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The Queerest Christmas by Grace Margaret Gallapher
Betty stood at her door, gazing drearily

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down the long empty corridor, in
which the breakfast gong echoed mournfully. All

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the usual brisk scenes of that hour, groups of girls in Peter Thompson's suits

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or starched shirt waists, or a
pair of energetic ones red cheeked and shining

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eyed from a run in the snow, had vanished, as by the hand

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of some evil magician. Silent and
lonely was the corridor. And it's the

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day before Christmas, groaned Betty.
Two chill little tears hung on her eyelashes.

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The night before, in the excitement
of getting the girls off with all

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their trunks and packages, intact,
she had not realized the homesickness of the

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deserted school. Now it seemed to
pierce her very bones. Oh dear,

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why did father have to lose his
money twas easy enough less September to decide

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I wouldn't take the expensive journey home
these holidays, and for all of us

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to promise we wouldn't give each other
as much as a Christmas card. But

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now the two chill tears slipped over
the edge of her eyelashes. Well,

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I know how I'll spend this whole
day. I'll come right up here after

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breakfast and cry and cry and cry. Somewhat fortified by this cheering resolve,

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Betty went to breakfast. Whatever the
material joys of that meal might be,

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certainly was not a feast of reason
and a flow of soul. Betty,

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whose sense of humor never perished even
in such a frost, looked round the

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table at the eight grim faced girls
doomed to a Christmas in school, and

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quoted mischievously to herself. On with
the dance, let joy be unconfined.

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Breakfast bolted, she lagged back to
her room, stopping to stare out of

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the corridor windows. She saw nothing
of this snowy landscape, however, instead

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a picture the gazed medley of many
colors and figures danced before her eyes.

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Christmas trees thumping in through the door, Mysterious bundles scurried into dark corners,

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little brothers and sisters flying about with
festoons of mistletoe, scarlet, ribbon and

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holly. Everywhere, sound and laughter
and excitement. The motto of Betty's family

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was never do to day what you
can put off till tomorrow. Therefore,

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the preparations of a fortnight were always
crowded into a day. For the year

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before, Betty had rushed till her
nerves were taut and her temper snapped,

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had shaken the twins raged at the
housemaid, and had gone to bed at

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midnight weeping with weariness. But in
memory, only the joy of the day

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remained. I think I could endure
this jail of a school and not getting

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one single present, but it breaks
my heart. And to keep one least

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little thing to any one? Why
whoever heard of such a Christmas? Won't

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you haunt for that blue? Broken
my thread? Again? Give me those

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scissors. Betty jump out of her
day dream. She had wandered into cork,

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and the three O'Neals surrounded her,
staring. I beg your pardon.

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I heard you, and it was
so like home the day before Christmas?

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Did you hear the heathen rage?
Cried Catherine Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission,

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explained Constance, you're so forehanded that
all your presents went a week ago.

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I suppose Eleanor swept a clear chair. The Clan O'Neill is never four handed.

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You'd think I was from the number
of thumbs I've grown this morning.

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Oh misery, Elinor jerked a snarl
of thread out on the floor. Betty

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had never cared for cork, but
now the hot, worried faces of its

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girls appealed to her. Let me
help, I'm irregular silkworm. The O'Neill's

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assented with eagerness, and Betty began
to sew in a capable, swift way

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that made the others stare and sigh
with relief. The dolls were many,

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the O'Neill's slow. Betty worked till
her feet twitched on the floor. Yet

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she enjoyed the morning, for it
held an entirely new sensation, that of

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helping some one else get ready for
Christmas. Done. We never should have

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finished if you hadn't helped. Thank
you, Betty Luther, very very much.

