THE STORY-TELLER. A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS.

Te Aroha News, Volume I, Issue 7, 21 July 1883, Page 4

TH E ST OR Y-TELL E R. A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS.

» ' A'W^couri^yho'Jsd in a lonely spot, £nd 4a4 a 'little girl of tea all alone in it on Christmas Day. , , A little orphan girt she was, in a black dress,' with a serious white face and wistfal eyes. A quiet child, not accustomed to talk" 'much, for she had livod <( a. gpod tjeal ■ among grown-up people- who had never sought to draw her out; but toad left 1 her* to puzzle out all the\probl6ms of child-life for herself. A better - behaved little girl never existed,, and that is perhaps why she Wasleft so solitary in the big house on Christmas Day. ' Three months before this Qhnstmas she had been sent to a small school^ and now she was home for her first Holidays ; but the lady in whose house she was staying — a friend of her dead mother's who had informally adopted her — had been summoned away to the, bedside of a sister who was ill, and she could not take Little Evie away ; with her on such a sad journey. Before starting, however, she had ordered her servants to take good care of the child, and this they had promised to do. Miss Evict was a favourite with them all — she gave so little trouble and was always so obedient. You had no need to provide amusement for her ; you had only to tell her not to stir from a certain room, ami there she would remain for hours, amusing herself in a noiseless way, and never trying to call attention to herself if she were forgotten. There were four servants in the house, • -tfttxl they had not intended at first to Mftfcifche child alone ; but William, the Tii&tft&^v and Mary, the housemaid, brother and sister, had received leave irom their mistress to go and spend Christmas Day with their parents in the neighbouring town, provided cook, and Susan, the parlourmaid, stayed at hone. On Christmaseve, however, cook received a pressing invitation to join sonic friends of her own in the town, and in order to induce Susan to connive at her going away, ahe begged her to join the party. It was a great temptation to Susan. C^ok promised that there would be very pay doings, and a young farmer who was said t6 be rather sweet on •fcjusau (though, of course, Susan did not consider that a bit) was to be present. And then Susan reflected that if she refused this treat, cook would be grumpy, and they would both spend a -sorry Christmas together. If Evie had* beeri other than she was, Susan would have refused j but she was such a good, quiet child that there was no tear of her getting into any mischief. * You could trust her by herself anywhere,' said cook : * and I rather think she likes bein# alone. Even if we stopped, I don't know what we could do for her, for she'd just sifc by the fire, as she mostly does, and say nothing unless you asked her questions : and I don't know myself how to talk to that child, she's fo serious like.' *Aye, but if missis heard of our having gone, she'd pack us off in no timel' remarked Susan. ' Miss Evie'll never tell her,' rejoined cook. ' She's not the one to carry i tales.' * No, that she ain't ; and missis ain't the sort to question her either,' observed Susan. ' She don't hold much with spying.' 80 the matter was settled ; but Su;>fln was a good girl, whose heart rather smote her at the idea of leaving the child alone. So on Christmas morning, whilst Evie was taking her Lread and milk in the small parlour that was called her schoolroom, Susan, lookiutf rather hesitatingly at her, said ; . mind it very much, dear, if *$ ft&^m all by yourself to-day V i '*-S*fy;B>usan,' said the child, in her i ''to&Sl tiiijd way, and with a steadfast that 'showed no fear at all. 'Do want to go out V IMe and cook have got invited out to ■a party ; but we wouldn't go if you minded it. the least bit, Miss Evie, so you mustn't be afraid to tell me.' * I don't mind it at all, Susan.' 1 But you must promise me, then, that you won't leave the house on any 4MSCOUIIt.' * Mayn't I go to church V 1 No, dear, you can't go to church ' know. It will only be for -this once. Do you think you can manage to i^et along just for to-day l»£_ yourself? We'll leave out your dinner for you, if you don't mind having a cold one, and we'll be back before teatime. * You're such a good little girl, JJiss Evie, I'm euro you'll behave yourself. " ' * I will behave myself. Susan,' replied Evie> s'iriouslly ; and thereupon tfttsan kisfced her and took her to the *\-'&itdifeti ta show her where her dinner was, ami' where she would find the tnatc.ft-'box. to ' Kgh't ' the" candles with whea it grew dark, 'And see, dear, if we diit happen to be a little late and jfou- wanted your tea, here's the small copper kettle to make the water boil ; -only you'll be sure, to , use the .holder «4i9fl yw lift it off the fire. And

