The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blind Tim, and other Christmas stories written for children
    
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Title: Blind Tim, and other Christmas stories written for children

Author: Charles O. Solberg

Release date: January 14, 2024 [eBook #72713]

Language: English

Original publication: Minneapolis: Augsburg publishing house

Credits: Bob Taylor, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLIND TIM, AND OTHER CHRISTMAS STORIES WRITTEN FOR CHILDREN ***





  Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_




  BLIND TIM
  _AND_
  OTHER CHRISTMAS STORIES

  WRITTEN FOR CHILDREN

  C. O. SOLBERG

  [Illustration: Decoration]

  AUGSBURG PUBLISHING HOUSE
  MINNEAPOLIS, MINN




  Copyright, 1926, by
  AUGSBURG PUBLISHING HOUSE
  MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.

  First Edition, Nov. 1926 - 1,000
  Second Edition, Feb. 1927 - 1,000
  Third Edition, Oct. 1927 - 3,000


  Printed in the U. S. A.




CONTENTS


  1. Poem—In Childhood I saw Him                                       6
     (From the Norwegian)

  2. Story—Blind Tim                                                   7
     (Four Chapters)

  3. Story—Rags                                                       33

  4. Story—A Queer Christmas Tree                                     41

  5. Story—Bigbeard and Little Sander                                 49

  6. Story—No Christmas                                               61

  7. Story—Buddy’s Christmas Tree                                     67

  8. Story—Three Pines                                                81




NOTE


_All the stories following, except the last two, have appeared at
some time in print. The plots are in the main founded upon actual
occurrence. The introductory poem is an original translation from the
Norwegian of the poem_ JEG SAA HAM SOM BARN. _The poems occurring in
the text are original and could be used as declamations._




POEM

(A TRANSLATION)


    _In childhood I saw Him, the sun in His eye,
    Thru the gleam of the rainbow above the dear hills.
    To our play as He kissed me the great stars seemed nigh,
    Yet the Cross in the forest stood somber and still._

    _Youth grew to its morning, in visions He came,
    When the spirit ranged bravely where splendor abode.
    Even death and decay in His light lost their shame,
    He beckoned me on, and still upward I strove._

    _In manhood I saw Him, when summer grew strong,
    And sin quickened to fear in the sense of His frown,
    The death thought me threatened, the shadows grew long,
    With the weight of heart-sinkings my head was bowed down._

    _First then He revealed me the wealth of His mercy,
    First then did the burden grow sweet to the soul;
    The sense of the Shepherd Compassionate gripped me,
    The Cross that stood stark had become a dear goal._

    _When the candle of life burneth low I shall see Him,
    The weakening hand I shall suppliant reach.
    Tho the heart beat is still, and the eye has gone dim,
    His kind love at the last I shall smilingly greet._




[Illustration: Decoration]

_Blind Tim_


CHAPTER ONE

_The Sunday School at the Chapel_

Already the room had become comparatively quiet. The bustle of closing
Sunday School as the children were hastening to the door was succeeded
by a surprising stillness. The teachers were now busy setting the room
in order. Miss Merton was just about to take down the big picture roll,
from which she had been teaching a juvenile class, when she heard a
piping voice. Turning, she saw the pale, hump-backed blind boy who had
joined her class some weeks since, with his cousin Louise, who led him.

“What do you want, Tim?” she asked kindly.

“Please, ma’am, can I feel o’ that picture you was telling about?”

“Oh, certainly,” exclaimed Miss Merton, touched by the appeal. She
directed the thin little hand.

“It’s a big picture,” he said. “Where’s the sheep?”

The teacher directed his hand across each portion of the picture. The
lesson had been about the Good Shepherd, and Tim insisted on every
detail. As the parable was rehearsed and his hand was directed to the
hills, the flocks, the big sheep in the foreground, the crook, and the
Shepherd, his satisfaction grew. A sigh of pleasure escaped him. By the
time that the story was done, all the teachers stood grouped about, for
all were touched at the spectacle of the crippled boy. In the few weeks
that he had attended, Tim had become greatly interested. A new world
had opened to his blind eye. And yet he had not so far learned to bow
his head at the times of prayer. For Tim had been taught none of the
actions that accompany Christian ways. He was a saloon-keeper’s son.

Out on the street corner, the teachers and several pupils stood waiting
for the street car. For this was an afternoon Sunday School at the
little chapel in the heart of the great city. North and south along the
street rose the stone fronts of the many houses, red, yellow, gray,
brown, some new and some weather-beaten. They were interspersed here
and there with a grocery, a delicatessen, a shop, or a saloon. The
side streets were lined with pretty, cheerful cottages or tall, flat
buildings—not very flat to the eye, for they were narrow and thin, even
four stories high. But so they were called in the city. The little
crippled figure led by pretty Louise, with her long curls, her handsome
coat and hat, was trudging along the concrete walls. Now and then a
carriage passed, or an auto whirred by. At last the proper car came
banging to a stop, and the group of teachers climbed in, to be carried
swiftly to their several destinations.

It was in one of these side streets that Tim found his home. Alas, he
had seldom gone far from it. He had never shared the active hustling
pleasures of boy life in the great city. From the front steps one could
see in the distance a bit of open prairie. But Tim could almost number
on his finger the times he had played on any grass except that in the
backyard. For Mr. Rudiger took great pride in his home. Its fresh,
cheery, yellow bricks were set off with white. The rear lot was green
and beautiful in summer with well-kept grass, bushes, and flowers.
But many an hour the neighbors saw the still figure of the blind boy,
seated on the front porch, his only company his thoughts or the noises
of the town. The fact that he was a saloon-keeper’s son had added deep
and tender pathos to the lonely figure.

Late that evening Tim lay curled up and dozing in the big Morris chair.
His mother sat rocking beside him. Louise had gone to bed. Tim had told
over and over again about the afternoon at the chapel.

“Oh, yes, Tim,” said his mother, “you’ve got Sunday School on the
brain.”

“Wish I could a took part in that Christmas program. S’pose I can’t.”

There was a rattle and bark outside the house. The dogs, Jim and Gyp,
set up a howl in the kennel under the porch. No, it was not brother
Alex. He had been gone since dinner.

The house was again disturbed by the homecoming of Mr. Rudiger. He
always remained in his place of business very late. He had an idea,
too, that robbers never attack a drunk man. So that he came home
tonight with the receipts of the day, singing along the alley. He had
just parted from some cronies, and came up the rear sidewalk with
somewhat uncertain steps. His big mustache looked bigger still across
his face red with excitement and with the night air. Tim was stirred up
in the chair. Louise had to get up. The dogs let people know that they
were awake. Even the parrot blinked and screeched. The house was all
lit, the table set. And long into the night Louise played and sang, and
those of the family who wanted to feasted at the table.

“Where’s that boy? Alex, I mean?” exclaimed Mr. Rudiger at last as he
looked up from the Sunday paper he had been reading. “That boy runs
everywhere.”

“Must be at Grandma’s,” answered his wife.

The house was at last quiet, and Tim tucked away in his bed. But
excited, feverish, he was unable to sleep. At such times Tim was very
quiet in the home. He little enjoyed these night festivities. Most of
the night was gone before he could sleep, and the sun was bright and
high on the day following before he was again seen in his place on the
front porch.


CHAPTER TWO

_The Visit to the Police Court_

Toward school time a group of boys hurrying by on the way to the school
room, caught sight of Tim in the sunshine on the steps. One of them
called out:

“Hello, Tim! Heard about Alex? He’s down to the Avenue Station. Got
pinched last night.”

The little lad made no answer, but the words had reached the ear of his
mother, who was busy setting the house in order, and happened to be
close to the open window. Mrs. Rudiger had been anxious all morning.
Alex had never before remained away over night without permission.
Her anxiety had grown steadily, and she was not without foreboding of
ill. With a call to Louise, who had not yet set out for school, that
she should take care of Tim, she set out for Mr. Rudiger’s place of
business.

“Oh, pshaw! Boy’s trick,” was his instant declaration. But he called
up the police station by telephone. No boy of such a name had been
arrested. He was smiling scornfully as he turned to his wife; but just
then Louise walked in, leading Tim. A message had come from Uncle
Tom. Mr. Rudiger again called up the station and found that a load of
prisoners, including some boys, had just gone away to the court. The
message might be correct. Alex may not have given his true name. As
Rudiger set out for the police court, Tim sat by him on the car. It had
proven impossible to get away from Tim. Tim loved his brother tenderly,
and a very sober look settled on the generally peaceful face. There
were but few vehicles on the street at this time, hence the car went so
fast that it soon reached the neighborhood of the court.

The police court was well filled with a queer crowd. Several
blue-coated men stood about the sidewalk, the door, and the room. The
dingy, dirty chairs were mostly filled with people not altogether
pleasant to see. Haggard faces and sour looks were on every hand.

“Is he here?” was Tim’s whisper, as he pressed his father’s hand.

It was only too true that Alex was there. On a bench lined with
prisoners, two ragged, hard-featured young fellows beside him, sat
Alex, his head bowed in shame. He had not observed the new arrivals.

Tim could smell the stale tobacco. It did not need eyes to show him the
dirty, overloaded spittoons. He could not see the high and dirty walls,
the smoky ceiling all littered with cobwebs, the windows that had known
no other cleaning but the dirty rain in many a day. The gas burned
dimly over the desks and above, for the day was cloudy. The air was too
bad for the light to burn clearly. Nor could he see the long, low desk,
and the judge who sat with other court officials about him.

A case was called which did not at the moment interest him, but at
which his father drew a quick breath. One of the boys at Alex’s side
was called forward, the charges read, and testimony taken.

