The Big Book of Christmas

by Anton Chekhov

  The man stopped hammering and stared fixedly upon the two; the children gathered around with devouring looks as the visitor took from her basket bread, meat, and tea. Just then, with a parting, wistful look into the bare attic room, the sun-ray slipped away, lingered for a moment about the coping outside and fled over the house-tops.

  As it sped on its winter-day journey, did it shine into any cabin in an Irish bog more desolate than these Cherry Street "homes?" An army of thousands whose one bright and wholesome memory, only tradition of home, is that poverty-stricken cabin in the desolate bog, are herded in such barracks to-day in New York. Potatoes they have; yes, and meat at four cents—even seven. Beer for a relish—never without beer. But home? The home that was home even in a bog, with the love of it that has made Ireland immortal and a tower of strength in the midst of her suffering—what of that? There are no homes in New York's poor tenements.

  Down the crooked path of the Mulberry Street Bend the sunlight slanted into the heart of New York's Italy. It shone upon bandannas and yellow neckerchiefs; upon swarthy faces and corduroy breeches; upon blackhaired girls—mothers at thirteen; upon hosts of bow-legged children rolling in the dirt; upon pedlers' carts and ragpickers staggering under burdens that threatened to crush them at every step. Shone upon unnumbered Pasquales dwelling, working, idling, and gambling there. Shone upon the filthiest and foulest of New York's tenements, upon Bandits' Roost, upon Bottle Alley, upon the hidden by-ways that lead to the tramp's burrows. Shone upon the scene of annual infant slaughter. Shone into the foul core of New York's slums that is at last to go to the realm of bad memories because civilized man may not look upon it and live without blushing.

  It glanced past the rag-shop in the cellar, whence welled up stenches to poison the town, into an apartment three flights up that held two women, one young, the other old and bent. The young one had a baby at her breast. She was rocking it tenderly in her arms, singing in the soft Italian tongue a lullaby, while the old granny listened eagerly, her elbows on her knees, and a stumpy clay-pipe, blackened with age, between her teeth. Her eyes were set on the wall, on which the musty paper hung in tatters, fit frame for the wretched, poverty-stricken room, but they saw neither poverty nor want; her aged limbs felt not the cold draught from without, in which they shivered; they looked far over the seas to sunny Italy, whose music was in her ears.

  "O dolce Napoli," she mumbled between her toothless jaws, "O suol beato——"

  The song ended in a burst of passionate grief. The old granny and the baby woke up at once. They were not in sunny Italy; not under Southern, cloudless skies. They were in "The Bend" in Mulberry Street, and the wintry wind rattled the door as if it would say, in the language of their new home, the land of the free: "Less music! More work! Root, hog, or die!"

  Around the corner the sunbeam danced with the wind into Mott Street, lifted the blouse of a Chinaman and made it play tag with his pig-tail. It used him so roughly that he was glad to skip from it down a cellar-way that gave out fumes of opium strong enough to scare even the north wind from its purpose. The soles of his felt shoes showed as he disappeared down the ladder that passed for cellar-steps. Down there, where daylight never came, a group of yellow, almond-eyed men were bending over a table playing fan-tan. Their very souls were in the game, every faculty of the mind bent on the issue and the stake. The one blouse that was indifferent to what went on was stretched on a mat in a corner. One end of a clumsy pipe was in his mouth, the other held over a little spirit-lamp on the divan on which he lay. Something spluttered in the flame with a pungent, unpleasant smell. The smoker took a long draught, inhaling the white smoke, then sank back on his couch in senseless content.

  Upstairs tiptoed the noiseless felt shoes, bent on some house errand, to the "household" floors above, where young white girls from the tenements of The Bend and the East Side live in slavery worse, if not more galling, than any of the galley with ball and chain—the slavery of the pipe. Four, eight, sixteen—twenty odd such "homes" in this tenement, disgracing the very name of home and family, for marriage and troth are not in the bargain.

