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Title: This Way to Christmas
Author: Sawyer, Ruth
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "This Way to Christmas" ***
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[Illustration:
[See page 139
A DOZEN YARDS FROM THE TRAPPER’S HUT THEY PLANTED ONE POST
]
[Illustration]
THIS WAY TO
Christmas
BY
RUTH SAWYER
AUTHOR OF
_Seven Miles to Arden_
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
BOOKS BY
RUTH SAWYER
THIS WAY TO CHRISTMAS. Illustrated. Post 8vo
SEVEN MILES TO ARDEN. Illustrated. Post 8vo
THE PRIMROSE RING. Illustrated. Post 8vo
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
THIS WAY TO CHRISTMAS
Copyright, 1916, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published October, 1916
TO
DAVID
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE CHAPTER BEFORE THE BEGINNING 1
II. THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY 14
III. BARNEY’S TALE OF THE WEE RED CAP 28
IV. DAVID GOES SEEKING THE WAY TO CHRISTMAS AND FINDS THE
FLAGMAN 43
V. THE PATHWAY TO UNCLE JOAB AND A NEW SANTA CLAUS 61
VI. THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY AGAIN LEADS THE WAY AND DAVID HEARS OF
A CHRISTMAS PROMISE 77
VII. THE TRAPPER’S TALE OF THE FIRST BIRTHDAY 100
VIII. THE CHRISTMAS THAT WAS NEARLY LOST 119
IX. ST. BRIDGET 139
X. THE CHAPTER AFTER THE END 158
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy of Mrs. William Sharpe,
who has so kindly given her permission for the adaptation of parts of
Fiona Macleod’s “Muime Chroisd” for the legend of St. Bridget, told here
by Johanna. The author found many fragments of the legend in the north
of Ireland; but nowhere was it complete as recorded by Fiona Macleod
from the Island of Iona.
THIS WAY TO CHRISTMAS
I
THE CHAPTER BEFORE THE BEGINNING
I wonder if you know that stories have a way of beginning themselves?
Sometimes they even do more than this. They tell themselves—beginning
and ending just where they please—with no consideration at all for the
author or the reader.
Perhaps you have discovered this for yourself; you may have in mind this
minute some of the stories that you wished had begun long before they
did—and others that ended before you thought they had any business doing
so. These have a very unpleasant way of leaving your expectations and
your interest all agog; and I have not a doubt that you have always
blamed the author. This is not fair. In a matter of this kind an author
is just as helpless as a reader, and there is no use in trying to coax
or scold a story into telling itself her way. As sure as she tries the
story gets sulky or hurt, picks up its beginning and ending, and trails
away, never to come back; and that story is lost for all time. You may
try it yourself if you do not believe me.
Now, if I could have had my way, I should have begun with David in the
window nook at dusk-hour, looking out on the Hill Country all white with
the gathering snow; and I should have said:
“It was the year after last—and the year before next—and just seven days
before Christmas—”
I have begun this way a hundred times, and every time the same thing
happens. The story behaves disgracefully. It will have none of my way. I
have actually heard it screaming: “No! I won’t begin there! I won’t—I
won’t—I won’t!” After which it always runs for the door. As a result I
have become completely cowed and I have given in. I am making believe
now (and so must you, for it never does to let a story get in a bad
humor) that after all this is the best beginning.
It was late fall when David’s world dropped away from him; at least to
David that is what seemed to happen. When one loses the very things one
always expects to have—big things like mother and father, home and the
boys on the block—why, there is not so very much of the world left. To
David, speeding toward the Hill Country on the big express with Johanna,
it seemed as if there was not enough left to fill even one of the many
empty days that lay before him.
It had all come about because of father being a scientist. Just what a
scientist was David had never felt quite sure, but he knew it meant
having a great deal of knowledge and very little time—time for boys. It
also meant forgetting things that even David was supposed to remember;
things like going to bed, and coming home at dinner-time, and putting on
a coat when it was cold, and rubbers when it rained. Mother always
laughed at these and said that father was more trouble to look after
than David; and she wondered what she would do if the time ever came
when she would have to decide between the two of them, and which needed
her most.
And then, without any warning, that time had come. Very suddenly father
came home one night and announced that there was a fresh development of
an almost unknown bacillus among the soldiers in the Eastern war zone;
it was the chance of a lifetime for a scientist, and he would go as soon
as he could pack and make necessary arrangements. The next moment he had
plunged into his pocket for his note-book, and only David had seen how
white and still mother had grown. When she spoke at last there was a
funny little catch in her voice that sounded as if it had tried to be a
laugh, but somehow could not manage it.
“I hoped and prayed that this wouldn’t happen quite so soon—this having
to decide between my big boy and my little boy.”
Father had laughed outright. “Nonsense, there is nothing to decide. Of
course you stay with David. The war country is no place for either of
you, and I shall manage perfectly by myself.”
“The war country is no place for David; but there are plenty of women
over there working side by side with their husbands. Oh, my dear, my
dear!”
Mother’s arms had gathered them both in and mother was holding them
close. It was to father, however, that she was speaking. “I believe you
are my little boy, after all. Manage! Over there! When you can’t take
care of yourself in your own civilized country! No, my dear, you need a
mother more than David does. Besides, there’s Johanna; we’ll send for
her. She will look after David almost as well as I can; but what would
she do with you!” This time the laugh had right of way and rippled all
over mother’s face.
Father had stopped making notes and was looking at them both with that
funny wrinkly smile about his mouth that David loved to see.
“Well, sir, what do you think about it?” he said, looking straight at
David.
David had squared his shoulders and straightened his chin; but it took
two hard swallows before he could answer. “I think, sir, that mother is
right. You see I’m eight, going on nine; and when a—man’s that old he
ought to be able to look after himself for a while. Don’t you think so?”
“He certainly ought to; but it seems that there are some who never are
quite able.” And father’s hand had suddenly reached up to mother’s,
which was about his shoulder.
That is all there had been to it. The next day Johanna had come—good,
Irish Johanna, who had taken care of him as a baby and had stayed until
he had outgrown his need of her and she had married Barney. The day
after, he had said good-by to the boys on the block; and he had said it
as one about to depart upon a rare adventure, taking his leave of less
fortunate comrades. He did not intend that they should discover how much
of his world had dropped away from him, or how he envied them the
continued possession of theirs. Moreover, it increased his courage
threefold to make believe that what had happened was not so bad, after
all. In this manner he was able to assume an added stature, one fitting
his newly acquired manhood, when the time came to swing the door of his
home tight shut; and he was able to say a brave good-by to father and
mother.
Now it was all over. He and Johanna were speeding toward the Hill
Country, and he was glad, very glad, to be a little boy again and
snuggle into the hollow of Johanna’s arm as he had been used to doing in
the old nursery days. After all, eight-going-on-nine is not so very old.
David wasted no time. Out of the scraps that were left him he tried at
once to build up a new world. He looked out of the car window at the
fields and houses flying past, and he thought of all the pleasant things
Johanna had promised him. Johanna and Barney were the caretakers of a
big summer hotel in the mountains. The summer season was over, the hotel
closed, and he was going to live with Johanna and Barney in the lodge
and have a whole mountain-top to play on. He was going to help Barney
cut down next year’s fire-wood and drive the sledge for him over the
lumber roads. He was going to make a toboggan-slide down the cleared
side of the mountain; he was going to skate on the pond above the beaver
dam, and learn to skee, and a crowd of other jolly things. And in the
spring there were to be the maple-trees to tap. Only, in the mean time,
there were father and mother traveling farther and farther away; and
there was Christmas coming nearer and nearer. And how could he ever
stand one without the others?
He turned away from the car window and looked at Johanna; and then out
popped the most surprising question from her.
“Hark, laddy! Have ye forgotten all about the fairies and the stories
Johanna used to tell?”
David smiled without knowing it.
“Why, no. No, I haven’t. A person never entirely forgets about fairies,
even if he does grow up—does he? I guess I haven’t been thinking about
them lately, that’s all.”
“Sure, and ye haven’t!” Johanna’s voice had the same folksy ring to it
that it had in the nursery days. “Faith, ’tis hard keeping them lively
when ye are living in the city. Wasn’t I almost giving over believing in
them myself, after living there a few years? It wasn’t till I moved to
the hilltops and the green country that I got them back again.”
“Have you seen any up there?”
David asked it as one might inquire about the personal habits of Santa
Claus or the chances of finding the crock of gold at the rainbow’s end,
experiences one has never had oneself, but which one is perfectly
willing to credit to another upon receipt of satisfactory evidence.
Moreover, fairies were undeniably comfortable to think about just now.
And what is more, whenever things happen that seem unreal and that make
you feel strange and unreal yourself, that is the very time that fairies
become the most real and easy to believe in. David discovered this now,
and it made him snuggle closer to Johanna and repeat his question:
“Have you really seen any up there?”
Johanna puckered her forehead and considered for a moment.
“’Tis this way, laddy. I can’t be saying honestly that I have laid my
two eyes on one for certain; and then again I can’t say honestly that I
haven’t. Many’s the time in the woods or thereabouts that I’ve had the
feeling I’ve just stumbled on one, just missed him by a wink, or beaten
him there by a second. The moss by the brookside would have a
trodden-down look and the bracken would be swaying with no help o’ the
wind—for all the world as if a wee man had just been brushing his way
through.”
“It might have been a squirrel,” suggested David, the dust of the city
still clouding his mind.
“Aye, but I’m thinking it wasn’t. And if there’s a fairy up yonder in
the Hill Country I’m thinking ye’ll find him. ’Twill give ye one thing
more to do, eh, laddy?” Johanna tightened the arm about him and laughed
softly.
“But how would fairies get over here? I shouldn’t think they would ever
want to leave Ireland; and I thought they never came out in winter.”
“They might come because they had been locked out.” Johanna’s eyes
suddenly began to dance mysteriously, and she put her lips close to
David’s ear that the noise and jar of the train might not drown one word
of what she was going to say:
“Whist, laddy! Do ye mind what day it is? ’Tis the very last day of the
fairy summer, the last day when they’ll be making the rings and dancing
the reels over in Ireland.”
“Why, it’s Hallowe’en,” remembered David.
“Aye, that’s what! And after this night the fairies bolt the doors of
their raths fast with magic and never come out again till May Eve,
barring once in a white winter or so when they come out on Christmas
Eve. But it happens every so often that a fairy gets locked out on this
night. He stays dancing too long, or playing too many tricks, and when
he gets back to the rath ’tis past cock-crow and the door is barred
against him. Then there’s naught for him to do but to bide how and where
he can till opening time comes on May Eve.”
“And if—and if—”
“Sure, if one should get locked out this night, what’s to prevent his
coming over? What’s more likely than that he’d be saying to himself,
‘Faith, Ireland’ll be a mortal lonely place with the rest o’ the lads
gone. I’ll try my luck in another country.’ And with that he follows the
rest of the Irish and emigrates over here. And if he ever lands, ye mark
my word, laddy, he’ll make straight for the Hill Country! That is, if
he’s not there already ahead of himself.”
Johanna laughed and David laughed with her.
“Sure, there’s a heap o’ sense in some nonsense, mind that! And never be
so foolish, just because ye grow up and get a little book knowledge, as
to turn up your nose and mock at the things ye loved and believed in
when ye were a little lad. Them that do, lose one of the biggest cures
for heartache there is in the world, mind that!”
David turned back to the window. Already, beyond the foreground of
passing woods and meadows, he could catch glimpses of the Hill Country,
hazy and purple, lying afar off. Johanna was right. It was better to
think of the locked-out fairy than of himself. He found himself
wondering if fairies grew lonesome as humans did, and if it was as hard
to be locked out of a rath as a home. He wondered if all the fairies
were grown up or if there were boy and girl fairies, and father and
mother fairies. He would ask Johanna some time, when he was sure he
could ask it with a perfectly steady voice. But most of all, he wondered
about opening time; and he wished with all his heart that he knew just
when opening time would come for him. Until then, he must keep very busy
with the fire-wood and the sled and the toboggan-slide and the skating
and skeeing and Christmas.
What kind of a Christmas was it going to be?
The train climbed half-way to the top of the highest hill and there it
left David and Johanna. Barney was waiting for them with the horses and
the big wagon to carry them up the rest of the way; and to David it
seemed a very lonesome way. The stars were out before they reached the
lodge, but even in the starlight he could see that they were alone on
the hilltop except for the great, shadowy, closed hotel and the
encompassing fir-trees.
“Ye’ll not be troubled with noise, and ye’ll not be pestered with
neighbors,” laughed Barney, as he helped David to clamber down from the
wagon. “Johanna says that in the winter there is nobody alive in these
parts but the creatures and the ‘heathens’ and ourselves.”
II
THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY
Two months had passed since David had come to the Hill Country—two
months in which he had thrown himself with all the stoutness of heart he
could muster into the new life and the things Johanna had promised. He
had spent long, crisp November days with Barney in the woods, watching
him fell the trees marked for fire-wood and learning to use his end of a
cross-cut saw. When the snow came and the lumber roads were packed hard
for sledding he had shared in the driving of the team and the piling of
the logs. He had learned to skee and to snow-shoe; already he had dulled
his skates on the pond above the beaver dam. Yet in spite of all these
things, in spite of Barney’s good-natured comradeship and Johanna’s
faithful care and love, the ache in his heart had grown deeper until his
loneliness seemed to shut him in like the snow-capped hills about him.
And now it was seven days before Christmas—and not a word had been said
concerning it.
David had begun to wonder if in all that country of bare hilltops and
empty valleys, of snow and fir-tree and wild creature, there was
anything out of which one could possibly make a Christmas. And slowly
the conviction had been borne in upon him that there was not. The very
thought of the toy-stores in the city, of the windows with their
displays of Christmas knickknacks, of the street booths covered with
greens, of what the boys on the block were doing and talking about, of
the memories of all the other Christmases that had been, brought
unspeakable pangs to his soul. He wondered how he was ever going to
stand it—this Christmas that was no Christmas.
And this is how it happened that at dusk-hour, seven days before
Christmas, a very low-spirited boy of eight—going-on-nine—sat curled up
on the window-seat of the lodge, looking out through the diamond panes
and wishing with all his heart that he was somebody else in some other
place and that it was some other time of the year.
Barney was always bedding down the horses at this time and Johanna was
getting supper; and as there was never anything in particular for David
to do it had become a custom with him to watch for the lighting of the
lamps in the cabins of the “heathen.” There were four cabins—only one
was a cottage; and he could see them all from the lodge by a mere change
of position or window. Somehow he liked them, or thought he should like
them if he knew them, in spite of all the unalluring things Johanna had
said about them. According to her the families who lived in them were
outcasts, speaking strange tongues and worshiping strange gods, and
quite unfit to cross the door-steps of honest Christian folk. David
hardly knew whether Barney shared this opinion or not. Barney teased
Johanna a good deal and laughed at her remarks every time she aired her
grievance: that there should be no decent neighbors like themselves on
all that barren hilltop. In his own heart David clung persistently to
the feeling that he should like them all if he ever got near enough to
make their acquaintance.
It was always the “lunger’s” lamp that shone out first in the dusk.
David could usually tell to the minute when it would be lighted by
watching the shadow on the foot-hill. Johanna was uncertain from what
country these neighbors had come, but she thought it was Portugal. And
Portuguese! Words always failed her when she tried to convey to David
the exact place that Portuguese held among the heathen; but he was under
the impression that it must be very near the top. One of these neighbors
was sick with bad lungs, so his family had come to try the open-air cure
of the hills; and they had been here since early spring. David never saw
their tiny spark of a light spring out against the dark of the gathering
gloom that he did not make a wish that the “lunger” might be a good deal
better the next day.
Across the ridge from the foot-hill lay the lumber-camp, and here David
always looked for the second light. The camp was temporarily deserted,
the company having decided to wait a year or two before cutting down any
more timber, and the loggers had been sent to another camp farther
north. Only the cook, an old negro, had remained behind to guard the
property from fire and poachers, and he it was that lighted in his shack
the solitary lamp that sent its twinkling greeting up to David every
night.
Straight down the hill shone the third light from the trapper’s cabin,
and it was always close to dark before that was lighted. What the
trapper’s nationality was Johanna had never happened to specify; but she
had often declared that he was one of those bad-looking dark men from
the East—Asia, perhaps; and she had not a doubt that he had come to the
woods to escape the law. David’s mental picture of him was something
quite dreadful; and yet when his light sprang out of the dark and
twinkled at him up the white slope he always found himself desperately
sorry for the trapper, alone by himself with the creatures he had
trapped or shot—and his thoughts.
The fourth light came through another window, shining up from the
opposite slope of the hill—the slope that led toward the station and the
village beyond. This was the flagman’s light and it hung in the little
hut by the junction where the main railroad crossed the circuit line. It
was always lighted when David looked for it, and he always sat watching
until he should see the colored signal-lights swing out on the track
beyond, for then he knew the flagman’s work was over for the day—that
is, if all was well on the road. It happened sometimes, however, that
there was a snow-slide down the ravine above the crossing, or sometimes
a storm uprooted a tree and hurled it across the track, and then the
flagman was on guard all night. Now, the flagman was German; and
Johanna’s voice always took on a particularly forbidding and
contemptuous tone whenever she spoke of him. David had often marveled at
this, for in the city his father had friends who were German and they
were very good friends. Once David had spoken his mind:
“I don’t see why you call him a heathen, Johanna, just because he was
born in the country that’s making the war. It wasn’t his fault—and I
don’t see why that’s any reason for treating him as if he had made the
trouble himself.”
“Well, how do ye think we’d be treated if we were over there now in that
heathen’s country? Sure, ye wouldn’t find them loving us any to speak
of.” Johanna’s lips had curled scornfully. “Ye can take my word for it,
laddy, if we were there the same as he’s here we would be counting
ourselves lucky to be alive at all, and not expecting to be asked in for
any tea-drinking parties.”
It troubled David, none the less, this strange unfriendliness of
Johanna’s; and this night the weight of it hung particularly heavy upon
him. He turned back to his window-nook with a heart made heavier by this
condition of alienage. No family, no neighbors, no Christmas—it was a
dreary outlook; and he could not picture a single face or a single
hearthside behind those four lights that blinked at him in such a
friendly fashion.
