Christmas Traditions and Gift Ideas

Another Christmas is upon us, and with it comes the reminiscences of the past - the far-off happy days when the wish of “peace on earth, good will to men” was no mere phrase - no empty expression. It is characteristic of the Christmas Festival that one’s thoughts turn melancholy to the absent friends, and that the warmth and glow of the Yule-log fire furnish vivid pictures of bygone incidents.

I remember distinctly Christmas Day in 1916! We were then serving in France, and the fortunes of war had favored us, in that our Division had been relieved from the trenches about a week before, and we had shaken the mud of the
Somme off our feet for a period.

We were billeted in a quaint little French village, that had never seen Colonial soldiers before, and the peasantry looked askance as we marched along the poplar-bordered road, but the cheerful, honest smiles of the Newfoundlanders soon reassured them, and a few hours later I saw several groups of the boys in various kitchens having “cafe au lait,” while gray-haired dames and gesticulating “mademoiselles” hovered around in feverish hospitality.

The announcement that we would be out of the line for Christmas was gladsome tidings, and immediately arrangements commenced for celebrating the Festival in right good spirit. Major Bernard rode into a town several kilometers distant, and secured a large number of turkeys, and Captain Nangle undertook the management of a joint officers’ dinner - the first and only occasion that the Battalion Officers were enabled to dine together. The Christmas festivities of the Newfoundlanders in
France looked promising!

A keen crisp air and a dull sky greeted the eye on Christmas morning!

Services were held and the beautiful story of Noel extolled from the pulpit of the old village church, while a sympathetic representation of quiet peasantry gazed in religious awe at the impassive figures of the khakiclad worshippers. Several “Poilu” on leave, in their French-blue uniforms, lent a tinge of color to an impressive scene.

At twelve-thirty dinner-calls went, and the men lined the broken-down houses where the “cookers” were located. There was a generous ration of real English ale for each soldier, oranges and chocolates, and cake besides. All the officers were present with their companies, and later they repaired to the billets where the turkeys were carved and the vegetables issued. Never have I seen such a cheery scene out of the line - there was a realization of the Christmas spirit predominating, and these well-kept barns, with their carpet of straw, had never before held such a merry throng, or a braver body of men. The good cheer, the hearty laughter, the buzz of conversation, the applause that greeted the arrival of the Xmas mail - a happy finale to an excellent meal - is present with me as I write!

At seven-thirty in the evening the officers began to gather at headquarters mess for dinner. A warm blaze of light flashed from the windows of the Chateau and brightened the pathway leading through the plots of dead and withered plants to the leaf-covered portico. A huge fire blazed in the big open grate that formed a conspicuous object in the long, oak-stained room. Candles in profusion were burning everywhere. Captain Raley’s gram-o-phone whirred tunefully in a corner and the light flashed on cut glass and silver, produced from some secret recess in this ancient French home. There was a hearty welcome for each officer as he arrived, and his particular friends chipped him merrily until it was time to sit to the table.

The menu showed excellent taste, and a variety of dishes that was truly remarkable for active service. The environment was delightful; all military formalities were dropped for the occasion, the Colonel exchanged jests with the youngest subaltern, and the “Padres” became “boys” in the real sense of the word. “Noel” had struck the right note, and the snow white streets of St. John’s and the joy-bells with their merry peal did not seem so far away!

The toast of “The King” was loyally honored, and seldom has it been drunk with greater dignity or deeper feeling. The impromptu speeches that accompanied the port showed a great depth of thought, and a stern realization of the duties of the Regiment, and they brought out a surprising array of eloquence and humor.

At midnight the National Anthem concluded proceedings, and the happy gathering left to take up the duties of the morrow. Overhead a clear cold moon bathed the village roads with a pale blue light, and the thought crossed our minds that just such a heavenly orb rode in the sky over the homes of our dear ones many hundreds of miles away, and we knew that the Yule-tide wish that we sent across the divide from our inmost souls had found a responsive chord in every loved one on the rock-bound coast!

It was, if I mistake not, in 1855, the very year of the first election here under our present system of Responsible Government, that the thrilling incident on which this story is based really took place. Few of my readers will now remember it, because there are not so very many people alive today who were then old enough to be lastingly impressed with the details as they appeared in the newspapers of that time.

The marine disaster to which I refer occurred at the entrance of a small harbor on the Northern coast which was then called Indian Beach. I understand this name was taken from the long bank of sand that stretches around the head of the harbor, where, according to tradition, the last of “the noble Red Men” of New foundland used to meet every year at “the falling of the leaves”, and hold a council before going into winter quarters. And there appears to be some ground for the tradition, because a few years ago, accompanied by one of the oldest inhabitants, I visited the Beach and examined the very spot where, while digging out some sand, the previous spring, he found two stone arrow-heads and a drinking bowl in a good state of preservation.

The fall of 1855 was an unusually backward one, and having been preceded by a wet summer, the fish crop was not harvested till the season was well advanced. As a result, the fishermen were late in getting “fixed up” and home for the winter. Only two schooners had “fitted out” from Indian Beach that year for the Labrador fishery, the resident population, for the most part, finding it more advantageous to look after “the ground”, and at the same time prosecute the voyage during the caplin school.

One of those schooners had already arrived; the other, the Sea Nymph, was still absent, but hourly expected from St. John’s, where she had landed her fish and taken on board a cargo of goods for the festive season; almost every family at the Beach having had something shipped by her. Eager eyes had been looking out for the Nymph for several days, and now Christmas Eve had come and still she did not put in an appearance.

It was generally believed that the schooner had left St. John’s for home some days before (there was no telegraphic communication at that time), and as the wind had veered round from the southeast and risen to a severe gale, with snow-squalls and heavy sea, much anxiety was felt for her safety. The Sea Nymph was a staunch little vessel of fifty-two tons, and had a crew of five all told. These were handsome Harry Brewer - a young giant in appearance - captain; William Jones, second hand, John Eliott, Peter Goff and Eli Moores, seamen.

There was one passenger on board - a young Englishman named Ralph Wilson, - nephew of the only prominent business man at
Indian Beach - Mr. Andrew LeSage, of Jersey. Ralph had been in St. John’s for some time, waiting for an opportunity to get north, and when the Sea Nymph was ready to sail, he gladly availed of Harry Brewer’s offer of a passage. Ralph was engaged to his pretty cousin, Helen, Mr. LeSage’s only daughter; and, although they had not seen each other since they were children, yet it was understood by the parents of both that they were to be married the following June, and that Helen would shortly return to Jersey with Ralph and her father for that purpose.

But when Ralph and his uncle made this arrangement they were apparently blissfully ignorant of the fact that an altogether different understanding had already been arrived at between Captain Brewer and Helen. Such, however, was the case. They had often met, and what more natural than that they should become attached to each other. Both were young and impressionable; and so it happened that one night, only a week before the Sea Nymph had left for St. John’s, as they sat in the shadow of the big fir trees behind the Beach and looked out over the moonlit harbor, Harry and Helen decided to unite their fortunes without consulting anybody.

Thus the matter stood on the eventful afternoon alluded to, when the schoolmaster of the settlement rushed into Mr. LeSage’s house with the startling intelligence that the Sea Nymph had been driven ashore at Shoal Point, near the entrance to the harbor, and, it was feared, all hands would be lost. Hurriedly putting on his coat and hat, Mr. LeSage ran out and over to the high ground above the Point, and, sure enough, there was the ill-fated schooner pounding on the rocks, with the sea making a clean breach over her. Already both masts had gone by the board, and it now seemed as if the hull itself must go to pieces in a few minutes.

It appears that trying to make the harbor in the snowstorm, and believing his course to be all right, Captain Brewer suddenly, just at the entrance, discovered that the Nymph was too far to leeward to weather Shoal Point. She was running under close-reefed foresail, and therefore would not stay, even with much less wind, and it was impossible to wear her in time to escape the rocks; so he let go both anchors, as the only remaining hope of saving vessel and crew. But in that heavy sea the chains snapped like whip-cord, and, without any check whatever, the unfortunate Sea Nymph rushed on to her doom.

Shortly after she struck the snow ceased to fall, and then Captain Brewer and his crew could be seen hatless and huddled together on the forecastle deck. They were clinging to whatever they could lay hold of, the great waves at intervals going clean over the battered hull and drenching them to the skin. It was impossible to render any assistance from the land, as no boat available, no matter how well manned, and would have the slightest chance in that raging sea. For a time it seemed as if all hope of rescue had been abandoned by those on shore as well as on board.

Some of the former knelt and prayed to Heaven for help, while others wrung their hands in despair and sobbed audibly enough to be heard amidst the tempest. But there was one brave man among that crew of sturdy New foundland fishermen who had often faced “death in the tempest” and escaped, and who, in spite of the odds against him, hoped to escape again, and that man was Captain Harry Brewer. As the watchers on the shore stood there, expecting every moment to see the battered hull go to pieces, or roll over and disappear with its living freight, they suddenly saw a stalwart figure poise for a second on the weather bow of the wreck and then plunge into the angry waves as they seethed and foamed around him. The form was that of Harry Brewer!

Fastening a line about his waist, and hastily giving instructions to his shipmates as to what they should do in the event of his efforts proving successful, he made the heroic attempt to reach the shore by swimming. The struggle that ensued was one that taxed all his powers of endurance, great as they were. At times he disappeared from view for several seconds and then appeared again on the crest of some mighty wave, eliciting frantic shouts of encouragement from the overwrought crowd on shore, which, by this time, included almost every man, woman and child in the settlement. But Harry Brewer’s brave heart and sinewy arms buoyed him up until a huge wave flung him against the shore, when some of those who would willingly risk their lives to save him, rushed into the sea, seized him with their strong hands, pulled him out of the receding water, and carried him to a place of safety, from which, exhausted as he was, he continued to superintend the work of rescue.

The crew on the wrecked vessel then fastened a stronger rope to the line brought ashore by their captain and, when this was hauled in, the task of getting the other men on shore was commenced. The end of the line on board was securely tied to the stump of the foremast; about ten feet above the deck, and then the men were pulled through the boiling sea to the shore, most of them being badly bruised and scarcely able to stand when lifted out of the water. The last to leave the schooner was Ralph Wilson, the passenger. Although a rather frail-looking man, as compared with the others, yet he won the admiration of all on board by his pluck and unselfishness during the trying ordeal through which they had passed. He might have been the first to be rescued, but he persistently refused till all the others had been landed. But brave as he was, the strain and exposure proved too much far him.

He was unconscious when kind hands and sympathetic hearts gently conveyed him to the hospitable home of his uncle. Here, under the careful nursing of Helen, he soon recovered consciousness; but next day, when the doctor called, he appeared to be suffering from a severe chill and great nervous prostration. He rallied, however, and was able to get about during the winter; but, with the approach of spring, he developed symptoms of tubercular disease, and in May returned to his home in England, where he died six months after his arrival there.