  In one room, between the half-drawn curtains of which the sunbeam works its way in, three girls are lying on as many bunks, smoking all. They are very young, "under age," though each and every one would glibly swear in court to the satisfaction of the police that she is sixteen, and therefore free to make her own bad choice. Of these, one was brought up among the rugged hills of Maine; the other two are from the tenement crowds, hardly missed there. But their companion? She is twirling the sticky brown pill over the lamp, preparing to fill the bowl of her pipe with it. As she does so, the sunbeam dances across the bed, kisses the red spot on her cheek that betrays the secret her tyrant long has known, though to her it is hidden yet—that the pipe has claimed its victim and soon will pass it on to the Potter's Field.

  "Nell," says one of her chums in the other bunk, something stirred within her by the flash—"Nell, did you hear from the old farm to home since you come here?"

  Nell turns half around, with the toasting-stick in her hand, an ugly look on her wasted features, a vile oath on her lips.

  "To hell with the old farm," she says, and putting the pipe to her mouth inhales it all, every bit, in one long breath, then falls back on her pillow in drunken stupor.

  That is what the sun of a winter day saw and heard in Mott Street.

  It had travelled far toward the west, searching many dark corners and vainly seeking entry to others; had gilt with equal impartiality the spires of five hundred churches and the tin cornices of thirty thousand tenements, with their million tenants and more; had smiled courage and cheer to patient mothers trying to make the most of life in the teeming crowds, that had too little sunshine by far; hope to toiling fathers striving early and late for bread to fill the many mouths clamoring to be fed.

  The brief December day was far spent. Now its rays fell across the North River and lighted up the windows of the tenements in Hell's Kitchen and Poverty Gap. In the Gap especially they made a brave show; the windows of the crazy old frame-house under the big tree that set back from the street looked as if they were made of beaten gold. But the glory did not cross the threshold. Within it was dark and dreary and cold. The room at the foot of the rickety, patched stairs was empty. The last tenant was beaten to death by her husband in his drunken fury. The sun's rays shunned the spot ever after, though it was long since it could have made out the red daub from the mould on the rotten floor.

  Upstairs, in the cold attic, where the wind wailed mournfully through every open crack, a little girl sat sobbing as if her heart would break. She hugged an old doll to her breast. The paint was gone from its face; the yellow hair was in a tangle; its clothes hung in rags. But she only hugged it closer. It was her doll. They had been friends so long, shared hunger and hardship together, and now——.

  Her tears fell faster. One drop trembled upon the wan cheek of the doll. The last sunbeam shot athwart it and made it glisten like a priceless jewel. Its glory grew and filled the room. Gone were the black walls, the darkness and the cold. There was warmth and light and joy. Merry voices and glad faces were all about. A flock of children danced with gleeful shouts about a great Christmas-tree in the middle of the floor. Upon its branches hung drums and trumpets and toys, and countless candles gleamed like beautiful stars. Farthest up, at the very top, her doll, her very own, with arms outstretched, as if appealing to be taken down and hugged. She knew it, knew the mission-school that had seen her first and only real Christmas, knew the gentle face of her teacher, and the writing on the wall she had taught her to spell out: "In His Name." His name, who, she had said, was all little children's friend. Was he also her dolly's friend, and would know it among the strange people?

  The light went out; the glory faded. The bare room, only colder and more cheerless than before, was left. The child shivered. Only that morning the doctor had told her mother that she must have medicine and food and warmth, or she must go to the great hos
pital where papa had gone before, when their money was all spent. Sorrow and want had laid the mother upon the bed he had barely left. Every stick of furniture, every stitch of clothing on which money could be borrowed, had gone to the pawnbroker. Last of all, she had carried mamma's wedding-ring, to pay the druggist. Now there was no more left, and they had nothing to eat. In a little while mamma would wake up, hungry.

  The little girl smothered a last sob and rose quickly. She wrapped the doll in a threadbare shawl, as well as she could, tiptoed to the door and listened a moment to the feeble breathing of the sick mother within. Then she went out, shutting the door softly behind her, lest she wake her.

