The sun. [volume] (Newberry, S.C.) 1937-1972, December 26, 1952, Image 16
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It’s the day of grand memories,
this joy-bringing, gift bearing
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Christmas occasion. May it
be one of fullest enjoyment
for you and yours.
’Mf*
BAKER-SUMMER MOTOR CO.
R. B. Baker
C. W. Summer
J. S. Nichols
D. F. Senn
L. E. Kibler
Collier Caldwell
UJitAttif tyou
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(/ The soft glow of tho Christmas
candles signify the warm friend
ships which we have for the
many fine people of this com-
ex
mnnlty whom it has been our
privilege to serve these months
past. May yonr Christmas be
truly happy.
* v
TONE HOME & AUTO SUPPUES
Newberry, S. C.
.a... K :X' ,
THE NEWBERRY SUN
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By Shirley Sargent
S TEVE ROLLED from the bed
where Marge slept and started
toward the living room. The glow
of Christmas tree lights betrayed
the children. Young Stevie—there
was a boy for you—had one hand
in his stocking. Julie was whisper
ing, “Go on, see what’s in it.”
Only Doris, the tall, older one, was
quite still.
Paris turned just as Steve said
“Merry Christmas,” sarcastically.
Young Stevie, with the engaging
grin, whipped around, “Hi, daddy.
Can we open our presents? It’s al
most- daylight.*’
“Daylight, my foot—it’s barely
two.”
“But Santa Claus has already
been here.”
“Bed,” Steve commanded. Steve
and Julie hugged him, leaving
without argument, but there was
defiance plain on Paris’s face.
“Under the tree, dad, I don’t
see anything long and sort of
curved.”
That Paris, an odd one. An
eleven-year-old kid wanting a trom
bone. It beat Steve. “I don’t
either,” he agreed, meeting his
son’s eyes. “Look, you’re too old to
believe in Santa Claus, and too
young to realize how expensive a
trombone is.”
Paris looked down at the
mounds of gaily wrapped packages.
“Okay,” he said in a flat, old-
sounding voice “so I get a couple
of new shirts and Stevie gets . . .”
“Stevies gets what?”
Paris ground his bare foot into
the rug. “Nothin’. I was just
talking.”
“Good night, son,” Steve
watched Paris out of the room be
fore he unplugged the tree lights
and sank into a worn armchair.
Paris was right. Stevie had
everything he’d asked for piled
under the tree. Even an electric
train. Cost a lot to keep a kid
happy these days, but a trombone
. . . Like the one out in the trunk
of the car that was going back to
the store first thing Wednesday
morning. A man made only so
much working in a laundry, trying
to save enough to buy a half in
terest, so Marge went ahead and
bought a Trombone without a by-
your-leave.
First Paris had to have lessons,
then a rented horn to practice on.
Now he wanted one of his own.
Paris, a funny kid. Never listening
to the foptball games like Julie
and even Stevie did. Always wan
dering off for hikes and bringing
home strange, ragamuffin kids.
Happy when he could tinker with
all radios, happier yet when he
could listen to highbrow music.
That stuff. Steve didn’t understand
him and that was a fact. From
“Look, you’re too old to be
lieve in Santa Claus.”
a distance he heard the voices of
carolers and, upstairs, the waver
ing notes of the rented trombone.
That Paris!
PVEN AS STEVE swung up the
stairs, to the attic, he heard
the sureness in the music. At first
Paris had practiced in the attic
by request, but Steve had to hand
it to him. He had worked hard;
two-three hours a day until he
could really play. Looking in on
him now, Steve saw that the
rented instrument gleamed.
“You love to play, don’t you?”
Steve asked.
A smile the like of which Steve
had never seen before crossed his
son’s face. Then, shyly, “Mr. Bax
ter wants me to play in the school
band.”
It was hard to keep his pride
from showing, but Steve only said
heartily, “That’s fine, Paris,” be
fore sending him back to bed.
Steve went downstairs, search
ing under the tree until he found
young Stevie’s electric train. The
box was heavy in his hands as he
considered. Toys didn’t matter too
much to Stevie—he liked active
things, in which a father could
share.
When Steve came back in from
the car, he felt like Santa Claus
as he put the shiny leather case
that was long and sort of curved
under the tree. A trombone for
Pails.
