Their Yesterdays

by Harold Bell Wright

  LIFE

  In childhood, the Master of Life exalts Life. A baby in its mother'sarms is the fullest expression of Divinity.

  It was Christmas time; that season of the year when, for a briefperiod, the world permits the children to occupy the place in theaffairs and thoughts of men that is theirs by divine right.

  In the birth of that babe in Bethlehem, the Giver of Life placed theseal of his highest approval upon childhood and decreed that, untilthe end of time, babies should be the true rulers of mankind and thelawful heirs of heaven. And it is so, that the power of Mary's babe,from his manger cradle throne, has been more potent on earth in thegovernments of men than the strength of many emperors with their armedhosts.

  It is written large in Nature's laws that mankind should be governedby love of children. The ruling purpose and passion of the race canbe, with safety, nothing less than the purpose and passion of allcreated things--of even the trees and plants--the purpose to reproduceits kind--the passion for its offspring. The world should be ruled byboys and girls.

  But Mammon has usurped the throne of Life. His hosts have trampled thebanners of loyal love in the dust. His forces have compelled therightful rulers of the world to abdicate. But, even as grossmaterialism has never succeeded in altogether denying Divinity, so,for a few days each year, at Christmas time, childhood asserts itsclaims and compels mankind to render, at least a show, of homage.

  Poor, blind, deceived and betrayed, old world; to so fear a foolishand impotent anarchism that spends its strength in vain railingsagainst governments while you pay highest honors and present yourchoicest favors to those traitors who filch your wealth of young lifeunder pretense of loyal service. The real anarchists, old world, arenot those who loudly vociferate to the rabble on the street cornersbut those who, operating under the laws of your approval, betray theircountry in its greatest need--its need of children. The realanarchists, old world, are those whose banners are made red by theblood of babies; who fatten upon the labor of their child slaves; andwho seek to rule by the slaughter of children even as that savage ofold whose name in history is hated by every lover of the race.Regicides at heart, they are, for they kill, for a price, the Godordained rulers of mankind. A child is nearer, by many years, to Godthan the grown up rebel who traitorously holds his own mean interestssuperior to the holy will of Life as vested in the sacred person of aboy or girl.

  To prate, in empty swelling words, of the sacredness of life, thepower of religion, the dignity of state, the importance of commercialinterests and the natural wealth of the nation, while ignoring thesacredness, power, dignity, importance, and wealth of childhood, isevidence of a criminal thoughtlessness.

  Children and Life are one. They are the product, the producers, andthe preservers of Life. They exalt Life. They interpret Life. Withoutthem Life has no meaning. The child is no more the possession of itsparents than the parents are the property of the child. Children arethe just creditors of the human race. Mankind owes them everything.They owe mankind nothing. A baby has no debts.

  Nor is the passion for children satisfied only in bearing them. Awoman who does not love _all_ babies is unsafe to trust with oneof her own flesh. A man who does not love _all_ children is unfitto father offspring of his own blood. One need not die to orphan achild. One need only refuse to care for it. One need only place otherinterests first. Men and women who desire to become parents will notgo unsatisfied in a world that is so full of boys and girls for whomthere are neither fathers nor mothers.

  The Master of Life said: "Except ye become as little children." Hisfalse disciple--world--teaches: "Except ye become grown up." But thelaws of Life are irrevocable. If a man, heeding the world, grows up topossess the earth, his holdings, at the last, are reduced--if he beone of earth's big men--to six feet of it, only; while the man whonever grows up inherits a heaven that the false kings of earth knownot.

