From the Improvement Era, December 1930 –

The Blue Spruce

By Ivy Williams Stone

David Lockwood the first had shaggy, beetling eyebrows, from which steel blue eyes glared at his enemies and repulsed would-be friends. When beaten men stood before the mahogany desk marked “president,” they expected and received scant mercy from those cold, calculating eyes.

David Lockwood the second had dreamy, visionary brown eyes that saw beauty in every sunset and converted commonplace meadows into pastoral scenes. He paid little attention to matters of money, for there were too many beautiful pictures that needed to be painted.

David Lockwood the third had deep blue, mischievous eyes that dared you to kiss the dimples in his neck. Mortgages and interest, canvas and pigments caused him no concern. His greatest anxiety was keeping track of his building blocks, and finding hidden sweets in his daddy’s pockets.

On the afternoon of December the twenty-fourth, David the third searched his home for his beloved blocks. They had been gone for several days. Although they were scarred and battered they made wonderful bridges and castles. He searched everywhere except in the forbidden “daddy’s room,” which had the most interesting smells and paints and pictures. There was one picture he liked best. He had helped make it. He had stood ever so still, while daddy sketched and rubbed out and sketched again. David the third, with his smiles and his laughing eyes, was quite unaware that there existed a David the first whom he had never seen, and who never spoke to his daddy. Everybody in the whole world loved daddy. Why, he could throw you so high in the air and always catch you, and kept such nice things in his pockets.

On the same afternoon, David the second was locked in his studio, repainting the lost blocks. Fresh, bright letters and numerals replaced the faded ones. New Mother Goose scenes appeared under his magic touch. As he worked, the dreamy expression of his eyes changed to concern, and a little pucker drew his brows together. Christmas Eve was the very hardest day to endure, knowing that your wealthy, stubborn, lonely father had never seen his cherub-like grandson. That declining years were being shortened with bitterness, and baby years cheated of a grandfather. Each needed the other, and this grave anxiety caused David the second to become temporarily practical.

“If I could just manage to make them meet,” he mused, critically. studying a blue Jack Horner with a yellow pie, “all would be solved. No stubborn old man, not even the town’s richest banker, could withstand the charms of David Lockwood the third. Think of father, spending another solitary Christmas in his big house!”

While his unknown grandson hunted for his blocks and his son worked in his studio, David Lockwood the first sat in his huge empty living room, watching that no one molested his beautiful blue spruce tree that decorated the front lawn. he had used his favorite word, “NO,” on all his visitors. He had thundered it at the Goodfellows, when they came, pleading for assistance. he had flung it emphatically at old Marietta, the housekeeper, when she asked permission to put oysters in the turkey dressing. Last of all, he had turned purple around the temples and said it many times to the committee on Outdoor Christmas Decoration, when they asked to illuminate the spruce tree.

“It’s the most symmetrical specimen I ever saw. An illuminated star on the top, with colored lights all around, will bring you the first prize, Mr. Lockwood.” The chairman spoke with enthusiasm.

“No,” thundered David the first.

“If your tree is lighted, the carolers will serenade you,” offered the second committeeman.

“No,” the favorite expression lost no force by frequent repetition.

“It’s the prettiest blue pine I ever saw,” timidly the third member spoke to his sorrow.

“Pine!” mocked David the first with open scorn. “Much you know about trees. There is no blue pine. There are white pines, and yellow pines and red pines. But blue trees are spruces. Picea Parryana is the botanical name. Pine needles come in bunches, while spruce needles grow singly, and they’re sharp and prickly. Tell your electricians to decorate trees that are not beautiful in themselves. Tell your carolers to sing where people cling to old customs. I won’t have candles in my windows, and I won’t have lights on my tree!” The shaggy brows drew closer and the committee withdrew, knowing that the crisp, December afternoon was warmer than the atmosphere of David Lockwood’s home.

Left alone, David the first settled himself by the window, to watch that the enterprising committee did not return to wire the tree. It was a perfect tree. The thick, flat branches spread out in symmetrical perfection, every one horizontal from the sturdy, invisible trunk. No unsightly, dead limbs; every tiny needle alive with vigor, individual, sharp. Rising in a perfect cone, the tree stood alone in its beauty. The green-blue color was accentuated by the carpet of snow. In fancy, he smelled the pungent odor which the tree always exuded.

