Blind Tim, and other Christmas stories written for children
Date: 2024-01-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christmas stories; Children's stories

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blind Tim, and other Christmas stories written for children

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Title: Blind Tim, and other Christmas stories written for children

Author: Charles O. Solberg

Release date: January 14, 2024 [eBook #72713]

Language: English

Original publication: Minneapolis: Augsburg publishing house, 1926

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72713

Credits: Bob Taylor, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLIND TIM, AND OTHER CHRISTMAS STORIES WRITTEN FOR CHILDREN ***

BLIND TIM
AND
OTHER CHRISTMAS STORIES

WRITTEN FOR CHILDREN

C. O. SOLBERG

AUGSBURG PUBLISHING HOUSE
MINNEAPOLIS, MINN

Copyright, 1926, by
AUGSBURG PUBLISHING HOUSE
MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.

First Edition, Nov. 1926 - | 1,000
Second Edition, Feb. 1927 - | 1,000
Third Edition, Oct. 1927 - | 3,000

Printed in the U. S. A.

CONTENTS

1. Poem—In Childhood I saw Him | 6
(From the Norwegian) |
2. Story—Blind Tim | 7
(Four Chapters) |
3. Story—Rags | 33
4. Story—A Queer Christmas Tree | 41
5. Story—Bigbeard and Little Sander | 49
6. Story—No Christmas | 61
7. Story—Buddy’s Christmas Tree | 67
8. Story—Three Pines | 81

NOTE

All the stories following, except the last two, have appeared at some time in print. The plots are in the main founded upon actual occurrence. The introductory poem is an original translation from the Norwegian of the poem Jeg saa Ham som Barn. The poems occurring in the text are original and could be used as declamations.

POEM

(A Translation)

In childhood I saw Him, the sun in His eye,

Thru the gleam of the rainbow above the dear hills.

To our play as He kissed me the great stars seemed nigh,

Yet the Cross in the forest stood somber and still.

Youth grew to its morning, in visions He came,

When the spirit ranged bravely where splendor abode.

Even death and decay in His light lost their shame,

He beckoned me on, and still upward I strove.

In manhood I saw Him, when summer grew strong,

And sin quickened to fear in the sense of His frown,

The death thought me threatened, the shadows grew long,

With the weight of heart-sinkings my head was bowed down.

First then He revealed me the wealth of His mercy,

First then did the burden grow sweet to the soul;

The sense of the Shepherd Compassionate gripped me,

The Cross that stood stark had become a dear goal.

When the candle of life burneth low I shall see Him,

The weakening hand I shall suppliant reach.

Tho the heart beat is still, and the eye has gone dim,

His kind love at the last I shall smilingly greet.

Blind Tim

CHAPTER ONE

The Sunday School at the Chapel

Already the room had become comparatively quiet. The bustle of closing Sunday School as the children were hastening to the door was succeeded by a surprising stillness. The teachers were now busy setting the room in order. Miss Merton was just about to take down the big picture roll, from which she had been teaching a juvenile class, when she heard a piping voice. Turning, she saw the pale, hump-backed blind boy who had joined her class some weeks since, with his cousin Louise, who led him.

“What do you want, Tim?” she asked kindly.

“Please, ma’am, can I feel o’ that picture you was telling about?”

“Oh, certainly,” exclaimed Miss Merton, touched by the appeal. She directed the thin little hand.

“It’s a big picture,” he said. “Where’s the sheep?”

The teacher directed his hand across each portion of the picture. The lesson had been about the Good Shepherd, and Tim insisted on every detail. As the parable was rehearsed and his hand was directed to the hills, the flocks, the big sheep in the foreground, the crook, and the Shepherd, his satisfaction grew. A sigh of pleasure escaped him. By the time that the story was done, all the teachers stood grouped about, for all were touched at the spectacle of the crippled boy. In the few weeks that he had attended, Tim had become greatly interested. A new world had opened to his blind eye. And yet he had not so far learned to bow his head at the times of prayer. For Tim had been taught none of the actions that accompany Christian ways. He was a saloon-keeper’s son.

Out on the street corner, the teachers and several pupils stood waiting for the street car. For this was an afternoon Sunday School at the little chapel in the heart of the great city. North and south along the street rose the stone fronts of the many houses, red, yellow, gray, brown, some new and some weather-beaten. They were interspersed here and there with a grocery, a delicatessen, a shop, or a saloon. The side streets were lined with pretty, cheerful cottages or tall, flat buildings—not very flat to the eye, for they were narrow and thin, even four stories high. But so they were called in the city. The little crippled figure led by pretty Louise, with her long curls, her handsome coat and hat, was trudging along the concrete walls. Now and then a carriage passed, or an auto whirred by. At last the proper car came banging to a stop, and the group of teachers climbed in, to be carried swiftly to their several destinations.

It was in one of these side streets that Tim found his home. Alas, he had seldom gone far from it. He had never shared the active hustling pleasures of boy life in the great city. From the front steps one could see in the distance a bit of open prairie. But Tim could almost number on his finger the times he had played on any grass except that in the backyard. For Mr. Rudiger took great pride in his home. Its fresh, cheery, yellow bricks were set off with white. The rear lot was green and beautiful in summer with well-kept grass, bushes, and flowers. But many an hour the neighbors saw the still figure of the blind boy, seated on the front porch, his only company his thoughts or the noises of the town. The fact that he was a saloon-keeper’s son had added deep and tender pathos to the lonely figure.

Late that evening Tim lay curled up and dozing in the big Morris chair. His mother sat rocking beside him. Louise had gone to bed. Tim had told over and over again about the afternoon at the chapel.

“Oh, yes, Tim,” said his mother, “you’ve got Sunday School on the brain.”

“Wish I could a took part in that Christmas program. S’pose I can’t.”

There was a rattle and bark outside the house. The dogs, Jim and Gyp, set up a howl in the kennel under the porch. No, it was not brother Alex. He had been gone since dinner.

The house was again disturbed by the homecoming of Mr. Rudiger. He always remained in his place of business very late. He had an idea, too, that robbers never attack a drunk man. So that he came home tonight with the receipts of the day, singing along the alley. He had just parted from some cronies, and came up the rear sidewalk with somewhat uncertain steps. His big mustache looked bigger still across his face red with excitement and with the night air. Tim was stirred up in the chair. Louise had to get up. The dogs let people know that they were awake. Even the parrot blinked and screeched. The house was all lit, the table set. And long into the night Louise played and sang, and those of the family who wanted to feasted at the table.

“Where’s that boy? Alex, I mean?” exclaimed Mr. Rudiger at last as he looked up from the Sunday paper he had been reading. “That boy runs everywhere.”

“Must be at Grandma’s,” answered his wife.

The house was at last quiet, and Tim tucked away in his bed. But excited, feverish, he was unable to sleep. At such times Tim was very quiet in the home. He little enjoyed these night festivities. Most of the night was gone before he could sleep, and the sun was bright and high on the day following before he was again seen in his place on the front porch.

CHAPTER TWO

The Visit to the Police Court

Toward school time a group of boys hurrying by on the way to the school room, caught sight of Tim in the sunshine on the steps. One of them called out:

“Hello, Tim! Heard about Alex? He’s down to the Avenue Station. Got pinched last night.”

The little lad made no answer, but the words had reached the ear of his mother, who was busy setting the house in order, and happened to be close to the open window. Mrs. Rudiger had been anxious all morning. Alex had never before remained away over night without permission. Her anxiety had grown steadily, and she was not without foreboding of ill. With a call to Louise, who had not yet set out for school, that she should take care of Tim, she set out for Mr. Rudiger’s place of business.

“Oh, pshaw! Boy’s trick,” was his instant declaration. But he called up the police station by telephone. No boy of such a name had been arrested. He was smiling scornfully as he turned to his wife; but just then Louise walked in, leading Tim. A message had come from Uncle Tom. Mr. Rudiger again called up the station and found that a load of prisoners, including some boys, had just gone away to the court. The message might be correct. Alex may not have given his true name. As Rudiger set out for the police court, Tim sat by him on the car. It had proven impossible to get away from Tim. Tim loved his brother tenderly, and a very sober look settled on the generally peaceful face. There were but few vehicles on the street at this time, hence the car went so fast that it soon reached the neighborhood of the court.

The police court was well filled with a queer crowd. Several blue-coated men stood about the sidewalk, the door, and the room. The dingy, dirty chairs were mostly filled with people not altogether pleasant to see. Haggard faces and sour looks were on every hand.

“Is he here?” was Tim’s whisper, as he pressed his father’s hand.

It was only too true that Alex was there. On a bench lined with prisoners, two ragged, hard-featured young fellows beside him, sat Alex, his head bowed in shame. He had not observed the new arrivals.

Tim could smell the stale tobacco. It did not need eyes to show him the dirty, overloaded spittoons. He could not see the high and dirty walls, the smoky ceiling all littered with cobwebs, the windows that had known no other cleaning but the dirty rain in many a day. The gas burned dimly over the desks and above, for the day was cloudy. The air was too bad for the light to burn clearly. Nor could he see the long, low desk, and the judge who sat with other court officials about him.

A case was called which did not at the moment interest him, but at which his father drew a quick breath. One of the boys at Alex’s side was called forward, the charges read, and testimony taken.

A hold-up! There was reason why Mr. Rudiger should start. A short examination revealed that the boy had been several times in court before. A leer and grin were on his face as he took his seat. The other of Alex’s companions was called, and the situation seemed much the same. He carried a dark and rebellious look as if he felt himself outrageously treated, and would say little.

Tim did not realize that Alex had been called until he heard his brother’s voice. At the word, he grasped his father’s hand in agitation, and slipped down from the seat. He stood by his father’s knee as Alex gave his testimony.

