Speaker 1: The Queerest Christmas by Grace Margaret Gallapher Betty stood at
her door, gazing drearily down the long empty corridor, in
which the breakfast gong echoed mournfully. All the usual brisk
scenes of that hour, groups of girls in Peter Thompson's
suits or starched shirt waists, or a pair of energetic
ones red cheeked and shining eyed from a run in
the snow, had vanished, as by the hand of some
evil magician. Silent and lonely was the corridor. And it's
the day before Christmas, groaned Betty. Two chill little tears
hung on her eyelashes. The night before, in the excitement
of getting the girls off with all their trunks and packages, intact,
she had not realized the homesickness of the deserted school.
Now it seemed to pierce her very bones. Oh dear,
why did father have to lose his money twas easy
enough less September to decide I wouldn't take the expensive
journey home these holidays, and for all of us to
promise we wouldn't give each other as much as a
Christmas card. But now the two chill tears slipped over
the edge of her eyelashes. Well, I know how I'll
spend this whole day. I'll come right up here after
breakfast and cry and cry and cry. Somewhat fortified by
this cheering resolve, Betty went to breakfast. Whatever the material
joys of that meal might be, certainly was not a
feast of reason and a flow of soul. Betty, whose
sense of humor never perished even in such a frost,
looked round the table at the eight grim faced girls
doomed to a Christmas in school, and quoted mischievously to herself.
On with the dance, let joy be unconfined. Breakfast bolted,
she lagged back to her room, stopping to stare out
of the corridor windows. She saw nothing of this snowy landscape, however,
instead a picture the gazed medley of many colors and
figures danced before her eyes. Christmas trees thumping in through
the door, Mysterious bundles scurried into dark corners, little brothers
and sisters flying about with festoons of mistletoe, scarlet, ribbon
and holly. Everywhere, sound and laughter and excitement. The motto
of Betty's family was never do to day what you
can put off till tomorrow. Therefore, the preparations of a
fortnight were always crowded into a day. For the year before,
Betty had rushed till her nerves were taut and her
temper snapped, had shaken the twins raged at the housemaid,
and had gone to bed at midnight weeping with weariness.
But in memory, only the joy of the day remained.
I think I could endure this jail of a school
and not getting one single present, but it breaks my heart.
And to keep one least little thing to any one?
Why whoever heard of such a Christmas? Won't you haunt
for that blue? Broken my thread? Again? Give me those scissors.
Betty jump out of her day dream. She had wandered
into cork, and the three O'Neals surrounded her, staring. I
beg your pardon. I heard you, and it was so
like home the day before Christmas? Did you hear the
heathen rage? Cried Catherine Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission, explained Constance,
you're so forehanded that all your presents went a week ago.
I suppose Eleanor swept a clear chair. The Clan O'Neill
is never four handed. You'd think I was from the
number of thumbs I've grown this morning. Oh misery, Elinor
jerked a snarl of thread out on the floor. Betty
had never cared for cork, but now the hot, worried
faces of its girls appealed to her. Let me help,
I'm irregular silkworm. The O'Neill's assented with eagerness, and Betty
began to sew in a capable, swift way that made
the others stare and sigh with relief. The dolls were many,
the O'Neill's slow. Betty worked till her feet twitched on
the floor. Yet she enjoyed the morning, for it held
an entirely new sensation, that of helping some one else
get ready for Christmas. Done. We never should have finished
if you hadn't helped. Thank you, Betty Luther, very very much.
You're a duck. Let's run to luncheon together quick. Somehow
the big corridors did not seem half so bleak, echoing
to those warm O'Neal voices, this morning's just spun by.
But oh this long, dreary afternoon, sighed Betty as she
wandered into the library. Oh me, there goes Eylice John's
with her arms loaded with presents to mail. And I
can't give a single soul anything. Do you know where
quotations for occasions has gone? Betty turned to face pretty Rosamond. Howitt,
the only senior left behind, gone to be rebound. I
heard miss Dye say, so, oh, dear, I needed it?
So could I help? I know a lot of rhymes
and tags of proverbs and things like that. Oh, if
you would help me, I'd be so grateful. Won't you
come to my room? You see? Yea, I promised a
friend in town who is to have a Christmas dinner
and who has been very kind to me, that i'd
paint the play's cards and write some quotation appropriately. She guessed,
I'm shamefully late over it. My own gifts took such
a time, but the painting at least is done. Rosamond
led the way to her room, and there displayed the
cards which she had painted. You can't think of my
helplessness if it were a Greek verb now, or a
lost and straight angle, but poetry. Betty trotted back and
forth between the room and the library, delved into books,
and even evolved a verse which she audaciously tagged old
play in imitation of Sir Walter Scott. I think they
are really and truly very bright, and I know missus
Fernoll will be delighted. Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully.
I can't begin to tell you how you've helped me.
