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Speaker 1: Three Christmas Trees by Juliana Horatio Gaddy. This is a

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story of three Christmas trees. The first was a real one,

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but the child we are to speak of did not

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see it. He saw the other two, but they were

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not real. They only existed in his fancy. The plot

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of the story is very simple, and as it has

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been described so early, it is easy for those who

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think it stupid to lay down the book in good time.

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Probably every child who reads this has seen one Christmas

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tree or more. But in the small town of a

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distant colony with which we have to do this could

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not at one time have been said. Christmas trees were then,

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by no means so universal even in England as they

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are now, And in this little colonial town they were unknown, unknown,

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that is till the governor's wife gave her great Children's party,

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at which point we will begin the story. The governor

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had given a great many parties in his time. He'd

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entertained big wigs and little whigs, the passing military and

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the local grandees. Everybody who had the remotest claim to

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attention had been attended to. The ladies had had their

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full share of balls and pleasure. Parties. Only one class

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of the population had any complaint to prefer against his hospitality,

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but the class was a large one. It was the children. However,

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he was a bachelor and knew little or nothing about

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little boys and girls. Let us pity rather than blame him.

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At last he took to himself a wife, and among

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the many advantages of this important step was a due

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recognition of the claims of these young citizens. It was

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towards happy Christmas tide that the Governor's amiable and admired lady,

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as she was styled in the local newspaper sent out

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notes for her first children's party. At the top of

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the notepaper was a very red robin who carried a

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blue Christmas greeting in his mouth. And at the bottom,

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written with A. D. C's best flourish, were the magic

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words a Christmas Tree. In spite of the flourishes, partly

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because of them, the A. D C's handwriting, though handsome,

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was rather illegible. But for all this, most of the

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children invited contrived to read these words, and those who

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could not do so were not slow to learn the

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news by hearsay there was to be a Christmas tree.

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It would be like a birthday party with this above

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ordinary birthdays, that there were to be presents for every

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one one of the children invited. Lived in a little

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white house with the spruce fir tree before the door.

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The spruce fird did this good service to the little

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house that it helped people to find their way to it.

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And it was by no means easy for a stranger

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to find his way to any given house in this

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little town, especially if the house were small and white

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and stood in one of the back streets. For most

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of the houses were small, and most of them were

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painted white, and back streets ran parallel with each other,

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and had no names, and were all so much alike

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that it was very confusing. For instance, if you had

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asked the way to mister so and So's, it is

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very probable that some friend would have directed you as follows.

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Go straight forward and take the first turning to your left,

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and you will find that there are four streets which

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run at right angles to the one you were in,

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and parallel with each other. Each of them has got

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a big pine in it, one of the old forest trees.

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Take the last street but one, and the fifth white

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house you come to is mister so and so's he

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has green blinds and a colored servant. You would not

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always have got such clear directions of these, but with

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them you would probably have found the house at last,

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partly by accident, partly by the blinds and colored servant.

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Some of the neighbors affirmed that the Little White House

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had a name, that all the houses and streets had names,

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only they were traditional and not recorded anywhere, that very

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few people knew them, and nobody made any use of them.

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The name of the Little White House was said to

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be Trafalgar Villa, which seemed so inappropriate to the modest, peaceful,

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little home that the man who lived in it tried

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to find out why it had been so called. He

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thought that his predecessor must have been in the navy,

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until he found that he had been the owner of

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what is called a dry goods store, which seems to

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mean a shop where things are sold which are not

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good to eat or drink, such as drapery. At last,

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somebody said that as there was a public house called

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the Duke of Wellington at the corner of the street,

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there probably had been a nearer one called the Nelson,

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which had been burnt down, and that the man who

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built the Nelson had built the house the spruce fir

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before it, and that so the name had arisen an

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explanation which was just so far probable that public houses

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and fires were a frequent occurrence in those parts. But

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this has nothing to do with the story. Only we

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must say as we said before, and as we should

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have said had we been living there. Then the child

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we speak of lived in the little white house with

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one spruce fir just in front of it. Of all

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the children who looked forward to the Christmas tree, he

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looked forward to it the most intensely. He was an

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imaginative child, of a simple, happy nature, easy to please.

