Adventures in Friendship | Page 4

if a man could get acquainted and friendly
without."
"Farming is rather lonely work sometimes, isn't it?" I observed.
"You bet it is," he responded. "You've been there yourself, haven't
you?"
There may be such a thing as the friendship of prosperity; but surely it
cannot be compared with the friendship of adversity. Men, stooping,
come close together.
"But when I got to thinking it over," I said, "it suddenly occurred to me
that I belonged to the greatest of all fraternities. And I recognized you
instantly as a charter member."
He looked around at me expectantly, half laughing. I don't suppose he
had so far forgotten his miseries for many a day.
"What's that?" he asked.
"The Universal Brotherhood of Men."
Well, we both laughed--and understood.

After that, what a story he told me!--the story of a misplaced man on an
unproductive farm. Is it not marvellous how full people are--all
people--of humour, tragedy, passionate human longings, hopes,
fears--if only you can unloosen the floodgates! As to my companion, he
had been growing bitter and sickly with the pent-up humours of
discouragement; all he needed was a listener.
He was so absorbed in his talk that he did not at first realize that we had
turned into his own long lane. When he discovered it he exclaimed:
"I didn't mean to bring you out of your way. I can manage the bag all
right now."
"Never mind," I said, "I want to get you home, to say nothing of
hearing how you came out with your pigs."
As we approached the house, a mournful-looking woman came to the
door. My companion sprang out of the buggy as much elated now as he
had previously been depressed (for that was the coinage of his
temperament), rushed up to his wife and led her down to the gate. She
was evidently astonished at his enthusiasm. I suppose she thought he
had at length discovered his gold mine!
When I finally turned the mare around, he stopped me, laid his hand on
my arm and said in a confidential voice:
"I'm glad we discovered that we belong to the same society."
As I drove away I could not help chuckling when I heard his wife ask
suspiciously:
"What society is that?"
I heard no word of his answer: only the note in his voice of eager
explanation.
And so I drove homeward in the late twilight, and as I came up the lane,
the door of my home opened, the light within gleamed kindly and

warmly across the darkened yard: and Harriet was there on the step,
waiting.

II
A DAY OF PLEASANT BREAD
They have all gone now, and the house is very still. For the first time
this evening I can hear the familiar sound of the December wind
blustering about the house, complaining at closed doorways, asking
questions at the shutters; but here in my room, under the green reading
lamp, it is warm and still. Although Harriet has closed the doors,
covered the coals in the fireplace, and said good-night, the atmosphere
still seems to tingle with the electricity of genial humanity.
The parting voice of the Scotch Preacher still booms in my ears:
"This," said he, as he was going out of our door, wrapped like an Arctic
highlander in cloaks and tippets, "has been a day of pleasant bread."
One of the very pleasantest I can remember!
I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day. We try to
crowd into it the long arrears of kindliness and humanity of the whole
year. As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time, all
through the year. And thus I drift along into the holidays--let them
overtake me unexpectedly--waking up some fine morning and suddenly
saying to myself:
"Why, this is Christmas Day!"
How the discovery makes one bound out of his bed! What a new sense
of life and adventure it imparts! Almost anything may happen on a day
like this--one thinks. I may meet friends I have not seen before in years.
Who knows? I may discover that this is a far better and kindlier world
than I had ever dreamed it could be.

[Illustration: "Merry Christmas, Harriet!"]
So I sing out to Harriet as I go down:
"Merry Christmas, Harriet"--and not waiting for her sleepy reply I go
down and build the biggest, warmest, friendliest fire of the year. Then I
get into my thick coat and mittens and open the back door. All around
the sill, deep on the step, and all about the yard lies the drifted snow: it
has transformed my wood pile into a grotesque Indian mound, and it
frosts the roof of my barn like a wedding cake. I go at it lustily with my