November 26, 2023 • 31 mins
Wrap yourself in a cozy blanket, grab a cup of hot cocoa, and join me for a touching journey with the littlest orphan and the Christ Baby. With a story that's bound to warm your heart, this bonus episode of Truth Track dives into Margaret E Sangster Jr's captivating Christmas tale. As we unfold the narrative, we experience an orphanage through the eyes of the littlest resident, whose curiosity and longing for familial connections are as moving as they are poignant.
We continue the adventure as we delve into the thoughts and feelings of our little protagonist. Through his innocent musings about gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and his longing for a brother, we explore the depth of his solitude. The unexpected bond between the little orphan and trustee Mrs. Benchley, who is grieving her own son, unravels a thought-provoking dialogue about life, loss, and longing.
Finally, we uncover a Christmas surprise that will leave you spellbound. The broken picture of the Christ baby becomes a catalyst for a heart-touching conversation between the orphan and Mrs. Benchley, leading to an unexpected twist. As the spirit of Christmas illuminates the darkest corners of the orphanage, a beacon of love, kindness, and understanding prevails. Join me as we unwrap this delightful Christmas gift of a story, reflecting the transformative power of compassion and empathy.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:17):
Welcome to a special holiday bonus episode of Truth
Track.
Each Sunday from now untilChristmas there will be a bonus
episode.
I will be reading someChristmas stories that I had
posted last year before Ilaunched Truth Track on a
separate podcast.
They were enjoyed by manypeople.
I'm not going to be posting allof the stories we did last year
, but the five or six that werethe most well received based on
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the podcast analytics.
So gather the family and enjoythis holiday story.
The Littleest Orphan and theChrist Baby by Margaret E
(01:01):
Sangster Jr.
The littlest orphan gazed upinto the face of the Christ baby
, who hung in a gold frame andsmiled above the mantle shelf.
The mantle was dark, made ofblack mottled marble that
suggested tombstones, and thelong room, despite its row of
neat white beds, gave animpression of darkness too.
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But the picture above themantle sparkled and scintillated
and threw off an aura of sheerhappiness.
Even the neat in memoriam cardtacked to the wall directly
under it could not detract fromits joy.
All of rosy babyhood, all ofunspoiled laughter, all of the
beginnings of life were in thatpicture, and the littlest orphan
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sensed it, even though he didnot quite understand.
The matron was coming down theroom with many wreaths, perhaps
a dozen of them braceletting herthin arm.
The wreaths were just a trifledusty.
Their imitation, holly leaves,spoke plainatively of successive
years of hard usage.
But it was only two days beforeChristmas and the wreaths would
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not show up so badly underartificial light.
The Board of Trustees comingfor the entertainment on
Christmas Eve never arriveduntil the early winter dusk had
settled down and the wreathscould be laid away as soon as
the holiday was passed.
For another 12 months thelittlest orphans staring up at
the picture did not hear thematrons approaching footsteps.
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True, the matron wore rubberheels, but any other orphan in
the whole asylum would haveheard her.
Only the littlest orphan withhis thin, sensitive face and his
curious fits of absorptioncould have ignored her coming.
He started painfully as hersharp voice cut into the silence
.
John, she said in the frostthat made such pretty lacework
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upon the window panes wroughthavoc with her voice.
John, what are you doing here?
The littlest orphan answeredafter the manner of all small
boy children.
Nothing, he said.
Standing before him, the matron, who was a large woman, seemed
to tower.
You are not telling the truth,john.
She said.
You have no right to be in thedormitory at this hour.
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Report to Miss Mace at onceMiss Mace was the primary
teacher and tell her that I saidyou were to write five extra
pages in your copy book At once.
With hanging head, the littlestorphan turned away.
It seemed terribly unfair,although it was against the
rules to spend any but sleepinghours in the dormitory, he was
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just learning to write and fivepages meant a whole afternoon of
cramped fingers and tired eyes.
But how could he explain tothis grim woman that the Christ
baby fascinated him, charmed himand comforted him?
How could he explain that theChrist baby's wide eyes had a
way of glancing down, almostwith understanding, into his own
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?
How could he tell with the fewweak words of his vocabulary
that he loved the Christ baby,whose smile was so tenderly
sweet that he spent much of histime standing as he stood now in
the shadow of that smile?
He trudged away with never aword Down the length of the room
, his clumsy shoes making afeeble clatter on the bareboards
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of the floor.
When he was almost at the door,the matron called after him.
Don't drag your feet, john, shecommanded him, and so he walked
the rest of the way on tiptoeand closed the door very softly
after him.
The halls were already decoratedwith long streamers of red and
green crepe paper that loopedalong in a half-hearted fashion
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from picture to picture.
The stair railing was woundwith more of the paper and the
schoolroom where Miss May satstiffly behind the broad desk
was vaguely brightened by redcloth poinsettias set here and
there at random, but the colorof them was not reflected in the
littlest orphan's heart as hedelivered his message and
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received in return a batteredcopybook.
As he sat at his desk writinglaboriously about the cat who
ate, the rat and the dog who ranafter the cat, he could hear
the other orphans playingoutside in the courtyard.
Always they played from 4o'clock, when school was over,
until 5.30, which was suppertime.
It was a rule to play from 4until 5.30.
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They were running and shoutingtogether, but in a stilted way.
The littlest orphan did notenvy them much.
They were all older andstronger than he and their games
were sometimes hard to enjoy.
He had been the last baby takenbefore a new ruling making six
years.
The minimum entrance age hadgone through and he was only
five years old now.
Perhaps it was his verylittleness that made the matron
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more intolerant of him.
He presented to her a problemthat could not be met in a mass
way.
His clothing had to be severalsizes smaller than the other
clothing, his lessons lessadvanced, and so on.
Drarily he wrote and listenedbetween sentences to the
scratching pen of Miss Mace.
The dog had caught the cat andnow the man beat the dog, and
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then it was time to start allover again, back at the place
where the cat ate the rat.
Two pages, three pages, fourpages.
Surreptitiously, the littlestorphan moved his fingers one by
one and wondered that he wasstill able to move them.
Then, working slowly, hefinished the last page and
handed the copybook back to theteacher.
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As she studied it, her facesoftened slightly.
Why did the matron punish you,john, he asked, as if on impulse
.
As she made a correction in asentence, the littlest orphan
hesitated for a second.
And then I shouldn't have beenin the dormitory, he said slowly
.
And I was Again.
Miss Mace asked a question.
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But what she queried, were youdoing there?
Why weren't you out playingwith the other children?
She didn't comment upon thefault, but the littlest orphan
knew that she also thought thepunishment rather severe.
