The Children's Book of Christmas Stories
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Title: The Children's Book of Christmas Stories
Editor: Asa Don Dickinson
Ada M. Skinner
Release date: March 11, 2009 [eBook #28308]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF CHRISTMAS STORIES ***
Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS JOLLITY
(_John Leech's "Mr. Fezziwig's Ball," from Dickens' "Christmas
Carol."_)]
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
EDITED BY
ASA DON DICKINSON
AND
ADA M. SKINNER
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC.
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY DOUBLEDAY &
COMPANY, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The Publishers desire to acknowledge the kindness of the J. B.
Lippincott Co., Houghton Mifflin Co., D. C. Heath & Co., The
Bobbs-Merrill Co., Milton Bradley Co., Henry Altemus Co., Lothrop, Lee &
Shepherd Co., Little, Brown & Co., Moffat, Yard & Co., American Book
Co., Perry, Mason Co., Duffield & Co., Chicago Kindergarten College, and
others, who have granted them permission to reproduce herein selections
from works bearing their copyright.
PREFACE
Many librarians have felt the need and expressed the desire for a select
collection of children's Christmas stories in one volume. This book
claims to be just that and nothing more.
Each of the stories has already won the approval of thousands of
children, and each is fraught with the true Christmas spirit.
It is hoped that the collection will prove equally acceptable to
parents, teachers, and librarians.
ASA DON DICKINSON.
CONTENTS
(_Note_.--The stories marked with a star (*) will be most enjoyed by
younger children; those marked with a dagger (+) are better suited to
older children.)
PAGE
Christmas at Fezziwig's Warehouse. _By Charles Dickens_ 3
*The Fir-Tree. _By Hans Christian Andersen_ 6
The Christmas Masquerade. _By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman_ 19
*The Shepherds and the Angels. _Adapted from the Bible_ 34
+The Telltale Tile. _By Olive Thorne Miller_ 36
*Little Girl's Christmas. _By Winnifred E. Lincoln_ 48
+A Christmas Matinée. _By M. A. L. Lane_ 57
*Toinette and the Elves. _By Susan Coolidge_ 68
The Voyage of the Wee Red Cap. _By Ruth Sawyer Durand_ 86
*A Story of the Christ-Child (a German Legend for Christmas
Eve). _As told by Elizabeth Harrison_ 96
*Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas. _by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman_ 103
Why the Chimes Rang. _By Raymond McAlden_ 113
*The Birds' Christmas (founded on fact). _By F. E. Mann_ 120
+The Little Sister's Vacation. _By Winifred M. Kirkland_ 126
*Little Wolff's Wooden Shoes. _By François Coppée, adapted
and translated by Alma J. Foster_ 139
+Christmas in the Alley. _By Olive Thorne Miller_ 146
*A Christmas Star. _By Katherine Pyle_ 158
+The Queerest Christmas. _By Grace Margaret Gallaher_ 165
Old Father Christmas. _By J. H. Ewing_ 179
A Christmas Carol. _By Charles Dickens_ 193
How Christmas Came to the Santa Maria Flats. _By Elia W. Peattie_ 196
The Legend of Babouscka. _From the Russian Folk Tale_ 208
*Christmas in the Barn. _By F. Arnstein_ 211
The Philanthropist's Christmas. _By James Weber Linn_ 216
*The First Christmas-Tree. _By Lucy Wheelock_ 230
The First New England Christmas. _By G. L. Stone and M. G.
Fickett_ 232
The Cratchits' Christmas Dinner. _By Charles Dickens_ 242
Christmas in Seventeen Seventy-Six. _By Anne Hollingsworth
Wharton_ 253
*Christmas Under the Snow. _By Olive Thorne Miller_ 261
Mr. Bluff's Experience of Holidays. _By Oliver Bell Bunce_ 273
+Master Sandy's Snapdragon. _By Elbridge S. Brooks_ 284
A Christmas Fairy. _By John Strange Winter_ 297
The Greatest of These. _By Joseph Mills Hanson_ 303
*Little Gretchen and the Wooden Shoe. _By Elizabeth Harrison_ 316
+Christmas on Big Rattle. _By Theodore Goodridge Roberts_ 329
THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF CHRISTMAS STORIES
I
CHRISTMAS AT FEZZIWIG'S WAREHOUSE
CHARLES DICKENS
"YO HO! my boys," said Fezziwig. "No more work to-night! Christmas Eve,
Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up!" cried old
Fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, "before a man can say Jack
Robinson. . . ."
"Hilli-ho!" cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk with
wonderful agility. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room
here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Cheer-up, Ebenezer!"
Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or
couldn't have cleared away with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in
a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from
public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were
trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug,
and warm, and dry, and bright a ballroom as you would desire to see on a
winter's night.
In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk and
made an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs.
Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Misses
Fezziwig, beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts
they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the
business. In came the housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the
cook with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy
from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his
master, trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one
who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress; in they all
came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once;
hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up
again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping, old
top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting
off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a
bottom one to help them.
When this result was brought about the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de
Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top
couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or
four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled
with; people who would dance and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been thrice as many--oh, four times as many--old
Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig.
As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term.
If that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A positive
light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part
of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any given time
what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig
had gone all through the dance, advance and retire; both hands to your
partner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again
to your place; Fezziwig "cut"--cut so deftly that he appeared to wink
with his legs, and came upon his feet again with a stagger.
When the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs.
Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and
shaking hands with every person individually, as he or she went out,
wished him or her a Merry Christmas!
II
THE FIR-TREE[A]
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
OUT in the woods stood a nice little Fir-tree. The place he had was a
very good one; the sun shone on him; as to fresh air, there was enough
of that, and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as
firs. But the little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.
He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care
for the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they
were in the woods looking for wild strawberries. The children often came
with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on
a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, "Oh, how pretty he
is! what a nice little fir!" But this was what the Tree could not bear
to hear.
At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year
he was another long bit taller; for with fir-trees one can always tell
by the shoots how many years old they are.
"Oh, were I but such a high tree as the others are!" sighed he. "Then I
should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look
into the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my branches;
and when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as
the others!"
Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds, which morning
and evening sailed above them, gave the little Tree any pleasure.
In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would
often come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that
made him so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third the tree
was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it. "To grow and
grow, to get older and be tall," thought the Tree--"that, after all, is
the most delightful thing in the world!"
In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest
trees. This happened every year; and the young Fir-tree, that had now
grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent
great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were
lopped off, and the trees looked long and bare; they were hardly to be
recognized; and then they were laid in carts, and the horses dragged
them out of the woods.
Where did they go to? What became of them?
In spring, when the Swallows and the Storks came, the Tree asked them,
"Don't you know where they have been taken? Have you not met them
anywhere?"
The Swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork looked
musing, nodded his head, and said: "Yes, I think I know; I met many
ships as I was flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent
masts, and I venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir. I
may congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most
majestically!"
"Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how does the sea
look in reality? What is it like?"
"That would take a long time to explain," said the Stork, and with these
words off he went.
"Rejoice in thy growth!" said the Sunbeams, "rejoice in thy vigorous
growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!"
And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him; but the
Fir understood it not.
When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down; trees which often
were not even as large or of the same age as this Fir-tree, who could
never rest, but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and they
were always the finest looking, retained their branches; they were laid
on carts, and the horses drew them out of the woods.
"Where are they going to?" asked the Fir. "They are not taller than I;
there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do they
retain all their branches? Whither are they taken?"
"We know! we know!" chirped the Sparrows. "We have peeped in at the
windows in the town below! We know whither they are taken! The greatest
splendour and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We
peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the
warm room, and ornamented with the most splendid things--with gilded
apples, with gingerbread, with toys, and many hundred lights!"
"And then?" asked the Fir-tree, trembling in every bough. "And then?
What happens then?"
"We did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful."
"I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a career," cried the
Tree, rejoicing. "That is still better than to cross the sea! What a
longing do I suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my
branches spread like the others that were carried off last year! Oh,
were I but already on the cart. Were I in the warm room with all the
splendour and magnificence! Yes; then something better, something still
grander, will surely follow, or wherefore should they thus ornament me?
Something better, something still grander, _must_ follow--but what? Oh,
how I long, how I suffer! I do not know myself what is the matter with
me!"
"Rejoice in our presence!" said the Air and the Sunlight; "rejoice in
thy own fresh youth!"
But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green
both winter and summer. People that saw him said, "What a fine tree!"
and toward Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The axe
struck deep into the very pith; the tree fell to the earth with a sigh:
he felt a pang--it was like a swoon; he could not think of happiness,
for he was sorrowful at being separated from his home, from the place
where he had sprung up. He knew well that he should never see his dear
old comrades, the little bushes and flowers around him, any more;
perhaps not even the birds! The departure was not at all agreeable.
The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a courtyard with
the other trees, and heard a man say, "That one is splendid! we don't
want the others." Then two servants came in rich livery and carried the
Fir-tree into a large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hanging
on the walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese
vases with lions on the covers. There, too, were large easy chairs,
silken sofas, large tables full of picture-books, and full of toys worth
hundreds and hundreds of crowns--at least the children said so. And the
Fir-tree was stuck upright in a cask that was filled with sand: but no
one could see that it was a cask, for green cloth was hung all around
it, and it stood on a large gayly coloured carpet. Oh, how the Tree
quivered! What was to happen? The servants, as well as the young ladies,
decorated it. On one branch there hung little nets cut out of coloured
paper, and each net was filled with sugar-plums; and among the other
boughs gilded apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as though they
had grown there, and little blue and white tapers were placed among the
leaves. Dolls that looked for all the world like men--the Tree had never
beheld such before--were seen among the foliage, and at the very top a
large star of gold tinsel was fixed. It was really splendid--beyond
description splendid.
"This evening!" said they all; "how it will shine this evening!"
"Oh," thought the Tree, "if the evening were but come! If the tapers
were but lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the other
trees from the forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows will
beat against the window-panes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and
winter and summer stand covered with ornaments!"
He knew very much about the matter! but he was so impatient that for
sheer longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the same
thing as a headache with us.
The candles were now lighted. What brightness! What splendour! The Tree
trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the
foliage. It blazed up splendidly.
"Help! Help!" cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.
Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he was in! He was
so uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendour, that he was
quite bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both
folding-doors opened, and a troop of children rushed in as if they
would upset the Tree. The older persons followed quietly; the little
ones stood quite still. But it was only for a moment; then they shouted
so that the whole place reëchoed with their rejoicing; they danced round
the tree, and one present after the other was pulled off.
"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What is to happen now?" And
the lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down
they were put out, one after the other, and then the children had
permission to plunder the tree. So they fell upon it with such violence
that all its branches cracked; if it had not been fixed firmly in the
cask, it would certainly have tumbled down.
The children danced about with their beautiful playthings: no one looked
at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but
it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been
forgotten.
"A story! a story!" cried the children, drawing a little fat man toward
the tree. He seated himself under it, and said: "Now we are in the
shade, and the Tree can listen, too. But I shall tell only one story.
Now which will you have: that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Klumpy-Dumpy
who tumbled downstairs, and yet after all came to the throne and married
the princess?"
"Ivedy-Avedy!" cried some; "Klumpy-Dumpy!" cried the others. There was
such a bawling and screaming--the Fir-tree alone was silent, and he
thought to himself, "Am I not to bawl with the rest?--am I to do nothing
whatever?" for he was one of the company, and had done what he had to
do.
And the man told about Klumpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who
notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess.
And the children clapped their hands, and cried out, "Oh, go on! Do go
on!" They wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy, too, but the little man only
told them about Klumpy-Dumpy. The Fir-tree stood quite still and
absorbed in thought; the birds in the woods had never related the like
of this. "Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess!
Yes! Yes! that's the way of the world!" thought the Fir-tree, and
believed it all, because the man who told the story was so good-looking.
"Well, well! who knows, perhaps I may fall downstairs, too, and get a
princess as wife!" And he looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he
hoped to be decked out again with lights, playthings, fruits, and
tinsel.
"I won't tremble to-morrow," thought the Fir-tree. "I will enjoy to the
full all my splendour. To-morrow I shall hear again the story of
Klumpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy, too." And the whole night
the Tree stood still and in deep thought.
In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.
"Now, then, the splendour will begin again," thought the Fir. But they
dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft; and here
in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him. "What's
the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What
shall I hear now, I wonder?" And he leaned against the wall, lost in
reverie. Time enough had he, too, for his reflections; for days and
nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at last somebody did
come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner out of the way.
There stood the Tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely
forgotten.
"'Tis now winter out of doors!" thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and
covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have been
put up here under shelter till the springtime comes! How thoughtful that
is! How kind man is, after all! If it only were not so dark here, and so
terribly lonely! Not even a hare. And out in the woods it was so
pleasant, when the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by;
yes--even when he jumped over me; but I did not like it then. It is
really terribly lonely here!"
"Squeak! squeak!" said a little Mouse at the same moment, peeping out of
his hole. And then another little one came. They sniffed about the
Fir-tree, and rustled among the branches.
"It is dreadfully cold," said the Mouse. "But for that, it would be
delightful here, old Fir, wouldn't it?"
"I am by no means old," said the Fir-tree. "There's many a one
considerably older than I am."
"Where do you come from," asked the Mice; "and what can you do?" They
were so extremely curious. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the
earth. Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder, where
cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances
about on tallow-candles; that place where one enters lean, and comes out
again fat and portly?"
"I know no such place," said the Tree, "but I know the woods, where the
sun shines, and where the little birds sing." And then he told all about
his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before; and they
listened and said:
"Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have
been!"
"I?" said the Fir-tree, thinking over what he had himself related. "Yes,
in reality those were happy times." And then he told about Christmas
Eve, when he was decked out with cakes and candles.
"Oh," said the little Mice, "how fortunate you have been, old Fir-tree!"
"I am by no means old," said he. "I came from the woods this winter; I
am in my prime, and am only rather short for my age."
"What delightful stories you know!" said the Mice; and the next night
they came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the tree
recounted; and the more he related, the more plainly he remembered all
himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy times.
"But they may still come--they may still come. Klumpy-Dumpy fell
downstairs and yet he got a princess," and he thought at the moment of a
nice little Birch-tree growing out in the woods; to the Fir, that would
be a real charming princess.
"Who is Klumpy-Dumpy?" asked the Mice. So then the Fir-tree told the
whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and the
little Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next night
two more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats, even; but they said the
stories were not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and they,
too, now began to think them not so very amusing either.
"Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.
"Only that one," answered the Tree. "I heard it on my happiest evening;
but I did not then know how happy I was."
"It is a very stupid story. Don't you know one about bacon and tallow
candles? Can't you tell any larder stories?"
"No," said the Tree.
"Then good-bye," said the Rats; and they went home.
At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: "After
all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat around me and
listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take
good care to enjoy myself when I am brought out again."
But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of
people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the Tree was
pulled out and thrown--rather hard, it is true--down on the floor, but a
man drew him toward the stairs, where the daylight shone.
"Now a merry life will begin again," thought the Tree. He felt the fresh
air, the first sunbeam--and now he was out in the courtyard. All passed
so quickly, there was so much going on around him, that the Tree quite
forgot to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was in
flower; the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the
lindens were in blossom, the Swallows flew by, and said, "Quirre-vit! my
husband is come!" but it was not the Fir-tree that they meant.
"Now, then, I shall really enjoy life," said he, exultingly, and spread
out his branches; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow. It was
in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of
tinsel was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.
In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had danced
at Christmas round the Fir-tree, and were so glad at the sight of him.
One of the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.
"Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!" said he,
trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet.
And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in
the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark
corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the woods, of the
merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had listened with so
much pleasure to the story of Klumpy-Dumpy.
"'Tis over--'tis past!" said the poor Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I
had reason to do so! But now 'tis past, 'tis past!"
And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a
whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large
brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.
The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star
on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his
life. However, that was over now--the Tree gone, the story at an end.
All, all was over; every tale must end at last.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Reprinted by permission of the Houghton-Mifflin Company.
III
THE CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE[B]
MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
ON Christmas Eve the Mayor's stately mansion presented a beautiful
appearance. There were rows of different coloured wax candles burning in
every window, and beyond them one could see the chandeliers of gold and
crystal blazing with light. The fiddles were squeaking merrily, and
lovely little forms flew past the windows in time to the music.
There were gorgeous carpets laid from the door to the street, and
carriages were constantly arriving and fresh guests tripping over them.
They were all children. The Mayor was giving a Christmas Masquerade
to-night to all the children in the city, the poor as well as the rich.
The preparation for this ball had been making an immense sensation for
the last three months. Placards had been up in the most conspicuous
points in the city, and all the daily newspapers had at least a column
devoted to it, headed with "THE MAYOR'S CHRISTMAS MASQUERADE," in very
large letters.
The Mayor had promised to defray the expenses of all the poor children
whose parents were unable to do so, and the bills for their costumes
were directed to be sent in to him.
Of course there was great excitement among the regular costumers of the
city, and they all resolved to vie with one another in being the most
popular, and the best patronized on this gala occasion. But the placards
and the notices had not been out a week before a new Costumer appeared
who cast all the others into the shade directly. He set up his shop on
the corner of one of the principal streets, and hung up his beautiful
costumes in the windows. He was a little fellow, not much bigger than a
boy of ten. His cheeks were as red as roses, and he had on a long
curling wig as white as snow. He wore a suit of crimson velvet
knee-breeches, and a little swallow-tailed coat with beautiful golden
buttons. Deep lace ruffles fell over his slender white hands, and he
wore elegant knee buckles of glittering stones. He sat on a high stool
behind his counter and served his customers himself; he kept no clerk.
It did not take the children long to discover what beautiful things he
had, and how superior he was to the other costumers, and they begun to
flock to his shop immediately, from the Mayor's daughter to the poor
ragpicker's. The children were to select their own costumes; the Mayor
had stipulated that. It was to be a children's ball in every sense of
the word.
So they decided to be fairies and shepherdesses, and princesses
according to their own fancies; and this new Costumer had charming
costumes to suit them.
It was noticeable that, for the most part, the children of the rich, who
had always had everything they desired, would choose the parts of
goose-girls and peasants and such like; and the poor children jumped
eagerly at the chance of being princesses or fairies for a few hours in
their miserable lives.
When Christmas Eve came and the children flocked into the Mayor's
mansion, whether it was owing to the Costumer's art, or their own
adaptation to the characters they had chosen, it was wonderful how
lifelike their representations were. Those little fairies in their short
skirts of silken gauze, in which golden sparkles appeared as they moved
with their little funny gossamer wings, like butterflies, looked like
real fairies. It did not seem possible, when they floated around to the
music, half supported on the tips of their dainty toes, half by their
filmy purple wings, their delicate bodies swaying in time, that they
could be anything but fairies. It seemed absurd to imagine that they
were Johnny Mullens, the washerwoman's son, and Polly Flinders, the
charwoman's little girl, and so on.
