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