It will sweeten you to give me your whole afternoon.
The dinner bell rang at that moment, and the two
went down together. Come for a little run. I haven't
been out all day, whispered Rosamond, slipping her hand into
Betty's as they left the table. A great round moon
swung cold and bright over the pines by the lodge
down the road. A bit, just a little way to
the church, suggested Betty. They stepped out into the silent
country road. Why the little mission is as gay as
as Christmas, I wonder why? Betty glanced at the bright
windows of the small plain church. Oh some Christmas Eve doings,
she answered. Some one stepped quickly out from the church door. Oh,
miss Vernon, I am relieved. I had begun to fear
you could not come. The girl saw it was the
tall old rector, his white hair shining silver bright in
the moonbeams. We are just two girls from the school, Sir,
said Rosamond, dear, dear. His voice was both impatient and distressed.
I hoped you were my organist. We are all ready
for Christmas Eve's service, but we can do nothing without
the music. I can play the organ a little, said Betty.
I'd be glad to help. You can, my dear child.
How fortunate. But do you know the service? Yes, sir,
it's my church. No vested choir stood ready to march
triumphantly chanting into the choir stalls. Only a few boys
and girls waited in the dim old choir loft, where
Rosamond seated herself quietly. Betty's fingers trembled so at first
that the music sounded dull and far away. But her
courage crept back to her in the silence of the church,
and the organ seemed to help her with a brave
power of its own. In the dark church, only the
altar and a great gold star above it shone bright
through an open window. Somewhere behind her, she could hear
the winter wind rattling the ivy leaves and bending the trees.
Yet somehow she did not feel lonesome and forsaken. This
Christmas Eve, far away from home, but safe and comforted
and sheltered. The voice of the old Rector reached her
faintly in pauses habit let her along the service, and
the star at the altar held her eyes. Strange new
ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain. Tears stole
softly into her eyes, yet she felt in her heart
a sweet glow. Slowly the Christmas picture that had flamed
and danced before her all day, painted in the glory
of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded out, and another
shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light. My
dear child, I thank you very much. The old Rector
held Betty's hand in both his. I cannot have a
Christmas morning service. Our people have too much to do
to come then. But I was especially anxious that our
evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them,
and your music has made it so. You have given
me great aid. May your Christmas be a blessed one.
I was glad to play, sir, Thank you, answered Betty. Simply,
Let's run, she cried to Rosamond, and they raced back
to school. She fell asleep that night without one smallest tear.
The next morning, Betty dressed hastily, and catching up her mandolin,
set out into the corridor. Something swung against her hand
as she opened the door. It was a great bunch
of holly, glossy green leaves and glowing berries, and hidden
in the leaves of cart Betty, Merry Christmas was all
but only one girl wrote that dainty hand a winter rose,
whispered Betty happily, and stuck the bunch into the ribbon
of her mandolin. Down the corridor she ran until she
faced a closed door. Then, twanging her mandolin, she burst
out with all her power into a gay Christmas carol.
High and sweet sang her voice in the sullen corridor
all through the gay carol, Then sweeter still, it changed
into a Christmas hymn. Then from behind the closed door
sounded voices Merry Christmas, Betty Luther. Then Constance O'Neill's deep,
smooth alto flowed into Betty's soprano, and at the last
all nine girls joined in adess dee fidelis. Christmas morning
began with music and laughter. This is your place, Betty,
you are Lord of Christmas Morning. Betty stood, blushing read
as the holly in her hand. Before the breakfast table,
Miss Hile, the teacher at the head of the table,
had given up her place. The breakfast was a merry one.
After it, somebody suggested that they all go skating on
the pond. Betty hesitated and glanced at Miss Hayle and
Miss Thrasher, the two sad looking teachers. She approached them
and said, won't you come skating? To Miss Thrasher, hardly
older than Betty herself and pretty in a white, frightened way, refused,
but almost cheerfully. I have a Christmas box to open
and Christmas letters to write. Thank you very much. Betty's
heart sank as she saw Miss Hyle's face. Goodness, she's coming.
Miss Hile was the most unpopular teacher in school. Neither
ill tempered nor harsh, she was so cold, remote, and
rigid in face, voice, and manner that the warmest blooded
shivered away from her. The least sensitive shrank. I have
no skates, but I should like to borrow a pair
to learn, if I may. I have never tried, she said.
The tragedies of a beginner on skates are to the observers,
especially if such peace schoolgirls subjects for unalloyed mirth. The
nine girls choked and turned their backs and even giggled
aloud as Miss Haile went prone now backward with a
whack now forward in a limp crumple. But amusement became admiration.
Misshile stumbled, fell, laughed merrily, scrambled up, struck out, and skated.
