Читать книгу Christmas Stories of Louisa May Alcott, The - Louisa May Alcott - Страница 6

A Hospital Christmas

Adapted by Stephen W. Hines

"Merry Christmas!" "Merry Christmas!" "Merry Christmas, and lots of 'em, Ma'am!" echoed from every side as Miss Hale entered her ward in the gray December dawn. No wonder the greetings were hearty, that thin faces brightened, and eyes watched for the coming of this small luminary more eagerly than for the rising of the sun.

When the patients had awakened that morning, each man found that, in the silence of the night, some friendly hand had laid a little gift beside his bed. Very humble little gifts they were, but well chosen and thoughtfully bestowed by one who made the blithe anniversary pleasant even in a hospital and sweetly taught the lesson of the hour—Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Man.

"I say, Ma'am, these are just splendid. I've dreamt about such for a week, but I never thought I'd get 'em," cried one poor fellow surveying a fine bunch of grapes with as much satisfaction as if he had found a fortune.

"Thank you kindly, Miss, for the paper and the fixings. I hated to keep borrowing, but I hadn't any money," said another, eyeing his gift with happy anticipations of the home letters with which the generous pages should be filled.

"They are dreadful soft and pretty, but I don't believe I'll ever wear 'em out; my legs are so wimbly there's no go in 'em," whispered a fever patient looking sorrowfully at the swollen feet ornamented with a pair of carpet slippers gay with roses and evidently made for his special need.

"Please hang my posy basket on the gas burner in the middle of the room where all the boys can see it. It's too pretty for one alone."

"But then you can't see it yourself, Joe, and you are fonder of such things than the rest," said Miss Hale, taking both the little basket and the hand of her pet patient, a lad of twenty, dying of rapid consumption.

"That's the reason I can spare it for a while, because I shall feel 'em in the room just the same, and they'll do the boys good. You pick out the one you like best for me to keep and hang up the rest till by and by, please."

She gave him a sprig of mignonette, and he smiled as he took it, for it reminded him of her in her sad-colored gown. Although Miss Hale was quiet and unobtrusive, she had created a gratitude in the hearts of those about her that was like the fresh scent of a flower to the lonely lad who never had known womanly tenderness and care until he found them in a hospital. Joe's prediction was verified; the flowers did do the boys good. All welcomed them with approving glances, and all felt their refining influence more or less keenly, from cheery Ben, who paused to fill the cup inside with fresher water, to surly Sam, who stopped growling as his eye rested on a geranium very like the one blooming in his sweetheart's window when they parted a long year ago.

"Now, as this is to be a merry day, let us begin to enjoy it at once. Fling up the window, Ben, and Barney, go for breakfast while I finish washing faces and settling bedclothes."

With which directions the little woman fell to work with such infectious energy that, in fifteen minutes, thirty gentlemen with clean faces and hands were partaking of refreshments with as much appetite as their various conditions would permit. Meantime the sun came up, looking bigger, brighter, and jollier than usual, as he is apt to do on Christmas days. Not a snowflake chilled the air that blew in as blandly as if winter had relented and wished the "boys" the compliments of the season in his mildest mood. A festival smell pervaded the whole house, and appetizing rumors of turkey, mince pie, and oysters for dinner circulated through the wards. When breakfast was done, the wounds dressed, directions for the day delivered, and as many of the disagreeables as possible were over, the fun began. In any other place, that would have been considered a very quiet morning, but to the weary invalids prisoned in that room, it was quite a whirl of excitement. None were dangerously ill but Joe, and all were easily amused since weakness, homesickness, and ennui made every trifle a joke or an event.

In came Ben, looking like a "Jack in the Green," with his load of hemlock and holly. Such of the men as could get about and had a hand to lend, lent it, and soon, under Miss Hale's directions, a green bough hung at the head of each bed suspended from the gas burners and nodding over the fireplace, while the finishing effect was designed to be a cross and crown at the top and bottom of the room. Great was the interest, many were the mishaps, and frequent was the laughter that attended this performance. Wounded men, when convalescent, are particularly jovial.

When "Daddy Mills," as one venerable volunteer was irreverently christened, expatiated learnedly upon the difference between "spruce, hemlock, and pine," how they all listened, each thinking of some familiar wood still pleasantly haunted by boyish recollections of stolen nuts, maple syrup, and squirrel nests. When quiet Hayward amazed the company by coming out strong in a most unexpected direction and telling with much effect the story of a certain "fine old gentleman" who supped on hemlock tea and died directly, what commendations were bestowed upon the unfortunate fellow in language more hearty than classical, as a twig of the historical tree was passed 'round like a new style of refreshment, that inquiring parties might satisfy themselves regarding the flavor of the Socratic draught. When Barney the buffoon essayed a grand ornament above the door, and relying upon one insufficient nail, descended to survey his success with the proud exclamation, "Look at the neatness of that job, gentlemen"— at which point the whole thing tumbled down about his ears—how they all shouted. But poor Pneumonia Ned, having lost his voice, could only make ecstatic demonstrations with his legs.

