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The Christmas Present

(By Elsa Flavell.)

The following story was awarded the first prize in the senior section of the competition recently held by the New Zealand Women Writers' and Artists' Society.

“Hul-lo, kiddie! What do you want?”

The tall, bronzed man halted in his stride and looked down. A small, grubby hand, tightly clasping a wilted bunch of daisies and dandelions, was thrust at him between the white fence-palings; and on the other side of that fence stood a small, dark-haired little girl. She looked up at him with pleading in her brown eyes.

“Please, will you buy a pretty bunch of flowers?”

“A pretty bunch of flowers?” He took it from her little hot hand and stood looking at it, a quizzical smile on his thin brown face. His hand was thrust in his pocket, seeking a Coin. “How much?”

“Sixpence,” she said eagerly, stretching out her open palm.

“Sixpence! Phew!” He gave a low whistle, but produced the coin. “You're a bright little business woman,” he laughed as he handed it to her. “Saving up?”

“Yes,” she nodded vigorously, and added with eyes full of pathetic gratitude “You're my first customer today.”

“Am I! And what's the fund for, brownie? Buying a Christmas present for Mum?”

“I'm ’n orphan,” she informed him with wide-eyed gravity; “and I'm saving up to buy a farm.”

“A farm?” he took a step backwards with an air of comical surprise. “A farm?”

She nodded.

“Well—! And how much have you saved up?”

“Got threepence in my money-box,” she assured him proudly. “And now this'll make ninepence—nearly a shilling!” Then her face clouded. “Don't know when I'll get any more, though, ’nless they don't cut the grass for a long time again, ’n I can pick the flowers to sell. I just thought of that to-day! I read ’bout a little girl who sold flowers in one of the books. An' now I've got nearly a shilling!” The shine in her eyes led the tall man to put his hand back in his pocket, tentatively.

“A man gave me the threepence at the last picnic,” she continued, her face lighting. “The nice man who took me in his car. Lots of them came, ’n took all the orphans ‘way out in the country, where there were lots of trees; ’n we had a real, real picnic.”

“A real, real picnic! Just think of that, eh?” the tall man's good-looking face had lost its smile suddenly; he had read the word “Orphanage” above the gate, and he looked down at the child with a little crease between his brows.

All unconscious of the change, she prattled on, her own face clouding once more.

“Yes, but that's years ’nd years ago now. Don't expect we'll ever go again.” Her mouth dropped, then the smile returned suddenly. “Oh, but when I buy my farm, then I'll live in the country all the time! ’N I'll have a cow, ’n a horse, ’n some fowls—”

“I see!” the firm lips curved humorously in the brown face. “Then it'll be a real picnic all the time, won't it?”

“Yes,” she smiled up at him, happy in finding such a sympathetic hearer. “Have you been in the country?”

“Live there,” he replied briefly.

A look of utter amazement crossed her face. “Oh, you are lucky!” it was a gasp of sheer envy. “But—but what are you doing in the town?”

What was he doing in the town? It was a hard question to answer for such an enthusiast about the joys of country life.

“Er—er, having a holiday,” he said lamely.

“Oh!” she looked so comical with mouth and eyes wide open that he laughed; and then he turned to go, but paused to throw something over the fence to her.

“Well here's a Christmas box to help on the good cause,” he said jokingly, and strode away. He smiled page 31 in great good humour, and began to whistle—then recollected he was not out in the wide open places but in an Auckland street, and cut the tune short just in time.

As for the child, she raced for the shining thing he had thrown to her and picked it up—and it was a whole, bright, silver half-crown! She rolled over in the grass and kicked up her heels and squirmed with glee, then got up and ran as fast as she could to the big white orphanage-building.

Eileen was waiting for her husband to come in. She stood close to the window of their room in the hotel, and looked out over the roofs. It was almost stiflingly hot; she had been out shopping, and her head ached. When Jim came in she would persuade him to go for a walk with her in Albert Park, where it was cool and green, and there were trees. They could stay there and watch the sun set, and listen to the birds.

She turned with a smile as he came in.

“Well, dear?”

“Well, dear! Been shopping?”

“Yes, Jim. Isn't it hot? Let's go for a walk in the park.”

“You sure said it, Mrs. Clifford,” said Eileen's tall husband breezily. “Yes; let's get where there's a breeze.” He drew his hand from his pocket and threw something across to her.

“Oh Jim! What on earth—” she looked down at the withered bunch of daisies and dandelions in her hand, and looked up at him with a questioning smile and a crease between her fair brows. “What is it? Where did you—?”

“I bought them,” he explained, and enjoyed the surprise on her face.

“Yes, I did, Eileen! A very young lady sold me those for sixpence—you see, as she explained to me, she was establishing a fund to buy herself a farm.”

