Of course I was
going to look in on a scene of childish joy, of shouting and laughing,
and eating of candy and pop-corn in unlimited quantities. Memories of
the stories of Hans Andersen and the Grimm brothers were floating
through my mind as I crunched the crisp snow under my feet on my way to
the church. I remembered the rapture of those Christmas mornings at
home, when we children stole down stairs by candlelight to the warm
room filled with the aromatic perfume of the Christmas tree, that stood
there resplendent with presents from old Santa Claus--Noah's arks,
mimic landscapes, dolls, sleds, colored cornucopias bursting with
bonbons, and especially those books of fairy-tales from whose rich
creamy pages exhaled a most divine and musty fragrance. Ah, the memory
of our childhood's hours! what is it but that enchanted lake of the
Arabian tale, from whose quiet depths we are ever and anon drawing up
in our nets some magic colored fish? Well, I reached the church. The
children, dressed in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, were sitting
in the high-backed pews in solemn silence, while a reverend gentleman
was delivering a solemn exhortation to gratitude and goodness.
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