

At this moment the door opened, and there was a sound of chirping voicesin the hall. "Please, Miss Florence," said Betty, "the little folks saysthey wants to give you a Christmas." She added in a whisper: "They thinksmuch of giving you something, poor little things—plaze take it of 'em."And little Tottie at the word marched in and offered the young princesshis dear, beautiful, beloved string of glass beads, and Elsie presentedthe cross of red berries—most dear to her heart and fair to her eyes."We wanted to give you something" she said bashfully.

"Oh, you lovely dears!" cried Florence; "how sweet of you! I shall keepthese beautiful glass beads always, and put the cross up over mydressing-table. I thank you ever so much!"

"Are those John's children?" asked Mr. De Witt, winking a tear out of hiseye—he was at bottom a soft-hearted old gentleman.

"Yes, papa," said Florence, caressing Elsie's curly hair,—"see how sweetthey are!"

"Well—you may tell John I'll try him again." And so passed Florence'sChristmas, with a new, warm sense of joy in her heart, a feeling ofsomething in the world to be done, worth doing.

"How much joy one can give with a little money!" she said to herself asshe counted over what she had spent on her Christmas. Ah yes! and howtrue that "It is more blessed to give than to receive." A shining,invisible hand was laid on her head in blessing as she lay down thatnight, and a sweet sense of a loving presence stole like music into hersoul. Unknown to herself, she had that day taken the first step out ofself-life into that life of love and care for others which brought theKing of Glory down to share earth's toils and sorrows. And that preciousexperience was Christ's Christmas gift to her.

DEACON PITKIN'S FARM.

CHAPTER I.

MISS DIANA.

Thanksgiving was impending in the village of Mapleton on the 20th ofNovember, 1825.

The Governor's proclamation had been duly and truly read from the pulpitthe Sunday before, to the great consternation of Miss Briskett, theambulatory dressmaker, who declared confidentially to Deacon Pitkin'swife that "she didn't see nothin' how she was goin' to get throughthings—and there was Saphiry's gown, and Miss Deacon Trowbridge's cloak,and Lizy Jane's new merino, not a stroke done on't. The Governor ought tobe ashamed of himself for hurrying matters so."

It was a very rash step for Miss Briskett to go to the length of such aremark about the Governor, but the deacon's wife was one of the few womenwho are nonconductors of indiscretion, and so the Governor never heard ofit.

This particular Thanksgiving tide was marked in Mapleton by exceptionallycharming weather. Once in a great while the inclement New England skiesare taken with a remorseful twinge and forget to give their usual snap ofSeptember frost which generally bites off all the pretty flowers in soheart-breaking a way, and then you can have lovely times quite downthrough November.

It was so this year at Mapleton. Though the Thanksgiving proclamation hadbeen read, and it was past the middle of November, yet marigolds andfour-o'clocks were all ablaze in the gardens, and the golden rod andpurple aster were blooming over the fields as if they were expecting tokeep it up all winter.

It really is affecting, the jolly good heart with which these brightchildren of the rainbow flaunt and wave and dance and go on budding andblossoming in the very teeth and snarl of oncoming winter. An autumngolden rod or aster ought to be the symbol for pluck and courage, andmight serve a New England crest as the broom flower did the oldPlantagenets.

The trees round Mapleton were looking like gigantic tulip beds, andbreaking every hour into new phantasmagoria of color; and the great elmthat overshadowed the red Pitkin farm-house seemed like a dome of gold,and sent a yellow radiance through all the doors and windows as thedreamy autumn sunshine streamed through it.

The Pitkin elm was noted among the great trees of New England. Now andthen Nature asserts herself and does something so astonishing andoverpowering as actually to strike through the crust of human stupidity,and convince mankind that a tree is something greater than they are. As ageneral thing the human race has a stupid hatred of trees. They embraceevery chance to cut them down. They have no idea of their fitness foranything but firewood or fruit bearing. But a great cathedral elm, withshadowy aisles of boughs, its choir of whispering winds and chantingbirds, its hush and solemnity and majestic grandeur, actually conquersthe dull human race and asserts its leave to be in a manner to which allhearts respond; and so the great elms of New England have got to beregarded with a sort of pride as among her very few crown jewels, and thePitkin elm was one of these.

But wasn't it a busy time in Mapleton! Busy is no word for it. Oh, thechoppings, the poundings, the stoning of raisins, the projections of piesand puddings, the killing of turkeys—who can utter it? The very chipsquirrels in the stone-walls, who have a family custom of making amarket-basket of their mouths, were rushing about with chops incrediblydistended, and their tails had an extra whisk of thanksgiving alertness.A squirrel's Thanksgiving dinner is an affair of moment, mind you.

In the great roomy, clean kitchen of the deacon's house might be seen thelithe, comely form of Diana Pitkin presiding over the roaring great ovenwhich was to engulf the armies of pies and cakes which were in due courseof preparation on the ample tables.

Of course you want to know who Diana Pitkin was. It was a general factabout this young lady that anybody who gave one look at her, whether atchurch or at home, always inquired at once with effusion, "Who is she?"—particularly if the inquirer was one of the masculine gender.

This was to be accounted for by the fact that Miss Diana presented to thefirst view of the gazer a dazzling combination of pink and white, aflashing pair of black eyes, a ripple of dimples about the prettiestlittle rosy mouth in the world, and a frequent somewhat saucy laugh,which showed a set of teeth like pearls. Add to this a quick wit, agenerous though spicy temper, and a nimble tongue, and you will notwonder that Miss Diana was a marked character at Mapleton, and that theinquiry who she was was one of the most interesting facts of statisticalinformation.

Well, she was Deacon Pitkin's second cousin, and of course just in thatconvenient relationship to the Pitkin boys which has all the advantagesof cousinship and none of the disadvantages as may be plain to anordinary observer. For if Miss Diana wished to ride or row or dance withany of the Pitkin boys, why shouldn't she? Were they not her cousins? Butif any of these aforenamed young fellows advanced on the strength ofthese intimacies a presumptive claim to nearer relationship, why, thenDiana was astonished—of course she had regarded them as her cousins! andshe was sure she couldn't think what they could be dreaming of—"A cousinis just like a brother, you know."

This was just what James Pitkin did not believe in, and now as he iswalking over hill and dale from Cambridge College to his father's househe is gathering up a decided resolution to tell Diana that he is not andwill not be to her as a brother—that she must be to him all or nothing.James is the brightest, the tallest, and, the Mapleton girls said, thehandsomest of the Pitkin boys. He is a strong-hearted, generous, resolutefellow as ever undertook to walk thirty-five miles home to eat hisThanksgiving dinner.

We are not sure that Miss Diana is not thinking of him quite as much ashe of her, as she stands there with the long kitchen shovel in one hand,and one plump white arm thrust into the oven, and her little head cockedon one side, her brows bent, and her rosy mouth pursed up with a solemnsense of the importance of her judgment as she is testing the heat of heroven.

Oh, Di, Di! for all you seem to have nothing on your mind but theresponsibility for all those pumpkin pies and cranberry tarts, wewouldn't venture a very large wager that you are not thinking aboutcousin James under it all at this very minute, and that all this prettybustling housewifeliness owes its spice and flavor to the thought thatJames is coming to the Thanksgiving dinner.

To be sure if any one had told Di so, she would have flouted the veryidea. Besides, she had privately informed Almira Sisson, her specialparticular confidante, that she knew Jim would come home from collegefull of conceit, and thinking that everybody must bow down to him, andfor her part she meant to make him know his place. Of course Jim and shewere good friends, etc., etc.

Oh, Di, Di! you silly, naughty girl, was it for this that you stood solong at your looking-glass last night, arranging how you would do yourhair for the Thanksgiving night dance? Those killing bows which youdeliberately fabricated and lodged like bright butterflies among the darkwaves of your hair—who were you thinking of as you made and posed them?Lay your hand on your heart and say who to you has ever seemed the best,the truest, the bravest and kindest of your friends. But Di doesn'ttrouble herself with such thoughts—she only cuts out saucy mottoes fromthe flaky white paste to lay on the red cranberry tarts, of which shemakes a special one for each cousin. For there is Bill, the secondeldest, who stays at home and helps work the farm. She knows that Billworships her very shoe-tie, and obeys all her mandates with the faithfuldocility of a good Newfoundland dog, and Di says "she thinks everythingof Bill—she likes Bill." So she does Ed, who comes a year or two behindBill, and is trembling out of bashful boyhood. So she does Rob and Ikeand Pete and the whole healthy, ramping train who fill the Pitkin farm-housewith a racket of boots and boys. So she has made every one a tartwith his initial on it and a saucy motto or two, "just to keep them frombeing conceited, you know."

All day she keeps busy by the side of the deacon's wife—a delicate,thin, quiet little woman, with great thoughtful eyes and a step like asnow-flake. New England had of old times, and has still, perhaps, in herfarm-houses, these women who seem from year to year to develop in thespiritual sphere as the bodily form shrinks and fades. While the cheekgrows thin and the form spare, the will-power grows daily stronger;though the outer man perish, the inner man is renewed day by day. Theworn hand that seems so weak yet holds every thread and controls everymovement of the most complex family life, and wonders are dailyaccomplished by the presence of a woman who seems little more than aspirit. The New England wife-mother was the one little jeweled pivot onwhich all the wheel work of the family moved.

"Well, haven't we done a good day's work, cousin?" says Diana, whenninety pies of every ilk—quince, apple, cranberry, pumpkin, and mince—havebeen all safely delivered from the oven and carried up into thegreat vacant chamber, where, ranged in rows and frozen solid, they are tolast over New Year's day! She adds, demonstratively clasping the littlewoman round the neck and leaning her bright cheek against her whiteninghair, "Haven't we been smart?" And the calm, thoughtful eyes turnlovingly upon her as Mary Pitkin puts her arm round her and answers:

"Yes, my daughter, you have done wonderfully. We couldn't do withoutyou!"

And Diana lifts her head and laughs. She likes petting and praising as acat likes being stroked; but, for all that, the little puss has her clawsand a sly notion of using them.

CHAPTER II.

BIAH CARTER.

It was in the flush and glow of a gorgeous sunset that you might haveseen the dark form of the Pitkin farm-house rising on a green hillagainst the orange sky.

The red house, with its overhanging canopy of elm, stood out like an oldmissal picture done on a gold ground.

Through the glimmer of the yellow twilight might be seen the stacks ofdry corn-stalks and heaps of golden pumpkins in the neighboring fields,from which the slow oxen were bringing home a cart well laden with farmproduce.

It was the hour before supper time, and Biah Carter, the deacon's hiredman, was leaning against a fence, waiting for his evening meal; indulgingthe while in a stream of conversational wisdom which seemed to flow allthe more freely from having been dammed up through the labors of the day.

Biah was, in those far distant times of simplicity a "mute inglorious"newspaper man. Newspapers in those days were as rare and unheard of assteam cars or the telegraph, but Biah had within him all the making of athriving modern reporter, and no paper to use it on. He was a walkingbiographical and statistical dictionary of all the affairs of the goodfolks of Mapleton. He knew every piece of furniture in their houses, andwhat they gave for it; every foot of land, and what it was worth; everyox, ass and sheep; every man, woman and child in town. And Biah couldgive pretty shrewd character pictures also, and whoever wanted to informhimself of the status of any person or thing in Mapleton would have donewell to have turned the faucet of Biah's stream of talk, and watched itrespectfully as it came, for it was commonly conceded that what BiahCarter didn't know about Mapleton was hardly worth knowing.

"Putty piece o' property, this 'ere farm," he said, surveying the scenearound him with the air of a connoisseur. "None o' yer stun pastur landwhere the sheep can't get their noses down through the rocks without afile to sharpen 'em! Deacon Pitkin did a putty fair stroke o' businesswhen he swapped off his old place for this 'ere. That are old place wasall swamp land and stun pastur; wa'n't good for raisin' nothin' butjuniper bushes and bull frogs. But I tell yeu" preceded Biah, with ashrewd wink, "that are mortgage pinches the deacon; works him like a doseof aloes and picry, it does. Deacon fairly gets lean on't."

"Why," said Abner Jenks, a stolid plow boy to whom this stream of remarkwas addressed; "this 'ere place ain't mortgaged, is it? Du tell, naow!"