He realized suddenly that he was very tired. Half the day he had spent
clearing a space on the beaver pond big enough for skating; and clearing
off a day’s fall of snow with a shovel and a broom is hard work. He
leaned against the window niche and pillowed his head on his arm. He
guessed he would go to bed right after supper. Wouldn’t it be fun now,
if he could wish himself into one of those cabins, whichever one he
chose, and see what was happening there this minute? If he had found the
locked-out fairy Johanna had talked so much about he might have learned
wishing magic from him. What had happened to the fairy, anyway? Of
course it was half a tale and half a joke; nevertheless the locked-out
fairy had continued to seem very real to him through these two months of
isolation, and wherever he had gone his eye had been always alert for
some sign of him. Unbelievable as it may seem, the failure to find him
had brought keen disappointment. David had speculated many times as to
where he might be living, where he would find his food, how he would
keep himself warm. A fairy’s clothes were very light, according to
Johanna. Undoubtedly he had come over in just his green jerkin and
knee-breeches, with stockings and slippers to match; and these were not
fit covering for winter weather like this.
David smiled through half-shut eyes. The fairy might steal a pelt from
the trapper’s supply; that would certainly keep him warm; and if he were
anything of a tailor he could make himself a cap and a coat in no time.
Or, better yet, he might pick out one that just fitted him and creep
into it without having to make it over; a mink’s skin would be about the
right size, or a squirrel’s. His smile deepened at his own conceit. Then
something in the dusk outside caught his eye. Some small creature was
hopping across the snow toward the lodge.
David flattened his nose to the window to see better, and made out very
distinctly the pointed ears, curved back, and long, bushy tail of a
squirrel—a gray squirrel. At once he thought of some nuts in his jacket
pocket, nuts left over from an after-dinner cracking. He dug for them
successfully, and opening the window a little he dropped them out.
Nearer came the squirrel, fearlessly eager, oblivious of the eyes that
were watching him with growing interest. He reached the nuts and was
nosing them about for the most appetizing when he sat up suddenly on his
hind legs, clutching the nut of his choice between his forepaws, and
cocking his head as he did so toward the window.
The effect on David was magical. He gave his eyes one insistent rub and
then he opened the window wider.
“Come in,” he called, softly. “Please do come in!”
For he had seen under the alert little ears something quite different
from the sharp nose and whiskers of the every-day squirrel. There were a
pair of blue eyes that winked outrageously at him, while a round, smooth
face wrinkled into smiles and a mouth knowingly grinned at him. It was
the locked-out fairy at last!
He bobbed his head at David’s invitation, fastened his little white
teeth firmly in the nut, and scrambled up the bush that grew just
outside. A minute more and he was through the window and down beside
David on the seat.
“Ah—ee, laddy, where have your eyes been this fortnight?” he asked.
“I’ve whisked about ye and chattered down at ye from half a score o’
pine-trees—and ye never saw me!”
David colored shamefully.
“Never mind. ’Tis a compliment ye’ve been paying to my art,” and the
fairy cocked his head and whisked his tail and hopped about in the most
convincing fashion.
David held his sides and rocked back and forth with merriment. “It’s
perfect,” he laughed; “simply perfect!”
“Aye, ’tis fair; but I’ve not mastered the knack o’ the tail yet. I can
swing it grand, but I can’t curl it up stylish. I can fool the mortals
easy enough, but ye should see the looks the squirrels give me sometimes
when I’m after trying to show off before them.”
There was nothing but admiration in David’s look of response. “The coat
fits you splendidly,” he said.
“Sure—’tis as snug as if it grew on me. But I miss my pockets, and I’m
not liking the color as well as if it were green.”
David laughed again. “Why, I believe you are as Irish as Johanna.”
“And why shouldn’t I be? Faith, there are worse faults, I’m thinking.
Now tell me, laddy, what’s ailing ye? Ye’ve been more than uncommon
downhearted lately.”
“How did you know?”
“Could a wee fairy man be watching ye for a fortnight, coming and going,
and not know?”
“Well, it’s lonesomeness; lonesomeness and Christmas.” David owned up to
it bravely.
“’Tis easy guessing ye’re lonesome—that’s an ailment that’s growing
chronic on this hillside. But what’s the matter with Christmas?”
“There isn’t any. There isn’t going to be any Christmas!” And having at
last given utterance to his state of mind, David finished with a
sorrowful wail.
“And why isn’t there, then? Tell me that.”
“You can’t make Christmas out of miles of snow and acres of fir-trees.
What’s a boy going to do when there aren’t any stores or things to buy,
or Christmas fixings, or people, and nobody goes about with secrets or
surprises?”
The fairy pushed back the top of his head and the gray ears fell off
like a fur hood, showing the fairy’s own tow head beneath. He reached
for his thinking-lock and pulled it vigorously.
“I should say,” he said at last, “that a boy could do comfortably
without them. Sure, weren’t there Christmases long before there were
toy-shops? No, no, laddy. Christmas lies in the hearts and memories of
good folk, and ye’ll find it wherever ye can find them!”
David shook his head doubtfully.
“I don’t see how that can be; but even suppose it’s true, there aren’t
even good folk here.”
The fairy grinned derisively and wagged his furry paw in the direction
of the lights shining on the hillside:
“What’s the meaning of that, and that, and that? Now I should be calling
them good folk, the same as ye here.”
“Hush!” David looked furtively toward the door that led into the
kitchen. “It wouldn’t do to let Johanna hear you. Why, she thinks—”
The fairy raised a silencing paw to his lips.
“Whist, there, laddy! If ye are after wanting to find Christmas ye’d
best begin by passing on naught but kind sayings. Maybe ye are not
knowing it, but they are the very cairn that mark the way to Christmas.
Now I’ll drive a bargain with ye. If ye’ll start out and look for
Christmas I’ll agree to help ye find the road to it.”
“Yes,” agreed David, eagerly.
“But there’s one thing ye must promise me. To put out of your mind for
all time these notions that ye are bound to find Christmas hanging with
the tinsel balls to the Christmas tree or tied to the end of a stocking.
Ye must make up your mind to find it with your heart and not with your
fingers and your eyes.”
“But,” objected David, “how can you have Christmas without Christmas
things?”
“Ye can’t. But ye’ve got the wrong idea entirely about the things. Ye
say now that it’s turkey and plum-cake and the presents ye give and the
presents ye get; and I say ’tis thinkings and feelings and sayings and
rememberings. I’m not meaning, mind ye, that there is anything the
matter with the first lot, and there’s many a fine Christmas that has
them in, but they’ll never make a Christmas of themselves, not in a
thousand years. And what’s more, ye can do grand without them.”
David rubbed his forehead in abject bewilderment. It was all very hard
to understand; and as far as he could see the fairy was pointing out a
day that sounded like any ordinary day of the year and not at all like
Christmas. But, thanks to Johanna, David had an absolute faith in the
infallibility of fairies. If he said so it must be true; at least it was
worth trying. So he held out his hand and the fairy laid a furry paw
over the ball of his forefinger in solemn compact.
“It’s a bargain,” David said.
“It is that,” agreed the fairy. “And there’s nothing now to hinder my
going.”
He pulled the gray ears over his tow head again until there was only a
small part of fairy left.
“Don’t ye be forgetting,” he reminded David as he slipped through the
window. “I’ll be on the watch out for ye the morrow.”
David watched him scramble down the bush, stopping a moment at the
bottom to gather up the remainder of the nuts, which he stuffed away
miraculously somewhere between his cheek and the fur. Then he raised a
furry paw to his ear in a silent salute.
“Good-by,” said David, softly, “good-by. I’m so glad you came.”
And it seemed to him that he heard from over the snow the fairy’s
good-by in Gaelic, just as Barney or Johanna might have said it:
“_Beanacht leat!_”
III
BARNEY’S TALE OF THE WEE RED CAP
David watched the locked-out fairy go forth into the dusk again. He had
always supposed that fairies disappeared suddenly and mysteriously; but
this was not so. The little gray furry figure hopped slowly across the
patch of white in front of the window, bobbed and frisked, pricked up
the alert little ears, and swung his bushy tail, after the fashion of
any genuine squirrel, and then dove under the low-hanging boughs of the
nearest evergreens. As he disappeared, David felt an arm on his shoulder
and turned to blink wonderingly into the face of big Barney bending over
him and grinning.
“Well, well, who’d have thought to catch the sandman making his rounds
afore supper! What sent ye to sleep, laddy?”
“Asleep!” David scoffed hotly at the accusation. “I was no more asleep
than you are, Barney. Why, do you know what I’ve seen, what’s been right
here this very minute?”
Barney’s grin broadened. “Well, maybe now it was the locked-out fairy!”
For this was the old joke between them.
Little did Barney dream that this time he had not only touched upon the
real truth, but he had actually gripped it by the scruff of the neck, as
he would have put it himself. David looked wise. He was trying to make
up his mind just how best to tell the wonderful news when Barney’s next
words held his tongue and sent the news scuttling back to his memory.
“And speaking o’ fairies, I was just asking Johanna—getting supper out
yonder—did she mind the tale Old Con, the tinker, used to be telling
back in the Old Country about his great-uncle Teig and the wee red cap.
Did Johanna ever tell ye, now, about the fairies’ red cap?”
David shook his head.
“It serves as an easy way o’ travel for them; ye might almost call it
their private Pullman car,” Barney chuckled. “Ye wait a minute and I’ll
see is there time to tell the tale myself atween now and supper.”
He was away to the kitchen and back before David had much more than time
enough to rub the gathering frost from the window-pane and look out for
a possible return of his fairy. Nothing was to be seen, however, but the
snow and the trees and the trail of tiny footprints; and big Barney was
beside him in the window-nook again, with a mysterious “knowledgeable
look” on his face.
“Aye, there’s time and light enough still in the west to see the tale
through.” He paused for an instant.
“Ye know, laddy, over in Ireland they’re not keeping Christmas the same
as ye do here—the poor, I mean. ’Tis generally the day after, St.
Stephen’s Day, tho’ sometimes ’tis St. Stephen’s Eve that they manage a
bit of a feast and merrymaking. Them that has little shares with them
that has less; and afterward the neighbors gather about the turf fire
for a story-telling. Aye, many’s the strange tale ye will hear over in
Ireland on one of them nights. And here’s the tale Old Con, the tinker,
used for to be telling about his great-uncle Teig—the most close-fisted
man in all of Inneskillen.”
And here again is the tale as Barney retold it and David heard it, as he
sat in the window-nook of the lodge at dusk-hour just seven days before
Christmas.
It was the Eve 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 turf 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 neighbors, 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 Shawn his dinner?
Shawn 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 door-step every
Christmas Eve, and, making a hollow of his two hands, had called across
the road:
“Hey, there, Shawn, will ye come over for a sup?”
And Shawn had reached for his crutches, there being but one leg to him,
and had come.
“Faith,” said Teig, trying another laugh, “Shawn 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 to 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 childther 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 went by:
“Old Shawn’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 and greet ye the stranger,
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as truagh!
“Feed ye the hungry and 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 and 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 hereabouts 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 chimneypiece 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 had 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 like that 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, 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 a 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 that 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 he 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 neighbor.”
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 and 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 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 door-steps 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 safe-keeping.
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 and 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 stealing 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
awhile 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 Shawn’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 the 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; an’ to the neighbors 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, Shawn, will ye come over for a sup?”
“And hey, there, the two o’ ye, will ye come out for a sup?”
It was Johanna’s cheery voice bringing David back from a strange country
and stranger happenings. She stood in the open doorway, a lighted candle
in her hand.
“Ye’d hurry faster if ye knew what I had outside for supper. What would
a wee lad say, now, to a bit o’ real Irish currant-bread, baked in the
griddle, and a bowl of chicken broth with dumplings!”
IV
DAVID GOES SEEKING THE WAY TO CHRISTMAS AND FINDS THE FLAGMAN
All night long the snow fell, and when David wakened the hilltop was
whiter than ever, if such a thing could be. The tiny prints in the snow
that had marked the trail of the locked-out fairy were gone.
For a moment David wondered if he could have dreamed it all, and then he
knew it could not be just a dream. It must be something more, to bring
such good Christmas news—news that lasted all through the night and
wakened him with a song in his heart and a gladness that a new day had
come. And what a day it was! An orange sun was breaking the gray of the
dawn; he could hear the soft push and pound of Barney’s shovel clearing
a pathway from the door to the road, and he knew he could be off early
on his skees, down the hill to—where he did not know. But the fairy had
promised that if he should start out seeking the way to Christmas he
would help him.
He dressed quickly to the swinging rhythm of the reel Johanna was
lilting in the kitchen below; for in a little lodge bedroom on a
hilltop, with the thermometer outside many degrees below zero, one does
not dally in putting on one’s clothes. He came down to breakfast for the
first time since he had left the old home without having to pretend
anything in the way of feelings; and he found beside his plate a letter
from father.
“Barney, the rascal, brought it back with him yesterday and carried it
about in his pocket all evening, never thinking of it once,” Johanna
explained, shaking her fist at that guilty person just coming in.
“Sure, the two of us were that busy entertaining fairies last night we
hadn’t mind enough for anything else.” And Barney winked at David
knowingly.
David responded absent-mindedly. His thoughts and fingers were too busy
with the letter to pay much attention to anything else. Father had
little time for boys, as we have already said, but when he did take time
the results were unquestionably satisfactory; the letter proved this. It
was a wonderful letter, full of all the most interesting seeings and
doings—just the things a boy loves to hear about—and yet it was written
as any grown-up would write to another. That was one fine thing about
father. When he did have time for boys he never looked down upon them as
small people with little wisdom and less understanding; he always
treated them as equals. But it was what came at the very last of the
letter that brought the joyful smile to David’s lips.
Johanna and Barney saw it and smiled to each other.
“Good news, laddy?” Johanna asked.
“There’s nothing about coming home, but there’s something about
Christmas.” David consulted the letter again. “Father says he’s been
looking around for some time for just the right present to send for
Christmas, and he’s just found it. He thinks I’ll like it about the best
of anything, and it ought to get here—unless the steamers are awfully
delayed—on Christmas day.”
“That’s grand!” Barney beamed his own delight over the news. “What do ye
think it might be, now?”
David shook his head.
“I don’t know—don’t believe I could even guess. You see, father never
bought me a Christmas present before—he always left mother to choose. He
said she knew more about such things than he did.”
“Then ye can take my word for it, if it’s the first one he’s ever got ye
’twill be the best ye ever had.” Barney spoke with conviction, while
Johanna leaned over David’s chair and put a loving arm about his
shoulder.
“There’s some virtue in losing them ye love for a bit, after all, if it
makes one o’ them think about ye and Christmas. Sure, there’s nothing
better in life to put by in your memory than rare thoughts and fine
letters. And, I’m mortial glad, myself, there’s something good coming to
ye, laddy, from over yonder, for many’s the time Barney and I have been
afeared ’twas a lonesome Christmas ye’d be finding up here.”
And to the great surprise of every one, David included, David answered
cheerfully:
“I don’t believe it’s half bad. Maybe there’s more Christmas round than
we know.”
The orange sun had paled to yellow and climbed half the length of the
tallest pine from the crest of the hill when David, bundled and furred,
adjusted his skees outside the lodge door. Carefully he pushed his way
over the level stretch of new snow, for one never knew with new snow
just how far one might go down before striking the crust of the old. A
few yards beyond the nearest clump of evergreen he stopped. From this
point the mountain sloped down on three sides; the fourth carried over
the ridge to the neighboring hill. Here David could look down on the
encircling valley; and though the snow lay unbroken everywhere save on
the road leading straight down to the “crossing” and the village beyond,
he could almost vision paths branching out from where he stood and
leading down to the three inhabited dwellings on the mountain’s side.
Which way should he go? Where would he first strike his trail for
Christmas? Would he follow the road or one of the invisible paths? He
asked this silently at first, and then aloud, as if there might be some
one near by to hear; and the answer came in the form of a little gray
furry coat, a pair of alert ears and a long, bushy tail. Yes, David knew
in a twinkling it was the locked-out fairy, come to keep his promise. He
did not come close enough for David to see the round, roguish face under
the squirrel cap; but he sat up and twitched his head in the direction
of the road as if he were saying:
“Come along, David, ye couldn’t be wishing for a braver day to go
Christmas-hunting. Have ye fetched along your holiday fowling-piece and
your ammunition? For ’tis rare sport, I promise ye, a hundred times
better than hunting your furred or feathered brothers. Come along!” And
away he hopped down the road toward the crossing.
David followed, as you or I would, and never stopped till the fairy led
him straight to the flagman’s hut and disappeared himself behind the
drifts beyond the track. Without a moment’s hesitation David turned the
knob of the door and walked in.
The hut was a small one-room affair, bare, but clean. The walls were
whitewashed and held an array of flags and lanterns, maps and
time-tables. An air-tight stove glowed red at one end of the room, and
beside it, with his feet on the hob, tilted back in his chair, sat the
flagman puffing away at an old meerschaum pipe. He was plainly surprised
to see his visitor. His feet came back to the floor with a bang, his
pipe came out of his mouth, and he stared at David incredulously for a
full minute. Then the ends of his grizzled mustache bristled upward, his
mouth opened and twisted the same way, while his eyes seemed to drop
downward to meet it, all the time growing bluer and more friendly. David
took the whole effect to be a smile of welcome and he responded with
outstretched mittened hand.
“Good morning, sir. It’s a—it’s a grand day!”
The knotted fist of the flagman accepted the mitten and shook it warmly.
“Vell—vell—it ees the knabelein from the hilltop come to see old Fritz
Grossman. A child again—it ees goot!”
He reached for a little stool, the only other piece of furniture in the
room, and pushed it toward David.
“Come—take off the greatcoat and seet down. It ees long since old Fritz
has had a child to see him. In summer they come sometime from the big
hotel, and from the veelage they used to many come. But now—ach! Now,
since the war, eet ees deefferent. Now I am the enemy—the German—and
here every one hate the German!”
