"Been down to the ice?" asked the boy, eagerly. "I could see the
skaters from Patton's store. O, I see, you got some new skates for
Christmas! Ain't they beauties, now?" And he beamed on the despised
"Jolly Ramblers" with his heart in his little blue eyes.
"A pretty good little pair of skates," said Tom, in Ralph's
condescending tone.
"Good! Well I should guess yes! And Christmas ice just made o'
purpose!" In spite of his ill humor, Tom could not help responding to
the warm interest of the shabby boy at his side. He knew him to be
Harvey McGinnis, the son of a poor Irish widow, who worked at Patton's
department store out of school hours. Looking at the great box with an
awakening interest, he remarked, kindly, "What you been doin' with
yourself on Christmas day?"
"Want to know, sure enough?" said Harvey, mysteriously, his round face
beaming more brightly than ever, "Well, I've been doin' the Santy
Claus act down at Patton's store.
"About a week ago," he went on, leaning back easily against the tall
building and thrusting his hands down deep into his well worn pockets,
"about a week ago, as I was cleaning out the storeroom, I came on
three big boxes with broken dolls in 'em. Beauties they were, I kin
tell you, the Lady Jane in a blue silk dress, the Lady Clarabel in
pink, and the Lady Matilda in shimmerin' white. Nothin' wrong with 'em
either only broken rubbers that put their jints out o' whack and set
their heads arollin' this way and that. 'They could be fixed in no
time, I ses to myself, 'and what a prize they'd be fer the kids to be
sure!' For mom and me had racked our brains considerable how we'd
scrape together the money for Christmas things for the girls.
"So I went to the boss and I asked him right out what he'd charge me
for the three ladies just as they wus, and he ses, 'Jimmie,' he ses
(I've told him me name a dozen times, but he allus calls me 'Jimmie'),
'Jimmie,' he ses, 'if you'll come down on Christmas day and help me
take down the fixin's and fix up the store for regular trade, I'll
give you the dolls fer nothin',' he ses.
"So I explained to the kids that Santy'd be late to our house this
year (with so many to see after it wouldn't be strange) and went down
to the store early this morning and finished me work and fixed up the
ladies es good es new. Would you like to be seein' 'em, now?" he
added, turning to the great box with a look of pride.
"Sure, I'd like to see 'em," said Tom.
With careful, almost reverent touch, Harvey untied the string and
opened the large box, disclosing three smaller boxes, one above the
other. Opening the first box, he revealed a really handsome doll in a
blue silk dress, with large dark eyes that opened and shut and dark,
curling locks of "real hair."
"This is the Lady Jane," he said, smoothing her gay frock with gentle
fingers. "We're goin' to give her to Kitty. Kitty's hair is pretty and
curly, but she hates it, 'cause it's red; and she thinks black hair is
the prettiest kind in the world. Ain't it funny how all of us will be
wantin' what we don't have ourselves?"
Tom did not reply to this bit of philosophy; but he laid a repentant
hand on the "Jolly Ramblers" as if he knew he had wronged them in his
heart. "That's as handsome a doll as ever I saw and no mistake," he
said.
Pleased with this praise, Harvey opened the second box and disclosed
the Lady Matilda with fair golden curls and a dress of "shimmerin'
white." "The Lady Matilda goes to Josephine," said Harvey. "Josephine
has black hair, straight as a string, and won't she laugh, though, to
see them fetchin' yellow curls?"
"She surely ought to be glad," said Tom.
The Lady Clarabel was another fair-haired lady in a gown of the
brightest pink. "This here beauty's for the baby," said Harvey, his
eyes glowing. "She don't care if the hair's black or yellow, but won't
that stunnin' dress make her eyes pop out?"
"They'll surely believe in Santy when they see those beauties," said
Tom.
"That's just what I was sayin' to mom this morning," said Harvey.
"Kitty's had some doubts, (she's almost nine), but when she sees those
fine ladies she'll be dead sure mom and I didn't buy 'em. If I had a
Santy Claus suit, I'd dress up and hand 'em out myself."
Tom's face lighted with a bright idea. "My brother Bob's got a Santa
Claus suit that he used in a show last Christmas," he said. "Say, let
me dress up and play Santa for you. The girls would never guess who I
was!"
"Wouldn't they stare, though!" said Harvey, delightedly. "But do you
think you'd want to take time," he asked apologetically, "and you with
a new pair of skates and the ice like this?"
"Of course, I want to if you'll let me," said Tom. "I'll skate down
the river and meet you anywhere you say."
"Out in our back yard, then, at seven o'clock," said Harvey.
