Here is another story in Library Lady’s Christmas Stories series.
CHRISTMAS IN POGANUC
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
Edited by Jane Mouttet
The First Christmas
Can we look back to the earlier days of our lives and remember the helpless sense of loneliness caused by being forced to go off to the stillness and darkness of a solitary bed far from all the beloved voices, employments, and sights of life? Can we remember lying, hearing distant voices and laughs of more fortunate, older people, and the opening and shutting of distant doors that told of scenes of animation and interest from which we were excluded? How sad the clock tick sounded and how dismal the darkness was as sunshine faded from the window, leaving only a square of dusky dimness in place of daylight!
All who remember these will sympathize with Dolly, who was hustled off to bed by Nabby the minute supper was over, that she might have the decks clear for action.
“Now be a good girl; shut your eyes, and say your prayers, and go right to sleep,” had been Nabby’s parting injunction as she went out, closing the door after her.
The little head sunk into the pillow, and Dolly recited her usual liturgy of “Our Father who art in heaven” and “I pray God to bless my dear father and mother and all my dear friends and relations, and make me a good girl,” and ending with “‘Now I lay me down to sleep.'”
But she couldn’t sleep. The wide, bright, wistful blue eyes shone like two stars toward the fading light in the window, and the little ears were strained to catch every sound. She heard the shouts of Tom and Bill and the loud barking of Spring as they swept out of the door, and the sound went to her heart. Spring—her faithful attendant, the most loving and sympathetic of dogs, her friend and confidential counselor in many a solitary ramble— had gone with the boys to see the sight and left her alone. She began to pity herself and cry softly on her pillow. She could hear Nabby’s energetic movements below, washing up dishes, putting back chairs, and giving energetic thumps and bangs here and there as her way of producing order. But by and by, that was all over, and she heard the loud shutting of the kitchen door and Nabby’s voice chatting with her attendant as she went off to the scene of merriment
Nobody thought of locking house doors at night in those simple, innocent days in New England villages. In those times, there was no idea either of tramps or burglars. Many a night in summer, Dolly had lain awake and heard the voices of tree toads and whippoorwills mingling with the whisper of leaves and the swaying of elm boughs. In contrast, the outside door of the house lay broad open in the moonlight. But then this was when everybody was in the house and asleep, when the door of her parent’s room stood open in the front hall, and she knew she could run to the paternal bed in a minute for protection. Now, however, she knew the house was empty. Everybody had gone out of it, and there was something fearful to a little lonely body in the possibility of a great, empty house. She got up and opened her door, and the “tick-tock” of the old kitchen clock for a moment seemed like company, but pretty soon, its ticking began to strike louder and louder with a nervous insistency on her ear till the nerves quivered and vibrated, and she couldn’t go to sleep. She lay and listened to all the noises outside. It was a still, clear, freezing night when the least sound clinked with a metallic resonance. She heard the runners of sleighs squeaking and crunching over the frozen road and the lively jingle of bells. They would come nearer, pass by the house, and go off in the distance. Those were the happy folks going to see the gold star and the Christmas greens in the church. The gold star, the Christmas greens, had all the more attraction from their vagueness. Dolly was a fanciful little creature, and the clear air and romantic scenery of a mountain town had fed her imagination. Stories she had never read, except in the Bible and the Pilgrim’s Progress, but her very soul had vibrated with the descriptions of the celestial city—something vague, bright, glorious, lying beyond some dark river. Nabby’s rude account of what was happening in the church suggested those images.
Finally, a bright thought popped into her little head. She could see the church from the house’s front windows; she would go there and look. In haste, she sprang out of bed and dressed herself. It was sharp and freezing in the fireless chamber, but Dolly’s blood had a racing, healthy tingle to it; she didn’t mind cold. She wrapped her cloak around her, tied her hood, and ran to the front windows. There it was, to be sure—the little church with its sharp-pointed windows, every pane of which was sending streams of light across the glittering snow. A crowd was around the door, and men and boys looked in at the windows. Dolly’s soul was fired. But the elm boughs a little obstructed her vision; she thought she would go down and look at it from the yard. So downstairs she ran, but as she opened the door, the sound of the chant rolled out into the darkness with a sweet and solemn cadence: “Glory be to God on high; and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.”
