 Part 7 of A Christmas Miscellany, 2019, by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 7 When Christmas Crossed the Peace by Nellie L. McLoone Section 2 The round of the settlement which Miss Downey made revealed the fact that a Christmas celebration was just exactly what the people wanted, and hams and chickens were eagerly volunteered, so pies and cake. The supper was easily arranged for, the program to follow was more difficult, though Fred Ross reported that there were two great singers, a man and his wife from Winnipeg, just come to wintering ills, and he would try to get word to them to come over. Donald Ross, under the witchery of the nurse's smile, offered to do the Highland fling if anybody would lilt for him, and Miss Downey agreed to be responsible for the music. There was a young Englishman, lately come to do the chores at Wilson's, who could sing, and another one of whom he knew, would play the concertina. Mrs. Peters knew a girl who could whistle, and she would get word to her somehow. After her fifty-mile drive and her hard talking, it was late that night when Miss Downey got back to her house, and it was a tired but happy, excited nurse who crawled into bed behind the blue curtains, with Tinkerbell beating the floor with her foolish little stubby tail, offering congratulations on the day's work. When the bright light of another morning poured into the room, Miss Downey awakened with a sense of heavy responsibility. There were so many difficulties, how could she ever make the bare hall look like Christmas? Her tour of investigation had revealed that there was in the neighborhood one flag belonging to the school a few sheets of tissue paper, now in the hands of the school children being turned into flowers and balls, a red to cashmere shawl which could be draped over the box on which the Christmas tree would stand, two dozen candles that would help to light the tree, but what to put on it, and where to get any music, and how to be sure that the people would get out. Black walls of trouble rose before her as she lay watching the morning sunshine which made a bright patch on the floor. But when she got on her feet and set a fire in the range, she was herself again, resourceful, self-reliant, full of youth and optimism. Of Sergeant Woods she had seen nothing, and wondered if he had yet returned from the crossing. Unconsciously she found herself arranging the meal she would have when he came again, and as the day passed without a sick summons she was glad to be at home to give a welcome, she told herself, to anyone who happened to come. Madge had come over to tell her that her mother was still happily rehearsing her piece and cooking for the Christmas dinner. Two days before the eventful day the news was brought to her by Madge that Bill Adams was out, and she thought he had gone to the crossing on his usual errand, for Madge said her father had made some excuse about having to go to Dunvegan and would not be able to come to the hall on Christmas night. She feared that the men had arranged their gathering place where Bill would bring them the goods and the Christmas celebration would go on as in previous years. On hearing this a wave of rage filled the nurse's heart. This then was all they cared for their families or their happiness. She wished now just for a brief moment that she had let old Bill die. It would have been a happier Christmas in the settlement, but that thought passed and in its place there came a happier one. Old Bill Adams had not got the liquor yet, and maybe he wouldn't get it. The whole supply might yet be discovered and seized. The picture of Sergeant Woods as he had sat by her fireside a week ago, so square jawed, clear-eyed, and resolute, came back with a reassurance that warmed her heart. She was not fighting alone. She believed he was still at the crossing, waiting for just this contingency. It was four o'clock that afternoon, just as the pale yellow winter sun was settling behind the grove of grease, that a wagon came up to her door. Somebody sick, she said, with a sinking heart. For once she had no joy in her profession. A case might take her to the other side of her district. But as she looked she saw that the sick one this time had come to her, for the driver carefully removing the ropes was preparing to lift someone from the wagon. She was beside him in a moment. It's the policeman, Miss, said Dad Peters, with ill-concealed enjoyment. Broke his leg on Bricks Hill. His horse rolled over on him. Hard lines, too, right in his busy time. But he was discharging his duty when it happened, weren't you, Sergeant, trying to keep the North Bank of the peace dry? Buffet went against you, didn't it, Sergeant? We sort of thought this was the best place to bring him nurse. Bill Adams said he was a lucky dog, and he only wished he was in his place. The Sergeant groaned as they laid him on the nurse's bed. There was bitter disappointment on his face. Go over and get Madge Lukez, said the nurse, in her even voice. I'll need her to help me to set this leg, and tell her to bring over a horse. I want her to do something else for me. Mr. Peters was in such an amiable mood he would do anything. Fate had been kind to me on his dreams. Certainly, Miss, anything else? Nothing else, said Miss Downey. Thank you. Only be sure to tell everyone about our Christmas entertainment. We want everyone there. And now, a merry Christmas, Mr. Peters. And don't fail to come and bring all the family. We want to make this a great day for the children. Mr. Peters' face revealed a flicker of embarrassment as he went out. Well, girl, said the patient, as she drew aside the curtains and began to remove his overcoat, fell down on my job, didn't I, and those damned rascals have the laugh on me. She had her most professional air now, as she sterilized her hands. I found out where the cash was, and was just on my way to seize it when my horse broke through into a badger hole on Bricks Hill and, falling on my leg on the frozen ground, smashed it below the knee. Old Bill, accompanied by Dad Peters, found me and lectured me soundly on the whimsical ways of fate. Now, look, is there any way we can head off this old rascal? Can you think of anything? I made a mess of it. Can you think of anything? Sure I can, said Miss Downey, as she arranged the splints on her library table. I have it all thought out. Well, for God's sake, get at it, he cried, sitting up. Don't mess around here with me. It has to be done in a hurry. If you're going to stop it, he may get a supply in the next six hours. No hurry, said the girl quietly. Your leg must be set first. You see, I am a nurse by profession, and a moral reformer and community leader only in my spare time. Just now I have one thought, one care, and that is you. When the leg was set and Madge Luke's instructed as to what to give him to eat, Miss Downey suddenly retired to the dispensary and dressing room, carrying the police uniform, cap, boots, and all. When she came back, she was fully dressed, and as she put the revolver in her holster, she said, I'm glad you are not any bigger. I can stuff this coat out with my sweater. It doesn't look so bad, does it? She revolved slowly to give him a complete view. Her golden hair was completely hidden by the cap. The sergeant, wide-eyed, raised himself on his pillow at the sound of her voice, then fell back in astonishment. I'm Sergeant Downes, a friend of yours, who came to spin Christmas with you, said the nurse quietly. Now tell me where the cash is, and I'll see if I can head off my old friend before he reaches it, or failing that, to meet him coming back and seize his load. The sergeant seized her hands impulsively. Oh, girl, he cried, you're a wonder. With Sergeant Woods well out of the way, the pathway of Bill Adams in his official capacity of bootlegger for the North Bank of the Peace was singularly free from danger. And when he saw his friend, Dad Peters, driving away with the helpless sergeant in the bottom of his wagon, the old man's soul was lifted on the wings of song. From his brief but varied experience of studying for the ministry, little remained but his knowledge of hymnology. From it, now, he drew deep consolation, and out upon the quiet roadside there floated out a real peon of praise. God moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea and rides upon the storm. He stopped many times on the road to tell the joyful news that the young sergeant had broken his leg, and thus the last barrier between the dwellers on the North Bank and perfect happiness was removed, and Christmas would be Christmas once again, and many of the homebound travelers went laughing on their way. The short winter afternoon soon drew to a close and a darkness only relieved by the northern lights fell on the road. Sergeant Downs, urging her horse to a gallop, quickly covered the distance until the long hill at Ali Bricks made her slacken her pace. Down in the valley, a dog barked with reassuring sound, and as she walked her horse down the long hill, she had ample time to lay plans. To catch up to Bill, follow him to the cache undercover of the night, then arrest him red-handed, and make the seizure seem to be the simplest course, and yet the problem of what to do with the liquor bothered her. Then she began to think that Bill, so notorious was he for crooked dealing, would have to hand over the money to the Peace River dealer before he would even be told where the liquor was, and this thought took hold of her so strongly that she determined to push on with all speed to the crossing. Her hypothesis proved to be the correct one. She caught up to him at the river and crossed on the ice just behind him, and passing him, going up the bank, called a good night, just to be sure she was not mistaken. The answer came back in Bill's voice, very cheerful and very much like a benediction. Bill's heart was light and gladsome. They reached the