THE HOME CIRCLE | AdventAI

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jan 3, 1878

THE HOME CIRCLE.

After the Holidays.

THEY were over at last; and Paul, Dora, and I, were settled back into the old life again; into the studying in the mornings, and the sleigh rides in the afternoons, cutting through the white flannels of winter snows which clothed the earth—the naked, desolate, uncomely earth, which had waited for the snow so long.

The holidays were over, and yet their memories clung to us all, and we loved to go back in the long winter evenings and talk them over together. We would see the old church lighted again, and the great Christmas tree before the pulpit, and the crowd of small, shining heads in the front seats, all turned eager and breathless toward it.

There it stood, the small tapers burning like stars, thick among the dark green branches, the great oranges glowing liks crimson globes among the boughs, and festoons of red swamp and cranberries blazing like coral and carbuncles amid all. There stood the great tree in whose branches the young birds had built their nests, and the sweet summer winds had sung, and which had gathered the snows of so many winter nights and held them up in the mornings on its many boughs like heaps of wide-blossomed lilies. Now, every branch was burdened with its Christmas gifts for many children; gifts, beautiful, and rare, and varied, to make the eyes leap, and the hearts beat for joy, as the little children's hands closed over them.

As I said, Paul and Dora, and I, loved to talk all this over as we sat together in the long winter evenings which followed the holidays, and played with our new games, which were among the gifts that the Christmas tree had held for us.

But whenever we talked of the eager crowd of faces which thronged the church and bent down from the galleries, as one after another the gifts were taken down from the branches, and the names of the recipients thereof read out, loud and clear, and the little, eager hands stretched out, the memory of something I had seen and overheard in the old church came like a little shadow, creeping through all the brightness of that Christmas evening.

There sat in the seat before me a small boy and girl; the girl the smaller of the two. They were pretty children, dressed very plainly, perhaps I had better say poorly. They looked with faces brimful of interest and eagerness on the Christmas tree, and their young voices mingled sweetly with the other young voices which sang that night their hymns of thanksgiving and jubilee. But after the little, strange children had watched for a long time, as one after another the happy children went up to receive the gift of the Christmas tree, the little girl put up her lips to her brother's ear, and I heard her soft whisper:—

“Don't you believe, Philip, somebody will call our names? I want us to have a present too.”

“We can't, Mary. You see nobody knows us in all the great church.”

I saw the little face falter and fall, and, as I held my pretty presents in my hands, my heart ached for the little boy and girl sitting there all unknown and uncared for in the seat before me. I thought how sad and desolate they must feel, just as I should in their places. Ah, me! what a strange, sad, lonely day Christmas must seem without these things!

At last the gifts were all distributed; the last name was called; the children were bending glad faces over their new, pretty toys; and the little girl drew up hers to her brother, but amid the general joy hers was sorrowful, and whispered:—

“Oh, Philip, they've all got something pretty but us!”

“But, Mary, we do n't know anybody here, you see,” said he trying to comfort the little grieved child, though he was not more than two or three years her senior, and his face was sad too. “We couldn't expect that they'd give us anything.”

The great tears ran over the little face.

“But they've all got something pretty—all, but us. I want a Christmas gift too, Philip.”

I told Paul and Dora about it. They both listened intently, and though Paul is two years older than I, the tears were in his great brown eyes, as they were on Dora's cheeks when I concluded.

“They must live somewhere in Woodleaf, I'm certain,” said Dora, “or they wouldn't have been at the church on Christmas night.”

“There's a family moved into the little white cottage just beyond the turnpike,” said Paul. “I heard Mr. Ramsdell asking the doctor to call there, for the mother was ill, and the father had gone away. He said that they had two children too young to help themselves—a boy and a girl.”

“I wish that we could do something for them,” said Dora, and her bright face was thoughtful.

“We could carry them some of our toys. They are younger than we, and we could spare them well enough,” added Paul.

“Oh, Paul, it would do my heart good to make that little girl's face glad,” I cried.

We told the story to mother, and obtained her full consent to give just what we liked. Dora offered her last year's doll and wicker cradle, as good as new, Paul his regiment of soldiers, and I my pretty set of china. Mother added to these a handsome tippet for the boy and a scarf for the girl. After our lessons and dinner were over, we started, Paul, and Dora, and I, for the little white house near the turnpike.

The little girl came to the door, and her blue eyes opened wide with wonder and pleasure when she saw us. She asked us into the little plain, but pleasant, parlor, saying that her mother was able to sit up now, and we could go to her room in a minute.

“We haven't come to see her, but you and your brother Philip,” said Paul.

The child's eyes grew wider for wonder as she ran and summoned her brother.

When Philip Hughes entered the room with his little sister's hand in his, my brother stated briefly that we had learned of the sad omission that had taken place on Christmas night, and that we had come now, late as it was, to do all in our power to mend the matter, and had brought our Christmas gifts. He then laid the bundle on the table, cut the string, and the pretty things were before the wondering eyes of the children.

What they said, I cannot well remember. Perhaps it was not so very much after all; but oh! if you could have seen their faces—if you could have looked upon little Mary Hughes as she bowed her head over the pretty gifts, and sobbed for joy—if you could have seen her lift up her face to her brother, and heard her words: “Oh, Philip, we've got our Christmas gifts after all!” it would have melted your heart, if it is not as hard as a stone. And when the pale, gentle mother learned all, and feebly made her way into the room, and laid her thin hand on our heads, and blessed us, we—Paul, Dora, and I—wondered if we had any joy deeper and sweeter than that which came “after the holidays.”—Sel.