The height of celebration and enjoyment was reached at Christmas when the previous summer’s fishery turned out to be a good one. Those who could afford it in the city and outports laid in provisions enough for the whole winter…
The prices of Christmas commodities in the food line were very cheap in the old days. This made earnings go a long way. Firewood was plentiful, especially in the outports, and instead of the modern stoves and ranges most houses had the open fireplace. The kitchen, the largest room in the house, was the “living” room. The floor was often covered with sawdust or fine sand from the beach. A large high-backed long seat on each side of the fireplace, called the “settle”, gave room for six people. Cod-oil lamps with double bibs and wicks gave light. Pots and kettles were hung on cotteralls suspended from a crane. The building of the Christmas fire was a work of art. The back-junk or Yule log was selected some days before amongst the largest trees in the forest and hauled home on the dog slide in great triumph. It lasted the 12 holidays and was the only log that had not to be replaced each day. A brand taken from it afire on Christmas night was taken outdoors and thrown over the saddle of the roof to ensure safety of the home from fire in the coming year. As soon as the sun set, flintlock
Poole guns were loaded with three fingers of powder and ten or twelve volleys fired off. The fusillade continued for an hour, awakening the echoes on the hills and announcing to all that the holy and festive season was at hand.
Certain houses were open to all the neighbors for general hospitality and every visitor was welcomed. A large kitchen with plenty of sitting room, ample floor space for dancing and other games, a well stocked larder and a jovial, hospitable host and hostess were the main essentials of such meeting places during the twelve holidays. With the exception of keeping up the supply of wood to the wood box for the fire and cooking all work was suspended. Fiddlers and “Come-all-ye” singers were at a premium and received every possible honor and attention. Experiences and dramatic stories and incidents of cod and seal fisheries were told by tongues made eloquent by good”
Jamaica”, introduced by the vernacular prelude “I mind one time”. Those who had quarreled any time during the year made up their differences seasoned the good feeling and shook hands. The host made it a special point to see to this. A hospitable, happy, simple people! Happy and contented in spite of the fact that in those Arcadian days there were no radios, no motor cars and no movies. A neighbor was a neighbor, not only in word but in deed. The poor, the sick and the needy were visited and helped, and the place of the modem “dole” was taken by genuine charitable help through the medium of those who were well off. The poor widows had their’ ‘haul of wood” and in cases that I know the Incumbent of the parish fattened a cow specially to kill at Christmas, and then killed it and sent a dinner roast to every poor family for Christmas.
The same immigrant descendents were in those years in S1, John’s. Naturally they were more sophisticated. Though they lost the mummers in the middle of the last century, with their more ample means they made up for it at Christmas with arches, brass bands, processions, hunting the wren, rink skating, sleigh drives to the Inns on
Topsail Road
and local theatricals. Stores and shops were well decorated, especially on
Water Street
, with green fir and spruce, real dogberries, evergreen, and some in the imported holly and mistletoe. They had the big advantage over the outports however in the cake and poultry raffles at Lash’s, Touisaint’s, Chauncey & Heath’s, and John Foran’s. They got their quarters of beef, turkey, geese and chicken by the shipload from the P.E.I. and
Nova Scotia vessels arriving a few days before Christmas at Wood & Clift’s wharf. The prices would be unbelievable today. The poorest could afford to get fresh beef at four pence and three pence a pound by the quarter, geese three shillings and turkeys five shillings; corresponding low prices for potatoes, turnips, etc. Wages and a day’s pay were about a third of what they are today, but the price of most edible commodities were less than a third, and the people were contented and happy.
I do not think that the law prohibiting “mummers” ever reached north of
Conception
Bay, where the murder of a man led to this restriction. The custom was kept up till the 7th of January, and at night it made outport life very lively and provocative of much innocent fun. They were welcome visitors at every home and their antics were enjoyed with delight, especially by the young people. By a widely recognized custom the house was their own once they entered, and by the same right the floor was their own for the dances. The old dances that have now all but died out were the favorites, viz: the “Sir Roger”, the four- and eight-handed reel, the set or square dance, the Cotillion and the Cushion dance. The Christmas holiday games too are now obsolete, which is regrettable, because they abounded in harmless amusement. They were “Forfeits”, “Hide the Button”, “Hunt the Slipper”, Rhyming Puzzles, “Rise the Grey Mare”, “Jack’s Alive”, “House That Jack Built”, “Priest of the Parish lost his Boots, some say this and some say that and some say my man John stole ‘em”, “All Around the Rule of Contrariness”, etc. All these were brought from England and
Ireland by our forefathers and greatly added to their pleasure and happiness’ ‘when toil relaxed for the time being lent its tune to play”.
Two special seasons are, however, devoted in the large towns to merry meetings - Christmas and the New Year. At St. John’s on St. Stephen’s Day, little boys go about from door to door with a green bush from the spruce trees decorated with ribands and paper (in which, if they can get one, is a little bird, to represent the wren) and repeat the following verse, or something of the same kind:- The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, Was caught on St. Stephen’s Day in the firs, Although he is little, his honor is great; So rise up, kind madam, and give us a treat. Up with the kettle, and down with the pan;
A penny, or two-pence, to bury the wren.
Your pocket full of money, and your cellar full of beer,
I wish you all a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.
This ancient custom as well as that of the mummers, who assemble on New Year’s Day is, of course, derived from home, the former from Ireland, probably, the latter from the West of England.
There was, and still is, a sort of saturnalia amongst the lower classes, in
St. John’s particularly, which lasts three days, commencing at Christmas.