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You're a duck. Let's run to
luncheon together quick. Somehow the big

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corridors did not seem half so bleak, echoing to those warm O'Neal voices,

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this morning's just spun by. But
oh this long, dreary afternoon, sighed

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Betty as she wandered into the library. Oh me, there goes Eylice John's

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with her arms loaded with presents to
mail. And I can't give a single

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soul anything. Do you know where
quotations for occasions has gone? Betty turned

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to face pretty Rosamond. Howitt,
the only senior left behind, gone to

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be rebound. I heard miss Dye
say, so, oh, dear,

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I needed it? So could I
help? I know a lot of rhymes

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and tags of proverbs and things like
that. Oh, if you would help

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me, I'd be so grateful.
Won't you come to my room? You

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see? Yea, I promised a
friend in town who is to have a

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Christmas dinner and who has been very
kind to me, that i'd paint the

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play's cards and write some quotation appropriately. She guessed, I'm shamefully late over

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it. My own gifts took such
a time, but the painting at least

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is done. Rosamond led the way
to her room, and there displayed the

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cards which she had painted. You
can't think of my helplessness if it were

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a Greek verb now, or a
lost and straight angle, but poetry.

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Betty trotted back and forth between the
room and the library, delved into books,

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and even evolved a verse which she
audaciously tagged old play in imitation of

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Sir Walter Scott. I think they
are really and truly very bright, and

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I know missus Fernoll will be delighted. Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully.

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I can't begin to tell you how
you've helped me. It will sweeten you

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to give me your whole afternoon.
The dinner bell rang at that moment,

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and the two went down together.
Come for a little run. I haven't

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been out all day, whispered Rosamond, slipping her hand into Betty's as they

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left the table. A great round
moon swung cold and bright over the pines

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by the lodge down the road.
A bit, just a little way to

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the church, suggested Betty. They
stepped out into the silent country road.

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Why the little mission is as gay
as as Christmas, I wonder why?

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Betty glanced at the bright windows of
the small plain church. Oh some Christmas

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Eve doings, she answered. Some
one stepped quickly out from the church door.

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Oh, miss Vernon, I am
relieved. I had begun to fear

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you could not come. The girl
saw it was the tall old rector,

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his white hair shining silver bright in
the moonbeams. We are just two girls

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from the school, Sir, said
Rosamond, dear, dear. His voice

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was both impatient and distressed. I
hoped you were my organist. We are

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all ready for Christmas Eve's service,
but we can do nothing without the music.

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I can play the organ a little, said Betty. I'd be glad

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to help. You can, my
dear child. How fortunate. But do

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you know the service? Yes,
sir, it's my church. No vested

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choir stood ready to march triumphantly chanting
into the choir stalls. Only a few

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boys and girls waited in the dim
old choir loft, where Rosamond seated herself

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quietly. Betty's fingers trembled so at
first that the music sounded dull and far

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away. But her courage crept back
to her in the silence of the church,

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and the organ seemed to help her
with a brave power of its own.

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In the dark church, only the
altar and a great gold star above

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it shone bright through an open window. Somewhere behind her, she could hear

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the winter wind rattling the ivy leaves
and bending the trees. Yet somehow she

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did not feel lonesome and forsaken.
This Christmas Eve, far away from home,

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but safe and comforted and sheltered.
The voice of the old Rector reached

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her faintly in pauses habit let her
along the service, and the star at

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the altar held her eyes. Strange
new ideas and emotions flowed in upon her

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brain. Tears stole softly into her
eyes, yet she felt in her heart

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a sweet glow. Slowly the Christmas
picture that had flamed and danced before her

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all day, painted in the glory
of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded

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out, and another shaped itself,
solemn and beautiful in the altar light.

