Chapter V (1)

Before he could open the envelope, there broke on his ear a still
small voice, not that of conscience, not that of God; the voice
of a child—but does not God speak perhaps as often through the
lips of childhood as in any other way—and conscience, too?

“Are you Santa Claus?” the voice whispered in his ear.

“Crackerjack” dropped the paper and turned like a flash, knife
upraised in his clenched hand, to confront a very little girl and
a still smaller boy staring at him in open-eyed astonishment, an
astonishment which was without any vestige of alarm. He looked
down at the two and they looked up at him, equal bewilderment on
both sides.

“I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the younger
of the twain, whose pajamas bespoke the nascent man.

“In all the books he has a long white beard. Where’s yours?”
asked the coming woman.

This innocent question no less than the unaffected simplicity and
sincerity of the questioner overpowered “Crackerjack.” He sank
back into a convenient chair and stared at the imperturbable
pair. There was a strange and wonderful likeness in the
sweet-faced golden-haired little girl before him to the worn,
haggard, and ill-clad little girl who lay shivering in the mean
bed in the upper room where God was not—or so he fancied.

“You’re a little girl, aren’t you?” he whispered.

No voice had been or was raised above a whisper. It was a
witching hour and its spell was upon them all.

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

“Helen.”

Now Helen had been “Crackerjack’s” mother’s name and it was the
name of his own little girl, and although everybody else called
her Nell, to him she was always Helen.

“And my name’s John,” volunteered the other child.

“John!” That was extraordinary!

“What’s your other name?”

“John William.”

The man stared again. Could this be coincidence merely? John was
his own name and William that of his brother.

“I mean what is your last name?”

“Carstairs,” answered the little girl. “Now you tell us who you
are. You aren’t Santa Claus, are you? I don’t hear any reindeers
outside, or bells, and you haven’t any pack, and you’re not by
the fireplace where our stockings are.”

“I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney,” said the younger of the twain.

“No,” said the man, “I’m not exactly Santa Claus, I’m his
friend—I—”

What should he say to these children? In his bewilderment for the
moment he actually forgot the letter which he still held tightly
in his hand.

“Dat’s muvver’s safe,” continued the little boy. “She keeps lots
o’ things in it. It’s all hers but dat drawer. Dat’s papa’s and—”

“I think I hear some one on the stairs,” broke in the little girl
suddenly in great excitement. “Maybe that’s Santa Claus.”

“Perhaps it is,” said the man, who had also heard. “You wait and
watch for him. I’ll go outside and attend to his reindeer.”

He made a movement to withdraw, but the girl caught him tightly
by the hand.

“If you are his friend,” she said, “you can introduce us. You
know our names and—”

The golden opportunity was gone.

“Don’t say a word,” whispered the man quickly. “We’ll surprise
him. Be very still.”

He reached his hand up and turned out the light. He half hoped he
might be mistaken, or that in the darkness they would not be
seen, but no. They all heard the footsteps on the stair. They
came down slowly, and it was evident that whoever was approaching
was using every precaution not to be heard. “Crackerjack” was in
a frightful situation. He did not know whether to jerk himself
away from the two children, for the boy had clasped him around
the leg and the girl still held his hand, or whether to wait.

The power of decision suddenly left him, for the steps stopped
before the door. There was a little click as a hand pressed a
button on the wall and the whole room was flooded with light from
the great electrolier in the centre. Well, the game was up.
“Crackerjack” had been crouching low with the children. He rose
to his feet and looked straightly enough into the barrel of a
pistol held by a tall, severe looking man in a rich silk dressing
robe, who confronted him in the doorway. Two words broke from the
lips of the two men, the same words that had fallen from their
lips when they met ten years before.

“John!” cried the elder man, laying the weapon on a nearby table.

“Will!” answered “Crackerjack” in the same breath.

As if to mark the eternal difference as before, the one was
clothed in habiliments of wealth and luxury, the other in the
rags and tatters of poverty and shame.

“Why, that isn’t Santa Claus,” instantly burst out the little
girl, “that’s papa.”

“Dis is Santy Claus’s friend, papa,” said the little boy. “We
were doin’ to su’prise him. He said be very still and we minded.”

“So this is what you have come to, John,” said the elder man, but
there was an unwonted gentleness in his voice.

“I swear to God I didn’t know it was your house. I just came in
here because the window was open.”

The other pointed to the safe.

“But you were—”

“Of course I was. You don’t suppose I wandered in for fun, do
you? I’ve got a little girl of my own, and her name’s Helen, too;
our mother’s name.”

The other brother nodded.

“She’s hungry and cold and there’s no Christmas for her or her
mother.”

“Oh, Santy has been here already,” cried Master John Williams,
running toward the great fireplace, having just that moment
discovered the bulging stockings and piles of gifts. His sister
made a move in the same direction, for at the other corner hung
her stocking and beneath it her pile, but the man’s hand
unconsciously tightened upon her hand and she stopped.

“I’ll stay with you,” she said, after a moment of hesitation.
“Tell me more about your Helen.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” He released her hand roughly. “You
musn’t touch me,” he added harshly. “Go.”