Dolly’s soul was all aglow—her nerves tingled and vibrated; she thought of the bells ringing in the celestial city; she could no longer contain herself, but faster and faster, the little hooded form scudded across the snowy plain and pushed in among the dark cluster of spectators at the door. All made way for the child, and in a moment, whether in the body or out, she could not tell, Dolly was sitting in a little nook under a bower of spruce, gazing at the star and listening to the voices: “We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee, we glorify Thee, we give thanks to Thee for Thy great glory, O Lord God, Heavenly King, God, the Father Almighty.”
Her heart throbbed and beat; she trembled with a strange happiness and sat as one entranced till the music ended. Then came reading, the rustle and murmur of people kneeling, and then they all rose, and there was the solemn buzz of voices repeating the Creed with a curious lulling sound to her ear. There was old Mr. Danforth with his spectacles on, reading with a pompous tone as if to witness a good confession for the church, and there were Squire Lewis and old Madam Lewis. There was one place where they all bowed their heads, and all the ladies made courtesies—all of which entertained her mightily.
When the sermon began, Dolly got fast asleep and slept as quietly as a pet lamb in a meadow, lying in a little warm roll back under the shadows of the spruces. She was so tired and sound asleep that she did not wake when the service ended, lying serenely curled up and perhaps having pleasant dreams. She might have had the fortunes of Little Goody Two-Shoes, whose history was detailed in one of the few children’s books then printed, but she had not two friends united to find her out.
Spring, who had got into the slip with the boys and been an equally attentive and edified listener, after service began a tour of investigation, dog-fashion, with his nose; for how could a minister’s dog form a suitable judgment of any new procedure if he was repressed from the use of his own leading faculty? So, Spring went round the church conscientiously, smelling at pew doors, smelling of the greens, smelling at the heels of gentlemen and ladies, till he came near the door of the church when he suddenly smelt something which called for immediate attention. He made a side dart into the thicket where Dolly was sleeping. He began licking her face and hands and pulling her dress, giving short barks occasionally as if to say, “Come, Dolly, wake up!” At the same instant, Hiel, who had seen her from the gallery, came down just as the little one sat up with a dazed, bewildered air.
“Why, Dolly, how came you out of bed this time of night? Don’t ye know the nine o’clock bell’s just rung?”
Dolly knew Hiel well enough—what child in the village did not? She raised her little hands apologetically: “They were all gone, and I was so lonesome!”
Hiel took her up in his long arms and carried her home. He was just entering the house door with her as the sleigh drove up with Parson Cushing and his wife.
“Well, Parson, your folks have all been to the illumination—Nabby, Bill, Tom, and Dolly here; found her all rolled up in a heap like a rabbit under the cedars.”
“Why, Dolly Cushing!” exclaimed her mother. “What upon earth got you out of bed this time of night? You’ll catch your death o’ cold.”
“I was all alone,” said Dolly with a piteous bleat.
“Oh, there, there, wife; don’t say a word,” put in the parson. “Get her off to bed. Never mind, Dolly, don’t you cry,” for Parson Cushing was a soft-hearted gentleman who couldn’t bear seeing Dolly’s quivering lower lip. So Dolly told her little story, how she had been promised a sugar dog by Nabby if she’d be a good girl and go to sleep, and how she couldn’t go to sleep, and how she just went down to look from the yard, and how the music drew her right over.
“There, there,” said Parson Cushing, “Go to bed, Dolly, and if Nabby doesn’t give you a sugar dog, I will. This Christmas dressing is all nonsense,” he added, “but the child’s not to blame—it was natural.”
“After all,” he said to his wife the last thing after they were settled for the night, “our little Dolly is an unusual child. There were not many little girls that would have dared to do that. I shall preach a sermon right away that will set all this Christmas matter straight,” said the Doctor. “There is no shadow of evidence that the first Christians kept Christmas. It wasn’t kept for the first three centuries, nor was Christ born near the 25th of December.”
* * * * *
Little Dolly’s blue eyes were wide open the following day, eager to explore a new idea.
Dolly had her wise thoughts about Christmas. She had been terribly frightened at first when she was brought home from the church. Still, when her papa kissed her and promised her a sugar dog, she was pretty sure that, whatever the unexplained mystery might be, he did not think the lovely scene of the night before a wicked one. And when Mrs. Cushing came and covered the little girl up warmly in bed, she only said to her, “Dolly, you must never get out of bed again at night after you are put there; you might have caught a dreadful cold and been sick and died, and then we should have lost our little Dolly.” So Dolly promised quite readily to be good and lie still ever after, no matter what attractions might be on foot in the community.