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My dear child, I thank you
very much. The old Rector held Betty's

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hand in both his. I cannot
have a Christmas morning service. Our people

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have too much to do to come
then. But I was especially anxious that

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our evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them, and your

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music has made it so. You
have given me great aid. May your

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Christmas be a blessed one. I
was glad to play, sir, Thank

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you, answered Betty. Simply,
Let's run, she cried to Rosamond,

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and they raced back to school.
She fell asleep that night without one smallest

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tear. The next morning, Betty
dressed hastily, and catching up her mandolin,

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set out into the corridor. Something
swung against her hand as she opened

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the door. It was a great
bunch of holly, glossy green leaves and

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glowing berries, and hidden in the
leaves of cart Betty, Merry Christmas was

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all but only one girl wrote that
dainty hand a winter rose, whispered Betty

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happily, and stuck the bunch into
the ribbon of her mandolin. Down the

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corridor she ran until she faced a
closed door. Then, twanging her mandolin,

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she burst out with all her power
into a gay Christmas carol. High

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and sweet sang her voice in the
sullen corridor all through the gay carol,

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Then sweeter still, it changed into
a Christmas hymn. Then from behind the

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closed door sounded voices Merry Christmas,
Betty Luther. Then Constance O'Neill's deep,

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smooth alto flowed into Betty's soprano,
and at the last all nine girls joined

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in adess dee fidelis. Christmas morning
began with music and laughter. This is

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your place, Betty, you are
Lord of Christmas Morning. Betty stood,

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blushing read as the holly in her
hand. Before the breakfast table, Miss

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Hile, the teacher at the head
of the table, had given up her

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place. The breakfast was a merry
one. After it, somebody suggested that

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they all go skating on the pond. Betty hesitated and glanced at Miss Hayle

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and Miss Thrasher, the two sad
looking teachers. She approached them and said,

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won't you come skating? To Miss
Thrasher, hardly older than Betty herself

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and pretty in a white, frightened
way, refused, but almost cheerfully.

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I have a Christmas box to open
and Christmas letters to write. Thank you

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very much. Betty's heart sank as
she saw Miss Hyle's face. Goodness,

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she's coming. Miss Hile was the
most unpopular teacher in school. Neither ill

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tempered nor harsh, she was so
cold, remote, and rigid in face,

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voice, and manner that the warmest
blooded shivered away from her. The

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least sensitive shrank. I have no
skates, but I should like to borrow

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a pair to learn, if I
may. I have never tried, she

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said. The tragedies of a beginner
on skates are to the observers, especially

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if such peace schoolgirls subjects for unalloyed
mirth. The nine girls choked and turned

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their backs and even giggled aloud as
Miss Haile went prone now backward with a

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whack now forward in a limp crumple. But amusement became admiration. Misshile stumbled,

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fell, laughed merrily, scrambled up, struck out, and skated.

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Presently she was swinging up the pond
in stroke with Betty and Eleonora O'Neill.

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Miss Haile, You're great, cried
Betty at the end of the morning.

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I've taught dozens and scores to skate, but never anybody like you. You've

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a genius for skating. Miss Hiles's
blue eyes shot a sudden flash at Betty

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that made her whole severe face light
up. I've never had a chance to

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learn at home. There never is
any ice, but I have always been

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athletic. Where is your home,
miss Hale, asked Betty. Con poor

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India India, gasped elinor how delightful? Oh, won't you tell us about

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it, Miss Hale. So it
was that Miss Hale found herself talking about

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something besides triangles to girls who really
wanted to hear. And so it was

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that the flash came often into her
eyes. I have had a happy morning,

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thank you, Betty and all.
She said it, very simply,

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yet a quick throb of pity and
liking beat in Betty's heart. How stupid

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we are about judging people, she
thought. Yet Betty had always prided herself

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on her character. Reading Hurrah,
the mail and Express are in. The

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girls ran excitedly to their rooms.
Betty alone went to hers without interest.

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Why, Helma, what's happened?
The little round faced, sweetish maid mopped

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the big tears with her duster and
choked out nothing, ma'am. Of course

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there is. You're crying like everything. Hilma wept aloud. Christmas day is,

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and mine family and mine friends have
party now all day where Hilma jerked

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her head toward the window. Oh
you mean in town? Why can't you

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go? I work? And never
before am I from home Christmas Day?

