The Second Christmas Megapack: 29 Modern and Classic Yuletide Stories

by Robert Reginald

  * * * *

  Snow falls on the just and the unjust. There was quite as much of it in Hannah’s back yard as in either Virginia’s or Nellie’s—perhaps even a little more had drifted into the fence corners. Hannah’s joy in discovering that in this respect she had not been slighted crowded her troubles into the background. Immediately after breakfast, bundled up snugly, she stood in her yard and threw snowballs toward her neighbors’ homes, while she squealed with delight. In a very few minutes, three little girls were playing where only one had played before.

  The two newcomers, Virginia Lawrence and Nellie Halloran, presented an interesting contrast. Virginia, slim, and tall for her age, with long, flat, yellow braids, handled the snow daintily, even gingerly. Nellie, fat and dimpled, her curls tousled into a flame colored halo, rolled over and over in the snow, and then shook herself like a puppy. Until the advent of Hannah, a subtle antagonism had existed between the two children. Virginia’s favorite game was playing “lady” with a train floating gracefully behind her; Nellie’s chief joy in life was seeing how long she could stand on her head, her short skirts obeying the laws of gravity all the while. Hannah, however, vibrated obligingly between the two sports, and kept the peace inviolate.

  Romping in the snow is hard play, and presently the little girls sat panting on the top step of the Josephs’ back porch. Immediately Nellie produced a string of amethyst colored beads from her coat pocket, with the announcement that she would say her prayers while resting.

  “What kind of beads are those?” asked Hannah.

  “Rosary beads, ’course,” responded Nellie. “Hannah, you don’t know anything.”

  “I do, too.”

  “Huh! You didn’t even know about the Mother o’ God until I told you.”

  “I reckon I thought God was an orphan,” Hannah pleaded in extenuation. “But, what about God’s papa?” she demanded with sudden inspiration. “You’re so smarty, tell me about that!”

  “Oh, God didn’t have to have a father,” Nellie answered easily. “Everything is free in Heaven; so He didn’t have to have a father to work for Him when He was little.”

  “Then why did He have to have a mama?”

  “To tell Him what to do, ’course. You know how ’tis. If you ask your papa anything, don’t he always say, ‘Go ask your mama’?”

  Hannah had noticed this shifting of masculine responsibility more than once. “That’s so,” she acquiesced. Then a terrible thought struck her. “I don’t want to go to Heaven! I don’t want to go anywhere unless my papa can go too.”

  Nellie’s nimble Irish wits were ready. “I just said God didn’t need any papa. ’Course our papas will go to Heaven, ’cause that’s the only place they can quit working. Didn’t I hear my papa say one time he hoped he’d get a little rest in Heaven, ’cause he never got any on this earth?”

  “But, you have to die before you can get to Heaven,” sighed Hannah.

  Virginia, who had been maintaining a most dignified silence, looked as if she must speak or explode. “No you don’t. Heaven begins here and now,” she recited. “If you are good, you are well and happy, and that’s Heaven.”

  “’Tisn’t,” scoffed Nellie. “Do you see any angels flying ’round in this here yard? I don’t.”

  Hannah rather took to Virginia’s argument, and resolved to have conversation with her some time, undampened by Nellie’s skepticism. If there could be feasting on the joys of Heaven here and now, Hannah had every intention of being at the banquet table. At the present moment, however, the rosary beads were of fascinating interest; she must hold them in her own hands, and watch the play of purple lights upon the snow as she flashed them in the sun. Questions about the crucifix, she found, brought on an embarrassing silence. Nellie looked at Virginia. Virginia looked at Nellie. Then the two excused themselves for a whispered colloquy at the other end of the yard. When they returned, Virginia acted as spokesman, fixing Nellie with an unrelenting eye.

  “That is Jesus nailed to the cross, Hannah. Some very wicked people did it.”

  There was nothing exciting in this to Hannah; wicked people were doing wicked things the world over, all the time. The statement fell flat, and Nellie, disappointed at the lack of dramatic effect, broke treaty. “I ’spect the Jews did it,” she said.

  “They did not!” Hannah’s voice trembled. “The Jews are nice people; they wouldn’t do a wicked thing like that!”

