From the Improvement Era, December 1921 –

The “Star’s” Christmas Feature

By Frank C. Steele

The constancy of a mother’s love was beautifully demonstrated in the devotion of Jane Burton to her absent son, Howard. For five years, lonely, barren years, she had waited, watching with hungry eyes the arrival of every train from the east. And for five years she had turned away from the window of her little, white-washed cottage in tearful disappointment.

“Will little Howard ever come back to his mother?” she would say, over and over, as she went about her simple household duties.

Since her son’s departure for a great eastern city, where he hoped to make his fortune, a blank had come into her life. He was all that she had. Her husband had died shortly after the boy’s birth, bequeathing little to his loved ones save the rocky, fifteen-acre farm and a name respected throughout the country.

Howard had written regularly for about nine months, but after that the letters came at irregular intervals. Finally, they stopped altogether. The last short message bore a postmark that she could not decipher. The village school teacher told her it was Copenhagen and that it was thousands of miles over the sea.

The months grew into years. Still not a line from Howard. But never once did Jane Burton despair. She just knew Howard would return some day. Each Christmas she would prepare a dinner as near like those of the old days as possible. But the feast of wonderful Christmas dainties prepared for the absent son remained untouched, and the following day the children of the village filled their healthy stomachs at the table of dear old Grandma Burton.

And now another Christmas was approaching. Would he come home? Would he remember her — and understand? She prayed, as many a mother has prayed for a lost son, and her prayer was to be answered through one of those marvelous operations of destiny encountered in the strange currents and undercurrents of life.

It was the evening of the twenty-first of December. The city streets were thronged with hurrying people. A light snow was falling, the fluffy flakes whisking merrily into the faces of the pedestrians. The Christmas spirit was in the air. Everybody was smiling and carrying mysterious packages of varying sizes and descriptions. Even the ragged newsboys, whose little forms showed the pinch of poverty, seemed to catch a ray of happiness as they gazed, round-eyed, into the shop windows laden with toys and good things to eat and gaily decked with holly and mistletoe and pine.

Four stories above the wet pavement Max Fullerton sat pounding the keys of a typewriter. He was night editor of the Star, and was just then preparing some editorial copy for the morning edition. He was alone in the editorial room. The reporters were out covering their runs, and Everett, the assistant editor, was closeted in a down-town hotel with a certain politician from the state capital. Quiet reigned in the office, save for the click of the typewriter, and the distant rattle of the machines on the floor below.

Fullerton had been on the Star for ten years. He was really the brains behind the paper. He loved his work which meant that he threw into it every ounce of energy and brains he had. In fact, he had grown so much a part of the big machine that in ten years of service his annual holiday never extended over a week at a time. When Fullerton would speak of a couple of months off, the chief would only smile, slap the broad shoulders of the younger, and shrug his own significantly. Max had, therefore, in late years dismissed the subject entirely. What enjoyment in life was there anyway, he cynically argued, beyond beating one’s rivals, and occasionally throwing the city into a fever of excitement by means of a rattling typewriter, a cackling linotype, and a rumbling newspaper press?

But the lines on Max Fullerton’s face showed plainly that night. He looked wan and worried. His eyes were dry and heavy. He had laughed when the cub had told him that he was getting gray and cranky, suggesting that he try matrimony as a means of stemming the threatened decline. But the laugh was forced — and Max knew it.

He worked steadily for an hour. Sheet after sheet of copy was taken from the machine. Then the clicking ceased. The newspaper man scanned the pages with a trained eye, made a number of corrections, and silently handed them to a youth as sphinx-like as himself. Then he turned to a pile of letters waiting on his desk to be opened.

There were letters of many descriptions. He opened them hurriedly. Out of long, yellow ones, emblazoned, “News, Rush,” he drew more pages of copy, news of the suburban towns.

There were several letters still unopened. Casting a hasty glance over them, he was about to push the lot into an open drawer when his eyes fell on a soiled envelope bearing the stamp of an obscure post-office in the far West. Fullerton was a native Westerner. In fact, his people lived not more than a hundred miles from this very place.