“You needn’t go, my dear,” said her father quickly. “Indeed, I
think, perhaps—”

“Is your Helen very poor?” quietly asked the little girl,
possessing herself of his hand again, “because if she is she can
have”—she looked over at the pile of toys—“Well, I’ll see. I’ll
give her lots of things, and—”

“What’s this?” broke out the younger man harshly, extending his
hand with the letter in it toward the other.

“It is a letter to you from our father.”

“And you kept it from me?” cried the other.

“Read it,” said William Carstairs.

With trembling hands “Crackerjack” tore it open. It was a message
of love and forgiveness penned by a dying hand.

“If I had had this then I might have been a different man,” said
the poor wretch.

“There is another paper under it, or there should be, in the same
drawer,” went on William Carstairs, imperturbably. “Perhaps you
would better read that.”

John Carstairs needed no second invitation. He turned to the open
drawer and took out the next paper. It was a copy of a will. The
farm and business had been left to William, but one half of it
was to be held in trust for his brother. The man read it and then
he crushed the paper in his hand.

“And that, too, might have saved me. My God!” he cried, “I’ve
been a drunken blackguard. I’ve gone down to the very depths. I
have been in State’s prison. I was, I am, a thief, but I never
would have withheld a dying man’s forgiveness from his son. I
never would have kept a poor wretch who was crazy with shame and
who drank himself into crime out of his share of the property.”

Animated by a certain fell purpose, he leaped across the room and
seized the pistol.

“Yes, and I have you now!” he cried. “I’ll make you pay.”

He levelled the weapon at his brother with a steady hand.

“What are you doin’ to do wif that pistol?” said young John
William, curiously looking up from his stocking, while Helen
cried out. The little woman acted the better part. With rare
intuition she came quickly and took the left hand of the man and
patted it gently. For one thing, her father was not afraid, and
that reassured her. John Carstairs threw the pistol down again.
William Carstairs had never moved.

“Now,” he said, “let me explain.”

“Can you explain away this?”

“I can. Father’s will was not opened until the day after you
left. As God is my judge I did not know he had written to you. I
did not know he had left anything to you. I left no stone
unturned in an endeavour to find you. I employed the best
detectives in the land, but we found no trace of you whatever.
Why, John, I have only been sorry once that I let you go that
night, that I spoke those words to you, and that has been all the
time.”

“And where does this come from?” said the man, flinging his arm
up and confronting the magnificent room.

“It came from the old farm. There was oil on it and I sold it for
a great price. I was happily married. I came here and have been
successful in business. Half of it all is yours.”

“I won’t take it.”

“John,” said William Carstairs, “I offered you money once and you
struck it out of my hand. You remember?”

“Yes.”

“What I am offering you now is your own. You can’t strike it out
of my hand. It is not mine, but yours.”

“I won’t have it,” protested the man. “It’s too late. You don’t
know what I’ve been, a common thief. ‘Crackerjack’ is my name.
Every policeman and detective in New York knows me.”

“But you’ve got a little Helen, too, haven’t you?” interposed the
little girl with wisdom and tact beyond her years.

“Yes.”

“And you said she was very poor and had no Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“For her sake, John,” said William Carstairs. “Indeed you must
not think you have been punished alone. I have been punished,
too. I’ll help you begin again. Here”—he stepped closer to his
brother—“is my hand.”

The other stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“There is nothing in it now but affection. Won’t you take it?”

Slowly John Carstairs lifted his hand. His palm met that of his
elder brother. He was so hungry and so weak and so overcome that
he swayed a little. His head bowed, his body shook and the elder
brother put his arm around him and drew him close.

Into the room came William Carstairs’ wife. She, too, had at last
been aroused by the conversation, and, missing her husband, she
had thrown a wrapper about her and had come down to seek him.

“We tame down to find Santy Claus,” burst out young John William,
at the sight of her, “and he’s been here, look muvver.”

Yes, Santa Claus had indeed been there. The boy spoke better than
he knew.

“And this,” said little Helen eagerly, pointing proudly to her
new acquaintance, “is a friend of his, and he knows papa and he’s
got a little Helen and we’re going to give her a Merry
Christmas.”

William Carstairs had no secrets from his wife. With a flash of
womanly intuition, although she could not understand how he came
to be there, she divined who this strange guest was who looked a
pale, weak picture of her strong and splendid husband, and yet
she must have final assurance.

“Who is this gentleman, William?” she asked quietly, and John
Carstairs was forever grateful to her for her word that night.

“This,” said William Carstairs, “is my father’s son, my brother,
who was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.”

And so, as it began with the beginning, this story ends with the
ending of the best and most famous of all the stories that were
ever told.

ON CHRISTMAS GIVING

_Being a Word of Much Needed Advice_

Christmas is the birthday of our Lord, upon which we celebrate
God’s ineffable gift of Himself to His children. No human soul
has ever been able to realize the full significance of that gift,
no heart has ever been glad enough to contain the joy of it, and
no mind has ever been wise enough to express it. Nevertheless we
powerfully appreciate the blessing and would fain convey it
fitly. Therefore to commemorate that great gift the custom of
exchanging tokens of love and remembrance has grown until it has
become well nigh universal. This is a day in which we ourselves
crave, as never at any other time, happiness and peace for those
we love and that ought to include everybody, for with the angelic
message in our ears it should be impossible to hate any one on
Christmas day however we may feel before or after.

