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diff --git a/15343-0.txt b/15343-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..96d7107 --- /dev/null +++ b/15343-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3371 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Book for Christmas, by Cyrus Townsend Brady + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: A Little Book for Christmas + +Author: Cyrus Townsend Brady + +Release Date: March 12, 2005 [EBook #15343] +[Most recently updated: July 31, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS *** + + + + +Produced by Gene Smethers and the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +A Little Book for Christmas + +[Illustration: The author making his book, as pictured by his friend, +Will Crawford.] + + Containing a Greeting, a Word of Advice, Some + Personal Adventures, a Carol, a Meditation, and Three Christmas + Stories for All Ages + + By + + Cyrus Townsend Brady + + Author of “And Thus He Came, A Christmas + Fantasy,” “Christmas When the West Was Young,” etc., etc. + + With Illustrations and Decorations by + + Will Crawford + + G.P. Putnam’s Sons + + New York and London + + The Knickerbocker Press + + 1917 + + + DEDICATED + + TO + + MRS. LEONARD L. HILL + + AND HER CHARMING COMPANIONS + + OF + + THE AMERICAN CRITERION SOCIETY + + OF NEW YORK + + BY + + THEIR CHAPLAIN + +[Illustration] + + + + +PREFACE + + + Christmas is one of the great days of obligation and observance + in the Church of which I am a Priest; but it is much more than + that, it is one of the great days of obligation and observance in + the world. Furthermore it is one of the evidences of the power of + Him Whose birth we commemorate that its observation is not + limited by conditions of race and creed. Those who fail to see in + Him what we see nevertheless see something and even by imperfect + visions are moved to joy. The world transmutes that joy into + blessing, not merely by giving of its substance but of its soul + because men perceive that it is for the soul’s good and because + they hope to receive its benefits although they well know that + giving is far better than receiving, in the very words of Him Who + gave us the greatest of all gifts—Himself. + + As a Priest of the Church, as a Missionary in the Far West, as + the Rector of large and important parishes I have been brought in + touch with varied life. Christmas in all its phases is familiar + to me. The author of many books and stories as well as the + preacher of many sermons, it is natural that Christmas should + have engaged a large part of my attention. Out of the abundance + of material which I have accumulated in the course of a long + ministry and a longer life I have gathered here a sheaf of things + I have written about Christmas; personal adventures, stories + suggested by the old yet ever-new theme; meditations, words of + advice which I am old enough to be entitled to give; and last but + not least good wishes and good will. I might even call this + little volume _A Book of Good Will toward Men_. And so fit it not + only for Christmas but for all other seasons as well. + + If it shall add to your joy in Christmas, dear reader, and better + still, if it shall move you to add to the joy of some one else at + Christmas-tide or in any other season, I shall be well repaid for + my efforts and incidentally you will also be repaid for your + purchase. + + Cyrus Townsend Brady. + + The Hemlocks, Park Hill, + Yonkers, N.Y. + 1917 + + + + + NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT + + + The author is in debt to his long-time and greatly beloved friend + the Rev. Alsop Leffingwell for the beautiful musical setting of + the little carol which this book contains. + +[Illustration] + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + + + I.—A CHRISTMAS GREETING +“_Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men_” + + II.—FROM A FAR COUNTRY +A story for grown-ups +_Being a new variation of an ancient theme_ + + III.—ON CHRISTMAS GIVING +_Being a word of much needed advice_ + + IV.—IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING +A story for girls +_In which it is shown how different the same thing may be_ + + V.—A CHRISTMAS CAROL +_To be sung to the music accompanying it_ + + VI.—THE LONE SCOUT’S CHRISTMAS +A story for boys +_Wherein is set forth the courage of youth_ + + VII.—LOOKING INTO THE MANGER +_A Christmas meditation_ + + VIII.—CHRISTMAS IN THE SNOWS +_Being some personal adventures in the Far West_ + + IX.— CHRISTMAS WISH +_For everybody everywhere_ + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + + The Author Making his Book + “I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the younger of + the twain. + “I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry Christmas.” + “The Stars look down” + “Thrusting his toes into the straps he struck out boldly.” + “The world bows down to a Mother and her Child—and the Mother herself + is at the feet of the Child.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +A CHRISTMAS GREETING + + “_Good Will Toward Men”—St. Luke 11-14._ + + + There was a time when the spirit of Christmas was of the present. + There is a period when most of it is of the past. There shall + come a day perhaps when all of it will be of the future. The + child time, the present; the middle years, the past; old age, the + future. + + Come to my mind Christmas Days of long ago. As a boy again I + enter into the spirit of the Christmas stockings hanging before + my fire. I know what the children think to-day. I recall what + they feel. + + Passes childhood, and I look down the nearer years. There rise + before me remembrances of Christmas Days on storm-tossed seas, + where waves beat upon the ice-bound ship. I recall again the + bitter touch of water-warping winter, of drifts of snow, of + wind-swept plains. In the gamut of my remembrance I am once more + in the poor, mean, lonely little sanctuary out on the prairie, + with a handful of Christians, mostly women, gathered together in + the freezing, draughty building. In later years I worship in the + great cathedral church, ablaze with lights, verdant and fragrant + with the evergreen pines, echoing with joyful carols and + celestial harmonies. My recollections are of contrasts like those + of life—joy and sadness, poverty and ease. + + And the pictures are full of faces, many of which may be seen no + more by earthly vision. I miss the clasp of vanished hands, I + crave the sound of voices stilled. As we old and older grow, + there is a note of sadness in our glee. Whether we will or not we + must twine the cypress with the holly. The recollection of each + passing year brings deeper regret. How many have gone from those + circles that we recall when we were children? How many little + feet that pattered upon the stair on Christmas morning now tread + softer paths and walk in broader ways; sisters and brothers who + used to come back from the far countries to the old home—alas, + they cannot come from the farther country in which they now are, + and perhaps, saddest thought of all, we would not wish them to + come again. How many, with whom we joined hands around the + Christmas tree, have gone? + + Circles are broken, families are separated, loved ones are lost, + but the old world sweeps on. Others come to take our places. As + we stood at the knee of some unforgotten mother, so other + children stand. As we listened to the story of the Christ Child + from the lips of some grey old father, so other children listen + and we ourselves perchance are fathers or mothers too. Other + groups come to us for the deathless story. Little heads which + recall vanished halcyon days of youth bend around another younger + mother. Smaller hands than ours write letters to Santa Claus and + hear the story, the sweetest story ever told, of the Baby who + came to Mary and through her to all the daughters and sons of + women on that winter night on the Bethlehem hills. + + And we thank God for the children who take us out of the past, + out of ourselves, away from recollections that weigh us down; the + children that weave in the woof and warp of life when our own + youth has passed, some of the buoyancy, the joy, the happiness of + the present; the children in whose opening lives we turn + hopefully to the future. We thank God at this Christmas season + that it pleased Him to send His beloved Son to come to us as a + little child, like any other child. We thank God that in the + lesser sense we may see in every child who comes to-day another + incarnation of divinity. We thank God for the portion of His + Spirit with which He dowers every child of man, just as we thank + Him for pouring it all upon the Infant in the Manger. + + There is no age that has not had its prophet. No country, no + people, but that has produced its leader. But did any of them + ever before come as a little child? Did any of them begin to lead + while yet in arms? Lodges there upon any other baby brow “the + round and top of sovereignty?” What distinguished Christ and His + Christian followers from all the world? Behold! no mighty + monarch, but “a little child shall lead them!” + + You may see through the glass darkly, you may not know or + understand the blessedness of faith in Him as He would have you + know it, but there is nothing that can dim the light that + radiates from that birth in the rude cave back of the inn. Ah, it + pierces through the darkness of that shrouding night. It shines + to-day. Still sparkles the Star in the East. He is that Star. + + There is nothing that can take from mankind—even doubting + mankind—the spirit of Christ and the Christmas season. Our + celebrations do not rest upon the conclusions of logic, or the + demonstrations of philosophy; I would not even argue that they + depend inevitably or absolutely upon the possession of a certain + faith in Jesus, but we accept Christmas, nevertheless; we + endeavour to apply the Christmas spirit, for just once in the + year; it may be because we cannot, try as we may, crush out + utterly and entirely the divinity that is in us that makes for + God. The stories and tales for Christmas which have for their + theme the hard heart softened are not mere fictions of the + imagination. They rest upon an instinctive consciousness of a + profound philosophic truth. + + What is the unpardonable sin, I wonder? Is it to be persistently + and forever unkind? Does it mean perhaps the absolute refusal to + accept the principle of love which is indeed creation’s final + law? The lessons of the Christmastide are so many; the appeals + that now may be made to humanity crowd to the lips from full + minds and fuller hearts. Might we not reduce them all to the + explication of the underlying principle of God’s purpose to us, + as expressed in those themic words of love with which angels and + men greeted the advent of the Child on the first Christmas + morning, “Good will toward men?” + + Let us then show our good will toward men by doing good and + bringing happiness to someone—if not to everyone—at this + Christmas season. Put aside the memories of disappointments, of + sorrows that have not vanished, of cares that still burden, and + do good in spite of them because you would not dim the brightness + of the present for any human heart with the shadows of old + regrets. Do good because of a future which opens possibilities + before you, for others, if not for yourselves. + + Brethren, friends, all, let us make up our minds that we will be + kindly affectioned one to another in our homes and out of them, + on this approaching Christmas day. That the old debate, the + ancient strife, the rankling recollection, the sharp contention, + shall be put aside, that “envy, hatred, and malice, and all + uncharitableness” shall be done away with. Let us forgive and + forget; but if we cannot forget let us at least forgive. And so + let there be peace between man and man at Christmas—a truce of + God. + + Let us pray that Love shall come as a little child to our + households. That He shall be in our hearts and shall find His + expression in all that we do or say on this birthday of goodness + and cheer for the world. Then let us resolve that the spirit of + the day shall be carried out through our lives, that as Christ + did not come for an hour, but for a lifetime, we would fain + become as little children on this day of days that we may begin a + new life of good will to men. + + Let us make this a new birthday of kindness and love that shall + endure. That is a Christmas hope, a Christmas wish. Let us give + to it the gracious expression of life among men. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +FROM A FAR COUNTRY + + _Being a New Variation of an Ancient Theme_ + + A STORY FOR GROWN-UPS + + + I + + “_A certain man had two sons_”—so begins the best and most famous + story in the world’s literature. Use of the absolute superlative + is always dangerous, but none will gainsay that statement, I am + sure. This story, which follows that familiar tale afar off, + indeed, begins in the same way. And the parallelism between the + two is exact up to a certain point. What difference a little + point doth make; like the little fire, behold, how great a matter + it kindleth! Indeed, lacking that one detail the older story + would have had no value; it would not have been told; without its + addition this would have been a repetition of the other. + + When the modern young prodigal came to himself, when he found + himself no longer able to endure the husks of the swine like his + ancient exemplar, when he rose and returned to his father because + of that distaste, he found no father watching and waiting for him + at the end of the road! Upon that change the action of this story + hangs. It was a pity, too, because the elder brother was there + and in a mood not unlike that of his famous prototype. + + Indeed, there was added to that elder brother’s natural + resentment at the younger’s course the blinding power of a great + sorrow, for the father of the two sons was dead. He had died of a + broken heart. Possessed of no omniscience of mind or vision, he + had been unable to foresee the long delayed turning point in the + career of his younger son and death came too swiftly to enable + them to meet again. So long as he had strength, that father had + stood, as it were, at the top of the hill looking down the road + watching and hoping. + + And but the day before the tardy prodigal’s return he had been + laid away with his own fathers in the God’s acre around the + village church in the Pennsylvania hills. Therefore there was no + fatted calf ready for the disillusioned youth whose waywardness + had killed his father. It will be remembered that the original + elder brother objected seriously to fatted calves on such + occasions. Indeed, the funeral baked meats would coldly furnish + forth a welcoming meal if any such were called for. + + For all his waywardness, for all his self-will, the younger son + had loved his father well, and it was a terrible shock to him + (having come to his senses) to find that he had returned too + late. And for all his hardness and narrowness the eldest son also + had loved his father well—strong tribute to the quality of the + dead parent—and when he found himself bereft he naturally visited + wrath upon the head of him who he believed rightly was the cause + of the untimely death of the old man. + + As he sat in the study, if such it might be called, of the + departed, before the old-fashioned desk with its household and + farm and business accounts, which in their order and method and + long use were eloquent of his provident and farseeing father, his + heart was hot within his breast. Grief and resentment alike + gnawed at his vitals. They had received vivid reports, even in + the little town in which they dwelt, of the wild doings of the + wanderer, but they had enjoyed no direct communication with him. + After a while even rumour ceased to busy itself with the doings + of the youth. He had dropped out of their lives utterly after he + passed over the hills and far away. + + The father had failed slowly for a time, only to break suddenly + and swiftly in the end. And the hurried frantic search for the + missing had brought no results. Ironically the god of chance had + led the young man’s repentant footsteps to the door too late. + + “Where’s father?” cried John Carstairs to the startled woman who + stared at him as if she had seen a ghost as, at his knock, she + opened the door which he had found locked, not against him, but + the hour was late and it was the usual nightly precaution: + + “Your brother is in your father’s study, sir,” faltered the + servant at last. + + “Umph! Will,” said the man, his face changing. “I’d rather see + father first.” + + “I think you had better see Mr. William, sir.” + + “What’s the matter, Janet?” asked young Carstairs anxiously. “Is + father ill?” + + “Yes, sir! indeed I think you had bettor see Mr. William at once, + Mr. John.” + + Strangely moved by the obvious agitation of the ancient servitor + of the house who had known him from childhood, John Carstairs + hurried down the long hall to the door of his father’s study. + Always a scapegrace, generally in difficulties, full of mischief, + he had approached that door many times in fear of well merited + punishment which was sure to be meted out to him. And he came to + it with the old familiar apprehension that night, if from a + different cause. He never dreamed that his father was anything + but ill. He must see his brother. He stood in no little awe of + that brother, who was his exact antithesis in almost everything. + They had not got along particularly well. If his father had been + inside the door he would have hesitated with his hand on the + knob. If his father had not been ill he would not have attempted + to face his brother. But his anxiety, which was increased by a + sudden foreboding, for Janet, the maid, had looked at him so + strangely, moved him to quick action. He threw the door open + instantly. What he saw did not reassure him. William was clad in + funeral black. He wore a long frock coat instead of the usual + knockabout suit he affected on the farm. His face was white and + haggard. There was an instant interchange of names. + + “John!” + + “William!” + + And then— + + “Is father ill?” burst out the younger. + + “Janet said—” + + “Dead!” interposed William harshly, all his indignation flaming + into speech and action as he confronted the cause of the + disaster. + + “Dead! Good God!” + + “God had nothing to do with it.” + + “You mean?” + + “You did it.” + + “I?” + + “Yes. Your drunken revelry, your reckless extravagance, your + dissipation with women, your unfeeling silence, your—” + + “Stop!” cried the younger. “I have come to my senses, I can’t + bear it.” + + “I’ll say it if it kills you. You did it, I repeat. He longed and + prayed and waited and you didn’t come. You didn’t write. We could + hear nothing. The best father on earth.” + + The younger man sank down in a chair and covered his face with + his hands. + + “When?” he gasped out finally. + + “Three days ago.” + + “And have you—” + + “He is buried beside mother in the churchyard yonder. Now that + you are here I thank God that he didn’t live to see what you have + become.” + + The respectable elder brother’s glance took in the disreputable + younger, his once handsome face marred—one doesn’t foregather + with swine in the sty without acquiring marks of the + association—his clothing in rags. Thus errant youth, that was + youth no longer, came back from that far country. Under such + circumstances one generally has to walk most of the way. He had + often heard the chimes at midnight, sleeping coldly in the straw + stack of the fields, and the dust of the road clung to his + person. Through his broken shoes his bare feet showed, and he + trembled visibly as the other confronted him, partly from hunger + and weakness and shattered nerves, and partly from shame and + horror and for what reason God only knew. + + The tall, handsome man in the long black coat, who towered over + him so grimly stern, was two years older than he, yet to the + casual observer the balance of time was against the prodigal by + at least a dozen years. However, he was but faintly conscious of + his older brother. One word and one sentence rang in his ear. + Indeed, they beat upon his consciousness until he blanched and + quivered beneath their onslaught. + + “Dead—you did it!” + + Yes, it was just. No mercy seasoned that justice in the heart of + either man. The weaker, self-accusing, sat silent with bowed + head, his conscience seconding the words of the stronger. The + voice of the elder ran on with growing, terrifying intensity. + + “Please stop,” interposed the younger. He rose to his feet. “You + are right, Will. You were always right and I was always wrong. I + did kill him. But you need not have told me with such bitterness. + I realized it the minute you said he was dead. It’s true. And yet + I was honestly sorry. I came back to tell him so, to ask his + forgiveness.” + + “When your money was gone.” + + “You can say that, too,” answered the other, wincing under the + savage thrust. “It’s as true as the rest probably, but sometimes + a man has to get down very low before he looks up. It was that + way with me. Well, I’ve had my share and I’ve had my fling. I’ve + no business here. Good-bye.” He turned abruptly away. + + “Don’t add more folly to what you have already done,” returned + William Carstairs, and with the beginnings of a belated pity, he + added, “stay here with me, there will be enough for us both and—” + + “I can’t.” + + “Well, then,” he drew out of his pocket a roll of bills, “take + these and when you want more—” + + “Damn your money,” burst out John Carstairs, passionately. He + struck the other’s outstretched hand, and in his surprise, + William Carstairs let the bills scatter upon the floor. “I don’t + want it—blood money. Father is dead. I’ve had mine. I’ll trouble + you no more.” + + He turned and staggered out of the room. Now William Carstairs + was a proud man and John Carstairs had offended him deeply. He + believed all that he had said to his brother, yet there had been + developing a feeling of pity for him in his heart, and in his + cold way he had sought to express it. His magnanimity had been + rejected with scorn. He looked down at the scattered bills on the + floor. Characteristically—for he inherited his father’s business + ability without his heart—he stooped over and picked them slowly + up, thinking hard the while. He finally decided that he would + give his brother yet another chance for his father’s sake. After + all, they were brethren. But the decision came too late. John + Carstairs had stood not on the order of his going, but had gone + at once, none staying him. + + William Carstairs stood in the outer door, the light from the + hall behind him streaming out into the night. He could see + nothing. He called aloud, but there was no answer. He had no idea + where his younger brother had gone. If he had been a man of finer + feeling or quicker perception, perhaps if the positions of the + two had been reversed and he had been his younger brother, he + might have guessed that John might have been found beside the + newest mound in the churchyard, had one sought him there. But + that idea did not come to William, and after staring into the + blackness for a long time, he reluctantly closed the door. + Perhaps the vagrant could be found in the morning. + + No, there had been no father waiting for the prodigal at the end + of the road, and what a difference it had made to that wanderer + and vagabond! + + + II + + We leave a blank line on the page and denote thereby that ten + years have passed. It was Christmas Eve, that is, it had been + Christmas Eve when the little children had gone to bed. Now + midnight had passed and it was already Christmas morning. In one + of the greatest and most splendid houses on the avenue two little + children were nestled all snug in their beds in a nursery. In an + adjoining room sound sleep had quieted the nerves of the usually + vigilant and watchful nurse. But the little children were + wakeful. As always, visions of Santa Claus danced in their heads. + + They were fearless children by nature and had been trained + without the use of bugaboos to keep them in the paths wherein + they should go. On this night of nights they had left the doors + of their nursery open. The older, a little girl of six, was + startled, but not alarmed, as she lay watchfully waiting, by a + creaking sound as of an opened door in the library below. She + listened with a beating heart under the coverlet; cause of + agitation not fear, but hope. It might be, it must be Santa + Claus, she decided. Brother, aged four, was close at hand in his + own small crib. She got out of her bed softly so as not to + disturb Santa Claus, or—more important at the time—the nurse. She + had an idea that Saint Nicholas might not welcome a nurse, but + she had no fear at all that he would not be glad to see her. + + Need for a decision confronted her. Should she reserve the + pleasure she expected to derive from the interview for herself or + should she share it with little brother? There was a certain risk + in arousing brother. He was apt to awaken clamant, vociferous. + Still, she resolved to try it. For one thing, it seemed so + selfish to see Santa Claus alone, and for another the adventure + would be a little less timorous taken together. + + Slipping her feet into her bedroom slippers and covering her + nightgown with a little blanket wrap, she tip-toed over to + brother’s bed. Fortunately, he too was sleeping lightly, and for + a like reason. For a wonder she succeeded in arousing him without + any outcry on his part. He was instantly keenly, if quietly, + alive to the situation and its fascinating possibilities. + + “You must be very quiet, John,” she whispered. “But I think Santa + Claus is down in the library. We’ll go down and catch him.” + + Brother, as became the hardier male, disdained further protection + of his small but valiant person. Clad only in his pajamas and his + slippers, he followed sister out the door and down the stair. + They went hand in hand, greatly excited by the desperate + adventure. + + What proportion of the millions who dwelt in the great city were + children of tender years only statisticians can say, but + doubtless there were thousands of little hearts beating with + anticipation as the hearts of those children beat, and perhaps + there may have been others who were softly creeping downstairs to + catch Santa Claus unawares at that very moment. + + One man at least was keenly conscious of one little soul who, + with absolutely nothing to warrant the expectation, nothing + reasonable on which to base joyous anticipation, had gone to bed + thinking of Santa Claus and hoping that, amidst equally deserving + hundreds of thousands of obscure children, this little mite in + her cold, cheerless garret might not be overlooked by the + generous dispenser of joy. With the sublime trust of childhood + she had insisted upon hanging up her ragged stocking. Santa Claus + would have to be very careful indeed lest things should drop + through and clatter upon the floor. Her heart had beaten, too, + although she descended no stair in the great house. She, too, lay + wakeful, uneasy, watching, sleeping, drowsing, hoping. We may + have some doubts about the eternal springing of hope in the human + breast save in the case of childhood—thank God it is always + verdant there! + + + III + + Now few people get so low that they do not love somebody, and I + dare say that no people get so low that somebody does not love + them. + + “Crackerjack,” so called because of his super-excellence in his + chosen profession, was, or had been, a burglar and thief; a very + ancient and highly placed calling indeed. You doubtless remember + that two thieves comprised the sole companions and attendants of + the Greatest King upon the most famous throne in history. His + sole court at the culmination of His career. “Crackerjack” was no + exception to the general rule about loving and being beloved set + forth above. + + He loved the little lady whose tattered stocking swung in the + breeze from the cracked window. Also he loved the wretched woman + who with himself shared the honours of parentage to the poor but + hopeful mite who was also dreaming of Christmas and the morning. + And his love inspired him to action. Singular into what devious + courses, utterly unjustifiable, even so exalted and holy an + emotion may lead fallible man. Love—burglary! They do not belong + naturally in association, yet slip cold, need, and hunger in + between and we may have explanation even if there be no + justification. Oh, Love, how many crimes are committed in thy + name! + + “Crackerjack” would hardly have chosen Christmas eve for a + thieving expedition if there had been any other recourse. + Unfortunately there was none. The burglar’s profession, so far as + he had practised it, was undergoing a timely eclipse. Time was + when it had been lucrative, its rewards great. Then the law, + which is no respecter of professions of that kind, had got him. + “Crackerjack” had but recently returned from a protracted sojourn + at an institution arranged by the State in its paternalism for + the reception and harbouring of such as he. The pitiful dole with + which the discharged prisoner had been unloaded upon a world + which had no welcome for him had been soon spent; even the + hideous prison-made clothes had been pawned, and some rags, which + were yet the rags of a free man, which had been preserved through + the long period of separation by his wife, gave him a poor + shelter from the winter’s cold. + + That wife had been faithful to him. She had done the best she + could for herself and baby during the five years of the absence + of the bread winner, or in his case the bread taker would be the + better phrase. She had eagerly waited the hour of his release; + her joy had been soon turned to bitterness. The fact that he had + been in prison had shut every door against him and even closed + the few that had been open to her. The three pieces of human + flotsam had been driven by the wind of adversity and tossed. They + knew not where to turn when jettisoned by society. + + Came Christmas Eve. They had no money and no food and no fire. + Stop! The fire of love burned in the woman’s heart, the fire of + hate in the man’s. Prison life usually completes the education in + shame of the unfortunate men who are thrust there. This was + before the days in which humane men interested themselves in + prisons and prisoners and strove to awaken the world to its + responsibilities to, as well as the possibilities of, the + convict. + + But “Crackerjack” was a man of unusual character. Poverty, + remorse, drink, all the things that go to wreck men by forcing + them into evil courses had laid him low, and because he was a man + originally of education and ability, he had shone as a criminal. + The same force of character which made him super-burglar could + change him from criminal to man if by chance they could be + enlisted in the endeavour. + + He had involved the wife he had married in his misfortunes. She + had been a good woman, weaker than he, yet she stuck to him. God + chose the weak thing to rejuvenate the strong. In the prison he + had enjoyed abundant leisure for reflection. After he learned of + the birth of his daughter he determined to do differently when he + was freed. Many men determine, especially in the case of an + ex-convict, but society usually determines better—no, not better, + but more strongly. Society had different ideas. It was + Brahministic in its religion. Caste? Yes, once a criminal always + a criminal. + + “Old girl,” said the broken man, “it’s no use. I’ve tried to be + decent for your sake and the kid’s, but it can’t be done. I can’t + get honest work. They’ve put the mark of Cain on me. They can + take the consequences. The kid’s got to have some Christmas; + you’ve got to have food and drink and clothes and fire. God, how + cold it is! I’ll go out and get some.” + + “Isn’t there something else we can pawn?” + + “Nothing.” + + “Isn’t there any work?” + + “Work?” laughed the man bitterly. “I’ve tramped the city over + seeking it, and you, too. Now, I’m going to get money—elsewhere.” + + “Where?” + + “Where it’s to be had.” + + “Oh, Jack, think.” + + “If I thought, I’d kill you and the kid and myself.” + + “Perhaps that would be better,” said the woman simply. “There + doesn’t seem to be any place left for us.” + + “We haven’t come to that yet,” said the man. “Society owes me a + living and, by God, it’s got to pay it to me.” + + It was an oft-repeated, widely held assertion, whether fallacious + or not each may determine for himself. + + “I’m afraid,” said the woman. + + “You needn’t be; nothing can be worse than this hell.” + + He kissed her fiercely. Albeit she was thin and haggard she was + beautiful to him. Then he bent over his little girl. He had not + yet had sufficient time since his release to get very well + acquainted with her. She had been born while he was in prison, + but it had not taken any time at all for him to learn to love + her. He stared at her a moment. He bent to kiss her and then + stopped. He might awaken her. It is always best for the children + of the very poor to sleep. He who sleeps dines, runs the Spanish + proverb. He turned and kissed