When "Daddy Mills," as one venerable volunteer was irreverently christened, expatiated learnedly upon the difference between "spruce, hemlock, and pine," how they all listened, each thinking of some familiar wood still pleasantly haunted by boyish recollections of stolen nuts, maple syrup, and squirrel nests. When quiet Hayward amazed the company by coming out strong in a most unexpected direction and telling with much effect the story of a certain "fine old gentleman" who supped on hemlock tea and died directly, what commendations were bestowed upon the unfortunate fellow in language more hearty than classical, as a twig of the historical tree was passed 'round like a new style of refreshment, that inquiring parties might satisfy themselves regarding the flavor of the Socratic draught. When Barney the buffoon essayed a grand ornament above the door, and relying upon one insufficient nail, descended to survey his success with the proud exclamation, "Look at the neatness of that job, gentlemen"— at which point the whole thing tumbled down about his ears—how they all shouted. But poor Pneumonia Ned, having lost his voice, could only make ecstatic demonstrations with his legs.
When Barney cast himself and his hammer despairingly upon the floor, and Miss Hale, stepping into a chair, pounded stoutly at the traitorous nail and performed some miracle with a bit of string that made all fast, what a burst of applause arose from the beds. When a gruff Dr. Bangs came in to see what all the noise was about, the same intrepid lady not only boldly explained but also stuck a bit of holly in his button hole. Not only that, but she wished him a merry Christmas with such a face full of smiles that the crabbed old doctor felt himself giving in very fast and bolted out again, calling Christmas a humbug. He predicted that over the thirty emetics he would have to prescribe on the morrow, but indignant denials followed him down the hallway. And when all was done, everybody agreed with Joe when he said, "I think we are coming to Christmas in great style; things look so green and pretty, I feel as I was settin' in a bower."
Pausing to survey her work, Miss Hale saw Sam looking as black as any thundercloud. He bounced over on his bed the moment he caught her eye, but she followed him up and, gently covering the cold shoulder he evidently meant to show her, peeped over it, asking, with unabated gentleness:
"What can I do for you, Sam? I want to have all the faces in my ward bright ones today."
"My box ain't come; they said I should have it two, three days ago. Why don't they do it, then?" growled Ursa Major.
"It is a busy time, you know, but it will come if they promised, and patience won't delay it, I assure you."
"My patience is used up, and they are a mean set of slow coaches. I'd get it fast enough if I wore an officer's straps. As I don't, I'll bet I shan't see it till the things ain't fit to eat, the news is old, and I don't care a hang about it."
"I'll see what I can do; perhaps before the hurry of dinner begins someone will have time to go for it."
"Nobody ever does have time here, but folks who would give all they are worth to be stirring 'round. You can't get it, I know. It's my luck, so don't you worry, Ma'am."
Miss Hale did not worry, but worked, and in time a messenger was found, provided with the necessary money, pass, and directions, and dispatched to hunt up the missing Christmas box. Then she paused to see what came next, not that it was necessary to look for a task, but to decide which, out of many, was most important to do first.
"Why, Turner, crying again so soon? What is it now? The light head or the heavy feet?"
"It's my bones, Ma'am. They ache so I can't lay easy any way, and I'm so tired I just wish I could die and be out of this misery," sobbed the poor ghost of a once strong and cheery fellow. Miss Hale's kindly hand wiped his tears away and gently rubbed the weary shoulders.
"Don't wish that, Turner, for the worst is over now; and all you need is to get your strength again. Make an effort to sit up a little; it is quite time you tried. A change of posture will help the ache wonderfully and make this 'dreadful bed,' as you call it, seem very comfortable when you come back to it."
"I can't, Ma'am, my legs ain't a bit of use, and I ain't strong enough even to try."
"You never will be if you don't try. Never mind the poor legs; Ben will carry you. I've got the matron's easy chair all ready and can make you very cozy by the fire. It's Christmas Day, you know; why not celebrate it by overcoming the despondency that slows your recovery and prove that illness has not taken all the manhood out of you?"
"It has, though. I'll never be the man I was, and may as well lie here till spring, for I shall be no use if I do get up."
If Sam was a growler, this man was a whiner, and few hospital wards are without both. But knowing that much suffering had soured the former and pitifully weakened the latter, their nurse had patience with them and still hoped to bring them 'round again. As Turner whimpered out his last dismal speech, she bethought herself of something which, in the hurry of the morning, had slipped her mind till now.
"By the way, I've got another present for you. The doctor thought I'd better not give it yet, lest it should excite you too much; but I think you need excitement to make you forget yourself, and that when you find how many blessings you have to be grateful for, you will make an effort to enjoy them."
"Blessings, Ma'am? I don't see 'em."
"Don't you see one now?" And drawing a letter from her pocket, she held it before his eyes. His listless face brightened a little as he took it, but gloomed over again as he said fretfully:
"It's from my wife, I guess. I like to get her letters, but they are always full of grievings and groanings over me, so they don't do me much good."
"She does not grieve and groan in this one. She is too happy to do that, and so will you be when you read it."
"I don't see why—hey?—why you don't mean—"
"Yes I do" cried the little woman, clapping her hands and laughing so delightedly that the Knight of the Rueful Countenance was betrayed into a broad smile for the first time in many weeks. "Is not a splendid little daughter a present to rejoice over and be grateful for?''
"Hooray! Hold a bit—it's all right—I'll be out again in a minute."
After this remarkably spirited outburst, Turner vanished under the bedclothes, letter and all. Whether he read, laughed, or cried in the seclusion of that cotton grotto was unknown; but his nurse suspected that he did all three. When he reappeared he looked as if, during that pause, he had dived into his "sea of troubles" and fished up his old self again.
"What will I name her?" was his first remark, delivered with such vivacity that his neighbors began to think he was getting delirious again.
"What is your wife's name?" asked Miss Hale, gladly entering into the domesticities that were producing such a salutary effect.
"Her name's Ann, but neither of us like it. I'd fixed on George, because I wanted my boy called after me; and now you see I ain't a bit prepared for this young woman." Very proud of the young woman he seemed, nevertheless, and perfectly resigned to the loss of the expected son and heir.
"Why not call her Georgiana then? That combines both her parents' names and is not a bad one in itself."
"Now that's just the brightest thing I ever heard in my life!" cried Turner, sitting bolt upright in his excitement, though half an hour before he would have considered it an utterly impossible feat. "Georgiana Butterfield Turner—it's a tip-top name, Ma'am, and we can call her Georgie just the same. Ann will like that; it's so genteel. Bless them both! Don't I wish I was at home." And down he lay again, despairing.
"You can be before long, if you choose. Get your strength up, and off you go. Come, begin at once—drink your beef broth and sit up for a few minutes, just in honor of the good news, you know."