The Mayor's daughter, who had chosen the character of a goose-girl,
looked so like a true one that one could hardly dream she ever was
anything else. She was, ordinarily, a slender, dainty little lady rather
tall for her age. She now looked very short and stubbed and brown, just
as if she had been accustomed to tend geese in all sorts of weather. It
was so with all the others--the Red Riding-hoods, the princesses, the
Bo-Peeps and with every one of the characters who came to the Mayor's
ball; Red Riding-hood looked round, with big, frightened eyes, all ready
to spy the wolf, and carried her little pat of butter and pot of honey
gingerly in her basket; Bo-Peep's eyes looked red with weeping for the
loss of her sheep; and the princesses swept about so grandly in their
splendid brocaded trains, and held their crowned heads so high that
people half-believed them to be true princesses.
But there never was anything like the fun at the Mayor's Christmas ball.
The fiddlers fiddled and fiddled, and the children danced and danced on
the beautiful waxed floors. The Mayor, with his family and a few grand
guests, sat on a daïs covered with blue velvet at one end of the dancing
hall, and watched the sport. They were all delighted. The Mayor's eldest
daughter sat in front and clapped her little soft white hands. She was a
tall, beautiful young maiden, and wore a white dress, and a little cap
woven of blue violets on her yellow hair. Her name was Violetta.
The supper was served at midnight--and such a supper! The mountains of
pink and white ices, and the cakes with sugar castles and flower gardens
on the tops of them, and the charming shapes of gold and ruby-coloured
jellies. There were wonderful bonbons which even the Mayor's daughter
did not have every day; and all sorts of fruits, fresh and candied.
They had cowslip wine in green glasses, and elderberry wine in red, and
they drank each other's health. The glasses held a thimbleful each; the
Mayor's wife thought that was all the wine they ought to have. Under
each child's plate there was a pretty present and every one had a basket
of bonbons and cake to carry home.
At four o'clock the fiddlers put up their fiddles and the children went
home; fairies and shepherdesses and pages and princesses all jabbering
gleefully about the splendid time they had had.
But in a short time what consternation there was throughout the city.
When the proud and fond parents attempted to unbutton their children's
dresses, in order to prepare them for bed, not a single costume would
come off. The buttons buttoned again as fast as they were unbuttoned;
even if they pulled out a pin, in it would slip again in a twinkling;
and when a string was untied it tied itself up again into a bowknot. The
parents were dreadfully frightened. But the children were so tired out
they finally let them go to bed in their fancy costumes and thought
perhaps they would come off better in the morning. So Red Riding-hood
went to bed in her little red cloak holding fast to her basket full of
dainties for her grandmother, and Bo-Peep slept with her crook in her
hand.
The children all went to bed readily enough, they were so very tired,
even though they had to go in this strange array. All but the
fairies--they danced and pirouetted and would not be still.
"We want to swing on the blades of grass," they kept saying, "and play
hide and seek in the lily cups, and take a nap between the leaves of the
roses."
The poor charwomen and coal-heavers, whose children the fairies were for
the most part, stared at them in great distress. They did not know what
to do with these radiant, frisky little creatures into which their
Johnnys and their Pollys and Betseys were so suddenly transformed. But
the fairies went to bed quietly enough when daylight came, and were soon
fast asleep.
There was no further trouble till twelve o'clock, when all the children
woke up. Then a great wave of alarm spread over the city. Not one of the
costumes would come off then. The buttons buttoned as fast as they were
unbuttoned; the pins quilted themselves in as fast as they were pulled
out; and the strings flew round like lightning and twisted themselves
into bowknots as fast as they were untied.
And that was not the worst of it; every one of the children seemed to
have become, in reality, the character which he or she had assumed.
The Mayor's daughter declared she was going to tend her geese out in the
pasture, and the shepherdesses sprang out of their little beds of down,
throwing aside their silken quilts, and cried that they must go out and
watch their sheep. The princesses jumped up from their straw pallets,
and wanted to go to court; and all the rest of them likewise. Poor
little Red Riding-hood sobbed and sobbed because she couldn't go and
carry her basket to her grandmother, and as she didn't have any
grandmother she couldn't go, of course, and her parents were very much
troubled. It was all so mysterious and dreadful. The news spread very
rapidly over the city, and soon a great crowd gathered around the new
Costumer's shop for every one thought he must be responsible for all
this mischief.
The shop door was locked; but they soon battered it down with stones.
When they rushed in the Costumer was not there; he had disappeared with
all his wares. Then they did not know what to do. But it was evident
that they must do something before long for the state of affairs was
growing worse and worse.
The Mayor's little daughter braced her back up against the tapestried
wall, and planted her two feet in their thick shoes firmly. "I will go
and tend my geese," she kept crying. "I won't eat my breakfast. I won't
go out in the park. I won't go to school. I'm going to tend my geese--I
will, I will, I will!"
And the princesses trailed their rich trains over the rough unpainted
floors in their parents' poor little huts, and held their crowned heads
very high and demanded to be taken to court. The princesses were mostly
geese-girls when they were their proper selves, and their geese were
suffering, and their poor parents did not know what they were going to
do and they wrung their hands and wept as they gazed on their gorgeously
apparelled children.
Finally the Mayor called a meeting of the Aldermen, and they all
assembled in the City Hall. Nearly every one of them had a son or a
daughter who was a chimney-sweep, or a little watch-girl, or a
shepherdess. They appointed a chairman and they took a great many votes
and contrary votes but they did not agree on anything, until every one
proposed that they consult the Wise Woman. Then they all held up their
hands, and voted to, unanimously.
So the whole board of Aldermen set out, walking by twos, with the Mayor
at their head, to consult the Wise Woman. The Aldermen were all very
fleshy, and carried gold-headed canes which they swung very high at
every step. They held their heads well back, and their chins stiff, and
whenever they met common people they sniffed gently. They were very
imposing.
The Wise Woman lived in a little hut on the outskirts of the city. She
kept a Black Cat, except for her, she was all alone. She was very old,
and had brought up a great many children, and she was considered
remarkably wise.
But when the Aldermen reached her hut and found her seated by the fire,
holding her Black Cat, a new difficulty presented itself. She had always
been quite deaf and people had been obliged to scream as loud as they
could in order to make her hear; but lately she had grown much deafer,
and when the Aldermen attempted to lay the case before her she could not
hear a word. In fact, she was so very deaf that she could not
distinguish a tone below G-sharp. The Aldermen screamed till they were
quite red in the faces, but all to no purpose: none of them could get up
to G-sharp of course.
So the Aldermen all went back, swinging their gold-headed canes, and
they had another meeting in the City Hall. Then they decided to send the
highest Soprano Singer in the church choir to the Wise Woman; she could
sing up to G-sharp just as easy as not. So the high Soprano Singer set
out for the Wise Woman's in the Mayor's coach, and the Aldermen marched
behind, swinging their gold-headed canes.
The High Soprano Singer put her head down close to the Wise Woman's ear,
and sung all about the Christmas Masquerade and the dreadful dilemma
everybody was in, in G-sharp--she even went higher, sometimes, and the
Wise Woman heard every word. She nodded three times, and every time she
nodded she looked wiser.
"Go home, and give 'em a spoonful of castor-oil, all 'round," she piped
up; then she took a pinch of snuff, and wouldn't say any more.
So the Aldermen went home, and every one took a district and marched
through it, with a servant carrying an immense bowl and spoon, and every
child had to take a dose of castor-oil.
But it didn't do a bit of good. The children cried and struggled when
they were forced to take the castor-oil; but, two minutes afterward, the
chimney-sweeps were crying for their brooms, and the princesses
screaming because they couldn't go to court, and the Mayor's daughter,
who had been given a double dose, cried louder and more sturdily: "I
want to go and tend my geese. I will go and tend my geese."
So the Aldermen took the high Soprano Singer, and they consulted the
Wise Woman again. She was taking a nap this time, and the Singer had to
sing up to B-flat before she could wake her. Then she was very cross and
the Black Cat put up his back and spit at the Aldermen.
"Give 'em a spanking all 'round," she snapped out, "and if that don't
work put 'em to bed without their supper."
Then the Aldermen marched back to try that; and all the children in the
city were spanked, and when that didn't do any good they were put to bed
without any supper. But the next morning when they woke up they were
worse than ever.
The Mayor and Aldermen were very indignant, and considered that they had
been imposed upon and insulted. So they set out for the Wise Woman
again, with the high Soprano Singer.
She sang in G-sharp how the Aldermen and the Mayor considered her an
impostor, and did not think she was wise at all, and they wished her to
take her Black Cat and move beyond the limits of the city. She sang it
beautifully; it sounded like the very finest Italian opera music.
"Deary me," piped the Wise Woman, when she had finished, "how very grand
these gentlemen are." Her Black Cat put up his back and spit.
"Five times one Black Cat are five Black Cats," said the Wise Woman. And
directly there were five Black Cats spitting and miauling.
"Five times five Black Cats are twenty-five Black Cats." And then there
were twenty-five of the angry little beasts.
"Five times twenty-five Black Cats are one hundred and twenty-five Black
Cats," added the Wise Woman with a chuckle.
Then the Mayor and the Aldermen and the high Soprano Singer fled
precipitately out the door and back to the city. One hundred and
twenty-five Black Cats had seemed to fill the Wise Woman's hut full, and
when they all spit and miauled together it was dreadful. The visitors
could not wait for her to multiply Black Cats any longer.
As winter wore on and spring came, the condition of things grew more
intolerable. Physicians had been consulted, who advised that the
children should be allowed to follow their own bents, for fear of injury
to their constitutions. So the rich Aldermen's daughters were actually
out in the fields herding sheep, and their sons sweeping chimneys or
carrying newspapers; and while the poor charwomen's and coal-heavers
children spent their time like princesses and fairies. Such a
topsy-turvy state of society was shocking. While the Mayor's little
daughter was tending geese out in the meadow like any common goose-girl,
her pretty elder sister, Violetta, felt very sad about it and used often
to cast about in her mind for some way of relief.
When cherries were ripe in spring, Violetta thought she would ask the
Cherry-man about it. She thought the Cherry-man quite wise. He was a
very pretty young fellow, and he brought cherries to sell in graceful
little straw baskets lined with moss. So she stood in the kitchen door
one morning and told him all about the great trouble that had come upon
the city. He listened in great astonishment; he had never heard of it
before. He lived several miles out in the country.
"How did the Costumer look?" he asked respectfully; he thought Violetta
the most beautiful lady on earth.
Then Violetta described the Costumer, and told him of the unavailing
attempts that had been made to find him. There were a great many
detectives out, constantly at work.
"I know where he is!" said the Cherry-man. "He's up in one of my
cherry-trees. He's been living there ever since cherries were ripe, and
he won't come down."
Then Violetta ran and told her father in great excitement, and he at
once called a meeting of the Aldermen, and in a few hours half the city
was on the road to the Cherry-man's.
He had a beautiful orchard of cherry-trees all laden with fruit. And,
sure enough in one of the largest, way up amongst the topmost branches,
sat the Costumer in his red velvet and short clothes and his diamond
knee-buckles. He looked down between the green boughs. "Good-morning,
friends!" he shouted.
The Aldermen shook their gold-headed canes at him, and the people danced
round the tree in a rage. Then they began to climb. But they soon found
that to be impossible. As fast as they touched a hand or foot to a tree,
back it flew with a jerk exactly as if the tree pushed it. They tried a
ladder, but the ladder fell back the moment it touched the tree, and lay
sprawling upon the ground. Finally, they brought axes and thought they
could chop the tree down, Costumer and all; but the wood resisted the
axes as if it were iron, and only dented them, receiving no impression
itself.
Meanwhile, the Costumer sat up in the tree, eating cherries and throwing
the stones down. Finally he stood up on a stout branch, and, looking
down, addressed the people.
"It's of no use, your trying to accomplish anything in this way," said
he; "you'd better parley. I'm willing to come to terms with you, and
make everything right on two conditions."
The people grew quiet then, and the Mayor stepped forward as spokesman,
"Name your two conditions," said he rather testily. "You own, tacitly,
that you are the cause of all this trouble."
"Well," said the Costumer, reaching out for a handful of cherries, "this
Christmas Masquerade of yours was a beautiful idea; but you wouldn't do
it every year, and your successors might not do it at all. I want those
poor children to have a Christmas every year. My first condition is that
every poor child in the city hangs its stocking for gifts in the City
Hall on every Christmas Eve, and gets it filled, too. I want the
resolution filed and put away in the city archives."
"We agree to the first condition!" cried the people with one voice,
without waiting for the Mayor and Aldermen.
"The second condition," said the Costumer, "is that this good young
Cherry-man here has the Mayor's daughter, Violetta, for his wife. He has
been kind to me, letting me live in his cherry-tree and eat his cherries
and I want to reward him."
"We consent," cried all the people; but the Mayor, though he was so
generous, was a proud man. "I will not consent to the second condition,"
he cried angrily.
"Very well," replied the Costumer, picking some more cherries, "then
your youngest daughter tends geese the rest of her life, that's all."
The Mayor was in great distress; but the thought of his youngest
daughter being a goose-girl all her life was too much for him. He gave
in at last.
"Now go home and take the costumes off your children," said the
Costumer, "and leave me in peace to eat cherries."
Then the people hastened back to the city, and found, to their great
delight, that the costumes would come off. The pins stayed out, the
buttons stayed unbuttoned, and the strings stayed untied. The children
were dressed in their own proper clothes and were their own proper
selves once more. The shepherdesses and the chimney-sweeps came home,
and were washed and dressed in silks and velvets, and went to
embroidering and playing lawn-tennis. And the princesses and the fairies
put on their own suitable dresses, and went about their useful
employments. There was great rejoicing in every home. Violetta thought
she had never been so happy, now that her dear little sister was no
longer a goose-girl, but her own dainty little lady-self.
The resolution to provide every poor child in the city with a stocking
full of gifts on Christmas was solemnly filed, and deposited in the city
archives, and was never broken.
Violetta was married to the Cherry-man, and all the children came to the
wedding, and strewed flowers in her path till her feet were quite hidden
in them. The Costumer had mysteriously disappeared from the cherry-tree
the night before, but he left at the foot some beautiful wedding
presents for the bride--a silver service with a pattern of cherries
engraved on it, and a set of china with cherries on it, in hand
painting, and a white satin robe, embroidered with cherries down the
front.
FOOTNOTE:
[B] From "The Pot of Gold," copyright by Lothrop, Lee & Shepherd Co.
IV
THE SHEPHERDS AND THE ANGELS
ADAPTED FROM THE BIBLE
AND there were shepherds in the same country abiding in the field, and
keeping watch by night over their flock. And an angel of the Lord stood
by them and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were
sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Be not afraid; for, behold, I
bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all the people:
for there is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, which
is Christ the Lord. And this is the sign unto you; ye shall find a babe
wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger. And suddenly there
was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and
saying:
Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace,
Good will toward men.
And it came to pass, when the angels went away from them into heaven,
the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem,
and see this thing that is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known
unto us. And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph and the
babe lying in the manger. And when they saw it, they made known
concerning the saying which was spoken to them about this child. And all
that heard it wondered at the things which were spoken unto them by the
shepherds. But Mary kept all these sayings, pondering them in her heart.
And the shepherds returned glorifying and praising God for all the
things that they had heard and seen, even as it was spoken unto them.
And when eight days were fulfilled his name was called
JESUS
V
THE TELLTALE TILE[C]
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
IT BEGINS with a bit of gossip of a neighbour who had come in to see
Miss Bennett, and was telling her about a family who had lately moved
into the place and were in serious trouble. "And they do say she'll have
to go to the poorhouse," she ended.
"To the poorhouse! how dreadful! And the children, too?" and Miss
Bennett shuddered.
"Yes; unless somebody'll adopt them, and that's not very likely. Well, I
must go," the visitor went on, rising. "I wish I could do something for
her, but, with my houseful of children, I've got use for every penny I
can rake and scrape."
"I'm sure I have, with only myself," said Miss Bennett, as she closed
the door. "I'm sure I have," she repeated to herself as she resumed her
knitting; "it's as much as I can do to make ends meet, scrimping as I
do, not to speak of laying up a cent for sickness and old age."
"But the poorhouse!" she said again. "I wish I could help her!" and the
needles flew in and out, in and out, faster than ever, as she turned
this over in her mind. "I might give up something," she said at last,
"though I don't know what, unless--unless," she said slowly, thinking of
her one luxury, "unless I give up my tea, and it don't seem as if I
_could_ do that."
Some time the thought worked in her mind, and finally she resolved to
make the sacrifice of her only indulgence for six months, and send the
money to her suffering neighbour, Mrs. Stanley, though she had never
seen her, and she had only heard she was in want.
How much of a sacrifice that was you can hardly guess, you, Kristy, who
have so many luxuries.
That evening Mrs. Stanley was surprised by a small gift of money "from a
friend," as was said on the envelope containing it.
"Who sent it?" she asked, from the bed where she was lying.
"Miss Bennett told me not to tell," said the boy, unconscious that he
had already told.
The next day Miss Bennett sat at the window knitting, as usual--for her
constant contribution to the poor fund of the church was a certain
number of stockings and mittens--when she saw a young girl coming up to
the door of the cottage.
"Who can that be?" she said to herself. "I never saw her before. Come
in!" she called, in answer to a knock. The girl entered, and walked up
to Miss Bennett.
"Are you Miss Bennett?" she asked.
"Yes," said Miss Bennett with an amused smile.
"Well, I'm Hetty Stanley."
Miss Bennett started, and her colour grew a little brighter.
"I'm glad to see you, Hetty," she said "won't you sit down?"
"Yes, if you please," said Hetty, taking a chair near her.
"I came to tell you how much we love you for----"
"Oh, don't! don't say any more!" interrupted Miss Bennett; "never mind
that! Tell me about your mother and your baby brother."
This was an interesting subject, and they talked earnestly about it. The
time passed so quickly that, before she knew it, she had been in the
house an hour. When she went away Miss Bennett asked her to come again,
a thing she had never been known to do before, for she was not fond of
young people in general.
"But, then, Hetty's different," she said to herself, when wondering at
her own interest.
"Did you thank kind Miss Bennett?" was her mother's question as Hetty
opened the door.
Hetty stopped as if struck, "Why, no! I don't think I did."
"And stayed so long, too? Whatever did you do? I've heard she isn't fond
of people generally."
"We talked; and--I think she's ever so nice. She asked me to come again;
may I?"
"Of course you may, if she cares to have you. I should be glad to do
something to please her."
That visit of Hetty's was the first of a long series. Almost every day
she found her way to the lonely cottage, where a visitor rarely came,
and a strange intimacy grew up between the old and the young. Hetty
learned of her friend to knit, and many an hour they spent knitting
while Miss Bennett ransacked her memory for stories to tell. And then,
one day, she brought down from a big chest in the garret two of the
books she used to have when she was young, and let Hetty look at them.