  Virginia put an arm across Hannah’s shoulders. “Now see what you’ve done,” she snapped at Nellie.

  “Oh, I ’spect the Irish helped them,” Nellie added magnanimously. “My papa says the Irish are into everything.”

  Not having to bear the ignominy alone Hannah was comforted. “What makes you say prayers on the beads?” she asked.

  “’Cause I want Santy to bring me a doll tonight. I wrote him ’bout sixteen letters, and I’m going to say my rosary a dozen times today.”

  Tomorrow was Christmas Day! Hannah’s face fell. All her sorrows returned with a rush. “Have you got any more of those beads?” she asked.

  “Yes, but they wouldn’t do you any good,” Nellie answered with quick understanding. “You’re not a Catholic.”

  “Couldn’t I be one?”

  “Not unless you’re baptized with holy water. The priest does it.”

  The leaven had begun to work.

  “What did your mama say about asking Santa Claus to come?” Virginia inquired, with a quick glance toward the beads.

  Hannah shook her head, speechless. She compressed her lips into a tight line with an effort at self-control, but two large tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on her scarlet coat. Again Virginia placed an arm protectingly across Hannah’s shoulder.

  Nellie’s bright blue eyes grew soft with pity. “I tell you what,” she exclaimed. “I’ll baptize Hannah, then she’ll be a Gentile, and Santa Claus will come, no matter what. And when your mama sees how nice it is, she won’t care.”

  “But, you said a priest has to baptize anybody,” objected Virginia.

  “He does ’less it’s a time of danger and you can’t get any priest. Then any Catholic can baptize anybody. My mama baptized our washerwoman’s little baby ’cause they knew it was going to die before Father Murphy could get there. And ain’t this a time of danger?”

  “Nobody’s dying.” Virginia was distressingly literal.

  Hannah looked from one friend to the other, hoping against hope.

  “No, but there’s danger Santa Claus won’t come to see Hannah less’n sump’n is done mighty quick,” came Nellie’s ready reply. “And can we get a priest? You go get one, Virginia. Go get one.”

  Clearly there was no answer to this. The ceremony was set for early afternoon when Grandmother Halloran took her nap and Nellie could borrow the bottle of holy water from her shelf. As to the place, there were six boys at the Hallorans’ always in the way; Mrs. Lawrence had guests; obviously the baptismal rite would have to be performed at Hannah’s home. After lunch the children assembled in the sun parlor of the Josephs’ home, in full view of Mrs. Joseph who sat embroidering in the library, the French door closed between them, so that she did not hear.

  Nellie had secured the bottle of holy water, and, arrayed in her brother Joe’s long, black rain-coat, a towel about her neck for a stole, acted as priest. Virginia, not to be left out of such an important affair, consented to be godmother. In lieu of a prayer manual, Nellie used one of Hannah’s story books. She chose a verse, which, because she knew it by heart, she could read exceptionally well:

  “Little boy blue, come blow your horn, The sheep are in the meadow, And the cows are in the corn.”

  Then she poured a little of the holy water on Hannah’s forehead (wet hair might occasion unanswerable questions) and baptized her “Hannah Agnes Ignatius Joseph.”

  Called upon for a response, the godmother recited very impressively the Scientific Statement of Being as found in the Christian Science textbook, and Hannah was pronounced a Gent
ile and a Catholic.

  One thing more remained to be done. Hannah ran to her mother, cheeks aglow. “Mama, may I trade my striped ball to Nellie for some beads?”

  “Why of course, darling, if you wish.”

  The exchange was made, and some time was spent in mastering the use of the rosary. All three of the children knew the “Our Father,” though there was some difference of opinion as to “debts” and “trespasses” which is apt to hold in all mixed congregations. The “Hail Mary” proved a bit difficult for Hannah, and she finally abandoned it. “I’ll say, ‘Hear, oh Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One,’” she said. “I already know that, and a prayer is a prayer, isn’t it?”

  Nellie refilled the holy-water bottle from the kitchen hydrant, and hurried home to replace it before her grandmother should awaken. Hannah spent the next hour lying flat on her stomach printing letters, appealing to Virginia from time to time for aid as to the spelling, Virginia being a very superior speller.

