"How cold it is! Lets walk up and down the platform, girls. Why doesn't that train come?"
"I'm going in to see if the agent knows anything about it," said one with determined mouth and big brown eyes.
They waited shivering in a group until she returned, five girls just entering womanhood. They were part of a small house-party, spending Thanksgiving week at the old stone house on the hill above the station, and they had come down to meet another girl who was expected on the train.
"He says the train is half an hour late," said Hazel Winship, the hostess, coming down the stone steps of the station.
"What shall we do? There is not time to make it worthwhile to go back to the house. Shall we go inside, or walk?"
"O, walk by all means," said Victoria Landis. "It is so stuffy and hot in there I feel as if I was a turkey half-roasted now from the little time we stayed there."
"Let us walk up this long platform to that freight-house and see the men unload that car," proposed Esther Wakefield. And so it was agreed.
"Tra la la!" hummed Victoria. "O girls, why didn't we stay and finish singing that glee? It was so pretty! Listen. Is this right?" and she hummed it over again.
"Yes, it was too bad to have to tear ourselves away from that dear piano," said Ruth Summers. "Say, Hazel, what are you going to do with your poor despised organ? Send it to a home missionary?"
"I'll send it somewhere, I suppose. I don't know anyone around here to give it to. I wish I could send it where it would give pleasure to someone."
"There are probably plenty of people who would be delighted with it if you only knew them. The owner of this forlorn furniture, for instance," said Victoria as they separated to thread their way between boxes and chairs that had been shoved out on the platform from a half-emptied freight-car. "Girls, just look at that funny old stove and those uncomfortable chairs! How would you like to set up housekeeping with that?"
“‘THE COUCH ISN'T SO BAD IF IT WERE COVERED’”
"The couch isn't so bad if it were covered," said Hazel, poking it in a gingerly way with her gloved finger. "It looks as though it might have been comfortable once."
"That’s Hazel all over!" said Esther. "If it were possible, she would just enjoy having that couch stay over a train or two while she recovered it with some bright denim, and made a pillow for it;" and dear girlish laughter rang out, while Hazel's cheeks grew pink as she joined in.
"Well, girls, wouldn't that be interesting? Just think how pleased the dear old lady who owns it would be when she found the new cover, and how entirely mystified."
"You might send her your organ," suggested Ruth Summers. "Perhaps she would like that just as well."
"What a lovely idea!" said Hazel, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. “I’ll just do it. Come, lets look for the address."
"You romantic little goose!" exclaimed her friends. “Take her away! The perfect idea! I just believe she would!"
"Of course I would," said Hazel; "why shouldn't I? Papa said I might do as I pleased with it. Here, there is a card behind here. Read it. 'Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla.' Girls, I shall do it. Who has a pencil? I want to write it down. Do all these things belong to the same person? Look on their cards. She must be very poor."
"Poor as a church mouse," said Victoria, "if this is all she has."
"I should like to inquire how you are so sure it is a 'she,'" said Emily Whitten; "'Christie' sounds as though it might belong to a man or a boy. Don't you think so, Victoria?"
"It’s an old colored mammy, I'm positive." said Victoria.
"I don't care," said Hazel of the firm mouth. "If they are black people they will enjoy it all the more. Black people are fond of music, and it will be a real help for the little children. But I don't believe Christie is an old mammy at all. She is a girl about our own age. She has had to go to Florida on account of her health, and she is poor, too poor to board; so she will keep house in a room or two,"—waving her hand toward the unpretentious huddling of furniture about them,—"and perhaps she teaches school. She will put the organ in the schoolroom, or have a Sunday-school in her own home, and I shall write her a note and send some music for the children to learn. She can do lots of nice things with that organ."
"Now, Hazel," protested five voices, but just then the shriek of a whistle brought them all about face and flying down the platform to reach the station before the train drew up. In the bustle of welcoming the newcomer Hazel's scheme was forgotten, and not until when in the evening they were seated about the great open fire did it again come into the conversation. It was Victoria Landis who told the newcomer about it, beginning with: "O Marion, you can't think what Hazel's latest wild scheme of philanthropy is."
But Marion, a girl after Hazel's own heart, listened with glowing eyes.
"Really, Hazel?" she said when the tale was finished, looking at her hostess with sympathy. "Won't that be just lovely! You must send it in time for Christmas, you know; and why not pack a box to go with it? We could all help. It would be great fun, and give us something to do not entirely selfish while we are enjoying ourselves here."
"Do you mean it?" said Victoria. "Well, I will not be outdone. I will give a covering for that old couch, and Ruth shall make a most bewildering sofa pillow for it, the like of which was never seen in any house in Florida. What color shall it be, blue or red? And will denim be fine enough, or do you prefer tapestry or brocatelle? Speak out, Hazel; we're with you hand and heart, no matter how wildly you soar this time."
