Mrs Brownlow's Christmas Party

In this holiday episode of Forward into the Past, host J.C. Rede narrates the Christmas story "Mrs. Brownlow's Christmas Party" by Willis Boyd Allen. Before diving into the story, Rede provides background information on Allen, a prolific author and editor of children's literature in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Allen believed that children deserved their own unique literature and wrote over 30 books for children, often set in exotic locations and dealing with important social issues. "Mrs. Brownlow's Christmas Party" tells the story of the Brownlow family's preparations for a Christmas party and the unexpected turn of events when none of their invited guests show up. Instead, they invite a group of homeless children to join them, and the true spirit of Christmas shines through as they all come together to celebrate. 

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Transcript

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Hello again, friends, and welcome to another holiday episode of Forward into the Past. I'm J. C. Rede, your host and narrator, and today we're diving into yet another Christmas story as written by Willis Boyd Allen at the end of the 19th century. This one entitled, Mrs. Brownlow's Christmas Party. Since all of the Christmastime stories I've read so far have been written by Mr. Allen, I decided to do a little research on this new, favorite author of mine, and share with you what I have found. Willis Boyd Allen was a prolific author and editor of children's literature in the 19th and early 20th centuries. He was born in Kittery Point, Maine on July 9th, 1855, and graduated from Harvard University in 1878. After practicing law for a short time, he retired in 1888 to devote himself to writing full time. Allen's first book, The Wreck of the Greyhound, was published in 1883, and he went on to write over 30 books for children. His books were very popular with readers of all ages. And he was known for his ability to create exciting and suspenseful stories that were also educational. In addition to his work as an author, Allen was also a successful editor. In his editorial work, Allen promoted the importance of good children's literature and helped to launch the careers of many new authors. Allen's work was significant for a number of reasons. First, he was one of the first American authors to write specifically for children. At the time, most children's books were simply rewritten versions of stories that had been originally written for adults. Allen, on the other hand, believed that children deserved their own unique literature. Second, Allen's books were often set in exotic locations, such as Alaska or the Caribbean. This helped to introduce young readers to different cultures and ways of life. Third, Allen's books often dealt with important social issues such as poverty and racism. He believed that children's literature should not only entertain, but also educate. Allen's work was also notable for its high quality. His stories were well written and engaging, and his characters were complex and believable. He was also a master of suspense, and his books often kept readers on the edge of their seats. Allen's work has had a lasting impact on children's literature. Many of his books are still in print today, and they continue to be enjoyed by young readers around the world. He is also remembered for his contributions to the field of children's publishing, And his work helped to shape the landscape of children's literature in the United States. And it continues to influence the authors and editors of children's books to this very day. And so, I humbly present to you my interpretation of Willis Boyd Allen's lovely Christmas story, Mrs. Brownlow's Christmas Party. Mrs. Brownlow's Christmas Party, by Willis Boyd Allen. It was fine Christmas weather. Several light snowstorms in the early part of December had left the earth fair and white, and the sparkling cold days that followed were enough to make the most crabbed and morose of mankind cheerful, as with a foretaste of the joyous season at hand. Downtown, the sidewalks were crowded with mothers and sisters buying gifts for their sons, brothers, and husbands, who found it impossible to get anywhere by taking the ordinary course of foot travel, and were obliged, to stalk along the snowy streets beside the curbstone, in a sober, but not ill humored, row. Among those who were looking forward to the holidays with keen anticipations of pleasure, were Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow of Elm Street, Boston. They had quietly talked the matter over together, and decided that, as there were three children in the family, not counting themselves, as they might well have done, it would be a delightful and not too expensive luxury to give a little Christmas party. You see, John, said Mrs. Brownlow, we've been asked ourselves to half a dozen candy pulls and parties since we've lived here, and it seems nothing but fair that we should do it once ourselves. That's so, Clarissie, replied her husband