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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 23, 1915)
I ON CHRISTMAS | DAY IN THE MORNING } BY GRACE S. RICHMOND. | (Copyright, 1905, by the Ridgway Thay- (Copyright, 1908, by Doubleday. Page & er Company.) Company.) « And all the angels In heaven do sing. On Christmas day. on Christinas day; And at] (he bells oil earth do ring, On tSirtstmas day In the morning. —Old Song. That Christmas day virtually began a whole year beforehand, with a ted hot letter written by Guy Fernald to his younger sister, Nan, who had been married to Samuel Burnett Just two and one-half years. The letter was read aloud by Mrs. Burnett to her hus band at the breakfast table, the sec ond day after Christmas. From start to finish It was upon one subject, and it read as follows: "Dear Nan—It’s a confounded, full grown shame that not a soul of us all got home for Christmas—except yours truly, and he only for a couple of hours. What have the blessed old folks done to us that we treat them like this! I was Invited to the Se wells’ for the day, and went, of course --you know why. Wo had a ripping time, but along toward evening I began to.feel worried. 1 really thought Italph was home—he wrote me that he might swing round that way by the holidays —but I knew the rest of you were all wrapped up In your own Christmas trees and weren’t going to get there. "Well, I took the 7:30 down and walked in on them. Sitting all alone by the fire, by George, Just like the pic tures you see of 'The Birds All Flown,' and that sort of thing. I felt gulplsh in my throat, on my honor I did, when I looked at them. Mother Just gave one gasp and Hew Into my arms, and Dad got tip more slowly—he has that darned rheumatism worse than ever this winter—and came over and I thought he'd shake my hand off. Well, I sat down between them by tho (Ire, and pretty soon I got down In the old way on a cushion by mother, and let her ran her fingers through my hair, the way she used to—and Nan, I’ll be Indicted for perjury If her hand wasn't trembly. They were so glad to seo ine It made my throat ache. "Ralph had written he couldn't get round, and of course you’d all written and sent them things—Jolly things, and they appreciated them. But— blame It nil—they were just dead lone some—and the whole outfit of'us with in BO# miles, most within 30. “Nnti. next Christmas It’s going to be different. That’s all I say. I've got it all planned out. The Idea popped UlU) my head when I came away last nigtit Not thut they had a word of blame—not they. They understood all about tile children, and the cold snap, and IDd’s being’under the weather, and Oliver's wife’s neuralgia, and Ralph's girl in the west, and all that. But that didn't make tho thing any easier for them. As I say, next year—but you'll all hear from me then. Mean while, run down and see them once or twice this winter, will you, Nan? Somehow, it struck me they aron't so young as they used to be. ■‘Splendid winter weather. Margaret Bewall's a peach, but I don’t seem to make much headway. My best to Sam. "Your affectlonato brother, "Guy.'' Gay Nan had felt a slight choking In heT own throat as she read this letter. "We really must make an ef fort to bo there Christmas next year, Sam,” she said to her husband, and Sam assented cheerfully. He only wished there were a father and mother somewhere In the world for him to go homo to. Guy wrote the same sort of thing, with more or leas detail, to Kdson and Oliver, his married elder brothers; to Ralph, his unmarried brother, and to Carolyn—Mrs. Charles Wetmore, his other—and elder—married sister. He received varied' and more or less sympathetic responses, to tho effect that with so many little children, and such snowdrifts as always blocked the roads leading toward North Kstabrook, it really was not strange—nnd of course Homebody would go next year. But they had all sent the nicest gifts they could find. Didn't Guy think mother liked those beautiful Russian sables Ralph sent her? And wasn't father pleased with his gold headed cane from Olivor? Surely, with such presents pouring In from all tho children, Father and Moth er Fernald couldn't feel so awfully ne gleirted. "Gold headed cane be luingod!” Guy exploded when he read this last sen tence from the letter of Marian, Oliver's I wife. “I'll bet she put him up to It. If anybody dares give me a gold head ed cane before I’m 95, I'll thrash him with it on the spot. He wasn’t using it either—bless him. He had his old hick ory stick, and he wouldn't have that If that abominable rheumatism hadn't gripped him so hard. He Isn't old enough to use a cane, by jolly, nnd Ol ought to know it, If Marian doesn't. I’m glad I sent him that typewriter, lie liked that, I know ho did, and it'll ainuse him, too—not make him think he's ready to die!” Guy was not the fellow to forget anything that had tukon hold of him rtw that pathetic Christmas homecoming had done. When the year had nearly rollfed around, the iRt of December saw him at work getting his plans In trim. He begnn with Ills oldest brother. Oli ver, because he considered Mrs. Oliver the hardest proposition he had to tac kle in the carrying out of his idea. ■’You see,” he expounded patiently, ns they sat and stared at him, “It Isn't that they aren’t always awfully glad to st*o the whole outfit, children nnd all, but ft Just struck me it would do 'em a lot of good to revive old times. I thought If we could make it just as much as possible like one of the old Christmases before anybody got mar ried—hang up the stockings and all, you know—It would give them a mighty jolly surprise. 