Little Roger's Night In The Church

: STORIES

SUSAN COOLIDGE



The boys and girls had fastened the last sprig of holly upon the walls,

and then gone to their homes, leaving the old church silent and

deserted. The sun had set in a sky clear and yellow as topaz. Christmas

eve had fairly come, and now the moon was rising, a full moon, and all

the world looked white in the silver light. Every bough of every tree

sparkled with a delicate coating of frost, t e pines and cedars were

great shapes of dazzling snow, even the ivy on the gothic tower hung a

glittering arabesque on the gray wall. Never was there a lovelier night.



That light that you see yonder comes from the window of old Andrew, the

sexton, and inside sits his grandson, little Roger, eating his supper of

porridge. The kitchen is in apple-pie order, chairs and tables have been

scrubbed as white as snow, the tins on the dresser shine like silver,

the hearth is swept clean, and Grandfather's chair is drawn into the

warmest corner. Grandfather is not sitting in it though; he has gone to

the church to put the fire in order for the night, lock up the doors,

and make all safe.



Grandmother, in her clean stuff gown and apron, is mounted upon a chair

to stick a twig of holly on the tall clock in the corner. And now, as

she turns round, what a pleasant face she shows us, does she not? Old

and wrinkled, to be sure, but so good-natured and gentle that she is

prettier than many a young girl even now. Is it any wonder that little

Roger there is so fond of her?



Now another bit of holly is wanted on the chimney-piece; and it is while

putting this up that the dear old dame gives sign that something has

gone wrong. Ts, ts, ts,--deary me!



What's the matter, Granny? said Roger.



Why, Roger, replied Granny, carefully dismounting from her chair,

look here, Grandfather has gone off and forgot his keys. He took 'em

from the door this morning, because last year some of the young folks

let 'em drop in the snow, and had a sad time hunting for them. He knew

they would be in and out all day, so he just opened the door and brought

the keys home. Deary me! it's a cold night for old bones to be out of

doors. Would'st be afeard, little 'un, to run up with them?



Not a bit, said Roger, stoutly, as he crammed the last spoonful of

porridge in his mouth, and seized hat and mittens from the table. I'll

take 'em down in a minute. Granny, and then run home. Mother'll want me

in the morning, likely.



For Roger's parents lived in a cottage near the old people, and the boy

often said that he had two homes, and belonged half in one and half in

the other, and the small press-bed in Granny's loft seemed as much his

own as the cot in the corner of his mother's sleeping-room, and was

occupied almost as often. So, after a good-night hug from Granny, off he

ran. The church was near, and the moon light as day, so he never thought

of being afraid, not even when, as he brushed by the dark tower,

something stirred overhead, and a long, melancholy cry came shuddering

from the ivy. Roger knew the owls in the belfry well, and now he called

out to them cheerily: To-whit-whit-whoo!



Whoo-whoo-whit! answered the owls, startled by the cry. Roger could

hear them fluttering in the nest.



The church-door stood ajar, and he peeped in. The glow from the open

door of the stove showed Grandfather's figure, red and warm, stooping to

cover the fire with ashes for the night. He was so busy he never knew

the boy was there till he got close to him and jingled the keys in his

ear; but after one start he laughed, well pleased.



I but just missed them, he said. Thou'rt a good boy to fetch them up.

Art going home with me to-night?



No, I'm to sleep at my mother's, said Roger, but I'll wait and walk

with you, Grandfather. So he slipped into a pew, and sat down till the

work should be finished, and they ready to go; and as he looked up he

saw all at once how beautiful the old church was looking.



The moon outside was streaming in so brightly, that you hardly missed

the sun, Roger could see distinctly way up to the carved beams of the

roof, and trace the figures on the great arched windows over the altar,

whose colors had so often dazzled him on Sundays. The colors were soft

and dim now, but the figures were there. Roger could see them

plainly,--the sitting figure of the Lord Christ, with St. Matthew and

two other apostles, and the fisher-lad with his basket of fish. He had

often asked Granny to read him the story.



That gleam at the further end of the nave came from the organ-loft,

where the moonbeams had found out the great brass pipes, and were

playing all manner of tricks with them. Almost the red of the

holly-berries could be seen, and every pointed ivy-leaf and spike of

evergreen in the wreathings of the windows stood out in bold relief

against the shining panes. With this beautiful whiteness the red glow of

the fire blended, and flooded the chancel with a lovely pink light, in

which shone the gilded letters on the commandment-tables, and the

brasses of the tablets on the walls. It was a wonderful thing to see.



To study the roof better, Roger thought he would lie flat on the cushion

awhile, and look straight up. So he arranged himself comfortably, and

somehow--it _will_ happen, even when we are full of enjoyment and

pleasure--his eyes shut, and the first thing he knew he was rubbing them

open again, only a minute afterward, as it seemed; but Grandfather was

gone. There was the stove closed for the night, and the great door at

the end of the aisle was shut. He jumped up in a fright, as you can

imagine, and ran to see, and shook it hard. No: it was locked, and poor

Roger was fastened in for the night.



