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MY LITTLE TOWN 
 
MY LITTLE TOWN 
 
 BY 
 
 WINIFRED KIRKLAND 
 
 NEW YORK 
 E. P. DUTTON & CO. 
 
 681 FIFTH AVENUE 
 
13" ** 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 191 7, 
 By E. P. DUTTON & CO. 
 
 TRANSFERRED FROU 
 COPYRIGHT OFFICE 
 
 sep 28 m 
 
 SEP 25 1917 
 
 printed fn the United States of Htnertea 
 
PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
 
 Appearing originally in The Atlantic Monthly 
 under the title "Christmas in Littleville," this small 
 sketch, by its quiet charm and its intimate human- 
 ness, made an appeal to such a wide circle that its 
 publication in an accessible form naturally follows. 
 The courtesy of the Proprietors of The Atlantic 
 Monthly in facilitating this reprint is cordially 
 acknowledged by the Publishers. 
 
MY LITTLE TOWN 
 
MY LITTLE TOWN 
 
 |HEN Christmas came to 
 me, a little girl, it came all 
 musical with myriad voices. 
 From the time when the 
 rhythm of Prayer-book seasons swung 
 us into Advent, and I began to patter 
 my Nativity collects, my waking and 
 sleeping hours grew strange with mys- 
 tery. In silent winter dawns, those 
 hours when only old men and little chil- 
 dren are awake and seeing visions, the 
 gemmed blackness of my window 
 squares would pale and throb with 
 light, brightening till the sky broke 
 
 7 
 
My Little Town 
 
 apart, and there poured forth the infi- 
 nite throngs of angels, and the air rang 
 with song that set me sobbing. Since 
 then I have gone the way of all grown- 
 ups. I cannot hear the Christmas 
 angels now. All the world must wan- 
 der forth from the sheltering faith of 
 our fathers, and the way back home 
 is curious to find. Yet perhaps we do 
 rediscover the little quiet place, not 
 knowing it because the light upon its 
 windows is no longer the unfaltering 
 light of dawn. They are stern folk 
 who do not turn homeward to child- 
 hood at Christmas-time. In Littleville, 
 this is no hard matter, among people 
 who, having tended their cosset lambs, 
 find it not hard to believe that angels 
 sang to shepherds; or who, familiar 
 8 
 
My Little Town 
 
 friends with their beasts, find it not 
 strange that a God should have been 
 born in a stable; or who, close-knit as 
 one family in the snugness and perma- 
 nence of village life, find it not difficult 
 to believe in a gospel of goodwill; for 
 Littleville lies as open to the stars as 
 ever did Bethlehem. 
 
 In Littleville, Christmas is Christ- 
 mas still, and we do not do the poor 
 day to death. In fact, whatever our 
 business in Littleville, sorrowing or 
 merry-making, being born or dying, 
 we manage it somehow without fret. 
 And thus our Christmas. The first 
 signs of holiday are in the decorations 
 of the editor's office/which, shaped and 
 sized like a dry-goods box, suddenly 
 9 
 
My Little Town 
 
 goes flaunting in garniture of green and 
 red paper-chains from which depend 
 dumpy scarlet bells of all sizes ; through 
 this network at nightfall the smoky 
 glass lamps against the dusky presses 
 blink bravely. One window-sash is 
 lined with Christmas cards that gleam 
 with frost-work and ruddy fires. I 
 confess that those cards, far more than 
 better ones, have for me the Christmas 
 magic. Christmas is a symbol, and a 
 Christmas card should be symbolic; 
 that is saying it should be like the 
 Christmas cards of my childhood, hav- 
 ing house-windows of rosy mica and 
 lawns of artificial frost-work. 
 
