Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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x-OUR nnrrrr w inr~i^nm ^ ^^y^-v^nwvtewm* M > .<«»>»> t «•» % »'Ms9ili«Sl»»»M»9)»a!»3iXMt Lominick’s Drug Store «c<t I V !• B V & I y v > r y V y w Periiaps it’s the spirit of good fellowship that prevails in the hearts of everyone. Christmas is the season when each of us feels closer to friends and when we are given an opportunity to wish the best of all good things to those about us. Merry Christmas! Carolina Remnant Store WE WISH YOU A JOYOUS 1 7?=? - V s <( ^ May you experience a Glorious Christmas Season A HOLIDAY RICH IN HAPPINESS AND CONTENTMENT Reagin’s Shoe Shop HMiail)MiMlSs3iM»liilt30s3>s3e»k>i>.St3!»»»>>'’ %% x&ru/ J. Ray Dawkins THE NEWBERRY SUN FRIDAY. Drams are BK YL, OLD SPIRIT ^GERTRUDE awINOERS T N THE streetcar crowded with holiday shoppers Mrs. Weston couldn’t see the couple behind her but their words added to her mount ing despair and fury. Overhead, tinsel-wreathed placards exhorted to buy fur coats, diamonds, perfume. She shut her eyes to them but she could not shut her ears. “That was one swell party last night,” sighed the man. “Oh, boy!” The girl squealed. Mrs. Weston cringed. The high laughter was like the whistle in Puppo, the rubber dog they’d given Harvey Jr. his third Christmas. Puppo had become more than a toy. He still lived in glory, a kind of household god enshrined in the whatnot in Harvey's room. “Love to Puppo,” Harvey ended his letters. Puppo always topped the IO “Lady, you have the wrong angle.” Christmas tree. There’d be no tree this year. It was worse than childish of Harv to want one. She wouldn’t have it. A package had been sent to Harvey Jr. overseas in October, but there’d be no Christmasing at home. Wicked, horrible, thought Mrs. Weston, that people are going through all the old motions of a Merry Christmas. No one has a right to be merry. “You looked super last night,” said the man. "You are super, honey. You’re so beautiful.” Mrs. Weston turned slightly and caught a glimpse of a flat pretty face sur rounded by blond curls. “You rate orchids, honey,” the man wertt on, “and you’re goin’ to have them. The constant ache in Mrs. Weston’s heart sharpened to a stab. For such fools her Harvey was risking his life. Another block of their chatter and Mrs. Weston would say, “The money squandered on orchids, young man, would buy a good many war stamps,” or, “This is no occasion for whoopee.” “Jack thinks the Army is going to get him this time.” It was the girl speaking. “And is he scared!” The woman next her got off and another squeezed in. “Certainly go ing to be a big Christmas,” observed the newcomer cheerfully. “Were you downtown Saturday? Worst jam I ever saw.” “I was not.” Mrs. Weston felt compelled to explain. “I am going to town now only to select a wreath for my mother’s grave.” Behind her the young people were still shrilling about Jack and the Army. “Tell him we’ll give him a farewell party. Tell him if he gets shot he’ll have a pretty nurse.” The man was chortling. “Let’s get off next corner, beautiful. You can buy me a drink.” Liquor, thought Mrs. Weston furi ously. That explained their inces sant giggling over nothing. She raised her voice. “I don’t see now people can think about Christmas. How they can drink and laugh and waste money on silly things. Life is so terrible—” her voice broke. Heav ens, people were staring! “My son— somewhere in the Pacific,” she added hurriedly in a low voice. “I— I’m thinking of him.” She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Lady you have the wrong angle." The man behind her leaned forward. Her eyes met compassionate blue ones in a face curiously pale. “It don’t help your boy any for you to have no Christmas. Be as merry as you can. Like as not he’ll be back, fit as a fiddle—like me.” He -lurched to his feet. Something caught in Mrs. Weston’s throat. He was limping to the door. The car jolted to a stop and the girl thrust a steady little hand un der his arm. Drunk, thought Mrs. Weston, drunk with the joy of be ing alive. She sprang to her feet, without apology pushed through the crowd. “Wait!” But they were getting off. She was halted by the crowds oa the sidewalk. Standing on tiptoe she saw the couple turn in at the dairy bar. A drink. They’d laugh and make love over an ice cream soda. “Merry Christmas, soldier,” she