Part 4

“I pulled my father’s sleeve and whispered to him that the angel said we should find the Babe lying in a manger. And in truth, my children, when presently we were come to the place where the great oxen were housed from the winter’s cold, we found the young mother and the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. He, the Salvation of Israel--the Messiah--the Desire of Nations! These eyes gazed upon Him in His beauty. These hands touched Him as He lay asleep in the manger nestled in His soft garments on the yellow straw.”

The tremulous voice faltered--ceased. The old man bent forward smiling, as if once again he gazed upon the world’s Savior asleep in His manger cradle.

One of the girls laid a timid finger on the border of the pilgrim’s cloak. “And was He--like other babies?” she asked in a low voice.

“Like other babies?” smiled the old man. “Yea, verily, little one, He was fashioned in all points even as we are--thanks be unto Jehovah! Yet was He unlike--so wondrous fair, so heavenly beautiful was that Babe of Bethlehem as He lay even as an angel asleep in that humblest bed of all the earth. The milk-white blossoms I had gathered shone faint in the half darkness like tiny stars. I laid them at His feet and their fragrance filled all the place as incense.”

The aged shepherd looked down at the flowers in his withered hands, his slow tears falling upon them like holy dew. Also he murmured strange words to which the children listened with wonder, albeit they understood them not at all. “Behold He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the World knew him not. For by Him were all things created that are in Heaven, and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers. These things saith the Amen, the faithful and true witness.”

Then the children stole quietly away one by one, till presently they were again at play amid the myriad blossoms of the star flower. But the old man rested beneath the shepherds’ tower, while the shadows lengthened across the Field of Angels.

[6] Reprinted by permission of the author and the “Ladies’ Home Journal.”

SHOPPING WITH GRANDMOTHER MINTON[7]

_Daisy Crabbe Curtis_

“There!” said Grandmother Minton, standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, all unmindful of the fact that she was blocking the way of the hurrying Christmas shoppers. “That child has hurt himself! I can tell by the way he cries. Pick him up, Susan!”

“O grandmother!” protested Susan. “He’s dirty!”

“Bumps hurt a dirty boy just as much as a clean one,” said Grandmother Minton.

Susan sighed, and with the air of a martyr lifted the weeping urchin to his feet.

“It’s his forehead, poor child!” said Grandmother Minton, gently touching a red bump on the boy’s forehead. “Don’t cry, sonny; grandma’s got somethin’ in her little black bag that will stop the hurt. Here ’tis--arnica, and a nice clean handkerchief to bind it up with,” she went on soothingly as she worked. “Feels better already, eh? And here’s somethin’ more to help,” she added, popping a piece of white candy into his mouth. “That’s good for the cry. All right, now?”

“Grandmother, come!” whispered Susan with scarlet cheeks.

She was painfully embarrassed by the curious crowd that had collected about them.

“Wait till I see if he walks all right,” said the old lady, whose face was filled with motherly anxiety.

“Of course he walks all right! Do come!”

The bystanders made way respectfully for the little old lady and her stylishly dressed granddaughter. Susan carefully avoided their glances, but Grandmother Minton beamed impartially upon them all from behind her massive-rimmed spectacles.

Would grandmother ever learn not to make herself so conspicuous, Susan wondered. Mother might have known that something like this would happen. She ought not to have insisted upon Susan’s going with grandmother to the city, and on a shopping expedition, too! “Why,” thought Susan, glancing at her companion, “even if grandmother wasn’t always doing things that make people stop and look at her, they would look at her just the same because of her queer, old-fashioned clothes! Why will she insist upon making them herself, and all after the same old pattern, when father’s ready and willing to buy her the best the stores afford? Why can’t she be like Lillian Teller’s grandmother, always dressed in fashion and with her hair stylishly arranged? And why will grandmother persist in carrying that absurd old black velvet bag everywhere she goes? Hasn’t each of us, at some time or other, given her a new bag?”

“Why don’t you take one of your new bags?” Susan had asked grandmother that very morning when they started for the train.

