The Silent Treatment

By Heidi Hachtman

It was Christmas 2000 and I was a senior in high school. As I think back on that time in my life, I recall being a very happy, healthy and confident teenager. My worries were few and my future hopes were high.

I had been carefully planning my Christmas list and was looking forward to Christmas Day. One busy Saturday in December my mother took my sister and I shopping to our favorite stores. She had us pick out everything we wanted, and never questioned the price. I can still remember each item purchased that day.

My sister and I were beaming with excitement, we couldn’t believe how generous Santa was going to be this year.

Christmas Eve arrived and my parents eagerly pulled out the shopping bags and let us wrap each gift beautifully. New paper, tags, and shiny ribbons. We were sure this was going to be the best Christmas yet!

When finished wrapping, my parents asked us to load the presents in the car. My heart froze, and I immediately felt sick. My sister and I looked at my parents in shock and asked, “Is this a joke?”

Anger soon replaced my disbelief and while fighting back tears, I said, “How could you do this? You are the meanest parents in the world.”

My sister and I begrudgingly loaded them in the car and sat in a painful silence while our parents quietly delivered the gifts to a family in need. My heart was as cold as the ice on the driveway.

When they came back in the car I asked, “Why did you make us think the gifts were for us?” My mother replied with, “I knew you wouldn’t pick out the best gifts if they weren’t for you.”

I wish I could say Christmas morning brought us something bigger and better, but it didn’t. Besides a bitter spirit, I honestly do not recall what awaited me that Christmas morning.

Years later, as I think back on all of the comfortable and happy Christmas days in my life, the one that sticks out to me most is that dreary Christmas of 2000.

Looking back on that night, I now understand that the family who received our gifts had a very uncomfortable life. Illness, abandonment, poverty, and addiction were some of the things this family was struggling with. I still get a lump in my throat when I replay this night in my mind, and I now wish I would have done more.

I am thankful for this particular Christmas that I remember best. It taught me to cherish the many gifts that I so easily took for granted years ago. A warm home, caring family, my health, a hopeful future, and parents who taught me that the best gifts in this life are not found under a tree, but rather in our hearts.

Thank you, Mom and Dad. I’m sorry for the silent treatment I gave you that whole Christmas break of 2000.

 "Silent Night" at a Care Center

By Margaret Hyde Jenkins

Snow was falling heavily on that December night in 1975 as a group of us senior girls spilled out of a small car.

Laughing, having barely made it through the storm to the nursing home on Highland Drive, it was the final singing engagement of our Christmas season. We were late and realized that our strict high school music director would be furious, but hey, we were more concerned about the snow ruining our perfect hair and outfits than we were in being late.

After all, what was the big deal anyway? Just another old folks’ home and we’d already sung at so many; surely doing them a favor brightening their day even if they couldn’t hear well enough to appreciate our fine efforts.

Brushing the snow off us as best we could, we pushed through the door into a dimly lit room where we were met with the expected stern look from our frustrated director Mr. Miller, instantly silencing our laughter. As a group of 24 Madrigal singers, we’d worked hard to learn the collection of carols and songs for the Christmas season with all the carefully memorized harmonies and words; so that finding our places in the group mid-song without missing a beat wasn’t hard.

Soon Mr. Miller’s anger softened, and the music flowed as we fell into the rhythm of our familiar musical program; some carols upbeat and cheery, others ancient and mysterious. Song followed song until it seemed in no time we came to our final number, always our last one: “Silent Night,” a dissonant favorite.

In the dark room, lit only by Christmas lights, there was a quiet, reflective mood. As we started to sing "Silent Night, Holy Night,” I looked around for someone to sing personally to, something I enjoyed doing on this song.

People smiled and swayed to our music throughout our program; but I found when singing “Silent Night,” people’s eyes often glazed over and became dreamy, lost in their own nostalgia. Tonight was no exception and as I picked a little old woman sitting nearby in her wheelchair for my "special person," I noticed her eyes weren’t looking at us but instead gazed into the window beside her, causing me to sing only to her reflection.

Then, somehow with twinkly tree lights mirrored in her eyes by way of the window glass and perhaps a little magic from the spirit of Christmases past, anyway, an unexpected thing happened to me. Even as we crooned, “All is calm, all is bright,’ a sweet scene arose before me in the glass as I indirectly gazed into this woman’s eyes.

