The Brownies and Other Tales Read online

  THE LAND OF LOST TOYS.

  AN EARTHQUAKE IN THE NURSERY.

  It was certainly an aggravated offence. It is generally understood infamilies that "boys will be boys," but there is a limit to theforbearance implied in the extenuating axiom. Master Sam was condemnedto the back nursery for the rest of the day.

  He always had had the knack of breaking his own toys,--he notunfrequently broke other people's; but accidents will happen, and histwin-sister and factotum, Dot, was long-suffering.

  Dot was fat, resolute, hasty, and devotedly unselfish. When Sam scalpedher new doll, and fastened the glossy black curls to a wigwamimprovised with the curtains of the four-post bed in the best bedroom,Dot was sorely tried. As her eyes passed from the crown-less doll onthe floor to the floss-silk ringlets hanging from the bed-furniture,her round rosy face grew rounder and rosier, and tears burst from hereyes. But in a moment more she clenched her little fists, forced backthe tears, and gave vent to her favourite saying, "I don't care."

  That sentence was Dot's bane and antidote; it was her vice and hervirtue. It was her standing consolation, and it brought her into allher scrapes. It was her one panacea for all the ups and downs of herlife (and in the nursery where Sam developed his organ ofdestructiveness there were ups and downs not a few); and it was theform her naughtiness took when she was naughty.

  "Don't care fell into a goose-pond, Miss Dot," said Nurse, on oneoccasion of the kind.

  "I don't care if he did," said Miss Dot; and as Nurse knew no furtherfeature of the goose-pond adventure which met this view of it, sheclosed the subject by putting Dot into the corner.

  In the strength of _Don't care_, and her love for Sam, Dot bore much andlong. Her dolls perished by ingenious but untimely deaths. Her toys wereput to purposes for which they were never intended, and sufferedaccordingly. But Sam was penitent and Dot was heroic. Florinda's scalp wasmended with a hot knitting-needle and a perpetual bonnet, and Dot rescuedher paint-brushes from the glue-pot, and smelt her india-rubber as itboiled down in Sam's waterproof manufactory, with long-sufferingforbearance.

  There are, however, as we have said, limits to everything. Anearthquake celebrated with the whole contents of the toy cupboard is notto be borne.

  The matter was this. Early one morning Sam announced that he had aglorious project on hand. He was going to give a grand show andentertainment, far surpassing all the nursery imitations of circuses,conjurors, lectures on chemistry, and so forth, with which they hadever amused themselves. He refused to confide his plans to the faithfulDot; but he begged her to lend him all the toys she possessed, inreturn for which she was to be the sole spectator of the fun. He letout that the idea had suggested itself to him after the sight of aDiorama to which they had been taken, but he would not allow that itwas anything of the same kind; in proof of which she was at liberty tokeep back her paint-box. Dot tried hard to penetrate the secret, and toreserve some of her things from the general conscription. But Sam wasobstinate. He would tell nothing, and he wanted everything. The dolls,the bricks (especially the bricks), the tea-things, the German farm,the Swiss cottages, the animals, and all the dolls' furniture. Dot gavethem with a doubtful mind, and consoled herself as she watched Samcarrying pieces of board and a green table cover into the back nursery,with the prospect of the show. At last, Sam threw open the door andushered her into the nursery rocking-chair.

  The boy had certainly some constructive as well as destructive talent.Upon a sort of impromptu table covered with green cloth he had arrangedall the toys in rough imitation of a town, with its streets andbuildings. The relative proportion of the parts was certainly not good;but it was not Sam's fault that the doll's house and the German farm,his own brick buildings, and the Swiss cottages, were all on totallydifferent scales of size. He had ingeniously put the larger things inthe foreground, keeping the small farm-buildings from the German box atthe far end of the streets, yet after all the perspective was extreme.The effect of three large horses from the toy stables in front, withthe cows from the small Noah's Ark in the distance, was admirable; butthe big dolls seated in an unroofed building, made with the woodenbricks on no architectural principle but that of a pound, and takingtea out of the new china tea-things, looked simply ridiculous.

  Dot's eyes, however, saw no defects, and she clapped vehemently.

  "Here, ladies and gentlemen," said Sam, waving his hand politelytowards the rocking-chair, "you see the great city of Lisbon, thecapital of Portugal--"

  At this display of geographical accuracy Dot fairly cheered, and rockedherself to and fro in unmitigated enjoyment.

  "--as it appeared," continued the showman, "on the morning of November1st, 1755."

  Never having had occasion to apply Mangnall's Questions to theexigencies of every-day life, this date in no way disturbed Dot'scomfort.

  "In this house," Sam proceeded, "a party of Portuguese ladies of rankmay be seen taking tea together."

  "_Breakfast_, you mean," said Dot, "you said it was in the morning,you know."

  "Well, they took tea to their breakfast," said Sam. "Don't interruptme, Dot. You are the audience, and you mustn't speak. Here you see thehorses of the English ambassador out airing with his groom. There yousee two peasants--no! they are _not_ Noah and his wife, Dot, andif you go on talking I shall shut up. I say they are peasantspeacefully driving cattle. At this moment a rumbling sound startleseveryone in the city"--here Sam rolled some croquet balls up and downin a box, but the dolls sat as quiet as before, and Dot alone wasstartled,--"this was succeeded by a slight shock"--here he shook thetable, which upset some of the buildings belonging to the Germanfarm.--"Some houses fell."--Dot began to look anxious.--"This shock wasfollowed by several others"---"Take care," she begged--"of increasingmagnitude."--"Oh, Sam!" Dot shrieked, jumping up, "you're breaking thechina!"--"The largest buildings shook to their foundations."--"Sam!Sam! the doll's house is falling," Dot cried, making wild efforts tosave it: but Sam held her back with one arm, while with the other hebegan to pull at the boards which formed his table.--"Suddenly theground split and opened with a fearful yawn"--Dot's shrieks shamed theimpassive dolls, as Sam jerked out the boards by a dexterous movement,and doll's house, brick buildings, the farm, the Swiss cottages, andthe whole toy-stock of the nursery sank together in ruins. Quiteunabashed by the evident damage, Sam continued--"and in a moment thewhole magnificent city of Lisbon was swallowed up. Dot! Dot! don't be amuff! What is the matter? It's splendid fun. Things must be broken sometime, and I'm sure it was exactly like the real thing. Dot! why don'tyou speak? Dot! my dear Dot! You don't care, do you? I didn't thinkyou'd mind it so. It was such a splendid earthquake. Oh! try not to goon like that!"

  But Dot's feelings were far beyond her own control, much more that ofMaster Sam, at this moment. She was gasping and choking, and when atlast she found breath it was only to throw herself on her face upon thefloor with bitter and uncontrollable sobbing. It was certainly a mildpunishment that condemned Master Sam to the back nursery for the restof the day. It had, however, this additional severity, that during theafternoon Aunt Penelope was expected to arrive.

  AUNT PENELOPE.

  Aunt Penelope was one of those dear, good souls who, single themselves,have, as real or adopted relatives, the interests of a dozen families,instead of one, at heart. There are few people whose youth has notowned the influence of at least one such friend. It may be a goodhabit, the first interest in some life-loved pursuit or favouriteauthor, some pretty feminine art, or delicate womanly counsel enforcedby those narratives of real life that are more interesting than anyfiction: it may be only the periodical return of gifts and kindness,and the store of family histories that no one else can tell; but we allowe something to such an aunt or uncle--the fairy godmothers of reallife.

  The benefits which Sam and Dot reaped from Aunt Penelope's visits maybe summed up under the heads of presents and stories, with a generalleaning to indulgence in the matters of punishment, lessons, and goingto bed, which perhaps is natural to aunts and un
cles who have nopositive responsibilities in the young people's education, and are notthe daily sufferers by the lack of due discipline.

