Richmond Palladium (Daily), Volume 36, Number 21, 30 November 1910 — Page 12
lAOE FOU1U
THE RICHMOND PALLADIUM AM) HC-TELEUKAJl, WEDNESDAY XOTE3IBER 30, 1910
w 11 sir. n I'fe" ,
By RENE MANSFIELD
F. had twit them til leave
the office, rather earlier than usual, Kinney, the manager with his wife on one arm and his small son tugging Impatiently at the
other: Murdock laden witn various
Awkward packages from one of which, through a break In the paper, a woolly
jamb wagged a gleeful woolly tail:
young Simpson each pocket bulging
with n neat box tied with gold cord, and O'Connor, grinning broadly abovo tbo big holly wreaths ho bad bought
from the cripple boy who had peddled them through tha building. O'Connor
had stopped at his desk a moment.
"8ce hero. Barton, why can't you
come out to the house to dinner? Help us fix up the tree for the kids the Madame would be delighted" He had cut him ofT almost sharply. "It's good of you, O'Connor. But I'm dining out this evening, thank you." "Well, so long then, old fellow, A Merry Christmas to you!" "Merry Christmas." he repeated politely. Ho had heard O'Connor's big voice
trumpet the same parting phrase to the elevator boy, and the boy's shrill, excited response came to him through the long hall. "Mer Chrtstmua, Mr. O'Connor. Thank you, sir. Mer Chrtstmus to you. Mer Christmus!" Then he was quite alono in the of lice. Indeed, there seemed to have been a general early exodus from the building, to swell the - throngs ' of eleventh-hour shoppers, or of those . harrying homeward to holly-wreathed gaiety. Only the rumble of the streets far below reached him, which seemed somehow to he pitched !n a different key than on other daya. and the occasional faint echo of a "Merry Christmas," as the elevators passed up and down. Barton cloeid tho offlco doers and a window which had been slightly open and set himself to posting tho ledger. This unnecessary labor finished he ought diligently through tho files for an unimportant letter that had been misplaced. Then ho sharpened all the pencils on his desk to miraculous points, and mechanically tore oft the top leaf of hia calendar pad. i "December 25th." There it was
gain. Thero was no getting away from it, no matter what ouo did. All
day they had dinned It in his ears. To
morrow would be Christmas Day. All
the world would make a holiday a
holiday of family lovo and the thought
of friends. And now tt was Christmas
Eve. Soon a million tiny candles would be twinkling on tbe glittering
bought of fir and pine trees. Soon mall stockings would bo hung from mantle shelf and bed post, and small
nersons tucked all unwillingly Into
bed.
To Hiram Barton Christmas meant
none of these things. It meant a soil
tary dinner on Christmas Eve at Henry's, a cafe sot of the first order, where he was in tho habit of dining.
It meant walking slowly to his room after dinner past bright-lighted homes whose window wreaths seemed to grin
at him mockingly; It meant waking on Christmas morning with only the
desire to get tho day over. The post
man brought him no ltttlo gifts nor
letters. Perhaps tho landlady set
dish of fruit cn his table. Perhaps she
didn't
Hiram Barton had no friends. It not that he did sot wish for
friends, It was that he did not know
how to become a friend and that no one had ever had the patience to try
tn win his friendship ne waa born in-
eased In diffidence like a turtle In
shell. He had an unpleasant, frighten
od way of drawing back his head between his lean, stooped shoulders, at a friendly advances, so that no one
ever sjnUced tho glint of shy yearning in hit calo eyet. Only once la his life
hart Xliram Bwtaa Mserted himself.
That was when the rose-color ambitions of youth bad seethed to the sur
face and he had left the farm. But
the braggart assurance of the city
paralyzed him. He was not stupid, but
be grew to underestimate himself be
cause others did.
In five years he returned to the farm
for the funeral of his parents. He had
hoped to renew some of the barefoot friendships of his childhood. But neither had the old friends the time to pierce his shell of diffidence. So he returned again to the bookkeeper's desk in the city, a friendless man. I
"December 25th. Barton crushed
the sheet In his hand, and threw It into the waste basket. Then he put
on his overcoat and closed up the office. He slipped an envelope containing a bill Into the expectant hand of the elevator boy. "Thank you, Mr. Barton. I wish you
a Merry Christmas, sir," the boy said formally, with no trace of the
easy camaradle with which he had thanked O'Connor. Out on the street In the good-na
tured, hurrying throngs Barton was like a withered bit of weed borne along
on a riotous wave -of Joyousness. At
the corner, where the crowd was
dense, the spire of a small Christmas tree clutched in the arms of a big
Irishman grased his face and cocked
his hat at an absurd angle. For a
brief moment he had been drawn into
the eddying spirit of the street He
straightened his hat and from habit
drew ' back his head between his
stooped shoulders.
