The Shadow of Christmas Present

In this episode we feature the first of several Holiday-themed stories. First off, from 1898, The Shadow of Christmas Present.

Theme written by Bernard Kyer for this podcast. Follow the link for more info. https://www.bardmediamusic.com/

Transcript

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Hi, everyone. And welcome again to another episode of forward into the past. I'm JC Rede, your host and narrator. And today we're kicking off our holiday episodes here at forward into the past, as we delve into a virtual treasure trove, of forgotten holiday classics. The end of the year, celebrations are my favorites. We celebrate making it through another year together. And oftentimes we reflect on those who didn't make it. It's all part of the cycle of life, which at this time of the year is reflected in several of the customs that we have built into our holidays especially here in the United States. Uh, evergreens are most associated with the holiday celebrations in Europe and most colder climates. Plants at stay alive during the coldest times of the year, we're always held as magical and powerful in days past. Plants like Holly and Ivy were and still are used in holiday celebrations in England and France. Mistletoe is another plant that's used in holiday celebrations in England by way of the Vikings and druids. And there is a very special rose, which grows in England during this time of the year. And all of these have legends and stories associated with them. And I hope to get a lot of them shared with you. Well, we'll see. One of the most recent additions to the American version of Christmas. Is the point set up or as it's known in Mexico. The star flower. There's a wonderful story associated with this plant and it involves two children growing up in a very poor village in Mexico. The legend of the star flower tells of a girl named Maria and her little brother Pablo. They were very poor, but always looked forward to the Christmas festival. Each year, a large major scene was set up in the village church. And the days before Christmas were filled with parades and parties. Now the church bells in this village had remained silent for many years and it was said that whoever brought the baby Jesus, the best gift in the village would make the church bells ring again. Now the two children loved Christmas, but they were always sad because they had no money to buy any presents. They especially wished that they could bring something to the church for the baby. Jesus. But alas, they have nothing of value to give. On Christmas Eve, Maria and Pablo set out for the church to attend the service. And on their way, they picked some weeds growing along the roadside to take them as their gift to the baby Jesus in the manger scene. Of course, the other children teased them when they arrived with their gift, but they said nothing for, they knew they had given what they could. Maria. And Pablo began placing the green plants around the manger and miraculously the green topped leaves turned into bright red pedals. And soon the manger was surrounded by the beautiful star, like flowers of the poinsettia. And in the distance, the entire village heard the church bells ring for the first time in many years. All because of a simple gift of love from the poorest children in the village. And with that, we began our first holiday episode, the shadow of Christmas present written by Willis Boyd Allen in 1893. The shadow of Christmas present. Chapter one. It was at precisely eight o'clock on the evening of the 24th of December that Mr. Broadstreet yawned glanced at the time piece, closed the book he had been reading and stretched himself out comfortably in his smoking chair before the candle fire, which snapped and rustled cosily in the broad grate. The book was a Christmas Carol. And the reader familiar as he was with its pages had been considerably affected by that portion relating to tiny Tim. As well as cheered by the joyful notes with which the Carroll ends. For some minutes, he sat silently surveying the pattern on his slippers and apparently working it out again on his own brow. Now Mr. Broad street was not a man to act upon impulse. A lawyer in large and profitable practice and a shrewd man of business as well, he was never known to do say or decide anything without deliberation. Hold on a bit. He would say to an eager client, softly, softly, my friend, you're too fast for me. Now, what did you say was done with the property? And so on to the end of the story. If there was any money in the case, Mr. Broad street was pretty sure to draw it out for the benefit of his clients and remotely, of course, himself. When I put my hand down. He was fond of remarking with significant gesture upon the office desk. I never take it up again without something in it. In the course of his long practice, aided by a series of fortunate speculations. He had amassed such a goodly sum that his name stood near the head of the list of our prominent taxpayers. He drove a fine span of horses and was free enough with his money in a general way. That is when some large