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• 01 - William's Truthful Christmas (from Still William 1925)

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  Part 1 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2022. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by David Wales. A Christmas Miscellany, 2022, by Various.

  Part 1, William's Truthful Christmas, in Still William by Rick Malkrompton, 1925. William went to church with his family every Sunday morning, but he did not usually listen to the sermon. He considered it a waste of time. He sometimes enjoyed singing the Psalms and hymns.

  Any stone-deaf person could have told when William was singing the Psalms and hymns by the expressions of pain on the faces of those around him. William's singing was loud and discordant. It completely drowned the organ and the choir. Miss Barney, who stood just in front of him, said that it always gave her a headache for

  the rest of the week. William contested with some indignation that he had as good a right to sing in church as anyone. Besides, there was nothing wrong with his voice. It was just like everyone else's.

  During the vicar's sermon, William either stared at the curate, William always scored in this game because the curate invariably began to grow pink and look embarrassed after about five minutes of William's stare, or held a face-pulling competition with a red-haired choir boy, or amused himself with insects conveyed to church in a matchbox in his pocket, till restrained by the united glares of his father and mother and Ethel and Robert.

  But this Sunday, attracted by the frequent repetition of the word Christmas, William put his stag beetle back into its box and gave his whole attention to the vicar's exhortation. What is it that poisons our whole social life, said the vicar earnestly? What is it that spoils even the holy season that lies before us? It is deceit.

  It is untruthfulness. Let each one of us decide here and now, for this season of Christmas at least, to cast aside all deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another. It will be the first step to a holier life. It will make this Christmas the happiest of our lives.

  William's attention was drawn from the exhortation by the discovery that he had not quite closed the matchbox and the stag beetle was crawling up Ethel's coat. Unfortunately, Ethel was busily engaged in taking in all the details of Marian Atherley's new dress across the aisle and did not notice. William recaptured his pet and shut up the matchbox, then rose to join lustily and inharmoniously

  in the first verse of Onward Christian Soldiers. During the other verses, he employed himself by trying a perfectly new grimace, which he had been practicing all week on the choir boy. It was intercepted by the curate who shuddered and looked away hastily. The sight and sound of William in the second row from the front completely spoiled the

  service for the curate every Sunday. He was an aesthetic young man and William's appearance and personality hurt his sense of beauty. But the words of the sermon had made a deep impression on William. He decided, for this holy season at least, to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and speak

  the truth one with another. William had not been entirely without aspiration to a higher life before this. He had once decided to be self-sacrificing for a whole day and his efforts had been totally unappreciated and misunderstood. He had once tried to reform others and the result had been even more disastrous.

  But he'd never made a real effort to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and to speak the truth one with another. He decided to try it at Christmas, as the vicar had suggested. Much to his disgust, William heard that Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma had asked his family to stay with them for Christmas.

  He gathered that the only drawback to the arrangement in the eyes of his family was himself and the probable effect of his personality on the peaceful household of Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma. He was not at all offended. He was quite used to this view of himself.

  All right, he said obligingly, you just go and don't mind, I'll stay at home. You just leave me money and my presents and I don't mind a bit. William's spirits, in fact, soared sky high at the prospect of such an oasis of freedom in the desert of parental interference. But his family betrayed again that strange disinclination to leave William to his own

  devices that hampered so many of William's activities. No William, said his mother, we certainly can't do that. You'll have to come with us, but I do hope you'll be good. William remembered the sermon and his good resolution. Well, he said cryptically, I guess if you knew what I was going to be like at Christmas,

  you'd almost want me to come. It happened that William's father was summoned on Christmas Eve to the sickbed of one of his aunts and so could not accompany them. But they set off under Robert's leadership and arrived safely. Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma were very stout and good-natured looking.

  But Uncle Frederick was the stouter and a more good-natured looking of the two. They had not seen William since he was a baby. That explained the fact of their having invited William and his family to spend Christmas with them. They lived too far away to have heard even rumors of the horror with which William inspired

  the grown-up world around him. They greeted William kindly. So this is little William, said Uncle Frederick, putting his hand on William's head. And how is little William? William removed his head from Uncle Frederick's hand in silence and then said distantly, very

  well, thank you. And so grateful to your aunt and uncle for asking you to stay with him, aren't you William? went on his mother. William remembered that his career of truthfulness did not begin till the next day. So he said still more distantly, yes.

  That evening Ethel said to her mother in William's presence, well, he's not been so bad today, considering. You wait, said William unctuously, you'll wait till tomorrow when I start cast that aside to see that and today will be nothing to it. William awoke early on Christmas Day.

  He had hung up his stocking the night before and was pleased to see it fairly full. He took out the presents quickly, but not very optimistically. He had been early disillusioned in the matter of grown-ups capacity for choosing suitable presents. Memories of prayer books and history books and socks and anchorages floated before his

  mental vision. He has, as bad as ever, a case containing a pen and pencil and ruler, a new brush and comb, a purse, empty, and a new tie, a penknife and a box of toffee were the only redeeming features. On the chair by his bedside was a book of church history from Aunt Emma and a box containing

  a pair of compasses, a protractor, and a set square from Uncle Frederick. William dressed, but as it was too early to go down, he sat down on the floor and ate all his tin of toffee. Then he turned his attention to his church history book. He read a few pages, but the character and deeds of the saintly Aidan so exasperated

  him that he was driven to relieve his feelings by taking his new pencil from its case and adorning the saint's picture by the addition of a top hat and spectacles. He completed the alterations by a mustache and by changing the book the saint held into an attache case. He made similar alterations to every picture in the book.

  St. Oswald seemed much improved by them and this cheered William considerably. Then he took his penknife and began to carve his initials upon his brush and comb. William appeared at breakfast wearing his new tie and having brushed his hair with his new brush, or rather with what was left of his new brush after his very drastic initial carving.

  He carried under his arm his presents for his host and hostess. He exchanged happy Christmas, gloomily. His resolve to cast away deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another lay heavily upon him. He regarded it as an obligation that could not be shirked.

  William was a boy of great tenacity of purpose. Having once made up his mind to a course, he pursued it regardless of consequences. Well, William, darling, said his mother, did you find your presents? Yes, said William gloomily, thank you. Did you like the book and instruments that uncle and I gave you, said aunt Emma brightly?

  No, said William gloomily and truthfully, I'm not interested in church history and I've got something like those at school. Not that I'd want them, he added hastily, if I hadn't them. William, screamed Mrs. Brown in horror, how can you be so ungrateful? I'm not ungrateful, explained William wearily, I'm only being truthful.

  I'm casting aside deceit and hip hip above what he said. I'm only saying what I'm not interested in church history, nor in those instruments, but thank you very much for them. There was a gasp of dismay and a horrified silence during which William drew his paper packages from under his arm.

  Here are your Christmas presents from me, he said. The atmosphere brightened. They unfastened their parcels with expression of anticipation and Christian forgiveness upon their faces. William watched them, his face registering only patient suffering.

  Oh, it's very kind of you, said Aunt Emma, still struggling with the string. It's not kind, said William, still treading doggedly the path of truth. Mother said I've got to bring you something. Mrs. Brown coughed suddenly and loudly, but not in time to drown the fatal words of truth. But still very kind, said Aunt Emma, though with less enthusiasm.

  At last she brought out a small pincushion. Thank you very much, William, she said. You really oughtn't to have spent your money on me like this. Oh, I didn't, said William, stonily. I hadn't any money, but I'm very glad you like it.

  It was left over from Mother's stall at the sale of work, and Mother said it was no use keeping it for next year, because it had got so faded. Again, Mrs. Brown coughed loudly, but too late. Aunt Emma said coldly, I see, yes. Your mother was quite right, but thank you all the same, William.

  Uncle Frederick had now taken the wrappings from his present and held up a leather purse. Ah, this is a really useful present, he said jovially. I'm afraid it's not very useful, said William. Uncle Jim sent it to Father for his birthday. But Father said it was no use, because the cash wouldn't catch,

  so he gave it to me to give to you. Uncle Frederick tried to catch. Ah, he said, your father was quite right. The cash won't catch. Oh, never mind, I'll send it back to your father as a New Year present, but…

  As soon as the Brown family were left alone, it turned upon William in a combined attack. I warned you, said Ethel to her mother. He ought to be hung, said Robert. William, how could you, said Mrs. Brown. I'm bad, you go on at me, said William with exasperation.

  And when I'm trying to lead a holier life and cast aside hip, what he said, you go on at me. I'd know what I can be. I don't mind being hung. I'd soon be hung as keep having Christmas over and over again, simply every year the way we do. William accompanied the party to church after breakfast.

  He was slightly cheered by discovering a choir boy with a natural aptitude for grimaces and an instinctive knowledge of the rules of the game. The vicar preached an unconvincing sermon on unselfishness, and the curate gave full play to an ultra-Oxford accent and a voice that was almost as unmusical as William's.

  Aunt Emma said it had been a beautiful service. The only bright spot to William was when the organist boxed the ears of the youngest choir boy who retaliated by putting out his tongue at the organist at the beginning of each verse of the last hymn. William was very silent during lunch.

  He simply didn't know what people saw in Christmas. It was just like ten Sundays rolled into one, and they didn't even give people the sort of presents they'd like. No one all his life had ever given him a water pistol or a catapult or a trumpet or bows and arrows or anything really useful.

  And if they didn't like truth and cast an aside deceit and the other thing they could do without. But he was jolly well gone to go on with it. He'd made up his mind, and he was jolly well gone to go on with it. His silence was greatly welcomed by his family. He ate plentifully, however, of the turkey and plum pudding,

  and felt strangely depressed afterwards, so much that he followed the example of the rest of the family and went up to his bedroom. There he brushed his hair with his new brush, but he had carved his initials so deeply and spaciously that the brush came in too with the first flourish.

  He brushed his shoes with the two halves with great gusto in the manner of the professional shoe black. Then, having nothing else to do, he turned to his church history again. The desecrated pictures of the saints met his gaze, and realizing suddenly the enormity of the crime in grown-up eyes, he took his penknife and cut them all out.

  He made paper boats of them and deliberately, and because he hated it, he cut his new tie into strips to fasten some of the boats together. He organized a thrilling naval battle with them, and was almost forgetting his grudge against life in general, and Christmas in particular. He was roused to the sense of the present by sounds of life and movement downstairs,

  and thrusting his saintly paper fleet into his pajama case, he went down to the drawing room. As he entered, there came the sound of a car drawing up at the front door, and Uncle Frederick looked out the window and groaned aloud. It's Lady Atkinson, he said. Help! Help! Now, Frederick dear, said Aunt Emma hastily,

  don't talk like that and do try to be nice to her. She's one of the Atkinsons, you know. She explained with impress-ma to Mrs. Brown in a whisper as the lady was shown in. Lady Atkinson was stout and elderly and wore a very youthful hat and coat. A happy Christmas to you all, she said graciously.

  The boy, your nephew, oh William, how do you do, William? He stares rather, doesn't he? Oh yes. She greeted everyone separately with infinite condescension. I've brought you my Christmas present in person, she went on, in the tone of voice of one giving an unheard-of treat.