“Now,” said the judge, “tell us the truth.” He spoke kindly, and his look was encouraging, for he saw the boy was not of the class represented in the other two.

“We went down to Frost Street about dark,” said Alex, “near the crossing of the railroad, and stands there in a shady place. Soon there comes along a feller, and one of the boys he steps out and shows the gun, and the other goes thru his clothes. Then we starts up a alley by a big factory and cuts across to Grant Avenue. When we was walkin’ along, Pete sees some fellers across the street, and he says, ‘Plain clothes,’ joking like. Mike only laughs. Soon we comes to the corner of Baldwin Place, where there is an old yard for scrap iron and such things with a high fence all ’round. We was talkin’ and countin’ what was in the pocketbook, when the gates opened, and there was the plainclothes men, ready for us.”

Cross-examination brought out the fact that Alex had never before shared in such an undertaking. That he had gotten in with his associates at Sunday ball games, and had entered upon the plan for a lark. The judge then began to ask about his home and parents, but the answers were not willing. Tim suddenly stumbled his way forward, and before the astonished court the blind, crippled boy took his place by the side of Alex. He felt about until he found Alex.

“And who are you, my little man?” asked the judge.

“Please, sir, Alex is my brother.”

“And what’s your name?” At this Mr. Rudiger was compelled to present himself, and Alex’s identity was made clear. He tried to lead Tim away, but the judge interposed.

“Please, Judge,” said Tim, “Alex is my brother. We didn’t know where he was last night. I’m sure Alex didn’t mean no harm. He’s my only brother. I knowed they wasn’t good boys that was with him, ’cause I heard ’em talking with Alex. I’m blind and nobody asks me to come anyw’ere, but there’s lots of things to lead a boy where he oughtn’t to go. Alex helps me, Judge, ’cause I can’t see. Please, Judge, let him go this time, and I know he won’t do it again.”

The queer spectacle of the two lads, one tall and manly in form but bent with shame, the other crippled and weak, standing in the presence of the court hand in hand, drew every eye. The high, thin voice was heard distinctly in its plea, for the crowd was silent. The big, glowing, but sightless eyes were filled with earnestness, and finally a few tears began to trickle unheeded down across the weazened face.

“You’re quite a lawyer, my boy,” said the judge as he leaned back in his chair and looked at the two.

“Yes, Tim,” he continued after a moment, “if Alex will promise to keep out of mischief I will let him go this time.” There was a movement of satisfaction in the crowd. Alex’s two associates scowled, for they did not like it.

“And you are in the saloon business, Mr. Rudiger?” asked the judge. “The business you are in makes it impossible for you to bring up a boy rightly, either in the city or out of it. You may make an easy living, sir, but you are putting a fearful handicap upon your boys. As for this one,” said he, pointing to Tim, “God has mercifully sheltered him from the evil influences of this world, and in that fact he is fortunate, deformed as he may be in body and lacking in sight.”

“Yes, sir,” said the judge in answer to a mumbled reply by Mr. Rudiger, “it’s your business, and I wouldn’t have your responsibility for all the world. That,” said he, pointing to Tim, “is the only kind of boy you ought to have. Case dismissed.” The chair creaked as the judge turned about and directed his attention to other affairs.

Nothing could measure the joy of Tim as he accompanied father and brother home. He insisted on being first to enter the house, trembling in his eagerness. But his mother was too overcome with shame to respond to the innocent lad. Alex was shamefaced and silent, and for a week or so scarcely showed himself on the street. Tim was very happy in his brother’s company. They rolled and tossed in their play with the dogs, and Alex took him riding in a wagon up and down the sheltered alley.

But as time passed much occurred to trouble Tim. He had understood only the misfortune that had come upon his brother. Soon the unkind taunts upon the street taught him what shame meant. The bitter anger and even tears of Alex and the insults of the street boys impressed Tim very sadly. When Alex soon resumed his running about in spite of his promises, and was impudent to his mother when she protested, he was painfully perplexed. Then, too, little by little he came to see that his father’s business was not respected, and the fact gave rise to many sad thoughts in the heart of the little blind boy.

CHAPTER THREE

Tim Is Hurt

It was a bright Saturday morning. The sun shone down from a clear sky, and as its glowing ball hung mideast, the rays beat with steady cheer along the gray line of asphalt pavement. It shone along the steel rails of the street-car track, worn bright by the constant passing of the cars. Earlier a gray mist had made all dim. Have you ever watched how the coming of the morning light, as it gradually brightens, changes a morning mist from the darkness as of clouds to a light, transparent film, which is almost ghastly? So on this morning the full light of day had come, not with one splendid outburst, as when the sun rises on a clear sky, but gradually, and it was not until several hours were gone that one fully realized that it was day.

Now the sun smiled in upon every dingy shop and store. No less than its cheer upon a mild winter day was the cheer and bustle of Christmas trade up and down the avenue. In the little show-window were crowded all the toys that little boys and girls love to look at. Along the walks here and there were to be seen masses of evergreen, where the grocer was displaying his stock of trees. But brighter even than the day, for no snow lay on the ground and it even seemed warm; brighter even than the good cheer of the shopkeeper, who sang out a welcome the minute you stepped into the door, came out rubbing his hands, and ready to tell about the wonderful articles he had to sell; brighter still was the good cheer of the children at their play. How happy they were in their Saturday freedom! How happy too, in their Christmas expectations. A company of them had gathered at a certain street crossing on the avenue described and were shouting and running merrily. It was tag and safe, shouts, jumps, and running. They were utterly fearless. And the driver shouted as they dashed under the very noses of the horses, and the motor-man scowled because it was the only thing he had time to do as they rushed past in front of his car.

This particular day had brought joy to the heart of little Tim, also. Louise had led him over to the busy street, and he was now seated on the horse block in front of a house at the crossing mentioned above. Mama had gone away on one of those mysterious journeys mamas will make before Christmas.

Alex was among the boys and girls who were running and shouting about the street, and Tim’s face shone as he sat, looking intent but seeing nothing, and yet following keenly every movement and sound. He smiled to the passer-by and shouted to the children at play. Every now and then some one came near and spoke to him. Miss Merton, his smiling teacher at the Sunday School, happened to pass by, and of course patted him on the head and spoke.

No street-car had passed for some time. There was some delay up the line. A small crowd of people had collected who wanted to go down town. They watched the play as they waited. Suddenly one of the boys, who had noticed the waiting people called out:

“There she comes!”

“Must a been some trouble,” said another.

“Aw—you’re a slow one!” shouted a little fellow, shaking his fist toward the car, which came hustling down the slope of the long hill, bounding along as if by jumps, behind time and in a hurry. Suddenly, just as the car approached the crossing, a wagon drove in from the cross street.

Clang, clang, clang!

Loud were the cries of warning. Jerk! Back the horses leaped, almost upon their haunches, as the driver sought frantically to avoid a smash-up. Frantically the motor-man jerked at the brake. Under the sudden restraint the car jumped the rails, and ran down along the smooth pavement. There were wild shouts, shrieks, and groans. Then perfect silence, as motor-man and conductor jumped down and ran forward, and the people in the car hurried off. The car had sped along until it struck the very horseblock on which little Tim was seated.

There was a rush of people as the crowd gathered about the senseless, bleeding figure. The motor-man and many willing helpers lifted the car, while the conductor picked up the injured boy. But he was scarcely able to find room to lay down the burden. Someone brought a blanket to put under him on the cold ground. All were elbowing and pushing and talking, when a burly policeman pushed his way in.

“Back, back, please!” were his orders. “Whose boy is it?”

“I know, I know,” were the answers. Some gave his name, some the name of his father, and his business, and others told about the boy. Some volunteered to run for his father. But while the hurly-burly of talk was going on, Alex had already run for help, and in a moment Mr. Rudiger pushed his way into the crowd.

Many stood in silence and watched as Mr. Rudiger carried the injured and still unconscious boy across the street and stepped in at the door. The policeman helped him, and soon they were upstairs in the doctor’s office. The attention of the crowd was then given to the work of the street-car men as they prepared to get the car back on the rails, in which they finally succeeded. There was much talk and speculation. This work was not yet done, when Mr. Rudiger came out of the street door, together with the policeman and the doctor, and set out for home, carrying Tim in his arms. The boy had not yet come to. From all appearances he seemed to be very seriously hurt. The news went up and down the street that little Tim Rudiger was killed. All sorts of rumors went about. And it was as tho the sunlight had left the street, for all were saddened by the misfortune of the blind cripple boy.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tim’s Christmas

In the days that followed, the shades were drawn low in the pleasant cottage home that had sheltered little Tim all his days. One of the dogs, which was inclined to be noisy, and even the parrot, were taken away. On the sidewalks between the houses, the neighbors walked on tiptoe. Indeed, all the people round about felt deeply for the little cripple. On the avenue people stepped in to ask his papa about him. And from the windows of houses neighboring to his home many eyes looked out to see how long the doctor stopped each day.

At first Tim’s mama had been almost overcome. She had come home on that sad day with several packages of presents. Especially she had had delivered a very pretty cart with a very good seat, blue box and red wheels, and plush cushion, a gift for Tim, so that Louise could take him out riding. And for some days it stood beside his bed. They did not wait for Christmas, but held it up to him that he might feel of it.

“You must get well, Tim, so that you can ride in it,” they said. But he answered nothing. No, Tim would not be able to use it,—no, not for Christmas at any rate. It was too bad. Everything was done that money could provide and that love could imagine in order to comfort and encourage the little sick cripple. Tim had always been pale and thin. Now he was much more so. His eyes glistened at times, not with animation but with fever-light. His cheeks were pink too, but it was not a natural glow. All his pains he bore very patiently.

Already it was getting dark. The lights twinkled along the streets. In the quiet of the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Rudiger had sat by Tim’s bedside. She was almost dozing in the stillness. Suddenly there was a rap. Three sturdy little strangers stood at the door, big-eyed, one of them carrying a bouquet.

