Speaker 1: Three Christmas Trees by Juliana Horatio Gaddy. This is a
story of three Christmas trees. The first was a real one,
but the child we are to speak of did not
see it. He saw the other two, but they were
not real. They only existed in his fancy. The plot
of the story is very simple, and as it has
been described so early, it is easy for those who
think it stupid to lay down the book in good time.
Probably every child who reads this has seen one Christmas
tree or more. But in the small town of a
distant colony with which we have to do this could
not at one time have been said. Christmas trees were then,
by no means so universal even in England as they
are now, And in this little colonial town they were unknown, unknown,
that is till the governor's wife gave her great Children's party,
at which point we will begin the story. The governor
had given a great many parties in his time. He'd
entertained big wigs and little whigs, the passing military and
the local grandees. Everybody who had the remotest claim to
attention had been attended to. The ladies had had their
full share of balls and pleasure. Parties. Only one class
of the population had any complaint to prefer against his hospitality,
but the class was a large one. It was the children. However,
he was a bachelor and knew little or nothing about
little boys and girls. Let us pity rather than blame him.
At last he took to himself a wife, and among
the many advantages of this important step was a due
recognition of the claims of these young citizens. It was
towards happy Christmas tide that the Governor's amiable and admired lady,
as she was styled in the local newspaper sent out
notes for her first children's party. At the top of
the notepaper was a very red robin who carried a
blue Christmas greeting in his mouth. And at the bottom,
written with A. D. C's best flourish, were the magic
words a Christmas Tree. In spite of the flourishes, partly
because of them, the A. D C's handwriting, though handsome,
was rather illegible. But for all this, most of the
children invited contrived to read these words, and those who
could not do so were not slow to learn the
news by hearsay there was to be a Christmas tree.
It would be like a birthday party with this above
ordinary birthdays, that there were to be presents for every
one one of the children invited. Lived in a little
white house with the spruce fir tree before the door.
The spruce fird did this good service to the little
house that it helped people to find their way to it.
And it was by no means easy for a stranger
to find his way to any given house in this
little town, especially if the house were small and white
and stood in one of the back streets. For most
of the houses were small, and most of them were
painted white, and back streets ran parallel with each other,
and had no names, and were all so much alike
that it was very confusing. For instance, if you had
asked the way to mister so and So's, it is
very probable that some friend would have directed you as follows.
Go straight forward and take the first turning to your left,
and you will find that there are four streets which
run at right angles to the one you were in,
and parallel with each other. Each of them has got
a big pine in it, one of the old forest trees.
Take the last street but one, and the fifth white
house you come to is mister so and so's he
has green blinds and a colored servant. You would not
always have got such clear directions of these, but with
them you would probably have found the house at last,
partly by accident, partly by the blinds and colored servant.
Some of the neighbors affirmed that the Little White House
had a name, that all the houses and streets had names,
only they were traditional and not recorded anywhere, that very
few people knew them, and nobody made any use of them.
The name of the Little White House was said to
be Trafalgar Villa, which seemed so inappropriate to the modest, peaceful,
little home that the man who lived in it tried
to find out why it had been so called. He
thought that his predecessor must have been in the navy,
until he found that he had been the owner of
what is called a dry goods store, which seems to
mean a shop where things are sold which are not
good to eat or drink, such as drapery. At last,
somebody said that as there was a public house called
the Duke of Wellington at the corner of the street,
there probably had been a nearer one called the Nelson,
which had been burnt down, and that the man who
built the Nelson had built the house the spruce fir
before it, and that so the name had arisen an
explanation which was just so far probable that public houses
and fires were a frequent occurrence in those parts. But
this has nothing to do with the story. Only we
must say as we said before, and as we should
have said had we been living there. Then the child
we speak of lived in the little white house with
one spruce fir just in front of it. Of all
the children who looked forward to the Christmas tree, he
looked forward to it the most intensely. He was an
imaginative child, of a simple, happy nature, easy to please.
