Note: This story came from Little Citizens: The humours of school life
352 p. : ill. ; 19 cm.
Grosset & Dunlap
New York
1904
A Christmas Present For A Lady
It was the week before Christmas, and the First Reader Class, in a lower
East Side school, had, almost to a man, decided on the gifts to be lavished
on "Teacher." She was quite unprepared for any such observance on the part
of her small adherents, for her first study of the roll book had shown her
that its numerous Jacobs, Isidores, and Rachels belonged to a class to which
Christmas Day was much as other days. And so she went serenely on her way,
all unconscious of the swift and strict relation between her manner and her
chances. She was, for instance, the only person in the room who did not know
that her criticism of Isidore Belchatosky's hands and face cost her a tall
"three for ten cents" candlestick and a plump box of candy.
But Morris Mogilewsky, whose love for Teacher was far greater than the combined
loves of all the other children, had as yet no present to bestow. That his
"kind feeling" should be without proof when the lesser loves of Isidore
Wishnewsky, Sadie Gonorowsky, and Bertha Binderwitz were taking the tangible
but surprising forms which were daily exhibited to his confidential gaze
was more than he could bear. The knowledge saddened all his hours, and was
the more maddening because it could in no wise be shared by Teacher, who
noticed his altered bearing and tried with all sorts of artful beguilements
to make him happy and at ease. But her efforts served only to increase his
unhappiness and his love.
And he loved her! Oh, how he loved her! Since first
his dreading eyes had clung for a breath's space to her "like man's shoes"
and had then crept timidly upward past a black skirt, a "from silk" apron,
a red "jumper," and "from gold" chain to her "light face," she had been mistress
of his heart of hearts. That was more than three months ago. How well he
remembered the day!
His mother had washed him horribly; and had taken him into the big red
schoolhouse, so familiar from the outside, but so full of unknown terrors
within. After his dusty little shoes had stumbled over the threshold he had
passed from ordeal to ordeal until, at last he was torn in mute and white-
faced despair from his mother's skirts.
He was then dragged through long halls and up tall stairs by a large boy,
who spoke to him disdainfully as "greenie," and cautioned him as to the laying
down softly and taking up gently of those poor, dusty shoes, so that his
spirit was quite broken and his nerves were all unstrung when he was pushed
into a room full of bright sunshine and of children who laughed at his frightened
little face. The sunshine smote his timid eyes, the laughter smote his timid
heart, and he turned to flee. But the door was shut, the large boy gone,
and despair took him for its own.
Down upon the floor he dropped, and wailed, and wept, and kicked. It was
then that he heard, for the first time, the voice which now he loved. A hand
was forced between his aching body and the floor, and the voice said:
"Why, my dear little chap, you mustn't cry like that. What's the matter?"
The hand was gentle and the question kind, and these, combined with a faint
perfume suggestive of drug stores and barber shops— but nicer than
either— made him uncover his hot little face. Kneeling beside him was
a lady, and he forced his eyes to that perilous ascent; from shoes to skirt,
from skirt to jumper, from jumper to face, they trailed in dread uncertainty,
but at the face they stopped— they had found rest.
Morris allowed himself to be gathered into the lady's arms and held upon
her knee, and when his sobs no longer rent the very foundations of his pink
and wide-spread tie, he answered her question in a voice as soft as his eyes,
and as gently sad.
"I ain't so big, and I don't know where is my mama."
So, having cast his troubles on the shoulders of the lady, he had added his
throbbing head to the burden, and from that safe retreat had enjoyed his
first day at school immensely.
Thereafter he had been the first to arrive every morning, and the last to
leave every afternoon; and under the care of Teacher, his liege lady, he
had grown in wisdom and love and happiness, but the greatest of these was
love. And now, when the other boys and girls were planning surprises and
gifts of price for Teacher, his hands were as empty as his heart was full.
Appeal to his mother met with denial prompt and energetic.
"For what you go and make, over Christmas, presents? You ain't no Krisht;
you should better have no kind feelings over Krishts, neither; your papa
could to have a mad."
"Teacher ain't no Krisht," said Morris stoutly; "all the other fellows buys
her presents, und I'm loving mit her; it's polite I gives her presents the
while I'm got such a kind feeling over her."
"Well, we ain't got no money for buy nothing," said Mrs. Mogilewsky sadly.
"No money, und your papa, he has all times a scare he shouldn't to get no
more, the while the boss"— and here followed incomprehensible, but
depressing, financial details, until the end of the interview found Morris
and his mother sobbing and rocking in one another's arms. So Morris was helpless,
his mother poor, and Teacher all unknowing.
And now the great day, the Friday before Christmas, has come, and the school
is, for the first half hour, quite mad. Doors open suddenly and softly to
admit small persons, clad in wondrous ways and bearing wondrous parcels.
Room 18, generally so placid and so peaceful, is a howling wilderness full
of brightly colored, quickly changing groups of children, a11 whispering,
all gurgling, and all hiding queer bundles. A new-comer invariably causes
a diversion; the assembled multitude, athirst for novelty, falls upon him
and clamors for a glimpse of his bundle and a statement of its price.
