It was nearly ten o’clock when Mary pushed open the door of the
post-office and stepped in. Not a soul was in sight, so she tiptoed
over to the little window framed in boxes.
“Are you Miss Martha Watkins?” she inquired cheerfully.
“Mercy land!” ejaculated a thin lady inside, quitting at one bound her
creaky rocking-chair and her enthralling occupation of sorting picture
postcards. “Who be you, child, and whose mail do you want?”
“My own, if there is any—Mary Christie’s—but I guess there isn’t, for
I only got here last night. I really came to mail my letter to mother,
and get acquainted with you. My uncle said you were the friendliest
lady in town, and I’m looking for friends, myself.”
“Who’s your uncle?” inquired Miss Watkins.
“Mr. Lemuel Perkins, a very old friend of yours. Isn’t he nice?”
Miss Marthy overlooked the last question.
“And what did Lem Perkins say about me, did you say?” she demanded.
Mary knitted her brows.
“He said,” she repeated slowly, “that you—that you—oh, I know!—that you
tried to be friends with everybody in town, and it wasn’t your fault if
you weren’t. And I needed some help right away, so of course I came to
you.”
Miss Watkins struggled not to look as pleased as she felt.
“Now, who in tunket would uv thought that of Lem Perkins?” she
marvelled. “Well, he hit the nail on the head anyways. I do love to be
friendly with folks, that’s certain. What can I do for you, sissy?”
“Can you tell me who’s the best pie-maker in town, since uncle’s
housekeeper moved away? It’s such a shame she’s gone, for I want to
learn right off for a surprise for uncle.”
“She that was the Widder Em Cottle, do you mean? Mis’ Caldwell that is?”
Mary hesitated.
“Uncle said the Widow Em. Is she Mrs. Caldwell, too? He said people
thought she was the best pie-maker in town. Is that the one?”
Miss Watkins stared.
“Lem Perkins has certainly met a change of heart!” she ejaculated.
“What made you think she’d moved away? She lives in that white house
just beyond your uncle’s. I’ll bet he never told you the whole story,
did he?”
She leaned forward eagerly.
But Mary was absorbed in her joy over the happy turn of affairs.
“Oh, goody, goody!” she exclaimed gleefully. “Why, I must have
misunderstood uncle some way. Isn’t that glorious? Now I can run right
up there, and maybe she’ll teach me before dinner. Oh, thank you so
much, Miss Watkins. You are a real friend, just as uncle said. I’m
going to come down this afternoon and get your help about Christmas,
too. Good-bye.”
Right outside the door she encountered Mr. Bennett, the ’bus driver,
returning from a leisurely trip to the “ten o’clock.”
“Well, if here ain’t the lady missionary!” he called cheerfully. “Where
ye goin’ so fast this fine morning? Huntin’ heathen?”
Mary giggled.
“No,” she returned merrily. “Going to hunt for a missionary myself—Mrs.
Caldwell, that was uncle’s housekeeper.”
“Jump in, then, and I’ll give ye a lift. I have to go right by the
door, to carry some feed to Elder Smith’s.”
“Oh, goody!” cried Mary again, bobbing up on the front seat with one
spring. “Another sleigh ride! And now, if uncle’s got home, he won’t
see me go by.”
“Has Lem done anythin’ to scare ye?” demanded Mr. Bennett, suddenly
dropping his joking manner.
“Mercy me, no!” answered Mary gaily. “Some people might be scared of
that growly way he has, I suppose; but when you know how awfully nice
he really is that only adds to the fun. I’m going now to learn how to
make pies for him for a surprise. Isn’t it fine she’s so handy to our
house? She’s the best pie-maker in town, uncle says.”
“You certainly are the beatin’est young one I’ve seen in a month of
Sundays. Beg pardon, ma’am! I mean beatin’est lady missionary, o’
course. I seen your uncle, though, over to the blacksmith’s shop, so
he won’t be poppin’ out and sp’ilin’ your surprise. Here we be to the
Widder Em’s now. I’ll step in later to get some of the pies.”
“Do,” returned Mary cordially. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can make
some real good ones, and then I’ll give you all you can eat. Uncle will
love to have you.”
“Much obleeged,” chuckled Mr. Bennett. “I guess I had better drop in
and get acquainted with that uncle of yourn, too. He sounds kind of
furrin to me.”
