by Diane Noble
Daisy seemed so joy-filled that no question, no pronouncement, could further surprise her.
“Would you teach me your song? The one you made up for the drama show?” Abigail smiled into her daughter’s eyes. “I don’t recollect quite how to carry a tune. But I’d like to learn.”
“ ‘Come, My Little Angel’?” Daisy breathed, looking now as if her joy was truly complete.
“That’s the one, child. That’s the one.”
Daisy thought her heels surely had sprouted wings as she raced with her Ma and the bundled-up Rosie to the place next to the tavern.
From the road above the gentle slope of the hillside, they stopped in astonishment. There must have been fifty people working shovels and brooms. It seemed to Daisy that everyone in the drama show was clearing snow, most with their mas and pas and brothers and sisters. Even Mister Ferguson from the mercantile was busy shoveling a path to the stage. And white-bearded Doc Murphy, his fedora tilted in place, was sweeping snow from benches. The area already was half-cleared.
Nearly unable to stop smiling, Daisy found a shovel and started working next to Cady and Wren, so bundled in their snow clothes she scarcely recognized them. They chattered and sang, rehearsing their songs as they worked while small puffs of steam rose from their lips in the cold air.
After a while, she looked up to see Toby McGowan standing off to one side of the stage, leaning on his shovel. The platform had been cleared of snow, and he appeared lost in thought.
Daisy climbed the stairs to where he stood. “Have you been practicing?”
He let out a troubled sigh. “W-with all these folks doing t-this for us, it makes it harder. L-like they’ll be expectin’ more f-from us, somehow. Now I wish y-you’d picked someone else.”
“I don’t,” Daisy said, meaning it. “You’re the right one, Toby. You have been all along.”
“B-but I c-can’t say my words right.”
“The littlest angel was a boy first. Before he became an angel, I mean. In my way of thinking, he should be more like a boy than an angel. Say the words however they come out.” She smiled, trying to encourage him. “Be a boy, not an angel.”
But Toby looked more scared than ever. “I s-should n-never have asked you,” he said. “B-boy or angel, I-I don’t think I c-can do it.”
The crew worked for two more hours. Daisy was so intent on the progress they had made that only when the company whistle blew at three o’clock did she notice afternoon shadows stretching out long from the pines and a new crop of clouds springing up in the northwest.
Mister Taggart had just brought in a barrel filled with hot stones, and he and her pa were discussing how the same might work to warm the folks at the performance the next day.
Then someone shouted that it looked like snow coming in again. Sighs of disappointment rose in the near-freezing air. People stopped to lean on their shovel handles to stare at the cloud bank, shaking their heads slowly.
With a sigh, Daisy went back to sweeping snow off the remaining few benches, every so often sneaking a look at the darkening skies.
An hour later, the first new flakes began to fall. But Daisy’s attention was not on the snow. For at just about the same time, a distant rumble stopped everyone from working.
Murmurs of wonder erupted, and glances were exchanged.
“The tunnels?” someone whispered. “Not again, surely!”
“No, it’s coming from a different direction,” Mister Taggart said.
“Over there,” her pa said. “Over yonder.”
“By the railroad grade,” Cady breathed, small puffs of steam rising from her lips.
“It is coming from the railroad grade,” Wren said. “Smack-dab on it!” There was a bubble of joy in her tone.
Daisy turned toward the direction they were looking and tilted her head in wonder. She could not make out anything across the cloud-shrouded canyon and through the falling snow. But she knew the sound of a train’s clacking pistons and screeching wheels.
This one sounded different than the train that brought pin stock pieces and generators to the company storeyard. And something else mixed with its whistle. A strange wheezing, tuneful, lilting music that made her want to dance and sing.
A calliope.
“Forever more,” she whispered more to herself than anyone else. “I do believe it’s a circus train!”