“Does Tim what was hurt live here, ma’am?”

“Why, yes.”

“We bring’d some flowers, ma’am, from the Sunday school. Tim’s in our class. Yes’m, teacher sent us.” The little fellows waddled in, very dignified, each cap in hand. For some minutes they stood by the bed. Not a word was said. Soon they whispered and beckoned. How it was done no one could tell, but they understood that they were to leave.

“Please, ma’am, tell Tim we was here. Pale, ain’t he?” said the biggest, who had carried the flowers and so felt himself leader and spokesman. It was interesting to watch the three little figures as they walked along down the street. Serious little men!

One day as Tim opened his eyes from a nap he heard some one speaking softly with his mother. Over his face there passed a sweet smile of welcome. It was his teacher. She had called, and had been talking with his mother for some time.

“Awful glad to see you.” He tried to smile and to reach out his hand for her to take.

“Yes, Tim,” said she. After a few words he began to ask about the Sunday School and his class.

“Yes, Tim, they were all there except you. The flowers? Yes, they wanted to send them to you. Little Henry brought them. He was always good to you, you know. Bennie and Oscar were with him. The lesson? Oh, yes. It was about the three Kings. You know there were three wise men, kings, in the East. They saw a star, and somehow God told them that they should follow it. They followed it over deserts and mountains a long way until they came to Jerusalem. There they went to Herod and asked: ‘Where is He that should be born king of the Jews?’”

“A star? Way up in the sky?”

“Yes, indeed. And when they found out that Jesus was to be born in Bethlehem, they set out to go there, and lo, the star went on before them and brought them right to the place.

“Yes, Tim, that’s why we put stars on Christmas trees. Indeed, we’ll have a beautiful one on the very tip-top of the tree.”

Tim lay thinking long about this story and about the star after Miss Merton was gone.

One night Tim seemed very feverish and restless. He tossed about as far as his soreness and stiffness would allow. He was getting very sore now from lying in bed so long.

“I’m awful sorry I can’t go to church to the Christmas tree, Papa,” he said.

“It’s too bad, Tim. You must try to be quiet and sleep now.”

“Christ was born on Christmas night,” said Tim earnestly. “I was to speak a verse. They won’t have that verse now, will they?”

“Oh, they’ll find some way,” said his papa.

“The tree will be lovely, teacher said. Popcorn—and oranges—and things that shine—and angels—and stars.”

“And see”—he reached out and felt around. Yes, he found and held up a pretty angel figure. It was of paper and very light, but too heavy for Tim. “Angels like this, too.” He laid it down with a sigh.

“Wish I could be there.” A look of wistful sorrow passed over his face. He whispered almost rather than spoke. His papa, sitting by the bed, had to lean over in order to hear him.

“But Tim, you couldn’t see it anyway. Why should you be there?”

“Couldn’t see?” The lad moved quickly as he exclaimed, “I ought to hear them. Why shouldn’t I? Jesus came as a little child. He loved me. And when He came they put Him in a stable. And when He grew big, He went out and preached salvation, and they crucified Him. He died for me. And when I die, I shall go to heaven. Cause I ought to be there. All the little children should. If I was in church I could show Jesus how I love Him. He wants me to be glad on Christmas.” Tim fell back exhausted and was quiet.

The excitement seemed to have been good for the sick boy, for as he quieted down he fell asleep. Far into the night they sat by his bed, for the doctor had told them that Tim was very sick. Louise and Alex, Mama and Papa were there. Tim had mourned that he could not be in church for Christmas and show Jesus his love and joy. But that night the doors of a better church and a better home swung open for him. And with the little thin paper angel lying by him on the bed, the blind cripple slept away and went to keep holiday in heaven above. On that night, I think, he could see for the first time, and something better than a Christmas tree at that.

We might tell more of this story; of how Tim’s class in Sunday School walked by the coffin for the last time to see his face; of his sad burial on that cold winter day; of how sympathetic people said that it was better for the blind cripple to die than to live. We might say that his mama learned the way to church; that Mr. Rudiger became a better man; that Alex grew up to be a good boy; that Louise was one of the most faithful girls in that Sunday School. If we could, we should also be able to say that Tim had not lived in vain. Let us hope so.

And why does God so early take away from this world to Himself little boys and girls? Let us see. The farmer takes from the bin a handful of kernels. “Fine wheat,” says he, as he blows away part of the grain so as to take a better look at what is left. It is the lightest kernels that flee, and as he looks intently upon the few that yet lie in his palm, he observes that one is plump and fair and another shriveled. Yet the shriveled kernel might happen to yield the finest growth and bear the amplest fruit. So perhaps it was with the little blind cripple of No. 316 Blank Street.

The End.

“Rags”

“Rags” was not present. The boys did not miss him much, to be sure. Mr. Benson, their good old, gray-haired teacher, had brought the lad to the Sunday School about six months before, and until lately he had been present almost every Sunday. But Bob Jerrold had found not one friend among the members of his class.

He had gotten his nickname at the district school. The first time he came he had been dressed in queer old clothes, mostly notable because they were very ragged; and his garments had remained in the same condition until the children fixed upon the word “Rags” as his most appropriate name.

Not all boys begin life with an equally happy lot. Bob Jerrold was among the unfortunate. His father was a drunken good-for-naught, and his mother was a careless slattern and a boy is very apt to take after his parents. Moreover, his parents had long been despised by all the community as the very worst and lowest of people, a disgrace to the neighborhood. Nobody looked for any good in Bob. So it happened that Bob had to fight his way amid insult and abuse that his parents had earned for him.

One day a company of school children came by the tumble-down old place that the Jerrolds called home. Catching sight of Bob out by the barn on a hay-stack, someone threw a snowball. There was a loud laugh.

“Rags, Rags, Rags!” yelled the whole company.

“Want to fight?” yelled one of the rougher boys.

“He dassen’t. He might tear his clothes,” answered another.

Bob dropped his fork and began to dodge and throw back. He had recognized some of the members of his Sunday School class among the company.

At this moment there was a jingle of bells, and Mr. Benson drove up with his sleigh. The youngsters all piled in gleefully, and were soon riding merrily down the road.

When Bob failed to appear in his place in the class next Sunday morning, and that for the second time, his teacher became anxious. He pitied the boy in his unhappy surroundings. He had been trying hard to keep the lad in Sunday School, but he knew how hard the struggle was for Bob. The good work now seemed at an end. Bob might be poor and ragged, and might fight his way in school, but on Sunday it was different. He could bear rags and shame and insult. But even he had some pride, and he refused to sit in a class together with boys who did not want him. After much effort, however, Mr. Benson persuaded him to be present at the Christmas entertainment and speak the piece that had been assigned him.

Christmas night came. The church was packed with happy people. Two beautiful evergreen trees were the center of attraction. Between them was an arch, on which were the words “Peace on earth, good will among men.” The exercises passed off cheerily, and even Bob, as he sat beside his teacher, dressed in a suit that some friend had given him, could not but catch the spirit of joy and good cheer that shone from the happy faces of the boys and girls about him. For every lad and lassie will agree when we say that there is no happiness like the glad anticipations of Christmas.

And nothing is so catching, you know, as the happy heart.

To Bob all this was a dream. Suddenly the minister, who had gone before the audience, called his name. At first he shrank back, frightened; but a smile from Mr. Benson reassured him, and he stepped upon the platform. The glitter of the lights dazzled his eyes, and the stare of the many people made him tremble. But he raised his head defiantly and began:

He came of old to Bethlehem,
The Christ of Mary born;
He came to save sin-laden men,
Sad, suffering, and lorn.

The seraph throng the heavens along
Hymned their divine acclaim;
The Orient three on lowly knee
Bent by the manger fane.

Well worthy was the Royal One

Angelic minstrelsy.

Dull earth took up the praise begun

With holy ecstasy.

The burly log and rugged stone
Were gentle to the Babe;
The manger bare had tender care
Where Jesus Child was laid.

But no one brought with reverent thought
More grateful worship then,
Nor offered there a larger share
Than the rude shepherd men.

And since the night celestial light
Dawned upon Judah’s hills
The holy Babe his home hath made
In humble places still.

And since the herdsmen, angel-sent,
Sought eagerly the town,
No human one, poor and undone,
Hath vainly knelt him down.

The dead silence that followed as Bob returned to his seat was followed by a hum of surprise. Who was that? That Bob Jerrold? Was it possible? The change in the lad when properly dressed was itself surprising. But the full tone and clear voice of the boy, the deep feeling with which he said each word, all contributed to draw sympathy about him.

The program was soon over, and the merry bells were jingling on the starlit Christmas night as Bob trudged homeward. In his hands he bore some gifts, too, a thing rather new to him. Altogether his heart was filled with gladness.

A few days later, James and Charlie, two lads from the Sunday School class, in passing by the humble home of the Jerrolds climbed the fence to see Bob, who was by the stables, mending a sled. Bob paused as the unexpected visitors approached, perhaps thinking they were there to tease him as had been usual.

“Hello, Bob,” called James. “Mending your sled? Can we help you? How did you break it?”

Of course, there was something said about traps and sports and skating and coasting. Many confidences were exchanged.

As they were to leave, both visitors suddenly looked uncomfortable, as tho neither knew what to say. Then James exclaimed:

“Oh, say, Bob, you haven’t been to Sunday School for a while.” Bob did not answer.

“Yes,” added Charlie, “the boys thought you spoke fine at the Christmas festival, and they’d like to have you come back.”

“’Cause,” said James, “Mr. Benson said the Christmas message was ‘Good-will among men,’ and he would like awful well for you to come, too. He’s a fine teacher, he is. We all like him.”

Bob glanced up suddenly. Mr. Benson had found a tender place in Bob’s heart, too, and he murmured something to the effect that he guessed he might come.

