30 



CHRISTMAS NUMBER AND ALMANAC 



Wo all learned to love Christmas when we were children. 

 It was then the lore grew np in our hearts, and our after-loTC 

 of the season when we have grown portly or thin, or bald or 

 grey, is chiefly from the recollection of our childhood's 

 Christmas-days — the days when we first assisted in hanging 

 up tlic misletoe branch, or eyed with wonder our bigger 

 brothers and sisters decorating with evergreens the dining- 

 room, or that snug parlour ; yes, that was the word, — tiic 

 snuggest room we ever knew, — and there we always lived 

 when there was no company. The room in which we plaved 

 dominoes, learned to play draughts, or wondered at the 'in- 

 tricacies of back-gammon, for we alw.ays had some games 

 before that dreadful nursemaid appeared and summoned us 

 to bed, just when we were " so happy." 



I went, a few years since, to a large children's Christmas 

 party. The host had about a dozen of his own (" pretty 

 party at all times for a man to be bothered with," methinks 

 I hear exclaim Jonathan JIusty, Esii., old bachelor, residing 

 at Mouldy Hall) ; but he (my liost) loved to have once a-year 

 at any rate— that once being Christmas time — some forty 

 other children added to his own. And when, after the frolics 

 were over, I bade them good night, he said, " Ah ! there is 

 nothing like making children happy ; it is the greatest hap- 

 piness on earth to see children enjoy themselves." 



Greatly do I reverence ;— no, th.at is not the word, — greatly 

 do I love another friend of mine, an old hoy of about 

 fifty, who, when a young lioy of only forty, was one evening 

 in compauy with a number of school "lads, and was so 

 thoroughly one with them, that at the end of the evening 

 they had all gi-own so wonderfully confidential that one boy 

 said to him, oblivious of his whiskers, "Oh! you are at 

 Eton, are you not ? What form are you in ? " How I envy 

 that man, his being able to keep " his young lamb's heart 

 amid the full-gro\vn flocks " as to he himself taken for a 

 young one. 



But to the point. I crave " a corner for the children" in 

 this our Christmas number. Will not room be made close to 

 the fire for many a Gertrude, or Lucy, or Netty, or Hariy, or 

 Tom. I see, in thought, the elders squaring round, and the 

 ladies contracting their crinolines ; and I see the children 

 coming, shouldering their little chairs and squeezing into 

 the corners made for them. There, now, yon are all seated, 

 and, better still,— quiet. Cyril by his mother's side, of course. 

 We all know to whom he runs always ; there he has put his 

 cheek on her warm silk dress, aud is gazing at the fire, while 

 a velvet hand (how light, and smooth, and warm it is) 

 is passing over his face and forehead, and then the fingers of 

 the said hand play for change among the tangles of his hair. 

 But no jealousy, you whiskered individual in the big chair 

 opposite, for in your corner little Luey has got. We all 

 know her way. Well, you are seated, and the Christmas 

 dinner is eaten, and you in the large chair are whu-ling the 

 nutcrackers about, using them like a little flail thrashing 

 imaginary corn on your knee, for you have had enough of 

 the walnuts aud the wine. Our Christmas number is on the 

 table; the "light of the dwelling" having spied "a corner 

 for the children," has laid the number open aud ready for 

 reading to her children at this very vacant, musing, fire-light 

 hour. She clears her voice. Why does she do that ? It is 

 clear as silver at all times. And then she begins to 

 read: 



THE BANTAM HEN THAT LAID GOLDEN EGGS. 



One cold morning in spring when the cook ojjened the back- 

 door — it was the door from the back-kitchen, .and led out into 

 the stable-yard. The lock always went hard, grated rustily: 

 "That boy," meaning Buttons, " never would oil the lock," 

 said cook ; and the door grated very rustily this morning, 

 for there had been a great deal of rain lately. At length the 

 door opened, and cook forgot her anger in her surprise at 

 seeing a little, little bantam hen picking up some crumbs that 

 had been thrown out from the cloth after supper the evening 

 before, for the birds were always remembered in that family. 

