Produced by Gene Smethers and the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team
A Little Book for Christmas
[Illustration: The author making his book, as pictured by his friend,
Will Crawford.]
Containing a Greeting, a Word of Advice, Some
Personal Adventures, a Carol, a Meditation, and Three Christmas
Stories for All Ages
By
Cyrus Townsend Brady
Author of “And Thus He Came, A Christmas
Fantasy,” “Christmas When the West Was Young,” etc., etc.
With Illustrations and Decorations by
Will Crawford
G.P. Putnam’s Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1917
DEDICATED
TO
MRS. LEONARD L. HILL
AND HER CHARMING COMPANIONS
OF
THE AMERICAN CRITERION SOCIETY
OF NEW YORK
BY
THEIR CHAPLAIN
[Illustration]
PREFACE
Christmas is one of the great days of obligation and observance
in the Church of which I am a Priest; but it is much more than
that, it is one of the great days of obligation and observance in
the world. Furthermore it is one of the evidences of the power of
Him Whose birth we commemorate that its observation is not
limited by conditions of race and creed. Those who fail to see in
Him what we see nevertheless see something and even by imperfect
visions are moved to joy. The world transmutes that joy into
blessing, not merely by giving of its substance but of its soul
because men perceive that it is for the soul’s good and because
they hope to receive its benefits although they well know that
giving is far better than receiving, in the very words of Him Who
gave us the greatest of all gifts—Himself.
As a Priest of the Church, as a Missionary in the Far West, as
the Rector of large and important parishes I have been brought in
touch with varied life. Christmas in all its phases is familiar
to me. The author of many books and stories as well as the
preacher of many sermons, it is natural that Christmas should
have engaged a large part of my attention. Out of the abundance
of material which I have accumulated in the course of a long
ministry and a longer life I have gathered here a sheaf of things
I have written about Christmas; personal adventures, stories
suggested by the old yet ever-new theme; meditations, words of
advice which I am old enough to be entitled to give; and last but
not least good wishes and good will. I might even call this
little volume _A Book of Good Will toward Men_. And so fit it not
only for Christmas but for all other seasons as well.
If it shall add to your joy in Christmas, dear reader, and better
still, if it shall move you to add to the joy of some one else at
Christmas-tide or in any other season, I shall be well repaid for
my efforts and incidentally you will also be repaid for your
purchase.
Cyrus Townsend Brady.
The Hemlocks, Park Hill,
Yonkers, N.Y.
1917
NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The author is in debt to his long-time and greatly beloved friend
the Rev. Alsop Leffingwell for the beautiful musical setting of
the little carol which this book contains.
[Illustration]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I.—A CHRISTMAS GREETING
“_Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men_”
II.—FROM A FAR COUNTRY
A story for grown-ups
_Being a new variation of an ancient theme_
III.—ON CHRISTMAS GIVING
_Being a word of much needed advice_
IV.—IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING
A story for girls
_In which it is shown how different the same thing may be_
V.—A CHRISTMAS CAROL
_To be sung to the music accompanying it_
VI.—THE LONE SCOUT’S CHRISTMAS
A story for boys
_Wherein is set forth the courage of youth_
VII.—LOOKING INTO THE MANGER
_A Christmas meditation_
VIII.—CHRISTMAS IN THE SNOWS
_Being some personal adventures in the Far West_
IX.— CHRISTMAS WISH
_For everybody everywhere_
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Author Making his Book
“I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the younger of
the twain.
“I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“The Stars look down”
“Thrusting his toes into the straps he struck out boldly.”
“The world bows down to a Mother and her Child—and the Mother herself
is at the feet of the Child.”
[Illustration]
A CHRISTMAS GREETING
“_Good Will Toward Men”—St. Luke 11-14._
There was a time when the spirit of Christmas was of the present.
There is a period when most of it is of the past. There shall
come a day perhaps when all of it will be of the future. The
child time, the present; the middle years, the past; old age, the
future.
Come to my mind Christmas Days of long ago. As a boy again I
enter into the spirit of the Christmas stockings hanging before
my fire. I know what the children think to-day. I recall what
they feel.
Passes childhood, and I look down the nearer years. There rise
before me remembrances of Christmas Days on storm-tossed seas,
where waves beat upon the ice-bound ship. I recall again the
bitter touch of water-warping winter, of drifts of snow, of
wind-swept plains. In the gamut of my remembrance I am once more
in the poor, mean, lonely little sanctuary out on the prairie,
with a handful of Christians, mostly women, gathered together in
the freezing, draughty building. In later years I worship in the
great cathedral church, ablaze with lights, verdant and fragrant
with the evergreen pines, echoing with joyful carols and
celestial harmonies. My recollections are of contrasts like those
of life—joy and sadness, poverty and ease.
And the pictures are full of faces, many of which may be seen no
more by earthly vision. I miss the clasp of vanished hands, I
crave the sound of voices stilled. As we old and older grow,
there is a note of sadness in our glee. Whether we will or not we
must twine the cypress with the holly. The recollection of each
passing year brings deeper regret. How many have gone from those
circles that we recall when we were children? How many little
feet that pattered upon the stair on Christmas morning now tread
softer paths and walk in broader ways; sisters and brothers who
used to come back from the far countries to the old home—alas,
they cannot come from the farther country in which they now are,
and perhaps, saddest thought of all, we would not wish them to
come again. How many, with whom we joined hands around the
Christmas tree, have gone?