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Betty shivered. Never before am I
from home Christmas Day? She whispered.

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She went close to the girl,
very tall and slim and bright, beside

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the dumpy flaxen Helma, what work
do you do? The cook? He

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cooks the dinner in the supper.
I put it on and waited on the

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young ladies and washed the dishes.
The others all are gone. Betty laughed

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suddenly, Heilma, go put on
your best clothes quick and go down to

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your party. I'm going to do
your work. Helma's eyes rounded with amazement.

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The cook he'd be mad. No, he won't. He won't care

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whether it's Helma or Betty. If
things get done, all right. I

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know how to wait on tables and
wash dishes. There's no housekeeper here to

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object. Run along, Helma,
be back by nine o'clock and Merry Christmas.

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Helma's face beamed through her tears.
She was speechless with joy, but

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she seized Betty's slim brown hand and
kissed it loudly. What larks? Is

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it a joke? Betty? You're
the handsomest butler. Betty, in a

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white shirt waist suit, a jolly
red bow pinned on her white apron and

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a little cap cocked on her dark
hair, waved them to their seats at

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the holly deck table. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas. Nobody is ill.

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Betty Rosamond asked anxiously, if I
had three guesses, I should use every

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one that our maid wanted to go
into town for the day, and Betty

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too her place. It was Miss
Hailes's calm voice. Betty blushed. It

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was her turn now to flash back
a glance, and those two sparks kindled

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the fire of friendship. It was
a jolly Christmas dinner with a butler,

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eating with the family, and now
the dishes, thought Betty. It must

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be admitted the washing up after Christmas
dinner of twelve is not a subject for

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much joy. I propose we all
help Betty wash the dishes, cried Rosamond.

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Howitt out in the kitchen. Every
one laughed and talked and got in

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the way and had a good time. And if the milk pitcher was knocked

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on the floor and the pudding bowl
emptied in Betty's lap, why it was

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all merry Christmas. After that they
all skated again. When they came in,

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little miss Thrasher, looking almost gay
in a rose bred gown, met

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them in the corridor. I thought
it would be fun, she said,

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shyly, to have supper in my
room. I have a big box from

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home. I couldn't possibly eat all
the things myself. And if you'll bring

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chaffing dishes and spoons and those things
I'll cook it and we can sit round

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my open fire. Miss Thrasher's room
was homelike, with its fire of white

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birch and its easy chairs, and
Miss Thrasher herself proved to be a pleasant

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hostess. After supper, Miss Hayle
told a tale of India, Miss Thrasher

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gave a rocky amountain adventure, and
the girl's contributed ghost and burglar stories till

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each guest was in a thrill of
delightful horror. We've had really a fine

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day. I expected to dive homesickness, but it's been jolly. So did

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I. But I've actually been happy. Thus, the girls commented, as

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they started for bed. I have
enjoyed my day, said little Miss Thrasher

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very much. Yes, indeed,
it's been a merry Christmas. Miss Hile

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spoke almost eagerly. Betty gave a
little jump she realized each one of them

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was holding her hand and pressing it
a little thank you. It's been a

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lovely evening. Good night. Rosamond
had invited Betty to share her roommate's bed,

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but both girls were too tired and
sleepy for any confidence. It's been

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the queerest Christmas, thought Betty.
As she drifted towards sleep. Why I

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haven't given one single soul, one
single present yet, she smiled, drowsily

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happy, And then the room seemed
to fill with a bright, warm light,

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and round the bed there danced a
great Christmas wreath made up of the

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faces of the three O'Neals, and
the thin old Rector with his white hair

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and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss
Thrasher, and the homesick girl's and lonely

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Miss Hile, and tear dimmed Hilma, and all the faces smiled and nodded

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and called Merry Christmas, Betty,
Merry Christmas, and of the queerest Christmas.

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By Grace Margaret Gallaher