CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING

CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING

PEARL S. BUCK

HE WOKE SUDDENLY AND COMPLETELY. IT was four o’clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! That was fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty, yet he waked at four o’clock every morning. Over the years, he had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas.

Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father’s farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard his father talking to his mother.

“Mary, I hate to wake Rob in the mornings. He’s growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how hard he’s sleeping when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone.”

“Well, you can’t, Adam.” His mother’s voice was brisk. “Besides, he isn’t a child anymore. It’s time he took his turn.”

“Yes,” his father said slowly. “But I sure do hate to wake him.”

When he heard his father’s words, something in him spoke: His father loved him! He had never thought of that before, simply taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children—they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He always got up immediately after that He stumbled blindly in his sleep and pulled on his clothes with his eyes shut, bur he got up.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement about Christmas was in the turkey they had raised themselves and the mince pies his mother had made. His sister sewed presents for everyone and his mother and father always bought him something he needed, like a warm jacket, but usually something more too, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.

He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. As he gazed out of his attic window, the stars were bright.

“Dad,” he had once asked when he was a little boy, “what is a stable”

“It’s just a barn,” his father had replied, “like ours.”

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why couldn’t he give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, early, earlier than four o’clock, and he could creep into the barn and do all the milking before his father even got out of bed. He’d do it all alone, milk the cows and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he’d see it all was done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he looked at the stars. It was what he would do! He mustn’t sleep too sound and forget to get up early.

He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch—midnight, half past one, then two o’clock.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them too.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father’s surprise. His father would come in to get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He’d go to the barn, open the door, and then he’d go get the two big empty milk cans waiting to be filled. But they wouldn’t be waiting or empty, they’d be standing in the milk house, filled.

“What on earth!” he could hear his father exclaiming.

He smiled and Milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. For once, milking was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk house door carefully, making sure to close the latch.

Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up and moving around. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

“Rob,” his father called. “We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas.”

“Aw-right,” he said sleepily.

His father closed the door and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

The minutes were endless—ten, fifteen, he did not know how many, it seemed like hours—and he heard his father’s footsteps again. When his father opened the door he lay perfectly still.

“Rob!”

“Yes, Dad?”

His father was laughing, a strange sobbing sort of laugh.

“Thought you’d fool me, did you?” His father was standing by his bed, feel-ing for him, pulling away the covers.

“Merry Christmas, Dad!”

He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father’s arms wrap around him. It was dark and they could not see each other’s faces.

“Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing . . .”

“Oh, Dad, I want you to know—I do want to be good!” The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh, what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and sister about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself and finished all the milking.

“The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I’ll remember it, son, every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live.”

They had both remembered it every year, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her. It had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.

It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He would write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began to write: My dearest love .. .

Such a happy, happy, Christmas!

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