The Christmas Megapack

by Reginald Robert

  “And merry fits he gave us all by telegram, too, mother!” exclaimed Philip with a grin.

  “Moreover,” broke in John, patting his mother’s shoulder, “there are eleven kids packed away upstairs like sardines—we hid ’em away while dad and you were lost, and—” but here with a deafening racket the stairs door burst wide open and with a swoop and a scream eleven pajama-ed young bandits with starry eyes bore down upon Aunt Ellen and the Doctor.

  “Great Scott!” exclaimed John, thoroughly scandalized, “you disgraceful kids! Which one of you stirred this up?” But the guilty face at the tail of the romping procession was the face of old Asher.

  Radiantly triumphant the old Doctor swung little John Leslie 3rd to his shoulder and faced his laughing family and as old Annie appeared with a steaming tray—he seized a mug of cider and held it high aloft.

  “To the ruddy warmth of the Christmas log and the Christmas home spirit—” he cried—“to the home-keeping hearts of the countryside! Gentlemen—I give you—A Country home and a Country Christmas! May more good folk come to know them!” And little John Leslie cried hoarsely—

  “Hooray, grandpop, hooray for a Country Christmas!”

  Carelessly alive to the merry spirit of the night, the jester presently adjusted a flute which hung from his shoulder by a scarlet cord and lazily piping a Christmas air, wandered to another room—to come suddenly upon a forgotten playmate of his boyhood days.

  “It—it can’t be!” he reflected in startled interest. “It surely can’t be Madge Hildreth!”

  But Madge Hildreth it surely was, spreading the satin folds of his grandmother’s crimson gown in mocking courtesy. Moreover it was not the awkward, ragged elfish little gipsy who had tormented his debonair boyhood with her shy ardent worship of himself and his daring exploits, but instead a winsome vision of Christmas color and Christmas cheer, holly-red of cheek, with flashes of scarlet holly in her night black hair and eyes whose unfathomable dusk reflected no single hint of that old, wild worship slumbering still in the girl’s rebellious heart.

  “And the symbolism of this stunning makeup?” queried Ralph after a while, lazily admiring.

  The girl’s eyes flashed.

  “Tonight, if you please,” she said, “I am the spirit of the old-fashioned Christmas who dwells in the holly heart of the evergreen wood. A country Christmas, ruddy-cheeked and cheerful and rugged like the winter holly—simple and old-fashioned and hallowed with memories like this bright soft crimson gown!”

  Well, she had been a queer, fanciful youngster too, Doctor Ralph remembered, always passionately aquiver with a wild sylvan poetry and overfond of booklore like her father. Mischievously glancing at a spray of mistletoe above the girl’s dark head, he stepped forward with the careless gallantry that had won him many a kindly glance from pretty eyes and was strangely to fail him now. For at the look in Madge’s calm eyes, he drew back, stammering.

  “I—I beg your pardon!” said Doctor Ralph.

  Later as he stood thoughtfully by his bedroom window, staring queerly at the wind-beaten elms, he found himself repeating Madge Hildreth’s words. “Ruddy-cheeked and rugged and cheerful!”—indeed—this unforgettable Christmas eve. Yes—she was right. Had he not often heard his father say that the Christmas season epitomized all the rugged sympathy and heartiness and health of the country year! Tonight the blazing Yule-log, his mother’s face—how white her hair was growing, thought Doctor Ralph with a sudden tightening of his throat—all of these memories had strummed forgotten and finer chords. And darkly foiling the homely brightness came the picture of rushing, overstrung, bundle-laden city crowds, of shop-girls white and weary, of store-heaps of cedar and holly sapped by electric glare. Rush and strain and worry—yes—and a spirit of grudging! How unlike the Christmas peace of this white, wind-world outside his window! So Doctor Ralph went to bed with a sigh and a shrug—to listen while the sleety boughs tapping at his windows roused ghostly phantoms of his boyhood. Falling asleep, he dreamt that pretty Madge Hildreth had lightly waved a Christmas wand of crimson above his head and dispelled his weariness and discontent.