When Barney cast himself and his hammer despairingly upon the floor, and Miss Hale, stepping into a chair, pounded stoutly at the traitorous nail and performed some miracle with a bit of string that made all fast, what a burst of applause arose from the beds. When a gruff Dr. Bangs came in to see what all the noise was about, the same intrepid lady not only boldly explained but also stuck a bit of holly in his button hole. Not only that, but she wished him a merry Christmas with such a face full of smiles that the crabbed old doctor felt himself giving in very fast and bolted out again, calling Christmas a humbug. He predicted that over the thirty emetics he would have to prescribe on the morrow, but indignant denials followed him down the hallway. And when all was done, everybody agreed with Joe when he said, "I think we are coming to Christmas in great style; things look so green and pretty, I feel as I was settin' in a bower."

Pausing to survey her work, Miss Hale saw Sam looking as black as any thundercloud. He bounced over on his bed the moment he caught her eye, but she followed him up and, gently covering the cold shoulder he evidently meant to show her, peeped over it, asking, with unabated gentleness:

"What can I do for you, Sam? I want to have all the faces in my ward bright ones today."

"My box ain't come; they said I should have it two, three days ago. Why don't they do it, then?" growled Ursa Major.

"It is a busy time, you know, but it will come if they promised, and patience won't delay it, I assure you."

"My patience is used up, and they are a mean set of slow coaches. I'd get it fast enough if I wore an officer's straps. As I don't, I'll bet I shan't see it till the things ain't fit to eat, the news is old, and I don't care a hang about it."

"I'll see what I can do; perhaps before the hurry of dinner begins someone will have time to go for it."

"Nobody ever does have time here, but folks who would give all they are worth to be stirring 'round. You can't get it, I know. It's my luck, so don't you worry, Ma'am."

Miss Hale did not worry, but worked, and in time a messenger was found, provided with the necessary money, pass, and directions, and dispatched to hunt up the missing Christmas box. Then she paused to see what came next, not that it was necessary to look for a task, but to decide which, out of many, was most important to do first.

"Why, Turner, crying again so soon? What is it now? The light head or the heavy feet?"

"It's my bones, Ma'am. They ache so I can't lay easy any way, and I'm so tired I just wish I could die and be out of this misery," sobbed the poor ghost of a once strong and cheery fellow. Miss Hale's kindly hand wiped his tears away and gently rubbed the weary shoulders.

"Don't wish that, Turner, for the worst is over now; and all you need is to get your strength again. Make an effort to sit up a little; it is quite time you tried. A change of posture will help the ache wonderfully and make this 'dreadful bed,' as you call it, seem very comfortable when you come back to it."

"I can't, Ma'am, my legs ain't a bit of use, and I ain't strong enough even to try."

"You never will be if you don't try. Never mind the poor legs; Ben will carry you. I've got the matron's easy chair all ready and can make you very cozy by the fire. It's Christmas Day, you know; why not celebrate it by overcoming the despondency that slows your recovery and prove that illness has not taken all the manhood out of you?"

"It has, though. I'll never be the man I was, and may as well lie here till spring, for I shall be no use if I do get up."

If Sam was a growler, this man was a whiner, and few hospital wards are without both. But knowing that much suffering had soured the former and pitifully weakened the latter, their nurse had patience with them and still hoped to bring them 'round again. As Turner whimpered out his last dismal speech, she bethought herself of something which, in the hurry of the morning, had slipped her mind till now.

"By the way, I've got another present for you. The doctor thought I'd better not give it yet, lest it should excite you too much; but I think you need excitement to make you forget yourself, and that when you find how many blessings you have to be grateful for, you will make an effort to enjoy them."

"Blessings, Ma'am? I don't see 'em."

"Don't you see one now?" And drawing a letter from her pocket, she held it before his eyes. His listless face brightened a little as he took it, but gloomed over again as he said fretfully:

"It's from my wife, I guess. I like to get her letters, but they are always full of grievings and groanings over me, so they don't do me much good."

"She does not grieve and groan in this one. She is too happy to do that, and so will you be when you read it."

"I don't see why—hey?—why you don't mean—"

"Yes I do" cried the little woman, clapping her hands and laughing so delightedly that the Knight of the Rueful Countenance was betrayed into a broad smile for the first time in many weeks. "Is not a splendid little daughter a present to rejoice over and be grateful for?''

