Herald and news., December 21, 1958, Page 49, Image 49

A mixed -up
Merry Christmas
Hew can Christmas be joyous and heartbreaking
at the same time? You'll see in this childhood experience
from a master storyteller.
by Liacola Staffeas
' Reprinted from "The Autobiography of
Lincoln Steffens," copyright 1931
by Harcourtt Brace and Co., Inc.
I remember very little of my primary school. I
' learned to read, write, spell, and count, and
reading was all right I had a practical use for
books, which I searched for ideas and parts to
play with, characters to be, lives to live.
The primary school was probably a good one,
but I cannot remember learning anything except
to read aloud "perfectly" from a teacher whom
I adored and who was fond of me. She used
to embrace me before the whole class, and she
favored me openly to the scandal of the other
pupils, who called me "teacher's pet" Their scorn
did not trouble me; I saw that they envied me.
I paid for her favor, however. When she mar
ried I had queer, unhappy feelings of resentment;
I didn't want to meet her husband, and when I
had to I wouldn't speak to him. He laughed and
she kissed me happily for her, to me offensively.
Through with her, I fell in love immediately
with Miss Kay, another grown young woman who
wore glasses and had a fine, clear skin. I did not
10 Family Weekly, December 21, 15
know her, I only saw her in the street, but once
I followed her, found out where she lived, and
used to pass her house, hoping to see her, and yet
choking with embarrassment if I did. This fasci
nation lasted for years; it was still a sort of super
romance to me when later I was "going with"
another nearer my own age.
What interested me in our new neighborhood
was the stable which was built back of the house.
My father let me direct the making of a stall, a
little smaller than the other stalls, for my pony,
and I prayed and hoped, and my sister Lou
believed, that that meant that I would get the
pony, perhaps for Christmas. I pointed out to her
that there were three other stalls and no horses
at all. . This I said in order that she should answer
it She could not
My father, sounded, said that someday we might
have horses and a cow; meanwhile a stable added
to the value of a house. "Someday" is a pain to
a boy who lives in and knows only "now." My
good little sisters, to comfort me, remarked that
Christmas was coming, but Christmas was always
coming and grownups were always talking about
it, asking you what you wanted and then giving
you what they wanted you to have. Though every -'
body knew what I wanted, I told them all again.
My mother knew that I told God, too, every night
I wanted a pony, and to make sure that they
understood I declared that I wanted nothing else.
"Nothing but a pony?" my father asked.
"Nothing," I said.
"Not even a pair of high boots?"
That was hard. I did want boots, but I stuck
to the pony. "No, not even boots."
"Nor candy? There ought to be something to
fill your stocking with, and Santa Claus can't put
a pony down the chimney." But no. "All I want
is a pony," I said. "A pony or nothing."
Now I had been looking myself for the pony
I wanted, going to sale stables, inquiring of
horsemen, and I had seen several that would do.
My father let me try them. I tried so many ponies
that I was learning fast to sit on a horse. I chose
several, but my father always found some fault
with them. I was in despair. When Christmas
was at hand I had given up all hope of a pony,
and on Christmas Eve I hung up my stocking
along with my sisters', of whom I had three.
I haven't mentioned them or their coming be
cause, you understand, they were girls, and girls,
young girls, counted for nothing in my manly life.
They did not mind me either; they were so happy
that Christmas Eve that I unconsciously caught
some of their merriment.
I speculated on what I'd get; I hung up the
biggest stocking I had, and we all went reluctantly
to bed to wait till morning. Not to sleep; not
right away. We were told that we must not only
sleep promptly, we must not wake up till 7:30
the next morning or, if we did, we must not go
to the fireplace for our Christmas.
IAIe did sleep that night, but we woke up at 6
" a.m. We lay in our beds and debated through
the open doors whether to obey till say, 6:30.
Then we bolted. I don't know who started it, but
there was a rush. We all disobeyed; we raced to
disobey and get first to the fireplace in the front
room downstairs. And there they were, the gifts,
all sorts of wonderful things, mixed-up piles of
presents; only, as I disentangled the mess, I saw
that my stocking was empty; it hung limp; and
under and around it nothing.
My sisters had knelt down, each by her pile of
gifts; they were squealing with delight, till they
looked up and saw me standing there in my paja
mas with nothing. They left their piles to come
to me and look with me at my empty place.
Nothing. They felt my stocking; nothing.
I don't remember whether I cried at that mo
ment, but my sisters did. They ran with me back
to my bed, and there we all cried till I became
indignant That helped some. I got up, dressed,
and, driving my sisters away, I went alone out
into the yard, down to the stable, and there, all
by myself, I wept
My mother came out to me by and by; she
found me in my pony stall, sobbing on the floor,
and she tried to comfort me. But I heard my
"My sisters were squeal
ing with delight until
they looked up and saw
me there with nothing."
Art by William Lackey
father outside; he had come part way with her,
and she was having some sort of angry quarrel
with him. She tried to comfort me; besought me
to come to breakfast. I could not; I wanted no
comfort and no breakfast She left me and went
on into the house with sharp words for my father.
I don't know what kind of a breakfast the family
had. My sisters said it was "awful." They were
ashamed to enjoy their own toys. I ran away from
them. I went around to the front of the house,
sat down on the steps, and, the crying over, I
ached. I was wronged, I was hurt I can feel now
what I felt then, and I am sure that if one could
see the wounds upon our hearts, there would be
i found still upon mine a scar from that terrible
Christmas morning. And my father, the practical
joker, he must have been hurt, too, a little. I saw
him looking out of the window. He was watching
me or something for an hour or two, drawing back
the curtain ever so little lest I catch him, but I
saw his face, and I think I can see now the anxiety
upon it, the worried impatience.
A pter I don't know how long surely an hour or
"two I was brought to the climax of my agony
by the sight of a man riding a pony down the
street, a pony and a brand-new saddle; the most
beautiful saddle I ever saw, and it was a boy's
saddle; his feet were too long for the stirrups.
The outfit was perfect; it was the realization
of all my dreams, the answer to all my prayers.
A fine new bridle, with a light curb bit And the
pony! As he drew near I saw that the pony was
really a small horse, what we called an Indian
pony, a bay, with black mane and tail, and one
white foot and a white star on his forehead. For
such a horse as that I would have given, I could
have forgiven, anything.
But the man, a disheveled fellow with a black
ened eye and a fresh-cut face, came along, reading
the numbers on the houses, and, as my hopes
my impossible hopes rose, he looked at our door
and passed by,' he and the pony, and the saddle
and the bridle. Too much.. I fell upon the steps,
and 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
teal's 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, 1951 II