One was "Thaddeus of Warsaw," and the other "Scottish Chiefs." Poor
Hetty had not the dozens of books you have, and these were treasures
indeed. She read them to herself, and she read them aloud to Miss
Bennett, who, much to her own surprise, found her interest almost as
eager as Hetty's.
All this time Christmas was drawing near, and strange, unusual feelings
began to stir in Miss Bennett's heart, though generally she did not
think much about that happy time. She wanted to make Hetty a happy day.
Money she had none, so she went into the garret, where her youthful
treasures had long been hidden. From the chest from which she had taken
the books she now took a small box of light-coloured wood, with a
transferred engraving on the cover. With a sigh--for the sight of it
brought up old memories--Miss Bennett lifted the cover by its loop of
ribbon, took out a package of old letters, and went downstairs with the
box, taking also a few bits of bright silk from a bundle in the chest.
"I can fit it up for a workbox," she said, "and I'm sure Hetty will like
it."
For many days after this Miss Bennett had her secret work, which she
carefully hid when she saw Hetty coming. Slowly, in this way, she made a
pretty needle-book, a tiny pincushion, and an emery bag like a big
strawberry. Then from her own scanty stock she added needles, pins,
thread, and her only pair of small scissors, scoured to the last extreme
of brightness. One thing only she had to buy--a thimble, and that she
bought for a penny, of brass so bright it was quite as handsome as gold.
Very pretty the little box looked when full; in the bottom lay a quilted
lining, which had always been there, and upon this the fittings she had
made. Besides this, Miss Bennett knit a pair of mittens for each of
Hetty's brothers and sisters.
The happiest girl in town on Christmas morning was Hetty Stanley. To
begin with, she had the delight of giving the mittens to the children,
and when she ran over to tell Miss Bennett how pleased they were, she
was surprised by the present of the odd little workbox and its pretty
contents.
Christmas was over all too soon, and New Year's, and it was about the
middle of January that the time came which, all her life, Miss Bennett
had dreaded--the time when she should be helpless. She had not money
enough to hire a girl, and so the only thing she could imagine when that
day should come was her special horror--the poorhouse.
But that good deed of hers had already borne fruit, and was still
bearing. When Hetty came over one day, and found her dear friend lying
on the floor as if dead, she was dreadfully frightened, of course, but
she ran after the neighbours and the doctor, and bustled about the house
as if she belonged to it.
Miss Bennett was not dead--she had a slight stroke of paralysis; and
though she was soon better, and would be able to talk, and probably to
knit, and possibly to get about the house, she would never be able to
live alone and do everything for herself, as she had done.
So the doctor told the neighbours who came in to help, and so Hetty
heard, as she listened eagerly for news.
"Of course she can't live here any longer; she'll have to go to a
hospital," said one woman.
"Or to the poorhouse, more likely," said another.
"She'll hate that," said the first speaker. "I've heard her shudder over
the poorhouse."
"She shall never go there!" declared Hetty, with blazing eyes.
"Hoity-toity! who's to prevent?" asked the second speaker, turning a
look of disdain on Hetty.
"I am," was the fearless answer. "I know all Miss Bennett's ways, and I
can take care of her, and I will," went on Hetty indignantly; and
turning suddenly, she was surprised to find Miss Bennett's eyes fixed on
her with an eager, questioning look.
"There! she understands! she's better!" cried Hetty. "Mayn't I stay and
take care of you, dear Miss Bennett?" she asked, running up to the bed.
"Yes, you may," interrupted the doctor, seeing the look in his patient's
face; "but you mustn't agitate her now. And now, my good women"--turning
to the others--"I think she can get along with her young friend here,
whom I happen to know is a womanly young girl, and will be attentive and
careful."
They took the hint and went away, and the doctor gave directions to
Hetty what to do, telling her she must not leave Miss Bennett. So she
was now regularly installed as nurse and housekeeper.
Days and weeks rolled by. Miss Bennett was able to be up in her chair,
to talk and knit, and to walk about the house, but was not able to be
left alone. Indeed, she had a horror of being left alone; she could not
bear Hetty out of her sight, and Hetty's mother was very willing to
spare her, for she had many mouths to fill.
To provide food for two out of what had been scrimping for one was a
problem; but Miss Bennett ate very little, and she did not resume her
tea so they managed to get along and not really suffer.
One day Hetty sat by the fire with her precious box on her knee, which
she was putting to rights for the twentieth time. The box was empty, and
her sharp young eyes noticed a little dust on the silk lining.
"I think I'll take this out and dust it," she said to Miss Bennett, "if
you don't mind."
"Do as you like with it," answered Miss Bennett; "it is yours."
So she carefully lifted the silk, which stuck a little.
"Why, here's something under it," she said--"an old paper, and it has
writing on."
"Bring it to me," said Miss Bennett; "perhaps it's a letter I have
forgotten."
Hetty brought it.
"Why, it's father's writing!" said Miss Bennett, looking closely at the
faded paper; "and what can it mean? I never saw it before. It says,
'Look, and ye shall find'--that's a Bible text. And what is this under
it? 'A word to the wise is sufficient.' I don't understand--he must have
put it there himself, for I never took that lining out--I thought it was
fastened. What can it mean?" and she pondered over it long, and all day
seemed absent-minded.
After tea, when they sat before the kitchen fire, as they always did,
with only the firelight flickering and dancing on the walls while they
knitted, or told stories, or talked, she told Hetty about her father:
that they had lived comfortably in this house, which he built, and that
everybody supposed that he had plenty of money, and would leave enough
to take care of his only child, but that when he died suddenly nothing
had been found, and nothing ever had been, from that day to this.
"Part of the place I let to John Thompson, Hetty, and that rent is all I
have to live on. I don't know what makes me think of old times so
to-night."
"I know," said Hetty; "it's that paper, and I know what it reminds me
of," she suddenly shouted, in a way very unusual with her. "It's that
tile over there," and she jumped up and ran to the side of the
fireplace, and put her hand on the tile she meant.
On each side of the fireplace was a row of tiles. They were Bible
subjects, and Miss Bennett had often told Hetty the story of each one,
and also the stories she used to make up about them when she was young.
The one Hetty had her hand on now bore the picture of a woman standing
before a closed door, and below her the words of the yellow bit of
paper: "Look, and ye shall find."
"I always felt there was something different about that," said Hetty
eagerly, "and you know you told me your father talked to you about
it--about what to seek in the world when he was gone away, and other
things."
"Yes, so he did," said Miss Bennett thoughtfully; "come to think of it,
he said a great deal about it, and in a meaning way. I don't understand
it," she said slowly, turning it over in her mind.
"I do!" cried Hetty, enthusiastically. "I believe you are to seek here!
I believe it's loose!" and she tried to shake it. "It _is_ loose!" she
cried excitedly. "Oh, Miss Bennett, may I take it out?"
Miss Bennett had turned deadly pale. "Yes," she gasped, hardly knowing
what she expected, or dared to hope.
A sudden push from Hetty's strong fingers, and the tile slipped out at
one side and fell to the floor. Behind it was an opening into the
brickwork. Hetty thrust in her hand.
"There's something in there!" she said in an awed tone.
"A light!" said Miss Bennett hoarsely.
There was not a candle in the house, but Hetty seized a brand from the
fire, and held it up and looked in.
"It looks like bags--tied up," she cried. "Oh, come here yourself!"
The old woman hobbled over and thrust her hand into the hole, bringing
out what was once a bag, but which crumpled to pieces in her hands, and
with it--oh, wonder!--a handful of gold pieces, which fell with a jingle
on the hearth, and rolled every way.
"My father's money! Oh, Hetty!" was all she could say, and she seized a
chair to keep from falling, while Hetty was nearly wild, and talked like
a crazy person.
"Oh, goody! goody! now you can have things to eat! and we can have a
candle! and you won't have to go to the poorhouse!"
"No, indeed, you dear child!" cried Miss Bennett who had found her
voice. "Thanks to you--you blessing!--I shall be comfortable now the
rest of my days. And you! oh! I shall never forget you! Through you has
everything good come to me."
"Oh, but you have been so good to me, dear Miss Bennett!"
"I should never have guessed it, you precious child! If it had not been
for your quickness I should have died and never found it."
"And if you hadn't given me the box, it might have rusted away in that
chest."
"Thank God for everything, child! Take money out of my purse and go buy
a candle. We need not save it for bread now. Oh, child!" she interrupted
herself, "do you know, we shall have everything we want to-morrow. Go!
Go! I want to see how much there is."
The candle bought, the gold was taken out and counted, and proved to be
more than enough to give Miss Bennett a comfortable income without
touching the principal. It was put back, and the tile replaced, as the
safest place to keep it till morning, when Miss Bennett intended to put
it into a bank.
But though they went to bed, there was not a wink of sleep for Miss
Bennett, for planning what she would do. There were a thousand things
she wanted to do first. To get clothes for Hetty, to brighten up the old
house, to hire a girl to relieve Hetty, so that the dear child should
go to school, to train her into a noble woman--all her old ambitions and
wishes for herself sprang into life for Hetty. For not a thought of her
future life was separate from Hetty.
In a very short time everything was changed in Miss Bennett's cottage.
She had publicly adopted Hetty, and announced her as her heir. A girl
had been installed in the kitchen, and Hetty, in pretty new clothes, had
begun school. Fresh paint inside and out, with many new comforts, made
the old house charming and bright. But nothing could change the pleasant
and happy relations between the two friends, and a more contented and
cheerful household could not be found anywhere.
Happiness is a wonderful doctor and Miss Bennett grew so much better,
that she could travel, and when Hetty had finished school days, they saw
a little of the world before they settled down to a quiet, useful life.
"Every comfort on earth I owe to you," said Hetty, one day, when Miss
Bennett had proposed some new thing to add to her enjoyment.
"Ah, dear Hetty! how much do I owe to you! But for you, I should, no
doubt, be at this moment a shivering pauper in that terrible poorhouse,
while some one else would be living in this dear old house. And it all
comes," she added softly, "of that one unselfish thought, of that one
self-denial for others."
FOOTNOTE:
[C] From "Kristy's Queer Christmas," Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1904.
VI
LITTLE GIRL'S CHRISTMAS
WINNIFRED E. LINCOLN
IT WAS Christmas Eve, and Little Girl had just hung up her stocking by
the fireplace--right where it would be all ready for Santa when he
slipped down the chimney. She knew he was coming, because--well, because
it was Christmas Eve, and because he always had come to leave gifts for
her on all the other Christmas Eves that she could remember, and because
she had seen his pictures everywhere down town that afternoon when she
was out with Mother.
Still, she wasn't _just_ satisfied. 'Way down in her heart she was a
little uncertain--you see, when you have never really and truly seen a
person with your very own eyes, it's hard to feel as if you exactly
believed in him--even though that person always has left beautiful gifts
for you every time he has come.
"Oh, he'll come," said Little Girl; "I just know he will be here before
morning, but somehow I wish----"
"Well, what do you wish?" said a Tiny Voice close by her--so close that
Little Girl fairly jumped when she heard it.
"Why, I wish I could _see_ Santa myself. I'd just like to go and see
his house and his workshop, and ride in his sleigh, and know Mrs.
Santa--'twould be such fun, and then I'd _know_ for sure."
"Why don't you go, then?" said Tiny Voice. "It's easy enough. Just try
on these Shoes, and take this Light in your hand, and you'll find your
way all right."
So Little Girl looked down on the hearth, and there were two cunning
little Shoes side by side, and a little Spark of a Light close to
them--just as if they were all made out of one of the glowing coals of
the wood-fire. Such cunning Shoes as they were--Little Girl could hardly
wait to pull off her slippers and try them on. They looked as if they
were too small, but they weren't--they fitted exactly right, and just as
Little Girl had put them both on and had taken the Light in her hand,
along came a little Breath of Wind, and away she went up the chimney,
along with ever so many other little Sparks, past the Soot Fairies, and
out into the Open Air, where Jack Frost and the Star Beams were all busy
at work making the world look pretty for Christmas.
Away went Little Girl--Two Shoes, Bright Light, and all--higher and
higher, until she looked like a wee bit of a star up in the sky. It was
the funniest thing, but she seemed to know the way perfectly, and didn't
have to stop to make inquiries anywhere. You see it was a straight road
all the way, and when one doesn't have to think about turning to the
right or the left, it makes things very much easier. Pretty soon Little
Girl noticed that there was a bright light all around her--oh, a very
bright light--and right away something down in her heart began to make
her feel very happy indeed. She didn't know that the Christmas spirits
and little Christmas fairies were all around her and even right inside
her, because she couldn't see a single one of them, even though her eyes
were very bright and could usually see a great deal.
But that was just it, and Little Girl felt as if she wanted to laugh and
sing and be glad. It made her remember the Sick Boy who lived next door,
and she said to herself that she would carry him one of her prettiest
picture-books in the morning, so that he could have something to make
him happy all day. By and by, when the bright light all around her had
grown very, very much brighter, Little Girl saw a path right in front of
her, all straight and trim, leading up a hill to a big, big house with
ever and ever so many windows in it. When she had gone just a bit
nearer, she saw candles in every window, red and green and yellow ones,
and every one burning brightly, so Little Girl knew right away that
these were Christmas candles to light her on her journey, and make the
way clear for her, and something told her that this was Santa's house,
and that pretty soon she would perhaps see Santa himself.
Just as she neared the steps and before she could possibly have had time
to ring the bell, the door opened--opened of itself as wide as could
be--and there stood--not Santa himself--don't think it--but a funny
Little Man with slender little legs and a roly-poly stomach which shook
every now and then when he laughed. You would have known right away,
just as Little Girl knew, that he was a very happy little man, and you
would have guessed right away, too, that the reason he was so roly-poly
was because he laughed and chuckled and smiled all the time--for it's
only sour, cross folks who are thin and skimpy. Quick as a wink, he
pulled off his little peaked red cap, smiled the broadest kind of a
smile, and said, "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Come in! Come in!"
So in went Little Girl, holding fast to Little Man's hand, and when she
was really inside there was the jolliest, reddest fire all glowing and
snapping, and there were Little Man and all his brothers and sisters,
who said their names were "Merry Christmas," and "Good Cheer," and ever
so many other jolly-sounding things, and there were such a lot of them
that Little Girl just knew she never could count them, no matter how
long she tried.
All around her were bundles and boxes and piles of toys and games, and
Little Girl knew that these were all ready and waiting to be loaded into
Santa's big sleigh for his reindeer to whirl them away over cloud-tops
and snowdrifts to the little people down below who had left their
stockings all ready for him. Pretty soon all the little Good Cheer
Brothers began to hurry and bustle and carry out the bundles as fast as
they could to the steps where Little Girl could hear the jingling bells
and the stamping of hoofs. So Little Girl picked up some bundles and
skipped along too, for she wanted to help a bit herself--it's no fun
whatever at Christmas unless you can help, you know--and there in the
yard stood the _biggest_ sleigh that Little Girl had ever seen, and the
reindeer were all stamping and prancing and jingling the bells on their
harnesses, because they were so eager to be on their way to the Earth
once more.
She could hardly wait for Santa to come, and just as she had begun to
wonder where he was, the door opened again and out came a whole forest
of Christmas trees, at least it looked just as if a whole forest had
started out for a walk somewhere, but a second glance showed Little Girl
that there were thousands of Christmas sprites, and that each one
carried a tree or a big Christmas wreath on his back. Behind them all,
she could hear some one laughing loudly, and talking in a big, jovial
voice that sounded as if he were good friends with the whole world.
And straightway she knew that Santa himself was coming. Little Girl's
heart went pit-a-pat for a minute while she wondered if Santa would
notice her, but she didn't have to wonder long, for he spied her at once
and said:
"Bless my soul! who's this? and where did you come from?"
Little Girl thought perhaps she might be afraid to answer him, but she
wasn't one bit afraid. You see he had such a kind little twinkle in his
eyes that she felt happy right away as she replied, "Oh, I'm Little
Girl, and I wanted so much to see Santa that I just came, and here I
am!"
"Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!" laughed Santa, "and here you are! Wanted to see
Santa, did you, and so you came! Now that's very nice, and it's too bad
I'm in such a hurry, for we should like nothing better than to show you
about and give you a real good time. But you see it is quarter of twelve
now, and I must be on my way at once, else I'll never reach that first
chimney-top by midnight. I'd call Mrs. Santa and ask her to get you some
supper, but she is busy finishing dolls' clothes which must be done
before morning, and I guess we'd better not bother her. Is there
anything that you would like, Little Girl?" and good old Santa put his
big warm hand on Little Girl's curls and she felt its warmth and
kindness clear down to her very heart. You see, my dears, that even
though Santa was in such a great hurry, he wasn't too busy to stop and
make some one happy for a minute, even if it was some one no bigger than
Little Girl.
So she smiled back into Santa's face and said: "Oh, Santa, if I could
_only_ ride down to Earth with you behind those splendid reindeer! I'd
love to go; won't you _please_ take me? I'm so small that I won't take
up much room on the seat, and I'll keep very still and not bother one
bit!"
Then Santa laughed, _such_ a laugh, big and loud and rollicking, and he
said, "Wants a ride, does she? Well, well, shall we take her, Little
Elves? Shall we take her, Little Fairies? Shall we take her, Good
Reindeer?"
And all the Little Elves hopped and skipped and brought Little Girl a
sprig of holly; and all the Little Fairies bowed and smiled and brought
her a bit of mistletoe; and all the Good Reindeer jingled their bells
loudly, which meant, "Oh, yes! let's take her! She's a good Little Girl!
Let her ride!" And before Little Girl could even think, she found
herself all tucked up in the big fur robes beside Santa, and away they
went, right out into the air, over the clouds, through the Milky Way,
and right under the very handle of the Big Dipper, on, on, toward the
Earthland, whose lights Little Girl began to see twinkling away down
below her. Presently she felt the runners scrape upon something, and she
knew they must be on some one's roof, and that Santa would slip down
some one's chimney in a minute.
How she wanted to go, too! You see if you had never been down a chimney
and seen Santa fill up the stockings, you would want to go quite as much
as Little Girl did, now, wouldn't you? So, just as Little Girl was
wishing as hard as ever she could wish, she heard a Tiny Voice say,
"Hold tight to his arm! Hold tight to his arm!" So she held Santa's arm
tight and close, and he shouldered his pack, never thinking that it was
heavier than usual, and with a bound and a slide, there they were,
Santa, Little Girl, pack and all, right in the middle of a room where
there was a fireplace and stockings all hung up for Santa to fill.
Just then Santa noticed Little Girl. He had forgotten all about her for
a minute, and he was very much surprised to find that she had come, too.
