Trifles for the Christmas Holidays

Trifles for the Christmas
Holidays

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Title: Trifles for the Christmas Holidays
Author: H. S. Armstrong
Release Date: January 21, 2006 [EBook #17562]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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FOR THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS ***

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TRIFLES

FOR THE
CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.
BY
H.S. ARMSTRONG.
PHILADELPHIA: J.B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1869.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
HENRY S. ARMSTRONG,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
District of Louisiana.
TO
JAS. DAVIDSON HILL,
OF NEW ORLEANS,
A CHOSEN SCHOOL-FELLOW, A STANCH COMRADE IN ARMS,
AND THE TRUE FRIEND OF LATER YEARS,
THESE
"Trifles"
ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

CONTENTS.
THE OVERTURE 9
A CHRISTMAS MELODY 15

STORY OF A BEAST 29
LEAVES IN THE LIFE OF AN IDLER 45
MR. BUTTERBY RECORDS HIS CASE 71
DIAMONDS AND HEARTS 98

TRIFLES
FOR
THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

THE OVERTURE.
Christmas! What worldly care could ever lessen the joy of that eventful
day? At your first waking in the morning, when you lie gazing in
drowsy listlessness at the brass ornament on your bed-tester, when the
ring of the milkman is like a dream, and the cries of the bread-man and
newspaper-boy sound far off in the distance, it peals at you in the
laughter and gay greetings of the servants in the yard. Your senses are
aroused by a promiscuous discharging of pistols, and you are filled
with a vague thought that the whole city has been formed into a line of
skirmishers. You are startled by a noise on the front pavement, which
sounds like an energetic drummer beating the long roll on a barrel-head;
and you have an indistinct idea that some improvident urchin (up since
the dawn) has just expended his last fire-cracker.
At length there is a stir in the room near you. You hear the patter of
little feet on the stairs, and the sound of childish voices in the
drawing-room. What transports of admiration, what peals of joyous
clamor, fall on your sleepy ears! The patter on the stairs sounds louder
and louder, the ringing voices come nearer and nearer; you hear the
little hands on your door-knob, and you hurry on your dressing-gown;

for it is Christmas morning.
What a wonderful time you have at breakfast! There are a half-dozen
silver forks for ma, a new napkin-ring for you, and what astonishing
hay-wagons and crying dolls for the children! Jane, the house-maid, is
beaming with happiness in a new collar and black silk apron; and
Bridget will persist in wearing her silver thimble and carrying her new
work-basket, though they threaten utter destruction to the
beefsteak-plate.
You sit an unusually long time over your coffee that morning, and say
an unusual number of facetious things to everybody. You cover Jane
with confusion, and throw Bridget into an explosion of mirth, by slyly
alluding to a blue-eyed young dray-man you one evening noticed
seated on the kitchen steps. Perhaps you venture a prediction on the
miserable existence he is some day destined to experience,--when a
look from the little lady in the merino morning-wrapper checks you,
and you confess to yourself that you are feeling uncommonly happy.
At last the breakfast ends, and the children go out for a romp. Perhaps
you are a little taken aback when you are informed your easy-chair has
been removed to the library; but you see Bridget, still in secure
possession of her thimble and work-basket, with a huge china bowl in
one hand and an egg-beater in the other, looking very warm and very
much confused, and you take your departure to your own domain, to
con over the morning papers.
You hear an indistinct sound of the drawing of corks and beating of
eggs; of a great many dishes being taken out of the china-closet, and a
good many orders being given in an undertone,--why is it women
always will speak in a whisper when there is a man about the
house?--and you lose yourself in the "leader," or the prices current.
The skirmishers have evidently suffered disaster; for the firing becomes
more and more distant, and at length dies from your hearing. You are
favored with a call from the improvident little boy, who requests you to
grant