A Christmas Inspiration

L. M. Montgomery

"Well, I really think Santa Claus has been very good to us all," said Jean Lawrence, pulling the pins out of her heavy coil of fair hair and letting it ripple over her shoulders.

“So do I,” said Nellie Preston as well as she could with a mouthful of chocolates. “Those blessed home folks of mine seem to have divined by instinct the very things I most wanted.”

It was the dusk of Christmas Eve and they were all in Jean Lawrence’s room at No. 16 Chestnut Terrace. No. 16 was a boarding-house, and boarding-houses are not proverbially cheerful places in which to spend Christmas, but Jean’s room, at least, was a pleasant spot, and all the girls had brought their Christmas presents in to show each other. Christmas came on Sunday that year and the Saturday evening mail at Chestnut Terrace had been an exciting one.

Jean had lighted the pink-globed lamp on her table and the mellow light fell over merry faces as the girls chatted about their gifts. On the table was a big white box heaped with roses that betokened a bit of Christmas extravagance on somebody’s part. Jean’s brother had sent them to her from Montreal, and all the girls were enjoying them in common.

No. 16 Chestnut Terrace was overrun with girls generally. But just now only five were left; all the others had gone home for Christmas, but these five could not go and were bent on making the best of it.

Belle and Olive Reynolds, who were sitting on the bed—Jean could never keep them off it—were High School girls; they were said to be always laughing, and even the fact that they could not go home for Christmas because a young brother had measles did not dampen their spirits.

Beth Hamilton, who was hovering over the roses, and Nellie Preston, who was eating candy, were art students, and their homes were too far away to visit. As for Jean Lawrence, she was an orphan, and had no home of her own. She worked on the staff of one of the big city newspapers and the other girls were a little in awe of her cleverness, but her nature was a “chummy” one and her room was a favourite rendezvous. Everybody liked frank, open-handed and hearted Jean.

“It was so funny to see the postman when he came this evening,” said Olive. “He just bulged with parcels. They were sticking out in every direction.”

“We all got our share of them,” said Jean with a sigh of content.

“Even the cook got six—I counted.”

“Miss Allen didn’t get a thing—not even a letter,” said Beth quickly. Beth had a trick of seeing things that other girls didn’t.

“I forgot Miss Allen. No, I don’t believe she did,” answered Jean thoughtfully as she twisted up her pretty hair. “How dismal it must be to be so forlorn as that on Christmas Eve of all times. Ugh! I’m glad I have friends.”

“I saw Miss Allen watching us as we opened our parcels and letters,” Beth went on. “I happened to look up once, and such an expression as was on her face, girls! It was pathetic and sad and envious all at once. It really made me feel bad—for five minutes,” she concluded honestly.

“Hasn’t Miss Allen any friends at all?” asked Beth.

“No, I don’t think she has,” answered Jean. “She has lived here for fourteen years, so Mrs. Pickrell says. Think of that, girls! Fourteen years at Chestnut Terrace! Is it any wonder that she is thin and dried-up and snappy?”

“Nobody ever comes to see her and she never goes anywhere,” said Beth. “Dear me! She must feel lonely now when everybody else is being remembered by their friends. I can’t forget her face tonight; it actually haunts me. Girls, how would you feel if you hadn’t anyone belonging to you, and if nobody thought about you at Christmas?”

“Ow!” said Olive, as if the mere idea made her shiver.

A little silence followed. To tell the truth, none of them liked Miss Allen. They knew that she did not like them either, but considered them frivolous and pert, and complained when they made a racket.

“The skeleton at the feast,” Jean called her, and certainly the presence of the pale, silent, discontented-looking woman at the No. 16 table did not tend to heighten its festivity.

Presently Jean said with a dramatic flourish, “Girls, I have an inspiration—a Christmas inspiration!”

“What is it?” cried four voices.

“Just this. Let us give Miss Allen a Christmas surprise. She has not received a single present and I’m sure she feels lonely. Just think how we would feel if we were in her place.”

“That is true,” said Olive thoughtfully. “Do you know, girls, this evening I went to her room with a message from Mrs. Pickrell, and I do believe she had been crying. Her room looked dreadfully bare and cheerless, too. I think she is very poor. What are we to do, Jean?”

“Let us each give her something nice. We can put the things just outside of her door so that she will see them whenever she opens it. I’ll give her some of Fred’s roses too, and I’ll write a Christmassy letter in my very best style to go with them,” said Jean, warming up to her ideas as she talked.

The other girls caught her spirit and entered into the plan with enthusiasm.

“Splendid!” cried Beth. “Jean, it is an inspiration, sure enough. Haven’t we been horribly selfish—thinking of nothing but our own gifts and fun and pleasure? I really feel ashamed.”

“Let us do the thing up the very best way we can,” said Nellie, forgetting even her beloved chocolates in her eagerness. “The shops are open yet. Let us go up town and invest.”

Five minutes later five capped and jacketed figures were scurrying up the street in the frosty, starlit December dusk. Miss Allen in her cold little room heard their gay voices and sighed. She was crying by herself in the dark. It was Christmas for everybody but her, she thought drearily.

In an hour the girls came back with their purchases.