  Aunt Penelope's presents were lovely. Aunt Penelope's stories werecharming. There was generally a moral wrapped up in them, like themotto in a cracker-bonbon; but it was quite in the inside, so to speak,and there was abundance of smart paper and sugar-plums.

  All things considered, it was certainly most proper that themuch-injured Dot should be dressed out in her best, and have access todessert, the dining-room, and Aunt Penelope, whilst Sam was keptup-stairs. And yet it was Dot who (her first burst of grief being over)fought stoutly for his pardon all the time she was being dressed, andwas afterwards detected in the act of endeavouring to push fragments ofraspberry tart through the nursery keyhole.

  "You GOOD thing!" Sam emphatically exclaimed, as he heard her in fierceconflict on the other side of the door with the nurse who foundher--"You GOOD thing! leave me alone, for I deserve it."

  He really was very penitent He was too fond of Dot not to regret theunexpected degree of distress he had caused her; and Dot made much ofhis penitence in her intercessions in the drawing-room.

  "Sam is so very sorry," she said; "he says he knows he deserves it. Ithink he ought to come down. He is so _very_ sorry!"

  Aunt Penelope, as usual, took the lenient side, joining her entreatiesto Dot's, and it ended in Master Sam's being hurriedly scrubbed andbrushed, and shoved into his black velvet suit, and sent down-stairs,rather red about the eyelids, and looking very sheepish.

  "Oh, Dot!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could get her into a corner, "Iam so very, very sorry! particularly about the tea-things."

  "Never mind," said Dot, "I don't care; and I've asked for a story, andwe're going into the library." As Dot said this, she jerked her headexpressively in the direction of the sofa, where Aunt Penelope was justcasting on stitches preparatory to beginning a pair of her famousribbed socks for Papa, whilst she gave to Mamma's conversation thatsympathy which (like her knitting-needles) was always at the service ofher large circle of friends. Dot anxiously watched the bow on the topof her cap as it danced and nodded with the force of Mamma'sobservations. At last it gave a little chorus of jerks, as one shouldsay, "Certainly, undoubtedly." And then the story came to an end, andDot, who had been slowly creeping nearer, fairly took Aunt Penelope bythe hand, and carried her off, knitting and all, to the library.

  "Now, please," said Dot, when she had struggled into a chair that wastoo tall for her.

  "Stop a minute!" cried Sam, who was perched in the opposite one, "thehorse-hair tickles my legs."

  "Put your pocket-handkerchief under them, as I do," said Dot."_Now_, Aunt Penelope."

  "No, wait," groaned Sam; "it isn't big enough; it only covers one leg."

  Dot slid down again, and ran to Sam.

  "Take my handkerchief for the other."

  "But what will you do?" said Sam.

  "Oh, I don't care," said Dot, scrambling back into her place. "Now,Aunty, please."

  And Aunt Penelope began.

  "THE LAND OF LOST TOYS.

  "I suppose people who have children transfer their childish follies andfancies to them, and become properly sedate and grown-up. Perhaps it isbecause I am an old maid, and have none, that some of my nursery whimsstick to me, and I find myself liking things, and wanting things, quiteout of keeping with my cap and time of life. For instance. Anything inthe shape of a toy-shop (from a London bazaar to a village window, withDutch dolls, leather balls, and wooden battledores) quite unnerves me,so to speak. When I see one of those boxes containing a jar, a churn, akettle, a pan, a coffee-pot, a cauldron on three legs, and sundrydishes, all of the smoothest wood, and with the immemorial red floweron one side of each vessel, I fairly long for an excuse for playingwith them, and for trying (positively for the last time) if the lids_do_ come off, and whether the kettle will (literally, as well asmetaphorically) hold water. Then if, by good or ill luck, there is achild flattening its little nose against the window with longing eyes,my purse is soon empty; and as it toddles off with a square parcelunder one arm, and a lovely being in black ringlets and white tissuepaper in the other, I wish that I were worthy of being asked to jointhe ensuing play. Don't suppose there is any generosity in this. I haveonly done what we are all glad to do. I have found an excuse forindulging a pet weakness. As I said, it is not merely the new andexpensive toys that attract me; I think my weakest corner is where thepenny boxes lie, the wooden tea-things (with the above-named flower inminiature), the soldiers on their lazy tongs, the nine-pins, and thetiny farm.

  "I need hardly say that the toy booth in a village fair tries me veryhard. It tried me in childhood, when I was often short of pence, andwhen 'the Feast' came once a year. It never tried me more than on oneoccasion, lately, when I was re-visiting my old home.

  "It was deep Midsummer, and the Feast. I had children with me of course(I find children, somehow, wherever I go), and when we got into thefair, there were children of people whom I had known as children, withjust the same love for a monkey going up one side of a yellow stick andcoming down the other, and just as strong heads for a giddy-go-round ona hot day and a diet of peppermint lozenges, as their fathers andmothers before them. There were the very same names--and here and thereit seemed the very same faces--I knew so long ago. A few shillings wereindeed well expended in brightening those familiar eyes: and then therewere the children with me.... Besides, there really did seem to be anunusually nice assortment of things, and the man was very intelligent(in reference to his wares):.... Well, well! It was two o'clock P.M.when we went in at one end of that glittering avenue of drums, dolls,trumpets, accordions, workboxes, and what not; but what o'clock it waswhen I came out at the other end, with a shilling and some coppers inmy pocket, and was cheered, I can't say, though I should like to havebeen able to be accurate about the time, because of what followed.

  "I thought the best thing I could do was to get out of the fair atonce, so I went up the village and struck off across some fields into alittle wood that lay near. (A favourite walk in old times.) As I turnedout of the booth, my foot struck against one of the yellow sticks ofthe climbing monkeys. The monkey was gone, and the stick broken. It setme thinking as I walked along.

  "What an untold number of pretty and ingenious things one does (notwear out in honourable wear and tear, but) utterly lose, and wilfullydestroy, in one's young days--things that would have given pleasure toso many more young eyes, if they had been kept a little longer--thingsthat one would so value in later years, if some of them had survivedthe dissipating and destructive days of Nurserydom. I recalled a younglady I knew, whose room was adorned with knick-knacks of a kind I hadoften envied. They were not plaster figures, old china, wax-workflowers under glass, or ordinary ornaments of any kind. They were herold toys. Perhaps she had not had many of them, and had been the morecareful of those she had. She had certainly been very fond of them, andhad kept more of them than any one I ever knew. A faded doll slept inits cradle at the foot of her bed. A wooden elephant stood on thedressing-table, and a poodle that had lost his bark put out ared-flannel tongue with quixotic violence at a windmill on the oppositecorner of the mantelpiece. Everything had a story of its own. Indeedthe whole room must have been redolent with the sweet story ofchildhood, of which the toys were the illustrations, or like a poem ofwhich the toys were the verses. She used to have children to play withthem sometimes, and this was a high honour. She is married now, and haschildren of her own, who on birthdays and holidays will forsake thenewest of their own possessions to play with 'mamma's toys.'

  "I was roused from these recollections by the pleasure of getting intothe wood.

  "If I have a stronger predilection than my love for toys, it is my lovefor woods, and, like the other, it dates from childhood. It was bornand bred with me, and I fancy will stay with me till I die. Thesoothing scents of leaf-mould, moss, and fern (not to speak offlowers)--the pale green veil in spring, the rich shade in summer, therustl
e of the dry leaves in autumn, I suppose an old woman may enjoyall these, my dears, as well as you. But I think I could make 'fairyjam' of hips and haws in acorn cups now, if any child would becondescending enough to play with me. "_This_ wood, too, hadassociations.

