Stephens Scarriages Christmas by Frank R. Stockton. The Cottage twas Christmas Eve,
an Adamantine's sky hung dark and heavy over the white earth. The forests were
conescent with frost, and the great trees bent as if they were not able
to sustain the weight of snow and ice with which the young winter had loaded
them. In a by path of the solemn woods, there stood a cottage
that would not perhaps have been noticed in the decreasing twilight, had it not
been for a little wisp of smoke that feebly curled from the chimney, apparently
intending every minute to draw up its attenuated tail and disappear within Around the hearth,
whereon the dying embers sent up that feeble smoke. There gathered the family
of Arthur Tyrrell, himself, his wife, a boy, and a girl.
Twas Christmas Eve. A damp air rushed from the recesses of the forest
and came an unbidden guest into the cottage of the Tyrols. And it sat
on every chair, and lay upon every bed, and held in its chilly
embrace every member of the family all sighed. Father said the boy, is
there no more wood that I may replenish the fire. No, my son,
bitterly replied the father, his face hidden in his hands. I brought
at noon the last stick from the wood pile. The mother, at these
words, wiped a silent tear from her eyes, and drew her children yet
nearer the smoldering coals. The father rose and moodily stood by the window,
gazing out upon the night. A wind had now arisen, and the dead
branches strewed the path that he soon must take to the neighboring town. But
he cared not for the danger. His fate and heart were alike hard.
Mother said the little girl, Shall I hang up my stocking to night tis
Christmas Eve? A Damascus blade could not have cut the mother's heart more keenly
than this question. No, dear, she faltered, you must wear your
stockings. There is no fire, and your feet uncovered will freeze. The
little girl sighed and gazed sadly upon the blackening coals. But she raised her
head again and said, but, mother, dear, if I should sleep
with my legs outside the clothes, Old Santa Claus might slip in some little
things between the woolen and my skin, Could he not, dear mother,
Mother, is weeping sister, said the boy. Press her no further.
The father now drew around him his threadbare coat, put upon his head his
well brushed straw hat, and approached the door. Where are you going this
bitter night, dear father, cried his little son. He goes, then,
said the weeping mother, to the town disturb him, not my son,
for he will buy a mackerel for our Christmas dinner. Amarel cried both
the children, and their eyes sparkled with joy. The boys sprang to his
feet. You must not go alone, dear father, he cried, I
will accompany you, and together they left the cottage. The town. The
streets were crowded with merry faces and well wrapped up forms. Snow and ice
cities true lay thick upon the pavements and roofs, But what of that?
Bright lights glistened from every window. Bright fires warmed and softened the air within
the houses, while bright hearts made rosy and happy the countenances of the merry
crowd without. In some of the shops, great turkeys hung in placid obesity
from the bending beams, and enormous bowls of mincemeat sent up delightful fumes,
which mingled harmoniously with the scents of the oranges, the apples, and the
barrels of sugar and bags of spices. In others, the light from the
chandeliers struck upon the polished surface of many a new wheelbarrow, sled or hobby
horse, or lighted up the placid features of recumbent dolls and the demoniacal countenances
of wildly jumping jacks. The crop of marbles and tops was almost more than
could be garnered. Boxes and barrels of soldiers stood on every side, Tin
horns hung from every prominence, and boxes of wonders filled the counters, while
all the floor was packed with joyous children carrying their little purses. Beyond there
stood the candy stores, those earthly paradises of the young, where golden gum
drops, rare cream chocolate, variegated mint stick, and enrapturing mixtures spread their
sweetened wealth. Over All available space to these and many other shops and stores,
and stalls and stands thronged the townspeople, rich and poor. Even the
humblests had some money to spend upon this merry Christmas eve. A damsel of
the lower orders might here be seen hurrying home with a cheap chicken. Here
another with a duck, and here the saving father of a family bent under
the load of a turkey, and a huge basket of auxiliary good things everywhere,
cheerful lights and warm hearthstones, bright and gay mansions, cozy and comfortable
little tenements, happy hearts, rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Nobody cared for
the snow and ice. They had so much that was warm and cheering.