  When the man left his work, at close of the day before Christmas, hewas as eager as he had been that Saturday when he faced the crisis ofhis life. With every sense keenly alive, he plunged into the throng ofbelated shoppers that filled the streets and crowded into the gailydecked stores until it overflowed into the streets again. Nearlyeveryone was carrying bundles and packages for it was too late, now,to depend upon the overworked delivery wagons. In almost every face,the Christmas gladness shone. In nearly every voice, there was thatspirit of fellowship and cheery good will that is invoked by Christmasthoughts and plans. Through the struggling but good natured crowd, theman worked his way into a store and, when he forced his way out again,his arms, too, were full. For a moment he waited on the corner for acar then, with a look of smiling dismay at the number of people whowere also waiting, he turned away, determined to walk. He felt, too,that the exercise in the keen air would be a relief to the buoyantstrength and gladness that clamored for expression.

  As he swung so easily along the snowy pavement, with the strength ofhis splendid manhood revealed in every movement and the cleanness ofhis heart and mind illuminating his countenance, there were many amongthose he met who, while they smiled in sympathy with his spirit,passed from their smiles to half sighs of envy and regret.

  With the impatient haste of a boy, the man dashed up the steps of hisboarding house and ran up stairs to his room; chuckling in triumphover his escape from the watchful eyes of the little daughter of thehouse. For the first time since his boyhood the man was to have theblessed privilege of sharing the Christmas cheer of a home.

  When the evening meal was over and it was time for his little playmateto go to sleep, he retired again to his room, almost as excited, inhis eager impatience for the morning, as the child herself. Safebehind his closed door, he began to unwrap his Christmas packages andparcels that he might inspect again his purchases and taste, byanticipation, the pleasure he would know when on the morrow the childwould discover his gifts. Very carefully he cut the strings from thelast and largest package and, tenderly removing the wrappings,revealed a doll almost as tall as the little girl herself. It was aslarge, at least, as a real flesh and blood baby.

  The wifeless, homeless, man who has never purchased a doll for somelittle child mother has missed an educational experience of more valuethan many of the things that are put in text books to make men wise.

  Rather awkwardly the man held the big doll in his arms, smoothing itsdress and watching the eyes that opened and closed so lifelike;cautiously he felt for and found that vital spot which if pressedbrought forth a startling: "papa--mama."

  As the dear familiar words of childhood sounded in the lonely bachelorroom, the man felt a queer something grip his heart. Tenderly he laidthe doll upon his big bed and stood for a little looking down upon it;a half-serious, half-whimsical, expression on his face but in his eyesa tender light. Then, adjusting his reading lamp, he seated himselfand attempted to busy his strangely disturbed mind with a book. Butthe sentences were meaningless. At every period, his eyes turned tothat little figure on the bed, with its too lifelike face and hair andform while the thoughts of the author he was trying to read werecrowded out by other thoughts that forced themselves upon him with apersistency and strength that would not be denied.

  The weeks following the testing of the man had been to him verywonderful weeks. He seemed to be living in a new world, or, rather,for him, the same old world was wonderfully enriched and glorified.Never had he felt his manhood's strength stirring so within him. Neverhad his mind been so alert, his spirit so bold. He moved among menwith a new power that was felt by all who came in touch with him;though no one knew what it was. He was conscious of a fuller masteryof his work; a clearer grasp of the world events. As one, climbing inthe mountains, reaches a point higher than he has ever before attainedand gains thus a wider view of the path he has traveled, of thesurrounding country, and of the peak that is the object of his climbas well, so this man, in his life climb, had reached a higher pointand therefore gained a wider outlook. It is only when men stay in thelowlands of self interest or abide in the swamps of se
lf indulgencethat their views of life are narrowly circumscribed. Let a man masterhimself but once and he stands on higher ground, with wider outlook,with keener vision, and clearer atmosphere.