slowly.'But then, uh, there's so many of us, and my salaries'Well, it would cost considerable, little woman, wouldn't it? I'll tell you what, she exclaimed, we needn't have a regular grown up party, but just one for children. We can get a small tree, and a bit of a present for each of the boys and girls, with ice cream and cake, and let it go at that. The whole thing shan't cost ten dollars. Oh good, said Mr. Brownlow heartily, I knew you'd get some way out of it. Let's tell Bob and Sue and Polly, so they can have the fun of looking forward to it. So it was settled, and all hands entered into the plan with such a degree of earnestness that one would have thought these people were going to have some grand gift themselves, instead of giving to others, and pinching for a month afterwards in their own comforts, as they knew they would have to do. The first real difficulty they met was in deciding whom to invite. John was for asking only the children of their immediate neighbors. But Mrs. Brownlow said it would be a kindness, as well as polite, to include those who were better off than themselves. I always think, John, she explained, laying her hand on his shoulder, that it's just as much despising to look down on your rich neighbors, as if all they'd got was money, as on your poor ones. Let's ask them all. Deacon Holsum's, the Bright's, and the Norton's. The Bright's were Mr. Brownlow's employers. Anybody else, queried her husband with his funny twinkle. Perhaps you'd like to have me ask the Governor's family, or Jordan and Marsh. Now, John, don't be saucy. She laughed, relieved at having carried her point. Let's put our heads together and see who to set down. Susie will write the notes in her nice hand, and Bob can deliver them to save postage. Well, you've said three counted Mr. Brownlow on his fingers. Then there's Mrs. Sampson's little girl, and the Four Williamses, and He enumerated one family after another till nearly 30 names were on the list. Only once Susie broke in. Oh, PA, don't invite that. Mary Penfield, she's awfully stuck up and cross Good said her father again. This will be just the thing for her. Let her be coffee and you'll be sugar and see how much you can sweeten her that evening. In the few days that intervened before the 25th the whole family were busy enough. Mrs. Brownlow shopping, Susie writing the notes, and the others helping wherever they got the chance. Every evening, they spread out upon the sitting room floor such presents as had been bought during the day. These were not costly, but they were chosen lovingly, and seemed very nice indeed to Mr. Brownlow and the children who united in praising the discriminating taste of Mrs. B., as with justifiable pride she sat in the center of the room, bringing forth her purchases from the depths of a capacious carpet bag. The grand final expenditure was left until the day before Christmas. Mr. Brownlow got off from his work early, with his month's salary in his pocket, and a few kind words from his employers tucked away even more securely in his warm heart. He had taken special pains to include their children for his party, and he was Quietly enjoying the thought of making them happy on the morrow. By a preconcerted plan, he met Mrs. Brownlow under the great golden eagle at the corner of Summer and Washington streets. And, having thus joined forces, the two proceeded in company toward a certain wholesale toy shop where Mr. Brownlow was acquainted, and where they expected to secure such small articles as they desired at dozen rates. And now Mr. Brownlow realized what must have been his wife's exertions during the last fortnight. For having gamutly relieved her of her carpet bag and offered his unoccupied arm for her support, he was constantly engaged in a struggle to maintain his hold upon either one or the other of his charges, and rescuing them with extreme difficulty from the crowd. At one time, he was simultaneously attacked at both vulnerable points. A very stout woman, persisting in thrusting herself between him and his already bulging carpet bag on the one hand, and an equally persistent old gentleman engaged in separating Mrs. Brownlow from him on the other. With flushed but determined face, he held on to both with all his might, when a sudden stampede to avoid a passing team brought such a violent pressure upon him, that he found both Clarissa and Bag dragged from him, while he himself was borne at least a rod away before he could stem the tide. Fortunately, the stout woman immediately fell over the Bag, and Mr. Brownlow, having by this means identified the spot where it lay, hewed his way, figuratively speaking, to his wife and bore her off triumphantly. At last, to the relief of both, they reached the entrance of the toy dealer's huge store. Mr. Brownlow at once hunted up his friend, and all three set about a tour of the premises. It was beyond doubt, a wonderful place. A little retail shop in the Christmas holidays is of itself a marvel, but this immense establishment, at the back doors of which stood wagons constantly receiving cases on cases of goods