57 6 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
[December, 
A Bunch of Christmas Holly. 
BT AGNES CARR. 
It still wanted three weeks of Christmas, but the 
Hollands’ little unpainted cottage, on the edge of 
a beautiful old wood, was redolent with the sweet, 
spicy odor of pine, hemlock, and laurel, great 
bunches of which were heaped in one corner of 
the tiny kitchen, and which ten-year-old Katy, and 
children, you are helping to make Christmas bright 
and merry for others, and will have none your¬ 
selves, for I shall not have a penny to spare this 
year for sugar-plums.”—“Never mind, mother,” 
said Phil, cheerfully; “ we can be happy without 
sw r eet, things.” But Katy looked grave, and her 
lip quivered, as she thought of the disappointment 
of the dear little twins, should they wake on 
Christmas morning and find their stockings empty. 
At that moment there was heard the patter of 
footsteps outside of the house, and two childish 
voices cried, “Open the door! open the door!” 
Phil flew to do so, and, panting and breathless, 
in rushed Nelly and Nolly, their eyes sparkling, and 
their small arms clasping tightly huge bundles of 
dark, glossy holly, plentifully dotted with the muck- 
prized scarlet berries. “There; isn’t that fine ? ” 
asked Nolly, as she threw the burden at her sister’s 
feet; “though I have ’most scratched my hands 
off gathering it.”—“ Lovely ! but where did you 
find it?” exclaimed Katy.—“Away over in Bram¬ 
ble Hollow,” said Nelly. “ Mr. Pillsbury told us 
of it; and Noll and I went and got as much as we 
could carry, to surprise you. It is the only bush 
Santa Claus?”—“ Yes ; or some other kind-hearted 
person ; and hide it away in that bunch of holly,” 
and Katy pointed to a bouquet of scarlet and 
green that she had just carefully arranged, placing 
a rare piece of mistletoe in the center. “ Perhaps 
something may come of it.” 
Phil whistled, which with him was expressive 
of deep astonishment. “You are a queer girl!” 
he said, at last. “ I never should have thought of 
such a thing; but it will do no harm, if it does no 
good.”—“Then, let us try it!” cried Katy, and 
hurried to bring the fly-leaf of an ancient arith¬ 
metic, and a stump of a pencil, they being the 
only waiting materials the house afforded; but with 
these, bending low in the ruddy fire-light, the 
brother and sister composed the very first letter 
they ever wrote, badly spelled and worse written, 
but filled with a sort of simple, childish pathos. 
“Will the one who gets this bunch of holley, 
please remember the little twins, Nelly and Nolly, 
who hurt their fingers so badley, trying to pick it; 
for Krismas is not eumingto our house this yeer, 
because pa is dead, and ma is so very poor. They 
are six yeers old, and want sum shoes and skaits ; 
PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS. 
twelve-year-old Phil, were rapidly and skilfully 
transforming into graceful wreaths and festoons, 
while their mother busied herself over the fire, 
preparing the simple dinner for her young family. 
For well they knew there would soon be a call 
from the great city for Christmas greens, to deck 
its homes and churches ; and that upon the sale 
of these garlands their mother depended to pay 
the rent for the wee house and small patch of land 
they called “home.” The summer bad been an 
unusually cold one, and the crops had failed, so 
the wolf stood closer to the door than ever be¬ 
fore, while Phil’s only coat was thin and thread¬ 
bare ; Katy had had to make her three-year-old 
hat last another season, and the twins, Nelly and 
Nolly, had run through their shoes until their feet 
were almost on the ground on account of the holes. 
“I wish we had some holly 1 ” exclaimed Katy, 
as she held up a large wreath of rich, heavy ground- 
pine ; “the red berries look so pretty, mingled with 
the green.” — “I have hunted everywhere for 
some,” said Phil, “ but, like the potatoes and cab¬ 
bages, the holly crop seems to have failed this year. 
It is a pity, too, for it brings the highest price of 
any greens.”—“And we want all the money we can 
get,” sighed Mrs. Holland, stirring the bean soup 
that was bubbling merrily in the iron pot; “ poor 
Drawn and Engraved for the American Agriculturist. 
near here, and it’s dreadful prickly,” and both 
children displayed their mutilated hands.—“You 
are a dear, smart little pair,” said Phil, patting the 
curly heads; at which praise from their big broth¬ 
er the six-year-olders blushed with delight.—“ I 
hope Santa Claus will think eo, and bring us some 
skates,” said Nolly, as she sat down to dinner; “for 
it is cold as Greenland, and the pond is freezing 
hard.”—“And some new shoes, and candy, and 
oranges,” added Nelly. “ Oh! I wish it was 
Christmas now! ” at which words the kind 
mother turned aside to wipe away a tear, and 
Katy and Phil all at once became strangely silent. 
That night, the two older children sat up long 
after the others, by the fire of pine knots which 
served them for both fuel and lights ; for it was 
cold in the attic, where they slept, and they dread¬ 
ed to leave the warm, comfortable kitchen. The 
old clock on the mantel shelf ticked fifteen min¬ 
utes away without a word being spoken ; then 
Katy threw a fresh knot on the fire, and, as it 
blazed up, said : “ Phil, I have an idea !”—“Well! 
what is it ? ”—“ The children must have a taste of 
Christmas, somehow !”—“Presents, do you mean?” 
—“Yes.”—“But where are they to come from ?” 
“ I don’t know ; but I have been thinking of some¬ 
thing. Suppose we write a letter!”—“ To whom, 
pleese be so kind as to send them. This is writ¬ 
ten by their brother and sister. 
“Phillip & Kate Holland, 
“ Buskville, M— Co., Mass.” “ 12 & 10 yrs old. 
This epistle they read over and over, with much 
pride, and then tied it securely in the very middle of 
the thorny holly sprays, where it was quite hidden 
from sight; and, unknown to their mother, it was 
next day packed in a barrel with hundreds of 
wreaths and yards of festooning, and shipped by 
rail to New York, where a week later it adorned 
a window of a fashionable shop on Broadway. 
In a richly-furnished room, by a blazing coal fire, 
that lit up with its rosy light the rare paintings on 
the walls and the handsome surroundings, all of 
which bespoke both wealth and comfort, sat a lady, 
dressed in heavy black, trying to shut her ears to 
the holiday mirth in the street without; for, only 
one short year before, childish feet had danced 
gaily up and down the broad staircase, and merry 
voices resounded through the stately halls. But 
now the little feet were still, the two sweet voices 
hushed, and the mother sat alone in her childless 
home, finding little joy in the holy, happy Christ- 
mastide. “Poor Mrs. Howard! how sorrowful 
she looks,” thought a kind-hearted sewing-girl, 
