The Birds\' Christmas Carol
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Kate Douglas Wiggin >> The Birds\' Christmas Carol
THE BIRDS' CHRISTMAS CAROL
BY KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
To
The Three Dearest Children in the World,
BERTHA, LUCY, AND HORATIO.
"O little ones, ye cannot know
The power with which ye plead,
Nor why, as on through life we go,
The little child doth lead."
CONTENTS
I. A LITTLE SNOW-BIRD
II. DROOPING WINGS
III. THE BIRD'S NEST
IV. "BIRDS OF A FEATHER FLOCK TOGETHER"
V. SOME OTHER BIRDS ARE TAUGHT TO FLY
VI. "WHEN THE PIE WAS OPENED,
THE BIRDS BEGAN TO SING"
VII. THE BIRDLING FLIES AWAY
The Birds' Christmas Carol.
I.
A LITTLE SNOW BIRD.
It was very early Christmas morning, and in the stillness of the
dawn, with the soft snow falling on the housetops, a little child
was born in the Bird household.
They had intended to name the baby Lucy, if it were a girl; but
they hadn't expected her on Christmas morning, and a real
Christmas baby was not to be lightly named--the whole family
agreed in that.
They were consulting about it in the nursery. Mr. Bird said that
he had assisted in naming the three boys, and that he should
leave this matter entirely to Mrs. Bird; Donald wanted the child
called "Maud," after a pretty little curly-haired girl who sat
next him in school; Paul chose "Luella," for Luella was the nurse
who had been with him during his whole babyhood, up to the time
of his first trousers, and the name suggested all sorts of
comfortable things. Uncle Jack said that the first girl should
always be named for her mother, no matter how hideous the name
happened to be.
Grandma said that she would prefer not to take any part in the
discussion, and everybody suddenly remembered that Mrs. Bird had
thought of naming the baby Lucy, for Grandma herself; and, while
it would be indelicate for her to favor that name, it would be
against human nature for her to suggest any other, under the
circumstances.
Hugh, the "hitherto baby," if that is a possible term, sat in one
corner and said nothing, but felt, in some mysterious way, that
his nose was out of joint; for there was a newer baby now, a
possibility he had never taken into consideration; and the "first
girl," too, a still higher development of treason, which made
him actually green with jealousy.
But it was too profound a subject to be settled then and there,
on the spot; besides, Mama had not been asked, and everybody felt
it rather absurd, after all, to forestall a decree that was
certain to be absolutely wise, just and perfect.
The reason that the subject had been brought up at all so early
in the day lay in the fact that Mrs. Bird never allowed her
babies to go over night unnamed. She was a person of so great
decision of character that she would have blushed at such a
thing; she said that to let blessed babies go dangling and
dawdling about without names, for months and months, was enough
to ruin them for life. She also said that if one could not
make up one's mind in twenty-four hours it was a sign
that--but I will not repeat the rest, as it might prejudice you
against the most charming woman in the world.
So Donald took his new velocipede and went out to ride up and
down the stone pavement and notch the shins of innocent people as
they passed by, while Paul spun his musical top on the front
steps.
But Hugh refused to leave the scene of action. He seated himself
on the top stair in the hall, banged his head against the railing
a few times, just by way of uncorking the vials of his wrath, and
then subsided into gloomy silence, waiting to declare war if more
"first girl babies" were thrust upon a family already surfeited
with that unnecessary article.
Meanwhile dear Mrs. Bird lay in her room, weak, but safe and
happy with her sweet girl baby by her side and the heaven of
motherhood opening before her. Nurse was making gruel in the
kitchen, and the room was dim and quiet. There was a cheerful
open fire in the grate, but though the shutters were closed, the
side windows that looked out on the Church of our Saviour, next
door, were wide open.
Suddenly a sound of music poured out into the bright air and
drifted into the chamber. It was the boy-choir singing Christmas
anthems. Higher and higher rose the clear, fresh voices, full of
hope and cheer, as children's voices always are. Fuller and
fuller grew the burst of melody as one glad strain fell upon
another in joyful harmony:
"Carol, brothers, carol,
Carol joyfully,
Carol the good tidings,
Carol merrily!
And pray a gladsome Christmas
For all your fellow-men;
Carol, brothers, carol,
Christmas Day again."
One verse followed another always with the same
glad refrain:
"And pray a gladsome Christmas
For all your fellow-men:
Carol, brothers, carol,
Christmas Day again."
