The Birds' Christmas Carol - Part 1

The Bird’s Christmas Carol (1887) is a short, heartwarming classic by American author Kate Douglas Wiggin.

Wiggin’s stories are known for their warmth, gentle humour and quiet goodness. This book follows the bright-spirited, very unwell little girl Carol Bird as her kindness and generosity touch everyone around her.

Filled with cosy domestic moments and a touch of lively fun, this uplifting little book has the same comforting feel as "Understood Betsy".

Ideal for relaxing, unwinding or adding a bit of old-fashioned cheer to your (holi)days!

Transcript

Hello there.

Thank you so much for joining me for this reading of The Bird's Christmas Carol.

This is a delightful tale from 1887 by American author Kate Douglas Wiggin.

She was an author,

An education reformer,

And she was most well known for these very sweet feel-good classic novels,

Of which this is certainly one.

This is the tale of a deeply kind little girl,

Carol,

Who was born on Christmas Day and who radiates a generous goodwill to all of those around her,

And especially to the large noisy family who live next door,

Called the Ruggles.

But before we get into the story here,

Let's just take a moment to have a nice deep exhale,

Letting go of the day,

Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.

For right now,

There's nowhere else we have to go,

Nothing else we have to be doing.

So we can just relax,

Get ourselves comfortable,

And enjoy the charming story of The Bird's Christmas Carol.

Chapter One.

A Little Snow Bird.

It was very early Christmas morning,

And in the stillness of the dawn,

With the soft snow falling on the housetops,

A little child was born in the Bird household.

They had intended to name the baby Lucy,

If it were a girl,

But they hadn't expected her on Christmas morning,

And a real Christmas baby was not to be lightly named.

The whole family agreed in that.

They were consulting about it in the nursery.

Mr.

Bird said that he had assisted in naming the three boys,

And that he should leave this matter entirely to Mrs.

Bird.

Donald wanted the child called Maud,

After a pretty little curly-haired girl who sat next to him in school.

Paul chose Luella,

For Luella was the nurse who had been with him during his whole babyhood,

Up to the time of his first trousers,

And the name suggested all sorts of comfortable things.

Uncle Jack said that the first girl should always be named for her mother,

No matter how hideous the name happened to be.

Grandma said that she would prefer not to take any part in the discussion,

And everybody suddenly remembered that Mrs.

Bird had thought of naming the baby Lucy for Grandma herself.

And while it would be indelicate for her to favour that name,

It would be against human nature for her to suggest any other under the circumstances.

Hugh,

The hitherto baby,

If that is a possible term,

Sat in one corner and said nothing,

But felt,

In some mysterious way,

That his nose was out of joint.

For there was a newer baby now.

A possibility he had never taken into consideration.

And the first girl,

Too.

A still higher development of treason,

Which made him actually green with jealousy.

But it was too profound a subject to be settled then and there on the spot.

Besides,

Mama had not been asked,

And everybody felt it rather absurd after all,

To forestall a decree that was certain to be absolutely wise,

Just,

And perfect.

The reason that the subject had been brought up at all so early in the day lay in the fact that Mrs.

Bird never allowed her babies to go overnight unnamed.

She was a person of so great decision of character that she would have blushed at such a thing.

She said that to let blessed babies go dangling and dawdling about without names for months and months was enough to ruin them for life.

She also said that if one could not make up one's mind in 24 hours,

It was a sign that… But I will not repeat the rest,

As it might prejudice you against the most charming woman in the world.

So Donald took his new velocipede and went out to ride up and down the stone pavement and notch the shins of innocent people as they passed by,

While Paul spun his musical top on the front steps.

But Hugh refused to leave the scene of action.

He seated himself on the top stair in the hall,

Banged his head against the railing a few times,

Just by way of uncorking the vials of his wrath,

And then subsided into gloomy silence,

Waiting to declare war if more first-girl babies were thrust upon a family already surfeited with that unnecessary article.

Meanwhile,

Dear Mrs Bird lay in her room,

Weak but safe and happy,

With her sweet girl baby by her side and the heaven of motherhood opening before her.

Nurse was making gruel in the kitchen and the room was dim and quiet.

