Jimsy: The Christmas Kid

"You are a hard, cold man!" she said, very white. "And the house is so lonely I hate it!... I hate it!" quivered Aunt Judith with a long shuddering sob; "there's no one to love in it—no one! And everything Specks said to Jimsy was true!"

And then, crying and shaking, she was gone, and Abner Sawyer went with stumbling feet to the privacy of his work-shop, his face death-white. The pompous illusions of his little world were tumbling to ruins about him.

He had said with frequent unction that he was a "hard" man, interpreting that phrase liberally in terms of thrift, economy and substantial common sense, and his world, through the mouth of an urchin, had flung back to him the galling words—miser and skinflint! They had fawned to his face and flouted his back, gossiping of servants and made-over gowns and kindlings. Up and down the quiet work-shop walked Abner Sawyer, clinging in an agony of humiliation to the loyalty of a little urchin.... It was all he had, he told himself fiercely, all he had! Jimsy alone saw him as he was and liked him.... No heart!... No Christmas tree!... No one in the house to love.... He must prove then to Specks—to Jimsy—to Judith—to the Middletons—to all Lindon—

Turning with hot anger in his heart, he saw a book upon his work-bench; and picking it up, Abner Sawyer faced the pitiful fiasco of Jimsy's Christmas gift. With a great lump in his throat and his eyes wet he glanced at the fly-leaf.

"To Uncle Ab," it said, "from Jimsy. Chrismus gretings."

The door clicked as it had clicked the night before and the night before.

"Unc—Mister Sawyer," said Jimsy sleepily. "I 'mos' forgot to come, I was so awful tired an' sleepy.... Ain't—ain't sick, are ye, Uncle Ab? Yer face is awful queer."

"I—I don't know," said the first citizen hoarsely. "I—I think I am. Go to bed, Jimsy, and—thank—you—for the book."

Jimsy went back to bed. He did not know—nor did Aunt Judith or Abner Sawyer that presently he was the sole keeper of the house save Stump snoring in the kitchen. For Abner Sawyer was furtively driving Peggy into a village that knew him only by repute and Aunt Judith, having slipped away in white defiance to Cousin Lemuel's down the road, was driving into Lindon with the surreptitious savings of many years in the old-fashioned pocket of her gown.

V

"Oh, Aunt Judith!" gulped the boy. "Aunt Judith!"

A Christmas tree winked and rainbowed glory in a window by the eaves, everything beneath its tinselled branches that the heart of boy could wish. The radiance in Jimsy's eyes brought Aunt Judith to her knees beside him, her sweet, tired eyes wet with tears of pleasure.

"You like it, Jimsy?" she whispered. "You're sure you like it, dear?"

Jimsy buried his face on Aunt Judith's shoulder with a strangled sob of excitement and delight.

"Aunt Judith," he blurted, "I—I can't 'mos' tell ye what I think."

Aunt Judith's arms clung tightly to him.

"Cousin Lemuel helped me," she whispered. "The house was dark and Mr. Sawyer in bed. There wasn't even a light in the work-shop. We tiptoed up and down the back-stairs. You mustn't breathe a word of it, Jimsy! Not a word! It's for you and me."

Jimsy sighed.

"Whisht," he said, "whisht Uncle Ab believed in Chris'mus."

Aunt Judith kissed him.

"Bless your heart, Jimsy," she said bravely. "So do I."

But even bewildering hours with gifts and trees must come to an end, and presently Aunt Judith and Jimsy went down hand in hand to attend to the fire and breakfast.... And the opening of the sitting-room door froze Aunt Judith Sawyer to the threshold, her face whitely unbelieving. Something was wrong with the primness of the sitting-room—something in evergreen and tinsel and a hundred candles that showered Christmas from its boughs—something was wrong with Abner Sawyer—up and waiting by the window, his face twisted into a faint and sickly smile of apology.

