CHAPTER FOURTim’s Christmas
In the days that followed, the shades were drawn low in the pleasant cottage home that had sheltered little Tim all his days. One of the dogs, which was inclined to be noisy, and even the parrot, were taken away. On the sidewalks between the houses, the neighbors walked on tiptoe. Indeed, all the people round about felt deeply for the little cripple. On the avenue people stepped in to ask his papa about him. And from the windows of houses neighboring to his home many eyes looked out to see how long the doctor stopped each day.
At first Tim’s mama had been almost overcome. She had come home on that sad day with several packages of presents. Especially she had had delivered a very pretty cart with a very good seat, blue box and red wheels, and plush cushion, a gift for Tim, so that Louise could take him out riding. And for some days it stood beside his bed. They didnot wait for Christmas, but held it up to him that he might feel of it.
“You must get well, Tim, so that you can ride in it,” they said. But he answered nothing. No, Tim would not be able to use it,—no, not for Christmas at any rate. It was too bad. Everything was done that money could provide and that love could imagine in order to comfort and encourage the little sick cripple. Tim had always been pale and thin. Now he was much more so. His eyes glistened at times, not with animation but with fever-light. His cheeks were pink too, but it was not a natural glow. All his pains he bore very patiently.
Already it was getting dark. The lights twinkled along the streets. In the quiet of the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Rudiger had sat by Tim’s bedside. She was almost dozing in the stillness. Suddenly there was a rap. Three sturdy little strangers stood at the door, big-eyed, one of them carrying a bouquet.
“Does Tim what was hurt live here, ma’am?”
“Why, yes.”
“We bring’d some flowers, ma’am, from the Sunday school. Tim’s in our class. Yes’m, teacher sent us.” The little fellows waddledin, very dignified, each cap in hand. For some minutes they stood by the bed. Not a word was said. Soon they whispered and beckoned. How it was done no one could tell, but they understood that they were to leave.
“Please, ma’am, tell Tim we was here. Pale, ain’t he?” said the biggest, who had carried the flowers and so felt himself leader and spokesman. It was interesting to watch the three little figures as they walked along down the street. Serious little men!
One day as Tim opened his eyes from a nap he heard some one speaking softly with his mother. Over his face there passed a sweet smile of welcome. It was his teacher. She had called, and had been talking with his mother for some time.
“Awful glad to see you.” He tried to smile and to reach out his hand for her to take.
“Yes, Tim,” said she. After a few words he began to ask about the Sunday School and his class.
“Yes, Tim, they were all there except you. The flowers? Yes, they wanted to send them to you. Little Henry brought them. He was always good to you, you know. Bennie and Oscar were with him. The lesson? Oh, yes. It was about the three Kings. You know therewere three wise men, kings, in the East. They saw a star, and somehow God told them that they should follow it. They followed it over deserts and mountains a long way until they came to Jerusalem. There they went to Herod and asked: ‘Where is He that should be born king of the Jews?’”
“A star? Way up in the sky?”
“Yes, indeed. And when they found out that Jesus was to be born in Bethlehem, they set out to go there, and lo, the star went on before them and brought them right to the place.
“Yes, Tim, that’s why we put stars on Christmas trees. Indeed, we’ll have a beautiful one on the very tip-top of the tree.”
Tim lay thinking long about this story and about the star after Miss Merton was gone.
One night Tim seemed very feverish and restless. He tossed about as far as his soreness and stiffness would allow. He was getting very sore now from lying in bed so long.
“I’m awful sorry I can’t go to church to the Christmas tree, Papa,” he said.
“It’s too bad, Tim. You must try to be quiet and sleep now.”
“Christ was born on Christmas night,” saidTim earnestly. “I was to speak a verse. They won’t have that verse now, will they?”
“Oh, they’ll find some way,” said his papa.
“The tree will be lovely, teacher said. Popcorn—and oranges—and things that shine—and angels—and stars.”
“And see”—he reached out and felt around. Yes, he found and held up a pretty angel figure. It was of paper and very light, but too heavy for Tim. “Angels like this, too.” He laid it down with a sigh.
“Wish I could be there.” A look of wistful sorrow passed over his face. He whispered almost rather than spoke. His papa, sitting by the bed, had to lean over in order to hear him.
“But Tim, you couldn’t see it anyway. Why should you be there?”
“Couldn’t see?” The lad moved quickly as he exclaimed, “I ought to hear them. Why shouldn’t I? Jesus came as a little child. He loved me. And when He came they put Him in a stable. And when He grew big, He went out and preached salvation, and they crucified Him. He died for me. And when I die, I shall go to heaven. Cause I ought to be there. All the little children should. If I was in church I could show Jesus how I love Him.He wants me to be glad on Christmas.” Tim fell back exhausted and was quiet.
The excitement seemed to have been good for the sick boy, for as he quieted down he fell asleep. Far into the night they sat by his bed, for the doctor had told them that Tim was very sick. Louise and Alex, Mama and Papa were there. Tim had mourned that he could not be in church for Christmas and show Jesus his love and joy. But that night the doors of a better church and a better home swung open for him. And with the little thin paper angel lying by him on the bed, the blind cripple slept away and went to keep holiday in heaven above. On that night, I think, he could see for the first time, and something better than a Christmas tree at that.
We might tell more of this story; of how Tim’s class in Sunday School walked by the coffin for the last time to see his face; of his sad burial on that cold winter day; of how sympathetic people said that it was better for the blind cripple to die than to live. We might say that his mama learned the way to church; that Mr. Rudiger became a better man; that Alex grew up to be a good boy; that Louise was one of the most faithful girls in that Sunday School. If we could, we should also beable to say that Tim had not lived in vain. Let us hope so.
And why does God so early take away from this world to Himself little boys and girls? Let us see. The farmer takes from the bin a handful of kernels. “Fine wheat,” says he, as he blows away part of the grain so as to take a better look at what is left. It is the lightest kernels that flee, and as he looks intently upon the few that yet lie in his palm, he observes that one is plump and fair and another shriveled. Yet the shriveled kernel might happen to yield the finest growth and bear the amplest fruit. So perhaps it was with the little blind cripple of No. 316 Blank Street.
The End.