Speaker 1: But once a year by r O'Grady, a shabby little
woman detached herself from the steadily marching throng of the
avenue and paused before a shop window, from which solid
rows of electric bulbs flashed brilliantly into the December twilight.
The ever increasing current of Christmas shoppers flowed on now
and then it rolled up like the waters of the Jordan.
While a lady with rich, warm furs about her shoulders
made safe passage from her car to the tropic atmosphere
of the great department store, warmth and the savory smells
from a bakery kitchen wafted up through the grating of
a nearby pavement, modifying the nipping air. The shabby little woman,
only half conscious of such gratuitous comfort, adjusted her blinking
gaze to the brightness and looked hungrily at the costumes
shimmering under the lights. Wax figures draped with rainbow tented
filmy evening gowns caught her passing admiration, but she lingered
over the street costumes, the soak lined coats and soft
warm furs, elbowed by others, who, like herself, were eager
to look, even though they could not buy. She held
her ground until she had made her choice. With her
wistful gaze still fixed upon her favorite, she had begun
to edge her way through the crowd at the window
when she felt, rather than saw, someone different from the
rest close at her side. At the same instant, she
caught the scent of fresh cut flowers and looked up
into the eyes of a tall young girl in a
white plumed velvet hat with a bunch of English violets
in her brown mink fur. As their glances met, the
shabby little woman checked a start and half defensively dropped
her legs. The smile that shone evanescently from the girl's
corridial eyes had aroused in her a feeling of something
unwanted and strangely intimate. There had lashed over the immobile
face beneath the velvet hat, a look of personal interest,
an unmistakable impulse to speak. The thrill of response that
set the woman's pulses throbbing died suddenly. The red that
motteled her rayish cheeks was the red of shame. Through
the window, in a mirrored panel, cruelly ablaze with light,
she saw herself, her made over turban, her short pigeontailed
jacket of a style long past, and her old otter
cape with its queer caudal decorations and its yellowed cracks
grinning through the plucked and ragged fur. One glance at
her own image was enough. The little woman pushed determinedly
into the slow moving crush and headed toward the nearest
elevated station, to be carried on irresistibly by the army
of pedestrians. She caught a last glimpse of the tall
young girl coming in her direction, still watching her with
that same eager look. But what of that? She knew
why women stared curiously at her. By the time her
station was reached, the occurrence had assumed in her mind
a painful significance which emphasized the sordidness of her evening's routine.
She made her way along a narrow, dimly lighted street,
walking with the aimless gait of one who neither expects
nor is expected, but loiter as she might. She soon
reached a neighborhood where rows of narrow brick tenements brooded
over dingy cluttered basement shops. Here she found it necessary
to accelerate her pace to make way for romping children
and bare headed women hurrying from the shops with their
suppers and paper bags. In spite of the wintry chill,
the section had an air of activity all its own.
Neither did it lack occasional evidences of Christmas chair. In
the window of a little news and fruit shop, against
the smeared and partly frosted glass, a holly wreath was hanging,
and within stood a rack of gaudy, tensiled Christmas cards.
The woman hesitated as if about to enter the shop,
then abruptly passed on. She ascended one of the stops
that were all alike, Standing in a blur of reddish
light that filtered through the broken glass above the door,
She looked back the way she had come. For an
instant her poses quickened again, as they had done on
the Avenue downtown. At the corner, a tall girl with
a white plume velvet hat was smilingly picking her way
through this warming element so foreign apparently to one of
her class. As the white plume came nearer and nearer,
the tremulous little woman regained her self control. It was
but one of the whinsis lenses of the city. She
told herself, turning resolutely away, The door slam shut behind her. Odd,
she thought, as she groped her way through the dimly
lighted lower hall and the complete darkness of the upper,
that such a girl should be living in such a neighborhood.
Then with an effort she dismissed the matter from her
mind to find a match and lengthest buttering gasp required
but very few steps in her tiny box of her room.