"Why, yis; don't ye know that are? Why there's risin' two thousanddollars due on this 'ere farm, and if the deacon don't scratch for it andpay up squar to the minit, old Squire Norcross'll foreclose on him. Oldsquire hain't no bowels, I tell yeu, and the deacon knows he hain't: andI tell you it keeps the deacon dancin' lively as corn on a hot shovel."

"The deacon's a master hand to work," said Abner; "so's the boys."

"Wai, yis, the deacon is," said Biah, turning contemplatively to thefarmhouse; "there ain't a crittur in that are house that there ain't themost work got out of 'em that ken be, down to Jed and Sam, the littleuns. They work like tigers, every soul of 'em, from four o'clock in shemorning' as long as they can see, and Mis' Pitkin she works all theevening—woman's work ain't never done, they say."

"She's a good woman, Mis' Pitkin is," said Abner, "and she's a smartworker."

In this phrase Abner solemnly expressed his highest ideal of a humanbeing.

"Smart ain't no word for 't," said Biah, with alertness. "Declar for 't,the grit o' that are woman beats me. Had eight children right along in astring 'thout stoppin', done all her own work, never kep' no gal nornothin'; allers up and dressed; allers to meetin' Sunday, and to theprayer-meetin' weekly, and never stops workin': when 'tan't one thingit's another—cookin', washin', ironin', making butter and cheese, and'tween spells cuttin' and sewin', and if she ain't doin' that, why, she'sbraidin' straw to sell to the store or knitting—she's the perpetualmotion ready found, Mis' Pitkin is."

"Want ter know," said the auditor, as a sort of musical rest in thismonotone of talk. "Ain't she smart, though!"

"Smart! Well, I should think she was. She's over and into everythingthat's goin' on in that house. The deacon wouldn't know himself withouther; nor wouldn't none of them boys, they just live out of her; she kindo' keeps 'em all up."

"Wal, she ain't a hefty woman, naow," said the interlocutor, who seemedto be possessed by a dim idea that worth must be weighed by the pound.

"Law bless you, no! She's a little crittur; nothin' to look to, but everybit in her is live. She looks pale, kind o' slips round still likemoonshine, but where anything's to be done, there Mis' Pitkin is; and herhand allers goes to the right spot, and things is done afore ye know it.That are woman's kind o' still; she'll slip off and be gone to heavensome day afore folks know it. There comes the deacon and Jim over thehill. Jim walked home from college day 'fore yesterday, and turned rightin to-day to help get in the taters, workin' right along. Deacon wasawful grouty."

"What was the matter o' the deacon?"

"Oh, the mortgage kind o' works him. The time to pay comes round puttysoon, and the deacon's face allers goes down long as yer arm. 'Tis aputty tight pull havin' Jim in college, losin' his work and havin' termbills and things to pay. Them are college folks charges up, I tell you.I seen it works the deacon, I heard him a-jawin' Jim 'bout it."

"What made Jim go to college?" said Abner with slow wonder in his heavyface.

"Oh, he allers was sot on eddication, and Mis' Pitkin she's sot on't,too, in her softly way, and softly women is them that giner'lly carriestheir p'ints, fust or last.

"But there's one that ain't softly!" Biah suddenly continued, as thevision of a black-haired, bright-eyed girl suddenly stepped forth fromthe doorway, and stood shading her face with her hands, looking towardsthe sunset. The evening light lit up a jaunty spray of golden rod thatshe had wreathed in her wavy hair, and gave a glow to the roundedoutlines of her handsome form. "There's a sparkler for you! And no saint,neither!" was Biah's comment. "That crittur has got more prances andcapers in her than any three-year-old filly I knows on. He'll be cunningthat ever gets a bridle on her."

"Some says she's going to hev Jim Pitkin, and some says it's Bill," saidAbner, delighted to be able to add his mite of gossip to the stream whileit was flowing.

"She's sweet on Jim while he's round, and she's sweet on Bill when Jim'sup to college, and between um she gets took round to everything thatgoing. She gives one a word over one shoulder, and one over t'other, andif the Lord above knows what's in that gal's mind or what she's up to, heknows more than I do, or she either, else I lose my bet."

Biah made this admission with a firmness that might have been a model totheologians or philosophers in general. There was a point, it appeared,where he was not omniscient. His universal statistical knowledge had alimit.

CHAPTER III.

THE SHADOW.

There is no moment of life, however festive, that does not involve thenear presence of a possible tragedy. When the concert of life is playingthe gayest and airiest music, it requires only the change of a littleflat or sharp to modulate into the minor key.

There seemed at first glance only the elements of joyousness and gayetyin the surroundings at the Pitkin farm. Thanksgiving was come—thefamily, healthy, rosy, and noisy, were all under the one roof-tree. Therewas energy, youth, intelligence, beauty, a pair of lovers on the eve ofbetrothal—just in that misty, golden twilight that precedes the fullsunrise of avowed and accepted love—and yet behind it all was walkingwith stealthy step the shadow of a coming sorrow.

"What in the world ails James?" said Diana as she retreated from the doorand surveyed him at a distance from her chamber window. His face was likea landscape over which a thunder-cloud has drifted, and he walked besidehis father with a peculiar air of proud displeasure and repression.

At that moment the young man was struggling with the bitterest sorrowthat can befall youth—the breaking up of his life-purpose. He had justcome to a decision to sacrifice his hopes of education, his man'sambition, his love, his home and family, and become a wanderer on theface of the earth. How this befell requires a sketch of character.

Deacon Silas Pitkin was a fair specimen of a class of men not uncommon inNew England—men too sensitive for the severe physical conditions of NewEngland life, and therefore both suffering and inflicting suffering. Hewas a man of the finest moral traits, of incorruptible probity, ofscrupulous honor, of an exacting conscientiousness, and of a sincerepiety. But he had begun life with nothing; his whole standing in theworld had been gained inch by inch by the most unremitting economy andself-denial, and he was a man of little capacity for hope, of whom it wassaid, in popular phraseology, that he "took things hard." He was neversanguine of good, always expectant of evil, and seemed to view life likea sentinel forbidden to sleep and constantly under arms.

For such a man to be harassed by a mortgage upon his homestead was asteady wear and drain upon his vitality. There were times when a positivehorror of darkness came down upon him—when his wife's untroubled,patient hopefulness seemed to him like recklessness, when the smallestitem of expense was an intolerable burden, and the very daily bread oflife was full of bitterness; and when these paroxysms were upon him, oneof the heaviest of his burdens was the support of his son in college. Itwas true that he was proud of his son's talents and sympathized with hislove for learning—he had to the full that sense of the value ofeducation which is the very vital force of the New England mind—and inan hour when things looked brighter to him he had given his consent tothe scheme of a college education freely.

James was industrious, frugal, energetic, and had engaged to pay the mostof his own expenses by teaching in the long winter vacations. Butunfortunately this year the Mapleton Academy, which had been promised tohim for the winter term, had been taken away by a little maneuver oflocal politics and given to another, thus leaving him without resource.This disappointment, coming just at the time when the yearly interestupon the mortgage was due, had brought upon his father one of thoseparoxysms of helpless gloom and discouragement in which the very worlditself seemed clothed in sack-cloth.

From the time that he heard the Academy was gone, Deacon Silas lay awakenights in the blackness of darkness. "We shall all go to the poorhousetogether—that's where it will end," he said, as he tossed restlessly inthe dark.

"Oh no, no, my dear," said his wife, with those serene eyes that hadlooked through so many gloomy hours; "we must cast our care on God."

"It's easy for women to talk. You don't have the interest money to pay,you are perfectly reckless of expense. Nothing would do but James must goto college, and now see what it's bringing us to!"

"Why, father, I thought you yourself were in favor of it."

"Well, I did wrong then. You persuaded me into it. I'd no business tohave listened to you and Jim and got all this load on my shoulders."

Yet Mary Pitkin knew in her own calm, clear head that she had not beenreckless of expense. The yearly interest money was ever before her, andher own incessant toils had wrought no small portion of what was neededto pay it. Her butter at the store commanded the very highest price, herstraw braiding sold for a little more than that of any other hand, andshe had calculated all the returns so exactly that she felt sure that theinterest money for that year was safe. She had seen her husband passthrough this nervous crisis many times before, and she had learned to beblamed in silence, for she was a woman out of whom all selfness had longsince died, leaving only the tender pity of the nurse and the consoler.Her soul rested on her Saviour, the one ever-present, inseparable friend;and when it did no good to speak to her husband, she spoke to her God forhim, and so was peaceful and peace-giving.

Even her husband himself felt her strengthening, rest-giving power, andfor this reason he bore down on her with the burden of all his tremors andhis cares; for while he disputed, he yet believed her, and rested uponher with an utter helpless trust, as the good angel of his house. Hadshe for a moment given way to apprehension, had her step been athought less firm, her eye less peaceful, then indeed the world itselfwould have seemed to be sinking under his feet. Meanwhile she was to himthat kind of relief which we derive from a person to whom we may sayeverything without a fear of its harming them. He felt quite sure that,say what he would, Mary would always be hopeful and courageous; and hefelt some secret idea that his own gloomy forebodings were of service inrestricting and sobering what seemed to him her too sanguine nature. Heblindly reverenced, without ability fully to comprehend, her exaltedreligious fervor and the quietude of soul that it brought. But he did notknow through how many silent conflicts, how many prayers, how many tears,how many hopes resigned and sorrows welcomed, she had come into that lastrefuge of sorrowful souls, that immovable peace when all life's anguishceases and the will of God becomes the final rest.

But, unhappily for this present crisis, there was, as there often is infamily life, just enough of the father's nature in the son to bring theminto collision with each other. James had the same nervously anxiousnature, the same intense feeling of responsibility, the same tendencytowards morbid earnestness; and on that day there had come collision.

His father had poured forth upon him his fears and apprehensions in amanner which implied a censure on his son, as being willing to accept alife of scholarly ease while his father and mother were, as he expressedit, "working their lives away."

"But I tell you, father, as God is my witness, I mean to pay all; youshall not suffer; interest and principal—all that my work would bring—Iengage to pay back."

"You!—you'll never have anything! You'll be a poor man as long as youlive. Lost the Academy this
Fall—that tells the story!"

"But, father, it wasn't my fault that I lost the Academy."

"It's no matter whose fault it was—that's neither here nor there—youlost it, and here you are with the vacation before you and nothing to do!There's your mother, she's working herself to death; she never gets anyrest. I expect she'll go off in a consumption one of these days."

"There, there, father! that's enough! Please don't say any more. You'llsee I will find something to do!"

There are words spoken at times in life that do not sound bitter thoughthey come from a pitiable depth of anguish, and as James turned from hisfather he had taken a resolution that convulsed him with pain; his strongarms quivered with the repressed agony, and he hastily sought a distantpart of the field, and began cutting and stacking corn-stalks with anervous energy.

"Why, ye work like thunder!" was Biah's comment. "Book l'arnin' hain'tspiled ye yet; your arms are good for suthin'."

"Yes, my arms are good for something, and I'll use them for something,"said Jim.

There was raging a tempest in his soul. For a young fellow of a Puritaneducation in those days to be angry with his father was somewhat thatseemed to him as awful a sacrilege as to be angry with his God, and yethe felt that his father had been bitterly, cruelly unjust towards him. Hehad driven economy to the most stringent extremes; he had avoided theintimacy of his class fellows, lest he should be drawn into needlessexpenses; he had borne with shabby clothing and mean fare among betterdressed and richer associates, and been willing to bear it. He hadstudied faithfully, unremittingly, for two years, but at the moment heturned from his father the throb that wrung his heart was the giving upof all. He had in his pocket a letter from his townsman and schoolmate,Sam Allen, mate of an East Indiaman just fitting out at Salem, and itsaid:

"We are going to sail with a picked crew, and we want one just such afellow as you for third mate. Come along, and you can go right up, andyour college mathematics will be all the better for us. Come right off,and your berth will be ready, and away for round the world!"