For now that he was in the very heart of his "proving" he did not know what on earth to do. Dignity?... It was hopelessly out of the question. With a monument to his midnight guilt blazing there in the corner—with Christmas wreaths hung in the windows to confound the Middletons—he must face the music. Feeling very foolish, he cleared his throat and essayed to speak, paralyzed into silence again by the unexpected evolution of a hoarse croak so horribly un-first-citizen that it frightened him.

Jimsy broke the staring silence.

"Uncle Ab," he quivered, "ye never—ye never went an' done all that fur me!"

"I—I don't know," said Abner Sawyer, swallowing very hard. "I—I think I did."

"When," faltered Aunt Judith from the doorway, "did you—do it?"

"It must have been after midnight. I came in very quietly. The ride was long—I went to Matsville. You must have been in bed asleep—"

Jimsy embarked upon a handspring of celebration.

"Two trees!" he shouted, caution quite forgotten in his wild excitement, "two suits of clothes—two everything! Oh, my gosh, Specks ain't in it. I'm the Christmas kid!" and then in a panic he was on his feet again, his face hot and red. "Aunt Judith," he exclaimed, almost crying, "I'm awfully sorry—"

Aunt Judith's tremulous laugh seemed tears and silver.

"Never mind, dear. It's all right now. Abner," she swallowed bravely, "one of—one of Jimsy's Christmas trees is in the sewing-room. I—I'd like you to see it."

VI

"I didn't."

"Ye did, too, and I walloped ye fur it. I'll wallop ye again if ye say ye didn't."

"Jimsy!" Aunt Judith's gentle voice put an end to controversy. An armistice was pledged.

"Did ye get skates, Specks?"

"Nope."

"Gosh, I'm sorry fur that. I got two pairs. Mebbe—Aunt Judith?"

"Yes, Jimsy?"

"Would ye mebbe mind me givin' Specks a pair o' skates? Mr. Middleton he ain't so Christmasy as you an' Uncle Ab—"

Specks swallowed hard and accepted this and the skates. But he could not forbear at least one shaft of triumph.

"I got a sled, Jimsy!"

"Huh!" said Jimsy. "So did I. Two of 'em."

It was too much. The street urchin in Specks came to the fore in a mighty wave of envy.

"Gawd!" he gulped.

Jimsy glowered.

"Hey!" he whispered fiercely "Hain't ye got no decency?"

Specks blushed apology and departed.

Later, Jimsy reviewed the Sawyer turkey with a reverential glisten in his eye.

"Specks!" he yelled from the kitchen window. "Yi, Specksy!"

"What d'ye want?"

"Come over an' see the turkey."

"Y'ain't got two, have ye?" demanded Specks with suspicion.

"Naw," said Jimsy. "One's enuff. This un's bigger'n the turkey Pete Googan raffled off last Christmas eve."

So Specks returned to envy—for the house of Sawyer had outdone the house of Middleton once more—and Jimsy in a glow of noisy delight led him to rows of pies and a barrel of ruddy apples—to celery and tarts—to fruit cake and cranberries and simmering vegetables—in short to every home-keeping kitchen device for filling a country house with the odor of Christmas and the promise of good cheer. The Sawyer kitchen to-day was a wonderful place of shine and spice. Even Aunt Judith felt the nameless something in the air, for her cheeks were faintly pink and the hand that smoothed her snowy apron trembled ever so little. Christmas had not come so this many a year.

But Specks departed this time with a furtive air of triumph.

"Mr. Middleton ain't no stiff," he announced. "He's goin' out on the hill coastin' with me this afternoon—"

"S-s-s-s-h!" whispered Jimsy fiercely. "D'ye want Aunt Judith to hear ye? I git awful sick o' wallopin' you, Specks, but lemme hear ye say that again an' I'll baste ye good."

The kitchen door swung back. Specks paled, as well he might. The first citizen stood in the doorway, his mouth set.

"Jimsy," he said, clearing his throat. "Get your sled, my boy. We'd better try it out before dinner."

It was a challenge to the Middletons, of course, but afterwards, in a wild moment of panic, Abner Sawyer felt that he would have retracted at any cost had it not been for the wonderful glow in Jimsy's face. He felt a little sick.... God help him, he liked Jimsy! He wanted to please him!