When that was accomplished, she could think of nothing more
to do. Her little taste of excitement had spoiled her
zest for any of the homeing rights which at other
times formed the biggest events of her day. As she
sank down upon the cot without removing her wraps, she
was grated by the usual creaking of rusty springs. Her table,
with its meager array of dishes, its coffee pot and
little alcohol burner, sat as ever in its corner, inviting
the preparation of her evening meal. But to night she
did not want to eat. She had not visited the
big shop on her way home. She had not even
bought her daily paper, the corner stand where the postcards
were those gay Christmas cars that bring new greetings from friends.
As she slowly removed her turban, her jacket and fur cape,
and without getting up, tossed them across the chair against
the opposite wall. The dull ache of dissatisfaction in her
heart grew slowly to a sharp pain and desire. She
wanted to do something, to have something happen that might
break the sordid routine of her existence. Still, habit and
environment would continue to force at least a part of
this routine upon her. She glanced at her fingers, staying
to an oily, bluish grime by the cheap dye of
the garments that furnished her daily work. Mechanically, she rose
to wash, while her hands were immerged in the lather
of rankly perfumed toilet soak. There came a gentle knock
at the door. Come in, invited the woman, expecting some famine,
pressed neighbor for a spoonful of coffee or a drawing
of tea. The door opened slowly a tentative aperture, May
I come in, asked a voice that was sweeter than
the breath of violence that preceded. The collar into the room,
with the towel clutched in her dripping hands. The woman
flung wide open the door, then hastened to unload the
chair which held her wraps. Her only chair. Thank you
don't bother, urged the visitor. I should like sitting on
the couch. There was a melody of enthusiasm in this remark,
which the complaining of the cot, as the girl dropped
easily upon it, could not wholly drown. The woman, having
absently hung her towel on the doorknob, stared dazedly at
the visitant. She could hardly credit her eyes. It was.
It was, indeed, the girl, with a white ostrich plume
and the bouquet of violence in her brown made fur.
I feel like an intruder, began the girl, and do
you know? Her appraising glance, directed to the old fur
collar on the chair, was guiltily withdrawn as she spoke.
Do you know I've such a silly excuse for coming?
She laughed, and the laugh brought added music to her voice.
The woman, now at last recalled from her abstraction, smiled,
and the weariness passed from her face. She seated herself
at the extreme end of the humpy, complaining cot. I'm
sure you'll understand resumed the girl. At least, I hope
you'll not be offended. I heard that is I noticed
you had a rare fur piece. Her vivid glance returned
to the pile of wraps on the chair. And I
want to ask a very great favor of you. Now.
Please don't be shocked. I've been ransacking the city for
something like it, and with a determined air of taking
the plunge, I should like to buy it, of you
buy it, scorned the woman, with a sun dull red
staining her sallow cheeks. I can't see why any one
would want to pay money for such a thing as that. It.
It's a rare pattern, you know, broke the girl, her
sweet tones assuming an eloquent, persuasive quiver. And and you
don't know how glad I'd be to have it. The
indignant color faded out of the woman's face. If you
really want it, then abruptly, she put her bizarre possession
into her strange visitor's lap. If you really want it,
but I don't see yearning crept into her work, deaded eyes,
a yearning that seemed to struggle with disillusionment. Tell me
she broke off? Is that all you came here for.
Apparently oblivious to the question, the young woman rose to
her feet. You'll sell it to me, then, she triumphed,
opening her gold bound purse. But see here, demurred the woman.
I can't, it ain't worth. The girl's gloved hands went
fumbling into her purse, while the old fur cap hung
limply across one velvet arm. You leave it to me,
she commanded, and smiled, a radiant, winning smile. Impulsively, the
woman drew close to her guest. Excuse me, she faltered,
But do you know you look ever so much like
a little niece of mine back home? Do I? That's nice?
The visitor looked at her watch. A note of abstraction
had crept into her beautiful voice, but still held the
caress that invited the woman's confidence. Yes, my little niece.
Excuse me, I haven't seen her for twelve years, most
fifteen years. I guess she be growed up. But I
thought when I saw you downtown, Oh you remember me?
Then forgive me for following. The girl ceased the woman's soaked,
reddened hands in a sudden, fervent clasp. I understand, she breathed,
you must be lonely. I have tried to see you again.