philanthropic movement was on foot Alonzo M. broadstreet. Esquire was pretty sure to be down for a round sum. He paid his share in church in politics and annually sent a check to the board of foreign missions. He made it a rule, however, never to encourage pauperism by promiscuous almsgiving and never tried a case or gave legal advice for love. Poor people who called at his office for assistance always found him unaccountably busy and street beggars had long since learned to skip his door on their morning basket visits. Tonight Mr. Broad street had picked up the Carroll in a specially complacent mood. He had spent liberally in Christmas gifts for his wife and children, letting himself almost defy his better judgment by purchasing for the former and expensive pin that she had seen and fancied in a show window the week before. Just as he had completed the bargain, a rescript had come down from the Supreme court affirming judgment in his favor in a case which meant at least a $5,000 fee. Not withstanding the memory of his recent good luck. He continued on this particular evening of all evenings in the year to knit his brow and give unmistakable evidence that some emotion or reflection not altogether pleasant was stirring him powerfully. Nonsense said Mr. Broad street, presently half aloud as if he were addressing someone in the center of the glowing coals. Nonsense. He repeated looking hard at a grotesque carved figure that supported the mantle. I'm not like Scrooge. I give freely and I spend freely. That fire don't look much like the one old Scrooge warmed his gruel over does it now. The marble figure, making no answer to this appeal, but continuing his Stony gaze, Mr. Broad street shifted his position again. Uneasily. Don't I give away hundreds of dollars every year to the societies and haven't I left them around 10,000 in my will. Won't somebody mourn for me, eh? But the carved lips replied never a word only seeming to curl slightly as the firelight played upon them. Thereby assuming such an unpleasantly scornful expression that Mr. Broad street began to feel more uncomfortable than ever. Rising hastily from his chair and throwing the book down upon the table. He walked onto the window, rubbed the little place clear upon the frosty pain and looked out. The night was gloomy enough to make the plainest of homes seem cheery by contrast. Since morning, the skies had been dully gray. So that everyone who went out wore Arctics and carried umbrellas and was provoked because no storm came. At about the time when the sun might be supposed to be setting. Somewhere behind that dismal wall of clouds, a few tiny shivering flakes had come floating down or up one could hardly tell which, and had mingled with the dust that had driven by the biting wind. Had filled the air and piled itself in little ridges, along the sidewalk. And blinded the eyes of men and beasts throughout the dreary day. Before long, the snow overcame, the low born friend with whom it had first treacherously allied itself laid it prostrate on the earth. And calling in all its forces rioted victoriously over the field. The storm. Now took full possession of the city whitening roofs and pavements, muffling every footfall and wheel rattle, filling the streets up to their slaty brims with whirling mists of sleety snow and roaring furiously through the tree tops around corners. As Mr. Broad street gaze through his frosty loophole with mind full of the story that he had just finished, he almost fancied he could discern the shadowy forums of old Marley and his fellow ghosts, moaning and wringing their hands as they swept past in trailing white robes. He turned away with a half shiver and once more ensconced himself in his warm, easy chair, taking up the Carroll as he did so and turning its leaves carelessly until he came to a picture of the ghost of Christmas present. It was wonderfully well-drawn following the text with great care, hitting off the idea of the jovial Holly crowned spirit to the very life. And then the heap of good things that lay in generous piles about the room. Mr. Broad street could almost catch a whiff of fragrance from the turkeys and geese and spicy bows. Indeed. So strong was the illusion that he involuntarily glanced over his shoulder at the marble top table nearby half expecting to see an appetizing dish of eatables at his side. No one had entered, however, and the table was as usual with its only album and guilt mounted screen flanked by a few books that were two choice to be hidden away on the library shelves. When he looked back at the picture in the book, he started and rubbed his eyes. He thought but it could not have been possible that the central figure on the page moved slightly. And he was positive that one of the ghosts arms in the engraving had been raised while now we're both at his side. Mr Bradstreet, turn back the leaf with some misgiving and looked carefully behind it. Nothing but blank, white paper. Muttered broadstreet to himself. How a man's fancy does play strange tricks with halloo. He was once more glancing at the picture when the jolly ghost gave him