“Oh, he’s my Scoutmaster back in Ohio. Now come on!”
He opened the door, drew the sled outside, pushed it up on the
snow and stepped on it. It bore his weight perfectly.
“It’s all right,” he cried. “But it won’t take all three of you
at once.”
“I’ll wait,” said Mary, “you take the two boys.”
“Very well,” said Henry.
“You’ll surely come back for me?”
“Surely, and I think it’s mighty brave of you to stay behind. Now
come on, boys,” he said.
Leaving Mary filled with pleasure at such praise, he put the two
boys carefully into the sled, stepped into his snow-shoes and
dragged them rapidly across the prairie. It was quite dark now,
but the sky was clear and the stars were bright. The storm had
completely stopped. He remembered the bearings he had taken by
the stars, and reached the high hill without difficulty. Below
him lay the car.
Presently he drew up before the platform. He put the boys in the
car, told them to go up to the fire and warm themselves and not
to touch anything. Then he went back for the girl.
“Did you think I was not coming?” he asked as he re-entered the
cabin.
“I knew you would come back,” said the girl and it was Henry’s
turn to tingle with pride.
He wrapped her up carefully, and fairly ran back to the car. They
found the boys warm and comfortable and greatly excited.
“If we just had a Christmas tree and Santa Claus and something to
eat and a drink of water and a place to sleep,” said the youngest
boy, “it would be great fun.”
“I am afraid we can’t manage the Christmas tree,” said Henry,
“but we can have everything else.”
“Do you mean Santy?”
“Santy too,” answered the boy. “First of all, we will get
something to eat.”
“We haven’t had anything since morning,” said the girl. Henry
divided the sandwiches into three portions. As it happened, there
were three hard-boiled eggs. He gave one portion to each of his
guests.
“You haven’t left any for yourself,” said Mary.
“I ate before I looked for you,” answered Henry, although the one
sandwich had by no means satisfied his hunger.
“My, but this is good!” said George.
“Our mother is dead,” said Mary Wright after a pause, “and our
father is awful poor. He has taken out a homestead and we are
trying to live on it until he gets it proved up. We have had a
very hard time since mother died.”
“Yes, I know,” said Henry, gravely; “my mother died, too.”
“I wonder what time it is?” asked the girl at last.
Henry pulled out his watch. “It is after six o’clock,” he said.
“Say,” broke in George, “that’s a funny kind of a uniform you’ve
got on.”
“It is a Boy Scout uniform.”
“Oh, is it?” exclaimed George. “I never saw one before. I wish I
could be a Scout!”
“Maybe you can,” answered Henry. “I am going to organize a troop
when I get to Kiowa. But now I’m going to fix beds for you. Of
course we are all sleepy after such a hard day.”
He had seen the trainmen lift up the bottoms of the seats and lay
them lengthwise of the car. He did this, and soon made four
fairly comfortable beds. The two nearest the stove he gave to the
boys. He indicated the next one was for Mary, and the one further
down toward the middle of the car was for himself.
“You can all go to bed right away,” he said when he had made his
preparations. The two boys decided to accept this advice. Mary
said she would stay up a little longer and talk with Henry.
“You can’t undress,” she said to the two boys. “You’ll have to
sleep as you are.” She sat down in one of the car seats; Philip
knelt down at one knee and George at the other. The girl, who was
barely fifteen had already taken her mother’s place. She laid her
hand on each bent head and listened while one after the other the
boys said their prayers. She kissed them good-night, saw them
comfortably laid out on the big cushions with their overcoats for
pillows and turned away.
“Say,” began Philip, “you forgot something, Mary.”
“What have I forgotten, dear?”
“Why, it’s Christmas Eve and we must hang up our stockings.”
Mary threw up her hands. “I am afraid this is too far away for
Santa Claus. He won’t know that we are out here,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Henry, thinking rapidly, “let them hang
them up.”
Mary looked at him in surprise. “They haven’t any to hang up,”
she said. “We can’t take those they’re wearing.”
“You should have thought of that,” wailed Philip, “before you
brought us here.”
“I have some extra ones in my bag,” said Henry. “We will hang
them up.”
He opened the bag and brought out three stockings, one for each
of his guests. He fastened them to the baggage racks above the
seats and watched the two boys contentedly close their eyes and
go to sleep.