“It seems like they’re too gorgeous,” grandmother had said, “to hold my peppermint drops and snacks of medicine and pennies for the children, not to mention my packet of court-plaster and spectacle case and bit of thread and needle. The bags you dear people gave me just go with ’broidered handkerchiefs and smellin’ salts and ten-dollar bills,” she added, with a twinkle in her eye.

“But your black bag is so--shabby.”

“Tut, child, it’s an old friend grown shabby in helpin’ me and others. Your grandfather gave it to me before he died and I came to live at your house. That bag’s seen good times and bad times. It’s taken medicine to the poor and the sick. It’s carried my clean handkerchief and collection money to church. It’s been to weddin’s and funerals, and even carried a set of infant’s clothes for a newborn babe of the Raffertys’ that hadn’t a stitch to its back. Why,” said Grandmother Minton, tenderly smoothing its rusty drawing-strings, “you don’t know how lonesome and homesick I’d feel without this bag!”

“Here we are at Trasher & Brown’s,” said Susan as they approached a great store. “Now, what’s first on your list?” she asked briskly. “I’ll just hurry her along,” she thought, “and maybe we can catch the one-thirty train home.”

“Let’s see!” said Grandmother Minton, pulling a worn piece of paper from her bag. “You’ll have to read it for me, Susan. I left my readin’ specs at home.”

“Peppermint sticks,” read Susan. “Candy’s in the basement. Let’s take the elevator.”

“Department stores are funny,” said Grandmother Minton, with a chuckle. “Candy, calicoes and furniture all mixed up together.” They had reached the candy counter, and she addressed the clerk in a confidential tone. “Yes, I want peppermint sticks, red and white ones. They’re the tastiest for Christmas. What? Oh, two dozen, I should say! Let me see, they’re for the Raffertys and Bensons and Manders and-- Best make it three dozen. What’s that, Susan? A shopping card? You tell her how to make it out. I’m too old-fashioned for shopping cards, I guess. What next, Susan? Oh, yes, dolls! Nellie Rafferty wants a yellow-haired one. Can you tell me where the yellow-haired dolls are?” she asked the clerk. “Nellie Rafferty’s set her heart--”

“I know where the dolls are, grandmother,” said Susan hastily.

She did wish that grandmother would not always take the clerks into her confidence!

Grandmother Minton fairly reveled in the doll department. She went from one show case to another, exclaiming over the pretty curls and attractive dresses. Each doll brought for her inspection seemed more beautiful than the last, and she could not decide which one would best please ragged little Nellie Rafferty. Susan was in despair! It was after twelve o’clock and she had seen other items on grandmother’s list; a fire engine, a red cart, some brown yarn, a girl’s coat, infant’s underwear, shoes and stockings. She fairly gasped. Why, they would be lucky if they reached home on the three-eighteen!

“Grandmother,” she suggested, “how would it be if I bought some of the other things for you while you’re selecting the doll? Shall I,” consulting the list, “buy the girl’s coat and the infant’s underwear?”

“Why, you might, I suppose, though I’d counted on pickin’ them out myself.”

“It will save time if I do it.”

“Well,” agreed Grandmother Minton reluctantly, “I’ll try and tell you exactly what I want. The coat’s to be eight-year size, and mind, it must be durable. Like’s not, it will be handed down from one child to another in the Benson family, and they’re such husky young ones it’ll have to be good and stout to stand the strain. The infant’s underwear is to be one-year size and wool, Susan! Don’t let them give you anything but wool.”

“Yes, yes,” said Susan, impatient to be off. “Stay right here, grandmother, until I come for you.”

It took Susan much longer than she had expected to purchase the coat and underwear. She had to go to the third floor for the coat, and she found a sales clerk busy trying to please a most exacting customer, who seemed to want to examine every coat in stock before making a selection. When Susan’s turn came, she hurriedly purchased a dark blue chinchilla and then went in search of the underwear.

The afternoon shoppers were beginning to throng the floors when Susan finally made her way back to the toy department. That, thought Susan, must account for the fact that, although she had nearly reached the spot where the dolls were sold, she had not yet caught a glimpse of a little white-haired lady in an old-fashioned black dress and with a shabby black velvet bag in her hand.

“This is the very counter where I left her,” said Susan, with a puzzled frown. “She must be looking at some of the show cases near by, or perhaps she has walked a little way to look for me.”

