A Christmas Sleigh-Ride

Below is an interesting tale of a Christmas story. In part, I find it interesting because of how it ends. I'm one of those who likes to have tying up all the loose ends done by the end of a book. I don't mind if there is a sequel but I still need a satisfying ending. My husband on the other hand, enjoys endings that don't really end. Like in the movie Master & Commander. He loves that ending, I don't. In any event, I think all of you might enjoy this little tale.

A Christmas Sleigh-ride.
It was nearly twelve o'clock before the festivities of Christmas Eve came to an end. But at last the candles on the Christmas-tree burned out. The children were put to bed, and I started to walk home. It was a cold star-lighted night, and the ground was well covered with snow.

When I reached the outskirts of the town, I took to the middle of the road, for there the snow was beaten down more compactly than on the sidewalks.

I had not walked far before I heard behind me the jingle of sleigh-bells. Although it approached slowly, the sleigh soon overtook me, and as I stepped aside to let it pass, the driver pulled up.

"Will you ride?" said he. "It is a cold and cheerless night to walk."

"Do you care for company?" I said, a little surprised, when I recognized him, although the invitation was given in a very cordial tone.

"I shall be very glad, indeed, of it," said he.

So I stepped in and sat down by him, drawing part of his great fur robe over my knees.

"You are driving slowly to-night," said I, when we had gone a little way.

"Yes," he answered. "There is no need to hurry. I used to drive about like mad, but, year by year, my work grows less, and my trips shorter, and now I have time enough, and to spare, to do all that is left me to do."

"And why is it," I asked, after a pause, "that the demands upon you so steadily diminish, and your coming is looked for with less interest as Ihe years roll on?"

"You have noticed that, have you?" said he.

"Oh, yes!" said I. "I could not help noticing it."

"Of course not," he said. "Every body knows it. It is not a thing that can be easily concealed. But there are a great many reasons for it. The world is changing."

"That's true," said I, a little warmly. "But I don't see why the world need lose its belief in you."

"The general spread of intelligence," said he," is a great thing—for some people.

There was no denying this statement, so I said nothing.

"See what a load I have," he said directly, motioning with his head to the back part of the sleigh. "And I shall carry the greater part of it home with me. I can't get rid of it to-night, I'm sure."

"What are you carrying now?" I asked, with considerable curiosity.

"If you'll take the lines, I'll show you," he said. "But perhaps you are not used to driving reindeer?"

"No, I am not used to it, but I'll try," and so saying, I took the lines from his hands. I found no difficulty at all in managing the reindeer. They jogged along as gently as old farm-horses. Vixen gave a few signs of impatience when he perceived the change in drivers, but a word from his master quieted him instantly.

The old gentleman pulled a bag from behind the seat, and taking it on his lap proceeded to show me some of the contents.

"They seem to be old-fashioned toys," I remarked.

"Yes," he said with a sigh, "these new-fangled affairs are of no service to me. You couldn't get a paddle-wheel steamer, with a real engine, into a oommon stocking. You'd ruin the vessel or the stocking. And there's scarcely a girl in the land who wears a stocking large enough to hold a doll's trunk, furnished with silk-dresses, bonnets, and all the necessary underclothes. No, I have to confine myself to such things as bear a proper proportion to the feet and legs of children. There is one thing," said he, turning upon me his still jolly old countenance, "that has had more influence than any thing else in causing the general indifference with which I am now regarded."

"And what's that?" I asked.

"Furnace-heat," he said. "What sensible person, old or young, could expect a fellow with a bag on his back, to come down a flue and through an iron register? It would be absurd to try to make even a child believe that any thing of the sort is possible."

And then he put away his bag and took the lines again, with a look of resignation.

"It's all wrong," said I, "all wrong! The old way was the best."

"No doubt of it," said he, "but what can you eipect? Every thing old is changing, changing, changing."

"How about old furniture?" I asked. "That seems popular enough."

"That's changing, too," he answered. "Coming down out of the garret into the parlor. As to people, in general, I scarcely know what to make of them. There will soon be no such thing as Christmas. Hereabouts it's losing ground every year, and New Year's Day is taking its place. The jolly old Christmas festivities are almost forgotten, and the young men are satisfied to trot around on New Year's Day and nibble cake and drink wine at a hundred different places, while the women sit and smile at a hundred different men—some friends and some strangers—till the day's done. What's all that to the grand old times we used to have? But, as I said before, what can you expect? There are men now, who go so far as to assert that matter contains within itself the promise and potency of every form of life! Would you expect the children of such persons to hang up their stockings?"

"No," I said. "I don't think I would."

"Of course not," said he, with considerable asperity for so jovial an old fellow; "it would be entirely out of keeping. Go 'long, there! Get up, Vixen! Why, I tell you, sir, there are not half-adozen houses in that town behind us that I could get into. If you do manage to squeeze down a chimney, you're pretty sure to land in a kitchen fire, or in a cellar furnace! I hate furnaces! They're the invention of the Devil, sir, and pure air and pure Christianity are dying out with the open fire-places. Go 'long, you Blixen! I expect the next thing will be that the children will leave off their stockings altogether."

I saw that he was getting excited, and I did not wish to say anything that would further irritate him, so I simply remarked that he seemed to be driving faster.

"Yes," said he, whipping his reindeer into a smart gallop, "I'm going to a fine old farm-house that stands down yonder in the valley. There the people know how to live. There are great open fire-places with grand old wood-fires in them—shining brass andirons, big back-logs and a merry crackling blaze. Hi there, Vixen! There the children have been playing wild rollicking games all this evening, and there they have hung their stockings by the big fire-place in the kitchen! Go 'long there, hi! hi!"

The old man was now in a glow of delight. He cracked his whip and shouted to his reindeer. The gallant creatures seemed to catch his enthusiasm, and they dashed over the snow at the top of their speed.

"Isn't this—rather—rapid?" said I, as I clung fast to the side of the sleigh.

"Oh, yes!" he shouted, "this is the right sort of driving. This is the way people go when they want to get there. Hi! hi! Away with you, you rascals! There's the house, right before us!"

"Are you going to drive—on top?" said I, almost breathless from the rapidity of the ride.

"Certainly!" he cried. "But you needn't be afraid. I just take that shed first, then up to the roof of the kitchen, and then, clip! and away to the top of the house!"

At this he rose, and stood up in the sleigh, cracking his whip and shouting to his steeds at the top of his voice.

The reindeer dashed forward like mad—they reached the shed, they bounded up. the runners struck the eaves with a bang, and out I shot into a snow-bank— F. R. S.
Source: Scribners Monthly Vol. 9 ©1874