Teacher watches in dumb amaze. What can be the matter with the children?
They can't have guessed that the shrouded something in the corner is a Christmas
tree? What makes them behave so queerly, and why do they look so strange?
They seem to have grown stout in a single night, and Teacher, as she notes
this, marvels greatly. The explanation is simple, though it comes in alarming
form. The sounds of revelry are pierced by a long, shrill yell, and a pair
of agitated legs spring suddenly into view between two desks. Teacher, rushing
to the rescue, notes that the legs form the unsteady stem of an upturned
mushroom of brown flannel and green braid, which she recognizes as the outward
seeming of her cherished Bertha Binderwitz; and yet, when the desks are forced
to disgorge their prey, the legs restored to their normal position are found
to support a fat child— and Bertha was best described as "skinny"—
in a dress of the Stuart tartan tastefully trimmed with purple. Investigation
proves that Bertha's accumulative taste in dress is an established custom.
In nearly all cases the glory of holiday attire is hung upon the solid foundation
of every-day clothes as bunting is hung upon a building. The habit is economical
of time, and produces a charming embonpoint.
Teacher, too, is more beautiful than ever. Her dress is blue, and "very long
down, like a lady," with bands of silk and scraps of lace distributed with
the eye of art. In her hair she wears a bow of what Sadie Gonorowsky, whose
father "works by fancy goods," describes as "black from plush ribbon—
costs ten cents."
Isidore Belchatosky, relenting, is the first to lay tribute before Teacher.
He comes forward with a sweet smile and a tall candlestick— the candy
has gone to its long home— and Teacher for a moment can not be made
to understand that all that length of bluish-white china is really hers "for
keeps."
"It's to-morrow holiday," Isidore assures her; "and we gives you presents,
the while we have a kind feeling. Candlesticks could to cost twenty-five
cents."
"It's a lie. Three for ten,'' says a voice in the background, but Teacher
hastens to respond to Isidore's test of her credulity:
"Indeed, they could. This candlestick could have cost fifty cents, and it's
just what I want. It is very good of you to bring me a present."
"You're welcome," says Isidore, retiring; and then, the ice being broken,
the First Reader Class in a body rises to cast its gifts on Teacher's desk,
and its arms round Teacher's neck.
Nathan Horowitz presents a small cup and saucer; Isidore Applebaum bestows
a large calendar for the year before last; Sadie Gonorowsky brings a basket
containing a bottle of perfume, a thimble, and a bright silk handkerchief;
Sarah Schodsky offers a penwiper and a yellow celluloid collar-button, and
Eva Kidansky gives an elaborate nasal douche, under the pleasing delusion
that it is an atomizer.
Once more sounds of grief reach Teacher's ears. Rushing again to the rescue,
she throws open the door and comes upon woe personified. Eva Gonorowsky,
her hair in wildest disarray, her stocking fouled, un-gartered, and down-
gyved to her ankle, appears before her teacher. She bears all the marks of
Hamlet's excitement, and many more, including a tear-stained little face
and a gilt saucer clasped to a panting breast.
"Eva, my dearest Eva, what's happened to you now?" asks 'Teacher,
for the list of ill chances which have befallen this one of her charges is
very long. And Eva wails forth that a boy, a· very big boy, had stolen
her golden cup "what I had for you by present," and has left her only the
saucer and her undying love to bestow.
Before Eva's sobs have quite yielded to Teacher's arts, Jacob Spitsky presses
forward with a tortoise-shell comb of terrifying aspect and hungry teeth,
and an air showing forth a determination to adjust it in its destined place.
Teacher meekly bows her head; Jacob forces his offering into her long suffering
hair, and then retires with the information, "Costs fifteen cents, Teacher,"
and the courteous phrase— by etiquette prescribed "Wish you health to
wear it." He is plainly a hero, and is heard remarking to less favored admirers
that "Teacher's hair is awful softy and smells off of perfumery."
Here a big boy, a very big boy, enters hastily. He does not belong to Room
18, but he has long known Teacher. He has brought her a present; he wishes
her a merry Christmas. The present, when produced, proves to be a pretty
gold cup, and Eva Gonorowsky, with renewed emotion, recognizes the boy as
her assailant and the cup as her property. Teacher is dreadfully embarrassed;
the boy not at all so. His policy is simple and entire denial, and in this
he perseveres, even after Eva's saucer has unmistakably proclaimed its
relationship to the cup.
Meanwhile the rush of presentation goes steadily on. Other cups and saucers
come in wild profusion. The desk is covered with them, and their wrappings
of purple tissue paper require a monitor's whole attention. The soap, too,
becomes urgently perceptible. It is of all sizes, shapes, and colors, but
of uniform and dreadful power of perfume. Teacher's eyes fill with tears
of gratitude as each new piece, or box, is pressed against her nose, and
Teacher's mind is full of wonder as to what she can ever do with all of it.