But despite the best of wills almost inevitably Christmas in many
instances has created a burdensome demand. Perhaps by the method
of exclusion we shall find out what Christmas should be. It is
not a time for extravagance, for ostentation, for vulgar display,
it is possible to purchase pleasure for someone else at too high
a price to ourselves. To paraphrase Polonius, “Costly thy gift as
thy purse can buy, rich but not expressed in fancy, for the gift
oft proclaims the man.” In making presents observe three
principal facts; the length of your purse, the character of your
friend, and the universal rule of good taste. Do not plunge into
extravagance from which you will scarcely recover except in
months of nervous strain and desperate financial struggle. On the
other hand do not be mean and niggardly in your gifts. Oh, not
that; avoid selfishness at Christmas, if at no other time. Rather
no gift at all than a grudging one. Let your offerings represent
yourselves and your affections. Indeed if they do not represent
you, they are not gifts at all. “The gift without the giver is
bare.”

And above all banish from your mind the principle of reciprocity.
The _lex talionis_ has no place in Christmas giving. Do not think
or feel that you must give to someone because someone gave to
you. There is no barter about it. You give because you love and
without a thought of return. Credit others with the same feeling
and be governed thereby. I know one upon whose Christmas list
there are over one hundred and fifty people, rich and poor, high
and low, able and not able. That man would be dismayed beyond
measure if everyone of those people felt obliged to make a return
for the Christmas remembrances he so gladly sends them.

In giving remember after all the cardinal principle of the day.
Let your gift be an expression of your kindly remembrance, your
gentle consideration, your joyful spirit, your spontaneous
gratitude, your abiding desire for peace and goodwill toward men.
Hunt up somebody who needs and who without you may lack and
suffer heart hunger, loneliness, and disappointment.

Nor is Christmas a time for gluttonous eating and drinking. To
gorge one’s self with quantities of rich and indigestible food is
not the noblest method of commemorating the day. The rules and
laws of digestion are not abrogated upon the Holy day. These are
material cautions, the day has a spiritual significance of which
material manifestations are, or ought to be, outward and visible
expressions only.

Christmas is one of the great days of obligation in the Church
year, then as at Easter if at no other time, Christians should
gather around the table of the Lord, kneeling before God’s altar
in the ministering of that Holy Communion which unites them with
the past, the present, and the future—the communion of the saints
of God’s Holy Church with His Beloved Son. Then and thus in body,
soul, and spirit we do truly participate in the privilege and
blessing of the Incarnation, then and there we receive that
strength which enables everyone of us to become factors in the
great extension of that marvellous occurrence throughout the ages
and throughout the world.

Let us therefore on this Holy Natal Day, from which the whole
world dates its time, begin on our knees before that altar which
is at once manger, cross, throne. Let us join thereafter in holy
cheer of praise and prayer and exhortation and Christmas carol,
and then let us go forth with a Christmas spirit in our hearts
resolved to communicate it to the children of men, and not merely
for the day but for the future. To make the right use of these
our privileges, this it is to save the world.

In this spirit, therefore, so far as poor, fallible human nature
permits him to realize it and exhibit it, the author wishes all
his readers which at present comprise his only flock—

A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

IT WAS THE SAME CHRISTMAS MORNING

_In Which it is Shown how Different the Same Things may Be_

_A Story for Girls_

In Philadelphia the rich and the poor live cheek by jowl—or
rather, back to back. Between the streets of the rich and
parallel to them, run the alleys of the poor. The rich man’s
garage jostles elbows with the poor man’s dwelling.

In a big house fronting on one of the most fashionable streets
lived a little girl named Ethel. Other people lived in the big
house also, a father, a mother, a butler, a French maid, and a
host of other servants. Back of the big house was the garage.
Facing the garage on the other side of the alley was a little,
old one-story-and-a-half brick house. In this house dwelt a
little girl named Maggie. With her lived her father who was a
labourer; her mother, who took in washing; and half a dozen
brothers, four of whom worked at something or other, while the
two littlest went to school.

Ethel and Maggie never played together. Their acquaintance was
simply a bowing one—better perhaps, a smiling one. From one
window in the big playroom which was so far to one side of the
house that Ethel could see past the garage and get a glimpse of
the window of the living-room in Maggie’s house, the two little
girls at first stared at each other. One day Maggie nodded and
smiled, then Ethel, feeling very much frightened, for she had
been cautioned against playing with or noticing the children in
the alley, nodded and smiled back. Now neither of the children
felt happy unless they had held a pantomimic conversation from
window to window at some time during the day.

It was Christmas morning. Ethel awoke very early, as all properly
organized children do on that day at least. She had a beautiful
room in which she slept alone. Adjacent to it, in another room
almost as beautiful, slept Celeste, her mamma’s French maid.
Ethel had been exquisitely trained. She lay awake a long time
before making a sound or movement, wishing it were time to arise.
But Christmas was strong upon her, the infection of the season
was in her blood. Presently she slipped softly out of bed,
pattered across the room, paused at the door which gave entrance
to the hall which led to her mother’s apartments, then turned and
plumped down upon Celeste.

“Merry Christmas,” she cried shaking the maid.

To awaken Celeste was a task of some difficulty. Ordinarily the
French woman would have been indignant at being thus summarily
routed out before the appointed hour but something of the spirit
of Christmas had touched her as well. She answered the salutation
of the little girl kindly enough, but as she sat up in bed she
lifted a reproving finger.