His father was an Englishman, and in the long winter
evenings he would tell the child tales of the old country,
to which his mother would listen. Also, perhaps the parents
enjoyed these stories the most. To the boy they were
new and consequently delightful. But to the parents they were old.
And as regards some stories, that is better still. What
kind of a bird is this on? My letter? Asked
the boy on the day which brought the Governor's lady's
note of invitation, And oh, what is a Christmas tree?
The bird is an English robin, said his father. It
is quite another bird to that which is called a robin. Here.
It is smaller and rounder, and has a redder breast
and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings at home
through the winter. A Christmas tree is a fir tree,
just such a one as that outside the door, brought
into the house, and covered with lights and presents. Picture
to yourself our fir tree, lighted up with tapers on
all the branches, with dolls and trumpets and bonbon and drums,
and toys of all kinds hanging from it like fur cones,
and on the tip top shoot a figure of a
Christmas angel in white with a star upon its head. Fancy,
said the boy, And fancy he did every day he
looked at the spruce fir and tried to imagine it
laden with presents and brilliant with tapers, and thought, how
wonderful must be that old country home, as it was called,
even by those who had never seen it, where the
robins were so very red, and where at Christmas the
fir trees were hung with toys instead of cones. It
was certainly a pity that two days before the party,
an original idea on the subject of snow men struck
one of the children who used to play together with
their sleds and snow shoes in the back streets. The
idea was this, that instead of having a commonplace snow
man whose legs were obliged to be mere stumps for fear,
he should be top heavy, and who could not walk
even with them, who in fact could do nothing but
stand at the corner of the street, holding his impotent
stick and staring with his pebble eyes till he was
broken to pieces or ignominiously carried away by a thaw.
That instead of this they should have a real, live
snowman who should walk on competent legs. To the astonishment
and happy thought, perhaps to the alarm of the passers
by this delightful novelty was to be accomplished by covering
one of the boys of the party with snow till
he looked as like a real snowman, as circumstances would admit.
At first everybody wanted to be the snowman. But when
it came to the point it was found to be
so much duller to stand still and be covered up
than to run about and work, that no one was
willing to act the part. At last, it was undertaken
by the little boy from the fur house. He was
somewhat small, but then he was so good natured he
would always do as he was asked. So he stood
manfully still, with his arms folded over a walking stick
upon his breast, whilst the others heaped the snow upon him.
The plan was not so successful as they had hoped.
The snow would not stick anywhere except on his shoulders,
and when it got into his neck he cried with
the cold. But they were so anxious to carry out
their project that they begged him to bear it just
a little longer. And the urchin, who had devised the
original idea, wiped the child's eyes with his handkerchief, and
with that hopefulness which is so easy over other people's matters,
dared say that when all the snow was on he
wouldn't feel it. However, he did feel it, and that
so severely that the children were obliged to give up
the game, and taking the stick out of his stiff
little arms to lead him home. It appears that it
is with snow men, as with some other men, in
conspicuous positions, it is easier to find fault with them
than to fill their place. The end of this was
a feverish cold, and when the day of the party came,
the ex snow man was still in bed. It is
due to the other children to see say that they
felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and that
it greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them
to think that they had prevented his sharing in the treat.
The most penitent of all was the devisor of the
original idea. He had generously offered to stay at home
with the little patient, which was as generously refused, But
the next evening he was allowed to come and sit
on his bed and describe it all for the amusement
of his friend. He was a quaint boy, the surcheon,
with a face as broad as an American, Indian's eyes
as bright as the squirrels, and all the mischief in
life lurking around him till you could see roguishness in
the very folds of his hooded Indian winter coat of
blue and scarlet. In his hand, he brought the sick
child's present, a dray with two white horses and little
barrels that took off and on and a driver with
wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything in fact that
was suitable to the driver of a brewer's, except that
he had blue boots and earrings, and that his hair
was painted in braids like ladies, which is clearly the
fault of the doll manufacturers, who will persist in making
them all of the weaker sex. And what was the
Christmas tree like, asked the invalid. Exactly like the fur
outside your door, was the reply. Just about that size,
and planted in a pot covered with red cloth. It
was kept in another room till after tea, and then
when the door was opened, it was like a street
fire in the town at night, such a blaze of light,
candles everywhere, and on all the branches, the most beautiful presence.