  "I strolled on in leisurely enjoyment, and at last seated myself at thefoot of a tree to rest. I was hot and tired; partly with the mid-dayheat and the atmosphere of the fair, partly with the exertion ofcalculating change in the purchase of articles ranging in price fromthree farthings upwards. The tree under which I sat was an old friend.There was a hole at its base that I knew well. Two roots covered withexquisite moss ran out from each side, like the arms of a chair, andbetween them there accumulated year after year a rich, though tinystore of dark leaf-mould. We always used to say that fairies livedwithin, though I never saw anything go in myself but wood-beetles.There was one going in at that moment.

  "How little the wood was changed! I bent my head for a few seconds,and, closing my eyes, drank in the delicious and suggestive scents ofearth and moss about the dear old tree. I had been so long parted fromthe place that I could hardly believe that I was in the old familiarspot. Surely it was only one of the many dreams in which I had playedagain beneath those trees! But when I re-opened my eyes there was thesame hole, and, oddly enough, the same beetle or one just like it. Ihad not noticed till that moment how much larger the hole was than itused to be in my young days.

  "'I suppose the rain and so forth wears them away in time,' I saidvaguely.

  "'I suppose it does,' said the beetle politely; 'will you walk in?'

  "I don't know why I was not so overpoweringly astonished as you wouldimagine. I think I was a good deal absorbed in considering the size ofthe hole, and the very foolish wish that seized me to do what I hadoften longed to do in childhood, and creep in. I _had_ so muchregard for propriety as to see that there was no one to witness theescapade. Then I tucked my skirts round me, put my spectacles into mypocket for fear they should get broken, and in I went.

  "I must say one thing. A wood is charming enough (no one appreciates itmore than myself), but, if you have never been there, you have no ideahow much nicer it is inside than on the surface. Oh, the mosses--thegorgeous mosses! The fretted lichens! The fungi like flowers forbeauty, and the flowers like nothing you have ever seen!

  "Where the beetle went to I don't know. I could stand up now quitewell, and I wandered on till dusk in unwearied admiration. I was amongsome large beeches as it grew dark, and was beginning to wonder how Ishould find my way (not that I had lost it, having none to lose), whensuddenly lights burst from every tree, and the whole place wasilluminated. The nearest approach to this scene that I ever witnessedabove ground was in a wood near the Hague in Holland. There, what looklike tiny glass tumblers holding floating wicks, are fastened to thetrunks of the fine old trees, at intervals of sufficient distance tomake the light and shade mysterious, and to give effect to the fullblaze when you reach the spot where hanging chains of lamps illuminatethe 'Pavilion' and the open space where the band plays, and where thetownsfolk assemble by hundreds to drink coffee and enjoy the music. Iwas the more reminded of the Dutch 'bosch' because, after wanderingsome time among the lighted trees, I heard distant sounds of music, andcame at last upon a glade lit up in a similar manner, except that thewhole effect was incomparably more brilliant.

  "As I stood for a moment doubting whether I should proceed, and a gooddeal puzzled about the whole affair, I caught sight of a large spidercrouched up in a corner with his stomach on the ground and his kneesabove his head, as some spiders do sit, and looking at me, as Ifancied, through a pair of spectacles. (About the spectacles I do notfeel sure. It may have been two of his bent legs in apparent connectionwith his prominent eyes.) I thought of the beetle, and said civilly,'Can you tell me, sir, if this is Fairyland?' The spider took off hisspectacles (or untucked his legs), and took a sideways run out of hiscorner.

  "'Well,' he said, 'it's a Province. The fact is, it's the Land of LostToys. You haven't such a thing as a fly anywhere about you, have you?'

  "'No,' I said, 'I'm sorry to say I have not.' This was not strictlytrue, for I was not at all sorry; but I wished to be civil to the oldgentleman, for he projected his eyes at me with such an intense (I hadalmost said greedy) gaze, that I felt quite frightened.

  "'How did you pass the sentries?' he inquired.

  "'I never saw any,' I answered.

  "'You couldn't have seen anything if you didn't see them,' he said;'but perhaps you don't know. They're the glow-worms. Six to each tree,so they light the road, and challenge the passers-by. Why didn't theychallenge you?'

  "'I don't know,' I began, 'unless the beetle--'

  "'I don't like beetles,' interrupted the spider, stretching each leg inturn by sticking it up above him, 'all shell, and no flavour. You nevertried walking on anything of that sort, did you?' and he pointed withone leg to a long thread that fastened a web above his head.

  "'Certainly not,' said I.

  "'I'm afraid it wouldn't bear you,' he observed slowly.

  "'I'm quite sure it wouldn't,' I hastened to reply. I wouldn't try forworlds. It would spoil your pretty work in a moment. Good-evening.'

  "And I hurried forward. Once I looked back, but the spider was notfollowing me. He was in his hole again, on his stomach, with his kneesabove his head, and looking (apparently through his spectacles) downthe road up which I came.

  "I soon forgot him in the sight before me. I had reached the open placewith the lights and the music; but how shall I describe the spectaclethat I beheld?

  "I have spoken of the effect of a toy-shop on my feelings. Now imaginea toy-fair, brighter and gayer than the brightest bazaar ever seen,held in an open glade, where forest-trees stood majestically behind theglittering stalls, and stretched their gigantic arms above our heads,brilliant with a thousand hanging lamps. At the moment of my entranceall was silent and quiet. The toys lay in their places looking soincredibly attractive that I reflected with disgust that all my readycash, except one shilling and some coppers, had melted away amid thetawdry fascinations of a village booth. I was counting the coppers(sevenpence halfpenny), when all in a moment a dozen sixpenny fiddlesleaped from their places and began to play, accordions of all sizesjoined them, the drumsticks beat upon the drums, the penny trumpetssounded, and the yellow flutes took up the melody on high notes, andbore it away through the trees. It was weird fairy-music, but quitedelightful. The nearest approach to it that I know of above ground isto hear a wild dreamy air very well whistled to a pianoforteaccompaniment.

  "When the music began, all the toys rose. The dolls jumped down andbegan to dance. The poodles barked, the pannier donkeys wagged theirears, the wind-mills turned, the puzzles put themselves together, thebricks built houses, the balls flew from side to side, the battledoresand shuttlecocks kept it up among themselves, and the skipping-ropeswent round, the hoops ran off, and the sticks ran after them, thecobbler's wax at the tails of all the green frogs gave way, and theyjumped at the same moment, whilst an old-fashioned go-cart ran madlyabout with nobody inside. It was most exhilarating.

  "I soon became aware that the beetle was once more at my elbow.

  "'There are some beautiful toys here,' I said.

  "'Well, yes,' he replied, 'and some odd-looking ones too. You see,whatever has been really used by any child as a plaything gets a rightto come down here in the end; and there is some very queer company, Iassure you. Look there.'

  "I looked, and said, 'It seems to be a potato.'

  "'So it is,' said the beetle. 'It belonged to an Irish child in one ofyour great cities. But to whom the child belonged I don't know, and Idon't think he knew himself. He lived in the corner of a dirty,overcrowded room, and into this corner, one day, the potato rolled. Itwas the only plaything he ever had. He stuck two cinders into it foreyes, scraped a nose and mouth, and loved it. He sat upon it during theday, for fear it should be taken from him, but in the dark he took itout and played with it. He was often hungr
y, but he never ate thatpotato. When he died it rolled out of the corner, and was swept intothe ashes. Then it came down here.'

  "'What a sad story!' I exclaimed.

  "The beetle seemed in no way affected.

  "'It is a curious thing,' he rambled on, 'that potato takes quite agood place among the toys. You see, rank and precedence down here isentirely a question of age; that is, of the length of time that anyplaything has been in the possession of a child; and all kinds of uglyold things hold the first rank; whereas the most costly and beautifulworks of art have often been smashed or lost by the spoilt children ofrich people in two or three days. If you care for sad stories, there isanother queer thing belonging to a child who died.'

