Chapter IV: Part 4

There were so many people in the town that it was quite as strange and fearful to him as it would be to you who had grown up in town to be left alone in the wood. At night, when he saw the charcoal-burner’s fires glowing up in the air where the bulk of the mountain melted into the dark, he would cry a little under the blankets, but after he began to learn, there was no more occasion for crying. It was to the child as though there had been a candle lighted in a dark room. On Sunday he went to the church, and then it was both light and music, for he heard the minister read about God in the great book and believed it all, for everything that happens in the woods is true, and people who grow up in it are best at believing. Mathew thought it was all as the minister said, that there is nothing better than pleasing God. Then when he lay awake at night he would try to think how it would have been with him if he had never come to this place. In his heart he began to be afraid of the time when he would have to go back to the mountain, where there was no one to tell him about this most important thing in the world, for his father never talked to him of these things. It preyed upon his mind, but if any one noticed it, they thought that he pined for his father and wished himself at home.

It drew toward midwinter, and the white cap of The Hill of Summer Snow, which never quite melted even in the warmest weather, began to spread downward until it reached the charcoal-burner’s home. There was a great stir and excitement among the children, for it had been decided to have a Christmas tree in the church. Every Sunday now the Christ-child story was told over and grew near and brighter like the Christmas star. Mathew had not known about it before, except that on a certain day in the year his father had bought him toys. He had supposed that it was because it was stormy and he had to be indoors. Now he was wrapped up in the story of love and sacrifice, and felt his heart grow larger as he breathed it in, looking upon clear windless nights to see if he might discern the Star of Bethlehem rising over Pine Mountain and the Christ-child come walking on the snow. It was not that he really expected it, but that the story was so alive in him. It is easy for those who had lived long in the high mountains to believe in beautiful things. Mathew wished in his heart that he might never go away from this place. He sat in his seat in church, and all that the minister said sank deeply into his mind.

When it came time to decide about the tree, because Mathew’s father was a charcoal-burner and knew where the best trees grew, it was quite natural to ask him to furnish the tree for his part. Mathew fairly glowed with delight, and his father was pleased, too, for he liked to have his son noticed. The Saturday before Christmas, which fell on Tuesday that year, was the time set for going for the tree, and by that time Mathew had quite settled in his mind that it should be his silver fir. He did not know how otherwise he could bring the tree to share in his new delight, nor what else he had worth giving, for he quite believed what he had been told, that it is only through giving the best beloved that one comes to the heart’s desire. With all his heart Mathew wished never to live in any place where he might not hear about God. So when his father was ready with the ropes and the sharpened axe, the boy led the way to the silver firs.

“Why, that is a little beauty,” said the charcoal-burner, “and just the right size.”

They were obliged to shovel away the snow to get at it for cutting, and Mathew turned away his face when the chips began to fly. The tree fell upon its side with a shuddering sigh; little beads of clear resin stood out about the scar of the axe. It seemed as if the tree wept. But how graceful and trim it looked when it stood in the church waiting for gifts! Mathew hoped that it would understand.

The charcoal-burner came to church on Christmas eve, the first time in many years. It makes a difference about these things when you have a son to take part in them. The church and the tree were alight with candles; to the boy it seemed like what he supposed the place of dreams might be. One large candle burned on the top of the tree and threw out pointed rays like a star; it made the charcoal-burner’s son think of Bethlehem. Then he heard the minister talking, and it was all of a cross and a star; but Mathew could only look at the tree, for he saw that it trembled, and he felt that he had betrayed it. Then the choir began to sing, and the candle on the top of the tree burned down quite low, and Mathew saw the slender cross of the topmost bough stand up dark before it. Suddenly he remembered his old puzzle about it, how the smallest twigs were divided off in each in the shape of a cross, how the boughs repeated the star form every year, and what was true of his fir was true of them all. Then it must have been that there were tears in his eyes, for he could not see plainly: the pillars of the church spread upward like the shafts of the trees, and the organ playing was like the sound of the wind in their branches, and the stately star-built firs rose up like spires, taller than the church tower, each with a cross on top. The sapling which was still before him trembled more, moving its boughs as if it spoke; and the boy heard it in his heart and believed, for it spoke to him of God. Then all the fear went out of his heart and he had no more dread of going back to the mountain to spend his days, for now he knew that he need never be away from the green reminder of hope and sacrifice in the star and the cross of the silver fir; and the thought broadened in his mind that he might find more in the forest than he had ever thought to find, now that he knew what to look for, since everything speaks of God in its own way and it is only a matter of understanding how.

