THE NINE GIFTS
Two evenings later, Ken confronted his sister at the foot of the stairs
as she came down from seeing Kirk to bed.
"Where," said Ken, "is your Braille slate?"
"_What_," said Felicia, "do you want with a Braille slate, if I may
ask?"
"You mayn't," said Ken, conclusively.
"But it makes a difference," Phil argued. "If you want to write Braille
with it,--which seems unlikely,--I'll consider. But if you want it to
prop open the door with, or crack nuts on, or something, you can't have
it."
"I can think of lots better things to crack nuts on than a Braille
slate," said Ken. "I want to use it for its rightful purpose. Come now,
my girl, out with it!"
"Wish you luck," said Felicia, going to the educational shelf; "here it
is."
Ken eyed it mistrustfully--a slab of wood, crossed by a movable metal
strip which was pierced with many small, square openings. "Also," said
Ken, "the alphabet of the language."
"American Uncontracted, or Revised, Grade One and a Half?" Phil asked
airily.
"They sound equally bad, but if there's any choice, give me the easiest.
Sounds like geological survey stuff."
Phil rummaged again, and brought to light an alphabet which she had made
for herself in her early Braille days.
"And the paper and stuff you use," Ken demanded.
"_Here_, take everything!" cried Felicia, thrusting out handfuls of
irrelevant books and papers. "Stop asking for things in dribbles."
Ken settled himself at the table, scowled at the embossed alphabet, and
then clamped a piece of the heavy paper into the slate. He grasped the
little punch firmly, and, with a manner vigorous, if not defiant, he set
to work.
"You just poke holes in the paper through the squares, eh, and they turn
into humps?"
"The squares don't turn into humps; the holes do. Don't whack so hard."
There was silence for a short time, broken only by Ken's mutterings and
the click of the stylus. Felicia looked up, then gazed meditatively
across the table at the enterprise.
"Is it for a Hebrew person?" she inquired gently.
"_Hebrew?_" Ken said; "I should rather say not. Why?"
"You're writing it backward--like Yiddish."
"I'm doing it from left to right, which is the way one usually writes,"
said Ken, in a superior tone. "You're looking at it upside-down. You're
twisted."
"The holes," said Felicia, mildly, "in order to become readable humps on
the other side, have to be punched right to left."
"Oh!" said Ken. After a moment of thought he exclaimed, somewhat
indignant: "You mean to say, then, that you have to reverse the
positions of all these blooming dots, besides writing 'em backward?"
"Yes."
"You have to read 'em one way, and write 'em another, and remember 'em
_both_?"
"You do."
"And--and Kirk does that?"
"Yes; and he knows Revised, Grade One and a Half, too, and our alphabet
besides, and embossed music, a little, and arithmetic, and--"
"Don't," said Ken. "It makes a fellow feel cheap."
With which he removed the paper and clamped in a fresh sheet. The work
progressed silently; Ken occasionally gnashed his teeth and tore away
the paper, but after a time the mistakes grew fewer, and Felicia,
looking across at her brother's brown, handsome face, found it tranquil
and sober, an earnest absorption in his gray eyes and a gently whimsical
smile about his mouth. She knew of whom he was thinking, and smiled
tenderly herself as she watched his big hand plod systematically and
doggedly across the unfamiliar way. Bedtime found Ken elated and
exhibiting to his sister several neatly embossed sheets of paper.
"'All day my--'" read Felicia.
"Murder!" cried Ken. "I forgot you could read the stuff! Go to bed, go
to bed!"
At a rather early hour the next morning, Felicia was awakened by the
stealthy approach to her bedside of a small and cautious figure in
pajamas. It stood quite still beside the bed, listening to find out
whether or not she was asleep. She spread her arms noiselessly, and
then flung them about the pajamaed one. When the confusion of kisses,
hugs, and birthday greetings had subsided, and Kirk was tucked under the
quilt, he said:
"Now see me a story."
"But I can't--not like Ken," Felicia protested.
"Oh, _Phil_!" Kirk said in a tone of withering reproach. "Silly! A
birthday special one, please."
Felicia thought for some time; then she said:
"It's not very nice, but it's a sort of birthday one. It's called The
Nine Gifts."
"One for each year," said Kirk, wriggling comfortably.