As he watched the slanting sunlight play upon his treasure, the years rolled backward for David the first. They were planting the tree, he and the boy, and the mother, who had given the boy those limpid, impractical eyes. The boy stood by the hole and held the spade while the father set the balled tree straight. Then the boy had proudly held the tip of the tiny tree, to balance it while the father shoveled I the soil. Afterwards, they joined hands and danced around the tree, singing one of her poem songs. She was always writing jingles. When she should have been scrubbing floors or baking pies, she was fashioning some rhyme or setting it to music.

“Grow together, tree and boy,
Grow and fill our lives with joy.
Boy, grow honest, straight and good:
Tree, grow tall with wormless wood!”

Well, they had grown all right, the boy taller than the father. But only the tree had fulfilled the song. Could you call a boy honest who wouldn’t enter his father’s bank and learn the business from the ground up? Was he playing straight when he defied his father and married the only forbidden girl in the whole world? A daughter of his arch competitor! The one man who blocked the path of David Lockwood’s financial supremacy of the town. That his only son should be a painter – a dauber with turpentine and oils! He had hoped the boy would be starved into submission. But the mother who wrote poetry had provided for art school. Thus the son was not suppliant and repentant, because he was not starving!

A sharp ring at the doorbell brought David the first back to reality with a start. Where was Marietta? Sneaking oysters into the dressing? He didn’t intend to buy any homemade doughnuts or embroidered laundry bags or wax flowers. He would listen to no sob story of unemployment or sickness or hunger.

After a lengthy discussion at the door, Marietta appeared, struggling under the weight of a large, flat package.

“F-r-a-g-i-l-e,” she puffed. “Ain’t nobody lives here by that name, but they says this was the place. Took two boys to bring it.” She examined it carefully, exercising the liberty of an old servant. “Tain’t no parcel post, nor C.O.D. It’s got them ‘do not open till Christmas’ plasters all over it. Want me to lean it ’gainst the piano till mornin’?”

A heavily veined, cold hand indicated that the package be placed by his chair. “Tell John to stoke the furnace extra heavy. I shall watch my tree until midnight.” The voice did not invite confidence, and sighing her disappointment, Marietta withdrew. Christmas packages in this household were unusual. Every year she and her husband gave Mr. Lockwood a black silk muffler. Every year she received a new hot water bottle, and John a pair of overshoes. No surprises; no secrecy; no tissue paper or tree. The three dined together on Christmas, the conversation consisting of gossip from Marietta and cold nods from David Lockwood. So long as turkey and plum pudding were still in evidence, John had no time for conversation.

David the first waited until Marietta’s retreating footsteps assured him privacy. Then he inspected his package. His first impulse was to return it, unopened, but there was no address. Marietta had read correctly. No parcel post, no collect charges. FRAGILE. Undoubtedly a gift from some involved customer of the bank, paving the way for extended loans.

He tore at the wrappings, and a moment later an oil canvas stood revealed, a bit of string still clinging to the frame. A small card was tucked in the corner, labeled “The Planting.” David the first took one long look and his heart missed a beat, while his chin set in hard lines. In the background was a garden of hollyhocks. At the very front of the picture lay a spade on a mound of fresh earth. A small blue spruce was being held in the open hole by a sturdy little boy. A man and a woman stood at either side, their faces radiantly happy. The blue, sleeveless suit of the child accentuated the fainter blue of the tree. David the first drew the eyebrows into their accustomed scowl. His arm drew back, as if to gain momentum to send the clenched fist through the canvas. How dared the young upstart flaunt a cherished memory before an old man? Had he, David Lockwood, the grasping banker, ever looked like the man in the picture, without suspicion, with a scowl, full of vision for his son? But the brown-eyed woman was true. She had always looked like that, serene, visionary, undisturbed.

The clenched hand tightened until the veins seemed to knot, then dropped motionless to his side. The boy of the picture was not his son. He had worn a box pleated suit of dark brown, with a wide, embroidery-trimmed collar, long stockings and substantial shoes. This child’s legs, like his arms, were bare, hinting of well formed muscle. He stood tiptoe in barefoot sandals. His eyes were not visionary brown, but a dark blue. Eyes of mischief, that would grow to steely blue with maturity; eyes that saw mortgages instead of oils. A throwback! David the first knew there was a child. Marietta had gotten that far with her gossip before he had been able to check her. He had not even known the child was a boy.