an unmistakable wink. To say that the lawyer started was astonished, struck, dumb would be mild. He sat staring at the page, not wholly believing his own eyes and yet not liking to look upon such a, to say the least peculiar picture. While he was in this bewildered state of mind, a rich jovial voice was heard. And apparently at a great distance. And at the same time proceeding directly from the book he held in his hands. And yes, no doubt about it. The ghosts bearded lips were moving. Well, said the ghost of Christmas present still seeming very, very far off. Well, sir. Stammered Mr. Broad street in return. You will see I'm not dead yet. Although some of your good people on this side of the water pay precious little attention to me. Why really said Mr. Broad street instinctively arguing that the opposite side of the question. As to that, I'm not so sure. Now take Christmas cards. Now a few years ago, they were unknown. Now there as common as Valentines. Oh, yes. Replied the ghost. I know. You'll see, I have my room pretty well decorated with them. The lawyer scrutinized the background of the picture more carefully and sure enough, the walls were covered with what at first seemed a rich sort of illuminated paper, but prove to be composed entirely of Christmas cards, many of which he had never seen. Even at the momentary glance he gave, he observed that those which had been taken prizes and had been most largely advertised during the past few winters were tucked away in obscure corners while several, which were exceedingly simple in design and text occupied, the most prominent positions. Yes, the ghost went on. The cards are well enough in their way. And so all the other displays and festivities of the day, But it is the spirit of Christmas that you need charity, charity in it's good old sense. Open hearts and kind deeds with less thought of self pleasing. While these dainty little gifts are being manufactured, purchased, sent, and thrown away. Hundreds of people are at starvations door in your own city. Thousands of people know little or nothing of the real meaning of the day or of its founder. As the ghost spoke, its voice seemed to come nearer. And at the same time, the book grew so large and heavy that Mr. Broad street was Fein to set it down upon the carpet. He no longer feared the ghost, nor did it seem strange that he should converse with them in this manner. Wherein are we deficient, he asked eagerly. Or what more can we do? The charitable institutions of Boston are among the best in the world. The sky is full of her church. Steeples, her, her police and missionary forces are vigilant and effective in their work. The ghost of Christmas present gave a toss to his long hair and beard. How much have you done to carry the spirit of Christmastide beyond your own threshold. Who in this great city will cherish the day and love it more dearly for your warm human friendship and kindly act until it symbolizes to them. Whatever is purist and merriest and holiest in life. The ghost voice now grown very near was rather sad than stern and its eyes were fixed intently upon Mr. Broad streets face. Mr. Bradstreet hesitated. With cross examination, he was familiar enough, but he did not relish the part of the witness. So confused was he that he hardly noticed that the book and picture were now so large that they quite filled the end of the room in which he was sitting and seemed like another apartment opening out of his own. I, I hardly know. He stammered. Really I've spent a good deal of money out. My Christmas bills are always tremendous, but I suppose it's mostly in the family. Mind. Interrupted the ghost almost sharply. I don't say anything against the good cheer and merriment at home. But there are many homes within a Stone's throw of your chair where they will be no fine dinner, no presence, no meeting of friends, no tree, nothing but anxiety and doubt and despair. Your dressing gown would provide for several of them. Mr. Broad street looked meekly at the embroidery upon his sleeves. Oh, W what would you have me do? He asked. Do you desire to perform your part toward making the morrow bright for someone who otherwise would find it all clouds. Do you wish to plant seeds of love and mercy and tenderness in some heart that has heretofore born only thistles. To bring a smile to some weary face warmth to shivering limbs, light and hope to dreary lives? Oh, I... I do. I do exclaim the rich man eagerly starting up from his chair. And are you ready to sacrifice your ease and comfort this stormy night for such as they. Mr. Broad street seized his fur cap and Ulster from the rack in the hall. Try me. He cried. I'm ready for anything. The ghost smiled pleasantly upon him at the same time, seeming to lift its hand involuntarily as in blessing. Then it spoke for the last time. Hitherto you have known only the bright side of Christmas. It said gently. It has been full of joy to you and yours. But there are those among your fellow creatures, nay! Among your very neighbors who dwell in such continued misery, that when Christmas comes, it but reminds them of their unhappy