1 plan to have us all creep in in the night and go to bed In our old rooms. And then In the morn in i?—See ?” Mrs. Oliver looked at him. An eager flush lit his still boyish face. Guy was 28—and hia blue eyes were very bright. His lithe, muscular figure bent toward her pleadingly; all his arguments were aimed at her. Oliver sat back in his impassive way and watched them both. It could not be denied that It was Mar ian’s decisions which usually ruled In matters of this sort. “It seems to me a very strange plan," was Mrs. Oliver’s comment, when Guy hod laid the whole thing before her in the most tactful manner he could com mand. She spoke rather coldly. “It Is not usual to think that families should be broken up like this on Christmas day, of all days In the year. Four families, with somebody gone—a mother or a father—Just to please two elderly people who expect nothing of tlie sort, and who understand Just why we can’t all get home at once. Don’t you think you are really asking a good deal?" Guy kept his temper, though it was hard work. "It doesn't seem to me I am." he answered quite gently. “It’s euijy for once. I really don't think fa ther and mother would care much what ■ort of presents we brought them, if I we only came ourselves. Of course, 1 know I'm asking a sacrifice of each family, and it may seen; almost an In sult to invite the children and all, yet— perhaps next year we'll try a gathering of all the clans. But Just for this year •—honestly—I do awtully wish you’d give me my way. If you'd seen those two last Christmas -’’ He broke off, glancing appealingly at Oliver himself. To his surprise that gentleman shifted his pipe to the cor ner of his mouth and put a few per tinent questions to his younger broth er. Had lie thought it all out? What time should they arrive there? How early on flio day after Christmas could they get away? Was he positive they could all crowd into the house without rousing and alarming the pair? "Sure thing," Guy declared quickly. "Marietta—well, you know I’ve had the soft side of her old heart ever since I was born, somehow. I talked It all over with her last year, and I'm solid with her, all right. She’ll work the game. You see, father's quite a bit deaf now—” "Father deaf?” "Sure. Didn't you know it?" “Forgotten. But mother’d hear us." “No, she wouldn't. Don’t you know how she trusts everything about the house to Marietta since she got that fall-—” "Mother get a fall?" "Why, yes!” Guy stared at his brother with some impatience. "Don’t you remember she fell down the back stairs a year ago last October, and hurl her knee?" ueriamiy, uuver," ms wife inter posed. "I wrote for you to tell her how sorry wo were. But r supposed she had entirely recovered.” “She's a little bit lame, and always will be,” said Guy, a touch of re proach in his tone. “Her knee stiffens up in the night, and she doesn't get up uid go prowling about at the least noise, the way she used to. Marietta won’t let her. So if we make a whisper of noise Marietta’ll tell her it’s the cat or something. Good Lord! yes—it can be worked all right. The inly thing that worries me is the fear that I can’t got you all to take hold if the scheme. On my word, Ol,”—he turned qultd away from his slsterln aw’s critical gaze and faced Ills irother with something like Indigna tion In his frank young eyes—“don't we owe the old home anything but a prosent tied up in tissue paper once a year ?” Marian began to speak. She thought 3uy was exceeding his rights in talk ng as if they had been at fault. It was not often that elderly people had 10 many ahildren within call—loyal ihlldren who would do anything with n reason. But certainly u man owed mmething to his own family. And at Christmas! Why not carry out this plan at some other— Her husband abruptly interrupted nor. He took his pipe quite out of his mouth and spoke decidedly. "Guy, I believe you’re right. I’ll be lorry to desert my own kids, of course, but I rather think they can stand it for once. If the others fall Into line, you may count on me.” Ouy got away, feeling that the worst of his troubles was over. In his younger sister, Nan, he hoped to find an ardent ally and he was not disappointed. Carolyn—Mrs. Charles Wetmore—also fell In heartily with the plan. Halpli, from somewhero In the far west, wrote that he would get home or break a leg. Edson thought the idea rather a foolish one, but was persuaded by Jessica, his wife—whom Guy privately declared a trump—that he must go by all means. And so they all fell into line, and