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Speaker 1: The Queerest Christmas by Grace Margaret Gallapher Betty stood at

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her door, gazing drearily down the long empty corridor, in

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which the breakfast gong echoed mournfully. All the usual brisk

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scenes of that hour, groups of girls in Peter Thompson's

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suits or starched shirt waists, or a pair of energetic

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ones red cheeked and shining eyed from a run in

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the snow, had vanished, as by the hand of some

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

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the day before Christmas, groaned Betty. Two chill little tears

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hung on her eyelashes. The night before, in the excitement

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of getting the girls off with all their trunks and packages, intact,

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she had not realized the homesickness of the deserted school.

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

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why did father have to lose his money twas easy

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enough less September to decide I wouldn't take the expensive

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journey home these holidays, and for all of us to

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promise we wouldn't give each other as much as a

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Christmas card. But now the two chill tears slipped over

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the edge of her eyelashes. Well, I know how I'll

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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

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this cheering resolve, Betty went to breakfast. Whatever the material

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joys of that meal might be, certainly was not a

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feast of reason and a flow of soul. Betty, whose

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sense of humor never perished even in such a frost,

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looked round the table at the eight grim faced girls

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doomed to a Christmas in school, and quoted mischievously to herself.

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On with the dance, let joy be unconfined. Breakfast bolted,

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she lagged back to her room, stopping to stare out

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

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instead a picture the gazed medley of many colors and

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figures danced before her eyes. Christmas trees thumping in through

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the door, Mysterious bundles scurried into dark corners, little brothers

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

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and holly. Everywhere, sound and laughter and excitement. The motto

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of Betty's family was never do to day what you

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can put off till tomorrow. Therefore, the preparations of a

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fortnight were always crowded into a day. For the year before,

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Betty had rushed till her nerves were taut and her

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temper snapped, had shaken the twins raged at the housemaid,

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and had gone to bed at midnight weeping with weariness.

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But in memory, only the joy of the day remained.

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I think I could endure this jail of a school

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and not getting one single present, but it breaks my heart.

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And to keep one least little thing to any one?

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Why whoever heard of such a Christmas? Won't you haunt

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for that blue? Broken my thread? Again? Give me those scissors.

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Betty jump out of her day dream. She had wandered

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into cork, and the three O'Neals surrounded her, staring. I

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beg your pardon. I heard you, and it was so

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like home the day before Christmas? Did you hear the

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heathen rage? Cried Catherine Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission, explained Constance,

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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

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is never four handed. You'd think I was from the

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number of thumbs I've grown this morning. Oh misery, Elinor

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jerked a snarl of thread out on the floor. Betty

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had never cared for cork, but now the hot, worried

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faces of its girls appealed to her. Let me help,

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I'm irregular silkworm. The O'Neill's assented with eagerness, and Betty

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began to sew in a capable, swift way that made

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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

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the floor. Yet she enjoyed the morning, for it held

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an entirely new sensation, that of helping some one else

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get ready for Christmas. Done. We never should have finished

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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

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the big corridors did not seem half so bleak, echoing

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to those warm O'Neal voices, this morning's just spun by.

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But oh this long, dreary afternoon, sighed Betty as she

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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

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can't give a single soul anything. Do you know where

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quotations for occasions has gone? Betty turned to face pretty Rosamond. Howitt,

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the only senior left behind, gone to be rebound. I

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heard miss Dye say, so, oh, dear, I needed it?

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So could I help? I know a lot of rhymes

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and tags of proverbs and things like that. Oh, if

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you would help me, I'd be so grateful. Won't you

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come to my room? You see? Yea, I promised a

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friend in town who is to have a Christmas dinner

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and who has been very kind to me, that i'd

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paint the play's cards and write some quotation appropriately. She guessed,

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I'm shamefully late over it. My own gifts took such

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a time, but the painting at least is done. Rosamond

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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

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helplessness if it were a Greek verb now, or a

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lost and straight angle, but poetry. Betty trotted back and

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forth between the room and the library, delved into books,

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and even evolved a verse which she audaciously tagged old

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play in imitation of Sir Walter Scott. I think they

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are really and truly very bright, and I know missus

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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.

