CHRISTMAS EVE AT THORNBY’S
It was a large, roughly-finished room, lighted for the most part by the
great heap of logs that blazed on the hearth, though a lantern fixed
against the wall, at the opposite side, in front of a tin reflector,
shone bravely, as if to say that it was doing its best despite the fact
that no one heeded its efforts. For the occupants of the room, without
an exception, were gathered about the camboose, or fireplace, where in
the full glow of the leaping flames a number of stockings were hung; not
because it was Christmas Eve, but for the more prosaic reason that they
must be dried. Every working day showed the same display,--the men, on
an average, hanging up two or three pairs apiece. Still they were
keeping their Christmas Eve vigil after a fashion, though it was not in
the orthodox way, and, notwithstanding its noise, it lacked the real
flavor of the blessed season.
“What was that?” Shawe asked suddenly.
“Didn’t hear a blessed thing. Fire ahead, Sandy; ev’ry chap’s got a
stunt to do this night, an’ the fust lot’s fell to you. Come,
begin--Where’s that lazy raskill Terry? He’d oughter be’n here hours
agone.”
“Back at Wistar’s,” a young fellow growled. “Told yer what to expect
when yer singled him out to fetch the grub. A sorry Christmas we’ll
have. Any meal left in the bar’l, Cooky?”
“’Nough to make pap fer you in the mornin’, kid,” Cooky responded with a
grunt, “so don’t be sheddin’ tears--you an’ yer delikit appetite will
pull t’rough. ’Tis plum-puddin’ the child was expectin’.”
The young fellow laughed almost good-naturedly.
“Gorry! what’d I give to smell a plum-puddin’ even. There was a
Christmas oncet when I’d the taste o’ one. There was turkey before, an’
the bird was a tip-topper, but it don’t live in my mem’ry like the
puddin’. _That_ come in with a wreath o’ greens ’bout its brown head,
an’ its sides crackin’ open with plums the size o’ Jake’s thumb there.
An’ there was clouds o’ incinse risin’ from it, an’ the smell o’ the
burnin’ sperits, an’ the blue flames lickin’ each other with joy at the
taste they got--’Tis before my eyes this bloomin’ minnit, an’ my ears is
deafened with the roars the fellers sent up; you could ha’ heard ’em a
mile off--”
A chorus of protesting voices interrupted further reminiscences. “Shut
up, will yer?” “T’row him out, some one.” “You’ve no call to make our
mouths water so.”
“A pudden,” a thin-faced man said dreamily as the din subsided, “I never
seed its like. An’ a-fire, you say. What was thet fer?”
“Why, fer the celebration, ijit.”
“Begorra,” another voice broke in, “I’d like to live in the counthry
where they’ve the crayther to burn. Did it smell good?”
“Smell good?” again the young fellow laughed. “’Twas better than a
gardin full o’ roses when the wind blows soft an’ warm over ’em; ’twas
finer an’ more penatratin’ than the o-dick-alone the tenderfoots parfume
themselves with. An’ there was the sarse besides, with a dash o’ rum in
it to make it slip down easier.”
“Sarse!” The ejaculation was a groan. “My things come plain.”
“Thet’s about the size o’ it fer ev’ry mother’s son of us,” some one
began philosophically, then in helpless rage at the turn affairs had
taken he finished with a wail: “Hang thet Terry O’Connor. He’d oughter
remembered tomorrer’s Christmas--”
“Christmas is like any other day to us,” an elderly chopper interposed
grimly. “It’s only meant fer the kids.”
A man near the fire stirred restlessly.
“Back there,” he said, with a sweep of his thumb, “they hang up the
stockin’s all in a row--six of ’em!--an’ my woman makes shift to fill
’em, too--”
“How they chitter in the mornin’,” another man chimed in, “before it’s
reely light. Don’ know as there’s any sound quite so nice as that. Wisht
I was home to hear it--Gord! I do.”