To my mind’s eye there came pictures not of a shriveled elderly woman, but of a young, vibrant one. It’s as if I entered into a brief journey along with her for a lifetime of her Christmas memories, both joyous and sad, heartfelt and heartbreaking; a lifetime of Christmas dinners and celebrations.

Perhaps I even thought I saw reflections of a son lost in wartime during years of deep hardship, sorrow and sacrifice, as I seemed to see and feel some of what she had experienced.

“Round yon virgin mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild. … Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia …”

Tears formed in my eyes as I sang deeply for someone I didn’t know, but for whom I now felt love for with all my heart. What an epiphany! I realized, old people hadn’t always been old. Amazingly they had been young once, full of life just as I was.

Through this experience, I realized that even in their twilight years their lives mattered very much to God. He knew them and loved them just as he always had.

“Sleep in heavenly peace.” The song quickly ended, but through my Christmas miracle, time was stretched and sweet lessons learned. No longer could I be the center of my own universe with the world revolving only around me, as I realized that God truly loves and cares for all of his children; even the old and shriveled ones.

During the remainder of that magical night, our group continued to be profoundly touched as we gathered to sing in private rooms for those too feeble to get out of bed. Humble souls, they gazed at us with a childlike appreciation, grateful for Christmas messages that brought images of a loving Heavenly Father and his newborn son, sent to save a sinful and dying world — a world they were not long for.

That night I found that God can perform Christmas miracles for those who will let him, because what is Christmas for if not to soften and change people's hearts? May the true spirit of Christmas continually change us and help us to always rest in his "heavenly peace."

 

Christmas in Captivity: A Story of Survival

By Amanda Lindhout

Contemplating Christmas when you are isolated and far from home brings its own unique pain. Five years ago, late in 2008, I was a hostage in Somalia, confined to a room in a dirty concrete house somewhere outside of Mogadishu, the country’s capital city. Accompanied by an Australian photographer named Nigel Brennan, I’d gone to Somalia to work as a freelance journalist, on a trip that was meant to last only ten days. On our fourth morning, traveling along a dusty road, we’d been ambushed by a group of armed men and taken prisoner.

Our captors were Islamist extremists who were demanding a ransom of $3 million from our families—an amount we both knew was impossible. Weeks passed with no progress.

Nigel and I had been separated, put into side-by-side rooms in the house, but we’d figured out that by standing at the windows in our respective rooms, we could still talk to each other. Sometimes we managed to talk for hours at a time, as our captors dozed on a porch at the front of the house, too lazy to check on us. Each day was a mix of loneliness, boredom, and fear. We had pens and notebooks and some very basic supplies. We were given bottled water and two small meals a day, usually consisting of a can of tuna and a couple of bananas. It was enough to keep us alive, but still, we were always hungry.

In early December, three and a half months after we’d been kidnapped, our captors celebrated the Muslim holiday of Eid and as a special treat gave us each a few toffees wrapped in foil. Standing at our respective windowsills, Nigel and I made a decision—something small and also big—which was to ignore our gnawing hunger and save the toffees for later, for Christmas.

Was it pessimism or pragmatism that told us we weren’t going home before then? I don’t know, but the thought of it was so stark, so totally miserable, I figured we should at least prepare. Even weeks ahead of time, I couldn’t bear the idea that I’d be apart from my family for the holiday, stuck in a hot room with nothing but a mattress, a mosquito net, a few toiletries, and two changes of clothes – and our escalating fear.

Christmas was the one time of year when my brothers surfaced at home, when my parents and grandparents congregated to eat my mother’s roast turkey. As the day came closer, as it seemed certain that there was to be no change in the stalemate between our captors and our families, Nigel and I started to plan. We agreed to exchange gifts and write stories for each other—the stories of the best Christmases we’d ever spent, recorded in exacting, drawn-out detail, especially the parts about food.

I worked hard on my story, pulling up long-past memories and writing them down. For Nigel’s gift, I took an hourglass-shaped white plastic bottle of cough syrup that I’d been given by our captors and painstakingly converted it into a little doll. I drew a smiling face on the top part of it and then took one of the black socks I’d been wearing and fashioned it into a tiny, tailored sweater, complete with sleeves, using Nigel’s beard trimmers—which he’d left at my request on the window ledge in the bathroom we shared—to do the cutting. I sliced up a Q-tip stick to serve as my needle and unwound strands of dental floss for thread. I embroidered three words—”My Little Buddy”—on the front of the doll’s sweater.

