From the Improvement Era, December 1921 –

A Joyful Discovery

By William Henry Peterson

“Christmas goods from Brown & Co.,” exclaimed Harold Livingston in a cheerful voice. “I am late making my deliveries this evening, but business is always big just before holidays. The day is hardly long enough for — ”

“Long enough! I should think not!” broke in good-natured, motherly Mrs. Walters. “Tis nigh onto ten o’clock, time honest folks were in bed.”

Harold’s eye twinkled. “Are you sure of that?” he asked playfully.

Mrs. Walters had been busy examining the goods. She stopped, straightened up, shook her short chubby finger and said, “I am sure of it, my boy, just as sure of it as I am that it is an honest woman you are speaking to.”

Harold smiled.

“What’s the smile about?” asked Mrs. Walters.

“Nothing,” answered Harold, who seemed to be enjoying something all by himself.

“Out with it, you young scalpin!” demanded the inquisitive woman. “If you doubt my word, you are no neighbor of mine; not even if you do live next door.”

“I’d rather not,” replied Harold, as he picked up his basket and started towards the door. Mrs. Walters was not angry. She enjoyed a contest of wits with her young neighbor. As a usual rule she came off victorious, but this time she did not feel that she was standing on firm ground. The thought that her young opponent was enjoying something at her expense was more than she could stand. She was determined to have it out of him, that would at least satisfy her curiosity.

“Rather not; What’s the ail of ye? Why would ye rather not?” she asked.

“Because, if your words are true, then I’m as sure you ought to be in bed as I am that I am an honest boy,” was the quick response.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Walters as if she had suddenly come from the cellar into the sunshine.

Harold opened the door to go. A gust of wind shot through the house, slamming an inner door with a terrific crash. After bidding his customer a pleasant goodnight, he closed the door. He waited on the porch long enough to catch his breath and turn up his coat collar. Then he hurried off across the frozen snow towards his delivery wagon. It was a cold December night, a night when all things living seek shelter. Everywhere, through the windows, Harold could see the people enjoying comfortable, warm fires. He alone was suffering cheerfully in the cold, so that others could receive, not only food and clothing, but the many choice things that help to make Christmas time so pleasant. Harold was thirteen when he began to work for himself. That was a year ago. For one year he had earned his own money and paid his own expenses. Brown & Co. considered him one of their very best delivery boys. There was a reason. He was strictly honest, had an “eye to business,” and tried hard to please. Home was still home to him, but in some way he hardly understood, things were different. His father believed that he had supported Harold long enough, and considered the boy old enough to earn his own way in the world. This, Harold was trying to do and he was proving himself equal to the test. Harold had a secret. He was keeping something from his little brother and sister, in fact, from the whole family. Every Saturday night, during the last three months, he had made a mysterious visit to his room. This visit was always made after settling up with his father for board and room 1 . Once his little brother and sister followed him up to his room. With big, wondering eyes they watched him take a small box from his trunk, unlock it, put something into it, and then lock it again. The night before Christmas Harold came down from his room, hat in hand. His father met him at the door. There was a troubled look on Mr. Livingston’s face.

“Where are you going?” he asked in very serious voice.

“Down town,” was the reply.

Mr. Livingston was a man who prided himself upon having a good name. His reputation meant more to him than anything else in the world. He was proud of it and treasured it as a priceless jewel. His son was going down town at night alone. Would that result in good or evil? Why should his son not stay at home where there were no evil temptations, and where the family reputation would be safe. Had he not cautioned the people in his addresses to them about letting their children roam the streets at night? Now his son was asking to do this very thing.

“Where are you going?” he asked. For the first time in his life Harold gave his father an evasive answer. He did not lie. Such a thing he would not think of doing. Quick as a flash he thought of a plan to satisfy his father: “To the picture show,” he answered.

Mr. Livingston did not object to the movies, provided his son would come directly home after the show. This Harold promised to do. His trip to the movies was a short one. He paid his ticket, went in, but was back out in a moment. Evidently he was not interested. Had his father been watching he would have seen Harold mix with the crowd and disappear down the street. Mr. Livingston did not see. He was home talking very seriously with his wife. Harold’s going out at night was the topic of conversation. “It is serious, I tell you, it is too serious,” said Mr. Livingston, rising from his chair and walking back and forth across the floor.

Mrs. Livingston wiped a tear from her cheek as she assured her husband that she had confidence in her boy’s strength of character.

“You say you have confidence in him. I think I have; but he is gone. It is long past show time, and he promised to come straight home. What do you think of that?”