Thus Mr. Benson induced the boys to make up with Bob, and as a result he again entered the Sunday School. And where he had formerly met with scorn and abuse he now found a growing friendship, and you may well believe that the good-will of his fellows means much even to the humblest lad. The Christmas spirit came to that class and to that school with great blessing, but especially so to Bob Jerrold. Thus if the Christmas blessing comes truly home to our hearts, it will mend many a ragged place, and instead among our boys we shall find the whole cloth of manly-heartedness and Christian love.

A Queer Christmas Tree

Again the holiday season had come to the great and turbulent city. On the streets were hurrying throngs of shoppers. About the hotels and public houses cheerful-faced people came and went in unwonted numbers. Even the weariness of long and hard days of work could not wholly drive away the air of gladness from the busy clerks in the big department stores and in the little shops. The butcher, the baker, and the grocer were doing their best to bring what the good housewife wanted. The big delivery wagon, overloaded with packages of all sorts, shapes, sizes and suggestions, rattled busily from house to house. And the little boy caught with ecstasy the sight of a hobby horse’s heel, and the little girl of the doll’s nose peering warily out of the paper. How sharp the eyes of little boys and girls are at Christmas time.

“Is this where Mrs. Asleson lives?”

Thru the narrowly opened door a round, fat, rather homely face looked out. The man scowled into the dark. Perhaps he was not cross, but only trying to make out the figure in the dim light of the hall. A narrow window opposite the stairs let in a few struggling, very feeble rays. It faced blank up a nearby brick wall. Slowly the eye made out the figure of a rather young man with a basket on his arm.

Whether the man scowled or not was settled by his gruff, “Other door!”

“Thank you, thank you, sir,” answered Frank cheerily. “You’re done brown as a turkey with Christmas good nature, sir.” He spoke none too soon as the door banged shut.

Frank Wilson was employed at a grocery store some distance down the street. His brown eyes flashed merrily as he hurried from customer to customer, from salt to celery, from potatoes to lemons. The people liked to trade with him because he was so willing. He was just delivering a basket at the rear flat on the fourth floor of a tall tenement. His breath was still coming by jerks from the climb as he rapped at the “other door.” After a moment of perfect stillness the lock rattled, the knob turned, and the door opened as a little boy said:

“Who’s there?”

“Mrs. Asleson live here?”

“Ain’t home.”

“I’ve got a Christmas basket for her.”

At the magic word Christmas the door swung back, and a queer scene was revealed to the surprised gaze of the grocery boy.

“You all belong to Mrs. Asleson?” asked Frank as he set the basket on the table and pinched a little youngster. The group drew back. “Red, black, yellow, brown! Well, well—who’s the canary?” he continued, as he gave a whistle and looked around at the blinking youngsters. “Talk about your Indian chief!”

“I belong down stairs, Mister,” said one of the little girls.

The group was remarkable. Even aside from the dirty marks accumulated with a day of play. The young girl who had spoken was red-haired. The little tot in kirtles had golden locks, rather almost white. The other little girl had dark curls. While the two boys, brown-haired and blue-eyed, were enough alike to look like the brothers they were, except that the larger had an amount of freckles such as the younger had not found time to acquire. The four were the widow’s children.

“Hello!” exclaimed the grocery boy, “what have you got here?”

“Christmas tree,” said Freckles.

“Of all things!” Frank dropped on a chair. A Christmas tree! In a small-sized tub set on the middle of the floor, full of clothes and anything that might help support, stood a broom, brush in the air. It was ornamented with scraps of colored tissue paper, while from the top stood a bit of candle, burning sweetly and brightly. The girl with the black curls reached up and put it out, to save candle, no doubt. And yet Frank felt in no laughing mood for the moment. His heart was touched, and touched deeply.

“What’s that?” asked Maggie, tallest of the girls, as she pointed to the basket.

“That? Oh, I guess I’m Santa Claus this time, all right. Is your mama away?”

“She’s workin’,” vouchsafed the boy, number two for size, and scared at his own boldness, withdrew behind his sister.

“You don’t say. Where’s your freckles?” asked Frank as he snatched at the hiding boy. “Well, never mind, time’ll mend that. You’ll get them. I thought you were all singing?”

“Christmas songs,” was the answer.

“Good. Round the tree? Let’s have another.” And in a moment Frank with the five children of assorted shades and sizes, and in that doubtful shade of cleanness children will sometimes put on, was marching and dancing around the tree, hand in hand. Before they knew it they were all together singing a Christmas song, and shouting with glee, all forgetful of the basket. Frank, laughing and out of breath, had just picked up the smallest child, and they had begun to march around the room, shouting in chorus, when a loud sound broke upon their ears.

Bim, bam, boom! How the big cathedral bell sounds out over the city! Above the noise and clatter of the street, over the passing crowd, in and out among the tall buildings and little cottages that snuggle between, up and down the alleys and avenues, the mighty ringing goes forth. Above the very mist and smoke that bedims the air rises the tall spire with its heavily buttressed tower. Have you ever climbed the tall ladders far up into the belfry? Far down below, the men pull the ropes, and out from the huge latticed windows rolls forth the volume of sound. Three bells there are that chime out upon the fading day. So strong are they and vibrant with melody that the tower trembles. Even the cement walks and asphalt pavements seem to quiver under the heavy strokes of the bell.

As Frank opened the window the children with him crowded about. Over the gravelled roofs and dusty housetops came the welling music. It beat about the trembling stones, rolled in great billows over the house, searched out every nook and cranny that promised entrance. About the doors it gathered and quivered as tho ready to shake them from their hinges. Who could think that thin glass could have withstood such onslaught.

Bim-m-m! Ba-m-m! Boom! Christmas bells. “What a world of happiness their harmony foretells.” All silent, entranced with the splendid music of the cathedral chimes, Frank with the children still stood before the open window. They had not observed the click of the door. As they turned about they saw Mrs. Asleson standing in surprise beside the table. She was just about to exclaim at the children for leaving the door unbarred when she paused in surprise at the basket on the table and the stranger standing by the window.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Frank. “But I came up here with that basket. It was ordered from the store by the ladies from the church down the street, and I forgot myself looking at the children’s Christmas tree. Besides, ma’am, the chimes are glorious up here on the fourth floor corner flat. Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

“Basket for me?” exclaimed the widow in pleased surprise. Her profuse gratitude was interrupted by the welcome of the children and their eager desire to know the contents of the basket. As he hurried down the stairs to the work which he had almost forgotten, Frank felt that it was truly blessed to give.

“If those folks knew how much good they did with that basket, they’d be happy,” was his comment.

About the table the little ones crowded as mother took out the packages of necessities as well as of Christmas goodies. Their exclamations of joy were many. Nor least of all, when a very suitable gift appeared for each of the little folks, the brown-haired boys, little tow-head, and sister with the dusky curls. And each little heart felt that they had not sung in vain about the broom as a Christmas tree; but that the Lord Christ had known to bless the faith of a little child. And a prayer of fervent thanksgiving arose, as the good mother saw joy shine in the forlorn home of the widow on that night, all because a kindly heart had gone forth in sympathy to her loneliness and her need.

Bigbeard and Little Sander

“Christmas ain’t nothin’ ’out snow!”

Sander was a trifle too scornful in his tone. Now do not misunderstand him. For Sander, you see, was a lad eight years of age. And this was the first time he had seen bare earth so late in the winter. At least he thought so. But you will admit that his experience was limited. Besides, today was his birthday, and Christmas Eve too. Very poor birthday it promised to be, for Mama and Papa were just getting ready to drive off on a long journey to town.

For you must not imagine that this little man lives in some fine large house on the avenue or in some tall flat building in the city! Early last spring he had slipped off the train at a most forlorn little station far up in the frontier. As his eyes looked out that morning over the bare prairie, broken only by the rolling hills, with a struggling tree to be seen here and there, he jumped and frisked. The sun was just coming up, and the light glistened on the dewy grass. What little boy would not have enjoyed the long ride “over hills, over dale,” until they reached the clump of trees on a level spot by the river; Antelope it was called. This name the Indians had very probably given it long ago. Probably, too, they had encamped on this very spot; for who knows when the bubbling spring just below the hollow had begun to flow, and to draw to its freshness both man and beast. There was charm in the very word Indian, to say the least.

And now the summer was gone. At first they had lived in a tent. When Sander awoke in the morning, if it were quiet enough, he could hear the little birds hopping on the canvas roof. For a while there was hammering and building. Then the sod was cut from a grassy place down by the river, and what with the earth-wall without and the white-wash within they had a cozy dwelling. The vegetables and such crops as they had raised were gathered. The horses and the two cows were stabled. The days passed merrily and busily. There were many new things to see and learn and try. And already winter was here, Christmas Eve, really. And Papa and Mama were just climbing into the wagon for the long drive to Somerset, the railway station with its store or two, some twenty miles away. Mama cast back an anxious look, for it was risky to leave a lad eight years old for all day alone in such a place. But a birthday cake stood ready on the shelf. And the little fellow whistled manfully at the confidence being shown in him. Indeed, he was not afraid. He would feed and water old Molly, the cow.

About four o’clock in the afternoon Sander looked up from the slate on which he had been making pictures. It was very dark. Stepping to the door he looked out. Why, Mama and Papa must be on the way home! Cloudy? Yes, cloudy and beginning to blow. Snow flakes! Jolly! Snow for Christmas! He shouted for very glee and danced on the doorstep. But a great gust almost tumbled him back into the room. Hurriedly he closed the door. Then he went out to the stable, but soon returned. As he lit the lamp, even little Sander, for all his birthday, realized that a storm was on, and wondered how Mama and Papa would get along. And well might he wonder, for the wind was beginning to roar in the trees and rattle the door. The snow was thick, and it became very suddenly dark. A frontier storm of snow and wind, a blizzard such as Sander had never seen, such as the oldest had very seldom seen, was come, and even a little boy could not help a feeling of dread. Now he listened at the door, now he looked out at the window, now he stirred the fire and shivered. And the moments began to get very long. You would hardly know in the lad who wipes away the tear over by the bed the lad who whistled so manfully in the bright morning.

