A very common Christmas theme, making gifts and 'a Christmas" for a lonely child. Like "Miss Santa Claus of the Pullman," it is a young girl who "saves the day," but others are redeemed that day.Most of the occupants of the small room sat gazing out of the windows into the snow-filled air. There were windows enough to go around, though the room was long and narrow, and contained six or eight persons. All day they had spent together in this one room, each sitting quietly in his place. There had been but little conversation. The tall dark man with the white mustache and tired face had slept much, with his head resting on his folded overcoat. A boy opposite, who showed sullen anger and defiance in every line of his young face, had watched him, and wondered how a man could sleep in the daytime. The boy did not know that those long, nervous white hands, wielding a surgeon's knife, had saved a life the day before, and the tired eyes had watched for many hours following. An earnest, bright-faced young girl near by had observed him, too, while he slept, as she eyed all her neighbors, with keen interest. There was the old lady in the corner, a man with sample-cases piled at his side, the shabby little woman holding a big baby, and a middle-aged man with stolid, joyless countenance, who had read three newspapers through from beginning to end without a change of expression, and since then had sat staring straight before him. The girl in her active mind had tried to combine these various personages into a story, but she gave it up with a little sigh for their commonplaceness.
An ill-assorted company it was. Surely they would have chosen to spend the day before Christmas together for no other reason than, as it happened, they all wished to travel over this branch road, which ran between the northern line from Little Falls and the Grand Central.
The day was nearly over, and the journey should have been; but the snow, which had been falling steadily since morning, grew heavier, the speed of the train perceptibly decreased, and the engine groaned and labored. The engineer watched apprehensively as they drew near a certain cut, narrow and deep, through the hills. It was drifted high; and meeting that soft, still, resistless opposition, the great engine slowed and stopped.
The drifting snow hid the familiar landmarks, and so it happened that, just as the passengers were anxiously questioning one another as to the cause, of the stop in that lonely place, Jim Case, the fireman, swinging himself off the engine, slipped over a culvert, and in the fall of only a few feet broke his arm with startling ease and completeness. He was lifted back, white and fainting; and, when the brisk conductor hurried into the passenger-coach, he responded to the anxious queries with a brief "Snowed up," and then, addressing the dark man, he said:
"I don't suppose you 're a doctor, are you?"
"Yes," said the man, with an inquiring glance; "does some one need me?"
The conductor looked relieved.
"Now, ain't that luck!" said he. "Surgeon, too, I guess?" The doctor nodded assent. In a few words the conductor told of the accident amid exclamations of mingled sympathy and dismay from the listeners. And as the doctor picked up his small black bag and followed him into the forward car, the conductor continued:
"Not many of you travel on this road, but I thought that was your trade when I took your ticket. I gave a job to a surgeon once when l was hurt in a wreck. That was a good while ago, but I have never forgot the look or the feel of his hand—so steady and strong and white," he added with an apologetic smile.
"Here we are, Jim!" he called out cheerily; "here is the doctor and the head nurse. You just break your bones and we will do the rest, you know."
The fireman lay stretched upon the floor, his head resting languidly on a pile of waste, and a pretty five-year-old boy sobbing with fright was kneeling close beside him.
"Who is this little fellow?" asked Dr. Carleton, after the examination was over, and he was skilfully bandaging the injured arm.
"He 's mine, poor little chap!" said the fireman, with a tender glance, though his lips were white with pain. The boy, who was a sturdy little fellow just out of dresses, stopped his sobs as he heard his father's voice, and looking up at the doctor asked: "Now will we go to grandma's, and have a Christmas?"
The man winced again, and closed his eyes; and the conductor explained in a kindly aside: "Little chap's mother is dead; just buried her a week ago. She had him filled up chockfull of Christmas, and seems as if he could n't give it up. They are going on to Jim's mother's. She 's going to take care of Jamie; and I guess the old lady had promised to have a tree." Jamie was listening eagerly, and broke in, forgetting his shyness:
"Yes; a Christmas tree and candles. For grandma said so."
"Seems as if that is all he thinks of," said the fireman; "his poor mother– she–" and he stopped, and closed his eyes again.
"Shall we go now?" insisted Jamie. "You said that we'd get there the night before Christmas."
"Now, young fellow," broke in the conductor, "you know this is road luck. You are a railroad man, and must learn to keep a stiff upper lip when things go wrong; brace up, and let that tree wait a day or so."