 If, as the Littleville News thus an- 
 nounces, Christmas is on the way, it 
 behooves us to remember various du- 
 10 
 
My Little Town 
 
 ties. One afternoon, we of the Rectory 
 look forth upon a procession that, in 
 single file, and silhouetted against the 
 snowy street, trudges on up to the 
 church door. Each head is enveloped 
 in a mob-cap, each form wears a sturdy 
 apron, over each shoulder points a 
 broom-handle bayonet-wise, as they 
 march to duty, the good women of our 
 Littleville congregation, come to clean 
 the church. For two hours the ancient 
 building rocks to their energy, until 
 at last the carpet shows the seams 
 of each well-worn patch, each smoky 
 chimney gleams like crystal, and in the 
 vestry-room the face of each pictured 
 bishop atop of his pontifical lawn is 
 washed clean of cobwebs, and our old 
 ii 
 
My Little Town 
 
 church that has seen a hundred Christ- 
 mases is ready for one more. 
 
 Meanwhile, this morning, we of the 
 Rectory have done a little cleaning of 
 our own. For some reason we always 
 feel a little shaky when our housekeep- 
 ing is to be inspected by Littleville eyes, 
 and so we have secretly burnished the 
 tea-kettle and given an extra rub to 
 the nickel ware of the kitchen stove; 
 for our plot is to decoy our good ladies 
 to refreshment after labour. We have 
 discovered that to a Littleville house- 
 keeper a cup of tea in the middle of the 
 afternoon savours of the Sybarite, but 
 we argue that Littleville is always 
 more at ease when it enters by the 
 back door, and that tea administered 
 in the kitchen will perhaps meet with 
 
 12 
 
My Little Town 
 
 expressed welcome rather than with 
 unexpressed rebuke ; success proves our 
 machinations excusable. 
 
 Christmas comes marching on still 
 nearer, as we know when one morning 
 we come flying from our various cor- 
 ners at the boom of a jovial voice that 
 summons us. Down below there is the 
 clatter of an ox-team and of a great 
 cart, from which trails the Sunday- 
 School Christmas tree, and on which 
 our Christmas greens are heaped high, 
 to be deposited presently on our porch 
 by the big farmer-vestryman. Piled 
 branches block egress for several days, 
 but we don't care, because of the pleas- 
 ant pungency borne in to us in Christ- 
 masy whiffs. 
 
 The brigade that bore the brooms 
 
 13 
 
My Little Town 
 
 now presses into service to decorate 
 the church, but among them is never 
 a man. It is a very strange thing about 
 men that there never are any. Plenty 
 of little boy-babies seem to be born; 
 they do not seem to die off either, - 
 yet there never are any men. Says 
 Mattie, the outspoken, — as we sit 
 about the roaring stove, in the rear of 
 the church, stripping, bunching, and 
 tying, our hands reddened with the 
 frost still on the green twigs, — says 
 Mattie, while she twines with green 
 the hoops she has wound for every 
 Christmas in thirty years, 'If I could 
 have made a man for this church I'd 
 have made one long ago.' Men or no, 
 we somehow clamber up the ladders, 
 despite the handicap of fears and petti- 
 14 
 
My Little Town 
 
 coats. And at last chancel and windows 
 are festooned to our liking. Also we 
 have arranged the white hangings and 
 the white altar-cloth against the Day 
 of the Nativity; and over the worn, 
 soiled places, for our hangings are old 
 and threadbare, we have pinned sprays 
 of the blood-red holly. 
 
 Not in the church preparations alone 
 is the spirit of Christmas abroad in 
 Littleville. On a fairy morning of sun 
 misted by snow-flurries, my marketing 
 is arrested by the sight and sound of a 
 merry company. Over the hill and down 
 the street they troop, the school chil- 
 dren who have gone out to bring in the 
 school Christmas tree. The big boys 
 drag it, and the smaller fry go dancing 
 to right and left and rear, funny bob- 
 
 15 
 
My Little Town 
 
 bing little figures in clumsy, home-made 
 duds. As they go, they sing patriotic 
 songs, for these are all they know. It 
 is one of the tender ironies of life that 
 their shrill voices should be piping 
 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic' 
 in celebration of the birth of peace 
 but it is no matter about the words, 
 for hearts and feet are keeping tune 
 to Christmas. 
 