There was a cheerful open fire in the grate,

But though the shutters were closed,

The side windows that looked out on the church of our saviour next door were wide open.

Suddenly,

A sound of music poured out into the bright air and drifted into the chamber.

It was the boy choir singing Christmas anthems.

Higher and higher rose the clear,

Fresh voices,

Full of hope and cheer,

As children's voices always are.

Fuller and fuller grew the burst of melody as one glad strain fell upon another in joyful harmony.

Carol,

Brothers,

Carol,

Carol joyfully,

Carol the good tidings,

Carol merrily,

And pray a gladsome Christmas for all your fellow men.

Carol,

Brothers,

Carol.

Christmas day again.

One verse followed another,

Always with the same glad refrain,

And pray a gladsome Christmas for all your fellow men.

Carol,

Brothers,

Carol.

Christmas day again.

Mrs Bird thought,

As the music floated in upon her gentle sleep,

That she had slipped into heaven with her new baby,

And that the angels were bidding them welcome.

But the tiny bundle by her side stirred a little,

And though it was scarcely more than the ruffling of a feather,

She awoke,

For the mother ear is so close to the heart that it can hear the faintest whisper of a child.

She opened her eyes and drew the baby closer.

It looked like a rose dipped in milk,

She thought,

This pink and white blossom of girlhood,

Or like a pink cherub with its halo of pale yellow hair,

Finer than floss silk.

Carol,

Brothers,

Carol,

Carol joyfully,

Carol the good tidings,

Carol merrily.

The voices were brimming over with joy.

Why,

My baby,

Whispered Mrs Bird in soft surprise,

I had forgotten what day it was.

You are a little Christmas child,

And we will name you Carol.

Mother's little Christmas Carol.

What?

Said Mr Bird,

Coming in softly and closing the door behind him.

Why,

Donald,

Don't you think Carol is a sweet name for a Christmas baby?

It came to me just a moment ago in the singing,

As I was lying here half asleep and half awake.

I think it is a charming name,

Dear heart,

And that it sounds just like you.

And I hope that being a girl,

This baby has some chance of being as lovely as her mother.

At which speech from the baby's papa,

Mrs Bird,

Though she was as weak and tired as she could be,

Blushed with happiness.

And so,

Carol came by her name.

Of course,

It was thought foolish by many people,

Though Uncle Jack declared laughingly that it was very strange if a whole family of birds could not be indulged in a single Carol.

And Grandma,

Who adored the child,

Thought the name much more appropriate than Lucy,

But was glad that people would probably think it was short for Caroline.

Perhaps because she was born in holiday time,

Carol was a very happy baby.

Of course,

She was too tiny to understand the joy of Christmastide,

But people say there is everything in a good beginning.

And she may have breathed in,

Unconsciously,

The fragrance of evergreens and holiday dinners,

While the peals of sleigh bells and the laughter of happy children may have fallen upon her baby ears and wakened in them a glad surprise at the merry world she had come to live in.

Her cheeks and lips were as red as holly berries.

Her hair was,

For all the world,

The colour of a Christmas candle flame.

Her eyes were bright as stars,

Her laugh like a chime of Christmas bells,

And her tiny hands forever outstretched in giving.

Such a generous little creature you never saw.

A spoonful of bread and milk had always to be taken by mama or nurse before Carol could enjoy her supper.

And whatever bit of cake or sweet meat found its way into her pretty fingers,

It was straightway broken in half and shared with Donald,

Paul or Hugh.

And when they made believe Nibble the morsel with affected enjoyment,

She would clap her hands and crow with delight.

Why does she do it?

Asked Donald,

Thoughtfully.

None of us boys ever did.

I hardly know,

Said mama,

Catching her darling to her heart,

Except that she is a little Christmas child,

And so she has a tiny share of the blessedest birthday the world ever saw.

Chapter Two.

Drooping Wings.

It was December,

Ten years later.

Carol had seen nine Christmas trees lighted on her birthdays,

One after another.

Nine times she had assisted in the holiday festivities of the household,

Though in her babyhood her share of the gaieties was somewhat limited.

