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About Medford mail tribune. (Medford, Or.) 1909-1989 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 21, 1958)
7 A "My sisters were squeal ing with delight until they looked up and saw me there with nothing." Art by William Lackey ither outside; he had come part way with her, rid she was having some sort of angry quarrel rith him. She tried to comfort me; besought me come to breakfast. I could not; I wanted no omfort and no breakfast She left me and went n into the house with sharp words for my father. I don't know what kind of a breakfast the family ad. My sisters said it was "awful." They were shamed to enjoy their own toys. I ran away from lem. I went around to the front of the house, at down on the steps, and, the crying over, I ched. I was wronged, I was hurt I can feel now rhat I felt then, and I am sure that if one could ee the wounds upon our hearts, there would be jund still upon mine a scar from that terrible Ihristmas morning. And my father, the practical iker, he must have been hurt, too, a little. I saw im looking out of the window. He was watching le or something for an hour or two, drawing back le curtain ever so little lest I catch him, but I aw his face, and I think I can see now the anxiety pon it, the worried impatience. iter i don't know how long surely an hour or Hwo I was brought to the climax of my agony y the sight of a man riding a pony down the treet, a pony and a brand-new saddle; the most eautiful saddle I ever saw, and it was a boy's addle; his feet were too long for the stirrups. The outfit was perfect; it was the realization f all my dreams, the answer to all my prayers. l fine new bridle, with a light curb bit. And the ony! As he drew near I saw that the pony was eally a small horse, what we called an Indian ony, a bay, with black mane and tail, and one hite foot and a white star on his forehead. For uch a horse as that I would have given, I could ave forgiven, anything. But the man, a disheveled fellow with a black ned eye and a fresh-cut face, came along, reading he numbers on the houses, and, as my hopes ly impossible hopes rose, he looked at our door nd passed by, he and the pony, and the saddle nd the bridle. Too much. I fell upon the steps, nd having wept before I broke now into such a flood of tears that I was a floating wreck when I heard a voice calling brusquely to me. "Say, kid," it said, "do you know a boy named Lennie Steffens?" I looked up. It was the man on the pony, back again, at our horse block. "Yes," I sputtered through my tears. "That's me." "Well," he said, "then this is your horse. I've been looking all over for you and your house. Why don't you put your number where it can be seen?" "Get down," I said, running out to him. He went on saying something about "ought to have got here at seven o'clock; told me to bring the nag here and tie him to your post and leave him for you. But I got into a drunk and a fight and a hospital." "Get down," I said. He got down, and he boosted me up to the saddle. He offered to fit the stirrups to me, but I didn't want him to. I wanted to ride. "What's the matter with you?" he said angrily. . "What you crying for? Don't you like the horse? He's a dandy, this horse. I know him of old. He's fine at cattle; he'll drive 'em alone." I hardly heard, I could scarcely wait, but he persisted. He adjusted the stirrups, and then, finally, off I rode, slowly, at a walk, so happy, so thrilled, that I did not know what I was doing. I did not look back at the house or the man. I rode off up the street, taking note of everything of the reins, of the pony's long mane, of the carved leather saddle. I had never seen anything so beau tiful. And mine! I was going to ride up past my teacher's house. But I noticed on the horn of the saddle some stains like raindrops, so I turned and trotted home, not to the house but to the stable. There was the family, father, mother, sisters, all working for me, all happy. They had been putting in place the tools of my new business: blankets, currycomb, brush, pitchfork everything. And there was hay in the loft. "What did you come back so soon for?" some body asked. "Why didn't you go on riding?" I pointed to the stains. "I wasn't going to get my new saddle rained on," I said. And my father laughed. "It isn't raining," he said. "Those aren't raindrops you see there." "They're tears," my mother gasped and she gave my father a look which sent him off to the house. Worse still, my mother offered to wipe away the tears still running out of my eyes. I gave her such a look as she had given him, and she went off after my father, drying her own tears. My sisters remained and we all unsaddled the pony, put on his halter, led him to his stall, tied and fed him. It began really to rain; so all the rest of that memorable day we curried and combed the pony. The girls plaited his mane, forelock, ' and tail, while I pitchforked hay to him and cur ried and brushed, curried and brushed. For a change we brought him out to drink; we led him up and down, blanketed like a racehorse; we took turns at that. But the best, the most inexhaustible fun, was to clean him. When we went reluctantly to our midday Christmas dinner, we all smelled of horse, and my sisters had to wash their faces and hands. I was asked to, but I wouldn't till my mother bade me look in the mirror. Then I washed up quick. My face was caked with the muddy lines of tears that had coursed over my cheeks to my mouth. Having washed away that shame, I ate my dinner, and as I ate I grew hungrier and hungrier. It was my first meal that day, and as I filled up on the , turkey and the stuffing, the cranberries and the pies, the fruit and the nuts as I swelled, I could laugh. My mother said I still choked and sobbed now and then, but I laughed, too; I saw and enjoyed my sisters' presents till I had to go out and attend to my pony, who was there, really and truly there, the promise, the beginning, of a happy double life. And I went and looked to make sure there was the saddle, too, and the bridle. But that Christmas, which my father had planned so carefully, was it the best or the worst I ever knew? He often asked me that; I never could answer as a boy. I think now that it was both. It covered the whole distance from broken hearted misery to bursting happiness too fast. A grownup could hardly have stood it. Family Weekly, December 21, 19SS 11
