Joe Smale’s Christmas Gift

Taranaki Daily News, 20 December 1924, Page 1 (Supplement)

Joe Smale’s Christmas Gift

(First Prize Open Story Competition) (By Rev. W. H. E. Abbey). The homestead of Dunleigh station reposed peacefully on the brow of Horseshoe Hill. Its red roof peeped through a wealth of trees which, with their green foliage, formed a pretty picture outlined against the western sky. A winding track from the road led round the hillside through the wide gate at the oat paddock, finally closing its career on the edge of a concrete square at the rear of the house. Here the kitchen door swung open on a certain summer’s afternoon, and Peace Dunleigh, a golden-haired girl of four years, sat playing with her toys. “I wonder what Father Christmas will bring me to-night,” she said to her favourite doll, a damaged-faced negress that lay with vacant stare at her feet. "And what would you like, Topsy ?” she asked the unanswering plaything. “I suppose you want just what I want. Perhaps Santa Claus will have two push earts, one for me and one for you.” Along the winding path, an old man dragged his weary way. The sun beat unmercifully on his tanned and weatherbeaten face. Many sorrows had furrowed their lines across his forehead and around his eyes- Trouble,. too, ate like a canker into his souL His unkempt hair and shaggy white beard, bleached by summer’s hot blast and winter’s keen frosts, would have lent a venerable appearance to him, had it not been for his haunted look and care-worn •xpjcssion. As years go, he was not old, but his back, bent beneath an invisible load, and his spirit soured by the gall of adversity, had turned strong manhood into old age. and his sun had set at noon. For him the zest of living had gone. Strange that in a world where so much awaits to be done, one should find so little to do. Joseph Smale was one who, still eastward of fifty, had found the river of life running out into a sandy waste. There remained nothing for him but to -wander on his saddened way, between the failing stream and the inviting ocean, for he secretly hoped that in some qu;et corner of hospitable shed or outhouse, the ■waves should pass over his soul. Just now, however, he draws near to ♦he little red-roofed house on the top of the hill. He would beg a meal, and maybe a bed for the night. Then to-mor-row, he would resume his aimless journey, ascending some other winding track, or perhaps going down the hill to where the sun sinks far in the waters of the west.

Peace Dunleigh stared as the man slowly stepped from the gravelled path on to the concrete square.

“Are you dear old Father Christmas?” she excitedly inquired. “Topsy. Look! Xook! He’s come."

The visitor paused as though blinded by the vision, or obsessed with an idea.

“Father Christmas,” he muttered. “Do I look like him? Good God! I must have aged. Has my manhood dwindled to a fiction? Am I but a child’s myth?”

So saying, he swung round on his heel and departed. All sense of hunger left him in the idea now possessing his mind.

“Father Christmas,” he mused, as he hurried down the track. ‘Til give it a

€°”. Night fell silently over the district. A few coloured beams of light lingered around the lazy clouds in the west. Finally the pall of darkness enveloped them, and here and there a star appeared in the moonlit sky, for the silver crescent followed the sun languidly down the steep incline, to rest, giving place to those few timid stars that blinked their way into <h e night.

Peace Dunleigh’s day was done. With e prayer that Father Christmas would not forget her, she closed her eyes in sleep. The township of Matarika lay some two miles away to the east. Illuminated shop windows, festooned with greenery and crinkled paper, with here and there a toy Santa Claus wrapped in his red snowsprinkled coat, invited passers-by to enter and make their Christmas purchases. Trade in the Cash Emporium was pretty brisk, numbers of people entering and coming out again with arms full of tightly packed parcels. Happy to spend a little at this festive season, customers from town and country loaded themselves with their gifts. There were toys for children’s stockings and presents for lover and friend.

“My purse has gone!” cried a woman at the counter. “I put it down there for e moment. Oh. what shall I do!”

Waiting customers cleared a space, making diligent search for the missing purse. Salesmen hurried forward and joined in the inquiry. But all to no avail. The distracted woman, leaving her unpaidfor parcels behind, lingered awhile, and then hastened out of the shop. “I’m sure I brought it with me,” she exclaimed, as she passed into the street. “I remetnber distinctly carrying it in my fi and.”

In the rush of business, the incident was forgotten, and the woman, after reporting the matter to the police, returned to her home. On the outskirts of the town, a jmall toy depot did a thriving trade. It was handy to the junction where the country roads met and emptied their shoppers into the town. Into this depot, an ill-dressed man rather shyly stole, late in the evening, and tossed a five-pound note po to the

“Give me some toys, please, suitable f a youngster, a girl about five. I reck you know what she’d like.’

“Doing Father Christmas?” laughingly inquired the shop assistant, as she proceeded to collect a few articles. “How about a push cart ? Has she one, or would you prefer a set of furniture?” “Most anything,” said the man. “Get a wriggle on, please. I’m hard pressed for time. £4 15s for those? Thanks. Give me the change in cigarettes.” With his parcel under his arm, the man slipped out, and was lost in the crowds on the streets. In the bedroom near the dining room, Peace Dunleigh lay fast asleep. Night had touched heavily her eyelids. Her dimpled chin rested on a daintily curved hand that held lightly the hem of the snow-white sheet. On the corner post of her cot, a little white sock hung, fastened in its place by a piece of pink ribbon. A man groped in the darkness, fumbling about for the bed post. “Dash it,” he muttered, “I kicked it.”

It was nearly midnight. Apparently the noise had not disturbed the sleeping inmates of the house. Silence reigned supreme, so the man pursued his task, and hung his parcel over the empty sock. Then gazing wistfully at the sleeping child, her beautiful face now lit by the pale light of the waning -moon, he moved to pass through the doorway into the hall. “Caught! You bounder! What are you doing here?” The surprised intruder felt a firm hand on his shoulder, as the words broke in terror on his ears.

Joe Smale w’as not a criminal. Though wandering, aimless and penniless, he had never been guilty of any breach of law. In that respect his record was stainless. And he felt it keenly that now he had given the law occasion to vindicate itself.

“Yes, I’m caught boss fair enough. passing, without lawful excuse, I suppose. But I meant no harm. I would not hurt the little lass. Look ar that parcel on the bed post. I’m Father Christmas.” "You re a knave or a fool,” replied Dunleigh, “but you’re not Father Christmas this time. Don’t move, while the maid rings for the police.” The noise and switching on of the light disturbed the little sleeper in the room. She sat bolt upright in bed, rub bing her rudely awakened eyes, and gazing at th? stranger by her father’s side. Father Christmas,” she cried, with unfeigned delight. “I’ve caught you. Daddy! Daddy! Look at the big parcel! He’s brought my push cart too! Dear old Father Christmas! Come and let me kiss you.” Just then, the police arrived, and to the dismay of Peace, Father Christmas passed out into the night. “Guilty. Y’our Worship. I saw the purse lying there. The temptation was too great. Aou see, I took a fancv to the youngster as she played with ’her doll. Are you dear old Father Christmas?’ she said. And I wanted to act the part. I yearned for a shilling to spend on the kiddy. She reminded me so much of someone I’m trying to forget." Here the accused man broke into a

“Convicted,” said the magistrate. “Come up for sentence when called upon, on condition that restitution of the stolen money be made at the rate of five shillings per week. And do not play Father Christmas with ladies’ purses again.’’ Joe Smale bowed, and walked out oi the court.

Down the street, a well-dressed man accosted him, and extending his right hand, he said, “Here’s a fiver, old man. If you want another, come and see the boss at Dunleigh Station.”