“Buddy’s papa indeed!” This was what Mama thought of, as she laid the little boy down on his cot for a nap. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched the quiet breathing of the little lad, now far away in the still places of dreamland.
Papa indeed! Sooner or later the question must come from Buddy’s lips, and the longing of the little heart speak from the big, inquiring eyes. Buddy had never seen his daddy. Perhaps there had been unkind words and misunderstandings. The letters had come back from the Great War, and they were kind enough. But then they had ceased, and the heart was torn between the question whether Daddy had forgotten or whether something had happened to him, of which there was no report. Once or twice, to begin with, there had been a gift, but now there had been no word or message for a very long time. Mama sighed as she turned from the quiet little cot.
During these years Buddy had been a great comfort to Mama in her loneliness. Now he was approaching his fourth birthday. He was old enough to catch the Christmas idea. Certainly it had taken full possession of him. Mama had read and told the Christmas story of the Savior. Night and day he had dwelt upon its prospects. At the most unexpected moments and in the most unexpected ways he would break out with the notion of what was coming. He was all the time referring to the “Kismas Tree” and the “Kismas Time.” And now, as old, gray-headed, blind Uncle John related, he had connected the Christmas idea with the idea of Daddy. Singular what expectations may arise in the mind of a little boy. Mama stood, the tears rolling down her face, and watched the tousled head, the long, slender limbs, the high open brow, as Buddy lay in his little bed.
The following days were busy with holiday preparations. Buddy ran about in play, but came back every now and then to talk about his expectations, and to get a cooky or a piece of bread and butter. Uncle John entertained him and occupied his attention, so that Mama might be able to assist Aunt Clara and the folks about the house in their work. Uncle Martin and Uncle Will always had a word for Buddy. They brought in the wood, saw to the fires, and went out to do the chores. Sometimes Buddy went along, and always he had many things to say. The only thing was that he kept everybody busy watching him if he happened to be along.
“Me nervy,” he explained, and in saying so he was only echoing Uncle Will, who sometimes got out of patience with his antics. Uncle Martin had most patience, in listening to his many little speeches and answering his questions. Buddy inquired many times about the hanging up of stockings and other matters that seemed to him very essential in view of the coming event. On Christmas Eve he hung up his stocking, and while the family sat about, some reading papers, others busy with final preparations, he allowed Mama to rock him to sleep, while “Unc’e Don” dozed in his big chair. The evening had foretokened a storm. Uncle Will had even intimated that there were prospects of snow. Outside the wind roared, at times it even howled. The night was a dark and cloudy one. The comfort of a warm fire in a sheltered home was good indeed, as they sat about on the blustering and stormy evening of the night before Christmas.
The next morning was clear and bright. All had been very quiet, about the house. Uncle Will had looked to the fire and had been to the barn about his chores. And now, as he stamped his feet on the porch, he entered with a loud
“Merry Christmas!”
Buddy found himself crawling out of bed with wide open eyes in response to the sound of the voices calling in answer to Uncle Will.
“Mama, Mama,” he yelled, and Mama came at once on hearing that he was awake.
“Mama!—See—See—Snow—lot o’ snow!”