The mummers prepare, before the New Year, dresses of all possible shapes and hues, most of which are something like that of the harlequin and the clown in pantomimes, but the general color is white, with sundry bedaubments of tinsel and paint. A huge paper cocked hat is one favorite headpiece, and everyone among the gentlemen, excepting the captain or leader and his two or three assistants are masked. The ladies are represented by young fishermen, who are painted, but not masked. Some of the masks are very grotesque, and the fools or clowns are furnished with thongs and bladders, with which they belabor the exterior mob. Much ingenuity is observable in the style of the cocked hats, which are surmounted with all sorts of things, feathers in profusion, paper models of ships, etc.
They go to the Government House first, and then round to the inhabitants; and it has been customary to make the captain a present of money for a ball, if it may be so styled, which is given at the end of the carnival.
They perform at those houses which admit them, a sort of play, in which the unmasked characters only take a part, and which is very long and tiresome after one hearing. It is a dialogue between the captain and a sailor, and commences with Alexander the Great and continues down to Nelson and
Wellington. They are both armed with swords and a mock fight goes on all the while, till one is supposed to be slain and the doctor is called in to bring him to life again.
I cannot recollect the doggerel used but, as it is a relic of the days of the Abbot of Unreason and the Lord of Misrule, it is interesting and harmless. I never remember to have seen anything in England resembling it (though, to be sure, I have not been much in my native country since my boyhood) excepting the now very rare Morris dancers, whom I once saw in perfection near Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire, when a boy …
The custom of decorating the churches and houses with evergreen, at Christmas, prevails here also…
Well boys, with Christmas just a few gunshots ahead, I figger as hov this is a good time to forget all about our troubles over the cull and price of fish and all the other tormenting things in a fisherman’s life and talk about something pleasant that we all believe in - Christmas.
But it’s not enough to say that we folks in Pigeon Inlet believe in the spirit of Christmas, Santa Claus, St. Nick, or whatever you mind to call it. Like Skipper Joe Irwin said to me the other day: “Mose,” he said. “the spirit of Christmas is like the Sou’west wind. We don’t haw to believe in it, because we know it’s there. It’s true we don’t actually see the Christmas spirit or Santa Claus (as the youngsters call him) but neither do we see the Sou’west wind. But we know when the Sou’wester is there because we can feel it and we can see the good things it brings us - smooth water for catching fish and good dry weather for rnakin’ it. Same with Christmas spirit. You don’t see it, but you feel it blowing around like a Sou’west breeze and above all you see the good effects of it.”
Skipper Joe is right. How else can you account for the things goiri’ on right here in Pigeon Inlet while getting ready for Christmas Day and the days coming right after it.
Look at the schoolboys after school last week. Straight in over the hills every evening with their fathers’ catamarans and haulin’ out loads of boughs - even Jethro Noddy’s boys. I saw young Shem Noddy last Thursday evening comin’ out with a load that even I’d have found it hard to handle - and I can pull on a haulin’ rope with the next man.
“Boughs to decorate the church, Uncle Mose,” he bawled out to me as I jumped out of the path. I don’t s’pose the Noddys went to church ten times last year. But there you are! ‘Tis Christmas.
Then up in the Women’s Association Room every night what do you find? All the young fellows and maidens, instead of out courtin’ like they generally do, they’re sitting around those same boughs, breaking off small limbs and tying them in wreaths, to twine around the church pillars and the windows and the chancel and the font and everywhere - then some more wreaths to decorate the school for the big Christmas Tree and school concert on St. Stephen’s Night. Oh, I can tell you our church and our school, too, are going to look something wonderful by Christmas Eve and we’re all goin’ to be proud of it because we all helped to do it.
Then again, look at Martin Prior. Martin has got a big family and had a poor fishery last year. He’s hardly got a cent to bless himself with. But look what he’s doin’. Martin used to be a saw-filer with the paper company for years before he got turned down for blood pressure. Now he’s the best skate sharpener in Pigeon Inlet and every week before Christmas, he sharpens up all the youngsters’ skates - won’t charge a cent, neither. Says he can’t give much money for Christmas presents but there’s something he can give. Luke Walcott is repairin’ all the youngsters’ broken slides - another Christmas present. Then there’s Pete Briggs … but I could go on for an hour.
Speakin’ of Christmas, Grampa Walcott says we’re all alike. When we’re very young we believe in Santa Claus. Then we listen to a lot of nonsense from bigger youngsters who ought to know better and for a few years we don’t believe in Santa Claus. Then we get some sense of our own and we find out for sure that he’s there - just like the Sou’ west wind.
“But Grampa,” said I, night before last. “When you listen to all the stuff over the radio about only so many more shoppin’ days left and how you’d better drop everything and hurry down to this or that shop right away, doesn’t it make you wonder sometimes if Christmas isn’t just a way to get people to spend their bit of money?”
“Ah, no, Mose,” said Grampa. “I don’t believe anyone thinks that, not even the people who talk it over the radio. Anyway,” he said, “there’s no use telling us in Pigeon Inlet to hurry down to a store right away. All express parcels from Eaton’s and Simpson’s and
St. John’s come two weeks ago and there’ll be no more boats before Christmas. Besides, there’s nowhere to hurry except down to Levi Bartle’s … and Levi’s place won’t run away. There’s lots of stuff down to Levi’s to do till next May, let alone next week.”
“But people do spend a lot of money around Christmas,” I said. “Perhaps they do,” agreed Grampa, “but here in Pigeon Inlet it’s mostly other things they spend. Things like friendliness and helpfulness, things that the more of ‘em you spend the more you’ve got left. Take Sophy, for instance.”