  Look! She took out of an envelope a large signed photograph of herself. There now, what do you think of that? Murmurs of surprise and admiration and gratitude. Lady Atkinson drank them in complacently. It's very good, isn't it? You, little boy, don't you think it's very like me?

  William gazed at it critically. It's not as fat as you are, was his final offering at the altar of truth. William! screamed Mrs. Brown. How can you be so impolite? Impolite, said William, with some indignation. I'm not trying to be polite, I'm being truthful.

  I can't be everything. Seems to me I'm the only person in the world what is truthful, and no one seems to be grateful to me. It isn't as fat as what she is, he went on doggedly, and it's not got as many little lines on its face as what she has,

  and it's a different looking altogether. It looks pretty and she doesn't. Lady Atkinson towered over him, quivering with rage. You nasty little boy, she said, thrusting her face close to his.

  You nasty little boy. Then she swept out of the room without another word. The front door slammed. She was gone. Aunt Emma sat down and began to weep.

  She'll never come to the house again, she said. I always said he ought to be hung, said Robert gloomily. Every day we let him live, he complicates our lives still worse. I shall tell your father, William, said Mrs. Brown, directly we get home.

  The kindest thing to think, said Ethel, is that he's mad. Well, said William, I don't know what I've done, except cast aside the seed and the other thing, what he said in church, and speak the truth and that. I don't know why everyone's so mad at me.

  Just because of that, you'd think they'd be glad. She'll never set foot in a house again, sobbed Aunt Emma. Uncle Frederick, who had been vainly trying to hide his glee, arose. I don't think she will, my dear, he said cheerfully. Nothing like the truth, William, absolutely nothing.

  He pressed a half-crown into William's hand surreptitiously as he went to the door. A diversion was mercifully caused at this moment by the arrival of the post. Among it, there was a Christmas card from an artist who had a studio about five minutes' walk from the house. This little attention comforted Aunt Emma very much.

  How kind of him, she said, and we never sent him anything. But there's that calendar that Mr. Frank sent to us, and it's not written on. Perhaps William could be trusted to take it to Mr. Fairley with our compliments while the rest of us go for a short walk. And she looked at William rather coldly.

  William, who was feeling the atmosphere indoors inexplicably hostile, except for Uncle Frederick's equally inexplicable friendliness, was glad of an excuse for escaping. He set off with the calendar wrapped in brown paper. On the way, his outlook on life was considerably brightened

  by finding a street urchin's fight in full swing. He joined in it with gusto and was soon acclaimed leader of his side. This exhilarating adventure was ended by a policeman who scattered the combatants and pretended to chase William down a side street in order to vary the monotony of his Christmas beat.

  William, looking rather battered and disheveled, arrived at Mr. Fairley's studio. The calendar had fortunately survived the battle unscathed, and William handed it to Mr. Fairley, who opened the door. Mr. Fairley showed him into the studio with a low bow. Mr. Fairley was clothed in correct artistic style,

  baggy trousers, velvet coat, and a flowing tie. He had a pointed beard and a theatrical manner. He had obviously lunched well. As far as liquid refreshment was concerned at any rate, he was moved to tears by the calendar.

  How kind! How very kind! My dear young friend, forgive this emotion. The world is hard. I'm not used to kindness. It unmands me. He wiped away his tears with a large mauve and yellow handkerchief.

  William gazed at it, fascinated. If you will excuse me, my dear young friend, went on Mr. Fairley, I will retire to my bedroom where I have the wherewithal to write and indict a letter of thanks to your most delightful and charming relative. I beg you to make yourself at home here.

  Use my house, my dear young friend, as though it were your own. He waved his arm and retreated unsteadily to an inner room, closing the door behind him. William sat down on a chair and waited. Time passed. William became bored.

  Suddenly a fresh aspect of his Christmas resolution occurred to him. If you were speaking the truth, one with another, yourself, surely you might take everything that other people said for truth. He'd said, use this house, my dear young friend, as though it were your own. Well, he would.

  The man probably meant it. Well, anyway, he shouldn't have said it if he didn't. William went across the room and opened a cupboard. It contained a medley of paints, two palettes, three oranges, and a cake. The feeling of oppression that had followed William's Christmas lunch had faded,

  and he attacked the cake with gusto. It took about ten minutes to finish the cake and about four to finish the oranges. William felt refreshed. He looked round the studio with renewed interest. A lay figure sat upon a couch on a small platform.

  William approached it cautiously. It was almost life-size and clad in a piece of thin silk. William lifted it. It was quite light. He put it on a chair by the window.

  Then he went to the little back room. A bonnet and macintosh, belonging to Mr. Fairly's star woman, hung there. He dressed the lay figure in the bonnet and macintosh. He found a piece of black gauze in a drawer and put it over the figure's face as a veil and tied it round the bonnet.

  He felt all the thrill of the creative artist. He shook hands with it and talked to it. He began to have a feeling of deep affection for it. He called it Annabelle. The clock struck and he remembered the note he was waiting for.

  He knocked gently at the bedroom door. There was no answer. He opened the door and entered. On the writing table by the door was a letter. Dear friend, many thanks for your beautiful calendar.

  Words fail me. Then came a blop, mingled ink and emotion. And that was all. Words had failed Mr. Fairly so completely that he lay outstretched on the sofa by the window, sleeping the sleep of the slightly inebriated.

  William thought he'd better not wake him up. He returned to the studio and carried on his self-imposed task of investigation. He found some acid drops in a drawer adhering to a tube of yellow ochre. He separated them and ate the acid drops, but their strong flavor of yellow ochre made him feel sick.

  And he returned to Annabelle for sympathy. Then a thought of a game. The lay figure was a captured princess and William was the gallant rescuer. He went outside, opened the front door cautiously, crept into the hall, hid behind the door, dashed into the studio,

  caught up the figure in his arms and dashed into the street with it. The danger and exhilaration of a race for freedom through the streets with Annabelle in his arms was too enticing to be resisted. As a matter of fact, the flight through the streets was rather disappointing. He met no one and no one pursued him.

  He staggered up the steps to Aunt Emma's house still carrying Annabelle. There, considering the matter for the first time in cold blood, he realized that his rescue of Annabelle was not likely to be received enthusiastically by his home circle. And Annabelle was not easy to conceal.

  The house seemed empty, but he could already hear its inmates returning from their walk. He felt a sudden hatred of Annabelle for being so large and unhideable. He could not reach the top of the stairs before they came in at the door. The drawing room door was open and into it he rushed, deposited Annabelle in a chair by the fireplace with her back to the room, and returned to the hall.

  He smoothed back his hair, assumed his most vacant expression, and awaited them. To his surprise, they crept past the drawing room door on tiptoe and congregated in the dining room. A caller, said Aunt Emma, did you see? Yes, in the dining room, said Mrs. Brown.

  I saw her hat through the window. Curse, said Uncle Frederick. The maids must have shown her in before they went up to change. I'm simply not going to see her on Christmas Day, too. I'll just wait till she gets tired and goes, or till one of the maids comes down and can

  send her away. Shh, said Uncle Frederick, she'll hear you. Aunt Emma lowered her voice. I don't think she's a lady, she said. She didn't look at it through the window.

  Perhaps she's collecting for something, said Mrs. Brown. Well, said Aunt Emma, sinking her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. If we stay in here and keep very quiet, she'll get tired of waiting and go. William was torn between an interested desire to be safely out of the way when the denouement took place, and a disinterested desire to witness the denouement.

  The latter one, and he stood at the back of the group with a sphinx-like expression upon his freckled face. They waited in silence for some minutes. Then Aunt Emma said, well, she'll stay forever, it seems to me, if someone doesn't send her away.

  Frederick, go and turn her out. They all crept into the hall. Uncle Frederick went just inside and coughed loudly. Annabelle did not move. Uncle Frederick came back.

  Death, he whispered. Stone death. Someone else cry. Ethel advanced boldly into the middle of the room. Good afternoon, she said, clearly and sweetly.

  And Annabelle did not move. Ethel returned. I think she must be asleep, said Ethel. She looks drunk to me, said Aunt Emma, peeping round the door. I shouldn't wonder if she was dead, said Robert.

  It's just the sort of thing you read about in books. Mysterious dead body found in drawing room. I bet I can find a few clues to the murder if she is dead. Robert, reproved Mrs. Brown in a shrill whisper. Perhaps she better fetch the police, Frederick, said Aunt Emma.

  I'll have one more try, said Uncle Frederick. He entered the room. Good afternoon, he bellowed. Annabelle did not move. He went up to her.

  Now look here, my woman. He began laying his hand on her shoulder. Then the dénouement happened. Mr. Fairley burst into the house like a whirlwind, still slightly inebriated and screaming with rage.

  Where is the thief? Where is he? He's stolen my figure. He's eaten my tea. I shall have to eat my supper for my tea and my breakfast for my supper.

  I shall be a meal wrong always. I shall never get right. And it's all his fault. Where is he? He's stolen my charwoman's clothes.

  He's stolen my figure. He's eaten my tea. Wait till I get him. He caught sight of Annabelle, rushed into the drawing room, caught her up in his arms, and turned round upon the circle of open-mouthed spectators.

  I hate you, he screamed, and your nasty little calendars, and your nasty little boys, stealing my figure and eating my tea. I'll light the fire with your nasty little calendar. I'd like to light the fire with your nasty little boy. With a final snort of fury, he turned, still clasping Annabelle in his arms,

  and staggered down the front steps. Weakly, stricken, and for the moment speechless, they watched his departure from the top of the steps. He took to his heels as soon as he was in the road. But he was less fortunate than William.

  As he turned the corner and vanished from sight, already two policemen were in pursuit. He was screaming defiance at them as he ran. Annabelle's head wobbled over his shoulder, and her bonnet dangled by a string. Then no longer speechless, they turned on William.

  I told you, said Robert to them, when there was a slight lull in the storm. You wouldn't take my advice. If it wasn't Christmas Day, I'd hang him myself. But you won't let me speak, said William plaintively. Just listen to me a minute.

  When I got to his house, he said, he said, most distinct, he said, please use this. William interrupted Mrs. Brown with dignity. I don't know what's happened, and I don't want to know. But I shall tell your father all about it directly we get home. Uncle Frederick saw them off at the station the next day.

  Does your effort at truth continue today as well? He said to William. I suppose it's Boxing Day too, said William. He didn't mention Boxing Day, but I suppose it counts with Christmas. I won't ask you whether you've enjoyed yourself then, said Uncle Frederick.

  He slipped another half-crown into William's hand. Buy yourself something with that. Your aunt chose the church history book and the instruments. I'm really grateful to you about… Well, I think Emma's right.

  I don't think she'll ever come again. The train steamed out. Uncle Frederick returned home. He had been too optimistic. Lady Atkinson was in the drawing room talking to his wife.

  Of course, she was saying, I'm not annoyed. I bear no grudge because I believe the boy's possessed. He ought to be a little exercised. You know, what they do with evil spirits. It was the evening of William's return home.

