It could hardly be a merry Christmas for the poor children, though
they did stick holly in every chink where it would go, but there were
not many berries that year, and as Rusha said, "there were only
thorns."
Steadfast walked to Bristol through slush and mire and rain, not even
Smith Blane went with him, deeming the weather too bad, and thinking,
perhaps, rather over much of the goose at home.
Bristol people were keeping Christmas with all their might, making
the more noise and revelry because the Parliament had forbidden the
feast to be observed at all. It was easy to tell who was for the
King and who for the Parliament, for there were bushes of holly,
mistletoe, and ivy, at all the Royalist doors and windows, and from
many came the savoury steam of roast beef or goose, while the other
houses were shut up as close as possible and looked sad and grim.
All the bells of all the churches were ringing, and everybody seemed
to be trooping into them. As Steadfast was borne along by the
throng, there was a pause, and a boy of his own age with a large hat
and long feather, beneath which could be seen curls of jet-black
hair, walked at the head of a party of gentlemen.
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