The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 22 February 1912, Page 3

The Storyteller

“♦ PIETRO’S PRESENT The steam whistle of a factory nearby had just blown a long shriek telling the men in the surrounding factories and shops that tlie welcome hour of noon had arrived. Pietro Vendalano, who worked from 6 o'clock in the morning until 5.30 in the afternoon, digging away earth from a new railroad line through Clifton, laid down his pick, mopped his brow and slowly walked toward a spot where otner laborers were. In the saloon at the corner for three cents one could have his pail filled with cool beer, ■ And on this particular day every laborer rushed tor his beer. Every one but Pietro Vendalano. He sat upon a heap of earth alone, and as he watched the figures of his fellow-workmen pass through the swinging doors of the saloon he was strongly tempted to follow them. But he shook his head and silently munched his lunch, every little while taking a drink from a pail of water at his side ; not because he cared for the drink but he found it difficult to swallow his coarse meal without washing it down with something. He gazed disgustedly at the contents of the pail. b One more week and his task would be over. And at that thought a new trouble entered his mind He put his hand into his pocket, pulled forth a blue bandana handkerchief, and silently contemplated a" little knot at the corner. A broad smile spread across hislace as he slowly untied the knot. It proved to hold a mass of pennies, nickels, and dimes. He counted out the little pile. Just ninety-six cents. Not much to be sure, but when it accumulates by the sacrifice of a cool noonday beer for thirty-two days it represents a sum much larger than some of our thousands-of-dollar-endowments by our millionaire philanthropists You see, Pietro was working out a little scheme, and the pennies nickels, and dimesninety-six cents in all—which lay before him were almost the successful and happy culmination of that scheme. r-T i P i 6tr °’ s little §' irl Mar was to receive her First Holy Communion next Sunday, and it was to be a gala day m the Vendalano household. Elaborate preparations, such as the Vendalanos had never seen before ’ were being started for the great occasion; The day was ues day, and already the child was joyfully and impatiently awaiting the most momentous day of her , girlhood. Every night when he came home from work Pietro was greeted by a hug and a kiss and a happy shout that her First Communion day was . drawing nearer. At first Pietro was sad and heavy at heart because he knew of no way in which to give his little Mary a gift on that great day. His wages were barely enough to keep the little home and afford a few slight luxuries for his wife and for Mary. Of course, Mary would love him just as much if he had no present to give her, but he wanted her to feel that in some way her poor old father had a share in the day's happiness 7 And accordingly he was sad and heavy at heart, because he knew of no way of getting the present. Suddenly he struck UPn an idea. Why not save the three cents that he spent every noon for beer? That was a way by which he could get the present. And he started to save his beer money.' That was over a month before his little \ he S r at UP the earth Pile alone and counted trying -f Um ° f f met -y- slx cents - He had succeeded, be?r a as it was at times, in doing without his noonday beer and now the day of his reward was close at hand 7 By Saturday he would save six cents more, bringing the grand total up to one dollar and two cents Satur? day he must get the present. „ , Now a new trouble stirred him and made him sad and heavy at heart. What would he get for her ? That was the question which was continually running through his mind. A new hat,' he thought. But then she was to have a pretty new veil. He had seen it Mary’s mother had made it, and he smiled as he remembered how beautiful it was, and how pretty Mary would look m it. And what if she wouldn’t wear it?’ That