  His father's question as to whether William had been good had been answered, as usual, in the negative and refusing to listen to details of accusation or defense, ignoring William's. But he said most of the thing. He said, please use this and the rest of the explanation always drowned by the others.

  He docked William of a month's pocket money. But William was not depressed. The ordeal of Christmas was over. Normal life stretched before him once more. His spirits rose.

  He wandered out into the lane. There he met Ginger, his bosom pal, with whom on normal days he fought and wrestled and carried out deeds of daring and wickedness. But who, like William, on festivals and holy days, was forced reluctantly to shed the light of his presence upon his own family.

  From Ginger's face, too, a certain gloom cleared as he saw William. Well, said William, have you enjoyed it? I had a pair of braces from my aunt, said Ginger bitterly. A pair of braces? Well, I had a tie and a church history book.

  I put my braces down the well. I chopped up my tie into little bits. Was it nice at your aunt's? William's grievances burst out. I went to church and took what that man said.

  And I've been speaking the truth, one with another, and leading a higher life. And well, it jolly well didn't make it the happiest Christmas of my life. Well, he said it would. It made it the worst. Everyone mad at me all the time.

  I think I was the only person in the world speaking the truth, one with another. And they took off my pocket money for it. And you'd think if you was speaking the truth yourself, you might take what anyone else said for truth. And I keep telling them that he said most distinct,

  please use this house as if it were your own. But they won't listen to me. Well, I'm done with it. I'm going back to deceit. And what's that word beginning with?

  Hypnotism suggested ginger after deep thought. Yes, that's it, said William. Well, I'm going back to it. First thing tomorrow morning. End of part one.

• 02 - The Lion And The Mouse (from Modern Essays And Stories 1922)

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  Part 2 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2022, by Various. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 2, The Lion and the Mouse. Big Bill Hedges scowled out of the locker-room window and groaned softly. There was something about that wide, unbroken sweep of snow which affected him disagreeably.

  If only it had been criss-crossed by footprints or the tracks of snow-shoes or toboggans, he wouldn't have minded it nearly so much. But there it lay, flat, white, untrodden, drifting over low walls and turning the clumps of shrubbery into shapeless mounds. And of a sudden he found himself hating it almost as much as the dead silence of the

  endless empty rooms about him. For it was the fourth day of the Christmas vacation, and save the kitchen staff, there were only two other human beings in this whole great barracks of a place. And neither of them is really human, grunted Hedges, turning restlessly from the window. With a disgusted snort, he recalled the behavior of those two, whom so far he had met only

  at mealtime. Mr. Wilson, the tutor left in charge of the school, consumed his food in a preoccupied sort of daze, rousing himself at rare intervals to make some plainly perfunctory remark. He was writing some article or other for the magazines, and it was all too evident that the subject filled his waking hours.

  And Plugg Seabury, with his everlasting book propped up against a tumbler, was even worse. But then Hedges had never expected anything from him. Crossing to his locker, the boy pulled out a heavy sweater, stared at it dubiously for a moment, and then let it dangle from his relaxed fingers. For once the thought of violent physical exertion in the open failed to arouse the least enthusiasm.

  Ever since the departure of the fellows, he had skied and snowshoed and tramped through the drifts, alone. And now the monotony was getting on his nerves. He flung the sweater back, and slamming the locker door, strolled aimlessly out of the room.

  One peep into the cold, lofty, empty gym effectually quelled his half-formed notion of putting in an hour or two on the parallel bars. I'm lonesome, he growled, just plum lonesome. It's the first time I've ever wished I didn't live in Arizona. But the thought of home and Christmas cheer and all the other vanished holiday delights

  was not one to dwell on now. He tried instead to appreciate how absurd it would have been to spend eight of his twelve holidays on the train. A little further dawdling ended in his turning toward the library. He was not in the least fond of reading.

  Life ordinarily, with its constant succession of outdoor and indoor sports and games, was much too full to think of wasting time with a book unless one had to. But the thought occurred to him that today it might be a shade better than doing absolutely nothing. Opening the door of the long, low-ceiling, book-lined room, which he had expected to

  find as desolately empty as the rest, he paused in surprise. On the brick hearth a log fire burned cheerfully, and curled up in an easy chair close to the hearth was the slight figure of Paul Seabury. Hello, said Hedges gruffly. When he had recovered from his surprise, you sure made yourself comfortable.

  Seabury gave a start and raised his head. For a moment his look was veiled, abstracted, as if his mind still lingered on the book, lying open in his lap. Then recognition slowly dawned, and a faint flush crept into his face. The wood was here, and I didn't think there'd be any harm in lighting it, he said, thrusting

  back a straggling walk of brown hair. I don't suppose there is, returned Hedges shortly. Unconsciously, it was a little annoyed that Seabury should seem so comfortable and content. I thought you were upstairs. He dragged a chair to the other side of the hearth and plumped down in it.

  What are you reading? he asked. Seabury's eyes brightened. He answered eagerly, it's awfully exciting. I've just got to the place where, ah, never read it, interrupted the big fellow indifferently. Lounging back against the leather cushions, he surveyed the slim, brown-eyed, rather

  pale-faced boy with a sort of contemptuous curiosity. Do you read all the time? he asked. Again, the blood crept up into Seabury's thin face, and his lids drooped. Well, no, not all the time. He answered slowly, but just now there's nothing else to do.

  Hedges grunted, nothing else to do? Gee whiz, don't you ever feel like going for a tramp or something? I suppose you can't snowshoe or ski, but I shouldn't think you'd want to stay cooped up in the house all the time. A faint, nervous smile curved the boy's sensitive lips.

  Oh, I can ski and snowshoe all right, but he paused, noticing the incredulous expression which Hedges was in no pains to hide. Everybody does where I live in Canada, he explained. Often it's the only way to get about. Oh, I see.

  Hedges' tone was no longer curt, and a sudden look of interest adflashed into his eyes. But don't you like it? Doesn't this snow make you want to go out and try some stunts? Seabury glanced sideways through the casement windows at the sloping drifted field beyond. No, I can't say it does, he confessed hesitatingly.

  It's such a beastly rotten day. His interest in Plugg's unexpected accomplishments made Hedges forbear to comment scornfully on such weakness. Rotten, he repeated, why, it's not bad at all. It stopped snowing.

  I know, but it looks as if it would start in again any minute. Shucks sniffed Hedges. A little snow won't hurt you. Come ahead out and let's see what you can do. Seabury hesitated, glancing with a shiver at the cold white field outside and back

  to the cheerful fire. He did not feel at all inclined to leave his comfortable chair and this enthralling book. On the other hand, he was curiously unwilling to merit Bill Hedges' disapproval. From the first he had regarded this big, strong, dominating fellow with a secret admiration and shy liking, which held in it no touch of envy or desire for emulation.

  It was the sort of admiration he felt for certain heroes in his favorite books. When Hedges made some spectacular play on the gridiron or pulled off an especially thrilling stunt on the hockey rink, Seabury, watching inconspicuously from the sidelines, got all hot and cold and breathlessly excited. But he was quite content that Hedges should be doing it and not himself.

  Sometimes to be sure, he wondered what it would be like to have such a person for a friend. But until this moment, Hedges had scarcely seemed aware of his existence and Seabury was much too shy to make advances, even when the common misfortune of two distant homes had thrown them together in the isolation of the empty school.

  I haven't any skis, he said at length. Hedges sprang briskly to his feet, oh that's nothing, I'll fix you up, we can borrow Marston's. Come ahead. Swept along by his enthusiasm, Seabury closed his book and followed him out into the corridor and down to the locker room.

  Here they got out sweaters, woolen gloves and caps and Hedges calmly appropriated the absent Marston's skis. Emerging finally into the open, Seabury shivered a little as the keen, searching wind struck him. The wind came from the northeast and there was a chill, penetrating quality about it,

  which promised more snow, and that soon. By the time Seabury had adjusted the leather harness to his feet and resumed his gloves, his fingers were blue and he needed no urging to set off at a swift pace. In saying that he could ski, the boy had not exaggerated. He was in fact so perfectly at home upon the long, smooth, curved up strips of ash that

  he moved with the effortless ease and grace of one scarcely conscious of his means of locomotion. Watching him closely, Hedges' expression of critical appraisement changed swiftly to one of unqualified approval. Oh, you're not much good on them, are you?

  he commented. I suppose you can jump any old distance and do all sorts of fancy stunts. Seabury laughed. He was warm again and beginning to find an unwanted pleasure in the swift gliding motion and the tingling rush of frosty air against his face.

  Oh, nothing like that at all, he answered. I can jump some, of course, but I'm really not much good at anything except just straight away going. Ah, grunted Hedges, skeptically, I'll bet you could run circles around any of the fellas here.

  Well, what do you say to taking a little tramp? I've knocked around the grounds till I'm sick of them. Let's go up Hogan Hill, he added, with a burst of inspiration. Seabury promptly agreed, though inwardly he was not altogether thrilled at the prospect of such a climb.

  Hogan Hill rose steeply back of the school. A few hay fields ranged along its lower level, but above them the timber growth was fairly thick and Paul knew from experience that skiing on a wooded slope was far from easy. As it turned out, Hedges had no intention of tackling the steep slope directly. He knew of an old wood road which led directly to the summit by more leisurely twists and

  curves and it was his idea that they take this as far as it went and then ski down its open winding length. By the time they were halfway up, Seabury was pretty well blown. It was the first time he had been on skis in nearly a year and his muscles were soft from general lack of exercise.

  He made no complaint, however, and presently Hedges himself proposed a rest. I wish I could handle the things as easily as you do, he commented. I work so almighty hard that I get all in a sweat while you just glide along as if you were on skates. I may glide, but I haven't any wind left, confess Seabury.

  It's only practice, you know. I've used them ever since I was a little kid and compared to some of the fellas up home I'm nowhere. Do you think we ought to go any farther? I felt some snow on my face just then.

  Oh sure, said Hedges bluffly, a little snow won't hurt us anyhow and we can ski down in no time at all. Let's not go back just yet. Presently they started on again and though Seabury kept silent, he was far from comfortable in his mind.

  He had had more than one unpleasant experience with sudden winter storms. It seemed to him a wiser to turn back at once, but he was afraid of suggesting it again lest Hedges think him a quitter. A little later, still mounting the narrow winding trail, they came upon a rough log hut, aged and deserted, with a sagging half-open door, but the two boys, unwilling to take

  off their skis, did not stop to investigate it. Every now and then, during the next half-mile, trifling little guts of stinging snowflakes whirled down from the leaden sky, beat against their faces, and scurried on. Seabury's feeling of nervous apprehension increased, but Hedges, in his careless, self-confident manner, merely laughed and said that the trip home would be all the more interesting for

  little diversions of that sort. The words were scarcely spoken when, from the distance, there came a curious, thin wailing of the wind rising swiftly to a dull, ominous roar. Startled, both boys stopped abruptly and stared up the slope. And as they did so, something like a vast, white, opaque curtain surged over the crest

  of the hill and swept swiftly toward them. Almost before they could draw a breath, it was upon them, a dense, blinding mass of snow, which whirled about them in choking masses and blotted out the landscape in a flash. Oh, gas, Hedges, some speed to that. I guess we'd better beat it, kid, while the going's good.

