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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSfT. 
 
LITTLE CHRIST 
 STORIES 
 
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 X\*^ ELIZABETH CALVERT 
 Author of "THE TWO HOUSES," Etc. 
 
 BOSTON 
 Roxburgh Publishing Company, Inc. 
 
 19 2 2 
 

 Copyrighted, 1922 
 
 By The Roxburgh Publishing Company, Inc. 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 M>R -5 B23 
 ©C1A705153 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 FOREWORD 5 
 
 MUD COURT 7 
 
 LITTLE DINKY 22 
 
 FELICIEN 33 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN — THE DIVINE 
 ENCOUNTER 53 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH 66 
 
 THE BLESSED 81 
 
 CHARON'S PENNY 96 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 The motif of these little stories — the Christ 
 motif — should have the strongest appeal. 
 The stories are not trying to get by, by reason 
 of cheap piety. They are not sloppy, barren 
 religious productions, but should satisfy the 
 most sensitive taste by reason of their artistry 
 and literary execution. 
 
 They deal reverently with our most sacred 
 conventions. 
 
 Nor should they be boresome because of 
 the freshness, the keen observation of char- 
 acters. The characters are human, the in- 
 cidents lie in the lower strata of life. Into 
 the daily rut is thrown the transforming 
 impulse that the world waits for forever. 
 
I 
 
 MUD COURT 
 
 It could not be said that twelve-year old 
 Maug believed in miracles or that she under- 
 stood in the very least the art of histrionics, 
 and she had never even heard of such a thing 
 as a Passion Play. Yet the results of the 
 little production in the corner of the woodshed 
 could have come only through some blind 
 tide of passionate understanding — something 
 slipped over. The denseness was flouted, 
 just as in an electric storm a yielding straw 
 has been found buried deep in the apparently 
 unyielding trunk of a tree. There was not 
 a bit of conscious intelligence in the whole 
 thing, unless it was Maug's sympathy for all 
 sorts of boys, not excluding by a long way 
 those of her own neighborhood, the Gutter 
 Brand. 
 
8 Little Christ Stories 
 
 At home she was variously classified. 
 Should a newcomer happen to praise another 
 member of the family in Maug's absence, her 
 mother would toss her head high and proudly 
 say, "Oh, you should see oor Maugie," and 
 the praise lost nothing by the pleasant 
 Scotch dialect. "She's a queer creetor," 
 was Grannie's dictum, "she kens ower 
 muckle." Her father, a man better in- 
 formed than those about him, was often seen 
 to look quizzingly at her, and surmisingly, 
 and that was all. Evidently he had made 
 up his mind that she was the one to hang 
 the Bible on, and he hung it. It was the 
 one book there, and Maug read it every 
 day and night of the week, and twice a day 
 and night on Sunday. So it was only in 
 the stress of some revelation, idea or emo- 
 tion that she could be said to live, for there 
 was no decay in her faith. This was why 
 
Little Christ Stories 9 
 
 the shed came into play. Something had to 
 be expressed. 
 
 To the boys and girls of Mud Court, Maug 
 was at once a fairy tale and a grotesque to 
 whom they looked for amusement — amuse- 
 ment wholly of the imagination, for there was 
 nothing else. Her riotous imagination peopled 
 the Court with Jordan Rivers and Seas of 
 Galilee. Her gestures, though theatrical, 
 were natural, in the best sense, for, mind you, 
 wherever her power came from, she could play. 
 And it was not so hard to be a Bible character, 
 when Bible characters were all she knew. 
 
 It is a long way from Mud Court to Jeru- 
 salem, where the Lad was found in the 
 Temple attending to His Father's business. 
 The Court was as dear to Maug, was as 
 much her business as His Father's was to 
 Him, hundreds of years ago, and it may have 
 been her topmost, if unconscious thought, 
 
10 Little Christ Stories 
 
 that what happened of old was a voucher for 
 what could happen again. 
 
 It had rained for a week and the uncross- 
 able yard Was a sea of slithery mud, with 
 sundry planks and rubbish as stepping stones 
 to the dozen or so habitations opening 
 thereon — or under thereon, for there were 
 some cellars. 
 
 The locale of the play was not exactly a 
 woodshed — it was really a section of a large 
 abandoned barn, abutting on the alley, the 
 leading thoroughfare of Mud Court; but it 
 did not belong there. Nothing so sumptuous 
 belonged there. 
 
 One end of the shed was partitioned off 
 for the stage. To be sure, there were no 
 property rocks, papier-mache thrones, canvas 
 trees nor sheet-iron thunder. As for stage 
 trickery there was none, not a scrap of 
 gilded scenery. One decoration alone dom- 
 
Little Christ Stones 11 
 
 inated the shed; a great cross, whitewashed 
 on the gray characterless boards, the per- 
 pendicular bar of the hugh daub reaching 
 up-up-up, and the arms extending wide 
 across the stage. Some old joints of stove- 
 pipe (a find) set far apart represented the 
 pillars of the Temple. Of course there was 
 no ringing up and no curtain, and the only- 
 attempts in the way of make-ups were culled 
 from the gutter. 
 
 Ginty McGee wore one such — a find from 
 the sweepings of a cheap picture dealer — a 
 fiery colored, torn Bleeding Heart. It was 
 pinned to his breast. Nels Schafer had a 
 Crown of Thorns from the same source. It 
 was made of stiff paper and was stuck into 
 his forelocks like an Indian's quills and 
 feathers. 
 
 Maug's scheme up to the very last minute 
 was a generality. But sometimes a power 
 
12 Little Christ Stories 
 
 seemed to come with her idea. Her only 
 instructions to the little actors were that 
 they must think themselves to be the char- 
 acters they were to represent, anything else 
 was to come from themselves — something 
 they had heard her read, something learned 
 at Sunday school — that was all. Sometimes 
 a little kick came in that was surprising, even 
 the kind that draws an audience out of the 
 seats for the fraction of a second. 
 
 The abjects were beginning to arrive, not 
 exactly through the Golden Streets, but 
 bringing with them the mud of the Court. 
 A few trickled in, but the most of them at 
 first glued their eyes to the familiar knot- 
 holes and chinks. 
 
 With swift touches, Maug was arranging 
 things; hauling a boy here and there, settling 
 him where she wanted him. She assigned 
 little Matt his place with a few whispered 
 
Little Christ Stories 13 
 
 words. Matt was garbed to represent the 
 Boy — Christ in the Temple. The garbing 
 consisted of hemp strands on his head, and 
 a piece of an old shawl draped like a toga 
 about his ten-year old shoulders. 
 
 Stumpy came in, clumsily scraping his 
 crutches on the rough boards. She drew 
 him gently to a comfortable soap-box and 
 patted him on the head. 
 
 "Please, Maug," he panted, grasping her 
 hand as she was leaving, "Jerry an' Mickey's 
 outside an' they're goin' to throw things 
 atcha. They're waitin' fer ye to begin." 
 There were lines of pain over his thin pale 
 face; he had been weary and sick since day 
 began, but he clung to Maug, and was there. 
 "They're goin' ter give ye trouble," he 
 warned her. 
 
 Jerry had been Maug's leading man, but 
 had become a backslider. There was a good 
 
14 Little Christ Stories 
 
 deal of the dare-devil about him; he could 
 rarely take his part like any other boy but 
 must fall into some extravagant humor. 
 This humor of late had taken the form of 
 flouting anything spoken of that could not 
 be tested by bodily senses. 
 
 "They're at the big knot-hole, Maug," 
 Jerry pointed in the direction. His voice 
 was anxious. For some reason he had an 
 overwhelming horror of all roughness. 
 
 Maug crossed to the place indicated, but 
 stopped to set up a mite of a child where she 
 would be out of the way of clumsy feet. 
 
 Outside Jerry and Mickey could be plainly 
 heard. 
 
 "Aw, what d'ye say she's goin' ter have 
 ackted now; cos she gotta have them Bible 
 fellers always. I ain't goin' ter ack them 
 any more, Moses an' the rest. I'm tired of 
 them." Jerry thrust up his head. He was 
 
Little Christ Stones 15 
 
 always dirty, yet always looked clean through 
 the dirt. 
 
 "Golden streets, fer one thing, an' a Boy, 
 a kid. I hear her tellin' Stumpy." Mickey 
 had over-eager eyes, and was pinning Jerry 
 to the boards with his glance. "Matt's 
 gotta ack the Kid — the Jesus — the one 
 we had ter Sunday School, wot they 
 put inter the Bible long ago." This was 
 announced with the ease that goes among 
 children. 
 
 "Matt!" snorted Jerry. "He's to be 'er 
 leadin' man, is he? That's cos I wouldn't 
 ack that Kid — the one that was in the 
 Temple. We don't have them now-a-days, 
 they don't come here ever; nor none of them 
 Peterses nor Thomases nor none." 
 
 Swift as Elijah's whirlwind, Maug was 
 beside them, and bringing in the two Isca- 
 riots settled them not far from Stumpy. 
 
16 Little Christ Stories 
 
 As she released a hand from Jerry's collar 
 she bent close and looked at him, just looked. 
 
 Jerry's bump of veneration was lost in a 
 hollow, but if he had no adoration to bestow 
 on the Mary, he adored Maug. She was his 
 magnet. The flush on his boyish face and the 
 jerking of himself together, pulling himself 
 up, told her he would be good, or try to be. 
 It looked as if her power over him had re- 
 turned, a power of a kind with that which 
 Jesus had over the poor possessed ones. 
 
 If Jerry had not sat so near the stage he 
 might have controlled himself. But little 
 Matt was inordinately proud of his part, the 
 stage Christ, the most ambitious yet 
 attempted, and the honor of appearing in it 
 drew upon him the scorn of Jerry. 
 
 "Aw, gwan," he jeered, unable to control 
 his feelings. "Ye's a fake Christ. Ye's 
 hairs come off. Ye ain't the One in the 
 
Little Christ Stories 17 
 
 Temple. Them Christs never come here now 
 wot come long ago. She's foolin' ye; tryin' 
 ter make believe." He reached out to snatch 
 the hemp strands from the head of Matt. 
 
 "Ye's a dirty good liar." A gust of im- 
 patience swept the usually patient Matt, 
 and his dirty little fists held fast to his head, 
 "Ye can't ack any more; Maug won't have 
 ye. Ye's — ye's a Jew. Ye's one of the 
 Jews wot hung Him — wot crucified Him." 
 
 "Ye's a Jew yerself." Jerry made a threat- 
 ening move, "I'll — " His good behavior had 
 vanished; he was seething with chagrin to 
 see another boy take his ^place, the leading 
 role, although it was his own fault, as he 
 knew, that he was merely an onlooker. 
 
 Maug sprang to the combatants. The 
 hubbub spread and she swiftly took up her 
 place at the foot of the cross and raised her 
 right hand high. This gesture, which could 
 
18 Little Christ Stories 
 
 likewise galvanize the shed into action and 
 understanding, was now for silence, which 
 instantly fell upon the place. 
 
 Then suddenly there was a something — 
 an illumination, a tremor, a shivering of 
 golden light — or could it have been light- 
 ning? If not there was yet a glow that lit 
 up the dreary day and made a golden-walled 
 Jerusalem of the shed, as if a small maelstrom 
 of divinity itself were let loose. It was too 
 brief to believe in — or even to con over after 
 it had passed, yet while the dazzle continued, 
 it spread glory. But the glory, mindful of 
 the gray, suddenly withdrew, and in the 
 twinkling of an eye the shed wore only the 
 doleful symbol as before. 
 
