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diff --git a/20187-h/20187-h.htm b/20187-h/20187-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6eafc79 --- /dev/null +++ b/20187-h/20187-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1352 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of On Christmas Day in the Morning, by Grace S. Richmond + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + a[name] { position:absolute; } + a:link {color:#0000ff; background-color:#FFFFFF; + text-decoration:none; } + a:visited {color:#0000ff; background-color:#FFFFFF; + text-decoration:none; } + a:hover { color:#ff0000; background-color:#FFFFFF; } + + table { width:80%; padding: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + .tocch { text-align: right; vertical-align: top;} + .tocpg {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom;} + .tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: solid black 1px;} + + ul { list-style-type: none; margin-left:10em; } + li { padding-bottom:0.25em; padding-top:0.25em; } + + .img1 {border-color:#000000; border-style:solid; border-width:thin; } + .sig { margin-left:35%; } + .sig1 { margin-left:5%; } + .sig2 { margin-left:45%; } + .sig3 { margin-left:75%; } + .f1 { font-size:smaller; } + + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style:normal; + } /* page numbers */ + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + + .caption {font-weight: bold; + font-size: smaller; + } + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's On Christmas Day in the Morning, by Grace S. Richmond + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: On Christmas Day in the Morning + +Author: Grace S. Richmond + +Illustrator: Charles M. Relyea + +Release Date: December 26, 2006 [EBook #20187] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter"><img class="img1" src="images/image_01.jpg" alt="Cover Page" width="600" height="442" /></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img class="img1" src="images/image_02.jpg" width="500" height="795" alt="Title Page" /></div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a name="pic_1" id="pic_1"></a> +<img src="images/image_03.jpg" width="500" height="706" alt=""'I HAVEN'T GIVEN YOU ANY CHRISTMAS PRESENT. WILL—I—DO?'"" title=""'I HAVEN'T GIVEN YOU ANY CHRISTMAS PRESENT. WILL—I—DO?'"" /> +<span class="caption">"'I HAVEN'T GIVEN YOU ANY CHRISTMAS PRESENT. WILL—I—DO?'"</span> +</div> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + + + + +<h1>On<br /> +Christmas Day<br /> +in the Morning</h1> +<p> </p> +<h3><i>By</i></h3> +<h2>GRACE S. RICHMOND</h2> +<p> </p> +<h3>Illustrated by</h3> +<h2>CHARLES M. RELYEA</h2> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h4><span class="smcap">Garden City</span> <span class="smcap">New York</span></h4> +<h3>DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY</h3> +<h3>MCMXI</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image_04.jpg" width="600" height="143" alt="Decorative Image" /> +</div> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1905, by<br /> +The Ridgway-Thayer Company</span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1908, by<br /> +Doubleday, Page & Company</span></p> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/image_05.jpg" width="200" height="88" alt="Decorative Image" /> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image_06.jpg" width="600" height="146" alt="Decorative Image" /> + +</div> +<h2>Illustrations</h2> + + + +<table summary="Illustrations"> +<tr><td><a href="#pic_1">"'I haven't given you any Christmas present. Will—I—do?'"</a></td><td class="tocpg"><i><a href="#pic_1">Frontispiece</a></i></td> +</tr> +<tr><td></td><td class="tocpg f1">PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr><td><a href="#pic_2">"Stumbling over their own feet and bundles ... the crew poured +into the warm kitchen"</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td><a href="#pic_3">"'The children!' she was saying. +'They—they—John—they must be <i>here</i>'"</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td><a href="#pic_4">"'Merry Christmas, mammy and daddy!'"</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + + + + + + + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>On Christmas Day in the Morning</h2> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And all the angels in heaven do sing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the bells on earth do ring,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On Christmas Day in the morning.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="sig">—<span class="smcap">Old Song.