Chapter V

by Kate Douglas Wiggin

　　VA good deal of water had run under Beulah Bridge since Letty Boyntonhad sat at her window on a December evening unconsciously furnishingcopy and illustration for a Christmas card; yet there had been veryfew outward changes in the village. Winter had melted into spring,burst into summer, faded into autumn, lapsed into winter again,—thesame old, ever-recurring pageant in the world of Nature, and the sameprocession of incidents in the neighborhood life.

　　The harvest moon and the hunter's moon had come and gone; the firstfrost, the family dinners and reunions at Thanksgiving, the firstsnowfall; and now, as Christmas approached, the same holiday spiritwas abroad in the air, slightly modified as it passed by Mrs. Popham'smournful visage.

　　One or two babies had swelled the census, giving the minister hope ofa larger Sunday-School; one or two of the very aged neighbors hadpassed into the beyond; and a few romantic and enterprising youngfarmers had espoused wives, among them Osh Popham's son.

　　The manner of their choice was not entirely to the liking of thevillage. Digby Popham had married into the rival church and as hisbetrothed was a masterful young lady it was feared that Digby wouldleave Mr. Larrabee's flock to worship with his wife. Another hadmarried without visible means of support, a proceeding always to beregretted by thoroughly prudent persons over fifty; and the third,Deacon Todd's eldest son, had somehow or other met a siren fromVermont and insisted on wedding her when there were plenty ofmarriageable girls in Beulah.

　　"I've no patience with such actions!" grumbled Mrs. Popham. "Youngfolks are so full of notions nowadays that they look for change andexcitement everywheres. I s'pose James Todd thinks it's a decent,respectable way of actin', to turn his back on the girls he's beenbrought up an' gone to school with, and court somebody he never laideyes on till a year ago. It's a free country, but I must say I don'tthink it's very refined for a man to go clear off somewheres and marrya perfect stranger!"

　　Births, marriages, and deaths, however, paled into insignificancecompared with the spectacular début of the minister's wife as a writerand embellisher of Christmas cards, two at least having been seen atthe local milliner's store. How many she had composed, and how many ofthem (said Mrs. Popham) might have been rejected, nobody knew, thoughthere was much speculation; and more than one citizen remarked on thesize of the daily package of mail matter handed out by the ruraldelivery man at the parsonage gate.

　　No one but Mrs. Larrabee and Letty Boynton were in possession of allthe thrilling details attending the public appearance of these worksof art; the words and letters of appreciation, the commendation, andthe occasional blows to pride that attended their acceptance andpublication.

　　Mrs. Larrabee's first attempt, with the sketch of Letty at the windowon Christmas Eve, her hearth-fire aglow, her heart and her door openthat Love might enter in if the Christ Child came down the snowystreet,—this went to the Excelsior Card Company in a large Westerncity, and the following correspondence ensued:

　　Mrs. Luther Larrabee,

　　Beulah, N.H.

　　Dear Madam:—

　　Your letter bears a well-known postmark, for my father andmy grandfather were born and lived in New Hampshire, "upBeulah way." I accept your verses because of the beauty ofthe picture that accompanied them, and because Christmasmeans more than holly and plum pudding and gift-laden treesto me, for I am a religious man,—a ministerial father andthree family deacons saw to that, though it doesn't alwayswork that way!—Frankly, I do not expect your card to have awide appeal, so I offer you only five dollars.

　　A Christmas card, my dear madam, must have a greeting, andyours has none. If the pictured room were a real room, andsome one who had seen or lived in it should recognize it, itwould attract his eye, but we cannot manufacture cards tomeet such romantic improbabilities. I am emboldened to askyou (because you live in Beulah) if you will not paint theoutside of some lonely, little New Hampshire cottage, ashumble as you like, and make me some more verses; something,say, about "the folks back home."

　　Sincerely yours,

　　Reuben Small.