CHRISTMAS IN FEBRUARY.
It was the first week in February before Captain Ezra thought it wise for
him to cross the turbulent waters of the bay. It was indeed necessary for
him to make the voyage then, as the oil had dropped to what he called
"low tide mark," and after that the faithful keeper of the light never
delayed longer than necessary before refilling the tank.
The wind had subsided and the sun came out, revealing the island white
with drifts of snow, and, too, there was ice on the stairs leading down
to the little wharf. The ever-thoughtful Muriel, upon hearing her
grand-dad say that he must go down and get the dory out of the boathouse,
skipped ahead with a kettle of boiling water, and, after thawing the ice,
swept the steps dry that her grand-dad might not slip.
The old man, coming out of the house just then, his fur cap drawn over
his ears and his red knitted muffler tied about his neck, looked lovingly
at the girl who always seemed to be planning something for his comfort or
happiness.
Why, just then, he should have thought of Muriel's father whom he had
"robbed," as Barney put it, he could not have told. What that father had
lost no one knew better than Captain Ezra. "Ho! Rilly gal, yo've swabbed
the decks clean, I snum." Then he added: "Fust mate, I cal'late yo'd
better get under cover. It's cold enough to freeze a volcano, 'pears
like."
As he spoke, his breath frosted on the nipping air. The girl, rosy
cheeked, was without hat or coat, and so, kissing her grand-dad on the
tip of his nose (little else was visible) and telling him not to slip,
and to be sure to bring her a pocketful of letters, she darted indoors.
She felt radiantly happy that glorious morning, and if she had been
familiar with the poems of Robert Browning she would have sung, "God's in
His Heaven; all's right with the world!" But, instead, her wordless song
reverberated through the small house until her tasks were finished; then,
putting on her leggins, her crimson tam and sweater-coat, and taking a
small bag of bread crumbs, she waded through the snow to the cliff to try
to find her feathered friends.
She called and waited, soon calling again. Then from out a sheltered cave
in a cliff nearby they came, circling about her in the clear, crisp air,
uttering their discordant cries, which, however, were music to the ears
of the girl, who knew that they were notes of joy and welcome to the
friend who fed them through the bitter cold months of winter when fish
were scarce and hard to catch.
Muriel did not toss the fragments of bread this time, for she knew if she
did so they would sink into the soft depths of snow and be lost; and so
she brushed a rock clear and placed the feast upon it. Down the birds
swooped, unafraid. It was too cold to remain long out of doors, and
moreover Muriel wished to have a nice hot dinner awaiting the coming of
her grand-dad.
An appetizing odor of coffee and sizzling bacon greeted the old man when,
two hours later, he opened the door and entered the kitchen. The girl,
flushed of cheek and eager-eyed, turned to greet him. "Any mail,
Grand-dad?" Muriel's heart was pounding fast when she asked the question.
The old man laughed as he thrust his hand into the deep pocket of his
leather coat.
"Mrs. Sol said that if I hadn't cruised to town today she was of nine
minds to hire the lighter to fetch yer mail over. She was feared the
floor of her store'd heave in with the weight of it," he said.
The girl's excited laughter rang out. "Oh, Grand-dad," she said, "why
does your coat bulge so queer like? I cal'late you've fetched somethin'
hid under it."
She pounced upon him and drew forth the bulgy something, which proved to
be a large square package. The wrappings were soon removed and there was
the most wonderful book, "Treasure Island," illustrated in the most
beautiful blues and greens and gold. How Muriel loved color.
"Gene sent it," she said, as she lifted the card with its painted wreath
of holly and mistletoe.
But Muriel then had no time to look at the book, as letters were being
produced from that great pocket. The girl gasped when she saw them and
then she clapped her hands.
"Grand-dad," she exclaimed, unbelievingly, "are they all for me? I reckon
Mis' Sol did think 'twas a powerful lot o' mail, bein' as I never had
more'n one and a card before at a time."
There were four letters from Gene, who had written one each week since he
had left Windy Island. He knew his Storm Maiden could not write and so he
did not expect answers. What he did not know was that the blizzard had
prevented her receiving them as they arrived each week. There was another
letter from Ireland and a Christmas card and a parcel from Uncle Lem.
There were pretty hair ribbons in the parcel.
"Christmas in February," Muriel laughed; then added: "The blizzard sort
o' got the calendar mixed, didn't it, Grand-dad?"
Muriel took her new treasures up to her room and placed them on the top
of her chest of drawers. She sighed as she looked at the letters and
longed to know the messages they contained. It would take her until
spring, she feared, to decipher them, as she would have to study them
word by word with the aid of the Second Reader.