  The man had always seen Life in its relation to himself; he came, now,to consider his own life in its relation to all Life; which point ofview has all the difference that lies between a low valley and themountain peaks that shut it in. He felt his relation, too, not aloneto all human life but to all created things. With everything thatlived he felt himself kin. With the very dray horses on the street,dragging with patient courage their heavily loaded trucks; with thestray dog that dodged in and out among the wheels and hoofs of thecrowded traffic; even with the sparrow that perched for a moment onthe ledge outside the window near his desk, he felt a kinship that wasnew and strange. Had they not all, he reflected, horse and dog andsparrow and man--had they not all one thing in common--Life? Was notLife the one thing supreme to each? Were they not, each one, a part ofthe whole? Was not the supreme object of every life, of all life, tolive? Is the life of a man, he asked himself, more mysterious than thelife of a horse? Can science--blind, pretentious, childishscience--explain the life of a dog with less uncertainty than it canexplain the life of a man? Or can the scientist make a laboratorysparrow more easily than he can produce a laboratory man? With thevery trees that lined the streets near where he lived, he felt akinship for they, too, within their trunks and limbs, had life--they,too, were parts of the whole even as he was a part--they, too,belonged even as he belonged.

  Thus the man saw Life from a loftier height than he had ever beforeattained. Thus he sensed, as never before, the bigness, the fullness,the grandness, the awfulness, of Life. And so the man became veryhumble with a proud humbleness. He became very proud with a humblepride. He became even as a child again.

  And then, standing thus upon this new height that he had gained, theman looked back into the ages that were gone and forward into the agesthat were to come and so saw himself and his age a link between thepast and the future; linking that which had been to that which was tobe. All that Life had ever been--the sum of all since the unknownbeginning--was in the present. In the present, also, was all that Lifecould ever be, even unto the unknown end. Within his age and withinhimself he felt stirring all the mighty forces that, since thebeginning, had wrought in the making of man. Within his age and withinhimself he felt the forces that would work out in the race results asfar beyond his present vision as his age was beyond the ages of themost distant past.

  Since the day when he had first realized his manhood, the working outof his dreams had been to the man the supreme object of his life. Hehad put his life, literally, into his work. For his work he had lived.But that Christmas eve, when his mind and heart were so filled withthoughts of childhood and those new emotions were aroused within him,he saw that the supreme thing in his life must be Life itself. He sawthat not by putting his life into his work, would he most truly live,but by making his work contribute to his life. He realized that thegreatest achievements of man are but factors in Life--that the onesupreme, dominant, compelling, purpose of Life is to _live_--to_live_--to _live_--to express itself in Life--that the onlyadequate expression of Life _is_ Life--that the passion of Lifeis to pass itself on--from age to age, from generation to generation,in a thousand thousand forms, in a thousand thousand ages, in athousand thousand peoples, Life had passed itself on--was even thenpassing itself on--seeking ever fuller expression of itself; seekingever to perfect itself; seeking ever to produce itself. He saw thatthe things that men do come out of their lives even as the plants comeout of the soil into which the seed is dropped; and, that, even as thedead and decaying plant goes back into the earth from which it came,to enrich and renew the ground, so man's work, that comes out of hislife, is reabsorbed again into his life to enrich and renew it. Herealized, now, that the object of his life must be not his work butLife itself--that his effort must be not to do but to be--that he mustaccomplish not a great work but a great Life.

  It was inevitable that the man should come to see, also, that thesupreme glory of his manhood's strength was in this: the reproductionof his kind. The man life that ran so strongly in his veins, thatthrobbed so exultantly in his splendid body, that thrilled so keenlyin his nerves--the man life that he had from his parents and fromcountless generations before--the life that made him kin to all hisrace and to all created things--this life he must pass on. This wasthe supreme glory of his manhood: that he could pass it on--that hecould give it to the ages that were to come.

  From the heights which he attained that Christmas eve, the man laughedat the empty, swelling, words of those who talk about the sacrednessof work--who prattle as children about leaving a great work when theyare gone--who gibber as fools about contributing a great work to theworld.

  If the men of a race will perfect the manhood strength of the race; ifthey will exalt their manhood power; if they will fulfill the missionof life by perfecting and producing ever more perfect lives; if theywill endeavor to contribute to the ages to come stronger, better, menthan themselves; why, the work of the world will be done--even as theplant produces its flowers and fruit, the work of the world will bedone. In the exaltation of Life is the remedy for the evils thatthreaten the race. The reformations that men are always attempting inthe social, religious, political, and industrial world are butattempts to change the flavor or quality of the fruit when it isripening on the tree. The true remedy lies in the life of the tree; inthe soil from which it springs; in the source from which the fruitderives its quality and flavor. In the appreciation of Life, in thepassion of Life, in the production of Life, in the perfection of Life,in the exaltation of Life, is the salvation of human kind. For this,and this alone, man has right to live--has right to his place and partin Life.