She was beginning to feel anxious, for she knew that Grandmother Minton would not be likely to wander about the big store for herself.

Susan began to thread her way among the shoppers, scanning each one sharply. At first she was deliberate and polite, but after she had circled several times round the toy department and still had caught no glimpse of Grandmother Minton’s kind old face she became desperate and pushed her way rudely hither and thither. What had become of her grandmother? Was she wandering helplessly round with no one to pilot her? Would anyone notice that she was lost and try to help her?

Susan stopped short in her wanderings. A possibility that filled her with dread had flashed into her mind. Such things had happened to other people, she knew. Could it be that grandmother had been taken suddenly ill and been rushed to the hospital? What would father say? Was not Grandmother Minton his own mother? Had he not cautioned Susan that morning to take the best of care of her and bring her safe home to him again? Now, she would have to telephone and tell him--oh, she could not! And what would mother say? And all the Raffertys and Bensons and Manders? They worshipped Grandmother Minton!

Some one grasped Susan’s arm, and the polite voice of the floorwalker questioned her.

“What is it, miss? Have you lost your purse?”

Susan realized then that she had been wringing her hands and that tears were in her eyes.

“No!” she gasped. “I--I wish I had.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I’ve lost my grandmother,” explained Susan. “Have you seen her?”

The puzzled look upon the floorwalker’s face caused Susan to be more coherent. She told him what had happened, and he suggested that she go to the waiting-room and rest while he went to the office and made various inquiries. He was sure that they would be able to find her grandmother. And, Susan, because she was bewildered and felt faint and weary and knew nothing better to do, acted upon his suggestion.

The waiting-room was filled with the usual number of weary shoppers, some of whom were trying to soothe fretful children. Susan sat down in one of the vacant chairs. It had been more than an hour since she had missed her grandmother. Could it be only yesterday that she had gone to her to have her gloves mended at the very last minute, so that she might wear them to the concert? It seemed ages and ages ago. Grandmother had never been out of patience with Susan, not even during that week when she was taking her high-school examinations and was so snappy and cross to everyone.

“Oh,” thought Susan remorsefully. “I’m just hateful to grandmother! It was wonderful of her to help that child this morning. I’m such a proud, stuck-up thing I’d have let him die, I suppose, rather than lift my hand to help him. Grandmother would help anyone who’s in need. She’d give her last cent to--”

“There,” said a cheery voice, “you look better! Wasn’t it lucky I was near by when you felt faint?”

Susan turned sharply and her eyes opened wide. There, bending solicitously over a woman who lay on the divan, was grandmother! She had in her hand one of the little bottles from her black bag and was bathing and rubbing the sick woman’s forehead. Susan held her breath and drew near. How infinitely dear grandmother was! She had taken off her coat and looked so quaint and grandmotherly in her fitted basque and softly shirred skirt. How suitably the close little bonnet framed the white hair, plump face and kind blue eyes!

Susan’s gaze wandered to the woman to whom her grandmother was ministering. She was so stylishly gowned that Susan was astonished when she saw her face. It was much wrinkled and, in spite of the faint touch of rouge on the cheeks, looked ghastly. “She’s old,” thought Susan, “in spite of her stylish, young-looking clothes. Why, she must be older than grandmother! Maybe she’s a grandmother, too, but she doesn’t look like a comfortable one. _She’d_ never go into the kitchen and make doughnuts for me and mince pie for Brother Jack. She’d never help a dirty child that had hurt himself!”

“Grandmother!” called Susan softly.

“Well, Sue, child,” said Grandmother Minton, with a welcoming smile, “so you’ve come for me! I aimed to get back to the doll counter before you came, but this lady was taken faint right near where I was, and of course, I came here with her. Lan’s sake child, you look pale yourself! Sit right down in this chair. I’ll have to rub your forehead, too.”

“I’m all right now that I’ve found you. Oh, grandmother, I thought you were lost!”

“Well, well, I was comin’ right back, Sue. Here’s my handkerchief. There! I guess,” said Grandmother Minton, with a smile, as she fumbled in her black bag, “if you are going to cry, I’ll have to give you a candy drop like I gave that little boy this mornin’.”

“Do,” said Susan, laughing through her tears, “and get it from the bottom of your little black bag, grandmother!”

[7] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 28, 1916. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”

A MISLAID UNCLE[8]

_E. Vinton Blake_

Five feet eleven of vigorous, well-fed, clean-shaven humanity, a little past the middle age, enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat, and carrying a handsome dress-suit case; this was John James Alston of New York, a hard-headed, hard-hearted old bachelor, with no kith or kin in the world, that he knew. There might be a few distant cousins or so, somewhere out Connecticut way; he didn’t know or care. He had worked his way in the world himself, and made a moderate fortune, and knew how to take care of it. What more did a man want?

The Pullman porters had eyed him respectfully, at intervals, all the way from New York: his air and apparel indicated wealth, and his manner commanded instant obedience. Nothing in his firm-set mouth, the poise of his head, his cool dignity, betrayed the fact that the habits of a lifetime were attacked and in danger of being carried by assault. And the besieger was a mite of a four-year-old girl, all daintiness and captivating ways, whose mother occupied a near-by chair in the Pullman car. The little miss persisted in hovering about the cold, quiet gentleman and attracting his attention. John James Alston rather liked children, when they were well-behaved; and when mama said, “No, no,” and drew the intruder away, the dainty red lips quivered. In dread of an outburst,--John James disliked crying children--he suddenly emerged from his shell.

“Pray let her come, madam; I shall enjoy it,” was what he said. And directly he found himself taken possession of in the most astonishing way, and made the recipient of all manner of Christmas confidences.

“You goin’ home for Kis’mus?” she said, cuddling into his lap. Finding he had no friends to visit, no little girls to play with, she said she was “drefful sorry.” Then she told him about the delights of “gwanpa’s” when all the uncles and aunts and cousins were assembled. When she got out at Stonington, he felt a great loss. And now, as he walked the platform at the Junction, waiting for another train, he was somehow conscious of a strange and unusual loneliness. It was two days before Christmas. All day he had seen jubilant family groups at stations welcoming their arriving relatives; all day he had heard talk of home-coming and Christmas gifts among children and grown-ups on the train. John James Alston, I am sorry to say, became decidedly cross. “I was stupid,” he told himself, “to start anywhere on business at this season. I might just as well have waited till next week, and avoided all this nonsense.” And he wished himself back again in his cozy bachelor apartments in New York.

His meditations had carried him thus far when somebody seized his hands. “Aren’t you Uncle John from the West?” cried a girl’s voice. And a boy’s chimed in: “Of course it’s Uncle John! How do you do, Uncle John?” Then childish accents uttered, “I know’d him by his picshur!” And hurrying across the platform, a stout, cheerful woman pushed the children aside, crying, “John Damon! And you wrote you didn’t think you could come!” Then she shook him by both hands and kissed him impulsively.

John James Alston caught his breath. The woman was so wholesome and hearty, though she _did_ wear a thick shawl and an unfashionable bonnet, that--well, he collected himself and managed to say, “Madam, there’s a mistake”; but she didn’t hear or pay the slightest attention to what he said.

“Billy, bring the horse around, quick,” she commanded. “It’s ten minutes before the other train comes. We’ll just have time to get away. Old Griggs’ll never get over being scared of the cars,” with a smile to John James. “Dolly, don’t hang on to your uncle so. Maidie, can’t you get her away?”

“Want my nuncle to carry me,” declared Dolly, the smallest girl, clinging to John James’s immaculate glove. He looked down. The face that looked up was dimpling and sweet in its worsted hood, and golden curls peeped out all around it. He never was able to explain the impulse that moved him, and what followed was a wonderment to him all his life; but the protest died on his lips, and he picked up the smallest girl and hugged her. Then and there he shook off John James Alston as he left the dismal Junction platform, and, as “Uncle John” from the West, submitted to be led to the waiting carryall.

“Get right in on the back seat,” said the cheerful woman. “Maidie, you an’ Dolly can sit back there, too. I’ll drive. Or, no--Billy can drive.” Sarah’s grammar was not quite up to the mark but you can hear the like of it in the country any day.

They piled in jubilantly and pulled up the buffalo-robes. John James’s dress-suit case was in the way, and he told Billy to put his feet right on it and never mind!

