“I’m sure the children would love it.”
Crystal opened the second bundle. There were strings of popcorn, and chains of colored paper; there was a corncob doll for Venus, a wagon made out of a codfish box for Autie, a ball wound of rags for Twinkle; and there were three sticks of candy.
“This is fer ma,” said Crystal. It was the shallow lid of an oatmeal carton, covered with a scrap of black velvet and a ruffle of tarnished gold lace. “Mis’ Lambert give me those pieces. I been savin’ ’em a long time. It’s fer ma to put her thimble on, an’ thread. She ain’t got no thimble—she allus uses the arm of the chair to push—an’ she don’t sew very much anyway. But it’s nice to have in a room. An’ I’m going to give pa this stamp. I found it in the store, an’ when I turned it in to Mister Lambert he said I might keep it. Pa ain’t got no folks but us, and he can’t but just write his name, but if he had to write a letter, ever, there’d be the stamp!”
As Becky commended and admired a plan grew. She could hardly wait until the little girl had gone to tell the rest of the Linvilles about it. Dick and Phil and Joan looked over the pitiful little hoard of ‘giffs,’ and became, by comparison, not poor homesteaders, but Lords and Lady Bountiful. The Wubbers could certainly, surely, have a Christmas.
“I’ll make one of those boats that you work with a rubber band,” said Dick.
“I’ll give them my flinch game,” said Phil.
“They can have my jacks,” offered Joan. “And I’ll put in the glass prism with a thermometer on it for Crystal. You can always be looking at a thermometer in Dakota—either it’s too far up or too far down. And she didn’t have one thing saved for herself.”
During the three long winter evenings that followed the Linville children were busy under the student lamp. Under Becky’s deft fingers a whole family of paper dolls sprang and were costumed; a jumping Jack and a Jack-in-the-box, as well as the boat, were evolved by Dick, and the two younger children traced outline pictures for the Wubber crayons. Becky added a thimble that she felt was large enough to fit Mrs. Wubber’s finger, and some popcorn balls and candy from their own store. And on the afternoon before Christmas, when the north wind blew Crystal across the snowy prairie to collect her gifts, she carried away in the big bundles a number of treasures that would be a surprise the next day to the little girl herself.
“I’ll store ’em in the barn till morning,” said Crystal joyously.
“Does your mother know about them?”
“No, ma’m,” responded Crystal, “I ast her about it in the first place an’ she said Christmas was just one thing too many fer her. So it’ll be a supprise on her, too. Thanks, Miss Linville, and Merry Christmas. Ain’t that what folks say?”
“Merry Christmas to you, dear,” said Becky, as she let the little girl out of the door with an affectionate hand on her shoulder. She stood at the window looking at the small figure until it disappeared around a bend in the trail. It was gray and desolate on the prairie. On either side of the road stretched the miles of snow, unbroken except by the shabby cornstalks that made the lonely landscape look still more forlorn. Over the snowy wastes bent the metallic gray sky.
Becky’s thoughts went back to Platteville as it had been a year ago. The little church, hung with greens and lighted with candles; the jolly crowds in the street; the carols of the children at every door. And Uncle Jim, carrying home the Christmas turkey himself, “so the delivery boy won’t be tempted to abscond,” buying new scarlet decorations for the tree—“Red’s a poor color for a patch, but a good color for candles, Beck;” unpacking Phil’s new fire engine—“Now, how do you think that will suit our fire chief!” All the dear old memories that hung around the holidays came rushing back: the unimportant little speeches and doings that a mind treasures so long after the real things are dust and ashes.
Out on the prairie there was no reminder of the day. Not a candle in a window, not a wreath at a door, not even a Christmas card in the store at Winner. She had done her best to right things for the children, to help the Wubber family to a Christmas, to bring some little observance of the day into the lives of her pupils. But for herself she knew that there could be no Christmas without Uncle Jim… She turned away from the window and went back to her work. The three children were out in the barn hunting for eggs that had become so scarce since cold weather set in, and the house was so still that the kettle’s hum was noisy. She glanced at the dressed chicken that they had sacrificed for tomorrow, at the covered dish that held the popcorn balls, at the little pile of gifts that she had made ready for the children. And then she put her head down on the kitchen table, and cried—not noisy weeping, but dry, broken sobs for the year that had gone and taken Uncle Jim.