“Yes,” said 1. “What about Aunt Sophy?”
“Sophy’s just like her mother used to be when she was in her prime,” said Grampa. “Now there’s a girl that believes in Christmas, and gets more out of it than anybody I know. Look at her almost every night since Advent come in, training the choir to sing Christmas carols. Then up there supervisin’ the decorations for the church and school - then helpin’ the teachers get the Christmas tree and the concert ready for St. Stephen’s Night - then seein’ that the Santa Claus suit is in order for whoever gives the presents off the tree - And, Mose.”
“Yes, Grampa Walcott,” said I.
“Sophy don’t spend much money at all this. She’s never got much to spend. But she spends a lot of herself. And it don’t leave her any the poorer.”
“Grampa,” said
I. “About Aunt Sophy…” “Yes, Mose,” said he. “What about it?” “Our quarrel,” said I.
“Isn’t that patched up yet?” said he. “No,” said I.
“Well, Mose,” said he. “With Soph feeling the way about Christmas that she feels, I should say if you can’t patch it up during Christmas, there’s no hope for you to patch it up at all.”
“But how?” said I.
“How?” said he. “I dunno. But drop in again tomorrow and we’ll try and figger out a way. I can’t bear to think of everybody bein’ on the outs with anyone else Christmas time, especially two fine people like you and Soph.”
A great many of the sports and ceremonies had long ceased to be performed at the time I was ushered “into this breathing world”, still I was fortunate in having for parents those who dearly loved old Terra Nova and whose memories were well stored with anecdotes and history of ye olden time, handed down from sire to son for many generations. Consequently, on each Christmas Eve, when the Christmas candles were lighted, and the chairs drawn up in front of the Christmas “back-junk”, the yulelog of Newfoundland and as the “mighty flame went roaring up the chimney wide”, we were told the oft-repeated stories of early life in Newfoundland - some enchanting, some too sombre to be repeated at this glad time. It is no wonder, then, that I take as much boyish delight on each return of this festival, amid the worry, hurry and scurry of this busy city, as 1 did some years ago in my island home, when I pleaded with all of a child’s persistence to be allowed to “sit up” on Christmas Eve that I might attend the mid-night mass.
For the commemoration of this day we are certainly all the better.
Although the younger generation of St. John’s, indeed the whole island for that matter, will probably never realize the great mirth that once attended the return of this glad season, when the ear was’ ‘cocked” to hear the gun that announced the first family who had partaken of dinner on Christmas Day; when the “I wish you a Merry Christmas” was the “open sesame” to all the good things in the larder; when the Christmas Box was bestowed; when the poor and needy were made, at the hands of the charitable, to forget the misery and toils of the past year. I remember, when a boy, playing one Christmas Eve in the basement of the Church of England Cathedral, where my father was cutting a “gang” or rigging for the church-ship “Hawk”. In running around the basement, chased by my companions, my way was suddenly blocked by boards placed upon empty barrels, and upon these boards were stored “mountains” of beef and loaves of sweet white bread. Running back to father, I asked what it meant, and he told me it was to be distributed among the poor on Christmas morning.
The younger generations remember the “fools.” Their time of appearing was the Twelfth Day. They had full sway until the disguise was made a cloak by which to revenge some petty spite. Then they were ordered to be numbered and finally, were allowed out only on condition that they should appear unmasked. This was the command that terminated this old custom in St. John’s. It was not, I believe, a statutory law, but merely the will of a stipendiary magistrate, the late Mr. Justice Carter. Some years after they had ceased to appear, one came out on the “Cross” on Christmas Day. He struck right and left, and finally ran into the arms of a policeman who locked him up.
But what I most particularly want to speak about is the “Tragedy of St. George”, which was another of the sports of the season of Christmas. Those noble fellows, who, perhaps, all the week were culling or stowing fish, stride and strut as King George, the Turkish Knight, Valentine and Orson and other characters of the tragedy. Acceptably well, too, as I am informed, they read their lines. Old Newfoundlanders who have lived here in Boston 40 or 50 years will repeat the lines of the tragedy today with as much fire and pride as Edwin Booth would the lines of Richard the Third.
Much the same as the “fools” of more recent times, Father Christmas was personified as a very old man, whose face was completely covered by a mask. Each character in the play differed in dress, to describe which would consume too much valuable space.
The following is the cast of characters: - St. George, The Doctor, St. Patrick, Turkish Knight, Dan Donnelly, Father Christmas, Valentine and Orson, and Alexander the Czar of Russia.
The Tragedy
Enter Father Christmas:
Make room; make room, my gallant boys, And give us space to rhyme; We’ve come to show
St. George’s play
Upon this Christmas time. (The fiddler stands up and all stand around him)
(Enter St. Patrick)
Yes, St. Patrick you are a famous champion, Besides a worthy knight. But you are not St. George to fight. What was St. Patrick but
St. George’s stable boy,
Who fed his horse seven long years on oats and hay. And after that he ran away.
St. Patrick: - I swear by George, you lie, sir.
St. George: -
Pull out your sword and try, sir. Pull out your purse and pay, sir. For satisfaction I will have Before you go away, sir.
St. Patrick: -
Satisfaction you will have; The satisfaction that you crave; Before ten minutes are at an end I’ll have your head tumbling in the grave. So now the fight is between you and I; I will conquer and you must die. (St. George falls wounded and calls for a doctor)
St. George. -
Five pounds for a doctor. That won’t do. Ten pounds for a doctor. That won’t do. Twenty pounds for a doctor. That will and must do. Is there a doctor who can be found, who will cure Your champion of his deep and deadly wound? (Enter doctor) Here I am. I can cure the itch, the palsy and the gout, And if the Devil is in him I can root him out.