It isn't policy to criticize asuperior's method of discipline.
He answered her second questionravely I was looking at the
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Christ baby over the mantle, hesaid, as if to herself.
Miss Mace spoke.
You mean the picture MrsBenchley gave in memory of her
son?
She murmured the pastel, andthen why were you looking at it?
She hesitated and the littlestorphan didn't know that she had
almost said dear Stylia.
The child spoke and wistfulnesslay across his thin, small face
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, an unrealized wistfulness.
He looked so… nice, said thelittlest orphan gently, like he
had a mother maybe.
Supper that night was brief andafter supper there were carols
to practice in the assembly room.
The littlest orphan, seated atthe extreme end of the line,
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enjoyed the singing.
The redheaded boy who fought sooften in the courtyard had a
high, thrilling soprano.
Listening to him as he sang thesolo parts made the littlest
orphan forget a certain blackeye and a nose that had once
been swollen and bleeding madehim forget lonely hours when he
had lain uncomforted in his bedas a punishment for quarreling.
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The redheaded boy was singingsomething about gold and
frankincense and myrrh.
The littlest orphan toldhimself that they must be very
beautiful things gold theChristbaby's frame was of gold,
but frankincense and myrrh wereunguessed names.
Maybe they were flowers, realflowers that smelled pretty, not
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red cloth ones.
He shut his eyes, singingautomatically, and imagined what
these flowers looked like, thecolor and shape of their petals
and whether they grew on talllily stalks or short pansy stems
.
And when the singing was overand he opened his eyes with a
start and realized that thematron was speaking.
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Before you go to bed, she wassaying I want you to understand
that you must be on your goodbehavior until the trustees
leave tomorrow evening.
You must not make any disorderin the corridors or in the
dormitories.
They have been especiallycleaned and dusted.
You must pay strict attentionto the singing.
The trustees like to hear yousing.
They will all be here.
And Mrs Benchley, who has notvisited us since her sunday, and
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if one of you misbehaves?
She stopped abruptly, but hersilence was crowded with meaning
and many a child squirmeduncomfortably in his place.
It was only after a moment thatshe spoke again.
Good night, she said abruptly,and the orphans chorished back
Good night, undressing carefullyand swiftly, for the dormitory
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was cold and the lights were dim.
The littlest orphan wonderedabout the trustees and in
particular about Mrs Benchleywho had lost her son.
All trustees were ogres toasylum children, but the
littlest orphan couldn't helpfeeling that Mrs Benchley was
the least ogre-like of them all.
Somehow she was a part of theChrist baby's picture and it was
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a part of her.
If she were responsible for it,she could not be all bad.
So, ruminating, the littlestorphan said his brief prayers
and each child who forgot hisprayers was punished severely
and slid between the sheets intohis bed.
Some of the orphans made a biglump under their bed covers.
The red-headed boy was stalky,and so were others.
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Some of them were almost fat,but the littlest orphan hardly
made any lump at all.
The sheet, the cotton blanketand the spread went over him
with scarcely a ripple.
Often the littlest orphan hadwished that there might be
another small boy who couldshare his bed.
He took up such a tiny sectionof it.
Another small boy would havemade the bed seem warmer somehow
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and less lonely.
Once two orphans had come tothe asylum and they were
brothers.
They had shared things beds anddesks and books.
Maybe brothers were unusualgifts from a surprisingly blind
providence, gifts that weregranted only once in a hundred
years, more rare even thanmothers.
Mothers the sound of the wordhad a strange effect upon the
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littlest orphan, even when hesaid it silently in his soul.
It meant so much that he didnot comprehend, so much for
which he vaguely hungered.
Mothers stood for warm arms andkisses and soft words.
Mothers meant punishments too,but gentle punishment that did
not really come from way inside.
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Often the littlest orphan hadheard the rest talking
stealthily about mothers.
Some of them could actuallyremember having owned one, but
the littlest orphan could notremember.
He had arrived at the asylum asa baby, delicate and frail and
too young for memories thatwould later come to bless him
and to cause a strange, sharpset of hurt.
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When the rest spoke of bedtimestories and lullabies and sugar
cookies, he listened, why died,and half incredulous, to their
halting sentences.
It was growing very cold in thedormitory and it was dark.
Even the faint flicker of lighthad been taken away.
The littlest orphan wiggled histoes under the cotton blanket
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and wished that sleep would come.
Some nights it came quickly,but this night perhaps he was
overtired and it was so cold.
As a matter of habit his eyessearched through the dark for a
place where the Christ baby hung.
He could not distinguish eventhe dim outlines of the guilt
frame.
But he knew that the Christbaby was rosy and chubby and
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smiling, that his eyes weredeeply blue and filled with
cheer.
Involuntarily, the littlestorphan stretched out his thin
hands and dropped them backagainst the spread.
All about him, the darkness laylike a smothering coat and the
Christ baby, even though hesmiled, was invisible.
The other children weresleeping.
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All up and down the long roomsounded their regular breathing,
but the littlest orphan couldnot sleep.
He wanted something that he wasunable to define.
He wanted it with such aburning intensity that the tears
crowded into his eyes.
He sat up abruptly in his bed,a small, shivering figure with
quivering lips and a baby achein his soul that had never
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really known boyhood.
Loneliness, it swept about him,more disheartening than the
cold, more enveloping than thedarkness.
There was no fear in him of theshadows in the corner of the
creaking shutters and the narrowstair.
Such fears are discouragedearly in children who live by
rule and routine.
No, it was a feeling morepoignant than fear, a feeling
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that clutched at him andsqueezed his small body until it
was dry and shaking and void ofexpression.
Of all the sleeping dormitory,the littlest orphan was the only
child who knew the ache of suchloneliness.
Even the little ones who hadbeen torn away from family ties
had, each one of them, somethingbeautiful to keep preciously
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close.
But the littlest orphan hadnothing, nothing.
The loneliness filled him witha strange impulse, an impulse
that sent him sliding over theedge of his bed with small arms
outflung.
All at once he was crossing thefloor on bare mouse, quiet feet
, past the placidly sleepingchildren, past the row of
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lockers, past the table with itsneat cloth and black bound
impressive guestbook, pasteverything, until he stood a
white spot in the blackness,directly under the mantle.
The Christ baby hung above himand though the littlest orphan
could not see, he felt that theblue eyes were looking down
tenderly.
All at once he wanted to touchthe Christ baby, to hold him
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tight, to feel the sweetness andwarmth of him.
Tensely still moved by thecurious impulse, he tiptoed back
to where the table stood.
Carefully he laid the guestbookon the floor.
