Author of "The Takin' in of Old Mis' Lane" and other stories.
It was the day before Christmas--an Oregon Christmas. It had rained
mistily at dawn; but at ten o'clock the clouds had parted and moved
away reluctantly. There was a blue and dazzling sky overhead. The
rain-drops still sparkled on the windows and on the green grass, and
the last roses and chrysanthemums hung their beautiful heads heavily
beneath them; but there was to be no more rain. Oregon City's mighty
barometer--the Falls of the Willamette--was declaring to her people by
her softened roar that the morrow was to be fair.
Mrs. Orville Palmer was in the large kitchen making preparations for
the Christmas dinner. She was a picture of dainty loveliness in a
lavender gingham dress, made with a full skirt and a shirred waist and
big leg-o'-mutton sleeves. A white apron was tied neatly around her
waist.
Her husband came in, and paused to put his arm around her and kiss
her. She was stirring something on the stove, holding her dress aside
with one hand.
"It's goin' to be a fine Christmas, Emarine," he said, and sighed
unconsciously. There was a wistful and careworn look on his face.
"Beautiful!" said Emarine vivaciously. "Goin' down-town, Orville?"
"Yes." Want anything?"
"Why, the cranberries ain't come yet. I'm so uneasy about 'em. They'd
ought to 'a' b'en stooed long ago. I like 'em cooked down an' strained
to a jell. I don't see what ails them groc'rymen! Sh'u'd think they
c'u'd get around some time before doomsday! Then I want--here, you'd
best set it down." She took a pencil and a slip of paper from a shelf
over the table and gave them to him. "Now, let me see." She commenced
stirring again, with two little wrinkles between her brows. "A ha'f a
pound o' citron; a ha'f a pound o' candied peel; two pounds o'
cur'nts; two pounds o' raisins--git 'em stunned, Orville; a pound o'
sooet--make 'em give you some that ain't all strings! A box o'
Norther' Spy apples; a ha'f a dozen lemons; four-bits' worth o'
walnuts or a'monds, whichever's freshest; a pint o' Puget Sound
oysters fer the dressin', an' a bunch o' cel'ry. You stop by an' see
about the turkey, Orville; an' I wish you'd run in 's you go by
mother's, an' tell her to come up as soon as she can. She'd ought to
be here now."
Her husband smiled as he finished the list. "You're a wonderful
housekeeper, Emarine," he said.
Then his face grew grave. "Got a present for your mother yet,
Emarine?"
"Oh, yes, long ago. I got 'er a black shawl down t' Charman's. She's
b'en wantin' one."
He shuffled his feet about a little. "Unh-hunh. Yuh--that is--I reckon
yuh ain't picked out any present fer--fer my mother, have yuh,
Emarine?"
"No," she replied, with cold distinctness. "I ain't."
There was a silence. Emarine stirred briskly. The lines grew deeper
between her brows. Two red spots came into her cheeks. "I hope the
rain ain't spoilt the chrysyanthums," she said then, with an air of
ridding herself of a disagreeable subject.
Orville made no answer. He moved his feet again uneasily. Presently he
said: "I expect my mother needs a black shawl, too. Seemed to me her'n
looked kind o' rusty at church Sunday. Notice it, Emarine?"
"No," said Emarine.
"Seemed to me she was gittin' to look offul old. Emarine"--his voice
broke; he came a step nearer--"it'll be the first Christmas dinner I
ever eat without my mother."
She drew back and looked at him. He knew the look that flashed into
her eyes, and shrank from it.
"You don't have to eat this 'n' without 'er, Orville Parmer! You go
an' eat your dinner with your mother 'f you want! I can get along
alone. Are you goin' to order them things? If you ain't, just say so,
an' I'll go an' do 't myself!"
He put on his hat and went without a word.
Mrs. Palmer took the saucepan from the stove and set it on the hearth.
Then she sat down and leaned her cheek in the palm of her hand, and
looked steadily out the window. Her eyelids trembled closer together.
Her eyes held a far-sighted look. She saw a picture; but it was not
the picture of the blue reaches of sky, and the green valley cleft by
its silver-blue river. She saw a kitchen, shabby compared to her own,
scantily furnished, and in it an old, white-haired woman sitting down
to eat her Christmas dinner alone.
After a while she arose with an impatient sigh. "Well, I can't help
it!" she exclaimed. "If I knuckled down to her this time, I'd have to
do 't ag'in. She might just as well get ust to 't first as last. I
wish she hadn't got to lookin' so old an' pitiful, though, a-settin'
there in front o' us in church Sunday after Sunday. The cords stand
out in her neck like well-rope, an' her chin keeps a-quiv'rin' so! I
can see Orville a-watchin' her--"
The door opened suddenly and her mother entered. She was bristling
with curiosity. "Say, Emarine!" She lowered her voice, although there
was no one to hear. "Where d' you s'pose the undertaker's a-goin' up
by here? Have you hear of anybody--"
"No," said Emarine. "Did Orville stop by an' tell you to hurry up?"
"Yes. What's the matter of him? Is he sick?"
"Not as I know of. Why?"
"He looks so. Oh, I wonder if it's one o' the Peterson children where
the undertaker's a-goin'! They've all got the quinsy sore throat."
"How does he look? I don't see 's he looks so turrable."
"Why, Emarine Parmer! Ev'rybody in town says he looks _so_! I only
hope they don't know what ails him!"
"What _does_ ail him?" cried out Emarine, fiercely. "What are you
hintin' at?"
