Cover

Title

A COUNTRY CHRISTMAS

By

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

This edition published by Dreamscape Media LLC, 2018

1417 Timberwolf Drive, Holland, OH 43528

877.983.7326

About Louisa May Alcott

About Louisa May Alcott:

Louisa May Alcott (November 29, 1832 – March 6, 1888) was an American novelist and poet best known as the author of the novel Little Women (1868) and its sequels Little Men (1871) and Jo's Boys (1886). Raised by her transcendentalist parents, Abigail May and Amos Bronson Alcott in New England, she also grew up among many of the well-known intellectuals of the day such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Alcott's family suffered from financial difficulties, and while she worked to help support the family from an early age, she also sought an outlet in writing. She began to receive critical success for her writing in the 1860s. Early in her career, she sometimes used the pen name A. M. Barnard, under which she wrote novels for young adults that focused on spies, revenge, and cross dressers.

Published in 1868, Little Women is set in the Alcott family home, Orchard House, in Concord, Massachusetts and is loosely based on Alcott's childhood experiences with her three sisters. The novel was very well received and is still a popular children's novel today, filmed several times.

Alcott was an abolitionist and a feminist and remained unmarried throughout her life. She died from a stroke, two days after her father died, in Boston on March 6, 1888.

Source: Wikipedia

A Country Christmas

A Country Christmas

"Dear Emily, I have a brilliant idea and at once hasten to share it with you. Three weeks ago I came up here to the wilds of Vermont to visit my old aunt, also to get a little quiet and distance in which to survey certain new prospects that have opened before me, and to decide whether I will marry a millionaire and become a queen of society or remain 'the charming Miss Vaughan and wait till the conquering hero comes.

"Aunt Plumy begs me to stay over Christmas, and I have consented, as I always dread the formal dinner with which my guardian celebrates the day.

"My brilliant idea is this. I'm going to make it a real old-fashioned frolic, and won't you come and help me? You will enjoy it immensely, I am sure, for Aunt is a character, Cousin Saul worth seeing, and Ruth a far prettier girl than any of the city rosebuds coming out this season. Bring Leonard Randal along with you to take notes for his new books; then it will be fresher and truer than the last, clever as it was.

"The air is delicious up here, society amusing, this old farmhouse full of treasures, and your bosom friend pining to embrace you. Just telegraph yes or no, and we will expect you on Tuesday. Ever yours, Sophie Vaughan"

"They will both come, for they are as tired of city life and as fond of change as I am," said the writer of the above, as she folded her letter and went to get it posted without delay.

Aunt Plumy was in the great kitchen making pies—a jolly old soul, with a face as ruddy as a winter apple, a cheery voice, and the kindest heart that ever beat under a gingham gown. Pretty Ruth was chopping the mince and singing so gaily as she worked that the four-and-twenty immortal blackbirds could not have put more music into a pie than she did.

Saul was piling wood into the big oven, and Sophie paused a moment on the threshold to look at him; for she always enjoyed the sight of this stalwart cousin, whom she likened to a Norse Viking, with his fair hair and beard, keen blue eyes, and six feet of manly height, with shoulders that looked broad and strong enough to bear any burden.

His back was toward her, but he saw her first and turned his flushed face to meet her, with the sudden lighting up it always showed when she approached.

"I've done it, Aunt, and now I want Saul to post the letter, so we can get a speedy answer."

"Just as soon as I can hitch up, cousin," and Saul pitched in his last log.

"Well, dear, I haven't the least mite of objection, as long as it pleases you. I guess we can stand it ef you city folk can. I presume to say things will look kind of sing'lar to 'em, but I suppose that's what they come for. Idle folks do dreadful queer things to amuse 'em," and Aunt Plumy leaned on the rolling pin to smile and nod with a shrewd twinkle of her eye, as if she enjoyed the prospect as much as Sophie did.

"I shall be afraid of them, but I'll try not to make you ashamed of me," said Ruth, who loved her charming cousin.

"No fear of that, dear. They will be the awkward ones, and you must set them at ease by just being your simple selves and treating them as if they were everyday people. Nell is very nice and jolly when she drops her city ways, as she must here. She will enter into the spirit of the fun at once, and I know you'll all like her. Mr. Randall is rather the worse for too much praise and petting, as successful people are apt to be, so a little plain talk and rough work will do him good. He is a true gentleman in spite of his airs and elegance, and he will take it all in good part, if you treat him like a man and not like a lion."