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His father was an Englishman, and in the long winter

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evenings he would tell the child tales of the old country,

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to which his mother would listen. Also, perhaps the parents

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enjoyed these stories the most. To the boy they were

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new and consequently delightful. But to the parents they were old.

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And as regards some stories, that is better still. What

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kind of a bird is this on? My letter? Asked

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the boy on the day which brought the Governor's lady's

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note of invitation, And oh, what is a Christmas tree?

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The bird is an English robin, said his father. It

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is quite another bird to that which is called a robin. Here.

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It is smaller and rounder, and has a redder breast

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and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings at home

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through the winter. A Christmas tree is a fir tree,

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just such a one as that outside the door, brought

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into the house, and covered with lights and presents. Picture

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to yourself our fir tree, lighted up with tapers on

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all the branches, with dolls and trumpets and bonbon and drums,

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and toys of all kinds hanging from it like fur cones,

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and on the tip top shoot a figure of a

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Christmas angel in white with a star upon its head. Fancy,

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said the boy, And fancy he did every day he

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looked at the spruce fir and tried to imagine it

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laden with presents and brilliant with tapers, and thought, how

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wonderful must be that old country home, as it was called,

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even by those who had never seen it, where the

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robins were so very red, and where at Christmas the

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fir trees were hung with toys instead of cones. It

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was certainly a pity that two days before the party,

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an original idea on the subject of snow men struck

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one of the children who used to play together with

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their sleds and snow shoes in the back streets. The

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idea was this, that instead of having a commonplace snow

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man whose legs were obliged to be mere stumps for fear,

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he should be top heavy, and who could not walk

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even with them, who in fact could do nothing but

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stand at the corner of the street, holding his impotent

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stick and staring with his pebble eyes till he was

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broken to pieces or ignominiously carried away by a thaw.

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That instead of this they should have a real, live

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snowman who should walk on competent legs. To the astonishment

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and happy thought, perhaps to the alarm of the passers

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by this delightful novelty was to be accomplished by covering

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one of the boys of the party with snow till

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he looked as like a real snowman, as circumstances would admit.

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At first everybody wanted to be the snowman. But when

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it came to the point it was found to be

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so much duller to stand still and be covered up

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than to run about and work, that no one was

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willing to act the part. At last, it was undertaken

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by the little boy from the fur house. He was

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somewhat small, but then he was so good natured he

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would always do as he was asked. So he stood

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manfully still, with his arms folded over a walking stick

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upon his breast, whilst the others heaped the snow upon him.

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The plan was not so successful as they had hoped.

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The snow would not stick anywhere except on his shoulders,

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and when it got into his neck he cried with

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the cold. But they were so anxious to carry out

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their project that they begged him to bear it just

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a little longer. And the urchin, who had devised the

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original idea, wiped the child's eyes with his handkerchief, and

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with that hopefulness which is so easy over other people's matters,

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dared say that when all the snow was on he

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wouldn't feel it. However, he did feel it, and that

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so severely that the children were obliged to give up

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the game, and taking the stick out of his stiff

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little arms to lead him home. It appears that it

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is with snow men, as with some other men, in

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conspicuous positions, it is easier to find fault with them

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than to fill their place. The end of this was

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a feverish cold, and when the day of the party came,

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the ex snow man was still in bed. It is

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due to the other children to see say that they

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felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and that

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it greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them

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to think that they had prevented his sharing in the treat.

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The most penitent of all was the devisor of the

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original idea. He had generously offered to stay at home

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with the little patient, which was as generously refused, But

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the next evening he was allowed to come and sit

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on his bed and describe it all for the amusement

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of his friend. He was a quaint boy, the surcheon,

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with a face as broad as an American, Indian's eyes

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as bright as the squirrels, and all the mischief in

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life lurking around him till you could see roguishness in

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the very folds of his hooded Indian winter coat of

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blue and scarlet. In his hand, he brought the sick

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child's present, a dray with two white horses and little

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barrels that took off and on and a driver with

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wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything in fact that

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was suitable to the driver of a brewer's, except that

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he had blue boots and earrings, and that his hair

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was painted in braids like ladies, which is clearly the

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fault of the doll manufacturers, who will persist in making

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them all of the weaker sex. And what was the

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Christmas tree like, asked the invalid. Exactly like the fur

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outside your door, was the reply. Just about that size,

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and planted in a pot covered with red cloth. It

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was kept in another room till after tea, and then

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when the door was opened, it was like a street

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fire in the town at night, such a blaze of light,

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candles everywhere, and on all the branches, the most beautiful presence.