Some two or three hours later Sander slipped down from the chair on which he had been perched for some minutes. What was that? A noise? Somebody at the window? Joyfully he ran to the door. The gust that swept it open blew out the lamp. Somebody came stamping in.

“Well, not your papa I guess. Got a match, boy?” said a snowy figure in a muffled voice.

They had shut the door. By the stove gleam Sander saw two men. After some fumbling one of them found a match and struck it. In the light two strangers were seen busily brushing off the snow. One, big and burly, was rubbing the ice off his whiskers and blinking under icy and shaggy eyebrows. In a short time the big man and the youth stood warming themselves.

“Just in time, boy,” said he of the beard, “just in time. God is good. We were lost for sure. God only knows what would have happened if we hadn’t stumbled on this house. My boy, are you all alone here?”

Sander explained. He was still wondering at the men. In fact, he stood by the bed a little scared at the strange folks tumbling this way out of the night.

“Your parents coming from Somerset tonight?” At the tone of the big man’s voice Sander looked up. What was the matter?

Not much later the men were about to sit down by the table and eat of the lunch found in their packs. The tea kettle had been singing cheerfully and the fire was humming. There was need both of food and heat. Sander was shivering. He wondered at the men, for they bent low over their plates and said something about “thanks and praise.” The tea had just been poured when there was a thump at the door followed by several more. Sander jumped from his chair, exclaiming. “Mama! Papa!”

While the young man shielded the lamp Bigbeard opened the door. An exhausted woman fell forward into the room, dragging two children with her.

“Rescue party right here,” cried Bigbeard, as he banged the door. Soon they were busy unwrapping the wanderers and setting them by the fire. It was not Sander’s parents, but a schoolma’m and two of her pupils. The smallest boy had his feet partly frozen, and the girl a hand and a foot. When they looked up after the snow bathing, rubbing, and warming, and putting to bed it was almost midnight. The schoolma’m could speak now. They had wandered for a long distance.

“Alas, if I had only closed school earlier!” She sobbed at the thought. “Where are the other children! But who would have thought? It was so warm and bright and clear, and then just after four o’clock such a storm!”

“We cannot be too thankful for our escape,” said Bigbeard. “The Lord has saved us from the storm. Perhaps now we had better eat a bit. But, boy, how about your mama and papa?”

“Oh, they’re safe enough, I hope.”

Sander did not propose to fall short in hospitality. He now brought something from the cupboard. “My birthday cake,” he explained.

“What! On Christmas Eve, too?” exclaimed the young man.

“And how old are you, Sander?” asked the schoolma’m. For teachers always want to know about such matters.

But let us make a long story short. And it was a very long story to Sander. All that night the wind roared and howled. Snow seemed to get in everywhere. The stove glowed with heat, yet all were shivering. Every time Bigbeard put in a fresh chunk of coal he said a word of thanksgiving.

“Good coal never was a bigger blessing than this night. God care for the man who brought it here,” was his ejaculation. And then he would sit down once more. And when he saw that Sander, the little host, was at last getting sleepy, too tired to keep awake any longer, he pulled a Testament out of his pocket. They all sat about the table, this odd circle of strangers who had never before met nor even seen each other, and, as beasts that flee for safety to some cave or swamp are friendly in their common danger tho ever so hostile otherwise, were together, drawn into fellowship by singular bonds of charity in this sod hut amid the storm. The young man Bigbeard called John, and the teacher’s name was Miss Stone. Sander, wide-eyed with fear and wonder, was still sleepily waiting for his parents. The other children were in bed and asleep.

Bigbeard opened his Testament and all bowed their heads devoutly as he read from the holy pages the lesson so appropriate for the hour:

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. And it came to pass as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord had made known to us. And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.”

When he had read these words Bigbeard closed the book, laid it on the table, and said, “Let us pray.” And all bent reverently as he spoke:

“O Lord God, Heavenly Father, Thou great Shepherd of the sheep, Thou who never failest Thy people in their need, we thank Thee that on this night Thou didst send Jesus Thy Son to earth, that He might live and die to be our Savior and Helper forever. And we pray Thee that Thou, who dost temper the winds to the shorn lamb, wilt this night care for the lost and wandering who are in the storm. We thank Thee for this present safety. Graciously keep Sander’s father and mother from all harm. Keep us now and forever from any storm of evil and temptation, and, because we are the weak children of sin and death, bring us at last into the sweet safety, warmth, and joy of heaven, out of this world of cold and sorrow. As the shepherds went with gladness to the manger on the first Christmas Eve, lead our hearts with joy to Jesus this night. We ask all blessings in His name. Amen.” And we might add that Sander slept very sweetly that night for all his trouble.

Bang! Bang!!

It seems that even Bigbeard had nodded, as he sat by the fire, tending it from time to time. Certainly at the noise Sander opened his eyes out of a dream, sat up and rubbed them, to become aware of bright daylight. The noise at the door had awakened all. And they were on their feet stirring when the lad crept out of bed. Another thump or two, and thru the open door in came Sander’s mama and papa all frost—with the morning cold. Imagine their surprise and joy to find their little boy safe, and their sod hut a rescue home amid the broad prairie. The sun now beamed as tho he never had set with an angry frown, and all nature was still with the serene calm which comes after the terrific storm. The cold was nipping but the day was cheery. And as Sander’s mama bustled about for breakfast, all told their several stories. The night had been an awful one, and the papers were later to bring the sad tale of how more than a hundred school children had perished in the cold.

And when they had all eaten a good breakfast, and Papa and Mama had told how they had put up at a house on the way to save being lost, trusting to a higher help for the keeping of their little Sander, Bigbeard again read a lesson and prayed, and there were tears, not of fear but of thanksgiving. For Bigbeard was not only a good man with whiskers, black and long, but was a missionary, who had gone forth to seek the dwellers on the distant frontier and bring them the Gospel. Truly he could say with St. Paul “in perils oft.” We ought probably to give him something better than a nickname.

You may be sure that the lesson of his coming did not soon leave that household, nor did the memory of it leave the heart of the little boy in the sod hut in the distant valley of the Antelope. And who can tell to what higher and better things Sander came when he grew up, because of the night in the storm. There was indeed Christmas blessing for him, besides the present that his parents brought back from the town in the wagon.

No Christmas

“Why can’t we have Christmas, Mama?” begged little May, as she pulled her mama’s dress. Mama was very busy, and of a sudden she wiped her eyes, for a tear had come.

“Because Uncle Mark is so sick,” she answered, stooping to kiss the little face turned up so anxiously. “We cannot be glad and happy here at home when he is so very ill, can we, dear?”

“But Mama, can’t we have any tree then, and won’t there be any Santa Claus?” begged little May, her eyes almost filling with tears.

“We shall see, my darling,” answered Mama.

You may be sure these things brought no little trouble to May and her big sister Dorothy, who boasted eight years, while May only could claim four. Like all children, they looked forward with great longing to Christmas, its presents and its joys, its songs and gladness. But we must know that all is not happiness in this world. There are great sorrows, and many homes are dark even at Christmas time. So it was in the otherwise sunny and cheerful home where May and Dorothy lived.

For alas, only a few days before, their dear Uncle Mark, always so strong and happy, had come home to the city very sick. Indeed, he had gone directly to the hospital. After a very serious operation, he did not seem to get much better. The children missed his glad and cheerful ways, for Uncle Mark was young and always had been full of fun. To be sure, he would always greet them with smiles even now.

It was very sad, indeed. Poor Grandpa and Grandma had come to be with their dying son, and every day they went to the hospital to sit with him. Poor little May could not understand it all, and when she brought flowers to her dear uncle, looked with big, round eyes of wonder to see him so thin and pale.

She went away after talking with Mama and played a while. Then she came back, with a question, of course, as usual.

“Isn’t Uncle Mark going to have any Christmas either, Mama?” she asked.

Mama looked into the earnest face and said, “Perhaps, darling.”

At that moment she caught a few words of the song Dorothy was singing in the next room and said, “Would my little girls like to sing Uncle Mark a Christmas song?”

“Of course,” they both cried with one breath.

You may be sure they practiced hard and willingly to get a good song learned, and came at once whenever Mama called them.

On Christmas eve it was snowing as our two little friends came to the hospital door. They stamped the snow off their feet, shook themselves, and went in. All was bright and cheery. Some people think a hospital is a very gloomy place. But when they came in with Mama and Papa out of the dark and the snow, they thought the hospital a very cheerful and bright place. For you see, the nurses had made everything bright and beautiful. There was evergreen, and bells, and mottoes, and it looked cheerful enough to make even the most sick well.

You can hardly imagine how happy May and Dorothy were to find a beautiful Christmas tree right on the same floor where Uncle Mark’s room was, and some of the kind nurses pulled it to his door, that he might raise his head and take a look. Yes, even he caught the spirit of Christmas joy as he saw the tinsel, and the candles, the stars, the big round apples and oranges. Yes, Jesus has a Christmas blessing for the sick also. Of course our two little girls did not clap their hands or shout for glee, for they were in a hospital where little children must keep very quiet. But little May had to point out and tell about the angel figure hung in the tip-top, as tho to remind of the angels that sang over Bethlehem to the shepherds.

