beaut’s, heh?”
“Them shorely air,” asserted Pop Baker, solemnly. “Ye air too lucky fer it ter last, Dink—a boy, ’n’ strikin’ them boots. Waal, I wisht ye merry Christmas! It air gittin’ cold, haint it?”
“Whut ye expectin’ yerself?” quoth Dink, whose heart had opened under Pop’s generous praise. “Ye orter hev suthin’ fine yerself, shorely.”
Pop tried to pass it off airily.
“I dunno whut Sandy Claws’ll do for me,” he said slowly. “I did mention ter Jimpsey thet I’d feel peart ter middlin’ ef the ol’ chap’d drap me a real visible houn’ pup down the chimbly. Thet larst houn’ I hed outen Ase Blivin’s breed war thet triflin’ an’ cross thet the neighbers pizened him. He clumb right up inter passin’ wagons. I wanter own a pup thet hev got some nateral ondertandin’, an’ ef he bites when he’s growed up, he wull bite with reason.”
“Dawgs air truly gittin’ might’ triflin’ these days,” commented Dink, leaning back. “But, Pop, I’m goin’ ter give ye suthin’ I got right off a rale peart Sandy Claws pack up in town, An’ don’t ye open it tell ye git it home, an’ ye gits yer fire a-goin’ good, an’ air settin’ roun’ thar. Then ye puts yer box on a cheer ’n’ ye turns on the leetle wire. Dern it all, but I wisht I war thar when ye does it! Ye’re sech a sport yerself thet I hates ter miss it.”
“Haint I robbin’ o’ ye?” asked Pop Baker, politely, although he was leaning far over and reaching out his hand in the wildest curiosity.
“Naw, naw; the feller threw thet thar trick in—an’ I got some other stuff. I’ll jes keep a-bustin’ ter-morrer ter think o’ ye an’ thet box. Waal, here’s ter yer Christmas in the mornin’, Pop! So long, ye!”
Pop Baker clasped the small, hard parcel ecstatically to his breast while mechanically holding the reins. Bully Boy seemed to realize the importance of haste as he fairly bounded on, dragging The Other without any mercy. They rattled over the stony creek road, and finally reached the low house. In twenty minutes Pop Baker had given the mules a big feed in the barn, and was stirring up his carefully covered wood fire on the hearth with a pine stick. It struck him that the room was very nice and warm.
The pine stick flared up high, and Pop Baker looked up at the high, rough mantel-board for the one small tin lamp that he possessed. A new glare struck his eye. On the shelf sat a shining glass lamp with a clean chimney and full of oil.
“Don’t thet beat anything in the hull world?” observed Pop Baker. “An’ thet door hooked up ez keerful ez usual. Now I never calkilated ter own sech a ’lumination ez thet wull shorely make. Hain’t that purty? Dern it! it air too fine ter dirty up. It jes does me good ter see it settin’ roun’. Whar’s my old one?”
He turned about, with his pine stick still blazing high. On his bed was a new patchwork quilt. In his arm-chair was a patchwork cushion. The table on which he had that morning left some very dirty dishes was spread with a new red oil-cloth, and on it were sundry parcels and covered pans.
“Sandy Claws hev gone inter the feedin’ business, hit ’pears like. Waal, I’m seventy-odd, ’n’ he never lit in on me afore. Shorely we live ter l’arn these hyah dayses.”
Delighted, he uncovered fresh bread and pies and cake, and a cold roasted rabbit. He lighted his tin lamp, and stirred up heartsome fire of great logs. The cabin glowed and grew gloriously warm. A friendly cricket chirped upon the hearth as he ate heartily and finally set out a large stone pitcher of hard cider. He poured in some molasses and then thrust an iron poker through the red embers. On Pop Baker’s face was a beautiful and tender light, in his blue eyes great love and faith in his fellow-men. The Christmas glow was in his heart, the Christmas peace brooding over him.