Here, to be sure, was immediate position—wages—employment—freedom fromthe intolerable burden of dependence; but it was accepted at thesacrifice of all his life's hopes. True, that in those days theexperiment of a sea-faring life had often, even in instances which herecalled, brought forth fortune and an ability to settle down in peacefulcompetence in after life. But there was Diana. Would she wait for him?Encircled on all sides with lovers, would she keep faith with anadventurer gone for an indefinite quest? The desponding, self-distrustingside of his nature said, "No. Why should she?" Then, to go was to giveup Diana—to make up his mind to have her belong to some other. Thenthere was his mother. An unutterable reverential pathos always to himencircled the idea of his mother. Her life to him seemed a hard one. Fromthe outside, as he viewed it, it was all self-sacrifice and renunciation.Yet he knew that she had set her heart on an education for him, as muchas it could be set on anything earthly. He was her pride, her hope; andjust now that very thought was full of bitterness. There was no help forit; he must not let her work herself to death for him; he would make thehousehold vessel lighter by the throwing himself into the sea, to sink orswim as might happen; and then, perhaps, he might come back with money tohelp them all.

All this was what was surging and boiling in his mind when he came infrom his work to the supper that night.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GOOD-BY.

Diana Pitkin was like some of the fruits of her native hills, full ofjuices which tend to sweetness in maturity, but which when not quite ripehave a pretty decided dash of sharpness. There are grapes that require afrost to ripen them, and Diana was somewhat akin to these.

She was a mettlesome, warm-blooded creature, full of the energy andaudacity of youth, to whom as yet life was only a frolic and a playspell. Work never tired her. She ate heartily, slept peacefully, went tobed laughing, and got up in a merry humor in the morning. Diana's laughwas as early a note as the song of birds. Such a nature is not at firstsympathetic. It has in it some of the unconscious cruelty which belongsto nature itself, whose sunshine never pales at human trouble. Eyes thathave never wept cannot comprehend sorrow. Moreover, a lively girl ofeighteen, looking at life out of eyes which bewilder others with theirbrightness, does not always see the world truly, and is sometimes judgedto be heartless when she is only immature.

Nothing was further from Diana's thoughts than that any grave trouble wasoverhanging her lover's mind—for her lover she very well knew that Jameswas, and she had arranged beforehand to herself very pretty littlecomedies of life, to be duly enacted in the long vacation, in which Jameswas to appear as the suitor, and she, not too soon nor with too mucheagerness, was at last to acknowledge to him how much he was to her. Butmeanwhile he was not to be too presumptuous. It was not set down in thecards that she should be too gracious or make his way too easy. When,therefore, he brushed by her hastily, on entering the house, with aflushed cheek and frowning brow, and gave no glance of admiration at thepretty toilet she had found time to make, she was slightly indignant. Shewas as ignorant of the pang which went like an arrow through his heart atthe sight of her as the bobolink which whirrs and chitters and tweedlesover a grave.

She turned away and commenced a kitten-like frolic with Bill, who wasalways only too happy to second any of her motions, and readily promisedthat after supper she would go with him a walk of half a mile over to aneighbor's, where was a corn-husking. A great golden lamp of a harvestmoon was already coming up in the fading flush of the evening sky, andshe promised herself much amusement in watching the result of hermaneuver on James.

"He'll see at any rate that I am not waiting his beck and call. Nexttime, if he wants my company he can ask for it in season. I'm not goingto indulge him in sulks, not I. These college fellows worry over bookstill they hurt their digestion, and then have the blues and look as ifthe world was coming to an end." And Diana went to the looking-glass andrearranged the spray of golden-rod in her hair and nodded at herselfdefiantly, and then turned to help get on the supper.

The Pitkin folk that night sat down to an ample feast, over which theimpending Thanksgiving shed its hilarity. There was not only theinevitable great pewter platter, scoured to silver brightness, in thecenter of the table, and piled with solid masses of boiled beef, pork,cabbage and all sorts of vegetables, and the equally inevitable smokingloaf of rye and Indian bread, to accompany the pot of baked pork andbeans, but there were specimens of all the newly-made Thanksgiving piesfilling every available space on the table. Diana set special value onherself as a pie artist, and she had taxed her ingenuity this year toinvent new varieties, which were received with bursts of applause by theboys. These sat down to the table in democratic equality,—Biah Carterand Abner with all the sons of the family, old and young, each eager,hungry and noisy; and over all, with moonlight calmness and steadiness,Mary Pitkin ruled and presided, dispensing to each his portion in dueseason, while Diana, restless and mischievous as a sprite, seemed to bepossessed with an elfin spirit of drollery, venting itself in sundrylittle tricks and antics which drew ready laughs from the boys andreproving glances from the deacon. For the deacon was that night in oneof his severest humors. As Biah Carter afterwards remarked of that night,"You could feel there was thunder in the air somewhere round. The deaconhad got on about his longest face, and when the deacon's face is aboutdown to its wust, why, it would stop a robin singin'—there couldn'tnothin' stan' it."

To-night the severely cut lines of his face had even more than usual ofhaggard sternness, and the handsome features of James beside him, intheir fixed gravity, presented that singular likeness which often comesout between father and son in seasons of mental emotion. Diana in vainsought to draw a laugh from her cousin. In pouring his home-brewed beershe contrived to spatter him, but he wiped it off without a smile, andlet pass in silence some arrows of raillery that she had directed at hissomber face.

When they rose from table, however, he followed her into the pantry.

"Diana, will you take a walk with me to-night?" he said, in a voice huskywith repressed feeling.

"To-night! Why, I have just promised Bill to go with him over to thehusking at the Jenks's. Why don't you go with us? We're going to havelots of fun," she added with an innocent air of not perceiving hisgravity.

"I can't," he said. "Besides I wanted to walk with you alone. I hadsomething special I wanted to say."

"Bless me, how you frighten one! You look solemn as a hearse; but Ipromised to go with Bill to-night, and I suspect another time will dojust as well. What you have to say will keep, I suppose," she saidmischievously.

He turned away quickly.

"I should really like to know what's the matter with you to-night," sheadded, but as she spoke he went up-stairs and shut the door.

"He's cross to-night," was Diana's comment. "Well, he'll have to get overhis pet. I sha'n't mind it!"

Up-stairs in his room James began the work of putting up the bundle withwhich he was to go forth to seek his fortune. There stood his books,silent and dear witnesses of the world of hope and culture and refinedenjoyment he had been meaning to enter. He was to know them no more.Their mute faces seemed to look at him mournfully as parting friends. Herapidly made his selection, for that night he was to be off in time toreach the vessel before she sailed, and he felt even glad to avoid theThanksgiving festivities for which he had so little relish. Diana'sfrolicsome gaiety seemed heart-breaking to him, on the same principlethat the poet sings:

"How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu' o' care?"

To the heart struck through with its first experiences of real sufferingall nature is full of cruelty, and the young and light-hearted are alarge part of nature.

"She has no feeling," he said to himself. "Well, there is one reason themore for my going. She won't break her heart for me; nobody loves mebut mother, and it's for her sake I must go. She mustn't work herself todeath for me."

And then he sat down in the window to write a note to be given to hismother after he had sailed, for he could not trust himself to tell herwhat he was about to do. He knew that she would try to persuade him tostay, and he felt faint-hearted when he thought of her. "She would situp early and late, and work for me to the last gasp," he thought, "butfather was right. It is selfish of me to take it," and so he sat tryingto fashion his parting note into a tone of cheerfulness.

"My dear mother," he wrote, "this will come to you when I have set off ona four years' voyage round the world. Father has convinced me that it'stime for me to be doing something for myself; and I couldn't get a schoolto keep—and, after all, education is got other ways than at college.It's hard to go, because I love home, and hard because you will miss me—thoughno one else will. But father may rely upon it, I will not be aburden on him another day. Sink or swim, I shall never come back till Ihave enough to do for myself, and you too. So good bye, dear mother. Iknow you will always pray for me, and wherever I am I shall try to dojust as I think you would want me to do. I know your prayers will followme, and I shall always be your affectionate son.

"P.S.—The boys may have those chestnuts and walnuts in my room—and inmy drawer there is a bit of ribbon with a locket on it I was going togive cousin Diana. Perhaps she won't care for it, though; but if shedoes, she is welcome to it—it may put her in mind of old times."'

And this is all he said, with bitterness in his heart, as he leaned onthe window and looked out at the great yellow moon that was shining sobright as to show the golden hues of the overhanging elm boughs and thescarlet of an adjoining maple.

A light ripple of laughter came up from below, and a chestnut thrown upstruck him on the hand, and he saw Diana and Bill step from out theshadowy porch.

"There's a chestnut for you, Mr. Owl," she called, gaily, "if you willstay moping up there! Come, now, it's a splendid evening; won't youcome?"

"No, thank you. I sha'n't be missed," was the reply.

"That's true enough; the loss is your own. Good bye, Mr. Philosopher."

"Good bye, Diana."

Something in the tone struck strangely through her heart. It was thevoice of what Diana never had felt yet—deep suffering—and she gave alittle shiver.

"What an awfully solemn voice James has sometimes," she said; and thenadded, with a laugh, "it would make his fortune as a Methodist minister."

The sound of the light laugh and little snatches and echoes of gay talkcame back like heartless elves to mock Jim's sorrow.

"So much for her," he said, and turned to go and look for his mother.

CHAPTER V.

MOTHER AND SON.

He knew where he should find her. There was a little, low work-roomadjoining the kitchen that was his mother's sanctum. There stood herwork-basket—there were always piles and piles of work, begun orfinished; and there also her few books at hand, to be glanced into inrare snatches of leisure in her busy life.

The old times New England house mother was not a mere unreflective drudgeof domestic toil. She was a reader and a thinker, keenly appreciative inintellectual regions. The literature of that day in New England wassparse; but whatever there was, whether in this country or in England,that was noteworthy, was matter of keen interest, and Mrs. Pitkin's smalllibrary was very dear to her. No nun in a convent under vows ofabstinence ever practiced more rigorous self-denial than she did in therestraints and government of intellectual tastes and desires. Her son wasdear to her as the fulfillment and expression of her unsatisfied cravingfor knowledge, the possessor of those fair fields of thought which dutyforbade her to explore.

James stood and looked in at the window, and saw her sorting andarranging the family mending, busy over piles of stockings and shirts,while on the table beside her lay her open Bible, and she was singing toherself, in a low, sweet undertone, one of the favorite minor-keyedmelodies of those days:

"O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast
And our eternal home!"

An indescribable feeling, blended of pity and reverence, swelled in hisheart as he looked at her and marked the whitening hair, the thin wornlittle hands so busy with their love work, and thought of all the bearingand forbearing, the waiting, the watching, the long-suffering that hadmade up her life for so many years. The very look of exquisite calm andresolved strength in her patient eyes and in the gentle lines of her facehad something that seemed to him sad and awful—as the purely spiritualalways looks to the more animal nature. With his blood bounding andtingling in his veins, his strong arms pulsating with life, and his heartfull of a man's vigor and resolve, his mother's life seemed to him to beone of weariness and drudgery, of constant, unceasing self-abnegation.Calm he knew she was, always sustained, never faltering; but her victorywas one which, like the spiritual sweetness in the face of the dying, hadsomething of sadness for the living heart.

He opened the door and came in, sat down by her on the floor, and laidhis head in her lap.

"Mother, you never rest; you never stop working."

"Oh, no!" she said gaily, "I'm just going to stop now. I had only a fewlast things I wanted to get done."

"Mother, I can't bear to think of you; your life is too hard. We all haveour amusements, our rests, our changes; your work is never done; you areworn out, and get no time to read, no time for anything but drudgery."

"Don't say drudgery, my boy—work done for those we love never isdrudgery. I'm so happy to have you all around me I never feel it."

"But, mother, you are not strong, and I don't see how you can hold out todo all you do."

"Well," she said simply, "when my strength is all gone I ask God formore, and he always gives it. 'They that wait on the Lord shall renewtheir strength.'" And her hand involuntarily fell on the open Bible.

"Yes, I know it," he said, following her hand with his eyes—while"Mother," he said, "I want you to give me your Bible and take mine. Ithink yours would do me more good."

There was a little bright flush and a pleased smile on his mother's face—

"Certainly, my boy, I will."

"I see you have marked your favorite places," he added. "It will seemlike hearing you speak to read them."

"With all my heart," she added, taking up the Bible and kissing hisforehead as she put it into his hands.

There was a struggle in his heart how to say farewell without saying it—without letting her know that he was going to leave her. He clasped herin his arms and kissed her again and again.

"Mother," he said, "if I ever get into heaven it will be through you."

"Don't say that, my son—it must be through a better Friend than I am—who loves you more than I do. I have not died for you—He did."

"Oh, that I knew where I might find him, then. You I can see—Him Icannot."

His mother looked at him with a face full of radiance, pity, and hope.