Mister Taggart suddenly threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Well, I declare! I declare! That’s the most wondrous thing I believe I’ve ever heard!” He laughed again. “Follow me!” he shouted as he raced up the hillside to the road. “Follow me, everyone!”
Through the snow they trudged, the entire lot of them, following Mister Taggart like he was the Pied Piper. Past Red Bud square and the mercantile they marched, down the pine-covered trail leading to the equipment storage yard and Western Sierra Electric ready room where the railroad tracks ended.
They burst through a stand of pines just as the ten-car circus train slowed at the end of the track and drew to a halt with a screech and blast of steam. Workers in the yard stood gaping.
Daisy thought her knees might give out right there in the snow, so astonished was she. Apparently, she was not alone. Not a word rose from the group around her as they all took in the bright yellow cars with painted scrolls and animals on the sides. Even Mister Taggart, who was still in the lead, remained silent.
Only the calliope wheezed on from somewhere in the back of the train, somewhere behind some bundles of white canvas and stacks of round poles. Scarce before Daisy could take it all in, the door of the fanciest car opened, and a man in a top hat stepped out.
Standing on the platform at the top of the stairs leading from the fancy car, he nodded to the crowd. He seemed not at all bothered by arriving in the little town of silent, gaping folk somewhere in the Sierra high country, smack-dab in the middle of a snowstorm.
The man swept his hat off and bowed to the crowd. “Greetings, one and all!” His bellowing voice sounded just like Daisy had always imagined a ringmaster might sound. “Orville Ringling here, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Laughing, he looked heavenward at the falling snow. For a long moment he seemed lost in thought, and then, casting his gaze across the still-gathering crowd, he grinned. “And it appears we’ve arrived just in time!”
Christmas Eve
PERCIVAL TAGGART LIFTED his baton, and the small orchestra began to play on the downbeat. The scratchy, off-key fiddles and bleating horns filled the big top with music prettier than any he could imagine this side of heaven itself.
The benches were filled—more than five hundred at last count because of the Ringling people who had come along to set up the tent and help in any way they could. They had taken on the children’s project after receiving the small sum from Toby and his family, deciding this would be their Christmas gift to the town of Red Bud.
Percival could not know for certain, but he figured the bills he saw Orville Ringling and the others drop in the Church in the Pines contribution box just inside the tent door would help the church fund considerably.
He smiled at the upturned faces before him, watching the children sawing their fiddles and blowing their trumpets. One more surprise lay in store for them all, but it would have to wait till the final scene.
The overture came to a soft close, and Percival nodded to Violet, who stood off to the side of the stage, awaiting her entrance cue.
The child fisted her long angel robe, lifting it to her knees, and climbed onto the high platform. She grinned out at the audience, not a bit scared to see so many faces.
“There ith a new angel in heaven!” Her cardboard wings flapped and her halo bobbed with each word. “A boy freth from earth who lovth puppy dogth and shiny sthones from bubbling brookth.” She waggled her finger. “No, he ithn’t an ordinary angel. He’th a troublethome boy who will turn heaven upthide down.”
Behind her, among a cluster of painted clouds, stood three more heavenly
beings, trying their best to look properly angelic: Wren Morgan, Cady O’Reilly, and Daisy James.
Violet turned to the three. “The new angel will arrive juth in time to help the heavenly hoth thing to the newborn King.”
With that announcement, Violet bowed to the audience and trotted offstage, her little chin in the air.
The orchestra played another song, and Percival watched as Toby waited for his turn to appear. He whispered a prayer for the child, hoping that his nervousness would disappear. The music dropped, and the boy clambered to the top of the stairs.
He swallowed hard and stared out at the rows of benches. He seemed too stunned to speak.
Percival held his breath.
“I-I have n-no gift for the King,” he finally said, his halo trembling with each stuttering word. He closed his eyes, and Percival could almost see the silent counting. “I am still a b-boy,” he finally said, “not yet an angel. Why, I-I haven’t yet even earned m-my wings.”
