“Aunt Bettie, what are you going to put in the pie? For you know everybody must put in something to please grandfather or make him laugh,” asked Alsie, after detailing the plan to the dear old black mammy, who had been grandmother’s maid when she was a young lady in the long years ago.

Aunt Bettie was considerably beyond sixty, but not many young “niggers” could get around as lively as she, and no one, who had ever dined in that household, could doubt her ability to cook the best meal ever brought to a table.

“Nevah you min’, honey Aunt Bettie’ll have somethin’ fur de occasion it’s a shame dat doctah won’t let Captain Gordon hab no pie nor nuthin’, but makes him eat jest dem beat biscuits, when he likes de soft ones so much de best. I’ll be ready, chile, on de day ’fore Christmas, so don’ you worry yourse’f ’bout me.”

“But you mus’n’t make him anything that is bad for him, Aunt Bettie. He can’t eat the plum pudding, and other rich goodies like the rest of us, you know, because he is too ill and the doctor won’t allow it,” answered Alsie anxiously.

“I’ll ’member all dat,” laughed Aunt Bettie reassuringly, as the child departed from the kitchen, but a feeling of sadness came to the faithful old soul as she recalled the festivities of the year before, when Christmas dinner had been prepared for the whole family of children and grandchildren, and the thought of how the dear head of the family had enjoyed that occasion brought tears to her eyes.

Such conversations were being held every day, and the days were passing, too, with astonishing rapidity, just as they always do when one is deeply interested in some absorbing project.

Aunt Alice had been receiving, daily, numerous letters several containing checks and little Alsie’s correspondence had suddenly grown to enormous proportions.

Uncle Dick came in one evening, and slipping a gold piece into his sister’s hand remarked, “I can’t think of a thing for that pie, Alice. I’m sorry to be so stupid, but I’ll have to ask you to take this and see what your clever brain can do with it.”

“O, Dick, it will make a grand ‘plum’ for the pie. I’ll put it in, just in this form, for I want all the money entrusted to me, as agent, to go toward providing for father, comforts and luxuries, such as we might not be able to afford under ordinary circumstances. And yet, it’s almost impossible to know exactly how to spend it just now,” replied Alice. After a little pause she added, “I believe I’ll just put the gold pieces and checks into a little box and label it, ‘Fruit for the Pie.’ My biggest check may truly be termed a peach, and I can convert one or two others into plums and raisins.”

“I think I know of several plums that will be forthcoming if that’s your idea, sis it’s a capital one, too,” answered Dick. “I confess I’m getting quite interested in the contents myself, and two or three times I’ve come near asking about the progress of the pie, before mother, forgetting that she’s to share in the great surprise.”

“O, Dick, do be careful, for we have arranged it all so nicely, and in another week we’ll be making up that pie, so don’t spoil our plans now, for how much more father will enjoy it if his dear little ‘wifey’ shares the pleasure also. And, by the way, Dick, that reminds me of something that must go in for mother. A few days ago, when I was sitting with father, he directed me to get a trifling gift for mother, but with his old-time humor he said, ’I believe the most acceptable gift that I could make Wifey would be all the receipts of the bills that have come in, for the little woman has worried considerably over the number and amounts. I got in a pretty good check several days ago, but I’ll not give any gifts this year the money must go to pay these extra expenses that have been inevitable. I wish you’d see to it that Wifey has as big a bunch as possible of receipted bills. It’s the best I can do this year, and you all understand.’”

“Wasn’t it dear of him, Dick, and who but father would have thought of making a joke of something, which might seem to some, only a trying duty?”

“It just shows us again the sort of manly man father has always been; but Alice, I had an idea that it would be a nice thing to take that little poem father wrote to mother last Christmas the one he presented with his gift and have an illuminated copy made of it for mother’s gift this Christmas. It pleased her so much at the time, and, in this form, it could be framed prettily and hung over her bed. You remember the lines I have them in my pocket now.”

He unfolded the sheet of paper, and handed it to Alice, who read aloud:

MY BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT.

Some two score years, and more ago,
A father gave his child away:
It was a Christmas gift, you know,
Because ’twas done on Christmas Day.

That little maid was given to me;
I took her then for weal or woe.
The years have passed so happily
It does not seem so long ago.

No other gift in any year
Has e’er excelled, or equaled this;
The others evanescent were
While this has shed perennial bliss.

For it has multiplied with time
And added blessings, year by year;
She came to me in youthful prime
And still remains, though in the sere.

Her children, and their children, too,
In number, just about a score,
I count, as blessings, to her due:
May God repeat His gift once more.

My little wifey, always dear,
When Christmas comes, I think back then
And greet you with increasing cheer,
My Christmas Gift, returned again.

“It’s a beautiful idea, Dick, but it won’t do now. There’s too much pathos in it for this occasion. When I read the lines myself, I am blinded with tears, for I realize all too keenly that we may not have him another Christmas. Some time, it may be a great comfort to mother to have it. Keep the idea in mind and work it out some day.”

So the little poem was folded up and laid away for another year.