Carefully he removed the whitecloth and then, staggering under
the to him great weight, hecarried the table noiselessly
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back with him.
Though it was a really lightsmall table, the Lilasdorffin
breathed hard as he set it down.
He had to rest panting for amoment before he could climb up
on it.
All over the room lay silence,broken only by the sleepy sounds
of the children.
The Lilasdorffin listenedalmost prayerfully as he
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clambered up on the table topand drew himself to an erect
position.
His small hands, groped alongthe mantle shelf, touched the
lower edges of the golden frame,but the Christ baby was still
out of reach.
Feverishly obsessed with oneidea, the Lilasdorffin raised
himself on tiptoe.
His hands gripped the chillmarble of the mantle, tugging,
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twisting, all with the utmostquiet.
He pulled himself up until hewas kneeling on the mantle shelf
, quivering with nervousness aswell as the now intense cold.
He finally stood erect and then, only then, he was able to feel
the wire and the nail that heldthe Christ baby's frame against
the wall.
His numb fingers loosened thewire carefully and then, at last
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, the picture was in his arms.
It was heavy, the picture, andhard, not soft and warm as he
had somehow expected it to be,but it was the Christ baby.
Nevertheless, holding it close,the Lilasdorffin fell to
speculating upon the ways ofgetting down.
Now that both of his hands wereoccupied, it would be hard to
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slide from the mantle to thetable and from table to floor,
with neither sound nor mishap.
His eyes troubled his mouth, awavering line in his pinched
face.
The Lilasdorffin crowded backagainst the wall.
The darkness held.
Now the vague menace of depthDestruction lurked on a single
misstep.
It had been a long way up, itwould be even longer going down,
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and he now had the Christ babyas well as himself to care for
Gingerly.
He advanced one foot over theedge of the mantle and drew it
back sharply.
He almost screamed in suddenterror.
It was as if the dark hadreached out long, bony fingers
to pull him from his place ofsafety.
He wanted to raise his hands tohis face, but he could not
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release his hold on the goldenframe.
All at once he realized thathis hands were growing numb with
the cold and that his feet werenumb too.
The minutes dragged by,somewhere a clock struck many
times.
The Lilasdorffin had neverheard the clock strike so many
times at night before he coweredback until it seemed to his
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scared small mind that he wouldsink into the wall.
And then, as the clock ceasedstriking, he heard another sound
, a sound that brought dread tohis heart.
It was a step in the hall, aheavy, firm step that, despite
rubber heels, was now clearlyrecognizable.
It would be the matron makingher rounds of the building
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before she went to bed.
As the steps came nearer alongthe hall, as light, soft and
yellow seemed to grow in theplace, it would be the lamp that
she carried in her hand.
The matron reached the door andpeered in and then, with lamp
held high, she entered the roomand her swift glance swept the
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rows of white beds, each but onewith his sleeping occupant, the
Lilasdorffin on the mantle,clutched the Christbaby closer
in his arms and waited.
It seemed to him that hisshivering must shake the room.
He gritted his teethconvulsively as the matron's
eyes found his tumbled empty bed.
Hastily forgetting to be quiet,the woman crossed the room.
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She pulled back the spread, theblanket and then, as if drawn
by a magnet, her eyes lifted,traveled across the room and
found the small white figurethat pressed back into the
narrow space.
Her voice was sharper even thanher eyes when she spoke.
John.
She called abruptly and heranger made her forget to be
quiet.
What are you doing up there?
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Across the top of the Christbaby's guilt frame, the eyes of
the littlest orphan stared intothe eyes of the matron with
something of a fascination thatone sees in the eyes of a bird,
charmed by a cat or a snake.
In narrow white beds, all overthe room, children were stirring
, pulling themselves, erect,staring.
One child snickered behind asheltering hand.
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But the littlest orphan wasconscious only of the matron.
He waited for her to speakagain In a moment.
She did, john, she said, andher voice was burning and yet
chill with rage you are a badboy.
Come down at once.
His eyes blank with sheerfright, his arms clasping the
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picture close.
The littlest orphan answeredthe tone of that voice With
quivering lips.
He advanced one foot then theother and stepped into the space
that was the room below.
He was conscious that somechild screamed he himself did
not utter a sound and that thematron started forward.
And then he struck the tableand rolled with it and the
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Christ baby's splinteringpicture into the darkness.
The littlest orphan spent thenext day in bed with an aching
head and a wounded heart.
The pain of his bruises did notmake a great difference,
neither did the threats of thematron penetrate his
consciousness.
Only the bare space over themantle mattered, only the blur
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of blue and yellow and red uponthe hearth where the pastel had
struck.
Only the knowledge that theChrist baby, the meaning of all
light and happiness, was no moreTroubled him.
There was a pleasant stir aboutthe asylum.
An excited child creeping intothe dormitory told the littlest
orphan that one of the trusteeshad sent a tree and another one
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was donating ice cream and thatthere were going to be presents.
But the littlest orphan did noteven smile.
His face was set and drawn.
Dyer punishment waited for himafter his hearths were healed
and there would be no Christbaby to go to for comfort and
cheer.
When the punishment was over,the morning dragged on, miss
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Mace brought his luncheon ofbread and milk and was as kind
to him as she dared to be.
Yet Miss Mace's have been madetimorous by too forceful a world
.
Once during the early afternoonthe matron came in to examine
his bruised head, and once amaid came to rub the colored
stain from the hearth, thelittlest orphan caught his
breath as he watched her.
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And then it began to grow darkand the children were brought
upstairs to be washed anddressed in clean blouses for the
entertainment.
They had been warned not totalk with him, and they obeyed,
for there were folks watchingand listening, but even so,
flickers of conversation excitedsmall boy.
Conversation drifted to thelittlest orphan's waiting ears.
Someone had said there was tobe a Santa Claus in a red suit
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and a white beard.
Perhaps it was true.
The littlest orphan slid downunder the covers and pulled the
sheet high over his aching head.
He didn't want the rest to knowthat he was crying.
The face washing wasaccomplished swiftly, just as
swiftly where the blousesadjusted to the last high string
and button.
And then the children fileddownstairs and the littlest
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orphan was left alone again.
He pulled himself up gingerlyuntil he sat erect and buried
his face in his hands.
Suddenly, from downstairs camethe sound of music, first the
tiny piano and then the voicesof the children as they sang
Automatically.
The littlest orphan joined inhis voice quavering weakly
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through the empty place.
He didn't want to sing.
There was neither rhythm normelody in his heart, but he had
been taught to sing those songsand sing them he must.