 Not for the youngsters alone is the 
 holiday cheer at work. As I turn to 
 tug my grocery-basket up the slope, 
 see our aged bus-driver, who has count- 
 ed his fourscore of Christmases, jump 
 nimbly from his seat, seize a sled, and 
 amid the plaudits from the post-office 
 door and the hardware store, cast him- 
 self prone upon it, and, rheumatic feet 
 16 
 
My Little Town 
 
 aloft, go skimming down the glistening 
 curve. 
 
 When Christmas week comes upon 
 us, our little Rectory grows full of un- 
 accustomed bustle. First comes the 
 meeting of the Sunday-School teachers 
 to discuss the apportionment of the 
 ten dollars we have to expend on the 
 Christmas Eve celebration. This must 
 provide a gift for each of our sixteen 
 scholars, as well as candy and oranges. 
 Also the five babies, who have by bap- 
 tism attested their intention of be- 
 coming scholars, must receive their 
 fruit from the Christmas tree, all un- 
 witting neophytes though they still are. 
 
 The matter of the gift-giving is ever 
 a painful one for the Rector, for it 
 seems that the naughty, those who have 
 
 17 
 
My Little Town 
 
 appeared for a single Sunday before 
 Christmas, plainly on booty bent, must 
 be omitted from the list. If even I, 
 remembering the endless dish-washings 
 of the little farm-girls, the endless corn- 
 rows and potato-hills of the little bare- 
 foot boys, find it difficult to demand 
 of them the long trudge to Sunday 
 School, if even I find it difficult not to 
 be lenient on Christmas, for his part 
 the Rector finds it well-nigh impossible 
 to temper his mercy with justice; we 
 have to exercise a shameful severity 
 toward him in order to restrain his 
 hand from diving deep into the lean 
 ministerial pocket and Christmas-ing 
 every one of them. 
 
 On the afternoon of Christmas Eve 
 
 we assemble in the church to prepare 
 
 18 
 
 y 
 
My Little Town 
 
 the tree, and now we actually have the 
 lelp of a man, the busy Littleville edi- 
 tor, who is also our busy Sunday- 
 School Superintendent. We find him 
 sunk in that despair which we know, 
 for him, is a necessity before invention. 
 Therefore we sympathize with his de- 
 jection, retaining our confidence in his 
 resourcefulness. It is the Christmas 
 tree that does not suit him, — in truth 
 it is as scraggly as a plucked fowl, — 
 but presently he has fallen upon it, is 
 grafting with clever wire branch after 
 branch, until the tree stands remade to 
 his satisfaction. However, it topples 
 in perverse fashion, and I am sent fly- 
 ing for the Rectory clothes-line, by 
 means of which we moor the trunk 
 19 
 
My Little Town 
 
 securely to the knob of the vestry-room 
 door. 
 
 We are at last ready to begin labor- 
 iously decorating the branches with 
 packages to be in an hour laboriously 
 cut down, patiently skewering oranges 
 with a threaded darning-kneedle, at- 
 taching tarnished tinsel angels and or- 
 naments and candles; patiently and 
 humbly, for the superintendent has in 
 him the soul of an idealist, and is not 
 easy to satisfy. But at last, as the long 
 shadows begin to steal out on us from 
 beneath the gallery, he dismisses us, 
 to a busy two hours in the Rectory 
 before we reassemble. 
 
 In our absence, gift-bearing visitors 
 have taken advantage of the gloaming 
 to leave curious packages upon our 
 
 20 
 
My Little Town 
 
 doorstep. There is a generous bag 
 containing a supply of Mattie's sour- 
 cream cookies. There is a dressed cock- 
 erel suspended by his long legs from 
 the door-bell. Safely to the right of the 
 door-mat stands a grape-basket twined 
 with ground pine, and in it are fresh 
 eggs, each encased in a fluted cap of 
 green paper, each looking forth with a 
 sketched face, whimsical and merry. 
 We recognise in the pictured faces the 
 clever hand of a neighbouring farm- 
 wife, we surmise the donor of the 
 chicken, but we are quite at a loss to 
 place the responsibility for a generous 
 sack of apples, potatoes and cabbages 
 discovered at the back door. Later in- 
 quiry wins no information, so that we 
 strongly suspect that gift as coming 
 21 
 
My Little Town 
 
 from without our Anglican fold, in 
 fact as due to a Baptist neighbour, ren- 
 dered thus undiscriminating by the 
 Christmas spirit. 
 