VII

The Lindon hill was full of watchers. That in itself was disconcerting. Wild spirits gather in the snow on Christmas morning. And it was, of course, like Jimsy to fling himself suddenly upon his sled with a whoop and go flying down the hill through the snow fleet, yelling wildly, but Abner Sawyer wished he had made his début a trifle less conspicuously. For it brought all eyes to Abner Sawyer himself standing stiffly upon the hill-top not quite sure of his ground. A neighbor or so eyed him in polite surprise and nodded; a child fastened round eyes upon his silk hat and he wished he had left it at home. But Christmas was no more Christmas than Sunday was Sunday without this formal head-piece, and besides, it had been his sole concession to the horrified stir of dignity within him when Jimsy had appeared upon the walk beside him dragging his sled. What on earth was he doing here anyway in the rough and tumble sport of a Christmas morning!

Yells of greeting followed Jimsy's meteoric flight down the hillside. Everybody seemed to know and like him, and Jimsy, as ever, was noisily responsive. Yes, he was more a part of this village of Lindon than the first citizen himself standing aloof upon the hill-top, and the first citizen had spent his life in Lindon. Abner Sawyer felt hurt and alone. He had slipped in an unwary moment from his wound-proof armor of conscious superiority and in this world of friends outside it, there was more room for Jimsy than there was for him. Small comfort, after all, the solitude of greatness!

The first citizen frowned impatiently. What was it all about, anyway, he wondered hopelessly. Did he want to be one of that yelling, shoving, jostling crowd? Surely not! His dignity rose in revolt at the very thought of it. Did he hunger for Jimsy's supreme gift of adaptability? Why should this fierce new hunger for one friendly, honest, heart-warming smile of liking and welcome gnaw at his heart?... Why—God help him!—why was he a stranger in his own town?

"The world is all wrong," said Abner Sawyer, a little white; "I am not myself." And for a wild moment his sore heart flamed again at Jimsy's revolutionizing intrusion into the quiet smugness of his life.

Jimsy's quick, eager little smile of greeting as he came up the hill again warmed the pang away—it was so full of good-fellowship and understanding.

"Ever go belly-whopper, Uncle Ab?" he demanded radiantly.

"I—I scarcely think so," said the first citizen.

"I—I don't like to belly-whop down the hill with you standin' up here alone," said Jimsy shyly. "Why don't ye go down just once with me, Uncle Ab? Then if ye like it, we'll just have one thump-walloper of a time!"

"No, no, Jimsy," said the first citizen. "I—I can't do that—" and then for the first time he met the amused eyes of Hiram Middleton and Specks.

So they had followed to the hill—incredulous and curious! A wave of anger swept Abner Sawyer into indiscretion.

"I—I'll go with you once, Jimsy," he said, and Jimsy's round little face glowed.

So the first citizen seated himself stiffly on the sled behind Jimsy, wondering what on earth to do with his legs. They seemed to have lengthened mysteriously and they looked astonishingly thin. Jimsy gave a wild Indian whoop of warning and the sled hurtled off down the hill, with the first citizen, unbelievably stiff-legged and frightened, clinging to his hat.

His emotions were panoramic. There was panic first at his lost dignity—then wonder at their speed, but most of all his legs bothered him—his legs and his hat. He wished Jimsy would quit yelling. Yet for all he tried he could not bring himself to say so.

"Ki-yi-yi-yi-whoop!" sang Jimsy, steering. Abner Sawyer gulped. Everybody on the hill, of course, was staring; his coat-tails were flying dizzily behind him. There would be a scandal and the directors of the Lindon Bank might even meet and call him to account. Small blame to them. Abner Sawyer mentally sketched a caricature of himself—coat-tails, legs and all—and Heaven help him!—lost his hat. He emitted a feeble croak of dismay. Jimsy looking back steered into a snow-bank and dumped the president of the Lindon Bank out upon the hill.