For five years,

Certainly,

She had hidden presents for mama and papa in their own bureau drawers,

And harboured a number of secrets sufficiently large to burst a baby's brain had it not been for the relief gained by whispering them all to mama at night when she was in her crib.

A proceeding which did not,

In the least,

Lessen the value of a secret in her innocent mind.

For five years she had heard "'Twas the night before Christmas,

" and hung up a scarlet stocking many sizes too large for her,

And pinned a sprig of holly on her little white nightgown to show Santa Claus that she was a truly Christmas child,

And dreamed of fur-coated saints and toy packs and reindeer,

And wished everybody a Merry Christmas before it was light in the morning,

And lent every one of her new toys to the neighbours' children before noon,

And eaten turkey and plum pudding,

And gone to bed at night in a trance of happiness at the day's pleasures.

Donald was away at college now.

Paul and Hugh were great manly fellows,

Taller than their mother.

Papa Bird had grey hairs in his whiskers,

And Grandma,

God bless her,

Had been four Christmases in heaven.

But Christmas in the bird's nest was scarcely as merry now as it used to be in the bygone years,

For the little child that once brought such an added blessing to the day lay,

Month after month,

A patient,

Helpless,

Invalid,

In the room where she was born.

She had never been very strong in body,

And it was with a pang of terror her mother and father noticed,

Soon after she was five years old,

That she began to limp ever so slightly,

To complain too often of weariness,

And to nestle close to her mother,

Saying she would rather not go out to play,

Please.

The illness was slight at first,

And hope was always stirring in Mrs Bird's heart.

Carol would feel stronger in the summertime,

Or she would be better when she had spent a year in the country,

Or she would outgrow it,

Or they would try a new physician.

But by and by,

It came to be all too sure that no physician,

Save one,

Could make Carol strong again.

And that no summertime,

Nor country air,

Unless it were the everlasting summertime in a heavenly country,

Could bring back the little girl to health.

The cheeks and lips that were once as red as holly berries,

Faded to faint pink.

The star-like eyes grew softer,

For they often gleamed through tears.

And the gay child laugh that had been like a chime of Christmas bells,

Gave place to a smile so lovely,

So touching,

So tender and patient,

That it filled every corner of the house with a gentle radiance that might have come from the face of the Christ child himself.

Love could do nothing.

And when we have said that,

We have said all.

For it is stronger than anything else in the whole wide world.

Mr and Mrs Bird were talking it over one evening,

When all the children were asleep.

A famous physician had visited them that day,

And told them that some time,

It might be in one year,

It might be in more,

Carol would slip quietly off into heaven,

Whence she came.

Dear heart,

Said Mr Bird,

Pacing up and down the library floor,

It is no use to shut our eyes to it any longer.

Carol will never be well again.

It almost seems as if I could not bear it,

When I think of that loveliest child,

Doomed to lie there,

Day after day,

And what is still more,

To suffer pain,

That we are helpless to keep away from her.

Merry Christmas indeed.

It gets to be the saddest day in the year to me.

And poor Mr Bird,

Sank into a chair by the table,

And buried his face in his hands,

To keep his wife from seeing the tears that would come in spite of all his efforts.

But Donald,

Dear,

Said sweet Mrs Bird,

With trembling voice,

Christmas Day may not be so merry with us as it used to be,

But it is very happy,

And that is better,

And very blessed,

And that is better yet.

I suffer chiefly for Carol's sake,

But I have almost given up being sorrowful for my own.

I am too happy in the child,

And I see too clearly what she has done for us,

And for our boys.

That's true.

Bless her sweet heart,

Said Mr Bird.

She has been better than a daily sermon in the house,

Ever since she was born,

And especially since she was taken ill.

Yes.

Donald,

And Paul,

And Hugh,

Were three strong,

Willful,

Boisterous boys,

But you seldom see such tenderness,

Devotion,

Thought for others,

And self-denial in lads of their years.

A quarrel or a hot word is almost unknown in this house.

Why?

Carol would hear it,

And it would distress her.

She is so full of love and goodness.

The boys study with all their might and main.

Why?

