A Different Kind of Christmas
Martha had tried to ignore the approach of Christmas. She would have kept it almost entirely out of her thoughts if Jed had not come eagerly into the cabin one day, stomping the snow from his cold feet as he said in an excited voice, "Martha, we're going to have a Christmas tree this year, anyway. I spotted a Cedar on that rise out south of the wheat field, over near the Norton's place. It's a scrubby thing, but it will do since we can't get a pine. Maybe Christmas will be a little different here, but it will still be the kind of Christmas we used to have."
As she shook her head, Martha noticed that Daniel glanced quickly up from the corner where he was playing, patiently tying together some sticks with bits of string left over from the quilt she had tied a few days earlier. She drew Jed as far away from the boy as possible.
"I don't want a tree," she said. "We won't be celebrating Christmas. Even a tree couldn't make it the kind of Christmas we used to have."
"Martha, we've got to do something for the boy, at least. Children set such store by Christmas."
"Don't you think I know? All those years of fixing things for Maybelle and Stellie. I know all about the kids and Christmas." She stopped and drew a deep breath, glancing over to see that Daniel was occupied and not listening. "But I can't do those things for him. It would be like a knife in the heart, fixing a tree and baking cookies and making things for another woman's child when my own girls are back there on that prairie."
"Martha, Martha," Jed said softly. "It's been almost a year and a half. That's over, and Danny needs you. He needs a Christmas like he remembers."
She turned her back to his pleading face. "I can't," she said.
Jed touched her shoulder gently, "I know how hard it is for you, Martha. But think of the boy." He turned and went back out into the snowy weather.
Think of the boy. Why should she think of him, when her own children, her two blue-eyed, golden-curled daughters, had been left beside the trail back there on that endless, empty prairie? The boy came to her, not because she wanted him, but, because she couldn't say "no" to the bishop back in Salt Lake City last April before they came to settle in this valley.
Bishop Clay had brought Daniel to her and Jed one day and said, "I want you to care for this lad. His mother died on the trek last summer and his pa passed away last week. He needs a good home."
Jed had gripped the bishop's hand and with tears in his eyes, thanked him, but Martha had turned away from the sight of the thin, ragged, six-year-old boy who stood before them. Not fast enough, however, to miss the sudden brief smile he flashed at her. A smile that should have caught her heart and opened it wide. Her heart was closed, though, locked tightly around the memory of her two gentle little girls. She didn't want a noisy, rowdy boy hanging around, disturbing those memories, filling the cabin with a boy's loud games.
Yet she had taken him, because she felt she had no choice. Faced with the bishop's request - more of an order, really - and Jed's obvious joy, she couldn't refuse.
He came with them out to this new valley west of the Salt Lake settlement and had proved himself a great help to Jed, despite his young age. Sometimes Martha felt pity for him, but she didn't love him. With Jed it was different. He had accepted Daniel immediately as his own son, and enjoyed having a boy with him. They had a special relationship.
Daniel mentioned Christmas only once. One day it was too cold and snowy to play outside and he had been humming softly to himself as he played in his corner. Suddenly, he looked up at Martha and asked, "Can you sing, aunt Martha?"
Martha paused and straightened up from the table where she was kneading bread. She used to sing for her girls all the time. "No, I can't, Daniel," she said. "Not anymore."
"My mother used to sing a pretty song at Christmas," he said. "I wish I could remember it."
On the day before Christmas, Jed went though the deep snow to do some chores for Brother Norton, who was ill. Daniel was alone outside most of the day, although he made several rather furtive trips in and out of the cabin. On one trip, he took the sticks he had been tying together.
Toward evening, Martha went out to the stable to milk Rosie, since Jed had not yet returned. As she approached, she saw there was a light inside. Opening the door softly, she peered within. Daniel had lit the barn lantern, and with its glow, he knelt in the straw by Rosie's stall. In front of him were the sticks he had tied together, which Martha recognized now as a crude cradle. It held Stellie's rag doll, all wrapped up in the white shawl Martha kept in her trunk. Her first impulse was to rush in and snatch it, but she stopped because the scene was strangely beautiful in the soft light from the lantern. Rosie and the two sheep stood close by, watching Daniel. He seemed to be addressing them when he spoke.
"The shepherds came following the star," he was saying. "And they found the baby Jesus who had been born in a stable." He paused for a moment, then went on. "And his mother loved him."
In the silence, she began to sing. "Silent night," she sang. "Holy night."
