Christmas stories, English; Holidays -- Fiction; Short stories
Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake,
my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to
resist, to my own childhood. I begin to consider, what do we all
remember best upon the branches of the Christmas Tree of our own young
Christmas days, by which we climbed to real life.
Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth
by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises;
and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top—for I observe in
this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards
the earth—I look into my youngest Christmas recollections!
All toys at first, I find. Up yonder, among the green holly and red
berries, is the Tumbler with his hands in his pockets, who wouldn’t lie
down, but whenever he was put upon the floor, persisted in rolling his
fat body about, until he rolled himself still, and brought those lobster
eyes of his to bear upon me—when I affected to laugh very much, but in my
heart of hearts was extremely doubtful of him. Close beside him is that
infernal snuff-box, out of which there sprang a demoniacal Counsellor in
a black gown, with an obnoxious head of hair, and a red cloth mouth, wide
open, who was not to be endured on any terms, but could not be put away
either; for he used suddenly, in a highly magnified state, to fly out of
Mammoth Snuff-boxes in dreams, when least expected. Nor is the frog with
cobbler’s wax on his tail, far off; for there was no knowing where he
wouldn’t jump; and when he flew over the candle, and came upon one’s hand
with that spotted back—red on a green ground—he was horrible. The
cardboard lady in a blue-silk skirt, who was stood up against the
candlestick to dance, and whom I see on the same branch, was milder, and
was beautiful; but I can’t say as much for the larger cardboard man, who
used to be hung against the wall and pulled by a string; there was a
sinister expression in that nose of his; and when he got his legs round
his neck (which he very often did), he was ghastly, and not a creature to
be alone with.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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