“A farm! Go on, Jim, you're—”

“Honour bright, Eileen, it's true.” Jim relapsed suddenly into seriousness. “Poor little kiddie … She'd been into the country once, and she'd made up her mind to go and live there. She was in an orphanage, Eileen, and they'd taken her out to the bush for a picnic; she was saving up to go back—and she'd already got the princely sum of threepence! She was full of hope, though—and enterprise! She stopped me as I passed by, and sold me this—and I gave her half-a-crown—it was worth it, just to see her smile.” He smiled himself, at the recollection. “You would have laughed at the funny little kid! She was so serious about it, too.”

Eileen did not laugh. Her eyes were clouded and her brow wrinkled as she turned towards the window. There was a pain in her heart.

“Poor little thing,” she said softly. “I understand how she must have felt. Jim, we've planned this holiday for such a long time, and it really is fun being in the city—for a while; but just think of living here always! So hot, and dusty, and dull, scarcely a decent tree, except in the parks; and no birds except sparrows. Fancy never being able to wake up and listen to the birds—”

“Fancy never having to tramp out in the mud and frost and milk the cows,” said Jim with a wry face.

“Jim, you know perfectly well you'd rather do that than get up in a mouldy little city house on a mouldy, misty morning and tram off to a mouldy, stuffy office!”

“Darling, of course I know it! I was only teasing,” he kissed her to make amends, but she did not smile; she was looking away over the roofs of the city—roofs, roof, roofs as far as she could see, with hot sky arched above, and the hot sun blazing down onto concrete and corrugated iron; she was thinking of a comfortable farmhouse, ringed round by trees, of a long drive sweeping to the white road, and pohutukawa trees covered with crimson bloom.

“I'm so glad we arranged to be back for Christmas Day,” she said. “I couldn't have stood it away from home—it would have been so different, not like Christmas at all.” Again she looked out over the roofs. “That poor kiddie! Imagine spending Christmas in a city orphanage.”

“Probably they have quite good fun,” said Jim cheerfully; but Eileen was not listening. Another tumult rose in her heart. She was thinking of her own two babies, and their little grave in the quiet country cemetery. They had both been boys; one of them had lived just a year; the other scarcely a month. There had never been any since… .

Her hands clenched convulsively, and she strove to keep back the hot tears.

“It isn't fair,” she said in a choked voice, “it isn't fair! There are so many, many poor little children who aren't wanted, and so many, many women who wanted children and haven't any! It isn't fair … .” she gulped, and struggled with the hot feelings that rose up seeking expression; then she ended by saying with a little strained laugh, “It's a silly world … and I'm silly, too. Come on!”

She passed through the door and preceeded her husband down the stairs.

The next day Eileen was busy packing. Carefully she folded the pretty new things she had bought in the shops of Queen Street.

“Won't I be able to show off to my neighbours,” she laughed, sitting back on her heels. “What fun!”

“I'm thinking we'll have to start cutting the hay almost as soon as we get back,” said Jim.

“Not till Boxing Day at least! You can wait till then, can't you? We must have a real Christmas together. I'm going to cook for all I'm worth the day after to-morrow.”

“Your sister will be there almost as soon as we are,” said Jim.

“No, she's not coming till the day after to-morrow. I wrote and told her we'd be coming home two days before Christmas, so she'd better come Christmas Eve Day. I'll be in the middle of

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cooking, but that doesn't matter. Thank goodness I cooked the puddings and Christmas cake long ago!”

“I hope Joblings haven't let the place run to seed.”

“Oh, they won't! Some people have such wretched luck with sharemilkers—we've been lucky, haven't we!” Once more Eileen sat back on her heels. “Oh, isn't it nice to think tomorrow evening we'll be home! I always think coming home is the best part of a holiday…”

“I know it is,” said Jim with conviction; he picked up a brown-wrapped package that lay on the bed.

“Here,” Eileen shrieked at him, “don't touch! That's mine—at least, it will be yours on Christmas morning, but just you leave it at present!” She seized it from him and hid it in the bottom of her case. “Oh, by the way, I met Laura Gunning this morning and she's asked me to go out with her this evening. Do you think you could look after yourself for once?”

“Sure! I'll get on fine without you,” said Jim—and ducked to avoid his wife's shoe.

That afternoon at half-past five he left Eileen waiting for her friend in Queen Street and went on a mission—he was going to get his wife a Christmas present.

He walked up a long drive and knocked at a big door, which was opened by a trim little maid.

“Good afternoon. May I see the matron?”

“Certainly. This way, sir.”

He was presented to a middle-aged woman of plump proportions and wrinkled, worried visage. She beamed on him. He would like to see through the institution? Certainly … a pleasure… .