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I got a drum and pen wiper. Was there an angel?

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The child asked, Oh, yes, The boy answered, it was

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on the tip top branch, and it was given to me,

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and I brought it for you if you would like it.

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For you know, I am so very very sorry. I

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thought of a snow man and made you ill. I

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do love you and beg you to forgive me. And

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the roguish face stooped over the pillow to be kissed,

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and out of a pocket in the hooded coat came

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forth the Christmas Angel. In the face it bore a

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strong family likeness to the draymen, but its feet were

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hidden in folds of snowy muslin, and on its head

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glittered a tinsel star. How lovely, said the child father

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told me about this. I like it best of all,

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and it is very kind of you, for it is

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not your fault that I caught cold. I should have

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liked it if we could have done it. But I

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think to enjoy being a snow man, one should be

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snow all through. They had tea together, and then the

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invalid was tucked up for the night. The dray was

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put away in the cupboard, but he took the angel

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to bed with him, and so ended the first of

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the three Christmas trees. Except for a warm glow from

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the wood fire in the stove, the room was dark.

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But about midnight it seemed to the child that a

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sudden blaze of light filled the chamber. At the same moment,

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the window curtains were drawn aside, and he saw that

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the spruce fir had come close up to the panes

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and was peeping in ah, how beautiful it looked. It

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had become a Christmas tree. Lighted tapers shown from every

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familiar branch, Toys of the most fascinating appearance hung like fruit,

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and on the tip top shoot there stood the Christmas Angel.

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He tried to count the candles, but somehow it was impossible.

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When he looked at them, they seemed to change places,

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to move, to become like the angel, and then to

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become candles again, whilst the flames nodded to each other

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and repeated the blue greeting of the robin, a merry

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Christmas and a happy New Year. Then he tried to

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distinguish the presents, but beautiful as the toys looked, he

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could not exactly discover what any of them were, or

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choose which he would like best. Only the angel he

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could see clearly, so clearly, it was more beautiful than

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the doll under his pillow. It had a lovely face,

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like his own mother's, he thought, and on its head

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gleamed a star far brighter than tinsel. Its white robes

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waved with the flames of the tapers, and it stretched

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its arms towards him with a smile. I am to

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go and choose my present, thought the child, and he

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called mother, Mother, dear, please open the window. But his

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mother did not answer, so he thought he must get

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up himself, and with an effort he struggled out of bed.

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But when he was on his feet everything seemed changed.

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Only the firelight shone upon the walls, and the curtains

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were once more firmly closed before the window. It had

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been a dream, but so vivid that, in his feverish state,

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he still thought it must be true, and dragged the

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curtains back to let in the glorious sight again. The

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firelight shone upon a thick coating of frost upon the panes,

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but no further could he see, so with thought Molla's strength,

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he pushed the window open and leaned out into the night.

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The spruce fir stood in its old place, but it

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looked very beautiful in its Christmas dress. Beneath it lay

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a carpet of pure white. The snow was clustered in

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exquisite shapes upon its plumy branches, wrapping the tree top

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with its little cross chutes, as a white robe might

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wrap a figure with outstretched arms. There were no tapers

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to be seen, but northern lights shot up into the

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dark blue sky, and just over the fir tree shone

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a bright, bright star. Jupiter looks well tonight, said the

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old professor in the town observatory, as he fixed his telescope.

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But to the child it seemed as the star of

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the Christmas Angel. His mother had really heard him call,

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and now came and put him back to bed again.

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And so ended the second of the three Christmas trees.

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It was enough to have killed him, Alla's friends said,

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but it did not. He lived to be a man.

