Features
- Reading level: Ages 9-12
- Cover Type: Hard Cover with 96 pages
- Published by: Howard Books October 16, 2007
- Written in: English
- ISBN 10 Number: 1416542191
- ISBN 13 Number: 978-1416542193
-
Book Dimensions:
11.1 x 8.7 x 0.5 inches
- Weighs: 1.4 pounds
Product Description
Eight treasured tales
will charm young readers
and journaling pages
will turn this book
into a keepsake.
Gather the family and
pass on the tradition
of sharing stories
of faith, hope, and love.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
To a child, no other event is comparable to Christmas. New Year's Day, Presidents' Day, St. Patrick's Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Veteran's Day -- none of these register in a child's life. Valentine's Day, Easter, and Thanksgiving register, but only a little more. Even birthdays last but a day.
So Christmas stands alone as the most anticipated holiday of the year. And rightly so -- it contains that magical combination of fantasy and family. Just saying words such as "manger," "Bethlehem," "reindeer," "candy canes," and "Santa," wafts even the most troubled children to a place they feel was created just for them.
Our own grandchildren come to what we call to our "Electronically Free Grey House" for Christmas. Even before we wake up, they'll crawl in beside us and wiggle and talk and cajole until we get up. Then they'll pounce, begging that we play a game with them. Our electronic equipment ban has blessed us by knowing that while they're with us, our time is theirs, without reservations. And they love it! No amount of electronic anything can possibly compare to having Grammy and Poppy all to themselves.
We enter the world of children, by invitation only, of course, for we no longer belong there.
Children, with the dew of heaven scarcely dry on their wings and eyes and ears that still can see and hear, tread sweet wild ways and have no words to tell of them. When they have learnt to pick and choose a telling word and a descriptive phrase the wings have fallen from their shoulders and the old ways are closed. Age has little left to tell of but memories and the trembling hope of returning one day to the old paths.
Elizabeth Goudge, Island Magic And Christmas is the best of times to enter in; the entrance to this great adventure being only a story away. In fact, a story is like a magic key waiting to open the door to imagination filled with life and love and adventure. For a child and an adult, Story often provides a bridge for the two generations to better understand each other, empathize with each other.
When our children were small, I was privileged, through Story, to briefly enter the magical world they lived in. Then they grew up and moved on, but now that we have grandchildren I am rediscovering that world all over again.
I think what surprises me most about a child's world was expressed best by Elizabeth Goudge in
The Scent of Water:
"In a child's life there are no empty spaces."
How very true, even more today! A child's life is every bit as full as are ours -- even their joys and sorrows are proportional to ours. Once upon a time, every child had a chance to explore the world of imagination. A place and a time when dreams could germinate, sprout, and grow. It was a serene world -- until electricity -- when all children had was family, friends, and a few simple toys.
I've always loved reading Longfellow, who spent his childhood in then rural Portland, Maine. On that rugged coast he would lean against a great rock and experience the timeless romance of sea and sand. In Deering Woods, he'd climb his favorite tree, where high up, he would find his personal perch, the place where his dreams were born. It was in these quiet places that his future was conceptualized for the first time.
Attempting to recapture those long ago days, many years later, in "My Lost Youth," he wrote:
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves,
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
The Creator, in His great wisdom, gifted each of us with the "long, long thoughts of youth." In this island in time, free from the hurricanes of adult life, the child is to dream and become. Recent studies reveal that the imagination of a child is born in reading and being read to, both creative processes. We must establish a potent counterforce to the millions of media messages our children are bombarded with.
One such counterforce can be found in Christmas stories written by men and women who understand the true meaning of Christmas. The magic of a well-told story is as irresistible as the magic of Christmas itself. Collections of stories, such as these, when internalized over time, can provide the strength to withstand anything society unleashes on our children.
Thus the answer lies, at least in part, in that refuge provided every year by parents -- the reading of the stories of Christmas. You will undoubtedly celebrate this season in many ways; let this be one of them. It's a magic ticket for you to once again enter the child's world and for the child to enter a world that can educate and inspire. So, gather your children or grandchildren, make some hot chocolate, and watch their eyes light up as you celebrate this season with them.
The small girl's mother was saying, "The onions will be silver, and the carrots will be gold -- "
"And the potatoes will be ivory," said the small girl, and they laughed together. The small girl's mother had a big white bowl in her lap, and she was cutting up vegetables. The onions were the hardest, because she cried over them.