livery barn about the same time, and succeeded in rousing the man who slept in a aloft who came down the ladder in a drowsy and ill-natured mood. Pity you folks can't travel by daylight, he grumbled. Christmas time, my dear fellow, cried Bill, slapping him on the back, and all the Christmas means of good fellowship and cheer where spirits blend, and friend holds fellowship with friend. Don't be of a sour temperate Christmas, good fellow of mine. Are we not awake, too, at this late hour, each pursuing our own course, hoping to find happiness? My young friend here, whose horse shows evidence of hard writing, no doubt pursues the same elusive fairy, and I trust with the same hope of finding her. Hope of happiness moves the world today. Oh, all right, Bill, all right, he said, quite mollified when he saw who it was. I'll see you around tomorrow, I suppose. Oh, sure, said to Bill genially, looking up a few of my old friends, you know, blessed be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love. The sergeant had tied her horse in the stall, and in kicking the bedding under him, the livery man's sharp eye caught the gleam of the yellow stripe in the murky light of the stable lantern, and gave the alarm by a loud cough. Bill Adams' tone at once became studiously careless, as he replied, I expect to be very busy tomorrow, buying a few things, commissions from all the neighbors, you know, we are so far out, our people don't get in often, and whoever comes to town is loaded down with errands. Nobody minds that, though, for a Christmas time by jove, all the pores of a man's heart are open, you know. Suddenly a feeling of fear smoked nurse down his stout heart. Her lack of knowledge as to police procedure made her fearful that her disguise would be discovered, and having to deal with the gang so skilled in evil ways, so full of craft and guile, gave her a sudden, weak, helpless feeling. Of the old man in front of her, she had no fear. Had she not scrubbed him, shaved him, fed him, scolded him? She determined on a bold stroke. Well, good night, Sim, said to Bill to the liveryman. Good night, and be good. He started off down the street toward the welcome light of the Peace Hotel, about a hundred yards away, but the street on which they were traveling was in inky blackness, for everybody had long since gone to bed. The nurse followed close behind. Stepping up behind him, she laid a detaining hand on his arm, and in her deepest voice said quietly, William Adams, you are under arrest. And before his astonished lips could utter a word, she had slipped the handcuffs on him. But I haven't done anything, he cried trembling. Search me, and you won't find anything. She backed him over against the wall of a building, and with her flashlight went through his pockets until she came to the great roll of bills. What are you doing with so much money? She asked sternly. Just came in to get things for Christmas, said Bill glibly. We're having a big Christmas treat out at our hall, and some of us just made a little collection to buy a treat for the kitties. Christmas time, you know, and all that when the friend meets friend. His teeth were clattering with fright. Now, see here, said the sergeant grimly. You're a lion, of course, and I know you're a lion. The whole gang are known to me, and I know where the cash is, and all about it. The cash is in Bill Fraser's old barn. I did not break my leg, as you see. That was all part of the game, to throw you off your guard. I got on my horse and followed you. My God, cried the old man, I'm no match for you. I could have sworn that leg hung limp. Oh, I'm too old, I guess, to play the game with young fellas like you. I thought I was pretty cute, but I'm not. That's all right, Mr. Adam, said the sergeant generously. You are cute enough, but you see you are caught fairly, and I could send you to jail, but I have my own reasons for not wanting to do that. The old man's breath was coming hard. Now, we'll make a bargain. I'll keep the money tonight, but tomorrow we will make your lies come true. I will send a friend of mine, a nurse, to go round with you to help you with your shopping. She won't know, but what you are, the benevolent old man who wants to give the kids a good time. I won't appear at all. It would arouse suspicion if the people told me with you, everyone knows I came here especially to get you. Well, I've got you all right, but no one need know it, but just you and me. I know, maybe better than you, the people you are to buy for, and I'll give you a list, and the nurse will help you through. How much money have you got here? There are 20 of the boys in on this, he said, falteringly, and they each gave me $25. All right, said the sergeant, taken off the handcuffs. That's very good now. You go on to the hotel. Have you some money besides this? All right then, the nurse will join you at nine, and you can get at your shopping right away. I'll not appear at all. Now, good night. Good night, said the old man, faintly, and started down the street. The sergeant watched him until he saw him open the porch door of the hotel. The lightness had gone from his step, and for the first time, the square light, which announced the name of the hotel to the world, had in it for him no mellowing welcome. When Nurse Crawford opened her door a few minutes later, she was astonished to see a young man in the uniform of the Alberta Provincial Police on her doorstep, and to hear him say in suppressed excitement, Kate, let me in, don't say a word. Are you alone? All right then, pull down the blinds and listen to me. Did anyone say we would have a dull time when we came north? The astonished Miss Crawford in her dressing gown saw a young man enter who hastily removed his cap, letting fall a shower of golden hair, and then, with a whoop of delight, caught her around the waist and kissed her with a resounding smack. Didn't you always want a policeman for a bow, Kate? Why, best downy, what have you been up to, you quiet little golden-haired beauty? Show me your private office before I say a word, or failing that, let me get in behind the curtains of the bed before I unfold my tale of pure joy. Kate, I flashed my flashlight into a man's face tonight and I took his roll from him, and here it is, and she laid the fat roll of $5 bills on the bed. Her friend arose and locked the door. Then coming back, she said gently, but with the professional air that sent Miss Downy into peels of laughter, go on, bestie, don't worry and don't get excited, begin at the beginning. When the story was told, the two girls sat beside the fire, deciding what would be bought with the money, writing down each item as they thought of it. First on the list was a phonograph for the hall. Then came candy and nuts and ready-filled stockings and dolls for the little girls, with doll carriages and cradles, books and drums and sets of tools. There were 24 girls and 28 boys to be provided for and 15 women. You are to do the buying, Kate, and do get them something gay and fancy, said Miss Downy. Perfume, boxes of candy, vanity cases, silk stockings, fancy collars, beads, go strong on beads and fancy combs. I'd put on one of your uniforms and go with you. Only the old man would know me. He's one of my patients, you know, but remember this, don't get anything that is only useful. We want things that will glitter and sparkle and look well on a tree, and oh, Kate, get lots of sparklers and crackers and red and green candles and big bells of red paper and sleigh bells and a big Santa Claus and reindeer and anything you can lay your hands on that is festive and gay. And now, Kate, I believe I'm hungry. It seems like years since I left home and 40 miles on horseback is some step. The next morning, the storekeeper at the crossings got the sensation of the season. The well-known Bill Adams, accompanied by the district nurse, Miss Crawford, made the rounds and bought with a lavish hand their fancy goods and toys. Miss Crawford was particular to tell each proprietor of the generous part Mr. Adams had taken in making a collection among his friends to give the women and children a real old-fashioned treat. Under the spell of her enthusiasm, old Bill swallowed hard and his eyes were suspiciously moist as he modestly disclaimed the entire credit. We all got thinking about it, he said, and remember in the days that are gone when sleigh bells were ringing and glad heart singing, Christmas seems to be a time to kind of spread the joys around and shed the oil of gladness on each head. Pretty decent old scout that old Bill Adams, after all, said the proprietor of one of the drugstores after Bill had paid for every box of candy in the place and the complete stock of perfume and balloons. I always thought it was a tough old bird, but that just shows you never can tell. The big packing boxes were loaded at last and Bill started back with his precious load. What his thoughts were on the homeward journey will never be known. The snow which had held off so long now began to fall in gently gliding flakes which came without haste through the quiet air and as he drove through the spruce trees and pines with his load of Christmas things, a queer feeling of detachment from the past came over him. When he arrived at the hall, he found the nurse waiting for him and although he must have thought it strange, he said nothing naturally. Unloading the many boxes and parcels, he stayed to help her decorate the tree with the candles, sparklers, and balloons and was apparently much gratified by her many words of approval. How did you know so well what to get, she asked him. They helped me a good deal in the stores. He lied genially and then of course I thought about it as a good deal myself. The nurse then stopped to look at him in undisguised admiration or at least he took it for that. Come back as early as you can tomorrow, she said when it began to get dark. I feel that you must help me