Presently she was swinging up the pond in stroke with
Betty and Eleonora O'Neill. Miss Haile, You're great, cried Betty
at the end of the morning. I've taught dozens and
scores to skate, but never anybody like you. You've a
genius for skating. Miss Hales's blue eyes shot a sudden
flash at Betty that made her whole severe face light up.
I've never had a chance to learn at home. There
never is any ice, but I have always been athletic.
Where is your home, miss Hale, asked Betty. Con poor
India India, gasped elinor how delightful? Oh, won't you tell
us about it, Miss Hale. So it was that Miss
Hale found herself talking about something besides triangles to girls
who really wanted to hear. And so it was that
the flash came often into her eyes. I have had
a happy morning, thank you, Betty and all. She said it,
very simply, yet a quick throb of pity and liking
beat in Betty's heart. How stupid we are about judging people,
she thought. Yet Betty had always prided herself on her character.
Reading Hurrah, the mail and Express are in. The girls
ran excitedly to their rooms. Betty alone went to hers
without interest. Why, Helma, what's happened? The little round faced,
sweetish maid mopped the big tears with her duster and
choked out nothing, ma'am. Of course there is. You're crying
like everything. Hilma wept aloud. Christmas day is, and mine
family and mine friends have party now all day where
Hilma jerked her head toward the window. Oh you mean
in town? Why can't you go? I work? And never
before am I from home Christmas Day? Betty shivered. Never
before am I from home Christmas Day? She whispered. She
went close to the girl, very tall and slim and bright,
beside the dumpy flaxen Helma, what work do you do?
The cook? He cooks the dinner in the supper. I
put it on and waited on the young ladies and
washed the dishes. The others all are gone. Betty laughed suddenly, Heilma,
go put on your best clothes quick and go down
to your party. I'm going to do your work. Helma's
eyes rounded with amazement. The cook he'd be mad. No,
he won't. He won't care whether it's Helma or Betty.
If things get done, all right. I know how to
wait on tables and wash dishes. There's no housekeeper here
to object. Run along, Helma, be back by nine o'clock
and Merry Christmas. Helma's face beamed through her tears. She
was speechless with joy, but she seized Betty's slim brown
hand and kissed it loudly. What larks? Is it a joke? Betty?
You're the handsomest butler. Betty, in a white shirt waist suit,
a jolly red bow pinned on her white apron and
a little cap cocked on her dark hair, waved them
to their seats at the holly deck table. Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas. Nobody is ill. Betty Rosamond asked anxiously, if
I had three guesses, I should use every one that
our maid wanted to go into town for the day,
and Betty too her place. It was Miss Hailes's calm voice.
Betty blushed. It was her turn now to flash back
a glance, and those two sparks kindled the fire of friendship.
It was a jolly Christmas dinner with a butler, eating
with the family, and now the dishes, thought Betty. It
must be admitted the washing up after Christmas dinner of
twelve is not a subject for much joy. I propose
we all help Betty wash the dishes, cried Rosamond. Howitt
out in the kitchen. Every one laughed and talked and
got in the way and had a good time. And
if the milk pitcher was knocked on the floor and
the pudding bowl emptied in Betty's lap, why it was
all merry Christmas. After that they all skated again. When
they came in, little miss Thrasher, looking almost gay in
a rose bred gown, met them in the corridor. I
thought it would be fun, she said, shyly, to have
supper in my room. I have a big box from home.
I couldn't possibly eat all the things myself. And if
you'll bring chaffing dishes and spoons and those things I'll
cook it and we can sit round my open fire.
Miss Thrasher's room was homelike, with its fire of white
birch and its easy chairs, and Miss Thrasher herself proved
to be a pleasant hostess. After supper, Miss Hayle told
a tale of India, Miss Thrasher gave a rocky amountain adventure,
and the girl's contributed ghost and burglar stories till each
guest was in a thrill of delightful horror. We've had
really a fine day. I expected to dive homesickness, but
it's been jolly. So did I. But I've actually been happy. Thus,
the girls commented, as they started for bed. I have
enjoyed my day, said little Miss Thrasher very much. Yes, indeed,
it's been a merry Christmas. Miss Hile spoke almost eagerly.
Betty gave a little jump she realized each one of
them was holding her hand and pressing it a little
thank you. It's been a lovely evening. Good night. Rosamond
had invited Betty to share her roommate's bed, but both
girls were too tired and sleepy for any confidence. It's
been the queerest Christmas, thought Betty. As she drifted towards sleep.
Why I haven't given one single soul, one single present yet,
she smiled, drowsily happy, And then the room seemed to
fill with a bright, warm light, and round the bed
there danced a great Christmas wreath made up of the
faces of the three O'Neals, and the thin old Rector
with his white hair and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss Thrasher,
and the homesick girl's and lonely Miss Hile, and tear
dimmed Hilma, and all the faces smiled and nodded and
called Merry Christmas, Betty, Merry Christmas, and of the queerest Christmas.
By Grace Margaret Gallaher