. Happy holidays . sunset. What of that, my friend? says Madame,pointing to the cabinet. And the old cure bowshis head. It may be so. God is very good, he saysgently. But he is never quite sure what he maybelieve. On that winter day long ago, Hyacinthe wasquite sure of one thing, and that was that theworkshop was very cold. There was no fire in it,and only one little lamp when the early dark drewon. The tools were so cold they scorched hisfingers, and his feet were so cold he danced clum-sily in the shavings to warm them. He was agreat clumsy boy of fourteen, dark-faced, dull-eyed, and uncared
. Happy holidays . sunset. What of that, my friend? says Madame,pointing to the cabinet. And the old cure bowshis head. It may be so. God is very good, he saysgently. But he is never quite sure what he maybelieve. On that winter day long ago, Hyacinthe wasquite sure of one thing, and that was that theworkshop was very cold. There was no fire in it,and only one little lamp when the early dark drewon. The tools were so cold they scorched hisfingers, and his feet were so cold he danced clum-sily in the shavings to warm them. He was agreat clumsy boy of fourteen, dark-faced, dull-eyed, and uncared-for. He was clumsy because itis impossible to be graceful when you are growingvery fast and have not enough to eat. He wasdull-eyed because all eyes met his unlovingly. u6 Happy Holidays He was uncared-for because no one knew thebeauty of his soul. But his heavy young handscould carve things like birds and flowers per-fectly. On this winter evening he was just won-dering if he might lay aside the tools, and creep. Hyacinthe shambled to the door and opened it home to the cold loft where he slept, when heheard Pierre 1Oreillards voice shouting outside. Be quick, be quick, and open the door, thouimbecile. It is I, thy master. Oui, mon maitre, said Hyacinthe, and heshambled to the door and opened it. Slow worm! cried Pierre, and he cuffedHyacinthe as he passed in. Hyacinthe rubbed Christmas 117 his head and said nothing. He was used to wondered why his master was in the workshopat that time of day instead of drinking brandy atthe Cinq Chateaux. Pierre 1Oreillard had a small, heavy bundleunder his arm, wrapped in sacking, and then inburlap, and then in fine, soft cloths. He laid iton a pile of shavings and unfolded it carefully; anda dim sweetness rilled the dark shed and hungheavily in the thin winter sunbeams. It is a piece of wood, said Hyacinthe in slowsurprise. He knew that such wood had neverbeen in Terminaison. Pierre 1Oreillard rubbed the wood respectfullywith his
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, bookidhappyholiday, bookyear1921