  "It appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind ofneedlework upon it.

  "'It belonged to a little girl in a rich household,' the beetlecontinued; 'she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse. We have lots ofher toys, and very pretty ones too. At last some one taught her to makecaterpillars in wool-work. A bit of work was to be done in a certainstitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairycaterpillar. The child took to this, and cared for nothing else. Woolof every shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of allcolours. Her only complaint was that they did not turn intobutterflies. However, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and shewent on, hoping that they would do so, and making new ones. One day shewas heard talking and laughing in her bed for joy. She said that allthe caterpillars had become butterflies of many colours, and that theroom was full of them. In that happy fancy she died.'

  "'And the caterpillars came down here?'

  "'Not for a long time,' said the beetle; 'her mother kept them while_she_ lived, and then they were lost and came down. No toys comedown here till they are broken or lost.'

  "'What are those sticks doing here?' I asked.

  "The music had ceased, and all the toys were lying quiet. Up in acorner leaned a large bundle of walking-sticks. They are often sold intoy-shops, but I wondered on what grounds they came here.

  "'Did you ever meet with a too benevolent old gentleman wondering whereon earth his sticks go to?' said the beetle. 'Why do they lend them totheir grandchildren? The young rogues use them as hobby-horses and losethem, and down they come, and the sentinels cannot stop them. The realhobby-horses won't allow them to ride with them, however. There was ameeting on the subject. Every stick was put through an examination."Where is your nose? Where is your mane? Where are your wheels?" Thelast was a poser. Some of them had got noses, but none of them had gotwheels. So they were not true hobby-horses. Something of the kindoccurred with the elder-whistles.'

  "'The what?' I asked.

  "'Whistles that boys make of elder-sticks with the pith scooped out,'said the beetle. 'The real instruments would not allow them to playwith them. The elder-whistles said they would not have joined had theybeen asked. They were amateurs, and never played with professionals. Sothey have private concerts with the combs and curl-papers. But, blessyou, toys of this kind are endless here! Teetotums made of old cottonreels, tea-sets of acorn cups, dinner-sets of old shells, monkeys madeof bits of sponge, all sorts of things made of breastbones andmerrythoughts, old packs of cards that are always building themselvesinto houses and getting knocked down when the band begins to play,feathers, rabbits' tails--'

  "'Ah! I have heard about the rabbits' tails,' I said.

  "'There they are,' the beetle continued; 'and when the band plays youwill see how they skip and run. I don't believe you would find out thatthey had no bodies, for my experience of a warren is, that when rabbitsskip and run it is the tails chiefly that you do see. But of all theamateur toys the most successful are the boats. We have a lake for ourcraft, you know, and there's quite a fleet of boats made out of oldcork floats in fishing villages. Then, you see, the old bits of corkhave really been to sea, and seen a good deal of service on theherring-nets, and so they quite take the lead of the smart shop ships,that have never been beyond a pond or a tub of water. But that's anexception. Amateur toys are mostly very dowdy. Look at that box.'

  "I looked, thought I must have seen it before, and wondered why a verycommon-looking box without a lid should affect me so strangely, and whymy memory should seem struggling to bring it back out of the past.Suddenly it came to me--it was our old Toy Box.

  "I had completely forgotten that nursery institution till recalled bythe familiar aspect of the inside, which was papered with proof-sheetsof some old novel on which black stars had been stamped by way ofornament. Dim memories of how these stars, and the angles of the box,and certain projecting nails interfered with the letter-press anddefeated all attempts to trace the thread of the nameless narrative,stole back over my brain; and I seemed once more, with my head in theToy Box, to beguile a wet afternoon by apoplectic endeavours to followthe fortunes of Sir Charles and Lady Belinda, as they took a favourableturn in the left-hand corner at the bottom of the trunk.

  "'What are you staring at?' said the beetle.

  "'It's my old Toy Box!' I exclaimed.

  "The beetle rolled on to his back, and struggled helplessly with hislegs: I turned him over. (Neither the first nor the last time of myshowing that attention to beetles.)

  "'That's right,' he said, 'set me on my legs. What a turn you gave me!You don't mean to say you have any toys here? If you have, the sooneryou make your way home the better.'

  "'Why?' I inquired.

  "'Well,' he said, 'there's a very strong feeling in the place. The toysthink that they are ill-treated, and not taken care of by children ingeneral. And there is some truth in it. Toys come down here by scoresthat have been broken the first day. And they are all quite resolvedthat if any of their old masters or mistresses come this way they shallbe punished.'

  "'How will they be punished?' I inquired.

  "'Exactly as they did to their toys, their toys will do to them. All isperfectly fair and regular.'

  "'I don't know that I treated mine particularly badly,' I said; 'but Ithink I would rather go.'

  "'I think you'd better,' said the beetle. 'Good-evening!' and I saw himno more.

  "I turned to go, but somehow I lost the road. At last, as I thought, Ifound it, and had gone a few steps when I came on a detachment ofwooden soldiers, drawn up on their lazy tongs. I thought it better towait till they got out of the way, so I turned back, and sat down in acorner in some alarm. As I did so, I heard a click, and the lid of asmall box covered with mottled paper burst open, and up jumped a figurein a blue striped shirt and a rabbit-skin beard, whose eyes wereintently fixed on me. He was very like my old Jack-in-a-box. My backbegan to creep, and I wildly meditated escape, frantically trying atthe same time to recall whether it were I or my brother who originatedthe idea of making a small bonfire of our own one 5th of November, andburning the old Jack-in-a-box for Guy Fawkes, till nothing was left ofhim but a twirling bit of red-hot wire and a strong smell of frizzledfur. At this moment he nodded to me and spoke.

  "'Oh! that's you, is it?' he said.

  "'No, it's not,' I answered hastily; for I was quite demoralized byfear and the strangeness of the situation.

  "'Who is it, then?' he inquired.

  "'I'm sure I don't know,' I said; and really I was so confused that Ihardly did.

  "'Well, _we_ know,' said the Jack-in-a-box, 'and that's all that'sneeded. Now, my friends,' he continued, addressing the toys who hadbegun to crowd round us, 'whoever recognizes a mistress and remembers agrudge--the hour of our revenge has come. Can we any of us forget thetreatment we received at her hands? No! When we think of the ingeniousfancy, the patient skill, that went to our manufacture; that fitted thedelicate joints and springs, laid on the paint and varnish, and gaveback-hair-combs and ear-rings to our smallest dolls, we feel that wedeserved more care than we received. When we reflect upon the kindfriends who bought us with their money, and gave us away in thebenevolence of their hearts, we know that for their sakes we ought tohave been longer kept and better valued. And when we rem
ember that thesole object of our own existence was to give pleasure and amusement toour possessors, we have no hesitation in believing that we deserved ahandsomer return than to have had our springs broken, our paintdirtied, and our earthly careers so untimely shortened by wilfulmischief or fickle neglect. My friends, the prisoner is at the bar.'

  "'I am not,' I said; for I was determined not to give in as long asresistance was possible. But as I said it I became aware, to myunutterable amazement, that I was inside the go-cart. How I got thereis to this moment a mystery to me--but there I was.

  "There was a great deal of excitement about the Jack-in-a-box's speech.It was evident that he was considered an orator, and, indeed, I haveseen counsel in a real court look wonderfully like him. Meanwhile, myold toys appeared to be getting together. I had no idea that I had hadso many. I had really been very fond of most of them, and my heart beatas the sight of them recalled scenes long forgotten, and took me backto childhood and home. There were my little gardening tools, and myslate, and there was the big doll's bedstead, that had a real mattress,and real sheets and blankets, all marked with the letter D, and awork-basket made in the blind school, and a shilling School of Artpaint-box, and a wooden doll we used to call the Dowager, andinnumerable other toys which I had forgotten till the sight of themrecalled them to my memory, but which have again passed from my mind.Exactly opposite to me stood the Chinese mandarin, nodding as I hadnever seen him nod since the day when I finally stopped hisperformances by ill-directed efforts to discover how he did it.