"Hooray! Hold a bit—it's all right—I'll be out again in a minute."

After this remarkably spirited outburst, Turner vanished under the bedclothes, letter and all. Whether he read, laughed, or cried in the seclusion of that cotton grotto was unknown; but his nurse suspected that he did all three. When he reappeared he looked as if, during that pause, he had dived into his "sea of troubles" and fished up his old self again.

"What will I name her?" was his first remark, delivered with such vivacity that his neighbors began to think he was getting delirious again.

"What is your wife's name?" asked Miss Hale, gladly entering into the domesticities that were producing such a salutary effect.

"Her name's Ann, but neither of us like it. I'd fixed on George, because I wanted my boy called after me; and now you see I ain't a bit prepared for this young woman." Very proud of the young woman he seemed, nevertheless, and perfectly resigned to the loss of the expected son and heir.

"Why not call her Georgiana then? That combines both her parents' names and is not a bad one in itself."

"Now that's just the brightest thing I ever heard in my life!" cried Turner, sitting bolt upright in his excitement, though half an hour before he would have considered it an utterly impossible feat. "Georgiana Butterfield Turner—it's a tip-top name, Ma'am, and we can call her Georgie just the same. Ann will like that; it's so genteel. Bless them both! Don't I wish I was at home." And down he lay again, despairing.

"You can be before long, if you choose. Get your strength up, and off you go. Come, begin at once—drink your beef broth and sit up for a few minutes, just in honor of the good news, you know."

"I will, by George! No, by Georgiana! That's a good one, ain't it?" and the whole ward was electrified by hearing a genuine giggle from the veteran sad sack.

Down went the detested beef broth, and up scrambled the determined drinker with many groans and a curious jumble of chuckles, staggers, and fragmentary repetitions of his first, last, and only joke. But when fairly settled in the great rocking chair, with the gray flannel gown comfortably on and the new slippers getting their inaugural scorch, Turner forgot his bones and swung to and fro before the fire, feeling amazingly well and looking very like a trussed fowl being roasted in the primitive fashion.

The languid importance of the man and the irrepressible satisfaction of the parent were both laughable and touching things to see, for the happy soul could not keep the glad tidings to himself. A hospital ward is often a small republic, beautifully governed by pity, patience, and the mutual sympathy that lessens mutual suffering. Turner was no favorite; but more than one honest fellow felt his heart warm towards him as they saw his dismal face kindle with fatherly pride and heard the querulous quaver of his voice soften with fatherly affection, as he said, "My little Georgie."

"He'll do now, Ma'am. This has given him the boost he needed, and, in a week or two, he'll be off our hands."

Big Ben made the remark with a beaming countenance, and Big Ben deserves a word of praise, because he never said one for himself. He was an ex-patient promoted to an attendant's place, which he filled so well that he was regarded as a model for all the rest to copy. Patient, strong, and tender, he seemed to combine many of the best traits of both man and woman. He appeared to know by instinct where the soft spot was to be found in every heart, and how best to help sick body or sad soul. No one would have guessed this to have seen him lounging in the hall during one of the short rests he allowed himself.

He was a brawny, six-foot fellow in red shirt, blue trousers tucked into his boots, and an old cap, visor always up, and under it a roughly bearded, coarsely featured face, whose prevailing expression was one of great gravity and kindliness, though a humorous twinkle of the eye at times betrayed the man, whose droll sayings often set the boys in a roar. "A good-natured, clumsy body" would have been the verdict passed upon him by a causal observer, but watch him in his ward and see how great a wrong that hasty judgment would have done him.

Unlike his predecessor, who helped himself generously when the meals came up and carelessly served out rations for the rest, leaving even the most helpless to bungle for themselves or wait till he was done, Ben often left nothing for himself or took cheerfully such cold bits as remained when all the rest were served; so patiently feeding the weak, being hands and feet to the maimed, and being such a pleasant provider for all that, as one of the boys said, "It gives a relish to the vittles to have Ben fetch 'em." If one were restless, Ben carried him in his strong arms; if one were undergoing the sharp torture of the surgeon's knife, Ben held him with a touch as firm as kind; if one were homesick, Ben wrote letters for him with great hearty blots and dashes under all the affectionate or important words.

More than one poor fellow read his fate in Ben's pitying eyes and breathed his last breath away on Ben's broad breast—always a quiet pillow till its work was done—then he would heave a sigh of genuine grief as his big hand softly closed the tired eyes and made another comrade ready for the last review. Our Civil War showed us many Bens, because the same power of human pity that makes women brave also makes men tender; and each is the more womanly or the more manly for these revelations of unsuspected strength and sympathies.