"All right, I'll be there!" and with head up, and skates clinking, Tom
hurried away.
It was a flushed, excited boy who burst into the Reynolds' quiet
sitting room a few minutes later, with his skates still hanging on his
shoulder and his cap in his hand. "Say, mother," he cried, "can I have
Bob's Santa Claus suit this evening, please? I'm going to play Santa
Claus for Harvey McGinnis!"
"Play Santa Claus for Harvey McGinnis. What do you mean, child?"
"You know Mrs. McGinnis, mother, that poor woman who lives in the
little house by the river. Her husband got killed on the railroad last
winter, you know. Well, Harvey, her boy, has fixed up some grand
looking dolls for his sisters and he wants me to come out and play
Santa tonight," and Tom launched out into a long story about Harvey
and his good fortune.
"He must be a splendid boy," said Mrs. Reynolds, heartily, "and I am
sure I shall be glad to have you go."
"And another thing, mother," said Tom, hesitating a little, "do you
think grandma would care if I spent part of that five dollars she gave
me for a pair of skates for Harvey? He hasn't any skates at all, and I
know he'd just love to have some!"
"It is generous of you to think of it," said his mother, much pleased,
"and you would still have two and a half for that little trip down to
grandma's."
"But I'd like to get him some 'Club House' skates," said Tom. "They're
a new kind that cost three dollars and a half."
"But I thought you said the 'Jolly Ramblers' were the best skates
made?" Mrs. Reynolds looked somewhat hurt as she glanced from Tom to
the skates on his shoulder and back to Tom again.
"They are, mother, they're just dandies!" said Tom blushing with
shame that he could ever have despised his mother's gift. "But these
'Club House' skates are just the kind for Harvey. You see, Harvey's
shoes are old and worn, and these 'Club House' skates have clamps that
you can't shake loose if you have to. Then, if anything happens to
them before the year's up, you get a new pair free; and Harvey, you
know, wouldn't have any money to be fixing skates."
"Well, do as you like," said Mrs. Reynolds, pleased with Tom's
eagerness, for such a spell of generosity was something new in her
selfish younger son. "But remember, you will have to wait a while for
your visit to grandma."
"All right, and thank you, mother," said Tom. "You can buy the skates
down at Harrison's and I'm going over and ask Mr. Harrison if he won't
open up the store and get a pair for me for a special time like this.
I'm most sure he will!" and away he flew.
That evening, at seven, as the moon was rising over the eastern hills,
a short, portly Santa Claus stepped out of the dry reeds by the river
bank and walked with wonderfully nimble feet, right into the McGinnis'
little back yard. As he neared the small back porch, a dark figure
rose to greet him, one hand held up in warning, the other holding at
arm's length, a bulky grain sack, full to the brim.
"Here's yer pack, Santy," he whispered, gleefully. "They're all
waitin' in the front room yonder. I'll slip in the back way, whilst
you go round and give a good thump at the front door and mom'll let
you in."
Trembling with eagerness, Tom tiptoed round the house, managing to
slip an oblong package into the capacious depths of the big sack as
he did so. Thump, thump! how his knock reëchoed in the frosty air! The
door swung wide, and Mrs. McGinnis' gaunt figure stood before him.
"Good evenin', Santy, come right in," she said.
Tom had always thought what a homely woman Harvey's mother was when he
happened to meet her at the grocery, with her thin red hair drawn
severely back from her gaunt face, and a black shawl over her head.
But as he looked up into her big, kind face, so full of Christmas
sunshine, he wondered he could ever have thought her anything but
lovely. The room was small and bare, but wonderfully gay with pine and
bits of red and green crepe paper, saved from the 'fixins' at the
store. And on a large bed in the corner sat the three little girls,
Kitty with her bright curls bobbing, Josephine with her black braids
sticking straight out, and the baby with tiny blue eyes that twinkled
and shone like Harvey's.
The fine speech that Tom had been saying over to himself for the past
two hours seemed to vanish into thin air before this excited little
audience. But in faltering, stammering tones, which everyone was too
excited to notice, he managed to say something about "Merry Christmas"
and "good children" and then proceeded to open the magic sack. "Miss
Kitty McGinnis!" he called, in deep, gruff tones. Kitty took the box
he offered with shy embarrassment, slowly drew back the lid and gave a
cry of amazement and delight. "A doll, O the loveliest doll that ever
was!" she cried. Then turning to her brother, she whispered as softly
as excitement would permit, "O Harvey, I'm afeard ye paid too much!"
"Aw, go on!" said Harvey, his face more like a full moon than ever.