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It will sweeten you to give me your whole afternoon.

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The dinner bell rang at that moment, and the two

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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

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Betty's as they left the table. A great round moon

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swung cold and bright over the pines by the lodge

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

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

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country road. Why the little mission is as gay as

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as Christmas, I wonder why? Betty glanced at the bright

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windows of the small plain church. Oh some Christmas Eve doings,

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

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

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you could not come. The girl saw it was the

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tall old rector, his white hair shining silver bright in

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the moonbeams. We are just two girls from the school, Sir,

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said Rosamond, dear, dear. His voice was both impatient and distressed.

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I hoped you were my organist. We are all ready

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for Christmas Eve's service, but we can do nothing without

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the music. I can play the organ a little, said Betty.

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I'd be glad to help. You can, my dear child.

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How fortunate. But do you know the service? Yes, sir,

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it's my church. No vested choir stood ready to march

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triumphantly chanting into the choir stalls. Only a few boys

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and girls waited in the dim old choir loft, where

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Rosamond seated herself quietly. Betty's fingers trembled so at first

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that the music sounded dull and far away. But her

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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

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power of its own. In the dark church, only the

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altar and a great gold star above it shone bright

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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.

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Yet somehow she did not feel lonesome and forsaken. This

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Christmas Eve, far away from home, but safe and comforted

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and sheltered. The voice of the old Rector reached her

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faintly in pauses habit let her along the service, and

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the star at the altar held her eyes. Strange new

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ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain. Tears stole

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softly into her eyes, yet she felt in her heart

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a sweet glow. Slowly the Christmas picture that had flamed

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and danced before her all day, painted in the glory

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of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded out, and another

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shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light. My

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dear child, I thank you very much. The old Rector

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held Betty's hand in both his. I cannot have a

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Christmas morning service. Our people have too much to do

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to come then. But I was especially anxious that our

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evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them,

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and your music has made it so. You have given

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me great aid. May your Christmas be a blessed one.

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I was glad to play, sir, Thank you, answered Betty. Simply,

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Let's run, she cried to Rosamond, and they raced back

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to school. She fell asleep that night without one smallest tear.

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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

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as she opened the door. It was a great bunch

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of holly, glossy green leaves and glowing berries, and hidden

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in the leaves of cart Betty, Merry Christmas was all

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

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whispered Betty happily, and stuck the bunch into the ribbon

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of her mandolin. Down the corridor she ran until she

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faced a closed door. Then, twanging her mandolin, she burst

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out with all her power into a gay Christmas carol.

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High and sweet sang her voice in the sullen corridor

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all through the gay carol, Then sweeter still, it changed

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into a Christmas hymn. Then from behind the closed door

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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

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all nine girls joined in adess dee fidelis. Christmas morning

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began with music and laughter. This is your place, Betty,

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you are Lord of Christmas Morning. Betty stood, blushing read

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as the holly in her hand. Before the breakfast table,

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Miss Hile, the teacher at the head of the table,

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had given up her place. The breakfast was a merry one.

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After it, somebody suggested that they all go skating on

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the pond. Betty hesitated and glanced at Miss Hayle and

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

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and said, won't you come skating? To Miss Thrasher, hardly

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older than Betty herself and pretty in a white, frightened way, refused,

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but almost cheerfully. I have a Christmas box to open

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and Christmas letters to write. Thank you very much. Betty's

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heart sank as she saw Miss Hyle's face. Goodness, she's coming.

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Miss Hile was the most unpopular teacher in school. Neither

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ill tempered nor harsh, she was so cold, remote, and

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rigid in face, voice, and manner that the warmest blooded

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shivered away from her. The least sensitive shrank. I have

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no skates, but I should like to borrow a pair

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to learn, if I may. I have never tried, she said.

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

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especially if such peace schoolgirls subjects for unalloyed mirth. The

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nine girls choked and turned their backs and even giggled

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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.

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

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Presently she was swinging up the pond in stroke with

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Betty and Eleonora O'Neill. Miss Haile, You're great, cried Betty

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at the end of the morning. I've taught dozens and

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scores to skate, but never anybody like you. You've a

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genius for skating. Miss Hales's blue eyes shot a sudden

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flash at Betty that made her whole severe face light up.

