Ghent or Aix?

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17223, 14 December 1923, Page 11 (Supplement)

Ghent or Aix?

(Written for the Christmas “ Star,’’ by

MISS UNA CURRIE)

[ Once upon a time there was a poet who wrote about a ride. This is the story of another ride ; not, like the poet's, from Ghent to Aix ; but onlv the story of ride from the “way-back” to a ’little country township. Yet such rides are worthy of a poet’s pen ! The chief centre of attraction on Christmas Eve is the toy-shop. It is only an old ramshackle, small-windowed place, but it boasts everything from a '• comic " to a rocking-horse ; and it is the toy-shop ! Three Christmases ago, a ceaseless tide of people ebbed and flowed around its narrow door. All day the gigs and buggies, with their tired, perspiring horses, had come and gone, and gone and come. Ail day the shops had been tilled with eager buyers to whom everything was new and full of interest. All day the farmers, their best suits donned for the occasion, had flocked through the street in the sweltering heat, and all day the crack of whips through the air had sounded to the stern “ giddeps” of tired drivers. The beat of hoofs had rnng upon the road, and the dogs, their tongues lolling, had panted for air. while the sound of laughter and the clink of glasses and coins had drifted from the hotel at the corner. But at night, when the hot sun had get in a flaming whirl behind the Papamoa range, and the stars had lit in the sky —the town awoke. It was Christmas Eve and late night. The road was thronged and the deep-voiced laughing “Merry Christmases” of the pakehas mingled with the swift chatter of the Maoris. There was an air of jollity and cheer abroad that set the blood tingling with an anticipatory sense of the morrow, and nobody thought of going home. Now and again the dark head of a bright-eyed piccaninny peeped from behind its mother’s shoulder, and a thick-bearded, long-striding suntanned “ back-bloeker pushed through the general crowd, the mark of the fields upon him. and their freedom in his bearing. All sorts and conditions mingled and commingled—in Matamata on Christmas Eve. There was a good deal of “ chaff ” and blunt humour from a band of the tow nship “ bloods.” who paraded the main road en masse, greeting their acquaintances and non-acquaintances with quick sallies, and, as they neared the toy-shop and ran into ono couple almost buried beneath a mountain of boxes and bags and brown paper parcels. there was a fresh outburst of liveliness. “ Heavens. .Tack.” laughed the woman, “this feels to me liko Christmas Eve ! "What a squash 1 I think the whole Bay of Plenty must be here tonight- It’s more like Paris every year!” “Paris is right 1” answered the man grimly. “ Let’s get borne. Had enough yet?” “ Home ” meant a thirteen mile drive over lull and dale to the foot of the range, with a river-ford to cross in the dark, and once they were safely loaded up the journey began. One by one the lights fell behind as they passed down the long road and cut into the darkness. Presently the shiver of the poplars and the occasional rustling of a bluegum were the only sounds besides, perhaps, the barking of a farmhouse dog aroused from sleep. The river was crossed in silence, and soon the hills loomed nearer through the shadows and the lights of a house twinkled through the night! “ Mrs White's home !” said the man, as the gig neared and passed the white 1 gate. “ Glad she minded the kids tonight. You’ve had a crook spin lately old girl ! Nobody else could have pulled Elaine through all that —you’ve been a brick. And you deserve a With a swift, boyish motion he squeezed his wife’s hand. It had been a pretty, soft hand once, when it had been the schoolmistiess’s. but seven years on a. farm had roughened and coarsened it. Sometimes, at first, when she was very little more than a bride, Cinderella, looking at her stained fingers, sighed ruefully, but those days were over. There are things more beautiful than white hands in the world, and the knew it. So did her husband, and to him at that moment her hands were the most beautiful in the world. It was almost one o'clock when they reached the homestead, and the kerosene lamp on the low table was like a friendly smile. “Christmas morning!” said .Tack with a start. “A happy Christmas, dear!” —and he stooped to kiss bis , wife. The next moment there was a | sharp thud, and he stooped quickly to pick up the fallen parcel. Inside, l there lay a doll, its smiling china face 1 cracked from eye to chin, and one arm I broken from the elbow. For a long * minute, the woman looked at it. its long hair surmounted by a big brow, and its eyes very blue. • Jack !” she said at last, with a little catch in her voice. “Oh. Jack!” “The kid’s doll." replied her husband helplessly. “ Confound the

