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a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
As this is the last newsletter before Christmas I
thought I'd put out a different type of newsletter this week. And
given that around Christmas I usually get loads of Auto Response
emails saying you're on holiday I thought it would be good to get
this out now :-)
I'm likely going to skip the newsletter next week due
to it being Christmas but just check out our What's New page to see
what I'm posting up on the site. The What's New page gives you
the last 100 items I've put up.
And so... First and foremost I'd like to wish you and your
families a Very Merry Christmas when it comes and hope that you'll
have a happy time with lots of good food and drink and many presents
to enjoy :-)
As the wee lassie puts it...
I'm gaun to hing a stockin up,
I'll borrow my big brither's,
It's bigger nor my sister's ane
And strang-er nor my mither's.
I'll be in bed on Yule E'en
When Faither Christmas comes.
I ken he'll wale oor chimley oot
Amang the ither lums.
On Yule richt early I'll be up
Afore the screich o day
To see what ferlies Santa Claus
Has brocht me for my play.
I hope he'll mind a cuddly bear,
And cups for dolly's tea
Wi lots o ither bonnie toys
For a guid wee lass like me.
I am now going to give you three stories
about Christmas which I hope you'll enjoy and after that a poem,
recipe and some links to good Christmas resources and fun links on
A Tribute to Christmas
Here is a wee story we have on the site from Janet MacKay...
One day in mid December, a few years back, a friend
looked out his window and saw a huge tree going by, as if under its
own power. It was so huge that it effectively hid the small car on
which it had been strapped. "I don't know who is driving that car,"
he said, "But that is Janet's tree!"
Often, when I got my special tree home, it touches
the furniture on all sides of the room. The top always has to be cut
off, so the tree can fit below the ceiling. But, somehow a miracle
happens, and it finds space in the living room and still leave room
for the furniture and visiting friends. I return to childhood at
Christmas; I must have my trees, and my own special ornaments which
bring back memories of how they came into my life and onto my tree
and of the friends and family involved. Most of my ornaments are
Several bushy ropes of glimmering white tinsel snow are wrapped
around the tree trunk and out onto the inner parts of its branches.
I have two dozen snowballs to hang near the root of those branches,
and a wide selection of clear plastic ornaments. I have several
strings of lights in clear icicle form, with tiny coloured
mini-bulbs inside. My other lights are white pine-cones with a clear
white mini-bulb inside each. Clear plastic angels surround the top
of the tree, on which an angel in white dress and wings reigns.
Ivory coloured angels grace the branches of the tree below them, and
give way to red apples, quilted calico and gingham balls, and the
several ornaments that have been special to me through the years.
Christmas corsages of many Christmases before are placed at the
junction of the branches, on the flat lower branches.
With the lights of the living room turned off, this Christmas tree
is magical. It brings back comfy memories, putting me in touch with
those important to me but are with us on earth no longer. Perhaps
Christmas is much like the Eucharist as celebrated in the Roman
Catholic and Anglican communion; during those rituals, I am told,
one gathers with family and friends who have gone on before.
I remember about 12 years ago, making Christmas ornaments of calico
and gingham, in red and green designs, and for some reason feeling
my Great-Grandmother Isabella Macdonald, wife of Black Robert
MacKay, very much with me. I felt she also revelled in the colourful
Christmas designs of the cloth, and very interested in the creations
I was evolving from them. Isabella Macdonald MacKay and her husband
departed this life in the early 1870s, before my father was born,
and now rest in the Murray cemetery deep in the woods of Earltown.
This amazed me, and I felt quite close to her in a sharing
companiable way. In the Gaelic tradition, I am told, our ancestors
are still with us, very present as we go through the days of our
Occasionally the veil between us
parts slightly. Did it part, briefly, for my Great-grandmother and
myself, over a shared delight? Or had I been thinking about her,
which brought her into my mind in an seemingly real communication?