 Some of the children looked bewildered; 
 others seemed not affected at all. Matt 
 was found weeping softly to himself, but 
 would give no explanation whatever. 
 
Little Christ Stories 19 
 
 It was Jerry who first broke the tension of 
 the shed and brought it back to a more 
 normal state — Jerry, the doubting Thomas, 
 Jerry the arch-rebel. A subdued alterca- 
 tion was going on in his vicinity. 
 
 "Gwan!" he was saying hoarsely, "ef they 
 c'u'd come them times, them wot cured 
 cripples an' raised the dead an '-an '-every- 
 thing, then they c'u'd come into the barn 
 now. An' I seen Him; He floated down as 
 if the roof came off an' stood right over 
 against Stumpy. It was Him, the Boy in 
 the Temple, wot she's always speakin' 
 about, wot we saw the picture of. An' I 
 saw her too — Maug. At first she was leanin' 
 against It — the way she often stands," and 
 he pointed dramatically to the great emblem. 
 "An' then, an' then, she seemed to rise up — 
 up — up, an' soon she was all in a piece with 
 it. An' then He was gone, an' I looked 
 
20 Little Christ Stones 
 
 around an' everything was shinin' an' Stumpy 
 was standin' there straight up without his 
 sticks — they was lyin' there at his feet — an' 
 an' I ain't tryin' to kid ye; it wasn't the fake 
 over there, the fake Matt, at all, it was the 
 real Kid — the little Jesus." 
 
 Jerry said all this precipitately, as if he 
 knew the convincing power of rapidity. He 
 shook himself and drew his jacket, picked 
 out with sundry patches, closer around him, 
 as if the barn was the biggest kind of a place, 
 and he too had shared in something. 
 
 Others declared they saw something, but 
 Jerry's testimony stood out clear and strong 
 enough from the hazy versions — a real hark- 
 back to Jerusalem times — the time set for 
 the little play in the barn. 
 
 Some small profanity and expressions of un- 
 belief broke from a morsel of a boy, and Maug 
 was there at once, her hand over his mouth. 
 
Little Christ Stories 21 
 
 "Ye said the roof was off an' He came in. 
 But it isn't, an' how did He get in?" Every 
 neck was craned to the roof as Toby Shank 
 spoke. That was rather a facer for Jerry, 
 but he was saved reply by everybody crowding 
 around Stumpy, whose leg was being solemnly 
 measured with a stick, indeed both legs — 
 by Mickey. 
 
 "I seen nothin'," some one jeered. " 'Twas 
 a kink in his knee, an' now it dropped down. 
 Maybe his leg'll drop off. He's tryin' to kid 
 ye. He's not cured." 
 
 The caustic remarks went unheeded, for a 
 procession was forming with Stumpy and 
 Maug leading, Jerry carrying one crutch and 
 Mickey the other, close behind, and all the 
 others scrambling and tumbling after. The 
 procession was headed for one of the cellars, 
 Stumpy's home, and the uncrossable yard 
 was now the Golden Street. 
 
II 
 
 LITTLE DINKY 
 
 Before the day of Stumpy's cure, the 
 boys of Mud Court were, for the most part, 
 a lot of defiant rebels and irresponsible to a 
 degree, but immediately following the shed 
 incident they became amazingly serious and 
 watchful of all suffering. They might have 
 been likened to the poor fishermen upon 
 whom fell the power of the Holy Ghost. No 
 treasures of Scripture were unfolded to 
 them, they were not endowed with the gift 
 of tongues, and they never attempted to 
 expound or explain; but if there is such a 
 thing as this descent, they seemed to have 
 had that experience. 
 
 "Little Dinky had convulshuns last night, 
 Maug. He suffered orful afore he took 'em. 
 I heard him cry out." Stumpy looked 
 downcast. 
 
Little Christ Stones 23 
 
 "The dear baby. The dear little Dinky. 
 How he has suffered." Maug looked as if 
 pain of spirit would wreck her body. She 
 was fuller than ever of the fine zest for 
 healing. They were standing at the foot of 
 the great white-washed cross, alone. Stumpy 
 looked as if he had shot up exotically in a 
 short time. 
 
 "Can ye think of something, Maug?" 
 Stumpy 's eyes were reaching for Maug's 
 soul. His faith in her, as was that of the 
 whole gang, was supreme; and some delight- 
 ful harmony in her kept their homage; yet 
 not one of them knew just how or where or 
 when the precious atmosphere — magical, it 
 seemed — would be created into which the 
 spirit of healing and helping entered. 
 
 "I have thought of something, Stumpy. 
 Come." Maug left the shed and swiftly 
 crossed the yard, evading garbage heaps, 
 
24 Little Christ Stories 
 
 jumping lightly here and wading there, as 
 if she were treading a rosy pathway. When 
 she arrived at Dinky 's home, a tumble-down 
 affair, one of many look-alikes in the place, 
 she gently pushed the door open and entered, 
 followed closely by Stumpy. 
 
 The sick baby lay in a wooden hulk of a 
 cradle, an old-fashioned, hooded one, and at 
 each flop of the cradle the little form rolled 
 heavily from side to side. Maug took the 
 mother's hand, patted it and resumed the 
 rocking herself, a mere touch. The mother's 
 sullen eyes were fixed on her. 
 
 " Dinky 's goin' now, sure. What 'd the 
 Lord give 'im me for? E's had never a well 
 day since he was born. But he's a lot to me; 
 he's just as much to me as — as — a healthy — 
 Where — where — Did ye bring one in with 
 ye, Maug? What are ye movin' yer arms 
 that way fer — as if ye were holdin' some- 
 
Little Christ Stones 25 
 
 thin'?" The mother's voice was tremulous 
 and questioning and she turned her head 
 from one to the other and back again to 
 Maug, as if to make sure they were there. 
 "I'm weak with watchin' an' must have 
 been dreamin'." She dropped her eyes but 
 quickly looked up again, as if a thought had 
 suddenly occurred to her, "Don't ye see the 
 baby — the strong one?" she turned to a 
 drabby neighbor seated at the foot of the 
 cradle, at the same time drawing the back of 
 her hand across her eyes as if to clear away 
 something. 
 
 "The baby?" the neighbor echoed in a 
 voice of scorn. "No, I don't see no other 
 baby. What baby?" She didn't look as if 
 a well or a sick baby either appealed to her 
 sensibilities. 
 
 "Little Jesus, Tender Shepherd," lisped a 
 dirty mite perched on the table in the midst 
 
26 Little Christ Stories 
 
 of unwashed dishes. She was quoting Sunday 
 school. 
 
 "Oh, that baby." scoffed the drabby 
 neighbor. 
 
 "I thought I saw a well 'un, a healthy 'un 
 as was breathin' on mine; trying' to touch 
 mine; reachin' an' reachin' for mine." The 
 mother's voice trailed away as if not con- 
 cerned with those present. Unconsciously 
 she may have recalled Christ's touch from 
 hearing the children repeat the Bible stories. 
 "Didn't ye see Dinky smilin'? When did 
 Dinky smile afore? Didn't ye see him 
 smilin'? Don't you think he looks better?" 
 This was to the neighbor who, with face 
 awry, would now look neither at the cradle 
 nor the mother. 
 
 Stumpy was still standing close to Maug, 
 cap in hand. The mother rose and faced 
 him. "Yous was touched. Yous was 
 
Little Christ Stories 27 
 
 touched. An' look at ye, whole an' well." 
 Her voice was shrill in pitch now. She 
 looked as if carved in stone as she pointed a 
 long thin finger at him. Suddenly she wilted 
 and her voice dropped to a deep earnestness, 
 as, laying a timid hand on Maug's shoulder, 
 she said, "It's yous, Maug, it's yous, that 
 does it." It was the first overture the 
 mother made. 
 
 When the mother, the sullenness gone 
 from her eyes, appeared in the weak sun- 
 shine of Mud Court next day, holding Dinky 
 aloft to the gang, every face was happy. 
 The little chap was picking at a toy bird with 
 his wasted fingers. He was but a rickety 
 specimen and any day might see him go if 
 the convulsions returned. She had stood in her 
 doorway for some time before crossing the 
 yard, and now hung around the shed, looking 
 alternately shame-faced, defiant, hopeful. 
 
28 Little Christ Stories 
 
 It was Jerry who brought her in, for 
 the main thought was to get her into the 
 shed — under the shadow of the Cross, 
 perhaps. Mickey had preceded them, 
 bearing some wisps of hay from the alley 
 barns. He whispered to Maug, who was 
 rigging up some sort of a manger out 
 of an old box, evidently in expectation of 
 Dinky's visit. 
 
 In an instant Maug had her arm through 
 the mother's, and after kissing Dinky softly 
 on the cheek, led her right up to the foot of 
 the Cross, and seated her at the side of the 
 manger, now softened with the bits of hay 
 covered with scraps of white cloth. Maug 
 evidently knew whither she sailed, and what 
 was a good and fair wind. The manger was 
 ready. The mother and child were in the 
 shed — over the door of which, instead of the 
 classic injunction: "Abandon hope all ye who 
 
Little Christ Stories 29 
 
 enter here," might be written: Hold fast to 
 hope, all ye who enter here. 
 
 "Ef the other one comes, the well one, 
 wot she says she saw, what she says was a 
 little Christ wot Dinky smiled at, they 
 can be together," Jerry assured Mickey. 
 
 The Brand seemed to take it for granted 
 that Maug and the Cross would make good 
 would prove effective. That which was so 
 exceptional at first soon found place in the 
 dreary barrenness of Mud Court. The faith 
 tendencies of the children had evidently 
 acted favorably upon their minds, causing 
 mental happiness. Belief, actual belief, with- 
 out a thought of trying to comprehend, had 
 invaded the shed. 
 
 "We give the Saloot first," Jerry nudged 
 the mother of Dinky. 
 
 "The Saloot?" the mother queried. 
 
 "Ye must be still an' look at the Big 
 
30 Little Christ Stories 
 
 Thing there," pointing to the Cross. "That's 
 the Saloot." The mother's eyes followed 
 Jerry's — up — up — up. 
 
 Maug standing between the rows of old 
 stove pipes, lifted up her right hand, and in 
 a twinkling there was a hush, a silence deep 
 and significant, and every eye was held in 
 steady gaze for a minute on the Great Symbol. 
 It was all they had to give to God. 
 
 In another twinkling the entertainment — 
 or whatever it was, for it could not carry a 
 name — was on: the occupants of the shed 
 were emptying out bits of Sunday-school 
 verse, absurd applications of passages of 
 Scripture and anything else that came ready 
 of mind, making little lodgments of truth 
 easy. And out of this chaos, and even 
 pandemonium that sometimes reigned, and 
 was listed with the plays, Maug could bring 
 the shed-audience to order by facing the 
 
Little Christ Stories 31 
 
 Symbol. It was in one of these pauses that 
 the cry of the mother was heard. 
 
 Once in a lifetime, perhaps never, such a 
 cry is wrung out. This is how it happened. 
 
 In plain view was the rough manger, in 
 which sat Dinky and the double — the Beau- 
 tiful One — the Child Christ. Dinky was 
 smiling and holding out his little hands, and 
 the Well One, a glorious Babe, seemed to 
 envelop Dinky in a rosy atmosphere, with 
 eagerness, intentness and love depicted on 
 the cherub face. Slowly they drew closer — 
 closer — and then were indistinguishable; and 
 — Dinky sat alone, supreme, glorious, whole. 
 
 Again the cry of the mother, as she snatched 
 her babe hastily to her bosom, lest the magic 
 which had made him whole might undo him 
 again. 
 