* * * *
There was the sound of wheels outside. Bronx barked joyously, and the children shouted with delight. Becky had just time to dry her eyes and push back her hair. There was a great stamping of snow on the back steps, and in came Mr. Cleaver, with Phil and Joan holding a hand apiece, and Dick behind him.
“Santa Claus has come!” cried Joan. Red-faced and fur-coated, the guest didn’t look unlike that Christmas visitor.
“I’ve come to get, instead of to give,” he announced. “Mrs. Cleaver has sent me to bring you in to her for Christmas.”
The children shrieked for joy. “Tomorrow?” asked Becky.
“Today. Right now. Up to yesterday we expected to go to Omaha for Christmas. But that’s fallen through, and we don’t intend to have the whole day spoiled. When my wife suggested that we have the fun of four kids in the house I couldn’t wait to get started out this way. You’re to come back with me, spend the night and tomorrow, and I’ll bring you back late Christmas afternoon.”
“All of us?”
“The whole bunch, including Bronx. We want to see how it will go to have some kid stockings hanging beside ours. Hustle up and get your duds on. Wrap up, too; that’s a real Christmas wind coming from the north.”
It was queer how that desolate sweep of snow-fields lost its lonely look as the big car sped along the trail. The menace disappeared from the sky that hung so low, and there was a hint of holiday in the wind that had seemed so threatening. Mrs. Cleaver met them at the door of the Dallas home; a soft, motherly woman with red cheeks, who had a cup of hot soup for each one, and a roaring fire in the furnace. They had an early supper, and while the other children went to a Christmas entertainment with Mr. Cleaver, Mrs. Cleaver took Becky off down Main Street with her.
“We didn’t dare plan anything until we were sure we could have you,” she said. “Now we’ve got to work fast.”
In the little frontier town she found a jointed doll for Joan, a wonderful box of paints for Phil; and a sweater for Dick: candy and nuts and oranges, and even a tiny Christmas tree.
“Oh, Mrs. Cleaver, you mustn’t!” protested Becky, shocked at the size of the doll, and the splendor of the sweater.
“Becky Linville,” said her hostess. “I haven’t put a doll in a stocking for ten years. Don’t spoil things!”
After the younger ones were abed, Dick and Becky helped trim the tree and filled the stockings with the Christmas things they had brought from home at Mr. Cleaver’s suggestion. Becky caught the quick look that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver as the little bundle of homemade gifts was opened, but she didn’t mind it for some reason. It seemed sweet to be pitied, to be petted, to be treated like a little girl, instead of the head of a family. It was lovely, too, to be kissed good-night; to be told that you were “plucky kids to have stuck it out;” and that it was far nicer for the Cleavers to have you there than for you to be there. As she crept into bed beside Joan, Dakota didn’t seem so different from Platteville, after all.
It took a moment for Becky to remember where she was when she woke in the gray Christmas morning in the rosy room, a real room, with hangings and pictures, and a pink shaded light. Joan opened her eyes sleepily. “Is it six?” she asked. “Mrs. Cleaver said we might get up at six.”
“You mustn’t get up till we know that they’re awake.”
But the Cleaver family were astir first, and by the time the guests were dressed the tree was lighted, and a fire was burning in the fireplace downstairs. And in Becky’s stocking, which had not been hung the night before, there was a slender silver necklace that made her eyes fill.
It was a happy, homey day, with a wonderful Christmas dinner, and a quiet afternoon spent around the fire. Little by little most of the story of the lonely year came out, and the children felt cheered and warmed and heartened. The sympathy and interest did as much as the homelike surroundings to make the day perfect. When at four o’clock they kissed Mrs. Cleaver good-by and got into the car to drive back across the prairie, they felt that they were parting with an old friend.