“They will be awfully disappointed when they wake up in the
morning and do not find anything in them,” said Mary.
“They’re going to find something in them,” said Henry
confidently.
He went to the end of the car, opened his trunk and lifted out
various packages which had been designed for him. Of course he
was going on sixteen, but there were some things that would do
for Philip and plenty of things for George and some good books
that he had selected himself that would do for Mary. Then there
were candy and nuts and cakes and oranges galore. Mary was even
more excited than he was as they filled the boys’ stockings and
arranged things that were too big to go in them.
“These are your own Christmas gifts, I know,” said the girl, “and
you haven’t hung up your stocking.”
“I don’t need to. I have had my Christmas present.”
“And what is that?”
“A chance to make a merry Christmas for you and your little
brothers,” answered Henry, and his heart was light.
“How long do you suppose we will have to stay here?” asked the
girl.
“I don’t know. I suppose they will try to dig us out to-morrow.
Meanwhile we have nuts, oranges, crackers, and little cakes, to
say nothing of the candy, to live on. Now you go to bed and have
a good sleep.”
“And what will you do?”
“I’ll stay up for a while and read one of these books and keep
the fire going.”
“You are awfully good to us,” said Mary, turning away. “You are
just like a real Santa Claus.”
“We have to help other people—especially people in trouble,”
answered the boy. “It is one of the first Scout rules. I am
really glad I got left behind and found you. Good-night.”
The girl, whose experience that day had been hard, soon fell
asleep with her brothers. Henry did not feel sleepy at all; he
was bright and happy and rejoiced. This certainly _was_ an
adventure. He wondered what Dick and Joe and Spike and the other
fellows of his troop would think when he wrote them about it. He
did not realize that he had saved the lives of the children, who
would assuredly have frozen to death in the cabin.
When he was satisfied that Mary was sound asleep, he put some
things in her stocking and then piled in the rack over her head
two books he thought the girl would like. It was late when he
went to sleep himself, happier than he had dreamed he could be.
He awoke once in the night to replenish the fire, but he was
sleeping soundly at seven o’clock in the morning when the door of
the car opened and half a dozen men filed in. They had not made
any noise. Even the big snow-plough tearing open the way from
Kiowa had not disturbed the four sleepers.
The first man in was the conductor. After the trainmen had
discovered that the coach had been left behind they had managed
to get into Kiowa and had started back at once with the rotary
plough to open the road and to rescue the boy. Henry’s uncle had
been in town to meet Henry, and of course the trainmen let him go
back with them on the plough. The third man was Mr. Wright. He
had been caught by the storm and, as he said, the abandoned coach
must be near his claim, he asked to be taken along because he was
afraid his children would be freezing to death.
The men stopped and surveyed the sleeping boys and girl. Their
glances ranged from the children to the bulging stockings and the
pile of Christmas presents in the racks.
“Well, can you beat that?” said the conductor.
“By George!” exclaimed Rancher Ives, “a regular Christmas
layout!”
“These are my children safe and well, thank God!” cried Mr.
Wright.
“Boy,” said the conductor, laying his hand on Henry’s shoulder,
“we came to wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“Father!” cried Mary Wright, awakened by the voice, and the next
minute she was in his arms, while she told him rapidly what Henry
had done for them all.
The boys were awake, too, but humanity had no attraction for
them.
“Santa has come!” shouted Philip making a dive for his stocking.
“This is your uncle, Jim Ives,” said the conductor to Henry.
“And this is my father,” said Mary in turn.
“I am awfully sorry,” said Henry to the conductor, “but we had to
eat your dinner. And I had to chop up your kitchen table,” he
added, turning to Mr. Wright.
“I am glad there was something to eat in the pail,” said one.
“You could have chopped the cabin down,” said the other.
“By George!” said the ranchman proudly. “I wrote to your father
to send you out here and we’d make a man of you, but it seems to
me you are a man already,” he continued as Mary Wright poured
forth the story of their rescue.
“No, I am not a man,” said Henry to his uncle, as he flushed with
pride at the hearty praise of these men. “I am just a—”
“Just a what?” asked the conductor as the boy hesitated.