"Bless my soul!" he said, "where did you come from, Little Girl? and how
in the world can we both get back up that chimney again? It's easy
enough to slide down, but it's quite another matter to climb up again!"
and Santa looked real worried. But Little Girl was beginning to feel
very tired by this time, for she had had a very exciting evening, so she
said, "Oh, never mind me, Santa. I've had such a good time, and I'd just
as soon stay here a while as not. I believe I'll curl up on this
hearth-rug a few minutes and have a little nap, for it looks as warm and
cozy as our own hearth-rug at home, and--why, it _is_ our own hearth and
it's my own nursery, for there is Teddy Bear in his chair where I leave
him every night, and there's Bunny Cat curled up on his cushion in the
corner."
And Little Girl turned to thank Santa and say good-bye to him, but
either he had gone very quickly, or else she had fallen asleep very
quickly--she never could tell which--for the next thing she knew, Daddy
was holding her in his arms and was saying, "What is my Little Girl
doing here? She must go to bed, for it's Christmas Eve, and old Santa
won't come if he thinks there are any little folks about."
But Little Girl knew better than that, and when she began to tell him
all about it, and how the Christmas fairies had welcomed her, and how
Santa had given her such a fine ride, Daddy laughed and laughed, and
said, "You've been dreaming, Little Girl, you've been dreaming."
But Little Girl knew better than that, too, for there on the hearth was
the little Black Coal, which had given her Two Shoes and Bright Light,
and tight in her hand she held a holly berry which one of the Christmas
Sprites had placed there. More than all that, there she was on the
hearth-rug herself, just as Santa had left her, and that was the best
proof of all.
The trouble was, Daddy himself had never been a Little Girl, so he
couldn't tell anything about it, but we know she hadn't been dreaming,
now, don't we, my dears?
VII
"A CHRISTMAS MATINEE"[D]
MRS. M. A. L. LANE
IT WAS the day before Christmas in the year 189--. Snow was falling
heavily in the streets of Boston, but the crowd of shoppers seemed
undiminished. As the storm increased, groups gathered at the corners and
in sheltering doorways to wait for belated cars; but the holiday cheer
was in the air, and there was no grumbling. Mothers dragging tired
children through the slush of the streets; pretty girls hurrying home
for the holidays; here and there a harassed-looking man with perhaps a
single package which he had taken a whole morning to select--all had the
same spirit of tolerant good-humor.
"School Street! School Street!" called the conductor of an electric car.
A group of young people at the farther end of the car started to their
feet. One of them, a young man wearing a heavy fur-trimmed coat,
addressed the conductor angrily.
"I said, 'Music Hall,' didn't I?" he demanded. "Now we've got to walk
back in the snow because of your stupidity!"
"Oh, never mind, Frank!" one of the girls interposed. "We ought to have
been looking out ourselves! Six of us, and we went by without a thought!
It is all Mrs. Tirrell's fault! She shouldn't have been so
entertaining!"
The young matron dimpled and blushed. "That's charming of you, Maidie,"
she said, gathering up her silk skirts as she prepared to step down into
the pond before her. "The compliment makes up for the blame. But how it
snows!"
"It doesn't matter. We all have gaiters on," returned Maidie Williams,
undisturbed.
"Fares, please!" said the conductor stolidly.
Frank Armstrong thrust his gloved hand deep into his pocket with angry
vehemence. "There's your money," he said, "and be quick about the
change, will you? We've lost time enough!"
The man counted out the change with stiff, red fingers, closed his lips
firmly as if to keep back an obvious rejoinder, rang up the six fares
with careful accuracy, and gave the signal to go ahead. The car went on
into the drifting storm.
Armstrong laughed shortly as he rapidly counted the bits of silver lying
in his open palm. He turned instinctively, but two or three cars were
already between him and the one he was looking for.
"The fellow must be an imbecile," he said, rejoining the group on the
crossing. "He's given me back a dollar and twenty cents, and I handed
him a dollar bill."
"Oh, can't you stop him?" cried Maidie Williams, with a backward step
into the wet street.
The Harvard junior, who was carrying her umbrella, protested: "What's
the use, Miss Williams? He'll make it up before he gets to Scollay
Square, you may be sure. Those chaps don't lose anything. Why, the other
day, I gave one a quarter and he went off as cool as you please.
'Where's my change?' said I. 'You gave me a nickel,' said he. And there
wasn't anybody to swear that I didn't except myself, and I didn't
count."
"But that doesn't make any difference," insisted the girl warmly.
"Because one conductor was dishonest, we needn't be. I beg your pardon,
Frank, but it does seem to me just stealing."
"Oh, come along!" said her cousin, with an easy laugh. "I guess the West
End Corporation won't go without their dinners to-morrow. Here, Maidie,
here's the ill-gotten fifty cents. _I_ think you ought to treat us all
after the concert; still, I won't urge you. I wash my hands of all
responsibility. But I do wish you hadn't such an unpleasant conscience."
Maidie flushed under the sting of his cousinly rudeness, but she went on
quietly with the rest. It was evident that any attempt to overtake the
car was out of the question.
"Did you notice his number, Frank?" she asked, suddenly.
"No, I never thought of it," said Frank, stopping short. "However, I
probably shouldn't make any complaint if I had. I shall forget all about
it to-morrow. I find it's never safe to let the sun go down on my wrath.
It's very likely not to be there the next day."
"I wasn't thinking of making a complaint," said Maidie; but the two
young men were enjoying the small joke too much to notice what she said.
The great doorway of Music Hall was just ahead. In a moment the party
were within its friendly shelter, stamping off the snow. The girls were
adjusting veils and hats with adroit feminine touches; the pretty
chaperon was beaming approval upon them, and the young men were taking
off their wet overcoats, when Maidie turned again in sudden desperation.
"Mr. Harris," she said, rather faintly, for she did not like to make
herself disagreeable, "do you suppose that car comes right back from
Scollay Square?"
"What car?" asked Walter Harris, blankly. "Oh, the one we came in? Yes,
I suppose it does. They're running all the time, anyway. Why, you are
not sick, are you, Miss Williams?"
There was genuine concern in his tone. This girl, with her sweet,
vibrant voice, her clear gray eyes, seemed very charming to him. She
wasn't beautiful, perhaps, but she was the kind of girl he liked. There
was a steady earnestness in the gray eyes that made him think of his
mother.
"No," said Maidie, slowly. "I'm all right, thank you. But I wish I
could find that man again. I know sometimes they have to make it up if
their accounts are wrong, and I couldn't--we couldn't feel very
comfortable----"
Frank Armstrong interrupted her. "Maidie," he said, with the studied
calmness with which one speaks to an unreasonable child, "you are
perfectly absurd. Here it is within five minutes of the time for the
concert to begin. It is impossible to tell when that car is coming back.
You are making us all very uncomfortable. Mrs. Tirrill, won't you please
tell her not to spoil our afternoon?"
"I think he's right, Maidie," said Mrs. Tirrell. "It's very nice of you
to feel so sorry for the poor man, but he really was very careless. It
was all his own fault. And just think how far he made us walk! My feet
are quite damp. We ought to go in directly or we shall all take cold,
and I'm sure you wouldn't like that, my dear."
She led the way as she spoke, the two girls and young Armstrong
following. Maidie hesitated. It was so easy to go in, to forget
everything in the light and warmth and excitement.
"No," said she, very firmly, and as much to herself as to the young man
who stood waiting for her. "I must go back and try to make it right. I'm
so sorry, Mr. Harris, but if you will tell them----"
"Why, I'm going with you, of course," said the young fellow, impulsively.
"If I'd only looked once at the man I'd go alone, but I shouldn't know
him from Adam."
Maidie laughed. "Oh, I don't want to lose the whole concert, Mr. Harris,
and Frank has all the tickets. You must go after them and try to make my
peace. I'll come just as soon as I can. Don't wait for me, please. If
you'll come and look for me here the first number, and not let them
scold me too much----" She ended with an imploring little catch in her
breath that was almost a sob.
"They sha'n't say a word, Miss Williams!" cried Walter Harris, with
honest admiration in his eyes. But she was gone already, and conscious
that further delay was only making matters worse, he went on into the
hall.
Meanwhile, the car swung heavily along the wet rails on its way to the
turning-point. It was nearly empty now. An old gentleman and his nurse
were the only occupants. Jim Stevens, the conductor, had stepped inside
the car.
"Too bad I forgot those young people wanted to get off at Music Hall,"
he was thinking to himself. "I don't see how I came to do it. That chap
looked as if he wanted to complain of me, and I don't know as I blame
him. I'd have said I was sorry if he hadn't been so sharp with his
tongue. I hope he won't complain just now. 'Twould be a pretty bad time
for me to get into trouble, with Mary and the baby both sick. I'm too
sleepy to be good for much, that's a fact. Sitting up three nights
running takes hold of a fellow somehow when he's at work all day. The
rent's paid, that's one thing, if it hasn't left me but half a dollar to
my name. Hullo!" He was struck by a sudden distinct recollection of the
coins he had returned. "Why, I gave him fifty cents too much!"
He glanced up at the dial which indicated the fares and began to count
the change in his pocket. He knew exactly how much money he had had at
the beginning of the trip. He counted carefully. Then he plunged his
hand into the heavy canvas pocket of his coat. Perhaps he had half a
dollar there. No, it was empty!
He faced the fact reluctantly. Fifty cents short, ten fares! Gone into
the pocket of the young gentleman with the fur collar! The conductor's
hand shook as he put the money back in his pocket. It meant--what did it
mean? He drew a long breath.
Christmas Eve! A dark dreary little room upstairs in a noisy tenement
house. A pale, thin woman on a shabby lounge vainly trying to quiet a
fretful child. The child is thin and pale, too, with a hard, racking
cough. There is a small fire in the stove, a very small fire; coal is so
high. The medicine stands on the shelf. "Medicine won't do much good,"
the doctor had said; "he needs beef and cream."
Jim's heart sank at the thought. He could almost hear the baby asking:
"Isn't papa coming soon? Isn't he, mamma?"
"Poor little kid!" Jim said, softly, under his breath. "And I shan't
have a thing to take home to him; nor Mary's violets, either. It'll be
the first Christmas _that_ ever happened. I suppose that chap would
think it was ridiculous for me to be buying violets. He wouldn't
understand what the flowers mean to Mary. Perhaps he didn't notice I
gave him too much. That kind don't know how much they have. They just
pull it out as if it was newspaper."
The conductor went out into the snow to help the nurse, who was
assisting the old gentleman to the ground. Then the car swung on again.
Jim turned up the collar of his coat about his ears and stamped his
feet. There was the florist's shop where he had meant to buy the
violets, and the toy-shop was just around the corner.
A thought flashed across his tired brain. "Plenty of men would do it;
they do it every day. Nobody ever would be the poorer for it. This car
will be crowded going home. I needn't ring in every fare; nobody could
tell. But Mary! She wouldn't touch those violets if she knew. And she'd
know. I'd have to tell her. I couldn't keep it from her, she's that
quick."
He jumped off to adjust the trolley with a curious sense of unreality.
It couldn't be that he was really going home this Christmas Eve with
empty hands. Well, they must all suffer together for his carelessness.
It was his own fault, but it was hard. And he was so tired!
To his amazement he found his eyes were blurred as he watched the people
crowding into the car. What! Was he going to cry like a baby--he, a
great burly man of thirty years?
"It's no use," he thought. "I couldn't do it. The first time I gave Mary
violets was the night she said she'd marry me. I told her then I'd do my
best to make her proud of me. I guess she wouldn't be very proud of a
man who could cheat. She'd rather starve than have a ribbon she couldn't
pay for."
He rang up a dozen fares with a steady hand. The temptation was over.
Six more strokes--then nine without a falter. He even imagined the bell
rang more distinctly than usual, even encouragingly.
The car stopped. Jim flung the door open with a triumphant sweep of his
arm. He felt ready to face the world. But the baby--his arm dropped. It
was hard.
He turned to help the young girl who was waiting at the step. Through
the whirling snow he saw her eager face, with a quick recognition
lighting the steady eyes, and wondered dimly, as he stood with his hand
on the signal-strap, where he could have seen her before. He knew
immediately.
"There was a mistake," she said, with a shy tremor in her voice. "You
gave us too much change and here it is." She held out to Jim the piece
of silver which had given him such an unhappy quarter of an hour.
He took it like one dazed. Would the young lady think he was crazy to
care so much about so small a coin? He must say something. "Thank you,
miss," he stammered as well as he could. "You see, I thought it was
gone--and there's the baby--and it's Christmas Eve--and my wife's
sick--and you can't understand----"
It certainly was not remarkable that she couldn't.
"But I do," she said, simply. "I was afraid of that. And I thought
perhaps there was a baby, so I brought my Christmas present for her,"
and something else dropped into Jim's cold hand.
"What you waiting for?" shouted the motorman from the front platform.
The girl had disappeared in the snow.
Jim rang the bell to go ahead, and gazed again at the two shining half
dollars in his hand.
"I didn't have a chance to tell her," he explained to his wife late in
the evening, as he sat in a tiny rocking-chair several sizes too small
for him, "that the baby wasn't a her at all, though if I thought he'd
grow up into such a lovely one as she is, I don't know but I almost wish
he was."
"Poor Jim!" said Mary, with a little laugh as she put up her hand to
stroke his rough cheek. "I guess you're tired."
"And I should say," he added, stretching out his long legs toward the
few red sparks in the bottom of the grate, "I should say she had tears
in her eyes, too, but I was that near crying myself I couldn't be
sure."
The little room was sweet with the odour of English violets. Asleep in
the bed lay the boy, a toy horse clasped close to his breast.
"Bless her heart!" said Mary, softly.
* * * * *
"Well, Miss Williams," said Walter Harris, as he sprang to meet a
snow-covered figure coming swiftly along the sidewalk. "I can see that
you found him. You've lost the first number, but they won't scold
you--not this time."
The girl turned a radiant face upon him. "Thank you," she said, shaking
the snowy crystals from her skirt. "I don't care now if they do. I
should have lost more than that if I had stayed."
FOOTNOTE:
[D] This story was first published in the _Youth's Companion_, vol. 74.
VIII
TOINETTE AND THE ELVES[E]
SUSAN COOLIDGE
THE winter's sun was nearing the horizon's edge. Each moment the tree
shadows grew longer in the forest; each moment the crimson light on the
upper boughs became more red and bright. It was Christmas Eve, or would
be in half an hour, when the sun should be fairly set; but it did not
feel like Christmas, for the afternoon was mild and sweet, and the wind
in the leafless boughs sang, as it moved about, as though to imitate the
vanished birds. Soft trills and whistles, odd little shakes and
twitters--it was astonishing what pretty noises the wind made, for it
was in good humor, as winds should be on the Blessed Night; all its
storm-tones and bass-notes were for the moment laid aside, and gently as
though hushing a baby to sleep, it cooed and rustled and brushed to and
fro in the leafless woods.
Toinette stood, pitcher in hand, beside the well. "Wishing Well," the
people called it, for they believed that if any one standing there bowed
to the East, repeated a certain rhyme and wished a wish, the wish would
certainly come true. Unluckily, nobody knew exactly what the rhyme
should be. Toinette did not; she was wishing that she did, as she stood
with her eyes fixed on the bubbling water. How nice it would be! she
thought. What beautiful things should be hers, if it were only to wish
and to have. She would be beautiful, rich, good--oh, so good. The
children should love her dearly, and never be disagreeable. Mother
should not work so hard--they should all go back to France--which mother
said was _si belle_. Oh, dear, how nice it would be. Meantime, the sun
sank lower, and mother at home was waiting for the water, but Toinette
forgot that.
Suddenly she started. A low sound of crying met her ear, and something
like a tiny moan. It seemed close by but she saw nothing.
Hastily she filled her pitcher and turned to go. But again the sound
came, an unmistakable sob, right under her feet. Toinette stopped short.
"What is the matter?" she called out bravely. "Is anybody there? and if
there is, why don't I see you?"
A third sob--and all at once, down on the ground beside her, a tiny
figure became visible, so small that Toinette had to kneel and stoop her
head to see it plainly. The figure was that of an odd little man. He
wore a garb of green bright and glancing as the scales of a beetle. In
his mite of a hand was a cap, out of which stuck a long pointed feather.
Two specks of tears stood on his cheeks and he fixed on Toinette a
glance so sharp and so sad that it made her feel sorry and frightened
and confused all at once.
"Why how funny this is!" she said, speaking to herself out loud.
"Not at all," replied the little man, in a voice as dry and crisp as the
chirr of a grasshopper. "Anything but funny. I wish you wouldn't use
such words. It hurts my feelings, Toinette."
"Do you know my name, then?" cried Toinette, astonished. "That's
strange. But what is the matter? Why are you crying so, little man?"
"I'm not a little man. I'm an elf," responded the dry voice; "and I
think you'd cry if you had an engagement out to tea, and found yourself
spiked on a great bayonet, so that you couldn't move an inch. Look!" He
turned a little as he spoke and Toinette saw a long rosethorn sticking
through the back of the green robe. The little man could by no means
reach the thorn, and it held him fast prisoner to the place.
"Is that all? I'll take it out for you," she said.
"Be careful--oh, be careful," entreated the little man. "This is my new
dress, you know--my Christmas suit, and it's got to last a year. If
there is a hole in it, Peascod will tickle me and Bean Blossom tease,
till I shall wish myself dead." He stamped with vexation at the thought.
"Now, you mustn't do that," said Toinette, in a motherly tone, "else
you'll tear it yourself, you know." She broke off the thorn as she
spoke, and gently drew it out. The elf anxiously examined the stuff. A
tiny puncture only was visible and his face brightened.
"You're a good child," he said. "I'll do as much for you some day,
perhaps."
"I would have come before if I had seen you," remarked Toinette,
timidly. "But I didn't see you a bit."
"No, because I had my cap on," cried the elf. He placed it on his head
as he spoke, and hey, presto! nobody was there, only a voice which
laughed and said: "Well--don't stare so. Lay your finger on me now."
"Oh," said Toinette, with a gasp. "How wonderful. What fun it must be to
do that. The children wouldn't see me. I should steal in and surprise
them; they would go on talking, and never guess that I was there. I
should so like it. Do elves ever lend their caps to anybody? I wish
you'd lend me yours. It must be so nice to be invisible."
"Ho," cried the elf, appearing suddenly again. "Lend my cap, indeed! Why
it wouldn't stay on the very tip of your ear, it's so small. As for
nice, that depends. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. No, the
only way for mortal people to be invisible is to gather the fern-seed
and put it in their shoes."
"Gather it? Where? I never saw any seed to the ferns," said Toinette,
staring about her.
"Of course not--we elves take care of that," replied the little man.
"Nobody finds the fern-seed but ourselves. I'll tell you what, though.
You were such a nice child to take out the thorn so cleverly, that I'll
give you a little of the seed. Then you can try the fun of being
invisible, to your heart's content."
"Will you really? How delightful. May I have it now?"
"Bless me. Do you think I carry my pockets stuffed with it?" said the
elf. "Not at all. Go home, say not a word to any one, but leave your
bedroom window open to night, and you'll see what you'll see."