It was very gay in the little church that Christmas night, with laughter and bonbons flying about, and every child had a package of candy and an armful of gifts. The charcoal-burner had his pockets bulging full of toys, and Mathew’s eyes glowed like the banked fires of the charcoal-pits as they walked home in the keen, windless night.

“Well, my boy,” said the charcoal-burner, “I am afraid you will not be wanting to go back to the mountain with me after this.”

“Oh, yes, I will,” said Mathew happily, “for I think the mountains know quite as much of the important things as they know here in the town.”

“Right you are,” said the charcoal-burner, as he clapped his boy’s hand between both his own, “and I am pleased to think you have turned out such a sensible little fellow.” But he really did not know all that was in his son’s heart.

[10] Reprinted from “The Basket Woman” by permission of and by arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Co., publishers.

CHRISTMAS LUCK[11]

_Albert Bigelow Paine_

“Oh, Eb, it runs! It really does!”

Nell, who was twelve--a slender, sunny-haired little creature--first clasped her hands, then clapped them, then danced up and down the old woodshed pausing at last in front of a big kitchen table, where a toy engine and train of cars were making a circuit around and around and around a tiny track. The hired boy, Eb--a few years older, rough-handed and poorly dressed--smiled at the child’s pleasure.

“That’s nothing,” he said. “I didn’t have to do much to it.”

“But you did, Eb. It was all broken to pieces. Papa would be awfully disappointed to find it that way when he comes, and Tommy would never have gotten over it. Never! He’s set his heart on a train for Christmas, and it’s been promised to him, and now to have it all smashed in the express! Oh, Eb, nobody could have fixed it but you. You’re a real genius, mamma says, and ought to go to a mechanical school. Isn’t it lucky you’re living with Uncle Bob when we come to visit him!”

The dainty, dancing fairy stopped suddenly and held up a warning finger.

“Sh, Eb! There’s Tommy now! He’s coming back! Oh, stop it! stop it! and cover it so he can’t see! He’ll be coming straight in here, I know!”

Outside there were the wild whoop of a small boy with large lungs, a clatter of a sled, a stamping of feet, then a plunging into the kitchen, just as Eb had slipped a stick through the train wheels to stop it, and covered it with an old homespun saddle blanket, gathered hastily from the corner. A moment later Tommy burst in, red, snowy, and full of the curiosity which most healthy boys are likely to have, especially about Christmas-time.

“What are you doing here, Nell, you and Eb? What have you been making with all that wire, and those tools? What’s that blanket on the table? Pooh, Bess! What are you shivering for with that great cape on? I’m not cold, and I’ve been coasting for over an hour, down the back-barn hill! Oh, say, come in the kitchen, Nell! I want to show you a funny icicle I found. Come quick, before it’s all melted away!”

Like a whirlwind he had stormed in and out, followed closely by Nell, who threw a merry glance of relief over her shoulder. Eb, leaning against the work-bench, smiled back; then, with a sigh, saw them disappear.

For Nellie’s words and her mother’s had set his heart to beating with something like hope. What if there really could be a way by which he could go to such a place as she had mentioned, and learn to be a--a-- And then, as he saw them go out, and the door close behind them, it seemed as if hope went out with them. They would all be gone in a few days and never remember him again. He hurried off to pitch down the evening hay for the cattle, and see if he couldn’t forget, too.

From earliest childhood Eben Lessing had worked with tools--a one-bladed knife at first, then such other clumsy things as he could get hold of. With these he had made curious toys that would run by water, or wind, or heat, or steam, some of them quite useful. When he came to Robert Whittaker’s to live he built, besides other things, a churn of a new pattern, and a fan over the dining-room table, both to run by water-power brought from the brook. And when Mrs. William Whittaker, who was from the city, had seen these things, she had said the boy deserved a mechanical education, and then forgot all about it again, being very busy with all the Christmas preparations, while Eb, pitching down great wads of sweet hay from the barn loft, was still dreaming in spite of himself, of a day when he should leave the district school for a mechanical college, and become a great inventor, and marry Nellie Whittaker, and so live happy ever after. Then it came milking-time, and swishing the broad white streams into the foaming pail, he dreamed again, and kept on dreaming even after he was in bed and asleep. Then he forgot, and when he remembered again it was morning--the morning of the day before Christmas.