Just then the side door flew open, and a fresh-looking woman in a red
calico dress stepped out.
“Hello, Mr. Bennett,” she called. “Got anythin’ for me this morning?”
“Why, yes,” returned Mr. Bennett jocosely. “A Christmas present of
an A-number-one missionary. She’s a-visitin’ her uncle, Mr. Lemuel
Perkins; and now she’s got him converted she’s run over to neighbour
with you for a spell. She’ll cure you of any heathen idees you’ve got,
Em, quicker’n scat.”
Mary turned to shake her finger at Mr. Bennett, and then ran down the
path.
“Isn’t he funny?” she laughed merrily. “Anybody’d think Uncle Lemuel
was a heathen instead of the nicest uncle that ever was, wouldn’t they?
But you know better. You’ve lived at his house. That’s why I came
over. He says that he hasn’t had a decent piece of pie since you left.
I guess you spoiled other people’s pies for him, for he says you are
the very best pie-maker in town. So I came over to see if you wouldn’t
teach me how. He’s been such a dear to me since I came that I do want
to pay it back somehow—only, of course, you never can exactly.”
Surprise and pleasure struggled in Mrs. Caldwell’s countenance, as she
led the way into her immaculate kitchen.
“Why, I didn’t know ’t Lem relished my pies so well,” she said
deprecatingly. “I don’t lay out to be no great of a cook. Why, yes, of
course I’ll teach you. ’Taint no knack.”
“Oh, thank you!” cried her little guest, bounding out of the
rocking-chair in which she had just seated herself. “Could you do it
to-day, do you think? Uncle says he’s been ‘real pindling’ since you
left, and he thinks it’s on account of the pies.”
“You don’t say!” ejaculated her hostess. “Lem must ’a’ been feelin’
sorry for some of the things he said. I’m afeared there ain’t time to
teach ye much afore noon, but I’ve got some fresh-baked pies handy.
I’ll give ye one to take home with ye for dinner. You can come back
this afternoon and learn how yourself.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” explained Mary. “You see, I really ought to do my
Christmas shopping this afternoon. My family live so far away that they
won’t get their presents now till awfully late, but I couldn’t before
on account of the sickness at school. Where’s the best store in the
village?”
“There ain’t but two,” laughed Mrs. Caldwell, “and I guess it’s which
and t’other between ’em. They’ve both got in a pretty good stock this
year. You’d better go to Job Simpson’s, I guess. Lem does his tradin’
there now.”
“Mother sent me five dollars,” announced her guest proudly. “I think,
with all of that to spend, I’d better divide it between the two. Don’t
you think it would be fairer? It might hurt the other man’s feelings
if I didn’t buy anything of him, and mother says you mustn’t ever hurt
people’s feelings if you can help it. What do you think Uncle Lemuel
would like best? It’s hard to choose for a man—even father. What did
you usually give him when you lived there?”
When a man grudgingly pays you only two dollars and a half a week for
doing all of his housework, and making the kitchen garden besides, it
is not very surprising that your Christmas presents to him have been
few and far between, but under the glance of the shining eyes before
her, the late “Widder Em” suddenly hesitated to explain that fact.
“Why, I dunno,” she stammered. “I—I—why don’t you give him a coffee
cup? I’ll show you one I got for the deacon. It says ‘Merry Christmas’
on it in red.”
“Oh, oh!” cried the other Merry Christmas, gazing in an ecstasy of
admiration. “It’ll be just the thing for me to give uncle, won’t it? If
it only said ‘From,’ now! Oh, I didn’t tell you about my name, did I?
Well, I must.”
And forthwith, away she pranced on her holly-wreathed hobby, till the
woman, too, harked back in fancy to the days when “Christmas” was a
name of magic, and launched forth into eager reminiscences of her
childhood revels, while her visitor listened, entranced.
All at once she tore her gaze from the shining eyes before her.
“Mercy me, child!” she cried suddenly. “And here I was goin’ to have
veal potpie for dinner, and the deacon’ll be as mad as a hatter if his
vittles ain’t ready on the stroke!” She stopped and kissed the glowing
face. “Couldn’t you stay, little Merry Christmas?” she asked softly.
