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Title: Christmas in Storyland
Author: Various
Editor: Katharine Isabel Bemis
Maud Van Buren
Release date: October 11, 2024 [eBook #74560]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Century Co
Credits: Alan, Charlene Taylor, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTMAS IN STORYLAND ***
CHRISTMAS IN
STORYLAND
EDITED BY
MAUD VAN BUREN
_Librarian Free Public Library
Owatonna, Minnesota_
AND
KATHARINE ISABEL BEMIS
_Co-editor “Thrift and Success,” “Stories of
Patriotism,” “Special Day Pageants,” etc._
[Illustration]
THE CENTURY CO.
_New York & London_
Copyright, 1927, by
THE CENTURY CO.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
PREFATORY NOTE
This anthology grew out of a real need. It has been a happy undertaking
to assemble in one volume so rich and varied a collection of juvenile
Christmas stories for use in the home, the school, and the library.
The editors of this volume hope that boys and girls will count the
hours golden spent in reading “Christmas in Storyland.”
NOTE OF APPRECIATION
The editors of this volume desire to express their deep appreciation
for the kindness and courtesy of authors and publishers who have
granted permission to reprint stories bearing their copyright.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE MAGIC CHRISTMAS GIFT 3
_Frances Margaret Fox_
THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS 8
_Edith Houghton Hooker_
A MONTANA CHRISTMAS 21
_John Clair Minot_
THE SECRET CHRISTMAS TREE 26
_Elsie Singmaster_
HOW OLD MR. LONG-TAIL BECAME A SANTA CLAUS 41
_Harrison Cady_
THE STORY OF THE FIELD OF ANGELS 49
_Florence Morse Kingsley_
SHOPPING WITH GRANDMOTHER MINTON 56
_Daisy Crabbe Curtis_
A MISLAID UNCLE 65
_E. Vinton Blake_
BUNNY FACE AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS 83
_Gertrude A. Kay_
THE CHRISTMAS TREE 105
_Mary Austin_
CHRISTMAS LUCK 117
_Albert Bigelow Paine_
A NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS 129
_Temple Bailey_
DAME QUIMP’S QUEST 141
_Ellen Manly_
WHEN CHRISTMAS CAME AGAIN 151
_Beulah Marie Dix_
THE KING OF THE CHRISTMAS FEAST 163
_Elaine Sterne_
NANCY’S SOUTHERN CHRISTMAS 181
_Harriet Prescott Spofford_
A BOOK FOR JERRY 191
_Sarah Addington_
THE BISHOP AND THE CARDINAL 209
_George Madden Martin_
A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD 221
_A German legend for Christmas Eve as told by
Elizabeth Harrison_
SANDY’S CHRISTMAS 228
_Thomas Travis_
THE LITTLE FIR-TREE 239
_Carolyn Wells_
SIR CLEGES 245
_George Philip Krapp_
CHRISTMAS NIGHT 258
_Selma Lagerlöf_
A QUEER CHRISTMAS 262
_Marian Willard_
A CHRISTMAS FOR TONY 268
_Zona Gale_
THE UNWELCOME GIFT 290
_Julia Burket_
THE STRANGE STORY OF MR. DOG AND MR. BEAR 306
_Mabel Fuller Blodgett_
A BURNT FORK SANTA CLAUS 315
_Elinore Pruitt Stewart_
CHRISTMAS IN STORYLAND
THE MAGIC CHRISTMAS GIFT[1]
_Frances Margaret Fox_
It was late autumn in the north woods, and Beatrice and Josephine
were thinking about Christmas. They liked to think about Christmas:
they liked to talk about it and to sing Christmas songs and to play
Christmas games. Those two little girls had been known to play the game
of Santa Claus filling Christmas stockings on the Fourth of July; and
it was such fun they did not care who laughed.
Beatrice was seven years old and Josephine was nine that particular
autumn day when they climbed to the top of the front gate posts to talk
it over. There was no gate in front of their log cabin, only an opening
where a gate would some day swing on hinges and fasten with a click.
The gate posts were made of big, round logs of cedar, and were almost
two feet taller than the top of the fence. There was a path leading
from the gateway to the front door of the log cabin, and behind the
cabin, and surrounding it on three sides, were the evergreen woods. In
front of the cabin was a wide clearing belonging to the railway.
From early spring until late in the autumn the little girls were in the
habit of climbing on the gate posts to watch the trains go by.
“I suppose if we had lots of money,” said Beatrice from the top of
her gate post, “I suppose we could go to Marquette and buy Christmas
presents for the whole family!”
“But most of all for mother!” added Josephine, happily kicking her feet.
“What should we get mother if we had money and could go traveling?”
Beatrice inquired.
“Well,” answered Josephine, “if we ever have a ride on the cars, and if
we ever go to Marquette with father and our pockets full of money, we’d
buy,--we’d buy,--I don’t know what and you don’t know what!”
At that, the two little girls laughed and laughed until they almost
fell off the gate posts; they liked to sit on the gate posts and laugh.
For a while they talked about the Christmas presents they should like
to make.
“But there should be something special for our mother,” insisted
Josephine.
“Oh,” answered Beatrice, as she happily kicked her feet against her
gate post, “I guess we’ll have to give mother the same old promise we
give her every Christmas, that she will have all the year two little
girls, oh, such good little girls, to help take care of babies and tidy
up the cabin, tra la-la, tra la-la-la!”
After that, until the afternoon train whistled, the merry little girls
kept choosing gifts for all the family, but most of all for mother. But
the minute the train whistled, Beatrice suggested a new game.
“When the train starts puff-puff from the station just round the curve
over there,” said she, “and the wheels begin to turn round slowly, and
the cars come slowly, rumble-rumble, you turn square round facing the
train this way, just like me, and you sing with me this song I am just
thinking up, and we’ll try Christmas magic, like this:
“White magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!”
By the time the passenger train was opposite the little log cabin, the
laughing children were gazing straight toward it, singing over and over
to the rumble of the wheels:
“White magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic,
Christmas magic,
Send our mother a Christmas gift!”
Of course those two little girls away off in the upper peninsula of
Michigan, miles and miles from any town, did not expect a magic
Christmas gift for their mother; they simply had a good time, and
forgot all about their game as soon as it was over and they had climbed
down from their gate posts to go to the pasture after the cows.
But the day before Christmas, when the little cabin was bursting with
Christmas joy and secrets, the postmaster from the settlement called
to see Beatrice and Josephine.... He said he wished to speak with them
alone. There was only one room in the cabin, one big, clean, cheerful
room, and so the little girls climbed into the postmaster’s sleigh and
drove with him beyond sight of the house. Then he said “Whoa!” to his
horses, and without another word he untied a big, flat parcel that
looked like a picture in a frame; and it was a picture in a frame-- a
big picture of two merry-looking little girls, each seated on a gate
post in front of a log-cabin home that had evergreen woods behind it
and a clearing in front.
It was a long time before either child could speak; then Josephine
whispered, “How did it happen?”
“A lady on a passing train who is a stranger to us all,” the postmaster
answered, “took a snapshot of you two, because you looked so happy.
Then she had the picture enlarged and framed and sent it to me to give
to you, so that you might give it to your mother for Christmas. She
said she was sure I would know who you were by the picture; so, as I
thought you would like a big Christmas surprise for your mother, I
asked to see you alone. Now we’ll drive back to the house.”
At last Beatrice found her voice; but “Did you ever!” was all she said,
and “Did you ever!” was all Josephine said, until they remembered to
thank the postmaster for his kindness.
On Christmas Eve the little girls could keep their secret no longer,
and solemnly presented their mother with the magic gift.
Mother cried. Tears of joy rolled down her face when she saw it.
“I never before had a picture of any of you children,” said she, “and I
never expected to, because we live so far from a photographer. And this
is so beautiful! Such happy faces! Oh, it seems too good to be true! It
would not have happened if you were not such good little girls, always
thinking of your mother!”
The next day two joyous little girls danced about the cabin, singing:
“White magic,
Christmas magic,
Brought our mother a Christmas gift!
“Gold magic,
Christmas magic,
Brought our mother a Christmas gift!”
And the two little faces in the picture smiled down upon the happy
family cheerfully, then and ever after.
[1] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December
21, 1916. Reprinted by special permission of the author and “Youth’s
Companion.”
THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS[2]
_Edith Houghton Hooker_
Everybody’s hands were quite full of little pin-pricks from the holly
leaves. Alan and David and little Alice had all been helping with the
Christmas greens, and at last the wreaths were securely fastened on
tiny tacks in the windows, and sprays of holly peeped festively out
from behind each picture. There was a large red paper bell hanging from
the chandelier in the hall for Santa Claus to ring when he came in,
and beside it a sprig of mistletoe, so there would be no embarrassment
about kissing him in case he should be caught.
It was Christmas eve, and we all gathered around the fire to rest
after our labors and to speculate about the prospects for the morrow.
“Suppose he doesn’t come,” surmised David, “or suppose he would bring
us only switches!” The thought was terrifying.
“It all depends on what you deserve,” I answered. “Santa Claus has a
way, you know, of finding out just what each child really ought to get.”
“Well,” said Alan, the skeptic, “there are some who say there isn’t
any Santa Claus--that he’s just a story made up by older people to
amuse the children. I never knew of any one who’d seen him.”
Alice gasped. “You will get only switches, Alan, if you say such
things,” she warned him.
“There are people who deny everything that’s good and true,” I took the
conversation over, “but their lack of faith hurts no one as much as
themselves. Would you like to hear about the old man who denied there
was a Santa Claus and to learn what happened to him?”
“Please, please!” they all cried, and I began the story:
* * * * *
Once upon a time there was an old man whose name was Mr. Grouch, and he
had lived so many years that he could hardly count them. He was little,
and thin, and bent over, and wrinkled, and he had a scraggly little
beard and cross, snapping eyes. He used to carry a big stick that he
would shake at the boys when they laughed at him, and he never had a
smile for anybody. He lived all alone with one crabbed old man-servant
in a vast house, and no one even dared to ring the doorbell.
One Christmas eve I was coming down the street taking gifts around to
some friends, and my mind was full of Christmas. There was a new fall
of snow on the ground and the sleighbells were jingling. Even the busy
shopkeepers seemed to be in the Christmas spirit. Banks of fir-trees
stood on the corners, and every now and then I passed some one proudly
carrying home a tree over his shoulder. All of a sudden, whom should
I see coming toward me but old Mr. Grouch, looking crosser than ever.
He was shaking his stick at the Christmas trees and scowling at the
fat turkeys, and for a moment I was half afraid to speak to him. Still
it seemed too bad not to give the old man the season’s greetings, so
I called out as cheerily as I could--“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr.
Grouch!”
He turned on me, coming quite close and shaking his big stick in my
face, so that he frightened me. “A Merry Nonsense!” he snarled, biting
the words off short. “You should go home and attend to your business,
not go running around wasting your own time and other people’s. This
Merry Christmasing is all nonsense, I tell you, fit only for children
and simpletons. There’s no such person as Santa Claus! It’s all a myth
concocted by idle folk to fool the children.”
I stood quite still, rooted to the spot, in terror lest Santa Claus
should see me in such bad company.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Mr. Grouch!” I finally brought out.
“It’s wicked to deny the spirit of Christmas.”
“Wicked or not wicked,” he retorted, “I say it again--A Merry Nonsense
to you and all your kind!”
He looked so fierce that I hastened on my way without another word, and
as I turned the corner, I still heard him muttering--“A Merry Nonsense!
A Merry Nonsense!”
On he went homeward to his great dreary house, and there he found a
frugal supper laid out by the old man-servant. He ate without appetite
and then went upstairs. Then, after stuffing cotton in his ears and
closing both the windows and the shutters to keep out the music of the
bells and Christmas crackers, he climbed into his large four-poster
bed, and pulling his nightcap down over his head, he went fast asleep.
How long he slept, he never knew, but suddenly he awoke hearing a
strange sound. “_Plump!_” It was over near the fireplace, and there was
a great rush of falling soot and plaster.
Mr. Grouch sat up quickly, scratched a match, and lighted his bedside
candle. He lifted it high and scanned the room, peering out over the
bed-clothes like a strange gnome in his pointed nightcap. He stared at
the fireplace, and there--what do you think he saw? He could scarcely
believe his eyes--and yet, sure enough, it was Santa Claus, dressed all
in ermine and scarlet velvet, red cheeks glowing from the cold, his
white beard glistening with snowflakes. There he stood chuckling softly
and rubbing his hands together, the jolliest possible twinkle in his
kind blue eyes.
“A Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Grouch,” he said in a deep hearty voice.
Mr. Grouch trembled so that the candle wax dripped on his hand. “A
Merry Christmas, Sir,” he said, his voice sounding queer and squeaky.
“Now, Mr. Grouch,” said Santa Claus, smiling broadly, “that doesn’t
sound natural from you. Why don’t you say ‘A Merry Nonsense’? You don’t
believe in Santa Claus, and I know it, and I’ve come here this evening
to give you back your faith--as a Christmas present. Put that candle
down; get out of bed and into your clothes while I count three. My
reindeer will be tired waiting.”
Then you should have seen Mr. Grouch scramble. He popped his thin legs
into his trousers and laced up his boots with shaking fingers; then he
pulled on his greatcoat and wound his long knitted muffler round his
neck just as Santa Claus said three!
“You’ve forgotten your hat,” Santa Claus reminded him, chuckling. And
sure enough, there he stood, the funniest figure you can imagine, still
with his pointed nightcap on his head. He tore off his cap and placed
his old beaver in its stead just as Santa Claus gave him a great boost
that sent him flying up the chimney. Santa followed close after, and
Mr. Grouch could hear him puffing and panting, and digging his boots
into the side of the chimney as he came up behind him.
On top of the house it was all singularly quiet and peaceful. There was
snow everywhere, on all the roofs as far as the eye could reach, and
above was the limitless heaven with the calm stars shining out.
Santa Claus stretched his arm toward the East. “It was there,” he said,
“before I was born, that the wise men saw the Star of Bethlehem.” His
voice was so full and deep that the old man trembled. He looked out
over the great city and saw in a thousand homes the candles burning
for Christmas. A group of singers, strolling by in the street, stopped
and began to sing a Christmas carol. Suddenly the bells rang out from
churches far and near. It was midnight, they were pealing the glad
tidings.
“We must be off,” said Santa Claus; “we are already late; we must be
going.”
Mr. Grouch noticed now for the first time a wonderful little sleigh
drawn by eight reindeer harnessed in pairs together. In it lay Santa
Claus’s great pack, bursting with toys, and candy, and all sorts of joy
for the children. One or two switches which Mr. Grouch saw sticking out
on the top gave him a sense of uneasiness. “Get in, my man, get in!”
commanded Santa Claus, and they leaped into the sleigh. The reindeer
pawed the snow and snorted; then Santa Claus gave them the word and
away they went. Over the housetops and over the trees, on--on--like a
wind through the heavens. The old man clutched his hat down close on
his head and shook with fear as he saw the great city glide by beneath
them. Past the great houses they went and never drew rein. “They’re
rich there,” said Santa Claus; “they have more than they need. We won’t
stop; they’re untrue to the Spirit of Christmas.”
After a time they came to a part of the town where the houses were
all small and wretched-looking. “These are my boys and girls,” said
Santa, as he drew up on the roof of a particularly sorry-looking
little dwelling. The reindeer shook their great horns and their bells
jingled. The old man looked doubtfully at Santa Claus and then at the
little chimney.
“Can we get down?” he asked fearfully.
“It’s the size of their hearts, not the size of their chimneys, that
makes the difference,” answered Santa Claus. “I’ll go first and you
follow.”
He stepped in the chimney and down he went, and then Mr. Grouch stepped
in and down he went, also. The fire was out, and they found themselves
in a tiny little room all cold and wintry. Two little stockings were
hanging by the hearth, long and lank and empty, and in a bed near by,
two little children were sleeping. They were smiling happily as they
slept, dreaming of Christmas morning. Before the empty fireplace a
woman was sitting, dressed all in black. She was slight and small, and
around her thin shoulders she had drawn a shawl to protect herself from
the cold. Here there was no holly, no wreaths in the windows, nothing
at all to suggest Christmas except the unfilled stockings. The little
mother had her eyes fixed on the dead ashes, and her thoughts could not
have been happy for tears were rolling down her cheeks. “Oh, the poor
children!” she whispered to herself, with something very like a sob,
“what will they do in the morning?” She hid her face in her hands and
began to weep bitterly; and it was just at this juncture that Santa
Claus and Mr. Grouch came down the chimney.
“Her husband died two months ago,” whispered Santa Claus to Mr.
Grouch, “and she has nothing in the house for Christmas,--no toys, no
Christmas turkey, no nuts and raisins, nothing at all to fill those
hungry stockings.” A large tear rolled down his cheek. Mr. Grouch
sniffed and looked uneasily at the sleeping children.
“Now,” said Santa Claus, “watch and see what happens.”
While the little widow sobbed on, he took one thing after another out
of his wonderful pack--nuts, raisins, candy canes, a beautiful great
doll with yellow curls and blue eyes that went to sleep, a little
railway-train, a top, a small tea-set, a doll’s chair, and finally,
several pieces of nice warm clothing. Then he proceeded to fill the
stockings with remarkable speed. When they were finished, the doll
was peeping out of one, and the little engine out of the other. Mr.
Grouch thought it was all over; but no, Santa Claus reached far down
into his pack once more and brought out a beautiful Christmas basket.
The fat legs of a turkey were standing out amid cranberries, and sweet
potatoes, and oranges, and apples, and every other sort of good thing
you can imagine.
Santa Claus placed the basket under the stockings, and then poked Mr.
Grouch in the ribs so hard that it made him jump. “Now,” said he,
“watch; for she’ll be looking up.”
And sure enough, in a moment the little widow sighed and raised her
eyes. Then you should have been there to see her. Her poor little face
grew quite pink with joy, she gasped, and her breath came fast with
bewilderment. She rubbed her eyes with her thin hands; she couldn’t
believe it was not a dream. Then she gave a little cry, just between a
sob and a laugh, and fell on her knees before the basket.
She poked the fat turkey and felt deftly between all the other things
until she knew exactly what was in the basket. “We’ll have a beautiful
Christmas dinner, after all,” she said, “even a turkey!” She didn’t
take a thing out of the stockings--just peeped in and felt softly down
the long knobby legs. “I’ll leave them for the children just as he
packed them, the dear saint!” she murmured to herself. She went over
to the children and kissed each one softly; they smiled and wriggled
cosily in their sleep. Then she looked over again at the wonderful
hearthside--it seemed to Mr. Grouch that she looked straight at him,
though of course she couldn’t see him as both he and Santa Claus had
on caps of darkness. Her face was shining with a wonderful light of
love and joy. Her eyes beamed like two stars, and the room seemed to be
filled with a kind of glory. “It’s the blessed spirit of Christmas,”
she whispered brokenly, “come to cheer my fatherless little ones and
me.” Then she knelt down by her little bed, and it was plain that she
was praying.
Santa Claus nodded triumphantly at Mr. Grouch, shaking off another big
tear, and Mr. Grouch returned the look tremulously. He drew a large red
handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped both eyes before speaking.
“Couldn’t we take off our caps of darkness,” he finally whispered,
“and wish her a Merry Christmas?”
“A Merry Nonsense!” said Santa Claus, laughing until his fat sides
shook; “no--we’re not allowed to be seen. ’_Sh-h!_ it’s time to go up
the chimney.”
Up they went into the dark night where the reindeer were waiting for
them. Into the sleigh they jumped and off they started, and, as the
wind whistled by them, Mr. Grouch said: “Santa Claus, I feel I owe you
an apology. When I saw her face--”
Santa Claus interrupted him: “If you’re ready to admit you were wrong,
go out to-morrow and wish every one a Merry Christmas.”
Far, far away they went, out over the rolling sea till they came to
a ship which had had to sail out from port just three days before
Christmas. Down into the forecastle they went, where the sailors were
sadly thinking of their homes, and spread cheer around until each man
wished the other a Merry Christmas.
All the long night they sped over the great world leaving joy behind
them. They visited the children’s hospitals, where little boys and
girls were lying awake, weeping for their mothers, and they quieted
them and touched them with joy, and they slept, forgetful of their
pain and sorrow. They visited sinful men in prison and softened their
hearts, and they stopped at the homes of the rich and bade them
remember their poorer brothers.
It was a night to dream of, such as no one else but Santa Claus can
ever know again, but at last the pink glow of morning showed in the
eastern sky.
“It’s time to be getting home,” said Santa Claus. “We can be seen if
we’re out when the day is dawning.”
In a moment they had landed safely on Mr. Grouch’s roof.
“Good-by,” said Santa Claus, as he politely helped his passenger to
alight and to shake off the snow and start down the chimney, “and
remember, you are never to say you don’t believe in Santa Claus again!”
“Never in all this world!” said Mr. Grouch, in heartfelt tones. “Long
live the spirit of Christmas!” He took off his hat and bowed in an
old-fashioned, ceremonious manner just before the reindeer leaped into
the air and started in the direction of the North Pole.
Mr. Grouch must have slid down the chimney and gone to bed after
that, but in the morning he had forgotten all about that part of the
adventure.
When the sun was high, the old man-servant knocked at the door and
reminded him that breakfast was waiting. Mr. Grouch woke with a start.
“A Merry Christmas to you, Andrew,” he shouted.
The old servant ran almost all the way downstairs with never a word. He
thought his master must be mad, for he had never heard him give that
greeting before in all his thirty years of service.
* * * * *
On Christmas morning I went out to take some toys, to the crippled
children’s hospital, and there, coming down the street, whom should I
see but old Mr. Grouch, a gayly decorated little Christmas tree over
his shoulder, the pockets of his greatcoat bulging with toys and candy,
and behind him, trooping merrily along, an endless chain of boys and
girls, each with a toy and a bag of candy.
I stood stock-still with surprise and waited for the procession to come
up.
“A Merry Christmas to you!” shouted Mr. Grouch, his face glowing from
the crisp air, and all the children called out too, “A Merry Christmas!”
“We’re going to take this tree to some fatherless children,” he said:
“would you like to come along with us?”
When I found my voice, I explained my errand and, quick as a wink, Mr.
Grouch said they would stop at the hospital too, on the way to the
other children. So on we went, all together, and everybody smiled and
beamed and echoed our joy as soon as they saw us.
It must have been merely my imagination, but Mr. Grouch’s voice sounded
to me just like Santa Claus’s as he wished everybody “Merry Christmas!”
He spent the whole day going round from one poor family to another,
taking them toys and good cheer and leaving joy everywhere behind him.
Now the most curious part of the story is yet to come, for, would you
believe it, Mr. Grouch has grown quite fat and jolly as time has gone
by, until now, if you saw him, except for his black coat you would
think he was Santa Claus. He has round red cheeks and a shining white
beard, and his eyes are no longer cross and snapping; they beam upon
every one the whole year round as if they were always saying, “I wish
you a Merry Christmas!”
All of which goes to prove that Santa Claus is just as real as we think
him, for each one of us can show by our own deeds and words the reality
of the Spirit of Christmas.
* * * * *
I stopped.
“Is that all?” asked Alice.
“Yes,” I answered, “the story is finished.”
“And now do you believe in Santa Claus?” said David, looking hard at
Alan.
“Yes,” answered the boy, drawing a long breath. “Let’s go up to
the play-room and get some of our toys together to take to the
hospital children tomorrow. We’ll do it for the sake of the Spirit of
Christmas.”
[2] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”
A MONTANA CHRISTMAS[3]
_John Clair Minot_
David and Florence Payson live with their parents on a ranch in
Montana. The nearest neighbor is a mile away and the nearest town
nearly twenty miles; but that does not mean that they are so much out
of the world as city children may imagine.
Most city children--and most country children, too, for that
matter--count themselves fortunate to have one Christmas a year; but
last year David and Florence Payson had two Christmases, and, moreover,
they are planning a double Christmas again this year. The double
Christmas came about in a very simple way, and it gave them by far the
happiest holiday season that they had ever known.
The first of their two Christmases--and perhaps some of us would call
it their real Christmas--came on Christmas Eve. There was a tree
before the fireplace in the cheery living room, and it was loaded with
good things that Mr. Payson had brought from town a few days before.
Flashing tinsel and rippling streamers; bright flags and sprigs of
crimson holly; golden fruit and candy of all kinds and colors; toys,
toys, toys; books and pictures; things to wear and things to eat; and
then more toys--all these made the tree very beautiful and wonderful to
David and Florence when at last the living-room doors were opened and
they were free to rush in. What a happy Christmas Eve they had then! In
all the wide land there were perhaps no children who had a merrier time
round their tree that night than David and Florence Payson had in the
big living room of their lonely ranch house.
They took very few of the presents from the tree that evening. It was
enough to admire them, and to dance round and round the tree in search
of the treasures hidden among the branches. When the next morning came
they were shouting “Merry Christmas!” before their parents were awake,
and were at the tree as soon as it was light enough to see.
At breakfast David suddenly asked, “Does everyone have Christmas?”
“Everyone?” repeated Mr. Payson. “Well, I’m afraid some have a good
deal more Christmas than others.”
David looked thoughtful. “Do you suppose that family in the log cabin
over behind the bluff has any Christmas at all?”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Mr. Payson, and Mrs. Payson suddenly had the
air of a person who all at once remembers something very important.
David looked hard at his plate, and then he said:
“Perhaps we ought to take Christmas over to them. We have so much that
we can spare a little, can’t we?”
“Of course we can, David,” said his mother promptly. “I’ll fill a big
basket with good things, and you and your father can carry it right
over.”
But before the basket was filled, a very natural thought came to
Florence.
“How can it be Christmas to them without a tree?” she asked.
“They shall have a tree,” said Mr. Payson. “Come, David, we’ll get one
right now.”
David and his father found an axe and hurried off to a clump of small
pines that grew near the river; there Mr. Payson cut down the most
shapely one he could find. When they returned with it, Mrs. Payson and
Florence had two baskets ready instead of one. Into the first basket
they had put food and clothing. Into the second they had put some of
the ornaments and holly that had decorated their own tree, and also a
generous part of the fruit, candy and toys.
“Now we’ll be Santa Claus & Co.,” said Mr. Payson. “David, you and
Florence can ride old Diamond and drag the tree. I’ve tied a rope to
it. I’ll go ahead on General with the baskets.”
That was the way the strange procession set out. There was a light snow
on the ground, but not enough to make travel hard, and the two miles
were soon crossed. General was faster than Diamond, and a little while
before the children reached the cabin they met their father returning.
“I’ve left the baskets on the brow of the hill,” he said. “You can
easily drag them down to the door. You two are really Santa Claus &
Co., you know.”
So, suddenly and without any warning whatever, Christmas came to the
log cabin. The family there had staked out a claim the summer before,
and they had little more than the land itself. There were no signs of
any holiday celebration anywhere about the shabby little place. It was
indeed an amazed man that opened the door to the children’s knock.
“How do you do?” said David. “We’ve brought Christmas!”
“Brought what?” the man said uncertainly.
“We’ve brought Christmas,” repeated David, and he pointed to the tree
and to the two big baskets that he and Florence had dragged down the
slope to the door.
As he spoke, a woman joined the man at the door; three little children
were clinging to her skirts.
“Christmas!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands. “Is this Christmas
Day? I declare, we’d lost track of the days altogether! Why, you
blessed angels, where did you come from?”
“We’re not blessed angels,” said Florence. “We’re Santa Claus & Co.,
and we live on the Payson ranch over on the river.”
“Well, well!” said the man. He began to understand what it all meant.
“Come right in. I’ll tie the horse.”
David and Florence stamped the snow off and went inside, dragging their
gifts. The cabin was so small that they had to cut off the top of the
tree before they could stand it up in the room. Then they all joined
in hanging up the decorations and the gifts. The three children had
said scarcely a word at first, but they grew noisy with happiness as
the tree slowly began to display its wonderful fruit before their eyes.
Perhaps it was the most beautiful Christmas Day that ever came to three
little folk who had not even known that it _was_ Christmas until nearly
noon. And when the big parcels of clothing were taken from the tree and
opened one by one there were tears of happiness in the grown people’s
eyes.
Late that afternoon David and Florence mounted Diamond, waved good-by
and rode back to the ranch.
“Which Christmas celebration was the better?” asked their mother, when
they had told the story of their visit to the log cabin.
“Both were wonderful,” said David, “but somehow we were even happier
there than here.”
“I suppose it was because the first was a getting Christmas and the
second was a giving Christmas,” said Florence.
And in that sage remark Florence showed where the richest happiness of
the Christmas season lies.
[3] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 12,
1918. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”
THE SECRET CHRISTMAS TREE[4]
_Elsie Singmaster_
In the kitchen of the little house on the mountain-side there was only
one sound, the whirring of a sewing-machine. The kitchen was a pleasant
place. There was a glowing fire in the stove, a brightly striped rag
carpet on the floor, and a red cloth on the table. In three of the four
deeply embrasured windows were potted geraniums. By the fourth stood
the machine which whirred so busily.
It was Christmas eve, and if a little shawl and sunbonnet and a little
boy’s overcoat hanging on pegs behind the door were any sign, there
were children in the house. But there was no sign of Christmas; there
were no stockings hung before the fire, there was no tree, there
were no presents. The mother who turned the machine was making men’s
shirts of coarse fabric. To her right on a table lay piles of separate
portions of shirts--sleeves, fronts, bands, cuffs; on the floor to her
left, a great heap of finished garments. Her bent head was motionless;
she was able to shift the material upon which she was working from one
side to the other without moving her shoulders or lifting her eyes, so
that she seemed to work upon an unending seam. She had set herself the
finishing of a certain number of dozen before the New Year, and she had
her task almost finished, though it was only Christmas eve.
By the table sat an old man. He had a bright face and blue eyes; one
would have said he had still a good deal of the energy and strength of
his youth. He was reading the Christmas story in the Bible, but his
eyes strayed often from the page, whose contents he knew by heart, to
the figure by the machine. Once when the left hand swept to the floor
a finished garment he started from his chair. But the right hand was
already gathering together the pieces of another, and he sank back.
When the shrill little clock on the mantel struck eleven and the deft
hand gathered up still another garment, the old man tiptoed to the door
and opened it. He went across the yard and there entered a little shop
and struck a match. Then he exclaimed in joy over the product of his
own hands.
“It’s the handsomest I ever seen!” said he.
Almost filling the little shop, its proud head bent, its wide arms
spread benignantly, stood a Christmas tree, gorgeous, glittering. Each
tiny twig was tipped with a white ball; among the branches hung thick
clusters of golden fruit. There was no other color; the old gentleman
had, it was clear, fine taste in Christmas trees.
Beneath the tree was a village. Into green moss were stuck little
tree-like sprigs of pine; scattered about were miniature houses. Here
a little horse carved out of wood drew a cart; here a flock of sheep
wandered. There was a mill beside a glassy pond--a mill whose wheel,
set in the brook in summer-time, would really turn. On one side of the
garden stood a full-sized sled, upon it a chess-board, both hand-made,
but neatly finished; upon the other side a doll’s cradle with a little
squirrel skin cut neatly for a cover, and two necklaces, one of rose
hips and one of gourd seeds. Before the garden lay another group of
presents--a neatly carved spool-holder and a little pile of skins for
muff or tippet.
It was a beautiful sight even to one who had had no hand in the making.
But now suddenly the old man’s enthusiasm seemed to fail. He shook his
head solemnly and went back to the house.
“I’ll have to tell her soon,” said he. “I’ll have to tell her now.”
Then the clock on the mantel struck twelve, the machine stopped, and
the worker got stiffly to her feet. She was a tall, strong person, with
a sad, preoccupied face. It was difficult to believe that she was the
daughter of the little blue-eyed old man. At once he, too, rose and
laid his book on the table. He looked up at the tall figure as though
he were a little afraid of it.
“Susan,” said he, “are you tired?”
“Yes,” answered Susan.
“Susan,” the old man began with a little gasp, “I wish you’d--” He
looked longingly toward the door which led out toward the little shop.
“You wish I’d what, gran’pap?”
The old man’s courage failed completely.
“I wish you’d go to bed, Susan.”
“I am going,” answered Susan. “Good night, gran’pap.”
When the last sound of Susan’s step had died away, gran’pap put coal on
the fire and blew out the light.
“Oh, my! oh my!” said he. “What will she say when she finds it out?”
Then, slowly, forgetting that the lamp burned in the little shop across
the yard, he climbed the stairs.
It was almost three months since the subject of Christmas had been
broached in the little house. Then, one pleasant October afternoon,
when the children left the main road and turned in at the by-road which
led toward home, they found gran’pap sitting on the fence. He missed
the children, who, dinner-pail and books in hand, walked two miles
to the schoolhouse before half-past eight in the morning and did not
return until half-past four in the afternoon. Thomas could have covered
the distance much more speedily, but little Eliza could not walk fast.
Now in October, the sun was already near its setting.
Gran’pap had a knife in his hand and was whittling something very tiny.
When the children came in sight, he put both knife and handiwork into
his pocket. He greeted them with a cheerful shout, and they smiled at
him and came up slowly. Thomas and Eliza took their pleasures very
soberly. Though gran’pap had lived with them since spring, they were
not yet accustomed to his levity, fascinating as it was.
Eliza took his hand and trotted in a satisfied way beside him. She was
a fat little girl, and her old-fashioned clothes made her look like a
demure person of middle age. Thomas stepped along on the other side,
trying to set each foot as far ahead of the other as gran’pap did.
“Well,” said gran’pap, “here we are!”
“And what,” said Thomas, with a happy skip and a wave of the
dinner-pail, “what are we going to do to-night?”
Gran’pap sniffed the sharp air, which promised frost.
“Wait till you hear the chestnuts rattlin’ Saturday!” said he. “I have
poles ready for beatin’ ’em, and I made each of you a pair of mittens
for hullin’ ’em.”
Saturday’s pleasure, while delectable, was still too far away and too
uncertain for Thomas.
“But to-night, gran’pap, what about to-night?”
“To-night,” said gran’pap, solemnly, having approached the greater joy
through the less, “to-night we make our plans for Christmas!”
“For Christmas?” said Thomas and Eliza together.
“Why, you act as though you never seen or heard of Christmas!” mocked
the old man. “As though you were heathen!”
“We haven’t seen Christmas,” said the little girl.
“I did once,” corrected Thomas. “There was a tree with bright gold
things on it and lights. We had it in the house. I guess ’Lizie
couldn’t remember; she was very little.” He drew closer to the old man
and spoke in a low tone, “He was here still.”
“But last Christmas and the Christmas before. You had a tree then?”
“No,” insisted the little boy.
“Why, there’s trees in plenty!” cried gran’pap. “But perhaps,” added
he, hurriedly, “perhaps she couldn’t get any one to cut it for her. But
you had presents!”
“The Snyder children had a present,” said little Eliza. “It was a sled,
Sandy Claus brought it.”
“But _you_ had presents,” insisted gran’pap.
“No,” said Thomas and Eliza together.
“I guess she was very busy,” said gran’pap, with a frown. Then face and
voice brightened. “But this year I’m on hand to cut the tree and I’m on
hand to trim the tree.”
The children looked up at him. It was clear that they had not entire
faith in gran’pap’s powers.
“And presents,” continued gran’pap. “If you could have your choice of
presents, what would you like to have?”
“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.
“I would like--” Little Eliza gave a long, long sigh--“I would like a
locket. I saw one in a picture.”
“I do not know what you will get,” said the old man, “but you will get
something.”
Then gran’pap hurried his own steps and theirs.
“She’ll be lookin’ for us, children. Mooley’s to be milked and wood’s
to be fetched.”
Further progress was swift, for the road descended sharply. Under
the shelter of a small cliff-like elevation stood the little house,
startlingly white in the thickening darkness. It was a lonely place,
entirely out of sight of other houses. Though it was protected from the
coldest of the winter winds, it was not out of reach of their mournful
sound.
From the kitchen window a bright light shone. Susan lit the lamp by her
machine early. They could see her head and shoulders plainly as she
bent over her work. At sight of her gran’pap and the children became
silent.
“She’s always busy,” said gran’pap, after a moment. “She’s wonderful,
she is.”
Thomas and Eliza made no answer. They had had no experience with a
mother who was not perpetually busy. Gran’pap began to whistle, as
though to warn her of their presence, and she lifted her head and
looked out into the dusk. Her face, now as always intensely grave and
preoccupied, brightened a little. The company of a grown person must
have been a blessing in this quiet spot. For three years Susan had
lived here alone with her children.
Gran’pap did not go at once into the house, but took from the bench
beside the door a large milk-pail and went to the barn. The children
followed him, and stood just inside the door, listening to the milk
rattling into the pail. Gran’pap talked to Mooley, complimenting her
upon her sleek coat and her beautiful eyes, upon her gentleness,
and upon the abundance of her milk. When he had finished, he and
the children went into the house together. Thomas took off his cap
and Eliza her shawl and sunbonnet, and gran’pap hung them up on
the high pegs. Then he looked sorrowfully at the figure before the
sewing-machine.
“Ain’t you stopping yet, Susan?”
“I must make one more,” came the answer from the bent head. “The man
comes to fetch them to-morrow.”
“But not till afternoon, Susan, and see all you have done!”
Susan made no answer. Stepping quietly, gran’pap poured the milk into
crocks, and carried the crocks into the cellar. When he returned,
he gave the fire a little shake and began to get supper. He set the
table and cut the potatoes and meat for stew, and put the stew on the
stove. As he sliced the onion he made queer grimaces to amuse Thomas
and Eliza. When a savory odor began to rise, the figure at the machine
turned.
“You needn’t ’a’ done that, gran’pap!”
“Oh, yes, Susan. Now when you’re done, supper’ll be ready.”
The machine whirred a little faster, the hands moved a little more
swiftly. The sleeves of a shirt were added to the body, the band was
put in place. Once Susan sighed, but so quickly did the whirring sound
begin once more that the sigh reached the ears of no one but herself.
The two children sat, meanwhile, upon the settle, their school-books in
their hands. But they did not study. They pondered upon what gran’pap
had said. Gran’pap had brought many miracles to pass. It was possible
that he would bring this heavenly one to pass also. Sometimes they
whispered to each other.
When the whirring machine stopped and the mother pushed back her chair,
gran’pap announced the feast ready. Susan carried the lamp from the
machine to the table. She looked wretchedly tired. She rubbed her hand
across her forehead, and when she sat down at the table she shielded
her eyes from the light.
For once the children did not see that she was tired, for once they
burst without thought into speech. Gran’pap’s promise had intoxicated
them.
“Gran’pap says we will have a Christmas,” said Thomas, before he had
lifted his spoon.
“With a big tree. He will cut it.”
“And with presents,” said Eliza.
“I would like a gun,” said Thomas.
“And I a locket,” said Eliza.
The mother shivered. She put her hands again to her forehead and closed
her eyes.
“No,” said she. “There will be no Christmas.”
“But, Susan--”
Susan looked straight at her father. Her answer was final, but it was
not rude; it sounded cruel, but the old man was neither hurt nor
offended.
“This is my house, father. There can be no tree and no presents. I
cannot stand a tree, and I have no money for presents.”
The old man uttered a single “But”--then he said no more. The faces
of Thomas and Eliza dropped, but they said nothing. After a while
they looked furtively at their grandfather, as though to see how this
correcting of his plans affected him. When they saw that tears dropped
from his eyes, they looked down upon their plates.
But grandfather was not long sad. He helped Susan to clear the table,
then he sat down with the children. When they had finished their sums
and had learned their spelling lesson and had read--toes on the stripe
in the carpet, backs straight, books held in a prescribed manner--their
reading lessons, he drew animals for them and cut rows of soldiers for
Thomas and babies for Eliza. Their mother folded the shirts she had
finished, laid fresh work on the machine for the morning, and sewed for
an hour by hand on a dress for Eliza. Then she bade the children go to
bed.
“Are you going to sit up, gran’pap?” she asked, gently.
“A little,” said gran’pap.
“Good-night,” said Susan.
Gran’pap sat by the table for a long time, his head on his hand.
Gradually the expression of his face changed from sadness to a grim yet
tender determination.
“We will see,” said he aloud.
Then he read a chapter in his Bible and went to bed.
On Saturday gran’pap and the children went chestnutting. Their luck
was amazing. After enough chestnuts had been reserved to supply the
family’s most extensive needs, there were ten quarts to be sold. With
the money they bought ten spools of thread for Susan.
“You’ll get more for your work if you don’t have to pay your money for
thread,” said gran’pap.
Susan gave a little gasp. One who did not know her might have thought
that she was about to cry. But Susan never cried.
“You oughtn’t to have spent your money for me,” she said.
If gran’pap was disappointed or grieved because Susan had said that
the children could have no Christmas, he did not show it. He kept the
wood-box full, he drove Mooley along the roadside to find a little
late grass, and he heard the children say their lessons. When he was
not thus occupied, he was in his little shop across the yard. Thither
he had brought from his old home a jig-saw, a small turning lathe, and
sundry other carpenter tools. He had here a little stove, and here on
stormy days he worked. On pleasant days he made repairs to the house
and barn, so that they should be winter-tight.
“The squirrels have thick coats,” said he. “Look out for cold weather!”
As a matter of fact, gran’pap disregarded entirely his daughter’s
prohibition. When the children were at school and late at night,
gran’pap was at work. He carved the animals for the garden and made the
little houses and the cradle and the chessboard, and he gilded walnuts
and hickory nuts to hang upon the tree, and popped the corn to make
the little balls for the finishing of each branch. It was a long task;
gran’pap often sat up half the night. Sometimes he worked in hope,
sometimes in despair.
“When she sees it in its grandeur, she will feel different,” said he
when he was hopeful.
“Trouble’s got fixed on her mind,” said he when he despaired. “Perhaps
she can’t change any more.”
“But I’ll try”--this was the invariable conclusion of grandfather’s
meditations. “For the sake of her and these children, I’ll try.”
Several times gran’pap was almost caught. The odor of popcorn was
sniffed by Thomas and Eliza, returning a little earlier than usual from
school, and a large supply had to be handed over to them. A spot of
gilding on gran’pap’s coat was explained with difficulty. For the last
days after the great tree had been dragged into the shop and set up
gran’pap was in constant fear.
“On Christmas eve, after those children are in bed, I’ll take her
over,” planned gran’pap. “I’ll have a light burning. When she sees the
tree, she’ll feel different.”
But now Christmas eve was past and Susan had not been led to the
little shop. Susan had gone to her room and gran’pap had gone to his
and Christmas morning was almost at hand. Gran’pap had never been so
miserable.
“She’ll never forgive me,” said he, as he lay down upon his bed and
looked up at the stars. “Oh, dear! oh dear!”
At two o’clock gran’pap woke, conscious of a disturbance of mind.
He lay for a moment thinking of Susan, then he realized that it was
another uneasiness which had disturbed him.
“I left that light burning!” said he, as he sprang out of bed.
He dressed quickly, and went down the stairs into the kitchen. To his
consternation the door stood ajar.
“Burglars!” said gran’pap. Then gran’pap stood still. The shop was on
the side of Susan’s room; he saw in the dim firelight that Susan’s
shawl was gone from its hook.
“Oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap, as he made his way across the yard.
Then he came to another abrupt pause in his progress. He heard a sound,
a strange sound, the sound of crying. He tiptoed closer to the door of
the shop. Within sat Susan upon a low bench, her head bent low, her
hands across her face. He could see her shoulders heave, he could hear
the pitiful sound of her sobbing.
Gran’pap was in despair. He did not know what he should do, whether he
should go forward or back. It was evident at least that his plan had
not been successful.
“She’s never cried before,” said he.
Then, seeing Susan rise, he took a middle course and stepped into the
shadow of the little building. Susan did not give another glance at the
beautiful tree with its out-stretched arms; she went across the yard,
still crying, and into the house.
“She even forgot to lock the door,” said gran’pap, as he went into the
shop.
He stood for a moment and looked at the tree.
“We can keep the door locked,” said he, mournfully. “I can give ’em the
things another time. Perhaps she would let me give ’em each one thing
this morning.”
Then gran’pap heard a stir, the sound of a footstep, the rustle of
approaching skirts. He turned and faced the door.
“Susan!” said he.
It was Susan come back, Susan with a burden in her arms. She looked at
her father with a start. Her face was different. It was suddenly clear
that she had been a beautiful girl. She laid her burden upon the little
bench.
“Here is a little rifle that was his father’s,” said she. “And here is
a little chain and locket that was mine. You put them under the tree,
gran’pap.”
“Oh, Susan!” said the old man.
But Susan was already at the door. There she turned and looked back.
Again she was crying, but she was smiling, too. It was plain that for
Susan the worst of grief was past.
“Merry Christmas, gran’pap!” said she. “You’d better go to bed.”
“Same to you!” faltered gran’pap.
Then he took the little rifle and the chain and locket in his hands and
hugged them to his breast.
“Oh my! oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap. “What will those children do!”
[4] By permission of the author and the “Outlook.”
HOW OLD MR. LONG-TAIL BECAME A SANTA CLAUS[5]
_Harrison Cady_
“No, sir-ree, you don’t catch me giving anything to Christmas charity.
No, sir-ree! It’s all nonsense anyway,” said old Mr. Long-Tail as he
slammed his door shut with a great bang right in the face of a startled
snowbird who had called to solicit a contribution for the Christmas
fund for the poor and needy.
Then with a frown he turned, drawing his old padded dressing gown more
closely about him, and hobbled over to his large easy-chair before the
blazing fire. Seating himself among its cushions he proceeded to pour
out a steaming bowl of broth from a copper pot and to help himself to a
bit of toast from a trivet before the fire.
“Ha, ha!” he squeaked. “This is pretty snug,” and his lips curled into
a satisfied smile as he glanced over to where the boisterous snowflakes
were dashing against the window pane.
“Who-o-o! Who-o-o!” whistled the cold North Wind as it rattled the
shutters.
“Crackety-crackety,” answered back the leaping flames in the grate with
a merry shower of sparks.
Yes, Mr. Long-Tail was snug--very, very snug. His comfortable little
house fairly glowed with warmth, and its pantry shelves sagged under
their weight of good things. So, on this cold winter’s day, the
Day-Before-Christmas, he of all the many forest folk could afford to
scoff and shoo away unwelcome callers. For why should he worry about
the needy and the cold? His shelves were full and his fire was warm.
Besides, did he not have many storehouses filled to overflowing?
But many there were in the great world who were not as free from worry
as Mr. Long-Tail. Many days of heavy storms and cruel winds had drifted
the snow and covered fields and forests alike with a thick white
mantle which, freezing, had made it almost impossible for many little
creatures to reach their hidden stores or to find a stray berry.
For weeks past they had been watching and waiting in the hope of better
weather. Christmas was drawing near, and they had planned a grand
celebration around a great fir tree which grew on a lofty knoll at the
very edge of the forest. They had planned to trim it from top to bottom
with long garlands of holly, while myriads of blazing candles would
glisten and sparkle as they shed their light upon boughs heavily laden
with presents.