And so amid laughter and jokes the plan grew.
"I have a lot of singing-books, if you think there is really a chance of a Sunday-school," said Esther.
"There must be something pretty for the house, a good picture perhaps," mused Ruth Summers; and Hazel's eyes grew bright with joy as she looked from one face to another and saw that they really meant what they said.
Six pairs of hands can do much in four days; and, when the guests left for their various homes or schools, there stood on the back porch of the old stone house on the hill a well-packed box marked and labeled, an organ securely boxed, and a large roll, all bearing the magic sentence, "Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla."
There had been much discussion and argument on the part of Mrs. Winship and her husband. They were inclined to think Hazel had outdone herself in romance this time, though they were well used to such unprecedented escapades from her babyhood; but she had finally won them all over, had explained how the goods had been put off at that particular freight-station from up the branch road, to be put on the through freight at the Junction, had enlarged upon the desolateness of the life of that young girl who was moving to Florida alone, until every member of the party became infected with pity for her, and vied with the others to make that Christmas box the nicest ever sent to a girl.
They began to believe in "Christie," and to wonder whether her name was Christine or Christiana, or simply Christie after some family name; and gradually all thought of her being other than a young girl faded from their minds.
Mother Winship had so far forgotten her doubts as to contribute a good Smyrna rug no more in use in the stone house, after the party had gone down to the freight-house and watched the goods repacked in another freight-car for the Junction, and come back with the report that there was not a sign of a carpet in the lot. They also told how they had peeked through the crack of a box of books and distinctly seen the worn cover of an arithmetic, which proved the "school-ma'am theory," while an old blue-checked apron, visible through another crack, settled the sex of Christie irrevocably.
Hazel Winship had written a long letter in her delicate tracery on her finest paper, and sealed it with a prayer, and had gone back to her college duties a hundred miles away, and Christmas was fast coming on as the three freight pieces started on their way.
On the edge of a clearing, where the tall pines thinned against the sky, and tossed their garlands of gray moss from bough to bough, there stood a little cabin built of logs. It was set up on stilts out of the hot white sand, and, underneath, a few chickens wandered aimlessly, as unaware of the home over their heads as mortals are of the heaven above them. Some sickly orange-trees, apparently just set out, gave the excuse for the clearing, and beyond the distance stretched away into desolateness and black-jack oaks.
A touch of whitewash here and there and a bit of grass—which in that part of the world is so scarce that it is usually used for a path instead of being setting for that path—would have done wonders for the place, but there was nothing but the white neglected, "mushy" sand, discouraging alike to wheel and foot.
Inside the cabin there was a rusty cook-stove, with a sulky teakettle at the back and the remains of a meal in a greasy frying-pan still over the dead fire. An old table was drawn out with one leaf up and piled with unwashed dishes, boxes of crackers, and papers of various eatables. The couch in the corner was evidently the only bed, and the red and gray blankets still lay in the heap where they had been tossed when the occupant arose that morning. From some nails in the corner hung several articles of clothing and a hat. The corner by the door was given over to tools and a few garden implements which were considered too good to leave out-of-doors. Every chair but one was occupied by books or papers or clothing.
Outside the back door a dry-goods box by the pump with a tin basin and a cake of soap did duty as a wash-stand. On the whole, it was not an attractive home, even though sky and air were more than perfect.
The occupant of this residence was driving dully along the sand road at the will of a stubborn little Florida pony, which wriggled his whole body with a motion intended to convey to his driver the idea that he was trotting as fast as any reasonable being could expect a horse to go, while in reality the monotonous sand and scrub-oaks were moving past as slowly as was possible.
It was the day before Christmas, but the driver did not care. What was Christmas to one whose friends were all gone, and who never gave or received a Christmas gift?
The pony, like all slow things, got there at last, and came trotting up to the post-office in good style. The driver got out of the shackly wagon, and went into the post-office, which served also as general store.
"Hello, Chris!" called a sickly looking man from the group on the counter. "Bin a-wonderin' when you was comin'. Got some more freight fer you over to the station."
The newcomer turned his broad shoulders about, and faced the speaker.
"I haven't any more freight coming," he said. "It’s all come three weeks ago."
"Well, but it’s over there," insisted the other, "three pieces. Your name marked plain same like the other."
"Somebody sent you a Christmas gift, Chris," said a tall young fellow, slapping him on the shoulder; "better go and get it."
The young man, still insisting that the freight was not his, followed the agent reluctantly over to the station, accompanied by several of his companions, who had nothing better to do than to see the joke out.
There it was, a box, a bundle, and a packing-case, all labeled plainly and most mysteriously, "Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla."
The man who owned the name could scarcely believe his eyes. He knew of no one who would send him anything. An old neighbor had forwarded the few things he had saved from the sale of the old farm after his father and mother died, and the neighbor had since died himself; so this could not be something forgotten.