"Gosh Almighty, Uncle Ab," he yelled, "I'm awful sorry. I seen your lid go—"

"Never mind, Jimsy," said the first citizen, sitting up, "never mind—I—I really shouldn't have worn such a wind-catcher to—to belly-whop in—"

He sat very stiff amid the ruins of the snow-bank. Jimsy grinned.

"Ye ain't really done no belly-whoppin' yet," he said.

And now for the first time Abner Sawyer realized that everybody on the hill had come running at Jimsy's yell to see if he was hurt.... One was brushing him off ... another had rescued his hat with a horrible un-first-citizen dent in it and a lump of snow on the brim ... and they weren't shocked ... they weren't laughing.... Why on earth should there be friendliness now in their gaze when he had seemed so far away from them standing up there on the hill? No scandalized amazement here at the downfall of Lindon's pride ... he was somehow closer to them all.

It was Aunt Polly Magee, the self-appointed mother of the village, who finally stood the first citizen upon his feet and brushed the snow from his back.

"Dear me," she said, "that was a spill. When ye went down ye seemed 'mos' as leggy as a spider. Next time ye go coastin', Ab, ye'd better not wear your Sunday hat. 'Tain't no better'n a kite when it comes to wind."

Abner Sawyer's smile was vague and apologetic, but there was a fierce, wild joy in his heart that he didn't try to understand. He was glad he had lost his hat—he was glad he had fallen into the snow-bank—and he was glad Aunt Polly Magee had called him Ab for the first time in thirty years!

VIII

With a wind-beaten flutter of wings, Jimsy's Christmas fled at midnight. Dawn grayed bleakly over the Sawyer home, and there came an hour when Peggy waited to carry Jimsy to the station. Nervous and irritable—why he did not know save that time was crowding and he must deliver Jimsy to the minister in time for the 8.32, Abner Sawyer strode resolutely to the kitchen door. But he did not summon Jimsy. Instead he turned a little white.

It was a common enough sight—a woman clinging to a child and crying—but Abner Sawyer was conscious of a swelling mutiny in his throat and a blur to his vision.

"Do-o-o-on't cry, Aunt Judith!" gulped Jimsy courageously. "I'll be as good as I know how. An' you'll be awful good to Stump, won't ye, Aunt Judith? He's lame an'—an' he's had a fierce life."

"Yes—yes—"

"An' tell Uncle Austin White I sent him good-by."

"Yes, Jimsy."

"An'—an' write me every week 'bout ol' Peggy an' Uncle Ab an'—an' you, Aunt Judith. Don't forget—"

"Everything, dear!"

"Go-o-o-oby, Aunt Judith!"

"Oh, Jimsy! Jimsy!"

Abner Sawyer fled to his wagon with his hands upon his ears. It was the wildest sobbing he had ever heard. When Jimsy came, at last, looking very red and swollen, the first citizen was staring straight ahead.

Peggy finished at the station almost neck and neck with the train. The minister spoke to Mr. Sawyer and rushed Jimsy up the steps. A bell clanged. There was much noise and puffing and the train was under way. Jimsy, wildly remembering his good-by to Uncle Ab, flung up the train window and waved a frantic hand.

Then something happened.

A shaking hand touched the baggage-master.

"Stop the train!" said Abner Sawyer harshly. He was deathly white. "It—it is important. I will pay if necessary."

It was unprecedented, but, thoroughly rural in his taste for sensation, the baggage-master leaped to the bottom step of the nearest car and spoke to a brakeman. The brakeman glanced at the first citizen with respect. There was a hissing noise and a jerk. When the train rumbled to a stop again under the startled eyes of Lindon, Abner Sawyer was already striding up the aisle. With the intelligent eyes of the young minister upon him, he snatched Jimsy roughly from the seat, carried him down the aisle—down the steps—and over the platform to Peggy.

"W-what is it, Uncle Ab?" faltered the boy. "Did I—did I forget something?"

Abner Sawyer felt the boy's warm young cheek against his face and a great lump welled up in his throat. Something hot stung his eyes. The clasp of his arms tightened.

"Jimsy," he said huskily, "you said I ought to give Aunt Judith a Christmas present, and I'm going to give her—you!"