First there was old little townof Bethlehem, and then a carol,
and then the one about gold andfrankincense and myrrh Strange
that the words did not meanflowers tonight.
And then there was a hush.
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Perhaps it was a prayer, andthen a burst of clapping and a
jumble of glad cries.
Perhaps that was the SantaClaus.
In his trappings of white andscarlet, the littlest orphans,
tears came like hot rain in histired eyes.
There was a sound in the hall,a rubber-heeled step upon the
bare floor.
The littlest orphan slid downagain under the covers until
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only the bandage on the brow wasat all visible.
When the matron stooped overhim, she could not even glimpse
his eyes.
With a vigorous hand, shejerked aside the covers, sick or
no, she told him you've got tocome downstairs.
Mrs Benchley wants to see theboy who broke her son's memorial
picture.
I'll help you.
With your clothes Trimblingviolently, the littlest orphan
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allowed himself to be wedgedinto undies and a blouse and a
pair of coarse dark trousers.
He laced his shoes with fingersthat shook, mingled with fear
and weakness, and then hefollowed the matron out of the
dormitory and through the longhalls with their mocking
festoons of green and red paperand into the assembly room where
the lights were blinding andthe Christmas tree was a blaze
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of glory.
The trustee is sad.
At one end of the room, the farend, they were a mass of dark
colors blacks and browns andsomber grays.
Following in the wake of thematron, the Lewis Orphans
stumbled toward them.
Mrs Benchley, would she beathim in front of all the rest?
Would she leap at himaccusingly?
From that dark mass he feltsmaller than he had ever felt
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before and more inadequate.
The children were beginning tosing again, but despite their
singing, the matron spoke, notloudly as she did to the
children, but with a curiousdeference.
This is John, mrs Benchley, shesaid, the child who broke the
picture, biting his lips so thathe would not cry out.
The littlest orphan stood inthe vast shadow of the matron.
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He shut his eyes.
Perhaps if this, mrs Benchley,meant to strike him, it would be
best to have his eyes shut.
And then suddenly a voice came,a voice so soft that somehow he
could almost feel the velvettexture of it.
Poor child, said the voice.
He's frightened and ill too.
Come here, john, I won't hurtyou dear.
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Opening his eyes incredulously,the littlest orphan stared past
the matron into the sort of facesmall children dream about
Violet eyed and tender linedperhaps, and sad about the mouth
, and wistful but so sweet.
Graying hair with a bit of awave in it, brushed back from a
broad white brow and slim whitereaching hands.
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The littlest orphan wentforward without hesitation.
Something about this lady wasreminiscent of the Christ baby.
As her white hand touched his,tightened on it, he looked up
into her face with the ghost ofa smile.
The children had crowded almostinformally on the other end of
the room toward the tree.
The dark mass of the trusteeswas dissolving, breaking up into
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fragments that followed thechildren.
One of the trustees laughedaloud, not at all like an ogre.
A sudden sense of gladnessbegan, for no understandable
reason, to steal across thelittlest orphan's consciousness
Rudely.
The voice of the matron brokein upon it.
I had warned the children, shesaid, not to disturb anything
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Last evening before they retired.
John deliberately disobeyed andthe picture is ruined in
consequence.
What do you think we had betterdo about it, mrs Benchley?
For a moment the lady with thedream face did not speak.
She was drawing the littlestorphan nearer until he touched
the satin folds of her blackgown and despite the matron's
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voice, he was not afraid.
When, at last, she answered thematron, he did not flinch.
I think she said gently thatI'll ask you to leave us.
I would like to talk with Johnalone.
And as the matron walkedstiffly away down the length of
the room.
She lifted the littlest orphaninto her lap.
I know she said and her voicewas even gentler than it had
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been that you didn't mean tobreak the picture, did you, dear
?
Eagerly, the littlest orphananswered oh no, ma'am.
He told her I didn't mean tobreak the Christ's baby.
The woman's arms were about him.
They tightened suddenly.
You're so young, she said,you're such a might of a thing.
I doubt if you could understandwhy I had the picture made, why
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I gave it to the home here tobe hung in the dormitory.
My little son was all I hadafter my husband died In his
nursery.
It was such a pretty room had aChrist child picture on the
wall and my boy always loved thepicture and so when he left her
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voice faltered.
I had an artist copy it.
I couldn't part with theoriginal and I sent it to a
place where there would be manysmall boys who could enjoy it,
as my son had always.
Her voice broke.
The littlest orphan stared insurprise at the lady's face.
Her violet eyes were mistedlike April blossoms, with a dew
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upon them.
Her lips quivered.
Could it be that she too waslonesome and afraid.
His hand crept up until ittouched her soft Cheek.
I loved the Christ baby, hesaid simply.
The lady looked at him With aneffort.
She drowned the quaver in hervoice.
I can't believe.
She said at last that youdestroyed the picture purposely.
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No matter what she, her glancerested upon the matron's stiff
figure half a room away.
May think John dear, did youmean to spoil the gift I gave in
my small boy's name?
Oh, I'm sure you didn't.
All day long the littlest orphanhad lived in fear and agony of
soul.
All day long he had known pain,physical pain and the pain of
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suspense.
Suddenly he buried his face inthe lady's neck.
He had never known before thatthere was a place in lady's
necks just made for tiny heads,and the tears came Choked by
sobs.
He spoke no, ma'am.
He said I didn't mean to.
It was only because I was coldand lonesome and the bed was big
(29:17):
and all the rest was asleep andthe Christ baby always looked
so pink and glad and warm and Iwanted to take him into my bed
and cuddle close.
He burrowed his head deeperinto the neck so that I wouldn't
be cold anymore or lonesomeanymore.
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The lady's arms tightened aboutthe littlest orphan's body until
the pressure almost hurt.
But it was a nice sort of hurt.
It shocked her somehow to feelthe thinness of that body and
her tears fell quiteunrestrained upon the littlest
orphan's bandaged head.
And then all at once she bentover and her lips pressed ever
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so tenderly upon the place wherehis cheek almost met her ear.
Not to be cold, she whispered,more to herself than to the
littlest orphan, or lonesomeanymore.
To have the nursery openedagain in the sound of the tiny
feet in the empty rooms, to havethe Christ child smiling down
upon a sleeping little boy, tokiss bruises away again.
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Not to be lonesome anymore orcold.
Suddenly she tilted back.
The littlest orphan's head waslooking deep, deep into his
bewildered eyes.
John, she said and his namesounded so different when she
said it how would you like tocome away from here and live in
my house with me?
How would you like to be my boy?
(30:44):
A silence had crept over theother end of the room.
One of the trustees, who wore aclerical collar, had mounted
the platform.