"I'll see to him," said Saul, who had listened with great interest to the latter part of Sophie's speech, evidently suspecting a lover and enjoying the idea of supplying him with a liberal amount of "plain talk and rough work."

"I'll keep 'em busy if that's what they need; for there will be a sight to do, and we can't get help easy up here. Our young men don't hire out much. Work to home till they marry and don't go gaddin' around getting their heads full of foolish notions and forgettin' all the useful things their mothers taught 'em."

Aunt Plumy glanced at Ruth as she spoke, and a sudden color in the girl's cheeks proved that the words hit certain ambitious fancies of this pretty daughter of the house of Basset.

"They shall do their parts and not be a trouble; I'll see to that, for you certainly are the dearest aunt in the world to let me take possession of you and yours in this way," cried Sophie, embracing the old lady with warmth.

Saul wished the embrace could be returned by proxy, as his mother's hands were too floury to do more than hover affectionately 'round the delicate face that looked so fresh and young beside her wrinkled one. As it could not be done, he fled temptation and "hitched up" without delay.

The three women laid their heads together in his absence, and Sophie's plan grew apace, for Ruth longed to see a real novelist and a fine lady, and Aunt Plumy, having plans of her own to further, said "Yes, dear," to every suggestion.

Great was the arranging and adorning that went on that day in the old farmhouse, for Sophie wanted her friends to enjoy this taste of country pleasures and knew just what additions would be indispensable to their comfort, what simple ornaments would be in keeping with the rustic stage on which she meant to play the part of prima donna.

Next day a telegram arrived accepting the invitation, for both the lady and the lion. They would arrive that afternoon, as little preparation was needed for this impromptu journey, the novelty of which was its chief charm to these blasé people.

Saul wanted to get out the double sleigh and span, for he prided himself on his horses; and a fall of snow came most opportunely to beautify the landscape and add a new pleasure to Christmas festivities.

But Sophie declared that the old yellow sleigh, with Punch, the farm horse, must be used, as she wished everything to be in keeping with simple ways. And Saul obeyed, thinking he had never seen anything prettier than his cousin when she appeared in his mother's old-fashioned cloak and blue silk pumpkin hood. He looked remarkably well himself in his fur coat, with hair and beard brushed till they shone like spun gold, a fresh color in his cheek, and the sparkle of amusement in his eyes, while excitement gave his usually grave face the animation it needed to be handsome.

Away they jogged in the creaking old sleigh, leaving Ruth, with a fluttering heart, to make herself pretty and Aunt Plumy to dish up a late dinner fit to tempt the most fastidious appetite.

"She has not come for us, and there is not even a stage to take us up. There must be some mistake," said Emily Herrick, as she looked about the shabby little station where they were set down.

"That is the never-to-be-forgotten face of our fair friend, but the bonnet of her grandmother, if my eyes do not deceive me," answered Randal, turning to survey the couple approaching in the rear.

"Sophie Vaughan, what do you mean by making such a spectacle of yourself?" exclaimed Emily, as she kissed the smiling face in the hood and stared at the quaint cloak.

"I'm dressed for my part, and I intend to keep it up. This is our host, my cousin, Saul Basset. Come to the sleigh at once; he will see to your luggage," said Sophie, painfully conscious of the antiquity of her array as her eyes rested on Emily's pretty hat and mantle and the masculine elegance of Randal's wraps.

They were hardly tucked in when Saul appeared with a valise in one hand and a large trunk on his shoulder, swinging both onto a wood sled that stood nearby as easily as if they had been handbags.

"That is your hero, is it? Well, he looks it: calm and comely, taciturn and tall," said Emily in a tone of approval.

"He should have been named Samson or Goliath, though I believe it was the small man who slung things about and turned out the hero in the end," added Randal, surveying the performance with interest and a touch of envy, for much pen work had made his own hands as delicate as a woman's.

"Saul doesn't live in a glass house, so stones won't hurt him. Remember, sarcasm is forbidden and sincerity the order of the day. You are country folks now, and it will do you good to try their simple, honest ways for a few days."

Sophie had no time to say more, for Saul came up and drove off with the brief remark that the baggage would "be along right away."

Being hungry, cold, and tired, the guests were rather silent during the short drive, but Aunt Plumy's hospitable welcome, and the savory fumes of the dinner awaiting them, thawed the ice and won their hearts at once.

