Buddy’s Christmas Tree
“Whyfor no snow, Unc’e Don?”
Uncle John went right ahead at his walk and said nothing.
“Whyfor no snow, Unc’e Don? Kismas come soon.”
Buddy seemed to have the idea fixed in his head that there ought to be snow at Christmas time. He had been sucking his thumb industriously for some time, and finally broke out in the above remark.
“Well,” said Uncle John, “If Christmas comes soon, I shouldn’t be surprised if we did get some snow. Why does Buddy want snow?”
“So dat Santa Claus can make his sleigh go.”
The two had been walking back and forth for quite a while in the morning sunshine along the path to the garden gate. As a variation they had sat upon the bench under the wide spreading pine tree that stood near the corner of the house, its long branches reaching almost to the porch. Of late the days had been almost summer-like, and old gray-headed Uncle John enjoyed the change of being out in the fresh air. Thus their companionship had grown from day to day.
The path from the porch and front door of the house was well beaten. It led right out to the gate. On either side were bushes, bare of leaves and dry with the winter season, as well as the withered stems of flowers. Along the fence that lined the road was a row of locust trees, from which practically every leaf was gone. This meant a good deal when one remembers how small the leaves of the locust are.
“Look—look, Unc’e Don!”
“Well, Buddy, you know I can’t look,” was the answer.
“No look, Unc’e Don?”—Buddy seemed very much surprised. He looked up at the tall figure beside him with a puzzled air.
“Whyfor, Unc’e Don, whyfor no look?”
“Well, Buddy, you know my eyes don’t see. I used to see pretty well—few better, I should say—many is the squirrel I have hit right in the fall—but I’m getting old, and some time ago, before Buddy came, my eyes quit seeing.”
“Eye quit?”
Buddy looked up with sympathetic interest at the tall form of Uncle John, tall even if bent with age, and square shouldered still. As we said above they had come to be companions, now since Buddy had made his home at the old home of his mother, the good farm place now owned and run by two of his uncles, Will and Martin. As they walked about the little fellow had never realized that he had been eyes to the old man, and that his busy chatter told of what was passing about. The little lad had been both eyes and ears as he talked. Everything attracted his attention from the bird on the branch to the passing automobile, from the sunshine glittering among the branches of the trees to the whistle of the winds across the fields.
The farm home stood at the cross-roads and had been the only home of which Buddy had any remembrance. Here his mama had been a little girl, and here his “grannyfather” had lived his days. Grandfather had planted the pine tree, which now rose way above the house top.
“Mail-man, mail-man!” Buddy was shouting.
“Me get ’em, me get ’em!” he added, running for the gate. Mr. Mail-man handed a piece or two to Buddy, but waited for Uncle John before he handed over the rest.
“Some advertising” he explained, “Buddy will give it to Uncle Martin.”
Buddy started for the house, very proud of the commission that had been entrusted to him. He was met at the door, and by the arrival of Old John everybody became busy about the mail. Buddy and Uncle John soon found themselves on the bench once more under the tall pine.
“Letter my Daddy?”
Buddy had been quiet again for some time, and then broke out in this remark.
“Well, I guess not—what made you think of that?”
Uncle John had been unable to suppress his surprise. Instinctively he reached out to lay his hand upon the boy.
“I dno.” Buddy fell into a meditative sucking of his thumb once more. The question of his daddy had been one never referred to in the house. He had gone away with the soldiers when the Great War broke out. This was before Buddy was born. For some time they had received letters, but now for more than three years there had been no word. In secret Mama had likely shed many tears. As far as Buddy was concerned, it never seemed to make any difference. He had never known a father, and had lived a happy child and taken all good things for granted. Like the sparrows of the field, he had lived without a care. The thought of a father had hardly come into his life. For this reason the words were all the more a surprise, and old, gray-headed Uncle John sat struck silent in wonder at the boy.
“Me got letter, too, Unc’e Don,” explained Buddy, and his old Uncle laughed.
“Who wrote the letter, Buddy?” inquired Uncle.
“Aw—jes’ one o’ dem bill ones,” explained Buddy.
And Uncle John laughed again.
“Aw’fu’ big tree, Unc’e Don,” remarked Buddy, all of a sudden, changing the subject.
“I suppose it has grown big,” answered Uncle; “I remember when your grandfather planted that tree. It wasn’t so big then.”
“Grannyfader, he plant it?” Buddy showed a surprised interest.
