7o6 



A CHRISTMAS ROS-E. 



" It will hardly bloom then. It is a tender rose, 

 and will not stand freezing weather — that is, unless 

 it is protected." 



" Protected ! what 's that ?" 



" Why, glass. If it had glass over it — like a lit- 

 tle greenhouse — it is possible it might bloom." 



He had never seen a greenhouse. In one of the 

 papers she had loaned him there were pictures of 

 greenhouses, but they had seemed impossible struct- 

 ures, and he did not quite believe they really ex- 

 isted. 



" She 's got to bloom if I have to make one of the 

 glass things. Don't see how I can do it, tho'. 

 Greenhouses are so awful big !" 



"Why, Samuel, you are in earnest! I didn't 

 know you had it in you to be so earnest." 



" Oh ! I can do things — ef J see the good o' doin' 

 'em. Don't suppose you 've got any book to tell 

 how to make a little glass thing big enough to cover 

 the rose ?" 



" Perhaps a cold-frame would do it." 

 I 'm powerful anxious to make her bloom." 



He wanted to say why, but dared not. She 

 ^wouldn't understand. He stood there in awkward 

 silence before this woman — his inspiration and his 

 hope. If the rose would only bloom it might speak 

 for him. He looked forlornly off upon the mount- 

 ains 'round about. Already they were brilliant -in 

 October flames. He looked at his bare and dreary 

 home — poverty stricken and desolate. She stood 

 there in wonderful raiment, and with a faint blush 

 upon her bright face. 



" I guess I '11 have to bust my tin savings bank. 

 She 's got to bloom— before Christmas." 



CHAPTER ni. 



" Tell you. Retire Hopkins, it's the softest winter 

 we 've had these twenty year. Anyways, it's pretty 

 near as soft as any you ever see. Here 'tis 24th 

 day of December and not a mite of snow." 



"And no great frost to speak of. Farmer Love- 

 well's got his chance this year. He 's always say- 

 ing there aint no time to do fall work. Guess he 's 

 had four months fallish weather this year, and no 

 time he couldn't plow." 



The worthies were seated 'round the stove in the 

 store discussing the mild winter. Thankful Sloan 

 sat in her little box of a post-office reading a Christ- 

 mas number of some magazine she had cleverly 

 pulled out of its wrapper. 



"It's an old sayin'," she piped up, "a green 

 Christmas makes a rich graveyard." 



She didn't say she had just read it, and it passed 

 for native wisdom. 



" Ef I didn't forget all 'bout it !" said the Deacon ; 

 ' ' to-morrow is Christmas. We never made so great 

 of those heathen holidays like hollowe'en and those 

 sort o' days up to the meeting-house, but I do be- 

 lieve the schoolmarm's going to have some kind of 

 a meeting. I see Sam'l Lovewell totin' a young 

 saplin' spruce up there yesterday." 



"Guess it's the fust Christmas tree ever was sot 

 up in Black Kidge. Be your folks going?" 



" They's been invited, but I never favored such 

 goin's on, anyways." 



" S'pose you '11 be there, Deacon," piped up 

 Thankful. 



"Yes. I told mother I would — just to please her." 



"Guess the hull town will be there 'cept Rube 

 Snow's folks. His gal 's been ailin' these six months 

 and yesterday she died. I suspect they '11 have the 

 buryin' to-morrer for fear the ground might freeze 

 up." 



Christmas arrived at Black Ridge. It was a won- 

 derful day — mild, bright and as beautiful as a Sun- 

 day morning in June. All the Ridge had heard of 

 the Christmas tree at the 'Tater Hill school house. 

 Every one knew also of the sorrow that dwelt in the 

 stage-driver's little frame house on the back road. 



Thankful Sloan said it seemed " Sorter strange to 

 have a funeral in the village and a "time " going on 

 up to 'Tater Hill school house same evening." 



Retire Hopkins said "It wasn't intended to be 

 unseemly." 



"It just come that way, and he didn't see how 

 the schoolmarm could give up the time she had 

 planned for the boys and girls on account of Rube 

 Snow's second girl being buried that day." 



Sam'l Lovewell had seen the sun rise with min- 

 gled dread and hope. A second-hand window 

 sash bought at the next village, four miles away, a 

 few boards and nails, and natural gumption had done 

 it. Over the white rose had been built a cold-frame. 

 He had banked stable manure against it. He had 

 watched it day and night. He had covered it at 

 night with hay, he had aired it on sunny days. At 

 last, on the day before Christmas, a single bud had 

 shown the tips of white petals. If to-day were sunny 

 it might bloom. He went to look at it after doing 

 his chores. It had not changed since the day be- 

 fore. Perhaps as the sun rose higher, and the tiny 

 frame grew warm, the bud would swell into glorious 

 beauty. Almost without knowing it Sam'l had be- 

 come a florist. 



About eleven o'clock, while Sam'l was in the barn 

 doing up some odd jobs so that he might be free to 

 go to the Christmas tree that evening, his mother came 

 to the door and said that Rube Snow wanted to see 

 him. 



