The First Church's Christmas barrel

Those who like a “white Christmas” should see one out on the Western plains, where old Mother Earth lies down for her winter sleep under a coverlet so white that from horizon to horizon there is hardly enough gray to outline her form. The winds play tricks with her in scandalous style out there, making roundness where no roundness is and doing their best to lay bare her very bones. “These winds don’t care a cuss fer clothes,” said Job Tolaver, the stage driver, once; and John Haloran on his hard missionary rides had thought of it a thousand times since. He was saying it to himself numbly now as with stiffening fingers and head lowered against the gale he drove along the faint track of a road.

His wife threw open the door as he drove up, and a stream of light fell athwart the wagon. There was a barrel in the back.

“Dead, John?--or only half?” Her eager eyes searched his face. She knew the whole pitiful story without a word. The draft had not come. Then, because she knew, she went on gayly, “Or have you gone to peddling? What’s in your barrel?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said heavily, twisting it into the room. “We’ll see when I’ve fed Daisy.”

When he was gone she eyed the barrel curiously, tilting it and reading aloud:

+-------------------------+ | | | REV. JOHN F. HALORAN, | | BLUE LICK, WYOMING. | | | +-------------------------+

“It’s not potatoes. It isn’t heavy enough for that.” Then she struck an attitude with clasped hands. “I never saw one before--never! But my prophetic soul tells me this is a missionary barrel. And just two days before Christmas! Well, in the language of my first-born, ‘Hooray!’”

When the minister came in there was a comfortable old coat warmed and waiting for him, and a smoking supper set out on a little table drawn up before the stove.

“Sit down, John. I am going to let you eat here in peace away from the children.” He glanced up questioningly as a roar came from the kitchen, with snarls and growls in various keys. “It’s all right. They are wild animals in a cage and I am the keeper. They are having no end of fun. You had a cold drive.”

“Bitter.”

“You need an ulster with a storm collar.” She glanced involuntarily at the barrel. “Aren’t these potatoes good, John? So mealy one hardly needs butter. Lucky thing, too! You didn’t know I skimped the family out of a pound of butter, did you? Yes, sir, it went into the candy money.” She meant it as a pleasantry, but somehow it failed, and she hurried on. “I wish there were more of the potatoes. Those boys do eat so! But never mind! After Christmas the hens will begin. Funny how hens can tell the time of the year, isn’t it?” She chattered on about anything and everything except the draft.

“This certainly is comfort,” he said at last, relaxing under the genial influence of food and warmth and companionship. “That’s a cold stretch coming out from town.”

“Didn’t you stop anywhere?”

“Yes. At Joe Henderson’s. Mary--his wife died!”

“John!”

“Yes. Died last night. I never felt so sorry for anybody in my life. They think the baby will live; and the poor fellow doesn’t know what to do with it nor where to turn.”

“Oh, John! If only our cow weren’t going dry I would----”

“You shouldn’t do it, anyway,” he said savagely. “You have enough care now for three women!--Mary, the draft didn’t come.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But, John, we’ll get along some way. It can’t last forever. The draft may come next week. And I was joking about the potatoes. We’ve a lot left.”

“It isn’t just the money,” he said, shaking his head despondently; “it’s the feeling of aloneness in the work. If I felt that the church back of us was doing all it could, it would not be so hard--this ‘hope deferred that maketh the heart sick.’ But sometimes I think--they don’t care.”

“They do, John--they do! Don’t allow yourself to think that. Why, look at this barrel! I know this is from some missionary society, and would any church send us this unless they knew about our work and were thinking of us? Why, of course not! Tell me about the barrel.”

“Well, I went to the post-office the first thing to get the draft. I found instead a letter from this First Church, saying they had sent us a barrel. I went over to the freight office and there it was. I didn’t have enough--”

“How providential that it came before Christmas!” she interrupted. “I’m crazy to see what’s in it! Aren’t you?”

He did not answer the question directly, being far from feeling her jubilance about it. “We’ll open it after a while,” he said evasively. In his heart he was protesting, “No! I don’t want their barrel! I want my money!”

“But not until the children are off. There will be Christmas things in it that they mustn’t see.... You got the candy, John? But of course you did.”

Her question was unanswered, but she did not notice it.

“Now I really think the animals will have to come in,” she said gayly. “You can be trainer for an hour while this keeper clears up the dishes.”

And with a whoop they were upon him--lion, tiger, kangaroo, and baby bear.