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Cultural Background |
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My Sixth Christmas
Though his parents had tried their best to keep him uniformed of their poverty,a series of strange ¡°coincidences¡±finally led to the narrator¡¯s painful realization of the truth.Read on to find out how a six- year-old experienced this heavy setback.
That fall, before it was discovered that the soles of both my shoes were worn clear through, I still went to Sunday school. And one time the Sunday-school superintendent made speech to all the classes.He said that these were hard times, and that many poor children weren¡¯t getting enough to eat. It was the first time I had heard about it. He asked everybody to bring some food for the poor children next Sunday. I felt very sorry for the poor children.
Also, little envelopes were distributed to all the classes. Each little boy and girl was to bring money for the poor, next Sunday. The pretty Sunday-school teacher explained that we were to write our names, or have our parents write them, up in the left-hand corner of the little envelopes....I told my mother all about it when I came home. And my mother gave me, the next Sunday, a small bag of potatoes to carry to Sunday school. I supposed the poor children¡¯s mothers would make potato soup out of them....Potato soup was good. My father, who was quite a joker, would always say, as if he were surprised, ¡°Ah! I See we have some nourishing potato today!¡± It was so good that we had it every day.
My father was at home all day long and every day, now; and I liked that, even if he was ill-tempered as he
sat reading Grant¡¯s ¡°Memoirs¡±. I had my parents all to myself, too; the others were away. My oldest brother
was in Quincy, and memory does not reveal where the others were: perhaps with relatives in the country.
Talking my small bag of potatoes to Sunday school, I looked around for the poor children; I was disappointed not to see them. I had heard about poor children in stories. But I was told just to put my contribution with the others on the big table in the side room.
I had brought with me the little yellow envelope, with some money in it for the poor children.
My mother had put the money in it and sealed it up. She wouldn¡¯t tell me how much money she had put in it,
but it felt like several dimes. Only she wouldn¡¯t let me write my name on the envelope. I had learned to write my name,
and I was proud of being able to do it. But my mother said firmly , no, I must not write my name on the envelope ;
she didn¡¯t tell me why, On the way to Sunday school I had pressed the envelope against the coins until I could tell
what they were; they weren¡¯t dimes but pennies
When I handed in my envelope, my Sunday-school teacher noticed that my name wasn¡¯t on it, and she gave me a pencil; I could write my own name, she said. So I did. But I was confused because my mother had said not to ; and when I came home, I confessed what I had done. She looked distressed. ¡°I told you not to!¡± she said . But she didn¡¯t explain why....
I didn¡¯t go back to school that fall . My mother said it was because I was sick . I did have a cold the week that school opened; I had been playing in the gutters and had got my feet wet, because there were holes in my shoes. My father cut insoles out of cardboard, and I wore those in my shoes. As long as I had to stay in the house anyway , they were all right.
I stayed cooped up in the house, without any companionship. We didn¡¯t take a Sunday paper any more, but the Barry Adage came every week in the mails; and though I did not read small print, I could see the Santa Clauses and holly wreaths in the advertisements.
There was a calendar in the kitchen. The red days were Sundays and holidays; and that red 25 was Christmas. ( It was on a Monday, and the two red figures would come right together in 1893.) I knew when Sunday was, because I could look out of the window and see the neighbor¡¯s children, all dressed up, going to Sunday school. I knew just when Christmas was going to be.
But there was something queer! My father and mother didn¡¯t say a word about Christmas, And once, when I spoke of it, there was a strange, embarrassed silence; so I didn¡¯t say anything more about it. But I wondered, and was troubled. Why didn¡¯t they say anything about it? Was what I had said I wanted ( memory refuses to supply that detail ) too expensive?
I wasn¡¯t arrogant and talkative now.I was silent and frightened. What was the matter?
Why didn¡¯t my father and mother say anything about Christmas? As the day approached, my chest grew tighter with anxiety.
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