Partly,

At least,

Because they like to teach Carol,

And amuse her by telling her what they read.

When the seamstress comes,

She likes to sew in Miss Carol's room,

Because there,

She forgets her own troubles,

Which,

Heaven knows,

Are sore enough.

And as for me,

Donald,

I am a better woman every day,

For Carol's sake.

I have to be her eyes,

Ears,

Feet,

Hands,

Her strength,

Her hope,

And she,

My own little child,

Is my example.

I was wrong,

Dear heart,

Said Mr.

Bird,

More cheerfully.

We will try not to repine,

But to rejoice,

Instead,

That we have an angel of the house,

Like Carol.

And as for her future,

Mrs.

Bird went on,

I think we need not be over-anxious,

For I feel as if she did not belong altogether to us,

And when she has done what God sent her for,

He will take her back to himself,

And it may not be very long.

Here,

It was poor Mrs.

Bird's turn to break down,

And Mr.

Bird's turn to comfort her.

Chapter Three The Bird's Nest Carol herself knew nothing of motherly tears and fatherly anxieties.

She lived on peacefully in the room where she was born.

But you never would have known that room,

For Mr.

Bird had a great deal of money,

And though he felt sometimes as if he wanted to throw it all in the ocean,

Since it could not buy a strong body for his little girl,

Yet he was glad to make the place she lived in just as beautiful as it could be made.

The room had been extended by the building of a large addition that hung out over the garden below,

And was so filled with windows that it might have been a conservatory.

The ones on the side were thus still nearer the little church of our saviour than they used to be.

Those in front looked out on the beautiful harbour,

And those in the back commanded a view of nothing in particular,

But a little alley.

Nevertheless,

They were pleasantest of all to Carol,

For the Ruggles family lived in the alley,

And the nine little,

Middle-sized,

And big Ruggles children were the source of inexhaustible interest.

The shutters could all be opened,

And Carol could take a real sunbath in this lovely glass house,

Or they could all be closed when the dear head ached,

Or the dear eyes were tired.

The carpet was of soft grey,

With clusters of green bay and holly leaves.

The furniture was of white wood,

On which an artist had painted snow scenes,

And Christmas trees,

And groups of merry children ringing bells and singing carols.

Donald had made a pretty polished shelf,

And screwed it on to the outside of the footboard,

And the boys always kept this full of blooming plants,

Which they changed from time to time.

The headboard,

Too,

Had a bracket on either side,

Where there were pots of maidenhair ferns.

Lovebirds and canaries hung in their golden houses in the windows,

And they,

Poor caged things,

Could hop as far from their wooden perches as Carol could venture from her little white bed.

On one side of the room was a bookcase filled with hundreds,

Yes,

I mean it,

With hundreds and hundreds of books.

Books with gay-coloured pictures,

Books without,

Books with black and white outlined sketches,

Books with none at all,

Books with verses,

Books with stories,

Books that made children laugh,

And some that made them cry,

Books with words of one syllable,

For tiny boys and girls,

And books with words of fearful length,

To puzzle wise ones.

This was Carol's circulating library.

Every Saturday,

She chose ten books,

Jotting their names down in a little diary.

Into these,

She slipped cards that said,

Please keep this book two weeks and read it with love,

Carol Byrd.

Then Mrs Byrd stepped into her carriage and took the ten books to the children's hospital,

And brought home ten others that she had left there the fortnight before.

This was a source of great happiness.

For some of the hospital children that were old enough to print or write,

And were strong enough to do it,

Wrote Carol cunning little letters about the books,

And she answered them,

And they grew to be friends.

It is very funny,

But you do not always have to see people to love them.

Just think about it,

And see if it isn't so.

There was a high wainscoting of wood about the room,

And on top of this,

In a narrow gilt framework,

Ran a row of illuminated pictures,

Illustrating fairy tales,

All in dull blue and gold and scarlet and silver and other lovely colours.

From the door to the closet,

There was the story of The Fair One with Golden Locks.

From closet to bookcase ran Puss in Boots.

From bookcase to fireplace was Jack the Giant Killer.

And on the other side of the room were Hopper My Thumb,

The Sleeping Beauty,

And Cinderella.