It was all the better for the holiday. What would Christmas be without snow?
An inevitable entrance through these joyous crowds, down the hilarious streets, where
the happy boys were shouting and the merry girls were hurrying in and out of
the shops, came a man who was neither joyous, hilarious, merry,
nor happy. It was Stephen's scarriage, the landlord of so many houses in
that town. He wore an overcoat, which, though old, was warm
and comfortable, and he had fur around his wrists and his neck. His
hat was pushed down tight upon his little head, as though he would shut
out all the sounds of merriment which filled the town. Wife and child,
he had none, And this season of joy to all the Christian world was
an annoying and irritating season to his unsympathetic, selfish heart. Oh ho,
he said to himself, as one after another of his tenants loaded down with
baskets and bundles, hurried by, each wishing him a merry Christmas. Ha
ha. There seems to be a great ease in the money market just now,
oh ho ho. They all seem as flush as millionaires. There's nothing
like the influence of holiday times to make one open his pockets. It's not
yet the first of the months, tis true, but it matters not.
I'll go and collect my rents tonight while all this money is afloat, ha
ha ha ha. And so old Scarage went from house to house and threatened
with expulsion all who did not pay their rents that night. Some resisted bravely,
for the settlement day had not yet arrived, and these were served with
notices to leave at the earliest legal moment. Others paid up their dues,
with many an angry protest, while some poor souls had no money ready for
this unforeseen demand, and Stephen's Scarage seized whatever he could find that would satisfy
his claim. Thus, many a poor weeping families saw the turkey or the
fat goose, which was to have graced the Christmas table, carried away by
the relentless landlord. The children shed tears to see their drums and toys depart,
and many a little memento of affection intended for a gift upon the morrow,
became the property of the hard hearted Stephen. It was nearly nine o'clock
when Scarage finished his nefarious labor. He had converted his seizures into money,
and was returning to his inhospitable home with more more joyous light in his eyes
than had shone there for many a day. When he saw Arthur Tyrrell and
his son enter the bright main street of the town. Ohho, said Stephen,
has he too come to spend his Christmas money? He the poor,
miserable, penniless one. I'll follow him. So behind the unhappy father and
his son went the skulking's carriage, past the grocery store and the markets with
their rich treasures of eatables. Past the toy shops, where the boy's eyes
sparkled with the delight, which disappointment soon washed out with a tear. Past
the candy shops where the windows were so enchancing that the little fellow could scarcely
look upon them. On past all these to a small shop at the bottom
of the street, where a crowd of the very poorest people were making their
little purchases, went the father and his son, followed by the evil minded
scarriage. When the Tyrrels went into the shop, the old man concealed himself
outside behind a friendly pillar, lest any of these poor people should happen to
be his tenants and return him the damage he had just done to them.
But he very plainly saw Arthur Tyrrell go up to the counter and ask for
a mackerel. When one was brought, costing ten cents, he declined it,
but eventually purchased a smaller one, the price of which was eight cents.
The two cents which he received as change were expended for a modicum of
lard, and father and son then left the store and wended their way homeward.
The way was long, but the knowledge that they brought that which would
make the next day something more like Christmas than an ordinary day made their steps
lighter and the path less wearisome. They reached the cottage and opened the door.