  And even Hedges, with his easy, careless confidence, was swiftly forced to the realization that the going was very far from good even then. It was impossible to see more than a dozen yards ahead of them. As a matter of course, the older fellow took the lead, but he had not gone far before he ran off the track and only saved himself from a spill by grabbing a small tree.

  Have to take it easy, he commented, recovering his balance. This storm will let up soon, it can't possibly last long this way. Seabury made no answer, shaking with nervousness, he could not trust himself to speak. Regaining the trail, Hedges started off again, cautiously enough at first, but a little success seemed to restore his confidence and he began to use his staff as a brake with less and

  less frequency. They had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when a sudden heavier gust of stinging flakes momentarily blinded them both. Seabury instantly put on the brake and almost stopped. When he was able to clear his eyes, Hedges was out of sight.

  An instant later there came a sudden crash, a startled muffled cry, and then silence. Horrified, Seabury instantly jerked his staff out of the snow and sped forward. At first he could barely see the tracks of his companion's skis, but presently the storm enlightened a trifle and of a sudden he realized what had happened. Hedges had misjudged a sharp curve in the trail and, instead of following it, had plunged

  off to one side and down a steep declivity thickly grown with trees. At the foot of this little slope, Seabury found him lying motionless, a twisted heap face downward in the snow. Sick with horror, the boy bent over that silent figure. Bill, he cried, what has...

  His voice died in a choking sob, but a moment later his heart leaped as Hedges stirred, tried to rise, and fell back with a stifled groan. It's my ankle, he mumbled, I've turned it, see if you can... With shaking fingers, Seabury jerked at the buckles of his skis and stepped out of them. Hedges' left foot was twisted under him and the front part of his ski was broken off.

  As Paul freed the others' feet from their encumbering straps, Bill made a second effort to rise, but his face turned quite white and he sank back with a grunt of pain. Thunder, he muttered, I believe it's sprained. For a moment or two he sat there, face screwed up, arms gripping his knees. Then, as his head cleared, he looked up at the frightened Seabury, a wry smile twisting

  the corners of his mouth. I'm an awful nut, kid, he said, I forgot that curve and was going too fast to pull up. Reckon I deserve that crack on the head and all the rest of it for being so awfully cocky. Looks as if we were in rather a mess, doesn't it? Seabury nodded, still unable to trust himself to speak, but Hedges' coolness soothed his

  jangled nerves and presently a thought struck him. That cabin back there, he exclaimed, if we could only manage to get that far... He paused and the other nodded, good idea, he agreed promptly. I'm afraid I can't walk it, but I might be able to crawl. Oh, I didn't mean that.

  If we only had some way of fastening my skis together, you could lie down on them and I could pull you. A gleam of admiration came into the older chap's dark eyes. You've got your nerve with you, old man, he said. Do you know how much I weigh?

  Oh, that doesn't matter, protested Seabury, it's all downhill, it wouldn't be so hard. Besides, we can't stay here or we'll freeze. Now you said something, agreed Hedges, and it was true. Already Seabury's teeth were chattering, and even the warmer-blooded Hedges could feel the cold penetrating his thick sweater.

  He tried to think of some other way out of their predicament, but finally agreed to try the plan. His heavy high shoes were laced with rawhide thongs, which sufficed roughly to bind the two skis together. There was no possibility, however, of pulling them.

  The only way they could manage was for Hedges to seat himself on the improvised toboggan while Seabury trudged behind and pushed. It was a toilsome and painful method of progress for them both, and often jolted Hedges' ankle, which was already badly swollen, bringing on a constant succession of sharp, keen stabs. Seabury, wading knee-deep in the snow, was soon breathless, and by the time they reached

  the cabin, he felt utterly done up. Couldn't have kept that up much longer, grunted Hedges, when they were inside the shelter, with the door closed against the storm. His alert gaze traveled swiftly around the bare interior. There was a rough stone chimney at one end, a shuttered window at the back, and that was

  all. Snow lay piled up on the cold hearth, and here and there made little ridges on the logs where it had filtered through the many cracks and crevices. Without the means of making fire, it was not much better than the out-of-doors, and Hedges' heart sank as he glanced at his companion, leaning exhausted against the wall.

  It's sure to stop pretty soon, he said presently, with a confidence he did not feel. When it lets up a little, we might—I don't believe it's going to let up. Seabury straightened with an odd, unwanted air of decision. I was caught in a storm like this two years ago, and it lasted over two days. We've got to do something and do it pretty quick.

  Hedges stared at him, amazed at the sudden transformation. He did not understand that a long-continued nervous strain will sometimes bring about strange reactions. You're not thinking of pushing me all the way down the road, are you? he protested.

  I don't believe you could do it. I don't believe I could either, agreed the other frankly. But I could go down alone and bring back help. Gee whiz, you mean ski down that road? Why, it's over three miles, and you'll miss the trail a dozen times.

  I shouldn't try the road, said Seabury quietly. His face was pale, but there was a determined set to the delicate gin. If I went straight down the hill, back of this cabin, I'd land close to the school, and I don't believe the whole distance is over half a mile. Hedges gasped.

  You are a crazy man. Why, you'd kill yourself in the first hundred feet trying to ski through those trees. I don't think so. I've done it before, some. Besides, most of the slope is open fields.

  I noticed that when we started out. But they're steep as the dickens with stone walls, and Seabury cut short his protest by buttoning his collar tightly about his throat and testing the laces of his shoes. He was afraid to delay lest his resolution should break down. I'm going, he stated stubbornly, and the sooner I get off the better.

  And though he did, with a curt farewell, which astonished and bewildered his companion, who had no means of knowing that it was a manner assumed to hide a desperate fear and nervousness. As the door closed between them, Seabury's slips began to tremble, and his hands shook so that he could scarcely tighten up the straps of his skis. Back of the cabin, poised at the top of the slope, with the snow whirling around him and

  the unknown in front, he had one horrible moment of indecision when his heart lay like lead within him, and he was on the verge of turning back. But with a tremendous effort, he crushed down that almost irresistible impulse. He could not bear the thought of facing hedges, an acknowledged coward, and a quitter. An instant later, a thrust of his staff sent him over the edge to glide downward through

  the trees with swiftly increasing momentum. Strangely enough, he felt somehow that the worst was over. To begin with, he was much too occupied to think of danger, and after he had successfully steered through the first hundred feet or so of woods, a growing confidence in himself helped to bolster up his shrinking spirit.

  After all, save for the blinding snow, this was no worse than some of the descents he had made of wooded slopes back there at home. If the storm did not increase, he believed that he could make it. At first he managed by a skillful use of his staff to hold himself back a little and keep his speed within a reasonable limit.

  But just before he left the woods, the necessity for a sudden side turn to avoid a plump of trees through which he could not pass nearly flung him off his balance. In struggling to recover it, the end of his staff struck against another tree and was torn instantly from his grasp. His heart leaped, then sank sickeningly, but there was no stopping now.

  A moment later he flashed out into the open, swerved through a gap in the rough snow-covered wall and shot down the steep incline with swiftly increasing speed. His body tense and bent slightly forward, his straining gaze set unwaveringly ahead, striving to pierce the whirling beating snow. Seabury felt as if he were flying through the clouds.

  On a clear day, with the ability to see what lay before him, there would have been a rather delightful exhilaration in that descent. But the perilous uncertainty of it all kept the boy's heart in his throat and chained him in a rigid grip of cold fear. Long before he expected it, the rounded, snow-covered bulk of a second wall seemed to leap out of

  the blinding snow curtain and rush toward him. Almost too late, he jumped, and, soaring through the air, struck the declining slope again, a good thirty feet beyond. In the lightning passage of that second field, he tried to figure where he was coming out and what obstacles he might encounter, but the effort was fruitless.

  He knew that the high road, bordered by a third stone wall, ran along the foot of the hill with the school grounds on the other side, but the speed at which he was traveling made consecutive thought almost impossible. Again, with that same appalling swiftness, the final barrier loomed ahead. He leaped, and at the very take-off, a gasp of horror was jolted from his lips by the

  sight of a two-horse sledge moving along the road, directly in his path. It was all over in a flash. Helpless to avoid the collision, Seabury nevertheless twisted his body instinctively to the left. He was vaguely conscious of a monstrous, looming bulk, of a startled snort which sent a wave of hot breath against his face, and the equally startled yell of a human voice.

  The next instant he landed badly, his feet shot out from under him, and he fell backward with a stunning crash. His first conscious observation was of two strange faces bending over him and of hands lifting him from where he lay, half buried in the snow. For a moment he was two days to speak or even to remember.

  Then, with a surging rush of immense relief, he realized what had happened, and gaining speech he poured out a hurried but fairly coherent account of the situation. His rescuers proved to be woodsmen, perfectly familiar with the Hogan Hill Trail and the Old Law Cabin. Seabury's skis were taken off and he was helped into the sledge and driven to the nearby school.

  Stiff and sore, but otherwise unhurt, he wanted to go with them, but his request was firmly refused, and pausing only long enough to get some rugs and a heavy coat, the pair set off. Little more than two hours later they returned with the injured hedges, who was carried at once to the infirmary to be treated for exposure and a badly sprained ankle. His rugged constitution responded readily to the former, but the ankle proved more stubborn,

  and he was ordered by the doctor not to attempt even to hobble around on it for at least a week. As a result, Christmas dinner had to be eaten in bed. But somehow hedges did not mind that very much, for Paul Seabury shared it, sitting on the other side of a folding table, drawn up beside the couch.

  Having consumed everything in sight and reaching that state of repletion, without which no Christmas dinner may be considered really perfect, the two boys relapsed for a space into a comfortable, friendly sort of silence. "'Not much on skis, are you?' commented hedges presently, glancing quizzically at his companion. Seabury flushed a little.

  "'I wish you wouldn't,' he protested. "'If you had any idea how scared I was, and the whole thing was just pure luck.'" Hedges snorted. "'Bosh! You go tell that to your grandmother.'

  "'There's one thing,' he added. "'As soon as I'm around again, you've got to come out and give me some points. I thought I was fairly decent on skis, but I guess, after all, I'm pretty punk.' "'Well, I'll show you anything I can, of course,' agreed Seabury readily. He paused an instant, and then went on, hesitatingly, "'I'm going to do a lot more of that sort

  of thing from now on. It was simply disgusting, the way I got winded so soon, and all tired out.' "'Sure,' nodded Hedges promptly. "'That's what I've always said. You ought to take more exercise and not mope around by yourself so much.

  But we'll fix that up all right from now on.' He paused. "'Aren't you going to read some more in Treasure Island?' He asked expectantly. "'That's some book, believe me.

  What with you and that and everything, I'm not going to mind being laid up at all.' Seabury made no comment, but as he reached for the book and found their place, the corners of his mouth curved with the beginnings of a contented, happy smile." End of part two.

• 03 - Christmas At The Pyramids (from Australasia Triumphant 1916)

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  Part 3 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2022. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 3, Christmas at the Pyramids. From Australasia Triumphant by A. St. John Adcock, 1916. Re-Australians in World War I.

