1014. 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
1477 
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|| “Grandpa’s Christmas Story” || 
(Continued from page 1473) 
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... 
plied to join the array. I thought he was 
joking at first—but he wasn’t. I tried 
to argue him out of it by reminding him 
of his duty to his wife and two little 
girls. He said that it was on his wife’s 
account he was going—he himself was an 
Englishman and an alien, but his wife 
was the last of a family that had fought 
in the Revolution and in 1812. “What!” 
I said, “you who are not even a natur¬ 
alized citizen of this country, feel that 
it would be cowardly in you not to go 
when the nation is in peril? Then what 
in heaven’s name am I? If you will wait 
until tomorrow morning I will either 
send word that I’m not coming or I will 
go with you.” Then I went straight 
home. Tell them what you said, Libbie. 
“Grammer sez. ‘I told him that was 
what I had been waiting for ever since 
the President had called for volunteers. 
I said, “Go, and God be with you.’ ” 
“ ‘Well,’ Granper sez. ‘we went. That 
man proved to be as brave in battle as 
he had been gentle at the bedside of our 
little ones. His body lies at Gettysburg, 
but his influence lives in many lives be¬ 
sides mine today. 
“ ‘I came home from the war expecting 
to find a sorrowful wife and a desolate 
home. Instead I found Libbie cheerful 
and the house turned upside down by— 
but hold on; Lizzie and Mary, have we 
been a good mother and father to you?’ ” 
“They both spoke at once—‘The best 
father and mother that any children ever 
had.’ ” 
“ ‘Have we ever made any difference 
between you and Sophy?’” 
“‘Why, no! Why should you?’” 
“ ‘We shouldn’t—but I’m coming to 
that. What I found when I came home 
was that the preacher’s wife had died 
and no relatives could be found. So 
mother had taken her tv o little girls and 
made them her own. As soon as we 
could we adopted them legally; and 
right here I want to say that if those 
girls had been our own flesh and blood 
we couldn’t have loved them more nor 
have received more love from them— 
what say, girls? You are the preacher’s 
children.’ ” 
“Well, sir! Mis’ Holcomb, that was 
the greatest time I ever see! There was 
Maw an’ Aunt Lizzie a huggin’ an’ kis- 
sin’ an’ eryin’ all over Granper an’ Gram¬ 
mer. They like to ’a squslied me. I 
tried to get down, but Grammer wouldn’t 
leggo. Then they had a time with Aunt 
Sophy—all a eryin’ an’ smilin’ at the 
same time. Uncle Jim went down on 
his knees a front o’ the stove, with his 
back towards us. a tryin’ to stuff in 
wood—iri/ft Ihc floor slid! Paw took off 
his glasses an’ commenced to rub 'em 
with his liankercher. 
“When Maw ’u Aunt Lizzie got so 
they could talk they told Granper ’n 
Grammer an’ Aunt Sophy that if 
such a thing was possible, they loved em 
more’n ever, now. 
“ ‘Jim.’ sez Granper, ‘If you and Liz¬ 
zie would adopt those little orphans that 
Will Potter is trying to support and 
can’t—robbing his own children to keep 
his sister’s out of the county-house—you 
would be conferring a favor upon him, 
a larger one upon his over-worked wife 
and a tremendous one upon yourselves. 
Judging from my own experience. I 
should say that they would soon twine 
around and bind up those poor, bruised, 
aching hearts of yours. And maybe. 
Jim. they would bring you back to God.’ ” 
“Sure, ma’am, she was willin’. Un¬ 
cle Jim wouldn’t say he would nor he 
wouldn’t. Tried to joke Aunt Lizzie 
about bein’ on’y half a Yankee, with all 
her braggiu’. But he didn’t git no- 
wheres.” 
“Well, no, ma’am, we didn’t git no 
word fum them, but me’u Paw see Xick 
Van Buren this mornin’ an’ Xick hollers 
out, ‘Hello! Ezry. Say! D’jer hear 
about the new addition to Jim Bunco's 
family? Xo? They got a pair o’ twins 
—a six-year-old boy an’ a four-year old 
gal. Lizzie's all wrapped up in ’em al¬ 
ready. 
“’N’ say! Whadder yer think? When 
I come by his place, Jim was puttin’ 
new clabberds on the front of his house— 
a hammerin’ away, licketty-split. an’ 
whistlin'. Yes, Sir. Whistlin’!” 
“All right. Harold. I'm cornin’.” 
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II :: “Farm Stories” :: || 
How Christmas Came to Valley Farm. 
NOW swirled against the windows 
and drifted high in field and lane. Old 
and gray, with its burden of a hundred 
years, the big farmhouse crouched, like a 
snowdrift itself, close beside the stream. 
Only the wood smoke curling from its 
great chimney and the banks of red ger¬ 
aniums glowing in the south windows, 
showed any sign of human life. Built for 
the big family that had once marie its 
rooms ring with Christmas cheer, it cer¬ 
tainly was a desolate place at holiday 
time, with big f amily and cheerful hearts 
both missing. 
So thought the sad-faced little woman 
who moved listlessly to and fro in the big 
kitchen. 
To-morrow, Christmas would be upon 
her once more, with its flood of memories, 
and its pretense of happiness. How she 
dreaded it! How often it seemed to come 
since the trouble about Uncle John’s will! 
Before that ever since she and Jennie 
had come home to the old house on Christ¬ 
mas Eve, happy brides of the Henderson 
twins, it had been the golden day of all 
the year. Across the wide hall lay empty 
rooms where that other bride had made a 
home. There, little feet had pattered and 
baby voices had made music; and. when 
her own wee son went back to Heaven. 
Sadie Henderson had tried to forget these 
other babies were not her own. 
Why celebrate the day at all? What 
mattered anything, since that awful time 
when John and James had disputed over 
the will, and James had taken his little 
brood to the poor upper farm that was his 
portion. 
As she looked out she could see the 
hilly fields and the bleak comfortless lit¬ 
tle house which now was home to the 
blessed babies. Three years since she 
had cuddled them in her arms; Billy and 
Betty were school children now. and little 
Ben had grown out of long dresses all un¬ 
seen by her! 
Her fingers had mechanically kept time 
to her flying thoughts; the oven door had 
opened and shut many times and pantry 
shelves were piled high with mince pies 
and snowy cakes. Cranberry jelly gleam¬ 
ed in the window; the great turkey lay 
ready for to-morrow’s roasting; crisp 
loaves of bread added their share to the 
riot of homely odors that wafted out to 
the master of the house as lie shook off 
the snow and shut the massive oak door. 
“Um-um ! Smelled all this clear down 
below the creek,” he said. “I met the 
preacher just then and he looked so pinch¬ 
ed I invited him and his whole family up 
to help us eat dinner to-morrow.” 
“But, John ! the children—presents.” 
“Well, I did think of all that, even if I 
am a man. I just went back to town, and 
you look on the porch.” 
As they brought in piles of lumpy bun¬ 
dles, and the snowy tree, and heaps of 
“Christmas green,” as sacks of oranges 
and boxes of candy appeared as if by 
magic, and big dolls jostled drums and 
skates. Sadie felt the hot tears pressing 
her eyelids. She saw three eager faces, 
up on the hill; she felt the tense waiting 
of the trusting little souls for the meager 
gifts poor crops would make their por¬ 
tion on the morrow. 
Dark descended early on the wings of 
the storm. As Sadie fried the last batch 
of doughnut men by lamplight. John’s 
voice sounded from the hall: 
“Did you happen to keep the kids’ red 
stockings? I’ve got so much truck I've 
a notion to fill them and hang them by 
the fireplace for those lean ‘young rever¬ 
ends,:" 
Could she get out those dear, chubby 
Stockings, knit for the three “B’s,” used 
once, and forgotten that awful day when 
they left? 
One look at John’s face decided her. 
and the bottom drawer of the old bureau 
creaked unwillingly open. 
John gave a hasty glance into its 
depths, then huskily muttering something 
about “seeing to his fires.” he fled. How 
could he have known that those crimson 
stockings were nestled among the piles of 
little dresses his one tiny son had never 
lived to wear? 
Wilder and wilder the wind swept down 
from the hills: the nail heads on the queer 
old cleated doors, and the iron latches 
grew white with frost in spite of roar¬ 
ing fires. The wall sweep clock growled 
out 12 doleful strokes as Sadie crept into 
bed; another Christmas day had come. 
Suddenly she found herself sitting up 
in bed with wildly fluttering heart; had it 
been minutes or hours since she lay down? 
Who had called her? Freezing blasts 
crept in at every crevice; perhaps it was 
only a thought of those gay geraniums 
that had crossed the bridge of dreams. 
Slipping into her warm wrapper she 
crossed the wide hall, where bulging red 
stockings hung beside the fire. As she 
reached the south window her heart stood 
still with fear; across the wild blizzard a 
light was signalling from the little house 
on the hill. Up and down four times; to 
and fro four times; the very signal she 
and Jennie had taught the hired hand’s 
wife one Summer, years ago, before they 
had any telephone! She rushed to the 
’phone now, before the tumult of the 
storm made her remember that the lines 
had been down all day. 
“John ! John !” she called. “There is 
trouble at Jim’s; the old signal—look! 
oh hurry, hurry!" 
One glance at the wavering light, in its 
pitiful appeal, and the big man responded. 
Soon they were battling through the 
drifts; mounted on the work horses, 
whose road-breaking experiences stood 
them in good stead now. they blindly 
struggled on. Up and up. toward that 
blinking light; at last, a stretch of hill¬ 
top road, wind-swept of snow then, be¬ 
numbed and breathless, they heard Jim 
speak, and saw the open door. 
“Thank God you saw the light!” said 
a shaking voice as he took off Sadie’s 
wraps. “Get warm as quick as you can. 
Jennie is between life and death, and no 
way to get word to the doctor, and no 
road he could come over.” 
“John, go to the children.” 
All night long death fought for that 
precious life; all night the little house 
rocked in the storm’s embrace, and hus¬ 
band and sister looked into each others’ 
eyes only to see fear and anguish reflected 
there. All night long John Henderson sat 
with Jim’s little son against his heart, 
and the storm that so long had raged 
there melted away. Just as dawn crept 
gayly across the hills the wind died down, 
and as the first pink light of Christmas 
day shone into that little room it saw 
Death vanquished, creeping silently away 
in the shadows of that fearful night. It 
shone on a mother’s wan. but radiant 
face, and reflected too the joy of the child¬ 
less mother, to whom the light had called, 
and who had won from Death the baby 
cradled in her arms. 
Brighter and brighter grew the light, 
catching the brother-love, rekindled in 
the two men’s hearts, and sunshine flood¬ 
ed every room as the old. but ever new 
joy of the children over this gift made it 
Christmas indeed. 
As Sadie Henderson stood at the kitch¬ 
en window the last brief hours seemed to 
her a miracle. Then she had looked up 
the hill toward the bleak gray house and 
along the barren years toward unhappy 
old age. Now as she gazed across the 
snow and toward the old house encircled 
by its fertile fields a little procession 
came into sight that foretold the happy 
future better than her thoughts could do. 
Mounted on the sturdy farm horses, 
whose jingling bells could still be heard 
on the hill, were Bill. Betty and little 
Ben; behind, arm-in-arm, walked the 
brothers so long estranged. 
The old home would open wide its hos¬ 
pitable doors, and even without a wom¬ 
an’s presence, would give Christmas cheer 
to its own. Each chubby, crimson sock 
would find its rightful owner, for drifts 
along every road would keep the preach¬ 
er's children from knowing all they had 
missed, and “next week” was to farther 
repay them for their loss. 
And the little woman who yesterday 
had’felt all joyful holidays but mockery, 
turned, with a full heart, to answer a 
baby’s low cry ; while in her ears rang the 
old refrain : “Peace on earth : good will 
to men.For unto us a child is born : 
unto us a son is given.” 
ELIZABETH L. GILBERT. 
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