there re mained for Guy only the working out of the details. “Mis’ Fernald"—Marietta Cooley strove with all the decision of which she was capable to keep her high pitched. middle-aged voice in order— “ ’fore you get to bed I’m most for getting’ what I was to ask you. I s'pose you’ll laugh, but Guy—ho wrote me partic'lar he wanted you and his father to"—Marietta’s rather stern, thin face took on a curious expression —"to hang up your stockin's." Mrs. Fornuld paused in the door way of the bed room opening from the sitting room downstairs. She looked hack at Marietta with her gentle smile. "Guy wrote that?" she asked. “Then —it almost looks as if he might he coming himself, doesn't it. Marietta?" “Well, I don’t know's I’d really ex pect him,” Marietta replied, turning her face away and busying herself about the hearth. "I guess what he meant was more in the way of a surprise for a Christmas present—something that’ll go into a stockin’, maybe." “It's rather odd he should have writ ten you to ask me," mused Mrs. Fern ald. ns allii looked at the stockings. Marietta considered rapidly. “Well, I s’pose he intended for me to get ’em on the sly without mentionin' it to you, an'put in what he sent, but I sort of guessed you might like to fall In with his idee by hangln' 'em up yourself, hero by tho ohlmbley, where the chil dren all used to do it. Here’s the nails, same as they always was." Mrs. Fernald found the stockings, and touched her husband on the shoul der. as he sat unlacing his shoes. “Father, Guy wrote he wanted us to hang up our stockings,” she said, raising her voice a little and speaking very distinctly. The elderly man be side her looked up, smiling. "Well, well," he said, "anything to please the boy. It doesn’t seem more than a year since he was a little fellow haiiErinir no his own stoekinc. dors it. mother?” The stockings were hung in silence. They looked thin and lonely as they dangled beside the dying tire. Marietta hastened to make them less lonely. ! "Well," she said, in a shamefaced way, “the silly boy said I was to hang mine, too Goodness knows what he'll find to put into it that'll (it, ’less It's a poker." They smiled kindly at her, wished her good night, and went back Into their own room. The little episode had aroused no suspicion. It was very like Guy’s affectionate boyishness. *‘I presume he’ll be down," said Mrs. Fernald. as she limped quitely about the room, malting ready for bed. "Don't you remember how he stir prised us last year? I'm sorry the oth ers can't come. Of course, I sent them all the Invitation, just as usual—I shall always do that—but it Is pretty snowy weather, and I suppose they don’t uuite like to risk it," Presently, as she was putting out the light, she heard Marietta at the door. "Mis' Fernald, Peter Piper's got back In this part o' the house, somehow, and I can't lay hands on him. Beats all how cute that cat Is. Seem 's if he knows when I'm goin' to put him out in the woodshed. I don't think likely he'll do no harm, but I thought Td tell you, so’f you heard any queer noises In the night you'd know it was Peter." "Very well. Marietta”—the soft voice came back to the schemer on the other ■side of the door, ‘'Peter will be all right, wherever he is. I shan’t be alarmed If I hear him." "All right. Mis’ Fernald: I Just though I’d let you know," and the guileful one went grinning away. There was a long silence in the sleeping room. Then, out of the dark ness came this little colloquy: “Emellne, you aron’t getting to sleep.” "I—know I’m not, John. I—Christ mas eve keeps one awake, somehow. It always did.” "Tea ... I don’t suppose the children realize at all, do they?” "Oh, no — oh, no! They don’t realize—they never will, till-they’re here themselves. It’s all right. I think —I think at least Guy will be down to morrow, don’t you?” "I guess maybe he will.” Then, after a short silence. "Mother—you've got me, you know. You know—you’ve al ways got me, dear.” ‘'Yes.” She would not let him hear the sot) In her voice*. She crept close, and spoke cheerfully In Ills best ear. ' "And you’ve got me, Johnny Boy!” “Thank the Lord, I have!” So, counting their blessings, they fell ; asleep at last. But, even in sleep, one * set of lashes was strangely wet. “Christopher Jinks, what a drift!” "Lucky we weren’t two hours later.” ’ ”Sh-h—they might hear us.” “Nan. stop laughing, or I’ll drop a snowball down your neck!” "Here, Carol, give me your hand. ] I’ll plough you through. Large bodies ! move slowly, of course, but go elbows 1 first and you’ll get there.” 1 'Gee whiz! Can’t you get that door open? I'll bet it's frozen fast.” A light, showed Inside the kitchen. The storm door swung open, propelled * by force from inside. A cautious voice . said low: “Tlmt the Fernald family?” *; A chorus of whispers came back at ' Miss Marietta Cooley: "Yes, yes—let us in, we’re freezing.” r “You bet we’ro the Fernard family ' —every man-Jack of us—not one ‘ missing." v “Oh, Marietta—you dear old thing!” 