Chapter II: Christmas Eve in New York

There was no snow in New York that Christmas Eve, but the wind seemed colder for that, as it blew in sharp biting gusts through the dark streets and alleys, and sweeping up a long flight of rickety stairs to one of those tenements where the poor live,—God only knows how,—crept through the wide cracks of a room where two little girls crouched before the fire, which the elder of them was trying to coax into a blaze. She had been out all day in the crowded streets offering her pins and shoe-lacings and matches, first to one and then to another of the gay throng hurrying by, all, or nearly all, in too great haste to notice her, shivering with cold and pinched with hunger though she was. Had they done so, they would have seen that she was no ordinary child, and her soft brown eyes, and sweet pale face, would have attracted attention to her at once. But it was the day before Christmas, and though money was spent by the thousands for toys which would please for an hour, and then lie idly upon some nursery floor, only twenty-five cents of it came to poor little Ruth, who wanted it so much, and whose eyes had in them a wistful, anxious look every time she offered her wares for sale. She did not tell a pitiful tale of her mother, dead six months before, or of the poverty and the sorrow, as one article after another was sold for food and fuel, until the comparatively comfortable home was bare of nearly everything, save the absolute necessities for daily use. Neither did she tell of her struggles to earn bread for herself and Rena, darling little five-years old Rena, whose eyes were like the violets of spring, and whose hair was golden in the sunshine, with a tinge of red upon it. Poor little Rena, who kept the house at home while Ruthy was away,—who washed the two plates and the one mug they shared between them, and swept the floor and washed the hearth, and wiped the dingy paint, as her mother had done when it was not as dingy as now, and did it more than once to pass away the long, lonely hours of Ruth’s absence. She had been told never to play with the children in the street, and her dead mother’s command was sacred to the conscientious child, who contented herself with looking from the windows of the fourth story, where she lived, down upon the moving, everchanging crowd in the narrow street below.

And here she sat waiting for Ruth, as the short December day drew to a close, and the cold night shut down over the great city. She knew all about Christmas eve and Santa Claus, and many times that day she had said to herself, “I wish Santa Claus would bring Ruthy something,” and once she thought to go herself upon the walk and beg a few pennies for “Ruthy’s present,” as she had seen children do, but this had been forbidden, and so she sat in her chair by the window and watched and thought of many things, and among others, of the story of Bethlehem, which she liked so much. The lowly manger, the mound of hay, the meek-eyed oxen with their long white horns, were things she never tired of. But she delighted most in the baby, the little boy and his mother, and she had so wanted a book full of pictures which should tell her all about it. There _was_ such a one called “That Sweet Story of Old.” Ruthy had said, and Rena had made many plans for getting it when she was older, while Ruth, too, had her own darling scheme with regard to it, and every day for a month, she had put by a few pennies from her little earnings, and eaten less herself, in order to save enough to buy the book, as a Christmas gift to Rena. She had almost enough that morning when she went out, but the day was not a good one for her trade. Nobody wanted boot-lacings and pins, when in all the shop windows, there were so many beautiful things, and if she bought the book, she must go without her supper. But she did not care for that, though she was very hungry, and the smell of the food which came to her so often from the many basement kitchens, nearly drove her wild. Still she did not falter, and when at last she turned into the narrow street, and ascended the long, steep stairway, the book was under her shawl, and she had only two buns and a hot roll in her hands. These she had bought far up town, at Purssell’s, as a treat for little Rena, to whom a lady had once given a Bath bun, and who had talked of it ever since.

Rena was off her guard, and in thinking of Bethlehem had fallen asleep and let the fire go out, so that it was dark and cheerless enough when Ruth entered the room; but though very cold and tired, she did not care for Rena’s remissness, as it gave her time to hide the book which was to be a great surprise on the morrow when it was fairly Christmas day. Putting it carefully away she lighted the lamp and then tried to rekindle the fire. The noise awoke Rena, who was soon beside her on the hearth and looking into her face to see if the day had been a good one.

To little Rena _good_ days meant a bit of meat for supper with perhaps a piece of pie, and a warm fire in the evening, and she saw that none of these luxuries were in store for her that night, and the old, patient, but sad look came back to her face as she wound her arms around Ruthy’s neck and said:

“You didn’t get much; but no matter, you’ve got _me_.”

Yes, Ruth had little Rena, and forcing down a great sob just as she had forced it down the livelong day when she remembered other Christmas tides, she held her darling sister close to her and parted her bright-hair from her brow, and told her of the nice Bath buns from Purssell’s and the roll for breakfast, and said she did not want anything herself, as she had had her supper, meaning a part of an apple she had found near a fruit stand.

And hungry little Rena ate a bun, sitting on the floor by the fire, for neither of the girls thought it worth while to set the table just for a single bun! And as Rena ate she talked of Christmas and Christmas trees, and asked Ruth to tell her again of the tree which she saw once, and which had on it a doll and a paper of candy for her. “Jesus’ birthday party” Rena called the Christmas eve festival, and as she warmed her blue hands by the fire, she wished that she might go to His “party” and get “oh, lots of things—some new shoes and stockings, and a doll that would squeak, and some mince pie, and that story of Jesus—only, Ruthy, I’d give them all to you, ’cause you goes in the cold, but I’d keep the book about the pretty Bethlehem child,” she said, as she stuck out her little feet with her ragged shoes and looked ruefully at them.

Poor little Rena, there were shoes and stockings both, just fitted to her cold feet, in the basket Aunt Hannah carried to the Oakfield church that afternoon, but Rena knew nothing of them, and she kept on talking to Ruth, asking finally what it was their mother had said about her old home in the country where there was grass in summer, with flowers and birds, and always enough to eat and “Jesus’ birthday party” every year in the church.

So Ruth told her again of the house of which she had heard so much from her mother; and Rena asked:

“If we’ve a grandpa and grandma there, why doesn’t they come for us? It’s so cold here, Ruthy, and I’s so hungry, too. I want the other bun so bad, and I’s savin’ it for you.”

There were great tears on Rena’s cheeks as she confessed that her hunger was greater than her spirit of self-denial could endure. She had meant to keep the other bun for Ruthy’s breakfast, but, as she said, she was “so hungry,” and Ruth made her eat it, and then to save the fire, they crept into bed, but not until their prayers were reverently said, Rena venturing to improvise a little and ask God “to send them a great big fire, which should make them, oh, as warm as toast—and let her sometime go to His Son’s birthday party and get something from the tree, please, for Christ’s sake; good night, and don’t let us be cold any more, amen.”

This was Rena’s prayer, and then nestling close to Ruth, she whispered, “God is here, isn’t He; in this room?”

“Yes,” was Ruth’s reply.

“And hears me pray when I say ‘please, for Christ’s sake?’ And I am sure he _will_, for mamma said so, and we’ll be warm to-morrow, Ruthy, you and I; oh, so warm, with a big fire—fire—for Christ’s sake—please.”

The words were far apart and indistinct for little Rena was fast falling into dreamland. But so long as consciousness remained, there was a prayer in her heart for “fire—a big fire to warm us, please.”

And God, who was there, in that humble room, and heard their prayer, answered it in His own way, which was not exactly little Rena’s way.