I got a drum and pen wiper. Was there an angel?
The child asked, Oh, yes, The boy answered, it was
on the tip top branch, and it was given to me,
and I brought it for you if you would like it.
For you know, I am so very very sorry. I
thought of a snow man and made you ill. I
do love you and beg you to forgive me. And
the roguish face stooped over the pillow to be kissed,
and out of a pocket in the hooded coat came
forth the Christmas Angel. In the face it bore a
strong family likeness to the draymen, but its feet were
hidden in folds of snowy muslin, and on its head
glittered a tinsel star. How lovely, said the child father
told me about this. I like it best of all,
and it is very kind of you, for it is
not your fault that I caught cold. I should have
liked it if we could have done it. But I
think to enjoy being a snow man, one should be
snow all through. They had tea together, and then the
invalid was tucked up for the night. The dray was
put away in the cupboard, but he took the angel
to bed with him, and so ended the first of
the three Christmas trees. Except for a warm glow from
the wood fire in the stove, the room was dark.
But about midnight it seemed to the child that a
sudden blaze of light filled the chamber. At the same moment,
the window curtains were drawn aside, and he saw that
the spruce fir had come close up to the panes
and was peeping in ah, how beautiful it looked. It
had become a Christmas tree. Lighted tapers shown from every
familiar branch, Toys of the most fascinating appearance hung like fruit,
and on the tip top shoot there stood the Christmas Angel.
He tried to count the candles, but somehow it was impossible.
When he looked at them, they seemed to change places,
to move, to become like the angel, and then to
become candles again, whilst the flames nodded to each other
and repeated the blue greeting of the robin, a merry
Christmas and a happy New Year. Then he tried to
distinguish the presents, but beautiful as the toys looked, he
could not exactly discover what any of them were, or
choose which he would like best. Only the angel he
could see clearly, so clearly, it was more beautiful than
the doll under his pillow. It had a lovely face,
like his own mother's, he thought, and on its head
gleamed a star far brighter than tinsel. Its white robes
waved with the flames of the tapers, and it stretched
its arms towards him with a smile. I am to
go and choose my present, thought the child, and he
called mother, Mother, dear, please open the window. But his
mother did not answer, so he thought he must get
up himself, and with an effort he struggled out of bed.
But when he was on his feet everything seemed changed.
Only the firelight shone upon the walls, and the curtains
were once more firmly closed before the window. It had
been a dream, but so vivid that, in his feverish state,
he still thought it must be true, and dragged the
curtains back to let in the glorious sight again. The
firelight shone upon a thick coating of frost upon the panes,
but no further could he see, so with thought Molla's strength,
he pushed the window open and leaned out into the night.
The spruce fir stood in its old place, but it
looked very beautiful in its Christmas dress. Beneath it lay
a carpet of pure white. The snow was clustered in
exquisite shapes upon its plumy branches, wrapping the tree top
with its little cross chutes, as a white robe might
wrap a figure with outstretched arms. There were no tapers
to be seen, but northern lights shot up into the
dark blue sky, and just over the fir tree shone
a bright, bright star. Jupiter looks well tonight, said the
old professor in the town observatory, as he fixed his telescope.
But to the child it seemed as the star of
the Christmas Angel. His mother had really heard him call,
and now came and put him back to bed again.
And so ended the second of the three Christmas trees.
It was enough to have killed him, Alla's friends said,
but it did not. He lived to be a man.
