accordance with the custom of the Church, and I am sure no more
heartfelt body of worshippers ever poured forth their thanks
for the Incarnation than those men, that woman, and the little
children. The woman sang “Jesus Lover of my Soul” from memory
in her poor little voice and that small but reverent
congregation—cow-boy, drummer, cattle-man, trainmen, and
parson—solemnly joined in.
“It feels just like church,” said the cow-boy gravely to the
cattle-man. “Say I’m all broke up; let’s go in the other car
and try your flask ag’in.” It was his unfailing resource for
“onsettled feelin’s.”
The train-hand who had gone on to division headquarters
returned with the snow-plough early in the afternoon, but what
was more to the purpose he brought a whole cooked turkey with
him, so the children had turkey, a Christmas tree, and Santa
Claus to their heart’s content! I did not get home until the
day after Christmas.
But, after all, what a Christmas I had enjoyed!
During a season of great privation we were much assisted by
barrels of clothing which were sent to us from the East. One
day just before Christmas, I was distributing the contents of
several barrels of wearing apparel and other necessities to the
women and children at a little mission. The delight of the
women, as the good warm articles of clothing for themselves and
their children which they so sadly needed were handed out to
them was touching; but the children themselves did not enter
into the joy of the occasion with the same spontaneity. Finally
just as I got to the bottom of one box and before I had opened
the other one, a little boy sniffling to himself in the corner
remarked, _sotto voce_:
“Ain’t there no real Chris’mus gif’s in there for us little
fellers, too?”
I could quite enter into his feelings, for I could remember in
my youthful days when careful relatives had provided me with a
“cardigan” jacket, three handkerchiefs, and a half-dozen pairs
of socks for Christmas, that the season seemed to me like a
hollow mockery and the attempt to palm off necessities as
Christmas gifts filled my childish heart with disapproval. I am
older now and can face a Christmas remembrance of a cookbook, a
silver cake-basket, or an ice-cream freezer (some of which I
have actually received) with philosophical equanimity, if not
gratitude.
I opened the second box, therefore, with a great longing,
though but little hope. Heaven bless the woman who had packed
that box, for, in addition to the usual necessary articles,
there were dolls, knives, books, games galore, so the small fry
had some “real Chris’mus gif’s” as well as the others.
After one of the blizzards a young ranchman who had gone into
the nearest town some twenty miles away to get some Christmas
things for his wife and little ones, was found frozen to death
on Christmas morning, his poor little packages of petty
Christmas gifts tightly clasped in his cold hands lying by his
side. His horse was frozen too and when they found it, hanging
to the horn of the saddle was a little piece of an evergreen
tree—you would throw it away in contempt in the East, it was so
puny. There it meant something. The love of Christmas? It was
there in his dead hands. The spirit of Christmas? It showed
itself in that bit of verdant pine over the lariat at the
saddle-bow of the poor bronco.
Do they have Christmas out West? Well, they have it in their
hearts if no place else, and, after all, that is the place
above all others where it should be.
[2] This bit of personal history is reprinted from my book
_Recollections of a Missionary in the Great West_ by the courtesy of
Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, the publishers thereof. Incidentally
the reader will find much interesting matter in the way of
reminiscence and anecdote in that little volume, should he chance upon
it.
There are some amusing things connected with the publication in
serial form of these episodes. The great magazine in which it
appeared has very strong views on certain subjects. Following out a
policy which has deservedly won them perhaps the largest
circulation of any magazine in the world it seemed to the editors
necessary and desirable to make some changes in the story as
originally written and as it appears hereafter.
For instance the revised serial version made the cowboy lift the
flask of whiskey to his lips and then it declared that after a long
look at the sleeping children he put it down! I was quite agreeable
to the change. I remember remarking that the cowboy certainly did
“put it down.” It was a way cowboys had in those bygone days; so
the editor and the author were both satisfied.
Another amusing thing I recall in connection with the serial
publication was this: The art editor of the magazine wrote to the
officials of the railroad, the name of which I gave in the first
version but which I now withhold, saying that the magazine had a
story of a snow-bound train on the railroad in question and asking
for pictures of snow-bound trains to help the artist illustrate it.
By return mail came an indignant remonstrance almost threatening a
lawsuit because the railroad in question, one of the southerly
transcontinental roads, made a point in its appeal to travellers
that its trains were never snow-bound! The art editor who was not
without a vein of humour wrote back and asked if they could furnish
him with pictures of snow-bound trains on competing roads and they
sent him a box full! C.T.B.
[Illustration]
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A CHRISTMAS WISH
_For Everybody, Everywhere_
May peace and goodwill, prosperity and plenty, joy and
satisfaction abound in your homes and in your hearts this day
and all days. May opportunities for good work be many, and may
you avail yourselves of them all. May your sorrows be
lightened, may your griefs be assuaged. May your souls be
fitted for what they must endure; may your backs be
strengthened for your burdens; may your responsibilities be
met; may your obligations be discharged; may your duties be
performed. May love abound more and more until the perfect day
breaks in your lives. In short, every wish that would be
helpful, uplifting, and comforting, I wish you at this hour and
in all hours.
In the words of Tiny Tim.
“_God Bless us every one!_”
Cyrus Townsend Brady