Part 2

Fortunately there was no one at hand to reveal the fact that, no longer ago than two hours, Mr. Lemuel Perkins had stated firmly to the kitchen stove that “folks that walked in on you unasked and unwanted should at least pay for their vittles by doing all the housework.” Kitchen stoves do not taunt you with changing your mind, so Uncle Lemuel was not hampered by the fear that has kept many a better man from improving on himself.

By half-past nine the Perkins kitchen shone resplendent in the morning sunshine with a brightness reminiscent of the days when Aunt Nancy had boasted proudly that her kitchen was the pleasantest room in the house.

Uncle Lemuel would really have liked to sit down and enjoy its sunny neatness for a while, but an irresistible impulse had begun tugging at his cowhide boots, and Uncle Lemuel had no choice but to set them at once on the path to the post-office. For nine o’clock is “mail time” in Oatka Centre, and either totally unsocial or completely bedridden are the menfolks who fail to forgather on a fine winter morning in the ever-exciting pursuit of the letter that never comes.

“I’m goin’ over to the office, and to get the meat,” he announced, pulling his old cap down over his ears.

“Oh, I hope you’ll get me a letter!” cried Mary. “I never feel perfectly at home in a new place till I begin to get mail. Do you know the post-master, Uncle Lemuel?”

“Know Marthy Ann Watkins?” jeered Uncle Lemuel. “Knowed her since she was knee high to a grasshopper. And, moreover, if there’s a man, woman, or child in this township that don’t know Marthy Ann, it ain’t her fault; you can bet your bottom dollar on that. Keepin’ track of folks is her business. Prob’ly knows what we et for breakfast by this time.”

Mary’s laughter bubbled out merrily. “Goodness me, Uncle Lemuel! Then she knows that I haven’t written to mother yet, to tell her where I am. So I’d better do it right away. Maybe I’ll see you over at the post-office by-and-by. Have you any special messages for mother and father, or shall I just send your love?”

Uncle Lemuel was engaged in hauling his old cap still farther over his ears, and apparently he did not hear this amazing question, for he emitted no sounds but another grunt before the door slammed behind him.

“He _is_ deaf,” decided his little guest innocently; “but I mustn’t make him see that I notice it by asking over. Deaf people are so sensitive. Love will do this time, anyway.”

IV

HUNTING FOR THE PIE-MAKER

It was nearly ten o’clock when Mary pushed open the door of the post-office and stepped in. Not a soul was in sight, so she tiptoed over to the little window framed in boxes.

“Are you Miss Martha Watkins?” she inquired cheerfully.

“Mercy land!” ejaculated a thin lady inside, quitting at one bound her creaky rocking-chair and her enthralling occupation of sorting picture postcards. “Who be you, child, and whose mail do you want?”

“My own, if there is any—Mary Christie’s—but I guess there isn’t, for I only got here last night. I really came to mail my letter to mother, and get acquainted with you. My uncle said you were the friendliest lady in town, and I’m looking for friends, myself.”

“Who’s your uncle?” inquired Miss Watkins.

“Mr. Lemuel Perkins, a very old friend of yours. Isn’t he nice?”

Miss Marthy overlooked the last question.

“And what did Lem Perkins say about me, did you say?” she demanded.

Mary knitted her brows.

“He said,” she repeated slowly, “that you—that you—oh, I know!—that you tried to be friends with everybody in town, and it wasn’t your fault if you weren’t. And I needed some help right away, so of course I came to you.”

Miss Watkins struggled not to look as pleased as she felt.

“Now, who in tunket would uv thought that of Lem Perkins?” she marvelled. “Well, he hit the nail on the head anyways. I do love to be friendly with folks, that’s certain. What can I do for you, sissy?”

“Can you tell me who’s the best pie-maker in town, since uncle’s housekeeper moved away? It’s such a shame she’s gone, for I want to learn right off for a surprise for uncle.”

“She that was the Widder Em Cottle, do you mean? Mis’ Caldwell that is?”

Mary hesitated.

“Uncle said the Widow Em. Is she Mrs. Caldwell, too? He said people thought she was the best pie-maker in town. Is that the one?”

Miss Watkins stared.

“Lem Perkins has certainly met a change of heart!” she ejaculated. “What made you think she’d moved away? She lives in that white house just beyond your uncle’s. I’ll bet he never told you the whole story, did he?”

She leaned forward eagerly.

But Mary was absorbed in her joy over the happy turn of affairs.

“Oh, goody, goody!” she exclaimed gleefully. “Why, I must have misunderstood uncle some way. Isn’t that glorious? Now I can run right up there, and maybe she’ll teach me before dinner. Oh, thank you so much, Miss Watkins. You are a real friend, just as uncle said. I’m going to come down this afternoon and get your help about Christmas, too. Good-bye.”

Right outside the door she encountered Mr. Bennett, the ’bus driver, returning from a leisurely trip to the “ten o’clock.”

“Well, if here ain’t the lady missionary!” he called cheerfully. “Where ye goin’ so fast this fine morning? Huntin’ heathen?”

Mary giggled.

“No,” she returned merrily. “Going to hunt for a missionary myself—Mrs. Caldwell, that was uncle’s housekeeper.”

“Jump in, then, and I’ll give ye a lift. I have to go right by the door, to carry some feed to Elder Smith’s.”

“Oh, goody!” cried Mary again, bobbing up on the front seat with one spring. “Another sleigh ride! And now, if uncle’s got home, he won’t see me go by.”

“Has Lem done anythin’ to scare ye?” demanded Mr. Bennett, suddenly dropping his joking manner.

“Mercy me, no!” answered Mary gaily. “Some people might be scared of that growly way he has, I suppose; but when you know how awfully nice he really is that only adds to the fun. I’m going now to learn how to make pies for him for a surprise. Isn’t it fine she’s so handy to our house? She’s the best pie-maker in town, uncle says.”

“You certainly are the beatin’est young one I’ve seen in a month of Sundays. Beg pardon, ma’am! I mean beatin’est lady missionary, o’ course. I seen your uncle, though, over to the blacksmith’s shop, so he won’t be poppin’ out and sp’ilin’ your surprise. Here we be to the Widder Em’s now. I’ll step in later to get some of the pies.”

“Do,” returned Mary cordially. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can make some real good ones, and then I’ll give you all you can eat. Uncle will love to have you.”

“Much obleeged,” chuckled Mr. Bennett. “I guess I had better drop in and get acquainted with that uncle of yourn, too. He sounds kind of furrin to me.”

Just then the side door flew open, and a fresh-looking woman in a red calico dress stepped out.

“Hello, Mr. Bennett,” she called. “Got anythin’ for me this morning?”

“Why, yes,” returned Mr. Bennett jocosely. “A Christmas present of an A-number-one missionary. She’s a-visitin’ her uncle, Mr. Lemuel Perkins; and now she’s got him converted she’s run over to neighbour with you for a spell. She’ll cure you of any heathen idees you’ve got, Em, quicker’n scat.”

Mary turned to shake her finger at Mr. Bennett, and then ran down the path.

“Isn’t he funny?” she laughed merrily. “Anybody’d think Uncle Lemuel was a heathen instead of the nicest uncle that ever was, wouldn’t they? But you know better. You’ve lived at his house. That’s why I came over. He says that he hasn’t had a decent piece of pie since you left. I guess you spoiled other people’s pies for him, for he says you are the very best pie-maker in town. So I came over to see if you wouldn’t teach me how. He’s been such a dear to me since I came that I do want to pay it back somehow—only, of course, you never can exactly.”

Surprise and pleasure struggled in Mrs. Caldwell’s countenance, as she led the way into her immaculate kitchen.

“Why, I didn’t know ’t Lem relished my pies so well,” she said deprecatingly. “I don’t lay out to be no great of a cook. Why, yes, of course I’ll teach you. ’Taint no knack.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried her little guest, bounding out of the rocking-chair in which she had just seated herself. “Could you do it to-day, do you think? Uncle says he’s been ‘real pindling’ since you left, and he thinks it’s on account of the pies.”

“You don’t say!” ejaculated her hostess. “Lem must ’a’ been feelin’ sorry for some of the things he said. I’m afeared there ain’t time to teach ye much afore noon, but I’ve got some fresh-baked pies handy. I’ll give ye one to take home with ye for dinner. You can come back this afternoon and learn how yourself.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” explained Mary. “You see, I really ought to do my Christmas shopping this afternoon. My family live so far away that they won’t get their presents now till awfully late, but I couldn’t before on account of the sickness at school. Where’s the best store in the village?”

“There ain’t but two,” laughed Mrs. Caldwell, “and I guess it’s which and t’other between ’em. They’ve both got in a pretty good stock this year. You’d better go to Job Simpson’s, I guess. Lem does his tradin’ there now.”

“Mother sent me five dollars,” announced her guest proudly. “I think, with all of that to spend, I’d better divide it between the two. Don’t you think it would be fairer? It might hurt the other man’s feelings if I didn’t buy anything of him, and mother says you mustn’t ever hurt people’s feelings if you can help it. What do you think Uncle Lemuel would like best? It’s hard to choose for a man—even father. What did you usually give him when you lived there?”

When a man grudgingly pays you only two dollars and a half a week for doing all of his housework, and making the kitchen garden besides, it is not very surprising that your Christmas presents to him have been few and far between, but under the glance of the shining eyes before her, the late “Widder Em” suddenly hesitated to explain that fact.

“Why, I dunno,” she stammered. “I—I—why don’t you give him a coffee cup? I’ll show you one I got for the deacon. It says ‘Merry Christmas’ on it in red.”

“Oh, oh!” cried the other Merry Christmas, gazing in an ecstasy of admiration. “It’ll be just the thing for me to give uncle, won’t it? If it only said ‘From,’ now! Oh, I didn’t tell you about my name, did I? Well, I must.”

And forthwith, away she pranced on her holly-wreathed hobby, till the woman, too, harked back in fancy to the days when “Christmas” was a name of magic, and launched forth into eager reminiscences of her childhood revels, while her visitor listened, entranced.

All at once she tore her gaze from the shining eyes before her.

“Mercy me, child!” she cried suddenly. “And here I was goin’ to have veal potpie for dinner, and the deacon’ll be as mad as a hatter if his vittles ain’t ready on the stroke!” She stopped and kissed the glowing face. “Couldn’t you stay, little Merry Christmas?” she asked softly.

“I wish I could!” cried Mary. “I’d love to! But you see I’m housekeeping for uncle, so I have to go right away. He’d be so disappointed if I wasn’t there. I’ll come some time with him, pretty soon.”

“‘Peace on earth, good will to men,’” quoted Mrs. Caldwell softly. “Then good-bye, little Christmas girl. Here’s another pie for you, dearie—mince. Lem was always partial to mince.”

“Oh, thank you _so_ much!” cried Mary in delight. “Uncle will be awfully pleased. He certainly has the nicest friends in the world. Good-bye, you dear Mrs. Caldwell. I must run and get things started.”

It was quarter to twelve when Uncle Lemuel stamped up the snowy path to the kitchen door and flung it open. On the stove a steaming kettle was bubbling merrily. On the table “covers were laid,” as the society column has it, for two. Certainly a pleasant sight for a hungry man who had been cooking his own dinners and setting his own table—if setting it could be called—for two dreary years. But, strangely enough, Uncle Lemuel’s gaze turned unsatisfied from the attractive table, and even rested coldly upon the bubbling pot.

“What’s become of that gal?” he growled to himself, dexterously kicking the door shut behind him.

A little blue gingham catapult dashed out from the departing shelter, and flung herself at his back, while two little hands made futile attempts to reach far enough to cover his eyes.

“Here I am!” cried a gay voice behind him. “Merry Christmas! Are you Mr. Santa Claus? I hope you’ve got some meat in your pack for me. I’m nearly starved, honest! I’ve got the potatoes and turnips on, the way you told me. Do you hear them? Oh, it’s sausage! Goody! I love sausage! And what do you think? I’ve got the nicest surprise for you, too. You’d better cook the sausage, though, for I can’t do it very well. And I will make the tea.”

Uncle Lem grunted almost as gruffly as ever in response, but, between you and me, that was just because he was trying so hard not to reveal the little thrills of pleasure that were warming the cockles of his hard old heart. And the best joke of all was that he never guessed that the softened glance of his sharp blue eyes and the gentler lines around his grim old mouth were betraying him as fast as ever they could.

Mary bobbed hither and yon, trying the potatoes and relieving them of their brown jackets, preparing the turnips under directions, and making the tea in a most housewifely manner. Finally, she settled down into her place at the head of the table with a sigh of absolute content.

“How do you take your tea, Mr. Perkins?” she inquired in the most elegant of society tones; then, suddenly resuming her own: “You don’t know what fun it is, Uncle Lemuel,” she cried, “to be the real lady of the house, and ask about the tea, and say, ‘Let me help you to a little more sauce,’ or, ‘Which kind of pie will you have, mince or apple?’ Goodness, I almost gave it away then! And oh, uncle, I can’t keep my surprise a minute longer—honest I can’t!”

She sprang up from the table and into the pantry, whence she emerged immediately with a beaming face and a pie balanced upon either hand.

“Which will you have, Mr. Perkins, apple or mince?” she inquired gleefully, bobbing a little curtsy to the imminent peril of the pies. “Your constitution won’t have to feel ‘pindling’ any longer, for here are two fine, large ones—enough to last several meals, I guess. Mrs. Caldwell sent them to you, with her compliments. She said you liked mince particularly, but I like apple just as well, so we can play Jack Spratt and his wife. People in Oatka Centre are just _lovely_, aren’t they? It’s because I’m your niece, of course, so far, but I hope by and by they’ll like me for my own sake.”

As she that was the Widder Em and Mr. Perkins had not spoken to each other since they had parted with mutual recriminations two years before, it is not to be wondered at that that gentleman laid down his knife and fork, and stared in open bewilderment.

“Em Cottle sent them pies to me?” he demanded. “To _me_? How in thunder did she happen to do that?”

“Why, because she liked you, of course,” explained Mary simply. “That’s why everybody gives each other things. That’s what Christmas is for especially, mother says—to give you a good chance to show other people that you love them—just the way God showed us when He gave us the little Baby Jesus.”

And once again something—was it the dear gift that she had mentioned?—kept back the sharp words that were hovering upon the old man’s lips.

V

THE TURNOVER GOES TO SCHOOL

In Uncle Lemuel’s able dissertation upon the virtues of pie, that bulwark of the American Constitution, he neglected to mention one of its most remarkable features—namely, its effect upon the flow of the milk of human kindness. Nothing else certainly could explain the fact that when the dishes were finished the next morning he stamped down the cellar stairs and returned presently with a basket of juicy winter pears, which he plumped down upon the kitchen table.

In a voice that was “growlier” than ever, he said:

“If you’re goin’ over to the Widder Em’s any time again, you might as well carry this mess of pears along. Old man Caldwell never did have gumption enough to raise winter pears, and Em was always partial to ’em. You mustn’t never let yourself be beholden to folks.”

Mary clapped her hands.

“How lovely to have a whole cellar full of things to give away! It must make you feel like Santa Claus, and I’m the Merry Christmas that goes with them. And, oh, won’t Mrs. Caldwell be pleased!”

But pleasure was far from Mrs. Caldwell’s predominating emotion when Merry Christmas presented the basket some fifteen minutes later, with the polite addition that it was “with Uncle Lem’s love and thanks.”

“For the land sakes alive!” ejaculated the one-time Widow Em, almost letting the gift fall in her amazement. “Is Lem Perkins experiencin’ religion in his old age?”

Mary looked a little puzzled by the irrelevance of the question.

“Why, yes, I guess so,” she answered happily. “Mother says really good people experience it all their lives. And we’re experiencing Christmas, too. Isn’t it the best fun? We’ve begun a list of our Christmas presents, and I put down your pies at the head—apple for me and mince for Uncle Lem. Is it quite convenient for you to teach me this morning?”

“Yes, indeed, sissy; yes, indeed,” returned Mrs. Caldwell, recovering herself. “I’ve got the dishes of fillin’ all ready, and we can begin right away. There ain’t no knack to it but the know-how. Don’t you know folks always say ‘easy as pie’?”

“Why, so they do!” agreed Mary joyfully. “But I thought that meant easy as eating pie. I never knew how easy that was till yesterday. You see, father didn’t think they were good for us—and I suppose Indian ones wouldn’t have been,” she added loyally. “But you ought to have seen Uncle Lem and me yesterday! The pies were so good that we just ate and ate, apple and mince turn about, till we had all we could do to save enough for breakfast. And I do feel perfectly fine this morning—and so does uncle. I guess our constitutions needed it. Could I learn to make three this morning—one for each meal?”

Under Mrs. Caldwell’s capable direction, the lesson progressed finely, and in due time three fragrant pies and a turnover were cooling upon the kitchen sink bench—pies that for brown flakiness of crust and general comeliness of aspect would not have disgraced the champion of the county fair herself.

“They look lovely, don’t they?” inquired their creator anxiously. “But, oh, I can hardly wait till dinner time to see how they taste! Oh, Mrs. Caldwell, how shall I ever _bear_ it if they aren’t really good and Uncle Lemuel is disappointed?”

“There, there, now, don’t you fret!” soothed kindly Mrs. Caldwell. “Lem don’t always say things out same as some do, but I’ll bet a cooky he’ll think them pies is as good as any he ever et in his life.”

“Oh, I do _pray_ that they’ll be good!” ejaculated the little cook fervently. “It’s such a responsibility cooking for men, isn’t it? But I like it,” she added naïvely, “even though I’m scared. Can’t I _possibly_ tell about them before dinner time?”

Mrs. Caldwell considered.

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “If you want to do some extra Christmassin’ this mornin’, I can think up a job for ye. The schoolmarm, Miss Porter, boarded with me last winter, and she was real partial to a hot turnover for her mornin’ recess. If you want to give her yourn, the schoolhouse is only a piece up the road, and if you run tight as you can lick it, I guess you can get there before the bell rings. I’ll just tie my cloud over your head, so you can run faster.”

Ten minutes later a breathless little figure, in a red “cloud,” dashed up to the door of the old stone schoolhouse, just as the joyous pandemonium of recess broke out. Knocking seemed quite a superfluous refinement in the midst of all that babel, so she lifted the great latch, and then was nearly capsized by a flying wedge of small boys who came hurtling out to the accompaniment of a long-pent-up explosion of war-whoops. The point of the wedge stopped and surveyed the reeling, small figure with the natural defiance of the guilty party.

“What d’you git in my way for?” he demanded gruffly.

To his surprise his victim merely giggled.

“Did you think I was a turnover too?” she inquired. “Because I’m not. This is it, and it’s been turned once already. Where’s the teacher?”

“Goin’ to tell on us?” inquired another boy sulkily.

Mary stared.

“Tell what?” she inquired. “’Twasn’t your fault. I got in the way. I hope you didn’t smash the turnover, though,” she added anxiously. “I’m carrying it to the teacher. No, it’s all right, thank goodness! Doesn’t it look fine?” she inquired, pulling the covering quite away from her prize.

The little boys crowded closer.

“And _smell_!” cried the first one admiringly. “Where’d you get it?”

“I made it myself,” returned Mary, with pardonable pride.

“Did you, honest?” he queried, with the natural admiration of the normal male for a good cook. “Say, fellers, let’s play school. I’ll be teacher.”

Mary laughed appreciatively, and then her face sobered. Nobody with a sisterly heart in her bosom could have looked unmoved upon those appealing eyes, alight with the eternal hunger of boyhood—and Mary was sister to four little Christies at home.

“If I possibly can—and these are good—I’ll bring you a whole pie to-morrow,” she promised rashly. “Now I must hurry up to the real teacher, honest.”

Miss Porter had just finished opening the windows, and was walking briskly back and forth across the end of the room when Mary approached.

“Good morning,” she said, in a politely puzzled voice. “Are you a new scholar? Did you want to see me?”

“I wish I _could_ come to school,” returned Mary promptly, “but I’m just Merry Christmas here on a visit, so I can’t. But I’ve got a present for you. It’s a turnover. I made it, but Mrs. Caldwell sent it. Will you eat it right now, please, and tell me how it tastes? I’m worried to death.”

“Thank you so much,” cried Miss Porter, laughing. “We’ll eat it together, then. I’m sure it’s delicious, but that’s the best way to prove it to you. And there’s Nora O’Neil. I don’t think she brought any lunch, so we’ll give her some. And then if we all agree that it’s good, it must be fine, mustn’t it?”

In two minutes they were all munching happily together on the flaky triangle, which Miss Porter and Nora O’Neil praised till the blushing cook felt that they appreciated her masterpiece at almost its true value.

By this time other little girls, nibbling at their own pies and cakes and doughnuts, had begun crowding shyly around to stare at the newcomer.

“These are my little girls,” announced Miss Porter affectionately, nodding to a few of the more timid ones to come closer. “And who do you suppose this is who has come to see us to-day? Merry Christmas! What do you think of that? She was visiting dear Mrs. Caldwell up the road, so she lived up to her name and brought me a nice hot turnover for lunch.”

The little girls stared.

“Merry Christmas?” they whispered to one another. “Do you s’pose? Is she—_real_?”

Mary’s sharp ears caught the whispers.

“My true-for-a-fact name is Mary Christie,” she explained merrily, “but they call me Merry Christmas at school because I’m so crazy about snow, and Christmas trees, and Santa Claus, and everything. Aren’t you?”

Several little girls nodded eagerly, then a sudden gloom seemed to settle down upon them.

“Might be,” hazarded one.

“Why, what’s the matter?” inquired Mary, with quick sympathy.

The plague of dumbness lifted all at once.

“We was going to have a tree,” began one.

“And a party,” interrupted another.

“On Christmas Eve.”

“Here to the schoolhouse.”

“And give presents.”

“And popcorn, and candy, and everything.”

“It was all planned out, and the trustees had almost promised.”

They took the sentences out of one another’s mouth.