By Anne O’Sullivan
H ESITANT but determined,
Ransome had brought his
fiancee, Hilda, home for Christmas
to his parents’ mountain ranch.
Now, on Christmas Eve, Bridget,
his young school-teaching sister,
and Gloria, his white-collar sister,
sat in the pine-panelled living
room, admiring the yet undeco
rated Christmas tree. And Hilda
seemed to be getting along par
ticularly well with Gloria, the am
bitious, the contemptuous sister
whose city veneer denied her
mountain heritage.
He was the first to stir from the
surprising but comfortable /dark.
“I’ll take care of it, Ma,” he called
toward the kitchen, “probably just
a blown out fuse.”
“Wouldn’t you know it?” Gloria’s
voice rose sharply, eomplainingly.
Pa, armed with a lantern/
stamped in the back door, shed
ding snow as he shook his heavy
jacket off. “Brrr, a real snow
piling easterner, but the animals
are all right.”
“Did you check the fuse box.
Pa?” Ran asked.
“Not much use—the wind prob
ably took care of a transformer.
What’s the matter boy? When you
were living at home we didn’t
even have electricity.”
“Yeah, well, we still got plenty
lanterns around?”
“Long as we got horsesense,
we’ll keep the lanterns ready,” it
was Ma’s turn to laugh. “Likely
our lights’ll be off two-three more
times this winter.”
“We can’t trim the tree. Pa,
when the light string won’t work,”
Gloria sounded petulant, dissatis
fied. Was Hilda disappointed too?
Ran wondered.
“Remember the times we
trimmed the tree with popcorn
balls and all?” Bridget asked.
“Let’s do it tonight, shall we, Ma?”
“Why of course, Pa and I’d get
a sight of pleasure out of that.
How about you, Hilda?”
“I’d like to help.” To Ran she
sounded enthusiastic, but maybe
it was just politeness.
“A sight more work too,” Gloria
pointed out. “Why you won’t
move . . .”
“I’ll need another lantern for the
kitchen. Pa, if I’m to string cran
berries,” Bridget interrupted zest
fully.
R AN KNELT beside the deep fire
place, built by his great
grandfather, to stir the coals. As
a boy he had risked burning him
self to pop corn in a frying pan;
now they had a long-handled pop
per. The angry surge of wind re
assured him in a strange way. He
was at home. Safe and protected.
If only Hilda could share his feel
ing for this place . . .
He leaned on his heels, whis
tling, as the kernels began to pop.
/I
Pl x\ ]
“I wish you’d let me help,”
Hilda said.
“I wish you’d let me help,”
Hilda said, “Bridget sent me in
with a bowl, salt and butter.”
Ran moved aside, finding it nat
ural for Hilda to kneel and work
beside him. Her eyes sparkled and
her face was flushed in the fire
light, but Ran missed his chance
to ask if she were happy when
Bridget summoned them to string
popcorn.
Gloria held up a string of pop
corn. “Not half so pretty as tin
sel.”
“Means more,” Bridget said.
“Seems like popcorn strings have a
special beauty—the kind you can’t
buy.”
Soon the Christmas tree was fes
tooned with strings of popcorn and
cranberries. It looked beautiful to
Ran even before they moved pres
ents underneath. He caught the
satisfaction on everyone’s face,
though Gloria still looked cynical.
Just then Hilda rushed out of the
room and went upstairs. When she
came back, she paused half-shyly
in the doorway, an accordion in her
arms, “I thought you’d have a
piano and, now that the radio’s off,
maybe you’d like some carols? It’s
been such a perfect evening.”
Ran knew then, as he guided her
into the circle and saw the family
make way for her, that Hilda was
one of them and his voice rose ex
ultantly in “O Come All Ye
Faithful.”
111
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1952
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oaat prepare to observe oootber
Seasoa of happiaoss, wo want
to add oar message of good wM
and greetings to tbe citizens of
this commnnity that wo or#
privilogod to coll oar boom
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THE MARKET BASKET
1110 Harrington St. Newberry
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Everywhere we turn we see evidences of tbe joy end
good wil that so greatly endears the Christmas season to all of us.
* >
May this cheerfulness
end warmth remain with yon
tbronghout the
oomnig twelve months,
enr wish for yon end
ODORLESS CLEANERS
1109 Friend St 2 Newberry
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