"I feel sure you will" she said. "You are consecrated," she added, in alow voice, laying her hand on his head.

"Amen," said James, in a reverential tone. He felt that she was at thatmoment—as she often
was—silently speaking to One invisible of and forhim, and the sense of it stole over him like a benediction. There was apause of tender silence for many minutes.

"Well, I must not keep you up any longer, mother dear—it's time you wereresting. Good-night." And with a long embrace and kiss they separated. Hehad yet fifteen miles to walk to reach the midnight stage that was toconvey him to Salem.

As he was starting from the house with his bundle in his hand, the soundof a gay laugh came through the distant shrubbery. It was Diana and Billreturning from the husking. Hastily he concealed himself behind a clumpof old lilac bushes till they emerged into the moonlight and passed intothe house. Diana was in one of those paroxysms of young girl frolic whichare the effervescence of young, healthy blood, as natural as thegyrations of a bobolink on a clover head. James was thinking of darknights and stormy seas, years of exile, mother's sorrows, home perhapsnever to be seen more, and the laugh jarred on him like a terriblediscord. He watched her into the house, turned, and was gone.

CHAPTER VI.

GONE TO SEA.

A little way on in his moonlight walk James's ears were saluted by thesound of some one whistling and crackling through the bushes, and soonBiah Carter, emerged into the moonlight, having been out to the samehusking where Diana and Bill had been enjoying themselves. The sight ofhim resolved a doubt which had been agitating James's mind. The note tohis mother which was to explain his absence and the reasons for it wasstill in his coat-pocket, and he had designed sending it back by somemessenger at the tavern where he took the midnight stage; but here was amore trusty party. It involved, to be sure, the necessity of taking Biahinto his confidence. James was well aware that to tell that acuteindividual the least particle of a story was like starting a gimlet in apine board—there was no stop till it had gone through. So he told him inbrief that a good berth had been offered to him on the Eastern Star,and he meant to take it to relieve his father of the pressure of hiseducation.

"Wal naow—you don't say so," was Biah's commentary. "Wal, yis, 'tis hardsleddin' for the deacon—drefful hard sleddin.' Wal, naow, s'pose you'redisapp'inted—shouldn't wonder—jes' so. Eddication's a good thing, but'taint the only thing naow; folks larns a sight rubbin' round the world—andthen they make money. Jes' see, there's Cap'n Stebbins and Cap'nAndrews and Cap'n Merryweather—all livin' on good farms, with good, nicehouses, all got goin' to sea. Expect Mis' Pitkin'll take it sort o' hard,she's so sot on you; but she's allers sayin' things is for the best, andmaybe she'll come to think so 'bout this—folks gen'ally does when theycan't help themselves. Wal, yis, naow—goin' to walk to the cross-roadtavern? better not. Jest wait a minit and I'll hitch up and take ye over.

"Thank you, Biah, but I can't stop, and I'd rather walk, so I won'ttrouble you."

"Wal, look here—don't ye want a sort o' nest-egg? I've got fifty silverdollars laid up: you take it on venture and give me half what it brings."

"Thank you, Biah. If you'll trust me with it I'll hope to do somethingfor us both."

Biah went into the house, and after some fumbling brought out a canvasbag, which he put into James's hand.

"Wanted to go to sea confoundedly myself, but there's Mariar Jane—shewon't hear on't, and turns on the water-works if I peep a single word.Farmin's drefful slow, but when a feller's got a gal he's got a cap'n; hehas to mind orders. So you jest trade and we'll go sheers. I thinkconsid'able of you, and I expect you'll make it go as fur as anybody."

"I'll try my best, you may believe, Biah," said James, shaking the hardhand heartily, as he turned on his way towards the cross-roads tavern.

The whole village of Maplewood on Thanksgiving Day morning was possessedof the fact that James Pitkin had gone off to sea in the Eastern Star,for Biah had felt all the sense of importance which the possession of astartling piece of intelligence gives to one, and took occasion to callat the tavern and store on his way up and make the most of hisinformation, so that by the time the bell rang for service the news mightbe said to be everywhere. The minister's general custom on ThanksgivingDay was to get off a political sermon reviewing the State of New England,the United States of America, and Europe, Asia, and Africa; but it may bedoubted if all the affairs of all these continents produced as muchsensation among the girls in the singers' seat that day as did the newsthat James Pitkin had gone to sea on a four years' voyage. Curious eyeswere cast on Diana Pitkin, and many were the whispers and speculations asto the part she might have had in the move; and certainly she lookedpaler and graver than usual, and some thought they could detect traces oftears on her cheeks. Some noticed in the tones of her voice that day, asthey rose in the soprano, a tremor and pathos never remarked
before—theunconscious utterance of a new sense of sorrow, awakened in a soul thatup to this time had never known a grief.

For the letter had fallen on the heads of the Pitkin household like athunderbolt. Biah came in to breakfast and gave it to Mrs. Pitkin, sayingthat James had handed him that last night, on his way over to take themidnight stage to Salem, where he was going to sail on the Eastern Starto-day—no doubt he's off to sea by this time. A confused sound ofexclamations went up around the table, while Mrs. Pitkin, pale and calm,read the letter and then passed it to her husband without a word. Thebright, fixed color in Diana's face had meanwhile been slowly ebbingaway, till, with cheeks and lips pale as ashes, she hastily rose and leftthe table and went to her room. A strange, new, terrible pain—asensation like being choked or smothered—a rush of mixed emotions—afearful sense of some inexorable, unalterable crisis having come of hergirlish folly—overwhelmed her. Again she remembered the deep tones ofhis good-by, and how she had only mocked at his emotion. She sat down andleaned her head on her hands in a tearless, confused sorrow.

Deacon' Pitkin was at first more shocked and overwhelmed than his wife.His yesterday's talk with James had no such serious purpose. It had beenonly the escape-valve for his hypochondriac forebodings of the future,and nothing was farther from his thoughts than having it bear fruit inany such decisive movement on the part of his son. In fact, he secretlywas proud of his talents and his scholarship, and had set his heart onhis going through college, and had no more serious purpose in what hesaid the day before than the general one of making his son feel thedifficulties and straits he was put to for him. Young men were tempted atcollege to be too expensive, he thought, and to forget what it cost theirparents at home. In short, the whole thing had been merely the passingoff of a paroxysm of hypochondria, and he had already begun to besatisfied that he should raise his interest money that year withoutmaterial difficulty. The letter showed him too keenly the depth of thesuffering he had inflicted on his son, and when he had read it he cast asort of helpless, questioning look on his wife, and said, after aninterval of silence:

"Well, mother!"

There was something quite pathetic in the appealing look and voice.'

"Well, father," she answered in subdued tones; "all we can do now is toleave it."

LEAVE IT!

Those were words often in that woman's mouth, and they expressed thathabit of her life which made her victorious over all troubles, that habitof trust in the Infinite Will that actually could and did leave everyaccomplished event in His hand, without murmur and without conflict.

If there was any one thing in her uniformly self-denied life that hadbeen a personal ambition and a personal desire, it had been that her sonshould have a college education. It was the center of her earthly wishes,hopes and efforts. That wish had been cut off in a moment, that hope hadsunk under her feet, and now only remained to her the task of comfortingthe undisciplined soul whose unguided utterances had wrought themischief. It was not the first time that, wounded by a loving hand inthis dark struggle of life, she had suppressed the pain of her own hurtthat he that had wounded her might the better forgive himself.

"Dear father," she said to him, when over and over he blamed himself forhis yesterday's harsh words to his son, "don't worry about it now; youdidn't mean it. James is a good boy, and he'll see it right at last; andhe is in God's hands, and we must leave him there. He overrules all."

When Mrs. Pitkin turned from her husband she sought Diana in her room.

"Oh, cousin! cousin!" said the girl, throwing herself into her arms."Is this true? Is James gone? Can't we do any thing? Can't we gethim back? I've been thinking it over. Oh, if the ship wouldn't sail! andI'd go to Salem and beg him to come back, on my knees. Oh, if I had onlyknown yesterday! Oh, cousin, cousin! he wanted to talk with me, and Iwouldn't hear him!—oh, if I only had, I could have persuaded him out ofit! Oh, why didn't I know?"

"There, there, dear child! We must accept it just as it is, now that itis done. Don't feel so. We must try to look at the good."

"Oh, show me that letter," said Diana; and Mrs. Pitkin, hoping totranquilize her, gave her James's note. "He thinks I don't care for him,"she said, reading it hastily. "Well, I don't wonder! But I do care! Ilove him better than anybody or anything under the sun, and I never willforget him; he's a brave, noble, good man, and I shall love him as longas I live—I don't care who knows it! Give me that locket, cousin, andwrite to him that I shall wear it to my grave."

"Dear child, there is no writing to him."

"Oh, dear! that's the worst. Oh, that horrid, horrid sea! It's likedeath—you don't know where they are, and you can't hear from them—and afour years' voyage! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Don't, dear child, don't; you distress me," said Mrs. Pitkin.

"Yes, that's just like me," said Diana, wiping her eyes. "Here I amthinking only of myself, and you that have had your heart broken aretrying to comfort me, and trying to comfort Cousin Silas. We have both ofus scolded and flouted him away, and now you, who suffer the most ofeither of us, spend your breath to comfort us. It's just like you. But,cousin, I'll try to be good and comfort you. I'll try to be a daughter toyou. You need somebody to think of you, for you never think of yourself.Let's go in his room," she said, and taking the mother by the hand theycrossed to the empty room. There was his writing-table, there hisforsaken books, his papers, some of his clothes hanging in his closet.Mrs. Pitkin, opening a drawer, took out a locket hung upon a bit of blueribbon, where there were two locks of hair, one of which Diana recognizedas her own, and one of James's. She hastily hung it about her neck andconcealed it in her bosom, laying her hand hard upon it, as if she wouldstill the beatings of her heart.

"It seems like a death," she said. "Don't you think the ocean is likedeath—wide, dark, stormy, unknown? We cannot speak to or hear from themthat are on it."

"But people can and do come back from the sea," said the mother,soothingly. "I trust, in God's own time, we shall see James back."

"But what if we never should? Oh, cousin! I can't help thinking of that.There was Michael Davis,—you know—the ship was never heard from."

"Well," said the mother, after a moment's pause and a choking down ofsome rising emotion, and turning to a table on which lay a Bible, sheopened and read: "If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in theuttermost parts of the sea, even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thyright hand shall hold me."

The THEE in this psalm was not to her a name, a shadow, a cipher, todesignate the unknowable—it stood for the inseparable Heart-friend—theFather seeing in secret, on whose bosom all her tears of sorrow had beenshed, the Comforter and Guide forever dwelling in her soul, and givingpeace where the world gave only trouble.

Diana beheld her face as it had been the face of an angel. She kissedher, and turned away in silence.

CHAPTER VII.

THANKSGIVING AGAIN.

Seven years had passed and once more the Thanksgiving tide was inMapleton. This year it had come cold and frosty. Chill driving autumnstorms had stripped the painted glories from the trees, and remorselessfrosts had chased the hardy ranks of the asters and golden-rods back andback till scarce a blossom could be found in the deepest and mostsequestered spots. The great elm over the Pitkin
farm-house had beenstripped of its golden glory, and now rose against the yellow eveningsky, with its infinite delicacies of net work and tracery, in their wayquite as beautiful as the full pomp of summer foliage. The air withoutwas keen and frosty, and the knotted twigs of the branches knockedagainst the roof and rattled and ticked against the upper window panes asthe chill evening wind swept through them.

Seven long years had passed since James sailed. Years of watching, ofwaiting, of cheerful patience, at first, and at last of resigned sorrow.Once they heard from James, at the first port where the ship stopped. Itwas a letter dear to his mother's heart, manly, resigned and Christian;expressing full purpose to work with God in whatever calling he shouldlabor, and cheerful hopes of the future. Then came a long, long silence,and then tidings that the Eastern Star had been wrecked on a reef inthe Indian ocean! The mother had given back her treasure into the samebeloved hands whence she first received him. "I gave him to God, and Godtook him," she said. "I shall have him again in God's time." This was howshe settled the whole matter with herself. Diana had mourned with all thevehement intensity of her being, but out of the deep baptism of sorrowshe had emerged with a new and nobler nature. The vain, trifling,laughing Undine had received a soul and was a true woman. She devotedherself to James's mother with an utter self-sacrificing devotion,resolved as far as in her lay to be both son and daughter to her. Sheread, and studied, and fitted herself as a teacher in a neighboringacademy, and persisted in claiming the right of a daughter to place allthe amount of her earnings in the family purse.