 "It's yous, Maug, it's yous that does it. 
 When ye turn an' face THAT," and she held 
 
32 Little Christ Stories 
 
 up to the Cross an offering, her babe, "some- 
 thin' f oilers ye an' sweeps away the things 
 — the bad — like Stumpy's leg and Dinky's 
 fits." The voice was husky and tremulous. 
 
 A trembling form of transport and owner- 
 ship, which made the audience stand aside, 
 was that of the mother carrying bright-eyed 
 Dinky from the shed to her home in the Court, 
 amid the low but tumultuous applause of 
 the Brand, which had at length recovered 
 its balance and was following in a body. 
 
Ill 
 
 FELICIEN 
 
 The shed was changing; the commonplace 
 shack was beginning to have a history — a 
 veritable Lourdes reputation. Its great or- 
 nament, the Cross, it still wore; and on the 
 wall near it were various things testifying to 
 its efficacy. Stumpy's crutches, mute evi- 
 dences of pain and lameness passed away, 
 were stuck in old leather brackets; above 
 them Dinky 's lineaments — before and after 
 the cure — were depicted by Nobby, the 
 artist of the Cross, and with the same ghastly 
 pigment — whitewash. In the beginning of 
 the little plays anything was good enough to 
 draw capacity houses. Not so now. All 
 unawares, the importance of "atmosphere" 
 was recognized and more exactness was to 
 be seen in everything. 
 
34 Little Christ Stories 
 
 The shed still depended upon Maug for its 
 success — Maug, calm, and even indescribable, 
 of a kind not yet believed in. But everyone's 
 touch, too, was an asset in the plays. And 
 the plays themselves succeeded through their 
 very bareness. 
 
 The older boys, Mickey, Stumpy, Jerry 
 and Nobby, shed fixtures now, were beginning 
 to look respectable. 
 
 Their mothers were being incidentally 
 drawn into the uplift. Patches were still 
 there, and in plenty, but they were neater, 
 and the tubbing of old trousers was becoming 
 fashionable, as the clotheslines testified. 
 
 Not that the shed was there without protest. 
 It had drawn down condemnation, and scoff- 
 ing and derision were heard in some quarters. 
 But Maug was gradually winning to herself 
 the worst of the Court — a melting pot, if 
 ever there was one. 
 
Little Christ Stones 35 
 
 The yard still pulsated with the joy which 
 the cure of Dinky evoked — Dinky, who, 
 without great or vain effort, as at a single 
 glance, was made whole. The wonder was 
 daily repeated in the casual gossip of the 
 Court. 
 
 "I got a big scare, sure; I thought Dinky 
 was goin'," Mrs. Peters would tell neighbor 
 after neighbor. Making the circuit of the 
 place, held high to the gaze, in his mother's 
 arms, Dinky drenched the yard with faith — 
 biased always to that which was extraordi- 
 nary and surprising. 
 
 "Let's make a place for Dinky to play in, 
 now that he's goin' to be well." Mickey's 
 voice was like honey and he was surveying 
 the Yard with the eye of a landscape gar- 
 dener. "Let's make a little park an', an', 
 mebbe we'll get a daisy to grow in it." 
 
 "Oh, yes. The rubbish heaps are gone an' 
 
36 Little Christ Stories 
 
 we can make it here. An' I know a place 
 where they trows out daisies an' things 
 wot they don't want." Jerry suited the 
 action to the words. With old barrel staves 
 in lieu of shovels, the two dug and scraped 
 and shovelled until a miniature plot held 
 out hopes that grass, like truth, would come 
 up out of the earth, so that Dinky when 
 strong on his feet could toddle around 
 there. 
 
 "We gotta the drains good now. An' 
 Stumpy's cleared a walk to Maug's stair. 
 Here she comes now." Mickey dropped his 
 stave and stood erect, touching his cap with 
 military precision. 
 
 Maug's eyes swept the yard and the boys 
 — principally the boys — with loving approval. 
 She walked around and touched each one with 
 deliberateness, as if she could not keep her 
 hands off them. "Come to the shed soon, 
 
Little Christ Stories 37 
 
 boys, we're ready to begin." Another loving 
 pat all around and she was gone. 
 
 "Her eyes are blue, ain't they, Jerry?" 
 Micky's sheepishness was lost on Jerry, 
 whose gaze was following Maug's every step 
 over the converted yard. 
 
 "Blue. No. They're gray — they're, 
 they're — " Jerry's own eyes took on a retro- 
 spective look. "They're eyes wot sees you 
 all through." 
 
 "No, they're black — black as night," as- 
 serted Nobby, with that assurance that 
 belongs to some boys. He and Stumpy 
 had joined in the stave act, making the 
 dirt — no, the mud fly. 
 
 There was more discussion on Maug 
 between the boys, then Nobby, as if the last 
 word had been said, announced: 
 
 "I'm makin' a drawin' of her." His tone 
 was anything but sensitive. 
 
38 Little Christ Stories 
 
 "Like the angels wots in the books," 
 Micky was wide-eyed with wonder. Stumpy 
 and Jerry leaned forward in admiration. 
 
 "Na. Ye never se'd angels like her; them 
 angels wot ye see in the books — but I se'd 
 one onct in a window an' that one's the 
 one I want to make. A great angel with one 
 foot on the land and one foot on the sea 
 declarin' things." Nobby looked as if he 
 had received his inspiration. It was very 
 evident that he thought Maug needed a 
 large canvas. 
 
 "That wos a man — that angel wot you saw, 
 cos I heard Maug read it," corrected Stumpy. 
 
 The Book of Revelation was a favorite 
 with Maug. 
 
 "That's nothin'. Wait an' see what kind 
 of an angel I mean." Nobby walked briskly 
 off in the direction of the shed, followed by 
 the others, each carrying his stave. 
 
Little Christ Stories 39 
 
 Active eleventh hour preparations had 
 gone on all morning in the Shed, for a little 
 out-of-the-way thing to take place that 
 afternoon. The theologic basis was the old 
 story of the Magdalene — the Magdalene 
 originating not alone in the Christ city of 
 Galilee, but anywhere. The little dramas — 
 frequently bits of Mud Court life by Mud 
 Court actors — still bore upon the Bible 
 themes of help and cure. Yet Mud Court 
 people were always the ones worked for. It 
 was not altogether like children's play, 
 because eager expectation took possession of 
 every little soul. The surroundings of Mud 
 Court, by destroying all interest in life, 
 threw the Brand back upon itself — upon the 
 shed with a kind of holy passion. The repe- 
 tition of the cures did not result in blunted 
 efforts. Rather, the help vouchsafed had 
 given the shed definiteness. 
 
40 Little Christ Stories 
 
 And the theme was the Magdalene on the 
 afternoon of Felicien's daring intrusion into 
 the shed — the story of the Magdalene and 
 Christ's forgiveness, Felicien, who had drifted 
 into Mud Court from no one knew where, 
 who had scrubbed for a living, and been a 
 good girl not so far back. She had gone to 
 Sunday school once in a time there. But 
 the maelstrom of the streets had caught her 
 and she mingled with Maug and the children 
 no more. 
 
 Felicien must have been enlightened as 
 to the theme of the shed by some say so of 
 the Court, for she never had been there 
 before. Maug had difficulties enough in 
 the way of getting those whom she wanted 
 there, where there were no white lights of 
 the cafe life, no red glare of the midnight 
 whirl. 
 
 Boxes and babies alike were kicked or 
 
Little Christ Stories 41 
 
 shoved out of her way, others were elbowed 
 wide, but not a protesting word went up 
 as the fury made her way to Maug's side, 
 and with a voice thick with passion asked : 
 
 "Whata the joka, partners? Whata you 
 gotta there? Me — . Me — a?" Felicien was 
 standing before a picture of a stricken 
 Magdalene and the Christ tacked on the wall. 
 The picture was to take the place of a char- 
 acter, and was glaringly conspicuous from 
 the embellishments around it, the work of 
 Nobby's free brush. "Youa alia liars." 
 She made an angry move to throw down the 
 crutches, but stopped upon seeing Dinky's 
 portraits. "Noa not alia liars. Dinky's all 
 righta. Me neva go back on Dinky." A 
 look of love broke into her resentful eyes. 
 But the look of love soon fled. She faced 
 the shed with scornful eyes and contemptu- 
 ous snapping fingers. 
 
42 Little Christ Stories 
 
 "She was on a tear all morning," Jerry 
 whispered to Mickey. "She banged in and 
 out her place all morning like — like — An' 
 I heard her say she was goin' to put one 
 over on Maug, but didn't know this was 
 what she meant. Maug may have to put 
 her out. Be ready." 
 
 Felicien was thick- featured, with a billow 
 of blue-black hair, a copious rope of it lying 
 half across her face. Her eyes were glorious 
 even in their rage, with an expression of high 
 intelligence, and a faint carmine tinged each 
 cheek. A little red cap Was perched on the 
 side of her head. She looked as if she had 
 dropped from the canvas of some Latin 
 painter. 
 
 The larger boys, Mickey, Jerry, Stumpy 
 and Nobby, all zealous porters, were grouped 
 around Maug with precision, sensing trouble. 
 Maug, in the midst, held high her hand to 
 
Little Christ Stories 43 
 
 the shed, which was becoming noisy with 
 excitement. 
 
 Again Felicien's fury returned as she stood 
 before the Galilean woman. In her ges- 
 tures, in her looks was seen the emotions 
 and transports of her soul — when like a 
 virago, when like a beast, when with her 
 fists and open hands she struck and tore the 
 face of paper — tore it from the wall, stamp- 
 ing it with her heels into the board floor, 
 grinding it with her heels into pulp, crying 
 in rage, "Thata mea? Youa makea mea 
 thata?" She wheeled and faced the stat- 
 uesque group on the stage — the boys stood 
 as if they could be candidates for disciple- 
 ship, so grave, so earnest did they seem; 
 and Maug, who bore herself as if these things 
 might be something in her power, as if she 
 had reached a stage where the outcome of 
 anything there could not be doubted. 
 
44 Little Christ Stories 
 
 "I knowa the storya, ef I don'ta knowa 
 anotha. I was a converta once. You knowa 
 mea, Maug. You knowa I was a — a — I was 
 a gooda girl." 
 
 Thus appealed to, Maug might have been 
 the Mary — the mother of the Son; not from 
 any attitude or gesture towards Felicien, not 
 from anything out of the common in her 
 appearance, but from the tremendous pity, 
 the tremendous love pouring from her strange 
 eyes. From her girlish height she seemed to 
 look down on the woman before her. 
 
 "Christ a heala they tella mea, the sinful 
 as well as the sicka." That was an admission, 
 and the statuesque group on the stage made 
 a move to close in around Felicien; with 
 love in their eyes and with outstretched 
 hands they would have welcomed her, were 
 eager to win her. 
 
 The next step dispelled this hope, for with 
 
Little Christ Stories 45 
 
 the utmost audacity she wheeled before the 
 great Emblem, with derisive finger and 
 brazen face, shouting passionately: 
 
 "Youa, Cross, a liar too. Youa helpa 
 me neva." 
 
 The boys broke from Maug, made a rush 
 for Felicien, and in a twinkling the shed was 
 in a tumult, the riffraff at the rear, always 
 ready for a diversion, yelling and shouting 
 with all their might. The shed resented 
 the atrocious insult to the Cross more than 
 anything else, because it had come to believe 
 that in some way, though it did not under- 
 stand how, there was protection in its pres- 
 ence there. It became more dazzling each 
 day, became whiter, if not by Nobby 's re- 
 newing brush, then by the renewal of their 
 own minds. 
 