Perhaps it was curiosity that forced him to pick up the letter and open it. As he did so he glanced at the watch on his wrist. Time was passing. A short, fat reporter blew in like a lake storm, tore off his dripping overcoat, and was soon hammering a Remington as if his whole life hinged on the job.

The night editor did not notice him, for by this time he was engrossed in that soiled letter from the West — actually wasting time to read a letter written in pencil and on both sides of the sheet and in a hand scarcely intelligible. He finished, but still stared at the crudely written lines.

“Hank,” he at length said to the youth who had quietly entered the room, “Tell Green to come here at once.”

Green hastened up from the composing room and stood beside the paper-strewn desk.

“Did you wish to speak with me, Max?” said Green.

“Yes, Bill, I do. Bill, I hold in my hand a smashing human-interest story — a mother’s letter to her lost son. Bill, it’s got feeling, soul, heart, everything. It’s a Christmas feature that will ‘go over,’ or I’m no judge of ‘stuff.’ Bill, this letter is a cry to the pleasure-mad multitudes of this city buzzing around the white lights like moths. I want it run on the front page. If we had time for Allison to make a drawing it would double its value, but the story must appear in the morning. Bill, it may find him, and he may reach the old lady for Christmas. Do you ‘get me,’ Bill?”

When Fullerton left the office of the Star the next morning he went straight to his apartments. As he walked up the avenue the newsies giggled, for Max Fullerton, notorious grouch that he was, was actually humming an old Sunday school song. And — would you believe it? — his face was wreathed in a broad smile, a face which ordinarily was as destitute of smiles as is January of roses.

“Good morning, Mrs. Williams! I’m going home for Christmas, going home to visit the folks. A Merry Christmas to you. Say, Mrs. Williams, I feel like a kid this morning.”

This was how Fullerton greeted his landlady. He almost swept the good dame off her feet. She started to reply on recovering from the first shock, but Max was gone, and the sound of hurrying feet above brought a chuckle and a smile to her prosperous-looking face.

It was but the work of a few minutes to pack suit-case and bag. And Max could do a small job in a hurry. But there was one job that he disliked. That was breaking the news to old Engelhart, the managing editor, and to — Leona.

Fullerton, for once, thanked Providence for the telephone, the innocent little creature he had fumed at so many times during the busy hours at the office. He was never a fluent speaker, but his appeal over the ‘phone that morning made even the chief melt.

But Leona — well, she was so disappointed, and all that sort of thing, that Max grabbed his suit-case and bag, hailed a taxi, and in due time stood at the door of his lady-love’s castle.

Never had Leona seen Max more determined. She smiled at his earnestness twittingly advising him to give up journalism for law. Max grew impatient. Leona debated. Could she sacrifice all those good times planned for the holiday week? It would be so hard to do — and yet there was a novelty about this proposed western trip that was attractive. Then, too, she did want to meet Max’s people. He had never told her a great deal about them, but she was sure they must be nice. Max would be along, too. And that decided the issue. Cupid scored another victory, and the fair Leona was soon preparing for the journey, humming the while a strain from one of the operas.

“Max!” cried the pleased Mr. Engelhart, as the party climbed into the waiting motor car; “you might look up the old lady when you’re out there, and give her a Christmas gift from the firm.”

And he tossed an envelope to Max.

Thirty minutes later the Pacific Limited rolled out of the yards carrying in Pullman Number Five Max and Leona who at that moment were scanning a railway folder. Across the aisle sat Leona’s mother, who, after some tactful persuasion, had consented to join the party.

And as Max and Leona argued good-naturedly over the hazy timetable in Pullman Number Five, back in the city in a tiny oyster and chop house on Canal street, a sailor, just in from foreign parts, waited to be served.

“Paper, mister?” piped a newsboy, displaying his wares, his hungry eyes looking into the face of the sailor.

“Nope.”