He laid his finger on his nose as he spoke, gave a jump like a
grasshopper, clapping on his cap as he went, and vanished. Toinette
lingered a moment, in hopes that he might come back, then took her
pitcher and hurried home. The woods were very dusky by this time; but
full of her strange adventures, she did not remember to feel afraid.
"How long you have been," said her mother. "It's late for a little maid
like you to be up. You must make better speed another time, my child."
Toinette pouted as she was apt to do when reproved. The children
clamoured to know what had kept her, and she spoke pettishly and
crossly; so that they too became cross, and presently went away into the
outer kitchen to play by themselves. The children were apt to creep away
when Toinette came. It made her angry and unhappy at times that they
should do so, but she did not realize that it was in great part her own
fault, and so did not set herself to mend it.
"Tell me a 'tory," said baby Jeanneton, creeping to her knee a little
later. But Toinette's head was full of the elf; she had no time to spare
for Jeanneton.
"Oh, not to-night," she replied. "Ask mother to tell you one."
"Mother's busy," said Jeanneton wistfully.
Toinette took no notice and the little one crept away disconsolately.
Bedtime at last. Toinette set the casement open, and lay a long time
waiting and watching; then she fell asleep. She waked with a sneeze and
jump and sat up in bed. Behold, on the coverlet stood her elfin friend,
with a long train of other elves beside him, all clad in the beetle-wing
green, and wearing little pointed caps. More were coming in at the
window; outside a few were drifting about in the moon rays, which lit
their sparkling robes till they glittered like so many fireflies. The
odd thing was, that though the caps were on, Toinette could see the
elves distinctly and this surprised her so much, that again she thought
out loud and said, "How funny."
"You mean about the caps," replied her special elf, who seemed to have
the power of reading thought. "Yes, you can see us to-night, caps and
all. Spells lose their value on Christmas Eve, always. Peascod, where is
the box? Do you still wish to try the experiment of being invisible,
Toinette?"
"Oh, yes--indeed I do."
"Very well; so let it be."
As he spoke he beckoned, and two elves puffing and panting like little
men with a heavy load, dragged forward a droll little box about the size
of a pumpkin-seed. One of them lifted the cover.
"Pay the porter, please, ma'am," he said giving Toinette's ear a
mischievous tweak with his sharp fingers.
"Hands off, you bad Peascod!" cried Toinette's elf. "This is my girl.
She shan't be pinched!" He dealt Peascod a blow with his tiny hand as he
spoke and looked so brave and warlike that he seemed at least an inch
taller than he had before. Toinette admired him very much; and Peascod
slunk away with an abashed giggle muttering that Thistle needn't be so
ready with his fist.
Thistle--for thus, it seemed, Toinette's friend was named--dipped his
fingers in the box, which was full of fine brown seeds, and shook a
handful into each of Toinette's shoes, as they stood, toes together by
the bedside.
"Now you have your wish," he said, "and can go about and do what you
like, no one seeing. The charm will end at sunset. Make the most of it
while you can; but if you want to end it sooner, shake the seeds from
the shoes and then you are just as usual."
"Oh, I shan't want to," protested Toinette; "I'm sure I shan't."
"Good-bye," said Thistle, with a mocking little laugh.
"Good-bye, and thank you ever so much," replied Toinette.
"Good-bye, good-bye," replied the other elves, in shrill chorus. They
clustered together, as if in consultation; then straight out of the
window they flew like a swarm of gauzy-winged bees, and melted into the
moonlight. Toinette jumped up and ran to watch them but the little men
were gone--not a trace of them was to be seen; so she shut the window,
went back to bed and presently in the midst of her amazed and excited
thoughts fell asleep.
She waked in the morning, with a queer, doubtful feeling. Had she
dreamed, or had it really happened? She put on her best petticoat and
laced her blue bodice; for she thought the mother would perhaps take
them across the wood to the little chapel for the Christmas service. Her
long hair smoothed and tied, her shoes trimly fastened, downstairs she
ran. The mother was stirring porridge over the fire. Toinette went close
to her, but she did not move or turn her head.
"How late the children are," she said at last, lifting the boiling pot
on the hob. Then she went to the stair-foot and called, "Marc,
Jeanneton, Pierre, Marie. Breakfast is ready, my children. Toinette--but
where, then, is Toinette? She is used to be down long before this."
"Toinette isn't upstairs," said Marie from above. "Her door is wide
open, and she isn't there."
"That is strange," said the mother. "I have been here an hour, and she
has not passed this way since." She went to the outer door and called,
"Toinette! Toinette!" passing close to Toinette as she did so, and
looking straight at her with unseeing eyes. Toinette, half frightened,
half pleased, giggled low to herself. She really was invisible, then.
How strange it seemed and what fun it was going to be.
The children sat down to breakfast, little Jeanneton, as the youngest,
saying grace. The mother distributed the porridge and gave each a spoon
but she looked anxious.
"Where can Toinette have gone?" she said to herself. Toinette was
conscious-pricked. She was half inclined to dispel the charm on the
spot. But just then she caught a whisper from Pierre to Marc which so
surprised her as to put the idea out of her head.
"Perhaps a wolf has eaten her up--a great big wolf like the 'Capuchon
Rouge,' you know." This was what Pierre said; and Marc answered
unfeelingly:
"If he has, I shall ask mother to let me have her room for my own."
Poor Toinette, her cheeks burned and her eyes filled with tears at this.
Didn't the boys love her a bit then? Next she grew angry, and longed to
box Marc's ears, only she recollected in time that she was invisible.
What a bad boy he was, she thought.
The smoking porridge reminded her that she was hungry; so brushing away
the tears she slipped a spoon off the table and whenever she found the
chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. The porridge
disappeared rapidly.
"I want some more," said Jeanneton.
"Bless me, how fast you have eaten," said the mother, turning to the
bowl.
This made Toinette laugh, which shook her spoon, and a drop of the hot
mixture fell right on the tip of Marie's nose as she sat with upturned
face waiting her turn for a second helping. Marie gave a little scream.
"What is it?" said the mother.
"Hot water! Right in my face!" sputtered Marie.
"Water!" cried Marc. "It's porridge."
"You spattered with your spoon. Eat more carefully, my child," said the
mother, and Toinette laughed again as she heard her. After all, there
was some fun in being invisible.
The morning went by. Constantly the mother went to the door, and,
shading her eyes with her hand, looked out, in hopes of seeing a little
figure come down the wood-path, for she thought perhaps the child went
to the spring after water, and fell asleep there. The children played
happily, meanwhile. They were used to doing without Toinette and did not
seem to miss her, except that now and then baby Jeanneton said: "Poor
Toinette gone--not here--all gone."
"Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last looking up from the wooden
cup he was carving for Marie's doll. "We can play all the better."
Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always told his whole mind about
things.
"If she were here," he went on, "she'd only scold and interfere.
Toinette almost always scolds. I like to have her go away. It makes it
pleasanter."
"It is rather pleasanter," admitted Marie, "only I'd like her to be
having a nice time somewhere else."
"Bother about Toinette," cried Pierre.
"Let's play 'My godmother has cabbage to sell.'"
I don't think Toinette had ever felt so unhappy in her life, as when she
stood by unseen, and heard the children say these words. She had never
meant to be unkind to them, but she was quick-tempered, dreamy, wrapped
up in herself. She did not like being interrupted by them, it put her
out, and she spoke sharply and was cross. She had taken it for granted
that the others must love her, by a sort of right, and the knowledge
that they did not grieved her very much. Creeping away, she hid herself
in the woods. It was a sparkling day, but the sun did not look so bright
as usual. Cuddled down under a rosebush, Toinette sat sobbing as if her
heart would break at the recollection of the speeches she had overheard.
By and by a little voice within her woke up and began to make itself
audible. All of us know this little voice. We call it conscience.
"Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear! I pushed her away
only last night and wouldn't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was
having a pleasant time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last
Friday. And I wish I hadn't thrown Marc's ball into the fire that day I
was angry with him. How unkind he was to say that--but I wasn't always
kind to him. And once I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up.
That was because he broke my cup. Oh, dear, oh, dear. What a bad girl
I've been to them all."
"But you could be better and kinder if you tried, couldn't you?" said
the inward voice. "I think you could."
And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out loud: "I could.
Yes--and I will."
The first thing to be done was to get rid of the fern-seed which she now
regarded as a hateful thing. She untied her shoes and shook it out in
the grass. It dropped and seemed to melt into the air, for it instantly
vanished. A mischievous laugh sounded close behind, and a beetle-green
coat-tail was visible whisking under a tuft of rushes. But Toinette had
had enough of the elves, and, tying her shoes, took the road toward
home, running with all her might.
"Where have you been all day, Toinette?" cried the children, as,
breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate. But Toinette could not
speak. She made slowly for her mother, who stood in the doorway, flung
herself into her arms and burst into a passion of tears.
"_Ma cherie_, what is it, whence hast thou come?" asked the good mother
alarmed. She lifted Toinette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened
indoors. The other children followed, whispering and peeping, but the
mother sent them away, and sitting down by the fire with Toinette in her
lap, she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had been
again a little baby. Gradually the sobs ceased. For a while Toinette lay
quiet, with her head on her mother's breast. Then she wiped her wet
eyes, put her arms around her mother's neck, and told her all from the
very beginning, keeping not a single thing back. The dame listened with
alarm.
"Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feeling Toinette's hands and
head, "Thou hast a fever," she said. "I will make thee a _tisane_, my
darling, and thou must at once go to bed." Toinette vainly protested; to
bed she went and perhaps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink
threw her into a long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself
again, bright and well, hungry for dinner, and ready to do her usual
tasks.
Herself--but not quite the same Toinette that she had been before.
Nobody changes from bad to better in a minute. It takes time for that,
time and effort, and a long struggle with evil habits and tempers. But
there is sometimes a certain minute or day in which people begin to
change, and thus it was with Toinette. The fairy lesson was not lost
upon her. She began to fight with herself, to watch her faults and try
to conquer them. It was hard work; often she felt discouraged, but she
kept on. Week after week and month after month she grew less selfish,
kinder, more obliging than she used to be. When she failed and her old
fractious temper got the better of her, she was sorry and begged every
one's pardon so humbly that they could not but forgive. The mother began
to think that the elves really had bewitched her child. As for the
children they learned to love Toinette as never before, and came to her
with all their pains and pleasures, as children should to a kind older
sister. Each fresh proof of this, every kiss from Jeanneton, every
confidence from Marc, was a comfort to Toinette, for she never forgot
Christmas Day, and felt that no trouble was too much to wipe out that
unhappy recollection. "I think they like me better than they did then,"
she would say; but then the thought came, "Perhaps if I were invisible
again, if they did not know I was there, I might hear something to make
me feel as badly as I did that morning." These sad thoughts were part of
the bitter fruit of the fairy fern-seed.
So with doubts and fears the year went by, and again it was Christmas
Eve. Toinette had been asleep some hours when she was roused by a sharp
tapping at the window pane. Startled, and only half awake, she sat up in
bed and saw by the moonlight a tiny figure outside which she recognized.
It was Thistle drumming with his knuckles on the glass.
"Let me in," cried the dry little voice. So Toinette opened the
casement, and Thistle flew in and perched as before on the coverlet.
"Merry Christmas, my girl," he said, "and a Happy New Year when it
comes. I've brought you a present;" and, dipping into a pouch tied round
his waist, he pulled out a handful of something brown. Toinette knew
what it was in a moment.
"Oh, no," she cried shrinking back. "Don't give me any fern-seeds. They
frighten me. I don't like them."
"Don't be silly," said Thistle, his voice sounding kind this time, and
earnest. "It wasn't pleasant being invisible last year, but perhaps this
year it will be. Take my advice, and try it. You'll not be sorry."
"Sha'n't I?" said Toinette, brightening. "Very well, then, I will." She
leaned out of bed, and watched Thistle strew the fine dustlike grains in
each shoe.
"I'll drop in to-morrow night, and just see how you like it," he said.
Then, with a nod, he was gone.
The old fear came back when she woke in the morning, and she tied on her
shoes with a tremble at her heart. Downstairs she stole. The first thing
she saw was a wooden ship standing on her plate. Marc had made the ship,
but Toinette had no idea it was for her.
The little ones sat round the table with their eyes on the door,
watching till Toinette should come in and be surprised.
"I wish she'd hurry," said Pierre, drumming on his bowl with a spoon.
"We all want Toinette, don't we?" said the mother, smiling as she poured
the hot porridge.
"It will be fun to see her stare," declared Marc. "Toinette is jolly
when she stares. Her eyes look big and her cheeks grow pink. Andre
Brugen thinks his sister Aline is prettiest, but I don't. Our Toinette
is ever so pretty."
"She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. "She's as good to play with
as--as--a boy," finished triumphantly.
"Oh, I wish my Toinette would come," said Jeanneton.
Toinette waited no longer, but sped upstairs with glad tears in her
eyes. Two minutes, and down she came again visible this time. Her heart
was light as a feather.
"Merry Christmas!" clamoured the children. The ship was presented,
Toinette was duly surprised, and so the happy day began.
That night Toinette left the window open, and lay down in her clothes;
for she felt, as Thistle had been so kind, she ought to receive him
politely. He came at midnight, and with him all the other little men in
green.
"Well, how was it?" asked Thistle.
"Oh, I liked it this time," declared Toinette, with shining eyes, "and I
thank you so much."
"I'm glad you did," said the elf. "And I'm glad you are thankful, for we
want you to do something for us."
"What can it be?" inquired Toinette, wondering.
"You must know," went on Thistle, "that there is no dainty in the world
which we elves enjoy like a bowl of fern-seed broth. But it has to be
cooked over a real fire, and we dare not go near fire, you know, lest
our wings scorch. So we seldom get any fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette,
will you make us some?"
"Indeed, I will!" cried Toinette, "only you must tell me how."
"It is very simple," said Peascod; "only seed and honey dew, stirred
from left to right with a sprig of fennel. Here's the seed and the
fennel, and here's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left; if you
don't, it curdles, and the flavour will be spoiled."
Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, moving very softly,
quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she could find, and spread
the doll's table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made for
Jeanneton to play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves bade,
and when the soup was done, served it to them smoking hot. How they
feasted! No bumblebee, dipping into a flower-cup, ever sipped and
twinkled more rapturously than they.
When the last drop was eaten, they made ready to go. Each in turn kissed
Toinette's hand, and said a word of farewell. Thistle brushed his
feathered cap over the doorpost as he passed.
"Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have received and entertained the
luck-bringers. And be lucky, Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and
sweet words and kind looks and peace in the heart are the fairest of
fortunes. See that you never lose them again, my girl." With this, he,
too, kissed Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap, and--whir! they
all were gone, while Toinette, covering the fire with ashes and putting
aside the little cups, stole up to her bed a happy child.
FOOTNOTE:
[E] Published by arrangement with Little, Brown & Co.
IX
THE VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP[F]
RUTH SAWYER DURAND
It was the night of St. Stephen, and Teig sat alone by his fire with
naught in his cupboard but a pinch of tea and a bare mixing of meal, and
a heart inside of him as soft and warm as the ice on the water-bucket
outside the door. The tuft was near burnt on the hearth--a handful of
golden cinders left, just; and Teig took to counting them greedily on
his fingers.
"There's one, two, three, an' four an' five," he laughed. "Faith, there
be more bits o' real gold hid undther the loose clay in the corner."
It was the truth; and it was the scraping and scrooching for the last
piece that had left Teig's cupboard bare of a Christmas dinner.
"Gold is betther nor eatin' an' dthrinkin'. An' if ye have naught to
give, there'll be naught asked of ye;" and he laughed again.
He was thinking of the neighbours, and the doles of food and piggins of
milk that would pass over their thresholds that night to the vagabonds
and paupers who were sure to come begging. And on the heels of that
thought followed another: who would be giving old Barney his dinner?
Barney lived a stone's throw from Teig, alone, in a wee tumbled-in
cabin; and for a score of years past Teig had stood on the doorstep
every Christmas Eve, and, making a hollow of his two hands, had called
across the road:
"Hey, there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?" And Barney had
reached for his crutches--there being but one leg to him--and had come.
"Faith," said Teig, trying another laugh, "Barney can fast for the once;
'twill be all the same in a month's time." And he fell to thinking of
the gold again.
A knock came at the door. Teig pulled himself down in his chair where
the shadow would cover him, and held his tongue.
"Teig, Teig!" It was the widow O'Donnelly's voice. "If ye are there,
open your door. I have not got the pay for the spriggin' this month, an'
the childher are needin' food."
But Teig put the leash on his tongue, and never stirred till he heard
the tramp of her feet going on to the next cabin. Then he saw to it that
the door was tight-barred. Another knock came, and it was a stranger's
voice this time:
"The other cabins are filled; not one but has its hearth crowded; will
ye take us in--the two of us? The wind bites mortal sharp, not a morsel
o' food have we tasted this day. Masther, will ye take us in?"
But Teig sat on, a-holding his tongue; and the tramp of the strangers'
feet passed down the road. Others took their place--small feet, running.
It was the miller's wee Cassie, and she called out as she ran by.
"Old Barney's watchin' for ye. Ye'll not be forgettin' him, will ye,
Teig?"
And then the child broke into a song, sweet and clear, as she passed
down the road:
"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even.
Open your door an' greet ye the stranger--
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as truagh!
"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary,
This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary.
'Tis well that ye mind--ye who sit by the fire--
That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as truagh!"
Teig put his fingers deep in his ears. "A million murdthering curses on
them that won't let me be! Can't a man try to keep what is his without
bein' pesthered by them that has only idled an' wasted their days?"
And then the strange thing happened: hundreds and hundreds of wee lights
began dancing outside the window, making the room bright; the hands of
the clock began chasing each other round the dial, and the bolt of the
door drew itself out. Slowly, without a creak or a cringe, the door
opened, and in there trooped a crowd of the Good People. Their wee green
cloaks were folded close about them, and each carried a rush candle.
Teig was filled with a great wonderment, entirely, when he saw the
fairies, but when they saw him they laughed.
"We are takin' the loan o' your cabin this night, Teig," said they. "Ye
are the only man hereabout with an empty hearth, an' we're needin' one."
Without saying more, they bustled about the room making ready. They
lengthened out the table and spread and set it; more of the Good People
trooped in, bringing stools and food and drink. The pipers came last,
and they sat themselves around the chimney-piece a-blowing their
chanters and trying the drones. The feasting began and the pipers played
and never had Teig seen such a sight in his life. Suddenly a wee man
sang out:
"Clip, clap, clip, clap, I wish I had my wee red cap!" And out of the
air there tumbled the neatest cap Teig ever laid his two eyes on. The
wee man clapped it on his head, crying:
"I wish I was in Spain!" and--whist--up the chimney he went, and away
out of sight.
It happened just as I am telling it. Another wee man called for his cap,
and away he went after the first. And then another and another until the
room was empty and Teig sat alone again.
"By my soul," said Teig, "I'd like to thravel that way myself! It's a
grand savin' of tickets an' baggage; an' ye get to a place before ye've
had time to change your mind. Faith there is no harm done if I thry it."
