The Little City of Hope | Page 5

write a letter to his wife, a sort of anticipatory Christmas
letter, and send her the book he had bought as a little gift, wrapping it
in nice white paper first, tied with a bit of pale green ribband which she
had left behind her, and which he had cherished nearly a year, and
marking it "to be opened on Christmas morning"; and the parcel should
then be done up securely in good brown grocer's paper and addressed to
her, and even registered, so that it could not possibly be lost. It was a
pretty book, and also a very excellent book, which he knew she wanted
and would read often, so it was as well to take precautions. He wished
that Newton wanted a book, or even two or three, or magazines with
gaily coloured pictures, or anything that older or younger boys would
have liked a little. But Newton was at that age which comes sooner or
later to every healthy boy, and the sight of a book which he was meant
to read and ought to read was infinitely worse than the ugliest old toad
that ever flops out of a hollow tree at dusk, spitting poison and blinking
his devilish little eyes at you when you come too near him.
Overholt had been brought up by people who lived in peace and
good-will towards men, in a city where the spirit of Christmas still
dwells, and sleeps most of the time, but wakens every year, like a giant
of good courage and good cheer, at the sound of the merry bells across
the snow, and to the sweet carol under the windows in the frosty night.
The Germans say that bad men have no songs; and we and all good
fellows may say that bad people have no Christmas, and though they
copy the letter they know not the spirit; and I say that a copied
Christmas is no Christmas at all, because Christmas is a feast of hearts
and not of poor bits of cut-down trees stuck up in sawdust and covered
with lights and tinsel, even if they are hung with the most expensive
gewgaws and gimcracks that ever are bought for gifts by people who
are expected to give, whether they like or not. But when the heart for
Christmas is there and is beating, then a very little tree will do, if there
be none better to the hand.
Overholt thought so, while the train rumbled, creaked, and clattered and
jerked itself along, as only local trains can, probably because they are
old and rheumatic and stiff and weak in the joints, like superannuated
crocodiles, though they may have once been young express trains, sleek

and shiny, and quick and noiseless as bright snakes.
Overholt thought so, too; but the trouble was that he saw not even the
least little mite of a tree in sight for his boy when the 25th of December
should come. And it was coming, and was only a month away; and
time is not a local train that stops at every station, and then kicks itself
on a bit to stop at the next; it is the "Fast Limited," and, what is more, it
is the only one we can go by; and we cannot get out, because it never
stops anywhere.

II
HOW A MAN AND A BOY FOUNDED THE LITTLE CITY OF
HOPE
Overholt's boy came home from school at the usual hour with his books
buckled together in an old skate strap, which had never been very good
because the leather was too soft and tore from one hole to the next; but
it served very well for the books, as no great strain was caused by an
arithmetic thumbed to mushiness, a history in the same state, and a
geography of which the binding gave in and doubled up from sheer
weariness, while the edges were so worn that the eastern coast of China
and Siberia had quite disappeared.
He was a good-looking lad, not tall for his age, but as tough as a street
cat in hard training. He had short and thick brown hair, a clear
complexion, his father's energetically intellectual features, though only
half developed yet, a boldly-set mouth, and his mother's kindly,
practical blue eyes. For surely the eyes of practical people are always
quite different from those of all others; and not many people are
practical, though I never knew anybody who did not think he or she
was, except pinchbeck artists, writers, and players, who are sure that
since they must be geniuses, it is necessary to be Bohemians in order to
show it. The really big ones are always trying to be practical, like Sir
Isaac Newton when he ordered a good-sized hole to be