X.

_THE CHRISTMAS GIFT._

Christmas was approaching--Christmas with its white fields, and its

skies that seem to part like the opening of doors in a big blue wall,

and from it issue the sweet songs of the Bethlehem angels. Still more

acceptable is it when our souls seem to open like doors that fly apart,

and out to our neighbour and all souls everywhere go assurances of peace

and good-will.

To Dave Fletcher and Dick Pray Christmas meant an end of school-days and

a return home.

"You will come and see us 'fore you go," was Bart Trafton's meek request

to Dick and Dave when he met them in the street. Dick made the first

call, just three days before Christmas. Things did not have a festival

appearance in the Trafton home that day. Gran'sir was lying on a lounge

not far from the fire, and his cough was shaking him harder than ever.

Bart, just before Dick's call, had been down on the shore of the river

to see if the last tide had remembered the poor, and deposited any more

drift on the beach. He brought back only a puny armful, and this armful

he divided between the oven and the fire, the first half to dry and be

ready to start up the flames which the other half would be quite sure to

put down and almost put out. Granny had been calling at a neighbour's,

to borrow timidly a little tea, and met Dick just outside the door of

the Trafton home. Such a difference as there was between youth with its

ruddy cheeks and bright eyes, between plenty with its cheerful and

contented spirit, and poor old Granny Trafton!

"Bartie wanted me to call," said Dick.

"Come in, come in," said granny, hospitably. "We're poor folks, but

we're glad to see people."

When Dick went away he said to himself, "'Poor folks,'--they're all

that. I wish something could be done for them."

Dave made his call, and he left the house saying, "Something must be

done."

The two callers met in the street the day of Dave's call, and the same

thought was in their minds.

"Dick, see here. Those Traftons are real poor," said Dave. "I wonder

if we couldn't get them a little something for Christmas."

"Dave, that very thought was in my mind, and I wanted to speak of it.

Come on. It's done."

Hardly done; but that was Dick's way, and when a soul may be timid and

discouraged, that confident, self-assured style in another is very

strengthening.

"Let's see. There is no other way than to go right round and ask our

friends. I know they will give something, Dick."

"Hold on, hold on, Dave. That is a slow way, Let's make a dash and

capture the enemy at once. I will pick out some millionaire--"

Here Dick turned round as if to see which "millionaire" he would select

from all of Shipton's wealthy residents.

"Yes," he continued; "I will look after that. Don't you give yourself a

moment of uneasiness on that score. I will pick out some rich fellow,

tell him what he ought to do, and bag the game on the spot. There!"

Dave laughed. He knew Dick's style thoroughly. At the same time it did

give one like Dave, who shrank from begging, new courage to have Dick

talk so boldly.

"Let's see, Dick. It is now Monday. We might meet on Wednesday at your

cousin's store, and find out how we stand, and send our things to the

Traftons on Wednesday afternoon; and Christmas is on Thursday, you

know."

"Dave, don't worry about the wherewithal." Here Dick, with a very

solemn air of assurance, looked Dave steadily in the eye. "I purpose to

bag a millionaire and make him do his duty, Dave Fletcher."

The two friends laughed, shook hands, and separated. Dave listened as

he was about turning a corner of the street, for he heard somebody

whistling. It was Dick whistling, in a loud, bold, cheery way.

"Well," thought Dave, "I'll make a beginning now. I will speak to Aunt

Nancy soon as I get home."

Aunt Nancy was stoning raisins in preparation for a Christmas baking.

"Will I give something to the Traftons? Oh, certainly. I expect a good

warm blanket would be just the thing for gran'sir, and I'll give that as

my share. _My_ share, remember. Your uncle must give his mite. I tell

ye, David," said Aunt Nancy in a whisper, "your uncle has some

first-class Baldwins down in the cellar. Just touch him upon those."

"I will, aunt, thank you."

And next, would the home of James Tolman give anything?

"Pies and potatoes; you can count on us for some of both kinds," said

Mrs. Tolman.

The next place was the home of the light-keeper, Toby Tolman, when

ashore. His wife was dead, and a widowed daughter and her only child,

May, lived in his house. He preferred to keep up the home, although

personally there but a very little of the time.

"Should we like to give anything? Of course," said the keeper's

daughter; "that is what Christmas is for. Only last week I heard father

say we could give some wood off our pile, for he calculated we had more

than enough to carry us through the winter."