There By a rush light on a table sat the mother and the little
girl, arranging greens wherewith to decorate their humble home. To the mute interrogation
of the mother's eyes, the father said, with something of the old fervor
in his voice, Yes, my dear, I have got it, and
he laid the mackerel on the table. The little girl sprang up to look
at it, and the boys stepped back to shut the door. But before
he could do so, it was pushed wide open, and Scarage, who
had followed them all the way, entered the cottage. The inmates gazed at
him with astonishment, but they did not long remain in ignorance of the meaning
of this untimely visit. Mister Tyrrell, said Scaarage, taking out of his
pocket a huge memorandum book and turning over the pages with a swift and practiced
hand. I believe you owe me do two months, rent, Let me
see. Yes here it is eighty seven and a half cents two months at
forty three and three quarters cents per month. I should like to have it
now, if you please. And he stood with his head on one side,
his little eyes gleaming with a yellow maliciousness. Are sir, Tyrill arose,
his wife crept to his side, and the two children ran behind their
parents. Sir said, Tyrol, I have no money. To your worst,
no money, cried the hard hearted Stephen. That story will not do
for me. Everybody seems to have money tonight, and if they have none,
it is because they have wilfully spent it. But if you rarely have
none, and here a ray of hope shot through the hearts of the Tyrrell
family. You must have something that will bring money, and that I shall
seize upon. Aha, I will take this. And he picked up the
Christmas mackerel from the table where Arthur had laid it. Tis very little,
said scourage, but it will at least pay me interest. Wrapping it in
the brown paper which lay under it, he thrust it into his capacious pocket,
and without another word, went out into the night. Arthur Tyrill sank
into a chair and covered his face with his hands. His children, dumb
with horror and dismay, clung to the rends of his chair, while his
wife, ever faithful in the day of sorrow as in that of joy,
put her arm around his neck and whispered in his ear Cheer up, Dear
Arthur, all me yet be well, have courage. He did not take
the lard. What always happens. Swiftly homeward through the forest walked the triumphant
scarage, and he reached his home an hour before midnight. He lived alone
in a handsome house which he had seized for a debt, an old woman
coming every day to prepare his meals and do the little houseworks that he required.
Opening his door with his latch key, he hurried upstairs, lighted a
candle, and seating himself at a large table in a spacious room in the
front of the house, he counted over the money he had collected that evening,
entered the amounts in one of the great folios which lay upon the table,
and locked up the cash in a huge safe. Then he took from
his pocket the mackerel of the Tyrrell family. He opened it, laid it
flat upon the table before him, and died it by imaginary lines into six
parts. Here said he to himself, AH, breakfasts for six days.
I would it were a week. I like to have things square. And
even had that man bought the ten cent fish that I saw offered him,
there would have been seven portions. Well, perhaps I can make it do
even now, let me see a little off here, and the same off
this. So at this moment something very strange occurred. The mackerel, which
had been lying split open upon its back, now closed itself, gave two
or three long drawn gasps, and then, heaving a sigh of relief,
it flapped its tail, rolled its eyes a little, and, deliberately,
wriggling itself over to a pile of ledgers, sat up on its tail and
looked at scarage. This astounded individual pushed back his chair and gazed with all
his eyes at the strange fish. But he was more astounded yet when the
fish spoke to him. Would you mind, said the mackerel, making a
very wry face, greeting me a glass of water. I feel all of
a part inside. Scourage mumbled out some sort of an assent, and hurried
to a table near by, where stood a pitcher and a glass, and,
filling the latter, he brought it to the mackerel. Will you hold
it to my mouth? Said the fish. Stephen complying, the mackerel drank
a good half of the water there, it said, that makes me feel
better. I don't mind, Brian, if I could take exercise, but
to lie perfectly still in salt water makes one feel riched. You don't know
how hungry I am. Have you any worms, convenient worms? Cried Stephen.
Why what a question? No, I have no worms, well said
the fish, somewhat petulantly. You must have some sort of a yard or
garden. Go and dig me some, dig them, cried Stephen. Don't
know. It's winter and the ground's frozen, and the worm's too. For
that matter, I don't go anything. For all that, said the mackerel,
Go you and dig some up frozen or the ward. It is all
one to me. I could eat them anywhere. The manner of the fish
was so imperative that Stephen's carriage did not think of disobeying. But taking a
crowbar and a spade from a pilot of agricultural implements that lay in one corner
of the room, and which heard at various times been seized for debts,
he lighted a lantern and went down into the little back garden. There he
shoveled away the snow, and when he reached the ground, he was obliged
to use the crowbar vigorously before he could make any impression on the frozen earth.