Then, and only then, he carefully pulled up a chair and unwrapped the little box Dink Smith had given him. It perched saucily upon the edge of the chair, and Pop sat down before it. He cut a long pine sliver carefully, and solemnly and breathlessly he touched the frail little wire fastening. Zip! it was open! There jumped up a rosy-faced, smiling jack-in-the-box with a fringe of gray hair and a perky chin-beard. It stared right saucily at Pop Baker and with the utmost indifference to his opinion. As for Pop, he was so amazed that he had no words. He stared and he retreated and he advanced, wholly fascinated. Then he put his hands down on his knees and he roared with laughter.
“Waal, I’m jes jee-whizzled ef hit ain’t my pictur’ ter a T! Sandy Claws must hev spotted me. An’ I got on a blue nightgownd with posies on it. Hain’t yer ol’ Pop Baker dyked out fer Christmas? Waal, I never would hev b’lieved it, not ef ye’d told me fer years an’ years; but thar I am, an’ whut am I goin’ ter do but b’lieve it? Waal, whut next? Do I shet up any more in thet box, or do I sleep a-standin’?”
He examined the toy with cautious fingers, but soon discovered the workings of the spring. At last he gently closed the box and deposited the precious thing beside the precious cheap glass lamp on the mantel-shelf.
“I couldn’t stan’ Sandy Claws a-doin’ of much more,” he said reverently, “er the Almighty thet air marchin’ erlong them stars. I calkilate them two pussons air erbout the same, me not bein’ up much in religion. Whut in the dickens air up? Air my house on fire? Woo-o-o!”
For a bucket or two of water was suddenly poured down his big chimney, raising a thick white steam. As this died away, a long pole let down an old basket, and, with a violent lurch from above, the contents tumbled far out on the bare floor. It was a shrieking, howling black puppy, a beautiful curly little creature that trembled like a leaf when Pop Baker jumped to its rescue and folded it in his arms.
“Dern yer buttons up yan! would ye bake the dawg a-playin’ of yer Sandy Claws? This air is shorely Jimpsey’s doin’s. Waal, they needn’t ’a’ put my fire out, need they, leetle Christmas? By gum, hain’t he a beauty? Sech thick ha’r! I never hev seen sech a pup. I bet he’s got sense; I bet he’s pure breed out o’ suthin’ ’sides them sneakin’ ol’ hill houn’s. Thar, ye jes lie on my bed while I sees who air playin’ Sandy Claws on ter my roof. Oh, I hears ye goin’ rattlin’ down my clapboards, I does! Ye means well, ye means well. Ef this here hain’t a Christmas ter be marked with a stone! The Lord bless ’em all! I’m gittin’ ter be ol’, but ol’ age air the bestes’ time, the merries’, free time. Sandy Claws never come a-nigh me tell now, an’ I ’preciates hit. I likes the lamp, an’ I likes thet pictur’ of me; but this hyah leetle pup—it’s a livin’, breathin’ thing, an’ it comes right nigh ter my heart. Seems like I got ’most everything thar war in the hull world ter git, Mr. Sandy Claws er the Almighty, which air might’ nigh the same thing. I thanks ye, wharever ye air.”
The Christmas midnight, still solemn and holy, was on the hills. The old man slept calmly in the red light of smoldering embers. The jack-in-the-box had jumped out to see the commotion of the night before, and kept its stiff wooden arms extended toward him in benediction. Close, very close to the old man, one of whose work-worn hands lay on the thick curly fur, slept the fat little puppy that was to be his constant and faithful companion in the days to come.
WHILE THE AUTOMOBILE RAN DOWN, by Charles Battell Loomis (1861-1911)
In the late nineteenth century, people in the city used cable cars, electric trolleys, and horse-drawn carriages to get around. If they could afford the cost, they called a Hansom cab, a two-wheeled cart drawn by one horse. In the 1890’s, electric taxicabs were invented, and wealthy people began to use them for their city transportation. We of the twenty-first century are not the first to deal with the foibles of the electric car. The author of this story, the humorist Charles Battell Loomis, shows the pitfalls of the new technology and how people adapted to the occasional glitch.
It was a letter to encourage a hesitating lover, and certainly Orville Thornton, author of “Thoughts for Non-Thinkers,” came under that head. He received it on a Tuesday, and immediately made up his mind to declare his intentions to Miss Annette Badeau that evening.
But