 Order was in time restored to the shed, 
 but not to Felicien, who seemed to be at 
 
46 Little Christ Stories 
 
 grips with conscience. Only Maug's inter- 
 ference had prevented the boys from driving 
 her from the place. As it was, she still held 
 the fort, defiant, masterful, determined, 
 fearfully earnest. 
 
 That Felicien had been impressed by Mud 
 Court stories of Stumpy's and Dinky's cures 
 was natural. The surprising and the miracu- 
 lous — -that was what the Court wanted, and 
 so long as it got what it wanted, asked for 
 no explanations; and was far from establish- 
 ing the character of the events even if ex- 
 planation had been forthcoming. Nor did 
 it try to make out this or that; but there was 
 faith, belief. 
 
 The big boys had stood apart, not a word 
 escaping their lips, a different attitude from 
 the first days when they spoke as they pleased. 
 
 Maug seemed everywhere and everything 
 at once. Yet for all that, there was a certain 
 
Little Christ Stories 47 
 
 detachment about her ; no matter how power- 
 ful the emotions around her she seemed not 
 of them. And yet she was emotion itself. 
 Some fine sense of unconscious art always 
 held her. 
 
 Felicien lifted her foot as if to spurn the 
 Great Thing on the wall from her, but Maug 
 was swifter and had her arms about her; she 
 held her with a sure and firm grip. "Felicien, 
 Felicien," she spoke in the girl's ear. It 
 might have been the Lord saying, "Saul, 
 Saul, why persecutest thou me?" And 
 Felicien was on her way to Damascus. 
 
 "Don'ta look at me thata way, Maug. 
 You looka like Him," and Felicien pointed 
 to the lurid picture of the Bleeding Heart 
 on the wall near, then to the floor where, 
 strangely enough, the face of Christ remained 
 unmutilated in the picture she had just 
 demolished. 
 
48 Little Christ Stories 
 
 This gave the shed a new light on Maug, 
 and an interest never felt before, and a 
 demonstration of the shed order took place 
 at once. Perhaps they recognized something 
 in Maug, their leader, that could not be ex- 
 pressed. The shed jumbled together without 
 any ordinarily apparent object, yet it always 
 had the wide-eyed astonishment of the 
 interested child. The fact that the shed 
 could not make out this or that had no im- 
 portance. The real point was that it was 
 carried away by emotion, interest. There 
 was a real sense of beauty through it all, 
 which made an appeal. There was no veiling 
 over with theatrical tinsel here. Felicien's 
 red cap was the only bright note. Her 
 absorbing swarthy face held one's eyes 
 through it all. 
 
 Felicien's mood seemed to soften for a 
 moment. A look soft as the Galilean skies 
 
Little Christ Stories 49 
 
 themselves overspread her countenance. With 
 exquisite rhythm she swayed, seeming to fill 
 the rude place with her presence, suggesting 
 one knew not what. Her voice changed to 
 a creepy, beating rhythm — beat, beat, beat, 
 the beat of the eternal, as she bleated: 
 
 "No one wanta me. Maug no wanta me. 
 I was gooda girl; I worka; I helpa; Maug 
 no taka me back. No one wanta me; no 
 one taka me back; Christ no wanta me; 
 Christ no taka me back." 
 
 The contrition in her voice drew Maug's 
 arms about the penitent, but she turned on 
 her like a raging tempest. 
 
 "I hata you, Maug. I hata Christ. I 
 hata everybody. I am down an' outa; you 
 say thata; I say Christa he no hawked about 
 lika the vegetables. He no come here. He 
 liva in heaven. Youa alia liars. Christa 
 no helpa me." 
 
50 Little Christ Stories 
 
 Felicien wheeled like a streak of lightning 
 before the Cross again — as if the air were 
 charged — as if like a wireless the strong 
 currents set up connected the two agencies 
 that made possible the communication. She 
 stood there in her pitiable finery, pleading, 
 raging, humbled, haughty, desperate — and 
 ready. 
 
 "No one wanta me; Christ no taka me back; 
 Christ no wanta — " 
 
 As if she had made sudden port, Felicien's 
 illimitable protest was checked, and she 
 raised her eyes far up the Cross of Christ — 
 the Christ who saw a justification for the 
 Magdalene's existence. A sudden exclama- 
 tion in her own tongue escaped her lips, and 
 she slowly fell back, back, crying: 
 
 "He looka down on me. He looka down 
 on me. Me! Me! The crucified. The son of 
 Mary." Uplifted eyes gazed passionately, 
 
Little Christ Stories 51 
 
 not as if she saw Him afar off — but there — 
 there on the Sign before her. At first she 
 poured out words, which, so far as intelli- 
 gibility was concerned, might have been 
 Greek. 
 
 But as if she feared doubt of what she 
 claimed, she entered into particulars that 
 annihilated dispute, convincing herself, as 
 it were. Her words now came rapidly, clear. 
 
 "He there on the Cross — olda Cross, olda 
 boards. His feet rest on little shelf. Ah, 
 they bleeda; they bleeda for me. She spoke 
 as if she Was narrating a living, natural thing 
 that belonged there, as if she saw a wonder- 
 ful human form of flesh and blood speak 
 and move there. With indescribable ardor 
 she knelt and wound her hair round and 
 round His unapparent feet, round the rude 
 rest splotched with blood which she claimed 
 she saw. 
 
52 Little Christ Stories 
 
 She arose from her knees, her beauty 
 heightened by her billow of unbound hair, 
 blue-black and deep. 
 
 With the tremendous Cross speaking 
 against, as it were, or what she had to cope 
 with, her big voice rang out dramatically: 
 
 "No one wanta me? Yes. He wanta me. 
 I no knowa my Christ wanta me. I knowa 
 now. He heala. Christ heala. He heala 
 me." 
 
IV 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN— THE DIVINE 
 ENCOUNTER 
 
 The shed was in a hum. There was to 
 be read during the afternoon a little thing 
 Maug had sketched: a humble, happy play 
 of Galilean times, little children watching 
 the gentle Jesus pass by; and the session was 
 in a way a benefit for the "tots", the little 
 mites of the Court. Each one had some- 
 thing to recite, and the reserved seats — 
 those nearest the stove-pipe aisle and the 
 ones facing the Cross, were allotted them. 
 
 The shed had been undergoing repairs 
 and additional touches, too, of late. 
 
 "Have I gone over it even enough, Maug? 
 Does it show streaks?" 
 
 Nobby, the shed artist, had just finished 
 a careful whitewash renewal of the great 
 
54 Little Christ Stories 
 
 Emblem. And how it shone. It seemed to 
 preside over the place, shedding divinity 
 everywhere. 
 
 "It's beautiful, Nobby!" Maug's eyes 
 glistened as she stood back and surveyed the 
 Great Thing. "Jerry '11 help you take away 
 the ladder." 
 
 In turn Nobby's eyes worshipped Maug. 
 
 "And isn't the shed getting to be a real 
 place, Nobby? It looks — it looks like 
 the Temple — the picture we saw. There's 
 Mike and Stumpy nailing up the old broken 
 place where the wind came in so strong. I 
 must tell them we're nearly ready to begin." 
 
 Maug darted across the shed reminding 
 one of that ethereal thing — the humming 
 bird — and to try to describe her would be as 
 elusive as a description of that bird on the 
 wing. That was it: she was always on the 
 wing. Always on the wings of Faith. And 
 
Little Christ Stories 55 
 
 if she could not have grappled with the sordid 
 reality of the Court with vision and imagina- 
 tion — the only things she could dabble in 
 without restraint — if she could not have gone 
 on with a sense of necessity, over-estimated, 
 perhaps, how could she have dreamed of 
 evoking the Christ? 
 
 And the shed was branded now with cures, 
 with the mystery, so-called, of how He ad- 
 ministered help on earth. 
 
 Now nothing here could ever be really 
 called a play, for there was no mere con- 
 templation of scenes or acts. Every one 
 who could, or would, took part — choppily 
 cited verses, odd texts, scraps of stories all 
 interspersed with individual comment, were 
 to be heard on all sides — only — all roads led 
 from the Bible. Here it was thought possible 
 to convey one through a perfect Odyssey of 
 possibilities. 
 
56 Little Christ Stories 
 
 " 'No d'unkard inherits the kin'dom of 
 'eaven.' My teacher knowed that one an' 
 she tol' us the d'unkard never, never could 
 get into 'eaven, never." 
 
 " 'No d'unkard inherits the kin'dom of 
 'eaven.' " Shrill and high rose the minute 
 voice; over and over she lisped the words. 
 
 It was the little sister of Dinky who broke 
 in on the audience before the time. It was 
 not her turn, either, but she had learned her 
 piece and was going to say it, and all the 
 emphasis the mite possessed was placed on 
 the text, although she could not have had a 
 thought of its dramatic value. 
 
 As if in answer to the variant of the familiar 
 legend by the tot, a giant of a fellow, seem- 
 ingly half-stupid, lumbered in, filling the 
 room with many badly scared mites. Appre- 
 hensive conjectures were heard on every 
 side. 
 
Little Christ Stories 57 
 
 Maug, from her station at the side of the 
 Cross, held up her hand for order and silence. 
 It did not seem possible, but staring her in 
 the face was the fact that the young man 
 was there. Maug looked startled at first. 
 She could not put an embargo on a visitor 
 on account of his size — that would have 
 been a relapse into the darkness. She was 
 ready to welcome any one in need of cure — 
 but such an elephant of a cure. As a model 
 for the painter or the sculptor, his propor- 
 tions would at once single him out. But he 
 looked too immense, able and living. 
 
 "It's Chauncy, the young man who lives 
 at the end of the Court. He had the jim- 
 jams the other night. He's stopped drinkin' 
 but he's stupid yet. That's 'is mother 
 follern 'im. She bust somethin' in 'er inside, 
 they say, cryin' so hard the night he had the 
 jim-jams." 
 
58 Little Christ Stories 
 
 Mike was at Maug's side; the other boys 
 not far away, ready for any emergency. 
 
 On he came, reeling, more, it seemed, from 
 exhaustion of body and nerves than from 
 drink. His clothes hung around him any 
 way; but they were clean — his mother saw 
 to that. He was bareheaded and a forest 
 of dark touselled hair hung over blue-black 
 eyes, deep and searching. He did not turn 
 nor look to the right nor to the left; did not 
 look at anything nor anybody, yet went 
 straight up to Maug, who gently pushed 
 her bodyguard closing in around her. 
 
 She stood like a young priestess before 
 him. She was going to find a place for this 
 experience, strange though it was. 
 
 "Can you tell me — can you tell me any- 
 thing — can you tell me anything about 
 these Christs?" 
 
 Usually the young man's voice was like a 
 
Little Christ Stories 59 
 
 fog-horn, but it now held a whining, senti- 
 mental coax in it. 
 
 "Can you tell me anything about these 
 Christs? Can you tell me — can you tell 
 me — can you tell me anything — " 
 
 His voice now took on a chant — he had 
 been a chorister before he was a drunkard — 
 a little unruliness in the throat was the only 
 jarring note. 
 
 "Can you tell me — " Then as if he had 
 suddenly waked out of a tremendously real 
 dream, and overcome with bashfulness, he 
 remembered to laugh at himself, when he 
 had asked a dozen times, "Can you tell me 
 anything about these Christs?" 
 