the little ragged stockings + instead, and then he went out. He was going to play—was it Santa + Claus, indeed? + + + IV + + The strange, illogical, ironical god of chance, or was it + Providence acting through some careless maid, had left an area + window unlocked in the biggest and newest house on the avenue. + Any house would have been easy for “Crackerjack” if he had + possessed the open sesame of his kit of burglar’s tools, but he + had not had a jimmy in his hand since he was caught with one and + sent to Sing Sing. He had examined house after house, trusting to + luck as he wandered on, and, lo! fortune favoured him. + + The clock in a nearby church struck the hour of two. The areaway + was dark. No one was abroad. He plunged down the steps, opened + the window and disappeared. No man could move more noiselessly + than he. In the still night he knew how the slightest sounds are + magnified. He had made none as he groped his way through the back + of the house, arriving at last in a room which he judged to be + the library. Then, after listening and hearing nothing, he + ventured to turn the button of a side light in a far corner of + the room. + + He was in a large apartment, beautifully furnished. Books and + pictures abounded, but these did not interest him, although if he + had made further examination he might have found things worthy of + his attention even there. It so happened that the light bracket + to which he had blundered, or had been led, was immediately over + a large wall safe. Evidently it had been placed there for the + purpose of illuminating the safe door. His eyes told him that + instantly. This was greater fortune than he expected. A wall safe + in a house like that must contain things of value. + + Marking the position of the combination knob, he turned out the + light and waited again. The quiet of the night continued + unbroken. A swift inspection convinced him that the lock was only + an ordinary combination. With proper—or improper—tools he could + have opened it easily. Even without tools, such were his + delicately trained ear and his wonderfully trained fingers that + he thought he could feel and hear the combination. He knelt down + by the knob and began to turn it slowly, listening and feeling + for the fall of the tumblers. Several times he almost got it, + only to fail at the end, but by repeated trials and unexampled + patience, his heart beating like a trip-hammer the while, he + finally mastered the combination and opened the safe door. + + In his excitement when he felt the door move he swung it outward + sharply. It had not been used for some time evidently and the + hinges creaked. He checked the door and listened again. Was he to + be balked after so much success? He was greatly relieved at the + absence of sound. It was quite dark in the room. He could see + nothing but the safe. He reached his hand in and discovered it + was filled with bulky articles covered with some kind of cloth, + silver evidently. + + He decided that he must have a look and again he switched on the + light. Yes, his surmise had been correct. The safe was filled + with silver. There was a small steel drawer in the middle of it. + He had a broad bladed jack-knife in his pocket and at the risk of + snapping the blade he forced the lock and drew out the drawer. It + was filled with papers. He lifted the first one and stood staring + at it in astonishment, for it was an envelope which bore his + name, written by a hand which had long since mouldered away in + the dust of a grave. + + + V + + Before he could open the envelope, there broke on his ear a still + small voice, not that of conscience, not that of God; the voice + of a child—but does not God speak perhaps as often through the + lips of childhood as in any other way—and conscience, too? + + “Are you Santa Claus?” the voice whispered in his ear. + + “Crackerjack” dropped the paper and turned like a flash, knife + upraised in his clenched hand, to confront a very little girl and + a still smaller boy staring at him in open-eyed astonishment, an + astonishment which was without any vestige of alarm. He looked + down at the two and they looked up at him, equal bewilderment on + both sides. + + “I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the younger + of the twain, whose pajamas bespoke the nascent man. + + “In all the books he has a long white beard. Where’s yours?” + asked the coming woman. + + This innocent question no less than the unaffected simplicity and + sincerity of the questioner overpowered “Crackerjack.” He sank + back into a convenient chair and stared at the imperturbable + pair. There was a strange and wonderful likeness in the + sweet-faced golden-haired little girl before him to the worn, + haggard, and ill-clad little girl who lay shivering in the mean + bed in the upper room where God was not—or so he fancied. + + “You’re a little girl, aren’t you?” he whispered. + + No voice had been or was raised above a whisper. It was a + witching hour and its spell was upon them all. + + “Yes.” + + “What is your name?” + + “Helen.” + + Now Helen had been “Crackerjack’s” mother’s name and it was the + name of his own little girl, and although everybody else called + her Nell, to him she was always Helen. + + “And my name’s John,” volunteered the other child. + + “John!” That was extraordinary! + + “What’s your other name?” + + “John William.” + + The man stared again. Could this be coincidence merely? John was + his own name and William that of his brother. + + “I mean what is your last name?” + + “Carstairs,” answered the little girl. “Now you tell us who you + are. You aren’t Santa Claus, are you? I don’t hear any reindeers + outside, or bells, and you haven’t any pack, and you’re not by + the fireplace where our stockings are.” + +[Illustration: I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the +younger of the twain.] “I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” +said the younger of the twain. + + “No,” said the man, “I’m not exactly Santa Claus, I’m his + friend—I—” + + What should he say to these children? In his bewilderment for the + moment he actually forgot the letter which he still held tightly + in his hand. + + “Dat’s muvver’s safe,” continued the little boy. “She keeps lots + o’ things in it. It’s all hers but dat drawer. Dat’s papa’s and—” + + “I think I hear some one on the stairs,” broke in the little girl + suddenly in great excitement. “Maybe that’s Santa Claus.” + + “Perhaps it is,” said the man, who had also heard. “You wait and + watch for him. I’ll go outside and attend to his reindeer.” + + He made a movement to withdraw, but the girl caught him tightly + by the hand. + + “If you are his friend,” she said, “you can introduce us. You + know our names and—” + + The golden opportunity was gone. + + “Don’t say a word,” whispered the man quickly. “We’ll surprise + him. Be very still.” + + He reached his hand up and turned out the light. He half hoped he + might be mistaken, or that in the darkness they would not be + seen, but no. They all heard the footsteps on the stair. They + came down slowly, and it was evident that whoever was approaching + was using every precaution not to be heard. “Crackerjack” was in + a frightful situation. He did not know whether to jerk himself + away from the two children, for the boy had clasped him around + the leg and the girl still held his hand, or whether to wait. + + The power of decision suddenly left him, for the steps stopped + before the door. There was a little click as a hand pressed a + button on the wall and the whole room was flooded with light from + the great electrolier in the centre. Well, the game was up. + “Crackerjack” had been crouching low with the children. He rose + to his feet and looked straightly enough into the barrel of a + pistol held by a tall, severe looking man in a rich silk dressing + robe, who confronted him in the doorway. Two words broke from the + lips of the two men, the same words that had fallen from their + lips when they met ten years before. + + “John!” cried the elder man, laying the weapon on a nearby table. + + “Will!” answered “Crackerjack” in the same breath. + + As if to mark the eternal difference as before, the one was + clothed in habiliments of wealth and luxury, the other in the + rags and tatters of poverty and shame. + + “Why, that isn’t Santa Claus,” instantly burst out the little + girl, “that’s papa.” + + “Dis is Santy Claus’s friend, papa,” said the little boy. “We + were doin’ to su’prise him. He said be very still and we minded.” + + “So this is what you have come to, John,” said the elder man, but + there was an unwonted gentleness in his voice. + + “I swear to God I didn’t know it was your house. I just came in + here because the window was open.” + + The other pointed to the safe. + + “But you were—” + + “Of course I was. You don’t suppose I wandered in for fun, do + you? I’ve got a little girl of my own, and her name’s Helen, too; + our mother’s name.” + + The other brother nodded. + + “She’s hungry and cold and there’s no Christmas for her or her + mother.” + + “Oh, Santy has been here already,” cried Master John Williams, + running toward the great fireplace, having just that moment + discovered the bulging stockings and piles of gifts. His sister + made a move in the same direction, for at the other corner hung + her stocking and beneath it her pile, but the man’s hand + unconsciously tightened upon her hand and she stopped. + + “I’ll stay with you,” she said, after a moment of hesitation. + “Tell me more about your Helen.” + + “There’s nothing to tell.” He released her hand roughly. “You + musn’t touch me,” he added harshly. “Go.” + + “You needn’t go, my dear,” said her father quickly. “Indeed, I + think, perhaps—” + + “Is your Helen very poor?” quietly asked the little girl, + possessing herself of his hand again, “because if she is she can + have”—she looked over at the pile of toys—“Well, I’ll see. I’ll + give her lots of things, and—” + + “What’s this?” broke out the younger man harshly, extending his + hand with the letter in it toward the other. + + “It is a letter to you from our father.” + + “And you kept it from me?” cried the other. + + “Read it,” said William Carstairs. + + With trembling hands “Crackerjack” tore it open. It was a message + of love and forgiveness penned by a dying hand. + + “If I had had this then I might have been a different man,” said + the poor wretch. + + “There is another paper under it, or there should be, in the same + drawer,” went on William Carstairs, imperturbably. “Perhaps you + would better read that.” + + John Carstairs needed no second invitation. He turned to the open + drawer and took out the next paper. It was a copy of a will. The + farm and business had been left to William, but one half of it + was to be held in trust for his brother. The man read it and then + he crushed the paper in his hand. + + “And that, too, might have saved me. My God!” he cried, “I’ve + been a drunken blackguard. I’ve gone down to the very depths. I + have been in State’s prison. I was, I am, a thief, but I never + would have withheld a dying man’s forgiveness from his son. I + never would have kept a poor wretch who was crazy with shame and + who drank himself into crime out of his share of the property.” + + Animated by a certain fell purpose, he leaped across the room and + seized the pistol. + + “Yes, and I have you now!” he cried. “I’ll make you pay.” + + He levelled the weapon at his brother with a steady hand. + + “What are you doin’ to do wif that pistol?” said young John + William, curiously looking up from his stocking, while Helen + cried out. The little woman acted the better part. With rare + intuition she came quickly and took the left hand of the man and + patted it gently. For one thing, her father was not afraid, and + that reassured her. John Carstairs threw the pistol down again. + William Carstairs had never moved. + + “Now,” he said, “let me explain.” + + “Can you explain away this?” + + “I can. Father’s will was not opened until the day after you + left. As God is my judge I did not know he had written to you. I + did not know he had left anything to you. I left no stone + unturned in an endeavour to find you. I employed the best + detectives in the land, but we found no trace of you whatever. + Why, John, I have only been sorry once that I let you go that + night, that I spoke those words to you, and that has been all the + time.” + + “And where does this come from?” said the man, flinging his arm + up and confronting the magnificent room. + + “It came from the old farm. There was oil on it and I sold it for + a great price. I was happily married. I came here and have been + successful in business. Half of it all is yours.” + + “I won’t take it.” + + “John,” said William Carstairs, “I offered you money once and you + struck it out of my hand. You remember?” + + “Yes.” + + “What I am offering you now is your own. You can’t strike it out + of my hand. It is not mine, but yours.” + + “I won’t have it,” protested the man. “It’s too late. You don’t + know what I’ve been, a common thief. ‘Crackerjack’ is my name. + Every policeman and detective in New York knows me.” + + “But you’ve got a little Helen, too, haven’t you?” interposed the + little girl with wisdom and tact beyond her years. + + “Yes.” + + “And you said she was very poor and had no Christmas.” + + “Yes.” + + “For her sake, John,” said William Carstairs. “Indeed you must + not think you have been punished alone. I have been punished, + too. I’ll help you begin again. Here”—he stepped closer to his + brother—“is my hand.” + + The other stared at it uncomprehendingly. + + “There is nothing in it now but affection. Won’t you take it?” + + Slowly John Carstairs lifted his hand. His palm met that of his + elder brother. He was so hungry and so weak and so overcome that + he swayed a little. His head bowed, his body shook and the elder + brother put his arm around him and drew him close. + + Into the room came William Carstairs’ wife. She, too, had at last + been aroused by the conversation, and, missing her husband, she + had thrown a wrapper about her and had come down to seek him. + + “We tame down to find Santy Claus,” burst out young John William, + at the sight of her, “and he’s been here, look muvver.” + + Yes, Santa Claus had indeed been there. The boy spoke better than + he knew. + + “And this,” said little Helen eagerly, pointing proudly to her + new acquaintance, “is a friend of his, and he knows papa and he’s + got a little Helen and we’re going to give her a Merry + Christmas.” + + William Carstairs had no secrets from his wife. With a flash of + womanly intuition, although she could not understand how he came + to be there, she divined who this strange guest was who looked a + pale, weak picture of her strong and splendid husband, and yet + she must have final assurance. + + “Who is this gentleman, William?” she asked quietly, and John + Carstairs was forever grateful to her for her word that night. + + “This,” said William Carstairs, “is my father’s son, my brother, + who was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.” + + And so, as it began with the beginning, this story ends with the + ending of the best and most famous of all the stories that were + ever told. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +ON CHRISTMAS GIVING + + _Being a Word of Much Needed Advice_ + + + Christmas is the birthday of our Lord, upon which we celebrate + God’s ineffable gift of Himself to His children. No human soul + has ever been able to realize the full significance of that gift, + no heart has ever been glad enough to contain the joy of it, and + no mind has ever been wise enough to express it. Nevertheless we + powerfully appreciate the blessing and would fain convey it + fitly. Therefore to commemorate that great gift the custom of + exchanging tokens of love and remembrance has grown until it has + become well nigh universal. This is a day in which we ourselves + crave, as never at any other time, happiness and peace for those + we love and that ought to include everybody, for with the angelic + message in our ears it should be impossible to hate any one on + Christmas day however we may feel before or after. + + But despite the best of wills almost inevitably Christmas in many + instances has created a burdensome demand. Perhaps by the method + of exclusion we shall find out what Christmas should be. It is + not a time for extravagance, for ostentation, for vulgar display, + it is possible to purchase pleasure for someone else at too high + a price to ourselves. To paraphrase Polonius, “Costly thy gift as + thy purse can buy, rich but not expressed in fancy, for the gift + oft proclaims the man.” In making presents observe three + principal facts; the length of your purse, the character of your + friend, and the universal rule of good taste. Do not plunge into + extravagance from which you will scarcely recover except in + months of nervous strain and desperate financial struggle. On the + other hand do not be mean and niggardly in your gifts. Oh, not + that; avoid selfishness at Christmas, if at no other time. Rather + no gift at all than a grudging one. Let your offerings represent + yourselves and your affections. Indeed if they do not represent + you, they are not gifts at all. “The gift without the giver is + bare.” + + And above all banish from your mind the principle of reciprocity. + The _lex talionis_ has no place in Christmas giving. Do not think + or feel that you must give to someone because someone gave to + you. There is no barter about it. You give because you love and + without a thought of return. Credit others with the same feeling + and be governed thereby. I know one upon whose Christmas list + there are over one hundred and fifty people, rich and poor, high + and low, able and not able. That man would be dismayed beyond + measure if everyone of those people felt obliged to make a return + for the Christmas remembrances he so gladly sends them. + + In giving remember after all the cardinal principle of the day. + Let your gift be an expression of your kindly remembrance, your + gentle consideration, your joyful spirit, your spontaneous + gratitude, your abiding desire for peace and goodwill toward men. + Hunt up somebody who needs and who without you may lack and + suffer heart hunger, loneliness, and disappointment. + + Nor is Christmas a time for gluttonous eating and drinking. To + gorge one’s self with quantities of rich and indigestible food is + not the noblest method of commemorating the day. The rules and + laws of digestion are not abrogated upon the Holy day. These are + material cautions, the day has a spiritual significance of which + material manifestations are, or ought to be, outward and visible + expressions only. + + Christmas is one of the great days of obligation in the Church + year, then as at Easter if at no other time, Christians should + gather around the table of the Lord, kneeling before God’s altar + in the ministering of that Holy Communion which unites them with + the past, the present, and the future—the communion of the saints + of God’s Holy Church with His Beloved Son. Then and thus in body, + soul, and spirit we do truly participate in the privilege and + blessing of the Incarnation, then and there we receive that + strength which enables everyone of us to become factors in the + great extension of that marvellous occurrence throughout the ages + and throughout the world. + + Let us therefore on this Holy Natal Day, from which the whole + world dates its time, begin on our knees before that altar which + is at once manger, cross, throne. Let us join thereafter in holy + cheer of praise and prayer and exhortation and Christmas carol, + and then let us go forth with a Christmas spirit in our hearts + resolved to communicate it to the children of men, and not merely + for the day but for the future. To make the right use of these + our privileges, this it is to save the world. + + In this spirit, therefore, so far as poor, fallible human nature + permits him to realize it and exhibit it, the author wishes all + his readers which at present comprise his only flock— + + A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING + + _In Which it is Shown how Different the Same Things may Be_ + + _A Story for Girls_ + + + In Philadelphia the rich and the poor live cheek by jowl—or + rather, back to back. Between the streets of the rich and + parallel to them, run the alleys of the poor. The rich man’s + garage jostles elbows with the poor man’s dwelling. + + In a big house fronting on one of the most fashionable streets + lived a little girl named Ethel. Other people lived in the big + house also, a father, a mother, a butler, a French maid, and a + host of other servants. Back of the big house was the garage. + Facing the garage on the other side of the alley was a little, + old one-story-and-a-half brick house. In this house dwelt a + little girl named Maggie. With her lived her father who was a + labourer; her mother, who took in washing; and half a dozen + brothers, four of whom worked at something or other, while the + two littlest went to school. + + Ethel and Maggie never played together. Their acquaintance was + simply a bowing one—better perhaps, a smiling one. From one + window in the big playroom which was so far to one side of the + house that Ethel could see past the garage and get a glimpse of + the window of the living-room in Maggie’s house, the two little + girls at first stared at each other. One day Maggie nodded and + smiled, then Ethel, feeling very much frightened, for she had + been cautioned against playing with or noticing the children in + the alley, nodded and smiled back. Now neither of the children + felt happy unless they had held a pantomimic conversation from + window to window at some time during the day. + + It was Christmas morning. Ethel awoke very early, as all properly + organized children do on that day at least. She had a beautiful + room in which she slept alone. Adjacent to it, in another room + almost as beautiful, slept Celeste, her mamma’s French maid. + Ethel had been exquisitely trained. She lay awake a long time + before making a sound or movement, wishing it were time to arise. + But Christmas was strong upon her, the infection of the season + was in her blood. Presently she slipped softly out of bed, + pattered across the room, paused at the door which gave entrance + to the hall which led to her mother’s apartments, then turned and + plumped down upon Celeste. + + “Merry Christmas,” she cried shaking the maid. + + To awaken Celeste was a task of some difficulty. Ordinarily the + French woman would have been indignant at being thus summarily + routed out before the appointed hour but something of the spirit + of Christmas had touched her as well. She answered the salutation + of the little girl kindly enough, but as she sat up in bed she + lifted a reproving finger. + + “But,” she said, “you mus’ keep ze silence, Mademoiselle Ethel. + Madame, vôtre maman, she say she mus’ not be disturb’ in ze + morning. She haf been out ver’ late in ze night and she haf go to + ze bed ver’ early. She say you mus’ be ver’ quiet on ze Matin de + Noël!” + + “I will be quiet, Celeste,” answered the little girl, her lip + quivering at the injunction. + + It was so hard to be repressed all the time but especially on + Christmas Day of all others. + + “Zen I will help you to dress immediatement, and zen Villiam, he + vill call us to see ze tree.” + + Never had the captious little girl been more docile, more + obedient. Dressing Ethel that morning was a pleasure to Celeste. + Scarcely had she completed the task and put on her own clothing + when there was a tap on the door. + + “Vat is it?” + + “Mornin’, Miss Celeste,” spoke a heavy voice outside, a voice + subdued to a decorous softness of tone, “if you an’ Miss Ethel + are ready, the tree is lit, an’—” + + “Ve air ready, Monsieur Villiam,” answered Celeste, throwing open + the door dramatically. + + Ethel opened her mouth to welcome the butler—for if that solemn + and portentous individual ever unbent it was to Miss Ethel, whom + in his heart of hearts he adored—but he placed a warning finger + to his lip and whispered in an awestruck voice: + + “The master, your father, came in late last night, Miss, an’ he + said there must be no noise or racket this morning.” + + Ethel nodded sadly, her eyes filling at her disappointment; + William then marched down the hall with a stately magnificence + peculiar to butlers, and opened the door into the playroom. He + flung it wide and stood to one side like a grenadier, as Celeste + and Ethel entered. There was a gorgeous tree, beautifully + trimmed. William had bought the tree and Celeste’s French taste + had adorned it. It was a sight to delight any child’s eyes and + the things strewn around it on the floor were even more + attractive. Everything that money could buy, that Celeste and + William could think of was there. Ethel’s mother had given her + maid carte blanche to buy the child whatever she liked, and + Ethel’s father had done the same with William. The two had pooled + their issue and the result was a toyshop dream. Ethel looked at + the things in silence. + + “How do you like it, Miss?” asked William at last rather + anxiously. + + “Mademoiselle is not pleased?” questioned the French woman. + + “It—it—is lovely,” faltered the little girl. + + “We haf selected zem ourselves.” + + “Yes, Miss.” + + “Didn’t mamma—buy anything—or papa—or Santa?” + + “Zey tell us to get vatever you vould like and nevair mind ze + money.” + + “It was so good of you, I am sure,” said Ethel struggling + valiantly against disappointment almost too great to bear. + “Everything is beautiful but—I—wish mamma or papa had—I wish they + were here—I’d like them to wish me a Merry Christmas.” + + The little lip trembled but the upper teeth came down on it + firmly. The child had courage. William looked at Celeste and + Celeste shrugged her shoulders, both knowing what was lacking. + + “I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry Christmas, + an’”—the butler began bravely, but the situation was too much for + him. “There goes the master’s bell,” he said quickly and turned + and stalked out of the room gravely, although no bell had + summoned him. + +[Illustration: “I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry +Christmas.”] + + “You may go, Celeste,” said Ethel with a dignity not unlike her + mother’s manner. + + The maid shrugged her shoulders again, left the room and closed + the door. Everything was lovely, everything was there except that + personal touch which means so much even to the littlest girl. + Ethel was used to being cared for by others than her parents but + it came especially hard on her this morning. She turned, leaving + the beautiful things as they were placed about the tree, and + walked to the end window whence she could get a view of the + little house beyond the garage over the back wall. + + There was a Christmas tree in Maggie’s house too. It wouldn’t + have made a respectable branch for Ethel’s tree, and the + trimmings were so cheap and poor that Celeste would have thrown + them into the waste basket immediately. There were a few common, + cheap, perishable little toys around the tree on the floor but to + Maggie it was a glimpse of heaven. She stood in her little white + night-gown—no such thing as dressing for her on Christmas + morning—staring around her. The whole family was grouped about + her, even the littlest brothers, who went to school because they + were not big enough to work, forgot their own joy in watching + their little sister. Her father, her mother, the big boys all in + a state of more or less dishevelled undress stood around her, + pointing out first one thing and then another which they had been + able to get for her by denying themselves some of the necessities + of life. Maggie was so happy that her eyes brimmed, yet she did + not cry. She laughed, she clapped her hands, and kissed them all + round and finally found herself, a big orange in one hand, a tin + trumpet in the other, perched upon her father’s broad shoulders + leading a frantic march around the narrow confines of the + living-room. As she passed by the one window she caught a glimpse + of the alley. It had been snowing throughout the night and the + ground was white. + + “Oh,” she screamed with delight, “let me see the snow on + Christmas morning.” + + Her father walked over to the window, parted the cheap lace + curtains, while Maggie clapped her hands gleefully at the + prospect. Presently she lifted her eyes and looked toward the + other window high up in the air, where Ethel stood, a mournful + little figure. Maggie’s papa looked too. He knew how cheap and + poor were the little gifts he had bought for his daughter. + + “I wish,” he thought, “that she could have some of the things + that child up there has.” + + Maggie however was quite content. She smiled, flourished her + trumpet, waved her orange, but there was no answering smile on + Ethel’s face now. Finally the wistful little girl in the big + house languidly waved her hand, and then Maggie was taken away to + be dressed lest she should catch cold after the mischief was + done. + + “I hope that she’s having a nice Christmas,” said Maggie, + referring to Ethel. + + “I hope so too,” answered her mother, wishing that her little + girl might have some of the beautiful gifts she knew must be in + the great house. + + “Whatever she has,” said Maggie, gleefully, “she can’t have any + nicer Christmas than I have, that you and papa and the boys gave + me. I’m just as happy as I can be.” + + Over in the big house, Ethel was also wishing. She was so unhappy + since she had seen Maggie in the arms of her big, bearded father, + standing by the window, that she could control herself no longer. + She turned away and threw herself down on the floor in front of + the tree and buried her face in her hands bursting into tears. + + It was Christmas morning and she was all alone. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +A CHRISTMAS CAROL + +“_Christmas Then and Now_” + + +The Stars look down On David’s town, While angels sing in Winter night; +The Shepherds pray, And far away The Wise Men follow guiding light. +Little Christ Child By Mary Mild In Manger lies without the Inn; +Of Man the Son, Yet God in One, To save the lost in World of Sin. +Still stars look down +On David’s town And still the Christ Child dwells with men, +What thought give we To such as He, Or souls who live in Sin as then? +Show we our love To Him above By offering others’ grief to share; +And Christmas cheer For all the year Bestow to lighten pain and care. + +[Illustration: The Stars Look Down (music page one)] + +[Illustration: The Stars Look Down (music page two)] + + + + + +[Illustration] + +THE LONE SCOUT’S CHRISTMAS + + _Wherein is Set Forth the Courage and Resourcefulness of Youth_ + + _A Story for Boys_ + + + Every boy likes snow on Christmas Day, but there is such a thing + as too much of it. Henry Ives, alone in the long railroad coach, + stared out of the clouded windows at the whirling mass of snow + with feelings of dismay. It was the day before Christmas, almost + Christmas Eve. Henry did not feel any too happy, indeed he had + hard work to keep down a sob. His mother had died but a few weeks + before and his father, the captain of a freighter on the Great + Lakes, had decided, very reluctantly, to send him to his brother + who had a big ranch in western Nebraska. + + Henry had never seen his uncle or his aunt. He did not know what + kind of people they were. The loss of his mother had been a + terrible blow to him and to be separated from his father had + filled his cup of sorrow to the brim. His father’s work did not + end with the close of navigation on the lakes, and he could not + get away then although he promised to come and see Henry before + the ice broke and traffic was resumed in the spring. + + The long journey from the little Ohio town on Lake Erie to + western Nebraska had been without mishap. His uncle’s ranch lay + far away from the main line of the railroad on the end of the + branch. There was but one train a day upon it, and that was a + mixed train. The coach in which Henry sat was attached to the end + of a long string of freight cars. Travel was infrequent in that + section of the country. On this day Henry was the only passenger. + + The train had been going up-grade for many miles and had just + about reached the crest of the divide. Bucking the snow had + become more and more difficult; several times the train had + stopped. Sometimes the engine backed the train some distance to + get headway to burst through the drift. So Henry thought nothing + of it when the car came to a gentle stop. + + The all-day storm blew from the west and the front windows of the + car were covered with snow so he could not see ahead. Some time + before the conductor and rear brakeman had gone forward to help + dig the engine out of the drift and they had not come back. + + Henry sat in silence for some time watching the whirling snow. He + was sad; even the thought of the gifts of his father and friends + in his trunk which stood in the baggage compartment of the car + did not cheer him. More than all the Christmas gifts in the + world, he wanted at that time his mother and father and friends. + + “It doesn’t look as though it was going to be a very merry + Christmas for me,” he said aloud at last, and then feeling a + little stiff from having sat still so long