The Icelandic Canadian - 01.09.2000, Qupperneq 29

Vol. 56 #1
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
27
Frescoed with Angels
Christmas - 1907
by G. Bertha Johnson
reprinted from the Icelandic Canadian Winter 1969, Volume 28 #2
In the valley, between the Duck and
Porcupine hills, the log cabin huddled, rough-
hewn and clay-plastered, sheltered by poplar
and willow. The December drifts piled high
against the zig-zag pole fences, and against
the low barns that sheltered the stock where a
double sleigh with its empty hayrack waited.
In the early morning it was cold—biting
cold, that twentieth day of December, in the
year 1907. The smoke from the tin stovepipe
billowed in the thick white clouds: inside the
cabin was warm, though the single window-
panes were frosted with mystic patterns of
white ice.
"I can't spare the time nor the oxen for a
trip to town. There are three loads of hay to
get for the stock," Daniel said.
He was a big man, gray and whiskered:
and no longer young. Hard work and struggle
had lined his face, and set his mouth in a firm
line.
"If swamp fever hadn't killed our horses,"
Maria sighed.
"No use regretting. We can't change
fate," the man responded. "Perhaps Einar is
going to town and the boy can go with him.
I'll inquire today when I drive by with the hay
load."
"It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the
little one. The others understand, but she's
only five. She still believes in Santa Claus."
"Better that belief be shaken than her
faith in the Holy Child. Tell her the Christmas
story, and her imagination will fresco the
heavens with angels," Daniel smiled.
Already the man was pulling on his long
sheepskin coat, and turning down the squirrel-
skin earmuffs of his cap.
"We can't starve the stock," he added
decisively, letting in a chill gust of winter as
he left the cabin.
"We haven't much to trade for groceries,"
Maria said. "Four dozen eggs, ten pounds of
butter, and I just finished knitting two pairs of
lumberjack mitts. Here is the list, Jon. If we
should have a bit still coming, buy some
Christmas mixtures."
"I have my weasel pelt," the boy said.
Then suddenly feeling very manly, he added,
"We'll have a wonderful Christmas."
Jon was twelve. Snuggled down in the
hay of the sleigh-ox with a buffalo robe
tucked over his threadbare winter garments he
looked very small.
Einar gave the reins a jerk, and they were
away, the runners crunching over the snow,
and the bells jingling, as the Indian ponies,
Molly and Maud, trotted down the lane.
John waved to little Gudda who stood
pressing her nose against a clear spot in the
window-pane to watch them go.
The miles sped by through bush; then
came the meadows, where the horses floun-
dered in drifts, and the wind had no pity.
"I'll buy some little nails, a coloured can-
dle, and something for little Gudda," the boy
planned in his buffalo shelter.
"Maybe the storekeeper will put our gro-
ceries in a big wooden box—then I can make a
sleigh."
Little Gudda sat on the bed hugging her
knees and gazing up at the coloured picture on
the freshly whitewashed log wall. It had come
in the mail when Einar and Jon returned from
town. She had watched in excited expectation
while Sigga unwrapped it.
"Twenty-five Royal Crown Soap
coupons," Sigga said grandly. "And worth
every coupon! I'll make a cardboard frame,
wrapped in blue and pink tissue paper, and
we'll hang it above our cot, little Gudda."
"It's called "St. Cecelia"- See the angels
dropping rosebuds on the organ she is play-
ing."