Poor Uncle! He was very sick and could hardly raise his head, all bandaged and covered, but he looked happy and smiled. Then he wanted May and Dorothy to sing their Christmas carol. They were just a little bit afraid at first, because it was in a strange place, but soon Dorothy picked up courage. Then May joined in with her little song. For they were glad to do something for poor Uncle Mark, you know. These were the verses they sang:

Oh, holy the night when the dear angels came
To Bethlehem lowly in days long ago;
The sky grew all light with a heavenly flame
As they sang o’er the plain soft and low.

For sweet in a manger the dear Savior lay,

Whom the shepherds came quickly to see;

And the praises of God as they went on their way,

Filled the hearts of the worshippers three.

Yes, happy they are who to angel refrain

Shall awaken ’mid glory divine,

And shall come to the manger as they of the plain

While the light from above round them shine.

Yes, glad would I go to old Bethlehem town,
Thus nearer my Jesus to be,
And joyfully carol, as angels come down,
The grace He revealeth to me.

For when Jesus doth nestle adown in the breast,

There is light, there is joy and content:

Oh, blessed Messiah, that mercy impart,

Ere my days upon earth shall be spent.

Grant me then, O my Savior, a Christmas to know

All aglow with the message of peace;

And in life, or in death, or in joy, or in woe

My gratitude never shall cease.

Of course, Uncle Mark thanked them very much for the song, yes, even with tears in his eyes. When they went away, he raised his head and waved a good-bye with his hand, and smiled. But when they were gone, the tears ran down his cheeks, for he never saw them again, and they never sang another song to their dear uncle.

The next day, after Christmas day, a very sad company gathered in the home of our two little friends. Uncle Mark was gone, never to return; and when it was all over, they talked together of their sorrow.

“Uncle Mark had a Christmas anyway, didn’t he?” said little May, who could not understand.

“Yes, yes, child,” said Mama.

“Wasn’t that a beautiful tree!” exclaimed Dorothy; but she should have known better than to speak. For Uncle Mark had a Christmas indeed, with Jesus in heaven, where there is no hospital, or sickness, or sorrow, but only joy and praise for evermore. And I am sure both little girls, when they came to understand, were glad that they sang him a Christmas song, even if they had no tree and no Christmas at home.

Buddy’s Christmas Tree

“Whyfor no snow, Unc’e Don?”

Uncle John went right ahead at his walk and said nothing.

“Whyfor no snow, Unc’e Don? Kismas come soon.”

Buddy seemed to have the idea fixed in his head that there ought to be snow at Christmas time. He had been sucking his thumb industriously for some time, and finally broke out in the above remark.

“Well,” said Uncle John, “If Christmas comes soon, I shouldn’t be surprised if we did get some snow. Why does Buddy want snow?”

“So dat Santa Claus can make his sleigh go.”

The two had been walking back and forth for quite a while in the morning sunshine along the path to the garden gate. As a variation they had sat upon the bench under the wide spreading pine tree that stood near the corner of the house, its long branches reaching almost to the porch. Of late the days had been almost summer-like, and old gray-headed Uncle John enjoyed the change of being out in the fresh air. Thus their companionship had grown from day to day.

The path from the porch and front door of the house was well beaten. It led right out to the gate. On either side were bushes, bare of leaves and dry with the winter season, as well as the withered stems of flowers. Along the fence that lined the road was a row of locust trees, from which practically every leaf was gone. This meant a good deal when one remembers how small the leaves of the locust are.

“Look—look, Unc’e Don!”

“Well, Buddy, you know I can’t look,” was the answer.

“No look, Unc’e Don?”—Buddy seemed very much surprised. He looked up at the tall figure beside him with a puzzled air.

“Whyfor, Unc’e Don, whyfor no look?”

“Well, Buddy, you know my eyes don’t see. I used to see pretty well—few better, I should say—many is the squirrel I have hit right in the fall—but I’m getting old, and some time ago, before Buddy came, my eyes quit seeing.”

“Eye quit?”

Buddy looked up with sympathetic interest at the tall form of Uncle John, tall even if bent with age, and square shouldered still. As we said above they had come to be companions, now since Buddy had made his home at the old home of his mother, the good farm place now owned and run by two of his uncles, Will and Martin. As they walked about the little fellow had never realized that he had been eyes to the old man, and that his busy chatter told of what was passing about. The little lad had been both eyes and ears as he talked. Everything attracted his attention from the bird on the branch to the passing automobile, from the sunshine glittering among the branches of the trees to the whistle of the winds across the fields.

The farm home stood at the cross-roads and had been the only home of which Buddy had any remembrance. Here his mama had been a little girl, and here his “grannyfather” had lived his days. Grandfather had planted the pine tree, which now rose way above the house top.

“Mail-man, mail-man!” Buddy was shouting.

“Me get ’em, me get ’em!” he added, running for the gate. Mr. Mail-man handed a piece or two to Buddy, but waited for Uncle John before he handed over the rest.

“Some advertising” he explained, “Buddy will give it to Uncle Martin.”

Buddy started for the house, very proud of the commission that had been entrusted to him. He was met at the door, and by the arrival of Old John everybody became busy about the mail. Buddy and Uncle John soon found themselves on the bench once more under the tall pine.

“Letter my Daddy?”

Buddy had been quiet again for some time, and then broke out in this remark.

“Well, I guess not—what made you think of that?”

Uncle John had been unable to suppress his surprise. Instinctively he reached out to lay his hand upon the boy.

“I dno.” Buddy fell into a meditative sucking of his thumb once more. The question of his daddy had been one never referred to in the house. He had gone away with the soldiers when the Great War broke out. This was before Buddy was born. For some time they had received letters, but now for more than three years there had been no word. In secret Mama had likely shed many tears. As far as Buddy was concerned, it never seemed to make any difference. He had never known a father, and had lived a happy child and taken all good things for granted. Like the sparrows of the field, he had lived without a care. The thought of a father had hardly come into his life. For this reason the words were all the more a surprise, and old, gray-headed Uncle John sat struck silent in wonder at the boy.

“Me got letter, too, Unc’e Don,” explained Buddy, and his old Uncle laughed.

“Who wrote the letter, Buddy?” inquired Uncle.

“Aw—jes’ one o’ dem bill ones,” explained Buddy.

And Uncle John laughed again.

“Aw’fu’ big tree, Unc’e Don,” remarked Buddy, all of a sudden, changing the subject.

“I suppose it has grown big,” answered Uncle; “I remember when your grandfather planted that tree. It wasn’t so big then.”

“Grannyfader, he plant it?” Buddy showed a surprised interest.

“Yes, long ago. It must have grown big since then. Most of the trees he planted have died I suppose.”

The pine tree was indeed a large one. Standing as it did away from the corner of the house, it rose a straight pine trunk, its green top reaching far above the roof of the house. The tree looked like a pyramid or cone, had in fact grown more and more into the shape of a cone. The branches reached out in a remarkably straight way, the lower ones being of extraordinary length. The green spines with an occasional cone contrasted with the brown and rough bark. It was indeed a noble tree, and had grown nobly in its place since the day “Grannyfader” set out the original little pine shoot.

“Santy Claus—he come—come way up in air,” explained Buddy.

“Well, maybe—if there is a Santa Claus—” answered Uncle John.

“Santy he come way up in air—come right down tree—he do,” explained Buddy.

“Travels in an airship?—a Santa for boys and girls to talk about, I suppose,” continued Uncle.

“Climb right down tree—huh?” added Buddy questioningly.

“Probably that would be a handy way, all right,” agreed Uncle, smiling and bobbing his head. For a long time Buddy sat studying the tree and the new idea that had gotten into his mind. About this time Mama’s voice called from the doorway and told them that dinner was ready. When dinner was over Buddy was to take his usual nap.

“No want sleep,” was his remark as he rubbed his eyes. Mama went on rocking just as tho he had not spoken.

“Haint Buddy got no daddy?”

The big, round eye looked up sleepily and earnestly.

Mama did not answer, but she clasped her little boy tightly in her arms. Soon the sandman began to trip around, at first on tip toe, ever so quietly, and as Mama rocked and hummed Buddy little by little found his eyes so heavy they would not keep open.

“Buddy’s papa indeed!” This was what Mama thought of, as she laid the little boy down on his cot for a nap. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched the quiet breathing of the little lad, now far away in the still places of dreamland.

Papa indeed! Sooner or later the question must come from Buddy’s lips, and the longing of the little heart speak from the big, inquiring eyes. Buddy had never seen his daddy. Perhaps there had been unkind words and misunderstandings. The letters had come back from the Great War, and they were kind enough. But then they had ceased, and the heart was torn between the question whether Daddy had forgotten or whether something had happened to him, of which there was no report. Once or twice, to begin with, there had been a gift, but now there had been no word or message for a very long time. Mama sighed as she turned from the quiet little cot.

During these years Buddy had been a great comfort to Mama in her loneliness. Now he was approaching his fourth birthday. He was old enough to catch the Christmas idea. Certainly it had taken full possession of him. Mama had read and told the Christmas story of the Savior. Night and day he had dwelt upon its prospects. At the most unexpected moments and in the most unexpected ways he would break out with the notion of what was coming. He was all the time referring to the “Kismas Tree” and the “Kismas Time.” And now, as old, gray-headed, blind Uncle John related, he had connected the Christmas idea with the idea of Daddy. Singular what expectations may arise in the mind of a little boy. Mama stood, the tears rolling down her face, and watched the tousled head, the long, slender limbs, the high open brow, as Buddy lay in his little bed.

The following days were busy with holiday preparations. Buddy ran about in play, but came back every now and then to talk about his expectations, and to get a cooky or a piece of bread and butter. Uncle John entertained him and occupied his attention, so that Mama might be able to assist Aunt Clara and the folks about the house in their work. Uncle Martin and Uncle Will always had a word for Buddy. They brought in the wood, saw to the fires, and went out to do the chores. Sometimes Buddy went along, and always he had many things to say. The only thing was that he kept everybody busy watching him if he happened to be along.