A hold-up! There was reason why Mr. Rudiger should start. A short
examination revealed that the boy had been several times in court
before. A leer and grin were on his face as he took his seat. The
other of Alex’s companions was called, and the situation seemed much
the same. He carried a dark and rebellious look as if he felt himself
outrageously treated, and would say little.

Tim did not realize that Alex had been called until he heard his
brother’s voice. At the word, he grasped his father’s hand in
agitation, and slipped down from the seat. He stood by his father’s
knee as Alex gave his testimony.

“Now,” said the judge, “tell us the truth.” He spoke kindly, and
his look was encouraging, for he saw the boy was not of the class
represented in the other two.

“We went down to Frost Street about dark,” said Alex, “near the
crossing of the railroad, and stands there in a shady place. Soon there
comes along a feller, and one of the boys he steps out and shows the
gun, and the other goes thru his clothes. Then we starts up a alley
by a big factory and cuts across to Grant Avenue. When we was walkin’
along, Pete sees some fellers across the street, and he says, ‘Plain
clothes,’ joking like. Mike only laughs. Soon we comes to the corner
of Baldwin Place, where there is an old yard for scrap iron and such
things with a high fence all ’round. We was talkin’ and countin’ what
was in the pocketbook, when the gates opened, and there was the
plainclothes men, ready for us.”

Cross-examination brought out the fact that Alex had never before
shared in such an undertaking. That he had gotten in with his
associates at Sunday ball games, and had entered upon the plan for a
lark. The judge then began to ask about his home and parents, but the
answers were not willing. Tim suddenly stumbled his way forward, and
before the astonished court the blind, crippled boy took his place by
the side of Alex. He felt about until he found Alex.

“And who are you, my little man?” asked the judge.

“Please, sir, Alex is my brother.”

“And what’s your name?” At this Mr. Rudiger was compelled to present
himself, and Alex’s identity was made clear. He tried to lead Tim away,
but the judge interposed.

“Please, Judge,” said Tim, “Alex is my brother. We didn’t know where
he was last night. I’m sure Alex didn’t mean no harm. He’s my only
brother. I knowed they wasn’t good boys that was with him, ’cause I
heard ’em talking with Alex. I’m blind and nobody asks me to come
anyw’ere, but there’s lots of things to lead a boy where he oughtn’t to
go. Alex helps me, Judge, ’cause I can’t see. Please, Judge, let him
go this time, and I know he won’t do it again.”

The queer spectacle of the two lads, one tall and manly in form but
bent with shame, the other crippled and weak, standing in the presence
of the court hand in hand, drew every eye. The high, thin voice was
heard distinctly in its plea, for the crowd was silent. The big,
glowing, but sightless eyes were filled with earnestness, and finally a
few tears began to trickle unheeded down across the weazened face.

“You’re quite a lawyer, my boy,” said the judge as he leaned back in
his chair and looked at the two.

“Yes, Tim,” he continued after a moment, “if Alex will promise to keep
out of mischief I will let him go this time.” There was a movement of
satisfaction in the crowd. Alex’s two associates scowled, for they did
not like it.

“And you are in the saloon business, Mr. Rudiger?” asked the judge.
“The business you are in makes it impossible for you to bring up a boy
rightly, either in the city or out of it. You may make an easy living,
sir, but you are putting a fearful handicap upon your boys. As for this
one,” said he, pointing to Tim, “God has mercifully sheltered him from
the evil influences of this world, and in that fact he is fortunate,
deformed as he may be in body and lacking in sight.”

“Yes, sir,” said the judge in answer to a mumbled reply by Mr. Rudiger,
“it’s your business, and I wouldn’t have your responsibility for all
the world. That,” said he, pointing to Tim, “is the only kind of boy
you ought to have. Case dismissed.” The chair creaked as the judge
turned about and directed his attention to other affairs.

Nothing could measure the joy of Tim as he accompanied father and
brother home. He insisted on being first to enter the house, trembling
in his eagerness. But his mother was too overcome with shame to respond
to the innocent lad. Alex was shamefaced and silent, and for a week or
so scarcely showed himself on the street. Tim was very happy in his
brother’s company. They rolled and tossed in their play with the dogs,
and Alex took him riding in a wagon up and down the sheltered alley.

But as time passed much occurred to trouble Tim. He had understood only
the misfortune that had come upon his brother. Soon the unkind taunts
upon the street taught him what shame meant. The bitter anger and
even tears of Alex and the insults of the street boys impressed Tim
very sadly. When Alex soon resumed his running about in spite of his
promises, and was impudent to his mother when she protested, he was
painfully perplexed. Then, too, little by little he came to see that
his father’s business was not respected, and the fact gave rise to many
sad thoughts in the heart of the little blind boy.


CHAPTER THREE

_Tim Is Hurt_

It was a bright Saturday morning. The sun shone down from a clear sky,
and as its glowing ball hung mideast, the rays beat with steady cheer
along the gray line of asphalt pavement. It shone along the steel rails
of the street-car track, worn bright by the constant passing of the
cars. Earlier a gray mist had made all dim. Have you ever watched how
the coming of the morning light, as it gradually brightens, changes a
morning mist from the darkness as of clouds to a light, transparent
film, which is almost ghastly? So on this morning the full light of day
had come, not with one splendid outburst, as when the sun rises on a
clear sky, but gradually, and it was not until several hours were gone
that one fully realized that it was day.

Now the sun smiled in upon every dingy shop and store. No less than
its cheer upon a mild winter day was the cheer and bustle of Christmas
trade up and down the avenue. In the little show-window were crowded
all the toys that little boys and girls love to look at. Along the
walks here and there were to be seen masses of evergreen, where the
grocer was displaying his stock of trees. But brighter even than the
day, for no snow lay on the ground and it even seemed warm; brighter
even than the good cheer of the shopkeeper, who sang out a welcome the
minute you stepped into the door, came out rubbing his hands, and ready
to tell about the wonderful articles he had to sell; brighter still was
the good cheer of the children at their play. How happy they were in
their Saturday freedom! How happy too, in their Christmas expectations.
A company of them had gathered at a certain street crossing on the
avenue described and were shouting and running merrily. It was tag and
safe, shouts, jumps, and running. They were utterly fearless. And the
driver shouted as they dashed under the very noses of the horses, and
the motor-man scowled because it was the only thing he had time to do
as they rushed past in front of his car.

This particular day had brought joy to the heart of little Tim, also.
Louise had led him over to the busy street, and he was now seated on
the horse block in front of a house at the crossing mentioned above.
Mama had gone away on one of those mysterious journeys mamas will make
before Christmas.

Alex was among the boys and girls who were running and shouting about
the street, and Tim’s face shone as he sat, looking intent but seeing
nothing, and yet following keenly every movement and sound. He smiled
to the passer-by and shouted to the children at play. Every now and
then some one came near and spoke to him. Miss Merton, his smiling
teacher at the Sunday School, happened to pass by, and of course patted
him on the head and spoke.

No street-car had passed for some time. There was some delay up the
line. A small crowd of people had collected who wanted to go down town.
They watched the play as they waited. Suddenly one of the boys, who had
noticed the waiting people called out:

“There she comes!”

“Must a been some trouble,” said another.

“Aw—you’re a slow one!” shouted a little fellow, shaking his fist
toward the car, which came hustling down the slope of the long hill,
bounding along as if by jumps, behind time and in a hurry. Suddenly,
just as the car approached the crossing, a wagon drove in from the
cross street.

Clang, clang, clang!

Loud were the cries of warning. Jerk! Back the horses leaped, almost
upon their haunches, as the driver sought frantically to avoid a
smash-up. Frantically the motor-man jerked at the brake. Under the
sudden restraint the car jumped the rails, and ran down along the
smooth pavement. There were wild shouts, shrieks, and groans. Then
perfect silence, as motor-man and conductor jumped down and ran
forward, and the people in the car hurried off. The car had sped along
until it struck the very horseblock on which little Tim was seated.

There was a rush of people as the crowd gathered about the senseless,
bleeding figure. The motor-man and many willing helpers lifted the car,
while the conductor picked up the injured boy. But he was scarcely
able to find room to lay down the burden. Someone brought a blanket to
put under him on the cold ground. All were elbowing and pushing and
talking, when a burly policeman pushed his way in.

“Back, back, please!” were his orders. “Whose boy is it?”

“I know, I know,” were the answers. Some gave his name, some the name
of his father, and his business, and others told about the boy. Some
volunteered to run for his father. But while the hurly-burly of talk
was going on, Alex had already run for help, and in a moment Mr.
Rudiger pushed his way into the crowd.

Many stood in silence and watched as Mr. Rudiger carried the injured
and still unconscious boy across the street and stepped in at the door.
The policeman helped him, and soon they were upstairs in the doctor’s
office. The attention of the crowd was then given to the work of the
street-car men as they prepared to get the car back on the rails, in
which they finally succeeded. There was much talk and speculation.
This work was not yet done, when Mr. Rudiger came out of the street
door, together with the policeman and the doctor, and set out for
home, carrying Tim in his arms. The boy had not yet come to. From all
appearances he seemed to be very seriously hurt. The news went up and
down the street that little Tim Rudiger was killed. All sorts of rumors
went about. And it was as tho the sunlight had left the street, for all
were saddened by the misfortune of the blind cripple boy.


CHAPTER FOUR

_Tim’s Christmas_

In the days that followed, the shades were drawn low in the pleasant
cottage home that had sheltered little Tim all his days. One of the
dogs, which was inclined to be noisy, and even the parrot, were taken
away. On the sidewalks between the houses, the neighbors walked on
tiptoe. Indeed, all the people round about felt deeply for the little
cripple. On the avenue people stepped in to ask his papa about him. And
from the windows of houses neighboring to his home many eyes looked out
to see how long the doctor stopped each day.