After a half hour's hard labor, he managed by most carefully searching through
the earth thrown out of the hole he had made, to find five frozen
worms. These he considered a sufficient meal for a fish, which would scarcely
make seven meals for himself, And so he threw down his implements and went
into the house with his lantern, his five frozen worms, and twice as
many frozen fingers. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was
certain that he heard the murmur of voices from above. He was terrified voices
came from the room where all his treasures lay. Could it be thieves.
Extinguishing his lantern and taking off his shoes, he softly crept up the stairs.
He had not quite closed the door of the room when he left it,
and he could now look through an opening which commanded a view of the
whole apartment, And such a sight now met his wide stretched eyes. In
his chair, his own arm chair by the table, there sat a dwarf,
whose head as large as a prize cabbage, was placed upon a body
so small as not to be noticeable, and from which depended a pair of
little legs appearing like the roots of the before mentioned vegetable on the table,
bitterly engaged in dusting a day book with a pen wiper, was a fairy
no more than a foot high, and as pretty and graceful as a queen
of the ballet. Viewed from the dress circle, the mackerel still leaned against
the pile of ledgers, and, oh horror, upon a great iron box.
In one corner there sat a giant, whose head, had he stood
up, would have reached the lofty ceiling. A chill colder than the frosty
earth and air outside could cause ran through the frame of stephen'scarriage as he crouched
by the crack of the door and looked upon these dreadful visitors and their conversation,
of which he could hear distinctly. Every word caused the freezing perspiration to
trickle in icy globules down his back. He's gone to get me some worms,
said the mackerel, and we might as well settle it all before he
comes back. For my part, I'm very sure of what I have been
saying. Oh ye, yes, said the dwarf. There could be no
doubt about it at all. I believe it every word. Of course,
it is, so, said the fairy, standing upon the day book,
which was now well dusted. Everybody knows it is. It couldn't be otherwise,
said the giant, in a voice like thunder among the pines. We're
all agreed upon that, A mighty partitive about it, whatever it is,
thought the trembling Stephen, who continued to look with all his eyes and to
listen with all his ears. Well, said the dwarf, leaning back in
the chair and twisting his little legs around each other until they looked like a
rope's end. Let us arrange matters for my part. I would like to
see all crooked things made straight, just as quickly as possible. So would
I, said the fairy, sitting down on the day book and crossing her
dainty satin covered ankles, from which she stooped to brush a trifle of dust.
I want to see everything nice and pretty and just write. As for
me, said the mackerel. I am somewhat divided in my opinion, I
mean, but whatever you all agree upon will suit me, I'm sure,
then, said the giant, rising to his feet and just escaping a violent
contact of his head with the ceiling. Let us get to work and while
we're about it, we'll make our clean sweep of it. To this,
the others all gave assent, and the giant, after moving the mackerel to
one corner of the table and requesting the fairy to stand beside the fish,
spread all the ledgers and day books, and cash and bill and memorandum books
upon the table, and opened them all at the first page. Then the
dwarf climbed up on the table and took a pen, and the fairy did
the same, and they both set to work as hard as they could to
take an account of stephens Garage's possessions. As soon as either of them had
added up two pages, the giant turned over the leaves, and he had
to be very busy about it. So active was the dwarf, who had
a splendid head for accounts, and who had balanced the same head so long
upon his little legs that he had no manner of difficulty in balancing a few
letgers. The fairy, too, ran up and down the columns as if
she were dancing a measure in which the only movements were forward one and backward
one. And she got over her business nearly as fast as the dwarf,
as for the mackerel, he could not add up, but the fairy told
him what figures she had to carry to the next column, and he remembered
them for her, and thus helped her a great deal. In less than
half an hour, the giant turned over the last page of the last book,
and the dwarf put down on a large sheet of foolscap the sum total
of Stephen's garage's wealth. The fairy read out the sum, and the woeful
listener at the door was forced to admit to himself that they had got it
exactly right. Now, then said the giant, here is I went list.
