THE CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE





On Christmas Eve the Mayor's stately mansion presented a beautiful

appearance. There were rows of different coloured wax candles burning

in every window, and beyond them one could see the chandeliers of gold

and crystal blazing with light. The fiddles were squeaking merrily, and

lovely little forms flew past the windows in time to the music.



There were gorgeous carpets laid from the door to the street, and

carriages were constantly arriving and fresh guests tripping over them.

They were all children. The Mayor was giving a Christmas Masquerade

tonight to all the children in the city, the poor as well as the rich.

The preparation for this ball had been making an immense sensation for

the last three months. Placards had been up in the most conspicuous

points in the city, and all the daily newspapers had at least a column

devoted to it, headed with "THE MAYOR'S CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE," in very

large letters.



The Mayor had promised to defray the expenses of all the poor children

whose parents were unable to do so, and the bills for their costumes

were directed to be sent in to him.



Of course there was great excitement among the regular costumers of the

city, and they all resolved to vie with one another in being the most

popular, and the best patronized on this gala occasion. But the

placards and the notices had not been out a week before a new Costumer

appeared who cast all the others into the shade directly. He set up his

shop on the corner of one of the principal streets, and hung up his

beautiful costumes in the windows. He was a little fellow, not much

bigger than a boy of ten. His cheeks were as red as roses, and he had

on a long curling wig as white as snow. He wore a suit of crimson

velvet knee-breeches, and a little swallow-tailed coat with beautiful

golden buttons. Deep lace ruffles fell over his slender white hands,

and he wore elegant knee buckles of glittering stones. He sat on a high

stool behind his counter and served his customers himself; he kept no

clerk.



It did not take the children long to discover what beautiful things he

had, and how superior he was to the other costumers, and they begun to

flock to his shop immediately, from the Mayor's daughter to the poor

ragpicker's. The children were to select their own costumes; the Mayor

had stipulated that. It was to be a children's ball in every sense of

the word.



So they decided to be fairies and shepherdesses, and princesses

according to their own fancies; and this new Costumer had charming

costumes to suit them.



It was noticeable that, for the most part, the children of the rich,

who had always had everything they desired, would choose the parts of

goose-girls and peasants and such like; and the poor children jumped

eagerly at the chance of being princesses or fairies for a few hours in

their miserable lives.



When Christmas Eve came and the children flocked into the Mayor's

mansion, whether it was owing to the Costumer's art, or their own

adaptation to the characters they had chosen, it was wonderful how

lifelike their representations were. Those little fairies in their

short skirts of silken gauze, in which golden sparkles appeared as they

moved with their little funny gossamer wings, like butterflies, looked

like real fairies. It did not seem possible, when they floated around

to the music, half supported on the tips of their dainty toes, half by

their filmy purple wings, their delicate bodies swaying in time, that

they could be anything but fairies. It seemed absurd to imagine that

they were Johnny Mullens, the washerwoman's son, and Polly Flinders,

the charwoman's little girl, and so on.



The Mayor's daughter, who had chosen the character of a goose-girl,

looked so like a true one that one could hardly dream she ever was

anything else. She was, ordinarily, a slender, dainty little lady

rather tall for her age. She now looked very short and stubbed and

brown, just as if she had been accustomed to tend geese in all sorts of

weather. It was so with all the others--the Red Riding-hoods, the

princesses, the Bo-Peeps and with every one of the characters who came

to the Mayor's ball; Red Riding-hood looked round, with big, frightened

eyes, all ready to spy the wolf, and carried her little pat of butter

and pot of honey gingerly in her basket; Bo-Peep's eyes looked red with

weeping for the loss of her sheep; and the princesses swept about so

grandly in their splendid brocaded trains, and held their crowned heads

so high that people half-believed them to be true princesses.



But there never was anything like the fun at the Mayor's Christmas

ball. The fiddlers fiddled and fiddled, and the children danced and

danced on the beautiful waxed floors. The Mayor, with his family and a

few grand guests, sat on a dais covered with blue velvet at one end of

the dancing hall, and watched the sport. They were all delighted. The

Mayor's eldest daughter sat in front and clapped her little soft white

hands. She was a tall, beautiful young maiden, and wore a white dress,

and a little cap woven of blue violets on her yellow hair. Her name was

Violetta.