At twelve o'clock, dinner was the prevailing idea in Ward number three, and when the door opened, every man sniffed as savory odors broke loose from the kitchens and went roaming about the house. Now this Christmas dinner had been much talked of; for certain charitable and patriotic persons had endeavored to provide every hospital in Washington with materials for this time-honored feast. Some mistake in the list sent to headquarters, some unpardonable neglect of orders, or some premeditated robbery, caused the long-expected dinner in Wilson Hospital to prove a dead failure; but to which of these causes it was attributable was never known. The deepest mystery enveloped the sad situation.

The full weight of the dire disappointment was mercifully lightened by premonitions of the impending blow. Barney was often missing, for the attendants were to dine en masse after the patients were done. Therefore a speedy banquet for the latter parties was ardently desired, and he probably devoted his energies to goading on the cooks. From time to time he appeared in the doorway, flushed and breathless, made some thrilling announcement, and vanished, leaving ever-increasing appetite, impatience, and expectation behind him.

Dinner was to be served at one. At half-past twelve Barney proclaimed, "There ain't no vegetables but squash and pitaters." A universal groan arose, and several indignant parties on a short allowance of meat consigned the defaulting cook to a warmer climate than the tropical one he was then enjoying. At twenty minutes to one, Barney increased the excitement by whispering, ominously, "I say, the puddings aren't very good."

"Fling a pillow at him and shut the door, Ben," roared one irascible being, while several others not fond of puddings received the fact with equanimity. At quarter to one, Barney piled up the agony by adding the bitter information, ''There isn't but two turkeys for this ward, and they's little fellers."

Anxiety instantly appeared in every countenance, and intricate calculations were made as to how far the two fowls would go when divided among thirty men. Also friendly warnings were administered to several of the feebler gentlemen not to indulge too freely, if at all, for fear of relapses from overeating. Once more did the bird of evil omen return, for at ten minutes to one, Barney croaked through the keyhole, "Only half of the pies has come, gentlemen." That capped the climax, for the masculine palate has a predilection for pastry, and mince pie was the sheet anchor to which all had clung when other hopes went down.

Even Ben looked dismayed; not that he expected anything but the perfume and pickings for his share, but he had set his heart on having the dinner, an honor to the institution and a memorable feast for the men so far away from home, and all that usually makes the day a festival among the poorest. He looked pathetically grave as Turner began to fret, Sam began to swear under his breath, Hayward to sigh, Joe to wish it was all over, and the rest to vent their emotions with a freedom that was anything but inspiring. At that moment, Miss Hale came in with a great basket of apples and oranges in one hand, and several useful looking bottles in the other.

"Here is our dessert, boys! A kind friend remembered us, and we will drink her health in her own cider."

A feeble smile circulated around the room, and, in some sanguine bosoms, hope revived again. Ben briskly emptied the basket while Miss Hale whispered to Joe:

"I knew you would be glad to get away from the confusion of this next hour to enjoy a breath of fresh air and dine quietly with Mrs. Burton 'round the corner, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, Ma'am, so much! The noise, the smells, the fret and flurry make me sick just to think of! But how can I go? That dreadful ambulance 'most killed me last time, and I'm weaker now."

"My dear boy, I have no thought of trying that again till our ambulances are made fit for the use of weak and wounded men. Mrs. Burton's carriage is at the door, with her motherly self inside, and all you have got to do is to let me bundle you up and Ben carry you out."

With a sigh of relief Joe submitted to both these processes, and when his nurse watched his happy face as the carriage slowly rolled away, she felt well repaid for the little sacrifice of rest and pleasure so quietly made; for Mrs. Burton had come to carry her, not Joe, away.

"Now, Ben, help me to make this unfortunate dinner go off as well as we can," she whispered. "On many accounts it is a mercy that the men are spared the temptations of a more generous meal. Pray don't tell them so, but make the best of it, as you know very well how to do."

"I'll try my best, Miss Hale, but I'm no less disappointed, because some of 'em, being no better than children, have been living on the thoughts of it for a week; and it comes hard to give it up."

If Ben had been an old-time patriarch, and the thirty boys his sons, he could not have spoken with a more paternal regret, or gone to work with a better will. Putting several small tables together in the middle of the room, he left Miss Hale to make a judicious display of plates, knives, and forks, while he departed for the banquet. Presently he returned, bearing the youthful turkeys and the vegetables in his tray, followed by Barney, carrying a plum pudding baked in a milk pan and six very small pies. Miss Hale played a lively march as the procession approached, and, when the viands were arranged, with the red and yellow fruit prettily heaped up in the middle, it really did look like a dinner.

"Here's richness! Here's the delicacies of the season and the comforts of life!" said Ben, falling back to survey the table with as much apparent satisfaction as if it had been a lord mayor's feast.

