Christmas gold, p.878
Christmas Gold, page 878
“Don’t let’s fancy it,” laughed Mrs. Joseph, “it is only aggravating. Talking of candy reminds me that I made a big plateful of taffy for the children today. It’s all the ‘Christmassy’ I could give them. I’ll get it out and put it on the table along with the children’s presents. That can’t be someone at the door!”
“It is, though,” said Mr. Joseph as he strode to the door and flung it open.
Two snowed-up figures were standing on the porch. As they stepped in, the Josephs recognized one of them as Mr. Ralston, a wealthy merchant in a small town fifteen miles away.
“Late hour for callers, isn’t it?” said Mr. Ralston. “The fact is, our horse has about given out, and the storm is so bad that we can’t proceed. This is my wife, and we are on our way to spend Christmas with my brother’s family at Lindsay. Can you take us in for the night, Mr. Joseph?”
“Certainly, and welcome!” exclaimed Mr. Joseph heartily, “if you don’t mind a shakedown by the kitchen fire for the night. My, Mrs. Ralston,” as his wife helped her off with her things, “but you are snowed up! I’ll see to putting your horse away, Mr. Ralston. This way, if you please.”
When the two men came stamping into the house again Mrs. Ralston and Mrs. Joseph were sitting at the fire, the former with a steaming hot cup of tea in her hand. Mr. Ralston put the big basket he was carrying down on a bench in the corner.
“Thought I’d better bring our Christmas flummery in,” he said. “You see, Mrs. Joseph, my brother has a big family, so we are taking them a lot of Santa Claus stuff. Mrs. Ralston packed this basket, and goodness knows what she put in it, but she half cleaned out my store. The eyes of the Lindsay youngsters will dance tomorrow — that is, if we ever get there.”
Mrs. Joseph gave a little sigh in spite of herself, and looked wistfully at the heap of gifts on the corner table. How meagre and small they did look, to be sure, beside that bulgy basket with its cover suggestively tied down.
Mrs. Ralston looked too.
“Santa Claus seems to have visited you already,” she said with a smile.
The Josephs laughed.
“Our Santa Claus is somewhat out of pocket this year,” said Mr. Joseph frankly. “Those are the little things the small folks here have made for each other. They’ve been a month at it, and I’m always kind of relieved when Christmas is over and there are no more mysterious doings. We’re in such cramped quarters here that you can’t move without stepping on somebody’s secret.”
A shakedown was spread in the kitchen for the unexpected guests, and presently the Ralstons found themselves alone. Mrs. Ralston went over to the Christmas table and looked at the little gifts half tenderly and half pityingly.
“They’re not much like the contents of our basket, are they?” she said, as she touched the calendar Jimmie had made for Mollie out of cardboard and autumn leaves and grasses.
“Just what I was thinking,” returned her husband, “and I was thinking of something else, too. I’ve a notion that I’d like to see some of the things in our basket right here on this table.”
“I’d like to see them all,” said Mrs. Ralston promptly. “Let’s just leave them here, Edward. Roger’s family will have plenty of presents without them, and for that matter we can send them ours when we go back home.”
“Just as you say,” agreed Mr. Ralston. “I like the idea of giving the small folk of this household a rousing good Christmas for once. They’re poor I know, and I dare say pretty well pinched this year like most of the farmers hereabout after the crop failure.”
Mrs. Ralston untied the cover of the big basket. Then the two of them, moving as stealthily as if engaged in a burglary, transferred the contents to the table. Mr. Ralston got out a small pencil and a note book, and by dint of comparing the names attached to the gifts on the table they managed to divide theirs up pretty evenly among the little Josephs.
When all was done Mrs. Ralston said, “Now, I’m going to spread that tablecloth carelessly over the table. We will be going before daylight, probably, and in the hurry of getting off I hope that Mr. and Mrs. Joseph will not notice the difference till we’re gone.”
It fell out as Mrs. Ralston had planned. The dawn broke fine and clear over a vast white world. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph were early astir; breakfast for the storm-stayed travellers was cooked and eaten by lamplight; then the horse and sleigh were brought to the door and Mr. Ralston carried out his empty basket.