Mrs. Bird thought, as the music floated in upon her gentle sleep,
that she had slipped into heaven with her new baby, and that the
angels were bidding them welcome. But the tiny bundle by her
side stirred a little, and though it was scarcely more than the
ruffling of a feather, she awoke; for the mother-ear is so close
to the heart that it can hear the faintest whisper of a child.
She opened her eyes and drew the baby closer. It looked like a
rose dipped in milk, she thought, this pink and white blossom of
girlhood, or like a pink cherub, with its halo of pale yellow
hair, finer than floss silk.
"Carol, brothers, carol,
Carol joyfully,
Carol the good tidings,
Carol merrily!"
The voices were brimming over with joy.
"Why, my baby," whispered Mrs. Bird in soft surprise, "I had
forgotten what day it was. You are a little Christmas child, and
we will name you 'Carol'--mother's little Christmas Carol!"
"What!" said Mr. Bird, coming in softly and closing
the door behind him.
"Why, Donald, don't you think 'Carol' is a sweet name for a
Christmas baby? It came to me just a moment ago in the singing
as I was lying here half asleep and half awake."
"I think it is a charming name, dear heart, and that it sounds
just like you, and I hope that, being a girl, this baby has some
chance of being as lovely as her mother," at which speech from
the baby's papa, Mrs. Bird, though she was as weak and tired as
she could be, blushed with happiness.
And so Carol came by her name.
Of course, it was thought foolish by many people, though Uncle
Jack declared laughingly that it was very strange if a whole
family of Birds could not be indulged in a single Carol; and
Grandma, who adored the child, thought the name much more
appropriate than Lucy, but was glad that people would probably
think it short for Caroline.
Perhaps because she was born in holiday time, Carol was a very
happy baby. Of course, she was too tiny to understand the joy of
Christmas-tide, but people say there is everything in a good
beginning, and she may have breathed-in unconsciously the
fragrance of evergreens and holiday dinners; while the peals of
sleigh-bells and the laughter of happy children may have fallen
upon her baby ears and wakened in them a glad surprise at the
merry world she had come to live in.
Her cheeks and lips were as red as holly berries; her hair was
for all the world the color of a Christmas candle-flame; her eyes
were bright as stars; her laugh like a chime of Christmas bells,
and her tiny hands forever outstretched in giving.
Such a generous little creature you never saw! A spoonful of
bread and milk had always to be taken by Mama or nurse before
Carol could enjoy her supper; and whatever bit of cake or
sweetmeat found its way into her pretty fingers, it was
straightway broken in half and shared with Donald, Paul or Hugh;
and, when they made believe nibble the morsel with affected
enjoyment, she would clap her hands and crow with delight. "Why
does she do it?" asked Donald, thoughtfully; "None of us boys
ever did." "I hardly know," said Mama, catching her darling to
her heart, "except that she is a little Christmas child, and so
she has a tiny share of the blessedest birthday the world ever
saw!"
II.
DROOPING WINGS.
It was December, ten years later. Carol had seen nine Christmas
trees lighted on her birthdays, one after another; nine times she
had assisted in the holiday festivities of the household, though
in her babyhood her share of the gayeties was somewhat limited.
For five years, certainly, she had hidden presents for Mama and
Papa in their own bureau drawers, and harbored a number of
secrets sufficiently large to burst a baby's brain, had it not
been for the relief gained by whispering them all to Mama, at
night, when she was in her crib, a proceeding which did not in
the least lessen the value of a secret in her innocent mind.
For five years she had heard "'Twas the night before Christmas,"
and hung up a scarlet stocking many sizes too large for her, and
pinned a sprig of holly on her little white night gown, to show
Santa Claus that she was a "truly" Christmas child, and dreamed
of fur-coated saints and toy-packs and reindeer, and wished
everybody a "Merry Christmas" before it was light in the morning,
and lent every one of her new toys to the neighbors' children
before noon, and eaten turkey and plum pudding, and gone to bed
at night in a trance of happiness at the day's pleasures.
Donald was away at college now. Paul and Hugh were great manly
fellows, taller than their mother. Papa Bird had grey hairs in
his whiskers; and Grandma, God bless her, had been four
Christmases in heaven. But Christmas in the Birds' Nest was
scarcely as merry now as it used to be in the bygone years, for
the little child that once brought such an added blessing to the
day, lay, month after month, a patient, helpless invalid, in the
room where she was born.