"Come, hurry up, and give us our dinner; what there is of it!" grumbled Sam.

"Boys," continued Ben, beginning to cut up the turkeys, "these noble birds have been sacrificed for the defenders of their country. They will go as far as ever they can, and when they can't go any further, we shall endeavor to supply their deficiencies with soup or ham, oysters having given out unexpectedly. Put it to a vote. Both have been provided on this joyful occasion, and a word will fetch either."

"Ham! Ham!" resounded from all sides. Soup was an everyday affair, and therefore repudiated with scorn; but ham, being a rarity, was accepted as a proper reward of merit and a tacit acknowledgement of their wrongs.

The "noble birds" did go as far as possible, and were handsomely assisted by their fellow martyr. The pudding was not as good as could have been desired, but a slight exertion of fancy made the crusty knobs do duty for raisins. The pies were small, yet a laugh added flavor to the mouthful apiece; for when Miss Hale asked Ben to cut them up, that individual regarded her with an inquiring aspect as he said, in his drollest tone:

"I wouldn't wish to appear stupid, Ma'am, but when you mention 'pies,' I presume you allude to these trifles. ‘Tarts’ or ‘patties’ would meet my views better, in speaking of the third course of this lavish dinner. As such, I will do my duty by 'em, hoping that the appetites are to match."

Carefully dividing the six pies into twenty-nine diminutive wedges, he placed each in the middle of a large clean plate and handed them about with the gravity of an undertaker. Dinner had restored good humor to many; this hit at the pies put the finishing touch to it. And from that moment, an atmosphere of jollity prevailed. Healths were drunk in cider; apples and oranges flew about as an impromptu game of ball was got up; Miss Hale sang a Christmas carol; and Ben gamboled like a sportive giant as he cleared dishes away. Pausing in one of his prances to and fro, he beckoned the nurse out, and when she followed, handed her a plate heaped up with good things from a better table than she ever sat at now.

"From the matron, Ma'am. Come right in here and eat it while it's hot; they are most through in the dining room, and you'll get nothing half so nice," said Ben, leading the way into his pantry and pointing to a sunny window seat.

"Are you sure she meant it for me and not for yourself, Ben?"

"Of course she did! Why, what should I do with it, when I've just been feastin' sumptuous in this very room?"

"I don't exactly see what you have been feasting on," said Miss Hale, glancing 'round the tidy pantry as she sat down.

"Havin' eat up the food and washed up the dishes, it naturally follows that you don't see, Ma'am. But if I go off in a fit by and by, you'll know what it's owin' to," answered Ben, vainly endeavoring to look like a man suffering from overeating.

"Such kind fibs are not set down against one, Ben, so I will eat your dinner; for if I know you, you will throw it out the window to prove that you can't eat it."

"Thankee, Ma'am, I'm afraid I should," said Ben, looking very much relieved as he polished his last pewter fork and hung his towels up to dry.

A pretty general siesta followed the excitement of dinner, but by three o'clock the public mind was ready for amusement, and the arrival of Sam's box provided it. He was asleep when it was brought in and quietly deposited at his bed's foot, ready to surprise him on awaking. The advent of a box was a great event, for the fortunate receiver seldom failed to "stand treat," and next best to getting things from one's own home was the getting them from some other boy's home. This was an unusually large box, and all felt impatient to have it opened, though Sam's exceeding crustiness prevented the indulgence of great expectations. Presently he roused, and the first thing his eye fell upon was the box with his own name sprawling over it in big black letters. As if it were merely the continuance of his dream, he stared stupidly at it for a moment, then rubbed his eyes and sat up, exclaiming:

"Hullo! That's mine!"

"Ah! Who said it wouldn't come? Who hadn't the faith of a grasshopper? And who don't half deserve it for being a Barker by nature as by name?" cried Ben, emphasizing each question with a bang on the box as he waited, hammer in hand, for the arrival of the ward master, whose duty it was to oversee the opening of such matters, lest contraband articles should do mischief to the owner or his neighbors.

"Ain't it a jolly big one? Knock it open, and don't wait for anybody or anything!" cried Sam, tumbling off his bed and beating impatiently on the lid with his one hand.

In came the ward master, off came the cover, and out came a motley collection of apples, socks, doughnuts, paper, pickles, photographs, pocket-handkerchiefs, gingerbread, letters, jelly, newspapers, tobacco, and cologne. "All right; glad it's come. Don't kill yourself," said the ward master as he took a hasty survey and walked off again. Drawing the box nearer the bed, Ben delicately followed, and Sam was left to brood over his treasures in peace.