So he sang the fairies' rhyme and out of the air dropped a wee cap for
him. For a moment the wonder had him, but the next he was clapping the
cap on his head and crying:
"Spain!"
Then--whist--up the chimney he went after the fairies, and before he had
time to let out his breath he was standing in the middle of Spain, and
strangeness all about him.
He was in a great city. The doorways of the houses were hung with
flowers and the air was warm and sweet with the smell of them. Torches
burned along the streets, sweetmeat-sellers went about crying their
wares, and on the steps of the cathedral crouched a crowd of beggars.
"What's the meanin' o' that?" asked Teig of one of the fairies.
"They are waiting for those that are hearing mass. When they come out,
they give half of what they have to those that have nothing, so on this
night of all the year there shall be no hunger and no cold."
And then far down the street came the sound of a child's voice, singing:
"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even'."
"Curse it!" said Teig; "can a song fly afther ye?" And then he heard the
fairies cry "Holland!" and cried "Holland!" too.
In one leap he was over France, and another over Belgium; and with the
third he was standing by long ditches of water frozen fast, and over
them glided hundreds upon hundreds of lads and maids. Outside each door
stood a wee wooden shoe empty. Teig saw scores of them as he looked down
the ditch of a street.
"What is the meanin' o' those shoes?" he asked the fairies.
"Ye poor lad!" answered the wee man next to him; "are ye not knowing
anything? This is the Gift Night of the year, when every man gives to
his neighbour."
A child came to the window of one of the houses, and in her hand was a
lighted candle. She was singing as she put the light down close to the
glass, and Teig caught the words:
"Open your door an' greet ye the stranger--
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as truagh!"
"'Tis the de'il's work!" cried Teig, and he set the red cap more firmly
on his head.
"I'm for another country."
I cannot be telling you a half of the adventures Teig had that night,
nor half the sights that he saw. But he passed by fields that held
sheaves of grain for the birds and doorsteps that held bowls of porridge
for the wee creatures. He saw lighted trees, sparkling and heavy with
gifts; and he stood outside the churches and watched the crowds pass in,
bearing gifts to the Holy Mother and Child.
At last the fairies straightened their caps and cried, "Now for the
great hall in the King of England's palace!"
Whist--and away they went, and Teig after them; and the first thing he
knew he was in London, not an arm's length from the King's throne. It
was a grander sight than he had seen in any other country. The hall was
filled entirely with lords and ladies; and the great doors were open for
the poor and the homeless to come in and warm themselves by the King's
fire and feast from the King's table. And many a hungry soul did the
King serve with his own hands.
Those that had anything to give gave it in return. It might be a bit of
music played on a harp or a pipe, or it might be a dance or a song; but
more often it was a wish, just, for good luck and safekeeping.
Teig was so taken up with the watching that he never heard the fairies
when they wished themselves off; moreover, he never saw the wee girl
that was fed, and went laughing away. But he heard a bit of her song as
she passed through the door:
"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary,
This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary."
Then the anger had Teig. "I'll stop your pestherin' tongue, once an' for
all time!" and, catching the cap from his head, he threw it after her.
No sooner was the cap gone than every soul in the hall saw him. The next
moment they were about him, catching at his coat and crying:
"Where is he from, what does he here? Bring him before the King!" And
Teig was dragged along by a hundred hands to the throne where the King
sat.
"He was stealing food," cried one.
"He was robbing the King's jewels," cried another.
"He looks evil," cried a third. "Kill him!"
And in a moment all the voices took it up and the hall rang with: "Aye,
kill him, kill him!"
Teig's legs took to trembling, and fear put the leash on his tongue; but
after a long silence he managed to whisper:
"I have done evil to no one--no one!"
"Maybe," said the King; "but have ye done good? Come, tell us, have ye
given aught to any one this night? If ye have, we will pardon ye."
Not a word could Teig say--fear tightened the leash--for he was knowing
full well there was no good to him that night.
"Then ye must die," said the King. "Will ye try hanging or beheading?"
"Hanging, please, your Majesty," said Teig.
The guards came rushing up and carried him off. But as he was crossing
the threshold of the hall a thought sprang at him and held him.
"Your Majesty," he called after him, "will ye grant me a last request?"
"I will," said the King.
"Thank ye. There's a wee red cap that I'm mortal fond of, and I lost it
a while ago; if I could be hung with it on, I would hang a deal more
comfortable."
The cap was found and brought to Teig.
"Clip, clap, clip, clap, for my wee red cap, I wish I was home," he
sang.
Up and over the heads of the dumfounded guard he flew, and--whist--and
away out of sight. When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting close
by his own hearth, with the fire burnt low. The hands of the clock were
still, the bolt was fixed firm in the door. The fairies' lights were
gone, and the only bright thing was the candle burning in old Barney's
cabin across the road.
A running of feet sounded outside, and then the snatch of a song:
"'Tis well that ye mind--ye who sit by the fire--
That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as truagh!"
"Wait ye, whoever ye are!" and Teig was away to the corner, digging fast
at the loose clay, as a terrier digs at a bone. He filled his hands full
of the shining gold, then hurried to the door, unbarring it.
The miller's wee Cassie stood there, peering at him out of the darkness.
"Take those to the widow O'Donnelly, do ye hear? And take the rest to
the store. Ye tell Jamie to bring up all that he has that is eatable an'
dhrinkable; and to the neighbours ye say, 'Teig's keepin' the feast this
night.' Hurry now!"
Teig stopped a moment on the threshold until the tramp of her feet had
died away; then he made a hollow of his two hands and called across the
road:
"Hey there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?"
FOOTNOTE:
[F] Published originally in the _Outlook_. Reprinted here by arrangement
with the author.
X
A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD[G]
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 now 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 ones 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 to
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
treetops, 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.
FOOTNOTE:
[G] Reprinted by permission of the author from her collection,
"Christmas tide," published by the Chicago Kindergarten College.
XI
JIMMY SCARECROW'S CHRISTMAS
MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN
JIMMY SCARECROW led a sad life in the winter. Jimmy's greatest grief was
his lack of occupation. He liked to be useful, and in winter he was
absolutely of no use at all.
He wondered how many such miserable winters he would have to endure. He
was a young Scarecrow, and this was his first one. He was strongly made,
and although his wooden joints creaked a little when the wind blew he
did not grow in the least rickety. Every morning, when the wintry sun
peered like a hard yellow eye across the dry corn-stubble, Jimmy felt
sad, but at Christmas time his heart nearly broke.
On Christmas Eve Santa Claus came in his sledge heaped high with
presents, urging his team of reindeer across the field. He was on his
way to the farmhouse where Betsey lived with her Aunt Hannah.
Betsey was a very good little girl with very smooth yellow curls, and
she had a great many presents. Santa Claus had a large wax doll-baby for
her on his arm, tucked up against the fur collar of his coat. He was
afraid to trust it in the pack, lest it get broken.
When poor Jimmy Scarecrow saw Santa Claus his heart gave a great leap.
"Santa Claus! Here I am!" he cried out, but Santa Claus did not hear
him.
"Santa Claus, please give me a little present. I was good all summer and
kept the crows out of the corn," pleaded the poor Scarecrow in his
choking voice, but Santa Claus passed by with a merry halloo and a great
clamour of bells.
Then Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble and shook with sobs until
his joints creaked. "I am of no use in the world, and everybody has
forgotten me," he moaned. But he was mistaken.
The next morning Betsey sat at the window holding her Christmas
doll-baby, and she looked out at Jimmy Scarecrow standing alone in the
field amidst the corn-stubble.
"Aunt Hannah?" said she. Aunt Hannah was making a crazy patchwork quilt,
and she frowned hard at a triangular piece of red silk and circular
piece of pink, wondering how to fit them together. "Well?" said she.
"Did Santa Claus bring the Scarecrow any Christmas present?"
"No, of course he didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because he's a Scarecrow. Don't ask silly questions."
"I wouldn't like to be treated so, if I was a Scarecrow," said Betsey,
but her Aunt Hannah did not hear her. She was busy cutting a triangular
snip out of the round piece of pink silk so the piece of red silk could
be feather-stitched into it.
It was snowing hard out of doors, and the north wind blew. The
Scarecrow's poor old coat got whiter and whiter with snow. Sometimes he
almost vanished in the thick white storm. Aunt Hannah worked until the
middle of the afternoon on her crazy quilt. Then she got up and spread
it out over the sofa with an air of pride.
"There," said she, "that's done, and that makes the eighth. I've got one
for every bed in the house, and I've given four away. I'd give this away
if I knew of anybody that wanted it."
Aunt Hannah put on her hood and shawl, and drew some blue yarn stockings
on over her shoes, and set out through the snow to carry a slice of
plum-pudding to her sister Susan, who lived down the road. Half an hour
after Aunt Hannah had gone Betsey put her little red plaid shawl over
her head, and ran across the field to Jimmy Scarecrow. She carried her
new doll-baby smuggled up under her shawl.
"Wish you Merry Christmas!" she said to Jimmy Scarecrow.
"Wish you the same," said Jimmy, but his voice was choked with sobs, and
was also muffled, for his old hat had slipped down to his chin. Betsey
looked pitifully at the old hat fringed with icicles, like frozen tears,
and the old snow-laden coat. "I've brought you a Christmas present,"
said she, and with that she tucked her doll-baby inside Jimmy
Scarecrow's coat, sticking its tiny feet into a pocket.
"Thank you," said Jimmy Scarecrow faintly.
"You're welcome," said she. "Keep her under your overcoat, so the snow
won't wet her, and she won't catch cold, she's delicate."
"Yes, I will," said Jimmy Scarecrow, and he tried hard to bring one of
his stiff, outstretched arms around to clasp the doll-baby.
"Don't you feel cold in that old summer coat?" asked Betsey.
"If I had a little exercise, I should be warm," he replied. But he
shivered, and the wind whistled through his rags.
"You wait a minute," said Betsey, and was off across the field.
Jimmy Scarecrow stood in the corn-stubble, with the doll-baby under his
coat and waited, and soon Betsey was back again with Aunt Hannah's crazy
quilt trailing in the snow behind her.
"Here," said she, "here is something to keep you warm," and she folded
the crazy quilt around the Scarecrow and pinned it.
"Aunt Hannah wants to give it away if anybody wants it," she explained.
"She's got so many crazy quilts in the house now she doesn't know what
to do with them. Good-bye--be sure you keep the doll-baby covered up."
And with that she ran across the field, and left Jimmy Scarecrow alone
with the crazy quilt and the doll-baby.
The bright flash of colours under Jimmy's hat-brim dazzled his eyes, and
he felt a little alarmed. "I hope this quilt is harmless if it _is_
crazy," he said. But the quilt was warm, and he dismissed his fears.
Soon the doll-baby whimpered, but he creaked his joints a little, and
that amused it, and he heard it cooing inside his coat.
Jimmy Scarecrow had never felt so happy in his life as he did for an
hour or so. But after that the snow began to turn to rain, and the crazy
quilt was soaked through and through: and not only that, but his coat
and the poor doll-baby. It cried pitifully for a while, and then it was
still, and he was afraid it was dead.
It grew very dark, and the rain fell in sheets, the snow melted, and
Jimmy Scarecrow stood halfway up his old boots in water. He was saying
to himself that the saddest hour of his life had come, when suddenly he
again heard Santa Claus' sleigh-bells and his merry voice talking to his
reindeer. It was after midnight, Christmas was over, and Santa was
hastening home to the North Pole.
"Santa Claus! dear Santa Claus!" cried Jimmy Scarecrow with a great sob,
and that time Santa Claus heard him and drew rein.
"Who's there?" he shouted out of the darkness.
"It's only me," replied the Scarecrow.
"Who's me?" shouted Santa Claus.
"Jimmy Scarecrow!"
Santa got out of his sledge and waded up. "Have you been standing here
ever since corn was ripe?" he asked pityingly, and Jimmy replied that he
had.
"What's that over your shoulders?" Santa Claus continued, holding up his
lantern.
"It's a crazy quilt."
"And what are you holding under your coat?"
"The doll-baby that Betsey gave me, and I'm afraid it's dead," poor
Jimmy Scarecrow sobbed.
"Nonsense!" cried Santa Claus. "Let me see it!" And with that he pulled
the doll-baby out from under the Scarecrow's coat, and patted its back,
and shook it a little, and it began to cry, and then to crow. "It's all
right," said Santa Claus. "This is the doll-baby I gave Betsey, and it
is not at all delicate. It went through the measles, and the
chicken-pox, and the mumps, and the whooping-cough, before it left the
North Pole. Now get into the sledge, Jimmy Scarecrow, and bring the
doll-baby and the crazy quilt. I have never had any quilts that weren't
in their right minds at the North Pole, but maybe I can cure this one.
Get in!" Santa chirruped to his reindeer, and they drew the sledge up
close in a beautiful curve.
"Get in, Jimmy Scarecrow, and come with me to the North Pole!" he
cried.
"Please, how long shall I stay?" asked Jimmy Scarecrow.
"Why, you are going to live with me," replied Santa Claus. "I've been
looking for a person like you for a long time."
"Are there any crows to scare away at the North Pole? I want to be
useful," Jimmy Scarecrow said, anxiously.
"No," answered Santa Claus, "but I don't want you to scare away crows. I
want you to scare away Arctic Explorers. I can keep you in work for a
thousand years, and scaring away Arctic Explorers from the North Pole is
much more important than scaring away crows from corn. Why, if they
found the Pole, there wouldn't be a piece an inch long left in a week's
time, and the earth would cave in like an apple without a core! They
would whittle it all to pieces, and carry it away in their pockets for
souvenirs. Come along; I am in a hurry."
"I will go on two conditions," said Jimmy. "First, I want to make a
present to Aunt Hannah and Betsey, next Christmas."
"You shall make them any present you choose. What else?"
"I want some way provided to scare the crows out of the corn next
summer, while I am away," said Jimmy.
"That is easily managed," said Santa Claus. "Just wait a minute."
Santa took his stylographic pen out of his pocket, went with his lantern
close to one of the fence-posts, and wrote these words upon it:
NOTICE TO CROWS
Whichever crow shall hereafter hop, fly, or flop
into this field during the absence of Jimmy
Scarecrow, and therefrom purloin, steal, or
abstract corn, shall be instantly, in a twinkling
and a trice, turned snow-white, and be ever after
a disgrace, a byword and a reproach to his whole
race.
Per order of SANTA CLAUS.
"The corn will be safe now," said Santa Claus, "get in." Jimmy got into
the sledge and they flew away over the fields, out of sight, with merry
halloos and a great clamour of bells.
The next morning there was much surprise at the farmhouse, when Aunt
Hannah and Betsey looked out of the window and the Scarecrow was not in
the field holding out his stiff arms over the corn stubble. Betsey had
told Aunt Hannah she had given away the crazy quilt and the doll-baby,
but had been scolded very little.
"You must not give away anything of yours again without asking
permission," said Aunt Hannah. "And you have no right to give anything
of mine, even if you know I don't want it. Now both my pretty quilt and
your beautiful doll-baby are spoiled."
That was all Aunt Hannah had said. She thought she would send John
after the quilt and the doll-baby next morning as soon as it was light.
But Jimmy Scarecrow was gone, and the crazy quilt and the doll-baby with
him. John, the servant-man, searched everywhere, but not a trace of them
could he find. "They must have all blown away, mum," he said to Aunt
Hannah.
"We shall have to have another scarecrow next summer," said she.
But the next summer there was no need of a scarecrow, for not a crow
came past the fence-post on which Santa Claus had written his notice to
crows. The cornfield was never so beautiful, and not a single grain was
stolen by a crow, and everybody wondered at it, for they could not read
the crow-language in which Santa had written.
"It is a great mystery to me why the crows don't come into our
cornfield, when there is no scarecrow," said Aunt Hannah.
But she had a still greater mystery to solve when Christmas came round
again. Then she and Betsey had each a strange present. They found them
in the sitting-room on Christmas morning. Aunt Hannah's present was her
old crazy quilt, remodelled, with every piece cut square and true, and
matched exactly to its neighbour.
"Why, it's my old crazy quilt, but it isn't crazy now!" cried Aunt
Hannah, and her very spectacles seemed to glisten with amazement.
Betsey's present was her doll-baby of the Christmas before; but the doll
was a year older. She had grown an inch, and could walk and say,
"mamma," and "how do?" She was changed a good deal, but Betsey knew her
at once. "It's my doll-baby!" she cried, and snatched her up and kissed
her.
But neither Aunt Hannah nor Betsey ever knew that the quilt and the doll
were Jimmy Scarecrow's Christmas presents to them.
XII
WHY THE CHIMES RANG[H]
RAYMOND MC ALDEN
THERE was once in a faraway country where few people have ever
travelled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a
great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas,
thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like
lines of ants all moving in the same direction.
When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark
passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church.
This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely
see to the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the
farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud, that
sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their
shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such
church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up
for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old. But the
strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of
bells.
At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing
over it as far up as one could see. I say as far as one could see,
because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it
rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any
one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be
certain that it was in sight. Up, and up, and up climbed the stones and
the ivy; and as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds
of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.
Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of
Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been
built, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it
was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their
place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up
where the air was clearest and purest; however that might be no one who
had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the
world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky;
others as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.
But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There
was an old man living not far from the church who said that his mother
had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the
only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes,
you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It
was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the
church their offerings to the Christ-Child; and when the greatest and
best offering was laid on the altar there used to come sounding through
the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some
said that the wind rang them, and others, that they were so high that
the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had
never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful
of their gifts for the Christ-Child, and that no offering was brought
great enough to deserve the music of the chimes.
Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one
trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything
that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who
thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But
although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the
roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.
Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where
nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when
the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother.
They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of
the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan which
they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the
beautiful celebration.
"Nobody can guess, Little Brother," Pedro would say; "all the fine
things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the
Christ-Child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could
see Him?"
The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes
flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough
Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the
afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before
nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the
lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed they were about to
enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they
saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to
look at it.
It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and
tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made
of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound
asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All
this Pedro saw in a moment and he knelt down beside her and tried to
rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have
tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could
rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a
moment he stood up again, and said:
"It's no use, Little Brother. You will have to go on alone."
"Alone?" cried Little Brother. "And you not see the Christmas festival?"
"No," said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in
his throat. "See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the
chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her.
Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can
bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing,
and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket."
"But I cannot bear to leave you, and go on alone," said Little Brother.
"Both of us need not miss the service," said Pedro, "and it had better
be I than you. You can easily find your way to church; and you must see
and hear everything twice, Little Brother--once for you and once for me.
I am sure the Christ-Child must know how I should love to come with you
and worship Him; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up
to the altar without getting in any one's way, take this little silver
piece of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking.
Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with
you."
In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city and winked hard
to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding
farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the
music and splendour of the Christmas celebration that he had been
planning for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in
the snow.