  Up the street she went, the way she knew so well, one block and a turn round the saloon corner, the sunset glow kissing the track of her bare feet in the snow as she went, to a door that rang a noisy bell as she opened it and went in. A musty smell filled the close room. Packages, great and small, lay piled high on shelves behind the worn counter. A slovenly woman was haggling with the pawnbroker about the money for a skirt she had brought to pledge.

  "Not a cent more than a quarter," he said, contemptuously, tossing the garment aside. "It's half worn out it is, dragging it back and forth over the counter these six months. Take it or leave it. Hallo! What have we here? Little Finnegan, eh? Your mother not dead yet? It's in the poor-house ye will be if she lasts much longer. What the——"

  He had taken the package from the trembling child's hand—the precious doll—and unrolled the shawl. A moment he stood staring in dumb amazement at its contents. Then he caught it up and flung it with an angry oath upon the floor, where it was shivered against the coal-box.

  "Get out o' here, ye Finnegan brat," he shouted; "I'll tache ye to come a'guyin' o' me. I'll——"

  The door closed with a bang upon the frightened child, alone in the cold night. The sun saw not its home-coming. It had hidden behind the night-clouds, weary of the sight of man and his cruelty.

  Evening had worn into night. The busy city slept. Down by the wharves, now deserted, a poor boy sat on the bulwark, hungry, footsore, and shivering with cold. He sat thinking of friends and home, thousands of miles away over the sea, whom he had left six months before to go among strangers. He had been alone ever since, but never more so than that night. His money gone, no work to be found, he had slept in the streets for nights. That day he had eaten nothing; he would rather die than beg, and one of the two he must do soon.

  There was the dark river, rushing at his feet; the swirl of the unseen waters whispered to him of rest and peace he had not known since——it was so cold—and who was there to care, he thought bitterly. No one who would ever know. He moved a little nearer the edge, and listened more intently.

  A low whine fell on his ear, and a cold, wet face was pressed against his. A little, crippled dog that had been crouching silently beside him nestled in his lap. He had picked it up in the street, as forlorn and friendless as himself, and it had stayed by him. Its touch recalled him to himself. He got up hastily, and, taking the dog in his arms, went to the police station near by and asked for shelter. It was the first time he had accepted even such charity, and as he lay down on his rough plank he hugged a little gold locket he wore around his neck, the last link with better days, and thought, with a hard, dry sob, of home.

  In the middle of the night he awoke with a start. The locket was gone. One of the tramps who slept with him had stolen it. With bitter tears he went up and complained to the Sergeant at the desk, and the Sergeant ordered him to be kicked out in the street as a liar, if not a thief. How should a tramp boy have come honestly by a gold locket? The doorman put him out as he was bidden, and when the little dog showed its teeth, a policeman seized it and clubbed it to death on the step.

  Far from the slumbering city the rising moon shines over a wide expanse of glistening water. It silvers the snow upon a barren heath between two shores, and shortens with each passing minute the shadows of countless headstones that bear no names, only numbers. The breakers that beat against the bluff wake not those who sleep there. In the deep trenches they lie, shoulder to shoulder, an army of brothers, homeless in life, but here at rest and at peace. A great cross stands upon the lonely shore. The moon sheds its rays upon it in silent benediction and floods the garden of the unknown, unmourned dead with its soft light. Out on the Sound the fishermen see it flashing white against the starlit sky, and bare their heads reverently as their boats speed by, borne upon the wings of the west wind.

  A Defective Santa Claus

  James Whitcomb Riley

  Part 1

  Allus when our Pa he's away

  Nen Uncle Sidney comes to stay

  At our house here--so Ma an' me

  An' Etty an' Lee-Bob won't be

  Afeard ef anything at night

  Might happen--like Ma says it might.

  * * *

  (Ef Trip wuz big, I bet you he

  'Uz best watch-dog you ever see!)

