Democratic Sentinel, Volume 15, Number 52, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 January 1892 — A CHRISTMAS CARD. [ARTICLE]

A CHRISTMAS CARD.

It is at once painful and perplexing to be answered with a heavy sigh where one expects an exclamation of pleasure and admiration; so it was not wonderful that Mrs. Austin, under the exact conditions, looked into her husband's face. She was holding up for his inspection a large wax doll, one of the treasures for Madge, tho blue-eyed darling of four years, who was counting the days until Santa Claus should come. Every stitch of Miss Dollie’s elaborate costume was the work of Mrs. Austin's busy fingers in hours when Madge was dreaming of full stockings and Christmas trees, and tho last stitch set, t :o result was displayed for “papa’s” approval. Now papa was quite as devoted a parent to Madge and two-year-old Harold as mamma, and took deep interest in all nursery matters. It may be that tho memory of two other curly heads and baby faces that had brightened the nursery for n few brief months and then been hidden by ooffin-lids deepened the love for the children who came later to comfort the aching hearts. But it is very certain that the little Austins were as much loved and petted as children could be, and did not dream more hopefully of Christmas treasures than their parents did lovingly of supplying them. So it was with some alarm, too, that Mrs. Austin put aside her last triumph of needle-work and threw her arm around her husband’s neck. “What is it, Charlie?” she asked. He drew her into a Iqving embrace before he said, sadly: “I mot my father again to-day. Margaret, it will kill me to have things go on so. He was downright shabby,feeble and broken; looking so old and so sick that I could not keep the tears out of my eyes. But he would not speak tome. I said all I could say in the street, and tried to follow him home; but he stopped short and said: ‘I do not know you, sir! You will cease to annoy me!’ And I could not make a scene in the street.” There was a choking sound in Charles Austin’s voice as ho ceased speaking, but, being a man, he kept back the sob that would have followed. Mrs. Austin’s tears were falling fast. “At Christmas time, too,” she said. “It is useless to send presents, Charlie; he has sent them back every year.” Tho story this conversation referred to was an old one, a true love marriage made in the face of disinheritance and paternal displeasure. Mrs. Austin had been a poor girl, employed in the factory of Simon Austin, then a man of great wealth and good social position; a man purse-proud, arrogant and full of his own importance. When his only child, his idolized, indulged son and heir, told him of his love for pretty Margaret Hay, a factory-girl, living ‘in the factory boarding-house, wearing calico dresses, and earning a mere living, the old man was a maniac in his fury. He would not see. that the girl was pleasing in manner, refined in taste, well educated and sweet-tempered, one to brighten any homo and make any good man thoroughly happy. He gave a fierce command that the matter should end then and there. Charles Austin, utterly unaccustomed to be crossed in any fancy, refused obedience, never before exacted, and the conversation ended in a stormy quarrel and the young man’s expulsion from home. But with a good fortnne that does not often follow disobedient sons, Charles was at once taken into the employ and favor of his mother's brother, an eccentric old bachelor, who gave the young couple a home in his own luxurious house. It was a new life to the old gentleman, and be took the keenest interest- in all the household affairs as Margaret managed them, loved and mourned tho older children, and dying, when Madge was but a year old, left his entire large estate to his “ beloved nephew, Charles Austin.” And whiio the sunshine of prosperity had no clouds for this wayward sou, the father's fortunes had gone all awry. Some commercial panic was the first blow to Simon Austin, and an effort to repair the loss by speculation only added to the disaster. Ho missed the cool, clear head of the son who had of late years been his active partner, the judgment be had first trained and then trustod to guide his large business. He was angry, and his angry impulses led him into dire blunders, until he grew so involved, that there was no escape, and he failed for more than his entire fortune. At once Charles hastened to him, offering his entire wealth to save him, only to be met by a proud, fierce refusal to bo under any obligation' to a disobedient child or his beggar-wife. Over and over again, as poverty became more and more bitter to the man broken and aged, did his son implore him to allow hi in to help him, offer him a home, love, care, obedience even, only to be thrown back with angry scorn. A proud man always, ,Simon Austin cherished his wrath as the last remnant of the old arrogance, and would not bend one inch. He found letters telling him anonymous sums of money were in the bank in his name, and wrote.back refusing to claim them. He mistrusted every offer of service, as dictated by his son, and returned te Charles every scrap of

aid sent to him, often perplexing his son by sending what had not come from him, though he always refused to believe this. And being old and broken in health, he sank lower and lower, unable to fill lucrative positions, and taking the work that gave him barely food and the poorest clothing. Very sadly the son and his wife talked of the impossibility of helping one who would not let any appeal touch him, until suddenly Margaret cried: “Charles! I have an idea! Let mo try to win your father over. I will send him a Christmas card.” “My dear, he would not open the envelope.” “But it will not go in an envelope. Don’t ask any questions. Let me try, and see if your father does not dine with us to-morrow.” “Dine with us! Margaret, you must be crazy!” “Not a bit of it. Just let me have my own way, dear.” “Do you ever fail to get that?” was the laughing query, for something in his wife’s face gave a fresh hope to Charles Austin’s heart.

