It is the privilege of youth and old age to make comparisons. One has little or nothing of experience to use as a yardstick—the other has everything life can offer him. One compares with imagination, the other with fact, and youth, having a wider pasture for thought, usually finds pleasanter places for feeding. My children have spent nearly every Christmas thus far before this open fire, while I have ranged far and wide, from Florida to the Great Lakes, and from Cape Cod to Colorado. As we sit in silence before our fire the boys can imagine themselves in some hunter’s camp, or with the soldiers in France, while the girls can drop themselves down from the wings of fancy in Cuba or Brazil. I might try that, but stern fact drags me down to other days, and old-time companions come creeping out of the past to say “Merry Christmas” and stand here, a little sorrowful that they cannot give the children something of their story. So I must be their spokesman, it seems, and the children give me a chance when after dreaming a while they come and ask me to tell about the real Christmas. “What was the finest Christmas lesson you ever had?” They do not put it in quite these words, but that is the sense of it. So there comes to me a great desire to live up to the highest test of story-telling—that is, so to interest your audience that they will forget to eat their apples.

The room seems full of the shadowy forms of men and women who have stepped out of the past to bring back a Christmas memory. Which of these old life teachers ever gave me the best lesson? They were all good—even that big fellow who tried to kick me out of a lumber camp—and failed—or that slimy little fraud who beat me out of a week’s wages! I think, however, that those two women over by the window lead all the rest. One is an old woman—evidently a cripple; the other younger—you cannot see her face in the dim light, but she stands by the older woman’s chair. Yes, they represent the best Christmas lesson I have had. So come up to the fire, forget the wind roaring outside, and listen to it. I was a hired man that Winter in a Western State. Some of the farmers who read this will remember me—not for any great skill I showed at farm work, but because I spent my spare time (that meant nights) going around “speaking pieces.” I am greatly afraid that as an agriculturist I did better work at keeping air hot than I ever did at heating plowshares through labor.

You see, it was this way. I was a freshman at an agricultural college, at a time when these institutions were struggling hard to live. The average freshman thinks he is the salt of the earth, forgetting that he is salt which has not gained its savor through losing its freshness. A man gets very little salt in his character until he goes out and assaults the world! At any rate, I had no money salted down and no fresh supplies coming in. I had to get out during the Winter and earn the price of another term at college. I tried canvassing for a book. We will draw the curtain down over that act. Some men tell me of making small fortunes as book agents. From my experience I judge these men to be supermen or superior prevaricators, to put it mildly. I worked the job for all I was worth in spite of all obstacles, such as the wrath of farmers who had been cheated through signing papers, the laughter of pretty girls and the teeth of dogs, and sold four books in two weeks! At last I struck a farmer who offered me a job digging a ditch. I made him a present of my “sample copy” and went to work.

A dollar makes an interrogation point with a barb on it. About all a farm produced in Winter, those days, was enough to eat and drink and something to sell for the taxes. The farmer I worked for had a red colt that was to settle with the tax man, but just before the taxes were due the colt ran away and broke his neck. I cannot say that my labor was worth much, but education is not one of the few things which come to us without money or price. Then I suddenly made the discovery that I was “a talented young elocutionist.” At least that is what the local paper stated, and do we not know that all we see in print must be true? I suppose I could tell you of one Christmas long ago that I spent as “supe” in a big theater and what befell us behind the scenes. At any rate, I could “speak pieces,” and I had a long string of them in mind. So what was a rather poor mimic in a city became a “talented elocutionist” far back over muddy roads. You want to remember that this was a long time before the bicycle had grown away from the clumsy “velocipede.” There were few, if any “good roads.” No one dreamed of gasoline engines or automobiles. During an open Winter the mud was 10 to 20 inches deep, and every mile of travel was to be multiplied by the number of inches of mud. Amid such surroundings it is not so hard to be known as a “talented elocutionist” when your voice is strong, your tongue limber, your memory good, and you have had a chance to see and hear some of the great actors from behind the scenes.

I made what they called “a big hit” at night, with audiences all the way from four or five up to 200. When life was dull and blue a neighbor would come with his family to our farmhouse and I would sit by the kitchen fire and entertain them. Once a farmer had a little trouble with his mother-in-law, who seemed to hold the mortgage. On his invitation I dropped in one night and a few of my “funny pieces” made this good lady laugh so that she forgave her son-in-law. Then I was called into the chamber of a very sick man to recite several “religious pieces.” I shall not soon forget that scene. The poor sick man lying there with eyes closed, the entire family and some of the neighbors grouped around like a company of mourners, and the “talented elocutionist” standing by the head of the bed in the gray light of the dying day. Yes, sir, the man recovered! They have a famous saying here in New York. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken!” I found it so that Winter, and as life was young and full ambition had not been severely wounded, I did not weaken.