“I expect the trail will be heavy,” he said, “but I guess we’d get to Lindsay in time for dinner, anyway. Much obliged for your kindness, Mr. Joseph. When you and Mrs. Joseph come to town we shall hope to have a chance to return it. Goodbye and a merry Christmas to you all.”
When Mrs. Joseph went back to the kitchen her eyes fell on the heaped-up table in the corner.
“Why-y!” she said, and snatched off the cover.
One look she gave, and then this funny little mother began to cry; but they were happy tears. Mr. Joseph came too, and looked and whistled.
There really seemed to be everything on that table that the hearts of children could desire — three pairs of skates, a fur cap and collar, a dainty workbasket, half a dozen gleaming new books, a writing desk, a roll of stuff that looked like a new dress, a pair of fur-topped kid gloves just Mollie’s size, and a china cup and saucer. All these were to be seen at the first glance; and in one corner of the table was a big box filled with candies and nuts and raisins, and in the other a doll with curling golden hair and brown eyes, dressed in “real” clothes and with all her wardrobe in a trunk beside her. Pinned to her dress was a leaf from Mr. Ralston’s notebook with Maggie’s name written on it.
“Well, this is Christmas with a vengeance,” said Mr. Joseph.
“The children will go wild with delight,” said his wife happily.
They pretty nearly did when they all came scrambling down the stairs a little later. Such a Christmas had never been known in the Joseph household before. Maggie clasped her doll with shining eyes, Mollie looked at the workbasket that her housewifely little heart had always longed for, studious Jimmy beamed over the books, and Ted and Hal whooped with delight over the skates. And as for the big box of good things, why, everybody appreciated that. That Christmas was one to date from in that family.
I’m glad to be able to say, too, that even in the heyday of their delight and surprise over their wonderful presents, the little Josephs did not forget to appreciate the gifts they had prepared for each other. Mollie thought her calendar just too pretty for anything, and Jimmy was sure the new red mittens which Maggie had knitted for him with her own chubby wee fingers, were the very nicest, gayest mittens a boy had ever worn.
Mrs. Joseph’s taffy was eaten too. Not a scrap of it was left. As Ted said loyally, “It was just as good as the candy in the box and had more ‘chew’ to it besides.”
The Osbornes’ Christmas
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Cousin Myra had come to spend Christmas at “The Firs,” and all the junior Osbornes were ready to stand on their heads with delight. Darby — whose real name was Charles — did it, because he was only eight, and at eight you have no dignity to keep up. The others, being older, couldn’t.
But the fact of Christmas itself awoke no great enthusiasm in the hearts of the junior Osbornes. Frank voiced their opinion of it the day after Cousin Myra had arrived. He was sitting on the table with his hands in his pockets and a cynical sneer on his face. At least, Frank flattered himself that it was cynical. He knew that Uncle Edgar was said to wear a cynical sneer, and Frank admired Uncle Edgar very much and imitated him in every possible way. But to you and me it would have looked just as it did to Cousin Myra — a very discontented and unbecoming scowl.
“I’m awfully glad to see you, Cousin Myra,” explained Frank carefully, “and your being here may make some things worth while. But Christmas is just a bore — a regular bore.”
That was what Uncle Edgar called things that didn’t interest him, so that Frank felt pretty sure of his word. Nevertheless, he wondered uncomfortably what made Cousin Myra smile so queerly.
“Why, how dreadful!” she said brightly. “I thought all boys and girls looked upon Christmas as the very best time in the year.”
“We don’t,” said Frank gloomily. “It’s just the same old thing year in and year out. We know just exactly what is going to happen. We even know pretty well what presents we are going to get. And Christmas Day itself is always the same. We’ll get up in the morning, and our stockings will be full of things, and half of them we don’t want. Then there’s dinner. It’s always so poky. And all the uncles and aunts come to dinner — just the same old crowd, every year, and they say just the same things. Aunt Desda always says, ‘Why, Frankie, how you have grown!’ She knows I hate to be called Frankie. And after dinner they’ll sit round and talk the rest of the day, and that’s all. Yes, I call Christmas a nuisance.”
