Man of the Family (21 page)

23

The Night before Christmas

A
T FIRST
I'd hated to trade off any of my rabbits, but after I'd tried to trade them for the goose, they seemed to be extras, and I didn't mind letting them go at all. I knew that Johnny Snell wanted some rabbits and that his father always bought him something for Christmas, so I put the bridle on Lady and rode over to their house. Mr. Snell and I made a deal at a dollar and seventy-five cents for the three of them.

My rabbits were my own, and I never asked Mother about rabbit deals before I made them. So she didn't pay any attention when I came home and asked Grace if she wanted to go with me while I swapped some rabbits—and nobody asked me what I was going to swap them for.

Sometimes Grace could be real ornery about doing what you wanted her to. I thought she was going to be that time, but Mother told her to run along because the fresh air would do her good. I think it did, too. I never saw her have much more fun than she did shopping that day.

Of course Grace and I knew all about Santa Claus, and we knew Hal didn't, but we couldn't be sure about Muriel and Philip. If they did know, Grace wanted to spend most of our dollar seventy-five for a really nice present for Mother. But if they didn't know, of course we couldn't let them think Santa Claus had forgotten them.

There was a game of tiddlywinks in the Nimble Nickel that looked as if it would be a lot of fun. It was only a quarter, and I thought it would be real nice for Philip to have, so I said, “You know, Muriel always believes whatever she thinks is nicest, and Philip always believes whatever she tells him, so I think we'd better get them something from Santa Claus.”

But Grace always had things figured out ahead of me, and then she'd agree with me in a way I couldn't get out of. Just as soon as I'd said we'd better get them something from Santa Claus, she said, “I think you're right. And, anyway, that's the safest thing to do. I saw just what we want down at the O.P.C.H. Of course, they all need stockings, but stockings aren't very Christmasy, and they need mittens almost as bad. The O.P.C.H. has them all colors and sizes for a quarter. And they're all wool yarn and have a string to go through your sleeves and across your back so you can't lose them.”

I tried to tell her that a game or something like that would look more as if Santa Claus brought it, but she switched me right off onto something else. As we started down Main Street toward the O.P.C.H., she said, “How much have you thought about a Christmas tree? The cheapest ones I saw that were any good cost half a dollar, and that's too much money for something just to look at. If you started early enough in the morning, you could drive up to Turkey Creek Canyon and chop one and be home by noon. You could leave it at Gunther's till after dark so the children wouldn't see it.”

We were just ready to go into the O.P.C.H. when Grace caught hold of my arm. She pulled me away from the people around the doorway and whispered, “If you found real good trees, why couldn't you cut six or seven? Then you might be able to get fifty cents apiece for all but the one we need ourselves.”

“That wouldn't be very good,” I told her. “People don't wait till Christmas Eve to buy their trees, and before I got around to their houses, they'd have them all bought.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” Grace said. “Lots of people buy their trees the day before Christmas.”

“Yes, but not Christmas Eve,” I told her. “I guess you don't know that it's about twenty miles up to Turkey Creek Canyon and back. I'll do well if I get home by the middle of the afternoon.”

I started to go on into the store, but she held my coat sleeve. “If you had them back here by the middle of the forenoon do you think you could sell them?” she asked me.

“I guess so,” I told her, “but I'd have to run Lady to death to do it—and I wouldn't do that for a hundred dollars.”

“Is the road up there good enough so you could follow it in the dark?” she asked.

“Yes, if the stars are out,” I said, “but I can't find Christmas trees and chop them by starlight.”

“It gets light about half-past seven now, doesn't it?” she wanted to know.

I just nodded.

“Well, if you want to get a good early start, I'll do your chores for you in the morning and deliver the milk. If you were there by daylight, you could cut six or seven trees and be back to town by ten o'clock, couldn't you?”

If I'd thought of the idea myself, I'd have really wanted to do it. But, with Grace trying to push me into it, I could only think about how cold it would be driving up there before daylight. So I just said, “I could try.”

“Well, did you ever think about it: Mother hasn't had any new shoes since spring, and she won't buy any till we get Mr. Shellabarger's bill caught up. But if we gave them to her for Christmas she wouldn't make us take them back. They've got some real good ones in the O.P.C.H. for three dollars. Come on in and let's look at them.”

The three-dollar ladies' shoes were the best ones they had in the O.P.C.H. The leather was as soft and smooth as a baby's skin, and the eyelets were all inside so they didn't show. While I was rubbing my fingers over the leather, Grace said, “If you thought you could get six extra trees and sell them for fifty cents apiece, we could have Mrs. Jenson put these away right now and save them for us.”

I passed the one that I was holding back to Mrs. Jenson, and said, “If they aren't the right size, can we bring them back after Christmas and trade them?”

Mrs. Jenson didn't have any chance to answer me, because Grace said, “We won't have to. They're five and a half B, just like Mother's old ones.”

“How do you know how big Mother's old ones are?” I asked her. “You didn't buy them, did you?”

“No,” Grace said, “but I looked inside of them this morning.” Then she told Mrs. Jenson I'd be in for the shoes the next afternoon.

The rest of our shopping didn't take fifteen minutes. Grace wanted Mother to have a white shirtwaist with insertion in it, and she knew just which one she wanted. She must have made her mind up when we were in there looking—before we ever went up to the Nimble Nickel. The shirtwaist was a dollar, and that left us enough for the three pairs of mittens. Hal's were red, Philip's blue, and Muriel's green.

That night it was Grace who pushed me off to bed early, instead of Mother. And she came in to wake me up at four o'clock in the morning; though I didn't need to leave the house before five. I don't know what time she got up herself, but she had breakfast all cooked when I came downstairs, and she'd given Lady a quart of the hens' cracked corn.