Then one day came Bad Weather, and with him a great blizzard which
howled and shrieked and added huge drifts of snow. The little forest
people looked out from their windows to see the blizzard imps dancing
in glee, and as days went by they slowly gave up hope of the great
Christmas celebration. Many tiny creatures watched their storehouses
of provisions gradually disappear under the snow, and each day saw the
list of the needy increase.
So the Day-Before-Christmas found every little eye carrying a look of
worry and every little voice sobbed: “We can do but little for this
Christmas, and that only for the very poor,” all but old Mr. Long-Tail.
His eyes held no look of worry. He was in a class by himself, for, as
sometimes happens, not any of his storehouses were buried and every
snowflake that fell before his door seemed to be instantly whisked away
by the North Wind.
And so he sat before his fire and drank his broth and wheezed in his
most disagreeable voice: “Christmas! Bah! I’ll have none of it!”
For to explain: Old Mr. Long-Tail was a rat, and a very miserly one at
that. In fact, he traced his pedigree directly back to the great family
of Miser Rats, who had a habit of gathering hoards of curious things
and tucking them away in funny little storehouses where one could find
everything from an old button to a bit of brightly colored glass, along
with queer dried roots and vegetables. Old Mr. Long-Tail had lived a
long time and, as he had likewise inherited the family traits, his
storehouses were many.
So he sat all alone the Day-Before-Christmas, buried in his great
armchair, and thought only of how very comfortable he was--he, the very
richest creature in the great forest. But old Mr. Long-Tail was not
happy, for with all his great riches there was one thing more he longed
for--that was a certain kind of yellow corn, and that corn was hidden
away in a certain corn bin in a certain old barn a goodly distance away.
“Ah! If I only had a little of that fine corn for my Christmas dinner,”
sighed old Mr. Long-Tail, for secretly he did intend to celebrate
Christmas Day, but all by himself.
Finally he went to the window and peered out. “Whew! It’s a pretty
rough day, but I believe I might make it,” he exclaimed as he drew on
his big coat and wound his woolen scarf about his neck. Then he threw
an empty sack over his shoulder and, buckling on a pair of snowshoes,
headed straight for that distant barn.
Reaching it after a very long and difficult trip, he removed his
snowshoes and crawled under the old building until he came to a
convenient crack in the floor, and raising himself carefully he crept
noiselessly within. Everything was silent and deserted except for the
groaning of the wind about the eaves. Mr. Long-Tail lost no time in
getting across the floor to a large wooden bin beside the wall, and he
sped quickly along its side until he came to an opening, and then, with
a hurried look over his shoulder, he stepped inside--not inside the
bin, but right into a large box trap, the cover of which dropped with a
thunderous clap, and old Mr. Long-Tail found himself a prisoner.
It was all so sudden and unexpected that it quite took his breath away.
He tried to find a way of escape, but there was no escape for old Mr.
Long-Tail. Exhausted, he crouched down and moaned, “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
I’m caught! I’m caught!” and his falling tears went splash as they fell
on the floor of his prison.
Yes, he was caught, and caught so well that unless something unforeseen
happened he was doomed to spend his Christmas Day in that box trap.
Poor old Mr. Long-Tail, who had planned to celebrate all alone with a
delicious feast!
One hour passed; then another; then many more followed, and Mr.
Long-Tail commenced to feel cold and hungry--yes, hungry right in that
terrible trap in that well-filled corn bin. He shivered and shivered
until the old box trap fairly made the corn rattle.
“Hush! Hush! What’s that?” whispered one little snowbird to another as
they huddled under the eaves of the old barn. “I hear sumfin.”
Just then old Mr. Long-Tail gave a low moan.
“Whew!--Someone is in distress,” cried the little snowbirds together as
they cocked their heads to one side and listened.
Again came a moan.
“Whew! Some poor soul is in distress and we must help him.”
And those two little snowbirds spread their wings and went whirling
down to a window sill, and finding a broken pane they poked their heads
in and listened until they heard the sob again.
Then they both peeped loudly: “Who’s there?”
Faintly from the bin came a plaintive cry: “Help! Help! It’s me, poor
Mr. Long-Tail.”
The two little snowbirds without hesitation flew right into the old
barn and commenced to investigate.
“It’s old Mr. Long-Tail all right,” said one as he spied the tip of
the rat’s tail protruding from the end of the box. “Oh! So you are the
crabbed old fellow who shooed us away from your door this morning,”
said the other upon recognizing Mr. Long-Tail’s voice.
Mr. Long-Tail sobbed: “Set me free, and anything I own is yours.”
“We are going to set you free all right,” cried the little birds, “but
we don’t want anything of yours. No, sir. We only accept presents from
willing givers, and just to show you, we are going to return good for
evil.” And straightway they began to dig those yellow ears of corn from
under the old box trap. Suddenly it fell on its side and the cover
opened enough for Mr. Long-Tail to slip out. He didn’t stop, and he
didn’t even thank those little snowbirds for saving his life. No. He
only ran just as fast as his legs would carry him straight for his home.
“My! That was a narrow escape,” he puffed as he bolted his heavy door.
“You don’t catch me leaving this snug little house again”; and he
stirred the fire and dropped down into his big easy-chair.
For a long, long time he sat and looked into the crackling flames
as they danced and leaped up the chimney. Then gradually old
Mr. Long-Tail commenced to see strange shapes. Curious visions
appeared--visions new and strange; and along with them came troubling
thoughts, and, do all he could, he couldn’t shut them out.
As the flames danced they shaped themselves into weird pictures of
huddled creatures bent with cold and hunger, as they drew their cloaks
about them. He could hear the roar of the winter tempest; he saw lines
of empty stockings and heard plaintive calls for food. Then he saw a
score of rich storehouses filled to overflowing, with doors heavily
barred, while before them walked a grotesque figure, and that figure
was turning away groups of starving forest folk. And, last of all,
he saw two tiny snowbirds helping someone out of a trap, someone
who whined and whimpered and cried: “Help! Help! It’s me, poor Mr.
Long-Tail.”
This was too much for him. He jumped suddenly to his feet and cried:
“That’s me, a mean old miser, who does nothing for anyone but himself.
The poor and needy I turn away, and I don’t even thank those who save
my life--me, poor old Miser Long-Tail.”
Ashamed and humbled he sat down again and remained motionless for a
long, long time. Then, with a sudden cry of joy, he jumped to his feet
and looked at the clock.
“Hurrah! There’s yet time. There are still a few hours left,” he cried
as he drew on his coat and, gathering a pile of empty bags together, he
disappeared into the night.
The Night-Before-Christmas! That magic hour of all the year when Santa
Claus, behind his team of reindeer steeds, rides hither and thither
from one chimney top to another. But on this particular night the
little creatures of the great forest had given up all hope of any
Christmas visitor and were huddled in their beds for warmth. They
were fast asleep, dreaming their troubled dreams of empty shelves and
stockings. Outside the great world lay covered with ice and snow, for
the blizzard had gone on its way and a cold winter moon shone on the
hanging icicles.
Then suddenly there came, at the exact hour of twelve, the ringing of a
bell. The little people awoke with a start and in excited voices cried:
“It’s a Christmas bell! It’s a Christmas bell!”
In a flash they were out of their beds, and, hurriedly dressing, they
scampered toward the echoing bell.
And what do you suppose they saw?
A smiling old rat, who, with the aid of his long tail, was ringing the
bell! While before him on the ground was spread a wonderful collection
of Christmas gifts, and above all was the sign:
PEACE ON EARTH
AND GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN
A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!
FROM MR. LONG-TAIL.
[5] Reprinted by permission of the author and the “Ladies’ Home
Journal.”
THE STORY OF THE FIELD OF ANGELS[6]
_Florence Morse Kingsley_
In the deep valley below Bethlehem an undulating meadow stretches east
and west, its grass starred thick with blossoms in the days after the
autumn rains. The villagers call it the Field of Angels, though to some
it is known as the Place of the Star. In the days of the Cæsars the
turrets of Migdol Edar, the shepherds’ watch tower, still looked down
upon the place, though shepherds had long ceased to watch their flocks
there by night.
Six miles to the north, behind the scarred shoulders of the ravaged
hills, lay shamed and desolate Jerusalem. There was no longer a temple
therein whither the tribes of Israel could go up to praise and magnify
the name of Jehovah. Of all that great and glorious Zion there remained
only a place for wailing by a ruined wall.
But flowers bloomed again in the red tracks of the Roman armies, and
again there were little children to whom the horrors of that time of
death were only as a tale that is told between waking and sleeping.
When the sun shines in unclouded heavens, and myriads of flowers
wave in the sweet wind, and the lark floods his acres of sky with
down-dropping melody, what young thing will lament ruined temples or
yet vanished cities, be they never so glorious? And so, the children
were plucking the first flowers in the Field of Angels with shouts and
laughter.
In the dwarfed shadow of Migdol Edar sat an old man who talked with
himself in the midst of his great silver beard, his blue eyes shining
like twinkling pools amid the frosty sedge of a winter’s morning. “The
young things crop the blossoms like lambs,” he muttered, and stretched
his withered hand to gather a tuft of the white, starlike flowers. Then
he smiled to see a troop of little ones running toward him fearless as
the lambs to which he had likened them.
First came a tall girl of ten, her clear olive cheek shaded by a tangle
of curls; she held a flower-crowned baby in each hand. Behind her
lagged three or four smaller girls and half a score of boys, shyer and
more suspicious than their sisters.
“Good sir, wilt thou gather flowers in the Angel Field?” demanded the
tall girl fixing bright, questioning eyes upon the stranger.
“Thou hast said truth, maiden,” answered the old man.
“I have come from over seas to gather them. And I will also tell thee
one thing. Seest thou how many blossoms grow in this low valley? There
grows a shining thought for every flower; these also would I gather.”
The girl shook her head. “We have found no shining thoughts in this
field, honorable stranger,” she said. “Here are star flowers, and blue
lilies of Israel, and anemones purple and scarlet. There are no flowers
like those of the Angel Field. But I would that we might see the
shining things which thou hast gathered.”
“Sit ye down upon the grass, every child of you,” cried the old man,
his blue eyes beaming with delight, “and I will show you my shining
thoughts, for in truth they are fairer than the flowers which perish in
the plucking. See, child, the blue lilies of Israel how they droop and
wither, and the star flowers drop their petals like early snow; but I
will show you that which can never perish. Look you, children, I was no
taller than yon little lad--he with the scarlet tunic; and I wandered
with the shepherds in this field--which in those days was known only
as the valley of flocks--gathering flowers and minding the paschal
lambs. They strayed not far from their mothers. Great Jerusalem was in
its latter glory, and a marvelous bright star shone in the heavens.
Wise men there were who declared that the star heralded the birth of
Israel’s deliverer, He who should be King of kings and Lord even of the
Romans. The shepherds talked of these things in the night watches, and
I, folded in my father’s abba, listened between dreams.
“’Twas in this very spot we gathered on the night of which I will tell
you. My father, the head shepherd, and very learned in the Psalms and
Prophets, sat silent while the others talked softly of the flocks and
of the weather, which was uncommon mild for the time of year, and of
the pilgrims who had gathered out of all the provinces to pay tribute
to the heathen emperor. The heavens were dark save for the great star
which shamed all the rest into twinkling sparks. The young moon hung
low in the west. I saw all this from the shelter of my father’s cloak,
and was content even as the lambs which lay close to the warm hearts of
their mothers in the soft, damp grass.
“Suddenly my father lifted up his great voice. ‘The Lord is in His holy
temple: let all the earth keep silent before Him!’ So spake he, and the
others, marveling, held their peace. My young eyes were just closing in
a dream of peace, but they opened wide at sound of my father’s solemn
voice: ‘Behold I will send My messenger, and he shall prepare the way
before Me: and the Lord, whom ye seek, shall suddenly come to His
temple. Behold, He shall come, saith the Lord of hosts!’
“Then did the earth swoon and tremble--or so it seemed to my young
fancy--and the light of the star on a sudden blazed forth with myriads
of sparkling rays, of all colors splendid and rare, and radiance
presently took shape to itself and became the figure of a man clad in
dazzling garments who stood over against the sleeping flocks. He spoke,
and his voice was as the voice of Jordan when he rolleth his spring
floods to the sea. Every man of the shepherds was fallen to the ground
with fright; but I lay unafraid in the shelter of my father’s cloak
and saw and heard all.
“‘Fear not,’ said the shining one, ‘for behold, I bring you good
tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is
born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the
Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the Babe wrapped
in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’
“Then were the heavens and the silent valley and the heights of
Bethlehem filled with shining ones, who lifted up their voices in songs
the like of which never yet fell on mortal ears. ‘Glory to God in the
highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!’ The anthem rose and
fell in glorious waves of melody toward the star blazing in mid-heaven.
The voices passed singing into the silence, and the shining forms,
blent once more with the celestial rays of the star, wavered for an
instant before our dazzled eyes, and were gone.
“My father was the first to recover himself from that trance of
wonderment. ‘Let us now go even to Bethlehem,’ he said, ‘and see this
thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us.’
“The shepherds girt themselves to depart, and I, creeping from the warm
folds of the abba into the chill night, followed hard after them. Being
low of stature--for I was no higher than yon little lad--I saw a thing
which the others perceived not: the soft, damp grass was starred with
snowy blossoms both far and near where the feet of the angels had trod.
I lagged behind to gather of them a great handful.
“The dim light of the inn swung half-way up the rocky steep, and there
we waited in the darkness, my young heart beating loud in my ears,
whilst my father parleyed with the keeper of the gate. ‘There was no
babe within,’ the porter said, and would have shut the door fast in our
faces but that my father, being a man of authority and insisting that
it was even as he had said, presently pushed by him into the khan. And
indeed there was no babe in all the place, only pilgrims lying close to
the sleeping-lofts and their beasts which crowded the courtyards.
“I pulled my father’s sleeve and whispered to him that the angel said
we should find the Babe lying in a manger. And in truth, my children,
when presently we were come to the place where the great oxen were
housed from the winter’s cold, we found the young mother and the Babe
wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. He, the Salvation of
Israel--the Messiah--the Desire of Nations! These eyes gazed upon Him
in His beauty. These hands touched Him as He lay asleep in the manger
nestled in His soft garments on the yellow straw.”
The tremulous voice faltered--ceased. The old man bent forward smiling,
as if once again he gazed upon the world’s Savior asleep in His manger
cradle.
One of the girls laid a timid finger on the border of the pilgrim’s
cloak. “And was He--like other babies?” she asked in a low voice.
“Like other babies?” smiled the old man. “Yea, verily, little one, He
was fashioned in all points even as we are--thanks be unto Jehovah! Yet
was He unlike--so wondrous fair, so heavenly beautiful was that Babe
of Bethlehem as He lay even as an angel asleep in that humblest bed of
all the earth. The milk-white blossoms I had gathered shone faint in
the half darkness like tiny stars. I laid them at His feet and their
fragrance filled all the place as incense.”
The aged shepherd looked down at the flowers in his withered hands,
his slow tears falling upon them like holy dew. Also he murmured
strange words to which the children listened with wonder, albeit they
understood them not at all. “Behold He was in the world, and the world
was made by Him, and the World knew him not. For by Him were all
things created that are in Heaven, and that are on earth, visible and
invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or
powers. These things saith the Amen, the faithful and true witness.”
Then the children stole quietly away one by one, till presently they
were again at play amid the myriad blossoms of the star flower. But
the old man rested beneath the shepherds’ tower, while the shadows
lengthened across the Field of Angels.
[6] Reprinted by permission of the author and the “Ladies’ Home
Journal.”
SHOPPING WITH GRANDMOTHER MINTON[7]
_Daisy Crabbe Curtis_
“There!” said Grandmother Minton, standing stock-still in the middle of
the sidewalk, all unmindful of the fact that she was blocking the way
of the hurrying Christmas shoppers. “That child has hurt himself! I can
tell by the way he cries. Pick him up, Susan!”
“O grandmother!” protested Susan. “He’s dirty!”
“Bumps hurt a dirty boy just as much as a clean one,” said Grandmother
Minton.
Susan sighed, and with the air of a martyr lifted the weeping urchin to
his feet.
“It’s his forehead, poor child!” said Grandmother Minton, gently
touching a red bump on the boy’s forehead. “Don’t cry, sonny; grandma’s
got somethin’ in her little black bag that will stop the hurt. Here
’tis--arnica, and a nice clean handkerchief to bind it up with,” she
went on soothingly as she worked. “Feels better already, eh? And here’s
somethin’ more to help,” she added, popping a piece of white candy into
his mouth. “That’s good for the cry. All right, now?”
“Grandmother, come!” whispered Susan with scarlet cheeks.
She was painfully embarrassed by the curious crowd that had collected
about them.
“Wait till I see if he walks all right,” said the old lady, whose face
was filled with motherly anxiety.
“Of course he walks all right! Do come!”
The bystanders made way respectfully for the little old lady and her
stylishly dressed granddaughter. Susan carefully avoided their glances,
but Grandmother Minton beamed impartially upon them all from behind her
massive-rimmed spectacles.
Would grandmother ever learn not to make herself so conspicuous,
Susan wondered. Mother might have known that something like this
would happen. She ought not to have insisted upon Susan’s going with
grandmother to the city, and on a shopping expedition, too! “Why,”
thought Susan, glancing at her companion, “even if grandmother wasn’t
always doing things that make people stop and look at her, they would
look at her just the same because of her queer, old-fashioned clothes!
Why will she insist upon making them herself, and all after the same
old pattern, when father’s ready and willing to buy her the best the
stores afford? Why can’t she be like Lillian Teller’s grandmother,
always dressed in fashion and with her hair stylishly arranged? And why
will grandmother persist in carrying that absurd old black velvet bag
everywhere she goes? Hasn’t each of us, at some time or other, given
her a new bag?”
“Why don’t you take one of your new bags?” Susan had asked grandmother
that very morning when they started for the train.
“It seems like they’re too gorgeous,” grandmother had said, “to hold my
peppermint drops and snacks of medicine and pennies for the children,
not to mention my packet of court-plaster and spectacle case and bit
of thread and needle. The bags you dear people gave me just go with
’broidered handkerchiefs and smellin’ salts and ten-dollar bills,” she
added, with a twinkle in her eye.
“But your black bag is so--shabby.”
“Tut, child, it’s an old friend grown shabby in helpin’ me and others.
Your grandfather gave it to me before he died and I came to live at
your house. That bag’s seen good times and bad times. It’s taken
medicine to the poor and the sick. It’s carried my clean handkerchief
and collection money to church. It’s been to weddin’s and funerals,
and even carried a set of infant’s clothes for a newborn babe of the
Raffertys’ that hadn’t a stitch to its back. Why,” said Grandmother
Minton, tenderly smoothing its rusty drawing-strings, “you don’t know
how lonesome and homesick I’d feel without this bag!”
“Here we are at Trasher & Brown’s,” said Susan as they approached a
great store. “Now, what’s first on your list?” she asked briskly.
“I’ll just hurry her along,” she thought, “and maybe we can catch the
one-thirty train home.”
“Let’s see!” said Grandmother Minton, pulling a worn piece of paper
from her bag. “You’ll have to read it for me, Susan. I left my readin’
specs at home.”
“Peppermint sticks,” read Susan. “Candy’s in the basement. Let’s take
the elevator.”
“Department stores are funny,” said Grandmother Minton, with a chuckle.
“Candy, calicoes and furniture all mixed up together.” They had reached
the candy counter, and she addressed the clerk in a confidential
tone. “Yes, I want peppermint sticks, red and white ones. They’re the
tastiest for Christmas. What? Oh, two dozen, I should say! Let me see,
they’re for the Raffertys and Bensons and Manders and-- Best make it
three dozen. What’s that, Susan? A shopping card? You tell her how to
make it out. I’m too old-fashioned for shopping cards, I guess. What
next, Susan? Oh, yes, dolls! Nellie Rafferty wants a yellow-haired
one. Can you tell me where the yellow-haired dolls are?” she asked the
clerk. “Nellie Rafferty’s set her heart--”
“I know where the dolls are, grandmother,” said Susan hastily.
She did wish that grandmother would not always take the clerks into her
confidence!
Grandmother Minton fairly reveled in the doll department. She went
from one show case to another, exclaiming over the pretty curls and
attractive dresses. Each doll brought for her inspection seemed more
beautiful than the last, and she could not decide which one would best
please ragged little Nellie Rafferty. Susan was in despair! It was
after twelve o’clock and she had seen other items on grandmother’s
list; a fire engine, a red cart, some brown yarn, a girl’s coat,
infant’s underwear, shoes and stockings. She fairly gasped. Why, they
would be lucky if they reached home on the three-eighteen!
“Grandmother,” she suggested, “how would it be if I bought some of
the other things for you while you’re selecting the doll? Shall I,”
consulting the list, “buy the girl’s coat and the infant’s underwear?”
“Why, you might, I suppose, though I’d counted on pickin’ them out
myself.”
“It will save time if I do it.”
“Well,” agreed Grandmother Minton reluctantly, “I’ll try and tell you
exactly what I want. The coat’s to be eight-year size, and mind, it
must be durable. Like’s not, it will be handed down from one child to
another in the Benson family, and they’re such husky young ones it’ll
have to be good and stout to stand the strain. The infant’s underwear
is to be one-year size and wool, Susan! Don’t let them give you
anything but wool.”
“Yes, yes,” said Susan, impatient to be off. “Stay right here,
grandmother, until I come for you.”
It took Susan much longer than she had expected to purchase the coat
and underwear. She had to go to the third floor for the coat, and she
found a sales clerk busy trying to please a most exacting customer,
who seemed to want to examine every coat in stock before making a
selection. When Susan’s turn came, she hurriedly purchased a dark blue
chinchilla and then went in search of the underwear.
The afternoon shoppers were beginning to throng the floors when Susan
finally made her way back to the toy department. That, thought Susan,
must account for the fact that, although she had nearly reached the
spot where the dolls were sold, she had not yet caught a glimpse of a
little white-haired lady in an old-fashioned black dress and with a
shabby black velvet bag in her hand.
“This is the very counter where I left her,” said Susan, with a puzzled
frown. “She must be looking at some of the show cases near by, or
perhaps she has walked a little way to look for me.”
She was beginning to feel anxious, for she knew that Grandmother Minton
would not be likely to wander about the big store for herself.
Susan began to thread her way among the shoppers, scanning each one
sharply. At first she was deliberate and polite, but after she had
circled several times round the toy department and still had caught
no glimpse of Grandmother Minton’s kind old face she became desperate
and pushed her way rudely hither and thither. What had become of her
grandmother? Was she wandering helplessly round with no one to pilot
her? Would anyone notice that she was lost and try to help her?
Susan stopped short in her wanderings. A possibility that filled her
with dread had flashed into her mind. Such things had happened to other
people, she knew. Could it be that grandmother had been taken suddenly
ill and been rushed to the hospital? What would father say? Was not
Grandmother Minton his own mother? Had he not cautioned Susan that
morning to take the best of care of her and bring her safe home to him
again? Now, she would have to telephone and tell him--oh, she could
not! And what would mother say? And all the Raffertys and Bensons and
Manders? They worshipped Grandmother Minton!
Some one grasped Susan’s arm, and the polite voice of the floorwalker
questioned her.
“What is it, miss? Have you lost your purse?”
Susan realized then that she had been wringing her hands and that tears
were in her eyes.
“No!” she gasped. “I--I wish I had.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I’ve lost my grandmother,” explained Susan. “Have you seen her?”
The puzzled look upon the floorwalker’s face caused Susan to be more
coherent. She told him what had happened, and he suggested that she
go to the waiting-room and rest while he went to the office and made
various inquiries. He was sure that they would be able to find her
grandmother. And, Susan, because she was bewildered and felt faint and
weary and knew nothing better to do, acted upon his suggestion.
The waiting-room was filled with the usual number of weary shoppers,
some of whom were trying to soothe fretful children. Susan sat down
in one of the vacant chairs. It had been more than an hour since she
had missed her grandmother. Could it be only yesterday that she had
gone to her to have her gloves mended at the very last minute, so
that she might wear them to the concert? It seemed ages and ages ago.
Grandmother had never been out of patience with Susan, not even during
that week when she was taking her high-school examinations and was so
snappy and cross to everyone.
“Oh,” thought Susan remorsefully. “I’m just hateful to grandmother! It
was wonderful of her to help that child this morning. I’m such a proud,
stuck-up thing I’d have let him die, I suppose, rather than lift my
hand to help him. Grandmother would help anyone who’s in need. She’d
give her last cent to--”
“There,” said a cheery voice, “you look better! Wasn’t it lucky I was
near by when you felt faint?”
Susan turned sharply and her eyes opened wide. There, bending
solicitously over a woman who lay on the divan, was grandmother! She
had in her hand one of the little bottles from her black bag and was
bathing and rubbing the sick woman’s forehead. Susan held her breath
and drew near. How infinitely dear grandmother was! She had taken off
her coat and looked so quaint and grandmotherly in her fitted basque
and softly shirred skirt. How suitably the close little bonnet framed
the white hair, plump face and kind blue eyes!
Susan’s gaze wandered to the woman to whom her grandmother was
ministering. She was so stylishly gowned that Susan was astonished when
she saw her face. It was much wrinkled and, in spite of the faint touch
of rouge on the cheeks, looked ghastly. “She’s old,” thought Susan,
“in spite of her stylish, young-looking clothes. Why, she must be older
than grandmother! Maybe she’s a grandmother, too, but she doesn’t look
like a comfortable one. _She’d_ never go into the kitchen and make
doughnuts for me and mince pie for Brother Jack. She’d never help a
dirty child that had hurt himself!”
“Grandmother!” called Susan softly.
“Well, Sue, child,” said Grandmother Minton, with a welcoming smile,
“so you’ve come for me! I aimed to get back to the doll counter before
you came, but this lady was taken faint right near where I was, and of
course, I came here with her. Lan’s sake child, you look pale yourself!
Sit right down in this chair. I’ll have to rub your forehead, too.”
“I’m all right now that I’ve found you. Oh, grandmother, I thought you
were lost!”
“Well, well, I was comin’ right back, Sue. Here’s my handkerchief.
There! I guess,” said Grandmother Minton, with a smile, as she fumbled
in her black bag, “if you are going to cry, I’ll have to give you a
candy drop like I gave that little boy this mornin’.”
“Do,” said Susan, laughing through her tears, “and get it from the
bottom of your little black bag, grandmother!”
[7] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 28,
1916. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”
A MISLAID UNCLE[8]
_E. Vinton Blake_
Five feet eleven of vigorous, well-fed, clean-shaven humanity, a little
past the middle age, enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat, and carrying
a handsome dress-suit case; this was John James Alston of New York,
a hard-headed, hard-hearted old bachelor, with no kith or kin in the
world, that he knew. There might be a few distant cousins or so,
somewhere out Connecticut way; he didn’t know or care. He had worked
his way in the world himself, and made a moderate fortune, and knew how
to take care of it. What more did a man want?
The Pullman porters had eyed him respectfully, at intervals, all the
way from New York: his air and apparel indicated wealth, and his manner
commanded instant obedience. Nothing in his firm-set mouth, the poise
of his head, his cool dignity, betrayed the fact that the habits of a
lifetime were attacked and in danger of being carried by assault. And
the besieger was a mite of a four-year-old girl, all daintiness and
captivating ways, whose mother occupied a near-by chair in the Pullman
car. The little miss persisted in hovering about the cold, quiet
gentleman and attracting his attention. John James Alston rather liked
children, when they were well-behaved; and when mama said, “No, no,”
and drew the intruder away, the dainty red lips quivered. In dread of
an outburst,--John James disliked crying children--he suddenly emerged
from his shell.
“Pray let her come, madam; I shall enjoy it,” was what he said. And
directly he found himself taken possession of in the most astonishing
way, and made the recipient of all manner of Christmas confidences.
“You goin’ home for Kis’mus?” she said, cuddling into his lap. Finding
he had no friends to visit, no little girls to play with, she said
she was “drefful sorry.” Then she told him about the delights of
“gwanpa’s” when all the uncles and aunts and cousins were assembled.
When she got out at Stonington, he felt a great loss. And now, as he
walked the platform at the Junction, waiting for another train, he
was somehow conscious of a strange and unusual loneliness. It was two
days before Christmas. All day he had seen jubilant family groups at
stations welcoming their arriving relatives; all day he had heard talk
of home-coming and Christmas gifts among children and grown-ups on the
train. John James Alston, I am sorry to say, became decidedly cross. “I
was stupid,” he told himself, “to start anywhere on business at this
season. I might just as well have waited till next week, and avoided
all this nonsense.” And he wished himself back again in his cozy
bachelor apartments in New York.
His meditations had carried him thus far when somebody seized his
hands. “Aren’t you Uncle John from the West?” cried a girl’s voice. And
a boy’s chimed in: “Of course it’s Uncle John! How do you do, Uncle
John?” Then childish accents uttered, “I know’d him by his picshur!”
And hurrying across the platform, a stout, cheerful woman pushed the
children aside, crying, “John Damon! And you wrote you didn’t think
you could come!” Then she shook him by both hands and kissed him
impulsively.
John James Alston caught his breath. The woman was so wholesome and
hearty, though she _did_ wear a thick shawl and an unfashionable
bonnet, that--well, he collected himself and managed to say, “Madam,
there’s a mistake”; but she didn’t hear or pay the slightest attention
to what he said.
“Billy, bring the horse around, quick,” she commanded. “It’s ten
minutes before the other train comes. We’ll just have time to get away.
Old Griggs’ll never get over being scared of the cars,” with a smile to
John James. “Dolly, don’t hang on to your uncle so. Maidie, can’t you
get her away?”
“Want my nuncle to carry me,” declared Dolly, the smallest girl,
clinging to John James’s immaculate glove. He looked down. The face
that looked up was dimpling and sweet in its worsted hood, and golden
curls peeped out all around it. He never was able to explain the
impulse that moved him, and what followed was a wonderment to him
all his life; but the protest died on his lips, and he picked up the
smallest girl and hugged her. Then and there he shook off John James
Alston as he left the dismal Junction platform, and, as “Uncle John”
from the West, submitted to be led to the waiting carryall.
“Get right in on the back seat,” said the cheerful woman. “Maidie,
you an’ Dolly can sit back there, too. I’ll drive. Or, no--Billy can
drive.” Sarah’s grammar was not quite up to the mark but you can hear
the like of it in the country any day.
They piled in jubilantly and pulled up the buffalo-robes. John James’s
dress-suit case was in the way, and he told Billy to put his feet right
on it and never mind!
“Won’t your brother Asher be glad to see you!” exclaimed the woman.
“Le’ ’s see--it’s full ten years, if ’tis a day, sence you came East.
How is everything in Cheyenne?”
John James assured her that Cheyenne was all right.
“You must ’a’ be’n lonesome sence Annie died. Pity you never had any
children. Home wouldn’t be home to me without children.”
“That’s true,” said John James.
“I don’t s’pose you remember Maidie--she was a baby when you saw her
last.” John said he hardly remembered Maidie. “An’ Billy--he’s ten; and
Dolly, four--they’ve come sence you left us. They’re both mine.”
“And I’ve a little brother, Aunt Sarah,” put in Maidie.
“Yes, Asher an’ Mary’s had both sorrow an’ joy,” said the cheerful
woman, more soberly. “They lost a little girl, but they have a little
two-year-old boy. His name’s John, after you.”
“Oh, so I’ve a namesake,” said John James. He tried to get his
bearings, and kept his ears open for names and facts. But reflection
was also at work; he remembered that the day after to-morrow was
Christmas, and the uncle from the West had not one Christmas gift for
his namesake or the family. He realized with a sudden alarm that he had
to do something, and do it quickly.
“By the way, is there a long-distance telephone round here?” he asked.
“Why, yes; down at the depot,” said Billy, pulling up. “Want I should
drive back?”
“No; I’ll just run over there, myself,” said John James. “You keep old
Griggs round the corner here. I’ll be right back.”
He made haste across the wide country square. Aunt Sarah, watching him,
said, “He’s spry, ain’t he?” and then, “I guess he’s well off. That
coat didn’t cost no small sum.”
John James found the telephone, and got connections with a Boston
business man whom he knew well. Before he had talked three minutes,
the business man’s hair began to rise on his head, and he interrupted
to inquire if John James was really himself or another. With great
irritation, John James replied in hasty language, and bade him confine
his attention to the subject in hand. He talked for fully ten minutes.
At the end he was assured that his order was received and would be
duly honored.
“And rush it!” was John James’s parting injunction as he hung up the
receiver.
The station-master eyed him queerly as he came out. “Le’ ’s see--you
look like John Damon used to--not exactly, either--more cityfied! But
you _be_ him, ain’t ye?”
“That’s what they call me,” replied John, and submitted to be greeted
as an old friend in the jolliest way possible. He also acquired some
new facts.
“Your father’s feeble--very feeble,” said the man. “I’m glad you were
able to come home to spend Christmas with him.”
“I find it hard to leave my affairs,” soberly said John James.
“They said you wrote so. Wal, you’ll find Asher some grayer, but jolly
still. He’s got the mor’gidge all paid off but five hundred or so. He
was talkin’ of old times only t’other day, and how much you boys used
to think of each other. D’ye rember how he once took the whippin’ ’twas
meant for you, an’ never said nothin’?”
“I remember a good many things,” said John James as he left him, and in
a few minutes again took his place in the carryall.
He was becoming more and more interested in the family history which
“Aunt Sarah” continued to give him, when, at last, the carryall turned
up a farm-house lane, and they saw a woman step uncertainly to the side
door.
“There’s Mary,” said Aunt Sarah, and the children began to shout:
“Here’s Uncle John!”
Asher Damon, the first to respond to the summons, stepped out of the
door, a typical New England farmer, in his shirt-sleeves and overalls.
“By Jinks, this is great!” he exclaimed.
John James, descending, received and returned his vigorous hand-grip;
kissed Mary, his sister-in-law; was rushed at and embraced by three
strange women who addressed him as “Cousin John.” Then they all
stood in a group and talked at once. “But come in!” said Asher
suddenly--“come in and see father. He’ll be overjoyed. He’s insisted on
Sarah goin’ to the depot every day for a week, on the chance of your
comin’.” So John James went in to see his father.
He trembled a little under the keen and searching gaze of the old man,
who got up and took him by both shoulders, turning his face to the
light.
“You’re changed, boy, changed!” he said tremulously. “Seems like you’re
steadier, graver. But you’ve lost your wife Annie. It’s natural, after
all. It’s a good deal to me to see you to-day.”
And John James Alston suddenly shrank into himself and felt like the
impostor he was.
“Yes, I think he’s changed--a little,” said Asher’s wife, surveying him
closely. “But it’s ten years; and people and things don’t stand still.
There’s the baby, your namesake, John.”
She ran into the bedroom at a child’s cry and brought out a
round-faced, curly-haired two-year-old, whom she deposited on Uncle
John’s knee. He said, “Great Scott!” and clutched the new burden
awkwardly, conscious of extreme confusion of mind.
“That comes of not being used to children,” cried Mrs. Sarah, merrily,
catching at the child. “Here, Mary; he’s not safe. John’s got to have
some lessons in baby-tending.” And all the women laughed.
If John James Alston ever fancied a country life lacking in variety, he
changed his mind from that day. They took him out to see the cattle,
and Asher dwelt on their strong points. He was made to take note of the
rakish, upward curve in the noses of the Berkshire hogs, and saw the
prize pullets and the Toulouse geese. He heard about the rotation of
crops. And though he tried his best to say the right thing at the right
moment, he saw one and another look at him sometimes in a puzzled way
that made his blood run cold. And this was a queer sensation for the
dignified, self-possessed John J. Alston of New York.
That night he was shown to the best upstairs bedroom; there was just
enough space for the mountainous bed, the bureau, washstand, and one
chair. He turned back the heavy coverlets and stood regarding the
swelling height before him. “Great Scott!” he murmured. “I never slept
in a feather-bed in my life. Wonder how far I shall sink down.”
When he was in, and the pillows heaped around him, he began to grow
deliciously warm. “I don’t care--I’m a rank impostor, I know, but I’ll
see this thing through, now I’ve begun. I feel uncommonly like a boy.”
And he laughed outright.
The next day, to be safe, he devoted himself to the children, to the
great relief of their busy mothers; and before night, Maidie, Billy,
and Dolly were his devoted lovers. There were finger-marks on his
shirt-front and wrinkles in his coat, due to his little namesake,
who was quite ready to howl when separated from his Uncle John.
Early in the day he took Asher aside and inquired about the express
accommodations, intimating that he expected a Christmas shipment by
express from Boston.
“Oh, all right!” said Asher. “We’ll send up at five o’clock; the last
express gets in then.” And he felt a little curiosity, for the real
John Damon was not wont to be over-generous.
More than once that day did John James wonder what had become of his
other self, the city-man Alston, whom he had left on the station
platform. John James was having the time of his life. Anybody who
has ever enjoyed a country Christmas in a farm-house full of peace,
good-will, and happy relatives will understand all about it. At dark
Asher came in. “John!” said he. “You and Billy’ll jes’ have to go down
to the depot--we’re hustlin’ to get the chores done.”
“Certainly,” said John James. “Billy, don’t you want to go?”
“Sure!” said Billy. “I’ll be through with these pigs in a jiffy, an’
I’ll be right along. You can be harnessing.”
John James went out to the barn. He had never harnessed a horse in
his life. He led out old Griggs, who marched deliberately to the
water-trough and plunged his nose in.
John James took down a headstall at random, and old Griggs understood
in about two minutes that he had to deal with inexperience, and
refusing the bit, led the city-man a dance all over the barn floor.
Then Billy came in.
“Here--hello!” said he. “What you doing with that work-harness, Uncle
John? Here’s the right one. An’ the collar goes on first, anyway. Why,
you’ve forgotten how to harness! Hi, you old rascal, stand still!”
John James had the mortification of beholding the ten-year-old corner
old Griggs and equip him with the necessary rigging in no time at all.
“I thought you had a good many horses in your business, uncle,” said
Billy, fastening one of the traces, while his “uncle” tried the other.
“The men do a good deal of the harnessing,” desperately said John James
at a venture.
The box was at the station. It was decidedly a big box. It took John
James and the depot-man to get it into the wagon. When the wagon, much
heavier now, slid upon the horse’s hocks, going down a steep incline on
the return trip, there were prancings, suddenly uplifted iron heels,
then a furious run.
Billy held on valiantly, and rebuked old Griggs in vociferous accents;
while John James, acknowledging the master-hand, sat still and looked
for a soft place to fall in. Having at last pulled up, Billy got out
to investigate.
“Well, I vow, Uncle John, if you didn’t forget to buckle the
britchen-strap on your side!” he exclaimed.
And John James, with a dreadful sense of mortification, blushed scarlet
under cover of the dark.
By the time they got home the snow was falling quietly and steadily,
and it increased as the night wore on.
Late at night, after the household were abed, John James and Asher
opened the box. It was a surprise indeed--that box! The Boston man
had fulfilled his commission admirably, and John James chuckled as he
pulled out one article after another.
“We gener’ly have our presents on our plates or chairs at breakfast,”
observed Asher. “The women-folks put ’em here, as you see,” indicating
the table in the living-room with its modest gifts. “The children hang
their stockings by the fireplace; they like the fun of pullin’ things
out.”
“Well, here’s something for little John,” said John James, unwrapping a
gorgeous drum and a stunning horse with “truly” hair all over him. “And
here, just undo that long box, Asher. Here are some good books for the
children.”
Asher opened the long pasteboard box. “Land o’ Goshen!” said he, “I
never see sech a doll. Looks like an angel gone to sleep.”
“That’s for Dolly; won’t she squeal!” said John James. “Billy skates,
doesn’t he? These will fit him, I hope--and here’s a pair for Maidie.
This--what’s this? It’s labeled ‘for the girl.’” He tore a hole in the
paper. “Oh, a dress. That’s for Maidie, too.”
“Here’s a white knitted shawl for--whom? You know best about the
women-folks. I had to just guess at it. Here’s some fancy embroidered
collars, and stuff of that sort.”
“Mary would like the shawl, and Sarah the collars,” said Asher, slowly.
“All right, put ’em there. Ah ha, now, this is the thing! Try on these
rubber boots, Asher!”
“Hold on, John,” said Asher, resolutely; “you jest go slow! Be you made
of gold, or what? These things must ’a’ cost a mint o’ money!”
John James sat back on his heels and thought a moment. “I can afford it
easily; I have been greatly prospered,” said he.
“Wal, you’re lucky--and this is a reg’lar windfall,” said Asher,
getting into the boots. John James laughed, slapping him on the back.
“Perfect fit. They’re yours, Asher. Now lend a hand. A man’s long
dressing-gown--that’s for father!”
“He won’t know how to act,” said Asher.
“Half a dozen boxes of candy--hope nobody will get ill from them,” went
on John James, still investigating. “Here’s--oh, undo this carefully--a
fur tippet for Mary!”
“Great snakes!” said Asher, handling it with reverence. “I never see no
sech fur as this.”
“Yes, it’s a warm one, I hope,” said John, from the depths of the box.
He brought out mittens for the children, a stunning suit for little
John, dresses for Sarah, Mary, and the cousins, more books, mechanical
toys that set Asher laughing as if he never would stop.
Asher gazed around the kitchen, which looked like a museum.
“I never see sech a sight,” said he; “I’m sort o’ bewildered. _Is_ this
you an’ me, or some other fellows?”
“You’ll find out if you don’t wake up and put all these things on the
plates and chairs where they belong. Asher, we must clear up these
wrappings. Hold on!--here’s something we overlooked.” He picked up a
small box containing four tiny boxes.
“Rings for the children, by jiminy!” said Asher, looking over his
shoulder. “Lucky we didn’t cram it into the kindlin’s.”
It was one o’clock before they got to bed; and it seemed as if they
were only just asleep before the seven-o’clock alarm went off, and
waked them up to a world of snow.
They slept later than usual, but there was a tremendous hustling in
that house, once they were fairly awake. When all were dressed and had
come down, the shrieks of the children and their own curiosity made it
nearly impossible for the women to get breakfast. It was one of their
Christmas rules that no gift on the table should be taken up till all
were at the board. But Dolly, with low “oh’s” and “ah’s” of delight,
touched softly the pink toes and hands of the big “sleeping beauty”
in her chair; for the box was too big to go on the table. All their
chairs were full, and the steaming breakfast cooled before the jubilant
household were ready to eat.
Asher opened his fine new pocket-book, and seeing a piece of paper in
it, took it out, stared, put it back, looked at it again with a dazed
expression, and got up, overturning his chair. His old father looked
up from the warm dressing-gown they had put on him, and which he was
smoothing like a pleased child.
“What ails ye, Asher?” asked the old man.
“Sit down, man, sit down!” said John James in an undertone, picking up
the chair.
“Lawsee, but I can’t! John, this is too much! Why, John, I never
heard--”
“Oh, keep quiet, Asher! Sit down, I tell you!”
“Father, this is a cashier’s draft on a Boston bank for five hundred
an’ fifty dollars. It pays the last o’ the mor’gidge an’ interest,
father! John, I can’t take it--after all this!” said Asher, waving his
hands widely abroad at the gifts around him.
“Nonsense, Asher!--yes, you will, too. Man, I never had such fun in my
life before! Pour him some coffee, somebody, please.”
“John!” said Asher, gripping his hand hard and choking.
“You see, Asher, I thought ’twas high time you got paid off for that
whipping you took for me long ago, when I deserved it.”
“Oh, thunder!” said Asher, unable to speak another word.
They passed the day quietly together, and it seemed to John James that
he never ate so tender a turkey, such exquisitely seasoned vegetables.
The plum-pudding with its burning sauce capped the whole, and left them
with serene souls.
When dark settled down, and the farm “chores” were done, candles and
lamps lit the low-ceiled, comfortable old rooms, and with mirth and
jollity they played Christmas games. John James had forgotten all about
his other self--the city-man left on the depot platform. His oldest
acquaintance wouldn’t have known him as he “marched to Jerusalem,” with
his thick, grayish hair rumpled all over his head, or spun the tin
pie-plate on the kitchen floor.
But suddenly there came a sound of bells, the tramp of a horse on the
cleared path at the side door.
“Somebody’s come in this snow,” said Asher, going to the door. They all
pressed forward to see.
“Well, I declare! Hello! Here ye all are!” cried a voice. “Ye didn’t
expect me, I’ll be bound. I concluded to come, after all. I was snowed
in last night, or I should’a’ got here this mornin’. Merry Christmas to
all of ye!”
It was the _real_ John Damon, covered with snow, hungry but jolly.
Behind him the driver tugged his bag. John James Alston’s heart gave
a great bound, then sunk to the depths of his boots. Amid the amazed
silence of the whole family, the real and the false John Damon
confronted each other.
“What--what--who’s this?” stammered the newcomer, recognizing the
resemblance in a moment, yet unable at once to grasp the astounding
audacity of this stranger’s performance. As for the family, they needed
but to see the two men together in order to know them apart. In the
agitation of the moment, I am afraid the welcome they gave brother John
from the West lacked the proper warmth.
John James Alston understood that it was “up to him” to explain. And
it was the cool and resourceful city-man, his dignity still touched
with the heart-warm jollity of the country John James, who rose to the
occasion, and somehow won all hearts to him anew in the utterance of
his first few sentences.
“Mr. Damon,” he said, “Asher, my brother,”--he put his hand on Asher’s
shoulder and kept it there,--“and all you, my dear, newfound friends, I
have to ask your pardon for usurping a position that does not belong to
me. I am John J. Alston of New York. I have always been a lonely man.
I never married, and have no family ties. I think I never realized how
lonely I was until, coming up into this section on business, I heard
on every side talk of Christmas, and saw at every station Christmas
meetings and greetings, and people going home. Five apartment rooms
make my home,” he added with a smile. “While I waited for my train
at the Junction, these children claimed me as their uncle, and Sarah
here saluted me as her brother.” Sarah looked uncomfortable. “It was
very pleasant, and in an unguarded moment I yielded to temptation and
came home with them. I didn’t know there were such kind-hearted people
alive. I never have had such a good time in my life. May I hope you’ll
all pardon me, and let me be a second Uncle John to the end of the
chapter?”
Half-way through his little oration he felt Maidie’s hand slip shyly
into his. Billy stood close behind him; little John, who had resented
being put down, tried to climb up his leg; and Dolly, with her
curly-haired beauty in one arm, hung to him whenever she could get a
hold. Plainly John James “filled the bill” with them.
“Huh! well! see that now! _My_ nose’s out of joint,” said the Western
Uncle John, with a laugh, indicating the children. “I never heard of a
thing like this--never. It’s a most astonishing thing--really, now. But
I can’t blame you.” He offered his hand to John James. “I don’t see but
we’ll have to get acquainted. It’s a great comfort, too, to know that I
resemble such a good-looking man!” He scrutinized John James closely.
“It almost reconciles me to the loss of my turkey dinner.”