“Yes, long ago. It must have grown big since then. Most of the trees he planted have died I suppose.”
The pine tree was indeed a large one. Standing as it did away from the corner of the house, it rose a straight pine trunk, its green top reaching far above the roof of the house. The tree looked like a pyramid or cone, had in fact grown more and more into the shape of a cone. The branches reached out in a remarkably straight way, the lower ones being of extraordinary length. The green spines with an occasional cone contrasted with the brown and rough bark. It was indeed a noble tree, and had grown nobly in its place since the day “Grannyfader” set out the original little pine shoot.
“Santy Claus—he come—come way up in air,” explained Buddy.
“Well, maybe—if there is a Santa Claus—” answered Uncle John.
“Santy he come way up in air—come right down tree—he do,” explained Buddy.
“Travels in an airship?—a Santa for boys and girls to talk about, I suppose,” continued Uncle.
“Climb right down tree—huh?” added Buddy questioningly.
“Probably that would be a handy way, all right,” agreed Uncle, smiling and bobbing his head. For a long time Buddy sat studying the tree and the new idea that had gotten into his mind. About this time Mama’s voice called from the doorway and told them that dinner was ready. When dinner was over Buddy was to take his usual nap.
“No want sleep,” was his remark as he rubbed his eyes. Mama went on rocking just as tho he had not spoken.
“Haint Buddy got no daddy?”
The big, round eye looked up sleepily and earnestly.
Mama did not answer, but she clasped her little boy tightly in her arms. Soon the sandman began to trip around, at first on tip toe, ever so quietly, and as Mama rocked and hummed Buddy little by little found his eyes so heavy they would not keep open.
“Buddy’s papa indeed!” This was what Mama thought of, as she laid the little boy down on his cot for a nap. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched the quiet breathing of the little lad, now far away in the still places of dreamland.
Papa indeed! Sooner or later the question must come from Buddy’s lips, and the longing of the little heart speak from the big, inquiring eyes. Buddy had never seen his daddy. Perhaps there had been unkind words and misunderstandings. The letters had come back from the Great War, and they were kind enough. But then they had ceased, and the heart was torn between the question whether Daddy had forgotten or whether something had happened to him, of which there was no report. Once or twice, to begin with, there had been a gift, but now there had been no word or message for a very long time. Mama sighed as she turned from the quiet little cot.
During these years Buddy had been a great comfort to Mama in her loneliness. Now he was approaching his fourth birthday. He was old enough to catch the Christmas idea. Certainly it had taken full possession of him. Mama had read and told the Christmas story of the Savior. Night and day he had dwelt upon its prospects. At the most unexpected moments and in the most unexpected ways he would break out with the notion of what was coming. He was all the time referring to the “Kismas Tree” and the “Kismas Time.” And now, as old, gray-headed, blind Uncle John related, he had connected the Christmas idea with the idea of Daddy. Singular what expectations may arise in the mind of a little boy. Mama stood, the tears rolling down her face, and watched the tousled head, the long, slender limbs, the high open brow, as Buddy lay in his little bed.
The following days were busy with holiday preparations. Buddy ran about in play, but came back every now and then to talk about his expectations, and to get a cooky or a piece of bread and butter. Uncle John entertained him and occupied his attention, so that Mama might be able to assist Aunt Clara and the folks about the house in their work. Uncle Martin and Uncle Will always had a word for Buddy. They brought in the wood, saw to the fires, and went out to do the chores. Sometimes Buddy went along, and always he had many things to say. The only thing was that he kept everybody busy watching him if he happened to be along.
“Me nervy,” he explained, and in saying so he was only echoing Uncle Will, who sometimes got out of patience with his antics. Uncle Martin had most patience, in listening to his many little speeches and answering his questions. Buddy inquired many times about the hanging up of stockings and other matters that seemed to him very essential in view of the coming event. On Christmas Eve he hung up his stocking, and while the family sat about, some reading papers, others busy with final preparations, he allowed Mama to rock him to sleep, while “Unc’e Don” dozed in his big chair. The evening had foretokened a storm. Uncle Will had even intimated that there were prospects of snow. Outside the wind roared, at times it even howled. The night was a dark and cloudy one. The comfort of a warm fire in a sheltered home was good indeed, as they sat about on the blustering and stormy evening of the night before Christmas.
