Trifles for the Christmas Holidays | Page 2

him the privilege of collecting such of his unexploded
fire-crackers as may be in your front yard, giving you, at the same time,

the interesting information that they are to be made into "spit-devils."
You are overwhelmed by a profound bow from the grocer's lad as he
passes your window, and you invite him in and beg that he will honor
you by accepting half a dollar and a handful of doughnuts:--the lady in
the merino morning-wrapper has provided a cake-basket full for the
occasion. You are also waited on by the milkman, who, you are glad to
see, is really flesh and blood, and not, as you have sometimes supposed,
an unearthly bell-ringer who visited this sublunary sphere only at five
A.M., and then for the sole purpose of disturbing your morning nap.
You are also complimented by the wood-man and wood-sawyer, an
English sailor with a wooden leg, who once nearly swamped you in a
tornado of nautical interjections, on your presenting him a new
pea-jacket. And then comes the German fruit-woman, whose first
customer you have the distinguished honor to be, and who, in
consequence, has taken breakfast in your kitchen for the last ten years.
You remember that on one occasion she spoke of her little boy, named
Heinderich, who was suffering with his teeth; and when you hope that
Heinderich is better, you are surprised to learn that he is quite a large
boy, going to the public school, and that the lady in the merino
morning-wrapper has just sent him a new cap.
The heaping pile of doughnuts gradually lessens, until finally there is
not one left. The last dish is evidently taken from the china-closet, and
the whole house is filled with that portentous stillness which causes the
mothers of mischievous offspring so much trepidation.
You expect to see the merino morning-wrapper reconnoitering the
movements of your own sweet pledges of affection; but she doesn't:
you can only hear the ticking of the little French clock on the
mantle-piece, and the spluttering of the coal as it bursts into a gassy
flame between the bars of the grate, and you almost imagine Christmas
has passed. You are deceived; for by-and-by you hear your children's
footsteps as they skip over the garden-walk, and the sound of their
ringing laughter as they rush in out of the cold, and their clamor rises
louder and gladder and more jubilant than ever. Grandpa! Who does
not know him, with his joyous face and hearty morning greeting? How
resplendent he looks in his broadcloth suit, his gold-headed cane and

great blue overcoat! What quantities of almonds and raisins, of oranges
and sweetmeats, those overcoat-pockets contain! What child ever lived
who did not believe grandpa's pocket a cornucopia for all juvenile
desires? The day passes on. The turkey never looked browner or juicier,
and the blaze on the pudding-sauce never burned bluer; the kissing
under the mistletoe was never more delightful, nor the blindman's-buff
ever played with a greater zest: but the merriest Christmas must end.
Your little girl, tired and sleepy, kneels at your feet, and you pass your
fingers through her soft curls, while she repeats her simple prayer:
"God bless pa, God bless ma, God bless grandpa, God bless little
brother, and God bless Santa Claus;" and you hope that God will bless
Santa Claus. You thank your Creator you are the master of that quiet
home and the father of those dear children, and go to your rest with a
heart full of gratitude. You hope that all the newspaper-boys, and all
the milkmen and bread-men's children, and all the little boys and girls
who have no fathers or mothers or grandpas, and all the poor, and all
the sick, and all the blind, and all the distressed, have had a merry
Christmas.
At a time like this, when the security of your own reward relaxes
scrutiny for the shortcomings of others, I would have you take up these
"Trifles."

A CHRISTMAS MELODY.
The Prelude.
"Twenty-nine dollars! Very well, Mr. John Redfield: I think you have
cut your allowance a little low. With bracelets, bonbons, and other
gewgaws for your interesting friends, I must say your enjoyment of this
prospective Twenty-fifth of December is somewhat reduced. When a
man has skated over the frozen surface of society a little matter of
one-and-thirty years, it is just reasonable to hope he has reached that
desideratum known as years of discretion. There is a little adage
relating to the immeasurably short time the feeble-minded enjoy
pecuniary advantages, which I think decidedly applicable to you.

"A rather severe epigram, occurring in the Holy Scriptures, goes to
show the impossibility--even though the somewhat unsatisfactory
argument of the pestle and mortar be resorted to--of separating the
same class of people from their