At first Tim’s mama had been almost overcome. She had come home on
that sad day with several packages of presents. Especially she had had
delivered a very pretty cart with a very good seat, blue box and red
wheels, and plush cushion, a gift for Tim, so that Louise could take
him out riding. And for some days it stood beside his bed. They did
not wait for Christmas, but held it up to him that he might feel of it.

“You must get well, Tim, so that you can ride in it,” they said. But
he answered nothing. No, Tim would not be able to use it,—no, not
for Christmas at any rate. It was too bad. Everything was done that
money could provide and that love could imagine in order to comfort
and encourage the little sick cripple. Tim had always been pale and
thin. Now he was much more so. His eyes glistened at times, not with
animation but with fever-light. His cheeks were pink too, but it was
not a natural glow. All his pains he bore very patiently.

Already it was getting dark. The lights twinkled along the streets.
In the quiet of the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Rudiger had sat by Tim’s
bedside. She was almost dozing in the stillness. Suddenly there was a
rap. Three sturdy little strangers stood at the door, big-eyed, one of
them carrying a bouquet.

“Does Tim what was hurt live here, ma’am?”

“Why, yes.”

“We bring’d some flowers, ma’am, from the Sunday school. Tim’s in our
class. Yes’m, teacher sent us.” The little fellows waddled in, very
dignified, each cap in hand. For some minutes they stood by the bed.
Not a word was said. Soon they whispered and beckoned. How it was done
no one could tell, but they understood that they were to leave.

“Please, ma’am, tell Tim we was here. Pale, ain’t he?” said the
biggest, who had carried the flowers and so felt himself leader and
spokesman. It was interesting to watch the three little figures as they
walked along down the street. Serious little men!

One day as Tim opened his eyes from a nap he heard some one speaking
softly with his mother. Over his face there passed a sweet smile of
welcome. It was his teacher. She had called, and had been talking with
his mother for some time.

“Awful glad to see you.” He tried to smile and to reach out his hand
for her to take.

“Yes, Tim,” said she. After a few words he began to ask about the
Sunday School and his class.

“Yes, Tim, they were all there except you. The flowers? Yes, they
wanted to send them to you. Little Henry brought them. He was always
good to you, you know. Bennie and Oscar were with him. The lesson? Oh,
yes. It was about the three Kings. You know there were three wise men,
kings, in the East. They saw a star, and somehow God told them that
they should follow it. They followed it over deserts and mountains a
long way until they came to Jerusalem. There they went to Herod and
asked: ‘Where is He that should be born king of the Jews?’”

“A star? Way up in the sky?”

“Yes, indeed. And when they found out that Jesus was to be born in
Bethlehem, they set out to go there, and lo, the star went on before
them and brought them right to the place.

“Yes, Tim, that’s why we put stars on Christmas trees. Indeed, we’ll
have a beautiful one on the very tip-top of the tree.”

Tim lay thinking long about this story and about the star after Miss
Merton was gone.

One night Tim seemed very feverish and restless. He tossed about as far
as his soreness and stiffness would allow. He was getting very sore now
from lying in bed so long.

“I’m awful sorry I can’t go to church to the Christmas tree, Papa,” he
said.

“It’s too bad, Tim. You must try to be quiet and sleep now.”

“Christ was born on Christmas night,” said Tim earnestly. “I was to
speak a verse. They won’t have that verse now, will they?”

“Oh, they’ll find some way,” said his papa.

“The tree will be lovely, teacher said. Popcorn—and oranges—and things
that shine—and angels—and stars.”

“And see”—he reached out and felt around. Yes, he found and held up a
pretty angel figure. It was of paper and very light, but too heavy for
Tim. “Angels like this, too.” He laid it down with a sigh.

“Wish I could be there.” A look of wistful sorrow passed over his face.
He whispered almost rather than spoke. His papa, sitting by the bed,
had to lean over in order to hear him.

“But Tim, you couldn’t see it anyway. Why should you be there?”

“Couldn’t see?” The lad moved quickly as he exclaimed, “I ought to
hear them. Why shouldn’t I? Jesus came as a little child. He loved me.
And when He came they put Him in a stable. And when He grew big, He
went out and preached salvation, and they crucified Him. He died for
me. And when I die, I shall go to heaven. Cause I ought to be there.
All the little children should. If I was in church I could show Jesus
how I love Him. He wants me to be glad on Christmas.” Tim fell back
exhausted and was quiet.

The excitement seemed to have been good for the sick boy, for as he
quieted down he fell asleep. Far into the night they sat by his bed,
for the doctor had told them that Tim was very sick. Louise and Alex,
Mama and Papa were there. Tim had mourned that he could not be in
church for Christmas and show Jesus his love and joy. But that night
the doors of a better church and a better home swung open for him. And
with the little thin paper angel lying by him on the bed, the blind
cripple slept away and went to keep holiday in heaven above. On that
night, I think, he could see for the first time, and something better
than a Christmas tree at that.

We might tell more of this story; of how Tim’s class in Sunday School
walked by the coffin for the last time to see his face; of his sad
burial on that cold winter day; of how sympathetic people said that it
was better for the blind cripple to die than to live. We might say that
his mama learned the way to church; that Mr. Rudiger became a better
man; that Alex grew up to be a good boy; that Louise was one of the
most faithful girls in that Sunday School. If we could, we should also
be able to say that Tim had not lived in vain. Let us hope so.

And why does God so early take away from this world to Himself little
boys and girls? Let us see. The farmer takes from the bin a handful of
kernels. “Fine wheat,” says he, as he blows away part of the grain so
as to take a better look at what is left. It is the lightest kernels
that flee, and as he looks intently upon the few that yet lie in his
palm, he observes that one is plump and fair and another shriveled. Yet
the shriveled kernel might happen to yield the finest growth and bear
the amplest fruit. So perhaps it was with the little blind cripple of
No. 316 Blank Street.


The End.




[Illustration: Decoration]

“_Rags_”


“Rags” was not present. The boys did not miss him much, to be sure. Mr.
Benson, their good old, gray-haired teacher, had brought the lad to the
Sunday School about six months before, and until lately he had been
present almost every Sunday. But Bob Jerrold had found not one friend
among the members of his class.

He had gotten his nickname at the district school. The first time he
came he had been dressed in queer old clothes, mostly notable because
they were very ragged; and his garments had remained in the same
condition until the children fixed upon the word “Rags” as his most
appropriate name.

Not all boys begin life with an equally happy lot. Bob Jerrold was
among the unfortunate. His father was a drunken good-for-naught, and
his mother was a careless slattern and a boy is very apt to take after
his parents. Moreover, his parents had long been despised by all the
community as the very worst and lowest of people, a disgrace to the
neighborhood. Nobody looked for any good in Bob. So it happened that
Bob had to fight his way amid insult and abuse that his parents had
earned for him.

One day a company of school children came by the tumble-down old place
that the Jerrolds called home. Catching sight of Bob out by the barn on
a hay-stack, someone threw a snowball. There was a loud laugh.

“Rags, Rags, Rags!” yelled the whole company.

“Want to fight?” yelled one of the rougher boys.

“He dassen’t. He might tear his clothes,” answered another.

Bob dropped his fork and began to dodge and throw back. He had
recognized some of the members of his Sunday School class among the
company.

At this moment there was a jingle of bells, and Mr. Benson drove up
with his sleigh. The youngsters all piled in gleefully, and were soon
riding merrily down the road.

When Bob failed to appear in his place in the class next Sunday
morning, and that for the second time, his teacher became anxious. He
pitied the boy in his unhappy surroundings. He had been trying hard
to keep the lad in Sunday School, but he knew how hard the struggle
was for Bob. The good work now seemed at an end. Bob might be poor
and ragged, and might fight his way in school, but on Sunday it was
different. He could bear rags and shame and insult. But even he had
some pride, and he refused to sit in a class together with boys who did
not want him. After much effort, however, Mr. Benson persuaded him to
be present at the Christmas entertainment and speak the piece that had
been assigned him.

Christmas night came. The church was packed with happy people. Two
beautiful evergreen trees were the center of attraction. Between them
was an arch, on which were the words “Peace on earth, good will among
men.” The exercises passed off cheerily, and even Bob, as he sat
beside his teacher, dressed in a suit that some friend had given him,
could not but catch the spirit of joy and good cheer that shone from
the happy faces of the boys and girls about him. For every lad and
lassie will agree when we say that there is no happiness like the glad
anticipations of Christmas.

And nothing is so catching, you know, as the happy heart.

To Bob all this was a dream. Suddenly the minister, who had gone before
the audience, called his name. At first he shrank back, frightened;
but a smile from Mr. Benson reassured him, and he stepped upon the
platform. The glitter of the lights dazzled his eyes, and the stare of
the many people made him tremble. But he raised his head defiantly and
began:

    _He came of old to Bethlehem,
    The Christ of Mary born;
    He came to save sin-laden men,
    Sad, suffering, and lorn._

    _The seraph throng the heavens along
    Hymned their divine acclaim;
    The Orient three on lowly knee
    Bent by the manger fane._

    _Well worthy was the Royal One
    Angelic minstrelsy.
    Dull earth took up the praise begun
    With holy ecstasy._

    _The burly log and rugged stone
    Were gentle to the Babe;
    The manger bare had tender care
    Where Jesus Child was laid._

    _But no one brought with reverent thought
    More grateful worship then,
    Nor offered there a larger share
    Than the rude shepherd men._

    _And since the night celestial light
    Dawned upon Judah’s hills
    The holy Babe his home hath made
    In humble places still._

    _And since the herdsmen, angel-sent,
    Sought eagerly the town,
    No human one, poor and undone,
    Hath vainly knelt him down._

The dead silence that followed as Bob returned to his seat was followed
by a hum of surprise. Who was that? That Bob Jerrold? Was it possible?
The change in the lad when properly dressed was itself surprising. But
the full tone and clear voice of the boy, the deep feeling with which
he said each word, all contributed to draw sympathy about him.