directed to all parts of the country, was quite another thing. Such long passageways there were, walled in from floor to ceiling with boxes of picture blocks, labeled in German. Such mysterious, gloomy alcoves, by the sides of which lurked innumerable wild animals with glaring eyes and rigid tails. Such fleets of Noah's arks, wherein were bestowed the patriarch's whole family, in tight fitting garments of yellow and red, And specimens of all creation, So promiscuously packed together, That it must have been extremely depressing to all concerned. Such a delicious smell of sawdust, and paint, and wax, In short, such presentation of toy in the abstract, And toy in particular, And toy overhead, And underfoot, And in the very air, could never have existed outside of Cotlow and Company's manufacturers, dealers, and importers of toys. Mrs. Brownlow was fairly at her wit's end to choose. When she meekly inquired for tin soldiers, solid regiments of them sprang up like Jason's armed men at her bidding. At the suggestion of a doll, the world seemed suddenly and solely peopled with these little creatures, and winking, crying, walking, and talking dolls crowded about the bewildered customers. Dolls with flaxen hair, and dolls with no hair at all, and dolls of imposing proportions when viewed in front, but of no thickness to speak of when held sideways. Dolls as rigid as mummies, and dolls who exhibited an alarming tendency to double their arms and legs up backward. To add to the confusion, the air was filled with the noise of... Trumpets, drums, musical boxes, and other instruments, which were being tested in various parts of the building, until poor Mrs. Brownlow declared that she should go distracted. At length, however, she and her husband, with the assistance of their polite friend, succeeded in selecting two or three dozen small gifts. And, when the last purchase was concluded, started for home. After a walk of ten minutes, they reached Boylston Market, where they were at once beset by vendors of evergreen and holly wreaths, crosses and stars of every description. Mr. Brownlow bought half a dozen of the cheaper sort of wreaths, which the owner kindly threaded upon his arm, as if they were a sort of huge, fragrant bead. Then he selected a tree, and... After a short consultation with Mrs. Brownlow decided to carry it home himself to save a quarter. A horse car, opportunely passing, they boarded it. Mrs. Brownlow and her bag being with some difficulty squeezed in through the rear door. And Mr. Brownlow taking his stand upon the front platform, from which the tree, which had been tightly tied up, projected like a bowsprit, until they reached home. Great was the bustle at 17 Elm Street that night. Parcels were unwrapped. The whole house was pleasantly redolent of boiling molasses. And from the kitchen, there came, at the same time, a scratchy and poppy sound, denoting the preparation of mounds of feathery corn. Bob and his father took upon themselves the uprearing of the tree. On being carried to the parlor, it was found to be at least three feet too long, and Mr. Brownlow, in his shirt sleeves, accomplished wonders with a saw, smearing himself in the process with pitch from head to foot. The tree seemed at first inclined to be sulky, perhaps at having been decapitated and curtailed, for it obstinately leaned backward, kicked over the soapbox in which it was set, bumped up against Mr. Brownlow, tumbled forward, and, in short, behaved itself like a tree which was determined to lie on its precious back all the next day, or perish in the attempt. At length, just as they were beginning to despair of ever getting it firm and straight, It gave a little quiver of its limbs, Yielded gracefully to a final push by Bob, and stood upright, As fair and comely, a Christmas tree, As one would wish to see. Mr. Brownlow crept out backward from under the lower branches, Thereby throwing his hair into the wildest confusion, And adding more pitch to himself, And regarded it with a sigh of content. Such presents as were to be disposed of in this way were now hung upon the branches, then strings of popcorn, bits of wool, and glistening paper, a few red apples, and lastly, the candles. When all was finished, which was not before midnight, the family withdrew to their beds with weary limbs and brains, but with light hearted anticipation of tomorrow. Do you suppose Mrs. Bright will come with her children, John? asked Mrs. Brownlow as she turned out the gas. You shouldn't wonder. Came sleepily from the four poster. Did Mr. Bright say anything about the invitation we sent when he paid you off? Silence More. Silence. Good. Mr. Brownlow was asleep and Clarissa soon followed him. Meanwhile, the snow which had been falling fast during the early part of the evening, had ceased. Leaving the earth as fair to look upon, as the fleece drifted sky above it. Slowly, the heavy banks of cloud rolled away, disclosing star after star, until the moon itself looked down, and sent a soft, Merry Christmas to mankind. At last came the dawn, with a glorious burst of sunlight and church