-'■ "jf" " ■ ■ ' I. >' ' ' < ydatli mind, dear, won't you, aud tiot let the fire in the parlour go out. Don't try to put on much coal at a time, but sprinkle a few little pieces pretty often, and they will be enough to keep it burning bright all day.' Evie assented, paying thoughtful attentiou to all these instruction ; and halE-an-hour afterwards [cook and Susan, both dressed in their best clothes, set out together, and the child was was left in sole charge of the houpe. It was a cold, frosty morning. There was no snow on the ground, but the sun shining through the bare trees in the park threw a rosy brightness on it: Standing at the window of the schoolroom, in her black dress, E vie looked out on to the prospect and saw not a soul in the park. Theie were only some birds hop* ping about and making stars with their feet in the snow as they pecked for food. Evie would have liked to throw them some bread-crumbs, but she had forgotten to ask whether she m'ght open the windows ; besides, she was so small and slight that she could hardly have performed such a feat unassisted. She had to stand on a hassock for her chin to reach the wi.idow-ledge. Presently she heard the bells of the village church, aud wondered whether any of the j people would notice she was not there. j Then she took her church-service, and sitting down on the hearth-rug, began to read the Lessons and Psalms of the day to herself in a whispering tone. Part of what she read was beyoud her comprehension ; but she understood the story of the Babe who had been laid in the manger, and who was carried away by his Mother because King Herod wanted to kill all little children. And she understood that it was because of j this Babe's birthday that all grown-up people and children tried every year to be particularly good at Christmas-time. The big house was very silent. "When the child had finished reading the ! service, she went and peeped out into the hall. Solitude had no terrors for her, but it stirred her imagination and brought quaint fancies to her mind. Presently she crept upststirs, and thought she would play at being mistress of the house and entertaining in it all the people who in her short life had ever been good to her. Many a smile and kind word, forgotten by those who had bestowed them, were treasured up in the child's memory, as she went from room to room pretending to give orders to a servant about getting the apartments ready for her guests. Fires were to be lit in the empty grates ; sheets were to be put on the beds, witicn looked so bare with their blankets aud counterpanes laid folded upou the mattresses. Evie's small voice sounded strange in the empty rooms ; but she eu joyed her game and the happiness it yielded of giving hospitality to her friends. Only there were three of the rooms — the three best — which by no manner of possibility could have | become tenanted by those for whom she reserved them. ' These three/ she said to her imaginary servant, ' must be made very comfortable for papa, mamma, and baby brother/ The little orphan could but vaguely remember her parents and her baby brother, who had all three died at about the same time seven years before. She had fugitive visions, sometimes of the young mother who had fondled her in her lap, of the baby whose soft face she had touched, and of her father, who used to stroke her hair and call her his pet. Just now, though, she thought she remembered their faces better than usual, and at a certain moment sue paused in the middle of the biggest room, as if some words out of the slumbering echoes of the past had revived in her memory, bringing back a scene of her infancy in distinct colours. She fancied she could recollect a bygone Christmas ; and snatches of something which her mother had said toheronth.it day rang faintly in her ears like music in the far distance. She was trying to ! recall the words by thinking of their tone, as one repeats a tune, when she was aroused by a ring at the front door. Evie started and wondered. Who could it be who was calling ? As quickly as her little legs could carry her she ran downstairs, and peeped out of the schoolroom window to see if she could descry the person who had rung. But there was a portico in front of the house door, : and she could see nobody. She supposed she ought to answer the ring, since none of the servants were at home to do it ; so she went bravely to the door, turned the key, and saw a man and a woman with a baby, all three shivering with the cold. The man and the woman looked very poor, though they were not in rags, like tramps. "My kind young lady," said the woman, curtseying, " would you please ask the good souls in this house to let us have a morsel of something to eat and drink, and to let us warm ourselves a bit, for the love of God ? — and a merry Christmas to you all." " I aitr so sorry — there's nobody at home," answered Evie. ' We've not eaten a bit all day, young lady,' said the man in a dejected voice. ' Not eaten all day V echoed the child pityingly. 1 And there's my poor baby almost dead with cold : look at his face, how blue it is,* said the woman, with tears in her eyes. Evii^ heart was wrung by the sight of so much misery. She had given pennies to beggars sometimes, but had never been brought into closer contact with them. It did not- occur to her, however, that these people were beggars like those whom she had relieved ih the streets. To her fanciful mind they appeared like the poor whom one reads of in story- < books,' and who knock at fche doors of