And this year there was special need. With all his care, with all hishard work and that of his family, Deacon Silas never had been able toraise money to annihilate the debt upon the farm.

There seemed to be a perfect fatality about it. Let them all make whatexertions they might, just as they were hoping for a sum that shouldexceed the interest and begin the work of settling the principal wouldcome some loss that would throw them all back. One year their barn wasburned just as they had housed their hay. On another a valuable horsedied, and then there were fits of sickness among the children, and poorcrops in the field, and low prices in the market; in short, as Biahremarked, "The deacon's luck did seem to be a sort o' streaky, for dowhat you might there's always suthin' to put him back." As the youngerboys grew up the deacon had ceased to hire help, and Biah had transferredhis services to Squire Jones, a rich landholder in the neighborhood, whowanted some one to overlook his place. The increased wages had enabledhim to give a home to Maria Jane and a start in life to two or threesturdy little American citizens who played around his house door.Nevertheless, Biah never lost sight of the "deacon's folks" in hismultifarious cares, and never missed an opportunity either of doing thema good turn or of picking up any stray item of domestic news as to howmatters were going on in that interior. He had privately broached thetheory to Miss Briskett, "that arter all it was James that Diany (healways pronounced all names as if they ended in y) was sot on, and thatshe took it so hard, his goin' off, that it did beat all! Seemed to makeanother gal of her; he shouldn't wonder if she'd come out and jine thechurch." And Diana not long after unconsciously fulfilled Biah'spredictions.

Of late Biah's good offices had been in special requisition, as thedeacon had been for nearly a month on a sick bed with one of thoseinterminable attacks of typhus fever which used to prevail in old times,when the doctor did everything he could to make it certain that a manonce brought down with sickness never should rise again.

But Silas Pitkin had a constitution derived through an indefinitedistance from a temperate, hard-working, godly ancestry, and so withstoodboth death and the doctor, and was alive and in a convalescent state,which gave hope of his being able to carve the turkey at his Thanksgivingdinner.

The evening sunlight was just fading out of the little "keeping-room,"adjoining the bed-room, where the convalescent now was able to sit upmost of the day. A cot bed had been placed there, designed for him to liedown upon in intervals of fatigue. At present, however, he was sitting inhis arm-chair, complacently watching the blaze of the hickory fire, orfollowing placidly the motions of his wife's knitting-needles.

There was an air of calmness and repose on his thin, worn features thatnever was there in days of old: the haggard, anxious lines had beensmoothed away, and that spiritual expression which sickness and sorrowsometimes develops on the human face reigned in its place. It was the"clear shining after rain."

"Wife," he said, "read me something I can't quite remember out of theBible. It's in the eighth of Deuteronomy, the second verse."

Mrs. Pitkin opened the big family Bible on the stand, and read, "And thoushalt remember all the way in which the Lord thy God hath led thee theseforty years in the wilderness, to humble thee and to prove thee and toknow what is in thy heart, and whether thou wouldst keep his commandmentsor no. And he humbled thee, and suffered thee to hunger, and fed theewith manna, which thou knewest not, neither did thy fathers know, that hemight make thee know that man doth not live by bread alone, but by everyword that proceedeth out of the mouth of the Lord doth man live."

"There, that's it," interrupted the deacon. "That's what I've beenthinking of as I've lain here sick and helpless. I've fought hard to keepthings straight and clear the farm, but it's pleased the Lord to bring melow. I've had to lie still and leave all in his hands."

"And where better could you leave all?" said his wife, with a radiantsmile.

"Well, just so. I've been saying, 'Here I am, Lord; do with me as seemethto thee good,' and I feel a great quiet now. I think it's doubtful if wemake up the interest this year. I don't know what Bill may get for thehay: but I don't see much prospect of raisin' on't; and yet I don'tworry. Even if it's the Lord's will to have the place sold up and we beturned out in our old age, I don't seem to worry about it. His will bedone."

There was a sound of rattling wheels at this moment, and anon there camea brush and flutter of garments, and Diana rushed in, all breezy with thefreshness of out-door air, and caught Mrs. Pitkin in her arms and kissedher first and then the deacon with effusion.

"Here I come for Thanksgiving," she said, in a rich, clear tone, "andhere," she added, drawing a roll of bills from her bosom, and putting itinto the deacon's hand, "here's the interest money for this year. I gotit all myself, because I wanted to show you I could be good forsomething."

"Thank you, dear daughter," said Mrs. Pitkin. "I felt sure some way wouldbe found and now I see what." She added, kissing Diana and patting herrosy cheek, "a very pleasant, pretty way it is, too."

"I was afraid that Uncle Silas would worry and put himself back againabout the interest money," said Diana.

"Well, daughter," said the Deacon, "it's a pity we should go through allwe do in this world and not learn anything by it. I hope the Lord hastaught me not to worry, but just do my best and leave myself andeverything else in his hands. We can't help ourselves—we can't make onehair white or black. Why should we wear our lives out fretting? If I'd aknown that years ago it would a been better for us all."

"Never mind, father, you know it now," said his wife, with a face sereneas a star. In this last gift of quietude of soul to her husband sherecognized the answer to her prayers of years.

"Well now," said Diana, running to the window, "I should like to knowwhat Biah Carter is coming here about."

"Oh, Biah's been very kind to us in this sickness," said Mrs. Pitkin, asBiah's feet resounded on the scraper.

"Good evenin', Deacon," said Biah, entering, "Good evenin', Mrs. Pitkin.Sarvant, ma'am," to Diana—"how ye all gettin' on?"

"Nicely, Biah—well as can be," said Mrs. Pitkin.

"Wal, you see I was up to the store with some o' Squire Jones's bellflowers. Sim Coan he said he wanted some to sell, and so I took up acouple o' barrels, and I see the darndest big letter there for theDeacon. Miss Briskett she was in, lookin' at it, and so was DeaconSimson's wife; she come in arter some cinnamon sticks. Wal, and they alllooked at it and talked it over, and couldn't none o' 'em for their livesthink what it's all about, it was sich an almighty thick letter," saidBiah, drawing out a long, legal-looking envelope and putting it in theDeacon's hands.

"I hope there isn't bad news in it," said Silas Pitkin, the colorflushing apprehensively in his pale cheeks as he felt for his spectacles.

There was an agitated, silent pause while he broke the seals and took outtwo documents. One was the mortgage on his farm and the other a receiptin full for the money owed on it! The Deacon turned the papers to andfro, gazed on them with a dazed, uncertain air and then said:

"Why, mother, do look! Is this so? Do I read it right?"

"Certainly, you do," said Diana, reading over his shoulder. "Somebody'spaid that debt, uncle!"

"Thank God!" said Mrs. Pitkin, softly; "He has done it."

"Wal, I swow!" said Biah, after having turned the paper in his hands, "ifthis 'ere don't beat all! There's old Squire Norcross's name on't. It'sthe receipt, full and square. What's come over the old crittur? He musta' got religion in his old' age; but if grace made him do that, gracehas done a tough job, that's all; but it's done anyhow! and that's allyou need to care about. Wal, wal, I must git along hum—Mariar Jane'll bewonderin' where I be. Good night, all on ye!" and Biah's retreating wagonwheels were off in the distance, rattling furiously, for, notwithstandingMaria Jane's wondering, Biah was resolved not to let an hour slip bywithout declaring the wonderful tidings at the store.

The Pitkin family were seated at supper in the big kitchen, all jubilantover the recent news. The father, radiant with the pleasantestexcitement, had for the first time come out to take his place at thefamily board. In the seven years since the beginning of our story thePitkin boys had been growing apace, and now surrounded the table quite anarmy of rosy-cheeked, jolly young fellows, who to-night were in a perfecttumult of animal gaiety. Diana twinkled and dimpled and flung hersparkles round among them, and there was unbounded jollity.

"Who's that looking in at the window?" called out Sam, aged ten, who satopposite the house door. At that moment the door opened, and a darkstranger, bronzed with travel and dressed in foreign-looking garments,entered.

He stood one moment, all looking curiously at him, then crossing thefloor, he kneeled down by Mrs. Pitkin's chair, and throwing off his cap,looked her close in the eyes.

"Mother, don't you know me?"

She looked at him one moment with that still earnestness peculiar toherself, and then fell into his arms. "O my son, my son!"

There were a few moments of indescribable confusion, during which Dianaretreated, pale and breathless, to a neighboring window, and stood withher hand over the locket which she had always worn upon her heart.

After a few moments he came, and she felt him by her.

"What, cousin!" he said; "no welcome from you?" She gave one look, and hetook her in his arms. She felt the beating of his heart, and he felthers. Neither spoke, yet each felt at that moment sure of the other.

"I say, boys," said James, "who'll help bring in my sea chest?"

Never was sea chest more triumphantly ushered; it was a contest whoshould get near enough to take some part in it's introduction, and soonit was open, and James began distributing its contents.

"There, mother," said he, undoing a heavy black India satin and shakingout its folds, "I'm determined you shall have a dress fit for you; andhere's a real India shawl to go with it. Get those on and you'll look asmuch like a queen among women as you ought to."

Then followed something for every member of the family, received withfrantic demonstrations of applause and appreciation by the more juvenile.

"Oh, what's that?" said Sam, as a package done up in silk paper and tiedwith silver cord was disclosed.

"That's—oh—that's my wife's wedding-dress," said James, unfolding andshaking out a rich satin; "and here's her shawl," drawing out anembroidered box, scented with sandal-wood.

The boys all looked at Diana, and Diana laughed and grew pale and red allin the same breath, as James, folding back the silk and shawl in theirboxes, handed them to her.

Mrs. Pitkin laughed and kissed her, and said, gaily, "All right, mydaughter—just right."

What an evening that was, to be sure! What a confusion of joy andgladness! What a half-telling of a hundred things that it would takeweeks to tell.

James had paid the mortgage and had money to spare; and how he got itall, and how he was saved at sea, and where he went, and what befell himhere and there, he promised to be telling them for six months to come.

"Well, your father mustn't be kept up too late," said Mrs. Pitkin. "Let'shave prayers now, and then
to-morrow we'll be fresh to talk more."

So they gathered around the wide kitchen fire and the family Bible wasbrought out.

"Father," said James, drawing out of his pocket the Bible his mother hadgiven him at parting, "let me read my Psalm; it has been my Psalm eversince I left you." There was a solemn thrill in the little circle asJames read the verses:

"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;these see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep. For hecommandeth and raiseth the stormy wind which lifteth up the wavesthereof. They mount up to the heaven; they go down again to the depths:their soul is melted because of trouble. Then they cry unto the Lord intheir trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He makeththe storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they gladbecause they be quiet, so he bringeth them unto their desired haven. Ohthat men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderfulworks to the children of men!"

When all had left the old kitchen, James and Diana sat by the yet glowinghearth and listened to the crickets, and talked over all the past and thefuture.

"And now," said James, "it's seven years since I left you, and to-morrowis the seventh Thanksgiving, and I've always set my heart on getting hometo be married Thanksgiving evening."

"But, dear me, Jim, we can't. There isn't time."

"Why not?—we've got all the time there is!"

"But the wedding-dress can't be made, possibly."

"Oh, that can wait till the week after. You are pretty enough withoutit!"

"But what will they all say?"

"Who cares what they say? I don't," said James. "The fact is, I've set myheart on it, and you owe me something for the way you treated me the lastThanksgiving I was here, seven years ago. Now don't you?"

"Well, yes, I do, so have it just as you will." And so it was accomplishedthe next evening.

And among the wonders of Mapleton Miss Briskett announced it as chief,that it was the first time she ever heard of a bride that was marriedfirst and had her wedding-dress made the week after! She never had heardof such a thing.

Yet, strange to say, for years after neither of the parties concernedfound themselves a bit the worse for it.

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS OF NEW ENGLAND.

The shores of the Atlantic coast of America may well be a terror tonavigators. They present an inexorable wall, against which forbidding andangry waves incessantly dash, and around which shifting winds continuallyrave. The approaches to safe harbors are few in number, intricate anddifficult, requiring the skill of practiced pilots.

