Those drives took
decades off my age, and in spite of incurable illness my
few friends say that I look once more like a young man.
Besides my Christmas parcels I had to take oats along,
enough to feed the horses for two weeks. And I was, as
I said, engaged that evening in stowing everything away,
when about nine o'clock one of the physicians of the town
came into the stable. He had had a call into the country,
I believe, and came to order a team. When he saw me
working in the shed, he stepped up and said, "You'll kill
your horses." "Meaning?" I queried. "I see you are getting
your cutter ready," he replied. "If I were you, I should
stick to the wheels." I laughed. "I might not be able to
get back to work." "Oh yes," he scoffed, "it won't snow
up before the end of next month. We figure on keeping
the cars going for a little while yet." Again I laughed.
"I hope not," I said, which may not have sounded very
gracious.
At ten o'clock every bolt had been tightened, the horses'
harness and their feed were ready against the morning,
and everything looked good to me.
I was going to have the first real Christmas again in
twenty-five years, with a real Christmas tree, and with
wife and child, and even though it was a poor man's
Christmas, I refused to let anything darken my Christmas
spirit or dull the keen edge of my enjoyment.
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