10

CHRISTMAS NUMBER OF HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

or from the grocer's shop, and all
bringing away the same things. The grocers
give away, this night, to their regular
customers, a good mould candle each, and a
nutmeg. This is because the women must be
up by candle-light to-morrow, to make some-
thing that is to be spiced with nutmeg. So
a good number of women pass by with a
candle and a nutmeg; and some, with a
bottle or pitcher, come up the steps, and go
to the bar for some rum. But the clock strikes
supper-time, and away go the boys home.

Somebody wonders at supper whether
the true oval mince-pie is really meant
to be in the form of a certain manger; and
its contents to signify the gifts, various
and rich, brought by the Magi to that man-
ger. And while the little ones are staring at
this news, 'somebody else observes that it
was a pretty idea of the old pagans, in our
island, of dressing up their houses with ever-
greens, that there might be a warm retreat
for the spirits of the woods in times of frost
and bitter winter storms. Some child peeps
timidly up at the biggest branch in the room,
and fancies what it would be to see some
sprite sitting under a leaf, or dancing along a
spray. When supper is done, and the young-
est are gone to bed, having been told not to
be surprised if they should hear the stars
singing in the night, the rest of the party
turn to the fire, and begin to roast their chest-
nuts in the shovel, and to heat the elder-
wine in the old-fashioned saucepan, silvered
inside. One absent boy, staring at the fire,
starts when his father offers him a chestnut
for his thoughts. He hesitates, but his curi-
osity is vivid, and he braves all the conse-
quences of saying what he is thinking about.
He wonders whether he might, just for once,
–––just for this once–––go to the stalls when
midnight has struck, and see whether the
oxen are kneeling. He has heard, and per-
haps read, that the oxen kneeled, on the first
Christmas-day, and kept the manger warm
with their breath; and that all oxen still
kneel in their stalls when Christmas-day
comes in. Father and mother exchange a
quick glance of agreement to take this seri-
ously; and they explain that there is now
so much uncertainty, since the New Style
of reckoning the days of the year was intro-
duced, that the oxen cannot be depended
on; and it is not worth while to be out
of bed at midnight for the chance. Some
say the oxen kneel punctually when Old
Christmas comes in; and if so, they will not
do it to-night.

This is not the quietest night of the year;
even if nobody visits the oxen. Soon after
all are settled to sleep, sounds arise which
thrill through some who are half-awakened
by them, and then, remembering something
about the stars singing, the children rouse
themselves, and lie, with open eyes and
feeling that Christmas morning has come.
They must soon, one would think, give up the

star theory; for the music is only two fiddles,
or a fiddle and clarionet; or, possibly, a fiddle
and drum, with a voice or two, which can
hardly be likened to that of the spheres. The
voices sing, " While shepherds watch'd their
flocks by night; " and then–––marvellously
enough–––single out this family of all the fa-
milies on the earth, to bless with the good
wishes of the season. They certainly are wish-
ing to master and mistress and all the young
ladies and gentlemen, "good morning," and
"a merry Christmas and a happy New Year."
Before this celestial mystery is- solved, and
before the distant twang of the fiddle is quite
out of hearing, the celestial mystery of sleep
enwraps the other, and lays it to rest until the
morrow. The boys–––the elder ones–––meant
to keep awake; first, for the Waits, and after-
wards to determine for themselves whether
the cock crows all night on Christmas Eve, to
keep all hurtful things from walking the earth.
When the Waits are gone, they just remember
that any night, between this and Old Christ-
mas, will do for the cock, which is said to defy
evil spirits in this manner for the whole of
that season. Which the boys are very glad to
remember; for they are excessively sleepy; so
off they go into the land of dreams.

It is now past two; and at three the maids
must be up. Christmas morning is the one,
of all the year, when, in the North of England
especially, families make a point of meeting,
and it must be at the breakfast table. In
every house, far and near, where there is fuel
and flour, and a few pence to buy currants,
there are cakes making, which everybody must
eat of; cakes of pastry, with currants between
the layers. The grocer has given the nutmeg;
and those who can afford it, add rum, and
other dainties. The ladies are up betimes, to
iet out the best candlesticks, to garnish the
table, to make the coffee, and to prepare a
welcome for all who claim a seat. The in-
fant in arms must be there, as seven o'clock
strikes. Any married brother or sister, living
within reach, must be there, with the whole
family train. Long before sunrise, there they
sit, in the glow of the fire and the glitter of
candles, chatting and laughing, and exchang-
ing good wishes.

In due time, the church-bell calls the flock
of worshippers from over hill, and down dale,
and along commons, and across fields: and
presently they are seen coming, all in their
best,–––the majority probably saying the same
thing,–––that, somehow, it seems always to be
fine on Christmas-day. Then, one may reckon
up the exceptions he remembers; and another
may tell of different sorts of fine weather that
he has known; how, on one occasion, his
daughter gathered thirty-four sorts of flowers
in their own garden on Christmas-day; and
the rose-bushes had not lost their leaves on
Twelfth Day; and then the wise will agree
how much they prefer a good seasonable frost
and sheeted snow like this, to April weather
in December.