But, as if with a pitying spirit of hospitality, old Cape Cod, breakingfrom the iron line of the coast, like a generous-hearted sailor intent onhelpfulness, stretches an hundred miles outward, and, curving hissheltering arms in a protective circle, gives a noble harborage. Of thisharbor of Cape Cod the report of our governmental Coast Survey thusspeaks: "It is one of the finest harbors for ships of war on the whole ofour Atlantic coast. The width and freedom from obstruction of every kindat its entrance and the extent of sea room upon the bay side make itaccessible to vessels of the largest class in almost all winds. Thisadvantage, its capacity, depth of water, excellent anchorage, and thecomplete shelter it affords from all winds, render it one of the mostvaluable ship harbors upon our coast."

We have been thus particular in our mention of this place, because here,in this harbor, opened the first scene in the most wonderful drama ofmodern history.

Let us look into the magic mirror of the past and see this harbor of CapeCod on the morning of the 11th of November, in the year of our Lord 1620,as described to us in the simple words of the pilgrims: "A pleasant bay,circled round, except the entrance, which is about four miles over fromland to land, compassed about to the very sea with oaks, pines,junipers, sassafras, and other sweet weeds. It is a harbor wherein athousand sail of ship may safely ride."

Such are the woody shores of Cape Cod as we look back upon them in thatdistant November day, and the harbor lies like a great crystal gem on thebosom of a virgin wilderness. The "fir trees, the pine trees, and thebay," rejoice together in freedom, for as yet the axe has spared them; inthe noble bay no shipping has found shelter; no voice or sound ofcivilized man has broken the sweet calm of the forest. The oak leaves,now turned to crimson and maroon by the autumn frosts, reflect themselvesin flushes of color on the still waters. The golden leaves of thesassafras yet cling to the branches, though their life has passed, andevery brushing wind bears showers of them down to the water. Here andthere the dark spires of the cedar and the green leaves and red berriesof the holly contrast with these lighter tints. The forest foliage growsdown to the water's edge, so that the dash of the rising and falling tidewashes into the shaggy cedar boughs which here and there lean over anddip in the waves.

No voice or sound from earth or sky proclaims that anything unwonted iscoming or doing on these shores to-day. The wandering Indians, movingtheir hunting-camps along the woodland paths, saw no sign in the starsthat morning, and no different color in the sunrise from what had been inthe days of their fathers. Panther and wild-cat under their furry coatsfelt no thrill of coming dispossession, and saw nothing through theirgreat golden eyes but the dawning of a day just like all other days—when"the sun ariseth and they gather themselves into their dens and lay themdown." And yet alike to Indian, panther, and wild-cat, to every oak ofthe forest, to every foot of land in America, from the stormy Atlantic tothe broad Pacific, that day was a day of days.

There had been stormy and windy weather, but now dawned on the earth oneof those still, golden times of November, full of dreamy rest and tendercalm. The skies above were blue and fair, and the waters of the curvingbay were a downward sky—a magical under-world, wherein the crimson oaks,and the dusk plumage of the pine, and the red holly-berries, and yellowsassafras leaves, all flickered and glinted in wavering bands of color assoft winds swayed the glassy floor of waters.

In a moment, there is heard in the silent bay a sound of a rush andripple, different from the lap of the many-tongued waves on the shore;and, silently as a cloud, with white wings spread, a little vessel glidesinto the harbor.

A little craft is she—not larger than the fishing-smacks that ply theircourse along our coasts in summer; but her decks are crowded with men,women, and children, looking out with joyous curiosity on the beautifulbay, where, after many dangers and storms, they first have found safeshelter and hopeful harbor.

That small, unknown ship was the Mayflower; those men and women whocrowded her decks were that little handful of God's own wheat which hadbeen flailed by adversity, tossed and winnowed till every husk of earthlyselfishness and self-will had been beaten away from them and left onlypure seed, fit for the planting of a new world. It was old Master CottonMather who said of them, "The Lord sifted three countries to find seedwherewith to plant America."

Hark now to the hearty cry of the sailors, as with a plash and a cheerthe anchor goes down, just in the deep water inside of Long Point; andthen, says their journal, "being now passed the vast ocean and sea oftroubles, before their preparation unto further proceedings as to seekout a place for habitation, they fell down on their knees and blessed theLord, the God of heaven, who had brought them over the vast and furiousocean, and delivered them from all perils and miseries thereof."

Let us draw nigh and mingle with this singular act of worship. ElderBrewster, with his well-worn Geneva Bible in hand, leads the thanksgivingin words which, though thousands of years old, seem as if written for theoccasion of that hour:

"Praise the Lord because he is good, for his mercy endureth forever. Letthem which have been redeemed of the Lord show how he delivereth themfrom the hand of the oppressor, And gathered them out of the lands: fromthe east, and from the west, from the north, and from the south, whenthey wandered in deserts and wildernesses out of the way and found nocity to dwell in. Both hungry and thirsty, their soul failed in them.Then they cried unto the Lord in their troubles, and he delivered them intheir distresses. And led them forth by the right way, that they might gounto a city of habitation. They that go down to the sea and occupy by thegreat waters: they see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep.For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, and it lifteth up thewaves thereof. They mount up to heaven, and descend to the deep: so thattheir soul melteth for trouble. They are tossed to and fro, and staggerlike a drunken man, and all their cunning is gone. Then they cry unto theLord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. Heturneth the storm to a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Whenthey are quieted they are glad, and he bringeth them unto the haven wherethey would be."

As yet, the treasures of sacred song which are the liturgy of modernChristians had not arisen in the church. There was no Watts, and noWesley, in the days of the Pilgrims; they brought with them in eachfamily, as the most precious of household possessions, a thick volumecontaining, first, the Book of Common Prayer, with the Psalter appointedto be read in churches; second, the whole Bible in the Genevatranslation, which was the basis on which our present English translationwas made; and, third, the Psalms of David, in meter, by Sternhold andHopkins, with the music notes of the tunes, adapted to singing. Thereforeit was that our little band were able to lift up their voices together insong and that the noble tones of Old Hundred for the first time floatedover the silent bay and mingled with the sound of winds and waters,consecrating our American shores.

"All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice:
Him serve with fear, His praise forthtell;
Come ye before Him and rejoice.

"The Lord, ye know, is God indeed;
Without our aid He did us make;
We are His flock, He doth us feed,
And for his sheep He doth us take.

"O enter then His gates with praise,
Approach with joy His courts unto:
Praise, laud, and bless His name always,
For it is seemly so to do.

"For why? The Lord our God is good,
His mercy is forever sure;
His truth at all times firmly stood,
And shall from age to age endure."

This grand hymn rose and swelled and vibrated in the still November air;hile in between the pauses came the warble of birds, the scream of thejay, the hoarse call of hawk and eagle, going on with their forest waysall unmindful of the new era which had been ushered in with those solemnsounds.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST DAY ON SHORE.

The sound of prayer and psalm-singing died away on the shore, and thelittle band, rising from their knees, saluted each other in that genialhumor which always possesses a ship's company when they have weatheredthe ocean and come to land together.

"Well, Master Jones, here we' are," said Elder Brewster cheerily to theship-master.

"Aye, aye, sir, here we be sure enough; but I've had many a shrewd doubtof this upshot. I tell you, sirs, when that beam amidships sprung andcracked Master Coppin here said we must give over—hands couldn't bringher through. Thou rememberest, Master Coppin?"

"That I do," replied Master Coppin, the first mate, a stocky, cheerysailor, with a face red and shining as a glazed bun. "I said then thatpraying might save her, perhaps, but nothing else would."

"Praying wouldn't have saved her," said Master Brown, the carpenter, "ifI had not put in that screw and worked the beam to her place again."

"Aye, aye, Master Carpenter," said Elder Brewster, "the Lord hathabundance of the needful ever to his hand. When He wills to answerprayer, there will be found both carpenter and screws in their season, Itrow."

"Well, Deb," said Master Coppin, pinching the ear of a great mastiffbitch who sat by him, "what sayest thou? Give us thy mind on it, oldgirl; say, wilt thou go deer-hunting with us yonder?"

The dog, who was full of the excitement of all around, wagged her tailand gave three tremendous barks, whereat a little spaniel with curlyears, that stood by Rose Standish, barked aloud.

"Well done!" said Captain Miles Standish. "Why, here is a salute ofordnance! Old Deb is in the spirit of the thing and opens out like acannon. The old girl is spoiling for a chase in those woods."

"Father, may I go ashore? I want to see the country," said WrestlingBrewster, a bright, sturdy boy, creeping up to Elder Brewster andtouching his father's elbow.

Thereat there was a crying to the different mothers of girls and boystired of being cooped up,—"Oh, mother, mother, ask that we may all goashore."

"For my part," said old Margery the serving-maid to Elder Brewster, "Iwant to go ashore to wash and be decent, for there isn't a soul of ushath anything fit for Christians. There be springs of water, I trow."

"Never doubt it, my woman," said Elder Brewster; "but all things in theirorder. How say you, Mr. Carver? You are our governor. What order shall wetake?"

"We must have up the shallop," said Carver, "and send a picked company tosee what entertainment there may be for us on shore."

"And I counsel that all go well armed," quoth Captain Miles Standish,"for these men of the forest are sharper than a thorn-hedge. What! what!"he said, looking over to the eager group of girls and boys, "ye would goashore, would ye? Why, the lions and bears will make one mouthful of ye."

"I'm not afraid of lions," said young Wrestling Brewster in an aside tolittle Love Winslow, a golden-haired, pale-cheeked child, of a tender andspiritual beauty of face. "I'd like to meet a lion," he added, "and servehim as Samson did. I'd get honey out of him, I promise."

"Oh, there you are, young Master Boastful!" said old Margery. "Mind theold saying, 'Brag is a good dog, but holdfast is better.'"

"Dear husband," said Rose Standish, "wilt thou go ashore in thiscompany?"

"Why, aye, sweetheart, what else am I come for—and who should go if notI?"

"Thou art so very venturesome, Miles."

"Even so, my Rose of the wilderness. Why else am I come on this quest?Not being good enough to be in your church nor one of the saints, I comefor an arm of flesh to them, and so, here goes on my armor."

And as he spoke, he buried his frank, good-natured countenance in an ironheadpiece, and Rose hastened to help him adjust his corselet.

The clang of armor, the bustle and motion of men and children, thebarking of dogs, and the cheery Heave-o! of the sailors marked thesetting off of the party which comprised some of the gravest, and wisest,as well as the youngest and most able-bodied of the ship's' company. Theimpatient children ran in a group and clustered on the side of the shipto see them go. Old Deb, with her two half-grown pups, barked and yelpedafter her master in the boat, running up and down the vessel's deck withpiteous cries of impatience.

"Come hither, dear old Deb," said little Love Winslow, running up andthrowing her arms round the dog's rough neck; "thou must not take on so;thy master will be back again; so be a good dog now, and lie down."

And the great rough mastiff quieted down under her caresses, and sittingdown by her she patted and played with her, with her little thin hands.

"See the darling," said Rose Standish, "what away that baby hath! In allthe roughness and the terrors of the sea she hath been like a littlesunbeam to us—yet she is so frail!"

"She hath been marked in the womb by the troubles her mother bore," saidold Margery, shaking her head. "She never had the ways of other babies,but hath ever that wistful look—and her eyes are brighter than theyshould be. Mistress Winslow will never raise that child—now mark me!"

"Take care!" said Rose, "let not her mother hear you."

"Why, look at her beside of Wrestling Brewster, or Faith Carver. They areflesh and blood, and she looks as if she had been made out of sunshine.'Tis a sweet babe as ever was; but fitter for the kingdom of heaven thanour rough life—deary me! a hard time we have had of it. I suppose it'sall best, but I don't know."

"Oh, never talk that way, Margery," said Rose Standish; "we must all keepup heart, our own and one another's."

"Ah, well a day—I suppose so, but then I look at my good Master Brewsterand remember how, when I was a girl, he was at our good Queen Elizabeth'scourt, ruffling it with the best, and everybody said that there wasn't ayoung man that had good fortune to equal his. Why, Master Davidson, theQueen's Secretary of State, thought all the world of him; and when hewent to Holland on the Queen's business, he must take him along; and whenhe took the keys of the cities there, it was my master that he trustedthem to, who used to sleep with them under his pillow. I remember when hecame home to the Queen's court, wearing the great gold chain that theStates had given him. Ah me! I little thought he would ever come to apoor man's coat, then!"

