SANDY’S CHRISTMAS[19]

SANDY’S CHRISTMAS[19]

Thomas Travis

There were three of them, plodding wearily through the snow, a man, a woman, and a boy about six years old. The man and the woman seemed gloomy, sad, and walked along silently till, with a deep sigh, the man spoke: “It’s too bad, too bad, Mother, the storm coming up like this. If it had only held off a couple of hours more, we’d have made town all right. But as it is—well, what’ll we do?” And he looked wearily at the snow-covered mountains and the trackless waste of snow. He shivered as his cold face brushed a laden bush that dabbed his bare neck with icy snow. “It’s bitter cold, isn’t it, Mother? And if I’m not mistaken, the storm’s only just beginning.”

The mother was too tired to answer. They had walked this way all day.

“If it had only held off a couple of hours,” the man repeated gloomily, “we’d have made the town all right. And there’s a job for me there. We’d have had a good Christmas, after all.”

“Oh well, Daddy,” said little Sandy, sturdily, “maybe the storm’ll stop soon and somebody come along and give us a ride. Wouldn’t it be fun if we could have a real sleigh-ride—at Christmas?”

But nobody came along the bleak waste, as they still plodded on. And the storm did not stop. It blew up stronger and stronger before a bitter northeast wind that sent whirling clouds of icy snow against their faces and sifted it down their necks, till they were wet and half frozen. It was only about four in the afternoon; but the wind had now risen to a howling storm that made the great trees rock and groan and scream in answer to the snoring of the white gale, and forced the three to bend almost double to force their way against it.

They were all three tired, miserably tired, and hungry and cold. The snow-laden swirls covered them till they looked like walking ghosts. Little Sandy’s feet ached dreadfully; but he was a sturdy lad, and as he walked, he kept chattering out all sorts of questions, just to keep his mind off his cold feet. He didn’t care whether his questions were answered or not—he just talked.

A big crow came swirling down the gale, veered in the shelter of a clump of pines, set his black wings, and, with a doleful caw, settled on one of the lower branches. Another did the same, and another, the three crows snuggling up to each other with a soft chuckle that said, just as plain as plain could be: “Boy, but it’s cold! And it’s going to be a cold night for old Jim Crow. Better be looking up a bed now, before it gets too dark. It’s a hummer, this gale is, a hummer!”

And the father felt just about the same. “We’d better look for some sort of a shelter, Mother,” he said; “we can’t make town to-night. We’ll be frozen stiff. Just my luck! Out of work since Thanksgiving; get a letter that there’s a good job here for me if I can make it by Christmas—and here’s this snow!” And he peered through the blinding storm to where the city lights showed once in a while deep down in the valley.

“But look, Dad!” Sandy shouted; “look! There’s just the place for us.” And he pointed down in a hollow, where a little log-cabin lay pushed into a thick clump of tall evergreens.

Snow was drifted over the roof and over the trail to the door, as they entered and looked around. In fact, it had no door, only the place for one. It had two windows, but only one had glass in it. And it had neither fireplace nor stove—only a square of logs filled in with sand, for the fire, and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out.

“Just my luck!” said the father; “just my luck!” And he shivered again as the bitter wind swirled a cloud of icy snow through the door and window.

But Sandy piped up: “Well, anyhow, it’s better than nothing. And besides, I think it’s just fine. We can camp here and be all right. Come on, let’s make a warm fire.” For his feet ached now so badly he could scarcely keep the tears back.

They hunted around, found an old lantern, and lit it, for it was now dark. And the gale had helped them somewhat, after all. For they found great dry branches of the fragrant pine, broken off by the wind, piled in heaps—some of it splintered to shreds under the twisting of the gale.

Soon a roaring fire was going. But the wind, howling through the doorway and the window, made it pretty hard to get warm.

“Just my kind of luck!” grumbled the father.

But Sandy said: “Supposin’ we get some of those little trees, those pine and spruce, and pack them in the door and window. That will keep the wind out, and make us snug as a bug in a rug. Come on.”

So they packed the window and the door with spruce-trees broken off and stuck in the deep drift. Father sighed a bit with satisfaction, and Mother sat down with a weary smile, thrusting her hands out to the blaze as she looked tenderly at the boy.

“Fine Christmas, isn’t it?” grunted the father, again; “fine Christmas! Look at the icicles hanging on that spruce. Look at the snow powdering the tree, and that right in the room with us. Fine Christmas!”