It was a very mean room in a very poor house where the sun of a bright Christmas morning wakened Simon Austin Every tiling in tho shabby place told of the lack of woman’s care and love. Dust hung upon everything, disorder reigned. There were no dainty trifles of needlework; the curtains were dingy and crooked; the carpet torn and dirty. Very wearily and slowly tho old man dressed himself, lit a fire in the grate and rang for the poor breakfast his landlady provided. Dinner and tea he was supposed to buy outside, but very often this muddy coffee, stale bread and tough chop or steak were the sole repast of the twenty four hours. It was Christmas Day, and no business took the old man abroad; so, after the untempting tray was removed, he took a newspaper and drew shiveringly to the fire. But before he had read one column there came a knock upon the door, and then it opened wide and closed again behind a child—a little girl in a quaint Mother Hubbard cloak and hat, with large blue eyes and clustering golden curls, and holding a large flat basket full of fresh, beautiful flowers. While the old man gazed at her in silent amazement she said, in a sweet, childish voice: “If you please, dear grandpapa, I am your Christmas card!” “You—you ar o wfiat?” he said, utterly bewildered. “If you please, dear grandpapa, I am your Christmas card!” “Who sent you horo? What is your name?” “Mamma brought me here! I am Madge Austin, doar grandpapa—” and then, half frightenod at tho strange face and the poor room, the child’s eyes filled and her lips trembled. “I want to go home!” she whispered. “Don’t cry!” Mr. Austin'said, finding his senses and taking her into his arms, very tenderly. “Don’t cry, dear, I will take you home.” “Oh, if you please, because mv big doll is thero and all the toys Santa Claus brought, and brother Harry. What did Santa Claus bring you?” “Nothing!” “Oh!” with a very deep drawn sigh, “was it becauso you are up so many stairs? But he always comes to our house.and mammasaid,perhaps,to-day,he would bring us our grandpapa! “We haven’t got any now, you know, and mamma said if he did come, wo would love him just the same as papa, and ho would love us. And please, grandpapa, so we will.” And here the child put her little arms around the head bent low before her, and lifted the face quivering and tear-stained. “Oh, don’t cry! Oh, please, men don’t cry; only naughty girls and boys! Oh!” and again the terror found voice in the plea: “I want to go home!” “Yes, yes! I will take you home. Bring your flowers, child. This is no place for flowers or—or—Christmas cards!” Down the crazy old stairs the old man led the child, tenderly watchful that the little feet did not slip nor stumble. Through the sunny streets, unheeding the cold, she walkod beside him, prattling of her home and of the dear grandpapa that she had been taught to love. I hat was tho crowning amazement. No child in a few short hours could have been taught to talk of the estranged parent as this child talked. She told the old man of the praj'er she said night and morning, “Please, dear Lord, send my grandpapa home!” of the talks of her mother about this unknown relative whom she was to reverence and love, should he ever come home, opening to tho hardened but, oh, such a lonely heart a hope of rest and affection, that he felt it would be bitter as death to thrust aside now. . There was no need to pull the door-boll of the stately mansion to which Simon Austin led his grandchild. Eager hands wore waiting to open its portals wide; eager eyes wore watching for tho coming of the pair. Tender arms and strong hands led Simon Austin into the parlor] Margaret s kisses fell warm and caressing upon his wrinkled cheeks; Charlie’s hands removed the shabby overcoat; baby Harold clung to his knees, shouting: “Dandpa s turn! Santa Tinas bringod dandpa!” There was no pride could stand against this loving, sincere welcome, so pride coilapsed. “Do you really want me, Charlie?” the old man faltered. “It is not mere charity!” “Hush!” whispered Margaret. “Do not grieve him by such a word. Ho will never bo happy until you come home, dear father.” And so Christmas once again gathered up the tangled threads of estrangement and kuit them into strong bands of homelove.