The program was soon over, and the merry bells were jingling on the
starlit Christmas night as Bob trudged homeward. In his hands he bore
some gifts, too, a thing rather new to him. Altogether his heart was
filled with gladness.

A few days later, James and Charlie, two lads from the Sunday School
class, in passing by the humble home of the Jerrolds climbed the fence
to see Bob, who was by the stables, mending a sled. Bob paused as the
unexpected visitors approached, perhaps thinking they were there to
tease him as had been usual.

“Hello, Bob,” called James. “Mending your sled? Can we help you? How
did you break it?”

Of course, there was something said about traps and sports and skating
and coasting. Many confidences were exchanged.

As they were to leave, both visitors suddenly looked uncomfortable, as
tho neither knew what to say. Then James exclaimed:

“Oh, say, Bob, you haven’t been to Sunday School for a while.” Bob did
not answer.

“Yes,” added Charlie, “the boys thought you spoke fine at the Christmas
festival, and they’d like to have you come back.”

“’Cause,” said James, “Mr. Benson said the Christmas message was
‘Good-will among men,’ and he would like awful well for you to come,
too. He’s a fine teacher, he is. We all like him.”

Bob glanced up suddenly. Mr. Benson had found a tender place in Bob’s
heart, too, and he murmured something to the effect that he guessed he
might come.

Thus Mr. Benson induced the boys to make up with Bob, and as a result
he again entered the Sunday School. And where he had formerly met
with scorn and abuse he now found a growing friendship, and you may
well believe that the good-will of his fellows means much even to the
humblest lad. The Christmas spirit came to that class and to that
school with great blessing, but especially so to Bob Jerrold. Thus if
the Christmas blessing comes truly home to our hearts, it will mend
many a ragged place, and instead among our boys we shall find the whole
cloth of manly-heartedness and Christian love.




[Illustration: Decoration]

_A Queer Christmas Tree_


Again the holiday season had come to the great and turbulent city. On
the streets were hurrying throngs of shoppers. About the hotels and
public houses cheerful-faced people came and went in unwonted numbers.
Even the weariness of long and hard days of work could not wholly drive
away the air of gladness from the busy clerks in the big department
stores and in the little shops. The butcher, the baker, and the grocer
were doing their best to bring what the good housewife wanted. The big
delivery wagon, overloaded with packages of all sorts, shapes, sizes
and suggestions, rattled busily from house to house. And the little boy
caught with ecstasy the sight of a hobby horse’s heel, and the little
girl of the doll’s nose peering warily out of the paper. How sharp the
eyes of little boys and girls are at Christmas time.

“Is this where Mrs. Asleson lives?”

Thru the narrowly opened door a round, fat, rather homely face looked
out. The man scowled into the dark. Perhaps he was not cross, but only
trying to make out the figure in the dim light of the hall. A narrow
window opposite the stairs let in a few struggling, very feeble rays.
It faced blank up a nearby brick wall. Slowly the eye made out the
figure of a rather young man with a basket on his arm.

Whether the man scowled or not was settled by his gruff, “Other door!”

“Thank you, thank you, sir,” answered Frank cheerily. “You’re done
brown as a turkey with Christmas good nature, sir.” He spoke none too
soon as the door banged shut.

Frank Wilson was employed at a grocery store some distance down the
street. His brown eyes flashed merrily as he hurried from customer to
customer, from salt to celery, from potatoes to lemons. The people
liked to trade with him because he was so willing. He was just
delivering a basket at the rear flat on the fourth floor of a tall
tenement. His breath was still coming by jerks from the climb as he
rapped at the “other door.” After a moment of perfect stillness the
lock rattled, the knob turned, and the door opened as a little boy
said:

“Who’s there?”

“Mrs. Asleson live here?”

“Ain’t home.”

“I’ve got a Christmas basket for her.”

At the magic word Christmas the door swung back, and a queer scene was
revealed to the surprised gaze of the grocery boy.

“You all belong to Mrs. Asleson?” asked Frank as he set the basket on
the table and pinched a little youngster. The group drew back. “Red,
black, yellow, brown! Well, well—who’s the canary?” he continued, as
he gave a whistle and looked around at the blinking youngsters. “Talk
about your Indian chief!”

“I belong down stairs, Mister,” said one of the little girls.

The group was remarkable. Even aside from the dirty marks accumulated
with a day of play. The young girl who had spoken was red-haired.
The little tot in kirtles had golden locks, rather almost white. The
other little girl had dark curls. While the two boys, brown-haired
and blue-eyed, were enough alike to look like the brothers they were,
except that the larger had an amount of freckles such as the younger
had not found time to acquire. The four were the widow’s children.

“Hello!” exclaimed the grocery boy, “what have you got here?”

“Christmas tree,” said Freckles.

“Of all things!” Frank dropped on a chair. A Christmas tree! In a
small-sized tub set on the middle of the floor, full of clothes and
anything that might help support, stood a broom, brush in the air. It
was ornamented with scraps of colored tissue paper, while from the top
stood a bit of candle, burning sweetly and brightly. The girl with
the black curls reached up and put it out, to save candle, no doubt.
And yet Frank felt in no laughing mood for the moment. His heart was
touched, and touched deeply.

“What’s that?” asked Maggie, tallest of the girls, as she pointed to
the basket.

“That? Oh, I guess I’m Santa Claus this time, all right. Is your mama
away?”

“She’s workin’,” vouchsafed the boy, number two for size, and scared at
his own boldness, withdrew behind his sister.

“You don’t say. Where’s your freckles?” asked Frank as he snatched at
the hiding boy. “Well, never mind, time’ll mend that. You’ll get them.
I thought you were all singing?”

“Christmas songs,” was the answer.

“Good. Round the tree? Let’s have another.” And in a moment Frank with
the five children of assorted shades and sizes, and in that doubtful
shade of cleanness children will sometimes put on, was marching and
dancing around the tree, hand in hand. Before they knew it they were
all together singing a Christmas song, and shouting with glee, all
forgetful of the basket. Frank, laughing and out of breath, had just
picked up the smallest child, and they had begun to march around the
room, shouting in chorus, when a loud sound broke upon their ears.

Bim, bam, boom! How the big cathedral bell sounds out over the city!
Above the noise and clatter of the street, over the passing crowd,
in and out among the tall buildings and little cottages that snuggle
between, up and down the alleys and avenues, the mighty ringing goes
forth. Above the very mist and smoke that bedims the air rises the tall
spire with its heavily buttressed tower. Have you ever climbed the
tall ladders far up into the belfry? Far down below, the men pull the
ropes, and out from the huge latticed windows rolls forth the volume of
sound. Three bells there are that chime out upon the fading day. So
strong are they and vibrant with melody that the tower trembles. Even
the cement walks and asphalt pavements seem to quiver under the heavy
strokes of the bell.

As Frank opened the window the children with him crowded about. Over
the gravelled roofs and dusty housetops came the welling music. It beat
about the trembling stones, rolled in great billows over the house,
searched out every nook and cranny that promised entrance. About the
doors it gathered and quivered as tho ready to shake them from their
hinges. Who could think that thin glass could have withstood such
onslaught.

Bim-m-m! Ba-m-m! Boom! Christmas bells. “What a world of happiness
their harmony foretells.” All silent, entranced with the splendid music
of the cathedral chimes, Frank with the children still stood before
the open window. They had not observed the click of the door. As they
turned about they saw Mrs. Asleson standing in surprise beside the
table. She was just about to exclaim at the children for leaving the
door unbarred when she paused in surprise at the basket on the table
and the stranger standing by the window.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Frank. “But I came up here with
that basket. It was ordered from the store by the ladies from the
church down the street, and I forgot myself looking at the children’s
Christmas tree. Besides, ma’am, the chimes are glorious up here on the
fourth floor corner flat. Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

“Basket for me?” exclaimed the widow in pleased surprise. Her profuse
gratitude was interrupted by the welcome of the children and their
eager desire to know the contents of the basket. As he hurried down the
stairs to the work which he had almost forgotten, Frank felt that it
was truly blessed to give.

“If those folks knew how much good they did with that basket, they’d be
happy,” was his comment.

About the table the little ones crowded as mother took out the packages
of necessities as well as of Christmas goodies. Their exclamations of
joy were many. Nor least of all, when a very suitable gift appeared for
each of the little folks, the brown-haired boys, little tow-head, and
sister with the dusky curls. And each little heart felt that they had
not sung in vain about the broom as a Christmas tree; but that the Lord
Christ had known to bless the faith of a little child. And a prayer of
fervent thanksgiving arose, as the good mother saw joy shine in the
forlorn home of the widow on that night, all because a kindly heart had
gone forth in sympathy to her loneliness and her need.




[Illustration: Decoration]

_Bigbeard and Little Sander_


“Christmas ain’t nothin’ ’out snow!”

Sander was a trifle too scornful in his tone. Now do not misunderstand
him. For Sander, you see, was a lad eight years of age. And this was
the first time he had seen bare earth so late in the winter. At least
he thought so. But you will admit that his experience was limited.
Besides, today was his birthday, and Christmas Eve too. Very poor
birthday it promised to be, for Mama and Papa were just getting ready
to drive off on a long journey to town.

For you must not imagine that this little man lives in some fine
large house on the avenue or in some tall flat building in the city!
Early last spring he had slipped off the train at a most forlorn
little station far up in the frontier. As his eyes looked out that
morning over the bare prairie, broken only by the rolling hills, with
a struggling tree to be seen here and there, he jumped and frisked.
The sun was just coming up, and the light glistened on the dewy grass.
What little boy would not have enjoyed the long ride “over hills, over
dale,” until they reached the clump of trees on a level spot by the
river; Antelope it was called. This name the Indians had very probably
given it long ago. Probably, too, they had encamped on this very spot;
for who knows when the bubbling spring just below the hollow had begun
to flow, and to draw to its freshness both man and beast. There was
charm in the very word Indian, to say the least.