Circles are broken, families are separated, loved ones are lost,
but the old world sweeps on. Others come to take our places. As
we stood at the knee of some unforgotten mother, so other
children stand. As we listened to the story of the Christ Child
from the lips of some grey old father, so other children listen
and we ourselves perchance are fathers or mothers too. Other
groups come to us for the deathless story. Little heads which
recall vanished halcyon days of youth bend around another younger
mother. Smaller hands than ours write letters to Santa Claus and
hear the story, the sweetest story ever told, of the Baby who
came to Mary and through her to all the daughters and sons of
women on that winter night on the Bethlehem hills.
And we thank God for the children who take us out of the past,
out of ourselves, away from recollections that weigh us down; the
children that weave in the woof and warp of life when our own
youth has passed, some of the buoyancy, the joy, the happiness of
the present; the children in whose opening lives we turn
hopefully to the future. We thank God at this Christmas season
that it pleased Him to send His beloved Son to come to us as a
little child, like any other child. We thank God that in the
lesser sense we may see in every child who comes to-day another
incarnation of divinity. We thank God for the portion of His
Spirit with which He dowers every child of man, just as we thank
Him for pouring it all upon the Infant in the Manger.
There is no age that has not had its prophet. No country, no
people, but that has produced its leader. But did any of them
ever before come as a little child? Did any of them begin to lead
while yet in arms? Lodges there upon any other baby brow “the
round and top of sovereignty?” What distinguished Christ and His
Christian followers from all the world? Behold! no mighty
monarch, but “a little child shall lead them!”
You may see through the glass darkly, you may not know or
understand the blessedness of faith in Him as He would have you
know it, but there is nothing that can dim the light that
radiates from that birth in the rude cave back of the inn. Ah, it
pierces through the darkness of that shrouding night. It shines
to-day. Still sparkles the Star in the East. He is that Star.
There is nothing that can take from mankind—even doubting
mankind—the spirit of Christ and the Christmas season. Our
celebrations do not rest upon the conclusions of logic, or the
demonstrations of philosophy; I would not even argue that they
depend inevitably or absolutely upon the possession of a certain
faith in Jesus, but we accept Christmas, nevertheless; we
endeavour to apply the Christmas spirit, for just once in the
year; it may be because we cannot, try as we may, crush out
utterly and entirely the divinity that is in us that makes for
God. The stories and tales for Christmas which have for their
theme the hard heart softened are not mere fictions of the
imagination. They rest upon an instinctive consciousness of a
profound philosophic truth.
What is the unpardonable sin, I wonder? Is it to be persistently
and forever unkind? Does it mean perhaps the absolute refusal to
accept the principle of love which is indeed creation’s final
law? The lessons of the Christmastide are so many; the appeals
that now may be made to humanity crowd to the lips from full
minds and fuller hearts. Might we not reduce them all to the
explication of the underlying principle of God’s purpose to us,
as expressed in those themic words of love with which angels and
men greeted the advent of the Child on the first Christmas
morning, “Good will toward men?”
Let us then show our good will toward men by doing good and
bringing happiness to someone—if not to everyone—at this
Christmas season. Put aside the memories of disappointments, of
sorrows that have not vanished, of cares that still burden, and
do good in spite of them because you would not dim the brightness
of the present for any human heart with the shadows of old
regrets. Do good because of a future which opens possibilities
before you, for others, if not for yourselves.
Brethren, friends, all, let us make up our minds that we will be
kindly affectioned one to another in our homes and out of them,
on this approaching Christmas day. That the old debate, the
ancient strife, the rankling recollection, the sharp contention,
shall be put aside, that “envy, hatred, and malice, and all
uncharitableness” shall be done away with. Let us forgive and
forget; but if we cannot forget let us at least forgive. And so
let there be peace between man and man at Christmas—a truce of
God.
Let us pray that Love shall come as a little child to our
households. That He shall be in our hearts and shall find His
expression in all that we do or say on this birthday of goodness
and cheer for the world. Then let us resolve that the spirit of
the day shall be carried out through our lives, that as Christ
did not come for an hour, but for a lifetime, we would fain
become as little children on this day of days that we may begin a
new life of good will to men.
Let us make this a new birthday of kindness and love that shall
endure. That is a Christmas hope, a Christmas wish. Let us give
to it the gracious expression of life among men.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
FROM A FAR COUNTRY
_Being a New Variation of an Ancient Theme_
A STORY FOR GROWN-UPS
I
“_A certain man had two sons_”—so begins the best and most famous
story in the world’s literature. Use of the absolute superlative
is always dangerous, but none will gainsay that statement, I am
sure. This story, which follows that familiar tale afar off,
indeed, begins in the same way. And the parallelism between the
two is exact up to a certain point. What difference a little
point doth make; like the little fire, behold, how great a matter
it kindleth! Indeed, lacking that one detail the older story
would have had no value; it would not have been told; without its
addition this would have been a repetition of the other.
