On December twenty-fifth, 1918, that little white house in the park
was certainly the happiest dwelling in Calvinton. It was simply
running over with Christmas.
You see, there had come to it a most wonderful present, a surprise
full of tears and laughter. Captain Walter Mayne reached home on
Christmas Eve.
For a while they had thought that he would never come back at all.
News had been received that he was grievously wounded in France--shot
to pieces, in effect, leading his men near Chateau-Thierry. His
life hung on the ragged edge of those wounds. But his wife Katharine
always believed that he would pull through. So he did. But he was
lacking a leg, his right arm was knocked out of commission for the
present, and various other _souvenirs de la grande guerre_
were inscribed upon his body.
Then word arrived that he was coming on a transport, with other
wounded, to be patched up in a hospital on Staten Island. So his
wife Katharine smiled her way through innumerable entanglements
of red tape and went to nurse him. Then she set her steady hand to
pull all the wires necessary to get him discharged and sent home.
Christmas was in her heart and she would not be denied. So it came
to pass that the one-legged Hero was in his own house on the happy
day, and joy was bubbling all around him.
When the old Pastor entered, late in the afternoon, the Christmas-tree
was twinkling with lights, the children swarming and buzzing all over
the place, so that he was dazed for a moment. There were Walter's
mother and his aunt and his sisters-in-law, boys and girls of various
sizes, and a jubilant and entrancing baby. The Pastor took it all
in, and was glad of it, but his mind was on the Hero.
Katharine, who always understood everything, whispered softly:
“Walter is waiting to see you, Doctor. He is in his study, just
across the hall.”
_Waiting?_ Well, what can a man whose right leg has been cut
off above the knee, and who has not yet been able to get an artificial
one--what can he do but wait?
The room was rather dimly lighted; brilliance is not good for the
eyes of the wounded. Walter was in a long chair in the corner; his
face was bronzed, drawn and lined a little by suffering; but steady
and cheerful as ever, with the eager look which had made his students
listen to him when he talked to them about English literature.
“My dear Walter,” said the Pastor, “my dear boy, we are so glad
to have you home with us again. We are very proud of you. You are
our Hero.”
“Thank you,” said Walter, “it is mighty good to be home again. But
there is no hero business about it. I only did what all the other
Americans who went over there did--fought my--excuse me, my best,
against the beastly Germans.”
“But your leg,” said the Pastor impulsively, “it is gone. Aren't
you angry about that?”
Walter was silent for a moment. Then he answered.
“No, I don't think angry is the right word. You remember that story
about Nathan Hale in the Revolution--'I only regret that I have
but one life to give to my country.' Well, I'm glad that I had two
legs to give for my country, and particularly glad that she only
needed one of them.”
“Tell me a bit about the fighting,” said the Pastor, “I want to
know what it was like--the hero-touch--you understand?”
“Not for me,” said Walter, “and certainly not now. Later on I can
tell you something, perhaps. But this is Christmas Day. And war?
Well, Doctor, believe me, war is a horrible thing, full of grime and
pain, madness, agony, hell--a thing that ought not to be. I have
fought alongside of the other fellows to put an end to it, and
now--”
The door swung open, and Sammy, the eldest son of the house, pranced
in.
“Look, Daddy,” he cried, “see what Aunt Emily has sent me for
Christmas--a big box of tin soldiers!”
Mayne smiled as the little boy carefully laid the box on his knee;
but there was a shadow of pain in his eyes, and he closed them
for a few seconds, as if his mind were going back, somewhere, far
away. Then he spoke, tenderly, but with a grave voice.
“That's fine, sonny--all those tin soldiers. But don't you think
they ought to belong to me? You have lots of other toys, you know.
Would you give the soldiers to me?”
The child looked up at him, puzzled for a moment; then a flash of
comprehension passed over his face, and he nodded valiantly.
“Sure, Father,” he said, “You're the Captain. Keep the soldiers.
I'll play with the other toys,” and he skipped out of the room.
Mayne's look followed him with love. Then he turned to the old
Pastor and a strange expression came into his face, half whimsical
and half grim.
“Doctor,” he said, “will you do me a favor? Poke up that fire till
it blazes. That's right. Now lay this box in the hottest part of
the flames. That's right. It will soon be gone.”
The elder man did what was asked, with an air of slight bewilderment,
as one humors the fancies of an invalid. He wondered whether Mayne's
fever had quite left him. He watched the fire bulging the lid and
catching round the edges of the box. Then he heard Mayne's voice
behind him, speaking very quietly.
“If ever I find my little boy _playing with tin soldiers,_ I
shall spank him well. No, that wouldn't be quite fair, would it?
But I shall tell him why he must not do it, and _I shall make
him understand that it's an impossible thing.”_
Then the old Pastor comprehended. There was no touch of fever. The
one-legged Hero had come home from the wars completely well and
sound in mind. So the two men sat together in love by the Christmas
fire, and saw the tin soldiers melt away.