Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/542

24, 1859.] she, but  she  untied  her  cloak  and  got  up  to  go away. But then  she  thought  they  all  turned  as she  passed  and  made  a clutch  at  her,  and  her  legs tottered and  her  knees  shook,  so  that  she  almost fell down  flat  on  the  floor. When she  got  as  far as the  church  porch  they  caught  hold  of  her  cloak, but she  let  it  slip  off  and  left  it  in  their  hands,  and hastened  home  as  fast  as  she  could. When she reached her  own  door  the  clock  struck  one,  and when she  got  in  she  was  well  nigh  dead  for  fright. Next morning  when  folk  went  to  the  church  there lay her  cloak  on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  but  it  was tom into  a thousand  bits. My mother  had  seen  it often  before,  and  I fancy  she  saw  one  of  the pieces, too; but  that  doesn’t  matter, — it  was  a short,  bright-red  cloth  cloak,  with  hare-skin  lining and edging,  just  such  as  were  still  worn  when  I was  a child. Now-a-days, it  is  rare  to  see  one,  but there are  some  old  women  yet  here  in  town,  and at the  Widows’  home,  whom  I see  wearing  just such cloaks  at  Christmas  time.”

That was  Mother  Skau’s  story. As for  the children, who  during  the  latter  part  of  it  had shown much  fear  and  alarm,  they  said  they wouldn’t hear  any  more  such  ugly  stories. They had all  crept  up  on  the  chairs  and  sofa,  and  called out that  some  one  was  catching  hold  of  their  legs under the  table. Just then  in  came  lights  in  the old branches,  and  then  we  found  out  with  laughter that the  children,  in  their  fright,  had  been  sitting with their  feet  on  the  table. The bright  lights, Christmas cakes,  jam-tarts,  and  wine,  soon  chased away ghost-stories  and  fear. Finally, for  the  elders’ rein-deer roast  and  rice  custards,  gave  our  thoughts a turn towards  the  substantial; and  we  took  leave of one  another  at  an  early  hour,  with  every  good wish too  for  a merry  Christmas.

How the  others  slept  I knew  not,  but,  for  myself, I had a very  restless  night. I can’t tell  if  it  were the tales — the  strong  food  which  I had  been  so long  without,  my  weakly  state,  or  all  three  toge- ther; but I tossed  about  from  this  side  to  that, and was  deep  in  brownie  and  huldra,  and  ghost- stories, the  whole  night.

At last  I found  myself  flying  to  church  through the air  with  a pair  of  dumb-bells  in  my  hands. The church  was  lighted  up,  and  when  I entered  it I saw  it  was  our  old  church  up  in  the  Dales. There was not  a soul  to  be  seen  in  it  but  Dalesmen  with red caps,  soldiers  in  full  uniform,  and  peasant lasses with  white  wimples  and  rosy  cheeks. The parson stood  in  the  pulpit; and  who  should  he  be but  my  grandfather,  who  died  when  I was  a little boy. But just  as  he  was  getting  well  into  his sermon, what  does  he  do  but  throw  a somersault — he always  was  an  active  body— down  to  the church floor,  so  that  his  gown  flew  one  way  and his bands  another. “There lies  the  parson, and here  am  I,”  he  cried,  using  one  of  his  well- known expressions,  “and  now  let’s  all  have  a dance.”

In the  twinkling  of  an  eye  off  went  the  whole congregation in  the  wildest  dance,  and  up  came  a tall  stout  Dalesman  and  took  me  by  the  shoulder, and said,  “You  must  come  along  with  me,  my boy.”

My astonishment  knew  no  bounds  as  I awoke  at that  moment,  and  still  felt  the  grasp  on  my shoulder,  and  saw  the  image  of  my  dream  bending over my  bed,  with  a Daleman’s  cap  drawn  over his eyes,  a fur  cloak  on  his  arm,  and  his  two  great clear blue  eyes  fixedly  gazing  at  me.

“Thou dreamest,  surely,  boy,”  he  said,  in  the strong dialect  of  my  native  dale,  “for  the  sweat stands on  thy  brow,  and  thou  sleepest  sounder than a bear  in  his  winter  lair. But wake  up  now, I wish thee  God’s  peace,  and  a merry  Christmas from thy  father  and  all  at  home. See, here  is  a letter  from  the  Secretary,  and  here  is  his  Finnish cloak, and  yonder,  down  in  the  yard,  stands Dapple.”

“Oh! Thor, is  it  you! and how  in  Heaven’s name, did  you  come  hither?” I called  out,  gladly. It was  my  father’s  groom,  a splendid  specimen  of a Dalesman.

“Oh! I’ll soon  tell  thee,”  answered  Thor. “I came driving  Dapple; but  before  that,  the  Secretary and  I had  been  to  Ness,  and  after  we  had been there,  he  said,  ‘Thor,  it’s  not  far  now  to Christiania,  so  thou  hadst  better  take  Dapple,  and drive in,  and  see  the  lieutenant,  and  if  he’s strong enough  to  travel,  why,  thou  hadst  better bring him  back.’  That’s  what  the  Secretary said.”

As we  drove  merrily  out  of  the  town,  the  day was  frosty,  bright,  and  clear,  and  we  had  the  finest sleighing. As for  Dapple,  he  stretched  out  his brave  old  legs,  and  got  over  the  ground  famously. We reached  home  that  night,  and  such  a Christmas Day  as  I then  spent,  I spent  neither  before  nor since. 2em

“sweets for the sweet” is the Christmas tree laden, With mottoes  and  trinkets  for  youth  and  for  maiden: Oh, how bright  are  the  smiles  of  those  ladies  so  fair, As they  gather  the  fruits  that  are  clustering  there. The firs  and  the  laurels  their  branches  entwine, The glistening  leaves  of  the  green  holly  shine, Its numberless  berries,  so  brilliantly  red, Are seen  all  around  us,  while,  high  over  head, The delicate  mistletoe  trembles! — but now Its spell  is  forgotten! — The mistletoe  bough No longer  can  call  the  quick  flush  to  the  face, Its province  no  more  is  the  “dangerous  place.” Yet where is the change? Its green leaves are as bright, Its form  is  as  graceful,  its  berries  as  white, As when  held  so  sacred,  in  temples  of  old, By our  Druid  forefathers,  as  I have  been  told; Or witness’d  the  timid  or  boisterous  kiss Once claim’d  for  its  sake  at  such  seasons  as  this. I have heard  that  young  ladies  are  oftener  now Kiss’d under  the  rose  than  the  mistletoe  bough: For the  kiss  is  more  sweet  given  under  its  shade; More earnest  and  true  are  the  vows  that  are  made By the rose-tree so sweet that in fancy grows, And ’tis fair summer weather still under that rose: These mystical roses throughout all the year The-u. delicate buds and sweet blossoms uprear, With a lovelier tint and more exquisite hue Than yet ever in ﬁeld or in garden grew: And I'm told that young ladies would rather be now Kiss’d under the rose than the mistletoe bough. 2em