St. George: -
What is your medicine? Doctor:- I have here a little bottle in the waistband of my breeches called hectum spectum high generosity, mixed up with a hen’s tooth and a eat’s feather. Put this into a bottomless skillet, boil it over a slow turf fire; knock it 99 times against the walls of Jerusalem, first found out by old Methusalem, whose wife was sick and in great pain, I made her rise and walk again. She lived and bore children seven, and when she died she went to heaven. (The doctor rubs his patient with his wonderfullinament and pronounces in a loud voice):- Rise champion and act your part. (St. George rises and assumes a warlike attitude when he is challenged to mortal combat by the Turkish Knight.)
Turkish Knight: -
Here come I a Turkish KnightWho learned in Turkish lands to fightI’ll fight this man with courage bold If his bloods hot it will soon run cold. (St. George accepts the challenge and they engage in deadly strife.) Enter Alexander,
Czar of
Russia:
Here am I, Alexander, commander of the train; My noble deeds and great exploits have given me great fame; I made the lion to tremble, which did my name indite; Full fifty thousand soldiers - I put them all to flight. The Great Sham, the Great Mogul, with their dignity and splendor; Their honor and their opulence to me they did surrender. King George and Great Monsieur, I made quit the field And Fred Galloway unto me did yield. If any doubt my words, I say scratch up Bradley and boldly play. (music by Bradley)
Enter Orson: -
Here am I, Orson, the wild man of the wood; I never feared danger, but slew all I could; First I was taken by a wondrous bear, And was fed by him for many a long year. Then I was taken by Prince Valentine And little I thought he was a brother of mine; To prove the truth of what I say, My brother Valentine is here today.
Dan Donnelly: -
Come all you heroes and men that would witty, Come listen unto Donnelly the wight of
Dublin city.
The shamrock green I wear over my brow And show me the man who dare oppose me now.
No one I do insist, For I have conquered nations with my mighty fists.
I have given a few of the 36 verses of this “powerful” tragedy; sufficient to show one of the good old customs prevailing in
“I never saw the town so crowded,” said Joseph as they came to the market place. Men, women, and children filled the streets.
Little babies and small children cried because they were so tired and homesick. Mary looked at the little ones with gentle eyes.
“I am glad my baby is not here yet,” she though t. “These poor children are having a hard time.”
Joseph led his donkey to the inn. He asked for a good room.
“The best you have, please,” he said to the innkeeper. “My wife is very tired and needs to rest.”
The innkeeper only laughed in a disagreeable way.
“Dozens have been ahead of you,” he said. “All wanted good rooms. But now many of them are glad for a mat on the floor.”
“You mean you have no rooms?” cried Joseph. The innkeeper shook his head crossly. He pointed outside.
“You have eyes. Don’t you see the crowd on the street?”
“But my wife IS very tired,” pleaded Joseph. “She has had a long and tiresome trip. She must have a place to rest.”
“Then you had better be hunting one,” answered the innkeeper, paying no attention to the young wife. Mary’s face was pale and her eyes were heavy. Her back ached from the long, jogging ride.
“Do not worry, Joseph,” she said when he came back, looking disappointed. “I am young and strong. . . . Besides, I feel that the Lord is with us. He will not let us be harmed.”
Up and down the street went Joseph, leading the patient, shaggy donkey.
“Is there no room?” he asked everywhere. “Don’t you have even a small room?”
At last Joseph gave up trying to find a room for the night.
There was a stable back of one inn. “You may sleep in my barn if you wish,” said the innkeeper.
Joseph felt sad that his wife must sleep in a stable with the animals. But Mary did not mind.
“I have always loved animals,” she said.
“These sheep and cows and donkeys will not hurt me. See how kindly they look at me! “
Joseph spread hay on the stable floor.
He put his robe on top of the hay.
“Lie here and rest, dear Mary,” he said. Mary lay down on the hay. It felt soft to her tired body. It had a sweet, clean smell.
The stable had no roof, and Mary could look up into the night sky.
“The stars are very bright tonight,” she said to her husband. “See that one just above us! Did you ever see a star so big and bright?”
“I never did,” answered Joseph.
“I like it out here in the stable,” thought Mary. “It is peaceful and quiet. There is a holy feeling in my heart.”
Looking up at the sky reminded her of the angel who had spoken to her. She remembered the shining way he had looked, and the great promise he had made.
“This is going to be a wonderful night,” she whispered. She felt sure that her baby would come tonight.
As the last red rays of sunshine kissed the CabotTower goodbye, The thoughtful politician heaved a sad and soulful sigh; The smoke in lazy ringlets from his Concha rolled away, As he sat in cozy comfort by his fireside that day; “By my halidom,” said he, “what a treat it is to be Removed for just a day from care and strife, From the steady, strenuous strain, from the passion and the pain, That make and mar a politician’s life.“In the whirl of party warfare I have played a leading role; My unqualified allegiance to my leader fills his soul With pardonable pleasure, for he knows full well that I for the cause that he espouses would politically die; I have tried my best to be from all base desires free; I have tried to further all that he holds dear, Though I frankly must admit I was vexed a little bit, When I lost that job he promised me last year. “When the war clouds gathered round us I was foremost in the fray;Most nobly did I help him on that dull October day, When our gallant friends, the enemy, our foremost ranks assailed, Many fell away before them but I trembled not nor quailed, My opponent met defeat and I still retain my seat; I have added luster to my family name, Though, to tell the truth, I’ve tried, when the good wife puts on side, To under-rate excessively my fame.“I dearly love an argument; I dote upon a fight; The thought of stormy meetings fills my bosom with delight; I glory in my victories; I joy in others’ strife; Without a frenzied hour or so, pray, what is there in life? Of course, a bad defeat is a thing I hate to meet But once you’re in the fight you must prepare To be beaten now and then and to give to other men That portion which is called ‘the lion’s share.’ “Well, I’m sitting here this evening and I’m really bound to say, I wish my life could be one long and happy Christmas Day, For now I come to think of it, those on the other side Are just as good as I am and I’m sorry I have tried By the most consistent use of deception and abuse To make the people think that I was right; Well, they’ve done the same to me so I hope they will agree To forget it - just as I do - for to-night.”
