Speaker 1: 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. 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.
Speaker 2: But he very.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: A glass of water. I feel all of a part inside.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Will you hold it to my mouth? Said the fish.
Speaker 1: Stephen complying, the mackerel drank a good half of the
water there, it said, that.
Speaker 2: 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.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Don't know.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Up frozen or the ward. It is all one to me.
I could eat them anywhere.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: He was terrified.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: 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.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: I am somewhat divided in my opinion, I mean, but
whatever you all agree upon will suit me, I'm sure.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Right, so to be sure, I'm somewhat divided.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: She stopped stock.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: Very nice, very nice.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: 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.
Speaker 1: 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.
Speaker 2: 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.
Speaker 1: 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