And now the summer was gone. At first they had lived in a tent. When
Sander awoke in the morning, if it were quiet enough, he could hear
the little birds hopping on the canvas roof. For a while there was
hammering and building. Then the sod was cut from a grassy place down
by the river, and what with the earth-wall without and the white-wash
within they had a cozy dwelling. The vegetables and such crops as they
had raised were gathered. The horses and the two cows were stabled. The
days passed merrily and busily. There were many new things to see and
learn and try. And already winter was here, Christmas Eve, really. And
Papa and Mama were just climbing into the wagon for the long drive to
Somerset, the railway station with its store or two, some twenty miles
away. Mama cast back an anxious look, for it was risky to leave a lad
eight years old for all day alone in such a place. But a birthday cake
stood ready on the shelf. And the little fellow whistled manfully at
the confidence being shown in him. Indeed, he was not afraid. He would
feed and water old Molly, the cow.

About four o’clock in the afternoon Sander looked up from the slate
on which he had been making pictures. It was very dark. Stepping to
the door he looked out. Why, Mama and Papa must be on the way home!
Cloudy? Yes, cloudy and beginning to blow. Snow flakes! Jolly! Snow for
Christmas! He shouted for very glee and danced on the doorstep. But a
great gust almost tumbled him back into the room. Hurriedly he closed
the door. Then he went out to the stable, but soon returned. As he lit
the lamp, even little Sander, for all his birthday, realized that a
storm was on, and wondered how Mama and Papa would get along. And well
might he wonder, for the wind was beginning to roar in the trees and
rattle the door. The snow was thick, and it became very suddenly dark.
A frontier storm of snow and wind, a blizzard such as Sander had never
seen, such as the oldest had very seldom seen, was come, and even a
little boy could not help a feeling of dread. Now he listened at the
door, now he looked out at the window, now he stirred the fire and
shivered. And the moments began to get very long. You would hardly know
in the lad who wipes away the tear over by the bed the lad who whistled
so manfully in the bright morning.

Some two or three hours later Sander slipped down from the chair on
which he had been perched for some minutes. What was that? A noise?
Somebody at the window? Joyfully he ran to the door. The gust that
swept it open blew out the lamp. Somebody came stamping in.

“Well, not your papa I guess. Got a match, boy?” said a snowy figure in
a muffled voice.

They had shut the door. By the stove gleam Sander saw two men. After
some fumbling one of them found a match and struck it. In the light two
strangers were seen busily brushing off the snow. One, big and burly,
was rubbing the ice off his whiskers and blinking under icy and shaggy
eyebrows. In a short time the big man and the youth stood warming
themselves.

“Just in time, boy,” said he of the beard, “just in time. God is good.
We were lost for sure. God only knows what would have happened if we
hadn’t stumbled on this house. My boy, are you all alone here?”

Sander explained. He was still wondering at the men. In fact, he stood
by the bed a little scared at the strange folks tumbling this way out
of the night.

“Your parents coming from Somerset tonight?” At the tone of the big
man’s voice Sander looked up. What was the matter?

Not much later the men were about to sit down by the table and eat
of the lunch found in their packs. The tea kettle had been singing
cheerfully and the fire was humming. There was need both of food and
heat. Sander was shivering. He wondered at the men, for they bent low
over their plates and said something about “thanks and praise.” The tea
had just been poured when there was a thump at the door followed by
several more. Sander jumped from his chair, exclaiming. “Mama! Papa!”

While the young man shielded the lamp Bigbeard opened the door. An
exhausted woman fell forward into the room, dragging two children with
her.

“Rescue party right here,” cried Bigbeard, as he banged the door. Soon
they were busy unwrapping the wanderers and setting them by the fire.
It was not Sander’s parents, but a schoolma’m and two of her pupils.
The smallest boy had his feet partly frozen, and the girl a hand and a
foot. When they looked up after the snow bathing, rubbing, and warming,
and putting to bed it was almost midnight. The schoolma’m could speak
now. They had wandered for a long distance.

“Alas, if I had only closed school earlier!” She sobbed at the thought.
“Where are the other children! But who would have thought? It was so
warm and bright and clear, and then just after four o’clock such a
storm!”

“We cannot be too thankful for our escape,” said Bigbeard. “The Lord
has saved us from the storm. Perhaps now we had better eat a bit. But,
boy, how about your mama and papa?”

“Oh, they’re safe enough, I hope.”

Sander did not propose to fall short in hospitality. He now brought
something from the cupboard. “My birthday cake,” he explained.

“What! On Christmas Eve, too?” exclaimed the young man.

“And how old are you, Sander?” asked the schoolma’m. For teachers
always want to know about such matters.

But let us make a long story short. And it was a very long story to
Sander. All that night the wind roared and howled. Snow seemed to get
in everywhere. The stove glowed with heat, yet all were shivering.
Every time Bigbeard put in a fresh chunk of coal he said a word of
thanksgiving.

“Good coal never was a bigger blessing than this night. God care for
the man who brought it here,” was his ejaculation. And then he would
sit down once more. And when he saw that Sander, the little host, was
at last getting sleepy, too tired to keep awake any longer, he pulled
a Testament out of his pocket. They all sat about the table, this odd
circle of strangers who had never before met nor even seen each other,
and, as beasts that flee for safety to some cave or swamp are friendly
in their common danger tho ever so hostile otherwise, were together,
drawn into fellowship by singular bonds of charity in this sod hut
amid the storm. The young man Bigbeard called John, and the teacher’s
name was Miss Stone. Sander, wide-eyed with fear and wonder, was still
sleepily waiting for his parents. The other children were in bed and
asleep.

Bigbeard opened his Testament and all bowed their heads devoutly as he
read from the holy pages the lesson so appropriate for the hour:

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields,
keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord
came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and
they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not; for,
behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all
people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior,
which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: ye shall
find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And
suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host
praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, good will toward men. And it came to pass as the angels were
gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let
us go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass,
which the Lord had made known to us. And they came with haste, and
found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.”

When he had read these words Bigbeard closed the book, laid it on the
table, and said, “Let us pray.” And all bent reverently as he spoke:

“O Lord God, Heavenly Father, Thou great Shepherd of the sheep, Thou
who never failest Thy people in their need, we thank Thee that on this
night Thou didst send Jesus Thy Son to earth, that He might live and
die to be our Savior and Helper forever. And we pray Thee that Thou,
who dost temper the winds to the shorn lamb, wilt this night care for
the lost and wandering who are in the storm. We thank Thee for this
present safety. Graciously keep Sander’s father and mother from all
harm. Keep us now and forever from any storm of evil and temptation,
and, because we are the weak children of sin and death, bring us at
last into the sweet safety, warmth, and joy of heaven, out of this
world of cold and sorrow. As the shepherds went with gladness to the
manger on the first Christmas Eve, lead our hearts with joy to Jesus
this night. We ask all blessings in His name. Amen.” And we might add
that Sander slept very sweetly that night for all his trouble.

Bang! Bang!!

It seems that even Bigbeard had nodded, as he sat by the fire, tending
it from time to time. Certainly at the noise Sander opened his eyes out
of a dream, sat up and rubbed them, to become aware of bright daylight.
The noise at the door had awakened all. And they were on their feet
stirring when the lad crept out of bed. Another thump or two, and thru
the open door in came Sander’s mama and papa all frost—with the morning
cold. Imagine their surprise and joy to find their little boy safe, and
their sod hut a rescue home amid the broad prairie. The sun now beamed
as tho he never had set with an angry frown, and all nature was still
with the serene calm which comes after the terrific storm. The cold was
nipping but the day was cheery. And as Sander’s mama bustled about for
breakfast, all told their several stories. The night had been an awful
one, and the papers were later to bring the sad tale of how more than a
hundred school children had perished in the cold.

And when they had all eaten a good breakfast, and Papa and Mama had
told how they had put up at a house on the way to save being lost,
trusting to a higher help for the keeping of their little Sander,
Bigbeard again read a lesson and prayed, and there were tears, not of
fear but of thanksgiving. For Bigbeard was not only a good man with
whiskers, black and long, but was a missionary, who had gone forth to
seek the dwellers on the distant frontier and bring them the Gospel.
Truly he could say with St. Paul “in perils oft.” We ought probably to
give him something better than a nickname.

You may be sure that the lesson of his coming did not soon leave that
household, nor did the memory of it leave the heart of the little boy
in the sod hut in the distant valley of the Antelope. And who can tell
to what higher and better things Sander came when he grew up, because
of the night in the storm. There was indeed Christmas blessing for him,
besides the present that his parents brought back from the town in the
wagon.




[Illustration: Decoration]

_No Christmas_


“Why can’t we have Christmas, Mama?” begged little May, as she pulled
her mama’s dress. Mama was very busy, and of a sudden she wiped her
eyes, for a tear had come.

“Because Uncle Mark is so sick,” she answered, stooping to kiss the
little face turned up so anxiously. “We cannot be glad and happy here
at home when he is so very ill, can we, dear?”

“But Mama, can’t we have any tree then, and won’t there be any Santa
Claus?” begged little May, her eyes almost filling with tears.

“We shall see, my darling,” answered Mama.

You may be sure these things brought no little trouble to May and her
big sister Dorothy, who boasted eight years, while May only could claim
four. Like all children, they looked forward with great longing to
Christmas, its presents and its joys, its songs and gladness. But we
must know that all is not happiness in this world. There are great
sorrows, and many homes are dark even at Christmas time. So it was in
the otherwise sunny and cheerful home where May and Dorothy lived.