The north wind fretted fitfully; the darkness grew apace; A smile of great beatitude came o’er his rugged face; The children saw and wondered, then to bed they softly crept; His head fell on his bosom - and the politician slept. Gentle reader, pause a while; do not with disdainful smile Turn this page until the moral you can see; If the politician can rest at peace with every man, Most forgiving at this season we should be.
Jerusalem. He was not a kind king and most people were afraid of him. He wished to be the richest, the greatest, and the most important person in the world.
It made him angry for anybody else to be important. The idea that another might ever be king in his place was a horrible thought to him.
One day three men came riding into the city of
Jerusalem. It was easy to see that they were rich men. They rode on large, handsome camels. The camels were decorated with bells of gold and silver.
The three men wore rich clothing.
Their faces were noble and dignified. They looked like kings, and they also looked like very wise men or teachers.
These three rich travelers came to Herod’s palace.
“Where is the new king?” they asked.
One added, “We hear that a baby has been born who is to be king of the world.”
This was not good news to the proud king.
“What are your names and where do you come from?” he asked haughtily.
“I am Melchior,” said one.
Another said, “I am Balthazzar.”
The third answered, “I am Caspar. We have journeyed here from the far east to see the new born king.” ‘
“We have come a very long wav,” said Melchior in his deep, slow voice.
Balthazzar added, “We were led by a great bright star which went ahead of us.”
These words sounded strange to Herod.
They made him shiver. He called his court together.
“I suppose you have heard about this new king?” he said to his council. “Or rather, about this new baby?”
Herod’s councilmen nodded their heads.
“In our book of ancient wisdom it says that some day a king will be born in
Bethlehem,” said the chief adviser. “The book says he will be called Jesus, or Christ.”
“Does it say he will become a great king?” asked Herod in an angry tone. His councilmen looked nervous, but again they nodded their heads.
“That is what the book of wisdom said,” said the keeper of the book. His voice shook, for he was frightened. He knew Herod would be angry.
King Herod was angry. He tossed his head. His long beard wagged fiercely.
“Send those men from the east in to me,” he commanded.
When the visitors came before him, Herod made his voice very friendly.
“My council tells me that the new king will be born in
Bethlehem. Please go to
Bethlehem and look around for the king. When you find him, let me know so that I can send fine presents to him.”
The Wise looking men nodded their heads. They got on their tall camels again. The golden and silver bells tinkled with a musical sound.
It was evening. Up in the sky a star became very large and very bright.
“Yonder star will guide us to the new king,” said Balthazzar. “Let us follow it.”
The star which they had seen before went ahead of the three men. It led them westward. On and on they followed. They went through fields and across rivers. They traveled in valleys and over hills.
At last the star seemed to stop. It was right over the stable behind an inn.
The three kingly travelers ordered their camels to kneel. They dismounted from the animals and went into the stable, carrying the gifts which they had brought.
In the stable sat Joseph and Mary. Near them, in a manger, was a very young baby wrapped in strips of white cloth.
The three richly dressed men went over and looked closely at the baby.
“I am an old man but I have never seen a child so beautiful,” said Melchior.
He laid a bag of fine leather by the manger.
“I bring him a gift of gold, and I hope he may be king forever,” said Melchior.
Then Caspar said, “This baby has a holy look about him. I bring sweet perfumes and incense. I hope he may be a great leader for the people.”
Caspar placed his gift by the bag of gold.
Balthazzar knelt and laid a beautiful chest by the other gifts. It held sweet smelling ointments in silver bottles trimmed with jewels.
“I bring myrrh,” he said. The myrrh had a very sweet perfume like spice, but it was very bitter. “This myrrh is both bitter and sweet as the child’s life will be.”
Mary and Joseph were silent, for they did not know how to answer these strange words.
Once more the grandly dressed men bowed low to the baby in the manger.
Then they left the stable.
“We have seen the young child and left our gifts,” they said. “Now we will go back to our homes in the east.”
“First, however, we should go back to
Jerusalem and visit King Herod again,” said one. “He will be waiting to hear about this child.”
The three agreed to wait until morning and then go to
Jerusalem with their news.
But when morning came they changed their minds. Each had had a very clear dream. It was the same dream for all three.
They dreamed that a messenger wearing a cloak made of flame came to them. The messenger spoke to them.
“Do not go back to King Herod,” warned the messenger. “Herod is not friendly to this new baby. He wishes to find him and kill him. Go home by another road so you will not see Herod!”
“This is not an ordinary dream,” the three men from the east decided. “This is a true warning and must be obeyed.”
The three men from the east went home by another road. They did not return to Herod’s palace.
One day a messenger from the Governor went up and down the streets of Galilee.