“But you shan’t lose it!” protested Aunt Sarah, amid the babel of
tongues wherewith they welcomed the Western uncle afresh, and sought
to assure John James of their entire forgiveness and acceptance of
him as one of the family. And straightway one of the cousins dragged
Uncle John away to the table, with intent to satisfy his hunger, and
incidentally to lay before him a history of the whole affair.
Later on, the business of Christmas enjoyment was resumed with--if
possible--greater zest than ever; and when, at a shockingly late hour,
John James repaired to the mountainous bed in the little room, he knew
that peace and good-will were more than mere names, and that he never
should repent of the audacious performance which had won him a whole
family of country relatives. And while just dropping off to sleep, it
came to him that it would be well to look up those Connecticut cousins
before next Christmas, and find out what they were like.
[8] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine,” with permission.
BUNNY FACE AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS[9]
_Gertrude A. Kay_
He was such a very little boy and everything about him was pale--hair,
eyes, ears, everything. But even though his face was so peaked, his big
ears were what you noticed first, and we soon discovered that he could
move them most surprisingly--backward and forward. This was something
that none of the rest of us could do. It was for this reason probably
that we began calling him Bunny Face.
He didn’t have a family, like other children. I don’t know to this day
where he came from, but he lived with a woman that he called aunt,
whenever he called her anything. But she played very little part in
his life, and some folks said that she wasn’t his aunt at all. But our
mothers said that this was being inquisitive and told us never, never
to say such a thing to Bunny Face. But the grown-ups always stopped
talking about it when we were around, so of course we knew there was
some more which they never would tell us. Anyway, the aunt’s name
was Katie Duckworth, and she had it painted in big letters over her
dry-goods store downtown. It was a tiny little store and crowded and
dark inside. She was sort of blind and never could find the things that
your mother sent you there to buy. There were some folks who said she
wasn’t very bright. But to this day, whenever I smell gingham it makes
me think of Katie Duckworth and her little dry-goods store.
Although they seemed to get along all right, Bunny Face and his aunt
never fixed up in their best clothes and went off together a-hold of
hands, as the rest of us did with our mothers or our aunts. But then
poor Bunny Face didn’t have any other clothes; though, goodness knows,
that didn’t worry him at all. His aunt never sent him to Sunday school
and didn’t bother at all when the teacher told her that he played
truant. But Bunny Face was good-natured; and if you had ever seen a
smile start on his face and spread all over it till it made his ears
wiggle, you would have smiled, too, no matter what.
“Why is a goblin, or why isn’t a goblin?” He was fond of asking the
rest of us questions like that, and then he would laugh and laugh, just
as if he knew the answer himself. He often told us long stories about
places he’d been and queer things he’d done, and though we knew that
they had never really happened, we didn’t care.
In school he wasn’t any good at all; just sat and looked out of the
window and scratched things with his jackknife. He spoiled his books
and spilled ink on the floor, but he loved big dictionary words and
knew lots of them, so sometimes we didn’t know just what he was talking
about. He played truant oftener than any of the big boys; maybe it was
because it was so easy for him to get away, being so small he could
slip out before teacher noticed.
But the school house janitor--Old Crab, we called him--was always on
the lookout for Bunny Face. He was really a terrible person, evil and
hateful. He hobbled on one crutch and lived in a battered old shanty by
the dump. You see, he didn’t have a wife--dead or something; but the
shanty was just full of children. They were all sizes and all starved
looking--and bad too.
Bunny Face knew the woods all about as most children knew their own
back lot, and he used to walk miles and miles through any kind of
weather, for, as he said, things happened in the woods and there were
water spirits down in the creek. He kept track of all the little
animals, and he knew what trees had squirrels living in them and
where certain birds had their nests. But when he told about them the
creatures that lived in the woods seemed exactly like folks. Well, late
one afternoon on his way home, when he’d been prowling around all day,
he heard a most awful racket, then barking. And suddenly a Maltese cat
flattened itself and wiggled under the fence and shot up a tree. Bunny
Face looked over the fence into the garden. Yes, there was the very
dog, only he was tied. Right that minute an old man came out and said
“Well, well,” and “What, what,” the way old people do.
“Is she yours?” Bunny Face pointed up in the branches.
“No, sonny,” answered the old man.
“Guess I’ll get her then,” said Bunny Face; and he began to coax “Nice
kitty, nice kitty” till the cat came down within reach. She was a poor,
thin thing with eager eyes and shabby ears. But he thought that she had
a fine coat.
“Let’s give her some supper,” said the old man.
So that is the way it came about that Bunny Face and the Parson started
being friends.
Right away they began to get acquainted there in the kitchen while the
cat lapped milk, and the Parson invited Bunny Face to stay to supper.
He said that he could, all right; so that was settled and they went
into the other room to sit by the fire till suppertime.
“Think I’ll take my cat,” said Bunny Face.
“Why not call her Agnes, after my old horse?” said the Parson.
And so the Maltese cat was named Agnes.
It was nice and warm in the Parson’s house, and there were lots of
things to ask questions about. There were two big creaking chairs in
front of the fire, and the old man sat in one and Bunny Face sat in the
other and held Agnes on his lap. Finally the cat went to sleep, and
they talked. Bunny Face told his new friend about a lot of things. And
the Parson told about his horse that he had had once and about the dog
that had barked at Agnes.
Just then a little bell rang, and the Parson said that supper was
ready. They went out and washed their hands under the pump, then sat
down to the table in the kitchen, where there was an old lady. The
Parson said that she was his sister and then he told her who Bunny Face
was. After that the old man said a grace and they ate little biscuits
with honey and different things and Bunny Face enjoyed himself very
much indeed. But the old lady wasn’t a bit like anyone he had ever seen
before, because her face was different. And when Bunny Face started
home she tied his muffler and asked if he was warm enough. He took
Agnes with him and said, yes, he’d come again. And the Parson stood in
the door and held the lamp up over his head till Bunny Face got ’way
down the road.
The next morning there was snow on the ground, and the children at
school began to talk about Christmas. And very soon all the shops fixed
up their show windows with Christmas things. But Hampton’s Toy Shop
was the finest. Everyone thought so, and each day we were nearly late
at school because we stood and looked in so long. Old Mrs. Hampton
always clerked with a black satin apron on and a scoopy black hat, and
she wore thick glasses to look at the price with. Though the children
didn’t buy, they always asked how much everything was.
One day Bunny Face followed some of the other children in, and there
hanging up on the wall he saw a picture. It showed Santa Claus himself,
pack and all, coming out of a little house with a bright green door and
a red chimney. But there was something about that picture that made
him feel very queer. Finally he knew what it was. It was the trees.
You see, he knew exactly where those big, tall pine trees were, out on
Clark’s road. He was sure of it. But he’d find out for himself. Anyway
there wouldn’t be a picture of Santa Claus’ house if he really didn’t
have one, and why wouldn’t it be out on Clark’s road anyway? He kept on
thinking about it all the morning.
So that afternoon he played truant again. It was a cold day, and the
snowflakes nipped you on the cheeks as they flew past, but Bunny Face
pulled down his cap and hurried on. He scrambled over fences and took
all the short cuts across the snowy fields that led off toward Clark’s
road. It was a long way to go on such a cold day, but he kept saying
to himself what fun it would be when he got there to knock on Santa
Claus’ door. Then he’d wait and Santa Claus would say “Come in”--just
like that, and open would pop the door and there he, Bunny Face, would
be standing. Of course he’d tell Santa Claus right away who he was, and
Santa Claus would probably say, “Stay to supper, won’t you?” Then he’d
see all the toys that were ready for Christmas, and may be Santa Claus
would say, “Help yourself, Bunny Face; pick out something nice.”
Now the road curves just before you come to those tall pines, and Bunny
Face decided to close his eyes and take five hundred steps, then open
them quick, for there he’d be exactly in front of Santa Claus’ house.
It kept him busy counting steps, and he got mixed up and maybe he
cheated a little to make five hundred come sooner, but finally it was
four hundred and ninety-eight, then four hundred and ninety-nine. Then
he opened his eyes.
The wind was whistling through the branches and blowing the snow in
cloudy rings under the tall black trees. But no little Santa Claus’
house with a green door and red chimney was standing there. Bunny Face
couldn’t see a house anywhere. Then he knew how cold he was, and his
feet didn’t _feel_ at all. He rubbed his eyes, for this was the place.
Those were the very trees surely. Then he tried to think of all the
other tall pine trees that he knew. Of course, maybe he had made a
mistake; he would look at Mrs. Hampton’s picture again tomorrow. There
was nothing to do now but to go back across the cold, white fields. He
tried not to think about eating supper with Santa Claus and choosing a
present for himself.
It seemed a thousand times farther going back than it had coming;
indeed he thought that he never, _never_ would get there. But at last,
just as the street lights were coming on, he opened the door of Katie
Duckworth’s store and dragged himself over to the stove.
But my, how his heart jumped! For there, stretching out and looking
very long, was Agnes fast asleep under the stove. He’d somehow
forgotten about Agnes today, but he pulled her out and held her tight.
How soft and warm and gentle she was!
Katie Duckworth was selling red mittens to a woman who said they were
for Christmas, and she bought hair ribbons and handkerchiefs and a lot
more presents before she left. Bunny Face saw that his aunt had been
putting Christmas trimmings around the store while he was away. It
looked quite fine. But it seemed queer, too, that she’d never talked
about Christmas.
It seemed to Bunny Face that every single child had money to spend--for
presents for other folks, mind you. This was all new to Bunny Face, for
he had supposed that Santa Claus brought all the presents to everybody.
So Bunny Face concluded that he must have some Christmas secrets too.
He’d give presents to people himself and have surprises and whisper
like other folks. But how about the presents--what were they to be?
That puzzled him. He sat by the stove and thought and thought. The next
day he went for a walk. And after a while he found himself on the last
street of the town just where the fields began. Ahead were the snowy
woods and the frozen creek.
“Guess I’ll look for the pine trees,” said Bunny Face. This had been in
his head all the time, and he only said that to surprise himself. If he
could only really find Santa Claus he’d be all right. Then he’d explain
that all he had was Agnes, and she wasn’t a Christmas present to be
given away. And he knew that there was no other way out of it; he must
find him. So that day he visited all the pine trees that were anywhere
about. But not under one of them did he find a house, let alone Santa
Claus’ house.
He knew that it must be getting late, for the sun was big and red and
low down behind things. He was coming to the dump, which was mostly
covered with snow, but the janitor’s shanty looked black and gloomy and
only a little thin blue smoke was coming out of the chimney.
Suddenly a snowball whizzed past his head, and he saw the biggest dump
child duck behind the corner; then snowballs began coming from every
way, for the other dump children had come out. After a while they got
tired and began to talk. Bunny Face started it by asking if they knew
where Santa Claus’ house was. The real little dump children stared, but
the big ones looked ugly.
“Santy Claus your granny!” they said. “Who put that in your head?
Anyway if there was one, our old man would take his shotgun to him.”
As Bunny Face trudged on, it came to him that there would be other
folks beside himself who would not get presents on Christmas. It made
him feel a little better to count them.
“First,” he said, “there’s me; second, Agnes; next, the dump children.
Let’s see--fourth, the janitor, of course. And fifth?” He might as well
use up all his fingers. “Fifth--Madam Iceberg. Yes, that was a good
one, for she wouldn’t get presents or give them.”
But you don’t know who Madam Iceberg was. She was the
most-wondered-about person anywhere around. Long ago she used to go
traveling, and have visitors from away off come to see her. At those
times the big house would be lighted from top to bottom, with all sorts
of things going on. Then she was really beautiful to look at. But mercy
me, how she’d gone off these last years! Now her hair was far too
yellow and her cheeks far too pink and her eyes were--uneasy.
There were No Trespassing signs all over her place; and rather than buy
at any of our stores, she used to drive every day in her high carriage
over to the next town and do all of her shopping there. So you can see
that she wasn’t at all friendly with any of us thereabout.
Of course little Bunny Face had never talked to her, but he felt sure
Santa Claus wouldn’t risk bothering much around her chimneys.
So with his head filled with these thoughts he went on till he came to
the Parson’s little white house. Bunny Face decided to knock on the
door and ask how the dog was. And the door was quickly opened by the
Parson himself, who invited him right in.
And the Parson’s sister got him some supper, and he sat on a little
stool by the fire and ate it while he told them about hunting for
Santa Claus’ house. Then Bunny Face said that he knew five folks that
wouldn’t have any Christmas, yes, sir. “Me,” he said, “Agnes, the dump
children, the janitor, and Madam Iceberg.”
“Well, maybe not,” said the Parson.
Then he talked about something else, and asked Bunny Face if he had
ever heard the Christmas Story. As Bunny Face didn’t know that there
was one, he shook his head. So the Parson opened a book and turned
pages, then read: “‘And there were in the same country shepherds
abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.’”
When it was finished the Parson closed the book, saying: “It’s the
Spirit of Christmas, sonny--the Spirit of Christmas that the world
needs.”
Bunny Face liked the idea. Spirits were a sort of ghosts or goblins;
he knew that much. Not like Santa Claus at all--fat and pink, but
different. He’d rather think that the Spirit was like a beautiful lady,
a sort of fairy. So that’s what he was thinking about one day coming
home from school, when he heard the sound of sleigh bells behind him.
He turned around and waited, for hopping bobs in those days was a great
sport with the children. But it wasn’t a bobsled at all, but Madam
Iceberg’s fine green sleigh, fur rugs and all.
“Who’s afraid?” said Bunny Face to himself as the sleigh glided past
him, and he hopped lightly on behind, to the surprise of all the people
in the street.
On they went, Bunny Face, holding on for dear life, and Madam Iceberg
in all her furs sitting there as grim as an image. They went very fast
and soon all the shops were left behind, and the houses, and they
started to climb the hill toward the big gate.
Then something made her look around suddenly and their eyes met.
“Well,” she said, surprised, “who are you?”
“Bunny Face,” he answered promptly.
For a minute she looked as if she might laugh; but she didn’t. Then she
said, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” said Bunny Face; “they all call you Madam Iceberg.”
“Possibly,” was all she said.
Bunny Face was about to let go when she turned around again and said,
“Now hold on tight.” They were turning in through the big iron gates
which stood open.
Then the sleigh stopped in front of the house, and Madam Iceberg handed
Bunny Face one of her bundles to carry, saying, “Here, boy, take this.”
The driver looked surprised, and so did the maid who opened the door;
but nobody said a word--just followed her inside.
It was big and dark and quiet in the house. Then suddenly Bunny Face
saw something that made him stop short and drop the bundle.
“_There’s_ the Spirit of Christmas,” he shouted as loud as he could
shout.
“Where--what?” asked the lady, ever so surprised.
“There on the wall,” cried Bunny Face, running quickly past the amazed
group and stopping in front of the portrait of a beautiful person in
white with flowers in her hair.
“You silly boy!” said Madam Iceberg. “That’s only my portrait--when I
was married.”
“Oh, it’s not you,” said Bunny Face, giving her a long look and
shaking his head. “It’s the Spirit of Christmas. I’ve found her, I’ve
found her!” he cried, jumping about and clapping his hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about at all, Mr. Bunny Face, but
come over here and sit down, and we’ll hear all about it.”
“Well, there’s lots about it,” said Bunny Face; “and you’re in it,
too, for you aren’t going to have any Christmas--you, and the school
janitor, and the dump children, and Agnes, and me--none of us are going
to get presents.”
Then Bunny Face told her about Agnes, and the Parson, and the dump
children who didn’t believe in Santa Claus or anything. “That’s about
all,” he said, “except Santa Claus’ house, and I couldn’t find that.”
So Bunny Face stood up and said he must go, and when he looked back
Madam Iceberg had sunk down deep in her chair, so that he could hardly
see her. But the Spirit of Christmas on the wall looked like a white
angel.
Something exciting and most surprising happened the next day. The
school janitor, Old Crab, was in jail. Yes, sir; and the big boys were
down there trying to see him through the bars. He had been caught in
Madam Iceberg’s house the night before, stealing. The servants found
him as he was getting away with a big roast under his arm.
Everybody was wondering what she would do about it. Would she have him
let off maybe, because it was so near Christmas? But nobody really
expected her to do that. And just then the Parson came walking along
with his sister, and this one and that one told him that he was the
very person to go up and talk to the madam about letting the janitor
go. It was his duty. But he shook his head and said that “it wouldn’t
do a bit of good, not a bit!” But his sister said, “Oh, Archibald, do!”
So he went, the poor man.
When he rang the bell he told himself that he was a fool for coming;
but the door opened just then, so he couldn’t run; and the maid was
saying, “Come in, please.” And after a while Madam Iceberg came walking
in.
“Oh, you’ve come to talk about little Bunny Face, I know,” she
said, smiling and holding out her hand. “He has the most fantastic
ideas,” she said, “and he calls my portrait in the hall the Spirit of
Christmas, though I can’t see why.”
You can guess how surprised the Parson was; but he asked to see the
picture, and said he quite agreed with Bunny Face. And Madam Iceberg
looked pleased. Then they talked on and on, but not a word was said
about the janitor until the Parson was about to leave. Then he told
her. But he didn’t seem at all astonished when she said to let him
go--by all means. Yes, certainly, considering the season and all that
sort of thing.
A few minutes later the Reverend Mr. Brisbane was seen walking out
through the big gates quite smartly and smiling most pleasantly.
Then one day Madam Iceberg’s big green sleigh stopped right in front
of Katie Duckworth’s store, which was the first time that that had ever
happened. And she got out herself and walked in. All the customers in
the store turned around and stared.
“Ah, here you are, Mr. Bunny Face. I’ve been looking for you
everywhere. I want you to help me--that is, I want you to join me in
some secrets and surprises.”
Just then Katie Duckworth came over to see what was wanted, and Madam
Iceberg explained very politely that she would like to borrow her
nephew for a little while to help with some Christmas plans.
Katie Duckworth said, “All right, ma’am.”
So Bunny Face got his cap and muffler and followed Madam Iceberg out to
the big green sleigh. Then she told the driver to drive around a bit,
because she and the young man must have a talk.
“Now, Mr. Bunny Face, please begin and name over that list of folks who
won’t have any Christmas this year,” said the lady.
“Well,” said Bunny Face, “there’s me, of course, and Agnes, then the
dump children, and the janitor and--and you.”
“All right,” said Madam Iceberg; “and I want you to help me make plans.
Will you?”
“Sure,” chirped Bunny Face. “Toys?”
“Yes, indeed, toys,” she said. “But where do we get them?”
“Why, old Mrs. Hampton’s Toy Shop, of course,” said Bunny Face.
So the lady bent forward and said, “Mrs. Hampton’s Toy Shop, driver.”
When old Mrs. Hampton saw them and knew who it was, she took off her
thick glasses, then put them back on again quickly. But she didn’t say
“Run along,” today, but “What can I do for you?”
And before Madam Iceberg could answer Mrs. Hampton, Bunny Face grabbed
her skirt and, pulling her along, pointed to a picture of Santa Claus
coming out of a funny little house under some tall pine trees.
“That’s it,” he said; “Santa Claus’ house.”
“So it is,” said Madam Iceberg; “Sure enough; that’s the house that you
were hunting, isn’t it?”
But Bunny Face didn’t answer. He had his head on one side and was
staring with all his eyes.
The lady puckered her lips and pointed and sort of blinked; so old Mrs.
Hampton wrote in her order book: “1 framed picture, entitled The House
of Santa Claus.”
“Now,” said Madam Iceberg in a business-like tone, “let’s begin to buy
toys.”
“Who for?” asked Bunny Face.
“For your dump children,” answered Madam Iceberg.
So Bunny Face began. “That and that and that,” he said, pointing at
fire engines and kites and hobbyhorses. And they bought dolls and
dishes and sewing baskets for girls.
Then Madam Iceberg paid for the things out of her purse, and told Mrs.
Hampton to send them up to her house, and said “Good-day.”
The other customers looked too surprised to speak when the lady and the
little boy closed the door behind them.
When they were back in the sleigh and all covered up, she said, “Now
how about Agnes’ present?”
“She hasn’t any place to sleep,” said Bunny Face, “but under the stove.”
“All right,” said Madam Iceberg; “then probably a basket with a red
cushion in it would please her; don’t you think it might?”
Yes, Bunny Face thought that it might.
So the lady said that she would make the red cushion herself; then she
told the driver to go to the hardware store, and they went in and she
bought several baskets.
“But,” said Bunny Face, “Agnes only needs one.”
“I’m thinking of the janitor and some others on your list,” said Madam
Iceberg.
“Are we going to give him a present?” asked Bunny Face.
“Certainly,” said Madam Iceberg, “for he’s on your list.” So at the
next store she bought good things to fill baskets. Bunny Face thought
she’d never stop.
“And now,” she said, “we’re finished.”
“There are two more names yet,” said Bunny Face.
“What?” said Madam Iceberg, with the twinkle look. “Two more?”
“Sure,” said Bunny Face. “Yours and mine.”
“Oh, that is so,” she said; “but I’ll have to talk to Santa Claus about
your present, so that you’ll be surprised. That’s one of my secrets,
you know.”
Of course that sounded pretty pleasant to Bunny Face--talking to Santa
Claus about secrets and surprises. But something worried him at the
same time: What was Madam Iceberg to get? And he grew so quiet that
finally she bent over and looked at him.
“I don’t know what you are going to get for Christmas,” said Bunny Face
slowly.
“Well, I know what I want,” said the lady gayly.
“Oh, what?” asked Bunny Face, sitting up straight.
“Why, a little guest on Christmas day,” she answered.
“A little what?” asked Bunny Face, for that wasn’t a present at all.
“Yes, a little guest, one Mr. Bunny Face, to come early on Christmas
morning and stay all day. And to go around with me and help with all
the secrets and surprises.”
When Bunny Face got out of the sleigh in front of Katie Duckworth’s
store he not only felt that he had found Santa Claus’ house on Clark’s
road, but that he had been talking with the Spirit of Christmas as
well. But it was true, all of it, and the driver was to come for him
early on Christmas morning; and Agnes could go too.
Now, Bunny Face had never had a secret before in his whole life, and he
found that keeping one was not as easy as he had expected. But he did
enjoy sing-songing to the rest of us children “I have a secret I won’t
tell,” as we all walked to school. But nobody really believed it, for
who could have a secret with Katie Duckworth?
As you might know, Bunny Face was up pretty early on Christmas morning,
all ready, holding Agnes and watching out the front window. You could
hear sleigh bells everywhere and people’s voices calling, “Same to
you,” and “Merry Christmas.”
Then came a sleigh, around the corner, and stopped in front of Katie
Duckworth’s store. The driver jumped out and ran in with a basket with
red ribbons flying and a letter tied to the handle. The letter said “A
happy Christmas to Miss Duckworth,” and please to allow her nephew to
come and spend the day.
Katie untied the ribbons and looked inside, and there were oranges and
nuts that they could see; and so she said “All right” to Bunny Face,
who picked up Agnes and said good-by. As they went through the gate,
Bunny Face saw wreaths in all the windows and over the big door, and
Madam Iceberg was standing there, waving her hand.
“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!” she said.
And then it really began. First there were all the wreaths, and pine
branches over the fireplace, and candles, and right under the Spirit
of Christmas there was a trimmed Christmas tree. My, my, such a tree!
You never saw the like. But under the tree--toys, toys! toys! Beginning
with a velocipede--there was a sled, games, books, skates, a dark
lantern. Oh, goodness me! I can’t tell you all the things that there
were. And if you’ll believe it, there was the picture of Santa Claus’
house--the very one!
For a minute Bunny Face just couldn’t talk; then he jumped up and
down and ran back and forth, pulling Madam Iceberg around by the
hand, showing her this one and that one, and how it worked. My, how
they laughed at everything. “For Miss Agnes from Bunny Face and Madam
Iceberg” was what it said on the letter tied to one Christmas present.
And beside the basket and the red cushion was a ball for her to play
with. Bunny Face put her in and held her down with both hands till she
went to sleep.
“And now, Mr. Bunny Face,” said the lady, “we must go and take care of
those other surprises.”
“To the dump?” asked Bunny Face.
“Yes, and on the way back we’ll stop at your Parson’s,” said Madam
Iceberg.
Well, right then the sleigh came jingling around the house and stopped
at the door, and what do you suppose? Well, all those toys from Mrs.
Hampton’s Toy Shop were packed in that sleigh, which made it look
exactly like Santa Claus’. It was a strange sight, that sleigh full of
toys stopping in front of the janitor’s shanty. The dump children heard
the bells and came tumbling out pellmell to see what there was to see.
“Merry Christmas, everybody!” said Madam Iceberg, beginning to hand
them toys. Then came the big basket with the Christmas dinner for the
janitor and all the children.
“Next to the Parson’s; then home again, Mr. Bunny Face, and you will
please hand him this?” said Madam Iceberg as she put a letter into his
pocket.
But the Parson and his sister heard the sleigh bells coming, and the
door was open before they got there, and everyone was saying “Merry
Christmas!” and “The same to you!” as fast and loud as he could.
Then Bunny Face said to the Parson, taking out the letter, “I am to
hand you this.”
And the Parson took it and read, “With every good wish from your
friends, Bunny Face and Madam Iceberg.” And he seemed greatly pleased,
and said: “Well, I guess we all know something about the Spirit of
Christmas now.”
“It’s her, it’s her,” shouted Bunny Face, pointing at Madam Iceberg,
and he flew over and shook her by the coat, saying, “Now I know what
those words mean.”
And she looked very happy as they started toward home.
“Fe, fi, fo, fum! I smell a turkey,” said the lady as the door was
opened, and they went into the hall. “Let’s be quick.”
So taking off their things--and a-hold of hands--they went out where a
table was set with two chairs, one for Bunny Face and one for her. And
in the center there were red candles burning, and a Santa Claus with a
pack on his back. Then they sat down and Madam Iceberg leaned over and
said, “Merry Christmas, _Sunny_ Face--for that is what I am going to
call you.”
And he said, “Same to you!” and a big smile started and ran clear
across his face and both ears wiggled pleasantly.
Then the dinner began to come in. First a turkey on a big platter,
all trimmed up and so brown and shiny that it looked varnished. Next
were all sorts of dishes of different things with covers over them to
keep them hot, and you couldn’t begin to guess what was in them all.
“A little more gravy over everything” or “Do have another drumstick,”
Madam Iceberg would say.
Then finally they both leaned back in their chairs and didn’t eat
any more. They talked about all sorts of things and asked each other
questions, back and forth--and he asked her if she knew any stories!
She said: “You’re right I do, Mr. Sunny Face. Come, let’s go in by the
fire and tell them there.”
So they took hold of hands and went.
[9] By special permission of Gertrude A. Kay and the “Ladies’ Home
Journal.”
THE CHRISTMAS TREE[10]
_Mary Austin_
Eastward from the Sierras rises a strong red hill known as Pine
Mountain, though the Indians call it The Hill of Summer Snow. At its
foot stands a town of a hundred board houses, given over wholly to the
business of mining. The noise of it goes on by day and night,--the
creak of the windlasses, the growl of the stamps in the mill, the clank
of the cars running down to the dump, and from the open doors of the
drinking saloons, great gusts of laughter and the sound of singing.
Billows of smoke roll up from the tall stacks and by night are lit
ruddily by the smelter fires all going at a roaring blast.
Whenever the charcoal-burner’s son looked down on the red smoke, the
glare, and the hot breath of the furnaces, it seemed to him like an
exhalation from the wickedness that went on continually in the town;
though all he knew of wickedness was the word, a rumor from passers-by,
and a kind of childish fear. The charcoal-burner’s cabin stood on a
spur of Pine Mountain two thousand feet above the town, and sometimes
the boy went down to it on the back of the laden burros when his father
carried charcoal to the furnaces. All else that he knew were the wild
creatures of the mountain, the trees, the storms, the small flowering
things, and away at the back of his heart a pale memory of his mother
like the faint forest odor that clung to the black embers of the pine.
They had lived in the town when the mother was alive and the father
worked in the mines. There were not many women or children in the town
at that time, but mining men jostling with rude quick ways; and the
young mother was not happy.
“Never let my boy grow up in such a place,” she said as she lay dying;
and when they had buried her in the coarse shallow soil, her husband
looked for comfort up toward The Hill of Summer Snow shining purely,
clear white and quiet in the sun. It swam in the upper air above the
sooty rock of the town and seemed as if it called. Then he took the
young child up to the mountain, built a cabin under the tamarack pines,
and a pit for burning charcoal for the furnace fires.
No one could wish for a better place for a boy to grow up in than the
slope of Pine Mountain. There was the drip of pine balm and a wind
like wine, white water in the springs, and as much room for roaming as
one desired. The charcoal-burner’s son chose to go far, coming back
with sheaves of strange bloom from the edge of snow banks on the high
ridges, bright spar or peacock-painted ores, hatfuls of berries, or
strings of shining trout. He played away whole mornings in glacier
meadows where he heard the eagle scream; walking sometimes in a mist
of cloud he came upon deer feeding, or waked them from their lair in
the deep fern. On snow-shoes in winter he went over the deep drifts and
spied among the pine tops on the sparrows, the grouse, and the chilly
robins wintering under the green tents. The deep snow lifted him up
and held him among the second stories of the trees. But that was not
until he was a great lad, straight and springy as a young fir. As a
little fellow he spent his days at the end of a long rope staked to a
pine just out of reach of the choppers and the charcoal-pits. When he
was able to go about alone, his father made him give three promises:
never to follow a bear’s trail nor meddle with the cubs, never to try
to climb the eagle rocks after the young eagles, never to lie down nor
to sleep on the sunny, south slope where the rattlesnakes frequented.
After that he was free of the whole wood.
When Mathew, for so the boy was called, was ten years old, he began to
be of use about the charcoal pits, to mark the trees for cutting, to
sack the coals, to keep the house, and cook his father’s meals. He had
no companions of his own age nor wanted any, for at this time he loved
the silver firs. A group of them grew in a swale below the cabin, tall
and fine; the earth under them was slippery and brown with needles.
Where they stood close together with over-lapping boughs the light
among the tops was golden green, but between the naked boles it was a
vapor thin and blue. These were the old trees that had wagged their
tops together for three hundred years. Around them stood a ring of
saplings and seedlings scattered there by the parent firs, and a little
apart from these was the one that Mathew loved. It was slender of trunk
and silvery white, the branches spread out fanwise to the outline of
a perfect spire. In the spring, when the young growth covered it as
with a gossamer web, it gave out a pleasant odor, and it was to him
like the memory of what his mother had been. Then he garlanded it with
flowers and hung streamers of white clematis all heavy with bloom upon
its boughs. He brought it berries in cups of bark and sweet water from
the spring; always as long as he knew it, it seemed to him that the fir
tree had a soul.
The first trip he had ever made on snow-shoes was to see how it fared
among the drifts. That was always a great day when he could find the
slender cross of its topmost bough above the snow. The fir was not
very tall in those days, but the snows as far down on the slope as the
charcoal-burner’s cabin lay shallowly. There was a time when Mathew
expected to be as tall as the fir, but after a while the boy did not
grow so fast and the fir kept on adding its whorl of young branches
every year.
Mathew told it all his thoughts. When at times there was a heaviness
in his breast which was really a longing for his mother, though he did
not understand it, he would part the low spreading branches and creep
up to the slender trunk of the fir. Then he would put his arms around
it and be quiet for a long beautiful time. The tree had its own way of
comforting him; the branches swept the ground and shut him in dark and
close. He made a little cairn of stones under it and kept his treasures
there.
Often as he lay snuggled up to the heart of the tree, the boy would
slip his hand over the smooth intervals between the whorls of boughs,
and wonder how they knew the way to grow. All the fir trees are alike
in this, that they throw out their branches from the main stem like the
rays of a star, one added to another with the season’s growth. They
stand out stiffly from the trunk, and the shape of each new bough in
the beginning and the shape of the last growing twig when they have
spread out broadly with many branchlets, bending with the weight of
their own needles, is the shape of a cross; and the topmost sprig that
rises above all the star-built whorls is a long and slender cross,
until by the springing of new branches it becomes a star. So the two
forms go on running into and repeating each other, and each star is
like all the stars, and every bough is another’s twin. It is this
trim and certain growth that sets out the fir from all the mountain
trees, and gives to the young saplings a secret look as they stand
straight and stiffly among the wild brambles on the hill. For the wood
delights to grow abroad at all points, and one might search a summer
long without finding two leaves of the oak alike, or any two trumpets
of the spangled mimulus. So, as at that time he had nothing better
worth studying about, Mathew noticed and pondered the secret of the
silver fir, and grew up with it until he was twelve years old and tall
and strong for his age. By this time the charcoal-burner began to be
troubled about the boy’s schooling.
Meantime there was rioting and noise and coming and going of strangers
in the town at the foot of Pine Mountain, and the furnace blast went on
ruddily and smokily. Because of the things he heard Mathew was afraid,
and on rare occasions when he went down to it he sat quietly among the
charcoal sacks, and would not go far away from them except when he held
his father by the hand. After a time it seemed life went more quietly
there, flowers began to grow in the yards of the houses, and they met
children walking in the streets with books upon their arms.
“Where are they going, father?” said the boy.
“To school,” said the charcoal-burner.
“And may I go?” asked Mathew.
“Not yet, my son.”
But one day his father pointed out the foundations of a new building
going up in the town.
“It is a church,” he said, “and when that is finished it will be a sign
that there will be women here like your mother, and then you may go to
school.”
Mathew ran and told the fir tree all about it.
“But I will never forget you, never,” he cried, and he kissed the
trunk. Day by day, from the spur of the mountain, he watched the church
building, and it was wonderful how much he could see in that clear,
thin atmosphere; no other building in town interested him so much.
He saw the walls go up and the roof, and the spire rise skyward with
something that glittered twinkling on its top. Then they painted the
church white and hung a bell in the tower. Mathew fancied he could hear
it of Sundays as he saw the people moving along like specks in the
streets.
“Next week,” said the father, “the school begins, and it is time for
you to go as I promised. I will come to see you once a month, and when
the term is over you shall come back to the mountain.” Mathew said
goodby to the fir tree, and there were tears in his eyes though he was
happy. “I shall think of you very often,” he said, “and wonder how you
are getting along. When I come back I will tell you everything that
happens. I will go to church, and I am sure I shall like that. It has
a cross on top like yours, only it is yellow and shines. Perhaps when
I am gone I shall learn why you carry a cross, also.” Then he went a
little timidly, holding fast by his father’s hand.
There were so many people in the town that it was quite as strange and
fearful to him as it would be to you who had grown up in town to be
left alone in the wood. At night, when he saw the charcoal-burner’s
fires glowing up in the air where the bulk of the mountain melted into
the dark, he would cry a little under the blankets, but after he began
to learn, there was no more occasion for crying. It was to the child
as though there had been a candle lighted in a dark room. On Sunday he
went to the church, and then it was both light and music, for he heard
the minister read about God in the great book and believed it all, for
everything that happens in the woods is true, and people who grow up
in it are best at believing. Mathew thought it was all as the minister
said, that there is nothing better than pleasing God. Then when he lay
awake at night he would try to think how it would have been with him
if he had never come to this place. In his heart he began to be afraid
of the time when he would have to go back to the mountain, where there
was no one to tell him about this most important thing in the world,
for his father never talked to him of these things. It preyed upon his
mind, but if any one noticed it, they thought that he pined for his
father and wished himself at home.
It drew toward midwinter, and the white cap of The Hill of Summer Snow,
which never quite melted even in the warmest weather, began to spread
downward until it reached the charcoal-burner’s home. There was a great
stir and excitement among the children, for it had been decided to
have a Christmas tree in the church. Every Sunday now the Christ-child
story was told over and grew near and brighter like the Christmas star.
Mathew had not known about it before, except that on a certain day in
the year his father had bought him toys. He had supposed that it was
because it was stormy and he had to be indoors. Now he was wrapped up
in the story of love and sacrifice, and felt his heart grow larger
as he breathed it in, looking upon clear windless nights to see if
he might discern the Star of Bethlehem rising over Pine Mountain and
the Christ-child come walking on the snow. It was not that he really
expected it, but that the story was so alive in him. It is easy for
those who had lived long in the high mountains to believe in beautiful
things. Mathew wished in his heart that he might never go away from
this place. He sat in his seat in church, and all that the minister
said sank deeply into his mind.
When it came time to decide about the tree, because Mathew’s father
was a charcoal-burner and knew where the best trees grew, it was quite
natural to ask him to furnish the tree for his part. Mathew fairly
glowed with delight, and his father was pleased, too, for he liked to
have his son noticed. The Saturday before Christmas, which fell on
Tuesday that year, was the time set for going for the tree, and by that
time Mathew had quite settled in his mind that it should be his silver
fir. He did not know how otherwise he could bring the tree to share
in his new delight, nor what else he had worth giving, for he quite
believed what he had been told, that it is only through giving the best
beloved that one comes to the heart’s desire. With all his heart Mathew
wished never to live in any place where he might not hear about God. So
when his father was ready with the ropes and the sharpened axe, the boy
led the way to the silver firs.
“Why, that is a little beauty,” said the charcoal-burner, “and just the
right size.”
They were obliged to shovel away the snow to get at it for cutting, and
Mathew turned away his face when the chips began to fly. The tree fell
upon its side with a shuddering sigh; little beads of clear resin stood
out about the scar of the axe. It seemed as if the tree wept. But how
graceful and trim it looked when it stood in the church waiting for
gifts! Mathew hoped that it would understand.
The charcoal-burner came to church on Christmas eve, the first time
in many years. It makes a difference about these things when you have
a son to take part in them. The church and the tree were alight with
candles; to the boy it seemed like what he supposed the place of dreams
might be. One large candle burned on the top of the tree and threw
out pointed rays like a star; it made the charcoal-burner’s son think
of Bethlehem. Then he heard the minister talking, and it was all of a
cross and a star; but Mathew could only look at the tree, for he saw
that it trembled, and he felt that he had betrayed it. Then the choir
began to sing, and the candle on the top of the tree burned down quite
low, and Mathew saw the slender cross of the topmost bough stand up
dark before it. Suddenly he remembered his old puzzle about it, how the
smallest twigs were divided off in each in the shape of a cross, how
the boughs repeated the star form every year, and what was true of his
fir was true of them all. Then it must have been that there were tears
in his eyes, for he could not see plainly: the pillars of the church
spread upward like the shafts of the trees, and the organ playing
was like the sound of the wind in their branches, and the stately
star-built firs rose up like spires, taller than the church tower, each
with a cross on top. The sapling which was still before him trembled
more, moving its boughs as if it spoke; and the boy heard it in his
heart and believed, for it spoke to him of God. Then all the fear went
out of his heart and he had no more dread of going back to the mountain
to spend his days, for now he knew that he need never be away from the
green reminder of hope and sacrifice in the star and the cross of the
silver fir; and the thought broadened in his mind that he might find
more in the forest than he had ever thought to find, now that he knew
what to look for, since everything speaks of God in its own way and it
is only a matter of understanding how.
It was very gay in the little church that Christmas night, with
laughter and bonbons flying about, and every child had a package of
candy and an armful of gifts. The charcoal-burner had his pockets
bulging full of toys, and Mathew’s eyes glowed like the banked fires of
the charcoal-pits as they walked home in the keen, windless night.
“Well, my boy,” said the charcoal-burner, “I am afraid you will not be
wanting to go back to the mountain with me after this.”
“Oh, yes, I will,” said Mathew happily, “for I think the mountains know
quite as much of the important things as they know here in the town.”
“Right you are,” said the charcoal-burner, as he clapped his boy’s hand
between both his own, “and I am pleased to think you have turned out
such a sensible little fellow.” But he really did not know all that was
in his son’s heart.
[10] Reprinted from “The Basket Woman” by permission of and by
arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Co., publishers.
CHRISTMAS LUCK[11]
_Albert Bigelow Paine_
“Oh, Eb, it runs! It really does!”
Nell, who was twelve--a slender, sunny-haired little creature--first
clasped her hands, then clapped them, then danced up and down the old
woodshed pausing at last in front of a big kitchen table, where a toy
engine and train of cars were making a circuit around and around and
around a tiny track. The hired boy, Eb--a few years older, rough-handed
and poorly dressed--smiled at the child’s pleasure.
“That’s nothing,” he said. “I didn’t have to do much to it.”
“But you did, Eb. It was all broken to pieces. Papa would be awfully
disappointed to find it that way when he comes, and Tommy would
never have gotten over it. Never! He’s set his heart on a train for
Christmas, and it’s been promised to him, and now to have it all
smashed in the express! Oh, Eb, nobody could have fixed it but you.
You’re a real genius, mamma says, and ought to go to a mechanical
school. Isn’t it lucky you’re living with Uncle Bob when we come to
visit him!”
The dainty, dancing fairy stopped suddenly and held up a warning finger.
“Sh, Eb! There’s Tommy now! He’s coming back! Oh, stop it! stop it! and
cover it so he can’t see! He’ll be coming straight in here, I know!”
Outside there were the wild whoop of a small boy with large lungs,
a clatter of a sled, a stamping of feet, then a plunging into the
kitchen, just as Eb had slipped a stick through the train wheels to
stop it, and covered it with an old homespun saddle blanket, gathered
hastily from the corner. A moment later Tommy burst in, red, snowy,
and full of the curiosity which most healthy boys are likely to have,
especially about Christmas-time.
“What are you doing here, Nell, you and Eb? What have you been making
with all that wire, and those tools? What’s that blanket on the table?
Pooh, Bess! What are you shivering for with that great cape on? I’m not
cold, and I’ve been coasting for over an hour, down the back-barn hill!
Oh, say, come in the kitchen, Nell! I want to show you a funny icicle I
found. Come quick, before it’s all melted away!”
Like a whirlwind he had stormed in and out, followed closely by Nell,
who threw a merry glance of relief over her shoulder. Eb, leaning
against the work-bench, smiled back; then, with a sigh, saw them
disappear.
For Nellie’s words and her mother’s had set his heart to beating with
something like hope. What if there really could be a way by which he
could go to such a place as she had mentioned, and learn to be a--a--
And then, as he saw them go out, and the door close behind them, it
seemed as if hope went out with them. They would all be gone in a few
days and never remember him again. He hurried off to pitch down the
evening hay for the cattle, and see if he couldn’t forget, too.
From earliest childhood Eben Lessing had worked with tools--a
one-bladed knife at first, then such other clumsy things as he could
get hold of. With these he had made curious toys that would run by
water, or wind, or heat, or steam, some of them quite useful. When he
came to Robert Whittaker’s to live he built, besides other things, a
churn of a new pattern, and a fan over the dining-room table, both
to run by water-power brought from the brook. And when Mrs. William
Whittaker, who was from the city, had seen these things, she had said
the boy deserved a mechanical education, and then forgot all about
it again, being very busy with all the Christmas preparations, while
Eb, pitching down great wads of sweet hay from the barn loft, was
still dreaming in spite of himself, of a day when he should leave the
district school for a mechanical college, and become a great inventor,
and marry Nellie Whittaker, and so live happy ever after. Then it came
milking-time, and swishing the broad white streams into the foaming
pail, he dreamed again, and kept on dreaming even after he was in
bed and asleep. Then he forgot, and when he remembered again it was
morning--the morning of the day before Christmas.
What a busy day that was! Of course, quite early, Eb had to drive in
for papa, who was coming on the first train, and Nellie and Tom had
to go along in the surrey. Then, when papa came, there was so much to
tell, only, of course, Nell couldn’t tell how Tommy’s train had been
broken and fixed, because Tommy wasn’t to know anything about the train
until he saw it travelling around and around on the little track that
was to go clear around under the Christmas tree. Then, at home, there
were all the places to see--all the places that papa had seen as a
little boy: the hill where he used to slide, the same back-barn hill
where Tommy had been coasting, the brook where he used to fish, the
hay-mow, and the horses and cows, and the hens’ nests where Nell and
Tommy had found eggs, and where Tommy had been whipped by an old hen
that wanted to sit; though why she should want to sit there all day in
the cold on two nubbins of corn and a lump of frozen dirt that somebody
had thrown at her, Tommy said he, for one, couldn’t see.
Papa laughed, and said that maybe if she sat there until spring on the
nubbins and frozen dirt she’d hatch out a corn-field. Then they went
into the kitchen, where mamma and Aunt Maria--a big motherly woman who
had never had any children of her own, except one little boy named
Willie, and that died--were baking and stirring, and opening and
closing oven doors, so that people had better keep out of the way. Only
you couldn’t, because it smelt so nice in there of mince-meat, and of
baking-cakes that came out all brown, with buttered paper sticking to
them when they were turned out of the pans. Then, all at once, they
found that Aunt Maria had turned out a little brown cake, from a little
pan, and she cut it hot, and Tommy had a piece, and Nellie and papa,
just as he used to have the day before Christmas, when he was a little
boy. And after this they went into the dining-room and saw Eb’s patent
fan, and into the pantry to look at Eb’s churn, and papa said, “Well,
well!” and that somebody ought to give a boy like that a chance.
But they forgot all about it when they got to the parlor and looked
at the funny album that had pictures of papa and Uncle Bob, taken
together, when papa was a very little boy and Uncle Bob was his big
brother. And when Uncle Bob came in they talked about the day they
had it taken, more than thirty years ago, and how papa had rolled up
his eyes and didn’t keep still, and all that happened afterwards--the
things that people always talk about when they forget for a little
while that they are grown up, and only remember that they were once
boys and girls, like the rest of us.
And in the afternoon they had to go and cut and bring in the Christmas
tree. Tom and Mollie had already picked out a bushy little spruce up
on the mountain-side, and Eb went along, because Eb had been with them
and knew the way. Besides, Eb could cut better with a hatchet than
anybody, so Tommy said.
Then Tommy walked down the hill with his papa, talking all the time,
while Eb and Nellie, side by side, dragged the little spruce over the
snow, and Nellie talked and Eb listened, and was never so happy before
in all his life, and never so sad, either, because next week it would
all be over, and he would be there alone, with no school except the
district school, where he had learned about all he could, and with no
chance of becoming a great inventor, and doing all the things that he
had dreamed.
Of course Eb had to help to trim the tree. He had never trimmed
one before, but he was the handiest of them all, and could go up a
step-ladder and fasten tapers to the high limbs, and string popcorn
and tinsel just in the very places where it ought to be. Then, when
that part of it was all done, and it was getting towards evening--that
wonderful evening of hush and mystery and joy--Christmas eve--it was
Nellie who said that Eb must be Santa Claus, and put the presents on
the tree.
“If we put them on, ourselves, then everybody will see just what they
are to have, and who gives it,” she said. “If Eb puts them on, nobody
will know until Christmas morning. We’ll darken the sitting-room, and
each one can go in and put down his things, and come right out again.
Then, after supper, Eb can go in and unwrap them, and put them on the
tree. Of course, Tommy, the real Santa Claus, will come afterwards, and
put on his things, too.”
Nellie did not mention that she had a bright new tie for Eb. She knew
there would be a chance to put that on, herself, in the morning.
