Classic Christmas Stories (18 page)

by E. S.

C
HRISTMAS TO ALL PEOPLE means the Birthday of
The King; and secondly, meeting old friends and renewing acquaintances. But to children everywhere it is “Father Christmas
Time.” To the boys and girls of Labrador, like those in England, it is an
eagerly awaited event.

Conversation, for many weeks before Christmas, centres around
“Fat’er” Christmas and of what they would like him to bring them, and
carols and new hymns are practiced for the Christmas Eve Service.

About a week before the great day every boy and girl at school writes a
letter to the “Present-Bringer.” How they assiduously write down all their
“wants.” Some are quite modest, merely asking for a book, pencil, or hair-ribbon: one or two hope for new motor-boats and “komatiks” (sledges);
while one little fellow, evidently with “high” ideas, wrote for an aeroplane!

The tiny tots, just learning how to write, are the most anxious. These
the teacher helps and must explain the meaning and importance of every
stroke, word and comma. What paper, ink, time and thought is necessary
before the letters are despatched (for all want Father Christmas to see
their very best writing).

The day draws nearer and there is much excitement. At last, December
23rd, lessons finish. Now to decorate the tree!

Each has a little task to do and this is generally done on Christmas
Eve morning. In the afternoon the younger scholars rest, whilst the others
go for a walk, accompanied by the teachers on duty. At three-thirty begin
preparations for service. They are all anxious to look their best, adorning
themselves in Sunday array and giving an extra “polish” to hands and faces.

As the clock strikes four the Children’s Service begins, a service
attended not only by children, but every person in the village.

The church is a lovely sight; at either side of the table are Christmas
trees ablaze with lighted candles, while decorated round the walls and
pillars are fir and spruce boughs. One could never forget the picture; the
trees, lights, villagers and children.

Little faces are flushed with excitement. Some who have never spent
Christmas at school before, look dazed, others look wonderingly, as if they
expect “Fat’er” Christmas to peep from behind the trees, yet on every face
there is reflected the eternal message: “Peace on earth, goodwill to men.”

After one or two hymns, prayers and a short address, the children
sing one of their hymns. And how they have practised this! They stand
and sing with gusto and confidence, but how relieved they are when the
last notes die away. The choir, also, have “one glorious hour of life” and
sing an anthem or two.

The children again. This time singing “Morning Star, All-cheering
Sight, ” and, as they sing, two of the Church servants enter, bearing pieces
of turnips into each of which is placed a lighted candle.

Watch the singers! Their eyes open wide, one or two look amazed
and forget to sing, and as each receives a candle some of the boys (those
farthest away from the teacher) even manage to nibble at the “candlestick.”

There is great excitement when the missionary announces “that for
the past few days tracks have been seen around the school, and
might
possibly
be those of Father Christmas, so that if everyone went down to
the school
perhaps
he would be calling.”

The service ended, there is a general scramble to get to the schoolroom,
mothers, fathers, uncles and aunts joining with the children. When all
are seated the children once more sing, this time “We’re All at Home for
Christmas.” Loud footsteps are heard; the volume of sound dwindles
rapidly, and “thud, thud!” . . . in comes Father Christmas!

Every year he looks the same, neither older nor younger; the old red
cloak, dog-skin boots and the same “peculiar” face. Happy face! Kind old
face! Who would lose the spirit of childhood make-believe? He carries
two sacks which the boys and girls eye with eager anticipation, but before
the contents are displayed to “mortal” view he is allowed a few remarks.
Isn’t it surprising how he knows who has been naughty!

Now for the bags. Each is crammed full with parcels, all labelled, and,
one by one, names are called, until all, old and young, have been given
a present. In one bag are gifts, in the other Christmas cards, so kindly
sent by friends at home. There are many exclamations of delight, chief of
which is “Piojok, ” meaning “Fine.” Everyone happy, the party breaks up,
the villagers returning home and the children marching in to supper, yet
so excited are they that they forget to eat!

Prayers follow and then bed, but not before stockings have been placed
in readiness for Santa. About nine o’clock they are all in bed and seemingly
asleep, and then the “Father (Mother) Christmases” begin their duties.

The great day dawns and one is usually awakened by the sound of the
village choir singing carols. The children are awake even before the choristers,
and what joy there is when the signal is given for “stocking exploration.”

