© 2015 by Grace Livingston Hill
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Chapter 1
Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim
How cold it is! Let’s 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 the one with a 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 isn’t time to make it worthwhile to go back to the house. Shall we go inside or walk?”
“Oh, walk, by all means,” said Victoria Landis. “It’s so stuffy and hot in there that I feel like a turkey half roasted from the little time we stayed.”
“Let’s walk up this long platform to that freight house and watch the men unload that car,” proposed Esther Wakefield. And so it was agreed.
Victoria was humming. “Oh, girls, why didn’t we stay and finish singing that short number? It was so pretty! Listen. Is this right?” And she hummed it over again.
“Yes, it was too bad we had to tear ourselves away from that dear piano,” said Ruth Summers. “Say, Hazel, what are you going to do with your poor 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.”
“Plenty of people would probably be delighted with it if you only knew them. The owner of this forlorn furniture, for instance,” said Victoria as they threaded 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,” 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’d like to have that couch stay over a train or two while she re-covered it with some bright denim and made a pillow for it.” Clear 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, let’s 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 please with it. Here—this is a card behind here. Read it. ‘Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Florida.’ 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’d like to know how you’re so sure it’s 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 nurse—I’m positive,” said Victoria.
“I don’t believe Christie is an old nurse at all,” said Hazel “She’s a girl about our own age. She’s had to go to Florida on account of her health, and she’s poor, too poor to board. So she’ll keep house in a room or two”—waving her hand toward the unpretentious huddling of furniture around them—“and perhaps she teaches school. She’ll put the organ in the schoolroom or have a Sunday school in her own home, and I’ll 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 four 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 pulled up. In the bustle of welcoming the newcomer, Hazel’s scheme was forgotten. Not until the evening when they were seated around the great open fire did it enter the conversation again.
Victoria Landis told the newcomer about it. “Oh, 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 lovely! You must send it in time for Christmas. And why not pack a box to go with it? We could all help. It would be great fun and give us something not entirely selfish to do while we’re enjoying ourselves here.”
“Do you mean it?” said Victoria. “Well, I won’t be outdone. I’ll give a covering for that old couch, and Ruth shall make a fantastic sofa pillow for it, like no other pillow seen in any house in Florida. What color—blue or red? And will denim be fine enough, or do you prefer tapestry or brocatelle? Speak up, 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 songbooks, if you think there’s really a chance of a Sunday school,” said Esther.
“There must be something pretty for the house, a good picture perhaps,” mused Ruth Summers.
Hazel’s eyes grew bright with joy as she looked from one face to another and saw they really meant what they said.
Six pairs of hands can do much in four days. When the guests left for their various homes or schools, standing on the back porch of the old stone house on the hill were a well-packed box marked and labeled, an organ securely boxed, and a large roll, all bearing the magic words Christie W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla.
There was a great deal of discussion and argument between Mrs. Winship and her husband. They were inclined to think Hazel outdid herself in romance this time, though they were used to such unprecedented escapades from her childhood. But she finally won them all over; she explained how the goods
were left at that particular freight station from up the branch road, to be put on the through freight at the junction, and enlarged upon the desolation of the life of that young girl who was moving to Florida alone. Finally, 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. She did so after the party went down to the station, watched the goods repacked in another freight car for the junction, and reported that there wasn’t a sign of a carpet in the lot. They also told how they peeked through the crack of a box of books and distinctly saw the worn cover of a textbook, 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 handwriting on her finest paper, sealed it with a prayer, and gone back to her college duties a hundred miles away. Christmas was fast approaching 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, 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 desolation and blackjack oaks.
A touch of whitewash here and there and a bit of grass—which in that part of the world was so scarce that it was usually used for a path instead of being a setting for that path—would have done wonders for the place. But only the white, neglected, “mushy” sand was there, discouraging alike to wheel and foot.
Inside the cabin were a rusty cookstove, 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 foods. The couch in the corner was evidently the old bed, and the red-and-gray blankets still lay in the heap where they were 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 considered too good to leave outside. 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 washstand. 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. The pony wriggled his whole body with a motion intended to convey to his driver that he was trotting as fast as any reasonable being could expect a horse to go. In reality, the monotonous sand and scrub oaks were moving past as slowly as possible.