  Mrs. Joseph was busy with callers when Virginia went home, and Hannah was left to her own devices. Suddenly she thought of one stone that had been left unturned: there was her friend Mr. Jackson to whom the Lawrences always appealed in time of stress. She knew the formula, she knew his number, for on the list by the Lawrences’ telephone, his name, like Abou-ben-Adhem’s, led all the rest. “Main 1234,” it was as easy as counting. She slipped into the telephone closet and closed the door.

  There was no trouble with Hannah that night. She went to bed early, and didn’t care to have any stories told—she could go to sleep by herself.

  “Quite a change of heart, eh?” Eli commented to Rose, as they sat by the living-room fire after telling their little girl good night.

  “She has been like that all day, playing as happily as you please,” Rose responded. “I suppose she got it all out of her system in last night’s scene.”

  Eli drummed abstractedly on the arm of his chair: “I don’t feel quite right about it, even so,” he said.

  “Maybe you will think me inconsistent,” she confessed, flushing, “but Hannah was so indifferent about the presents sent her for Chanuca, I only showed her two. I’ve saved the others to give her Christmas Day, so she will have something of her own to show when the other children bring theirs over.”

  Eli didn’t seem any too pleased. “Poor little mite,” he murmured.

  * * * *

  “His-st! Missis Joseph!”

  It was Bridget, the Hallorans’ old family servant, calling softly from the hall.

  “I’ll be after takin’ the prisints ye’ve stored away for us. I’ll lave ’em on the back porch ’n’ carry ’em over when the childer are all asleep. Nellie’s in bed like a little angel, bless ’er heart, but them divilish b’ys do be a-snoopin’ into ivery crack ’n’ corner!”

  Mrs. Joseph unlocked a closet under the stairs, and loaded Bridget’s arm’s with heavy and bulky parcels.

  “Shure, an’ ’tis a sad Chris’mus we’ll be havin’, savin’ the childer. Mr. Timmy, him that’s old Missis Halloran’s youngest, but old enough to know better, he ups an’ runs away today an’ marries a Protestant gir-rl. An’ if ye’ll open y’r windy the bit av a crack, ye’ll hear the poor old lady this minit, wailin’ like a banshee.”

  “But Mr. Timothy is such a nice young man, he must have married a lovely girl, Bridget,” said Rose.

  “Shure, an’ that may be, but she is a Protestant, Missis Joseph. She runs away fr’m her folks, an’ he runs away fr’m his, an’ they get married by a justice o’ peace. An’ no peace will come o’ such doin’, Lord ’ve mercy on their souls!”

  “Oh, poor Grandma Halloran!”

  “Poor lovers,” said Eli, when Bridget had gone. “I’ll wager they had the very deuce of a time with both sides.”

  No sooner had they settled themselves again than the door knocker sounded. Eli admitted Mr. Jackson, the Christian Science practitioner.

  “I have only a minute,” he said. “I just dropped by to leave a doll my wife dressed for your little girl. We chose one that we thought looked like Hannah.”

  “Oh, but that is kind of you!” Rose looked her gratitude. “Mrs. Lawrence has told me how busy both you and your wife always are—and to take time to think of our little girl——!”

  “I had intended to give it to her myself,” Mr. Jackson continued, “but after her talk with me today I decided she would enjoy it more if I asked Santa Claus to bring it.” His eyes twinkled reminiscently. “She called me up by telephone and asked me to give Santa Claus a treatment—she seemed to think that he would pass her by. I could assure her that he wouldn’t, as I had already seen the doll. Hannah is a wonderful child.”

  “We think so,” smiled Eli. “I am sure we thank you, and wish you the very merriest Christmas.”

  “It will be a happy Christmas for me,” he answered. “I am going to the station to meet my father and mother. Some years ago they felt estranged from me—they are both staunch Presbyterians of the old school and it nearly broke their hearts when I went into Christian Science work. But they are beginning to look more tolerantly upon my calling, and they are on their way now to spend Christmas with us. You can guess how happy that makes me. ‘Peace on earth, good will to men’—it is a wonder-working thought.”

  “It is indeed,” Eli agreed heartily.