 "Yes — yes. We can tell you something 
 about these Christs. Yes, we can, can't 
 we, Stumpy? Can't we, little Dinky? Bring 
 him here." 
 
 Maug held out one hand to Dinky 's mother, 
 
60 Little Christ Stories 
 
 never once letting go the lapel of the young 
 man's coat with the other. 
 
 "We can tell you one or two things why 
 we could not help knowing about these 
 Christs." 
 
 Maug spoke composedly enough, but it 
 would have moved heaven itself, for the 
 pity, the yearning, the earnestness, that 
 underlay the words. 
 
 "Leggo me, leggo. Got no pers'nal feeling 
 for fellers like you, but leggo." 
 
 The effects of the liquor, under the influ- 
 ence of which only was the young man jovial 
 and free, had left him completely and he was 
 now as determined to go out as he had been 
 to come in. 
 
 "No, we can't let you go; we can't. Can 
 We, Mike? Can we, Stumpy? Can we, 
 Jerry?" 
 
 Maug's appeal to her troupe was a diver- 
 
Little Christ Stories 61 
 
 sion and the young man forgot his hurry. 
 And, too, Maug's tone was reassuring. She 
 never presented these things with deadly 
 earnestness. Not at all. There was a certain 
 lightness, not frivolity, an airiness (if that 
 word can be used) that seemed a necessity 
 to the part — to carry it off, as it were. She 
 never was any more serious than in the 
 matter of ordinary affairs. 
 
 "I heard her, the little one — 'No drunkard 
 inherits the kingdom of heaven.' How are 
 you going to trim a drunkard? You run it 
 fair now. Ain't he got a cinch on hell? 
 Leggo me." 
 
 The young man evidently did not want to 
 use force or he could have broken away in 
 a minute. He had lived coarsely — even 
 grossly — but he was not coarse, was not 
 gross. Then, resuming his swagger and 
 good nature, he, by way of travesty — to 
 
62 Little Christ Stories 
 
 show off — recited some passages from the 
 Church of England service so resonantly, in 
 so beautifully rounded a fashion that the 
 shed immediately gave an adult-sized ap- 
 plause, quickly sensing some new acting 
 power. 
 
 Just as the applause was going on Felicien 
 arrived. She was back to her scrubbing 
 now — was "gooda girl" again. But her 
 spare time was spent helping in the shed, 
 helping Maug. A little mending class had 
 been formed and Felicien was expert with 
 her needle. She ran into the midst of the 
 wrangle in time to see the young man begin 
 tugging again, and to hear him repeat, 
 "Leggo me. The little one was right. The 
 drunkard's got a cinch on hell all the same. 
 Leggo." 
 
 "No, Maug. No, Maug. No leggo him. 
 Hoi' him fast. The drunkard no gotta cinch 
 
Little Christ Stories 63 
 
 on hell; he gotta cinch on heaven. Christ 
 no leggo; Christ neva leggo." 
 
 Felicien, all her pent-up fervor let loose, 
 in this up-to-the-shed moment, came in 
 here something like a play within a play — 
 and some acting inside of that. 
 
 Her acceptance of Christ was no lukewarm 
 affair; it was wholly of some old code called 
 into being by no one knew what. And it 
 must be that some states can be shared 
 without knowing all the lines. 
 
 The young man had been so engrossed 
 with Maug — as if she had been astray in 
 this old gray shed, that he did not notice 
 that in his scurrying he was being led instead 
 of leading; that instead of Maug clinging 
 to him, he was clinging to her. He was like 
 a bark in distress in tow — fore and top gallant 
 masts gone and his sails in ribbons — all but 
 submerged. 
 
64 Little Christ Stories 
 
 And at this moment, too, the place was 
 filling fast — faster and fuller than ever before. 
 All the Mud Court people had turned out in 
 full force to watch the young man and his 
 mother crossing the yard. It was the social 
 event of the shed, and for interest none of 
 the others were beside it. People came to 
 watch the drunkard who had never opened 
 an eye to the shed before. No, none of them 
 knew just what they expected to see. 
 
 What they did see, was the young man 
 haled before the whitewashed Cross, the 
 Cross that was Christ's, Maug, Felicien, the 
 big boys and some others surrounding and 
 holding him. He had not noticed it before 
 — and it was such an old thing to work on. 
 He just stood still before it. There it rose 
 to the old roof. 
 
 He is awake; he tries to break away. 
 
 There is a soft rustle, a brushing as of 
 
Little Christ Stories 65 
 
 wings passing over the group as a bene- 
 diction — as a signal that the trial is over and 
 He stands in their midst — for are they not 
 there in His name? 
 
 Whatever ecstacy it was that spoke in 
 Chauncy's attitude, it held the gaze of all. 
 It was as if he had had an intimate session 
 with his Master — a divine encounter — his 
 head falling trucefully over, as if lying on 
 the breast where the beloved apostle's in the 
 long ago had lain. 
 
 The rough silence was broken by the wordy 
 tot who had proved an essential cog in the 
 denouement of the cure. She was snuggled 
 up against Chauncy's mother, still shaken 
 with sobs, and was quoting again, "An' He 
 shall wipe away all tears. My teacher tol' 
 me that one, too. 'An' He shall wipe away 
 all tears from their eyes'," 
 
V 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH 
 
 A watchfulness, a knowingness even, seemed 
 to lend itself to the rays of the old-fashioned 
 street lamp, under which a girl of rather 
 rural and comely appearance loitered. The 
 light seemed to focalize the district over 
 which it presided with a strange, an important 
 perspective. Polaris-like, its rays pivoted 
 cross-sections of things beneath it and kept 
 them, as it were, in their respective orbits. 
 
 And even an old-fashioned street lamp 
 can have some gumption, some grace, good- 
 ness knows. A girl is not the same in the 
 shifty shadow of night, when even the gutters 
 look sinister, as, say, in the soft glow of 
 sunset, or the serene dawn of morning. 
 
 No matter how far over the lamp leaned 
 ■ — as if it could shift its angle, the face of the 
 
Little Christ Stories 67 
 
 girl was not quite clear. Nor could the 
 searchlight, so to speak, get at the subter- 
 ranean of her, could it? But if it could not 
 get at the subterranean, the heart of her, it 
 could get at her apparel, the gaudiness of 
 which, like something which has become a 
 well-known fact, becomes evident to all. 
 
 But the best of her seemed to be swallowed 
 up in some mist of the night or something. 
 Would there be an effacing morning? 
 
 If the girl, obtruding her cheap embroidery 
 on the night, felt at all bewildered, afraid, 
 she did not show it, rather grit to be out 
 there alone, at least the lamp — set for a 
 light to her feet — did not show her trembling. 
 She swaggered occasionally as if bolstering 
 up her courage, and set her inadequate, 
 bronze shoes and stayed, watched, looking 
 this way and that, up and down. 
 
 Farther down the street two big police- 
 
68 Little Christ Stories 
 
 men watched too, champions of virtue, they 
 stayed their feet also. The directional light, 
 illuminating the sloppy sidewalk, stopped 
 short of the policemen — or did they stop 
 short of the light? Deep in the shadows 
 they watched with lynx eyes the girl, as if 
 some intrigue were afoot. 
 
 Once or twice the girl hugged the protect- 
 ing shadow of the lamp post as if fearful of 
 the men of the law. 
 
 The lamp appeared to be watching too — 
 a trio of watchers — as if fearful that something 
 would happen — the worst would happen, as 
 if things were worth watching. The light 
 watched, the girl watched, the policemen 
 watched. Were there no other watchers of 
 the night abroad? 
 
 Suddenly the girl became alert and began 
 primping up, fussing at her hair and adjust- 
 ing her bosom ornaments. She attended to 
 
Little Christ Stories 69 
 
 the correct disposal of her flimsy skirt; 
 snatched a powder puff from her stocking 
 top and dabbed her face without any dis- 
 crimination whatever. 
 
 There was something amateurish about it 
 all, something even pitiful. Blase? Not 
 in the least. 
 
 The lamp had no doubtful way of showing 
 things, light does not lie if men do. As 
 though the stage was all set, the lamp was 
 weighted with its responsibility, it seemed, 
 as an illuminative feature, it defined a bit 
 of sidewalk in the opposite direction from 
 the officers even more sharply — if other 
 places were obscure. 
 
 As if conjured from the sidewalk on the 
 instant, as was the Bush of Fire in the Old 
 Story, a man, full in the light, came swiftly, 
 buoyantly in the girl's direction. As were 
 wings to his feet he came ; a god-going fellow, 
 
70 Little Christ Stories 
 
 radiant, haloed — or was the light up to some- 
 thing tricksey. 
 
 The girl swaggered in front of the stranger 
 as he stepped to her corner. He gazed 
 beamingly into her would-be-bold face, not 
 disparagingly, nor yet with scrutiny, and 
 passed his arm in a winsome, gentle manner 
 around her, saying softly: 
 
 "I knew you, dear Myrtle, afar off, and 
 you — you knew me. You saw me in the 
 ray of light clearly. You kindly waited for 
 me — and here, too, in this — " His eyes 
 took on sorrow as if the equivocality of the 
 district jarred his spirit. 
 
 The girl drew back involuntarily from 
 his encircling arm and laughed loudly and 
 brazenly in his face, retorting, — 
 
 "Ah, g'wan that bluff! Callin' me 'Myrtle.' 
 'Tain't Myrtle nor Mamie nor Mabel nor — " 
 
 "You are the same Myrtle of old; you have 
 
Little Christ Stories 7 1 
 
 not changed. We are here at last. I have 
 sought for you — waited for you." His eyes, full 
 of tenderness, of blessedness, of something like 
 the new morning, were turned full on her 
 pouting face. His voice sounded as if cym- 
 bals were playing near, yet the voice too was 
 exceedingly grave with authority, command. 
 
 The girl winced and evidently made an 
 effort to behave decently. 
 
 "You are on your way to your aunt, are 
 you not?" He continued, " I too, am going 
 there. She will be pleased to see us — out 
 of the night — out of the night." Evidently 
 he knew her antecedents. 
 
 He passed his arm through hers and 
 directed her steps down a side street, the 
 light dogging their receding footsteps. 
 
 At his touch she swayed and almost 
 swooned in rapture on his bosom, as if 
 unable to withstand the alluring contact. 
 
72 Little Christ Stories 
 
 As the Magdalene of old with Jesus, she 
 acted freely, as if privileged. 
 
 But only for an instant did she give way 
 to the adoration; her recent susceptibility 
 died quickly down. She drew angrily away 
 and turned as if to run — back to her wallow 
 — then wheeled to his side again and mocked : 
 
 "Goin' to aunt. Myrtle of old. She will 
 be jolly glad to see us out of the — Give us 
 some more taffy, won't you? See here, let's 
 get down to business — the — the cops are 
 gone." She laughed discordantly, and a 
 single note of the laughter, a hollow echo, 
 came back. 
 
 His lips moved, "Does no man condemn 
 thee? Neither do I." He did not add, "Go 
 thy way and sin no more." 
 
 The valiant policemen in the shadow of 
 the tall buildings were interested. Eluding 
 the light they began to step warily to within 
 
Little Christ Stories 7 3 
 
 hearing distance, ready to pounce upon and 
 bag their game. But the girl and her escort 
 faded away so subtly they were nonplused. 
 They drew smartly forward under the lamp. 
 
 "That's the same guy again," the regular 
 told the detailed on the case. "He's the 
 one we want. Beat it, Bob." 
 
