In Uncle Lemuel’s able dissertation upon the virtues of pie, that
bulwark of the American Constitution, he neglected to mention one of
its most remarkable features—namely, its effect upon the flow of the
milk of human kindness. Nothing else certainly could explain the fact
that when the dishes were finished the next morning he stamped down
the cellar stairs and returned presently with a basket of juicy winter
pears, which he plumped down upon the kitchen table.
In a voice that was “growlier” than ever, he said:
“If you’re goin’ over to the Widder Em’s any time again, you might as
well carry this mess of pears along. Old man Caldwell never did have
gumption enough to raise winter pears, and Em was always partial to
’em. You mustn’t never let yourself be beholden to folks.”
Mary clapped her hands.
“How lovely to have a whole cellar full of things to give away! It must
make you feel like Santa Claus, and I’m the Merry Christmas that goes
with them. And, oh, won’t Mrs. Caldwell be pleased!”
But pleasure was far from Mrs. Caldwell’s predominating emotion when
Merry Christmas presented the basket some fifteen minutes later, with
the polite addition that it was “with Uncle Lem’s love and thanks.”
“For the land sakes alive!” ejaculated the one-time Widow Em, almost
letting the gift fall in her amazement. “Is Lem Perkins experiencin’
religion in his old age?”
Mary looked a little puzzled by the irrelevance of the question.
“Why, yes, I guess so,” she answered happily. “Mother says really good
people experience it all their lives. And we’re experiencing Christmas,
too. Isn’t it the best fun? We’ve begun a list of our Christmas
presents, and I put down your pies at the head—apple for me and mince
for Uncle Lem. Is it quite convenient for you to teach me this morning?”
“Yes, indeed, sissy; yes, indeed,” returned Mrs. Caldwell, recovering
herself. “I’ve got the dishes of fillin’ all ready, and we can begin
right away. There ain’t no knack to it but the know-how. Don’t you
know folks always say ‘easy as pie’?”
“Why, so they do!” agreed Mary joyfully. “But I thought that meant easy
as eating pie. I never knew how easy that was till yesterday. You see,
father didn’t think they were good for us—and I suppose Indian ones
wouldn’t have been,” she added loyally. “But you ought to have seen
Uncle Lem and me yesterday! The pies were so good that we just ate and
ate, apple and mince turn about, till we had all we could do to save
enough for breakfast. And I do feel perfectly fine this morning—and so
does uncle. I guess our constitutions needed it. Could I learn to make
three this morning—one for each meal?”
Under Mrs. Caldwell’s capable direction, the lesson progressed finely,
and in due time three fragrant pies and a turnover were cooling upon
the kitchen sink bench—pies that for brown flakiness of crust and
general comeliness of aspect would not have disgraced the champion of
the county fair herself.
“They look lovely, don’t they?” inquired their creator anxiously. “But,
oh, I can hardly wait till dinner time to see how they taste! Oh, Mrs.
Caldwell, how shall I ever _bear_ it if they aren’t really good and
Uncle Lemuel is disappointed?”
“There, there, now, don’t you fret!” soothed kindly Mrs. Caldwell. “Lem
don’t always say things out same as some do, but I’ll bet a cooky he’ll
think them pies is as good as any he ever et in his life.”
“Oh, I do _pray_ that they’ll be good!” ejaculated the little cook
fervently. “It’s such a responsibility cooking for men, isn’t it?
But I like it,” she added naïvely, “even though I’m scared. Can’t I
_possibly_ tell about them before dinner time?”
Mrs. Caldwell considered.
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “If you want to do some extra Christmassin’
this mornin’, I can think up a job for ye. The schoolmarm, Miss Porter,
boarded with me last winter, and she was real partial to a hot turnover
for her mornin’ recess. If you want to give her yourn, the schoolhouse
is only a piece up the road, and if you run tight as you can lick it, I
guess you can get there before the bell rings. I’ll just tie my cloud
over your head, so you can run faster.”
Ten minutes later a breathless little figure, in a red “cloud,” dashed
up to the door of the old stone schoolhouse, just as the joyous
pandemonium of recess broke out. Knocking seemed quite a superfluous
refinement in the midst of all that babel, so she lifted the great
latch, and then was nearly capsized by a flying wedge of small boys
who came hurtling out to the accompaniment of a long-pent-up explosion
of war-whoops. The point of the wedge stopped and surveyed the reeling,
small figure with the natural defiance of the guilty party.
“What d’you git in my way for?” he demanded gruffly.
To his surprise his victim merely giggled.
“Did you think I was a turnover too?” she inquired. “Because I’m not.
This is it, and it’s been turned once already. Where’s the teacher?”
“Goin’ to tell on us?” inquired another boy sulkily.
Mary stared.
“Tell what?” she inquired. “’Twasn’t your fault. I got in the way. I
hope you didn’t smash the turnover, though,” she added anxiously. “I’m
carrying it to the teacher. No, it’s all right, thank goodness! Doesn’t
it look fine?” she inquired, pulling the covering quite away from her
prize.
The little boys crowded closer.
