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Page 34
But this has nothing to do with the story. Only we must say, as we said
before, and as we should have said had we been living there then, the
child we speak of lived in the little white house with one spruce fir
just in front of it.
Of all the children who looked forward to the Christmas tree, he looked
forward to it the most intensely. He was an imaginative child, of a
simple, happy nature, easy to please. His father was an Englishman, and
in the long winter evenings he would tell the child tales of the old
country, to which his mother would listen also. Perhaps the parents
enjoyed these stories the most. To the boy they were new, and
consequently delightful, but to the parents they were old; and as
regards some stories, that is better still.
"What kind of a bird is this on my letter?" asked the boy on the day
which brought the Governor's lady's note of invitation. "And oh! what
is a Christmas tree?"
"The bird is an English robin," said his father. "It is quite another
bird to that which is called a robin here: it is smaller and rounder,
and has a redder breast and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings at
home through the winter. A Christmas tree is a fir-tree--just such a
one as that outside the door--brought into the house and covered with
lights and presents. Picture to yourself our fir-tree lighted up with
tapers on all the branches, with dolls, and trumpets, and bon-bons, and
drums, and toys of all kinds hanging from it like fir-cones, and on the
tip-top shoot a figure of a Christmas Angel in white, with a star upon
its head."
"Fancy!" said the boy.
And fancy he did. Every day he looked at the spruce fir, and tried to
imagine it laden with presents, and brilliant with tapers, and thought
how wonderful must be that "old country"--_Home_, as it was called, even
by those who had never seen it--where the robins were so very red, and
where at Christmas the fir-trees were hung with toys instead of cones.
It was certainly a pity that, two days before the party, an original
idea on the subject of snowmen struck one of the children who used to
play together, with their sleds and snow shoes, in the back streets.
The idea was this: That instead of having a commonplace snowman, whose
legs were obliged to be mere stumps, for fear he should be top-heavy,
and who could not walk, even with them; who, in fact, could do nothing
but stand at the corner of the street, holding his impotent stick, and
staring with his pebble eyes, till he was broken to pieces or
ignominiously carried away by a thaw,--that, instead of this, they
should have a real, live snowman, who should walk on competent legs, to
the astonishment, and (happy thought!) perhaps to the alarm of the
passers-by. This delightful novelty was to be accomplished by covering
one of the boys of the party with snow till he looked as like a real
snowman as circumstances would admit. At first everybody wanted to be
the snowman, but, when it came to the point, it was found to be so much
duller to stand still and be covered up than to run about and work,
that no one was willing to act the part. At last it was undertaken by
the little boy from the Fir House. He was somewhat small, but then he
was so good-natured he would always do as he was asked. So he stood
manfully still, with his arms folded over a walking-stick upon his
breast, whilst the others heaped the snow upon him. The plan was not so
successful as they had hoped. The snow would not stick anywhere except
on his shoulders, and when it got into his neck he cried with the cold;
but they were so anxious to carry out their project, that they begged
him to bear it "just a little longer"; and the urchin who had devised
the original idea wiped the child's eyes with his handkerchief, and
(with that hopefulness which is so easy over other people's matters)
"dared say that when all the snow was on, he wouldn't feel it."
However, he did feel it, and that so severely that the children were
obliged to give up the game, and, taking the stick out of his stiff
little arms, to lead him home.
It appears that it is with snowmen as with some other men in
conspicuous positions. It is easier to find fault with them than to
fill their place.
The end of this was a feverish cold, and, when the day of the party
came, the ex-snowman was still in bed. It is due to the other children
to say that they felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and that
it greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them to think that they
had prevented his sharing in the treat. The most penitent of all was
the deviser of the original idea. He had generously offered to stay at
home with the little patient, which was as generously refused; but the
next evening he was allowed to come and sit on his bed, and describe it
all for the amusement of his friend. He was a quaint boy, this urchin,
with a face as broad as an American Indian's, eyes as bright as a
squirrel's, and all the mischief in life lurking about him, till you
could see roguishness in the very folds of his hooded Indian winter
coat of blue and scarlet. In his hand he brought the sick child's
present: a dray with two white horses, and little barrels that took off
and on, and a driver, with wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything,
in fact, that was suitable to the driver of a brewer's dray, except
that he had blue boots and earrings, and that his hair was painted in
braids like a lady's, which is clearly the fault of the doll
manufacturers, who will persist in making them all of the weaker sex.
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