“This is just the beginning,” said Mrs. Cleaver. “We’re going to have you often, after this.”
And Mr. Cleaver, as he left them at the door of their house, said almost the same thing. “People without kids, and kids without people ought to get together,” he added as he drove away.
* * * *
Christmas was one of the two events of that year. The other happened in February when the children had begun to feel that the backbone of the long winter was broken. There had been a thaw, and a period of golden sunshine and mild weather that almost hinted of spring. Then came a day when the gray clouds hung low, and a biting wind sprang up. Before Dick rode off on horseback to high school Becky warned him that if it looked like snow he was to stay in Winner all night. She and the children packed their lunch, and went off to school together. Ole Oleson had just gone along that trail, but the wind had already swept away his tracks, and was making wave-marks on the snow that was left in the ravines. All day long Becky kept glancing uneasily out of the window, for the clouds looked threatening, but it was not until after two that the snow began to fall. It came at first with a few doubtful flakes that the wind quickly whirled away. After that followed a downfall so thick that in ten minutes she could not see to the coal shed. It was driven obliquely by a gale that came from the northeast.
“I think we’ll dismiss school,” she said. “It’s nearly time to go home, anyway, and it looks as though a storm were on the way.” They skipped the final school song, and put on their coats at once. Becky turned off the drafts of the stove, and they all started out of the building together.
As she closed the door the wind caught her, and slammed her back against the schoolhouse. The blizzard was not coming; it was here. She took the hands of the smallest children, but she was soon forced to leave them and herd them into single file. The older children started on first, and Becky followed in their trail, breaking the path for the little ones behind her. They wavered in the wind, and moved slowly along, their heads bent to avoid the biting sweep of the storm. Several times the teacher had to stop and wait for her followers. When she looked up after one of these waits the older group were not to be seen; the driving snow hid them from sight. With her were the three little Wubbers, the two Welp girls, Phil and Joan, Shirley Lambert, and the Trainer twins, the babies of her flock. She knew that with their slow progress she could not catch up with the others.
The sky was a gray cover, dropped low over the earth. The drifting flakes flew like wild things. The snow that had covered their feet now covered their ankles; soon reached nearly to their knees. The children stopped complaining and stumbled slowly along, while Becky encouraged them with all the breath she had left. The first houses on the trail were only a mile and a half from the schoolhouse; they must reach one of them before the storm grew worse. But the storm did not wait. It swept round them in a dizzying whirl that bit and stung wherever it touched. The new snow had fallen on a soft layer below that made walking very difficult. The Trainer twins complained that their feet were heavy, and that they were too tired to go on, but Becky insisted on it, cheering, encouraging, and even lifting them over the gullies where the snow was deepest. It was not until she saw how swiftly it was growing dark that she realized that the outlook was serious for the children. The older ones were probably safe by that time; they must have reached one of the two claim houses that were directly opposite each other on the trail. But at the rate they were going now the others could never reach there. Alone, she could make the shelter, but the children never could. She tried to estimate how far they had come, and finally decided that it was a shorter distance back to the school than it was on to the Emerson home. So she turned her little band. They would be safe in the schoolhouse until they were called for.
How Becky ever got them back to the building she never knew. It meant an hour of determined effort, of patient plodding; of constant urging and commanding, and even scolding. She finally herded them in a line that moved slowly forward, each holding on to the one ahead. The wind battered their faces; the snow blinded them; the smallest ones cried and begged for a rest. Many, many times the line was forced to stop while she went to the rear to cheer, to admonish, to pick up the fallen. The snow was so heavy that she did not see how the short legs could lift themselves out of the drifts. But somehow they succeeded. The prairie was a storm-tossed sea, and out of its depths the little band of castaways struggled and floundered to the schoolhouse door. Becky herded them, crying and wringing their half-frozen fingers, back into the school. Hobbling about on her stiff feet, she opened the draughts of the stove, and out of blue lips spoke cheerily:
“Here is the best place for you until your people come for you. The storm can’t get at us here.” But as she spoke she gave an uneasy glance through the window at the whirling snow. Unless they arrived in a few minutes there would be no coming, that night.
