FullReads

“It’s Christmas,” replied Nan. Her cheeks were the colour of the holly berries in the great wreaths she was arranging to place on either side of the wall behind the pulpit. “They can’t quarrel at Christmas–not with Billy Sewall preaching peace on earth, good will to men, to them. –Jessica, please hand me that wire–and come and hold this wreath a minute, will you?”

“Nobody expects Marian to be on any side but the other one,” consolingly whispered merry-faced Jessica, Edson’s wife–lucky fellow!–as she held the wreath for Nan to affix the wire.

“What’s that about Sewall?” Oliver inquired. “I hadn’t heard of that. You don’t mean to say Sewell’s coming up for this service?”

“Of course he is. Margaret telephoned him this morning, and he said he’d never had a Christmas present equal to this one. He said it interested him a lot more than his morning service in town, and he’d be up, loaded. Isn’t that fine of Billy?” Nan beamed triumphantly at her oldest brother, over her holly wreath.

“That puts a different light on it.” And Mr. Oliver Fernald, president of the great city bank of which Sam Burnett was cashier, got promptly down on the knees of his freshly pressed trousers, and proceeded to tack the frazzled edge of the pulpit stair-carpet with interest and skill. That stair-carpet had been tacked by a good many people before him, but doubtless it had never been stretched into place by a man whose eye-glasses sat astride of a nose of the impressive, presidential mould of this one.

“Do I understand that you mean to attempt music?” Mrs. Oliver seemed grieved at the thought. “There are several good voices in the family, of course, but you haven’t had time to practise any Christmas music together. You will have merely to sing hymns.”

“Fortunately, some of the old hymns are Christmas music, of the most exquisite sort,” began Nan, trying hard to keep her temper–a feat which was apt to give her trouble when Marian was about. But, at the moment, as if to help her, up in the old organ-loft, at the back of the church, Margaret began to sing. Everybody looked up in delight, for Margaret’s voice was the pride of the family, and with reason. Somebody was at the organ–the little reed organ. It proved to be Carolyn–Mrs. Charles Wetmore. For a moment the notes rose harmoniously. Then came an interval–and the organ wailed. There was a shout of protest, from the top of Guy’s step-ladder:

“Cut it out–cut out the steam calliope!–unless you want a burlesque. That organ hasn’t been tuned since the deluge–and they didn’t get all the water out then.”

“I won’t hit that key again,” called Carolyn. “Listen, you people.”

“Listen! You can’t help listening when a cat yowls on the back fence,” retorted Guy. “Go it alone; Margaret, girl.”

But the next instant nobody was jeering, for Margaret’s voice had never seemed sweeter than from the old choir-loft.

“Over the hills of Bethlehem,
Lighted by a star,
Wise men came with offerings,
From the East afar….”

Peace and good will? Oh, yes–he preached it–no doubt of that. But it was no milk-and-water peace, no sugar-and-spice good will. There was flesh and blood in the message he gave them, and it was the message they needed. Even his text was not the gentle part of the Christmas prophecy, it was the militant part– “And the government shall be upon His shoulder.” They were not bidden to lie down together like lambs, they were summoned to march together like lions–the lions of the Lord. As William Sewall looked down into the faces of the people and watched the changing expressions there, he felt that the strange, strong, challenging words were going home. He saw stooping shoulders straighten even as the preacher’s had straightened; he saw heads come up, and eyes grow light;–most of all, he saw that at last the people had forgotten one another and were remembering–God.