Much was gained, and immediately, the little fanciful head made the most of it, thinking over every feature of the wonder. The child had a vibrating, musical organization. The sway and rush of the chanting still sounded in her ears. They reminded her of that wonderful story in the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” where the gate of the celestial city swung open. Some voices sang, “Blessing and honor and glory and power be unto Him who sitteth on the throne.” And then that incredible star shone just as if it were a real star—how could it be! Miss Ida Lewis, a young lady of native artistic genius, had cut a little hole in the center of her gilt paper star, behind which was placed a candle so that it gave real light in a way most astonishing to untaught eyes. It verged on the supernatural in Dolly’s simple view—perhaps it was the very real star read about in the Gospel story. Why not? Dolly was at the happy age when anything bright and heavenly seemed credible and had the child-like faith that all things were possible.
“I wish, my dear,” said Mrs. Cushing, after they were retired to their room for the night, “that tomorrow morning you would read the account of the birth of Christ in St. Matthew and give the children some advice upon the proper way of keeping Christmas.”
“Well, but you know we don’t keep Christmas; nobody knows anything about Christmas,” said the Doctor.
“You know what I mean, my dear,” replied his wife. “You know that my mother and her family do keep Christmas. I always heard of it when I was a child, and even now, though I have been away from it for so long, I cannot help but have a kind feeling toward these ways. I am not surprised that the children got drawn over last night to the service. I think it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I know by experience just how attractive such things are. I shouldn’t wonder if this other church should seriously draw on your congregation. I don’t want it to begin by taking away our own children. Dolly is an inquisitive child who thinks a good deal, and she’ll be asking all sorts of questions about the why and wherefore of what she saw last night.”
“Oh, yes, Dolly is a bright one. Dolly’s an uncommon child,” said the Doctor, who had a pardonable pride in his children—they being, in fact, the only worldly treasure that he was at all rich in.
On the following Sabbath, he rose early and went to buy a sugar dog at Lucius Jenks’s store. When Dolly came down to breakfast, he called her to him and presented it, saying as he kissed her, “Papa gives you this, not because it is Christmas, but because he loves his little Dolly.”
“But isn’t it Christmas?” asked Dolly with a puzzled air.
“No, child; nobody knows when Christ was born, and there is nothing in the Bible to tell us when to keep Christmas.”
And then, in family worship, the Doctor read the account of the birth of Christ and of the shepherds abiding in the fields who came at the call of the angels. They sang the old hymn: “While shepherds watched their flocks by night.”
“Now, children,” he said when all was over, “you must be good children and go to school. If we are going to keep any day for the birth of Christ, the best way to keep it is by doing all our duties on that day better than any other. You must be good children, attend school, and remember your lessons.”
Tom and Bill were quite ready to accept their father’s view. As for Dolly, she put her little tongue advisedly to the back of her sugar dog and found that he was very sweet indeed—a most tempting little animal. She even went so far as to nibble off a bit of the green ground he stood on—yet resolved heroically not to eat him at once but to make him last as long as possible. She wrapped him tenderly in cotton and took him to the school with her. When her confidential friend, Bessie Lewis, displayed her Christmas gifts, Dolly had something on her side to show. However, she shook her curly head and informed Bessie in strict confidence that there wasn’t any such thing as Christmas; her papa had told her so—a heresy which Bessie forthwith reported when she went home at noon.
“Poor little child—and did she say so?” asked gentle old Grandmamma Lewis. “Well, dear, you mustn’t blame her—she doesn’t know any better. You bring the little one in here tonight, and I’ll give her a Christmas cookie. I’m sorry for such children.”
And so, Dolly went in after school to see dear old Madam Lewis, who sat in her rocking chair in the front parlor. The fire was snapping behind tall brass and irons, and all the pictures were overshadowed by boughs of spruce and pine. Dolly gazed about her with awe and wonder. Over one of the pictures was suspended a cross of green with flowers of white everlasting.
“What is that for?” asked Dolly, pointing solemnly with her little forefinger and speaking under her breath.
“Dear child, that is the picture of my poor boy who died—ever so many years ago. That is my cross—we have all one—to carry.”
Dolly did not understand these words, but she saw tears in the gentle old lady’s eyes and was afraid to ask more.
Thankfully and with her nicest and best-executed courtesy, she accepted a Christmas cookie representing a good-sized fish, with fins all spread and pink sugar plums for eyes. She went home marveling yet more about this mystery of Christmas.
As she crossed the green to go home, the Poganuc stage drove in. Hiel was seated on high, whipping up his horses to make them execute that grand entrée which was the glory of his daily existence.