The supper was served at midnight--and such a supper! The mountains of

pink and white ices, and the cakes with sugar castles and flower

gardens on the tops of them, and the charming shapes of gold and

ruby-coloured jellies. There were wonderful bonbons which even the

Mayor's daughter did not have every day; and all sorts of fruits, fresh

and candied. They had cowslip wine in green glasses, and elderberry

wine in red, and they drank each other's health. The glasses held a

thimbleful each; the Mayor's wife thought that was all the wine they

ought to have. Under each child's plate there was a pretty present and

every one had a basket of bonbons and cake to carry home.



At four o'clock the fiddlers put up their fiddles and the children went

home; fairies and shepherdesses and pages and princesses all jabbering

gleefully about the splendid time they had had.



But in a short time what consternation there was throughout the city.

When the proud and fond parents attempted to unbutton their children's

dresses, in order to prepare them for bed, not a single costume would

come off. The buttons buttoned again as fast as they were unbuttoned;

even if they pulled out a pin, in it would slip again in a twinkling;

and when a string was untied it tied itself up again into a bowknot.

The parents were dreadfully frightened. But the children were so tired

out they finally let them go to bed in their fancy costumes and thought

perhaps they would come off better in the morning. So Red Riding-hood

went to bed in her little red cloak holding fast to her basket full of

dainties for her grandmother, and Bo-Peep slept with her crook in her

hand.



The children all went to bed readily enough, they were so very tired,

even though they had to go in this strange array. All but the

fairies--they danced and pirouetted and would not be still.



"We want to swing on the blades of grass," they kept saying, "and play

hide and seek in the lily cups, and take a nap between the leaves of

the roses."



The poor charwomen and coal-heavers, whose children the fairies were

for the most part, stared at them in great distress. They did not know

what to do with these radiant, frisky little creatures into which their

Johnnys and their Pollys and Betseys were so suddenly transformed. But

the fairies went to bed quietly enough when daylight came, and were

soon fast asleep.



There was no further trouble till twelve o'clock, when all the children

woke up. Then a great wave of alarm spread over the city. Not one of

the costumes would come off then. The buttons buttoned as fast as they

were unbuttoned; the pins quilted themselves in as fast as they were

pulled out; and the strings flew round like lightning and twisted

themselves into bow-knots as fast as they were untied.



And that was not the worst of it; every one of the children seemed to

have become, in reality, the character which he or she had assumed.



The Mayor's daughter declared she was going to tend her geese out in

the pasture, and the shepherdesses sprang out of their little beds of

down, throwing aside their silken quilts, and cried that they must go

out and watch their sheep. The princesses jumped up from their straw

pallets, and wanted to go to court; and all the rest of them likewise.

Poor little Red Riding-hood sobbed and sobbed because she couldn't go

and carry her basket to her grandmother, and as she didn't have any

grandmother she couldn't go, of course, and her parents were very much

doubled. It was all so mysterious and dreadful. The news spread very

rapidly over the city, and soon a great crowd gathered around the new

Costumer's shop for every one thought he must be responsible for all

this mischief.



The shop door was locked; but they soon battered it down with stones.

When they rushed in the Costumer was not there; he had disappeared with

all his wares. Then they did not know what to do. But it was evident

that they must do something before long for the state of affairs was

growing worse and worse.



The Mayor's little daughter braced her back up against the tapestried

wall, and planted her two feet in their thick shoes firmly. "I will go

and tend my geese," she kept crying. "I won't eat my breakfast. I won't

go out in the park. I won't go to school. I'm going to tend my geese--I

will, I will, I will!"



And the princesses trailed their rich trains over the rough unpainted

floors in their parents' poor little huts, and held their crowned heads

very high and demanded to be taken to court. The princesses were mostly

geese-girls when they were their proper selves, and their geese were

suffering, and their poor parents did not know what they were going to

do and they wrung their hands and wept as they gazed on their

gorgeously apparelled children.



Finally the Mayor called a meeting of the Aldermen, and they all

assembled in the City Hall. Nearly every one of them had a son or a

daughter who was a chimney-sweep, or a little watch-girl, or a

shepherdess. They appointed a chairman and they took a great many votes

and contrary votes but they did not agree on anything, until every one

proposed that they consult the Wise Woman. Then they all held up their

hands, and voted to, unanimously.



So the whole board of Aldermen set out, walking by twos, with the Mayor

at their head, to consult the Wise Woman. The Aldermen were all very

fleshy, and carried gold-headed canes which they swung very high at

every step. They held their heads well back, and their chins stiff, and

whenever they met common people they sniffed gently. They were very

imposing.



