Around the Yule Log - Willis Boyd Allen

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      “Why, really,” said Mr. Broadstreet, instinctively arguing the opposite side of the question, “as to that, I’m not so sure. Take Christmas cards, now. A few years ago they were unknown; now they’re as common as valentines.”

      “Oh, yes,” replied the Ghost, “I know. You see I have my room pretty well decorated with them.”

      The lawyer scrutinized the background of the picture more carefully, and, sure enough, the walls were covered with what at first seemed a rich sort of illuminated paper, but proved to be composed entirely of Christmas cards, many of which he had never seen. Even in the momentary glance he gave, he observed that those which had taken prizes and had been most largely advertised during the past few winters, were tucked away in obscure corners, while several which were exceedingly simple in design and text occupied the most prominent positions.

      “Yes,” the Ghost went on, “the cards are well enough in their way, and so are the other displays and festivities of the day. But it is the spirit of Christmas that you need. Charity, charity in its good old sense: open hearts and kind deeds, with less thought of self-pleasing. While these dainty little gifts are being manufactured, purchased, sent, and thrown away, hundreds of people are at starvation’s door in your own city; thousands of people know little or nothing of the real meaning of the day, or of its Founder.”

      As the Ghost spoke, its voice seemed to come nearer, and at the same time the book grew so large and heavy that Mr. Broadstreet was fain to set it down upon the carpet. He no longer feared the Ghost, nor did it seem strange that it should converse with him in this manner.

      “Wherein are we deficient?” he asked eagerly. “Or what more can we do? The charitable institutions of Boston are among the best in the world, the sky is full of her church-steeples, her police and missionary forces are vigilant and effective in their work.”

      The Ghost of Christmas Present gave a toss to his long hair and beard.

      “How much have you done to carry the spirit of Christmastide beyond your own threshold? Who in this great city will cherish the day and love it more dearly for your warm human friendship and kindly act, until it symbolizes to them whatever is purest and merriest and holiest in life?”

      The Ghost’s voice, now grown very near, was rather sad than stern, and its eyes were fixed intently upon Mr. Broadstreet’s face.

      Mr. Broadstreet hesitated. With cross-examination he was familiar enough, but he did not relish the part of witness. So confused was he that he hardly noticed that book and picture were now so large that they quite filled the end of the room in which he was sitting, and seemed like another apartment opening out of his own.

      “I—I—hardly know,” he stammered. “Really, I’ve spent a good deal of money; my Christmas bills are always tremendous, but I suppose it’s mostly in the family.”

      “Mind,” interrupted the Ghost, almost sharply, “I don’t say anything against the good cheer and merriment at home. But there are many homes within a stone’s throw of your chair, where there will be no fine dinner, no presents, no meeting of friends, no tree—nothing but anxiety and doubt and despair. Your dressing-gown would provide for several of them.”

      Mr. Broadstreet looked meekly at the embroidery upon his sleeves.

      “What would you have me do?” he asked.

      “Do you desire to perform your part toward making the morrow bright for some one who otherwise would find it all clouds? Do you wish to plant seeds of love and mercy and tenderness in some heart that has heretofore borne only thistles? To bring a smile to some weary face, warmth to shivering limbs, light and hope to dreary lives?”

      “I do! I do!” exclaimed the rich man, eagerly starting up from his chair.

      “And are you ready to sacrifice your ease and comfort, this stormy night, for such as they?”

      Mr. Broadstreet seized his fur cap and ulster from the rack in the hall. “Try me!” he cried. “I’m ready for anything!”

      The Ghost smiled pleasantly upon him, at the same time seeming to lift its hand involuntarily, as in blessing. Then it spoke for the last time.

      “Hitherto you have known only the bright side of Christmas,” it said gently. “It has been full of joy to you and yours. But there are those among your fellow creatures, nay, among your very neighbors, who dwell in such continued misery that when Christmas comes it but reminds them of their unhappy state, and by its excess of light upon others deepens the gloom about themselves. This is the Shadow of Christmas Present, and it falls heavily upon many a heart and many a household, where the day, with its good cheer and blessed associations, should bring naught but delight.” The kind Spirit’s voice wavered slightly. “I, myself, can do but little to dispel this shadow. It grieves me sorely, year by year, but it remains, and I fear I sometimes but make it worse, with my bluff ways and keen winter breezes. It is for those who love me most to carry such light and comfort to those upon whom it rests, that it shall be banished never to return. The shadow grows less year by year, but it is still broad, broad.”

      The Ghost was silent a moment. It beckoned to the other, and motioned to him to step behind it. “In my Shadow you shall move to-night,” it concluded, in a firmer voice. “It shall accompany you wherever you go, and your work shall be to turn it away, with whatever kind deeds your hand shall find to do, or cheering words you may have the power to speak.”

      It said no more. Mr. Broadstreet, who, when a child, had often longed to peep behind a picture, found himself actually fulfilling his wish. As he drew nearer the printed page, he heard a dull roar, like surf beating upon a rocky coast. He advanced further, picking his way around the pile of poultry and vegetables and glistening holly upon which the Ghost sat enthroned. A moment more and the room vanished in utter blackness of night, the roar grew grander and deeper, until it throbbed in his ears like the diapason of a mighty organ, a fierce blast of snow-laden wind struck his bewildered face, the street-lamp upon the corner flickered feebly in a mist of flakes—he was standing before his own door, knee-deep in a snow-drift, and buffeted above, below, and on every side by the storm that was abroad that Christmas Eve.

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      As soon as Mr. Broadstreet recovered himself and cleared his eyes from the blinding snow, he saw a heavy, black Shadow on the sidewalk enveloping his own person and resting upon the figure of a man who had evidently just sheltered himself behind the high stone steps, for his footprints leading from the street were still quite fresh. As the man thrashed his arms and stamped vigorously, to start the blood through his benumbed feet, a bright button or two gleamed upon his breast through the cape of his greatcoat. Mr. Broadstreet now recognized him as the policeman whose beat it was, and whom he had occasionally favored with a condescending nod, as he came home late at night from the theater or the club. He had never addressed him by so much as a word, but now the Shadow was full upon him, and Mr. Broadstreet felt that here was his first opportunity.

      “Good-evening, officer!” he shouted cheerily, through the storm. “Wish you a Merry Christmas to-morrow.”

      “Thank you, sir; same to you,” replied the other, with a touch of the cap and a pleased glance at the great man. “Hard times for the boys to-night, though.”

      “It

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