And what is rare to keep the faith, the simplicity,
the tender heartedness, the vivid fancy of his childhood. He
lived to see many Christmas trees at home in that
old country where the robins are red breasts and sing
in winter. There a heart as good and gentle as
his own became one with his. And once he brought
his young wife across the sea to visit the place
where he was born. They stood near the little white house,
and he told her the story of the Christmas Tree.
This was when I was a child, he added, But
that you are still, said she, And she plucked a
bit of the fir tree, and kissed it, and carried
it away he lived to tell the story to his
children and even to his grandchildren, but he never was
able to decide which of the two was the more beautiful,
the Christmas tree of his dream or the spruce fir
as it stood in the loveliness of that winter night.
This is told not that it has anything to do
with any of the three Christmas trees, but to show
that the story is a happy one, as is right
and proper, that the hero lived and married, and had children,
and was as prosperous as good people in books should
always be. Of course, he died at last. The best
and happiest of men must die, and it is only
because some stories stop short in their history that every
hero is not duly buried before we laid down the book.
When death came for our hero, he was an old man.
The beloved wife, some of his children, and many of
his friends had died before him, and of those whom
he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin.
He had had a short illness with little pain, and
was now lying on his death bed in one of
the big towns in the north of England. His youngest son,
a clergyman, was with him, and one or two others
of his children, and by the fire set the doctor.
The doctor had been sick by the patient, but now
that he could do no more for him, he had
moved to the fire, and they had taken the ghastly
half emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside,
and had spread it with a fair linen cloth, and
had set out the silver vessels of the Supper of
the Lord. The old man had been wandering somewhat during
the day. He had talked much of going home to
the old country, and with the wider range of dying thoughts,
he had seemed to mingle memories of childhood with his
hopes of paradise. At intervals he was clear and collected.
One of those moments had been chosen for his last sacrament,
and he had fallen asleep with the blessing in his ears.
He slept so long and so peacefully that the sun
almost began to hope that there might be a change,
and looked towards the doctor, who still sat by the
fire with his right leg crossed over his left. The
doctor's eyes were also on the bed, but at that
moment he drew out his watch and looked at it
with an air of professional conviction, which said, it's only
a question of time. Then he crossed his left leg
over his right and turned to the fire again. Before
the right leg should be tired, all would be over.
The Sun saw it as clearly as if it had
been spoken, and he too turned away and sighed. As
they sat. The bells of a church in the town
began to chime for midnight service, for it was Christmas Eve,
but they did not wake the dying man. He slept
on and on. The doctor dozed. The Sun read in
the prayer book on the table, and one of his
sisters read with him. Another from grief and weariness, slept
with her head upon his shoulder. Except for a warm
glow from the fire, the room was dark. Suddenly the
old man sat up in bed and in a strong
voice cried, with inexpressible enthusiasm, how beautiful. The Sun held
back his sisters and asked quietly, wh my dear father,
the Christmas tree, he said, in a low, eager voice,
draw back the curtains. They were drawn back, but nothing
could be seen, and still the old man gazed, as
if in ecstasy. Light he murmured the angel the star
again there was silence, and then he stretched forth his
hands and cried passionately. The Angel is beckoning to me, Mother, Mother, dear,
please open the window. The sash was thrown open, and
all eyes turned involuntarily where those of the dying man
were gazing. There was no Christmas tree, no tree at all,
but over the housetops the morning star looked purer and
pale in the dawn of Christmas day, for the night
was past, and above the distant hum of the streets,
the clear voices of some weights made the words of
an old carol, heard words dearer for their association than
their poetry. While shepherds watched their flocks by night, all
seated on the ground, the Angel of the Lord came down,
and glory shone around. When the window was opened, the
soul passed, and when they looked back to the bed,
the old man had lain down again, and like a child,
was smiling in his sleep, his last sleep. And this
was the third Christmas Tree. End of Three Christmas Trees
by Juliana Horatio Gaddie