we say how green the meadows look below, and the young wheat in the fields, till the snow hides it. When the green plover is piping on the moor, or the thrush is trying a weak note in the ivy, or the hedge-sparrows are twittering, or the robin is singing aloud, we hope they will do so when the boys can hear them. When the water-wagtails jerk about the springhead on the heath, or the village boys are bird-catching under the hedges, Harry hopes that there will be some of the feathered race left by the great 22nd. He does what he can to preserve and attach some of the tribe; for he never forgets to put some of his breakfast upon the window-sill for the birds, even if the weather is so open as that the moles are throwing up their hills in the grass, and worms come up in the flower beds, and a remnant of winged creatures attempt to amuse themselves in the sun. Harry wants his breakfast on fine and mild days, and therefore contends that his birds must be fed also.
At length, the shortest day has arrived. The old folks are at least as well pleased as the young ones. Lengthening days may be thought of in a fortnight more; and by that time the festivals will be over. If the truth were known (but it is a truth which few have the courage to avow), elderly people generally do not like anniversaries, or any periodical celebrations, such as make the joy of young folk. I need not go into the reasons here. I will merely say, as a matter of fact, that, to my wife and me, the highest pleasure of the holidays is in January, when the Christmas racket is over, and we settle into our regular winter life, with Ned and Charley to brighten it.
Meantime, every day is full of pleasures, which we enjoy through the bright faces which are about us. There are not a few which please our own taste also. We like going into the woods for holly, and finding mistletoe for ourselves, instead of condescending to buy it. We like burning fir cones, and choosing the greenest masses of moss for cushioning the pots of bulbs at home. We are never tired of the icicles which glitter everywhere; and on Christmas Day we help to count the kinds of flowers in bloom within our own gates. Once, I remember, we found, among us, thirty-three kinds. I had rather find fewer, for I like a seasonable Christmas; and when one can make a bouquet of thirty-three diverse blooms, one might almost as well be passing Christmas day in Australia, fanning one’s self, and sipping cooling drinks. On the whole, I believe we relish the Waits. Their music is very bad, certainly; but there is something moving in the associations of a lifetime, awakened in the darkness and silence of night, and seizing upon us in the impressionable moment of waking from sleep. I own that, even now, that music plays upon my heartstrings.
From that point, we must acknowledge that our satisfaction is altogether in the pleasure of other people. There is no occasion to tell them (what they will discover in time) that anniversaries are never true in regard to the times of any but very modern events. There is no occasion to forestall for them the discovery that it is not morally good to appoint seasons for emotions. They will learn in course of years that the wise pass onward with the flow of time and events, less and less desiring to revert to former conditions, or to perpetuate states of mind destined to be outgrown. So we accommodate ourselves to them. My wife looks to the mincemeat and other good things, and I help with the games which are to be played at the Hall. We never leave home on Christmas Day, because there is a kitchen party which needs to be entertained. We suppose they like to come, as they always arrive so early and stay so late; but we wonder at them, though we do our best. They come to us from church, that is, at half-past twelve. They dine at one; and so do we, that there may be no trouble about our dinner afterwards. When the kitchen becomes quiet, and the things are all put away, the girls read some comic or fairy tale to the old folks, while my boys take the youngsters out for a walk, or a slide, or games in the barn, according to weather. At dusk they have tea; and then the ancients play at some antique game of cards, while all the rest of the party, parlour and kitchen, go into a series of Christmas games, in which we all exert ourselves to the utmost. Then we darken the kitchen, and ask for the raisins and rum, and have snap-dragons—throwing in salt at the right moment, to make pale faces;—a process which is never got over without some scaring of somebody, too young or too old for such an exhibition. That over, we think we have done our part, and we leave our guests to their supper. When the clock has struck nine, we begin to expect the regular invitation to receive the thanks of the company; but it is nearly ten before the drawing-room door opens, and the cloaked and coated figures appear, curtseying and bowing, and all saying at once that they are sure they never remember a pleasanter Christmas Day. We are very glad; hope they will come next year, if all is well with them and us, and ask whether they are provided with lanterns, to get safe home. Then comes the best hour of the day—the family converse over the fire, when the servants are gone to bed, and we are together and alone, face to face, and heart to heart.
Nobody likes Boxing Day, I suppose, except those who get money by it; and they have but too often anticipated the gains of the day. I have too much reason to know that the Squire’s gifts,—of coals, blankets, money, clothing, and meat,—do more harm than good. I see the bad effects of them, the whole year through, in regard to the temper, as well as the higher morals of the place. I have no business with it, further than to say what I think, when occasion arises; but I am always glad when the day is over which so profanes the season, and the tipplers are sleeping off the madness and folly in which they have exhibited themselves. Then ensues the vexation of all the landed proprietors round, and the wrath of their foresters and gardeners, at finding the havoc made among their evergreens for Christmas decorations. Hollies, long cherished to make them grow, are found split and torn to pieces; laurels and laurestinus are left lopsided, or hanging in tatters. Pyracanthas are found torn down from walls of lodges; and the choice chrysanthemums—the pride of the garden in cottage and parson-