The Bridgeport evening farmer. [volume] (Bridgeport, Conn.) 1866-1917, 1910-12-23


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HTTENS the office, rather earle.
nh than usual,-Kinney, the
III H&iG manager with his wife OF
one arm and his small Sol
T6 Juggling impatiently at thu
other: Murdoch laden with various
awkward packages from one OF which
through break In the paper, a woolly
lamb wagged O gleeful woolly tail:
young Simpson each pocket bullying
with a neat box tied with gold cord
and o. Conner, grinning broadly above
the big holly wreaths he had bought
from the cripple boy who had peddled
them through the building. O'Connor
had stopped at his desk a moment.
See here, Barton, why can't you
come out to the house to dinner? Help
us fix UP the tree for the kids-the
Madame would be delighted"
He had cut him off almost sharply
tits good of you, O'Connor. But I'm
dining out this evening. thank you"
We'll, so long then, old fellow. A
Merry Christmas to you!"
Merry Christmas" he repeated
politely.
He had heard O'Connor's big voice
trumpet the same parting phrase to
the elevator boy. and the boys shrill,
excited response came to him through
the long hall.
''Mer' Christmas, Mr.. O'Connor.
Thank you, sir. Mer' Christmas to
you.x Mer' Christmus!" -
Then he was quite alone IN the Of
nee. Indeed, there seemed to have
been a general early exodus from the
building to swell the throngs Of
eleventh-hour shoppers, or Of those
hurrying homeward to holly-wreathed
gaiety. Only the rumble of the streets
Tar below reached him, which seemed
somehow to be pitched In different
key than on other days. and the oc-
oasiona1 faint echo Of q Merry Christ
mas. - the elevators passed up and
down
Barton closed the oflce doors and a
window which had been slightly open
md sst himself to posting the ledger.
This Unnecessary labor finished he
sought diligently through the files for
IN unimportant letter that had been
misplaced. Then he sharpened all the
pencils On his desk to miraculous
points, and mechanically tore OF the
ton LEAF OF his calendar pad.
sDeoember 18Th" There It was
asnin. There was no getting away
from e. no matter what one did. All
day they had dinned It IN his ears. To-
morrow would be Christmas Day. All
The world would make q holiday
holiday Of family love and the thought
Of friendA And now it was Christmas
I've. Soon . million tiny candles
would b twinkling on the glittering
bouEhs Of Or and pine trees. Soon
small stockings would be hung from
mantle shelf and bed post, and small
persons tucked all unwillingly into
bed.
70 Hiram Barton Christmas meant
none Of these things. It meant soil
&Ary. dinner on Christmas Eve at
Henry's. q cafe not Of the first order.
where he was In the habit of dining.
L meant walking slowly to his room
sfker dinner past bright-lighted homes
whose window wreaths seemed to grin
at him mockingly; It meant waking
ON Christmas morning with only the
desire to get the day over. The post,
man brought him no little gifts nor
letters. Perhaps the landlady set a
dish Of fruit ON his table. Perhaps she
didn't
Hiram Barton had no friends. I,
was not that he did not wish fol
frtends.-it was that he did not know
how to become friend and that nc
one had ever had the patience to try
tewfn his friendship. He was born in
cased In difldence like a turtle in
shell. He had an unpleasant, Tighten
nd way Of drawing back his head be
tween his lean, stopped shoulders. a
any friendly advances, so that no one
ever noticed the CLINT Of shy yearnint
in his pale eyes, Only once In his liz
had Hiram Barton asserted himself
pAEE q