"Well, good Margery," said Rose, "it isn't the coat, but the heart underit—that's the thing. Thou hast more cause of pride in thy master'spoverty than in his riches."

"Maybe so—I don't know," said Margery, "but he hath had many a soretrouble in worldly things—driven and hunted from place to place inEngland, clapt into prison, and all he had eaten up with fines andcharges and costs."

"All that is because he chose rather to suffer affliction with the peopleof God than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season," said Rose; "heshall have his reward by and by."

"Well, there be good men and godly in Old England that get to heaven inbetter coats and with easy carriages and fine houses and servants, and Iwould my master had been of such. But if he must come to the wilderness Iwill come with him. Gracious me! what noise is that?" she exclaimed, as asudden report of firearms from below struck her ear. "I do believe thereis that Frank Billington at the gunpowder; that boy will never leave, Ido believe, till he hath blown up the ship's company."

In fact, it appeared that young master Frank, impatient of the absence ofhis father, had toled Wrestling Brewster and two other of the boys downinto the cabin to show them his skill in managing his father's fowling-piece,had burst the gun, scattering the pieces about the cabin.

Margery soon appeared, dragging the culprit after her. "Look here now,Master Malapert, see what you'll get when your father comes home! Lord amercy! here was half a keg of powder standing open! Enough to have blownus all up! Here, Master Clarke, Master Clarke, come and keep this boywith you till his father come back, or we be all sent sky high before weknow."

At even tide the boat came back laden to the water's edge with the firstgettings and givings from the new soil of America. There is a richnessand sweetness gleaming through the brief records of these men in theirjournals, which shows how the new land was seen through a fond and tendermedium, half poetic; and its new products lend a savor to them ofsomewhat foreign and rare.

Of this day's expedition the record is thus:

"That day, so soon as we could, we set ashore some fifteen or sixteen menwell armed, with some to fetch wood, for we had none left; as also to seewhat the land was and what inhabitants they could meet with. They foundit to be a small neck of land on this side where we lay in the bay, andon the further side the sea, the ground or earth, sand-hills, much likethe downs in Holland, but much better; the crust of the earth a spit'sdepth of excellent black earth; all wooded with oaks, pines, sassafras,juniper, birch, holly, vines, some ash and walnut; the wood for the mostpart open and without underwood, fit either to walk or to ride in. Atnight our people returned and found not any people or inhabitants, andladed their boat with juniper, which smelled very sweet and strong, andof which we burned for the most part while we were there."

"See there," said little Love Winslow, "what fine red berries CaptainMiles Standish hath brought."

"Yea, my little maid, there is a brave lot of holly berries for thee todress the cabin withal. We shall not want for Christmas greens here,though the houses and churches are yet to come."

"Yea, Brother Miles," said Elder Brewster, "the trees of the Lord arefull of sap in this land, even the cedars of Lebanon, which he hathplanted. It hath the look to me of a land which the Lord our God hathblessed."

"There is a most excellent depth of black, rich earth," said Carver, "anda great tangle of grapevines, whereon the leaves in many places yet hung,and we picked up stores of walnuts under a tree—not so big as ourEnglish ones—but sweet and well-flavored."

"Know ye, brethren, what in this land smelleth sweetest to me?" saidElder Brewster. "It is the smell of liberty. The soil is free—no manhath claim thereon. In Old England a poor man may starve right on hismother's bosom; there may be stores of fish in the river, and bird andfowl flying, and deer running by, and yet though a man's children becrying for bread, an' he catch a fish or snare a bird, he shall besnatched up and hanged. This is a sore evil in Old England; but we willmake a country here for the poor to dwell in, where the wild fruits andfish and fowl shall be the inheritance of whosoever will have them; andevery man shall have his portion of our good mother earth, with no lordsand no bishops to harry and distrain, and worry with taxes and tythes."

"Amen, brother!" said Miles Standish, "and thereto I give my bestendeavors with sword and buckler."

CHAPTER III.

CHRISTMAS TIDE IN PLYMOUTH HARBOR.

For the rest of that month of November the Mayflower lay at anchor inCape Cod harbor, and formed a floating home for the women and children,while the men were out exploring the country, with a careful and steadyshrewdness and good sense, to determine where should be the site of thefuture colony. The record of their adventures is given in their journalswith that sweet homeliness of phrase which hangs about the Old English ofthat period like the smell of rosemary in an ancient cabinet.

We are told of a sort of picnic day, when "our women went on shore towash and all to refresh themselves;" and fancy the times there must havebeen among the little company, while the mothers sorted and washed anddried the linen, and the children, under the keeping of the old mastiffsand with many cautions against the wolves and wild cubs, once more hadliberty to play in the green wood. For it appears in these journals how,in one case, the little spaniel of John Goodman was chased by two wolves,and was fain to take refuge between his master's legs for shelter.Goodman "had nothing in hand," says the journal, "but took up a stick andthrew at one of them and hit him, and they presently ran away, but cameagain. He got a pale-board in his hand, but they both sat on their tailsa good while, grinning at him, and then went their way and left him."

Such little touches show what the care of families must have been in thewoodland picnics, and why the ship was, on the whole, the safest refugefor the women and children.

We are told, moreover, how the party who had struck off into thewilderness, "having marched through boughs and bushes and under hills andvalleys which tore our very armor in pieces, yet could meet with noinhabitants nor find any fresh water which we greatly stood in need of,for we brought neither beer nor water with us, and our victual was onlybiscuit and Holland cheese, and a little bottle of aqua vitae. So we weresore athirst. About ten o'clock we came into a deep valley full of brush,sweet gaile and long grass, through which we found little paths ortracks; and we saw there a deer and found springs of water, of which wewere heartily glad, and sat us down and drunk our first New England waterwith as much delight as we ever drunk drink in all our lives."

Three such expeditions through the country, with all sorts of haps andmishaps and adventures, took up the time until near the 15th of December,when, having selected a spot for their colony, they weighed anchor to goto their future home.

Plymouth Harbor, as they found it, is thus described:

"This harbor is a bay greater than Cape Cod, compassed with a goodlyland, and in the bay two fine islands uninhabited, wherein are nothingbut woods, oaks, pines, walnuts, beeches, sassafras, vines, and othertrees which we know not. The bay is a most hopeful place, innumerablestores of fowl, and excellent good; and it cannot but be of fish in theirseason. Skate, cod, and turbot, and herring we have tasted of—abundanceof mussels (clams) the best we ever saw; and crabs and lobsters in theirtime, infinite."

On the main land they write:

"The land is, for a spit's depth, excellent black mould and fat in someplaces. Two or three great oaks, pines, walnut, beech, ash, birch, hazel,holly, and sassafras in abundance, and vines everywhere, with cherry-trees,plum-trees, and others which we know not. Many kind of herbs wefound here in winter, as strawberry leaves innumerable, sorrel, yarrow,carvel, brook-lime, liver-wort, water-cresses, with great store of leeksand onions, and an excellent strong kind of flax and hemp."

It is evident from this description that the season was a mild one eventhus late into December, that there was still sufficient foliage hangingupon the trees to determine the species, and that the pilgrims viewedtheir new mother-land through eyes of cheerful hope.

And now let us look in the glass at them once more, on Saturday morningof the 23d of December.

The little Mayflower lies swinging at her moorings in the harbor, whileevery man and boy who could use a tool has gone on shore to cut down andprepare timber for future houses.

Mary Winslow and Rose Standish are sitting together on deck, fashioninggarments, while little Love Winslow is playing at their feet with suchtoys as the new world afforded her—strings of acorns and scarlet holly-berries and some bird-claws and arrowheads and bright-colored ears ofIndian corn, which Captain Miles Standish has brought home to her fromone of their explorations.

Through the still autumnal air may now and then be heard the voices ofmen calling to one another on shore, the quick, sharp ring of axes, andanon the crash of falling trees, with shouts from juveniles as the greatforest monarch is laid low. Some of the women are busy below, sortingover and arranging their little household stores and stuff with a view tomoving on shore, and holding domestic consultations with each other.

A sadness hangs over the little company, for since their arrival thestroke of death has more than once fallen; we find in Bradford's briefrecord that by the 24th of December six had died.

What came nearest to the hearts of all was the loss of Dorothea Bradford,who, when all the men of the party were absent on an exploring tour,accidentally fell over the side of the vessel and sunk in the deepwaters. What this loss was to the husband and the little company ofbrothers and sisters appears by no note or word of wailing, merely by asimple entry which says no more than the record on a gravestone, that,"on the 7th of December, Dorothy, wife of William Bradford, fell over andwas drowned."

That much-enduring company could afford themselves few tears. Earthlyhaving and enjoying was a thing long since dismissed from theircalculations. They were living on the primitive Christian platform; they"rejoiced as though they rejoiced not," and they "wept as though theywept not," and they "had wives and children as though they had them not,"or, as one of themselves expressed it, "We are in all places strangers,pilgrims, travelers and sojourners; our dwelling is but a wandering, ourabiding but as a fleeting, our home is nowhere but in the heavens, inthat house not made with hands, whose builder and maker is God."

When one of their number fell they were forced to do as soldiers in thestress of battle—close up the ranks and press on.

But Mary Winslow, as she sat over her sewing, dropped now and then a teardown on her work for the loss of her sister and counselor and long-triedfriend. From the lower part of the ship floated up, at intervals,snatches of an old English ditty that Margery was singing while she movedto and fro about her work, one of those genuine English melodies, full ofa rich, strange mournfulness blent with a soothing pathos:

"Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages."

The air was familiar, and Mary Winslow, dropping her work in her lap,involuntarily joined in it:

"Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat,
To thee the reed is as the oak."

"There goes a great tree on shore!" quoth little Love Winslow, clappingher hands. "Dost hear, mother? I've been counting the strokes—fifteen—and then crackle! crackle! crackle! and down it comes!"

"Peace, darling," said Mary Winslow; "hear what old Margery is singingbelow:

"Fear no more the lightning's flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash—
Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lovers young—all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust."

"Why do you cry, mother?" said the little one, climbing on her lap andwiping her tears.

"I was thinking of dear Auntie, who is gone from us."

"She is not gone from us, mother."

"My darling, she is with Jesus."

"Well, mother, Jesus is ever with us—you tell me that—and if she iswith him she is with us too—I know she is—for sometimes I see her. Shesat by me last night and stroked my head when that ugly, stormy windwaked me—she looked so sweet, oh, ever so beautiful!—and she made me goto sleep so quiet—it is sweet to be as she is, mother—not away from usbut with Jesus."

"These little ones see further in the kingdom than we," said RoseStandish. "If we would be like them, we should take things easier. Whenthe Lord would show who was greatest in his kingdom, he took a littlechild on his lap."

"Ah me, Rose!" said Mary Winslow, "I am aweary in spirit with thistossing sea-life. I long to have a home on dry land once more, be it everso poor. The sea wearies me. Only think, it is almost Christmas time,only two days now to Christmas. How shall we keep it in these woods?"

"Aye, aye," said old Margery, coming up at the moment, "a brave musterand to do is there now in old England; and men and boys going forthsinging and bearing home branches of holly, and pine, and mistletoe forChristmas greens. Oh! I remember I used to go forth with them and helpdress the churches. God help the poor children, they will grow up in thewilderness and never see such brave sights as I have. They will neverknow what a church is, such as they are in old England, with fine oldwindows like the clouds, and rainbows, and great wonderful arches likethe very skies above us, and the brave music with the old organs rollingand the boys marching in white garments and singing so as should draw thevery heart out of one. All this we have left behind in old England—ah!well a day! well a day!"

"Oh, but, Margery," said Mary Winslow, "we have a 'better country' thanold England, where the saints and angels are keeping Christmas; weconfess that we are strangers and pilgrims on earth."

And Rose Standish immediately added the familiar quotation from theGeneva Bible:

"For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country.For if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came outthey had leisure to have returned. But now they desire a better—that is,an heavenly; wherefore God is not ashamed of them to be called theirGod."

The fair young face glowed as she repeated the heroic words, for already,though she knew it not, Rose Standish was feeling the approaching sphereof the angel life. Strong in spirit, as delicate in frame, she had givenherself and drawn her martial husband to the support of a great and noblecause; but while the spirit was ready, the flesh was weak, and even atthat moment her name was written in the Lamb's Book to enter the higherlife, in one short month's time from that Christmas.

