Christmas On Wheels

In this episode of "Forward Into The Past," J.C. Rede shares a heartwarming Christmas story titled "Christmas On Wheels" written by Willis Boyd Allen in 1895. He begins by discussing the history of the Christmas tree and its significance as a symbol of the holiday season. J.C. Rede then dives into the story, which takes place in a snowbound train during a blustery December day. The protagonist, Bob Estabrook, finds himself on a journey to San Francisco during the Christmas season and is initially disappointed to be away from his holiday plans. However, his perspective changes when he meets Gertrude Raymond, a young woman traveling with her father. As the train becomes stuck in a snowbank, Gertrude takes charge and organizes a Christmas party for the passengers. The party brings joy and warmth to everyone on board, and Bob realizes the true meaning of Christmas. The story ends with Bob and Gertrude forming a deep connection and looking forward to a future together. 

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Transcript

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Hi friends and welcome to another holiday edition of forward into the past. I'm J.C. Rede, your host and narrator. And today we're kicking off the holiday season for this year with a wonderful story from 1895, entitled Christmas On Wheels, and written by Willis Boyd Allen who wrote another Christmas tale that I read last year entitled The Shadow of Christmas Past. Do yourself a favor and check out that story as well. Mr. Boyd's stories have become some of my favorites. The Christmas tree is one of the most iconic symbols of the holiday season, but its history is surprisingly complex and dates back centuries. The first Christmas trees were decorated by pagan cultures in Europe who believed that evergreens had magical powers to protect them from evil spirits during the winter solstice. When Christianity spread throughout Europe, the pagan tradition of decorating evergreen trees was adopted by Christians who saw the trees as symbols of eternal life and the birth of Jesus Christ. The first recorded Christmas tree was erected in the Strausberg cathedral in Alsace France in 1539. The Christmas tree tradition quickly spread throughout Germany and other parts of Europe. In the 16th century, Martin Luther the leader of the Protestant reformation is said to have added lighted candles to a Christmas tree in order to represent the stars in the sky on the night of Jesus' birth. In the 18 hundreds. The Christmas tree tradition was brought to the United States by German immigrants. The first Christmas tree in America was reportedly erected in Pennsylvania in 1821. the tradition quickly spread throughout the country. And by the end of the century, Christmas trees had become a popular holiday decoration in American homes. Today Christmas trees are decorated by people all over the world, regardless of their religion or culture. Christmas trees are typically decorated with ornaments, lights, tinsel, and Garland. Some people also choose to place gifts under the Christmas tree. There are many different legends and stories associated with the Christmas tree. One popular legend tells the story of a spider who wanted to celebrate Christmas with the other animals on a farm. After the family had set up the Christmas tree for the celebration that evening, they brought in all their farm animals so that they too could look upon the beautiful tree. Well, all except the spider, which the housewife chased out of the house with a broom. That evening the spider crept back into the house and upon seeing the beautiful tree decided to help decorate it by leaving bits of webbing on the tree. When the family awoke on Christmas day, the next morning they were astonished to see the sparkling dew, which had collected on the spiders webbing overnight. To this day, it is still considered good luck to find a spider hiding in the Christmas tree. And the spider's gift of the webbing. Is still seen to this day in the form of glittering tinsel. Another popular legend tells the story of Martin Luther, who is said to have lighted candles to a Christmas tree in order to represent the stars in the sky on the night of Jesus' birth. Luther was also said to have been the first person to put a star on the top of a Christmas tree. While neither of those legends can be confirmed. Martin Luther did believe that the Christmas tree was a simple and pure way to celebrate the birth of Christ. Christmas trees are decorated and displayed in many different ways around the world. In Germany, the traditional Christmas tree is decorated with apples nuts and candles. In Sweden, Christmas trees are often decorated with straw ornaments and gingerbread cookies. In the United States, Christmas trees are typically decorated with a wide variety of ornaments, including balls, bells, and angels. The Christmas tree is a beloved holiday symbol with a rich history and lore. Christmas trees are decorated and displayed in many different ways around the world. And they bring joy to people of all ages during the holiday season. And speaking of bringing joy to people of all ages, let's begin our latest story in the Forward Into The Past Pantheon with the 1895 Christmas story Christmas On Wheels written by Willis Boyd