1522 
The  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
December  15,  1923 
The  Gift  Upon  the  Altar 
Part  I. 
lie  should  have  taken  the  chauffeur’s 
advice,  and  gone  around  by  the  main  road, 
but  Henry  Bryant  did  not  take  kindly  to 
advice  at  best.  His  will  was  law  within 
the  little  circle  over 'which  he  ruled.  He 
wanted  to  get  to  the  city  with  its  lights 
and  gaiety.  He  hated  the  country,  and 
the  thought  of  cutting  off  a  few  miles  by 
taking  the  lonely  dirt  road  over  the  hills 
led  him  to  give  his  order : 
“Turn  off  here  and  go  straight  ahead.” 
The  driver  glanced  at  the  long  climb 
up  the  hill,  the  rough  places  and  deep 
ruts,  and  hesitated. 
“Drive  in  there.  Who  owns  this  car? 
Who  pays  you?” 
It  was  the  rasping,  surly  voice  of  a 
domineering  man,  fully  conscious  of  his 
power,  and  the  driver,  with  a  word  of 
protest,  started  the  engine  and  steered 
his  car  into  the  rough  track. 
It  was  a  dull,  gray  afternoon,  the  day 
before  Christmas.  There  had  been  little 
sun  since  morning,  and  now  the  advance 
agent  of  night  was  at  hand,  advertising 
the  coming  of  his  master  by  painting  deep 
shadows  all  along  the  road-— putting  on 
an  extra  shade  under  the  trees  and  along 
the  rocks.  Christmas  Eve  was  nearly  at 
hand,  but  there  was  no  message  or  mem¬ 
ory  of  Santa  Claus  as  the  car  moved  on 
into  the  shadows. 
What  did  a  successful  lawyer  and  man 
of  the  world  like  Bryant  know  or  care  for 
Santa  Claus?  An  old  myth,  a  foolish 
legend,  which  should  have  been  killed  off 
long  ago.  Something  of  it  came  into  Bry¬ 
ant’s  mind  as  the  car  dodged  and  bumped 
along  the  rough  road.  A  cynical,  unsat¬ 
isfied  man,  without  wife  or  child,  what 
did  Christmas  mean  to  him?  He  had 
just  won  a  great  law  case.  He  knew  it 
was  an  unjust  verdict,  but  he  had  won  it. 
Tomorrow  the  great  city  papers  would 
carry  his  name  on  the  front  page  with 
news  of  his  appointment  as  judge.  It 
was  good  to  think  about.  He  lit  a  cigar 
and  leaned  back  in  the  jolting  car  to  en¬ 
joy  it  all.  But  somehow  the  shadow  and 
the  gloom  seemed  to  dull  the  joy  of  life. 
He  thought  how  he  had  outwitted  the 
lawyers  on  the  other  side,  and  beaten 
them  on  a  technicality.  .  Ilis  client  was  a 
rich  man,  who  had  won  over  a  woman. 
The  lighted  end  of  the  cigar  seemed  to 
turn  into  an  electric  light,  and  Bryant 
saw  that  woman  looking  at  him  as  she 
did  when  the  verdict  was  announced.  Her 
little  boy  stood  beside  her ;  they  both 
looked  at  him  as  he  was  shaking  hands 
with  his  fat,  purple-face  client.  Here 
in  the  jolting  car  he  realized  for  the  first 
time  what  that  verdict  must  have  meant 
to  her.  And  that  old  man.  on  the  court¬ 
house  steps.  As  Bryant  came  out  of  the 
courthouse  he  had  heard  him  say  it : 
“I  know  it.  The  judge  is  mighty 
smart,  but  I’d  rather  wear  Billy’s  shoes!” 
Billy !  Bryant  bit  into  his  cigar  as  he 
thought  of  his  half-brother,  a  dreamy,  in¬ 
efficient  failure,  with  his  brood  of  chil¬ 
dren  and  his  struggle  for  existence.  Bry¬ 
ant’s  mind  went  back  to  the  little  brown 
house  on  the  side  street  where  Billy  lived. 
Right  now  that  foolish  Billy  would  be 
coming  home  from  work,  hiding  mysteri¬ 
ous  packages  behind  the  backyard  fence. 
The  children  would  be  running  about  the 
house  and  Grandmother -  Bryant  bit 
deeper  into  his  cigar  as  he  thought  of  her. 
He  had  never  forgiven  his  mother 
through  all  these  years  for  marrying 
Billy’s  father,  though  it  was  the  greatest 
love  match  ever  known  in  town,  and  the 
strong,  older  brother  had  nursed  his  hat¬ 
red  against  mother  and  son.  As  he  drove 
on  through  the  gloom  of  Christmas  Eve 
some  little  voice  told  him  he  should  go 
back  t.o  the  little  brown  house  on  the  side 
street,  but  he  dismissed  it  with  a  sneer. 
♦  *  *  *  * 
Smash!  Rattle!  The  car  bumped  and 
suddenly  stopped.  In  the  gloom  they  had 
slipped  over  a  place  in  the  road  where 
the  rock  came  up  through  the  gravel,  and 
the  axle  had  snapped.  There  they  were, 
three  miles  from  the  main  road,  with  a 
car  as  useless  as  a  man  with  a  broken 
leg.  “Two  miles  from  a  lemon”  was  once 
considered  a  great  penance,  but  five  miles 
from  a  garage  means  a  more  modern 
trouble.  Bryant  was  an  impatient  man 
at  best,  and  he  poured  out  his  opinion  of 
the  chauffeur  in  language  which  cannot 
be  printed  here.  The  target  for  this 
abuse  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
crawled  under  the  ear  for  a  full  examina¬ 
tion.  lie  earned  part  of  his  salary  by 
acting  as  shock  absorber. 
Finally  a  farmer  appeared  through  the 
deepening  shadows. 
“The  nearest  garage  is  five  miles  away. 
I  can  haul  the  car  down  there  for  $10 ! 
They  can’t  fix  that  till  morning.  You 
better  stay  at  the  Widder  Graham’s  over 
night.” 
The  farmer  brought  his  horses  and 
hitched  them  to  the  car,  and  he  and  the 
chauffeur  drove  off.  It  was  a  plain  old 
team  of  grays,  work-worn  and  spiritless, 
but  they  almost  seemed  to  dance  as  thev 
pulled  the  car  off  into  the  shadows.  For 
here  was  the  haughty,  ill-smelling  tyrant 
that  had  driven  them  off  the  road,  sub¬ 
dued  at  last  and  forced  to  come  to  them 
for  help. 
“Yonder’s  the  Widder  Graham’s  light. 
You  can  stop  there  over  night” — the 
farmer  had  pointed  with  his  whip  as  he 
drove  away.  Bryant  saw  the  light  a 
short  distance  down  the  road  and  moved 
toward  it.  At  first  he  intended  to  go  on 
with  the  car,  but  some  strange,  cynical 
impulse  prompted  him  to  go  through  with 
the  adventure.  He  stumbled  along  the 
road  and  found  his  way  through  the  gate 
into  the  yard.  A  little  boy  carrying  a 
lantern  came  from  the  barn,  whistling  a 
tune  which  Bryant  seemed  to  remember, 
though  he  had  not  whistled  for  years  As 
he  came  nearer  Bryant  saw  that  the  boy 
was  carrying  a  forkful  of  hay.  He 
dumped  his  load  on  the  road  by  the  gate 
and  leaned  on  his  pitchfork  like  an  old 
farmer. 
“Come  along  with  me,”  said  the  boy. 
“I’ll  show  you  the  way,”  and  he  took  the 
man  by  the  hand.  And  the  great  lawyer, 
trudging  through  the  dark  with  that  little 
hand  in  his,  thought  curiously  that  this 
was  the  first  time  a  child  had  ever  led 
him,  for  here  was  a  case,  where,  in  the 
dark,  the  child  was  wiser  than  the  man. 
“I  brought  that  hay  out  for  the  rein¬ 
deer,”  volunteered  the  boy.  “We  always 
do  that.  When  Santa  Claus  comes  his 
reindeer  are  hungry.  The  hay  is  always 
gone.  I  saw  him  once !” 
It  was  evident  that  few  visitors  en¬ 
tered  the  front  door.  They  passed  around 
to  the  back  of  the  house.  The  shades 
were  up,  and  they  looked  directly  into  the 
kitchen.  An  old  man  sat  in  a  rocking 
chair  beside  the  stove.  An  old  dog  lay 
on  a  mat,  with  two  children  playing  be¬ 
side  him.  Bryant  noticed  that  the  girl 
was  trying  to  braid  the  dog’s  tail,  while 
the  boy  was  brushing  the  long  hair  over 
the  ears  and  head.  A  woman  of  middle 
age  and  a  girl  were  preparing  supper. 
The  woman  was  frying  potatoes  in  a  pan 
on  the  stove,  while  the  girl  tramped  about 
from  pantry  to  table.  Bryant  stood  out¬ 
side  and  watched  her  passing  back  and 
forth  past  the  kerosene  lamp  in  and  out 
of  the  shadows.  He  became  aware  that 
the  women  were  singing.  It  suddenly 
came  to  him  that  in  the  city  women 
would  be  practicing  some  of  the  old  music 
which  for  centuries  had  filled  the  heart 
at  Christmas.  But  these  women  were 
singing  another  kind  of  song.  Back  and 
forth  the  girl  walked,  her  clear,  beautiful 
voice  rising  gloriously  in  the  old  mis¬ 
sionary  hymn : 
“From  Greenland’s  icy  mountains, 
From  India’s  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric’s  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand, 
From  many  an  ancient  river 
From  many  a  palmy  plain  . 
They  call  us  to  deliver 
Their  land  from  error’s  chain.” 
To  Henry  Bryant,  the  great  lawyer, 
standing  out  in  the  cold,  raw  night  listen¬ 
ing  to  that  old  hymn — -it  seemed  like  the 
voice  of  an  angel.  He  had  never  heard 
such  music.  But  the  boy  had  heard  the 
song  before.  To  him  the  girl  was  no 
angel— she  was  getting  supper,  and  he 
was  hungry. 
“Come  on  in !”  and  he  led  his  new 
friend  in  through  the  kitchen  door.  It 
was  not  difficult  to  make  arrangements 
for  supper  and  bed.  Strangers  are  wel¬ 
come  in  the  country.  They  bring  in 
something  of  the  great  world  outside. 
Bryant  explained  about  the  accident. 
“The  chauffeur  has  gone  to  have  the 
car  repaired.” 
“He  must  be  a  very  profane  man,” 
said  grandfather.  “We  heard  him  using 
dreadful  language.  You  ought  to  talk  to 
him  about  it” — and  for  the  first  time  in 
many  years  it  somehow  seemed  good  to 
Bryant  that  he  could  shift  the  responsi¬ 
bility  for  his  language. 
There  was  an  open  fireplace  in  the 
front  room,  and  the  boy  brought  wood 
and  started  a  fire.  Bryant  sat  before  it. 
The  old  man  came  in  and  tried  to  talk 
but  Bryant  had  little  to  say.  He  was 
thinking ! 
He  declined  the  lamp  which  the  older 
woman  brought.  Out  in  the  kitchen  the 
women  worked  on.  Perhaps  they  forgot 
their  guest  for  the  moment.  At  any  rate 
they  began  singing  their  missionary 
hymn  once  more. 
“Can  we  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on  high  ; 
Can  we  to  man  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny? 
Salvation,  Oh  salvation  ! 
The  joyful  sound  proclaim.” 
Something  thrilled  Bryant  once  more 
as  that  clear,  beautiful  voice  rose  in  the 
old  hymn. 
“That’s  the  most  beautiful  voice  I 
ever  heard” — the  words  came  from  him 
unconsciously. 
“Hannah  is  a  good  singer,”  said  the 
old  man. 
“Good  singer !  Why  man,  she  has  one 
voice  in  a  million  !” 
“Mebby  so  !  Mebby  so  !  It’s  a  gift !” 
“A  gift?  It’s  a  fortune!  If  she  could 
have  that  voice  cultivated  for  opera  she 
would  become  famous  the  world  over !” 
“Operv?  That  means  on  the  stage, 
don’t  it?” 
"Why  of  course.  What  a  career  that 
girl  could  have !” 
“Career?  Hannah  don’t  want  any 
career.  She’s  going  to  make  a  mission¬ 
ary.  Starts  for  India  next  month  to  be 
gone  five  years!” 
“A  missionary?  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  girl  with  her  face  and  that  beau- 
Arcola  made  all 
sides  warm,  sides 
“When  we  had  the  old- 
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of  the  rooms  as  being  on 
the  warm  side  or  the  cold 
side  of  the  house.  When 
the  wind  was  a  certain 
way,  the  warm  side  was 
too  hot  and  the  rest  of 
the  house  was  still  cold. 
“Since  we  have  had 
Arcola  in  thekitchen  and 
radiators  in  all  the  rooms, 
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all  over  all  the  time. 
“And  we  save  half  on  the 
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evenly;  also  heats  water 
for  bath,  laundry  and 
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itself  in  the  fuel  it  saves. 
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CHICAGO 
The  Most  Appropriate 
Christmas  Gift 
You  can  give  your  friends  this  year  is  an 
autographed  copy  of 
“Adventures  in  Silence” 
By  HERBERT  W.  COLL1NGWOOD 
This  is  a  book  of  adventures  in  a  strange,  new,  undiscovered  world — the 
\oild  of  silence.  It  appeals  to  all — the  hard  of  hearing  and  those  who 
near  too  much  ;  those  who  can  hear  a  pin  drop  and  those  who  cannot 
bear  a  brass  band. 
The  proof  of  the  book  is  the  reader* s  opinion 
M  h ether  or  not  the  human  heart  strings  cover  as  many  octaves  as  a 
modern  piano  I  do  not  know,  but  I  do  know  that  you  have  in  your 
wonderfuHy  unique  book,  ‘Adventures  in  Silence,’  touched  every  cord  to 
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1  have  had  t^s  book  read  by  several  deaf  people.  Their  judgment 
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aging  and  helptul  to  the  deaf  and  still  more  so  to  those  entering  the 
Silence.  The  humor,  aptness  and  skill  of  the  anecdotes  point  out  the 
wisdom  of  an  absorbing  occupation  for  rhe  deaf,  how  thev  may  avoid  the 
habit  of  undue  curiosity  over  non-essentials,  how  the  leading  of  a  normal 
It  h?JpS,  thS  {leaf  t0  haPPiness  and  contentment.”— Herbert  Myrick  in 
New  England  Homestead.  J 
SPECIAL  OFFER: 
The  author  has  autographed  100  copies  of  the  book  and  they  will  be 
sent  ir/ule  they  last  to  those  who  first  apply  for  them.  Those  who 
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is  sold  for  one  dollar.  ’ 
THE  RURAL  NEW-YORKER,  333  West  30th  Street,  New  York 
al 