She had passed on, more than 100 years before this experience with
the calico and gingham Christmas prints.
I have always known snow at Christmas; if no snow on December 25th,
a full graveyard was prophesized. It seems to hold true, for the
snow has an effective way of killing germs. I'll leave it to the
scientists and the medical folks among us to explain why.
We lived half a mile from the main road, and my father often hired a
snowplow to clear the lane which went through woods. Drifts seemed
higher those days, perhaps because children are shorter than adults!
I wish I could look out over those fields under snow again,
surrounding our home which was built on a hill with the farmlands
all around. Scenery in towns and cities cannot match it. I enjoy
snow, and being out walking during snowstorms. Robert Frost wrote
Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening and The Dust of Snow. I
think I know just how he felt.
I remember mail bags coming in on the sleigh, for we never drove our
car in the winter time. My father had married late in life, and
there were lots of aunts and uncles around to enjoy delighting the
"baby" of that extended family with Christmas presents, secure in
brown paper over the merry Christmas wrappings. I loved shaking each
one, guessing. Mine were the parents who insisted breakfast was over
and the dishes washed before we sat down in ritual, to open our
gifts. There is nothing like the delight of anticipation, as one
gets through breakfast, opens the presents, listens to the Queen
give her Christmas speech, enjoy Christmas dinner and visits with
relatives and friends.
One of my Christmas memories is of going to the woods with my
father, and crossing the brook on a plank provided for that purpose.
Snow was on the ground, and the water was high and rapid. I remember
some fear, but when I was with my father such adventures were always
safe for me. We went up the hill and into the woods behind, to
select that one significant tree.
It was always in the corner of the dining room, decorated with those
red paper bells that unfold to an intricate rich diamond designs. I
still love those bells, and modern ones are now in vogue again.
Those are memories of early childhood on the family farm, which had
been in our family since the 1850s. 200 acres of field and forest,
for a young girl to grow up among and roam about; at Christmas, it
was winter wonderland.
Christmas with Grandma
A story from Margo Fallis...
Blue, green, yellow, orange, red, and white lights twinkle on trees
and around windows, reminding us that it is Christmas time. Snow
falls, landing softly on the browning grass, blanketing it in
Inside the house, warm and secure, Nelson and his sister, Kira sat
in front of the fire. "Tell us a story about Christmas, Grandma,"
Nelson begged. "Tell us about when you were a little girl."
His grandma smiled. "Nelson, when I was a wee lass,
we didn’t even know what Christmas was. Did you know that until the
1960’s it wasn’t celebrated in Scotland, so I can’t tell you about
Christmas in my days. When your dad was a wee lad, we started
"No Christmas?" Kira
said softly, in disbelief.
"No, my wee hen.
It wasn’t like it is today. I didn’t have a tree with colored
lights. I didn’t know who Santa Claus was, and I never had any
presents. I didn’t even know Christmas existed," her grandma
Kira and Nelson looked at the
tree. He loved how the colored lights sparkled and made the
ornaments prettier. "Tell me, Kira, what do you like about
Christmas?" Grandma asked.
everything," she said. "I like Christmas trees."
"Did you know that the idea of a Christmas tree came
from Germany? When I was a lass, in the wintertime we decorated our
house with mistletoe and junipers. They were symbols of life during
the cold months," Grandma explained.
about you, Nelson? What do you like about Christmas?" she asked.
Nelson looked into the flames of the fire that was
roaring in the fireplace. "I like the Yule log," he answered.
"Did you know in Scotland, the Yule log should be
cut from a birch tree?" Grandma said.
didn’t know that, Grandma. What does a Yule log mean anyway?" Nelson
"A log was put in the fireplace to
remind us to keep our hearts warm and filled with good thoughts,"
Grandma explained. "There’s a lot of tradition with Yule logs, but
right now, I want to talk about you both. You know what I love about
"What, Grandma?" Kira asked.
"I love the food and having my family together.
Remember last year when you came to my house? We had a big feast.
