by Pearl S. Buck
He woke suddenly,
and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called
to him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth
clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty
years, and yet he wakened at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained
himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did
not try to sleep.
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
what his father was saying to his mother.
"Mary, I
hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep.
If you could see how he sleeps 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
these words, something in him woke; his father loved him! He had never thought
of it before, 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 more loitering in the mornings and
having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blind with sleep,
and pulled on his clothes, his eyes tight shut, but 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 was in
the turkey they had raised themselves and the mince pies his mother made, his
sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought something he
needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe but something more, such as a book. And
he saved and bought them each something, too.
He wished, that
Christmas 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. He looked 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 should he not give his father a special
gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four, and
he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone,
milk and clean up, and then when his father went to start milking, he'd see it
all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed
at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn't sleep too sound.
He must have
waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old
watch-midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.
At a quarter to
three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the
creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and
surprised. It was too 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 and get
him, saying he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go
to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go to get the two empty milk cans.
But they wouldn't be waiting or empty; they be standing in the milkhouse,
filled.
"What
the—," 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.
Milking for once 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 milkhouse door carefully.
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. 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."
"Ah-right,"
he said sleepily.
The door closed
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—and he heard his father's
footsteps again. The door opened and he
lay still.
"Rob."
"Yes,
Dad--" His father was laughing, a queer, sobbing sort of laugh.
"Thought
you'd fool me, did you?" His
father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.
"It's for
Christmas, Dad!"
He found his
father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around
him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.
"Rob, 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 made the three younger children listen about
how, he Rob, had got up all by himself.
"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, 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.
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