“Why, just a Boy Scout,” answered Henry.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LOOKING INTO THE MANGER
_A Christmas Meditation_
Christmas morning, the day we celebrate as the anniversary of the
birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, in the obscure,
little hill town of Bethlehem in the far-off Judæan land, over
nineteen hundred years ago!
It is said:
“When beggars die, there are no comets seen:
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.”
What is true of the passing of kings is perhaps more true of
their coming; yet in this birth are singular contradictions. The
Child was born a beggar. There lacks no touch which even
imagination could supply to indicate the meanness of His earthly
condition. Homeless, His mother, save for the stable of the
public inn—and words can hardly describe any place more
unsuited—was shelterless, unprotected, in that hour of travail
pain.
I love to let my imagination dwell upon that scene. Sometimes I
think wayfarers may have gathered in the tavern hard by and with
music and play sought to while away the hours as travellers have
from time immemorial. Perhaps in some pause in their merriment, a
strange cry of anguish, borne by the night wind from the rude
shelter without, may have stopped their revelry for a moment and
one may have asked of another:
“What is that?”
The servant of the house who stood obsequious to promote their
pleasure may have answered apologetically:
“It is the cry of a woman of the people in travail in the inn
yard.”
I can fancy their indifference to the answer, or I can hear
perhaps the rude jest, or the vulgar quip, with which such an
announcement may have been received, as the play or the music
went on again.
Oh, yes, the world in solemn stillness lay, doubtless, that
winter night, but not the people in it. They pursued their
several vocations as usual. They loved or they hated, they worked
or they played, they hoped or they despaired, they dreamed or
they achieved, just as they had done throughout the centuries,
just as they have done since that day, just as they will do far
into the future; although their little God came to them, as never
He came before, in the stable in the Bethlehem hills that night.
And yet, had they but cast their eyes upward like the wise men—it
is always your wise man who casts his eyes upward—they, too,
might have seen the star that blazed overhead. It was placed so
high above the earth that all men everywhere could see to which
spot on the surface it pointed. Or, had they been devout men,
they would have listened for heavenly voices—it is always your
devout man who tries to hear other things than the babble of the
Babel in which he lives—they, too, could have heard the angelic
chorus like the shepherds in the fields and on the hillsides that
frosty night.
For the heavens did blaze forth the birth of the Child. Not with
the thunder of guns, not with the blare of trumpets, not with the
beating of drums, not with the lighting of castle, village, and
town, the kindling of beacons upon the far-flung hills, the cry
of fast-riding messengers through the night, and the loud acclaim
of thousands which greet the coming of an earthly king, was He
welcomed; but by the still shining of a silent star and by the
ineffable and transcendent voices of an Angel Choir.
How long did the Shepherds listen to that chorus? How long did it
ring over the hills and far away? Whither went the Wise Men? Into
what dim distance vanished the star?
“Where are the roses of yesterday?
What has become of last year’s snow?”
And the residuum of it all was a little Baby held to a woman’s
breast in a miserable hovel in the most forlorn and detested
corner of the world. And yet to-day and at this hour, and at
every hour during the twenty-four, men are looking into that
chamber; men are bowing to that Child and His mother, and even
that mother is at the feet of the Child.
From the snow peaks of the North land, “from Greenland’s icy
mountains to India’s coral strand,” and on and on through all the
burning tropics to the companion ice of the other pole, the
antarctic, and girdling the world from east to west as well, the
adoration continues. It comes alike from the world’s noblest,
from the world’s highest, from the world’s truest, from the
world’s kindest, from the world’s poorest, from the world’s
humblest, from the world’s best.
Do not even the soldiers in the trenches upon the far-flung
battle lines pause to listen, look to see as for a moment dies
away the cannonade? Do not even the sailors of war and trade peer
across the tossing waters of the great deep, longing for a truce
of God if only for an hour upon this winter morning?
[Illustration: “The world bows down to a Mother and her Child—and the
Mother herself is at the feet of the Child.”]
Yes, they all look into the manger as they look upon the cross
and if only for an instant this war reddened planet comes to
“_see and believe_.” What keen vision saw in the Baby the Son of
God and the Son of Man? What simple faith can see these things in
Him now? “_Let us now go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing
which is come to pass_.”