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I've never had a chance to learn at home. There

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never is any ice, but I have always been athletic.

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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

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us about it, Miss Hale. So it was that Miss

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Hale found herself talking about something besides triangles to girls

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who really wanted to hear. And so it was that

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the flash came often into her eyes. I have had

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a happy morning, thank you, Betty and all. She said it,

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very simply, yet a quick throb of pity and liking

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beat in Betty's heart. How stupid we are about judging people,

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she thought. Yet Betty had always prided herself on her character.

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Reading Hurrah, the mail and Express are in. The girls

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ran excitedly to their rooms. Betty alone went to hers

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without interest. Why, Helma, what's happened? The little round faced,

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sweetish maid mopped the big tears with her duster and

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choked out nothing, ma'am. Of course there is. You're crying

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like everything. Hilma wept aloud. Christmas day is, and mine

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family and mine friends have party now all day where

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Hilma jerked her head toward the window. Oh you mean

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in town? Why can't you go? I work? And never

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

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before am I from home Christmas Day? She whispered. She

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

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beside the dumpy flaxen Helma, what work do you do?

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The cook? He cooks the dinner in the supper. I

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put it on and waited on the young ladies and

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washed the dishes. The others all are gone. Betty laughed suddenly, Heilma,

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go put on your best clothes quick and go down

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to your party. I'm going to do your work. Helma's

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eyes rounded with amazement. The cook he'd be mad. No,

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he won't. He won't care whether it's Helma or Betty.

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If things get done, all right. I know how to

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

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to object. Run along, Helma, be back by nine o'clock

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and Merry Christmas. Helma's face beamed through her tears. She

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was speechless with joy, but she seized Betty's slim brown

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hand and kissed it loudly. What larks? Is it a joke? Betty?

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You're the handsomest butler. Betty, in a white shirt waist suit,

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a jolly red bow pinned on her white apron and

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a little cap cocked on her dark hair, waved them

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to their seats at the holly deck table. Merry Christmas,

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Merry Christmas. Nobody is ill. Betty Rosamond asked anxiously, if

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I had three guesses, I should use every one that

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our maid wanted to go into town for the day,

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

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Betty blushed. It was her turn now to flash back

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a glance, and those two sparks kindled the fire of friendship.

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It was a jolly Christmas dinner with a butler, eating

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

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must be admitted the washing up after Christmas dinner of

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twelve is not a subject for much joy. I propose

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we all help Betty wash the dishes, cried Rosamond. Howitt

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out in the kitchen. Every one laughed and talked and

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got in the way and had a good time. And

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if the milk pitcher was knocked on the floor and

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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

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they came in, little miss Thrasher, looking almost gay in

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a rose bred gown, met them in the corridor. I

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thought it would be fun, she said, shyly, to have

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supper in my room. I have a big box from home.

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I couldn't possibly eat all the things myself. And if

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you'll bring chaffing dishes and spoons and those things I'll

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cook it and we can sit round my open fire.

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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

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to be a pleasant hostess. After supper, Miss Hayle told

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a tale of India, Miss Thrasher gave a rocky amountain adventure,

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and the girl's contributed ghost and burglar stories till each

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

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really a fine day. I expected to dive homesickness, but

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it's been jolly. So did I. But I've actually been happy. Thus,

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the girls commented, as they started for bed. I have

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enjoyed my day, said little Miss Thrasher very much. Yes, indeed,

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it's been a merry Christmas. Miss Hile spoke almost eagerly.

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Betty gave a little jump she realized each one of

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them was holding her hand and pressing it a little

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thank you. It's been a lovely evening. Good night. Rosamond

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had invited Betty to share her roommate's bed, but both

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

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

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Why I haven't given one single soul, one single present yet,

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she smiled, drowsily happy, And then the room seemed to

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fill with a bright, warm light, and round the bed

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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

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with his white hair and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss Thrasher,

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and the homesick girl's and lonely Miss Hile, and tear

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dimmed Hilma, and all the faces smiled and nodded and

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

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By Grace Margaret Gallaher