Dumfries’ minister of the Church of Scotland, retired now
from the pulpit. Such a man would never be wealthy, but he would be
respected. So was his daughter.
Ten years before the beginning of this story,
Margaret Patterson, daughter of the wealthy merchant, had informed
a young man that she would write to him, as he sailed across the
Atlantic to make his fortune in Canada. She had done it as a dare
from her equally silly friends.
She shouldn’t have teased John McPherson like
this. In John’s defense, he hadn’t thought that any gently reared
young lady would ever write to a man not her husband or fiancé.
Youngest son of the disreputable, unwelcome McPhersons, John was
dubious Margaret would reply. He only agreed to her forward scheme
because who doesn’t like to get letters?
Margaret confided in Sally Wilson that she had
no intention of writing to someone as lowly as John McPherson,
which horrified Sally, who did not approve of such casual cruelty.
To spare John further humiliation, she agreed to write in
Margaret’s place, using Margaret’s name.
Who understands the minds of young people? Not
anyone in Scotland, any more than anyone in England. Maybe things
are different in France or Italy, but this is not a story of those
people.
That’s enough to know as this Christmas tale
begins.
***
On a typical day, Sally Wilson found that from
the time she called the village school to order, to the time she
bade her little pupils good day, every minute overflowed with
arithmetic, penmanship, composition, and improving
works.
This day dragged because just before Sally went
outside to call her students in, Margaret Patterson dropped off the
latest letter from John McPherson.
“ I can’t stay,” Margaret said.
“Besides, you are about to call the class to order, and I have so
many details yet to work out for my wedding.” She waved a ringed
hand in Sally’s general vicinity. “Sally, you can’t imagine
everything I have to do!” she tittered behind her glove. “How could
you know? You don’t have a sweetheart.”
Another wave of the ringed hand, and she was
gone in the family carriage, probably to track down a pint each of
eye of newt and toe of frog for the groom’s cake, as Sally’s father
liked to tease.
Sally took the letter, admiring, as always,
John McPherson’s impeccable penmanship. For a man who came from a
rough family, he had somehow absorbed educational truths as well as
life lessons. She remembered him sitting by himself in his poor
clothes, seldom washed, in the vicarage school, the one that had
become the village school where she taught today. No one ever
wanted to sit near him because he reeked. Since her minister father
taught the school, he asked her to befriend the lonely
lad.
And so Sally had become friends enough with
Johnny to know that his mother was dead, leaving no one to see to
the washing, ironing. and mending that all the rackety McPherson
boys lacked. Sally understood why he smelled so vile, and in the
understanding, became a friend.
Had it been ten years since he left Scotland?
Sally swept out her classroom and banked the fire. She glanced at
the well-traveled letter on her desk, putting off the pleasure of
sharing John’s glimpse of a new world, and his own efforts
surviving in that land of snakes and Indians, and even prospering,
if the expensive paper was any indication.
As much as she enjoyed writing to John in
Margaret’s place, Sally felt a twinge of conscience at duping a
well-meaning friend. Ten years older and wiser now, she regretted
pretending she was Margaret in the letters she wrote to John. At
first, she tried to talk about John’s letters to Margaret, but her
friend just waved her hand and said she had no time for someone as
insignificant as John McPherson.
Hardly anyone in Dumfries received letters, and
these were letters from Canada first and the United States now. For
a few years she asked herself why Margaret didn’t at least read
them.
After a
from the pulpit. Such a man would never be wealthy, but he would be
respected. So was his daughter.
Ten years before the beginning of this story,
Margaret Patterson, daughter of the wealthy merchant, had informed
a young man that she would write to him, as he sailed across the
Atlantic to make his fortune in Canada. She had done it as a dare
from her equally silly friends.
She shouldn’t have teased John McPherson like
this. In John’s defense, he hadn’t thought that any gently reared
young lady would ever write to a man not her husband or fiancé.
Youngest son of the disreputable, unwelcome McPhersons, John was
dubious Margaret would reply. He only agreed to her forward scheme
because who doesn’t like to get letters?
Margaret confided in Sally Wilson that she had
no intention of writing to someone as lowly as John McPherson,
which horrified Sally, who did not approve of such casual cruelty.
To spare John further humiliation, she agreed to write in
Margaret’s place, using Margaret’s name.
Who understands the minds of young people? Not
anyone in Scotland, any more than anyone in England. Maybe things
are different in France or Italy, but this is not a story of those
people.
That’s enough to know as this Christmas tale
begins.
***
On a typical day, Sally Wilson found that from
the time she called the village school to order, to the time she
bade her little pupils good day, every minute overflowed with
arithmetic, penmanship, composition, and improving
works.
This day dragged because just before Sally went
outside to call her students in, Margaret Patterson dropped off the
latest letter from John McPherson.
“ I can’t stay,” Margaret said.
“Besides, you are about to call the class to order, and I have so
many details yet to work out for my wedding.” She waved a ringed
hand in Sally’s general vicinity. “Sally, you can’t imagine
everything I have to do!” she tittered behind her glove. “How could
you know? You don’t have a sweetheart.”
Another wave of the ringed hand, and she was
gone in the family carriage, probably to track down a pint each of
eye of newt and toe of frog for the groom’s cake, as Sally’s father
liked to tease.
Sally took the letter, admiring, as always,
John McPherson’s impeccable penmanship. For a man who came from a
rough family, he had somehow absorbed educational truths as well as
life lessons. She remembered him sitting by himself in his poor
clothes, seldom washed, in the vicarage school, the one that had
become the village school where she taught today. No one ever
wanted to sit near him because he reeked. Since her minister father
taught the school, he asked her to befriend the lonely
lad.
And so Sally had become friends enough with
Johnny to know that his mother was dead, leaving no one to see to
the washing, ironing. and mending that all the rackety McPherson
boys lacked. Sally understood why he smelled so vile, and in the
understanding, became a friend.
Had it been ten years since he left Scotland?
Sally swept out her classroom and banked the fire. She glanced at
the well-traveled letter on her desk, putting off the pleasure of
sharing John’s glimpse of a new world, and his own efforts
surviving in that land of snakes and Indians, and even prospering,
if the expensive paper was any indication.
As much as she enjoyed writing to John in
Margaret’s place, Sally felt a twinge of conscience at duping a
well-meaning friend. Ten years older and wiser now, she regretted
pretending she was Margaret in the letters she wrote to John. At
first, she tried to talk about John’s letters to Margaret, but her
friend just waved her hand and said she had no time for someone as
insignificant as John McPherson.
Hardly anyone in Dumfries received letters, and
these were letters from Canada first and the United States now. For
a few years she asked herself why Margaret didn’t at least read
them.
After a
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