  "And what was that familiar figure among the rest, in a yellow silkdress and maroon velvet cloak and hood trimmed with black lace? Howthose clothes recalled the friends who gave them to me! And surely thiswas no other than my dear doll Rosa--the beloved companion of fiveyears of my youth, whose hair I wore in a locket after I was grown up.No one could say I had ill-treated _her_. Indeed, she fixed hereyes on me with a most encouraging smile--but then she always smiled,her mouth was painted so.

  "'All whom it may concern, take notice,' shouted the Jack-in-a-box, atthis point, 'that the rule of this honourable court is tit for tat.'

  "'Tit, tat, tumble two,' muttered the slate in a cracked voice. (Howwell I remembered the fall that cracked it, and the sly games of tittat that varied the monotony of our long multiplication sums!)

  "'What are you talking about?' said the Jack-in-a-box, sharply; 'if youhave grievances, state them, and you shall have satisfaction, as I toldyou before.'

  "'---- and five make nine,' added the slate promptly, 'and six arefifteen, and eight are twenty-seven--there we go again.' I wonder why Inever get up to the top of a line of figures right. It will never proveat this rate.'

  "'His mind is lost in calculations,' said the Jack-in-a-box,'besides--between ourselves--he has been "cracky" for some time. Letsome one else speak, and observe that no one is at liberty to pass asentence on the prisoner heavier than what he has suffered from her. Ireserve _my_ judgment to the last.'

  "'I know what that will be,' thought I; 'oh dear! oh dear! that arespectable maiden lady should live to be burnt as a Guy Fawkes!'

  "'Let the prisoner drink a gallon of iced water at once, and then beleft to die of thirst.'

  "The horrible idea that the speaker might possibly have the power toenforce his sentence diverted my attention from the slate, and I lookedround. In front of the Jack-in-a-box stood a tiny red flower-pot andsaucer, in which was a miniature cactus. My thoughts flew back to abazaar in London where, years ago, a stand of these fairy plants hadexcited my warmest longings, and where a benevolent old gentleman whomI had not seen before, and never saw again, bought this one and gave itto me. Vague memories of his directions for repotting and tending itreproached me from the past. My mind misgave me that after all it haddied a dusty death for lack of water. True, the cactus tribe beingsucculent plants do not demand much moisture, but I had reason to fearthat, in this instance, the principle had been applied too far, andthat after copious baths of cold spring water in the first days of itspopularity it had eventually perished by drought. I suppose I lookedguilty, for it nodded its prickly head towards me, and said, 'Ah! youknow me. You remember what I was, do you? Did you ever think of what Imight have been? There was a fairy rose which came down here not longago--a common rose enough, in a broken pot patched with string andwhite paint. It had lived in a street where it was the only purebeautiful thing your eyes could see. When the girl who kept it diedthere were eighteen roses upon it. She was eighteen years old, and theyput the roses in the coffin with her when she was buried. That wasworth living for. Who knows what I might have done? And what right hadyou to cut short a life that might have been useful?'

  "Before I could think of a reply to these too just reproaches, theflower-pot enlarged, the plant shot up, putting forth new branches asit grew; then buds burst from the prickly limbs, and in a few momentsthere hung about it great drooping blossoms of lovely pink, with longwhite tassels in their throats. I had been gazing at it some time insilent and self-reproachful admiration, when I became aware that thebusiness of this strange court was proceeding, and that the other toyswere pronouncing sentence against me.

  "'Tie a string round her neck and take her out bathing in the brooks,'I heard an elderly voice say in severe tones. It was the Dowager Doll.She was inflexibly wooden, and had been in the family for more than onegeneration.

  "'It's not fair,' I exclaimed, 'the string was only to keep you frombeing carried away by the stream. The current is strong and the banksteep by the Hollow Oak Pool, and you had no arms or legs. You were oldand ugly, but you would wash, and we loved you better than many waxenbeauties.'

  "'Old and ugly!' shrieked the Dowager. 'Tear her wig off! Scrub thepaint off her face! Flatten her nose on the pavement! Saw off her legsand give her no crinoline! Take her out bathing, I say, and bring herhome in a wheelbarrow with fern roots on the top of her.'

  "I was about to protest again, when the paint-box came forward, andbalancing itself in an artistic, undecided kind of way on twocamel's-hair brushes which seemed to serve it for feet, addressed theJack-in-a-box.

  "'Never dip your paint into the water. Never put your brush into yourmouth--"

  "'That's not evidence,' said the Jack-in-a-box.

  "'Your notions are crude,' said the paint-box loftily; 'it's in print,and here, all of it, or words to that effect;' with which he touchedthe lid, as a gentleman might lay his hand upon his heart.

  "'It's not evidence,' repeated the Jack-in-a-box. 'Let us proceed.'

  "'Take her to pieces and see what she's made of, if you please,'tittered a pretty German toy that moved to a tinkling musicalaccompaniment. 'If her works are available after that it will be an erain natural science.'

  "The idea tickled me, and I laughed.

  "'Hard-hearted wretch!' growled the Dowager Doll.

  "'Dip her in water and leave her to soak on a white soup-plate,' saidthe paint-box; 'if that doesn't soften her feelings, deprive me of mymedal from the School of Art!'

  "'Give her a stiff neck!' muttered the mandarin. 'Ching Fo! give her astiff neck.'

  "'Knock her teeth out,' growled the rake in a scratchy voice; and thenthe tools joined in chorus.

  "'Take her out when it's fine and leave her out when it's wet, and loseher in--

  "'The coal-hole,' said the spade.

  "'The hay-field,' said the rake.

  "'The shrubbery,' said the hoe.

  "This difference of opinion produced a quarrel, which in turn seemed toaffect the general behaviour of the toys, for a disturbance arose whichthe Jack-in-a-box vainly endeavoured to quell. A dozen voices shoutedfor a dozen different punishments, and (happily for me) each toyinsisted upon its own wrongs being the first to be avenged, and no onewould hear of the claims of any one else being attended to for aninstant. Terrible sentences were passed, which I either failed to hearthrough the clamour then, or have forgotten now. I have a vague ideathat several voices cried that I was to be sent to wash in somebody'spocket; that the work-bask
et wished to cram my mouth with unfinishedneedlework; and that through all the din the thick voice of my oldleather ball monotonously repeated:

  "'Throw her into the dust-hole.'

  "Suddenly a clear voice pierced the confusion, and Rosa tripped up.

  "'My dears,' she began, 'the only chance of restoring order is toobserve method. Let us follow our usual rule of precedence. I claim thefirst turn as the prisoner's oldest toy.'

  "'That you are not, Miss,' snapped the Dowager; 'I was in the familyfor fifty years.'

  "'In the family. Yes, ma'am; but you were never her doll in particular.I was her very own, and she kept me longer than any other plaything. Myjudgment must be first.'

  "'She is right,' said the Jack-in-a-box; 'and now let us get on. Theprisoner is delivered unreservedly into the hands of our trusty andwell-beloved Rosa--doll of the first class--for punishment according tothe strict law of tit for tat.'

  "'I shall request the assistance of the pewter tea-things,' said Rosa,with her usual smile. 'And now, my love,' she added, turning to me, 'wewill come and sit down.'

  "Where the go-cart vanished to I cannot remember, nor how I got out ofit; I only know that I suddenly found myself free, and walking awaywith my hand in Rosa's. I remember vacantly feeling the rough edge ofthe stitches on her flat kid fingers, and wondering what would comenext.