8 "Hurry up—this is their side of the ' house.” r "Sh-h-h—” a "Carol, your sh-h-ishes would wake * me ueau: * Stumbling over their own feet and bundles in the endeavor to he preter- t naturally quiet, tho crew poured into T the warm kitchen. Bearded Oliver, I oldest of the clan; stout Edson, big t Ralph, tall and slender Guy—and the c two daughters of the house, Carolyn, t growing plump and rosy at 30; Nan, s slim and girlish at 24—they were all a there. Marietta heaved a sigh of con- g tent as she looked them over. 11 "Well, 1 didn't really think you’d get v here—all of you. Thank tho Lord, you f have. I s’poeo you're tcarln’ hungry, i> bein’ past ’loven. If you think you t can eat quiet as cats. I'll feed you up, but if you’re goin' to make as much I rumpus as you did cornin’ round the a comer o’ the woodshed I’ll have to pack p you straight off to bed up me back a 3talrs.” v They pleaded for mercy and hot food. They got it—everything that could be p had that would diffuse no odor of cook- r> ery through the house. Smoking clam t broth, a great pot of baked beans, cold i meats and Jollies—they had no reason, p to complain of their reception. They s ate hungrily with the appetites of win ter travel. " "Say. but this is great,” exulted p Ralph, the stalwart, consuming a huge wedge of mince pie with a fine disre- p gard for any cousequences that might p overtake him. "This alone is worth it s 1 haven’t eaten such pie in a century. What a Jolly place this old kitchen is! t Let’s have a candy pull tomorrow. I haven't been homo Christmas Ln—let f me see—by Jove, I believe it’s six— s seven—yes, seven years. Look here: s there's been so excuse for me, but p what about you people that J*wo near?” s Ho looked aocuBingly about. Caro- n lyn got up and came around to him. e "Don't talk about it tonight,” she q whispered. “We haven’t any of us realized how long It’s been.” v "We'll get off to bed now,” Guy de- p dared, rising. “I can’t get over the s feeling that they may catch us down p here. If either of them should want a some hot water or anything-” p •'The dining room door's bolted,” p Marietta assured him. "but it might I need explainin' if I had to bring ’em t hot water by way of tho parlor. Now, c go awful careful up them stairs. They t aro pretty near over your ma’a head, s but I don't dare have you tramp i through the settin’ room to the front r ones. Now, remember that seventh r stair creaks like Ned—you've got to n step right on the outside edge of it to ' keep it quiet. I don’t know but what I you hoys better step right up over that c seventh stair without touchin’ foot to r it." t "All right—we'll step!" f “Who’s going to fix the bundles?" 8 Carolyn paused to asked as she started a up the stairs. “Marietta." Guy answered. "I’ve la- f beled every one, so it'll be easy. If c they hear paper rattle, they’ll think it's the usual preset8 we’ve sent on. and 0 If they oomo out they'll see Marietta, 1 so it’s all right. Quiet, now. Remem- 1 her the seventh stair!" They crept up, one by one, each to * his or her old room. There needed to J be no “doubling up," for the house was ' large, and each room had been left pre cisely as its owner had left it. It was 1 rather ghostly, this stealing silently J about with candles, and, in the neces- 1 stty for the suppression of speech, the 1 animation of the party rather suffered ' eclipse. It was late, and they were be ginning to be sleepy, so they were ' soon in bed. But. somehow, once com- J posed for slumber, more than one grew J wakeful again. Guy, lying staring at a patch of win- 1 try moonlight on tho odd striped paper j of his wall—It had stoppd snowing • since they had come into tho house, ] and the clouds had broken away, leav- 1 ing a brilliant sky—discovered his door * to be softly opening. The glimmer of a candle filtered through the crack, ' voice whispered his name. “Who Is it?" ho answered under his, ! TVS Nan. May I come in?" , Of course. What’s up?” "Nothing. I wanted to talk a min- j utoV She came noiselessly in, wrapped , in a woolly scarlet kimono, scarlet slip pers on her feet, her brown braids ! hanging down her back. The frost bloom lately on her cheeks had melted , into a ruddy glow, her eyes were stars. She set her candle on the little stand, and sat down on the edge of Guy’s bed. He raised himself on his elbow and lay looking appreciatively at her. "This is like old times," he said. "But ' won’t you be cold?” , "Not a bit. I’m only going to stay a minute. Anyhow, this thing is warm as toast. . . . Yes, isn’t It like old times?" “Got your lessons for tomorrow?” She laughed. "All but my Caesar You’ll help me with that, in the morn- ; ing, won’t you?” "Sure—if you’ll make some cushions foP my bobs.” T win. Guy—how’s Lucy Harper?” "She’s all right. How’s Bob Fields?” "Oh. I don’t care for him now!" She tossed her head. Hie kept, up the play. "Like Dave Strong better, huh? He’s a softy.” "He isn’t. Oh, Gay—I heard yon had a nsw girl.” ’Wew girl nothing. Don’t care for girts.” "Yes, yon do. At least I think yon do. Her name Is—Margaret.’" The play ceased abruptly. Guy’> face changed. “Perhaps I do," he murmured, while his sister watched him In the candle light. "She won’t answer yet?” she asked very gently. “Not a word." "You’ve cared a good while, haven’t you, dear?" "Seems like ages. Suppose it isn't ” "No—only two years, really caring hard. Plenty of time left.” He moved his head impatiently. “Yes, If I didn’t mind seeing her smile nn Tommy Grower—de-il take him— fust as sweetly as she smiles on me. If she ever held out the tip of her finger to me, I'd seize it and hold on to it for fair. But she doesn’t. She ivon’t. And she’s going south next ireek for the rest of the winter, and • here’s a fellow down there in South Carolina where she goes—oh, he—he's *ed headed after her, like the rest of is. And. well—I’m up against it good ind hard. Nan, and that’s the truth.’’ "Poor boy. And you gave up going o see her on Christinas day, and came town here into the country just to—” "Just to get even with myself for he way I’ve neglected ’em these two 'cars while my head’s been so full of -her. It Isn’t fair. After last year 'd have come home today if it had neant I had to lose—well—Margaret mows I’m here. I don't know what he thinks." “I don't believe, Guy, boy, she thinks he less of you. Yes—I must go. It rill all come right in the end, dear— 'm sure of it. No, I don’t know how Jargaret feels—Good night — good ight! ” Christinas morning, breaking upon wintry world—the star in the east mg set. Outside the house a great ilenee of drift wrapped hill and plain -inside, a crackling fire upon a wide earth, and a pair of elderly people making a lonely holiday. Mrs. Fern aid crept to tile door of her riom—the injured knee always made talking difficult aftor a night’s quiet, he meant to sit down by the fire rhieh she had lately heard Marietta Itrring and feeding into activity, and ’arm herself at its flame. She re lembered with a sad little smile that he and John had hung their stockings acre, and looked to see what miracle ad been wrought in the night. earner: —Her voioe caught In her iroat. . . What was ail this? . . y some mysterious Influence her hris and learned that she was calling him, tough he had not really heard. He tme to the door and looked at her, ten as the chimneypieco where the lockings hung—a long row of them, s they had not hung since the children rew up—stockings of quality: one of rown silk. Nan's: a fine gray sock ith scarlet clocks. Ralph’s—all stuf 'd to the top, with bundles overflow lg upon the chimncypiece and even to te fleer below. “W..J.t's this--what’s this?” John ernald’s voice was puzzled. “Whose re these?” He limped closer. He ut on his spectacles and stared hard t a parcel protruding from the sock ith the scarlet clocks. ‘“Merry Christmas to Relph from an,’ ” he road. " ‘TO Ralph from an,'” he repeated vaguely. His gaze irned to his wife. His eyes were wide ke a child's. But she was getting to or feet, from the chair into which ho had dropped. "Tho children!” she was saying. They—they—John— they must be ere ?” He followed her through the chilly all to tho front staircase, seldom sed now, and up—as rapidly as those low. stiff joints would allow. Trembling, Mrs. Fernald pushed open le first door at the top. A rumpled brown head! raised itself •m among the pillows, a pair of eopy but affectionate brown eyes idled back at the two faces peering i, and a voice brimful of mirth cried rftly: “Merry Christmas, mammy nd daddy!” They stared at her, their yes growing misty. It was their little aughter Nan, not yet grown np! They could not believe it. Even 'hen they had been to every room— ad seen their big son Ralph, still leeplng, his yet youthful face, full of enlthy color, pillowed on his brawny rm, and his mojher had gently kissed im awake to be half strangled in his ug—when they had met IHdson’s early laugh as he fired a pillow at tern—carefully, so that his father ould catch it—when they had seen lump pretty Carol pulling on her tockings as she sat on the floor smil ig up at them—Oliver, advancing to leet them in his bathrobe and sup ers—Guy, holding out both arms from hove his blankets andl shouting Merry Christmas!—and how do you ke your children T'—even then it wag ifficult to realize that not one was lissing—and that no one else was here. Unconsciously Mrs. Fernard aund herself looking about for the ons’ wives and daughters' husbands nd children. She loved them all—yet -to have her own, and no others, just rr this one day—it was happiness in eed. When they were all downstairs, bout the fire, there was great rejoic ig. They had Marietta in; indeed, she ad been hovering continuously in the ackground, to the apparently fright ul Jeopardy of the breakfast in prepa ation, upon which, nevertheless, she ad managed to keep a practised eye. “And you were in it. Marietta?" Ir. Fernald said to her in astonish nent, when he first saw her. “How a the world did you get all these peo ple into the house and to bed without raking us?” “it was pretty consid’able of a esk," Marietta replied, with modest iride, “seein’ as how they was inclined o ho middlin' lively. But I kop’ a iushin' 'em up, and I filled ’em up so nil of victuals they