Part 14 (1/2)
Instinctively each heart thought of the absent member, gone from them since the last Christmas Day, and Gail reached over to remove the extra dishes, when Hope stopped her by saying, ”Teacher read us a beautiful poem of how some people always set a place for the Christ Child on His birthday, hoping that He would come in person to celebrate the day with them, and I thought it was such a pretty idea that--I--I--”
”Yes, dear,” said Gail gently. ”We will leave the extra plate there.”
”It does seem queer, doesn't it, that we have big dinners on Christmas Day 'cause it is Christ's birthday, and then we never give Him a dish,”
observed Peace, pa.s.sing her plate for a helping.
”Did the Christ Child come?” asked Allee eagerly. ”In the story, I mean.”
”Not in the way they looked for Him,” answered Hope. ”But a little beggar child came. Some of the family were going to send it out into the kitchen to eat with the servants, but one little boy insisted that it should have the empty chair they had set for the Christ Child. So the ragged beggar was pushed up to the table and fed all he wanted. When the dinner was over, a great s.h.i.+ning light filled the room and Christ appeared to tell them that in feeding the little beggar they had entertained Him. It was all written out in rhyme and was _so_ pretty.
What is the matter, Gail? You aren't eating anything.”
The other sisters paused to look at the older girl's plate, and Gail's sensitive face flushed crimson, but before she could offer any explanation, Peace abruptly dropped her knife and fork, pushed her dishes from her, and burst into tears.
”Why, what ails you, child?” cried Faith, who herself had scarcely touched the dinner before her.
”I can't be a _carnival_ and eat my bunnies,” sobbed Peace. ”I'd as soon have a slab of kitten.”
”That's just the way I feel,” said Cherry, and no one laughed at Peace's rendering of _cannibal_.
In the midst of this scene there was a knock at the kitchen door, but before anyone could answer, Mrs. Grinnell rustled in, bearing in her arms a huge platter of roast turkey, which she set down upon the table with the remark, ”It was that lonesome at home I just couldn't eat my dinner all by myself, so I brought it over to see if you didn't want me for company.”
”You aren't a ragged beggar,” Peace spoke up through her tears, before the others had recovered from their surprise; ”but I guess you'll do.
You can have the chair we set for Jesus.”
Gail explained, while the platter of stewed rabbit was being removed, and once more dinner was begun. The turkey was done to a turn, the dressing was flavored just right and filled with walnuts and oysters, the vegetables had never tasted better, the biscuits were as light as a feather, Mrs. Strong's cranberry sauce had jelled perfectly, and the Hartman mince-pie was a miracle of pastry. The seven diners did the meal full justice, and when at last the appet.i.tes were satisfied, the table looked as if a foraging party had descended upon it.
”That was quite a dinner,” remarked Peace, as she pushed her chair back from the table. ”If I had just known it was going to happen, Mr. Hartman needn't have skinned the rabbits. There is a whole platter full of Wink.u.m and Blink.u.m left, and it's all wasted. Mercy me, what a shame!”
She went out into the kitchen and surveyed the rejected delicacy with mournful eyes. Then a new idea occurred to her, and, with no thought of irreverence, she murmured to herself, ”I don't believe the Christ Child would have cared whether He had turkey or rabbit for dinner. I'm going over and get that _pa.s.sle_ of half-starved German kids to eat this up.”
Throwing Gail's faded shawl over her head, she ran across the snowy fields to the old tumble-down house on the next road, where the new family lived. The children were at play in the yard--seven in all, and none of them larger than Hope--but at sight of her they came forward hand in hand, jabbering such queer gibberish that Peace could not understand a word.
”Come over to my house and have some dinner,” she invited them, but not one of them moved a step. ”We've got a whole platter of stewed rabbit,”
she urged, but they only stared uncomprehendingly. ”Perhaps you have had your dinner. Are you hungry?”
”Hungry,” suddenly said the oldest boy, putting one hand to his mouth and the other on his stomach. ”Ja, sehr hungrig.”
Peace was delighted with the pantomime method of making herself understood, and imitating his motions, she pointed to the little brown house and beckoned.
”Ja, ja,” cried the chorus of seven, their faces beaming with pleasure, ”wir kommen.” And they quickly followed her across the snow to the kitchen door.
”Gail, I have brought the Christ Child,” she announced, as she ushered the ragged, hungry brood into the house. ”I thought it was a pity to waste all that salt and pepper you used in fixing up Wink.u.m and Blink.u.m, so I invited these ragged beggars over to eat it up.”
Mrs. Grinnell gasped her surprise and consternation. Faith exclaimed angrily, ”Peace Greenfield!” But Gail, with never a chiding word, sprang to the table and began clearing away the soiled dishes, while Hope ran for clean plates; and in short order the seven little towheads were hovering around the platter of stewed rabbit and creamed potatoes, revelling in a feast such as they had never known before; nor did they stop eating until every sc.r.a.p of food had vanished. Then they rose, bowing and smiling, and trying in their own tongue to thank their hostesses for the grand dinner.
Peace was captivated with their quaint manners and reverent att.i.tude, and when they had backed out of the door, she went with them to the gate, kissing her hand to them as they disappeared down the road, still calling over their shoulders, ”Du bist das Christkind!”
”I don't know what they are saying,” she murmured, ”but it makes me feel like flapping my wings and crowing.” She leaped to her tall gatepost to give vent to her jubilant feelings, but tumbled quickly to the ground again without stopping to crow. ”Abigail Greenfield!” she shouted, racing for the house. ”See what was on the gatepost,--a nenvelope with money in it, and on the outside it says, 'Christmas greetings to the Six Sisters.' Now will you believe someone lost it? It ain't Mr. Strong's writing, though. Maybe the Christ Child brought it. Oh, Gail, do you s'pose He did?”