V THE TURNOVER GOES TO SCHOOL

In Uncle Lemuel’s able dissertation upon the virtues of pie, that bulwark of the American Constitution, he neglected to mention one of its most remarkable features—namely, its effect upon the flow of the milk of human kindness. Nothing else certainly could explain the fact that when the dishes were finished the next morning he stamped down the cellar stairs and returned presently with a basket of juicy winter pears, which he plumped down upon the kitchen table.

In a voice that was “growlier” than ever, he said:

“If you’re goin’ over to the Widder Em’s any time again, you might as well carry this mess of pears along. Old man Caldwell never did have gumption enough to raise winter pears, and Em was always partial to ’em. You mustn’t never let yourself be beholden to folks.”

Mary clapped her hands.

“How lovely to have a whole cellar full of things to give away! It must make you feel like Santa Claus, and I’m the Merry Christmas that goes with them. And, oh, won’t Mrs. Caldwell be pleased!”

But pleasure was far from Mrs. Caldwell’s predominating emotion when Merry Christmas presented the basket some fifteen minutes later, with the polite addition that it was “with Uncle Lem’s love and thanks.”

“For the land sakes alive!” ejaculated the one-time Widow Em, almost letting the gift fall in her amazement. “Is Lem Perkins experiencin’ religion in his old age?”

Mary looked a little puzzled by the irrelevance of the question.

“Why, yes, I guess so,” she answered happily. “Mother says really good people experience it all their lives. And we’re experiencing Christmas, too. Isn’t it the best fun? We’ve begun a list of our Christmas presents, and I put down your pies at the head—apple for me and mince for Uncle Lem. Is it quite convenient for you to teach me this morning?”

“Yes, indeed, sissy; yes, indeed,” returned Mrs. Caldwell, recovering herself. “I’ve got the dishes of fillin’ all ready, and we can begin right away. There ain’t no knack to it but the know-how. Don’t you know folks always say ‘easy as pie’?”

“Why, so they do!” agreed Mary joyfully. “But I thought that meant easy as eating pie. I never knew how easy that was till yesterday. You see, father didn’t think they were good for us—and I suppose Indian ones wouldn’t have been,” she added loyally. “But you ought to have seen Uncle Lem and me yesterday! The pies were so good that we just ate and ate, apple and mince turn about, till we had all we could do to save enough for breakfast. And I do feel perfectly fine this morning—and so does uncle. I guess our constitutions needed it. Could I learn to make three this morning—one for each meal?”

Under Mrs. Caldwell’s capable direction, the lesson progressed finely, and in due time three fragrant pies and a turnover were cooling upon the kitchen sink bench—pies that for brown flakiness of crust and general comeliness of aspect would not have disgraced the champion of the county fair herself.

“They look lovely, don’t they?” inquired their creator anxiously. “But, oh, I can hardly wait till dinner time to see how they taste! Oh, Mrs. Caldwell, how shall I ever bear it if they aren’t really good and Uncle Lemuel is disappointed?”

“There, there, now, don’t you fret!” soothed kindly Mrs. Caldwell. “Lem don’t always say things out same as some do, but I’ll bet a cooky he’ll think them pies is as good as any he ever et in his life.”

“Oh, I do pray that they’ll be good!” ejaculated the little cook fervently. “It’s such a responsibility cooking for men, isn’t it? But I like it,” she added naïvely, “even though I’m scared. Can’t I possibly tell about them before dinner time?”

Mrs. Caldwell considered.

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “If you want to do some extra Christmassin’ this mornin’, I can think up a job for ye. The schoolmarm, Miss Porter, boarded with me last winter, and she was real partial to a hot turnover for her mornin’ recess. If you want to give her yourn, the schoolhouse is only a piece up the road, and if you run tight as you can lick it, I guess you can get there before the bell rings. I’ll just tie my cloud over your head, so you can run faster.”

Ten minutes later a breathless little figure, in a red “cloud,” dashed up to the door of the old stone schoolhouse, just as the joyous pandemonium of recess broke out. Knocking seemed quite a superfluous refinement in the midst of all that babel, so she lifted the great latch, and then was nearly capsized by a flying wedge of small boys who came hurtling out to the accompaniment of a long-pent-up explosion of war-whoops. The point of the wedge stopped and surveyed the reeling, small figure with the natural defiance of the guilty party.

“What d’you git in my way for?” he demanded gruffly.

To his surprise his victim merely giggled.

“Did you think I was a turnover too?” she inquired. “Because I’m not. This is it, and it’s been turned once already. Where’s the teacher?”

“Goin’ to tell on us?” inquired another boy sulkily.

Mary stared.

“Tell what?” she inquired. “’Twasn’t your fault. I got in the way. I hope you didn’t smash the turnover, though,” she added anxiously. “I’m carrying it to the teacher. No, it’s all right, thank goodness! Doesn’t it look fine?” she inquired, pulling the covering quite away from her prize.