The Wise Woman lived in a little hut on the outskirts of the city. She

kept a Black Cat, except for her, she was all alone. She was very old,

and had brought up a great many children, and she was considered

remarkably wise.



But when the Aldermen reached her hut and found her seated by the fire,

holding her Black Cat, a new difficulty presented itself. She had

always been quite deaf and people had been obliged to scream as loud as

they could in order to make her hear; but lately she had grown much

deafer, and when the Aldermen attempted to lay the case before her she

could not hear a word. In fact, she was so very deaf that she could not

distinguish a tone below G-sharp. The Aldermen screamed till they were

quite red in the faces, but all to no purpose: none of them could get

up to G-sharp of course.



So the Aldermen all went back, swinging their gold-headed canes, and

they had another meeting in the City Hall. Then they decided to send

the highest Soprano Singer in the church choir to the Wise Woman; she

could sing up to G-sharp just as easy as not. So the high Soprano

Singer set out for the Wise Woman's in the Mayor's coach, and the

Aldermen marched behind, swinging their gold-headed canes.



The High Soprano Singer put her head down close to the Wise Woman's

ear, and sung all about the Christmas Masquerade and the dreadful

dilemma everybody was in, in G-sharp--she even went higher, sometimes,

and the Wise Woman heard every word.



She nodded three times, and every time she nodded she looked wiser.



"Go home, and give 'em a spoonful of castor-oil, all 'round," she piped

up; then she took a pinch of snuff, and wouldn't say any more.



So the Aldermen went home, and every one took a district and marched

through it, with a servant carrying an immense bowl and spoon, and

every child had to take a dose of castor-oil.



But it didn't do a bit of good. The children cried and struggled when

they were forced to take the castor-oil; but, two minutes afterward,

the chimney-sweeps were crying for their brooms, and the princesses

screaming because they couldn't go to court, and the Mayor's daughter,

who had been given a double dose, cried louder and more sturdily: "I

want to go and tend my geese. I will go and tend my geese."



So the Aldermen took the high Soprano Singer, and they consulted the

Wise Woman again. She was taking a nap this time, and the Singer had to

sing up to B-flat before she could wake her. Then she was very cross

and the Black Cat put up his back and spit at the Aldermen.



"Give 'em a spanking all 'round," she snapped out, "and if that don't

work put 'em to bed without their supper."



Then the Aldermen marched back to try that; and all the children in the

city were spanked, and when that didn't do any good they were put to

bed without any supper. But the next morning when they woke up they

were worse than ever.



The Mayor and Aldermen were very indignant, and considered that they

had been imposed upon and insulted. So they set out for the Wise Woman

again, with the high Soprano Singer.



She sang in G-sharp how the Aldermen and the Mayor considered her an

impostor, and did not think she was wise at all, and they wished her to

take her Black Cat and move beyond the limits of the city.



She sang it beautifully; it sounded like the very finest Italian opera

music.



"Deary me," piped the Wise Woman, when she had finished, "how very

grand these gentlemen are." Her Black Cat put up his back and spit.



"Five times one Black Cat are five Black Cats," said the Wise Woman.

And directly there were five Black Cats spitting and miauling.



"Five times five Black Cats are twenty-five Black Cats." And then there

were twenty-five of the angry little beasts.



"Five times twenty-five Black Cats are one hundred and twenty-five

Black Cats," added the Wise Woman with a chuckle.



Then the Mayor and the Aldermen and the high Soprano Singer fled

precipitately out the door and back to the city. One hundred and

twenty-five Black Cats had seemed to fill the Wise Woman's hut full,

and when they all spit and miauled together it was dreadful. The

visitors could not wait for her to multiply Black Cats any longer.



As winter wore on and spring came, the condition of things grew more

intolerable. Physicians had been consulted, who advised that the

children should be allowed to follow their own bents, for fear of

injury to their constitutions. So the rich Aldermen's daughters were

actually out in the fields herding sheep, and their sons sweeping

chimneys or carrying newspapers; and while the poor charwomen's and

coal-heavers, children spent their time like princesses and fairies.

Such a topsy-turvy state of society was shocking. While the Mayor's

little daughter was tending geese out in the meadow like any common

goose-girl, her pretty elder sister, Violetta, felt very sad about it

and used often to cast about in her mind for some way of relief.



