It was the afternoon before Christmas Day, and honest John Grahame was packing up his butter tubs and the remnant of his Christmas marketing before returning to his expectant family far off in the quiet country.

All the day long the great market-house had been full to overflowing with an eager crowd of people, busy with the buying of their Christmas cheer; and John’s fat turkeys, ducks, and country, home-made sausages had been so well patronized that not one remained to burden his two strong horses, which has drawn the whole heavy load into the great city on the afternoon previous. Many a kindly greeting of the season had been given honest John by his smiling customers; for Saint Nicholas gives to all who love him a happy face and light heart in this his own festive season.

One thing yet remained to be done, and John would have sooner lost his strong right hand than have neglected this pleasant duty. There must be a nice present bought for the kind wife at home, and stop—a happy thought flashed athwart the good man’s mind. He would buy Margery a new bonnet, for times had been hard this winter, and, although she had made no mention of it, John well knew in his heart that it would be the very thing to please her. Then there was his little Dolly, who, with her eyes as black as a sloeberry and bright as stars in a frosty night, had stood on tip-toe to kiss him as he sat in his wagon well rolled in a blanket to keep out the cold, and who ran down the walk to open the wide gate, kissing her hand to him until he was hidden from her sight by a turn in the road.

“Pussy shall have her doll she has asked for so often and a good big box of sugar-plums, too,” he softly promised himself, a loving look coming into his mild brown eyes; so, calling his boy to finish his preparations for him, he sallied forth upon his errand of love. He strolled along the busy streets, looking into the store-windows with wondering curiosity until a milliner’s display caught his eye, and he paused in front of the window.

His big, burly frame, with its rough overcoat, took up so much room and looked so utterly out of place that many a curious, smiling look was cast upon him. He stood so long a time trying to conquer his diffidence and enter the store that a little street gamin sang out, with a nasal twang, “say, old’un, which suits yer complexion best? Buy the one with the peaked top, old cabbage-head.”

John, thus rudely roused to a sense of his position, shook his big fist good-naturedly at the saucy urchin and entered the store. Good humor and love held high carnival in Johns heart this blessed Christmas-tide, and left no room for unkind feelings for any one.

The smiling saleslady, wondering at her odd customer, displayed several bonnets to John’s astonished eyes, fairly bewildering him with the variety of shapes, colors, feathers, flowers, and the many other varieties that she exhibited to him. At last he sank into a chair, saying, “Well, ma’am, I guess I’ll have to leave it to you; I can drive a plow and manage a farm, but I can’t buy a woman’s bonnet.”

The woman laughed heartily, and, picking out one of quiet gray silk with a red rose and a gray feather, presented it to his tired gaze, and our good farmer, glad to be quit of this Herculean task (worse to him than a whole day’s hay-making), clutched the bonnet box, and without a murmur paid the fashionable price the woman named, only too glad to get off thus easily.

Next came the toy store. There he found less difficulty, and soon picked out an immense doll, almost as large as the human Dolly, and to this was added the box of goodies so dear to the heart of all little ones.

Now then he was all ready, and in another half hour was rattling over the stones of the city toward the country.

The horses, as if knowing whither they were bound, laid themselves to their work right willingly, every now and then playfully turning toward one another and nodding, as if exchanging their ideas on the many queer sights they had seen in the wonderful, great city. John turned up the collar of his overcoat and tucked in his blanket closely around him, for he faced the wind and the sunset sky looked angry and lowering. In fact, in less than half an hour snowflakes began to fall, at first slowly and softly, then faster and faster, until the air grew thick and misty with the quickly falling flakes.

The stout horses bend their heads to the gusts of wind that whirled the snow in their faces, and John urged them on in cheery tones. Once he stopped and lighted his lantern, which he carried for such emergencies, and the rays fell far into the road ahead, just enough to make darkness visible.

As the horses paused at the top of a steep hill to regain breath after their long pull, John thought he heard a feeble cry on the side of the road. He listened intently and heard it repeated. He hurriedly snatched up the lantern and proceeded in the direction from whence the sound came, and there, by the rays of the light he carried, and all cuddles up under a blanket shawl, was a baby about nine months old.

“My certes!” exclaimed John. “I’ve found my Christmas box. Poor, wee lambkin! What hard-hearted wretch left you here to die, poor little innocent?”

The baby stopped crying and looked at him with her finger in her mouth and her great blue eyes fixed, half in wonder, half in fear, on his pitying face. John held out his arms coaxingly, and a smile came over the baby face and “Coo, coo,” broke in lisping tones from the rose-bud mouth. He tenderly lifted the little creature, and opening his coat, folded her close to his great, warm heart.

No sound save that of the bitter wind disturbed the stillness, no track of any living being was to be found, and John, with his burden in his arms, clambered back into his wagon, and, closely nestling the little one, chirruped to his stout horses, that knew the road too well to need much watching.

Wondering, solemn thoughts came to John as he sat there with the baby in his arms, of that other little Baby, who came to this world so many centuries ago that very night; who was born among the dumb beasts and cradled in the manger of a stable, but who withal was Lord and Saviour. And he thought how the very stars had sung for joy, and how a thrill of happiness vibrated from end to end of God’s fair world at the advent of the long-promised King; and as these thoughts came solemnly, sweetly, thronging to his mind, his voice rang out clearly over the stormy night in the dear old Christmas hymn,

“When shepherds watched their flocks by night,”

and he vowed that this Christmas baby should share his home and heart with his own flesh and blood. Presently his voice ceased, and, looking down, he saw his baby fast asleep, her long lashes lying on her soft cheek; and quietly and gently he drew out his warm buffalo-robe and cast about in his mind for a place in which to lay his sleeping charge. The large, empty box, which had borne his poultry to market, caught his eye, and, placing it in his warm, comfortable robe, he made a soft bed for his Christmas present; so he nestled her down among the skins and covered her with his overcoat.