 The girl was a kind girl ; and when slie saw how thin, and 

 cold, and miserable the little bantam looked, and how its 

 feathers were ruffled and broken, she went into the larder to 

 the bread-pan and got some more crumbs, and enticed the 

 little hen to come in ; and she came in right to the kitchen 



fire (it had just been lighted), and she fed in front of the fire, 

 and, at length, roosted on the back of an old Windsor arm- 

 chair, the one cook did her sewing in. And the girl went 

 about her work ; and as the housemaid looked in, she begged 

 her not to disturb Miss Ada's pet, for she meant Miss Ada to 

 have it ; and when " that boy'' (he was down late, of course) 

 threatened "to wring that banty's head off," she threatened 

 bini with the broom-stick ; which threat quieted that " bov," 

 for his shoulders had ached on a former occiision, and cook 

 always kept her word. 



Miss Ada at last came down : a little miss of seven years 

 of age, with a fair face and short nose ; her big brother, when 

 home from school, used to add, "and a shorter temper ;" but 

 this was only his fun. One thing Ada had, and that was 

 real golden hair, not hair washed yellow with — hut I 

 must not tell ladies' secrets. And Ada was called into the 

 kitchen, and cook presented the bantam to her, and she, Ada, 

 was pleased beyond all bounds of staid pleasure, skipping, 

 laughing, jumping, kissing the giver, though she was not at 

 that time of day over-tidj', and calling her " dear old cooky." 

 And then mamma hearing the noise came in, aud she was 

 jileased because Ada was pleased. And then papa was 

 fetched in, who seeing the course events were taking, and 

 fearing the result of expectations raised only to fall, said 

 gravely, — " My dear Ada, this is a veiy good game bantam ; 

 I have seen them at shows ; and it belongs, no doubt, to some 

 one who values it highly, and we must, therefore, seek for the 

 owner." Talk of the eft'ect of a wet blanket on a fire, this 

 speech was a pile of wet blankets to poor Ada, for she was 

 grievously disappointed. As to cook, she grumbled something 

 about " a too bad of master to go disappointing missie like 

 that ; bnt she should have it, for findings was keepings; and 

 she found it, and she g.ave it to Miss Ada, and master had 

 nothing at all to do with it." But right and justice pre- 

 vailed. Everybody in the neighbourhood who kept fowls 

 was sent to : old Mrs. Smith on the Green, l\Ir. Little, John 

 Tomkins at the Farm, Squire Harcourt, who took all the 

 silver prizes at the great sho«s ; but no owner was to be 

 found. 



" They sought him that night, they sought him next day, 

 Tliey sought him in vain till a week passed away." 



The real secret never came out as to how the hen came, or 

 where she came from. It was supposed by " Buttons," who 

 would not, however, give his authority, that it had been 

 stolen by Jem Stiggins, who had lately run away from his 

 work at Birmingham, and had come back to his father's, and 

 that he had kept it in his old rabbit-hutch some days ; but 

 being a good flyer, and not liking its quarters, it had on the 

 first opportunity flown away like a sensible little bird as it 

 was. One thing was certain, Jem knew better than to claim 

 it. So justice being satisfied in the m.atter of the ownership, 

 nobody claiming the hen, it was declared, even by her papa, 

 to be Ada's, or, as she said, " her very own." The cook de- 

 clared it would lay Golden Eygs ; she knew it would. In a 

 few days the little hen, after sundry searchings, and lookings, 

 and " pratings" about — having, by the w.ay, soon got her 

 plumage in good order, by dusting herself on the sand-bank 

 near the nut-walk — fixed upon a corner of the manger in the 

 stall not used, and having made a nest, or, rather, found a bit 

 of hay all ready, laid an egg, and then set up such a cack- 

 ling as if there never before had been done such a wonderful 

 thing in all the world. Cook ran to see, and her cap flew off, 

 or, at least, only hung by a single hair-pin ; bat she ran on 

 in spite of it. She then fetched Miss Ada, and said, " Look, 

 miss, at the beautiful golden egg ; didn't I say it would hay 

 Golden Eggs." 



The first egg was eaten at tea by Ada ; then more eggs 

 were laid, and then the little hen sat ; and Ada took corn into 

 the st.able every morning, and fresh water and green food — 

 i.e., grass or cabbage or lettuce leaves — slyly peeping at the 

 eggs while the hen was eating. There were nine yellow eggs. 

 " Ah !" said she, " cook was right ; they are Golden Eggs." 



Time p.issed on, and when the twenty-first morning came, 

 Ada heard, when she took the corn in, a faint noise or rather 

 noises — several faint "cheep-cheeps" coming from under 

 the hen ; and cook took up the bantam gently, who resented 

 the interference greatly, kicking and pecking forJously. 

 There were nine yellow, downy chicks. 