couldn't talk. I lidn't know's there'd be any eatables eft for today," she added—whiqh last emark, sinoe she had been slyly bak ng for a week, Guy thought might be cashiered pure bluff. At the breakfast table, while the ■ight heads were bent, this thanksgiv ng arose, as the master of the house, n ji voice not quite steady, offered it o one IMseen; 1 nou wno t'uuitsi us uu uiai Christmas day, we bless Thee for this ;ood and perfect gift Thou sendest us oday, that Thou forgettest us not in hese later years, but givest us the greatest joy of our lives in these our oyal children. Nan’s hand clutched Guy’s under the able. “Doesn't that make it worth t?” his grasp said to her, and hers re died with a frantic pressure, "Indeed t does, but we don’t deserve it." . . . It was late in the afternoon, i tremendous Christmas dinner well >vor, and the group scattered, when Juy and his mother sat alone by the 'ire. The "hoys” had gone out to he great stock barn with their father 0 talk over with him every detail jf the prosperous business he, with he help of an invaluable assistant, ivas yet able to manage. Carolyn ind Nan had ostensibly gone with them 3ut in reality the former was calling ipon an old friend of her child iood, and the latter had begged 1 horse and sleigh and driven merrily iway alone upon an errand she would tell no one but her mother. Mrs. Fernald sat in her low chair it the side of the hearth, her son upon 1 cushion at her feet, his head resting igatnst her knee. He-- slender fingers were gently threading the thick locks of his hair, as she listened while ho talked to her of everything in his life, sad, at last, of the one thing he cared most about. ! "Sometimes I get desperate and think I may as welt give her up tor good and all,” he was saying. "She’s so—so—elusive—1 don’t know any other word for It. I never can tell how j I stand with her. She’s going south i next week. I’ve asked her to answer i me before she goes. Some how l’vo clung to the hope that I’d get my an swer today. Yon'll laugh, but I leer i word with my office boy to wire me if a note or anything from her came. It’s 4 o’clock and I have ’t heard, ‘"he —you see, I can’t*help thinking it’s be cause she’s going to—turn me down— and—hates to do it—Christmas day.” He turned suddenly and buried his face in his mother's lap; his shoulders heaved a little in spite of himself. His , mother’s hand caressed his head more tenderly than ever, but, if he could have seen, her eyes were very bright, j They were silent for a long time. Then suddenly a jingle of sleigh bells approached through the falling winter twilight, drew near, and stopped at the door. Guy’s mother laid her hands upon his shoulders. "Son,” she said, "there's some one stopping now. Per haps it’s the boy with a message from the station.” He was on his feet in an instant. Her eyes followed him as he rushed away through the hall. Then she rose and quietly closed the sitting room door behind him. As Guy flung open the front door, a tall and slender figure in gray furs and a wide gray hat was coming up the walk. Eyes whose glance had long been his dearest torture met Guy Eernald’s and fell. Lips like which there were no others in tire world, smiled tremulously in response to his eager exclamations. And over the piquant young face rose an exquisite color which was not altogether born of the wintry air. The girl who for two years had been only "elusive” had taken the significant step of coming to North Estabrook in response to an elo quent telephone message sent that morning by Nan. Holding both her hands fast, Guv led her up into the house—and found himself alone with her in the shadowy hall. With one gay shout Nan had driven away toward the barn. Tho inner doors were all closed. Blessing the wonderful sagacity of Mis woman kind, Guy took advantage of his mo ment. “Nan- brought you—I can see that. I know you're very fond of her. but —you didn’t come wholly to please her, did' you—Margaret?” “Not wholly.”' ‘Tvg been looking all day for mv an swer. I—oh—I wonder if—” he' was gathering courage from her aspect, which for the first time in his experi ence failed to keep him at a distance —“dare I think you—bring it?” She slowly lifted her face. “I thought it was so—so dear of you,” she mut tered, “to oome home to your people instead of—staying with me. I thought you deserved;—what you say—you want—’’ Margaret.—you— “I haven’t' given you any Christ mas present: Will—T—do?” “Will you do! . . Oh!” It was a great explosive sigh of relief and joy, and as he gave vent to it he caught her close. “Will—you—, do! . . Good Bord! ... f. rather think you will!” "Emeline—" “Yes, John dear?” “You’re not-—crying?” “Oh, no—no, no, Jtrtin!” What s blessing deafness is sometimes! The ear cannot detect the delicate tremolo which might tell the story too plainly. And in the darkness of night, the eye cannot see. I “It’s been a pretty niae da*’, hasn’t it?" i “A beautiful day,!" ! “I guess there’s no doubt but the children- care a good deal for the old folks yet.” i “No doubt at all. dear.” “It’s good to think they’re ali asleep under the roof once more, isn’t it?