"It 's goin' to be an awful cold night, grandmarm," said Maria-Ann as
she stepped to the door just after sunset on Christmas eve. The old
dame followed her and looked out over her shoulder.
"I know 't is; my fingers stuck to the latch when I went out to see
after Dorcas. While your gettin' supper, I 'm goin' to bundle up the
rooster and the hens, or they 'll freeze their combs, sure's your name's
Maria-Ann; looks kinder Chris'musy, don't it?"
"I was just thinkin' of that, grandmarm; just look at that star in the
east!" She pointed to a shoulder of the Mountain, where a serene planet
was ascending the dark blue heavens. "An' there 's been just enough
snow to make all the spruces look like the Sunday School tree, all roped
over with pop-corn. Do you remember that last one, grandmarm?"
"I ain't never forgot it, Maria-Ann; that's ten year ago, an' I sha'n't
never see another?" She shivered, and drew back out of the keen air.
"Nor I," said Maria-Ann, shutting the door.
"I don't know why not," snapped Aunt Tryphosa, who always contradicted
Maria-Ann when she could. "I guess we can have a Chris'mus tree same's
other folks; we 've got trees enough."
"That's so," replied Maria-Ann, laughing. "Let's have one to-morrow,
grandmarm. I don't see why we can't have a tree just as well as we can
have wreaths--see what beauties I 've made! I 've saved the four
handsomest for Mis' Blossom an' Mis' Ford."
"You do beat all, Maria-Ann, making wreaths with them greens and
bitter-sweet; I wish you 'd hang 'em up to-night; 'twould make the room
seem kinder Chris'musy."
"To be sure I will." And Maria-Ann bustled about, hanging the beautiful
rounds of green and red in each of the kitchen windows, on the panes of
which the frost was already sparkling; then, throwing her shawl over her
head, she stepped out into the night and hung one on the outside of the
narrow, weather-blackened door. Again within, she set the small, square
kitchen table with two plates, two cups and saucers of brown and white
crockery, the pewter spoons and horn-handled knives and forks that her
grandmother had had when she was first married. Finally, she put on one
of the pots of red geranium in the centre and stood back to admire the
effect.
"Guess we 'll have a treat to-night, seein' it's night before
Chris'mus--fried apples an' pork, an' some toast; an' I 'll cut a cheese
to-night, I declare I will, even if grandmarm does scold; she 'll eat it
fast enough if I don't say nothin' about it beforehand."
Maria-Ann had formed the habit of thinking aloud, for she had been much
alone, and, as she said, "she was a good deal of company for herself."
"Oh, hum!" she sighed, as she cut the pork and sliced the apples, "a cup
of tea would be about the right thing this cold night, but there ain't a
mite in the house." Then she laughed: "What you talkin' 'bout luxuries
for, Maria-Ann Simmons? You be thankful you 've got a livin'. I can
make some good cambric-tea, and put a little spearmint in it; that 'll
be warmin' as anything." She began to sing in a shrill soprano as she
busied herself with the preparations for the supper, while the kettle
sang, too, and the pork sizzled in the spider:
"'Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize
And sailed through bloody seas?'"
Meanwhile, Aunt Tryphosa, with her lantern in one hand and a bundle of
red something in the other, had repaired to the hen-house which was
partitioned off from the woodshed.
Had either one of them happened to look out down the Mountain-road just
at this time, they would have seen a strange sight.
Along the white roadway, sparkling in the light of the rising moon, came
six silent forms in Indian file. Two were harnessed to small loaded
sledges. Sometimes, all six gesticulated wildly; at others, the two who
brought up the rear of the file silently danced and capered back and
forth across the narrow way. They drew near the house on the woodshed
side; the first two freed themselves from the sledges, and left them
under one of the unlighted windows. Then all six, attracted by the
glimmer of the lantern shining from the one small aperture of the
hen-house, stole up noiselessly and looked in.
What they saw proved too much for their risibles, and suppressed giggles
and snickers and choking laughter nearly betrayed their presence to the
old dame within.