  I like to think of those keen young Australians, men of the youngest of nations, who have put their hands to the building of the happier world of tomorrow, which shall be a greater and more lasting monument to them than any pyramid of brick and stone. I like to think of them, eager, splendidly alive, on the threshold of a new day, turning aside to wander in those dusty halls and passages, haunted by ghosts of a wondrous civilization

  that has been dead these thousands of years. I like to think, too, of those ory pyramids, dark with long memories, towering up into the bright sky on Sunday mornings, when church service was being held in the camp, and hearing the faint preludings of the military band, and then the swell of a myriad voices joining in some such nobly simple hymn as Rock of Ages, an alien melody to them, but with all

  of home in it for the singers. Strange hours they must have been when those voices of the future broke the silence of the past. Another circumstance that appeals to the imagination is that amongst this continuous coming and going of troops, the stir and noise of warlike preparations, there was a small prohibited

  area where Dr. Reisler, the American Egyptologist, was all the while making excavations and reverently unearthing the ancient tombs at the base of one of the pyramids, serenely undisturbed. But though that area was officially forbidden to the soldiers, Dr. Reisler made them heartily welcome when any happened to stray into his neighborhood. The age correspondent asked him whether the proximity of the troops inconvenienced him,

  and why surely, said he with a pleasantly strong American intonation, I don't mind the troops coming down here, I welcome all you Australians, and believe me, the natives have taken a great fancy to your men. They are tickled to death with them. There were two great days towards the end of December when Lieutenant General Sir John

  Maxwell, commander of the forces in Egypt, rode into Mine Camp and with General W.R. Birdwood, commanding the Australian and New Zealand contingents, and Sir George Reed, the Australian High Commissioner, held a review in which cavalry, infantry, and all branches of the Australian service took part, one regiment on the second day arriving back from a long desert march with their coats off and shirt sleeves turned up, hot and dusty,

  but in the highest spirits, and falling into line immediately to parade past with the rest. They said that the sight of these hardy fellows approaching insensible De Chaville, but fresh as paint after miles of tramping under a broiling sun, moved General Maxwell to ejaculate emphatically to the High Commissioner, this is a splendid sight Sir George, they're a grand lot. But I have a notion that the most memorable event of those two months was the Christmas

  which they all spent in the desert. From three o'clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, parades were dispensed with and for two days the homely spirit of Yule triumphed over the spirit of Mars on the banks of the Nile. Instead of small tourist parties, thousands went pouring out on camels and donkeys to the Sphinx and the pyramids, and thousands went to crowd and enliven the bright streets

  of Cairo and Chaffer at the booths for gifts to send to the folk down south. The adjacent palm groves were laid under contribution and the tents lavishly decorated within and without. And after dark, when the revelers were back, every tent was brilliantly lighted up and Chinese lanterns hung glowing at the entrances to many of them.

  Centuries along the moonlit road that led from Cairo tried to maintain the usual punctilious military formalities, but as often as not, the returning groups would have none of their challenges in such a time as that, and answered with insubordinate flippancies. You can see who goes here right enough, Joe, it's me. Look, here the outraged sentry would protest, if you don't halt when I tell you to, I'll

  call the guard out and put you under arrest. No, don't do that, Joe, it's chilly and the poor chaps will catch cold. Merry Christmas, old boy. And the revel passed on with his friends, and the sentry, since after all it was Christmas, grinned and let them go.

  Though they returned to camp, they were not going to bed. Hardly anybody thought of sleep until daybreak. Something after midnight, a cornet player in one of the tents started a Christmas carol, and the singing and laughter that had been coming from the other tents quieted down. Another cornet farther along the canvas street joined in, then another farther off still,

  a street or two away. When they stopped, a drum sounded and a string band somewhere took up the burden and filled the blue dark with memories that did not belong to the desert. Towards four o'clock, when all the other music had dwindled into silence, the band of the Fourth Sydney Battalion began a series of such carols, the old, old, familiar tunes

  that catch at the heartstrings with dear and sacred associations, and so played the last of the night away and the first of the morning in. And with the morning came the Christmas mails, and there was scarcely a tent in all those miles of them at which the postman did not call with letters from home. Early in the day, the camp kitchens were getting busy, but outside help had been called

  in so as to give the regimental cooks a holiday. After church parade, the men laid themselves out to make the most of the day. There were the wildest donkey races and several attempts to organize a camel race, but the camels could not be persuaded to run. Two scratch teams were put together for a cricket match with makeshift bats and wickets,

  and the New South Wales regiment carried through a successful football tournament. Dinner was, of course, the crowning event of the day. This was served in two miles of wooden huts, four of which were allotted to each regiment. There was a turkey for every table and a supply of turkeys held in reserve in case any table demanded more than one.

  There were Christmas puddings in plenty and other seasonable fare, and some of the tables had even succeeded in supplying themselves with crackers. In spite of the time and the place, the old festival was observed with all the good cheer and jollity that traditionally belonged to it. And not the least pleasant moment of the festivities came when the colonels of the different regiments

  looked in at hut after hut to see that their men were well supplied and to wish them a Merry Christmas. And you might track the way those colonels went by the cheers that followed them. One of the Australian officers sent home the following as the menu of his Christmas dinner in the desert.

  Brigade headquarters staff and field artillery brigade, tablitude. Soup, vegetable, joints, roast sirloin of beef, boiled pork, ham, poultry, roast turkey and savory sauce, vegetables, asparagus and butter sauce, baked and mashed potatoes, green peas, sweets, plum pudding and brandy sauce, port wine jelly, bon mange and jam, fruit salad, almonds, mixed nuts, snapdragon, fruits in season, port wine, whiskey, brandy, aerated

  waters, tea, coffee, cocoa. The festivities were continued to some extent through most of the following day. When the suspended routine was resumed, the relaxed discipline tightened up again, holiday making was over, and officers and men were presently heartened by a prospect of coming to grips with the enemy at last.

  End of part 3

• 04 - The Boy, The Best Beloved And The Christmas Present (from Windsor Magazine 1924)

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  Part 4 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2022, by various. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 4, The Boy, The Best Beloved, and The Christmas Present, by Rick Moll Crompton. It was Christmas Eve. The boy crept slowly round the house, and peered cautiously through the lighted dining

  room window. Here his arm was a small, white, wriggling object. As he gazed through the window, he heaved a sigh expressive of deep emotion. In the dining room sat the best beloved. His eyes dwelt ecstatically and reverently on her beauty.

  His nose almost flattened against the window. He gazed and gazed. It might be presumed from this description that the best beloved was dining alone, but this was not so. There was a shadowy male parent and a shadowy young sister with a long red plate dining

  also. The boy usually noticed the existence of the male parent only when he shot forth disconcerting questions on political problems of which the boy, who despised politics, had never heard. He noticed the existence of the young sister only when her stare was more than usually impertinent.

  Otherwise, they did not exist. To all intents and purposes, the best beloved was the only person in the world. She was older than the boy, but that was in the boy's eyes an added attraction. He considered himself to be a man of the strong silent type, old and experienced in the ways of the world beyond his years.

  It may be remarked here that this view of the boy's character was unshared by the rest of the world. Occasionally he would venture on a cynical remark that gave him intense secret pleasure, and he felt sure increased the best beloved's admiration of him. He knew that she admired him, though she did not show it.

  An unusually violent struggle from the animal beneath his arm recalled him to earth, and with another sigh he crept round to the side door. There he took off his shoes, then opened the door furtively and crept down the passage to the drawing room, lunging ungracefully from side to side in his endeavors to be noiseless, his brow drawn into a stern frown, his tongue protruding several inches in the intensity

  of his efforts. At last he reached the room. It was lit only by firelight. He pulled the door, too, without shutting it, and looked round. It was Christmas Eve, and the boy was bringing a present for the best beloved.

  The boy possessed the dramatic instinct. He wanted to give the best beloved a puppy, but he did not want to hand the puppy to the best beloved in cold blood or even send it by a messenger. He wanted the best beloved to come to the drawing room after dinner and find the puppy posed in front of the fire, wearing a label, a happy Christmas, and his initials.

  He himself would go away quietly as soon as he had arranged the puppy. It was a great idea. The only drawback seemed to be the puppy. It was a puppy with a strong objection to being arranged. It was of an adventurous and inquiring turn of mind.

  During its two-day sojourn at the boy's house, it had reduced to their component parts two cushions, a rug, and three pairs of bedroom slippers. It generally chewed up the component parts and swallowed whichever of them appealed to its palate. It possessed the digestive faculties of an ostrich.

  The boy's mother had waxed almost lyrical on the subject of the puppy. On being carefully arranged by the boy in an attractive attitude in front of the fire, it dashed at the window curtains and began to pull them with soft, little threatening growls. The boy captured it again and once more arranged it patiently before the fire.

  As soon as he withdrew his hands to admire the effect, it scampered into an impregnable position behind the coal scuttle. Once it looked derisively at the boy, its small head cocked. The boy, his brow now screwed into a Napoleonic frown by the desperation of the crisis, crept towards it on all fours.

  Puss, puss, puss, puss, puss, he whispered hoarsely. The puppy began to chew bits off the wooden wainscoting. I mean, dog, dog, dog, dog, said the boy apologetically. The puppy flashed across the room, pulling off the cover of a small table in its flight, and disappeared beneath a sofa.

  It was a long, deep sofa. The boy put a red, perspiring face beneath the sofa and stretched out an ineffectual arm. Come on, old chap, he said in hoarse but honeyed accents. Come on, then, oh boy, come on, come on, come on, you can't, you fool.

  Come on, puss, puss, puss, puss, I mean, dog, dog, dog, come on. He was interrupted by something cold at the back of his neck and a small threatening voice that said, hands up or I'll fire. With difficulty, he brought back his head from beneath the sofa and met the stern gaze of what he dimly discerned in the half-light to be the younger sister.

  She had a revolver in her hands. I say, he said mildly, you're holding it by the wrong end. She dropped it with a little scream. You might have told me before, she said. I couldn't see you, he said.

  Is it loaded? I don't know. I got it out of Daddy's drawer. Anyway, I'm going to gag you and then ring up the police. It's no use struggling.

  A sudden flicker of firelight showed up his flushed, bewildered features. Heavens, you're Harry Graham, she gasped. Her disappointment was obvious. There was silence in the room except for the sound of the puppy chewing the wainscotting behind the sofa.

  At last she spoke. I thought you were a burglar, she said in a small flat voice going over to the fireplace where she sank a little disconsolate heap on the hearth rug. I think it's simply beastly of you, she went on with a hint of tears in her voice. He came across to her and knelt on the hearth rug opposite her, uncertainly, staring at

  her in open mouth bewilderment. What? Why? he stammered. I've always wanted to catch a burglar all by myself.

  It's been my dream. And Madge asked me to fetch her cigarettes and I heard a noise in here and I saw a man and I went to get Daddy's revolver and I was going to, oh, it's simply beastly of you. He gazed at her silently. She was pretty.