  IV. EMBERS

  And in the morning—there was the royal glitter of a Christmas ice-storm to bring boyhood memories crowding again, boughs sheathed in crystal armor and the old barn roof aglaze with ice. Yes—Ralph thrilled—and there were the Christmas bunches of oats on the fences and trees and the roof of the barn—how well he remembered! For the old Doctor loved this Christmas custom too and never forgot the Christmas birds. And today—why of course—there would be double allowances of food for the cattle and horses, for old Toby the cat and Rover the dog. Hadn’t Ralph once performed this cherished Christmas task himself!

  But now, clamoring madly at his door was a romping swarm of youngsters eager to show Uncle Ralph the Christmas tree which, though he had helped to trim it the night before, he inspected in great surprise. And here in his chair by another Yule-log he found Roger, staring wide-eyed at the glittering tree with his thin little arms full of Christmas gifts. Near him was Sister Madge whose black eyes, Ralph saw with approval, were very soft and gentle, and beyond in the coffee-fragrant dining-room Aunt Ellen and old Annie conspired together over a mammoth breakfast table decked with holly.

  “Oh, John, dear,” Ralph heard his mother say as the Doctor came in, “I’ve always said that Christmas is a mother’s day. Wasn’t the first Christmas a mother’s Christmas and the very first tree—a mother’s tree?” and then the Doctor’s scandalized retort—“Now—now, now, see here, Mother Ellen, it’s a father’s day, too, don’t you forget that!”

  And so on to the Christmas twilight through a day of romping youngsters and blazing Yule-logs, of Christmas gifts and Christmas greetings—of a haunting shame for Doctor Ralph at the memory of the wild Christmas he had planned to spend with Griffin and Edwards.

  With the coming of the broad shadows which lay among the stiff, ice-fringed spruces like iris velvet, Doctor Ralph’s nieces and nephews went flying out to help old Asher feed the stock. By the quiet fire the Doctor beckoned Ralph. “Suppose, my boy,” he said, “suppose you take a look at the little lad’s leg here. I’ve sometimes wondered what you would think of it.”

  Coloring a little at his father’s deferential tone Ralph turned the stocking back from the pitiful shrunken limb and bent over it, his dark face keen and grave. And now with the surgeon uppermost, Roger fancied Doctor Ralph’s handsome eyes were nothing like so tired. Save for the crackle of the fire and the tick of the great clock, there was silence in the firelit room and presently Roger caught something in Doctor Ralph’s thoughtful face that made his heart leap wildly.

  “An operation,” said the young Doctor suddenly—and halted, meeting his father’s eyes significantly.

  “You are sure!” insisted the old Doctor slowly. “In my day, it was impossible—quite impossible.”

  “Times change,” said the younger man. “I have performed such an operation successfully myself. I feel confident, sir—” but Roger had caught his hand now with a sob that echoed wildly through the quiet room.

  “Oh, Doctor Ralph,” he blurted with blazing, agonized eyes, “you don’t—you can’t mean, sir, that I’ll walk and run like other boys—and—and climb the Cedar King—” his voice broke in a passionate fit of weeping.

  “Yes,” said Doctor Ralph, huskily, “I mean just that. Dad and I, little man, we’re going to do what we can.”

  By the window Sister Madge buried her face in her hands.

  “Come, come, now Sister Madge,” came the Doctor’s kindly voice a little later, “you’ve cried enough, lass. Roger is fretting about you and Doctor Ralph here, he says he’s going to take you for a little sleigh-ride if you’ll honor him by going.”

  Outside a Christmas moon rode high above a sparkling ice-bright world and as the sleigh shot away into its quiet glory, Ralph, meeting the dark, tear-bright eyes of Sister Madge, tucked the robes closer about her with a hand that shook a little.


  “‘Gipsy’ Hildreth!” he said suddenly, smiling, but the hated nickname tonight was almost a caress. “Tell me,” Ralph’s voice was very grave. “You’ve been sewing? Mother spoke of it.”

  “There was nothing else,” said Sister Madge. “I could not leave Roger.”

  “And now Mother wants you to stay on with her. You—you’ll do that?”

  “She is very lonely,” said Madge uncertainly and Ralph bit his lip.

  “Mother lonely!” he said. “She didn’t tell me that.”

  “Roger is wild to stay,” went on Madge, looking away—“but I—oh—I fear it is only their wonderful kindness. Still there’s the Doctor’s rheumatism—and he does need some one to keep his books.”

  “Rheumatism!” said Ralph sharply.