She had never been very strong in body, and it was with a pang of
terror her mother and father noticed, soon after she was five
years old, that she began to limp, ever so slightly; to complain
too often of weariness, and to nestle close to her mother, saying
she "would rather not go out to play, please." The illness was
slight at first, and hope was always stirring in Mrs. Bird's
heart. "Carol would feel stronger in the summer-time;" or, "She
would be better when she had spent a year in the country;" or,
"She would outgrow it;" or, "They would try a new physician;" but
by and by it came to be all too sure that no physician save One
could make Carol strong again, and that no "summer-time" nor
"country air," unless it were the everlasting summer-time in a
heavenly country, could bring back the little girl to health.
The cheeks and lips that were once as red as holly-berries faded
to faint pink; the star-like eyes grew softer, for they often
gleamed through tears; and the gay child-laugh, that had been
like a chime of Christmas bells, gave place to a smile so lovely,
so touching, so tender and patient, that it filled every corner
of the house with a gentle radiance that might have come from the
face of the Christ-child himself.
Love could do nothing; and when we have said that we have said
all, for it is stronger than anything else in the whole wide
world. Mr. and Mrs. Bird were talking it over one evening when
all the children were asleep. A famous physician had visited
them that day, and told them that sometime, it might be in one
year, it might be in more, Carol would slip quietly off into
heaven, whence she came.
"Dear heart," said Mr. Bird, pacing up and down the library
floor, "it is no use to shut our eyes to it any longer; Carol
will never be well again. It almost seems as if I could not bear
it when I think of that loveliest child doomed to lie there day
after day, and, what is still more, to suffer pain that we are
helpless to keep away from her. Merry Christmas, indeed; it
gets to be the saddest day in the year to me!" and poor Mr. Bird
sank into a chair by the table, and buried his face in his hands,
to keep his wife from seeing the tears that would come in spite
of all his efforts. "But, Donald, dear," said sweet Mrs. Bird,
with trembling voice, "Christmas day may not be so merry with us
as it used, but it is very happy, and that is better, and very
blessed, and that is better yet. I suffer chiefly for Carol's
sake, but I have almost given up being sorrowful for my own. I
am too happy in the child, and I see too clearly what she has
done for us and for our boys."
"That's true, bless her sweet heart," said Mr. Bird; "she has
been better than a daily sermon in the house ever since she was
born, and especially since she was taken ill."
"Yes, Donald and Paul and Hugh were three strong, willful,
boisterous boys, but you seldom see such tenderness, devotion,
thought for others and self-denial in lads of their years. A
quarrel or a hot word is almost unknown in this house. Why?
Carol would hear it, and it would distress her, she is so full of
love and goodness. The boys study with all their might and main.
Why? Partly, at least, because they like to teach Carol, and
amuse her by telling her what they read. When the seamstress
comes, she likes to sew in Miss Carol's room, because there she
forgets her own troubles, which, Heaven knows, are sore enough!
And as for me, Donald, I am a better woman every day for Carol's
sake; I have to be her eyes, ears, feet, hands--her strength, her
hope; and she, my own little child, is my example!"
"I was wrong, dear heart," said Mr. Bird more cheerfully; "we
will try not to repine, but to rejoice instead, that we have an
'angel of the house' like Carol."
"And as for her future," Mrs. Bird went on, "I think we need not
be over-anxious. I feel as if she did not belong altogether to
us, and when she has done what God sent her for, He will take her
back to Himself--and it may not be very long!" Here it was poor
Mrs. Bird's turn to break down, and Mr. Bird's turn to comfort
her.
III.
THE BIRD'S NEST.
Carol herself knew nothing of motherly tears and fatherly
anxieties; she lived on peacefully in the room where she was
born.
But you never would have known that room; for Mr. Bird had a
great deal of money, and though he felt sometimes as if he wanted
to throw it all in the ocean, since it could not buy a strong
body for his little girl, yet he was glad to make the place she
lived in just as beautiful as it could be made.
The room had been extended by the building of a large addition
that hung out over the garden below, and was so filled with
windows that it might have been a conservatory. The ones on the
side were thus still nearer the little Church of our Saviour than
they used to be; those in front looked out on the beautiful
harbor, and those in the back commanded a view of nothing in
particular but a little alley--nevertheless, they were
pleasantest of all to Carol, for the Ruggles family lived in the
alley, and the nine little, middle-sized and big Ruggles children
were the source of inexhaustible interest.
The shutters could all be opened and Carol could take a real
sun-bath in this lovely glass-house, or they could all be closed
when the dear head ached or the dear eyes were tired. The carpet
was of soft grey, with clusters of green bay and holly leaves.