At ten-thirty is the service, and how the children love to hear of Jesus,
the Christmas Child. After dinner everyone is well wrapped up and off
they go carol-singing. We are invited to enter every house in the village to
see their Christmas trees. One of the most interesting visits is to “Joshua’s”
house. He usually has two trees, plentifully decorated with candles, and
round the house are lighted candles and paper stars. He loves to sing
to us in Eskimo; often he sings three or four hymns, and would sing
more if only we had time to listen. Our visits over, we return to school,
ready for an early supper. At half-past six we have our evening service
of thanksgiving. The choir and children again give special anthems and
hymns. Service ends with the children unusually tired and quite ready for
bed. Yet the festivities are not ended.

The following day (Boxing Day) is Children’s Day. On this day they have
their own morning service. During the afternoon they have their Lovefeast,
and in the evening another service in which old and young combine.

So ends Christmas-time in Labrador enriching, as everywhere, the
Greatest Truth that Christ came to bring peace on the earth and goodwill
unto all mankind.

by Hesketh Prichard

The following article by Hesketh Prichard is taken from the Christmas number
of
M. A. P.
It will, we are sure, be read with much
interest.

C
ONTRAST IS SURELY THE salt of enjoyment and delight,
and in the ideal Christmas of my imagination I picture a wary individual
battling his way through the snow behind his tired dog-team over the desolate
country of the Labrador Peninsula.

It is Christmas Eve, and already the short day is drawing in. The wind comes
roaring down the gullies unladen by any hint of human presence. It has swept
across the untenanted limitless leagues of the interior. It carries the promise
of snow. Underfoot the ground is covered with a white cloak several feet in
thickness. The one fear of the traveller is that he will not be able to reach
his destination; indeed, he has almost given it up, and is looking for a
sheltered, or comparatively sheltered, place in which to build his snow-hut,
when, rounding yet another of the innumerable promontories, he sees before him
the gleam and wink of lights. They are those of the Moravian mission station at
Hopedale.

The dogs see them, too, and lose their lassitude. In a very short time the
komatik
is drawn up outside the palisade, and the traveller is being
welcomed by his friends. And such a welcome it is! Quite different from the
welcome of a civilised land, for here men are allied closely in
a struggle for existence; their common enemies are Hunger, Cold, and
Darkness. “So you have come, after all, ” cries the House Father. “We were
afraid you wouldn’t win through. This is splendid. Come in! Come in!” And the
traveller enters, to meet a second welcome from the ladies of the mission, whose
gracious and unselfish presence goes so far to render life less arduous in the
inhospitable and lonely land.

And now as the traveller sits down by the stove he knows and experiences all
the joys of contrast. He is in the midst of European life transplanted. He
thinks of the wind which is raging seaward upon the other side of the Hopedale
promontories, of the snow-hut and labour of unharnessing his dogs, which so
nearly has been his portion, as he discusses the news of the lonely coast.

Instead he sees the ruddy lights of the mission-house shining on the snow and
upon the squat forms of the Eskimo, who are attending to his
komatik
. And
I think that he experiences one of the most joyous sensations in life.

Next morning, after a long dreamless, tired sleep, he is awakened by the bell
of the church. The scene upon which he looks out is like the pictured Christmas
of boyish dreams—a flag is flying on the flagstaff, the glittering roofs gleam
through the frosty air, and in the wild, straggling village on the hill the
Eskimo hunters and fishermen are shaking hands in great good-fellowship.

Later, from all the surrounding huts and from distances up to forty miles to
the settlers, or planters, as they call themselves, throng in to service, which
is in Eskimo and in English, and to spend Christmas Day.

The missionaries, men who call Labrador “home” and whose fathers and
grandfathers have been Moravian missionaries before them, have the power of
making Christmas the happy and splendid day it should be. They transform the
mission-house into a rest-house upon the road of life, and the stranger who is
within their gates realizes what life on the Labrador coast would be without
them. I think the ideal Christmas is one such as the Moravians spend in the
eight months’ winter of Labrador.

by Nadie

“Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season
with green decorations of bay and holly; the cheerful fire
glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip-knot huddled
round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.”