That birth is known as the Incarnation. Ye know not “_how the
bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child_.” Life
itself is insusceptible of any definition which satisfies, but we
know that we live, nevertheless. Science points out a common
origin in protoplasmic cells and is quite unable to explain so
common a fact as sex differentiation. I care not what methods of
accounting for life you propose, you yet have to refer it to the
Author of all life “_in whom we live and move and have our
being_.” Why, therefore, should the Incarnation be thought
incredible or impossible because it does not come within the
limitations of our present understanding and it is not taught by
our limited human experience. The sweet reasonableness of the
Incarnation, this conception by Divine power, this birth from the
Virgin mother, should appeal to all who think deeply on these
subjects.
And yet perhaps the manner, place, and circumstance of this birth
may awaken wonder. Possibly you would have the King come as other
kings come, in pomp and circumstance, glory and majesty, with
heralds preceding, music playing, blossoms strewn, and people
cheering. Oh, no, that way did not seem the best way to the
wisdom of God—a young girl, an old man, in the stable, no other
tendance, no luxury, no comfort—poverty, humility, absolute.
Let us forget the Angel Chorus and the blazing star and go now
even unto Bethlehem and look into the manger at that Child, while
the uncomprehending cattle stare resentful perhaps at their
displacement. The King comes as a Child, as weak, as helpless, as
vocal of its pains as any other child. Not a Child of luxury, not
a Child of consequence, not a Child of comfort, but a Child of
poverty; and in the eyes of the blind world, if they had been
privy to it, without the glorious vision of the good man, Joseph,
a Child of shame! If the world had known that the Babe was not
the Child of Joseph and Mary how it would have mocked. What
laughter, what jeers, what contempt, what obloquy, what scorn
would have been heaped upon the woman’s head! Why the world would
heap them there now were it not that that portion of it which
disbelieves in the Incarnation, says that Joseph was after all
the father of the Child.
Nor shall we go down to Bethlehem alone. The poor, ignorant
shepherds came to the cradle that night. They could understand.
It did not seem strange to them that their God was poor, for they
themselves were poor. I wonder how much the shepherds reflected.
Theirs is a profession which gives rise to thought; they are much
alone in the waste places with the gentlest of God’s creatures.
Their paths lead by green pastures and still waters; they enjoy
long, lonely hours for meditation. Did they say:
“Ah! God has come to us as a poor man, not because there is
anything particularly noble or desirable in poverty, but because
so many of us are so very poor, and because the most of us have
been poor all the time, and because it is probable that most of
us will be poor in the future!”
Many a poor man has looked up into the silent heavens and
wondered sometimes whether God understood or cared about his
wretched lot. Of course God always knew and cared, we cannot
gainsay that, but in order to make men know that He knew and to
make them believe that He cared, He let them see that He did not
disdain to be a poor man and humble; that He sought His followers
and supporters in the great majority. _My God was a Carpenter_!
That is why He came to the stable; that is why He came to the
manger. And that is why the poor come to Him.
And there came to that same cradle, a little while after, the
Wise Men. They were professional wise men; they belonged to the
learned, the cultured, the thoughtful class; but they were wise
men as well in the sense in which we use wisdom to-day. That is,
they looked beyond earthly conditions and saw Divinity where the
casual glance does not see it. How many a seamed, rugged face,
how many a burden-bent back, how many a faltering footstep, how
many a knotted, calloused hand is perhaps more nearly in the
image of God than the fairer face, the straighter figure, the
softer palm!
The shepherds were not only poor, but they laboured in their
poverty; they were working men and they worshipped Him, the
Working Man. The wise men were not only wise, but they were rich.
They brought the treasures of the earth from the ends thereof and
laid them before the Babe and the mother. How fragrant the
perfume of the frankincense and the myrrh, and how rich the
lustre of the gold and silver in the mean surroundings of the
hovel. They took no thought of their costly apparel, they had no
fear of contamination from their surroundings, no question of
relative degree entered their heads. As simply and as truly as
the shepherds they worshipped the Christ. The rich and the poor
met together there, and the Lord was the maker of them all.
Was that baby-hand the shaper of destiny? Was that working-hand
the director of events? Even so. The Lord’s power is not less the
Lord’s power though it be not exhibited in the stretched out arm
of majesty.