Allen. Christmas On Wheels by Willis Boyd Allen, Boston, 1895. A railroad station in a large city is hardly an inviting spot at its best, but at the close of a cheerless blustering December day, when biting drafts of wind come scurrying in at every open door, filling the air with a gray compound of dust and fine snow. When passengers tramp up and down the long platform waiting impatiently for their trains. When newsboys wander about with disconsolate red faces, hands in pockets and bundles of unsold papers under their ragged and shivering arms. When in general humankind presents itself. As altogether a frozen forlorn discouraged and hopeless race. Condemned to be swept about on the nipping dusty wind, like Francesca and her lover at the rate of 30 miles an hour. Then the station becomes positively unendurable. So thought Bob Estabrook as he paced to and fro in the Boston and Albany Depot traveling bag in hand on just such a night, as I have described. Beside him, locomotives puffed and plunged and backed on the shining rails as if they too felt compelled to trot up and down to keep themselves warm and in even tolerably good humor. Just my luck. growled Bob with a misanthropic glare at a loud voiced family who were passing. Christmas is coming, two jolly Brighton parties and an oratorio thrown up and here am I fired off to San Francisco? So much for being junior member of a law firm. Wonder what. Here, the ruffled current of his meditations ran plump against a rock and as suddenly diverged from its former course. The rock was no less than a young person who at that moment approached with a gray haired man and inquired the way to the ticket office. Just beyond the waiting room on the right, replied Bob pointing to the office and lifting his hat courteously in response to the young lady's question. He watched them with growing interest as they followed his directions and stood before the lighted window. The two silhouettes were decidedly out of the common, the voice whose delicate tones still lingered pleasantly about Mr. Robert Estabrook's fastidious ears was an individual voice as distinguishable from any other he remembered, as was the owner's bright face, the little fur collar beneath it. The daintily gloved hands and the pretty brown traveling suit. Dignified old fellow mused Bob irreverently as the couple moved toward the train gates. Probably her father, perhaps. Hello.. By George, they're going on my car. With which breath of summer in his winter of discontent, the young man proceeded to finish his cigar. Consult his watch. And as the last warning bell rang, step upon the platform of the already moving Pullman. It must be admitted that as he entered, he gave an expectant glance down the aisle of the car. But the somber curtains hanging from ceiling to floor told no tales. Too sleepy to speculate and too learned in the marvelous acoustic properties of a sleeping car to engage the Porter in conversation on the subject, he found his berth arranged himself for the night with the nonchalance of an old traveler and laying his head upon his vibrating atom of a pillow, was soon plunged into a dream at least 50 miles long. It was snowing and snowing hard. Moreover, it had been snowing all night and all the afternoon before. The wind rioted, furiously over the broad Missouri plains, alternately building up huge castles of snow and throwing them down again, like a fretful child, overtaking the belated teamster on his Homeward journey, clutching him with its icy hand and leaving him buried in a tomb spotless as the fairest marble. Howling shrieking racing, madly to and fro never out of breath always the same tireless, pitiless, awful power. Rocks, fields, sometimes even forests were blotted out of the landscape. A mere hyphen upon the broad white page, lay the Western bound train held fast by the soft, but firm hand. The fires in the locomotives. Well, there were two of them had been suffered to go out. The fuel in the tinders was exhausted and the great creatures waited silently together, left alone in the storm while the snow drifted higher and higher upon their patient backs. When Bob had waked that morning to find the Tempest more furious than ever. And the train stuck fast in a huge snowbank. His first thought was of dismay at the possible detention in the narrow limits of the Pullman which seemed much colder than it had before. His next was to wonder how the change of fortune would affect Gertrude Raymond. Of course he had long ago become acquainted with the brown traveling suit and fur collar. Of course there had been numberless little services for him to perform for her and the old gentlemen who had indeed proved to be her father. Bob had already begun to dread the end of the journey. He had gone to his berth the night before wishing that San Francisco, were 10 days from Boston instead of six. Providence having taken him at his word and indicated that the journey would be of at least that duration, if not more. He was disposed, like no few of his fellow mortals to grumble. Once more, he became misanthropic. Oh, there's Ms. Raymond now, he growled to himself knocking his head savagely against the upper berth in his attempt to look out through the frosty pane. Sitting over across the aisle day after day, with her kid gloves and all