state and by its excess of light upon others deepens their gloom about themselves. This is the shadow of Christmas present and it falls heavily upon many a heart and many a household where the day, with its good cheer and blessed associations, should bring naught but delight. The kind spirits, voice wavered slightly. I myself can do, but little to dispel this shadow. It grieves me solely year by year, but it remains and I fear. I sometimes, but make it worse with my bluff ways and keen winter breezes. It is for those who love me most to caddy such light and comfort to those upon whom it rests that it shall be banished never to return. The shadow gross less year by year, but it is still broad, broad. The ghost was silent a moment. It beckoned to the other and motioned him to step behind it. In my shadow. You shall move tonight. It concluded in a firmer voice. It shall accompany you wherever you go. And your work shall be to turn it away with whatever kind deeds your hand shall find to do, or cheering words that you may have the power to speak. It said no more. Mr. Broad street, who, when a child had often long to peep behind a picture. Found himself actually fulfilling his wish. As he drew near the printed page, he heard a dull roar, like a surf beading upon a Rocky coast. He advanced further picking his way around the pile of poultry and vegetables and glistening holly upon which the ghost sat in throne. A moment more and the room vanished did utter blackness of the night. The roar grew grander and deeper until it throbbed in his ears. Like the diapason of a mighty organ, a fierce blast of snow Laden, wind struck his bewildered face the streetlamp upon the corner flickered feebly in a midst of flakes. He was standing before his own door, knee deep in a snowdrift and buffeted above, below, and on every side by the storm. That was abroad that, that Christmas Eve. Chapter two. As soon as Mr. Broad street recovered himself and cleared his eyes from the blinding snow, he saw a heavy black shadow on the sidewalk, enveloping his own person and resting upon the figure of a man who had evidently just sheltered himself behind the high stone steps for his footprints. Leading from the street were still quite fresh. As the man thrashed his arms and stamped vigorously to start the blood through his benumbed feet. A bright button or to gleamed upon his breast, through the Cape of his great coat. Mr broad street now recognized him as the policeman whose beat it was and whom he had occasionally favored with a condescending nod. As he came home late at night from the theater, or the club. He had never addressed him by so much as a word, but now the shadow was full upon him. And Mr. Broadstreet felt that here was his first opportunity. Good evening, officer. He shouted cheerily through the storm. Wish you a Merry Christmas tomorrow. Ah, thank you, sir. Same to you. Replay the other with a touch of the cap and a pleased glance at the great man. Hard time for the boys tonight, though. Yes. It is hard. Said Mr. Broad street, compassionately, and you're rather cold, I suppose. He added awkwardly after a pause. Rather. Why, bless me. A bright thought striking him. Wouldn't you like a cup of hot coffee now? The officer looked up again, surprised. I would that, sir. First rate. He answered heartedly. Mr. Bradstreet stepped to the side door and press the electric knob. Bring out a good cup of coffee for this man. He said to the girl who answered the bell. And officer. Buy the folks at home, a trifle for me. Uh, Christmas. you know. As he spoke, he put a big silver dollar into the astonished policeman's hand. And at the same time, the shadow vanished, leaving the light from the bright, warm hall falling fairly upon the snow covered cap and buttons. A muffled roar and jingling of bells made themselves heard above the wind and a streetcar came laboring down the street through the heavy drifts. Mr broad street without a thought as to the destination of the car, but impelled by some unseen force, clambered upon the rear platform. The conductor was standing like a snowman. I Covered with white, from head to foot collar up around his years and hands deep in his pockets. And the shadow was there again. Broad and gloomy, it's surrounded both conductor and passenger in it's bleak folds. Tough night, sir! Remarked the former presently. Yes. Yes, it is. Indeed replied Mr. Broad street, who was thinking what in the world he could give this man except money. And Christmas Eve too. That's a fact. So the conductor, just the luck of it. I say. Now tomorrow I get four hours lay off in the afternoon. And my wife, she, she was planning to take the children and go to the play. But there are none of them over strong and won't do to take them out in this snow. Besides is, it's not like to a storm all day. Children. Exclaimed Mr. Broad street, seeing a way out of his difficulty. How many. Two girls and a boy. All under seven. Got any Christmas presents for them? Don't mind my asking. Well, I just as loved sharing here, what I've got 'Taint much, you know, but, but then it's something. He stepped