Some of you who read this and many more who can not are poor,
perhaps very poor, but you can stand beside that manger and look
at that Baby’s face, you can reflect upon the Child, how He grew,
what He said, what He did, until a cross casts its black shadow
across your vision—the war is raising many crosses and many there
be that walk the _via dolorosa_ to them to-day. You shall be
counted blessed if you can gaze at that cross until it is
transformed by the glory of the resurrection. And in it all you
can see your God—the poor man’s God!—the rich man’s
God!—everybody’s God!
You can know that your God was poor, that He was humble, that He
struggled under adverse conditions, that He laboured, that He was
hungry, thirsty, tired, cold, that He was homeless, that He was
denied many of the joys of human society and the solace of
affection, that His best friends went back on Him, that everybody
deserted Him, and that the whole world finally rose up and
crushed Him down. That he suffered all things. Only a very great
God could so endure. Only one who was truly God could so manifest
Himself in pain.
You can understand how He can comprehend what your trouble is.
Oh, yes, the poor and the bereaved have as great a right to look
into that manger and see their God there as have the rich and the
care free.
Now there is a kind of pernicious socialism which condemns riches
as things unholy and exalts poverty as a thing acceptable to God.
That Baby came as well to the rich as to the poor. Do not forget
that. It is not generally understood, but it is true. He accepted
gladly the hospitality, the alms, the gifts, priceless in value,
of those who had great possessions and He loved them even as He
loved those who had nothing. The rich and wise also have a right
to look into that cradle to see their God, too. When we say He is
the God of all classes we do not mean that He is only the God of
the poor any more than we mean He is only the God of the rich.
He came to all the children of men and they can all stand by that
cradle this morning and claim Him as their own; ask, receive, and
share in His blessing. The light that shone in the darkness
lighted impartially the world. Some of you are blessed with
competences and some of the competences are greater than others.
What of it? The poor man may serve God acceptably in his poverty
and the rich man may serve God acceptably in his wealth. There is
one God and though He is King of Kings and Lord of Lords, even
though He may lie lowly in a manger, yet the kingdom of Heaven is
like a republic—it is a democracy in which all are equal, or if
there be distinctions they are based on righteousness
alone—saving only the distinctions Divine.
Now there is one other condition into which all men inevitably
fall. Whether they be rich or whether they be poor, they are all
bound to be sorrowful. Sooner or later, we are certain to be
troubled. And that is more true today, doubtless, than in any
other period in the long history of this old world.
These sorrowful ones can go unto Bethlehem and look into the
cradle and claim the Child as their God. For every sorrow that
has been yours, He experienced; every grief that you have bowed
before, He was forced to struggle with. Very tender and
compassionate is our Lord. I am quite sure that He notices your
bowed head, that He puts His arms across your shoulders, that He
whispers words of comfort into your ear, or that He gives you the
silent sympathy of His presence, that He takes you by the hand;
that whatever action most appeals to you and is best for you He
takes if you wish Him to.
There are many people belonging to you or your family who are far
away, whom you would fain have with you this Christmas morning.
Many of them are fighting manfully in His cause, too. Do not
forget that our Lord came to the family! that He made a family by
coming. These far-off loved ones are doing what we are doing this
morning. And there are some you love who are still farther away.
The sound of their earthly voices is stilled, we may not clasp
their hands, we cannot see them any more. They are gone from the
world, but not from our hearts. If they are not here I think they
are with Him. And we may be sure that it is very pleasant to them
where He is. They are not unmindful of our human regrets and
longings, but I think we ought not to be unmindful of their
peaceful joy in His presence.
And so everybody has a right to come to that cradle, the poor,
the humble, the hard workers, the toilers, the wise, the learned,
the easy, the rich, the joyous, the sad, the sorrowful, the
bereaved. They may all look into the manger and see their God.
He came to a family; He made a family. We are all in that family,
the children of the selfsame Father, the sons of the selfsame
God, the brethren of Him of the manger—German and French, English
and Austrian, Italian and Bulgar, Russian and Turk! Ay, and above
all and with all American and Belgian. Sirs, we be, not twelve,
but many brethren! What does that mean?