The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1851-04-03
THE NATIONAL ERA.
WASHINGTON, MARCH 81, 1851.
For the National Era.
B ON PRAIRIE DE- la PLRUR. No. 9.
BY MARY IRVING.
CHRIsTMAs on THE PRAIRIE.

GHR1sThA> ON
There is one festival, almost universal among
the nations peopng Europe, which the Paritans
left or tried to leave hlhind them, when they
pushed from the dock of Leydeu. IL was no mat
ter for wonder that, prosecuted as they had been
by church which they looked upon as young.
er sister of cher who stitch upon her seven
hills,p they should have thrown away the shadow
with the substance of its organization. With the
creed and liturgy, they strove to bury all those
harmless forms and festivals that had sprung up
around them They would pluck no flowers on
the breast of a volcano threatening to blight and
engulph their faith and fortunes Better, had
no fiery stonen from the heart of that volcano
been reserved to cast" at brethren whose errors
in Judgment and practice were but the fruit OF
the same honest enthusiasm that had nsrved them
to tread higher path
HChrist's mass was of course particularly OBJ
noxiSas Is>ttcse welLcz~~-;ng, shpagb stern 5e-
formers of faith and customs. "Ileroes in heart
and hand" indeed were they let the few blem-
ishes upon their strong, upright characters be
botted out by tear from that charity which
"hideth a multitude" of unwelcome memories.
1t was not thus with all there were many COM
munities who chung to the associations of child
hood in /" old England }" where the "yule log"
had blazed so merrily against the high-backed
chimney, lighting up their young hearts with a
new delight every year. But the stanchest of
the sect sought to supplant the HOLIDAY, with its
heather usages,n by the New England born,
New England cherished festival-Thanksgiving
Day
In the little village of my childhoods home,
Christmas was scarcely honored by notice in
passing indeed, had nearly graduated from the
age of sugar candies before learned to echo the
note Of Merry Christnasw OF late years, how
ever, the "good old Christmas time" has striven
to renew its sway; and the Yankee children Of
this generation pay q most delighted allegiance
to Santa Claus" prime minister of it's impor-
tant opening ceremonies.
But It is not Of Christmas in Puritan land that
have promised you a sketch. Come, then, on
the wing of imagination from the home Of my
fathers to my prairie home. Prairie de la Fleur
scarcely speaks its own name now the frost-fow-
suow-yeil. But the whistling winds have chosen
it for their hall Of revelry. Hark! how they
rave and shrek along the sisles Of the woodland
then burst forth like unclaimed maniacs to fly
over the unbroken race-course of miles on miles,
bowling to ones fearful fancy the death-dirge Of
some benighted, lost traveller. -
You need not stand to be stiffened into a
Nobe-ke statue in their bitter breath. Hasten
along with the cloud-sbadows that sweep across
this itfully moon-lghted track--past the ghost
like windmill-tossing its gaunt, bare arms, and
cracking ominously to the cold evening storm.
Far down that glen is the frame of prospect
i've house, looming up in the cloudiness Of the
night 1t promises deal of roomy comfort in
time for its occupants, whoever they may be-.
Peeping through the chinks Of its beams is the
hearth-6re Of low log cabin, snugly ensconced in
the hollow behind it. 1t offers you shelter from
the bleak blasts-and merry greeting, too, for
it is the night before Christmas, and oil through
the house laughter is loudly ringing.
On the corner of the cracked hearth-stope sits
good Farmer Rathburn, putting his pipe slowly,
lesson of contentment in every one Of their spark
ling faces No dream-c astle-builder he he is
thinking Of his Alleghanian wheat stacks and of
the prospective single palace that is 10 grow
out of their profits His @handsn are clustered
In the opposite corner, cracking rough jokes and
hickory nuts together, and shaking the brown
raiters with their uproarous merriment. The
gude-wife, like quiet lueen-bee, is stepping Kin
and out, and all about" "righting up" matters
and things, with special eye to her Christmas
CAKE, whose unshapen sweetness is basking warm.
INSIDE the chimney corner. Davie, her only
child sits on log stool, rectifying" his skates
ior the morrow, and whistling low, puzzled &C
compartment TO the higher notes He is a gen
ulne slip of Yankee land, surely.
But there is fair, serious face behind tn,
irolcksome group Jessie, the sweet Scotch
laughter by adoption to the good couple, is whiz
h'ng her wool-wheel in the duskiest corner
dreaming her own undisturbed dreams See how
her dark eyes dilate as they fix on the point O
her dizzy spindle, over which the even thread Il
hurrying tirelessly. II Jessie were spinning ou
the thread Of her own destiny around that spin
die, she could not watch it more eagerly and alb
stractedly, nor with deeper flush of emotion
heaved up from her heart ever and anon to hel
cheeks All Jessie's memories and fsncies ar,
ann'hilating time and space tonight!
Listen-the laughter on the hearth.s.one ha.
ceased The men have suddenly fxed themselve,
IN their various positions one with his chair
tipped at an angle Of forty.fve degrees, and hi,
ieet braced against the broiling end Of the huge
back-log' another crouched upon the hearth
his chin resting in his hands, and his elbows on
his knees but ali their eyes were fixed upon
Michael, German with face like withered
russell apple, surmounted where the stem should
be by red flannel cap. Michael il telling OF
rather chanting, a story of Christmas Eve Ia the
dear, blessed old Germany Of his childhood. The
mysterious evergreen tree that used TO bear such
precious fruit springs up in fancy before them,
hung with lamps, and with the gifsof the Christ
child Then the family gathering around it,
grandfather, grandmother, parents and children
and Michael growing sarrulOus in the rekin-
dung warmth Of his heart, fOrgets to translate
MS German soliloquy intelligibly.
Jessie huns her wheel slowly, and yet more
slowly to catch every snecdOte strung along
'ne thread Of the story and when he stops at
a binding tear falls from her still open eye
20 her hand, and quivering Sigh is pressed back
~ her suddsnly-closed lips. Poor grill she
now. ,ao~s what gin her hearts hope would hang on
na' Chrstmas-trse-whst the boon Of the Christ
child to her should he!
"ne O'Clock strikes the Yankee born clock on
Ae s's' shelf; and, rousins thsmsslvss to sub
'''a' Asf-thooghtful laughter, the wsrkusp, one