But Jamie's sobs broke out afresh. Fireman Jim's head turned languidly away.
"I should think some of those women might know what to do for the boy," said the conductor. The doctor nodded.
"Take him away, and have him amused if you can," said he. "He troubles his father. He ought to have something to eat,"—the doctor hesitated, and then added,—"though I suppose it does no good to say so. Have you anything—any way of making a cup of tea, or any beef extract? Do you go prepared for these emergencies?"
The conductor shook his head.
"I 'm afraid not," he said, "unless some of the passengers might have something left from lunch. We were due at 5:30, you know, and we get our supper in town."
"Well, you might inquire," said the doctor; "he would feel better after having a bit of something."
So the conductor, carrying the crying Jamie, went back to the passenger-car. He found the young girl the center of what seemed almost a social circle.
The good-natured baby, who had been drowsily nodding, was sound asleep in one of the farthest seats, as content as a veteran traveler in a Pullman state-room, while his mother sat shyly on the outskirts of the little company. The traveling man's sample-cases, covered with a napkin, formed an improvised table; and upon this the stock of eatables was being spread.
"Well, anyhow, we sha'n't be starved," the old lady said; "that there basket"—pointing to a huge covered wicker—"is full of fixin's I was taking to John's folks. I expect it won't seem so like Christmas to the children if they don't have them leaf-cookies and the gingerbread animals; and they are good if I do say it that ought n't; but I 'm sure I never thought, when I was bakin' 'em, that they would save our lives."
"We 'll hope they need not do quite so much for us," laughed the pretty girl, whose name on the one modest trunk in the rear car was D.M. Marsh; "but we will not touch the children's cookies unless we are starved into such robbery. How glad I am Aunt Mary made me take this great box of luncheon! I hardly made an impression on it this noon." And she brought out an unopened jar of pressed chicken. "This will be our Christmas turkey!" she announced.
"Is n't there some way of melting that down into soup?" asked the conductor, who came in just at this point.
"How is the injured man?" inquired the commercial traveler, while the old lady held out her motherly arms for Jamie, as she said: "You poor lamb! Is it his pa that 's killed?"
"He 's all right," said Conductor Brooks; "only his arm is broken, and he is knocked out and faint. The doctor was asking for some soup, or something to brace him a little. If that was chicken broth, now, it would just fit."
"Why, we can make broth in just a few minutes," said Miss Marsh; and in a moment she had brought from her trunk a pretty chafing-dish, and lighted it, the old lady nodding approval.
"Alcohol, too," the girl said, laughing; "left over from the last oyster-spread at college."
The lamp was quickly adjusted, and into the bright pan went part of the jellied chicken.
"It's a privilege, nowadays, to see a young girl know somethin' about cookin'!" said the old lady, while the stolid-faced man silently proffered a match; and Jamie stopped crying to taste the broth, when an appetizing odor began to diffuse through the car.
During all that had passed the boy had hardly left his dark corner. He did not wish to talk. It was nobody's business where he was going, and some one would be sure to ask. But he looked on, and thought how bright and quick and pleasant the girl was. When the broth was sent to Jim, and the doctor returned, the remainder of Aunt Mary's bread and butter and pickles was spread, with various additions from the others' lunch-baskets. Part was reserved for breakfast, and the little group whose common misfortune had thawed all reserve supped together merrily if not bountifully. The boy declined all but a single sandwich. He was hungry, but the angry, defiant pride which had hardened his face all day melted somewhat, and he felt less like eating.
"And to-morrow is Christmas!" said the traveling man, whose name was Osgood. "I 've worked like two men to get through and have the day at home with the wife and babies, and it is hard to be stalled up so near."
"And there 's my son John and Milly and the children. I have n't missed a Christmas with them since John was married. They all come to me Thanksgivin'," said the old lady; "but we 're all alive, and that's a great mercy."
"Never mind," said Miss Marsh; "we 'll have the evening at home. But I wish I had n't stayed with Aunt Mary until the last moment."
"I want a Christmas!" sobbed Jamie, his ready tears bursting forth again. "Mama said I should have a Christmas; an' gramma 's got a tree, an' I—want—a—Christmas!"
Again the big conductor told the short sad little story of the dead mother who had promised a happy day to the boy; and Miss Marsh looked steadily out of the car window a half-minute, while her eye brightened and a resolve formed.
"Jamie boy," said Miss Marsh, "you shall have your Christmas. It 's Christmas here just the same as all over the world; and you shall have a real one."