He did not mind the cold, although his face glowed scarlet and he had to swing his arms and slap his hands to keep the blood in circulation; but he whistled merrily to his good horses, that rattled on with increased speed and soon drew up before the gate of his farm-house.

The door was opened and the figure of a woman appeared, peering into the darkness; the light of a candle she shielded with her hand falling upon the black eyes and eager face of Dolly, who stood with her head pushed out under her mother’s arm.

“Margery,” shouted John to his wife, “come see my Christmas box. Give the light to David and let him hold it here in the wagon. Here give me both your hands,” said John, stooping down and helping his wondering wife into the wagon; and there, quietly sleeping, her rosy cheek pressed closely to the soft skins, lay John’s Christmas box.

Her mother-heart was touched, and, opening to this little, homeless waif, she bore her into her happy home, looking already upon her as her own.

Who could depict Dolly’s delight at this “real live baby?” Not even the great magnificence of the new purchase or the purchase of the box of candies could compare, in her estimation, with this newly found treasure.

The baby-girl’s quaint, serious ways were a never-failing source of delight, and Dolly wondered how she ever could have cared for her stupid baby, that could not crow or laugh or poke it’s little fingers into her eyes and pull her hair; and once again Margery and John grew young in watching and guarding their Christmas box.

******

Years rolled on, brining their usual changes of joy and sorrow, of good and evil fortune; had left their traces in wrinkles and gray hairs on the middle-aged, and opened the gates of Heaven to many of the old; had changed romping school-children into strong young men and sweet, winning maidens. But the old farm-house still stood, looking very little older than it did seventeen years ago this Christmas Eve.

Surely Time has dealt gently here; there sits John, as ever—his hair more thickly mixed with gray, his brow more wrinkled, but with a soft sadness in his eyes that was new to them.

A young woman sits by the window trying a close, warm hood on a chubby baby, the very miniature of John, and the young mother is a facsimile of the Margery of old, whom, alas! we do not find. Naught but her empty place and a loving memory ever green in John’s faithful heart remains of the farmer’s wife.

“Well, father,” said Dolly, giving her baby a hearty kiss and setting him down on the floor until she tied on her own hood and folded closely her warm shawl, “I must be getting toward home. Ned will be wanting his supper, and it’s a goodish piece to walk against this bleak wind. I hate to leave you all alone, but Clarie will soon be in. So be sure to come to-morrow night after church and we will have a merry Christmas.” So saying, Dolly picked up her fat baby with a loving squeeze, and, nodding gaily, left the house.

“So like her mother,” murmured John to himself, as he turned with a sigh into his solitary home, and, filling his pipe, he settled himself in the warm chimney-corner. The embers glowed brightly on the hearth, casting a pleasant glow on the shining pewter ranged on the dresser and half illuminating the dusky corners of the large, old fashioned kitchen.

John, gazing into the coals, saw many a pleasant sight. First peered out a smiling baby face; next came a little, golden-haired lassie, with bright, fairy figure, flying down the path with outstretched arms to meet him returning home, tired with his hard day’s work; this faded into slender school-girl, with large, serious eyes, the very color of the midsummer sky, hovering around him with an eager love and anxious to forestall his slightest wish; next came a sick-chamber, with the poor, weary, pain-worn occupant tenderly nursed and soothed by this same sweet face and gentle hand; then a sad and weary time, when all the world seemed empty and his loneliness became all but heart-breaking; but even amid this blackness was the one bright face, ever winsome and kind, and ever striving, with all the might of a loving heart, to fill the gap left by death.

“God bless my Christmas box!” John murmured, softly—when there stole an arm around his neck, a voice spoke in his ear, and a soft kiss fell upon his cheek:

“Why, father, dear, how long have you been asleep! the fire is all out and your pipe, too. They kept me longer at the church fixing the greens than I thought for; you should see how pretty it looks. Hark, father! listen to the Christmas carol! they are practicing it for to-morrow!”

The golden head was drawn closely to the breast where it had lain so helplessly seventeen years ago, and, in the soft gloaming of the twilight, John and his Christmas baby listened with hushed breath to the mysterious, beautiful voices borne to them from the neighboring church.

A German Folk-Tale by J. Stirling Coyne, Adapted by
Frances Jenkins Olcott

Once, long ago, there lived near the ancient city of Strasburg, on the river Rhine, a young and handsome count, whose name was Otto. As the years flew by he remained unwed, and never so much as cast a glance at the fair maidens of the country round; for this reason people began to call him “Stone-Heart.”

It chanced that Count Otto, on one Christmas Eve, ordered that a great hunt should take place in the forest surrounding his castle. He and his guests and his many retainers rode forth, and the chase became more and more exciting. It led through thickets, and over pathless tracts of forest, until at length Count Otto found himself separated from his companions.