 Down the side street after the suspect 
 ran the uniformed men. But no matter how 
 fast they ran no headway was made, the 
 delinquents were not to be overtaken. Their 
 exploit was again a failure. The street, as 
 far as could be seen, was clear of pedestrians. 
 
 Was the lamp tricksey again? Had it 
 blurred the official eyes? 
 
 The baffled police, back under the lamp 
 again, an odd out-of-the-way tale of the 
 nights, of the streets was unfolded. The man 
 so well acquainted with "Myrtle" was wanted. 
 He could not be caught. He was taking 
 
74 Little Christ Stories 
 
 trade away from them — cleaning up loose 
 districts in a way unknown before in the 
 annals of police courts. 
 
 "He has his 'Myrtles' and his 'Annies' 
 on the tip of his tongue and knows the whole 
 bunch every time," the regular beat told the 
 other. "This is a new one tonight; she's 
 not one of the reglars." The officers of the 
 law were at their wits' end. They had the 
 man and they had him not. More men 
 were needed for the search, they would 
 report at headquarters. 
 
 But they were there, were on the street— 
 the girl and her Friend. He was guiding 
 her on, leading her as a little child is led. 
 The officers' eyesight must have been 
 deficient. Time and again the girl seemed 
 torn between emotions. Sometimes she 
 seemed ready to fall at the feet of her 
 guide and wipe them with her hair. Again 
 
Little Christ Stories 75 
 
 acting giddily, speaking too loudly, too 
 freely. 
 
 Her companion looked as if not willing to 
 be privy to what she hinted; treated her as 
 if she did not know what she said or did. 
 
 The street ended abruptly, swallowed up 
 by a straggling common, inconceivable in 
 the darkness. A familiar by-path brought 
 them in front of a building suggestive of an 
 old synagogue more than anything else, but 
 that may have been the effect of the night 
 too — some glamour of meek Galilee wafted 
 into western space. 
 
 The girl took a last desperate stand; the 
 unregenerate in her rebelled. 
 
 "What you buttin' in, in my affairs fer ef 
 thet's all you hev' to show? You take me 
 right back where you found me. None your 
 bisness buttin' in. You'se a fake." 
 
 His ardent look fell on her face for a second, 
 
76 Little Christ Stories 
 
 then he resolutely drove her in before him, 
 as a lost sheep is guided out of the driving 
 storm into the shelter of the warm fold by 
 the patient shepherd. 
 
 At the far end of the room, which the door 
 opened directly upon, a Pharaoh-faced woman 
 stood in an attitude of expectancy and wait- 
 ing. Something about her suggested Jeru- 
 salem, Mothers of Israel, Marys. She did 
 not come forward immediately, but stood 
 with both hands placed against a door jamb, 
 her profile presented like a cameo to the room. 
 
 "This is our Myrtle, Mother. She has 
 come home. She is cold and weary; she has 
 come out of the night." A curious inflection 
 of voice clung to the word "night." He 
 could have spoken it from the creation. 
 
 The woman addressed as "Mother" greeted 
 them with a peculiar delicacy of manner. 
 Her bearing was of one cultured by contact 
 
Little Christ Stories, 11 
 
 with superior minds, which tones the entire 
 personal life. 
 
 They drew the now subdued girl forward 
 in front of a table whereon stood an ordinary 
 kerosene lamp, a gaudily painted shade 
 adorning it, such as may be seen on any rustic 
 parlor table. The girl passed her hand 
 reminiscently over the red, red rose as if the 
 "still life" had feeling — remembered. Then 
 she looked at her entertainers curiously, as 
 if questioning where they had resurrected 
 the old thing. 
 
 "We had one at home like this. Where'd 
 ye git it?" She was aroused; the words 
 came gulpingly. "An' we growed these 
 flowers too, jist this color, at the front walk. 
 My, but they leaves lots of dirt 'round when 
 they'se through bloomin'." She took the 
 pink hollyhock from the glass dish on the 
 table and covered her face an instant. Then 
 
78 Little Christ Stories 
 
 she slowly looked around and stepped un- 
 steadily to an old wooden rocker at the 
 side of the open fire. "This is like our old 
 rocker too — its it, I declare, the one me an' 
 Jeddy, my little brother, always sat in, an' 
 rocked, an' rocked, an' rocked. We — " 
 Something broke. She began to cry. 
 
 The Pharoah-faced woman left the room, 
 returning almost immediately with a white 
 china bowl filled with warm bread and milk, 
 which she placed on the table until she drew 
 the chair close to the hearth and seated the 
 trembling girl therein, saying: 
 
 "You are weary and cold and tired; rest, 
 rest, and be fed and comforted." The 
 woman's voice held the purity of His who 
 called her "Mother" but with less command 
 of the vocal chords. 
 
 Outside of the modern lamp and chair, 
 the room was devoid of anything common, 
 
Little Christ Stories 79 
 
 was even Judean in its furnishings. There 
 was a low, painted chest in one corner; there 
 were earthen vessels placed here and there, 
 and cushions on the floor, suggestive of 
 eastern customs. 
 
 The silence of the room was broken by 
 the deep, regular breathing of the now 
 slumbering girl. In the depths of the old 
 rocker — in Nirvana — she lay looking inno- 
 cent and happy as a child, a smile curving 
 her parted lips. One arm was thrown around 
 an imaginary "little brother" apparently, 
 for she moved her hand caressingly over 
 something in her sleep. Her feet were 
 straddled wide apart where they rested on 
 the cushion before the fire, unwittingly dis- 
 playing the cheap lace undergarments and 
 loud hose of the night. 
 
 An inscrutable smile rested for an instant 
 on the face of the girl's Friend, giving place 
 
80 Little Christ Stories 
 
 to one of vigor, authority, love, as He looked. 
 
 He began drawing on his outer garment, 
 which He had removed upon entering. The 
 woman standing a little apart was evidently 
 pleading with Him not to go out into the 
 night again, which had turned cold and 
 stormy. She stood in a reverent, obedient 
 attitude, the embodiment of devoted woman- 
 hood. She spoke in a strange tongue, it 
 could have been Syrian. 
 
 For answer, He silently pointed to a brilliant 
 painting hanging on the wall, the rich color- 
 ing of which gave the room its needed tone. 
 The picture illustrated the glorious Christ 
 Child, imbued even at that tender age with 
 Saviorship, rebuking, refusing his mother 
 in the Temple. The inscription beneath the 
 picture was his answer — translated it read: 
 
 WOT YE NOT I MUST BE ABOUT MY 
 FATHER'S BUSINESS 
 
VI 
 THE BLESSED 
 
 It may have been that a period of recogni- 
 tion had come between the boy and his 
 grandfather; or it may have been that this 
 harping on one string — the fret of the sea, 
 as it were, in the old man's heart — consoled 
 him more than anything else; for whatever 
 is passed quickly upon and done with, ceases 
 to hold interest. 
 
 In the grandfather's unfortunate desire, 
 for spiritual cameraderi, besides the daily 
 rehearsal of the sea spoiling him of a son, the 
 boy's father, he stored the child's mind with 
 accounts of the mysteries of lost northern 
 ships, surging tides, sunken reefs, darkness, 
 storm, treacherous shores and seamen's su- 
 perstitions. 
 
82 Little Christ Stories 
 
 It was as if the boy — a little instrument, 
 an oboe, had been put upon a simple air all 
 alone, and drowned with a full orchestra of 
 hurricane, horror and disaster. Newspaper 
 illustrations of looming vessels in the toil of 
 the breakers, hung on the walls, fed his 
 little imagination to the extreme. 
 
 And of the one that pounded cruelly to 
 death on the rocks — the ship that carried 
 the boy's father to his doom — the grandfather 
 always told with a curious little slip of a 
 sob, a strangled something. Yet tell it he 
 would over and over to the earnest-souled 
 little fellow, who drank in every word and 
 never wearied of the tale. Stirred to sorrow, 
 the human soul taught the flesh to sing the 
 same mournful strain. 
 
 The incomprehensiveness of the boy always 
 left something over for the grandfather to 
 bring up again. But the boy did not always 
 
Little Christ Stories 83 
 
 wait for the grandfather to begin. Pointing 
 to the picture of some battered hulk, he would 
 ask: 
 
 "Was there wots and wots of people on 
 the big, big ship, Ganpy, wot and wots?" 
 
 "Lots and lots of people, Blessed; lots of 
 people on her when she pounded there on 
 the cruel rocks." And the old voice caught 
 with its usual little sob — the heaviness of 
 Woe. 
 
 "Why didn't somebody fro a wong, wong 
 wope, Ganpy? See, like this," and out from 
 the little firm hands, fit only for primrose 
 dallyings, shot a stout coil of rope and 
 caught dexterously on the aimed-for-goal, 
 a chair rung. Over and over the practice 
 continued, interspersed with unwearied ques- 
 tionings, the Great Puzzle, how to get a rope 
 long enough and strong enough to reach and 
 save a vessel in distress. 
 
84 Little Christ Stories 
 
 "When I fro my wong wope, Ganpy, the 
 big ship won't pound on the wocks any more. 
 See, Ganpy, that's how I tie it," and, a mimic 
 life-saving exhibitor, the boy tied and untied 
 the rope time and again with wonderful 
 celerity. The old man smiled wanly, for the 
 saving thought. Anything that promised 
 deliverance from the breaches made by the 
 sea found ready answer in his heart. 
 
 The home was on the west coast of Van- 
 couver Island, on one of the inland passages 
 that led to Alaska. These waters are trav- 
 ersed summer and winter, day and night, 
 under clear skies and dark, and in rain, snow 
 and fog, through the channels run tremen- 
 dous tides, so that passage must be timed to 
 take advantage of the flow. The place was 
 lonely, and intercourse with neighbors was 
 infrequent; occasionally they visited the 
 keepers of the few lights that beaconed here 
 
Little Christ Stones 85 
 
 and there a treacherous rock or shoal. But 
 by far too few lighthouses protected naviga- 
 tion over the surging tides of that great 
 Waterway. So the boy and his grandfather — 
 an old derelict and a spry little yacht — could 
 often be seen together on the shores. The 
 boy would trim his short steps to the old 
 man's shuffling gait and look and listen and 
 ponder as they went along. 
 
 These shores were said to be dotted with 
 sunken wrecks; and it was said, too, that the 
 spell of lost ships was on every soul that lived 
 within hearing of the call of the breakers. 
 
 One place in particular held a peculiar 
 fascination for the two. On stormy days, 
 the waves rose like separate mountain peaks 
 and ripped on the shore as in a tide-way. 
 An old storm-twisted tree rose from the rocks 
 alone, two gaunt branching arms standing 
 out to the sky; seen through the mist, it 
 
86 Little Christ Stories 
 
 looked not unlike some ethereal cross on 
 Calvary. Here the boy, while the grand- 
 father stood guard over him from the waves, 
 would often practice throwing his rope. 
 
 It could not be said that the old man 
 looked with longing on the sea, yet hours 
 were spent in its company, and in its reminis- 
 cences. 
 
 The boy's mind was legend-laden. He 
 never forgot a thing told to him, which was 
 a pity in some respects, for the lost ship 
 possessed his mind completely; all other 
 stories, while not forgotten, faded before it. 
 In his little mental gropings, things became 
 quite clear. The picture on the kinetoscope- 
 film of his brain never grew dim. If for a 
 short period he played ordinarily, soon up 
 would flash the question in his own baby 
 tongue. 
 
 "Was it a big, big ship, Ganpy, and was 
 
Little Christ Stories 87 
 
 there wots and wots of people on it wif my 
 papa?" 
 
 And then there would be the old sob- 
 answer, "Lots and lots of people, Blessed." 
 