"Don't ye know that Santy kin do whatever he wants to?"
The other dolls were received with raptures, Josephine stroking the
golden curls of the Lady Matilda with wondering fingers, and the baby
dancing round and round, waving the pink-robed Lady Clarabel above her
head.
"Mr. Harvey McGinnis!" came the gruff tones of Santa Claus; and Harvey
smiled over to his mother as he drew out a pair of stout cloth gloves.
"Mrs. McGinnis!" And that good lady smiled back, as she shook out a
dainty white apron with a coarse embroidery ruffle.
"I reckon Santy wanted you to wear that of a Sunday afternoon," said
Harvey, awkwardly.
"And I'll be proud to do it!" said his mother.
Little sacks of candy were next produced and everyone settled down to
enjoy it, thinking that the bottom of the big sack must be reached,
when Santa called out in tones that trembled beneath the gruffness,
"Another package for Mr. Harvey McGinnis!"
"Fer me--why--what--" said Harvey, taking the heavy oblong bundle;
then, as the sparkling "Club House" skates met his view, his face lit
up with a glory that Tom never forgot. The glory lasted but a moment,
then he turned a troubled face toward the bulky old saint.
"You never ought to a done it," he said. "These must have cost a lot!"
"Aw, go on," was the reply in a distinctly boyish tone, "don't you
know that Santy can do whatever he wants to?" and, with a prodigious
bow, old Santa was gone.
A few minutes later, a slender boy with a bundle under his arm, was
skating swiftly down the shining river in the moonlight. As he rounded
the bend, a tall figure in a fur-trimmed coat came skimming slowly
toward him, and a voice called out in Ralph Evans' condescending
tones, "Well, how are the 'Jolly Ramblers' doing tonight?"
But the answer, this time, was clear and glad and triumphant. "The
best in the world," said Tom, "and isn't this the glorious night for
skating?"
THE WORKER IN SANDALWOOD[*]
By Marjorie L. C. Pickthall
The good curé of Terminaison says that this tale of Hyacinthe's is all
a dream. But then Madame points triumphantly to the little cabinet of
sandalwood in the corner of her room. It had stood there for many
years now, and the dust has gathered in the fine lines of the little
birds' feathers, and softened the petals of the lilies carved at the
corners. And the wood has taken on a golden gleam like the memory of a
sunset.
"What of that, my friend?" says Madame, pointing to the cabinet. And
the old curé bows his head.
"It may be so. God is very good," he says gently. But he is never
quite sure what he may believe.
On that winter day long ago, Hyacinthe was quite sure of one thing and
that was that the workshop was very cold. There was no fire in it, and
only one little lamp when the early dark drew on. The tools were so
cold they scorched his fingers, and feet were so cold he danced
clumsily in the shavings to warm them. He was a great clumsy boy of
fourteen, dark-faced, dull-eyed, and uncared for. He was clumsy
because it is impossible to be graceful when you are growing very fast
and have not enough to eat. He was dull-eyed because all eyes met his
unlovingly. He was uncared for because no one knew the beauty of his
soul. But his heavy young hands could carve things like birds and
flowers perfectly. On this winter evening he was just wondering if he
might lay aside the tools, and creep home to the cold loft where he
slept, when he heard Pierre L'Oreillard's voice shouting outside.
"Be quick, be quick, and open the door, thou _imbecile_. It is I, thy
master."
"_Oui, mon maitre_," said Hyacinthe, and he shambled to the door and
opened it.
"Slow worm!" cried Pierre, and he cuffed Hyacinthe as he passed in.
Hyacinthe rubbed his head and said nothing. He was used to blows. He
wondered why his master was in the workshop at that time of day
instead of drinking brandy at the Cinq Chateaux.
Pierre L'Oreillard had a small heavy bundle under his arm, wrapped in
sacking, and then in burlap, and then in fine soft cloths. He laid it
on a pile of shavings, and unfolded it carefully; and a dim sweetness
filled the dark shed and hung heavily in the thin winter sunbeams.
"It is a piece of wood," said Hyacinthe in slow surprise. He knew that
such wood had never been seen in Terminaison.
Pierre L'Oreillard rubbed the wood respectfully with his knobby
fingers.
"It is sandalwood," he explained to Hyacinthe, pride of knowledge
making him quite amiable, "a most precious wood that grows in warm
countries, thou great goblin. Smell it, idiot. It is sweeter than
cedar. It is to make a cabinet for the old Madame at the big house."
"_Oui, mon maitre_," said the dull Hyacinthe.