David felt about for something to say and repeated something he had once
heard: “War makes enemies.”
“Ach, ja. But here there ees no war. Here we should all be Americans,
and not hate peebles for the country where they were born. Gott in
Himmel, can there not be one country kept clean of the hate!”
The blue eyes suddenly grew wet, and he blinked them hard and fast to
keep the wetness from spilling over into disgraceful tears.
“Tsa! Old Fritz grow more old woman every day! I not mind but for the
children not coming; and this time here and no little tongues to beg
tales of the Krist Kindlein and the Weihnachtsman from old Fritz.”
David drew closer and laid a friendly hand on the flagman’s knee.
“I’d like to hear one—I’d like bully well to hear one!”
The flagman croaked gleefully deep down in his throat.
“Zo—but first—I know—the knabelein has a stomach got. All have.”
He rose stiffly and reached back of the stove to where hung his own
great bear-coat. From the pocket he brought out a large red apple and
handed it to David.
“There, eat. And you shall hear the tale of anodder apple, a Chreestmas
apple.”
The flagman tilted back in his chair again and replaced his feet upon
the hob. David sat with elbows on knees and ate slowly. There was no
sound but the occasional dropping of coals in the stove and the soft,
deep guttural of the flagman’s voice. And here is the story as he told
it to David—only the broken German accent and the dropping coals are
missing.
Once on a time there lived in Germany a little clock-maker by the name
of Hermann Joseph. He lived in one little room with a bench for his
work, and a chest for his wood, and his tools, and a cupboard for
dishes, and a trundle-bed under the bench. Besides these there was a
stool, and that was all—excepting the clocks. There were hundreds of
clocks: little and big, carved and plain, some with wooden faces and
some with porcelain ones—shelf clocks, cuckoo clocks, clocks with chimes
and clocks without; and they all hung on the walls, covering them quite
up. In front of his one little window there was a little shelf, and on
this Hermann put all his best clocks to show the passers-by. Often they
would stop and look and some one would cry:
“See, Hermann Joseph has made a new clock. It is finer than any of the
rest!”
Then if it happened that anybody was wanting a clock he would come in
and buy it.
I said Hermann was a little clock-maker. That was because his back was
bent and his legs were crooked, which made him very short and funny to
look at. But there was no kinder face than his in all the city, and the
children loved him. Whenever a toy was broken or a doll had lost an arm
or a leg or an eye its careless mütterchen would carry it straight to
Hermann’s little shop.
“The kindlein needs mending,” she would say. “Canst thou do it now for
me?”
And whatever work Hermann was doing he would always put it aside to mend
the broken toy or doll, and never a pfennig would he take for the
mending.
“Go spend it for sweetmeats, or, better still, put it by till
Christmas-time. ’Twill get thee some happiness then, maybe,” he would
always say.
Now it was the custom in that long ago for those who lived in the city
to bring gifts to the great cathedral on Christmas and lay them before
the Holy Mother and Child. People saved all through the year that they
might have something wonderful to bring on that day; and there was a
saying among them that when a gift was brought that pleased the
Christ-child more than any other He would reach down from Mary’s arms
and take it. This was but a saying, of course. The old Herr Graff, the
oldest man in the city, could not remember that it had ever really
happened; and many there were who laughed at the very idea. But children
often talked about it, and the poets made beautiful verses about it; and
often when a rich gift was placed beside the altar the watchers would
whisper among themselves, “Perhaps now we shall see the miracle.”
Those who had no gifts to bring went to the cathedral just the same on
Christmas Eve to see the gifts of the others and hear the carols and
watch the burning of the waxen tapers. The little clock-maker was one of
these. Often he was stopped and some one would ask, “How happens it that
you never bring a gift?” Once the bishop himself questioned him: “Poorer
than thou have brought offerings to the Child. Where is thy gift?”
Then it was that Hermann had answered: “Wait; some day you shall see. I,
too, shall bring a gift some day.”
The truth of it was that the little clock-maker was so busy giving away
all the year that there was never anything left at Christmas-time. But
he had a wonderful idea on which he was working every minute that he
could spare time from his clocks. It had taken him years and years; no
one knew anything about it but Trude, his neighbor’s child, and Trude
had grown from a baby into a little housemother, and still the gift was
not finished.
It was to be a clock, the most wonderful and beautiful clock ever made;
and every part of it had been fashioned with loving care. The case, the
works, the weights, the hands, and the face, all had taken years of
labor. He had spent years carving the case and hands, years perfecting
the works; and now Hermann saw that with a little more haste and time he
could finish it for the coming Christmas. He mended the children’s toys
as before, but he gave up making his regular clocks, so there were fewer
to sell, and often his cupboard was empty and he went supperless to bed.
But that only made him a little thinner and his face a little kinder;
and meantime the gift clock became more and more beautiful. It was
fashioned after a rude stable with rafters, stall, and crib. The Holy
Mother knelt beside the manger in which a tiny Christ-child lay, while
through the open door the hours came. Three were kings and three were
shepherds and three were soldiers and three were angels; and when the
hours struck, the figure knelt in adoration before the sleeping Child,
while the silver chimes played the “Magnificat.”
“Thou seest,” said the clock-maker to Trude, “it is not just on Sundays
and holidays that we should remember to worship the Krist Kindlein and
bring Him gifts—but every day, every hour.”
The days went by like clouds scudding before a winter wind and the clock
was finished at last. So happy was Hermann with his work that he put the
gift clock on the shelf before the little window to show the passers-by.
There were crowds looking at it all day long, and many would whisper,
“Do you think this can be the gift Hermann has spoken of—his offering on
Christmas Eve to the Church?”
The day before Christmas came. Hermann cleaned up his little shop, wound
all his clocks, brushed his clothes, and then went over the gift clock
again to be sure everything was perfect.
“It will not look meanly beside the other gifts,” he thought, happily.
In fact he was so happy that he gave away all but one pfennig to the
blind beggar who passed his door; and then, remembering that he had
eaten nothing since breakfast, he spent that last pfennig for a
Christmas apple to eat with a crust of bread he had. These he was
putting by in the cupboard to eat after he was dressed, when the door
opened and Trude was standing there crying softly.
“Kindlein—kindlein, what ails thee?” And he gathered her into his arms.
“’Tis the father. He is hurt, and all the money that was put by for the
tree and sweets and toys has gone to the Herr Doctor. And now, how can I
tell the children? Already they have lighted the candle at the window
and are waiting for Kriss Kringle to come.”
The clock-maker laughed merrily.
“Come, come, little one, all will be well. Hermann will sell a clock for
thee. Some house in the city must need a clock; and in a wink we shall
have money enough for the tree and the toys. Go home and sing.”
He buttoned on his greatcoat and, picking out the best of the old
clocks, he went out. He went first to the rich merchants, but their
houses were full of clocks; then to the journeymen, but they said his
clock was old-fashioned. He even stood on the corners of the streets and
in the square, crying, “A clock—a good clock for sale,” but no one paid
any attention to him. At last he gathered up his courage and went to the
Herr Graff himself.
“Will your Excellency buy a clock?” he said, trembling at his own
boldness. “I would not ask, but it is Christmas and I am needing to buy
happiness for some children.”
The Herr Graff smiled.
“Yes, I will buy a clock, but not that one. I will pay a thousand gulden
for the clock thou hast had in thy window these four days past.”
“But, your Excellency, that is impossible!” And poor Hermann trembled
harder than ever.
“Poof! Nothing is impossible. That clock or none. Get thee home and I
will send for it in half an hour, and pay thee the gulden.”
The little clock-maker stumbled out.
“Anything but that—anything but that!” he kept mumbling over and over to
himself on his way home. But as he passed the neighbor’s house he saw
the children at the window with their lighted candle and he heard Trude
singing.
And so it happened that the servant who came from the Herr Graff carried
the gift clock away with him; but the clock-maker would take but five of
the thousand gulden in payment. And as the servant disappeared up the
street the chimes commenced to ring from the great cathedral, and the
streets suddenly became noisy with the many people going thither,
bearing their Christmas offerings.
“I have gone empty-handed before,” said the little clock-maker, sadly.
“I can go empty-handed once again.” And again he buttoned up his
greatcoat.
As he turned to shut his cupboard door behind him his eyes fell on the
Christmas apple and an odd little smile crept into the corners of his
mouth and lighted his eyes.
“It is all I have—my dinner for two days. I will carry that to the
Christ-child. It is better, after all, than going empty-handed.”
How full of peace and beauty was the great cathedral when Hermann
entered it! There were a thousand tapers burning and everywhere the
sweet scent of the Christmas greens—and the laden altar before the Holy
Mother and Child. There were richer gifts than had been brought for many
years: marvelously wrought vessels from the greatest silversmiths; cloth
of gold and cloth of silk brought from the East by the merchants; poets
had brought their songs illuminated on rolls of heavy parchment;
painters had brought their pictures of saints and the Holy Family; even
the King himself had brought his crown and scepter to lay before the
Child. And after all these offerings came the little clock-maker,
walking slowly down the long, dim aisle, holding tight to his Christmas
apple.
The people saw him and a murmur rose, hummed a moment indistinctly
through the church and then grew clear and articulate:
“Shame! See, he is too mean to bring his clock! He hoards it as a miser
hoards his gold. See what he brings! Shame!”
The words reached Hermann and he stumbled on blindly, his head dropped
forward on his breast, his hands groping the way. The distance seemed
interminable. Now he knew he was past the seats; now his feet touched
the first step, and there were seven to climb to the altar. Would his
feet never reach the top?
“One, two, three,” he counted to himself, then tripped and almost fell.
“Four, five, six.” He was nearly there. There was but one more.
The murmur of shame died away and in its place rose one of wonder and
awe. Soon the words became intelligible:
“The miracle! It is the miracle!”
The people knelt in the big cathedral; the bishop raised his hands in
prayer. And the little clock-maker, stumbling to the last step, looked
up through dim eyes and saw the Child leaning toward him, far down from
Mary’s arms, with hands outstretched to take his gift.
That night, back in the kitchen of the lodge after supper, David told
the story again to Johanna and Barney. And when he had finished he saw
them looking strangely at each other.
“To think,” said Johanna, thoughtfully, “we’ve been living here for two
years and we never got so much from the old man. And who’d have thought
to find such a tale bundled up in an old bunch of heathen rags and
language like him?”
“Maybe, now, he’s not a heathen at all,” laughed Barney.
And the others laughed with him.
V
THE PATHWAY TO UNCLE JOAB AND A NEW SANTA CLAUS
No fresh snow fell through the night, and when David slipped his feet
into the skee straps at the lodge door next morning he was rejoiced to
find that the snow had packed and crusted a little since the day before,
which meant better going. Again he made for the crest of the hill beyond
the first clump of evergreens and again he stood at the pinnacle of the
ways and wondered which he would take.
“I might count,” he laughed aloud—“I might count them out.” And with
that he fell into the school-boy doggerel, nearly as old as boyhood
itself: “Eeny—meeny—miny—mo. Catch—a nigger—by the—”
He came to a sudden stop. In the direction of the lumber-camp, where the
evergreens marked the beginning of the road, he had caught a glimpse of
a gray squirrel. Was it a real squirrel this time, or was it the
locked-out fairy again? There was not a minute to be lost. He must find
out.
Over the unbroken snow he slid, balancing himself carefully when he came
to the hummocks made by the wind or fallen trees, his eyes coming back
constantly to the little gray figure before him. It was sitting erect
now, under a green bough, apparently busy investigating the contents of
a pine cone. But just as David had made up his mind that this time it
was a real squirrel, up went the furry paw to an ear in unmistakable
salute, just as the locked-out fairy had done when he hopped from the
window-ledge of the lodge. Then, with ears set back and tail out
straight behind, the squirrel flew down the hill. Away went David after
him, the tassel of his toboggan-cap out as straight as the squirrel’s
tail.
Never was there such a race. They dodged trees and fallen branches; they
leaped drifts; they spun like tops around the curves. Sometimes David
was so close upon the fairy’s heels that he could almost have touched
him with the end of his steering-cane, but the next moment he generally
lost his balance and slipped a skee, and head over heels he would go in
the crusty snow. When he righted himself the fairy was always yards
ahead, sitting with his shoulders all hunched up as if he were laughing
silently at David’s tumble. So exciting was the whole race that David
entirely forgot his destination until he suddenly found himself almost
bumping a corner of one of the lumber cabins, and the fairy nowhere in
sight.
He stopped a minute for breath and to wonder what he would do, when he
heard the soft, silvery notes of a violin. The music was coming from
inside that very cabin, and a voice was humming softly as well. David
moved round to one of the windows, hoping he might be tall enough to
look in, but the snow had drifted away from that side and he missed the
ledge by several inches. It occurred to him, however, that if the snow
had drifted from this end it had probably drifted toward the other. He
would try it, at any rate. Round the cabin he went, and, sure enough,
there the snow had piled up half-way to the window and David found he
could look in comfortably.
There was a great fire blazing inside, and by it sat an old negro with
the whitest hair and beard David had ever seen. A fiddle was tucked
under his chin and slowly and lovingly he was bowing the melody from it,
while one foot patted the time on the floor and a plaintive, mellow
voice put words to the music. David listened for the words and caught
them:
“Yeah come-a-No-ah—a-stumblin’ tru de dark,
Wif hammah an’ wif nails-to-a-build hisself an ark.
An’-a-yeah come de an’mals-two-a-by two,
De Yippo-ma-pot’mus—an’ de kick-kangaroo.”
The bowing suddenly stopped and David was conscious of a pair of very
white eyeballs looking at him through the glass. For the space of a
breath or more David was not at all sure that he wanted to get any
nearer that strange, bent old figure. He was almost sure that he did not
want to go inside. Not that he was afraid. Oh no, indeed! He was not in
the least bit afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of. Even Johanna
had not said anything harmful about the old cook at the lumber-camp.
Nevertheless, there was something mysterious, something not altogether
inviting about that inky-black face with the white hair and rolling
eyeballs.
David was speedily withdrawing himself, having decided that there was
great virtue in distance, when he heard the creak of the cabin door. In
a trice the old negro, fiddle in hand, appeared around the corner.
“Wha you goin’, honey?” There was unmistakable regret over David’s
retreating figure.
“Why—why, I’m just going back where I came from.”
“Wha you come from?”
David pointed upward and the old darky nodded comprehendingly.
“’Pears to me dat am a long way fer a li’l’ boy to come an’ den turn
’bout an’ go right home. Come in, honey, an’ Uncle Joab’ll play you
somethin’ lively on de ole fiddle.”
David hesitated, but only for an instant. There was something too lonely
and appealing about the man to be denied. David was still not at all
sure that he wanted to go, even while he was following the lumber cook
round to the door.
It was surprisingly cozy and cheerful inside, perhaps because of the
open fire, the strips of pine cones, husked corn, and bunches of colored
berries that decorated the walls and rafters. Uncle Joab caught David’s
wondering, curious gaze, and he chuckled.
“Yas, dat’s pop-corn, honey. An’ I reckon Uncle Joab’ll have some
a-poppin’ for you over dese yeah coals in a jiffy.”
He mounted stiffly the hewn, polished stump that did service for a stool
and pulled down two of the ears. From the corner of the fireplace he
brought a corn-popper and, sitting down, he commenced to shell the corn
by rubbing the ears together. David drew up a chair near by and watched
him with growing interest. When the corn was shelled Uncle Joab raked
away the unburned wood from the fire, leaving a bed of the red coals.
Over this he held the corn, shaking the popper gently from side to side.
In less time than it takes for the telling sounded the snap-snap-snap of
the bursting kernels, and in a moment more Uncle Joab had turned the
snowy contents into an earthen bowl and laid it on David’s knee with a
small dish of salt and the invitation to “Go ahead.” Then he took up his
fiddle again and played the promised music.
It was a jig, such a rollicking, care-free jig that before it was
finished David found himself wondering how in the world he ever
hesitated about coming in. Why, here was nothing but another boy like
himself, a boy grown old before he had grown up.
“Like dat corn, honey? Wall, you come along yeah ’round Chris’mus an’
Uncle Joab’ll make you some m’lasses balls.”
A sigh escaped with the promise.
“Lordy—Chris’mus—yeah! Doan’t seem like I done hab any Chris’mus sence I
left ole Virginy. Seems like it done froze stiff ’fo’ ever it got to
dese yeah parts.”
David laughed at the old man’s humor. It had seemed just that way to him
a few days ago.
“Couldn’t we thaw it out?” he asked.
“’Twould take a monstrous lot o’ warm feelin’s, honey, an’ kind folks, I
reckon. An’ you’d not find ’em a-hangin’ ’round loose yeah in de wintah.
Why, dere’s no more ’n a han’ful of us, all measured an’ mixted; an’ as
fur as I know dere’s not one a-speakin’ to another.”
David shook his head solemnly.
“That’s not much like Christmas, is it, Uncle Joab? Not much ‘good-will’
when you don’t know your neighbors.”
The old darky grunted, then he chuckled.
“’Pears to me it’s de critters dat get on yeah more folksy den de real
folks—an’ dat put me in mind of a story my mammy used to tell me when I
was your size.”
David beamed.
“Will you tell it, Uncle Joab?”
“Co’se I’ll tell it, honey.” And putting the fiddle down beside his
chair he began:
“I reckon you think dat de jolly ole saint wif de red nose an’ de dimple
somewhas ’twixt his mouf an’ his ears only ’members de chillun at
Chris’mus. An’ dat’s not de trouf. Dere was one Chris’mus long time ago,
after Pharoe’s daughter found Moses in de bull-grass an’ ’fo’ Christoper
Columbus went a-sailin’ ’round to find dis yeah country, dat ole man
Santy gib a Chris’mus to de critters. An’ dis was de way of it.