On the following Christmas Eve Captain Harry Brewer and Helen LeSage were married in the little school-chapel at Indian
Beach. In the fall of 1857 Mr. LeSage retired from business here and returned to Jersey, taking Harry and Helen with him.

The following year Ralph Wilson’s father died, leaving most of his money and property to his niece, Helen. In the spring of 1893, the writer, whilst on board the outward bound Allan steamer, at Shea’s wharf here, seeing some friends off, had an introduction to a gentleman named Brewer who was then on his way from Liverpool to New Yark. He appeared to be a good deal interested in Newfoundland affairs, and, in the course of our conversation, I ascertained from him that he was a son of Captain Harry Brewer, the hero of this eventful little Christmas story.  

It was getting quite dark in the short winter’s day when Mrs. Jones and Uncle Bob had made an end of their preparation of the old store-room. Then the little maid, long expectant, heard with pleasure the thud of the crutches which announced his approach. Now she would have him all to herself, and -he would tell her what he meant the tree for. She had made the hearth clean as best she could, and the fire was burning brightly; for the night was frosty, and in the fire and candle-light the room seemed cozy indeed, and a smile of pleasure stole over Uncle Bob’s face as he sat down to enjoy it.

Pushing the table back and bringing the fir-bush forward, he said, ‘Come, little woman, now for the secret’; and reaching up for the parcels, he displayed their contents upon the table before her admiring eyes. There was a great variety of all kinds of toys, some colored, some glittering, some useful, some ornamental.

‘This is fruit,’ he said, ‘to be hung on the tree in inviting clusters. Isn’t it nice work for Christmas?’ he asked.

“Oh yes,’ she cried; ‘but what is it for?’ ‘Supposing,’ he answered, with provoking slowness, ’supposing it is for a dear little girl to have for her own, from which she can hand to twenty boys just before they go home, at the very moment when they think all is over, a nice bunch of this fruit for their sister or brother; what would you say to that? Eh, little one?’

‘It will be splendid!’ she exclaimed, and clasped her hands in great delight, for she didn’t doubt for one moment but that she was the little girl he meant.

However, she fell into a fit of musing, from which she awoke as he watched her face, to shyly ask the question which had been slowly forming in her mind ‘Unc1e,’ she said, ‘are you so good because God is the Good Father?’

‘Dear child,’ he said, with a smile, ‘to think me good! But let us put it in a better way. Do I like to make the boys happy this Christmas, because I know God is the Good Father? To that I say “Yes.” Didn’t He give us H is Great Gift at Christmas to make us all happy? ‘

‘Yes,’ she replied; ‘I know He gave us Jesus, who loved us so much.’

‘Well, child, the more I think of that, the more my heart warms to others. Is it not so always? These lads, how happy they will be! And I love to think Jesus will be very pleased.’

‘But, Uncle Bob, did you always like to do such things? Tell me how it was that you came to feel so. I should so like to know, because I want to be like you, and to feel as you feel. I t seems so strange to me that you can love God.’

There was a deeper perplexity in her mind than she could express. It was the old, ever-recurring difficulty which asks, I How can God be good, and yet allow His creatures to suffer?’ To her loving heart it came in the personal, yet unselfish form of I How could God be the Good Father, as Uncle Bob always called Him, and yet have let Uncle Bob be such a poor cripple? ‘She didn’t think of her own case. Uncle Bob’s love for her and his constant care over her seemed to make that all right.

Unconsciously, no doubt, but yet very really, she felt that her weakness drew out Uncle Bob’s love, and that that, somehow, was better than to be strong and have no Uncle Bob’s love. But she wasn’t old enough to apply her own case to Uncle Bob and God’s love for him.

All this Uncle Bob saw to be at the bottom of her heart, for love is full of insight. He remained silent for a moment, casting about in his mind what it would be best to tell her, so as to get her over her difficulty.

‘You are wondering, little one,’ he said at length, ‘how I came to be a cripple, and how I came to love God. Well, I will try to tell you. It’s a sad story in one way, but a blessed one in another.

‘It wasn’t God made me a cripple: it was some one else. I was born all right, and straight, and strong. Perhaps I should have been a tall man if I’d been left as God made me; but it wasn’t to be.’

‘Oh, Uncle Bob, how was it? Who did it?’ And little Lizzie put her thin hand upon his and stroked it. ‘I had rather not tell you, child, if I could help it; but I cannot bear you should think wrong things about the Good Father. It was my poor earthly father did it, one night when he was not sober. It was the drink in him did it. Drink was the devil in him, and made him bad and cruel; and one night he pulled me out of my mother’s arms when I was crying for fear of him, and threw me on the floor, and my back hit hard against the fender, I think, and my spine was injured, and I became the cripple I am. But, you see, it wasn’t God who did it. No; He watched over me, and now I can see that He has been working ever since to turn the evil into good. He has made it a blessing to me.’ ‘Dear Uncle Bob,’ said the little maid, ‘tell me how He did it.’ , I will try; but it isn’t always easy to make another see what we can see ourselves. But whether I can make it plain or not, I know it is so. I think it came about in this way. Being made into such a helpless little fellow (I was about four years old when it happened), I found out how sweet and precious love is, and that somehow made me ready for the love of God. My mother was such a dear, good mother! I must have been a great trouble, being so helpless and always crying, 1 dare say, because so suffering; but she seemed only to love me more. How much she must have gone through to rear me! For my father wouldn’t give up the drink, and therefore he could scarcely bear the sight of me: my pale face and broken body showed him his sin in a dreadful light.’

‘I see now,’ murmured the little maid, ‘why you always call God your” good” Father!’

‘Ah! Little one,’ he said, ‘let us be thankful with all our hearts to being his children. He won’t let us be unloving and unkind. I thank Him that He made even poor father ashamed of his sin, and deeply repentant. But it took many years and many hardships.

‘Father kept on being unkind to mother; and she did all that in her lay to turn his attention from me, and to make things go comfortably; but I couldn’t help being afraid of him, and she used to take me to my cot upstairs when it was his time to come home from his work. Poor mother! I shall never forget the tears that have fallen from her on to my face as she has placed me there. The world little knows what many hearts suffer; but be comforted, dear one-the Good Father knows. Mother found out that at last, and she told me all about it, though I was too young to understand much; and she and I used to pray to God to help us, and to help father. Such different help God has to find for us. Poor mother wanted one sort of help, and poor father quite another.

‘I think it was her prayers which made me begin to long that father would love me. It seemed to me that if he could love me he would get free of the drink, and make mother happy. But it wasn’t to be; though, when she lay sick and dying, he was deeply miserable, and sat for hours at home moody and sad, and every now and then a great sigh would break from him. God was working at his conscience in answer to our prayers, and trying to open his heart to repentance; but it was not until he lay on his own death-bed that he was really a changed man. At least, I think he did really change then, for he wept bitterly, and called out my mother’s name in such pitiful tones!

‘Yes, dear mother died. She was worn out and heart-broken; and I was left in my weakness all alone with my father when I was about twelve years old. I had no brothers or sisters. All that I possessed was the memory of my mother’s love, and the hope of seeing her again in heaven. And this I see now to have been very precious. Perhaps if I had been all right and strong I should have gone out with other boys and in their games and sports have forgotten her love, or lost its feeling of heavenly influence. But being a cripple, all I could do was to sit and think.

I can remember being very sad. Often have I wondered, like you, whether God was good; but the thought of my mother always came to my aid, and I knew that what she trusted was true. All the same, it did not comfort me, and I was a lonely, sad-hearted boy who looked out from the doorway in summer on the boys as they played about in the street, or in winter from the window on the passers-by, and only wished I were with my mother.

‘No one seemed to care for me. At first, after my mother’s death, a few neighbor women would come in and do things for me; but they dropped off one by one, having, no doubt, much to do at home. Sometimes a boy or girl would come and stare wonderingly at me, as if I were not human like them, but something quite different, and this made me vexed and bitter and shy. Sometimes even they made faces at me as they went away. Worst of all, my father’s old feeling seemed to grow on him again. He would place a loaf and knife on the table with some milk when he went out to his work in the morning, and a neighbor would get me a little tea in the evening, and then I crept to my cot as best I could, to be out of his sight when he returned.’

‘Poor uncle!’ almost sobbed little Lizzie. ‘But the Good Father,’ Uncle Bob went on, ‘was watching over me and arranging for me. Two things happened by-and-by which changed my life. The first seems a very simple thing; but I see it did wonders for me. One of the neighbors, who had to go out to earn her own living, had a little baby, and not knowing what better to do with it, she brought it to me in its cradle, and made me its nurse. At first I felt rather sad, because it somehow reminded me of dear mother; but at last the sadness formed itself into a thought of pity. “Poor little thing! II I said, as I ventured to stroke its soft cheeks and tiny hands; “you are helpless, like I am. I must be a good nurse.” Something opened in my heart, and I learnt to love that baby more than I can tell; and as I loved it life grew so different, so much happier. It taught me a lesson I have never forgotten. It taught me that if we can love we can be happy, in spite of everything. It is not anything fine about us which makes us happy, it is love within us, filling our hearts. That baby, I am sure, was sent by the Good Father to poor me to teach me that.’

‘Oh, Uncle Bob, was I that baby?’ Lizzie asked, with eager voice.

‘No, Miss Conceit, it wasn’t you. If you had been that baby, you would have been quite a woman by this time; and yet it is true that you grew out of that baby. Perhaps if I hadn’t loved that baby, I should never have loved you. It may be the Good Father was getting my heart ready for my little girl. Let us think so, dear one, and praise Him for it this Christmas Eve.’

‘I will, dear uncle, I will; I begin to see a little more clearly. But what was the second thing which happened?’ ‘It was this. One fine afternoon some time after-on a day when baby was gone home early-I was sitting in the doorway, looking, I have no doubt, a poor object, when a beautiful young lady passed by. She stopped to speak to me, and soon learnt all about me. She had such sweet smiles I couldn’t help telling her all. I saw tears in her eyes as I told her about mother and how much I missed her; and then she asked if I would like her to come and see me once a week and teach me to read. I said, “Oh yes; because your eyes are so like mother’s,” whereupon she stroked my head and went away.

‘She was so good to me for many weeks, and not only did she teach me how to read a little, but she talked to me a good deal. One day she said, “Have you heard, Bob, about the dear Savior Jesus?” and when I told her I didn’t know anything to speak of, she was so sorry. “Why, Bob,” she said,” Jesus is the very best Friend we’ve got. I know He sent me to you, and told me to help you. Listen and I’ll tell you about Him.” And then she read such nice stories in the Gospels, and explained them, so that it seemed as if I could see Jesus healing the sick and looking kindly on me. I know my heart ached to think He wasn’t with us now.

“But,” said the lady, “He loves us just as much now as when He died for us on the cross; yes, and is just as much with us.”

“What!” I said, “is Jesus with us now?

Does He see me and know that I am a cripple?”

“He does indeed, Bob; because He is God as well as man; and if you just talk to Him, He hears.”