“And _smell_!” cried the first one admiringly. “Where’d you get it?”
“I made it myself,” returned Mary, with pardonable pride.
“Did you, honest?” he queried, with the natural admiration of the
normal male for a good cook. “Say, fellers, let’s play school. I’ll be
teacher.”
Mary laughed appreciatively, and then her face sobered. Nobody with
a sisterly heart in her bosom could have looked unmoved upon those
appealing eyes, alight with the eternal hunger of boyhood—and Mary was
sister to four little Christies at home.
“If I possibly can—and these are good—I’ll bring you a whole pie
to-morrow,” she promised rashly. “Now I must hurry up to the real
teacher, honest.”
Miss Porter had just finished opening the windows, and was walking
briskly back and forth across the end of the room when Mary approached.
“Good morning,” she said, in a politely puzzled voice. “Are you a new
scholar? Did you want to see me?”
“I wish I _could_ come to school,” returned Mary promptly, “but I’m
just Merry Christmas here on a visit, so I can’t. But I’ve got a
present for you. It’s a turnover. I made it, but Mrs. Caldwell sent
it. Will you eat it right now, please, and tell me how it tastes? I’m
worried to death.”
“Thank you so much,” cried Miss Porter, laughing. “We’ll eat it
together, then. I’m sure it’s delicious, but that’s the best way to
prove it to you. And there’s Nora O’Neil. I don’t think she brought any
lunch, so we’ll give her some. And then if we all agree that it’s good,
it must be fine, mustn’t it?”
In two minutes they were all munching happily together on the flaky
triangle, which Miss Porter and Nora O’Neil praised till the blushing
cook felt that they appreciated her masterpiece at almost its true
value.
By this time other little girls, nibbling at their own pies and cakes
and doughnuts, had begun crowding shyly around to stare at the newcomer.
“These are my little girls,” announced Miss Porter affectionately,
nodding to a few of the more timid ones to come closer. “And who do you
suppose this is who has come to see us to-day? Merry Christmas! What do
you think of that? She was visiting dear Mrs. Caldwell up the road, so
she lived up to her name and brought me a nice hot turnover for lunch.”
The little girls stared.
“Merry Christmas?” they whispered to one another. “Do you s’pose? Is
she—_real_?”
Mary’s sharp ears caught the whispers.
“My true-for-a-fact name is Mary Christie,” she explained merrily, “but
they call me Merry Christmas at school because I’m so crazy about
snow, and Christmas trees, and Santa Claus, and everything. Aren’t you?”
Several little girls nodded eagerly, then a sudden gloom seemed to
settle down upon them.
“Might be,” hazarded one.
“Why, what’s the matter?” inquired Mary, with quick sympathy.
The plague of dumbness lifted all at once.
“We was going to have a tree,” began one.
“And a party,” interrupted another.
“On Christmas Eve.”
“Here to the schoolhouse.”
“And give presents.”
“And popcorn, and candy, and everything.”
“It was all planned out, and the trustees had almost promised.”
They took the sentences out of one another’s mouth.
“And old Grouchy Gruff heard of it.”
Miss Porter’s gentle correction passed unheeded.
“Old Grouchy Gruff heard of it, and said he paid most taxes, and he
wouldn’t let ’em.”
“Said ’twas a waste of fire and lights.”
“Mean old thing!”
“And my father said he’d give the wood.”
“And mine the oil.”
“And then he wouldn’t let ’em use the schoolhouse.”
“’Cause he hates Christmas!”
“I hate _him_!”
“Mean old thing!”
“Children, children!” chided Miss Porter. “You mustn’t talk that way.
I’ll have to ring the bell. We’re late already. Won’t you stay and
visit us a little while, Merry Christmas?”
But Merry Christmas shook her head.
“I can’t just now,” she answered gravely. “Maybe I will this afternoon.
Good-bye!”
The little boys stared in amazement at the quiet little figure that
slipped past them with only a perfunctory response to their friendly
grins.
“What’d teacher do to ye?” demanded Jimmy Harrison, the one-time front
of the flying wedge. “Shall I plug her in the eye with a spitball for
ye? I can do it,” he added darkly.
Merry Christmas came to herself.
“Oh, no, don’t! She’s awfully nice,” she whispered anxiously. “It’s
something else—about Christmas,” she added. “The teacher didn’t do it.”
For poor Merry Christmas was struggling with a paralyzing glimpse of
human perfidy, and her rose-coloured spectacles were searching in vain
for a sunny spot to relieve the awful gloom. Could Christian America
shelter such an ogre—a man who hated Christmas so that he was going to
prevent a party and a tree—and popcorn—and presents—on Christmas Eve
itself? And did that man live in Oatka Centre—the very warmest corner
in the heart of that same Christian America? It was so incredible that
the rose-coloured spectacles began to see a ray of hope in that very
fact.
“Why, he’d be worse than a heathen!” she murmured. “And of course there
aren’t any heathen in America, where everybody knows about Christ and
His birthday. There’s some mistake, that’s all; and I’ll get uncle to
fix it right.”