When the modern young prodigal came to himself, when he found
himself no longer able to endure the husks of the swine like his
ancient exemplar, when he rose and returned to his father because
of that distaste, he found no father watching and waiting for him
at the end of the road! Upon that change the action of this story
hangs. It was a pity, too, because the elder brother was there
and in a mood not unlike that of his famous prototype.
Indeed, there was added to that elder brother’s natural
resentment at the younger’s course the blinding power of a great
sorrow, for the father of the two sons was dead. He had died of a
broken heart. Possessed of no omniscience of mind or vision, he
had been unable to foresee the long delayed turning point in the
career of his younger son and death came too swiftly to enable
them to meet again. So long as he had strength, that father had
stood, as it were, at the top of the hill looking down the road
watching and hoping.
And but the day before the tardy prodigal’s return he had been
laid away with his own fathers in the God’s acre around the
village church in the Pennsylvania hills. Therefore there was no
fatted calf ready for the disillusioned youth whose waywardness
had killed his father. It will be remembered that the original
elder brother objected seriously to fatted calves on such
occasions. Indeed, the funeral baked meats would coldly furnish
forth a welcoming meal if any such were called for.
For all his waywardness, for all his self-will, the younger son
had loved his father well, and it was a terrible shock to him
(having come to his senses) to find that he had returned too
late. And for all his hardness and narrowness the eldest son also
had loved his father well—strong tribute to the quality of the
dead parent—and when he found himself bereft he naturally visited
wrath upon the head of him who he believed rightly was the cause
of the untimely death of the old man.
As he sat in the study, if such it might be called, of the
departed, before the old-fashioned desk with its household and
farm and business accounts, which in their order and method and
long use were eloquent of his provident and farseeing father, his
heart was hot within his breast. Grief and resentment alike
gnawed at his vitals. They had received vivid reports, even in
the little town in which they dwelt, of the wild doings of the
wanderer, but they had enjoyed no direct communication with him.
After a while even rumour ceased to busy itself with the doings
of the youth. He had dropped out of their lives utterly after he
passed over the hills and far away.
The father had failed slowly for a time, only to break suddenly
and swiftly in the end. And the hurried frantic search for the
missing had brought no results. Ironically the god of chance had
led the young man’s repentant footsteps to the door too late.
“Where’s father?” cried John Carstairs to the startled woman who
stared at him as if she had seen a ghost as, at his knock, she
opened the door which he had found locked, not against him, but
the hour was late and it was the usual nightly precaution:
“Your brother is in your father’s study, sir,” faltered the
servant at last.
“Umph! Will,” said the man, his face changing. “I’d rather see
father first.”
“I think you had better see Mr. William, sir.”
“What’s the matter, Janet?” asked young Carstairs anxiously. “Is
father ill?”
“Yes, sir! indeed I think you had bettor see Mr. William at once,
Mr. John.”
Strangely moved by the obvious agitation of the ancient servitor
of the house who had known him from childhood, John Carstairs
hurried down the long hall to the door of his father’s study.
Always a scapegrace, generally in difficulties, full of mischief,
he had approached that door many times in fear of well merited
punishment which was sure to be meted out to him. And he came to
it with the old familiar apprehension that night, if from a
different cause. He never dreamed that his father was anything
but ill. He must see his brother. He stood in no little awe of
that brother, who was his exact antithesis in almost everything.
They had not got along particularly well. If his father had been
inside the door he would have hesitated with his hand on the
knob. If his father had not been ill he would not have attempted
to face his brother. But his anxiety, which was increased by a
sudden foreboding, for Janet, the maid, had looked at him so
strangely, moved him to quick action. He threw the door open
instantly. What he saw did not reassure him. William was clad in
funeral black. He wore a long frock coat instead of the usual
knockabout suit he affected on the farm. His face was white and
haggard. There was an instant interchange of names.
“John!”
“William!”
And then—
“Is father ill?” burst out the younger.
“Janet said—”
“Dead!” interposed William harshly, all his indignation flaming
into speech and action as he confronted the cause of the
disaster.
“Dead! Good God!”
“God had nothing to do with it.”
“You mean?”
“You did it.”
“I?”
“Yes. Your drunken revelry, your reckless extravagance, your
dissipation with women, your unfeeling silence, your—”
“Stop!” cried the younger. “I have come to my senses, I can’t
bear it.”
“I’ll say it if it kills you. You did it, I repeat. He longed and
prayed and waited and you didn’t come. You didn’t write. We could
hear nothing. The best father on earth.”
The younger man sank down in a chair and covered his face with
his hands.
“When?” he gasped out finally.
“Three days ago.”
“And have you—”
“He is buried beside mother in the churchyard yonder. Now that
you are here I thank God that he didn’t live to see what you have
become.”
The respectable elder brother’s glance took in the disreputable
younger, his once handsome face marred—one doesn’t foregather
with swine in the sty without acquiring marks of the
association—his clothing in rags. Thus errant youth, that was
youth no longer, came back from that far country. Under such
circumstances one generally has to walk most of the way. He had
often heard the chimes at midnight, sleeping coldly in the straw
stack of the fields, and the dust of the road clung to his
person. Through his broken shoes his bare feet showed, and he
trembled visibly as the other confronted him, partly from hunger
and weakness and shattered nerves, and partly from shame and
horror and for what reason God only knew.