 "See, Ganpy," the boy said one day during 
 the walk, as they stood looking out upon the 
 waters, "there's the ship right down there 
 in the water. My papa's there; he wants 
 my wope; he holds out his hand for it. See." 
 and he pointed to the empty shallows. 
 "Papa'll catch the wope quick, like that, 
 when I fro it," and he made a gesture 
 as of some one throwing out his hands to 
 catch. 
 
 "No, no, Blessed, the ship is not there; 
 there's nothing there but spindrift." But 
 even the abnormality of the boy's talk could 
 not deter the bereaved father from the 
 repetition of the daily rehearsal of the sea's 
 unfriendliness. He would not see that this 
 
88 Little Christ Stories 
 
 long custom of talk was superinducing upon 
 the child's mind new and absurd ideas. 
 
 There's something about the sea and ships 
 that makes people fanciful. The sea plays 
 pranks sometimes; old sailors talk of its 
 materializing trick. But then sailors are a 
 superstitious lot. 
 
 One day when there was an almost imper- 
 ceptible mist across the heavens, the boy, while 
 a light seemed to dazzle his young eyes, point- 
 ed to a shadowy wraith — a phantom ship 
 which he said he saw hovering above. 
 
 The wastes of water have the same powers 
 as the land; mirages are as likely to occur 
 on the one as on the other. At times the sea 
 can hide a thing; and at times show it plain. 
 Some elfish reflection doubtless. 
 
 No punishing hand or harsh word had 
 ever degraded the little one's soul, yet his 
 grandfather had repeatedly warned him that 
 
Little Christ Stories 89 
 
 any attempt on his part to go to the rocks 
 alone would bring punishment. The constant 
 reiteration of this threat, the only one the 
 boy had ever heard, showed an utter ignorance 
 of the child soul on the part of the grandfather. 
 The threat, as if it had hypnotized the child, 
 set his brain working on the very thing, so 
 that one day, in the temporary absence of 
 the older members of the family, he took his 
 cherubic way, full of faith to see and save a 
 ship on the rocks. 
 
 It seemed as if in his little soul the con- 
 stant rhythm — the beat, beat of the waves, 
 with their voices as rally set the lust of salva- 
 tion upon him. 
 
 It is told in the books that a soul going to 
 earth leaves the Father's House in the 
 morning a little child and returns at night 
 an old man. He was a child going forth on 
 his mission; how would he return? 
 
90 Little Christ Stories 
 
 He stopped on the way to watch the small 
 and active life — the water-bugs flashing up 
 in the mirror of a quiet pool, and at a shoal 
 of minnows that darted here and there and 
 hid in among the stones in the slow runnel. 
 
 The sky had become overcast while he 
 dallied by the pool, and the storm of the night 
 before broke again in all its fury by the time 
 he reached the rocks. A tremendous tide 
 was rushing through the narrow channel. 
 
 The waves seemed to break into a sorrowful 
 ovation, as he with difficulty reached the tree. 
 
 Dimly his childish perceptions must have 
 groped back to his grandfather's recitals: 
 The big, big men wouldn't throw a rope; 
 they turned away on the big water and left 
 the ship to go to pieces. "He wouldn't do 
 that" he often told his grandfather. In his 
 mind's eye did he see the passing ship in the 
 distance — the coward ship — sneak past and 
 
Little Christ Stories 91 
 
 leave the other one to its fate? Though men 
 and women were seen clinging to the doomed 
 thing, hanging on to the masts and rigging, 
 the coward ship went by and made no effort 
 whatever to save. 
 
 Something loomed up, presented itself to 
 his sea-familiar eyes. Was the sea playing 
 some preposterous joke? Though the 
 breakers sounded enormously loud, there 
 was a sound above them. 
 
 The salt spray and the haziness overtaking 
 everything began to envelop the boy where 
 he stood at the foot of the unmindful tree; 
 but all undaunted, he began throwing the 
 rope, though buffeted by unruly winds. If 
 his grandfather's loving arms were only 
 around him to hold him tight against the 
 horde of waves. The little form swayed 
 hither and thither like a reed. Then 
 
92 Little Christ Stories 
 
 It was deep in the afternoon when, hot-foot, 
 the boy's uncle made the spot, and the 
 trumpet of the waves mingled with the louder 
 boom, boom of a vessel going to its death on 
 the rocks. Through the ghostly spray and 
 semi-darkness, men and women were panting 
 up the cliffy slope. All around was com- 
 motion and outcry. 
 
 Most of the passengers said they saw no 
 boy; they saw nothing. The captain said 
 he saw a man — a beautiful man — standing 
 by the tree and throwing a rope and waving 
 to him. That, though, was just for an instant. 
 It was when the flash came from somewhere — 
 the light, clear as jasper — caused the tree to 
 leap like a living thing out of the dimness 
 and showed them that help was near. And 
 they shot the wedge-tipped rope from the 
 cannon's black mouth, and it caught, and 
 they were saved. A miracle. They had 
 
Little Christ Stories 93 
 
 pounded on the rocks all night. But when 
 they went ashore no man was there, nothing 
 at all but the old tree with the rope caught 
 fast high up on one of the old everlasting 
 arms. 
 
 But they were saved. It was all a blur, 
 a mystery at the best. But they were saved. 
 
 "We traced him here, he carried a little 
 coil of rope." And the relative told to the 
 wild-eyed passengers the story of the boy. 
 And it was such an appeal as was more than 
 the Nazarene's, because it was the tragedy 
 of a real child essaying the salvation of a 
 ship whose fate was not forewritten in the 
 annals of the past. 
 
 An old miner now came forward. "That 
 woman over there," he said, pointing to a 
 young woman on her knees, "the one that 
 sang hymns all night when we thought we 
 were going to destruction, she says she saw 
 
94 Little Christ Stories 
 
 Christ — not walking on the sea, as in the 
 old Bible story, but hanging on the cross — 
 hanging on the old tree there." 
 
 "Yes," said a woman standing by, "and 
 here she is. And she says that at first it did 
 seem like a little child, but when she looked 
 again it was a man — a Christ." 
 
 "She's sure a queer one," said the miner. 
 But he added parenthetically, "Her prayers 
 and singin' sounded good enough to me, 
 though." Then rather thoughtfully he 
 walked over to the tree and muttered, "an 
 old cottonwood. Wouldn't use that kind of 
 wood up north for building purposes nohow. 
 Christ was crucified on a cross made from 
 the wood of that tree." 
 
 The incommunicable cottonwood '. The vi- 
 brations set up in its wooden body ages ago — 
 could they have been re-set up by the touch 
 — the tremor of the little Saviour near? 
 
Little Christ Stories 95 
 
 "Blessed l" It was the old man who now, 
 breathless, staggered upon the scene. He 
 stooped and groped at the foot of the tree 
 and unwound from a crotch the little rope — 
 the tragedy of which it was the mute re- 
 minder; he had been there, as it declared. 
 "The dreadful waves!, The awful waves! 
 They know no pity; they have thrust him 
 out; they have slain the boy. My Blessed 1" 
 
VII 
 CHARON'S PENNY 
 
 Dr. Reddy had dropped into some sort of 
 unreal languor — some fanciful state in his 
 office chair, something exceedingly rare for 
 him, when he felt a sensation of a presence 
 — a presence sensibly and actually present. 
 He had an emergent conviction that some 
 one entered the room; yet he knew that no 
 living hand had lifted the latch, no living 
 foot crossed the threshold. He rose and 
 took a few turns around, treating the occur- 
 rence as a natural outcome of his unstable 
 nerves. After depositing his case in its 
 usual corner, he looked over his memoranda 
 for the following day and settled back com- 
 fortably in his chair with the British Medical 
 Journal. 
 
 A fumbling rap sounded faintly on the 
 
Little Christ Stones 97 
 
 office door. As there was no response to his 
 invitation to enter, he rose more than a 
 trifle impatiently and crossed the floor. It 
 was considerably after office hours, and the 
 prospect of a belated patient was anything 
 but pleasant, especially as he had had a very 
 trying day. He threw open the door, and, 
 for a moment of unprofessional discourtesy, 
 stood staring into the wistful, pleading eyes 
 of a young girl. 
 
 The sensation of the curious trance-like 
 thought — the illusive presence — had faded 
 from his trained mind, leaving no prepared 
 imagination behind, and no anticipation. 
 His active, vigorous nature ran counter to 
 dabblings in psychic phenomena, still, an 
 indefinable air of mystery in the girl's bearing, 
 something in her face, excited, for an instant, 
 the doctor's curiosity. He was accustomed 
 to observe with unapparent scrutiny the 
 
98 Little Christ Stories 
 
 ensemble of his callers, yet her detached, im- 
 partial attitude, a queer elusiveness of aspect 
 irritated him with a sense of tantalization, 
 and he waited impatiently for her to speak. 
 "My mother, she is ill; you will come?" 
 "What is her ailment? I will give you a 
 prescription for her." The note of irritation 
 in the doctor's voice jarred. 
 
 "You will come. I will lead the way." 
 The voice was sorrowful in its low in- 
 sistence, and even through the reticence and 
 briefness of the words spoken held in its 
 slight palpitancy a certain importance. 
 
 It caused the doctor to relax somewhat his 
 austere manner, and he gently drew forward 
 a chair, but she remained standing and in 
 an attitude of readiness for flight. Astute 
 as he was, an uncommon feeling puzzled 
 him. And, too, even more marked than at 
 the first glance, there was an unfamiliar, 
 
Little Christ Stories 99 
 
 elusive expression about the pale, perfect 
 lining of the features, the distant look of her 
 eyes, and the way her hair floated from her 
 white temples, like sweeps of pale gold in 
 the evening sky. He deliberated a moment, 
 then seized his case, and joined the girl 
 standing with her hand on the door-latch 
 ready to pass out. 
 
 On before the doctor, always well in ad- 
 vance, sped the light feet of the girl. Why 
 could she not wait and walk with him? He 
 must see her closer; he must question her; 
 and he quickened his steps. But evidently 
 the girl divined his intention. And inwardly 
 the doctor fumed against the incalculable- 
 ness of feminine flightiness in general, and 
 against this evasion in particular. Yet at 
 times she seemed quite near; he sometimes 
 caught the gleam of her polished skin, which 
 at times was devoid of color, and again 
 
100 Little Christ Stories 
 
 glowed like the most delicate sunset. Her 
 mantle — if mantle it was — of some whitish 
 flowing stuff, hid her form, yet at times did 
 not. It seemed to have some magic quality, 
 and it might have been wings spreading 
 from her form, for all he could tell of the 
 scantily dressed, half-discerned figure. Much 
 more than ordinary curiosity now impelled 
 the doctor's steps. But her Ariel pace held, 
 and try as he would, he could not overtake 
 her. On down a narrow street and thence 
 to the rope-ferry she swiftly led him. Here 
 she waited until he joined her, when they 
 entered together, the girl seating herself on 
 the opposite side of the boat, and at the 
 farther end, but in plain view of him. 
 
 When the old ferryman shuffled forward to 
 collect the fares, he approached the girl first 
 but apparently ignored the small coin held 
 timidly out to him. Doctor Reddy's keen 
 
Little Christ Stories 101 
 
 Irish eyes were riveted upon the girl. Ac- 
 customed as he was swiftly to generalize 
 people, his appraisement of the girl was 
 slow. Again the unkempt boatman passed 
 her on his way back to his post; and again 
 she held out the penny, gazing up into his 
 face, while two little points of flame seemed 
 to leap from the depths of her eyes. 
 