I then made Nigel a Christmas card, containing a pumped-up sort of advertisement for his new toy. “Never feel alone again: Little Buddy is Here!” Finally, I took out a blank sheet of paper and drew striped candy canes all over it, tucking Nigel’s gift inside like it was wrapping paper, securing the whole thing with more dental floss. I then made him a stocking, using more paper, stitched together with more floss, and stuck the three toffees inside.

On Christmas morning, I snuck down the hallway to the bathroom and left everything on the ledge there—the gift, the stocking, and even the full notebook containing my story. Then I knocked on the wall to tell Nigel to go get it. A while later, he knocked again, instructing me to go retrieve some things he’d left for me, a wrapped gift and a decorated paper stocking with his toffees in it.

We spent the morning singing carols— “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Joy to the World.” We sucked our toffees down slowly, one after the other, until each became like a grain of salt on the tongue.

We read each other’s Christmas stories in a sweet kind of silence. My story came from the year I was nine years old, when my mother woke me up with surprise airline tickets and a pass to Disney World, leaving just two days after the holiday. Nigel’s story was about the Christmas when he and his siblings bought airplane tickets for their parents to go to Ireland.

At our windows, we asked each other follow-up questions, to drag the stories out. I loved Nigel in that moment, on that day, more than I’d ever loved anyone. We sang “Little Drummer Boy,” and each of us throaty with emotion, we sang “Silent Night.” Finally, standing at his sill, Nigel opened his little buddy with an amused gasp, and then I was allowed to open my stocking. He’d used red ballpoint ink to color two full notebook pages. He’d torn them into matching sock-shaped sides, and then sewn them together with dental floss, adding a strip of a Wet One to the top, as a stand in for white fur trim.

Inside the stocking was a delicate-looking bracelet, made from a chain of saved-up pop-tops from his old tuna cans, carefully and intricately strung together with threads and accessorized by colorful little tassels he’d pulled from the edges of a cloth, tying one to each link in the chain. It was clear he’d spent days putting it all together, using his fingertips to make knots the size of poppy seeds. It was done with care, made with exactly what he had. It looked almost like something you’d find beneath glass at an art gallery. It was pretty and hopeful. It was, in that moment, more beautiful than anything I’d ever received.

-- Amanda Lindhout and Nigel Brennan remained prisoners in Somalia for another 11 months, released on November 25, 2009, after 460 days as hostages. This essay is adapted from Lindhout’s memoir, cowritten with Sara Corbett, A House in the Sky. 

 

The Christmas Doll

By Larry Wayne Tippetts

 

It was late fall of 1961. We were sitting around the dinner table when Dad announced he wanted to move back West. We had been living in three Midwestern cities for five years but had moved to Minneapolis only four months earlier.

 

I was acquiring a new group of friends and had just made the basketball team at my high school, but we missed the mountains and our large extended family in the West. Although we had never lived there, Boise, Idaho, sounded appealing to him.

 

Dad never did believe in hiring someone to do something he could do himself, so we started building a trailer to haul the accumulated possessions of a large family. Our plan was to drive to my uncle’s ranch in Montana for Christmas, then travel to Boise to establish our new home.

 

Dad and Mom talked to the older children, asking if we could forego Christmas gifts in light of our financial circumstances. We agreed, but felt our youngest sister, Debbie, should still be remembered. Consequently, the last item packed was a doll that was protectively wrapped and placed at the top of the precariously high load.

 

On an overcast day with a light snow falling, we loaded our family of eight into the old station wagon and headed west with all of our earthly possessions trailing precariously behind. Not far into North Dakota we hit icy roads and blowing snow. Traveling along an isolated wind-swept section of the countryside, we heard a loud “clunk,” and the trailer swerved out of control. Dad managed to stop the car along the side of the two-lane highway. An inspection confirmed his suspicion that the axle on the trailer had broken. We left the trailer beside the road, praying no one would steal our belongings, and drove into the nearest town to find an inexpensive motel.

 

Unable to find a replacement part, we spent several days living in very discouraging circumstances. It was only later, as an adult, that I fully appreciated the disheartening situation we were in and realized what courage my parents demonstrated at that time.