that. Nice enough of course. Recalling one or two spirited conversations where hours had slipped by like minutes. But confoundingly useless like the rest of them. If she were like mother, now there'd be no trouble. She take care of herself. But as it is, the whole car will be turned upside down for her today, for fear that she'll freeze or starve or spoil her complexion or something. Here Bob turned an extremely cold shoulder on the window and having performed a sort of horizontal toilet. Emerged from his birth, his hair on end and his face expressive of the utter defiance to the world in general and contempt of fashionable young ladies in particular. At that very moment, Ms. Raymond appeared in the aisle. Sweet and rosy as a June morning, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling with fun. Good morning, Mr. Estabrook. She said demurely settling the fur collar about her neck. Bob endeavored to look dignified. And was conscious of failure. A good bump. Good morning. He replied with some stiffness and a shiver, which took him by surprise. It was cold jumping out of that warm berth. I understand we must stay. Oh, but don't let me detain you. She added with a sly glance at his hair. Bob turned and marched off solomnly to the masculine end of the car, washed in ice water, completed his toilet and came back refreshed. Breakfast was formally served as usual. And then a council of war was held. Conductor, engineers and brakeman being consulted and inventories taken, it was found that while food was abundant the stock of wood in the bins would not last until noon. There were 12 railroad men and 35 passengers on board, some 20 of the latter being immigrants in a second class behind the two Pullmans. The little company gathered in the snowbound car, looked blankly at each other. Some of them instinctively drawing their wraps more tightly about their shoulders as if they already felt the approaching chill. It was miles to the nearest station in either direction. Above, below, on all sides was the white blur of tumultuous wind lashed snow. The silence. Was broken pleasantly. Once more, Bob felt the power of those clear sweet tones. the men must make up a party to hunt for wood, she said. While you're gone, we women will do what we can for those who are left. The necessity for immediate action was evident. And without further words, the council broke up to obey her suggestion. A dozen men looking like amateur Eskimos and floundering up to their armpits at the first step started off through the drifts. One of the train men who knew the line of the road thoroughly was sure that they must be near a certain clump of trees where plenty of wood could be obtained. Taking the precaution to move in single line, one of the engineers a broad-shouldered six footer leading the way and steering by compass, they were soon out of sight. As they struck off at right angles to the track, Bob thought he recognized a face pressed close to the pane and watching them anxiously. But he could not be sure. Two hours later, the men appeared once more some staggering under huge logs. Some with axes, some with bundles of lighter boughs for kindling. In another five minutes, smoke was going up cheerly from the whole line of cars for the trees had proved to be less than a quarter of a mile distant. And the supply would be plentiful before night. When Bob Estabrook stamped into his own car, hugging up a big armful of wood, he was a different looking fellow from the trim young lawyer who was wont to stand before the jury seats in the Boston courthouse. He had on a pair of immense blue yarn mittens loaned by a kindly brakeman. His face was scratched with refractory twigs. His eyebrows were frosted, his moustache an icy caret. The average tramp might well have hesitated before acknowledging kinship with him. His eyes roved through the length of the car as it had that first night in the Depot. She was not there. He was as anxious as a boy for her praise. Guess I'll take it into the next car. He said apologetically to the nearest passenger. Oh, there's more coming just behind. She was not in the second Pullman. Of course she wasn't in the baggage car. Was it possible? He entered the third and last car recoiling just a bit. At the odor of crowded and unclean poverty, which met him at the door. Sure enough there she sat, his idle fashionable type of inutility, with one frowzy child upon the seat beside her, two very rumpled looking boys in front and a baby with terracotta hair in her arms. Somehow the baby's hair against the fur collar didn't look so badly as you would expect either. She seemed to be singing it to sleep and kept on with her soft crooning as she glanced up over the tangled red locks at snowy Bob and his arm full of wood. With a look in her eyes that would have sent him cheerfully to Alaska for more, had there been a need. A few seats off, I ought to say, her father was talking kindly and earnestly to a rough looking man and his wife the latter of whom wore the dear old gentleman's cloak. Fathers and daughters are apt to be pretty much alike in these things, you see. With the cheerful heat of the fires, the kind offices of nearly all the well-dressed people to the poorer ones for, they were not slow these kid gloved, Pullman passengers, to follow miss