“There isn’t a single bit of fun in it,” said Ida discontentedly.
“Not a bit!” said the twins, both together, as they always said things.
“There’s lots of candy,” said Darby stoutly. He rather liked Christmas, although he was ashamed to say so before Frank.
Cousin Myra smothered another of those queer smiles.
“You’ve had too much Christmas, you Osbornes,” she said seriously. “It has palled on your taste, as all good things will if you overdo them. Did you ever try giving Christmas to somebody else?”
The Osbornes looked at Cousin Myra doubtfully. They didn’t understand.
“We always send presents to all our cousins,” said Frank hesitatingly. “That’s a bore, too. They’ve all got so many things already it’s no end of bother to think of something new.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” said Cousin Myra. “How much Christmas do you suppose those little Rolands down there in the hollow have? Or Sammy Abbott with his lame back? Or French Joe’s family over the hill? If you have too much Christmas, why don’t you give some to them?”
The Osbornes looked at each other. This was a new idea.
“How could we do it?” asked Ida.
Whereupon they had a consultation. Cousin Myra explained her plan, and the Osbornes grew enthusiastic over it. Even Frank forgot that he was supposed to be wearing a cynical sneer.
“I move we do it, Osbornes,” said he.
“If Father and Mother are willing,” said Ida.
“Won’t it be jolly!” exclaimed the twins.
“Well, rather,” said Darby scornfully. He did not mean to be scornful. He had heard Frank saying the same words in the same tone, and thought it signified approval.
Cousin Myra had a talk with Father and Mother Osborne that night, and found them heartily in sympathy with her plans.
For the next week the Osbornes were agog with excitement and interest. At first Cousin Myra made the suggestions, but their enthusiasm soon outstripped her, and they thought out things for themselves. Never did a week pass so quickly. And the Osbornes had never had such fun, either.
Christmas morning there was not a single present given or received at “The Firs” except those which Cousin Myra and Mr. and Mrs. Osborne gave to each other. The junior Osbornes had asked that the money which their parents had planned to spend in presents for them be given to them the previous week; and given it was, without a word.
The uncles and aunts arrived in due time, but not with them was the junior Osbornes’ concern. They were the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Osborne. The junior Osbornes were having a Christmas dinner party of their own. In the small dining room a table was spread and loaded with good things. Ida and the twins cooked that dinner all by themselves. To be sure, Cousin Myra had helped some, and Frank and Darby had stoned all the raisins and helped pull the homemade candy; and all together they had decorated the small dining room royally with Christmas greens.
Then their guests came. First, all the little Rolands from the Hollow arrived — seven in all, with very red, shining faces and not a word to say for themselves, so shy were they. Then came a troop from French Joe’s — four black-eyed lads, who never knew what shyness meant. Frank drove down to the village in the cutter and brought lame Sammy back with him, and soon after the last guest arrived — little Tillie Mather, who was Miss Rankin’s “orphan ‘sylum girl” from over the road. Everybody knew that Miss Rankin never kept Christmas. She did not believe in it, she said, but she did not prevent Tillie from going to the Osbornes’ dinner party.
Just at first the guests were a little stiff and unsocial; but they soon got acquainted, and so jolly was Cousin Myra — who had her dinner with the children in preference to the grownups — and so friendly the junior Osbornes, that all stiffness vanished. What a merry dinner it was! What peals of laughter went up, reaching to the big dining room across the hall, where the grownups sat in rather solemn state. And how those guests did eat and frankly enjoy the good things before them! How nicely they all behaved, even to the French Joes! Myra had secretly been a little dubious about those four mischievous-looking lads, but their manners were quite flawless. Mrs. French Joe had been drilling them for three days — ever since they had been invited to “de Chrismus dinner at de beeg house.”
After the merry dinner was over, the junior Osbornes brought in a Christmas tree, loaded with presents. They had bought them with the money that Mr. and Mrs. Osborne had meant for their own presents, and a splendid assortment they were. All the French-Joe boys got a pair of skates apiece, and Sammy a set of beautiful books, and Tillie was made supremely happy with a big wax doll. Every little Roland got just what his or her small heart had been longing for. Besides, there were nuts and candies galore.
