Bettys Bright Idea

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Betty's Bright Idea; Deacon
Pitkin's Farm; and the First
Christmas of New England

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Betty's Bright Idea; Deacon Pitkin's
Farm;
and The First Christmas of New England, by Harriet Beecher Stowe
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Title: Betty's Bright Idea; Deacon Pitkin's Farm; and The First
Christmas of New England
Author: Harriet Beecher Stowe
Release Date: January 15, 2004 [eBook #10723]
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETTY'S

BRIGHT IDEA; DEACON PITKIN'S FARM; AND THE FIRST
CHRISTMAS OF NEW ENGLAND***
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Richard Prairie, Sjaani, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders

BETTY'S BRIGHT IDEA
also
DEACON PITKIN'S FARM,
and
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS OF NEW ENGLAND.
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
With Illustrations.
1875.

[Illustration: The Children in the Churchyard.]

BETTY'S BRIGHT IDEA.

"When He ascended up on high, He led captivity captive, and gave gifts
unto men."--Eph. iv. 8.
Some say that ever, 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's
birth is celebrate, The bird of dawning singeth all night long. And then,
they say, no evil spirit walks; The nights are wholesome; then no
planets strike, No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,-- So

hallowed and so gracious is the time.
And this holy time, so hallowed and so gracious, was settling down
over the great roaring, rattling, seething life-world of New York in the
good year 1875. Who does not feel its on-coming in the shops and
streets, in the festive air of trade and business, in the thousand
garnitures by which every store hangs out triumphal banners and
solicits you to buy something for a Christmas gift? For it is the
peculiarity of all this array of prints, confectionery, dry goods, and
manufactures of all kinds, that their bravery and splendor at Christmas
tide is all to seduce you into generosity, and importune you to give
something to others. It says to you, "The dear God gave you an
unspeakable gift; give you a lesser gift to your brother!"
Do we ever think, when we walk those busy, bustling streets, all alive
with Christmas shoppers, and mingle with the rushing tides that throng
and jostle through the stores, that unseen spirits may be hastening to
and fro along those same ways bearing Christ's Christmas gifts to
men-- gifts whose value no earthly gold or gems can represent?
Yet, on this morning of the day before Christmas, were these Shining
Ones, moving to and fro with the crowd, whose faces were loving and
serene as the invisible stars, whose robes took no defilement from the
spatter and the rush of earth, whose coming and going was still as the
falling snow-flakes. They entered houses without ringing door-bells,
they passed through apartments without opening doors, and everywhere
they were bearing Christ's Christmas presents, and silently offering
them to whoever would open their souls to receive. Like themselves,
their gifts were invisible--incapable of weight and measurement in
gross earthly scales. To mourners they carried joy; to weary and
perplexed hearts, peace; to souls stifling in luxury and self-indulgence
they carried that noble discontent that rises to aspiration for higher
things. Sometimes they took away an earthly treasure to make room for
a heavenly one. They took health, but left resignation and cheerful faith.
They took the babe from the dear cradle, but left in its place a heart full
of pity for the suffering on earth and a fellowship with the blessed in
heaven. Let us follow their footsteps awhile.

SCENE I.
A young girl's boudoir in one of our American palaces of luxury, built
after the choicest fancy of the architect, and furnished in all the latest
devices of household decoration. Pictures, statuettes, and every form of
bijouterie make the room a miracle of beauty, and the little princess of
all sits in an easy chair before the fire, and thus revolves with herself:
"O, dear me! Christmas is a bore! Such a rush and crush in the streets,
such a jam in the shops, and then such a fuss thinking up presents for
everybody! All for nothing, too; for nobody Wants anything. I'm sure I
don't. I'm surfeited now with pictures and jewelry, and bon-bon boxes,
and little china dogs and cats--and all these things that get so thick you
can't move without upsetting some of them. There's papa, he don't want
anything. He never uses any of my Christmas presents when I get them;
and mamma, she has every earthly