"Thy great hands shall shape and smooth the wood, _nigaud_, and I
will render it beautiful," said Pierre, puffing out his chest.
"Yes, Master," answered Hyacinthe humbly, "and when is it to be ready
for Madame?"
"Madame will want it perhaps next week, for that is Christmas. It is
to be finished and ready on the holy festival, great sluggard. Hearest
thou?" and he cuffed Hyacinthe's ears again furiously.
Hyacinthe knew that the making of the cabinet would fall to him, as
most of the other work did. When Pierre L'Oreillard was gone he
touched the strange sweet wood and at last laid his cheek against it,
while the fragrance caught his breath. "How it is beautiful!" said
Hyacinthe, and for a moment his eyes glowed, and he was happy. Then
the light passed and with bent head he shuffled back to his bench
through a foam of white shavings curling almost to his knees.
"Madame will want the cabinet for Christmas," repeated Hyacinthe to
himself, and fell to work harder than ever, though it was so cold in
the shed that his breath hung in the air like a little silvery cloud.
There was a tiny window on his right, through which, when it was clear
of frost, one looked on Terminaison; and that was cheerful, and made
him whistle. But to the left, through the chink of the ill-fitting
door, there was nothing to be seen but the forest, and the road dying
under the snow.
Brandy was good at the Cinq Chateaux and Pierre L'Oreillard gave
Hyacinthe plenty of directions, but no further help with the cabinet.
"That is to be finished for Madame at the festival, sluggard," said he
every day, cuffing Hyacinthe about the head, "finished, and with a
prettiness about the corners, hearest thou, _ourson_?"
"Yes, Monsieur," said Hyacinthe in his slow way; "I will try to finish
it. But if I hurry I shall spoil it."
Pierre's little eyes flickered. "See that it is done, and done
properly. I suffer from a delicacy of the constitution and a little
feebleness of the legs these days, so that I cannot handle the tools
properly. I must leave this work to thee, _gacheur_. And stand up and
touch a hand to thy cap when I speak to thee, slow-worm."
"Yes, monsieur," said Hyacinthe wearily.
It is hard to do all the work and to be beaten into the bargain. And
fourteen is not very old. Hyacinthe worked on at the cabinet with his
slow and exquisite skill. But on Christmas eve he was still at work,
and the cabinet unfinished.
"The master will beat me," thought Hyacinthe, and he trembled a
little, for Pierre's beatings were cruel. "But if I hurry, I shall
spoil the wood, and it is too beautiful to be spoiled."
But he trembled again when Pierre came into the workshop, and he stood
up and touched his cap.
"Is the cabinet finished, _imbecile_?" asked Pierre. And Hyacinthe
answered in a low voice, "No, it is not finished yet, monsieur."
"Then work on it all night, and show it to me completed in the
morning, or thy bones shall mourn thine idleness," said Pierre, with a
wicked look in his little eyes. And he shut Hyacinthe into the shed
with a smoky lamp, his tools, and the sandalwood cabinet.
It was nothing unusual. He had been often left before to finish a
piece of work overnight while Pierre went off to his brandies. But
this was Christmas eve, and he was very tired. Even the scent of the
sandalwood could not make him fancy he was warm. The world seemed to
be a black place, full of suffering and despair.
"In all the world, I have no friend," said Hyacinthe, staring at the
flame of the lamp. "In all the world, there is no one to care whether
I live or die. In all the world, no place, no heart, no love. O kind
God, is there a place, a love for me in another world?"
I hope you feel very sorry for Hyacinthe, lonely, and cold, and shut
up in the workshop on the eve of Christmas. He was but an overgrown,
unhappy child. And I think with old Madame that for unhappy children,
at this season, no help seems too divine for faith.
"There is no one to care for me," said Hyacinthe. And he even looked
at the chisel in his hand, thinking that by a touch of that he might
lose it all, and be at peace, somewhere, not far from God. Only it was
forbidden. Then came the tears, and great sobs that shook him, so that
he scarcely heard the gentle rattling of the latch.
He stumbled to the door, opening it on the still woods and the frosty
stars. And a lad who stood outside in the snow said, "I see you are
working late, comrade. May I come in?"
Hyacinthe brushed his ragged sleeve across his eyes and nodded "Yes."
Those little villages strung along the great river see strange
wayfarers at times. And Hyacinthe said to himself that surely here was
such a one. Blinking into the stranger's eyes, he lost for a flash the
first impression of youth, and received one of incredible age or
sadness. But the wanderer's eyes were only quiet, very quiet, like
the little pools in the wood where the wild does went to drink. As he
turned within the door, smiling at Hyacinthe and shaking some snow
from his cap, he did not seem to be more than sixteen or so.