  All this the man saw that Christmas eve because the kiss of the littlegirl, on that night of his temptation, had awakened something in hismanhood that was greater than the dreams he had been denying himselfto work out. The friendship of the child had revealed to him thisdeeper truth of Life; that there are, for all true men,accomplishments greater than the rewards of labor. The baby had taughthim that the legitimate fruit of love is more precious to Life, byfar, than the wealth and honors that the world bestows--that, indeed,the greatest wealth, the highest honors, are not in the power of theworld to give; nor are they to be won by toil. In his thinking, thisman, too, was led by a little child.

  The man's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door.

  It was the little girl's mother; to tell him, as she had promised,that the child was safely asleep.

  With his arms filled with presents, the man went softly down thestairs.

  When all had been arranged for the morning, the man returned again tohis room; but not to sleep. There was in his heart a feeling ofreverent pride and gladness, as though he had been permitted to assistin a religious rite, and, with his own hands, to place an offeringupon a sacred altar. And, if you will understand me, the man wasright. Whatever else Christmas has come to mean to the grown up world,its true meaning can be nothing less than this.

  Nor did the man again turn to his book or attempt to take up the trainof thought that had so interfered with his reading. Something morecompelling than any printed page--something more insistant than hisown thoughts of Life and its meaning--lured him far away from hisgrown up days--took him back again into his days that were gone. Alonein his room that Christmas eve, the man went back, once more, to hisYesterdays--back to a Christmas in his Yesterdays.

  Once again, his boyhood home was the scene of busy preparations forthe Christmas gaieties. Once again, the boy, tucked snugly under thebuffalo robe, drove with his parents away through the white fields tothe distant town while the music in his heart kept time to the melodyof the jingling bells. Once again, he experienced the happy perplexityof selecting--with mother's help--a present for father while fatherobligingly went to see a man on business and of choosing--withfather's assistance--a gift for mother while she
rested in a farcorner of the store. And then, once again, he faced the tryingquestion: what should he get for the little girl who lived next door.What, indeed, _could_ he get for _her_ but a beautiful newdoll--one with brown hair, very like the little girl's own, and browneyes that opened and closed as natural as life.

  The next day the boy went, with his father and the little girl and heruncle, in the big sleigh, to the woods to find a tree for theChristmas "exercises" at the church; and, in the afternoon, in companywith the older people, helped to make the wreaths of evergreen anddeck the tree with glittering tinsel; while the little girl strunglong strings of snowy pop corn and labored earnestly at the sweet taskof filling mosquito bar stockings with candy and nuts.

  Then came that triumphant Christmas eve, when, before the assembledSunday school and the crowded church, the boy took part, with hisclass, in the entertainment and sat, with wildly beating heart, whilethe little girl, all alone, sang a Christmas carol; and proud he was,indeed, when the applause for the little singer was so long and loud.And then, when the farmer Santa Claus had distributed the laststocking of candy, the boy and the girl, with their elders, went hometogether, in the clear light of the stars; while, across the whitefields, came the sound of gay laughter and happy voices mingled withthe ringing music of the sleigh bells--growing fainter and fainter--asfriends and neighbors went their several ways.

  But, best of all--by far the best of all--was that Christmas morningat home. At the first hint of gray light in the winter sky, the boywas awake and out of bed to gather his Christmas harvest; hailing eachtoy and game and book with exclamations of delight and arousing allthe house with his shouts of: "Merry Christmas."