Daniel didn't move until the song was finished. then he turned with that quick, heart-melting smile.
"That's the one," he whispered. "That's the song that my mother used to sing to me."
Martha ran forward and gathered the boy into her arms. He responded immediately, clasping his arms tightly around her.
"Danny," she said, shifting on the edge of Rosie's manger, "Let's go in and get the cabin ready for Christmas. Maybe it isn't too late for Jed - for Pa to get that tree. It might be a little different kind of Christmas, but it will still be a little like the Christmases we used to know."
"Do you mind it being different?" Danny asked. "I mean with a boy instead of your girls?"
Martha wondered how long it would take her to make up to him for the hurt she had inflicted these many months. "No," she said. "After all, the Baby Jesus was a boy."
"That's right," he said wonderingly.
She set him down on the floor and put her arm around his shoulders.
"Merry Christmas," she said. "Merry Christmas, Danny."
He looked up at her with a smile that did not fade quickly away this time, a sweet smile full of love he had been waiting to give her.
"Merry Christmas," he said, and then added softly, "Mother."
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Christmas is for Sharing
Christmas is for Sharing
by Richard Warner
I knew that Homer had wanted canyon boots for as long as I could remember. He was eleven, and I ten, and we had spent many nights under the blue quilts at the cabin talking about how great it would be to have some real boots - boots that would climb through thorny bushes, that would ward off rattlesnakes, that would nudge the ribs of the pony; we had planned the kind of leather they should be and what kind of decoration they should be and what kind of decoration they should have. But we both knew it was just talk. The depression had been hard on Father's business, and even shoes for school were usually half-soled hand-me-downs.
Christmas that year had promised as always to be exciting, though mainly because of the handmade things we'd worked on in school for our parents. We never had money to spend on each other, but we had caught early in our lives a sort of contagion from our mother. She loved to give, and her anticipation of the joy that a just right gift would bring to someone, infected our whole household. We were swept up in breathless waiting to see how others would like what we had to give. Secrecy ruled - open exaggerated secrecy, as we made and hid our gifts. The only one whose hiding place we never discovered was my Grandmother's. Her gifts seemed to materialize by magic on Christmas morning and were always more expensive than they should have been.
That Christmas I was glowing because Mother had been so happy with the parchment lampshade I'd made in the fourth grade, and Father had raved over the clay jewelry case I had molded and baked for him. Gill and Emma Lou had been pleased with the figures I'd whittled out of clothespins, and Homer had liked the Scout pin I'd bargained for with my flint. Then Grandma started to pass out her presents.
Mine was heavy and square. I'd been in the hospital that year and then on crutches, and I'd wondered how it would be to have an erector set to build with. Grandma had a knack for reading boy's minds, and I was sure that's what it was. But it wasn't. It was a pair of boots, brown tangy-smelling leather boots.
I looked quickly to Homer's package. His was a sweater. He'd needed one all fall. I wanted to cover my box before he saw what it was. I didn't want the boots; they should have been his. He came toward me, asking to see, and I started to say, "I'm sorry, bruv."
But he was grinning, and he shouted, "Hey everybody - look what Richard's got." He swooped the boots out of the box, fondled them like treasure, and then sat on the floor at my feet to take off my half-soled shoes and put on the brand new boots.
I don't remember how the boots felt, nor even how they looked. But Christmas rang in my soul because my brother was glad for me.
by Richard Warner
I knew that Homer had wanted canyon boots for as long as I could remember. He was eleven, and I ten, and we had spent many nights under the blue quilts at the cabin talking about how great it would be to have some real boots - boots that would climb through thorny bushes, that would ward off rattlesnakes, that would nudge the ribs of the pony; we had planned the kind of leather they should be and what kind of decoration they should be and what kind of decoration they should have. But we both knew it was just talk. The depression had been hard on Father's business, and even shoes for school were usually half-soled hand-me-downs.
Christmas that year had promised as always to be exciting, though mainly because of the handmade things we'd worked on in school for our parents. We never had money to spend on each other, but we had caught early in our lives a sort of contagion from our mother. She loved to give, and her anticipation of the joy that a just right gift would bring to someone, infected our whole household. We were swept up in breathless waiting to see how others would like what we had to give. Secrecy ruled - open exaggerated secrecy, as we made and hid our gifts. The only one whose hiding place we never discovered was my Grandmother's. Her gifts seemed to materialize by magic on Christmas morning and were always more expensive than they should have been.