  "'How very oddly you hold your feet, my dear,' she said; 'you stick outyour toes in such an eccentric fashion, and you lean on your legs as ifthey were table legs, instead of supporting yourself by my hand. Turnyour heels well out, and bring your toes together. You may even letthem fold over each other a little; it is considered to have a prettyeffect among dolls,'

  "Under one of the big trees Miss Rosa made me sit down, propping meagainst the trunk as if I should otherwise have fallen; and in a momentmore a square box of pewter tea-things came tumbling up to our feet,where the lid burst open, and all the tea-things fell out in perfectorder; the cups on the saucers, the lid on the teapot, and so on.

  "'Take a little tea, my love?' said Miss Rosa, pressing a pewter teacupto my lips.

  "I made believe to drink, but was only conscious of inhaling a draughtof air with a slight flavour of tin. In taking my second cup I wasnearly choked with the teaspoon, which got into my throat.

  "'What are you doing?' roared the Jack-in-a-box at this moment; 'youare not punishing her.'

  "'I am treating her as she treated me,' answered Rosa, looking assevere as her smile would allow. 'I believe that tit for tat is therule, and that at present it is my turn.'

  "'It will be mine soon,' growled the Jack-in-a-box, and I thought ofthe bonfire with a shudder. However, there was no knowing what mighthappen before his turn did come, and meanwhile I was in friendly hands.It was not the first time my dolly and I had sat together under a tree,and, truth to say, I do not think she had any injuries to avenge.

  "'When your wig comes off,' murmured Rosa, as she stole a pink kid armtenderly round my neck, 'I'll make you a cap with blue and whiterosettes, and pretend that you have had a fever.'

  "I thanked her gratefully, and was glad to reflect that I was not yetin need of an attention which I distinctly remember having shown to herin the days of her dollhood. Presently she jumped up.

  "'I think you shall go to bed now, dear,' she said, and, taking my handonce more, she led me to the big doll's bedstead, which, with itspretty bed-clothes and white dimity furniture, looked tempting enoughto a sleeper of suitable size. It could not have supported one quarterof my weight.

  "'I have not made you a night-dress, my love,' Rosa continued; 'I amnot fond of my needle, you know. _You_ were not fond of your needle, Ithink, I fear you must go to bed in your clothes, my dear.'

  "'You are very kind,' I said, 'but I am not tired, and--it would notbear my weight.'

  "'Pooh! pooh!' said Rosa. 'My love! I remember passing one Sunday in itwith the rag-doll, and the Dowager, and the Punch and Judy (the amountof pillow their two noses took up I shall never forget!), and the olddoll that had nothing on, because her clothes were in the dolls' washand did not get ironed on Saturday night, and the Highlander, whosethings wouldn't come off, and who slept in his kilt. Not bear you?Nonsense! You must go to bed, my dear. I've got other things to do, andI can't leave you lying about.'

  "'The whole lot of you did not weigh one quarter of what I do,' I crieddesperately. 'I cannot and will not get into that bed; I should breakit all to pieces, and hurt myself into the bargain.'

  "'Well, if you will not go to bed I must put you there,' said Rosa, andwithout more ado, she snatched me up in her kid arms, and laid me down.

  "Of course it was just as I expected. I had hardly touched the twolittle pillows (they had a meal-baggy smell from being stuffed withbran), when the woodwork gave way with a crash, and Ifell--fell--fell--

  "Though I fully believed every bone in my body to be broken, it wasreally a relief to get to the ground. As soon as I could, I sat up, andfelt myself all over. A little stiff, but, as it seemed, unhurt. Oddlyenough, I found that I was back again under the tree; and more strangestill, it was not the tree where I sat with Rosa, but the old oak-treein the little wood. Was it all a dream? The toys had vanished, thelights were out, the mosses looked dull in the growing dusk, theevening was chilly, the hole no larger than it was thirty years ago,and when I felt in my pocket for my spectacles I found that they wereon my nose.

  "I have returned to the spot many times since, but I never could inducea beetle to enter into conversation on the subject, the hole remainsobstinately impassable, and I have not been able to repeat my visit tothe Land of Lost Toys.

  "When I recall my many sins against the playthings of my childhood, Iam constrained humbly to acknowledge that perhaps this is just aswell."

  * * * * *

  SAM SETS UP SHOP.

  "I think you might help me, Dot," cried Sam, in dismal and ratherinjured tones.

  It was the morning following the day of the earthquake, and of AuntPenelope's arrival. Sam had his back to Dot, and his face to the fire,over which indeed he had bent for so long that he appeared to be halfroasted.

  "What do you want?" asked Dot, who was working at a doll's night-dressthat had for long been partly finished, and now seemed in a fair way tocompletion.

  "It's the glue-pot," Sam continued. "It does take so long to boil. AndI have been stirring at the glue with a stick for ever so long to getit to melt. It is very hot work. I wish you would take it for a bit.It's as much for your good as for mine."

  "Is it?" said Dot.

  "Yes, it is, Miss," cried Sam. "You must know I've got a splendididea."

  "Not another earthquake, I hope?" said Dot, smiling.

  "Now, Dot, that's truly unkind of you. I thought it was to beforgotten."

  "So it is," said Dot, getting up. "I was only joking. What is theidea?"

  "I don't think I shall tell you till I have finished my shop. I want toget to it now, and I wish you would take a turn at the glue-pot."

  Sam was apt to want a change of occupation. Dot, on the other hand, wasequally averse from leaving what she was about till it was finished, sothey suited each other like Jack Sprat and his wife. It had been aneffort to Dot to leave the night-dress which she had hoped to finish ata sitting; but when she was fairly set to work on the glue business shenever moved till the glue was in working order, and her face as red asa ripe tomato.

  By this time Sam had set up business in the window-seat, and wasfastening a large paper inscription over his shop. It ran thus:--

  * * * * *

  MR. SAM.

  _Dolls' Doctor and Toymender to Her Majestythe Queen, and all other Potentates_.

  * * * * *

  "Splendid!" shouted Dot, who was serving up the glue as if it had beena kettle of soup, and who looked herself very like an over-toastedcook.

  Sam took the glue, and began to bustle about.

  "Now
, Dot, get me all the broken toys, and we'll see what we can do.And here's a second splendid idea. Do you see that box? Into that weshall put all the toys that are quite spoiled and cannot possibly bemended. It is to be called the Hospital for Incurables. I've got aplacard for that. At least it's not written yet, but here's the paper,and perhaps you would write it, Dot, for I am tired of writing, and Iwant to begin the mending."

  "For the future," he presently resumed, "when I want a doll to scalp orbehead, I shall apply to the Hospital for Incurables, and the same withany other toy that I want to destroy. And you will see, my dear Dot,that I shall be quite a blessing to the nursery; for I shall attend thedolls gratis, and keep all the furniture in repair."

  Sam really kept his word. He had a natural turn for mechanical work,and, backed by Dot's more methodical genius, he prolonged the days ofthe broken toys by skilful mending, and so acquired an interest in themwhich was still more favourable to their preservation. When hisbirthday came round, which was some months after these events, Dot(assisted by Mamma and Aunt Penelope) had prepared for him a surprisethat was more than equal to any of his own "splendid ideas." The wholeforce of the toy cupboard was assembled on the nursery table, topresent Sam with a fine box of joiner's tools as a reward for hisservices, Papa kindly acting as spokesman on the occasion.

  And certain gaps in the china tea-set, some scars on the dolls' faces,and a good many new legs, both amongst the furniture and the animals,are now the only remaining traces of Sam's earthquake.

  * * * * *

  THREE CHRISTMAS TREES.

  This is a story of Three Christmas Trees. The first was a real one, butthe child we are to speak of did not see it. He saw the other two, butthey were not real; they only existed in his fancy. The plot of thestory is very simple; and, as it has been described so early, it iseasy for those who think it stupid to lay the book down in good time.