The furniture was of white wood, on which an artist had painted
snow scenes and Christmas trees and groups of merry children
ringing bells and singing carols.
Donald had made a pretty, polished shelf and screwed it on to the
outside of the footboard, and the boys always kept this full of
blooming plants, which they changed from time to time; the
head-board, too, had a bracket on either side, where there were
pots of maidenhair ferns.
Love-birds and canaries hung in their golden houses in the
windows, and they, poor caged things, could hop as far from their
wooden perches as Carol could venture from her little white bed.
On one side of the room was a bookcase filled with hundreds--yes,
I mean it--with hundreds and hundreds of books; books with
gay-colored pictures, books without; books with black and white
outline-sketches, books with none at all; books with verses,
books with stories, books that made children laugh, and some that
made them cry; books with words of one syllable for tiny boys and
girls, and books with words of fearful length to puzzle wise
ones.
This was Carol's "Circulating Library." Every Saturday she chose
ten books, jotting their names down in a little diary; into these
she slipped cards that said:
"Please keep this book two weeks and read it.
With love, Carol Bird."
Then Mrs. Bird stepped into her carriage, and took the ten books
to the Childrens' Hospital, and brought home ten others that she
had left there the fortnight before.
This was a source of great happiness; for some of the Hospital
children that were old enough to print or write, and were strong
enough to do it, wrote Carol cunning little letters about the
books, and she answered them, and they grew to be friends. (It
is very funny, but you do not always have to see people to love
them. Just think about it, and see if it isn't so.)
There was a high wainscoting of wood about the room, and on top
of this, in a narrow gilt framework, ran a row of illuminated
pictures, illustrating fairy tales, all in dull blue and gold and
scarlet and silver and other lovely colors. From the door to the
closet there was the story of "The Fair One with Golden Locks;"
from closet to bookcase, ran "Puss in Boots;" from bookcase to
fireplace, was "Jack the Giant-killer;" and on the other side of
the room were "Hop o' my Thumb," "The Sleeping Beauty," and
"Cinderella."
Then there was a great closet full of beautiful things to
wear--but they were all dressing-gowns and slippers and shawls;
and there were drawers full of toys and games; but they were such
as you could play with on your lap. There were no ninepins, nor
balls, nor bows and arrows, nor bean bags, nor tennis rackets;
but, after all, other children needed these more than Carol
Bird, for she was always happy and contented whatever she had or
whatever she lacked; and after the room had been made so lovely
for her, on her eighth Christmas, she always called herself, in
fun, a "Bird of Paradise."
On these particular December days she was happier than usual, for
Uncle Jack was coming from Europe to spend the holidays. Dear,
funny, jolly, loving, wise Uncle Jack, who came every two or
three years, and brought so much joy with him that the world
looked as black as a thunder-cloud for a week after he went away
again.
The mail had brought this letter:--
"LONDON, Nov. 28th, 188-.
Wish you merry Christmas, you dearest birdlings in America!
Preen your feathers, and stretch the Birds' nest a little, if you
please, and let Uncle Jack in for the holidays. I am coming with
such a trunk full of treasures that you'll have to borrow the
stockings of Barnum's Giant and Giantess; I am coming to squeeze
a certain little lady-bird until she cries for mercy; I am coming
to see if I can find a boy to take care of a little black pony I
bought lately. It's the strangest thing I ever knew; I've hunted
all over Europe, and can't find a boy to suit me! I'll tell you
why. I've set my heart on finding one with a dimple in his chin,
because this pony particularly likes dimples! ['Hurrah!' cried
Hugh; 'bless my dear dimple; I'll never be ashamed of it again.']
Please drop a note to the clerk of the weather, and have a good,
rousing snow-storm--say on the twenty-second. None of your meek,
gentle, nonsensical, shilly-shallying snow-storms; not the sort
where the flakes float lazily down from the sky as if they didn't
care whether they ever got here or not, and then melt away as
soon as they touch the earth, but a regular business-like
whizzing, whirring, blurring, cutting snow-storm, warranted to
freeze and stay on!
I should like rather a LARGE Christmas tree, if it's convenient--
not one of those 'sprigs,' five or six feet high, that you used
to have three or four years ago, when the birdlings were not
fairly feathered out, but a tree of some size. Set it up in the
garret, if necessary, and then we can cut a hole in the roof if
the tree chances to be too high for the room.
Tell Bridget to begin to fatten a turkey. Tell her by the
twentieth of December that turkey must not be able to stand on
its legs for fat, and then on the next three days she must allow
it to recline easily on its side, and stuff it to bursting. (One
ounce of stuffing beforehand is worth a pound afterwards.)