‘It was very difficult to understand, but somehow I couldn’t help believing her, she was’ so good, and I loved her so. Love is the best teacher, and that is why the Good Father sent His own Son to teach us, I think.’

Little Lizzie looked up into his face with a quick, sympathetic glance, as much as to say, ‘Oh yes, I understand that!’

‘But I must get on faster with my story, or the tree will be in full bloom long before I’ve done. You must know, the young lady was a visitor at the vicarage, and one day, before she left, she said to me, “Bob, if I can get you into a place in London where they might do your back good, would you be willing to come?”I said, “Yes,” of course; it was so nice to be cared for and to have a little hope given to one’s heart; and the up shot of it was that after she had gone a letter came to the vicarage which said that all was arranged, and I was to come up. Then the people at the parsonage took me in hand. I was such a lot of trouble, but they never seemed to mind either trouble or expense. They got me nice clothes and took me to the station in their carriage, and sent a servant with me who made me lie down in the railway carriage on soft rugs, and gave me nice things to eat, and spoke kindly to me, and so did several people who got into the carriage, and were told all about me. One woman made me cry. She kissed me very tenderly, and wished me God’s blessing. It brought back my mother so clearly. I shall never forget that journey; it made the world seem so full of kind, good people.

‘That was how I got to London, little one. Doesn’t it seem as if the Good Father had arranged it all specially for me, through these kind people? That is what my beautiful young lady said, and what I came to think, and now nothing could make me doubt that the good Spirit of God is working here below. He works in all hearts which will let Him. Do you see, dearie?

‘The young lady met me and took me to the hospital, and there I had such kindness shown me as I cannot describe. If I had been a little prince instead of a little cripple, I could not have been better treated. The old doctors came every day to look at me, and the young doctors did something almost every day to help me, and they would make fun, to make me laugh and be cheerful. And the nurse, oh, she was so nice both day and night! It was so comfortable to be tucked up in bed as she tucked me up; and she just knew where to put my poor crooked back so as to make it easy. God bless that hospital! It was a little bit of heaven. I go to see it occasionally, and some day I will take you to see it.

But it was the young lady I used to look for most. She came regularly once a week to see me. Things seemed all right always after she had been to see me. ‘She would comfort me so sweetly if I was sad, and she told me such nice things about the world outside that I began to feel quite an interest in life. She brought me books, too-picture books mostly. One was a book about animals in the Zoological Gardens, and one was a book about Jesus, and how He went about doing good. How naturally she talked about Jesus! She used to say, “Just open your eyes inside your heart, and see Him close by you, smiling on you, ready to put your head on His bosom, or to take your hand in His.”

‘I think it was after I took this home, and believed it, that I began to really pray. I began to talk to Jesus, and simply tell Him everything in my heart, all I needed and felt, and especially I asked Him to help me to be brave and good when the kind doctors came, because, you know, they had often to hurt me in order to make me better. That is a thing we have to learn in this world; we have to be hurt sometimes in order to grow good. Growing good is like being made well, and as the doctor has to hurt us in some sore place to get us better, so the Good Father has often to de the same; but all in love, all in love.

‘As time went on I grew a little stronger, and began to be able to use my hands. One day the lady said, “See, Bob, I’ve brought you a knife! Would you like it?” “Oh yes,” I said, quite eager; for it was such a fine one, and all boys like a knife. She opened one bright blade, and said smilingly, “But you will cut yourself.” I vowed and protested I wouldn’t, and that I would be so careful. Then she showed me another blade, and a rasp, and a blade which was hollowed, and had a sort of spoon at the end, and at last she said, “I thought, Bob, it would do to carve with. Would you like to learn whilst you lie here in bed? Do you think, if you had some soft wood, you could manage to carve a toy like this?” showing me a little wooden plate.

‘I felt quite frightened at the idea. At the same time I was excited by the thought of using that splendid knife, and when Miss Constance took out of her bag (for she had come fully prepared) a square piece of wood marked out in the centre with blue lines into the shape of a plate, my fingers began to fidget to be at work, and I paid very close attention to the directions she gave me.

‘That was another great turning-point in my life. It gave me something to do, and took my thoughts off myself. The less we think about self the better, I find. But what was still better, I began to feel that I could do something - I, the poor cripple, could really do something. For one day Miss Constance praised a little house I had done, and then I felt that feeling which made a little man of me, and courage and hope came into my heart. God was ordering all things kindly for me. For all my new courage and hope were more than needed to bear a blow which had to come. I t was such a blow at the time, but now I feel ashamed that I thought so much about myself, instead of thinking only about Miss Constance.

“Bob,” she said one day, soon after I was fairly launched into carving, “Bob, our Good Father has been arranging things for me as well as you, and He has given me great happiness. I want you also to be very good to me.”

I smiled at this, for what would I not do, I thought, to be good to her; only what could I do? Carve her some toy? I could perhaps do that, but that wouldn’t be anything she could care for; and so I was perplexed. What did she mean? For I saw she meant something serious.

“I am going to be married, dear Bob,” she went on; “and my husband has to go out to Africa as a missionary, and therefore you know I must, of course, go with him. I t is the Good Father who is sending us, and so you, dear Bob, must be good to me also, and let me go.”

You see, she knew how hard I should feel it, and this was her nice way of putting it.

‘I think I shall never forgive myself for the way I took it. Instead of trying to smile a life - time of thanks for all she had done for me, I only thought for myself, and burst into tears, because it seemed that I was going to lose the light out of my life. She had come to me in the depth of my misery and helped me, and now she was going to leave me, and all would be dark again. So selfish was I.’

‘But, dear Uncle Bob, it was hard to have to lose your beautiful lady.’

The little voice which thus tried to comfort spoke as if very conscious that the owner would feel just as Uncle Bob did if Uncle Bob were to have to leave her. So much alike is one heart to another in life’s experience.

Ah! But little one, wouldn’t it have been a whole world better to have been able to smile, and thank her, and tell her I would let her go, with all my love? Wasn’t she feeling for me all the while, and ought I not to have felt for her? Wasn’t she asking me to be noble and unselfish for both our sakes, and oughtn’t I to have swallowed down all my sorrow, and just been what she wanted? Wasn’t she just acting Christ-like, and oughtn’t I to have said, “Dear Lord Jesus, make me also like Thee; she is beautiful with Thy love-let me be beautiful too”? Besides, did I not forget to look to the Lord Jesus? I ought to have turned to Him at once; if I had, He would have made me feel right. As it “vas, I only burst into a passion of tears, though I did try to keep them down. What brought me to after a while was that I happened to catch sight of tears silently rolling down the cheeks of Miss Constance, whilst she was trying to soothe me, and wipe away mine.

This really horrified me. It seemed so bad of me to let her cry for me. What was I thinking of to be causing her such pain and grief-me, only a little cripple, and she so beautiful and good? At sight of those tears I did try to be all right, and to smile into her face, and then she called me her little “brave man”; but all the while she smiled and talked the tears filled her eyes, and every now and then one would overflow and roll quietly down her cheek. She said she could be quite happy, now that I could let her go, and she began to tell me of all she and her husband hoped to do as the missionaries of Jesus amongst the dark, ignorant Negroes. She was going to get little black children into a school, and teach them, and he was going to get the men and women, and tell them of the love of God, of which they had never yet heard. ”

And you see, Bob,” she said, “you will be helping too if you just give me to these poor heathen with all your heart.” So she put it, the sweet angel. I see now that she just wanted to bless me with her own sacrifice, and let me have a share in it, and in the love of Jesus.’

‘Oh, Uncle Bob, she was good. Do you think she will ever come back and see us?’

It was some time before Uncle Bob could speak to answer this question. Something seemed to stick in his throat which had to be cleared away before he could answer.

‘She will never come back, little one,’ he said at length; ‘but I hope we shall both see her one day. She has gone to heaven, to be with Jesus. The climate of Africa, they say, killed her. I t is so hot, and damp, and full of fever, and she was so weak that she couldn’t stand it, and so my dear Miss Constance is now in heaven, and we must both follow her there, little one, must we not? Jesus will let us do so, if we ask Him.’

‘Uncle Bob,’ said the child, ‘is it because of Miss Constance that you put money into that box on the mantel-piece every Sunday, and that you like to go to missionary meetings?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it is little one. She had a great deal to do with it. I owe that blessing also to her. Because she went to the Africans, and because I loved her so, and because she died for them, it came into my heart to think of them; and then, you see, I couldn’t help going on to think that some one better and greater than even Miss Constance died for them first. I t was because Jesus died for us all that Miss Constance herself was willing to die for the Africans; and when I saw that clearly, I saw that God had been leading me, through her love and example, to think of those whom Jesus came to seek and to save.

‘But I haven’t yet told you all she did for me. It was she who gave me my start in business. Actually even in the midst of all her preparations to be married and to go such a long journey, she still thought of me and my future; and she left it in her will that if she died I was to have 50 given to me, to put me in the way of earning my living. It was this sum, she said, she had set apart to give me herself if she was alive when I left the hospital sufficiently strong.

‘Well, by the goodness of God, my back did get stronger, and as time went on I began to move about on a pair of crutches. It was a proud day when I could first walk alone, and felt that I was independent. It perhaps seems a strange pride, considering what I am; but after all there is a vast difference between a little ’strength and no strength, a little sight and no sight. I once knew a man who had been blind for six months, and who then recovered a glimmer of sight, enough to enable him to get about without help, and I have heard him say that that little sight made all the difference in the world to him, and that he thanked God for it more gratefully than ever he did for the perfect sight of his early days. And just so I thank God for my independence, though it IS only on crutches.

‘And yet what should I have done without the friends who came to my help? It is wonderful how kind people were! One and another thought for me and planned for me, and at last, when I was about eighteen, I began the work I do now, and as years went on I got a little business together, and settled down in this court. And so here I am, a monument of God’s love and mercy, with a dear little niece to love me and look after me, eh? Now has not God been “Good Father” to help me through all that, and bring me here and let you come to me?’

“Oh, Uncle Bob! It was good: it is so nice!

‘What the ‘ little one’ precisely meant is not so clear, but Uncle Bob seemed to understand, and he did not attempt to interrupt a rather long silence with Lizzie. She fell a-thinking. Both went on with the work of fastening the articles to the branches of the Christmas tree.

She was musing over Uncle Bob’s concluding question, and he was glad to see it working so deeply in her mind. It is good to let thoughts sink down into the heart quietly. We often spoil lessons hurrying the work too quickly.  

The silence was broken at last by Lizzie. She had looked up once or twice with a quick, wavering look, like one who has an eager question which either hesitates to let itself be asked, or does not know how to get itself into right shape. She wanted to ask about Uncle Bob’s father.