Everybody said Nellie’s plan was a good one; so by-and-by Eb found
himself in the sitting-room alone, with a great many whispered
instructions, and the beautiful tree, and packages and packages of
things to be unwrapped and arranged in and about it. Tommy and Nell
were tiptoeing and whispering about the hall, and Nellie called to
Eb to lock the door or Tommy would just _have_ to come inside. So Eb
locked it, laughing, and wished in his soul that Nellie at least might
come in to help him. Then he noticed that somebody had put a lot of
loose cotton around the foot of the tree to represent snow, and he
looked from this to the little candles on the slender limbs, and shook
his head, and said something about fire and tow being pretty close
together. By-and-by he went out to the kitchen to wash his hands. When
he came in he stopped a moment to arrange something in the corner,
before going on with his work. The house was quite still now, but it
was after midnight before Eb was ready to go to his bed.
It had been a wonderful evening for him. He had unwrapped and seen
at close range all the pretty things that well-to-do people give one
another at Christmas-time; books, games, pictures, ornaments, articles
of dress, confections, and even gems. He had arranged and rearranged,
and with a natural eye for the beautiful had placed the things as
showily as most people could have done, and with great thought of
their safety. When he was through at last he stood back to admire his
work. Then all at once he remembered that Tommy’s train was still
hidden in the wood-shed. He had forgotten it entirely.
He brought in the engine and cars, and then the track, in sections, and
soon had it all arranged under the tree, so that it would travel around
and around, though he had to move some books and other things to do
it. Then he tried the train a little, to see that it would run as well
as ever. He hated to leave it all; but he blew out the lamp at last
and went to bed, wondering if by any chance he would oversleep next
morning, and so fail to light up, and have everything in order when Tom
and Nellie and the others were ready to come down.
“Whoop! Merry Christmas!”
Eb sat straight up in bed. He had overslept, then, after all. No; for
it was still dark. He did not believe it could be five o’clock.
“Merry Christmas, Eb! Say, get up and light the tree! I want to see my
things.”
It was Tommy, of course, and the whole house would be roused and ready
to come down presently. Eb leaped into his clothes, made a hasty
toilet, and slipped down the back stairs, leaving Tommy still shouting
Merry Christmas through the halls to arouse older people from their
slumbers.
Within a few minutes everybody had concluded that it was no use to
hold out against Tommy, and in five minutes more everybody had
dragged on something that resembled clothes and a pleasant smile, and
came straggling down the stairs, calling greetings to one another.
Tommy, at the head, was already pounding at the sitting-room door,
while Eb, inside, was lighting the last tapers, and putting on a few
finishing-touches, such as starting and setting a new clock for Aunt
Maria, and winding up Tommy’s train. Then, when he heard them all
outside, he unlocked the door, and, stepping back, pulled it wide, so
that all might get a sudden and full view of the beautiful Christmas
tree.
For a moment they stood quite still, blinking from the brightness of
it. Then there came a chorus of “Oh! oh!” “Well! well!” and, “How
beautiful!” with another wild whoop from Tommy, ending up with, “Oh,
gee! see my train!”
A second later he had bounded forward toward the precious train, and
was ducking down under the tree for a closer view.
“Tommy!” “Oh, Tom!” “Thomas! Look out. The candles!”
There was a regular chorus of warnings,--but all too late. A second
later a taper that had been fixed to a branch, struck by Tommy’s head,
had fallen, and the loose cotton about the tree was afire, the blaze
darting up into the branches.
Tommy rolled out from under the tree like an armadillo. Nellie clasped
her hands and shut her eyes to keep out the terrible sight and began to
moan and wail. Uncle Robert and Aunt Maria both started somewhere for
pails of water, while papa and mamma began tugging at a piece of carpet
to smother the blaze.
And then, all at once, there was somebody else at work, and there came
a hissing sound, as if water was being put on the flames, and right
among them stood Eb, with something over his shoulder and under his
arm, and in his hand there was a sort of a tube that sent a stream of
water just where it was needed, and that put out the burning cotton in
just about the time it has taken me to tell about it. When Aunt Maria
and Uncle Robert came hurrying back with pails of water, there was no
use for them. Papa and mamma and Nellie and Tom were gathered about
Eb, more interested in what he had under his arm and over his shoulder
than in the Christmas tree, which was scarcely damaged at all, for the
flames had not reached the presents, and there was only a little water
on Tommy’s train, which hadn’t even stopped running, being the kind of
train, Tommy said, that didn’t mind a little thing like lightning and
rain.
“Why, it’s Eb’s fire-extinguisher!” said Uncle Robert. “I forgot all
about that!”
“But Eb didn’t!” said Tommy. “He put it in here last night, because he
knew there’d be a fire with all that cotton of yours, sis.”
“He knew you’d knock over a candle, I guess,” retorted Nell.
Then the wet cotton was taken away, and the presents rearranged about
the tree, and Tommy’s train wound up again, and everything was as fine
as if nothing had happened, though they didn’t any of them forget what
might have happened if it hadn’t been for Eb with his fire-extinguisher.
And that was one of the finest Christmases that ever was! And at
dinner-time Eb was there, with his bright new tie on, and sat right by
Nellie, and was almost like the hero of the day. And after the turkey
was carved, Mr. William Whittaker said, all at once, to Eben Lessing,
as if he’d just happened to think of it:
“By-the-way, Eb, how would you like to take a course in a mechanical
school? We’ve a good deal of room in our house, and now and then I need
somebody to help me. You can come home with us and go to school, if you
like.”
And would you believe it, Eb couldn’t say a word! He was like the
others when he had flung open the door of the sitting-room and blinded
them with the wonderful tree--he just sat there and blinked.
Nellie answered: “Of course, papa, Eb would like it. Wouldn’t you, Eb?”
And then, somehow, Eb nodded, and somehow said something that was taken
for yes, and then everybody began talking at once about the things
Eb had made, and what he would do by-and-by, while Tommy, who, just
at that moment, found out what it all meant, broke out with a great
rejoicing, “Whoop! Eb’s going home with us! Eb’s going home with us to
live!”
And Nellie whispered, “Oh, Eb, didn’t I tell you it was lucky you were
living with Uncle Bob when we came to visit him?”
[11] By permission of the author and Harper and Brothers.
A NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS[12]
_Temple Bailey_
It was the night before Christmas--and stormy.
“Sqush--sqush,” went the wheels of the carriage in the mud.
“Whew--ew--ew,” whistled the wind, and it blew Peter’s hat into the
middle of the road.
“Whoa,” said Peter, and climbed down from his high seat.
The “Princess” poked her head out of the window. “What’s the matter?”
she asked.
“My hat blew off,” Peter told her, “and the wheel is stuck in the mud,
Miss.”
“Oh, Peter, Peter,” the Princess chided, “you must get that wheel out
of the mud at once.”
“Which is easier said than done,” Peter grumbled; “it’s that dark that
I can’t see my hand before me.”
“There’s a light back there among the trees,” the Princess informed
him; “perhaps you could get some one to help you.”
“I’ll go and see, Miss, if you ain’t afraid to stay alone,” and Peter,
after some effort, succeeded in quieting the plunging horses.
“I am dreadfully afraid,” came shiveringly, “but I suppose you will
have to go.”
Now in the middle of the pine grove was set a little cottage. Peter
knocked at the door.
“Who’s there?” asked a childish voice, and a little girl poked her head
out of the square window.
“Our wheel is stuck in the mud,” Peter answered, from the dark, “and I
want to get a man to help me.”
“There isn’t any man here,” Jenny informed him. “There is only me and
Jinny; and our mother has gone to nurse a sick neighbor, and she won’t
be home until morning.”
So Peter went back to the carriage and reported to the Princess.
“I shall freeze out here,” said the Princess. “I will go up to the
house and sit by the fire while you look for some one to help you with
the carriage.”
She climbed out of the carriage, and with Peter in the lead, she
plodded through the woods, and the wind blew her long coat this way and
that, and at last, wet and panting, she came to the little house.
And once more Peter knocked, and once more Jenny came to the window.
Then she flung the door wide open, and so tall was the Princess that
she had to stoop to enter it. It was a dingy little room, and there was
a dumpy black stove in the corner, with a bubbling iron pot that gave
forth a most appetizing odor.
“Oh, oh, how nice and warm it is,” said the Princess, as she held out
her hands to the fire.
In all their lives the little girls had never beheld such a wonderful
person, for the Princess wore a long red coat and a black velvet hat
with a waving plume, and her muff was big and round and soft, and she
had a scarf of the same soft fur about her neck. Her hair was pale
gold, and she had the bluest eyes and the reddest lips, and her smile
was so sweet and tender, that Jenny ran right up to her and cried: “Oh,
I am so glad you came!”
Jinny, from her little chair, echoed her sister’s words. But she did
not run, for there was a tiny crutch beside Jinny’s chair in the square
window.
“And I am glad to be here,” said the Princess, whose quick eyes were
taking in the details of the shabby room. “It’s so nice and warm and
cozy.”
“Isn’t it?” said Jenny, happily, “and we are getting ready for
to-morrow.”
On a small round table beside Jinny’s chair was a tiny cedar bush, and
Jinny’s fingers had been busy with bits of gold and blue and scarlet
paper.
“We are going to pop some popcorn,” Jenny explained, “and string it,
and hang it on the tree.”
“Oh, may I help?” the Princess asked. “I haven’t popped any corn since
I was a little girl.”
Jinny clasped her thin little hands. “I think it would be the loveliest
thing in the world,” she said, “if you would stay.”
“Peter is going to find some one to help with the carriage, and I will
stay until he comes back.”
And when Peter had gone, the Princess slipped off the long red coat,
and underneath it she wore a shining silken gown and around her neck
was a collar of pearls.
“And now, if you could lend me an apron,” she said, “we will pop the
corn.”
But Jinny and Jenny were gazing at her speechless.
“Oh, you must be a fairy Princess,” gasped little Jinny at last.
The beautiful lady laughed joyously. “Peter calls me the Princess,” she
said; “he has lived with me ever since I was a little girl. But really
I am just an every-day young woman, who is going to spend Christmas
with some friends in the next town.”
She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand.
“And now to our popcorn,” she said.
Jenny brought a green gingham apron, and the Princess tied it on,
making a big butterfly bow of the strings in the back, and then she
danced over to the dumpy little stove and peeped into the bubbling pot.
“Did you ever smell anything so good?” she asked. “I am as hungry as
hungry.”
The little girls laughed joyously. “It’s bean soup,” Jenny said, “and
we are going to have it for supper with some little dumplings in it. I
was afraid it wasn’t nice enough for you.”
“Nice enough?” the delightful lady demanded. “I think bean soup
and little dumplings are--um--um!” and she flung out her hands
expressively.
“I thought,” Jinny remarked quaintly, “that fairy princesses only ate
honey and dew.”
“Which shows that I am not a true Princess,” said the beautiful lady,
“for honey and dew would never satisfy me.”
Jenny got out three little blue bowls and set them on a table that was
spread with a coarse but spotless cloth. There was a crusty loaf and
clover-sweet butter, and last and best of all there was the bean soup
and the bobbing little dumplings served together in an old mulberry
tureen.
It was perfectly wonderful to see the Princess in her shining gown at
the head of the table, and little lame Jinny said, “You were just sent
to us for Christmas. Why, it’s just like
“The night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads--”
“But our stockings weren’t hung yet, and _we_ weren’t in bed!” said
Jenny.
“It was too early for that,” said the Princess; “but let’s go on with
the rhyme, just for fun. I see you know it all through, so you mustn’t
mind my changing it a little:
“When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
Jenny sprang from her chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer--
“Oh, no, I forgot! I mean
“When what to her wondering eyes should appear
But a carriage stuck in the mud, right out here--
And a little old driver, so lively and quick,
You must have thought Peter was dear old St. Nick!”
The children laughed gleefully, and Jenny said: “We _would_ have
thought that, only we aren’t going to hang up our stockings this
Christmas at all. Jenny and I aren’t going to get any presents, for
mother hasn’t been well, and she couldn’t get any sewing. But she said
we could make our Christmas merry, and we were to pretend that we had
been to the big stores in the city, and had bought things for the tree,
and dolls and everything.”
“That’s a lovely way,” said the Princess gently, and she laid her
flashing rings over Jinny’s thin one.
“And we are going to pretend,” Jenny contributed, “that our chicken is
a turkey. But we won’t have to pretend about the mince pie, for mother
has made a lovely one.”
“I wish I could help you eat the chicken,” said the Princess wistfully,
“and I should like to meet your mother. I know she is home-y. And I
haven’t any mother, you know.”
“Oh,” said the little girls, round-eyed with sympathy, and then the
Princess told them that all her life she had lived in a big, lonely
house, and she had always yearned for a cozy home and for a sister.
After supper they popped the corn, and just as they finished in came
Peter.
“I can’t find any one to help, Miss,” he announced, “and it’s snowing.
I’ll have to unhitch the horses and go back to town, and get something
to take you over in.”
“No,” the Princess demurred, as she stood in the middle of the room
with a heaped-up dish of snowy kernels in her hand. “No, Peter, I am
going to stay here all night.”
Peter stared, and the little girls cried, “Oh, will you?”
And the Princess said, “I really will. And, Peter, you can bring up the
steamer trunk and my bag.”
“Won’t your friends expect you, Miss?” Peter inquired, as if awaiting
orders.
“I will send a note by you,” was the calm response, and as the man
went out she followed him and shut the door behind her. “Oh, Peter,
Peter,” she whispered confidentially, “I am going to give them such a
Christmas!”
“The little girls, Miss?”
“Yes. They are so sweet and brave. And I have the presents in my trunk
that I was going to carry to the other children. But they will have so
much that they won’t miss them, and I shall spend my Christmas in a
plain little house, but it will be a joyful house, Peter.”
“Yes, Miss,” Peter agreed, understandingly.
“I wish we had a big tree!” said the Princess, regretfully.
“Well, leave that to me, Miss,” Peter told her, eagerly; “you just get
them little things to sleep early, and I’ll be here with a tree.”
“Oh, Peter, Peter Santa Claus!” exclaimed the Princess, gleefully, “it
will be the nicest Christmas that I have had since I was a wee bit of a
girl.”
So Peter went away, and the Princess, with her eyes shining like stars,
danced back into the room and said, “Oh, let’s play ‘Mariners.’”
Jinny and Jenny had never heard of such a game, but the Princess told
them that she was a ship on the high seas, and they were to tell from
her cargo what country she hailed from.
“I carry tea,” she began; “where do I hail from?”
“China,” guessed Jenny.
“No.”
“Japan,” cried Jinny, with her little face glowing.
“No.”
Then the little girls pondered. “It might be India,” ventured Jenny,
but the Princess shook her head. Then Jinny cried: “It’s Ceylon!” and
that was right.
And after that Jinny brought a cargo of oranges from Florida and Jenny
brought a cargo of rugs from Persia, and there were cargoes of spices
and of coal and of coffee and of fish and of grain and of lumber, and
the Princess finished triumphantly by carrying a cargo of oysters from
the Chesapeake Bay.
“One more,” begged Jinny.
“I carry a cargo of castles,” said the sparkling Princess; “where do I
hail from?”
The little girls guessed and guessed, and at last the Princess said:
“That wasn’t a fair one, really, for my castles are castles in Spain.”
Then, with Jinny in her arms, she told them of her own castle-building,
and when she had finished, she said: “And so your mother shall have all
of my sewing, and that will keep her busy until Spring.”
“Oh, you are going to be married, and live happy ever after,” sighed
Jinny, rapturously; “it’s just what a fairy Princess should do.”
“And what you should do,” said the Princess, looking at the clock, “is
to go to bed, bed, bed, so that you can wake up early in the morning.”
She tucked them in, and came back later in a fascinating pink kimono
with her hair in a thick yellow braid, and she kissed them both. But
it was little lame Jinny that she kissed last. And then she went away,
like a glorious vision, and the little girls sank into slumber.
In the next room the Princess opened the door cautiously, and there
was Peter with snow all over him, and his arms were full of holly and
mistletoe, and a great tree was propped against the door-post.
“Quietly, quietly, Peter,” warned the Princess. And Peter tiptoed in
and set the tree up in the corner, and its top reached to the ceiling.
The Princess opened the steamer trunk and took out two white
Teddy-bears, one with a flaring blue bow and the other with a flaring
pink one, and then she took out a green and yellow and a red and a blue
fairy book, and a beautiful square basket of candy, tied with holly
ribbon, and then from the very bottom of the trunk she drew string
after string of shining little silver bells, fastened on red and pale
green ribbons.
“I was going to get up a cotillion figure for the children at the other
house,” the Princess explained to Peter, “but these little folks need
it so much more.”
The little bells went “tinkle, tinkle,” as Peter hung them, and Jinny,
dreaming in her little bed, heard the sound and thought it a part of
her dream.
And while Peter and the Princess trimmed and whispered and laughed,
some one rattled the doorknob.
Peter opened the door, and there stood a white-faced, shivering little
woman.
“Oh, what has happened to my little girls,” she panted. “I saw the
light and it is so late--” then as she beheld the golden-haired vision
in pink, and the gay tree, and Peter in his trim livery, she gasped,
“Why, I believe it is fairies--” and she sat down very suddenly in
Jinny’s chair.
“You are the little mother,” said the Princess, and she knelt beside
her, and put her arms around her, and told her how she came to be
there; and when she had finished, she said, simply, “and I have wanted
my own mother so much this Christmas, and the little girls were so
sweet, that I knew I should love you.”
“You poor little thing,” cried the little mother to the tall Princess;
and the beautiful lady put her head down on the other’s shabby shoulder
and wept, because in spite of her riches she had been very, very lonely
in her big house.
And after Peter had gone, they talked until midnight of Jinny and
Jenny; and then they concocted great plans about the pretty things that
the little mother was to make for the Princess.
And in the morning, Jinny and Jenny, waking in the early dawn, saw,
sitting on the foot-board of the bed, two Teddy-bears, one with a
flaring pink bow and one with a flaring blue bow, and the Teddy-bears
held out their arms saucily and gazed at the happy little girls with
twinkling eyes.
“Oo-oh,” cried the little girls, who had never seen a Teddy-bear
before; and that was the beginning of the most wonderful day of their
lives, for all day the tree went “tinkle, tinkle” as they foraged in
its branches for bon-bons, and the chicken dinner was a delicious
success, and in the afternoon they all took a ride in the Princess’
sleigh, with Peter driving on the box, and when at last he set them
down on their own humble door-step, and lifted little Jinny in his
arms, the Princess smiled at them radiantly from under her plumy hat.
“Remember, Peter will come for you every Saturday, and you are to stay
at my house all day,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” Jenny sighed with rapture.
“And you are to come to my wedding in the spring--all of you!” said the
Princess, gaily.
“And see the Prince!” said Jinny, over Peter’s shoulder.
“And you are going to let me share a third of your mother?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” from both of the little girls.
“Then you shall share a third of Peter,” the Princess called back, as
the smiling coachman drove her away through the glistening snow.
[12] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”
DAME QUIMP’S QUEST[13]
_Ellen Manly_
Farmer Jones was standing at his front gate one bright December morning
when a quaint figure came hurrying along the road--a bent old woman in
a long blue cloak, with the ruffles of a big cap flopping about her
wrinkled face.
“Good day!” said she, as soon as she was near enough to be heard.
“You’re Farmer Jones, I believe. I think you will do nicely to head the
procession--just step right behind me and we’ll move on!”
“And, pray, who are you and what should I be doing in a procession?”
cried the astonished man. “I’m quite too busy to leave home to-day!”
“Never mind!” answered the old crone, “I know all about _you_, for
I’ve heard you grumbling over the weather many a time. As I came down
the hill just now you were complaining at the cold and wishing it were
June--you’re a regular ‘weather fretter!’ I’m the Grumble Collector,
and you’d better do just as you’re told or there’ll be trouble. My name
is Dame Quimp, and my work is to hunt up grumblers and bring them to my
old friend Santa Claus before Christmas. If there’s anything he hates,
it is grumbling, and he says he is going to teach some folks a lesson
this year.
“It’s no use to say a word--just follow me, and be quick about it,
too!” So off started Dame Quimp with Farmer Jones behind her, grumbling
as he went.
She soon stopped short before a little house by the roadside and
listened a moment. There was a sound of violent stamping, and an angry
voice cried out: “I hate that old dress and I won’t wear the ugly
thing! I never have any pretty clothes!” and out on the porch rushed
the milliner’s little daughter, in a fine temper.
“Hoity-toity!” cried the dame. “You’re a pleasant little girl, to be
sure! Just the one I’m looking for! Never mind asking ‘Why?’ but stop
scolding at once and fall in line behind Farmer Jones.”
The child looked crosser than ever and began to cry, but she couldn’t
help herself, and away went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, and the
milliner’s little daughter.
As they neared the first corner, loud voices were heard and angry
tones, and there stood the baker’s boy and the grocer’s clerk having
a hot discussion. “It’s too far!” cried the first. “I can’t tramp way
over on the hill for _anybody_! I hate to be sent on errands from
morning till night from one end of town to the other!”
“So do I!” exclaimed the grocer’s clerk. “I’m always being told to take
something somewhere for somebody just when I want a little time to
myself. The skating’s fine to-day and I ought to get off early, but I
shan’t be allowed to. It’s a shame to have to carry bundles instead of
being on the pond!”
“Very well, young men!” cried Dame Quimp, “you shall have a nice long
walk. I’m very pleased to meet you! Just step next in line to the
little girl and we’ll hurry along! No questions, please!”
So off went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter,
the baker’s boy, and the grocer’s clerk.
As they passed the doctor’s house, the cook, in her apron and cap, was
standing at the gate grumbling to the ice-man. “Shure an’ ’tis nothin’
but cook, cook, cook, all day long, an’ meals havin’ to be kept hot fer
a man that’s niver in the house when he ought to be! I’m that tired of
wurruk that I’ve a foine mind to tell him he may cook fer himself fer a
while!”
“All right, Bridget!” called Dame Quimp, sharply. “You step off right
now! Just take your place next to the grocer’s clerk and we’ll move
on!” And away again went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s
little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, and the doctor’s
cook.
Pretty soon they came to little Tommy Brooks’s house, and there
was Tommy at the front door fussing with his mother. “I don’t need
any overcoat!” cried he, “and I can’t wear rubbers,--they hurt my
feet,--and I left my mittens at school! I hate to be bundled up just
like a girl, anyway, and I wish people would let little boys alone!”
“Thomas Brooks!” called out the dame, severely, “you put on that
overcoat and those rubbers at once and get behind the doctor’s
cook--you’re the boy for me! Step lively, now, all of you!” And off
started Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the
baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, and little Tommy
Brooks.
A little farther up the street the shoemaker’s wife was grumbling to a
neighbor, as she shook out her duster on the porch. “I’ve no patience
with housekeeping!” declared the sharp voice. “I don’t do anything
but chase dirt from morning till night, and yet the place is never
clean--and my work is never done. Yes, it _is_ a comfortable and pretty
house, but I’m tired of the sight of it! I have to go and sweep the
dining-room this very minute!”
“Oh no! not at all!” cried Dame Quimp. “That nice home of yours won’t
get any more cleaning _this_ day! You can fall right in line behind
Tommy Brooks, and no remarks, if you please!”
So off they went again--Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little
daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook,
little Tommy Brooks, and the shoemaker’s wife.
At the turn of the road there was the sound of excited talking and high
words, and there stood the minister’s twin grandchildren quarreling
over a sled and a pair of skates.
“I don’t want the old sled!” cried the boy. “I do nothing but give you
rides on it! You can just let me have the skates, and drag the sled,
yourself, for a while!”
“Take the old skates!” answered the little girl, angrily. “I can’t
stand up on them, anyway, and I’m tired of trying, and I don’t want the
sled, either. I wish people would give us some _nice_ presents. What’s
the use of being twins if you can’t have a good time?”
“Sure enough!” cried Dame Quimp. “Two nice little children who can’t
be happy with a fine sled and a pair of new skates--I never heard of
such a thing! Come right here and take places behind the shoemaker’s
wife; and don’t cry about it, either, for there’s no time to lose!” And
away hurried Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter,
the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy
Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, and the minister’s twin grandchildren.
Before long they came to the beautiful big house where the banker
lived, and there, just coming out of the gate, they met the governess,
looking much distressed and almost in tears. “What can I do for you, my
dear?” asked Dame Quimp, anxiously; “you seem to be in trouble. I’m the
Grumble Collector, and perhaps I can help you.”
“Indeed you can,” said the governess, eagerly, “if you will only tell
me what to do with the banker’s Dorothy. She has everything in the
world to please and amuse her, and yet she’s always in a fret. As for
clothes, she has so many pretty things that she can’t tell which she
wants to wear. I ran away just now because I was quite worn out with
her grumbling. I left her fussing over a pink, a blue, and a green
frock, trying to decide which to put on, and in such a temper that she
couldn’t look nice in anything.”
“I see! I see!” replied the dame; “a very bad case indeed! Just bring
her to me at once and she shall report to Santa Claus-- Ah, here she
is! Come right along, Dorothy; you’re just the kind of little girl
needed in this procession! Stop fretting, directly, and step in line
behind the minister’s twin grandchildren and we’ll move on!”
And away again went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little
daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook,
little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin
grandchildren, and the banker’s Dorothy.
“Let me see,” said the dame, as they reached the end of the street;
“I think I have heard that the barber’s grandmother was a terrible
grumbler--I might try to find out.” So at a little house at the corner
they all waited while she knocked vigorously at the door. It was opened
quickly by a sharp-looking little old woman who held on her arm a big
basket of mending.
“What do you want!” she said crossly. “I haven’t time to say a word to
anybody, so I can’t ask you in. I’m just as fretted as I can be with
all this mending to do! I do think that after darning socks for nearly
fifty years I might be allowed to hold my hands for a bit; but every
week here’s this great basket full and nobody but me to attend to it.
It makes me so cross that I grumble over every pair of the old socks--I
wish they were in Guinea!”
“Tut! Tut!” replied Dame Quimp, sternly. “I don’t know much about
Guinea, but I do know where _you’re_ going! You’re the very one to
finish my collection. Set down that basket at once and put on a warm
cloak and hood and follow the banker’s Dorothy, and we’ll go straight
to Santa Claus--he’ll be quite horrified to see such a string of
grumblers!”
So off once more went Dame Quimp, with Farmer Jones, the milliner’s
little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s
cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin
grandchildren, the banker’s Dorothy, and the barber’s grandmother, all
following behind her, one after another.
They walked and they walked,--over the bridge and past the mill; out
beyond the golf-links; up one hill and down another; across ploughed
fields, and through narrow woodland paths, till they were all very
tired and cold, and the barber’s grandmother, being such an old woman,
was quite worn out. Dame Quimp, however, would listen to no complaints,
but kept them all strictly in line and hurried them on, until, in a
couple of hours’ time, they reached Christmas Town.
They found Santa Claus in his shop busily engaged in tying up
delightful-looking parcels in gay paper, with seals and labels, gold
and silver cord, scarlet and green ribbons, and sprigs of holly
scattered around him in every direction.
“Good day, old friend!” cried Dame Quimp as she entered. “I have done
a good morning’s work, as you see--all these are fine, first-class
grumblers, and not one of them deserves a Christmas gift. Let me
introduce them--here are Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter,
the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy
Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin grandchildren, the
banker’s Dorothy, and the barber’s grandmother. Take a good look at
them so you will make no mistakes.”
“Oh dear, dear!” cried Santa Claus, in much distress. “Is it really as
bad as that! I never should have thought you could find so many grumbly
people in a town full of pleasant things, with so much to make them
happy! I suppose I ought to give them a severe lesson to check this
terrible habit, but I’m afraid, Dame, that I should quite spoil my own
Christmas pleasure if I were to pass them all by!
“What can be done about it? Don’t you think we might let them off
_this_ time with a warning? I’m sure you must already have given them a
pretty good scolding, for it seems to me you are getting to be quite a
grumbler yourself, and I have no doubt you have been lecturing them all
along the way.”
“Indeed I have!” replied the dame, “and a thankless job it was! They’re
a troublesome lot, I tell you, and you’d better not let them off too
easily! But, of course, you must suit yourself.”
“Oh dear! Oh dear!” cried Santa Claus again, as he tried to look
sternly at the unhappy grumblers. “This is very sad--very sad indeed!
It is too near Christmas for any one even to _look_ cross, to say
nothing of scolding!” And here his round face broke into a broad smile,
and all the grumblers smiled, too.
“See, Dame Quimp!” cried he, eagerly, “these poor people are all in a
good temper already, and I feel sure that, if I trust them, they will
try very hard not to be grumblers any longer. Is it not so, my friends?”
And Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the
grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s
wife, the minister’s twin grandchildren, the banker’s Dorothy, and the
barber’s grandmother, all promptly answered, “Yes!”
“Now hurry home as fast as you can,” said Santa Claus, giving them each
a big stick of candy. “You have been gone so long that your friends
will be anxiously wondering where you are. Dame Quimp and the barber’s
grandmother will wait and have a cup of tea with me, and I will take
them home in my sleigh a little later.”
There was a perfect chorus of thanks and promises, a beaming smile from
Santa Claus, a reluctant grunt of farewell from Dame Quimp, and each
member of the grumbler procession set out at best speed on the return
trip.
It was late when they all reached home, but, strange to say, with
the exception of the doctor’s cook, the baker’s boy, and the grocer’s
clerk, not one of them had been missed, for the various friends and
relations had been having such a delightfully quiet and restful
afternoon that they had forgotten all about the departed grumblers.
[13] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”
WHEN CHRISTMAS CAME AGAIN[14]
_Beulah Marie Dix_
“I want to go,” said Justine Eliot, “where I won’t even hear the word
Christmas. If you’d only open the camp, Doctor Sarah, we could stay
there, just by our two selves, until these ghastly holidays are over.
Oh, won’t you, please?”
Justine Eliot was nineteen, far richer in money than she needed to be,
and as pretty as a blush-rose. Until a year ago she had known nothing
but sunshine. This fact Dr. Sarah Peavey took into swift account, and
she did not say, “Don’t be a coward! Face it out!”
“You see, there were two of us a year ago,” Justine went on, “and now
I’m all alone. Oh, if I’d only gone down-town that day with mother! But
she said it was a secret, and I wasn’t to come. And I said I didn’t
want to come, for I had a secret, too. It was a pillow I was covering
for her as a Christmas present--the fir-balsam pillow that I’d made
that summer at the camp. I finished it that afternoon, and tied it up
with red ribbons. There were Christmas wreaths in all the windows, and
holly paper and red ribbon everywhere. You know how mother loved the
Christmas season, and how she remembered everybody. Oh, it was too
cruel that she should leave us then! And if I’d only been with her, I
know it wouldn’t have happened. But that crowded, slippery crossing,
and that automobile bearing down--and I wasn’t there! I never want to
see green holly or red ribbons again. I think if I hear people say,
‘Merry Christmas!’ I shall die. And I wish I could!”
Justine broke into sobs, with her face in her hands.
For a moment Doctor Peavey watched her through narrowed eyelids. Then
she took a time-table from the drawer of her desk, and said:
“I’ll leave my patients with Deering. I’ll telegraph Serena Wetherbee
to open the camp for us. Meet me at the station to-morrow evening,
and--”
“Doctor Sarah! Then you will?”
“Yes, I’ll take you where Christmas won’t find you--if I can!”
Surely no better refuge could have been found for Christmas fugitives
than the camp on Nobsco Head. Clad in black firs and bound with iron
rock, the headland thrust itself into the icy waters of the bay.
Half-buried now in the white drifts of winter, the little house stood
solitary--three miles by road from the village of Crosset Cove, and a
half-mile, at least, from the little settlement known as Hardscrabble.
It was from Hardscrabble that Serena Wetherbee came--a grim, gaunt
woman, who not only had lost three children, but had never learned from
the waves where they had flung the body of her sailor husband. To warn
her not to talk of Christmas seemed superfluous. But on the fourth
evening, while they were all three sitting round the glowing airtight
stove in the camp living-room, Justine politely asked Serena what she
was knitting, and received an unexpected answer.
“Christmas presents,” said Serena Wetherbee. “A pair of mittens for
Jacob Tracy, and striped reins for his little sister Emmy. Haven’t
you noticed? He’s Heman Tracy’s boy, that brings the milk over from
Hardscrabble, and they’re poorer than Job’s turkey. There’ll be a tree
over at Hardscrabble schoolhouse,--there always is,--and those Tracy
young ones shan’t go without presents, not while I’m afoot.”
With a word of excuse and good night, Justine rose and went to her
room. But Serena Wetherbee talked on:
“I don’t know, after all, if there’ll be a tree this year at
Hardscrabble. Have you seen the school-ma’am, Doctor Sarah? She’s a
Nash, from over in Jefferson--one of those bred-in-the-bone old maids
that would turn cream sour just by looking at it. Like as not she’ll
set up for not having a tree to the schoolhouse.”
But evidently Serena did not believe this dire prophecy, for she was as
horrified as Doctor Peavey by the developments of the next day. The two
women were in the kitchen when small Jacob Tracy clumped in out of the
twilight, leading a sobbing little sister.
“Now you just shut up, Emmy Tracy!” Jacob said, but not unkindly. “You
ask Aunt Sereny and she’ll tell you it ain’t so at all.”
Serena Wetherbee lifted the child to her lap.
“Tell aunty all about it, deary!”
“She says--teacher says--there ain’t--there ain’t no Sa-anta Claus--and
there won’t be a tree at Hardscrabble--and no Christmas! And I’d wrote
Santa Claus--to bring me a dolly with hair--and there ain’t--there
ain’t no--”
“Teacher doesn’t know everything!” snapped Serena Wetherbee.
With assurances and molasses cookies, the two women comforted the
child. She left the house with a watery smile, but Jacob lingered to
say:
“And do you think he’ll come to Hardscrabble, for all she said?”
A few moments later, when Doctor Peavey passed through the open door to
the living-room, she found Justine seated with a book at the table.
“What were they crying for?” asked Justine.
“Miss Nash, who teaches the school at Hardscrabble, where the little
ones go, told them that there was no Santa Claus.”
“To tell a child that at Christmas time!” flashed Justine. “She ought
to be whipped!”
“That wouldn’t help the children much,” said Doctor Peavey, mildly, “or
her, either.”
To Justine Doctor Peavey said no more, but she took counsel with
Serena. That evening, after Justine had gone thoughtfully to bed,
Doctor Peavey made out a list of the names and ages of the eighteen
children who went to the little school at Hardscrabble. On the same
sheet she made some tentative calculations--so much for oranges, so
much for crinkly Christmas candy, so much for gifts, to be bought at
the ten-cent store at Hanscomville. It was only a small sum, but, small
as it was, it meant that Doctor Peavey would go without the evenings at
the opera which were the one luxury of her winter.
The next morning, December 22d, Doctor Peavey tucked her list into her
pocket and started afoot for Hardscrabble, where she planned to hire a
horse and pung from Cephas Tooke. She had bidden Justine good-by for
the day without explanation. A little wholesome neglect would be tonic
for Justine, she believed; and she believed also that you may sometimes
attain your goal, like Alice in the Looking-Glass country, by walking
away from it.
She was to have speedy confirmation of her belief. She had barely
started down the shining hill slope to the wood-path, when she heard
the crackling of a step behind her, and turned to see Justine, as
warmly bundled up as she was herself, with her purse in her mittened
hand. The color came and went in Justine’s cheeks. For the moment she
seemed again the girl that Doctor Peavey had known in joyous summers at
the camp.
“Doctor Sarah!” Justine began, breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to peep,
but your writing is so big and clear! I only glanced at your list
by mistake, but I knew in a minute, and I might have known anyway,
knowing you. But why didn’t you ask me to help? Oh, you surely don’t
think I’m like that horrible Miss Nash? I don’t want Christmas for
myself ever again, but I wouldn’t take it away from other people, and
least of all from little children. So let me help, please!”
For one second Doctor Peavey’s heart contracted. She saw the purse
in Justine’s hand, and she read the passing thought in Justine’s
mind. Would she have to tell Justine that money alone could not buy a
Christmas gift, even of the poorest sort? But Mrs. Eliot, as Doctor
Peavey had often said, was one of the finest women that she had ever
known, and Justine was her daughter.
“Oh!” said Justine, with a little catch of the breath. “You think that
I should--” She slipped the purse into her pocket. “Of course you can’t
do it all alone. Eighteen children!” she cried. “I’m coming with you,
Doctor Sarah!”
Together they trudged through the cathedral gloom of the firs and over
the dazzling whiteness of the fields to Hardscrabble. Together they
clambered into the ramshackle pung and drove the nine bright miles to
Hanscomville. Such plans as they made on that drive! They would have
a tree set up in Serena Wetherbee’s cottage, if the odious Miss Nash
still refused to let them have the schoolhouse. They would string
pop-corn and red cranberries by the yard.
“And we’ll buy lots of sparkly snow and shiny doodaddles at the
ten-cent store!” cried Justine. Her eyes were as bright as Christmas
stars.
“We’ll cut the candy-bags in the shape of stockings. And we’ll buy a
‘dolly with hair’ for that wee Emmy. I’ll have time to make it a dress
and a petticoat, at least. And I’m going to get a sled for Jacob Tracy.”
So they planned all along the road, which seemed short, and in
Hanscomville they made the plans come true. Up and down the little
main street they bustled, and made their purchases, Doctor Peavey
painstakingly, Justine with a lavish hand.
Presently they were stuffing packages into the pung--bags of oranges
and nuts and Christmas candies from the grocer’s, bulging, frail
bundles from the ten-cent store, skates and pocket-knives--an
extravagance at which Doctor Peavey held up her hands--from the
hardware shop, and even lordly, important-looking parcels from the
general store. Among the last was a doll’s carriage.
“It’s for Emmy’s doll,” said Justine, “and we must find room for it,
even if we have to tow it behind the pung.”
On the way home they chatted about their Christmas tree.
“It’s the sort of thing that mother would have loved to do,” Justine
said, and then she began to talk about her mother, and to tell sweet,
homely incidents of the life that they had lived together.
They had passed through Crosset Cove when Doctor Peavey broke the not
unhappy silence into which they had lapsed.
“Justine! If we haven’t forgotten to get a present for the
schoolteacher!”
“For that Nash woman?” cried Justine. “She doesn’t deserve a present. I
shouldn’t like to say what she does deserve.”
Then they reached the long tug of Nobsco Hill, where, in mercy to the
tired old horse, they got out and walked. At the top of the hill they
overtook a woman, who was trudging on foot in the twilight. She was
thirty, perhaps, with a thin, tired face. She wore a coat that was not
thick enough, and a little, old-fashioned neck-piece of worn fur. She
was dragging a small fir-tree through the snow, and every little while
she stopped to beat her numbed hands together.
“I thought I knew everybody in these parts,” said Doctor Peavey, under
her breath, “but she’s a stranger. Why, it must be Miss Nash!”
The woman turned as Doctor Peavey spoke to her. Oh, yes, she would be
glad of a lift, she said, in a tired voice. She had been out getting
a little tree for her school children. She did not want them to think
that Santa Claus had forgotten them.
Doctor Peavey’s eyes, seeking Justine’s, read assent in their softened
expression.
“We were planning a little surprise for your children,” she said, “but
we’ll need help to put it through. Couldn’t you spend the night with
us, and string cranberries and sew candy-bags?”
So the amazing thing came to pass--the odious Miss Nash sat that
evening at the camp table, and worked swiftly to make real the
Christmas plans. So silent and so white she was that even Serena
forbore to sniff at her.
And a yet more amazing thing came to pass. The next morning, when
Doctor Peavey had prepared a hot early breakfast for Miss Nash, and had
set her part way on her road to the schoolhouse, she returned to camp
to find Justine--the old Justine of Nobsco summers--waiting to confide
in her.
“She isn’t horrid at all!” Justine broke out. “It’s Ellen Nash, I mean.
After you sent us upstairs last night and said that we must rest--did
you do it on purpose, Doctor Sarah?--she talked to me. She said she
hadn’t talked in months. It was the picture, you know, there on my
bureau. She asked if it was my mother, and I--I told her how she died
a year ago. And then she told me. Doctor Sarah, there are just she and
her mother--and her mother is at the sanitarium with tuberculosis.
What chance she has to get well is spoiled by her fretting to have
her daughter near her, and they have so little money that that is
out of the question. So Ellen Nash has been trying to earn a little
by teaching. On Wednesday she got notice from the committee that she
wouldn’t be reëngaged for next term. And the same day she had a letter
from her mother--a pitiful letter! That Christmas was coming, and they
couldn’t be together--that they would never be together! And she says
she guesses she was half-crazy, but that morning, when little Emmy
Tracy asked her if Santa Claus would come this Christmas, she answered
right out of her heart that there wasn’t any Santa Claus, and that all
the talk about love and Christmas fellowship was just a story. O poor
thing! I can understand! Why, Doctor Sarah, she only went one little
inch farther than I had gone, and she is so much worse off than I. For
my blessed mother never suffered any, and we were together up to the
very last hour. Doctor Sarah!”
“Yes, Justine?”
“I--I haven’t been doing this year as mother would have expected me to
do.”
“That’s all over now,” said Doctor Peavey, heartily. She hardly knew
how truly she had spoken, but she knew an hour later, when Justine
again was at her side.
“Doctor Sarah,” she said, with her old energy, “can we go home
to-night, on the night train?”
“What of our tree at Hardscrabble?”
“Of course we won’t disappoint the children. We’ll write a letter,
in the name of Santa Claus, and ask them to Serena Wetherbee’s on
Christmas day. She says she’d be glad to have them. You wouldn’t think,
to look at her dear old granite face, that she loved children so. And
Ellen Nash will have the tree and the presents all ready. O Doctor
Sarah, it would have made you cry to hear how she went out to get a
tree, and had even taken some of her hard-earned money to buy nuts and
apples for the children, because she wanted to make up for what she
had said! But now they’ll have a sure-enough Christmas at Hardscrabble,
and we’ll go home. There’s so much I must do, and only a day to do it
in! So many children that mother wouldn’t want to have go unremembered!
And you, Doctor Sarah, you’re willing to go home?”
“Yes,” said Doctor Peavey.
It was a Christmas of bright sun and glad weather. Sarah Peavey and
her sister set crimson roses beneath their mother’s picture and opened
their gifts in its presence. Sarah Peavey had the medical book that
she had needed, and a brown print of a Madonna, and even a ticket for
the opera. But the gift that she valued most came in the twilight. The
telephone-bell rang, and over the wire came Justine Eliot’s voice:
“Is it you, dear Doctor Sarah? I wanted to tell you. I’ve seen my old
cousin Hester. She’s tired of hiring maids, you know, and she’s been
looking for a woman to be a sort of companion housekeeper in her little
apartment. I told her about Ellen Nash, and she’s sending for her.
She’ll pay her three times what the Hardscrabble school paid, and Miss
Nash will be able to go often to see her mother. Doctor Sarah!”
“Yes, Justine.”
“Do you remember my telling you about that fir-balsam pillow I made up
last year--the one I thought I couldn’t ever touch again?”
“I remember, child.”
“I sent it off yesterday, in holly wrappings--to Ellen Nash’s mother.
And that’s all, Doctor Sarah, dear, only--I wanted to wish you--Merry
Christmas!”
[14] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 14,
1911. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”
THE KING OF THE CHRISTMAS FEAST[14]
_Elaine Sterne_
The little boy in No. 60 pressed his nose against the cold window-pane
and looked out over the school yard. It was a deserted white courtyard,
with a few muddy footprints zigzagging across the snow toward the
second dormitory. There was, to be sure, a rusty puddle in one corner
where the drops from the rain-pipe spattered, but aside from that, four
gray walls with staring windows looked him back square in the eye, no
matter how far he twisted his head.
The little boy had been ill. Even now, a bright red flannel compress
was wound about his tender throat, and he was propped up in a
much-too-big Morris chair, with a plaid rug across his knees. There is
nothing to being sick at school--nothing at all. The little boy in No.
60 could have told you that, because he had had two months of it, and
only now, at Christmas time, had he begun to get well.
Of course, on the other hand, the infirmary is good sport, with Mrs.
Darling fussing over you and feeding you hot broths from a little
blue china bowl. But even with Mrs. Darling tucking you in here and
patting you down there, and even with the boys stumbling in for a few
minutes to chatter about the junior team and the senior squad, there is
something very “wantable” that you miss most fearfully much. Something
that begins with a capital “M.” The little boy in No. 60 never let
himself get farther than the capital “M,” because his mother was a
whole ocean away, and it wasn’t any good wishing for her anyway, you
see, it cost so much to come.
The little boy in No. 60 sat by the window a long time, until the
shadows began to get long and black and reaching, and a crisp
chilliness was in the air. He wound the plaid rug tightly about him,
until only his sharp little chin peeked out, and he was glad when he
heard the door click and Mrs. Darling rustled in.
“And was the little plum-pudding left all by himself?” she asked,
switching on the lights briskly. “Such a busy day as it’s been--what
with putting the place to rights after the young gentlemen, and getting
the perfessers off for the holiday, why we forgot all and everything
about you. You’re not cold, are you?”
“Not very,” said the little boy, quietly; “not very, at all.”
“Well, I’m having Nora build us a fire in the study, and I’ll carry you
down across my shoulder, like the little pack of bones that you are.”
“Perhaps I could walk, if you--”
“Walk! And do you think I couldn’t lift you, after caring for you two
whole months? Mercy! but the boy’s getting well!”
Even as she spoke, she was bundling the plaid about him and lifting him
gently. There is something rather revolting in having a woman carry
you, just like a tiny baby, and the little boy’s mouth stiffened, and
he stuck out his chin.
“Just as you like,” he said. “Only do be sure nobody sees you doing it.”
Mrs. Darling laughed aloud. “I’ll be so careful that I’ll drop you like
a hot potato if any one comes sneaking around.”
And so the little boy in No. 60 was carried ignominiously down the long
stairs, his fair head resting against Mrs. Darling’s plump shoulder.
Nora, down on her hands and knees, was piling logs on a roaring fire.
It did look cozy. The little boy was almost glad he had come, only
fires and crackling logs somehow need a great laughing crew about them.
You really shouldn’t be at all lonesome beside a fire, because it is
such a big, warm, glorious, friendly thing. Mrs. Darling set him down
carefully and stuffed a pillow behind his back. The little boy quite
hated the sight of a pillow, but he let it stay because it _did_ feel
good in that spot, and then she bustled away, for just “half a minute,”
and left him watching Nora, still poking and prodding the fire as
though she were trying to keep it awake.
Suddenly he spoke. “Nora,” he said, “what ever are you crying for?”
Nora did not answer, but her shoulders began to shake, and she dropped
the poker.
“Nora, I guess perhaps I know why you’re crying,” he said thoughtfully.
“O-o-h!” moaned Nora, her hands over her face. “It’s homesick I am, and
I’ve thried me bes’ niver to shid a tear, an’ now what’ll Mrs. Darlin’
say?”
“Never mind her,” he said soothingly. “Never mind her at all. Perhaps,
Nora, if you keep on crying, I’ll cry too, and it wouldn’t be very good
for me, I don’t--believe.” There was the least bit of a catch in his
voice, and Nora swung around.