On the low roost sat Aunt Tryphosa's noble Plymouth Rock rooster, and
beside him, in an orderly row, her ten hens. Every hen had on her head
a tiny flannel hood--some were red, some were white--the strings knotted
firmly under their bills by Aunt Tryphosa's old fingers trembling with
the cold.
She was just blanketing the rooster, who submitted with a meekness which
proved undeniably that he was under petticoat government, for all the
airs he gave himself with his wives. The funny, little, hooded heads
twisting and turning, the "aks" and "oks" which accompanied Aunt
Tryphosa in her labor of love, the wild stretching and flapping of
wings, all furnished a scene never to be forgotten by the six pairs of
laughing eyes that beheld it.
The moment the old dame took up her lantern, the spectators sped around
the corner. Under the dark windows they noiselessly unloaded the
wood-sleds, and silently carried bundles, baskets, and burlap-bags
around to the front door.
At last they had fairly barricaded it, and the tallest of the party,
after fastening a piece of paper in the Christmas wreath that Maria-Ann
had hung up only a half-hour before, motioned to the others to step up
to the kitchen window.
Just one glimpse they had through the thickening frost and the wreathing
green: a glimpse of the kitchen table, the steaming apples, the pot of
red geranium, the two cups of smoking spearmint tea, and of two
heads--the one white, the other brown--bent low over folded, toil-worn
hands in the reverent attitude for the evening "grace."
"For what we are now about to receive, may the Lord make us truly
thankful," said Aunt Tryphosa, in a quavering voice.
"Amen," said Maria-Ann, heartily--"Land sakes, grandmarm! how you scairt
me, looking up so sudden!" she exclaimed, almost in the same breath.
"Thought I heerd somethin'," said the old dame, holding her head in a
listening attitude--"Hark!"
"I don't hear nothin', grandmarm. Now, just eat your apples while they
're hot. What did you think you heard?" she continued, dishing the
apples.
"I thought I heerd it when I was out in the shed, too."
"I should n't wonder if 't was a deer. I saw one come into the clearing
this afternoon, an' seein' 't was Christmas evening, I put a good bundle
of hay out to the south door of the cow-shed."
"Guess 't was that, then," said Aunt Tryphosa. "You clear up,
Maria-Ann, an' I 'll keep up a good fire, for I want to finish off them
stockings for Ben Blossom an' Chi. I s'pose you 've got your things
ready in case we see a team go by to-morrow?"
"Yes, they 're all ready," said her granddaughter, rather absently, and
set about washing the few dishes.
When all was done, neatly and quickly as Maria-Ann so well knew how, she
flung on her shawl, saying:
"I 'm goin' out a minute to see if the bundle of hay is gone, and
besides, I want to look at the moon on the snow; it's the first time I
've seen it so this year." She opened the door--
"Oh, Luddy!" she screamed, as bundle, and basket, and bag toppled over
into the room.
"Land sakes alive!" quavered Aunt Tryphosa, hurrying to the rescue.
"Did n't I tell you I heerd somethin'? What be they?"
"Presents!" cried Maria-Ann, pulling, and hauling, and gathering up, and
finally getting the door shut.
"Seems to me I see somethin' white catched onto the door 'fore you shut
it," said Aunt Tryphosa. "Better look an' see." Again her
granddaughter opened the door, and found the strip of paper on which was
written;
"Merry Christmas! with best wishes of
Benjamin and Mary Blossom and May,
Malachi Graham and Rose Eleanor Blossom,
March Blossom and Hazel Clyde,
Benjamin Budd Blossom and Cherry Elizabeth Blossom of
the N.B.B.O.O., and of
John Curtis Clyde of New York; U.S.A.; N.A.; W.H."
"Oh, grandmarm! It's just like a romantic novel!" cried Maria-Ann, who
was as full of sentiment as an egg is full of yolk. "It makes me feel
kinder queer, comin' just now right after we was talkin' 'bout our tree.
You open first, an' then we 'll take turns." Aunt Tryphosa, who was
winking very hard behind her spectacles, was not loath to begin.
"Let's haul 'em up to the stove; it's so awful cold," she said,
shivering.