There were meat pies, and fresh salmon and trout, roasted goose and
beef, venison, pheasant, lamb and grouse. We also had roasted
apples, bridies and pasties, and hot bannocks. Pine logs burned in
the fireplace, filling the house with a sweet smell," she reminded
them. "I think there was enough food on that table to feed an entire
village for a year." She chuckled.
remember that, Grandma," Nelson spoke. "I remember the clootie
dumpling. I found ten pence in my piece."
liked the shortbread and tablet," Kira said, licking her lips. "Oh,
and the plum pudding. I remember it being on fire."
"You’re right, wee Kira. It was a feast. Now, it’s
time to tuck you in. Santa Claus will be coming tonight when you are
fast asleep and leaving you some gifts," Grandma said. She took them
upstairs and tucked them in. ""Goodnight, my wee bairns," she
whispered and went back down to the fire.
She sat quietly, remembering the days when she’d help her father cut
mistletoe from high in the trees and tie branches of juniper trees,
covered with little whitish-green berries, with big red ribbons. A
smile lit her face and glowed as brightly as the roaring fire. Merry
Black Rock, by Ralph
I've enjoyed this book very much and thus I got a copy of it from
Project Guttenberg and posted it up on the site. Here is the
first chapter to read here about Christmas Eve in a Logging Camp...
CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP
It was due to a mysterious dispensation of Providence, and a good
deal to Leslie Graeme, that I found myself in the heart of the
Selkirks for my Christmas Eve as the year 1882 was dying. It had
been my plan to spend my Christmas far away in Toronto, with such
Bohemian and boon companions as could be found in that cosmopolitan
and kindly city. But Leslie Graeme changed all that, for,
discovering me in the village of Black Rock, with my traps all
packed, waiting for the stage to start for the Landing, thirty miles
away, he bore down upon me with resistless force, and I found myself
recovering from my surprise only after we had gone in his lumber
sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up in the mountains. I
was surprised and much delighted, though I would not allow him to
think so, to find that his old-time power over me was still there.
He could always in the old 'Varsity days--dear, wild days--make me
do what he liked. He was so handsome and so reckless, brilliant in
his class-work, and the prince of half-backs on the Rugby field, and
with such power of fascination, as would 'extract the heart out of a
wheelbarrow,' as Barney Lundy used to say. And thus it was that I
found myself just three weeks later--I was to have spent two or
three days,--on the afternoon of the 24th of December, standing in
Graeme's Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at myself. But I did not
regret my changed plans, for in those three weeks I had raided a
cinnamon bear's den and had wakened up a grizzly--But I shall let
the grizzly finish the tale; he probably sees more humour in it than
The camp stood in a little
clearing, and consisted of a group of three long, low shanties with
smaller shacks near them, all built of heavy, unhewn logs, with door
and window in each. The grub camp, with cook-shed attached, stood in
the middle of the clearing; at a little distance was the
sleeping-camp with the office built against it, and about a hundred
yards away on the other side of the clearing stood the stables, and
near them the smiddy. The mountains rose grandly on every side,
throwing up their great peaks into the sky. The clearing in which
the camp stood was hewn out of a dense pine forest that filled the
valley and climbed half way up the mountain-sides, and then frayed
out in scattered and stunted trees.
It was one of those wonderful Canadian
winter days, bright, and with a touch of sharpness in the air that
did not chill, but warmed the blood like draughts of wine. The men
were up in the woods, and the shrill scream of the blue jay flashing
across the open, the impudent chatter of the red squirrel from the
top of the grub camp, and the pert chirp of the whisky-jack, hopping
about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of the wolf far
down the valley, only made the silence felt the more.
As I stood drinking in with all my soul
the glorious beauty and the silence of mountain and forest, with the
Christmas feeling stealing into me, Graeme came out from his office,
and, catching sight of me, called out, 'Glorious Christmas weather,
old chap!' And then, coming nearer, 'Must you go to-morrow?'
