Festival plays

Before the curtains part the voice of the Mother is heard singing her babes to sleep with A Christmas Evensong.

The curtains have parted slowly, noiselessly, disclosing a room in such deep shadow that only by peering can one discern three small white beds far up against the wall of a real everyday nursery, a companionable fire purring on the hearth, and a real everyday Mother, the kind every happy child knows, sitting singing. When her song is ended she rises, bends over the pillows, nods as if satisfied that, though three soft, warm little bodies lie snugly tucked in between sheets and blankets, the Children themselves have gone off on their nightly journey, to Sleep, smoothes a coverlet in the quite unnecessary way that Mothers have, draws a screen about the beds to keep out the draught that grown-ups always think is trying to get at children, but that in reality could not be coaxed to stay in a house with all outdoors to play in, then, going to the hearth, she seizes the poker, and in a fashion rather violent for so gentle a being, she beats the reddest of the logs until it sneezes sparks, as if to caution it against breaking out in greedy flames that make everything within reach catch fire like measles. Finally, since there is not the least, wee excuse for further lingering, she kisses her hand to the forms of the Children who by this time are very far away, and steals noiselessly from the room.

The fire goes out with a disgruntled pop, as if remarking that it has no desire to remain where it is not trusted to behave itself, and the room becomes so dark you think it is all over, and that it is not much of a play after all, when, hark! You hear the jingle of sleigh-bells, and the laughter of a merry party passing by. Now the warm glow returns slowly to the hearth and the logs start talking. “Crack, crack! Splutter, splutter,” cries one, turning its torch in the direction of the book-shelves. “What’s all this learned nonsense? Works on botany, and what’s that long word? Yes, ornithology! Why don’t they say birds and beasts and flowers and forests and things? And why go to books to learn when one has eyes and ears ... five senses, all told, and a sixth, if people did but know it!”

“Stupid as a log,” cries another. “That’s what I overheard a teacher call a boy whose poor little body was kept in a school-room while its soul had its arms about my neck, learning True History, and the Real Meaning of Things, in the forest! For my part, at the risk of seeming vain I consider a log the brightest thing I know!”

“Right, O,” concurred a third. “Really human beings are the dullest creatures! probably because someone invented words for them to talk with! Now if you’re seeking a professor of language let me recommend the head of the squirrel family that used to be my top-front lodgers. He could chatter more fluently about a hazel-nut without articulating a single word than any human that has addled his brains getting an University diploma!”

“True,” replied the first speaker. “And the longer humans live in the world the duller they become from read—read—reading, and talk—talk—talking words, words, words, words, words! Now take babies. Babies are the wise ones. Babies who cheep like birds when pleased and squeal the way little pigs do when they are hungry can always be depended on to make their meaning understood! Nobody has to consult a dictionary or employ an interpreter to hold a conversation with a baby in any language! Old people, too, when they lose their teeth and forget words, they grow wise again! What a pleasure it is to burn brightly for old people as they sit beside the hearth, warming their hearts, and telling them over and over again the forgotten tales they heard from us before their wits were cluttered up with words like rank growths of underbrush in the forest!”

All paused a moment to reflect on this fine sentiment, when a log at the back of the pile that had hitherto held itself aloof, rolled up in a ragged cloak of charred bark, now turned over with a snort, falling on the others heavily. “The forest, indeed! Landlubbers all! I have been to sea! I have been shipwrecked! I have stood on my head and turned somersaults in mid-ocean!” And he stuck out his tongue, sending forth darts of the most wonderful green and blue. Thoroughly roused now, the logs all talk at the same time, bragging of their adventures and of the family trees from which they have sprung, and there’s no knowing how it would end if it were not that some people passing sing a snatch of an old Christmas Carol, a great favourite with the hearth-logs, so that they cease wrangling to listen to it.

Now there is dead silence in the nursery which soon is filled with a strange light made up of hearth-glow, moon-beam and the blueness that only comes from fairyland. For the first time you notice that the Children have hung their stockings from the mantelpiece. Then you see, asleep on the hearthrug, three small brown beings, each cuddling a broom, by which token you know them to be the Good Little People who make their home with happy Children, called Lobs for short, though if ever you address one by his full title you’ll say Lob-Lie-By-The-Fire.

THE END