He rode on by himself until he came to a spring of clear, bubbling water, known to the people around as the “Fairy Well.” Here Count Otto dismounted. He bent over the spring and began to lave his hands in the sparkling tide, but to his wonder he found that though the weather was cold and frosty, the water was warm and delightfully caressing. He felt a glow of joy pass through his veins, and, as he plunged his hands deeper, he fancied that his right hand was grasped by another, soft and small, which gently slipped from his finger the gold ring he always wore. And, lo! when he drew out his hand, the gold ring was gone.

Full of wonder at this mysterious event, the count mounted his horse and returned to his castle, resolving in his mind that the very next day he would have the Fairy Well emptied by his servants.

He retired to his room, and, throwing himself just as he was upon his couch, tried to sleep; but the strangeness of the adventure kept him restless and wakeful.

Suddenly he heard the hoarse baying of the watch-hounds in the courtyard, and then the creaking of the drawbridge, as though it were being lowered. Then came to his ear the patter of many small feet on the stone staircase, and next he heard indistinctly the sound of light footsteps in the chamber adjoining his own.

Count Otto sprang from his couch, and as he did so there sounded a strain of delicious music, and the door of his chamber was flung open. Hurrying into the next room, he found himself in the midst of numberless Fairy beings, clad in gay and sparkling robes. They paid no heed to him, but began to dance, and laugh, and sing, to the sound of mysterious music.

In the center of the apartment stood a splendid Christmas Tree, the first ever seen in that country. Instead of toys and candles there hung on its lighted boughs diamond stars, pearl necklaces, bracelets of gold ornamented with colored jewels, aigrettes of rubies and sapphires, silken belts embroidered with Oriental pearls, and daggers mounted in gold and studded with the rarest gems. The whole tree swayed, sparkled, and glittered in the radiance of its many lights.

Count Otto stood speechless, gazing at all this wonder, when suddenly the Fairies stopped dancing and fell back, to make room for a lady of dazzling beauty who came slowly toward him.

She wore on her raven-black tresses a golden diadem set with jewels. Her hair flowed down upon a robe of rosy satin and creamy velvet. She stretched out two small, white hands to the count and addressed him in sweet, alluring tones:—

“Dear Count Otto,” said she, “I come to return your Christmas visit. I am Ernestine, the Queen of the Fairies. I bring you something you lost in the Fairy Well.”

And as she spoke she drew from her bosom a golden casket, set with diamonds, and placed it in his hands. He opened it eagerly and found within his lost gold ring.

Carried away by the wonder of it all, and overcome by an irresistible impulse, the count pressed the Fairy Ernestine to his heart, while she, holding him by the hand, drew him into the magic mazes of the dance. The mysterious music floated through the room, and the rest of that Fairy company circled and whirled around the Fairy Queen and Count Otto, and then gradually dissolved into a mist of many colors, leaving the count and his beautiful guest alone.

Then the young man, forgetting all his former coldness toward the maidens of the country round about, fell on his knees before the Fairy and besought her to become his bride. At last she consented on the condition that he should never speak the word “death” in her presence.

The next day the wedding of Count Otto and Ernestine, Queen of the Fairies, was celebrated with great pomp and magnificence, and the two continued to live happily for many years.

Now it happened on a time, that the count and his Fairy wife were to hunt in the forest around the castle. The horses were saddled and bridled, and standing at the door, the company waited, and the count paced the hall in great impatience; but still the Fairy Ernestine tarried long in her chamber. At length she appeared at the door of the hall, and the count addressed her in anger.

“You have kept us waiting so long,” he cried, “that you would make a good messenger to send for Death!’

Scarcely had he spoken the forbidden and fatal word, when the Fairy, uttering a wild cry, vanished from his sight. In vain Count Otto, overwhelmed with grief and remorse, searched the castle and the Fairy Well, no trace could he find of his beautiful, lost wife but the imprint of her delicate hand set in the stone arch above the castle gate.

Years passed by, and the Fairy Ernestine did not return. The count continued to grieve. Every Christmas Eve he set up a lighted tree in the room where he had first met the Fairy, hoping in vain that she would return to him.

Time passed and the count died. The castle fell into ruins. But to this day may be seen above the massive gate, deeply sunken in the stone arch, the impress of a small and delicate hand.

And such, say the good folk of Strasburg, was the origin of the Christmas Tree.

ne has to go very far back in the world’s history to arrive at the time when there were absolutely no toys. Indeed, one may feel tolerably certain that as soon as the children arrived, toys—rough, rude things, no doubt, but still playthings—began to appear upon the scene.

It is curious, too, to notice how the same kinds have been the delight of childish hearts for hundreds and hundreds of years. Leather balls stuffed with wool have been found in the tombs of Egyptian mummies, side by side with jointed dolls and quaint little crocodiles that had not forgotten how to move their jaws. Down in the catacombs, among the resting-places of the early Christians, searchers have come across hoops, tops, marbles, and even the miniature furniture of a doll’s house. The youthful owners of these playthings lay buried close by.

We know that the boys of ancient Greece and Rome had ninepins and rocking-horses; nor was our genial friend, the Jack-in-the-box, a stranger to them. Kites probably came to us from China, where kite-flying was a national amusement for young and old; while even grown-up people played at battledore and shuttlecock in the reign of James I., and Oxford students at marbles.

But it was not until modern times that toy-making became a flourishing branch of industry. Toy-breaking, as we all know, goes on steadily in the nurseries of Europe; and to fill up the gaps, toys are being turned out yearly in almost incredible quantities. The small autocrats of nursery-land continually call for “more, more,” and in all sorts of out-of-the-way places, in the dark forests of Thuringia, or some distant Tyrolean village, children not much older are gravely helping to manufacture playthings. They begin as soon as their chubby fingers can grasp a knife; and they end—well, when quite old men and women, too blind perhaps to see whether the cow they are carving has three legs or four.

There are whole regions where every single family is engaged in toymaking. In the summer months the men and women work on the farms, but the long dark winter finds them all with legions of wooden soldiers, fleets of Noah’s arks, whips, rattles, and dolls by the gross.

You must not imagine that each toy is made by a single person; even one that you might buy for a penny at a German fair has probably passed through a dozen different hands.

Here is one costing that noble sum; a neat little man wheeling a barrow of fruit. One workman turned the body, a second the arms and legs, a third put the barrow together, a fourth turned the wheel, a fifth put the spokes in, and a sixth the linch pin. A seventh turned the fruit, an eighth made the basket to put it in, while a ninth coloured it. Number ten painted the barrow, and passed it over to eleven, who glued the whole together, while twelve gave it a final varnish.

It is this minute division of labour that makes it possible to buy a penny toy for a penny; a small price truly when one recollects that the completed articles have to be packed and conveyed hundreds of miles by rail and sea before they appear in the toy-shop. Even when you know all about it, you still wonder how it can possibly be done at the price.

A large and flourishing tribe of toy-makers is to be found among the mountains of the Tyrol, in a most romantic and beautiful spot. The centre of the trade is the village of St. Ulrich, but wherever one wanders, one has a vision of toys. Even the girl selling apples and pears at a stall by the roadside, employs her spare minutes in putting little dabs of bright red paint on the cheeks of a pile of farthing dolls. To-morrow she will give them all black eyes, red shoes, and white stockings; and for this she gets a farthing a dozen, finding her own paint. If you enter into conversation with her, she will tell you with pride that her father carves horses; and that her brother can make a more life-like goat than any other youth in his workshop.

Every description of animal is manufactured in and around St. Uhlrich, and it is very curious and interesting to watch the Tyrolese at work. They use no models, but follow what is familiarly known as the rule-of-thumb; and from long practice a Tyrolean thumb knows perfectly well what it is about.

In a large workshop, such as is represented in our illustration, most of the lads have their special department. Some block out the animals roughly, others make the stands; one boy, more advanced, has a turn for camels and elephants, another can carve a most natural-looking cow, a third is a splendid hand at sheep. Hans sticks to the glue-pot, and little Peter has charge of the varnish. Painting and gilding is quite a distinct branch of the trade, and our young carvers have nothing at all to do with that.

Formerly each family worked for itself, but now there are two important toy merchants in St. Ulrich, who purchase all the wares of the neighbourhood, and send them out into the world. It is mostly on Saturday that baskets of toys come streaming down the mountain paths, the result of the week’s labour; and a visit to one of the monster warehouses makes one gasp with astonishment. Your brain almost reels at the sight of so many toys-dolls by the billion, piled-up bins of quadrupeds, uncountable flocks of sheep, Noah and his family repeated again and again, horses by the million, heaps upon heaps of gaily-painted cocks, and so on through dozens of rooms. The dolls are carefully sorted, and you may seem them of every size, from one inch long to a yard.

A doll that is very popular is one only a couple of inches in length; of this size the owner of the warehouse buys 30,000 every week. A quick worker can turn out twenty dozen a day, but division of labour steps in here too.

You will find a family that devoted its undivided attention to dolls’ arms and legs; their neighbours across the road make dolls’ heads and bodies, and nothing else; a third family will gladly undertake to paint the whole batch for an extremely small sum.

We are acquainted with this class of inexpensive lady under the name of “Dutch doll”—our great grandmothers called her a “Flanders baby”; this was because German toys were imported into England by way of Rotterdam. The pattern dolly, it is said, originally came from Japan, and the queer little old specimen is preserved as a curiosity in the museum at the Hague.

The Dutch must be given credit for inventing the crying doll; but if you want a very superior, highly finished article, you must come to London for it. Cheap dolls are imported, but the best waxen beauties, with lovely blue eyes and real flaxen curls, are English to the last grain of sawdust in their bodies.

Here in London you may find dolls’ head makers, dolls’ leg and arm makers, wig makers, and eye makers; doll stuffers and doll dressers. Dolls’ glass eyes are manufactured in most surprising quantities; the cheaper ones are simply small hollow beads made of white enamel, and coloured with black or blue; the better ones have a ring of color to represent the iris. There is a fashion in color as well as in other things, and it is stated that since Queen Victoria came to the throne dolls with blue eyes have been the most popular.

It is interesting to know that England and America take more toys than any other countries. Most of the enormous packing cases, large enough for a cottage piano, to be seen in St. Ulrich will eventually find their way to one of these two shores. Some of them will be full of rocking-horses, for there is a manufacturer living close to the stream that dashes through the valley who turns out at least a thousand gallant steeds a year by the aid of machinery and water power. You cannot mistake his shop, for a white rocking horse is painted above it.

Young England is partial to horses and dolls, but young Italy prefers little carts and wagons, and these must be gaily painted, too, to please his taste for bright colours. Belgian boys clamour for sturdy farm horses, but young Austrians care more for prancing, curvetting steeds, such as a soldier might ride. The national spirit peeps out even here.

Metal toys mostly hail from Nuremburg, which produces miniature printing presses, magic lanterns, and all sorts of magnetic playthings, such as ducks and fish, running mice, and the like. Conjuring tricks in bewildering variety are made here, for this is the particular territory of Signor Hocus Pocus; also whole armies of the leaden soldiers that so delight German boys, and English ones, too, for that matter. Six miles away lies Furth, a town given up to Noah’s arks, dissected puzzles, boxes of bricks, and the like. Clockwork toys are made in Wurtemberg, and from Hesse Cassel come helmets, guns, and swords.

It is really marvellous how many people are hard at work, year in year out, making playthings which are destined often to be broken and tossed away after a few hours. Perhaps our younger brothers and sisters would take better care of their poor ill-treated toys if they knew a little more of their interesting history.

Tell you a good ghost story? Very well. I’ll tell you of somthing that happened to me when I was a boy. and you can believe it or not just as you like. There is one thing to be said, though; what I am going to relate to you altered the whole course of my life, and perhaps of yours too, for if I had not seen my cousin’s ghost I might never have been owner of Gadsden Grange.

I was eighteen years old at the time, and was spending my holidays at home. I had just left school, and was going to Cambridge next term. Gadsden Grange was a very different place then from what it is now, for my father had not then begun to rebuild it. It was a long, low, rambling, old-fashioned, red-brick house that had been begun about the reign of James I, and after various additions and patchings, flourished in all its glory during the time of Queen Anne. From that period until my father rebuilt it, it had been steadily going to decay. The oldest portion of the house was the west wing, containing the picture gallery.

I well remember coming home the day before Christmas at half-past four. I had been skating, and was in the highest possible spirits. The day was closing in, and the sun had gone to rest like a great solid globe of fire. The snow, covering the ground like a mantle, had a few minutes ago been blushing in response to the last glances of the sun, but it was now assuming a grey, cold colour, which harmonised with the leafless trees standing out tike gaunt skeletons against the sky. The mist was rising blue in the distance as I approached our home, and I was glad to see the cheerful lights within telling me of dinner. When I entered the hall the butler said to me,

“Master Guy, your father wishes to see you in the library.”

Without a moments delay I hurried up-stairs to my father’s room, whistling and singing as I went. I burst open the door, and was about to make some merry remark when it was suddenly arrested by my father’s appearance.

He was seated in his usual armchair, and as I sit here telling you the story I can see him almost as plainly as I afterwards saw—however, that will come ill the proper place.

You do not remember your grandfather, but you know from his portrait what a splendid man he was. He had been in the Indian Army, and his bronzed face, iron-grey hair, and military bearing made his pleasant smile seem all the pleasanter, and the humorous twinkle in his eye all the funnier. But today there was no trace of merriment on his face. His usual erect position was gone, and he stooped almost double as he sat in his chair—the very embodiment misery.

I was so shocked that for a few moments I could not speak. Before I could think of anything to say in the way of comfort my father motioned me to sit down. I silently obeyed him, and waited in some alarm until he spoke to me. On his lap lay a large letter, with an enormous quantity of sealing-wax upon it. The body of it was in a bold round hand, but the signature was in a crabby, blotty handwriting. My father’s mouth was nervously twitching, and I remember involuntarily counting the twitches to see if they coincided with the ticking of the clock. My father’s favourite setter was crouching at his feet and looking up to him in sympathy. Presently the clock struck five, and my father suddenly sat bolt upright, and said to me,

“Guy, my boy, I have some bad news for you; shut the door, and listen. Don’t interrupt, and don’t ask questions.”

You may imagine how I felt and how I listened.

“You know, Guy,” said my father, “that ours is an old house; both the inhabitants and the house itself. The Estcourts have lived in Gadsden Grange for hundreds of years. You know that I inherit it from my grandfather, Roger Estcourt. He took the property upon the death of his nephew, Guy Estcourt, who died when he was the same age as yourself-eighteen. Guy’s father had died soon after his son’s birth, leaving his little nephew to the care of my grandfather, Roger. The Estcourts were very wealthy in those days, and little Guy would have been the wealthiest squire in the county had he lived to attain his majority. But he did not.

“Roger Estcourt was, from all accounts that have been handed down to us, a hard-featured, sinister-looking man, and his little nephew, like a spring flower, withered under the chilling influence of such guardianship. He had no friends or companions of his own age.

“The story goes that for some reason or other, shortly before the boy attained his eighteenth year, a large sum of money which had been lent out at interest was paid in gold to Roger, as was the custom with mortgages in those days. Roger brought it down from London to the Grange in a strong box, and stayed for some days with his nephew. Then he went away to London, but within three weeks from his uncle’s departure poor Guy fell sick and died. The gossips whispered foul play, but scientific analysis had not made much progress then, and though dark hints were circulated that Guy had been poisoned, no one could prove it, and so Roger was permitted to take possession of the estate without hindrance.”

My father looked so ill that almost involuntarily I moved from my chair and knelt at his feet. He placed his loving hand upon my head, and said,

“It is for your sake, my lad, that I mostly regret it, but

‘I should not love thee, dear, so well,
Loved I not honour more.’

Look at this letter, Guy.”

I looked. I saw that the letter was from a firm of solicitors in London, and that it demanded payment of £10,000 in six months’ time. My father then explained the matter to me, still speaking so kindly and uncomplainingly that I felt as though I would give all the world to help him in his trouble.

“You know, my boy, that wickedness never prospers, and so it happened to my grandfather Roger. His ill-gotten gains did not seem to do him any good, and consequently, penurious as he was, the estate, owing to outside speculations, became impoverished. My father, who was of a rather speculative and sanguine turn of mind, raised further money on the estate, and though he succeeded in effecting many improvements, he died without having repaid the money he borrowed. All my life long I have been struggling to redeem this debt, and I had reduced it to £10,000, but the seasons have been so bad, that I have failed, and there is nothing for it but to sell this dear old place and try our fortune elsewhere. In the present state of depression it is impossible to either renew or pay off this mortgage and yet remain here.

My father stopped, and he was evidently so overcome with emotion that for some moments I did not break the silence. Then I said,

“It is bad news, father, and it is a strange story you have told me, but I feel that it will all come right somehow, and I will work and do something to make you proud of me yet.

He gave me such a smile as I shall never forget, and replied,

“God bless you, my boy. You take half the load off my mind by bearing your trouble so bravely.”

“What became of the box you told me about, father?” I inquired; “the box containing the money that was repaid in my Cousin Guy’s time.”

“That is one of the most curious parts of the story,” he answered. “That box has never been found from that day to this.” “However”, he continued, “we must not think too much of that old family legend. We have enough to do in the present to keep us from wondering about the past. Come, Guy, let us have dinner.”

I followed my father to the dining-room, where my mother and sisters were waiting for us. I knew at once that my mother was aware of what had passed in the library, and. I kissed her before taking my place at. table. My father did all that lay in his power to appear cheerful and happy, and so did my mother, and she was more successful in her endeavours than he was. However, our dinner table was very unlike the usual merry one, and we all felt at last that it was allmost useless to try to keep up appearances any longer. I could hardly eat a mouthful, and I was glad when I found myself alone in my bedroom thinking over the wonderful change which had come over our prospects during the last six hours. I looked at the matter from all possible points of view, and I planned all sorts of schemes for doing something to rescue my parents from the calamity which seemed to overhang them.

At that time, being only a schoolboy, I failed to grasp all the ins and outs of the legal part of the business, but I thoroughly understood how my father would be heartbroken if he really had to leave our home. I am thankful to be able to tell you that I never once thought of myself in the affair, and that all my anxiety was on behalf of my parents. The story that my father had told me had taken a strong hold of my imagination, and my ill-fated cousin seemed to mix himself up in our present difficulties in a most curious and altogether unaccountable manner. I retired to my bedroom, but instead of undressing sat before the fire thinking of the long, long past, and of all my father had told me. Thus I must have fallen into a heavy sleep.

I awoke with a start and a shiver, wondering how long I had been asleep, and why I was so cold. It did not occur to me at the time that the fire had gone out, and that the bells had begun to clash for Christmas.

Then I remembered I had been dreaming, and tried to recall what my dream was about, but it had somehow altogether escaped me. I sat down again, and tried to collect my thoughts. The long fast, or some other cause, must have altogether upset me, and to this day I am not sure how long I was sitting there or what happened to me. At last, as though by a sudden inspiration, I knew what I had dreamed. I had found the strong box containing all the money that had been so mysteriously lost; I had found it in the picture gallery in the west wing. But where?

Impelled by curiosity, if by nothing else, I hurried down the long passage leading from my room to the picture gallery. The house was as still as the grave save for the sound of bells across the snow. The picture gallery is almost exactly the same now as it was then. It is, as you know, divided into three parts; the first part is separated from the middle chamber by the heavy tapestry curtain that still hangs there, and then the door at the other end leads into the smaller gallery. I entered the room from the passage, and as I did so the turret clock chimed.

In the daytime I had never noticed it particularly, but now, as I was alone in the long gallery at midnight, every stroke of the deep bell seemed to go through me and I held my breath between each note, almost fearing to hear myself breathe. It was a most peculiar sensation—more awe than fright—and when I felt the worst I never for one moment had the slightest intention of retreating from my post. I had dreamt that I had found enough money to pay off all my father’s debts. Could it be possible that such a dream should come true?

The room was lumbered up with old furniture, armour, books, and all kinds of miscellaneous articles. I eagerly turned them over with boyish enthusiasm, hoping to find something which would assist me.

How long I continued working, with something like feverish anxiety, thus aimlessly in the weird, uncertain light, I do not know, but suddenly I thought I heard a movement in the middle chamber and raised my head. The moon was shining brightly through the window, and fell upon the portraits of the father and mother of the unfortunate Guy.

Then, without the slightest noise, through the open door leading into the farther chamber, my unfortunate cousin seemed to advance with me into the moonlight. He was dressed in a white shirt, and his face looked “more in sorrow than anger.”

My heart stood still, and I felt a chill pass through my system, leaving, leaving me almost as cold and rigid as the ghost. Notwithstanding this my faculties were perfectly acute, and I remember that, though my cousin seemed as real as any human being, yet I could plainly see through him, and I noticed the old oak panelling shining in the moonlight through his back.

I tried to speak, but I could not. I had something I wished to say, but my lips refused their office.

“My father is not to blame,” I thought. “He never harmed you, Cousin Guy. Why should the sin of Roger Estcourt be visited upon him? We are the same age. I should not have been here had it not been for some good purpose. I am not afraid of you. Help me to help my father.”

I advanced a step, and the figure seemed to retreat. I stretched out my hand, and the figure did the same, and retreated slowly before me through the inner chamber. I followed, when the figure gradually faded from sight. I felt the warm blood coming back to me, and I gradually became more excited. I hurried on, fearing that my adventure would come to nothing. As the ghost faded away from my view I quickened my pace to a run, and, with a loud cry, I rushed against the oak panelling at the end of the inner chamber and fell back upon the floor—stunned.

How long I lay there I do not know, but when I opened my eyes my father was standing over me with a light.

“Whatever is the matter, my boy?” he said. “What are you doing here? Why are you not in bed?”

I hardly answered him, but, springing up, I snatched the light from his hand, and pointed towards the panel against which I had struck. My knocking against it had touched a secret spring, hitherto unknown to any of us, and there, in a small chamber made in the solid masonry of the wall, lay an old-fashioned brass-bound chest. Then my excitement knew no bounds

“There, father,” I cried, “there, I believe, is your money!”

Well, it’s no use going on, is it, boys? I always get excited even now when I tell the tale; but there was money in that box that went far to pay off the more pressing claims, and here we are to-day, the same Estcourts in the same house.

What do you say? Was it really a ghost? What do you think? You must remember that I had been out all day, and had had hardly anything to eat; a doctor could easily explain the whole of it, and so might you, perhaps, if, when the moon is shining brightly, you inspect the room and notice the effect of the mirrors. But you asked me for a real ghost story, and having told you one, it is not for me to spoil it by needless explanations.

From the December 1898 issue of The People’s Home Journal

Peanut Candy

One cupful molasses, two cupfuls sugar, one tablespoonful vinegar, one tablespoonful butter, and one teaspoonful vanilla. Boil ten minutes, or longer, if necessary, then pour over one cupful peanuts.

Peppermint

Two cupfuls granulated sugar, six tablespoonfuls boiling water. Boil three minutes, take off and stir in one tablespoonful pulverized sugar and eight drops of the oil (not essence) of peppermint. Beat until they become milky in appearance, then drop on a firm white paper as quickly as possible.

Maple Caramels

Two pounds of maple sugar, one-half cupful of ordinary sugar and one tablespoonful of water. When it comes to a boil, put in one pint of thick cream. Stir as little as possible. Let it boil until it will harden in water sufficient to be rolled into a soft ball. Take off and let stand three minutes, then beat until just thick enough to spread smoothly on a platter. When cool mark off with a knife. It is improved by adding nuts.

Chocolate Caramels

Two cupfuls of granulated sugar, one cupful of milk, butter the size of an egg, one teaspoonful of vanilla and one-quarter cake of chocolate. Put sugar, milk and butter together, add the chocolate after it has been melted. Cook until when dropped into water it can be formed into a soft ball, then remove from the stove, put in the vanilla, beat until it is a thick, smooth cream and turn out on a buttered platter. When partially cooled mark into squares.

Molasses Taffy

Two cupfuls of New Orleans molasses, two cupfuls of brown sugar and two tablespoonfuls of butter. Boil twenty minutes without stirring, or until it hardens when dropped into cold water. Just before removing from the stove, stir in a half teaspoonful of soda. Pour on buttered plates to cool, then make white by pulling.

This taffy rule can be used as a foundation for various compounds. Omit the butter, and stir in two cupfuls of black walnut, butternut and hickory-nut meats mixed, and you have a delicious nut candy. To make peanut candy, spread shelled and quartered peanuts on a buttered platter and pour the taffy over them. For popcorn balls, stir in gently as much popped corn as you can, then mould into form.

Old Victorian Christmas Image

The little Ouralian chain of mountains called by Russians “Semenoi Poias,” or the girdle of the earth, has given birth to a remarkable figure. The Baboushka lived there eighteen hundred years ago. The Baboushka lives there still.

As this Christmas legend of a woman is little known, let me translate for you the tale of an old Russian woman.

At the foot of the world’s girdle, surrounded by bushes of wild apricot, cherry, gooseberry, and currant, stood a small mud cottage. Its roof was shadowed by a graceful elm-tree. Before its door slept, for eight months in the year, a frozen stream. Its one window commanded a wide view of the distant plains. Its one chimney emitted smoke of a faint, blue colour. Its one inhabitant was the Baboushka!

The Baboushka was a “mujic” or peasant. She wore a caftan of coarsely woven wire-cloth edged with fur. Her boots were of untanned leather and reached to her knees. Her hair, braided in tiny plaits, hung beneath a helmet of undressed skins, while down her back was fastened a hood of sheep wool.

One morning, many, many years ago, the Baboushka was busy at her daily tasks. The samooa (or tea-urn) had to be brightened. The lemons had to be sliced. The rye seeds had to be bruised for her daily supply of black bread. The frozen butter in a keg had to be thawed.

Suddenly, from far up the world’s girdle, the Baboushka heard a sound of sleigh bells. They came on but slowly, not driven like the wind as usual.

Then down the hillside swept a long procession. Camels were there from the east country with humps and leathery necks. Tamed wolves from the Steppes were there. Horses were there, stepping daintily through the dazzling snow; above all hung the northern lights, yellow, green, and red.

The Baboushka tried to hide herself. Then stopped the procession at her door; and one, a very beautiful one, called out her name.

“Baboushka, come with us! We are on our way to find the Christ-Child.”

But the flame-coloured tunic of the beautiful one frightened the old woman.

“I will come, but not now,” she pleaded, stretching up her hands. “I have my house to set in order; when this is done I will follow and find Him.”

Thus the first one thousand past. The second wiseman in his cloak of divers colours stopped at her door.

“Baboushka! We are on our way to find the Christ-Child. We have seen His star in the east. Come with us?”

But the Baboushka trembled still more. The animal figures on the robe of the terrible one frightened her.

“I will come, but not now.” she replied. “I have my house to set in order. When this is done, I will follow and find him.”

When the second thousand had passed, the third magi stopped at her door. His robe of deep yellow, bordered with white, azure, and green, shone in the light.

“Baboushka, come with us! We are on our way to find the Christ-Child. We have seen His star in the east and go down to worship Him.”

But the Baboushka quaked exceedingly.

“I will come, but not now,” she promised. “I have to set my house in order. When that is done, I will follow and find Him.”

Then across the wide desert went the three kings, the beautiful one, the terrible one, and the wise one.

The Baboushka set her house in order. She extinguished the charcoal and guarded the lamp, emptied the samooa and took up the cake-bread. Then she went outside. Alas! the three kings had long passed away. And in the darkened heavens no longer shone the star. Across the wild Steppes, stumbling wildly, fled the Baboushka.

The constellations twinkled. The northern lights blazed. The moon shone, but she heeded not. She wished to find the Christ-Child but found Him not.

Still lives the Baboushka. She searches still. For the sake of the Christ-Child, she takes care of all God’s children. On the eve of the Nativity she visits every house in which the little ones be. For His sake she fills their stockings and dresses the trees. Children are awakened by the cry, “Behold the Baboushka!” But though they find her gifts she has ever vanished.

In this way she searches for the Christ-Child whom once she neglected. In each poor little one whom she warms and feeds she hopes to find Him. But she is doomed to eternal disappointment. Never in her ears sounds the comforting “inasmuch.” Not until the stars of heaven are falling. Not till the Steppes of Russia roll away as a scroll. Not till the work of the centuries is done and all the world set in order, will the Baboushka find the Christ-Child.

Lina Orman Cooper, as published in The Girl’s Own Paper, 1892

Victorian Girl Receiving Gifts - Trade Card Image from the Miss Mary collection.

It undoubtedly adds to the pleasure of Christmas present-giving, and especially if there be young folks in the household, to adopt some original mode of presenting the gifts. The following suggestions as to the distribution of Christmas gifts might also be useful in connection with Sunday school or church Christmas festivals, when novelty in presentation of gifts always adds materially to the pleasure of the occasion.

A Father Christmas

One popular mode of distribution is to have Father Christmas make the presentations. Whoever is chosen to impersonate this important character should be ready-witted, capable of saying something bright and humorous at least to the junior members of the party as he hands them their presents. He should be dressed in a red robe, with a long white beard and a wreath of holly on his head, a stick in one hand and a large bag containing the presents in the other. This, if not too large, he may carry in and put down in front of him; if too large, he may walk in front of a procession of girls and boys and take his place behind the presents, which should be hidden beneath a tablecover.

He may have a musical procession if he can sing, or some one may play the piano while the children sing.

All the gifts should be packed up and addressed, if Father Christmas is to distribute them, otherwise they may fall into the wrong hands.

When all are distributed he should lead this procession of boys and girls, who follow him singing a Christmas verse.

The Magic Cave

is another mode of distributing gifts. For this a corner of a room, or if a hall is used and is large it may be easy to arrange the structure there; a screen will materially assist, or two screens are even better. Any large, dried grasses and palms are handy to pile up on one side, on the other crystallized wadding made to look like stalactites by pulling it into points, gumming and sifting over glass powder, will give the effect of a cave.

If cotton, wool, or wadding of any description be used, the very greatest care should be taken that no light of any description is allowed to be near it, as it is of such an inflammable nature that mischief would be very unlikely to make the result, and therefore, during the making the cave, as well as using it, no light should be suffered to approach it.

At the door of the cave a fairy should stand with a want in her hand, and after making some mystic movements with it, she may silently enter the cave, bring out the present and hand it to the person for whom it is intended, then with her want beckon to another to approach her, and so on.

Pretty, soft music should be played during the distribution.

The Christmas Tree

still hold its place in many homes; it is very attractive, especially when the recipients of the Christmas gifts are mostly children.

The Bran Tub

When a number of presents of about equal value are provided, a large tub filled with bran, and the presents papered up and covered with the bran, is very good fun for children, as they grope about, uncertain which to take, and this provides amusement.

The Fairy’s Well

is also a source of considerable amusement. All the presents for this mode of distribution must be put into a deep tub, which may be decorated round the sides with evergreens and grasses, and made to look like a well. One or two short fishing-rods are used to draw the presents out with.

Victorian Tradecard: Winter Church Scene

Hail, hail the happy morn,
When Christ our Lord was born
Sound, sound His praise!
The Prince of Righteousness,
He came our world to bless,
The glorious hymn of “peace”
On earth to raise.

Angels the song began,
And then to ransomed man
The strain was given:
Hark! joining sweet and mild
The voice of little child,
Blessed by his Saviour mild,
May sing of heaven.

Peace, peace! What blissful sound!
Let hope and joy abound
This happy day:
We praise thee, God above!
Our lives thy blessing prove;
Thanks, for thy light and love,
Our souls would pay.

Sound, sound the loudest strain!
Let earth, and sky, and main
The anthem raise:
Father, thy love we bless,
Saviour, we ask thy “peace,”
Spirit, we beg thy grace,
When God we praise.

By Sarah Josepha Hale in Godey’s Lady’s Book and Magazine, December 1859
(Sarah J. Hale was one of the editors of Godey’s)