  An' so last winter--ist before

  It's go' be Chris'mus-Day,--w'y, shore

  Enough, Pa had to haf to go

  To 'tend a lawsuit--"An' the snow

  Ist right fer Santy Claus!" Pa said,

  As he clumb in old Ayersuz' sled,

  An' said he's sorry he can't be

  With us that night--"'Cause," he-says-ee,

  "Old Santy might be comin' here--

  This very night of all the year

  * * *

  I' got to be away!--so all

  You kids must tell him--ef he call--

  He's mighty welcome, an' yer Pa

  He left his love with you an' Ma

  * * *

  An' Uncle Sid!" An' clucked, an' leant

  Back, laughin'--an' away they went!

  An' Uncle wave' his hands an' yells

  "Yer old horse ort to have on bells!"

  But Pa yell back an' laugh an' say

  "I 'spect when Santy come this way

  It's time enough fer sleighbells nen!"

  An' holler back "Good-by!" again,

  An' reach out with the driver's whip

  An' cut behind an' drive back Trip.

  * * *

  An' so all day it snowed an' snowed!

  An' Lee-Bob he ist watched the road,

  In his high-chair; an' Etty she

  U'd play with Uncle Sid an' me--

  Like she wuz he'ppin' fetch in wood

  An' keepin' old fire goin' good,

  * * *

  Where Ma she wuz a-cookin' there

  An' kitchen, too, an' ever'where!

  An' Uncle say, "'At's ist the way

  Yer Ma's b'en workin', night an' day,

  Sence she hain't big as Etty is

  Er Lee-Bob in that chair o' his!"

  Nen Ma she'd laugh 't what Uncle said,

  An' smack an' smoove his old bald head

  An' say "Clear out the way till I

  Can keep that pot from b'ilin' dry!"

  Nen Uncle, when she's gone back to

  The kitchen, says, "We ust to do

  * * *

  Some cookin' in the ashes.--Say,

  S'posin' we try some, thataway!"

  An' nen he send us to tell Ma

  Send two big 'taters in he saw

  * * *

  Pa's b'en a-keepin' 'cause they got

  The premiun at the Fair. An' what

  You think?--He rake a grea'-big hole

  In the hot ashes, an' he roll

  Them old big 'taters in the place

  An' rake the coals back--an' his face

  Ist swettin' so's he purt'-nigh swear

  'Cause it's so hot! An' when they're there

  'Bout time 'at we fergit 'em, he

  Ist rake 'em out again--an' gee!--

  He bu'st 'em with his fist wite on

  A' old stove-led, while Etty's gone

  * * *

  To git the salt, an' butter, too—

  Ist like he said she haf to do,

&
nbsp; No matter what Ma say! An' so

  He salt an' butter 'em, an' blow

  'Em cool enough fer us to eat—

  * * *

  An' me-o-my! they're hard to beat!

  An' Trip 'ud ist lay there an' pant

  Like he'd laugh out loud, but he can't.

  Nen Uncle fill his pipe—an' we

  'Ud he'p him light it—Sis an' me,—

  But mostly little Lee-Bob, 'cause

  "He's the best Lighter ever wuz!"

  Like Uncle telled him wunst when Lee-

  Bob cried an' jerked the light from me,

  He wuz so mad! So Uncle pat

  An' pet him. (Lee-Bob's ust to that—

  'Cause he's the little-est, you know,

  An' allus has b'en humored so!)

  Nen Uncle gits the flat-arn out,

  An', while he's tellin' us all 'bout

  * * *

  Old Chris'mus-times when he's a kid,

  He ist cracked hickernuts, he did,

  Till they's a crockful, mighty nigh!

  An' when they're all done by an' by,

  He raked the red coals out again

  An' telled me, "Fetch that popcorn in,

  An' old three-leggud skillut—an'

  The led an' all now, little man,—

  An' yer old Uncle here 'ull show

  You how corn's popped, long years ago

  When me an' Santy Claus wuz boys

  On Pap's old place in Illinoise!—

  * * *

  An' your Pa, too, wuz chums, all through,

  With Santy!—Wisht Pa'd be here, too!"

  Nen Uncle sigh at Ma, an' she

  Pat him again, an' say to me

  An' Etty,—"You take warning fair!—

  Don't talk too much, like Uncle there,