</span></p> + + +<p>That Christmas Day virtually began a whole year beforehand, with a +red-hot letter written by Guy Fernald to his younger sister, Nan, who +had been married to Samuel Burnett just two and one-half years. The +letter was read aloud by Mrs. Burnett to her husband at the breakfast +table, the second day after Christmas. From start to finish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> it was +upon one subject, and it read as follows:</p> + +<p class="sig1"><span class="smcap">Dear Nan</span>:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>It's a confounded, full-grown shame that not a soul of us +all got home for Christmas—except yours truly, and he only +for a couple of hours. What have the blessed old folks done +to us that we treat them like this? I was invited to the +Sewalls' for the day, and went, of course—you know why. We +had a ripping time, but along toward evening I began to feel +worried. I really thought Ralph was home—he wrote me that +he might swing round that way by the holidays—but I knew +the rest of you were all wrapped up in your own Christmas +trees and weren't going to get there.</p> + +<p>Well, I took the seven-thirty down and walked in on them. +Sitting all alone by the fire, by George, just like the +pictures you see of "The Birds All Flown," and that sort of +thing. I felt gulpish in my throat, on my honour I did, when +I looked at them. Mother just gave one gasp and flew into my +arms, and Dad got up more slowly—he has that darned +rheumatism worse than ever this winter—and came over and I +thought he'd shake my hand off. Well—I sat down between +them by the fire, and pretty soon I got down in the old way +on a cushion by mother, and let her run her fingers through +my hair, the way she used to—and Nan, I'll be indicted for +perjury if her hand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> wasn't trembly. They were so glad to +see me it made my throat ache.</p> + +<p>Ralph had written he couldn't get round, and of course you'd +all written and sent them things—jolly things, and they +appreciated them. But—blame it all—they were just dead +lonesome—and the whole outfit of us within three hundred +miles, most within thirty!</p> + +<p>Nan—next Christmas it's going to be different. That's all I +say. I've got it all planned out. The idea popped into my +head when I came away last night. Not that they had a word +of blame—not they. They understood all about the children, +and the cold snap, and Ed's being under the weather, and +Oliver's wife's neuralgia, and Ralph's girl in the West, and +all that. But that didn't make the thing any easier for +them. As I say, next year—But you'll all hear from me then. +Meanwhile—run down and see them once or twice this winter, +will you, Nan? Somehow it struck me they aren't so young +as—they used to be.</p> + +<p>Splendid winter weather. Margaret Sewall's a peach, but I +don't seem to make much headway. My best to Sam.</p></div> + +<p class="sig2">Your affectionate brother,</p> + +<p class="sig3"><span class="smcap">Guy</span>.</p> + +<p>Gay Nan had felt a slight choking in her own throat as she read this +letter. "We really must make an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> effort to be there Christmas next +year, Sam," she said to her husband, and Sam assented cheerfully. He +only wished there were a father and mother somewhere in the world for +him to go home to.</p> + +<p>Guy wrote the same sort of thing, with more or less detail, to Edson +and Oliver, his married elder brothers; to Ralph, his unmarried +brother; and to Carolyn—Mrs. Charles Wetmore, his other—and +elder—married sister. He received varied and more or less sympathetic +responses, to the effect that with so many little children, and such +snowdrifts as always blocked the roads leading toward North Estabrook, +it really was not strange—and of course somebody would go next year. +But they had all sent the nicest gifts they could find. Didn't Guy +think mother liked those beautiful Russian sables Ralph sent her? And +wasn't father pleased with his gold-headed cane from Oliver?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> Surely +with such presents pouring in from all the children, Father and Mother +Fernald couldn't feel so awfully neglected.</p> + +<p>"Gold-headed cane be hanged!" Guy exploded when he read this last +sentence from the letter of Marian, Oliver's wife. "I'll bet she put +him up to it. If anybody dares give me a gold-headed cane before I'm +ninety-five I'll thrash him with it on the spot. He wasn't using it, +either—bless him. He had his old hickory stick, and he wouldn't have +had that if that abominable rheumatism hadn't gripped him so hard. He +isn't old enough to use a cane, by jolly, and Ol ought to know it, if +Marian doesn't. I'm glad I sent him that typewriter. He liked that, I +know he did, and it'll amuse him, too—not make him think he's ready +to die!"</p> + +<p>Guy was not the fellow to forget anything which had taken hold of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> him +as that pathetic Christmas home-coming had done. When the year had +nearly rolled around, the first of December saw him at work getting +his plans in train. He began with his eldest brother, Oliver, because +he considered Mrs. Oliver the hardest proposition he had to tackle in +the carrying out of his idea.</p> + +<p>"You see," he expounded patiently, as they sat and stared at him, "it +isn't that they aren't always awfully glad to see the whole outfit, +children and all, but it just struck me it would do 'em a lot of good +to revive old times. I thought if we could make it just as much as +possible like one of the old Christmases before anybody got +married—hang up the stockings and all, you know—it would give them a +mighty jolly surprise. I plan to have us all creep in in the night and +go to bed in our old rooms. And then in the morning—See?