  The foolish, grown up, old world has a saying that we value most thethings that we win for ourselves by toil and hardship; but, believeme, it is not so. The real treasures of earth are the things that arewon by the toil of those who bring to us, without price, the fruits oftheir labor as tokens of their love.

  Very early, that long ago Christmas morning, the boy went over to thelittle girl's house; for his happiness would not be complete until hecould share it with her. And the man, who, alone in his bachelor roomthat Christmas eve, dreamed of his Yesterdays, saw again, withstartling clearness, his boyhood mate as she stood in the doorwaygreeting him with shouts of, "Merry Christmas," as he went toward herthrough the snow; and the heart of the man beat quicker at the lovelyvision--even as the heart of the boy--for she held, close in herlittle mother arms, the new addition to her family of dolls--his gift.The lonely man, that night, realized, as he had never realized before,how full, at that moment, was the cup of the boy's proud happiness. Herealized and understood.

  I wonder--do you, also, understand?

  In the still house, the big clock in the lower hall struck the hour.The man in his lonely room listened, counting thestrokes--nine--ten--eleven--twelve.

  It was Christmas.

  * * * * *

  And the woman, also, when she had passed safely through her trial,looked out upon Life from a point higher than she had ever reachedbefore. Never before had Life, to her, looked so wide.

  But the woman did not feel stronger after the crisis through which shehad passed; she felt, more keenly than before, her weakness. More thanever, she felt the need of a strength that she could not find withinherself. More than ever, she was afraid of the Life, that, from whereshe now stood, seemed so wide. Nor did she feel a kinship with allLife. She stood on higher ground, indeed, but the wideness of theview, to her, only emphasized her loneliness. She sadly felt herselfas one apart--as one denied the right of fellowship. More keenly thanever before, she felt, in the heart of her womanhood, the humiliationof the life that sets a price upon the things of womanhood while itrefuses to recognize womanhood itself. More than ever, in her womanheart, she was ashamed. Neither could she feel that she was doing herpart in Life--that she was taking her place--that she was a linkjoining the ages of the past to the ages that would come. She feltherself, rather, a parasite, attached to Life--not a part of--notbelonging to--but feeding upon.

  This woman who knew herself to be a woman saw, more clearly than everbefore, that one thing, only, could give her full fellowship with therace. She saw that one thing, only, could make her a link between theages that were gone and the ages that were to come. That one thing,only, could satisfy her woman heart--could make her feel that she wasnot alone.

  That one thing which the woman recognized as supreme is the thingwhich the Master of Life has committed peculiarly to womanhood. Not towoman's skillful hands; not to her ready brain; not to the things ofher womanhood upon which the world into which she goes alone to laborputs a price has the Master of Life committed this supreme thing; butto her _womanhood_--her sex. In the womanhood that is denied bythe world that receives womankind alone, is wealth that may not bebought by any price that the world can pay. In the womanhood of womenis that supreme thing without which human life would perish from theearth. The exercise of this power alone can give to woman the highplace in Life that belongs to her by right divine. The woman saw that,for her, all other work in the world would be but a makeshift--asubstitute; and, because of this, while Life had, never before seemedso large, she had, never before felt so small--so useless.

  But still, for the woman, there was peace in her loneliness--there wasa peace that she had not had before--there was a calmness, aquietness, that was not hers before her trial. It was the peace of thelonely mountain top to which one climbs from out a noisy, clamoring,village; the calmness of the deep sky uncrossed by cloud or marked bysmoke of human industry; the quietness of the wide prairie, untouchedby man's improvements. And this tranquil rest was hers because sheknew--deep in her woman's heart she knew--that she had done well; thatshe had not been untrue to the soul of her womanhood.

  The woman knew that she had done well because she had come tounderstand that, while life is placed peculiarly in the care andkeeping of her sex, her sex has been endowed, for the protection,perfection, and perpetuation of Life, with peculiar instincts. She hadcome to understand that, while woman has been made the giver andguardian of Life, she, for that reason, is subject to laws that arenot to be broken save with immeasurable loss to the race. To her sexis given, by Life itself, the divine right of selection that thefuture of the race may be assured. To her sex is given an instinctsuperior to reason that her choice may perfect human kind. For her,and for the Life of her kind, there is the law that if she permits aughtbut her woman instinct to influence her in selecting her mateher children and the children of her children shall mourn.