"Why, you 've let the fire go down; that's the reason. Don't you
remember you was goin' to put on the wood just as the things fell in?"
"So I was," said her grandmother, making good her forgetfulness; in a
few minutes there was a roaring fire, and the room was filled with a
genial warmth. Then they sat down to their delightful task, Maria-Ann
kneeling on the square of rag carpet before the stove.
"My land!" cried Aunt Tryphosa, clapping her hands together as she
opened the largest burlap bag; "if that boy ain't stuffed this
two-bushel bag chock full of birch bark! Look a-here, Maria-Ann, you
read this slip of paper for me; my specs get so dim come night-time."
The truth was, the tears were running down Aunt Tryphosa's wrinkled
cheeks and filming her eyes to such an extent that she saw the birch
bark through all the colors of the rainbow.
"'For Aunt Tryphosa from Budd Blossom to make her fires quick with cold
mornings.' Did you ever?" said Maria-Ann, untying another large burlap
bundle--"What's this? 'Made by Rose Blossom and Hazel Clyde to keep
Aunt Tryphosa snug and warm o' nights when the mercury is below zero.'
O grandmarm, look at this!"
Maria-Ann unrolled a coverlet made of silk patch-work (bright bits and
pieces that Hazel had begged of Aunt Carrie and Mrs. Heath and others of
her New York friends) lined with thin flannel and filled with feathers.
But Aunt Tryphosa was speechless for the first time in her life; and,
seeing this, Maria-Ann took advantage of it to do a little talking on
her own account.
"She don't seem like a city girl in her ways; she ain't a bit stuck
up--Oh, what's _this_!" She poked, and fingered, and pinched, but
failed to guess. Aunt Tryphosa grew impatient.
"Let me _see_, you 've done nothin' but feel," she said, reaching for
the package, and Maria-Ann handed it over to her.
Again Mrs. Tryphosa Little was nearly dumb, as the miscellaneous
contents of the queer, knobby parcel were brought to light.
"These are for you, Maria-Ann," she said in an awed voice, laying them
on the kitchen table one after the other:--A copy of the Woman's
Hearthstone Journal, with the receipt for a year's subscription pinned
to it;--A small shirt waist ironing-board;--A pair of fleece-lined
Arctics that buttoned half-way up Maria-Ann's sturdy legs when, an hour
later, she tried them on;--Six paper-covered novels of the Chimney
Corner Library including Lorna Doone (Hazel had discovered in her
frequent visits, that Aunt Tryphosa's granddaughter at twenty-nine was
as romantic as a girl of seventeen);--A box of preserved ginger;--Two
pounds of Old Hyson Tea;--(upon which Maria-Ann bounced up from the
floor, and without more ado made two cups, much to her grandmother's
amazement);--Six pounds of lump sugar;---A dozen lemons;--A dozen
oranges;--A white Liberty-silk scarf tucked into an envelope;--Six
ounces of scarlet knitting-wool;--All for "Miss Maria-Ann Simmons, with
Hazel Clyde's best wishes."
Then it was Maria-Ann Simmons's turn to break down and weep, at which
Aunt Tryphosa fidgeted, for she had not seen her granddaughter cry since
she was a little girl.
"Don't act like a fool, Maria-Ann," she said, crustily, to hide her own
feelings; "take your things an' enjoy 'em. I 've seen tears enough for
night before Chris'mus," she added, ignoring the fact that she had
established a precedent.
"Well, I won't, grandmarm," said her granddaughter, laughing and crying
at the same time; "but I 'm goin' to have that cup of tea first to kind
of strengthen me 'fore I open the rest," she added decidedly. "Besides,
I don't want to see everything at once; I want it to last."
"I don't mind if I have mine, too. Guess you may put in two lumps,
seein' as we did n't have to pay for it," and the old dame sipped her
Hyson with supreme satisfaction, as did likewise her granddaughter.
