Classic Christmas Stories (22 page)

Dragging, drifting out on the rocks. Oh! Would they never see us!
Yes, they will see us. Thank God they have seen us, for even now we can
discern lights moving along by the water’s edge, and before half an hour—
and yet what a time it seemed!—a skiff hails us and shoots along out of
the darkness; cheery voices are around us—we are saved! After that, I
think I must have partly lost consciousness—my clothes were frozen on
me, and I was worn out by the fierce excitement of the storm—for my
next recollection is finding myself lying in an arm chair before a warm
fire in the snug little parlor of the Presbytery, and thinking that no fairy
palace of an Eastern prince was ever as fair as this home of mine.

How gratefully I prayed that Christmas, how joyfully sang out Adeste,
I leave you to judge. Indeed, I cannot wish any better wish than that all
our little boys at Villa Nova, and all our dear friends in Newfoundland
and elsewhere, may spend as glad and happy a Christmas this year of
1888 as I spent that memorable Christmas Eve on the mission.

P. S.—There is one little incident connected with the rescue, I have
forgotten to mention, and as it was one that my young friends in Oderin
often reminded me of, it may not be fair to overlook it. They always
maintained that, if it had not been for the
little dance
at Sammy Butler’s
that Christmas Eve night, I might not be alive today to tell the story of
the rescue. It appears that Sammy that night had given the young folk
one of those enjoyable little parties traditional of the merry time. Some
of the boys coming out on the balcony to cool themselves in the interval
of a cotillion, saw the blazing brands, hurried off and launched a skiff and
came to our assistance.

by Retrospection

T
HE AUTUMN OF 1873 had been a remarkably fine one, but
now, winter had commenced his rigorous reign in good earnest,
and though a day or two before, everyone was saying it would be
a green Christmas; a shift of wind to the north, and a continuous fall of
snow for some hours, had effected a complete change in the aspect of nature. The black beetling cliffs, projecting crags, and huge boulders, which
found the most prominent features of the scenery around Shelter Cove,
a little fishing settlement on the north-east coast of Newfoundland, were
now covered with a mantle of purest white, which softened their rugged
and almost forbidding appearance, and as the short day drew to its close,
and the storm cleared, and the setting sun cast its slanting rays on cliff
and crag, and housetops, glinting and glistening in their snowy covering,
it seemed beautiful as a scene from fairyland.

On this winter evening the village was a scene of busy activity, the
stalwart fishermen engaged in cutting up wood for fuel, for tomorrow
would be Christmas Day, and a good stock must be laid in; but especially
must the “Christmas brand” or “Yule log” be prepared and lodged in its
position across the “dog irons.”

The sound of axes rang out cheerily on the frosty air, while ever
and anon, blending with it, came the report of firearms, with which the
younger members of the community welcomed the joyous advent time,
while the savoury whiffs which came forth as the cottage doors were
opened, plainly indicated that the good wife was actively engaged within,
making preparations for the festive season.

One house alone seems exempt from this cheerful hum of preparation.
Larger and more pretentious than its neighbours, it indicated that its
builders must have been men of some means, while an appearance of
neglect and decay as plainly indicated that its present occupants were not
basking in the sunshine of prosperity. On entering it we find ourselves in
a capacious kitchen, one side of which is entirely occupied by the large,
old-fashioned fireplace, in which a wood fire is burning; its cheery but
fitful light, one moment revealing, and the next leaving in shadow, the
dark wainscoted walls, the scanty furniture, and the sanded floor neatly
swept in zig-zag lines, according to the custom of the times.

On a bench, or settle, by a fire, we observe a man in a half sitting,
half recumbent position, and as the firelight flashes across his features it
reveals one on whom age, care and sickness have traced their indelible
footprints.

There is but one other occupant of the room, a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of twelve years, meanly and thinly clad, but possessing a face of
wondrous beauty, and sylph-like figure of surpassing gracefulness. She
had just laid their evening meal on a small table, in a such position that
the aged invalid might partake of the repast without moving from his
seat, and the gentleness of her movements, and thoughtful kindness of
her manner, show that her attendance on him is a labor of love.

There is little to tempt the appetite of a sick person, the food being of
the coarsest description, and after sipping a cup of tea that old man lies
back on his couch and watches his little attendant as she deftly and quickly
clears away the tea-things. Having done so, and taking some sewing, she
seats herself on a low stool, close by him, saying: “Grandfather, are you
warm enough, or shall I get something to lay over you?”

“I am quite warm, my dear, with that nice fire.” As he speaks he
lays his feeble hand on her head, saying: “Nellie, my darling, my only
earthly comfort, this is a sad, a lonely Christmas Eve! Last year your dear
grandmother was with us, but now she lies yonder in the graveyard, and
only you and I are left, Nellie; and to-night my thoughts go back to the
time when I led her forth from this very house, a fair young bride! The
world went well with me then, Nellie! I was master and owner of as fine
a brig as sailed out of St. John's and fortune smiled on me for many years.
Your father and your uncle John grew up strong, and brave, and true,
such sons as my father might well be proud of. But, as time passed, the
seal-fishery began to fail, and the steamers soon drove our noble fleet of
sailing vessels out of the business.