  In the crisis of her life the woman had heard many voices--bold andtempting, pleading and subtle--urging her to say: "Yes." But alwaysher instinct--her woman heart--had whispered: "No. This man is notyour mate. This is not the man you would choose to be the father ofyour children. Better, far better, contribute nothing to the race thanbreak the law of your womanhood. Better, far better, never cross thethreshold of that open door than cross it with one who, in your heartof hearts you know, to be not the right one."

  So the woman had peace. Even in her loneliness, she had peace--knowingthat she had done well.

  And the woman tried, now, to interest herself in the things that somany of the women of her day seemed to find so interesting. Shelistened to brave lectures by stalwart women on woman's place andsphere in the world's work. She heard bold talks by militant womenabout woman's emancipation and freedom. She attended lectures byintellectual women on the higher life, and the new thought, and theadvanced ideas. She read pamphlets and books written by modern womenon the work of women in the social, political and industrial fields.She became acquainted with many "new" women who, striving mightilywith all their strength of body and soul for careers, looked with akind of lofty disdain or pitying contempt upon those old-fashionedmothers whose children interfere with the duty that "new" women thinkthey owe the world.

  But this woman who knew herself to be a woman could not interestherself in these things to which she tried to gi
ve attention. She feltthat in giving herself to these things she would betray Life. She feltthe hollowness, the shallowness, the emptyness of it all in comparisonwith that which is divinely committed to womankind. She could not butwonder: what would be the racial outcome? When women have long enoughsubstituted other ideals for the ideals of motherhood--other passionsfor the passions of their sex--other ambitions for the ambition toproduce and to perfect Life--other desires for the desire to keep thatwhich Life has committed to them--what then? "How," she asked herself,"would the world get along without mothers? Or how could the raceadvance if the best of women refused to bear children?" And then camethe inevitable thought: are the _best_ women, after all, refusingto bear children? Might it not be that the wisdom of Mother Nature isin this also, and that the refusal of a woman to bear children is thebest evidence in the world that she is unfit to be a mother? Is it notbetter that the mothers of the race should be those who hold no ideal,ambition, desire, aim, or purpose in life higher than motherhood? Suchwomen--such mothers--have, thus far, through their sons and daughters,won every victory in Life. It is they who have made every advance ofthe race possible. Will it not continue to be so, even unto the end?Is not this indeed the law of Life? If there be any work for womengreater or of more value to the human race than the work of motherhoodthen, indeed, is the end of the world, for mankind, at hand.

  From where she lay, the woman, when she first awoke that Christmasmorning, could see the sun just touching the topmost branches of thetall trees that grew across the street.

  It was a beautiful day. But the woman did not at first remember thatit was Christmas. Idly, as one sometimes will when awakening out of adeep sleep, she looked at the sunshine on the trees and thought thatthe day promised to be clear and bright. Then, looking at the clock inthe chubby arms of the fat cupid on the mantle, she noticed the timewith a start of dismay. She must arise at once or she would be late toher work. Why, she wondered, had not someone called her. Then, acrumpled sheet of tissue paper and a bit of narrow ribbon on thefloor, near the table, caught her eye and she remembered.

  It was Christmas.

  The woman dropped back upon her pillow. She need not go to work thatday. She had not been called because it was a holiday. Dully she toldherself again that it was Christmas.

  The house was very quiet. There were no bare feet pattering down thehall to see what Santa Claus had left from his pack. No exultingshouts had awakened her. In the rooms below, there was no cheerfullitter of toys and games and pop corn and candy and nuts with bits ofstring and crumpled paper from hastily opened parcels and shiningscraps of tinsel from the tree. There were no stockings hanging on themantle. At breakfast, there would be a few friendly gifts and, later,the postman would bring letters and cards with the season's greetings.That was all.