"Loosen up, ye ould grouch! It's
Christmas Ave! Ain't ye wise to ut?" remarked the Irishman, and strode on.
He paused at a brilliant shop win
dow. A woman with a shawl over her head and a child stood near him.
"Oh, ma. dont I wisht 'at 01'
Wlskers 'ud bring me a doll like that
there one!" cried the child.
Barton reached Into his pocket, and
turned to the woman ahyly. "IMf-" he
began.
Come, Maggie, we must be gettln'
home," said the woman taking the
child's hand. And they passed on.
Barton took hia usual seat at
Henry's cafe at a table partially
screened from view by a couple of
dusty, artificial palms.
"Merry-Chrlstmas-slr-soup?" , inquir
ed the waiter.
"Tes-and turkey-and-and-say, John,
fix It up a little, will you some holly
or-or"
"Yes, sir. 111 fix it up right for you,"
replied John, without enthusiasm.
Barton began almost to wish he had
accepted O'Connor's Invitation. But
he knew that he would have been but
a miserable spectator at a happy home
festival. Too, O'Connor's boisterous efforts to put him at his ease troubled
him.
Henry's waa well filled. He hadnt
thought it possible that so many
should have no homes to dine In on
Christmas Eve. He scanned the faces
of the men and women at the tables
about him. The men were for the most part flushed of face and loud of speech. Before them on the tables
stood not only the bottles of cheap
wine served with the table d'hote, but siphons and bottles of whiskey to cele
brate the occasion. Barton searched
the place for the face of a woman
whom he could Imagine sitting up far
into the night to dress a doll or fill
little stocking. There was not one
among them.
Barton smiled grimly when the
waiter brought in his turkey. At
either end of the thick, white platter upon which rested thick, dark slices of meat, he had placed sparse little
sprigs of holly, quite berry-less and
with broken leaves.
Thank you, John." said Barton, quietly. As he was eating his desert he saw tbe nosegay woman come in witn her
basket of flowers on her arm. She had been coming every njght for a long time. Barton had scarcely ever looked at her although sometimes when she sought out his table he bought a little bouquet from her, and taking it home put it in bis toothbrush mug where it brightened up his room a bit until the landlady dumped It out. Tonight there was something about the woman that held his gaze. Beneath her small, neat hat her brown hair rippled back to a tight knot at the back of her head. And her face was the face of a woman who would sit up far Into the night to dress a doll or fill a stocking. "Merry Christmas, Rose-Anna!" "Merry Christmas, Rose-Anna!" RoseAnna as the habitues of Henry'B called her, responded quietly to the greetings. One maudlin celebrant asked her to join him in a toast to Christmas Day. She smiled wearily and passed on. Barton wondered if she would seek
him out, behind the dusty palms. She passed bis table without stopping, and he felt oddly disappointed. Then it may have been the dreary droop of his shoulders that she had noticed as she went by him, that brought her back. At any rate, she turned about and came back to lay a little nosegay on his table. Barton's hand sought his pocket. "O, that's all right," he said hastily. "This ain't no kind of a Christmas Eve, is it? she added, her eyes sweeping the crowded room, and returning
to the limp scraps of holly on the turkey platter. "It sure ain't," agreed Barton. "I don't like to stick around here," the woman went on, as though she might simply be thinking aloud. "But they ain't much to cheer a body in a cold little hall bedroom. Ought to be candles and firesides and children on Christmas Eve, oughtn't they?" She looked down into Barton's pale eyes. "They sure ought," he said heartily. "Ain't you got anything anything like that?"
No, no. I have no ramlly tjr friends." He admitted simply to this kindly woman what had never passed
his lips before.
"Me, neither," she replied. "Got no relations, and r ain't much of a hand to make friends. Kinda lonesome, times like this, alnt It?" She was covering over her basket carefully before
going out Into the frosty air.