“Never hed no little stockin’ hangin’ afore my chimbly,”--the occupant
of the big barrel chair looked into the blaze thoughtfully as he made
the statement, “baby’s sock was too teeny that fust year, an’ after--”
“Faith, I niver had no chimbly av me own at all,” a reckless voice
interrupted with a hard laugh. “Here to-day, an’ gone to-morrer, an’
divil a sowl to care where I was. It made little differ to me thin, but
’tis a wide wurrld an’ a lonely wan when a man’s gittin’ on in the
years.”
“Only got so fur ez the patty-cakin’ age, ez you might say,”--it was the
man in the barrel chair who was speaking again,--“but turr’ble
over-masterin’--turr’ble! When ye come to think uv it, there ain’t
anything like a baby fer over-masterin’ness; he jes’ makes a clean sweep
o’ ev’ry blessed thing.”
The Frenchman in the corner leaned forward excitedly.
“I nevaire hang ze stockin’ up zat time I was what you call a keed,” he
cried, “but zere was a leetle tree an’ a Christ chil’ up at ze ver’ top.
Zey had eet een ze _église_ an’ every chil’ een ze pareesh was made ver’
happy. So for two-t’ree years did I get a--a--what you say?”
“A present, Frenchy.”
“But yes, a--a prresent. Zen I must go to worrk, an’ Christmas eet is
ovaire for me. ‘_Adieu, beaux jours de mon enfance!_’”
The leaping firelight fell upon grave faces; dear, lazy laughter had
slipped very far away from the warmth and glow.
“What’s that?”
“You’re like an ould faymale widdy woman, Shawe, wid your fidgits an’
starts, an’ your inquisitiveness. That? ’Tis an ash fallin’ to the
hearth; ’tis a burd askin’ to be let in; ’tis Christmas come to hunt us
up far from home an’ the frien’s we love so dear. Man alive! if you’re
so set to know what it is, go an’ find out fer yoursilf.”
“Yes, go an’ be hanged to you!” The chorus was unanimous.
Shawe did not wait for the permission, go he would; as for being hanged,
that was quite another matter. He left his place in the warm corner,
and, picking his way dexterously over the tangle of outstretched legs,
he strode across the room to the door, flinging it wide. The cold air
rushed in in a great gust that caused the men to shiver in their
places, and made some of them swear angrily at him; but he did not heed
their words. His ear had earlier caught a faint cry, yet as he stood
facing the night his level eyes saw nothing in the darkness; then the
sound came again, and this time quite far below him. His glance fell;
the next moment he started back in amazement.
“My God!” he cried sharply.
There was a great creaking of stools and boxes in the room behind him as
the men, startled out of their indifference by his exclamation, turned
to see what had occasioned it, those who were farthest away rising to
their feet and craning curiously over the shoulders of their companions
in front. Shawe had moved a trifle to one side, and they had an
unobstructed view through the open door, that framed the glimpse of the
dark world without, of the strip of snow in the foreground gleaming
ruddily with lamp and firelight; and just where the glow fell brightest
stood a little child, her face raised in entreaty. For a long moment
they looked with held breaths, incredulous, wondering, half fearful that
the vision would disappear at the least movement on their part; several
of their number made the quick sign of their creed, and one man covered
his eyes with a shaking hand, but no one spoke. Then Shawe stooped to
her.
“Who are you?” he asked very gently, touching the little flesh-and-blood
shoulder with tender fingers; she was no spirit then.
“I’m Santa Claus’ sweetheart,--you know Santa Claus. He left some things
for you out there, then he went away.”
“Mother o’ Moses! the child must mane Terry,” one of the men, quicker
than the rest, exclaimed. “The ould riprobate! An’ but fer your ears,
Shawe, she might ha’ be’n froze shtiff fer all we’d knowed--an’
Christmas Day to-morrer.”
Shawe drew his breath hard.
“Thank God, I did hear,” he said through his closed teeth; then he
lifted the small stranger in his arms, and as the thronging men fell
back on either side he carried her through the little lane thus formed
up to the fire. He put her down gently and knelt before her, chafing her
hands and face with rapid touches; after a few moments thus spent he
set clumsily to work to unfasten her hood and coat. She kept very still
while he knotted instead of unknotting the strings, only her eyes moving
from face to face frankly curious, yet without an atom of fear in their
glance. There were forty pairs of eyes to meet, and in each she left a
little smile.