I surely will goodbye. The girl was gone, and all
at once the room seemed colder and danger than it
ever had before. But the woman was not cold. As
she sat huddled on the cot, warmth and vitality glowed
within her, kindled by the memory of a recent kindly
human touch. The following evening, after working hours, the shabby woman,
wearing a faded scarf about her neck to replace the
old fur collar, dividently accosted a saleslady of the sixth
Avenue department store. She wanted to buy a brown mink collar,
just like one worn by a figure and green in
the window. It was an usual to sell expensive furs
to such a customer, but people might send what freaks
of servants they pleased to do their Christmas shopping, provided
they sent the money too. In this case, the shabby
little woman was prepared. She produced three crisp ten dollar bills,
the fabulous sum which the girl had left in her
hand at courting, and two dollars more from the savings
in her born little purse. Then, hugging the big black
box against the tight fitting bosom of her jacket, she
triumphantly left the store in a sort of tender ecstasy.
She dallied along until she came to a florist's window.
As she paused to gaze at great bunches of carnations
and roses tied with broad and streaming ribbons, the anxious
look that attends the doubtful shopper returned to her face.
Would it be of any use to go in? Since
she must either keep moving or be came carried along
by the crowd. She edged through the revolving door. English
violets fifty cents for the small bunches clipped off the
red cheeked sales girl. In reply to the woman's croaking inquiry.
The perturbed shopper turned reluctantly away, hesitated, and then asked,
but the roses? A single half blown rose twenty five apiece,
replied the girl in the same mechanical tones, while she
busied herself in rearranging a basket of flowers. Ay, I'll
take the rose At the express office, where scores were
waiting before her. The woman had ample time to untie
her box and slip the rosebud beneath the tissue paper
of the inner wrapping, then, having retied it securely, and
stuck a do not open until Christmas tag in a
conspicuous place. She took her stand in line. When it
finally came her turn at the desk, a stump who
worked like an automaton and greathed like an ox, tore
the package from her lingering grasp and dashed across the
wrapper the address she gave. She paid the charges, wadded
the receipt into her purse, and turned briskly away. First
crillers she took to her room from the bake shop,
having bought them from a dark, greasy woman, whom she
wished a Merry Christmas in a voice that almost sang.
At dusk, she had coffee in her room. It was
Christmas Eve, and she must begin early to get her
full share of the season's peculiar indulgences. After she had
read her paper for an hour or so by the
recklessly flaming gas jet, she bustled about to brew another
cup of coffee, and faced it upon crullers for the
second time. At last, she filled a water bottle with
tepid water from a faucet in the hall, and prepared
for bed. The shill of the bedclothes upon which the
tepid water bottle had little effect, could not touch the
cozy warmth about the woman's heart. Neither were the happy
memories of her strange and lovely visitor disturbed by knowledge
of an incident that was taking place at that very hour.
As she bounced into her cot, coming a little tone,
she did not know that at a downtown theater, a
popular young actress was just responding to an insistent curtain call.
Nor could she have recognized the graceful young girl issuing
from the wings in a new character part an extreme
type of eccentric maidenhood, except for the plucked and ragged
fur piece which formed the keynote of the performer's quaint attire.
No knowledge of this episode disturbed the half drowsing, half
blissful state which supplanted the woman's sleep that night. The
incident cast no cloud upon her eager awakening, nor retarded
her active leap from that when the voice of her
landlady aroused her with a start on Christmas morning, eggs Press,
eggs Spress a package from miss La Lore. Full chested
and lingering, the call reverberated up three flats of naked stairs,
and by the time the woman had donned her skirt
and sweater and had merged into the twilight of the
upper hall. Frowsy curious heads protruded from every door. She
carried the bulky Christmas package to her own room, moving
deliberately in shy, half guilty triumph, and placed it on
the cot behind her closed door. She untied it, removed
the cover, and smilingly bent down to draw an eager
inhalation from the tissue paper folds. Then, with careful fingers,
she parted the crisp in her wrappings and unearthed a
wilding half blown rose from its nest in the brown
bank fur end of but once a year by R.
O'Grady