  “Yes,” nodded Madge in surprise—“didn’t you know. It’s been pretty bad this winter. He’s been thinking some of breaking in young Doctor Price to take part of his practice now and perhaps all of it later.”

  “Price!” broke out Ralph indignantly. “Oh—that’s absurd! Price couldn’t possibly swing Dad’s work. He’s not clever enough.”

  “He’s the only one there is,” said Madge and Ralph fell silent.

  All about them lay a glittering moonlit country of peaceful, firelit homes and snowy hills—of long quiet roads and shadowy trees and presently Ralph spoke again.

  “You like all this,” he said abruptly, “the quiet—the country—and all of it?”

  Sister Madge’s black eyes glowed.

  “After all,” she said, “is it not the only way to live? This scent of the pine, the long white road, the wild-fire of the winter sunset and the wind and the hills—are they not God-made messages of mystery to man? Life among man-made things—like your cities—seems somehow to exaggerate the importance of man the maker. Life among the God-made hills dwarfs that artificial sense of egotism. It teaches you to marvel at the mystery of Creation. Yesterday when the Doctor and I were gathering the Christmas boughs, the holly glade in the forest seemed like some ancient mystic Christmas temple of the Druids where one might tell his rosary in crimson holly beads and forget the world!”

  Well—perhaps there was something fine and sweet and holy in the country something—a tranquil simplicity—a hearty ruggedness—that city dwellers forfeited in their head-long rush for man-made pleasure. After all, perhaps the most enduring happiness lay in the heart of these quiet hills.

  “My chief is very keen on country life,” said Ralph suddenly. “He preaches a lot. Development of home-spirit and old-fashioned household gods—that sort of thing! He’s a queerish sort of chap—my chief—and a bit too—er—candid at times. He was dad’s old classmate, you know.” And Ralph fell silent again, frowning.

  So Price was to take his father’s practice! How it must gall the old Doctor! And mother was lonely, eh?—and Dad’s rheumatism getting the best of him—Why Great Guns! mother and dad were growing old! And some of those snow-white hairs of theirs had come from worrying over him—John had said so. Ralph’s dark face burned in the chill night wind. Well, for all old John’s cutting sarcasm, his father still had faith in him and the trust in young Roger’s eloquent eyes had fairly hurt him. God! they did not know! And then this queer Christmas heart-glow. How Griffin and Edwards and the rest of his gay friends would mock him for it? Friends! After all—had he any friends in the finer sense of that finest of words? Such warm-hearted loyal friends for instance as these neighbors of his father’s who had been dropping in all day with a hearty smile and a Christmas hand-shake. And black-eyed Sister Madge—this brave, little fighting gipsy-poet here—where—But here Ralph frowned again and looked away and even when the cheerful lights of home glimmered through the trees he was still thinking—after an impetuous burst of confidence to Sister Madge.

  So, later, when Doctor Ralph entered his father’s study—his chin was very determined.

  “I was ashamed to tell you this morning, sir,” he said steadily, “but I—I’m no longer on the staff of St. Michael’s. My hand was shaking and—and the chief knew why. And, dad,” he faced the old Doctor squarely, “I’m coming back home to keep your practice out of Price’s fool hands. You’ve always wanted that and my chief has preached it too, though I couldn’t see it somehow until today. And presently, sir, when—when my hand is steadier, I’m going to make the little chap walk and run. I’ve—promised Sister Madge.” And the old Doctor cleared his throat and gulped—and finally he wiped his glasses and walked away to the window. For of all things God could give him—this surely was the best!

  “Oh, grandpop,” cried little John Leslie 3rd, bolting into the study in great excitement—“Come see Roger! We kids have made him the Christmas king and he’s got a crown o’ holly on and—and a wand and he’s a-tappin’ us this way with it to make us Knights. And I’m the Fir-tree Knight—and Bob—he’s a Cedar Knight and Ned’s a spruce and Roger—he says his pretty sister tells him stories like that smarter’n any in the books. Oh—do hurry!”

  The old Doctor held out his hand to his son.

  “Well, Doctor Ralph,” he said huskily, “suppose we go tell mother.”

  So while the Doctor told Aunt Ellen, Ralph bent his knee to this excited Christmas King enthroned in the heart of the fire-shadows.

