THE PILGRIMS’ FIRST CHRISTMAS [Illustration] [Illustration] THE PILGRIMS’ FIRST CHRISTMAS BY JOSEPHINE PITTMAN SCRIBNER [Illustration] THE PILGRIM PRESS BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO COPYRIGHT, 1913 BY LUTHER H. CARY THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A THE PILGRIMS’ FIRST CHRISTMAS THE PILGRIMS’ FIRST CHRISTMAS [Illustration] It was a bleak December day in the year 1620. All day long, the Mayflower struggled along the coast amidst the rain and snow, her rudder broken, her masts split in three pieces, and heavy seas dashing over her bow. The men had been called to man the oars and all were filled with anxiety and grief and apprehension of unknown perils to be faced. It was as if the Almighty would try them, as he tried Abraham. What could now sustain them but the spirit of God and his grace? If they looked behind them there was the mighty ocean, which they had passed and which was now as a main bar and gulf to separate them from all the civil parts of the world. If they looked forward, what could feed their hopes; what could they see but the weather-beaten face of the wilderness, the summer gone and the whole country full of wild beasts and wild men? And what multitudes there might be of them, they knew not. Locked in the airless cabins, with the hatches battened down, were the women and children. Twenty little children to amuse and keep quiet, while mother hearts were heavy with fear and terror. Moving among them was an English maid, divinely fair in her beauty. No need for her to paint her cheeks of damask and rose. In her strength and beauty she was as an angel of light to the homesick Pilgrim women. The day had been long and dreary to Mary Chilton. All night she had dreamed and all day she had thought of dear and mighty England; of the lanes and the fields and the songs of the birds, the faces of the neighbors going about, and the church at the end of the village street with the ivy on the tower. The tears started to her eyes. She turned away to hide them; but they did not escape the notice of John Winslow, who was bending over the oars. His brave Mary! He set his face firmly. Surely she must not falter now; she, who, in her own splendid health had nursed the sick, amused the children, restless at the prolonged confinement, kept the Billington boy from serious mischief, a task at which strong men quailed, and instilled courage and hope in the hearts of the weak. Even as he watched her, her tears vanished and her smile beamed down on the Billington boy, who spoke to her. “Tell me, Mistress Mary, what am I going to find in my shoe on Santa Claus morning?” She shook her head gaily--“Ah, that is a secret we must wait to find out upon the blessed Christmas morning.” “It will not be hay, will it?” “No,--only naughty boys get hay in their shoes, on St. Nicholas day, and you’ve promised me, Francis, you know, to keep out of mischief.” “But will there be something?” he insisted.