Let us make out the schedule. In twenty minutes, the Giant,
the dwarf, and the fairy, the last reading out the names of stephens
various tenants, the giant stating what amounts he deemed the due of each one,
and the dwarf, putting down the sums opposite their names, had made
out the schedule, and the giant read it over in a voice that admitted
of no inattention. Hurrah, said the dwarf. That done, and I'm
glad, And he stepped lightly from the table to the arm of the chair,
and then down to the seat and jumped to the floor, balancing his
head in the most wonderful way as he performed these agile feats. Yes,
said the mackerel, it's all right, so to be sure, I'm somewhat
divided. Oh we won't prefer at that now, said the giant. Let
bygones be bygones. As for the fairy, she didn't say a word,
but she just bounced on the top of the day book that she had dusted
and which now lay closed near the edge of the table, And she danced
such a charming little fantee that everybody gazed at her with delight. The giant
stooped and opened his mouth as if he expected her to whirl herself into it
when she was done, and the mackerel was actually moved to tears and tried
to wipe his eyes with his fin, but it was not long enough,
and so the tears rolled down and hardened into a white crust on the green
baize which covered the table. The dwarf was on the floor, and he
just stood still on his little toes, as if he had been a great
top dead asleep. Even Stephen, though he was terribly agitated, thought the
dance was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. At length, with
a whirl which made her look like a snowball on a pivot. She stopped
stock still standing on one toe, as if she had fallen from the sky
and had stuck upright on the daybook bravel Babble, cried the dwarf, and
you could hear his little hands clapping beneath his head. Hurrah, cried the
giant, and he brought his great palms together with a clap that rattled the
window panes like the report of a cannon. Very nice, very nice,
indeed, said the mackerel. Though I'm rather divault. Oh no, you're
not, cried the fairy, making a sudden, joyful jump at him,
and putting her little hand on his somewhat distorted and certainly very ugly mouth.
You're nothing of the kind. And now let's have him in here and make
him sign. Do you think he will do it? Said she, turning
to the giant. That mighty individual doubled up his great right fist like a
trip hammer, and he opened his great left hand, as hard and solid
as an anvil, and he brought the two together with a sounding wang.
Ya's said he I think he will. In that case, said the dwarf,
we might as well call him. I sent him after some worms,
said the mackerel. But he has not been all this time getting them.
I should not wonder at all if he had been listening at the door all
the while. We all still m to settle, that said the dwarf,
walking rapidly across the room, his head rolling from side to side, but
still preserving that admirable balance for which it was so justly noted. When he
reached the door, he pulled it wide open, and there stood poor Stephen's
scarriage, trembling from head to foot, with the five frozen worms firmly grasped
in his hands. Calmburne, said the giant, and Stephen walked in,
slowly and fearfully, bowing as he came to the several personages in the room.
Are those my worms, said the mackerel. If so put them in
my mouth one at a time. They're not so fast. They are frozen,
sure enough, But do you know that I believe I like them this
way the best. I never tasted frozen ones before. By this time the
dwarf had mounted the table, and, opening the schedule, stood pointing to
an agreement written at the bottom of it, while the fairy had a pen
already dipped in the ink, which she held in her hand as she stood
on the other side of the schedule. Now, sir, said the giant,
just take your seat in your chair, take that pen in your hand,
and sign your name below that agreement. If you've been listening at the
door all this time, as I believe you have, you have heard the
contents of the schedule, and therefore need not read it over Stephen thought no
more of disobeying than he did of challenging the giant to a battle, and
he therefore seated himself in his chair, and, taking the pen from the
fairy, wrote his name at the bottom of the agreement, although he knew
that by that act he was signing away half his wealth. When he had
written his signature, he laid down the pen and looked round to see if
anything more was required of him. But just at that moment something seemed to
give way in the back of his neck. His head fell forward so as
to nearly strike the table, and he awoke. There was no longer a
schedule, a fairy, a dwarf, or a giant in front of him.