 But we, too, have our gifts to make, 
 and must go hastening with them now 
 along the dusky streets. Littleville 
 gives us of its own, and we too carry 
 our home-made gifts. We know Lit- 
 tleville pride, Littleville delicacy, and 
 we offer nothing machine-made, store- 
 new, but carry little boxes of candy of 
 our own manufacture. We tie one on 
 the bell-rope in the dark church vesti- 
 bule where the sexton boy may find it. 
 Others we leave on dark doorsteps, 
 ringing the bell and then scurrying off. 
 It is fun playing Santa Claus in Little- 
 ville. We hurry home in time for a 
 
 22 
 
My Little Town 
 
 hasty supper before we go back to 
 church for the evening festival. 
 
 Early as we are, the superintendent 
 is earlier. We find him suspended in 
 air on top of the pipe-organ. A boy 
 below is handing him a chair on which 
 he clambers. From this perilous vant- 
 age-point he is able to bring forth and 
 hang up in its proper Eastern corner 
 the Star of Bethlehem. The Sunday 
 School could not possibly celebrate 
 Christmas without the Star of Bethle- 
 hem. I do not know what hand first 
 made it, but our Star of Bethlehem is 
 as old as tradition itself. It is formed 
 of a cigar-box on end. In the lid is a 
 star-shaped opening covered with red 
 mica, and within is a candle, whose 
 23 
 
My Little Town 
 
 lighted rays simulate the rosy luminary 
 of the Orient. 
 
 Presently the babies are arriving. 
 They come in soap-boxes fastened to 
 sleds which are drawn into the church. 
 Above a box bearing the inscription 
 'Larkin's Soaps/ or 'Have you a little 
 fairy in your home?' one sees a sweet 
 little wind-rosy face. The Rector has 
 to come down from the vestry-room in 
 his cassock to welcome the babies, as 
 they are gradually undone from their 
 cocoon-like wrappings. 
 
 The church is filling fast now, with 
 a rustling, whispering, observant con- 
 gregation. Our scholars sit a-row in 
 the front pews; their heads present a 
 comical zigzag line, the boys' locks 
 slicked smooth by the hearty family 
 24 
 
My Little Town 
 
 brush that hangs by the kitchen sink, 
 and the little girls' tresses frizzed to 
 wantonness. The choir have taken 
 their seats, crowding the railed plat- 
 form by the organ until it looks like 
 an over-full robin's nest. The choir 
 give hearty assistance to our feeble 
 piping of the carols, fcr the front pews 
 are frankly intent upon the tree rather 
 than upon the singing or upon the Rec- 
 tor's reading of Luke's age-old story. 
 
 He is old and wise, the Rector, and 
 there is no long tarrying before we 
 reach the Christmas-tree part of our 
 programme. As the superintendent 
 jumps nimbly forward to light the 
 candles, the sixteen scholars rise and 
 defile along the chancel-steps. They 
 face us there, ranged strictly according 
 
 25 
 
My Little Town 
 
 to height, from a blushing hobblede- 
 hoy boy to a sprite of a tiny girl, so 
 eager-eyed and fairy-footed that she 
 has to be forcibly pinned to the chancel 
 carpet by the decorous hand of an elder 
 sister, run out along the backs that in- 
 tervene between them. 
 
 The children have been instructed 
 to sing 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' 
 while the tree is being lighted. They 
 begin each stanza bravely enough, but 
 the last line trails to almost nothing- 
 ness, for as the candles gleam, one after 
 one, head after head turns to the tree, 
 exactly like a row of dominoes filliped 
 over by a finger. The line is at last re- 
 stored to the front pew, and we watch 
 our superintendent's every motion, as, 
 slowly and impressively, he clips from 
 26 
 
My Little Town 
 
 the tree each gift we had so securely 
 attached. 
 