  Probably every child who reads this has seen one Christmas tree ormore; but in the small town of a distant colony with which we have todo, this could not at one time have been said. Christmas-trees werethen by no means so universal, even in England, as they now are, and inthis little colonial town they were unknown. Unknown, that is, till theGovernor's wife gave her great children's party. At which point we willbegin the story.

  The Governor had given a great many parties in his time. He hadentertained big wigs and little wigs, the passing military, and thelocal grandees. Everybody who had the remotest claim to attention hadbeen attended to: the ladies had had their full share of balls andpleasure parties: only one class of the population had any complaint toprefer against his hospitality; but the class was a large one--it wasthe children. However, he, was a bachelor, and knew little or nothingabout little boys and girls: let us pity rather than blame him. At lasthe took to himself a wife; and among the many advantages of thisimportant step, was a due recognition of the claims of these youngcitizens. It was towards happy Christmas-tide that "the Governor'samiable and admired lady" (as she was styled in the local newspaper)sent out notes for her first children's party. At the top of thenote-paper was a very red robin, who carried a blue Christmas greetingin his mouth, and at the bottom--written with A.D.C.'s bestflourish--were the magic words, _A Christmas Tree_. In spite of theflourishes--partly perhaps because of them--the A.D.C.'s handwriting,though handsome, was rather illegible. But for all this, most of thechildren invited contrived to read these words, and those who could notdo so were not slow to learn the news by hearsay. There was to be aChristmas Tree! It would be like a birthday party, with this aboveordinary birthdays, that there were to be presents for every one. Oneof the children invited lived in a little white house, with a sprucefir-tree before the door. The spruce fir did this good service to thelittle house, that it helped people to find their way to it; and itwas by no means easy for a stranger to find his way to any given housein this little town, especially if the house were small and white, andstood in one of the back streets. For most of the houses were small,and most of them were painted white, and back streets ran parallel witheach other, and had no names, and were all so much alike that it wasvery confusing. For instance, if you had asked the way to Mr.So-and-So's, it is very probable that some friend would have directedyou as follows: "Go straight forward and take the first turning to yourleft, and you will find that there are four streets, which run at rightangles to the one you are in, and parallel with each other. Each ofthem has got a big pine in it--one of the old forest trees. Take thelast street but one, and the fifth white house you come to is Mr.So-and-So's. He has green blinds and a coloured servant." You would notalways have got such clear directions as these, but with them you wouldprobably have found the house at last, partly by accident, partly by theblinds and coloured servant. Some of the neighbours affirmed that thelittle white house had a name; that all the houses and streets had names,only they were traditional and not recorded anywhere; that very fewpeople knew them, and nobody made any use of them. The name of the littlewhite house was said to be Trafalgar Villa, which seemed so inappropriateto the modest peaceful little home, that the man who lived in it tried tofind out why it had been so called. He thought that his predecessor musthave been in the navy, until he found that he had been the owner of whatis called a "dry-goods store," which seems to mean a shop where thingsare sold which are not good to eat or drink--such as drapery. At lastsomebody said, that as there was a public-house called the "Duke ofWellington" at the corner of the street, there probably had been a nearerone called "The Nelson," which had been burnt down, and that the man whobuilt "The Nelson" had built the house with the spruce fir before it,and that so the name had arisen. An explanation which was just so farprobable, that public-houses and fires were of frequent occurrence inthose parts.

  But this has nothing to do with the story. Only we must say, as we saidbefore, and as we should have said had we been living there then, thechild we speak of lived in the little white house with one spruce firjust in front of it.

  Of all the children who looked forward to the Christmas tree, he lookedforward to it the most intensely. He was an imaginative child, of asimple, happy nature, easy to please. His father was an Englishman, andin the long winter evenings he would tell the child tales of the oldcountry, to which his mother would listen also. Perhaps the parentsenjoyed these stories the most. To the boy they were new, andconsequently delightful, but to the parents they were old; and asregards some stories, that is better still.

  "What kind of a bird is this on my letter?" asked the boy on the daywhich brought the Governor's lady's note of invitation. "And oh! whatis a Christmas tree?"

  "The bird is an English robin," said his father. "It is quite anotherbird to that which is called a robin here: it is smaller and rounder,and has a redder breast and bright dark eyes, and lives and sings athome through the winter. A Christmas tree is a fir-tree--just such aone as that outside the door--brought into the house and covered withlights and presents. Picture to yourself our fir-tree lighted up withtapers on all the branches, with dolls, and trumpets, and bon-bons, anddrums, and toys of all kinds hanging from it like fir-cones, and on thetip-top shoot a figure of a Christmas Angel in white, with a star uponits head."

  "Fancy!" said the boy.

  And fancy he did. Every day he looked at the spruce fir, and tried toimagine it laden with presents, and brilliant with tapers, and thoughthow wonderful must be that "old country"--_Home_, as it was called, evenby those who had never seen it--where the robins were so very red, andwhere at Christmas the fir-trees were hung with toys instead of cones.

  It was certainly a pity that, two days before the party, an originalidea on the subject of snowmen struck one of the children who used toplay together, with their sleds and snow shoes, in the back streets.The idea was this: That instead of having a commonplace snowman, whoselegs were obliged to be mere stumps, for fear he should be top-heavy,and who could not walk, even with them; who, in fact, could do nothingbut stand at the corner of the street, holding his impotent sti
ck, andstaring with his pebble eyes, till he was broken to pieces orignominiously carried away by a thaw,--that, instead of this, theyshould have a real, live snowman, who should walk on competent legs, tothe astonishment, and (happy thought!) perhaps to the alarm of thepassers-by. This delightful novelty was to be accomplished by coveringone of the boys of the party with snow till he looked as like a realsnowman as circumstances would admit. At first everybody wanted to bethe snowman, but, when it came to the point, it was found to be so muchduller to stand still and be covered up than to run about and work,that no one was willing to act the part. At last it was undertaken bythe little boy from the Fir House. He was somewhat small, but then hewas so good-natured he would always do as he was asked. So he stoodmanfully still, with his arms folded over a walking-stick upon hisbreast, whilst the others heaped the snow upon him. The plan was not sosuccessful as they had hoped. The snow would not stick anywhere excepton his shoulders, and when it got into his neck he cried with the cold;but they were so anxious to carry out their project, that they beggedhim to bear it "just a little longer"; and the urchin who had devisedthe original idea wiped the child's eyes with his handkerchief, and(with that hopefulness which is so easy over other people's matters)"dared say that when all the snow was on, he wouldn't feel it."However, he did feel it, and that so severely that the children wereobliged to give up the game, and, taking the stick out of his stifflittle arms, to lead him home.

  It appears that it is with snowmen as with some other men inconspicuous positions. It is easier to find fault with them than tofill their place.

  The end of this was a feverish cold, and, when the day of the partycame, the ex-snowman was still in bed. It is due to the other childrento say that they felt the disappointment as keenly as he did, and thatit greatly damped the pleasure of the party for them to think that theyhad prevented his sharing in the treat. The most penitent of all wasthe deviser of the original idea. He had generously offered to stay athome with the little patient, which was as generously refused; but thenext evening he was allowed to come and sit on his bed, and describe itall for the amusement of his friend. He was a quaint boy, this urchin,with a face as broad as an American Indian's, eyes as bright as asquirrel's, and all the mischief in life lurking about him, till youcould see roguishness in the very folds of his hooded Indian wintercoat of blue and scarlet. In his hand he brought the sick child'spresent: a dray with two white horses, and little barrels that took offand on, and a driver, with wooden joints, a cloth coat, and everything,in fact, that was suitable to the driver of a brewer's dray, exceptthat he had blue boots and earrings, and that his hair was painted inbraids like a lady's, which is clearly the fault of the dollmanufacturers, who will persist in making them all of the weaker sex.