“Now, let’s hold a council of war,” said Jean jubilantly. “I hadn’t the faintest idea what Miss Allen would like so I just guessed wildly. I got her a lace handkerchief and a big bottle of perfume and a painted photograph frame—and I’ll stick my own photo in it for fun. That was really all I could afford. Christmas purchases have left my purse dreadfully lean.”

“I got her a glove-box and a pin tray,” said Belle, “and Olive got her a calendar and Whittier’s poems. And besides we are going to give her half of that big plummy fruit cake Mother sent us from home. I’m sure she hasn’t tasted anything so delicious for years, for fruit cakes don’t grow on Chestnut Terrace and she never goes anywhere else for a meal.”

Beth had bought a pretty cup and saucer and said she meant to give one of her pretty water-colours too. Nellie, true to her reputation, had invested in a big box of chocolate creams, a gorgeously striped candy cane, a bag of oranges, and a brilliant lampshade of rose-coloured crepe paper to top off with.

“It makes such a lot of show for the money,” she explained. “I am bankrupt, like Jean.”

“Well, we’ve got a lot of pretty things,” said Jean in a tone of satisfaction. “Now we must do them up nicely. Will you wrap them in tissue paper, girls, and tie them with baby ribbon—here’s a box of it—while I write that letter?”

While the others chatted over their parcels Jean wrote her letter, and Jean could write delightful letters. She had a decided talent in that respect, and her correspondents all declared her letters to be things of beauty and joy forever. She put her best into Miss Allen’s Christmas letter. Since then she has written many bright and clever things, but I do not believe she ever in her life wrote anything more genuinely original and delightful than that letter. Besides, it breathed the very spirit of Christmas, and all the girls declared that it was splendid.

“You must all sign it now,” said Jean, “and I’ll put it in one of those big envelopes; and, Nellie, won’t you write her name on it in fancy letters?”

Which Nellie proceeded to do, and furthermore embellished the envelope by a border of chubby cherubs, dancing hand in hand around it and a sketch of No. 16 Chestnut Terrace in the corner in lieu of a stamp. Not content with this she hunted out a huge sheet of drawing paper and drew upon it an original pen-and-ink design after her own heart. A dudish cat—Miss Allen was fond of the No. 16 cat if she could be said to be fond of anything—was portrayed seated on a rocker arrayed in smoking jacket and cap with a cigar waved airily aloft in one paw while the other held out a placard bearing the legend “Merry Christmas.” A second cat in full street costume bowed politely, hat in paw, and waved a banner inscribed with “Happy New Year,” while faintly suggested kittens gambolled around the border. The girls laughed until they cried over it and voted it to be the best thing Nellie had yet done in original work.

All this had taken time and it was past eleven o’clock. Miss Allen had cried herself to sleep long ago and everybody else in Chestnut Terrace was abed when five figures cautiously crept down the hall, headed by Jean with a dim lamp. Outside of Miss Allen’s door the procession halted and the girls silently arranged their gifts on the floor.

“That’s done,” whispered Jean in a tone of satisfaction as they tiptoed back. “And now let us go to bed or Mrs. Pickrell, bless her heart, will be down on us for burning so much midnight oil. Oil has gone up, you know, girls.”

It was in the early morning that Miss Allen opened her door. But early as it was, another door down the hall was half open too and five rosy faces were peering cautiously out. The girls had been up for an hour for fear they would miss the sight and were all in Nellie’s room, which commanded a view of Miss Allen’s door.

That lady’s face was a study. Amazement, incredulity, wonder, chased each other over it, succeeded by a glow of pleasure. On the floor before her was a snug little pyramid of parcels topped by Jean’s letter. On a chair behind it was a bowl of delicious hot-house roses and Nellie’s placard.

Miss Allen looked down the hall but saw nothing, for Jean had slammed the door just in time. Half an hour later when they were going down to breakfast Miss Allen came along the hall with outstretched hands to meet them. She had been crying again, but I think her tears were happy ones; and she was smiling now. A cluster of Jean’s roses were pinned on her breast.

“Oh, girls, girls,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice, “I can never thank you enough. It was so kind and sweet of you. You don’t know how much good you have done me.”

Breakfast was an unusually cheerful affair at No. 16 that morning. There was no skeleton at the feast and everybody was beaming. Miss Allen laughed and talked like a girl herself.

“Oh, how surprised I was!” she said. “The roses were like a bit of summer, and those cats of Nellie’s were so funny and delightful. And your letter too, Jean! I cried and laughed over it. I shall read it every day for a year.”

After breakfast everyone went to Christmas service. The girls went uptown to the church they attended. The city was very beautiful in the morning sunshine. There had been a white frost in the night and the tree-lined avenues and public squares seemed like glimpses of fairyland.

“How lovely the world is,” said Jean.

“This is really the very happiest Christmas morning I have ever known,” declared Nellie. “I never felt so really Christmassy in my inmost soul before.”

“I suppose,” said Beth thoughtfully, “that it is because we have discovered for ourselves the old truth that it is more blessed to give than to receive. I’ve always known it, in a way, but I never realized it before.”

“Blessing on Jean’s Christmas inspiration,” said Nellie. “But, girls, let us try to make it an all-the-year-round inspiration, I say. We can bring a little of our own sunshine into Miss Allen’s life as long as we live with her.”

“Amen to that!” said Jean heartily. “Oh, listen, girls—the Christmas chimes!”

And over all the beautiful city was wafted the grand old message of peace on earth and good will to all the world.