KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
SSS SSS SSS SSS SSS SSS 
281 
EE I ee ee RO eee re ee 
SOMETHING SEASONABLE. 
CHRISTMAS DAY IN A VILLAGE. 

*¢ Comine events cast their shadows BEFORE.” 
On CuristMAS Eve, the carol of a childish 
choir, chanting the “stretched metre of an 
antique song,’ is with you at the very hour 
when sleep surprises you. And, through 
the watches of the tranquil moonlight, that 
simple melody lingering in the chambers of 
the memory hovers about you in the spirit- 
land of dreams. Joy-bells are pealing when 
the morning’s sun peeps through the misty 
curtains of the east; and greets you with “a 
fair good-morrow.” And presently you 
hear the pattering of feet—lght buoyant 
footsteps cheerily ringing on the path, and 
ever and anon a hearty salutation—‘ A 
merry Christmas !’—“ I thank you, kindly; 
and to you, and you;” and there is such a 
fervid warmth and earnestness of utterance in 
these brief seasonable greetings, that it abso- 
lutely makes your heart leap as you listen. 
Up climbs the sun, above the vapory 
barrier piled against the horizon in the east ; 
not with a dull and watery light, as you have 
seen him rise for mornings past, but with a 
clear —a jocund, laughing light, as though his 
god-ship were intent to do especial honor to 
the day. Nor is he singular in this respect, 
as every house attests. Window-panes lucid 
as crystal—flowing draperies, spotless white 
—rooms garnished and dight with super- 
zealous care—paths swept, and withered 
leaves removed—levies on cellars, and forays 
in the store-room—slaughter in the farm-yard, 
and a miscellaneous savor in the kitchen, 
evince how universal is the wish to meet “ Old 
Gregory Christmas” in a holiday and hospi- 
table spirit.* 
Morning wears on. The old church-bells 
jingle again, and matin-chimes summon the 
village to prayer. From far and near,—from 
lonely crofts and way-side cottages; from 
huts that nestle in the sheltered hollows of 
the breezy common; and from lowly alms- 
houses huddled together in neighborly co- 
hesion,—from the venerable hall begirt about 
with solemn woods and primitive farm- 
houses, almost coeval with the hall,—they 
troop in cheerful companies of three or four. 
* We are really sorry not to be able to say who 
is the author of this very lovely sketch, which 
we find in an old newspaper bearing date 1845. 
It is moulded so completely to our mind, and 
recalls so forcibly to the memory our early days 
of harmless amusement (when innocence and 
playfulness were not, as now, regarded as 
blemishes), that we reprint it joyfully. All who 
know what a country village wsed to be, at the 
season of Christmas, will fully enter into the 
spirit of what is here set down.—Ep. K. J. 


Yeomen, with faces glowing like sunset; 
laborers, with each a bodyguard of ruddy 
children ; grey-headed men, the patriarchs 
of the poor, long since past toil, tottering 
along and propped on staves of choice and 
curious fabrication—the heirlooms of the 
family ; even the spare and withered grand- 
dames—those ancient eleemosynaries, who 
used to sit beside their cottage-doors on 
summer evenings, winking in the sun, crawl 
forth from their warm chimney-corner nooks, 
and swell the gathering throng. 
Under the churchyard yew they meet. 
Some lie beneath their feet who bore them 
company on that same spot last year,— 
while garrulous talkers, whose memories yet 
retain the impressions stamped upon them 
in their youth, discourse lamentingly of 
bygone times and festive celebrations,— 
customs disused, and homely notions utterly 
exploded. This animated talk sinks into 
scattered whispers as a stately lady, leading 
by the hand two graceful children, advances 
towards the porch. Lining the path, they 
make a living avenue, through which that 
stately lady—the mistress of the venerable 
hall, passes with measured step and many a 
pause. There is a gracious word for each ; 
kindly inquiries for absent invalids; and 
soothing speeches for the cripples and the 
blind; a smile of recognition for old pen- 
sioners, and delicate mention of substantial 
charities to follow. Then, the bidding-bell 
tinkles its final summons; and the stately 
lady, with her humble train, sweeps through 
the porch. 
How brave a look this rural temple wears, 
with its rich garniture of evergreens! 
How rarely does the cold, grey, stony 
sculpture,—how rarely do the quaint fan- 
tastic masks-—corbels, grotesque and grim— 
and monumental effigies, contrast with the 
dark, shining ivy leaves, and the crimson, 
clustering berries of the holly, which wreath 
the pillars, garland the arches, wind round 
the font, and even deck the rusty helms 
and tattered surcoats depending from the 
chancel walls ! 
Old familiar faces—some of them missed 
for many a weary month--shine on you 
once again. Children from  school— 
maidens from seryice—“ snug ’prentices’’ 
from neighboring towns, and sturdy hinds 
from distant farms ; with here and there a 
melancholy gap—a void in some small circle, 
scarcely marked before, yet painfully obvious 
now as you recall the muster-roll of those 
who shared with you the fire-side mirth of 
many a Christmas past. But memories of 
the dead‘‘* come like shadows, so depart ;” 
and regret for those whose places shall know 
them no more (wholesome and salutary as 
that regret may be, in chastening and sub- 
duing the uproarious tendencies of our enjoy- 