The tall, handsome man in the long black coat, who towered over
him so grimly stern, was two years older than he, yet to the
casual observer the balance of time was against the prodigal by
at least a dozen years. However, he was but faintly conscious of
his older brother. One word and one sentence rang in his ear.
Indeed, they beat upon his consciousness until he blanched and
quivered beneath their onslaught.
“Dead—you did it!”
Yes, it was just. No mercy seasoned that justice in the heart of
either man. The weaker, self-accusing, sat silent with bowed
head, his conscience seconding the words of the stronger. The
voice of the elder ran on with growing, terrifying intensity.
“Please stop,” interposed the younger. He rose to his feet. “You
are right, Will. You were always right and I was always wrong. I
did kill him. But you need not have told me with such bitterness.
I realized it the minute you said he was dead. It’s true. And yet
I was honestly sorry. I came back to tell him so, to ask his
forgiveness.”
“When your money was gone.”
“You can say that, too,” answered the other, wincing under the
savage thrust. “It’s as true as the rest probably, but sometimes
a man has to get down very low before he looks up. It was that
way with me. Well, I’ve had my share and I’ve had my fling. I’ve
no business here. Good-bye.” He turned abruptly away.
“Don’t add more folly to what you have already done,” returned
William Carstairs, and with the beginnings of a belated pity, he
added, “stay here with me, there will be enough for us both and—”
“I can’t.”
“Well, then,” he drew out of his pocket a roll of bills, “take
these and when you want more—”
“Damn your money,” burst out John Carstairs, passionately. He
struck the other’s outstretched hand, and in his surprise,
William Carstairs let the bills scatter upon the floor. “I don’t
want it—blood money. Father is dead. I’ve had mine. I’ll trouble
you no more.”
He turned and staggered out of the room. Now William Carstairs
was a proud man and John Carstairs had offended him deeply. He
believed all that he had said to his brother, yet there had been
developing a feeling of pity for him in his heart, and in his
cold way he had sought to express it. His magnanimity had been
rejected with scorn. He looked down at the scattered bills on the
floor. Characteristically—for he inherited his father’s business
ability without his heart—he stooped over and picked them slowly
up, thinking hard the while. He finally decided that he would
give his brother yet another chance for his father’s sake. After
all, they were brethren. But the decision came too late. John
Carstairs had stood not on the order of his going, but had gone
at once, none staying him.
William Carstairs stood in the outer door, the light from the
hall behind him streaming out into the night. He could see
nothing. He called aloud, but there was no answer. He had no idea
where his younger brother had gone. If he had been a man of finer
feeling or quicker perception, perhaps if the positions of the
two had been reversed and he had been his younger brother, he
might have guessed that John might have been found beside the
newest mound in the churchyard, had one sought him there. But
that idea did not come to William, and after staring into the
blackness for a long time, he reluctantly closed the door.
Perhaps the vagrant could be found in the morning.
No, there had been no father waiting for the prodigal at the end
of the road, and what a difference it had made to that wanderer
and vagabond!
II
We leave a blank line on the page and denote thereby that ten
years have passed. It was Christmas Eve, that is, it had been
Christmas Eve when the little children had gone to bed. Now
midnight had passed and it was already Christmas morning. In one
of the greatest and most splendid houses on the avenue two little
children were nestled all snug in their beds in a nursery. In an
adjoining room sound sleep had quieted the nerves of the usually
vigilant and watchful nurse. But the little children were
wakeful. As always, visions of Santa Claus danced in their heads.
They were fearless children by nature and had been trained
without the use of bugaboos to keep them in the paths wherein
they should go. On this night of nights they had left the doors
of their nursery open. The older, a little girl of six, was
startled, but not alarmed, as she lay watchfully waiting, by a
creaking sound as of an opened door in the library below. She
listened with a beating heart under the coverlet; cause of
agitation not fear, but hope. It might be, it must be Santa
Claus, she decided. Brother, aged four, was close at hand in his
own small crib. She got out of her bed softly so as not to
disturb Santa Claus, or—more important at the time—the nurse. She
had an idea that Saint Nicholas might not welcome a nurse, but
she had no fear at all that he would not be glad to see her.
Need for a decision confronted her. Should she reserve the
pleasure she expected to derive from the interview for herself or
should she share it with little brother? There was a certain risk
in arousing brother. He was apt to awaken clamant, vociferous.
Still, she resolved to try it. For one thing, it seemed so
selfish to see Santa Claus alone, and for another the adventure
would be a little less timorous taken together.
Slipping her feet into her bedroom slippers and covering her
nightgown with a little blanket wrap, she tip-toed over to
brother’s bed. Fortunately, he too was sleeping lightly, and for
a like reason. For a wonder she succeeded in arousing him without
any outcry on his part. He was instantly keenly, if quietly,
alive to the situation and its fascinating possibilities.
