Speaker 1: The Christmas Gift that came to Rupert A Story for
Small Soldiers from Missus Skagg's Husbands and other stories by
Brett Hart. It was the Christmas season in California, a
season of falling rain and springing grasses. There were intervals when,
through driving clouds and a flying scud, the sun visited
the Haggard Hills with a miracle, and death and resurrection
were as won and out of the very throes of decay,
a joyous life struggled outward and upward. Even the storms
that swept down the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds
that took their places. There were no episodes of snowy
silence over the quickening fields. The farmers plowshare hard followed
the furrows left by the latest rains. Perhaps it was
for this reason that the Christmas evergreens, which decorate the
drawing room took upon themselves a foreign aspect and offered
a weird contrast to the roses seen dimly through the
windows as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against
the panes. Now, said the doctor, drawing his chair closer
to the fire, and looking mildly but firmly at the
semicircle of flaxen heads around him. I want it distinctly
understood before I begin my story, that I am not
to be interrupted by any ridiculous questions. At the first one,
I shall stop. At the second, I shall feel it
my duty to administer a dose of castor oil all around.
The boy that moves his legs or arms will be
understood to invite amputation. I have brought my instruments with
me and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business.
Do you promise, yes, er, said six small voices simultaneously.
The volley was, however, followed by a half dozen dropping questions. Silence, Bob,
put your feet down and stop rattling that sword. Flora
shall sit by my side like a little lady and
be an example to the rest. Fung Tang shall stay
too if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a
little there. That will do just enough to make the
fire look brighter and to show off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody.
The boy who cracks an almond or breathes too loud
over his raisins will be put out of the room.
There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword tenderly
aside and nursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, after coquettishly adjusting
the pocket of her little apron, put her arm upon
the Doctor's shoulder and permitted herself to be drawn beside him.
Fung Tang, the little heathen page, who was permitted on
this rare occasion to share the Christian revels in the
drawing room, surveyed the group with a smile that was
at once sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a
French clock on the mantel, supported by a young shepherdess
of bronze complexion and great symmetry of limb, was the
only sound that disturbed the Christmas like piece of the apartment,
a piece which held the odors of Evergreen's new toys,
cedar boxes, glue and varnish in a harmonious combination that
passed all understanding. About four years ago this time began
the doctor I attended a course of lectures in a
certain city. One of the professors, who was a sociable
kind of man, though somewhat practical and hard headed, invited
me to his house on Christmas night. I was very
glad to go, as I was anxious to see one
of his sons, who, though only twelve years old, was
said to be very clever. I dare not tell you
how many Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or
how many English ones he had composed. In the first place,
you'd want me to repeat them. Secondly, I'm not a
judge of poetry Latin or English. But there were judges
who said they were wonderful for a boy, and everybody
predicted a splendor future for him, everybody but his father.
He shook his head doubtingly whenever it was mentioned, for
as I have told you, he was a practical, matter
of fact man. There was a pleasant party at the
professor's that night. All the children of the neighborhood were there,
and among them the professor's clever son, Rupert, as they
called him, a thin little chap about as tall as
Bobby there, and as fair and delicate as Flora by
my side. His health was feeble, his father said. He
seldom ran about and played with other boys, preferred to
stay at home and brood over his books and compose
what he called his verses. Well, we had a Christmas
tree just like this, and we had been laughing and talking,
calling off the names of the children who had presents
on the tree, and everybody was very happy and joyous
when one of the children suddenly uttered a cry of
mingled surprise and hilarity and said, here's something for Rupert.
And what do you think it is. We all guessed
a desk, a copy of Milton, a gold pen, a
rhyming dictionary. No, what then a drum? A wat asked everybody,
a drum with Rupert's name on it. Sure enough, there
it was, a good sized, bright, new brass bound drum
with a slip of paper on it with the inscription
for Rupert. Of course, we all laughed and thought it
a good joke. You see, you're to make noise in
the world, Rupert said one. Here's parchment for the poet,
said another, Rupert's last work in sheepskin covers, said a third.
Give us a classic tune, Rupert said a fourth, and
so on. But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak. He
changed color, bit his lips, and finally burst into a
passionate fit of crying and left the room. Than those
who had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody began to
ask who had put the drum there, But no one knew,
or if they did, the unexpected sympathy awakened for the
sensitive boy kept them silent. Even the servants were called
up in question, but no one could give any idea
where it came from, and what was still more singular.
Everybody declared that up to the moment it was produced,
no one had seen it hanging on the tree. What
do I think, Well, I have my own opinion, but
no questions enough for you to know that Rupert did
not come down stairs again that night, and the parties
soon after broke up. I had almost forgotten those things
for the War of the Rebellion broke out the next spring,
and I was appointed surgeon in one of the new
regiments and was on my way to the Sea of War.
But I had to pass through the city where the
Professor lived, and there I met him. My first question
was about Rupert. The professor shook his head. Sadly. He's
not so well, he said. He has been declining since
last Christmas when you saw him. A very strange case,
he added, giving it a long Latin name, a very
singular case. But go and see him yourself, he urged.
It may distract his mind and do him good. I
went accordingly to the professor's house and found Rupert lying
on a sofa propped up with pillows. Around him were
scattered his books, and what seemed in singular contrast that
drum I told you about, was hanging on a nail
just above his head. His face was thin and wasted,
there was a red spot on either cheek, and his
eyes were very bright and widely opened. He was glad
to see me, and when I told him where I
was going, he asked a thousand questions about the war.