the rich on winter days like this, and especially at Christmas time. So she asked the man and the woman to come in. " I am all alone," she said to them ! (and how very small a mite she must have appeared to them as she said this !) ; « but will you come and warm yourselves in the schoolroom ? And I think I can give you some dinner, as they have left out some for me." Tlio man and the woman followed her into the schoolroom, and it was evident that they were in great distress, for the man at once sat down near the fire and spread his hands over the grate, almost unable to speak. He was pale and haggard, as if he had had a serious illness. The woman knelt on the hearthrug and held her baby near to the warm tii. She also looked ill and starving. "God bless you, my'little dear!" she faltered to Eyie. " We've not always been like this — obliged to beg our bread. Dear, dear — see how cold the child is. Another hour out in that frost, and he'd have been dead." j | * But he won't die now, will he ?' | asked Evie, standing close to the woman ami putting one of her hands on the child's head. ' I once had a babybrother like him.' ' Is your mother dead, child !' asked the poor woman, glancing in a compassionate way at Evie's black gown. * Yes ; papa and mamma are both dead.' ' And they've left you all by yourself here ?' Evie explained that she was staying with her guardian, who was nbsent, and that the four servants had all gone out. 'But they .will be back this evening,' she added. 1 We shall bo away before then/ said the man. ' I don't suppose they'd care much to see us hero.' Knowing Susan to be a kind-hearted girl, it did not seem likely to Evie thnt these poor people would have been turned away had she been at home ; they looked so cold and hungry that anybody would have pitied them. It. was thus Evie mused, as she went to the kitchen to get the poor people something to eat. The dinner that had been left out for her was a slice of roast beef and a piece of cold plum-pudding ; but the joint and the pudding from winch these slices had been cut were in the larder, which was not locked. Unfortunately the dishes were too heavy for LCvie to lift them by herself, ho bhe had to go and beg the poor man to come and help her. He came, but with weary steps, and timidly, not liking to give trouble. ' The merest bite of something will do for us, my dear. I shouldn't like you to get scolded.' ' They won't scold me when I tell them all about it,' said Evie ; and soon, with the man's .assistance, the dishes had been carried into the school-room, with a jug of beer, a loaf and some cheese ; and a saucepan full of milk was set boiling on the fire For the baby, who, as Evie thought, would like something warm. Then Evie set about laying the cloth very neatly. She was so busy in putting knives, forks, and glasses in their proper places that the woman, looking up from the fire, bade her more than once not to take so much trouble. But it was no trouble to her. A fancy had suddenly entered her mind that she would treat these poor people exactly as if they were her father, mother, and baby brother come back to spend Christmas day with her. She would play at having a papa and mamma like other little girls. She would not think of their clothes, but look only at their faces, and try to imagine that her father and mother might have looked like that if it had been so willed fiat they should have been poor, coll, and hungry on earth. Perhaps the angels who bring peace to Christian homes at Christmas lent themselves to the realisation of thechild's affectionate fancy ; for presently, when the baby had been fed with the milk and bad been warmed back into life and rosy color, and when the poor man and woman had also eaten, there was a happier look upon their faces. They drew their chairs near the fire, and Evie nestled close to the poor woman, who began to talk about her recent sorrows — the dcatli of her eldest child, the illness of her husband and herself, and their sojourn in a hospital. They were going to the neighboring town now, where her husband hoped to fiird work ; but the cold had nipped them sadly that morning, and they might have died on their way if they had not found a friendly house to rest in. Evie listened to all this attentively, but wishing with all her heart that she had a father, a mother, and a baby brother, even though she should have to wauder in the cold with them. It would be so nice to have a mother against whom she could always nestle as she was nestling against this poor woman ; and thinking this, Evie kept stroking the sleeping baby's head. " You were very fond of your little brother, my dear ?" asked the poor woman. " I must have been," said Evie ; " but I was very small then, and I can hardly recollect." " And your mamma — do you remember her?" < h *' Only a little — a very little. I wojs trying to think about her this morning, but I could not remember clearly." " Her poor heart must have ached when she had ,to leave you, my dear ; but] if she could only see you at this moitte.^, she would say that you are a gOfgjjU&le. B'M to have been so kind to us.] 'You must let me Jriss you now, for' .wVmuß^b?': going,, so as to reach* 'iW

work House in the town before it grows dark."- ' ■ > " Oh, not yet," pleaded Evie. " I want, first, to make a present; to baby." She ran to a little desk, unlocked it, and drew out a small bead purse, which contained all her savings of pocket-money, about a dozen shillings, and sbe pressedit into the baby's tiny hand. " And ! please now give me a lock of his hair," she said, " I shall keep it and think it is my baby brothers's. If I live ever so long I shall never forget this Christmas ■—never-never," and suddenly she burst outcrying, with her face on the poor woman's shoulder. When the servants returned some hours a f terwards, Susan, seeing no light in the schoolroom from the outside, ran there at once, and found Evie, who had cried herself to sleep in the chair where the poor woman had sat. " Why, Miss Evie, dear, what's happened ? " asked Susan, lifting her in her arms. " Have you been unhappy ?" " Oh, no, $usan ! I've spent such a happy Christmas," said the child. " I've been with papa, mamma, and baby."

In The Times of April 27. we read this atmiiting advertisement : — ' Required, a gentlewoman born, us a general servant, who can undertake the work for two in a family. Must cook, wash, and iron. A thoroughly, refined, and comfortable home guaranteed. Salary, XiiO. None of those oidinary servants of life need answer this. No doorstep to clean. References required.