_Frances Margaret Fox_
It was late autumn in the north woods, and Beatrice and Josephine
were thinking about Christmas. They liked to think about Christmas:
they liked to talk about it and to sing Christmas songs and to play
Christmas games. Those two little girls had been known to play the game
of Santa Claus filling Christmas stockings on the Fourth of July; and
it was such fun they did not care who laughed.
Beatrice was seven years old and Josephine was nine that particular
autumn day when they climbed to the top of the front gate posts to talk
it over. There was no gate in front of their log cabin, only an opening
where a gate would some day swing on hinges and fasten with a click.
The gate posts were made of big, round logs of cedar, and were almost
two feet taller than the top of the fence. There was a path leading
from the gateway to the front door of the log cabin, and behind the
cabin, and surrounding it on three sides, were the evergreen woods. In
front of the cabin was a wide clearing belonging to the railway.
From early spring until late in the autumn the little girls were in the
habit of climbing on the gate posts to watch the trains go by.
“I suppose if we had lots of money,” said Beatrice from the top of
her gate post, “I suppose we could go to Marquette and buy Christmas
presents for the whole family!”
“But most of all for mother!” added Josephine, happily kicking her feet.
“What should we get mother if we had money and could go traveling?”
Beatrice inquired.
“Well,” answered Josephine, “if we ever have a ride on the cars, and if
we ever go to Marquette with father and our pockets full of money, we’d
buy,--we’d buy,--I don’t know what and you don’t know what!”
At that, the two little girls laughed and laughed until they almost
fell off the gate posts; they liked to sit on the gate posts and laugh.
For a while they talked about the Christmas presents they should like
to make.
“But there should be something special for our mother,” insisted
Josephine.
“Oh,” answered Beatrice, as she happily kicked her feet against her
gate post, “I guess we’ll have to give mother the same old promise we
give her every Christmas, that she will have all the year two little
girls, oh, such good little girls, to help take care of babies and tidy
up the cabin, tra la-la, tra la-la-la!”
After that, until the afternoon train whistled, the merry little girls
kept choosing gifts for all the family, but most of all for mother. But
the minute the train whistled, Beatrice suggested a new game.
“When the train starts puff-puff from the station just round the curve
over there,” said she, “and the wheels begin to turn round slowly, and
the cars come slowly, rumble-rumble, you turn square round facing the
train this way, just like me, and you sing with me this song I am just
thinking up, and we’ll try Christmas magic, like this:
“White magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!”
By the time the passenger train was opposite the little log cabin, the
laughing children were gazing straight toward it, singing over and over
to the rumble of the wheels:
“White magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!”
Of course those two little girls away off in the upper peninsula of
Michigan, miles and miles from any town, did not expect a magic
Christmas gift for their mother; they simply had a good time, and
forgot all about their game as soon as it was over and they had climbed
down from their gate posts to go to the pasture after the cows.
But the day before Christmas, when the little cabin was bursting with
Christmas joy and secrets, the postmaster from the settlement called
to see Beatrice and Josephine.... He said he wished to speak with them
alone. There was only one room in the cabin, one big, clean, cheerful
room, and so the little girls climbed into the postmaster’s sleigh and
drove with him beyond sight of the house. Then he said “Whoa!” to his
horses, and without another word he untied a big, flat parcel that
looked like a picture in a frame; and it was a picture in a frame-- a
big picture of two merry-looking little girls, each seated on a gate
post in front of a log-cabin home that had evergreen woods behind it
and a clearing in front.
It was a long time before either child could speak; then Josephine
whispered, “How did it happen?”
“A lady on a passing train who is a stranger to us all,” the postmaster
answered, “took a snapshot of you two, because you looked so happy.
Then she had the picture enlarged and framed and sent it to me to give
to you, so that you might give it to your mother for Christmas. She
said she was sure I would know who you were by the picture; so, as I
thought you would like a big Christmas surprise for your mother, I
asked to see you alone. Now we’ll drive back to the house.”
At last Beatrice found her voice; but “Did you ever!” was all she said,
and “Did you ever!” was all Josephine said, until they remembered to
thank the postmaster for his kindness.
On Christmas Eve the little girls could keep their secret no longer,
and solemnly presented their mother with the magic gift.
Mother cried. Tears of joy rolled down her face when she saw it.
“I never before had a picture of any of you children,” said she, “and I
never expected to, because we live so far from a photographer. And this
is so beautiful! Such happy faces! Oh, it seems too good to be true! It
would not have happened if you were not such good little girls, always
thinking of your mother!”
The next day two joyous little girls danced about the cabin, singing:
“White magic,
Christmas magic,
Brought our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic,
Christmas magic,
Brought our mother a Christmas gift!”
And the two little faces in the picture smiled down upon the happy
family cheerfully, then and ever after.
[1] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December
21, 1916. Reprinted by special permission of the author and “Youth’s
Companion.”