"Exactly. Once upon a time there was a nice person who lived in an old
house on a hill. One autumn day was his birthday, but he wasn't thinking
of any gifts, because there could be no one to give him anything, and he
was quite poor--as far as gold and silver went. So he was feeling just a
little sad, because people like to have gifts. He came downstairs and
unlocked his door, and opened it to the beautiful young day all strung
with dew--"
"Could he see it?" asked Kirk.
"No," said Felicia, "he couldn't."
"Then it _was_ me."
"We-e-ll," said his sister, "possibly. But when he opened the door, in
came the wind, all as fresh and dewy as a dawn-wind can be. It ruffled
up his hair, and fluttered the curtains at the windows, and ran all
about the room. Then it said:
"'I am the wind. I give you the breath of the dawn, and the first sigh
of the waking fields and hedge-rows, and the cool stillness of the
forest that is always awake. Take my birthday kiss upon your forehead!'
"And that was the First Gift. The person was quite surprised, but he was
very much pleased, too. He went out and brought in some bread and milk
for his breakfast, and then he went to get some water at the well. There
was a gentle, delicious warmth all about in the air, and a far-off,
round voice said:
"'I am the sun. I wrap you in a glowing mantle of warmth and light. I
make the earth grow and sing for you. It is I who wake the dawn-wind and
the birds. Take my warm kiss on your upturned face.'
"And that was the Second Gift. The person thanked the sun very much,
and went in, with his heart all warmed, to eat his breakfast. As he sat
eating, in at the window came all manner of little sounds--twitterings
and sighings and warblings and rustlings, and all the little voices said
together:
"'We are the sounds of the open. We are the birds in the russet meadow,
and the whispering of the orchard trees, the cheep of the crickets in
the long grass, and the whole humming, throbbing voice of out-of-doors.
Take our kiss upon your waiting senses.'
"That was the Third Gift. The person ran out at the door to thank the
little sounds, when what should meet him but a host of the most
delicious scents!
"'We are the smell of the tawny grass, and the good tang of the
wood-smoke. We are the fragrance of ripening apples in the orchard, and
honeysuckle over the wall. We are the clean, cool, mellowing atmosphere
of September. Breathe our sweetness!'
"That was the Fourth Gift. To be sure, the nice person was quite
overwhelmed by this time, for he never had expected such a thing. As he
stooped to thank the delicious scents, he touched a little clump of
asters by the door-stone.
"'Greeting!' they piped. 'We are the flowers. We are the asters by the
door, and burnished goldenrod in the orchard; trumpeting honeysuckle on
the fence, sumach burning by the roadside, juicy milkweed by the gate.
Take our cool, green kiss on your gentle fingers!'
"He stroked their little purple heads, and flung himself down beside
them for a moment, to thank them. As he did so, a big, warm voice came
from beneath him:
"'I am the earth. I am the cool clasp of the tall grass by the gate. I
am the crispness of the heath-grass on the upland. I will rock you to
sleep on my great, grass-carpeted breast. I will give you rest and
security. Take my great kiss on your body.'
"That was the Sixth Gift. Dear me! the person was delighted. He lay with
his cheek to the good earth's heart, thanking it, when a big gusty voice
came swinging out of the east.
"'I am the sea. I give you the sound of water about the boat's bow, and
the cry of the gulls; the wet, salt smack of me, the damp fog on your
face, and the call out into the wide places.'
"The person jumped up and turned his face to the blue glint of the bay,
and thanked the sea for the Seventh Gift. Then he went into the house to
tidy up the hearth. As he came into the room, a queer, gentle, melodious
voice, which seemed to come from the organ, said:
"'I am Music. I hold the key to enchantment. It is I who will sum up for
you all the other gifts and make them mine--and yours. Take my kiss
within your soul.'
"And that was the Eighth Gift," Felicia paused.
"But the ninth?" Kirk whispered.
"I'm trying to think of it."
Kirk clapped his hands suddenly.
"_I_ know what it was!" he cried. "Don't you? Oh, _don't_ you, Phil?"
"No, I don't. What was it?"
"Shall I finish?" Kirk asked.
"Please do."
"And the person said, 'Thank you,' to the organ," Kirk proceeded
gleefully; "and then in the door what should stand but a beautiful lady.
And _she_ said: 'I'm your sister Felicia--Happiness.' And _that_ was the
most best gift of _all_!"
"Naughty person!" said Felicia. "After all those really nice gifts!
But--but if you will have it that, she said, 'Take my kiss upon your
heart of hearts.' Oh, Kirk--darling--I love you!"
