POLLY: A BEFORE-CHRISTMAS STORY.
By Hope Ledyard.
ANTA CLAUS!" exclaimed Ned, half mockingly.
"Yes," insisted Mamie, "what's he going to bring you, Ned?"
"I don't know, and I don't care much," he answered, "for there isn't any Santa Claus."
"Why, Ned!" cried Mamie, in astonishment. "Even my big brother Harry believes in Santa Claus. He's coming home from school to-night, and we're going to hang up our stockings."
"Pshaw!" said Ned, "I must go home. Good-bye."
Merry little Mamie stood in amazement, and then ran in-doors to her mother with her perplexity.
"Why, mother!" she cried, "Ned Huntley said there wasn't any Santa Claus—and he was real cross about it, too."
"Well, Mamie," said her mother, "I wouldn't take any notice of Ned's being cross about Christmas-time. The Huntleys don't keep Christmas."
"Don't keep Christmas!" exclaimed Mamie, astonished beyond measure.
Seeing that her mother was busy, she took her doll, Helena Margaret Constance Victorine, in her arms, and talked the matter over with her.
"What do you think, my dear," said she, "they don't keep Christmas at Ned Huntley's house! I don't know just what mother means by not keeping it, for you know Santa Claus comes down the chimney, and so he can get in during the night and leave Christmas there. Oh, yes, but they don't keep it. They turn it out, I suppose, just like mother told me they acted about the dear little baby Savior; they hadn't any room for him, and I guess Mrs. Huntley hasn't any room to keep Christmas in. I wonder what she does with the Christmas things Santa Claus brings? I wonder if she throws 'em away? I mean to go and ask her;" and putting her child carefully in its cradle, Mamie started.
There was some truth in what Mrs. Gaston had told her little daughter; the Huntleys did not keep Christmas in a loving, hearty way. They kept it in so far that on this very afternoon Mrs. Huntley was busy making the mince pies, dressing the turkey, and doing all she could to be beforehand with the extra Christmas dinner. Mr. Huntley had just stepped into the kitchen for a moment to say to his wife, "What have you settled on for Ned's Christmas?"
"I've bought him a pair of arctics—he needed 'em; and if you want to spend more than common, you might get him half a dozen handkerchiefs."
"Well, wife, I was thinking that perhaps" —the farmer tried to be particular about his words, for Mrs. Huntley did not seem in a very good humor—"I was remembering how you used to enjoy giving the young ones candies and toys; so, perhaps—"
"Now, Noah Huntley, I'm surprised at you! Buy candies and toys for a great lumbering boy like Ned? Why, you must be crazy, man! The next thing will be that you'll want a Christmas-tree yourself!"
"Well, and it wouldn't be a bad idea," thought the father. "There's my man, Fritz, he has been to the woods and cut a little tree for his children, and he seems to get a heap of pleasure out of it. Ah! if only little Polly had lived!" Strangely enough, the wife was thinking the same thing, as she sliced and sifted and weighed. "If little Polly had lived it would have been different, but we can't throw away money on nonsense for Ned."
A little red cloak flashed by the window, a little bright face, just about the age of "our little Polly's," peeped in at the door, and Mamie asked, "May I come in, Mrs. Huntley?"
"Certainly, child. Here's a fresh cookie. I suppose you're full of Christmas over at your house?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am! And I'm so sorry you don't keep it. What's the reason?"
"Don't keep it! Why, we have a regular Christmas dinner as sure as the 25th of December comes round, and Pa gives me a new dress, or something that I need, and we give Ned a suit of clothes, or shoes, or something that he needs."
"Well," said Mamie, "but I like our way best. May I tell you how we keep Christmas?"
"Talk away. I can listen."
"Well, you see, a good while before Christmas my mother begins to get ready, and I often see her hide up something quick when I come in, and then she laughs, and I think, 'Oh, yes, something's coming,' and then mother takes me in her lap and tells me how Jesus is coming, and how He did come. Do you know, Mrs. Huntley?"
"You can tell me, child?"
"You see, He came a long, long time ago as a little baby. Mamma says that he began at the beginning, so that no little child could say, 'I can't be like Jesus, for Jesus never was so little as me.' That first birthday of His, there wasn't any room for Him at the tavern, and when the dear little baby Jesus was sleepy, they laid Him right in a stable manger, and the shepherds found Him lying there. Christmas is His Birthday, and I suppose they give all the children presents because Jesus loved little children, and then Santa Claus—Oh, Mrs. Huntley, that's what I came about, and I 'most forgot! If you don't keep Christmas—I mean as we do," she added, as Mrs. Huntley frowned, "and if you don't use the things that Santa Claus leaves here, can't I come over and get 'em? Only I'd rather Ned should have 'em."