inside the door, laid aside his snowy mittens and taking from the corner of the seed. A small brown parcel, carefully removed the string and wrappings. There! He said with a sort of pleading pride in his eyes. I guess these will please 'em some. Taint much, you know, he added again, glancing at his passengers fur cap as he displayed the presence on the car seat. A very red cheeked and blue eyed doll with a Placid countenance quite out of keeping with her arms. These members being so constructed as to occupy only two positions, one of which expressed unbounded astonishment, the other gloomy resignation. A transparent slate with a dim cow under the glass and 15 cents mark plainly in the lead pencil on one corner of the frame. And a rattle for the girl, baby. As the conductor held up these articles in his stiff red fingers, turning the doll about, so as to show off her flax and braid to the best advantage. And inducing the arms to take the positions, alluded to. The shadow crept away and had well nigh disappeared. But it returned again thicker than ever. When he said with a little choke in his voice. I did mean to get them at a little tree with candles on it and a picture book or two, but. But our pay ain't over much and we've had sickness and. And. He was very busy doing up the bundle and very clumsy. He must have been two, for it was a long time before the wide loop single bow knot was tide. And the parcel carefully put away again. Mr. Broad street, winked hard, and his eyes shown. How long before you pass here on the way back? He asked. About 35 minutes. It'll take us to get round, sir, on account of the snow. It's my last trip. Very well. Now, conductor. Um, sorry, what did you say your name was? Tryson, sir. Da- David Treyson. Then. Mr. Tryson just ring your bell when you reach the corner there up on the up trip. And Dodge into that store where the lights are. You will find a bundle waiting for you. Good night. Ah, Mr. Treyson and a Merry Christmas to you and yours. Good night, sir! God bless you sir! Merry...!. But his passenger was gone. As he reached the sidewalk mr. Broadstreet turned and looked after the car. Whether it was the light from the street lab or the broad flood of radiants that poured out from the windows of the toy shop just beyond he could not tell. But the rear platform was illuminated by a pure, steady glow in the very center of which stood the conductor, smiling and waving his hand. No sign of a shadow, not a bit of it. Mr. Broad street looked carefully about him, but it was nowhere to be seen. Even the snow, which all this time continued to fall without interruption. I seem to fill the air with tiny lamps of soft light. Ha that toy shop. Such heaps of blocks and marbles and sleds, such dolls with eyes that would wink upside down. Exactly like a hens. Such troupes of horses and caravans of teams! Uh, such jangling of toy pianos and tooting of toy horns, and shrieking of toy whistles. These instruments being anxiously tested by portly, Papas, and mamas, apparently to be short of a good bargain, but really for the fun of the thing. Such crowds of good natured people, carrying canes and drums and hoop sticks under their arms taking and giving thrusts of these articles and being constantly pushed and balled and jammed and trodden upon with the most delightful, good humor. Such rows of pretty girls behind the counters. Now climbing to the summits of Ararats were innumerable Noah's arks of all sizes had been stranded. All these girls being completely used up with the day's work, of course, but more cheerful and willing than ever bless them, such scampering to and flow of cash boys and diving into the crowd and emergings in utterly unexpected places were never before seen in this quiet old city. Mr broad street embarked on the current and with an unconsciously benevolent smile on his round face was born halfway down the store before he could make fast to a counter. What can I do for you, sir? If the girlish voice was brisk and business, like it was at the same time, undeniably pleasant. Mr. Broad street started. Oh, well, I, I want some presence. Christmas presents, you know, He said looking down into the merry Brown eyes. Boy or girl, sir. And how old. Mr. Broadstreet was fairly taken aback by her promptness. His wife always did the Christmas shopping. Oh outlet. Let me see. Uh, he began hurriedly. Uh, two girls and, uh, no, I. No. I mean to boy. Oh, bless me. He went on in great confusion as her low laugh, rang out among the wooly sheep with which she happened to be surrounded. I've really forgotten. That is. Oh, I see. You needn't laugh. And Mr. Broad Street's own smile broadened as he spoke. They're not mine. I never heard of them until five minutes ago. And I declare I don't remember, which is which. At any rate, there are three of them all under seven. How would a lamb do for the oldest real wool and natural motion? In proof of which latter assertion she sent all their heads nodding in the most violent matter until it made her customers quite dizzy to look at them. Mr. Broad street picked out the biggest one. Ah, he seems to, uh, bow