thought banished forever the idea of buying, a hat as a present. r Mary was too old for a doll, and poor Pietro’s circumscribed mind was/weary trying to think of something that would please Mary. He was aroused from this state by the cheery voiceof Dick O’Brien, the young timekeeper in. the employ of the railroad. He was a happy, care-free character, spending most of his time fooling with the Italian laborers and playing tricks. on them, much to their discomfiture. They all liked him, however, because he had at one time or another befriended many of them. Pietro could not have been awakened in a manner better suited to his thoughts. - Hello, there, you old Carrier Nation ! Still on the water wagon?’ was the salutation of O’Brien. Then, seeing the coins in Pietro’s lap, he laughed. ‘ Say, what are you doing, saving up for an old folks’ home, or are you going to buy the railroad when we get it finished Pietro took the question good-naturedly, and while he looked at the clean-cut young fellow before him he resolved to ask him to help him in his dilemma. ‘Mr. Dick, will you do me a kindness?’ he asked in a tone that no one could refuse. ‘ Sure,’ responded Dick. ‘ Fire away. What does your royal highness wish ?’ ‘No fooling, Mr. Dick,’ said Pietro, and there was something in his voice which made Dick serious J * - ‘All right, Pietro,’ he answered. ‘ What can Ido for you V Pietro seemed to be slightly embarrassed. ‘ Mr. Dick, my little girl Mary she makes her First Communion Sunday. It’s gona be onea big day, and the little kid is gona have a greata time. I savea ninety-six cents to buy her present know—something from her father. I don’t know about presents, Mr. Dick. Maybe you could takea the money anda buy something nice. Will you, Mr. Dick?’ . ' Why, sure thing, Pietro. But where did you get these coins?’ asked young O’Brien, as he looked down at the heap of pennies, nickels, and dimes. ‘I no take any beer at noon hour. I savea my three cents every day.’ O’Brien whistled. He thought to himself: Gee, that’s going some. It’s like doing without your dinner when it is the only meal you’re supposed to get.’ s Pietro / noticed his look and fell back, a new fear gripping him. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked anxiously. ‘ Ninety-six cents no enough?’ Dick O’Brien was just about to reply that ‘it wouldn’t buy much,’ but something made him change his words, and he gladdened the old man before him by saying : V ‘ Sure, ninety-six cents will buy the’ best present on the market. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he continued. * I don’t know much about presents for girls, especially little ones, so I’ll take your ninety-six cents and have my sister see what she can do with it. Is that O.K. ?’ * Yes, yes,’ said Pietro, hurriedly. ‘ All right, then. I’ll see you to-morrow and “report progress,’’ as the boss says.’ The next day at noontime O’Brien came to Pietro and whispered; ‘ Say, you ought to see what your ninety-six cents is getting for Mary!’ ; > Pietro’s eyes gleamed, and a smile lighted up his old, lined face. ‘ Tell me what?’ he asked feverishly. ‘ No; I’ll bring it to you Saturday noon, and then you can walk home on air.’ Pietro returned to his work, whistling merrily, despite , his thin, aged lips. His noonday beer was furthest from his mind, and he thought only of his little girl at home and the present he was getting for her. ‘ Won’t she jump and yell with gladness, and throw her arms around her daddie when he brings home a present to her! How happy she will be!’ He was smiling and humming to himself as he swung the pickaxe up and down. . : Saturday came. To Pietro, who reported on the job at 6 o’clock in the morning, it seemed that noon would never come. At times he swung the pickaxe feverishly, as though each second was gauged-by the

speed of his. swing. .At other times he was barely able to life the axe—the nervousness and anxiety to receive the gift had played him out. Like a sailor scanning a threatening horizon, he looked furtively in every direction for the form of Dick O'Brien. But many times he groaned with disappointment, until at last-he uttered a half-cry of sudden joy as he saw the young timekeeper picking his way through the gang of workmen. He was coming ■ ' Pietro dropped his pick and ran forward,,crying: . 'Oh, Mr. Dick, you bringa the present? Show me; let me see! Quick, quick I’ ‘ Now, hold your horses, Mr. Garibaldi. This present isn’t going to melt. I’m not bringing you any ice cream. Just take your time and you will get it, all right.’ - ‘ Oh, come, come, Mr. Dick,’ Pietro pleaded, wringing his hands in anguish. * Please show, me present, Mr. Dick! Please!’ , ‘ All right, old Santa Claus. What do you say to that?’ And he pulled forth a little plush box from his pocket. He opened it before the wondering eyes of Pietro, and displayed, nestling against the white satin interior rosary of wonderful violet beads and a cross of gold. No child on making a Christmas morning discovery ever uttered a more genuine or happy , cry of delight than did Pietro when he saw the rosary. >No kiddie was ever more overjoyed with a new toy than was Pietro when he took the rosary into his hands. He looked it all oyer, and, unable to contain his joy, yelled at the top of his voice, ‘ Santa Maria Laudiamo !’ much to the surprise and mystification of his fellow-work-men. ' ; X ■ O’Brien looked at him, amazed. • ‘ Gee, I’m glad I didn’t bring you a million- dollars; You’d probably’ die with joy, and then I’d be hung.’ Pietro grasped Dick’s hand and kissed it. ‘ Oh, thank you, Mr. Dick! It is a very good beads. My Mary will be so happy.’ (. ‘Oh, that’s all right. Don’t thank me,’ said O’Brien, generously. He didn’t mention the fact that he had contributed more than four times the ninety cents in order to buy the rosary. But either because he feared that Pietro would overlook it or because he desired to hear him yell again, he said: i‘Look here, you old fireworks, take a good look at that cross. You’re missing the best-part of that rosary.’ Pietro scanned the cross and made out the letters, ' M-a-r-yf-r-o-mP-a-p-a. ’ ■ There are times in the lives of all of us wherein , we experience extraordinary emotions of extreme joy or sorrow. _ The instant news of the death of a dear friend £ or relative, the quick realisation of the tremendous loss : of personal wealth, the sudden knowledge of the perfidy of a trusted friend or the unexpected notice of a friend’s sacrifice—any of these may produce a like result. Dumbly, mutely we try to acknowledge the news. We are transfixed—truly, actually overcome by the news. In a hazy, dim, and partly intelligible manner we try to, realise the proportions of the fact. Subconsciously we hear the voice of the messenger or read the message. In some unknown ways it filters through our mind. The impact, the suddenness of it all, even the very fact itself strikes.us quickly. Then a wandering moment, a dazed spell, wherein we picture the results of the fact, and then—our emotions flood our senses. Tears well to our eyes, tears of joy or sorrow. It was like that with Pietro. Blankly he raised his eyes from the grass to the smiling face of Dick O’Brien. There was an effort written On his face, as though he were trying to decipher the letters in gold. Then a moment, a passing second, a moment of transition. A happy - smile illumined his face, and then" he cried, cried like a restless babe. He grasped the hand of the . young timekeeper and kissed itnot once, but many times. . - - . - ... ‘ For the letters of gold were as a miracle to Pietro. Yes, he had heard that the Americans wrote their names in gold on all of their gifts, but to him it was fabulous. Not even the band of gold that one smiling June day years ago he had slipped on the lovely finger