He was reading from the Biblethat visiting ministers read
from on a Sunday.
His voice rang resonant andrich as an organ tone through
the room, for, unto us, a childis born.
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He read Unto us, a son is given.
The littlest orphan, with asigh of utter happiness, crowded
closer into the arms that heldhim, and it was Christmas Eve,
the end.
Welcome to a special holiday bonus episode of Truth
Track.
Each Sunday from now untilChristmas there will be a bonus
episode.
I will be reading someChristmas stories that I had
posted last year before Ilaunched Truth Track on a
separate podcast.
They were enjoyed by manypeople.
I'm not going to be posting allof the stories we did last year
, but the five or six that werethe most well received based on
(00:38):
the podcast analytics.
So gather the family and enjoythis holiday story.
The Littleest Orphan and theChrist Baby by Margaret E
(01:01):
Sangster Jr.
The littlest orphan gazed upinto the face of the Christ baby
, who hung in a gold frame andsmiled above the mantle shelf.
The mantle was dark, made ofblack mottled marble that
suggested tombstones, and thelong room, despite its row of
neat white beds, gave animpression of darkness too.
(01:21):
But the picture above themantle sparkled and scintillated
and threw off an aura of sheerhappiness.
Even the neat in memoriam cardtacked to the wall directly
under it could not detract fromits joy.
All of rosy babyhood, all ofunspoiled laughter, all of the
beginnings of life were in thatpicture, and the littlest orphan
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sensed it, even though he didnot quite understand.
The matron was coming down theroom with many wreaths, perhaps
a dozen of them braceletting herthin arm.
The wreaths were just a trifledusty.
Their imitation, holly leaves,spoke plainatively of successive
years of hard usage.
But it was only two days beforeChristmas and the wreaths would
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not show up so badly underartificial light.
The Board of Trustees comingfor the entertainment on
Christmas Eve never arriveduntil the early winter dusk had
settled down and the wreathscould be laid away as soon as
the holiday was passed.
For another 12 months thelittlest orphans staring up at
the picture did not hear thematrons approaching footsteps.
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True, the matron wore rubberheels, but any other orphan in
the whole asylum would haveheard her.
Only the littlest orphan withhis thin, sensitive face and his
curious fits of absorptioncould have ignored her coming.
He started painfully as hersharp voice cut into the silence
.
John, she said in the frostthat made such pretty lacework
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upon the window panes wroughthavoc with her voice.
John, what are you doing here?
The littlest orphan answeredafter the manner of all small
boy children.
Nothing, he said.
Standing before him, the matron, who was a large woman, seemed
to tower.
You are not telling the truth,john.
She said.
You have no right to be in thedormitory at this hour.
(03:15):
Report to Miss Mace at onceMiss Mace was the primary
teacher and tell her that I saidyou were to write five extra
pages in your copy book At once.
With hanging head, the littlestorphan turned away.
It seemed terribly unfair,although it was against the
rules to spend any but sleepinghours in the dormitory, he was
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just learning to write and fivepages meant a whole afternoon of
cramped fingers and tired eyes.
But how could he explain tothis grim woman that the Christ
baby fascinated him, charmed himand comforted him?
How could he explain that theChrist baby's wide eyes had a
way of glancing down, almostwith understanding, into his own
(04:00):
?
How could he tell with the fewweak words of his vocabulary
that he loved the Christ baby,whose smile was so tenderly
sweet that he spent much of histime standing as he stood now in
the shadow of that smile?
He trudged away with never aword Down the length of the room
, his clumsy shoes making afeeble clatter on the bareboards
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of the floor.
When he was almost at the door,the matron called after him.
Don't drag your feet, john, shecommanded him, and so he walked
the rest of the way on tiptoeand closed the door very softly
after him.
The halls were already decoratedwith long streamers of red and
green crepe paper that loopedalong in a half-hearted fashion
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from picture to picture.
The stair railing was woundwith more of the paper and the
schoolroom where Miss May satstiffly behind the broad desk
was vaguely brightened by redcloth poinsettias set here and
there at random, but the colorof them was not reflected in the
littlest orphan's heart as hedelivered his message and
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received in return a batteredcopybook.
As he sat at his desk writinglaboriously about the cat who
ate, the rat and the dog who ranafter the cat, he could hear
the other orphans playingoutside in the courtyard.
Always they played from 4o'clock, when school was over,
until 5.30, which was suppertime.
It was a rule to play from 4until 5.30.
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They were running and shoutingtogether, but in a stilted way.
The littlest orphan did notenvy them much.
They were all older andstronger than he and their games
were sometimes hard to enjoy.
He had been the last baby takenbefore a new ruling making six
years.
The minimum entrance age hadgone through and he was only
five years old now.
Perhaps it was his verylittleness that made the matron
(05:48):
more intolerant of him.
He presented to her a problemthat could not be met in a mass
way.
His clothing had to be severalsizes smaller than the other
clothing, his lessons lessadvanced, and so on.
Drarily he wrote and listenedbetween sentences to the
scratching pen of Miss Mace.
The dog had caught the cat andnow the man beat the dog, and
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then it was time to start allover again, back at the place
where the cat ate the rat.
Two pages, three pages, fourpages.
Surreptitiously, the littlestorphan moved his fingers one by
one and wondered that he wasstill able to move them.
Then, working slowly, hefinished the last page and
handed the copybook back to theteacher.
(06:32):
As she studied it, her facesoftened slightly.
Why did the matron punish you,john, he asked, as if on impulse
.
As she made a correction in asentence, the littlest orphan
hesitated for a second.
And then I shouldn't have beenin the dormitory, he said slowly
.
And I was Again.
Miss Mace asked a question.
(06:53):
But what she queried, were youdoing there?
Why weren't you out playingwith the other children?
She didn't comment upon thefault, but the littlest orphan
knew that she also thought thepunishment rather severe.
It isn't policy to criticize asuperior's method of discipline.
He answered her second questionravely I was looking at the
(07:14):
Christ baby over the mantle, hesaid, as if to herself.
Miss Mace spoke.
You mean the picture MrsBenchley gave in memory of her
son?
She murmured the pastel, andthen why were you looking at it?
She hesitated and the littlestorphan didn't know that she had
almost said dear Stylia.
The child spoke and wistfulnesslay across his thin, small face
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, an unrealized wistfulness.
He looked so… nice, said thelittlest orphan gently, like he
had a mother maybe.
Supper that night was brief andafter supper there were carols
to practice in the assembly room.
The littlest orphan, seated atthe extreme end of the line,
(07:55):
enjoyed the singing.
The redheaded boy who fought sooften in the courtyard had a
high, thrilling soprano.
Listening to him as he sang thesolo parts made the littlest
orphan forget a certain blackeye and a nose that had once
been swollen and bleeding madehim forget lonely hours when he
had lain uncomforted in his bedas a punishment for quarreling.
(08:17):
The redheaded boy was singingsomething about gold and
frankincense and myrrh.
The littlest orphan toldhimself that they must be very
beautiful things gold theChristbaby's frame was of gold,
but frankincense and myrrh wereunguessed names.
Maybe they were flowers, realflowers that smelled pretty, not
(08:37):
red cloth ones.
He shut his eyes, singingautomatically, and imagined what
these flowers looked like, thecolor and shape of their petals
and whether they grew on talllily stalks or short pansy stems
.
And when the singing was overand he opened his eyes with a
start and realized that thematron was speaking.
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Before you go to bed, she wassaying I want you to understand
that you must be on your goodbehavior until the trustees
leave tomorrow evening.
You must not make any disorderin the corridors or in the
dormitories.
They have been especiallycleaned and dusted.
You must pay strict attentionto the singing.
The trustees like to hear yousing.
They will all be here.
And Mrs Benchley, who has notvisited us since her sunday, and
(09:22):
if one of you misbehaves?
She stopped abruptly, but hersilence was crowded with meaning
and many a child squirmeduncomfortably in his place.
It was only after a moment thatshe spoke again.
Good night, she said abruptly,and the orphans chorished back
Good night, undressing carefullyand swiftly, for the dormitory
(09:43):
was cold and the lights were dim.
The littlest orphan wonderedabout the trustees and in
particular about Mrs Benchleywho had lost her son.
All trustees were ogres toasylum children, but the
littlest orphan couldn't helpfeeling that Mrs Benchley was
the least ogre-like of them all.
Somehow she was a part of theChrist baby's picture and it was
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a part of her.
If she were responsible for it,she could not be all bad.
So, ruminating, the littlestorphan said his brief prayers
and each child who forgot hisprayers was punished severely
and slid between the sheets intohis bed.
Some of the orphans made a biglump under their bed covers.
The red-headed boy was stalky,and so were others.
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Some of them were almost fat,but the littlest orphan hardly
made any lump at all.
The sheet, the cotton blanketand the spread went over him
with scarcely a ripple.
Often the littlest orphan hadwished that there might be
another small boy who couldshare his bed.
He took up such a tiny sectionof it.
Another small boy would havemade the bed seem warmer somehow
(10:49):
and less lonely.
Once two orphans had come tothe asylum and they were
brothers.
They had shared things beds anddesks and books.
Maybe brothers were unusualgifts from a surprisingly blind
providence, gifts that weregranted only once in a hundred
years, more rare even thanmothers.
Mothers the sound of the wordhad a strange effect upon the
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littlest orphan, even when hesaid it silently in his soul.
It meant so much that he didnot comprehend, so much for
which he vaguely hungered.
Mothers stood for warm arms andkisses and soft words.
Mothers meant punishments too,but gentle punishment that did
not really come from way inside.
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Often the littlest orphan hadheard the rest talking
stealthily about mothers.
Some of them could actuallyremember having owned one, but
the littlest orphan could notremember.
He had arrived at the asylum asa baby, delicate and frail and
too young for memories thatwould later come to bless him
and to cause a strange, sharpset of hurt.
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When the rest spoke of bedtimestories and lullabies and sugar
cookies, he listened, why died,and half incredulous, to their
halting sentences.
It was growing very cold in thedormitory and it was dark.
Even the faint flicker of lighthad been taken away.
The littlest orphan wiggled histoes under the cotton blanket
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and wished that sleep would come.
Some nights it came quickly,but this night perhaps he was
overtired and it was so cold.
As a matter of habit his eyessearched through the dark for a
place where the Christ baby hung.
He could not distinguish eventhe dim outlines of the guilt
frame.
But he knew that the Christbaby was rosy and chubby and
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smiling, that his eyes weredeeply blue and filled with
cheer.
Involuntarily, the littlestorphan stretched out his thin
hands and dropped them backagainst the spread.
All about him, the darkness laylike a smothering coat and the
Christ baby, even though hesmiled, was invisible.
The other children weresleeping.
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All up and down the long roomsounded their regular breathing,
but the littlest orphan couldnot sleep.
He wanted something that he wasunable to define.
He wanted it with such aburning intensity that the tears
crowded into his eyes.
He sat up abruptly in his bed,a small, shivering figure with
quivering lips and a baby achein his soul that had never
(13:16):
really known boyhood.
Loneliness, it swept about him,more disheartening than the
cold, more enveloping than thedarkness.
There was no fear in him of theshadows in the corner of the
creaking shutters and the narrowstair.
Such fears are discouragedearly in children who live by
rule and routine.
No, it was a feeling morepoignant than fear, a feeling
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that clutched at him andsqueezed his small body until it
was dry and shaking and void ofexpression.
Of all the sleeping dormitory,the littlest orphan was the only
child who knew the ache of suchloneliness.
Even the little ones who hadbeen torn away from family ties
had, each one of them, somethingbeautiful to keep preciously
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close.
But the littlest orphan hadnothing, nothing.
The loneliness filled him witha strange impulse, an impulse
that sent him sliding over theedge of his bed with small arms
outflung.
All at once he was crossing thefloor on bare mouse, quiet feet
, past the placidly sleepingchildren, past the row of
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lockers, past the table with itsneat cloth and black bound
impressive guestbook, pasteverything, until he stood a
white spot in the blackness,directly under the mantle.
The Christ baby hung above himand though the littlest orphan
could not see, he felt that theblue eyes were looking down
tenderly.
All at once he wanted to touchthe Christ baby, to hold him
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tight, to feel the sweetness andwarmth of him.
Tensely still moved by thecurious impulse, he tiptoed back
to where the table stood.
Carefully he laid the guestbookon the floor.
Carefully he removed the whitecloth and then, staggering under
the to him great weight, hecarried the table noiselessly
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back with him.
Though it was a really lightsmall table, the Lilasdorffin
breathed hard as he set it down.
He had to rest panting for amoment before he could climb up
on it.
All over the room lay silence,broken only by the sleepy sounds
of the children.
The Lilasdorffin listenedalmost prayerfully as he
(15:27):
clambered up on the table topand drew himself to an erect
position.
His small hands, groped alongthe mantle shelf, touched the
lower edges of the golden frame,but the Christ baby was still
out of reach.
Feverishly obsessed with oneidea, the Lilasdorffin raised
himself on tiptoe.
