The Christmas Bride, the old story so often told of true love and a
world so cold. When Christmas Day, my tale begins, loud and joyous,
the church chime rings a bride so fair, yet pensive, sad,
while on this day all seemed glad except this one, For she had fled
against her parents wish to wed the one who now stands by her side.
She gave up all to be his bride, home, parents, friends,
and comforts too. In the small village where she grew to be the joy
and pride of all who knew of her, both great and small. She
was a teacher and the best. Her pupils loved her with the rest,
and John dear, loving, honest boy. To him, she was his
every joy. He had loved her long and well more dear to him than
tongue could tell. Her every wish was to him law, nor could he
in her see a flaw. Poor boy. She liked him, but then
he did not impress as some men whom she had seen and heard about.
Though he was manly, true and stout of heart, and always ready too
to serve her just the best he knew. She admired him and all his
ways, But then her eyes before his gaze could not meet his, For
there she read what at that time she wished unsaid, much too tender to
cause him pain or treat his love with cold disdain for another one held all
her thought, But this to hide from John she sought, for he had
come one summer day and stole poor Mamie's heart away. In him, she
fancied she had found the hero which her dreams had crowned. He was tall,
dashing in his ways, spoke soft and low, nor stinted praise,
and o'er her mind he had full sway. John was forgotten from that day.
All took him for the favored swain, until the city stranger came stole
her from him, and all beside on Christmas Day to be his bride.
The same old story often told she'd taken the dross for the gold. Time
alone. Its tale would tell reveal what others knew quite well, that he
was a most depraved knave to gambling, and i'll vice the slave. Her
eyes opened, But when too late to save herself from such a fate,
she was alas a gambler's wife, for better or worse all her life,
the worse and not the better, came, although she tried just the same
to win him from his wickedness, his gambling, and his drunkenness. A
sad awakening indeed was hers days spent in wretchedness and tears, and far along
into the night, waiting, watching for the dread sight the hero of her
dream uncrowned, Her bright hopes dashed to the ground. Many a Christmas come
and go, bringing little joy and much woe. First a baby girl,
then a boy. These constituted all her joy. Long years have passed,
years of pain, and Christmas time has come again. What changes in those
years have come to Mamie? Daughter and son? A widow now and in
distress. Her husband left her pennyless five years ago. He passed away,
but she has managed till this day to meet the wants of those she loved.
A heavy task and one that proved too great a load for her frail
form, with sickness, grief, and anguish worn. The boy, a
sturdy little lad to lend his help, was ever glad his sister with her
loving care. Her mother's anguish tried to share. Sickness sorrow had done their
worst, and Maimie thought her heart would burst as she no longer could provide
for those dearer than all beside to her, they were her very life,
none more dear since she'd been a wife. We'll leave them for a little
space another life in this tale to trace, John too had left the veil
and glen where life to him had pleasant been, For Mamie was his source
of joy. She had gone, and alas poor boy, what had been
blissed to him before now brought sorrow to his door. For every scene and
every face reminded him of her. The place full of delight when she was
there, now held for him but deep despair. Thus John also went his
way, and it knew him not from that day. With him too,
ten years have passed flown, you may say, they've gone so fast.
Our scene now not a village need, but city large, a busy street
where traffic of the densest kind thrust thoughts of rural scenes behind, where buildings
towering to the skies attract attention by their size, and men employed in deadly
strife for what money, their god, their life. We'll enter here a
monstrous pile, a building of the latest style, where almost dwells a merchant
prince, yes, dwells for it is not long since this merchant from the
lowest round, by centering all his will, has found the topmost limit of
his fame, made for himself a mighty name. From east to west.
He is well known in every village and small town. Is he happy?
Well, may we ask, since he has achieved this great task, a
mighty power he has become. But then, well, what about his home?
Has he any loving wife whose smile welcomes to his home, and the
while, with gentle hands pressed to his face, tries to read his every
thought and trace with anxious eyes that search him through to see if there are
troubles, new that she might ease them with her care, and thus with
the dear one, to share what she would bear full well as he sharing
with him the stormy sea of life, with all its joys and woes.
His friends are hers, as are his foes. Home with loving wife,
children too, were loving supreme known to few. Is this the incentive to
his fame, this the power behind his name? No, this desire to
lose all thought of just such scenes is what he sought. Plunging into the
whirl and strife they served for him as child and wife. No home,
just where to lay his head, business thoughts to all others dead happiness,
Why it long had flown these many years he had not known. We'll look
now at this merchant prince we may have known him not long since, engrossed
in thoughts and sitting there amidst a whirl of business care, a man with
brow of noble height, fitted by nature for the fight, a man of
men who commands respect, one of great power and intellect. Years indeed have
changed his face. Still in the noble lines we trace our old friend John.