“In dose days dere warn’t de chilluns dere is now. Dey warn’t so
plentiful an’ dey warn’t so perticular; an’ each one warn’t lookin’ fer
a whole shed full o’ toys jest fer hisself. No, sir, honey! He was
bustin’ wif tickle if he got one gif’ an’ some barley sugar. An’ what’s
more, dey wasn’t so pernicity ’bout what dey got. De dolls didn’t have
to walk an’ talk an’ act like real folks an’ de trains didn’t have to go
by demselves. An’ everything bein’ so comf’able an’ easy, ole Santy
could tote de pack o’ toys ’round hisself on his back an’ be home a good
two hour ’fo’ daylight, wif nothin’ to do de rest o’ de day but set
’round an’ think.
“Wall, in dose days, honey, de folks doan’t pester de critters wif
workin’ dem all de time. No, sir! Dey work dem when dey need dem, an’ de
balance o’ de time de critters trope ’round free an’ easy-like. Folks
wasn’t cotchin’ de cur’ous ones to put in de menageries an’ de circuses,
nor de furry ones to trim up de ladies wif. Times was pleasant an’
comf’able fer every one.
“Now it transmigrate one day when ole Santy was a-settin’ an’
rumminatin’ dat he fotch up his thoughts on de critters, an’ he says to
hisself, says he:
“‘’Pears like dey has a right to Chris’mus same as de folks. Dey minds
dere bus’ness, an’ dey works an’ dey plays de same, an’ dey had dere
share in dat fust Chris’mus when de li’l’ Lordie was born—same as de
folks. Didn’t de donkey carry Mary to Beflehem? Didn’t de mully-cow gib
her manger for de li’l’ Lordie to sleep in? Didn’t de cock crow de news
to St. Stephen? An’ how do yer reckon de Wise Men could ha’ toted dere
presents ’cross de sand if it hadn’t been fer dem cam’ls?’
“Yas, sir, honey! Ole Santy was right. De critters had as much right to
Chris’mus as de folks, an’ ole Santy poun’ his knee an’ swear he gwine
to gib dem one.
“So de ole saint he begun fer to study an’ to study what he gwine to do
fer de critters. He can’t come down dere chimbleys ’ca’se dey ’ain’t got
no houses; an’ he can’t fill dere stockin’s ’ca’se dey doan’t wear none;
an’ he can’t fotch dem barley candy ’ca’se dey doan’t eat it. Wall, he
set dere an’ study twell his brain ’mos’ bustin’ an’ bime-by he fotch up
wif an idea.
“‘I know what I’ll do,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘Dem critters is sure
to be like folks; dere’s certain to be a lot dat ain’t satisfied wif
dere pussonalities. Now I’m gwine to trim up a Chris’mus tree wif a lot
o’ odd tails, an’ ears, an’ wings, an’ legs, an’ sech-like, an’ any o’
de critters dat ain’t satisfied can choose jes’ what dey want. Dat’s
what I’m gwine to do,’ says ole Santy.
“Wall, thinkin’ was doin’. An’ by de time Chris’mus come along dat ole
saint had de mos’ cur’os, hetromologous collection o’ an’mal parts you
ever done hear tell about. He sent word by de birds all over de world
fer de critters to come to a Chris’mus celebration at de fust fir-tree
dis side o’ de North Pole. ’Fo’ dey git dere ole Santy had it all
trimmed up wif his presents; an’ when de critters trope up dey sure was
bustin’ wif s’prize when dey see all de tails an’ wings an’ legs hangin’
dere.
“An’ de an’mals! Bless your heart, honey, you never see such a
camp-meetin’! Dere was elephants an’ tigers an’ lions an’
yippopot’musses an’ rabbits an’ ’possums an’ mouses—every livin’ kind.
An’ all de birds dat clip de air an’ all de fish dat swum de sea. Dey
all come lopin’ up wif dere purtiest manners on; an’ dey scrape an’ dey
bow an’ ax after ole Missus Santy an’ de chilluns. When dey’d axed an’
scraped all ’round, ole Santy says, says he:
“‘Now any o’ you-all critters dat want fer to change yer pussonalities
can jes’ step right up an’ choose somethin’ new,’ says he.
“Everybody was mighty bashful at fust. Dey all tried to hide behind dere
neighbors an’ look like dey was puffectly satisfied wif dere looks an’
dere habits. But bime-by a squeaky li’l’ voice calls out:
“‘If you please, Ole Man Santy, I’d like a pair o’ dem li’l’ brown
wings, an’ thank you mighty much.’
“Santy look down an’ see it was one o’ de li’l’ mouses speakin’; an’ he
reach up an’ take from de tree a cunnin’ pair o’ li’l’ wings an’
fastened dem on tight. An’ de next minute dat sassy li’l’ mouse went
flippin’ an’ floppin’ into de air same as if he’d been born wif wings.
An’ ever since, honey, he an’ his chilluns have been flyin’ ’stead o’
creepin’.”
“Did he turn into a bat, Uncle Joab?” David asked.
“Sure. What else you ’spec’ he could turn into? Wall, de nex’ to walk up
was Bre’r Rabbit. He had a lot to say ’bout his ears bein’ so short he
couldn’t hear ’nough, an’ his tail bein’ so long he couldn’t fetch up on
it com’fably in de brier patch. He’d be powerful pleased if Santy’d gib
him bigger ears an’ take away his tail. Dis made de ole saint chuckle;
an’ he fotch down de biggest pair he can find an’ put dem on, an’ den he
twist off de rabbit’s long, bushy tail. When de other critters see what
transmigrate dey like to bu’st dere sides wif laughin’; an’ dis scare
Bre’r Rabbit so dat he lay back his ears so he can’t hear so well, an’
he lope off to hide his confusi’n in de brier patch. An’ dere you’ll
find him hidin’ to dis yeah day, honey.”
David laughed.
“And were there any more who weren’t satisfied?”
“Didn’t I tell you de critters were like folks? Bre’r Rabbit hadn’t more
’n cleared de Chris’mus tree when de squirrel sings out:
“‘If you please, Mr. Santy, I’d like Brudder Rabbit’s tail. I’d like
Brudder Rabbit’s tail.’
“‘’Twon’t fit you,’ says de beaver. ‘It’s three sizes too big.’
“‘No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t!’ An’ de squirrel carry on so
scan’lously dat ole Santy ’bliged to gib him de tail to keep him quiet.
But, bless your heart, honey, you know as well as I do dat dat tail am
no fit for dat squirrel!
“By dis time de critters was nigh over dere bashfulness, an’ dey was
clamorin’ for what dey wanted. De leopard say his coat too yaller, an’
he’d like some nice, stylish black spots to tone it down. Den de zebra
say stripes was more stylish dis year den spots, an’ he’d ’low he’d like
stripes. De elephant say his feet too big to pick up things handy, an’
he’d like somethin’ extra to pick up things wif.
“Dis set de rest o’ de critters to ’sputin’ whar de elephant have room
on his pussonality fer anythin’ extra; an’ while dey ’sputin’ ole Santy
sit still an’ study. Bime-by he says, says he:
“‘De only spare room am on de end o’ your nose. If you want to have it
dere, say so!’
“De elephant he say so. So Santy take one o’ dese yeah suckers, left
over from a debilfish, an’ he stick it squar’ in de middle o’ de
elephant’s nose. He stick it so hard, an’ he stick it so fast, dat it
hasn’t come loose dese thousand o’ years.
“Wall, dat certainly was a busy Chris’mus fer de ole saint. He was
fixin’ tails an’ legs an’ ears an’ wings ’most all day. De beaver he
gets de sulks ’ca’se de squirrel’s got Bre’r Rabbit’s tail an’ he want
it. De rest o’ de critters try to coax him to take somethin’ else, but
’pears like he crazy fer somethin’ behind. He took to moanin’ an’
wailin’ ’ca’se he can’t get what he wants twell bime-by he nat’rally
gets ole Santy plumb wore out.
“‘Look yeah,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘You’s so sot on havin’ somethin’
behind, ’pears like I’d hab to gib you somethin’ diff’rent an’
distinguishin’.’ An’ wif dat de ole saint claps on him one o’ dem
flappers dat he’d made fer de li’l’ seals to walk on. An’ it’s been
hangin’ to de back o’ de beaver ever since.
“At las’ all de critters were satisfied ’ceptin’ de dog an’ de horse an’
de reindeer.
“‘What you want?’ says ole Santy to de dog.
“‘I want faithfulness,’ says de dog; an’ Santy gib it to him.
“‘What you want?’ he says to de horse.
“‘I want wisdom,’ says de horse; an’ Santy whisper it into his ear.
“‘Now what you want?’ he says last of all to de reindeer.
“‘I want to be your servant an’ lib always wif you,’ says de reindeer.
An’ from dat minute to dis de reindeer an’ his chilluns have been totin’
fer ole Santy.
“An’ you listen yeah, honey. If you borrow Bre’r Rabbit’s ears to hear
wif dis Chris’mus p’raps you’ll cotch de tromp o’ de reindeer’s hoofs
an’ de jingle o’ his bells as he totes ole Santy through de night.”
David laughed happily.
“That’s a bully story, Uncle Joab, just a bully one!”
The old man chuckled appreciatively.
“Mebbe it’s good enough to fotch a li’l’ boy back some other day to see
dis ole nigger.”
Johanna and Barney had to hear the story over twice before David went to
bed that night. They seemed to like it as much as David had liked it.
“It must get pretty lonesome for the poor man, stormy days and long
winter nights with no company but that old fiddle,” mused Johanna at
last.
“Faith, I wouldn’t be minding a bit o’ that same company, myself, some
night,” laughed Barney. “’Tis a sorry time since I’ve heard any good
fiddling.”
But David did not say anything. He was looking deep into the fire and
thinking very hard.
VI
THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY AGAIN LEADS THE WAY AND DAVID HEARS OF A CHRISTMAS
PROMISE
David was already beginning to feel very rich in Christmas as he climbed
to the crest of the hill the next morning. Yes, the locked-out fairy was
right. Real Christmas lay in the hearts and memories of people, and he
was sure he was storing up some in his own to last for always.
It was still four days before Christmas, yet he felt all the warm glow
of excitement, all the eagerness, all the gladness, that usually
attended the very day itself. He was beginning to think that instead of
one Christmas he was finding a whole week of it, and for a little boy
who had had loneliness fastened to his heels like a shadow for so long
the feeling was very wonderful. Not that he did not miss father and
mother just the same, but they no longer seemed so far away. There were
minutes when he could think them quite close, when they seemed to have a
share in all he was doing and thinking, and when that happens with any
one we love loneliness vanishes like a shadow at midday.
There were but two paths left for him that morning to choose between—the
path leading to the trapper’s and the one to the “lunger’s.” It was not
a particularly cheery day. The sky was a leaden gray—a hue forecasting
snow before day’s end. The wind was biting and raw, and had there not
been a quest afoot David would have been glad to stay near home and
share Barney’s cheerful company. As it was, he had about made up his
mind that he should choose the trapper. He knew as little about him as
he had known of the others, and he pictured a big, gruff, hairy man
something like his old Grimm illustration of Bluebeard. But for all
that, he seemed more alluring on such a day than a “lunger.”
David very much hoped that the locked-out fairy would be there to take
him the way he had chosen to go. He wanted not only the guidance of the
fairy, but he wished to see him close again and talk with him. He was
looking about for signs when his eyes swept the snow at his feet and
there he found the trail laid for him. As far as eye could reach there
were the tiny sharp prints of a squirrel’s foot, and they led, not down
the hillside to the trapper’s hut, but, straight as a stone drops, to
the foot-hill beyond, where the “lunger’s” cottage stood.
David heaved a sigh of disappointment. He would so much rather have gone
the other way; but of what use is a fairy counselor and guide if one
does not follow his trail? So with something very near to a flagging
courage David pushed his way slowly after the tiny footprints.
He missed the exhilaration of the sunshine and air and excitement of the
previous days. Somehow he felt this time was going to be a failure and
he shrank from facing it; moreover, he thought of what he might have to
tell Johanna and Barney afterward, around the fire. A moment before he
had felt so rich in the feeling of Christmas. And now, was he going to
find an unpleasant memory to take away from the good ones?
There was no sign of life about the little cottage on the foot-hill. The
sleeping-porch was deserted, the windows were heavily curtained, the
snow was piled up high and unbroken about the door; even the roadway
beyond, which led down the other side to the village, was smooth and
crusted, showing that no one had come or gone from the house since the
last fall of snow.
“It looks awfully gloomy and deserted,” thought David. “The ‘lunger’
must have gone away or died!”
The last was a dreadfully dreary thought, and it almost turned David’s
feet on the very threshold, in spite of the fairy’s trail. But the
memory of the day before held him back. How nearly he had come to losing
a bit of Christmas just because an old white-haired negro had looked at
him suddenly through a window! He would mark himself as a quitter and a
“’fraid-cat” for all time if he ever let such a thing happen again. And
what would the boys on the block think of him?
With heroic boldness David pushed his skees up to the baseboard of the
door and hammered hard on the brass knocker. Once, twice, three times he
knocked. Then he heard soft feet inside and the turning of the key in
the lock. In another minute the door opened, letting in a generous fall
of snow and disclosing a tall, oldish woman in black, with very black
hair and big, sorrowful black eyes.
“Madre de Dios!” she exclaimed in a soft voice full of surprised wonder.
“A niño—here, in this freeze country!”
“If you please,” began David, politely, “I came—I came—”
But he did not finish. For the life of him he could not have told just
why he had come.
“Entre, come!” And the woman drew him in and closed the door behind him.
“A boy! It may be that it will put again the heart in Alfredo to see a
boy. Come, chico!”
She opened another door at the end of a hall and led him into a bare,
cold, cheerless room. Half a dozen black bentwood chairs stood with
backs against the walls; the two rockers of the same faced each other at
opposite sides of the fireplace; and between them stretched a cot
covered with heavy blankets. A half-hearted fire burned on the hearth,
and watching it listlessly from the cot lay a boy about twice his age,
David thought.
“See, Alfredo! See chicito mio, who come here,” the woman called. And
the sick youth turned his head slowly to look at them.
David saw a thin, colorless face with great, black eyes. They had the
same look that was in the woman’s eyes, only the woman did not look
sick, only sad. As the boy saw David he smiled in a pleased, surprised
way, and held out a thin, white hand in welcome. But the hand was so
thin David was almost ashamed to put out his own broad, brown little
fist to take it. He compromised by leaving on his mitten—and he shook it
very gently.
“Ah, it is good,” said the boy, simply. “I am glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” David beamed. He was glad he had come. For here there were
things that he could do, and first of all he’d tackle the fire.
“It’s this way,” he explained as he slipped out of his outside things.
“I’m spending the winter up on the hill, in the hotel lodge. It’s been
getting sort of lonesome there lately since winter set in, so I
thought—I—it seemed sort of nice to come around and look up some of the
neighbors.” David finished out of breath.
Alfredo and his mother exchanged glances.
“That is good,” said the boy at last. “You are the first one, and we,
too, have been what you call ‘lonesome.’”
“I’m awfully sorry.” And this time David held out the unmittened fist.
“Say, do you mind if I build up that fire a little? It looks sort
of—sick.”
“Ah!” The woman held up protesting hands. “Alfredo is too sick but to
lie still. And I—what do I know about building fires in open places with
wood? It is only the carbon I know, and the shut stove. And when our
servant leave us three—four day ago and no one ever comes near to us I
think then that we die of the cold before long time.”
Tears of utter despair showed in the woman’s eyes; and David found his
own growing sympathetically moist.
“Oh, no! Barney wouldn’t let that happen—not to any one.”
It really was dreadful to find a sick boy and a woman alone—strangers in
this country—with the cold and the loneliness to fight.
“Now you tell me where the wood is, and I’ll have a cracker-jack fire in
a minute. Barney’s showed me how. I can make ’em burn even when the
wood’s damp.” David did not finish without a tinge of pride in his tone.
He made several trips to the little back room beyond the kitchen which
served as woodshed, and in a few minutes he had a generous stack of logs
and kindlings beside the hearth and a roaring fire blazing up the big
chimney. The glow and warmth lit up Alfredo’s cheeks and kindled a new
life in the woman’s eyes. Such a little thing it takes sometimes to put
the hearts back in people.
“Now, if you want me to, I’ll just fill up the kitchen stove and the one
in the hall. It’s really too cold here for any one,” he ended,
apologetically.
The woman accepted his offer, mutely grateful; and when both stoves had
finally responded to his coaxings and were cheerfully crackling and
sending out the much-needed heat, David came back to the open fire and
drew up one of the rockers.
“It is a good niño, eh, Alfredito?” said the woman, softly.
David wriggled uncomfortably.
“Say—I’ll tell you about the flagman, and Uncle Joab at the lumber-camp.
Want me to?”
The offer was made as a cloak to his embarrassment; but the next moment,
as he launched into his narrative of the two previous days, he had
forgotten everything but the tales he had to tell and the interest of
his listeners.
When he had finished, David was surprised to see the change in the faces
of the two. For the first time they seemed really alive and warm, inside
and out. Moreover, they looked happy, strangely happy.
“We had almost forgot, chico mio,” the mother said, stroking one of the
thin, white hands, “that comes now the Natividad. Ah, who would think to
find it here in this freeze country!”
“We are South-Americans,” the boy explained. “And down there it is
summer now, with the oranges ripe, and the piña growing and the air full
of the sweetness from the coffee-fields in bloom and the jasmine and
mariposa. We did not know such cold could be—or so much snow. Eh,
madre?” And the boy smiled wanly.
“But how did you come way up here from your country? Was it the—” David
left the question unfinished.
The boy nodded.
“I came first, to be in one of your fine universities. Many
South-Americans come here for their education. But before many months I
take the cough, and it is then no use to go back to our country. We blow
out there like a candle in the wind.”
The mother went on.
“But the great American doctor say here there is a chance in the
mountains, if he can stand the winter. And oh, at first he grow much
better! We see the good health coming. But now, the great cold, the
heart-hunger, the alone being, it seem to take his strength. I fear—”
“Hush, madre! This is not good cheer for a guest.”
David felt his cheeks burn with the sudden tenderness in the boy’s look.
“Come, madre,” he went on, “have we not also a tale of Christmas, of the
Natividad, to give away?”
“There is that one I have told you a thousand times—the one my mother
told me when I was a niña, home in Spain. The tale of the Tres Reys and
the Christmas promise.”