As the room grew warm the children began to thaw out. Becky left them to their games while she began to take stock. She would have to prepare for a siege, for if the snow went on they would have to stay in the schoolhouse all night. That meant fuel, and the soft coal was piled in the shed, back of the school. It meant trip after trip through that blizzard to get enough to last all night, for the week’s supply had grown low. It didn’t seem a possible thing to walk through that driving snow, and carry a basket of coal besides, but it must be done, and done soon, too, for it was already dark out-of-doors. It might even be that she could not find her way now through that storm.
In the box of shelves that served her for a school cupboard lay a ball of light rope that Becky had used for the curtain at the Christmas program. It was not long enough to reach to the coal shed, but it would help. To it she added Joan’s sled rope and a long doubled length of heavy twine. She put on her outer garments again, and opened the door. The wind almost tore it from her grasp, and she stepped out into a drift of snow at the steps. She rounded the schoolhouse, feeling her way in the dark along the siding, and tied the end of her rope on to the heavy shutter on the back window. With the other end in her hand she started out through the driving snow in the direction of the shed. It took her five minutes to reach the little building fifty feet away. She tied the rope to the hasp on the door, and filled her basket from the pile of soft coal. Going back was somewhat easier, for the wind was at her shoulders, and she had the rope for a guide. But even at best it took every effort that she could muster, and she arrived at the school door almost exhausted.
“You shan’t go out again,” said Joan. “I’d sooner freeze.”
“Leave me go, too,” begged Crystal. “I kin help.”
The other children joined in Joan’s plea, but Becky knew the demands that night would make on the fire, and with only a moment’s rest she went out into the storm again. After the second trip she dared not wait even that long, for she knew that a moment’s delay would cover her track.
Back and forth she struggled between shed and school. Blinded, weary, stiff with cold, she made her way through the drifts, realizing now why people froze from exposure. It was so much easier to lie down and die than to make the effort to go on. Nine trips she made with her heavy basket. On the tenth the rope came apart, her burden d
ropped, and it was with the greatest exertion that she made her way back to the school. She found her charges restless and worried. Even they had begun to see that rescue that night was impossible.
“Phil was just putting on his galoshes to go out after you,” said Venus. “We thought you were lost.”
It was half-past five, and pitch dark in the schoolhouse. Becky thawed out her half-frozen hands and feet, and lighted the gasoline lamp. There would be enough gasoline to last a couple of hours. Then she asked about lunch pails. Some had been dropped in the storm; others were empty. Among them all were two sandwiches, a doughnut, a piece of corn-bread and a large piece of cheese. Becky divided these among the children, heated water on the stove, and made each one drink a cup of it. Then she set them to playing games again; the more they exercised the longer she could make the fuel last. She doled out her coal sparingly, but it seemed to melt away in the draught made by that wind. It was the night that the young teacher dreaded, after they grew too tired to play. How could she keep them warm against that wind, that rattled the windows and made the flimsy little building tremble? White frost filled every crack. The children shivered if they left the circle around the fire.
Before eight the snow had mounted above the window-sills, and the lamp burned low. The youngest children began to get sleepy. Becky covered the floor around the stove with every bit of paper she could find in the schoolhouse. She spread out old newspapers, tablet sheets, open school books, the big map—everything she could find that she could use to keep the wind out. On them she grouped the children, each one in his outer garments, even to mittens. Over them she spread the big piece of ticking that Mr. Lambert had loaned them for a curtain at their Christmas entertainment. That was all she could do except to keep up the fire. All night she fed the stove while the wind raged and howled outside. Sometimes she drowsed for a moment in her chair; sometimes she walked to keep awake. But the children slept, and though she was sure that they were stiff and chilly, she knew that they would not freeze so long as she was there and the coal lasted.
The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack Page 73