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Oliver looked at him. An<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> eager flush lit his still boyish +face—Guy was twenty-eight—and his blue eyes were very bright. His +lithe, muscular figure bent toward her pleadingly; all his arguments +were aimed at her. Oliver sat back in his impassive way and watched +them both. It could not be denied that it was Marian's decisions which +usually ruled in matters of this sort.</p> + +<p>"It seems to me a very strange plan," was Mrs. Oliver's comment, when +Guy had laid the whole thing before her in the most tactful manner he +could command. She spoke rather coldly. "It is not usual to think that +families should be broken up like this on Christmas Day, of all days +in the year. Four families, with somebody gone—a mother or a +father—just to please two elderly people who expect nothing of the +sort, and who understand just why we can't all get home at once. Don't +you think you are really asking a good deal?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> + +<p>Guy kept his temper, though it was hard work. "It doesn't seem to me I +am," he answered quite gently. "It's only for once. I really don't +think father and mother would care much what sort of presents we +brought them, if we only came ourselves. Of course, I know I'm asking +a sacrifice of each family, and it may seem almost an insult not to +invite the children and all, yet—perhaps next year we'll try a +gathering of all the clans. But just for this year—honestly—I do +awfully wish you'd give me my way. If you'd seen those two last +Christmas—"</p> + +<p>He broke off, glancing appealingly at Oliver himself. To his surprise, +that gentleman shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth and put a +few pertinent questions to his younger brother. Had he thought it all +out? What time should they arrive there? How early on the day after +Christmas could they get away? Was he positive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> they could all crowd +into the house without rousing and alarming the pair?</p> + +<p>"Sure thing," Guy declared, quickly. "Marietta—well, you know I've +had the soft side of her old heart ever since I was born, somehow. I +talked it all over with her last year, and I'm solid with her, all +right. She'll work the game. You see, father's quite a bit deaf now—"</p> + +<p>"Father deaf?"</p> + +<p>"Sure. Didn't you know it?"</p> + +<p>"Forgotten. But mother'd hear us."</p> + +<p>"No, she wouldn't. Don't you know how she trusts everything about the +house to Marietta since she got that fall—"</p> + +<p>"Mother get a fall?"</p> + +<p>"Why, <i>yes</i>!" Guy stared at his brother with some impatience. "Don't +you remember she fell down the back stairs a year ago last October, +and hurt her knee?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Certainly, Oliver," his wife interposed. "I wrote for you to tell her +how sorry we were. But I supposed she had entirely recovered."</p> + +<p>"She's a little bit lame, and always will be," said Guy, a touch of +reproach in his tone. "Her knee stiffens up in the night, and she +doesn't get up and go prowling about at the least noise, the way she +used to. Marietta won't let her. So if we make a whisper of noise +Marietta'll tell her it's the cat or something. Good Lord! yes—it can +be worked all right. The only thing that worries me is the fear that I +can't get you all to take hold of the scheme. On my word, Ol,"—he +turned quite away from his sister-in-law's critical gaze and faced his +brother with something like indignation in his frank young +eyes—"don't we owe the old home anything but a present tied up in +tissue paper once a year?"</p> + +<p>Marian began to speak. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> thought Guy was exceeding his rights in +talking as if they had been at fault. It was not often that elderly +people had so many children within call—loyal children who would do +anything within reason. But certainly a man owed something to his own +family. And at Christmas! Why not carry out this plan at some other—</p> + +<p>Her husband abruptly interrupted her. He took his pipe quite out of +his mouth and spoke decidedly.</p> + +<p>"Guy, I believe you're right. I'll be sorry to desert my own kids, of +course, but I rather think they can stand it for once. If the others +fall into line, you may count on me."</p> + +<p>Guy got away, feeling that the worst of his troubles was over. In his +younger sister, Nan, he hoped to find an ardent ally and he was not +disappointed. Carolyn—Mrs. Charles Wetmore—also fell in heartily +with the plan. Ralph, from somewhere in the far West, wrote<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> that he +would get home or break a leg. Edson thought the idea rather a foolish +one, but was persuaded by Jessica, his wife—whom Guy privately +declared a trump—that he must go by all means. And so they all fell +into line, and there remained for Guy only the working out of the +details.