“This is his first offense. I — ”

“That is just the trouble,” interrupted Mr. Livingston vehemently. I thought we had trained him better. What does he do with his money? He doesn’t save any of it.”

“Don’t be too severe on him, father. You know that since you have been unable to work, he has paid us for his board.

“That only takes half his wages,” was the quick retort.

“Besides his board,” went on the understanding mother, “he buys his own clothes, and has already bought a few books for his library.”

“A trifle, a mere trifle!” responded Mr. Livingston. “What does that amount to if he ruins his reputation and brings disgrace on himself and us?”

As the worried father finished speaking, the door opened, and the apparently disobedient son entered.

When Harold mixed with the crowd, after leaving the picture show, he walked with the air of one who has something definite to do. He made straight for one of the largest apartment stores in the city. In his pocket were the contents of the mysterious box, which had caused little brother Fred and sister Florence so much concern. It was the money he had saved up by being saving, and working overtime. He was afraid his savings would not reach, now that his big sister and her two children had come home for the holidays. However, he was determined that every one should be remembered. It took a long time to select all the presents, but how he enjoyed it! Finally there remained just one present to buy. That was for his father. The contents of his purse had been fast disappearing. From his pocket he drew his last two-dollar bill. He had thought that perhaps there would be enough money left over to buy himself a pair of skates. This was not to be. The price of the gloves he selected for his father was exactly two dollars.

His amis were now so full of bundles that the clerk had to open the door for him to pass out. On his way home he decided that in order to keep his plans secret he would hide his parcels in the barn under the hay. He never once thought of the time or his promise to come home immediately after the show, until his parcels were hidden. Remembering his father’s words, he hurried to the house. It took a long time before Harold forgot the reprimand he received that night. Not that the reprimand was severe, but on the night before Christmas a scolding, no matter how well meant or lightly given, goes straight to the heart.

“I know that I have broken my word and disobeyed you in not coming home earlier, but if you understood, you would not say one angry word,” replied the boy as he retired to his room.

Have you ever tried to pray when you felt that you had been treated unjustly? It is always easy to thank God for his blessings when you have had no trouble. Harold’s father had taught him to pray; he had also given him, what seemed to him, an unjust scolding. Harold did not think he had anything to be thankful for, so he went straight to bed. Try as he would, he could not sleep. The longer he lay, the harder he thought, and the plainer he could see that he had many things to be thankful for. Kneeling down, down beside his bed, he prayed as earnestly as he had ever prayed in his life. To his troubled mind came a picture of the Christ child in swaddling clothes. Then he thought of the first Christmas. Rising from his bed aud turning on the light he took up his little pocket Bible and turned to St. Luke, 2nd chapter and read:

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising Cod, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

While waiting for everything to become quiet down stairs, he thought over the story of the first Christmas, and he concluded that it was the most beautiful story he had ever read.

When he was sure everybody had gone to bed he crept quietly downstairs and arranged his gifts.

Harold was not the only one whose mind was troubled. Sometime after he had gone back to bed, his father arose and paced the floor of his room. “What is the matter?” asked Mrs. Livingston. “Are you sure our present for Harold is in the parlor where you put it?” asked the father. So engrossed was he in his own thoughts that he did not reply to his wife’s question. “Of course it is, dear,” replied his wife.

“Somehow or other I don’t feel right about taking Harold to task the way I did tonight. I’d give my right hand rather than harm him in any way. I suppose it is because I think so much of him and am so anxious about his welfare that I talk to him the way I do. I hope he spends a good night. Tomorrow I’m going to do all I can to make him the happiest boy in the world. So saying he went back to bed, but it was nearly morning before he was able to sleep.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. The snow had been falling all through the night, and now covered the earth with a great, white mantle. In its purity, the new-fallen snow typified the spotless life of the Son of God. The children were out of bed before day break. That was too early; their parents called them back to bed. The children went back to bed, but they did not go to sleep. With joyous impatience they waited for the first streak of gray. When it came they tumbled out of bed like a covey of quail, startled from its cover. They rushed into the parlor and there before them, robed in all its majestic splendor, stood their Christmas tree. The little green and red candles, the glowing red apples, the glittering tinsel contrasted with the dull green of the tree; and, hanging high over all, the angel of light with its message of “Peace on earth, good will toward men,” so dazzled the children that they stood still in speechless amazement. A momentary pause, like the lull that precedes a storm, and the spell of enchantment was broken. What an uproar followed! In a delirium of joy they took each other by the hand, swung twice around the tree, and then fell eagerly to examining the presents.