Christmas in Old England
, Washington Irving

A
ND SO IT WAS in the good old times in St. John’s, before
there were so many attractions to induce those of the home-circle
to spend their Christmas otherwise than gathered round the Yule
log on their own hearth-stone; and so it is yet in many outports, where the
neighbours cluster round the Christmas fire and beguile the long evenings
with “legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales.” Where such a proportion of the people go down to the sea in ships, and wrestle for their daily
bread in deep and angry waters, they always have to pay the toll; and so it
happens that very few merry-makings, but are sobered at the thought, and
many eyes dimmed in memory of those who, perhaps, in the preceding year,
were “noisiest of the merry throng, ” and many a heart sighs for those who
nevermore will gladden their sights in this world, and say with the poet:

“This year I slept, and woke with pain;

I almost wished no more wake,

And that my hold on life would break

Before I heard those bells again.”

Amongst the stories and folk-lore detailed around the Christmas
fire in Newfoundland, tales of wreck and disaster at sea, unfortunately,
claim too much attention, and as befitting a people, the greater portion
of whose lives are spent on the water, those tales are often tinged with an
undercurrent of mystery, that makes it hard for an unbiased listener to
distinguish where fact ceases and imagination holds sway. The belief in
omens, warnings, apparitions, and other uncanny subjects, is so universal
that it cannot be despised or ignored by the most unimaginative.

In very many places around our coast, even to-day, it is firmly believed
by thousands, that in coves, or on headlands, where ships have come to
grief, with the loss, perhaps, of all on board, that sometimes, especially
before the coming of a storm, voices are heard calling, calling, and as the
storm rages, the voices of the dead mariners rise higher and shriller than
those of the angry winds and waters.

“Each voice four changes on the wind,

That now dilates and now decrease.”

And those who hear it, if they be on shore, hasten out of the reach of
the terror-inspiring phenomena.

Years ago, it was said, that out near Freshwater Bay, on the coming of
a storm, voices would be heard; the same is true of many other places on
the coast, where vessels have been lost.

Near St. Shott’s and Chance Cove, and the other points along that
coast, which has earned for itself the gruesome name of the “graveyard of
the Atlantic, ” many people will tell you that the calling of unearthly voices
is still heard.

In the gale of the year 1816, the transport
Harpooner
was lost near Cape
Pine, and for many years after (and maybe to-day for that matter), it was
believed that the cries of the drowned could always be heard at the coming
of a storm, I heard the tale many years ago, and afterwards came across an
account of it extracted from the English papers, and was surprised how
nearly the oral account tallied with the official record of the officers. The
narrator, from whom I heard the tale, had in turn heard it from a man
who saw and helped the survivors, when they arrived in St. John’s in 1816.
I had always treated the wreck, and incidents connected with it, such as
the warnings and the voices, as more or less legendary, but since I have
read the official account, I have often wondered, after all, if there be no
more things in Heaven and earth than are counted in our philosophy. The
account of the wreck is interesting from various standpoints, principally
because when all human agencies failed, the survivors were saved through
the intelligence and sagacity of a Newfoundland dog.

On the 27th of October, 1816, the transport
Harpooner
, Joseph Briant,
master, sailed from Quebec, bound to Deptford, with detachments of the
Fourth Royal Veteran Battalion and their families, in all 380 souls. On
arriving in the Gulf, the weather proved boisterous, and so foggy was it,
that they could not get an observation for several days. On Sunday night,
the 10th of November, while beating under close-reefed and greatly
reduced canvas, she suddenly struck on the outermost rock of St. Shott’s,
near Cape Pine. She beat over, and proceeded, when she struck again
with terrific force; the seas, mountains high, dashed over her; in a few
minutes her timbers were crushed like the pipe-stems, and above and
below decks all was awash.

Who can paint the terror and despair of those unfortunate men,
women and children on that black, November night, with the tempestuous
winds screeching through the rigging like the voices of Furies, the angry
sea surging over the ship’s yards, and washing to destruction those who
were not holding to something for grim life; no land in sight; impossible
to launch a boat, even had they not been smashed to matchwood; and
nothing before them but despair and death in its most appalling and
fearsome shape. The mind almost faints at the contemplation of their
distress, and mere words could never describe it.