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Mis' Fernald"—Marietta Cooley strove with all the decision of which +she was capable to keep her high-pitched, middle-aged voice in +order—"'fore you get to bed I'm most forgettin' what I was to ask +you. I s'pose you'll laugh, but Guy—he wrote me partic'lar he wanted +you and his father to"—Marietta's rather stern, thin face took on a +curious expression—"to hang up your stockin's."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Fernald paused in the door-way of the bedroom opening from the +sitting-room downstairs. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> looked back at Marietta with her gentle +smile.</p> + +<p>"Guy wrote that?" she asked. "Then—it almost looks as if he might be +coming himself, doesn't it, Marietta?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know's I'd really expect him," Marietta replied, +turning her face away and busying herself about the hearth. "I guess +what he meant was more in the way of a surprise for a Christmas +present—something that'll go into a stockin', maybe."</p> + +<p>"It's rather odd he should have written you to ask me," mused Mrs. +Fernald, as she looked out the stockings.</p> + +<p>Marietta considered rapidly. "Well, I s'pose he intended for me to get +'em on the sly without mentionin' it to you, an' put in what he sent, +but I sort of guessed you might like to fall in with his idee by +hangin' 'em up yourself, here by the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> chimbley, where the children all +used to do it. Here's the nails, same as they always was."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Fernald found the stockings, and touched her husband on the +shoulder, as he sat unlacing his shoes. "Father, Guy wrote he wanted +us to hang up our stockings," she said, raising her voice a little and +speaking very distinctly. The elderly man beside her looked up, +smiling.</p> + +<p>"Well, well," he said, "anything to please the boy. It doesn't seem +more than a year since he was a little fellow hanging up his own +stocking, does it, mother?"</p> + +<p>The stockings were hung in silence. They looked thin and lonely as +they dangled beside the dying fire. Marietta hastened to make them +less lonely. "Well," she said, in a shame-faced way, "the silly boy +said I was to hang mine, too. Goodness knows what he'll find to put +into it that'll fit, 'less it's a poker."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + +<p>They smiled kindly at her, wished her good night, and went back into +their own room. The little episode had aroused no suspicions. It was +very like Guy's affectionate boyishness.</p> + +<p>"I presume he'll be down," said Mrs. Fernald, as she limped quietly +about the room, making ready for bed. "Don't you remember how he +surprised us last year? I'm sorry the others can't come. Of course, I +sent them all the invitation, just as usual—I shall always do +that—but it <i>is</i> pretty snowy weather, and I suppose they don't quite +like to risk it."</p> + +<p>Presently, as she was putting out the light, she heard Marietta at the +door.</p> + +<p>"Mis' Fernald, Peter Piper's got back in this part o' the house, +somehow, and I can't lay hands on him. Beats all how cute that cat is. +Seem's if he knows when I'm goin' to put<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> him out in the wood-shed. I +don't think likely he'll do no harm, but I thought I'd tell you, so 'f +you heard any queer noises in the night you'd know it was Peter."</p> + +<p>"Very well, Marietta"—the soft voice came back to the schemer on the +other side of the door. "Peter will be all right, wherever he is. I +shan't be alarmed if I hear him."</p> + +<p>"All right, Mis' Fernald; I just thought I'd let you know," and the +guileful one went grinning away.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>There was a long silence in the quiet sleeping-room. Then, out of the +darkness, came this little colloquy:</i></p> + +<p><i>"Emeline, you aren't getting to sleep."</i></p> + +<p><i>"I—know I'm not, John. I—Christmas Eve keeps one awake, somehow. It +always did."</i></p> + +<p><i>"Yes.... I don't suppose the children realise at all, do they?"</i></p> + +<p><i>"Oh, no—oh, no! They don't realise—they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> never will, till—they're +here themselves. It's all right. I think—I think at least Guy will be +down to-morrow, don't you?"</i></p> + +<p><i>"I guess maybe he will." Then, after a short silence. "Mother—you've +got me, you know. You know—you've always got me, dear."</i></p> + +<p><i>"Yes." She would not let him hear the sob in her voice. She crept +close, and spoke cheerfully in his best ear. "And you've got me, +Johnny Boy!"</i></p> + +<p><i>"Thank the Lord, I have!"</i></p> + +<p><i>So, counting their blessings, they fell asleep at last. But, even in +sleep, one set of lashes was strangely wet.</i></p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Christopher Jinks, what a drift!"</p> + +<p>"Lucky we weren't two hours later."</p> + +<p>"<i>Sh-h</i>—they might hear us."</p> + +<p>"Nan, stop laughing, or I'll drop a snowball down your neck!