Was the mackerel, split open and lying on its back. It was
all a dream. For an hour, stephen'scarage sat at his table, his
face buried in his hands. When at last his candle gave signs of spluttering
out. He arose, and with a subdued and quiet air, he went
to bed. What must occur The next morning was bright, cold and cheering,
and Stephen's scarriage arose very early, went down to the large front room
where his treasures were kept, got out his check book, and for two
hours was busily employed in writing. When the old woman who attended to his
household affairs arrived at the usual hour, she was surprised at his orders to
cook for his breakfast the whole of a mackerel, which he handed her.
When he had finished his meal, at which he ate at least one half
of the fish, he called her up into his room. He then addressed
her as follows, Margaret, you have been my servant for seventeen years.
During that time I have paid you fifty cents per week for your services.
I am now convinced that the sum was insufficient. You should have had at
least two dollars, considering you only had one meal. In the house,
as you would probably have spent the money as fast as I gave it to
you. I shall pay you no interest upon what I have withheld. But
here is a check for the unpaid balance one thousand, three hundred and twenty
six dollars. Invest it carefully and you will find it quite a help to
you. Handing the paper to the astounded woman, he took up a large
wallet stuffed with checks, and let left the house. He went down into
the lower part of the town with a countenance full of lively fervor and generous
light. When he reached the quarter where his property lay, he spent an
hour or two in converse with his tenants, and when he had spoken with
the last one, his wallet was nearly empty, and he was followed by
a wildly joyful crowd, who would have brought a chair and carried him in
triumph through the town had he not calmly waved them back. When the concourse
of grateful ones had left him, he repaired to the house of Philip Weaver,
the butcher, and hired his pony and spring cart. Then he went
to Ambrose Smith, the baker, at whose shop he had stopped on his
way down town and inquired if his orders had been filled. Although it was
Christmas morning, Ambrose and his seven assistants were all as busy as bees,
but they had not yet been able to fill so orders. In an hour,
however, Ambrose came himself to a candy store where Stephen was treating a
crowd of delighted children, and told him all was ready and the cart loaded.
At this Stephen hurried to the baker's shop, mounted the cart, took
the reins, and drove rapidly in the direction of the cottage of Arthur Tyrol.
When he reached the place, it was nearly one o'clock. Driving cautiously
as he neared the house, he stopped at a little distance from it and
tied the horse to a tree. Then he stealthily approached a window and looked
in. Arthur Tyril sat upon a chair in the middle of the room,
his arms folded and his head bowed upon his breast. On a stool by
his left side sat his wife, her tearful eyes raised to his somber countenance.
Before her father stood the little girl, leaning upon his knees and watching
the varied expressions that flashed across his face. By his father's right side,
his arm resting upon his parents shoulder. Stood the boy, a look of
calm resignation far beyond his ears, lighting up his intelligent face. Twas a
tableau never to be forgotten. Able to gaze upon it. But a few
minutes, stephen'scarriage pushed open the door and entered the room. His entrance was
the signal of consternation. The wife and children fled to the farthest corner of
the room, while Arthur Tyrrell arose and sternly confronted the intruder. Ha said,
he you have soon returned. You think that we can be yet further
despoiled? Proceed Take all that we have. There is yet this, and
he pointed to the two sense worth of lard, which still lay upon the
table. No. No faltered stephen'scarriage, seizing the hand of Arthur Tyril and
warmly pressing it, Keep it, keep it. Tis not for that I
came, but to ask your pardon and to beg your acceptance of a Christmas
gift, pardon for having increased the weight of your poverty, and a gift
to celebrate the advent of a happier feeling between us. Having said this,
Stephen paused for a reply. Arthur Tyril mused for a moment. Then he
cast his eyes upon his wife and his children, and in a low but
firm voice, he said, I pardon and accept that's right, cried Scarriage,
his whole being animated by a novel delight. Come out to the cart,
to you and your son, and help me bring in the things.
