Part 14 (1/2)

It was three days before Christmas, and the baker of the little village of Barnbury sat in the room behind his shop. He was a short and st.u.r.dy baker, a good fellow, and ordinarily of a jolly demeanor, but this day he sat grim in his little back room.

”Christmas, indeed,” he said to himself, ”and what of Christmas? 'Thank you, baker, and a merry Christmas to you,' and every one of them goes away with the present of a raisin-cake, or a horse ginger-cake, if they like that better. All this for the good of the trade, of course.

Confound the trade, I'm tired of trade. Is there no good in this world, but the good of the trade? 'Oh, yes,' they'll say, 'there's Christmas, and that's good.'--'But what is the good of it to me?' say I. Christmas day is a family day, and to a man without a family it's no day at all.

I'm not even fourth cousin to a soul in the town. n.o.body asks me to a family dinner. 'Bake! baker!' they cry, 'that we may eat and love each other.' Confound them! I am tired of it. What is Christmas to me? I have a mind to skip it.”

As he said this, a smile broke out on his face. ”Skip Christmas,” said he; ”that is a good idea. They did not think of me last year; this would make them think of me this year.”

As he said this he opened his order-book and ran his eye over the names. ”Here's orders from every one of them,” said he, ”from the doctor down to Cobbler John. All have families, all give orders. It's pastry, cake, or sweetmeats, or it's meat or fowl to be baked. What a jolly Christmas they will have without me! Orders from all of them, every one; all sent in good time for fear of being crowded out.”

Here he stopped and ran his eye again over the list.

”No, not all,” he said; ”the Widow Monk is not here. What is the matter with her, I wonder. The only person in Barnbury who has not ordered either pastry, cakes, or sweetmeats; or fowls or meat to be baked. If I skip Christmas, she'll not mind it, she'll be the only one--the only one in all Barnbury. Ha! ha!”

The baker wanted some fresh air, and, as this was supper-time for the whole village, he locked up his shop and went out for a walk. The night was clear and frosty. He liked this; the air was so different from that in his bakery.

He walked to the end of the village, and at the last house he stopped.

”It's very odd,” said he to himself; ”no cakes, pastry, or sweetmeats; not even poultry or meat to be baked. I'll look in and see about this,”

and he knocked at the door.

The Widow Monk was at supper. She was a plump little body, bright and cheerful to look upon, and not more than thirty.

”Good evening, baker,” said she; ”will you sit down and have a cup of tea?”

The baker put down his hat, unwound his long woollen comforter, took off his overcoat, and had a cup of tea.

”Now, then,” said he to himself, as he put down his cup, ”if she'd ask me to dinner, I wouldn't skip Christmas, and the whole village might rise up and bless her.”

”We are like to have a fine Christmas,” he said to her.

”Fine enough for the rest of you,” she said, with a smile, ”but I shall not have any Christmas this year.”

”How's that?” cried the baker; ”no Christmas, Widow Monk?”

”Not this year, baker,” said she, and she poured him another cup of tea. ”You see that horse-blanket?” said she, pointing to one thrown over a chair.

”Bless me, Widow Monk,” cried the baker, ”you're not intending to set up a horse?”

”Hardly that,” she answered, with a smile, ”but that's the very last horse-blanket that I can get to bind. They don't put them on horses, but they have them bound with red, and use them for door curtains.

That's all the fas.h.i.+on now, and all the Barnbury folks who can afford them, have sent them to me to be bound with red. That one is nearly finished, and there are no more to be bound.”

”But haven't the Barnbury folks any more work for you?” cried the baker; ”haven't they s.h.i.+rts or gowns, or some other sort of needling?”

”Those things they make themselves,” answered the widow; ”but this binding is heavy work, and they give it to me. The blankets are coa.r.s.e, you see, but they hang well in the doorway.”

”Confound the people of Barnbury!” cried the baker. ”Every one of them would hang well in a doorway, if I had the doing of it. And so you can't afford a Christmas, Widow Monk?”

”No,” said she, setting herself to work on her horse-blanket, ”not this year. When I came to Barnbury, baker, I thought I might do well, but I have not done well.”