CHRISTMAS
AMONG THE
PINES
- By
Jocile Webb Pearson
tG BILL, in spite of his six
foot four was a boy at heart.
Boss of a logging crew he
could oe plenty stern when occa
sion demanded, but a Christmas
tree and all the lights and cheer
that goes with it was his weakness.
“Christmas is no fun without
kids," was the way he put it. But,
it looked like Bill was doomed to
disappointment this year.
The crew were lounging around
the fire after a hard day's work
when Pudgy Sam, the cook, shook
the ashes out of his pipe and said:
"What's the reason we can’t have
“Christmas No Fun Without Kids,”
the Way He Put It.
a Christmas just like home right
here? Plenty trees, if we can mus
ter the trimmin’s.”
Bob, the kid dishwasher, was all
enthusiasm. “We’ve got popcorn.
I've strung yards at home for
mom. Sam’s got a harmonica, and
Dave a Jews harp, an' some of
you fellows can sing. And I’ll trim
the tree.”
“The Boss wouldn’t think much
of a Christmas without kids," put
in Dave. “There’s the Martins.
They got a couple kids; we can
ring them in. I was by there t'other
day an' heard them talkin’ about
Santa cornin’.”
“Boss said Martin looks sort of
beat out, too," said another. “Sup
pose we appoint Bob, here as a
committee of one to extend our in
vitation for them to join us. I feel
we owe them something, the way
they helped us when some of the
men had flu.”
Big Bill was jubilant with their
plans. “You fellows took the wind
out of my sails, but you’ll do a bet
ter job than I could.”
“Oh Little To'in of Bethlehem,”
lead by Sam's harmonica, floated
out from lusty throats upon another
star-strewn night.
Big Bill in a scrambled suit of
red flannel and a hemp beard was
a satisfactory Santa Claus to at
least two happy children. He hand
ed out gifts to everyone. Sam had
done his best on the feast that fol
lowed, and everybody joined in the
“three cheers and a tiger” for a
jolly Christmas among the Oregon
pines.
✓ \
A House Built
Christmas Day
■ ■ • ty ■ ■ i
Frances Grinstead
s___/
HOME that was built on a
Christmas day stood for a
long time on the old Santa
Fe trail where it passed near Ar
row Rock, Mo., on the Missouri
river. Though not quite completed
in a single day, with the help of
his neighbors on that "holiday”
about a hundred years ago, Henry
Nave got his cabin ready for his
family and the day after Christ
mas took them into his shelter.
Of course the house was built of
undressed lumber, felled right on
his farm. When he had selected the
location this pioneer cut down
round poles for the walls, rafters
and joists—the framework.
Mr. Nave had found some large,
flat stones, and in the afternoon
they dragged these into place for
the hearth. Then of other suitable
rocks, by much puffing and pulling
they built a fireplace—one of those
great practical ones which served
to heat the home and to cook ven
ison, buffalo meat, corn pone and
other "victuals.” The exterior of
this fireplace was wood, the stones
providing a fireproof lining.
The mortar to bind the stones
was chiefly mud; to obtain even
this simple ingredient it was nec
essary to build a fire in the middle
of the half-constructed cabin and
thaw the ground.
But, writes this hardy woodsman,
“It was not many days until we
While the Little Nave Children
Wished for Things.
were living snugly in our cabin
and in good health and with fine
appetites."
Holidays among our ancestors
were made occasions for such cel
ebrations us this, but they never
witnessed the cessation from la
bor ours afford. There was always
need for immediate shelter, crop
harvesting, or game killing. Hence
log-raisings, corn-huskings, and
gun-slioots were made social oc
casions. But do you suppose we
ever have more fun than Henry
Nave’s family and friends had
building a house on Christmas day?
« u» »* •
Marie la farge was the
prettiest girl in Beaulaire.
Her dark eyes sparkled;
her black hair framed a lovely, viv
id face. It was inevitable that
many young men should fall in
love with her. Which they did.