  The sun, climbing higher above the tall buildings down town, peepedthrough the window and saw the woman lying very still. And the sunmust have thought that the woman was asleep for her eyes were closedand upon her face there was the wistful smile of a child.

  But the woman was not asleep though she was dreaming. She had escapedfrom the silent, childless, house and had fled far, far, away to aland of golden memories. She had gone back into her Yesterdays--to aChristmas in her Yesterdays.

  Once again a little girl, she lived those happy, busy, days ofpreparation when she had asked herself a thousand times each day: whatwould the boy give her for Christmas? And always, as she wondered, thelittle girl had tried not to wish that it would be a doll lest sheshould be disappointed. And always she was unable to wish, half soearnestly, for anything else. Again she spent the hours learning thesong that she was to sing at the church on Christmas eve and wondered,often, if _he_ would like her new dress that mother was makingfor the occasion. And then, as the day drew near, there was that merrytrip to the woods to bring the tree, followed by that afternoon at thechurch. The little girl wondered, that night of the entertainment, ifthe boy guessed how frightened she was for him lest he forget thewords of his part; or, when she was singing before the crowd of peoplethat filled the church, did he know that she saw only him? And thenthe triumph--the beautiful triumph--of that Christmas morning!

  The little girl in the Yesterdays needed no one to remind her what dayit was. As soon as it was light, she opened her eyes, and, wide awakein an instant, slipped from her bed to steal down stairs while therest of the household still slept. And there, in the gray of thewinter morning, she found his gift. It was so beautiful, so lifelike,with its rosy cheeks and brown hair that, almost, the little girl wasafraid that she was not awake after all; and she caught her breathwith a gasp of delight when she finally convinced herself that it wasreal. She knew that it was from the boy--she _knew_. Quickly sheclasped it in her arms, with a kiss and a mother hug; and then, backagain she ran to her warm bed lest dolly catch cold. The otherpresents could wait until it was really, truly, daylight and uncle hadmade a fire; and she drew the covers carefully up under the dimpledchin of her treasure that lay in the hollow of her arm, close to herown soft little breast, as natural as life--as natural, indeed, as themother life that throbbed in the heart of the little girl.

  For women also it is written: "Except ye become as little children."If only women would understand!

  All the other gifts of that Christmas time were as nothing to thelittle girl beside that gift from the boy. The other things she wouldenjoy all the more because the supreme wish of her heart had beengranted; but, had she been disappointed in _that_, all _else_ wouldhave had little power to please. Under all her Christmas pleasurethere would have been a longing for something more. Her Christmaswould not have satisfied. Her cup of happiness would not have beenfull. So, all the treasures that the world can lay at woman's feet willnever satisfy if the one gift be lacking. And that woman who has feltin her arms a tiny form moulded of her own flesh--who has drawn closeto her breast a soft little cheek and felt upon her neck the touch ofa baby hand--that woman knows that I put down the truth when I writethat those women who deny the mother instinct of their hearts and, forsocial position, pleasure, public notice, wealth, or fame, kill theirlove for children, are to be pitied above all creatures for they denythemselves the heaven that is their inheritance.

  Eagerly, that morning, the little girl watched for the coming of theboy for she knew that he would not long delay; and, when she saw himwading through the snow, flung open wide the door to shout hergreeting as she proudly held his gift close to her heart; while on herface and in her eyes was the light divine. And great fun they had,that Christmas day, with their toys and games and books; but never forlong was the new doll far from the little girl's arms. Nor did sheneed many words to make her happiness in his gift understood to theboy.

  The sun was shining full in the window now; quite determined that thewoman should sleep no longer. Regretfully, as one who has little heartfor the day, she arose just as footsteps sounded outside her door.Then came a sharp rap upon the panel and--"Merry Christmas"--calledher uncle's hearty voice.

  Bravely the woman who knew herself to be a woman answered: "MerryChristmas."