Mrs. Jervis and her two children, Ethel and Harry, were on their way to spend Christmas with the grandmother, who lived in a small town in Minnesota, three or four hours’ journey from Minneapolis, where they were spending the winter. There had been a good deal of snow, but they did not think much about it, for they were not used to Minnesota snowstorms.

It was getting late in the afternoon, and they were tired and anxious to reach B——before night, when the train—after a good deal of puffing, and backing, and jerking forward and back—stopped short.

Several of the men went out to see what was the matter. Soon they began to come back, and one, whose seat was next to Mrs. Jervis, said, as he took his seat, “It doesn’t look much like getting to B—— to-night.”

“What is the trouble?” asked Mrs. Jervis.

“Tremendous drifts in the cut,” answered Mr. Camp. “Snow falling faster than ever, and wind piling it up faster than a thousand men could shovel it out. This cut is a regular snow-trap.”

“Can’t the engine plow through?” asked Mrs. Jervis anxiously.

“That’s what has been tried,” said the man; “but the snow is higher than the smokestack, and packed so tight it’s almost solid. We may be here a week, for all I see, unless the storm holds up and we get help.”

“Oh, mother!” wailed Ethel, “shan’t we get to grandmother’s for Christmas?”

“I hope so, Ethel!” said Mrs. Jervis soothingly. “It’s three days to Christmas, you know, and a good deal may happen in three days. Couldn’t we go back?” she asked her neighbor. “If we could get back to Minneapolis it would be better than staying here,” and she glanced anxiously at her daughter, whose wide, staring eyes were fixed on Mr. Camp, as if he held her fate in his hands.

“They tried a while ago, you remember,” he said; “but the cut we passed through a mile back is now as bad as this. The fact is, we are between two cuts, and for all I see are prisoners here till we get help from outside.”

Mrs. Jervis heard this with dismay, and Ethel with despair. She buried her face in her mother’s lap, and shook all over with the violence of her sobs.

Mrs. Jervis was distressed, for her daughter was just recovering from a serious illness, and she feared the consequences of such violent emotion. Her mind worked quickly; if she could only get Ethel interested in something,—but what could she do shut up in a car? She spoke again to her neighbor.

“Didn’t you say there were some travelers in the next car not so comfortable as we are?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered; “a mother and three children, one a baby, going to Dalton, where the father has just got work. They look poor, and are not very warmly clad. The conductor says he can’t keep two cars warm; fuel is getting scarce; and he’s going to bring them in here.”

“Do you hear that, Ethel?” said her mother anxiously; “there’s a baby coming into our car.”

Ethel was usually very fond of babies, but now she could think of nothing but her disappointment, and only an impatient jerk of her shoulders showed that she heard.

At this moment the door opened, and the conductor appeared, followed by the few passengers from the other car, among them the shivering family with the baby. The mother looked pale and tired, and sank into the first seat.

Mrs. Jervis rose, obliging Ethel to sit up, and went toward the weary woman.

“Let me take the baby a while,” she said pleasantly; “you look tired out.”

Tears came into the eyes of the poor mother.

“Oh, thank you,” she said; “the baby is fretting for her milk; she won’t eat anything I can get for her.”

“Of course she won’t,” said Mrs. Jervis, as she lifted the baby, who, though poorly dressed, was clean and sweet; “sensible baby! we must try to get milk for her!” She turned to the conductor.

“Isn’t there a farmhouse somewhere about here where some benevolent gentleman might get milk for a suffering baby?” and she looked with a smile at the passenger who had been giving the unwelcome news.

“No,” said the conductor, “I think not any near enough to be reached in this storm; but I have an idea that there’s a case of condensed milk in the baggage-car; I’ll see,” and he hurried out.

“That’s a providential baggage-car,” said Mrs. Jervis. “How much we might have suffered but for its fortunate stores!”

“Yes,” replied her neighbor gravely; “a fast of a week wouldn’t be very comfortable.”

“And jack rabbits are tiptop!” burst in Harry Jervis. His mother smiled.

“I’m glad you like them, Harry; I should like them better bounding away over the prairies on their own long legs than served up half cooked, on a newspaper for plates,—to be eaten with fingers, too,” she added.

“Fingers were made before forks!” said Harry triumphantly, repeating an old saying which had been quoted quite often in that car of late.

“Your fingers were not, Harry!” said Mrs. Jervis, laughing. “However, we have cause to be thankful, even for jack rabbits eaten with our fingers.”

At this moment entered a brakeman with a can of condensed milk. “The conductor sent this to you, ma’am,” he said.

“But it isn’t open!” said Mrs. Jervis in dismay; “and I didn’t think to bring a can-opener. If I had only known of this picnic-party, I might have provided myself.”

