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About Pearson tribune. (Pearson, Ga.) 191?-1955 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 31, 1920)
[Memory O'lw Ag-up ])nxjarv.^^W / #ONN’JE looked down to the busy street, throueb a blur of snowflnkos. At least. Connie told herself deter jiilnediy .that snowflakes wore dcdbuiitable for the blur ; then, she wiped her “It's Merry Christmas , time,” Connie said to her old yellow cat. "Who ever 'heard of Christmas without the Merry? So cheer up, Prowler, and let’s Join, in the game.” At the little "Shoppe” just around the corner she stood longest of all. , And all at onre into Connie’s brlahl eyes dune a speculative light. The window was full of small framed pic tures, most of tllem with the Christ mas spirit. There were the usual j)ight-elnd children looking up broad chimneys, there were landscapes of snowy fields with distant windows alight—Connie studied them all; she was seeing In vision the winding ldl! road of the place where she had spent her last summer vacation; the Church With Its swaying bell In the steeple, the Queer little bridge over the deep •and beautiful stream—a bridge with seats along Its sides where countless lovers had sat and courted. The old lady who had been Connie’s volunteer hostess told her, with the pink conilhg and going In her withered checks, about the lovers. For It. was there that her own husband had asked, and hud been answered—llls Question. Tin* way that Connie had chanced to visit this beautiful country place and to meet there the dear old lady was quite remarkable chance too. She had started out on the trolley car for one restful day In the couutry and had chosen this station at random. And when she had stopped to admire the wonderful roses in the old lady’s gar den—and they had spent some agree able time together—the old Indy, Mrs. Martha Snow by name, had said; “My dear I Why don’t you come on and visit me for a week or two? I’m lonely for a young sweet face.” And Connie had gone, that was all. JTulf her later water colors had been glorified mefeorfes of that delightful visit. Now Connie had a now Inspira tion. She would paint the queer little bridge over an' Icy stream, and Its seats should bo y £ojeypd \yyb snow. ■ She could' fancy just how the trees would look waving naked branches. And she’d paint the church Jn the hol low with l't)*lifs‘iii- fbe’ wifflwWa gleam ing over the snow and the bell in the tower a-swaying for Christmas, Oh, Connie was very happy as she hurried hrt'jne "ttv hut there, In the teniperomcwmowSiyf- aTtfsts she began %o drawVjUffcjitt, working 1»' n fwfer <ft the sitting *V<^ifh'■‘■•of 'Jituise where she had been a SRtVVb, ‘/.wttlr Martha Snow herself seated In the just half of her peaceful pro file showing beneath its halo of white hair. There was holly above the old fire place and a boy’s stocking hanging there. Connie never stopped until she bad completed the picture, then run with It breathlessly to the “Shoppe" around the corner. "Yes, we will display it,” a smiling old man agreed. The picture sold. Of course you were prepared for that; but the strange part was that before it was sold Connie had added her other views to the "Shoppe'* window, and her dis cerning purchaser had bought them .every one. While the other Christ mas® studies pleased him not at all; Connie could hot count the number of times that she passed that window, first closing her eyes childishly In the hope that her picture would not be there when she opened them. And It ‘was thh day hut one before Christmas that the “Shoppe” manager seeing her' peeking about, beckoned her Inside. ■ "You have pleased one of our best customers,” said the manager, “and when we mentioned your peculiar con dition of sale he suggested talking the matter over with you that you might both come to a satisfactory bargain.. Our customer thinks that you possess wonderful arttstic ability. We have given him your address.” “Is he.” asked Connie flatteringly, “a philanthropist?" Some way she did not want her pur chaser to be Just a philanthropist and spoil all future ambitious hope. "Mr. Armstrong is a man who usual ly drives a pretty shrewd bargain,” the "Shoppe" manager said. So. though It was early afternoon. Connie hurried home to turn on a gas blaze and don her most presentable dress fco that she might make a favor able Impression as a successful young wleider of the brush. The purchaser knight arrive any minute. But it was the nest afternoon when he came and Connie was wearing a bungalow apron. The purchaser was young and ball and good looking, and, the golden cat ■greeted him with a purring mb. which was to Connie a recommendation as £o his honesty. _ _ Mr. Hubert Armatrong came direct* y to business. ‘•your sketches hate for me a double interest, Miss Carroll,” he-said. “Yon have drown remarkably some of y-.c happiest scenes of my boyhood. Scenes which X am ashamed to say I bad half-forgotten. The world of absorbs much of human kind ness I am afraid, and sometimes a jrtruggle for success causes us toJeave ■much that is tender behind. I am grateful to you for awakening In me fiiflt tenderness Whidi I had almost lurried.” 'The man’s voice broke huskily. XIo ■drew forth an old sitting-room pic ture. ‘T’eaco on Earth” was the name she had given If. “That,” said Hubert Armstrong, “is iflie living room of my home In Hill crest—the place where I was horn. This White-haired woman's profile Is the .peaceful profile of rny long-lost mother. That little bulging stocking f/.ight have been' my own stocking, just as it used ti> Uang there years ago— Tell-me*-” his tofae \Vas ertgor, “how did you come by your dream?” “X visited last summer,” .Connie told Him, “in that same old house in Hill crest with Mrs. Martha Know, who in vited me.” The man nodded hastily. “I see,” he said, "“it is quite simple after all. Martha Snow is my moth er’s widowed sister.” A (lull red crept to ffis cheek. ■ “I had almost forgotten that Aunt Martha asked me years ago to allow 'her to 'continue on In jhe old limner stead. It was left mine by will. Kn ‘she’s there yet, and the church bell still chimes out for Christmas! "You have sounded the memory bells for me, Miss Carroll.” It seemed that the purchaser had ■ almost forgotten her In his musings. Now that She looked at him closely his face was threaded by lines of care, his line eyes sorrowful beneath their sternness. Connie put forth a friend ly hand. , "Why," she said, “so you are Martlm Snow’s nephew. Then there can be no question of bargain between us, the pictures are freely yours.” Tlie man spoke abruptly. “You paint to sell do you not?” he asked. “Isn’t that wljat your studio Is for?” Connie shook her head ruefully. “Mostly,” she replied, “my studio is just to live In.” “And yon live alone?" “I am quite alone in the world,” she told him gravely. Then her irrepressible smile broke forth. '“Unless,” she added, - “you would count PrOWler?" She caught the cut in her arms. “I—live —atone —too,” Hubert Arm strong laid slowly, “I know what it means. There’s not irnueh difference between (he gilded walls of an apartment and these walls of yours here.” “Not wlleii ■ It edmes to loneliness," Connie agreed. “We were going to look much more cheerful," she went ° tlafr-w Connie Studied Them All. on. “when you Interrupted us with your knock. I was climbing the lad der to hang a holly wreath.” “Let me do it for you,” the man said. Before she could could refuse his assistance he was on the ladder, the wreath in his hands. "That’s better,” Connie told Idm as side by side they stood looking up at the crimson berries. “It’s the first time in years,” Hu bert Armstrong said with a boyish laugh, “that I’ve done that sort of thing. Gtves me a thrill of old Christ mas. Makes nte wish for a fireplace with a filled stocking before it. The fireplace of your picture makes me ldiig to go skating On a creek—your creek, back at HOlcrest Makes me want to taste turkey again over the old dining-room table." “Yes!” breathed eorinle, “and hear the church boil ring Out across the snow.” Hager-eyed the man gazed Into those other eager eyes beneath his own. “Let’s do It,” he said impulsively. "Let us have n real, joyful old-fash ioned sort of Christmas, yon and I. back at Aunt Martha’s. I will call her on the phene. It would delight her heart.” “it would he Just ‘pence on earth' to me,” Ceunte said happily. Ami that Christmas eve as she gazed wideawake through her attic window the moon shone down trAoeglj the holly wreath. “Merry Christmas," whispered Am nio while the old moon smiled he* 1 rfignly with a promise of happy | Christmases to ycoKie. , eft »*l.. 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