Chapter One

by Kate J. Neily
Edited and Revised by Amber Moeller

There was a great excitement in Public School No. 8, that 23rd of December. The usual soldier-like order and drill seemed entirely suspended; and all through the great building, from the Primary Department, through the Intermediate, and away up to the Grammar divisions, a bustle and confusion prevailed, which showed that something very unusual was going on.

A peep through any of the great glass doors revealed the occupants of each class-room busy, not with lessons, but with a great deal pleasanter work, in their opinion at least, if one might judge by the eager importance of each sunny face. The desks, the long benches, and even the floor, were heaped with great boughs of evergreens; broad branches of pine, with its needle-like leaves; clustering bunches of laurel and hemlock; trailing wreaths of ivy and myrtle; and sprigs of holly, with its glossy, sharp-pointed leaves and ruby-like berries. The whole air was fragrant with their spicy perfume, and the children were as busy as bees in clover, twining them into garlands, with which to wreathe every post and pillar, every window and door. The teachers were there, of course, to direct them; and the older girls, and even some of the boys, had already become tolerably skillful in their graceful work; so that now, at two o'clock in the afternoon, the great bare school-room had begun to be transformed into fairy bowers of evergreen bloom.

The large audience-room in front looked especially well; the principal's desk was quite like a throne, all draped in scarlet cloth, bordered with shining holly, and overhung with clustering boughs. A heavy green wreath was suspended from the arch above, and a beautiful flag of silk, mounted with silver, was gracefully draped before it.

Some of the taller girls were busy twining the chandeliers with slender wreaths of myrtle; and Ned White, the head boy of the school, and a regular six-footer, was mounted on a ladder, and nailing upon the wall great cardboard letters, which he himself had cut in the most florid German text, and sprinkled thick with powdered cedar, cemented with paste. These letters were grouped into all sorts of appreciate mottoes: "Merry Christmas;" "Welcome to our Friends;" "Hurrah for the Holidays!" Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men," and ever so many more. And the children watched, with great interest, the process of fastening them upon the walls.

Everybody was busy, and everybody of course was noisy accordingly. Not that the children were allowed to run from class to class, or really to jump and shout; but there was a great deal of going back and forth with twine, and tacks, and hammers, and a great many directions to be given. Neither was talking in a low tone among themselves forbidden to the children.

Miss Kavanagh's room was the quiestest of all, for Miss Kavanagh was one of those faithful laborers in the Master's vineyard, who "sow beside all waters;" and she never missed an opportunity to plant the seed of a good thought in the hearts of her scholars. She was talking to them now, in her pleasant way, not a bit like a sermon or a lecture, about Christmas, and the reason why the whole Christian world unite to make it a season of joyousness and kindly feeling -- a time for the interchange of good wishes and loving gifts. Not that it was the real birthday of Christ: no one could tell that precisely; but it was a day set apart in remebrance of his coming to bring peace on earth, good will to men, and therefore the brightest, and happiest, and most blessed day of the whole year. Not that there was no true peace on earth before Christ came, Miss Kavanagh said. Everybody had evil hearts then, as now; but, although God's mercy brought salvation to all who trusted in him, the eye of faith looked for the promised Messiah. And, at last, the Son of God, graciously pitying the sad condition of men, consented to leave his glorious home in heaven, where he sat enthroned at the right hand of the Father, and humble himself to be born of a woman; to come down and dwell upon earth; to live among the poor and lowly, often having no roof to cover his head; to pass his life in teaching men what they must do to be saved from the wrath of God, and in doing good to all; and finally, to give up that precious life, to bear the shameful death of the cross, that he might be the propitiation from our sins, and that, by taking our punishment upon himself, we might be saved from the doom of eternal death; so that now, all we needed to do was to feel that we were really sinful, the we deserved God's anger, and that of ourselves we had no power to help ourselves; and to be willing to be saved entirely for Christ's sake; after that, to try, by the help of his Spirit to lead a life after the pattern of Him who went about doing good.

It was the thought of all this wonderful work, which Christ had done for them, which made real Christians feel such a holy pleasure in Christmas Day, Miss Kavanaghg said, and he wanted all her scholars to add this sacred joy to the mirth and gayety of the season. It would not take from their merriment at all, but add a sweeter and purer zest to it; the memory of the first Christmas Day, so many, many years ago, when the child Jesus, who had come to be Savior of the world, lay, a tiny infant, by his mother's side, in his manger-cradle.

All this, and more, Miss Kavanagh said, while her fingers were busy twining holly and bay, and her eyes here and there, over her class and she spoke so pleasantly, although seriously, as became such a solumn truths. that the girls did not get tired at all, but listened with much interest, going on with their work all the time, and feeling a truer spirit of Christmas coming into their happy little hearts.

Only one little girl, with eyes are black as shoes, and long black hair braided tightly about her smart little head, was very plainly not interested at all in what her teacher was saying, or even in the pretty wreath of myrtle and "creeping Jenny" that was growing beneath her fingers. She fidgeted and twisted, jerked the sprigs of evergreen about, flashed impatient glances at Miss Kavanagh, and at length, when that lady had finished talking, whispered to the girl next her, almost loud enough to be heard, --

"There, she has done her long lecture at last." Her companion looked up in surprise.

"Why, Nelly," she said, " it wasn't a bit like a lecture. I like to hear Miss Kavanagh talk, and I like her."