At first all the others, following Ben's example, made elaborate pretences of going to sleep, being absorbed in books, or being utterly uninterested in the outer world. But very soon curiosity got the better of politeness, and one by one they all turned 'round and stared. They might have done so from the first, for Sam was perfectly unconscious of everything but his own affairs, and, having read the letters, looked at the pictures, unfolded the bundles, turned everything inside out and upside down, tasted all the eatables, and made a spectacle of himself with jelly, he paused to get his breath and find his way out of the confusion he had created. Presently he called out:

"Miss Hale, will you come and right up my duds for me?" adding, as her woman's hands began to bring matters straight, "I don't know what to do with 'em all. Some won't keep long, and it will take pretty steady eating to get through 'em in time, supposin' appetite holds out."

"How do the others manage with their things?"

"You know they give 'em away, but I'll be hanged if I do, because they are always callin' names and pokin' fun at me. Guess they won't get anything out of me now."

The old, morose look came back as he spoke, for it had disappeared while reading the home letters, touching the home gifts. Still busily folding and arranging, Miss Hale quietly observed:

"We all know how much you have suffered, and all respect you for the courage with which you have borne your long confinement and your loss but don't you think you have given the boys some cause for making fun of you, as you say? You used to be a favorite and can be again, if you will only put off these crusty ways, which will grow upon you faster than you think. Better lose both arms than cheerfulness and self-control, Sam."

Pausing to see how her little lecture was received, she saw that Sam's better self was waking up and added yet another word, hoping to help a mental ailment as she had done with so many physical ones. Looking up at him with her kind eyes, she said, in a lowered voice:

"This day, on which the most perfect life began, is a good day for all of us to set about making ourselves readier to follow that divine example. Troubles are helpers if we take them kindly, and the bitterest may sweeten us for all our lives. Believe and try this, Sam, and when you go away from us, let those who love you find that two battles have been fought, two victories won."

Sam made no answer but sat thoughtfully picking at the half-eaten cookie in his hand. Presently he stole a glance about the room, and, as if all helps were waiting for him, his eye met Joe's. From his solitary corner by the fire and the bed, he would seldom leave again until he went to his grave. The boy smiled back at him so heartily, so happily, that something gushed warm across Sam's heart as he looked down upon the faces of mother, sister, sweetheart, scattered 'round him, and remembered how poor his comrade was in all such tender ties, and yet how rich in that beautiful contentment, which, "having nothing, yet hath all." The man had no words in which to express this feeling, but it came to him and did him good, as he proved in his own way. "Miss Hale," he said, a little awkwardly, "I wish you'd pick out what you think each would like and give 'em to the boys."

He got a smile in answer that drove him to his cookie as a refuge. His lips trembled, and he felt half proud, half ashamed to have earned such bright approval.

"Let Ben help you. He knows better than I. But you must give them all yourself; it will so surprise and please the boys. And then tomorrow we will write a capital letter home telling what a jubilee we made over their fine box."

At this proposal Sam half repented; but as Ben came lumbering up at Miss Hale's summons, he laid hold of his new resolution as if it was a sort of shower bath to which he held the string, one pull of which would finish the baptism. Dividing his most cherished possession, which (alas for romance!) was the tobacco, he bundled the larger half into a paper, whispering to Miss Hale:

"Ben ain't exactly what you'd call a ministering angel to look at, but he is amazin' near one in his ways, so I'm goin' to begin with him."

Up came the "ministering angel," in red flannel and cowhide boots; and Sam tucked the little parcel into his pocket, saying, as he began to rummage violently in the box:

"Now jest hold your tongue and lend a hand here about these things."

Ben was so taken aback by this proceeding that he stared blankly till a look from Miss Hale enlightened him. Taking his cue, he played his part as well as could be expected on so short a notice. Clapping Sam on the shoulder—not the bad one as Ben was always thoughtful of those things—he exclaimed heartily:

"I always said you'd come 'round when this poor arm of yours got a good start; and here you are jollier 'n ever. Lend a hand! So will I, a pair of 'em. What's to do? Pack these traps up again?"

"No; I want you to tell what you'd do with 'em if they were yours. Free, you know, as free as if they really was."

Ben held on to the box a minute as if this second surprise rather took him off his legs; but another look from the prime mover in this resolution steadied him, and he fell to work as if Sam had been in the habit of being "free with his things."

"Well, let's see. I think I'd put the clothes and such into this smaller box that the bottles come in, and stand it under the table, handy. Here's newspapers—pictures in 'em, too! I should make a circulatin' library of 'em; they'll be a real treat. Pickles? Well, I guess I should keep them on the winder here as a kind of a relish dinnertimes or to pass along to them as longs for 'em. Cologne? That's a dreadful handsome bottle, ain't it? That, now, would be fust-rate to give away to somebody as was very fond of it—a kind of delicate attention, you know—if you happen to meet such a person anywheres."

