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- Herausgeber: Ali Ribelli Edizioni
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
The moral in this particular tale is about materialism and envy; apparently as relevant to Christmas in the 1800s as it is today. In this case, a poor mother finally succumbs to the pressure and steals, which she soon comes to regret... Another Christmas Classic by Ali Ribelli Edizioni.
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A Stolen Christmas
by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
Contents
A Stolen Christmas
A Stolen Christmas
“I don’t s’pose you air goin’ to do much Christmas over to your house.” Mrs. Luther Ely stood looking over her gate. There was a sweet, hypocritical smile on her little thin red mouth. Her old china blue eyes stared as innocently as a baby’s, although there was a certain hardness in them. Her soft wrinkled cheeks were pink and white with the true blond tints of her youth, which she had never lost. She was now an old woman, but people still looked at her with admiring eyes, and probably would until she died. All her life long her morsel of the world had had in it a sweet savor of admiration, and she had smacked her little feminine lips over it greedily. She expected every one to contribute toward it, even this squat, shabby, defiant old body standing squarely out in the middle of the road. Marg’ret Poole had stopped unwillingly to exchange courtesies with Mrs. Luther Ely. She looked aggressive. She eyed with a sidewise glance the other woman’s pink, smirking face.
“‘Tain’t likely we be,” she said, in a voice which age had made gruff instead of piping. Then she took a step forward.
“Well, we ain’t goin’ to do much,” continued Mrs. Ely, with an air of subdued loftiness. “We air jest goin’ to hev a little Christmas tree for the children. Flora’s goin’ to git a few things. She says there’s a very nice ‘sortment up to White’s.”
Marg’ret gave a kind of affirmative grunt; then she tried to move on, but Mrs. Ely would not let her.
“I dun know as you have noticed our new curtains,” said she.
Had she not! Poor Marg’ret Poole, who had only green paper shades in her own windows, had peeped slyly around the corner of one, and watched mournfully, though not enviously, her opposite neighbor tacking up those elegant Nottingham lace draperies, and finally tying them back with bows of red ribbon.
Marg’ret would have given much to have scouted scornfully the idea, but she was an honest old woman, if not a sweet one.
“Yes, I see ‘em,” said she, shortly.
“Don’t you think they’re pretty?”
“Well ‘nough,” replied Marg’ret, with another honest rigor.
“They cost consider’ble. I told Flora I thought she was kind of extravagant; but then Sam’s airnin’ pretty good wages. I dun know but they may jest as well have things. Them white cotton curtains looked dreadful kind of gone by.”
Marg’ret thought of her green paper ones. She did not hate this other old woman; she at once admired and despised her; and this admiration of one whom she despised made her angry with herself and ashamed. She was never at her ease with Mrs. Luther Ely.
Mrs. Ely had run out of her house on purpose to intercept her and impress her with her latest grandeur — the curtains and the Christmas tree. She was sure of it. Still she looked with fine appreciation at the other’s delicate pinky face, her lace cap adorned with purple ribbons, her black gown with a flounce around the bottom. The gown was rusty, but Marg’ret did not notice that; her own was only a chocolate calico. Black wool of an afternoon was sumptuous to her. She thought how genteel she looked in it. Mrs. Ely still retained her slim, long-waisted effect. Marg’ret had lost every sign of youthful grace; she was solidly square and stout.