David the first slumped in his chair. His wish had been denied. His son had not failed. Always he had cherished the hope that the boy, sensing his mistake, would return. Granting that, he could learn to tolerate the forbidden woman. Men had made good bankers who trained late in life. But this picture would live. David, his son, would never be a financial power. Defeated men would never lean over his mahogany desk, begging for mercy. No widow would ever be evicted at his order. But this picture would go down to posterity. It would be a living, vital testimony of achievement long after David the first and his fortune were forgotten. The supple, graceful body of the boy, the clever use of two shades of blue, the true depiction of joy on the faces of the parents, all revealed artistic ability. Like the “Age of Innocence” and the “Infant Samuel,” which had hung in his bedroom, this picture would live, and again value, and people would love and revere its creator.

Although Marietta announced dinner three times, David the first did not stir. He seemed to shrink and wither in his chair, as he gazed at the canvas. Square shoulders, plump arms, this child would not be a painter of pictures. Perhaps he might – mahogany desk-ability to say no, penetrating eyes, fearless, usury and foreclosures. David the first slept fitfully in his chair. He was awakened by a sense of chill, and a muffled, chopping sound. He rang immediately for Marietta, who appeared in curlers and dressing gown. He had slept into the early night.

“What’s that pounding noise?” he demanded, rising and standing directly in front of the picture, to prolong Marietta’s curiosity.

The aged housekeeper turned pale and fumbled with the unusual, protruding curlers.

“Well, you see, sir, you said John should stoke the furnace good. He’s makin’ that noise. The coal was over large. John’s breakin’ coal. It takes a deal of poundin’ this night, to get it small enough for the stoker. You’d best go to bed, sir. It’s late. The carolers didn’t stop. And nobody come to decorate the tree. I looked at it a while back; it ain’t been tetched.

“I ordered slack coal.”

“’Tis hard coal, sir,” reiterated Marietta, trying to peer at the picture. “Lumpy. Big ones. some of ’em must be close to a hundred pounds.”

“John never made that much noise before. Tell him to stop for the night.”

“John pounded ’till he was winded. Would you mind, Mr. Lockwood, if I put just a few oysters in the dressing? I could tuck ’em up in the top, round the craw. You could eat the bottom dressing, and I’d put onions there?”

No,” thundered David the first, glad for an opportunity to divert his anger. “I hate oysters. I won’t have them in my turkey. Tell John to stop that pounding. There’s fire enough.” Marietta withdrew, hastily, gladly, the curlers making a distorted shadow of the old gray head.

David the first slept until daylight, when he wakened with a sense of impending disaster. He dressed hurriedly and went into the living room. Even Marietta’s curiosity had been out-weighed with fatigue. The picture still stood as he had left it. Tomorrow he would consult a directory and have it returned. They could not win him over with sentimentality. There were no wreaths or burned candles in the windows. Relieved, he turned to the window. If the tree bore no glaring lights, there would be no cause for his vague alarm. He rubbed his eyes in amazement and looked again and again. There was no tree. The blue spruce was gone. Only a bare, axe-hacked stump and disheveled, bough-strewn snow testified to the former glory. Large, heavy footprints showed where the ruthless thief had circled, dragging the tree off to the sidewalk. Some man had stolen a Christmas tree for his children. He rang for Marietta and John. They responded, half asleep, mumbling, incoherent. John had stoked the furnace; Marietta had stuffed the turkey. Angered by their seeming stupidity, David the first burst from the house.

A few moments later a startled policeman was roused from his reverie by an excited, angry old man.

“Have you see someone going by here carrying a picea parryana?”

“All deliveries stopped at two,” mumbled the policeman.

“I mean a tree – an evergreen. A beautiful blue spruce.”

“Oh, I get you now, Grandpa! You mean a Christmas tree. Folks ain’t been carrying nothing else since I come on. Old folks and little kids, all a luggn’ trees. Like a movin’ forest.”

“Did you happen to notice anyone carrying a markedly beautiful specimen of blue spruce?” came the persistent question.

“Well, you see, Grandpa,” the policeman became jocularly confidential, “the exams for officers don’t require no knowledge of botany. To me, Christmas tree is a green tree with sharp needles. Nothing else.”

“A spruce or a juniper, a pine or a fire, or a cedar for instance, all would be the same to you?” queried David the first icily.

“Christmas trees is green trees,” stolidly answered the blue-coated guardian. “A woman what’s a janitor in a big building down town come walking home. She’d missed the last car, but she had three boughs cut from the bottom of a tree. An old gent had one so small it looked like robbing the cradle to cut it. A boy had a big one strapped on a sled, pulled by a dog. The whole affair toppled over. But the queerest sight was a big man carrying a real purty tree over his shoulder. About every half block he stopped and broke off a branch and dropped it in his path. Looked like he was trying to leave a trail. There’s a piece, crost the street.”