 

Eventually, Dad, my brother Danny, and I drove to another town to pick up a needed part. Dad was in a creative mood, composing some of his original silly songs and poetry, and kept us constantly laughing. Was he really that lighthearted, or was that a father’s attempt to shield his sons from a gloomy situation?

 

Returning to our trailer we were relieved to find it undisturbed. We repaired the axle and continued on our journey. By this time, Christmas was two days away. Debbie started to express concern that Santa would not be able to find us, and we were all depressed about the thoughts of spending Christmas Day driving cross-country.

 

Christmas Eve found us several hundred miles from Uncle Blake’s ranch. We were road weary and fatigued, but during that night, a sort of magic seemed to settle over our journey. The sky was clear with a full moon reflecting off the snow-covered fields. Only an occasional farm home or small town detracted from the complete stillness. We started to look for Santa in the clear night sky, assuring Debbie that Santa knew where to leave her Christmas gift.

 

We love to sing, so we began to harmonize on some favorite Christmas carols. “Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie ...” Never in my short life had I felt such unity with the babe of Bethlehem. “Silent Night, Holy Night!” Truly it was, as we traveled through the stillness, the younger children asleep with heads on the lap of an older brother or sister.

 

It is difficult to put into words what happened that night, but I shall never forget the feelings of security and peace despite our road weariness and cramped muscles. As I write nearly 60 years later, I feel deep gratitude for my family and a profound sense of unity for that shared experience.

 

We finally arrived at Uncle Blake’s ranch about 8 a.m. Christmas morning. While cousins rushed out of the house to greet us with happy hugs and hellos, Danny and I climbed to the top of the load and removed the precious gift. The doll had become a symbol of not letting our obstacles get us down, and we were determined to accomplish that one traditional Christmas act of giving. We went through a back door and quickly placed the doll under the Christmas tree just before the rest of the family came in the front door.

Words are inadequate to express our feelings as we watched the eyes of our little sister light up with joy at the realization that Santa had not forgotten her.

A Season for Mercy

By Teresa Ambord Anderson

Polly, my stepmom, suggested the sweetest name: Mercy. We soon learned it was just what this new boxer pup would need.

My parents’ rambunctious dog would bolt out of bed and go-go-go all day long. So when they brought home a Christmas tree, they expected chaos. To their astonishment, Mercy didn’t seem to care. She paid zero attention to the tree suddenly growing in her living room. Nor did she react to the fancy presents under it, including a wrapped box of Milk-Bones.

Dad and Polly were wary; they’d never had a dog that didn’t force them to move everything to higher ground as if they were expecting a flood. But Mercy seemed oblivious.

A few days before Christmas, Polly awoke early, as usual. She passed the dimly lit living room and then stopped cold. Glancing back into the room, she saw that every last present was gone. Only the tree was still there.

Had they been robbed? Why hadn’t Mercy barked? Where was she? Had the burglars taken her? Her thoughts frantic, Polly noticed a scrap of ribbon on the floor. Then a bit of torn wrapping paper a few feet away. Some glitter beyond that. The clues all made a trail leading toward the back door.

Polly flipped the switch, bathing the backyard in light. The perpetrator’s head lifted and froze. Alarm and guilt made her eyes wide. Oh, yes, it was Mercy.

She lay under her favorite tree in a fluffy nest of shredded wrapping paper, chewed-up boxes, and curling bits of ribbon. Presents, pawed from their packages, were strewn among tattered bows. Beautifully wrapped boxes had gaping holes. Fragments of tissue paper mixed with the last remaining evidence of gifts.

Clearly Mercy’s self-control had failed. She’d silently carried one package after another out the doggy door so she could pillage in private. Anything edible was gone, including cookies, chocolates, candy canes, and four pounds of Milk-Bones.

Nature took pity on Mercy, and she survived her midnight snack. My parents were so grateful, they laughed off the ruined presents. Only one problem remained. With all the gift tags destroyed, how could they send out thank-you cards?

Mercy presented the problem, so Mercy provided the answer. A few days later, Polly returned to her easy chair to find Mercy guiltily licking a plate where a doughnut had just been. Polly snapped a picture of the shamefaced pooch and used it to make thank-you notes. The caption read, “Thank you for the ??” Inside, the whole story was explained. We all had to laugh. And everyone shared the sweet reminder that amid all the gift-giving, it’s really a season for Mercy. 