"It is very cold outside," he said. "There is a big oak tree on the
edge of the fields that had split in the frost and frightened all the
little squirrels asleep there. Next year it will make an even better
home for them. And see what I found close by!" He opened his fingers
and showed Hyacinthe a little sparrow lying unruffled in the palm.
"_Pauvrette!_" said the dull Hyacinthe. "_Pauvrette!_ Is it then
dead?" He touched it with a gentle forefinger.
"No," answered the strange boy, "it is not dead. We will put it here
among the shavings, not far from the lamp, and it will be well by the
morning."
He smiled at Hyacinthe again, and the shambling lad felt dimly as if
the scent of the sandalwood were sweeter, and the lamp-flame clearer.
But the stranger's eyes were only quiet, quiet.
"Have you come far?" asked Hyacinthe. "It is a bad season for
traveling, and the wolves are out."
"A long way," said the other. "A long, long way. I heard a child
cry--"
"There is no child here," put in Hyacinthe. "Monsieur L'Oreillard says
children cost too much money. But if you have come far, you must need
food and fire, and I have neither. At the Cinq Chateaux you will find
both."
The stranger looked at him again with those quiet eyes, and Hyacinthe
fancied that his face was familiar. "I will stay here," he said; "you
are late at work, and you are unhappy."
"Why as to that," answered Hyacinthe, rubbing his cheeks and ashamed
of his tears, "most of are sad at one time or another, the good God
knows. Stay here and welcome if it pleases you; and you may take a
share of my bed, though it is no more than a pile of balsam boughs and
an old blanket in the loft. But I must work at this cabinet, for the
drawers must be finished and the handles put on and the corners
carved, all by the holy morning; or my wages will be paid with a
stick."
"You have a hard master," put in the other, "if he would pay you with
blows upon the feast of Noel."
"He is hard enough," said Hyacinthe, "but once he gave me a dinner of
sausages and white wine; and once, in the summer, melons. If my eyes
will stay open, I will finish this by morning. Stay with me an hour or
so, comrade, and talk to me of your travels, so that the time may pass
more quickly."
And while Hyacinthe worked, he told,--of sunshine and dust, of the
shadow of vine-leaves on the flat white walls of a house; of rosy
doves on the roof; of the flowers that come out in the spring,
anemones crimson and blue, and white cyclamen in the shadow of the
rocks; of the olive, the myrtle, and the almond; until Hyacinthe's
fingers ceased working, and his sleepy eyes blinked wonderingly.
"See what you have done, comrade," he said at last; "you have told me
of such pretty things that I have done but little work for an hour.
And now the cabinet will never be finished, and I shall be beaten."
"Let me help you," smiled the other. "I also was bred a carpenter."
At first Hyacinthe would not, fearing to trust the sweet wood out of
his own hands. But at length he allowed the stranger to fit in one of
the drawers. And so deftly was it done that Hyacinthe pounded his
fists on the bench in admiration. "You have a pretty knack," he cried.
"It seemed as if you did but hold the drawer in your hands a moment,
and hey! it jumped into its place."
"Let me fit in the other little drawers while you rest awhile," said
the stranger. So Hyacinthe curled up among the shavings, and the other
boy fell to work upon the little cabinet of sandalwood.
Hyacinthe was very tired. He lay still among the shavings, and thought
of all the boy had told him, of the hillside flowers, the laughing
leaves, the golden bloom of the anise, and the golden sun upon the
roads until he was warm. And all the time the boy with the quiet eyes
was at work upon the cabinet, smoothing, fitting, polishing.
"You do better work than I," said Hyacinthe once, and the stranger
answered, "I was lovingly taught." And again Hyacinthe said, "It is
growing towards morning. In a little while I will get up and help
you."
"Lie still and rest," said the other boy. And Hyacinthe lay still. His
thoughts began to slide into dreams, and he woke with a little start,
for there seemed to be music in the shed; though he could not tell
whether it came from the strange boy's lips, or from the shappy tools
as he used them, or from the stars.
"The stars are much paler," thought Hyacinthe. "Soon it will be
morning, and the corners are not carved yet. I must get up and help
this kind one in a little moment. Only the music and the sweetness
seem to fold me close, so that I may not move."
Then behind the forest there shone a pale glow of dawn, and in
Terminaison the church bells began to ring. "Day will soon be here,"
thought Hyacinthe, "and with day will come Monsieur L'Oreillard and
his stick. I must get up and help for even yet the corners are not
carved."