“Won’t your brother Asher be glad to see you!” exclaimed the woman. “Le’ ’s see--it’s full ten years, if ’tis a day, sence you came East. How is everything in Cheyenne?”

John James assured her that Cheyenne was all right.

“You must ’a’ be’n lonesome sence Annie died. Pity you never had any children. Home wouldn’t be home to me without children.”

“That’s true,” said John James.

“I don’t s’pose you remember Maidie--she was a baby when you saw her last.” John said he hardly remembered Maidie. “An’ Billy--he’s ten; and Dolly, four--they’ve come sence you left us. They’re both mine.”

“And I’ve a little brother, Aunt Sarah,” put in Maidie.

“Yes, Asher an’ Mary’s had both sorrow an’ joy,” said the cheerful woman, more soberly. “They lost a little girl, but they have a little two-year-old boy. His name’s John, after you.”

“Oh, so I’ve a namesake,” said John James. He tried to get his bearings, and kept his ears open for names and facts. But reflection was also at work; he remembered that the day after to-morrow was Christmas, and the uncle from the West had not one Christmas gift for his namesake or the family. He realized with a sudden alarm that he had to do something, and do it quickly.

“By the way, is there a long-distance telephone round here?” he asked.

“Why, yes; down at the depot,” said Billy, pulling up. “Want I should drive back?”

“No; I’ll just run over there, myself,” said John James. “You keep old Griggs round the corner here. I’ll be right back.”

He made haste across the wide country square. Aunt Sarah, watching him, said, “He’s spry, ain’t he?” and then, “I guess he’s well off. That coat didn’t cost no small sum.”

John James found the telephone, and got connections with a Boston business man whom he knew well. Before he had talked three minutes, the business man’s hair began to rise on his head, and he interrupted to inquire if John James was really himself or another. With great irritation, John James replied in hasty language, and bade him confine his attention to the subject in hand. He talked for fully ten minutes. At the end he was assured that his order was received and would be duly honored.

“And rush it!” was John James’s parting injunction as he hung up the receiver.

The station-master eyed him queerly as he came out. “Le’ ’s see--you look like John Damon used to--not exactly, either--more cityfied! But you _be_ him, ain’t ye?”

“That’s what they call me,” replied John, and submitted to be greeted as an old friend in the jolliest way possible. He also acquired some new facts.

“Your father’s feeble--very feeble,” said the man. “I’m glad you were able to come home to spend Christmas with him.”

“I find it hard to leave my affairs,” soberly said John James.

“They said you wrote so. Wal, you’ll find Asher some grayer, but jolly still. He’s got the mor’gidge all paid off but five hundred or so. He was talkin’ of old times only t’other day, and how much you boys used to think of each other. D’ye rember how he once took the whippin’ ’twas meant for you, an’ never said nothin’?”

“I remember a good many things,” said John James as he left him, and in a few minutes again took his place in the carryall.

He was becoming more and more interested in the family history which “Aunt Sarah” continued to give him, when, at last, the carryall turned up a farm-house lane, and they saw a woman step uncertainly to the side door.

“There’s Mary,” said Aunt Sarah, and the children began to shout: “Here’s Uncle John!”

Asher Damon, the first to respond to the summons, stepped out of the door, a typical New England farmer, in his shirt-sleeves and overalls.

“By Jinks, this is great!” he exclaimed.

John James, descending, received and returned his vigorous hand-grip; kissed Mary, his sister-in-law; was rushed at and embraced by three strange women who addressed him as “Cousin John.” Then they all stood in a group and talked at once. “But come in!” said Asher suddenly--“come in and see father. He’ll be overjoyed. He’s insisted on Sarah goin’ to the depot every day for a week, on the chance of your comin’.” So John James went in to see his father.

He trembled a little under the keen and searching gaze of the old man, who got up and took him by both shoulders, turning his face to the light.

“You’re changed, boy, changed!” he said tremulously. “Seems like you’re steadier, graver. But you’ve lost your wife Annie. It’s natural, after all. It’s a good deal to me to see you to-day.”

And John James Alston suddenly shrank into himself and felt like the impostor he was.