“I’ll open it,” said her neighbor, taking out a pocket knife; “I’ve opened many a can in my travels on the plains.”

“Don’t take off the top,” said Mrs. Jervis. “Make two holes in the cover.” He looked up in surprise. She went on: “One to let out the milk, and the other to let in the air so that it can get out.”

“Well, if that isn’t an idea!” said the man, a broad grin spreading over his face. “It takes a woman to think of that contrivance!”

“You see,” said Mrs. Jervis, “that keeps the milk in the can clean, and it pours out as well as if the whole top was off.”

“Sure!” said the man; “I’ll never forget that little trick; thank you, ma’am!”

Mrs. Jervis smiled. “You’re quite welcome,” she said, as she proceeded to dilute the milk with water from the cooler, and to warm the mixture on the stove, using her own silver traveling-cup for the purpose.

While she was doing this, she had put the baby on Ethel’s lap, saying quietly, “You hold her a minute till I get the milk ready.”

Ethel half grudgingly took the feebly wailing baby; but when the milk was warmed and the hungry little creature quietly fell asleep in her arms, she showed no desire to give her up. Mrs. Jervis, having procured a pillow from the porter,—for this was a sleeping-car,—laid the sleeping infant on the seat opposite her own.

Meanwhile, the idea she had been all this time seeking—the plan for giving Ethel something to think of besides herself—had come to her, and she now suggested it to her daughter, who had stopped crying, though she still looked very unhappy.

“Ethel,” she said, “did you notice those poor children back there?”

“No,” said Ethel indifferently.

“Well,” said her mother, “I wish you’d go and tell the mother that the baby is sleeping comfortably, and I’ll look after her.”

Ethel was accustomed to mind, and though she looked as if she didn’t fancy the errand, she rose and slowly walked through the car to the back seats where the strangers were seated, delivered her message, and returned.

“They don’t look very comfortable, do they?” said Mrs. Jervis.

“No, indeed!” said Ethel with some interest; “that girl had a little, old shawl pinned on, and looked half frozen at that.”

“I don’t suppose they have ever been really comfortable,” went on Mrs. Jervis. “I should like to fix them all up warm and nice for once in their lives.”

Ethel did not reply, but she was thinking.

“I wonder if they were going anywhere for Christmas,” she said slowly.

“They look as if they did not know what Christmas is,” answered her mother. “I don’t believe they ever had one.”

“It would be fun to fix up a tree for them,” said Ethel, who had enjoyed helping to arrange a Christmas celebration the preceding year in an orphan asylum; “but of course no one can do anything shut up in this old car!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Mrs. Jervis; “a good deal can be done by willing hands.”

“I don’t see what!” said Ethel.

“Well,” said her mother, “you could at least make the girl a rag-doll like those you made for the orphans last winter.”

“What could I make it of?” asked Ethel somewhat scornfully.

“I have an idea,” said Mrs. Jervis. “I think I can get something from the porter.”

Like most persons who set out with determination, Mrs. Jervis overcame all obstacles. With the consent of the conductor, who assumed the responsibility for the Company, she bought of the porter a clean sheet, and a towel with a gay border, and returned to her seat. Out of her traveling-bag she took sewing implements, and in a short time Ethel was busily engaged in fashioning a rag-doll. She rolled up a long strip of the clean cotton for the doll’s body, sewing it tightly in place, and made a similar but much smaller roll for the arms, which she sewed on to the body in proper position. She marked the features of the face with a black lead pencil, and then dressed it in a strip of the towel, leaving the red border as a trimming around the hem of the dress, and a narrow strip of the same gay border for a sash, which was tied in a fine bow at the back. On the head, to conceal the raw edges of the cotton, she made a tiny hood of another piece of the red border, and though you might not think it, it was really a very presentable doll.

Meanwhile the idea had spread among the passengers, and other hands were busy with the same purpose. One elderly lady, who had been occupying her time knitting with red wool a long, narrow strip intended to make a stripe in a large afghan, deliberately raveled out the whole, and, bringing out of her bag a pair of fine needles, set up some mittens for the cold-looking red hands of the boy.

Another lady passenger produced a small shoulder shawl, which she proceeded to make—with the help of Mrs. Jervis’s needles and thread—into a warm hood for the little girl. Another lady made of an extra wrap she carried an ample cloak for the baby, and Mrs. Jervis resolved to give the thinly dressed mother a large cape she had brought in case they should ride the last two miles of their journey in an open sleigh in a snowstorm.