‘Did your father die in London, Unc1e Bob? ‘She said at last.Yes, little one, he did. It is a rather long, strange story; but it does show how the Good Father works for us all in very mysterious ways. His hand was very plain in father’s death. You must know I did not know where he was for several years. Very soon after I came to London he disappeared from the village and no one knew where he had gone. It seems he fell lower and lower in drunkenness. And at last lost his place-he was a carpenter-and as the neighbors had long looked down upon him for his treatment of mother and me, he evidently couldn’t bear his disgrace any longer, and vanished away. It was long before I felt any care for him, because at first the remembrance of his cruelty was so strong on me; but God softened my heart, little one, especially as I prayed. I then began to think of him as I thought my mother would be thinking of him, as a poor sinner miserable in his sin, and I wondered if ever I should be able to find him and help him. And so after awhile, you see, I grew into the feeling of longing to save him, and I prayed God earnestly to give me the chance. I had a long time to wait, but it is wonderful how the Good Father listens to us. It is always safe to trust Him, little one. I did find my father. One evening, as I was hobbling along through a street not far distant, I saw a man come reeling out of a public house. He looked wild with drink and very angry because they were turning him out; but I knew him, and I stood quite overcome, and unable to say a word. He lurched past me, and I turned to follow; but he could move on much quicker than I, and I soon lost sight of him when he doubled down some cross streets. I had cried out just once” Father,” but the old fear came into my heart after I had said it, so that I durst not say it again; whether he heard me I could not tell. He made a kind of effort to pull up and listen, as if he were startled; but then he went on quicker than before, and so I lost him. He told me afterwards that he did hear me in a drunken man’s confused way, but that the word seemed to be from some devil who wanted to terrify him. Wasn’t that strange?This chance meeting altered all my life at once. That is, I could now think of nothing but my father-where he might be, what he might be doing: how could I find him? How could I save him from his drunkenness? And such-like questions. I took it that God was going to answer my prayers to the full, and that this sight of poor father was the beginning of the answer. Don’t you think I was right, little one?’‘Yes, Unc1e Bob; but what happened next?What did you do?’Well, dear, I thought of the public house out of which I had seen him come, and I went and called on the landlady. I didn’t tell her who I was, but only asked her if she knew where the man lived whom they had turned out the night before, because I knew him and should like to find him. “No, she didn’t know-he was almost a stranger; and she didn’t want to know either, for he was a bad un: he couldn’t take his sup 0′ drink without getting nasty and quarrelling with everybody. However,” she went on, “I’ll ask, and I dare say they can tell me summat about him, but I shouldn’t think he’s got many friends.”

‘Nor had he. All she could learn was that he lived somewhere in the neighborhood, but hadn’t been long in it; and with this much I had to be content. They all evidently thought he was a man not worth any trouble.

What should I do? “God help me to find my poor father!” I said in my heart, for it began to be a pain to me that he was in such a bad, lonely way. Surely it was possible to change and save him! How glad mother would be! My heart filled with longing which never let me rest. I got thinking what a man he might be even yet, if only he would turn to Christ and give up the drink. I am sure it was God moving in my heart, for as I went on thinking I grew full of courage. I found myself going along the way he had taken the night I saw him, but how to set about seeking for him I did not know. However, after I had gone some way, I asked a boy if there were a carpenter’s shop anywhere near. He wasn’t a very polite boy, for, pretending deafness, he shouted, “What is it you want, old Crookey? A carpenter to straighten you out? It can’t be done, I tell yer, for any money.” I only smiled, and said, “I know that, my lad: so be kind to a poor cripple, and tell me.” He wasn’t bad: he only wanted his joke. When he had grinned a little at me, he said, “I think there is a joiner’s shop somewhere’s about, and as I’ve nowt to do, I’ll honor you by my company.”

‘He really did prove kind, and after various inquiries and a journey to right and left down a street or two, we turned into a yard and found the shop. Still, I had to pay for his kindness. He was a boy who must have his joke and put himself forward. “Hillo!” he shouted at the door, pushing in his head and taking a good look at three or four men who were at work. “Hillo! Where’s the guv’nor? I’ve brought him an apprentice-a tip-topper,-and I want you to gie me summut for recommending him. It ought to be at least five bob.”

Thereupon he threw open the door, and ran out of the yard into the street. I t wasn’t a very good introduction, was it? And when the foreman came to the door, he was red and angry, and was going to say something sharp; but when he saw poor me, he knew I couldn’t help it, and he only said, “Where’s that ragamuffin? What is it you want?” “I don’t know the boy,” I said, “but what I want is to ask if you have a man working here called George Deane?’”

‘Was that your father’s name, Uncle Bob?’ inquired his absorbed listener.

It was, little woman; but I had little hope he had used it. I thought it most likely he would be going under some other name.

“We’ve had a man called George; but that’s all I know,” answered the foreman.” Here, Tom,” he called out, “what was that fellow George’s other name? A drunken fellow,” he added; “he left us to go on spree last week.”

Tom came to the door, and said, “Smith, that’s what he called his’sen; but I don’t believe it was his right name. Leastways, he seemed not to know it at times.”

“Was he about fifty?” I said.

“Summut like it,” was the answer, very shortly spoken.

“Was he from the country?” I ventured to ask again.

“I should think so; but what do you want with him?” This was said as if the man was suspicious of me, and I thought it best to tell them who I was.

“I am George Deane’s son,” I said, “and I want to find him, because I am afraid he’s in a bad way.”

It cleared the man’s face at once, and he said, “I don’t know whether he’s George Deane or not; but I should say, if being in a bad way is any clue, then it’s likely enough. He hasn’t been here for a week-he’s on spree; but he was lodging in

Dame Lane

a while ago, and for aught I know he may be there yet.”

“Well, then,” I said, “I must go to

Dame Lane

. Is it far from here?”

The man looked at me, and then came a little sympathy or something into his look as he answered me, “It’s not far as t’ crow flies, but it’s a goodish bit with the turnings for such as thee.” I dare say I did look tired;

I felt tired, and I had to get back as I came, for there were no trams or omnibuses in the neighborhood.

“Look here,” he said; “tell us where you live, and go your ways home, and when he turns up again sober, we’ll let you know.”

It did seem the best thing, for I couldn’t do more walking. Nor did I like to ask to sit down and rest, for then I should have had to talk about my father, and I felt I couldn’t. So I thanked them kindly, and bidding them good morning, went out of the yard to go home. I can hardly say how I felt. There seemed, indeed, a little light. The man might be my father; but yet the thought arose, if I find him, what shall I do, what can I do? His drunkenness filled my heart with dread. He would be so unreasonable, and I should be so helpless. Supposing he came to me only for money with which to go on drinking? Supposing he should come home in one of his wild, mad fits of drunkenness and kill me? It almost tore me in two, the longing to save him and the fear of him.

And yet, little woman, do you know that when I stood in the street again and just lifted up my heart to the Good Father for help, it came strong upon me to go on and finish what I had begun.

‘As I looked up and down the street, I saw the boy who had led me to the shop peeping round the corner. He seemed on the look-out for me, and as I had rather taken to him, in spite of his joking, I put up my finger to call him to me. Down he came, but not without a cautious air as he neared the entrance to the yard.

What’s up now, guv’nor?” he whispered, as if in fear.

“Do you know

Dame Lane

?” I said, “and will you go and find out for me if a man called George Smith lives in it? If you will, I will give you two pence. I must have something to eat, for I’m done up, and need a rest, and I shall take it as very good of you if you will help me, for, as you see, I’m a cripple.” I said this advisedly, because I wanted to make friends with him, and I thought the best way would be to throw myself on his sympathy. I t is not ail loss, little one, to be a cripple. A cripple may prevail where a strong man could not.

No doubt the offer of the “tup-pence” made him more willing to listen to me. Anyhow, he saw me safe into a pork-pie shop, where I said I would wait until he came back to me.

Then I rested, whilst I eat some bread and cheese; and I watched the people as they came in and went out of the shop. It was now the noon hour, and there were a good many customers. They seemed mostly boys and girls and broken-down men who had no home, or women who had to make up a hasty meal between times. It was a sad sight. The young folks were cheerful and playful enough, though in rags, as young folks mostly are if they have anything to eat; but the” grown-ups,” especially the women, had sad faces; in their eyes were sad looks which went to my heart. It brought before me my poor mother as fresh as if she were with me in the old home at Banham. Her eyes had just such looks in them, and I knew the reason of their sadness. Could it be the same with these? Was it drink, and cruelty, and neglect? There may be hard life where there is no drunkenness, but I always fear that rags and sorrow mean drink and cruelty at home. Home! The drunkard’s home is no home. It is only a wild beasts’ den. Oh, why, why is not something done to alter things? And why are men such senseless fools as to be worse than brutes? Home, little one; how different home might be to hundreds of thousands, to whom it is only a haunt of fear and misery, even if they did suffer want from time to time, if only they had good hearts full of love to one another! But the drink-curse is on them all, and our nation wills to have it so, and one day we shall have to pay bitterly for our thoughtless neglect.

And then I thought how easy it is to become brutal and debased-how the little ones are born into it; and the pity of it all seized me strongly, so that I could almost have shed tears. And with this the thought of my father came upon me, and my heart went out to him as a poor victim who needed some one to love him in his lostness. How could he be saved if I didn’t love him and seek him? Wasn’t that a right thought, little one? Don’t you think Jesus felt so when He left heaven for us?

I hadn’t more than half an hour to wait for the boy, and I was feeling strong and eager from the rest and the thought of pity in my heart, when he came in. His first words were, however, rather strange.

“I say,” says he, “do you care very much for the chap you sent me after?”

At this question my heart gave a jump.

Did it mean he had found my father, and that there was something wrong? He had found a George Smith-the George Smith of the shop -but he was in a bad way.

“The neighbors,” he said, “were trying to hold him down. He was raging mad with drink. He’s got the blue devils, they say.”

It was terrible news. I dare say I turned white, for the lad looked scared for a moment; but I said to him, “I believe it is my poor father; take me where he is,” and we set off together.

It was a good distance for me to go, but at last we reached the entrance to a court In Dame Lane, and as we went into it we saw women talking excitedly together, and then we heard a man’s voice shouting loud and wild. The lad said, “That’s him; shall you go?”

“Yes,” I said; “I must.” I felt I must know for certain whether it was my father. So I spoke to two women, and told them I wanted to see George Smith, the sick man, because I thought he was an old friend of mine.

“Oh, but he’s mad,” they cried, “and so violent. There are four men just now holding him down, and he’s almost too much for them; but come, I’ll show you the way to the place. He was taken bad last night.”

‘The bedroom in which he was - was on the ground-floor, so that I had no steps to go either up or down, and I soon got into the room. But between me and the face I wanted to look on there was quite a number of people, and I had to work round to the left side of the room to get a view. And what a sight met my gaze! It was my father on a low bedstead, in the hands of four men, who had to put forth all their strength to keep him down. As I caught sight of his wild, awful face, the eyes vacant of reason, but full of fear, my heart sickened in me. He had ceased to struggle just as I entered the room, as if he had heard something in the tap of my crutches along the passage.