Bottles of perfume vie with one another and with the all-pervading soap until
the air is heavy and breathing grows laborious, while pride swells the hearts
of the assembled multitude. No other teacher has so many helps to the toilet.
None other is so beloved.
Teacher's aspect is quite changed, and the "blue long down like a lady dress"
is almost hidden by the offerings she has received. Jacob's comb has two
massive and bejeweled rivals in the "softy hair." The front of the dress,
where aching or despondent heads are wont to rest, is glittering with campaign
buttons of American celebrities, beginning with James G. Blaine and extending
into modern history as far as Patrick Divver, Admiral Dewey, and Captain
Dreyfus. Outside the blue belt is a white one, nearly clean; and bearing
in "sure 'nough golden words" the curt, but stirring, invitation, "Remember
the Maine." Around the neck are three chaplets of beads, wrought by chubby
fingers and embodying much love, while the waist-line is further adorned
by tiny and' beribboned aprons. Truly, it is a day of triumph.
When the waste-paper basket has been twice filled with wrappings and twice
emptied; when order is emerging out of chaos; when the Christmas tree has
been disclosed and its treasures distributed, a timid hand is laid on Teacher's
knee and a plaintive voice whispers, "Say, Teacher, I got something for you";
and Teacher turns quickly to see Morris, her dearest boy charge, with his
poor little body showing quite plainly between his shirtwaist buttons and
through the gashes he calls pockets. This is his ordinary costume, and the
funds of the house of Mogilewsky are evidently unequal to an outer layer
of finery.
"Now, Morris, dear," says Teacher, "you shouldn't have troubled to get me
a present; you know you and I are such good friends that—"
"Teacher, yis, ma'am," Morris interrupts, in a bewitching rising inflection
of his soft and plaintive voice; "I know you got a kind feeling by me, and
I couldn't to tell even how I'm got a kind feeling by you. Only it's about
that kind feeling I should give you a present. I didn't"— with a glance
at the crowded desk "I didn't to have no soap nor no perfumery, and my mama;
she couldn't to buy none by the store; but, Teacher, I'm got something awful
nice for you by present."
"And what is it, deary?" asks the already rich and gifted young person. "What
is my new present?"
"Teacher, it's like this: I don't know; I ain't so big; like I could to
know"— and, truly, God pity him! he is passing small— "It ain't
for boys— it's for ladies. Over yesterday on the night comes my papa
on my house, and he gives my mama the present. Sooner she looks on it, sooner
she has a awful glad; in her eye stands tears, und she says, like that—
out of Jewish— `Thanks,' un' she kisses my papa. a kiss. Und my papa,
how he is polite! he says— out of Jewish, too— `You're welcome,
all right,' un' he kisses my mama a kiss. So my mama, she sets and looks
on the present, und all the time she looks she has a glad over it. Und I
didn't to have no soap, so you could to have the present."
"But did your mother say I might?"
"Teacher, no ma'am; she didn't say like that un' she didn't to say not
like that: She didn't to know. But it's for ladies, un' I didn't to have
no soap. You could to look on it. It ain't for boys."
And here Morris opens a hot little hand and discloses a tightly-folded pinkish
paper. As Teacher reads it he watches her with eager, furtive eyes, dry and
bright, until hers grow suddenly moist, when his promptly follow suit. As
she looks down at him, he makes his moan once more:
"It's for ladies, und I didn't to have no soap."
"But, Morris, dear," cries Teacher unsteadily, laughing a little, and yet
not far from tears, "this is ever so much nicer than soap— a thousand
times better than perfume; and you're quite right, it is for ladies, and
I never had one in all my life before. I am so very thankful."
"You're welcome, all right. That's how my papa says; it's polite," says Morris
proudly. And proudly he takes his place among the very little boys, and loudly
he joins in the ensuing song. For the rest of that exciting day he is a shining
point of virtue in a slightly confused class. And at three o'clock he is
at Teacher's desk again, carrying on the conversation as if there had been
no interruption.
"Und my mama," he says insinuatingly— "she kisses my papa a kiss."
"Well?" says Teacher.
"Well," says Morris, "you ain't never kissed me a kiss, und I seen how you
kissed Eva Gonorowsky. I'm loving mit you too. Why don't you never kiss me
a kiss?"
"Perhaps," suggests Teacher mischievously, "perhaps it ain't for boys."
But a glance at her "light face," with its crown of surprising combs, reassures
him.
"Teacher, yis, ma'am; it's for boys," he cries as he feels her arms about
him, and sees that in her eyes, too, "stands tears."
"It's polite you kisses me a kiss over that for ladies' present."
Late that night Teacher sat in her pretty room— for she was, unofficially,
a great pampered young person— and reviewed her treasures. She saw that
they were very numerous, very touching, very whimsical, and very precious.
But above all the rest she cherished a frayed pinkish paper, rather crumpled
and a little soiled. For it held the love of a man and woman and a little
child, and the magic of a home, for Morris Mogilewsky's Christmas present
for ladies was the receipt for a month's rent for a room on the top floor
of a Monroe Street tenement.