“You must be very quiet, John,” she whispered. “But I think Santa
Claus is down in the library. We’ll go down and catch him.”
Brother, as became the hardier male, disdained further protection
of his small but valiant person. Clad only in his pajamas and his
slippers, he followed sister out the door and down the stair.
They went hand in hand, greatly excited by the desperate
adventure.
What proportion of the millions who dwelt in the great city were
children of tender years only statisticians can say, but
doubtless there were thousands of little hearts beating with
anticipation as the hearts of those children beat, and perhaps
there may have been others who were softly creeping downstairs to
catch Santa Claus unawares at that very moment.
One man at least was keenly conscious of one little soul who,
with absolutely nothing to warrant the expectation, nothing
reasonable on which to base joyous anticipation, had gone to bed
thinking of Santa Claus and hoping that, amidst equally deserving
hundreds of thousands of obscure children, this little mite in
her cold, cheerless garret might not be overlooked by the
generous dispenser of joy. With the sublime trust of childhood
she had insisted upon hanging up her ragged stocking. Santa Claus
would have to be very careful indeed lest things should drop
through and clatter upon the floor. Her heart had beaten, too,
although she descended no stair in the great house. She, too, lay
wakeful, uneasy, watching, sleeping, drowsing, hoping. We may
have some doubts about the eternal springing of hope in the human
breast save in the case of childhood—thank God it is always
verdant there!
III
Now few people get so low that they do not love somebody, and I
dare say that no people get so low that somebody does not love
them.
“Crackerjack,” so called because of his super-excellence in his
chosen profession, was, or had been, a burglar and thief; a very
ancient and highly placed calling indeed. You doubtless remember
that two thieves comprised the sole companions and attendants of
the Greatest King upon the most famous throne in history. His
sole court at the culmination of His career. “Crackerjack” was no
exception to the general rule about loving and being beloved set
forth above.
He loved the little lady whose tattered stocking swung in the
breeze from the cracked window. Also he loved the wretched woman
who with himself shared the honours of parentage to the poor but
hopeful mite who was also dreaming of Christmas and the morning.
And his love inspired him to action. Singular into what devious
courses, utterly unjustifiable, even so exalted and holy an
emotion may lead fallible man. Love—burglary! They do not belong
naturally in association, yet slip cold, need, and hunger in
between and we may have explanation even if there be no
justification. Oh, Love, how many crimes are committed in thy
name!
“Crackerjack” would hardly have chosen Christmas eve for a
thieving expedition if there had been any other recourse.
Unfortunately there was none. The burglar’s profession, so far as
he had practised it, was undergoing a timely eclipse. Time was
when it had been lucrative, its rewards great. Then the law,
which is no respecter of professions of that kind, had got him.
“Crackerjack” had but recently returned from a protracted sojourn
at an institution arranged by the State in its paternalism for
the reception and harbouring of such as he. The pitiful dole with
which the discharged prisoner had been unloaded upon a world
which had no welcome for him had been soon spent; even the
hideous prison-made clothes had been pawned, and some rags, which
were yet the rags of a free man, which had been preserved through
the long period of separation by his wife, gave him a poor
shelter from the winter’s cold.
That wife had been faithful to him. She had done the best she
could for herself and baby during the five years of the absence
of the bread winner, or in his case the bread taker would be the
better phrase. She had eagerly waited the hour of his release;
her joy had been soon turned to bitterness. The fact that he had
been in prison had shut every door against him and even closed
the few that had been open to her. The three pieces of human
flotsam had been driven by the wind of adversity and tossed. They
knew not where to turn when jettisoned by society.
Came Christmas Eve. They had no money and no food and no fire.
Stop! The fire of love burned in the woman’s heart, the fire of
hate in the man’s. Prison life usually completes the education in
shame of the unfortunate men who are thrust there. This was
before the days in which humane men interested themselves in
prisons and prisoners and strove to awaken the world to its
responsibilities to, as well as the possibilities of, the
convict.
But “Crackerjack” was a man of unusual character. Poverty,
remorse, drink, all the things that go to wreck men by forcing
them into evil courses had laid him low, and because he was a man
originally of education and ability, he had shone as a criminal.
The same force of character which made him super-burglar could
change him from criminal to man if by chance they could be
enlisted in the endeavour.
He had involved the wife he had married in his misfortunes. She
had been a good woman, weaker than he, yet she stuck to him. God
chose the weak thing to rejuvenate the strong. In the prison he
had enjoyed abundant leisure for reflection. After he learned of
the birth of his daughter he determined to do differently when he
was freed. Many men determine, especially in the case of an
ex-convict, but society usually determines better—no, not better,
but more strongly. Society had different ideas. It was
Brahministic in its religion. Caste? Yes, once a criminal always
a criminal.
“Old girl,” said the broken man, “it’s no use. I’ve tried to be
decent for your sake and the kid’s, but it can’t be done. I can’t
get honest work. They’ve put the mark of Cain on me. They can
take the consequences. The kid’s got to have some Christmas;
you’ve got to have food and drink and clothes and fire. God, how
cold it is! I’ll go out and get some.”
“Isn’t there something else we can pawn?”
“Nothing.”
