The Second Christmas Megapack. Гарриет Бичер-Стоу

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СКАЧАТЬ gently, “for we might get into terrible scrapes. Why, if Mr. Stevens hadn’t been so splendid about everything and wasn’t just the kindest man in the world, he could make it very ugly for me.”

      “I shudder to think of what he might do to me,” said Wilton, glancing guardedly at his neighbor.

      “The main thing,” said Talbot—“the main thing is that Mr. Stevens has done for us all what nobody else could ever have done. He’s made us see how foolish it is to quarrel about mere baubles. He’s settled all our troubles for us, and for my part I’ll say his solution is entirely satisfactory.”

      “Quite right,” ejaculated Wilton. “If I ever have any delicate business negotiations that are beyond my powers I’m going to engage Mr. Stevens to handle them.”

      “My business’s hens an’ eggs,” said The Hopper modestly; “an’ we’re doin’ purty well.”

      When they rose to go (a move that evoked strident protests from Billie, who was enjoying himself hugely with Humpy) they were all in the jolliest humor.

      “We must be neighborly,” said Muriel, shaking hands with Mary, who was at the point of tears so great was her emotion at the success of The Hopper’s party. “And we’re going to buy all our chickens and eggs from you. We never have any luck raising our own.”

      Whereupon The Hopper imperturbably pressed upon each of the visitors a neat card stating his name (his latest and let us hope his last!) with the proper rural route designation of Happy Hill Farm.

      The Hopper carried Billie out to his Grandfather Wilton’s car, while Humpy walked beside him bearing the gifts from the Happy Hill Farm Christmas tree. From the door Mary watched them depart amid a chorus of merry Christmases, out of which Billie’s little pipe rang cheerily.

      When The Hopper and Humpy returned to the house, they abandoned the parlor for the greater coziness of the kitchen and there took account of the events of the momentous twenty-four hours.

      “Them’s what I call nice folks,” said Humpy. “They jes’ put us on an’ wore us like we wuz a pair o’ ole slippers.”

      “They wuzn’t uppish—not to speak of,” Mary agreed. “I guess that girl’s got more gumption than any of ’em. She’s got ’em straightened up now and I guess she’ll take care they don’t cut up no more monkey-shines about that Chinese stuff. Her husban’ seemed sort o’ gentle like.”

      “Artists is that way,” volunteered The Hopper, as though from deep experience of art and life. “I jes’ been thinkin’ that knowin’ folks like that an’ findin’ ’em humin, makin’ mistakes like th’ rest of us, kind o’ makes ut seem easier fer us all t’ play th’ game straight. Ut’s goin’ to be th’ white card fer me—jes’ chickens an’ eggs, an’ here’s hopin’ the bulls don’t ever find out we’re settled here.”

      Humpy, having gone into the parlor to tend the fire, returned with two envelopes he had found on the mantel. There was a check for a thousand dollars in each, one from Wilton, the other from Talbot, with “Merry Christmas” written across the visiting-cards of those gentlemen. The Hopper permitted Mary and Humpy to examine them and then laid them on the kitchen table, while he deliberated. His meditations were so prolonged that they grew nervous.

      “I reckon they could spare ut, after all ye done fer ’em, Hop,” remarked Humpy.

      “They’s millionaires, an’ money ain’t nothin’ to ’em,” said The Hopper.

      “We can buy a motor-truck,” suggested Mary, “to haul our stuff to town; an’ mebbe we can build a new shed to keep ut in.”

      The Hopper set the catsup bottle on the checks and rubbed his cheek, squinting at the ceiling in the manner of one who means to be careful of his speech.

      “They’s things wot is an’ things wot ain’t,” he began. “We ain’t none o’ us ever got nowheres bein’ crooked. I been figurin’ that I still got about twenty thousan’ o’ that bunch o’ green I pulled out o’ that express car, planted in places where ’taint doin’ nobody no good. I guess ef I do ut careful I kin send ut back to the company, a little at a time, an’ they’d never know where ut come from.”

      Mary wept; Humpy stared, his mouth open, his one eye rolling queerly.

      “I guess we kin put a little chunk away every year,” The Hopper went on. “We’d be comfortabler doin’ ut. We could square up ef we lived long enough, which we don’t need t’ worry about, that bein’ the Lord’s business. You an’ me’s cracked a good many safes, Hump, but we never made no money at ut, takin’ out th’ time we done.”

      “He’s got religion; that’s wot he’s got!” moaned Humpy, as though this marked the ultimate tragedy of The Hopper’s life.

      “Mebbe ut’s religion an’ mebbe ut’s jes’ sense,” pursued The Hopper, unshaken by Humpy’s charge. “They wuz a chaplin in th’ Minnesoty pen as used t’ say ef we’re all square with our own selves ut’s goin’ to be all right with God. I guess I got a good deal o’ squarin’ t’ do, but I’m goin’ t’ begin ut. An’ all these things happenin’ along o’ Chris’mus, an’ little Shaver an’ his ma bein’ so friendly like, an’ her gittin’ me t’ help straighten out them ole gents, an’ doin’ all I done an’ not gettin’ pinched seems more ’n jes’ luck; it’s providential’s wot ut is!”

      This, uttered in a challenging tone, evoked a sob from Humpy, who announced that he “felt like” he was going to die.

      “It’s th’ Chris’mus time, I reckon,” said Mary, watching The Hopper deposit the two checks in the clock. “It’s the only decent Chris’mus I ever knowed!”

      BEASLEY’S CHRISTMAS PARTY, by Booth Tarkington

      TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

      I.

      The maple-bordered street was as still as a country Sunday; so quiet that there seemed an echo to my footsteps. It was four o’clock in the morning; clear October moonlight misted through the thinning foliage to the shadowy sidewalk and lay like a transparent silver fog upon the house of my admiration, as I strode along, returning from my first night’s work on the Wainwright Morning Despatch.

      I had already marked that house as the finest (to my taste) in Wainwright, though hitherto, on my excursions to this metropolis, the state capital, I was not without a certain native jealousy that Spencerville, the county-seat where I lived, had nothing so good. Now, however, I approached its purlieus with a pleasure in it quite unalloyed, for I was at last myself a resident (albeit of only one day’s standing) of Wainwright, and the house—though I had not even an idea who lived there—part of my possessions as a citizen. Moreover, I might enjoy the warmer pride of a next-door-neighbor, for Mrs. Apperthwaite’s, where I had taken a room, was just beyond.

      This was the quietest part of Wainwright; business stopped short of it, and the “fashionable residence section” had overleaped this “forgotten backwater,” leaving it undisturbed and unchanging, with that look about it which is the quality of few urban quarters, and eventually of none, as a town grows to be a city—the look of still being a neighborhood. This friendliness of appearance was largely the emanation of the homely and beautiful house which so greatly pleased my fancy.

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