_Elsie Singmaster_
In the kitchen of the little house on the mountain-side there was only
one sound, the whirring of a sewing-machine. The kitchen was a pleasant
place. There was a glowing fire in the stove, a brightly striped rag
carpet on the floor, and a red cloth on the table. In three of the four
deeply embrasured windows were potted geraniums. By the fourth stood
the machine which whirred so busily.
It was Christmas eve, and if a little shawl and sunbonnet and a little
boy’s overcoat hanging on pegs behind the door were any sign, there
were children in the house. But there was no sign of Christmas; there
were no stockings hung before the fire, there was no tree, there
were no presents. The mother who turned the machine was making men’s
shirts of coarse fabric. To her right on a table lay piles of separate
portions of shirts--sleeves, fronts, bands, cuffs; on the floor to her
left, a great heap of finished garments. Her bent head was motionless;
she was able to shift the material upon which she was working from one
side to the other without moving her shoulders or lifting her eyes, so
that she seemed to work upon an unending seam. She had set herself the
finishing of a certain number of dozen before the New Year, and she had
her task almost finished, though it was only Christmas eve.
By the table sat an old man. He had a bright face and blue eyes; one
would have said he had still a good deal of the energy and strength of
his youth. He was reading the Christmas story in the Bible, but his
eyes strayed often from the page, whose contents he knew by heart, to
the figure by the machine. Once when the left hand swept to the floor
a finished garment he started from his chair. But the right hand was
already gathering together the pieces of another, and he sank back.
When the shrill little clock on the mantel struck eleven and the deft
hand gathered up still another garment, the old man tiptoed to the door
and opened it. He went across the yard and there entered a little shop
and struck a match. Then he exclaimed in joy over the product of his
own hands.
“It’s the handsomest I ever seen!” said he.
Almost filling the little shop, its proud head bent, its wide arms
spread benignantly, stood a Christmas tree, gorgeous, glittering. Each
tiny twig was tipped with a white ball; among the branches hung thick
clusters of golden fruit. There was no other color; the old gentleman
had, it was clear, fine taste in Christmas trees.
Beneath the tree was a village. Into green moss were stuck little
tree-like sprigs of pine; scattered about were miniature houses. Here
a little horse carved out of wood drew a cart; here a flock of sheep
wandered. There was a mill beside a glassy pond--a mill whose wheel,
set in the brook in summer-time, would really turn. On one side of the
garden stood a full-sized sled, upon it a chess-board, both hand-made,
but neatly finished; upon the other side a doll’s cradle with a little
squirrel skin cut neatly for a cover, and two necklaces, one of rose
hips and one of gourd seeds. Before the garden lay another group of
presents--a neatly carved spool-holder and a little pile of skins for
muff or tippet.
It was a beautiful sight even to one who had had no hand in the making.
But now suddenly the old man’s enthusiasm seemed to fail. He shook his
head solemnly and went back to the house.
“I’ll have to tell her soon,” said he. “I’ll have to tell her now.”
Then the clock on the mantel struck twelve, the machine stopped, and
the worker got stiffly to her feet. She was a tall, strong person, with
a sad, preoccupied face. It was difficult to believe that she was the
daughter of the little blue-eyed old man. At once he, too, rose and
laid his book on the table. He looked up at the tall figure as though
he were a little afraid of it.
“Susan,” said he, “are you tired?”
“Yes,” answered Susan.
“Susan,” the old man began with a little gasp, “I wish you’d--” He
looked longingly toward the door which led out toward the little shop.
“You wish I’d what, gran’pap?”
The old man’s courage failed completely.
“I wish you’d go to bed, Susan.”
“I am going,” answered Susan. “Good night, gran’pap.”
When the last sound of Susan’s step had died away, gran’pap put coal on
the fire and blew out the light.
“Oh, my! oh my!” said he. “What will she say when she finds it out?”
Then, slowly, forgetting that the lamp burned in the little shop across
the yard, he climbed the stairs.
It was almost three months since the subject of Christmas had been
broached in the little house. Then, one pleasant October afternoon,
when the children left the main road and turned in at the by-road which
led toward home, they found gran’pap sitting on the fence. He missed
the children, who, dinner-pail and books in hand, walked two miles
to the schoolhouse before half-past eight in the morning and did not
return until half-past four in the afternoon. Thomas could have covered
the distance much more speedily, but little Eliza could not walk fast.