The boy sighed happily.
“There is no better tale in all Spain. Tell it, madre, to our friend
here.”
And so this was how the third bit of Christmas came to David, by way of
a locked-out fairy, a rekindled fire, and a stranger from the far South.
When the Christ-child was born in Bethlehem of Judea, long years ago,
three kings rode out of the East on their camels, bearing gifts to Him.
They followed the star until at last they came to the manger where He
lay, a little, new-born baby. Kneeling down, they put their gifts beside
him: gold, frankincense, and myrrh; they kissed the hem of the little
white mantle that He wore, and blessed Him. Then the kings rode away to
the East again, but before ever they went they whispered a promise to
the Christ-child.
And the promise? You shall hear it as the kings gave it to the
Christ-child, long years ago.
“As long as there be children on the earth, on every Christmas Eve we
three kings shall ride on camels, even as we rode to Thee this night;
and even as we bore Thee gifts so shall we bear gifts to every child in
memory of Thee—thou holy Babe of Bethlehem!”
In Spain they have remembered what the Christmas kings promised, and
when Christmas Eve comes each child puts his sapatico—his little
shoe—between the gratings of the window that they may know a child is in
that house and leave a gift.
Often the shoe is filled with grass for the camels, and a plate of dates
and figs is left beside it, for the children know the kings have far to
go and may be hungry.
At day’s end bands of children march out of the city gates, going to
meet the kings. But it always grows dark before they come. The children
are afraid upon the lonely road and hurry back to their homes, where the
good madres hear them say one prayer to the Nene Jesu, as they call the
Christ-child, and then put them to bed to dream of the Christmas kings.
Long, long ago there lived in Spain, in the crowded part of a great
city, an old woman called Doña Josefa. The street in which she lived was
little and narrow, so narrow that if you leaned out of the window of
Doña Josefa’s house you could touch with your finger-tips the house
across the way, and when you looked above your head the sky seemed but a
string of blue, tying the houses all together. The sun never found its
way into this little street.
The people who lived here were very poor, as you may guess; Doña Josefa
was poor, likewise. But in one thing she was very rich—she knew more
stories than there were feast-days in the year, and that is a great
many. Whenever there came a moment free from work, when Doña Josefa had
no water to fetch from the public well, nor gold to stitch upon the
altar cloth for the Church of Santa Maria del Rosario, then she would
run out of her house into the street and call:
“Niños, niños, come quickly! Here is a story waiting for you.”
And the children would come flying like the gray palomas when corn is
thrown for them in the Plaza. Ah, how many children there were in that
little street! There were José and Miguel, and the niños of Enrique, the
cobbler, Alfredito and Juana and Esperanza; and the little twin sisters
of Pancho, the peddler; and Angela, Maria Teresa, Pedro, Edita, and many
more. Last of all there were Manuel and Rosita. They had no father, and
their mother was a lavandera who stood all day on the banks of the river
outside the city, washing clothes.
When Doña Josefa had called the children from all the doorways and the
dark corners she would sit down in the middle of the street and gather
them about her. This was safe because the street was far too narrow to
allow a horse or wagon to pass through. Sometimes a donkey would slowly
pick its way along, or a stupid goat come searching for things to eat,
but that was all.
It happened on the day before Christmas that Doña Josefa had finished
her work and sat, as usual, with the children about her.
“To-day you shall have a Christmas story,” she said, and then she told
them of the three kings and the promise they had made the Christ-child.
“And is it so—do the kings bring presents to the children now?” Miguel
asked.
Doña Josefa nodded her head.
“Yes.”
“Then why have they never left us one? The three kings never pass this
street on Christmas Eve. Why is it, doña?”
“Perhaps it is because we have no shoes to hold their gifts,” said
Angela.
And this is true. The poor children of Spain go barefooted, and often
never have a pair of shoes till they grow up.
Manuel had listened silently to the others, but now he pulled the sleeve
of Doña Josefa’s gown with coaxing fingers:
“I know why it is the kings bring no gifts to us. See, the street; it is
too small; their camels could not pass between the door-steps here. The
kings must ride where the streets are broad and smooth and clean, where
their long mantles will not be soiled and torn and the camels will not
stumble. It is the children in the great streets, the children of the
rich, who find presents in their sapaticos on Christmas morning. Is it
not so, Doña Josefa?”
And Miguel cried, “Does Manuel speak true—is it only the children of the
rich?”
“Ah, chicito mio, it should not be so! When the promise was given to the
Nene Jesu there in Bethlehem they said, ‘to every child.’ Yes, every
little child.”
“But it is not strange they should forget us here,” Manuel insisted.
“The little street is hidden in the shadow of the great ones.”
Then Rosita spoke, clasping her hands together with great eagerness:
“I know; it is because we have no shoes! That is why they never stop.
Perhaps Enrique would lend us the shoes he is mending, just for one
night. If we had shoes the kings would surely see that there are little
children in the street, and leave a gift for each of us. Come, let us
ask Enrique!”
“Madre de Dios, it is a blessed thought!” cried all. And like the flock
of gray palomas they swept down the street to the farthest end, where
Enrique hammered and stitched away all day on the shoes of the rich
children.
Manuel stayed behind with Doña Josefa. When the last pair of little
brown feet had disappeared inside the sapateria he said, softly:
“If some one could go out and meet the kings to tell them of this little
street, and how the niños here have never had a Christmas gift, do you
think they might ride hither to-night?”
Doña Josefa shook her head doubtfully.
“If that were possible—But never have I heard of any one who met the
kings on Christmas Eve.”
All day in the city people hurried to and fro. In the great streets
flags were waving from the housetops, and wreaths of laurel, or garlands
of heliotrope and mariposa, hung above the open doorways and in the
windows. Sweetmeat-sellers were crying their wares; and the
Keeper-of-the-City lighted flaming torches to hang upon the gates and
city walls. Everywhere was merrymaking and gladness, for not only was
this Christmas Eve, but the King of Spain was coming to keep his holiday
within the city. Some whispered that he was riding from the North, and
with him rode his cousins, the kings of France and Lombardy, and with
them were a great following of nobles, knights, and minstrels. Others
said the kings rode all alone—it was their wish.
As the sun was turning the cathedral spires to shafts of gold, bands of
children, hand in hand, marched out of the city. They took the road that
led toward the setting sun, thinking it was the East, and said among
themselves, “See, yonder is the way the kings will ride.”
“I have brought a basket of figs,” cried one.
“I have dates in a new panuela,” cried another.
“And I,” cried a third, “I have brought a sack of sweet limes, they are
so cooling.”
Thus each in turn showed some small gift that he was bringing for the
kings. And while they chatted together one child began to sing the sweet
Nativity Hymn. In a moment others joined until the still night air rang
with their happy voices.
“Unto us a Child is born,
Unto us a gift is given.
Hail with holiness the morn,
Kneel before the Prince of Heaven.
Blessed be this day of birth,
God hath given His Son to earth.
Jesu, Jesu, Nene Jesu,
Hallelujah!”
Behind the little hills the sun went down, leaving a million sparks of
light upon the road.
“Yonder come the kings!” the children cried. “See the splendor of their
shining crowns and how the jewels sparkle on their mantles! They may be
angry if they find us out so late; come, let us run home before they see
us.”
The children turned. Back to the city gates they ran, back to their
homes, to the good madres watching for them and their own white beds
ready for them.
But one they left behind them on the road: a little, bare-limbed boy
whose name was Manuel. He watched until the children had disappeared
within the gates, and then he turned again toward the setting sun.
“I have no gift for the kings,” he thought, “but there is fresh green
grass beside the way that I can gather for the camels.”
He stopped, pulled his hands full, and stuffed it in the front of the
little blue vestido that he wore. He followed the road for a long way
until heavy sleep came to his eyes.
“How still it is upon the road! God has blown out His light and soon it
will be dark. I wish I were with the others, safe within the city; for
the dark is full of fearsome things when one is all alone.... Mamita
will be coming home soon and bringing supper for Rosita and me. Perhaps
to-night there will be an almond dulce or pan de gloria—perhaps.... I
wonder will Rosita not forget the little prayer I told her to be always
saying. My feet hurt with the many stones; the night wind blows cold; I
am weary and my feet stumble with me.... Oh, Nene Jesu, listen! I also
make the prayer: ‘Send the three kings before Manuel is too weary and
afraid!’”
A few more steps he took upon the road, and then, as a reed is blown
down by the wind, Manuel swayed, unknowingly for a moment, and slowly
sank upon the ground, fast asleep.
How long he slept I cannot tell you; but a hand on his shoulder wakened
him. Quickly he opened his eyes, wondering, and saw—yes, he saw the
three kings! Tall and splendid they looked in the starlight, their
mantles shimmering with myriad gems. One stood above Manuel, asking what
he did upon the road at that late hour.
Manuel rose to his feet, thrusting his hand inside the shirt for the
grass he had gathered.
“It is for the camels, señor; I have no other gift. But you—you ride
horses this Christmas Eve!”
“Yes, we ride horses. What is that to you?”
“Pardon, señores, nothing. The three kings can ride horses if they wish;
only—we were told you rode on camels from the East.”
“What does the child want?” The voice was kind, but it sounded
impatient, as though the one who spoke had work waiting to be done and
was anxious to be about it.
Manuel heard and felt all this wondering. “What if there is not time for
them to come, or gifts enough!” He laid an eager, pleading hand on one
king’s mantle.
“I can hold the horses if you will come this once. It is a little street
and hard to find, señores; I thought perhaps you would leave a
present—just one little present for the children there. You told the
Christ-child you would give to every child. Don’t you remember? There
are many of us who have never had a gift—a Christmas gift.”
“Do you know who we are?”
Manuel answered, joyfully: “Oh yes, Excellencias, you are the Three
Christmas Kings, riding from Bethlehem. Will you come with me?”
The kings spoke with one accord, “Verily, we will.”
One lifted Manuel on his horse; and silently they rode into the city.
The Keeper slumbered at the gates; the streets were empty. On, past the
houses that were garlanded they went unseen; and on through the great
streets until they came to the little street at last. The kings
dismounted. They gave their bridles into Manuel’s hand, and then,
gathering up their precious mantles of silk and rich brocade, they
passed down the little street. With eyes that scarce believed what they
saw, Manuel watched them go from house to house, saw them stop and feel
for the shoes between the gratings, the shoes loaned by Enrique, the
cobbler, and saw them fill each one with shining gold pieces.
In the morning Manuel told the story to the children as they went to
spend one golden doblon for toys and candy and sugared cakes. And a gift
they brought for Doña Josefa, too; a little figure of the Holy Mother
with the Christ-child in her arms.
And so the promise made in Bethlehem was made again, and to a little
child; and it was kept. For many, many years, long after Manuel was
grown and had niños of his own, the kings remembered the little street,
and brought their gifts there every Christmas Eve.
There was a long silence after David had finished retelling the story to
Barney and Johanna that night. The wind was howling outside and beating
the snow in hard cakes against the windows.
“Sure, it’s up to some one to keep heart in those two till spring
comes,” Johanna said at last. “Think o’ coming up here from one o’ them
sizzling-hot places. Holy St. Patrick!”
“Aye, and a sick boy and a woman—the frail kind, I’m thinking, not used
to lifting her hand to anything heavy.”
Barney got up and peered out.
“Well, if the snow’s not over our heads the morrow I can beat my way
there and keep their fires going for another day.”
David got up and joined Barney, sliding a grateful hand through his.
“That would be bully! You know his mother said if they could only keep
the big fire going on the open porch and get him out there again she was
sure he’d begin to get better. It’s been the cold and the staying
indoors that has put him back. Do you think, Barney, do you think—You
know I could take my turn at it.”
“Sure and ye can, laddy. Wait till the morrow and we’ll see what we can
do—the two of us.”
VII
THE TRAPPER’S TALE OF THE FIRST BIRTHDAY
The snow was still falling steadily next morning and David came down to
breakfast with an anxious face.
“Now don’t be worrying, laddy,” was Barney’s reassuring greeting. “It
takes a powerful lot o’ snow to keep a man housed on these hills when he
has something fetching him out.”
And Johanna, coming in with her hands full of steaming griddle-cakes,
brought more encouragement.
“Sure, it’s a storm, but not too fierce for a strong man like Barney to
brave for them that’s in trouble. And I’ve a can of good soup jelly and
a fresh-baked loaf of bread and some eggs for ye to fetch with ye.”
“Oh!” David dug his two hands down deep in his pockets and smiled
ecstatically. “I suppose—it’s too bad going for me.” He appealed to
Barney.
“Aye, it is that! Wait till afternoon. The storm may break by then and
ye could get out for a bit. But there’s too much weather afoot for a
little lad just now.”
So David watched Barney make ready alone. Johanna’s things were bundled
and strapped on his back that his two arms might be free. Then he made
fast his snow-shoes—it was no day for skees—and pulling his fur parka
down to cover all but his eyes he started off. He looked like a man of
the northland. David watched him out of sight, and then he and Johanna
fell to the making of a mammoth Christmas cake. There were nuts to be
cracked and fruits to be chopped; all good boy work, as Johanna said,
and he was glad to be busy.
At noon Barney returned with great news. He had left the South-Americans
comfortable and happy. Alfredo was back on his open porch with a
monstrous fire roaring up the outside chimney and wood enough stacked
within their reach for them to keep it going for a week. The mother had
wept over Johanna’s gifts. They had lived for days on canned things and
stale bread; and she had blessed them all in what Barney had termed
“Spanish lingo.”
“Sure, ye needn’t be fearing about them longer, laddy; they’ve the
hearts back in them again, and, what’s more, they’ll stay there, I’m
thinking.”
As Barney had prophesied, the snow stopped at noon; and after dinner
David set forth on his last quest. Warnings from Johanna and Barney
followed him out of the lodge: not to be going far—and to mind well his
trail. All of which he promised. It was not so very far to the trapper’s
and the trail was as plain as the hillside itself.
There was no sign of the locked-out fairy, and David expected none.
There was but one path left to take. Why should any one come to show him
the way? Although the trail lay down the hill David’s going was very
slow. He sank deep at every step and where the drifts were high he had
to make long detours, which nearly doubled the distance. When he reached
the hut at last he met the trapper at his very door-sill. The pack on
his back looked full, and David guessed he had just been down to the
village for supplies. He eyed David with a grave concern through the
opening in his parka; and David wondered whether the rest of the face
would be grave, or kind, or forbidding.
“Nicholas Bassaraba has few visitors, but you are welcome.”
The voice was gruff but not unkindly, and the trapper pushed open the
door of his hut and motioned David inside. They stood stamping the snow
from their boots; and then the trapper lifted his hood and David saw
that he was not at all like the Grimm picture of Bluebeard. He was dark
and swarthy-skinned, to be sure, but he wore no beard—only a small
mustache—and his eyebrows were not heavy and sinister-looking and his
mouth was almost friendly. If the line of gravity should break into a
smile David felt sure it would be a very friendly smile. The trapper
proceeded to remove the rest of his outer garments and David did the
same. When the operation was over they stood there facing each other
solemnly—a very large, foreign-looking man and a small American boy.
“Come! This is a day to sit close to the fire and to smoke, if one is
big. If one happens to be small, there is—let me see—I think there is
chocolate.”
The trapper opened a small cupboard and drew out a tinfoiled package
which he tossed over to David; then from his pocket he brought a pipe
and a pouch. He held the pipe empty between his teeth, while he rebuilt
the fire that was low on the hearth. When the fresh wood began to snap
he drew up a chair for each of them, close, and proceeded to fill his
pipe.
David gazed curiously about the room. It was large and it seemed to
serve as kitchen, dining-room, sleeping and living quarters, all
combined. The end where they sat by the open fireplace was for living
and sleeping; the two comfortable chairs, the table with a reading-lamp,
the small case with books, and the couch plainly told this. At the other
end was a cookstove, the cupboard, water-pails, dish-rack, frying-pans
and pots hanging against the wall, and a rough pine table with a
straight chair. The walls were covered with skins and guns,
cartridge-belts, and knives of all descriptions. Altogether David found
it a very interesting place, almost as interesting as the man who lived
there. His eyes came back to the trapper, who again was considering him
gravely.
“It’s a bully good place for a man to live in,” was David’s enthusiastic
comment.
“It is good enough for one who must live a stranger, in a strange land.”
For all his rough clothes and his calling, the man spoke more like a
scholar than a backwoodsman; David had noticed that the first time he
had spoken. He spoke with as educated a tongue as his own father; there
was a slight foreign twist to it, that was the only difference.
“Where is your country?”
David asked it simply, not out of idle curiosity, but to place the man
at home in his own mind.
“My country? Ah, what used to be my country is a little place, not so
big as this one state of yours. It is somewhere near the blue
Mediterranean, but it is nearer to Prussia. Bah! What does it matter?
Nicholas Bassaraba knows no country now but the woods; no people but
those.” He pointed to the skins on the walls.
“And you kill them!” The accusation was out before David realized it was
even on his tongue.
“Ah, what would you have me do? I must live. Is that not so? And is it
not better to live on the creatures of the woods than on one’s
fellow-men? I kill only what I need for sustenance; for the rest I hurt
not one.”
There was a hidden fierceness back of the soft voice and David felt
immediately apologetic:
“Excuse me! Of course it’s all right. I only thought when you spoke of
them as your people, and then pointed to their pelts hung around, it
sounded sort of barbaric. Sort of like the Indians showing off their
scalps, or the headhunters showing their skulls.”
The trapper smiled, and the smile was friendly.
“Youth is ever quick to accuse and as quick to forgive. I know. It is
hard for you to understand how I can make them my friends through the
long summer; and then, when winter comes and there is a price on their
fur, trap them and kill them. But Nicholas Bassaraba kills only enough
to bring him in the bare needs of life, and then only for one half the
year. For the rest, I am a guide; I carry the packs for the gentlemen
campers; I build their fires; I draw their water.”
The smile changed to a contemptuous curl of the lips. “Such it is to be
a man locked out of his own country.”
David watched him uncomfortably for an instant. Then he laughed—he could
not help it.
“You’re not the only one. There are two more of us; and I don’t know but
what you’d call the flagman another, and Uncle Joab, and maybe the
South-Americans, too. You see, I’m just sort of locked out, but the
others are truly locked out.” And David launched into an account of
himself and of what he knew of the others, all but the fairy.
“And is that all? I thought you said there was another person,” reminded
the trapper.
David blushed consciously. Not that there was the slightest reason for
blushing. He certainly felt no shame in his acquaintanceship with the
locked-out fairy. It was rather the feeling of shyness in having to put
it all into words, and there was always the uncertainty of how a
stranger would take it. You never could tell how people were going to
take fairies, anyhow. Besides, maybe there were no fairies in what had
been this man’s country.
“The other is not exactly a person,” David began, slowly, “not exactly.
Say, did you ever see a fairy?”
A look of amazement filled the face of the trapper. It seemed to well up
from his eyes and burst forth from his mouth.
“You mean the little people?” he asked at last. “The nixies and the
dwarfs and the kobolds, that live under the earth and play pranks on us
unsuspecting mortals?”
David nodded.
“Sort of. Have you ever seen one?”
The trapper shook his head vehemently.
“Well, _I_ have!” And without in the least understanding why he was
doing it David told the story of the locked-out fairy.
When he had finished, the trapper was smiling again.
“Ah, the poor manikin! And here there are three, five, seven of us, all
locked out from our homelands; and here was I, Nicholas Bassaraba,
thinking I was the only one to feel the homesickness. Bah! Sometimes a
man is a fool!”
He thought a minute.
“And you say he wore the squirrel coat—the very one I missed from the
shed door where it was drying? And all the time I think it was the
African from the lumber-camp who takes it.”
He laughed aloud and stretched his arms out with a little cry of
pleasure.
“Ah, it is good, very good, for one outcast to clothe another. To-night
I must put out some bread and honey, as my people used to for the little
spirits; the manikin may be hungry.”
“Tell me,” said David, suddenly, “do your people have any
stories—stories of Christmas?”
“Christmas!”
The trapper repeated it—almost as if it were a strange word to him.
“Wait a minute—keep very still. I will see can I think back a story of
Christmas.”
David sat without stirring, almost without breathing, as the trapper
puffed silently at his pipe. He puffed the bowl quite empty, then
knocking the ashes clean out of his pipe he put it back in his pocket
again and looked up at David with the old grave look.
“There is a people in our country who are called wanderers; some say
they have been wanderers for two thousand years. You call them gipsies
or Egyptians; we call them ‘Tzigan.’ Now, they are vagabonds, for the
most part, dirty, thieving rascals, ready to tell a fortune or pick a
pocket, as the fancy takes them; but—it was not always so. Some say that
they have been cursed because they feared to give shelter to Mary and
Joseph and the Child when the King of Judea forced them to flee into
Egypt. But the gipsies themselves say that this is not true; and this is
the story the Tzigan mothers tell their children on the night of
Christmas, as they sit around the fire that is always burning in the
heart of a Romany camp.”
It was winter—and twelve months since the gipsies had driven their
flocks of mountain-sheep over the dark, gloomy Balkans, and had settled
in the southlands near to the Ægean. It was twelve months since they had
seen a wonderful star appear in the sky and heard the singing of angelic
voices afar off.
They had marveled much concerning the star until a runner had passed
them from the South bringing them news that the star had marked the
birth of a Child whom the wise men had hailed as “King of Israel” and
“Prince of Peace.” This had made Herod of Judea both afraid and angry
and he had sent soldiers secretly to kill the Child; but in the night
they had miraculously disappeared—the Child with Mary and Joseph—and no
one knew whither they had gone. Therefore Herod had sent runners all
over the lands that bordered the Mediterranean with a message forbidding
every one giving food or shelter or warmth to the Child, under penalty
of death. For Herod’s anger was far-reaching and where his anger fell
there fell his sword likewise. Having given his warning, the runner
passed on, leaving the gipsies to marvel much over the tale they had
heard and the meaning of the star.
Now on that day that marked the end of the twelve months since the star
had shone the gipsies said among themselves: “Dost thou think that the
star will shine again to-night? If it were true, what the runner said,
that when it shone twelve months ago it marked the place where the Child
lay it may even mark His hiding-place this night. Then Herod would know
where to find Him, and send his soldiers again to slay Him. That would
be a cruel thing to happen!”
The air was chill with the winter frost, even there in the southland,
close to the Ægean; and the gipsies built high their fire and hung their
kettle full of millet, fish, and bitter herbs for their supper. The king
lay on his couch of tiger-skins and on his arms were amulets of heavy
gold, while rings of gold were on his fingers and in his ears. His tunic
was of heavy silk covered with a leopard cloak, and on his feet were
shoes of goat-skin trimmed with fur. Now, as they feasted around the
fire a voice came to them through the darkness, calling. It was a man’s
voice, climbing the mountains from the south.
“Ohe! Ohe!” he shouted. And then nearer, “O—he!”
The gipsies were still disputing among themselves whence the voice came
when there walked into the circle about the fire a tall, shaggy man,
grizzled with age, and a sweet-faced young mother carrying a child.
“We are outcasts,” said the man, hoarsely. “Ye must know that whosoever
succors us will bring Herod’s vengeance like a sword about his head. For
a year we have wandered homeless and cursed over the world. Only the
wild creatures have not feared to share their food and give us shelter
in their lairs. But to-night we can go no farther; and we beg the warmth
of your fire and food enough to stay us until the morrow.”
The king looked at them long before he made reply. He saw the weariness
in their eyes and the famine in their cheeks; he saw, as well, the holy
light that hung about the child, and he said at last to his men:
“It is the Child of Bethlehem, the one they call the ‘Prince of Peace.’
As yon man says, who shelters them shelters the wrath of Herod as well.
Shall we let them tarry?”
One of their number sprang to his feet, crying: “It is a sin to turn
strangers from the fire, a greater sin if they be poor and friendless.
And what is a king’s wrath to us? I say bid them welcome. What say the
rest?”
And with one accord the gipsies shouted, “Yea, let them tarry!”
They brought fresh skins and threw them down beside the fire for the man
and woman to rest on. They brought them food and wine, and goat’s milk
for the Child; and when they had seen that all was made comfortable for
them they gathered round the Child—these black gipsy men—to touch His
small white hands and feel His golden hair. They brought Him a chain of
gold to play with and another for His neck and tiny arm.
“See, these shall be Thy gifts, little one,” said they, “the gifts for
Thy first birthday.”
And long after all had fallen asleep the Child lay on His bed of skins
beside the blazing fire and watched the light dance on the beads of
gold. He laughed and clapped His hands together to see the pretty sight
they made; and then a bird called out of the thicket close by.
“Little Child of Bethlehem,” it called, “I, too, have a birth gift for
Thee. I will sing Thy cradle song this night.” And softly, like the
tinkling of a silver bell and like clear water running over mossy
places, the nightingale sang and sang, filling the air with melodies.
And then another voice called to him:
“Little Child of Bethlehem, I am only a tree with boughs all bare, for
the winter has stolen my green cloak, but I also can give Thee a birth
gift. I can give Thee shelter from the biting north wind that blows.”
And the tree bent low its branches and twined a rooftree and a wall
about the Child.
Soon the Child was fast asleep, and while He slept a small brown bird
hopped out of the thicket. Cocking his little head, he said:
“What can I be giving the Child of Bethlehem? I could fetch Him a fat
worm to eat or catch Him the beetle that crawls on yonder bush, but He
would not like that! And I could tell Him a story of the lands of the
north, but He is asleep and would not hear.” And the brown bird shook
its head quite sorrowfully. Then it saw that the wind was bringing the
sparks from the fire nearer and nearer to the sleeping Child.
“I know what I can do,” said the bird, joyously. “I can catch the hot
sparks on my breast, for if one should fall upon the Child it would burn
Him grievously.”
So the small brown bird spread wide his wings and caught the sparks on
his own brown breast. So many fell that the feathers were burned; and
burned was the flesh beneath until the breast was no longer brown, but
red.
Next morning, when the gipsies awoke, they found Mary and Joseph and the
Child gone. For Herod had died, and an angel had come in the night and
carried them back to the land of Judea. But the good God blessed those
who had cared that night for the Child.
To the nightingale He said: “Your song shall be the sweetest in all the
world, for ever and ever; and only you shall sing the long night
through.”
To the tree He said: “Little fir-tree, never more shall your branches be
bare. Winter and summer you and your seedlings shall stay green, ever
green.”
Last of all He blessed the brown bird: “Faithful little watcher, from
this night forth you and your children shall have red breasts, that the
world may never forget your gift to the Child of Bethlehem.”
The trapper smiled gravely at David.
“And that, my friend, was the robin.”
“Yes, I know,” said David, simply.
He felt very still and quiet inside, almost as if he had dreamed himself
into the Romany camp beside the fire, and seen with his own eyes the
coming of the Child. It seemed too real, too close to talk about just
then; he even forgot to tell the trapper that he liked it. And then the
trapper’s next words brought him to his feet.
“You are not knowing, it may be, that the night has fallen and the snow
is with it again. Come, I think Nicholas Bassaraba will guide you safely
to your hilltop.”
One glance through the window told David the truth of the words. It was
almost dark outside and snow was very thick in the air.
Silently they put on their garments and fastened their snow-shoes. Then
with the command to keep close at his heels, the trapper led the way up
the trail.
The first thing of which David was conscious was that his strength was
going amazingly fast. It seemed but a moment since he had started, and
the trapper was climbing very slowly; yet David began to find it
unbelievably hard to pull one foot after the other. Gritting his teeth,
he stumbled on a few yards farther. Then he fell, picked himself up, and
fell again. The third time the trapper helped him to his feet, and,
coming behind him, he put a strong hand at David’s back and pushed. They
struggled on this way for another ten minutes until David fell again.
This time it was the trapper’s strength alone which righted him, for
David’s had entirely gone. He stood looking with dazed eyes into the
trapper’s, ashamed and wholly spent.
“It is all right. It is nothing to be ashamed of.” The trapper’s voice
seemed to come from very far away. “You have climbed many lengths
farther than I expected. Now you shall see how Nicholas Bassaraba can
pack a hundred pounds when he is guiding for a friend.”
He stooped and lifted David on his back, drawing the boy’s arms well
over his shoulders, and slipping his own firmly under the boy’s feet.
That was the last David knew until he felt the ground under his feet
again and blinked stupidly at the light Johanna was holding at the open
door of the lodge.
“Laddy, laddy, wherever have ye been?”
He heard the distress in Johanna’s voice even through his own numbness,
and tried to smile reassuringly.
“Barney’s been scouring the hill for ye this half-hour.”
“He has been to visit a friend, and the friend has brought him back
safely,” said the trapper. And without another word he disappeared in
the snow and the darkness.
VIII
THE CHRISTMAS THAT WAS NEARLY LOST
It snowed hard all the next day, so hard that even Barney did not
venture out; and David spent his time between the kitchen, where Johanna
was frosting the Christmas cake, and the woodshed, where Barney was
making the “woodpile look mortal weary.”
David’s mind was full of the happenings of the days that had passed, and
of future plans. Everything had been as fine as a boy could wish, but he
did not want it to stop. Here it was two days before Christmas, and he
was quite sure there was still a lot to be found. The question was,
where should he look for it now that the matter of neighbors had been
exhausted?
As for the plans, they were growing every minute; but he had decided to
say nothing about them to Johanna and Barney until the next day, when
they were full-grown. Of one thing David felt certain: nothing could
keep Christmas away this year. And so when Barney began to tease him on
one of his trips to the woodshed and say that if this weather lasted he
guessed the Christmas present from father would get there about
Washington’s Birthday and that he guessed it would take a Santa Claus
with seven-league boots to make the hilltop this year, David just smiled
and looked very wise. Something was going to happen; he knew perfectly
well that something was going to happen. And so, when it actually did
happen, about half-way between dinner and supper time, he was not nearly
as surprised as Johanna and Barney, who in a way might have expected it.
They were all three startled by a banging on the door and a stamping and
pounding of feet outside. So loud did it sound in the midst of the
silence that David thought there must be at least a dozen men. Great was
his astonishment, therefore, when Barney swung open the door and a
solitary figure stepped in, muffled in fur to the eyes.
“Burrrrrrrrrrr!” boomed the figure, and then he swept off his cap and
made a laughing bow.
“Hello, Johanna! Hello, Barney! You never thought I would remind you
right in the midst of a Christmas blizzard of that promise you made last
summer. Come now, did you?”
“Holy St. Patrick!” gasped Johanna.
“Mr. Peter!” ejaculated Barney. “But how in the name of all the saints
did ye ever make it in this storm?”
The man laughed again.
“Just the usual nerve of the tenderfoot. I left my painting-kit, bag,
and canvases with the station-agent. He has promised to send them up if
the storm ever stops. And I made a wager with him—a gallon can of next
spring’s syrup against a box of cigars—that I’d be here by four o’clock.
What’s the time?”
He had his things off by this time and was looking at his watch.
“Aha! Ten minutes to the good! If your wires are not down, Barney, I’ll
call him up. He’ll be wanting to get ready to tap that maple-tree.”
The next moment they could hear his voice booming at the telephone.
“Yes, siree. Here I am, and not even my breath frozen. No, you needn’t
be sending out that snow-plow after me just yet. Only get my things up
here as soon as you can. All right!”
Another instant he was back in the room again, vigorously shaking
Johanna’s and Barney’s hands.
“Yes, here I am, to paint those snow canvases I’ve been going to do so
long, and to dodge Christmas.”
Then it was that for the first time he became conscious of David in the
window recess.
“Bless my soul! Who’s this, Johanna?”
Johanna explained, and David came forward and held out an eager hand. He
liked this Mr. Peter tremendously, in spite of his last remark, and he
was no end glad he had come.
The man returned David’s greeting with equal cordiality, while he
screwed up his face into a comical expression of mock disgust.
“And I came up here to dodge Christmas! Say, young man, do you think
it’s possible for any person to get away from Christmas with a boy
around?”
“I hope not,” laughed David.
“You don’t mean to tell me that Christmas hasn’t grown into a very
tiresome, shabby affair that we would all escape from if we only had the
courage? You don’t believe there is anything in it nowadays, do you,
except the beastly grind of paying your friends back and thanking your
lucky stars it doesn’t happen oftener than once a year?”
“I certainly do, sir.” David spoke as one with authority.
The man rubbed his hands together thoughtfully and his eyes twinkled.
“I see. Johanna and Barney have gone off to fix a bed for me somewhere,
so suppose we discuss this matter thoroughly. I’ll tell you my personal
feelings and you can tell me yours. In the end, maybe we’ll compromise!”
He led the way to the window-seat and spread himself out comfortably in
one corner; David curled up in the one opposite.
“To begin with,” and the man pounded his knee emphatically, “Christmas
is responsible for a very bad economic condition. Every one spends more
money than he has; that’s very bad. Next, you generally put your money
into articles that are neither useful nor beautiful; you give your
maiden aunt handkerchiefs and she has ten dozen of them already put by
in her closet, while you send a box of candy to the janitor’s little
girl, who can’t go out because she hasn’t any shoes to wear. Now if I
could borrow an invisible cloak and go around a week before Christmas,
peeping in on all the folks that need things and finding out just what
they need, and then come back on Christmas Eve and drop the gifts unseen
beside their doors—well, that might make Christmas seem a little less
shabby. But as it is, I’m not going to give away an inch of foolish
Christmas this year. And I’m not going to say ‘Merry Christmas’ to a
solitary soul.”
“Maybe you’ll forget,” laughed David. “Now, is it my turn?”
Mr. Peter nodded.
“Well, I’ve found out, just lately, that Christmas isn’t things—it’s
thoughts. And I’ve an idea how to make a bully Christmas this year out
of nothing.”
He hunched up one knee and clasped his arms about it.
“You see, I used to think that you couldn’t have Christmas without all
the store fixings and lots of presents, just as you do. And when I first
came ’way up here I thought it was just naturally ‘good-by, Christmas.’
Then something happened.”
“Suppose you tell me what. We might make a better compromise if I
understood just what did happen.”
David considered him thoughtfully. Johanna had said while he was out at
the telephone that Mr. Peter was a painter, a bachelor chap with no one
in particular belonging to him, and David wondered if he would really
understand. As Johanna had often said, “There are some things you just
can’t put through a body’s head.”
“Things happen ’way up here in the hills that would never happen in the
city, never in a hundred years,” he began, slowly; and then, gaining
courage from the painter’s nod of comprehension, he told all about
everything. Of course he could not tell all the stories as they had been
told to him—there was not time—but he told about them, and particularly
about the “heathen.”
“And that isn’t all,” he finished, breathlessly. “I’ve a great plan for
to-morrow night, if Johanna and Barney and you will help.”
“We might make that the compromise,” smiled Mr. Peter. “What is it?”
David told, and when he had quite finished, the man beside him nodded
his head as if he approved.
“What does Johanna say?” he asked.
“I haven’t told her yet.”
“Well, we’ll ask Johanna and Barney to-night. Now let’s hunt them up and
find out when supper is going to be ready. I’m as hungry as a bear.”
But before the plans were unfolded to Barney and Johanna that evening
Mr. Peter told a story. He offered it himself as something he had picked
up once upon a time, he could not remember just where. He said it was
not the kind of a story he would ever make up in the wide world, but he
thought it just the kind David might make up.
And here it is as the painter told it two nights before Christmas:
It was four o’clock on Christmas morning and Santa Claus was finishing
his rounds just as the milkman was beginning his. Santa had been over to
Holland and back again where he had filled millions of little Dutch
shoes that stood outside of windows and doors; he had climbed millions
of chimneys and filled millions of American stockings, not to mention
the billions and trillions of Christmas trees that he had trimmed and
the nurseries he had visited with toys too large for stockings. And now,
just as the clock struck four, he had filled his last stocking and was
crawling out of the last chimney onto the roof where the eight reindeer
were pawing the snow and wagging their stumps of tails, eager to be off.