For alas, only a few days before, their dear Uncle Mark, always so
strong and happy, had come home to the city very sick. Indeed, he had
gone directly to the hospital. After a very serious operation, he did
not seem to get much better. The children missed his glad and cheerful
ways, for Uncle Mark was young and always had been full of fun. To be
sure, he would always greet them with smiles even now.

It was very sad, indeed. Poor Grandpa and Grandma had come to be with
their dying son, and every day they went to the hospital to sit with
him. Poor little May could not understand it all, and when she brought
flowers to her dear uncle, looked with big, round eyes of wonder to see
him so thin and pale.

She went away after talking with Mama and played a while. Then she came
back, with a question, of course, as usual.

“Isn’t Uncle Mark going to have any Christmas either, Mama?” she asked.

Mama looked into the earnest face and said, “Perhaps, darling.”

At that moment she caught a few words of the song Dorothy was singing
in the next room and said, “Would my little girls like to sing Uncle
Mark a Christmas song?”

“Of course,” they both cried with one breath.

You may be sure they practiced hard and willingly to get a good song
learned, and came at once whenever Mama called them.

On Christmas eve it was snowing as our two little friends came to the
hospital door. They stamped the snow off their feet, shook themselves,
and went in. All was bright and cheery. Some people think a hospital is
a very gloomy place. But when they came in with Mama and Papa out of
the dark and the snow, they thought the hospital a very cheerful and
bright place. For you see, the nurses had made everything bright and
beautiful. There was evergreen, and bells, and mottoes, and it looked
cheerful enough to make even the most sick well.

You can hardly imagine how happy May and Dorothy were to find a
beautiful Christmas tree right on the same floor where Uncle Mark’s
room was, and some of the kind nurses pulled it to his door, that he
might raise his head and take a look. Yes, even he caught the spirit
of Christmas joy as he saw the tinsel, and the candles, the stars, the
big round apples and oranges. Yes, Jesus has a Christmas blessing for
the sick also. Of course our two little girls did not clap their hands
or shout for glee, for they were in a hospital where little children
must keep very quiet. But little May had to point out and tell about
the angel figure hung in the tip-top, as tho to remind of the angels
that sang over Bethlehem to the shepherds.

Poor Uncle! He was very sick and could hardly raise his head, all
bandaged and covered, but he looked happy and smiled. Then he wanted
May and Dorothy to sing their Christmas carol. They were just a little
bit afraid at first, because it was in a strange place, but soon
Dorothy picked up courage. Then May joined in with her little song. For
they were glad to do something for poor Uncle Mark, you know. These
were the verses they sang:

    _Oh, holy the night when the dear angels came
    To Bethlehem lowly in days long ago;
    The sky grew all light with a heavenly flame
    As they sang o’er the plain soft and low._

    _For sweet in a manger the dear Savior lay,
    Whom the shepherds came quickly to see;
    And the praises of God as they went on their way,
    Filled the hearts of the worshippers three._

    _Yes, happy they are who to angel refrain
    Shall awaken ’mid glory divine,
    And shall come to the manger as they of the plain
    While the light from above round them shine._

    _Yes, glad would I go to old Bethlehem town,
    Thus nearer my Jesus to be,
    And joyfully carol, as angels come down,
    The grace He revealeth to me._

    _For when Jesus doth nestle adown in the breast,
    There is light, there is joy and content:
    Oh, blessed Messiah, that mercy impart,
    Ere my days upon earth shall be spent._

    _Grant me then, O my Savior, a Christmas to know
    All aglow with the message of peace;
    And in life, or in death, or in joy, or in woe
    My gratitude never shall cease._

Of course, Uncle Mark thanked them very much for the song, yes, even
with tears in his eyes. When they went away, he raised his head and
waved a good-bye with his hand, and smiled. But when they were gone,
the tears ran down his cheeks, for he never saw them again, and they
never sang another song to their dear uncle.

The next day, after Christmas day, a very sad company gathered in the
home of our two little friends. Uncle Mark was gone, never to return;
and when it was all over, they talked together of their sorrow.

“Uncle Mark had a Christmas anyway, didn’t he?” said little May, who
could not understand.

“Yes, yes, child,” said Mama.

“Wasn’t that a beautiful tree!” exclaimed Dorothy; but she should have
known better than to speak. For Uncle Mark had a Christmas indeed, with
Jesus in heaven, where there is no hospital, or sickness, or sorrow,
but only joy and praise for evermore. And I am sure both little girls,
when they came to understand, were glad that they sang him a Christmas
song, even if they had no tree and no Christmas at home.




[Illustration: Decoration]

_Buddy’s Christmas Tree_


“Whyfor no snow, Unc’e Don?”

Uncle John went right ahead at his walk and said nothing.

“Whyfor no snow, Unc’e Don? Kismas come soon.”

Buddy seemed to have the idea fixed in his head that there ought to be
snow at Christmas time. He had been sucking his thumb industriously for
some time, and finally broke out in the above remark.

“Well,” said Uncle John, “If Christmas comes soon, I shouldn’t be
surprised if we did get some snow. Why does Buddy want snow?”

“So dat Santa Claus can make his sleigh go.”

The two had been walking back and forth for quite a while in the
morning sunshine along the path to the garden gate. As a variation
they had sat upon the bench under the wide spreading pine tree that
stood near the corner of the house, its long branches reaching almost
to the porch. Of late the days had been almost summer-like, and old
gray-headed Uncle John enjoyed the change of being out in the fresh
air. Thus their companionship had grown from day to day.

The path from the porch and front door of the house was well beaten.
It led right out to the gate. On either side were bushes, bare of
leaves and dry with the winter season, as well as the withered stems of
flowers. Along the fence that lined the road was a row of locust trees,
from which practically every leaf was gone. This meant a good deal when
one remembers how small the leaves of the locust are.

“Look—look, Unc’e Don!”

“Well, Buddy, you know I can’t look,” was the answer.

“No look, Unc’e Don?”—Buddy seemed very much surprised. He looked up at
the tall figure beside him with a puzzled air.

“Whyfor, Unc’e Don, whyfor no look?”

“Well, Buddy, you know my eyes don’t see. I used to see pretty well—few
better, I should say—many is the squirrel I have hit right in the
fall—but I’m getting old, and some time ago, before Buddy came, my
eyes quit seeing.”

“Eye quit?”

Buddy looked up with sympathetic interest at the tall form of Uncle
John, tall even if bent with age, and square shouldered still. As we
said above they had come to be companions, now since Buddy had made his
home at the old home of his mother, the good farm place now owned and
run by two of his uncles, Will and Martin. As they walked about the
little fellow had never realized that he had been eyes to the old man,
and that his busy chatter told of what was passing about. The little
lad had been both eyes and ears as he talked. Everything attracted his
attention from the bird on the branch to the passing automobile, from
the sunshine glittering among the branches of the trees to the whistle
of the winds across the fields.

The farm home stood at the cross-roads and had been the only home of
which Buddy had any remembrance. Here his mama had been a little girl,
and here his “grannyfather” had lived his days. Grandfather had planted
the pine tree, which now rose way above the house top.

“Mail-man, mail-man!” Buddy was shouting.

“Me get ’em, me get ’em!” he added, running for the gate. Mr. Mail-man
handed a piece or two to Buddy, but waited for Uncle John before he
handed over the rest.

“Some advertising” he explained, “Buddy will give it to Uncle Martin.”

Buddy started for the house, very proud of the commission that had been
entrusted to him. He was met at the door, and by the arrival of Old
John everybody became busy about the mail. Buddy and Uncle John soon
found themselves on the bench once more under the tall pine.

“Letter my Daddy?”

Buddy had been quiet again for some time, and then broke out in this
remark.

“Well, I guess not—what made you think of that?”

Uncle John had been unable to suppress his surprise. Instinctively he
reached out to lay his hand upon the boy.

“I dno.” Buddy fell into a meditative sucking of his thumb once more.
The question of his daddy had been one never referred to in the house.
He had gone away with the soldiers when the Great War broke out. This
was before Buddy was born. For some time they had received letters, but
now for more than three years there had been no word. In secret Mama
had likely shed many tears. As far as Buddy was concerned, it never
seemed to make any difference. He had never known a father, and had
lived a happy child and taken all good things for granted. Like the
sparrows of the field, he had lived without a care. The thought of a
father had hardly come into his life. For this reason the words were
all the more a surprise, and old, gray-headed Uncle John sat struck
silent in wonder at the boy.

“Me got letter, too, Unc’e Don,” explained Buddy, and his old Uncle
laughed.

“Who wrote the letter, Buddy?” inquired Uncle.

“Aw—jes’ one o’ dem bill ones,” explained Buddy.

And Uncle John laughed again.

“Aw’fu’ big tree, Unc’e Don,” remarked Buddy, all of a sudden, changing
the subject.

“I suppose it has grown big,” answered Uncle; “I remember when your
grandfather planted that tree. It wasn’t so big then.”

“Grannyfader, he plant it?” Buddy showed a surprised interest.

“Yes, long ago. It must have grown big since then. Most of the trees he
planted have died I suppose.”

The pine tree was indeed a large one. Standing as it did away from
the corner of the house, it rose a straight pine trunk, its green
top reaching far above the roof of the house. The tree looked like a
pyramid or cone, had in fact grown more and more into the shape of a
cone. The branches reached out in a remarkably straight way, the lower
ones being of extraordinary length. The green spines with an occasional
cone contrasted with the brown and rough bark. It was indeed a noble
tree, and had grown nobly in its place since the day “Grannyfader” set
out the original little pine shoot.

“Santy Claus—he come—come way up in air,” explained Buddy.