The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that
it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ
played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound,
and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble
around him.
At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be
laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down
their gifts to the Christ-Child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some
baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the
aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years
and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with
all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There
went a great murmur through the church as the people saw the king take
from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it
gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the Holy Child. "Surely,"
every one said, "we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has
ever happened before."
But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower and the people
shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they
never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever
rang at all.
The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly
the organist stopped playing, and every one looked at the old minister,
who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a
sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people
strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly,
swinging through the air, the the sound of the chimes in the tower. So
far away, and yet so clear the music seemed--so much sweeter were the
notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away
up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as
still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they
all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what
great gift had awakened the long silent bells.
But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little
Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking,
and had laid Pedro's little piece of silver on the altar.
FOOTNOTE:
[H] Copyright, 1906. Used by special permission of the publishers, the
Bobbs-Merrill Company.
XIII
THE BIRDS' CHRISTMAS[I]
F. E. MANN
_Founded on fact._
"CHICKADEE-DEE-DEE-DEE! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee! Chicka----" "Cheerup,
cheerup, chee-chee! Cheerup, cheerup, chee-chee!" "Ter-ra-lee,
ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee!"
"Rap-atap-atap-atap!" went the woodpecker; "Mrs. Chickadee may speak
first."
"Friends," began Mrs. Chickadee, "why do you suppose I called you
together?"
"Because it's the day before Christmas," twittered Snow Bunting. "And
you're going to give a Christmas party," chirped the Robin. "And you
want us all to come!" said Downy Woodpecker. "Hurrah! Three cheers for
Mrs. Chickadee!"
"Hush!" said Mrs. Chickadee, "and I'll tell you all about it. To-morrow
is Christmas Day, but I don't want to give a party."
"Chee, chee, chee!" cried Robin Rusty-breast; "chee, chee, chee!"
"Just listen to my little plan," said Mrs. Chickadee, "for, indeed, I
want you all to help. How many remember Thistle Goldfinch--the happy
little fellow who floated over the meadows through the summer and fall?"
"Cheerup, chee-chee, cheerup, chee-chee, I do," sang the Robin; "how he
loved to sway on thistletops!" "Yes," said Downy Woodpecker, "and didn't
he sing? All about blue skies, and sunshine and happy days, with his
'Swee-e-et-sweet-sweet-sweet-a-twitter-witter-witter-witter-wee-twea!'"
"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee," said Snow Bunting. "We've all heard of Thistle
Goldfinch, but what can he have to do with your Christmas party? He's
away down South now, and wouldn't care if you gave a dozen parties."
"Oh, but he isn't; he's right in these very woods!"
"Why, you don't mean----"
"Indeed I do mean it, every single word. Yesterday I was flitting about
among the trees, pecking at a dead branch here, and a bit of moss there,
and before I knew it I found myself away over at the other side of the
woods! 'Chickadee-dee-dee, chickadee-dee-dee!' I sang, as I turned my
bill toward home. Just then I heard the saddest little voice pipe out:
'Dear-ie me! Dear-ie me!' and there on the sunny side of a branch
perched a lonesome bit of yellowish down. I went up to see what it was,
and found dear little Thistle Goldfinch! He was very glad to see me, and
soon told his short story. Through the summer Papa and Mamma Goldfinch
and all the brothers and sisters had a fine time, singing together,
fluttering over thistletops, or floating through the balmy air. But when
'little Jack Frost walked through the trees,' Papa Goldfinch said: 'It
is high time we went South!' All were ready but Thistle; he wanted to
stay through the winter, and begged so hard that Papa Goldfinch soberly
said: 'Try it, my son, but _do_ find a warm place to stay in at night.'
Then off they flew, and Thistle was alone. For a while he was happy. The
sun shone warm through the middle of the day, and there were fields and
meadows full of seeds. You all remember how sweetly he sang for us then.
But by and by the cold North Wind came whistling through the trees, and
chilly Thistle woke up one gray morning to find the air full of whirling
snowflakes. He didn't mind the light snows, golden-rod and some high
grasses were too tall to be easily covered, and he got seeds from them.
But now that the heavy snows have come, the poor little fellow is almost
starved, and if he doesn't have a warm place to sleep in these cold
nights, he'll surely die!"
Mrs. Chickadee paused a minute. The birds were so still one could hear
the pine trees whisper. Then she went on: "I comforted the poor little
fellow as best I could, and showed him where to find a few seeds: then I
flew home, for it was bedtime. I tucked my head under my wing to keep it
warm, and thought, and thought, and thought; and here's my plan:
"We Chickadees have a nice warm home here in the spruce trees, with
their thick, heavy boughs to shut out the snow and cold. There is plenty
of room, so Thistle could sleep here all winter. We would let him perch
on a branch, when we Chickadees would nestle around him until he was as
warm as in the lovely summer time. These cones are so full of seeds that
we could spare him a good many; and I think that you Robins might let
him come over to your pines some day and share your seeds. Downy
Woodpecker must keep his eyes open as he hammers the trees, and if he
spies a supply of seeds he will let us know at once. Snow Bunting is
only a visitor, so I don't expect him to help, but I wanted him to hear
my plan with the rest of you. Now you _will_ try, won't you, _every
one_?"
"Cheerup, cheerup, ter-ra-lee! Indeed we'll try; let's begin right away!
Don't wait until to-morrow; who'll go and find Thistle?"
"I will," chirped Robin Rusty-breast, and off he flew to the place which
Mrs. Chickadee had told of, at the other side of the wood. There, sure
enough, he found Thistle Goldfinch sighing: "Dear-ie me! dear-ie me! The
winter is so cold and I'm here all alone!" "Cheerup, chee-chee!" piped
the Robin:
"Cheerup, cheerup, I'm here!
I'm here and I mean to stay.
What if the winter is drear--
Cheerup, cheerup anyway!"
"But the snow is so deep," said Thistle, and the Robin replied:
"Soon the snows'll be over and gone,
Run and rippled away;
What's the use of looking forlorn?
Cheerup, cheerup, I say!"
Then he told Thistle all their plans, and wasn't Thistle surprised? Why,
he just couldn't believe a word of it till they reached Mrs. Chickadee's
and she said it was all true. They fed him and warmed him, then settled
themselves for a good night's rest.
Christmas morning they were chirping gaily, and Thistle was trying to
remember the happy song he sang in the summer time, when there came a
whirr of wings as Snow Bunting flew down.
"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee," said he, "can you fly a little
way?"
"Oh, yes," replied Thistle. "I _think_ I could fly a _long_ way."
"Come on, then," said Snow Bunting. "Every one who wants a Christmas
dinner, follow me!" That was every word he would say, so what could they
do but follow?
Soon they came to the edge of the wood, and then to a farmhouse. Snow
Bunting flew straight up to the piazza, and there stood a dear little
girl in a warm hood and cloak, with a pail of bird-seed on her arm, and
a dish of bread crumbs in her hand. As they flew down, she said:
"And here are some more birdies who have come for a Christmas dinner. Of
course you shall have some, you dear little things!" and she laughed
merrily to see them dive for the crumbs.
After they had finished eating, Elsie (that was the little girl's name)
said: "Now, little birds, it is going to be a cold winter, you would
better come here every day to get your dinner. I'll always be glad to
see you."
"Cheerup chee-chee, cheerup chee-chee! thank you, thank you," cried the
Robins.
"Ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee, ter-ra-lee! thank you, thank you!" twittered
Snow Bunting.
"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee,
chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee! how kind you are!" sang the Chickadees.
And Thistle Goldfinch? Yes, he remembered his summer song, for he sang
as they flew away:
"Swee-e-et--sweet-sweet-sweet-a-twitter-witter-witter-witter--wee-twea!"
* * * * *
NOTES.--1: The Robin's song is from "Bird Talks,"
by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney.
2: The fact upon which this story is based--that
is of the other birds adopting and warming the
solitary Thistle Goldfinch--was observed near
Northampton, Mass., where robins and other
migratory birds sometimes spend the winter in the
thick pine woods.
FOOTNOTE:
[I] From "In the Child's World," by Emilie Poulssen, Milton Bradley Co.,
Publishers. Used by permission.
XIV
THE LITTLE SISTER'S VACATION[J]
WINIFRED M. KIRKLAND
IT WAS to be a glorious Christmas at Doctor Brower's. All "the
children"--little Peggy and her mother always spoke of the grown-up ones
as "the children"--were coming home. Mabel was coming from Ohio with her
big husband and her two babies, Minna and little Robin, the year-old
grandson whom the home family had never seen; Hazen was coming all the
way from the Johns Hopkins Medical School, and Arna was coming home from
her teaching in New York.
It was a trial to Peggy that vacation did not begin until the very day
before Christmas, and then continued only one niggardly week. After
school hours she had helped her mother in the Christmas preparations
every day until she crept into bed at night with aching arms and tired
feet, to lie there tossing about, whether from weariness or glad
excitement she did not know.
"Not so hard, daughter," the doctor said to her once.
"Oh, papa," protested her mother, "when we're so busy, and Peggy is so
handy!"
"Not so hard," he repeated, with his eyes on fifteen-year-old Peggy's
delicate face, as, wearing her braids pinned up on her head and a
pinafore down to her toes, she stoned raisins and blanched almonds,
rolled bread crumbs and beat eggs, dusted and polished and made ready
for the children.
Finally, after a day of flying about, helping with the many last things,
Peggy let down her braids and put on her new crimson shirtwaist, and
stood with her mother in the front doorway, for it was Christmas Eve at
last, and the station 'bus was rattling up with the first homecomers,
Arna and Hazen.
Then there were voices ringing up and down the dark street, and there
were happy tears in the mother's eyes, and Arna had taken Peggy's face
in her two soft-gloved hands and lifted it up and kissed it, and Hazen
had swung his little sister up in the air just as of old. Peggy's tired
feet were dancing for joy. She was helping Arna take off her things, was
carrying her bag upstairs--would have carried Hazen's heavy grip, too,
only her father took it from her.
"Set the kettle to boil, Peggy," directed her mother; "then run upstairs
and see if Arna wants anything. We'll wait supper till the rest come."
The rest came on the nine o'clock train, such a load of them--the big,
bluff brother-in-law, Mabel, plump and laughing, as always, Minna, elfin
and bright-eyed, and sleepy Baby Robin. Such hugging, such a hubbub of
baby talk! How many things there seemed to be to do for those precious
babies right away!
Peggy was here and there and everywhere. Everything was in joyous
confusion. Supper was to be set on, too. While the rest ate, Peggy sat
by, holding Robin, her own little nephew, and managing at the same time
to pick up the things--napkin, knife, spoon, bread--that Minna,
hilarious with the late hour, flung from her high chair.
It seemed as if they would never be all stowed away for the night. Some
of them wanted pitchers of warm water, some of them pitchers of cold,
and the alcohol stove must be brought up for heating the baby's milk at
night. The house was crowded, too. Peggy had given up her room to Hazen,
and slept on a cot in the sewing room with Minna.
The cot had been enlarged by having three chairs piled with pillows, set
along the side. But Minna preferred to sleep in the middle of the cot,
or else across it, her restless little feet pounding at Peggy's ribs;
and Peggy was unused to any bedfellow.
She lay long awake thinking proudly of the children, of Hazen, the tall
brother, with his twinkling eyes, his drolleries, his teasing; of
graceful Arna who dressed so daintily, talked so cleverly, and had been
to college. Arna was going to send Peggy to college, too--it was so good
of Arna! But for all Peggy's admiration for Arna, it was Mabel, the
eldest sister, who was the more approachable. Mabel did not pretend even
to as much learning as Peggy had herself; she was happy-go-lucky and
sweet-tempered. Then her husband was a great jolly fellow, with whom it
was impossible to be shy, and the babies--there never were such cunning
babies, Peggy thought. Just here her niece gave her a particularly
vicious kick, and Peggy opposed to her train of admiring thoughts, "But
I'm so tired."
It did not seem to Peggy that she had been asleep at all when she was
waked with a vigorous pounding on her chest and a shrill little voice in
her ear:
"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus! It's mornin'! It's Ch'is'mus!"
"Oh, no, it isn't, Minna!" pleaded Peggy, struggling with sleepiness.
"It's all dark still."
"Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus, Ch'is'mus!" reiterated Minna continuing to pound.
"Hush, dear! You'll wake Aunt Arna, and she's tired after being all day
on the chou-chou cars."
"Merry Ch'is'mus, Aunty Arna!" shouted the irrepressible Minna.
"Oh, darling, be quiet! We'll play little pig goes to market. I'll tell
you a story, only be quiet a little while."
It took Peggy's utmost effort to keep the little wriggler still for the
hour from five to six. Then, however, her shrill, "Merry Ch'is'mus!"
roused the household. Protests were of no avail. Minna was the only
granddaughter. Dark as it was, people must get up.
Peggy must dress Minna and then hurry down to help get breakfast--not so
easy a task with Minna ever at one's heels. The quick-moving sprite
seemed to be everywhere--into the sugar-bowl, the cooky jar, the
steaming teakettle--before one could turn about. Urged on by the
impatient little girl, the grown-ups made short work of breakfast.
After the meal, according to time-honoured Brower custom, they formed in
procession, single file, Minna first, then Ben with Baby Robin. They
each held aloft a sprig of holly, and they all kept time as they sang,
"God rest you, merry gentlemen," in their march from the dining-room to
the office. And there they must form in circle about the tree, and dance
three-times round, singing "The Christmas-tree is an evergreen," before
they could touch a single present.
The presents are done up according to custom, packages of every shape
and size, but all in white paper and tied with red ribbon, and all
marked for somebody with somebody else's best love. They all fall to
opening, and the babies' shouts are not the only ones to be heard.
Passers-by smile indulgently at the racket, remembering that all the
Browers are home for Christmas, and the Browers were ever a jovial
company.
Peggy gazes at her gifts quietly, but with shining eyes--little gold
cuff pins from Hazen, just like Arna's; a set of furs from Mabel and
Ben; but she likes Arna's gift best of all, a complete set of her
favourite author.
But much as they would like to linger about the Christmas tree, Peggy
and her mother, at least, must remember that the dishes must be washed
and the beds made, and that the family must get ready for church. Peggy
does not go to church, and nobody dreams how much she wants to go. She
loves the Christmas music. No hymn rings so with joy as:
Jerusalem triumphs, Messiah is king.
The choir sings it only once a year, on the Christmas morning. Besides,
her chum Esther will be at church, and Peggy has been too busy to go to
see her since she came home from boarding-school for the holidays. But
somebody must stay at home, and that somebody who but Peggy? Somebody
must baste the turkey, and prepare the vegetables and take care of the
babies.
Peggy is surprised to find how difficult it is to combine dinner-getting
with baby-tending. When she opens the oven-door, there is Minna's head
thrust up under her arm, the inquisitive little nose in great danger by
reason of sputtering gravy.
"Minna," protests Peggy, "you mustn't eat another bit of candy!" and
Minna opens her mouth in a howl, prolonged, but without tears and
without change of colour. Robin joins in, he does not know why. Peggy is
a doting aunt, but an honest one. She is vexed by a growing conviction
that Mabel's babies are sadly spoiled. Peggy is ashamed of herself;
surely she ought to be perfectly happy playing with Minna and Robin.
Instead, she finds that the thing she would like best of all to be doing
at this moment, next to going to church, would be to be lying on her
father's couch in the office all by herself, reading.
The dinner is a savoury triumph for Peggy and her mother. The gravy and
the mashed potato are entirely of Peggy's workmanship, and Peggy has had
a hand in most of the other dishes, too, as the mother proudly tells.
How that merry party can eat! Peggy is waitress, and it is long before
the passing is over, and she can sit down in her own place. She is just
as fond of the unusual Christmas good things as are the rest, but
somehow, before she is well started at her turkey, it is time for
changing plates for dessert, and before she has tasted her nuts and
raisins the babies have succumbed to sleepiness, and it is Peggy who
must carry them upstairs for their nap--just in the middle of one of
Hazen's funniest stories, too.
And all the time the little sister is so ready, so quickly serviceable,
that somehow nobody notices--nobody but the doctor. It is he who finds
Peggy, half an hour later, all alone in the kitchen. The mother and the
older daughters are gathered about the sitting-room hearth, engaged in
the dear, delicious talk about the little things that are always left
out of letters.
The doctor interrupts them.
"Peggy is all alone," he says.
"But we're having such a good talk," the mother pleads, "and Peggy will
be done in no time! Peggy is so handy!"
"Well, girls?" is all the doctor says, with quiet command in his eyes,
and Peggy is not left to wash the Christmas dishes all alone. Because
she is smiling and her cheeks are bright, her sisters do not notice that
her eyes are wet, for Peggy is hotly ashamed of certain thoughts and
feelings that she cannot down. She forgets them for a while, however,
sitting on the hearth-rug, snuggled against her father's knee in the
Christmas twilight.
Yet the troublesome thoughts came back in the evening, when Peggy sat
upstairs in the dark with Minna, vainly trying to induce the excited
little girl to go to sleep, while bursts of merriment from the family
below were always breaking in upon the two in their banishment.
There was another restless night of it with the little niece, and
another too early waking. Everybody but Minna was sleepy enough, and
breakfast was a protracted meal, to which the "children" came down
slowly one by one. Arna did not appear at all, and Peggy carried up to
her the daintiest of trays, all of her own preparing. Arna's kiss of
thanks was great reward. It was dinner-time before Peggy realized it,
and she had hoped to find a quiet hour for her Latin.
The dreadful regent's examination was to come the next week, and Peggy
wanted to study for it. She had once thought of asking Arna to help her,
but Arna seemed so tired.
In the afternoon Esther came to see her chum, and to take her home with
her to spend the night. The babies, fretful with after-Christmas-crossness,
were tumbling over their aunt, and sadly interrupting confidences, while
Peggy explained that she could not go out that evening. All the family
were going to the church sociable, and she must put the babies to bed.
"I think it's mean," Esther broke in. "Isn't it your vacation as well as
theirs? Do make that child stop pulling your hair!"
If Esther's words had only not echoed through Peggy's head as they did
that night! "But it is so mean of me, so mean of me, to want my own
vacation!" sobbed Peggy in the darkness. "I ought just to be glad
they're all at home."
Her self-reproach made her readier than ever to wait on them all the
next morning. Nobody could make such buckwheat cakes as could Mrs.
Brower; nobody could turn them as could Peggy. They were worth coming
from New York and Baltimore and Ohio to eat. Peggy stood at the griddle
half an hour, an hour, two hours. Her head was aching. Hazen, the latest
riser, was joyously calling for more.
At eleven o'clock Peggy realized that she had had no breakfast herself,
and that her mother was hurrying her off to investigate the lateness of
the butcher. Her head ached more and more, and she seemed strangely slow
in her dinner-getting and dish-washing. Her father was away, and there
was no one to help in the clearing-up. It was three before she had
finished.