“We'll go straight into the dining-room. They're just having tea.”

She opened a door, and Jim was acutely embarrassed by the stare of about one hundred and fifty pairs of young eyes, as the children who were at tea rose out of respect to the visitor.

He coughed. The matron commanded “Sit down,” and there was again the clatter of knives and spoons and the noise of voices.

Close on one hundred and fifty children sat at tea around five long tables in the huge room. The matron and her visitor walked up and down, until Jim felt sure he had gazed into the face of everyone present. He turned to the matron.

“Are these all the children?”

“All? Why, yes.”

It was a disappointment. Evidently some-one else had been before him and taken away what he came to seek.

“Anyway, all except one. One of the children has been very naughty, and she has to have her meals alone as a punishment.”

“Oh! Couldn't we see her, too?”

The matron raised her brows. “As part of her punishment she shouldn't see any visitors—but as you ask—certainly she is a good child usually.”

The dark-eyed little girl was sulkily eating bread-and-butter in a bare little room; her eyes were red and her lips pouted—but when Jim entered she started up, crying.

“Oh, it's my nice man! You tell her about the flowers I sold you, an' the money you gave me—an'—an' the farm—” she had caught his hand, and suddenly was weeping against his sleeve. Jim caught her up and began stroking her hair, rather awkwardly. “There, don't cry! What is it?”

“Th—they thought I just begged from you, they s-said; and they to-took away all the m-money, even th-the-threepence, ’at I was saving for the f-f-farm, an' put it in the orph'nage funds.”

“Why, is that the trouble? Don't cry, kiddie—it's my fault! Really it is,” he added, turning to the matron. “I didn't know it was against rules to give them money. She told me she was saving up to buy a farm. Ho!” he laughed, and said to the child “Now don't you worry about any more saving up. How'd you like to come and share a farm with me and a nice lady I know?”

She raised her head from his shoulder; her body grew tense. “You're teasing,” she breathed.

“No, I'm not! If you'd like it, say the word and we'll go right now.”

She gave no answer except an ecstatic “Oh!” and squirming round in his arms, she clasped him tightly round the neck.

In five minutes more they were walking hand-in-hand down the street.

“The first thing,” said Jim cheerfully, “is tea, of course. You can't possibly exist on bread-and-butter teas so near to Christmas!”

“Don't want any tea,” she assured him happily.

“Oh, yes you do—strawberries … ice-cream,” he suggested, and smiled at her delighted gasp. They found a shop which dispensed such thrilling things and Jim watched her eat them. He declined her invitation to “have some too,” feeling satisfied enough to look on.

Afterwards, they walked up Queen Street, and Jim bought her new and pretty little dresses, a doll, and sweets, and so experienced the full, true joy of Christmas. Then he took her back to the hotel, tucked her into Eileen's bed and went out again.

He had to meet his wife outside one of the theatres. They had supper together, and lingered awhile in the city, though Jim ached to return to the hotel.

The shops were very bright with their Christmas decorations, and the streets were filled by a laughing, hurrying, merry crowd. The Cliffords wandered along like a pair of children, gazing into all the shop windows; they stopped outside a huge toyshop and looked at a marvellous electrically-worked toy train that went round and round a track, and stopped at stations, and shunted and hooted, and did all the things a train should do. There were children still in the streets although it was growing late, and a little knot had collected in front of this particular window.

“I must buy something for Lucy's kiddies,” Eileen said; “a doll for Joy and a teddy-bear for the baby. I almost wish they were for myself!”

They went away with their purchases, and Eileen looked up smiling. “I'm so glad we always have Lucy to bring them down at Christmas time! It makes it seem so much more Christmassy. Only I wish … ah well, I suppose it can't be.”

She sighed, and Jim pressed her arm in silent sympathy. He longed to tell his secret then, but choked it down and hurried Eileen into a tram.

In the hall of the hotel he “remembered” that he wanted some cigarettes, and left Eileen to go up to their room while he slipped off to a little shop down the road.

“You'll find your Christmas present on your bed,” he said; “I left it there for you.”

“Oh, Jim—I'd rather have it as usual, on Christmas morning—” Something in her husband's face made Eileen wonder, and she was silent. “Is it a very special one? Alright, I'll look at it while you're away.” She hastened up the stairs …

When Jim came back she was still sitting quiet beside the bed, gazing on the face of the sleeping child. The window was open behind her, and her head was outlined against a clear, deep sky, pointed with silver stars.

A mother and a child … stars looking down … Christmas … She rose and came towards him with outstretched hands.

“Jim! A Christmas gift?” she said in a hushed voice. “Why, you've brought me Christmas itself.”