CHRISTMAS SUNDAY.
It was Christmas Sunday when Job was received into full membership in
the quaint old Gold City Methodist church. Snow was on the ground, and
sleigh bells rang through the air. All day long the streets had been
reverberating with that essential of a California Christmas, the
fire-cracker. As the preacher came over from Hartsville, the service
was in the evening.
The old building looked really fine in its new dress of holly berries,
mistletoe and cedar. Across the front was hung in big red and white
letters, "Unto us a Child is Born." Over the organ was suspended a
large gilt star.
The place was crowded that night. The double fact that it was
Christmas, and that the camp-meeting converts would be baptized,
brought everybody out.
"Joy to the world, the Lord is come!"
sang the choir as Job, dressed in a neat new suit of gray and "store"
shirt, entered the church, making a way for Andy Malden, who, for the
first time in untold years, had crossed the threshold of the
meeting-house. The arrival, a few minutes before, of Slim Jim the
gambler, who hung around the Monte Carlo, and Col. Dick, its
proprietor, had not attracted so much attention as the entrance of
"Jedge Malden," as the politicians called him who sought his political
influence.
The preacher, as he looked down on that audience, was amazed. He had
seen no such scene in this old church since, with faint heart, he had
first stood in its plain pulpit as pastor. The walls were lined with
all the representative characters of the town, good and bad, rich and
poor; merchants, bar-keepers, politicians and miners. In the center
the old-time church-goers sat. Up the front, filling every inch of
space, the starched and well-washed youngsters wriggled and grinned
and sang without fear, as hymn after hymn was announced.
All soon caught the spirit of the hour, and a general feeling of
good-nature settled down on all. In fact, the place fairly trembled
with good-will, as a class of boys marched to the platform and sang:
"The Christmas bells are ringing over land and sea,
The winter winds are bringing their merry notes to me,"
and the wee tots involuntarily turned to the rear as they ended with
almost a yell:
"Then shout, boys, shout!
Shout with all your might;
For Merry Christmas's at the door,
He's coming here to-night!"
On the programme went--recitations, songs, choruses, following close
after one another. A fairy-like girl, with all childhood's innocence,
told anew the old story of Bethlehem and the Christ Child. The tears
stole down some rough cheeks as the memories of long-gone childhood's
Christmas days came back to them.
The wee tots had sung their last hymn, when the preacher began his
sermon on the angel's song that echoes still each Christmas over all
the world: "Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, good-will
toward men." For twenty minutes he talked of glory, peace,
good-will--those things so sadly lacking in many lives before him;
talked till each face grew solemn, and Slim Jim looked as if he was
far away in some distant memory-world. Andy Malden seemed to hear
Peter Cartright, as he had heard him in his father's cabin when a boy,
and remembered for the first time in years the night he had promised
the eccentric old preacher he would be a Christian--a promise that had
been drowned by the drum-beat of the old war days and the
disappointment of a lifetime.
As the preacher finished, every man and woman there made a silent
resolution to be better-natured and pay their debts and make life a
little brighter for somebody. But, alas! resolutions are easily
broken.
"The candidates for baptism will please come forward," said the
parson.
Up they rose, old and young; Tim Dennis, the cobbler; aged Grandpa
Lewis; a score of both sexes. Around the altar they stood, a long
semicircle; and, as it so happened, Jane at one end, and Job, with
serious, manly air, at the other.
Question after question of the ritual was asked. Clear and strong came
the answers. "Wilt thou renounce the devil and all his works?" Jane
nodded yes--how little she knew of the devil! Job answered loudly, "I
will"--how much he did know! "The vain pomp and glory of the world?"
continued the minister; and old Mrs. Smith, who lived alone in the
hollow back of the church and had had such a struggle of soul to give
up the flowers on her hat that she fancied were too worldly,
responded, "Yes," with a groan. "Wilt thou be baptized in this faith?"
asked the preacher at last. A unanimous chorus answered, "I will,"
and, taking the bowl in his hand, he passed down the line of the now
kneeling forms and administered the sacred ordinance. Job was last.
Leaning over, the parson asked his name, then there rang out through
the church, as the eager throng leaned forward to hear and Andrew
Malden poked the floor with his cane, "Job Teale Malden, I baptize
thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen."
The service was over. The crowds were pouring out the door, the
organist was playing "Marching Through Georgia" on the wheezy organ as
the liveliest thing she knew, the people were wishing each other
"Merry Christmas," as Job, hurrying out of the church, felt a touch on
his shoulder, and, looking up, saw Slim Jim the gambler.
"Job, come out here. I have something to tell you," said he.
Pushing through the throng, they crept around the church in the dark,
when Jim, putting his hand on the youth's shoulder, said:
"Job, I remember the night you came to Gold City, what a poor,
homeless lad you were! I remember the day you won the horse-race and I
said, 'The devil's got the kid now sure.' And now I am so glad, Job,
that you've gone and done the square thing. I helped bury your father,
and I tell you he was a fine fellow--a gentleman, if he had only let
the drink and cards alone. Oh, Job, never touch them! You think it's
strange, perhaps, but I was good once, far off in old Pennsylvania. I
was a mother's boy, and went to church, and--Job, would you believe
it?--I was going to be a preacher!--I, poor Slim Jim that nobody cares
for, now. But I wanted to get rich, and I came to Gold City. I learned
to play cards, and--well, here I am. No help for me--Slim Jim's lost
this world and his soul, too. But you're on the right track, and, if
when you die and go up there where those things shine,"--and he
pointed through the pines to the starlit sky--"you meet a little,
sweet old lady with white hair and a gray dress knitting a pair of
socks, tell her that her Jamie never forgot her and would give the
best hand he ever had to feel her kiss once more and hear her say
good-night. Tell her--listen, boy!--tell her it was the cards that
ruined Jamie, but he's her Jamie still." And with tears on his face
and in his voice, the tall, pale wreck of manhood hurried off in the
darkness, leaving Job alone in the gloom.
It was late that night when Job said his prayer by his bed at home,
but he made it long enough to put in one plea for Slim Jim.