When Harold, who had followed the children into the parlor, saw them reading their names on the presents he had selected for them, he felt the joy which warms the heart of a cheerful giver. Enraptured by the happiness he had caused others, he approached the Christmas tree to see if, perchance, Santa had remembered him. He went through the parcels a second and a third time, before he came to a full realization that he had been forgotten. Little Florence, playing at his feet, held up her doll and cried: “See what I dot for Tristmas.” Then she noticed his empty hands. “What did oo dit?” she asked.

Harold tried to answer. His lips moved, but no words came from them. Turning slowly away, he withdrew himself from the tree and its angel of light; and as if to hide himself, retreated into the corner of the room. Through dim eyes he watched the children at play. Cruel disappointment had driven the joy from his heart and left in its place a dull, aching pain. Suddenly he was filled with a desire to be alone. Like an outcast, unnoticed, he left the house. Where should he go? He cared not. As he walked, he brushed a tear from his eye. Almost unconsciously he entered the barn. Possibly it was the half-open door that attracted his attention. Once inside, he could contain himself no longer. Throwing himself on the hay where he had hidden his bundles the night before, he wept bitterly.

Thanks to a kind Providence, his sorrow was soon to end. In less time than it takes to tell it, he was transported from the depths of sorrow to the heights of joy. As he wept, he felt a soft, warm nose push under his face. Looking up he beheld what afterwards he claimed to be the prettiest dog in the world. He was all white and curly, with touches of black on the points of his ears and the end of his tail. Around his neck was a bright collar. From the collar, by means of a blue baby ribbon, hung a little white card. On the card were these words: “Accept Carlo as a token of my best wishes, Santa.” Good old Santa had remembered him, after all. With trembling hands he caught the dog by the collar and ran from the barn, leaving the door open as he had found it.

“Oh! there you are, you young run-a-way,” called Mrs. Walters, from over the fence. You’ve been up to some trick already this morning.”

Harold thought Mrs. Walters was speaking to him. He did not notice that she was looking at the dog by his side. Neither did he know that Mrs. Walters had bought a dog for her husband’s Christmas present.

“A merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Walters!” exclaimed the excited boy. “I went in there because I — well because — I didn’t want to be in the house.” Patting his dog on the head he went on, “Isn’t this the finest Christmas present ever given to a boy?”

“For the love of Mike,” ejaculated Mrs. Walters as she stared at the boy in open-mouthed astonishment.

“It’s certainly great!” responded Harold. “A few moments ago I came out here feeling very unhappy. It’s awful to think that your father and mother do not care for you, isn’t it? That’s what I thought. Gee! I am glad I was wrong. When I came out here I didn’t care whether I ever did a kind act again. Now I feel like I want to be kind to everybody. Can’t I do something for you?”

As Harold finished speaking Mr. Livingston came through the gate and up the path, leading a dog. He was sweating and breathing hard. Evidently he had been walking fast for a considerable distance.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, what’s that you have there, Harold? Why, it’s a dog, exactly like the one I have here. He has a blue ribbon on his neck, hasn’t he? Your mother and I made arrangements with Santa to bring him to our house for your Christmas present. This he did, but last night the young scamp broke his rope and ran away. I’ve been out trying to find him. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Walters,” he continued. “Here’s Mrs. Walter’s dog. Santa said it came back to him this morning. He asked me to take it to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Livingston,” said Mrs. Walters, earnestly. “I’m glad to get our dog back. He is a Christmas present to my husband; but it’s more pleased I am to know there are two dogs so much alike.”

“Did you think I was claiming your dog?” asked Harold.

“That’s what I did, and I was also thinking of giving ye the dog, if yer father hadn’t appeared just when he did.”

“That is kind of you, Mrs. Walters,” said the boy; but you don’t know how happy I am that you didn’t have to give me your dog. I’ve made a wonderful discovery. Father,” he continued, holding out his hand, “I am the happiest boy in the world.”

“I am glad of that, Harold,” answered the happy father, examining the card on the dog, at his son’s side. “He’s yours. This is the very card your mother and I saw Santa write. Take him into the house and show him to the other children.”

Harold ran joyfully into the house. “He is a fine boy,” said Mrs. Walters.

“You’re right,” answered the proud father. “His mother and I are grateful for this Christmas day, because it has given us the opportunity of making our son feel that he is the happiest boy in the world.”

It is now several years since Carlo was brought to the Livingston home. He is an old dog now. Harold is a grown man, but he often thinks of the joy that came to his heart when he discovered that he had not been forgotten on that memorable Christmas morning.