Rensselaer Republican, Volume 12, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 December 1879 — WHAT SANTA CLAUS SENT. [ARTICLE]

WHAT SANTA CLAUS SENT.

The week before Christmas was dreadful dreary. In the first place, father was away. He had been gone almost a month, in search of work, and we were expecting him home every day. In the next place, the wood was most gone, and we didn’t dare to keep a very good fire! And it always seems dreaiy in cold, snowy weather, unless you have a good, roaring fire, I think; especially in a dug-out. ’lt was all on account of the grasshoppers that we had to spend onr second winter in the ,dug-out. We’ had , been brave and patient —father saM so—the first winter. But when the grasshoppers came and ate up all our crop, and we had to give up the hope of a house for that whole year, we al(most wished we were back in Vermont. Then, in the- third place, and lastly, as the minister says; we had nothing left to cat but ppmpkin. And pumpkin—though it’s very nice for pics, when you have milk and. eggs, and pretty good (at least, better than nothing,) for sauce, when you haven’t got any better, and there is nothing left but the Johnny-cake—isn’t so very good for steady eating. And there wasn’t so very much of it, cither; and if that should fail before father came— But mother wouldn’t be gloomy. •• Eat all you want of it. I dare say father will come before it is gone,’’ • she said. “It’s ludky I dried so much.” “And lucky the ’hoppers didn’t like pumpkins,” said my elder brother. Bob, trying to imitate her cheerful tones. “ Bake some for supper, mother. I believe I like it best baked.” “Yes, I’ll bake it for supper; and you and Lizzie shall have all the milk to eat with it. We who are well can do without milk. Can’t we, children?” and she looked round so brave and cheerful at me and Tern and Johnny that we we were jnst\as willing as could be to give up our share of the milk, now that poor Bess, who had nothing but coarse, dry hay and water, could only give a pint twice a day. So Bob and Lizzie had. all the milk that night, and we had only a little salt on our pumpkin: because Lizzie wasn't much more than a baby, and Bob was sick, ever since he broke his leg at the raising. Bob tried to have mother take some of his milk; but she wouldn’t. Nobody complained— not a word—we Should.have been ashamed to; only I grumbled some, to old Bess, the cow, you know, when I was polling down hay for her. I suppose I’m not hardly as brave as the of ’em. At any rate, I often grumble to Bess, when things are hard; and I told her, that time, that there was no fun at all in liv’ing on pumpkin in a miserable dug-out, and I wasn't going to stand it. At least, -I wouldn’t, if I had any- boots to get away in. And I tried’ hard to think 'what I could do. But I didn’t see as there was anything. The neighbors were a good way off, and as poor as we were. All but old Mother Cripsey, and she was too cross and too sting}' to live. No use to eo near her. But when I went in. and was crouching down before the fire to get my fin- ~ gers warm, mother said: “ William, I think somebody ought to go over aflit see if Mother Cripsey needs anything this cold weather. I know it isn’t pleasant sor B you to go there; but it wonhl case my mind to know she wasn’t freezing or starving.” “ How can I go, mother, with no boots .?ut these?” and I held up my right oot. There was a strip of flannel tie<l round it, to keep the sole from flapping back and forth, every, time I stepped, and to cover a big hole that let the snow in. “ You might wear Bob’s best one, per-

“Certain,’'’ said Bob, without raising his head or looking at me. Bob couldn * help being gloomy. because he was sick and pumpkin didn’t agree with him; but he didn't like to have us take any notice of it, so we didn't. I said: “ Well, I s'posed I could go. The only thanks I should get would be to have my head snapped off and get called a E beggar, and asked what I expected te tby coming.” But I was tired of ing cooped up at home, and should be glad or a walk, if I could only have something to walk in. So Bob let me have his boot, and I started. It wks about half a mile and off the road; so I had to make my own path, and the snow was pretty deep. But the sun shone bright and I rather liked the fun of breaking a track. I saw a smoke in Mother Cripsey's chimney, as I came near; so I knew she was all right. You see it wasn't as if she had been poor, for she was the richest one for miles around; only she was most too stingy to keep herself alive. She ent her own wood and carried her own grain to mill, and there was nothing to be afraid of; only, as she would live there all alone, so far from neighbors, mother thought she might fall sick, or get hurt, or something, and nobody find it out till she suffered. So we had to go over once in a while. But all we gos in return was hard words and sneers. Mother often went herself, in pleasant weather. I guess she was rather pleasanter to her. At any rate, mother didn't seem to think her a bad sort of a woman. But, then, mother always thinks better of folks than they deserve. . I broke a path up to the door, and there she was. An old black hood pulled .down over her eyes, a night-