He understood it all in a moment. The tall pew had hidden him from

sight. Grandfather had thought him gone home; his mother would ever

doubt that he was safe at the other cottage; no one would miss him, and

there was no chance of being let out before morning.



He was only six years old, so no wonder that at first he felt choked and

frightened, and inclined to cry. But he was a brave lad, and that idea

soon left him. He began to think that he was not badly off, after

all,--the church was warm, the pew-cushion as soft as his bed. No one

could get in to harm him. In fact, after the first moment, there was

something so exciting and adventurous in the idea of spending the night

in such a place, that he was almost glad the accident had happened. So

he went back to the pew, and tried to go to sleep again.



That was not so easy. Did you ever get thoroughly waked up in the night

by a sudden fright? Do you remember how your eyes wouldn't stay shut

afterward, even when you closed them tight, but jerked open almost

against your will, as if a string was fastened to them and some one was

twitching it? Just so poor Roger felt. He lay still and kept himself

quiet for a moment, and then some little noise would come, and his heart

beat and his eyes be wide open in a minute. It was a coal dropping from

the fire, or a slight crack on the frosty panes: once a little mouse

crept out from the chancel, glaring shyly about with his bright eyes,

nibbled a moment at a leaf on the carpet and then crept back again. No

other living thing disturbed the quiet.



He had heard the clock strike eleven a long time since, and was lying

with eyes half shut, gazing at the red fire-grate, and feeling at last a

little drowsy, when all at once a strange rush and thrill seemed to come

to him in the air, like a cool clear wind blowing through the church,

and in one minute he was wide awake and sitting upright, with ears

strained to catch some sound afar off. It was too distant and faint for

ordinary sense, but a new and sharper power of hearing seemed given him.

Little voices were speaking high in the air, outside the church,--very

odd ones, like birds' notes, and yet the words were plain. He listened

and listened, and made out at last that it was the owls in the tower

talking together.



Hoo, hoo, why don't you lie still there? said one.



Whit-whoo-whit, said the other, I can't. I know what is coming too

well for that.



What is coming,--what, what? said two voices together.



Ah! you'll see soon, replied the first. The elves are coming, the

hateful Christmas elves. You'll not get a wink of sleep to-night.



Why not? What will they do to us? chirped the young ones.



You'll see, hooted the old owl. You'll see! They'll pull your tails,

and tickle your feathers, and prick you with thorns. I know them, the

tricksy, troublesome things! I've been here many a long year. You were

only hatched last summer. To-whoo, to-whoo!



Just at this moment the church-clock began to strike twelve. At the

first clang the owls ceased to hoot, and Roger listened to the deep

notes, almost awe-struck, as they sounded one by one. He knew the voice

of the clock well, but it never before sounded so loud or so solemn:

five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve. It was Christmas

Day.



As the last echo died away, a new sound took its place. From afar off

came the babble of tiny voices drawing nearer. Anything so gay and

charming was never dreamed of before,--half a laugh, half a song, the

tones blended into an enchanting peal, like bells on a frolic. Above the

old tower the sounds clustered and increased,--then a long, distressed

cry came from the owl, and a bubbling laugh floated in on the wind.

Roger could not stand it. Wild to see, he flew to the window, and tried

to stretch his neck in such a way as to catch what was going on above;

but it was a vain attempt, and just then the church-bells began to ring

all together, a chime, a Christmas chime, only the sounds were

infinitely small, as if baby hands had laid hold on the ropes. But his

sharpened senses brought every note and change to Roger's ears, and they

were so merry and so lovely that he felt he must get nearer or die; and

almost before he knew it he was climbing the dark belfry-stairs as fast

as his feet could carry him, never thinking of fear or darkness, only of

the elfin bells which were pealing overhead.



Up, up, through the long slits in the tower the moon could be seen

sailing in the cold, clear blue. Higher, higher,--at last he gained the

belfry. There hung the four great bells, but nobody was pulling at their

heavy ropes. On each iron tongue was perched a fay; on the chains which

suspended them clustered others, all keeping time by the swaying of

their bodies as they swung to and fro, just grazing either side, and

bringing forth a clear, delicate stroke, sweet as laughter,--just loud

enough for fairy ears.



Through the windows the crowd of floating fays could be seen whirling

about in the moonlight like glittering gossamer. They floated in and out

of the tower, they mounted the great bells and sat atop in swarms, they

chased and pushed each other, playing all sorts of pranks. Below, others

were attacking the owl's nest. Roger could hear their hoots and grunts

and the gleeful laughter of the elves. The moon made the tower light as

noon; all the time the elves sang or talked,--which, he could not tell;

there were words, but all so blent with laughs and mirthful trills that

it was nothing less than music.



