Read Ebook: Under the Holly: Christmas-Tide in Song and Story by Randolph Henry F Henry Fitz Compiler

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Ebook has 182 lines and 16288 words, and 4 pages

It was just at the holy Christmas-tide that the Oak-tree dreamt his most beautiful dream: this dream we will hear.

The tree had a foreboding that a festive season was nigh; he seemed to hear the church-bells ringing all round, and to feel as though it were a mild, warm summer day. Fresh and green, he reared his mighty crown on high; the sunbeams played among his leaves and boughs; the air was filled with fragrance; bright-colored butterflies gambolled, and gnats danced,--which was all they could do to show their joy. And all that the tree had beheld during his life passed by as in a festive procession. Knights and ladies, with feathers in their caps, and hawks perching on their wrists, rode gayly through the wood; dogs barked, and the huntsman sounded his bugle. Then came foreign soldiers in bright armor and gay vestments, bearing spears and halberds, setting up their tents, and presently taking them down again; then watch-fires blazed up, and bands of wild outlaws sang, revelled, and slept under the tree's outstretched boughs, or happy lovers met in the quiet moonlight, and carved their initials on the grayish bark. At one time a guitar, at another an AEolian harp, had been hung up amid the old oak's boughs, by merry travelling apprentices; now they hung there again, and the wind played so sweetly with the strings. The wood-doves cooed, as though they would do their best to express the tree's happy feelings, and the cuckoo talked about himself as usual, proclaiming how many summer days he had to live.

And now it seemed a new and stronger current of life flowed through him, down to his lowest roots, up to his highest twigs, even to the very leaves! The tree felt in his roots that a warm life stirred in the earth,--felt his strength increase, and that he was growing taller and taller. His trunk shot up more and more; his crown grew fuller; he spread, he towered; and still, as the tree grew, he felt that his power grew with it, and that his ardent longing to advance higher and higher up to the bright warm sun increased also.

Already had he towered above the clouds, which drifted below him, now like a troop of dark-plumaged birds of passage, now like flocks of large white swans.

And every leaf could see, as though it had eyes; the stars became visible by daylight, so large and bright, each one sparkling like a mild, clear eye: they reminded him of dear kind eyes that had sought each other under his shade,--lovers' eyes, children's eyes.

It was a blessed moment; and yet, in the height of his joy, the Oak-tree felt a desire and longing that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers of the wood might be lifted up with him, might share in this glory and gladness. The mighty Oak-tree, amid his dream of splendor, could not be fully blessed unless he might have all, little and great, to share it with him; and this feeling thrilled through boughs and leaves as strongly, as fervently as though his were the heart of a man.

The tree's crown bowed itself, as though it missed and sought something, looked backward. Then he felt the fragrance of honeysuckles and violets, and fancied he could hear the cuckoo answering himself.

Yes, so it was! for now peeped forth, through the clouds, the green summits of the wood; the other trees below had grown and lifted themselves up likewise; bushes and herbs shot high into the air, some tearing themselves loose from their roots, and mounting all the faster. The birch had grown most rapidly; like a flash of white lightning, its slender stem shot upward, its boughs waving like pale-green banners. Even the feathery brown reed had pierced its way through the clouds; and the birds followed, and sang and sang; and on the grass that fluttered to and fro like a long streaming green ribbon perched the grasshopper, and drummed with his wings on his lean body; the cockchafers hummed, and the bees buzzed; every bird sang with all his might, and all was music and gladness.

"But the little blue flower near the water,--I want that too," said the Oak-tree; "and the bell-flower, and the dear little daisy!" The tree wanted all these.

"We are here! we are here!" chanted sweet low voices on all sides.

"But the pretty anemones of last spring, and the bed of lilies-of-the-valley that blossomed the year before that! and the wild crab-apple tree! and all the beautiful trees and flowers that have adorned the wood through so many seasons--oh, would that they had lived till now!"

"We are here! we are here!" was the answer; and this time it seemed to come from the air above, as though they had fled upward first.

"Oh, this is too great happiness,--it is almost incredible!" exclaimed the Oak-tree. "I have them all, small and great; not one of them is forgotten! How can such blessedness be possible?"

"In the kingdom of God all things are possible," was the answer.