“Ah, come on, mister, buy a paper — please. Me dad’s dead, and I ‘ave a muther to keep, and just tink, mister, it’s Christmas —and—”

“Here, boy.”

And the sailor pushed a coin into the lad’s palm taking the bulky newspaper with the other.

Disinterestedly, he scanned the headlines. Then he paused, looked up strangely, then back at the printed page. His meal was served. But the sailor’s eyes were riveted on the paper.

When he did look up his eyes were wet and his hand trembled.

“Bad news, Jackie?” asked the little pale-faced waitress kindly.

“Nope. Good news, miss.”

“And has yer uncle died, Jackie, and left you a pot o’ money!”

“Nope, miss, nothin’ like that. Just a mother waitin’ for me out West, miss, as she’s waited these four years past— waited like only mothers can wait, miss.”

And he pointed to the paper.

“And it’s actually your own, real mother, Jackie?”

“Yes, miss. And ain’t I the poor fish, miss?”

“You’re worse than that.” Then: “She” must be a wonderful mother, Jackie.”

“She is — the best in the world, miss, and I know ’cause I’ve seen it all.”

“And you’re going home for Christmas, Jackie?”

“Leave this afternoon. Got to, to make it.”

The girl’s eyes were swimming now.

“I’ve got a mother, too, Jackie.”

“Shouldn’t wonder.”

“And I haven’t seen her for a couple of years. I tried to save enough money to get home this Christmas, but nothin’ doin’, Jackie. A workin’ girl can’t get by these days. You see, I took the ‘flu,’ and then the high cost o’ livin’, and everythin’ a—”

“Hard lines, miss.”

And the sailor finished his meal, and as he turned away from the counter he slipped a greenback under his plate.

“Goodbye, miss, and a Merry Christmas.”

“Goodbye, Jackie, I’m glad you’re goin’ home to your mother!”

And the sailor was soon swallowed up in the crowd.

A hundred miles from the city the Pacific Limited whirled westward.

“How happy those girls seem,, Leona! Doesn’t it make one feel good to see other folks happy? You know, dear, I have just discovered in the last few hours that Christmas has a spirit — and that spirit is good cheer. Good cheer, Leona, and thoughtfulness for others.”

It was Max Fullerton who spoke, addressing his remark to his lady companion, as they sat in Pullman Number Five.

“Yes, Max, I feel the same — just downright happy. I’m so glad we’re making this trip to your old home, Max, dear. How happy it will make your dear, sweet mother.”

“Happy, Leona! Why mother will never get over the surprise. It will seem like the good old days of childhood returned. I wonder if I’d better wire them. No, let’s make it a grand Christmas surprise.”

In the seat ahead two young ladies, evidently employed in some business house of the city, were chatting idly. The theatre, movie stars, clothes, late dance steps, and a host of other topics, dear to the feminine heart, were severally discussed and disposed of.

“Say, Bess,” one said presently, “what ever put it into your head to leave the lights during the holidays? I thought your case on Chet would have queered any Christmas trip.”

“Do you really want to know, Kate dear? True, I had promised Chet I would stay in town and dine with him at the Savoy. But Kate dear, I couldn’t after — ”

“After what, you sentimental little goose? Listen to me, Bess, if I were as strong with Chet as you, nothing could make me trail for the homestead.”

“Stop, Kate. It’s wrong to talk of your old home like that. I’ve done it, I know, but for the last time. You asked me why I’m going home to spend Christmas with mother, the mother, Kate, that slaved to keep me in business college. This is what did it, Kate.”

She fumbled in a dainty handbag, and extracting a crumpled newspaper clipping, handed it to her friend.
Max Fullerton, who saw the incident, understood. There was anew thrill of joy awakened within him. Perhaps it was professional pride, but be that as it may, it was none the less sincere. The Stars front page Christmas feature had reached the people. Yes, it had even reached Howard Burton. But Max did not know that until ten days later when he visited a certain little, white-washed cottage in which he found a swarthy sailor boy telling an old-fashioned mother of the strange lands and peoples across the seas.