He looked up in joyful trust. "An' a tree?"
"Yes, dear; a real tree," said the girl. The others listened in astonishment. The old lady opened her lips to remonstrate, but shut them again. The traveling man whistled softly and skeptically, and the doctor looked on amused. Only Jamie and the boy gazed at her with implicit confidence.
"When shall I have it?" asked Jamie.
"To-morrow—Christmas morning," said the girl, brightly. "Now go to papa and go right to sleep, and in the morning—you 'll see!" With tears undried, but with a face beaming with happiness, Jamie let himself be carried away to his makeshift bed by his father's side.
"An' a tree," he said, as the sleepy eyes closed; "an' candles, an'—"
"Well?" said Mr. Osgood, with a quizzical smile of doubt. But before Miss Marsh could reply the boy said briefly:
"I 'll get it. I saw 'em before it got dark."
He had already buttoned his coat, and seizing the red-handled ax that hung near the stove, he bravely leaped out into the drifts.
"Those little evergreens, you know," said Miss Marsh; "they are just a few feet away—he can see them by the light from the windows, I think; and we can make it pretty, somehow," she continued eagerly; "Jamie 's such a little lad, and Christmas means so much to him."
Mr. Osgood nodded.
"But what 's goin' to be on the tree?" asked the practical old lady. "It 's all foolishness goin' to so much trouble for that one child, and we a-tremblin', you may say, between life and death! But I declare for 't, I hate to have the day go by and do nothin'; and even if we 're rescued to-morrow, as that conductor says he thinks probable,—which I don't more 'n half believe—what with gettin' home, and explainin' when you do get there,—which please mercy we may!—why, the day 's as good as gone. An', anyhow, I 've got a pair of red knit mittens for John's Alexander, and I 'm going to give 'em to that poor motherless lamb, an' you can hang 'em on the tree for one thing, Miss Marsh."
"Splendid!" said Miss Marsh. "And I have a red skating-cap in my satchel—I believe it will just fit him."
"Is he too small for a knife?" asked Mr. Osgood. "Let 's see—about five, is n't he? My wife makes six the knife-line; I guess I 'd better not," and he returned it to his pocket.
"Hold on!" said he, with sudden inspiration. "I 've some illustrated catalogues here that could pass for picture-books—yes, and cards too—our new ones"; and, diving into his cases, he brought out a pile of brilliant pictures.
"Will Miss Santa Claus accept this?" asked Dr. Carleton, offering a pocket microscope. Just then the door opened, and the boy came in, dragging triumphantly a small evergreen.
Every one laughed excitedly, and it "did begin to seem somethin' like," as the old lady said. Then how they worked! The tree was braced firmly at the end of the aisle, the lumps of ice and snow shaken off, and a more durable quality of soft cotton flakes from Dr. Carleton's surgical stores added. Leaf-cookies and astonishing gingerbread animals dangled from the branches, and Alexander's red mittens waved in welcome. Even the man of the immovable visage helped, with something like a softening of his hard features; and when he fastened to a branch a red blank-book and pocket pencil, there was an outburst of laughing applause.
Meanwhile Dr. Carleton talked quietly with the shabby little woman; he had asked about the baby's teething, and she unconsciously gave him much of her simple story. Her husband had lost his place in the little town where they had lived. He had found work in the city, and she was going to meet him. They had no "folks." She worked in a factory before she was married. No; the baby had n't cut any teeth yet. She hoped she would n't fuss or be sick about it. She did n't know much about babies. The doctor listened with sympathy, and, a little later, wrapping a bright goldpiece in a bit of paper, he marked it, "For Baby Burns to cut her teeth on," and it was added to the tree.
The boy looked on with a dull ache in his throat. He hoped it was not going to be sore. How sick he had been with those bad throats, and how good mother always was! Mother was filling the children's stockings at home now. She always managed to have something for them, somehow. Poor mother! She would have it all to bear alone now. How could he leave her? Why did n't he think of her part? "But I won't go back," he said to himself. "I can't go back now. I 'll come home rich some day, and give mother everything she wants; but I won't sneak back now." Then he did n't care to think more.
"I can make a top," he whispered to Miss Marsh, "if I have a piece of wood. Shall I?"
"He would like it best of all, I know," said Miss Marsh heartily; and then she added aloud, "Now we must have a star for the top. What can we do about it?"
"Well, I guess it's good enough," said the old lady. "I guess he won't miss the star."