Now that the stage was on runners and slipped noiselessly over the smooth frozen plain, Hiel cracked his whip more energetically and shouted louder, first to one horse, then to another, to make up for the loss of the rattling wheels. He generally had the satisfaction of seeing all the women rushing distractedly to doors and windows and imagined them saying, “There’s Hiel; the stage is in!”
“Hello, Dolly!” he called out, stopping suddenly, throwing the front horses back upon their haunches. “I’ve got a bundle for your folks. Want to ride? You may just jump up here by me, and I’ll take you to your father’s door,” so Dolly reached up her little red-mittened hand, and Hiel pulled her up beside him.
“‘I expect ye want a bit of a ride, and I’ve got a bundle for Widow Badger down on South Street, so I’ll go that way to make it longer. I expect this bundle is from some of your ma’s folks in Boston—Episcopals they are and keep Christmas. Good-sized bundle it is; I reckon it’ll come in handy in a good many ways.”
So, after finishing his detour, Hiel landed his little charge at the parsonage door.
“I’ll be over when I’ve put up my horses,” he said to Nabby when he handed the bundle to her. “I haven’t been to see you much lately, Nabby, and I know you’ve been pining after me, but the fact is—”
“Well, now, Hiel Jones, you just stop your impertinence,” said Nabby, with flashing eyes; “you look out, or you’ll get something.”
“I expect to get a kiss when I come around tonight,” Hiel composedly said. “Take care of that bundle, now; maybe there’s glass or crockery in it.”
“Hiel Jones,” said Nabby, “don’t give me none of your sass, for I won’t take it. Jim Sawin said last night you were the brassiest man he ever saw. He said there was brass enough in your face to make a kettle of.”
“You tell him there’s sap enough in his head to fill it, anyway,” said Hiel. “Goodbye, Nabby, I’ll come around this evening,” and he drove away at a rattling pace, while Nabby, with flushed cheeks and snapping eyes, said: “Well, I hope he will come! I’d like to show him how little I care for him.”
Meanwhile, the bundle was quickly opened. It contained a store of treasures: a red dress and a pair of red shoes for Dolly, a half dozen handkerchiefs for Dr. Cushing, and “Robinson Crusoe” and “Sanford and Merton,” handsomely bound for the boys, and a bonnet trimming for Mrs. Cushing. These were accompanied by a characteristic letter from Aunt Debby Kittery, opening as follows:
“Dear Sister:
“Mother worries because she thinks you won’t get any Christmas presents. However, this comes to give every one of you some of the crumbs that fall from the church’s table, and Mother says she wishes you all a pious Christmas, which she thinks is better than a merry one. If I didn’t lay violent hands on her, she would use all our substance in riotous giving of Christmas presents to all the beggars and chimney sweeps in Boston. She is in good health and talks daily of wanting to see you and the children, and I hope before long you will bring some of them and come and make us a visit.
“Your affectionate sister,
“Debby Kittery.”
There was exultation and clamor in the parsonage as these presents were pulled out and discussed. When the excitement died in the sitting room, the children rushed into the kitchen and showed them to Nabby, calling on her to join their exclamations.
Overall, after saying her prayers that night and considering the matter, Dolly concluded that her Christmas Day had been quite a success.
The Second Christmas
Once more, Christmas had come round in Poganuc; once more, the Episcopal church was being dressed with pine and spruce; but this year, the economy had begun to make its claims felt. An illumination might do very well to open a church. Still, many said, “To what purpose is this waste?” when the proposition was made to renew it yearly. Consequently, it was resolved to hold the Christmas Eve service with only that necessary amount of light, enabling the worshipers to read the prayers.
On this Christmas Eve, Dolly went to bed at her usual hour with a resigned and quiet spirit. She a year older and more than a year wiser than when Christmas first dawned upon her consciousness.
Miss Persis appeared on the ground by day-dawn. A great kettle was slung over the kitchen fire, in which cakes of tallow were speedily liquefying; a frame was placed across the kitchen to sustain candles, with a train of boards underneath to catch the drippings. Miss Persis, with a brow like one of the Fates, announced: “Now we can’t have any young ones in this kitchen today,” and Dolly saw that there was no getting any attention in that quarter.
Miss Persis, in a gracious Saturday afternoon mood, sitting in her own tent door dispensing hospitalities and cookies, was one thing, but Miss Persis in her armor, with her loins girded and a hard day’s work to be conquered was quite another: she was terrible as Minerva with her helmet on.
Dinner baskets for all the children were hastily packed, and they were sent off to school with the injunction on no account to show their faces about the premises till night. The Doctor warned of what was going on, retreated to his study at the top of the house, where, serenely above the lower cares of earth, he sailed off into President Edwards’ treatise on the nature of true virtue, concerning which he was preparing a paper to read at the next association meeting.
He was well convinced that candles were a necessity of life. By faith, he dimly accepted that the whole house was to be devoted and given up to this manufacture one day in the year. His part of the business, as he understood it, was to keep himself out of the way till it was over.
“There won’t be much of a dinner at home, anyway,” said Nabby to Dolly as she packed her basket with an extra doughnut or two. “I’ve got to go to church today because I’m one of the singers, and your ma will be busy waiting on her, so we shall just have a pick-up dinner, and you be sure not to come home till night; by that time it’ll be all over.”
Dolly trotted off to school well content with the prospect before her: a nooning, with leave to play with the girls at school, was not an unpleasant idea.
But the first thing that saluted her on her arrival was that Bessie Lewis—her own dear, particular Bessie—was going to have a Christmas party at her house that afternoon and was around distributing invitations right and left among the scholars with a generous freedom.
“We are going to have nuts, raisins, cakes, and mottoes,” said Bessie with artless triumph. The news of this bill of fare spread like wildfire through the school.
Never had a party been heard of which contemplated such a liberal entertainment, for the rising generation of Poganuc were by no means wearied with indulgence, and raisins and almonds stood for grandeur with them. But these mottoes, which consisted of bits of confectionery wrapped up in printed couplets of sentimental poetry, were an unheard-of refinement. Bessie assured them that her papa had sent clear to Boston for them, and whoever got one would have their fortune told by it.
The school was a small, select one comprising children of all ages from the best families of Poganuc. Both boys and girls, and all with great impartiality, had been invited. Miss Titcome, the teacher, quite readily promised to dismiss at three o’clock that afternoon any scholar who should bring permission from parents and the children; nothing doubted that such permission was obtainable.
Dolly alone saw a cloud on the horizon. She had been sent away with strict rules not to return until evening, and children in those days never presumed to make any exceptions in obeying their parents’ absolute command.
“But, of course, you will go home at noon and ask your mother, and of course, she’ll let you, won’t she, girls?” said Bessie.
“Oh, certainly; of course, she will,” said all the older girls, “because you know a party is a thing that doesn’t happen every day, and your mother would think it strange if you didn’t come and ask her.” So, too, thought Miss Titcome, a most exemplary, precise, and proper young lady, who always moved and spoke and thought as became a schoolmistress, so that, although she was in reality only twenty years old, Dolly considered her as a very advanced and ancient person—if anything, a little older than her father and mother.
She was even of the opinion that Dolly might properly go home to lay a case of such importance before her mother, so Dolly rushed home after the morning school was over, running with all her might and increasing in mental excitement as she ran. Her bonnet blew off her shoulders, her curls flew behind her in the wind, and she most inconsiderately used up the little stock of breath she would want to set her cause in order before her mother.
Just here, we must beg any mother and housekeeper to imagine herself in the very midst of the most delicate, perplexing, and laborious of household tasks, when the interruption is most irksome and perilous, suddenly called to discuss with a child some new and startling proposition to which at the moment she cannot even give a thought.
Mrs. Cushing was sitting in the kitchen with Miss Persis by the side of a caldron of melted tallow, kept in a fluid state by the heat of a portable furnace. A long train of half-dipped candles hung like so many stalactites from the frames on which the rods rested, and the two patiently dipped set after set and replaced them again on the frame.
“As sure as I’m alive! If there isn’t Dolly Cushing coming back—running and tearing like a wild creature,” said Miss Persis. “She’ll be in here in a minute and knock everything down!”
Mrs. Cushing looked and, with a quick movement, stepped to the door.
“Dolly! What are you here for? Didn’t I tell you not to come home this noon?”
“Oh, Mamma, there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’—Bessie’s party—and the girls are all going; may I go?”
“No, you can’t; it’s impossible,” said her mother. “Your best dress isn’t ready to wear, and nobody can spend time getting you ready. Go right back to school.”
“But, mamma—”
“Go!” said her mother, in the decisive tone mothers use when arguing with children was not possible.
“What’s all this about?” asked the Doctor, looking out the door.
“Why,” said Mrs. Cushing, “there’s going to be a party at General Lewis’, and Dolly is wild to go. It’s just impossible for me to attend to her now.”
“Oh, I don’t want her intimate at Lewis’s,” said the Doctor, and immediately he came out behind his wife.