“Me nervy,” he explained, and in saying so he was only echoing Uncle Will, who sometimes got out of patience with his antics. Uncle Martin had most patience, in listening to his many little speeches and answering his questions. Buddy inquired many times about the hanging up of stockings and other matters that seemed to him very essential in view of the coming event. On Christmas Eve he hung up his stocking, and while the family sat about, some reading papers, others busy with final preparations, he allowed Mama to rock him to sleep, while “Unc’e Don” dozed in his big chair. The evening had foretokened a storm. Uncle Will had even intimated that there were prospects of snow. Outside the wind roared, at times it even howled. The night was a dark and cloudy one. The comfort of a warm fire in a sheltered home was good indeed, as they sat about on the blustering and stormy evening of the night before Christmas.

The next morning was clear and bright. All had been very quiet, about the house. Uncle Will had looked to the fire and had been to the barn about his chores. And now, as he stamped his feet on the porch, he entered with a loud

“Merry Christmas!”

Buddy found himself crawling out of bed with wide open eyes in response to the sound of the voices calling in answer to Uncle Will.

“Mama, Mama,” he yelled, and Mama came at once on hearing that he was awake.

“Mama!—See—See—Snow—lot o’ snow!”

“Why—sure enough, Buddy.”

“Kismas time, Mama!”

Before his mother was able to answer, Buddy had run out of the bedroom and was on the way down stairs. It was not until he had reached the foot of the lowest step that Mama caught up with him, and he would likely have run right out doors into the cold and snow had he not been stopped. Aunt Clara called from the kitchen to remind him of the stockings he had hung up. In she came also. Uncle John was already seated in his big chair, and Uncles Martin and Will were warming themselves. With a shout Buddy hurried up and was soon very busy digging out of his stockings the many presents that were there, bags of candy, toys, nuts. He was so busy, as were they all, that they almost forgot their breakfast. When Aunt Clara reminded them that breakfast was ready, Buddy could only be persuaded to come to the table when he was allowed to take with him a roly-poly policeman of celluloid and an iron horse that he had found among his presents. They had all bowed their heads quietly, while Uncle Will read the Christmas story from the Gospel of St. Luke, and had bowed their heads in prayer.

The last words of the Lord’s Prayer were just being uttered, with the “Amen,” when there was the sound of a rap at the door. All about the table started with surprise. Uncle Martin arose to open the door. When the door swung back there stood before them a tall figure dressed in a heavy gray overcoat.

The sudden silence of a deep surprise fell upon them all. Uncle Martin seemed at a loss. It was a very unusual time to get a visitor. The stranger took off his cap. He said:

“Mary?” Why he put the word in the tone of a question seemed hard to understand. Then suddenly Mama gave a scream, and rose from her chair. The stranger came forward, and took her in his arms. Horse in one hand and policeman in the other, Buddy looked up wonderingly.

“Oh, Buddy! Oh, Charles!”

These were the words with which Mama greeted Daddy. For it was no other than Daddy, returned from the World War.

The Christmas breakfast was indeed a happy one. Daddy told of his long and delayed stay with the Army of Occupation, of his prolonged and deadly illness, in which he had twice been given up for dead, and of how he had at last found himself able to set out for home. Thus there was a busy hour of talk, in which Uncle Martin and Uncle Will forgot their chores, as they sat about the table and conversed. Buddy was safely located between his mama and papa, altho he looked with somewhat shy wonder at the latter, whom he could not be said to know, as he had never seen him before.

The men went about their work, and this reminded Buddy of his presents. Quickly he wriggled down to the floor and ran to where his stockings had hung.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Daddy, “somebody has been buying Buddy presents, all right. Too bad Papa did not bring Buddy something too.”

All of a sudden Buddy started for the door. He jerked and twisted the knob.

“Why, Buddy,” exclaimed his Mama, “it’s cold outside—lots of snow—you can’t go outside now.”

“Kismas Tree! Kismas Tree!” exclaimed Buddy.

“Cold out there, all right, as I can tell,” explained Papa. “Thought I would have frozen as we drove down this morning.”

By this time Buddy was out in the snow on the porch, dressed as he was in his nighty. He did not mind the snow.

“What do I see?” exclaimed Mama. “Stockings—stockings hanging from the big pine.’

“Well, I never,” was all that Aunt Clara could say. She had now crowded close behind them. Papa went out into the snow, and soon came back with a pair of stockings of Buddy’s which he found waving in the wind.

“So you hung your stockings on the Christmas Tree?” said Papa to Buddy as they sat down by the fire to warm.

“That boy must have hung those up yesterday afternoon,” exclaimed Aunt Clara.

“I declare,” said Mama, “I was looking exactly for those stockings last night. They were the ones we were going to put up for Buddy, but we could not find them.”

Buddy sucked his thumb in silence.

“Santy Claus, he come—come on the big Kismas Tree,” explained Buddy. “Brung me candy and nuts and horrsie-n-n-n-”

“Yes,” explained Uncle John, “he was talking yesterday about that tree. I told him Santa might come in an airplane. Buddy seemed sure he would come and would crawl down by that big pine. Guess somebody did come, too—even just like they come by airplane,” added Uncle John.

Mama put her hand on Daddy’s shoulder. Buddy only looked wise.

Three Pines

Ginkle had found his way once more out upon the front veranda. Ginkle, you understand, was the name of a tousle headed boy just out of bed. The morning sun shone brightly across the lake. The air was still fresh with the early dew. Grandfather sat on the lower step, smoking his after-breakfast pipe. The early day was so clear and still, and the lake so quiet under the hills, covered with pine forest and second growth, brush and grass, that the pipe he smoked might well have been called the pipe of peace. This did not mean that there were any Indians about. Ginkle came down the steps and found his way out to the tall trees which crowned the curved edge of the hill, just as it began to slope gently toward the water’s edge. The bank itself was rather sharp and high, so that the little boy climbed down a series of steps, and so reached the shore, and went upon the dock or boat-landing to sit down and look about him. It is hard telling what a little boy of five will think about when he first gets out of bed in the morning, and begins the new day.

“Ginkle! Where’s Ginkle!” This is what they had come to call him. His right name was Sylvester.

“Ginkle—come to breakfast.”

Granny was calling, and soon our little friend made his way up hill again, and was busy with his morning meal.

“Granny goin’ ’way?” was his question, as he looked up from his oatmeal. He had happened to notice that Grandma was busy about preparations.

“Yes, Ginkle. Granny’s going away for the day with some friends,” was the answer.

Grandfather’s summer home was a pleasant place for Ginkle to visit. A five-year-old boy always likes his grandfather and grandmother. This was now the second summer that he was spending at Three Pines. The cottage took its name from the three splendid big pine trees that stood right in front of the house, crowning the hill. The shore line below formed a semi-circle, against the foot of which the bright waves of the lake beat in the early sunshine. The sand was not so thick as to prevent a fresh growth of grass over the hill-top and about the house. The lake was somewhat over a half mile wide at this place. The launches sped back and forth on their errands up and down the lake. On the other side, under the shadow of the pine woods that lined the shore, could be seen the boats of the early fishermen.

Our little boy had hardly waked up yet, in spite of his breakfast, to judge from the quiet way in which he stood under the three pines, sucking his thumb. He was tall and slim for a boy of his age. A big head rose above his shoulders, covered with a shock of light brown hair. He was about to toddle forward once more toward the steps that led down to the water, when there was a call—

“Hey—little boy—Ginkle!”

This time it was Grandfather who called.

“Come on, Ginkle—Granny’s leaving now.”

On the chair by the table was Granny’s bag, all ready, and soon they were following her along the path to the rear fence, where a car stood waiting. Mrs. Joyce was going out for a ride, apparently, and Granny was to go with her.

“Ginkle wants a ride?”

Certainly he did. It was unnecessary for Mrs. Joyce to ask. But as Granny climbed in, Grannyfather took him from the running board of the car, and held him in his arms, while he watched the car disappear down the road among the trees and bushes.

“Now Ginkle, you must be a good boy; Granny is going away all day, and you must take good care of Grannyfather.” This had been the good-bye message.

“Aw wight.” Ginkle was willing, even if disappointed about the ride.

“Grannyfather will see that you get lots to eat.”

“Granny bring me something?”

“Oh, maybe.”

Grandfather and Ginkle then walked together along the path back to the house.

“Now Ginkle,” said Grandfather, “I guess we’ll take a trip too. What do you say?”

“Aw wight.” Ginkle was agreeable.

For some time they were busy about the house. On the table they found a big basket. Grandfather lifted the cover just enough to see that it was filled with good things to eat. Then he hunted up his ax, sharpened it, and put on some working clothes. He and Ginkle set out, carrying the basket between them. Along the sandy brush-lined road they went, Grandfather carrying his ax upon his shoulder. After something more than a half-mile walk they found themselves at a particularly wild and wooded part of the shoreline. In among the pines were gray rocks at intervals, and Grandfather hunted up a fresh bubbling water spring.

“Now, Ginkle, we must get to work,” said Grandfather.

“What do?” inquired the lad.

“Oh, we’ll just cut down a tree or two,” was the answer.

Soon a tree was selected, and to work went the ax. The woods fairly rang with the blows, the chips flew so that Ginkle had to dodge them, and very shortly two tall pines had fallen to the ground with a crash. The little boy ran away at first as if scared. However, he soon learned that there was no danger, and began to climb over the logs and run about, shouting till the woods rang.

“Grannyfader cut nudder tree?”

“Provided Ginkle will lend a hand,” said Grandfather, as he looked about. “Which one shall we take?”

“Dis one,” said Ginkle, petting the bark of a big tree.

“Not a bad choice,” answered the other, measuring the tree with his eye. In a moment Grandfather was in position and hard at work. Ginkle in the meantime ran about on the dry bedding of spines that covered the ground, ran in and out among the bushes, climbed upon the fallen logs of the trees that had been cut, and ran back and forth on their stems.