"Don't you let young folks help?" asked a silvery voice, sending at Dave

an arch look out of two penetrating black eyes. "You must not think I

am an invalid and past helping, if I was so sick last summer. Now I can

just go round in the neighbourhood and get together some eatables, I

know, and perhaps clothing that might do for Bart."

"That would be splendid," said Dave, stirred deeply by those black eyes,

and wishing that in every house visited he was the individual of whom

May Tolman would solicit.

When Dave brought these donations into one collection, he found not only

the blanket for gran'sir but a shawl for granny. There also were

clothes for Bart, and any amount of things for the Christmas dinner.

The next point was how to get them taken up to the Traftons. For the

clothing and eatables Dave borrowed Uncle Ferguson's cart, but for the

wood only James Tolman's waggon would answer. That procession of two

teams, the waggon and the cart, had a Christmas look that would have

been recognized anywhere.

"Whoa-a-a!" shouted Dave, as the procession neared the boot and shoe

shop kept by Dick's cousin Sam. Dick was behind the counter waiting on a

customer. As he saw Dave entering he ran his hand through his hair in a

nervous, despairing style, but said nothing until the customer had left.

"There, Dave, it is too bad, but--but--whose are those teams out in the

street?"

"Just things I picked up."

"And the wood?"

"Going to the same place."

"That's good. Then I don't feel so bad."

"Well, anything you find, good, you know, for Christmas, why, send it

along."

"I shouldn't wonder, though, if--if--it might be too late now; but--you

have got something--if--I should be too late--and I do believe I am too

late. Sorry. Glad, though, I put you up to it. I knew you would attend

to it."

With a triumphant wave of his hand, as if he were permitting Dave to

drive off with a donation that Dick Pray had gathered, he accompanied

Dave to the door and then retreated to the counter.

"If that isn't Dick Pray all over!" said Dave.

It would be difficult to tell the feelings of joy occasioned in the

Trafton home by those gifts.

"Davie," said Bart, "I had a dream last night, and I guess it is

a-comin' true. I thought I saw that ladder that Jacob had a look at,

you know, when the angels were a-goin' up and down, and comin' down they

had bundles in their arms."

Dave entered the house, bringing in bundle after bundle. Bart thought

the angels looked somewhat like that.

"Hadn't you better try this shawl?" said Dave to granny, who looked cold

and purple. And would gran'sir be willing to be wrapped in the blanket?

The thin, worn consumptive responded with a glad smile, and said in a

whisper that he hadn't been so comfortable since he was sick. And the

wood--how it set that old stove to shaking and laughing and glowing till

its front seemed like a jolly face full of sparkling eyes! That is one

good result coming from a stove cracked everywhere in front.

Granny told the minister, Mr. Potter, two days after, how all this

generosity affected gran'sir.

"Why, sir, it made him just heavenly! He cried and laughed--it was so

good to be warm, you know. And he's softened so, sir. I think it begun

when Bartie begun to read the Bible to him, and it has been a-keepin'

on, sir, a-softenin', sir--don't scold, you know, or be harsh-like.

I--I--I--" Here granny buried her face in her apron and cried. "I'm

afraid--sir--may be--he won't live--long--he's--softened so--sir--he

has."

It was nothing wonderful. Like the warm breath of the spring on the

chilled and torpid flowers, arousing them into the activity of bud and

blossom time, the thoughtful kindness of God's creatures brought God

nigh to gran'sir; brought the breath of his benediction to gran'sir's

soul, and gave him a new life.

"God has been so good--he draws me," gran'sir said to granny an early

day in January. "It is--like he's callin' me--and--I guess I'll go."

His going was so peaceful that to say when it was would be like marking

the spot where the current crosses the line between the river and the

ocean; and yet his soul did cross from time, so short and river-like,

into the broad and boundless ocean of eternity. People said it would be

as well for the comfort of granny and Little Mew, and even better, for

gran'sir they declared to be exacting. They did not know how it was.

Granny and Little Mew felt that they were the exacting ones, for they

wanted gran'sir to stay. Little Mew's soul was clouded by the shadow of

a thought that by the death of gran'sir his mission in this world was

very much abridged. He was tempted to wonder again for what God had

sent a little fellow like him into this world.