“Isn’t there any work?”
“Work?” laughed the man bitterly. “I’ve tramped the city over
seeking it, and you, too. Now, I’m going to get money—elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Where it’s to be had.”
“Oh, Jack, think.”
“If I thought, I’d kill you and the kid and myself.”
“Perhaps that would be better,” said the woman simply. “There
doesn’t seem to be any place left for us.”
“We haven’t come to that yet,” said the man. “Society owes me a
living and, by God, it’s got to pay it to me.”
It was an oft-repeated, widely held assertion, whether fallacious
or not each may determine for himself.
“I’m afraid,” said the woman.
“You needn’t be; nothing can be worse than this hell.”
He kissed her fiercely. Albeit she was thin and haggard she was
beautiful to him. Then he bent over his little girl. He had not
yet had sufficient time since his release to get very well
acquainted with her. She had been born while he was in prison,
but it had not taken any time at all for him to learn to love
her. He stared at her a moment. He bent to kiss her and then
stopped. He might awaken her. It is always best for the children
of the very poor to sleep. He who sleeps dines, runs the Spanish
proverb. He turned and kissed the little ragged stockings
instead, and then he went out. He was going to play—was it Santa
Claus, indeed?
IV
The strange, illogical, ironical god of chance, or was it
Providence acting through some careless maid, had left an area
window unlocked in the biggest and newest house on the avenue.
Any house would have been easy for “Crackerjack” if he had
possessed the open sesame of his kit of burglar’s tools, but he
had not had a jimmy in his hand since he was caught with one and
sent to Sing Sing. He had examined house after house, trusting to
luck as he wandered on, and, lo! fortune favoured him.
The clock in a nearby church struck the hour of two. The areaway
was dark. No one was abroad. He plunged down the steps, opened
the window and disappeared. No man could move more noiselessly
than he. In the still night he knew how the slightest sounds are
magnified. He had made none as he groped his way through the back
of the house, arriving at last in a room which he judged to be
the library. Then, after listening and hearing nothing, he
ventured to turn the button of a side light in a far corner of
the room.
He was in a large apartment, beautifully furnished. Books and
pictures abounded, but these did not interest him, although if he
had made further examination he might have found things worthy of
his attention even there. It so happened that the light bracket
to which he had blundered, or had been led, was immediately over
a large wall safe. Evidently it had been placed there for the
purpose of illuminating the safe door. His eyes told him that
instantly. This was greater fortune than he expected. A wall safe
in a house like that must contain things of value.
Marking the position of the combination knob, he turned out the
light and waited again. The quiet of the night continued
unbroken. A swift inspection convinced him that the lock was only
an ordinary combination. With proper—or improper—tools he could
have opened it easily. Even without tools, such were his
delicately trained ear and his wonderfully trained fingers that
he thought he could feel and hear the combination. He knelt down
by the knob and began to turn it slowly, listening and feeling
for the fall of the tumblers. Several times he almost got it,
only to fail at the end, but by repeated trials and unexampled
patience, his heart beating like a trip-hammer the while, he
finally mastered the combination and opened the safe door.
In his excitement when he felt the door move he swung it outward
sharply. It had not been used for some time evidently and the
hinges creaked. He checked the door and listened again. Was he to
be balked after so much success? He was greatly relieved at the
absence of sound. It was quite dark in the room. He could see
nothing but the safe. He reached his hand in and discovered it
was filled with bulky articles covered with some kind of cloth,
silver evidently.
He decided that he must have a look and again he switched on the
light. Yes, his surmise had been correct. The safe was filled
with silver. There was a small steel drawer in the middle of it.
He had a broad bladed jack-knife in his pocket and at the risk of
snapping the blade he forced the lock and drew out the drawer. It
was filled with papers. He lifted the first one and stood staring
at it in astonishment, for it was an envelope which bore his
name, written by a hand which had long since mouldered away in
the dust of a grave.
V
Before he could open the envelope, there broke on his ear a still
small voice, not that of conscience, not that of God; the voice
of a child—but does not God speak perhaps as often through the
lips of childhood as in any other way—and conscience, too?
“Are you Santa Claus?” the voice whispered in his ear.
“Crackerjack” dropped the paper and turned like a flash, knife
upraised in his clenched hand, to confront a very little girl and
a still smaller boy staring at him in open-eyed astonishment, an
astonishment which was without any vestige of alarm. He looked
down at the two and they looked up at him, equal bewilderment on
both sides.
“I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the younger
of the twain, whose pajamas bespoke the nascent man.
“In all the books he has a long white beard. Where’s yours?”
asked the coming woman.
This innocent question no less than the unaffected simplicity and
sincerity of the questioner overpowered “Crackerjack.” He sank
back into a convenient chair and stared at the imperturbable
pair. There was a strange and wonderful likeness in the
sweet-faced golden-haired little girl before him to the worn,
haggard, and ill-clad little girl who lay shivering in the mean
bed in the upper room where God was not—or so he fancied.
“You’re a little girl, aren’t you?” he whispered.
No voice had been or was raised above a whisper. It was a
witching hour and its spell was upon them all.
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Helen.”