 

Christmas 1944

By Bob Lewis

 

Years ago our family spent an idyllic summer in beautiful Florence, Italy, the heart of Renaissance art and architecture and literature — our vacation of a lifetime.

 

One day we decided to drive to nearby Siena to see the Piazza del Campo and its Cathedral. As we drove through the outskirts of Florence, off in the distance lay a beautiful green tract of land spread out magically like a garden in the parched Tuscan countryside. It turned out to be the American cemetery where some 5,000 U.S. and Canadian soldiers and airmen were buried, killed during the battles in and around Florence in the summer of 1944.

 

The original wooden crosses and stars of David had been replaced with stunning white marble markers, running in seemingly endless rows, curving and capturing the contours of carefully manicured lawns. Each marker bore the soldier’s name and a date of death, with the hometown from which he came.

 

As I walked between the rows of the dead, thinking of the lives of these young souls, I came upon the cross that bore the name, as I recall, of Myron Parker from Idaho, whose day of death was Christmas Day, Dec. 25, 1944.

 

Christmas Day!

 

As I stood there, that long past Christmas Day, Dec. 25, 1944, came flooding into my mind. I was 7 years old, almost 8. I awoke early on that freezing winter morning in Cache Valley and clambered quickly downstairs with my siblings to see what Santa had brought, all of us laughing and giggling with excitement.

 

As always, the Christmas tree was beautifully decorated with the same lights and family ornaments that had covered the tree every year as long as memory. There, together with the nuts and oranges and candy in our stockings lay a special present that magically appeared every year. For months I had dreamed of a new baseball glove, and there it was — on that Christmas morning in 1944!

 

Now, some 40 years later, I stood by a white marble cross in that far-away land, tears filling my eyes as I became aware of a far greater present, a precious gift that was given to me on that Christmas Day in 1944 — a gift without my knowing, without my asking, without my thanks.

 

So at Christmas every year I think of Myron Parker, unknown to me except for that brief moment when I stood by his grave in Italy, when Christmas Day 1944 linked us together in a strange yet enduring bond.

 

It also became a symbol, a reminder of another’s gift, the gift of him whose birth gave Christmas its name. He, too, died for others, legions who do not know him, never think of him, never thank him.

 

As he died to make men holy, unknown souls like Myron Parker died to make men free.

 

The Boy With the Box

by Mary Griggs Van Voorhis

 

It was an ideal Christmas day. The sun shone brightly but the air was crisp and cold, and snow and ice lay sparkling everywhere. A light wind, the night before, had swept the blue, icebound river clean of scattering snow; and, by two o'clock in the afternoon, the broad bend near Creighton's mill was fairly alive with skaters. The girls in caps and scarfs, the boys in sweaters and mackinaws of every conceivable hue, with here and there a plump, matronly figure in a plush coat or a tiny fellow in scarlet, made a picture of life and brilliancy worthy of an artist's finest skill.

 

Tom Reynolds moved in and out among the happy throng, with swift, easy strokes, his cap on the back of his curly head, and his brown eyes shining with excitement. Now and again, he glanced down with pardonable pride, at the brand new skates that twinkled beneath his feet. "Jolly Ramblers," sure enough "Jolly Ramblers" they were! Ever since Ralph Evans had remarked, with a tantalizing toss of his handsome head, that "no game fellow would try to skate on anything but 'Jolly Ramblers,'" Tom had yearned, with an inexpressible longing, for a pair of these wonderful skates. And now they were his and the ice was fine and the Christmas sun was shining!

 

Tom was rounding the big bend for the fiftieth time, when he saw, skimming gracefully toward him through the merry crowd, a tall boy in a fur-trimmed coat, his handsome head proudly erect.

 

"That's Ralph Evans now," said Tom to himself. "Just wait till you see these skates, old boy, and maybe you won't feel so smart!" And with slow, cautious strokes, he made his way through laughing boys and girls to a place just in front of the tall skater, coming toward him down the broad white way. When Ralph was almost upon him, Tom paused and in conspicuous silence, looked down at his shining skates.

 

"Hullo," said Ralph good naturedly, seizing Tom's arm and swinging around. Then, taking in the situation with a careless glance, he added, "Get a new pair of skates for Christmas?"

 

"'Jolly Ramblers,'" said Tom impressively, "the best 'Jolly Ramblers' in the market!"

 

Ralph was a full half head the taller, but, as Tom delivered himself of this speech with his head held high, he felt every inch as tall as the boy before him.

 

If Ralph was deeply impressed he failed to show it, as he answered carelessly, "Huh, that so? Pretty good little skates they are, the 'Jolly Ramblers!'"

 

"You said no game fellow would use any other make," said Tom hotly.

 

"O but that was nearly a year ago," said Ralph. "I got a new pair of skates for Christmas, too," he added, as if it had just occurred to him, "'Club House' skates, something new in the market just this season. Just look at the curve of that skate, will you?" he added, lifting a foot for inspection, "and that clamp that you couldn't shake off if you had to! They're guaranteed for a year, too, and if anything gives out, you get a new pair for nothing. Three and a half, they cost, at Mr. Harrison's hardware store. I gave my 'Jolly Ramblers' to a kid about your size. A mighty good little skate they are!" And, with a long, graceful stroke, Ralph Evans skated away.

 

And it seemed to Tom Reynolds that all his Christmas joy went skimming away behind him. The sun still shone, the ice still gleamed, the skaters laughed and sang, but Tom moved slowly on, with listless, heavy strokes. The "Jolly Ramblers" still twinkled beneath his feet, but he looked down at them no more. What was the use of "Jolly Ramblers" when Ralph Evans had a pair of "Club House" skates that cost a dollar more, had a graceful curve, and a faultless clamp, and were guaranteed for a year?

 

It was only four o'clock when Tom slipped his new skates carelessly over his shoulder and started up the bank for home. He was slouching down the main street, head down, hands thrust deep into his pockets, when, on turning a corner, he ran plump into--a full moon! Now I know it is rather unusual for full moons to be walking about the streets by daylight; but that is the only adequate description of the round, freckled face that beamed at Tom from behind a great box, held by two sturdy arms.

 

"That came pretty near being a collision," said the owner of the full moon, still beaming, as he set down the box and leaned against a building to rest a moment.

 

"Nobody hurt, I guess," said Tom.

 

"Been down to the ice?" asked the boy, eagerly. "I could see the skaters from Patton's store. O, I see, you got some new skates for Christmas! Ain't they beauties, now?" And he beamed on the despised "Jolly Ramblers" with his heart in his little blue eyes.

 

"A pretty good little pair of skates," said Tom, in Ralph's condescending tone.

 

"Good! Well I should guess yes! And Christmas ice just made o' purpose!" In spite of his ill humor, Tom could not help responding to the warm interest of the shabby boy at his side. He knew him to be Harvey McGinnis, the son of a poor Irish widow, who worked at Patton's department store out of school hours. Looking at the great box with an awakening interest, he remarked, kindly, "What you been doin' with yourself on Christmas day?"

 

"Want to know, sure enough?" said Harvey, mysteriously, his round face beaming more brightly than ever, "Well, I've been doin' the Santy Claus act down at Patton's store. About a week ago," he went on, leaning back easily against the tall building and thrusting his hands down

deep into his well worn pockets, "about a week ago, as I was cleaning out the storeroom, I came on three big boxes with broken dolls in 'em. Beauties they were, I kin tell you, the Lady Jane in a blue silk dress, the Lady Clarabel in pink, and the Lady Matilda in shimmerin' white. Nothin' wrong with 'em either only broken rubbers that put their jints out o' whack and set their heads arollin' this way and that. 'They could be fixed in no time, I ses to myself, 'and what a prize they'd be fer the kids to be sure!' For mom and me had racked our brains considerable how we'd scrape together the money for Christmas things for the girls.

 

"So I went to the boss and I asked him right out what he'd charge me for the three ladies just as they wus, and he ses, 'Jimmie,' he ses (I've told him me name a dozen times, but he allus calls me 'Jimmie'), 'Jimmie,' he ses, 'if you'll come down on Christmas day and help me take down the fixin's and fix up the store for regular trade, I'll give you the dolls fer nothin',' he ses.

 

"So I explained to the kids that Santy'd be late to our house this year (with so many to see after it wouldn't be strange) and went down to the store early this morning and finished me work and fixed up the ladies es good es new. Would you like to be seein' 'em, now?" he added, turning to the great box with a look of pride.

 

"Sure, I'd like to see 'em," said Tom.