“Sure it’s fine,” said Sandy, sturdily. “I think it’s finer than a boughten tree. It’s a real Christmas tree, and it’s got real icicles, not glass ones. And it’s got real snow for powder. All we want is some birds and stars and things on it, and there wouldn’t be a better Christmas tree anywhere. Mother and Daddy, you rest. I’ll go out here and get a good stack of wood,—that’ll keep the fire going,—and then we’ll have something to eat and we’ll be fine.” So, stamping his cold feet, he squeezed through the blocked door and crept out under the great pines.

Now what with the dense evergreens and the log-cabin, it was comparatively quiet and calm there under the pines. And Sandy got his first glimpse of how the wild creatures live through a storm. The lower branches of the pines were crowded with crows, jays, and other feathered waifs of the storm. They were doing their best to keep warm, and having a hard time of it in that bitter gale.

You know, these wild birds must sleep out in all kinds of weather. You know, too, that most birds’ feet can cling to a bough even when they are asleep. Also, you know that feather coats are warmer even than fur. And these birds, huddled together for shelter, picking out the thickest parts of the low boughs, snuggled down in the roaring gale and tucked their heads under their wings, crouching down low so that their feather overcoats could cover them from head to feet.

But perhaps you may not know that there is one weak point about this feather overcoat. They can not entirely cover up in it. There is just one spot at the eye which they can not cover. That too, perhaps, is to shield them. They keep one eye out, literally, for the fox and the owl and the hawk. But on a bitter night like this, there is another trouble. If it gets too cold, that one spot, meant for a lookout, will freeze. And often after a bitter winter gale you will find crows and jays and snowbirds blinded by the cold. They have changed positions, put one eye, and then the other under, but been able to keep neither warm. That one bit, exposed, acts just as if you were all tucked in blankets, except one toe. You can keep changing the toe, but in bitter weather, very bitter, that toe will freeze. So with the birds that roost. They have no nest; they do not crawl into some hole. They roost in fear of their enemies, and sometimes pay the terrible penalty for that one hole in their feather blanket.

That’s why sometimes you hear a “thump” on your window on a very cold winter night, and the next morning, find a poor quail or grouse or jay or crow cold, freezing, half-blind already. He had seen the glow of your fire dimly and flown to it—for safety.

And that was what was happening when Sandy crept out to get more firewood. This was a record blizzard—a bitter, freezing, zero night. And the birds were doing their level best to keep their eyes warm. They did not even notice Sandy as he crept near and watched. Some meadow-larks and quail had crouched under the snow-covered bushes at the foot of the pines, and they were bunched together, all heads out and all trying to keep their eyes from freezing. Sandy saw it and felt sorry for them. He was trying to keep his own feet from freezing, and knew how it felt. But he could not help the birds.

He could see the glow of the fire through the spruce-blocked door and window. It shone cheerily through the one window with glass. And hastily Sandy gathered some wood and came back inside. Then they ate their supper, Sandy saving the crumbs for the birds.

The blizzard grew worse and worse. The great trees rocked and groaned and cracked till Sandy thought they would break off short and tumble on the shaking cabin. Some of them did split, with a boom like thunder, and fell with a muffled thud in the deep snow. Then came faint twitterings and dismayed caws. The birds were having a hard time out there.

There came a thud against the single pane, and Sandy lifted the sash to take in two quail that had flown against the glass in their attempt to come into the warm room. But the crows were wiser than the quail. They came farther down through the twigs and roosted on the branches. They showed the others the way to the warm room. Then came some snowbirds, their black-and-white feathers all fluffed out with frost; and meadow-larks, quail, and grouse, all perching on the tree in the window; all grateful for the warm refuge in that terrible blizzard. Even a couple of rabbits came hopping through the open door and crouched panting from the gale.

So Sandy and Father and Mother sat over the fire, trying hard to keep warm. Mother was so tired she soon fell asleep, her head resting on Sandy’s lap. They sat late, very late—almost to midnight. And then came a wonderful thing—the storm stopped almost suddenly. The stars came out; the northern lights began to glow and burn like melted opals, like soft fires, all colors, in the sky. It was Christmas eve, and the churchbells in the valley began to ring out Christmas carols—

Faintly the bells rang, faint and far across the snow.