While missus Tea and the girl set the table as quickly as possible. The
cart was now brought up before the door, and it was rapidly unloaded by
willing hands from under a half dozen new blankets, which served to keep the
other contents from contact with the frosty air. Stephen first handed out a fine
linen tablecloth, and then a basket containing a dinner set of queensware, said
glass seventy eight pieces with soup, turene and pickle dishes, and a half
dozen knives and forks, rubber handled and warranted to stand hot water. When
the cloth had been spread and the plates and dishes arranged, Arthur Tyrrell and
his son, aided now by the wife and daughter, brought in the remaining
contents of the cart and placed them on the table, while with a bundle
of kindling which he had brought, and the fallen which lay all about the
cottage, Scarage made a rousing fire on the hearth. When the cart was
empty and the table fully spread, it presented, indeed a noble sight at
one end of great turkey at the other, a pair of geese, a
dark upon one side, and a pigeon pie upon the other. Cranberries,
potatoes, white and sweet onions, parsnips, celery bread, butter beets,
pickled and buttered, pickled cucumbers and walnuts, and several kinds of sauces made
up the first course, while upon a side table stood minced pies, apple
pies, pumpkin pies, apples, nuts, almonds, raisins, and a
huge picture of cider for dessert. It was impossible for the Tyrrell family to
gaze unmoved upon this bounteously spread table, and after silently crasping each other for
a moment, they sat down with joyful, thankful hearts to a meal far
better than they had seen for years. At their earnest solicitation, mister Scarage
joined them. When the meal was over and there was little left but empty
dishes, they all arose and Scarage prepared to take his leave. But before
I go, said he, I would leave you with a further memento of
my good feeling and friendship. You know my Hillsdale farm in the next township.
Oh yes, cried Arthur Tyrol. Is it possible that you will give
me a position there? I make you a present of the whole farm,
said Scourage. There are two hundred and forty two acres, sixty of which
in timber large mansion house, two good barns, and cow and chicken houses
are well covered in an orchard of young fruit trees, and a stream of
water flowing through the place. The estate is well stocked with blooded cattle,
horses, et cetera, and all necessary farming utensils. Possession immediate. Without
waiting for the dumbfounded Tyrrel to speak, Scarage turned quickly to his wife and
said, here, madam, is my Christmas gift to you. In this
package you will find chairs of the New York Central and Hudson Sixes, of
eighty three of the Fort Wayne Guaranteed and of the Saint Paul's Preferred. Also
bonds of the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Second Mortgage, and of the Michigan
seven percent Warlon in all these amounts of nine and eighty two dollars, but
to preclude the necessity of selling at a sacrifice for immediate once I have taken
the liberty of placing in the package one thousand dollars in green bags, and
now, dear friend Adieux. But the grateful family could not allow this noble
man to leave them. Thus Arthur Tyrell seized his hand and pressed it to
his bosom, And then, as if overcome with emotion, Missus Tyrrell fell
upon her benefactor's neck, while the children gratefully grasped the skirts of his coat.
With one arm around the neck of the still young, once beautiful,
and now fast improving Missus Tyroll. Stephen'scarriage stood for a few minutes, haunted
by memories of the past. Then he spoke, Once, said he his
voice trembling the while, Once, I too loved such a one. But
it is all over now, and the grass waves over her grave. Farewell,
farewell, dear friend. And dashing away a tear, he tore himself
from the fervent family and swiftly left the house. Springing into the cart,
he drove rapidly into the town a happy man. Did you ever read a
story like that before? End of Stephen's Garage's Christmas by Frank Gars Stockton