"I declare for 't, to-morrow is Christmas Day an' I clean forgot all
about it," said old Ann, the washerwoman, pausing in her work and
holding the flatiron suspended in the air.
"Much good it'll do us," growled a discontented voice from the coarse
bed in the corner.
"We haven't much extra, to be sure," answered Ann cheerfully, bringing
the iron down onto the shirt-bosom before her, "but at least we've
enough to eat, and a good fire, and that's more'n some have, not a
thousand miles from here either."
"We might have plenty more," said the fretful voice, "if you didn't
think so much more of strangers than you do of your own folk's comfort,
keeping a houseful of beggars, as if you was a lady!"
"Now, John," replied Ann, taking another iron from the fire, "you're
not half so bad as you pretend. You wouldn't have me turn them poor
creatures into the streets to freeze, now, would you?"
"It's none of our business to pay rent for them," grumbled John. "Every
one for himself, I say, these hard times. If they can't pay you'd ought
to send 'em off; there's plenty as can."
"They'd pay quick enough if they could get work," said Ann. "They're
good honest fellows, every one, and paid me regular as long as they had
a cent. But when hundreds are out o' work in the city, what can they
do?"
"That's none o' your business, you can turn 'em out!" growled John.
"And leave the poor children to freeze as well as starve?" said Ann.
"Who'd ever take 'em in without money, I'd like to know? No, John,"
bringing her iron down as though she meant it, "I'm glad I'm well enough
to wash and iron, and pay my rent, and so long as I can do that, and
keep the hunger away from you and the child, I'll never turn the poor
souls out, leastways, not in this freezing winter weather."
"An' here's Christmas," the old man went on whiningly, "an' not a penny
to spend, an' I needin' another blanket so bad, with my rhumatiz, an'
haven't had a drop of tea for I don't know how long!"
"I know it," said Ann, never mentioning that she too had been without
tea, and not only that, but with small allowance of food of any kind,
"and I'm desperate sorry I can't get a bit of something for Katey. The
child never missed a little something in her stocking before."
"Yes," John struck in, "much you care for your flesh an' blood. The
child ha'n't had a thing this winter."
"That's true enough," said Ann, with a sigh, "an' it's the hardest thing
of all that I've had to keep her out o' school when she was doing so
beautiful."
"An' her feet all on the ground," growled John.
"I know her shoes is bad," said Ann, hanging the shirt up on a line that
stretched across the room, and was already nearly full of freshly ironed
clothes, "but they're better than the Parker children's."
"What's that to us?" almost shouted the weak old man, shaking his fist
at her in his rage.
"Well, keep your temper, old man," said Ann. "I'm sorry it goes so hard
with you, but as long as I can stand on my feet, I sha'n't turn anybody
out to freeze, that's certain."
"How much'll you get for them?" said the miserable old man, after a few
moments' silence, indicating by his hand the clean clothes on the line.
"Two dollars," said Ann, "and half of it must go to help make up next
month's rent. I've got a good bit to make up yet, and only a week to do
it in, and I sha'n't have another cent till day after to-morrow."
"Well, I wish you'd manage to buy me a little tea," whined the old man;
"seems as if that would go right to the spot, and warm up my old bones a
bit."
"I'll try," said Ann, revolving in her mind how she could save a few
pennies from her indispensable purchases to get tea and sugar, for
without sugar he would not touch it.
Wearied with his unusual exertion, the old man now dropped off to sleep,
and Ann went softly about, folding and piling the clothes into a big
basket already half full. When they were all packed in, and nicely
covered with a piece of clean muslin, she took an old shawl and hood
from a nail in the corner, put them on, blew out the candle, for it must
not burn one moment unnecessarily, and, taking up her basket, went out
into the cold winter night, softly closing the door behind her.
The house was on an alley, but as soon as she turned the corner she was
in the bright streets, glittering with lamps and gay people. The shop
windows were brilliant with Christmas displays, and thousands of warmly
dressed buyers were lingering before them, laughing and chatting, and
selecting their purchases. Surely it seemed as if there could be no want
here.
As quickly as her burden would let her, the old washerwoman passed
through the crowd into a broad street and rang the basement bell of a
large, showy house.
"Oh, it's the washerwoman!" said a flashy-looking servant who answered
the bell; "set the basket right m here. Mrs. Keithe can't look them over
to-night. There's company in the parlour--Miss Carry's Christmas party."
"Ask her to please pay me--at least a part," said old Ann hastily. "I
don't see how I can do without the money. I counted on it."
"I'll ask her," said the pert young woman, turning to go upstairs; "but
it's no use."
Returning in a moment, she delivered the message. "She has no change
to-night; you're to come in the morning."
"Dear me!" thought Ann, as she plodded back through the streets, "it'll
be even worse than I expected, for there's not a morsel to eat in
the house, and not a penny to buy one with. Well--well--the Lord will
provide, the Good Book says, but it's mighty dark days, and it's hard to
believe."
Entering the house, Ann sat down silently before the expiring fire. She
was tired, her bones ached, and she was faint for want of food.
Wearily she rested her head on her hands, and tried to think of some way
to get a few cents. She had nothing she could sell or pawn, everything
she could do without had gone before, in similar emergencies. After
sitting there some time, and revolving plan after plan, only to find
them all impossible, she was forced to conclude that they must go
supperless to bed.
Her husband grumbled, and Katey--who came in from a neighbour's--cried
with hunger, and after they were asleep old Ann crept into bed to keep
warm, more disheartened than she had been all winter.
If we could only see a little way ahead! All this time--the darkest the
house on the alley had seen--help was on the way to them. A kind-hearted
city missionary, visiting one of the unfortunate families living in
the upper rooms of old Ann's house, had learned from them of the
noble charity of the humble old washerwoman. It was more than princely
charity, for she not only denied herself nearly every comfort, but she
endured the reproaches of her husband, and the tears of her child.
Telling the story to a party of his friends this Christmas Eve, their
hearts were troubled, and they at once emptied their purses into his
hands for her. And the gift was at that very moment in the pocket of the
missionary, waiting for morning to make her Christmas happy. Christmas
morning broke clear and cold. Ann was up early, as usual, made her fire,
with the last of her coal, cleared up her two rooms, and, leaving her
husband and Katey in bed, was about starting out to try and get
her money to provide a breakfast for them. At the door she met the
missionary.
"Good-morning, Ann," said he. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."
"Thank you, sir," said Ann cheerfully; "the same to yourself."
"Have you been to breakfast already?" asked the missionary.
"No, sir," said Ann. "I was just going out for it."
"I haven't either," said he, "but I couldn't bear to wait until I had
eaten breakfast before I brought you your Christmas present--I suspect
you haven't had any yet."