Raymond's example. The day wore on quietly and not unpleasantly toward its close. Then someone suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Eve. Dear me cried ms. Raymond, delightedly reaching round the baby to clap her hands. Let's have a Christmas party. A few sighed and shook their heads as they thought of their own home firesides, one or two smiled indulgently upon the small enthusiast. Several chimed in at once. Conductor and baggage master were consulted and the spacious baggage car specially engaged for the occasion, the originator of the scheme triumphantly announced. Preparations commenced without delay. All the young people put their heads together in one corner and many were the explosions of laughter as the program grew. Trunks were visited by their owners and small articles, abstracted therefrom to serve as gifts for the immigrants and trainmen to whose particular entertainment the evening was by common consent to be devoted. Just as the lamps were lighted in the train, our hero who had disappeared early in the afternoon, returned dragging after him a small stunted pine tree, which seemed to have strayed away from its native forests on purpose for the celebration. On being admitted into the grand hall, Bob further added to the decorations a few strings of a queer mossy sort of evergreen. Here upon a very young man with light eyebrows who had hitherto been inconspicuous, suddenly appeared from the depths of a battered trunk over the edge of which he had for some time, been bent over like a siphon and with a beaming face produced a box of veritable, tiny wax candles. He was on the road he explained for a large wholesale toy shop and these were samples. He guessed he could make it all right with the firm. Of course, the affair was a great success. I have no space to tell of the sheltered walk that Bob had constructed of rugs from car to car. Of the beautified interior of the old baggage car draped with shawls and brightened with bits of ribbon. Of the mute wonder of the poor immigrants, a number of whom had but just arrived from Germany and could not speak a word of English of their unbounded delight when the glistening tree was disclosed and the cries of weihnachtsbaum, weihnachtsbaum! From their rumpled children whose faces walked into a glow of blissful recollection at the sight. Ah. If you could have seen the pretty gifts, the brave little pine, which all the managers agreed couldn't possibly have been used if it had been an inch taller. The improvised Tableau wherein Bob successfully personated an organ grinder, a pug dog, and Hamlet amid thunders of applause from the brakemen and engineers. Then the passengers sang a simple Christmas carol, Ms. Raymond leading with her pure soprano and Bob chiming in like the diapason of an organ. Just as the last words died away, a sudden hush came over the audience. Could it be an illusion or did they hear the muffled, but sweet notes of a church bell faintly sounding without. Tears came into the eyes of some of the roughest of the immigrants as they listened. And the thought of a wee Belfry, somewhere in the fatherland where the Christmas bells were calling to prayers that night. The sound of the bells ceased and the merriment went on while the young man with eyebrows lighter than ever, but with radiant face, let himself quietly into the car unnoticed. It had been his own thought to creep out into the storm, clear away the snow from the nearest locomotive bell and ring it while the gayety was at its height. Huh. All of this indeed there was and more. But to Bob the joy and sweetness of the evening centered in one bright face. What mattered it if the wind roared and moaned about the lonely snow drifted train while he could look into those brown eyes and listen to that voice for whose every tone, he was fast learning to watch. Well, The blockade was finally raised and the long railroad trip finished at last. But two of its passengers, at least have agreed to enter upon a still longer journey. She says it all began when he came staggering in with his armful of wood in his blue mittens. And he. He doesn't care at all when it began. He only realizes the joy that has come to him and believes that after a certain day next may. It will be Christmas for him. All the year round. Oh, isn't that a beautiful story. It's definitely become one of my favorites this year. Now friends, it's my privilege to let you know that this tale next week story and the story that I read last year, all by the same author, Willis Boyd Allen. Are all found in one book of Christmas, short stories written by this author. The book is available for free from project Gutenberg, but I am making it available for download on my own website. And I have to remind you at this time that my merchandise store is still up and running for the Christmas season. There are lots of neat things to purchase for your holiday gift, giving all with free shipping. If you decide to become a monthly supporter of the show. Messaged me for details. If you like. Or leave me a quick message on the website or on the Facebook page, either way. I'll get back to you as soon as I possibly can. Okay. Well, it looks like I've rambled long enough. As always friends. Thanks for listening. Keep sharing the stories and be a good human. Bye for now.