“But,” she said, “you mus’ keep ze silence, Mademoiselle Ethel.
Madame, vôtre maman, she say she mus’ not be disturb’ in ze
morning. She haf been out ver’ late in ze night and she haf go to
ze bed ver’ early. She say you mus’ be ver’ quiet on ze Matin de
Noël!”

“I will be quiet, Celeste,” answered the little girl, her lip
quivering at the injunction.

It was so hard to be repressed all the time but especially on
Christmas Day of all others.

“Zen I will help you to dress immediatement, and zen Villiam, he
vill call us to see ze tree.”

Never had the captious little girl been more docile, more
obedient. Dressing Ethel that morning was a pleasure to Celeste.
Scarcely had she completed the task and put on her own clothing
when there was a tap on the door.

“Vat is it?”

“Mornin’, Miss Celeste,” spoke a heavy voice outside, a voice
subdued to a decorous softness of tone, “if you an’ Miss Ethel
are ready, the tree is lit, an’—”

“Ve air ready, Monsieur Villiam,” answered Celeste, throwing open
the door dramatically.

Ethel opened her mouth to welcome the butler—for if that solemn
and portentous individual ever unbent it was to Miss Ethel, whom
in his heart of hearts he adored—but he placed a warning finger
to his lip and whispered in an awestruck voice:

“The master, your father, came in late last night, Miss, an’ he
said there must be no noise or racket this morning.”

Ethel nodded sadly, her eyes filling at her disappointment;
William then marched down the hall with a stately magnificence
peculiar to butlers, and opened the door into the playroom. He
flung it wide and stood to one side like a grenadier, as Celeste
and Ethel entered. There was a gorgeous tree, beautifully
trimmed. William had bought the tree and Celeste’s French taste
had adorned it. It was a sight to delight any child’s eyes and
the things strewn around it on the floor were even more
attractive. Everything that money could buy, that Celeste and
William could think of was there. Ethel’s mother had given her
maid carte blanche to buy the child whatever she liked, and
Ethel’s father had done the same with William. The two had pooled
their issue and the result was a toyshop dream. Ethel looked at
the things in silence.

“How do you like it, Miss?” asked William at last rather
anxiously.

“Mademoiselle is not pleased?” questioned the French woman.

“It—it—is lovely,” faltered the little girl.

“We haf selected zem ourselves.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Didn’t mamma—buy anything—or papa—or Santa?”

“Zey tell us to get vatever you vould like and nevair mind ze
money.”

“It was so good of you, I am sure,” said Ethel struggling
valiantly against disappointment almost too great to bear.
“Everything is beautiful but—I—wish mamma or papa had—I wish they
were here—I’d like them to wish me a Merry Christmas.”

The little lip trembled but the upper teeth came down on it
firmly. The child had courage. William looked at Celeste and
Celeste shrugged her shoulders, both knowing what was lacking.

“I am sure, Miss, that they do wish you a Merry Christmas,
an’”—the butler began bravely, but the situation was too much for
him. “There goes the master’s bell,” he said quickly and turned
and stalked out of the room gravely, although no bell had
summoned him.

“You may go, Celeste,” said Ethel with a dignity not unlike her
mother’s manner.

The maid shrugged her shoulders again, left the room and closed
the door. Everything was lovely, everything was there except that
personal touch which means so much even to the littlest girl.
Ethel was used to being cared for by others than her parents but
it came especially hard on her this morning. She turned, leaving
the beautiful things as they were placed about the tree, and
walked to the end window whence she could get a view of the
little house beyond the garage over the back wall.

There was a Christmas tree in Maggie’s house too. It wouldn’t
have made a respectable branch for Ethel’s tree, and the
trimmings were so cheap and poor that Celeste would have thrown
them into the waste basket immediately. There were a few common,
cheap, perishable little toys around the tree on the floor but to
Maggie it was a glimpse of heaven. She stood in her little white
night-gown—no such thing as dressing for her on Christmas
morning—staring around her. The whole family was grouped about
her, even the littlest brothers, who went to school because they
were not big enough to work, forgot their own joy in watching
their little sister. Her father, her mother, the big boys all in
a state of more or less dishevelled undress stood around her,
pointing out first one thing and then another which they had been
able to get for her by denying themselves some of the necessities
of life. Maggie was so happy that her eyes brimmed, yet she did
not cry. She laughed, she clapped her hands, and kissed them all
round and finally found herself, a big orange in one hand, a tin
trumpet in the other, perched upon her father’s broad shoulders
leading a frantic march around the narrow confines of the
living-room. As she passed by the one window she caught a glimpse
of the alley. It had been snowing throughout the night and the
ground was white.

“Oh,” she screamed with delight, “let me see the snow on
Christmas morning.”

Her father walked over to the window, parted the cheap lace
curtains, while Maggie clapped her hands gleefully at the
prospect. Presently she lifted her eyes and looked toward the
other window high up in the air, where Ethel stood, a mournful
little figure. Maggie’s papa looked too. He knew how cheap and
poor were the little gifts he had bought for his daughter.

“I wish,” he thought, “that she could have some of the things
that child up there has.”

Maggie however was quite content. She smiled, flourished her
trumpet, waved her orange, but there was no answering smile on
Ethel’s face now. Finally the wistful little girl in the big
house languidly waved her hand, and then Maggie was taken away to
be dressed lest she should catch cold after the mischief was
done.