  When the door had closed upon their visitor, Rose and Eli stood staring at each other rather foolishly. She was the first to speak: “Is there no end to the fight between the old and the new generation?”

  “We are just beginning the scrap with our new generation,” he said. “She called him up and asked for Christian Science help! I wonder what else that little monkey has been up to?”

  They soon found out. Carrying the doll Mr. Jackson had brought, Rose tiptoed after Eli into the nursery and gradually turned on the light. The first object to meet their eyes was Hannah’s stocking, hanging precariously to a pin driven into the mantel. Pinned to the wall were several messages, neatly printed in pencil, which told their own tale:

  Deer Santy—Nellie babtized me. Holy wotter. Hannah.

  Deer Santy—I want things in my stockin. Hannah.

  Deer Santy Claws—Ime a jentile. Nellie babtize me. Ime a jentile cath-lic C. S. Hannah.

  Deer Santy—Bring me any nice things you got left. With love Hannah.

  Deer Santy—Don’t let my Mama and my Papa get mad bout you. Hannah.

  Eli began to chortle, and Hannah stirred in her sleep, throwing both chubby arms over her head. Clutched tightly in her left hand they saw a rosary of amethyst colored beads.

  Rose snapped off the light and pushed Eli out into the hall. He sat down on the stairs and laughed until he cried. “The dog-gone little mixer!” he chuckled. “A Gentile Catholic Christian Scientist is she? And if she has ever happened to hear anything about Mahomet, believe me, she’s sleeping with her feet toward Mecca right now!”

  Rose was weeping silently over the message: “‘Don’t let my Mama and my Papa get mad ’bout you’.” She touched her husband on the shoulder, “Eli, what shall we do about it?”

  “Do?” He stood up and set his jaw determinedly. “You spoke just now of the fight between the old and the new generations: do you see what we are coming to if we don’t concede our child her legitimate rights. She will seek them out, and take them by force, and never forgive us for withholding them, that’s what! Every child who has ever heard of Santa Claus has a right to enjoy the myth. Didn’t I give a hundred dollars to the Elks and a hundred dollars to the Big Brothers who are looking after the empty stockings of the poor children, while my own baby—”

  He had reached his bedroom door and was kicking off his house slippers.

  “Eli, where are you going?”

  “Downtown to see Santa Claus if I have to break open a dozen stores,” he answered determinedly.

  * * * *

  It seemed that Santa Claus, never having visited Hannah before, had a mind to make up for lost time.
An overflowing stocking hung from the mantel; a tree loaded with presents and tinsel stood by her bed; about the room were placed large gifts, everything a little girl might wish for. Hannah was dazed. She didn’t see her mother and father standing in the doorway of the nursery, their arms about each other, and smiling. She tugged at her window until it opened and then called to Nellie across the intervening space.

  “He came! He came!” she screamed, as a tousled, flame-colored head showed at the window opposite.

  Hannah brushed by her parents and, running to the window nearest Virginia’s room, repeated her message. Then she came back into the nursery, still oblivious of mother and father, and stared about her in ecstasy. The occasion called for some expression of thanksgiving—what could it be? A seven-year-old child hasn’t words for such a big emotion. She could think of but one thing to do.

  Reverently bowing her little bronze head, she made the sign of the cross—upside down!

  THE POTATO CHILD, by Mrs. Charles J. Woodbury

  It was certain that Elsie had a very hard and solitary life.

  When Miss Amanda had selected her from among the girls at “The Home,” the motherly matron felt sorry.

  “She is a tender-hearted little thing, and a kind word goes a great way with Elsie.”

  Miss Amanda looked at the matron as if she were speaking Greek, and said nothing. It was quite plain that few words, either kind or unkind, would pass Miss Amanda’s lips. But “The Home” was more than full, and Miss Amanda Armstrong was a person well known as the leading dressmaker in the city, a person of some money; not obliged to work now if she didn’t wish to. “If cold, she is at least perfectly just,” they all said.

  So Elsie went to work for Miss Amanda, and lived in the kitchen. She waited on the door, washed the dishes, cleaned the vegetables, and set the table (Miss Amanda lived alone, and ate in the kitchen). Every Friday she swept the house. Her bed was in a little room in the back attic.