 

With careful, almost reverent touch, Harvey untied the string and opened the large box, disclosing three smaller boxes, one above the other. Opening the first box, he revealed a really handsome doll in a blue silk dress, with large dark eyes that opened and shut and dark, curling locks of "real hair."

 

"This is the Lady Jane," he said, smoothing her gay frock with gentle fingers. "We're goin' to give her to Kitty. Kitty's hair is pretty and curly, but she hates it, 'cause it's red; and she thinks black hair is the prettiest kind in the world. Ain't it funny how all of us will be wantin' what we don't have ourselves?"

 

Tom did not reply to this bit of philosophy; but he laid a repentant hand on the "Jolly Ramblers" as if he knew he had wronged them in his heart. "That's as handsome a doll as ever I saw and no mistake," he said.

 

Pleased with this praise, Harvey opened the second box and disclosed the Lady Matilda with fair golden curls and a dress of "shimmerin' white." "The Lady Matilda goes to Josephine," said Harvey. "Josephine has black hair, straight as a string, and won't she laugh, though, to see them fetchin' yellow curls?"

 

"She surely ought to be glad," said Tom.

 

The Lady Clarabel was another fair-haired lady in a gown of the brightest pink. "This here beauty's for the baby," said Harvey, his eyes glowing. "She don't care if the hair's black or yellow, but won't that stunnin' dress make her eyes pop out?"

 

"They'll surely believe in Santy when they see those beauties," said Tom.

 

"That's just what I was sayin' to mom this morning," said Harvey. "Kitty's had some doubts, (she's almost nine), but when she sees those fine ladies she'll be dead sure mom and I didn't buy 'em. If I had a Santy Claus suit, I'd dress up and hand 'em out myself."

 

Tom's face lighted with a bright idea. "My brother Bob's got a Santa Claus suit that he used in a show last Christmas," he said. "Say, let me dress up and play Santa for you. The girls would never guess who I was!"

 

"Wouldn't they stare, though!" said Harvey, delightedly. "But do you think you'd want to take time," he asked apologetically, "and you with a new pair of skates and the ice like this?"

 

"Of course, I want to if you'll let me," said Tom. "I'll skate down the river and meet you anywhere you say."

 

"Out in our back yard, then, at seven o'clock," said Harvey.

 

"All right, I'll be there!" and with head up, and skates clinking, Tom hurried away.

 

It was a flushed, excited boy who burst into the Reynolds' quiet sitting room a few minutes later, with his skates still hanging on his shoulder and his cap in his hand. "Say, mother," he cried, "can I have Bob's Santa Claus suit this evening, please? I'm going to play Santa Claus for Harvey McGinnis!"

 

"Play Santa Claus for Harvey McGinnis. What do you mean, child?"

 

"You know Mrs. McGinnis, mother, that poor woman who lives in the little house by the river. Her husband got killed on the railroad last winter, you know. Well, Harvey, her boy, has fixed up some grand looking dolls for his sisters and he wants me to come out and play Santa tonight," and Tom launched out into a long story about Harvey and his good fortune.

 

"He must be a splendid boy," said Mrs. Reynolds, heartily, "and I am sure I shall be glad to have you go."

 

"And another thing, mother," said Tom, hesitating a little, "do you think grandma would care if I spent part of that five dollars she gave me for a pair of skates for Harvey? He hasn't any skates at all, and I know he'd just love to have some!"

 

"It is generous of you to think of it," said his mother, much pleased, "and you would still have two and a half for that little trip down to grandma's."

 

"But I'd like to get him some 'Club House' skates," said Tom. "They're a new kind that cost three dollars and a half."

 

"But I thought you said the 'Jolly Ramblers' were the best skates made?" Mrs. Reynolds looked somewhat hurt as she glanced from Tom to the skates on his shoulder and back to Tom again.

 

"They are, mother, they're just dandies!" said Tom blushing with shame that he could ever have despised his mother's gift. "But these 'Club House' skates are just the kind for Harvey. You see, Harvey's shoes are old and worn, and these 'Club House' skates have clamps that you can't shake loose if you have to. Then, if anything happens to them before the year's up, you get a new pair free; and Harvey, you know, wouldn't have any money to be fixing skates."