“Oh, boy,” exclaimed Grandfather, wiping the sweat from his brow, “I think we’ll eat our lunch.”

“Aw wight,” exclaimed Ginkle, who had been so busy as to forget to be hungry. They hunted up a shady place, not far from the spring, and Grandfather opened the basket. Sandwich after sandwich disappeared, and both ate and drank heartily.

“Cold, isn’t it?” said Grandfather as he held the cup fresh from the spring to the lad’s lips. “Yes—cool and refreshing. And now we’ll be ready for work again.”

“Yep,” said Ginkle; “Grannyfader, what makes the water bubble that-a-way?” Ginkle was pointing at the spring.

“Oh,” explained the other, “The water’s trying to talk, and bubbles are the best it can do.” Setting to work at the tree, his ax rang for some time very vigorously.

“That pine’s big,” exclaimed he, as he stopped to wipe the sweat from his face.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Ginkle.

This time Grandfather went to work in earnest, cutting away some brush in order to make room. He chopped away more vigorously than ever, and for a time he forgot his little grandson altogether. Suddenly he remembered.

“Ginkle, oh Ginkle, where are you? Keep away—look out!” he called. He had cut at the tree from both sides and had gone deeper than he thought. Suddenly the big pine began to totter. Glancing about for fear the boy might be caught, he cried out in warning. Ginkle was at a safe distance, but Grandfather forgot himself. As he turned he found the tree falling fast in his direction, and as he sought to jump away, his foot caught in some brush and he fell headlong, the tree across his prostrate body. Swish went the branches among the brush. Face down lay Grandfather, groaning under the fall and the heavy pressure of the fallen trunk. The cry that Ginkle gave was a relief, even in spite of his own danger, and the little fellow came to Grandfather’s side and tugged at his arm, crying big tears of fear and grief.

“Grannyfader hurted? Grannyfader hurted?” sobbed the lad.

“Help—we’ll need help,” groaned the prostrate man, “I—I’ll never get out of this without help.”

“What do, Grannyfader, what do?” exclaimed Ginkle, still tugging at his sleeve.

“Might run and tell Granny,” groaned Grandfather.

No sooner said than to his astonishment the little fellow disappeared, running down the path toward the road. For some time thereafter Grandfather lay struggling with his groans and his pain. It hardly seemed possible that Ginkle could bring help, and Grandma was far away, as he remembered, alas.

The birds chirped cheerfully, and the insects hummed. The wind sounded among the pines. From the lake he could hear the distant sound of the passing launch. Otherwise the only sound was his own groaning.

What had become of Ginkle? He had set out at a full run, and a short time later appeared at the gate to the cottage, and rushing up the path and the steps, threw the door wide open yelling—

“Granny—Granny!”

There was no answer. Grandmother was not yet at home. Crying loudly, and still calling for “Granny,” the lad ran down the path to the road, as tho not knowing what to do next. There he stood crying by the open gate, both his fists in his eyes. He stopped suddenly at an unexpected sound.

“Hi there, little boy, what’s the matter?”

In his crying he had not noticed that a car had stopped in which sat two men.

“That’s right, little boy, quit your crying,” shouted one of them.

Ginkle stared a moment, then he yelled—

“You lie, I don’t quit. I just stop a little while and then I begin again.” Ginkle once more set up a loud bawling.

“Well, boy, what’s the matter? Can’t you stop long enough to tell us?” asked one of the men as he climbed down and started for the gate.

“Guess he’s purty near too young to explain,” remarked the chauffeur.

“My grannyfader, he hurted. He tumble on de tree,” sobbed Ginkle. The moment he saw the man coming toward him he set out at a run, “Grannyfader, he here,” continued the lad, as he ran and sobbed.

“Believe me, that kid c’n run,” exclaimed the stranger, as he climbed back into the machine. The Ford started, rattled its usual way, and in a moment they were following the boy up the sandy road. When they caught up, one of the men jumped out and ran to catch the hurrying lad, and for the rest of the way he followed him, for the little chap jumped about and refused to be picked up. On ahead they hurried, and the car followed behind them until they reached the place where Ginkle insisted on going into the woods.

“Grannyfader, he here,” he explained. There was nothing to do but to follow the little guide. The stranger had not yet been able to get an idea as to what might be the matter. His companion stopped the machine and came hurrying after into the bushes.

“Oho!” exclaimed the man leading Ginkle, “so this is what’s the matter. Believe me, friend, you’re in bad.”

“So he got help, did he?” groaned Grandfather, as he twisted his head to look.

“The little feller sure raised some holler,” assured the man, as he bent down, touched Grandfather on the head, and felt of his hand.

“Say,” said the companion, who had also now come up, and was bending to look, “It’s lucky, all right, there seems to be a kind o’ hollow.”

The two found themselves unable to move the heavy tree, and so the one hurried back to the car for a shovel, and the other began to cut away more brush. For a time they looked around for something with which to pry, but they were not successful.

“You block it up, and I’ll begin diggin’,” said the man who had been with Ginkle. Ginkle now sat beside Grandfather, talking to him. Gently one of the men picked him up and put him in a safe place so that they could work, explaining to the little fellow what they were about to do. He himself hurried to find pieces of log which he could put under the tree for safety, while the other dug away with the shovel. They exchanged work, and so kept at it actively for some minutes.

“Say, friend, do you think you can stand some pulling?” asked one.

“Oh, I guess. Just try me,” answered Grandfather. Ginkle cried loudly again, but they were too busy to notice. In a few moments Grandfather sat against a tree, recovering from his terrible experience.

“Grannyfader tick? Grannyfader hurted?” Ginkle’s cheeks were still wet with tears as he spoke.

“Not so bad, I guess,” answered Grandfather, “not so bad as it looked, I hope.”

“Awkward place to turn, looks to me,” remarked the chauffeur as he set out thru the brush toward the road. Soon they heard the machine purring, and in a few moments he reappeared. Both men now took Grandfather by the arms, and with their help he was able to make his way with some groaning out to the car.

“Granny—Granny, she not home, maybe,” said Ginkle, climbing close to Grandfather in the rear seat.

“Oh—my back—feels like it’s broken,” groaned Grandfather, as he clung to the cushions. Soon the car started. The men drove very slowly and carefully on their way back to the house. From the machine they helped the injured man carefully on his way into the house, and had just placed him among pillows in a big, comfortable-looking rocker, when Ginkle ran suddenly for the door.

“Granny—here Granny coming,” he shouted.

In a twinkling he was down the hill at the water’s edge. She had returned by the afternoon boat. He met Grandmother on the landing, and was so busy telling all about what had happened to “Grannyfader” that Granny was thoroly scared, and absolutely confused as to whether it had been a tornado or a band of robbers, between Ginkle’s description of fallen trees and strangers suddenly appearing, so that she hurried breathless up the steps, across the porch, into the house, Ginkle pulling vigorously at her hand all the way and hurrying her on.

“Why, what’s the matter? What do you mean? Grannyfather hurt? How can that be?” exclaimed Granny, all out of breath, as she jostled into the room along with the lad.

“Why—what has happened?” was her anxious question, as she hurried to the rocker.

“Not so bad, Granny. Don’t get scared,” was the reassuring word from Grandfather. All the rest were silent, and the little grandson stood by with open eyes, chewing his thumb, as the injured man went on to explain what had happened. By this time Granny was straightening the pillows, and bustling about to help him into a more comfortable position.

“Mighty lucky the little feller was around,” remarked the chauffeur, “believe me, he c’n run. We had a hard time to keep up with ’im.”

“Yes,” added Grandfather, “you ought to have seen him start off for help. He disappeared like a shot, without even stopping for me to instruct him,” said Grandfather, stroking the bushy head as he spoke.

Grandmother was profuse in her gratitude to the men as they left, and went immediately on their departure to telephone for a doctor. On his arrival he made a careful examination, and assured them that no bones were broken, that aside from bruises and a severe wrenching of the back-bone there was likely no injury. After a few days, if Grandfather was careful, he would quite surely be about again as usual. The escape certainly was a fortunate one, and the service rendered by our little friend remarkable. The doctor patted Ginkle on the head and left.

While the doctor came again the following day, and then again later, all went as he had at first judged. After a few days Grannyfather and grandson were again seated in the warm morning sunshine out under the pines.

“Grannyfader feel well?” inquired Ginkle looking out toward the fresh blue water of the lake.

“Remarkably so, boy, remarkably,” was the answer; “shall we go tree cutting again?”

“Grannyfader want to go?”

“Well, maybe, how about Ginkle?”

“Um.”

“Big tree here,” exclaimed the lad, pointing at the three tall pines just in front of the bench on which they were seated. “Jus’ like big Kismas Tree.”

“Yes, indeed. They would make great Christmas trees, wouldn’t they? Does Ginkle remember the Christmas story?”

“Tree wise men, too,” remarked he—“tree, jes’ like big trees here, aint they.”

“In number, yes. I suppose you’re right there,” answered Grandfather. “What’s that got to do with our pines? What do you mean, Ginkle?”

“Um—I dno.”

“Well, anyway, you remember, don’t you Ginkle.”

The lad looked out across the lake and apparently began to think about something else.

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Table of Contents

- BLIND TIM AND OTHER CHRISTMAS STORIES
- CONTENTS
- NOTE
- POEM

- CHAPTER ONE

- The Sunday School at the Chapel

- CHAPTER TWO

- The Visit to the Police Court

- CHAPTER THREE

- Tim Is Hurt

- CHAPTER FOUR

- Tim’s Christmas

- “Rags”
- A Queer Christmas Tree
- Bigbeard and Little Sander
- No Christmas
- Buddy’s Christmas Tree
- Three Pines
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE