Christmas Eve in War Times
Christmas Eve in War Times by Edward Payson Roe was published in his collection, Taken Alive and Other Stories with an Autobiography (1902). "The thought of their sitting behind the vines and listening to their favorite bird, spring after spring and summer after summer, and he ever absent, overwhelmed him."
It was the beginning of a battle. The skirmish line of the Unionadvance was sweeping rapidly over a rough mountainous region inthe South, and in his place on the extreme left of this line wasPrivate Anson Marlow. Tall trees rising from underbrush, rocks,bowlders, gulches worn by spring torrents, were thecharacteristics of the field, which was in wild contrast with theparade-grounds on which the combatants had first learned thetactics of war. The majority, however, of those now in the rankshad since been drilled too often under like circumstances, andwith lead and iron shotted guns, not to know their duty, and thelines of battle were as regular as the broken country allowed. Sofar as many obstacles permitted, Marlow kept his proper distancefrom the others on the line and fired coolly when he caughtglimpses of the retreating Confederate skirmishers. They wereretiring with ominous readiness toward a wooded height which theenemy occupied with a force of unknown strength. That strength wassoon manifested in temporary disaster to the Union forces, whichwere driven back with heavy loss.Neither the battle nor its fortunes are the objects of our presentconcern, but rather the fate of Private Marlow. The tide of battledrifted away and left the soldier desperately wounded in a narrowravine, through which babbled a small stream. Excepting the voicesof his wife and children no music had ever sounded so sweetly inhis ears. With great difficulty he crawled to a little bubblingpool formed by a tiny cascade and encircling stones, and partiallyslaked his intolerable thirst.
He believed he was dying--bleeding to death. The very thoughtblunted his faculties for a time; and he was conscious of littlebeyond a dull wonder. Could it be possible that the tragedy of hisdeath was enacting in that peaceful, secluded nook? Could Naturebe so indifferent or so unconscious if it were true that he wassoon to lie there dead? He saw the speckled trout lying motionlessat the bottom of the pool, the gray squirrels sporting in theboughs over his head. The sunlight shimmered and glinted throughthe leaves, flecking with light his prostrate form. He dipped hishand in the blood that had welled from his side, and it fell inrubies from his fingers. Could that be his blood--his life-blood;and would it soon all ooze away? Could it be that death was comingthrough all the brightness of that summer afternoon?From a shadowed tree further up the glen, a wood-thrush suddenlybegan its almost unrivalled song. The familiar melody, heard sooften from his cottage-porch in the June twilight, awoke him tothe bitter truth. His wife had then sat beside him, while hislittle ones played here and there among the trees and shrubbery.They would hear the same song to-day; he would never hear itagain. That counted for little; but the thought of their sittingbehind the vines and listening to their favorite bird, springafter spring and summer after summer, and he ever absent,overwhelmed him."Oh, Gertrude, my wife, my wife! Oh, my children!" he groaned.His breast heaved with a great sigh; the blood welled afresh fromhis wound; what seemed a mortal weakness crept over him; and hethought he died.* * * * * * *"Say, Eb, is he done gone?""'Clar to grashus if I know. 'Pears mighty like it." These wordswere spoken by two stout negroes, who had stolen to thebattlefield as the sounds of conflict died away."I'm doggoned if I tink dat he's dead. He's only swoonded,"asserted the man addressed as Eb. "'Twon't do to lebe 'im here todie, Zack.""Sartin not; we'd hab bad luck all our days.""I reckon ole man Pearson will keep him; and his wife's a po'fulnuss.""Pearson orter; he's a Unioner.""S'pose we try him; 'tain't so bery fur off."* * * * * * *On the morning of the 24th of December, Mrs. Anson Marlow sat inthe living-room of her cottage, that stood well out in the suburbsof a Northern town. Her eyes were hollow and full of trouble thatseemed almost beyond tears, and the bare room, that had beenstripped of nearly every appliance and suggestion of comfort, buttoo plainly indicated one of the causes. Want was stamped on herthin face, that once had been so full and pretty; poverty in itsbitter extremity was unmistakably shown by the uncarpeted floor,the meagre fire, and scanty furniture. It was a period ofdepression; work had been scarce, and much of the time she hadbeen too ill and feeble to do more than care for her children.Away back in August her resources had been running low; but shehad daily expected the long arrears of pay which her husband wouldreceive as soon as the exigencies of the campaign permitted.Instead of these funds, so greatly needed, came the tidings of aUnion defeat, with her husband's name down among the missing.Beyond that brief mention, so horrible in its vagueness, she hadnever heard a word from the one who not only sustained her home,but also her heart. Was he languishing in a Southern prison, or,mortally wounded, had he lingered out some terrible hours on thatwild battlefield, a brief description of which had been so dweltupon by her morbid fancy that it had become like one of the scenesin Dante's "Inferno"? For a long time she could not and would notbelieve that such an overwhelming disaster had befallen her andher children, although she knew that similar losses had come tothousands of others. Events that the world regards as not onlypossible but probable are often so terrible in their personalconsequences that we shrink from even the bare thought of theiroccurrence.If Mrs. Marlow had been told from the first that her husband wasdead, the shock resulting would not have been so injurious as thesuspense that robbed her of rest for days, weeks, and months. Shehaunted the post-office, and if a stranger was seen coming up thestreet toward her cottage she watched feverishly for his turningin at her gate with the tidings of her husband's safety. Nightafter night she Jay awake, hoping, praying that she might hear hisstep returning on a furlough to which wounds or sickness hadentitled him. The natural and inevitable result was illness andnervous prostration.Practical neighbors had told her that her course was all wrong;that she should be resigned and even cheerful for her children'ssake; that she needed to sleep well and live well, in order thatshe might have strength to provide for them. She would makepathetic attempts to follow this sound and thrifty advice, butsuddenly when at her work or in her troubled sleep, that awfulword "missing" would pierce her heart like an arrow, and she wouldmoan, and at times in the depths of her anguish cry out, "Oh,where is he? Shall I ever see him again?"But the unrelenting demands of life are made as surely upon thebreaking as upon the happy heart. She and her children must havefood, clothing, and shelter. Her illness and feebleness at lasttaught her that she must not yield to her grief, except so far asshe was unable to suppress it; that for the sake of those nowseemingly dependent upon her, she must rally every shattered nerveand every relaxed muscle. With a heroism far beyond that of herhusband and his comrades in the field, she sought to fight thewolf from the door, or at least to keep him at bay. Although thestruggle seemed a hopeless one, she patiently did her best fromday to day, eking out her scanty earnings by the sale or pawningof such of her household goods as she could best spare. She feltthat she would do anything rather than reveal her poverty oraccept charity. Some help was more or less kindly offered, butbeyond such aid as one neighbor may receive of another, she hadsaid gently but firmly, "Not yet."The Marlows were comparative strangers in the city where they hadresided. Her husband had been a teacher in one of its publicschools, and his salary small. Patriotism had been his motive forentering the army, and while it had cost him a mighty struggle toleave his family, he felt that he had no more reason to hold backthan thousands of others. He believed that he could still providefor those dependent upon him, and if he fell, those for whom hedied would not permit his widow and children to suffer. But thefirst popular enthusiasm for the war had largely died out; thecity was full of widows and orphans; there was depression ofspirit, stagnation in business, and a very general disposition onthe part of those who had means, to take care of themselves, andprovide for darker days that might be in the immediate future.Sensitive, retiring Mrs. Marlow was not the one to push her claimsor reveal her need. Moreover, she could never give up the hopethat tidings from her husband might at any time bring relief andsafety.But the crisis had come at last; and on this dreary December dayshe was face to face with absolute want. The wolf, with his gaunteyes, was crouched beside her cold hearth. A pittance owed to herfor work had not been paid. The little food left in the house hadfurnished the children an unsatisfying breakfast; she had eatennothing. On the table beside her lay a note from the agent of theestate of which her home was a part, bidding her call thatmorning. She knew why--the rent was two months in arrears. Itseemed like death to leave the house in which her husband hadplaced her, and wherein she had spent her happiest days. It stoodwell away from the crowded town. The little yard and garden, withtheir trees, vines, and shrubbery, some of which her husband hadplanted, were all dear from association. In the rear there was agrove and open fields, which, though not belonging to the cottage,were not forbidden to the children; and they formed a wonderlandof delight in spring, summer, and fall. Must she take her active,restless boy Jamie, the image of his father, into a crowdedtenement? Must golden-haired Susie, with her dower of beauty, beimprisoned in one close room, or else be exposed to the evil ofcorrupt association just beyond the threshold?Moreover, her retired home had become a refuge. Here she couldhide her sorrow and poverty. Here she could touch what he hadtouched, and sit during the long winter evenings in his favoritecorner by the fire. Around her, within and without, were thelittle appliances for her comfort which his hands had made, flowcould she leave all this and live? Deep in her heart also the hopewould linger that he would come again and seek her where he hadleft her."O God!" she cried suddenly. "Thou wouldst not, couldst not permithim to die without one farewell word," and she buried her face inher hands and rocked back and forth, while hard, dry sobs shookher slight, famine-pinched form.The children stopped their play and came and leaned upon her lap."Don't cry, mother," said Jamie, a little boy of ten. "I'll soonbe big enough to work for you; and I'll get rich, and you shallhave the biggest house in town. I'll take care of you if papadon't come back."Little Sue knew not what to say, but the impulse of her love washer best guide. She threw her arms around her mother's neck withsuch an impetuous and childlike outburst of affection that thepoor woman's bitter and despairing thoughts were banished for atime. The deepest chord of her nature, mother love, was touched;and for her children's sake she rose up once more and faced thehard problems of her life. Putting on her bonnet and thin shawl(she had parted with much that she now so sorely needed), she wentout into the cold December wind. The sky was clouded like herhopes, and the light, even in the morning hours, was dim andleaden-hued.She first called on Mr. Jackson, the agent from whom she rentedher home, and besought him to give her a little more time."I will beg for work from door to door," she said. "Surely in thisChristian city there must be those who will give me work; and thatis all I ask."The sleek, comfortable man, in his well-appointed office, wastouched slightly, and said in a voice that was not so gruff as heat first had intended it should be:"Well, I will wait a week or two longer. If then you cannot paysomething on what is already due, my duty to my employers willcompel me to take the usual course. You have told me all alongthat your husband would surely return, and I have hated to say aword to discourage you; but I fear you will have to bring yourselfto face the truth and act accordingly, as so many others havedone. I know it's very hard for you, but I am held responsible bymy employer, and at my intercession he has been lenient, as youmust admit. You could get a room or two in town for half what youmust pay where you are. Good-morning."She went out again into the street, which the shrouded sky madesombre in spite of preparations seen on every side for the chieffestival of the year. The fear was growing strong that like Him inwhose memory the day was honored, she and her little ones mightsoon not know where to lay their heads. She succeeded in gettingthe small sum owed to her and payment also for some sewing justfinished. More work she could not readily obtain, for every onewas busy and preoccupied by the coming day of gladness."Call again," some said kindly or carelessly, according to theirnature. "After the holidays are over we will try to have or makesome work for you.""But I need--I must have work now," she ventured to say whenevershe had the chance.In response to this appeal there were a few offers of charity,small indeed, but from which she drew back with an instinct sostrong that it could not be overcome. On every side she heard thesame story. The times were very hard; requests for work and aidhad been so frequent that purses and patience were exhausted.Moreover, people had spent their Christmas money on theirhouseholds and friends, and were already beginning to feel poor.At last she obtained a little work, and having made a fewpurchases of that which was absolutely essential, she was about todrag her weary feet homeward when the thought occurred to her thatthe children would want to hang up their stockings at night; andshe murmured: "It may be the last chance I shall ever have to puta Christmas gift in them. Oh, that I were stronger! Oh, that Icould take my sorrow more as others seem to take theirs! But Icannot, I cannot! My burden is greater than I can bear. The coldof this awful day is chilling my very heart, and my grief, as hopedies, is crushing my soul. Oh, he must be dead, he must be dead!That is what they all think. God help my little ones! Oh, whatwill become of them if I sink, as I fear I shall! If it were notfor them I feel as if I would fall and die here in the street.Well, be our fate what it may, they shall owe to me one more gleamof happiness;" and she went into a confectioner's shop and boughta few ornamented cakes. These were the only gifts she couldafford, and they must be in the form of food.Before she reached home the snow was whirling in the frosty air,and the shadows of the brief winter day deepening fast. With asmile far more pathetic than tears she greeted the children, whowere cold, hungry, and frightened at her long absence; and they,children-like, saw only the smile, and not the grief it masked.They saw also the basket which she had placed on the table, andwere quick to note that it seemed a little fuller than of late."Jamie," she said, "run to the store down the street for some coaland kindlings that I bought, and then we will have a good fire anda nice supper;" and the boy, at such a prospect, eagerly obeyed.She was glad to have him gone, that she might hide her weakness.She sank into a chair, so white and faint that even little Susieleft off peering into the basket, and came to her with a troubledface."It's nothing, dearie," the poor creature said. "Mamma's only alittle tired. See," she added, tottering to the table, "I havebrought you a great piece of gingerbread."The hungry child grasped it, and was oblivious and happy.By the time Jamie returned with his first basket of kindling andcoal, the mother had so far rallied from her exhaustion as to meethim smilingly again and help him replenish the dying fire."Now you shall rest and have your gingerbread before going foryour second load," she said cheerily; and the boy took what wasambrosia to him, and danced around the room in joyous reactionfrom the depression of the long weary day, during which, lonelyand hungry, he had wondered why his mother did not return."So little could make them happy, and yet I cannot seem to obtaineven that little," she sighed. "I fear--indeed, I fear--I cannotbe with them another Christmas; therefore they shall remember thatI tried to make them happy once more, and the recollection maysurvive the long sad days before them, and become a part of mymemory."The room was now growing dark, and she lighted the lamp. Then shecowered shiveringly over the reviving fire, feeling as if shecould never be warm again.The street-lamps were lighted early on that clouded, stormyevening, and they were a signal to Mr. Jackson, the agent, toleave his office. He remembered that he had ordered a holidaydinner, and now found himself in a mood to enjoy it. He hadscarcely left his door before a man, coming up the street withgreat strides and head bent down to the snow-laden blast, brushedroughly against him. The stranger's cap was drawn over his eyes,and the raised collar of his blue army overcoat nearly concealedhis face. The man hurriedly begged pardon, and was hastening onwhen Mr. Jackson's exclamation of surprise caused him to stop andlook at the person he had jostled."Why, Mr. Marlow," the agent began, "I'm glad to see you. It's apleasure I feared I should never have again.""My wife," the man almost gasped, "she's still in the house Irented of you?""Oh, certainly," was the hasty reply. "It'll be all right' now.""What do you mean? Has it not been all right?""Well, you see," said Mr. Jackson, apologetically, "we have beenvery lenient to your wife, but the rent has not been paid for overtwo months, and--""And you were about to turn her and her children out-of-doors inmidwinter," broke in the soldier, wrathfully. "That is the way yousleek, comfortable stay-at-home people care for those fightingyour battles. After you concluded that I was dead, and that therent might not be forthcoming, you decided to put my wife into thestreet. Open your office, sir, and you shall have your rent.""Now, Mr. Marlow, there's no cause for pitching into me in thisway. You know that I am but an agent, and--""Tell your rich employer, then, what I have said, and ask him whathe would be worth to-day were there not men like myself, who arewilling to risk everything and suffer everything for the Union.But I've no time to bandy words. Have you seen my wife lately?""Yes," was the hesitating reply; "she was here to-day, and I--""How is she? What did you say to her?""Well, she doesn't look very strong. I felt sorry for her, andgave her more time, taking the responsibility myself--""How much time?""I said two weeks, but no doubt I could have had the timeextended.""I have my doubts. Will you and your employer please accept myhumble gratitude that you had the grace not to turn her out-of-doors during the holiday season? It might have caused remark; butthat consideration and some others that I might name are not to beweighed against a few dollars and cents. I shall now remove thestrain upon your patriotism at once, and will not only payarrears, but also for two months in advance.""Oh, there's no need of that to-day.""Yes, there is. My wife shall feel to-night that she has a home.She evidently has not received the letter I wrote as soon as Ireached our lines, or you would not have been talking to her abouttwo weeks more of shelter."The agent reopened his office and saw a roll of bills extractedfrom Marlow's pocket that left no doubt of the soldier's abilityto provide for his family. He gave his receipt in silence, feelingthat words would not mend matters, and then trudged off to hisdinner with a nagging appetite.As Marlow strode away he came to a sudden resolution--he wouldlook upon his wife and children before they saw him; he wouldfeast his eyes while they were unconscious of the love that wasbeaming upon them. The darkness and storm favored his project, andin brief time he saw the light in his window. Unlatching the gatesoftly, and with his steps muffled by the snow that alreadycarpeted the frozen ground, he reached the window, the blinds ofwhich were but partially closed. His children frolicking about theroom were the first objects that caught his eye, and he almostlaughed aloud in his joy. Then, by turning another blind slightly,he saw his wife shivering over the fire."Great God!" he muttered, "how she has suffered!" and be was aboutto rush in and take her into his arms. On the threshold herestrained himself, paused, and said, "No, not jet; I'll break thenews of my return in my own way. The shock of my sudden appearancemight be too great for her;" and he went back to the window. Thewife's eyes were following her children with such a wistfultenderness that the boy, catching her gaze, stopped his sport,came to her side, and began to speak. They were but a few feetaway, and Marlow caught every word."Mamma," the child said, "you didn't eat any breakfast, and Idon't believe you have eaten anything to-day. You are alwaysgiving everything to us. Now I declare I won't eat another bitunless you take half of my cake;" and he broke off a piece andlaid it in her lap."Oh, Jamie," cried the poor woman, "you looked so like your fatherwhen you spoke that I could almost see him;" and she caught him inher arms and covered him with kisses."I'll soon be big enough to take care of you. I'm going to grow upjust like papa and do everything for you," the boy said proudly asshe released him.Little Susie also came and placed what was left of her cake in hermother's lap, saying:"I'll work for you, too, mamma; and to-morrow I'll sell the dollSanta Claus gave me last Christmas, and then we'll all have plentyto eat."Anson Marlow was sobbing outside the window as only a man weeps;and his tears in the bitter cold became drops of ice before theyreached the ground."My darlings!" the mother cried. "Oh, God spare me to you andprovide some way for us! Your love should make me rich though Ilack all else. There, I won't cry any more, and you shall have ashappy a Christmas as I can give you. Perhaps He who knew what itwas to be homeless and shelterless will provide for our need; sowe'll try to trust Him and keep His birthday. And now, Jamie, goand bring the rest of the coal, and then we will make the dearhome that papa gave us cheery and warm once more. If he were onlywith us we wouldn't mind hunger or cold, would we? Oh, myhusband!" she broke out afresh, "if you could only come back, eventhough crippled and helpless, I feel that I could live and growstrong from simple gladness.""Don't you think, mamma," Jamie asked, "that God will let papacome down from heaven and spend Christmas with us? He might behere like the angels, and we not see him.""I'm afraid not," the sad woman replied, shaking her head andspeaking more to herself than to the child. "I don't see how hecould go back to heaven and be happy if he knew all. No, we mustbe patient and try to do our best, so that we can go to him. Gonow, Jamie, before it gets too late. I'll get supper, and thenwe'll sing a Christmas hymn; and you and Susie shall hang up yourstockings, just as you did last Christmas, when dear papa was withus. We'll try to do everything he would wish, and then by and bywe shall see him again."As the boy started on his errand his father stepped back out ofthe light of the window, then followed the child with a greatyearning in his heart. He would make sure the boy was safe at homeagain before he carried out his plan. From a distance he saw thelittle fellow receive the coal and start slowly homeward with theburden, and he followed to a point where the light of the street-lamps ceased, then joined the child, and said in a gruff voice,"Here, little man, I'm going your way. Let me carry your basket;"and he took it and strode on so fast that the boy had to run tokeep pace with him. Jamie shuffled along through the snow as wellas he could, but his little legs were so short in comparison withthose of the kindly stranger that he found himself graduallyfalling behind. So he put on an extra burst of speed and managedto lay hold of the long blue skirt of the army overcoat."Please, sir, don't go quite so fast," he panted.The stranger slackened his pace, and in a constrained tone ofvoice, asked:"How far are you going, little man?""Only to our house--mamma's. She's Mrs. Marlow, you know.""Yes, I know--that is, I reckon I do. How much further is it?""Oh, not much; we're most half-way now. I say, you're a soldier,aren't you?""Yes, my boy," said Marlow, with a lump in his throat. "Why?""Well, you see, my papa is a soldier, too, and I thought you mightknow him. We haven't heard from him for a good while, and--"choking a bit--"mamma's afraid he is hurt, or taken prisoner orsomething." He could not bring himself to say "killed."Jamie let go the overcoat to draw his sleeve across his eyes, andthe big man once more strode on faster than ever, and Jamie beganto fear lest the dusky form might disappear in the snow anddarkness with both basket and coal; but the apparent stranger sofar forgot his part that he put down the basket at Mrs. Marlow'sgate, and then passed on so quickly that the panting boy had nottime to thank him. Indeed, Anson Marlow knew that if he lingeredbut a moment he would have the child in his arms."Why, Jamie," exclaimed his mother, "how could you get back sosoon with that heavy basket? It was too heavy for you, but youwill have to be mamma's little man mow.""A big man caught up with me and carried it. I don't care if hedid have a gruff voice, I'm sure he was a good kind man. He knewwhere we lived too, for he put the basket down at our gate beforeI could say a word, I was so out of breath, and then he was out ofsight in a minute." Some instinct kept him from saying anythingabout the army overcoat."It's some neighbor that lives further up the street, I suppose,and saw you getting the coal at the store," Mrs. Marlow said,"Yes, Jamie, it was a good, kind act to help a little boy, and Ithink he'll have a happier Christmas for doing it.""Do you really think he'll have a happier Christmas, mamma?""Yes, I truly think so. We are so made that we cannot do a kindact without feeling the better for it.""Well, I think he was a queer sort of a man if he was kind. Inever knew any one to walk so fast. I spoke to him once, but hedid not answer. Perhaps the wind roared so he couldn't hear me.""No doubt he was hurrying home to his wife and children," she saidwith a deep sigh.When his boy disappeared within the door of the cottage, Marlowturned and walked rapidly toward the city, first going to thegrocery at which he had been in the habit of purchasing hissupplies. The merchant stared for a moment, then stepped forwardand greeted his customer warmly."Well," he said, after his first exclamations of surprise wereover, "the snow has made you almost as white as a ghost; but I'mglad you're not one. We scarce ever thought to see you again.""Has my wife an open account here now?" was the brief response."Yes, and it might have been much larger. I've told her so too.She stopped taking credit some time ago, and when she's had adollar or two to spare she's paid it on the old score. She boughtso little that I said to her once that she need not go elsewhereto buy; that I' d sell to her as cheap as any one: that I believedyou'd come back all right, and if you didn't she could pay me whenshe could. What do you think she did? Why, she burst out crying,and said, 'God bless you, sir, for saying my husband will comeback! So many have discouraged me.' I declare to you her feelingwas so right down genuine that I had to mop my own eyes. But shewouldn't take any more credit, and she bought so little that I'vebeen troubled. I'd have sent her something, but your wife somehowain't one of them kind that you can give things to, and--"Marlow interrupted the good-hearted, garrulous shopman by sayingsignificantly, "Come with me to your back-office"; for the soldierfeared that some one might enter who would recognize him and carrythe tidings to his home prematurely."Mr. Wilkins," he said rapidly, "I wanted to find out if you toohad thriftily shut down on a soldier's wife. You shall not regretyour kindness.""Hang it all!" broke in Wilkins, with compunction, "I haven't beenvery kind. I ought to have gone and seen your wife and found outhow things were; and I meant to, but I've been so confoundedlybusy--""No matter now; I've not a moment to spare. You must help me tobreak the news of my return in my own way. I mean they shall havesuch a Christmas in the little cottage as was never known in thistown. You could send a load right over there, couldn't you?""Certainly, certainly," said Wilkins, under the impulse of bothbusiness thrift and goodwill; and a list of tea, coffee, sugar,flour, bread, cakes, apples, etc., was dashed off rapidly; andMarlow had the satisfaction of seeing the errand-boy, the twoclerks, and the proprietor himself busily working to fill theorder in the shortest possible space of time.He next went to a restaurant, a little further down the street,where he had taken his meals for a short time before he broughthis family to town, and was greeted with almost equal surprise andwarmth. Marlow cut short all words by his almost feverish haste. Ahuge turkey had just been roasted for the needs of the comingholiday, and this with a cold ham and a pot of coffee was orderedto be sent in a covered tray within a quarter of an hour. Then atoy-shop was visited, and such a doll purchased! for tears cameinto Marlow's eyes whenever he thought of his child's offer tosell her dolly for her mother's sake.After selecting a sled for Jamie, and directing that they shouldbe sent at once, he could restrain his impatience no longer, andalmost tore back to his station at the cottage window. His wifewas placing the meagre little supper on the table, and how poorand scanty it was!"Is that the best the dear soul can do on Christmas Eve?" hegroaned. "Why, there's scarcely enough for little Sue. Thank God,my darling, I will sit down with you to a rather different supperbefore long!"He bowed his head reverently with his wife as she asked God'sblessing, and wondered at her faith. Then he looked and listenedagain with a heart-hunger which had been growing for months."Do you really think Santa Claus will fill our stockings to-night?" Sue asked."I think he'll have something for you," she replied. "There are somany poor little boys and girls in the city that he may not beable to bring very much to you.""Who is Santa Claus, anyway?" questioned Jamie.Tears came into the wife's eyes as she thought of the one who hadalways remembered them so kindly as far as his modest meanspermitted.She hesitated in her reply; and before she could decide upon ananswer there was a knock at the door. Jamie ran to open it, andstarted back as a man entered with cap, eyebrows, beard, andshaggy coat all white with the falling snow. He placed two greatbaskets of provisions on the floor, and said they were for Mrs.Anson Marlow."There is some mistake," Mrs. Marlow began; but the children,after staring a moment, shouted, "Santa Claus! Santa Claus!"The grocer's man took the unexpected cue instantly, and said, "Nomistake, ma'am. They are from Santa Claus;" and before anotherword could be spoken he was gone. The face of the grocer's man wasnot very familiar to Mrs. Marlow, and the snow had disguised himcompletely. The children had no misgivings and pounced upon thebaskets and with, exclamations of delight drew out such articlesas they could lift."I can't understand it," said the mother, bewildered and almostfrightened."Why, mamma, it's as plain as day," cried Jamie. "Didn't he lookjust like the pictures of Santa