to put things on and decide what we shall give to each person. This is going to be the most wonderful Christmas I've ever known. It has all or nearly all been your doing and I cannot tell you just how I feel about it all. That's just how I feel too, miss, he said truthfully. I can't talk much about it, it is all here and he tapped his heart dramatically. By two o'clock on Christmas Day, people began to arrive with their provisions and soon the long tables were set up and filled with roast turkeys, chickens, salads and jellies, cakes and pies. No one was gayer or happier than Mrs. Luke's, who had come over early with Maj to sweep out and see if the laps were ready. It's just like a dream, she cried happily to one of her neighbors. It's just what I have been dreaming of and I'm so happy I just feel I could fly. Just to know our children will have one real Christmas tree makes up for all we've been through. The tree, which the nurse and Bill Adams had finished dressing, stood on a big box draped with the red shawl on the stage but it was not allowed to be seen until after supper, although there were many adventurous young souls who crept forward to get a peek and came back shivering with delight. At five o'clock dinner began. The men and women and small children sat in while the big girls and boys waited on them, carrying plates of turkey and mashed potatoes and golden turnips from the reserves on the stove. Mrs. Luke's presided at the base of operations and made the coffee and cut the pies and it was everywhere at once. At the proper moment a hush fell on the audience for the lamps were all turned low and when the curtain was rolled back and the Christmas tree ablaze with candles and sparklers burst on the enraptured assemblage, there were little peels of delight and surprise from all over the hall. Dolls with golden hair, dolls with brown hair stretched their arms appealingly to their little mothers in the audience while from every branch a silver sparkler shot its white stars upward in a perfect frenzy of gladness. Balloons in red, green and white tugged at their tie strings and threatened to fly to the roof and the presence of balls and drums and engines and wagons and mysterious bundles and boxes below the tree set the young hearts dancing with expectation. When the supper was over and the last waiter had been fed the nurse insisted that Bill Adams should speak to the people. They're all asking who bought all these things and you must tell them. It's only fair to all the men who contributed. Her eyes were dancing with mischief. Sure, you must speak, Mr. Adams. Tell them about Christmas being the time when the spirits blend and friends hold fellowship with friend and all that. That's good stuff and about the pores of the heart being open and bless be the tie that binds. Old Bill's eyes swept her face in keenest scrutiny. Where did you hear that? Oh, that's the words of a hen, you know, I'm sure. There was no time for thought for already the nurse was speaking and a hush had fallen upon the happy company. You will be wondering, dear friends, who our Santa Claus is tonight who has made all this happiness possible. We have him here behind the curtain and now I'm going to introduce to you one of our oldest and best-known settlers, Mr. William Adams. Too much surprised even to applaud, the people sat and Old Bill came forward. Under Miss Crawford's persuasion, he had bought a new suit and had indulged in a shave and haircut and the gasp of astonishment which broke from the people was a sincere tribute to his improved appearance. Dear friends, he said it's a long time since I've made a speech. Many years have fallen on my speech-making ability, years and other things, but tonight is Christmas and the spirits of Christmas are abroad and make us do queer things, things we did not intend to do. Queer things but things which make us happy too. I don't half understand all this myself and I don't know why I am here, but here he straightened up and began to expand like a dried Japanese water flower that feels the life-giving water beneath it. It's only fair to the boys who chipped into this to tell you that a bunch of us got talking about Christmas a while back and it being a time for a little jollification and this year, he stumbled a little here, but the glowing faces before him gave him courage. This year it seemed best to spread it out and make the fun reach over all the people. It seemed best. In fact, we were led that way by an invisible hand as it were and we sure all hope you are enjoying it and that everybody is as pleased as I am. I never knew that a person could feel as good as this without taking anything. It's a new one on me, but I hope you are happy. I sure am. Cheers and wildest applause broke out then and cries out, you bet we are. Good old boy, Bill, you're right. And when it had subsided, another thrill came from behind the tree and hidden by it, the big square phonograph with its door opened wide, burst into song. Hark, the herald angel sing, Glory to the newborn king, Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled. It sang in the silvery tones of the Welsh quartet, sang it in words so clear and triumphant that on its strong wings of melody, tired souls were born upward to the very gates of heaven. It's the singers from wintering hills, some on gas. It must be. But Mrs. Luke's pressed her rough hands together convulsively. Now, she cried happily, it's Christmas. It's real Christmas with God in it. It has crossed the peace. It has come over to us. My dream has come true. I'm satisfied. And from her eyes, the staring loneliness had all gone and in their depths had dawned a great new hope of better things to come. While the tree was being unloaded and the fun was at its height, the nurse slipped away with a great basket of provisions for her patient. I'm neglecting you, she said, but oh the things I have to tell you when it's over, I can't let you go to the hospital at the crossing tomorrow. I won't be through telling you. I'm going to bring old Bill home with me. I'll leave the teapot here where you can reach it. Now, chew your food well. Isn't that a good brand of lemon pie? Keep your mind from worry and if you feel the need of further instructions, consult Diana here beside you. She was gone in a moment and in spite of the two lamps turned high, for him the room had grown dark. Come right in, Mr. Adams. He heard her saying at the door, come right in. You've never seen my nice little house, have you? Oh no, I'm never lonely. You see, sometimes I have a patient for a few days. My private ward is over there behind the curtain. Yes, indeed, I like your idea for weekly meetings in the hall. Now with the phonograph and so many ready to help, we can have all sorts of good times. Hang your coat there, Mr. Adams. I would like you to meet my patient. He cannot get out of bed, so will you please come this way. Throwing back the curtain in front of the dispensary, the light fell full on the laughing face of Sergeant Woods. Mr. Adams, meet Sergeant Woods, said the nurse calmly. Haven't we met before? Said the old man, trying to recover his composure. Yes, said the sergeant smiling, you very kindly picked me up on Bricks Hill and your friend, Dad Peters, brought me here two days ago. But you didn't say here, exclaimed his visitor. Ever since, haven't I, nurse? For the very good reason, said the nurse, that his leg is in splints. The old man looked from one to the other helplessly and sat down hard in the chair the nurse had placed for him. Then who that devil did I see and who is that what Mr. Adams asked the nurse with more eagerness than regard for sentence construction? See here, burst from the old man, did you break your leg or did you not? I did. Well, why did you tell me you didn't and that it was all in the game to throw me off the track and why did you wave it around to show me it was all right? The sergeant looked at the nurse with lifted eyebrows. Oh, nurse, he said. I didn't wave it, said the nurse quietly. I did not need to wave it. You could tell it couldn't be broken. No one could ride 40 miles with a broken leg could they? See here, said the old man desperately, who held me up at the point of a revolver in a dark corner at the cross and took $500 from me. I didn't spoke up the policeman. I've been here all the time with a broken leg. Looking from one to the other the old man slowly began to nod his head. Then he arose and making a sweeping bow to the nurse he said, Miss Downey, once again I offer you my hand in marriage. With equal dignity, Miss Downey replied, and once again I declined the honor. There was a silence in the room broken only by the thumping of Pinkerbell's tail on the floor as she registered applause. Young man, said Mr. Adams addressing the radiant face on the pillow. Young man, there's one awful lesson in this for you and me. We're poor fish, us men. We have a rough way of doing things. Your way was to arrest me. Cease the stuff. Send me to jail. That's no damn good. I'd be swearing my soul away in jail. Boys all mad. Everything in a mess. Look at this girl. She skins my roll. But look what she does with it. What she does with me. She scrubbed me, shaved me. First in my own house, then on the public highway. Robbed me, but made me the best liked man in the neighborhood. Makes everyone think so well of me. I think well of myself. I'm not old Bill Adams, the bootlegger. I'm the man who brought the Christmas tree to the kids. She spoils my taste for booze, this girl, and has given me a taste for my fellow men. Tonight, coming out, I met a bunch of the boys who gave me the money. Dad, Peter, Bill, Luke's, and the rest. They grabbed my hand and said, all right, old man. Glad you'd done it. They feel better. I feel better. Everyone in the settlement feels better. She did it all. She and your revolver. Mr. Adams said the nurse, taking the old man's hand and both of hers, you're