“Well, maybe—if there is a Santa Claus—” answered Uncle John.

“Santy he come way up in air—come right down tree—he do,” explained
Buddy.

“Travels in an airship?—a Santa for boys and girls to talk about, I
suppose,” continued Uncle.

“Climb right down tree—huh?” added Buddy questioningly.

“Probably that would be a handy way, all right,” agreed Uncle, smiling
and bobbing his head. For a long time Buddy sat studying the tree and
the new idea that had gotten into his mind. About this time Mama’s
voice called from the doorway and told them that dinner was ready. When
dinner was over Buddy was to take his usual nap.

“No want sleep,” was his remark as he rubbed his eyes. Mama went on
rocking just as tho he had not spoken.

“Haint Buddy got no daddy?”

The big, round eye looked up sleepily and earnestly.

Mama did not answer, but she clasped her little boy tightly in her
arms. Soon the sandman began to trip around, at first on tip toe, ever
so quietly, and as Mama rocked and hummed Buddy little by little found
his eyes so heavy they would not keep open.

“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!”

“Why—sure enough, Buddy.”

“Kismas time, Mama!”

Before his mother was able to answer, Buddy had run out of the bedroom
and was on the way down stairs. It was not until he had reached the
foot of the lowest step that Mama caught up with him, and he would
likely have run right out doors into the cold and snow had he not
been stopped. Aunt Clara called from the kitchen to remind him of the
stockings he had hung up. In she came also. Uncle John was already
seated in his big chair, and Uncles Martin and Will were warming
themselves. With a shout Buddy hurried up and was soon very busy
digging out of his stockings the many presents that were there, bags of
candy, toys, nuts. He was so busy, as were they all, that they almost
forgot their breakfast. When Aunt Clara reminded them that breakfast
was ready, Buddy could only be persuaded to come to the table when he
was allowed to take with him a roly-poly policeman of celluloid and an
iron horse that he had found among his presents. They had all bowed
their heads quietly, while Uncle Will read the Christmas story from the
Gospel of St. Luke, and had bowed their heads in prayer.

The last words of the Lord’s Prayer were just being uttered, with the
“Amen,” when there was the sound of a rap at the door. All about the
table started with surprise. Uncle Martin arose to open the door. When
the door swung back there stood before them a tall figure dressed in a
heavy gray overcoat.

The sudden silence of a deep surprise fell upon them all. Uncle Martin
seemed at a loss. It was a very unusual time to get a visitor. The
stranger took off his cap. He said:

“Mary?” Why he put the word in the tone of a question seemed hard to
understand. Then suddenly Mama gave a scream, and rose from her chair.
The stranger came forward, and took her in his arms. Horse in one hand
and policeman in the other, Buddy looked up wonderingly.

“Oh, Buddy! Oh, Charles!”

These were the words with which Mama greeted Daddy. For it was no other
than Daddy, returned from the World War.

The Christmas breakfast was indeed a happy one. Daddy told of his long
and delayed stay with the Army of Occupation, of his prolonged and
deadly illness, in which he had twice been given up for dead, and of
how he had at last found himself able to set out for home. Thus there
was a busy hour of talk, in which Uncle Martin and Uncle Will forgot
their chores, as they sat about the table and conversed. Buddy was
safely located between his mama and papa, altho he looked with somewhat
shy wonder at the latter, whom he could not be said to know, as he had
never seen him before.

The men went about their work, and this reminded Buddy of his presents.
Quickly he wriggled down to the floor and ran to where his stockings
had hung.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Daddy, “somebody has been buying Buddy
presents, all right. Too bad Papa did not bring Buddy something too.”

All of a sudden Buddy started for the door. He jerked and twisted the
knob.

“Why, Buddy,” exclaimed his Mama, “it’s cold outside—lots of snow—you
can’t go outside now.”

“Kismas Tree! Kismas Tree!” exclaimed Buddy.

“Cold out there, all right, as I can tell,” explained Papa. “Thought I
would have frozen as we drove down this morning.”

By this time Buddy was out in the snow on the porch, dressed as he was
in his nighty. He did not mind the snow.

“What do I see?” exclaimed Mama. “Stockings—stockings hanging from the
big pine.’

“Well, I never,” was all that Aunt Clara could say. She had now crowded
close behind them. Papa went out into the snow, and soon came back with
a pair of stockings of Buddy’s which he found waving in the wind.

“So you hung your stockings on the Christmas Tree?” said Papa to Buddy
as they sat down by the fire to warm.

“That boy must have hung those up yesterday afternoon,” exclaimed Aunt
Clara.

“I declare,” said Mama, “I was looking exactly for those stockings last
night. They were the ones we were going to put up for Buddy, but we
could not find them.”

Buddy sucked his thumb in silence.

“Santy Claus, he come—come on the big Kismas Tree,” explained Buddy.
“Brung me candy and nuts and horrsie-n-n-n-”

“Yes,” explained Uncle John, “he was talking yesterday about that tree.
I told him Santa might come in an airplane. Buddy seemed sure he would
come and would crawl down by that big pine. Guess somebody did come,
too—even just like they come by airplane,” added Uncle John.

Mama put her hand on Daddy’s shoulder. Buddy only looked wise.




[Illustration: Decoration]

_Three Pines_


Ginkle had found his way once more out upon the front veranda. Ginkle,
you understand, was the name of a tousle headed boy just out of bed.
The morning sun shone brightly across the lake. The air was still
fresh with the early dew. Grandfather sat on the lower step, smoking
his after-breakfast pipe. The early day was so clear and still, and
the lake so quiet under the hills, covered with pine forest and second
growth, brush and grass, that the pipe he smoked might well have been
called the pipe of peace. This did not mean that there were any Indians
about. Ginkle came down the steps and found his way out to the tall
trees which crowned the curved edge of the hill, just as it began to
slope gently toward the water’s edge. The bank itself was rather sharp
and high, so that the little boy climbed down a series of steps, and so
reached the shore, and went upon the dock or boat-landing to sit down
and look about him. It is hard telling what a little boy of five will
think about when he first gets out of bed in the morning, and begins
the new day.

“Ginkle! Where’s Ginkle!” This is what they had come to call him. His
right name was Sylvester.

“Ginkle—come to breakfast.”

Granny was calling, and soon our little friend made his way up hill
again, and was busy with his morning meal.

“Granny goin’ ’way?” was his question, as he looked up from his
oatmeal. He had happened to notice that Grandma was busy about
preparations.

“Yes, Ginkle. Granny’s going away for the day with some friends,” was
the answer.

Grandfather’s summer home was a pleasant place for Ginkle to visit. A
five-year-old boy always likes his grandfather and grandmother. This
was now the second summer that he was spending at Three Pines. The
cottage took its name from the three splendid big pine trees that stood
right in front of the house, crowning the hill. The shore line below
formed a semi-circle, against the foot of which the bright waves of
the lake beat in the early sunshine. The sand was not so thick as to
prevent a fresh growth of grass over the hill-top and about the house.
The lake was somewhat over a half mile wide at this place. The launches
sped back and forth on their errands up and down the lake. On the other
side, under the shadow of the pine woods that lined the shore, could be
seen the boats of the early fishermen.

Our little boy had hardly waked up yet, in spite of his breakfast,
to judge from the quiet way in which he stood under the three pines,
sucking his thumb. He was tall and slim for a boy of his age. A big
head rose above his shoulders, covered with a shock of light brown
hair. He was about to toddle forward once more toward the steps that
led down to the water, when there was a call—

“Hey—little boy—Ginkle!”

This time it was Grandfather who called.

“Come on, Ginkle—Granny’s leaving now.”

On the chair by the table was Granny’s bag, all ready, and soon they
were following her along the path to the rear fence, where a car stood
waiting. Mrs. Joyce was going out for a ride, apparently, and Granny
was to go with her.

“Ginkle wants a ride?”

Certainly he did. It was unnecessary for Mrs. Joyce to ask. But as
Granny climbed in, Grannyfather took him from the running board of the
car, and held him in his arms, while he watched the car disappear down
the road among the trees and bushes.

“Now Ginkle, you must be a good boy; Granny is going away all day, and
you must take good care of Grannyfather.” This had been the good-bye
message.

“Aw wight.” Ginkle was willing, even if disappointed about the ride.

“Grannyfather will see that you get lots to eat.”

“Granny bring me something?”

“Oh, maybe.”

Grandfather and Ginkle then walked together along the path back to the
house.

“Now Ginkle,” said Grandfather, “I guess we’ll take a trip too. What do
you say?”

“Aw wight.” Ginkle was agreeable.

For some time they were busy about the house. On the table they found
a big basket. Grandfather lifted the cover just enough to see that it
was filled with good things to eat. Then he hunted up his ax, sharpened
it, and put on some working clothes. He and Ginkle set out, carrying
the basket between them. Along the sandy brush-lined road they went,
Grandfather carrying his ax upon his shoulder. After something more
than a half-mile walk they found themselves at a particularly wild and
wooded part of the shoreline. In among the pines were gray rocks at
intervals, and Grandfather hunted up a fresh bubbling water spring.

“Now, Ginkle, we must get to work,” said Grandfather.

“What do?” inquired the lad.

“Oh, we’ll just cut down a tree or two,” was the answer.

Soon a tree was selected, and to work went the ax. The woods fairly
rang with the blows, the chips flew so that Ginkle had to dodge them,
and very shortly two tall pines had fallen to the ground with a crash.
The little boy ran away at first as if scared. However, he soon learned
that there was no danger, and began to climb over the logs and run
about, shouting till the woods rang.

“Grannyfader cut nudder tree?”

“Provided Ginkle will lend a hand,” said Grandfather, as he looked
about. “Which one shall we take?”

“Dis one,” said Ginkle, petting the bark of a big tree.