thing. After all the trouble w© had getting it, tot). Don’t s’pose its any good now, is it? Couldn’t iix it somehow ?’ ’ “Fix it?” cried the mother tragically. as she looked at the broken toy. “Fix it? And she’s been so ill, Jack, The “ Littlest One " had indeed been ill. All through the weary days and nights they had watched the little candle that was her life dim and leap in fitful gusts that meant hope one minute and despair the next. They had seen its faint glimmer narrow and die till it seemed almost gone, and then blow out; they had watched it, with eyes in which prayers burned, die and die till it seemed almost goneiand then slowly but steadily brighten and light to clear life again. The Littlest One was only four and she was very precious. Her two sturdy young brothers, who rode bareback and ran barefoot, and swam and climbed and wore out their trousers’ knees playing marbles, were precious, too. of course, but somehow the Littlest One, especially after that bitter fight they had had for her life, seemed doubly so. And now lier doll There was silence in the little room for a moment. The doll lay face downwards on the table, and the Big Ben over the fire place ticked monotonously. “ Oh. well, Nan,” said the man at last, with an effort, “ It’s no use crying over spilt milk! There are these other things for her too ! ” “ Yes,” said the mother slowly, picturing the tired Littlest One’s disappointment when Santa “ didn’t bring the pretty dolly wiv real hair.” “ Yes, and I can just see her when she sees there's no doll! Oh, Jack!” There was silence again and now suddenly the man moved to the door. “Just off to the township. Nan; back soon!” he announced casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to fling round in the dark for a horse and saddle and ride him thirteen miles over rough hills and dales to the nearest shop for a doll in the middle of the night! “ Jack,” breathed the woman, her eyes lighting. ‘‘ You dear!” But he was gone. In a while the sound of hoof-beats echoed down the valley and then died away. Jack rode that night as he had ridden only once before, when he had gone flying in an agony of fear to the doctor's. The lights were out in the township when he arrived, but he flung himself off the horse and rapped on the house-door of the toy-shop sharply. The line of a song sung by an isolated drunken brawler somewhere at hand floated to him faintly, and then all was still. There was the sound of slow moving within, and the door opened. With jerky breaths the visitor explained his errand, and followed his guide to the toy-shop. Ten minutes later, with a smaller edition of the doll “ wiv real hair.” he was off. Down the main road the horse-hoofs clattered, past the factory and the station and the poplars, and across the river. A loose stone slipped from under him as he guided the horse and spurred her on. Once she stumbled and he straightened sharply. Occasionally a cow would moo restlessly, and the birds cheep drowsily in the wattles as he passed, but for the most part it was very still. The green fields lay blurred in shadow and the sky was turning grey. The light burned cheerfully as lie entered the gate, and the door opened softly as he dismounted. The next instant, seized in a triumphant bear-hug, his wife was laughing breathlessly as she clung to him. “ S’sk ! Here comes the Dream Man' ” she admonished him happily. “ I’ve played Santa Claus to-night, Jackie boy! Just look at all these nice fat stockings!” ‘‘‘Fat’ is right!” returned the usurped Santa with mock irony. “ Some people do have clumsy children—not a scrap artistic! Now just look at that stocking in the middle there—my son and heir's, I take it. Of all the clumsy, stupid, senseless ways of putting in a trumpet, that takes the bun. Now, if I had been doing it ” “ Go on. run away wid ye,” was the reply. “ Time all cheeky little boys like you were in bed—run away now!” Next morning, at an hour before even the cows had to be milked, the Littlest One. her eyes bright and shining with excitement, and her cheeks pink with j happiness, climbed excitedly into father's bed and brought to light the booty. Santa had come up to all expectations ! And that night, when the Christmas puddings and the “ thrup’ny bits ” and the cakes and salads and sweets were but things of the past, the Littlest One lay asleep, the lashes dark on her cheeks, and in her arms there lay a ( doll—“ wiv real hair! ” “ Santa Claus ” smiled a strangely j tender smile, and then yawned tiredly. | “ I think." said the Little Mother very softly, “ I really think, Jackie boy. that 1 doll should be called Ghent or Aix!”