of Mary’s mother, following it with a sweetheart’s kiss the wedding ring—not even that bore the mystic writing in gold. „ They were tears of joy that Pietro shed. Lifted ' into the seventh heaven of delight, he thought not of the things of this life. In fact, he almost went home without calling for his weekly pay envelope, an occurrence .unparalleled in the history of section gangs. At the supper table he ate little, but talked much and said many tilings that neither Mary’s mother nor Mary understood. That evening he grew nervous. Like the first penny of the toothsome child, the red plush box seemed to be burning a hole through his pocket. He dared not show it to any- one. At night he placed it under his pillow, and, falling asleep, he dreamt of the Father above, and he saw Him giving to Blessed Mary a wonderful violet rosary, telling her to give it to the world, for ‘by love and prayer many things are wrought.’ Sunday, Mary’s First Communion day, was forecasted by the weather bureau of heaven.' It was an 1 ideal May. day. The full growth of spring, warmed by the first breezes of summer, the day was a boomerang of the freedom and peace that resided in the bosom of the First Communicant. The sun shone brightly, warmly, ; the sky, a foundation or baby blue, trimmed with ouodlibet clouds of cotton white. Pietro arose with- the first Angelus of the day.- The bells of St. Anthony’s Church near by were tolling the ancient ,■ message of the Archangel Gabriel. Instinctively he sought for the rosary beneath the pillow. Yes, it was there. He arose and sought for another rosary the family rosary. He would hide it. And then he built the fire, and soon the little home was warm and the mother and daughter were astir. Like a child, he feasted his eyes upon Mary. He watched her jealously. He helped in dressing her; he alone put on the white • stockings and the white shoes. He smoothed out the long white veil. How wonderful she looked ! White, virgin, snowy white, from head to foot. The shining black tresses, the little red, happy face, and the browned hands were oases in the desert of white. It came ■•time to leave for the church. Mary s hands were now encased in the white gloves. She carried a white prayer book. But she had no rosary ! It was not to be found. The family beads! They, too, were missing. After a search the beads could not be found, and Mary came to her father weeping, because she must have a rosary on her First Communion day . He sat her upon his knee, and while she was drying her tears he pulled forth the rosary violet rosary. . 1 Look, Mary ! Look he cried as he pulled back the plush cover of the box. And then all the words, the ' thoughts and the well-wishes that he had planned, somewhat dimly, to accompany the present vanished from his' mind, and he burst into tears. He offered the amazed child the rosary. He managed to say brokenly : ‘ Mary • —you,’ and then he wept softly into his Sunday I white handkerchief. ‘Oh, papa; what wonderful beads!’ cried the surprised child. ‘Oh, mamma, look! See what papa has v brought me ! Oh, look at the golden cross! Mamma! Papa! golden letters are on the cross. It says, “Mary ./ from Papa.” Oh, papa, you are so good!’ and she clasped . him around the neck, to the great risk of her white waist. , ‘ You like beads, Mary?’ asked Pietro. ‘Oh, father, I love them.’ jjt . ‘You love your father, too?’ he asked, almost childishly. ‘ Oh, papa, I more than love you ! Kiss me, papa,’ said the child, in girlish effulgency, as they embraced. And the mother, standing above them, cried, too, and was glad that Pietro had remembered his child, for, like the. true mother, she shared her daughter’s happi- / nessand life. ' Pietro and his wife sat in a rear pew when the girls filed up the middle aisle ,of the church that morning. Mrs. Vendalano remarked to herself that Mary’s dress and veil were the prettiest in the procession, and that her little girl made the best appearance of all. But Pietro had eyes only for the violet rosary that Mary carried in her hands, and it seemed tp him that every*

body in the church was gazing at it and saying, ‘ What a beautiful rosary Nor is that all. For every night now in the Vendalaiio home, when the hour of retiring comes, the little family kneels at the side of Mary’s bed, the: daughter in the centre, the mother to her right, , and the father at her left. - Mary is prayer monitor, and Pietro and the mother answer her while she nightly thumbs the beads of the wonderful violet rosary. And their prayers are similar. Mary prays for the mother and father, the mother for her husband and child, and Pietro for his Mary and his little Mary- and often for Dick O’Brien —Manhatten Quarterly.