bells and glad voices ushering in the gladdest and dearest day of all the year. The Brownlows were early astir, full of the joyous spirit of the day. There was a clamor of Christmas greetings and a delighted medley of shouts from the children over the few simple gifts that had been secretly laid aside for them. But the ruling thought in every heart was the party. It was to come off at five o'clock in the afternoon, when it would be just dark enough to light the candles on the tree. In spite of all the hard work of the preceding days, there was not a moment to spare that forenoon. The house, as the head of the family facetiously remarked, was a perfect hive of bees. Bee for Brownlow, of course. As the appointed hour drew near, their nervousness increased. The children had been scrubbed from top to toe and dressed in their very best clothes. Mrs. Brownlow wore a cap with lavender ribbons. Which, she had a misgiving, were too gaudy for a person of her sedate years. Nor was the excitement confined to the interior of the house. The tree was placed in the front parlor, close to the window, and by half past four, a dozen ragged children were gathered about the iron fence of the little front yard, gazing open mouthed and open eyed at the spectacular wonders within. At a quarter before five, Mrs. Brownlow's heart beat hard every time she heard a strange footstep in their quiet street. It was a little odd that none of the guests had arrived, but then it was fashionable to be late. Ten more minutes passed. Still no arrivals. It was evident that each was planning not to be the first to get there, and that they would all descend on the house and assault the doorbell at once. Mrs. Brownlow repeatedly smoothed the wrinkles out of her tidy apron, and Mr. Brownlow began to perspire with responsibility. Meanwhile, the crowd outside, recognizing no rigid bonds of etiquette, rapidly increased in numbers. Mr. Brownlow, to pass the time and please the poor little homeless creatures, lighted two of the candles. The response from the front yard fence was immediate. A low murmur of delight ran along the line, and several dull eyed babies were hoisted in the arms of babies scarcely older than themselves, to behold the rare vision of candles in a tree, just illumining the further splendors glistening here and there among the branches. The kind man's heart warmed towards them, and he lighted two more candles. The delight of the audience could now hardly be restrained and the babies, having been temporarily lowered by the aching little arms of their respective nurses, were shot up once more to view the redoubled grandeur. The whole family had become so much interested in these small outcasts that they had not noticed the flight of time. Now someone glanced suddenly at the clock and exclaimed, It's nearly half past five. The Brownlows looked at one another. Blankly. Poor Mrs. Brownlow's smart ribbons drooped in conscious abasement while mortification and pride struggled in their wearers kindly face, over which, after a moment's silence. One large tear slowly rolled and dropped off. Mr. Brownlow gave himself a little shake and sat down, as was his wont, upon critical occasions. As his absent gaze wandered about the room, so prettily decked for the guests who didn't come, it fell upon a little worn, gilt edged volume on the table. At that sight, a new thought occurred to him. Clarissy, he said softly, going over to his wife, and putting his arm around her, Clarissy, seeing as the well off folks haven't accepted, do you think we'd better invite some of the others in? And he pointed significantly toward the window. Mrs. Brownlow, dispatching another tear after the first, nodded. She was not quite equal to words yet. Being a woman, the neglect of her little party cut her even more deeply than it did her husband. Mr. Brownlow stepped to the front door. Nay more, he walked down the short flight of steps, Took one little girl by the hand, And said in his pleasant, fatherly way, Wouldn't you like to go in and look at the tree? Come, puss, he said to the waif at his side, We'll start first. With these words, He led the way back through the open door, And into the warm, lighted room. The children hung back a little, but... Seeing that no harm came to the first guest, soon flocked in, each trying to keep behind all the rest, but at the same time shouldering the babies up into view as before. In the delightful confusion that followed, the good hosts forgot all about the miscarriage of their plans. They completely outdid themselves in efforts to please their hastily acquired company. Bob spoke a piece. The girls sang duets. Mrs. Brownlow had held every individual baby in her motherly arms before half an hour was over. And, as for Mr. Brownlow, it was simply marvelous to see him go among those children, giving them the presents and initiating their owners into the mysterious, impelling forces of monkeys with yellow legs and gymnastic tendencies, filling the boy's pockets with popcorn, blowing horns and tin whistles, and now assaulting the tree. It had been lighted