But the girl looked from one to another in perplexed appeal.
"Why must there be a star?" asked the boy shyly.
Miss Marsh hesitated a moment. She did not know much about boys, this brotherless college girl; but she said, almost as shyly as he:
"Don't you think the Christmas star is the most beautiful thing in the world? You know the Christ Child was born beneath a star; and I think it meant, for one thing, that for every new life there is a star set in heaven that will light the life all the way, if once we catch a glimpse of it, and know it is there for us."
The boy listened breathless. He could not have told just what the girl's words meant; but the moral courage that all day had been struggling to live took new strength, and slowly began to shape itself into a resolution. They stood looking at each other, when the traveling man, who was down again in his cases, emerged in triumph, waving some tinfoil.
"Cut out the star from that pasteboard box," he cried; "and here 's the glory for it. We staring at the sight, when he came in a little can't stop short of perfection in this tree."
"Well, I 'm blessed!" said Conductor Brooks, staring at the sight, when he came in a little later. "Where do you folks think you are? At a Sunday-school festival?"
"Never you mind where we be!" said the old lady. Her bonnet was awry, and her spectacles on her forehead. "You just help h'ist up that star, and then we 're all done."
Christmas morning, Jamie woke round-eyed and expectant.
"I want my tree," he said; " and I want my breakfast." And as the waiting holiday-makers were impatient as he, the breakfast was hurried through, and then they all filed in, Jamie in Conductor Brooks's arms, his father, who was doing bravely, coming behind, followed by the engineer. Jamie gazed at the tree as if dazed by his surprise; but after the first moment, a smile of radiant, ecstatic joy spread over the round, baby face. Not a word or sound—only that beaming, blissful smile. It was irresistible; and with shouts of laughter the tree was despoiled of its offerings, and Jamie's cup of happiness was full. In the midst of the merriment Miss Marsh glanced at the boy. He was gazing at the star with a curious expression, and she thought of their words the night before. In her bodice was thrust a pin whose head was a tiny golden star—the badge of her class society. She drew it out, and pressing it into one of the leaf-cookies which were being passed about, she handed it to him with a whispered "Merry Christmas!" He saw it, and there was a quick rush of color to his face, and tears to his eyes—and that little star weighed down the balance of decision on the right side, and made a man of him. But the girl never knew.
When the laughing talk had quieted a little, Jamie turned confidently to Miss Marsh.
"Now the story," he said.
"What story, laddie?" she asked.
"The Christmas story. Mama said there is a Christmas story, and she saved it up for Christmas day. It is the nicest story I ever heard, mama said."
Every one was still for a moment. Poor Jim turned away. "She would have made a good man of him," was the thought in his heart. The girl felt her own heart beat quickly. Could she? Before all these strange people? What would they think! No, she could n't; she would have a chance to talk to Jamie alone before the day was over. That would be much better. But the childish eyes gazed expectantly into hers, and with a swift thought of the dead mother she lifted the little boy gently to her knee, and with softly flushing cheeks, and voice that trembled a little, she began:
"Long ago, in a beautiful country over the sea, there were shepherds in the fields keeping watch over their flocks by night."
The sweet voice grew stronger as the simple words of the wonderful story held the listeners in solemn silence. The little woman's tears dropped on her baby's head as she heard of the mother for whom there was no room in the inn, and a vague, trembling prayer went up from her burdened heart to the Christ who was a child.
The boy's eyes shone with new light as he thought of the star set in heaven for the Christ who was a boy, and with a thrill of newly awakened love and appreciation he placed his own weary, hard-worked mother on her throne in her boy's heart.
There were eloquent sermons preached in the churches that Christmas day, and wonderful music was sung; but, as truly as in his visible temples, Christ was preached and worshiped about that little tree, whose balsam breath went up as frankincense and myrrh.
A little later in the day, after the relief had come and the train pulled into the city station, the Christmas party stopped a moment for the last handshakings and farewells. Twenty-four hours before they would have parted with scarcely a glance at one another. Now they seemed old friends. The busy doctor hurried away first, followed by a long, grateful look from the baby's mother.
"I 'll never forget it of him," she thought.
The boy took a step toward Miss Marsh. One of her hands was tight in Jamie's chubby clasp, the other was held in the old lady's.
He looked a moment, then turned with a resolute face, and walked to the ticket-office.
"Give me a ticket on the first train that goes back to Little Falls," he said.
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