"Well, I don't, then, I can tell you; and I shouldn't think you would, Maggie Lang, after her keeing you in til four o'clock, the other day, about your grammar lesson."

Maggie's fair cheek reddened, but she answered, stoutly, --

"It was my own fault; I could have learned it in fifteen minutes, if I had chosen; but I was sulky, and wouldn't. She had a better right to be angry with me for keeping her here so long, waiting for me."

"O, O! I've pricked my finger!" was Nelly's only answer to this speech; "see, Maggie, it looks like one of the holly berries -- doesn't it?" And she held up her little brown forefinger, where a drop of bright red blood had followed quickly the puncture of the sharp-pointed leaf.

"O, that;s too bad! Doesn't it hurt, Nelly? Here, let me wrap my handkerchief round it," said kind-hearted little Maggie, with ready sympathy. "I haven't pricked myself yet, but my fingers are all sticky with this pine. 'Pitch, tar, and turpentine," as the geography says. I don't think I shall forget, after to-day, that they come from pine trees."

"O, don't talk of geography now!" exclaimed Nelly, impatiently. "And that is done for one blessed week, anyhow. I'm so glad Christmas is coming -- aren't you, Maggie? Just to get rid of school."

"Yes, to be sure, I'm glad Christmas is coming; but I like school too," said Maggie, stanchly. "I don't wan't to grow up a dunce; and, besides, I shouldn't know what to do with myself, staying at home all the time."

"Shouldn't you?" said Nelly, disdainfully. "Indeed I should, then. I'd do fancy work; embroider my under-clothes. I hate to wear plain things, and mother says it's all nonsense, and won't do it for me. And then I'd practice doing my hair after the patterns in the fashion-plates. O, I do love to see hair done up in new styles, and when I'm a young lady, I'll never wear mine the same way twice."

Nelly tossed her glossy black head with a proud consciousness of having beautiful hair outside of it, which was to her of a great deal more important than the quantity of brains inside of the same; and Maggie looked half admiring, and half doubtful, and said, --

"I don't think I should care to take so much trouble."

"Trouble? Better take trouble about your looks than about those stupid lessons, I think," said Nelly, in her usual pert, positive way. "And that reminds me, Maggie: how are you going to wear your hair to-morrow?"

"To-morrow? to the school reception? I don't know. I haven't thought about it; just as it was now, I suppose, only with my new net on."

"O, but nets are so old-fashioned now -- don't you know? Do have it put up in papers, or something. I'm going to wear mine, as I did at my birthday party, all loose down my back -- French style, you know. I've had it braided up tight for a week, and to-morrow it'll crinkle beautifully, and it comes way below my waist. If it only was a fashionable color, -- golden, you know, -- I'd be so glad! But I can't help it; and anyhow, I expect the fashion will change before I'm grown, and everybody be wishing for black hair."

"O, Nelly, fashion in the color of one's hair!" said Maggie, laughing, but secretly pleased to think that her hair, even if it was too short to "crinkle," and wear floating over her shoulders, was of the "stylish" color -- a true sunny yellow.

"Yes, indeed, fashion in everything, nowadays," said Nelly, with an air of conscious superiority to simple-minded like Maggie. " But you haven't told me what dress you're going to wear to-morrow."

"My Sunday one, of course. You know it -- a blue and green plaid poplin; and I've a ribbon to match my hair."

"What!" exclaimed Nelly, in surprise and disdain; "going to wear that dull, woollen thing to a public reception? Why, Maggie Lang! I shouldn't think of wearing my church dress, though it's a bright red merino, and a great deal more suitable than yours. I am going to wear my white Swiss, the one I had made for my party, with my bronze boots, and my corn-colored sash."

"Well, Nelly, you'll freeze. Your mother'll never let you."

"No, I shan't freeze; the school-rooms are warm, and my hair'll be as think as a shawl over my shoulders. As for my mother, I'll manage that."

Nelly nodded her smart little head, with a knowing look, and Maggie, still unconvinced, objected.

"But, Nelly, no one else will wear white, I am sure; and how queer you'll feel being the only one!"

"Sure, are you?" Well, then I'll just tell you something; but mind, it's a secret, and you mustn't tell. When Miss Kavanagh sent me into the front room fro a ball of twine, a while ago, I saw ever so many of the first class girls standing under the chandelier, fixing a wreath. I padded close to them, and they didn't see me, and I stopped to hear what they were saying; and Annie Arthur said, 'I'm going to wear a white alpaca;' and Sue Remsen said I shall do the same. They think they're very smart, and that they'll come here to-morrow loking better than any one else; but they'll find I'm too sharp for them. And if I were you, Maggie, I would be so too; I'd wear a light dress of some kind and not be like the little dowdies in the lower classes."

Maggie shook her head sorrowfully, and her childish blue eyes looked ready to fill with tears. This was dreadful, to look like a dowdy, she thought.

"I've got a beautiful white muslin," she said: "but I know my mother won't let me wear it."

"Wear it without her knowing it, then; that's what I expect to have to do," said Nelly, boldly; and then, seeing her companion's look of consternation, she added, hastily, "O, that's only my fun; of course I wouldn't do such a thing. I mean coax your mother, as I intend to;" and then she began to empty her lap of the bits and twigs of greens.

"I'm tired of working at this stupid wreath. I'm going to ask Miss Kavanagh to let me help her," she said, and went hastily off, leaving poor little Maggie alone at her desk, and very low-spirited indeed.

To be continued ...

« Return to Fine Feathers Do Not Make Fine Birds