'I fear so,' I replied, knowing well
that the Christmas feeling was on him too.
'I wish I were going with you,' he said
I turned eagerly to
persuade him, but at the look of suffering in his face the words
died at my lips, for we both were thinking of the awful night of
horror when all his bright, brilliant life crashed down about him in
black ruin and shame. I could only throw my arm over his shoulder
and stand silent beside him. A sudden jingle of bells roused him,
and, giving himself a little shake, he exclaimed, 'There are the
boys coming home.'
camp was filled with men talking, laughing, chaffing, like
'They are a
little wild to-night,' said Graeme; 'and to morrow they'll paint
Black Rock red.'
minutes had gone, the last teamster was 'washed up,' and all were
standing about waiting impatiently for the cook's signal--the supper
to-night was to be 'something of a feed'--when the sound of
bells drew their attention to a light sleigh drawn by a buckskin
broncho coming down the hillside at a great pace.
'The preacher, I'll bet, by his
driving,' said one of the men.
'Bedad, and it's him has the foine nose for turkey!' said Blaney, a
good-natured, jovial Irishman.
'Yes, or for pay-day, more like,' said Keefe, a black-browed,
villainous fellow-countryman of Blaney's, and, strange to say, his
M'Naughton, a Canadian Highlander from Glengarry, rose up in wrath.
'Bill Keefe,' said he, with deliberate emphasis, 'you'll just keep
your dirty tongue off the minister; and as for your pay, it's little
he sees of it, or any one else, except Mike Slavin, when you're too
dry to wait for some one to treat you, or perhaps Father Ryan, when
the fear of hell-fire is on to you.'
The men stood amazed at Sandy's sudden
anger and length of speech.
'Bon; dat's good for you, my bully
boy,' said Baptiste, a wiry little French-Canadian, Sandy's sworn
ally and devoted admirer ever since the day when the big Scotsman,
under great provocation, had knocked him clean off the dump into the
river and then jumped in for him.
It was not till afterwards I learned the
cause of Sandy's sudden wrath which urged him to such unwonted
length of speech. It was not simply that the Presbyterian blood
carried with it reverence for the minister and contempt for Papists
and Fenians, but that he had a vivid remembrance of how, only a
month ago, the minister had got him out of Mike Slavin's saloon and
out the clutches of Keefe and Slavin and their gang of bloodsuckers.
Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste
sprang to Sandy's side, slapped him on the back, and called out,
'You keel him, I'll hit (eat) him up, me.'
It looked as if there might be a fight,
when a harsh voice said in a low, savage tone, 'Stop your row, you
blank fools; settle it, if you want to, somewhere else.' I turned,
and was amazed to see old man Nelson, who was very seldom moved to
There was a look of
scorn on his hard, iron-grey face, and of such settled fierceness as
made me quite believe the tales I had heard of his deadly fights in
the mines at the coast. Before any reply could be made, the minister
drove up and called out in a cheery voice, 'Merry Christmas, boys!
Hello, Sandy! Comment ca va, Baptiste? How do you do, Mr. Graeme?'
'First rate. Let me introduce my friend,
Mr. Connor, sometime medical student, now artist, hunter, and tramp
at large, but not a bad sort.'
'A man to be envied,' said the
minister, smiling. 'I am glad to know any friend of Mr. Graeme's.'
I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had
good eyes that looked straight out at you, a clean-cut, strong face
well set on his shoulders, and altogether an upstanding, manly
bearing. He insisted on going with Sandy to the stables to see
Dandy, his broncho, put up.
'Decent fellow,' said Graeme; 'but though he is good enough to his
broncho, it is Sandy that's in his mind now.'
'Does he come out often? I mean, are you
part of his parish, so to speak?'
'I have no doubt he thinks so; and I'm
blowed if he doesn't make the Presbyterians of us think so too.' And
he added after a pause, 'A dandy lot of parishioners we are for any
man. There's Sandy, now, he would knock Keefe's head off as a kind
of religious exercise; but to-morrow Keefe will be sober, and Sandy
will be drunk as a lord, and the drunker he is the better
Presbyterian he'll be; to the preacher's disgust.' Then after
another pause he added bitterly, 'But it is not for me to throw
rocks at Sandy; I am not the same kind of fool, but I am a fool of
several other sorts.'
cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dish-pan.
Baptiste answered with a yell: but
though keenly hungry, no man would demean himself to do other than
walk with apparent reluctance to his place at the table. At the
further end of the camp was a big fireplace, and from the door to
the fireplace extended the long board tables, covered with platters
of turkey not too scientifically carved, dishes of potatoes, bowls
of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller dishes
distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the
roof, and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by
means of slit sticks, cast a dim, weird light over the scene.
There was a moment's silence, and at a
nod from Graeme Mr. Craig rose and said, 'I don't know how you feel
about it, men, but to me this looks good enough to be thankful for.'
'Fire ahead, sir,' called out a voice
quite respectfully, and the minister bent his head and said-- 'For
Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and goodness
we have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night,
our Father, make us thankful. Amen.'
'Bon, dat's fuss rate,' said Baptiste.
'Seems lak dat's make me hit (eat) more better for sure,' and then
no word was spoken for quarter of an hour. The occasion was far too
solemn and moments too precious for anything so empty as words. But
when the white piles of bread and the brown piles of turkey had for
a second time vanished, and after the last pie had disappeared,
there came a pause and hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and
cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth.
'Hooray!' yelled Blaney, 'up wid yez!'
and grabbing the cook by the shoulders from behind, he faced him
Mr. Craig was the first
to respond, and seizing the cookee in the same way, called out,
'Squad, fall in! quick march!' In a moment every man was in the
Batchees, ye little angel!' shouted Blaney, the appellation a
concession to the minister's presence; and away went Baptiste in a
rollicking French song with the English chorus--
'Then blow, ye winds, in
ye winds, ay oh!
Blow, ye winds, in
And at each 'blow' every boot came down with a thump on the plank
floor that shook the solid roof. After the second round, Mr. Craig
jumped upon the bench, and called out--
'Three cheers for Billy the cook!'
In the silence following the cheers
Baptiste was heard to say, 'Bon! dat's mak me feel lak hit dat
puddin' all hup mesef, me.'
'Hear till the little baste!' said Blaney in disgust.
'Batchees,' remonstrated Sandy gravely,
'ye've more stomach than manners.'
'Fu sure! but de more stomach dat's more
better for dis puddin',' replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.
After a time the tables were cleared and
pushed back to the wall, and pipes were produced. In all attitudes
suggestive of comfort the men disposed themselves in a wide circle
about the fire, which now roared and crackled up the great wooden
chimney hanging from the roof. The lumberman's hour of bliss had
arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a shade less melancholy than
usual as he sat alone, well away from the fire, smoking steadily and
silently. When the second pipes were well a-going, one of the men
took down a violin from the wall and handed it to Lachlan Campbell.
There were two brothers Campbell just out from Argyll, typical
Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face of a
mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to his
brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting,
after much protestation, interspersed with gibes from his brother,
took the violin, and, in response to the call from all sides, struck
up 'Lord Macdonald's Reel.' In a moment the floor was filled with
dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest manner.
Then Baptiste did the 'Red River Jig,' a most intricate and
difficult series of steps, the men keeping time to the music with
hands and feet.
When the jig
was finished, Sandy called for 'Lochaber No More'; but Campbell
said, 'No, no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig will play.'
Craig took the violin, and at the first
note I knew he was no ordinary player. I did not recognise the
music, but it was soft and thrilling, and got in by the heart, till
every one was thinking his tenderest and
After he had played two or three
exquisite bits, he gave Campbell his violin, saying, 'Now, "Lochaber,"
Without a word
Lachlan began, not 'Lochaber'--he was not ready for that yet--but
'The Flowers o' the Forest,' and from that wandered through 'Auld
Robin Gray' and 'The Land o' the Leal,' and so got at last to that
most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, 'Lochaber No More.' At the
first strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets
behind the fire, turned over on his face, feigning sleep. Sandy
M'Naughton took his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up straight and
stiff, staring into vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a
short, sharp breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I, in our
student-days, in the drawing-room at home, listening to his father
wailing out 'Lochaber' upon the pipes, and I well knew that the
awful minor strains were now eating their way into his soul.
Over and over again the Highlander
played his lament. He had long since forgotten us, and was seeing
visions of the hills and lochs and glens of his far-away native
land, and making us, too, see strange things out of the dim past. I
glanced at old man Nelson, and was startled at the eager, almost
piteous, look in his eyes, and I wished Campbell would stop. Mr.
Craig caught my eye, and, stepping over to Campbell, held out his
hand for the violin. Lingeringly and lovingly the Highlander drew
out the last strain, and silently gave the minister his instrument.
Without a moment's pause, and while the
spell of 'Lochaber' was still upon us, the minister, with exquisite
skill, fell into the refrain of that simple and beautiful
camp-meeting hymn, 'The Sweet By and By.' After playing the verse
through once, he sang softly the refrain. After the first verse, the
men joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but by the time the
third verse was reached they were shouting with throats full open,
'We shall meet on that beautiful shore.' When I looked at Nelson the
eager light had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was kind of
determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.
After the voices had ceased, Mr. Craig
played again the refrain, more and more softly and slowly; then
laying the violin on Campbell's knees, he drew from his pocket his
little Bible, and said--
with Mr. Graeme's permission, I want to read you something this
Christmas Eve. You will all have heard it before, but you will like
it none the less for that.'
voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the eternal
story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as he read,
a slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he
was seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the timid joy, the
tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in upon us with
overpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the same low, clear
voice went on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to
stand on Christmas Eve listening in thrilling delight to his mother
telling him the story, and how she used to make him see the
shepherds and hear the sheep bleating near by, and how the sudden
burst of glory used to make his heart jump.
'I used to be a little afraid of the
angels, because a boy told me they were ghosts; but my mother told
me better, and I didn't fear them any more. And the Baby, the dear
little Baby--we all love a baby.' There was a quick, dry sob; it was
from Nelson. 'I used to peek through under to see the little one in
the straw, and wonder what things swaddling clothes were. Oh, it was
all so real and so beautiful!' He paused, and I could hear the men
'But one Christmas
Eve,' he went on, in a lower, sweeter tone, 'there was no one to
tell me the story, and I grew to forget it, and went away to
college, and learned to think that it was only a child's tale and
was not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, and I began to
lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, of goodness, till one
black Christmas, in the slums of a faraway city, when I had given up
all, and the devil's arms were about me, I heard the story again.
And as I listened, with a bitter ache in my heart, for I had put it
all behind me, I suddenly found myself peeking under the shepherds'
arms with a child's wonder at the Baby in the straw. Then it came
over me like great waves, that His name was Jesus, because it was He
that should save men from their sins. Save! Save! The waves kept
beating upon my ears, and before I knew, I had called out, "Oh! can
He save me?" It was in a little mission meeting on one of the side
streets, and they seemed to be used to that sort of thing there, for
no one was surprised; and a young fellow leaned across the aisle to
me and said, "Why! you just bet He can!" His surprise that I should
doubt, his bright face and confident tone, gave me hope that perhaps
it might be so. I held to that hope with all my soul,
and'--stretching up his arms, and with a quick glow in his face and
a little break in his voice, 'He hasn't failed me yet; not once, not
He stopped quite short,
and I felt a good deal like making a fool of myself, for in those
days I had not made up my mind about these things. Graeme, poor old
chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his dark eyes; big
Sandy was sitting very stiff, and staring harder than ever into the
fire; Baptiste was trembling with excitement; Blaney was openly
wiping the tears away. But the face that held my eyes was that of
old man Nelson. It was white, fierce, hungry-looking, his sunken
eyes burning, his lips parted as if to cry.