cap raffle, and some kind o« yellow-gray hair sticking out under the edge o? it, round her red, bony face, redder and bealer than ever. Her short striped petticoat came down just below the top of a pair at men's boots. She looked like a Jezebel, or a Witch of Endor, more than like a woman. But I went up to her, and took off my hat, and said “Good-morning,” as polite as you please. I like to be rather politer than common to her; it makes her so scornful. “ Well! what do you want o’ me? S’pos’n you air all out o’ breadstuff!” she began. “1 didn’t say we were all out ma’am!” I interrupted her, though that wasn’t polite, I know. I had to speak pretty loud and fast, or she wouldn’t nave stopped to listen to me. “ I came because mother was afraid you might need somebody to cut wood or something, now that the snow is so deep. She looked sharp at me while I said so much; but then she turned back to the wood-pile and began to chop in a way that made the chips fly, I tell you. I suppose that was to show me how easy she eould cut her wood herself. After she had worked that way awhile she turned round and put down her ax and said: “Come in, will ye?” Sol went in and sat down by the fire. “ I s’pose yer mar thought I had hands like hern, that's jest fit for knittin’ and darnin’ socks, and wanted a man to do such dreadful hard work xs cuttin’ wood enough to keep my own fire agoin’. So she sent you along, heyr

It’s no use to remember and repeat all the hard words Mother Cripsey said to me that day. She was more insulting than ever, accusing me of every kind of a mean motive in coming to inquire for her. I had a great mind to tell her just what I thought of her; and I would but for the thought of how mother would feel if I got downright angry and sauced a gray-headed old woman as, I do think, she deserved. But I held in my temper and just denied all her shameful charges. I swallowed all the hard words I could well stand, and then took rather a hasty leave and started for home. On the way, as I climbed over a fence, I saw something like feathers sticking out of the snow. I went for it, and pulled out a quail, that had been buried and frozen stiff. “That’s for Bob’s dinner!” I said, with joy. and thrust my hand down into the snow to hunt for more,. “Here’s for Lizzie!” I said, as I pulled out another. And down I dived again. Here’s for mother! And here’s for Tom and Johnny!” as three more came to the surface in quick succession. “And here’s for me!” I almost screamed, as a rather anxious search brought up another. I still dug about in the snow, and pretty soon I found one more. “ For father, surely!” I said. Then I could find no more, and sat down to rub my aching fingers. When I had got them warm, I pulled a bit of board from the fence and dug the snow-bank all over thoroughly, and found four more.

