A Surprise Gift

By Ray Lewis, Corbin City.
Ariana was than nine, her sister Jillian one year older. Each possessed a kindly heart. Cats and kitten responded to them with purr, dogs of every temper issued a wag of tail and birds, normally frightened to flight by human approach, remained at peck and perch in their presence.
When December’s first Saturday arrived, the town’s merchants, in keeping with tradition, put their holiday decorations on display. That night, Ariana and Jillian went early up to their bedroom. There, blanket covered, sitting side by side before a window, they proceeded to look down upon the enchanting sights below.
At first their vision skipped along the strands of colorful bulbs strung across the street until lured away by other shows; the huge candy canes, climbing Rudolphs, adorned trees, ribboned boxes as well as those belle above the bakery’s door that, when jingling, gave the girls the giggles. Ariana, at one point in the evening, having overheard many of the chats taking place on the sidewalk below, said to her sister: “Jilly, it seems mot grownup only care about family and friends at Christmas time.” This remark became the basis of a plan.
The next afternoon, carrying twine, sturdy scissors and cheerful determination, they visited nearby woods. Gathering wild vines, holly branches, twigs of evergreen and pinecones, they formed a wreath of pleasing appearance.
Later, in darkness, they retrieved the wreath and by cautious movement, so as to be unseen, laid it at the front door of the town’s most avoided resident. Vowing to keep their deed secret, the sisters crept home.
Monday morning the sheriff’s office received a call from a woman complaining someone’s wreath was lying on her doorstep. The dispatcher assured her that as soon as a report of a lost wreath was received she would be notified.
Tuesday, the complaining woman received a return call from the sheriff himself. “Ida,” he began. “No one’s called about that wreath. It’s not my business to say but I think it’s a gift for you. Give it some thought. Goodbye.”
Ida went immediately outdoors. Bending down she began stroking the wreath as if it had life. Crying, she struggled saying, “I’m so sorry.”
On Friday, in the back section of the local paper there appeared this message: To you, the unknown giver. Although your name is not attached to your gift, my grateful feelings will ever be attached to you. And while I am prevented from honoring you in person, I am, however, able to honor you in deed. In my now better tomorrows of life, I promise to share with others that rare spirit you have shared with me. Merry Christmas.