“Not a bad choice,” answered the other, measuring the tree with his
eye. In a moment Grandfather was in position and hard at work. Ginkle
in the meantime ran about on the dry bedding of spines that covered the
ground, ran in and out among the bushes, climbed upon the fallen logs
of the trees that had been cut, and ran back and forth on their stems.

“Oh, boy,” exclaimed Grandfather, wiping the sweat from his brow, “I
think we’ll eat our lunch.”

“Aw wight,” exclaimed Ginkle, who had been so busy as to forget to be
hungry. They hunted up a shady place, not far from the spring, and
Grandfather opened the basket. Sandwich after sandwich disappeared, and
both ate and drank heartily.

“Cold, isn’t it?” said Grandfather as he held the cup fresh from the
spring to the lad’s lips. “Yes—cool and refreshing. And now we’ll be
ready for work again.”

“Yep,” said Ginkle; “Grannyfader, what makes the water bubble
that-a-way?” Ginkle was pointing at the spring.

“Oh,” explained the other, “The water’s trying to talk, and bubbles are
the best it can do.” Setting to work at the tree, his ax rang for some
time very vigorously.

“That pine’s big,” exclaimed he, as he stopped to wipe the sweat from
his face.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Ginkle.

This time Grandfather went to work in earnest, cutting away some brush
in order to make room. He chopped away more vigorously than ever,
and for a time he forgot his little grandson altogether. Suddenly he
remembered.

“Ginkle, oh Ginkle, where are you? Keep away—look out!” he called.
He had cut at the tree from both sides and had gone deeper than he
thought. Suddenly the big pine began to totter. Glancing about for
fear the boy might be caught, he cried out in warning. Ginkle was at a
safe distance, but Grandfather forgot himself. As he turned he found
the tree falling fast in his direction, and as he sought to jump away,
his foot caught in some brush and he fell headlong, the tree across
his prostrate body. Swish went the branches among the brush. Face down
lay Grandfather, groaning under the fall and the heavy pressure of the
fallen trunk. The cry that Ginkle gave was a relief, even in spite of
his own danger, and the little fellow came to Grandfather’s side and
tugged at his arm, crying big tears of fear and grief.

“Grannyfader hurted? Grannyfader hurted?” sobbed the lad.

“Help—we’ll need help,” groaned the prostrate man, “I—I’ll never get
out of this without help.”

“What do, Grannyfader, what do?” exclaimed Ginkle, still tugging at his
sleeve.

“Might run and tell Granny,” groaned Grandfather.

No sooner said than to his astonishment the little fellow disappeared,
running down the path toward the road. For some time thereafter
Grandfather lay struggling with his groans and his pain. It hardly
seemed possible that Ginkle could bring help, and Grandma was far away,
as he remembered, alas.

The birds chirped cheerfully, and the insects hummed. The wind sounded
among the pines. From the lake he could hear the distant sound of the
passing launch. Otherwise the only sound was his own groaning.

What had become of Ginkle? He had set out at a full run, and a short
time later appeared at the gate to the cottage, and rushing up the path
and the steps, threw the door wide open yelling—

“Granny—Granny!”

There was no answer. Grandmother was not yet at home. Crying loudly,
and still calling for “Granny,” the lad ran down the path to the road,
as tho not knowing what to do next. There he stood crying by the open
gate, both his fists in his eyes. He stopped suddenly at an unexpected
sound.

“Hi there, little boy, what’s the matter?”

In his crying he had not noticed that a car had stopped in which sat
two men.

“That’s right, little boy, quit your crying,” shouted one of them.

Ginkle stared a moment, then he yelled—

“You lie, I don’t quit. I just stop a little while and then I begin
again.” Ginkle once more set up a loud bawling.

“Well, boy, what’s the matter? Can’t you stop long enough to tell us?”
asked one of the men as he climbed down and started for the gate.

“Guess he’s purty near too young to explain,” remarked the chauffeur.

“My grannyfader, he hurted. He tumble on de tree,” sobbed Ginkle.
The moment he saw the man coming toward him he set out at a run,
“Grannyfader, he here,” continued the lad, as he ran and sobbed.

“Believe me, that kid c’n run,” exclaimed the stranger, as he climbed
back into the machine. The Ford started, rattled its usual way, and
in a moment they were following the boy up the sandy road. When they
caught up, one of the men jumped out and ran to catch the hurrying lad,
and for the rest of the way he followed him, for the little chap jumped
about and refused to be picked up. On ahead they hurried, and the car
followed behind them until they reached the place where Ginkle insisted
on going into the woods.

“Grannyfader, he here,” he explained. There was nothing to do but to
follow the little guide. The stranger had not yet been able to get an
idea as to what might be the matter. His companion stopped the machine
and came hurrying after into the bushes.

“Oho!” exclaimed the man leading Ginkle, “so this is what’s the matter.
Believe me, friend, you’re in bad.”

“So he got help, did he?” groaned Grandfather, as he twisted his head
to look.

“The little feller sure raised some holler,” assured the man, as he
bent down, touched Grandfather on the head, and felt of his hand.

“Say,” said the companion, who had also now come up, and was bending to
look, “It’s lucky, all right, there seems to be a kind o’ hollow.”

The two found themselves unable to move the heavy tree, and so the one
hurried back to the car for a shovel, and the other began to cut away
more brush. For a time they looked around for something with which to
pry, but they were not successful.

“You block it up, and I’ll begin diggin’,” said the man who had been
with Ginkle. Ginkle now sat beside Grandfather, talking to him. Gently
one of the men picked him up and put him in a safe place so that they
could work, explaining to the little fellow what they were about to
do. He himself hurried to find pieces of log which he could put under
the tree for safety, while the other dug away with the shovel. They
exchanged work, and so kept at it actively for some minutes.

“Say, friend, do you think you can stand some pulling?” asked one.

“Oh, I guess. Just try me,” answered Grandfather. Ginkle cried loudly
again, but they were too busy to notice. In a few moments Grandfather
sat against a tree, recovering from his terrible experience.

“Grannyfader tick? Grannyfader hurted?” Ginkle’s cheeks were still wet
with tears as he spoke.

“Not so bad, I guess,” answered Grandfather, “not so bad as it looked,
I hope.”

“Awkward place to turn, looks to me,” remarked the chauffeur as he
set out thru the brush toward the road. Soon they heard the machine
purring, and in a few moments he reappeared. Both men now took
Grandfather by the arms, and with their help he was able to make his
way with some groaning out to the car.

“Granny—Granny, she not home, maybe,” said Ginkle, climbing close to
Grandfather in the rear seat.

“Oh—my back—feels like it’s broken,” groaned Grandfather, as he clung
to the cushions. Soon the car started. The men drove very slowly and
carefully on their way back to the house. From the machine they helped
the injured man carefully on his way into the house, and had just
placed him among pillows in a big, comfortable-looking rocker, when
Ginkle ran suddenly for the door.

“Granny—here Granny coming,” he shouted.

In a twinkling he was down the hill at the water’s edge. She had
returned by the afternoon boat. He met Grandmother on the landing, and
was so busy telling all about what had happened to “Grannyfader” that
Granny was thoroly scared, and absolutely confused as to whether it
had been a tornado or a band of robbers, between Ginkle’s description
of fallen trees and strangers suddenly appearing, so that she hurried
breathless up the steps, across the porch, into the house, Ginkle
pulling vigorously at her hand all the way and hurrying her on.

“Why, what’s the matter? What do you mean? Grannyfather hurt? How can
that be?” exclaimed Granny, all out of breath, as she jostled into the
room along with the lad.

“Why—what has happened?” was her anxious question, as she hurried to
the rocker.

“Not so bad, Granny. Don’t get scared,” was the reassuring word from
Grandfather. All the rest were silent, and the little grandson stood
by with open eyes, chewing his thumb, as the injured man went on to
explain what had happened. By this time Granny was straightening
the pillows, and bustling about to help him into a more comfortable
position.

“Mighty lucky the little feller was around,” remarked the chauffeur,
“believe me, he c’n run. We had a hard time to keep up with ’im.”

“Yes,” added Grandfather, “you ought to have seen him start off for
help. He disappeared like a shot, without even stopping for me to
instruct him,” said Grandfather, stroking the bushy head as he spoke.

Grandmother was profuse in her gratitude to the men as they left, and
went immediately on their departure to telephone for a doctor. On his
arrival he made a careful examination, and assured them that no bones
were broken, that aside from bruises and a severe wrenching of the
back-bone there was likely no injury. After a few days, if Grandfather
was careful, he would quite surely be about again as usual. The escape
certainly was a fortunate one, and the service rendered by our little
friend remarkable. The doctor patted Ginkle on the head and left.

While the doctor came again the following day, and then again later,
all went as he had at first judged. After a few days Grannyfather and
grandson were again seated in the warm morning sunshine out under the
pines.

“Grannyfader feel well?” inquired Ginkle looking out toward the fresh
blue water of the lake.

“Remarkably so, boy, remarkably,” was the answer; “shall we go tree
cutting again?”

“Grannyfader want to go?”

“Well, maybe, how about Ginkle?”

“Um.”

“Big tree here,” exclaimed the lad, pointing at the three tall pines
just in front of the bench on which they were seated. “Jus’ like big
Kismas Tree.”

“Yes, indeed. They would make great Christmas trees, wouldn’t they?
Does Ginkle remember the Christmas story?”

“Tree wise men, too,” remarked he—“tree, jes’ like big trees here, aint
they.”

“In number, yes. I suppose you’re right there,” answered Grandfather.
“What’s that got to do with our pines? What do you mean, Ginkle?”

“Um—I dno.”

“Well, anyway, you remember, don’t you Ginkle.”

The lad looked out across the lake and apparently began to think about
something else.





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