throughout, and blessed how firm it stood now for fresh novelties. Now diving into the kitchen and returning in an unspeakably cohesive state of breathlessness and molasses candy, all the while laughing, talking, patting heads, joking, until the kindly spirit of Christmas Present would have wept and smiled at once for the pleasure of the sight. And now, my young friends, said Mr. Brownlow, raising his voice, We'll have a little ice cream in the back room. Ladies first, gentlemen afterward. And so saying, he gallantly stood on one side with a sweep of his hand to allow Mrs. Brownlow to precede him. But, just as the words left his mouth, there came a sharp ring at the doorbell. It's a carriage, gasped Mrs. Brownlow, flying to the front window and backing precipitately. Susie. Go to the door and see who tis. Land's sakes, what a mess this parlor's in! And she gazed with a true housekeeper's dismay at the littered carpet and dripping candles. Deacon Holsum and Mrs. Hartwell, pa! announced Susie, throwing open the parlor door. The lady thus mentioned came forward with outstretched hand. Catching a glimpse of Mrs. Brownlow's embarrassed face, she quickly exclaimed, Isn't this splendid? Father and I were just driving past, and we saw your tree through the window, and couldn't resist dropping in upon you. You won't mind us, would you? Mind you? repeated Mrs. Brownlow in astonishment. Why, uh, of course not. Only you are so late. We didn't expect... Mrs. Hartwell looked puzzled. Pardon me? I don't think I quite understand. The invitation was for five, you know, ma'am. But, we received no invitation, said Mrs. Hardwell, still puzzled. Mr. Brownlow, who had greeted the deacon heartily, and then listened with amazement to this conversation, now turned upon Bob with a signally futile attempt at a withering glance. Bob looked as puzzled as the rest for a moment. Then his face fell and flushed to the roots of his hair. I, I, I must have forgot, he stammered. Forgotten what? Said Mr. Brownlow with eyebrows raised. The invitations! They're in my school desk now! Thus said Bob, utterly despairing tone and self abasement. Mrs. Hartwell's silvery little laugh rang out. It was as near moonlight playing on the upper keys of an organ as anything you can imagine, and grasped Mrs. Brownlow's hand. Oh, you poor dear, she cried, kissing her hostess, who still stood speechless, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. So that's why nobody came. Who has cluttered? Who has been having such a good time here, then? Mr. Brownlow silently led the last two arrivals to the door of the next room and pointed in. It was now the kind deacon's turn to be touched. Into the highways, he murmured as he looked upon the unwashed, hungry little circle about the table.'I suppose, said Mr. Brownlow doubtfully. They'd like to have you sit down with them, just as if they were folks, i if you didn't mind. Mind? I wish you could have seen the rich furs and overcoat come off, and go down on the floor in a heap, before Polly could catch them. When they were all seated, Mr. Brownlow looked over to the deacon, and he asked a blessing on the little ones gathered there. Thy servants, the masters of this house, have suffered them to come unto thee, he said in his prayer. Wilt thou take them into thine arms, O Father of Lights, and bless them? A momentary hush followed, and then the fun began again. Sweetly and swiftly kind words flew back and forth across the table, each one carrying its own golden thread and weaving the hearts of poor and rich into one fine fabric of brotherhood and humanity they were meant to form. Outside, the snow began to fall once more, each crystalled flake whispering softly as it touched the earth that Christmas night. Peace, peace. Hi friends, thank you for listening to this holiday episode of Forward into the Past. I really hope you enjoyed this episode and if you did, please subscribe to the show wherever you get your podcasts and leave me a review. I also want to remind you that you can support the show by becoming a monthly supporter on Buy Me a Coffee for as little as 5 a month. Beginning next year you can get access to exclusive bonus content like early access to new episodes and behind the scenes footage. You'll also, of course, be helping to ensure that the show can continue to produce high quality content for years to come. To become a monthly supporter, just use the link on our website, ForwardIntoThePastPodcast. com, or use the link on your favorite podcast platform. And, don't forget to check out the merchandise shop on the website. We have a variety of cool and unique items available like t shirts, hats, mugs, and lots more. All proceeds from the merchandise shop go directly to supporting the show. So please, consider becoming a monthly supporter or purchasing some merchandise from the shop. It's a great way to show your support for the show and help me to continue to produce high quality content. And, I've rambled long enough. Okay friends, until next time. Thanks for listening. Keep sharing the stories and be a good human. Bye for now.