Her Birthday Dream Part 3
Story posted by Chris Cade | Short Christmas Stories on Nov 20, 2008 in Children's Christmas Stories (If known, the original author is listed below)
Presently they went trooping happily downstairs into the dining-room, and she heard father’s voice say: “Good morning, children; I wish you many happy returns of Marcia’s birthday.”
What did it all mean? Was she going crazy? Or were they just going to surprise her by some novel way of celebrating her birthday? She arose, and with trembling fingers dressed herself hastily, and stole softly down the stairs, and looked into the dining-room. Hush!; father was asking a blessing. He returned thanks for dear Marcia’s birthday, and asked that it should be a happy day for them all. Beside each plate save her own, were various packages; and these were opened amid ejaculations of surprise and pleasure, and sundry hugs and kisses.
After the first burst of happiness had subsided, Marcia braced herself and entered the dining-room, saying with forced gayety: “Good morning, dear ones all.” They looked up with blank, unanswering faces, and said: “Good morning, Marcia”
;that was all. But Marcia’s heart leaped at the recognition of her presence, for she had begun to fear that she was dead, and that it was her spirit that was wandering about.
She stooped and kissed her mother, who murmured abstractedly, “Yes, dear,” never once looking up from the presents she was examining. With a sinking heart she turned away from her mother and went and stood behind her father’s chair, and leaning over whispered in his ear: “Dear father, have you forgotten that this is my birthday?” He answered kindly but absent-mindedly: “Why, daughter, am I likely to forget it with all these tokens around me?”
;and he waved his hand toward the gifts piled around his plate. This was almost more than Marcia could bear, for father was always specially tender and attentive to her on her birthday. She always sat on his knee a while; and he told her what a joy and comfort she was to him, and he always paid her some pretty compliment that made her girlish heart swell with innocent pride, for every girl knows that compliments from one’s father are a little sweeter than any others.
In vain she hung around waiting for some clue to this mysterious, unnatural conduct of the family. They were all absorbed in plans for spending this birthday ;Marcia’s birthday, but no reference whatever was made to what she liked; no one consulted her as to what she wanted to do, or to have done. The boys were going skating in the forenoon; the little girls were to invite four of their friends to help serve the first dinner in the new doll’s house, and in the afternoon father would take them all for an automobile ride into the country to a dear friend’s;all but Marcia, who couldn’t bear to get into an auto since a terrible accident she had been in a few weeks ago. A troop of her girl friends came in, and in a conventional way wished her “many happy returns” of the day; and then proceeded to ignore her, and gave gifts to other members of the family. “It is a wonder,” thought Marcia, bitterly, “that they didn’t have a birthday party for Marcia with Marcia left out.”
And so it went on all through that strange, miserable day; while they were all busy celebrating her birthday, she herself was neglected and ignored as she sat in the quiet house alone in the twilight;for she had no heart to light the gas;just homesick for the personal love which had characterized all her birthdays and all her home life heretofore, there came a timid knock on the door, and as Marcia opened it, there stood little crippled Joe, one of her scholars in the Mission Sunday school. As he saw her, he gave a little exclamation of surprise and delight, and said: “O Miss Marshay! I hearn last night ’twas yer berthday today, an’ I wanted to guv yer suthin’ white, like Mr. Robinson he told us ’bout, don’t yer know?;an’ ‘caus yer has allers
treated me so white;’n';’n’ I didn’t hev nuthin’, ‘n so I axed Him, ye know, what yer telled us
’bout in Sunday school;Jesus; who died on the cross, and who’s allers willin’ to help a poor
feller;an’ I axed Him to help me get suthin’ real nice ‘n’ white fer uer birthday; ‘n I kep’ me eyes peeled all day ‘xpectin’ it, ‘n just now a reel swell feller buyed a paper of me, ‘n then he guv he this here bunch uv white sweet smellin’ posies, ‘thout my sayin’ a word. Here they be, Miss Marshay fer yer. Giminy, teacher, ain’t them purty? An’ O, teacher;He made ‘m in the fust place ‘n had the man guv them to me, ‘n so I reckon He ‘n me’s pardners in this here white gift bizness.” And he held up in his thin, grimy hand a bunch of white, sweet-scented violets.
Also Read Her Birthday Dream [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]
- By Nellie C. King
