It was Christmas Eve--cold, cloudy, and damp. The store windows were
gay with every conceivable and inconceivable device for attracting
attention. Parents, nurses, and porters hurried along with
mysterious looking bundles and important countenances. Crowds of
curious, merry children thronged the sidewalks; here a thinly clad,
meager boy, looked, with longing eyes and empty pockets, at pyramids
of fruit and sweetmeats; and there a richly dressed group chattered
like blackbirds, and occasionally fired a pack of crackers, to the
infinite dismay of horses and drivers. Little chaps just out of
frocks rushed about, with their round, rosy faces hid under
grotesque masks; and shouts of laughter, and the squeak of penny
trumpets, and mutter of miniature drums swelled to a continuous din,
which would have been quite respectable even on the plain of Shinar.
The annual jubilee had come, and young and old seemed determined to
celebrate it with due zeal. From her window Beulah looked down on
the merry groups, and involuntarily contrasted the bustling, crowded
streets with the silence and desolation which had reigned over the
same thoroughfares only a few months before. One brief year ago
childish voices prattled of Santa Claus and gift stockings, and
little feet pattered along these same pavements, with tiny hands
full of toys. Fond parents, too, had gone eagerly in and out of
these gay shops, hunting presents for their darlings. Where were
they? children and parents? Ah! a cold, silent band of sleepers in
yonder necropolis, where solemn cedars were chanting an everlasting
dirge. Death's harvest time was in all seasons; when would her own
throbbing pulses be stilled and her questioning tones hushed? Might
not the summons be on that very wintry blast which rushed over her
hot brow? And if it should be so? Beulah pressed her face closer to
the window, and thought it was too inconceivable that she also
should die. She knew it was the common birthright, the one
unchanging heritage of all humanity; yet long vistas of life opened
before her, and though, like a pall, the shadow of the tomb hung
over the end, it was very distant, very dim.