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a name="pic_2" id="pic_2"></a> +<img src="images/image_07.jpg" width="500" height="705" alt=""STUMBLING OVER THEIR OWN FEET AND BUNDLES ... THE CREW POURED INTO THE WARM KITCHEN"" title=""STUMBLING OVER THEIR OWN FEET AND BUNDLES ... THE CREW POURED INTO THE WARM KITCHEN"" /> +<span class="caption">"STUMBLING OVER THEIR OWN FEET AND BUNDLES ... THE CREW POURED INTO THE WARM KITCHEN"</span> +</div> + +<p>"Here, Carol, give me your hand. I'll plough you through. Large bodies +move slowly, of course, but go elbows first and you'll get there."</p> + +<p>"Gee <i>whiz</i>! Can't you get that door open? I'll bet it's frozen fast."</p> + +<p>A light showed inside the kitchen. The storm-door swung open, +propelled by force from inside. A cautious voice said low: "That the +Fernald family?"</p> + +<p>A chorus of whispers came back at Miss Marietta Cooley:</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes—let us in, we're freezing."</p> + +<p>"You bet we're the Fernald family—every man-Jack of us—not one +missing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Marietta—you dear old thing!"</p> + +<p>"Hurry up—this is their side of the house."</p> + +<p>"<i>Sh-h-h</i>—"</p> + +<p>"Carol, your <i>sh-h-ishes</i> would wake the dead!"</p> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> + +<p>Stumbling over their own feet and bundles in the endeavour to be +preternaturally quiet, the crew poured into the warm kitchen. Bearded +Oliver, oldest of the clan; stout Edson, big Ralph, tall and slender +Guy—and the two daughters of the house, Carolyn, growing plump and +rosy at thirty; Nan, slim and girlish at twenty-four—they were all +there. Marietta heaved a sigh of content as she looked them over.</p> + +<p>"Well, I didn't really think you'd get here—all of you. Thank the +Lord, you have. I s'pose you're tearin' hungry, bein' past 'leven. If +you think you can eat quiet as cats, I'll feed you up, but if you're +goin' to make as much rumpus as you did comin' round the corner o' the +wood-shed I'll have to pack you straight off to bed up the back +stairs."</p> + +<p>They pleaded for mercy and hot food. They got it—everything that +could be had that would diffuse no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> odour of cookery through the +house. Smoking clam-broth, a great pot of baked beans, cold meats, and +jellies—they had no reason to complain of their reception. They ate +hungrily with the appetites of winter travel.</p> + +<p>"Say, but this is great," exulted Ralph, the stalwart, consuming a +huge wedge of mince pie with a fine disregard for any consequences +that might overtake him. "This alone is worth it. I haven't eaten such +pie in a century. What a jolly place this old kitchen is! Let's have a +candy-pull to-morrow. I haven't been home Christmas in—let me see—by +Jove, I believe it's six—seven—yes, seven years. Look here: there's +been some excuse for me, but what about you people that live near?"</p> + +<p>He looked accusingly about. Carolyn got up and came around to him. +"Don't talk about it to-night," she whispered. "We haven't any of us +realised how long it's been."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We'll get off to bed now," Guy declared, rising. "I can't get over +the feeling that they may catch us down here. If either of them should +want some hot water or anything—"</p> + +<p>"The dining-room door's bolted," Marietta assured him, "but it might +need explainin' if I had to bring 'em hot water by way of the parlour. +Now, go awful careful up them stairs. They're pretty near over your +ma's head, but I don't dare have you tramp through the settin'-room to +the front ones. Now, remember that seventh stair creaks like +Ned—you've got to step right on the outside edge of it to keep it +quiet. I don't know but what you boys better step right up over that +seventh stair without touchin' foot to it."</p> + +<p>"All right—we'll step!"</p> + +<p>"Who's going to fix the bundles?" Carolyn paused to ask as she started +up the stairs.</p> + +<p>"Marietta," Guy answered. "I've<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> labeled every one, so it'll be easy. +If they hear paper rattle, they'll think it's the usual presents we've +sent on, and if they come out they'll see Marietta, so it's all right. +Quiet, now. Remember the seventh stair!"</p> + +<p>They crept up, one by one, each to his or her old room. There needed +to be no "doubling up," for the house was large, and each room had +been left precisely as its owner had left it. It was rather ghostly, +this stealing silently about with candles, and in the necessity for +the suppression of speech the animation of the party rather suffered +eclipse. It was late, and they were beginning to be sleepy, so they +were soon in bed. But, somehow, once composed for slumber, more than +one grew wakeful again.</p> + +<p>Guy, lying staring at a patch of wintry moonlight on the odd striped +paper of his wall—it had stopped snowing since they had come into the +house, and the clouds had broken<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> away, leaving a brilliant +sky—discovered his door to be softly opening. The glimmer of a candle +filtered through the crack, a voice whispered his name.