The Birds Christmas Carol | Page 7

it isn't so.) There was a high wainscoting of
wood about the room, and on top of this, in a narrow gilt framework,
ran a row of illuminated pictures, illustrating fairy tales, all in dull blue
and gold and scarlet and silver and other lovely colors. From the door
to the closet there was the story of "The Fair One with Golden Locks;"
from closet to bookcase, ran "Puss in Boots;" from bookcase to
fireplace, was "Jack the Giant-killer;" and on the other side of the room
were "Hop o' my Thumb," "The Sleeping Beauty," and "Cinderella."
Then there was a great closet full of beautiful things to wear--but they
were all dressing-gowns and slippers and shawls; and there were
drawers full of toys and games; but they were such as you could play
with on your lap. There were no ninepins, nor balls, nor bows and
arrows, nor bean bags, nor tennis rackets; but, after all, other children
needed these more than Carol Bird, for she was always happy and
contented whatever she had or whatever she lacked; and after the room
had been made so lovely for her, on her eighth Christmas, she always
called herself, in fun, a "Bird of Paradise." On these particular
December days she was happier than usual, for Uncle Jack was coming
from Europe to spend the holidays. Dear, funny, jolly, loving, wise
Uncle Jack, who came every two or three years, and brought so much
joy with him that the world looked as black as a thunder-cloud for a
week after he went away again. The mail had brought this letter:--
"LONDON, Nov. 28th, 188-. Wish you merry Christmas, you dearest
birdlings in America! Preen your feathers, and stretch the Birds' nest a
little, if you please, and let Uncle Jack in for the holidays. I am coming
with such a trunk full of treasures that you'll have to borrow the
stockings of Barnum's Giant and Giantess; I am coming to squeeze a
certain little lady-bird until she cries for mercy; I am coming to see if I
can find a boy to take care of a little black pony I bought lately. It's the
strangest thing I ever knew; I've hunted all over Europe, and can't find a
boy to suit me! I'll tell you why. I've set my heart on finding one with a
dimple in his chin, because this pony particularly likes dimples!
['Hurrah!' cried Hugh; 'bless my dear dimple; I'll never be ashamed of it
again.'] Please drop a note to the clerk of the weather, and have a good,
rousing snow-storm--say on the twenty-second. None of your meek,
gentle, nonsensical, shilly-shallying snow-storms; not the sort where

the flakes float lazily down from the sky as if they didn't care whether
they ever got here or not, and then melt away as soon as they touch the
earth, but a regular business-like whizzing, whirring, blurring, cutting
snow-storm, warranted to freeze and stay on! I should like rather a
LARGE Christmas tree, if it's convenient-- not one of those 'sprigs,'
five or six feet high, that you used to have three or four years ago, when
the birdlings were not fairly feathered out, but a tree of some size. Set it
up in the garret, if necessary, and then we can cut a hole in the roof if
the tree chances to be too high for the room. Tell Bridget to begin to
fatten a turkey. Tell her by the twentieth of December that turkey must
not be able to stand on its legs for fat, and then on the next three days
she must allow it to recline easily on its side, and stuff it to bursting.
(One ounce of stuffing beforehand is worth a pound afterwards.) The
pudding must be unusually huge, and darkly, deeply, lugubriously
black in color. It must be stuck so full of plums that the pudding itself
will ooze out into the pan and not be brought on to the table at all. I
expect to be there by the twentieth, to manage these little
things--remembering it is the early Bird that catches the worm--but
give you the instructions in case I should be delayed. And Carol must
decide on the size of the tree--she knows best, she was a Christmas
child; and she must plead for the snow-storm--the 'clerk of the weather'
may pay some attention to her; and she must look up the boy with the
dimple for me--she's likelier to find him than I am, this minute. She
must advise about the turkey, and Bridget must bring the pudding to
her bedside and let her drop every separate plum into it and stir it once
for luck, or I'll not eat a single slice--for Carol is the dearest part of
Christmas