"But our tears will be pearls," said the small girl's mother, and they laughed at that and dried their eyes, and found the carrots much easier, and the potatoes the easiest of all.
Then the next-door-neighbor came in and said, "What are you doing?"
"We are making a vegetable pie for our Christmas dinner," said the small girl's mother.
"And the onions are silver, and the carrots are gold, and the potatoes are ivory," said the small girl.
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," said the next-door-neighbor. "We are going to have turkey for dinner, and cranberries and celery."
The small girl laughed and clapped her hands. "But we are going to have a Christmas pie -- and the onions will be silver and the carrots gold -- "
"You said that once," said the next-door-neighbor, "and I should think you'd know they weren't anything of the kind."
"But they are," said the small girl, all shining eyes and rosy cheeks.
"Run along, darling," said the small girl's mother, "and find poor Pussy-purr-up. He's out in the cold. And you can put on your red sweater and red cap."
So the small girl hopped away like a happy robin, and the next-door-neighbor said, "She's old enough to know that onions aren't silver."
"But they are," said the small girl's mother. "And carrots are gold and the potatoes are -- "
The next-door-neighbor's face was flaming. "If you say that again, I'll scream. It sounds silly to me."
"But it isn't in the least silly," said the small girl's mother, and her eyes were blue as sapphires, and as clear as the sea. "It is sensible. When people are poor, they have to make the most of little things. And we'll have only inexpensive things in our pie, but the onions will be silver -- "
The lips of the next-door-neighbor were folded in a thin line. "If you had acted like a sensible creature, I shouldn't have asked you for the rent."
The small girl's mother was silent for a moment; then she said, "I am sorry -- it ought to be sensible to make the best of things."
"Well," said the next-door-neighbor, sitting down in a chair with a very stiff back, "a pie is a pie. And I wouldn't teach a child to call it anything else."
"I haven't taught her to call it anything else. I was only trying to make her feel that it was something fine and splendid for Christmas Day, so I said that the onions were silver -- "
"Don't say that again," snapped the next-door-neighbor, "and I want the rent as soon as possible."
With that, she flung up her head and marched out of the front door, and it slammed behind her and made wild echoes in the little home.
And the small girl's mother stood there alone in the middle of the floor, and her eyes were like the sea in a storm.
But presently the door opened, and the small girl, looking like a red-breast robin, hopped in, and after her came a great black cat with his tail in the air, and he said, "Purr-up," which gave him his name.
And the small girl said, out of the things she had been thinking, "Mother, why don't we have turkey?"
The clear look came back into the eyes of the small girl's mother, and she said, "Because we are content."
And the small girl said, "What is 'content'?"
And her mother said, "It is making the best of what God gives us. And our best for Christmas Day, my darling, is our Christmas pie."
So she kissed the small girl, and they finished peeling the vegetables, and then they put them to simmer on the back of the stove.
After that, the small girl had her supper of bread and milk, and Pussy-purr-up had milk in a saucer on the hearth, and the small girl climbed up in her mother's lap and said, "Tell me a story."
But the small girl's mother said, "Won't it be nicer to talk about Christmas presents?"
And the small girl sat up and said, "Let's."
And the mother said, "Let's tell each other what we'd rather have in the whole wide world."
"Oh, let's," said the small girl. "And I'll tell you first that I want a doll -- and I want it to have a pink dress -- and I want it to have eyes that open and shut -- and I want it to have shoes and stockings -- and I want it to have curly hair -- " She had to stop, because she didn't have any breath left in her body, and when she got her breath back, she said, "Now, what do you want, Mother, more than anything else in the whole wide world?"
"Well," said the mother, "I want a chocolate mouse."
"Oh," said the small girl scornfully, "I shouldn't think you'd want that."
"Why not?"
"Because a chocolate mouse isn't anything."
"Oh, yes, it is," said the small girl's mother. "A chocolate mouse is Dickory-Dock, and Pussy-Cat-Pussy-Cat-where-have-you-been-was-frightened-under-a-chair, and the mice in Three-Blind-Mice ran after the farmer's wife, and the mouse in A-Frog-Would-a-Wooing-Go went down the throat of the crow -- "<
Reader ReviewsThis wonderful book that is a part of the Christmas in My Heart Volumes is unique in that the stories were chosen with children specifically in mind. It is a gift book with heirloom qualities. The special details are a pleasure to behold and there are pages for entries of special Christmas memories, activities, scriptures and photos etc. It is a lovely book to share with loved ones and pass down to children and grandchildren. Delightful!
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