“I hope that she’s having a nice Christmas,” said Maggie,
referring to Ethel.

“I hope so too,” answered her mother, wishing that her little
girl might have some of the beautiful gifts she knew must be in
the great house.

“Whatever she has,” said Maggie, gleefully, “she can’t have any
nicer Christmas than I have, that you and papa and the boys gave
me. I’m just as happy as I can be.”

Over in the big house, Ethel was also wishing. She was so unhappy
since she had seen Maggie in the arms of her big, bearded father,
standing by the window, that she could control herself no longer.
She turned away and threw herself down on the floor in front of
the tree and buried her face in her hands bursting into tears.

It was Christmas morning and she was all alone.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

“_Christmas Then and Now_”

The Stars look down On David’s town, While angels sing in Winter night; The Shepherds pray, And far away The Wise Men follow guiding light. Little Christ Child By Mary Mild In Manger lies without the Inn; Of Man the Son, Yet God in One, To save the lost in World of Sin. Still stars look down On David’s town And still the Christ Child dwells with men, What thought give we To such as He, Or souls who live in Sin as then? Show we our love To Him above By offering others’ grief to share; And Christmas cheer For all the year Bestow to lighten pain and care.

THE LONE SCOUT’S CHRISTMAS

_Wherein is Set Forth the Courage and Resourcefulness of Youth_

_A Story for Boys_

Every boy likes snow on Christmas Day, but there is such a thing
as too much of it. Henry Ives, alone in the long railroad coach,
stared out of the clouded windows at the whirling mass of snow
with feelings of dismay. It was the day before Christmas, almost
Christmas Eve. Henry did not feel any too happy, indeed he had
hard work to keep down a sob. His mother had died but a few weeks
before and his father, the captain of a freighter on the Great
Lakes, had decided, very reluctantly, to send him to his brother
who had a big ranch in western Nebraska.

Henry had never seen his uncle or his aunt. He did not know what
kind of people they were. The loss of his mother had been a
terrible blow to him and to be separated from his father had
filled his cup of sorrow to the brim. His father’s work did not
end with the close of navigation on the lakes, and he could not
get away then although he promised to come and see Henry before
the ice broke and traffic was resumed in the spring.

The long journey from the little Ohio town on Lake Erie to
western Nebraska had been without mishap. His uncle’s ranch lay
far away from the main line of the railroad on the end of the
branch. There was but one train a day upon it, and that was a
mixed train. The coach in which Henry sat was attached to the end
of a long string of freight cars. Travel was infrequent in that
section of the country. On this day Henry was the only passenger.

The train had been going up-grade for many miles and had just
about reached the crest of the divide. Bucking the snow had
become more and more difficult; several times the train had
stopped. Sometimes the engine backed the train some distance to
get headway to burst through the drift. So Henry thought nothing
of it when the car came to a gentle stop.

The all-day storm blew from the west and the front windows of the
car were covered with snow so he could not see ahead. Some time
before the conductor and rear brakeman had gone forward to help
dig the engine out of the drift and they had not come back.

Henry sat in silence for some time watching the whirling snow. He
was sad; even the thought of the gifts of his father and friends
in his trunk which stood in the baggage compartment of the car
did not cheer him. More than all the Christmas gifts in the
world, he wanted at that time his mother and father and friends.

“It doesn’t look as though it was going to be a very merry
Christmas for me,” he said aloud at last, and then feeling a
little stiff from having sat still so long he got up and walked
to the front of the car.

It was warm and pleasant in the coach. The Baker heater was going
at full blast and Henry noticed that there was plenty of coal. He
tried to see out from the front door; but as he was too prudent
to open it and let in the snow and cold he could make out
nothing. The silence rather alarmed him. The train had never
waited so long before.

Then, suddenly, came the thought that something very unusual was
wrong. He must get a look at the train ahead. He ran back to the
rear door, opened it and standing on the leeward side, peered
forward. The engine and freight cars were not there! All he saw
was the deep cut filled nearly to the height of the car with
snow.

Henry was of a mechanical turn of mind and he realized that
doubtless the coupling had broken. That was what had happened.
The trainmen had not noticed it and the train had gone on and
left the coach. The break had occurred at the crest of the divide
and the train had gone rapidly down hill on the other side. The
amount of snow told the boy that it would not be possible for the
train to back up and pick up the car. He was alone in the
wilderness of rolling hills in far western Nebraska. And this was
Christmas Eve!

It was enough to bring despair to any boy’s heart. But Henry Ives
was made of good stuff, he was a first-class Boy Scout and on his
scout coat in the trunk were four Merit Badges. He had the spirit
of his father, who had often bucked the November storms on Lake
Superior in his great six-hundred-foot freighter, and danger
inspired him.

He went back into the car, closed the door, and sat down to think
it over. He had very vague ideas as to how long such a storm
would last and how long he might be kept prisoner. He did not
even know just where he was or how far it was to the end of the
road and the town where his uncle’s ranch lay.