wrong about the revolver. It was only a flashlight I used. And remember, the suggestion was yours about buying things for the kids. You said it first, that gave me the idea. I saw it was the way out, and it has all been so fine. You played up well too, Mr. Adams, and will never give it away. He turned to the bed and shook hands with the sergeant. You remember what I said, sergeant, about a man alone being a poor stick. Profit by it. Not but that I'm willing to admit that as men go, you're some man. When Bill Adams was gone, she came back to her patient and in her best hospital manner beat up his fellows. I'm getting better, nurse. He said, hopefully, I'm feeling better every minute. Well, she said, about tomorrow I will feel well enough to, she interrupted him quickly, it may interest you to know that nurses never accept proposals from their patients. He knitted his brows and looked at her. When will you take me to the hospital? He asked after a pause. Tomorrow I will keep you here, but I may be called away any minute. And I won't be your patient then? No, but you will come to see me? Well, yes. But nurse, no one can propose to a girl when he doesn't know her first name. That doesn't matter, she said, north of the peace. And outside, right above the little house, the northern lights, pink and green and violet and amber, marched and flamed and danced and looped, folding and shooting and darting, just as if they knew, and were glad. End of When Christmas Crossed the Peace by Nellie L. McLoom. End of Part 7, Section 2. Part 8 of A Christmas Missalony, 2019, by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 8, Holiday Tales, Christmas in the Adirondacks, How John Norton the Trapper Keptus Christmas, by William Henry Harris and Murray. Section 1. 1. A cabin, a cabin in the woods. In the cabin, a great fireplace piled high with logs, fiercely ablaze. On either side of the broad hearthstone, a hound sat on his haunches, looking gravely as only a hound in a meditative mood can into the glowing fire. In the center of the cabin, whose every nook and corner was bright with the ruddy firelight, stood a wooden table strongly built and solid. At the table sat John Norton pouring over a book, a book large of size with wooden covers bound in leather, brown with age and smooth as with the handling of many generations. The whitened head of the old man was bowed over the broad page, on which one hand rested, with the forefinger marking the sentence. A cabin in the woods filled with firelight, a table, a book, an old man studying the book. This was the scene on Christmas Eve. Outside the earth was white with snow, and in the blue sky above the snow was the white moon. It says here, said the trapper speaking to himself, it says here, give to him that lacketh, and from him that hath not withhold not thine hand. It be a good saying for certain, and the world would be a good deal better off as I can see it, if the folks followed the saying a little more closely. And here the old man paused a moment, and with his hand, still resting on the page, and his forefinger still pointing at the sentence, seemed pondering what he had been reading. At last he broke the silence again, saying, yes, the world would be a good deal better off if the folks in it followed the saying, and then he added, there's another spot in the book I'd order a look at tonight. It's a good way further on, but I guess I can find it. Henry says, the further on you get in the book, the better it grows, and I can see it, the boy may be right. For there be a good deal of murderin' and fightin' in the fore part of the book that don't make pleasant readin', and what the Lord wanted to put it in for is a good deal more than a man without book learnin' can understand. Murderin' be murderin', whether it be in the Bible or out of the Bible, and puttin' it in the Bible and sayin' it was done by the Lord's commandment, don't make it any better. And a good deal of the fightin' they did in the old time was certainly without reason and again judgment, especially where they killed the women folks and the Lelons. And while the old man had thus been communicating with himself touching the character of the Old Testament, he had been turning the leaves until he had reached the opening chapters of the new and had come to the description of the Saviour's birth and the angelic announcement of it on the earth. Here he paused and began to read. He read as an old man, unaccustomed to letters, must read, slowly and with a show of labour, but with perfect contentment as to his progress, and a brightening face. This isn't a trail a man can hurry on unless he spends a good deal of his time on it, or is careless about notin' the signs, for the words be weighty and a man must stop at each word and look around a while in order to get all the meanin' out of them. Yes, a man order-traveled this trail a little slow if he wants to see all there is to see on it. Then the old man began to read. Then there were with the angels a multitude of the heavenly host. The exact number isn't set down here, he muttered, but I can see there may have been three or four hundred. Praise on God and singin' Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to men of goodwill. That's right, said the trapper. Yes, peace to men of goodwill. That be the sort that deserved peace, the other kind order stand their chances. And here the old man closed the book, closed it slowly, and with the care we take of a treasured thing, closed it, fastened the clasps, and carried it to the great chest whence he had taken it, putting it away in its place. Having done this he returned to his seat and moving the chair in front of the fire, he looked first at one hound and then at the other and said, pups, this be Christmas Eve and I'll certainly trust you'd be grateful for the comfort you have. He said this deliberately as if addressing human companions. The two hounds turned their heads toward their master, looked placidly into his face and wagged their tails. Yes, yes, I understand you, said the trapper. You both be comfortable and I daresay the order your way, you both be grateful for her. Next to Eaton, a dog loves the heat and you'd be nigh enough to the logs to be toastin'. Yes, this be Christmas Eve, continued the old man, and in the settlements the folks be gettin' ready their gifts. The young people be tiein' up the evergreens and the little ones be honorable to sleep because of their dreamin'. It's a pleasant picture and I certainly wish I could see the merry-makers, as Henry has told me of them some time, but I wish it may be in his own house and with his own children. With this pleasant remark, in respect to the one he loves so well, the old man lapsed into silence, but the peaceful contentment of his face, as the firelight revealed it, showed plainly that, though his lips moved not, his mind was still active with pleasant thoughts of the one whose name he had mentioned and whom he so fondly loved. At last a more sober look came to his countenance, a look of regret, of self-reproach, the look of a man who remembers something he should not have forgotten, and he said, "'Ax the Lord, pardon me, that in the midst of my plenty, I have forgot, then, that maybe I want.' The shanty startin'ly looked open enough the last time I fetched the trail past the clearon, and, though with the help of the moss and the clay in the bank she might make it comfortable, yet if the vagabond that be her husband has forgot his own and deserted them, as Wildeville said he had, "'I doubt if there be victuals enough in the shanty to keep them from starvin'.' "'Yes, pops,' said the old man risin', "'it'll be a good trap through the snow, but we'll go in the mornin' and see if the woman be in want.' The boy himself said, when he stopped at the shanty last summer, before he went out, that he didn't see how they was to get through the winter, and I reckon he left the woman some money by the way she followed him toward the boat, and he told her to bear them in mind when the snow came and see to it they didn't suffer. I might as well get the pack-basket out and begin to put the things in it for it be a goodly distance and an arly start will make the day pleasant to the woman and the lethal ones if victuals be scant in the cupboard. Yes, I'll get the pack-basket out and look round the lethal and see what I can find to take him. I don't concede it'll make much of a show for what might be good for a man won't be of service to a woman, and as for the lethal ones, I don't know if I got a single thing, but victuals that'll fit him. Lord, if I was near the settlements, I might swap a dozen skins for just what I wanted to give them, but I'll get the basket out and look round to see what I've got. In a moment the great pack-basket had been placed in the middle of the floor, and the trapper was busy overhauling his stores to see what he could find that would make a fitting Christmas gift for those he was to visit on the morrow. A canister of tea was first deposited on the table, and after he had smelled of it and placed a few grains of it on his dung, like a connoisseur, he proceeded to pour more than half of his contents into a little bark box, and having carefully tied the cover, he placed it in the basket. The yarba be of the best, said the old man, putting his nose to the mouth of the canister and taking a long sniff before he inserted the stopo, the yarba be of the best, for the smell of it goes into the nose, strong as mustard, that be good for the woman for certain, and will cheer her spirits when she be down farted. Or a woman takes as naturally to tea as an order to his slide, and I warn't it'll be amazing comfort to her after the day's work be over, more especially if the work have been heavy and gone sword-across wise. Is the yarba be good for a woman when things go cross-wise? And the box will be of great help to her, many and many and not beyond