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Updated: May 25, 2025
"Mary Chavah!" said most of the village, "you're the luckiest woman alive. If a miracle was bound to happen, it'd get itself happened to you." "I don't believe in miracles, though," Mary wrote to Jenny Wing. "These come just natural only we don't know how." "That is miracles," Jenny wrote back. "They do come natural we don't know how."
That kind of got me out of the idea, and then I see all the nonsense of it." "The nonsense?" Jenny repeated. "If you don't like folks, you don't want to give nothing to them or take nothing from them. And if you do like 'em you don't want to have to wait to Christmas to give 'em things. Ain't that so?" Mary Chavah put it. "No," said Jenny; "it ain't. Not a bit so."
"Seems as if we could do a little something to help her get ready, seem's though," Mis' Moran suggested; "I donno what." "I thought I'd slip over after supper and ask her," Mis' Winslow said; "maybe I'd best go now and come back and tell you what she says." Mis' Winslow found Mary Chavah sitting by her pattern bookcase, cutting out a pattern.
But whatever she thought about it, Mary kept in her heart. For it was as if not only Spring, but new life, or some other holy thing were nearer than one thought and had spoken to her, there on the edge of Winter. And Old Trail Town asked itself: "Ain't Mary Chavah the funniest? Look how nice she is about everything and yet you know she won't never keep Christmas at all. No, sir.
Jenny looked past her out the window, somewhere beyond the snow. "They's something else," she added, "it ain't all present giving...." "Nonsense," said Mary Chavah, "take the present trading away from Christmas and see how long it'd last. I was in the City once for Christmas. I'll never forget it never. I never see folks work like the folks worked there. The streets was Bedlam.
"I should think Mary Chavah had enough to do, too," she said, "but she's going to take Lily's little boy. Had you heard?" "No," Ellen said, and stopped shaving silver polish. "He's coming in two weeks," Mis' Winslow imparted; "she told me so herself. She's got his room fixed up with owls on the wall paper. She's bought him a washbasin with a rim of puppies, and a red stocking cap. I saw her."
The first Chavah, Eve, is rightly styled the mother of all living; and a generation or race of men to be living, active, noble in achievement, distinguished in virtues, must issue from a well-spring which vitalises and beautifies and magnifies the spirit and the intellect, as Engannim waters her gardens, and Engedi nourishes her acacias and lotus-plants, and Enshemesh reflects the sun's golden beams the livelong day.
It was in October that Mary Chavah burned over the grass of her lawn, and the flame ran free across the place where in Spring her wild flower bed was made. Two weeks later she had there a great patch of purple violets. And all Old Trail Town, which takes account of its neighbours' flowers, of the migratory birds, of eclipses, and the like, came to see the wonder.
"Bother," thought Mary Chavah, "there's going to be forty nuisances about it that I s'pose I haven't even thought of yet." She stood by the window. She had not lighted the lamp, so the world showed white, not black. Snow makes outdoors look big, she thought. But it was big what a long journey it was to Idaho. Suppose ... something happened to the man he was to travel with.
Ten minutes after Mary Chavah had left her house, every window was lighted, a fire was kindled in the parlour, and neighbours came from the dark and fell to work at the baskets they had brought. It was marvelous what homely cheer arose.
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