When cherries were ripe in spring, Violetta thought she would ask the

Cherry-man about it. She thought the Cherry-man quite wise. He was a

very pretty young fellow, and he brought cherries to sell in graceful

little straw baskets lined with moss. So she stood in the kitchen door

one morning and told him all about the great trouble that had come upon

the city. He listened in great astonishment; he had never heard of it

before. He lived several miles out in the country.



"How did the Costumer look?" he asked respectfully; he thought Violetta

the most beautiful lady on earth.



Then Violetta described the Costumer, and told him of the unavailing

attempts that had been made to find him. There were a great many

detectives out, constantly at work.



"I know where he is!" said the Cherry-man. "He's up in one of my

cherry-trees. He's been living there ever since cherries were ripe, and

he won't come down."



Then Violetta ran and told her father in great excitement, and he at

once called a meeting of the Aldermen, and in a few hours half the city

was on the road to the Cherry-man's.



He had a beautiful orchard of cherry-trees all laden with fruit. And,

sure enough in one of the largest, way up amongst the topmost branches,

sat the Costumer in his red velvet and short clothes and his diamond

knee-buckles. He looked down between the green boughs. "Good-morning,

friends!" he shouted.



The Aldermen shook their gold-headed canes at him, and the people

danced round the tree in a rage. Then they began to climb. But they

soon found that to be impossible. As fast as they touched a hand or

foot to a tree, back it flew with a jerk exactly as if the tree pushed

it. They tried a ladder, but the ladder fell back the moment it touched

the tree, and lay sprawling upon the ground. Finally, they brought axes

and thought they could chop the tree down, Costumer and all; but the

wood resisted the axes as if it were iron, and only dented them,

receiving no impression itself.



Meanwhile, the Costumer sat up in the tree, eating cherries and

throwing the stones down. Finally he stood up on a stout branch, and,

looking down, addressed the people.



"It's of no use, your trying to accomplish anything in this way," said

he; "you'd better parley. I'm willing to come to terms with you, and

make everything right on two conditions."



The people grew quiet then, and the Mayor stepped forward as spokesman,

"Name your two conditions," said he rather testily. "You own, tacitly,

that you are the cause of all this trouble."



"Well" said the Costumer, reaching out for a handful of cherries, "this

Christmas Masquerade of yours was a beautiful idea; but you wouldn't do

it every year, and your successors might not do it at all. I want those

poor children to have a Christmas every year. My first condition is

that every poor child in the city hangs its stocking for gifts in the

City Hall on every Christmas Eve, and gets it filled, too. I want the

resolution filed and put away in the city archives."



"We agree to the first condition!" cried the people with one voice,

without waiting for the Mayor and Aldermen.



"The second condition," said the Costumer, "is that this good young

Cherry-man here has the Mayor's daughter, Violetta, for his wife. He

has been kind to me, letting me live in his cherry-tree and eat his

cherries and I want to reward him."



"We consent," cried all the people; but the Mayor, though he was so

generous, was a proud man. "I will not consent to the second

condition," he cried angrily.



"Very well," replied the Costumer, picking some more cherries, "then

your youngest daughter tends geese the rest of her life, that's all."



The Mayor was in great distress; but the thought of his youngest

daughter being a goose-girl all her life was too much for him. He gave

in at last.



"Now go home and take the costumes off your children," said the

Costumer, "and leave me in peace to eat cherries."



Then the people hastened back to the city, and found, to their great

delight, that the costumes would come off. The pins stayed out, the

buttons stayed unbuttoned, and the strings stayed untied. The children

were dressed in their own proper clothes and were their own proper

selves once more. The shepherdesses and the chimney-sweeps came home,

and were washed and dressed in silks and velvets, and went to

embroidering and playing lawn-tennis. And the princesses and the

fairies put on their own suitable dresses, and went about their useful

employments. There was great rejoicing in every home. Violetta thought

she had never been so happy, now that her dear little sister was no

longer a goose-girl, but her own dainty little lady-self.



The resolution to provide every poor child in the city with a stocking

full of gifts on Christmas was solemnly filed, and deposited in the

city archives, and was never broken.



Violetta was married to the Cherry-man, and all the children came to

the wedding, and strewed flowers in her path till her feet were quite

hidden in them. The Costumer had mysteriously disappeared from the

cherry-tree the night before, but he left at the foot some beautiful

wedding presents for the bride--a silver service with a pattern of

cherries engraved on it, and a set of china with cherries on it, in

hand painting, and a white satin robe, embroidered with cherries down

the front.





THE CHRISTMAS CAROL OF THE BIRDS. THE CIRCUS facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

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