Now Helen had been “Crackerjack’s” mother’s name and it was the
name of his own little girl, and although everybody else called
her Nell, to him she was always Helen.
“And my name’s John,” volunteered the other child.
“John!” That was extraordinary!
“What’s your other name?”
“John William.”
The man stared again. Could this be coincidence merely? John was
his own name and William that of his brother.
“I mean what is your last name?”
“Carstairs,” answered the little girl. “Now you tell us who you
are. You aren’t Santa Claus, are you? I don’t hear any reindeers
outside, or bells, and you haven’t any pack, and you’re not by
the fireplace where our stockings are.”
[Illustration: I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the
younger of the twain.] “I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,”
said the younger of the twain.
“No,” said the man, “I’m not exactly Santa Claus, I’m his
friend—I—”
What should he say to these children? In his bewilderment for the
moment he actually forgot the letter which he still held tightly
in his hand.
“Dat’s muvver’s safe,” continued the little boy. “She keeps lots
o’ things in it. It’s all hers but dat drawer. Dat’s papa’s and—”
“I think I hear some one on the stairs,” broke in the little girl
suddenly in great excitement. “Maybe that’s Santa Claus.”
“Perhaps it is,” said the man, who had also heard. “You wait and
watch for him. I’ll go outside and attend to his reindeer.”
He made a movement to withdraw, but the girl caught him tightly
by the hand.
“If you are his friend,” she said, “you can introduce us. You
know our names and—”
The golden opportunity was gone.
“Don’t say a word,” whispered the man quickly. “We’ll surprise
him. Be very still.”
He reached his hand up and turned out the light. He half hoped he
might be mistaken, or that in the darkness they would not be
seen, but no. They all heard the footsteps on the stair. They
came down slowly, and it was evident that whoever was approaching
was using every precaution not to be heard. “Crackerjack” was in
a frightful situation. He did not know whether to jerk himself
away from the two children, for the boy had clasped him around
the leg and the girl still held his hand, or whether to wait.
The power of decision suddenly left him, for the steps stopped
before the door. There was a little click as a hand pressed a
button on the wall and the whole room was flooded with light from
the great electrolier in the centre. Well, the game was up.
“Crackerjack” had been crouching low with the children. He rose
to his feet and looked straightly enough into the barrel of a
pistol held by a tall, severe looking man in a rich silk dressing
robe, who confronted him in the doorway. Two words broke from the
lips of the two men, the same words that had fallen from their
lips when they met ten years before.
“John!” cried the elder man, laying the weapon on a nearby table.
“Will!” answered “Crackerjack” in the same breath.
As if to mark the eternal difference as before, the one was
clothed in habiliments of wealth and luxury, the other in the
rags and tatters of poverty and shame.
“Why, that isn’t Santa Claus,” instantly burst out the little
girl, “that’s papa.”
“Dis is Santy Claus’s friend, papa,” said the little boy. “We
were doin’ to su’prise him. He said be very still and we minded.”
“So this is what you have come to, John,” said the elder man, but
there was an unwonted gentleness in his voice.
“I swear to God I didn’t know it was your house. I just came in
here because the window was open.”
The other pointed to the safe.
“But you were—”
“Of course I was. You don’t suppose I wandered in for fun, do
you? I’ve got a little girl of my own, and her name’s Helen, too;
our mother’s name.”
The other brother nodded.
“She’s hungry and cold and there’s no Christmas for her or her
mother.”
“Oh, Santy has been here already,” cried Master John Williams,
running toward the great fireplace, having just that moment
discovered the bulging stockings and piles of gifts. His sister
made a move in the same direction, for at the other corner hung
her stocking and beneath it her pile, but the man’s hand
unconsciously tightened upon her hand and she stopped.
“I’ll stay with you,” she said, after a moment of hesitation.
“Tell me more about your Helen.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” He released her hand roughly. “You
musn’t touch me,” he added harshly. “Go.”
“You needn’t go, my dear,” said her father quickly. “Indeed, I
think, perhaps—”
“Is your Helen very poor?” quietly asked the little girl,
possessing herself of his hand again, “because if she is she can
have”—she looked over at the pile of toys—“Well, I’ll see. I’ll
give her lots of things, and—”
“What’s this?” broke out the younger man harshly, extending his
hand with the letter in it toward the other.
“It is a letter to you from our father.”
“And you kept it from me?” cried the other.
“Read it,” said William Carstairs.
With trembling hands “Crackerjack” tore it open. It was a message
of love and forgiveness penned by a dying hand.
“If I had had this then I might have been a different man,” said
the poor wretch.
“There is another paper under it, or there should be, in the same
drawer,” went on William Carstairs, imperturbably. “Perhaps you
would better read that.”
John Carstairs needed no second invitation. He turned to the open
drawer and took out the next paper. It was a copy of a will. The
farm and business had been left to William, but one half of it
was to be held in trust for his brother. The man read it and then
he crushed the paper in his hand.
“And that, too, might have saved me. My God!” he cried, “I’ve
been a drunken blackguard. I’ve gone down to the very depths. I
have been in State’s prison. I was, I am, a thief, but I never
would have withheld a dying man’s forgiveness from his son. I
never would have kept a poor wretch who was crazy with shame and
who drank himself into crime out of his share of the property.”