“What-what-” he gasped, in prolonged utterance; “what is that? It’s coming, it’s coming!” He shrieked, still with listening look, like a man in a wild beast’s lair, who sees the entrance darken and hope pass away. “Hark! Hark!” He whispered, and then his eyes turned and saw me, and such a shriek of fear broke from him as turns my blood cold even to remember. “The devil! There! There! The devil! I knew it was he coming. Tap, tap, tap! Let me go! Let me go!” he shrieked, “let me go!” The veins on his forehead and on his arms seemed to swell out, and the fight to keep him down was dreadful to behold. And this was what drink and unbelief had brought him to!

I seemed to excite and madden him. He could not really know who I was; but there was some subtle link of memory touched by my presence, for his eyes fastened themselves in terror on me alone, and he kept muttering, “The devil! Oh, the devil! Take him away.”

And so I had to leave the room; and what should I do next? What could I do next? What I did was to think how God had led me, and to trust Him for the rest. But by this time I was wearied out, and I felt I must get away home, or I should be ill. I cannot tell you how kind and good that street-boy proved in this time of trial. “Jem,” I said, for he had told me his name, “you see how it is with me. The man is my father, and yet I can do nothing, being a cripple. Will you help me a little?”

“Yes,” said he; “I will if I can. What can I do?”

“Well,” I said, “first take me the nearest way to a cab-stand, for I cannot walk home, and as we go I will tell you what I want.

“You see,” I continued, “nothing can be done, except to get him to a hospital, and I want you to keep watch and bring me word if anything is done in that way, or of any change for the better or worse. The women of the court will tell you, and you can tell them about me if you need to do so to get them to tell you. I live at Blacksmith Court in Wilkins Street. My name is Robert Deane, and so to-morrow bring me news, and I think I can muster sixpence for you.

And with these instructions, as soon as we found a cab I left him, and so got home, feeling very low. How I did pray to God that He would keep me from being ill and help and bless my poor father!

‘You may be sure I waited very anxiously for news all next day. It was beyond my power to go out and seek for any. My back ached terribly with the over-exertion of the day before. But I did try to get near my Good Father, and to feel His love, and I talked a good deal with Jesus, and told Him all about it.’

‘But, Uncle Bob,’ said the child, ‘you cannot see Jesus, and he doesn’t speak to you. How can you talk to Him? I wish I knew.’

‘You will learn, little woman. It is no matter we don’t see Him; He sees us, and He hears us-yes, hears our very thoughts as plainly as you hear my voice now; and so I talk to Jesus, and He talks to me in His own way.’

‘But what way, Uncle Bob?’

He makes me feel He is near, and then He seems to calm me and give me strength; and often I know how to think about something which otherwise would have made me restless or anxious. Oh, it’s very real talking which Jesus talks-not word-talk, but feeling-talk, heart talk.’

‘I see-at least, I think I see,’ murmured the child, looking up into Uncle Bob’s earnest face with trustful gaze. ‘I wish I did see like you.’

What she saw was that his experience was blessed fact to him, and she felt a longing to share it with him. His influence was the sort of influence everyone feels who comes in contact with a really changed heart, which has tasted that the Lord is good, and shows it in a sweet, natural way.

But I must get on, little woman, or I shall never finish my story, and I would like to do so now I have begun it. It is getting very near the end.

Jesus seemed to tell me just to trust in Him and be quiet. That beautiful verse came into my mind, “0 rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him, and He shall give thee thy heart’s desire,” What I desired was that my poor father’s heart might be turned to the Good Father, and so the verse just seemed the very voice of Jesus telling me it was all right-that I could rest, for He was working.

‘Thus the anxiety passed away, and the sorrow began to lighten, and I waited “patiently” for the coming of news. Two days after, about eleven o’clock, Jem turned up. Something important had happened, I could see by his face.

“What is the matter, Jem? Do tell me.

Is he gone to the hospital?” I began to be afraid he had died before he could be got there.

“Oh yes, he’s gone to the ‘orspital, sure enough. That’s what I came for to tell you,” he said; but his manner made it plain that there was something more he didn’t like to tell me.

“Well, that’s all right, Jem, isn’t it?” I answered, not liking to probe further, just because I feared there was something more.

“Oh yes, ‘twould ‘a been all right if he’d gone all right; but when a mad cove breaks away and runs wild along the street, and tumbles down a cellar and breaks his leg, he gets to the ‘orspital sure enough, but it don’t quite seem all right, do it?”

So the kind-hearted lad broke the sad tale as best he could, in his own rough way.

“And I went to the ‘orspital,” he added. “I told a young sawbones that I knew the wild chap’s son-and was he a bad case? I asked. He said it was looked on as a very bad case on account of the drink in him, and so you had better go and see him as soon as you can. He is getting more hisself now, the young chap said.”

“Jem,” I said, very much touched, partly because it was a great relief to know that all the uncertainty of father being properly cared for was now over-” Jem, you’ve been a good friend to me in this dreadful time. You’ve been as good as gold. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”

For a moment the words seemed to puzzle him, as if it were quite an unusual thing for him to get any praise, and then when he took them in he spoke very funnily.

“Eh? What did you say? Do you know you make a cove blush?”

“Blush away, Jem, as much as you like,’ I replied; “but it’s just as I’ve said. I hope you’ll often come and see me. Perhaps I can help you to a good thing, some day.”

‘Is Jem a good boy now, Uncle Bob?’ asked the child. She evidently thought that any boy Uncle Bob praised was bound to turn out well.

Well, little one, you shall judge for yourself.

He will be here tomorrow night. I got him a nice place as errand boy in a large toy-shop, and he is quite a different fellow from when I first saw him. But you will see him.

My father, Jem told me, was in St. Thomas’ Hospital,
St. Thomas’ Street, and there I went the very first visiting day. You may imagine something of the fear I had after what I had gone through. I asked God for help, and I kept thinking what mother would have me do and say, and what a joy it would be to her if father should be changed even now; and so I got to the hospital, feeling a little more courage. There were a good many visitors before me, and it took me a good while to learn the ward in which my father had been put. To my dismay it was up a flight of stairs in a corner part of the building, and however was I to get there upon my crutches? I was quite perplexed, and didn’t know what to do. I kept saying to people, “I want to go and see my father in No. 27 ward, but it is too high for me.” Some only stared at me, and passed on. Some stopped and advised me to look out for a porter, and ask him what could be done, and it began to seem as if I must give up hope, when as it chanced a big young fellow came and looked on as we were talking.

“What is it?” he asked, and then he heard the fix I was in, and of course he saw that I couldn’t possibly get up the stairs. A look of compassion came into his eyes. “Well,” he muttered, “I’ve got an old mother here myself, and a little help’s worth a deal 0′ pity. Look here, pardner, will you let me carry you? I think I can manage it.”

“I felt oh so grateful. What a number of kind folks there are in the world, and none kinder than the poor! That I’ve found out from being a cripple. But a thought flashed through my mind, which for one second made me hesitate. The young man observed it, and he said, a little coldly,-

“Are you afraid 0′ me?”

“Oh no!” I cried; “that isn’t it at all; but if you take me up, how can I get down?”

“Just so,” he replied, and nodded thoughtfully, adding, in a musing tone, “That’s so.” And then he said, “Look here, pardner, I’m going to see my old mother, and if you like to wait till I call for you, I’ll carry you down too. It’s no good doing things by halves, is it, gents? “And he looked round with a smile, adding, “I’m Juggling Joe: that’s my name.”

Well, he took me ever so carefully In his arms, and carried me up nearly a hundred stairs, whilst I clung to my crutches, ordering them as deftly as I could, so as not to catch in the bannisters. A nurse on one of the landings told us how to find No. 27 ward, and said my father was very bad, and not likely to live; and there at the door he placed me down, and steadied me with my crutches, and then, smiling and nodding at me with most benevolent air, he assured me he would not forget to fetch me when he’d seen his old mother.

So I went in, my heart a good deal sinking, because I half expected my entrance would excite my father’s frenzy. But all things were mercifully ordered. He wasn’t quite asleep, but very drowsy, and so I was able, after I had whispered with the nurse of the ward, and told her my errand, to get to his locker and seat myself on it, between his bed and another, before he was at all aroused to take notice. His face was towards me, and I had time to take a good look at it, and compare it with his face of a dozen years before; and oh, little woman, it was so changed, so much older. His sin didn’t seem to have given him a good time. No! The way of the transgressor is hard. Drunkards, at least, find that to be true. My look, which was no doubt very intense, seemed to disturb him. He became restless, and at last opened his eyes quite wide and gazed upon me, at first without much expression, but soon with a look in them of uneasiness, deepening into fear.

“What is it?” he gasped. “Who are you? I have seen you somewhere.”

You see, little one, I had become a man since he really saw me twelve years before, and so he didn’t know me; but there must have been some impression made on him by my face in his delirium; or it may have been, as he afterwards told me, that from the moment he got to London I had been constantly coming into his mind, and that he was always expecting he would see me. This he had dreaded, because of the way in which his conscience stung him whenever he thought of mother and me. There are some things we never forget, and God alone can take away the misery memory brings.

I hardly knew what to say, but I thought I wouldn’t tell him all at once who I was, lest it should excite him too much; and so I answered, “They told me you were here very poorly, and so I thought I would come and see you. Is there anything I can get for you?” I talked on, if possible to turn away his thoughts from me. But he kept looking into my face, and he only whispered, “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know me?” I said. “I want us to be friends, so that I can come and see you as often as the doctor will let me.”

‘But no, he wouldn’t be put aside; he still asked, in a low, hollow whisper, “Who are you? You are like my wife. Are you Bob?”

“Yes, father,” I answered, “I am Bob; and oh, I am so glad you know me, and that we’ve found each other, and that I can look after you a little now, while you are ill.”

His face took on a hard, stony look, and he closed his eyes and kept silence; and so I went on: “I’m so sorry, father, you’ve had this bad accident. You must be very quiet, and perhaps you’ll soon be better; and then I’ve got a home for you to come and live with me and be comfortable.”

Still he kept that expressionless face, or tried to; for I thought I saw his mouth twitch once and his throat work as if he were swallowing something down. So I went on as well as I could, for I felt ready to break down, and it made my voice tremble a little.

“It’s all right, father. You’ll be glad to see what a nice little home I’ve got, in a quiet back-yard, all to myself, and, please God; we’ll have many a happy day together yet. Mother is glad, I am sure, that we’ve found each other.”

But at the mention of mother he slowly bent his head under the clothes, and covered his face quite over. He was hiding himself away, and the action was very pitiful. I felt like putting my hand on his head to talk to him by dumb motion, as somehow more appropriate than words for such misery as his; but I thought it better not, lest he should be still hardening himself, and resent any such approach of affection. F or it is a strange thing about wrong-doing, little one that it is most often the wrong-doer who is hardest to win. He refuses love as long as he can, because he knows love pleads for repentance and confession, and the impenitent heart cannot bear the thought of either. And so impenitence often refuses love, and won’t hear of forgiveness. To be forgiven means to allow that wrong has been done, and pride hardens itself, and won’t yield. But yet love is the only power which can make it yield. Only love must be both wise and patient-patient to wait for its chance, wise to see it and seize upon it.