he got up and walked + to the front of the car. + + It was warm and pleasant in the coach. The Baker heater was going + at full blast and Henry noticed that there was plenty of coal. He + tried to see out from the front door; but as he was too prudent + to open it and let in the snow and cold he could make out + nothing. The silence rather alarmed him. The train had never + waited so long before. + + Then, suddenly, came the thought that something very unusual was + wrong. He must get a look at the train ahead. He ran back to the + rear door, opened it and standing on the leeward side, peered + forward. The engine and freight cars were not there! All he saw + was the deep cut filled nearly to the height of the car with + snow. + + Henry was of a mechanical turn of mind and he realized that + doubtless the coupling had broken. That was what had happened. + The trainmen had not noticed it and the train had gone on and + left the coach. The break had occurred at the crest of the divide + and the train had gone rapidly down hill on the other side. The + amount of snow told the boy that it would not be possible for the + train to back up and pick up the car. He was alone in the + wilderness of rolling hills in far western Nebraska. And this was + Christmas Eve! + + It was enough to bring despair to any boy’s heart. But Henry Ives + was made of good stuff, he was a first-class Boy Scout and on his + scout coat in the trunk were four Merit Badges. He had the spirit + of his father, who had often bucked the November storms on Lake + Superior in his great six-hundred-foot freighter, and danger + inspired him. + + He went back into the car, closed the door, and sat down to think + it over. He had very vague ideas as to how long such a storm + would last and how long he might be kept prisoner. He did not + even know just where he was or how far it was to the end of the + road and the town where his uncle’s ranch lay. + + It was growing dark so he lighted one of the lamps close to the + heater and had plenty of light. In doing so he noticed in the + baggage rack a dinner pail. He remembered that the conductor had + told him that his wife had packed that dinner pail and although + it did not belong to the boy he felt justified in appropriating + it in such circumstances. It was full of food—eggs, sandwiches, + and a bottle of coffee. He was not very hungry but he ate a + sandwich. He was even getting cheerful about the situation + because he had something to do. It was an adventure. + + While he had been eating, the storm had died away. Now he + discovered that it had stopped snowing. All around him the + country was a hilly, rolling prairie. The cut ran through a hill + which seemed to be higher than others in the neighbourhood. If he + could get on top of it he might see where he was. Although day + was ending it was not yet dark and Henry decided upon an + exploration. + + Now he could not walk on foot in that deep and drifted snow + without sinking over his head under ordinary conditions, but his + troop had done a great deal of winter work, and strapped + alongside of his big, telescope grip were a pair of snow-shoes + which he himself had made, and with the use of which he was + thoroughly familiar. + + “I mustn’t spoil this new suit,” he told himself, so he ran to + the baggage-room of the car, opened his trunk, got out his Scout + uniform and slipped into it in a jiffy. “Glad I ran in that + ‘antelope dressing race,’” he muttered, “but I’ll beat my former + record now.” Over his khaki coat he put on his heavy sweater, + then donned his wool cap and gloves, and with his snow-shoes + under his arm hurried back to the rear platform. The snow was on + a level with the platform. It rose higher as the coach reached + into the cut. He saw that he would have to go down some distance + before he could turn and attempt the hill. + + He had used his snow-shoes many times in play but this was the + first time they had ever been of real service to him. Thrusting + his toes into the straps he struck out boldly. + +[Illustration: “Thrusting his toes into the straps he struck out +boldly.”] + + To his delight he got along without the slightest difficulty + although he strode with great care. He gained the level and in + ten minutes found himself on the top of the hill, where he could + see miles and miles of rolling prairie. He turned himself slowly + about, to get a view of the country. + + As his glance swept the horizon, at first it did not fall upon a + single, solitary thing except a vast expanse of snow. There was + not a tree even. The awful loneliness filled him with dismay. He + had about given up when, in the last quarter of the horizon he + saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, what looked like a fine + trickle of blackish smoke that appeared to rise from a shapeless + mound that bulged above the monotonous level. + + “Smoke means fire, and fire means man,” he said, excitedly. + + The sky was rapidly clearing. A few stars had already appeared. + Remembering what he had learned on camp and trail, he took his + bearing by the stars; he did not mean to get lost if he left that + hill. Looking back, he could see the car, the lamp of which sent + broad beams of light through the windows across the snow. + + Then he plunged down the hill, thanking God in his boyish heart + for the snow-shoes and his knowledge of them. + + It did not take him long to reach the mound whence the smoke + rose. It was a sod house, he found, built against a sharp knoll, + which no doubt formed its rear wall. The wind had drifted the + snow, leaving a half-open way to the door. Noiselessly the boy + slipped down to it, drew his feet from the snow-shoes and + knocked. There was a burst of sound inside. It made his heart + jump, but he was reassured by the fact that the voices were those + of children. What they said he could not make out; but, without + further ado, he opened the door and entered. + + It was a fairly large room. There were two beds in it, a stove, a + table, a chest of drawers and a few chairs. From one of the beds + three heads stared at him. As each head was covered with a wool + cap, drawn down over the ears, like his own, he could not make + out who they were. There were dishes on the table, but they were + empty. The room was cold, although it was evident that there was + still a little fire in the stove. + + “Oh!” came from one of the heads in the bed. “I thought you were + my father. What is your name?” + + “My name,” answered the boy, “is Henry Ives. I was left behind + alone in the railroad car about a mile back, and saw the smoke + from your house and here I am.” + + “Have you brought us anything to burn?” asked the second head. + + “Or anything to eat?” questioned the third. + + “My name is Mary Wright,” said the first speaker, “and these are + my brothers George and Philip. Father went away yesterday morning + with the team, to get some coal and some food. He went to Kiowa.” + + “That’s where I am going,” interrupted Henry. + + “Yes,” continued Mary, “I suppose he can’t get back because of + the snow. It’s an awful storm.” + + “We haven’t anything to eat, and I don’t know when father will be + back,” said George. + + “And it’s Christmas Eve,” wailed Philip, who appeared to be about + seven. + + He set up a howl about this which his brother George, who was + about nine, had great difficulty in quieting. + + “We put the last shovelful of coal in the stove,” said Mary + Wright, “and got into bed to keep warm.” + + “I’ll go outside while you get up and dress,” said Henry + considerately, “and then we will try and get to the car. It is + warm there, and there is something to eat.” + + “You needn’t go,” said the girl; “we are all dressed.” She threw + back the covers and sprang out of bed. She was very pretty and + about Henry’s own age, he discovered, although she was pale and + haggard with cold and hunger. + + “Goody, goody!” exclaimed little Philip, as his feet landed on + the floor. “Maybe we’ll have some Christmas, too.” + + “Maybe we will,” said Henry, smiling at him. “At least we will + have something to eat.” + + “Well, let’s start right away then,” urged George. + + This brought Henry face to face with a dilemma. “I have only one + pair of snow-shoes,” he said at last, “and you probably don’t + know how to use them anyway, and you can’t walk on the snow.” + + “I have a sled,” suggested George. + + “That won’t do,” said Henry. “I’ve got to have something that + won’t sink in the snow—that will lie flat, so I can draw you + along.” + + “How about that table?” said the girl. + + “Good suggestion,” cried Henry. + + It was nothing but a common kitchen table. He turned it upside + down, took his Scout axe from its sheath, knocked the legs off, + fastened a piece of clothesline to the butts of two of them. + + “Now if I could have something to turn up along the front, so as + not to dig into the snow,” he said, “it would be fine.” He + thought a moment. “Where is that sled of yours, George?” + + “Here,” said George, dragging it forth. The runners curved + upwards. Henry cut them off, in spite of Philip’s protests. He + nailed these runners to the front of the table and stretched rope + tightly across them so that he had four up-curves in front of the + table. + + “Now I want something to stretch on these things, so as to let + the sled ride over the snow, instead of digging into it,” he said + to the girl. + + She brought him her father’s old “slicker.” Henry cut it into + suitable shape and nailed and lashed it securely to the runners + and to the table top. Now he had a flat-bottomed sled with a + rising front to it that would serve. He smiled as he looked at + the queer contrivance and said aloud: “I wish Mr. Lesher could + see that!” + + “Who is Mr. Lesher?” asked George. + + “Oh, he’s my Scoutmaster back in Ohio. Now come on!” + + He opened the door, drew the sled outside, pushed it up on the + snow and stepped on it. It bore his weight perfectly. + + “It’s all right,” he cried. “But it won’t take all three of you + at once.” + + “I’ll wait,” said Mary, “you take the two boys.” + + “Very well,” said Henry. + + “You’ll surely come back for me?” + + “Surely, and I think it’s mighty brave of you to stay behind. Now + come on, boys,” he said. + + Leaving Mary filled with pleasure at such praise, he put the two + boys carefully into the sled, stepped into his snow-shoes and + dragged them rapidly across the prairie. It was quite dark now, + but the sky was clear and the stars were bright. The storm had + completely stopped. He remembered the bearings he had taken by + the stars, and reached the high hill without difficulty. Below + him lay the car. + + Presently he drew up before the platform. He put the boys in the + car, told them to go up to the fire and warm themselves and not + to touch anything. Then he went back for the girl. + + “Did you think I was not coming?” he asked as he re-entered the + cabin. + + “I knew you would come back,” said the girl and it was Henry’s + turn to tingle with pride. + + He wrapped her up carefully, and fairly ran back to the car. They + found the boys warm and comfortable and greatly excited. + + “If we just had a Christmas tree and Santa Claus and something to + eat and a drink of water and a place to sleep,” said the youngest + boy, “it would be great fun.” + + “I am afraid we can’t manage the Christmas tree,” said Henry, + “but we can have everything else.” + + “Do you mean Santy?” + + “Santy too,” answered the boy. “First of all, we will get + something to eat.” + + “We haven’t had anything since morning,” said the girl. Henry + divided the sandwiches into three portions. As it happened, there + were three hard-boiled eggs. He gave one portion to each of his + guests. + + “You haven’t left any for yourself,” said Mary. + + “I ate before I looked for you,” answered Henry, although the one + sandwich had by no means satisfied his hunger. + + “My, but this is good!” said George. + + “Our mother is dead,” said Mary Wright after a pause, “and our + father is awful poor. He has taken out a homestead and we are + trying to live on it until he gets it proved up. We have had a + very hard time since mother died.” + + “Yes, I know,” said Henry, gravely; “my mother died, too.” + + “I wonder what time it is?” asked the girl at last. + + Henry pulled out his watch. “It is after six o’clock,” he said. + + “Say,” broke in George, “that’s a funny kind of a uniform you’ve + got on.” + + “It is a Boy Scout uniform.” + + “Oh, is it?” exclaimed George. “I never saw one before. I wish I + could be a Scout!” + + “Maybe you can,” answered Henry. “I am going to organize a troop + when I get to Kiowa. But now I’m going to fix beds for you. Of + course we are all sleepy after such a hard day.” + + He had seen the trainmen lift up the bottoms of the seats and lay + them lengthwise of the car. He did this, and soon made four + fairly comfortable beds. The two nearest the stove he gave to the + boys. He indicated the next one was for Mary, and the one further + down toward the middle of the car was for himself. + + “You can all go to bed right away,” he said when he had made his + preparations. The two boys decided to accept this advice. Mary + said she would stay up a little longer and talk with Henry. + + “You can’t undress,” she said to the two boys. “You’ll have to + sleep as you are.” She sat down in one of the car seats; Philip + knelt down at one knee and George at the other. The girl, who was + barely fifteen had already taken her mother’s place. She laid her + hand on each bent head and listened while one after the other the + boys said their prayers. She kissed them good-night, saw them + comfortably laid out on the big cushions with their overcoats for + pillows and turned away. + + “Say,” began Philip, “you forgot something, Mary.” + + “What have I forgotten, dear?” + + “Why, it’s Christmas Eve and we must hang up our stockings.” + + Mary threw up her hands. “I am afraid this is too far away for + Santa Claus. He won’t know that we are out here,” she said. + + “Oh, I don’t know,” said Henry, thinking rapidly, “let them hang + them up.” + + Mary looked at him in surprise. “They haven’t any to hang up,” + she said. “We can’t take those they’re wearing.” + + “You should have thought of that,” wailed Philip, “before you + brought us here.” + + “I have some extra ones in my bag,” said Henry. “We will hang + them up.” + + He opened the bag and brought out three stockings, one for each + of his guests. He fastened them to the baggage racks above the + seats and watched the two boys contentedly close their eyes and + go to sleep. + + “They will be awfully disappointed when they wake up in the + morning and do not find anything in them,” said Mary. + + “They’re going to find something in them,” said Henry + confidently. + + He went to the end of the car, opened his trunk and lifted out + various packages which had been designed for him. Of course he + was going on sixteen, but there were some things that would do + for Philip and plenty of things for George and some good books + that he had selected himself that would do for Mary. Then there + were candy and nuts and cakes and oranges galore. Mary was even + more excited than he was as they filled the boys’ stockings and + arranged things that were too big to go in them. + + “These are your own Christmas gifts, I know,” said the girl, “and + you haven’t hung up your stocking.” + + “I don’t need to. I have had my Christmas present.” + + “And what is that?” + + “A chance to make a merry Christmas for you and your little + brothers,” answered Henry, and his heart was light. + + “How long do you suppose we will have to stay here?” asked the + girl. + + “I don’t know. I suppose they will try to dig us out to-morrow. + Meanwhile we have nuts, oranges, crackers, and little cakes, to + say nothing of the candy, to live on. Now you go to bed and have + a good sleep.” + + “And what will you do?” + + “I’ll stay up for a while and read one of these books and keep + the fire going.” + + “You are awfully good to us,” said Mary, turning away. “You are + just like a real Santa Claus.” + + “We have to help other people—especially people in trouble,” + answered the boy. “It is one of the first Scout rules. I am + really glad I got left behind and found you. Good-night.” + + The girl, whose experience that day had been hard, soon fell + asleep with her brothers. Henry did not feel sleepy at all; he + was bright and happy and rejoiced. This certainly _was_ an + adventure. He wondered what Dick and Joe and Spike and the other + fellows of his troop would think when he wrote them about it. He + did not realize that he had saved the lives of the children, who + would assuredly have frozen to death in the cabin. + + When he was satisfied that Mary was sound asleep, he