“ A dinner fit for a king! A dinner fit for a king!” I cried out loud, as I loolMl at the plnmp beauties lying before me. I found- a bit of string in my pockets, and tied them all together and slung them over my shoulder. Didn’t mother's eyes shine, when I came into the house with those quails! That was “ a dinner as was a dinner,” as Bob said. Of course, we had to go back to pumpkin again next day. Nevertheless, the change was delightful and made the week a good deal less tiying. Christmas Day was Saturday, you know. Thursday morning mother said: “It looks like more snow. I hope father will get here before it storms again.” She was a little nale that morning—poor mother!—though she spoke just as cheerful as ever. I knew and Bob knew the pumpkin wouldn't last till -Christmas Eve. But nobody talked about that. It began to snow at nightfall. I had cut up the last stick of wood, and it was piled up inside the fireplace. We had a stove in front of the fireplace, and the pipe ran into the rude stone chimney. It snowed all night, I suppose. When we wakedin the morning, no light came in at the little square of window. I knew it was morning because the clock struck eight just after I waked. We hail got in the way of sleeping very late mornings, to save the fire. I could just see where the window was. I called to mother. In the day-time there was but one room in the dug-out; but at night a curtain was drawn across one end, that divided off a corner that we called mother’s bedroom. She answered: “ Yes, William. Tm awake.” “ We’re snowed in, I guess, mother.” “It looks like it,” she said. “Build the fire, and I will come out directly.” I got up and dressed myself. Bob waked while 1 was dressing, and asked mo what I was getting up m the night for. I told him it was morning, but we were snowed in. So he got up. too. I went to the door, to see if I could open it. It opened easy enough; but a bank of snow was all there was to be seen. I believe I turned white. I know I shook &s people do with the ague. Ten sticks of wood for fuel, onehalf a candle for' light, and about pumpkin enough for two meals. These were our resources; t and we were snowed in. Mother came out. She was paler than yesterday, but calm and brave as ever.

“ Let’s have a fire, boys, quickly, and we will have breakfast soon. 1 feel sure father will come to-day.” She lighted our one piece of candle. I couldn’t speak. There was a great lump in my throat. Mv shaking hands would hardly lay the sticks for the fire. Mother put the pumpkin on to warm. It was all cooked now. We had only to warm it up. Then she brought out a little handful of cloves, that she said she had found hidden away in one of her trunks. She put them on the table in a salt-dish. “May be somebody will like them f<Jc a relish,” said she, smiling. I wished she wouldn’t smile. After breakfast she read the Bible rather longer than usual. Those psalms—- “ The Lord is my Shepherd,” and “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help”—and something else, I believe; but I can’t remember what. After prayers Tom and I washed the dishes, as we often did, while she put the room in order. When all was done, she put out the light “ I can knit as well in the dark,” she said; “ and I am gotag to tell you a story, so you will not care.” She told us a great many stories that day. I didn’t see why I couldn’t be as brave as Tom. He told jokes and riddles, and helped ever so much to keep the little ones amused. But my heart was like a lump of lead, and I couldn't seem to do or say a thing to keep the rest brightened up or cheer poor mother. Yet Tom knew how bad things were, just as well as I did. Bob kept his face hidden a good deal of the time when there was a light; but when he did show it he looked as if the last day was come. But then Bob was sick, and I wasn’t. Poor Bess lowed for her food and water. We were sorry for her; but couldn’t help her. w We lighted the candle again at dinner. We didn’t have very good appetites. There was enough pumpkin left, so Lizzie had her supper. She went to sleep early, in niy lap; it was so still. The stillness w;v most as bad as the darkness. And now it was Christmas Eve. But nobody said anything about hanging up

stockings. The little ones had nbtbeeh reminded that to-night was the time for that; and we older ones were thinking too much about fire, and food, and tomorrow, even to speak of it. “ Christmas wifi bring father, lam sure,” said mother, after Lizzie was laid in her bed. “ And now hadn’t my little Johnnie better be undressed? Morning will seem to come sooner if he shuts his eyes eariy.” “Me wants my-supper first,” said Johnnie. “ The pumpkin is all gone. But, if Johnnie is brave and patient, 1 think God will send him some breakfast.” “ Does He know the pumpkin is all gone?” said Johnnie, with a quivering /‘Yea. I told Him. He will take care that we have some breakfast. I asked Him to,” said mother, cheerfully and confidently. I wondered if she really felt so sure. I didn’t. “ But the snow is all up over the door, so nobody can’t get in,” Johnnie •aid. “ God can find a man who can shovel away the snow. I guess He will send papa home to do it,” mother said. “ I’m awful hungry!” said Johnnie, mournfully. And then, in a quick, glad tone: “Oh! I shouldn’t wonder if He sent some bread!” Ma, did you ask for pumpkin or for bread?” “For bread, dear. I think it.will be bread.”