more vigorously than the rest. He said. The girl then proceeded to display various toys and gay colored picture books. Mr Broadstreet assenting to the choice in every instant, until a large compact bundle lay on the counter. plainly marked. Mr. Tryson conductor to be called for. As the lawyer was leaving the store, he remembered something and turned back. Oh, I forgot. I wanted to buy a tree. He said. Just around the corner. Interrupted the brown eyed girl over her shoulder without looking at him. She was already deep in the confidence of the next customer who had told her the early history of two of her children and was now proceeding to the third. Mr. Broad street, buttoned up his coat collar and stepped out once more into the storm. A few moments walk brought him to a stand where the trees were for sale. And what a spicy fragrant, delicious, jolly place it was to be sure. The sidewalk was flanked, right and left with rows upon rows of spruce and pine and from trees, all Gaily deck with Tufts of snow, every doorway to was full of these trees as if they had huddled in there to get half of the storm. Here. And there were great boxes overflowing with evergreen and Holly bows. Many of which the dealers had taken out and stuck into all sorts of crannies and corners of their stands so that their glossy leaves and Scarlet berries glistened in the flaring light of the lamps. Wreaths of every size and description, some made of crispy gray Moss dotted with bright amaranths. Some of Holly with threaded upon sticks like beads, and we're constantly being pulled off and sold to the muffled customers who poured through the narrow passageway in a continuous stream. All brightness thought, Mr. Bradstreet and no shadow this time. None? Well, then what was that? Black ugly looking stain on the fallen snow extending from his own feet to one of the rude wooden stands with traffic was busiest. Mr. Broad street started and scrutinized it's sharply. He soon discovered the outline of Christmas present. Beyond a doubt. It was the shadow again. Chapter three. It must be confessed that for a moment, Mr. Broad street felt slightly annoyed. Why should that thing be constantly starting up and darkening his cheerful mood. It was bad enough, that the shadow should exist without intruding its melancholy length upon people who were enjoying Christmas Eve. He might've indulged in still further discontent when he noticed the head of the shadow figure droop as in sadness. He remembered the kind ghosts grief. And upbraided himself for his hardness of heart. Forgive me. He said half aloud. I was wrong. I forgot. I will please God brighten this spot and turn away the shadow. Without further delay. He advanced through the gloomy space until he reached the box upon which a large lot of Holly wreaths and crosses were displayed. He soon completed the purchase of a fine thick fur tree. And sent it together with a roll of evergreens to the toy shop. Directed like the parcel to the conductor. The owner of the stand was a jovial bright faced young fellow. And it was evident that to him, Christmas meant only gladness and Jollity. But the shadow still rested upon Mr. Broad street and all the snowy sidewalk about him. He was thoroughly puzzled to find its object and had almost begun to consider the whole affair of delusion when his eyes fell upon a odd little man standing in the shelter of the trees and visibly shaking with the cold. Although his coat was tightly buttoned about his meager form. And his old hat pulled down over his ears. As he saw the portly lawyer looking at him, he advanced timidly and touched his hat. Can I carry a bundle for you, sir. He asked his teeth chattering as he spoke. Oh, why I'm afraid not Sid, Mr. Broad street, I had just sent away all my goods. The man's face fell. He touched his hat again. And was humbly turning away when the other laid his hand lightly on a shoulder. You seem to be really suffering with the cold, my friend. He said in such gentle tones that has learned brothers upon the other side would not have recognized it. And that's a little too bad for Christmas Eve. Christmas. Christmas. Shiver the man with a little moan wringing, his thin hands. What is that to me? What does that to a man whose wife is dying for want of tender nursing and wholesome food whose children are growing up to a life of misery and degradation whose own happiness is gone. Gone so long ago. I forgot the feeling of it. Mr Broadstreet padded the shoulder gently. come. He said trying to speak cheerily. It isn't so bad as that, you know, Time's are better and there is plenty of work. Work? I cried the man bitterly. Yes for the friends of the rich, for the, for the young and the strong for the, for the hopeful. But not for me. I tell you, sir. He continued raising his clenched fist until the ragged sleeve fell back and left his long gaunt wrist bare in the biting wind. I've walked from end to end of Boston day after day, answering every advertisement, applying for any kind of honorable employment. But, but not even the city will, will take me to shovel snow in the streets. As I