“For shame on me!” she cried, “whin it’s you as should be
mournin’--bein’ so sick an’ little an’ swate. Sure, an’ don’t you begin
to cry, for Mrs. Darlin’ will be blamin’ me.”
“I’ll try not to,” he said quietly. “I’ll try very hard. Nora,” he
said, “have you a-a--m-oth--”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I’ve niver had one--that is, since I
was too schmall to remimber.”
“Then what are you homesick for?”
“It’s me brothers, and sisters, and their childer, an’ the tree, an’
stockin’s,--an’--oh, it’s Christmas--”
“I see,” he said solemnly.
“Nora,” he added suddenly, “why couldn’t we have a tree?”
“Sure, an’ where’d we get it?”
“I don’t know, except where everybody gets trees--I guess you buy
them.”
“Yes, an’ they’re after costin’ a heap of money, too.”
“I suppose so,” he said. Then he clasped his hands. “Nora,” he said,
“we simply _must_ have some kind of a tree, because, you see, it
wouldn’t be Christmas at all if we didn’t.”
“There ain’t nothin’ in the house that’d do for a tree, I don’t
suppose.”
“No--not unless--oh, Nora, the hat-tree! The _hat_-tree!”
“The hat-tree, is it? A shiny mahogany tree? Oh, it’s better than that
we can do.”
“I believe,” his eyes were very bright--“I believe that would do all
right. Of course we’d have to pretend it was a glorious tree that
reached to the ceiling, and that it was aglow with candles--and--and,
Nora, w-we could play I was the king, and you, and Mrs. Darling, and
old Patrick, and the cook were poor subjects that I had invited in
for the--the--feast; and we could have apples--and stockings--and
nuts--and--”
“Sure, I don’t believe Mrs. Darlin’ will be lettin’ you do it.”
But just at that moment Mrs. Darling, bearing a big tray, appeared.
“Guess what you’re going to have for supper to-night,” she called
across the cloud of steam that rose, but the little boy was too eager
to guess.
“Oh, Mrs. Darling!” he cried, “can’t we have a Christmas party here?
Can’t we have you and Nora and Patrick and--”
“A Christmas party! And this Christmas eve! Whatever are you thinking
of? With Nora, and old Patrick, and no tree or nothing--”
Something about the little boy’s face stopped her short. Perhaps it was
his eyes. You see, they had grown very large and “wishful” since his
illness, and they had a way of speaking much more distinctly than his
lips. He did not say a word, but just watched Mrs. Darling until she
felt a big lump spring into her throat.
“I guess we can manage it somehow,” she said suddenly, “although I
don’t see exactly how.”
The little boy clapped his hands.
“Let me do it!” he cried. “I’m going to pretend that I am--well--a sort
of a--” It was much easier telling Nora things than Mrs. Darling. Some
people have such an understanding way.
“Sure,” broke in Nora, “it’s a king he’s goin’ to be, with us a-bowin’
an’ a-scrapin’ before him!”
“I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind,” said the little boy,
apologetically, a pink flush mounting into his pale cheeks. “You see,
it would only be pretending, and I--guess--perhaps--Patrick, and the
cook, and Nora wouldn’t mind pretending, on Christmas, just this once,
when it’s only a make-believe Christmas, after all.”
“You can be as big a king as you want to,” said Mrs. Darling, with a
laugh, “if you eat the chicken soup I’ve brought you and the buttered
toast.”
The little boy sighed contentedly and obediently tucked a napkin under
his chin. He could feed himself now. He was very glad of that. But
to-night his hand trembled a bit, and he set down his spoon hastily.
“I don’t believe I want any soup,” he said slowly, but Mrs. Darling
shook her head.
“Here, let me give it to you. And then you’ll have time after dinner to
think up what you are going to do. I believe we could roast some of the
chestnuts Patrick picked up to-day.”
So the little boy drank each mouthful as quickly as he could, and
munched the toast without speaking another word. After he had finished,
Mrs. Darling brought him a pad and pencil.
“Here, Your Majesty,” she said, smiling, “write down your commands.”
The little boy’s eyes brightened, and he looked up at her shyly.
“You don’t mind playing it, do you?” he asked.
“Mind! Why, I guess it will do us all a world of good, old as we are,”
she said.
Of course after that, there was nothing for him to do but to write
down, in a shaky hand, his commands.
“Cut down the highest tree in the forest,” he wrote first. “It must be
so high and so strong that it takes three men to chop it down. Then
carry it into the banquet-hall and set it up.” Here he stopped. “Do you
suppose we _can_ have the hat-tree, Mrs. Darling?” he asked.
“You can have anything you want,” she said firmly.
“Order the Great-High-Tree-Trimmer, Sir Patrick, to enter, and to hang
the gold and silver bells on the tree, and to light the candles-- We
can pretend the hat-tree has candles on it, can’t we?” he paused to ask.
“Of course we can,” she assured him.
“Then light the-- What was it they burned at Christmas, Mrs. Darling?”
“The Yule log.”
“Yes. Light the Yule log, and pile up the presents under the tree--all
kinds--whatever any one has ever wished for in the world. Then hang the
stockings on the mantel, and let the Great-High-Filler, Lady Nora, fill
them with toys and books and--and--electric engines. Then let the doors
be flung open and the guests enter. There!” he said, with a little
sigh, “that’s all.”
“That’s enough for to-night,” said Mrs. Darling, looking at his flushed
cheeks. “Just put your seal to it.”
The little boy solemnly wrote “Rex,” just as he had seen it done in
books, and handed the paper to Mrs. Darling with a smile.
“It will be a--a glorious--Christmas,” he said bravely; “just a
glorious one!” Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes,
for he was suddenly very tired.
* * * * *
Have you ever awakened on Christmas morning, with the cold clear
sunlight slanting across your floor, and the blue sky peeking in your
window, and yet not even felt the least bit glad it _was_ Christmas?
The little boy opened his eyes and looked around as though he half
expected to see a bursting stocking, and to hear his moth-- He jerked
over on his side. Even if it was Christmas morning, what was to prevent
a fellow from taking another nap! But something hot and wet slid down
his cheek, before he could stop it, and, as long as there wasn’t any
one around, it didn’t make so much difference. But the little boy
brushed it angrily away and sat up in bed.
“Merry Christmas!” he said fiercely to the table in the corner. “Merry
Christmas!” and he lay back on his pillows with his eyes fixed on the
ceiling and his lip between his teeth. Somebody was whistling in the
lower corridor. He could hear it quite distinctly, and it sounded so
glad and cheerful that the little boy slid to the floor, although his
legs wabbled under him, and opened the door.
“Hullo, down there!” he called over the banisters. “Merry Christmas!”
“Hullo, up there!” came back old Patrick’s crackled voice. “Merry
Christmas, Your Majesty.”
The little boy laughed out loud.
“Patrick, Patrick, do come up! How did you know to call me that?”
“Sure, Your Majesty, I’ll be there as soon as I mop up the last few
steps. Git back into bed, and I’ll come and pay you me respects.”
The little boy climbed back gladly under the warm covers and waited for
the old man, his eyes shining eagerly.
Patrick thumped heavily up the stairs, then rapped loudly on the little
boy’s door.
“You may enter,” said the little boy, stiffly, though he did giggle
just the least bit, for old Patrick had pulled off his cap and shuffled
in with his head bent.
“The top o’ th’ mornin’ to Your Majesty!” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“The same to you, Sir Patrick. Have you cut down the--the highest tree?”
“Sure, and it’s so high that I’m after thinkin’ the little people have
bewitched it.”
“And--and where have they put it?”
“Right beside your throne, Your Majesty.”
“Oh,” said the little boy, with a gasp, “I forgot about having a
throne! Isn’t that fine!”
“And the ceremonies are to begin immejetly after your royal breakfast.”
“But, Patrick--Sir Patrick, I mean,--can we have the chestnuts you
picked?”
“Sure thirty men have been gatherin’ chestnuts for Your Majesty since
yesterday mornin’--and the chief cook is roastin’ ’em on the kitchen
stove.”
“Oh--oh--and when can we have the feast?”
“Whin every one’s wished for whatever they wants the most in the
world,” said old Patrick, with never a smile, “and not a minute before!”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that, Your Majesty; just that!” he said solemnly as he backed out
of the room.
“Oh, wait, Sir Patrick!” the little boy cried.
“I can’t wait, Your Majesty, for there’s much to be done, includin’
shovelin’ the snow off the front path.” And with a wave of his hand he
was gone.
The little boy bombarded Mrs. Darling with questions when she appeared
with his breakfast.
“What did Patrick mean? When are we going to begin? Oh, what ever does
Patrick, and Nora, and the cook want for Christmas? What do you suppose
I can give them that will make them ever so happy?”
“Help! help! Your Majesty!” cried Mrs. Darling, putting her hands over
her ears. But the little boy persisted.
“Please, couldn’t I give them something?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Darling, importantly, “if you won’t tell, I have a
present for each one of them.”
“Oh, but you had them to give yourself!”
“It doesn’t matter who gives things, Your Majesty, so long as people
get them. It’s the getting them that counts.”
The little boy nodded gravely. There was a great deal in that. And he
waited for Mrs. Darling to continue.
“There are a pair of heavy woolen mittens for Patrick to keep his hands
warm all winter, and for Nora a red scarf of just the right shade to
set off her black hair and eyes. For the cook there is a stout new pair
of overshoes, hers being worn to the very sole.”
But still the boy was not satisfied. Mrs. Darling saw it in his eyes,
and she guessed the reason.
“As for me,” she said carelessly, “I don’t expect to get anything--let
alone what I really want and need most of anything in the world.”
“W-what _do_ you need?” asked the little boy, eagerly, entirely
forgetting about his breakfast.
Mrs. Darling shrugged her shoulders. “It’s something I have use for
every day, and nobody could be expected to think of it.”
The little boy hitched his shoulders impatiently. “It’s fun telling
what you want, anyhow,” he said.
“Well, then, I never can remember the things I have to do without
putting them down on a pad, and I never have a pad handy. If only some
one would string some sheets of paper together for me to scribble
things on. But what’s the use of talking! Whoever would think of such a
thing!”
The little boy smothered a laugh the best way he could, and tried to
look very solemn while Mrs. Darling lifted the tray off his knees.
“The packages have all got to be tied up, and, although I haven’t a bit
of red ribbon, pink and blue will do every bit as well,” she said.
“Yes,” agreed the little boy, “only--only don’t come back for--about
half an hour, will you? I want to write--to--well, some letters, you
know.”
Mrs. Darling nodded, and closed the door softly.
* * * * *
Of course, when you have only half an hour to make a whole Christmas
present, it behooves you to hurry. The little boy reached over for his
dressing-gown and slipped his arms into it, then drew on his slippers.
He remembered his arithmetic pad--or, rather, there _had_ been an
arithmetic pad before he was taken ill--and it ought to be in his desk
drawer, behind the French Grammar. He opened the drawer and pushed
aside the French Grammar with a shout, for there lay the pad! He lifted
it out, and, as he did so, something slipped from its pages. It was a
letter. He knew the writing, even if he had not recognized the foreign
stamp. He stood very still, staring at it where it had fallen, a white
blur, on the floor. Then he winked his eyes hard and picked it up.
“My darling little son,” it ran, “if I could only be with you this--”
“Pshaw!” he said huskily, “it costs so much to come!” And he turned his
back abruptly on the desk without another word.
When Mrs. Darling knocked at the door, a short time later, there was a
long pause before a hurried “Come in,” replied.
The little boy looked very uncomfortable, as though he were just about
to be caught doing something he shouldn’t do, and there was a look
about one of his pillows as though something had been hastily stuffed
beneath it. Mrs. Darling’s arms were full of packages and paper,
besides a quantity of pink and blue ribbon which gave her very much the
appearance of a Maypole.
“Will Your Royal Majesty fasten up the presents now?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the little boy, gravely; “but how about the stockings?
There must be stockings.”
“The stockings are already hung by the mantelpiece in the study, just
as Your Majesty commanded, and Lady Nora is filling them with fudge and
nuts and apples, besides a sprinkling of ginger-cookies, that she made
at the last minute.”
“O-o-oh!” cried the little boy; “how splendid!”
“And Sir Patrick is trimming up the tree with great boughs of
evergreen.”
The little boy’s face was radiant.
“And nobody knows what they’re going to get?”
“I should say not!” said Mrs. Darling; “although I heard Nora wishing
for a red scarf a few minutes ago.”
Then the little boy set to work. There are any quantity of ways to tie
up Christmas presents so that they will look as though they were full
of your heart’s desire. Of course to do that you must have tissue-paper
that is soft and crinkly, and red, red ribbon, besides a sprig of holly
to lay across the top. The little boy had only stiff brown paper, but
it did very well, for it bulged out in places where it shouldn’t have,
and made the packages look a great deal more imposing than they really
were.
Mrs. Darling insisted on his getting dressed after that. There was a
very best suit in the closet that he had not worn for weeks, and he
slipped it on, although it hung rather loosely upon him.
“Kings always have to dress up,” she explained; “that’s one of the
worst things about being a king.” So the little boy submitted to having
his hair brushed and his face washed, although he would a great deal
rather have been left alone to finish his present.
“Of course you can’t go down into the study until the feast is ready,”
she said. “You see, every one is getting dressed for it, including old
Patrick himself, so as to be fit to enter the banquet-hall.”
The little boy nodded. He understood exactly how one must appear before
a king, and he felt just a little sorry for Patrick and the rest. Mrs.
Darling gathered up the packages.
“Nora is going to hang them on the tree,” she explained, “and when the
guests have all assembled, why, then I’ll send the heralds to escort
you to your court.”
After Mrs. Darling had left him, he sat still a long time, listening
to the hum of voices in the lower corridor. There was an excitement in
the air, something that seemed to hum and throb and thrill. Perhaps it
was the sweet smell of the cranberry sauce that was wafted up to him,
or perhaps it was Nora’s shrill whispering, but it was there--a great
unknown _something_ that sent the little boy’s pulses leaping.
After a while, he heard some one stamping up the stairs.
“Sure and is the king ready for the feast?” called out Patrick’s voice.
“Yes, oh, yes!” said the little boy, breathlessly; “but, Patrick,
Patrick, do hang this on the tree for Mrs. Darling, won’t--”
He stopped short, for at his door stood a bowing Patrick in a shabby
black suit, and a curtseying Nora in a bright blue dress. Between them
they held a cushion. The little boy recognized it. It was one of the
green plush cushions from the headmaster’s couch, and he laughed aloud.
“If you’ll be climbin’ on the pillow,” said Nora, as they lowered it
between them, “we’ll be carryin’ you to the feast.”
Somehow when the little boy--white and fair and eager--was perched on
the cushion, he did look like a flaxen-haired little king, between two
loyal subjects. It was a very serious matter to him, and although his
mouth would curl at the corners when they fell out of step, his eyes
were very grave, and he bowed his head first to Mrs. Darling, then to
the cook, who awaited him at the foot of the stairs.
“Three cheers for the king!” shouted old Patrick at the top of his
voice.
“Three cheers!” they called.
“Let the king make a speech,” cried Patrick, and Mrs. Darling echoed,
“Speech!”
“Oh!” cried the little boy. Then he recovered himself, and his eyes
wandered over their heads, beyond, to the closed door. “Dear, dear
people,” he said, in a hurried, breathless sort of way, “may this be
the--the--merriest Christmas you have ever had. May you get whatever
you want--even if it is the impossiblest thing in the world--even if
it--it--costs so much--”
“Ah hah!” cried Patrick quite forgetting that a king must never be
interrupted, no matter how long he takes. “Ah hah, it’s a pair of
gloves I’m wishin.’ for, but never a glove will I get!”
“And as for me,” cried Mrs. Darling, “His Majesty is the only one who
knows what I want, and that’s quite enough, seeing it’s such a hopeless
thing!”
“It’s a beautiful rid shawl I’m after wantin’,” sighed Nora; “but it’s
niver a rid shawl I’ll see this Christmas--”
“And I need a pair of overshoes the worst way,” said the cook, smiling;
“but whoever would think of that!”
“Oh!” cried the little boy, his eyes shining with gladness. “Oh! now we
can surely go to the feast, for every one’s wished for what they want
most in the world--do hurry and open the door!”
“Wait!” said old Patrick, raising his hand, “I haven’t heard His
Majesty askin’ for a thing--I--”
“But kings, Patrick--kings don’t ever _get_ things, they all the time
_give_ them!”
“This is Christmas, Your Majesty, and before that door is opened,
every one, king included, wishes for the thing he wants most. Quick
now--what’ll you have?”
“Oh,” said the little boy, suddenly shrinking, “please--_please_--”
“Go on, Your Majesty,” said Patrick, firmly, “for until you wish the
feast stays on the other side of the door.”
“Oh--oh--” the little boy covered his face, “I--I--mustn’t even think
about it--and--and I’m trying--”
“Is it a ball you’re wantin’?”
“Oh, no!”
“A steam-engine?”
“No!”
“A pair of boxin’-gloves?”
“No--no--_no_! It’s--my--mother--I want!” he said, with a sob.
“Hullo!” said Patrick, flinging the door open suddenly, “and why
couldn’t you have said that long ago, instid of keepin’ her sittin’
here and waitin’ for you full half an hour--”
* * * * *
Late that night, after Nora, with her red scarf over her shoulders, had
gathered up the remains of the Christmas feast, and only a low, red,
cozy light gleamed beneath the burnt-out logs, the little boy raised
his head from his mother’s shoulder and laid his hand on her cheek.
“But it cost so much to come!” he said softly, with a little shake in
his voice. She drew him down in her arms, with a way mothers have.
“Look!” she whispered, “there’s the last spark! “Wish--quick--wish!”
“I wish,” he said slowly, “--I wish every girl and boy in the world has
had as happy a Christmas as I have. I wish--”
But he didn’t get any farther, for the tiny red spark went out quite
gently, as if it did not want at all to disturb the little boy in No.
60 and his mother.
[14] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.
NANCY’S SOUTHERN CHRISTMAS[15]
_Harriet Prescott Spofford_
They had always kept Christmas at home, even if in no very expensive
way. On the very last one, Johnny had had his skates, tied to his
stocking, and inside it, an orange and nuts and raisins, and some
little trick-joke, and a stick of candy; and Robby had had his sled,
and Marnie her book, and Bessie her tea-set; and Mr. Murtrie, the
father, had a pair of wristers that Nancy had crocheted, and a muffler
that his wife had knit; and the mother had a needle-book that Marnie
had made, and a bread-plate that Johnny had whittled out, and a piece
of jig-saw work from Robby, and a muff from the father. And Marnie had
written a poem to Father and Mother, which all the others criticized
violently and ruthlessly, but which was privately regarded as a great
achievement by every one of them.
But what was there to do here with sleds and skates! Great use for a
muff out in the middle of the Texas prairie, to which they had come
from the North. Why, yesterday the thermometer was just at summer heat,
and roses were blossoming!
At home how gay it was with every one coming and going, with purchases
and parcels and merry secrets, with the hanging of the green, with big
snow-drifts, and coasting down Long Hill by starlight, with going to
church in the forenoon, and coming home to turkey and cranberry sauce,
and a pudding in blue flames! Here there was nothing, there was nobody.
There wasn’t a shop within a hundred miles, and if there were, there
was no money with which to buy anything. For Mr. Murtrie had come to
grief in his business, losing, when all debts were paid, everything but
this ranch, to which he had brought his family, and where it seemed
like a new world.
At first, it had been so novel, no one thought of homesickness.
Nancy herself had enjoyed as much as any one the singing of the
mocking-birds at night, the flashing of the cardinal’s red wings in
the radiant mornings and the bubbling of his song, the fragrance of
the jasmines, the beauty of the innumerable flowers, the charm of the
wide landscape, the giant trees draped in their veils of gray moss;
she had enjoyed hearing the boys tell about the batcaves, with their
streams of unnumbered wings going out by dark and coming in by dawn
in myriads; she had enjoyed lying awake at night to hear the water
gently pouring through the irrigation ditches from the _madre_ ditch,
and drowning all the land in its fertilizing flood to the sound of
slow music; she had enjoyed watching the long flights of wild ducks;
seeing a spot apparently covered with yellow flowers that suddenly
turned into a flock of birds that rose and flew away. She had enjoyed
the strange cactus growths that seemed to her like things enchanted
in their weird shapes by old magicians; she had enjoyed the thickets
of prickly pear, the green and feathery foliage of the mesquit bushes,
many of them no higher than her head, but with mighty roots stretching
far and wide underground, the Indians having burned the tops in their
wild raids, year after year, long ago. But now Nancy was longing for
the bare branches of her old apple-tree weaving their broidery on the
sky, for the young oak by the brook which held its brown leaves till
spring, for the wide snow-fields, the shadows of whose drifts were blue
as sapphire. She was longing to hear the bells ring out their gladness
on Christmas eve and Christmas morning, for the spicy green gloom of
the church, for all the happy cheer of Christmas as she had known it.
Bells? There wasn’t a bell within hearing; there wasn’t a church,
except the ruins of an old Spanish mission three or four miles distant.
How could there be Christmas green where there wasn’t a spruce or a
fir! There was only this long, dreary prairie of the cattle-range under
its burning blue sky. It was the very kingdom of loneliness. Christmas
without snow, without an icicle, without whistling winds,--oh, it
wasn’t Christmas at all!
And then suddenly, as the angry words resounded and echoed in her mind,
she asked herself what made Christmas, anyway? Certainly it wasn’t the
things people did. In some places they kept it with blowing of horns
and burning of fire-crackers, as they did Fourth of July. Perhaps
in that way they expressed as much gladness as others did with the
pealing from belfries and the rolling of organ tones. For Christmas was
a time to be glad that Christ came to make all Christendom good, and
blessed, and happy.
And, just as suddenly, Nancy could not help asking herself what she was
doing to express gladness or to make Christmas happy. North pole or
south pole, Christmas was Christmas, and it wasn’t all in pleasure or
all in gifts; and she got out of bed, and knelt down and said a prayer,
and went to sleep in a better frame of mind.
But if it wasn’t all in pleasures or all in gifts, there must be _some_
gifts; and next day, Nancy set herself to thinking out the problem. It
was still some time before the great holiday, and every hour must be
improved.
For the first thing, she betook herself to one of the men on the range
who often came about the buildings; and he found for her several huge
horns, and, with his help, and taking Johnny into her confidence, they
took grease and brick-dust and scraped and polished these horns till
they shone almost like silver. Then the three dug for a big mesquit
root and secured one, at last, that grew from a great stock; and they
scraped and polished that into a very handsome piece of wood; and,
having a little knack of carpentry, they fitted the enormous horns into
the mesquit root, and there was a chair for any palace. It was to be
their father’s, and was to stand on the gallery, where, some night, the
night-blooming cereus that laced the whole front would open its slow,
delicious flowers, and shed the balm of heaven about him.
They found it a little difficult to keep this secret, because they
began work upon it before Mr. Murtrie went off on his hunting-trip with
some friends; but after he had gone, things were easier, as the mother
was not inclined to prowl about and look into everything, as the head
of a house sometimes thinks necessary.
And for the mother,--they knew where some tall flat grasses grew, near
a stream that was brimming at this season, and Johnny waded in and got
them. Nancy plaited them into a low work-basket, and lined it with a
bit of silk that had been her doll’s skirt in her day of dolls. The
doll, that had been religiously put away, was taken from her slumbers
and furbished for Bessie’s Christmas. “Why, really, it’s going to be a
Christmas, after all,” she said.
“Only it’s so queer to have it so warm,” grumbled Johnny. “Winter
without snowballing isn’t winter!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Nancy, beginning to defend the thing she had
adopted.
The man who had found the horns for her found also a little baby fox,
and that was kept in great seclusion to become, on Christmas morning, a
pet for Johnny; and Marnie and Nancy had great times together feeding
it. He had the funniest little bark already. “Oh, we are coming along!”
cried Nancy.
But there was more to be done. She remembered that once, when her
father had taken her to see the ruins of the old mission, she had
observed a number of Mexican “shacks,” or huts, near by. She saw the
dinner of one family, which consisted of half a sweet-potato and a
red pepper. But she had also seen a big cage full of canarios. And so
Nancy and Johnny set out to walk over to the mission, losing their way
several times, but finding it again all at once. There an Indian woman,
who was about thirty years old and looked a hundred, flung her baby,
which was the loveliest little harmony of brown and rose you ever saw,
into her husband’s arms, and, after a great deal of pantomime and dumb
show, sold, for the price of the last piece of silver in Nancy’s purse,
a pair of the canarios in a cage made of reeds, each one an exquisite
pinch of feathers, a lot of living gems, of all colors of the rainbow,
blue, and yellow, and green, and purple, and red, and brown--iridescent
little things, with a song like the faintest, prettiest echo of a Hartz
canary’s song. And there was Marnie’s Christmas present settled.
But for Robby? Oh, there was the horned toad she had heard about. Robby
had seen one in some show or other at home, and had longed for it. Here
it was to his hand,--if she could find it. And with the help of the man
who had helped her before, and who could not fancy what she wanted it
for, find it she did. Robby would be delighted.
If Nancy had been born in the region, or was living in any town there,
she would have found no difficulty in making Christmas presents like
those she had hitherto given; but these gifts that she found possible
were unique and unlike anything she could have obtained at her old home.
And now for sweetmeats. Well, they had dried some of the luscious
grapes and there were the raisins in the pantry, just oozing and
crusted with sugar; and there was the barrel of molasses from the
sugar-mill down on the Brazos; no one could make more delicate candy
than Nancy could and did; and there had been a great harvest of
pecan-nuts; and thus, so far as the stockings were concerned, Christmas
had no more to ask.
The expected day was close at hand, and Nancy pictured to herself how
it would all go off--how the stockings would be hung up, how Johnny
would help with the chair and then be in bed before his own gift
appeared, and how she would be up at the peep of dawn to go out and
bring in that baby fox--the delicate, delicious, dewy dawn--and make
his bed under Johnny’s stocking, tying his leash to the toe, after
fastening it securely to a hook in the chimney; and how she would
untwist and unbind and unlace a great bunch of the roses outside that
were having a late blossoming on their luxuriant growth, and bring it
into the window and train it all around the room under the ceiling. It
would be--well, as beautiful as the Christmas green; it couldn’t be
more beautiful, she said in her thoughts.
It was at this time that Mrs. Murtrie began to be a little anxious
about her husband. He should have returned from his hunting-trip some
days before, and he was still absent, no one could say where. And, of
course, she was conjuring up all sorts of frightful possibilities in
the way of accidents, and Marnie was helping her; and Nancy herself,
although ordinarily holding her father to be invulnerable, felt a
degree of alarm as she thought what if he had fallen into some gulch,
or lost his way, or drowned in one of the rivers that rose, after a
rain in the hills, so swiftly that, in a town below, a man had been
overtaken before he could get off the bridge. As for Johnny, he was
for going out to find his father, if he only knew which way to go. As
night fell, and it was Christmas eve, the house was full of a sort of
electric tension; no one said just what every one was thinking, till
suddenly Bessie broke out with a great sob, and cried: “I want my
papa!” Then every one fell to comforting her, and all were furtively
wiping away tears, when steps rang on the gallery, the door burst open,
and the father, with his blue eyes shining out of his browned skin, and
his great voice resonant, stood before them, holding an immense bird
with wide-spreading wings.
“It’s a wild turkey,” he said, after the uproarious greetings, and
as soon as they loosened their embraces. “I was resolved not to come
back without a turkey for Christmas. And it’s a great deal richer and
sweeter than any home-made bird, as you’ll see when it’s roasted.”
A turkey! And Nancy had but lately been bemoaning herself that the
dinner would be without a turkey. She had gone to bed, and so did not
see her mother seize the wings of the wild trophy, and trim them, and
run out to the kitchen to the adjacent building and dry them well in a
hot oven, and later trim them again, and bind them at the base with the
palms of an old kid glove and so finish for Nancy’s Christmas as fine a
feather fan as one could wish to wave on a hot summer afternoon.
But at last, when the house was quite still, Nancy crept out of her
room and summoned Johnny to help her with the chair. Johnny was too
sleepy not to be glad to be dismissed after that, and then she disposed
of the presents exactly as she had planned, and wondered what the
large parcel was, swinging by a string from her own stocking, and
went to sleep to the tune of the song a mocking-bird sang, sweet, and
strong, and joyous, in the pecan-tree outside, till a rising wind swept
it away. And if you could have looked into the living-room of that
bungalow next morning, you would have seen Johnny hugging his baby fox,
and Bessie hugging her doll and Marnie chirping to her birds, and their
mother putting spools, and needles, and scissors into her work-basket,
and the father taking his ease in his big chair with its shining
supports, and Nancy leisurely fanning herself, as if there were not a
norther blowing outside, which, had the casements been open, would have
blown the rain quite across the room. Rain? No, oh, no! For, see! look!
For a wonder, the loveliest, silveriest, soft snow was falling, which,
even if it melted to-morrow, made Nancy’s northern heart feel, in her
southern home, the spirit of Christmas everywhere.
[15] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.
A BOOK FOR JERRY[16]
_Sarah Addington_
It seemed to Jerry that he would really die if he didn’t get a book
that Christmas. Here he was, eight years old, learning to read, liking
to read better than almost anything else in the world, and he had no
book to read from. He read at school in books furnished by somebody
or other, Jerry didn’t know who, but that wasn’t enough. Jerry wanted
a book for his very own. He wanted it big enough to carry under his
arm, and small enough to put under his pillow at night. He wanted it
to have stories in it about bears and St. Bernards and dragons and
boys--no girls; stories, too, about snakes and explorers and boats and
soldiers. He wanted the book to have red and yellow and green pictures
of airplanes and lions and pirates, one picture on every page.
This was the book Jerry wanted. This was the book he dreamed of in bed
at night and thought about in the daytime, the book he pretended to
carry under his arm and made believe was under his pillow. But there
wasn’t the slightest chance of Jerry’s getting that book, or any book.
Indeed, Jerry would have been ashamed to mention the word “book” at
home. People don’t talk airily about blue-and-gold books when their
mothers don’t have enough breakfast and their fathers don’t have enough
supper and nobody in the whole family ever has enough dinner, even on
Sunday.
And that was the appalling state of affairs at the Juddikins’. Nobody
ever mentioned it, but there it was. They hadn’t enough food, they
hadn’t enough fire, they hadn’t enough clothes. There were five
Juddikins: Mr. Juddikins, Mrs. Juddikins, Jerry Juddikins, the baby
Juddikins, and Mutt Juddikins, who, though he was only a dog and, as
dogs go, not of high social position, yet was a highly important member
of the Juddikins family. He was a mutt dog, the Juddikins frankly
called him Mutt, yet this dog was far from a mutt at heart. Indeed, he
had a thoroughbred soul, such as some of your blue-blooded aristocratic
dogs never dream of having. He never whined when he was hungry, like
the fussy little Pomeranian next door. He didn’t need a silk pillow to
sleep on, like the lazy Pekingese across the street. Not much. Mutt
was a real sport. He took what he got, which wasn’t much, but it was
always all that the Juddikins could give him; bread and gravy, potatoes
sometimes, even a bone now and then, a skimpy, dry bone, to be sure,
but none the less a bone. Mutt took these and was grateful and happy,
even put on airs as if it were a feast that the Juddikins had set
before him.
For Mutt was not only a sport, he was also a swell. He carried his
tail at the most elegant angle. He picked up his feet with style and
dignity. His were drawing-room manners. He had shameful ancestors;
his grandfather on his mother’s side had been a mere roustabout dog,
one of those villains who spend their lives fighting and stealing and
cheating man and beast alike. Mutt remembered him well; he had died in
a brawl which was the talk of the alley for days. Then there was Mutt’s
grandmother on his father’s side, a dissolute old dog who ate a cat a
day when she was home, and who, when she wasn’t home, wandered abroad
pillaging and plundering like a very pirate among dogs. She dined on
garbage and slept in ash cans. Mutt’s own mother was far from a lady,
his father was a brute, and their home life was deplorable.
And yet along came Mutt, their descendant, a gentleman if not a
scholar, a dog well-mannered, refined, gallant, heroic. The last of
a long line of ruffians, thieves, bullies and traitors, Mutt was a
cavalier among dogs, and he lived with the Juddikins and was the very
center of their small and humble universe.
Some people said the Juddikins ought not to keep Mutt: they were too
poor. But, as Mrs. Juddikins said, when you’re poor you need a dog the
most of all, and as for giving up Mutt, rich or poor, the Juddikins
would as soon have considered giving up the baby, I do believe. Of
course the baby was very sweet and cunning, but Mutt was far more
intelligent, and one thing he didn’t do, he didn’t swallow buttonhooks
and hairbrushes all day long, as the foolish Juddikins baby tried to
do.
The Juddikins would have been a very happy family, then, if only they
hadn’t been so poor. But they were poor. There was hardly any money at
all in Mr. Juddikins’ pocket, none at all in Mrs. Juddikins’ pocket,
less than none in the brown box on the mantelpiece, for there, where
the money used to be, were now only bills. Bills for the rent of the
Juddikins’ tiny house, bills for the doctor--for once the baby really
swallowed part of the hairbrush, and old Doctor Jollyman had to come
running and fish out the bristles.
It was all because Mr. Juddikins didn’t have a job. Fathers have to
have jobs, it seems, to keep families going, and Mr. Juddikins didn’t
have one, so his family wasn’t kept going very well. It scared Mr.
Juddikins half to death sometimes to think that the whole family
depended on him like this. Mrs. Juddikins, Jerry Juddikins, the baby
Juddikins, Mutt--all had stomachs to fill, all had bodies to be warmed
at the fire, and this not to mention Mr. Juddikins, who was hungry and
cold himself all the time.
Every morning Mr. Juddikins would start out to look for a job. First he
would rise early and call everybody. “Get up, mother! Get up, Jerry!
Get up, baby!” Mutt was the only one who didn’t have to be told to
get up. Then Mr. Juddikins would bustle around and make a fire, oh,
a very small one, and while Mrs. Juddikins was making the tea, oh, a
very small pot, Mr. Juddikins would put on his clean collar and his
stringy black tie, and sing as he looked at himself in the mirror.
Mr. Juddikins was, you see, of a cheerful disposition. If he had not
been, he could never have sung as he looked at himself in the mirror.
Mr. Juddikins would then take his tea. He made dreadful faces over the
tea, for he didn’t like it without milk and the Juddikins had no milk,
except the baby, who had nothing else, unless you count the bristles.
After drinking tea and making faces for a while, Mr. Juddikins would
put on his shabby hat and his skimpy overcoat, kiss them all around
and go off. In one pocket he carried a bit of lunch, in the other a
letter of recommendation. In his heart Mr. Juddikins bore a strange and
thrilling hope: Today he would get the job, and henceforth all would
be rosy and jolly for the Juddikins family. But somehow to-day was
never the day, and every night Mr. Juddikins would come home tired and
discouraged, his cheerful eyes clouded, his smile gone, his perky tie
sagging at a most dejected angle. It was all very bad, and Jerry felt
so sorry for his father. Book indeed! What kind of boy would he be to
mention book at a time like this?
Jerry went to school on Peppermint Place. It was a lovely school,
where canaries sang in little glittering cages and geraniums bloomed
like red soldiers in straight rows at the windows, and where in winter
a fire boomed in a big, deep fireplace, and in summer the peppermint
trees flung white-blossomed arms in at the windows. Were they really
peppermint trees? I confess I don’t know. The grown-ups said not, and
called them lindens and catalpas and chestnuts. But the children said
they were: else why should the square be called Peppermint Place?
Grown-ups have a tiresome way of being right about things like that,
yet why should a square be called Peppermint Place if the trees aren’t
peppermint trees? Moreover, the children said that if you went to the
square at midnight the flowers were peppermint, and they said they
could smell them in the early morning when they first got to school--a
left-over, faint, but delicious smell that was nothing if it was not
peppermint blossoms washed over with midnight dew. Nobody had ever been
at Peppermint Place at midnight, so nobody could really deny what the
children said. So I am inclined to believe that for once the grown-ups
were wrong, and that the trees were really peppermint--at midnight
anyway.
From nine to ten the children at this school read and did arithmetic
problems. Jerry had struggled from nine to ten many mornings with the
queer marks in his primer, until, lo, one morning he found he could
read--all as sudden and surprising as that. From ten to eleven they
sang and drank cocoa and played games around the fire. From eleven to
twelve they took naps, then read some more, and looked up cities and
rivers on the big globe over by the red soldiers in the window, and
wrote on the blackboard. From twelve to one they played in the garden
behind the school. This was a special garden, just for children. It
had signs up like these: “Parents and Dogs Not Allowed”; “Please Walk
on the Grass”; “Trespassing Allowed.” And at one o’clock the children
went home.
Jerry loved school. He loved the reading and the cocoa and the
geraniums on parade, though he did wonder sometimes about those
geraniums. Didn’t they get tired of just being dressed up and parading,
and long to break ranks and have a good fight? Even toy soldiers have
wars; these were such peaceful soldiers. But you can’t fight if you
don’t have any enemies, and the geranium soldiers didn’t. Everybody
loved them; consequently their life was one long peace. Jerry liked
the boys at school, too--Peter the Little, and Johnnie O’Day, and
the Bumpus twins who had such interesting pockets, fishing worms and
marbles and snake skins and arrows and tops and kite strings and
magnets, all in one inviting jumble. He even liked the butterflies on
top of the girls’ heads, pink and brown and red ribbons that perched
there and looked always ready to fly.
But he didn’t like the girls. He simply couldn’t stand the girls. Girls
swished their skirts, for one thing, the important silly creatures;
swished them into the room and down the aisles, and even when they got
safely into their seats they swished and fidgeted and squirmed around,
spread out those skirts in wide circles around them, and patted them
down in such an utterly silly way. They snickered, too, all the time.
Hee, hee, hee! Tee, hee, hee! Jerry could positively hear them in his
sleep; he could see them in the dark, putting up small hands before
their faces, hee-heeing and tee-heeing behind them, and rolling foolish
eyes around. Also, they were cowards and cravens--squealed at the sight
of a spider, couldn’t climb a tree worth a cent, sniffled when their
feelings were hurt. A detestable tribe, girls!
Jerry used to wonder if his baby sister would grow up to be one of
them, swishing her skirts and giggling and sniffling. Most likely.
Anybody that would eat hairbrushes would no doubt grow up just as
silly. And he used to wonder, too, how it was that women like his
mother and the teacher, such utterly lovely people as they now were,
had ever been just girls. Could his teacher really have been like
these? Did she never throw a ball right, or climb a tree decently, or
carry a toad in her pocket? Oh, yes, toads! The girls said they made
warts. Fancy that, if you can. Warts! And supposing toads did make
warts, who cared? No, Jerry couldn’t endure girls, and that was why he
didn’t want a single girl in his whole book when he got it, if he ever
did get it. A world without girls was impossible, it seemed; there were
such hordes and swarms of them; but a book without girls was entirely
feasible, and that was the kind of book Jerry wanted.
And then one day, two weeks before Christmas, it suddenly began to look
as though Jerry might get his book after all. It was the teacher’s
idea, and when she had suggested it Jerry wondered why in the world he
hadn’t thought of such a simple thing. The teacher said: “Now today
we’re going to write our letters to Santa Claus. Peter, you pass the
pencils, please, and Katinka may distribute the papers. And you must
all tell Santa just what you want, and don’t forget commas and periods.
Santa Claus is very partial to commas and periods. Last week Katinka
wrote a whole page without a single comma. I can’t think what made her.”
Katinka, who was passing papers blushed guiltily, and Jerry, though
he hated girls, felt a little sorry for her. Katinka was hardly as
odious as most girls. She had reddish short curls, and she wore green
butterflies on them. She was fattish, her face was usually sticky from
lollipops, her aprons were always torn and dirty, but even she switched
herself around a good deal; couldn’t help it, being a girl, Jerry
supposed. And once she had stopped in front of Jerry’s house to pat
Mutt with a grimy, affectionate paw.
Well, Jerry wrote his letter. He knew precisely what he wanted. So he
told Santa Claus all about it, told him about the dragons and pirates
and lions and soldiers he wanted in the book, mentioned the blue cover,
explained the size, called Santa’s attention to his record as a good
boy all year, and stated that there must be no girls in the book. Then
he went over the letter, scattering commas and periods lavishly in
every sentence, and signed his name, Jerry Juddikins, 123 Whippoorwill
Road. As Jerry watched it go up the chimney, he felt a tug at his heart
he had never quite felt before; he would get his precious book on
Christmas morning; Santa Claus would see to that.
Benjamin Bookfellow came into his workshop the next morning rubbing his
hands and telling himself what a really fine job he had in the world,
anyway. To live in the North Country with Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus
and all the toymakers, to write books all year long for children’s
Christmas stockings--what could be finer than that, asked Benjamin
Bookfellow of himself. Most of all, he thought, he liked this cozy
room of his where the sun shone in so gayly and the Plot Tree, thick
with plots for stories, reared its beautiful branches over his head.
Benjamin Bookfellow was very happy that morning as he settled down to
Page Twenty-four of “Chief Thunder-cloud’s Revenge,” a book he was
writing for a little tomboy of a girl, named Katinka, who liked Indian
stories almost as much as she liked lollipops, which was saying a good
deal.
Pretty soon Hickety-Stickety came in. Hickety-Stickety was the
postmaster of the Claus establishment. He had a letter in his hand and
he looked worried.
“Santy Claus sent ye this here,” he began. “It’s from a boy as goes to
Peppermint Place school. He wants a queer thing, he do. He wants a book
as hasn’t got no girls in it.”
Benjamin Bookfellow reached out for the letter. “Pyrits,” it said,
“soldieres, draggens”; all that was easy. “no, girls, in it Santa
Claus not; one.” A book without girls in it? Benjamin Bookfellow had
never heard of such a thing. Girls were absolutely necessary to books.
Dragons had to eat them, knights had to rescue them; how could you
possibly have a book without a girl in it?
And yet maybe the Plot Tree would have that kind of story on it after
all. Benjamin reached up and picked off a luscious fruit. He opened it
carefully and out fell the plot, a little round ball with words written
all over it. He read it hastily. No, here was a girl right off, a girl
and a gnome and a prince, quite obviously a fairy story.
He pulled down another plot, then more plots and more plots and more
plots, cut them open and took out the round ball and still not a single
story without a girl in it, just as he had feared. Poor Benjamin
Bookfellow! His face was as long as your arm.
At supper that night in Santa Claus’ dining room, when Benjamin and
Hickety-Stickety and the Twelve Toymakers were all at table with the
Clauses, Santa Claus said first thing: “Well, Bookfellow, and did you
find a story without a girl in it?”
“I didn’t, sir,” replied Benjamin sadly. “I took off every single plot
from the tree, and they all had girls in them.”
Santa Claus’ rosy chops fell. “Have you called in the Authors,
Bookfellow?” Santa Claus wanted to know.
Benjamin Bookfellow knew what was coming. The Authors sometimes wrote
books to help Benjamin when he got crowded with work.
“No, sir, I haven’t yet.”
“Then do send for them immediately,” said Santa Claus. “We must get
Jerry Juddikins’ book, you know, at any cost.”
The next morning Santa Claus sent the reindeer down to the edge of the
North Country to meet the Authors, while Benjamin Bookfellow fidgeted
and fussed around his study.
At last they came, a whole sleighful--stylish authors, down-at-the-heel
authors, shy authors, important authors, authors with fur overcoats,
authors with no overcoats, lady authors twittering, authors, authors,
authors. But the interview was short. Not a single author could even
imagine a book without a girl in it, much less produce one.
“I give it up,” said Benjamin Bookfellow. “Jerry Juddikins will just
have to take a regular book, a book with girls in it, and try to be
contented with it.”
So he set to work on all the other books he had to finish before
Christmas.
Whereupon he discovered, to his horror and dismay, that there wasn’t a
plot in the place. He had plucked them yesterday and laid them on his
work table, and now they were gone, every single one of them, gone.
Benjamin Bookfellow, in great agitation, looked high and low for his
plots, in every corner and crevice. He moved the furniture and looked
behind the pictures.
And then Benjamin Bookfellow knew the worst. The Authors had stolen his
plots, and now he couldn’t write his Christmas books. With a groan
Benjamin Bookfellow sank in his chair.
Great was the sorrow of jolly old Santa Claus and great was the sorrow
of Mrs. Claus and the Twelve Toymakers when they learned the dreadful
news. No Christmas books for children! What a terrible thing!
Well, there they were, Santa Claus and all his helpers, with Christmas
not two weeks off, and no books for children’s stockings. Oh, there
were some books of course. Benjamin Bookfellow had been writing books
all year long, but there was no book for Katinka, for hers was only
half finished; and there was no book for Jerry Juddikins, who didn’t
want anything but a book for Christmas.
Santa Claus thought maybe the Plot Tree would grow some new plots for
the rest of the books, but Benjamin Bookfellow said no. There were some
buds on the trees, but you can’t expect buds to be fruit in a week.
“Perhaps if you watered it an extra lot the plots would grow,” said
Santa Claus at dinner next day.
“Perhaps if you pruned it--” began Toymaker Number Five, but that was
no good either; the Plot Tree had been beautifully pruned just a few
weeks before and now was a marvel of perfect branches and healthy sap.
“Did you ever try using a little imagination on it?” asked Toymaker
Number Eleven timidly. Everybody stared.
“What’s imagination?” asked Hickety-Stickety.
“Why--” commenced Santa Claus and stopped.
“Why--” began Mrs. Claus and stopped.
“Why--” Benjamin Bookfellow started and stopped.
So Toymaker Number Eleven finished up for them.
“Why, Hickety-Stickety,” he said in a little thin voice, “if you think
up a lovely story that never happened, but is better than anything
that ever did happen, that’s imagination. There’s a spring,” he added
dreamily, “where the waters of imagination grow. I know where that
spring is.”
“You do?” everybody at the table cried.
“Yes,” answered Toymaker Number Eleven, still in the same musing voice.
“It’s in the deep woods down between green banks. Even in winter the
banks are green; the snow melts when it touches them. A hawthorn tree
almost hides the spring from view, but at night when the moon is
shining you can see the water quite plainly; it’s silver and black and
it sings a little song.”
“Well,” boomed Santa Claus in a big voice, “that solves the whole
thing. To-night we’ll get some of that wonderful water, and sprinkle it
on the Plot Tree and then it will burst forth with plots and Bookfellow
can write his books.”
Which is just what happened. When the moon came up that night Benjamin
Bookfellow, led by Toymaker Number Eleven, went in the deep woods
down to the green banks behind the hawthorn, scooped up a pailful of
the wonderful water and took it back to the Plot Tree. At the first
sprinkle the buds began to flower; at the next sprinkle the flowers
bloomed into green fruit; at the last sprinkle the green fruit turned
yellow like oranges and seemed ready to burst. Three sprinkles, and
the buds were full-grown plots, ready to be nipped off by Benjamin
Bookfellow and used for children’s books. A wonderful thing,
imagination. Nobody ever need scoff at it again.