 When they were ferried over, the airy form 
 of the girl again led the way as if there were 
 wings to her feet; and the weird Irish twilight 
 helped the illusion, and he sometimes doubted 
 whether she was palpably traversing the 
 streets or not. Through dark closes and 
 narrow streets — short cuts — her eyes seem- 
 ingly untroubled by darkness, without hesi- 
 tancy she drew the man after her. 
 
 Reaching a rickety tenement, she began 
 the ascent; up, flight after flight, each one 
 more tumbledown than the last, she moved 
 
102 Little Christ Stories 
 
 on before, until, reaching a door, she held 
 it open and signed for the doctor to pass 
 through, pointing as she did so to an old bed 
 in a recess of the room on which a woman lay. 
 
 The doctor began, quickly and deftly, to 
 work over the woman, who was in a coma- 
 tose state. He was in the habit of sharply 
 scolding when neglect was as glaringly 
 evident as it was here, and he turned from the 
 patient to rebuke the girl for not calling in 
 attendance sooner, and even for not applying 
 simple remedies herself, but she was nowhere 
 visible. Responding at last to the skillful 
 treatment, the woman rallied, and upon 
 opening her eyes looked at the man at her 
 bedside in a dazed, wondering way. 
 
 "Sure, an' who was it brought ye to my 
 bedside?" she queried, "seein' that I thried 
 agin an' agin to make my neighbor hear — 
 the craythur! She'd come without askin' 
 
Little Christ Stories 103 
 
 anny time if she but knew, but niver a soul 
 could I make hear, an' niver a one came near 
 me the long night an' day." 
 
 "Who brought me to your bedside? A 
 rather strange question, my good woman. 
 A young girl, your daughter, brought me 
 here — and none too soon, either," the doctor 
 answered emphatically, again looking around 
 the room for the messenger. "Wasn't she 
 caring for you before summoning me?" he 
 asked sharply. 
 
 "My daughter, doctor — my daughter?" 
 wailed the sick woman, turning her old face 
 away as if pained, and shrinking into herself 
 at the cold, curt tones of the physician } 
 "Mother of God! My daughter?" 
 
 "Yes. She came to my office saying that 
 her mother was ill, and she wore such a 
 beseeching look that, though I had decided 
 to make no more calls tonight, I accom- 
 
104 Little Christ Stories 
 
 panied her here." Still impatient over the 
 late call, the doctor turned brusquely from 
 chafing the woman's wrists to administer a 
 cordial. 
 
 "Sayin' as her mother was ill — her mother? 
 Oh, for the love of the Blissed Virgin, doctor, 
 thry an' tell me, thry an' remimber every 
 word she said! For the love of God, remim- 
 ber! What she said, doctor, an' what you've 
 been seein', be after tellin' me. Son of 
 Mary!" she moaned, and fell back with her 
 eyes upraised to heaven. 
 
 Nothing seemed to justify this passionate 
 outburst, as far as the doctor saw, yet the 
 old woman's manner impressed him against 
 his will. 
 
 "Those were the exact words she used, I 
 am positive." Pity for the mother speaking 
 in her was all that hindered the doctor from 
 adding some caustic remarks. "Was your 
 
Little Christ Stories 105 
 
 daughter not with you before she came for 
 me?" he persisted, thinking she had not 
 understood. 
 
 "My daughter with me, doctor, before 
 you came? Worra, worra!" 
 
 "Yes. Didn't you send her for me?" 
 
 "Send her for you? Sure an' I told ye, 
 doctor, that niver a soul came near me the 
 long night an' day. Tell me what she looked 
 like, tell me. Thry an' tell me, doctor — for 
 the Holy Mother's sake, thry!" and the 
 coaxing Irish voice was reverence and prayer 
 itself in its earnest entreaty. 
 
 When the description was given, the 
 woman gave way to an outburst of grief 
 that threatened a relapse in her weakened 
 condition. 
 
 "It's the heavy heart she left me," she 
 wailed, forgetting altogether the man's pres- 
 ence in her distress, "an' I've worrited for 
 
106 Little Christ Stories 
 
 her night an' day since. It's my daughter — 
 may the saints protict us!" And she fumbled 
 at her neck for her beads, and, crossing 
 herself, devoutly ran over her prayers. 
 
 "Your daughter will be back presently, 
 will she not? There are necessary directions 
 to be given, and she should be here. You 
 are not in a condition to be left alone." If 
 by his asperity the doctor thought to put a 
 stop to this inscrutable talk, and lead the 
 way to sensible conversation, the effect, 
 whether from nervousness or fear of scoffing 
 on his part, was diametrically opposite. 
 The peaked gray face suddenly seemed to 
 become finely veiled — masked. She looked 
 infinite spaces away. 
 
 "My daughter's away, doctor — she went 
 away; she left me. Worra! Worra! An' she 
 was that good!" 
 
 "How could she be away when she brought 
 
Little Christ Stories 107 
 
 me here tonight? What do you mean?" 
 The doctor was manifestly impatient, but 
 some disquieting sense of profanation softened 
 his voice a trifle. 
 
 But the woman only went off into some 
 sort of rhapsody, wailing from her pallet of 
 straw. 
 
 "Worra! Worra! An' me that lonely! 
 An' the bit an' sup's been hard to come by 
 since she left me. Just to think of that now 
 — just to think of that! Thry as I would, I 
 couldn't make my next door neighbor hear 
 when I thought my last hour had come, yet 
 up there in the blissed heaven — Holy Mary, 
 Mother of God! Would ye mind that now! 
 She besaached leave of — an' did the beautiful 
 gates open, an' did — Himself p'int the way to 
 her — a thrid of light — the way to my poor 
 home? Sure an' 'twas the love for her old 
 mother that brought her; it couldn't die; 
 
108 Little Christ Stories 
 
 it niver can die ; it's stronger than a thousand 
 graves. An' the tenderness of her! The 
 light of my old eyes — Mavourneen!" Was it 
 some divine afflation that filled her whole 
 being, some uplift that was vouchsafed to 
 her? 
 
 Dr. Reddy nodded to himself. The woman 
 was indubitably suffering from dementia. 
 But she seemed harmless, and he was seized 
 with something like compunction at his own 
 lack of feeling. And apparently so far from 
 her imagining that there was anything absurd 
 or unreasonable in her talk, she evidently 
 regarded it in some transcendental manner 
 utterly unintelligible to him. Perhaps, he 
 reflected, it could be accounted for by the 
 easy Irish superstition that makes mysteri- 
 ous the most commonplace. Nevertheless 
 there ran through it a vein of impressive 
 earnestness and belief. The fervid attitude 
 
Little Christ Stories 109 
 
 of the woman precluded the idea that she 
 was feigning, though undoubtedly she evaded 
 his questions as to the whereabouts of her 
 daughter. As the doctor prepared to leave, 
 after attending to her needs, he bent kindly 
 over the bed. 
 
 "Your daughter will be back presently, I 
 suppose, to see to you." The woman's gentle 
 reception of his persistency touched him, and 
 he knew it was hardly professional to allow 
 her to exert herself as she had, and he hast- 
 ened to add, "It is because you are in need of 
 care, immediate care, that I ask about her." 
 
 "Sure an' I have no daughter, but what — " 
 The woman's voice was cautiously lowered, 
 and in sudden fervency she lifted her eyes to 
 heaven, a smile of illuminating peace shining 
 upon her countenance. Then her expression 
 changed as if another thought flashed across 
 her brain. She raised herself slowly and 
 
110 Little Christ Stories 
 
 pointed with a long bony finger to the peat- 
 blackened mantel, over which hung an old 
 daguerreotype of a young girl. She leaned 
 forward and lowered her voice to a grave 
 intense key. 
 
 "Is that like her, doctor? Is that the one 
 ye saw?" 
 
 He walked over not uncuriously, and with 
 half-closed eyes critically scanned the features 
 of the girl. 
 
 "Yes, that is the girl that brought me here," 
 and for the first time the cold professional 
 tone gave way to one of real interest. 
 
 "Worra! Worra! She's all I had. Would 
 ye mind that, now!" and again she made the 
 sacred gesture of her race. 
 
 Though an irritating feeling of being 
 baffled swept over the doctor, and he was 
 almost angry at the old creature's evasive 
 manner, in some subtle fashion a feeling, as 
 
Little Christ Stories 111 
 
 real as it was new, held him, that somehow 
 in that upper chamber he had been treading 
 on holy ground. It was sacrilege, he told 
 himself, to press farther. The thin old voice 
 still trailed out of the shadows by the bed, 
 but he questioned no more. She evidently 
 was determined not to explain herself. He 
 prolonged his leave-taking in hopes of being 
 able to study the girl when she returned. 
 As she did not appear, he summoned the 
 sick woman's neighbor, and gave her direc- 
 tions and left. 
 
 "It's the queer sort of a night we've been 
 havin' altogether," the neighbor nodded to 
 the invalid after the doctor had closed the 
 door. "Don't tell me there's nothin' queer 
 around. The signs and the portents that 
 I've seen! An' to think that ye'd be lyin' 
 here all this time an' niver one to come near 
 ye! It's not for nothin' I'm seein' things! 
 
112 Little Christ Stories 
 
 There's a meanin' to all this, believe me. 
 At my door it was that I saw the sign I speak 
 of — a flasht of light that blinded me for a 
 minute. It crost me an' lit up your door, 
 an' was gone before I could think. An' I 
 saw it again; twict tonight have I seen it. 
 May the saints protict us! I'll be after askin' 
 the priest the meanin' of that. Mebbe it 
 Was some trick of lightnin' in the heavens, 
 but it makes a body take to shiverin'. 
 There's many a trick with spirits an' fiashin's 
 in ould Ireland, an' sorra wan can tell what 
 it is. It's the priest himself I'll be after 
 tellin'." And the neighbor made the sign 
 of the Cross and murmured an Ave on her 
 beads. 
 
 On the return trip across the ferry, Dr. 
 Reddy approached the old ferryman, to 
 whom he was well known, and asked: 
 
 "Why didn't you take the young girl's 
 
Little Christ Stories 113 
 
 fare— the one that crossed over with me? 
 She held it out to you. She sat over there," 
 and the doctor pointed to the place. "You 
 didn't appear to see her. She offered it to 
 you twice. She had come in with me. Do 
 you remember her?" 
 
 The squalid boatman fell to scratching the 
 side of his head, and he looked up at the 
 doctor quizzingly, but he answered gravely 
 enough : 
 
 "I saw ye when ye came in, an' I sez to 
 myself, 'The doctor's out late tonight; 
 some poor soul must be at death's door.' 
 An' I must have been lookin' so hard at ye, 
 doctor, an' thinkin' of the trouble, that I 
 didn't see the woman." The boatman's 
 head shook negatively, and his eyes were 
 lowered reflectively for a minute. He looked 
 up quickly again into the doctor's face, and 
 pointing to a dim corner of the old boat, 
 
114 Little Christ Stories 
 
 continued in a rather aggrieved tone, "An' 
 she came in with ye, an' sat over there — a 
 young girl? Bedad, Doctor, I wisht ye had 
 told me when I refused the pinny; it isn't, 
 like me to refuse the fare at anny time; my 
 mind must have been wanderin'. I wisht 
 I could remimber. I passed her by twict, 
 ye say, an' twict she held out the pinny? I 
 saw ye, doctor, easy enough, but it's what 
 I'm not seein' that's givin' me trouble," and 
 the old man again fell to scratching his head 
 and looking oddly at the doctor. 
 
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