She made me put on so many extra clothes that I looked like the walrus in
Through the Looking Glass
. Then, just before I drove away, she brought out two bricks she'd heated in the oven.

The drive up to the canyon wasn't as bad as I'd thought it would be. Of course, I had to walk Lady all the way. Snow caked onto the wagon tires and made the wheels almost eight-sided. But the stars were bright and the bricks kept my feet warm most of the way. After we got out of town, I put the reins around my neck, and wrapped the lap robe clear up to my shoulders, so that only my face got cold. And I sort of had fun, just bumping along there under the stars and thinking about things. I wanted to get Grace something really nice for Christmas, something she could keep for a time and have fun with. The more I tried to think of different things, the more I couldn't help thinking about skates. There'd been ice on the river for two weeks, and most of the other kids in Littleton were going skating. Maybe it was because I wanted skates so much myself that I thought of them for Grace. A good pair cost a dollar and a half, and all I'd have to do to get it would be to sell three extra Christmas trees.

The sky began to grow gray just as we went between the last hogbacks and into the canyon. And it was almost daylight when we got to where the young spruce trees grew. I drove past them till I found a place where the road was wide enough that we could turn around without falling off over the cliff. Then I picked out good bushy trees that stood alone so all the branches were even. I took them from the mountainside above the road. That way, I didn't have to lug them uphill, but could drag them right onto the wagon. I wanted to take as many as I could, but I stopped at eleven, because I'd have to crush them too much if I'd tried to haul any more. And I saved the best one for ourselves. It was a blue spruce, and I put it clear on top of the load.

My feet got awfully cold going home, and sometimes I had to stamp along beside the wagon to warm up again. But there was quite a little downhill, and I let Lady trot wherever she could. We pulled up at Gunther's barn at just ten o'clock. By noon, I'd sold nine of the trees, but nobody wanted the other one. I just stuck it in a snowdrift near the gristmill, so that anybody could take it home that wanted it. Then I went to the O.P.C.H. for Mother's new shoes. I got Grace's skates there, too. They were as shiny as a new mirror, and the straps were chocolate brown.

The night before Christmas the younger children went to bed just as soon as supper was over, and Mother let Grace and me help her trim the tree. I popped the corn while Mother and Grace strung it with cranberries for tree decorations. We put a big mound of white cotton underneath to look like snow. Then we laid the packages that had come from our relatives back in New England out on the cotton. The last thing we did was to make popcorn balls to hang on the branches.

When I brought Mother's new shoes home, I put them in the barn with the shirtwaist and mittens, but I hid Grace's skates in the currycomb box. While Mother was cooking the taffy for the popcorn balls, Grace sent me out to get the presents. She said I could bring the children's in, but to stick Mother's packages under the woodshed steps. Then she'd come down and put them under the tree as soon as Mother had gone to bed.

When we'd hung the last popcorn ball, Mother said, “Now, let's all get right to bed and leave the house quiet for the spirit of Christmas to come. If we really feel it has been here—as I always do—I think we can help the younger children enjoy their Santa Claus more.”

We all took our shoes off, and went upstairs quietly and together. I didn't undress, but lay and listened for Grace to go down and put Mother's presents under the tree. It seemed as though I had lain there an hour without hearing a sound. Then I realized I had dozed a little, and that Grace must have been down and back while I was asleep. I slipped off the bed without making a sound, tiptoed into the hall, and slid carefully down the banister.

The only thing I could hear was my own breath as I felt my way through the dining room and out to the kitchen. My shoes were right where I could find them in the dark. I picked them up, took a card of matches from the box by the stove, and eased the woodshed door open. King got up from his bed, so I made a little
hsst
sound for him to be quiet, then sat down on the steps and pulled my shoes on. I didn't take the lantern, and I didn't strike a match until I was in the barn and had the door closed. Then I got the skates out of the currycomb box, and wrote, “To Grace from Santa Claus,” on the package.

I went back into the kitchen just as quietly as I had gone out, put my shoes down, and tiptoed across the dining room. I knew right where the tree was in the corner of the parlor, but it was so dark I couldn't see to put the package under it. I crouched down, broke a sulfur match off the card, and scratched it across the seat of my overalls. Sulfur matches usually lit with a dull blue flame that slowly grew yellow and brighter. That one didn't. As I swiped it up past my knee, the flame flashed and went out.

I hadn't heard a sound, but in the half second the match flashed, I saw everything in the room. Grace was on her hands and knees in front of the tree, and Mother was standing in the doorway from the hall. Not one of us said a word. I laid my package down and pushed it toward the tree. Then I went back through the double doorway to the dining room, through the front hall, and up the stairs to bed. I never heard either Grace or Mother come up.

Christmas mornings on the ranch, Father had always had a rule that we children couldn't come in from the bunkhouse till sunup. Nobody had said anything about it that year, but Philip and I were all dressed and waiting in our room by the time the stars began to fade. Our room was on the west side of the house, so of course we couldn't watch for the first peep of the sun over Gallup's Hill. But the girls could; and they came running out into the hall when the first red edge of it showed. We all pounded on Mother's chamber door, and Muriel called, “Mornin', Miz Moody. Fine mornin', ain't it?” In less than a minute we were all laughing and clattering down the stairs together.

It was a lovely Christmas. I don't know where the other children got any money for presents. Muriel and Philip had bought me a jackknife with three blades, and there was a box that said, “To Ralph from Santa Claus,” but it was in Grace's handwriting. There was a pair of racer skates in the box. Mother had made bright red earlaps for all three of us boys, and white aprons with lace on them for the girls. Philip and Muriel had bought Mother a glass bowl, and Hal had got her a new egg beater. They'd bought Grace a wide red hair ribbon a yard long. Of course, their presents weren't under the tree, but they'd hidden them in the closet under the stairs.