Now in October, the sun was already near its setting.
Gran’pap had a knife in his hand and was whittling something very tiny.
When the children came in sight, he put both knife and handiwork into
his pocket. He greeted them with a cheerful shout, and they smiled at
him and came up slowly. Thomas and Eliza took their pleasures very
soberly. Though gran’pap had lived with them since spring, they were
not yet accustomed to his levity, fascinating as it was.
Eliza took his hand and trotted in a satisfied way beside him. She was
a fat little girl, and her old-fashioned clothes made her look like a
demure person of middle age. Thomas stepped along on the other side,
trying to set each foot as far ahead of the other as gran’pap did.
“Well,” said gran’pap, “here we are!”
“And what,” said Thomas, with a happy skip and a wave of the
dinner-pail, “what are we going to do to-night?”
Gran’pap sniffed the sharp air, which promised frost.
“Wait till you hear the chestnuts rattlin’ Saturday!” said he. “I have
poles ready for beatin’ ’em, and I made each of you a pair of mittens
for hullin’ ’em.”
Saturday’s pleasure, while delectable, was still too far away and too
uncertain for Thomas.
“But to-night, gran’pap, what about to-night?”
“To-night,” said gran’pap, solemnly, having approached the greater joy
through the less, “to-night we make our plans for Christmas!”
“For Christmas?” said Thomas and Eliza together.
“Why, you act as though you never seen or heard of Christmas!” mocked
the old man. “As though you were heathen!”
“We haven’t seen Christmas,” said the little girl.
“I did once,” corrected Thomas. “There was a tree with bright gold
things on it and lights. We had it in the house. I guess ’Lizie
couldn’t remember; she was very little.” He drew closer to the old man
and spoke in a low tone, “He was here still.”
“But last Christmas and the Christmas before. You had a tree then?”
“No,” insisted the little boy.
“Why, there’s trees in plenty!” cried gran’pap. “But perhaps,” added
he, hurriedly, “perhaps she couldn’t get any one to cut it for her. But
you had presents!”
“The Snyder children had a present,” said little Eliza. “It was a sled,
Sandy Claus brought it.”
“But _you_ had presents,” insisted gran’pap.
“No,” said Thomas and Eliza together.
“I guess she was very busy,” said gran’pap, with a frown. Then face and
voice brightened. “But this year I’m on hand to cut the tree and I’m on
hand to trim the tree.”
The children looked up at him. It was clear that they had not entire
faith in gran’pap’s powers.
“And presents,” continued gran’pap. “If you could have your choice of
presents, what would you like to have?”
“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.
“I would like--” Little Eliza gave a long, long sigh--“I would like a
locket. I saw one in a picture.”
“I do not know what you will get,” said the old man, “but you will get
something.”
Then gran’pap hurried his own steps and theirs.
“She’ll be lookin’ for us, children. Mooley’s to be milked and wood’s
to be fetched.”
Further progress was swift, for the road descended sharply. Under
the shelter of a small cliff-like elevation stood the little house,
startlingly white in the thickening darkness. It was a lonely place,
entirely out of sight of other houses. Though it was protected from the
coldest of the winter winds, it was not out of reach of their mournful
sound.
From the kitchen window a bright light shone. Susan lit the lamp by her
machine early. They could see her head and shoulders plainly as she
bent over her work. At sight of her gran’pap and the children became
silent.
“She’s always busy,” said gran’pap, after a moment. “She’s wonderful,
she is.”
Thomas and Eliza made no answer. They had had no experience with a
mother who was not perpetually busy. Gran’pap began to whistle, as
though to warn her of their presence, and she lifted her head and
looked out into the dusk. Her face, now as always intensely grave and
preoccupied, brightened a little. The company of a grown person must
have been a blessing in this quiet spot. For three years Susan had
lived here alone with her children.
Gran’pap did not go at once into the house, but took from the bench
beside the door a large milk-pail and went to the barn. The children
followed him, and stood just inside the door, listening to the milk
rattling into the pail. Gran’pap talked to Mooley, complimenting her
upon her sleek coat and her beautiful eyes, upon her gentleness,
and upon the abundance of her milk. When he had finished, he and
the children went into the house together. Thomas took off his cap
and Eliza her shawl and sunbonnet, and gran’pap hung them up on
the high pegs. Then he looked sorrowfully at the figure before the
sewing-machine.
