Christmas Stories of Louisa May Alcott, The. Louisa May Alcott
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warm across Sam's heart as he looked down upon the faces of mother, sister, sweetheart, scattered 'round him, and remembered how poor his comrade was in all such tender ties, and yet how rich in that beautiful contentment, which, "having nothing, yet hath all." The man had no words in which to express this feeling, but it came to him and did him good, as he proved in his own way. "Miss Hale," he said, a little awkwardly, "I wish you'd pick out what you think each would like and give 'em to the boys."
He got a smile in answer that drove him to his cookie as a refuge. His lips trembled, and he felt half proud, half ashamed to have earned such bright approval.
"Let Ben help you. He knows better than I. But you must give them all yourself; it will so surprise and please the boys. And then tomorrow we will write a capital letter home telling what a jubilee we made over their fine box."
At this proposal Sam half repented; but as Ben came lumbering up at Miss Hale's summons, he laid hold of his new resolution as if it was a sort of shower bath to which he held the string, one pull of which would finish the baptism. Dividing his most cherished possession, which (alas for romance!) was the tobacco, he bundled the larger half into a paper, whispering to Miss Hale:
"Ben ain't exactly what you'd call a ministering angel to look at, but he is amazin' near one in his ways, so I'm goin' to begin with him."
Up came the "ministering angel," in red flannel and cowhide boots; and Sam tucked the little parcel into his pocket, saying, as he began to rummage violently in the box:
"Now jest hold your tongue and lend a hand here about these things."
Ben was so taken aback by this proceeding that he stared blankly till a look from Miss Hale enlightened him. Taking his cue, he played his part as well as could be expected on so short a notice. Clapping Sam on the shoulder—not the bad one as Ben was always thoughtful of those things—he exclaimed heartily:
"I always said you'd come 'round when this poor arm of yours got a good start; and here you are jollier 'n ever. Lend a hand! So will I, a pair of 'em. What's to do? Pack these traps up again?"
"No; I want you to tell what you'd do with 'em if they were yours. Free, you know, as free as if they really was."
Ben held on to the box a minute as if this second surprise rather took him off his legs; but another look from the prime mover in this resolution steadied him, and he fell to work as if Sam had been in the habit of being "free with his things."
"Well, let's see. I think I'd put the clothes and such into this smaller box that the bottles come in, and stand it under the table, handy. Here's newspapers—pictures in 'em, too! I should make a circulatin' library of 'em; they'll be a real treat. Pickles? Well, I guess I should keep them on the winder here as a kind of a relish dinnertimes or to pass along to them as longs for 'em. Cologne? That's a dreadful handsome bottle, ain't it? That, now, would be fust-rate to give away to somebody as was very fond of it—a kind of delicate attention, you know—if you happen to meet such a person anywheres."
Ben nodded towards Miss Hale, who was absorbed in folding pocket-handkerchiefs. Sam winked expressively and patted the bottle as if congratulating himself that it was handsome, and that he did know what to do with it. The pantomime was not elegant, but as much real affection and respect went into it as if he had made a set speech and presented the gift upon his knees.
"The letters and photographs I should probably keep under my pillow for a spell; the jelly I'd give to Miss Hale to use for the sick ones; the cake stuff and that pot of jam I'd stand treat with for tea, since dinner wasn't all we could have wished. The apples I'd keep to eat and fling at Joe when he was too bashful to ask for one, and the tobacco I would not go lavishin' on folks that have no business to be enjoyin' luxuries when many a poor fellow is dyin' of want down to Charlestown. There, sir! That's what I'd do if anyone was so clever as to send me a jolly box like this."
Sam was enjoying the full glow of his shower bath by this time. As Ben designated the various articles, he set them apart. And when the inventory ended, he marched away with the first installment: two of the biggest, rosiest apples for Joe and all the pictorial papers. Pickles are not usually regarded as tokens of regard, but as Sam dealt them out one at a time—for he would let nobody help him, and his single hand being the left, was as awkward as it was willing—the boys' faces brightened. A friendly word accompanied each pickle, which made the sour gherkins as welcome as sweetmeats.
With every trip, the donor's spirits rose. Ben circulated freely between times, and, thanks to him, not an allusion to the past marred the satisfaction of the present. Jam, soda biscuits, and cake were such welcome additions to the usual bill of fare that when supper was over, a vote of thanks was passed, and speeches were made. Being true Americans, the ruling passion found vent in the usual "Fellow citizens!" and allusions to the "Star-spangled Banner." After which, Sam subsided, feeling himself a public benefactor and a man of mark.
A perfectly easy, pleasant day throughout would be almost an impossibility in any hospital, and this one was no exception to the general rule. So, at the usual time, Dr. Bangs went his rounds leaving the customary amount of discomfort, discontent, and dismay behind him. A skillful surgeon and an excellent man was Dr. Bangs, but not a sanguine or conciliatory individual. Many cares and crosses caused him to regard the world as one large hospital and his fellow beings all more or less dangerously wounded patients in it. He saw life through the bluest of blue spectacles and seemed to think that the sooner people quitted it, the happier for them. He did his duty by the men, but if they recovered, he looked half disappointed and congratulated them with cheerful prophecies that there would come a time when they would wish they hadn't. If one died, he seemed relieved and surveyed him with pensive satisfaction, saying heartily:
"He's comfortable, now, poor soul, and well out of this miserable world. Thank God!"
But for Ben's presence, the sanitary influences of the doctor's ward would have been small, and Dante's doleful line might have been written on the threshold of the door:
WHO ENTERS HERE LEAVES HOPE BEHIND.
Ben and the doctor perfectly understood and liked each other, but never agreed and always skirmished over the boys as if manful cheerfulness and medical despair were fighting for the soul and body of each one.
"Well," began the doctor, looking at Sam's arm, or rather at all that was left of that member after two amputations, "we shall be ready for another turn at this in a day or two if it don't mend faster. Tetanus sometimes follows such cases, but that is soon over; and I should not object to a case of it by way of variety." Sam's hopeful face fell, and he set his teeth as if the fatal symptoms were already felt.
"If one kind of lockjaw was not fatal, it wouldn't be a bad thing for some folks I could mention," observed Ben, covering the well-healed stump as carefully as if it were a sleeping baby—adding, as the doctor walked away, "There's a sanguinary old sawbones for you! Why, bless your buttons, Sam, you are doing splendid, and he goes on that way because there's no chance of his having another cut at you! Now he's bothering Turner, jest as we've blowed a spark of spirit into him. If ever there was a born extinguisher, it's Bangs!"
Ben rushed to the rescue, and not a minute too soon; for Turner, who now labored under the delusion that his recovery depended solely upon his getting out of bed every fifteen minutes, was sitting by the fire, looking up at the doctor, who pleasantly observed, while feeling his pulse:
"So you are getting ready for another fever, are you? Well, we've grown rather fond of you and will keep you six weeks longer if you have your heart set on it."
Turner looked nervous, for the doctor's jokes were always grim ones; but Ben took the other hand in his and gently rocked the chair as he replied, with great politeness:
"This robust convalescent of ours would be happy to oblige you, sir, but he has a pressin' engagement up to Jersey for next week and couldn't stop on no account. You see Miss Turner wants a careful nurse for little Georgie, and he's a goin' to take the place."
Feeling himself on the brink of a laugh as Turner simpered with a ludicrous mixture of pride in his baby and fear for himself, Dr. Bangs said, with unusual sternness and a glance at Ben: