10 
HOUSE & GARDEN 
little scene which the younger sister remembered with a glow 
of satisfaction. It concerned a carved old Brittany cabinet 
in the city nearby, at a dark, small place downtown. The 
cabinet had stood there, hidden in a litter of things, for four 
years, and the owner cursed his fate that he had been led into 
buying it, for the price he must ask to sell it ruled out or¬ 
dinary customers. It was a thousand and fifty dollars. For 
three years Alice Sefton had longed for this cabinet; for two 
she had had a special bank account for it, and just three days 
ago the last of the thousand had been deposited. The same 
day came a letter from Lewissohn offering to take off the odd 
fifty; so this morning, Christmas morning, she had written a 
note and drawn a check before leaving her room. 
“Bertha,” she said, as their trim maid brought in the grape¬ 
fruit, “I have a Christmas present for you and for me to¬ 
gether,” and she tossed the letter across, smiling. 
Bertha read the address and clapped her thin old maid’s 
hands. “Oh, Alice ! Goody !” she exclaimed. Bertha was in¬ 
curably juvenile. “You’ve ordered the Lewissohn cabinet! 
Have you got enough money ? Oh, you sweetey! Come and 
look at its place in the living-room,” and she hopped up and 
was dragging her sister by the hand. 
But Alice was orderly. “No; after breakfast,” she reasoned. 
So they finished, and then, Bertha’s arm about Alice’s shoulder, 
they went into the living-room. 
A fire blazed; it reflected from the carved spirals of old 
walnut chairs; from the lovely dark oak intricacies of a chest 
that had meant a year’s saving ; from a delightful long, narrow 
refectory table with bulbous carved legs; from other pieces, 
each the outward and visible sign of self-denial. They looked 
about them as two mothers at a joyous family, then moved out 
a chair, a small table, and left a stately space empty by the 
side of the dancing fire. 
“It will stand there in three days,” spoke Alice, and her 
grave face shone. 
“See how lovely it will look!” Bertha caught the letter from 
her sister and held it against the wall and giggled youthfully. 
Alice smiled. “We'll mail it on the way to church, Bertha,” 
she said. “And we’d better get ready; it’s late.” 
Bertha came running down at her sister’s call. “I can’t hook 
this collar,” she exclaimed. “Do it, Alice.” 
Alice laid down the letter and went to work at the collar, 
and when the two had started half a block down the street 
she stopped short. 
“I forgot Lewissohn’s letter.” 
“Oh, don’t let’s go back,” begged Bertha. “Were late 
now.” 
They went on, contented after 
their fashion with their Christmas 
day. Yet the repression and the 
bitterness of years had warped 
both almost beyond readjustment. 
T HE thought of that breakfast 
table, with no gifts from out¬ 
side, no friends rushing in with 
thanks for gifts, came to Alice Sef¬ 
ton a little bitterly even as she re¬ 
membered the carved cabinet, her 
dream come true. They were con¬ 
tented ; the old furniture was a re¬ 
source and a pride ; but the thought, 
the memories of the past rose in a 
choking mist to her brain as she 
sat in the little back pew in the 
great church and tried to steady 
herself from that unsettling music. 
She was aware that a stranger, a 
tall boy he looked, was in the pul¬ 
pit, and that if there had been a 
text he had finished it and she had 
not heard. He was staring at the 
congregation now across the cedar- 
garlanded pulpit in an odd way. It 
was as if in all that packed, wait¬ 
ing congregation what any one 
thought of him was nothing, noth¬ 
ing at all. Suddenly, in a clear, 
fresh voice, rapid and colloquial, 
he began. 
“Of course, I don’t know any 
more about it than any of you,” he shot at them, “but I’m 
here to tell you what I think, and there’s one thing I have 
either got out of, or read into Christmas, which I’m going 
to tell you. We all get some things, without exception, likely 
-— peace, goodwill, soft-heartedness, desire to give others both 
gifts and happiness.” 
Alice Sefton, in her dark corner, drew a combative breath. 
She had no desire to give to others, except to her sister; 
the world owed, she thought, gifts to her; something to make 
up for cramped years and lost youth. 
“The wish to give is common to us all,” the young preacher 
went on, and even from where she sat she could see the 
rapt, burning look in his eyes. “But this other thing I mean 
is more. It’s what I take to be the great lesson of Christmas— 
that each of us is expected to live life not as a weary march, 
not even as a high duty, but as a song.” He flung the word 
at them again. “A song. That’s what’s expected of us.” 
Alice Sefton back in her corner smiled sarcastically. What 
did that child know about life? 
“The beginning was that — a song; it’s the spirit of Chris¬ 
tianity. Our God asks from us mercy and loving-kindness. 
Sacrifice. And joy. It’s not always an easy thing to offer Him 
joy. But if He asks it, it’s possible. 
“Being happy is the way forward. Soldiers march better 
to music. It’s commonsense to set life to a song; psycholo¬ 
gists tell us that sorrow 7 and fear and bitterness are paralyzing. 
And, look now'—when you come to think about it, there’s 
nothing to be afraid of or bitter about. This little thing—- 
life — ” the young arm swept the ages back of him wdth a strong 
gesture — “it will be over in a few minutes. Anybody w T ho’s 
grown up is old enough to realize that. And then—we must 
believe it, if we believe anything — the crooked things will be 
straight, and the unlucky will have a chance, and the broken 
friendships and lost loves will be taken up again; things will 
be righted. 
“Here we are to-day repeating the old paradox that nothing 
makes happiness like giving it aw r ay — like forgetting one’s self. 
And everybody can do it. There’s probably not a wretched 
soul on earth who can’t; certainly not anybody here. I say 
this in earnest. Only I say more. I say that if anyone wants 
happiness the universe is full of it for the taking. If anyone 
wants to-day to know great joy, to-day he or she will take in 
the hand the thing that is one’s greatest luxury, that one has 
planned for and saved for and looked forward to — and give 
it away. I don’t say that it’s not quixotic, or that it’s obliga¬ 
tory; I only say that it’s the quick, sharp road to bliss — if one 
wants bliss. It’s the sure way to set life singing.” 