To and fro, to and fro, keeping time to a fairy rhythm, they swayed in

unison with the tiny peal they rang. Little quarrels arose. Once Roger

watched an elf trying to mount the clapper, and whenever he neared the

top a mischievous comrade pushed him off again. Then the elf pouted,

and, flying away, he returned with a holly-leaf. Small as it was, it

curled over his head like a huge umbrella. With the spiky point he slyly

pricked the elf above; and he, taken by surprise, lost his hold, and

came tumbling down, while the other danced for glee and clapped his

hands mockingly. Pretty soon, however, all was made up again,--they

kissed and were friends,--and Roger saw them perched opposite each

other, and moving to and fro like children in a swing.



How long the pretty sight lasted he could not tell. So fearful was he of

marring the sport that he never stirred a finger; but all at once there

came a strain of music in the air, solemn, and sweeter than ever mortal

heard before. In a moment the elves left their sports; they clustered

like bees together in the window, and then flew from the tower in one

sparkling drift, and were gone, leaving Roger alone, and the owls

hooting below in the ivy.



And then he felt afraid,--which he had not been as long as the fays were

there,--and down he ran in a fright over the stone steps of the stairs,

and entered the church again. The red glow of the fire was grateful to

him, for he was shivering with cold and excitement; but hardly had he

regained his old seat, when, lo! a great marvel came to pass. The wide

window over the altar swung open, and a train of angels slowly floated

through. How he knew them to be angels, Roger could not have told; but

that they were, he was sure,--Christmas angels, with faces of calm,

glorious beauty, and robes as white as snow. Over the altar they

hovered, and a wonderful song rose and filled the church--no bird's

strain was ever half so sweet. The words were few, but again and again

and again they came: Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace,

good-will to men!



Roger knew the oft-repeated words,--they were those of the great

evergreen motto which overarched the chancel; but I think he never

forgot the beautiful meaning they seemed to bear as the angels sang them

over and over. It was so wondrous sweet that he could not feel

afraid,--he could only gaze and gaze, and hold his breath lest he should

lose a note.



And the song rang on, clear and triumphant, even as the white-robed

choir parted and floated like soft summer clouds to and fro in the

church, pausing ever and anon as in blessing. They touched the leaves of

the Christmas green as they passed; they hung over the organ and brushed

the keys with their wings; a long time they clustered above the benches

of the poor, as if to leave a fragrance in the air; and then they rested

before a tablet which had been put up but a few months before, and which

bore the name of the rector's eldest son, and the dates of his birth and

death. Roger had been told of this brave lad, and how he had lost his

life in plunging from his ship to save the drowning child of an

emigrant; and now the angel-song seemed sweeter than ever, as over and

again they chanted, Good-will to men,--good-will to men.



At last one of the white-winged ones left the others, and hovered awhile

above the Squire's pew, near which our little boy was hidden. A

prayer-book lay open on the rail, and over this the fair angel bent as

in benediction. A girl had sat there once,--the Squire's only daughter.

Roger remembered her well, and the mourning of the whole parish when,

only a twelvemonth ago, the lovely child had been buried from their

sight; and now, as he timidly glanced into the glorious face above him,

it seemed to him to have the same look, only so ineffably beautiful that

he closed his dazzled eyes to shut out the vision and the light that

shone from the white wings,--only for a moment, then he opened them

again, as a gentle rustling filled the air, and he saw the bending

figure stoop, leave a kiss or a blessing on the pages of the open book,

and then glide away with the others. Again the group hovered above the

altar,--louder and clearer rose the triumphant strain, and, noiseless as

a cloud, the snowy train floated to the window. For one moment their

figures could be seen against the sky, then the song died away,--they

were gone, and Roger saw them no more.



And now the light of dawn began to creep into the windows, twittering

sounds showed the birds awakening outside, and a pink streak appeared in

the sky. Too much rapt by his vision to feel impatience, the boy sat and

waited; and by and by a jingling in the lock showed Grandfather at

hand,--the door opened, and he came in.



You can guess his surprise when his little grandson flew to meet him

with his wonderful story. As for the story, he pooh-poohed

_that_,--sleeping in such a strange place might well bring about a queer

dream, he said; but he took the boy home to the cottage, and Granny,

full of wonderment and sympathy, speedily prepared a breakfast for her

darling after his adventure. But, even with his mouth full of scalding

bread and milk, Roger would go on telling of angels and fairies, and the

owls' talk in their nest, till both grandparents began to think him

bewitched.



Perhaps he was, for to this day he persists in the story. And though the

villagers that morning exclaimed that at no time had their old church,

in its Christmas dress, looked so beautiful before, and though the organ

sent forth a rarer, sweeter music than fingers had ever drawn from it,

still nobody believed a word of it. And though the poor mother, kneeling

in her lonely pew, and missing her darling from beside her, felt a

strange peace and patience enter her heart, and came away calmed and

blessed, still no one listened to the story. Roger had dreamed it all,

they said; and perhaps he had,--only the owls knew.