Adventures in Friendship | Page 5

wooden shovel, clearing out a pathway to the gate.
Cold, too; one of the coldest mornings we've had--but clear and very
still. The sun is just coming up over the hill near Horace's farm. From
Horace's chimney the white wood-smoke of an early fire rises straight
upward, all golden with sunshine, into the measureless blue of the
sky--on its way to heaven, for aught I know. When I reach the gate my
blood is racing warmly in my veins. I straighten my back, thrust my
shovel into the snow pile, and shout at the top of my voice, for I can no
longer contain myself:
"Merry Christmas, Harriet."
Harriet opens the door--just a crack.
"Merry Christmas yourself, you Arctic explorer! Oo--but it's cold!"
And she closes the door.
Upon hearing these riotous sounds the barnyard suddenly awakens. I
hear my horse whinnying from the barn, the chickens begin to crow and
cackle, and such a grunting and squealing as the pigs set up from
behind the straw stack, it would do a man's heart good to hear!
"It's a friendly world," I say to myself, "and full of business."
I plow through the snow to the stable door. I scuff and stamp the snow
away and pull it open with difficulty. A cloud of steam arises out of the

warmth within. I step inside. My horse raises his head above the
stanchion, looks around at me, and strikes his forefoot on the stable
floor--the best greeting he has at his command for a fine Christmas
morning. My cow, until now silent, begins to bawl.
I lay my hand on the horse's flank and he steps over in his stall to let
me go by. I slap his neck and he lays back his ears playfully. Thus I go
out into the passageway and give my horse his oats, throw corn and
stalks to the pigs and a handful of grain to Harriet's chickens (it's the
only way to stop the cackling!). And thus presently the barnyard is
quiet again except for the sound of contented feeding.
Take my word for it, this is one of the pleasant moments of life. I stand
and look long at my barnyard family. I observe with satisfaction how
plump they are and how well they are bearing the winter. Then I look
up at my mountainous straw stack with its capping of snow, and my
corn crib with the yellow ears visible through the slats, and my barn
with its mow full of hay--all the gatherings of the year, now being
expended in growth. I cannot at all explain it, but at such moments the
circuit of that dim spiritual battery which each of us conceals within
seems to close, and the full current of contentment flows through our
lives.
All the morning as I went about my chores I had a peculiar sense of
expected pleasure. It seemed certain to me that something unusual and
adventurous was about to happen--and if it did not happen offhand,
why I was there to make it happen! When I went in to breakfast (do you
know the fragrance of broiling bacon when you have worked for an
hour before breakfast on a morning of zero weather? If you do not,
consider that heaven still has gifts in store for you!)--when I went in to
breakfast, I fancied that Harriet looked preoccupied, but I was too busy
just then (hot corn muffins) to make an inquiry, and I knew by
experience that the best solvent of secrecy is patience.
"David," said Harriet, presently, "the cousins can't come!"
"Can't come!" I exclaimed.

"Why, you act as if you were delighted."
"No--well, yes," I said, "I knew that some extraordinary adventure was
about to happen!"
"Adventure! It's a cruel disappointment--I was all ready for them."
"Harriet," I said, "adventure is just what we make it. And aren't we to
have the Scotch Preacher and his wife?"
"But I've got such a good dinner."
"Well," I said, "there are no two ways about it: it must be eaten! You
may depend upon me to do my duty."
"We'll have to send out into the highways and compel them to come
in," said Harriet ruefully.
I had several choice observations I should have liked to make upon this
problem, but Harriet was plainly not listening; she sat with her eyes
fixed reflectively on the coffeepot. I watched her for a moment, then I
remarked:
"There aren't any."
"David," she exclaimed, "how did you know what I was thinking
about?"
"I merely wanted to show you," I said, "that my genius is not properly
appreciated in my own household. You thought of highways, didn't you?
Then you thought of the poor; especially the poor on Christmas day;
then of Mrs. Heney, who isn't poor