“There; run away to school, Dolly,” he said. “Don’t trouble your mother; you don’t want to go to parties; why, it’s foolish to think of it. Run away now, and don’t think any more about it—there’s a good girl!”
Dolly turned and went back to school, the tears freezing on her cheek as she went. As for not thinking any more about it—that was impossible.
When three o’clock came, scholar after scholar rose and departed until Dolly was the only one remaining in the schoolroom.
When Dolly came home that night, the coast was clear, and the candles were finished and put away to harden in a freezing cold room. The kitchen was once more restored, and Nabby bustled about getting supper as if nothing had happened.
“I really feel sorry about poor little Dolly,” said Mrs. Cushing to her husband.
“Do you think she cared much?” asked the Doctor, looking as if a new possibility had struck his mind.
“Yes, poor child, she went away crying, but what could I do about it? I couldn’t stop to dress her.”
“Wife, we must take her somewhere to make up for it,” said the Doctor.
Just then, the stage stopped at the door, and a bundle from Boston was handed in. Dolly’s tears were soon wiped and dried, and her mourning was turned into joy when a large jointed London doll emerged from the bundle, the Christmas gift of her grandmother in Boston.
Dolly’s former darling was old and shabby, but this was twice the size, and its cheeks were in the most florid state.
Besides this, as usual, Grandmamma’s Christmas bundle contained something for every family member. So the evening went on festive wings.
Poor little Dolly! Only that afternoon, she had watered with her tears at school, the dismal, long, straight seam stretched before her as life sometimes does to us, bare, disagreeable, and cheerless. She had come home crying, little dreaming of the joy just approaching, but before bedtime, no cricket in the hearth was cheerier or more noisy. She took the new doll to bed with her and could hardly sleep for the excitement of her company.
Meanwhile, Hiel had brought the Doctor a message to the following effect: “I was driving by Tim Hawkins’, and Mrs. Hawkins came out and said they’re going to have an apple-cutting there tomorrow night. She would like you and Mrs. Cushing and all your folks to come—Nabby and all.”
The Doctor and his lady, of course, assented.
“Well, Doctor—if it’s the same to you,” continued Hiel, “I’d like to take you over in my new double sleigh. I’ve just got two new strings of bells up from Boston, and I think we’ll make the snow fly. I suppose there’d be no objections to taking my mother along with you?”
“Oh, Hiel, we shall be delighted to go in company with your mother, and we’re ever so much obliged to you,” said Mrs. Cushing.
“Well, I’ll be round by six o’clock,” said Hiel.
“Then, wife,” said the Doctor, “we’ll take Dolly and make up for the loss of her party.”
Punctually at six, Hiel’s two horses, with all their bells jingling, stood at the door of the parsonage, whence Tom and Bill, who had been waiting with caps and mittens on for the last half hour, burst forth with irrepressible shouts of welcome.
“Take care now, boys; don’t haul them buffalo skins out on the snow,” said Hiel. “Don’t get things in a muss generally; wait for your ma and the Doctor. Got to stow the grown folks in fust; boys kin hang on anywhere.”
And so first came Mrs. Cushing and the Doctor, and they were installed on the back seat, with Dolly in between. Then hot bricks were handed in to keep feet warm, and the buffalo robe was tucked down securely. Then Nabby took her seat by Hiel in front, and the sleigh drove round for old Mrs. Jones. The Doctor insisted on giving up his place to her and tucking her warmly under the buffalo robe while he took the middle seat and acted as a moderator between the boys, who were in a wild state of hilarity. Spring, with explosive barks, raced first on this and then on that side of the sleigh as it flew swiftly over the smooth, frozen road.
The stars blinked white and clear out of a deep blue sky, and the path wound up-hill among cedars and junipers and clumps of mountain laurel, on whose broad green leaves the tufts of snow lay like clusters of white roses. The clear air was full of stimulus and vigor, so Hiel’s proposition to take the longest way was met with an enthusiastic welcome from the whole party. Next to being a bird and having wings is the sensation of being borne over the snow by a pair of spirited horses who enjoy the race as much as those they draw. Though Hiel contrived to make the ride about eight miles, it seemed but a short time before the party drove up to the great red farmhouse, whose lighted windows sent streams of radiant welcome far into the night.
Our little Dolly had had an evening of unmixed bliss. Everybody had petted her, talked to her, and been delighted with her sayings and doings. She was carrying home a paper parcel of sweet things which good Mrs. Hawkins had forced into her hand at parting. She had spent a very happy Christmas!
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