Santa Claus heaved a sigh of relief as he shook the creases out of the
great magic bag that was always large enough to hold all the toys that
were put into it. The bag was quite empty now, not even a gum-drop or a
penny whistle was left; and Santa heaved another sigh as he tucked it
under the seat of his sleigh and clambered wearily in.
“By the two horns on yonder pale-looking moon,” quoth he, “I’m a
worn-out old saint and I am glad Christmas is over. Why, I passed my
prime some thousand years ago and any other saint would have taken to
his niche in heaven long before this.” And he heaved a third sigh.
As he took up the reins and whistled to his team he looked anything but
the jolly old saint he was supposed to be; and if you had searched him
from top to toe, inside and out, you couldn’t have found a chuckle or a
laugh anywhere about him.
Away went the eight reindeer through the air, higher and higher, till
houses looked like match-boxes and lakes like bowls of water; and it
took them just ten minutes and ten seconds to carry Santa safely home to
the North Pole. Most generally he sings a rollicking song on his
homeward journey, a song about boys and toys and drums and plums, just
to show how happy he is. But this year he spent the whole time grumbling
all the grumbly thoughts he could think of.
“It’s a pretty state of affairs when a man can’t have a vacation in
nearly five hundred years. Christmas every three hundred and sixty-five
days and have to work three hundred and sixty-four of them to get things
ready. What’s more, every year the work grows harder. Have to keep up
with all the scientific inventions and all the new discoveries. Who’d
have thought a hundred years ago that I should have to be building toy
aeroplanes and electric motors? And the girls want dolls’ houses with
lights and running water! I declare I’m fairly sick of the sight of a
sled or a top, and dolls and drums make me shiver. I’d like to do
nothing for a whole year, I tell you—nothing! It’s a pretty how d’ y’ do
if the world can’t get along for one year without a Christmas. What’s to
prevent my taking a vacation like any other man? Who’s to prevent me?”
The reindeer had stopped outside of Santa’s own home and he threw the
reins down with a jerk while he tried his best to look very gruff and
surly.
“Suppose I try it. By the Aurora Borealis, I _will_ try it!”
And then and there Santa Claus began his vacation.
He closed up his workshop, locked the door, and hung the key in the
attic. He turned his reindeer loose and told them to go south where they
could get fresh grass, for he would not need them for a year and a day.
Then he made himself comfortable beside his fire, and brought out all
the books and the papers he had been wanting to read for the last fifty
years or more, and settled down to enjoy himself. He never gave one
thought to the world or what it would do without him; therefore, it
never occurred to him to wonder if the news would get in the papers. But
you know and I know that in time everything that happens gets into the
papers; so the news spread at last all over the world that Santa Claus
was taking a vacation and that there would be no Christmas next year.
And what do you think happened then?
First of all the Christmas trees stopped growing. “What’s the use?” they
whispered one to another. “We sha’n’t be wanted this year, so we needn’t
work to put out new shoots or keep especially green and smart-looking.”
And the holly and the mistletoe heard them, and they said: “Well, why
should we bother, either, to get our berries ready as long as we shall
not be needed for decoration? Making berries takes a lot of time, and we
might just as well spend it gossiping.”
Next, the storekeepers began to grumble, and each said to himself,
“Well, if Christmas isn’t coming this year why should I spend my time
making my shop-windows gay with gifts and pretty things?” And the pastry
cooks and the confectioners said they certainly would not bother making
plum-puddings, Christmas pies, or candy canes.
Soon the children heard about it. For a long while they would not
believe it, not until Christmas-time came round again. But when they saw
the Christmas trees looking so short and shabby, and the Christmas
greens without their berries, and the streets quiet and dull, and the
shop-windows without the pretty things in them, they grew sober and
quiet, too. And in less time than I can tell you the whole world grew
stuffy and stupid and silent and unlovely. Yes, the whole world!
Now, in a very small house in a very small town that stands just midway
between the North Pole and the equator and half-way between the Atlantic
and Pacific oceans (you can find the town for yourself on any map if you
look for it with these directions) there lived a small boy. He was
sturdy and strong, and he had learned two great lessons—never to be
afraid and never to give up. He saw what was happening all over the
world, because everybody believed that Christmas had been lost, and he
said one day to his mother:
“Mother, little mother, I’ve been thinking this long while if Santa
Claus could see how things are going with every one down here he would
bring Christmas back, after all. Let me go and tell him?”
“Boy, little boy,” said his mother, “tell me first how you will find
your way there. Remember there are no sign-posts along the road that
leads to Santa Claus.”
But the boy squared his shoulders and took a firm grip of his pockets
and said he, “Why, that’s easy! I’ll ask the way and keep on till I get
there.”
In the end his mother let him go. As he walked along slowly he
questioned everything he passed—birds, grass, winds, rain, river, trees.
All these he asked the fastest road to Santa Claus; and each in turn
showed him the way as far as he knew it. The birds flew northward,
singing for him to follow after; the grass swayed and bent and made a
beaten path for him; the river carried him safely along its banks in the
tiniest shell of a boat, while the winds blew it to make it go faster.
Each horse or donkey that he met carried him as far as he could; and
every house door was opened wide to him, and the children shared with
him their bowls of bread-and-milk or soup. And wherever he passed, both
the children and the grownups alike called after him, “You’ll tell him;
you’ll make Santa Claus come and bring our Christmas back to us!”
I cannot begin to tell you the wonderful things that happened to the
boy. He traveled quickly and safely, for all that it was a long road
with no sign-posts marking the way; and just three days before Christmas
he reached the North Pole and knocked at Santa Claus’s front door. It
was opened by Santa himself, who rubbed his eyes with wonder.
“Bless my red jacket and my fur boots!” he cried in astonishment. “If it
isn’t a real, live boy! How did you get here, sirrah?”
The boy told him everything in just two sentences; and when he had
finished he begged Santa to change his mind and keep Christmas for the
children.
“Can’t do it. Don’t want to. Couldn’t if I did. Not a thing made.
Nothing to make anything of. And you can’t have Christmas without toys
and sweets. Go look in that window and see for yourself.” And the old
saint finished quite out of breath.
The boy went over to the window Santa had pointed out and, standing on
tiptoe, peered in. There was the workshop as empty as a barn in the
spring. Spiders had built their webs across the corners and mice
scampered over the floors, and that was all. The boy went slowly back to
Santa and his face looked very sad.
“Listen to this,” he said, and he took a seashell from his pocket and
held it close to old Santa’s ear. “Can you hear anything?”
Santa listened with his forehead all puckered up and a finger against
his nose.
“Humph! It sounds like somebody crying away off.”
“It’s the children,” said the little boy, “as I heard them while I
passed along the road that brought me here. And do you know why they
were crying? Because there are no trees to light, no candles to burn, no
stockings to hang, no carols to sing, no holly to make into wreaths—no
gladness anywhere. And they are very frightened because Christmas has
been lost.”
Then Santa did the funniest thing. He blew his nose so hard that he blew
tears into his eyes and down his cheeks.
“Fee, fi, fo, fum—I’m a stupid old fool!” said he. “It’s too late to do
Christmas alone this year; but I might—yes, I might—get help. The world
is full of spirits who love the children as much as I do. If they will
lend me a hand, this once, we might do it.”
Then he went into his house and brought out his wonderful magic whistle
that calls the reindeer; and he blew it once, twice, three times; and
the next instant the eight were bounding over the snow toward him.
“Go!” he commanded. “Go as quickly as ever you can to all the spirits of
the earth, water, and air, and tell them Santa Claus needs their help
this year to bring back Christmas to the children.”
Away flew the reindeer, and in less time than it takes a cloud to scud
across the sky they were back again and with them the most wonderful
gathering that has ever been seen since the world was made. There were
giants from Norway and trolls from Sweden; there were dwarfs and elves
from the mines of Cornwall and fairies from the hills of Ireland; there
were brownies from Scotland and goblins from Germany; the Yule nisse and
the skrattle from Denmark; and fairy godmothers from everywhere. And
from the ocean came the mermaids and the mermen; and from the rivers and
brooks came nixies and nymphs and swan maidens. And they all came eager
to help. Santa Claus brought down from the attic the key of the workshop
and soon everybody was busy at his own particular craft. Not a word was
spoken, and for those three days not a soul rested or slept.
The dwarfs and the elves made hammers and planes and saws, knives and
slates, trumpets and drums, rings and pins and necklaces of precious
stones, for they are the oldest metalworkers under the sun. And the
fairies are the finest spinners; and they spun cloth of silk, ribbons
and fine laces, yes, and flaxen hair for dolls. The leprechaun, who is
the fairy cobbler, made slippers of all colors and sizes from
baby-dolls’ shoes to real little girls’ party slippers and boys’
skating-boots. The giants cut down trees and sawed them into logs and
boards while the trolls made them into boats and houses, sleds and beds
and carriages. The mermaids gathered shells and pearls for beads; the
brownies stitched and sewed and dressed the dolls that Santa himself had
made. I don’t know what the nixies made, unless it was the sea-foam
candy.
There was one little goblin too little to know how to do anything, and
as no one had time to teach him he wandered about, very unhappy, until a
bright idea popped into his head. Then away he scuttled down to the
timber-lands to tell the Christmas trees to hurry up and try to grow a
bit, because the children would need them, after all.
Well, the long and short of it was that on Christmas Eve everything was
finished; and never since Santa Claus was a lad himself had there been
such an array of toys. They were so fine and they shone so bright that
the children going to bed that night said to one another, “Look up
yonder and see the Northern Lights!”
The toys were at last packed in the sleigh and the boy climbed in on the
seat next to Santa, and they were just driving away when a wee old Irish
fairy woman stepped up with a great bundle.
“’Tis stockings,” said she. “I’ve knitted one for every child, for I
knew well the poor things would never be hanging up their own this
night.”
So it happened that the Christmas that was nearly lost was found, after
all, and when the children woke up in the morning they saw their
stockings full of toys and the tall green trees all trimmed and waiting
for them. And when Santa reached the North Pole again, very tired and
sleepy, but not at all grumbly, he heard a noise that sounded like
running brooks and singing birds and waving grasses and blowing winds
all wrapped up together; and he said to himself:
“Dear,dear me! what can that be? It sounds very like the laughter of
little children all over the world.”
And that is precisely what it was.
When he had finished, Mr. Peter leaned over and whispered to David; and
David cleared his throat as if he were going to make a long speech. Then
he told his plan to Barney and Johanna and asked them would they do it.
“The heathens!” was all Johanna said; but she sounded distinctly
surprised, almost shocked.
“Why not?” said Barney. “Mind, your calling them that doesn’t make them
it. And what if they were? Is that any reason?”
“Maybe not,” agreed Johanna. “Only when a body’s got the habit o’
thinking folks are not her kind o’ folks it takes a powerful bit o’
thinking to think them different.”
“Sure it does. We’ll leave ye to do the thinking while the three of us
go out to the woodshed and knock together them sign-posts the little lad
is wishing for.”
And Barney led the way, while a very happy boy and a man with an amused
twinkle in his eyes followed at his heels.
IX
ST. BRIDGET
The day before Christmas broke cold and clear; and almost before the sun
had crested the hill three fur-clad figures were abroad. Two were large
and one was small; each carried a post across his shoulders, while the
foremost swung an ax in his free hand. They first took the trail for the
trapper’s, and a dozen yards from the hut they planted one post,
knocking it firmly into the snow with the flat of the ax. There it stood
straight as could be and about the height of a little lad, with its
white sign pointing up the trail they had come and its bands of
Christmas green and red—painted by Mr. Peter at the top—warranted to
attract attention.
David cast a backward glance of admiration upon it as they turned to
cross-cut the ravine and climb the foot-hill that led to the
South-Americans’ cottage. Yes, it certainly did look fine! And how well
the black letters stood out against the white background! With a heart
almost bursting with the fullness of contentment David read the sign for
the hundredth time:
THIS WAY TO CHRISTMAS
SIX O’CLOCK TO-NIGHT. PLEASE COME.
DAVID
And the hand pointed straight to the hilltop and the lodge. Another sign
was planted by the cottage, and a third by the lumber-camp. Then the
trio climbed the hill again. At the lodge Barney picked up a fourth
post. He was going down to the village for some necessary supplies and
he had been appointed to leave the sign for the flagman.
“There’s just one thing that’s the matter,” said David, as he and Mr.
Peter started out with knives and bags to hunt for ground-pine and other
Christmas greens. “It’s the South-Americans. I don’t see how they could
possibly get here. Why, the sick boy has hardly enough strength to walk
across the room. And you couldn’t expect a lady to climb a mountain on
snow-shoes, just for Christmas.”
Mr. Peter laughed.
“You can never tell what’s going to happen Christmas Eve. Maybe the
fairy will loan them his wishing-cap. Or Santa, himself, may swing round
here on his way to the city and bring them along. I wouldn’t begin to
worry about who’s not coming until it’s too late for them to get here.”
All through that crisp winter morning David and Mr. Peter plowed back
and forth between the woods and the lodge, carrying green of every
description, with intervals spent beside the kitchen stove, warming up.
And early in the afternoon they started decorating the hall and
living-room, while Johanna and Barney concentrated their efforts in the
kitchen. Barney had succeeded in rooting out untold treasures from the
shelves of the “variety store” in the village; and he had brought home
several cans of silver paint and rolls of red tissue-paper, besides some
white and red candles.
With these Mr. Peter and David created miracles. They silvered bunches
of the pine-cones and hung them on their drooping green branches above
the doorways and windows. They trailed the ground-pine across the
ceiling from corner to corner, and about the mantel, hanging from it
innumerable tiny red bells fashioned from the red paper. They stood two
tall young spruces on either side of the window niche and these they
trimmed with strips of pop-corn, silvered nuts and pine-cones and red
and white candles. And every window had a hemlock wreath made gay with
cranberries.
And Barney and Johanna? They were likewise performing miracles. When
David and Mr. Peter had finished and given their work a last survey and
exchanged a final round of mutual congratulations they went into the
kitchen to behold the others’ handiwork.
There was the table lengthened out and covered with a snowy-white cloth.
In the center, surrounded by a wreath of green, stood the mammoth
Christmas cake; and at the four corners stood tall white candles in
crystal candlesticks. At one end was a cold baked ham resplendent with
its crust of sugar and cloves and its paper frill of red and white. At
the other was a red Japanese bowl filled with the vegetable salad that
had made Johanna famous; while dotted all about the table were
delectable dishes of all sorts—jams and jellies, nuts, raisins, savory
pickles, and a pyramid of maple-sugar cream. But it was from the stove
that the appetizing odors came: rolls baking, coffee steaming, and
chicken frying slowly in the great covered pan.
“It smells too good to be true,” cried Mr. Peter, clapping his hands.
“Never was there such a Christmas supper! Come, David, boy, we will have
to scramble into some festal raiment to do honor to Johanna’s cooking,
although I am not quite sure that I have anything to dress up in but a
pair of gold sleeve-links and a red necktie.”
“Ye might be making a prayer while ye’re dressing that somebody will
come to help eat it up. I’ve said to Barney a score o’ times since
dinner that there’s just as much likelihood that not a mortal soul will
show his face here this night.”
“Why, Johanna!” David protested.
“I know, laddy. But mind, ye’ve not seen one of them but once, yourself,
and I’m a stranger to them. Never matter; only if no one comes ye’ll all
be eating ham and fried chicken for the rest o’ the year.” And Johanna
ended with a good-humored laugh.
Before six they were gathered in the living-room with the candles
lighted and the fire blazing uproariously on the hearth.
“It’s all so fine and like mother used to have. I believe I shall be
wishing somebody ‘Merry Christmas’ before I know it,” shouted Mr. Peter.
Then he held up a warning finger. “Hush! What’s that?”
They all listened. There was certainly a noise outside; it sounded as if
some one was feeling for the knob. David was away like a flash to the
hall and had flung open the door wide. The next moment his voice came
back to the others, ringing with gladness:
“Uncle Joab! Oh, Uncle Joab! This is just bully!”
The bent figure of the old darky stumbled in out of the night. He
carried two bundles under his arm, each wrapped in layers of gunnysack;
and he blinked, open-mouthed, at the lights and the faces that gathered
about him.
“It sure is a befo’-de-war Chris’mus!” he ejaculated. Then he sniffed
the air like an old dog on a scent. “’Pon ma soul, dat’s fried chick’n
or Uncle Joab’s no sinner!”
They all laughed; and one by one they shook Uncle Joab’s hand as David
introduced them. Once divested of his outside things, the old man turned
his attention to his bundles and unwrapped them with great care. The
first turned out to be his fiddle and he patted it lovingly.
“When I fust cotch sight o’ dat yeah post dis mo’nin’ I wa’n’t sure dat
de sign was meant fo’ no ole nigger like Uncle Joab. Den I look ’round,
but dere doan’t ’pear to be nobody else. So I brings along de ole
fiddle, ’ca’se I reckon dat dey’ll be glad to see him if dey ’ain’t got
no welcome fer me.”
“Sure, we’re hearty glad to see the both o’ ye.” And Barney spoke out
for them all.
The old man beamed his gratitude as he unwrapped his second bundle. It
held a paper sack; and Uncle Joab viewed the contents with approval
before he handed it to David.
“M’lasses corn-balls; Chris’mus gif’ fo’ li’l’ boy,” he chuckled.
David’s thanks were cut short by the stamping of feet outside and a
clang of the knocker. Again he flew to the door and found the eyes of
the trapper looking down upon him with grave pleasure.
“Nicholas Bassaraba, my friend,” he said, proudly, and this was the way
he made the trapper known to the others.
The flagman came next, the icicles hanging to his scrubby mustache, his
little blue eyes dancing with anticipation. He was quite out of breath
and it was some minutes before he could respond properly to his warm
welcome.
“Zo, Fritz Grossman has some friends this Chreestmas; eet es goot!” And
his eyes danced harder than ever. He felt down in the pockets of his
greatcoat and brought out his hands full of red apples. Their glossy
skins bespoke much careful polishing. “Chreestmas apples for the
knabelein. He remembers the tale? Ja!”