But chief among them was tall
handsome Jules Gareau. the son
of a wood-carver.
Marie’s mother was a small
hard-working woman whose beauty
differed from the girl’s. Strong
lines were graven on her face; and
in her eyes shone clear fortitude.
Madame La Farge’s eyes looked
steadily at everything, whether it
was the snow which lay so many
months about the small tight cabin,
i or at one of her children who had,
1 perhaps been angry or selfish. So,
I while Marie’s face was sweet and
winning, her mother's expression
was full of character.
I It could hardly fail that Marie
should grow a little arrogant un
der the circumstances. “You are
unkind to me,” said Jules one day.
“I have loved you always, yet you
act as if it did not matter. And
now you tell me you are going
: away from here.” He waved his
arm.
“What is that to you?” Marie
was dressed in bright jacket, full
woolen skirt and high, laced boots.
A red knitted cap was pulled
jauntily over her curls.
“How can you ask such a ques
tion of me?” Jules reproved her.
“A girl cannot stay in this sim
ple village forever!"
i "But Marie." He reached for her
mittened hand. His eyes, looking
down at her, were filled with be
seeching love. "We had plans to- |
gether, you and I. Already father
has given me the land. Already
I have cut the timbers for our
house . . . have you forgotten?"
Marie laughed goodnaiuredly.
"You handsome stupid . . . ! 1
| must see a bit of the world before
settling down to . . .” she nodded
; towards her own house where her
mother stood in the door, calling
to one of the children. “You see?”
"We Ilad Plans Together, You and
I.” lie Said.
said Marie, "she's worn out with
work. She’s old before her time.
She wears old clothes and thinks
old thoughts ... It cannot be
otherwise, here in Beaulaire.”
"Your mother." replied Jules
sternly, “has the most truly beauti
ful face in the village. My father
says so.”
Marie raised her long lashes in
surprise, and shrugged her shoul
ders. A week before Christmas
the girl left the village. "I have a
position. During the holidays extra
girls are needed in the stores. Soon
I shall have money of my own.
Soon I shall dance and go places
with many fine people.”
"So that is what you are think
ing,” said her mother. But she
added no words of advice or repri
mand. "Don’t forget us, child.
Think of us at Christmas with the
white snow about us, and the green
spruces on the hills. Think of your
father in the woods, chopping.
Think of me cooking, and mend
ing and singing to the baby . .
and nothing shall go wrong with
you. Come home when it seems
best. We love you."
But Jules was silent and heart
broken. "You’ll never be the same
to me, Marie, again. Your head
will be filled with idle notions. And
to think you can go and leave us
at Christmas!"
But Marie went And if they
missed her sadly in the village
where she was born, she worked
hard. And because of her energy
and lovely face, she was kept on
in her position after the holidays.
She sent presents home but she
did not go there. She liked her
new life.
One year. Two years. For one
reason or another she never found
! time to visit her people. She was
doing well. She was thrifty. She
went about with this or that admir
ing escort. And she smothered the
occasional pangs of homesickness
in her heart.
i Five years away. Now and then
I she heard from Jules, short letters
which related how her father had
cut his hand chopping wood. How
her brother had fallen through the
ice and was rescued. How her
mother was just the same. ‘ Every
one loves her,” wrote Jules.
Then one day Marie happened to
meet an artist named Tom Santos.
"You are so very beautiful, I must
paint you at once,” declared this
impulsive young man.
Marie laughed at him, but it
soon happened t at she posed regu
larly for this brilliant painter. She
liked his queer, jerky way of talk
ing while he worked. She felt that
she was lucky to be admired by
him. One day in the studio he
asked about her home. Marie told
him a little, rather grudgingly.
"You say you were born in Beau
claire?” cried the man. "How
odd!"
He laid down his brushes and
went to a shelf. "One of the finest
wood-carvers in Quebec made this,
a young man called Jules Gareau.”