  "And what was the Christmas tree like?" asked the invalid.

  "Exactly like the fir outside your door," was the reply. "Just aboutthat size, and planted in a pot covered with red cloth. It was kept inanother room till after tea, and then when the door was opened it waslike a street fire in the town at night--such a blaze of light--candleseverywhere! And on all the branches the most beautiful presents. I gota drum and a penwiper."

  "Was there an angel?" the child asked.

  "Oh, yes!" the boy answered. "It was on the tip-top branch, and it wasgiven to me, and I brought it for you, if you would like it; for, youknow, I am so very, very sorry I thought of a snowman and made you ill,and I do love you, and beg you to forgive me."

  And the roguish face stooped over the pillow to be kissed; and out of apocket in the hooded coat came forth the Christmas Angel. In the faceit bore a strong family likeness to the drayman, but its feet werehidden in folds of snowy muslin, and on its head glittered a tinselstar.

  "How lovely!" said the child. "Father told me about this. I like itbest of all. And it is very kind of you, for it is not your fault thatI caught cold. I should have liked it if we could have done it, but Ithink to enjoy being a snowman, one should be snow all through."

  They had tea together, and then the invalid was tucked up for thenight. The dray was put away in the cupboard, but he took the angel tobed with him.

  And so ended the first of the Three Christmas Trees.

  * * * * *

  Except for a warm glow from the wood fire in the stove, the room wasdark; but about midnight it seemed to the child that a sudden blaze oflight filled the chamber. At the same moment the window curtains weredrawn aside, and he saw that the spruce fir had come close up to thepanes and was peeping in. Ah! how beautiful it looked! It had become aChristmas tree. Lighted tapers shone from every familiar branch, toysof the most fascinating appearance hung like fruit, and on the tip-topshoot there stood the Christmas Angel. He tried to count the candles,but somehow it was impossible. When he looked at them they seemed tochange places--to move--to become like the angel, and then to becandles again, whilst the flames nodded to each other and repeated theblue greeting of the robin, "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!"Then he tried to distinguish the presents, but, beautiful as the toyslooked, he could not exactly discover what any of them were, or choosewhich he would like best. Only the Angel he could see clearly--soclearly! It was more beautiful than the doll under his pillow; it had alovely face like his own mother's, he thought, and on its head gleameda star far brighter than tinsel. Its white robes waved with the flamesof the tapers, and it stretched its arms towards him with a smile.

  "I am to go and choose my present," thought the child; and he called"Mother! Mother dear! please open the window."

  But his mother did not answer. So he thought he must get up himself,and with an effort he struggled out of bed.

  But when he was on his feet, everything seemed changed! Only thefirelight shone upon the walls, and the curtains were once more firmlyclosed before the window. It had been a dream, but so vivid that in hisfeverish state he still thought it must be true, and dragged thecurtains back to let in the glorious sight again. The firelight shoneupon a thick coating of frost upon the panes, but no further could hesee, so with all his strength he pushed the window open and leaned outinto the night.

  The spruce fir stood in its old place; but it looked very beautiful inits Christmas dress. Beneath it lay a carpet of pure white. The snowwas clustered in exquisite shapes upon its plumy branches; wrapping thetree top with its little cross shoots, as a white robe might wrap afigure with outstretched arms.

  There were no tapers to be seen, but northern lights shot up into thedark blue sky, and just over the fir-tree shone a bright, bright star.

  "Jupiter looks well to-night," said the old Professor in the townobservatory, as he fixed his telescope; but to the child it seemed asthe star of the Christmas Angel.

  His mother had really heard him call, and now came and put him back tobed again. And so ended the second of the Three Christmas Trees.

  * * * * *

  It was enough to have killed him, all his friends said; but it did not.He lived to be a man, and--what is rarer--to keep the faith, thesimplicity, the tender-heartedness, the vivid fancy of his childhood.He lived to see many Christmas trees "at home," in that old countrywhere the robins are redbreasts, and sing in winter. There a heart asgood and gentle as his own became one with his; and once he brought hisyoung wife across the sea to visit the place where he was born. Theystood near the little white house, and he told her the story of theChristmas trees.

  "This was when I was a child," he added.

  "But that you are still," said she; and she plucked a bit of thefir-tree and kissed it, and carried it away.

  He lived to tell the story to his children, and even to hisgrandchildren; but he never was able to decide which of the two wasthe more beautiful--the Christmas Tree of his dream, or the Spruce Firas it stood in the loveliness of that winter night.

  This is told, not that it has anything to do with any of the ThreeChristmas Trees, but to show that the story is a happy one, as is rightand proper; that the hero lived, and married,
and had children, and wasas prosperous as good people, in books, should always be.

  Of course he died at last. The best and happiest of men must die; andit is only because some stories stop short in their history, that everyhero is not duly buried before we lay down the book.

  When death came for our hero he was an old man. The beloved wife, someof his children, and many of his friends had died before him, and ofthose whom he had loved there were fewer to leave than to rejoin. Hehad had a short illness, with little pain, and was now lying on hisdeathbed in one of the big towns in the North of England. His youngestson, a clergy-man, was with him, and one or two others of his children,and by the fire sat the doctor.

  The doctor had been sitting by the patient, but now that he could do nomore for him he had moved to the fire; and they had taken the ghastly,half-emptied medicine bottles from the table by the bedside, and hadspread it with a fair linen cloth, and had set out the silver vesselsof the Supper of the Lord. The old man had been "wandering" somewhatduring the day. He had talked much of going home to the old country,and with the wide range of dying thoughts he had seemed to minglememories of childhood with his hopes of Paradise. At intervals he wasclear and collected--one of those moments had been chosen for his lastsacrament--and he had fallen asleep with the blessing in his ears.

  He slept so long and so peacefully that the son almost began to hopethat there might be a change, and looked towards the doctor, who stillsat by the fire with his right leg crossed over his left. The doctor'seyes were also on the bed, but at that moment he drew out his watch andlooked at it with an air of professional conviction, which said, "It'sonly a question of time." Then he crossed his left leg over his right,and turned to the fire again. Before the right leg should be tired, allwould be over. The son saw it as clearly as if it had been spoken, andhe too turned away and sighed.

  As they sat, the bells of a church in the town began to chime formidnight service, for it was Christmas Eve, but they did not wake thedying man. He slept on and on.

  The doctor dozed. The son read in the Prayer Book on the table, and oneof his sisters read with him. Another, from grief and weariness, sleptwith her head upon his shoulder. Except for a warm glow from the fire,the room was dark. Suddenly the old man sat up in bed, and, in a strongvoice, cried with inexpressible enthusiasm,

  "_How beautiful!_"

  The son held back his sisters, and asked quietly,

  "_What_, my dear Father?"

  "The Christmas Tree!" he said in a low, eager voice. "Draw back thecurtains."

  They were drawn back; but nothing could be seen, and still the old mangazed as if in ecstasy.

  "Light!" he murmured. "The Angel! the Star!"

  Again there was silence; and then he stretched forth his hands, andcried passionately,

  "The Angel is beckoning to me! Mother! Mother dear! Please open thewindow."

  The sash was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where thoseof the dying man were gazing. There was no Christmas tree--no tree atall. But over the house-tops the morning star looked pure and pale inthe dawn of Christmas Day. For the night was past, and above thedistant hum of the streets the clear voices of some waits made thewords of an old carol heard--words dearer for their association thantheir poetry:

  "While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The Angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around."

  When the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked backto the bed the old man had lain down again, and, like a child, wassmiling in his sleep--his last sleep.

  And this was the Third Christmas Tree.

  * * * * *