"Well, if you don't know what ails him, you'd ort to; so I'll tell
you. He's dyin' by inches ever sence you turned his mother out o'
doors."
Emarine turned white. Sheet lightning played in her eyes.
"Oh, you'd ought to talk about my turnin' her put!" she burst out,
furiously. "After you a-settin' here a-quar'l'n' with her in this very
kitchen, an' eggin' me on! Wa'n't she goin' to turn you out o' your
own daughter's home? Wa'n't that what I turned her out fer? I didn't
turn her out, anyhow! I only told Orville this house wa'n't big enough
fer his mother an' me, an' that neither o' us 'u'd knuckle down, so
he'd best take his choice. You'd ought to talk!"
"Well, if I egged you on, I'm sorry fer 't," said Mrs. Endey,
solemnly. "Ever sence that fit o' sickness I had a month ago, I've
feel kind o' old an' no account myself, as if I'd like to let all
holts go, an' jest rest. I don't spunk up like I ust to. No, he didn't
go to Peterson's--he's gawn right on. My land! I wonder 'f it ain't
old gran'ma Eliot: she had a bad spell--no, he didn't turn that
corner. I can't think where he's goin' to!"
She sat down with a sigh of defeat.
A smile glimmered palely across Emarine's face and was gone. "Maybe if
you'd go up in the antic you could see better," she suggested, dryly.
"Oh, Emarine, here comes old gran'ma Eliot herself! Run an' open the
door fer 'er. She's limpin' worse 'n usual."
Emarine flew to the door. Grandma Eliot was one of the few people she
loved. She was large and motherly. She wore a black dress and shawl
and a funny bonnet, with a frill of white lace around her brow.
Emarine's face softened when she kissed her. "I'm so glad to see you,"
she said, and her voice was tender.
Even Mrs. Endey's face underwent a change. Usually it wore a look of
doubt, if not of positive suspicion, but now it fairly beamed. She
shook hands cordially with the guest and led her to a comfortable
chair.
"I know your rheumatiz is worse," she said, cheerfully, "because
you're limpin' so. Oh, did you see the undertaker go up by here? We
can't think where he's goin' to. D' you happen to know?"
"No, I don't; an' I don't want to neither." Mrs. Eliot laughed
comfortably. "Mis' Endey, you don't ketch me foolin' with undertakers
till I have to." She sat down and removed her black cotton gloves.
"I'm gettin' to that age when I don't care much where undertakers go
to so long 's they let _me_ alone. Fixin' fer Christmas dinner,
Emarine dear?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Emarine in her very gentlest tone. Her mother had
never said "dear" to her, and the sound of it on this old lady's lips
was sweet. "Won't you come an' take dinner with us?"
The old lady laughed merrily. "Oh, dearie me, dearie me! You don't
guess my son's folks could spare me now, do you? I spend ev'ry
Christmas there. They most carry me on two chips. My son's wife,
Sidonie, she nearly runs her feet off waitin' on me. She can't do
enough fer me. My, Mrs. Endey, you don't know what a comfort a
daughter-in-law is when you get old an' feeble!"
Emarine's face turned red. She went to the table and stood with her
back to the older women; but her mother's sharp eyes observed that her
ears grew scarlet.
"An' I never will," said Mrs. Endey, grimly.
"You've got a son-in-law, though, who's worth a whole townful of most
son-in-laws. He was such a good son, too; jest worshipped his mother;
couldn't bear her out o' his sight. He humored her high an' low.
That's jest the way Sidonie does with me. I'm gettin' cranky 's I get
older, an' sometimes I'm reel cross an' sassy to her; but she jest
laffs at me, an' then comes an' kisses me, an' I'm all right ag'in.
It's a blessin' right from God to have a daughter-in-law like that."
The knife in Emarine's hand slipped, and she uttered a little cry.
"Hurt you?" demanded her mother, sternly.
Emarine was silent, and did not turn.
"Cut you, Emarine? Why don't you answer me? Aigh?"
"A little," said Emarine. She went into the pantry, and presently
returned with a narrow strip of muslin which she wound around her
finger.
"Well, I never see! You never will learn any gumption! Why don't you
look what you're about? Now, go around Christmas with your finger all
tied up!"
"Oh, that'll be all right by to-morrow," said Mrs. Eliot, cheerfully.
"Won't it, Emarine? Never cry over spilt milk, Mrs. Endey; it makes a
body get wrinkles too fast. O' course Orville's mother's comin' to
take dinner with you, Emarine."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Emarine, in a sudden flutter. "I don't see why
them cranberries don't come! I told Orville to hurry 'em up. I'd best
make the floatin' island while I wait."
"I stopped at Orville's mother's as I come along, Emarine."
"How?" Emarine turned in a startled way from the table.
"I say I stopped at Orville's mother's as I come along."
"Oh!"
"She well?" asked Mrs. Endey.
"No, she ain't; shakin' like she had the Saint Vitus dance. She's
failed harrable lately. She'd b'en cryin'; her eyes was all swelled
up."
There was quite a silence. Then Mrs. Endey said, "What she b'en cryin'
about?"
"Why, when I asked her she jest laffed kind o' pitiful, an' said: 'Oh,
only my tom-foolishness, o' course.' Said she always got to thinkin'
about other Christmases. But I cheered her up. I told her what a good
time I always had at my son's, an' how Sidonie jest couldn't do enough
fer me. An' I told her to think what a nice time she'd have here 't
Emarine's to-morrow."