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ChristmasDayintheMorning–ChristmasStories

ChristmasDayinthe

Morning

PearlS.Buck

Hewokeupsuddenlyandcompletely!

Itwasfouro’clock,thehouratwhichhisfatherhadalwayscalledhimtogetupandhelpwiththemilking.

Strangehowthehabitsofhisyouthclungtohimstill!

Fiftyyearsago,andhisfatherhadbeendeadforthirtyyears,andyethewakedatfouro’clockinthemorning.

Hehadtrainedhimselftoturnoverandgotosleep,butthismorningitwasChristmas,hedidnottrytosleep.

Whydidhefeelsoawaketonight?

Heslippedbackintime,ashedidsoeasilynowadays.

Hewasfifteenyearsoldandstillonhisfather’sfarm.

Helovehisfather.

HehadnotknowituntilonedayafewdaysbeforeChristmas,whenhehadoverheardwhathisfatherwassayingtohismother.

“Mary,IhatetocallRobinthemornings.

He’sgrowingsofastandheneedshissleep.

IfyoucouldjustseehowhesleepswhenIgointowakehimup!

IwishIcouldmanagealone.”

“Well,youcan’t,Adam.”

Hismother’svoicewasbrisk,“Besides,heisn’t’achildanymore.

It’stimehetookhisturn.”

“Yes,”hisfathersaidslowly.

“ButIsuredohatetowakehim.”

Whenheheardthesewords,somethinginhimwoke:

hisfatherlovedhim!

Hehadneverthoughtofitbefore,takingforgrantedthetieoftheirblood.

Neitherhisfathernorhismothertalkedaboutlovingtheirchildren–theyhadnotimeforsuchthings.

Therewasalwayssomuchtodoonthefarm.

Nowthatheknewhisfatherlovedhim,therewouldbenoloiteringinthemorningsandhavingtobecalledagain.

Hegotupafterthat,stumblingblindwithsleep,andpulledonhisclothes,hiseyestightshut,buthegotup.

AndthenonthenightbeforeChristmas,thatyearwhenhewasfifteen,helayforafewminutesthinkingaboutthenextday.

Theywerepoor,andmostoftheexcitementwasintheturkeytheyhadraisedthemselvesandthemincepieshismothermade.

Hissistersewedpresentsandhismotherandfatheralwaysboughtsomethingheneeded,notonlyawarmjacket,maybe,butsomethingmore,suchasabook.

Andhesavedandboughtthemeachsomething,too.

Hewished,thatChristmashewasfifteen,hehadabetterpresentforhisfather.

Asusualhehadgonetotheten-centstoreandboughtatie.

IthadseemedniceenoughuntilhelaythinkingthenightbeforeChristmas.

Helookedoutofhisatticwindow,thestarswerebright.

“Dad,”hehadonceaskedwhenhewasalittleboy,“whatisastable?”

“It’sjustabarn,”hisfatherhadreplied,“l(fā)ikeours.”

ThenJesushadbeenborninabarn,andtoabarntheshepherdshadcome…

Thethoughtstruckhimlikeasilverdagger.

Whyshouldhenotgivehisfatheraspecialgifttoo,outthereinthebarn?

Hecouldgetupearly,earlierthanfouro’clockandhecouldcreepintothebarnandgetallthemilkingdone.

He’ddoitalone,milkandcleanup,andthenwhenhisfatherwentintostartthemilkinghe’dseeitalldone.

Andhewouldknowwhohaddoneit.

Helaughedtohimselfashegazedatthestars.

Itwaswhathewoulddo,andhemustn’tsleeptoosoundly.

Hemusthaveawakenedtwentytimes,scratchingamatcheachtimetolookathisoldwatch–midnight,andhalfpastone,andthentwoo’clock.

Ataquartertothreehegotupandputonhisclothes.

Hecreptdownstairs,carefulofthecreakyboards,andlethimselfout.

Thecowslookedathim,sleepyandsurprised.

Itwasearlyforthem,too.

Hehadnevermilkedallalonebefore,butitseemedalmosteasy.

Hekeptthinkingabouthisfather’ssurprise.

Hisfatherwouldcomeinandgethim,sayingthathewouldgetthingsstartedwhileRobwasgettingdressed.

He’dgotothebarn,openthedoor,andthenhe’dgotogetthetwobigemptymilkcans.

Buttheywouldn’tbewaitingorempty;they’dbestandinginthemilkhousefilled.

“Whatthe—–,”hecouldhearhisfatherexclaiming.

Hesmiledandmilkedsteadily,twostrongstreamsrushingintothepail,frothingandfragrant.

Thetaskwentmoreeasilythanhehadeverknownittogobefore.

Milkingforoncewasnotachore.Itwassomethingelse,agifttohisfatherwholovedhim.

Hefinished,thetwomilkcanswerefull,andhecoveredthemandclosedthemilkhousedoorcarefully,makingsureofthelatch.

Backinhisroomhehadonlyaminutetopulloffhisclothesinthedarknessandjumpintobed,forheheardhisfatherup.

Heputthecoversoverhisheadtosilencehisquickbreathing.

Thedooropened.

“Rob!”

Hisfathercalled.

“Wehavetogetup,son,evenifitisChristmas.”

“Aw-right,”hesaidsleepily.

Thedoorclosedandhelaystill,laughingtohimself.

Injustafewminuteshisfatherwouldknow.

Hisdancingheartwasreadytojumpfromhisbody.

Theminuteswereendless—ten,fifteen,hedidnotknowhowmany—thenheheardhisfather’sfootstepsagain.

Thedooropenedandhelaystill.

“Rob!”

“Yes,Dad—”

Hisfatherwaslaughingaqueersobbingsortoflaugh.

“Thoughtyou’dfoolme,didyou?

Hisfatherwasstandingbesidehisbed,feelingforhim,pullingawaythecover.

“It’sforChristmas,Dad!”

Hefoundhisfatherandclutchedhiminagreathug.

Hefelthisfather’sarmsgoaroundhim.

Itwasdarkandtheycouldnotseeeachother’sfaces.

“Son,Ithankyou.

Nobodyeverdidanicerthing—”

“Oh,Dad,Iwantyoutoknow–Idowanttobegood.”

Thewordsbrokefromhimoftheirownwill.

Hedidnotknowwhattodo.

Hisheartwasburstingwithlove.

HegotupandpulledonhisclothesagainandtheywentdowntotheChristmastree.

Oh,whataChristmas,andhowhishearthadnearlyburstagainwithshynessandprideashisfathertoldhismotherandmadetheyoungerchildrenlistenabouthowhe,Rob,hadgotupallbyhimself.

“ThebestChristmasgiftIeverhad,andI’llrememberit,son,everyyearonChristmasmorning,solongasIlive.”

Theyhadbothrememberedit,andnowthathisfatherwasdead,heremembereditalone:

thatblessedChristmasdawnwhenalonewiththecowsinthebarn,hehadmadehisfirstgiftoftruelove.

ThisChristmashewantedtowriteacardtohiswifeandtellhowmuchhelovedher,ithadbeenalongtimesincehehadreallytoldher,althoughhelovedher