The whole carload, with nothing to occupy them, soon caught the enthusiasm; and before the day was over, nearly every one was doing what could be done with such limited means to make a pleasant Christmas for the little family occupying so quietly the back section in the car, and feeling so out of place among the well-to-do passengers.

Not only were articles for their comfort made, but toys for the children. Many a man, in the intervals of shoveling snow, at which each man took his turn, called up the resources of boyhood, and whittled precious things out of wood; a whistle and a toy sled for the boy; a cradle made of a cigar box, with rockers nailed on with pins, for the girl, and fitted with bedding from her mother’s sheet by Ethel, with a piece of the shoulder shawl for coverlid.

Even Harry wanted to help, and begged his mother for an empty spool, out of which he could make a real top which would spin. Mrs. Jervis had no empty spool, but she took the largest one she had, wound off the thread on a card, and gave it to him, and he whittled out a beautiful top.

All these things could be done in the same car with the family, for they were very shy, and kept strictly to the last compartment, where the conductor had placed them.

As Christmas day drew near, the question of a tree began to be considered, for Ethel could not entertain the idea of Christmas without one. She consulted the porter, who entered into the spirit of the thing warmly, and as he had noticed some trees not far back, near the track, he managed to cut off a large branch from one. Shaking it free from the snow, he set it up in a box, under Ethel’s directions, making it stand steadily upright with chunks of coal packed in the box around it, and it really looked something like a tree, though it was entirely bare of leaves, for it was not an evergreen.

The baggage-car was decided upon for the celebration, and all day before Christmas Ethel and Harry, as well as most of the passengers by turns, were very busy there. Ethel covered the box of coal with the remains of the sheet; candles for the tree, with all their ingenuity, they were unable to manage, but a fine effect was produced by a brilliant red lantern, which a brakeman lent for the occasion, placed in among the branches.

All the gifts—and they were surprisingly numerous—were hung about the tree, and the bare spaces filled up with paper ladders and rings of dancing dolls and long curling tassels and fringes, all of which Ethel cut with the scissors out of newspapers. These last decorations were added with locked doors, only the porter being allowed to see them.

It was really a very effective show, though so odd, and after the passengers had enjoyed their evening meal of jack rabbits roasted before the fire, with dry crackers for bread, and water to drink, they were all invited by the smiling colored porter to proceed to the baggage-car.

The Grey family, for whom all this had been done, were gallantly escorted by the porter himself, who even carried the baby, now bright and smiling on its diet of condensed milk.

The baggage-car presented a gay appearance, brilliantly lighted by many brakeman’s lanterns. Trunks were stowed away in one end, except those needed for seats, and in a few moments the women and children were seated, while all the men of the train stood around behind them, even to the weary-looking engineer who had been working so hard these two days and nights for their release.

The surprise and delight of the Grey children knew no bounds; and when they found that all these treasures were for them, their ecstasies were beyond control; they laughed and shouted almost like other children, as they had never in their lives done before.

As for the mother, she was simply overcome; tears of happiness ran down her face, and as each gift was placed in her lap, she could only grasp the hand of the giver,—she could not speak.

And what of Ethel! No one would have known her for the unhappy-faced maiden who had so lamented their plight. All this time she had been the moving spirit in the whole matter. She had worked hard herself, and inspired others to work, too. She was rosy and happy on this evening, her eyes bright and shining; and when her mother placed in her hand her own Christmas gift, which she had been secretly carrying to grace the tree at Grandma’s, her happiness overflowed, and she exclaimed:—

“Why! I almost forgot the party to-night at Grandma’s!”

At the close of the evening, as the party were about to return to their car, the conductor rapped for silence, and announced—as the best gift of the evening—that help had come from outside and cut through the drifts, so that before morning they would be able to take up their journey.

It was a very happy-faced Ethel who, the next morning, jumped out of the sleigh which had brought them up from the station, and ran to kiss her grandmother and aunts and cousins, brought together from great distances for the happy Christmas time. And after all, she didn’t miss the tree, either, for, although Christmas had passed, all the party begged to defer the tree till the Jervis family arrived; and there it stood at that moment, all ready for lighting.

Nothing of this was told to the Jervis children, however, till after supper was over, when Grandmother invited the whole company to go into the room where it stood, lighted from the top twig to the pedestal it stood on, and hung full of beautiful gifts.

“That’s a nice story,” said Kristy; “it was lovely of them to save the tree for Ethel. It isn’t bedtime yet,” she went on suggestively, as her mother busied herself with her work.

“No; it isn’t bedtime; but you must have had enough stories for one day, Kristy.”

“No, indeed! I never have enough!” said Kristy warmly.

“Well, here’s another, then, and it’s true, too.” And Mrs. Crawford began.