So Sandy did not hear the approach of anybody till there came a hail at the door. Pulling away the spruce that blocked it, Sandy was surprised to see a great, burly man enter, with a sheep under one arm and half a dozen panting after him.

“Saw your firelight, neighbor,” he said. “Just out trying to save my sheep in the storm. Thought I’d never make it. But here we are.” And shepherd and sheep crowded into the room.

“Come right along,” said the father. “It’s a bitter night. Seems as if the cold grew worse since the wind dropped. Come on in and sit down by the fire. Fine Christmas, eh?”

The man with the sheep sat down, throwing off his pack and using it as a chair. Puffing and blowing, pulling icicles from his beard, he rumbled: “Fine Christmas, you say? Well now, I’m glad of a place to be in out of the cold. This looks fine enough to me. Thought I’d never make it.” And he continued combing the ice from his beard and mustache. “Fine Christmas when I thought it was going to be a case of freeze and lose all the sheep, and then get them safe into a nice snug place like this. This is fine Christmas luck!”

“Sure it’s fine,” laughed Sandy, whose feet were now warm again. “And just look! If that isn’t the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.” And he pointed to the tree in the window.

It really was wonderful. Back of the tree blazed a big star, just as if it hung on the topmost twig. Scores of others twinkled through the evergreen boughs. The northern lights crackled and shone mysteriously; and against the lit sky they could see the birds crouching—crows, iridescent, jays, gaudy blue, meadow-larks, with breasts dipped in gold, quail, grouse, and snowbirds in lovely markings and shadings, all perched on the tree, chuckling and crooning as though come there specially to decorate it. Great icicles hung down glittering in the low glow of the fire; and over all, the powdered snow glittered like diamonds.

“It’s a fine Christmas tree, and I’m going to hang my stockings on it when I go to bed.”

“Much good it’ll do you, Sandy,” grinned his father; “no Christmas, no Santa this time.” Then, turning to the shepherd, he explained grumpily, “Out of work; goin’ for a job; caught in this storm; stony broke—at Christmas time.”

“Hard lines,” said the shepherd, soberly; “but that’s a fine boy you have. Seems a bright youngster and just as chipper as can be.”

“Anyhow,” said Sandy, as he curled in his blanket before the fire, “I’ve hung up my stockings. Maybe good old Santa will remember me after all.”

He really didn’t expect anything, you know; but still he was a cheery soul. And as he slept, he dreamed—dreamed a big, strong, genial Santa came and filled his stockings with the nicest things—dreamed, and mumbled in his sleep, “Well, anyhow, it’s a good Christmas, after all.”

But the others just slept—Father and Mother too sad and tired even to dream, till they were roused in the early dawn of Christmas by a wild yell from Sandy. There he stood in his blanket, hauling out gift after gift from his stockings, from the twigs of the trees, and even some from beneath the tree.

He never knew how they got there. But Sandy’s father told me that the shepherd had them all in his pack, bringing them home for his own family Christmas tree. But the storm that stopped Sandy’s father, stopped him too. And seeing Sandy so sturdy and brave in the cold and night, he thought he would give the presents to him and then buy others, since he couldn’t get home in time for Christmas eve.

But Sandy never knew how they came. His eyes simply grew big and shining in his six-year-old face. His squeals of joy rang through the cabin, till even the sheep huddled together a little nervously and watched him with shy eyes. The birds of the tree chuckled and flew out into the new dawn of Christmas day. The shepherd’s sleigh came along and gave them all a lift to town. And Father got his new job!

As the party separated in town, the shepherd took little Sandy in his big strong arms as the boy said: “Well, we had a merry Christmas, didn’t we? I think it was fine.”

And the shepherd gave him an extra hug as he answered: “Sandy, you have the best Christmas gift of all. A Merry Christmas comes from inside a man, from his happy and live soul, from his brave spirit. The boy that has a gift like that doesn’t need anything else. He’ll have a Merry Christmas anywhere.”

Sandy didn’t entirely understand. He just shook hands cheerily with the shepherd, waved an arm to the sheep, now huddled cosily in the straw of the sled, picked up his bundle, and walked on with a grin of joy.

“And anyhow,” he said that night, as he heard his father telling about the terrible Christmas eve they had had, “anyhow, we had a real tree and real birds and real stars and real snow powder and real sheep and—a real shepherd! I think it was just the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.”