out. The Lord certainly had women in mind when he made the yarba and a kindly philim for their infirmities, and I dare say they be grateful according to their knowledge. A large cake of maple sugar followed the tea into the basket and a small chest of honey accompanied it. That's honest, Wheatonin, remarked the trapper with decided emphasis, and that is more, you can say, of the sugar of the settlements, least wise if a man can judge by the stuff they peddle at the clarin. The bees have been o' cheats, and a man who taps his own trees and biles the runnin' into sugar under his own eye knows what kind of sweetenin' he's gettin'. The woman won't find any sand in her teeth when she takes a bite from that loaf or stirs a little of the honey in the cup, she'd be steepin'. Some salt and pepper were next added to the packages already in the basket. A sack of flour and another of Indian meal followed a generous round of pork and a bag of jerked venison that would balance a 20-pound weight at least went into the bag. On these, several large-sized salmon trout that had been smoked by the trapper's best skill were laid. These offerings evidently exhausted the old man's resources. Four, after looking round a while and searching the cupboard from bottom to top, he returned to the basket and contemplated it with satisfaction, indeed, yet with a face slightly shaded with disappointment. The victuals be all right, he said, for there be enough to last him a month and they needn't scrimp themselves either, but eatin' isn't all, and the little ones was nigh on to naked the last time I see them, and the woman's dress, in spite of the patchin', looked as if it would desert her if she didn't keep a close eye on it. Lord, Lord, what shall I do? There's room enough in the basket, and the woman and the little ones need garments. That is, it's more than likely they do, and I haven't a garment in the cabin to take them. Hello, hello, John Norton, John Norton, hello! The voice came sharp and clear, cutting keenly through the foster-year and the cabin walls. John Norton! Wild Bill exclaimed the trapper. I certainly hope the bag of wine hasn't been a drinkin'. His voice sounds if he's sober, but the chances be again the signs, for if he isn't drunk, the marcy of the Lord, or the scarcity of liquor has kept him from it. I'll go to the door and see what he wants. It's certainly too cold to let a man stand in the hall or long, whether he be sober or drunk, with which remark the trapper stepped to the door and flung it open. What is it, Wild Bill? What is it, he called? Be a drunk or be a sober, that you stand there shoutin' in the cold with a log cabin, within a dozen rods of ya. Sober, John Norton, sober, sober as a maravian preacher at a funeral. Your trappin' must have been mighty poor, then, Wild Bill, for the last month, or the Dutchman at the clearing, as watered his liquor by a wrong measure for once, but if you be sober, why do you stand there whoopin' like an Indian when the ambush mutt is uncovered and the bushes be alive with the knaves? Why don't you come into the cabin like a sensible man if you be sober, the signs be again ya, Wild Bill? Yes, the signs be again ya. Come into the cabin, retorted Bill, and though I would, mighty lively if I could, but the load is heavy and your path is as slippery as the plank over the creek at the Dutchman's when I've had two horns aboard. Load, what load have you been dragging through the woods, exclaimed the trapper, ya talk, as if my cabin was the Dutchman's and you was balancing on the plank at this minute. Come and see for yourself, answered Wild Bill, and give me a lift. Once in your cabin and in front of your fire, I'll answer all the questions you may ask, but I'll answer no more until I'm inside the door. Yeah, be sartanly sober tonight, answered the trapper, laughing as he started down the hill, for ya talk sense and that's more than a man can do when he talks through the nozzle of a bottle. Load, a massy, exclaimed the old man as he stood over the sled and saw the huge box that was on it. Load, a massy, Bill, what a tug you must have had, and how you come to be sober with such a load behind ya is beyond the reckoning of a man who has known ya nigh on to twenty year. I never know ya, disappointing one, ardor this fashion of four. It is strange, I confess, answered Wild Bill, appreciating the humor that lurked in the honesty of the old man's utterance. It is strange, that's a fact, for it's Christmas Eve and ought to be raw and drunk at the Dutchman's this very minute, according to custom, but I pledged him to get the box through just as he wanted it done and that I wouldn't touch a drop of liquor until I'd done it. And here it is, according to promise, for here I am sober and here is the box. Here's to Long, Bill, here's to Long, exclaimed the trapper, who suddenly became alive with interest, for he surmised whence the box had come. It's to Long, Bill, I say I've done with your talking and let's see what you have got on your sled. It's strange that a man of your sense will stand gibberin' here in the snow with a roaring fire within a dozen rods of ya. Whatever retort Wild Bill may have contemplated, it was effectually prevented by the energy with which the trapper pushed the sled after him. Indeed it was all he could do to keep it off his heels so earnestly did the old man propel it from behind. And so with many a slip and scramble on the part of Wild Bill and a continued muttering on the part of the trapper about the nonsense of a man's gibberin' in the snow or a 20 mile drag with a good fire within a dozen rods of him, the sled was shot through the doorway into the cabin and stood fully revealed in the bright blaze of the firelight. Dig off your coat and your moccasins, Wild Bill, exclaimed the trapper as he closed the door, get in front of the fire, pull out the coals and set the teapot a steepen. The arm will take the chill out of you better than the pison of the Dutchman. You'll find a haunch of innocent in the cupboard that are roasted today and some donut cake. A doubt of either be cold, help yourself, help yourself, Bill, I'll take a peep at the box. No one can appreciate the intensity of the old man's feelings in reference to the mysterious box unless he calls to mind the strictness with which he was want to interpret and fulfill the duties of hospitality. To him the coming of a guest was a welcome event and the service which the latter might require of the host both a sacred and a pleasant obligation. To serve a guest with his own hand which he did with a natural courtesy peculiar to himself was his delight. Nor did it matter with him what the quality of the guest might be. The wandering trapper or the vagabond Indian was served with as sincere attention as the richest visitor from the city. But now his feelings were so stirred by the sight of the box, thus strangely brought to him and by his surmise touching who the sender might be that wild Bill was left to help himself without the old man's attendance. It was evident that Bill was equal to the occasion and was not aware of the slightest neglect at least his actions were not by the neglect of the trapper rendered less decided or the quality of his appetite affected for the examination he made of the old man's cupboard and the familiarity with which he handled the contents made it evident that he was not in the least abashed or uncertain how to proceed. For he attacked the provisions with the energy of a man who had fasted long and who has at last not only come suddenly to an ample supply of food but also feels that for a few moments at least he will be unobserved. The trapper turned toward the box and approached it for a deliberate examination. The boards beside he said and they come from the mills of the settlement for the smooth and plain has been over him. Then he inspected the jointing and noted how truly the edges were drawn. The box had come a good distance, he said to himself for there isn't a workman inside of the Aurecon that could have jointed in that fashion. There certainly ought to be some lettering or a little bit of writing somewhere about the chest telling who the box belonged to and to whom it was sent. Saying this, the old man unlashed the box from the sled and rolled it over so that the side might come uppermost. As no direction appeared on the smoothly plain surface he rolled it half over again. A little white card neatly tacked to the board was now revealed. The trapper stooped and on the card read John Norton to the care of Wild Bill. Yes, the J be hison, muttered the old man as he spelled out the word J-O-H-N and the big N be as plain as an autotail in the snow. The boy don't make his letters over plain as I can see but the J and the N be hison. And then he paused for a full minute his head bowed over the box. The boy don't forget, he murmured and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The boy don't forget. And then he added, no, he isn't one of the forgetting kind. Wild Bill, said the trapper, as he turned toward that personage whose attack on the venison haunch was as determined as ever. Wild Bill, this box be from Henry. I shouldn't wonder, answered that individual speaking from a mass of edibles that filled his mouth. And it be a Christmas gift, continued the old man. It looks so, returned to Bill, as laconically as before. And it be a mighty heavy box, said the trapper. You'd thought so if you'd dragged it over the mile-and-a-half carry. It was good sledding on the river but that carry took the stuff out of me. Very lie, very lie, responded the trapper where the gullies were deep on the carry. And it must have been slippery hauling. Didn't you get a little earnest in your feeling, Bill, before you got to the top of the last ridge? Old man, answered Bill, as he wheeled his chair toward the trapper, with a pint cup of tea in the one hand and wiping his moustache with the coat-sleeve