  She was most awfully pretty. Blue eyes, rosy cheeks, auburn hair. Auburn, not red, most decidedly not red. Funny he'd never really noticed her before. After all, should a man, even a strong silent man, marry a woman older than himself?

  He wasn't at all, sure. I don't know what you came for, she said with sudden anger, messing about and pretending to be a burglar. She looked at him defiantly, her blue eyes starry with tears. His already red cheeks deepened in hue.

  He drew a deep breath. I came, he said, to bring you a puppy for a Christmas present. Me, she said in amazement. Yes, you, he said shamelessly. I thought it was Madge who, she blushed.

  With an expansive gesture, he waved his adoration of Madge into the limbo of the past. Oh, once, perhaps, he said, but now, he finished his speech by a cough to hide his embarrassment. At this moment, the situation was relieved by the appearance of the puppy from beneath the sofa with the remains of its chewed-up label still adhering to its whiskers. This is him, said the boy ungrammatically.

  A lamb, said the girl inaccurately. She fondled the lamb in silence for a few minutes while the boy beamed upon her. And then she said, Oh, are you going to the cook's dance next week? He nodded. I am too, she said with bright eyes.

  I'm not really out, but I'm going to put up my hair for it. I tried it up last night. It looks topping. You bet it does, said the boy fervently. I say, give me some dances.

  Some? Oh, the bally lot. I've never learnt the blues. It's as easy as easy. I'll teach you now.

  I left my shoes in the porch, but I can manage all right. It's like this, see? Now you try. By joe. Topping.

  Now together. Not at all. My fault. No, no, no, it didn't hurt a bit. I thought I'd better leave them out there because of the noise.

  By joe splendid, he began to hum untunefully. I wanted it to be a surprise for you, the dog, I mean. I say you're picking it up fine. You're frightfully clever, you know. Mind the table.

  Oh, my fault, my fault. Oh, no, it wasn't you. The dog got hold of my toe. All right, now it's let go. Fine by joe.

  About five minutes later, the elder sister came in. She switched on the light and surveyed the occupants calmly. I thought you'd gone for my cigarettes, Joan. Rather an unexpected call, Harry. Is that your dog that's chewing up the hearth rug?

  The boy looked at her coldly. However, had he thought her the one and only woman, good heavens she was old, old, 25 if she was a day. Horrible. When he was 44, she'd be 50.

  50 at least, he thought so. He counted again on his fingers in his pocket to make sure. Yes, 50, good heavens. No man, however experienced and strong and silent, should marry a woman older than himself.

  A woman who'd be 50 when he was only a bit over 40. A really strong, silent man should marry someone younger than himself. Someone with blue eyes and auburn hair. I just dropped in, he said distantly,

  to bring a small present for Joan. The dog, I mean. All right, said the ex-best beloved pleasantly. Don't let the fire out. She took a case of cigarettes from the mantelpiece

  and went out, closing the door. Harry Graham's there, she said to the male parent in the dining room. He seems to have taken to Joan. It's a great relief.

  Don't see that it makes any difference, said the male parent gloomily. He'll still be hanging around the place, I suppose, with his infernal squeaky chatter. Thus, the male parent referred to the strong, silent man.

  It makes a difference to me, said the elder sister softly. Christmas Eve wore on. The shadowy male parent sat at the head of the dinner table, conscious only of a warm fire. An excellent glass of port, an excellent cigar.

  He was perfectly happy. The shadowy elder sister sat at the foot of the table, dreamily blowing rings of tobacco smoke. She was thinking of a man who does not come into this story, but who would have a chance now that she was not

  eternally besieged by the boy. She was perfectly happy. The boy and the best beloved sat on the drying room hearth rug. Their eyes fixed ecstatically upon each other,

  discussing such dear intimate things as motors and the latest football results. They were perfectly happy. The puppy, unnoticed and unchecked, rioted in the best armchair.

  He had got through the tapestry cover and was beginning on the stuffing. He was perfectly happy. End of part four. Thank you.

• 05 - Christmas Shopping (from Modern Essays And Stories 1922))

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  Part 5 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2022. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 5, Christmas Shopping, by Helen Davenport, from Modern Essays and Stories by Frederick Hooke Law, 1922. My husband and I would not miss that a day before Christmas last-minute rush for anything.

  And even if I risk seeming to talk against the sane and humane shopperly-for-Christmas propaganda, I am going to say that the fun and joy of Christmas shopping is doing it on the 24th. Avoid the crowds? I don't want to.

  I want to get right in the middle of them. I want to shove my way up to counters. I want to buy things that catch my eye and that I never thought of buying and wouldn't buy on any day in the year but December 24th. I want to spend more money than I can afford.

  I want to experience that panicky feeling that I really haven't enough things and to worry over whether my purchases can be divided fairly among my quartet. I want to go home after dark, reveling in the flare of lamps lighting up mistletoe, holly wreaths and Christmas trees on hawker skirts, stopping here and there to buy another pound of candy or a box of dates or a foolish bauble for the tree.

  I want to shove bundle after bundle into the arms of my protesting husband and remind him that Christmas comes but once a year until he becomes profane. And once home, on what other winter evening would you find pleasure in dumping the whole lot on your bed, adding to the jumble of toys and books already purchased or sent by friends and all other thoughts vanished, calmly making the children's piles, despite aching back

  and legs, impatient husband, cross servants and a dozen dinner guests waiting in the drawing room. End of part five.

• 06 - Advent Hymns/Poems 1-13 (from The English Hymnal 1906)

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  Part 6 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2022. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 6. Advent hymns or poems from the English hymnal, 1906, numbers 1 through 13. 1.

  Creator of the stars of night, thy people's everlasting light, Jesu Redeemer save us all, and hear thy servants when they call. Thou, aggrieving that the ancient curse should doom to death the universe, hast found the medicine full of grace to save and heal a ruined race. Thou camest, the bridegroom of the bride, as drew the world to evening tide, proceeding

  from a virgin shrine, the spotless victim all divine. At whose dread name, majestic now, all knees must bend, all hearts must bow, and things celestial thee shall own, and things terrestrial, Lord alone. O thou, whose coming is with dread to judge and doom the quick and dead, preserve us while we dwell below from every insult of the foe.

  To God the Father, God the Son, and God the Spirit, three in one, Lord, honor, might, and glory be, from age to age, eternally. Amen. 2. High word of God, who once didst come, leaving thy father and thy home, to succor by thy

  birth our kind, when towards thine advent time declined. Pour light upon us from above, and fire our hearts with thy strong love, that as we hear thy gospel read, all fond desires may flee in dread. That when thou comest from the skies, great judge to open thine eyes, to give each hidden sin its smart, and crown as kings the pure in heart.

  We be not set at thy left hand, where sentence do would bid us stand, but with the saints thy face may see, forever wholly loving thee. Praise to the Father and the Son through all the ages as they run, and to the holy Paraclete be praise with them, and worship meet. Amen.

  3. Behold, the Bridegroom cometh in the middle of the night, and blessed is he whose loins are girt, whose lamp is burning bright. But woe to that dull servant, whom the Master shall surprise, with lamp untrimmed, unburning, and with slumber in his eyes.

  Do thou, my soul, beware, beware, lest thou in sleep sink down, lest thou be given o'er to death, and lose the golden crown. But seetheth thou be sober with a watchful eye, and thus cry, Holy, Holy, Holy God, have mercy on us. That day, the day of fear, shall come, my soul, slack not thine toil.

  But light thy lamp, and feed it well, and make it bright with oil. Who knoweth not how soon may sound the cry at Eventide, Behold, the Bridegroom comes, arise, go forth to meet the Bride. Beware, my soul, beware, beware, lest thou in slumber lie, and like the five remain without, and knock, and vainly cry.

  Beware, my soul, beware, beware, lest thou in slumber lie, and like the five remain without, and knock, and vainly cry. But watch, and bear thy lamp undimmed, and Christ shall gird thee on his own bright wedding robe of light, the glory of the sun. 4.

  Great God, what do I see and hear, the end of things created? The Judge of mankind doth appear on clouds of glory seated. The trumpet sounds, the graves restore, the dead which they contained before, prepare my soul to meet him. The dead in Christ shall first arise at that last trumpet sounding, caught up to meet him

  in disguise, with joy their Lord surrounding. No gloomy fears their souls dismay, his presence sheds eternal day on those prepared to meet him. The ungodly, filled with guilty fears, behold his wrath prevailing, for they shall rise and find their tears and sighs are unavailing.

  The day of grace is past and gone, trembling they stand before his throne, all unprepared to meet him. Great Judge, to thee our prayers we pour, in deep abasement bending, O shield us through that last dread hour, thy wondrous love extending. May we in this our trial day, with faithful hearts thy word obey, and thus prepare to

  meet thee. 5. Hark! A herald voice is calling, Christ is nigh, it seems to say. Cast away the dreams of darkness, O ye children of the day.

  Shartled at the solemn warning, let the earthbound soul arise, Christ her Son, all sloth dispelling, shines upon the morning skies. Lo, the Lamb so long expected, comes with pardon down from heaven. Let us haste with tears of sorrow, one and all to be forgiven. So when next he comes with glory, wrapping all the earth in fear, may he then as our

  defender on the clouds of heaven appear. Honor, glory, virtue, merit, to the Father and the Son, with the co-eternal Spirit, while unending ages run. Amen. 6.

  Hark! The glad sound, the Savior comes, the Savior promised long. Let every heart prepare a throne, and every voice a song. He comes, the prisoners to release, in Satan's bondage held. The gates of brass before him burst, the iron fetters yield.

  He comes, the broken heart to bind, the bleeding soul to cure, and with the treasures of his grace to enrich the humble poor. Our glad Hosannas, Prince of Peace, thy welcome shall proclaim, and heaven's eternal arches ring with thy beloved name. 7.

  Lo, he comes with clouds descending, once for favoured sinners slain. Thousand, thousand saints attending swell the triumph of his train. Alleluia! God appears on earth to reign. Every eye shall now behold him, robed in dreadful majesty.

  Those who sat at nought and sold him, pierced and nailed him to the tree, deeply wailing shall the true Messiah see. Those dear tokens of his passion still his dazzling body bears, cause of endless exultation to his ransomed worshippers, with what rapture gaze we on those glorious scars. Yea, amen, let all adore thee, high on thine eternal throne.

  Saviour, take the power and glory, claim the kingdom for thine own. O come quickly, Alleluia! Come, Lord, come. 8. O come, O come, Emmanuel, redeem thy captive Israel, that into exile drear is gone, far

  from the face of God's dear Son. Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel, shall come to thee, O Israel. O come, thou branch of Jesse, draw the quarry from the lion's claw, from the dread caverns of the grave, from nether hell thy people save. Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel, shall come to thee, O Israel.

  O come, O come, thou day-spring bright, pour on our souls thy healing light, dispel the long night's lingering gloom, and pierce the shadows of the tomb. Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel, shall come to thee, O Israel. O come, thou Lord of David's key, the royal door fling wide and free, safeguard for us the heavenward road, and bar the way to death's abode.

  Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel, shall come to thee, O Israel. O come, O come, Adonai, who in thy glorious majesty, from that high mountain clothed with awe, gavest thy folk the elder law. Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel, shall come to thee, O Israel. 9.

  On Jordan's bank the Baptist's cry announces that the Lord is nigh. Come then and hearken, for he brings glad tidings from the king of kings. Then cleansed be every Christian breast, and furnished for so great a guest. Yea, let us each our hearts prepare for Christ to come and enter there. For thou art our salvation, Lord, our refuge, and our great reward.

  Without thy grace our souls must fade, and wither like a flower decayed. Touch forth thine hand to heal our sore, and make us rise to fall no more. Once more upon thy people shine, and fill the world with love divine. All praise, eternal Son, to thee, whose advent sets thy people free, whom with the Father we adore, and Holy Ghost forevermore.

  Amen. 10. Savior eternal, health and life of the world unfailing, light everlasting, and in verity our redemption, grieving that the ages of men must perish through the tempter's subtlety. Still, in heaven abiding, thou camest earthward of thine own great clemency.

  Then freely and graciously, deigning to assume humanity to lost ones and perishing, gave us thou thy free deliverance, filling all the world with joy. O Christ, our souls and bodies cleanse by thy perfect sacrifice, that we as temples pure and bright fit for thine abode may be. By thy former advent justify, by thy second grant us liberty, that when in the might of

  glory thou descendest judge of all, we in raiment undefiled bright may shine, and ever follow, Lord, thy footsteps blessed, where'er they lead us. 11. The advent of our God with eager prayers we greet, and singing haste upon his road his glorious gift to meet.

  The everlasting sun scorns not a virgin's womb, that we from bondage may be one, he bears a bondman's doom. Daughter of Zion, rise to meet thy lowly king, let not thy stubborn heart despise the peace he deigns to bring. In clouds of awful light, as judge he comes again, his scattered people to unite, with

  them in heaven to reign. Let evil flee away, ere that dread hour shall dawn, let this old Adam, day by day, God's image still put on. Praise to the incarnate Son, who comes to set us free, with God the Father, ever one, to all eternity.

  Amen. 12. Wake, O wake, with tidings thrilling, the watchmen all the air are filling, Arise, Jerusalem, arise! Midnight strikes, no more delaying, the hour has come, we hear them saying.

  Where are ye all, ye virgins wise? The bridegroom comes in sight, Raise high your torches bright, Alleluia! The wedding song swells loud and strong, Go forth and join the festal throng. Zion hears the watchman shouting, Her heart leaps up with joy, undoubting. She stands and waits with eager eyes, See her friend from heaven descending,

  Adorned with truth and grace unending. Her light burns clear, her star doth rise, Now come, thou precious crown. O Jesus, God's own Son, Hosanna, Let us prepare to follow there, Where in thy supper we may share. Every soul in thee rejoices, From men and from angelic voices

  Be glory given to thee alone. Now the gates of pearl receive us, Thy presence nevermore shall leave us, We stand with angels round thy throne, Earth cannot give below, The bliss thou dost bestow, Alleluia! Grant us to raise to length of days The triumph chorus of thy praise.

  13. When came and flashed the Incarnate Word, The heedless world slept on, And only simple shepherds heard That God had sent his Son. When comes the Saviour at the last, From east to west shall shine, The awful pomp and earth aghast Shall tremble at the sign.

  Then shall the pure of heart be blessed, As mild he comes to them, As when upon the virgin's breast He lay at Bethlehem, As mild to meek-eyed love and faith, Only more strong to save, Strengthened by having bowed to death, By having burst the grave. Lord, who could dare see thee descend and state,

  Unless he knew thou art the sorrowing sinner's friend, The gracious and the true? Dwell in our hearts, O Saviour blessed, So shall thine advance dawn, Twixt us and thee, our bosom guest, Be but the veil withdrawn.

  End of part six

• 07 - Christmastide Hymns/Poems 14-37 (from The English Hymnal 1906)

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  Part 7 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2022. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 7, Christmas-tied hymns and poems from the English hymnal 1906, numbers 14 through 37, including days commemorating St. Stephen, St. John the Evangelist, the Innocents, the Circumcision of Christ. 14. Come, thou Redeemer of the earth, and manifest thy virgin birth. Let every age adoring fall.

  Such birth befits the God of all. Begotten of no human will, but of the Spirit, thou art still the Word of God in flesh arrayed, the promised fruit to man displayed. The virgin womb that burden gained, with virgin honor all unstained, the banners there of virtue glow, God in his temple dwells below. Forth from his chamber goeth he, that royal home of purity, a giant in twofold substance one,

  rejoicing now his course to run. From God the Father he proceeds, to God the Father back he speeds. His course he runs to death and hell, returning on God's throne to dwell. O equal to thy Father thou, gird on thy fleshly mantle now, the weakness of our mortal state, with deathless might invigorate. Thy cradle here shall glitter bright, and darkness breathe the newer light,

  where endless faith shalt shine serene, and twilight never intervene. All laud to God the Father be, all praise eternal Son to thee, all glory as is ever meet, to God the Holy Paraclete. Amen. O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie, above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by. Yet in thy dark street shineth the everlasting light,

  the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight. O morning stars together proclaim the holy birth, and praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on earth. For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above, while on mortal sleep the angels keep their watch of wondering love. How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given, so God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven. No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin,

  where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in. Where children, pure and happy, pray to the blessed Child, where misery cries out to thee, Son of the Mother mild, where charity stands watching, and faith holds wide the door, the dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more. O Holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray, cast out our sin, and enter in,

  be born in us today. We hear the Christmas angels, the great glad tidings tell, O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Immanuel. 16. The Maker of the sun and moon, the Maker of our earth, lo, late in time, a fairer boon, himself is brought to birth. How blessed was all creation then, when God so gave increase, and Christ, to heal the hearts of men, brought righteousness and peace. No star in all the heights

  of heaven but burned to see him go, yet unto earth alone was given his human form to know. His human form, by man denied, took death for human sin. His endless love, through faith described, still lives the world to win. O perfect love, out-passing sight, O light beyond our kin, come down through all the world tonight, and heal the hearts of men. 17. Jesu, the Father's only son, whose death for all redemption won, before the worlds of God

  Most High begotten all ineffably. The Father's light and splendor thou, their endless hope to thee that bow. Accept the prayers and praise today, that through the world thy servants pay. Salvation's author called to mind how, taking form of humankind, born of a virgin undefiled, thou in man's flesh became'st a child. Thus testifies the present day, through every year in long array, that thou, salvation's source alone, proceed'st from the Father's throne.

  Whence sky and stars and seas, abyss and earth and all that therein is, shall still with Lord and Carol meet the author of thine advent greet. And we who by thy precious blood from sin redeemed are marked for God. On this the day that saw thy birth, sing the new song of ransomed earth, for that thine advent glory be, O Jesu Virgin born to thee, with Father and with Holy Ghost, from men and from the heavenly host. Amen.

  18. From east to west, from shore to shore, let every heart awake and sing, the Holy Child whom Mary bore, the Christ, the everlasting King. Behold, the world's creator wears the form and fashion of a slave, our very flesh our Maker shares, his fallen creature a man to save. For this, how wondrously he wrought, a maiden in her lowly place, became in ways beyond all thought the chosen vessel of his grace. She bowed her to the angel's word, declaring what

  the Father willed, and suddenly the promised Lord that pure and hallowed temple filled. He shrank not from the oxen's stall, he lay within the manger bed, and he whose bounty feedeth all, at Mary's breast himself was fed. And while the angels in the sky sang praise above the silent field, to shepherds poor, the Lord most high, the one great shepherd was revealed. All glory for this blessed morn, to God the Father ever be,

  all praise to thee, O Virgin born, all praise, O Holy Ghost, to thee. Amen. 19. A great and mighty wonder, a full and holy cure, the Virgin bears the infant with virgin honor pure. Repeat the hymn again, to God on high be glory, and peace on earth to men. The word becomes incarnate and yet remains on high, and cherubim sing anthems to shepherds from the sky. Repeat the hymn again, to God on high be glory, and peace on earth to men.

  While thus they sing your monarch, those bright angelic bands, rejoice ye veils and mountains, ye oceans clap your hands. Repeat the hymn again, to God on high be glory, and peace on earth to men. 20. Since all he comes to ransom, by all he be adored, the infant born in Bethlehem, the Savior and the Lord. Repeat the hymn again, to God on high be glory, and peace on earth to men. And idle forms shall perish, and error shall decay, and Christ shall wield his scepter,

  our Lord and God for a. Repeat the hymn again, to God on high be glory, and peace on earth to men. 20. Behold, the great Creator makes himself a house of clay, a robe of virgin flesh he takes, which he will wear for a. Hark, hark, the wise eternal word, like a weak infant cries, in form of servant is the Lord, and God in cradle lies. This wonder struck the world amazed, it shook the starry frame. Squadrons of spirits stood and gazed, then down in troops they came.

  Glad shepherds ran to view this sight, a choir of angels sings, and eastern sages with delight adore this king of kings. Join then all hearts that are not stone, and all our voices prove to celebrate this holy one, the God of peace and love. 21. Christians awake, salute the happy morn, whereon the Savior of the world was born. Rise to adore the mystery of love, which hosts of angels chanted from above.

  With them the joyful tidings first begun, of God incarnate and the Virgin Son. Then to the watchful shepherds it was told, who heard the angelic herald's voice, Behold, I bring good tidings of a Savior's birth to you and all the nations upon earth. This day hath God fulfilled his promised word. This day is born a Savior, Christ the Lord. He spake, and straightway the celestial choir in hymns of joy unknown before

  conspire. The praises of redeeming love they sang, and heaven's whole orb with alleluias rang. God's highest glory was their anthem still, peace upon earth, and mutual goodwill. To Bethlehem straight the enlightened shepherds ran to see the wonder God had wrought for man, and found with Joseph and the blessed maid her son the Savior in a manger laid, amazed the wondrous story they proclaim, the first apostles of his infant fame.

  Like Mary let us ponder in our mind God's wondrous love in saving lost mankind. Trace we the babe who hath retrieved our loss from his poor manger to his bitter cross. Then may we hope the angelic thrones among to sing redeemed a glad triumphal song. Come rejoicing faithful men with rapture singing alleluia, monarch's monarch from a holy maid and springing mighty wonder. Angel of the council here, son from star he doth appear,

  born of maiden. He a son who knows no night, she a star whose paler light fadeth never. As a star its kindred ray, Mary doth her child display like in nature. Still undemned the star shines on, and the maiden bears a son, pure as ever. Lebanon, his cedar tall, to the hyssop on the wall, lowly bendeth. From the highest, him we name Word of God, do human frame, now descendeth. Yet the synagogue denied what Isaias had decried.