Outside the sleigh-bells sounded enticing. It was the first sleighing of
the season. Mabel and Ben had been off for a ride, and Arna and Hazen,
too. How Peggy longed to be skimming over the snow instead of polishing
knives all alone in the kitchen. Sue Cummings came that afternoon to
invite Peggy to her party, given in Esther's honour. Sue enumerated six
other gatherings that were being given that week in honour of Esther's
visit home. Sue seemed to dwell much on the subject. Presently Peggy,
with hot cheeks, understood why. Everybody was giving Esther a party,
everybody but Peggy herself. Esther's own chum, and all the other girls,
were talking about it.
Peggy stood at the door to see Sue out, and watched the sleighs fly by.
Out in the sitting-room she heard her mother saying, "Yes, of course we
can have waffles for supper. Where's Peggy?" Then Peggy ran away.
In the wintry dusk the doctor came stamping in, shaking the snow from
his bearskins. As always, "Where's Peggy?" was his first question.
Peggy was not to be found, they told him. They had been all over the
house, calling her. They thought she must have gone out with Sue. The
doctor seemed to doubt this. He went through the upstairs rooms, calling
her softly. But Peggy was not in any of the bedrooms, or in any of the
closets, either. There was still the kitchen attic to be tried.
There came a husky little moan out of its depths, as he whispered,
"Daughter!" He groped his way to her, and sitting down on a trunk,
folded her into his bearskin coat.
"Now tell father all about it," he said. And it all came out with many
sobs--the nights and dawns with Minna, the Latin, the sleighing,
Esther's party, breakfast, the weariness, the headache; and last the
waffles, which had moved the one unbearable thing.
"And it is so mean of me, so mean of me!" sobbed Peggy. "But, oh, daddy,
I do want a vacation!"
"And you shall have one," he answered.
He carried her straight into her own room, laid her down on her own bed,
and tumbled Hazen's things into the hall. Then he went downstairs and
talked to his family.
Presently the mother came stealing in, bearing a glass of medicine the
doctor-father had sent. Then she undressed Peggy and put her to bed as
if she had been a baby, and sat by, smoothing her hair, until she fell
asleep.
It seemed to Peggy that she had slept a long, long time. The sun was
shining bright. Her door opened a crack and Arna peeped in, and seeing
her awake, came to the bed and kissed her good morning.
"I'm so sorry, little sister!" she said.
"Sorry for what?" asked the wondering Peggy.
"Because I didn't see," said Arna. "But now I'm going to bring up your
breakfast."
"Oh, no!" cried Peggy, sitting up.
"Oh, yes!" said Arna, with quiet authority. It was as dainty cooking as
Peggy's own, and Arna sat by to watch her eat.
"You're so good to me, Arna!" said Peggy.
"Not very," answered Arna, dryly. "When you've finished this you must
lie up here away from the children and read."
"But who will take care of Minna?" questioned Peggy.
"Minna's mamma," answered a voice from the next room, where Mabel was
pounding pillows. She came to the door to look in on Peggy in all her
luxury of orange marmalade to eat, Christmas books to read, and Arna to
wait upon her.
"I think mothers, not aunts, were meant to look after babies," said
Mabel. "I'm so sorry, dear!"
"Oh, I wish you two wouldn't talk like that!" cried Peggy. "I'm so
ashamed."
"All right, we'll stop talking," said Mabel quickly, "but we'll
remember."
They would not let Peggy lift her hand to any of the work that day.
Mabel managed the babies masterfully. Arna moved quietly about,
accomplishing wonders.
"But aren't you tired, Arna?" queried Peggy.
"Not a bit of it, and I'll have time to help you with your Cæsar
before----"
"Before what?" asked Peggy, but got no answer. They had been translating
famously, when, in the late afternoon, there came a ring of the
doorbell. Peggy found Hazen bowing low, and craving "Mistress Peggy's
company." A sleigh and two prancing horses stood at the gate.
It was a glorious drive. Peggy's eyes danced and her laugh rang out at
Hazen's drolleries. The world stretched white all about them, and their
horses flew on and on like the wind. They rode till dark, then turned
back to the village, twinkling with lights.
The Brower house was alight in every window, and there was the sound of
many voices in the hall. The door flew open upon a laughing crowd of
boys and girls. Peggy, all glowing and rosy with the wind, stood utterly
bewildered until Esther rushed forward and hugged and shook her.
"It's a party!" she exclaimed. "One of your mother's waffle suppers!
We're all here! Isn't it splendid?"
"But, but, but----" stammered Peggy.
"'But, but, but,'" mimicked Esther. "But this is your vacation, don't
you see?"
FOOTNOTE:
[J] This story was first published in the _Youth's Companion_, vol. 77.
XV
LITTLE WOLFF'S WOODEN SHOES
A CHRISTMAS STORY BY FRANÇOIS COPPÉE; ADAPTED AND TRANSLATED BY ALMA J.
FOSTER
ONCE upon a time--so long ago that everybody has forgotten the date--in
a city in the north of Europe--with such a hard name that nobody can
ever remember it--there was a little seven-year-old boy named Wolff,
whose parents were dead, who lived with a cross and stingy old aunt, who
never thought of kissing him more than once a year and who sighed deeply
whenever she gave him a bowlful of soup.
But the poor little fellow had such a sweet nature that in spite of
everything, he loved the old woman, although he was terribly afraid of
her and could never look at her ugly old face without shivering.
As this aunt of little Wolff was known to have a house of her own and an
old woollen stocking full of gold, she had not dared to send the boy to
a charity school; but, in order to get a reduction in the price, she had
so wrangled with the master of the school, to which little Wolff finally
went, that this bad man, vexed at having a pupil so poorly dressed and
paying so little, often punished him unjustly, and even prejudiced his
companions against him, so that the three boys, all sons of rich
parents, made a drudge and laughing stock of the little fellow.
The poor little one was thus as wretched as a child could be and used to
hide himself in corners to weep whenever Christmas time came.
It was the schoolmaster's custom to take all his pupils to the midnight
mass on Christmas Eve, and to bring them home again afterward.
Now, as the winter this year was very bitter, and as heavy snow had been
falling for several days, all the boys came well bundled up in warm
clothes, with fur caps pulled over their ears, padded jackets, gloves
and knitted mittens, and strong, thick-soled boots. Only little Wolff
presented himself shivering in the poor clothes he used to wear both
weekdays and Sundays and having on his feet only thin socks in heavy
wooden shoes.
His naughty companions noticing his sad face and awkward appearance,
made many jokes at his expense; but the little fellow was so busy
blowing on his fingers, and was suffering so much with chilblains, that
he took no notice of them. So the band of youngsters, walking two and
two behind the master, started for the church.
It was pleasant in the church which was brilliant with lighted candles;
and the boys excited by the warmth took advantage of the music of the
choir and the organ to chatter among themselves in low tones. They
bragged about the fun that was awaiting them at home. The mayor's son
had seen, just before starting off, an immense goose ready stuffed and
dressed for cooking. At the alderman's home there was a little pine-tree
with branches laden down with oranges, sweets, and toys. And the
lawyer's cook had put on her cap with such care as she never thought of
taking unless she was expecting something very good!
Then they talked, too, of all that the Christ-Child was going to bring
them, of all he was going to put in their shoes which, you might be
sure, they would take good care to leave in the chimney place before
going to bed; and the eyes of these little urchins, as lively as a cage
of mice, were sparkling in advance over the joy they would have when
they awoke in the morning and saw the pink bag full of sugar-plums, the
little lead soldiers ranged in companies in their boxes, the menageries
smelling of varnished wood, and the magnificent jumping-jacks in purple
and tinsel.
Alas! Little Wolff knew by experience that his old miser of an aunt
would send him to bed supperless, but, with childlike faith and certain
of having been, all the year, as good and industrious as possible, he
hoped that the Christ-Child would not forget him, and so he, too,
planned to place his wooden shoes in good time in the fireplace.
Midnight mass over, the worshippers departed, eager for their fun, and
the band of pupils always walking two and two, and following the
teacher, left the church.
Now, in the porch and seated on a stone bench set in the niche of a
painted arch, a child was sleeping--a child in a white woollen garment,
but with his little feet bare, in spite of the cold. He was not a
beggar, for his garment was white and new, and near him on the floor was
a bundle of carpenter's tools.
In the clear light of the stars, his face, with its closed eyes, shone
with an expression of divine sweetness, and his long, curling, blond
locks seemed to form a halo about his brow. But his little child's feet,
made blue by the cold of this bitter December night, were pitiful to
see!
The boys so well clothed for the winter weather passed by quite
indifferent to the unknown child; several of them, sons of the notables
of the town, however, cast on the vagabond looks in which could be read
all the scorn of the rich for the poor, of the well-fed for the hungry.
But little Wolff, coming last out of the church, stopped, deeply
touched, before the beautiful sleeping child.
"Oh, dear!" said the little fellow to himself, "this is frightful! This
poor little one has no shoes and stockings in this bad weather--and,
what is still worse, he has not even a wooden shoe to leave near him
to-night while he sleeps, into which the little Christ-Child can put
something good to soothe his misery."
And carried away by his loving heart, Wolff drew the wooden shoe from
his right foot, laid it down before the sleeping child, and, as best he
could, sometimes hopping, sometimes limping with his sock wet by the
snow, he went home to his aunt.
"Look at the good-for-nothing!" cried the old woman, full of wrath at
the sight of the shoeless boy. "What have you done with your shoe, you
little villain?"
Little Wolff did not know how to lie, so, although trembling with terror
when he saw the rage of the old shrew, he tried to relate his adventure.
But the miserly old creature only burst into a frightful fit of
laughter.
"Aha! So my young gentleman strips himself for the beggars. Aha! My
young gentleman breaks his pair of shoes for a bare-foot! Here is
something new, forsooth. Very well, since it is this way, I shall put
the only shoe that is left into the chimney-place, and I'll answer for
it that the Christ-Child will put in something to-night to beat you with
in the morning! And you will have only a crust of bread and water
to-morrow. And we shall see if the next time, you will be giving your
shoes to the first vagabond that happens along."
And the wicked woman having boxed the ears of the poor little fellow,
made him climb up into the loft where he had his wretched cubbyhole.
Desolate, the child went to bed in the dark and soon fell asleep, but
his pillow was wet with tears.
But behold! the next morning when the old woman, awakened early by the
cold, went downstairs--oh, wonder of wonders--she saw the big chimney
filled with shining toys, bags of magnificent bonbons, and riches of
every sort, and standing out in front of all this treasure, was the
right wooden shoe which the boy had given to the little vagabond, yes,
and beside it, the one which she had placed in the chimney to hold the
bunch of switches.
As little Wolff, attracted by the cries of his aunt, stood in an ecstasy
of childish delight before the splendid Christmas gifts, shouts of
laughter were heard outside. The woman and child ran out to see what all
this meant, and behold! all the gossips of the town were standing around
the public fountain. What could have happened? Oh, a most ridiculous and
extraordinary thing! The children of the richest men in the town, whom
their parents had planned to surprise with the most beautiful presents
had found only switches in their shoes!
Then the old woman and the child thinking of all the riches in their
chimney were filled with fear. But suddenly they saw the priest appear,
his countenance full of astonishment. Just above the bench placed near
the door of the church, in the very spot where, the night before, a
child in a white garment and with bare feet, in spite of the cold, had
rested his lovely head, the priest had found a circlet of gold imbedded
in the old stones.
Then, they all crossed themselves devoutly, perceiving that this
beautiful sleeping child with the carpenter's tools had been Jesus of
Nazareth himself, who had come back for one hour just as he had been
when he used to work in the home of his parents; and reverently they
bowed before this miracle, which the good God had done to reward the
faith and the love of a little child.
XVI
CHRISTMAS IN THE ALLEY[K]
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
"I DECLARE for 't, to-morrow is Christmas Day an' I clean forgot all
about it," said old Ann, the washerwoman, pausing in her work and
holding the flatiron suspended in the air.
"Much good it'll do us," growled a discontented voice from the coarse
bed in the corner.
"We haven't much extra, to be sure," answered Ann cheerfully, bringing
the iron down onto the shirt-bosom before her, "but at least we've
enough to eat, and a good fire, and that's more'r some have, not a
thousand miles from here either."
"We might have plenty more," said the fretful voice, "if you didn't
think so much more of strangers than you do of your own folk's comfort,
keeping a houseful of beggars, as if you was a lady!"
"Now, John," replied Ann, taking another iron from the fire, "you're not
half so bad as you pretend. You wouldn't have me turn them poor
creatures into the streets to freeze, now, would you?"
"It's none of our business to pay rent for them," grumbled John. "Every
one for himself, I say, these hard times. If they can't pay you'd ought
to send 'em off; there's plenty as can."
"They'd pay quick enough if they could get work," said Ann. "They're
good honest fellows, every one, and paid me regular as long as they had
a cent. But when hundreds are out o' work in the city, what can they
do?"
"That's none o' your business, you can turn 'em out!" growled John.
"And leave the poor children to freeze as well as starve?" said Ann.
"Who'd ever take 'em in without money, I'd like to know? No, John,"
bringing her iron down as though she meant it, "I'm glad I'm well enough
to wash and iron, and pay my rent, and so long as I can do that, and
keep the hunger away from you and the child, I'll never turn the poor
souls out, leastways, not in this freezing winter weather."
"An' here's Christmas," the old man went on whiningly, "an' not a penny
to spend, an' I needin' another blanket so bad, with my rhumatiz, an'
haven't had a drop of tea for I don't know how long!"
"I know it," said Ann, never mentioning that she too had been without
tea, and not only that, but with small allowance of food of any kind,
"and I'm desperate sorry I can't get a bit of something for Katey. The
child never missed a little something in her stocking before."
"Yes," John struck in, "much you care for your flesh an' blood. The
child ha'n't had a thing this winter."
"That's true enough," said Ann, with a sigh, "an' it's the hardest thing
of all that I've had to keep her out o' school when she was doing so
beautiful."
"An' her feet all on the ground," growled John.
"I know her shoes is bad," said Ann, hanging the shirt up on a line that
stretched across the room, and was already nearly full of freshly ironed
clothes, "but they're better than the Parker children's."
"What's that to us?" almost shouted the weak old man, shaking his fist
at her in his rage.
"Well, keep your temper, old man," said Ann. "I'm sorry it goes so hard
with you, but as long as I can stand on my feet, I sha'n't turn anybody
out to freeze, that's certain."
"How much'll you get for them?" said the miserable old man, after a few
moments' silence, indicating by his hand the clean clothes on the line.
"Two dollars," said Ann, "and half of it must go to help make up next
month's rent. I've got a good bit to make up yet, and only a week to do
it in, and I sha'n't have another cent till day after to-morrow."
"Well, I wish you'd manage to buy me a little tea," whined the old man;
"seems as if that would go right to the spot, and warm up my old bones a
bit."
"I'll try," said Ann, revolving in her mind how she could save a few
pennies from her indispensable purchases to get tea and sugar, for
without sugar he would not touch it.
Wearied with his unusual exertion, the old man now dropped off to sleep,
and Ann went softly about, folding and piling the clothes into a big
basket already half full. When they were all packed in, and nicely
covered with a piece of clean muslin, she took an old shawl and hood
from a nail in the corner, put them on, blew out the candle, for it must
not burn one moment unnecessarily, and, taking up her basket, went out
into the cold winter night, softly closing the door behind her.
The house was on an alley, but as soon as she turned the corner she was
in the bright streets, glittering with lamps and gay people. The shop
windows were brilliant with Christmas displays, and thousands of warmly
dressed buyers were lingering before them, laughing and chatting, and
selecting their purchases. Surely it seemed as if there could be no want
here.
As quickly as her burden would let her, the old washerwoman passed
through the crowd into a broad street and rang the basement bell of a
large, showy house.
"Oh, it's the washerwoman!" said a flashy-looking servant who answered
the bell; "set the basket right in here. Mrs. Keithe can't look them
over to-night, there's company in the parlour--Miss Carry's Christmas
party."
"Ask her to please pay me--at least a part," said old Ann hastily. "I
don't see how I can do without the money. I counted on it."
"I'll ask her," said the pert young woman, turning to go upstairs; "but
it's no use."
Returning in a moment, she delivered the message. "She has no change
to-night; you're to come in the morning."
"Dear me!" thought Ann, as she plodded back through the streets, "it'll
be even worse than I expected, for there's not a morsel to eat in the
house, and not a penny to buy one with. Well--well--the Lord will
provide, the Good Book says, but it's mighty dark days, and it's hard to
believe."
Entering the house, Ann sat down silently before the expiring fire. She
was tired, her bones ached, and she was faint for want of food.
Wearily she rested her head on her hands, and tried to think of some way
to get a few cents. She had nothing she could sell or pawn, everything
she could do without had gone before, in similar emergencies. After
sitting there some time, and revolving plan after plan, only to find
them all impossible, she was forced to conclude that they must go
supperless to bed.
Her husband grumbled, and Katey--who came in from a neighbour's--cried
with hunger, and after they were asleep old Ann crept into bed to keep
warm, more disheartened than she had been all winter.
If we could only see a little way ahead! All this time--the darkest the
house on the alley had seen--help was on the way to them. A
kind-hearted city missionary, visiting one of the unfortunate families
living in the upper rooms of old Ann's house, had learned from them of
the noble charity of the humble old washerwoman. It was more than
princely charity, for she not only denied herself nearly every comfort,
but she endured the reproaches of her husband, and the tears of her
child.
Telling the story to a party of his friends this Christmas Eve, their
hearts were troubled, and they at once emptied their purses into his
hands for her. And the gift was at that very moment in the pocket of the
missionary, waiting for morning to make her Christmas happy.
Christmas morning broke clear and cold. Ann was up early, as usual, made
her fire, with the last of her coal, cleared up her two rooms, and,
leaving her husband and Katey in bed, was about starting out to try and
get her money to provide a breakfast for them. At the door she met the
missionary.
"Good-morning, Ann," said he. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."
"Thank you, sir," said Ann cheerfully; "the same to yourself."
"Have you been to breakfast already?" asked the missionary.
"No, sir," said Ann. "I was just going out for it."
"I haven't either," said he, "but I couldn't bear to wait until I had
eaten breakfast before I brought you your Christmas present--I suspect
you haven't had any yet."
Ann smiled. "Indeed, sir, I haven't had one since I can remember."
"Well, I have one for you. Come in, and I'll tell you about it."
Too much amazed for words, Ann led him into the room. The missionary
opened his purse, and handed her a roll of bills.
"Why--what!" she gasped, taking it mechanically.
"Some friends of mine heard of your generous treatment of the poor
families upstairs," he went on, "and they send you this, with their
respects and best wishes for Christmas. Do just what you please with
it--it is wholly yours. No thanks," he went on, as she struggled to
speak. "It's not from me. Just enjoy it--that's all. It has done them
more good to give than it can you to receive," and before she could
speak a word he was gone.
What did the old washerwoman do?
Well, first she fel
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