From the Improvement Era, December 1939 –

Gift – A Short Short Story

By Lella Marler Hogan

After a nerve-racking day in the courtroom, Judge Kendrick made his way along the busy street back to his office. The city was gay with Christmas decorations, and shoppers were hurrying along the wet pavements, jostling one another as they crowded in and out of the busy shops.

On entering his office the Judge went straight to his desk and hurriedly looked through his mail. It was nearly six o’clock, but Frank Judson, his clerk, was still waiting for him.

“Any calls?” asked Kendrick.

“Nothing that required your attention, except the young fellow who wants you to go and see his grandfather.”

“Back again today, was he?”

“Yes, he seems to be very much in earnest. Says his grandfather can’t hold out much longer and that it is most urgent the old gentleman should see you before he passes on.”

The Judge sighed heavily as he closed his desk and walked over to the window. There was a tired expression on his strong, fine features, and his broad shoulders stooped a little with weariness. He was a large man, not only in stature, but also in his outlook on life and his everyday dealings with his fellows. But this Christmas the demands for assistance had increased to such an extent as to create a problem for his consideration.

As he looked across the street now, a Christmas silhouette stood out in bold relief under a blaze of red and green lights — the Wise Men on their camels following a winding road into Bethlehem.

“The Gift of the Magi,” he mused, and his voice held more of discouragement than of joy. “The Gift of the Magi — it is fast coming to be the beggar’s passport into our business offices and homes. Some people seem to think that a professional man’s purse has no bottom,”

“If the strings pull easily,” smiled Judson, “that is what concerns them more.”

“It is a draw,” accused Kendrick, “to see who can make the goal first, the charitable organizations or the big-hearted citizen who takes a pride in being generous with someone else’s money. I tell you, Christmas is coming to be a racket.”

“You’re tired,” Judson told him. “You’ve had a hard day in court. Maybe things will took different in the morning.”

“Perhaps. But I still suspect that the old man’s case is just another Christmas ‘touch.’ I suppose, though, I’d better go and see what it’s all about. Is the address there handy?”

“Yes, the young fellow left a card this time. Here it is.”

“Andre Stevenson,” and the Judge looked at the card intently. “Well, Andre, old boy, you’re not far from here, so I’ll go down at once and find out what your trouble is.”

A little later, when Judge Kendrick rapped lightly on the door of a small apartment, it was a gentle voice that called to him to enter, a voice that at once disarmed his suspicions and started a song singing in his tired heart. As he came slowly into the room the owner of the voice looked straight into his face, out of eyes so blue, so earnest, so fearless that he was at once interested and eager to know why he had been summoned.

Coming near the bed, Judge Kendrick looked down on the invalid’s pale face and spare, wiry body. The old man’s white hair encircled his brow like a halo and his countenance shone as with a great joy. Although the Judge loomed in strength and vigor above the frail man, he recognized the other’s superior spiritual force and stood in awed respect before him.

“You sent for me, Mr. Stevenson?” He seated himself near the bedside.

“Call me Andre,”

“All right, Andre, what is it?”

“You do not remember me, because we have not met for many years. But our fathers were great friends and because of that friendship I have kept you in mind through the years. I shall soon be going on a long journey,” he smiled, as if in happy anticipation. “Before I go my way, there are things I must say to you. That is why I sent for you.”

“I shall be glad to do all I can to help you,” the Judge hurried to assure him.

“Judge Kendrick,” declared Andre, his face lighting up joyously. “I want to share with you my rich blessings.” His voice was low and gentle. The Judge leaned forward a little in his eagerness to catch every word.

“Long years ago,” Andre went on, “when I lived in my father’s home in Norway, your father brought us a great gift. It is that gift I would share with you now.”

From a box at his side Andre took a small book and slowly unwound the strip of linen, now yellow with age, in which it was wrapped.

“Your father came over land and sea,” he said, “to bring to my father’s family and to others the message contained in this book.”

Judge Kendrick held the book in his hand and looked at it intently. On the worn leather cover the title, Mormons Bog, was dimly discernible. Opening it he noted the inscription, written in his father’s well-remembered hand. It read:

“I have come across the world to bring to you the most precious of all gifts, the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Elder George Kendrick.”

Andre waited. The Judge said nothing, but turned the pages slowly, noting the careful interlineations. Then closing the book gently he passed it back to Andre.

“It is for you,” said Andre, placing it in his hand again. “I have come far to bring it to you. There was a time when you believed in its teachings and lived them. Now, in your busy life, I was afraid you might forget.”

Judge Kendrick closed his hand reverently about the worn volume. For a moment he made no reply. In that brief silence, memory carried him back to the living-room of a little cottage in the west, a cottage that he held most dear. Again he could see his father’s straight, strong figure and gentle countenance as he called his family around him for evening prayer. His lovely mother, his brothers, his sisters were all there, kneeling in reverent devotion. And he was one with his loved ones, in that little circle of prayer.

It had been a long time since the Judge had opened the book of the past. But now that it was open a great emotion swept through his heart. The real values of life came singing back to him. It was as if a guiding light had suddenly shone out ahead of him, revealing the path of truth that for a time had been lost in the hurry and confusion of the daily round of life. And then he was back again, sitting beside his father’s old friend.

In the dusk of the little room his words came to Andre like soft music in the stillness of the night. He spoke slowly as if he were weighing each word.

“You can never know, Andre, how fully I appreciate your great kindness. We live in a selfish world. Few men give such sublime devotion to a cause as you have given. In the long years of struggle, fortune has brought me money and influence. But nowhere in all my wanderings have I found the peace that has come to me this night. Andre, I accept your Christmas gift.”