  Blindness fell upon the guide, proud, uneating. If her prophets speak in vain, let her heed a gentile strain, and from mystic Sibyl gain light and leading. No longer then delay, hear what the scriptures say, why be cast away a race forlorn? Turn, and this child behold, that very son of old and God's writ foretold, a maid hath born. Hark, how all the welkin' rings, glory to the king of kings, peace on earth and mercy mild,

  God and sinners reconciled. Joyful all ye nations rise, join the triumph of the skies, universal natures say, Christ the Lord is born today. Christ, by highest heaven adored, Christ the everlasting Lord, late in time behold him come, offspring of a virgin's womb. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see, hail the incarnate deity, pleased as man with men to appear, Jesus our Emmanuel here. Hail the heavenly prince of peace, hail the son of righteousness,

  light and life to all he brings, risen with healing in his wings. Mild he lays his glory by, born that man no more may die, born to raise the sons of earth, born to give them second birth. Come, desire of nations, come, fix in us thy humble home. Rise, the woman's conquering seed, bruise in us the serpent's head. Now display thy saving power, ruined nature now restore. Now in mystic union join thine two hours and ours to thine.

  24. Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king. Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled. Joyful all ye nations rise, join the triumph of the skies, with the angelic host proclaim, Christ is born in Bethlehem. Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king. Christ by highest heaven adored, Christ the everlasting Lord, late in time behold him come, offspring of a virgin's womb. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see,

  hail the incarnate deity, pleased as man with man to dwell, Jesus our Emmanuel. Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king. Hail the heaven-born prince of peace, hail the son of righteousness, light and life to all he brings, risen with healing in his wings. Mild he lays his glory by, born that man no more may die, born to raise the sons of earth, born to give them second birth. Hark, the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king.

  25. In the bleak midwinter frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter long ago. Our God, heaven cannot hold him nor earth sustain. Heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to rain. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed, the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ. Enough for him whom cherubim worship night and day, a breastful of milk and a manger full of hay.

  Enough for him whom angels fall down before, the ox and ass and camel which adore. Angels and archangels may have gathered there, cherubim and seraphim thronged the air, but only his mother in her maiden bliss worshipped the beloved with a kiss. What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. If I were a wise man, I would do my part. Yet what I can, I give him. Give my heart.

  26. It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the earth, to touch their harps of gold. Peace on the earth, good will to men, from heaven's all-gracious king. The world in solemn stillness lay, to hear the angels sing. Still through the clove and skies they come, with peaceful wings unfurled, and still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world. Above its sad and lowly planes

  they bend in hovering wing, and ever o'er its babble sounds the blessed angels sing. Yet with the woes of sin and strife the world has suffered long, beneath the angels' strain have rolled two thousand years of wrong. And man at war with man hears not the love song which they bring. O hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing. And ye beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way

  with painful steps and slow, look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing. O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing. For lo, the days are hastening on, by prophet Bard's foretold, when, with the ever circling years, comes round the age of gold. When peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling, and the whole world give back the song which now the angels sing. 27.

  Let sighing cease, and woe, God from on high hath heard. Heaven's gate is opening wide and low, the long expected word. Peace through the deep of night the heavenly choir breaks forth, singing with festal songs and bright our God and Savior's birth. The cave of Bethlehem, those wakeful shepherds seek, let us too arise and greet with them that infant pure and meek. We enter, at the door, what marvel meets the eye, a crib, a mother pale and poor,

  a child of poverty. Art thou the eternal Son, the eternal Father's ray, whose little hand, thou infant one, doth lift the world all way? Yea, faith through that dim cloud, like lightning, darts before, and greet thee, at whose footstool bowed, heaven's trembling hosts adore. Chaste be our love like thine, our swelling souls bring low, and in our hearts, O babe divine, be born, abide, and grow. So shall thy birthday mourn, Lord Christ, our birthday be,

  then greet we all, ourselves newborn, our King's nativity. 28. O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem, come and behold him, born the King of angels. O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord. God of God, light of light, lo, he abhors not

  the virgin's womb, very God begotten, not created. O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord. Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation, sing, all ye citizens of heaven above, glory to God in the highest. O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord. Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning. Jesu to thee be glory given,

  word of the Father, now in flesh appearing. O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord. 29. The great God of heaven has come down to earth, his mother a virgin, and sinless his birth. The Father eternal, his Father alone, he sleeps in the manger, he reigns on the throne. Then let us adore him, and praise his great love, to save us for sinners he came from above.

  A babe on the breast of a maiden he lies, yet sits with the Father on high in the skies. Before him there faces the seraphim hide, while Joseph stands waiting, unscared by his side. Then let us adore him, and praise his great love, to save us for sinners he came from above. Lo, here is Immanuel, here is the child, the son that was promised to marry so mild, whose power and dominion shall ever increase, the prince that shall rule o'er a kingdom of peace.

  Then let us adore him, and praise his great love, to save us for sinners he came from above. The wonderful counselor, boundless in might, the Father's own image, the beam of his light. Behold him, and now wearing the likeness of man, weak, helpless, and speechless, in measure a span. Then let us adore him, and praise his great love, to save us for sinners he came from above. A wonder of wonders which none can unfold,

  the ancient of days is an hour or two old. The maker of all things is made of the earth, man is worshiped by angels, and God comes to birth. Then let us adore him, and praise his great love, to save us for sinners he came from above. The word in the bliss of the Godhead remains, yet in flesh comes to suffer the keenest of pains. He is that he was, and forever shall be, but becomes that he was not, for you and for me.

  Then let us adore him, and praise his great love, to save us for sinners he came from above. While shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground, the angel of the Lord came down, and glory shone around. Fear not, said he, for mighty dread had seized their troubled mind. Glad tidings of great joy I bring to you and all mankind.

  To you in David's town this day is born of David's line, a Savior who was Christ the Lord, and this shall be the sign. The heavenly babe you there shall find, to human view displayed, all meanly wrapped in swathing bands, and in a manger laid. Thus spake the seraph, and forthwith appeared a shining throng of angels, praising God,

  who thus addressed their joyful song, All glory be to God on high, and to the earth be peace. Good will henceforth, from heaven to men, begin and never cease. Saint Stephen 31 Saint of God, elect and precious, proto-martyr Stephen Bright, with thy love of amplest measure, shining round thee like a light,

  who to God commendest, dying, them that did thee all despite. Glitters now the crown above thee, figured in thy sacred name. O, that we who truly love thee may have portion in the same, in the dreadful day of judgment, fearing neither sin nor shame. Laud to God and might and honor, who with flowers of rosy dye,

  crowned thy forehead, and hath placed thee in the starry throne on high. He direct us, he protect us, from death's sting eternally. Amen. 32 The Lord and King of all things, but yesterday was born,

  and Stephen's glorious offering his birth-tide shall adorn. No pearls of orient splendor, no jewels can he show, but with his own true heart's blood his shining vestments glow. Come, ye that love the martyrs, and pluck the flowers of song, and weave them in a garland for this our suppliant throne.

  And cry, O thou that shinest in grace's brightest ray, Christ valiant proto-martyr, for peace and favor pray. Thou, first of all confessors of all the deacon's crown, of every following athlete, the glory and renown. Make supplication, standing before Christ's royal throne,

  that he would give the kingdom and for our sins atone. St. John the Evangelist 33 Word supreme before creation, born of God eternally, who dost will for our salvation to be born on earth and die? Well thy saints have kept their station, watching till thine hour drew nigh.

  Now tis come, and faith espies thee, like an eagle it in the morn. One in steadfast worship eyes thee, thy beloved, thy latest born. In thy glory he describes thee, reigning from the tree of scorn. He, first hoping and believing, did beside the grave adore. Latest he, the warfare leaving, landed on the eternal shore.

  And his witness, we receiving, owned thee, Lord, forevermore. Much he asked in loving wonder of thy bosom-leaning Lord. In that secret place of thunder, answer kind didst thou accord. Wisdom for thy church to ponder, till the day of dread award. Lo, heaven's doors lift up, revealing how thy judgments earthward move.

  Scrolls unfolded, trumpets peeling, wine cups from the wrath above. Yet o'er all a soft voice stealing, little children, trust and love. Thee, the Almighty King, Eternal Father of the Eternal Word. Thee, the Father's Word, Supernal, Thee of both the breath adored. Heaven and earth and realms infernal, own one glorious God and Lord.

  Amen. The Innocence Day 34 All hail ye little martyrs' flowers, sweet rose-buds, cut in dawning hours. When Herod sought the Christ to find, ye fell as bloom before the wind. First victims of the martyr-bands, with crowns and palms, in tender hands.

  Around the very altar, gay and innocent, ye seemed to play. What profited this great offense? What use was Herod's violence? A babe survives that dreadful day, and Christ is safely borne away. All honor, laud, and glory be, O Jesu, virgin born to thee.

  All glory, as is ever meet, to Father and to Paraclete. Amen. 35 The hymn for conquering martyrs raise, the victor innocents we praise. Whom in their woe earth cast away, but heaven with joy

  received today, whose angels see the Father's face, world without end, and hymn his grace. And while they chant unceasingly, the hymn for conquering martyrs raise. A voice from Rama was their scent, a voice of weeping and lament. When Rachel mourned the children's care, whom for the tyrant's sword she bare. Triumphal is their glory now, whom earthly torments could not bow.

  What time, both far and near, that went, a voice from Rama was their scent. Fear not, O little flock, and bless the lion that your life oppressed. To heavenly pastors ever new, the heavenly shepherd leadeth you, Who dwelling now on Zion's hill, the lamb's dear footsteps follow still. By tyrant there no more distress.

  Fear not, O little flock, and blessed. And every tear is wiped away by your dear Father's hands foray. Death hath no power to hurt you more, whose own is life's eternal store. Who sow their seed and sowing weep, in everlasting joy shall reap. What time they shine in heavenly day, and every tear is wiped away.

  O city blessed o'er all the earth, who glorious in the Savior's birth. Whose are his earliest martyrs dear, by kindred and by triumph here. None from henceforth may call thee small, of rival towns thou passest all. In whom our monarch had his birth, O city blessed o'er all the earth. The Circumcision of Christ 36

  O happy day when first was poured the blood of our redeeming Lord. O happy day when first began his sufferings for sinful man. Just entered on this world of woe, his blood already learned to flow. His future death was thus expressed, and thus his early love confessed. From heaven descending to fulfill the mandates of his Father's will.

  In now behold the victim lie, the Lamb of God prepared to die. Lord circumcise our hearts we pray, our fleshly natures purge away. Thy name thy likeness may they bear, yea stamp thy holy image there. O Lord the Virgin born to thee eternal praise and glory be. Whom with the Father we adore, and Holy Ghost forevermore. Amen.

  Conquering Kings their titles take, from the lands they captive make. Jesu thine was given thee, for a world thou madest free. Not another name is given, a power possessing under heaven, strong to call dead souls to rise and exalt them to the skies. That which Christ so hardly wrought, that which he so dearly bought,

  that salvation mortals say, will ye madly cast away? Rather gladly for that name bear the cross, endure the shame. Joyfully for him to die is not death but victory. Jesu if thou condescend to be called the sinner's friend, ours the joy and glory be, thus to make our boast of thee.

  Glory to the Father be, glory Virgin born to thee, glory to the Holy Ghost, ever from the heavenly host. Amen. End of Part 7 End of A Christmas Miscellany 2022