Then Frank hitched up his pony again, but this time into a great pung sleigh, and the junior Osbornes took their guests for a sleigh-drive, chaperoned by Cousin Myra. It was just dusk when they got back, having driven the Rolands and the French Joes and Sammy and Tillie to their respective homes.
“This has been the jolliest Christmas I ever spent,” said Frank, emphatically.
“I thought we were just going to give the others a good time, but it was they who gave it to us,” said Ida.
“Weren’t the French Joes jolly?” giggled the twins. “Such cute speeches as they would make!”
“Me and Teddy Roland are going to be chums after this,” announced Darby. “He’s an inch taller than me, but I’m wider.”
That night Frank and Ida and Cousin Myra had a little talk after the smaller Osbornes had been haled off to bed.
“We’re not going to stop with Christmas, Cousin Myra,” said Frank, at the end of it. “We’re just going to keep on through the year. We’ve never had such a delightful old Christmas before.”
“You’ve learned the secret of happiness,” said Cousin Myra gently.
And the Osbornes understood what she meant.
Clorinda’s Gifts
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“It is a dreadful thing to be poor a fortnight before Christmas,” said Clorinda, with the mournful sigh of seventeen years.
Aunt Emmy smiled. Aunt Emmy was sixty, and spent the hours she didn’t spend in a bed, on a sofa or in a wheel chair; but Aunt Emmy was never heard to sigh.
“I suppose it is worse then than at any other time,” she admitted.
That was one of the nice things about Aunt Emmy. She always sympathized and understood.
“I’m worse than poor this Christmas … I’m stony broke,” said Clorinda dolefully. “My spell of fever in the summer and the consequent doctor’s bills have cleaned out my coffers completely. Not a single Christmas present can I give. And I did so want to give some little thing to each of my dearest people. But I simply can’t afford it … that’s the hateful, ugly truth.”
Clorinda sighed again.
“The gifts which money can purchase are not the only ones we can give,” said Aunt Emmy gently, “nor the best, either.”
“Oh, I know it’s nicer to give something of your own work,” agreed Clorinda, “but materials for fancy work cost too. That kind of gift is just as much out of the question for me as any other.”
“That was not what I meant,” said Aunt Emmy.
“What did you mean, then?” asked Clorinda, looking puzzled.
Aunt Emmy smiled.
“Suppose you think out my meaning for yourself,” she said. “That would be better than if I explained it. Besides, I don’t think I could explain it. Take the beautiful line of a beautiful poem to help you in your thinking out: ‘The gift without the giver is bare.’”
“I’d put it the other way and say, ‘The giver without the gift is bare,’” said Clorinda, with a grimace. “That is my predicament exactly. Well, I hope by next Christmas I’ll not be quite bankrupt. I’m going into Mr. Callender’s store down at Murraybridge in February. He has offered me the place, you know.”
“Won’t your aunt miss you terribly?” said Aunt Emmy gravely.
Clorinda flushed. There was a note in Aunt Emmy’s voice that disturbed her.
“Oh, yes, I suppose she will,” she answered hurriedly. “But she’ll get used to it very soon. And I will be home every Saturday night, you know. I’m dreadfully tired of being poor, Aunt Emmy, and now that I have a chance to earn something for myself I mean to take it. I can help Aunt Mary, too. I’m to get four dollars a week.”
“I think she would rather have your companionship than a part of your salary, Clorinda,” said Aunt Emmy. “But of course you must decide for yourself, dear. It is hard to be poor. I know it. I am poor.”
“You poor!” said Clorinda, kissing her. “Why, you are the richest woman I know, Aunt Emmy — rich in love and goodness and contentment.”
“And so are you, dearie … rich in youth and health and happiness and ambition. Aren’t they all worth while?”
“Of course they are,” laughed Clorinda. “Only, unfortunately, Christmas gifts can’t be coined out of them.”
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