But all this, of course, was mere practice for larger occasions. Whenever I could work up a crowd I would go about to schoolhouses and churches, entertain as best I could and then “pass the hat”! What evenings they were! They were usually in old-fashioned schoolhouses with the big iron stove in the center of the room. Such houses were rarely used at night, and there would be no light except as some of the audience brought lamps or candles. The room was usually crowded and the stove red-hot. In most cases the meeting would be opened with prayer and some local politician might make a speech. Then the “talented elocutionist” would stand up near the stove. He never was an “impressive figure” at his best. In those old days the best he could afford was a pair of thick cowhide boots, a second-hand coat which came from a long, thin man, and trousers evidently made originally for a fat man. Still, the light was dim and the speaker remembered hearing James E. Murdock say that if you could only put yourself into the spirit of your talk the audience would follow you there and forget how you looked. I had seen a great actor play the part of Fagin in “Oliver Twist,” and at these entertainments I tried giving an imitation of him, until a big husky farmer tried to whip me. I had a job to explain to my friends that he was trying to punch Fagin—not me. The audiences knew no middle ground. They wanted some burlesque or some tragedy of their own lives which would tear at their heartstrings. Now and then as I recited in those hot, dim schoolhouses the keen humor of the thing would come to me, or like a flash the poverty and pathos of my own struggle would sweep over me with overwhelming force. Then I could feel that audience moving with me and for a brief moment I got out of the ditch of life and knew the supreme joy of the complete mastery of one who can separate the human imagination from the flesh and compel it to walk with him where he wills.

These moments were all too brief. Back we came finally to the dim, stifling room, and the rather ignoble and commonplace job of trying to measure the value of a thrill by a voluntary contribution. I have had many a high hope and many a dream of a new suit of clothes blackballed on “passing the hat.” At first, when a man got up and said: “Gents, this show is worth a dollar, and I will pass the hat,” I took him at his word and expected a hat full of bills. Yet even when I shook out the lining I could find nothing larger than a dime. During that Winter I made a fine collection of buttons. It may be that most men want to keep the left hand from knowing what the right hand is up to, but evidently you must have one hand or the other under public observation if you expect much out of the owner. I have learned to have no quarrel with human nature, and I imagine after all that the hire fitted the value of the laborer’s efforts fairly well.

Christmas came to us in that valley with the same beautiful message which was carried to all. It was a cold Christmas, and as we went about our chores before day and at night the stars were brilliant. The crinkle of the ice and snow and the hum of the wind over the fences and through the trees came to me like the murmur of a faraway song. It touched us all. We saw each other in something of a new light of glory. The woman of the house, I think, regarded me as a sort of awkward hired man. Now she seemed to see a boy, far from home, struggling with rather feeble hands against the flood which swept him away from the ambition to earn an education. I am sure that it came to her that the Christmas spirit must be capitalized to help me on my way. So she organized a big gathering for Christmas Eve at which I was to “speak” and accept a donation. It was to be over in the next district, and that good woman took the sleigh and drove all over that county drumming up an “audience.” I am sure that there never was a “star” before or since who had such an advance or advertising agent as I did on that occasion. She was a good trainer, too. The day before Christmas I husked corn in the cold barn, and this delicate woman ran through the snow with two hot biscuits and a piece of meat. There I worked through the day husking corn with my hands while I “rehearsed” a few new ones with my brain and sent my heart way back to New England, where I knew the folks were thinking of me.

In these times there would have been a fleet of automobiles moored near the farmhouse, but in those days no engine had yet coughed out the gasoline in its throat. We came in sleighs and big farm “pungs.” Standing by the barn in the clear moonlight you could see the lanterns gleaming along the road, and hear the tinkle of the sleighbells and the songs which the young people were singing. Far down the road came a big farm sled loaded with young people who were singing “Seeing Nellie Home.” Sweet and clear came their fresh young voices through the crisp, frosty air:—

The old farmer on the front seat sat nodding his head to the music, and his wife beside him took her hand out of the muff and slid it under his arm. These were the fine old days of simple pleasures, when the country entertained itself and was satisfied. The other night my young folks took me off to a moving picture theater where we saw a great actress portraying human emotion in a way to make you shudder. My mind went back to my own feeble efforts as a star performer, and I was forced to admit that the usual Sunday school entertainment could have but a small chance in competition with this powerful exhibition. The thing to do is to carry this strong attraction to the country and not force our young people to travel to the city after it.

Each sleigh brought not only its load of human freight, but a big basket of food, for there was to be a feast of the body with food as well as of the spirit with oratory. As the guest of honor I rode over with one of the school trustees, and he proved a good local historian.

“This farm we visit tonight is owned by the Widder Fairchild. A nice woman, but homely enough to stop a clock. Her father left her the farm, and she got to be quite an old maid. We all thought she had settled down for such when she up and married the hired man, a nice man, but no farmer, and no property except a cough and an old aunt mighty nigh bed-ridden. Then the husband died and left the old lady on her hands. She might have sent the old thing to the poorhouse—ain’t no kin of hers—but just because her husband promised to keep her, Mrs. Fairchild has kept the old lady on. There the two women live on one of the best farms in the county.”