whispered. “Be as merry as you can.” Misty-eyed, she walked to the cor ner rimmed with Christmas trees. “A small tree,” choked Mrs. Weston. She wiped her eyes and picked one up, testing its weight. "It must be strong,” she told the ven dor firmly. “Strong enough to hold up a good sized rubber dog, and— and our spirits.” BUT THIS ( iWAS BRE.AD •.r' ; .Florence m. TAYLOR j D EOPLE on the snow - packed 1 downtown streets were scurrying home. Wretchedly Private Kane hunched his shoulders deeper into his Army coat. It was Christmas Eve—and his last furlough. What should he do with himself? And he didn’t even have a bed. A sign on a door read “Bundles for America,” and he went in. At a desk a woman was warning, “Miss Rigsby, don’t shove the candy into these stockings too hard. The net tears.” “I’m sorry.” Miss Rigsby’s hands fluttered. “I—I guess I don’t do much good.” Private Kane figured she must be seventy. The young woman urged, “You’d better go home now. It’s dark. You’ve helped a lot, really.” She informed Private Kane, "Homes Registry—244 Market Street—will get a room for you.” Then add ed, “Merry Christmas.” At the door he stood looking out. Merry Christmas! That was a laugh. Christmas meant home and he’d never had one. Not that he hadn’t appreciated the orphanage. But he was to be shipped soon and perhaps—perhaps he might never know what a home was like. His Army buddies wore mittens knitted by mothers, sweaters by aunts. They whisked out family pictures, pictures of sweethearts. And he—he had nothing! His chest hurt him, and his cough was harsh. “Liniment’s good for that, sol dier.” It was the little lady. Her black hat sat high on her head. He thought, Her ears will be cold. “Rub your chest and put flannel over it.” Her hands made a darting gesture to push his collar close about his neck. She was the kind who mothered everybody. “You—you could sleep at my house,” she said timidly. “You—maybe have an en gagement first—” What could he lose? But as he “You could sleep at my house,” said. she helped her into a taxi he regretted his impulse to accept. The driver stopped in front of a toy of a house. Snow peaked the fence posts and was like crushed diamonds on the walk. She opened a door into the kitchen, and Private Kane looked around at the fancy lamp with glass prisms, the elegant silver canister on the worn red and white checked tablecloth. “Where’s everyone?” he asked. "I live alone.” Her blue eyes were apologetic. “I told you you’d bet ter go on and have a jolly Christ mas Eve—” He lifted a stove lid on the range. A red glow flickered. He dumped in coal and opened the drafts with an authoritative flip, “it’ll be cozy in no time. Better getcha some coal.” “You shouldn’t have all this trou ble,” she protested. “Trouble!” A wry grin twisted his lips. “Say, don’t take off your coat. We’re going to shop.” Private Kane and Miss Rigsby se lected carefully. He stopped before a fir. “Let’s buy it.” Private Kane smiled as he set his purchases down at the door. “You wait here a min ute.” Of course, he reminded him self, this was only make-believe having a home. Just the crumbs. He had bought her a fleecy blue scarf when he asked her to wait. Back at the house he set the table. The silverware was carved with cherubs. “Gosh, that’s swell hard ware.” After supper they trimmed the tree. “Tinsel’s a little tarnished,” she said. “Oh! The angel!” She held it tenderly. “Pa always fas tened it on the very top.” His eyes lingered on the lamp, the tree, the silverware. Gosh, the quiet of it! Crumbs to remember. “You —could have a room of your own—” she stopped. Then, "If—if you wanted to come back here. After the war, I mean.” She pushed a round fat object into his hand. “It was Pa’s. I want you to have it.” Private Kane sat up. “Me?” he breathed. “Me!” The watch was heavy and solid. He turned it over, observing the grand manner in which it was carved. “Thanks. Aw, gee—” “Merry Christmas," she beamed. “Merry Christmas to you!” Once more his eyes swept the room. Home! Why—this wasn’t crumbs. This was breadl . j ■ v /'/■ SQUARE GROCERY AND THANKS The approaching Holiday Season heralds the end of a busy year for this organization. But, we are not too busy to pause and wish the season's best to our many friends for a MERRY CHRISTMAS. We look forward with confidence in the future. &ic*x... ti3.«tc«««tetsjgic4c«'««tct6<cic!ecictc4ftwrcwtscx. fe iii —