of the other. I got it to the top three times, or within a dozen feet from the top, and each time it got away from me and went to the bottom again. For the roost was slippery, and I couldn't get a grip on the toe of my moccasins. But I held on to the rope, and I got to the bottom neck, and neck with the sled every time. Yeah, did well, you did well, responded the trapper, laughing, for a loaded sled goes downhill mighty fast when the slide is a steepen, and a man who gets to the bottom as quick as the sled must have a good grip and be considerably in earnest. But you got her up finally by the same path, didn't you? Oh, yes, I got her up, returned to Bill. The fourth time I went for that ridge, I fetched her to the top, for I was madder in the hornet. And what did you do, Bill, continued the trapper, what did you do when you got to the top? I just tied that sled to a sapling so it wouldn't get away again, and I got on the top of that box, and I talked to that goach a minute or two in a way that satisfied my feelings. I shouldn't wonder, continued the trapper, laughing, for you must have been a good deal riled, but you did well to get the box through, and you got it here in time, and you armed your wages. And now, if you'll tell me how much I am to pay you, you shall have your money, and you needn't scrimp yourself on the price, while, Bill, for the drag has been a hard one. So tell me your price, and I'll count you out the money. Old man, answered Bill, I didn't bring that box through for money, and I won't take a, perhaps a wild Bill was about to emphasize his refusal by some verbal addition to the simple statement, but if it was his intention, he checked himself and said, a scent. It's well said, answered the trapper, yes, it's well said, and does justice to your feelings, I don't doubt, but an hectare of riches, one of these days, wouldn't hurt ya, and the money won't come amiss. I tell you, old man, returned to wild Bill earnestly, I won't take a scent. I'll allow the several colors in my trousers, for I've patched in a dozen different pieces off and on, and I doubt, as ya hint, if the patchin' holds together much longer, but I've eaten at your table and slept in your cabin no more than once, John Norton, and whether I've come to it sober or drunk, your door was never shut in my face, and I don't forget either, that the man who sent you that box fished me from the creek one day, and when I had walked into it with two bottles of the Dutchman's whiskey in my pocket, and not one cent of your money, or he is, will I take for bringing the box into you? Have it your own way, if you will, said the trapper, but I won't forget the deed ya had did, and the boy won't forget it neither. Come, let's clear away the victual's amul, open the box, it's certainly a big one, and I would like to see what he's put inside of it. The opening of the box was a spectacle, such as a gladden's the heart to see. At such moments, the countenance of the trapper was as facile in the changefulness of its expression as that of a child. The passing feelings of his soul found an adequate mirror in his face, as the white clouds of a summer day find full reflection in the depth of a tranquil lake. He was not too old or too learned to be wise, for the wisdom of hearty happiness was his, the wisdom of being glad and gladly showing it. As for Wild Bill, the best of his nature was in the Ascendant, and with the curiosity and pleasure of a child, and a happiness as sincere as if the box were his own, he assisted at the opening. The man made this box did the work in a workman-like fashion, said the trapper, as he strove to insert the edge of his hatchet into the joining of the cover. Very shut these boards together like the teeth of a bear trap when the bars be well-isled. It's a pity the boy didn't send him along with the box, Wild Bill, for it certainly looks as if we should have to kindle a fire on it and burn a hole in it through the giver. At last, by dint of a great exertion and with the assistance of Wild Bill and the poker, the cover of the box was wrenched off, and the contents were partially revealed. Glory to God, Wild Bill, exclaimed the trapper. Here be your wretches, and he held up a pair of pantaloons made of the stoutest scotch stuff. Yes, here be your wretches, for here on the waistband be pinned a bit of paper and on it be written for a Wild Bill. And here be a vest to match, and here be a jacket, and here be two pairs of socks in the pocket of the jacket, and here be two woolen shirts, one packed away in each sleeve, and here shouted the old man, as he turned up the lapel of the coat, Wild Bill, look here, here be a five dollar note. And the old man swung one of the socks over his head and shouted, Hooray for Wild Bill! And the two hounds, catching the enthusiasm of their master, lifted their muscles into the air and bade deep and long till the cabin fairly shook with the joyful uproar of man and dogs. It is doubtful if any gift ever took the recipient more by surprise than this bestowed upon Wild Bill. It is true that judged by the law of strict desserts the poor fellow had not deserved much of the world, and certainly the world had not forgotten to be strictly just in his case, for it had not given him much. It is a question if he had ever received a gift before in all his life, certainly not one of any considerable value. His reception of this generous and thoughtful provision for his wants was characteristic both of his training and his nature. The old trapper, as he ended his cheering, flung the pantaloons, the vest, the jacket, the socks, the shirts, and the money into his lap. For a moment the poor fellow sat looking at the warm and costly garments that he held in his hands, silent in an astonishment too profound for speech, and then recovering the use of his organs he gasped forth, I swear, and then broke down and sobbed like a child. The trapper, kneeling beside the box, looked at the poor fellow with a face radiant with happiness, while his mouth was stretched with laughter, utterly unconscious that tears were brimming his own eyes. Oh, trapper, said Wild Bill, rising to his feet and holding the garments forth in his hands, this is the first present I ever received in my life. I have been kicked and cussed, sneered at and taunted, and I deserved it all. But no man ever gave me a lifter, shoddy-cared ascent, whether I starved or froze, lived or died. You know, John Norton, what a fool I've been and what has ruined me, and that when sober I'm more of a man than many who hoot me. And here I swear, old man, that while a button is on this jacket or two threads of these britches hold together, I'll never touch a drop of liquor, sick or well, living or dying. So help me, God, and there's my hand on it. Amen, exclaimed the trapper, as he sprang to his feet and clashed in his own strong palm, the hand that the other had stretched out to him. The Lord, in his mercy, benign when you've attempted, Bill, I keep you true to your pledge. Of all the pleasant sights that the angels of God, looking from their high homes, saw on earth that Christmas Eve, perhaps not one was dearer in their eyes than the spectacle here described, the two sturdy men standing with their hands clasped in solemn pledge of the reformation of the one and the helping sympathy of the other above that Christmas box in the cabin in the woods. It is not necessary to follow in detail the trapper's further examination of the box. The reader's imagination, assisted by many a happy reminiscence, will enable him to realize the scene. There was a small keg of powder, a large plug of lead, a little chest of tea, a bag of sugar, and also one of coffee. There were nails, matches, thread, buttons, a woolen under jacket, a pair of mittens, and a cap of choicest fur made of an otter's skin that Henry himself had trapped a year before. All these and other packages were taken out one by one, carefully examined and characteristically commented on by the trapper, and passed to Wildeville, who in turn inspected and commented on them, and then laid them carefully on the table. Beneath these packages was a thin board constituting a sort of division between its upper and lower half. There seems to be a sort of seller to this box, said the trapper, as he sat looking at the division. I shouldn't be surprised if the boy himself was in here somewhere, though be ready, Bill, for anything, for the Lord only knows what's underneath this board. Saying which the old man thrust his hand under one end of the division and pulled out a bundle loosely tied with a string which became unfastened as the trapper lifted the roll from its place in the box. And as he shook it open and held its contents at arm's length up to the light, the startled eyes of Wildeville and the earnest gaze of the trapper beheld a woman's dress. Heaven and earth, Bill exclaimed the trapper, what's this? And then a flash of light crossed his face in the illumination of which the look of wonder vanished and dropping upon his knees, he flung the dividing board out of the box and his companion and himself saw at a glance what was underneath. Children's shoes and dresses of warmest stuffs, tippets and mittens, a full suit for a little boy, boots and all, a jackknife and whistle, two dolls dressed in brave finery with flaxen hair and blue eyes, a little hatchet, a huge ball of yarn, and a hundred and one things needed in the household, and underneath all a Bible, and under that a silver star on a blue field and pinned to the silk a scrap of paper on which was written, hang this over the picture of the lad. I said the trapper in a tremulous voice as he looked at the silver star. It shall be done as you say, boy, but the lad has got beyond the clouds and his walk on a trail that is lighted from end to end by a light clearer and brighter than ever come from the shining of any star. I hope we may be found worthy to walk it with