What a busy day that was! Of course, quite early, Eb had to drive in for papa, who was coming on the first train, and Nellie and Tom had to go along in the surrey. Then, when papa came, there was so much to tell, only, of course, Nell couldn’t tell how Tommy’s train had been broken and fixed, because Tommy wasn’t to know anything about the train until he saw it travelling around and around on the little track that was to go clear around under the Christmas tree. Then, at home, there were all the places to see--all the places that papa had seen as a little boy: the hill where he used to slide, the same back-barn hill where Tommy had been coasting, the brook where he used to fish, the hay-mow, and the horses and cows, and the hens’ nests where Nell and Tommy had found eggs, and where Tommy had been whipped by an old hen that wanted to sit; though why she should want to sit there all day in the cold on two nubbins of corn and a lump of frozen dirt that somebody had thrown at her, Tommy said he, for one, couldn’t see.

Papa laughed, and said that maybe if she sat there until spring on the nubbins and frozen dirt she’d hatch out a corn-field. Then they went into the kitchen, where mamma and Aunt Maria--a big motherly woman who had never had any children of her own, except one little boy named Willie, and that died--were baking and stirring, and opening and closing oven doors, so that people had better keep out of the way. Only you couldn’t, because it smelt so nice in there of mince-meat, and of baking-cakes that came out all brown, with buttered paper sticking to them when they were turned out of the pans. Then, all at once, they found that Aunt Maria had turned out a little brown cake, from a little pan, and she cut it hot, and Tommy had a piece, and Nellie and papa, just as he used to have the day before Christmas, when he was a little boy. And after this they went into the dining-room and saw Eb’s patent fan, and into the pantry to look at Eb’s churn, and papa said, “Well, well!” and that somebody ought to give a boy like that a chance.

But they forgot all about it when they got to the parlor and looked at the funny album that had pictures of papa and Uncle Bob, taken together, when papa was a very little boy and Uncle Bob was his big brother. And when Uncle Bob came in they talked about the day they had it taken, more than thirty years ago, and how papa had rolled up his eyes and didn’t keep still, and all that happened afterwards--the things that people always talk about when they forget for a little while that they are grown up, and only remember that they were once boys and girls, like the rest of us.

And in the afternoon they had to go and cut and bring in the Christmas tree. Tom and Mollie had already picked out a bushy little spruce up on the mountain-side, and Eb went along, because Eb had been with them and knew the way. Besides, Eb could cut better with a hatchet than anybody, so Tommy said.

Then Tommy walked down the hill with his papa, talking all the time, while Eb and Nellie, side by side, dragged the little spruce over the snow, and Nellie talked and Eb listened, and was never so happy before in all his life, and never so sad, either, because next week it would all be over, and he would be there alone, with no school except the district school, where he had learned about all he could, and with no chance of becoming a great inventor, and doing all the things that he had dreamed.

Of course Eb had to help to trim the tree. He had never trimmed one before, but he was the handiest of them all, and could go up a step-ladder and fasten tapers to the high limbs, and string popcorn and tinsel just in the very places where it ought to be. Then, when that part of it was all done, and it was getting towards evening--that wonderful evening of hush and mystery and joy--Christmas eve--it was Nellie who said that Eb must be Santa Claus, and put the presents on the tree.

“If we put them on, ourselves, then everybody will see just what they are to have, and who gives it,” she said. “If Eb puts them on, nobody will know until Christmas morning. We’ll darken the sitting-room, and each one can go in and put down his things, and come right out again. Then, after supper, Eb can go in and unwrap them, and put them on the tree. Of course, Tommy, the real Santa Claus, will come afterwards, and put on his things, too.”

Nellie did not mention that she had a bright new tie for Eb. She knew there would be a chance to put that on, herself, in the morning.

Everybody said Nellie’s plan was a good one; so by-and-by Eb found himself in the sitting-room alone, with a great many whispered instructions, and the beautiful tree, and packages and packages of things to be unwrapped and arranged in and about it. Tommy and Nell were tiptoeing and whispering about the hall, and Nellie called to Eb to lock the door or Tommy would just _have_ to come inside. So Eb locked it, laughing, and wished in his soul that Nellie at least might come in to help him. Then he noticed that somebody had put a lot of loose cotton around the foot of the tree to represent snow, and he looked from this to the little candles on the slender limbs, and shook his head, and said something about fire and tow being pretty close together. By-and-by he went out to the kitchen to wash his hands. When he came in he stopped a moment to arrange something in the corner, before going on with his work. The house was quite still now, but it was after midnight before Eb was ready to go to his bed.

