I don’t remember where I found the artless little story that is today’s Mailboxes and Old Barns.  It is many years since I began saving it and now the paper is soft and worn,  and the creases in the folds almost let the light through.

This is one of those pieces of paper that never gets filed–it never gets “put away.”  It stays, always, with a very small stack of other papers that I don’t ever put away.  Some of them are bits of my own Mailboxes and Old Barns.

This one is someone else’s Mailbox, someone else’s Old Barn.  I don’t know who the author is but like any MBOB, it tells a simple tale of a simple moment from another place and time  that reveals the cure for those days when it seems that we’re just a hurtin’ all over.

Everything was Christmas-wise.

Yea, there was a flurry of tinsel in the Second-grade Teacher’s hair.  And the tree did glow and shimmer.  It had gold and silver ropes a-swing.  And my wrenched backbone felt as though it were suspended also.

Now I groaned aloud for weariness.  And the Second grade Teacher said, Art thou really sick?

And I answered, Nay, I have only an ache and  a pain plus a hurting-all-over.  Then as we laughed, we heard the patter of small footsteps outside the door.  And I whispered, Some little Eavesdropper can’t wait until the morrow.  And we arose hurriedly and went unto our boarding house.

And the next morning the tree stood breathless with beauty.  And beneath its shining arms were many gifts for the teachers.  Moreover there was much ceremony over the acceptance of these latter gifts.

Now in the rear of the room sat a Lad.  And he had come unto us lately from the mountains.  And to me, his teacher, he always seemed naught but an enormous pair of eloquent brown eyes attached to a set of undernourished arms and legs.  And his blue denim Christmas suit was fearfully and wonderfully made.

And on this day he was the last one to come forward.  And lo, as he approached, I could see his bright red holiday tie somersaulting over the excited little heart beneath.  And he said with a breathless rush of words, I fotched you this.  And the words sounded reckless and extravagent.

Then he slowly opened one grimy hand as though he handled a diamond.  And there within the moist, dirty little palm, lay what had lately been a chocolate-covered pill.  Save that now the brown coating had melted, revealing a pellet of bilious hue.

Now I accepted this gift with solemn gratitude.  But I hid it from all curious eyes.  Yea, I wrapped it in Christmas paper, and hung it near the top of the tree.

And the Lad was pleased.  And he said with quick, shy happiness, You don’t belong to thank me.  And he sidled up closer and whispered, Hit be for thy hurtin-all-over. 

Then straightway I understood whose footsteps we had heard beyond the door.    And suddenly the Lad’s seven small words made the pill of more value than the costly gifts bearing Merry Christmas in gold upon them.  And I marveled that so often the outward covering of a gift gave so little hint of the wealth of love and solicitude within.

Now that night I rehearsed unto the Second-grade Teacher the whole story.  And I withheld not from her sight the pill.  And she laughed merrily and said Dost thou expect this strange remedy to revive thee?

And I chided her, saying, Let no one call this remembrance poor.  For behold it is a Love-cure.  Verily, it hath been prescribed expressly for the worst of all human ailments: A Hurtin’ All Over.