It was then that all the loneliness of
Hiram Barton's life seethed to the surface, as once before his youthful ambitions had done when he left the
farm. All bis longings for understanding, and a home and a mate had been lashed into an acute pain by the joys of the season around him. Perhaps it was the cheap wine that had made him a little giddy perhaps it was the haze of cigar smoke that softened the plain features of Rose-Anna, but It seemed to him that in her face was the fu' illment of these things. "I wish," said Hiram Barton firmly, "I wish that you would marry me tonight. 'Twouldn't be so lonely -and
we could have a Christmas."
Kose-Anea fingered U covering of her basket for a minute. Then she looked down into Barton's shy, anxious face. "PTrhaps I might," she said simply. The head waiter was ushering a
man to the only seat left unoccupied
in the cafe the one opposite Barton,
there behind the palms. Barton ".rose
and put his coat on hurriedly.
"Come, he said softly to Rose-Anna.
And together they went out Into the festive street. Together they sought the office of the marriage license clerk. They picked their way through the throngs, speaking little to each other,
although occasionally Barton seised
the woman's arm as though he were
afraid she was a wraith. Luck was with them. The clerk waa at hia desk, working late at some statistics he was
preparing for the coming , year. Tie made cat a license for Hiram Barton, aged 42. hot married before, and Anna
Kagan, aged 43, also unmarried.
As, later, they stood on the steps of the home of tbe justice of the peace
before entering, Barton took from Rose-Anna's basket that he still car
ried, the little nosegays that remained
and tied them into one bouquet, prom his pocket he took a bill and thrusting it awkwardly Into the center of it
handed the bouquet to Anna. "For-for the bride," he stammered,
"And -and you won't need the basket any more, Anna," he added as he put
It down In the corner of the porch.
Rose-Anna had nevor dreamed that
such chivalry existed. AfCer they were married they set out
to buy a bit of Christmas cheer. that
should brighten up Barton's plain
room. Gradually the constraint which
had seized them both gave way to a delightful sense of companionship.
Gradually the spirit of youth in them
was revivified to moot tho spirit joy about them. Barton insisted npoi buying a little Christmas tree and all
the glittering appurtenances thereto. Ho hung holly wreaths on his arms, and stuffed his pockets with candles and nuts and little articles that RoseAnna's eye had seemed to rest upon . admiringly. ' Td like to be buying you a surprise for to-morrow, Hiram." amid A timidly, "if you'll just go and leavo me tor a minute," 7 "And rve just been wondering how I was going to get a surprise for you!" cried Barton excitedly. So they separated with s great formality, to meet again soon in tho great crowd o shoppers, with unconcealed delight that their dream was not yet dissipated. It waa very late when they finished the decoration of Barton's room. They et up the Christmas tree on tho table, with its ink-spotted spread, between the windows. They hung on wreath across the corner of tho tarnished frame of the -Death of Lincoln." Anna put her bridal bouquet in the wash bowl in the hope that the wilted low-, era might revive, and rearranged the furniture to her liking. The two snrPrise gifts they placed under the boughs of the little tree to await tho light of Christmas Day. Barton glanced about tho tran formed room that waa eloquent oi Christmas cheertness. His wife' hat hung on a hook beside his, her worn coat waa thrown over tho chair where he was wont to alt alone at night "It's home, Anna," he said brokenly. "Home, Hiram." she repeated thankfully. . A clock some where In the house struck midnight "And a Merry Christmas to yon!" . "A Merry Christmas!" he echoed happily.
Derby's Market 8tene. In Derby. England, there is a curious relic of tbe great plague of 1605 It atands in the arboretum gardens and la commonly called "the market stone." To avoid Infection tbe country folk from the surrounding villages would leave their orders for anything they might want with the watchman, who used to go Into the town, make the necessary purchases and deposit them on "the market atone."
Ulg ships cannot sail in mud pud-
A Bardd Frk. On of tbe earliest of the American bearded freaks was Louis Jasper, who lived In southern Virginia at about tbe time of tbe close of the Revolutionary war. Ilia beard was nine and a half fevt long and correspondingly thick and heavy. He could take his mustache between his fingers and extend his arms to their full length, and still tbe ends of tbe mustache were over a foot beyond hi flnper tips. Anticipation is never found near ex
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