Then there was a great closet full of beautiful things to wear.

But they were all dressing gowns and slippers and shawls,

And there were drawers full of toys and games,

But they were such as you could play with on your lap.

There were no ninepins,

Nor balls,

Nor bows and arrows,

Nor beanbags,

Nor tennis rackets.

But,

After all,

Other children needed these more than Carol Bird,

For she was always happy and contented,

Whatever she had or whatever she lacked.

And after the room had been made so lovely for her on her eighth Christmas,

She always called herself,

In fun,

A Bird of Paradise.

On these particular December days,

She was happier than usual,

For Uncle Jack was coming from Europe to spend the holidays.

Dear,

Funny,

Jolly,

Loving,

Wise Uncle Jack,

Who came every two or three years and brought so much joy with him that the world looked as black as a thundercloud for a week after he went away again.

The mail had brought this letter.

London,

November the 28th,

1886.

Wish you Merry Christmas,

You dearest birdlings in America.

Preen your feathers and stretch the nest a little,

If you please,

And let Uncle Jack in for the holidays.

I am coming with such a trunk full of treasures that you'll have to borrow the stockings of Barnum's giant and giantess.

I am coming to squeeze a certain little ladybird until she cries for mercy.

I am coming to see if I can find a boy to take care of a little black pony I bought lately.

It's the strangest thing I ever knew.

I've hunted all over Europe and can't find a boy to suit me.

I'll tell you why.

I've set my heart on finding one with a dimple in his chin,

Because this pony particularly likes dimples.

Hurrah,

Cried Hugh.

Bless my dear dimple.

I'll never be ashamed of it again.

Please drop a note to the clerk of the weather and have a good,

Rousing snowstorm,

Say on the 22nd.

None of your meek,

Gentle,

Nonsensical,

Shilly-shallying snowstorms.

Not the sort where the flakes float lazily down from the sky as if they didn't care whether they ever got here or not and then melt away as soon as they touch the earth.

But a regular,

Business-like,

Whizzing,

Whirring,

Blurring,

Cutting snowstorm,

Warranted to freeze and stay on.

I should like rather a large Christmas tree,

If it's convenient.

Not one of those sprigs five or six feet high that you used to have three or four years ago when the birdlings were not fairly feathered out,

But a tree of some size.

Set it up in the garret if necessary,

And then we can cut a hole in the roof if the tree chances to be too high for the room.

Tell Bridget to begin to fatten a turkey.

Tell her,

By the 20th of December,

That turkey must not be able to stand on its legs for fat.

And then,

On the next three days,

She must allow it to recline easily on its side and stuff it to bursting.

One ounce of stuffing beforehand is worth a pound afterwards.

The pudding must be unusually huge and darkly,

Deeply,

Lugubriously black in colour.

It must be stuck so full of plums that the pudding itself will ooze out into the pan and not be brought onto the table at all.

I expect to be there by the 20th to manage these little things,

Remembering it is the early bird that catches the worm,

But give you the instructions in case I should be delayed.

And Carol must decide on the size of the tree.

She knows best.

She was a Christmas child,

And she must plead for the snowstorm.

The clerk of the weather may pay some attention to her.

And she must look up the boy with the dimple for me.

She's likelier to find him than I am this minute.

She must advise about the turkey,

And Bridget must bring the pudding to her bedside and let her drop every separate plum into it and stir it once for luck,

Or I'll not eat a single slice.

For Carol is the dearest part of Christmas to Uncle Jack,

And he'll have none of it without her.

She is better than all the turkeys and puddings and apples and spare ribs and wreaths and garlands and mistletoe and stockings and chimneys and sleigh bells in Christendom.

She is the very sweetest Christmas Carol that was ever written,

Said,

Sung,

Or chanted.

And I am coming as fast as ships and railway trains can carry me to tell her so.

Carol's joy knew no bounds.

Mr.

And Mrs.

Bird laughed like children and kissed each other for sheer delight.

And when the boys heard it,

They simply whooped like wild Indians,

Until the Ruggles family,

Whose backyard joined their garden,

Gathered at the door and wondered what was up in the big house.