I thought I had thoroughly diverted his mind from its
sick and languid fancies, when he suddenly grasped my hand
and drew me towards him. Doctor, he said, in a
low whisper, You won't laugh at me if I tell
you something. No, certainly not, I said. You remember that drum,
he said, pointing to the glittering toy that hung around
the wall. You know too, how it came to me
a few weeks after Christmas. I was lying half asleep
here and the drum was hanging on the wall, when
suddenly I heard it beaten, at first low and slowly,
then faster and louder, until its rolling filled the house.
In the middle of the night, I heard it again.
I did not dare to tell anybody about it, But
I have heard it every night ever since. He paused
and looked anxiously in my face. Sometimes, he continued, it
is played softly, sometimes loudly, but always quickening to a
drum roll, so loud and alarming that I have looked
to see people coming into my room to ask what
was the matter. But I think, doctor, I think, he repeated, slowly,
looking up with a painful interest into my face, that
no one hears it but myself. I thought so too.
But I asked him if he had heard it at
any other time, once or twice in the daytime. He replied,
when I have been reading or writing, and then very loudly,
as though it were angry, and tried in that way
to attract my attention away from my books. I looked
into his face and placed my hand upon his pulse.
His eyes were very bright, and his pulse a little
flurried and quick. I then tried to explain to him
that he was very weak, and that his senses were
very acute, as most weak peoples are, and how that
when we breed or grew interested and excited, or when
he was tired at night, the throbbing of a big
artery made the beating sound he heard. He listened to
me with a sad smile and unbelief, but thanked me,
and in a little while I went away. But as
I was going downstairs I met the Professor. I gave
him my opinion of the case. Well, no matter what
it was, he wants some fresh air and exercise, said
the professor, and some practical experience of life, Sir. The
Professor was not a bad man, but he was a
little worried and impatient, and thought, as clever people are
apt to think, that things which he didn't understand were
either silly or improper. I left the city that very day,
and in the excitement of battlefields and hospitals, I forgot
all about little Rupert, nor did I hear of him
again until one day, meeting an old classmate in the
army who had known the Professor. He told me that
Rupert had become quite insane, and that in one of
his paroxysms, he had escaped from the house, and as
he had never been found, it was feared that he
had fallen in the river. And was drowned. I was
terribly shocked for the moment, as you may imagine, But
dear me, I was living just then among scenes as
terrible and shocking, and I had little time to spare
to mourn over Poort Rupert. It was not long after
receiving this intelligence that we had a terrible battle in
which a portion of our army was surprised and driven
back with great slaughter. I was detached from my brigade
to ride over to the battle field and assist the
surgeons of the beaten division, who had more on their
hands than they could attend to. When I reached the
barn that served for a temporary hospital, I went at
once to work. Ah Bob, said the doctor, thoughtfully, taking
the bright sword from the hands of the half frightened
Bob and holding it gravely before him. These pretty playthings
are symbols of cruel, ugly realities. I turned to a tall,
stout vermonter. He continued, very slowly tracing a pattern on
the rug with the point of the scabbard, who was
badly wounded in both thighs. But he held up his
hands and begged me to help others first, who needed
it more than he. I did not at first heed
his request, for this kind of unselfishness was very common
in the army, but he went on. For God's sake, Doctor,
leave me here. There is a drummer boy of our regiment,
a mere child dying. If he isn't dead, now go
and save him first he lies over there. He saved
more than one life he was at his post in
the panic this morning, and save the honor of the regiment.
I was so much more impressed by the man's manner
than by the substance of his speech, which was, however,
corroborated by the other poor fellows stretched around me, that
I passed over to where the drummer lay, with his
drum beside him. I gave one glance at his face,
and yes, Bob, yes, children, it was rupert. Well well,
it needed not the chalked cross which my brother surgeons
had left upon the rough board whenever he lay to
show how urgent was the relief he sought. It needed
not the prophetic words of the vermonter, nor the damp
that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his
pale forehead to show how hopeless it was. Now I
called him by name. He opened his eyes larger, I thought,
in the new vision that was beginning to dawn upon him,
and recognized me. He whispered, I am glad you have come,
but I don't think you can do me any good.
I could not tell him a lie. I could not
say anything. I only pressed his hand in mine as
he went on, But you will see Father and ask
him to forgive me. Nobody is to blame but myself.
It was a long time before I understood why the
drum came to me that Christmas night, and why it
kept calling to me every night, and what it said.
I know it now. The work is done, and I
am content. Tell Father it is better as it is.
I should have lived only to worry and perplex him,
and something in me tells me this is right. He
lay still for a moment, and then, grasping my hand,
said hark. I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed
moans of the wounded men around me. The drum, he said, faintly,
don't you hear it? The drum is calling me. He
reached out his arm to where it lay, as though
he would embrace it. Listen, he went on, it's the
revelie there are the ranks drawn up in the review.
Don't you see the sunlight flash down the long line
of bayonets. Their faces are shining, They present arms. They
come to the General. But his face I cannot look at,
for the glory round his head. He sees me. He smiles,
it is, and with a name upon his lips that
he had learned long ago. He stretched himself wearily upon
the planks and lay quite still. That's all, no question now,
Never mind what became of the drum? Who's that sniveling?
Bless my soul? Where's my pill box? End of the
story The Christmas Gift That Came to Rupert by Brett
Hart