am. Discouraged discouraged. To Mr. Broad street dismay the poor fellow suddenly hit his face in his hands and broke down in a Tempest of sobs. Uh, how dark the shadow was then. The storm had ceased, but the keen Northwest winds still swept the streets, feeling the air with fine. I see particles of snow and driving to their warm houses. Those would remain downtown to make their last purchases. The man shivered and sobbed by turns and was quite the sport of the wind, which was buffeting him with its soft cruel pause. When suddenly the world seemed to grow warmer. He felt something heavy and soft on his back and around his neck. Mechanically thrusting his arms through the sleeves, which opened to meet him. And looking up in amazement, he beheld his new friend standing upon the sidewalk in his dressing gown. Uh, genial smile upon his beaming face and his hand outstretched. The lawyer laughed gleefully at his consternation. It's all right. He said, as the discouraged man tried to pull off the Ulster and return it to its owner. I'm warmer than ever. Come on. Uh, let's go home and see your wife and children. Don't stop the talk. And seizing the other by the hand or rather the cuff of his sleeve, which was much too long for him. He hurried him off snatching a couple of reads from the stand as he went by and dropping a half dollar in their place. It was a strange experience for the proud lawyer that walk through the dark streets, floundering among the snowdrifts slipping, tumbling, scrambling along over icy sidewalks and buried crossings, the long skirted gown flapping about his heels in the most ridiculous way. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the shadow, which was always before him. Now turning down a side street now doubling on itself, ever growing more and more distinct and drawing its two followers, father, and father into the lowest quarter of the city. The stars were out now and seemed to flicker in the fierce wind, like the gas lights upon the street corners. Mr. Broad street felt curiously warm without as Ulster and as lighthearted as a boy. As they pass through the most brilliantly lighted streets. However, he saw much that filled him for the moment with sadness. For the shadow now grew enormously large and rested upon many places. It brooded darkly over the brilliant saloons. That line the way. And that clothed themselves in the very garments of Christmas to attract the innocent and foolish. So that drawn by the sheen of Holly and evergreen and the show of festivities and good cheer. They might enter and find their own destruction. Oftentimes to the shadow flitted along the street in company with some man or woman who to all outward appearance was calm and content with life. Perhaps even happy one would have said. In the black folds of the shadow, brutal faced ruffians hid their bleared eyes. Uh, Houses were draped as in some time of national morning, once the slight pretty figure of a young girl came up wearing the shadow, flaunting Lee about her neck, like a scarf. She stopped and seemed to address Mr. Broadstreet with bold words. As she met his kind pitying glance, however, her own eyes fell. Her lips quivered. She drew the shadow about her face and fled. Alas. He could do nothing for such as her, unless that gentle fatherly face should come before her again. In her solitude and by it's silent eloquence. Lead her to better things. While Mr. Broad street was peering about for the shadow and taking into his heart, the lessons it taught. He had not been idle, giving a kind word or a bit of money or a pleasant glance, wherever the chance offered. The shadow now paused before a narrow doorway in a crooked little street. And the two or rather the three for the shadow went before them. Entered and mounted the stairway. Mr. Broad street stumbled several times, but the discouraged man went up like one who was well used to the premises. As they reached the third landing of voice somewhere near them commenced to singing. Feebly. And they stopped to listen. It's Annette. Whispered the discouraged man. She's singing for me. It was a way she had, when we were first married. And I used to like it coming home from a hard day's work. So she's tried to keep it up ever since. Do you hear her, sir? Yes, Mr. Broad street, heard her. Poor poor, thin little voice trembling weekly on the high notes and avoiding the low ones altogether. It was more like a child's than a woman's and so tired. So tired. He fumbled in his dressing gown pocket and turned his head away quite needlessly. Four. It was very dark. The two men remained silent for a moment, listening to the echo of the gay young voice. With which the little bride used to greet her husband. She so tender and loving and true. He so strong and brave and hopeful for the future. That's a new song. Whispered the discouraged man again, delightedly. She'd never sang it before. She must have learned it on purpose for tonight. There was a weary little pause within the room. She wondering perhaps why he didn't come in. Presently, she began again, and her voice had grown strangely weak so that they could