Christmas Stories Rediscovered. Sarah Orne Jewett

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СКАЧАТЬ heartsome fire of great logs. The cabin glowed and grew gloriously warm. A friendly cricket chirped upon the hearth as he ate heartily and finally set out a large stone pitcher of hard cider. He poured in some molasses and then thrust an iron poker through the red embers. On Pop Baker’s face was a beautiful and tender light, in his blue eyes great love and faith in his fellow-men. The Christmas glow was in his heart, the Christmas peace brooding over him.

      Then, and only then, he carefully pulled up a chair and unwrapped the little box Dink Smith had given him. It perched saucily upon the edge of the chair, and Pop sat down before it. He cut a long pine sliver carefully, and solemnly and breathlessly he touched the frail little wire fastening. Zip! it was open! There jumped up a rosy-faced, smiling jack-in-the-box with a fringe of gray hair and a perky chin-beard. It stared right saucily at Pop Baker and with the utmost indif­ference to his opinion. As for Pop, he was so amazed that he had no words. He stared and he retreated and he advanced, wholly fascinated. Then he put his hands down on his knees and he roared with laughter.

      “Waal, I’m jes jee-whizzled ef hit ain’t my pictur’ ter a T! Sandy Claws must hev spotted me. An’ I got on a blue night­gownd with posies on it. Hain’t yer ol’ Pop Baker dyked out fer Christmas? Waal, I never would hev b’lieved it, not ef ye’d told me fer years an’ years; but thar I am, an’ whut am I goin’ ter do but b’lieve it? Waal, whut next? Do I shet up any more in thet box, or do I sleep a-standin’?”

      He examined the toy with cautious fingers, but soon discovered the workings of the spring. At last he gently closed the box and deposited the precious thing be­side the precious cheap glass lamp on the mantel-shelf.

      “I couldn’t stan’ Sandy Claws a-doin’ of much more,” he said reverently, “er the Almighty thet air marchin’ erlong them stars. I calkilate them two pussons air erbout the same, me not bein’ up much in religion. Whut in the dickens air up? Air my house on fire? Woo-o-o!”

      For a bucket or two of water was sud­denly poured down his big chimney, rais­ing a thick white steam. As this died away, a long pole let down an old basket, and, with a violent lurch from above, the contents tumbled far out on the bare floor. It was a shrieking, howling black puppy, a beautiful curly little creature that trem­bled like a leaf when Pop Baker jumped to its rescue and folded it in his arms.

      “Dern yer buttons up yan! would ye bake the dawg a-playin’ of yer Sandy Claws? This air is shorely Jimpsey’s doin’s. Waal, they needn’t ’a’ put my fire out, need they, leetle Christmas? By gum, hain’t he a beauty? Sech thick ha’r! I never hev seen sech a pup. I bet he’s got sense; I bet he’s pure breed out o’ suthin’ ’sides them sneakin’ ol’ hill houn’s. Thar, ye jes lie on my bed while I sees who air playin’ Sandy Claws on ter my roof. Oh, I hears ye goin’ rattlin’ down my clapboards, I does! Ye means well, ye means well. Ef this here hain’t a Christ­mas ter be marked with a stone! The Lord bless ’em all! I’m gittin’ ter be ol’, but ol’ age air the bestes’ time, the mer­ries’, free time. Sandy Claws never come a-nigh me tell now, an’ I ’preciates hit. I likes the lamp, an’ I likes thet pictur’ of me; but this hyah leetle pup—it’s a livin’, breathin’ thing, an’ it comes right nigh ter my heart. Seems like I got ’most every­thing thar war in the hull world ter git, Mr. Sandy Claws er the Almighty, which air might’ nigh the same thing. I thanks ye, wharever ye air.”

      The Christmas midnight, still solemn and holy, was on the hills. The old man slept calmly in the red light of smoldering embers. The jack-in-the-box had jumped out to see the commotion of the night be­fore, and kept its stiff wooden arms ex­tended toward him in benediction. Close, very close to the old man, one of whose work-worn hands lay on the thick curly fur, slept the fat little puppy that was to be his constant and faithful companion in the days to come.

      WHILE THE AUTOMOBILE RAN DOWN, by Charles Battell Loomis (1861-1911)

      In the late nineteenth century, people in the city used cable cars, electric trolleys, and horse-drawn carriages to get around. If they could afford the cost, they called a Hansom cab, a two-wheeled cart drawn by one horse. In the 1890’s, electric taxicabs were invented, and wealthy people began to use them for their city transportation. We of the twenty-first century are not the first to deal with the foibles of the electric car. The author of this story, the humorist Charles Battell Loomis, shows the pitfalls of the new technology and how people adapted to the occasional glitch.

      It was a letter to encourage a hesitating lover, and certainly Orville Thornton, author of “Thoughts for Non-Thinkers,” came under that head. He received it on a Tuesday, and immediately made up his mind to declare his intentions to Miss Annette Badeau that evening.

      But perhaps the contents of the letter will help the reader to a better understanding of the case:

      Dear Orville:

      Miss Badeau sails unexpectedly for Paris on the day after Christmas, her aunt Madge having cabled for her to come and visit her. Won’t you come to Christmas dinner? I’ve invited the Joe Burtons, and of course Mr. Marten will be there, but no others—except Miss Badeau.

      Dinner will be at sharp seven. Don’t be late, although I know you won’t, you human timetable.

      I do hope that Annette will not fall in love in Paris. I wish that she would marry some nice New-Yorker and settle near me.

      I’ve always thought that you have neglected marriage shamefully.

      Remember to-morrow night, and Annette sails on Thursday. Wishing you a Merry Christmas, I am,

      Your old friend,

      Henrietta Marten

      Annette Badeau had come across the line of Orville’s vision three months before. She was Mrs. Marten’s niece, and had come from the West to live with her aunt at just about the time that the success of Thornton’s book made him think of marriage.

      She was pretty and bright and expansive in a Western way, and when Thornton met her at one of the few afternoon teas that he ever attended he fell in love with her. When he learned that she was the niece of his lifelong friend Mrs. Marten, he suddenly discovered various reasons why he should call at the Marten house once or twice a week.

      But a strange habit he had of putting off delightful moments in order to enjoy anticipation to its fullest extent had caused him to refrain from disclosing the state of his heart to Miss Badeau, and so that young woman, who had fallen in love with him even before she knew that he was the gifted author of “Thoughts for Non-Thinkers,” often wished to herself that she could in some way give him a hint of the state of her heart.

      Orville received Mrs. Marten’s letter on Christmas eve, and its contents made him plan a schedule for the next evening’s running. No power on earth could keep him away from that dinner, and he immediately sent a telegram of regret to the Bellwether of the Wolves’ Club, although he had been anticipating the Christmas gorge for a month.

      He also sent a messenger with a note of acceptance to Mrs. Marten.

      Then he joined the crowd of persons who always wait until Christmas eve before buying the presents that stern and unpleasant duty makes it necessary to get.

      It would impart a characteristic Christmas flavor if it were possible to cover the ground with snow and to make the air merry with the sound of flashing belts of silvery sleigh bells on prancing horses; but although Christmases in stories are always snowy and frosty, and sparkling with ice-crystals, Christmases in real life are apt to be damp and humid. Let us be thankful that this Christmas was merely such a one as would not give a ghost of a reason for a trip to Florida. The mercury stood at 58, and even СКАЧАТЬ