It was as if something kept my hand back and bade me wait; but I felt all the while that God would make love win, if only I could love enough. But what do you think I heard him say beneath the bed-clothes?

“Go away!” he said; “go away! I can’t - I can’t - oh, why are you come to torment me? Go away.”

It was hard to bear; but even as he spoke 1 could understand a little, and it is plain to me WJW. My presence had roused his conscience, and it was hurting him as he remembered the wicked past.

“Oh, father,” I could only say, “don’t speak so-don’t speak so!”

He went on as if he had not heard me: “Go away! I’m soon going to die, and death pays all, does it not? Yes, it will pay all, all, all-mother, and you, and all. I can but die for it.”

He said all this in a broken way which was very pitiable, still keeping his head under the bed-clothes.

“Father,” I said, “listen to me. Do believe me. I have not come to torment you, but only to tell you that I want you to get better, and come and live with me. God in His love forgives everything, if we really want Him to do so.”

He caught at the last word “forgive.”

Before he could take any comfort from me he must find peace with God.

“Forgive!” he said; “how can there be forgiveness?” He seemed to speak to himself, as if his thoughts passed away from me. “Forgiveness! The wife’s dead, and I killed her; the lad’s dead, I should think, or a cripple for life, and I did it, and I must pay for it. I am paying for it. I’ve been in hell any time this twenty year. Did you say forgiveness? Say ‘devil and damnation.’ That’s more like it.”

I could scarcely speak; it got very, very hard to speak, but I managed to cry out, “No, no! It is not ‘devil and damnation,’ but if you will it is God and forgiveness. Father,” I cried, “listen, oh, listen!’Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; and though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.’ That is what God says. He says, ‘God, for Christ’s sake, hath forgiven you.’ Oh, do listen! Look up. God wants to forgive you all. Yes, all,” I went on, for I scarcely dared stop, lest he should fall back; “all, all; mother and me-He will forgive you all.”

‘There I stopped, breathless, and he moved a little, bringing his eyes above the clothes, and looking at me long and earnestly, and then, freeing his mouth, still with steadfast look, he said, “Forgiveness! Do you say there’s forgiveness for me?”

“Yes, I do, father;” and I put my hand a little way on to the bed. “I am as certain as that I am here that God is ready to forgive you, and to take all away-every bit of it; all the sin. Now won’t you ask Him?”

“I cannot believe it,” he said; but his voice was not the same-it was not so hard and despairing. “I cannot believe it. How can you say it, sitting there with your broken back and chalky face, and your mother in her grave? ”

And then he sobbed out, in such a heartbroken way, my mother’s name, and I guessed that he had said it in the same way over and over again in lonely nights of despair: “Oh, Mary, Mary, poor murdered Mary!”

“I can say it,” I answered firmly; “I can say it truly. Nay, I can prove it. Father, dear father, my mother forgave you all before she died; she always prayed for you that you might come to God; and I-let me tell you-oh, I am so glad to tell you, I quite forgive you, I fully forgive you. And this makes me sure that God will forgive you too, because it is God that put it into my heart to forgive you.

“You forgive me?” he said slowly; “mother, too, forgave me? Is it so?”

“Yes, it is so,” I repeated, “and God put it into our hearts, and if He put it into our hearts, you may be sure He has it in His own heart all ready as soon as you ask him.”

“You forgive me?” he said again, as if that were a thing deep, strange, incomprehensible. “Mother forgives me, and I killed her; and you say you both forgive, and God put it into your hearts?”

He closed his eyes as if in deep thought, and there was a silence in the ward which seemed long, but felt blessed.

At length his right hand began to move, and when I looked at his closed eyes I saw two big tears slowly forming under the eyelids, and ready to trickle down his wasted cheeks. I took out my handkerchief and wiped them away, and whilst I was doing so his hand came out of the bed and took hold of mine in a pressure that was wonderfully strong and spoke volumes. But we neither of us uttered a word. It was enough to hold each other’s hand, to return each other’s pressure, and to wait.

At length he said your mother forgave me, did she?”

“Yes, father,” I answered.

“And you forgive me?” he went on, after a pause.

“Yes. Father,” I answered again.

Then he replied, if you two forgive me, mayhap God will. Tell me about Him. He must be different to what I have thought.”

That was a task, little one: the time was so short now, and he a dying man, and so much hanging on my poor words. But I asked God to help me, and I am sure He did. Words came easy.

”Father,” I said, “God is the Good One, and He wants His children to be good; nay, He must have them good, and if they want to be bad, He is obliged in His very love to make it hard for them. But whilst it is hard, and they continue to want to be bad, they think as you have felt that God is hard. But just take it in that God is good, and wants us to be good, and that explains all the misery of sin, and sets us in the way to get out of it. F or, you see bad children must change in their feeling if it is to be all right with them. They must repent of the badness and come back to God and say, ‘Take me in, Father; forgive me and make me good.’ Do you see this, father? That God wants you to be His good child, and that to be good you must come back to Him?”

“Yes,” father answered, “I think I do; but it seems impossible for me ever to be good; and how to go back, or how to find Him, I cannot see.”

“Impossible to be good! Don’t talk so. God can do anything, father, in that way. He has made some of the worst sinners good. And I can tell you the way to Him. I know it. It is a way of his own providing. It is through Jesus, His Son, who is our Savior. He came to call us back home out of our sins, and He does it from the cross, where He died for us. He cries, ‘My Father loves poor sinners, and he has sent me to bear your sins, that you may go free. Only come to Him through me, and God for My sake will forgive you fully.’ And now He lives, and by His Spirit pleads with us to seek and find forgiveness. Yes, Jesus died for all of us, and calls us home to God, and so Jesus is ‘the way’ to God. We go to His cross, and we find God waiting there in love, ready to take us in, and forgive us, and begin in us the new life of a good child.”

And what did your father say, Unc1e Bob?’ murmured Lizzie, who had scarcely stirred the last few minutes, she was so interested. ‘Was he not glad?’

Ah! Little one, when people have gone on for a long time doing wrong, they find it hard to believe God. Sin seems to fill them with blindness and despair. And yet what father said had something right in it: he was groping his way to repentance.

“But what I’ve done,” he said, “cannot be undone. I can never call your poor mother back, who loved me so. I can never even tell her I am sorry, and would make it all up to her if I could. No, never. And I cannot straighten your body, and make you strong; but I would if I could, my lad-I would if I could. So what’s the use of repentance? All I can do is to die and pay for it. I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

“Father, father,” I said, “you do repent. You would make it all right if you could. You are sorry for all the wrong. Oh, just come and tell God so. He is the Good Father who pities us most when we find out we cannot undo what we have done, and cannot deserve to be forgiven. You don’t know how good He is. He’s by the cross this moment, waiting for you. Come to Him.”

I would have given all I had to have been able to slip down on to my knees and take my father’s hand in both mine whilst I prayed; but as I couldn’t, I just kept his hand in mine, and I lifted up my voice whilst all in the room kept silence. ” 0 Good Father,” I cried, “tell my poor father here, on his dying bed, that Thy love is ready, waiting to take him in. It is all ready in Jesus. Tell him that Thou art glad to have him come just as he is that there is no case too bad for Thee; the worse we are, the more Thy love seeks us. Thou art so good! Oh, tell him just to leave mother and me in Thy hands, and that now it is all for the best as it is. We are quite content, Good Father, to be with Thee. Tell him to be content too, and lead him to thyself.”

And even as I prayed, God sent help, and I heard my father begin to speak. “I will, Lord,” he said; “I will come. Forgive a poor miserable sinner, if it be possible. I’ve been a bad husband and a cruel father, but oh, forgive me, if it be possible! Are you sure you and mother forgive me?” he broke off; “are you quite sure?”

‘I fairly cried for joy. “Dear father,” I said, “it is quite sure. Doubt no more. Just take the wrong as all past and done with. I forgive you, mother forgives you, and God forgives you. And listen: Come this moment to Jesus. You feel wrong and bad, and He is just the One to come to; come like a sick man sends for the doctor, like a child runs to its mother because it has fallen and hurt itself. Jesus loves to be kind to us and to cure us. He’s just a perfect Friend. I’ve found Him so, and so will you. Only come; don’t think about anything else except His love and your need; come straight in the faith that He died for you. Begin life over again with Him, and let Him do all He wants with you. He will do more than you can even think now, and He will give you peace.”

I said these things, little one, not all at once, but slowly, to let them sink into his dull brain-bit by bit, as if my arms were round about his soul. F or it is a terrible struggle to get truth into a dying man. The odds are so terribly against him, as a rule. How many have such pain they cannot attend to anything that is said 1 how many become unconscious, and never know their danger! And in how many the habit of unbelief is so fixed and ingrained that they find it impossible to comprehend what sin is as death, and what Christ is as Savior! Still, when the heart has turned penitently to God, when the mind does realize the danger, the hour of death may ripen rapidly the life of faith in the believing soul, as was the case with the penitent thief. You see, the eye is fixed on eternity; the very senses feel it near. The world is behind, and hope has left it, and sin has become terrible from its deadly effect. And so there is a tremendous difference between listening to the Gospel then and listening to it carelessly in church. Then it is like water to the thirsty. At least, it seemed so to my poor father after he yielded his heart, and I had the joy of seeing him penitent. But, oh, I shudder still when I think how nearly he missed it!’

‘But, Uncle Bob, you had prayed for him, and God heard you.’

Yes, yes; it is wonderful-past understanding. Poor father! It wasn’t all joy to him. I saw the tears rolling down his cheeks, and when I whispered, “What is it, father?” he was silent, but I heard him saying to himself very mournfully, “Mary! Oh, Mary, Mary!”

‘At last he looked up at me through his tears, and said, “Do you think your mother knows?” I said, “Yes,” and I meant it, because I have the idea firmly in my mind that Jesus tells His dear ones in the spirit-land as much as He wants them to know of what is going on down here, and I felt that father’s repentance was just the kind of thing He would tell dear mother. It would make her so glad; it would repay her for all her sorrow.

And so I said, “Yes, father, I think Jesus has told her all.”

It seemed to comfort him, and he said, “Then she’ll know that I do care for her, I do love her. But, oh, lad, I’d give the world if only I could tell her so!”

“Father,” I said, “you are trusting Jesus; leave it with Him. He will do what you can’t do: He will tell her. It will be a real joy to him to say, ‘Mary, I have just heard your husband wish he could tell you that he loves you, and is truly sorry for all the past.’ And then He will perhaps say, ‘I know he means it-he is quite sincere; and one day soon he will come up here and tell you so himself.’ ”

Whilst I was speaking the door opened, and I saw the young fellow look in who had so kindly carried me upstairs. He nodded to me, meaning that he was waiting, and I took my father’s hand in mine. I felt it might be for the last time. Indeed, he looked very bad, for it had been a very trying visit, and so I pressed his hand very lovingly and only said, “I must go: my time is up. Think of Jesus; look straight to Him if you feel low or bad; and don’t forget that all is forgiven. Good-bye, dear father, good-bye. I will come again as soon as ever I can.”