 We find it a little hard to recognize 
 our names when a 'Master' or 'Miss' 
 precedes, followed by our full bap- 
 tismal designation and surname, we 
 who are ordinarily merely Joe or Bessie 
 to all the town ; but shoved forward by 
 mates and teacher, each child called 
 rises, receives his gift, and turning, 
 faces the congregation with the trophy 
 held well in evidence toward the cran- 
 ing parental heads in the rear of the 
 church. 
 
 It is all very decorous. If perhaps 
 an irrepressible jumping- jack suddenly 
 springs aloft in the front pew, or if 
 there is a smothered tattoo on a drum, 
 or a baby crows to the music of a new 
 27 
 
My Little Town 
 
 rattle, the Rector himself is the first 
 to smile, despite the solemnity of his 
 surplice. Yet we of his household 
 know how dear to his heart is the or- 
 dered seemliness of divine service in 
 the consecrated building, so that a 
 thrill of apprehension runs through the 
 family consciousness at the wholly un- 
 expected turn the gift-giving takes at 
 the close. 
 
 The presents are all distributed, the 
 candy has gone about the congregation, 
 oranges are gleaming in small hands, 
 but I am aware that there is still a 
 sense of expectation throughout the 
 church. Abruptly the superintendent 
 disappears into the vestry. His back is 
 toward us when he re-enters, dragging 
 what appears to be a seated statue, 
 28 
 
My Little Town 
 
 veiled in wrappings which are rever- 
 ently undone. The superintendent 
 stands back, murmuring three words, 
 Tor our Rector.' All Littleville sits 
 breathless, beaming ; we are breathless, 
 too, for what will he say to the unex- 
 pected thing? There, beside the Rector, 
 with the silvered scholarly head above 
 the hieratic white of the flowing sur- 
 plice, beside him in the very sacredness 
 of the chancel there stands, swaying, 
 with deep reverberant chime of the 
 springs, an enormous red plush rock- 
 ing-chair ! 
 
 Only an instant the Rector hesitates, 
 then the twinkle conquers, and the 
 tenderness. Sometimes he uses words 
 a bit too long for Littleville, but not 
 now. He thanks his people in phrases 
 29 
 
My Little Town 
 
 simple and grave, as befit the house 
 of God, warm and kind, as befit the 
 hearts that are also God's house. And 
 I reflect that the Christian faith is a 
 homely faith, and comprehendeth all 
 homely things. Then simply, as one 
 to whom such transitions are natural 
 as breath, the Rector passes from the 
 gift he has received to that Greater 
 Gift. He speaks as one whose faith in 
 the Christmas creed has never faltered. 
 He talks, as a little child, to little 
 children, about a baby God. And I, 
 too, at this moment, listen as a child. 
 The faith of one's fathers ! It is a little 
 thatched home to which perforce the 
 gypsy brain returns at Christmas-time. 
 I, too, go a-dreaming of Bethlehem's 
 plain and Bethlehem's melodies as the 
 30 
 
My Little Town 
 
 Rector's voice ceases, and we rise to 
 sing, in tones that ring to the battered 
 rafters of our old church, the Gloria 
 in Excelsis. 
 
 The Benediction then, and the home- 
 going. Little heads to be done into 
 hoods or caps with the earlaps snugly 
 down, sleepy babies to be tucked up on 
 their sleds, tops and candy to be stowed 
 away in parental pockets, — and all 
 the little ones and all the big ones of 
 our Littleville bidding us good-night 
 and merry Christmas. Down the dark 
 hill-streets they trundle, our friends, 
 with their lanterns that bob and gleam 
 and disappear as the voices die away 
 into the night. 
 
 A little while I linger on the Rectory 
 doorstep all alone. Within are the rud- 
 3i 
 
 
My Little Town 
 
 dy rooms of our wee Rectory-home. 
 Before me are the great branches fruit- 
 ed with stars, and beyond the branch- 
 es the deep Christmas sky above our 
 Littleville. Again a little girl, I think 
 about the herald angels. Not now for 
 me those riven skies, not now for me a 
 far, faint plain of Bethlehem; but is 
 it not a Christmas gift from one un- 
 seen that I still may hear the Christ- 
 mas angels singing in humble human 
 hearts? 
 
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