But still Jerry Juddikins’ book was not forthcoming, for even the new
plots all had girls in them. Jerry didn’t know he wouldn’t get his book
of course. He didn’t dream that in all the store of Santa’s treasures
there wouldn’t be a book without a girl in it. So he was very happy.
It was in the evening of two days before Christmas, and already the
air of Christmas was abroad. The air crackled with Christmas, the
windows of people’s houses flaunted Christmas, the snow crunched with
Christmas in every crunch, and everywhere there was that tingling feel
of Christmas. Even Mutt had Christmas in his bones and had gone off on
an adventure, tail up, nose up, barking with Christmas joy. And then to
cap the climax, Mr. Juddikins came home with a job in his pocket! Oh,
such joy in the Juddikins’ house! They were all quite delirious with it.
They wished Mutt would come back though. They knew how happy he would
be when they told him. Mr. Juddikins hurried out and bought a fat bone
for him, such a bone as Mutt had dreamed of all his life but had never
yet set teeth upon. They unbolted the door, the more quickly to open
it when Mutt came back. Then they sat down and waited, the bone on a
plate, the door unlatched.
But Mutt did not come back. Six o’clock came, and half-past six and
seven. Eight o’clock came, and half-past eight and nine. The Juddikins
went out into the snow-covered garden calling, “Mutt, Mutt, Mutt.” They
went up and down Whippoorwill Road hunting and calling and searching.
But he was gone and they sat around the fire, Mr. Juddikins and Mrs.
Juddikins and Jerry, with terror and ache in their hearts. Even the
baby looked sad as she slept in her high chair.
Then, all at once, as they sat there, they heard steps up the walk; not
dog steps but human steps, a big, long stride like a man’s and a little
short hippety-hop like a girl’s. A knock came at the door, a big rap
from a man’s hand, a little tattoo from a girl’s hand. Mr. Juddikins
looked fearfully at Mrs. Juddikins, and Jerry looked at them both. Here
was somebody to tell them Mutt was dead. They couldn’t move.
The knock came again.
“Go,” said Mrs. Juddikins to Mr. Juddikins.
Mr. Juddikins went, and in tumbled a bundle of red curls, sticky lips,
smeared hands, torn coat. It was Katinka. At her heels followed a tall
black overcoat with a kind face; Katinka’s father.
“He’s all right, Jerry!” cried Katinka falling into the room. “Mutt’s
all right! He’s just a little hurt, and he’s asleep now by our fire. I
wrapped his leg up and gave him an enormous supper.”
Katinka’s father spoke next, smiling kindly. “Your dog had a little
accident, Mr. Juddikins,” he said.
Accident! Jerry turned white, and Katinka struck in again. “But he’s
quite all right, Jerry. He gave me the sweetest looks when I was fixing
his leg, and we’ll bring him home in the morning.”
Then Katinka’s father explained to the anxious and bewildered Juddikins
what had happened. “It was about seven o’clock,” he said, “and the
butcher boy was hurrying his horse down the road, to get home to his
supper, I suppose. We heard the horse; he was going like lightning.
Katinka was in the yard, and the next thing my wife and I knew was a
noise in the road. Katinka was screaming, a dog was yelping. It was
your dog, Mr. Juddikins. He had run in front of the cart, and Katinka
had run in front of it, too, and had snatched the dog from the horses’
feet.” He looked at Katinka with the proudest eyes. “She really saved
him from being killed, I think.”
Katinka had saved Mutt from being killed! That little girl with her
sticky hands had run right under the horses’ hoofs and brought their
Mutt to safety. The Juddikins couldn’t speak. Their hearts seemed to
choke into their very mouths, but they looked at her as if she were
something holy.
Katinka started for the door. “It’s all right now,” she said. “I wanted
you to know. Oh, he’s a darling dog, Jerry. And his leg is only cut a
little because I had to throw him, and he hit the curb.”
“And weren’t you hurt?” asked Mr. Juddikins, the first word any of them
had spoken.
“Me? Oh, no. I never get hurt,” answered Katinka loftily, and made for
the door.
* * * * *
The next morning Santa Claus received the most surprising letter. He
thought it was too late for Christmas letters, but here came one on
this very day before Christmas. It was from Jerry Juddikins, and it was
written in the wildest haste. You could tell that by the handwriting.
It said: _Dear Santa Claus: I, love girls now, please, please. put a
girl just like Katinka in my book,._
So Benjamin Bookfellow wrote all morning and all afternoon, a beautiful
blue book with pirates and dragons and soldiers in it and a heroine
who was just like Katinka, and that night Santa Claus took it to
Whippoorwill Road and put it in Jerry’s stocking.
And every day after that Jerry carried his precious book under his
arm, and every night he slept with it under his pillow, and he was the
happiest boy in the whole world and Katinka was his best friend.
[16] Reprinted from “Jerry Juddikins” by special permission of David
McKay Company, publishers, and the author.
THE BISHOP AND THE CARDINAL[17]
_George Madden Martin_
The spread of the spruce-tree at its base, where its branches rested on
the snow in the bishop’s yard, was thirty feet. The apex, to which the
branches mounted in slanting tiers, was fifty feet above the ground.
The December afternoon was cold--not much above zero. Weather of that
kind was most unusual in a region so far south. The sky was gray. Now
and then a few big snow-flakes came silently down to join the white
brotherhood that had already fallen a foot deep on the level and more
than two feet deep in the drifts.
The shrubs about the yard looked like snow hillocks; the round bushes
were cone-shaped, the branching ones were wreathed. Not a berry or
seed-vessel or grass-spear or weed-tuft was anywhere visible.
In these bleak surroundings, a valiant and energetic gentleman in the
scarlet cassock and biretta of a cardinal--a cardinal with wings and
beak and feathers, you understand--was darting from point to point
of the big evergreen, from apex to branch, from branch to apex, a
gorgeous splash of color against the clear green of the boughs and the
blue-white of the snow.
The spruce, with the flitting cardinal on its boughs, stood at the side
of the bishop’s grounds between his slate-roofed and ivy-clad house and
the brick orphan asylum.
The bishop’s bedroom was on the same side of the house as the spruce,
and just now the bachelor bishop himself was at a window of the square
bay of this chamber, looking out upon his grounds and the big evergreen
in the bleak and wintry setting. He was just becoming acquainted with
the spruce and his side yard.
The robe that he wore at the moment had less of the episcopal dignity
than that of the cardinal in the evergreen; the bishop’s was a
gray-and-black dressing-gown, and it was tied about his body with a
gray-and-black cord and tassels.
His expression, or what could be seen of it,--for this square-featured,
clean-shaven bishop wore a green celluloid shade over his eyes,--was
rueful. It was the first Christmas after his arrival from a distant
state to be head of this Southern diocese. And behold, three weeks
after his coming, here he was--ill with the measles!
He was in his venerable predecessor’s house, and that was why the
stately spruce and the cardinal were new to him.
The dwelling, in its old grounds, with a small, slate-roofed church to
the left of it and the asylum to the right of it, stood on the car-line
a little way out from the chief city of the diocese. The wife of the
late bishop had owned it long before trolley-cars were dreamed of;
had built the church and the asylum, and given them to her husband’s
diocese; had died, and left the dwelling to her husband. When, within a
year, he followed her, he had left the place as an episcopal residence
for his successors.
The old bishop’s pensioned servants remained, integral parts of the
institution. Neither a new broom nor a new bishop must sweep too
clean. Even one who has authority, when he finds himself among the old
associations and traditions and institutions of a sedate community,
must move slowly.
The bishop found the household of which he was bachelor proprietor
somewhat dreary. There was old Mrs. Dyer, the housekeeper, a distant
relative of the old bishop’s, gold-spectacled, tall and spare. There
was old Aunty Sally, the colored cook, silver-spectacled, short and
fat. There was Thomas, the colored coachman and gardener, gray-haired,
and, for the time, confined to his room over the tool-house by
rheumatism. There was old white Tim, the general factotum and
furnace-tender of the asylum, the rectory and the church; he had gone
to town that morning for his Christmas purchases, and so far, at four
o’clock in the afternoon, had not returned. In this venerable company
the new bishop felt a mere infant in arms, an infant with measles!--the
more so, because from the beginning he had refused to have a trained
nurse, and had put himself into the hands of Mrs. Dyer and Aunt Sally.
The house overflowed with flowers and delicacies that his good people,
few of whom he yet knew, had sent him. But to-day as he stood at his
window and gazed out on the winter scene he was feeling lonely and a
little aggrieved. No doubt it was the bleakness of the day and the
nearness of the Christmas season under the present conditions of
captivity, that depressed him.
In a direct line across from him, at no great distance, stood the
asylum; its side windows looked on his own, and both sets of windows
looked upon the spruce-tree. As he had barely established himself in
his present residence when he took the measles, he had had no chance to
become acquainted with the asylum, or its affairs, or its inmates.
Had that little red-feathered fellow out there on the snow-clad
evergreen-tree gone crazy? The bishop came from the city, and knew
neither the spruce nor the cardinal by name. The cardinal was dipping
and rising about the tree, fluttering and darting, now here, now there,
from branch to twig, from twig to branch.
“And always as if he had his red-ringed small eye on the gallery,” said
the bishop, who meant by “gallery,” himself at the window.
Just then the cardinal left the big spruce-tree altogether, and dropped
to the snow-mantled clump of spirea nearer the house. Immediately there
appeared upon the branches of the spruce two flashing, swaggering,
top-knotted blue jays.
The cardinal flew from the spirea; down from the spruce dropped the
jays to the bush that he had left; and almost at once two brown and
speckled sapsuckers perched upon the branches of the evergreen.
The bishop looked on with interest. Almost parrot-like the cardinal
was clinging with the coral-red claws of his coral-red legs to the
sharp edge of the window-sill; his red head and coral beak were held
sidewise, and his beady eyes were upturned sharply. Behind him was a
world that was cold and desolate and threatening. The white flakes were
falling persistently.
Then the bell of the bishop’s telephone rang. The doctor who twice a
day came in to see him and cheer him up had forbidden him to use his
eyes or to do any hard work or to see his secretary, who had not had
the measles; but he could use his ears and his tongue. So he had had
the telephone brought into his room and set upon a table, and he talked
daily with his dean at the cathedral in town, with various members of
his clergy, and with other official persons.
He turned from the window at the ring, and lifted the receiver.
“Bishop Herbert at the telephone. Yes?” said he, and his voice was deep
and genial and sonorous.
“He is telling you that he is hungry, please,” said a voice, small and
anxious.
“Who is hungry? Who is this speaking?”
“The cardinal-bird on your window-sill. This is Gwinie.”
“Why should he be telling me? And who is Gwinie? And how does she know
a cardinal-bird is on my window-sill and hungry?”
“I can see him there. I live across from you at the asylum. He is
hungry because I can’t come over and put crumbs on his bird-tray; and
it’s snowed three days now.”
“Where is his bird-tray? And why can’t you come?”
“It’s there by the spruce-tree. You can see it from your window. It’s a
tray on a stake in the ground. The other bishop kept it full. I can’t
come over and fill it the way I’ve been doing because I’ve got the
measles.”
“Is that so?” said the bishop. “So have I. Is there anybody over there
who can come and fill it? You cannot expect me to ask Mrs. Dyer to
wade out there in a blizzard. And old Aunt Sally would go under in the
drifts.”
“The doctor told us you had measles,” said Gwinie. “You took them
first; then we did. He’s just gone. He said I might come to the
telephone and call up, and tell whoever answered about the cardinal. He
said he didn’t want to have my measles worried in. We’ve all got them.
There isn’t anybody who can come. Tim, he’s never got home from town.
We’ve put crumbs out, but the birds don’t know it, and the snow keeps
covering the crumbs up. We haven’t any tray over here.”
“H’m!” said the bishop. “And how can I put crumbs on the sills of
French windows? They open outward, you know. What? Hold on there,
Gwinie!”
“I have to go. Miss Lowry, she’s called three times. But I’ll think.”
The bishop hung up his receiver, and returned to the window to survey
the situation in the light of what he had just learned. The cardinal
had advanced boldly on the sill, and now hopped back and forth on it,
with his bright eye fixed on the occupant of the room.
The jays and sapsuckers were on the spirea together, and a dozen small,
crested birds with brown backs and slate-colored breasts were flitting
anxiously about the spruce-tree. Across the open space, at an asylum
window, was a little girl, flattening her nose against the pane. She
was wrapped in a heavy blanket, and she wore a shade!
Was it Gwinie? She saw him. The flattened nose drew back, and its owner
waved a hand. It _was_ Gwinie. Suddenly she turned, as if something
had compelled her attention in the room behind her. And then she
disappeared. The bishop felt a pang of loneliness.
Ten minutes passed while he wondered what he could do. He put the
question to the cardinal himself on the sill: How could either of them
ask fat little old Aunt Sally to wade out through the big drifts to
that tray? Then the telephone rang again.
“It’s Gwinie. Miss Lowry says I may speak one minute. It’s about Mr.
Blythe. He takes the orders from the asylum for Santy Claus every
year. We tell him what we want most, and he puts it down, and we get
it. This year the doctor had to take the orders for him because of the
measles. So I asked the doctor to-day, if he saw Mr. Blythe, to get him
to ask Santy to see to the birds till I get over the measles. And Mr.
Blythe just called up to say he will telephone Santy direct, himself,
about tending to them.”
It is to be presumed that when “Santy” received the message, he acted
promptly. No doubt he knew as well as Gwinie did--although the bishop
did not know--that even in the South a starving cardinal compelled to
endure the rigors of a night with the thermometer at zero would be a
little scarlet corpse on the snow by morning. Before the early dusk
quite closed in, the grocer’s delivery boy appeared in the bishop’s
side yard. He took off his cap to the dignitary at the window, tramped
knee-deep out to the bird-tray, and emptied his pockets and the
contents of a paper bag on the tray. Then he lifted his cap again to
the figure at the window, and departed.
The door of the bishop’s room opened, and Mrs. Dyer appeared, followed
by Aunt Sally, who bore the patient’s supper. The women stirred the
open fire, brushed the hearth, drew the curtains, and lighted the lamp.
They pulled the table up near the blaze, laid the white cloth upon it,
and arranged the contents of the tray.
“Creamed oysters, beefsteak, rolls, waffles, coffee, quince preserves?
Good gracious, Mrs. Dyer, do I, a patient, dare to eat all that? Very
well, then, since my friend the cardinal has his supper also, outside.
But you do not know about that. And, one moment, Mrs. Dyer, before you
and Aunt Sally go; who is Mr. Blythe?”
“He goes by heah ev’y mornin’ to the trolley. He’s one o’ those heah
pink-colored young men,” said Aunt Sally.
“He’s a general favorite,” said Mrs. Dyer. “He lives with an aunt up on
the hill.”
“He sells money at one o’ these heah banks. The bishop he bought his’n
f’om him. Got it ev’y Sat’day reg’lar foh to pay us’en off all roun’.”
“He thinks a great deal of Christmas,” said Mrs. Dyer. “I hear he is as
disappointed as the children at the asylum that there will be no tree
this year because of the measles.”
Thanks to Mr. Blythe’s fortunate telephone connection, Santa Claus
continued his useful work. When the bishop got up the next day--none
too early, to be sure--more snow had fallen, but the tray was swept
clean of it and heaped with a fresh meal; and the birds had gathered
round in dozens. Moreover, on the spruce-tree above the tray hung a
placard; it was white, with large black letters, and it was visible to
both sets of windows that looked upon the yard:
To His Grace The Cardinal, And Other Tenants. Please Take Notice. This
Tree is Preëmpted For The Christmas Season.
S. CLAUS.
The cold weather held; that evening the grocer’s boy appeared again,
and once more emptied his pockets and a paper bag on the birds’ tray.
And the next morning Santy or one of his emissaries had again swept the
tray and refilled it. On the snow-draped and trailing spruce hung a
second placard. It was more elaborately printed than the first one had
been, and touches of holiday scarlet relieved the black of its letters.
In the asylum, a dozen small faces now appeared at the windows where
one small child had flattened her nose against the pane two days
before. The children were all wrapped in blankets, and wore green
shades over their eyes. This is what they read on the placard:
To His Grace The Cardinal, And His Friends, Near And Far. Please Take
Notice. Gifts will be Ready for Distribution from this Tree To-morrow,
Christmas Day in the Morning.
S. CLAUS.
The presents _were_ ready for distribution when that blessed morning
dawned, snow-bound and cold and still. There were many stories
circulated as to how and when the work had been done.
One story was that among the agents whom S. Claus had found it
necessary to call upon for aid in the work were the grocer’s boy and
Mr. Blythe.
Some persons said that it could not have been done without the help of
the hook and ladder from the engine-house two miles away. Others were
convinced that unofficial ladders and orchard-pruning implements had
done it.
Whatever the truth of the matter is, the orphan asylum certainly knew
nothing about it, for that was wrapped in measles, and could not have
peeped. As for the bishop, not for worlds would he have done such a
thing.
However, Mr. S. Claus and his friends did achieve it, and when
Christmas day dawned, clear and crisp and cold, the bishop and the
asylum and Mrs. Dyer and Aunt Sally gazed out upon a transformed
spruce-tree.
Everything was on it that should be on a tree for hungry birds--and
more. For besides cranberries in strings, pop-corn in festoons, grain
in gold and scarlet cornucopias, ginger-bread men, red apples, tallow
candles, half loaves of bread, biscuits, there were many things that
were there not to be eaten, but to make a glitter.
His grace the cardinal, a scarlet splash against the winter blue
sky, was poised upon the very topmost black tip of the glorious old
evergreen. And not only the two jays, but a dozen other handsome and
noisy jays, as well as the speckled sapsuckers and many smaller birds,
hung in mid-air about the branches, rapt and almost motionless. As the
vested choir from the choir-room that adjoined the asylum crossed the
yard through the brick cloister for the seven-o’clock service at the
little church, they sang with hearty voices:
“O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth!
And praises sing to God, the King,
And peace to men on earth.”
The bishop and Gwinie and the many little children of the asylum, all
warmly wrapped in big blankets, gazed out on the scene through their
frosty windows; and among those marching in the choir through the
cloister were Mr. Blythe and the grocer’s boy, robed and beaming, and
singing most heartily of all.
[17] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 12,
1912. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”
A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD[18]
A German legend for Christmas Eve as told by _Elizabeth Harrison_
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, on the night before
Christmas, a little child was wandering all alone through the streets
of a great city. There were many people on the street, fathers and
mothers, sisters and brothers, uncles and aunts, and even gray-haired
grandfathers and grandmothers, all of whom were hurrying home with
bundles of presents for each other and for their little ones. Fine
carriages rolled by, express wagons rattled past, even old carts were
pressed into service, and all things seemed in a hurry and glad with
expectation of the coming Christmas morning.
From some of the windows bright lights were already beginning to stream
until it was almost as bright as day. But the little child seemed to
have no home, and wandered about listlessly from street to street.
No one took any notice of him except perhaps Jack Frost, who bit his
bare toes and made the ends of his fingers tingle. The north wind,
too, seemed to notice the child, for it blew against him and pierced
his ragged garments through and through, causing him to shiver with
cold. Home after home he passed, looking with longing eyes through the
windows, in upon the glad, happy children, most of whom were helping to
trim the Christmas trees for the coming morrow.
“Surely,” said the child to himself, “where there is so much gladness
and happiness, some of it may be for me.” So with timid steps he
approached a large and handsome house. Through the windows, he could
see a tall and stately Christmas tree already lighted. Many presents
hung upon it. Its green boughs were trimmed with gold and silver
ornaments. Slowly he climbed up the broad steps and gently rapped at
the door. It was opened by a large man-servant. He had a kindly face,
although his voice was deep and gruff. He looked at the little child
for a moment, then sadly shook his head and said, “Go down off the
steps. There is no room here for such as you.” He looked sorry as he
spoke; possibly he remembered his own little ones at home, and was glad
that they were not out in this cold and bitter night. Through the open
door a bright light shone, and the warm air, filled with fragrance of
the Christmas pine, rushed out from the inner room and greeted the
little wanderer with a kiss. As the child turned back into the cold
and darkness, he wondered why the footman had spoken thus, for surely,
thought he, those little children would love to have another companion
join them in their joyous Christmas festival. But the little children
inside did not even know that he had knocked at the door.
The street grew colder and darker as the child passed on. He went sadly
forward, saying to himself, “Is there no one in all this great city who
will share the Christmas with me?” Farther and farther down the street
he wandered, to where the homes were not so large and beautiful. There
seemed to be little children inside of nearly all the houses. They were
dancing and frolicking about. Christmas trees could be seen in nearly
every window, with beautiful dolls and trumpets and picture-books and
balls and tops and other dainty toys hung upon them. In one window the
child noticed a little lamb made of soft white wool. Around its neck
was tied a red ribbon. It had evidently been hung on the tree for one
of the children. The little stranger stopped before this window and
looked long and earnestly at the beautiful things inside, but most of
all was he drawn toward the white lamb. At last creeping up to the
window-pane, he gently tapped upon it. A little girl came to the window
and looked out into the dark street where the snow had begun to fall.
She saw the child, but she only frowned and shook her head and said,
“Go away and come some other time. We are too busy to take care of you
now.” Back into the dark, cold streets he turned again. The wind was
whirling past him and seemed to say, “Hurry on, hurry on, we have no
time to stop. ’Tis Christmas Eve and everybody is in a hurry to-night.”
Again and again the little child rapped softly at door or window-pane.
At each place he was refused admission. One mother feared he might
have some ugly disease which her darlings would catch; another father
said he had only enough for his own children and none to spare for
beggars. Still another told him to go home where he belonged, and not
to trouble other folks.
The hours passed; later grew the night, and colder grew the wind, and
darker seemed the street. Farther and farther the little one wandered.
There was scarcely any one left upon the street by this time, and the
few who remained did not seem to see the child, when suddenly ahead of
him there appeared a bright, single ray of light. It shone through the
darkness into the child’s eyes. He looked up smilingly and said, “I
will go where the small light beckons, perhaps they will share their
Christmas with me.”
Hurrying past all the other houses, he soon reached the end of the
street and went straight up to the window from which the light was
streaming. It was a poor, little, low house, but the child cared
not for that. The light seemed still to call him in. From what do
you suppose the light came? Nothing but a tallow candle which had
been placed in an old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a
glad token of Christmas Eve. There was neither curtain nor shade to
the small, square window and as the little child looked in he saw
standing upon a neat wooden table a branch of a Christmas tree. The
room was plainly furnished but it was very clean. Near the fireplace
sat a lovely faced mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and
an older child beside her. The two children were looking into their
mother’s face and listening to a story. She must have been telling them
a Christmas story, I think. A few bright coals were burning in the
fireplace, and all seemed light and warm within.
The little wanderer crept closer and closer to the window-pane. So
sweet was the mother’s face, so loving seemed the little children, that
at last he took courage and tapped gently, very gently on the door.
The mother stopped talking, the little children looked up. “What was
that, mother?” asked the little girl at her side. “I think it was some
one tapping on the door,” replied the mother. “Run as quickly as you
can and open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep any one
waiting in this storm.” “Oh, mother, I think it was the bough of the
tree tapping against the window-pane,” said the little girl. “Do please
go on with our story.” Again the little wanderer tapped upon the door.
“My child, my child,” exclaimed the mother, rising, “that certainly was
a rap on the door. Run quickly and open it. No one must be left out in
the cold on our beautiful Christmas Eve.”
The child ran to the door and threw it wide open. The mother saw the
ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head
and almost bare feet. She held out both hands and drew him into the
warm, bright room. “You poor, dear child,” was all she said, and
putting her arms around him, she drew him close to her breast. “He is
very cold, my children,” she exclaimed. “We must warm him.” “And,”
added the little girl, “we must love him and give him some of our
Christmas, too.” “Yes,” said the mother, “but first let us warm him.”
The mother sat down by the fire with the little child on her lap, and
her own little one warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs. The mother
smoothed his tangled curls, and, bending low over his head, kissed
the child’s face. She gathered the three little ones in her arms and
the candle and the fire light shone over them. For a moment the room
was very still. By and by the little girl said softly, to her mother,
“May we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful
it looks?” “Yes,” said the mother. With that she seated the child on
a low stool beside the fire, and went herself to fetch the few simple
ornaments which from year to year she had saved for her children’s
Christmas tree. They were soon so busy that they did not notice the
room had filled with a strange and brilliant light. They turned and
looked at the spot where the little wanderer sat. His ragged clothes
had changed to garments white and beautiful; his tangled curls seemed
like a halo of golden light about his head; but most glorious of all
was his face, which shone with a light so dazzling that they could
scarcely look upon it.
In silent wonder they gazed at the child. Their little room seemed to
grow larger and larger, until it was as wide as the whole world, the
roof of their low house seemed to expand and rise, until it reached the
sky.
With a sweet and gentle smile the wonderful child looked upon them
for a moment, and then slowly rose and floated through the air, above
the tree-tops, beyond the church spire, higher even than the clouds
themselves, until he appeared to them to be a shining star in the sky
above. At last he disappeared from sight. The astonished children
turned in hushed awe to their mother, and said in a whisper, “Oh,
mother, it was the Christ-Child, was it not?” And the mother answered
in a low tone, “Yes.”
And it is said, dear children, that each Christmas Eve the little
Christ-Child wanders through some town or village, and those who
receive him and take him into their homes and hearts have given to them
this marvellous vision which is denied to others.
[18] Reprinted by permission of Elizabeth Harrison and Francis M.
Arnold.
SANDY’S CHRISTMAS[19]
_Thomas Travis_
There were three of them, plodding wearily through the snow, a man,
a woman, and a boy about six years old. The man and the woman seemed
gloomy, sad, and walked along silently till, with a deep sigh, the man
spoke: “It’s too bad, too bad, Mother, the storm coming up like this.
If it had only held off a couple of hours more, we’d have made town all
right. But as it is--well, what’ll we do?” And he looked wearily at the
snow-covered mountains and the trackless waste of snow. He shivered as
his cold face brushed a laden bush that dabbed his bare neck with icy
snow. “It’s bitter cold, isn’t it, Mother? And if I’m not mistaken, the
storm’s only just beginning.”
The mother was too tired to answer. They had walked this way all day.
“If it had only held off a couple of hours,” the man repeated gloomily,
“we’d have made the town all right. And there’s a job for me there.
We’d have had a good Christmas, after all.”
“Oh well, Daddy,” said little Sandy, sturdily, “maybe the storm’ll stop
soon and somebody come along and give us a ride. Wouldn’t it be fun if
we could have a real sleigh-ride--at Christmas?”
But nobody came along the bleak waste, as they still plodded on. And
the storm did not stop. It blew up stronger and stronger before a
bitter northeast wind that sent whirling clouds of icy snow against
their faces and sifted it down their necks, till they were wet and half
frozen. It was only about four in the afternoon; but the wind had now
risen to a howling storm that made the great trees rock and groan and
scream in answer to the snoring of the white gale, and forced the three
to bend almost double to force their way against it.
They were all three tired, miserably tired, and hungry and cold. The
snow-laden swirls covered them till they looked like walking ghosts.
Little Sandy’s feet ached dreadfully; but he was a sturdy lad, and as
he walked, he kept chattering out all sorts of questions, just to keep
his mind off his cold feet. He didn’t care whether his questions were
answered or not--he just talked.
A big crow came swirling down the gale, veered in the shelter of a
clump of pines, set his black wings, and, with a doleful caw, settled
on one of the lower branches. Another did the same, and another, the
three crows snuggling up to each other with a soft chuckle that said,
just as plain as plain could be: “Boy, but it’s cold! And it’s going
to be a cold night for old Jim Crow. Better be looking up a bed now,
before it gets too dark. It’s a hummer, this gale is, a hummer!”
And the father felt just about the same. “We’d better look for some
sort of a shelter, Mother,” he said; “we can’t make town to-night.
We’ll be frozen stiff. Just my luck! Out of work since Thanksgiving;
get a letter that there’s a good job here for me if I can make it by
Christmas--and here’s this snow!” And he peered through the blinding
storm to where the city lights showed once in a while deep down in the
valley.
“But look, Dad!” Sandy shouted; “look! There’s just the place for us.”
And he pointed down in a hollow, where a little log-cabin lay pushed
into a thick clump of tall evergreens.
Snow was drifted over the roof and over the trail to the door, as they
entered and looked around. In fact, it had no door, only the place
for one. It had two windows, but only one had glass in it. And it had
neither fireplace nor stove--only a square of logs filled in with sand,
for the fire, and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out.
“Just my luck!” said the father; “just my luck!” And he shivered again
as the bitter wind swirled a cloud of icy snow through the door and
window.
But Sandy piped up: “Well, anyhow, it’s better than nothing. And
besides, I think it’s just fine. We can camp here and be all right.
Come on, let’s make a warm fire.” For his feet ached now so badly he
could scarcely keep the tears back.
They hunted around, found an old lantern, and lit it, for it was now
dark. And the gale had helped them somewhat, after all. For they found
great dry branches of the fragrant pine, broken off by the wind, piled
in heaps--some of it splintered to shreds under the twisting of the
gale.
Soon a roaring fire was going. But the wind, howling through the
doorway and the window, made it pretty hard to get warm.
“Just my kind of luck!” grumbled the father.
But Sandy said: “Supposin’ we get some of those little trees, those
pine and spruce, and pack them in the door and window. That will keep
the wind out, and make us snug as a bug in a rug. Come on.”
So they packed the window and the door with spruce-trees broken off
and stuck in the deep drift. Father sighed a bit with satisfaction,
and Mother sat down with a weary smile, thrusting her hands out to the
blaze as she looked tenderly at the boy.
“Fine Christmas, isn’t it?” grunted the father, again; “fine Christmas!
Look at the icicles hanging on that spruce. Look at the snow powdering
the tree, and that right in the room with us. Fine Christmas!”
“Sure it’s fine,” said Sandy, sturdily. “I think it’s finer than a
boughten tree. It’s a real Christmas tree, and it’s got real icicles,
not glass ones. And it’s got real snow for powder. All we want is
some birds and stars and things on it, and there wouldn’t be a better
Christmas tree anywhere. Mother and Daddy, you rest. I’ll go out here
and get a good stack of wood,--that’ll keep the fire going,--and then
we’ll have something to eat and we’ll be fine.” So, stamping his cold
feet, he squeezed through the blocked door and crept out under the
great pines.
Now what with the dense evergreens and the log-cabin, it was
comparatively quiet and calm there under the pines. And Sandy got his
first glimpse of how the wild creatures live through a storm. The
lower branches of the pines were crowded with crows, jays, and other
feathered waifs of the storm. They were doing their best to keep warm,
and having a hard time of it in that bitter gale.
You know, these wild birds must sleep out in all kinds of weather. You
know, too, that most birds’ feet can cling to a bough even when they
are asleep. Also, you know that feather coats are warmer even than fur.
And these birds, huddled together for shelter, picking out the thickest
parts of the low boughs, snuggled down in the roaring gale and tucked
their heads under their wings, crouching down low so that their feather
overcoats could cover them from head to feet.
But perhaps you may not know that there is one weak point about this
feather overcoat. They can not entirely cover up in it. There is just
one spot at the eye which they can not cover. That too, perhaps, is
to shield them. They keep one eye out, literally, for the fox and the
owl and the hawk. But on a bitter night like this, there is another
trouble. If it gets too cold, that one spot, meant for a lookout, will
freeze. And often after a bitter winter gale you will find crows and
jays and snowbirds blinded by the cold. They have changed positions,
put one eye, and then the other under, but been able to keep neither
warm. That one bit, exposed, acts just as if you were all tucked in
blankets, except one toe. You can keep changing the toe, but in bitter
weather, very bitter, that toe will freeze. So with the birds that
roost. They have no nest; they do not crawl into some hole. They roost
in fear of their enemies, and sometimes pay the terrible penalty for
that one hole in their feather blanket.
That’s why sometimes you hear a “thump” on your window on a very cold
winter night, and the next morning, find a poor quail or grouse or jay
or crow cold, freezing, half-blind already. He had seen the glow of
your fire dimly and flown to it--for safety.
And that was what was happening when Sandy crept out to get more
firewood. This was a record blizzard--a bitter, freezing, zero night.
And the birds were doing their level best to keep their eyes warm.
They did not even notice Sandy as he crept near and watched. Some
meadow-larks and quail had crouched under the snow-covered bushes at
the foot of the pines, and they were bunched together, all heads out
and all trying to keep their eyes from freezing. Sandy saw it and felt
sorry for them. He was trying to keep his own feet from freezing, and
knew how it felt. But he could not help the birds.
He could see the glow of the fire through the spruce-blocked door
and window. It shone cheerily through the one window with glass. And
hastily Sandy gathered some wood and came back inside. Then they ate
their supper, Sandy saving the crumbs for the birds.
The blizzard grew worse and worse. The great trees rocked and groaned
and cracked till Sandy thought they would break off short and tumble on
the shaking cabin. Some of them did split, with a boom like thunder,
and fell with a muffled thud in the deep snow. Then came faint
twitterings and dismayed caws. The birds were having a hard time out
there.
There came a thud against the single pane, and Sandy lifted the sash
to take in two quail that had flown against the glass in their attempt
to come into the warm room. But the crows were wiser than the quail.
They came farther down through the twigs and roosted on the branches.
They showed the others the way to the warm room. Then came some
snowbirds, their black-and-white feathers all fluffed out with frost;
and meadow-larks, quail, and grouse, all perching on the tree in the
window; all grateful for the warm refuge in that terrible blizzard.
Even a couple of rabbits came hopping through the open door and
crouched panting from the gale.
So Sandy and Father and Mother sat over the fire, trying hard to keep
warm. Mother was so tired she soon fell asleep, her head resting on
Sandy’s lap. They sat late, very late--almost to midnight. And then
came a wonderful thing--the storm stopped almost suddenly. The stars
came out; the northern lights began to glow and burn like melted opals,
like soft fires, all colors, in the sky. It was Christmas eve, and the
churchbells in the valley began to ring out Christmas carols--
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old.
Faintly the bells rang, faint and far across the snow.
So Sandy did not hear the approach of anybody till there came a hail at
the door. Pulling away the spruce that blocked it, Sandy was surprised
to see a great, burly man enter, with a sheep under one arm and half a
dozen panting after him.
“Saw your firelight, neighbor,” he said. “Just out trying to save my
sheep in the storm. Thought I’d never make it. But here we are.” And
shepherd and sheep crowded into the room.
“Come right along,” said the father. “It’s a bitter night. Seems as if
the cold grew worse since the wind dropped. Come on in and sit down by
the fire. Fine Christmas, eh?”
The man with the sheep sat down, throwing off his pack and using it
as a chair. Puffing and blowing, pulling icicles from his beard, he
rumbled: “Fine Christmas, you say? Well now, I’m glad of a place to be
in out of the cold. This looks fine enough to me. Thought I’d never
make it.” And he continued combing the ice from his beard and mustache.
“Fine Christmas when I thought it was going to be a case of freeze and
lose all the sheep, and then get them safe into a nice snug place like
this. This is fine Christmas luck!”
“Sure it’s fine,” laughed Sandy, whose feet were now warm again. “And
just look! If that isn’t the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.”
And he pointed to the tree in the window.
It really was wonderful. Back of the tree blazed a big star, just as
if it hung on the topmost twig. Scores of others twinkled through the
evergreen boughs. The northern lights crackled and shone mysteriously;
and against the lit sky they could see the birds crouching--crows,
iridescent, jays, gaudy blue, meadow-larks, with breasts dipped in
gold, quail, grouse, and snowbirds in lovely markings and shadings,
all perched on the tree, chuckling and crooning as though come there
specially to decorate it. Great icicles hung down glittering in the
low glow of the fire; and over all, the powdered snow glittered like
diamonds.
“It’s a fine Christmas tree, and I’m going to hang my stockings on it
when I go to bed.”
“Much good it’ll do you, Sandy,” grinned his father; “no Christmas, no
Santa this time.” Then, turning to the shepherd, he explained grumpily,
“Out of work; goin’ for a job; caught in this storm; stony broke--at
Christmas time.”
“Hard lines,” said the shepherd, soberly; “but that’s a fine boy you
have. Seems a bright youngster and just as chipper as can be.”
“Anyhow,” said Sandy, as he curled in his blanket before the fire,
“I’ve hung up my stockings. Maybe good old Santa will remember me
after all.”
He really didn’t expect anything, you know; but still he was a cheery
soul. And as he slept, he dreamed--dreamed a big, strong, genial Santa
came and filled his stockings with the nicest things--dreamed, and
mumbled in his sleep, “Well, anyhow, it’s a good Christmas, after all.”
But the others just slept--Father and Mother too sad and tired even to
dream, till they were roused in the early dawn of Christmas by a wild
yell from Sandy. There he stood in his blanket, hauling out gift after
gift from his stockings, from the twigs of the trees, and even some
from beneath the tree.
He never knew how they got there. But Sandy’s father told me that the
shepherd had them all in his pack, bringing them home for his own
family Christmas tree. But the storm that stopped Sandy’s father,
stopped him too. And seeing Sandy so sturdy and brave in the cold
and night, he thought he would give the presents to him and then buy
others, since he couldn’t get home in time for Christmas eve.
But Sandy never knew how they came. His eyes simply grew big and
shining in his six-year-old face. His squeals of joy rang through the
cabin, till even the sheep huddled together a little nervously and
watched him with shy eyes. The birds of the tree chuckled and flew out
into the new dawn of Christmas day. The shepherd’s sleigh came along
and gave them all a lift to town. And Father got his new job!
As the party separated in town, the shepherd took little Sandy in his
big strong arms as the boy said: “Well, we had a merry Christmas,
didn’t we? I think it was fine.”
And the shepherd gave him an extra hug as he answered: “Sandy, you have
the best Christmas gift of all. A Merry Christmas comes from inside a
man, from his happy and live soul, from his brave spirit. The boy that
has a gift like that doesn’t need anything else. He’ll have a Merry
Christmas anywhere.”
Sandy didn’t entirely understand. He just shook hands cheerily with the
shepherd, waved an arm to the sheep, now huddled cosily in the straw of
the sled, picked up his bundle, and walked on with a grin of joy.
“And anyhow,” he said that night, as he heard his father telling about
the terrible Christmas eve they had had, “anyhow, we had a real tree
and real birds and real stars and real snow powder and real sheep
and--a real shepherd! I think it was just the finest Christmas tree any
boy ever had.”
[19] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.
THE LITTLE FIR-TREE[20]
_Carolyn Wells_
Longer ago than you ever heard of, and farther away than you ever
dreamed, the great Tree-master went out to make the trees.
Now the making of trees was a most important matter, and the
Tree-master put his whole mind to it. He made all sorts of trees to
use for building houses and making things to furnish the houses. Oak,
maple, elm, ash, mahogany, rosewood, and many more, as you well know.
Then he made all sorts of trees to bear food: fruits, nuts, olives, and
queer things like breadfruit and cocoanuts.
And he made lovely trees just to look pretty. He made dogwood,
magnolia, horse-chestnut, and holly.
Then the Tree-master gave each tree its orders about blooming blossoms
and bearing fruit, and at last the Tree-master thought his work was
about done, and he turned to go away.
“Oh, please, sir,” said an anxious little voice, “aren’t you going to
give me anything nice to do?”
“Who is speaking?” growled the Tree-master, in a voice of thunder.
“It’s only I,” and a very trembly tone reached his ear. “I’m a little
fir-tree, and I’m neither beautiful nor useful.”
“You’re good enough,” said the Tree-master, as he glanced at the poor
little thing. “Behave yourself, and no one will notice you.”
But they did notice her. The springtime came, and all the fruit-trees
put on their beautiful blossom-frocks, and they jeered at the forlorn
little fir-tree.
“Ho!” said the apple-tree, “look at my pink and white garb. Is it not
exquisite? Don’t you wish you could be dressed like this?”
The poor little fir-tree looked on with longing eyes, but she was too
crushed to reply.
“And see mine!” vaunted the peach-tree. “Was there ever such a perfect
shade of color as I wear? How it is set off by my green leaves!”
The little fir-tree, though tempted to envy them, had a generous heart,
and she said, “Your clothes are indeed beautiful, O Apple-tree and
Peach-tree! I never saw more delicate and lovely coloring. Indeed, I
wish I might dress like that! I have my old dull needles!”
“And see me!” cried the cherry-tree; “after all, there’s nothing more
beautiful than my pure white with touches of feathery green.”
“True, true,” agreed the little fir-tree. “The colors are all so
lovely, I scarce know which to choose.”
The fruit-trees tossed their blossomy branches, and showers of dainty
petals fell all around.
“Oh!” cried the little fir-tree, enraptured, “I never saw anything so
wonderful! If only I had been made like that!”
But the fruit-trees paid little heed to the fir-tree’s lament, they
were so busy admiring themselves and flaunting their glories to the
breeze.
Then the wood trees broke into their soft spring greens.
“Look at me!” said a young maple, proudly; “is not my pale yellowy
green as lovely as the pink and white of the fruit-trees?”
And gazing at the delicate shade of the tiny leaves, the little
fir-tree admitted that it was.
“Oh,” she said, with a deep sigh, “if I could have that soft light
green to wear, I wouldn’t ask for pink blossoms! But how I hate my old
dull needles!”
The oaks and elms put out their young green also, and the feathery
willows down by the brook waved young withes like fairy wands.
As every fresh beauty unfolded, the poor little fir-tree wept anew and
wished the Tree-master had given her the like. But so engrossed were
the trees in watching their own decorations that they paid small heed
to the sad little fir-tree.
And then summer came. The fir-tree felt sure new beauties would come
to the trees, and she almost hoped some wonderful change might come to
her. But she watched and waited in vain.
The others, though! Ah, how they reveled in their happiness!
The fruit-trees fairly laughed aloud under their happiness of fruit!
Saucy red cherries, crimson velvet peaches, mellow golden apples, dewy
purple plums, everywhere a riot of color, fragrance, and sweetness!
How they boasted!
“Ah, little fir-tree,” they said: “what would you give for glories like
these?”
And the poor, forlorn little fir-tree shook with sorrow to her very
heart as she replied, “Ah, if I might be like that!”
“Too bad,” said the peaches, carelessly, and they went about their
business, which was to hold their soft cheeks up toward the sun that he
might kiss them till they blushed.
“Yes, too bad!” chattered the pears, not heeding what they were saying,
as they swayed gently on their stems while they slowly ripened to a
golden and rosy glow.
The poor little fir-tree shuddered at their cruel indifference, which
was even harder to bear than their outright scorn.
And the shade-trees were just as bad.
And then autumn came. Oh, the triumphs of the trees then! The wonderful
flaming banners of scarlet and gold that they flung out to dazzle all
nature! The rich depths of bronze and crimson that lurked mysteriously
in their thick foliage!
The little fir-tree marveled. “Is there no end to their magnificence?”
she thought: “must I ever see more and more of these wonders that I may
not share?”
And the poor little thing wept until her needles lay in a pool all
around her feet. The willows down by the brook saw her and they wept
in sympathy. The little fir-tree saw the weeping willows and she was
grateful for their kind thought, but so saddened was she that she only
wept more needles to the ground.
And the nut-trees! They shook their nuts in her very face, and taunted
her afresh with her uselessness and her lack of beauty.
The little fir-tree thought she would die.
And then the Tree-master came walking around. “Hey, hey, what’s this?”
he exclaimed, as he saw the sadness of the little fir-tree.
In a burst of woe, the fir-tree told him all her trials and sorrows.
“Oh, pooh, pooh,” said the old Tree-master, who was really most
kind-hearted, “have you forgotten this? All through the winter the
other trees will be shivering and shaking in bare boughs. They will
have no beauty and they will be sad and forlorn. You will be green and
handsome, and then you can ask them why they look so ugly and downcast.”
The fir-tree cheered up a little, for though not vindictive, she had
been so scorned by the other trees that she was glad to look pretty in
the winter when they were forlorn and bare.
And yet, somehow, she felt it was not enough. To be sure she was green
and glossy and shapely, and all the other trees looked really ugly, but
she had no gay-colored blossoms and no rich fruits or nuts.
The kind old Tree-master laughed when he heard this. He was not so busy
now, and he could listen to the troubles of his little fir-tree.
“Ho! ho!” he said; “so you want fruit and flowers, do you? Well, I
rather guess we can fix that! Hereafter you shall bear wonderful fruit
and flowers and nuts every winter, when the other trees are impatiently
waiting for spring. And the blossoms and fruits you show shall far, far
excel anything they have ever flaunted in your face!”
The little fir-tree could scarcely believe this good news. But it was
true.
The Tree-master ordered that she should be the Christmas Tree!
And so, every winter, the fir-tree blossoms out in marvelous blooms
of color and gold! Her branches are hung with wondrous fruits such as
never grew on a summer tree! Nuts are there, and more holly berries
than the holly-tree herself ever showed! And high above, crowning the
glorified little fir-tree, the Christmas star sheds its rays in a
blessing never bestowed on any other tree!
[20] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”
SIR CLEGES[21]
_George Philip Krapp_
In the days of Uther, the father of King Arthur, there lived a knight
in England who was a member of the famous Round Table, and his name
was Sir Cleges. Of all his knights none was dearer to King Uther than
Sir Cleges. There was nothing strange in this, for everybody loved Sir
Cleges, both because he was brave and good and cheerful, and, above
all, because he was so generous. No poor man ever came to Sir Cleges
in vain. He was always ready to help those upon whom sickness or the
waste of war or any other misfortune had fallen, and far and wide he
was known as the poor man’s friend. And not only was Sir Cleges known
for his charity to the poor, but he was famous also for his generosity
toward those of his own rank and station in life. His hall and his
chambers were always filled with guests, and his tables were always
spread for those who were hungry. There was no lack of the very best
food and drink in Sir Cleges’ house, and when good food and drink are
to be found, you may be sure there will be plenty of friends to enjoy
them.
Thus Sir Cleges and his fair wife, the Lady Clarys, kept open house
with the most generous hospitality. Most of all at Christmas-time there
were great feasting and merriment in Sir Cleges’ castle. From every
corner of England the knights and their ladies gathered there, and so
cheerful and kind were Sir Cleges and Lady Clarys, and so abundant was
the fare provided for all comers, that you might have searched all
through King Uther’s kingdom and not have found any Christmas feasting
happier or more cheerful than that under Sir Cleges’ roof.
Thus for many years Sir Cleges lived in this generous fashion, and
never thought of his money except as a means whereby he could help the
needy or give pleasure to his friends. But there is always an end even
to the longest purse, and, as time went on and as Sir Cleges’ friends
grew more numerous, it took more and more to entertain them. All the
money he had, Sir Cleges spent freely; and when his money was gone, he
sold his cattle and other goods to keep up his household. But this was
soon used, and after that Sir Cleges’ lands went the same way as his
money and his cattle. As long as he had a penny left, said Sir Cleges,
no friend should know the lack of it. But at last, when Sir Cleges
had nothing more to sell and nothing in which the swarm of friends
who had gathered about him could find their pleasure and profit, then
straightway they heartlessly left him.