Red with anger, warmed with a deep sense of injustice, David the first crossed the tree and picked up a branch of his beloved spruce. There could be no mistake. Firm, prickly, blue needles, each tiny twig symmetrical and ordered. The thief had walked in the snow outside the beaten trail, and large footprints, far apart, marked his route. The despicable thief, that was a fitting name for him, the despicable thief, had been a full grown man!

With no thought of fatigue or hunger, David the first took up the trail, determined to bring the offender to justice. Twenty-five years of growth wrecked to give a child a Christmas tree! If he had to strip the tree of children’s trinkets, he would drag it and the thief into court. He would permit no bail; the judge owed him money. The miscreant could eat his Christmas dinner in the city jail.

A small branch here, another at the end of the block. Gathering them tenderly like a stricken child, David the first marched angrily on. Past the pretentious houses, out into quieter streets. Smaller houses, closer together, like good friends. Smoke columns rising from chimneys. The joyous cries of children, the blare of a newly christened trumpet. Wreaths and burned candles in the windows. A child hailed him, but he paid no heed. On and on, eyes to the ground, following large, bold footprints, picking up stray pieces of evergreen, until his arms were full. Before a low, rambling house, with a large rock fireplace, the trail gave extra proof that the hunt was ended. Boughs were scattered on the private walk. David the first picked them up methodically and marched up the path to the porch. A saw and nails, broken branches and sawdust gave all the additional evidence needed. The search was ended. But surely this household did not need to steal. An air of middle-class prosperity prevailed. As he rang the bell with emphasis, David the first noted that a small blue spruce grew on either side of the path. Good trees, too; small, conical, thick.

The door opened with marked suddenness. David the first had expected the tall, full grown man whose steps he had followed for blocks. Instead, a small boy in a blue dressing gown faced him inquiringly. In his surprise David he first uttered the speech he had been rehearsing.

“I am looking for the despicable thief who stole my tree!” He had expected the man to flinch and cower. But the small boy before him showed no fear. He squared his shoulders and his eyes assumed a steely blue as he answered,

“My papa does not steal. He is a nice papa. He hides things in his pockets for you.”

“I want the despicable thief,” reiterated David the first.

“Won’t you come in?” invited the small boy politely, and David the first stepped into the warm, pleasant room. The odor of blue spruce was evident, even before the old eyes could accustom themselves to the softer light. There stood the object of his search, by the wide fireplace. Beautiful, even in death. The child ran to bring his father, and the floating gown revealed a supple, firm limb, capable of standing on tiptoe to balance a young tree. The heart of David the first skipped and fluttered before they returned, the young man with brown, visionary eyes, and the child with deep blue ones. David the first, clinging to the dismantled boughs, stood in the center of the room.

“I have come,” he began, in the cold, hard voice people had come to dread, “I have come to take a despicable thief to justice.” The young man before him did not cower or flinch. He held out inviting arms and smiled disarmingly.

“I have come,” began David the first again, trying to look somewhere besides at beautiful eyes. For the eyes of the young man who was taking the boughs from his weary arms were more than dreamy and visionary. They were brimming with love and understanding and tears.

“You have come,” interrupted the young man, “to spend Christmas with your family. Thank God you’re here. I began to fear you had given up the trail. It took the beautiful tree we both loved to bring you, but it was worth the price! And don’t you remember, Father, that when we planted the tree you said it was to be mine?”

Clutching a knee of each, David the third wondered why they gripped hands so long, and why both their eyes were swimming in tears.

Sitting in the same chair beside the pungent tree, David the first and David the third became very well acquainted. They recited the nursery rhymes on the now beautiful blocks; they counted the numeral sup to a hundred; every letter of the alphabet was there for the finding. A plump, inquisitive forefinger had smoothed out the wrinkle between the shaggy brows; the old, grizzled mouth had kissed the dimples on the young neck.

“I stood so still while Daddy painted me in the picture,” volunteered the small boy. I stood a whole minute. The you in the picture hasn’t got wrinkles.”

The old blue eyes looked into the young blue eyes and smiled. “Wrinkles will vanish with you around,” he answered, and the dimples received another kiss.

When the once forbidden girl began to make noises that sounded like breakfast, David the first beckoned to David the second.

“Phone Marietta that the pounding of coal and the chopping of trees do sound somewhat alike.” A timid smile gathered on his lips and broadened into a real grin. “And tell her she can put a thousand oysters into the dressing, for I’m not going home for dinner.”