Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily
nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his
father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he
had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing up fast and he needs his
sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I
could manage alone."
"Well, you can't Adam." His mother's voice as brisk, "Besides, he isn't a child
anymore. It's time he took his turn."
"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."
When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had
never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither
his father nor his mother talked about loving their children--they had no time
for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.
Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the
mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly
in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay
for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the
excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his
mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought
something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as
a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.
He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his
father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It
had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He
looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.
"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"
"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."
Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come...
The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a
special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than
four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done.
He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start
the milking he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed
to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn't
sleep too sound.
He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old
watch -- midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.
At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs,
careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him,
sleepy and surprised. It was early for them too.
He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept
thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him,
saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go
to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go get the two big empty milk cans.
But they wouldn't be waiting or empty, they'd be standing in the milk-house,
filled.
"What the--," he could hear his father exclaiming.
He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail,
frothing and fragrant.
Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness
and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head
to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.
"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."
"Aw-right," he said sleepily.
The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his
father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.
The minutes were endless--ten, fifteen, he did not know how many--and he heard
his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.
"Rob!"
"Yes, Dad--"
His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.
"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing by his bed, feeling
for him, pulling away the cover.
"It's for Christmas, Dad!"
He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms
go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.
"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing--"
"Oh, Dad, I want you to know--I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of
their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.
He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas
tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness
and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen
about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.
"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son every year on
Christmas morning, so long as I live.
They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it
alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had
made his first gift of true love.
This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he
loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he
loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were
young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy
of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.
It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born
in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken
love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed
Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down
in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his
love letter to his wife: My dearest love...