“Ain’t you stopping yet, Susan?”
“I must make one more,” came the answer from the bent head. “The man
comes to fetch them to-morrow.”
“But not till afternoon, Susan, and see all you have done!”
Susan made no answer. Stepping quietly, gran’pap poured the milk into
crocks, and carried the crocks into the cellar. When he returned,
he gave the fire a little shake and began to get supper. He set the
table and cut the potatoes and meat for stew, and put the stew on the
stove. As he sliced the onion he made queer grimaces to amuse Thomas
and Eliza. When a savory odor began to rise, the figure at the machine
turned.
“You needn’t ’a’ done that, gran’pap!”
“Oh, yes, Susan. Now when you’re done, supper’ll be ready.”
The machine whirred a little faster, the hands moved a little more
swiftly. The sleeves of a shirt were added to the body, the band was
put in place. Once Susan sighed, but so quickly did the whirring sound
begin once more that the sigh reached the ears of no one but herself.
The two children sat, meanwhile, upon the settle, their school-books in
their hands. But they did not study. They pondered upon what gran’pap
had said. Gran’pap had brought many miracles to pass. It was possible
that he would bring this heavenly one to pass also. Sometimes they
whispered to each other.
When the whirring machine stopped and the mother pushed back her chair,
gran’pap announced the feast ready. Susan carried the lamp from the
machine to the table. She looked wretchedly tired. She rubbed her hand
across her forehead, and when she sat down at the table she shielded
her eyes from the light.
For once the children did not see that she was tired, for once they
burst without thought into speech. Gran’pap’s promise had intoxicated
them.
“Gran’pap says we will have a Christmas,” said Thomas, before he had
lifted his spoon.
“With a big tree. He will cut it.”
“And with presents,” said Eliza.
“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.
“And I a locket,” said Eliza.
The mother shivered. She put her hands again to her forehead and closed
her eyes.
“No,” said she. “There will be no Christmas.”
“But, Susan--”
Susan looked straight at her father. Her answer was final, but it was
not rude; it sounded cruel, but the old man was neither hurt nor
offended.
“This is my house, father. There can be no tree and no presents. I
cannot stand a tree, and I have no money for presents.”
The old man uttered a single “But”--then he said no more. The faces
of Thomas and Eliza dropped, but they said nothing. After a while
they looked furtively at their grandfather, as though to see how this
correcting of his plans affected him. When they saw that tears dropped
from his eyes, they looked down upon their plates.
But grandfather was not long sad. He helped Susan to clear the table,
then he sat down with the children. When they had finished their sums
and had learned their spelling lesson and had read--toes on the stripe
in the carpet, backs straight, books held in a prescribed manner--their
reading lessons, he drew animals for them and cut rows of soldiers for
Thomas and babies for Eliza. Their mother folded the shirts she had
finished, laid fresh work on the machine for the morning, and sewed for
an hour by hand on a dress for Eliza. Then she bade the children go to
bed.
“Are you going to sit up, gran’pap?” she asked, gently.
“A little,” said gran’pap.
“Good-night,” said Susan.
Gran’pap sat by the table for a long time, his head on his hand.
Gradually the expression of his face changed from sadness to a grim yet
tender determination.
“We will see,” said he aloud.
Then he read a chapter in his Bible and went to bed.
On Saturday gran’pap and the children went chestnutting. Their luck
was amazing. After enough chestnuts had been reserved to supply the
family’s most extensive needs, there were ten quarts to be sold. With
the money they bought ten spools of thread for Susan.
“You’ll get more for your work if you don’t have to pay your money for
thread,” said gran’pap.
Susan gave a little gasp. One who did not know her might have thought
that she was about to cry. But Susan never cried.
“You oughtn’t to have spent your money for me,” she said.
If gran’pap was disappointed or grieved because Susan had said that
the children could have no Christmas, he did not show it. He kept the
wood-box full, he drove Mooley along the roadside to find a little
late grass, and he heard the children say their lessons. When he was
not thus occupied, he was in his little shop across the yard. Thither
he had brought from his old home a jig-saw, a small turning lathe, and
sundry other carpenter tools. He had here a little stove, and here on
stormy days he worked. On pleasant days he made repairs to the house
and barn, so that they should be winter-tight.