"Isn't it nice? Aren't you glad you came?" asked Sophie, as she led her friends into the parlor, which she had redeemed from its primness by putting bright chintz curtains to the windows, hemlock boughs over the old portraits, a china bowl of flowers on the table and a splendid fire on the wide hearth.

"It is perfectly jolly, and this is the way I begin to enjoy myself," answered Emily, sitting down upon the homemade rug, whose red flannel roses bloomed in a blue list basket.

"lf I may add a little smoke to your glorious fire, it will be quite perfect. Won't Samson join me?" asked Randal, waiting for permission, cigar case in hand.

"He has no small vices, but you may indulge yours," answered Sophie from the depths of a chair.

Emily glanced up at her friend, as if she caught a new tone in her voice, then turned to the fire again with a wise little nod, as if confiding some secret to the reflection of herself in the bright brass andiron.

"His Delilah does not take this form. I wait with interest to discover if he has one. What a daisy the sister is. Does she ever speak?" asked Randal, trying to lounge on the sofa where he was uncomfortably shifting about.

"Oh, yes, and sings like a bird. You shall hear her when she gets over her shyness. But no trifling, mind you, for it is a jealously guarded daisy and not to be picked by any idle hand," said Sophie warningly, as she recalled Ruth's blushes and Randal's compliments at dinner.

"I should expect to be annihilated by the big brother if I attempted any but the 'sincerest' admiration and respect. Have no fears on that score, but tell us what is to follow the superb dinner—a spelling bee, hide and seek, a husking party, or a primitive pastime of some sort, I have no doubt."

"As you are new to our ways, I am going to let you rest this evening. We will sit about the fire and tell stories. Aunt is a master hand at that, and Saul has reminiscences of the war that are well worth hearing if we can only get him to tell them."

"Ah, he was there, was he?"

"Yes, all through it, and is known as Major Basset, though he likes his plain name best. He fought splendidly and had several wounds, though only a mere boy when he earned his scars and bars. I'm very proud of him for that," and Sophie looked so as she glanced at the photograph of a stripling in uniform set in the place of honor on the high mantelpiece.

"We must stir him up and hear these martial memories. I want some new incidents and shall book all I can get if I may."

Here Randal was interrupted by Saul himself, who came in with an armful of wood for the fire.

"Anything more I can do for you, cousin?" he asked, surveying the scene with a rather wistful look.

"Only come and sit with us and talk over war times with Mr. Randal."

"When I've foddered the cattle and done my chores, I'd be pleased to. What regiment were you in?" asked Saul, looking down from his lofty height upon the slender gentleman, who answered briefly:

"In none. I was abroad at the time."

"Sick?"

"No, busy with a novel."

"Took four years to write it?"

"I was obliged to travel and study before I could finish it. These things take more time to work up than outsiders would believe."

"Seems to me our war was a finer story than any you could find in Europe, and the best way to study it would have been to fit in it. If you want heroes and heroines, you'd have found plenty of 'em there."

"I have no doubt of it and shall be glad to atone for my seeming neglect of them by hearing about your own exploits, Major."

Randal hoped to turn the conversation gracefully, but Saul was not to be caught and left the room, saying, with a gleam of fun in his eye:

"I can't stop now. Heroes can wait; pigs can't!"

The girls laughed at this sudden descent from the sublime to the ridiculous, and Randal joined them, feeling his condescension had not been unobserved.

As if drawn by the merry sound, Aunt Plumy appeared, and being established in the rocking chair, fell to talking as easily as if she had known her guests for years.

"Laugh away, young folks. That's better for digestion than any of the medicines people use. Are you troubled with dyspepsia, dear? You didn't seem to take your supper very heartily, so I suppose you must be delicate," she said, looking at Emily, whose pale cheeks and weary eyes told the story of late hours and wasted time.

"I haven't eaten so much for years, I assure you, Mrs. Basset, but it was impossible to taste all your good things. I am not dyspeptic, thank you, but a little tired; for I've been working rather hard lately."

"Be you a teacher, or have you a 'profession,' as they call a trade nowadays?" asked the old lady in a tone of kindly interest, which prevented a laugh at the idea of Emily's being anything but a beauty and a belle. The others kept their composure with difficulty, and Emily answered demurely:

"I have no trade as yet, but I dare say I should be happier if I had."

"Not a doubt on it, my dear."

"What would you recommend, ma'am?"