“I lost a considerable amount, but was still in comfortable circumstances. I owned a snug home in St. John's, and the old brig (rebuilt and
as good as new) was engaged in the foreign trade, under your father's
command, your uncle also being with him as mate.

“Ten years ago last October, your father sailed for the Mediterranean,
taking your mother with him, but leaving you, a tiny thing of two years,
to our care.

“That was a stormy season on the Atlantic, and many a good ship
went down, your father's among them, and the mail by which was
expected news of their safe arrival brought tidings of wreckage in mid-ocean, which, alas too plainly indicated that they had been engulphed
in the merciless sea. Then, while we were in midst of this great sorrow,
the firm of Transfer & Co. failed, and I was left penniless. In the spring
I sold my place at St. John's, and with the proceeds commenced a small
business in this place, as this house and premises had been inherited by
your grandmother.

“Failing fisheries however soon swallowed up all, but I struggled on,
battling with adversity, until last spring, when your dear grandmother
died, then it seemed as if the light of my life was gone, strength and energy
failed me; and ever since I have been growing weaker day by day until at
last, Nellie To-morrow, Nellie! I must apply for the pauper's dole. Oh! It
is hard! Hard!! Hard!!! but God's will be done.” The old man arose with
difficulty, and tottering across the kitchen to his room, threw himself
upon his bed to indulge his grief alone.”

Nellie sat sometimes gazing into the fire, with tear-rimmed eyes.
“Poor, dear, grandpa!” she murmured. “O, how I wish I could do
something to help him!” Then rising, as if a sudden thought had crossed
her mind, she said, “There's that ring mother left behind her, I'll take
that to Mr. Warden, the trader, and get something nice for grandpa's
Christmas dinner, but I must not let him know.”

She then crept to the door of his room, and found that he had fallen
asleep, covering him up carefully, and hurriedly dressing herself as
warmly as her scanty ward-robe would permit, she started on her errand.

There was no moon, but the stars were twinkling brightly in the
clear sky, except to the westward where a black cloud bank was rising. A
sharp, keen, west wind was blowing; but calling, “Nep!” a large dog came
bounding towards her, and she pushed bravely on her way. The distance
was not far, but the road was black and dangerous, as it wound around
the seaward slope of the hills, and about midway a bridge spanned a small
brook which came rushing down the hill-side and sprang with a clear
leap of 50 feet into the sea. Just as she reached this point the squall (which
had been rising swiftly but unnoticed by her) burst upon her in all its
fury. Bewildered, breathless, she endeavoured to press on, but in vain; she
turned to retreat, but in a moment was hurled prostrate on the icy bridge,
slipped under the railing, and with a cry of terror fell into the gulch
below. Providentially a jutting crag about 10 feet below, on which the
snow had gathered, intercepted her fall, and she lay unhurt, but terrified
at the thought that the slightest motion would precipitate her into the
yawning gulf beneath.

The noble dog soon made his way to her side and lying himself down
by her, endeavoured to protect her from the fury of the elements. Nellie
nestled close to her shaggy friend, but the fatal sleep which precedes death
from cold began to steal on her. Suddenly Nep sprang up at the sound of
footsteps, and bounding up the cliff confronted a strong looking man of
middle-age. The faithful animal soon made him understand that help was
needed, and on looking over the bridge he saw the perilous position of
the child. Cautiously following the track of the dog, he soon reached the
spot where she lay, and lifting her in his strong arms succeeded in bring
her safely to the road. Still following the dog he soon reached Nellie's
home, and bringing her into the firelight found that she had fainted.
Seeing no one, he laid her on the bench and called for help; then he began
briskly rubbing her hands to restore circulation. As he did so the ring fell
from them on the hearth, picking it up he glanced at it, and as he did so,
a strange change came over him, his face becoming white as the child's
at his side. He held it nearer the light, examined it closely, and clasping
his hands with emotion, exclaimed, “O God, I thank thee!” then gazing a
moment with intense interest on the still unconscious child, clasped her
in his arms, covering the sweet, pale face, with kisses.

Nellie's grandfather had been awakend by the sound of footsteps, and
as the call for help fell on his ear, he started up as one in a dream, then
with a vigor which an hour ago he seemed incapable of, went forward to
the kitchen. One moment he gazed on the form by the fire, then, crying:
“Ned! Ned! My lost boy! Has the sea given up its dead?” tottered forward
with outstretched arms, and would have fallen had not the stranger
turned quickly and caught him in his arms, crying: “Thank God, father, I
have found you at last!”

Reader, my tale is told. I would like to tell you of Nellie's father—of
his battle for life with the angry sea, clinging for hours to a broken spar;
of his rescue by a ship bound for Australia; of his struggle and trials, and
ultimate prosperity in that far-off land; of letters failing to reach their
destination. All this, and more, I would like to tell, but for the Editor's
inexorable edict, “Not over 2,000 words!”

If you desire to know more of Nellie, seek her among the fairest and
most honoured of the fair daughters of Terra Nova, and she will tell you
that many a happy Christmas has she enjoyed since then—one especially,
when orange blossoms were mingled with holly and mistletoe; but above
all others, she cherishes the memory of that which is still called by all who
know her story, “Nellie's Christmas.”

by P. K. Devine

R
ECURRENCE OF CHRISTMAS ALWAYS bring to the
recollection of the writer a weapon that is now rarely used, and is exhibited
casually as a curiosity, viz.: the old sealing gun. It is now kept permanently
on the gun-rack, or perhaps oftener found in the store loft in outports in a
state of “innocuous disquietude.” But the old sealing gun had its day, and held
a proud position in the planter’s house before the breech-loader and modern
rifle supplanted it. The powder-horn and shot-bag, now looked on with
good-natured curiosity by the generation growing up, were amongst the insignia
of an outharbour fisherman’s property. They, together with the sealing gun, held
a place in the estimation of the old-time household that the cartridge rifle can
never expect to fill. Like Bruce’s armour or Wallace’s sword, the old sealing
gun now survives only to give the new generation an idea of the man who used it.
It was usually from six to seven feet long, and required “a man” to hold it out
straight when using it. The sealing gun was kept on a “rack” in the kitchen, and
a planter’s prosperity was generally estimated by the number of these long guns
that could be seen at one time lying on the rack side by side. Christmas Eve was
ushered in by the firing off of powder-guns all over the harbour. God bless the
old-timers who kept it up as long as they could! Even a few of them do it now at
Christmas time; but they do it in a stealthy manner, half-ashamed to be caught,
knowing
that the young generation have not the proper spirit
of sympathy with the custom. In the olden times the firing of guns on Xmas Eve
would appear to be done by pre-concerted signal, so general was it. The
cannonading began simultaneously in all corners of the harbour, and ended as
suddenly as it began. There was no pre-arrangement; they were simply doing what
had been done by their fathers before them, back since the time the place was
first inhabited. The breech-loader and the cartridge helped to kill the good old
custom. Besides at Xmas, the sealing gun was used in the same way weddings, and
on the arrival of the Bishop making the annual visitation, the practice is still
kept up in a few districts of the country; but it is easy to see it is gradually
dying out.

A man who owned a good sealing gun and knew how to fire it shooting seals and
sea-birds in the olden times, was held in high estimation. A song composed by
the poet of Trinity in those days contains a verse which lingers in memory, and
well illustrates this point. The title of the song is “Green Island Shore.”
Green Island is near Trinity, and was a favourite resort for turs and ducks in
winter. The swain, who is supposed to be making out a strong case for himself to
soften the heart of Sally, is made to say by the poet the following in
recounting his many qualifications to be considered a “good match”: —

“Sally, dear Sally, I’ll tell you what I can do:

I’m able to knit salmon-nets and go out fishing, too;

Besides, I have a good, long gun, ’tis five feet barrel or more,

And I’m the boy that can carry her all around Green Island Shore.”

On occasions of weddings, as soon as the party came out of the church, a volley
would be fired over the heads of the bride and groom, and a special volley after
for the clergyman. This cannonading would be kept up till the house where the
wedding was to be celebrated was reached. The term “gun-shot, ” to indicate
distance, was quite common. A person would say, “How far is it?? The answer
would be, “Oh! About a gun-shot, ” or two gun-shots, as the case may be. To show
how the change of customs will change the mode of expression, I will mention the
sealing
case that was on in the Supreme Court, about stolen
seals, a few years ago, in which one Greenspond captain sued another. The lawyer
asked the question of one of the witnesses, “How far were you from Captain B’s
seals?” Turning to the Judge, as directed by Counsel to do, “Well me Lard, about
a three-ball shot.” This was a poser, and the whole Court was “knocked out.” Had
he said “three gun-shots, ” no doubt the Court would understand right away. But
since the witness grew up and begun to follow the seal fishery, the old sealing
gun, with its powder-horn and shot-gun, had gone out of use, and he knew only
the rifle used for firing balls at old seals. The embellishing of the
powder-horn with the letters of the owner’s name was quite a work of art, and in
every settlement there was always “a complete hand” at the work, whose services
in the dull season were always in requisition. The old sealing gun is everywhere
being driven out by the Winchester and the army rifle, which may be effective
and neat-looking firearms, but they will not be able to do the same execution
amongst a shot of ducks or pepper an old seal like the “five-feet barrel or
more, ” that made the hills re-echo at Xmas time in the days of our
forefathers.