At last the outer wrappings were cast aside, and, as Betty stood before
them, a small, slim figure, very different in appearance from the
shapeless, roly-poly bundle of a short time previous, with her fair hair
ruffled into little curls and tendrils that made a soft nimbus about her
head, she seemed even more like some lovely spirit than they, awed by
the strangeness of her coming, had thought her. Yet her first action
was quite sufficient to remove all doubts that she belonged to another
sphere. Those inquisitive eyes of hers, taking a survey of the room and
its inmates, lighted suddenly upon the stockings dangling before the
fire; they widened at the sight, then the smiles brimmed over and her
whole face broke up into glee. How could she feel strange, or afraid, in
a place where--big, grown-up men though they all were--such signs of
expectancy were so openly displayed? She slipped from the protecting arm
and ran close to the hearth, clapping her hands in delight.
“Oh! you’re all ready for Santa Claus,” she cried. “My! how he’ll have
to work--there’s such a ’normous lot. But he’ll fill ’em all.” She
threw out this balm in eager haste. “He’s truly coming; he said so. If
I’d gone home with him his house would have cracked to--to smither-eens,
so I stayed.”
A deafening roar of laughter greeted her words and sent her, unerringly
as a homing bird, back to her first friend, who still knelt on the
floor; but resting against him her fears vanished almost instantly, and,
as she glanced around with renewed confidence, her pretty silvery laugh
tinkled out to join their rougher merriment. The men pressed closer, one
of them, the oldest, acting as spokesman. He was the man whose chimney
had never seen any Christmas stockings hanging before it, the baby’s
sock being too tiny in that far-away year; but he seemed to know better
than any of them how to ask just the right questions that would set free
the little tongue. Betty climbed gladly up on his knee, and from her new
perch poured forth an account of her wonderful adventures.
It was the fault of her companions, surely, and not her own that the
things that were so real and true to her were like myths out of
Fairyland to them, because they had travelled farther down the stream of
time. Much of what she said was unintelligible to their dull, grown-up
minds; but if each word had been of gold they could not have waited for
it more eagerly; and when she stopped in her recital of that marvellous
journey to laugh at some remembrance of Santa Claus’ fooling, they
looked at one another, smiling in perfectest sympathy. Perhaps, after
all, they understood--who shall say? There was no interruption, except
when old Jerome hazarded some remark that helped on the tale; and the
only person to move was a tall, gaunt man, who bent mysteriously over
the fire and made something that smelled like--like the most delicious
thing in all the world. You have to ride for hours through the snow, and
feel the keen air in your face, and be as hungry as a bear into the
bargain, to know just what that is.
By some remarkable law of coincidence the story and the cooking came to
an end at one and the same moment; nothing could have been more timely.
Betty’s whole attention was quickly transferred to the tin plate which
was placed before her; and her evident appreciation of the good things
of life was so keen that the lookers-on, who even in that short time had
learned that their rougher ways frightened her, laughed gently among
themselves. Well, they understood that too! While she was busy over her
supper, to the utter forgetting of her surroundings, several of the men
went outside to see if they could find any traces of the recreant Santa
Claus; they returned after a hasty search, bringing in the barrel and
bags--sufficient proof that Terry, despite all convictions, wise
head-shakings, and gloomy forebodings, had not failed them. He had kept
his word. But the mystery deepened--Who was the little maid? Aside from
her name, which was an unfamiliar one to them, they had not been able to
learn anything definite about her. The excited little brain only seemed
to live over the immediate past, in which Santa Claus had figured so
importantly; the fact that she was his sweetheart apparently outweighing
every other consideration.
“Terry O’Connor hain’t a chick, nor child, an’ never hed,” old Jerome
declared stoutly, as somebody ventured this solution of the difficulty,
“nor there ain’t any kin b’longin’ to him--guess I orter know--I’ve
knowed him ’nintimut these thirty years--”
“Losh, man!” interrupted Sandy, “then he just inveegled the bairn awa’,
makin’ oot he was Santa Claus. The e-normity of it!”