His hands gripped the chillmarble of the mantle, tugging,
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twisting, all with the utmostquiet.
He pulled himself up until hewas kneeling on the mantle shelf
, quivering with nervousness aswell as the now intense cold.
He finally stood erect and then, only then, he was able to feel
the wire and the nail that heldthe Christ baby's frame against
the wall.
His numb fingers loosened thewire carefully and then, at last
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, the picture was in his arms.
It was heavy, the picture, andhard, not soft and warm as he
had somehow expected it to be,but it was the Christ baby.
Nevertheless, holding it close,the Lilasdorffin fell to
speculating upon the ways ofgetting down.
Now that both of his hands wereoccupied, it would be hard to
(16:34):
slide from the mantle to thetable and from table to floor,
with neither sound nor mishap.
His eyes troubled his mouth, awavering line in his pinched
face.
The Lilasdorffin crowded backagainst the wall.
The darkness held.
Now the vague menace of depthDestruction lurked on a single
misstep.
It had been a long way up, itwould be even longer going down,
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and he now had the Christ babyas well as himself to care for
Gingerly.
He advanced one foot over theedge of the mantle and drew it
back sharply.
He almost screamed in suddenterror.
It was as if the dark hadreached out long, bony fingers
to pull him from his place ofsafety.
He wanted to raise his hands tohis face, but he could not
(17:20):
release his hold on the goldenframe.
All at once he realized thathis hands were growing numb with
the cold and that his feet werenumb too.
The minutes dragged by,somewhere a clock struck many
times.
The Lilasdorffin had neverheard the clock strike so many
times at night before he coweredback until it seemed to his
(17:41):
scared small mind that he wouldsink into the wall.
And then, as the clock ceasedstriking, he heard another sound
, a sound that brought dread tohis heart.
It was a step in the hall, aheavy, firm step that, despite
rubber heels, was now clearlyrecognizable.
It would be the matron makingher rounds of the building
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before she went to bed.
As the steps came nearer alongthe hall, as light, soft and
yellow seemed to grow in theplace, it would be the lamp that
she carried in her hand.
The matron reached the door andpeered in and then, with lamp
held high, she entered the roomand her swift glance swept the
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rows of white beds, each but onewith his sleeping occupant, the
Lilasdorffin on the mantle,clutched the Christbaby closer
in his arms and waited.
It seemed to him that hisshivering must shake the room.
He gritted his teethconvulsively as the matron's
eyes found his tumbled empty bed.
Hastily forgetting to be quiet,the woman crossed the room.
(18:45):
She pulled back the spread, theblanket and then, as if drawn
by a magnet, her eyes lifted,traveled across the room and
found the small white figurethat pressed back into the
narrow space.
Her voice was sharper even thanher eyes when she spoke.
John.
She called abruptly and heranger made her forget to be
quiet.
What are you doing up there?
(19:07):
Across the top of the Christbaby's guilt frame, the eyes of
the littlest orphan stared intothe eyes of the matron with
something of a fascination thatone sees in the eyes of a bird,
charmed by a cat or a snake.
In narrow white beds, all overthe room, children were stirring
, pulling themselves, erect,staring.
One child snickered behind asheltering hand.
(19:28):
But the littlest orphan wasconscious only of the matron.
He waited for her to speakagain In a moment.
She did, john, she said, andher voice was burning and yet
chill with rage you are a badboy.
Come down at once.
His eyes blank with sheerfright, his arms clasping the
(19:48):
picture close.
The littlest orphan answeredthe tone of that voice With
quivering lips.
He advanced one foot then theother and stepped into the space
that was the room below.
He was conscious that somechild screamed he himself did
not utter a sound and that thematron started forward.
And then he struck the tableand rolled with it and the
(20:10):
Christ baby's splinteringpicture into the darkness.
The littlest orphan spent thenext day in bed with an aching
head and a wounded heart.
The pain of his bruises did notmake a great difference,
neither did the threats of thematron penetrate his
consciousness.
Only the bare space over themantle mattered, only the blur
(20:31):
of blue and yellow and red uponthe hearth where the pastel had
struck.
Only the knowledge that theChrist baby, the meaning of all
light and happiness, was no moreTroubled him.
There was a pleasant stir aboutthe asylum.
An excited child creeping intothe dormitory told the littlest
orphan that one of the trusteeshad sent a tree and another one
(20:51):
was donating ice cream and thatthere were going to be presents.
But the littlest orphan did noteven smile.
His face was set and drawn.
Dyer punishment waited for himafter his hearths were healed
and there would be no Christbaby to go to for comfort and
cheer.
When the punishment was over,the morning dragged on, miss
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Mace brought his luncheon ofbread and milk and was as kind
to him as she dared to be.
Yet Miss Mace's have been madetimorous by too forceful a world
.
Once during the early afternoonthe matron came in to examine
his bruised head, and once amaid came to rub the colored
stain from the hearth, thelittlest orphan caught his
breath as he watched her.
(21:33):
And then it began to grow darkand the children were brought
upstairs to be washed anddressed in clean blouses for the
entertainment.
They had been warned not totalk with him, and they obeyed,
for there were folks watchingand listening, but even so,
flickers of conversation excitedsmall boy.
Conversation drifted to thelittlest orphan's waiting ears.
Someone had said there was tobe a Santa Claus in a red suit
(21:57):
and a white beard.
Perhaps it was true.
The littlest orphan slid downunder the covers and pulled the
sheet high over his aching head.
He didn't want the rest to knowthat he was crying.
The face washing wasaccomplished swiftly, just as
swiftly where the blousesadjusted to the last high string
and button.
And then the children fileddownstairs and the littlest
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orphan was left alone again.
He pulled himself up gingerlyuntil he sat erect and buried
his face in his hands.
Suddenly, from downstairs camethe sound of music, first the
tiny piano and then the voicesof the children as they sang
Automatically.
The littlest orphan joined inhis voice quavering weakly
(22:39):
through the empty place.
He didn't want to sing.
There was neither rhythm normelody in his heart, but he had
been taught to sing those songsand sing them he must.
First there was old little townof Bethlehem, and then a carol,
and then the one about gold andfrankincense and myrrh Strange
that the words did not meanflowers tonight.
And then there was a hush.
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Perhaps it was a prayer, andthen a burst of clapping and a
jumble of glad cries.
Perhaps that was the SantaClaus.
In his trappings of white andscarlet, the littlest orphans,
tears came like hot rain in histired eyes.
There was a sound in the hall,a rubber-heeled step upon the
bare floor.
The littlest orphan slid downagain under the covers until
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only the bandage on the brow wasat all visible.
When the matron stooped overhim, she could not even glimpse
his eyes.