And the tree now felt that his roots were loosening themselves from the earth. "This is best of all," he said; "now no bonds shall detain me, I can soar up to the height of light and glory; and my dear ones are with me, small and great,--I have them all!"

Such was the old Oak-tree's dream; and all the while, on that holy Christmas Eve, a mighty storm swept over sea and land: the ocean rolled its heavy billows on the shore; the tree cracked, was rent and torn up by the roots, at the very moment when he dreamt that his roots were disengaging themselves from the earth. He fell. His three hundred and sixty-five years were now as a day is to the May-fly.

On Christmas morning, when the sun burst forth, the storm was laid. All the church-bells were ringing joyously; and from every chimney, even the poorest, the blue smoke curled upward, as from the Druids' altar of old uprose the sacrificial steam. The sea was calm again; and a large vessel that had weathered the storm the night before, now hoisted all its flags, in token of Yule festivity. "The tree is gone,--the old Oak-tree, our beacon," said the crew; "it has fallen during last night's storm. How can its place ever be supplied?"

This was the tree's funeral eulogium, brief but well-meant. There he lay, outstretched upon the snowy carpet near the shore; whilst over it re-echoed the hymn sung on shipboard,--the hymn sung in thanksgiving for the joy of Christmas, for the bliss of the human soul's salvation, through Christ, and the gift of eternal life:--

"Sing loud, and raise your voices high, For your redemption draweth nigh; Lift up your heads, and have no fear! The promised kingdom, it is here! Oh, take the gift, in joy receive; All things are his who will believe: O little flock, what words can tell The bliss of souls Christ loved so well? Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

Thus resounded the old hymn; and every soul lifted up heart and desire heavenward, even as the old tree had lifted himself on his last, best dream,--his Christmas Eve dream.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

Across the German Ocean, In a country far from our own, Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in a part of the village Where the houses were poor and small, But the house of little Gottlieb Was the poorest one of all.

He was not large enough to work, And his mother could no more Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes, And turn, and patch, and darn; For never any woman yet Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night beside her chair Would Gottlieb sit, and plan The wonderful things he would do for her When he grew to be a man.

One night she sat and knitted, And Gottlieb sat and dreamed, When a happy fancy all at once Upon his vision beamed.

'Twas only a week till Christmas, And Gottlieb knew that then The Christ-child, who was born that day, Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said, "He will never find us, Our home is so mean and small; And we, who have most need of them, Will get no gifts at all."

When all at once a happy light Came into his eyes so blue, And lighted up his face with smiles, As he thought what he could do.

Next day, when the postman's letters Came from all over the land, Came one for the Christ-child, written In a child's poor, trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled What in the world to do; So he went to the Burgomaster, As the wisest man he knew.

And when they opened the letter, They stood almost dismayed, That such a little child should dare To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered, And scarce knew what to speak, And hastily he brushed aside A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.

Then up he spoke right gruffly, And turned himself about: "This must be a very foolish boy, And a small one, too, no doubt."

But when six rosy children That night about him pressed, Poor, trusting little Gottlieb Stood near him, with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer Through all their noisy play, Though he tried his very best to put The thought of him away.

Now, when the morn of Christmas came, And the long, long week was done, Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep, Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother; But he scarce might speak for fear, When he saw her wondering look, and saw The Burgomaster near.

He wasn't afraid of the Holy Babe, Nor his mother, meek and mild; But he felt as if so great a man Had never been a child.

Amazed the poor child looked, to find The hearth was piled with wood, And the table, never full before, Was heaped with dainty food.

Then, half to hide from himself the truth, The Burgomaster said, While the mother blessed him on her knees, And Gottlieb shook for dread:

"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame, To such as me for aid; Be grateful to your little son, And the Lord, to whom he prayed!"

Then turning round to Gottlieb, "Your written prayer, you see, Came not to whom it was addressed, It only came to me!

"'Twas but a foolish thing you did, As you must understand; For though the gifts are yours, you know, You have them from my hand."

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, Where he humbly stood apart, "But the Christ-child sent them all the same; He put the thought in your heart!"

TINY TIM'S CHRISTMAS DINNER.

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.

"What has ever got your precious father then?" said Mrs. Cratchit. "And your brother Tiny Tim! And Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour!"

"Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.

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