The minister went on. 'I didn't mean to
tell you this, men, it all came over me with a rush; but it is true,
every word, and not a word will I take back. And, what's more, I can
tell you this, what He did for me He can do for any man, and it
doesn't make any difference what's behind him, and'--leaning
slightly forward, and with a little thrill of pathos vibrating in
his voice--'O boys, why don't you give Him a chance at you? Without
Him you'll never be the men you want to be, and you'll never get the
better of that that's keeping some of you now from going back home.
You know you'll never go back till you're the men you want to be.'
Then, lifting up his face and throwing back his head, he said, as if
to himself, 'Jesus! He shall save His people from their sins,' and
then, 'Let us pray.'
leaned forward with his face in his hands; Baptiste and Blaney
dropped on their knees; Sandy, the Campbells, and some others, stood
up. Old man Nelson held his eyes steadily on the minister.
Only once before had I seen that look on
a human face. A young fellow had broken through the ice on the river
at home, and as the black water was dragging his fingers one by one
from the slippery edges, there came over his face that same look. I
used to wake up for many a night after in a sweat of horror, seeing
the white face with its parting lips, and its piteous, dumb appeal,
and the black water slowly sucking it down.
Nelson's face brought it all back; but
during the prayer the face changed, and seemed to settle into
resolve of some sort, stern, almost gloomy, as of a man with his
last chance before him.
the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a Christmas dinner next day
in Black Rock. 'And because you are an independent lot, we'll charge
you half a dollar for dinner and the evening show.' Then leaving a
bundle of magazines and illustrated papers on the table--a godsend
to the men--he said good-bye and went out.
I was to go with the minister, so I
jumped into the sleigh first, and waited while he said good-bye to
Graeme, who had been hard hit by the whole service, and seemed to
want to say something. I heard Mr. Craig say cheerfully and
confidently, 'It's a true bill: try Him.'
Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy
while that interesting broncho was attempting with great success to
balance himself on his hind legs, came to say good-bye. 'Come and
see me first thing, Sandy.'
'Ay! I know; I'll see ye, Mr. Craig,' said Sandy earnestly, as Dandy
dashed off at a full gallop across the clearing and over the bridge,
steadying down when he reached the hill.
'Steady, you idiot!'
This was to Dandy, who had taken a
sudden side spring into the deep snow, almost upsetting us. A man
stepped out from the shadow. It was old man Nelson. He came straight
to the sleigh, and, ignoring my presence completely, said--
'Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this?
Will it work?'
'Do you mean,'
said Craig, taking him up promptly, 'can Jesus Christ save you from
your sins and make a man of you?'
The old man nodded, keeping his hungry
eyes on the other's face.
'Well, here's His message to you:
"The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost."'
'To me? To me?' said the old man
'Listen; this, too, is
His Word: "Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out."
That's for you, for here you are, coming.'
'You don't know me, Mr. Craig. I left my
baby fifteen years ago because--'
'Stop!' said the minister. 'Don't tell
me, at least not to-night; perhaps never. Tell Him who knows it all
now, and who never betrays a secret. Have it out with Him. Don't be
afraid to trust Him.'
looked at him, with his face quivering, and said in a husky voice,
'If this is no good, it's hell for me.'
'If it is no good,' replied Craig, almost sternly, 'it's hell for
all of us.'
The old man
straightened himself up, looked up at the stars, then back at Mr.
Craig, then at me, and, drawing a deep breath, said, 'I'll try Him.'
As he was turning away the minister touched him on the arm, and said
quietly, 'Keep an eye on Sandy to-morrow.'