put some + things in her stocking and then piled in the rack over her head + two books he thought the girl would like. It was late when he + went to sleep himself, happier than he had dreamed he could be. + + He awoke once in the night to replenish the fire, but he was + sleeping soundly at seven o’clock in the morning when the door of + the car opened and half a dozen men filed in. They had not made + any noise. Even the big snow-plough tearing open the way from + Kiowa had not disturbed the four sleepers. + + The first man in was the conductor. After the trainmen had + discovered that the coach had been left behind they had managed + to get into Kiowa and had started back at once with the rotary + plough to open the road and to rescue the boy. Henry’s uncle had + been in town to meet Henry, and of course the trainmen let him go + back with them on the plough. The third man was Mr. Wright. He + had been caught by the storm and, as he said, the abandoned coach + must be near his claim, he asked to be taken along because he was + afraid his children would be freezing to death. + + The men stopped and surveyed the sleeping boys and girl. Their + glances ranged from the children to the bulging stockings and the + pile of Christmas presents in the racks. + + “Well, can you beat that?” said the conductor. + + “By George!” exclaimed Rancher Ives, “a regular Christmas + layout!” + + “These are my children safe and well, thank God!” cried Mr. + Wright. + + “Boy,” said the conductor, laying his hand on Henry’s shoulder, + “we came to wish you a Merry Christmas.” + + “Father!” cried Mary Wright, awakened by the voice, and the next + minute she was in his arms, while she told him rapidly what Henry + had done for them all. + + The boys were awake, too, but humanity had no attraction for + them. + + “Santa has come!” shouted Philip making a dive for his stocking. + + “This is your uncle, Jim Ives,” said the conductor to Henry. + + “And this is my father,” said Mary in turn. + + “I am awfully sorry,” said Henry to the conductor, “but we had to + eat your dinner. And I had to chop up your kitchen table,” he + added, turning to Mr. Wright. + + “I am glad there was something to eat in the pail,” said one. + + “You could have chopped the cabin down,” said the other. + + “By George!” said the ranchman proudly. “I wrote to your father + to send you out here and we’d make a man of you, but it seems to + me you are a man already,” he continued as Mary Wright poured + forth the story of their rescue. + + “No, I am not a man,” said Henry to his uncle, as he flushed with + pride at the hearty praise of these men. “I am just a—” + + “Just a what?” asked the conductor as the boy hesitated. + + “Why, just a Boy Scout,” answered Henry. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +LOOKING INTO THE MANGER + + _A Christmas Meditation_ + + + Christmas morning, the day we celebrate as the anniversary of the + birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, in the obscure, + little hill town of Bethlehem in the far-off Judæan land, over + nineteen hundred years ago! + + It is said: + +“When beggars die, there are no comets seen: +The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.” + + What is true of the passing of kings is perhaps more true of + their coming; yet in this birth are singular contradictions. The + Child was born a beggar. There lacks no touch which even + imagination could supply to indicate the meanness of His earthly + condition. Homeless, His mother, save for the stable of the + public inn—and words can hardly describe any place more + unsuited—was shelterless, unprotected, in that hour of travail + pain. + + I love to let my imagination dwell upon that scene. Sometimes I + think wayfarers may have gathered in the tavern hard by and with + music and play sought to while away the hours as travellers have + from time immemorial. Perhaps in some pause in their merriment, a + strange cry of anguish, borne by the night wind from the rude + shelter without, may have stopped their revelry for a moment and + one may have asked of another: + + “What is that?” + + The servant of the house who stood obsequious to promote their + pleasure may have answered apologetically: + + “It is the cry of a woman of the people in travail in the inn + yard.” + + I can fancy their indifference to the answer, or I can hear + perhaps the rude jest, or the vulgar quip, with which such an + announcement may have been received, as the play or the music + went on again. + + Oh, yes, the world in solemn stillness lay, doubtless, that + winter night, but not the people in it. They pursued their + several vocations as usual. They loved or they hated, they worked + or they played, they hoped or they despaired, they dreamed or + they achieved, just as they had done throughout the centuries, + just as they have done since that day, just as they will do far + into the future; although their little God came to them, as never + He came before, in the stable in the Bethlehem hills that night. + + And yet, had they but cast their eyes upward like the wise men—it + is always your wise man who casts his eyes upward—they, too, + might have seen the star that blazed overhead. It was placed so + high above the earth that all men everywhere could see to which + spot on the surface it pointed. Or, had they been devout men, + they would have listened for heavenly voices—it is always your + devout man who tries to hear other things than the babble of the + Babel in which he lives—they, too, could have heard the angelic + chorus like the shepherds in the fields and on the hillsides that + frosty night. + + For the heavens did blaze forth the birth of the Child. Not with + the thunder of guns, not with the blare of trumpets, not with the + beating of drums, not with the lighting of castle, village, and + town, the kindling of beacons upon the far-flung hills, the cry + of fast-riding messengers through the night, and the loud acclaim + of thousands which greet the coming of an earthly king, was He + welcomed; but by the still shining of a silent star and by the + ineffable and transcendent voices of an Angel Choir. + + How long did the Shepherds listen to that chorus? How long did it + ring over the hills and far away? Whither went the Wise Men? Into + what dim distance vanished the star? + +“Where are the roses of yesterday? +What has become of last year’s snow?” + + And the residuum of it all was a little Baby held to a woman’s + breast in a miserable hovel in the most forlorn and detested + corner of the world. And yet to-day and at this hour, and at + every hour during the twenty-four, men are looking into that + chamber; men are bowing to that Child and His mother, and even + that mother is at the feet of the Child. + + From the snow peaks of the North land, “from Greenland’s icy + mountains to India’s coral strand,” and on and on through all the + burning tropics to the companion ice of the other pole, the + antarctic, and girdling the world from east to west as well, the + adoration continues. It comes alike from the world’s noblest, + from the world’s highest, from the world’s truest, from the + world’s kindest, from the world’s poorest, from the world’s + humblest, from the world’s best. + + Do not even the soldiers in the trenches upon the far-flung + battle lines pause to listen, look to see as for a moment dies + away the cannonade? Do not even the sailors of war and trade peer + across the tossing waters of the great deep, longing for a truce + of God if only for an hour upon this winter morning? + +[Illustration: “The world bows down to a Mother and her Child—and the +Mother herself is at the feet of the Child.”] + + Yes, they all look into the manger as they look upon the cross + and if only for an instant this war reddened planet comes to + “_see and believe_.” What keen vision saw in the Baby the Son of + God and the Son of Man? What simple faith can see these things in + Him now? “_Let us now go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing + which is come to pass_.” + + That birth is known as the Incarnation. Ye know not “_how the + bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child_.” Life + itself is insusceptible of any definition which satisfies, but we + know that we live, nevertheless. Science points out a common + origin in protoplasmic cells and is quite unable to explain so + common a fact as sex differentiation. I care not what methods of + accounting for life you propose, you yet have to refer it to the + Author of all life “_in whom we live and move and have our + being_.” Why, therefore, should the Incarnation be thought + incredible or impossible because it does not come within the + limitations of our present understanding and it is not taught by + our limited human experience. The sweet reasonableness of the + Incarnation, this conception by Divine power, this birth from the + Virgin mother, should appeal to all who think deeply on these + subjects. + + And yet perhaps the manner, place, and circumstance of this birth + may awaken wonder. Possibly you would have the King come as other + kings come, in pomp and circumstance, glory and majesty, with + heralds preceding, music playing, blossoms strewn, and people + cheering. Oh, no, that way did not seem the best way to the + wisdom of God—a young girl, an old man, in the stable, no other + tendance, no luxury, no comfort—poverty, humility, absolute. + + Let us forget the Angel Chorus and the blazing star and go now + even unto Bethlehem and look into the manger at that Child, while + the uncomprehending cattle stare resentful perhaps at their + displacement. The King comes as a Child, as weak, as helpless, as + vocal of its pains as any other child. Not a Child of luxury, not + a Child of consequence, not a Child of comfort, but a Child of + poverty; and in the eyes of the blind world, if they had been + privy to it, without the glorious vision of the good man, Joseph, + a Child of shame! If the world had known that the Babe was not + the Child of Joseph and Mary how it would have mocked. What + laughter, what jeers, what contempt, what obloquy, what scorn + would have been heaped upon the woman’s head! Why the world would + heap them there now were it not that that portion of it which + disbelieves in the Incarnation, says that Joseph was after all + the father of the Child. + + Nor shall we go down to Bethlehem alone. The poor, ignorant + shepherds came to the cradle that night. They could understand. + It did not seem strange to them that their God was poor, for they + themselves were poor. I wonder how much the shepherds reflected. + Theirs is a profession which gives rise to thought; they are much + alone in the waste places with the gentlest of God’s creatures. + Their paths lead by green pastures and still waters; they enjoy + long, lonely hours for meditation. Did they say: + + “Ah! God has come to us as a poor man, not because there is + anything particularly noble or desirable in poverty, but because + so many of us are so very poor, and because the most of us have + been poor all the time, and because it is probable that most of + us will be poor in the future!” + + Many a poor man has looked up into the silent heavens and + wondered sometimes whether God understood or cared about his + wretched lot. Of course God always knew and cared, we cannot + gainsay that, but in order to make men know that He knew and to + make them believe that He cared, He let them see that He did not + disdain to be a poor man and humble; that He sought His followers + and supporters in the great majority. _My God was a Carpenter_! + That is why He came to the stable; that is why He came to the + manger. And that is why the poor come to Him. + + And there came to that same cradle, a little while after, the + Wise Men. They were professional wise men; they belonged to the + learned, the cultured, the thoughtful class; but they were wise + men as well in the sense in which we use wisdom to-day. That is, + they looked beyond earthly conditions and saw Divinity where the + casual glance does not see it. How many a seamed, rugged face, + how many a burden-bent back, how many a faltering footstep, how + many a knotted, calloused hand is perhaps more nearly in the + image of God than the fairer face, the straighter figure, the + softer palm! + + The shepherds were not only poor, but they laboured in their + poverty; they were working men and they worshipped Him, the + Working Man. The wise men were not only wise, but they were rich. + They brought the treasures of the earth from the ends thereof and + laid them before the Babe and the mother. How fragrant the + perfume of the frankincense and the myrrh, and how rich the + lustre of the gold and silver in the mean surroundings of the + hovel. They took no thought of their costly apparel, they had no + fear of contamination from their surroundings, no question of + relative degree entered their heads. As simply and as truly as + the shepherds they worshipped the Christ. The rich and the poor + met together there, and the Lord was the maker of them all. + + Was that baby-hand the shaper of destiny? Was that working-hand + the director of events? Even so. The Lord’s power is not less the + Lord’s power though it be not exhibited in the stretched out arm + of majesty. + + Some of you who read this and many more who can not are poor, + perhaps very poor, but you can stand beside that manger and look + at that Baby’s face, you can reflect upon the Child, how He grew, + what He said, what He did, until a cross casts its black shadow + across your vision—the war is raising many crosses and many there + be that walk the _via dolorosa_ to them to-day. You shall be + counted blessed if you can gaze at that cross until it is + transformed by the glory of the resurrection. And in it all you + can see your God—the poor man’s God!—the rich man’s + God!—everybody’s God! + + You can know that your God was poor, that He was humble, that He + struggled under adverse conditions, that He laboured, that He was + hungry, thirsty, tired, cold, that He was homeless, that He was + denied many of the joys of human society and the solace of + affection, that His best friends went back on Him, that everybody + deserted Him, and that the whole world finally rose up and + crushed Him down. That he suffered all things. Only a very great + God could so endure. Only one who was truly God could so manifest + Himself in pain. + + You can understand how He can comprehend what your trouble is. + Oh, yes, the poor and the bereaved have as great a right to look + into that manger and see their God there as have the rich and the + care free. + + Now there is a kind of pernicious socialism which condemns riches + as things unholy and exalts poverty as a thing acceptable to God. + That Baby came as well to the rich as to the poor. Do not forget + that. It is not generally understood, but it is true. He accepted + gladly the hospitality, the alms, the gifts, priceless in value, + of those who had great possessions and He loved them even as He + loved those who had nothing. The rich and wise also have a right + to look into that cradle to see their God, too. When we say He is + the God of all classes we do not mean that He is only the God of + the poor any more than we mean He is only the God of the rich. + + He came to all the children of men and they can all stand by that + cradle this morning and claim Him as their own; ask, receive, and + share in His blessing. The light that shone in the darkness + lighted impartially the world. Some of you are blessed with + competences and some of the competences are greater than others. + What of it? The poor man may serve God acceptably in his poverty + and the rich man may serve God acceptably in his wealth. There is + one God and though He is King of Kings and Lord of Lords, even + though He may lie lowly in a manger, yet the kingdom of Heaven is + like a republic—it is a democracy in which all are equal, or if + there be distinctions they are based on righteousness + alone—saving only the distinctions Divine. + + Now there is one other condition into which all men inevitably + fall. Whether they be rich or whether they be poor, they are all + bound to be sorrowful. Sooner or later, we are certain to be + troubled. And that is more true today, doubtless, than in any + other period in the long history of this old world. + + These sorrowful ones can go unto Bethlehem and look into the + cradle and claim the Child as their God. For every sorrow that + has been yours, He experienced; every grief that you have bowed + before, He was forced to struggle with. Very tender and + compassionate is our Lord. I am quite sure that He notices your + bowed head, that He puts His arms across your shoulders, that He + whispers words of comfort