him, boy, when we too have come to the edge of the great clarin'. To the trapper it was perfectly evident for whom the contents of the box were intended, but the sender had left nothing in doubt, for when the old man had lifted from the floor the board that he had flung out, he discovered some writing traced with heavy penciling on the wood, and which without much effort he spelled out to Wild Bill, give these on Christmas day to the woman at the dismal hut and a merry Christmas to you all. I, I, said the trapper, et chaube did, bar an accident, as you say, and a merry Christmas it'll make for us all. Lord, a messy, what will the poor woman say when she and her little ones get these warm garments on? There'll be no trouble about filling the basket now. No, I certainly can't get half of the stuff in. Wow, Bill, I guess you'll have to do some more sledding tomorrow, for these presents must go over the mountain in the morning if we have to harness up the pups. And then he told his companion of the poor woman and the children and his intended visit to them on the morrow. I fear, he said, that they'd be havin' a hard time of it, especially if her husband has deserted her. Little good he would do her if he was with her, answered Wild Bill, for he's a lazy knave when he is sober and a thief as well. As you and I know, John Norton, for he's fingered our traps more than once and swapped the skins for liquor at the Dutchman's, but he's thieves once too many times, for the folks in the settlement has catched him in the act and they put him in the jail for six months as I heard day before yesterday. I'm glad on it, yes, I'm glad on it, answered the trapper, and I hope they'll keep him there till they've learned him how to work. I've had my eye on the knave for a good while and the last time I seen him, I told him if he'd fingered any more of my traps, I'd learn him the commandments in a way he wouldn't forget. And as I had him in hand and felt a little talk in that morning, I gave him a piece of my mind and touching his treatment of his wife and little ones that he didn't relish, I fancy, for a Winston squirmed like a fox in a trap. Yes, I'm glad that they've got the knave and I hope they'll keep him till he's answered for his misdoing, but I'm certainly outfeared the poor woman be having a hard time of it. I fear so too, answered Wild Bill, and if I can do anything to help you in your plans, just say the word and I'm your man to back or hall just as you want me. And so it was arranged that they should to go over the mountain together on the morrow and take the provisions and the gifts that were in the box to the poor woman. And after talking a while of the happiness their visit would give, the two men happy in their thoughts and with their hearts full of that peace which passeth the understanding of the selfish. Laid themselves down to sleep and over the two, the one drawing to the close of an honorable and well-spent life, the other standing at the middle of a hitherto useless existence, but facing the future with a noble resolution, over the two as they slept, the angels of Christmas kept their watch. Two, on the other side of the mountain stood the dismal hut and the stars of that blessed eve had shone down upon the lonely clearing in which it stood and the smooth white surface of the frozen and snow-covered lake which lay in front of it as brightly as they had shown on the cabin of the trapper. But no friendly step had made its trail in the surrounding snow and no blessed gift had been brought to its solitary door. As the evening wore on, the great clearing round about it remained drearily void of sound or motion and filled only with the white stillness of the frosty snow-lighted night. Once indeed a wolf stole from underneath the dark balsams into the white silence and running up a huge log that lay a slant a ledge of rocks, looked across and round the great opening in the woods, stood a moment, then gave a shivering sort of a yelp and scuttled back under the shadow of the forest as if its darkness was warmer than the frozen stillness of the open space. An owl perched somewhere amid the pine-tops, snug and warm, within the cover of its arctic plumage, engaged from time to time in solemn gossip with some neighbor that lived on the opposite shore of the lake. And once a raven roosting on the dry bow of a lightning-blasted pine dreamed that the white moonlight was the light of dawn and began to stir his sable wings and croak a harsh welcome. But awakened by his blunder and ashamed of his mistake, he broke off in the very midst of his discordant call and again settled gloomily down amid his black plumes to his interrupted repose, making by his sudden silence the surrounding silence more silent than before. It seemed as if the very angels, who we are taught, fly abroad over all the earth that blessed night, carrying gifts to every household, had forgotten the cabin in the woods and had left it to the cold hospitality of unsympathetic nature. Within the lonely hut, which thus seemed forgotten of heaven itself, sat a woman huddling her young, two girls and a boy. The fireplace was of monstrous proportions and the chimney yawned upward so widely that one looking up the city passage might see the stars shining overhead. A little fire burned feebly in the huge stone recess. Scant warmth might such a fire yield kindled in such a fireplace to those around it. Indeed, the little flame seemed conscious of its own inability and burned with a wavering and mistrustful flicker as if it were discouraged in view of the task set before it and had more than half concluded to go out altogether. The cabin was of large size and undivided into apartments. The little fire was only able to illuminate the central section and more than half of the room was hidden in utter darkness. The woman's face, which the faint flame over which she was scrouched revealed with painful clearness showed pale and haggard. The induration of exposure and the tightening lines of hunger sharpened and amare the countenance which a happier fortune would have kept even comely. It had that old look about it which comes from wretchedness rather than age and the weariness of this expression was pitiful to see. Was it work or vain waiting for happier fortunes that made her look so tired? Alas, the weariness of waiting for what we long for and long for purely but which never comes. Is it the work or the longing, the long longing that has put the silver in your head, friend, and scarred the smooth bloom of your cheeks, my lady, with those ugly lines? Mother, I'm hungry, said the little boy, looking up into the woman's face. Can't I have just a little more to eat? Vestel answered the woman sharply, speaking in the tones of vexed inability. I've given you almost the last morsel in the house. The boy said nothing more, but nestled up more closely to his mother's knee and stuck one little stockingless foot out until the cold toes were half hidden in the ashes. Oh warmth, blessed warmth, how pleasant art thou to old and young alike. Thou art the emblem of life, as thy absence is the evidence and sign of life's cold opposite. Would that all the cold toes in the world could get to my great tonight and all the shivering ones be gathered to this fireside? I and that the children of poverty that lack for bread might get their hungry hands into that well-filled cupboard there too. In a moment the woman said, you children had better go to bed, you'll be warmer in the rags than in this miserable fireplace. The words were harshly spoken as if the very presence of the children, cold and hungry, as they were, was a vexation to her and they moved off in obedience to her command. Oh cursed poverty, I know thee to be of Satan for I myself have eaten at thy scant table and slept in thy cold bed and never yet have I seen thee bring one smile to human lips or dry one tear as it fell from a human eye. But I have seen thee sharpen the tongue for biting speech and hardened the tender heart. By I've seen thee make even the presence of love a burden and caused the mother to wish that the puny babe nursing her scant breast had never been born and so the children went to their unsightly bed and silence reigned in the hut. Mother, said one of the girls speaking out of the darkness, Mother, isn't it Christmas Eve? Yes, answered the woman sharply, go to sleep. And again, there was silence. Happy is childhood that amid whatever deprivation and misery it can so weary itself in the day that when night comes on it can lose in the forgetfulness of slumber its sorrows and wants. Thus, while the children lost the sense of their unhappy surroundings including the keen pangs of hunger for a time and under the tattered blankets that covered them saw perhaps visions of enchanting lands and in their dreams feasted at those wonderful tables which hungry children see only in sleep. To the poor woman sitting at the failing fire there came no surcease of sorrow and no vision through even an avoniscent brightness over the hard, cold facts of her surroundings. And the reality of her condition was dire enough, God knows. Alone in the wilderness, miles from any human habitation the trails covered deep with snow, her provisions exhausted, actual suffering already upon them and starvation staring them squarely in the face no wonder that her soul sank within her, no wonder that her thoughts turned towards bitterness. Yes, it's Christmas Eve, she muttered, and the rich will keep it gaily. God sends them presents enough, by a sea if he remembers me. Oh, they may talk about the angels of Christmas Eve flying abroad tonight, loaded with gifts, but they'll fly mighty high above this jantia, I reckon. Now they don't even drop a piece of meat as they soar past. And so she sat muttering and moaning over her woes, and they were heavy enough, too heavy for her poor soul, unassisted to lift, while the flame on the hearth grew thinner and