Nelson nodded, and we went on; but
before we took the next turn I looked back and saw what brought a
lump into my throat. It was old man Nelson on his knees in the snow,
with his hands spread upward to the stars, and I wondered if there
was any One above the stars, and nearer than the stars, who could
see. And then the trees hid him from my sight.
Sounds on a Christmas Morn
A poem by Francis Kerr Young
Wee bairns kecklin’ late at nicht,
cries o’, "Git tae sleep!"
Wee bairns wishin’, een shut ticht,
bit naebidy’s coontin’ sheep.
Squeezed-oot whispers wauken dawn
wi’ oo's an’ ah's an’ aw's!
Thochts o’ sleep hiv lang syne gone;
"Look at them! An’ those!"
Tuggin’ grand bows, rustlin’ paper,
Skirls o’ sheer delicht.
Openin’ boaxes, weans a-caper,
Oh, for Silent Nicht!
Clanks an’ whirrs wi’ bangs an’ bumps;
Faint chimin’ frae a bell;
Crunches, thuds an’ clangs an’ thumps;
an’ noise that soonds like . . . Well!
Music is near, playin’ guid cheer,
Echoin’ Christ his been born;
Soonds that we hear, soonds we haud dear,
Soonds oan a Christmas morn.
And a recipe would be good to include
so here is...
Superb! Make the
day before and pop it in the oven on Christmas morning. Serves 8.
16 slices white bread, with crusts removed
slices of back bacon or ham, sliced thinly
slices of sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
1/2 to 1 tsp dry mustard powder
1/4 cup minced onion
1/4 cup green pepper, finely chopped (optional)
1 to 2 tsp worcestershire sauce
3 cups WHOLE milk
dash red pepper sauce (tabasco)
1/4 lb. butter
Special K or crushed corn flakes
In a 9" x 13" buttered glass baking dish, put 8 pieces of bread. Add
pieces to cover dish entirely. Cover bread with slices of back
bacon, sliced thin. It's best if your meat is about the size of the
bread slice, for ease of cutting after it's cooked. Lay slices of
cheddar cheese on top of bacon and then cover with slices of bread
to make it like a sandwich. In a bowl, beat eggs, salt and pepper.
To the egg mixture add dry mustard,
onion, green pepper, Worcestershire sauce, milk and tabasco. Pour
over the sandwiches. Cover and let stand in fridge overnight. In the
morning, melt 1/4 lb. butter, pour over the top. Cover with Special
K or crushed corn flakes (I use the Special K) and bake, UNCOVERED
for 1 hour at 350 degrees. Let sit for at least 10 minutes before
serving. It's very nice served with fresh, cutup fruit.
How to make
your own gifts
And given that
some people are having a hard time this Christmas due to this global
depression here are some ideas for low cost presents you can make
yourself which Jeanette sent into us. Here is what she had to
There are many quick and easy gift
ideas that are as much fun for the giver to put together as they are
for the recipient to receive. If you have the ideas in your head,
you can shop all year for little items for some of them and be ready
to assemble them for the special occasion whether Christmas or
birthday or other event you want to celebrate. The little extra
touches make all the difference in the world. You easily can make
those around you feel very special and loved.
Gold Boxes with Pajamas
Family Reunion - Cookbook, Calendar, Address Book, Ornaments, Napkin
Rings, Memories Cassette, Family History Photo Album, Ancestry
Research, Sightseeing, Ladies’ Tea, Family Bowl-a-thon.
Old Quilt Stockings
Tea Break Muffins
Bowl of Ornaments
And you can order
some Celtic, Scottish and Irish music CD's from the All Celtic Music
http://electricscotland.allcelticmusic.com/ and if you'll real
late in ordering you can of course order and download individual
tracks and master them onto a memory stick, MP3 player or a CD.
And finally for
those that like cats... I've just been told that Steve has now got
himself 3 cats at our new location in Michigan... one long haired
oldster and two kittens.
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