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And what is rare to keep the faith, the simplicity,

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the tender heartedness, the vivid fancy of his childhood. He

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lived to see many Christmas trees at home in that

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old country where the robins are red breasts and sing

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in winter. There a heart as good and gentle as

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his own became one with his. And once he brought

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his young wife across the sea to visit the place

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where he was born. They stood near the little white house,

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and he told her the story of the Christmas Tree.

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This was when I was a child, he added, But

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that you are still, said she, And she plucked a

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bit of the fir tree, and kissed it, and carried

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it away he lived to tell the story to his

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children and even to his grandchildren, but he never was

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able to decide which of the two was the more beautiful,

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the Christmas tree of his dream or the spruce fir

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as it stood in the loveliness of that winter night.

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This is told not that it has anything to do

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with any of the three Christmas trees, but to show

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that the story is a happy one, as is right

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and proper, that the hero lived and married, and had children,

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and was as prosperous as good people in books should

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always be. Of course, he died at last. The best

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and happiest of men must die, and it is only

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because some stories stop short in their history that every

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hero is not duly buried before we laid down the book.

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When death came for our hero, he was an old man.

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The beloved wife, some of his children, and many of

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his friends had died before him, and of those whom

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he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin.

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He had had a short illness with little pain, and

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was now lying on his death bed in one of

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the big towns in the north of England. His youngest son,

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a clergyman, was with him, and one or two others

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of his children, and by the fire set the doctor.

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The doctor had been sick by the patient, but now

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that he could do no more for him, he had

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moved to the fire, and they had taken the ghastly

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half emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside,

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and had spread it with a fair linen cloth, and

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had set out the silver vessels of the Supper of

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the Lord. The old man had been wandering somewhat during

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the day. He had talked much of going home to

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the old country, and with the wider range of dying thoughts,

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he had seemed to mingle memories of childhood with his

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hopes of paradise. At intervals he was clear and collected.

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One of those moments had been chosen for his last sacrament,

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and he had fallen asleep with the blessing in his ears.

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He slept so long and so peacefully that the sun

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almost began to hope that there might be a change,

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and looked towards the doctor, who still sat by the

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fire with his right leg crossed over his left. The

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doctor's eyes were also on the bed, but at that

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moment he drew out his watch and looked at it

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with an air of professional conviction, which said, it's only

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a question of time. Then he crossed his left leg

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over his right and turned to the fire again. Before

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the right leg should be tired, all would be over.

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The Sun saw it as clearly as if it had

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been spoken, and he too turned away and sighed. As

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they sat. The bells of a church in the town

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began to chime for midnight service, for it was Christmas Eve,

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but they did not wake the dying man. He slept

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on and on. The doctor dozed. The Sun read in

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the prayer book on the table, and one of his

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sisters read with him. Another from grief and weariness, slept

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with her head upon his shoulder. Except for a warm

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glow from the fire, the room was dark. Suddenly the

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old man sat up in bed and in a strong

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voice cried, with inexpressible enthusiasm, how beautiful. The Sun held

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back his sisters and asked quietly, wh my dear father,

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the Christmas tree, he said, in a low, eager voice,

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draw back the curtains. They were drawn back, but nothing

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could be seen, and still the old man gazed, as

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if in ecstasy. Light he murmured the angel the star

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again there was silence, and then he stretched forth his

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hands and cried passionately. The Angel is beckoning to me, Mother, Mother, dear,

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please open the window. The sash was thrown open, and

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all eyes turned involuntarily where those of the dying man

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were gazing. There was no Christmas tree, no tree at all,

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but over the housetops the morning star looked purer and

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pale in the dawn of Christmas day, for the night

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was past, and above the distant hum of the streets,

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the clear voices of some weights made the words of

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an old carol, heard words dearer for their association than

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their poetry. While shepherds watched their flocks by night, all

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seated on the ground, the Angel of the Lord came down,

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and glory shone around. When the window was opened, the

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soul passed, and when they looked back to the bed,

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the old man had lain down again, and like a child,

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was smiling in his sleep, his last sleep. And this

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was the third Christmas Tree. End of Three Christmas Trees

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by Juliana Horatio Gaddie