The next morning was clear and bright. All had been very quiet, about the house. Uncle Will had looked to the fire and had been to the barn about his chores. And now, as he stamped his feet on the porch, he entered with a loud
“Merry Christmas!”
Buddy found himself crawling out of bed with wide open eyes in response to the sound of the voices calling in answer to Uncle Will.
“Mama, Mama,” he yelled, and Mama came at once on hearing that he was awake.
“Mama!—See—See—Snow—lot o’ snow!”
“Why—sure enough, Buddy.”
“Kismas time, Mama!”
Before his mother was able to answer, Buddy had run out of the bedroom and was on the way down stairs. It was not until he had reached the foot of the lowest step that Mama caught up with him, and he would likely have run right out doors into the cold and snow had he not been stopped. Aunt Clara called from the kitchen to remind him of the stockings he had hung up. In she came also. Uncle John was already seated in his big chair, and Uncles Martin and Will were warming themselves. With a shout Buddy hurried up and was soon very busy digging out of his stockings the many presents that were there, bags of candy, toys, nuts. He was so busy, as were they all, that they almost forgot their breakfast. When Aunt Clara reminded them that breakfast was ready, Buddy could only be persuaded to come to the table when he was allowed to take with him a roly-poly policeman of celluloid and an iron horse that he had found among his presents. They had all bowed their heads quietly, while Uncle Will read the Christmas story from the Gospel of St. Luke, and had bowed their heads in prayer.
The last words of the Lord’s Prayer were just being uttered, with the “Amen,” when there was the sound of a rap at the door. All about the table started with surprise. Uncle Martin arose to open the door. When the door swung back there stood before them a tall figure dressed in a heavy gray overcoat.
The sudden silence of a deep surprise fell upon them all. Uncle Martin seemed at a loss. It was a very unusual time to get a visitor. The stranger took off his cap. He said:
“Mary?” Why he put the word in the tone of a question seemed hard to understand. Then suddenly Mama gave a scream, and rose from her chair. The stranger came forward, and took her in his arms. Horse in one hand and policeman in the other, Buddy looked up wonderingly.
“Oh, Buddy! Oh, Charles!”
These were the words with which Mama greeted Daddy. For it was no other than Daddy, returned from the World War.
The Christmas breakfast was indeed a happy one. Daddy told of his long and delayed stay with the Army of Occupation, of his prolonged and deadly illness, in which he had twice been given up for dead, and of how he had at last found himself able to set out for home. Thus there was a busy hour of talk, in which Uncle Martin and Uncle Will forgot their chores, as they sat about the table and conversed. Buddy was safely located between his mama and papa, altho he looked with somewhat shy wonder at the latter, whom he could not be said to know, as he had never seen him before.
The men went about their work, and this reminded Buddy of his presents. Quickly he wriggled down to the floor and ran to where his stockings had hung.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Daddy, “somebody has been buying Buddy presents, all right. Too bad Papa did not bring Buddy something too.”
All of a sudden Buddy started for the door. He jerked and twisted the knob.
“Why, Buddy,” exclaimed his Mama, “it’s cold outside—lots of snow—you can’t go outside now.”
“Kismas Tree! Kismas Tree!” exclaimed Buddy.
“Cold out there, all right, as I can tell,” explained Papa. “Thought I would have frozen as we drove down this morning.”
By this time Buddy was out in the snow on the porch, dressed as he was in his nighty. He did not mind the snow.
“What do I see?” exclaimed Mama. “Stockings—stockings hanging from the big pine.’
“Well, I never,” was all that Aunt Clara could say. She had now crowded close behind them. Papa went out into the snow, and soon came back with a pair of stockings of Buddy’s which he found waving in the wind.
“So you hung your stockings on the Christmas Tree?” said Papa to Buddy as they sat down by the fire to warm.
“That boy must have hung those up yesterday afternoon,” exclaimed Aunt Clara.
“I declare,” said Mama, “I was looking exactly for those stockings last night. They were the ones we were going to put up for Buddy, but we could not find them.”
Buddy sucked his thumb in silence.
“Santy Claus, he come—come on the big Kismas Tree,” explained Buddy. “Brung me candy and nuts and horrsie-n-n-n-”
“Yes,” explained Uncle John, “he was talking yesterday about that tree. I told him Santa might come in an airplane. Buddy seemed sure he would come and would crawl down by that big pine. Guess somebody did come, too—even just like they come by airplane,” added Uncle John.
Mama put her hand on Daddy’s shoulder. Buddy only looked wise.