  “Rise—” said Roger radiantly, tapping him with a cedar wand, “I—I dub thee first of all my knights—the good, kind Christmas Knight!”

  “And here,” said Ralph, smiling, “here’s Sister Madge. What grand title now shall we give to her?” But as Sister Madge knelt before him with firelit shadows dancing in her sweet, dark eyes, Roger dropped the wand and buried his face on her shoulder with a little sob.

  “Nothing good enough for Sister Madge, eh?” broke in the old Doctor, looking up. “Well, sir, I think you’re right.”

  Now in the silence Aunt Ellen spoke and her words were like a gentle Christmas benediction.

  “‘Unto us,’” said Aunt Ellen Leslie as she turned the Christmas log, “‘this night a son is given!’”

  But Ralph, by the window, had not heard. For wakening again in his heart as he stared at the peaceful, moonlit, “God-made” hills—was the old forgotten boyish love for this rugged, simple life of his father’s dwarfing the lure of the city and the mockery of his fashionable friends. And down the lane of years ahead, bright with homely happiness and service to the needs of others—was the dark and winsome face of Sister Madge, stirring him to ardent resolution.

  PART TWO

  In Which We Light the New Log with the Embers of the Old

  I. THE FIRE AGAIN

  “Doctor!” said little Roger slyly, “you got your chin stuck out!”

  The Doctor stroked his grizzled beard in hasty apology.

  “God bless my soul,” he admitted guiltily. “I do believe I have. You’ve been so quiet,” he added accusingly, “curled up there by the fire that I must certainly have gotten lonesome. And I most always stick out my chin that way when I’m lonesome.”

  Roger, by way of reparation, betook himself to the arm of the Doctor’s chair.

  The Doctor’s arm closed tight around him. A year ago this little adopted son of his had been very lame. It was the first Christmas in his life, indeed, that he had walked.

  “Out there,” said the Doctor, “the winter twilight’s been fighting the alder berries with purple spears. It’s conquered everything in the garden and covered it up with misty velvet save the snow and the berries. But the twilight’s using heavier spears now and likely it’ll win. I want the alder berries to win out, drat it! Their blaze is so bright and cheerful.”

  Roger accepted the challenge to argument with enthusiasm. “I want the twilight to win,” he said.

  The Doctor looked slightly scandalized.

  “Oh, my, my, my, my!” he said. “I can’t for the life of me understand any such gloomy preference as that. Bless me, if I can.”

  “Why,” crowed Roger jubilantly, “I can, ’cause the more twilighty it gets, the
more it’s Christmas eve!”

  The Doctor regarded his small friend with admiration.

  “By George,” he admitted, “I do believe you have me there—” but the Doctor’s kindly eyes did not fire to the name of Christmas as Roger thought they ought.

  “Almost,” he said, “I thought you were going to stick out your chin again. And you’re not lonesome now ’cause I’m here an’ pretty noisy.”

  “Hum!” said the Doctor.

  “Man to man, now!” urged Roger suddenly.

  This was the accepted key to a confessional ceremony which required much politeness and ruthless honesty.

  “Well, Mr. Hildreth,” began the Doctor formally.

  Roger’s face fell.

  “I’m your adopted son,” he hinted, “and you said that made my name same as yours.”

  “Mr. Leslie!” corrected the Doctor, and Roger glowed.

  “Well, Mr. Leslie,” went on the Doctor thoughtfully, “I’m chuck full of grievances. There’s the rheumatism in my leg, for instance. That’s no sort of thing to have at Christmas.”

  “But that’s better,” said Roger. “You said so this morning. I ’spect you been thinkin’ too much about it like you said I did when my leg was stiff.”

  “Ahem! And I did hope somebody would come home for Christmas. I like a house full of romping youngsters—”

  Roger pointed an accusing finger.

  “Aunt Ellen says every blessed one of your children, an’ your grand-children too, begged and begged you to come to the city for Christmas an’—an’ you wouldn’t go ’cause you’re old-fashioned and like a country Christmas so much better—an’—an’ because you’d promised to teach me to skate on the Deacon’s pond an’ take me sleighin’.”

  “Dear me,” said the Doctor helplessly, “for such a mite of a kiddy, you do seem remarkably well informed.”

  “Man to man,” reminded Roger inexorably and the Doctor aired his final grievance.

  “And then there’s that youngest son of mine—”