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?" he answered under his breath.</p> + +<p>"It's Nan. May I come in?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. What's up?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing. I wanted to talk a minute." She came noiselessly in, wrapped +in a woolly scarlet kimono, scarlet slippers on her feet, her brown +braids hanging down her back. The frost-bloom lately on her cheeks had +melted into a ruddy glow, her eyes were stars. She set her candle on +the little stand, and sat down on the edge of Guy's bed. He raised +himself on his elbow and lay looking appreciatively at her.</p> + +<p>"This is like old times," he said. "But won't you be cold?"</p> + +<p>"Not a bit. I'm only going to stay a minute. Anyhow, this thing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> is +warm as toast.... Yes, isn't it like old times?"</p> + +<p>"Got your lessons for to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>She laughed. "All but my Cæsar. You'll help me with that, in the +morning, won't you?"</p> + +<p>"Sure—if you'll make some cushions for my bobs."</p> + +<p>"I will. Guy—how's Lucy Harper?"</p> + +<p>"She's all right. How's Bob Fields?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't care for him, now!" She tossed her head.</p> + +<p>He kept up the play. "Like Dave Strong better, huh? He's a softy."</p> + +<p>"He isn't. Oh, Guy—I heard you had a new girl."</p> + +<p>"New girl nothing. Don't care for girls."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you do. At least I think you do. Her name's—Margaret."</p> + +<p>The play ceased abruptly. Guy's face changed. "Perhaps I do," he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +murmured, while his sister watched him in the candle-light.</p> + +<p>"She won't answer yet?" she asked very gently.</p> + +<p>"Not a word."</p> + +<p>"You've cared a good while, haven't you, dear?"</p> + +<p>"Seems like ages. Suppose it isn't."</p> + +<p>"No—only two years, really caring hard. Plenty of time left."</p> + +<p>He moved his head impatiently. "Yes, if I didn't mind seeing her smile +on Tommy Gower—de'il take him—just as sweetly as she smiles on me. +If she ever held out the tip of her finger to me, I'd seize it and +hold on to it for fair. But she doesn't. She won't. And she's going +South next week for the rest of the winter, and there's a fellow down +there in South Carolina where she goes—oh, he—he's red-headed after +her, like the rest of us. And, well—I'm up against it good and hard, +Nan, and that's the truth."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a name="pic_3" id="pic_3"></a> +<img src="images/image_08.jpg" width="500" height="706" alt=""'THE CHILDREN!' SHE WAS SAYING. 'THEY—THEY—JOHN—THEY MUST BE HERE!'"" title=""'THE CHILDREN!' SHE WAS SAYING. 'THEY—THEY—JOHN—THEY MUST BE HERE!'"" /> +<span class="caption">"'THE CHILDREN!' SHE WAS SAYING. 'THEY—THEY—JOHN—THEY MUST BE HERE!'"</span> +</div> + +<p>"Poor boy. And you gave up going to see her on Christmas Day, and came +down here into the country just to—"</p> + +<p>"Just to get even with myself for the way I've neglected 'em these two +years while my head's been so full of—her. It isn't fair. After last +year I'd have come home to-day if it had meant I had to +lose—well—Margaret knows I'm here. I don't know what she thinks."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe, Guy, boy, she thinks the less of you. Yes—I must +go. It will all come right in the end, dear—I'm sure of it. No, I +don't know how Margaret feels—Good night—good night!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Christmas morning, breaking upon a wintry world—the Star in the East +long set. Outside the house a great silence of drift-wrapped hill and +plain;—inside, a crackling fire upon a wide hearth, and a pair of +elderly people waking to a lonely holiday.</p> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Fernald crept to the door of her room—the injured knee always +made walking difficult after a night's quiet. She meant to sit down by +the fire which she had lately heard Marietta stirring and feeding into +activity, and warm herself at its flame. She remembered with a sad +little smile that she and John had hung their stockings there, and +looked to see what miracle had been wrought in the night.</p> + +<p>"<i>Father</i>!"—Her voice caught in her throat.... What was all this?... +By some mysterious influence her husband learned that she was calling +him, though he had not really heard. He came to the door and looked at +her, then at the chimneypiece where the stockings hung—a long row of +them, as they had not hung since the children grew up—stockings of +quality: one of brown silk, Nan's; a fine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> gray sock with scarlet +clocks, Ralph's,—all stuffed to the top, with bundles overflowing +upon the chimneypiece and even to the floor below.</p> + +<p>"What's this—what's this?" John Fernald's voice was puzzled. "Whose +are these?" He limped closer. He put on his spectacles and stared hard +at a parcel protruding from the sock with the scarlet clocks.