"I should say dressmaking was rather in your line. Your clothes are very tasty, and do you credit if you made ‘em yourself,’ and Aunt Plumy surveyed with feminine interest the simple elegance of the traveling dress which was the masterpiece of a French modiste.

"No, ma'am, I don't make my own things. I'm too lazy. It takes so much time and trouble to select them that I have only strength left to wear them."

"Housekeepin' used to be the favorite profession in my day. It's not fashionable now, but it needs a sight of trainin' to be perfect in all that's required; and I've an idee it would be a sight healthier and more useful than the paintin' and music and fancy work young women do nowadays."

"But everyone wants some beauty in their lives, and each one has a different sphere to fill, if one can only find it."

"It 'pears to me there's no call for so much art when nature's full of beauty for them that can see and love it. As for 'spheres' and so on, I've a notion if each of us did up our own little chores smart and thorough, we needn't go wandering 'round to set the world to rights. That's the Lord's job, and I presume to say He can do it without any advice of ourn," said Aunt Plumy in her plain-spoken way.

Something in the homely but true words seemed to rebuke the three listeners for wasted lives, and for a moment there was no sound but the crackle of the fire, the brisk click of the old lady's knitting needles, and Ruth's voice singing overhead as she made ready to join the party below.

"To judge by that sweet sound, you have done one of your 'chores' very beautifully, Mrs. Basset, and in spite of the follies of our day, succeeded in keeping one girl healthy, happy, and unspoiled," said Emily, looking up into the peaceful old face with her own lovely one full of respect and envy.

"I do hope so, for she's my ewe lamb, the last of four dear little girls; all the rest are in the burying ground 'side of father. I don't expect to keep her long and don't ought to regret when I lose her, for Saul is the best of sons; but daughters is more to mothers somehow, and I always yearn over girls that is left without someone left to keep 'em safe and warm in this world of tribulation!"

Aunt Plumy laid her hand on Sophie's head as she spoke with such a motherly look that both girls drew nearer, and Randal resolved to put Aunt Plumy in a book without delay.

Presently, Saul returned with little Ruth hanging on his arm and shyly nestling near him as he took the three-cornered leather chair in the chimney nook, while she sat on a stool close by.

"Now the circle is complete and the picture perfect. Don't light the lamps yet, please, but talk away and let me make a mental study of you. I seldom find so charming a scene to paint," said Randal, beginning to enjoy himself immensely, with a true artist's taste for novelty and effect.

"Tell us about your book, for we have been reading it as it comes out in the magazine and are much exercised about how it's going to end," began Saul, gallantly throwing himself into the breach, for a momentary embarrassment fell upon the women at the idea of sitting for their portraits before they were ready.

"Do you really read my poor serial up here and do me the honor to like it?" asked the novelist, both flattered and amused; for his work was of the artistic sort with microscopic studies of character and careful representations of modern life.

"Sakes alive, why shouldn't we?" cried Aunt Plumy. "We have some education, though we aren't real genteel. We've got a town library, kept up by the women, mostly, with fairs and tea parties and so on. We have the major magazines reg'lar, and Saul reads out the pieces while Ruth sews and I knit, my eyes bein' poor. Our winter is long, and evenin's would be kind of lonesome if we didn't have novels and newspapers to cheer us up."

"I am very glad I can help to beguile them for you. Now tell me what you honestly think of my work. Criticism is always valuable, and I should really like yours, Mrs. Basset," said Randal, wondering what the good woman would make of the delicate analysis and worldly wisdom on which he prided himself.

Short work, as Aunt Plumy soon showed him, for she rather enjoyed freeing her mind at all times and decidedly resented the insinuation that country folk could not appreciate literature as well as city people.

"I'm no great jedge about anything but naturalness in books, and it really does seem as if some of your men and women are dreadfully uncomfortable creatures. It 'pears to me it isn't wise to be always picking ourselves to pieces and pryin' into things that ought to come gradual by way of experience and the visitations of Providence. Flowers won't blow worth a cent ef you pull 'em open. Better wait and see what they can do alone. I do relish the smart sayin's, the odd ways of furrin parts, and the sarcastic slaps at folks' weak spots. But I knows, we can't live on spice cake and rouge cheeks, and I do feel as if books was more sustainin' ef they was full of everyday people and things, like good bread and butter. Them that goes to the heart and aren't soon forgotten is the kind I hanker for. Miss Terry's books now, and Miss Stowe's, and Dickens's Christmas pieces-them is real sweet and cheering, to my mind."

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!