hardly hear it. In the rush of the wind outside the building. It died away into a mere whisper. And then ceased. Entirely. Mr. Broad street hesitated no longer, but touched his companions arms. And they both entered. She was lying on a rude bed in the corner of the room. Her eyes closed. At her hands folded upon her breast. A look of agony swept across the face of her husband as he knelt beside her. Taking her cold hands. Ah, so thin, in his own chafing and kissing them by turns. Above his head on the whitewashed wall was the word. John in large bright letters. It was his name. She had crept from her bed and traced it with her fingertip upon the frosty window pain. So that the life from a far off streetlamp shown through the clear lines and thus reproduce them upon the opposite wall. Just beneath was. Merry Christmas. She thought it would please him and seemed like a sort of decoration hung there above her bed. And now he was kneeling by her side and holding her thin hands. Perhaps he was more discouraged than ever just then. Oh, shadow shadow. Could you not have spared him? This. Mr Bradstreet hung the wreaths. He had brought upon the bedpost and waited helplessly. Uh, mist gathered in his eyes so that he could not see. The walls of the little dismal chamber waiver to and fro the shadow grew more and more dense until it seemed to assume definite shape. The shape of Christmas present sitting as before enthroned amidst plenty and good cheer. The deep toned bells in a neighboring church tower slowly and solemnly told 12 strokes. And answered by the silver chime of a clock. The flames of the open fire rose and fill fitfully in mute, answer to the blasts of winds that roared about the chimney top. The ghost dwindled rapidly, the discouraged man assumed the proportions and appearance of a marble figure under the mantle and Mr. Broad street, starting up in a fright. Found himself standing in his own warm room. The Christmas, Carol is still open at the wonderful picture in his hand. The air still vibrated with the last echoes of the midnight bell. It was Christmas morning. Not many hours later, the glad sun was shining brightly over the white robe to city sprinkling the streets and house tops with diamond dust. Gleaming upon their golden spires of churches. Seeking out every dark and unwholesome corner with its noiseless step and dispensing. With open hand it's bounty of purity and warmth. Yet, the shadow was there even on that fairest of Christmas days. And Mr. Broad street knew it. Throughout the day he was thoughtful and abstracted. And during the following weeks, he was observed to act in the most unaccountable manner. On snowy evenings, he would Dodge out of the house without the slightest warning and return shortly after with damp boots and a defeated air. Upon the streetcars, Mr. Broad street became famous. That winter for his obliging manner and pleasant ways with the employees. Indeed. He more than once persisted in, remaining on the platform with the conductor at the imminent risk of freezing his ears and nose until he was fairly driven within doors. Downtown. He behaved still more queerly leaving the office long before dark and being discovered in the oddest places imaginable. Now diving into narrow courts and up steep staircases. Now plunging into alleyways and no thoroughfares and returning home late to dinner, greatly exhausted with little or no money in his pockets. In these days too, he began to talk about the sufferings of the poor, the abuses of the liquor law, the need of strong, pure women to go among the outcasts of our great troubled city and perform Christ like deeds. One bitter cold night. He was much later than usual. It had been snowing heavily and his wife had begun to worry a little over the absence of her husband when she heard the click of his key in the front door. When Mr. Broad street entered, sprinkled with snow from head to foot, what was her amazement to see him standing there with fair caps and glove and a glowing face, but no Ulster. Oh, Alonzo, Alonzo, she cried from the head of the stairs. What will you forget next? Where have you left it? Why, he said simply I've found the discouraged man. And the doctor at the hospital says she will get well after all. Well friends. That's the end of our first holiday story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Well, if you did enjoy it, feel free to support the show. If you can. There's a link on the main website that's forward into the past podcast.com. Look for the yellow coffee cup at the bottom left corner or the banner button marked buy me a coffee. Please remember that I will continue to donate $1 back to project Gutenberg for providing this. And every story that I share with you on this podcast. I also make donations during this time of the year to a local cat rescue in the city where I live here in central Florida. So by supporting me, you will also indirectly support them as well. Isn't that nice. Well, as usual, I feel as if I've rambled long enough. Okay. Until next time, folks. Thanks for listening. Keep sharing the stories and be a good human. Bye for now.