</p> + +<p>"'<i>Merry Christmas to Ralph from Nan</i>,'" he read. "'To Ralph from +Nan,'" he repeated vaguely. His gaze turned to his wife. His eyes were +wide like a child's. But she was getting to her feet, from the chair +into which she had dropped.</p> + +<p>"The children!" she was saying. "They—they—John—they must be +<i>here</i>!"</p> + +<p>He followed her through the chilly hall to the front staircase, seldom +used now, and up—as rapidly as those slow, stiff joints would allow.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +Trembling, Mrs. Fernald pushed open the first door at the top.</p> + +<p>A rumpled brown head raised itself from among the pillows, a pair of +sleepy but affectionate brown eyes smiled back at the two faces +peering in, and a voice brimful of mirth cried softly: "Merry +Christmas, mammy and daddy!" They stared at her, their eyes growing +misty. <i>It was their little daughter Nan, not yet grown up!</i></p> + +<p>They could not believe it. Even when they had been to every room;—had +seen their big son Ralph, still sleeping, his yet youthful face, full +of healthy colour, pillowed on his brawny arm, and his mother had +gently kissed him awake to be half-strangled in his hug;—when they +had met Edson's hearty laugh as he fired a pillow at them—carefully, +so that his father could catch it;—when they had seen plump pretty +Carol pulling on her stockings as she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> sat on the floor smiling up at +them;—Oliver, advancing to meet them in his bath-robe and +slippers;—Guy, holding out both arms from above his blankets, and +shouting "Merry Christmas!—and how do you like your children?"—even +then it was difficult to realise that not one was missing—and that no +one else was there. Unconsciously Mrs. Fernald found herself looking +about for the sons' wives and daughters' husbands and children. She +loved them all;—yet—to have her own, and no others, just for this +one day—it was happiness indeed.</p> + +<p>When they were all downstairs, about the fire, there was great +rejoicing. They had Marietta in; indeed, she had been hovering +continuously in the background, to the apparently frightful jeopardy +of the breakfast in preparation, upon which, nevertheless, she had +managed to keep a practised eye.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And you were in it, Marietta?" Mr. Fernald said to her in +astonishment, when he first saw her. "How in the world did you get all +these people into the house and to bed without waking us?"</p> + +<p>"It was pretty consid'able of a resk," Marietta replied, with modest +pride, "'seein' as how they was inclined to be middlin' lively. But I +kep' a-hushin' 'em up, and I filled 'em up so full of victuals they +couldn't talk. I didn't know's there'd be any eatables left for +to-day," she added—which last remark, since she had been slyly baking +for a week, Guy thought might be considered pure bluff.</p> + +<p>At the breakfast table, while the eight heads were bent, this +thanksgiving arose, as the master of the house, in a voice not quite +steady, offered it to One Unseen:</p> + +<p><i>Thou who camest to us on that first Christmas Day, we bless Thee for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +this good and perfect gift Thou sendest us to-day, that Thou +forgettest us not in these later years, but givest us the greatest joy +of our lives in these our loyal children.</i></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a name="pic_4" id="pic_4"></a> +<img src="images/image_09.jpg" width="500" height="681" alt=""'MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAMMY AND DADDY!'"" title=""'MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAMMY AND DADDY!'"" /> +<span class="caption">"'MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAMMY AND DADDY!'"</span> +</div> + +<p>Nan's hand clutched Guy's under the table. "Doesn't that make it worth +it?" his grasp said to her, and hers replied with a frantic pressure, +"Indeed it does, but we don't deserve it."</p> + +<p>... It was late in the afternoon, a tremendous Christmas dinner well +over, and the group scattered, when Guy and his mother sat alone by +the fire. The "boys" had gone out to the great stock barn with their +father to talk over with him every detail of the prosperous business +he, with the help of an invaluable assistant, was yet able to manage. +Carolyn and Nan had ostensibly gone with them, but in reality the +former was calling upon an old friend of her childhood, and the latter +had begged <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>a horse and sleigh and driven merrily away alone upon an +errand she would tell no one but her mother.</p> + + + +<p>Mrs. Fernald sat in her low chair at the side of the hearth, her son +upon a cushion at her feet, his head resting against her knee. Her +slender fingers were gently threading the thick locks of his hair, as +she listened while he talked to her of everything in his life, and, at +last, of the one thing he cared most about.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I get desperate and think I may as well give her up for +good and all," he was saying. "She's so—so—<i>elusive</i>—I don't know +any other word for it. I never can tell how I stand with her. She's +going South next week. I've asked her to answer me before she goes. +Somehow I've clung to the hope that I'd get my answer to-day. You'll +laugh, but I left word with my office-boy to wire me if a note or +anything from her came. It's four o'clock, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> I haven't heard. +She—you see, I can't help thinking it's because she's going to—turn +me down—and—hates to do it—Christmas Day!"</p> + +<p>He turned suddenly and buried his face in his mother's lap; his +shoulders heaved a little in spite of himself. His mother's hand +caressed his head more tenderly than ever, but, if he could have seen, +her eyes were very bright.</p> + +<p>They were silent for a long time. Then suddenly a jingle of sleigh +bells approached through the falling winter twilight, drew near, and +stopped at the door. Guy's mother laid her hands upon his shoulders. +"Son," she said, "there's some one stopping now. Perhaps it's the boy +with a message from the station."</p> + +<p>He was on his feet in an instant. Her eyes followed him as he rushed +away through the hall. Then she rose and quietly closed the +sitting-room door behind him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p> + +<p>As Guy flung open the front door, a tall and slender figure in gray +furs and a wide gray hat was coming up the walk. Eyes whose glance had +long been his dearest torture met Guy Fernald's and fell. Lips like +which there were no others in the world smiled tremulously in response +to his eager exclamation. And over the piquant young face rose an +exquisite colour which was not altogether born of the wintry air. The +girl who for two years had been only "elusive" had taken the +significant step of coming to North Estabrook in response to an +eloquent telephone message sent that morning by Nan.</p> + +<p>Holding both her hands fast, Guy led her up into the house—and found +himself alone with her in the shadowy hall. With one gay shout Nan had +driven away toward the barn. The inner doors were all closed. Blessing +the wondrous saga<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>city of his womankind, Guy took advantage of his +moment.</p> + +<p>"Nan brought you—I see that. I know you're very fond of her, but—you +didn't come wholly to please her, did you—Margaret?"</p> + +<p>"Not wholly."</p> + +<p>"I've been looking all day for my answer. I—oh—I wonder if—" he was +gathering courage from her aspect, which for the first time in his +experience failed to keep him at a distance—"<i>dare</i> I think +you—<i>bring it</i>?"</p> + +<p>She slowly lifted her face. "I thought it was so—so dear of you," she +murmured, "to come home to your people instead of—staying with me. I +thought you deserved—what you say—you want—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Margaret</i>—you—"</p> + +<p>"I haven't given you any Christmas present. Will—I—do?"</p> + +<p>"Will <i>you</i> do!... <i>Oh</i>!"—It was a great explosive sigh of relief<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +and joy, and as he gave vent to it he caught her close. +"Will—<i>you</i>—do!... Good Lord!... I rather <i>think you will</i>!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p><i>"Emeline—"</i></p> + +<p><i>"Yes, John dear?"</i></p> + +<p><i>"You're not—crying?"</i></p> + +<p><i>"Oh, no—no, no, John!" What a blessing deafness is sometimes! The +ear cannot detect the delicate tremolo which might tell the story too +plainly. And in the darkness of night, the eye cannot see.</i></p> + +<p><i>"It's been a pretty nice day, hasn't it?"</i></p> + +<p><i>"A beautiful day!"</i></p> + +<p><i>"I guess there's no doubt but the children care a good deal for the +old folks yet."</i></p> + +<p><i>"No doubt at all, dear."</i></p> + +<p><i>"It's good to think they're all asleep under the roof once more, +isn't it?—And one extra one. We like her, don't we?"</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>"Oh, very, very much!"</i></p> + +<p><i>"Yes, Guy's done well. I always thought he'd get her, if he hung on. +The Fernalds always hang on, but Guy's got a mite of a temper—I +didn't know but he might let go a little too soon. Well—it's great to +think they all plan to spend every Christmas Day with us, isn't it, +Emeline?"</i></p> + +<p><i>"Yes, dear—it's—great."</i></p> + +<p><i>"Well—I must let you go to sleep. It's been a big day, and I guess +you're tired. Emeline, we've not only got each other—we've got the +children too. That's a pretty happy thing at our age, isn't it, now?"</i></p> + +<p><i>"Yes—yes."</i></p> + +<p><i>"Good night—Christmas Night, Emeline."</i></p> + +<p><i>"Good night, dear."</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>By the Same Author</h3> + +<ul> +<li>The Second Violin</li> +<li>The Indifference of Juliet</li> +<li>With Juliet in England</li> +<li>Round the Corner in Gay Street</li> +</ul> + + +<p class="center">Also many short stories for children +</p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of On Christmas Day in the Morning, by +Grace S. 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