It was growing dark so he lighted one of the lamps close to the
heater and had plenty of light. In doing so he noticed in the
baggage rack a dinner pail. He remembered that the conductor had
told him that his wife had packed that dinner pail and although
it did not belong to the boy he felt justified in appropriating
it in such circumstances. It was full of food—eggs, sandwiches,
and a bottle of coffee. He was not very hungry but he ate a
sandwich. He was even getting cheerful about the situation
because he had something to do. It was an adventure.

While he had been eating, the storm had died away. Now he
discovered that it had stopped snowing. All around him the
country was a hilly, rolling prairie. The cut ran through a hill
which seemed to be higher than others in the neighbourhood. If he
could get on top of it he might see where he was. Although day
was ending it was not yet dark and Henry decided upon an
exploration.

Now he could not walk on foot in that deep and drifted snow
without sinking over his head under ordinary conditions, but his
troop had done a great deal of winter work, and strapped
alongside of his big, telescope grip were a pair of snow-shoes
which he himself had made, and with the use of which he was
thoroughly familiar.

“I mustn’t spoil this new suit,” he told himself, so he ran to
the baggage-room of the car, opened his trunk, got out his Scout
uniform and slipped into it in a jiffy. “Glad I ran in that
‘antelope dressing race,’” he muttered, “but I’ll beat my former
record now.” Over his khaki coat he put on his heavy sweater,
then donned his wool cap and gloves, and with his snow-shoes
under his arm hurried back to the rear platform. The snow was on
a level with the platform. It rose higher as the coach reached
into the cut. He saw that he would have to go down some distance
before he could turn and attempt the hill.

He had used his snow-shoes many times in play but this was the
first time they had ever been of real service to him. Thrusting
his toes into the straps he struck out boldly.

To his delight he got along without the slightest difficulty
although he strode with great care. He gained the level and in
ten minutes found himself on the top of the hill, where he could
see miles and miles of rolling prairie. He turned himself slowly
about, to get a view of the country.

As his glance swept the horizon, at first it did not fall upon a
single, solitary thing except a vast expanse of snow. There was
not a tree even. The awful loneliness filled him with dismay. He
had about given up when, in the last quarter of the horizon he
saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, what looked like a fine
trickle of blackish smoke that appeared to rise from a shapeless
mound that bulged above the monotonous level.

“Smoke means fire, and fire means man,” he said, excitedly.

The sky was rapidly clearing. A few stars had already appeared.
Remembering what he had learned on camp and trail, he took his
bearing by the stars; he did not mean to get lost if he left that
hill. Looking back, he could see the car, the lamp of which sent
broad beams of light through the windows across the snow.

Then he plunged down the hill, thanking God in his boyish heart
for the snow-shoes and his knowledge of them.

It did not take him long to reach the mound whence the smoke
rose. It was a sod house, he found, built against a sharp knoll,
which no doubt formed its rear wall. The wind had drifted the
snow, leaving a half-open way to the door. Noiselessly the boy
slipped down to it, drew his feet from the snow-shoes and
knocked. There was a burst of sound inside. It made his heart
jump, but he was reassured by the fact that the voices were those
of children. What they said he could not make out; but, without
further ado, he opened the door and entered.

It was a fairly large room. There were two beds in it, a stove, a
table, a chest of drawers and a few chairs. From one of the beds
three heads stared at him. As each head was covered with a wool
cap, drawn down over the ears, like his own, he could not make
out who they were. There were dishes on the table, but they were
empty. The room was cold, although it was evident that there was
still a little fire in the stove.

“Oh!” came from one of the heads in the bed. “I thought you were
my father. What is your name?”

“My name,” answered the boy, “is Henry Ives. I was left behind
alone in the railroad car about a mile back, and saw the smoke
from your house and here I am.”

“Have you brought us anything to burn?” asked the second head.

“Or anything to eat?” questioned the third.

“My name is Mary Wright,” said the first speaker, “and these are
my brothers George and Philip. Father went away yesterday morning
with the team, to get some coal and some food. He went to Kiowa.”

“That’s where I am going,” interrupted Henry.

“Yes,” continued Mary, “I suppose he can’t get back because of
the snow. It’s an awful storm.”

“We haven’t anything to eat, and I don’t know when father will be
back,” said George.

“And it’s Christmas Eve,” wailed Philip, who appeared to be about
seven.

He set up a howl about this which his brother George, who was
about nine, had great difficulty in quieting.

“We put the last shovelful of coal in the stove,” said Mary
Wright, “and got into bed to keep warm.”

“I’ll go outside while you get up and dress,” said Henry
considerately, “and then we will try and get to the car. It is
warm there, and there is something to eat.”

“You needn’t go,” said the girl; “we are all dressed.” She threw
back the covers and sprang out of bed. She was very pretty and
about Henry’s own age, he discovered, although she was pale and
haggard with cold and hunger.

“Goody, goody!” exclaimed little Philip, as his feet landed on
the floor. “Maybe we’ll have some Christmas, too.”

“Maybe we will,” said Henry, smiling at him. “At least we will
have something to eat.”

“Well, let’s start right away then,” urged George.

This brought Henry face to face with a dilemma. “I have only one
pair of snow-shoes,” he said at last, “and you probably don’t
know how to use them anyway, and you can’t walk on the snow.”

“I have a sled,” suggested George.

“That won’t do,” said Henry. “I’ve got to have something that
won’t sink in the snow—that will lie flat, so I can draw you
along.”

“How about that table?” said the girl.