As the latter pushed back her chair from the table, her grandmother
cautioned her:--"Look out! you 're settin' it on another bag!" But it
was too late. To Aunt Tryphosa's amazement and Maria-Ann's horror, the
bag suddenly flopped up and down on the floor, the motion being
accompanied with such an unearthly,
"A--ee--eetsch--ok--ak--ache--eetsch!" that the two women's faces grew
pale, and they jumped as if they had been shot.
Then Maria-Ann, with her hand on her thumping heart, burst into a shrill
laugh, and Aunt Tryphosa quavered a thin accompaniment. How they
laughed! till again the tears rolled down their cheeks.
"Scairt of hens!" chuckled the old dame as she undid the strings of the
bag--"at my time of life! Oh, my stars and garters, Maria-Ann! ain't
they beauties?"
She drew out by the legs two snow-white Wyandotte pullets, and held them
up admiringly. "They 're from March, I know; but just to think of this,
Maria-Ann!" Again words and, curiously enough, eyes, too, failed her,
and her granddaughter read the slip of paper tied around the leg of one
of the hens:--"'One for Aunt Tryphosa, and one for Maria-Ann; have laid
three times; last time day before yesterday; I hope they 'll lay two
Christmas-morning eggs for your breakfast. March Blossom.'"
"I 'm goin' to put 'em on some hay in the clothes-basket, Maria-Ann, an'
keep 'em right under my bed where it's good an' warm," said Aunt
Tryphosa, decidedly. "They 're kinder quality folks and can't be turned
in among common fowl. Besides, I ain't got another hood, an' if they
_should_ freeze their combs, I 'd never forgive myself."
"Well, I would, grandmarm," said Maria-Ann, still laughing, as she
untied the last two bundles. "Laws!" she exclaimed, "Here 's New York
style for you." She read the visiting card:
"To Mrs. Tryphosa Little, with the Season's compliments from John Curtis
Clyde. 4 East ----th Street."
"Well, I 'm dumbfoundered," sighed Mrs. Tryphosa Little, and more she
could not say as she took out of the large pasteboard box, a white silk
neckerchief, a cap of black net and lace with a "chou" of purple satin
lutestring, a black fur collar and a muff to match, in all of which she
proceeded to array herself with the utmost despatch, forgetful of the
two hens, which, after wandering aimlessly about the kitchen, had
roosted finally on the back of her wooden rocking-chair, where they
balanced themselves with some difficulty.
But suddenly, as she was thrusting her hands into the new muff, she
paused, laid it down on the table, and said, rather querulously, "Help
me off with these things, Maria-Ann; I 'm all tuckered out. I can stan'
a day's washin' as well as anybody, if I am eighty-one come next June,
but I can't stan' no such night 'fore Chris'mus as this, an' I 'm goin'
to bed, an' take the hens."
"I would, grandmarm," said her granddaughter, gently, taking off the
unwonted finery and kissing the wrinkled face. "You go to bed; I put
the soap-stone in two hours ago, so it's nice an' warm. I 'll clear up,
an' don't you mind me--here, let me take one of those hens."
"No, I can take care of hens anytime," snapped Aunt Tryphosa, for she
was tired out with happiness, "but I can't stan' so many presents, an' I
'm too old to begin." She disappeared in the bed-room, the two
Wyandotte hens hanging limply, heads downward, from each hand.
Maria-Ann picked up the paper and the wraps, and made all tidy again in
the kitchen. She put her hand on the last bag that was so heavy she had
not moved it from the door. "It's a bag of cracked corn--hen-feed," she
said to herself, "an' it's from Chi, I know as well as if I'd been
told."
Then she sat down in the rocker before the stove and put her feet in the
oven to warm. She blew out the light and sat awhile in silence,
thinking happy thoughts.
The fire crackled in the stove, and dancing lights, reflected from the
open grate, played on the wall. The moon shone full upon the frosted
window panes, and the Christmas wreaths were set in masses of encrusted
brilliants. The kettle began to sing, and so did Maria-Ann--but softly,
for fear of waking Aunt Tryphosa:
"'My soul, be on thy guard;
Ten thousand foes arise;
The hosts of sin are pressing hard
To draw thee from the skies.'"