Thus the good Sir Cleges, who had never thought of his own welfare, but
had spent all his substance in order that others might be comfortable
and happy, now found himself deserted as soon as he had nothing more to
give. He was no longer able to appear at King Uther’s court, and he who
had been one of the merriest and best loved of the knights of the Round
Table dropped quietly out of sight and soon was altogether forgotten.
With his wife and his children, Sir Cleges went to live in the one
poor house that was left to him, and there in poverty and obscurity he
strove to forget the fickle friends who had so readily forsaken him.
Now it happened some years after this that King Uther decided to spend
the Christmas-tide at the royal castle of Cardiff, which stood not far
from Sir Cleges’ humble dwelling. Great preparations were made for the
Christmas feasting, and invitations were sent out to all the brave
knights of the kingdom. On Christmas eve all the knights and their
ladies were come together at Cardiff, and then the feasting began in
earnest. The cooks and the servers ran hither and thither, and all
was excitement and bustle. In the great hall, there were tumblers and
dancers and magicians to amuse the Christmas feasters with their tricks
and gamboling. Singers and minstrels of all kinds had been summoned,
and the music of the pipes and trumpets and bugles was heard far and
wide. Nothing was spared that might help to make the time speed rapidly
and joyously for all the assembled knights and their ladies.
In his little house not far away, Sir Cleges heard the sounds of
rejoicing in the great hall of the castle, and it made him sad and
bitter. He had not been invited to the feasting, for long since he had
been forgotten and none of his old friends troubled to inquire whether
he was dead or living. “Many a happy day,” said Sir Cleges, to the
Lady Clarys, “have I given to those who reck not now of my sorrow.”
But the Lady Clarys would not allow Sir Cleges to dwell on thoughts
of unkindness, and bade him consider how much they still had to be
grateful for, and thus little by little she comforted him and brought
him again to contentment.
Thus the Christmas eve Sir Cleges and the Lady Clarys spent quietly in
their humble cottage, and found such pleasure in the innocent joys and
playfulness of their happy children that they had no longing for the
noisy revelry of the courtiers in the castle of Cardiff.
The next day was Christmas day, and, with good will in their hearts
for all men, Sir Cleges and the Lady Clarys went to the church to give
thanks for their many blessings. Now after the church was over, Sir
Cleges walked in his garden; and after a time he knelt down to pray
beneath a cherry-tree that stood in the midst of the garden. As Sir
Cleges knelt, praying, he suddenly felt a bough of the tree striking
him on the head, and, seizing hold of it and springing to his feet, lo,
what was his astonishment to see the bough covered with green leaves
and full of cherries--red, ripe, and luscious! Picking one of the
cherries, Sir Cleges put it into his mouth, and it seemed to him he
had never tasted anything so delicious. Gathering more of the fruit, he
ran into the house and cried out, “Behold, Dame Clarys, what a marvel
is here!” And when the Lady Clarys had come she could hardly believe
her eyes. “Cherries at Christmas-time!” she exclaimed. “How can such
a thing be!” And when Sir Cleges had told her how he had been praying
beneath the tree, how he had felt a bough striking him on the head,
and how, when he took hold of it, he had found it filled with green
leaves and ripe fruit, then the Lady Clarys believed that the cherries
were real, and great was her wonder at the marvel which had happened in
their little garden.
“Now hast thou indeed,” she said, “a present fit for a king! No longer
grieve that thou hast no Christmas offering for the good King Uther,
for cherries such as these I doubt he has ever seen.”
And then the Lady Clarys counseled Sir Cleges to gather the cherries
and to put them in a basket and bear them straightway as a present to
the king. And Sir Cleges, glad at heart that even in his poverty he
could do something to add to the joy of the king’s Christmas feasting,
readily consented so to do.
To Cardiff Castle Sir Cleges took his way, and on his arm he bore the
basket of the wonderful fruit. It was just dinner-time when Sir Cleges
reached the castle gate, and all the court were about to sit down to
meat. But when the porter at the gate saw the poverty-stricken man
with a basket on his arm approaching to enter, he drove him away with
scorn and reviling.
“Begone, old beggar,” he said, “with thy rags and thy tatters! What
have such as thou to do entering kings’ castles? Let me see the last of
thee, or thou shalt not soon forget where thou belongest.”
“Pray let me through the gate, good porter,” answered Sir Cleges, to
this greeting. “I have here in this basket a Christmas present for the
king.”
“Thou a Christmas present for the king! A likely story, in sooth! Show
me what thou hast in thy basket that thou thinkest worthy a king.”
And then, when Sir Cleges lifted the cover of the basket and showed him
the cherries, he was surprised almost beyond speech. “Heaven defend
us!” he exclaimed; “cherries at Christmas-time! How can such a thing
be? Certainly this is a present worthy a king. But listen, old man,”
said he, greedily, “thou shalt not pass through this gate unless thou
dost promise to give me a third of the reward which the king shall give
for the present thou bringest.” And Sir Cleges, seeing no other way
of passing the gate, promised the porter that one third of the reward
should be his.
Now after Sir Cleges had passed by the porter, he thought all would be
well; but no sooner had he reached the door of the hall than he was met
by the usher, who forbade him to go in.
“Out with thee, old fellow!” he exclaimed. “How cam’st thou here? This
is no place for beggars and basket-men such as thou.”
Then when Sir Cleges said he had a present in his basket for the king,
the usher, like the porter, must see what the present could be.
“Holy Saint Peter!” he gasped, when Sir Cleges had lifted the cover of
the basket. “Cherries at Christmas-time! How can such a thing be?”
But he soon recovered from his surprise and told Sir Cleges he might
go in, but only if he promised that one third of the reward which the
king gave him should come to him. And Sir Cleges, thinking how hard it
was to do even a kindness to a king, must needs promise as he had done
before.
When Sir Cleges entered the great hall all was bright and merry there.
The knights and the ladies of King Uther’s court, all decked in their
finest feathers and silks, were about to sit down to the banquet. The
serving-men went scurrying back and forth from the kitchen, bearing
platters of rich food for the king’s feasters and stumbling over each
other in their excitement and hurry. The table was hardly able to
carry everything they wanted to put upon it. There were great haunches
of venison, and roast swans and geese and ducks and pheasants by the
dozen. At each end, there stood a huge pasty almost as big around as a
cart wheel. The king’s cooks had used all their art in concocting cakes
and pies and puddings, to say nothing of the sweetmeats of marchpane
molded into the forms of towers and castles, or of knights on
horseback, or baskets of fruit and flowers, and various other fanciful
and astonishing structures. Everybody’s mouth was watering, but the
king was not yet ready to sit down to the feasting, and the courtiers
and their ladies stood chatting and laughing merrily with one another.
All were too busy to pay any heed to the shabby Sir Cleges, with the
basket on his arm, until the watchful eye of the king’s haughty steward
happened to fall upon him. Horrified to see such a melancholy figure
in the midst of so gay a company, he hastened up to Sir Cleges and was
hustling him out of the hall with short ceremony before Sir Cleges
managed to say that he had a present for the king.
“Beggars are not givers,” said the steward; “but show me, what is the
present thou dost bring?”
Then, when Sir Cleges had lifted the cover of the basket and had shown
him the cherries, he was no less surprised than the others had been,
nor was he less greedy.
“Cherries at Christmas!” he exclaimed. “Whoever heard of such a thing?
But listen, sir,” said he, in a low voice, “thou speakest not with the
king unless thou promise me one third of the reward he gives thee.”
When Sir Cleges heard these words he thought to himself: “Little enough
am I to get out of this. If I have a dinner for my pains, it’s as much
as I may look for.” But he said nothing until the steward prodded him
again, and then, seeing that there was no other way of getting by this
greedy officer, he promised him a third of his reward, as he already
had done to the porter and the usher.
At last the way was free for Sir Cleges; and with his precious basket,
he made his way through the throng of the courtiers to the place where
the king was seated on a dais.
“Receive, O King,” said he, falling on his knees before King Uther,
“this Christmas offering from one of thy most humble subjects.”
And when King Uther looked into the basket and saw that it was filled
with luscious red cherries, he too, like the Lady Clarys, could hardly
believe his eyes.
“Cherries at Christmas!” he cried. “Now certainly this is a marvel, and
a right worthy gift thou has brought to us, good fellow.” Then when he
had tasted one of the cherries he declared a better cherry he had never
eaten. And then he gave some to each of the knights and ladies; and
they all wondered greatly to see such fruit at that bleak season.
“The king’s thanks hast thou won,” said Uther to Sir Cleges, “for thou
hast made this Christmas feasting forever memorable. But sit thou now
at our table and have part in our dinner, and afterward thou shalt have
whatever reward for thy gift that thou askest.”
Then he motioned to the haughty steward to make a place for Sir Cleges;
and certainly a strange figure this shabby knight made among all the
gay lords and their ladies. Little they thought that this humble
stranger had once bestowed benefit upon many a one of them, and little
heed they paid to one whom they took to be but a poor old gardener! But
Sir Cleges said nothing, and sat quietly at the table, to his heart’s
content enjoying all the good things the king had provided for his
Christmas dinner. And though the best cooks of the land had shown there
all their skill and cunning, nothing at that feast was so wonderful as
the cherries which had been brought by the humble stranger.
Now when the dinner was over, the king had not forgotten the poor man
who had brought him the unexpected present, and summoning Sir Cleges to
him, he bade him ask whatever reward he would in return for his welcome
present. Then Sir Cleges bethought himself of the promises he had made
to the porter, the usher, and the steward, and he said:
“Lord, King, this is the reward I ask: twelve strokes of this good
staff that I bear in my hand, to be delivered on whomsoever it may
please me within this royal castle.”
“A strange fellow art thou!” answered the king, in astonishment at
this; “and from thy looks, thou hadst done better to ask for something
more worthy my giving. But, since it is thy request, thou shalt not
find the king fail of his promise. Take thy strokes and deliver them as
thou see’st fit.”
“Thanks for thy boon, King Uther,” answered Sir Cleges; “none other
shall please me so well as this one.”
And then, turning to the steward in the hall, with his staff Sir
Cleges gave him a blow on the shoulders that made him bend double.
“Three more thou gettest,” he said, “for that is the full share coming
to thee!”
And with a right good will Sir Cleges gave the three strokes, and left
the proud steward groaning with pain and terror. Then to the hall door
Sir Cleges made his way and delivered another four, no less hearty and
stinging, on the shoulders of the astonished usher.
“There, thou hast thy share!” said Sir Cleges, as he hastened to the
gateway.
The porter greeted him eagerly, but he little guessed what was coming.
Four times Sir Cleges lifted his staff and let it fall with all his
might on the back of the greedy porter. And this last third of Sir
Cleges’ boon you can be sure was not less light than the others had
been.
When Sir Cleges had thus delivered the three thirds of the reward for
his present, he found at his elbow a messenger from the king, who bade
him return to the great hall of the castle. All the courtiers and the
king were still there and were listening to a song the minstrel was
singing. Now this song, as it happened, was made about Sir Cleges
himself, and the minstrel was telling how this generous knight had
spent all his days making other people happy and now was altogether
lost and forgotten.
“Poor Sir Cleges!” sighed the king, “I loved him well, but alas! I have
no hope ever again to see him.”
Just then, however, Sir Cleges knelt down before the king and thanked
him for the reward he had given him, and told him that the twelve
strokes had been duly delivered.
“But I beseech thee, good fellow,” answered the king, “tell me what the
meaning of this may be. Why were these strokes on the shoulders of my
varlets more pleasing to thee than a reward of gold or silver?”
Then Sir Cleges told the king how the porter, the usher, and the
steward had each demanded a third of his reward before they would
permit him to make his present, and he added, “May they learn thus to
be more free in giving and less greedy in demanding. Perchance the next
poor man may not find it so hard to come into the king’s presence.”
When the king and his courtiers heard all this, they laughed, and were
delighted with the story.
“Well done,” said the king, “thou wielder of the staff! Thou hast
taught these knaves a good lesson. How now, master steward, how likest
thou thy share of this fellow’s present?”
“May the fiends burn him in flames below!” muttered the steward, as he
rubbed the bruises on his shoulders.
Now the king was so pleased with all these happenings that had made
his Christmas feasting so merry that he turned again to Sir Cleges and
asked him what his name was.
“My name, sire,” answered the poverty-stricken knight, “is one not
unknown to thee in the days of old. My name is Sir Cleges.”
“What!” exclaimed the king, “art thou the long-lost Sir Cleges whom men
to this day praise for his good deeds and his charity?” And so moved
with joy was the good King Uther to find his old friend again that he
came down from his high seat and took him by the hand and could not
make enough of him. When the courtiers saw how things were going, they
all flocked around Sir Cleges claiming his friendship and acquaintance.
But the king did not stop with kind words. He knew that a knight with
a heart as true and loyal as the heart of Sir Cleges was not easily to
be found, even among the knights of the Round Table, and now he was
determined never again to lose him. So he gave to him the good castle
of Cardiff to dwell in and other lands and fees wherewith he might live
worthily.
Thus ended the king’s Christmas feasting in the castle of Cardiff, and
a happy day it was for the knight Sir Cleges and the Lady Clarys. Many
a long year they lived in the noble castle the king had given them, and
you may be sure that no selfish porters or ushers or stewards stood at
the gates and doorways to stop any poor man who would enter there.
[21] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”
CHRISTMAS NIGHT[22]
_Selma Lagerlöf_
“Once upon a time,” said my Grandmother, as we sat together one
Christmas Day when all the others had gone to church, “there was a man
who went out at night to borrow some fire. ‘Help me, kind people,’ he
said. ‘My wife has a little baby, and I must light a fire to warm her
and the child.’
“But it was very late, so everybody was asleep, and no one answered.
“The man walked farther and farther on. At last in the distance he saw
the glimmer of flames, and, going in that direction, he perceived that
the fire was burning in the open air. Around it lay sleeping a flock of
white sheep, watched by an old shepherd.
“When the man came up he saw that three large dogs also rested asleep
at the shepherd’s feet. Waking at his approach, they opened their wide
jaws as if to bark, but no sound was heard. The man saw the hair rise
on their backs and their sharp teeth glitter in the firelight as they
rushed upon him. One snapped at his legs, one at his hand, and a third
sprang at his throat. But neither jaws nor teeth would obey and the
man did not feel the smallest hurt.
“He wanted to go on that he might get what he needed. But the sheep lay
so close together that he could not move forward. So he stepped on the
animals’ backs, and walked across them to the fire. But not a single
one moved or stirred.”
“Why didn’t they move, Grandmother?” I asked.
“You will find out in a little while,” answered Grandmother, and kept
on with the story.
“When the man had almost reached the fire the shepherd looked up. He
was a surly old man, cross and disagreeable to everybody. So when he
saw the stranger, he caught up the long, pointed staff he carried in
his hand while he was watching the flock, and hurled it at him. The
stick flew straight at the man, but before it struck him, turned aside
and whizzed far over the field.”
Here I interrupted again. “Grandmother, why didn’t the stick hit the
man?” But she went on without answering.
“Then the man said to the shepherd, ‘Good friend, aid me by letting me
have a little fire. My wife has an infant child and I need it to warm
them both.’
“The shepherd would gladly have refused, but when he thought that his
dogs had not been able to hurt the man, that the sheep had not run from
him, and his staff would not strike him, he felt a little afraid, and
did not dare to do so.
“‘Take as much as you need,’ he said.
“But the fire was almost out. There were no branches or brands, only a
heap of glowing embers, and the stranger had nothing in which he could
put the coals.
“The shepherd saw this and was glad because the man could get no fire.
But the stranger stooped down, took the coals from the ashes with his
hands, and put them in his cloak. And the coals neither scorched his
hands nor singed his cloak. The man carried them away as if they were
nuts or apples.”
Here I interrupted a third time, “Grandmother, why wouldn’t the coals
burn the man?”
“You will soon hear,” she replied, and went on.
“When the shepherd, who was a sullen, bad-tempered man, saw all these
things, he began to wonder: ‘What kind of night is this when the dogs
do not bite, the sheep feel no fear, the lance does not kill, and fire
does not burn?’ He called to the stranger, asking: ‘Why is it that all
things show mercy upon you?’
“‘I cannot tell you if you do not see for yourself,’ said the man, and
went away to light the fire for his wife and child.
“But the shepherd wanted to find out what all this meant, so he
followed him and discovered that the man did not even have a hut to
live in, only a sort of cavern with bare stone walls.
“The shepherd thought the poor little child might be chilled, and
though he was a harsh man, he pitied and wanted to help it. So he gave
the stranger a soft white sheepskin, and told him to put the child in
it.
“But the very moment he showed that he, too, could be merciful, his
eyes were opened and he saw and heard what he had neither seen nor
heard before.
“He saw a dense circle of silver-winged angels, each with a harp in
his hand, and all singing that on this night was born the Saviour, who
would redeem the world from its sin.
“Then the shepherd understood why on this night all creatures were so
happy that they did not desire to harm anything.
“The angels were not only around the shepherd, but he saw them
everywhere. They were in the cave, on the mountains, and flying under
the sky. They came in throngs along the way, and, as they passed,
stopped and gazed at the child.
“There were joy and happiness and mirth and singing, and he saw all
this amid the darkness of the night, where he had formerly seen and
heard nothing. And he was so happy that his eyes were opened--that he
fell on his knees and thanked God.”
Then Grandmother sighed, saying, “But what the shepherds saw, we could
see, too, for the angels are flying over the earth every Christmas Eve,
if we could only see them.”
And Grandmother laid her hand on my head, adding, “Remember this, for
it is as true as that I see you and you see me. It does not depend upon
candles and lamps, or on the moon and sun, but what we need is eyes to
behold the glory of God.”
[22] By permission of “Good Housekeeping.” Translated expressly for
this magazine from the Christ Legends of Selma Lagerlöf.
A QUEER CHRISTMAS[23]
_Marian Willard_
It was Christmas morning--the very day when twins should be having the
merriest time in the world. But Betty and Bob were not merry at all;
they sat and looked at each other and hardly knew whether to laugh or
to cry.
“That letter is the best present we could have had, anyway,” said Betty
as she looked again at the big special-delivery stamp. “It means that
mother is out of danger and that we shall be at home in a month.”
A month before that when mother was first taken sick, the twins had
been sent to Uncle Ben’s so that their own house should be very, very
still. They had played on the big farm, had gone to school in the queer
little old schoolhouse and watched for the rural delivery postman to
bring them letters from home.
Christmas at home meant days of shopping, treats when Uncle Tom came
home from college, parties at the church and at the schoolhouse,
and Santa Claus, fat and jolly, ringing his little tinkling bells,
ting-a-ling-aling! on the street corners. Besides that, Christmas at
home meant planning for weeks ahead a gift that would bring Christmas
cheer to some little child that was poor.
“Bobby, do you remember how pleased little Johnny Granger was when you
gave him that pair of skates?”
“I guess I do! They were the first skates he had ever had! You gave his
little sister a pair of rubber boots the same year. How happy she was
with them! She wore them to school all winter whether it rained or not.
I wish we could have some kind of a Christmas this year, just to keep
from forgetting what day it is. There isn’t even snow,” and Bob looked
with disgust at the bare, brown fields that stretched away in front of
the little old farmhouse. “At home they’ve all been so worried over
mother that probably no one has had time to buy us presents.”
“Well, Bobby, mother is better and that is the best present in all the
world for us,” and Betty smiled bravely at her brother.
“I wish we could make a Christmas for somebody else,” said Bobby
slowly. “There aren’t any poor people like the Granger family up here.
Besides, we couldn’t buy anything anyway, for there aren’t any stores.
Isn’t this the strangest Christmas you ever saw?”
“Yes, Bob, it is. No place to spend money; woods full of Christmas
trees and no presents to put on them; no one who needs help; no snow
or skating or company. We are going to have a fine Christmas dinner,
though. Uncle Ben killed a pair of fat chickens yesterday.”
“And I’m going to crack butternuts right now,” said Bobby, and he
jumped up and left his twin sister to romp with Buddy, the collie, who
ran up to her and thrust his soft nose into her hand, teasing for a
game of tag.
“O Buddy, Buddy, I’ll give _you_ a Christmas present,” and Betty ran
upstairs and came flying down again with a big blue ribbon in her hand.
“There, old fellow,” she said as she tied a huge bow on Buddy’s
collar, “you are going to have a Christmas present.” As she spoke she
clapped her hands and ran for Bobby. “O, Bob, hurry up and finish your
butternuts. I think we can have a Christmas after all. Hurry! Hurry!”
Betty ran to find Uncle Ben and whisper something in his ear. She began
to do the queerest things. Up to the attic she ran and down again, her
arms full of big boxes and little ones; then down to the cellar, and up
with an armful of carrots and apples; then out to the barn, and back
with a box of corn and oats.
By that time Bobby had cracked all the butternuts for dinner and stood
with his hands in his pockets, watching his sister. “What in the world
are you doing?” he said with a grin.
Betty grinned at him. “You take the axe and go over to the upland
pasture and cut down a little Christmas tree; Uncle Ben said we could.”
“But we haven’t a thing to put on the tree.”
“We shall have something when you get back. Uncle Ben will take Mollie
and meet you and haul the tree home.”
Bob went off, wondering, and Betty began to snip up pieces of an old
gray flannel shirt of Uncle Ben’s and to rummage in the button box for
old shoe buttons.
When Bob drove in with Uncle Ben and the little tree, Betty dangled
in front of him seven gray mice by their tails of string. With shoe
buttons for eyes and bodies made of gray flannel they looked so real
that Uncle Ben jumped when he saw them.
“My land, child, those mice would fool any cat in the county!”
“Smell,” answered Betty, and she dangled her treasures under her
uncle’s nose.
“Catnip mice,” he chuckled.
“I guess I know now who your poor folks will be this year. They haven’t
a cent to their name, nor a shirt to their backs,” laughed Bobby, “but
why the tree?”
Such a busy morning as the twins had after that! Bob set up the tree
in the middle of the big barn. Betty made little bundles that were as
mysterious as any Christmas package you ever saw. Then she hung them on
the tree; a package of meat cut fine for Buddy, marked with his name in
big letters; seven catnip mice hung by their string tails for the seven
cats on the farm; four carrots tied in a bunch of hay for Mollie; four
apples tied in hay for Duke, the old gray horse; lumps of sugar in
little bundles for Buddy and Duke and Mollie.
Then Betty was puzzled. She ran to Uncle Ben. “What does a cow like
best?” she asked.
“Well, my cows like cornstalks. There is a pile back of the old barn.”
So there were bundles of cornstalks at the base of the tree. Betty tied
them in loose bunches for the cows. On the floor, too, stood a big bag
of corn for the hens.
After dinner the fun began. Everyone put on a sweater and went to the
barn, Buddy at Betty’s heels proud of his new bow. Not all the cats
could be found, but five of them came in answer to Aunt Martha’s call.
Buddy took his meat and without a single “thank you” ran to an empty
stall to eat it. The horses nodded “thank you” as they ate the sugar
and the carrots and the apples that the children held out to them.
Cats and kittens played with their catnip mice and lapped up saucers
of milk. Mother Bunch slapped the gray kitten because he tried to
steal her catnip mouse. The cows crunched their cornstalks and looked
with mild surprise at the queer antics of the kittens. Bob carried the
heavy pail of corn out to the hen yard and Betty fed the chickens which
crowded to her feet.
When the children went back to the barn with the empty pail, they
themselves had a surprise. A wild gray squirrel had stolen in at the
open door, and was sitting up on his hind legs under the Christmas
tree, eating the corn that had been spilled; and he seemed as much at
home as if he had been invited to the party.
“I guess he must be our poor family,” laughed Betty as she threw him
another handful of corn.
“Twinnies,” suddenly called a man’s voice from the yard. Only father
called like that. The twins turned, and there he stood in the door of
the barn, smiling at them. They rushed to his arms. How happy they were
to see him.
“So you youngsters had a tree for the penniless poor, did you?” he said
with a laugh.
“Well, run into the house with your father and I’ll see what this tree
will have for you,” said Uncle Tom, who stood just behind their father,
his arms loaded with bundles.
In less time than you would have thought it could be done, Uncle Tom
had the tree ready for Betty and Bob.
“We have to start for home by five o’clock, so you children had better
open your bundles right now,” said father. The twins did not need to
be told twice. Eagerly they opened the packages, gay with ribbons and
seals. There were books, snowshoes, a red silk umbrella for Betty and a
pair of skating boots for Bob; candy, a gold piece for each twin from
Uncle Tom; and best of all, a little pencil note from mother to tell
them that she was really better and to wish them a merry Christmas.
“Well,” said Bobby as the big car drove out of the yard with father and
Uncle Tom, “this hasn’t been such a queer Christmas, after all.”
[23] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 14,
1922. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”
A CHRISTMAS FOR TONY[24]
_Zona Gale_
Little Anthony punched his small, hard pillow, to make it as large
as possible, so that his head would come well above the level of the
window sill. Wonderful, thick, Christmas-looking snow was falling,
though it wanted two days yet to Christmas.
“Mother!” he cried, “I wish all the snow in the world would come and
fall in front of our window!”
“It looks as if it had come,” said Mother Margaret.
That was what he usually called her--Mother Margaret: “Because that’s
your name!” he said. “Everybody calls you Margaret, in letters. Nobody
but me says ‘Mother.’”
“You want your head to be higher, don’t you?” she said now, and put
down the paper roses which, all day long, she made for a great factory.
She brought him her own pillow, and under that she folded a
bed-comforter. The poor little room had not a single cushion.
“Now!” she cried, “you can see all the snow there is.”
At any rate, Anthony could see nothing but snow--snow, and the dim
rectangle of the Window Across.
The Window Across was the back window of an apartment which faced the
avenue. Anthony’s window faced the court, and was over a store. There
were three floors of families over the store, because the rooms were
too old and inconvenient to use for offices. The Window Across had thin
rose silk curtains at the casement and often, in the evening, one could
look straight through to the front window and see bright moving figures
and an unbelievable dinner table, all made of bright things. And two
or three times, for ecstatic minutes, a little girl had come and stood
at the Window Across. Once, indeed, she had come right away out on the
fire-escape and stood there, dancing and laughing in the cold, until
a white-capped maid had run in a panic and carried her in. Anthony’s
window had been open then, and he had heard the maid cry: “Dear Child!”
So he always called her Dear Child.
He lay now looking through the snow to the Window Across, and imagining
that the snow lay so deep that they were at last obliged to make a
tunnel from one window to another, so that anybody could get out at
all. But it was always he and Mother Margaret who went down the tunnel
to the Window Across--never the others who came up, because the little
room was so bare and so shabby and so unlike the room he imagined
beyond the rose silk curtains. And always he was well and strong
instead of obliged to lie in bed, as he had lain now for almost a
year, to give strength to the poor back, wrenched and threatened by a
fall.
Suddenly, as he looked, a beautiful thing happened. The silk curtains
parted in the Window Across, the white-capped maid stood there, and
she hung in the window a great wreath of Christmas holly tied with a
scarlet bow.
Anthony sat up, and cried out and waved his thin little arms.
“Mother Margaret, Mother Margaret!” he cried. “Look--oh, look-at!”
Mother Margaret came and looked, and she exclaimed too, with something
of pleasure--but through the pleasure there went darting and stabbing
a pain which had been coming again and again these past few days; and
as Christmas Day drew nearer, it had been hurting her more and more.
It had come that morning when she had first waked. And she had said to
herself, for the hundredth time:
“What _is_ the use? You can buy him some fruit--a big orange and a red
apple. You can manage a little something for Christmas dinner. But you
can’t do anything else, and what _is_ the use in thinking about it?”
She put down her paper flowers now, and went over to Anthony’s bed.
“Tony, dear,” she said, “I _believe_ you’re thinking about Christmas.”
He looked up, bravely and brightly.
“No, Mother, truly,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking about it hardly at
all.”
She sat down on the bedside and took his hand. “You do know, don’t you,
love,” she said, “that Mother Margaret can’t--she sure-enough can’t--do
anything for our Christmas this year! But another year--”
“Yes, yes!” Tony agreed eagerly, “another year!”
“This year things are bad enough,” she said; “but if Mother thought
that--somewhere in his little heart, he wasn’t quite believing her, and
was thinking that maybe, _maybe_ some kind of Christmas would come to
him, why, then--”
Her voice stopped of its own will--stopped, and steadied itself
bravely, and went on again:
“Why, then,” she said, “Mother just couldn’t bear it _at all_.”
“Truly, Mother, truly!” said Anthony. “I know we can’t--I do know. Oh,
but--why, Mother Margaret! That’s what makes it so nice to see the
wreath! It’s just as if we almost had a wreath in our window--isn’t it,
though?”
“Almost, almost,” she said, and went back to her paper flowers. She had
six dozen red roses to make before Christmas Eve.
“And then the snow,” Anthony was saying eagerly. “Why, Mother, it’s
like all the Christmas pictures. It’s like the Christmas cards. And oh,
Mother,--think! It’s just as nice and white for us as if we lived no
matter where!”
“Yes,” said his mother bitterly, “the snow and the cold are about the
only things that are the same for us as for everybody.”
Anthony half closed his eyes and lay watching happily. Mother Margaret
went on with her roses. As she worked, her lips were moving. But she
was not counting the petals, as one would have supposed. She was
counting, as she almost always counted, what she had in her purse and
what she _must_ spend. And when one counts like this, all day long,
it begins to show in one’s face, in one’s voice, in all one’s ways.
Anthony was seven. It was six years since his father had died. And
every year of these six years she had been fighting to keep Anthony
with her. But this meant that she counted all day long.
At five o’clock Mother Margaret went out with half her roses. At the
factory she sent them in and asked, as she did each time, for more
tissue paper. The manager looked doubtful. Had she enough to finish
her order? Oh, yes, she said; but she carried a little back at each
delivery. The man returned. She would have to wait--everyone was busy
with the rush mail orders. They could give out no paper till Monday.
As she went out, she lingered and looked about her. She did not guess
what a pretty picture she made in her old brown coat and hat which just
matched her eyes. What about all these women, she was wondering. Some
of them must have little children at home. And they must have to count
almost as much as she counted. She wished that she knew how they meant
to manage about Christmas. Was there anything that she could do, if she
knew how to do it, for Anthony’s Christmas?
A middle-aged woman was packing boxes near her. Mother Margaret went
shyly to her.
“I wonder,” she said, “could you tell me anything you know how to do
for a child’s Christmas? Something that won’t--that doesn’t--”
The woman leaned on the box for a moment. She nodded comprehendingly.
“Why,” she said, “no. Everything costs now. Did you ever try using the
flowers?”
“The flowers?” Mother Margaret questioned.
“They decorate grand,” said the woman. “You can get a lot made up
ahead, and string them around the room. You can make a tree look lovely
with ’em, and nothing else. And it don’t hurt ’em none. Take ’em down,
and they’re like new.”
Why had she never thought of that! She thanked the woman joyfully.
Mother Margaret flew along the street for the mile which she walked to
save car fare, her head filled with visions. The pink and white and
green tissue paper was there in their room; it was not hers, and it had
not occurred to her that she could use it. But, just for one evening
to borrow the flowers before she sent them out--oh, nobody could
mind that. She could make the room beautiful, she could make a tree
beautiful! But she knew she could not afford a tree.
There was one thing, however, which Mother Margaret could do. She had
brought her library card in expectation of it. She went into the
little branch library near where she lived, and eagerly to the desk.
In these days before the holidays there was almost no one in the room.
The pleasant-faced young woman at the desk had time to greet her with
unusual cordiality.
“Oh,” said Mother Margaret, her cheeks flushed from her long walk, “I
want you to find me a book. A book that a little child will like. A
book all pictures. A Christmas book, if you can.”
“That ought to be easy,” the pleasant-faced young woman said, and went
with her to the shelves, asking questions.
At the first book which she found and offered, Mother Margaret shook
her head.
“No,” she said, “it’s got to be--to be larger than that. Thicker, I
mean--it’s got to last longer. You see,” she explained, flushing still
more, “I want it to last my little boy all day long, on Christmas. It’s
about the only Christmas he’s going to have.”
“I see,” said the woman quietly.
“And then,” Mother Margaret said, “if you had something about modeling.
About modeling in clay--”
“Does your little boy model in clay?” the librarian asked.
Mother Margaret flushed again. “He never has had any clay or any
tools,” she said; “but he loves to read about it.”
They found two books, one on clay modeling, and one with many pictures,
and a story of somebody’s wonderful Christmas that came when none was
expected. Then the librarian considered for a moment, looking at a
colored sheet of birds on the bulletin-board; she took down the poster,
rolled and tied it and, from the bowl on her desk, fastened a sprig of
holly in the cord.
“Flowers and birds and a piece of holly!” Mother Margaret cried, and
thanked her joyfully.
She bought her red apple and a great orange, looked longingly at a
window of chocolates, and ran home with her treasures.
As she was leaving the things in the sitting-room, on her own bed, she
heard Anthony calling her.
“Mother--oh, Mother! Come here!” he shouted excitedly. When she ran to
him he was sitting up--his face as near to the window as he could get.
“Look at! _Look_ at!” he said. “They’ve brought home their Christmas
tree! They’ve hid it on the fire-escape!”
And there, leaning against the wall of the fire-escape, outside the
Window Across, was a beautiful, tapering evergreen tree, sent home for
Christmas and hidden outside there, unquestionably to surprise the Dear
Child.
Anthony and his mother sat on the bed and looked at this tree. And
presently they began to plan. On the very tip-top would be the star--or
would it be the angel? They decided on the star. Below would come the
ornaments, the candles, the nuts wrapped in silver paper, the pink
hanging bags of candy, the pop-corn strings. All this Mother Margaret
arranged, because she had seen many Christmas trees, and Anthony never
had seen any. But there was one thing that he could plan.
“And then,” he said, “right close under the tree, would be the box all
full of clay and things to model with!”
“Yes,” Mother Margaret agreed, with a catch in her voice. “That should
be there, without a doubt.” Then she whispered to him.
“Tony, dear,” she said. “I’ve no Christmas for you. But I have got a
little surprise.”
Her heart ached at the leaping delight in his eyes as he looked up at
her.
“Not a gift, dear,” she hastened to say. “Just a little something for
us to look at--oh, Tony, it isn’t much at all!” she broke off.
“Why, Mother,” Tony said, “a little much is _almost_ as nice as a great
big much, you know!”
The gayety with which she had come in was slipping away, now that
she had seen the tree for the Dear Child. Presently she went in the
other room and opened the box where she kept the tissue paper. But
the flowers would be something, after all, in the dull little room on
Christmas Day. She lifted out the sheets, and stood staring at them.
There were not more than three dozen sheets, and she had three dozen of
the roses yet to make. One rose required a sheet of paper. These must
be delivered by Christmas Eve--to-morrow night! No more paper would be
given out till Monday. She could not even have the flowers for Anthony
on Christmas day....
_If only Christmas were to-morrow!_
She went back into Anthony’s room and sat down beside his bed. She
dreaded to tell him that even the poor “little much” of a surprise was
not to be his. She put it off until they should have had their supper.
After supper, in the dark, they could just see the tall shadow of the
Christmas tree leaning against the opposite wall in the snow. Presently
the Window Across flamed bright with the lighted globes within the room.
The tall Christmas tree there against the wall! Mother Margaret sat and
stared at it. It seemed such a waste that it should be there all this
time, with no one enjoying it. It seemed such a waste that it should
stand there to-morrow, with no one enjoying it. It would be just as
beautiful, decorated now, as it would be on Christmas Day....
And then Mother Margaret’s heart stood still at what it thought. But it
thought about it once, it thought about it twice, and then it began to
beat as Mother Margaret’s heart did not often beat any more. She sprang
up and stood looking out the window, across the court to the tree.
Could she possibly bring herself to do it? Would she dare? What would
they think--what would they do--Oh, but she must try!
“Tony,” she said, “Mother must go out again now, for a few minutes.”
She slipped down to the street, and around the corner to the avenue.
There was no difficulty in distinguishing the apartment building. She
walked boldly in the door and to the elevator.
“Fourth,” she said with confidence.
The white-capped maid opened the door. She looked at Mother Margaret
as a stranger, and Mother Margaret wanted to say: “Oh, but I know you
very well!” Only, when she had seen her before, in the Window Across,
she had looked quite small and like anybody; whereas she seemed now a
person towering infinitely tall.
“I want,” said little Mother Margaret, quite loud and bold, “to see
your mistress. At once.”
The maid looked at her perplexedly. Small and pretty persons in shabby
brown with nice voices and the ways of a lady did not often come
knocking at this door demanding to see the mistress, and not by name.
“I don’t think--” the maid began doubtfully.
“Tell her that I shall not keep her,” said Mother Margaret clearly.
“But I must see her. Tell her that I do not know her, but that I am her
neighbor, across the court.
Then the maid gave way. There is something about that word “neighbor”
that is a talisman. With, “I’ll see,” the maid ushered her in. She
stood weakly in the small and pretty reception-room while the maid went
to call her mistress. Then there came a step, and a voice.
Mother Margaret hardly looked at this woman. She saw someone in gray,
with a practical face of concern; then she saw nothing but direct and
rather pleasant eyes looking into hers.
“Madam,” said Mother Margaret, simply, “you have out on your
fire-escape a little Christmas tree. Christmas isn’t till day after
to-morrow. To-morrow, for a little while, could you lend me that tree?”
“Lend you--” repeated the woman, uncertainly.
“I live just back of you,” Mother Margaret went on breathlessly. “I
saw the tree. I thought--if you could lend it to me a little while
to-morrow--oh, just as it is! and just till you get ready to trim it. I
could bring it back quite promptly. Nothing should happen to it. And I
could fix it up--just for a little while. My--my little boy never has
seen a tree trimmed,” she added.
“My dear!” said the woman.
This, Mother Margaret thought, would be the exclamation at the
impossibility of doing anything so wild. She looked miserably down at
the floor. And so she did not see someone else come into the room,
until a soft quick step was close beside her.
“Why,” this newcomer said, “Mother! This is a friend of mine!”
Then Mother Margaret looked up, straight into the eyes of the
pleasant-faced woman of the library.
“Oh!” cried Mother Margaret. “Oh!” And for a moment said no more. “I
never knew I was going to ask this of you--when you’ve done so much!”
she cried at last.
She turned to the older woman in mute apology. And she was actually
filled with wonder when she saw that the eyes of the older woman were
shining with tears.
They went into the little living-room and talked it over, how it could
be managed. The two women saw--because they looked with the heart--that
there must be no thought of the gift of another tree. It must be just
as Mother Margaret had suggested. The tree must be lent for a part of
to-morrow and returned in time for them to trim it on Christmas Eve.
“For the Dear Child,” said Mother Margaret; and then blushed
beautifully. “Tony and I call her that,” she said.
“With that, they called the Dear Child to the room. The white-capped
maid was putting her to bed, and brought her in, partly undressed, with
surprisingly fat legs and arms and surprisingly thick curls.
“Honey,” the older woman said, “a little boy lives across the court.
This is his mama.”
The Dear Child opened wide eyes.
“I know that little bit o’ boy,” she announced. “He--he--he--lives in
the bed!”
“Yes,” Mother Margaret said sorrowfully, “he lives in the bed.”
“Say him a kiss,” the Dear Child said sleepily, and was carried back to
her undressing.
So then it was arranged that when the maid was free, she should come
bringing the Christmas tree round to the door of Mother Margaret’s flat.
“I could carry it,” Mother Margaret insisted.
But no, it must be, it seemed, exactly as they said. Mother Margaret
must be there to have left the outer door ajar, and to amuse the
little boy and keep his attention while the tree was put into the other
room. She must pin a handkerchief on the open door so that there should
be no mistake. And then on no account must she leave the little boy
when she heard the tree set in the other room, or else he would hear,
and wonder. Would she do all this, exactly as they told her to?
There was no thanking them. Perhaps Mother Margaret’s broken words,
though, were better thanks than any perfect utterance.
She ran home, through a maze of lights and windows which danced and
nodded and all but held out their hands. It is strange and sorrowful,
at Christmas time, how much more, if you are going to have Christmas
joy, the lights and windows seem to mean Christmas than if you are
going to have none.
When she went in she saw that Tony had fallen asleep. His little pillow
was still bunched, hard and round, on her own and on the folded quilt.
And his face was still turned toward the Window Across.
She sat down to wait. She would not wake him. Until after the maid
had been there with the tree, she would not even risk lighting the
gas and working at the flowers. She sat almost an hour in the dusk.
The outer door of the other room was standing faithfully ajar, with a
handkerchief pinned to a panel, and the light there burning low. She
could have been sure that she would hear the lightest step in the next
room; and then, since Anthony was asleep, she meant to disregard their
injunctions and slip to the door for a word of gratitude for the maid.
But when she fancied that she heard a sound, and caught a shadow, and
when she had hurried to the door, she stood mute and hardly breathing
in her wonderment. No one was there--save indeed a presence. And the
presence was the tree, standing neatly erect in its small, green
box--and hung from top to base with popcorn and tinsel and ornaments
which, even in that dim light, glittered like angels and like stars.
Mother Margaret went in and sat down on her little bed, and looked at
the wonder of it. And before she knew that it might possibly happen to
her she had hidden her face in her hands and was sobbing.
A stir from Anthony sent her back to his room. He was moving in the
little bed “where he lived,” and Mother Margaret wiped her eyes and
lighted the gas, and wondered how she could keep the happy news.
She went to him to arrange his pillow. He opened his eyes and
smiled--as all his life long he had never failed to smile when first he
opened his eyes and saw her. Then, at some memory, the eyes flew wide.
“Is to-morrow Christmas, Mama?”
Without just the combination of events which had set her head whirling,
Mother Margaret would never have answered as she did.
“Yes, darling. To-morrow is Christmas.”
His face lighted, “_Is_ it?” he cried. “Is it tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said again, “to-morrow.”
“Will the s’prise be when I wake up?”
“Yes,” she said, “the surprise will be when you wake up.”
He smiled again, and drifted off to sleep. As she smoothed the tumbled
covers, the old grip and terror came to her at sight of the little
wasted body. The momentary qualm which she had felt died away. Why
should he not believe that it was Christmas Day? She knew the heart of
a child, knew that the day makes all the difference. Tony should think
that he had one Christmas, in any case!
It was past one o’clock when she finished the last of the roses. Tony
was sleeping heavily. She turned down the gas and went to work.
The bed, left from the days of her housekeeping, had a high, slender
white frame, meant to hold a canopy. From this down to the foot posts
ran two cords carrying roses, and roses ran along the foot rail.
Working slowly and quietly, she brought the tree from the other
room to stand by his side. She had not yet had time to examine the
ornaments--she and Tony could do that together. His stocking, the poor
little disused stocking, with the big red apple and the orange, she
tied to a bough reaching toward the little boy, like a friendly hand.
The library books were spread open at pages of bright pictures. The
chart of colored birds was pinned to the wall. The sprig of holly was
fastened to the coverlet. At the last moment, from scraps of her green
tissue, she had fashioned a semblance of holly wreath, with a bit of
red paper twisted here and there for berries. She slipped behind the
bed, and hung the wreath in the window. When, in the “little hours,”
she crept to her own bed, she was without fatigue.
She woke at dawn, and was dressed and back in his room before he had
opened his eyes. She lighted the gas, and then she kissed him.
“Merry Christmas, Tony!” she cried.
He struggled up, lovely with sleep. And in upon his dreams came the
lines of the roses, and the soft greenness and beauty and brightness
of the tree. He sat up, his head thrown back, an expression of almost
angelic wonder in his believing face. And he was, with all his joy, a
practical little Tony.
“W-w-where’d you get that?” he cried. “Oh, Mama! Mama! Mama!”
And there was something in his cry that opened Mother Margaret’s heart
like a flower.
A child before its _first_ Christmas tree, that is an experience apart.
Tony was mute. Tony was shouting. Tony was leaning forward to touch
things. Tony was leaning far back to win the effect of the whole. Tony
was absolutely and unutterably happy.
So was Mother Margaret--for a while. Then Tony said an unexpected thing.
“Think,” he said, “that little Jesus was born to-day. Really, truly
to-day.”
Mother Margaret looked at him.
“They cannot tell surely, which day, you know, son,” she said
uncertainly.
“Oh, it was to-day!” Tony told her positively. “I know it was to-day.”
Then, when he took in his hands the library picture book, there was
the story of Bethlehem of Judea, and she must read it to him, and he
listened as if he were hearing it for the first time.
“It was this morning!” he said over dreamily. “The Star in the East was
this morning, Mother Margaret. It seems true, now I’ve seen my tree,”
he added quaintly.
He seemed possessed with the idea of “to-dayness.”
“Think,” he said again, “all little boys is got a tree now. Right now.
And me, too!”
It was a long, enchanted day; and she waited until the final possible
moment to close it.
“Tonykins,” she said at last, “now the roses have to come down while
Mama puts them into a box and takes them to their own family. And while
she’s gone, you can lie here and look at the tree, can’t you?”
“Yes,” said Anthony, “an’--an’ it’ll talk to me!”
Unquestionably the tree talked to Tony. But the amazing thing was that
it also talked to his mother, on her way down to the factory.
No sooner was she on the street from the happy holiday humor of
their room than she was faced accusingly by the bustle and clamor of
the streets on “the night before Christmas.” Everyone was intent on
something outside himself. Everyone, Mother Margaret thought, would
have known it was Christmas, if he had not been told.
_All save Tony._ Her heart smote her when she thought of that. For Tony
in the little bed where he “lived,” all the blessedness and peace of
tomorrow had descended to-day, and he had lived them faithfully. And on
Christmas morning, on Star of Bethlehem morning for all the rest of the
world, it would all be past for him; when for all the rest of the world
it would be dawning....
Christmas dinner they ate together on Christmas Eve, there at Tony’s
bedside, with a royal feast of one thing extra, spread on a little
sewing table set in the shadow of the tree.
“Now, dear,” said Mother Margaret when they had finished, “the
twenty-four hours is almost up, and the fairy is going to come for the
tree. You’re sure you won’t mind--aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Mother!” Tony’s eyes were fastened on the tree as if he
feared it might vanish if he looked away.
“And you are going to feel more glad that you had it than sorry to see
it go?”
“Oh, yes, Mother!”
Tony’s eyes were still on the tree.
“I wish,” he said, “I wish Christmas was to-morrow, too. I like to feel
like I feel when it’s Christmas.”
She sat beside him, silent, when outside the door came the tread and
tap which they were both expecting. And somewhat to her bewilderment
Mother Margaret admitted four visitors. There was the kindly,
practical woman; and the librarian with the pleasant eyes; and the maid
with the Dear Child in her arms.
She set the Dear Child down, and the Dear Child ran to Tony’s bed, and
in her hands was a box.
“Little boy!” she shouted. “See what! See what!”
She laid something beside him. And when, trembling a little with the
wonder of it, Tony had unwound this, there lay his longed-for clay and
some unbelievable modeling tools. Mother Margaret’s eyes flew to the
librarian. And the look of the two women met and clung, with something
living in the faces of them both. And so it came about that when the
maid drew the little tree from the room, Tony hardly knew.