Skipping to the mark onstage, he stumbled, then righted himself. He sighed and scratched his head. Loping awkwardly to the opposite side of the stage, he tripped over the hem of his robe.
Then… a small smile appeared in the boy’s eyes. For the first time, Percival realized Toby was playing his awkwardness to the hilt. He was using his tripping, stumbling… perhaps even his stuttering.
It was perfect.
The audience laughed. Toby McGowen had actually become the child too fresh from earth to know perfect angelic behavior, complete with stumbles instead of floating movements and a stutter rather than perfect language. Everyone loved it. And loved Toby.
The boy grinned happily at Percival as he went on. “I have nothing fit for a king. I have only a box of toys I-I brought with me from home.” He shook his head sadly. “How c-could such a King be pleased with these plain and simple things?”
He fixed his gaze on the benches filled with people. “It’s only got a hank of hair from my favorite ol’ dog, some stones from the brook behind my house.” He shrugged. “And a butterfly wing. A couple of robin’s eggs. That’s all. But they’re my best treasures in the world.”
Every time the boy came onstage, he grew more confident. He said his lines and acted his part with few stumbles and stutters. When they did happen, each gave his angel character a touch that tugged at human hearts.
Percival watched Daisy’s play unfold, listened to the audience chuckle and sigh as the angel choir sang and his charges came onstage to recite their parts.
As it came time to prepare for the final act, he signaled the angel choir to move to the side of the stage nearest the shed. Then after a nod to Orville Ringling, the lights dimmed to near darkness.
The children knew the final song by heart, and once Percival had started them singing, they continued on without him while he slipped to the back of the tent and donned his costume.
Come, my little angel,
Is your halo on straight?
Boy of one bird egg, of a butterfly,
Of some puppy hair, some shining stones.
Come, my little angel…
After a moment the lights brightened, just at the time Percival had directed Orville to raise them.
A spotlight was fixed on the shed that once had housed the whiskey. Inside, Joseph, played by Grover James, knelt beside the manger filled with hay. Because his baby sister Rosemary played the role of the Christ child, he played with the little one’s hands as she cooed and chortled. Brooke Knight-Smyth, as Mary, was kneeling on the other side of the manger-cradle, gazing at the baby with a look of wonder.
Orville directed his workers to lift the flaps on the back of the tent, and as the choir sang on, the shepherds trailed in and made their way down the middle aisle toward the holy family.
A collective gasp seemed to rise from the audience as the children led in real sheep, brought by Orville Ringling. They bleated and sniffed the hay as they made their way to the front of the big tent.
After recovering their surprise, the angel choir continued singing.
Come, my little angel,
Is your halo on straight?
The shepherds were in place, and it was time for the wise men to make their way forward. A grinning Orville stepped closer and commanded the three camels to kneel.
Taking a deep breath, Percival climbed up the short ladder and took his place on the tallest beast. Behind him, he heard Orin James and his son Alfred laughing as they scrambled to the saddles on their own camels.
Percival ducked and swayed as his camel stepped through the tent opening. Behind him, Orin and James followed slowly.
The audience gasped again, and then a hushed quiet fell over the place. Only a few children in the choir remembered to sing. Finally, only one little voice remained. Not surprisingly, it was Violet.
Come, my little angel,
Ith your halo on thraight?
Orville pulled on the reigns, commanding Percival’s camel to kneel. When Percival’s feet touched the ground, he slid from the saddle. Facing the shed where the baby now lay sleeping, and where Mary and Joseph looked on with adoring faces, Percival knelt to present his gift to the King.
Bring your gifths tho fair,
To the one you love…
Another hush fell over the crowd as Toby came down the aisle alone, half-running, half-stumbling. He clutched a small box, filled with his earthly treasures. The boy’s face held a look of wonder, and he almost ran to the manger to drop his gifts before the King.
For a moment he knelt there, his head bowed. Not a whisper rose from the audience.
