Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

PAGE TWO THE NEWBERRY SUN THURSDAY, DEC. 24, 1953 mule like Clbmtajas'fcr vtmxijbmm dje JBnenkhips' i^e dljerisrlj ani 1&im are ru) like tlje 016 4m6an6 ^rueenes'— )Best CI[ishee for a •e^ SMITH MOTOR CO. & EMPLOYEES NEWBERRY, S. U. By Royce Fields AS WAS his custom during Christmas week of each year, 3eorge Brandon leaned against a pillar in the toy department of the big store, and watched the kiddies. .Vhenever, with a particularly hungry look, a child picked up a toy or eyed one longingly, George raised his hand. This was a signal o the clerk that the price of thr toy was on him. George was no millionaire. It was just that, not having folks ol his own to buy Christmas presents for, he spent his gift money on the kids. It gave him a satisfac tion to see their faces light up. A girl Had entered the store ano was standing by a pillar near the one George was propped against. He had noticed her, with more than casual interest, when she came in. She had a complexion that was the clearest he had ever “I’ll second the boy’s ques tion,” George said. “Just what is going on here?” ieen and, although he couldn’t see .hem at that distance, he would lave bet she had blue eyes. Her bair was shining blonde. When George turned his atten tion back to the toy counter, a little girl, wearing neat but worn clothing, was eyeing a doll almost as large as herself. He raised his hand. With a slightly bewildered expression, the clerk picked up two dolls, wrapped them, and handed them to the child. The actions of the clerk puzzled George. He was certain he had only signaled once. George turned his head to look at the blonde girl again. The girl caught him staring at her and she smiled. A very nice simile. George would have liked to have a smile like that, just for himself, every day. With an effort he brought his gaze back to the toy counter. A small boy was wistfully look ing at a train. George could pic ture the kid at home, on the floor, playing with it. It would be nice to help a boy like that assemble the toy. He raised his hand. This time the clerk seemed more puzzled than ever. He started to reach for the train, then instead, he motioned for George to come to the counter. George had been about to go over, anyway, to see what was behind the man’s strange actions. ‘‘Do you know that blonde girl standing over there by the pillar?” the clerk asked him. ‘‘No,” George told him, “but I’d sure like to. Why?” “Did you notice I gave the little girl two dolls, when you sig naled?” “Why yes,” George answered him, “and I wondered about it. However, I figured you knew the child and she probably had a sis ter that you thought should have a doll too.” “No, that wasn’t the reason.” The toy salesman motioned to the blonde girl. She had been watch ing them with interest and at the clerk’s wave, she came over. “Miss Marvin,” the man behind the counter introduced them, “this is George Brandon. George, this is Joan Marvin. I think all nice people, such as you two, should know each other!” The girl extended her hand { eagerly and George took it just as quickly. He saw that he would have won his bet—her eyes were the bluest of the blue! “Say, what's going on here?” The small boy had turned away from the glistening train and was looking at the trio wonderingly. “I’ll second the bey’s question,” George said. “Just what is going on here?” The salesman laughed. “The rea son I thought you two ought to get together, is that you’re giving me signals on the same kids.” “You see,” he told George, “Miss Marvin made the same ar rangement this year, in regards to giving the kids toys, that you’ve been making for years!” One Christmas, a few years later, Joan Brandon said to her husband, “Remember the Christ mas we met, George?” “Of course,” he answered, “I’ll never forget it. Why?” “Well,” she laughed, “I’d seen you in the store the previous Christmas and it took me a year to figure out that scheme to meet you. One little girl got a double Christmas out of it, anyway!” By Shirley Sargent <<T ABSOLUTELY refuse to cook another Christmas dinner,” Sarah Kilbyo announced firmly, hardly daring to look at her startled husband. But Paul didn’t argue at * all. ‘ We’ll go out,” he agreed, “I’ll bet you spent four or five hours in the kitchen when we had the rela tives for Thanksgiving. You missed all the fun.” “You mean go to a restaurant?” Ten-year-old Peter made the words sound evil. “Guy, who wants to do that?” “I do,” his seven-year-old sister, Jean, rallied unexpectedly. “Then I won’t have to set the table!” Sarah picked up her three-year- old. “Would you like to go to a restaurant for Christmas dinner. Kit?” Kit stared soberly at her. “Do they have drumsticks?” “Sure.” “Okay, I’ll go.” “Looks like you’re outvoted, Peter,” Sarah smiled. “Yes, I do. It won’t be like Christmas to eat out.” “You just like the easy part, son,” Paul said, “and mother has Sarah picked up her three- year-old. “Would you like to go to a restaurant for Christmas dinner, Kit?” all the hard work to do. This year we’ll make it a real holiday for her.” Christmas was on a Thursday and, that afternoon, long after the last exciting package had been opened, the Kilbyos drove to a nearby restaurant. 'Peter looked across the table, “Sure seems funny not to have Uncle Tom an’ the rest of the family with us.” “The ‘rest of the family’ adds up to fifteen people,” Paul remarked dryly, “at $2.50 per plate.” Peter didn’t say any'more, but Sarah knew how he felt. It did seem odd, almost lonesome, to see only five of them around the table and she missed watching Paul carve the turkey. When then- orders came, the turkey slices were already on their plates, al though Kit had his drumstick. “I wanted white meat,” Jean said, “an’ they gave me dark meat!” Quickly, Sarah g^ve Jean some of her white meat. The turkey was good, but the dressing wasn’t near ly as moist as she could make and the gravy seemed a trifle greasy Neither Paul nor Peter ate as much as they would have at home. “Just think,” Sarah said cheer fully, “no dishes to wash and wipe.” “No leftovers either,” Jean com plained. “Yeah, no turkey sandwiches or anything,” Peter growled. “Golly, mom, you could make better pie than this.” ^ “At $2.50 a plate,” Paul said loudly, “and you kids have the nerve to complain!” “Shhh, quiet, dear,” Sarah tried to hush him, “people are looking at us.” “It’s like eating in a goldfish bowl,” he said quietly. Just then Kit’s pie went flying off the table and he let out a howl that echoed around the dining room. Now everybody was looking at them and laughing with Paul and Sarah. But Peter and Jean were blushing, embarrassed to be the center of so much attention— good-natured or not. Only Kit real ly enjoyed the confusion as two waitresses cleaned up the spilled pie and brought him a new piece. A la mode, this time. “Hey, look,” he yelled delight edly, “I get ice cream too!” Again the people at surrounding tables laughed, but Sarah was as redfaced as her children. “Honest ly,” she sputtered, “if I’d known . . .” “Next time,” Paul interrupted grimly, “we’ll get a private dining room.” “Next time, I’m staying home, even if I hafta eat shredded wheat,” Peter said defiantly. Sarah laughed, “There isn’t go ing to be any next time here. Peter was right, it doesn’t seem like Christmas to eat out. There’s nothing to look forward to, nothing left over and it isn’t as good as home cooking. Next time, we’ll have all the relatives at our house.” “But the work,” Paul protested. ‘Oh, nuts to the work. I hardly knew what to do with myself this morning. What do you say, kids?” Jean just grinned, but Peter said, “I say fine, I’ll even help with the dishes.” 1