With a vigorous hand, shejerked aside the covers, sick or
no, she told him you've got tocome downstairs.
Mrs Benchley wants to see theboy who broke her son's memorial
picture.
I'll help you.
With your clothes Trimblingviolently, the littlest orphan
(23:45):
allowed himself to be wedgedinto undies and a blouse and a
pair of coarse dark trousers.
He laced his shoes with fingersthat shook, mingled with fear
and weakness, and then hefollowed the matron out of the
dormitory and through the longhalls with their mocking
festoons of green and red paperand into the assembly room where
the lights were blinding andthe Christmas tree was a blaze
(24:07):
of glory.
The trustee is sad.
At one end of the room, the farend, they were a mass of dark
colors blacks and browns andsomber grays.
Following in the wake of thematron, the Lewis Orphans
stumbled toward them.
Mrs Benchley, would she beathim in front of all the rest?
Would she leap at himaccusingly?
From that dark mass he feltsmaller than he had ever felt
(24:30):
before and more inadequate.
The children were beginning tosing again, but despite their
singing, the matron spoke, notloudly as she did to the
children, but with a curiousdeference.
This is John, mrs Benchley, shesaid, the child who broke the
picture, biting his lips so thathe would not cry out.
The littlest orphan stood inthe vast shadow of the matron.
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He shut his eyes.
Perhaps if this, mrs Benchley,meant to strike him, it would be
best to have his eyes shut.
And then suddenly a voice came,a voice so soft that somehow he
could almost feel the velvettexture of it.
Poor child, said the voice.
He's frightened and ill too.
Come here, john, I won't hurtyou dear.
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Opening his eyes incredulously,the littlest orphan stared past
the matron into the sort of facesmall children dream about
Violet eyed and tender linedperhaps, and sad about the mouth
, and wistful but so sweet.
Graying hair with a bit of awave in it, brushed back from a
broad white brow and slim whitereaching hands.
(25:36):
The littlest orphan wentforward without hesitation.
Something about this lady wasreminiscent of the Christ baby.
As her white hand touched his,tightened on it, he looked up
into her face with the ghost ofa smile.
The children had crowded almostinformally on the other end of
the room toward the tree.
The dark mass of the trusteeswas dissolving, breaking up into
(25:58):
fragments that followed thechildren.
One of the trustees laughedaloud, not at all like an ogre.
A sudden sense of gladnessbegan, for no understandable
reason, to steal across thelittlest orphan's consciousness
Rudely.
The voice of the matron brokein upon it.
I had warned the children, shesaid, not to disturb anything
(26:19):
Last evening before they retired.
John deliberately disobeyed andthe picture is ruined in
consequence.
What do you think we had betterdo about it, mrs Benchley?
For a moment the lady with thedream face did not speak.
She was drawing the littlestorphan nearer until he touched
the satin folds of her blackgown and despite the matron's
(26:39):
voice, he was not afraid.
When, at last, she answered thematron, he did not flinch.
I think she said gently thatI'll ask you to leave us.
I would like to talk with Johnalone.
And as the matron walkedstiffly away down the length of
the room.
She lifted the littlest orphaninto her lap.
I know she said and her voicewas even gentler than it had
(27:02):
been that you didn't mean tobreak the picture, did you, dear
?
Eagerly, the littlest orphananswered oh no, ma'am.
He told her I didn't mean tobreak the Christ's baby.
The woman's arms were about him.
They tightened suddenly.
You're so young, she said,you're such a might of a thing.
I doubt if you could understandwhy I had the picture made, why
(27:25):
I gave it to the home here tobe hung in the dormitory.
My little son was all I hadafter my husband died In his
nursery.
It was such a pretty room had aChrist child picture on the
wall and my boy always loved thepicture and so when he left her
(27:45):
voice faltered.
I had an artist copy it.
I couldn't part with theoriginal and I sent it to a
place where there would be manysmall boys who could enjoy it,
as my son had always.
Her voice broke.
The littlest orphan stared insurprise at the lady's face.
Her violet eyes were mistedlike April blossoms, with a dew
(28:07):
upon them.
Her lips quivered.
Could it be that she too waslonesome and afraid.
His hand crept up until ittouched her soft Cheek.
I loved the Christ baby, hesaid simply.
The lady looked at him With aneffort.
She drowned the quaver in hervoice.
I can't believe.
She said at last that youdestroyed the picture purposely.
(28:30):
No matter what she, her glancerested upon the matron's stiff
figure half a room away.
May think John dear, did youmean to spoil the gift I gave in
my small boy's name?
Oh, I'm sure you didn't.
All day long the littlest orphanhad lived in fear and agony of
soul.
All day long he had known pain,physical pain and the pain of
(28:53):
suspense.
Suddenly he buried his face inthe lady's neck.
He had never known before thatthere was a place in lady's
necks just made for tiny heads,and the tears came Choked by
sobs.
He spoke no, ma'am.
He said I didn't mean to.
It was only because I was coldand lonesome and the bed was big
(29:17):
and all the rest was asleep andthe Christ baby always looked
so pink and glad and warm and Iwanted to take him into my bed
and cuddle close.
He burrowed his head deeperinto the neck so that I wouldn't
be cold anymore or lonesomeanymore.
(29:38):
The lady's arms tightened aboutthe littlest orphan's body until
the pressure almost hurt.
But it was a nice sort of hurt.
It shocked her somehow to feelthe thinness of that body and
her tears fell quiteunrestrained upon the littlest
orphan's bandaged head.
And then all at once she bentover and her lips pressed ever
(29:59):
so tenderly upon the place wherehis cheek almost met her ear.
Not to be cold, she whispered,more to herself than to the
littlest orphan, or lonesomeanymore.
To have the nursery openedagain in the sound of the tiny
feet in the empty rooms, to havethe Christ child smiling down
upon a sleeping little boy, tokiss bruises away again.
(30:21):
Not to be lonesome anymore orcold.
Suddenly she tilted back.
The littlest orphan's head waslooking deep, deep into his
bewildered eyes.
John, she said and his namesounded so different when she
said it how would you like tocome away from here and live in
my house with me?
How would you like to be my boy?
(30:44):
A silence had crept over theother end of the room.
One of the trustees, who wore aclerical collar, had mounted
the platform.
He was reading from the Biblethat visiting ministers read
from on a Sunday.
His voice rang resonant andrich as an organ tone through
the room, for, unto us, a childis born.
(31:05):
He read Unto us, a son is given.
The littlest orphan, with asigh of utter happiness, crowded
closer into the arms that heldhim, and it was Christmas Eve,
the end.
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