He felt annoyed at the arrival of the mystery, and did not know what to do with the things, but at last brought over the wagon and reluctant pony, and with the help of the other men got them loaded on, the pony meanwhile eying his load with dislike and meditating how slow he could make his gait on account of his burden.
Christie Bailey did not wait at the store that night as long as he usually did. He had intended going home by moonlight, but decided to try to make it before the sun went down. He wanted to understand about that freight at once. He found when he went back to the post-office that he could not sit with the same pleasure on a nail-keg and talk as usual. His mind was on the wagonload. He bought a few things, and started home.
The sun had brought the short winter-day suddenly to a close, as it has a habit of doing in Florida, by dropping out of sight and leaving utter darkness with no twilight.
Christie lighted an old lantern, and got the things into the cabin at once. Then he took his hatchet and screwdriver, and set to work.
First the packing-case, for he instinctively felt that herein lay the heart of the matter. But not until he had taken the entire front off the case and taken out the handsome organ did he fully realize what had come to him.
More puzzled than ever, he stood back with his arms folded, and whistled. He saw the key attached to a card, and, unlocking the organ, touched gently one of the ivory keys with his rough finger, as one might touch a being from another world.
“HE STOOD BACK WITH HIS ARMS FOLDED, AND WHISTLED"
Then he glanced about to see where he should put it; and suddenly, even in the dull, smoky lamplight, the utter gloom and neglect of the place burst upon him. Without more ado he selected the freest side of the room, and shoved everything out of the way.
Then he brought a broom and swept it clean. After that he set the organ against the wall, and stood back to survey the effect. The disorderly table and the rusty stove were behind him, and the organ gave the spot a strange, cleared-up appearance.
He did not feel at home. He turned to the confusion behind him. Something must be done before he opened anything more. He felt somehow as if the organ was a visitor, and must not see his poor housekeeping.
He seized the frying-pan, scraped the contents into the yard, and called the dog. The dishes he put into a wooden tub outside the door, and pumped water over them. Then the mass of papers and boxes on table and chairs he piled into the darkest corner on the floor, straightened the row of boots and shoes, and, having done all that he could, he came back to the roll and box still unopened.
The roll came first. He undid the strings with awkward fingers, and stood back in admiration once more when he brought to light a thick, bright rug and a Japanese screen.
He spread the rug down, and puzzled sometime over the screen, as to its use, but finally stood it up in front of the worst end of the room and began on his box.
There, at last, on the top was a letter in a fine, unknown hand. He opened it slowly, the blood mounting into his face, he knew not why, and read:
"Dear Christie:—You see I am so sure you are a girl of my own age that I have concluded to begin my letter informally, and wish you a very merry Christmas and a glad, bright New Year. Of course you may be an old lady or a nice, comfortable, middle-aged one; and then perhaps you will think we are very silly; but we hope and believe you are a girl like ourselves, and so our hearts have opened to you, and we are sending you some things for Christmas."
There followed an account of the afternoon at the freight-station, written in Hazel's most winning way, in which the words and ways and almost the voices and faces of Victoria Landis and Ruth and Esther and Marion and all the rest were shadowed forth.
The color on the young man's face deepened as he read, and he glanced up uneasily at his few poor chairs and miserable couch; then before he read further he went and pulled the screen along to hide more of the confusion.
He read the letter through, his heart waking up to the world and to longings he had never known he possessed before,—to the world in which Christmas has a place and in which young, bright life gives forth glad impulses; read to the end even, where Hazel inscribed her bit of a sermon full of good wishes and a little tender prayer that the spirit of Christmas might reign in that home and that the organ might be a help and a blessing to all around.
There was a pitiful look of almost helpless misery on the young man's face when he had finished. The good old times when God had been a reality were suddenly brought into his reckless, isolated life, and he knew that God was God, even though he had neglected Him so long, and that to-morrow was Christmas Day.
As a refuge from his own thoughts he turned back to the brimming box.
The first article he took out was a pair of dainty knit lavender bedroom slippers with black and white ermine edges and delicate satin bows. Emily Whitten's aunt had knit them for her to take to college with her; and, Emily's feet being many sizes smaller than her aunt supposed, she had never worn them, and had tucked them in at the last minute to make a safe resting-place for a delicate glass vase, which she said would be lovely to hold flowers, on the organ, Sundays.
They had written their nonsense thoughts on bits of labels all over the things, these gay young girls; and the young man read and smiled, and finally laughed aloud. He felt like a little boy just opening his first Christmas stocking.
He unpinned the paper on the couch-cover, and read in Victoria's large, stylish, angular hand full directions for putting it on the couch. He glanced with a twinge of shame at the old lounge, and realized that these gay girls had seen all his shabby belongings and pitied him, and he half-resented the whole thing, until the delight of being pitied and cared for overcame his bitterness, and he laughed again.