"Child alive! How your tongue runs! Here, now, take these cookies home with you, I guess Ned's too busy to play with you."
"Thank you, ma'am. And you'll remember about Santa Claus?" said little Mamie, as she walked away with her cookies.
Mrs. Huntley worked on for a few minutes longer, and then, leaving her dishes, she went to her own room and opened a bureau drawer. There lay a bright little dress and pretty white apron,—Polly's best things,—the little clothes in which she used to look so lovely. There were the last Christmas toys the mother had ever bought,—only a little tin bank, a paper cornucopia, and a doll; but she remembered that Christmas so well! Could it be that it was only three years ago? How Polly had laughed and chattered over her stocking! And Ned,—now that she thought about it,—she remembered that they bought him a pair of skates that year. He had made a great time over those skates, and had taken his little sister out to see him try to use them. Ned was so loving and gentle in those days. And then the mother's heart reproached her. Could she blame her boy because he seemed to care so little for his parents and his home, when she had nursed her grief for the loss of her baby-girl, and taken no pains to be bright or cheerful with him? She thought how clearly Mamie had told the story of the Savior's birthday. Could her boy, who was six years older, do as well? He went to Sunday-school sometimes, but she had never talked with him about Jesus—never since God took her Polly. And her eyes filled as she shut the drawer.
Mrs. Huntley went back to the kitchen, but the room seemed different to her. Ned brought in the milk, and looked at his mother curiously at hearing her say, "Thank you, Ned." Wonders would never end, Ned thought, when, after tea, she said, "Father, it's a moonlight night; couldn't you and I drive to the village? Ned will excuse our leaving him alone."
"Excuse!" When had his mother ever asked him to excuse her? And then, as mother waited for the wagon to be got ready, she asked him to read about the Savior's birth, and surely there were tears in her eyes as father came in, just as Ned read, "And they came with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger."
Mr. Huntley was bewildered, too. To start off for the village at seven o'clock in the evening! When had such a thing happened?
On the road Mrs. Huntley told her husband what Mamie had said to her, and she added, "Perhaps, as I tell it, it don't seem much, but it made me think of our Polly, and"—the woman's voice broke, and the father, saddened too, said, comfortingly, "She's safe, my dear, in heaven."
"Yes, father, but I'm thinking of the one that's left, for all I cried a little. I guess you were near right about getting him something nice. He's but a boy yet, and he'd think more of Christmas, and perhaps of the child that was born on Christmas, if we show him that Jesus has made our hearts a little more tender."
What it cost that hard, reserved woman to say that, none knew, but I think her husband felt dimly how she must have fought with herself, and he was silent for some time. At last he said, with a tone of gladness in his voice, "My dear, I'm glad to get him something. He's a good boy, Ned is."
What a pleasant time they had, and how they caught the spirit of Christmas! They bought a sled and skates, a book or two, and candies, and Mrs. Huntley found a jack-knife that was just the thing Ned wanted. Then she said to her husband:
"I'd like to buy something for Mamie. It will be nice to buy a girl's present."
Their hearts ached a little, as they chose a wonderful little wash-tub and board, with a clothes-horse to match. How Polly's eyes would have shone at these!
Meantime, Ned mused over his mother's tears and her strangely kind tones, and thought: "I wonder if she's going to be as good to me as she was to Polly! I hated to hear Mamie talk about Santa Claus. Polly used to talk just that way, and we did have such good times. I used to get skates and things at Christmas, but now I get some handkerchiefs or a lot of shirts! It makes me mad." Then Ned fell asleep, and so the mother found him. She woke him gently and he went off to bed, bewildered by more kind words.
Morning dawned and Ned hurried down to light the fire in the kitchen, but he went no further than the sitting-room. There was a sled,—a splendid one,—a pair of skates, and books! He put his hands in his pockets to take a long stare, and felt something strange in one of them. Why! There was a beautiful knife!
Mother came in and watched his face, but at sight of her the boy fairly broke down. Laying his head on her shoulder, "It's like Polly coming back," he said.
And so it was, and so it continued to be.
BOGGS SHOULD NOT HAVE HAD HIS PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN ON THANKSGIVING DAY, AND EATEN A HEARTY DINNER AFTERWARD.
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