It was still dark when a resounding thump on the door of the “parlour
bedroom” wakened the unconscious little missionary, who had plumped
into the exact centre of its feather bed the night before, and had
never stirred since.
“Be ye goin’ to sleep all day?” growled a voice outside.
The little brown head bounced out of its pillow like a jack-in-a-box.
“Goodness, no!” answered its owner, in a startled voice. “I didn’t know
it was daytime. Why, I meant to help you get breakfast! Is it too late?”
“I s’pose I can wait, if you’re set on makin’ some more pancakes,”
responded Uncle Lemuel craftily. “But you’d better flax around pretty
spry. I’ll get the griddle het up.”
The air of that “parlour bedroom” was certainly conducive to spry
“flaxing” if you didn’t want to congeal in a half-dressed condition,
and by the time the griddle was well “het,” the new cook appeared on
the scene.
“Good morning, Uncle Lemuel!” she cried gaily, whisking across the
kitchen and planting a swift little kiss upon that gentleman’s amazed
countenance before she whirled about and presented her blue gingham
back to be buttoned. “You certainly are the nicest man in the world to
wait so I could cook, and I have planned a perfectly grand surprise for
you, too. We’re going to have the jolliest Christmas together that ever
was. Is the coffee made yet?”
“Who told you to come here for Christmas?” demanded Mr. Perkins, as he
began on his second plate of pancakes.
“Nobody at all,” bubbled his guest gleefully. “That’s the joke of
it. It’s a perfect surprise all around. I was going home with Patty
Stanwood, you know, because her mother and mine used to be school
friends. And then Patty had scarlet fever, and her mother was afraid of
me on account of the baby. So then I remembered what fine times mother
used to have here when she was a girl, and I knew this would be just
the ideal place to spend Christmas. You know, I’ve never seen a real
snowy American Christmas before in my life, and I’m just wild about
it. The girls at school call me ‘Merry Christmas,’ instead of ‘Mary
Christie,’ because I talk so much about it, and I _love_ it for a name!
Aren’t you just crazy about Christmas, Uncle Lemuel?”
Crazy about Christmas? Yes, indeed, little Merry! Why, it was only the
afternoon before, Job Simpkins, of the village “Emporium,” would have
told you, that “Lem Perkins had bellered and tore around as if the very
name of Christmas was a red flannin rag waved in front of a bull.”
But when he looked into the shining young eyes before him, even Uncle
Lemuel’s frenzy couldn’t fail to be a trifle abated.
“I hain’t much use for it—late years,” he answered gruffly. “Folks make
such tarnation fools of themselves.”
“Oh, you are a Christmas reformer,” translated his little guest
blithely. “Lots of people are in America, they say. Maybe you are a
Spug. Are you a Spug, Uncle Lemuel?”
“No, siree, Republican and Hardshell Baptist, same as I’ve always been.
The old ways is good enough for me. What’s Spug, I’d like to know?”
Mary clapped her hands.
“I’m so glad!” she cried gleefully. “It’s a society to make you give
useful Christmas presents to people, and I’ve had useful ones all my
life—being a missionary family with five children, of course we had
to. But I’d rather join a society to prevent them myself, for I like
useless ones lots better. Don’t you? I’ve been hoping awfully that
somebody would give me a string of red beads or a set of pink hair
ribbons. Oh, I didn’t mean that for a hint! Do excuse me, Uncle Lemuel!
Of course, I’ll like best whatever you choose. How big a turkey do you
usually buy?” she ended hastily.
“Don’t buy none,” grunted Uncle Lemuel, with his nose in his coffee cup.
“Why, of course not! You raise them yourself, don’t you? I _am_ a
goose,” she laughed. “Besides, people always invite you when you live
alone. I hope they won’t this year. It would be such fun to have a
Christmas party of our own, wouldn’t it, right here in this kitchen?
Who do you want to invite? I must go right out and get acquainted, so
I’ll have some friends of my own to ask. It’s only two weeks off, but
you can make a lot of friends in two weeks, can’t you, if you go about
it the right way? See what friends we’ve got to be already!”
“The science of self-expression” was quite unknown when Uncle Lemuel
went to district school, but it would have demanded a full dramatic
course adequately to cope with the torrent of varying emotions that was
surging through the time-worn channels of his consciousness. Surprise,
disgust, amusement, wonder, disapproval, horror, and a wee touch of
pleasure tumbled over one another in rapid succession.
And some way the wee touch of pleasure in the child’s innocent
friendliness and liking soared high enough on top of the flood to
soften the hard old mouth for a little and keep back for the nonce the
bitter words that would shatter her Christmas air castles to fragments.
Nobody had really liked Lemuel Perkins in so many years that he
couldn’t be blamed for enjoying the sensation, though he felt as queer
as must an ice-bound stream when the first little trickle of water
creeps warmly through its breast.
“Want I should help ye with the dishes?” he inquired almost kindly.
“I’ve got to go over to town of an errand after a spell.”
“Oh, have you got time? I’m so glad! Do you know, that’s the funny
thing about dishes? If you do them alone, they are the worst old job
that ever was, but when somebody nice wipes for you, they’re just fun.
Mother says it’s that way with most kinds of work. Could you stay long
enough to help sort things out a little, too? For a man, of course,
you’re a very nice housekeeper—you ought to see father!—but with two of
us around we may need a little more room, don’t you think so?”
Fortunately there was no one at hand to reveal the fact that, no longer
ago than two hours, Mr. Lemuel Perkins had stated firmly to the kitchen
stove that “folks that walked in on you unasked and unwanted should at
least pay for their vittles by doing all the housework.” Kitchen stoves
do not taunt you with changing your mind, so Uncle Lemuel was not
hampered by the fear that has kept many a better man from improving on
himself.
By half-past nine the Perkins kitchen shone resplendent in the morning
sunshine with a brightness reminiscent of the days when Aunt Nancy had
boasted proudly that her kitchen was the pleasantest room in the house.
Uncle Lemuel would really have liked to sit down and enjoy its sunny
neatness for a while, but an irresistible impulse had begun tugging at
his cowhide boots, and Uncle Lemuel had no choice but to set them at
once on the path to the post-office. For nine o’clock is “mail time”
in Oatka Centre, and either totally unsocial or completely bedridden
are the menfolks who fail to forgather on a fine winter morning in the
ever-exciting pursuit of the letter that never comes.
“I’m goin’ over to the office, and to get the meat,” he announced,
pulling his old cap down over his ears.
“Oh, I hope you’ll get me a letter!” cried Mary. “I never feel
perfectly at home in a new place till I begin to get mail. Do you know
the post-master, Uncle Lemuel?”
“Know Marthy Ann Watkins?” jeered Uncle Lemuel. “Knowed her since she
was knee high to a grasshopper. And, moreover, if there’s a man, woman,
or child in this township that don’t know Marthy Ann, it ain’t her
fault; you can bet your bottom dollar on that. Keepin’ track of folks
is her business. Prob’ly knows what we et for breakfast by this time.”
Mary’s laughter bubbled out merrily. “Goodness me, Uncle Lemuel! Then
she knows that I haven’t written to mother yet, to tell her where I
am. So I’d better do it right away. Maybe I’ll see you over at the
post-office by-and-by. Have you any special messages for mother and
father, or shall I just send your love?”
Uncle Lemuel was engaged in hauling his old cap still farther over his
ears, and apparently he did not hear this amazing question, for he
emitted no sounds but another grunt before the door slammed behind him.
“He _is_ deaf,” decided his little guest innocently; “but I mustn’t
make him see that I notice it by asking over. Deaf people are so
sensitive. Love will do this time, anyway.”