The little boys crowded closer.

“And smell!” cried the first one admiringly. “Where’d you get it?”

“I made it myself,” returned Mary, with pardonable pride.

“Did you, honest?” he queried, with the natural admiration of the normal male for a good cook. “Say, fellers, let’s play school. I’ll be teacher.”

Mary laughed appreciatively, and then her face sobered. Nobody with a sisterly heart in her bosom could have looked unmoved upon those appealing eyes, alight with the eternal hunger of boyhood—and Mary was sister to four little Christies at home.

“If I possibly can—and these are good—I’ll bring you a whole pie to-morrow,” she promised rashly. “Now I must hurry up to the real teacher, honest.”

Miss Porter had just finished opening the windows, and was walking briskly back and forth across the end of the room when Mary approached.

“Good morning,” she said, in a politely puzzled voice. “Are you a new scholar? Did you want to see me?”

“I wish I could come to school,” returned Mary promptly, “but I’m just Merry Christmas here on a visit, so I can’t. But I’ve got a present for you. It’s a turnover. I made it, but Mrs. Caldwell sent it. Will you eat it right now, please, and tell me how it tastes? I’m worried to death.”

“Thank you so much,” cried Miss Porter, laughing. “We’ll eat it together, then. I’m sure it’s delicious, but that’s the best way to prove it to you. And there’s Nora O’Neil. I don’t think she brought any lunch, so we’ll give her some. And then if we all agree that it’s good, it must be fine, mustn’t it?”

In two minutes they were all munching happily together on the flaky triangle, which Miss Porter and Nora O’Neil praised till the blushing cook felt that they appreciated her masterpiece at almost its true value.

By this time other little girls, nibbling at their own pies and cakes and doughnuts, had begun crowding shyly around to stare at the newcomer.

“These are my little girls,” announced Miss Porter affectionately, nodding to a few of the more timid ones to come closer. “And who do you suppose this is who has come to see us to-day? Merry Christmas! What do you think of that? She was visiting dear Mrs. Caldwell up the road, so she lived up to her name and brought me a nice hot turnover for lunch.”

The little girls stared.

“Merry Christmas?” they whispered to one another. “Do you s’pose? Is she—real?”

Mary’s sharp ears caught the whispers.

“My true-for-a-fact name is Mary Christie,” she explained merrily, “but they call me Merry Christmas at school because I’m so crazy about snow, and Christmas trees, and Santa Claus, and everything. Aren’t you?”

Several little girls nodded eagerly, then a sudden gloom seemed to settle down upon them.

“Might be,” hazarded one.

“Why, what’s the matter?” inquired Mary, with quick sympathy.

The plague of dumbness lifted all at once.

“We was going to have a tree,” began one.

“And a party,” interrupted another.

“On Christmas Eve.”

“Here to the schoolhouse.”

“And give presents.”

“And popcorn, and candy, and everything.”

“It was all planned out, and the trustees had almost promised.”

They took the sentences out of one another’s mouth.

“And old Grouchy Gruff heard of it.”

Miss Porter’s gentle correction passed unheeded.

“Old Grouchy Gruff heard of it, and said he paid most taxes, and he wouldn’t let ’em.”

“Said ’twas a waste of fire and lights.”

“Mean old thing!”

“And my father said he’d give the wood.”

“And mine the oil.”

“And then he wouldn’t let ’em use the schoolhouse.”

“’Cause he hates Christmas!”

“I hate him!”

“Mean old thing!”

“Children, children!” chided Miss Porter. “You mustn’t talk that way. I’ll have to ring the bell. We’re late already. Won’t you stay and visit us a little while, Merry Christmas?”

But Merry Christmas shook her head.

“I can’t just now,” she answered gravely. “Maybe I will this afternoon. Good-bye!”

The little boys stared in amazement at the quiet little figure that slipped past them with only a perfunctory response to their friendly grins.

“What’d teacher do to ye?” demanded Jimmy Harrison, the one-time front of the flying wedge. “Shall I plug her in the eye with a spitball for ye? I can do it,” he added darkly.

Merry Christmas came to herself.

“Oh, no, don’t! She’s awfully nice,” she whispered anxiously. “It’s something else—about Christmas,” she added. “The teacher didn’t do it.”

For poor Merry Christmas was struggling with a paralyzing glimpse of human perfidy, and her rose-coloured spectacles were searching in vain for a sunny spot to relieve the awful gloom. Could Christian America shelter such an ogre—a man who hated Christmas so that he was going to prevent a party and a tree—and popcorn—and presents—on Christmas Eve itself? And did that man live in Oatka Centre—the very warmest corner in the heart of that same Christian America? It was so incredible that the rose-coloured spectacles began to see a ray of hope in that very fact.

“Why, he’d be worse than a heathen!” she murmured. “And of course there aren’t any heathen in America, where everybody knows about Christ and His birthday. There’s some mistake, that’s all; and I’ll get uncle to fix it right.”