“It’s the best because the Lord has blessed it.” That came from the wife on the back seat. She had tried to get in a word before.

“No, no! Farms are made good by hard work and judgment. The minister went and talked to her about it, but all he got out of her was ‘And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest I will go.’”

“But, Henry, ain’t you ’shamed to call her homely?”

“No, because it’s the truth. It wouldn’t be about you, now, but I told the minister that once. He has to be diplomatic and he hemmed and hawed and finally said, ‘She has a strong face.’ He’s right! Mighty strong!”

If you ever acted in the capacity of donatee at such a party you know the feeling. The big house was filled. Out in the kitchen the women sorted out the food and arranged it for supper. In the front room, beside a little table, sat “the hired man’s old aunt,” a beautiful old lady with white hair and a sweet, patient face. On the table stood a few house plants in pots. One geranium had opened a flower.

“The only one in the neighborhood for Christmas,” said the old lady. “You don’t know how proud I am of it. It has been such a joy to me to see it slowly grow, and, oh, think of what it means to have it come at Christmas!”

But the donatee has little time for small talk. He always earns his donation, and whatever happened to it later, I earned it that night. They finally stopped me for supper. The minister alluded to it as “the bounteous repast which we are now asked to enjoy.” My friend the trustee stood by the door and shouted:

“Hoe in—help yourself!”

It was getting on toward Christmas Day when I stood up in the corner to end the entertainment. I had intended to end with Irwin Russell’s “Christmas Night in the Quarters,” with negro dialect, but as I was about to start my eye fell upon a group by that little table. The “old aunt” sat looking at me, and by her side stood the “homely” woman, her hand resting upon the older woman’s shoulder. I wonder if you have ever had a vision come to you at Christmas—or any other time! A great, mysterious, beautiful vision, in which you look forward into the years and are given to see some great thing which is hidden from most men until too late. It came to me as I watched those women that the finest test of character, the noblest part of the Christmas spirit, was not the glory of caring for helpless childhood, but the higher sacrifice of love and duty for the aged.

And so, almost before I knew it, I found myself reciting Will Carleton’s poem, “Over the Hill to the Poorhouse!” What a sentiment to bring into a happy Christmas party—by the donatee at that—one who had been hired “to make them laugh”!

I knew it all, yet my mind jumped across the long miles and I thought of my own mother growing old and waiting in silence that I might have opportunity!

It was a great 10 minutes. It is worth a good many years to have 600 ticks of the clock pass by like that. Could all of us have lived, for 10 years with that 10-minute feeling—what a neighborhood that would have been. I was looking at those two women by the table. I saw their hands come together. It is true that the trustee had not done great injustice to her appearance, but as she stood there by “the hired man’s old aunt” there came upon her face a beauty such as God alone can bring upon the face of those who are beloved by Him. A light from within illuminated her life story, and I could read it on her face. A love that endures after death—until life! And when I stopped I was done. The power had all gone from me. Not so with my manager, the trustee. He could sense a psychological moment even if he could not spell it, and he got his hat into action before the rich spirit of that crowd could get to the poorhouse. I saw him coming with the hat full—there were surely several bills there. Say, did you ever spend money before you got your fingers on it? I never have since that night. I know better. As I saw that money I figured on several Christmas presents, a new coat and at least one term at college. The trustee cleared his throat for a few remarks and I stood there pleasantly expectant, anticipating a few compliments—and the money.

“Now, friends, we thank you one and all for your generous gift, and we thank our talented young friend here for the great assistance he has given us. He will rejoice when he learns the full amount, for, my dear friends, this money belongs to the Sunday school!”

And he proceeded forthwith to gather up the money and stuff it into his pockets, leaving me with my mouth half open, and my hand half extended.

What could you do? There was a roar of protest from several farmers who demanded their money back, though they never got it. Happily the humor of it struck me. The first thing that came into my mind was an old song I had often heard:

“Thou art so near and yet so far!”

There is nothing like being a good sport, and so I bowed and smiled and took my medicine, although I am sure the party would have ended in a fight if I had said the word. But the “old aunt” looked at me for a moment and then cut off that geranium bloom, tied two leaves on it and handed it to me without a word. And the woman with the shining face took my hand in both hers and said: “Do not get discouraged. I know you will win out.”

I rode home with a farmer who, with his two big sons, roared profanely at what they called the “injustice of that miser.” They vowed to get up another donation, which they did later. They offered to go and “lick the trustee” and take the money from him. I think they were a little disappointed when I told them that he needed it more than I did.

“Why, from the way you talk, anybody’d think you had fallen heir to a big thing!”

I had. That little flower in my pocket carried a Christmas spirit and a Christmas lesson that the whole world could not buy. The thing paying the largest dividend, the finest companion that ever walked with one along the roadway of life—unselfish love, and sacrifice.