He picked up a small figurine and
held it in his hands.
Marie felt a quick trembling run
all over her. "Oh,” she breathed,
"Jules never told me he had taken
up his father's work!"
"You know him then . . . this
artist Jules?”
“Yes she answered stepping
down from the dias where she
posed. “Let me see, please."
Tom gave her the small figurine
as if it were something precious.
“Look at the pose,” he said, “Look
at the old woman's face. Isn't
she wonderful . . . and beautiful
in character? I'd like to meet her.”
"You shall," murmured Marie in
a low voice, and added, “I must
stay away from home for years,
before I discover from a stranger
how fine my mother is. Come . . .
we can catch the evening train."
Snow lay thick on Beaulaire that
Christmas eve. Bright lights shone
“Oh, She Breathed, "Jules Never
Told Me.”
from the houses. The mountains
were dark with purple shadows.
Two figures walked along the
squeaking snow. "How could you
have left all this for an ugly city,
Marie?"
The girl answered nothing. She
hurried faster and her heart beat
furiously. "I cannot wait to get
there," she thought.
“Over there,” she said aloud,
“is the Gareau home, and now,
here we come to our house. Hurry,
hurry!”
They pushed through the gate;
they entered the house without
knocking. A huge fire blazed on
the hearth. Singing and dancing
filled the low-ceilinged room. Marie
pulled her friend towards a slight
figure sitting in a chair. “This is
my mother,” she said.
At once the room was in an up
roar. People flocked about the new
guests, all talking together, kissing
Marie, laughing and shouting.
But Tom Santos bent low over
Madame La Farge's hand. “I'm
proud and happy to know you.
Yes—" looking at her critically,
“Gareau is a genius.”
Marie with a new light and radi
ance about her next pulled him to
a tall young man standing by the
fire. “And this is Jules,” she ex
plained simply. ‘Jules Gareau."
The two men shook hands.
“Please, please, all of you," she
cried, "be quiet!”
The room fell into silence.
‘‘I have been away a long
while,” began the girl, “But I am
home again. I have neglected you
all. but chiefly my family. But
now, on Christmas eve, I come to
my senses . . . and you!” Her
lovely smile encircled them all.
"Mother, the figurine which Jules
carved of you. brought me back.
I could not wait, for then 1 knew
how I'd missed you.”
A murmur of pleasure ran about
the room.
"Jules,” her voice faltered,
blushes rose in her cheeks, "are
you still . . .?” She could not fin
ish.
The tall handsome young man. as
if in a dream, strode close to her.
“No, Marie, I’m not married I’ve
waited so long for you."
And then uproar rose again. They
danced. They feasted. And Marie
sat close to' her mother, and looked
and looked at that kind, strong, for
giving face.
And all the children fell asleep
and were waked up again, and Ma
rie's father roared with laughter.
Thus Marie La Farge came back
to the village of Beaulaire . . .
and Jules.
© Western Newspaper Union.
o
Old Christmas Market
For the last 238 years, a Christ
child market for toys and Christ
mas gifts has been held in Nurem
berg, the real old-fashioned Christ
mas citv of Germany.
/ - s
J\ Holida
for Tujo
bij Luella B. Lqons
^rT^HIS being with the family
| on Christmas is the bunk
so I won't mind parking
myself down there in Martinville,
Mr. Howard,” Paul Boyd told his
employer. That's how he found
himself spending the holi lays in a
lonely little room in a boarding
and rooming house. His landlady
had gone out to church services,
he knew, but he determined to pass
the lonely hours by reading, hav
ing prepared himself with a flock
of new detective fiction before leav
ing the city.
Before another half hour had
passed, Paul tossed the book aside
and began pacing the floor. Here
he was alone at last on one Christ
i mas eve, far from too coi cerned
relatives and friends
, As the crowning insult, without a
| moment's warning, the little light
that hung on a single cord from
; the ceiling, flickered and went out.
i "Great day, this is the end! I
Tossed the Book Aside and Began
Pacing the Floor.
wonder what they do here when the
lights go out—go to bed. I sup
pose!" he muttered disgustedly.