Flowers twined Kirk's chair at the breakfast table--golden honeysuckle,
a sweet, second blooming, and clematis from the Maestro's hedge. Kirk
hung above it, touching, admiring, breathing the sweetness of the
honeysuckle; aware, also, of many others of the Nine Gifts already
perceptible about the room. But his fingers encountered, as he reached
for his spoon, a number of more substantial presents stacked beside his
plate. There was the green jersey which Felicia had been knitting at
privately for some time. He hauled it on over his head at once, and
emerged from its embrace into his sister's. There was, too, a model
boat, quite beautifully rigged and fitted, the painstaking care with
which it was fashioned testifying to the fact that Ken had not been
quite so forgetful of his brother's approaching birthday as he had
seemed to be. "She's called the _Celestine_," said Ken, as Kirk's
fingers sought out rapturously the details of the schooner. "It's
painted on her stern. She's not rigged according to Hoyle, I'm afraid; I
was rather shaky about some of it."
"She has a flag," Kirk crowed delightedly. "Two of 'em! And a little
anchor--and--" he became more excited as he found each thing: "oh, Ken!"
There was another gift--a flat one. A book of five or six short stories
and poems that Kirk had loved best to hear his sister read--all written
out in Braille for him in many of Felicia's spare hours. Now he could
read them himself, when Phil had no time to give him. Breakfast was
quite neglected; the cereal grew cold. Kirk, who had not, indeed,
expected so much as the nine gifts of Phil's tale, was quite overcome by
these things, which his brother and sister had feared were little
enough. There was one thing more--some sheets of paper covered with
Braille characters, tucked beside Kirk's plate.
"That's Ken's handiwork," Felicia said, hastily disclaiming any finger
in the enterprise. "I don't know _what_ you may find!"
"It's perfectly all right, now," Ken protested. "You'll see! You can
read it, can't you, Kirk?"
Kirk was frowning and laughing at once.
"It's a little bit funny," he said. "But I didn't know you could do it
at all. Oh, listen to it!"
He declaimed this, with some pauses:
"TO MY RELATIVE, K. S.
"While I am at my watery work
All up and down the bay,
I think about my brother Kirk
A million times a day.
"All day my job seems play to me,
My duties they are light,
Because I know I'm going to see
My brother Kirk that night.
"I ponder over, at my biz,
How nice he is
(That smile of his!),
And eke his cheerful, open phiz.
"And also I am proud of him,
I sing the praises loud of him,
And all the wondering multitude
At once exclaims: 'Gee Whiz!'
"It seems this relative of mine
Is going to have a fête.
They tell me that he'll now be nine,
Instead of half-past eight.
How simply fine!
We'll dance and dine!
We'll pass the foaming bowl of wine!
"And here's our toast
(We proudly boast.
There isn't any need to urge us):
_Hip, Hip, Hooray for Kirkleigh Sturgis_!"
Ken gave the three cheers promptly, and then said: "That one's silly.
The other's the way I really feel. Oh, don't read it aloud!"
Kirk, who had opened his mouth to begin the next page, closed it again,
and followed the lines of Braille silently. This is what he read:
"At eight o'clock on the day you were born,
I found a fairy under a thorn;
He looked at me hard, he looked at me queerly,
And he said, 'Ah, Ken, you shall love him dearly.'
"I was then myself but a wee small lad,
But I well remember the look that he had;
And I thought that his words came wondrous true,
For whom could I love more dear than you?
"To-day at dawn I was out alone,
I found a wee fairy beside a stone;
And he said, as he looked at me, far above him,
'Ah, Ken, you have only begun to love him!'"
There could be no possible answer to this but a rush from Kirk and an
onslaught of hugs, from which it was long before Ken could disentangle
himself.
"Oh, what have I done!" Ken cried. "Yes, of course I mean it, silly! But
do, do have a care--we're all mixed up with the marmalade and the
oatmeal, as it is!"
Ken had proclaimed the day a half-holiday for himself, but Kirk was to
go with him on the morning trip, and Phil, too, if she wanted to go. She
did want, so Applegate Farm was locked up, and three radiant Sturgises
walked the warm, white ribbon of Winterbottom Road to the _Dutchman_.
Kirk was allowed to steer the boat, under constant orders from Ken, who
compared the wake to an inebriated corkscrew. He also caught a fish over
the stern, while Ken was loading up at Bayside. Then, to crown the day's
delight, under the door at Applegate, when they returned, was thrust a
silver-edged note from the Maestro, inviting them all to supper at his
house, in honor of the occasion.