On Christmas Day In The Evening | Page 4

your
object. Nobody can be more obstinate in their prejudice than the people
of such a little place as this. You may get them out--though I doubt
even that--but you are quite as likely as not to set them by the ears and
simply make matters worse."
"It's Christmas," replied Nan. Her cheeks were the colour of the holly
berries in the great wreaths she was arranging to place on either side of
the wall behind the pulpit. "They can't quarrel at Christmas--not with
Billy Sewall preaching peace on earth, good will to men, to them.
--Jessica, please hand me that wire--and come and hold this wreath a
minute, will you?"
"Nobody expects Marian to be on any side but the other one,"
consolingly whispered merry-faced Jessica, Edson's wife--lucky
fellow!--as she held the wreath for Nan to affix the wire.
"What's that about Sewall?" Oliver inquired. "I hadn't heard of that.
You don't mean to say Sewell's coming up for this service?"
"Of course he is. Margaret telephoned him this morning, and he said
he'd never had a Christmas present equal to this one. He said it
interested him a lot more than his morning service in town, and he'd be
up, loaded. Isn't that fine of Billy?" Nan beamed triumphantly at her
oldest brother, over her holly wreath.
"That puts a different light on it." And Mr. Oliver Fernald, president of
the great city bank of which Sam Burnett was cashier, got promptly
down on the knees of his freshly pressed trousers, and proceeded to
tack the frazzled edge of the pulpit stair-carpet with interest and skill.
That stair-carpet had been tacked by a good many people before him,
but doubtless it had never been stretched into place by a man whose
eye-glasses sat astride of a nose of the impressive, presidential mould

of this one.
"Do I understand that you mean to attempt music?" Mrs. Oliver seemed
grieved at the thought. "There are several good voices in the family, of
course, but you haven't had time to practise any Christmas music
together. You will have merely to sing hymns."
"Fortunately, some of the old hymns are Christmas music, of the most
exquisite sort," began Nan, trying hard to keep her temper--a feat which
was apt to give her trouble when Marian was about. But, at the moment,
as if to help her, up in the old organ-loft, at the back of the church,
Margaret began to sing. Everybody looked up in delight, for Margaret's
voice was the pride of the family, and with reason. Somebody was at
the organ--the little reed organ. It proved to be Carolyn--Mrs. Charles
Wetmore. For a moment the notes rose harmoniously. Then came an
interval--and the organ wailed. There was a shout of protest, from the
top of Guy's step-ladder:
"Cut it out--cut out the steam calliope!--unless you want a burlesque.
That organ hasn't been tuned since the deluge--and they didn't get all
the water out then."
"I won't hit that key again," called Carolyn. "Listen, you people."
"Listen! You can't help listening when a cat yowls on the back fence,"
retorted Guy. "Go it alone; Margaret, girl."
But the next instant nobody was jeering, for Margaret's voice had never
seemed sweeter than from the old choir-loft.
"Over the hills of Bethlehem, Lighted by a star, Wise men came with
offerings, From the East afar...."
[Illustration: "Cut it out--cut out the steam calliope!"]
It took them all, working until late on Christmas Eve, to do all that
needed to be done. Once their interest was aroused, nothing short of the
best possible would content them. But when, at last, Nan and Sam,

lingering behind the others, promising to see that the fires were safe,
stood together at the back of the church for a final survey, they felt that
their work had been well worth while. All the lights were out but one
on either side, and the dim interior, with its ropes and wreaths of green,
fragrant with the woodsy smell which veiled the musty one inevitable
in a place so long closed, seemed to have grown beautiful with a touch
other than that of human hands.
"Don't you believe, Sammy," questioned Nan, with her tired cheek
against her husband's broad shoulder, "the poor old 'meeting-house' is
happier to-night than it has been for a long, long while?"
"I think I should be," returned Sam Burnett, falling in with his wife's
mood, "if after a year and a half of cold starvation somebody had
suddenly warmed me and fed me and made me hold up my head again.
It does look pretty well--much better than I should have thought it
could, when I first saw it in its barrenness. --I wonder what the North
Estabrook people are thinking about this--that's what I wonder. Do