“Listen, everybody,” he called. “It is time to pay your taxes. Everybody must go to the city and pay his taxes. Every man and his wife must go!”
Joseph laid down his tools and the trough he was making. He went into the house where Mary was weaving.
He told her about the messenger. “The law says that all must travel to the city and pay taxes.”
He shook his head in a worried way. “Each one must travel to the city of his fathers to pay,” he told Mary. “I will have to go to
Bethlehem since I am of David’s family. Bethlehem is called the city of David.”
Mary went on with her weaving. She was making a blanket of soft wool. Her face was happy and peaceful. As she worked on the little blanket she remembered the angel’s promise.
The promise was beginning to come true. Before long she would have a baby. She could hardly wait to see her little son and hold him in her arms.
“How far is it to Bethlehem?” she asked.
Joseph told her, “It is a long trip and will take us several days. I do wish you did not have to go. The road will be rough and crowded. There may be robbers.”
“I am not afraid,” said Mary cheerfully.
“You will take good care of me, and the Lord will watch over us both.”
“Soon this trip will be over and we will be back in our home,” she said to Joseph. She loved her little house with the furniture which Joseph had made.
The thing she liked best was a little cradle which was ready and waiting. Joseph had made it of fine wood. He had carved it carefully and polished it with oil.
Joseph pointed out the interesting sights along the way. He showed her the olive orchards with the bare, twisted trees. They looked at oxen out in the fields. Now and then a tall, proud looking camel went past.
On the hillsides were flocks of sheep, with shepherds close by. Many of the sheep were lying down to rest. The young wife wished she could be with them.
“Their wool looks soft and warm,” she said. “I would like to change places for awhile with those gentle sheep.”
“We will get to Bethlehem presently,” Joseph said cheerily. “I will get a good room for you at the inn. Then you can lie down and have a fine rest.”
“I will like that,” said Mary.
They went past a wine press where several people were working. Some were carrying baskets of grapes. Others were pressing the grapes to squeeze out the juice.
One of the men brought a small cup of the fresh grape juice for Mary to drink.
“The young woman seemed so tired,” he said when the travelers had gone on.
“But did you notice what a beautiful face she had?” said another. “And how sweet her voice as she thanked you?”
After their long travel, Mary and Joseph came to Bethlehem.
What a crowd there was! What rushing and pushing!
“We may be here for several days,” said the carpenter, looking around. “It will take a good while for all these people to pay their taxes.”
“I do not mind waiting,” said Mary. “A long rest will be good.”
Mary was very tired and her back ached from the long, jogging ride.
“But Joseph is tired, too,” she thought.
“He walked all the way. I am sure his feet are tired.”
“Now we will get a room at the inn and have a fine rest,” said Joseph.
Mary pulled her cloak about her shoulders. The evening air was cold. She could hardly wait to get in bed and cover herself with a warm blanket.
It was Christmas Eve, and outside Uncle Joe Burton’s cottage, wild and stormy enough. A strong breeze from the north-west had been blowing since noon, with frequent showers of snow, and, as the day advanced, the wind had come more from the north and freshened to a gale. Great gusts ever and anon sent blinding drifts of snow swirling over the roads, piling them high against the picket fences, and wreathing quaint, curling masses over the firewood piles resting against the house. The windows rattled in their casements, and puffs of smoke poured frequently down the chimney, which roared and groaned like some huge animal in mortal pain.
It was a gloomy scene, indeed that Mrs. Burton looked out upon, as she went to the windows to draw down the blinds. The short evening was darkening rapidly over the dreary landscape, and the houses of the little fishing village lay half-buried under a winding sheet of snow. On the opposite side of the harbor the great cliff loomed frowningly through the flying snowflakes, while against its base the cold, white breakers were dashing with a sullenness that was fast increasing into fury. Seaward, a hazy stretch of white-capped billows chased each other tumultuously shoreward, driven hard by the fierce and still freshening wind. The good woman shuddered as she gazed. “A terrible night, sure enough,” she murmured. “The good Lord pity any poor fellows in craft on this shore tonight”; and then, with a sigh that might be an Amen to her kindly prayer, she drew the red curtains over the noisy windows, and set about getting her husband’s supper.
It was a pleasant enough interior. In the huge chimney recess, that had been built for open fires, a well-burnished cooking stove sent out its heat, and on its top the tea-kettle sang a cheery song, in perfect harmony with the hubble-bubble of a boiler, its companion, in which a big figgy pudding, rich with galores of suet and citron, was already undergoing the beginning of its long boil for tomorrow’s dinner. An appetizing odor came from the oven, where a couple of fine fat bull-birds, part proceeds of a successful day’s gunning in punt, a day or two before, were yielding up their juices, as they browned for the good man’s supper. Mats, hooked in bright colors and quaint patterns, covered the clean floor, and a noisy American clock emphasized the flight of time on a shelf between the two small windows, flanked on the one side by a bright print cut from some illustrated periodical, and on the other by a gay pictorial advertisement of ”
Taylor’s Soluble Cocoa”. Gleams from the glowing wood inside the stove-bars lit up the rows of crockery on the tidy dresser, and glanced along the barrels of the skipper’s guns, suspended on rests across the beams of the ceiling. A big black and white cat, evidently a privileged member of the household, purred contentedly on a settle on one side of the stove, while on the other the skipper himself, with head resting on his hands and elbows on knees, stooped, sound asleep over the fire. An air of homely content and comfort pervaded the whole apartment, with which the expression of Mrs. Burton’s face, as she bustled about, and the tone of her voice, as she quietly hummed a hymn-tune, were completely in unison.