“Oh, Terry must olluz be jokin’; it’s his way,” Jerome returned
tolerantly. With his arm around the small form, and the little golden
head resting on his breast, he was knowing one of the rare, happy
moments of his life; there could be scant condemnation from him under
the circumstances.
Betty, who had been alternately blinking at the fire, and smiling
contentedly to herself for some time, now interrupted any dispute that
might have arisen concerning her absent friend by giving utterance to a
series of baby yawns. The discussion came to a speedy close, such signs
needing no interpretation to her hearers.
“Don’t ye want to go to sleep, deary?” the old man asked.
She signified her willingness without delay, though first her stocking
must be hung up among the others. He proceeded to draw it off; but
before that could be accomplished, he was let into the secrets the
buttons on your shoe always tell,--what you are to be, what you will
wear, and in what manner you will travel through life,--in carriage,
cart, wheelbarrow, or wagon. When this “sure-as-sure” knowledge had been
mastered he stripped off the stocking, and Shawe, imperiously summoned,
came close and put the wee packet, as she directed, way down in its very
toe; then he hung it up in the centre, where even the blindest deputy,
supposing Santa Claus unable to get round, would never have passed it
by. A rollicking little cheer went up at sight of the small red
stocking swinging slightly to and fro in the breath of the fire; but it
died away on the instant, for the child had slipped to the floor and
knelt there by the old man’s knee, her face hidden in her chubby hands.
Perhaps in the intense stillness she missed the voice that generally
guided hers, for there was a moment of hesitation on her part; then she
began to pray aloud, halting over the words:
“Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me;
Bless thy little lamb to-night,
In the darkness be thou near me,
Keep me safe till morning light.
Let my sins be all forgiven,
Bless the friends I love so well,
Take me when I die to heaven,
There for ever with thee to dwell.”
She paused, a moment: “And please, God, take care of muvver, and uncle,
and far-away daddy, and make Betty a good girl f’rever and ever. Amen.”
It was very still all around; and usually when she finished her prayers
a soft cheek was laid against her own, while a soft voice echoed,
“Amen,” and that meant “my heart wants it to be exactly so!” Now,
however, no one spoke. Betty glanced wonderingly about as she rose to
her feet, a trifle dazed and even frightened; but such grave, quiet,
_kind_ faces looked back at her that swiftly she dropped to her knees
again with another petition: “God bless ev’rybody, an’ most speshilly
Santa Claus.”
“Amen,” said old Jerome, in the pause that followed.
A bed had been hastily constructed in the warmest corner, out of the
best materials the camp afforded, and thither Jerome carried the child.
She nestled down drowsily while he tucked the covering about her; but
his was an alien touch, and through the room there suddenly sounded a
low, wailing cry:
“Muvver--oh! muvver--”
“There, Honey; there, Blossom--” the man’s voice broke, the hand that
soothed was clumsy and old, and it trembled--“there, Honey--”
The men sat breathless--waiting, dreading to hear the cry again; but
moment after moment passed, and it did not come. There was one little
sob, then the dream-fairy stooped with her comfort.
How quiet the room was! And this was Christmas Eve--the time when each
man was to do a stunt for the amusement of his fellows and the glory of
himself. Generally on this occasion the Lord of Misrule held high
carnival,--the flowing bowl was like a perpetual fountain, and laughter,
shouting, and horse-play abounded on every side. There was rum in plenty
since Terry had not failed them, but no effort was made to secure it;
desire of that kind was dead, it seemed. They were content to sit there
listening to the soft rise and fall of the child’s breath; the land of
dreams, into which she had slipped, open to them also. And though it was
so different from those other Christmas Eves, it was far from being
dull. Into each heart there had crept a soft glow, which did not come
from the blazing logs, and which no grog, no matter how skilfully
blended, could have given, for once again the presence of one of God’s
little ones made holy a humble place.
Shawe was the first to bring the stillness to an end. They had been
sitting quiet, nobody could tell how long, when he got to his feet.
