FullReads

The room was very small, very stuffy, and very dark, so dark that a smoking kerosene lamp that burned on a table next the stove hardly lighted it at all, though it was broad day. A big, unshaven man, who sat on the bed, rose when he saw the visitor, and stood uncomfortably shifting his feet and avoiding the professor’s eye. The latter’s glance was serious, though not unkind, as he asked the woman with the baby if he had found no work yet.

“No,” she said, anxiously coming to the rescue, “not yet; he was waitin’ for a recommend.” But Johnnie had earned two dollars running errands, and, now there was a big fall of snow, his father might get a job of shovelling. The woman’s face was worried, yet there was a cheerful note in her voice that somehow made the place seem less discouraging than it was. The baby she nursed was not much larger than a middle-sized doll. Its little face looked thin and wan. It had been very sick, she explained, but the doctor said it was mending now. That was good, said the professor, and patted one of the bigger children on the head.

There were six of them, of all sizes, from Johnnie, who could run errands, down. They were busy fixing up a Christmas tree that half filled the room, though it was of the very smallest. Yet, it was a real Christmas tree, left over from the Sunday-school stock, and it was dressed up at that. Pictures from the colored supplement of a Sunday newspaper hung and stood on every branch, and three pieces of colored glass, suspended on threads that shone in the smoky lamplight, lent color and real beauty to the show. The children were greatly tickled.

“John put it up,” said the mother, by way of explanation, as the professor eyed it approvingly. “There ain’t nothing to eat on it. If there was, it wouldn’t be there a minute. The childer be always a-searchin’ in it.”

“But there must be, or else it isn’t a real Christmas tree,” said the professor, and brought out the little dollar. “This is a dollar which a friend gave me for the children’s Christmas, and she sends her love with it. Now, you buy them some things and a few candles, Mrs. Ferguson, and then a good supper for the rest of the family. Good night, and a Merry Christmas to you. I think myself the baby is getting better.” It had just opened its eyes and laughed at the tree.

The professor was not very far on his way toward keeping his appointment with Santa Claus before Mrs. Ferguson was at the grocery laying in her dinner. A dollar goes a long way when it is the only one in the house; and when she had everything, including two cents’ worth of flitter-gold, four apples, and five candles for the tree, the grocer footed up her bill on the bag that held her potatoes–ninety-eight cents. Mrs. Ferguson gave him the little dollar.

“What’s this?” said the grocer, his fat smile turning cold as he laid a restraining hand on the full basket. “That ain’t no good.”

“It’s a dollar, ain’t it?” said the woman, in alarm. “It’s all right. I know the man that give it to me.”

“It ain’t all right in this store,” said the grocer, sternly. “Put them things back. I want none o’ that.”

The woman’s eyes filled with tears as she slowly took the lid off the basket and lifted out the precious bag of potatoes. They were waiting for that dinner at home. The children were even then camping on the door-step to take her in to the tree in triumph. And now–

For the second time a restraining hand was laid upon her basket; but this time it was not the grocer’s. A gentleman who had come in to order a Christmas turkey had overheard the conversation, and had seen the strange bill.