What can it be, yes, dear reader, indeed tis he Years
have brought him a noble mien, with greatness and much worldly gain. But
in his face our lines of care for happiness is absent. There. Yes,
it is John, still kind and true in all else, the same
John we knew, older, more thoughtful, still the same, spite of
the greatness of his name. See with what kindly smile he greets, that
little boy who, from the streets with papers to his desk, has come
trying to help with the small sum he may earn in this humble way those
he loves. And from day to day he's here, and John has seen
him oft, greeting him in tones mild and soft? What is your name,
my little lad? We hear John say, his eyes looked sad to
see this one, so young and fair, with sparkling eyes and curly hair,
neatly dressed and winning ways. Mayhap he had seen better days, John
sir, he in answering, said, and Mas sick and Pa is dead.
Why that is my name too, my boy, said John, and
to the other's joy, gave him a sum, with which he fled to
his poor mother, now ill in bed. It's Christmas Eve, and with
what joy the mother greets her darling boy. A great hotel is our next
scene, which, decked in festive holly green and flashing lights and busy throng,
a scene to be remembered long. We see crowds hurrying to and fro.
Some are coming while others go, making a picture full of life,
a whirl, a rush, an endless strife to one not used to city
ways, filling with wonder and amaze that little girl with bashful air selling flowers.
She seems so fair many by, and they little know what brings the
blushes to her brow. Tis pleasure, yes, and also pain to think
that with this little gain she may restore to that mother dear, health,
happiness, and some good cheer, nurtured with most tender care. Out of
place was her presence there. Why here again is our friend John? Amidst
this whirl and busy throng the child attracts him by her grace, something so
winning in her face? Or does he see some likeness there of one who
wants to him? Was dear? He approaches her, asks her name,
Mamie, sir. Quick The answer came Maimie, he said, to her
surprise, looking into her deep dark eyes, her mother's eyes. Yes,
they were hers. No thought of this to John occurs, but the attraction
was the same as once again he heard her name. Why are you here?
He kindly said, ma, Ma is sick and Pa is dead.
She answered in the simplest way. John heard this once before. Today He
asked, have you a brother? John? He spoke so kind The little
one was drawn to him and answered yes. Did he not now the secret
guess that she was Mamie's child? The name ever dear to him, loved
the same for all his thoughts were of her still through all these years.
Nor thought he ill that the one he loved had fled from him. Her
own heart's choice to wed. He had loved her with unselfish love, his
own heart crushed still, he strove her memory in his heart to shrine to
him. She still was all divine. He knew not where she'd gone,
nor thought the battle poor Mamie had fought, the shame, the poverty,
the disgrace that she had found in that same place where he had made a
name so great. It all seemed like the hand of fate that these two,
to Mamie so dear, should receive from him Christmas cheer. Their story
so impressed his mind, the names too, and he thought he'd find just
where they lived. He would call on Christmas Day and see them all.
Bought her flowers her little store with more than she had seen before. He
then dismissed her to her home, telling the time that he would come.
The bells ring out tis Christmas Day, and kind Santa Claus with his sleigh
has caught all the homes he knew, dear reader, they were not a
few. Hearts were made glad and faces bright that they'd been thought of in
the night, Stockings filled and tables grown of many who dread want had known,
will visit Mamie in her home. Here want and poverty had come.
Old Santa Claus too had been here, bringing happiness and good cheer. A
large tree in the parlor stood decked with things useful and good, and Mamie's
face it shone with joy, as her daughter and darling boy repeat the story
of the one who to them this great good had done. Who could he
be John? That's his name, she conned it? Or in aura again?
Could it be the kind John she knew so many long years ago,
and who loved her? Yes, now she knew quite well alas had she.
But let him tell his love for her before he came, that stranger,
and whose very name long since loathsome to her, and who had outraged
every good she knew, well well, she thought enough of this twas not
to be. We do not miss the joy and bliss that might be ours
until they're gone, and all the powers cannot recall the past, nor say
what may be in store for us to day. Hark is that a knock
at the door. The clock has struck the hour of four, the hour
he named the stranger John. Listen, children, he's come, He's come.
They hastened to the door. Tis he They both are glad his face.
To see each takes a hand of the kind friend whose thoughtfulness deigned to
send those rich gifts to that mother dear. Their hearts were full. They
brought him nearer to their loved one and his own, the one who was
his joy and crown. Maimie John was all that was said, as each
the other's thoughts now read. She saw in his eyes the same deep love
now long dearer to her, far above all things else which this world could
hold, and wondered why she'd been so cold. He saw all this and
read her thought his mamy, indeed is what he sought. Such a Christmas,
so blessed with joy. Their hearts were full without alloy. Another Christmas
and another bride. And now tis John stands by her side. Maimie,
older yet full of grace. Happiness now lights up her face. Joy is
hers, for she now has found in him all that her fancy crowned.
Ring joyous bells with merry chime, This merry, merry Christmas time and of
the Christmas Bride. By Charles Nicholas Tryvis