Charles Dickens.]

WHAT CHRISTMAS IS IN COUNTRY PLACES.

9

up in the middle. The oven is the cook's
child and slave; the great concern of her life,
at this season. She pets it, she humours it,
she scolds it, and she works it without rest.
Before daylight she is at it–––baking her oat
bread; that bread which requires such perfect
behaviour on the part of the oven! Long lines
of oat-cakes hang overhead, to grow crisp
before breakfast; and these are to be put
away when crisp, to make room for others;
for she can hardly make too much. After
breakfast, and all day, she is making and
baking meat-pies, mince-pies, sausage-rolls,
fruit-pies, and cakes of all shapes, sizes, and
colours. And at night, when she can scarcely
stand for fatigue, she " banks " the oven fire,
and puts in the great jar of stock for the
soups, that the drawing may go on, from all
sorts of savoury odds and ends, while every-
thing but the drowsy fire is asleep. She
wishes the dear little lasses would not come
messing and fussing about, making ginger-
bread and cheesecakes. She would rather do
it herself, than have them in her way. But
she has not the heart to tell them so. On the
contrary, she gives them ginger, and cuts the
citron-peel bountifully for them; hoping, the
while, that the weather will be fine enough
for them to go into the woods with their
brothers for holly and ivy. Meantime, the
dairy- woman says, (what she declares every
Christmas,) that she never saw such a demand
for cream and butter; and that, before Twelfth
Night, there will be none. And how, at that
season, can she supply eggs by scores, as
she is expected to do? The gingerbread
baked, the rosiest-apples picked out from
their straw in the apple-closet, the cats, and
dogs, and canary birds, played with and fed,
the little lasses run out to see what the boys
are about.

The woodmen want something else than
green to dress the house with. They are
looking for the thickest, and hardest, and
knottiest block of wood they can find, that
will go into the kitchen chimney. A gnarled
stump of elm will serve their purpose best;
and they trim it into a size to send home.
They fancy that their holiday is to last as long
as this log remains; and they are satisfied
that it will be uncommonly difficult to burn
up this one. This done, one of them proceeds
with the boys and girls to the copses where
the hollies are thickest; and by carrying his
bill-hook, he saves a vast deal of destruction
by rending and tearing. The poor little birds,
which make the hollies so many aviaries in
winter, coming to feed on the berries, and to
pop in among the shining leaves for shelter,
are sadly scared, and out they flit on all sides,
and away to the great oak, where nobody will
follow them. For, alas! there is no real
mistletoe now. There is to be something so
called hung from the middle of the kitchen
ceiling, that the lads and lasses may snatch
kisses and have their fun; but it will have no
white berries, and no Druidical dignity about

it. It will be merely a bush of evergreen,
called by some a mistletoe, and by others the
Bob, which is supposed to be a corruption of
"bough." When all the party have got their
fagots tied up, and strung over their
shoulders, and button-holes, hats, and bon-
nets stuck with sprigs, and gay with berries, it
is time they were going home; for there is a
vast deal to be done this Christmas Eve, and
the sunshine is already between the hills, in
soft yellow gushes, and not on them.

A vast deal there is to be done; and es-
pecially if there is any village near. First,
there is to dress the hoiise with green; and
then to go and help to adorn the church.
The Bob must not be hung up till to-morrow:
but every door has a branch over it; and the
leads of the latticed windows are stuck with
sprigs; and every picture-frame, and looking-
glass, and candlestick is garnished. Any
"scraps " (very young children) who are too
small to help, pick up scattered holly-leaves,
and, being not allowed to go upon the rug,
beg somebody to throw them into the fire;
whence ensues a series of cracklings, and
sputtering blazes, and lighting up of wide-open
eyes. In the midst of this–––hark! is not that
the church bell? The boys go out to listen,
and report that it is so;–––the " Christmas
deal " (or dole) is about to begin; so, off go
all who are able, up to the church.

It is very cold there, and dim, and dreary,
in spite of the candles, and the kindness, and
other good things that are collected there.
By the time the bell has ceased to clang, there
are a few gentlemen there, and a number of
widows, and aged men, and orphan children.
There are piles of blankets; and bits of
paper, which are orders for coals. One
gentleman has sent a bag of silver money;
and another, two or three sheep, cut up ready
for cooking; and another, a great pile of
loaves. The boys run and bring down a ladder
to dress the pillars; and scuffle in the galleries;
and venture into the pulpit, under pretence of
dressing the church. When the dole is done
and the poor people gone, the doors are
closed; and, if the boys remain, they must be
quiet; for the organist and the singers are
going to rehearse the anthem that is to be
sung to-morrow. If the boys are not quiet,
they are turned out.

There is plenty of bustle in the village.
The magistrates are in the long room of the
inn, settling justice business. The inn looks
as if it were illuminated. The waiters are
seen to glide across the hall; and on the
steps are the old constable, and the new rural
policeman, and the tax-collector, and the
postman. It is so cold that something
steaming hot will soon be brought for them
to drink; and the poor postman will be
taken on his weak side. Christmas is a
trying season to him, with his weak head,
and his popularity, and his Christmas-boxes,
and his constant liability to be reported.
Cold as it is, there are women flitting about;