Ben nodded towards Miss Hale, who was absorbed in folding pocket-handkerchiefs. Sam winked expressively and patted the bottle as if congratulating himself that it was handsome, and that he did know what to do with it. The pantomime was not elegant, but as much real affection and respect went into it as if he had made a set speech and presented the gift upon his knees.

"The letters and photographs I should probably keep under my pillow for a spell; the jelly I'd give to Miss Hale to use for the sick ones; the cake stuff and that pot of jam I'd stand treat with for tea, since dinner wasn't all we could have wished. The apples I'd keep to eat and fling at Joe when he was too bashful to ask for one, and the tobacco I would not go lavishin' on folks that have no business to be enjoyin' luxuries when many a poor fellow is dyin' of want down to Charlestown. There, sir! That's what I'd do if anyone was so clever as to send me a jolly box like this."

Sam was enjoying the full glow of his shower bath by this time. As Ben designated the various articles, he set them apart. And when the inventory ended, he marched away with the first installment: two of the biggest, rosiest apples for Joe and all the pictorial papers. Pickles are not usually regarded as tokens of regard, but as Sam dealt them out one at a time—for he would let nobody help him, and his single hand being the left, was as awkward as it was willing—the boys' faces brightened. A friendly word accompanied each pickle, which made the sour gherkins as welcome as sweetmeats.

With every trip, the donor's spirits rose. Ben circulated freely between times, and, thanks to him, not an allusion to the past marred the satisfaction of the present. Jam, soda biscuits, and cake were such welcome additions to the usual bill of fare that when supper was over, a vote of thanks was passed, and speeches were made. Being true Americans, the ruling passion found vent in the usual "Fellow citizens!" and allusions to the "Star-spangled Banner." After which, Sam subsided, feeling himself a public benefactor and a man of mark.

A perfectly easy, pleasant day throughout would be almost an impossibility in any hospital, and this one was no exception to the general rule. So, at the usual time, Dr. Bangs went his rounds leaving the customary amount of discomfort, discontent, and dismay behind him. A skillful surgeon and an excellent man was Dr. Bangs, but not a sanguine or conciliatory individual. Many cares and crosses caused him to regard the world as one large hospital and his fellow beings all more or less dangerously wounded patients in it. He saw life through the bluest of blue spectacles and seemed to think that the sooner people quitted it, the happier for them. He did his duty by the men, but if they recovered, he looked half disappointed and congratulated them with cheerful prophecies that there would come a time when they would wish they hadn't. If one died, he seemed relieved and surveyed him with pensive satisfaction, saying heartily:

"He's comfortable, now, poor soul, and well out of this miserable world. Thank God!"

But for Ben's presence, the sanitary influences of the doctor's ward would have been small, and Dante's doleful line might have been written on the threshold of the door:

WHO ENTERS HERE LEAVES HOPE BEHIND.

Ben and the doctor perfectly understood and liked each other, but never agreed and always skirmished over the boys as if manful cheerfulness and medical despair were fighting for the soul and body of each one.

"Well," began the doctor, looking at Sam's arm, or rather at all that was left of that member after two amputations, "we shall be ready for another turn at this in a day or two if it don't mend faster. Tetanus sometimes follows such cases, but that is soon over; and I should not object to a case of it by way of variety." Sam's hopeful face fell, and he set his teeth as if the fatal symptoms were already felt.

"If one kind of lockjaw was not fatal, it wouldn't be a bad thing for some folks I could mention," observed Ben, covering the well-healed stump as carefully as if it were a sleeping baby—adding, as the doctor walked away, "There's a sanguinary old sawbones for you! Why, bless your buttons, Sam, you are doing splendid, and he goes on that way because there's no chance of his having another cut at you! Now he's bothering Turner, jest as we've blowed a spark of spirit into him. If ever there was a born extinguisher, it's Bangs!"

Ben rushed to the rescue, and not a minute too soon; for Turner, who now labored under the delusion that his recovery depended solely upon his getting out of bed every fifteen minutes, was sitting by the fire, looking up at the doctor, who pleasantly observed, while feeling his pulse:

"So you are getting ready for another fever, are you? Well, we've grown rather fond of you and will keep you six weeks longer if you have your heart set on it."

Turner looked nervous, for the doctor's jokes were always grim ones; but Ben took the other hand in his and gently rocked the chair as he replied, with great politeness:

"This robust convalescent of ours would be happy to oblige you, sir, but he has a pressin' engagement up to Jersey for next week and couldn't stop on no account. You see Miss Turner wants a careful nurse for little Georgie, and he's a goin' to take the place."

Feeling himself on the brink of a laugh as Turner simpered with a ludicrous mixture of pride in his baby and fear for himself, Dr. Bangs said, with unusual sternness and a glance at Ben:

"You take the responsibility of this step upon yourself, do you? Very well; then I wash my hands of Turner. Only, if that bed is empty in a week, don't lay the blame of it at my door."

"Nothing shall induce me to do it, sir," briskly responded Ben. "Now then, turn in my boy and sleep your best, for I wouldn't but disappoint that cheerfulest of men for a month's wages; and that's liberal, as I ain't likely to get it."

"How is this young man after the rash dissipations of the day?" asked the doctor, pausing at the bed in the corner after he had made a lively progress down the room, hotly followed by Ben.

"I'm first-rate, sir," panted Joe, who always said so, though each day found him feebler than the last. Everyone was kind to Joe, even the gruff doctor, whose manner softened and who was forced to frown heavily to hide the pity in his eyes.

"How's the cough?"

"Better, sir. Being weaker, I can't fight against it as I used to do, so it comes rather easier."

"Sleep any last night?"

"Not much. But it's very pleasant lying here when the room is still and no light but the fire. Ben keeps it bright; and when I fret, he talks to me and makes the time go telling stories till he gets so sleepy he can hardly speak. Dear old Ben! I hope he'll have someone as kind to him when he needs it as I do now."

"He will get what he deserves by and by, you may be sure of that," said the doctor, as severely as if Ben merited eternal condemnation.

A great drop splashed down upon the hearth as Joe spoke; but Ben put his foot on it, and turned about as if defying anyone to say he shed it.

"Of all the perverse and reckless women whom I have known in the course of a forty years' practice, this one is the most perverse and reckless," said the doctor, abruptly addressing Miss Hale, who just then appeared bringing Joe's "posey-basket" back. "You will oblige me, Ma'am, by sitting in this chair with your hands folded for twenty minutes. The clock will then strike nine, and you will go straight up to your bed."

Miss Hale demurely sat down, and the doctor ponderously departed, sighing regretfully as he went through the room, as if disappointed that the whole thirty were not lying at death's door. But on the threshold he turned about, exclaimed, "Good night, boys! God bless you!" and vanished as precipitately as if a trapdoor had swallowed him up.

Miss Hale was a perverse woman in some things; for instead of folding her tired hands, she took a rusty-covered volume from the mantelpiece, and sitting by Joe's bed, began to read aloud. One by one all other sounds grew still; one by one the men composed themselves to listen; and one by one the words of the sweet old Christmas story came to them as the woman's quiet voice went reading on. lf any wounded spirit needed balm, if any hungry heart asked food, if any upright purpose, newborn aspiration, or sincere repentance wavered for want of human strength, all found help, hope, and consolation in the beautiful and blessed influences of the book, the reader, and the hour.

The bells rung nine, the lights grew dim, the day's work was done; but Miss Hale lingered beside Joe's bed. His face wore a wistful look, and he seemed loath to have her go.

"What is it, dear?" she said. "What can I do for you before I leave you to Ben's care?"

He drew her nearer, and whispered earnestly:

"It's something that I know you'll do for me, because I can't do it for myself, not as I want it done, and you can. I'm going pretty fast now, Ma'am. And when—when someone else is lying here, I want you to tell the boys—everyone, from Ben to Barney—how much I thanked 'em, how much I loved 'em, and how glad I was that I had known 'em, even for such a little while."

"Yes, Joe, I'll tell them all. What else can I do, my boy?"

"Only let me say to you what no one else must say for me, that all I want to live for is to try and do something in my poor way to show you how I thank you, Ma'am. It isn't what you've said to me; it isn't what you've done for me alone that makes me grateful. It's because you've taught me many things without knowing it, showed me what I ought to have been before, if I'd had anyone to tell me how, and made this such a happy, homelike place, I shall be sorry when I have to go."

Poor Joe! It must have fared hardly with him all those twenty years, if a hospital seemed homelike and a little sympathy, a little care, could fill him with such earnest gratitude. He stopped a moment to lay his cheek upon the hand he held in both of his, then hurried on as if he felt his breath beginning to give out:

"I dare say many boys have said this to you, Ma'am, better than I can, because I don't say half I feel. But I know that none of 'em ever thanked you as I thank you in my heart, or ever loved you as I'll love you all my life. Today I hadn't anything to give you, I'm so poor; but I wanted to tell you this, on the last Christmas I shall ever see."

It was a very humble kiss he gave that hand, but the fervor of a first love warmed it, and the sincerity of a great gratitude made it both a precious and pathetic gift to one who, half unconsciously, had made this brief and barren life rich and happy at its close. Always womanly and tender, Miss Hale's face was doubly so as she leaned over him, whispering:

"I have had my present, now. Good night, Joe."