That Christmas I was glowing because Mother had been so happy with the parchment lampshade I'd made in the fourth grade, and Father had raved over the clay jewelry case I had molded and baked for him. Gill and Emma Lou had been pleased with the figures I'd whittled out of clothespins, and Homer had liked the Scout pin I'd bargained for with my flint. Then Grandma started to pass out her presents.
Mine was heavy and square. I'd been in the hospital that year and then on crutches, and I'd wondered how it would be to have an erector set to build with. Grandma had a knack for reading boy's minds, and I was sure that's what it was. But it wasn't. It was a pair of boots, brown tangy-smelling leather boots.
I looked quickly to Homer's package. His was a sweater. He'd needed one all fall. I wanted to cover my box before he saw what it was. I didn't want the boots; they should have been his. He came toward me, asking to see, and I started to say, "I'm sorry, bruv."
But he was grinning, and he shouted, "Hey everybody - look what Richard's got." He swooped the boots out of the box, fondled them like treasure, and then sat on the floor at my feet to take off my half-soled shoes and put on the brand new boots.
I don't remember how the boots felt, nor even how they looked. But Christmas rang in my soul because my brother was glad for me.
The Gift of the Magi
The Gift of the Magi
from the story by O. Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it.
When Della finished her cry, she attended to her cheeks with a powder puff. She stood by the window and looked out dully. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling - something just a bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the looking glass. Rapidly, she pulled down her hair and let it fall into its full length.
Now, there were only two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs' in which they both took a might pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.
So now, Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of of brown waters. She did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped, the sign read: "Mme. Sophronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, the next two hours were rosy as she ransacked the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum watch-chain, simple in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by ornamentation - as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it, she knew that it must be Jim's. Quietness and value - the description applied to both.
Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch, Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly, on account of the old leather strap he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home, she got out her curling irons and went to work. Within forty minutes, her head was covered with tiny close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a school-boy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me - but what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
Jim was never late. Della held the watch chain in her hand. She heard his step on the stair and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two - and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim's eyes were fixed on Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her.
"Jim darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again - you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim and let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, as if he had not arrived at that fact yet.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, aren't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?"
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold and gone, I tell you. Be good to me, for it went for you."
Out of his trance Jim seemed to quickly wake. He enfolded his Della in his arms.
Jim then drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package, you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick feminine change to tears and wails, necessitating all of Jim's comforting powers.
For there lay The Combs - the set of combs that Della had wanted for so long. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled rims - just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew; and her heart had yearned for them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers - but the hair was gone.
She hugged them to her, and at length was able to look up with a smile and say, "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her own bright spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," he said, "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em awhile. They're too nice to use just now. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now, suppose you put dinner on."
Eight dollars a week or a million a year - what's the difference?
The Magi, as you know, were wise men - who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi.
from the story by O. Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it.
When Della finished her cry, she attended to her cheeks with a powder puff. She stood by the window and looked out dully. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling - something just a bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the looking glass. Rapidly, she pulled down her hair and let it fall into its full length.
Now, there were only two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs' in which they both took a might pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.
So now, Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of of brown waters. She did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped, the sign read: "Mme. Sophronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, the next two hours were rosy as she ransacked the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum watch-chain, simple in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by ornamentation - as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it, she knew that it must be Jim's. Quietness and value - the description applied to both.
Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch, Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly, on account of the old leather strap he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home, she got out her curling irons and went to work. Within forty minutes, her head was covered with tiny close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a school-boy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me - but what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
Jim was never late. Della held the watch chain in her hand. She heard his step on the stair and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two - and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim's eyes were fixed on Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her.
"Jim darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again - you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim and let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, as if he had not arrived at that fact yet.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well anyhow? I'm me without my hair, aren't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?"
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold and gone, I tell you. Be good to me, for it went for you."
Out of his trance Jim seemed to quickly wake. He enfolded his Della in his arms.
Jim then drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package, you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick feminine change to tears and wails, necessitating all of Jim's comforting powers.
For there lay The Combs - the set of combs that Della had wanted for so long. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell with jeweled rims - just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew; and her heart had yearned for them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers - but the hair was gone.
She hugged them to her, and at length was able to look up with a smile and say, "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her own bright spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," he said, "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em awhile. They're too nice to use just now. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now, suppose you put dinner on."
Eight dollars a week or a million a year - what's the difference?
The Magi, as you know, were wise men - who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the Magi.
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