Animated by a certain fell purpose, he leaped across the room and
seized the pistol.
“Yes, and I have you now!” he cried. “I’ll make you pay.”
He levelled the weapon at his brother with a steady hand.
“What are you doin’ to do wif that pistol?” said young John
William, curiously looking up from his stocking, while Helen
cried out. The little woman acted the better part. With rare
intuition she came quickly and took the left hand of the man and
patted it gently. For one thing, her father was not afraid, and
that reassured her. John Carstairs threw the pistol down again.
William Carstairs had never moved.
“Now,” he said, “let me explain.”
“Can you explain away this?”
“I can. Father’s will was not opened until the day after you
left. As God is my judge I did not know he had written to you. I
did not know he had left anything to you. I left no stone
unturned in an endeavour to find you. I employed the best
detectives in the land, but we found no trace of you whatever.
Why, John, I have only been sorry once that I let you go that
night, that I spoke those words to you, and that has been all the
time.”
“And where does this come from?” said the man, flinging his arm
up and confronting the magnificent room.
“It came from the old farm. There was oil on it and I sold it for
a great price. I was happily married. I came here and have been
successful in business. Half of it all is yours.”
“I won’t take it.”
“John,” said William Carstairs, “I offered you money once and you
struck it out of my hand. You remember?”
“Yes.”
“What I am offering you now is your own. You can’t strike it out
of my hand. It is not mine, but yours.”
“I won’t have it,” protested the man. “It’s too late. You don’t
know what I’ve been, a common thief. ‘Crackerjack’ is my name.
Every policeman and detective in New York knows me.”
“But you’ve got a little Helen, too, haven’t you?” interposed the
little girl with wisdom and tact beyond her years.
“Yes.”
“And you said she was very poor and had no Christmas.”
“Yes.”
“For her sake, John,” said William Carstairs. “Indeed you must
not think you have been punished alone. I have been punished,
too. I’ll help you begin again. Here”—he stepped closer to his
brother—“is my hand.”
The other stared at it uncomprehendingly.
“There is nothing in it now but affection. Won’t you take it?”
Slowly John Carstairs lifted his hand. His palm met that of his
elder brother. He was so hungry and so weak and so overcome that
he swayed a little. His head bowed, his body shook and the elder
brother put his arm around him and drew him close.
Into the room came William Carstairs’ wife. She, too, had at last
been aroused by the conversation, and, missing her husband, she
had thrown a wrapper about her and had come down to seek him.
“We tame down to find Santy Claus,” burst out young John William,
at the sight of her, “and he’s been here, look muvver.”
Yes, Santa Claus had indeed been there. The boy spoke better than
he knew.
“And this,” said little Helen eagerly, pointing proudly to her
new acquaintance, “is a friend of his, and he knows papa and he’s
got a little Helen and we’re going to give her a Merry
Christmas.”
William Carstairs had no secrets from his wife. With a flash of
womanly intuition, although she could not understand how he came
to be there, she divined who this strange guest was who looked a
pale, weak picture of her strong and splendid husband, and yet
she must have final assurance.
“Who is this gentleman, William?” she asked quietly, and John
Carstairs was forever grateful to her for her word that night.
“This,” said William Carstairs, “is my father’s son, my brother,
who was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.”
And so, as it began with the beginning, this story ends with the
ending of the best and most famous of all the stories that were
ever told.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ON CHRISTMAS GIVING
_Being a Word of Much Needed Advice_
Christmas is the birthday of our Lord, upon which we celebrate
God’s ineffable gift of Himself to His children. No human soul
has ever been able to realize the full significance of that gift,
no heart has ever been glad enough to contain the joy of it, and
no mind has ever been wise enough to express it. Nevertheless we
powerfully appreciate the blessing and would fain convey it
fitly. Therefore to commemorate that great gift the custom of
exchanging tokens of love and remembrance has grown until it has
become well nigh universal. This is a day in which we ourselves
crave, as never at any other time, happiness and peace for those
we love and that ought to include everybody, for with the angelic
message in our ears it should be impossible to hate any one on
Christmas day however we may feel before or after.
But despite the best of wills almost inevitably Christmas in many
instances has created a burdensome demand. Perhaps by the method
of exclusion we shall find out what Christmas should be. It is
not a time for extravagance, for ostentation, for vulgar display,
it is possible to purchase pleasure for someone else at too high
a price to ourselves. To paraphrase Polonius, “Costly thy gift as
thy purse can buy, rich but not expressed in fancy, for the gift
oft proclaims the man.” In making presents observe three
principal facts; the length of your purse, the character of your
friend, and the universal rule of good taste. Do not plunge into
extravagance from which you will scarcely recover except in
months of nervous strain and desperate financial struggle. On the
other hand do not be mean and niggardly in your gifts. Oh, not
that; avoid selfishness at Christmas, if at no other time. Rather
no gift at all than a grudging one. Let your offerings represent
yourselves and your affections. Indeed if they do not represent
you, they are not gifts at all. “The gift without the giver is
bare.”