Claus--white beard and whiteeyebrows? Oh, mamma, mamma, here is a great paper of red-cheekedapples!" and he and Susie tugged at it until they dragged it overthe side of the basket, when the bottom of the bag came out, andthe fruit flecked the floor with red and gold. Oh, the bliss ofpicking up those apples; of comparing one with another; of runningto the mother and asking which was the biggest and which thereddest and most beautifully streaked!"There must have been some mistake," the poor woman kept murmuringas she examined the baskets and found how liberal and varied wasthe supply, "for who could or would have been so kind?""Why, mommie," said little Sue, reproachfully, "Santa Clausbrought 'em. Haven't you always told us that Santa Claus liked tomake us happy?"The long-exiled father felt that he could restrain himself but afew moments longer, and he was glad to see that the rest of hispurchases were at the door. With a look so intent, and yearningconcentration of thought so intense that it was strange that theycould not feel his presence, he bent his eyes once more upon ascene that would imprint itself upon his memory forever.But while he stood there, another scene came before his mentalvision. Oddly enough his thought went back to that far-offSouthern brookside, where he had lain with his hands in the coolwater. He leaned against the window-casing, with the Northern snowwhirling about his head; but he breathed the balmy breath of aSouthern forest, the wood-thrush sang in the trees overhead, andhe could--so it seemed to him--actually feel the water-wornpebbles under his palms as he watched the life-blood ebbing fromhis side. Then there was a dim consciousness of rough but kindlyarms bearing him through the underbrush, and more distinctly thememory of weary weeks of convalescence in a mountaineer's cabin.All these scenes of peril, before he finally reached the Unionlines, passed before him as he stood in a species of trance besidethe window of his home.The half-grown boys sent from the restaurant and toy-shop couldnot be mistaken for Santa Claus even by the credulous fancy of thechildren, and Mrs. Marlow stepped forward eagerly and said:"I am sure there is some mistake. You are certainly leaving thesearticles at the wrong house." The faces of the children began togrow anxious and troubled also, for even their faith could notaccept such marvellous good-fortune. Jamie looked at the sled witha kind of awe, and saw at a glance that it was handsomer than anyin the street "Mr. Lansing, a wealthy man, lives a little furtheron," Mrs. Marlow began to urge; "and these things must be meant--""Isn't your name Mrs. Anson Marlow?" asked the boy from therestaurant."Yes.""Then I must do as I've been told;" and he opened his tray andplaced the turkey, the ham, and the coffee on the table."If he's right, I'm right too," said he of the toy-shop. "Them wasmy directions;" and they were both about to depart when the womansprang forward and gasped: "Stay!"She clasped her hands and trembled violently."Who sent these things?" she faltered."Our bosses, mum," replied the boy from the restaurant,hesitatingly.She sprang toward him, seized his arm, and looked imploringly intohis face. "Who ordered them sent?" she asked in a low, passionatevoice.The young fellow began to smile, and stammered awkwardly, "I don'tthink I'm to tell."She released his arm and glanced around with a look of intenseexpectation."Oh, oh!" she gasped with quick short sobs, "can it be--" Then shesprang to the door, opened it, and looked out into the black,stormy night. What seemed a shadow rushed toward her; she feltherself falling, but strong arms caught and bore her, halffainting, to a lounge within the room.Many have died from sorrow, but few from joy. With her husband'sarms around her Mrs. Marlow's weakness soon passed. In response tohis deep, earnest tones of soothing and entreaty, she speedilyopened her eyes and gave him a smile so full of content andunutterable joy that all anxiety in her behalf began to pass fromhis mind."Yes," she said softly, "I can live now. It seems as if a new andstronger life were coming back with every breath."The young fellows who had been the bearers of the gifts were sotouched that they drew their rough sleeves across their eyes asthey hastened away, closing the door on the happiest family in thecity.
Featured in our collection of Civil War Stories. You may also enjoy Roe's story, Susie Rolliffe's Christmas, set after the first shot at Bunker Hill. Both are featured in our selection of Christmas Stories.
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