Then one by one, the children in the choir began to join their voices with Violet’s.
Come, my little angel,
Is your halo on straight?
Boy of one bird egg, of a butterfly,
Of some puppy hair, some shining stones.
Come, my little angel…
Percival slipped back across the tent to his little orchestra and lifted his baton. Horns blew, fiddles scraped, and drums thumped offbeat. Toby, halo bobbing, ran over to join his classmates, just as Percival had promised he could.
Grinning ear to ear, he picked up his tuba and joined in, offbeat, blaring. Bleating.
Percival met the boy’s gaze with a happy nod. Then he turned to the audience and inclined his head slightly…
The best was yet to come.
From the bottom row of the risers where the angel choir sang, Daisy gazed at the old whiskey shed, transformed by the manger scene inside. Baby Rosemary slept in Brooke’s arms with Grover looking on. It did not matter that their costumes were made of their pas’ old bathrobes, or that Brooke most likely would be sticking her nose in the air tomorrow.
Only the music mattered… Daisy sang softly with the angel choir as the glow of gas lights brightened. She found where her ma and pa were sitting up close to the front of the big tent. Her pa, still in his wise man robe, looked as proud as punch.
But, lo and behold, her ma was standing… looking for all the world as if she was fixing to move toward the aisle. Daisy frowned. Ma must have misunderstood the ending of the play and figured it was time to pick up Rosie from the manger.
Only Ma did not move toward the old shed where Brooke and Grover kept watch over the baby. Instead, she fixed her gaze on Daisy’s face and just kept walking toward the stage.
She did not so much as glance at the audience, Mister Taggart, or the angel orchestra as she headed up the steps and moved across the platform. Her eyes were set on Daisy.
The audience seemed to hush even quieter than before. Only the music of the children singing and the orchestra playing filled the big tent. From the corner of her eye, Daisy saw Violet’s eyes grow round as saucers and Clover’s mouth drop.
Ma stopped smack-dab in front of Daisy, looking at her with so much pride that Daisy thought her heart might burst. Then Ma took her place in the choir between Daisy and Clover. Violet squeezed in, looking up at their mother, her eyes still huge.
Bring y
our gifts so fair…
Daisy’s ma joined the angel choir, lifting her eyes heavenward—and opened her mouth.
To the one you love…
Daisy stood transfixed. Her Ma was singing! And it was a glory! Her voice, clear and true, rang out so beautiful and rich that Daisy thought she might perish from the wonder of it.
Heart full, mouth grinning so wide she could barely form the words of the song, Daisy looked at her ma. She was staring at the tops of the trees that stood beneath the big top. Daisy followed her gaze. The trees seemed to be bending and dancing as if from a gentle breeze—yet it was impossible for the wind to blow in such a place…
Daisy could not be sure, but it seemed the music of the wind and the pines blended with her mother’s sweet, pure singing, and with the voices of the angel choir, making even the bleats and bangs of the orchestra a thing of beauty.
The sounds rose, filling the tent with music more beautiful than the rustle of angel wings or a thousand stars singing at Creation.
Ma cast Daisy a soft glance that said she knew. Oh yes, she knew—and believed!
It was the music of God’s love. It was!
Beloved friend,
The idea for Come, My Little Angel was planted in my heart by an event in my childhood: the building of the only church in town by my father, my uncle, and my best friends’ fathers. (The cover image is taken from a photograph of the church my father built.) I hasten to add that the characters and events in this story are entirely fictional—except for the miracle of my hometown church’s “birth” in the tiny mountain village of Big Creek, in the Sierra Nevada backcountry. And this, dear friend, was the spark that brought this story to life.
I love hearing from my readers. You can write to me at either of the following addresses:
Diane Noble
P.O. Box 3017
Idyllwild, CA 92549
[email protected]
Or you can visit my little corner of the Web at www.dianenoble.com.