 

"Well, do as you like," said Mrs. Reynolds, pleased with Tom's eagerness, for such a spell of generosity was something new in her selfish younger son. "But remember, you will have to wait a while for your visit to grandma."

 

"All right, and thank you, mother," said Tom. "You can buy the skates down at Harrison's and I'm going over and ask Mr. Harrison if he won't open up the store and get a pair for me for a special time like this. I'm most sure he will!" and away he flew.

 

That evening, at seven, as the moon was rising over the eastern hills, a short, portly Santa Claus stepped out of the dry reeds by the river bank and walked with wonderfully nimble feet, right into the McGinnis' little back yard. As he neared the small back porch, a dark figure rose to greet him, one hand held up in warning, the other holding at arm's length, a bulky grain sack, full to the brim.

 

"Here's yer pack, Santy," he whispered, gleefully. "They're all waitin' in the front room yonder. I'll slip in the back way, whilst you go round and give a good thump at the front door and mom'll let you in."

 

Trembling with eagerness, Tom tiptoed round the house, managing to slip an oblong package into the capacious depths of the big sack as he did so. Thump, thump! how his knock reëchoed in the frosty air!

 

The door swung wide, and Mrs. McGinnis' gaunt figure stood before him.

 

"Good evenin', Santy, come right in," she said.

 

Tom had always thought what a homely woman Harvey's mother was when he happened to meet her at the grocery, with her thin red hair drawn severely back from her gaunt face, and a black shawl over her head. But as he looked up into her big, kind face, so full of Christmas sunshine, he wondered he could ever have thought her anything but lovely. The room was small and bare, but wonderful with pine and bits of red and green crepe paper, saved from the 'fixins' at the store. And on a large bed in the corner sat the three little girls, Kitty with her bright curls bobbing, Josephine with her black braids sticking straight out, and the baby with tiny blue eyes that twinkled and shone like Harvey's.

 

The fine speech that Tom had been saying over to himself for the past two hours seemed to vanish into thin air before this excited little audience. But in faltering, stammering tones, which everyone was too excited to notice, he managed to say something about "Merry Christmas" and "good children" and then proceeded to open the magic sack. "Miss Kitty McGinnis!" he called, in deep, gruff tones. Kitty took the box he offered with shy embarrassment, slowly drew back the lid and gave a cry of amazement and delight. "A doll, O the loveliest doll that ever was!" she cried. Then turning to her brother, she whispered as softly as excitement would permit, "O Harvey, I'm afeard ye paid too much!"

 

"Aw, go on!" said Harvey, his face more like a full moon than ever. "Don't ye know that Santy kin do whatever he wants to?"

 

The other dolls were received with raptures, Josephine stroking the golden curls of the Lady Matilda with wondering fingers, and the baby dancing round and round, waving the pink-robed Lady Clarabel above her head.

 

"Mr. Harvey McGinnis!" came the gruff tones of Santa Claus; and Harvey smiled over to his mother as he drew out a pair of stout cloth gloves. "Mrs. McGinnis!" And that good lady smiled back, as she shook out a dainty white apron with a coarse embroidery ruffle.

 

"I reckon Santy wanted you to wear that of a Sunday afternoon," said Harvey, awkwardly.

 

"And I'll be proud to do it!" said his mother.

 

Little sacks of candy were next produced and everyone settled down to enjoy it, thinking that the bottom of the big sack must be reached, when Santa called out in tones that trembled beneath the gruffness, "Another package for Mr. Harvey McGinnis!"

 

"Fer me--why--what--" said Harvey, taking the heavy oblong bundle; then, as the sparkling "Club House" skates met his view, his face lit up with a glory that Tom never forgot. The glory lasted but a moment, then he turned a troubled face toward the bulky old saint.

 

"You never ought to a done it," he said. "These must have cost a lot!"

 

"Aw, go on," was the reply in a distinctly boyish tone, "don't you know that Santy can do whatever he wants to?" and, with a prodigious bow, old Santa was gone.

 

A few minutes later, a slender boy with a bundle under his arm, was skating swiftly down the shining river in the moonlight. As he rounded the bend, a tall figure in a fur-trimmed coat came skimming slowly toward him, and a voice called out in Ralph Evans' condescending tones, "Well, how are the 'Jolly Ramblers' doing tonight?"

 

But the answer, this time, was clear and glad and triumphant. "The best in the world," said Tom, "and isn't this the glorious night for skating?"