thinner until it had no more warmth in it than the shadow of a ghost, and, like its resemblance, was about to flit and fade away. At last she said, in a softened tone, as if the remembrance of the Christmas legend had softened her surly thoughts and sweetened the bitter mood, perhaps I'm wrong to take on so. Perhaps it isn't God's fault that I and my children are deserted and starving, but why should the innocent be punished for the guilty, and why should the wicked have enough and to spare, while those who do no evil go half-naked and starved? Alas, poor woman, that puzzle has puzzled many besides thee, and many lips besides thine have asked that question, quarellously or entreatingly, many a time. But whether they ask it in vexation and rebellion of spirit or humbly besought heaven to answer, to neither murmur nor prayer did heaven vouchsafe a response. Is it because we are so small, or being small, or so inquisitive, that the great oracle of the blue remains so dumb when we cry? At this point the poor little flame, as if unable to abide the cold much longer, flared fitfully and uneasily shifted itself from brand to brand, threatening with many a flicker to go out. But the woman, with her elbows on her knees and her face settled firmly between her hands, still sat with eyes that saw not the feeble flame at which they so steadily gazed. I will do it, I will do it, she suddenly exclaimed. I will make one more effort. They shall not starve while I have enough strength to try. Perhaps God will aid me. They say he always does at the last pinch, and he certainly sees that I am there now. I wonder if he's been waiting for me to get just where I am before he helped me. There is one more chance left, and I'll make the trial. I'll go down to the shore where I saw the big tracks in the snow. It's a long way, but I shall get there somehow. If God is going to be good to me, he won't let me freeze or faint on the way. Yes, I'll creep into bed now and try to get a little sleep, for I must be strong in the morning. And with these words the poor woman crept off to her bed and burrowed down more like an animal than a human being beside her little ones as they lay huddled close together and asleep down in the rags. What angel was it that followed her to her miserable couch and stirred kindly feelings in her bosom? Some sweet one, surely, for she shortly lifted herself to a sitting posture and gently drawing down the old blanket with which the children, for warmth's sake, had wrapped their heads, looked as only a mother might at the three little faces lying side by side and bending tenderly over them, she placed a gentle kiss upon the forehead of each. Then she nestled down again in her own place and said, perhaps God will help me. And with this sentence, half a prayer and half a doubt, born on the one hand from that sweet fate which never quite deserts a woman's bosom and on the other from that bitter experience which had made her seem in her own eyes deserted of God, she fell asleep. She too dreamed, but her dreaming was only the prolongation of her waking thoughts, for long after her eyes closed she moved uneasily on her hard couch and muttered, perhaps God will, but perhaps, sad is it for us who are old enough to have tasted the bitterness of that cup which life sooner or later presents to all lips and have borne the burden of its toil and fretting that our vexations and disappointments pursue us even in our slumber, disturbing our sleep with reproachful visions and the sound of voices whose upbraiding robs us of our otherwise peaceful repose. Perhaps somewhere in the years to come after much wandering and weariness guided of God we may come to that fountain of which the ancients dreamed and for which the noblest among them sought so long and died seeking, plunging into which we shall find our lost youth in its cool depths and rising refreshed and strengthened shall go on our eternal journey reclothed with the beauty, the innocence and the happiness of our youth. The poor woman slept uneasily and with much muttering to herself, but the rapid hours slid noiselessly down the icy grooves of night and soon the cold morning put its white face against the frozen windows of the east and peered shiveringly forth. Who says the earth cannot look as cold and forbidding as the human countenance? The sky hung over the frozen world like a dome of gray steel whose invisibly matched plates were riveted here and there by a few white gleaming stars. The surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed colorlessly cold. The air seemed armed and full of sharp, eager points that pricked the skin painfully. The great tree trunks cracked their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath their bark. The lake from under the smothering ice roared in dismay and pain and sent the thunders of its wrath at its imprisonment around the resounding shores. A bitter morn, a bitter morn, ah me, a bitter morn for the poor. The woman, awakened by the gray light, moved in the depths of the tattered blankets, sat upright, rubbed her eyes with her hands, looked about her as if to recall her scattered senses, and then, as thought returned, crept stealthily out of the hole in which she had lain that she might not wake the children who, coiled together, slumbered on, still closely clasped in the arms of blessed unconsciousness. They had better sleep, she said to herself, if I fail to bring a meat, I hope they will never wake. If the poor woman could only have foreseen the bitter disappointment or that other something of which the future was to bring her, would she have made that prayer? Is it best for us, as some say, that we cannot see what is coming, but must weep on till the last tear is shed, uncheered by the sweet fortune so nigh, or laugh unchecked until the happy tones are mingled with and smothered by the rising moan? Is it best, I wonder? She noiselessly gathered together what additions she could make to her garments, and then, taking down the rifle from its hangings, opened the door and stepped forth into the outer cold. There was a look of brave determination in her eyes, as she faced the chilly greeting the world gave her, and with more of hopefulness than had before appeared upon her countenance, she struck bravely off along the lake shore, which at this point receded toward the mountain. For an hour she kept steadily on, with her eyes constantly on the alert for the least sign of the wished and prayed-for game. Suddenly she stopped and crouched down in the snow, peering straight ahead. Well might she seek concealment for there, standing on a point of land that jetted sharply out into the lake, not forty yards away, unscreened and plain to view, stood a buck of such goodly proportions, as one even in years of hunting might not see. The woman's eyes fairly gleamed, as she saw the noble animal standing thus in full sight. But who may tell the agony of fear and hope that filled her bosom? The buck stood lordly erect, facing the east, as if he would do homage to, or receive homage from, the rising sun, whose yellow beams fell full upon his uplifted front. The thought of her mind, the fear of her heart, were plain. The buck would soon move. When he moved, which way would he move? Would he go from or come toward her? Would she get him, or would she lose him? Oh, the agony of that thought! God of the starving burst from her quivering lips, let not my children die. Many prayers, more ornate, rose that day to him whose ears are open to all cries, but of all that preyed on that Christmas morn, whether with few words or many, surely no heart rose with the seeking words more earnestly than that of the poor woman kneeling as she preyed, rifle in hand, amid the snow. God of the starving, let not my children die. That was her prayer, and as if in answer to her agonizing petition, the buck turned and began to advance directly toward her, browsing as he came. Once he stopped, looked around, and snuffed the air suspiciously. Had he scented her presence, and would he bound away? Should she fire now? No, her judgment told her she could not trust the gun or her aim at such a range. He must come nire, come even to the big maple and stand there, not ten rods away. Then she felt sure she could get him. So she waited. Oh, how the cold ate into her. How her teeth chattered as the chills ran their torturing courses through her thin, shivering frame. But still she clutched the cold barrel, and still she watched and waited, and still she prayed. God of the starving, let not my children die. Alas, poor woman, my own body shivers as I think of thine, and my pen falters to write what misery befell thee on that wretched morn. Did the buck turn? Did he, having come so tantalizingly nire, retrace his steps? No, he continued to advance. Had heaven heard her prayer? Her soul answered it had, and with such feelings in it toward him, to whom she had appealed, as she had not felt in all her life before, she steadied herself for the shot. For even as she prayed, the deer came on, came to the big maple, and lifted his muzzle to his highest reach to seize with his tongue a thin streamer of moss that lay against the smooth bark. There he stood, his blue-brown side full-torter, unconscious of her presence. Noiselessly she cocked the piece. Noiselessly she raised it to her face, and with every nerve drawn to its tightest tension, sighted the noble game, and fired. Had the frosty air watered her eye? Was it a tear of joy and gratitude that dimmed the clearness of its sight? Or were the half-frozen fingers unable to steady the cold barrel at the instant of its explosion? We know not. We only know that in spite of prayer, in spite of noblest effort, she missed the game. For as the rifle cracked, the buck gave a snort of fear, and with swift bounds flew up the mountain, while the poor woman, dropping the gun with a groan, fell fainting on the snow. End of part eight, section one.