Holidays at the Grange | Page 2

the room, as if in emulation of the
good hickory: it is a chimney corner most provocative of ancient
legends, of frightful ghost-stories, of tales of knight-errantry and
romantic love, of dangers and of hair-breadth escapes; in short, of all
that can draw both old and young away from their every-day cares, into
the brighter world of fiction and poesy. In the recess on one side is a
small library, comfortable enough to entice the student from the merry
group so near him; on the other, is a room looked upon with great
affection by the juvenile members of the family, for here does Aunt
Lucy manufacture and keep for distribution those delicious cakes,
never to be refused at lunch time; and those pies, jellies, whips, and
creams, which promise to carry down her name to posterity as the very
nonpareil of housekeepers.
Three persons are sitting in the room, whom in common politeness I
should introduce to the reader: very pleasant people are they to know
and to visit. Uncle John and Aunt Lucy Wyndham, the master and
mistress of the house, are remarkable for kindness, and make their
nephews and nieces, and whole troops of friends, feel perfectly at home
at once; they are Uncle John and Aunt Lucy to all their young
acquaintances, and delight in the title. Perhaps they would not have

been generally called so, had they any children of their own; but they
have none, and the only young person in the house at present is Mary
Dalton--Cousin Mary--an orphan niece of Mrs. Wyndham, whom they
have brought up from a child. She looks like her aunt, plump, rosy,
good natured and sensible; she is just seventeen, and very popular with
the whole cousinhood. She has many accomplishments: she does not
talk French, Spanish, or Italian, but she knows how to play every game
that ever was invented, can tell stories to suit every age, can soothe a
screaming child sooner than any one else, can rattle off cotillions on the
piano-forte of a winter's evening without thinking it hard that she
cannot join in the dance; and lastly, can lay down an interesting book or
piece of crochet work to run on an errand for Aunt, or untangle the
bob-tails of a kite, without showing any signs of crossness. Self is a
very subordinate person with her, and indeed she seems hardly to
realize her separate individuality; she is everybody's Cousin Mary, and
frowns vanish, and smiles brighten up the countenance, wherever she
appears. A very happy looking group they are, but restless, this
afternoon of the 24th of December; Uncle John frequently goes to the
hall door; Aunt Lucy lays down her knitting to listen; and Cousin Mary
does not pretend to read the book she holds, but gazes out of the
window, down the long avenue of elms, as if she expected an arrival.
Old Cæsar, "the last of the servants," as Mr. Wyndham styles him, a
white-haired negro who was born in the house, and is devoted to the
family, always speaking of our house, our carriage, and our children, as
if he were chief owner, vibrates constantly between the kitchen and the
porter's lodge, feeling it to be his especial duty and prerogative to give
the first welcome to the guests.
And soon the sound of wheels is heard, and merry voices resound
through the hall, and cheeks rosy with the cold are made yet rosier by
hearty kisses; it is the young Wyndhams, come to spend their
Christmas holidays at the Grange with Uncle John. There is Cornelia, a
bright, intelligent girl of sixteen, full of fun, with sparkling black eyes.
John, a boy of fourteen, matter-of fact and practical, a comical
miniature of Uncle John, whom he regards with veneration, as the
greatest, wisest, and best of living men, and only slightly inferior to
General Washington himself; and George, his twin brother and very

devoted friend, a good boy in the main, but so very full of mischief! he
would get into a thousand scrapes, if his more sober companion did not
restrain him. We must not overlook little Amy, the sweet child of
twelve, with flowing golden hair and languishing eyes, the gentle,
unspoiled pet and playmate of all. Her cheek is pale, for she has ever
been the delicate flower of the family, and the winter winds must not
visit her too roughly: she is one to be carefully nurtured. And the more
so, as her mind is highly imaginative and much in advance of her age;
already does the light of genius shine forth in her eye. Scarcely are
these visitors well ensconced in the chimney corner, after their fur
wrappings are removed, before the sound of wheels is again heard, and
shouts of joy announce