Only one month of sweetness and perfume was that sweet rose to shed overthe hard and troubled life of the pilgrims, for the saints and angelsloved her, and were from day to day gently untying mortal bands to drawher to themselves. Yet was there nothing about her of mournfulness; onthe contrary, she was ever alert and bright, with a ready tongue to cheerand a helpful hand to do; and, seeing the sadness that seemed stealingover Mary Winslow, she struck another key, and, catching little Love upin her arms, said cheerily,

"Come hither, pretty one, and Rose will sing thee a brave carol forChristmas. We won't be
down-hearted, will we? Hark now to what theminstrels used to sing under my window when I was a little girl:

"I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day, on Christmas day,
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas day in the morning.

"And what was in those ships all three
On Christmas day, on Christmas day,
And what was in those ships all three
On Christmas day in the morning?

"Our Saviour Christ and his laydie,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day,
Our Saviour Christ and his laydie
On Christmas day in the morning.

"Pray, whither sailed those ships all three,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day?
Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem,
On Christmas day in the morning.

"And all the bells on earth shall ring
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
And all the angels in heaven shall sing
On Christmas day in the morning.

"Then let us all rejoice amain,
On Christmas day, on Christmas day;
Then let us all rejoice amain
On Christmas day in the morning."

"Now, isn't that a brave ballad?" said Rose. "Yea, and thou singest likea real English robin," said Margery, "to do the heart good to hear thee."

CHAPTER IV.

ELDER BREWSTER'S CHRISTMAS SERMON.

Sunday morning found the little company gathered once more on the ship,with nothing to do but rest and remember their homes, temporal andspiritual—homes backward, in old England, and forward, in Heaven. Theywere, every man and woman of them, English to the back-bone. From CaptainJones who commanded the ship to Elder Brewster who ruled and guided inspiritual affairs, all alike were of that stock and breeding which madethe Englishman of the days of Bacon and Shakespeare, and in those daysChristmas was knit into the heart of every one of them by a thousandthreads, which no after years could untie.

Christmas carols had been sung to them by nurses and mothers andgrandmothers; the Christmas holly spoke to them from every berry andprickly leaf, full of dearest household memories. Some of them had beenmen of substance among the English gentry, and in their prosperous dayshad held high festival in ancestral halls in the season of good cheer.Elder Brewster himself had been a rising young diplomat in the court ofElizabeth, in the days when the Lord Keeper of the Seals led the revelsof Christmas as Lord of Misrule.

So that, though this Sunday morning arose gray and lowering, with snowflakeshovering through the air, there was Christmas in the thoughts ofevery man and woman among them—albeit it was the Christmas of wanderersand exiles in a wilderness looking back to bright home-fires acrossstormy waters.

The men had come back from their work on shore with branches of greenpine and holly, and the women had, stuck them about the ship, not withouttearful thoughts of old home-places, where their childhood fathers andmothers did the same.

Bits and snatches of Christmas carols were floating all around the ship,like land-birds blown far out to sea. In the forecastle Master Coppin wassinging:

"Come, bring with a noise,
My merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing;
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your hearts' desiring.
Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here.
The while the meat is shredding
For the rare minced pie,
And the plums stand by
To fill the paste that's a-kneading."

"Ah, well-a-day, Master Jones, it is dull cheer to sing Christmas songshere in the woods, with only the owls and the bears for choristers. Iwish I could hear the bells of merry England once more."

And down in the cabin Rose Standish was hushing little Peregrine, thefirst American-born baby, with a Christmas lullaby:

"This winter's night
I saw a sight—
A star as bright as day;
And ever among
A maiden sung,
Lullay, by-by, lullay!

"This lovely laydie sat and sung,
And to her child she said,
My son, my brother, and my father dear,
Why lyest thou thus in hayd?
My sweet bird,
Tho' it betide
Thou be not king veray;
But nevertheless
I will not cease
To sing, by-by, lullay!

"The child then spake in his talking,
And to his mother he said,
It happeneth, mother, I am a king,
In crib though I be laid,
For angels bright
Did down alight,
Thou knowest it is no nay;
And of that sight
Thou may'st be light
To sing, by-by, lullay!

"Now, sweet son, since thou art a king,
Why art thou laid in stall?
Why not ordain thy bedding
In some great king his hall?
We thinketh 'tis right
That king or knight
Should be in good array;
And them among,
It were no wrong
To sing, by-by, lullay!

"Mary, mother, I am thy child,
Tho' I be laid in stall;
Lords and dukes shall worship me,
And so shall kinges all.
And ye shall see
That kinges three
Shall come on the twelfth day;
For this behest
Give me thy breast,
And sing, by-by, lullay!"

"See here," quoth Miles Standish, "when my Rose singeth, the childrengather round her like bees round a flower. Come, let us all strike up agoodly carol together. Sing one, sing all, girls and boys, and get a bitof Old England's Christmas before to-morrow, when we must to our work onshore."

Thereat Rose struck up a familiar ballad-meter of a catching rhythm, andevery voice of young and old was soon joining in it:

"Behold a silly,[^[1]] tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies;
Alas! a piteous sight,
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little Pilgrim bed;
But forced He is, with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there,
First what He is inquire:
An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.

"Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a Prince's court,
The crib His chair of state,
The beasts are parcel of His pomp,
The wooden dish His plate.
The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear;
The Prince Himself is come from Heaven,
This pomp is prized there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise His humble pomp,
Which He from Heaven doth bring."

[1] Old English—simple.

The cheerful sounds spread themselves through the ship like the flavor ofsome rare perfume, bringing softness of heart through a thousand tendermemories.

Anon, the hour of Sabbath morning worship drew on, and Elder Brewsterread from the New Testament the whole story of the Nativity, and thengave a sort of Christmas homily from the words of St. Paul, in the eighthchapter of Romans, the sixth and seventh verses, which the Geneva versionthus renders:

"For the wisdom of the flesh is death, but the wisdom of the spirit islife and peace.

"For the wisdom of the flesh is enmity against God, for it is not subjectto the law of God, neither indeed can be."

"Ye know full well, dear brethren, what the wisdom of the flesh sayeth.The wisdom of the flesh sayeth to each one, 'Take care of thyself; lookafter thyself, to get and to have and to hold and to enjoy.' The wisdomof the flesh sayeth, 'So thou art warm, full, and in good liking, takethine ease, eat, drink, and be merry, and care not how many go empty andbe lacking.' But ye have seen in the Gospel this morning that this wasnot the wisdom of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, though he was Lord of all,became poorer than any, that we, through His poverty, might become rich.When our Lord Jesus Christ came, the wisdom of the flesh despised Him;the wisdom of the flesh had no room for Him at the inn.

"There was room enough always for Herod and his concubines, for thewisdom of the flesh set great store by them; but a poor man and womanwere thrust out to a stable; and there was a poor baby born whom thewisdom of the flesh knew not, because the wisdom of the flesh is enmityagainst God.

"The wisdom of the flesh, brethren, ever despiseth the wisdom of God,because it knoweth it not. The wisdom of the flesh looketh at the thingthat is great and strong and high; it looketh at riches, at kings'courts, at fine clothes and fine jewels and fine feastings, and itdespiseth the little and the poor and the weak.

"But the wisdom of the Spirit goeth to worship the poor babe in themanger, and layeth gold and myrrh and frankincense at his feet while helieth in weakness and poverty, as did the wise men who were taught ofGod.

"Now, forasmuch as our Saviour Christ left His riches and throne in gloryand came in weakness and poverty to this world, that he might work out amighty salvation that shall be to all people, how can we better keepChristmas than to follow in his steps? We be a little company who haveforsaken houses and lands and possessions, and come here unto thewilderness that we may prepare a resting-place whereto others shall cometo reap what we shall sow. And to-morrow we shall keep our firstChristmas, not in flesh-pleasing, and in reveling and in fullness ofbread, but in small beginning and great weakness, as our Lord Christ keptit when He was born in a stable and lay in a manger.

"To-morrow, God willing, we will all go forth to do good, honestChristian work, and begin the first house-building in this our NewEngland—it may be roughly fashioned, but as good a house, I'll warrantme, as our Lord Christ had on the Christmas Day we wot of. And let us notfaint in heart because the wisdom of the world despiseth what we do.Though Sanballat the Horonite, and Tobias the Ammonite, and Geshem theArabian make scorn of us, and say, 'What do these weak Jews? If a fox goup, he shall break down their stone wall;' yet the Lord our God is withus, and He can cause our work to prosper.

"The wisdom of the Spirit seeth the grain of mustard-seed, that is theleast of all seeds, how it shall become a great tree, and the fowls ofheaven shall lodge in its branches. Let us, then, lift up the hands thathang down and the feeble knees, and let us hope that, like as greatsalvation to all people came out of small beginnings of Bethlehem, so thework which we shall begin to-morrow shall be for the good of manynations.

"It is a custom on this Christmas Day to give love-presents. What love-giftgiveth our Lord Jesus on this day? Brethren, it is a great one and aprecious; as St. Paul said to the Philippians: 'For unto you it is givenfor Christ, not only that ye should believe on Him, but also that yeshould suffer for His sake;' and St. Peter also saith, 'Behold, we countthem blessed which endure.' And the holy Apostles rejoiced that they werecounted worthy to suffer rebuke for the name of Jesus.

"Our Lord Christ giveth us of His cup and His baptism; He giveth of themanger and the straw; He giveth of persecutions and afflictions; Hegiveth of the crown of thorns, and right dear unto us be these gifts.

"And now will I tell these children a story, which a cunning playwright,whom I once knew in our Queen's court, hath made concerning gifts:

"A great king would marry his daughter worthily, and so he caused threecaskets to be made, in one of which he hid her picture. The one casketwas of gold set with diamonds, the second of silver set with pearls, andthe third a poor casket of lead.

"Now it was given out that each comer should have but one choice, and ifhe chose the one with the picture he should have the lady to wife.

"Divers kings, knights, and gentlemen came from far, but they never won,because they always snatched at the gold and the silver caskets, with thepearls and diamonds. So, when they opened these, they found only agrinning death's-head or a fool's cap.

"But anon cometh a true, brave knight and gentleman, who chooseth forlove alone the old leaden casket; and, behold, within is the picture ofher he loveth! and they were married with great feasting and content.

"So our Lord Jesus doth not offer himself to us in silver and gold andjewels, but in poverty and hardness and want; but whoso chooseth them forHis love's sake shall find Him therein whom his soul loveth, and shallenter with joy to the marriage supper of the Lamb.

"And when the Lord shall come again in his glory, then he shall bringworthy gifts with him, for he saith: 'Be thou faithful unto death, and Iwill give thee a crown of life; to him that overcometh I will give to eatof the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone with a new namethat no man knoweth save he that receiveth it. He that overcometh andkeepeth my words, I will give power over the nations and I will give himthe morning star.'

"Let us then take joyfully Christ's Christmas gifts of labors andadversities and crosses to-day, that when he shall appear we may havethese great and wonderful gifts at his coming; for if we suffer with himwe shall also reign; but if we deny him, he also will deny us."

And so it happens that the only record of Christmas Day in the pilgrims'journal is this:

"Monday, the 25th, being Christmas Day, we went ashore, some to felltimber, some to saw, some to rive, and some to carry; and so no manrested all that day. But towards night some, as they were at work, hearda noise of Indians, which caused us all to go to our muskets; but weheard no further, so we came aboard again, leaving some to keep guard.That night we had a sore storm of wind and rain. But at night the shipmastercaused us to have some beer aboard."

So worthily kept they the first Christmas, from which comes all theChristmas cheer of New England
to-day. There is no record how MaryWinslow and Rose Standish and others, with women and children, cameashore and walked about encouraging the builders; and how little Lovegathered stores of bright checker-berries and partridge plums, and wasmade merry in seeing squirrels and wild rabbits; nor how old Margeryroasted certain wild geese to a turn at a woodland fire, and conservedwild cranberries with honey for sauce. In their journals the goodpilgrims say they found bushels of strawberries in the meadows inDecember. But we, knowing the nature of things, know that these must havebeen cranberries, which grow still abundantly around Plymouth harbor.

And at the very time that all this was doing in the wilderness, and themen were working yeomanly to build a new nation, in King James's courtthe ambassadors of the French King were being entertained with maskingsand mummerings, wherein the staple subject of merriment was the Puritans!

So goes the wisdom of the world and its ways—and so goes the wisdom ofGod!