Noiselessly as he moved he broke the spell, and eyes that had grown
misty looked at him, some with resentment, others with curiosity, and
others again with reproach. Old Jerome’s gaze held the latter quality.
Nobody knew much about Shawe, anyway. He was not one of them. He had
come to the camp some weeks before, and would be gone in a day or so--up
to Merle this time, and then--He was a wanderer--some outcast, perhaps,
from a better life gone by. Nobody knew him. They had no quarrel with
him; he was a good enough fellow, only not of them. They watched him,
therefore, almost coldly, yet noting with jealous satisfaction that he
stepped warily as he passed from the room; then they fell to thinking
again--with a difference.
He came back after a short absence with a soft, dark mink’s skin in his
hand,--a bit of fur that a woman’s fingers could fashion into a cap to
cover a child’s golden hair,--and went to the small stocking, cramming
the gift far down to keep that other company. A breath of approval
fairly twinkled around the room. The grave faces melted into smiling
delight; and just as the circles widen in a pool of water when a stone
is thrown in, spreading farther and farther till the whole surface is
disturbed, so every one present came within the influence of Shawe’s
action. As if by one accord the men hurriedly left their places, making
scarcely any noise, yet jostling against one another in their eagerness
to play at being Santa Claus; each man seeking out his kit, and
returning with what would be the likeliest thing to please a little
child.
A bright red handkerchief, an orange one, a third as many colored as
Joseph’s coat, an old _habitant_ sash worth its weight in gold to a
connoisseur, a scarf-pin set with a cairngorm the size of a man’s
thumb-nail--this from Sandy!--a--you mustn’t laugh--a pair of brand-new
suspenders, and big and little coins that spelled liquor or tobacco to
the givers, and now bought what pleased them infinitely more. Of course
one stocking couldn’t begin to hold the gifts, though they were massed
into a dizzy pyramid at the top, so its mate was pressed into service
and crowded likewise. There was a distressing similarity in the presents
when you came to think of it, especially where handkerchiefs were
concerned; still, no man withheld his giving because another’s choice
was necessarily the same; he added his contribution proudly, as if it
were the only one of its kind. Frenchy, who had a pretty trick of
carving, gave a really beautiful little frame which his deft fingers
had made in the long evenings; and the cook, when no one was looking,
slipped in his prayer-book, though I don’t believe any one that night
would have laughed at his having it with him. The young fellow they
called Kid--he was something of a dandy--added a ring of massive
proportions. It wasn’t gold, but he pretended it was, and liked to wear
it when he went to dances to make the girls think he was a fine,
up-and-coming man. And Jerome--poor old Jerome--
It was a very meagre kit that he rummaged through again and again,--one
that he himself had packed; and when a man has to take care of himself
he doesn’t put in any useless traps, any--what you’d call gewgaws; not
when he’s old, that is. So he could find nothing there; and a search
through his pockets revealed the same depressing poverty. He had
nothing--nothing but a certain battered snuff-box that had been his
companion for so many years that it would be easier to imagine him
without his head than without the box. He was evidently of that opinion,
for he stowed it down in his pocket with an air of great finality. But
nevertheless, polished to an almost glittering show of youth and filled
with coins, it very fitly crowned the motley collection.
It had taken some time to play Santa Claus, for each man had to wait his
turn to stow away his gift; there were no deputies allowed on this
occasion, and the bungling fingers couldn’t work very quickly,--didn’t
try to, if the truth were known. But all too soon the joyful task came
to an end, and the men stood back radiant-eyed, looking at those bulging
little red stockings as if they were the most beautiful things in all
the world.
How the glow spread and spread in their hearts, though the fire, banked
for the night, was shining quite dimly now! That mighty threefold cable
of the Christmas-tide--with its strand of inheritance, its strand of
opportunity, its strand of affection--bound them very closely to one
another; in that moment old wrongs and heart-burnings, bitternesses and
rivalries slipped away, and they knew the blessedness of peace and
good-will. Happy? There was just one thing to make them happier,--the
merry voice of a little child greeting the misty light of the Christmas
dawn.