“Good suggestion,” cried Henry.

It was nothing but a common kitchen table. He turned it upside
down, took his Scout axe from its sheath, knocked the legs off,
fastened a piece of clothesline to the butts of two of them.

“Now if I could have something to turn up along the front, so as
not to dig into the snow,” he said, “it would be fine.” He
thought a moment. “Where is that sled of yours, George?”

“Here,” said George, dragging it forth. The runners curved
upwards. Henry cut them off, in spite of Philip’s protests. He
nailed these runners to the front of the table and stretched rope
tightly across them so that he had four up-curves in front of the
table.

“Now I want something to stretch on these things, so as to let
the sled ride over the snow, instead of digging into it,” he said
to the girl.

She brought him her father’s old “slicker.” Henry cut it into
suitable shape and nailed and lashed it securely to the runners
and to the table top. Now he had a flat-bottomed sled with a
rising front to it that would serve. He smiled as he looked at
the queer contrivance and said aloud: “I wish Mr. Lesher could
see that!”

“Who is Mr. Lesher?” asked George.

“Oh, he’s my Scoutmaster back in Ohio. Now come on!”

He opened the door, drew the sled outside, pushed it up on the
snow and stepped on it. It bore his weight perfectly.

“It’s all right,” he cried. “But it won’t take all three of you
at once.”

“I’ll wait,” said Mary, “you take the two boys.”

“Very well,” said Henry.

“You’ll surely come back for me?”

“Surely, and I think it’s mighty brave of you to stay behind. Now
come on, boys,” he said.

Leaving Mary filled with pleasure at such praise, he put the two
boys carefully into the sled, stepped into his snow-shoes and
dragged them rapidly across the prairie. It was quite dark now,
but the sky was clear and the stars were bright. The storm had
completely stopped. He remembered the bearings he had taken by
the stars, and reached the high hill without difficulty. Below
him lay the car.

Presently he drew up before the platform. He put the boys in the
car, told them to go up to the fire and warm themselves and not
to touch anything. Then he went back for the girl.

“Did you think I was not coming?” he asked as he re-entered the
cabin.

“I knew you would come back,” said the girl and it was Henry’s
turn to tingle with pride.

He wrapped her up carefully, and fairly ran back to the car. They
found the boys warm and comfortable and greatly excited.

“If we just had a Christmas tree and Santa Claus and something to
eat and a drink of water and a place to sleep,” said the youngest
boy, “it would be great fun.”

“I am afraid we can’t manage the Christmas tree,” said Henry,
“but we can have everything else.”

“Do you mean Santy?”

“Santy too,” answered the boy. “First of all, we will get
something to eat.”

“We haven’t had anything since morning,” said the girl. Henry
divided the sandwiches into three portions. As it happened, there
were three hard-boiled eggs. He gave one portion to each of his
guests.

“You haven’t left any for yourself,” said Mary.

“I ate before I looked for you,” answered Henry, although the one
sandwich had by no means satisfied his hunger.

“My, but this is good!” said George.

“Our mother is dead,” said Mary Wright after a pause, “and our
father is awful poor. He has taken out a homestead and we are
trying to live on it until he gets it proved up. We have had a
very hard time since mother died.”

“Yes, I know,” said Henry, gravely; “my mother died, too.”

“I wonder what time it is?” asked the girl at last.

Henry pulled out his watch. “It is after six o’clock,” he said.

“Say,” broke in George, “that’s a funny kind of a uniform you’ve
got on.”

“It is a Boy Scout uniform.”

“Oh, is it?” exclaimed George. “I never saw one before. I wish I
could be a Scout!”

“Maybe you can,” answered Henry. “I am going to organize a troop
when I get to Kiowa. But now I’m going to fix beds for you. Of
course we are all sleepy after such a hard day.”

He had seen the trainmen lift up the bottoms of the seats and lay
them lengthwise of the car. He did this, and soon made four
fairly comfortable beds. The two nearest the stove he gave to the
boys. He indicated the next one was for Mary, and the one further
down toward the middle of the car was for himself.

“You can all go to bed right away,” he said when he had made his
preparations. The two boys decided to accept this advice. Mary
said she would stay up a little longer and talk with Henry.

“You can’t undress,” she said to the two boys. “You’ll have to
sleep as you are.” She sat down in one of the car seats; Philip
knelt down at one knee and George at the other. The girl, who was
barely fifteen had already taken her mother’s place. She laid her
hand on each bent head and listened while one after the other the
boys said their prayers. She kissed them good-night, saw them
comfortably laid out on the big cushions with their overcoats for
pillows and turned away.

“Say,” began Philip, “you forgot something, Mary.”

“What have I forgotten, dear?”

“Why, it’s Christmas Eve and we must hang up our stockings.”

Mary threw up her hands. “I am afraid this is too far away for
Santa Claus. He won’t know that we are out here,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Henry, thinking rapidly, “let them hang
them up.”

Mary looked at him in surprise. “They haven’t any to hang up,”
she said. “We can’t take those they’re wearing.”

“You should have thought of that,” wailed Philip, “before you
brought us here.”

“I have some extra ones in my bag,” said Henry. “We will hang
them up.”

He opened the bag and brought out three stockings, one for each
of his guests. He fastened them to the baggage racks above the
seats and watched the two boys contentedly close their eyes and
go to sleep.