“Do! Do, my lad!” he moaned. “I shall be so glad, and we can talk a little more about Jesus. It seems wonderful I should want to, but I do. God bless thee for a good lad! I couldn’t have thought it! Love and forgiveness for one like me!”

And so I went away, never to see him alive again; but that I did not know at the time. All had been so far beyond my expectation that I was full of gladness about him as well as sorrow. He was eased in soul if not in body, and perhaps he might even rally a little and be with me for a while, I thought. But that was not to be, and I can see now it was all for the best.

‘Another man, who was also dying from drink, once said to me, “No, I don’t want to get better; I don’t want to be able to go out into the temptation again. I feel I might fall again. I have become so weak of will in my long sin that I am better here on my sick-bed, and I am quite willing to go when God shall call for me.” It may have been my poor father’s condition, and God knew it.

‘My poor father died next day, and as no one knew who his friends were, they buried him soon. But the nurse told me his last words were, “They forgive me; Jesus forgives me. Poor Mary! Poor Bob!”

And so, little one, I hope he is in heaven; but it would have been nice to have had him here to take care of for a little while, wouldn’t it?

Oh, we would have been so kind to him, Uncle Bob. We would have made him feel that Jesus loved him,’ she replied. Lizzie had learnt her lesson; and Uncle Bob looked at her as if her little speech fully repaid him.

‘The Good Father,’ he said, ‘likes to hear you say that, Lizzie. But Jesus, you may be sure, has made him feel it more than we could have done. All the same, He loves you for it, little woman.

‘But see, the tree is finished as well as the story, and so now we’ll shut up for ‘the night, and go to bed.’  

‘Tis Christmas again! - “the time of happy thoughts and sweet remembrances”. How fondly do we love to linger over the associations of the past? The old forms and faces that we knew so well seem to rise up before us once more and beckon us to join in the revels of the merry throng; or perhaps the old scenes and haunts of our childhood stretch out before us and in fancy are revisited again - for “Never a Christmas dawns, or never the old year ends; but somebody thinks of others - old days old times - old friends”.

But “times have changed”, we hear on every hand. “Christmas is on the wane”, “Christmas is dying out”. It is true that many of the old customs have been swept before the onward march of civilization and modern modes of life and living. We no longer have the revels of the merry days of old, when the masques and mummers held high carnival and went from house to house dressed in fantastic costumes, singing Christmas ditties, or dancing on the well-scrubbed freshly sanded kitchen floors. We no longer catch the strains of carols on Christmas Eve in our streets a good old custom which was kept up until very recent years. Nor do we now hear the bells of even a still more recent period, which in many parts of the city “clanged” an invitation to those who passed by to “Come in” and try their luck on a wheel-of-fortune for “a turkey, a goose, or a pair of chicken”.

No! All that has been changed. “Jack has ceased to pipe and Jill to dance”, and we no” longer witness the antics of the hobby-horse, the jannies or the mummers. We live in a time which regards as foolish, if not sinful, many things that made Christmas “Merry” to the men - aye, and women, too, of today, who “made the welkin ring” with the Christmas festivities of thirty or forty years ago.

But “Christmas on the wane”, “Christmas” - the Grand Jubilee of the children - “dying out”, Perish the thought! What with Christmas cards and Santa Claus - ever on the increase, and ever taxing the inventive genius of our time - Christmas like “Tennyson’s brook” to use a well-worn metaphor, will “go on forever”. How these two Christmas ideas have expanded, to be sure. Of course, I am not forgetting the hospitality; organized ideas of dispensing cheer, and the bestowal of the “milk of human kindness” on so many, at Christmas, whom we hardly find room for in our thoughts at any other season. But time was when even “Santa” had to depend solely on reindeer to convey his bounty from place to place and house to house, so that it is not to be wondered at if he found it difficult at times after a long journey to ascend the chimney tops. Later on, however, considerable advantage was afforded to his craft by the introduction of the auto-car; but with the invention of the air-ship, the popular Santa may have to be restricted, else it is not a far-fetched notion to suppose that the next order may be bigger stockings and larger chimneys than those at present in vogue. There are many reasons therefore and many things to keep Christmas alive, and we do not have to go far to find them. So laugh and be merry, dear sirs; laugh and be merry, and Christmas shall be Christmas still.

But to proceed with our sketch. It is a long stride from England to Newfoundland - but only a step in the festivities of Christmas in the olden times; when as we are told: …

 England was Merry
England whenOld Christmas brought his sports again…

In olden times our forefathers had a play - goodness only knows where or when or how it originated. It must have been older than the Christmas of the immortal Dickens - the Apostle of Christmas! The Grand Knights of S1, George, S1, Patrick, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, King Priam, Hector, George Washington, heroes of the dim and misty past all figured conspicuously. But many a hardy fisher, representing his favorite Saint or hero, stepped upon the floor, sword in hand, and gave forth his part in stirring tones: “Step up King George to my right arm,” or “Here come, Hector, the renowned Hector, King Priam’s only son.” Mr. William Whittle of
Boston (deceased), a devoted son of old Terra Nova, once contributed the whole of the play above referred to, with the speeches of the various characters represented, to one of our earliest local Christmas numbers.

Before me is a picture of a Mumming Scene and a haul of wood fifty years ago. No doubt thousands would flock to see a “moving picture” of this, if such could be obtained and exhibited at any of the Nickel Theatres. The scene is laid in front of Duder’s on Water Street, the old stone building opposite the Post Office, with its quaint and picturesque front still to the fore. The hobby horse, the haul of wood (gaily decorated) and the masqueraders and mummers dressed in the most grotesque costumes make a picture of an old-time Christmas rarely to be seen. Very few people, I dare say, would be found to regret the departure of this form of merry-making in these enlightened days. And yet, if we could but know the truth, behind these masks might be concealed the faces of many good citizens who were simply letting themselves out at Christmas time.

Amid the many popular customs of the old times, on the other hand, I think many do regret the departure of the good old custom of singing the carols in the streets, so much in vogue a decade ago. The singing of the carols, which is still kept up in
England, is of extreme antiquity, and said to be as old as Christmas itself. A writer of Christmas lore says:

“Milton, in Paradise Lost, makes this allusion to what may be regarded as the first Christmas Carol: … 

They gladly thither haste, and by a quire Of squadroned angels hear his carol sung.”

A carol belonging to the 16th century will be sung, no doubt, in many churches in Newfoundland this Christmas, in the year of grace 1912. A verse is as follows:

When Christ was born of Mary freeIn
Bethlehem in that fair citie; Angels sang there with mirth and gleeIn Excelsis Gloria! …

One more reference to the old customs which have departed - viz: “the Arches” - must bring this random sketch to a close. The building of the arches created a spirit of rivalry and emulation that put the “Architects” or designers on their mettle, but the boys of “The Cross” and “The Mall” could always be relied upon to hold their own.

My crude pen must once more divert to record a story about one of these old arch builders which, I think, is worthy of note, and which perhaps may not have been told before. He was a great “politician” in his day - master of ceremonies, a leading banner-bearer, and director of the “torches” whenever there was to be a “procesh”. In the old days, when some of our great politicians and patriots - now gone to their rest - speaking from the elevated and giddy height of the “hustings” or “attic window”, would be painting glowing hopes and rosy pictures of a future prosperity for Newfoundland (as politicians of the past sometimes did) and promising money by the millions for this and for that - he would cry out, it may be, “Where’s the money we were promised last elections for the education of our childer - money, money; begor! Ye’ll sift it thro’ a ladder and ye’ll giv’ us what’ll stick to the rongs.”

But to leave the hustings and return to the arches. For days great loads of boughs would be brought from the near countryside, and then the work would begin, and the arches be in full swing on New Year’s Day - to greet the several societies which held their annual parade on that occasion, and as these approached they were greeted with a volley of musketry and rounds of cheering that rent the air. In later years the arches were built solely for the benefit of the societies and an invitation courteously extended to the Presidents some days before to pass under the arches in their line of march.

What stirring scenes were enacted on the platforms or bridges of these arches - miniature castles in evergreen boughs! What fun and merriment were afforded, as to the strains of a tin whistle or Jews’ harp, a masker stepped forward and gave a few steps and gestures that today would make the fortune of the Nickel men of St. John’s. What revels! What memories these awaken - the men and the make-up - some with no book learning at all - yet they could hold hundreds for hours by their drolleries and fun.

Nothing could be more ‘Christmas-y’ than Christmas in LaScie in 1942.

With hardly a trace of advertisement and without any reminder that there were only twenty-odd days to Christmas, people knew how to get in the Christmas mood. There were no buying sprees of any account, because there was little unusual to buy locally anyway. A few extra things, perhaps, were to be had through Eaton’s catalogue. However, there was a limit on that too. People could afford little for Christmas spending and in my case, since I was only getting a salary of thirty dollars ($30.00) a month, and paying fifteen ($15.00) a month for board, I had to be frugal with my money.

On looking back though, I do recall that in Bartlett’s shop and Chipp’s shop and even in Pierce Morey’s tiny shop; there were a few different kinds of candies in those tall big-neck bottles - candies other than the regular common sweets, union squares and banner caramels. There were jelly beans and glassy-looking striped kinds that had a genuinely enticing Christmas look about them.

Both the larger shops were decorated a week or so before Christmas.

It wasn’t overdone. Down at Chipp’s they had a huge colored paper Christmas bell slung from a stanchion above, and which took about two seconds to put up. It had obviously survived many Christmases - faded and a bit worn - but every time I looked at it or ducked underneath it, it reminded me of the immortality of the Christmas spirit.

Bartlett’s shop was a bit bigger and it was built on a landward extension of their wharf. It deserved, perhaps, a little more sophistication in decoration. At any rate, behind the long counter was a large colored tissue-paper Santa Claus, also worn by many years’ usage, and a bright new tinseled “MERRY XMAS”, stretching half-way along one side of the shop.

In both shop windows were a few toys - dolls, little guns with caps, small tin musical horns, mouth organs, tin cars and Jews’ harps. I remember so clearly looking at those familiar little mouth and thumb musical instruments, wondering whether I could afford to buy one for each of my pupils. What floored me as I first read the cardboard sign, “Going Cheap, Jews’ Harps”, was that they really weren’t Juice sarps, as we called them in Winterton.

For a couple of weeks before Christmas, the shops (they were never called stores; that would confuse them with sheds in the back yard) ’stopped open’ late, adding a kind of metropolitan air to otherwise deathly silent fall and winter evenings. If business reports were customary then, I suppose each shop would report a slight commercial increase in sales over those in November. Business was no doubt up a bit, in part because some of the young men working at the American base in Argentia and the one in Harmonfield (Stephenville) were home for Christmas. Two young men from the Royal British Navy were also home on leave.