“The squirrels have thick coats,” said he. “Look out for cold weather!”
As a matter of fact, gran’pap disregarded entirely his daughter’s
prohibition. When the children were at school and late at night,
gran’pap was at work. He carved the animals for the garden and made the
little houses and the cradle and the chessboard, and he gilded walnuts
and hickory nuts to hang upon the tree, and popped the corn to make
the little balls for the finishing of each branch. It was a long task;
gran’pap often sat up half the night. Sometimes he worked in hope,
sometimes in despair.
“When she sees it in its grandeur, she will feel different,” said he
when he was hopeful.
“Trouble’s got fixed on her mind,” said he when he despaired. “Perhaps
she can’t change any more.”
“But I’ll try”--this was the invariable conclusion of grandfather’s
meditations. “For the sake of her and these children, I’ll try.”
Several times gran’pap was almost caught. The odor of popcorn was
sniffed by Thomas and Eliza, returning a little earlier than usual from
school, and a large supply had to be handed over to them. A spot of
gilding on gran’pap’s coat was explained with difficulty. For the last
days after the great tree had been dragged into the shop and set up
gran’pap was in constant fear.
“On Christmas eve, after those children are in bed, I’ll take her
over,” planned gran’pap. “I’ll have a light burning. When she sees the
tree, she’ll feel different.”
But now Christmas eve was past and Susan had not been led to the
little shop. Susan had gone to her room and gran’pap had gone to his
and Christmas morning was almost at hand. Gran’pap had never been so
miserable.
“She’ll never forgive me,” said he, as he lay down upon his bed and
looked up at the stars. “Oh, dear! oh dear!”
At two o’clock gran’pap woke, conscious of a disturbance of mind.
He lay for a moment thinking of Susan, then he realized that it was
another uneasiness which had disturbed him.
“I left that light burning!” said he, as he sprang out of bed.
He dressed quickly, and went down the stairs into the kitchen. To his
consternation the door stood ajar.
“Burglars!” said gran’pap. Then gran’pap stood still. The shop was on
the side of Susan’s room; he saw in the dim firelight that Susan’s
shawl was gone from its hook.
“Oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap, as he made his way across the yard.
Then he came to another abrupt pause in his progress. He heard a sound,
a strange sound, the sound of crying. He tiptoed closer to the door of
the shop. Within sat Susan upon a low bench, her head bent low, her
hands across her face. He could see her shoulders heave, he could hear
the pitiful sound of her sobbing.
Gran’pap was in despair. He did not know what he should do, whether he
should go forward or back. It was evident at least that his plan had
not been successful.
“She’s never cried before,” said he.
Then, seeing Susan rise, he took a middle course and stepped into the
shadow of the little building. Susan did not give another glance at the
beautiful tree with its out-stretched arms; she went across the yard,
still crying, and into the house.
“She even forgot to lock the door,” said gran’pap, as he went into the
shop.
He stood for a moment and looked at the tree.
“We can keep the door locked,” said he, mournfully. “I can give ’em the
things another time. Perhaps she would let me give ’em each one thing
this morning.”
Then gran’pap heard a stir, the sound of a footstep, the rustle of
approaching skirts. He turned and faced the door.
“Susan!” said he.
It was Susan come back, Susan with a burden in her arms. She looked at
her father with a start. Her face was different. It was suddenly clear
that she had been a beautiful girl. She laid her burden upon the little
bench.
“Here is a little rifle that was his father’s,” said she. “And here is
a little chain and locket that was mine. You put them under the tree,
gran’pap.”
“Oh, Susan!” said the old man.
But Susan was already at the door. There she turned and looked back.
Again she was crying, but she was smiling, too. It was plain that for
Susan the worst of grief was past.
“Merry Christmas, gran’pap!” said she. “You’d better go to bed.”
“Same to you!” faltered gran’pap.
Then he took the little rifle and the chain and locket in his hands and
hugged them to his breast.
“Oh my! oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap. “What will those children do!”
[4] By permission of the author and the “Outlook.”