“They will be awfully disappointed when they wake up in the
morning and do not find anything in them,” said Mary.

“They’re going to find something in them,” said Henry
confidently.

He went to the end of the car, opened his trunk and lifted out
various packages which had been designed for him. Of course he
was going on sixteen, but there were some things that would do
for Philip and plenty of things for George and some good books
that he had selected himself that would do for Mary. Then there
were candy and nuts and cakes and oranges galore. Mary was even
more excited than he was as they filled the boys’ stockings and
arranged things that were too big to go in them.

“These are your own Christmas gifts, I know,” said the girl, “and
you haven’t hung up your stocking.”

“I don’t need to. I have had my Christmas present.”

“And what is that?”

“A chance to make a merry Christmas for you and your little
brothers,” answered Henry, and his heart was light.

“How long do you suppose we will have to stay here?” asked the
girl.

“I don’t know. I suppose they will try to dig us out to-morrow.
Meanwhile we have nuts, oranges, crackers, and little cakes, to
say nothing of the candy, to live on. Now you go to bed and have
a good sleep.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’ll stay up for a while and read one of these books and keep
the fire going.”

“You are awfully good to us,” said Mary, turning away. “You are
just like a real Santa Claus.”

“We have to help other people—especially people in trouble,”
answered the boy. “It is one of the first Scout rules. I am
really glad I got left behind and found you. Good-night.”

The girl, whose experience that day had been hard, soon fell
asleep with her brothers. Henry did not feel sleepy at all; he
was bright and happy and rejoiced. This certainly _was_ an
adventure. He wondered what Dick and Joe and Spike and the other
fellows of his troop would think when he wrote them about it. He
did not realize that he had saved the lives of the children, who
would assuredly have frozen to death in the cabin.

When he was satisfied that Mary was sound asleep, he put some
things in her stocking and then piled in the rack over her head
two books he thought the girl would like. It was late when he
went to sleep himself, happier than he had dreamed he could be.

He awoke once in the night to replenish the fire, but he was
sleeping soundly at seven o’clock in the morning when the door of
the car opened and half a dozen men filed in. They had not made
any noise. Even the big snow-plough tearing open the way from
Kiowa had not disturbed the four sleepers.

The first man in was the conductor. After the trainmen had
discovered that the coach had been left behind they had managed
to get into Kiowa and had started back at once with the rotary
plough to open the road and to rescue the boy. Henry’s uncle had
been in town to meet Henry, and of course the trainmen let him go
back with them on the plough. The third man was Mr. Wright. He
had been caught by the storm and, as he said, the abandoned coach
must be near his claim, he asked to be taken along because he was
afraid his children would be freezing to death.

The men stopped and surveyed the sleeping boys and girl. Their
glances ranged from the children to the bulging stockings and the
pile of Christmas presents in the racks.

“Well, can you beat that?” said the conductor.

“By George!” exclaimed Rancher Ives, “a regular Christmas
layout!”

“These are my children safe and well, thank God!” cried Mr.
Wright.

“Boy,” said the conductor, laying his hand on Henry’s shoulder,
“we came to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Father!” cried Mary Wright, awakened by the voice, and the next
minute she was in his arms, while she told him rapidly what Henry
had done for them all.

The boys were awake, too, but humanity had no attraction for
them.

“Santa has come!” shouted Philip making a dive for his stocking.

“This is your uncle, Jim Ives,” said the conductor to Henry.

“And this is my father,” said Mary in turn.

“I am awfully sorry,” said Henry to the conductor, “but we had to
eat your dinner. And I had to chop up your kitchen table,” he
added, turning to Mr. Wright.

“I am glad there was something to eat in the pail,” said one.

“You could have chopped the cabin down,” said the other.

“By George!” said the ranchman proudly. “I wrote to your father
to send you out here and we’d make a man of you, but it seems to
me you are a man already,” he continued as Mary Wright poured
forth the story of their rescue.

“No, I am not a man,” said Henry to his uncle, as he flushed with
pride at the hearty praise of these men. “I am just a—”

“Just a what?” asked the conductor as the boy hesitated.

“Why, just a Boy Scout,” answered Henry.

LOOKING INTO THE MANGER

_A Christmas Meditation_

Christmas morning, the day we celebrate as the anniversary of the
birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, in the obscure,
little hill town of Bethlehem in the far-off Judæan land, over
nineteen hundred years ago!

It is said:

“When beggars die, there are no comets seen: The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.”

What is true of the passing of kings is perhaps more true of
their coming; yet in this birth are singular contradictions. The
Child was born a beggar. There lacks no touch which even
imagination could supply to indicate the meanness of His earthly
condition. Homeless, His mother, save for the stable of the
public inn—and words can hardly describe any place more
unsuited—was shelterless, unprotected, in that hour of travail
pain.

I love to let my imagination dwell upon that scene. Sometimes I
think wayfarers may have gathered in the tavern hard by and with
music and play sought to while away the hours as travellers have
from time immemorial. Perhaps in some pause in their merriment, a
strange cry of anguish, borne by the night wind from the rude
shelter without, may have stopped their revelry for a moment and
one may have asked of another:

“What is that?”

The servant of the house who stood obsequious to promote their
pleasure may have answered apologetically:

“It is the cry of a woman of the people in travail in the inn
yard.”