Wichita eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1883-1888, 1884-12-26
ONE CHRISTMAS MORN.

| fNS ShattS NaOnhNs
1t was twenty years ago, and yet, whe
the thought springs to my mind feel for
moment as If some one had stabbed me.
was guilty without crime. Doing onl
as millions of Others has done, l laid up
burden of guilt which has humbled me
thousand times in the presence of men,
twas Christmas eve and the city was i
excitement. 1t seemed as if every human
being in the big city who had money t.
buy with and a friend to buy for was t.
contribute to the joy of the morrow. ha,
money and a wife and children. / wa
warmly clad and in the best of health TIL,
bitter cold was nothing to ne, and those al
home had every comfort.
! halted with the crowd before gran,
show window, and there, so near that
could have pulled her rags, was one of m,
victims. She was woman of fifty, gaunt
pinched, ragged, and great black eyes which
had the look of some hunted animal. saw
all this at a glance, and turned away. VIVA,
was it to me whether she wore silk or rags
Why should care whether she was PENN.
less or had plentys Was it my business tc
ask whether she had food or fre-whether
she was wife or widow--whether children
waited for her in some wretched room OF
whether she lived alone and had money
horded nps
You wouldn't have asked. Not one man
in ten thousand would have cared What is
one poor old woman more or less to the
crowds who surged up and down the busy
streets of busy city?
| was going home with presents for all
with bright ieipations-with gratitude in
my heart that l had one to love, when the
woman met me face to face. Snow
flakes were falling on the old
shawl covering her head, and the
face which hunger had pinched was pinched
again with Geld. Her great, fear-haunted
eyes looked squarely into mine as she held
out her hand. She did not speak. The
bare arm---the skeleton fngers-the rags
were enough.
Hci II lbul l. uiu NOT
strike her, nor brush her aside, nor cusre
her. read her poverty and her suffering
in single glnnce, and l turned away and
passed on. She was beggar. Perhaps
she was drunkard rs well. How did /
know that she had not beea released from
the work-house that very afternoon? If she
was old and poor ard friendless. her place
was in the poor-house.
looked back over my shoulder and there
she stood, hand outstretched towards me as
if she were praying to God to soften my
heart and bring me back, and had faith that
He would answer her prayer.
but l did not halt; / felt stab, but con-
quered it, and said to my accusing consci-
ence: "Be still! you might give every dollar
you possess to the poor, and you would re-
ceive no thanksl' 4
That night when all the little stockings
had been filed, and wife and had expressed
our gratitude for the blessings life and the
good health which had been ours for years.
slept to dream. dreamed of the gaunt
woman who had asked for aims, / dreamed
of a hovel in which there was neither food
nor fire nor lamp. l dreamed that follow
ed her home and heard mones and sobs and
prayers as l listened at the door. l tried to
open it, but it would not yield, I tried to
cry out that | had come to help her, but
the words would not come. l wanted to
give her money, and tell her that had mis-
judged her and would help to make it a hap
py Christmas by sending food and fuel, but
while struggled to speak form stole past
me into the wretched abode and whispered
ut is too late :"
When the morning dawned 1 could not
rest. l hurried out and walked the streets
scanning every face and figure, and hoping |
against hope that would meet my victim. |
| could not find her. Then left the streets |
and journeyed through alleys where had |
seen the pale faces of the poor peering |
through shattered panes. By-and-by came
to time-beaten, desolate-looking howell half
buried under the snow. Frost covered the |
panes and snow had drifted over the door
step. l looked for smoke from the chimney, |
bat none came forth. listened for sounds |
of human voices, but / listened in vain.
Then I felt MYSELF criminal, and trembled |
as if the law had laid its hands upon me- L |
would have run away, but some strange |
power prevented and urged me nearer. l
knocked at the door. No answer. tapped |.
on the window. All was silent.
Then 1 opened the door aud stepped in. l
had committed murder, and like other muir
derers had been drawn back to the scene by
some strange fascination. In chair-the
only one in the hovel-sat the woman who /
had held out her hand to me. Her face was
held in her hands, and she seemed to have
shriveled up. On the bed-on the rags and
straw covered with the rags, and locked in
each others arms were the children girl
Of nine and boy of twelve. On the wall |
near by were two stockings-faded and
ragged and worn, but hung there for Santa
Claus.
The stockings were empty. touched the
woman and called: "Good morning." but
she did not move.
/ bent over the children and shouted
q Merry Christmas :" but they did not
awake.
They were dead, In my dream l had
iesn a spectre pass me and enter. 1t was
he spectre of death. Hunger and cold and
sickness and despair had invited him in.
And I-where is my defense? l could
nave given, and did not One single coin
vould have given them bread that night.
The hundredth part of the contents of my
purse would have lighted and warmed and
ed them and placed tokens of a mothers
owe in the ragged stockings.
That was my crime. 1t accuses me by
hay and comes 10 me in my dreams by night.
give and give, but that voice is ever whis-
,erng: at is too late.'