In a little while the supper was ready, the teapot filled and set on the stove-fender to draw, and the bull-birds smoking temptingly on a big blue dish, supported on the one side by an overflowing plate of mealy potatoes, and, on the other, by an equally generous plate of “riz” bread and butter. As Mrs. Burton set the chairs by the table, her husband awoke with a mighty stretch and yawn, and rose to his feet.
“Why, I b’lieve I bin dozin’ a bit,” he said.
“Dozin’! You’ve bin fast asleep for an hour or more, I allow,” replied his wife, laughing; “an’ I don’t wonder, after bein’ in the woods all day. Draw over now, and take hold. You must want your supper, I’m sure.”
As Uncle Joe sits down at his humble board, let us have a good look at him. Short, sturdy, square-set, with a large head set firmly on his broad shoulders; the face wrinkled and weather-beaten, but fresh and ruddy, framed all round with grey whiskers; eyes that twinkled good-humouredly beneath shaggy brows; a tumbling chaos of iron-grey hair above a broad, honest forehead - a typical fisherman in build and appearance. And Aunt Betsy, as the people called her, was a fitting match for her husband. She, too, was short and square, and sturdy; but the hair beneath the trim cap was still jet-black, and the placid brow unwrinkled; and, though the face had lost something of the color and contour that in youth had made her the belle of the harbor, there was a matronly sweetness about her that more than made up for any loss of youthful charms. Uncle Joe, kindly, shrewd and blunt, was, by sheer force of personal character, a “leadin’ man” in the little settlement, while his wife was known for miles around as the friend and sympathizer, readiest with help of word and deed in all cases of emergency or illness; in her quiet way, a true Lady Bountiful, devoting herself in personal ministration to the sick and the poor. The worthy couple had no children; but this deprivation, while it sometimes brought secret sorrow to the gentle Aunt Betsy’s loving heart, made it open none the less warmly to mother the children of others, and many a little one, sick and sorrowful, had been nursed back to health and gladness in her kind embrace.
“My! ’Tis a wild night,” said Uncle Joe, pausing with a cup of tea midway to his lips, as a gust of more than usual violence shook the house. “I’m afeard there’s craft about, too. I had seen three goin’ up the Bay as I was comin’ out 0′ the woods. People goin’ up craft-buildin’, I s’pose, though it’s very late. I hope there’s no one near this shore, anyway; the wind’s come right in on it.”
“I thought 0′ the same thing just now,” said his wife. “I don’t know how ’tis people will leave it so late. ’Tis no weather this for craft to be knockin’ about in.”
“But, my maid, what can ‘em do, if they happen to be out and get caught in it? You know it looked civil enough this mornin’, an’ I’m sure ’twas as mild as October yesterday; an’ I’m afeard, as I say, that some of ‘em is not far off. I do hope they got into harbor somewhere afore these snow-dwies got so bad. Wind an’ sea is bad enough when you’re anywhere near land, but when snow comes with ‘em, ’tis awful work.”
Little more was said on the subject during the meal, and the conversation branched off to other topics. Two or three hours later, as they were sitting by the fire, Aunt Betsy knitting and Uncle Joe busy putting new soles on a pair of fishing boots, a sudden hurried scuffling in the back porch and a loud rap at the door, startled them from the quiet in which they had been working. Then the door was abruptly opened and half-dozen men appeared in the entry. “Is Uncle Joe in?” exclaimed the first. “Oh, yes, there he is.” “Uncle Joe, there’s a craft ashore down here in the Devil’s Gulch, and we want you to come and help us to get the poor creatures out of her afore she goes to pieces.”
No time was lost in idle questioning, but in the few minutes it took Uncle Joe to get ready, the leader explained how he had come to know of the wreck. Living not far from the ugly chasm known as the Devil’s Gulch, he had happened to be returning home, a quarter of an hour before, from a neighbor’s house, had heard, through the storm, the shouts and screams which told him that a craft was close to or on the rocks, and had hurried to the nearest houses for help.
In less time than it takes to write it, all was ready; and, well provided with lanterns and ropes, the party started on their errand of mercy.
“Keep up a good heart, and a good fire, Betsy,” was Uncle Joe’s parting injunction. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, an’, maybe, bring some of the poor chaps’ home with me, please God we can save ‘em. Pray for us, maid; we’re in God’s hands.”
It was not more than half a mile to the gulch, and amid the thick blinding snow-storm, long before they reached it, they could hear the hoarse “rote” of the breakers and the boom of the waves, as they were hurled into the chasm.
The Devil’s Gulch was appropriately named. It was a ragged rift in the steep cliffs, as if by some titanic force they had been violently torn asunder, leaving a narrow opening of perhaps a hundred feet in width, and two hundred in length, the bottom filled with huge, jagged rocks. Around it the cliffs rose sheer and beetling, except where, at the extreme end, a narrow margin of shingly beach intervened at low tide between the water and the rock. Into this narrow gulch the waves tore with relentless violence in bad weather, seething and foaming around the sharp rocks with a terrible sound; and far in through this awful chasm had a hapless craft been driven on the night in question, escaping instant destruction on the ragged teeth at the entrance, only to be hurled against the beach, at the extremity. Here she lay wedged in the rocks the waters howling like hungry wolves around her.
But not a sound came from the wreck as Uncle Joe and the rest of the men stood on the ledge immediately over her. Far down below them, a couple of hundred feet at least, they could make out a dim outline of her hull; but no shout or cry for help reached their ears. Were all dead? Were they too late? Long the men waited, peering down into the darkness, and shouting. But no answering voice came back, nothing but a hollow echo from the opposite cliffs, sounding as if a fiend were mocking them.
“‘Tis no use,” said one of the men, at length. “They’re all gone, poor fellows. We’re too late.”
“Aye,” said another, “I’m afeard we are; and yet I could ha’ sworn I heard ‘em not two minutes afore we come.”
“Heard ‘em? To be sure we did!” exclaimed a third. “Maybe they’ve got ashore somehow.”
“Sure you know very well they couldn’t do that,” answered the first speaker. “‘Tis a straight up an’ down cliff, an’ even if they got on that bit 0′ beach at the bight, they couldn’t stand there a minute without bein’ washed off. I think myself we’d best go home. They’re all gone, I b’lieve, poor mortals.”
All this time Uncle Joe had been creeping cautiously out to the edge of a beetling crag which projected immediately over the wreck; and stretching himself out at full length, lay with head and shoulders over the edge, peering down into the darkness and listening intently to the confused noises below. “Hark!” he cried, suddenly; and the men were silent - not a sound but the roar of the sea and the cruel hiss of the sleet-laden wind. Anxiously the men listened, every ear strained, every breath hushed.
“It must ha’ bin the wind,” said one of them, at length.
“Hush!” said Uncle Joe, “I believe I hear it again. Listen there, will you?” At that moment there was a lull in the tempest, one of those strange, short, sudden silences in which the storm-king seems to take breath for renewed fury,- and now, undoubtedly, up through the darkness there came a feeble cry - a thin, weak, pitiful wail.
“Oh, men,” cried Uncle Joe, “there’s a child aboard that craft, - the poor little creature. There’s a little child aboard that craft. We must save it - we must save it, by the help of God. Give me the end of that rope there; quick! And take a couple of turns of the other end around the tree here. I’ll go down and get that child”; and he began to tie the rope securely around his body.
“Let me go, Uncle Joe,” said one of the others; “I’m a younger man than you, an’ ought to take the risk.”
“No, boy,” replied Uncle Joe. “God Almighty let me hear its cry, poor little thing, an’ I believe He will help me to save it. Anyhow, I’m doin’ His work, an’ I’m not afeard, whatever way it goes. Lower away handsomely, boys, when I give you the word, and when I pull the rope three times, you’ll know I want to be hauled up. Now, then, steady!”
Carefully the brave fisherman swung himself clear of the cliff and hung suspended over the dark chasm. Down, down he went, the men above paying out the rope, inch by inch, slowly and carefully,- down, down, swaying heavily in the fierce wind, half-blinded by the driving, icy snow, until at length his feet touched the deck, and he turned the light of his bull’s eye lantern around it. Alas! There was little to see; the whole fore part of the vessel had disappeared. She had parted amidships, and only the after part remained, wedged as in a vice between two huge rocks. Hurriedly, Uncle Joe hastened to the spot whence the feeble cry still proceeded. The companion-way was gone, but the ladder remained in place and down it swiftly and cautiously he descended into the cabin. What a sight met his eyes as the lantern flashed upon it. The cabin was full of water, on which, as it rolled to and fro, floated the dead body of a woman; while high in an upper berth, at the side, saturated, but not yet submerged by the relentless sea, was a little child of perhaps two years old, sobbing most pitifully amid its awful surroundings. There was no time to be lost, and quickly, yet very tenderly, he snatched it from the berth, wrapped a quilt carefully around it, and regained the deck. Then, giving three tugs at the rope which still secured him, he was swung steadily off the reeling deck, the little one held safely in his strong right arm. Not a moment too soon, for scarcely had he swung clear when the pent-up fury of the storm burst into the gulch with a noise like thunder, and a huge wave, surging upon the remains of the ill-fated craft, wrenched them from their position, and dashed them to pieces against the cliff. Meantime, swaying awfully in midair, the two precious lives hung suspended. Up, up, up, steadily, slowly, surely, they were pulled, until at length Uncle Joe heard a voice a few feet above his head, “All right, Uncle Joe?” “Yes, boy,” he said, cheerily. “Have you got the child with you?” “Yes, boy, thank God,” he answered, and a chorus of thankfulness came from the men above. As they reached the top, one of the men bending over while another held his feet, lifted the child from Uncle Joe’s arms, and in another moment both were safe. Untying the rope from around his body, Uncle Joe took the little one in his arms again. “It’s no use waiting, boys,” he said, sadly. “This is the only life that’s left, and this’ll be gone if we don’t get shelter and warmth for it soon. I’m going to take it home. Lead the way there, boys, with the lanterns, quick.” With all speed, the return journey was made, and the house was soon reached. Aunt Betsy rose from her knees as the door opened. “I’ve brought a Christmas Box for ‘ee, Bets, my maid,” said her husband, with a strange quiver in his voice, placing the little one in her motherly arms; and then the nerves that had been so long strung to their utmost tension suddenly gave way, and the strong man threw himself on the settle, and wept like a child.
Years have passed, many long years, since that stormy Christmas Eve.
Uncle Joe and Aunt Betsy are old and feeble now, and the babe, and then rescued, have grown into early womanhood, their more than daughter, and the light of their eyes and the stay of their declining years. Yet, still the old man’s eye will kindle, and his wife’s hand stroke softly the fair hair of the girl on the low seat beside her, when at the Christmas season the friends gather round his fireside to hear anew the sad and startling story of Uncle Joe Burton’s Strange Christmas Box.
The height of celebration and enjoyment was reached at Christmas when the previous summer’s fishery turned out to be a good one. Those who could afford it in the city and outports laid in provisions enough for the whole winter… 