The pudding must be unusually huge, and darkly, deeply,
lugubriously black in color. It must be stuck so full of plums
that the pudding itself will ooze out into the pan and not be
brought on to the table at all. I expect to be there by the
twentieth, to manage these little things--remembering it is the
early Bird that catches the worm--but give you the instructions
in case I should be delayed.
And Carol must decide on the size of the tree--she knows best,
she was a Christmas child; and she must plead for the
snow-storm--the 'clerk of the weather' may pay some attention to
her; and she must look up the boy with the dimple for me--she's
likelier to find him than I am, this minute. She must advise
about the turkey, and Bridget must bring the pudding to her
bedside and let her drop every separate plum into it and stir it
once for luck, or I'll not eat a single slice--for Carol is the
dearest part of Christmas to Uncle Jack, and he'll have
none of it without her. She is better than all the turkeys and
puddings and apples and spare-ribs and wreaths and garlands and
mistletoe and stockings and chimneys and sleigh-bells in
Christendom. She is the very sweetest Christmas Carol that was
ever written, said, sung or chanted, and I am coming, as fast as
ships and railway trains can carry me, to tell her so."
Carol's joy knew no bounds. Mr. and Mrs. Bird laughed like
children and kissed each other for sheer delight, and when the
boys heard it they simply whooped like wild Indians, until the
Ruggles family, whose back yard joined their garden, gathered at
the door and wondered what was "up" in the big house.
IV.
"BIRDS OF A FEATHER FLOCK TOGETHER."
Uncle Jack did really come on the twentieth. He was not detained
by business, nor did he get left behind nor snowed up, as
frequently happens in stories, and in real life too, I am
afraid. The snow-storm came also; and the turkey nearly died a
natural and premature death from over-eating. Donald came, too;
Donald, with a line of down upon his upper lip, and Greek and
Latin on his tongue, and stores of knowledge in his handsome
head, and stories--bless me, you couldn't turn over a chip
without reminding Donald of something that happened "at College."
One or the other was always at Carol's bedside, for they fancied
her paler than she used to be, and they could not bear her out of
sight. It was Uncle lack, though, who sat beside her in the
winter twilights. The room was quiet, and almost dark, save for
the snow-light outside, and the flickering flame of the fire,
that danced over the "Sleeping Beauty's" face, and touched the
Fair One's golden locks with ruddier glory. Carol's hand (all
too thin and white these latter days) lay close clasped in Uncle
Jack's, and they talked together quietly of many, many things.
"I want to tell you all about my plans for Christmas this year,
Uncle Jack," said Carol, on the first evening of his visit,
"because it will be the loveliest one I ever had. The boys laugh
at me for caring so much about it; but it isn't altogether
because it is Christmas nor because it is my birthday; but long,
long ago, when I first began to be ill, I used to think, the
first thing when I waked on Christmas morning, 'To-day is
Christ's birthday--AND MINE!' I did not put the words close
together, because that made it seem too bold but I first thought,
'Christ's birthday,' and then, in a minute, softly to myself--AND
MINE!' 'Christ's birthday--AND MINE!' And so I do not quite
feel about Christmas as other girls do. Mama says she supposes
that ever so many other children have been born on that day. I
often wonder where they are, Uncle Jack, and whether it is a dear
thought to them, too, or whether I am so much in bed, and so
often alone, that it means more to me. Oh, I do hope that none
of them are poor, or cold, or hungry; and I wish, I wish they
were all as happy as I, because they are my little brothers and
sisters. Now, Uncle Jack, dear, I am going to try and make
somebody happy every single Christmas that I live, and this year
it is to be the 'Ruggleses in the rear.'"
"That large and interesting brood of children in the little house
at the end of the back garden?"
"Yes; isn't it nice to see so many together? We ought to call
them the Ruggles children, of course; but Donald began talking of
them as the 'Ruggleses in the rear,' and Papa and Mama took it
up, and now we cannot seem to help it. The house was built for
Mr. Carter's coachman, but Mr. Carter lives in Europe, and the
gentleman who rents his place doesn't care what happens to it,
and so this poor Irish family came to live there. When they
first moved in, I used to sit in my window and watch them play in
their backyard; they are so strong, and jolly, and good-natured;
and then, one day, I had a terrible headache, and Donald asked
them if they would please not scream quite so loud, and they
explained that they were having a game of circus, but that they
would change and play 'Deaf and Dumb School' all the afternoon."