But just the same he began
scratching matches to hun' for a
possible kerosene lamp he might
have overlooked. Five matches lat
er, he found a candle and lost no
time lighting that. "At least I can
find my way about while getting
ready to retire," he grumbled.
But as he jerked at his tie. the
unmistakable sound of a smothered
sob came to him through the hot
air register. Paul wanted to be
alone, but sobs did things to him
and it took him just three minutes
to locate the door from behind
which was darkness and those sobs.
All because a thoughtless land
lady had failed to provide the love
ly and lonely girl with an extra bit
of lighting in case the rather unre
liable power company servile dis
continued without notice, wasn’t
the only reason for the sobs.
“Being in a noisy city where
folks are celebrating, asking all
kinds of favors of you at the holi
day time, doing the same old par
ties, family dinners and all that—I
thought it would be nice to escape
it for a change,” she explained.
Jean Hathaway, she said was her
name.
"Jean, I said the same thing and
maybe we were both right only
that—that,” and suddenl: he be
came embarrassed but struggled
on. “that it is all okeh if you don't
have to escape alone. Just one for
company and for celebrating is
about the right number. What do
you think, Jean?”
"Alone together! It doesn’t make
sense as for English, but it does
Christmas-edly speaking!” and the
light of the candle burned high
and proud on that holiday for just
two.
* n« »t-...... TT_!_ _
I
THE Christmas Spirit, if such
a sprite there be, must have
fled in dismay from old Silas
Wentworth, for a crustier, harder,
less Christmas-spirited man would
be hard to imagine.
Yet Sally Blaine, his clerk and
bookkeeper, had the temerity to
bring Christmas into the store,
stringing lines of tinsel
Old Silas, coming to work,
stopped and stared at this unusual
addition to the colored globes and
patent medicines with which his
windows were adorned.
Sally Blaine, rather frightened
now, looked up. “Merry Christ
mas, Mr. Wentworth.’’
Silas surveyed the store grimly.
“Take it down!”
But Sally hesitated.
, “I said take it down. Mure of
your fool notions! What's this?”
"Dickens' Christmas Carol, sir.”
He thrust the book on a back
shelf. “Humph! Don't let me catch
you reading on the job."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry about the
decorations—”
At nine o'clock on Christmas eve
Silas saw out his last customer,
and began putting up the shutters.
It was beastly cold, and his numb
fingers were slow at their task. As
he was about to lock up. he was
confronted by two men, one carry
ing a revolver.
"Let us in and lock the door,
said the man.
Silas, his teeth chattering from
fear more than cold, complied.
"Now if you're quiet you won't
get hurt," said the spokesman. "My
pal here has had an accident. 1
need some medicines. You'll be
paid all right."
"Of course; of course," Silas an
swered. and brought out a stuck of
supplies.
The wounded man spoke up.
"Sorry to keep you on Christmas
eve. buddy."
Silas grunted. "Tommyrot."
The other mar had been rum
maging about the store. "Here.”
Silas Surveyed the Store Grimly.
“Take it Down!”
he commanded. “I can't watch
what you're doing. So you read
aloud until I get through.” And
he handed Silas “Christmas Carol.”
He was scarcely half way
through when the men paid him
and left. He threw the book down
and started off, but at the door
he turned, and sitting by the night
light, read again. “So like me,"
he muttered, as he finished.
From the wastebasket he dre.v
out the tinsel and strung it awk
wardly around the store. He looked
through his accounts marked
“Overdue," and selected severaT
bills which he marked "Paid in
Full,” and put in proper envelopes.
Then he got his wraps.
“Merry Christmas, Silas," he ex
claimed, and went out to the dawn
ing of his first merry one in many
years.
_v_r*..!