The coming of the Kyle on her last trip that season helped too to create a Christmas atmosphere. The Kyle, now an eye-sore rotting on a mudbank in the shoals of Harbor Grace, presented a picture of light and beauty as she came into the harbor a few days before Christmas Eve. Never shall I forget the sight of those myriads of floating blinking lights coming in through the darkness pushing pan and slob ice out of her way as she steamed to
Bartlett’s wharf. It looked like a small city had appeared out of the ocean.

All that freight, and mail, (for me there were great bundles of Evening Telegrams and Daily News, sent by loving friends in St. John’s) and the sound of happy laughing voices in the darkness as crew members joked with friends on the wharf, stirred within me Christmas feelings that were truly spiritual. It all seemed to blend with the snow on the surrounding hills and fade into the stillness of the night to produce LaScie’s own kind of ‘peace on earth and goodwill towards men’.

There was a fierce loneliness too, as late that night she steamed away for the last time that year, and she barely made it beyond the Horse Islands when, within a day or so a strong northeaster closed navigation, and heavy Labrador ice locked us in tightly until April or May. The only travel contact with the outside then was by dog-team.

Once a week Skipper Harry Lacey on his dog-team would take off up through the country on the three-day journey to Badger for the mail. So once every five or six days the community would gather in regular postal ritual to the little wooden office building near the landwash. What a thrill it would be to hear the sweet musical voice of Ivy Boone sing out your name!

It was mail day on Christmas Eve that year. The yapping of Lacey’s dogs coming over the hills and the sound of their collar bells as they scurried in the twilight toward the tiny post office gave me that feeling I used to get when I was in bed as a little boy on Christmas Eve, and heard my father, after jingling the dampers on the Improved Ensign stove, yell, “T’anks Sandy Claus b’y for stoppin’ off.”

Even if I could have gone home for Christmas, duty forbade it. Being a teacher (in charge of school and church) I was very much compelled to respect tradition, which demanded that I organize and ‘put off’ (never ‘put on’) a concert on Christmas night. This responsibility was great and I had to shoulder it with the dignity it rightly deserved. Although I had just turned nineteen I had had lots of experience in practicing (now called ‘directing’) Christmas concerts. Everybody in Winterton grew up with taking part in and later helping teachers to practice the concert. So now I was in charge of this sacred operation since early December. Every week night we would meet in the school to go over the parts and to revel in exciting anticipation of what it really would be like on Christmas night. Every youngster in the school had to have a part or two as did several of the adults in the community who had established reputations for being ‘lovely hactors’.

Most of the items were composed by the pupils, myself and the adult participants, and included a generous supply of references to local people and places within the community. This, as they said, would bring the house down.

On Christmas Night, the Orange Hall (the largest building in the place) was crammed - about two hundred people. Some were turned away. Admission, I remember, was five cents for children and ten cents for grownups and, of course, proceeds went to the Church.

I can, after all these years, recall some of the items. For example, the opening song sung by all participants jammed together on the stage (music supplied by me on Uncle Bill Swyers’ old cornet):

We welcome you from every nook, From here to Shoe Cove Brook. And the recitation rendered by a talented, chubby, little grade two boy, destined to become a successful boat builder and later captain of a long liner: When I’ne a manI manes to bey A carpenter as you will seyI’ll ‘ammer wit a busy ‘ an’

An’ build da best boats in Newfoundlan’.

Oh, there was pupil involvement, teacher involvement, community involvement, total involvement! Everything was psychologically sound. About two hours of recitations, dialogues, songs and musical numbers ended with Santa’s visit and the distribution of gifts from the huge fir tree on the back (the stage). I remember so many of the gifts were handmade. I can’t remember how many sheep’s wool (meaning locally grown, carded, spun and knitted) cuffs (mitts), gloves, socks and vamps I got. LaScie women used to knit neat little vamp-like slippers which everybody wore indoors. I understand the art is not lost there yet.

As I wended my way back to my boarding house on

Shoe Cove Road

, I could still hear snatches of Christmas songs breaking the late night’s silence, from people strolling home from the Hall across frozen meadows and along the narrow snow-covered gravel road which wrapped itself around the shore. Beautiful Northern Lights flashed their majestic colors from Boone’s Hill to the

Horse
Islands. It was easy to believe that night that ‘God was with man’ and the singing which floated my way was as beautiful as the song of the Heavenly Hosts over the Hills of Judea.

The beauty and joy of Christmas night was but an extension of the experience created on Christmas Eve. I recall going to Tommy Gillingham’s shortly after supper on Christmas Eve. He had one of the few radios in LaScie. Like everybody else in
Newfoundland at quarter to eight PM I wanted to listen to the Gerald S. Doyle News Bulletin, that local newscast on radio station V.O.N.F. which nightly plunged the whole island into mute attention. Wherever there were radios people gathered, often to smoke and chew, in silence while Bob McLeod’s deep baritone voice shared the news with us all, ending in a ritualistic benediction-like finale, “Offered on behalf of the stores in (Leading Tickles) where Wampoles and other stocks of Gerald S. Doyle products are always procurable”; and then signing off with that mysterious war-time code, ” … N for nuts. A for apples”. There was even a Christmas-y feeling about the wording of that strange code. Following the news, Tommy turned off the radio like he did every night to save the ‘juice’.

I then visited the homes of all my pupils to wish them Merry Christmas and to share with them little gifts I had for them and to drink tumblers of raspberry syrup and eat loads of figgy and lassy cake. Come to think of it, I do not recall having heard of any alcoholic beverages being around. (Although I am sure a few toddies were shared and some of the boys no doubt had a quantity of vanilla extract and Beef Iron and Wine.)

I finally ended up at Wes Budgell’s and helped make their usual Christmas supply of home-made ice cream. I listened to the old men, especially Skipper Jarge Ryan, regale each other with Christmas stories about White Bay and Green Bay long, long ago. They finally got around to ghost stories. I left Budgell’s late that night, perhaps as late as ten thirty or eleven, and out into the pitch blackness of a cold LaScie winter night. As I cut across the gardens towards Shoe Cove Road the only sound I heard was a tinkle tinkle tinkle of the neck bell of a lonely cow in some far-off stable. I was afraid the next sound would be the screams from the headless woman Skipper Jarge had been talking about. The only sights penetrating the darkness were the stars, dim lights from kerosene-oil-lit windows and millions of flankers streaming off into the night, and there was I with every hair on my head standing in a vertical position beneath my ear-flapper cap.

The warmth of the Hewlett’s huge inside room made me again feel so thankful that I had such a comfortable boarding house. When I got home the gaiety, and the hurry in decorating the tree and preparing for the big meal on Christmas Day, and in making fat pork buns for the future, made me think of Winterton and childhood and the simple joys that Christmas brings. But the most vivid memory I have after getting in out of the darkness and cold was the sight of Skipper John Hewlett still up at that late hour, relaxed for the first time, that fall, I ‘llows. He was stretched out on the couch with his feet up on the wood box playing his old button accordion, or ‘carjo’ as he called it, and Neta and Mrs. Hewlett busy as bees, and singing or humming to his erratic playing “While shepherds watched their flocks by night”.

Hundreds of young teachers around the coast of Newfoundland that year were doing what I was doing, spending Christmas away from home and helping the youngsters have a good Christmas, and getting so much Christmas joy themselves.  

Civita Vecchia - the “ Eternal City” by Moonlight

It was in one of the most lovely nights ever seen under an Italian sky, that the steamer in which we had embarked from Genoa came within sight of the coast of’Hic Papal dominions. The moon had risen in her queen-like beauty, and as she rode high above us in the heavens, every wave of the Mediterranean seemed tinged with her radiance. Felucca, polacre, xebec, and other strange-looking craft, were floating lazily on the sea, while our own vessel, as she glided through the blue waters, left a track of molten silver to mark her way. The cool fresh breeze which came sweeping over the sea was far more grateful than the heated air of the cabin, and we remained long on deck, seeing as we passed, on the one hand, Napoleon’s miniature kingdom of Elba, and on the other, the long line of the main land, which owes submission to his Holiness, Gregory XVI.

At sunrise the next morning we entered the harbor of
Civita Vecchia, the nearest approach which can be made by sea to the city of Rome. The remaining distance, fifty-two miles, must be traveled by land. Ostia, the ancient port, in which during the days of the republic her galleys rode, where Scipio Africanus embarked for Spain, and Claudius for Britain, is indeed but sixteen miles from the city, and was formerly much nearer, but the gradual accumulation of sand has entirely destroyed its harbor, After it was sacked by the Saracens, in the fifth century, no attempt was made to restore it. The salt marshes which Li vy mentions as existing in the days of Ancus Martius gradually encroached on the one side, and the sand was drifted over it from the sea on the other, until this city, which once contained eighty thousand inhabitants, now has only about fifty souls living in wretchedness among its ruins. We passed it in the steamer some months afterwards on our way up from
Naples; but the site is only marked by the remains of a temple and theatre almost concealed by brambles, and a picturesque old fortress erected during the middle ages, with two solitary pine-trees standing in front of it. And yet, this place was once a suburb of imperial Rome-from thence the old consuls went forth to victory, and there they landed to commence their triumphs as they entered the city.

Ci vita Vecchia, with its fortress erected from plans furnished by Michael Angelo, and its long ramparts, presents a striking view from the sea, which you find, on landing, the reality by no means justifies. It has, however, some traces of antiquity, for the massive stonework of its port was built under the direction of Trajan (the younger Pliny describes it as the” Trajani Portus”), and here, as at Terracina, the bronze rings by which the Roman galleys were made fast to the quays still remain.

The immense prisons lining the basin have a bright appearance, which contrasts strangely with the gloomy object to which they are devoted. When we came on deck at dawn, the galley-slaves, in their parti-colored dresses, were just marching out to work, attended by a strong guard of soldiers. Their number is said to be nearly twelve hundred, and the clanking of their chains as they walked was the first sound which greeted us from the States of the Church.

The manner in which we were fleeced on all sides at this port of his Holiness was a foretaste of what we were to expect in
Italy. You first pay sundry pauls s for being rowed ashore from the steamer; several porters (facchini) seize your baggage, and) unless you can squabble in Italian, you must bestow some more pauls on each for carrying it to the custom-house-more pauls to the officials there, for weighing it, to see whether or not it is beyond the allowable weight for the carriage-more for plumbing it, (that is, cording it up and fastening it with a lead seal, which is not to be taken off till you reach Rome,)-more for the printed permit to pass it through the gates when you leave-more for hoisting it up on the top of the carriage; and so you go on, paying away on the right and on the left, until your small change and patience are both exhausted. In this little catalogue is not included the fee to the custom-house officer, whose inspection was a mere pro forma business. He lifted the cove