It was the day before Christmas, but the driver didn’t 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 trotted up to the post office in good style. The driver climbed out of the rickety wagon and went into the post office, which served also as a general store.
“Hollo, Chris!” called a sickly looking man from the group at the counter. “Bin a-wonderin’ when you was comin.’ Got some moh freight fer yoh oveh to the station.”
The newcomer turned his broad shoulders around and faced the speaker.
“I haven’t any more freight coming,” he said. “It’s all come three weeks ago.”
“Well, but it’s oveh theh,” insisted the other, “three pieces. Your name mahked plain same’s the otheh.”
“Somebody sent you a Christmas gift, Chris,” said a tall young fellow, slapping him on the shoulder. “Better go and get it.”
Chapter 2
A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match
The young man, still insisting that the freight wasn’t his, followed the agent reluctantly over to the station, accompanied by several of his companions, who had nothing better to do than see the joke out.
There they were—a box, a bundle, and a packing case—all labeled plainly and 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 didn’t know what to do with the things. At last he brought over the wagon and reluctant pony, and with the help of the other men, he loaded them.
Christie Bailey didn’t wait at the store that night as long as he usually did. He had intended to go home by moonlight but decided to try to make it before the sunset. He wanted to understand about the freight at once. When he went back to the post office, he couldn’t sit with the same pleasure on a nail keg and talk as usual. His mind was on the wagon load. So he bought a few things and started home.
The sun had brought the short winter day to a sudden close, as it has a habit of doing in Florida, by dropping out of sight and leaving utter darkness with no twilight.
Christie lit 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 pulled the entire front off the case and took 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 one of the ivory keys gently with his rough finger, as one might touch a being from another world.
Then he glanced around to see where to put it. 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 didn’t feel at home. Something must be done about the confusion behind him before he opened anything more. He felt somehow as if the organ were a visitor and mustn’t 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 the table and chairs he piled into the darkest corner on the floor and straightened the row of boots and shoes. Having done all he could, he returned 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 some time over the use of the screen. Finally he stood it up in front of the worst end of the room and began on his box.
There, at last, on top was a letter in a fine, unknown hand. He opened it slowly, with the blood mounting into his face—he didn’t know why—and read:
Dear Christie:
You see, I’m so sure you’re a girl my age that I’m beginning my letter informally and wishing you a very merry Christmas and a glad, bright New Year. Of course you may be an old lady or a nice, comfortable, middle-a
ged one. Then perhaps you will think we’re silly. But we hope and believe you’re a girl like us, and so our hearts have opened to you, and we’re sending you some things for Christmas.
An account of the afternoon at the freight station followed, written in Hazel’s most winning way, conveying the words and ways and almost the voices and faces of Victoria Landis and Ruth and Esther and Marion and the rest.
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. Before he read further, he went and pulled the screen along to hide more of the confusion.
He read the letter through, and his heart woke up to the world and to longings he never knew he possessed before—to the world in which Christmas has a place and young, bright life gives joy. He read it to the end, where Hazel inscribed her bit of sermon full of good wishes and a prayer that the spirit of Christmas might reign in that home and the organ might be a help and a blessing to all around.
A look of almost helpless misery crossed the young man’s face when he finished. The good old times when God was a reality were suddenly brought into his reckless, isolated life; he knew that God was God, even though he’d neglected Him so long, and that tomorrow was Christmas Day.
Seeking refuge from his own thoughts, he turned back to the brimming box.
The first article he took out was a pair of dainty lavender 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. Since Emily’s feet were many sizes smaller than her aunt supposed, she never wore them and tucked them in at the last minute to make a safe place for a delicate glass vase; she said the vase would be lovely to hold flowers on the organ, on Sundays.
The girls wrote their nonsense thoughts on bits of labels all over the things. And the young man read and smiled and finally laughed out loud. He felt like a little boy opening his first Christmas stocking.
Christie 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 the girls had seen his shabby belongings and pitied him. He resented the whole thing, until the delight of being pitied and cared for overcame his bitterness, and he laughed again.
The Story of a Whim Page 1