From about eleven o’clock, on this dark, stormy night, till four o’clock
next morning, these poor unfortunates were clinging to what was left of
the wreck, praying for God to send the daylight. To heighten the terror
and alarm, when the ship fell over on her larboard beam ends, a lighted
candle in the captain’s cabin set fire to some spirits that were stored
there. The attention of all hands was arrested for a short time, and after
a vigorous fight they succeeded in putting out the fire, and thus escaping
death by burning. But the relentless sea rushed in, and carried away the
berths and stanchions between decks, and amidst the most despairing
and indescribable scenes, men, women and children were washed out into
the inky blackness, and in a moment, their last, appealing cries were blent
with the voices of the tempest,
and forever ceased to be human.
One boat remained, and at dawn
it was lowered down from the
stern, and the first mate and four
seamen, at the risk of their lives,
made for the shore. They, with
difficulty, succeeded in effecting a
landing on the mainland, behind
a high rock, nearest from the rock
that the boat had been “stoved.”
The log-line was thrown from
the wreck, but the tremendous
surf that beat rendered it
impracticable. When despair
was once more seizing them, the
possibility of sending another line
ashore by dog occurred to the
master. The animal was brought
aft, and thrown into the sea, with
a line tied around his middle, and
with it, he swam toward the rock
upon which the mate and seaman were standing.

“It is impossible, ” says the old chronicler, “to describe the sensations
which were excited at seeing the faithful dog struggling in the waves,
reaching the summit of the rock, and dashed back again by the surf into
the sea, until at length, by his exertions, he arrived with the line.”

“They succeeded in getting a stronger rope ashore, and then the
rescue of the survivors began. About six o’clock in the morning, the first
person was landed by this means; at half-past one o’clock of the same day,
only thirty lives had been saved by means of the rope. The wreck was
beating to pieces, the surf was mountains high, and the rope, their last
means of safety, by constant use, and by swinging across the sharp rocks,
was cut asunder. From that hour, the spectacle became, if possible, more
than ever terrific. Those on the wreck were constantly being washed into
the sea to immediate death. “Their heartrending cries and lamentations, ”
says the old writer “were such as cannot be expressed—of families, fathers,
mothers and children, clinging together!” The wreck, breaking up, stern
from miships and forecastle, precipated all on board into one common
destruction. Under these melancholy circumstances 206 souls perished.

The officers and men of the Battalion had been returning home, with
the savings of years, which had been paid in guineas, stowed safely away
in their luggage. They expected to spend Christmas amongst their friends
in Merrie England, after a long absence. They lost everything. Fathers,
lost wives and children; mothers were separated from sons, husbands and
children; and children from parents, brothers and sisters.

The rescued were landed on a high rock, cut off from the mainland at
high tide. On the top of this rock they were obliged to remain all night,
without shelter, food, or nourishment, and many without shoes, exposed
to the wind and rain. The only comfort they had—if comfort it could be
called—was a fire made of driftwood, which had been washed ashore. At
daylight, next morning, they got to the mainland, and made for a fishing
shanty, about a mile distant. The owner, as can be imagined, could not
begin to feed or comfort such a crowd, but volunteered to guide a party
to Trepassey, about fourteen miles distant, through a rough, marshy
country, not inhabited by any human creature. When the party arrived
in Trepassey, Rev. Father Brown, and Messrs. Jackson, Burke and Simms,
immediately took measures for alleviating the distress by rushing a relief
party to the scene of the wreck, with spirits, food and clothing, and all the
available men, to assist in bringing the survivors to Trepassey.

On the 13th, in the evening, the greater part of the rescued were
safely housed in Trepassey. Many had to be assisted by inhabitants, who,
during the journey, carried the weak and feeble on their backs. “There
still remained at St. Shott’s, ” says the historian, “the wife of a sergeant of
the Veteran Battalion, who was delivered on top of the rocks, shortly after
she was saved: —the child and herself are doing well. A private, whose leg
had been broke, and a woman severely bruised by the wreck, were also
necessarily left there.”

Shortly after, all were removed to St. John’s, where Admiral Pickmore,
the Governor, Major King, commanding the troops (as they have done,
nearly a hundred years after, for the
Little Jap
and
Regulus
disasters),
and they fitted out the survivors with clothes and necessaries. The whole
town was excited, and the inhabitants vied with each other in showering
kindness on the derelicts. After ten days, the Governor chartered the
Mercury
, of Poole, which, eventually landed the survivors safely in
Portsmouth.

This was a specimen Christmas tale, that was told around the
Christmas fire, nearly a century ago, and unfortunately, very few seasons
pass in Newfoundland, that if, one old tale of wreck or ruin is forgotten,
another one crops up, and takes its place.