into your ear, or that He gives you the + silent sympathy of His presence, that He takes you by the hand; + that whatever action most appeals to you and is best for you He + takes if you wish Him to. + + There are many people belonging to you or your family who are far + away, whom you would fain have with you this Christmas morning. + Many of them are fighting manfully in His cause, too. Do not + forget that our Lord came to the family! that He made a family by + coming. These far-off loved ones are doing what we are doing this + morning. And there are some you love who are still farther away. + The sound of their earthly voices is stilled, we may not clasp + their hands, we cannot see them any more. They are gone from the + world, but not from our hearts. If they are not here I think they + are with Him. And we may be sure that it is very pleasant to them + where He is. They are not unmindful of our human regrets and + longings, but I think we ought not to be unmindful of their + peaceful joy in His presence. + + And so everybody has a right to come to that cradle, the poor, + the humble, the hard workers, the toilers, the wise, the learned, + the easy, the rich, the joyous, the sad, the sorrowful, the + bereaved. They may all look into the manger and see their God. + + He came to a family; He made a family. We are all in that family, + the children of the selfsame Father, the sons of the selfsame + God, the brethren of Him of the manger—German and French, English + and Austrian, Italian and Bulgar, Russian and Turk! Ay, and above + all and with all American and Belgian. Sirs, we be, not twelve, + but many brethren! What does that mean? + + There is one musical word with, I think, perhaps the ugliest + meaning in the language. It is _rancour_. Let us do away with it, + let us put it aside. If we are poor let us be brethren to the + other poor, if we are rich let us be brethren to the other rich, + if we are wise let us be brethren to the other wise, if we are + foolish let us be brethren to the other foolish. Ah, that is not + difficult; it is an easy task. But that is not enough. + Brotherhood is broader, thank God! Let the poor be brethren to + the rich and the rich to the poor, the wise to the ignorant, the + misguided to the well-directed, the ignorant to the wise, the + foolish to the discreet, the discreet to the foolish, the glad to + the sorrowful, the sorrowful to the glad, the servants of the + Lord to the sinners against Him! + +“Then none was for a party; +Then all were for the state; +Then the great man helped the poor, +And the poor man loved the great: +Then lands were fairly portioned; +Then spoils were fairly sold: +The Romans were like brothers, +In the brave days of old.” + + Let us make out of the old pagan ideals present-day realities in + our hearts as we go even unto Bethlehem and look into the cradle + of the King; realities in His own nobler and better words: + + “_Jesus answered and said unto them, Go and shew John again + those things which ye do hear and see: the blind receive their + sight, and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the deaf + hear, the dead are raised up, and the poor have the gospel + preached to them. And blessed is he whosoever shall not be + offended in Me_.” + + Peace, goodwill toward men! Peace to men of goodwill! That is + what the angels sang. But there is nothing on earth to prevent + us from making it our human song as well. As we stand by the + cradle of the Master and peer into the manger at that which + every human being loves, a baby, our earthly differences of + nationality, of rank, power, station, and influence—things that + are but the guinea’s stamp upon the gold of character and + personality—fade into insignificance and become as nothing. The + little child in life notices none of these distinctions, he + marks nothing of them. Let us come as little children before + Him. We may be war-battered, sin-marked, toil-stained, + care-burdened. Let us forget it all this Christmas morning. + + It was a poor place, that manger—the poorest place on earth—but + it was a place. It was somewhere. Let us give humanity even as + little as a manger. Let us not take up the Christ Child as we + see Him and throw Him out into the streets, or into no man’s + land. That is what we do when we mock Him, when we deny Him, + when we laugh Him to scorn. Let us not shut Him out of His home + place in our souls. Let us not refuse to open when His hand + knocks upon the door. That is what we do when we are + indifferent to Him. Let us take him out of the manger cradle, + each one of us, and enthrone Him in the most precious place we + have, our inmost hearts. + + It all happened a very long time ago and much water has run in + the brooks of the world under the bridges thereof since that + time, but the mangers of the world are never empty. They are + always full. In one sense, Christ is being born everywhere at + this very hour and at all hours. + + Let us give the Child the best we have, the best we can. Let us + even now go down unto Bethlehem, laden with what we have for + the use of the King, and let us see in every child of man that + lacks anything this Christmas morning the image of Him who in + that manger lay in Bethlehem and let us minister to their needs + in love. + +“The little Christ is coming down[1] +Across the fields of snow; +The pine trees greet Him where they stand, +The willows bend to kiss His hand, +The mountain laurel is ablush +In hidden nooks; the wind, ahush +And tiptoe, lest the violets wake +Before their time for His sweet sake; +The stars, down dropping, form a crown +Upon the waiting hills below— +The little Christ is coming down +Across the fields of snow. + +“The little Christ is coming down +Across the city streets; +The wind blows coldly from the north, +His dimpled hands are stretching forth, +And no one knows and no one cares, +The priests are busy with their prayers, +The jostling crowd hastes on apace, +And no one sees the pleading face, +None hears the cry as through the town +He wanders with His small cold feet— +The little Christ is coming down +Acrossthe city streets.” + + What welcome shall we have for Him, my friends? + + [1] These loving and appealing verses were written by Harriet F. + Blodgett, of whom unfortunately I know absolutely nothing but her + name. I am sure, however, that if they had been written today another + verse, even more touching than those I have quoted, would have been + inspired by present conditions. And we should have seen “The Little + Christ” coming down between the lines in Flanders, on the Balkan + Frontier, amid the snows of Russia and the deserts of Mesopotamia, and + perhaps, as of old, even walking on the waters in the midst of the + sea. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +CHRISTMAS IN THE SNOWS + + _Being Some Personal Adventures in the Far West_[2] + + + The love of Christmas is as strong in the West as it is in any + section of the country—perhaps, indeed, stronger, for people + who have few pleasures cherish holidays more highly than those + for whom many cheap amusements are provided. But when the + manifestation of the Christmas spirit is considered, there is a + great difference between the West and the East. There are vast + sections of country in which evergreens do not grow and to + which it would not pay to ship them; consequently Christmas + trees are not common, and therefore they are the more prized + when they may be had. There are no great rows nor small + clusters of inviting shops filled with suggestive and + fascinating contents at attractive prices. The distances from + centres of trade are so great that the things which may be + purchased even in the smallest towns in more favourable + localities for a few cents have there almost a prohibitive + price put upon them. The efforts of the people to give their + children a merry Christmas in the popular sense, however, are + strong and sometimes pitiful. + + It must not be forgotten that the West is settled by Eastern + people, and that no very great difference exists between them + save for the advantages presented by life in the West for the + higher development of character. Western people are usually + brighter, quicker, more progressive and less conservative, and + more liberal than those from whom they came. The survival of + the fittest is the rule out there and the qualities of + character necessary to that end are brought to the top by the + strenuous life necessitated by the hardships of the frontier. + If the people are not any better than they were, it is because + they are still clinging to the obsolete ideas of the East. + + The Eastern point of view always reminds me of the reply of the + bishop to the layman who was deploring the poor quality of the + clergy. “Yes,” said the bishop, “some of them are poor; but + consider the stock from which they come. You see, we have + nothing but laymen out of which to make them.” + + The East never understands the West—the real West that is, + which lies beyond the Mississippi, the Missouri, and the Rocky + Mountains. They know nothing of its ideas, its capacities, its + possibilities, its educational facilities, its culture, its + real power, in the East. And they do not wish to learn, + apparently. The Easterners fatuously think, like Job, that they + are the people, and wisdom will die with them. Some years since + an article in the “Forum” on the theme, “Kansas more civilized + than New York” conclusively proved the proposition to the + satisfaction of the present writer at least. + + Yet I know numberless dwellers in Gotham whose shibboleth is + “nothing outside of New York City but scenery,” and they are a + little dubious about admitting that. When one describes the + Grand Canyon or the Royal Gorge they point to Nassau or Wall + Street, and the Woolworth tower challenges Pike’s Peak! + + I sat at a dinner table one day when the salted almonds were + handed me with the remark: “I suppose you never saw anything + like these out West. Try some.” And my wife has been quite + gravely asked if we feared any raids by the Indians and if they + troubled us by their marauding in Kansas. I have found it + necessary to inform the curious that we did not live in tepees + or wigwams when in Nebraska or Colorado. + + Shortly after I came East to live I was talking with a man and + a very stupid man at that, who informed me that he graduated + from Harvard; to which surprising statement he added the + startling information, for the benefit of my presumably + untutored occidental mind, that it was a college near Boston! + They have everything in the West that the East has so far as + their sometimes limited means will provide them and when they + have no money they have patience, endurance, grim + determination, and courage, which are better than money in the + long run. + + The cities and smaller towns especially as a rule are cleaner, + better governed, more progressive, better provided with + improvements and comforts than corresponding places in the + East. Scarcely a community exists without its water works, + electric light plant, telephone system, trolleys, paved + streets, etc. Of course, this does not apply to the extreme + frontier in which my field of work largely lay so many years + ago. The conditions were different there—the people too in that + now far-distant time. + + But to return to Christmas. One Christmas day I left my family + at one o’clock in the morning. Christmas salutations were + exchanged at that very sleepy hour and I took the fast express + to a certain station whence I could drive up country to a + little church in a farming country in which there had never + been a Christmas service. It was a bitter cold morning, deep + snow on the ground, and a furious north wind raging. + + The climate is variable indeed out West. I have spent Christmas + days on which it rained all day and of all days in the year on + which to have it rain, Christmas is the worst. Still, the + farmers would be thankful. It was usually safe to be thankful + out there whenever it rained. I knew a man once who said you + could make a fortune by always betting two to one that it would + not rain, no matter what the present promise of the weather + was. You were bound to win nine times out of ten. + + I hired a good sleigh and two horses, and drove to my + destination. The church was a little old brick building right + out in the prairie. There was a smouldering fire in a + miserable, worn-out stove which hardly raised the temperature + of the room a degree although it filled the place with smoke. + The wind had free entrance through the ill-fitting window and + door frames and a little pile of snow formed on the altar + during the service. I think there were twelve people who had + braved the fury of the storm. There was not an evergreen within + a hundred miles of the place and the only decoration was + sage-brush. To wear vestments was impossible, and I conducted + the service in a buffalo overcoat and a fur cap and gloves as I + have often done. It was short and the sermon was shorter. Mem.: + If you want short sermons give your Rector a cold church or a + hot one! + + After service I went to dinner at the nearest farm-house. Such + a Christmas dinner it was! There was no turkey, and they did + not even have a chicken. The menu was corn-bread, ham, and + potatoes, and mighty few potatoes at that. There were two + children in the family, a girl of six and a boy of five. They + were glad enough to get the ham. Their usual bill of fare was + composed of potatoes and corn-bread, and sometimes corn-bread + alone. My wife had put up a lunch for me, fearing that I might + not be able to get anything to eat, in which there was a small + mince-pie turnover; and the children had slipped a small box of + candy in my bag as a Christmas gift. I produced the turnover + which by common consent was divided between the astonished + children. Such a glistening of eyes and smacking of small lips + you never saw! + + “This pie makes it seem like Christmas, after all,” said the + little girl, with her mouth full. + + “Yes,” said the boy, ditto, “that and the ham.” + + “We didn’t have any Christmas this year,” continued the small + maiden. “Last year mother made us some potato men” (_i.e._, + little animal and semi-human figures made out of potatoes and + matches with buttons for eyes; they went into many stockings + among the very poor out West then). + + “But this year,” interrupted the boy, “potatoes are so scarce + that we couldn’t have ’em. Mother says that next year perhaps + we will have some real Christmas.” + + They were so brave about it that my heart went out to them. + Children and no Christmas gifts! Only the chill, bare room, the + wretched, meagre meal. I ransacked my brain. Finally something + occurred to me. After dinner I excused myself and hurried back + to the church. There were two small wicker baskets there which + were used for the collection—old but rather pretty. I selected + the best one. Fortunately I had in my grip a neat little + “housewife” which contained a pair of scissors, a huge thimble, + needles, thread, a tiny little pin-cushion, an emery bag, + buttons, etc. I am, like most ex-sailors, something of a + needleman myself. I emptied the contents into the collection + basket and garnished the dull little affair with the bright + ribbon ties ripped off the “housewife” and went back to the + house. + + To the boy I gave my penknife which happened to be nearly new, + and to the girl the church basket with the sewing things for a + work-basket. The joy of those children was one of the finest + things I have ever witnessed. The face of the little girl was + positively filled with awe as she lifted from the basket, one + by one, the pretty and useful articles the “housewife” had + supplied and when I added the small box of candy that my + children had provided me, they looked at me with feelings of + reverence, as a visible incarnation of Santa Claus. They were + the cheapest and most effective Christmas presents it was ever + my pleasure to bestow. I hope to be forgiven for putting the + church furniture to such a secular use. + + Another Christmas day I had a funeral. There was no snow, no + rain. The day was warm. The woman who died had been the wife of + one of the largest farmers in the diocese. He actually owned a + continuous body of several thousands of acres of fine land, + much of it under cultivation. She had been a fruitful mother + and five stalwart sons, all married, and several daughters + likewise, with numerous grandchildren represented her + contribution to the world’s population. They were the people of + the most consideration in the little community in which they + lived. We had the services in the morning in the Methodist + church, which was big enough to hold about six hundred people. + As it was a holiday, it was filled to the very doors. One of my + farmer friends remarked as we stood on the front steps watching + the crowd assembling: + + “My, doc, all of them wagons gatherin’ here makes it seem more + like circus day than a funeral.” + + I had been asked to preach a sermon, which I essayed to do. The + confusion was terrific. In order to be present themselves the + mothers in Israel had been obliged to bring their children, and + the most domestic of attentions were being bestowed upon them + freely. They cried and wailed and expostulated with their + parents in audible tones until I was nearly frantic. I found + myself shouting consoling platitudes to a sobbing, + grief-stricken band of relatives and endeavouring to drown the + noise of the children by roaring—the lion’s part à la Bottom. + It was distracting. I was a very young minister at the time and + the perspiration fairly rained from me. That’s what makes me + remember it was a warm day. + + When we got through the services after every one of the six + hundred had, in the language of the local undertaker, “viewed + the remains,” we went to the cemetery. I rode behind a horse + which was thirty-eight years old. I do not know what his + original colour had been but at present he was white and hoary + with age. + + “I always use him for funerals,” said the undertaker, “because + he naturally sets the proper pace for a funeral procession.” + + “Mercy,” said I, “I hope he won’t die on the road.” + + “Well, if he does,” continued the undertaker, “your services + will come in handy. We can bury him proper. I am awful fond of + that horse. I shouldn’t wonder if he hadn’t been at as many as + a thousand funerals in his life.” + + I thought that he had all the gravity of his grewsome + experiences, especially in his gait. The Christmas dinners were + all late on account of the funeral but they were bountiful and + good nevertheless and I much enjoyed mine. + + Another Christmas I was snow-bound on one of the obscure + branches of a Western railroad. If the train had been on time I + would have made a connection and have reached home by Christmas + Eve, but it was very evident, as the day wore on, that it was + not going to be on time. Indeed it was problematical whether it + would get anywhere at all. It was snowing hard outside. Our + progress had become slower and slower. Finally in a deep cut we + stopped. There were four men, one woman, and two little + children in the car—no other passengers in the train. The train + was of that variety known out West as a “plug” consisting of a + combination baggage and smoker and one coach. + + One of the trainmen started on a lonely and somewhat dangerous + tramp of several miles up the road to the next station to call + for the snow-plough, and the rest of us settled down to spend + the night. Certainly we could not hope to be extricated before + the next evening, especially as the storm then gave no signs of + abating. We all went up to the front of the car and sat around + the stove in which we kept up a bright fire,—fortunately we had + plenty of fuel—and in such circumstances we speedily got + acquainted with each other. One of the men was a “drummer,” a + travelling man for a notion house; another was a cow-boy; the + third was a big cattle-man; and I was the last. We soon found + that the woman was a widow who had maintained herself and the + children precariously since the death of her husband by sewing + and other feminine odd jobs but had at last given up the + unequal struggle and was going back to live with her mother, + also a widow who had some little property. + + The poor little threadbare children had cherished anticipations + of a joyous Christmas with their grandmother. From their talk + we could hear that a Christmas tree had been promised them and + all sorts of things. They were intensely disappointed at the + blockade. They cried and sobbed and would not be comforted. + Fortunately the woman had a great basket filled with + substantial provisions which, by the way, she generously shared + with the rest of us, so we were none of us hungry. As the night + fell, we tipped up two of the seats, placed the bottoms + sideways, and with our overcoats made two good beds for the + little folks. Just before they went to sleep the drummer said + to me: + + “Say, parson, we’ve got to give those children some Christmas.” + + “That’s what,” said the cow-boy. + + “I’m agreed,” added the cattle-man. + + “Madam,” said the drummer, addressing the woman with the easy + assurance of his class, after a brief consultation between us, + “we are going to give your kids some Christmas.” + + The woman beamed at him gratefully. + + “Yes, children,” said the now enthused drummer, as he turned to + the open-mouthed children, “Santa Claus is coming round + to-night sure. We want you to hang up your stockings.” + + “We ain’t got none,” quivered the little girl, “’ceptin’ those + we’ve got on and ma says it’s too cold to take ’em off.” + + “I’ve got two new pair of woollen socks,” said the cattle-man + eagerly, “which I ain’t never wore, and you are welcome to + ’em.” + + There was a clapping of little hands in childish glee, and then + the two faces fell as the elder remarked. + + “But Santa Claus will know they are not our stockings and he + will fill them with things for you instead.” + + “Lord love you,” said the burly cattle-man, roaring with + infectious laughter, “he wont bring me nothin’. One of us will + sit up anyway and tell him it’s for you. You’ve got to hustle + to bed right away because he may be here any time now.” + + Then came one of those spectacles which we sometimes meet once + or twice in a lifetime. The children knelt down on the rough + floor of the car beside their improvised beds. Instinctively + the hands of the men went to their heads and at the first words + of “Now I lay me down to sleep,” four hats came off. The + cow-boy stood twirling his hat and looking at the little + kneeling figures; the cattle-man’s vision seemed dimmed; while + in the eyes of the travelling man there shone a distant look—a + look across snow-filled prairies to a warmly lighted home. + + The children were soon asleep. Then the rest of us engaged in + earnest conversation. What should we give them? was the + question. + + “It don’t seem to me that I’ve got anything to give ’em,” said + the cow-boy mournfully, “unless the little kid might like my + spurs, an’ I would give my gun to the little girl, though on + general principles I don’t like to give up a gun. You never + know when you’re goin’ to need it, ’specially with strangers,” + he added with a rather suspicious glance at me. I would not + have harmed him for the world. + + “I’m in much the same fix,” said the cattle-man. “I’ve got a + flask of prime old whiskey here, but it don’t seem like it’s + very appropriate for the occasion, though it’s at the service + of any of you gents.” + + “Never seen no occasion in which whiskey wasn’t appropriate,” + said the cow-boy, mellowing at the sight of the flask. + + “I mean ’taint fit for kids,” explained the cattle-man handing + it over. + + “I begun on’t rather early,” remarked the puncher, taking a + long drink, “an’ I always use it when my feelin’s is onsettled, + like now.” He handed it back with a sigh. + + “Never mind, boys,” said the drummer. “You all come along with + me to the baggage car.” + + So off we trooped. He opened his trunks, and spread before us + such a glittering array of trash and trinkets as almost took + away our breath. + + “There,” he said, “look at that. We’ll just pick out the best + things from the lot, and I’ll donate them all.” + + “No, you don’t,” said the cow-boy. “My ante’s in on this game, + an’ I’m goin’ to buy what chips I want, an’ pay fer ’em too, + else there ain’t going to be no Christmas around here.” + + “That’s my judgment, too,” said the cattle-man. + + “I think that will be fair,” said I. “The travelling man can + donate what he pleases, and we can each of us buy what we + please, as well.” + + I think we spent hours looking over the stock which the + obliging man spread out all over the car for us. He was going + home, he said, and everything was at our service. The trainmen + caught the infection, too, and all hands finally went back to + the coach with such a load of stuff as you never saw before. We + filled the socks and two seats besides with it. The grateful + mother was simply dazed. + + As we all stood about, gleefully surveying our handiwork + including the bulging socks, the engineer remarked: + + “We’ve got to get some kind of a Christmas tree.” + + So two of us ploughed off on the prairie—it had stopped snowing + and was bright moon-light—and wandered around until we found a + good-sized piece of sage-brush, which we brought back and + solemnly installed and the woman decorated it with bunches of + tissue paper from the notion stock and clean waste from the + engine. We hung the train lanterns around it. + + We were so excited that we actually could not sleep. The + contagion of the season was strong upon us, and I know not + which were the more delighted the next morning, the children or + the amateur Santa Clauses, when they saw what the cow-boy + called the “layout.” + + Great goodness! Those children never did have, and probably + never will have, such a Christmas again. And to see the thin + face of that mother flush with unusual colour when we handed + her one of those monstrous red plush albums which we had + purchased jointly and in which we had all written our names in + lieu of our photographs, and between the leaves of which the + cattle-man had generously slipped a hundred dollar bill, was + worth being blockaded for a dozen Christmases. Her eyes filled + with tears and she fairly sobbed before us. + + During the morning we had a little service in the car, in + accordance with the custom of the Church, and I am sure no more + heartfelt body of worshippers ever poured forth their thanks + for the Incarnation than those men, that woman, and the little + children. The woman sang “Jesus Lover of my Soul” from memory + in her poor little voice and that small but reverent + congregation—cow-boy, drummer, cattle-man, trainmen, and + parson—solemnly joined in. + + “It feels just like church,” said the cow-boy gravely to the + cattle-man. “Say I’m all broke up; let’s go in the other car + and try your flask ag’in.” It was his unfailing resource for + “onsettled feelin’s.” + + The train-hand who had gone on to division headquarters + returned with the snow-plough early in the afternoon, but what + was more to the purpose he brought a whole cooked turkey with + him, so the children had turkey, a Christmas tree, and Santa + Claus to their heart’s content! I did not get home until the + day after Christmas. + + But, after all, what a Christmas I had enjoyed! + + During a season of great privation we were much assisted by + barrels of clothing which were sent to us from the East. One + day just before Christmas, I was distributing the contents of + several barrels of wearing apparel and other necessities to the + women and children at a little mission. The delight of the + women, as the good warm articles of clothing for themselves and + their children which they so sadly needed were handed out to + them was touching; but the children themselves did not enter + into the joy of the occasion with the same spontaneity. Finally + just as I got to the bottom of one box and before I had opened + the other one, a little boy sniffling to himself in the corner + remarked, _sotto voce_: + + “Ain’t there no real Chris’mus gif’s in there for us little + fellers, too?” + + I could quite enter into his feelings, for I could remember in + my youthful days when careful relatives had provided me with a + “cardigan” jacket, three handkerchiefs, and a half-dozen pairs + of socks for Christmas, that the season seemed to me like a + hollow mockery and the attempt to palm off necessities as + Christmas gifts filled my childish heart with disapproval. I am + older now and can face a Christmas remembrance of a cookbook, a + silver cake-basket, or an ice-cream freezer (some of which I + have actually received) with philosophical equanimity, if not + gratitude. + + I opened the second box, therefore, with a great longing, + though but little hope. Heaven bless the woman who had packed + that box, for, in addition to the usual necessary articles, + there were dolls, knives, books, games galore, so the small fry + had some “real Chris’mus gif’s” as well as the others. + + After one of the blizzards a young ranchman who had gone into + the nearest town some twenty miles away to get some Christmas + things for his wife and little ones, was found frozen to death + on Christmas morning, his poor little packages of petty + Christmas gifts tightly clasped in his cold hands lying by his + side. His horse was frozen too and when they found it, hanging + to the horn of the saddle was a little piece of an evergreen + tree—you would throw it away in contempt in the East, it was so + puny. There it meant something. The love of Christmas? It was + there in his dead hands. The spirit of Christmas? It showed + itself in that bit of verdant pine over the lariat at the + saddle-bow of the poor bronco. + + Do they have Christmas out West? Well, they have it in their + hearts if no place else, and, after all, that is the place + above all others where it should be. + + [2] This bit of personal history is reprinted from my book + _Recollections of a Missionary in the Great West_ by the courtesy of + Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, the publishers thereof. Incidentally + the reader will find much interesting matter in the way of + reminiscence and anecdote in that little volume, should he chance upon + it. + There are some amusing things connected with the publication in + serial form of these episodes. The great magazine in which it + appeared has very strong views on certain subjects. Following out a + policy which has deservedly won them perhaps the largest + circulation of any magazine in the world it seemed to the editors + necessary and desirable to make some changes in the story as + originally written and as it appears hereafter. + For instance the revised serial version made the cowboy lift the + flask of whiskey to his lips and then it declared that after a long + look at the sleeping children he put it down! I was quite agreeable + to the change. I remember remarking that the cowboy certainly did + “put it down.” It was a way cowboys had in those bygone days; so + the editor and the author were both satisfied. + Another amusing thing I recall in connection with the serial + publication was this: The art editor of the magazine wrote to the + officials of the railroad, the name of which I gave in the first + version but which I now withhold, saying that the magazine had a + story of a snow-bound train on the railroad in question and asking + for pictures of snow-bound trains to help the artist illustrate it. + By return mail came an indignant remonstrance almost threatening a + lawsuit because the railroad in question, one of the southerly + transcontinental roads, made a point in its appeal to travellers + that its trains were never snow-bound! The art editor who was not + without a vein of humour wrote back and asked if they could furnish + him with pictures of snow-bound trains on competing roads and they + sent him a box full! C.T.B. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + +A CHRISTMAS WISH + + _For Everybody, Everywhere_ + + + May peace and goodwill, prosperity and plenty, joy and + satisfaction abound in your homes and in your hearts this day + and all days. May opportunities for good work be many, and may + you avail yourselves of them all. May your sorrows be + lightened, may your griefs be assuaged. May your souls be + fitted for what they must endure; may your backs be + strengthened for your burdens; may your responsibilities be + met; may your obligations be discharged; may your duties be + performed. May love abound more and more until the perfect day + breaks in your lives. In short, every wish that would be + helpful, uplifting, and comforting, I wish you at this hour and + in all hours. + + In the words of Tiny Tim. + + “_God Bless us every one!_” + + Cyrus Townsend Brady + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Book for Christmas by Cyrus Townsend Brady + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS *** + +***** This file should be named 15343-0.txt or 15343-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/3/4/15343/ + +Produced by Gene Smethers and the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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