“I wish I could!” cried Mary. “I’d love to! But you see I’m
housekeeping for uncle, so I have to go right away. He’d be so
disappointed if I wasn’t there. I’ll come some time with him, pretty
soon.”
“‘Peace on earth, good will to men,’” quoted Mrs. Caldwell softly.
“Then good-bye, little Christmas girl. Here’s another pie for you,
dearie—mince. Lem was always partial to mince.”
“Oh, thank you _so_ much!” cried Mary in delight. “Uncle will be
awfully pleased. He certainly has the nicest friends in the world.
Good-bye, you dear Mrs. Caldwell. I must run and get things started.”
It was quarter to twelve when Uncle Lemuel stamped up the snowy path
to the kitchen door and flung it open. On the stove a steaming kettle
was bubbling merrily. On the table “covers were laid,” as the society
column has it, for two. Certainly a pleasant sight for a hungry man who
had been cooking his own dinners and setting his own table—if setting
it could be called—for two dreary years. But, strangely enough, Uncle
Lemuel’s gaze turned unsatisfied from the attractive table, and even
rested coldly upon the bubbling pot.
“What’s become of that gal?” he growled to himself, dexterously kicking
the door shut behind him.
A little blue gingham catapult dashed out from the departing shelter,
and flung herself at his back, while two little hands made futile
attempts to reach far enough to cover his eyes.
“Here I am!” cried a gay voice behind him. “Merry Christmas! Are you
Mr. Santa Claus? I hope you’ve got some meat in your pack for me. I’m
nearly starved, honest! I’ve got the potatoes and turnips on, the way
you told me. Do you hear them? Oh, it’s sausage! Goody! I love sausage!
And what do you think? I’ve got the nicest surprise for you, too. You’d
better cook the sausage, though, for I can’t do it very well. And I
will make the tea.”
Uncle Lem grunted almost as gruffly as ever in response, but, between
you and me, that was just because he was trying so hard not to reveal
the little thrills of pleasure that were warming the cockles of his
hard old heart. And the best joke of all was that he never guessed that
the softened glance of his sharp blue eyes and the gentler lines around
his grim old mouth were betraying him as fast as ever they could.
Mary bobbed hither and yon, trying the potatoes and relieving them of
their brown jackets, preparing the turnips under directions, and making
the tea in a most housewifely manner. Finally, she settled down into
her place at the head of the table with a sigh of absolute content.
“How do you take your tea, Mr. Perkins?” she inquired in the most
elegant of society tones; then, suddenly resuming her own: “You don’t
know what fun it is, Uncle Lemuel,” she cried, “to be the real lady of
the house, and ask about the tea, and say, ‘Let me help you to a little
more sauce,’ or, ‘Which kind of pie will you have, mince or apple?’
Goodness, I almost gave it away then! And oh, uncle, I can’t keep my
surprise a minute longer—honest I can’t!”
She sprang up from the table and into the pantry, whence she emerged
immediately with a beaming face and a pie balanced upon either hand.
“Which will you have, Mr. Perkins, apple or mince?” she inquired
gleefully, bobbing a little curtsy to the imminent peril of the pies.
“Your constitution won’t have to feel ‘pindling’ any longer, for here
are two fine, large ones—enough to last several meals, I guess. Mrs.
Caldwell sent them to you, with her compliments. She said you liked
mince particularly, but I like apple just as well, so we can play Jack
Spratt and his wife. People in Oatka Centre are just _lovely_, aren’t
they? It’s because I’m your niece, of course, so far, but I hope by and
by they’ll like me for my own sake.”
As she that was the Widder Em and Mr. Perkins had not spoken to each
other since they had parted with mutual recriminations two years
before, it is not to be wondered at that that gentleman laid down his
knife and fork, and stared in open bewilderment.
“Em Cottle sent them pies to me?” he demanded. “To _me_? How in thunder
did she happen to do that?”
“Why, because she liked you, of course,” explained Mary simply. “That’s
why everybody gives each other things. That’s what Christmas is for
especially, mother says—to give you a good chance to show other people
that you love them—just the way God showed us when He gave us the
little Baby Jesus.”
And once again something—was it the dear gift that she had
mentioned?—kept back the sharp words that were hovering upon the old
man’s lips.
V