— And one extra one. We like her, don't we?" “Ob, very, very much!" “Yes, Guy’s done well: T aiwavs thought he’d get her, if he hung on. The Fernalds always hams on, but Guy’s got a mite of a temper—I didn't know but be might let go a little too soon. Well—it’s groat to> think they all plan to spend every Christmas day with us, isn’t it, Emeline?" “Yes, dear—it's—great.” “Well—I must let you go to sleep. It’s been a big day, and I guess you’re tired. Emeline, we’ve not onlv got each other—we’ve got the children, too. That’s a pretty happy thing at our age, isn’t it, now?” “Yes—yes.” “Good night — Christmas nighit Emetrne" “Good1 night, dear.” Now Jersey Women Get Even.. From the Chicago Post. Only a few weeks wn Newark J told woman, with emphatic majority her place is in the home. Now Newark is being taught the folly of its admonition. Newark Is soen to celebrate its 250th anniversary, and great plans are being made. But plans need ex ecution. and in all such matters the aid of women has been found of greater! value With this in view. Newark men relented sufficiently from their attitude in the suf frage election to name two women on the committee of 100 that has the celebration in charge. Two women to 98 men—a gen erous concession, and counted upon to en list the co-operation of hundreds of other women in subordinate positions doing the real work. But when enlistment began it was dis covered that the admonition conveyed in the suffrage .vote was being heeded onlv too well. One prominent woman, noted for her energy and ability, answered: “Why. no; I can not help you. I have been remanded to mv homo by the men of Newark.” Another, usually much to the fore in civic effort, declared: “I should think not. Any work I do will he for suffrage. When we win that I’ll he free for other things.” A young business wom an replied: ”1 am too busy seeking a hus hand to make a home for me into which I can retire, as advised.” Others refused to help Newark celebrate the fact that ij| was not merely 250 years old, but 250 years behind the times. It is a whole lesson for Newark, and we hope it will be well rubbed in. Photographing Flying Birds. From Outins Magazine. In photographing flying birds the main point is speed. A fast plato, it fast lens, a fast shutter and fast work is the combination that gets the pic ture. Having the first three named articles I began trying to improve my part of the operation, and soon learned that focusing used up most of the frac tion of a second that the birds are in range. Then I determined to leard to point the camera at an object and get it focused properly without taking time to look at the ground glass or finder. My desire was to reacli that stage of rapid movement and quick judgment of distance where I could throw the camera Into position, twist the focus ing screw, press the trigger, and stop a flying bird, much as a good quail shot can snapshoot quail that are flush- j ing wildly in high brush. I have not attained perfection, but this snapping | by judgment has often helped, as it I did with my next picture. , A Swedish scientist has advanced t>e ' theory that beared grain, such -as ■' wheat, draws electricity from tire «ir and that the plant is aided in its } growth thereby. Newfoundland was bought,^Jy Great t Brltais tor £10. , I CHRISTMAS COOKERY. £ From the Pictorial Review. I Southern Country Sausage. H i Ten pounds of ground meat. 3 ta Tlespoonfuis salt, 2 teaspoonfuls finely ground red pepper, % teaspoonful salt peter. 2 teaspoonfuls black pepper, lMi teaspoonful sage. Use both the lean and the fat meat. Just as it comes. Before adding the seasoning the sage should be crisped in the stove and rubbed through a sieve. After the ingredients are thor- t oughly mixed, form into little cakes I with the hands, fry in hot skillet and ■£ lay around the turkey. M Delicious Mincemeat: Two pound:* lean beef, 2 pounds rais- l ins, 1 pound citron. 4 pounds apples, \ 1 quart brandy (or Sherry), 1 nutmeg, ■k ounce cinnamon, 1 cupful blackberry 1 jam, 2 pounds beef suet, 2 pounds cur rants. % pound candied lemon peel,: 2 pounds sugar. Vs pint whisky, ounce• cloves, juice and rind of two oranges, juice and rind of two lemons. Cover the meat with boBing water and let it simmer until tender, then set aside to cool, while preparing fruit. Shred suet and chop fine. Pure, core ancf chop apples. When the meat is cold, chop and add to other dry in gredients. Add oranges and lemons ■ last. Mix well and pack in a stone jar, pouring the whisky and brandy over it lust before the- mixture is mil away. The housewife who is fortunate to . possess a hauneh of venison, cooks it a day or two before Christmas, so as to . ho sure she is giving full attention to the details of roasting. Title venison is washed in warm water and well dried witH a doth. A sheet of white paper is buttered and laid over the fat ty section of the roast, then the whole put in a deep baking pan with a very 'ittle boiling water. Whej» a oovered di3h is not used the roast is stmggly protected