They went away with happy greetings, and waving hands, and promises to
meet again.
“I--I--I--bring you my kitty and my fimbel!” shouted the Dear Child
kissing her hand. “That other day,” she added importantly.
An hour later Tony opened his eyes sleepily.
“Make a great big racket, Mother Margaret!” he surprisingly demanded.
“Why, dear?” she asked.
“’Cause if I go to sleep, then it won’t be Christmas any more,” said
Tony, and drifted off with his smile still on his face.
Christmas morning, the true Christmas morning, came with a white mantle
and a bright face. Mother Margaret woke to hear the city one tumbling
peal of early bells. She sprang up and threw on her dressing gown,
with her pretty hair falling about her shoulders, and ran to Tony’s
room. He was still asleep. Resolutely, and even joyously, she stooped
and kissed him.
“Tony, dear!” she said--but there was something like a sob in her
voice. “Wake up! It’s Christmas morning!”
His eyes flew open, and stared straight into her eyes.
“It’s Christmas morning,” she repeated tremulously.
A look of pain came to his face.
“Did I dream my tree?” he asked.
“No!” she cried, “no, dear. You did have your tree. Mother told you
yesterday was Christmas because we could just have the tree that
day--and she wanted you to have all the fun--_all_ of it, Tony--” She
broke down, and buried her face in his warm neck.
Something of the solemnity and old wisdom born in a child when a grown
person apologizes, or explains, or in any wise treats him as an equal,
came growing in Tony’s face. But this was over-shadowed now, by a
dawning joy.
“Mother!” he cried. “Truly? Truly, is it Christmas _again_?”
“Not again,” she said. “But it’s Christmas.”
He sat up, and threw his arms about her.
“Oh, I’m glad--I’m glad!” he cried. “Why, Mother. Then _it wasn’t just
the tree that made us happy, was it_?”
She held him close. And as they sat in each other’s arms, in the bare
room, with no tree, no roses, and even the clay for a moment forgotten,
there came overwhelmingly to the woman, and dimly to the child, the
precious understanding that Christmas is a spirit. And the spirit was
with them, and made a third presence in their sudden, indefinable
joyousness.
Tony drew a little away, and laughed up at her.
“Mother Margaret!” he cried. “It’s Christmas--it’s Christmas!”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, dear. Don’t you hear the bells?”
Tony shook his head. “We don’t need the bells, Mother,” he said. “Why,
Mother Margaret!” he cried, “maybe now we can get the feeling every
day!”
[24] Copyright by Crowell Publishing Company, 1915. Reprinted by
special permission of the author.
THE UNWELCOME GIFT[25]
_Julia Burket_
Snyge, the woodsman, walked briskly through the gates of the park which
surrounded the royal palace. On his arm hung a small basket covered
with a white cloth. In the basket were some cranberry tarts which
his wife was sending to her aunt, an old woman who stirred the royal
soup-kettle.
As Snyge walked along the winding road the sun shone and sparkled
brightly on the snow; and the roofs of the palace, which glistened
through the tree-tops, did not seem nearly so awe-inspiring as they did
on other days. On approaching the rear of the palace he heard a great
deal of loud hammering, which sounded odd on the quiet of the winter
afternoon. He hastened his steps and opened the door of the kitchen.
Along one side of the brick-floored room there stretched a long wooden
table. Before the table was a settle, and on this were seated a
scullery-maid, two butlers, four maids, and three small footmen; all
dressed in the olive livery of the king’s household and all busily
cracking nuts.
They made such a racket and commotion that Snyge was obliged to walk
the entire length of the room before he could attract the attention of
Mother Jorgan, who was stirring away at the soup with her back to the
door.
“What is the meaning of all this noise?” he shouted in the old woman’s
ear.
At the unexpected sound of his voice she gave a start, and would have
dropped the pot-stick if a little boy, who was seated on a high stool
behind the kettle, had not caught it.
After Mother Jorgan had recovered from her surprise she told the
woodsman that they were cracking nuts for the Christmas feast. They
should all have been done the day before, but the scullery-maid had
forgotten and the baker was now mixing up the fruit-cake; so they had
been forced to set every one to work who was not already busy, in order
that the nuts should be ready in time.
While Mother Jorgan was muttering away in her shrill, cackling voice,
Snyge had been staring ahead of him at the small boy on the stool.
There was really no reason why any one should look at poor little
Bebelle. He was by far the ugliest and most insignificant-looking
person in the room. Hunched up on his stool in the dark shadows behind
the kettle, he looked more like some odious goblin than a little boy.
His thick black hair made a fitting frame for his pinched face. His
nose was long and crooked; his eyes were very large and very black; and
his pathetic little mouth, although tender and childish, made his face
seem all the homelier by contrast. In his hand he held a stick upon
which, with infinite labor, he was carving something.
However, Snyge, who said little, but saw a great deal, when Mother
Jorgan had finished, pointed his finger at him and said, “Who is that?”
“I am Bebelle,” said the child in a thin, but rather sweet, voice.
“And what is that you have there in your hand?”
“That,” said the old woman, “is the scepter he is making for the king’s
Christmas present.” And turning her back to the kettle, she looked
significantly at Snyge and tapped her forehead. “Tell Snyge about your
present, Bebelle, and perhaps he will give you a better stick of wood.”
But the child held the stick close and answered fearfully: “Oh, no,
thank you, Mother Jorgan! No, thank you! this will do very well for
what I want. But I will tell the man what I know of it.”
At these words one of the small footmen, who had stopped swinging his
hammer for a moment in order to eat a walnut, nudged his neighbor, and
they both picked up their bowls of nuts and squatted down on the floor
in front of the kettle. And the maid who dusted the royal throne, and
was just then going through the kitchen, saw the pages and joined the
little group.
“We will now have some fun,” one of them whispered to her.
Bebelle, who was unaware of his audience on the other side of the
kettle, turning towards Snyge, began his tale.
“You see,” he said, “although I am lame and stupid and of no use to any
one, the good king allows me to stay here in his kitchen. I sit here
all day behind the kettle; and when Mother Jorgan has something else
she must do, she allows me to stir the soup. Each day I have a crust
of bread and bowl of froth from the top of the soup, and at night the
baker allows me to lie behind the great oven. You see, I should be
happy, for I have done nothing to deserve this easy lot. But sometimes
I am very discontented. I was feeling that way one evening, and, as I
was alone in the kitchen, I climbed up there on the table to look out
of the casement. It was a lovely night, with all the stars shining, and
as I stood there thinking how ashamed I should be to be unhappy when so
much splendor was about me, I saw before me a beautiful hand reaching
up on the other side of the sill. It clasped a stick of wood and a
piece of paper. The hand laid them on the window-ledge, and I heard a
voice like music say, “These are for you, Bebelle.’”
Here there was a great nudging and giggling on the part of his unseen
audience, and the little maid called out, “Where is the paper now?”
Bebelle leaned far out over the kettle, and, seeing the maid’s duster
on the floor, turned again to Snyge and said: “They often come to hear
me tell about it. The paper blew into the fire,” he explained, and
went on: “I was very much frightened and wanted to climb down from the
window and leave them there, but at last I found courage to look at the
paper. On it were these words: _Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness,
Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_. I stood there a
long time, and at last I thought how fine it would be to make a new
scepter for a Christmas present to the king, and to carve these words
upon it. They are pretty words and have a pleasant sound. I have never
heard the wonderful voice again, but I feel that this is what it would
have me do.”
“Now tell about how the words come,” demanded one of the footmen.
But Bebelle would only say, “I am at the end of ‘_Patience_’ now, and,
if you do not mind, I will start to carve again. You see, there is very
little time left until Christmas.”
As Bebelle concluded, his small audience broke up. The maid returned
to her dusting, the footmen took their bowls and hammers back to the
table, and Mother Jorgan, giving the pot-stick to little Bebelle, went
to the door with Snyge.
With the return of the footmen, the noise was even more deafening than
before. The fruit-cake was all mixed but the nuts, and the baker stood
over the small regiment of workers, every now and then rapping up some
lagging one with a cuff on the ears. Mother Jorgan was obliged fairly
to shriek the rest of the conversation; or rather her part of it, for
Snyge said very little.
“Yes, it is true. Bebelle has been carving at the old stick for weeks.
He is very happy. But he is a stupid dolt. The king does not even know
that he lives here in the kitchen. If he did, it would all be at an
end with little Bebelle.”
“And about the hand?” asked the woodsman.
“That? Oh, well, I don’t know. No one here believes it. But I couldn’t
say. It may be. But I know this much: I have seen the words come. When
he was at ‘_Mercy_,’ a few weeks ago, one of the huntsmen brought him a
little half-dead squirrel for his supper. But the foolish child warmed
it and set it free. When he went back to his carving, ‘Mercy’ was there
on the stick. That has been the way with them all. I know, for I have
seen it with my sharp old eyes.”
Snyge gave her the basket and went out into the dusk. He had stayed
long past his time.
In a little while the noise in the kitchen ceased. The nuts were all
finished and put in the waiting cake, and the room was quiet but for
the crackling of the fire and the chatter of the servants.
“‘_Patience_’ is very hard,” said little Bebelle to Mother Jorgan. “I
get along very well for a while, but just as I have almost finished,
the letters seem to fly back again. It is very funny.
“Listen, Mother Jorgan! Some one is coming. It is Shreve of the
Fields.” His face was lit up until it seemed almost pretty, and his
hands trembled at his carving.
In a moment there was a low, mysterious bird-note. Some one drew back
the bolts, and youth incarnate stood framed in the dark oaken doorway.
Shreve of the Fields swayed there, his slim, vibrant figure outlined
against the sparkling snow without. Pushed back from his thick dark
curls he wore a bag-like cap of brilliant red. Over the shoulder of his
tattered jacket was flung a brown sack, and in his hands he held a torn
net. The lovely poise of his proud young head, the startling beauty of
his face, the wonder of his gay, mysterious eyes, were all so intense
that one looked again and again, awed, troubled, stupefied, unable to
understand such glorious beauty. It was like some vague lovely dream
that one had been forced by the very intensity of its sweetness to cast
from his thoughts, now recurring to the mind. Even the servants felt
it, and they looked again and again at the not unfamiliar sight of
the radiant youth. And Shreve, unable, as always, to understand this
blind desire to pierce the mystery of his beauty, crossed the room with
swift, free steps and approached Bebelle.
“I have brought you this net to mend,” he said, and his voice was low
and wonderfully sweet. “I use it to catch the poor starving hares; and
then I feed them. I will wait if you are not too long.”
“Oh, I’ll do it gladly,” responded the child; “and I’ll try to hasten
as much as I can.”
He put the unfinished scepter in his threadbare little blouse, and bent
carefully over the net.
It had now grown dark, and one of the pages went about the room with
a taper lighting the candles in the greater pewter sticks. One by
one the butlers and footmen came in to eat their evening meal before
they should serve the royal dinner. All was light, and laughter and
good-natured raillery in the kitchen.
Shreve walked restlessly up and down the long room. Each time he passed
the oven he would snatch a loaf and put it in his sack. “For my birds,”
he would say with his dazzling smile to the baker. Each time he neared
the soup-kettle he stopped and watched little Bebelle’s swift-moving
fingers. Without looking up, the child would answer his unspoken
question, “In a little while, Shreve, I shall have finished it.”
As the graceful, glowing figure moved about the room all the youths
stared at him and the maidens glanced more shyly from under their long
lashes. But Shreve’s thoughts were on the world outside and the mending
of the net. However, when they spoke to him, he always answered sweetly
in his lovely, winning voice.
“How are your friends, O Shreve?” said Mother Jorgan.
“They are well. Only it is cold in the mountains, and the beasts
freeze; and the woods and fields are bare, so my birds want food. But
wait, old woman; some day I shall know all of nature’s secrets, and
then winter cannot harm my people.”
The servants now came up to the kettle to get their bowls of soup, and
Shreve of the Fields stood in the corner and watched them silently.
At last Bebelle crept down from his stool, and slowly moved toward
Shreve.
“Here is your net, Shreve,” he said.
The beautiful youth took the net and held it before him. He tugged at
it, but the mended threads held as firmly as the others.
“This is nicely done, Bebelle. When I come at Christmas I will bring
you some fairy moss. How is your scepter?” he asked a little shyly.
“Oh, it is almost finished. I am on ‘_Patience_’ now.”
Bebelle pulled the stick from his blouse, and as Shreve of the Fields
bent over it, he saw that “_Patience_” was finished.
* * * * *
It was the eve of Christmas, and all the great castle was in a merry
bustle and a wild confusion. From the little scullery-maid, who was
giving the pots and pans a final scouring, to the queen herself, who
was being fitted with a new crown, not a soul in the palace was idle.
The great hall was all green, and red, and white; pine, and holly, and
mistletoe. The white pillars were twined with ivy and laurel; from the
rafters hung great clusters of mistletoe; and the walls were banked
with leaves and red berries. On each side of the royal dais stood a
shining, glistening Christmas-tree; and the galleries were hung low
with Christmas greens.
It was not long until the king and queen ascended their royal thrones,
the queen happy because the new crown was very becoming, and the king
that there was a grand feast in prospect.
The royal court assembled with laughter and gay words and smiling
faces; and of them all the princess Faunia was the most admired. Tall
and slim and beautiful, as the princess should be, with the dainty
grace of a young fawn and the proud young way of one, she stood by the
dais with a dark, handsome prince. Each time he spoke to her, although
his words were laughing, she knew that he loved her; and each time he
looked at her, his gay eyes said what his lips dared not speak. The
princess, like every one else in the room, was very, very happy.
In the kitchen below sat Bebelle, carving the last word upon his gift
for the king. His face was very pale; it looked even thinner than
usual. His great black eyes burned feverishly, and his hands worked
swiftly upon the word “_Love_.”
“I must not be late! I must not be late!” he said over and over again.
Most of the servants had left the kitchen and were sitting in the
gallery of the hall above, watching the royal pageant.
However, there was a little girl left in the room, who had to remain
behind in order to keep the fire going in the great fireplace.
“When will you give the king his gift?” she asked Bebelle.
“When all the others have given theirs and Shreve of the Fields alone
is left he will give the king his beautiful raven, and then he will
say, ‘There is still another, O King, who has a gift for you.’ Mother
Jorgan has promised to let me go with her up the stairs, and when
Shreve says this, then I will walk into the room and give the king his
scepter.”
“Shreve of the Fields may forget,” said the little girl, shrewdly; “he
thinks only of his birds and beasts, of others he has no thought. Old
Jason, the butler, says he has no soul.”
“Oh, yes, he has!” said Bebelle. “He is wild and timid like his
animals, though, and is afraid to show it. He has told me how some
nights he lies in his cave with his animals and longs for a human
friend. But you know, Sana, he is so beautiful and so different from
every one else that no one can be friends with him. But look what he
gave me! It is fairy moss, and Shreve says that if I carry it, I shall
be brave enough to walk through the great hall to the king and not be
ashamed of my ugly face.
Bebelle held up a little patch of silvery moss, the drops of dew
sparkling like diamonds upon it.
“Oh!” said the child, in awed wonder. “It is so beautiful! And do you
think it really has such power?”
“Why, yes, of course; Shreve told me so.”
“Ah!” sighed little Sana, “if I only had a tiny bit, I would not be so
afraid of the butler when he scolds me.”
Bebelle carefully tore the moss in half and gave Sana part of it.
“I must go back to my carving now,” he said, as the child tried to
thank him.
“And I to my fire. Oh, Bebelle! Look! Look!” cried Sana. “The fire has
gone out while I have been talking to you!”
“I will make you another.”
When Mother Jorgan came in, the fire was again burning brightly.
“Are you ready, Bebelle?” she asked, her voice trembling with
excitement. “Shreve is giving the king his raven.”
“No, dear Mother Jorgan, I have mended the fire for Sana instead.”
“You foolish boy!” and she tore the stick from his hand. “Why, of
course it is done! Is ‘_Love_’ not there as plainly as the other words?
Come, we must make haste or we shall be too late.”
As the two reached the door of the hall Shreve of the Fields was
standing before the royal dais, his proud lovely head thrown back and
one graceful arm stretched forth toward the king. On the tip of his
finger there perched a beautiful raven, all glossy black streaked with
purple, and as quiet as if it were still in the forest. As these two of
the woods stood there in their perfect, unaffected beauty everything
else about the gay court seemed curiously dwarfed and cheapened.
“O King,” he said, in his sweet, thrilling voice, “here is a gift for
you!”
As the raven flew from his hand to the king the courtiers crowded
around the radiant youth; and Mother Jorgan, in the doorway outside,
whispered to Bebelle: “Child, he has said nothing of you. If you still
wish to do this dreadful thing, you must enter unannounced.”
And so, with his scepter held closely in one arm, the child bravely
walked into the gay throng.
As he neared the throne the courtiers drew back on either side; and
standing before the royal dais, Bebelle said simply, “My King, I have
made you a new scepter for a Christmas gift.”
All about the throne lay precious and costly gifts; gold and
tapestries, silver and precious stones. On the arm of the king’s chair
perched the beautiful raven, and in the queen’s hand was a necklace of
diamonds, and rare aquamarines. Before them stood a child, strange and
grotesque, holding in his hand a rough piece of fire-wood.
“I have made you a new scepter,” he had said.
“Child,” said the king, and his voice was not unkind, “this is not
the time for you to appear before us.” And he motioned a page to lead
Bebelle from the room.
There was a painful silence as the child crept slowly from the bright
hall, one hand still clasping the rejected gift. The queen signed for
the fiddlers to begin their playing. The princess Faunia, who was
standing with the noble prince under the balcony, remarked that such
things were enough to spoil one’s Christmas. The prince comforted her,
and said if he had his will, nothing should ever happen to mar a single
moment of her entire life. The princess was even happier than before.
The queen told the king, who looked a little worried, that such things
naturally happen in such great households, and that, with the serving
of the royal banquet, things would be restored to their former gaiety.
This last suggestion comforted the king mightily; and, indeed, before
the page had even announced the banquet everything was as gay and merry
as it had been an hour before.
In the bright warm kitchen there was dance and song, and every one
there was happy, too.
That is, all but little Bebelle. He lay beside the oven, still holding
tightly to the scepter, saying nothing.
Mother Jorgan brought him a bowl of hot soup. He thanked her pitifully,
but would not touch it. Now and then one of the servants would come
to him and shyly, but kindly, ask him to come and have some of the
wassail. Shreve came down from the feast above. The baker gave him
thirteen loaves for his birds, and he stopped to speak to Bebelle.
“I am sorry, Bebelle,” he said, in his timid, winning way. “But I had
no chance to speak of you. It was a shame that the king refused your
gift. But come, do not be sad. Every one is sorry, and things will not
be made better by lying there.”
But Bebelle did not answer. The tears sprang to Shreve’s beautiful,
mysterious eyes.
“Would you like to come and sleep in my cave to-night?”
Bebelle gave a little gasp.
“Oh, Shreve,” he said, “that is the greatest thing in the world
that could happen to me! But somehow I feel as if that could not
be--to-night.”
So Shreve of the Fields went a little sadly out into the starry night.
It grew later. Slowly and reluctantly the servants left the warm,
friendly kitchen. Many stopped to speak kindly to the silent child, who
lay huddled in his corner.
At last, though, they had all left but a little page, who put out the
candles and skipped fearfully from the room. All was silent and dark.
The child lay there a long time.
Slowly and sweetly, through the still night a voice softly floated.
“Bebelle, little Bebelle!” it said; “come to the door.”
The child trembled, but did not get up.
Once again came the low, mellow voice: “Bebelle, I am waiting for you.
Come, open the door.”
As if in a dream he crept across the floor. Slowly he slid back the
great bolts and lifted the door latch.
There in the snowy dooryard was a glorious vision. A figure that
glowed and glistened against the snow like the fire and light of a
thousand diamonds. Over the head was a veil like lacy frost. From the
scintillating robes stretched a beautiful white hand.
“Come with me,” said the voice, “and I will make you a great ruler.”
Bebelle shrank back against the heavy door.
“Oh, no!” he cried, “I am not fit to be a ruler. I am ugly and poor,
and of no use to any one in the world.”
The vision reached out and took the scepter which Bebelle still clasped
to his breast.
As the firm white hand grasped it the rough wood turned to shining
gold and the letters carved upon it were set with pearls, and rubies,
and sapphires, and other precious stones.
“These words that you have carved upon the scepter,” said the high,
thrilling voice, “_Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion,
Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_--these are the attributes of
a king. Only he who carves his own scepter, with these words upon it,
only he is fit to wield it. Again I summon you to come with me and I
will make you ruler of a great kingdom.”
And into the white night the child followed the steps of the vision.
[25] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.
THE STRANGE STORY OF MR. DOG AND MR. BEAR[26]
_Mabel Fuller Blodgett_
(For very little folk)
THE CHRISTMAS TREE
Mr. Bear was looking forward to the first real snowstorm because Mr.
Dog had made a fine double-runner, and they were both planning for
little housework, and a lot of coasting. Mr. Bear’s fur suit was just
the thing for winter sports, but Mr. Dog had been obliged to go to the
village and buy himself a sweater. It was bright crimson and was very
becoming. Mr. Dog, who loved fine clothes, had also purchased a scarlet
and white skating cap, with a tassel that hung down over one ear in a
most engaging manner. So both Mr. Dog and Mr. Bear could hardly wait
for cold weather to set in, and they spent a great deal of time running
out to the porch and looking at the thermometer that hung there. When
they were not doing that, they were reading the weather reports in the
newspapers, or watching the clouds, and at last they were rewarded
late one afternoon by the sight of large feathery flakes of snow lazily
floating downward from a cold gray sky. But alas! there was to be no
coasting for either of them, for many days to come.
Mr. Bear, who had not been feeling like himself for some time, came
down with the mumps the very next morning, and Mr. Dog had his paws
full with cooking, and nursing, and bedmaking, and carrying up trays to
the invalid.
Now I suppose you never saw a bear with the mumps! It is a sorry
sight, I assure you, and the cottage was a sad place now with only the
doctor’s visits for company and Mr. Bear in the dreadfulest state with
his poor neck so swollen that none of his collars would fit him--he had
lately, to please Mr. Dog, taken to wearing them. For daily use a red
bandana handkerchief became the only thing possible. Well, Mr. Dog was
a pretty fair nurse, though he did bring Mr. Bear some lemonade the
first day, and, if you’ve ever had mumps, you will know how Mr. Bear
felt after he got a real good taste. But Mr. Dog was more careful after
that and never so much as said “pickles” or brought Mr. Bear anything
that was sour or puckery, so they got along quite nicely.
Still, there was a lot of time for thinking, and Mr. Bear, looking
wistfully out on the snowy landscape, began to plan for Christmas.
He decided that he would surprise Mr. Dog, and the surprise would
take the form of a Christmas tree. There were plenty of dear little
firs growing about near by, each one holding up its tiny branches as
if begging for the honor of being chosen, and Mr. Bear knew Mr. Dog,
who was something of a carpenter, was just dying to have a complete
tool-chest, and he thought what a fine present that would be and how
beautifully the awl and saws and other tools would glitter, hung from
the branches in the light of the Christmas candles.
Mr. Bear would also see that Mr. Dog had a wonderful big bone, the best
in the market, and tied with scarlet ribbon and holly, and a bottle of
perfumery, and oh, yes! a dozen handkerchiefs with colored borders. Mr.
Bear had to get his notebook down and write the things as fast as he
remembered them, and the best of it was Mr. Bear was determined, firmly
determined, that Mr. Dog should know nothing whatever about the whole
matter.
Now the funny part of it was that Mr. Dog had been thinking also, and
the end of his reflections were pretty much what Mr. Bear’s had been.
He would give Mr. Bear a Christmas tree and _Mr. Bear should know
nothing whatever about it_.
Mr. Dog was so excited that one day he put salt instead of sugar into
the pudding and never knew the difference till he and Mr. Bear sat down
to dessert together. By this time Mr. Bear was better, and soon he was
well enough to go coasting, which means that he was well enough to do
anything at all that he wanted to.
His actions began to puzzle Mr. Dog. In the first place, Mr. Bear
began to make a lot of mysterious trips to the village, and then he
was always getting a lot of catalogues, which he was careful to keep
locked up. One day Mr. Dog found him measuring the height of the parlor
ceiling, and he looked very much embarrassed when asked what he was
doing; and yet Mr. Dog hadn’t the slightest idea of what was going on.
You see, he was so full of his own plans to surprise Mr. Bear that it
never crossed his mind that Mr. Bear might have secret holiday plans of
his own. Mr. Dog was chiefly concerned that Mr. Bear shouldn’t find out
what _he_ was doing, and, as he was much more careful than poor, dear,
blundering Mr. Bear, he never gave his friend the slightest idea of
what was in his mind.
After a lot of thinking, Mr. Dog decided to cut the prettiest little
Christmas tree you ever saw, that he had found near by in the forest.
He would trim it with popcorn and cranberries and little candles, and
he would give Mr. Bear a half dozen jars of the finest honey, because
Mr. Bear loved honey best of anything, and a big blueberry pie tied up
with scarlet ribbon and holly, for Mr. Bear liked blueberry pie next
best, and a muffler, a beautiful warm plaid muffler, because Mr. Bear
wasn’t stylish but loved to be comfortable. Oh, yes, and a white and
gold book for the parlor table. Mr. Dog didn’t care at all what was
inside the book, but he wanted a very handsome cover. It would look
awfully well under the best lamp, and as the only book in the house
was a cook-book, Mr. Dog felt it would lend quite an air to the whole
cottage, and was, in a way, really needed. To do all this would take
every penny Mr. Dog had earned, but Mr. Dog did not grudge a single
cent of his hoard.
Mr. Bear didn’t tell anybody of his plan, and Mr. Dog didn’t tell
anybody either. They both gave very good reasons for refusing a number
of invitations that they received for Christmas parties; Mr. Bear,
looking very wise, said he felt rather old for romping about, just a
quiet evening in slippers at home for him; and Mr. Dog said what with
the mumps and all he was so behindhand with his work that he thought he
would rather spend a quiet day at home, with slippers and a comfortable
chair before the fire in the evening.
But what were they going to do about Christmas, their friends asked.
Mr. Bear looked up in the air and rubbed his head and finally said
something about wreaths in the windows, and Mr. Dog answered briskly
that he was going to make the finest plum pudding that day for dinner
they ever saw and if that wasn’t celebrating Christmas, what was?
Still, it did seem as if the time would never arrive, for you know
yourself how slow Christmas and birthdays and vacations are about
getting around; and how very quickly school-days and trips to the
dentist, and such things come. But at last it really was December
twenty-fourth, and that very evening after sunset had been planned both
by Mr. Dog and Mr. Bear for their grand surprise.
Mr. Dog had all his presents on the top shelf of his bedroom closet,
and Mr. Bear had all his presents on the top shelf of _his_ bedroom
closet: and both of them had their closets locked and the keys in their
pockets.
Neither of the friends talked much at supper that night for both were
too busy thinking. Mr. Bear wanted to get some good excuse for leaving
Mr. Dog and getting into the forest where the Christmas tree was to
be found. It was already cut, but it wanted trimming, and Mr. Bear
decided to trim it right where it stood, or rather where it leaned
against another fir-tree, and then manage some way to get it into the
house without Mr. Dog’s knowing it. Mr. Bear’s pockets were full of
tinsel and bells, gilt walnuts, golden and silver balls, and such like
ornaments. He fairly tinkled when he walked; but Mr. Dog was so very
busy thinking that he didn’t notice.
At last supper was over and the dishes neatly washed and put away. The
two friends turned to each other, and both spoke at once and said just
the same thing all in a breath without pausing:
“I was thinking of taking a little stroll this evening.”
“Why, that’s a good idea,” said Mr. Bear, putting on his cap and
goloshes as he spoke. It was handy for him not having to bother with
anything more on account of his fine fur coat, though he would rather
have liked a muffler.
“I think so, too,” said Mr. Dog, hurriedly getting into his coasting
togs--sweater, tasseled cap, and all.
“Which way were you going, Mr. Bear? I was thinking of going west--”
“I was thinking of going east,” said Mr. Bear, much relieved at the
turn things were taking. And so the two friends parted.
Mr. Bear called out over his shoulder, “No use, Mr. Dog, of being back
before eight o’clock a fine night like this.”
“Oh, no!” said Mr. Dog, much pleased and inwardly planning to get his
tree trimmed in the forest, and then to have it all set up in the
cottage a few moments before that hour.
So both friends hurried off--Mr. Dog to the west, to hang on his tree
as fast as ever he could the strings of cranberries and pop-corn with
which his pockets were bulging, and Mr. Bear to decorate his tree in
the most beautiful manner and as rapidly as possible. And my! weren’t
they busy? You may not believe it, but each of them got through the
very same moment, which was exactly seventeen and a half minutes to
eight o’clock, and each of them was exactly one half mile from home.
Mr. Bear put his tree on his shoulder and started; Mr. Dog put _his_
tree on _his_ shoulder and started. Mr. Bear’s tree was bigger and
heavier than Mr. Dog’s tree, but then Mr. Bear was stronger than Mr.
Dog, so they both covered the ground at the same rate of speed.
Now I suppose you have already guessed what happened. It was sure to,
wasn’t it? And it just did.
Mr. Dog, stealthily coming up the back way, and Mr. Bear, stealthily
coming up the front way, met right at the cottage door, and I wish you
had been there to see them. I don’t suppose their eyes were ever wider
opened in all their lives; and as for their mouths, they were open too,
and both their tongues were hanging out.
Mr. Dog was the quickest, so he began to laugh first, but Mr. Bear was
not long in following, and they both laughed so hard they had to lean
their beautiful Christmas trees up against the side of the cottage
while they rolled over and over in the snow and neither one could stop.
But at last Mr. Bear caught his breath and sat up, and Mr. Dog, still
wiping away tears of merriment with his paw, sat up too, and then it
all came out--their wonderful plans and all the doings.
Well, the end of it was, there were two Christmas trees set up in Mr.
Bear’s house that night and two very happy people.
The presents were truly a surprise after all, and they were exactly
right. Each said so to the other, I don’t know how many times. Mr. Bear
put on his muffler at once, though the cottage was as hot as hot could
be, and Mr. Dog had so much perfumery on his handkerchief that they had
to open the front door to air off. Mr. Dog began to do things with his
tools at once, while gnawing ever and anon at his wonderful bone, and
Mr. Bear ate a piece of blueberry pie that was big enough to give him
seven kinds of nightmare, but didn’t.
Then Mr. Bear drew up his big rocking-chair to the fire, while Mr.
Dog threw himself down on the rug in front of it and stretched out to
enjoy the blaze with his paws clasped under his head. And they both
said there had never been such a Christmas and that it was the greatest
fun having it that way, all alone. I suppose they meant not having the
forest and the farm people there; and perhaps this is a good place and
time for you and me to leave them, too.
[26] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”
A BURNT FORK SANTA CLAUS[27]
_Elinore Pruitt Stewart_
Mrs. Culberson stood in her cabin door, and looked out upon the
sparkling beauty of a sunny winter morning. Beyond the valley rose the
shining, snow-covered mountains. A mile below lay the white surface
of Henry’s Fork, tree-bordered and ice-bound. She could see the exact
spot in the stream where she and the children had caught the barrel of
suckers that had been their chief food since the snow came.
When Henry Clay, her oldest child and only son, had come from the creek
one day and told her that there were a great many fish at the bend, and
that they were lying on the bottom almost too lazy to move, she had
said, “We’ll go and catch a lot; we will salt them down in our water
keg; they’ll come in handy.” That had been almost four months before.
“Pa” Culberson was one of those Micawber-like persons who are always
expecting something to turn up. In more prosperous days, when the
Culbersons had lived farther east, they had owned a good team of
horses and a cow; but Pa’s waiting propensities had encouraged the man
with the mortgage to “turn up,” and the family had been left without
their horses and their cow.
Mrs. Culberson had urged her husband to sell their little plot of
land and to use the proceeds to begin anew in another place. Pa had a
“swapping” streak in him, and so it was not long before they had traded
their land for a rickety wagon and a pair of small beasts that Mrs.
Culberson called “dunkeys.” Then, with all they owned piled into the
wagon, they set forth to make a fresh start in the world. Pa sat on
the top of the load to drive the donkeys, and Mrs. Culberson and the
children walked alongside.
One night they had camped by a stream in a fertile little valley. Mrs.
Culberson liked the water and the view, and refused to go on. Weeks
of wandering had worn out the children’s shoes, and winter would soon
be upon them; so they unloaded their scanty belongings and set about
building their cabin. It stood close to a hillside for shelter from the
fierce winds, and it had no floor except the earth. A place had been
left for a window in one end, but there was no glass in it. A piece of
cheesecloth tacked over the opening let in light and a wooden shutter
kept out the storm. The roof was made of poles laid carefully side by
side and well covered with earth.
While Mrs. Culberson and the children were chinking and daubing the
cracks in their cabin, Pa began to build the stable for the donkeys.
The golden September days were slipping away, and the food supply was
getting low; as soon as he had finished the tiny stable, Pa went off
to get work with the sheepmen. The family were left alone in their new
house; it might be months before they saw him again; in fact, it might
be as long as that before they saw anyone except “Grandma” Clark, who
lived in a cabin near the stream.
Every day little Mrs. Culberson worked with all her might; and in order
that the children should not get lonely or afraid in the wilderness,
she tried to keep them busy. First she set them hauling wood from the
cedars near by; Pa had made a door for the cabin from the wagon box,
but they could load the wood and poles on the running gear of their
wagon. They could manage the donkeys easily, and they soon gathered a
huge woodpile. Then the children dug a cellar in the side of the hill.
Henry Clay and Lizzie Isabel, who were the oldest, did the digging.
Jennie Lou and Jessie May helped by carrying out the dirt as fast as it
was loosened. Mrs. Culberson and five-year-old baby C’listie did the
encouraging. Each was proud of sharing in the work.
A few days after the cellar was finished, the children went on an
exploring expedition to discover whether they had any neighbors. The
first rancher they found laughed when he saw the eager, freckled
children on their little donkeys. He was harvesting his vegetables, and
he offered them all a chance to work for him. After that, the children
and their mother were busy for almost a month, picking up potatoes
and helping store winter vegetables for the ranchers who lived up and
down the valley. In that way they had stocked their own cellar, and had
become the proud owners of a few bags of grain, which they put by for
their faithful donkeys.
As Mrs. Culberson stood in the door that winter morning, looking out
over the snow-covered country, she was mentally giving thanks that she
and the children had a warm cabin to shelter them. On a tall, dead pine
she saw a great eagle sitting in the sun. A coyote dug a rabbit out of
the snow, and trotted away with it. Far below on the creek, she could
see the smoke curling upward from her nearest neighbor’s chimney.
“Poor old soul!” she said to herself. “There all alone while her
grandson, Charley, is away herding sheep. It must be plumb bad to have
only one child, and to be a widow, and old, too. Here it is just two
days before Christmas. I believe I’ll go down and bring her up here for
a spell.”
Her care-seamed face was thoughtful. “It’s more’n three months since Pa
left, and not a word from him. I _do_ hope he hasn’t--”
But she was too loyal to put what she feared into words, even to
herself. Closing the door, she put the breakfast of salt fish and
potatoes on the table.
“Ma, can’t we have a little _tiny_ piece of bacon for breakfast?” asked
Jennie Lou.
“It’s very near Christmas,” said Jessie May.
“I just hate suckers!” said Lizzie Isabel.
“Now you young uns eat what is put before you, and don’t be so
choicey,” said Mrs. Culberson. “I declare, I’ll have to boil you up
some sage tea to make your fish and potatoes taste good to you again.
Then after we’re through, I have a _big_ secret to tell you.”
The wagon box had furnished enough lumber to make not only the door,
but a bench, and a high shelf across one end of the cabin. When the
children had finished breakfast, their mother put a box upon the bench.
Mounting the box, she took from the shelf several small packages.
“Now, children,” she said, as she unrolled a square package, “here is
all the meat we have--just enough for seven slices. We are going to
have it for dinner Christmas Day, and _who_ do you guess is going to
eat the extra slice? _That_ is my big secret.”
“I could eat _all_ of it now,” said Henry Clay. The children eyed the
piece of bacon hungrily.
“Children, what on earth has come over you to make you so gluttonous? I
am ashamed of you. Now, if you can behave yourselves, I will tell you
something.”
They watched her with fascinated eyes as she measured two cupfuls of
sugar into a small pail. Next she took four tablespoonfuls of rice,
carefully tied the little heap of white grains in a cloth, and dropped
it into the pail with the sugar. Putting the lid on the pail, she again
mounted the box, and put the pail beside a small jar that contained a
handful of coffee.
“There,” she said, with pride in her voice, “that is my sick corner. If
any of you get sick, I have _some_ little things for you.”
“I’m sick, I’m awfully sick,” said C’listie.
“C’listie Culberson, no one would ever dream you were named for your
own grandmother, C’listie Yancy. Your Grandma Yancy would _never_ act
that way.”
The children watched her intently and silently as she measured the
remaining sugar.
“There is enough for a cake, and we can have a carrot pie,” she said,
“and perhaps some sugar syrup for breakfast, and there will be a little
left in the bowl. Don’t one of you young uns dare to touch that bowl;
the sugar in the bowl is for manners; now mind that. We’ll have a nice
dish of rice, and enough grease will fry out of the bacon to season the
potatoes and to make the pie crust, and we can have biscuit, too,” she
ended triumphantly.
The children, catching her jubilant spirit, began to clap their hands
and dance.
“Now, Lizzie Isabel, we will clean up the house and get everything
ready. You girls can wear your gingham dresses, and Henry Clay
can--well, he can wear his pa’s light shirt, and his trousers, too;
they will be too long, of course, but he can roll them up, and we can
girt them in at the waist. We’ll all dress up and go after Grandma
Clark. She’s all alone. We couldn’t be so selfish as to sit down and
eat all our good things alone.”
So they all worked with a will; but there was not much to do.
“You children don’t know how lucky you are to be poor,” said Mrs.
Culberson. “If we’d been rich enough to have a floor, we would have to
scrub; and if we had a glass window, we’d have that to wash. But as it
is, we can get this room in order in a jiffy.”
Through all her ups and downs, Mrs. Culberson had kept her “settin’
out”; she had her feather bed, the ten beautiful patchwork quilts given
her by different members of her family; the Yancy sheets and the lovely
Culberson tablecloth, all homespun and woven.
It was a proud little group that later in the day left the freshly
decked cabin and started for Grandma Clark’s. All the girls’ dresses
were a year too small, their sleeves were too short and their waists
too tight; but the children had pressed their worn ribbons, and their
hair was neatly braided, and they were all so happy that only an
unfeeling critic could have seen anything except beauty and sweetness
about them. Henry Clay’s trousers were many sizes too large, but
they were rolled up at the bottom and well “girt in” at the waist.
His shirt was caught up and tacked and pinned in so many places that
it had almost lost all resemblance to a shirt; but if his fourteen
year old body _was_ too small to fill his father’s clothes, his pride
overflowed, and made him seem large and important in his own eyes.
They had laid poles upon the running gear of the wagon and wired them
firmly, in order to have a safe place for Grandma Clark to ride. Mrs.
Culberson took a last satisfied look round the neat room, warned
the children once more to mind their manners, and not to let the
company see that they did not have bread every meal, and to remember
how fortunate they were to have a good warm cabin, plenty of wood,
and friends to share their comforts, “and them friends rale close
neighbors, not more’n six miles away.”
So they clambered on their odd carryall and drove off, with the donkeys
belly-deep in the soft snow.
* * * * *
Miles away, up in the mountains near Burnt Fork, lay the ranch of Jack
Nevin. He was an “old-timer” without kith or kin, but he never lived
alone, for he was always taking some one in to share his home. At
that time he had living with him old John Enderby, who had a special
fondness for making fun of others. Once a year Jack Nevin made a trip
to Green River for supplies, but, oddly enough, he would never permit
anyone to go with him.
No one who came to the ranch suspected that Jack’s heart was starved
for home ties, and that he longed for some one to love and to work
for. For years he had had an imaginary family. He took almost as much
pleasure in the growth and development of his imaginary children as
he would have taken had they been real. Of course he could not tell
his friends about his pretense; but when he went to town he spoke to
strangers of his “folks,” and talked about them just as if he had
actually had a family.
This was the first time he had ever been in Green River when the
holidays were so near. The windows of the stores were filled with toys
and candies. As he drove up the street his heart was sad; there were so
many things that he would have liked to buy if he had only had some one
to give them to.
When he drove into the livery barn, the proprietor, to whom he had
talked on his other visits, called out, “Hello, Nevin! How are you? How
are the little girls and their ma? In town to interview Santa Claus, I
suppose?”
Jack walked up the street, looking at the pretty things, and almost
hating other men who had “folks” to buy for. Suddenly he remembered
what Hall, the liveryman, had said. After all, why should he not do
it? Whose business was it, anyway, if he chose to buy dolls, toys, and
trinkets? As he thought over the idea his recklessness grew. The boys
might laugh and joke, he realized, but the chance that they would find
out seemed small.
That night he confided in his landlady; and his enthusiasm for his
family was so contagious that she forgot the high price of meat.
“I suppose your little girls sent you loaded with a list?” she said.
Jack searched his pockets, but failed to find any list.
“Well, now, that’s too bad,” he said, with such evident concern that
the landlady was entirely deceived.
“Now don’t you worry,” she said. “My Emma works at Little Pete’s. You
can get more for your money in there than you can at any other store in
town. And Emma will help you make a good selection.”
The next morning the whim was still upon Jack Nevin. He went to Little
Pete’s, and passed there the happiest three hours of his life, choosing
and buying the things that he would have liked to put into little
stockings.
“I believe I’ll take that sweater for ma,” he said awkwardly. After a
while his fancy became more practical, and he bought warm hoods, pieces
of flannel, gingham, and calico.
At last all the bundles were wrapped and loaded on the wagon with the
provisions that he had purchased for the winter. Jack was standing
in a store entrance, trying to remember whether he had forgotten
anything, when up the street rode half a dozen Burnt Fork boys, with
their “chaps” flapping and their spurs jangling merrily. They shouted
a greeting when they caught sight of Jack. Jack watched them canter up
the street with foreboding in his heart.
It was already late in the afternoon, but he decided to start on the
return trip to his ranch immediately for he did not enjoy the thought
that the “boys” might discover how he had been spending his time in
Green River.
Sunset of the following day saw him nearing home, but trouble had sat
with him all the way. He could imagine what “fun” there would be at the
ranch if those boys found out his poor secret. What could he do with
all the things he had bought for his imaginary family? If he took them
home, there was John Enderly to be reckoned with.
Finally a solution occurred to him--he would throw them into Henry’s
Fork. He knew where he could find an air hole. By driving across the
ice below the regular crossing, he hoped to avoid discovery, and so,
leaving the road, he turned down the long cañon that led out on the
plateau on which the Culberson cabin stood. When he came in sight of
the little log building he gave a whistle of surprise, for he had not
known that anyone lived there. As he approached the cabin he hallooed,
and getting no answer, was about to drive on, when he noticed that
smoke was coming from the stove-pipe.
He decided to go in and warm his feet; but when he entered the cabin,
he found himself more interested in the evidences of poverty than in
the stove. A box nailed to the wall served as a cupboard. He lifted
the flour-sack curtain before it, and peeped within; he saw the bacon
sliced for the Christmas dinner; he saw all the scanty preparations.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Cake with no eggs! I’ve made it; I know what it’s
like!”
Dropping the curtain, he glanced about the room. “No chairs,” he
commented. “Must be mighty poor. Kids in the bunch, too.” Then he
noticed a cap hanging on a peg. “Boy among ’em. By heck, I guess I’m in
time to beat Santy Claus, but I didn’t buy anything for a boy.”
For an hour Jack worked busily and happily. All that he had bought for
his “family” he carried into the cabin; then, opening cases of his own
supplies, he carried in canned goods, dried fruit, a ham, some sugar,
coffee, and a package of tea. When he had finished, he gazed about
the little room and smiled. “Mighty near filled the cabin,” he said.
“Reckon some flour won’t be amiss, and I’ve a good notion to fill that
new lamp and leave it on the table, lighted. They’re coming back soon,
or they wouldn’t have left fire. There’s the coat and the lamp for the
woman; candy, nuts and dolls for the kids; provisions for ’em all, but
not a thing for that boy. I just can’t do him that way. He can have my
new gun.”
Jack went out to the wagon and brought in the shotgun, and hanging the
cap on the muzzle, leaned it against the wall. Then he put his boxes of
ammunition on the floor beside it. Finally, he filled the stove full of
wood, and closing it carefully, left the cabin.
The dusk was deepening when he mounted his wagon. Beyond Henry’s Fork,
he met the Culbersons returning with their guest; he eyed them sharply
as they passed. After he had crossed the bottoms and was out on the
snow-covered flat, he laughed happily.
“It beat throwing them into the creek,” he said, “and the boy is just
right for the gun!”
* * * * *
As soon as the family and their guest crossed the creek and reached the
plateau they saw the light of the bright new lamp.
“Oh, Pa’s come, our Pa’s come home for Christmas!” shouted Henry Clay,
joyously.
“Don’t be so excited, Henry Clay. You tend to driving them dunkeys, or
you will have Mis’ Clark dumped off in the snow. That’d be a fine way
to treat a neighbor, wouldn’t it? You children quit twisting round. If
any of you fall off, you’ll have to walk to the house.”
Thus admonished, the children sat as still as they could. Henry Clay
tried to get the donkeys to hurry, but donkeys have ways of their own.
At last they drew up before the door of the cabin. The children would
have rushed into the cabin, but their mother restrained them.
“My goodness, children, where are your manners? Pa’s made a fire; don’t
you see the smoke? You just behave yourselves.”
Once inside, the little group stood amazed. The new lamp burned
brightly; boxes, bundles and packages were scattered everywhere about
the place. Grandma Clark, stiff with the cold, went at once to the
stove. The fire burned merrily. She held her hands to the grateful
warmth, and said, “Your man’s a right good provider, Mis’ Culberson.”
“But where’s Pa?” asked C’listie.
A thorough search revealed no Pa. On a new calendar, which lay on the
table, were scribbled these words: “The gun is for the boy. The rest is
for all of you. Yours truly, Santy Claus.”
An hour later supper was over; even hungry little C’listie could hold
no more ham, and sat nodding and hugging a wonderful doll. Henry Clay
and Lizzie Isabel had put the donkeys into the stable, and given them
an extra allowance of grain and carrots. With shining eyes and heart
too happy for words, Henry Clay sat examining his treasure, the bright,
new gun. The girls were rapturously sorting their new ribbons, hoods,
and books. Mrs. Culberson, busy storing yet unopened packages beneath
the bed, said to the girls:
“I _did_ ’low for you girls to sleep under the blazin’-star quilt,
being it’s Christmas time, but I ain’t going to let you. It ain’t never
been used, and I’m going to keep that quilt for Santa Claus. I’ll see
him some time.”
[27] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December
10, 1914. Reprinted by special permission. All rights reserved by the
author.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
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