The stillness outside was suddenly broken by the jingle of
bells—sleigh-bells coming nearer and nearer. This time it was Mr. Peter
who reached the door first; he had taken down the hall lantern and was
holding it high above his head as he peered out.
“Whoa, there!” came a voice from the dark. “That you, Mr. Peter? I
ca’late I wouldn’t ha’ broken through no road like this for no one else.
But here we be, all hunky-dory!”
“Well, I ca’late there isn’t another man who could have done it. You
bring in the lad and I’ll see to the lady.” And Mr. Peter went out into
the darkness, lantern in hand.
The next moment David knew his cup of happiness had filled to the brim;
for in strode the village stage-driver with Alfredo in his arms, while
behind them came Mr. Peter supporting the mother.
“It’s splendid! It’s perfectly splendid!” David said over and over
again, as he helped to unbundle the South-Americans and make the sick
boy comfortable in the great lounging-chair by the fire.
“It is wonderful,” said the mother, softly. “To have the aloneness and
heart-hunger and then to find the friend!” And her arm slipped about
David’s shoulders in a way his own mother had.
“Supper’s ready,” called Johanna from the kitchen. “And, Barney, suppose
ye and Mr. Peter fetch out the lad, just as he is in his big chair.”
They put Alfredo at one end of the table, while Johanna sat at the other
behind the great, steaming coffee-pot. Uncle Joab insisted on serving
every one, bustling back and forth from the stove to the kitchen, his
black face radiating his pleasure.
“Lordy gracious!” he would burst forth every few minutes. “Dis yeah
nigger hasn’t served a supper like dis not since he was back in ole
Virginy. Jes’ smell dat fried chicken! Humm!” And they could not
persuade him to take his place among them until every one else’s plate
was full.
What a supper it was! The men who had been shifting for themselves alone
in their cabins or huts, the South-Americans who had been living on food
put up in cans and tins, were quite sure they had never tasted such a
Christmas feast. And every one had stories to tell, memories of his own
homeland which brought a flush to his cheeks and a sparkling moisture to
his eyes. Only David was silent, his ears too full of what he was
hearing, his heart too full of what he was feeling, yes, and maybe his
mouth too full of Christmas cheer for him to talk.
It was not until the last crumb of the Christmas cake had been eaten and
the last drop of coffee been drained by Uncle Joab and they had gathered
about the fire once more, that David spoke.
“First, let’s have Uncle Joab play some of his jigs and sing with his
fiddle just as I heard him that day at the camp. Then let’s have Johanna
tell us a story. She’s the only one who hasn’t told a Christmas story.”
So of course David had his wish. Uncle Joab tuned up and played all the
rollicking airs he knew, following them with the old plantation songs so
dear to the hearts of even those who have only sojourned in the South.
And when he was tired and insisted that “de ole fiddle must rest”
Johanna drew her chair closer to the hearth and began the story of St.
Bridget.
In Ireland St. Bridget is sometimes called “St. Bridhe of the Mantle,”
and that is because the people of the hills would not be forgetting the
way she came to be at Bethlehem when Our Lord was born, or the rest of
the miracle.
It was to the little island of Iona that she came when she was naught
but a child, and her coming there was strange. Her father was Doughall
Donn, a prince of Ireland; but because of a sin, which he swore was not
his, he was banished from his Green Isle. He took the child and left at
night in a small boat; and the winds blew and the waves carried them
toward Alba. But when they were still a long way off the winds blew into
a storm and the waves reared themselves into a tempest and the boat was
dashed upon the rocks. It was the dawn of that day that Cathal, the
arch-druid of Iona, looked down from his holy hill where he had been
lighting the sacrificial fire to the Sun God, for in those days it was
before the Lord had walked the earth; and he saw below him on the beach
the figure of a man washed up by the storm and lying as if dead. He
hurried to the place and found not only the man, but a wee girl child,
and she beside him, playing with the shells and digging her pink toes
into the wet sand. The man was not dead, only stupid with the sea-water;
and Cathal brought them both to a herdsman’s hut and saw that they were
fed and cared for.
That night he had a strange vision concerning the child; he dreamed that
spirits from heaven descended to watch over her while she slept; and
when he was for knowing why they should guard her with celestial care
they made this answer:
“Know ye, she is holy and blest above all maidens. For some day it shall
come to pass that she shall cradle the King of Love upon her breast and
guard the Lord of Creation while He sleeps.”
And when the vision broke it was Cathal himself that came and watched
beside the herdsman’s hut where the child slept. So Doughall Donn was
made welcome in Iona for the sake of the child; and the druids gave him
a hut and herd of his own and saw to it that neither he nor the child
should want for anything.
It was midsummer and the day of Bridget’s birth, marking the
twenty-first year; and at ring o’ day while the dew still clung to the
grass Bridget left her father’s hut and climbed the holy hill. Of all
the dwellers on Iona she alone was let watch the lighting of the
sacrificial fire and she alone was let hear the chanting of the druid’s
hymn to the Sun God. This day she was clad in white with a wreath of the
rowan berries on her hair and a girdle of them about her waist; and she
looked fair as the flowers of the dawn.
As she climbed the hill the wild creatures came running to her for a
caress and the birds hovered above her head or perched on her shoulder.
She listened to the chanting of the hymn; she bided till the flames of
the fire met and mingled with the shafts of the sun. Then a white bird
called from the thicket and she followed. She followed him over the
crest of the hill; and behold! when she came out to the other slope,
’twas another country she was seeing!
Here were no longer the green fields and the pastures filled with sheep,
or the sea lying beyond. It was a country of sand and hot sun; and the
trees and the houses about her were strange. She found herself standing
by a well with a strangely fashioned jug in her hand, and her father
beside her.
“Bridhe,” said he, “ye are a strange lass. Are ye not knowing that the
well has not held a drop of water for a fortnight, and did ye think to
fill your pitcher now?”
She smiled faintly.
“I was not remembering.”
Her father drew her away toward the village that lay beneath them, the
village of Bethlehem.
“Bridhe,” said he again, “the drouth has been upon us these many months.
The wells are empty, even the wine is failing, and the creatures are
dying on our hands. I shall leave the inn this night in your care while
I take the camels and the water-skins and ride for succor. There is a
well, they tell me, in a place they call the Mount of Olives which is
never dry; and ’tis a three days’ journey or more there and back.”
“And what is it that I should be doing, with ye away?” asked Bridget.
They had reached the door of the inn by now, and Doughall Donn opened it
for her to pass through.
“Ye are to stay here, birdeen, and keep the door barred against my
return. Not a soul is to pass over the threshold while I am gone. Ye are
not to open to the knock of man, woman, or child—mind that!”
“But, father, what if some one should come in mortal need—famished with
the hunger or faint with the thirst?”
He led her to the rude cupboard and pointed to the nearly empty shelves.
“There is a cruiskeen of ale and a cup o’ water, a handful o’ dry dates
and some oaten cake; that is all of food or drink left in the inn.
’Twill no more than last ye till I return, and if ye fed another ye
would starve. So mind the promise I put on ye this night. Ye are to
shelter no one in the inn while I am gone.”
Bridget watched her father drive the camels out of the courtyard; she
barred the door on his going and for two days no foot crossed the
threshold of the inn. But on the night of the third day, as Bridget was
making ready for bed, she heard the sound of knocking on the door.
“Who is it and what is it ye are wanting this night?” called Bridget
from within, keeping the door fast.
“God’s blessing on this house!” came in a man’s voice out of the dark.
“I am Joseph, a carpenter of Arimathea, and this is Mary who is after
needing a woman’s help this night. She is spent and can go no farther.
Will ye give us shelter?”
“That I cannot. The promise is laid on me to give neither food nor
shelter to living soul till my father comes hither. Were it not for that
’tis a glad welcome I’d be giving the both of ye.”
And then a woman’s voice came out of the darkness, a voice that set her
breasts to be trembling and her heart to be leaping with joy.
“Are ye forgetting me, Bridhe astore?” said the voice.
Bridget opened the grating in the door and looked out. There she saw a
great-shouldered giant of a man, covered with beard, and beside him was
a wee gray donkey, and on the donkey rode a woman, who turned her face
to Bridget and smiled. And the wonder of that smile drew Bridget’s hand
to the latch.
She opened the door wide and bade them enter. She laid before them what
ale and dates and oaten cake was left, and watched them eat in silence.
Then she beckoned them to the courtyard.
“Yonder is the byre clean with fresh straw; and the creatures are
gentle. Half the promise have I broken this night; I have given ye food.
But shelter ye must take outside the inn. Come!”
She led the way to the byre and left them there, hurrying back to bar
the door of the inn again. But as she was fastening the latch she heard
the sound of much travel abroad, and looking out she saw it was her
father’s camels returning. There was great gladness in her welcome—aye,
and there was sadness for the breaking of the promise.
“See,” said she, drawing her father in. “I gave them food—only food.
They are resting in the byre.” But when she went to gather up the dish
that had been empty, behold it was filled with dates and oaken cake! And
the cruiskeen was filled with ale!
“’Tis a miracle!” said Bridget, the breath leaving her; and even as she
spoke the strange thing happened.
Outside came the sound of falling rain, not gentle as a passing shower,
but the steady beat, beat, beat of the rainy season.
“The drouth is broken,” said Doughall Donn, adding, with wonder in his
voice: “What manner of folk are those yonder? Are ye not minding the
prophesy: ‘The King of Love, Ruler of the World and All Time, shall be
born on the first night of rain following the great drouth; and He shall
be born in a byre outside an inn.’ Come, let us see!”
He drew Bridget with him across the courtyard, but before ever they
entered the byre they saw the holy light and heard singing that was not
of this earth. And when they came inside there was Mary upon the hay,
and beside her lay a new-born child.
“Aigh! the blessed wee one!” whispered Bridget, kneeling down beside
them. “I am thinking ye had better rest, Mary astore; give me the
birdeen to nurse while ye sleep.” And with hunger-arms she reached out
for the Holy Child and wrapped it in the white mantle that she wore.
“Aye, take Him,” said Mary. “I would I might, in the years to come, give
my babe to every barren breast. But ye, Bridget, are alone blest.”
And through the long night Bridget cradled the Child while Mary slept
and the kine looked on, kneeling in their stalls. And when day broke,
Bridget closed her eyes and slept, too, for the weariness was upon her.
It was the call of a white bird that wakened her. She started up with a
cry of fear and her arms reached over her breast for the Child, but the
Child was gone. And when she looked about her she saw she was standing
on the crest of the holy hill, while beyond her lay green fields and
pastures full of sheep, and her father’s hut, and the blue bay of Iona
at her feet.
“’Tis all a dream,” she said, the wonder on her. And then she looked at
the mantle she wore. It was woven with golden threads into marvelous
pictures of birds and beasts and angels. And Bridget went slowly down
the holy hill, the mantle about her; and when she came to her father’s
hut she found she had been gone for a year and six months.
X
THE CHAPTER AFTER THE END
The last thing David remembered that night was hearing Mr. Peter’s voice
booming out a “Merry Christmas” to each of the departing guests.
Incredible and humiliating as it might seem, Johanna had had to help him
to bed! He was so worn out with the work and the joy of all that had
happened that day that his eyes would not stay open long enough for him
to make the proper going-to-bed arrangements for himself.
And the first thing David thought about when he woke Christmas morning
was the locked-out fairy. Yes, even before he thought about the gift
that was coming that day from father.
Where was the fairy? He had not seen him for two days, had not come upon
a single track that might have been his in all his tramping through the
woods for greens. He did not like to think it, but perhaps the fairy was
shivering and hungry in some hollow tree or deserted rabbit-burrow,
homesick and alone, while he, David, had almost, yes, had almost
unlocked the door that led back into his old world—almost found
opening-time.
It did not seem fair that now the fairy should be left out, when his own
happiness was the fairy’s doing, after all; when he would never have
found the way to Christmas or the way out of loneliness if the fairy had
not made the trail for him to follow. He made up his mind at once, even
before he was out of bed, that he would spend Christmas day hunting for
the fairy and seeing to it that he had all the comforts that mere
mortals could supply.
Then he remembered the Christmas gift that was coming. Perhaps it was
something he could share with the fairy. He had thought about it a good
many times in the days since father’s letter had come; and he had
speculated a good deal as to what it could be. It might be some strange
curiosity from the East—father was tremendously interested in
curiosities; or it might be books, as father was fond of books. Of one
thing he was certain, it would be something that father would like
himself; he could not imagine father choosing anything else.
Breakfast was late. They had seen Christmas day in before the last guest
had gone the night before; and when there are no stockings to empty, no
presents to unwrap, there is no need to hurry breakfast along or speed
the day. Everybody was in rare good humor. Mr. Peter swung David to his
shoulder and marched three times round the table, singing, “Good King
Wencelas.”
“Faith, ’tis the best keeping of Christmas I have seen since I came to
this country,” was Barney’s comment.
“I think ’tis the best I ever had,” said Johanna.
“I know what I’m going to do,” shouted Mr. Peter. “I’m going to steal
the chart and take it back with me to the city; and next year when the
notion begins to take me that I want to dodge Christmas again I’ll
unroll the chart, take a good look at it, and make straight for the
right road. And I tell you what!” He put two hands on David’s shoulders.
“I believe it would be just as well to have you along, young man. With
you there, and Barney and Johanna, I couldn’t go wrong, you know; and we
could take a lot of other poor, tired mortals on the road with us and
show them such a Christmas as would warm their hearts and keep their
memories green for the rest of their lives.”
“Aye, that’s true,” agreed Johanna. “But if ye don’t sit down and stop
talking, Mr. Peter, ye’ll be taking the road to a cold breakfast.”
They were not half through when a knocking came at the front door.
Barney answered it, and came back in a moment with a puzzled smile on
his face.
“’Tis your friend, the trapper,” he said to David. “He’ll not come in;
but he wants to be speaking with ye, laddy.”
Wondering much what it could mean, David slipped from his chair and went
into the hall. The trapper was standing just inside the door, and he was
holding something small and gray in his great fur mitten.
“Nicholas Bassaraba has brought you something. It was there this
morning, hanging on a peg in the woodshed. See!” He held up the coat of
a gray squirrel.
“Where—How did it get there?”
The trapper shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah—how should I know? But I can guess. And you? Where are your wits,
your fancy, my friend?”
David took the skin between his hands, rubbing his fingers through the
soft fur.
“You think he brought it back? That he—”
“Is it not possible? He has gone back to his country—his people. He is
no longer what you call ‘locked out.’ So he gives back again what he
borrowed from Nicholas Bassaraba—the coat. Ah, he is a fairy of honor;
and I bring it to you, my friend. It may be that is what the manikin
intends when he hangs it on the peg. At any rate, it is yours to keep
always; a symbol, a memory of how you found the way to the cabins and
the hearts of some lonely men. Yes, this you shall keep; while we keep
other memories. It is well.”
He turned toward the door to be gone, but David held him back.
“But it isn’t just memories, you know. I’m coming back again and again
to hear more stories of the gipsies. And in the spring, Barney says,
perhaps you’ll help me find a den of young foxes or raccoons. I’ve
always wanted to have some to tame.”
The trapper smiled.
“Even so. We will go together. It is not hard to find the litters of
young things in the spring; they are very plentiful.”
After the trapper had gone David stood a minute thinking before he went
back to his breakfast. So this was a white winter. And Johanna had said
that about as often as a white winter the fairy raths opened on
Christmas Eve—just for that night. Somehow the fairy must have known
this would happen; and he had gone back to Ireland, back to his rath, a
locked-out fairy no longer.
There was a broad smile of happiness on David’s face as he took his seat
at the table again.
“Ye certainly look pleased with your present,” teased Barney. “What did
he bring ye now—just a squirrel’s skin?”
“No, not just! Wait until to-night and I’ll tell you and Johanna one of
your own Irish stories. Only this one will have American improvements.”
And David nodded his head mysteriously after Johanna’s own fashion.
It was then that the telephone rang and Barney answered it. If there had
been a puzzled smile on his face before, when the trapper came, there
was a veritable labyrinth of expressions now as he came back to the
kitchen. There was a tangle of mystery, astonishment, delight,
incredulity, and excitement; and even Johanna herself could not guess
what lay at the heart of it all.
“Speak up, Barney, man,” she cried. “What has happened ye?”
And Mr. Peter slapped him on the back and thundered at him: “Wake up,
sir! You look as if you’d been dreaming about fairies!”
“Maybe I have,” chuckled Barney; then he sobered. “No, ’twas the
station-agent that ’phoned. He says the wee lad’s Christmas present has
come from across the water, and he’s sending it up this minute by the
stage-driver.”
“Is it as large as that?” gasped David in surprise.
“Aye, it’s a good size.” And Barney chuckled harder than ever.
Johanna looked at him sharply.
“Faith, I’m believing ye know what the wee laddy’s getting.”
“Maybe I do, but I’m not going to be telling one of ye—not till it gets
here.”
It was a very excited group that gathered in the window nook and waited
for the stage-driver to make the trip up to the hilltop. It would take
some time, they knew, for the going was slow, as he had reported the
night before, and they all waited with a reasonable amount of patience.
All but Barney. He strode up and down the living-room, slapping his
knees and chuckling to himself as if he were bursting with the rarest,
biggest piece of news a man ever had to keep to himself.
“For the love of St. Patrick, can’t ye sit down and keep quiet a minute,
man?” Johanna asked in desperation. “By the way ye are acting ye’ll have
the lad thinking his father’s sent him a live elephant or some one o’
those creatures that run wild in the East.”
With a final triumphant whoop Barney sprang to the door and threw it
open.
“’Tis almost here!” he cried. “I can hear the bells on the sleigh.”
“So can I,” cried David. “And there’s the team and the sleigh and—Why,
there’s somebody in it besides the driver!”
He was off from the window-seat and beside Barney at the door, and the
others followed quickly, as the driver touched the team with his whip
and the sleigh flew into plain view. Yes, there certainly was some one
on the seat with the driver!
“Mercy on us!” gasped Johanna.
“Merry Christmas!” shouted Barney and Mr. Peter together.
But David could not shout. He could only keep whispering to himself,
over and over: “Mother! _It’s mother!_”
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "This Way to Christmas" ***
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