My Only Christmas Card
I was far away from dear old England, as far as a man can go. In the Antipodes people were eating ices and fanning themselves in the shade, and it seemed hard to realise that this sweltering Midsummer weather meant snow and ice in England.
We were lying in Sydney harbour, Christmas Day, and Christmas mails had come, and I shall never forget how my heart thumped against my ribs, as Tom Blake, my chum, clapped me on the back and said, “Stevie, here’s a letter for you; only one, lad, but you don’t want another, it’s her handwriting.” And so it was. Mary Green had been my playmate from a child, and was now the belle of the village, and good as she was beautiful. She could have had lovers by the score but her heart was mine, and safe in my keeping, and her love kept be straight and right, for I wouldn’t do anything that would grieve her.
Tom and I looked at the card together, and read the verses aobut our Saviour’s birth, and talked about my Mary; and Tom, dear old fellow, said “Stevie, perhaps by next Christmas you’ll be married. If all’s well I should like to keep it with you and Mary. And now, lad, we’ll fasten that card into your ditty box, and when we want to get cheered up we’ll have a look at it. You’re a true, faithful boy, Stevie. And I’ll tell Mary it was your Only Christmas Card.”.
Source: Google Books