“£>h! then Til go to bed quick.” He submitted to be undressed, and wheri his head was on the pillow he squeezed his eyelids close together, determined to sleep, that morning might come sooner. He had to speak once more. “ Butter on it! Did you ask for butter on it, ma?” “ I asked for some meat. A piece of meat would be good with bread. Wouldn’t it, Johnnie?” “ Yes; but I’d ha’ asked for butter, too.” said Johnnie, and subsided again. “We had better go to bed before the room gets cold, mother said, as we sat crouching around the few glowing coals that the last stick of wood had left. “ Mother, how can you be so brave and ouiet?” said Bob, bitterly, with a sound that was almost like a sob. “Hush, dear! Be brave and quiet yourself a little longer. God hasn’t forgotten us. Are you so very hungry?” “It isn’t that. I’ve often been hungrier when I’ve been off in the woods on a tramp. I don’t seem to feel any appetite; but to-morrow —” “ ‘Take no thought for the morrow.’ Let us, at least, try to obey that precept for this one night. Think! It is the night when the blessed Christ-child came down from Heaven. He gave us Himself. ‘ How shall He not also free--8 give us all things?’ Let us not doubt im on this His birthnight. Go to your bed with a quiet heart, as I shall go to mine. There is a glad Christmas in store for us yet.” So we went to bed—if not with quiet hearts, at least with a glimmer of hope, awakened by mother’s strong faith. But we did not sleep. The clock struck eight. There was a sound on the roof. We started up to listen. Yes, surely there was some one stepping above our heads. “It’s fatner!’" was our glad cry. We were out of bed in an instant, and beside the old chimney, which was the only outlet for our voices. “ Father! Father! Are you there?” we called. But no voice answered. Instead, there was a queer sound, as of something rubbing and shuffling down the chimney. “Santa Claus, for certain!” said Tom. Well, it seemed as if it was. First there came a long, narrow bag, covered with soot and ashes. It fell at our feet; but before we could pick it up a plump round package followed it and bounced into the middle of the floor. A second, like it, rolled along after, undoing itself and showing a loaf of brown bread Then came a shapeless package, with a bone sticking out, which Bob caught at, exclaiming, joyfully: “Dried beef. Hurrah!” We kept calling, “Father! Why don’t you speak, father?” at intervals; but got no answer. But we were sure it was he, and with joyous laughter welcomed the bundles as they came down the chimney. A few potatoes, a few turnips, a little soft clean package oi tea, and then the shower of good things was over. But there was no voice yet, and the sound of retiring footsteps left us looking in each other's faces in amazement. “It isn’t father, after all!” said mother, with a good deal of disappointment in her tones. “He woulu never have gone off so, without speaking a word. We fell to eating, with a keen relish. Slices of brown bread and dried beef disappeared rapidly. Johnnie was awakened, to have his share; and we would have waked Lizzie, too, but mother said “No.”

“ Too bad. The last spark of fire is out, or you should have a cup of tea, Marmie,” I said. “Nevermind! This is an earnest of better things. We shall have wood tomorrow. Father will come. You will see. f How thankful I am for this supply. ] And who could have brought itr’ She said these last words over again and again, as did we all. Ido think I, for one, was really thankful to God that night. At last we got to bed again—sooner than we should, I suppose; but the cold drove us there. But sleep did not come to me soon. Wonder and jo/ kept me awake. Was there really a Santa Claus, then? I, a boy fourteen years old, could hardly help believing it. We had not a neighbor, that I could think of, who was neh enough to give us such a bountiful Christmas present. Father came early next day, bringing money that he had earned, and more—a letter from grandma, enclosing a check for a hundred dollars. She said it was her present, and another like it should come in the spring, to help build that house. She had had a windfall, and we should enjoy our share of it at once. It was a joyful Christmas. Mother was right, as she generally is. Our crops were good this year, and our Christmas of the following year did not find us in a dug-out. Mother found out afterward that it was really Mother Cripsey herself, and nobody else, that put those things down our chimney Christmas Eve. She never would have done such a thing for anybody but mother, though, I sm sure. She thinks there is nobody like our mother. And I guess I think so, too. —/oy Allison, in N. Y. Independent.