with a coarse paste one-half inch thick and a layer of paper. Before • covered baked1 dishes were dSeoovered ■ In the south all venison was roasted1 in- a jacket' or this kind, and ter this method of cooking a Ht»e intangible flavor steals into the game; a flavor that is missing when the conventional / covered baking dish is used. The ven- V ison is cooked in a moderately bat oven i \ for from three to four hours, accord ing to the size of the haunch and when practically done thd fire quickened, the covering removed, and the rous* dredged with flour and butter. The roast is basted with the gravy until a delicate brown. Of course, uenrant jel ly is a necessary accompaniment to venison, but the Kentucky housewife serves a more formal sauco with her i roast venison: h ALL CHRISTMASES ALIKE. The American Magazine has -been of fering prizes, for the best letters enti tled "Going Homo for CSu-tstanas,” and i the prize-winning letters are published; in the December number. FWliSWing is: one of them. It is from a naan who, for! reasons explained in his letter* can nev- 1 er go home for Christmas: “The black squares in the calendar: of the year for me are the holidays,. the days when everyone else is tha! happiest. And of ail, Christinas is tha worst. "I reside in a great eastern. city; all| about me during December are Christ-' mas preparations: Christmas- feasts, Christmas dances, Christmas parties,: succeed, each other, the joyousness of! the season for my friends who live at home. Sometimes I am invited by' some big-hearted, whole-souled em- i bodiment of the Christmas spirit who* guesses at ray loneliness. Nat that It; go; it would be only tea vniritl a re-! minder of the old days. "But. most poignant, of aft, is to wit-, ness the bustle of preparation which* accompanies the real home-going off those who are departing tor tire little^ towns of their boyhood, where Christ mas can only be really kept for them I can picture each homecoming vividly, “Friends of the past will greet hint, at the depot, each genuinely glad. But', more than these, more (than brothers! and sisters or nephews and nieces, willj be his mother, her fane shining with' joy. ‘But why cannot I go home fori Christmas?’ you ask. That's where tha answer comes hard. Let’s have it over' In a word Long ago, in a frenzied I moment, I took a step which made ms, l stand forth in my own little town* a, *^1 defaulter, an embezzler, a betrayes of' my trust, whatever you may choose to, call me. Whether I was a trusted em ploye, a banker, or a business man. does not matter, the best the pitying , friends of my family could say wan tha A characterization: ‘A goad man gone Jr wrong.’ Arrested, tried, convicted, I; served my time and moved 1,000'miles away, to forget and be foe-getter*. “Not that, I, the physical man* have anything of which to complain. Find ing employment In another line,. I have, succeeded in a quiet, unobtrusive fash ion—found my place in a rut, as it were. I have no hardships, r*> tale of ! persecution to recount. My pay en velope, while not plethoric, la, stifl suf ficient to. give m,® the oomloutB of life. In a modest way I have made good, as, any man of average lnteHitfeuce and determination can. “But. even at • Christmas, I can’t gc>, home. The episode is a closed eme and! yet, rightly or wrongly, I am not for given or forgotten. My fanoffcq a good one, ef position and statadfng, would not wish to have me. Even my mother, loving me as I know she does, for sha* remembers Christmas f<w me, would not desire my return. I am the black sheep, Did you ever mad ‘Tile Man Without a Country?’ II ts even war.a to. be a man who can’t go home. “Is it any wonder (Suit the 25lh of December is the blackest <fa*v tho year for one who has seen real Christ* rinses?” What “Old Santa” Overheard. 'Tls said old Santa Claus one tyro* Told this joke on Mmse* In silhA't ^ One Christmas In the earfcr dt*. That ever leads the morning lit I heard the happy children sijaut In rapture at the toys tnrnqd Of bulging little socks and simes— * A joy at which I could bHt cauuso To listen enviously, beeaufvj I'm always just “Old Santa CSaus.” ; But ere my rising sigh had, go* > Vo Its first quaver at the thought. It broke In laughter, as i heard A little voioe chirp itko 3. thr' “Old Santa's mighty good, l jttTow, And awful rich—and h* can Down ever' chimbly any where in gll the world!—But 1 den t I wouldn't tvade with him, rr! Old Santa Claus, ami him tuA Fer all his toys and thing.-:—*3 Know why, and bet you he They wuz no Santa Clans Wuz 1st a little boy then Inscription an h Fountain, O you, who mark yrhat llowenrbtqdfcay. What gates, trhqd odors bi’eafUffiiiTnear, Whgt sheltering shades from summer’s. Vay 1 Allure my Spring to linger here. t You see me quit this margin gteen; Yet see me deaf to pleAsuiieX calL A Explore the thirsty haunts oUnon, / ' 5 et see my beauty flow for hall. O learn of me—no partial^ till— No slumbering, selfish pool t>» iB'ou; \ \ But social laws alike fulfill- 1 O flow for all creation, two I —Bdward kovihond iKishfmnih Csnturyj f i