The Potato Child and Others | Page 3

was coming. Elsie and her mother had always loved
Christmas, and had invariably given some gift to each other. After their
stockings were hung side by side, Christmas Eve, her mother would
take her in her lap and tell her the Christmas story. So now it was a
great mercy for Elsie that she had her child to work for.
One day, when she had scrubbed the pantry floor unusually clean, Miss
Amanda gave her the privilege of the rag barrel. This resulted in a new
Christmas suit of silk and velvet for baby; and this she made.
When Elsie left "The Home" the matron had given her a little
needle-book containing a spool of thread and thimble for a good-by
present. These now came into good play. She used the lamp shears to

cut with.
When all was done the babe looked beautiful, except that it had no
stockings. It had not even legs. "I'll make her a wooden leg, and let her
be a cripple, then I shall love her all the better."
But after she had made the leg, and a very good one, too, she hadn't the
heart to break the skin of her child, and push it in.
"I'll make the stockings without legs," she said, and so she did.
Elsie was very careful never to let her child see, or mention before her,
how busy she was for Christmas.
She felt very sorry for Miss Amanda, and wished she had something to
give her, but she could think of nothing except the piece of white paper
she found with her potato-child. The afternoon before Christmas she
took it from the candle-box, and smoothed it out upon the cover. It had
some writing upon one side. Elsie thought it was very pretty writing - it
had so many flourishes. Elsie could not read it, of course, but she hoped
Miss Amanda would like it.
How should she give it to her? She didn't dare hand it to her outright,
and she was certain Miss Amanda wouldn't hang any stocking; so just
before dark she slipped into Miss Amanda's sleeping-room, and laid it
on the brown cushion just in front of the mirror.
When Elsie had finished her work she went to her room, pinned her
child's stocking to the foot of the bed and slyly tucked in the new suit
she had made. Her own stockings lay flat upon the floor. Her breath
caught a little bit as she noticed them. "But it doesn't matter," she said,
"parents never care for themselves if they can give their children
pleasure."
She crept into bed and took her child on her arm. The night was very
cold. The frost made mysterious noises on the roof in the nail-holes and
on the glass. She went to bed early because the kitchen was so cold.
She thought "we can talk in bed." The lock of her door was broken, and
she could not shut it tight. Through this the air came chilly.
* * * * * * *
Miss Amanda put on her flannel wrapper and her bed-slippers and sat
down before the open fire in her sleeping-room. Some way she couldn't
keep her thoughts from that little back attic room. She went into the
hall, silently up the stairs, and stood outside the door. Elsie was talking
softly, but Miss Amanda could hear every word, thanks to the broken

lock.
"I have much to tell you to-night, dear child," she heard the waif say,
"the whole story of the Christmas Child. It was years ago. His mother
was very young, I guess about twice as old as I am. They hadn't any
house; they were in a barn. I think there were no houses to rent in that
town. But she fixed a little cradle for Him in the feed-box, and wrapped
Him in long clothes, as I do you, my darling. The angels sang a new
song for Him. A new star shone in the East for Him. Some men with
sheep came to visit Him, and some rich men brought Him lovely
presents. My mother told me all these things, and I mustn't forget them;
it helps me to remember to tell it to you. So now, this lovely Christmas
Child was born in a little bit of a town, the town of - oh, my child" -
with a mournful cry - "I've forgotten the name of the town! I used to
say it to my mother - it's the town of, the town of - I can't remember."
Miss Amanda could hear her crying a little softly.
"Never mind," she said presently. "I am very sorry; I have not told the
story often enough. I wish I had some one to teach me a little,