It had been a wonderful evening for him. He had unwrapped and seen at close range all the pretty things that well-to-do people give one another at Christmas-time; books, games, pictures, ornaments, articles of dress, confections, and even gems. He had arranged and rearranged, and with a natural eye for the beautiful had placed the things as showily as most people could have done, and with great thought of their safety. When he was through at last he stood back to admire his work. Then all at once he remembered that Tommy’s train was still hidden in the wood-shed. He had forgotten it entirely.

He brought in the engine and cars, and then the track, in sections, and soon had it all arranged under the tree, so that it would travel around and around, though he had to move some books and other things to do it. Then he tried the train a little, to see that it would run as well as ever. He hated to leave it all; but he blew out the lamp at last and went to bed, wondering if by any chance he would oversleep next morning, and so fail to light up, and have everything in order when Tom and Nellie and the others were ready to come down.

“Whoop! Merry Christmas!”

Eb sat straight up in bed. He had overslept, then, after all. No; for it was still dark. He did not believe it could be five o’clock.

“Merry Christmas, Eb! Say, get up and light the tree! I want to see my things.”

It was Tommy, of course, and the whole house would be roused and ready to come down presently. Eb leaped into his clothes, made a hasty toilet, and slipped down the back stairs, leaving Tommy still shouting Merry Christmas through the halls to arouse older people from their slumbers.

Within a few minutes everybody had concluded that it was no use to hold out against Tommy, and in five minutes more everybody had dragged on something that resembled clothes and a pleasant smile, and came straggling down the stairs, calling greetings to one another. Tommy, at the head, was already pounding at the sitting-room door, while Eb, inside, was lighting the last tapers, and putting on a few finishing-touches, such as starting and setting a new clock for Aunt Maria, and winding up Tommy’s train. Then, when he heard them all outside, he unlocked the door, and, stepping back, pulled it wide, so that all might get a sudden and full view of the beautiful Christmas tree.

For a moment they stood quite still, blinking from the brightness of it. Then there came a chorus of “Oh! oh!” “Well! well!” and, “How beautiful!” with another wild whoop from Tommy, ending up with, “Oh, gee! see my train!”

A second later he had bounded forward toward the precious train, and was ducking down under the tree for a closer view.

“Tommy!” “Oh, Tom!” “Thomas! Look out. The candles!”

There was a regular chorus of warnings,--but all too late. A second later a taper that had been fixed to a branch, struck by Tommy’s head, had fallen, and the loose cotton about the tree was afire, the blaze darting up into the branches.

Tommy rolled out from under the tree like an armadillo. Nellie clasped her hands and shut her eyes to keep out the terrible sight and began to moan and wail. Uncle Robert and Aunt Maria both started somewhere for pails of water, while papa and mamma began tugging at a piece of carpet to smother the blaze.

And then, all at once, there was somebody else at work, and there came a hissing sound, as if water was being put on the flames, and right among them stood Eb, with something over his shoulder and under his arm, and in his hand there was a sort of a tube that sent a stream of water just where it was needed, and that put out the burning cotton in just about the time it has taken me to tell about it. When Aunt Maria and Uncle Robert came hurrying back with pails of water, there was no use for them. Papa and mamma and Nellie and Tom were gathered about Eb, more interested in what he had under his arm and over his shoulder than in the Christmas tree, which was scarcely damaged at all, for the flames had not reached the presents, and there was only a little water on Tommy’s train, which hadn’t even stopped running, being the kind of train, Tommy said, that didn’t mind a little thing like lightning and rain.

“Why, it’s Eb’s fire-extinguisher!” said Uncle Robert. “I forgot all about that!”

“But Eb didn’t!” said Tommy. “He put it in here last night, because he knew there’d be a fire with all that cotton of yours, sis.”

“He knew you’d knock over a candle, I guess,” retorted Nell.

Then the wet cotton was taken away, and the presents rearranged about the tree, and Tommy’s train wound up again, and everything was as fine as if nothing had happened, though they didn’t any of them forget what might have happened if it hadn’t been for Eb with his fire-extinguisher.

And that was one of the finest Christmases that ever was! And at dinner-time Eb was there, with his bright new tie on, and sat right by Nellie, and was almost like the hero of the day. And after the turkey was carved, Mr. William Whittaker said, all at once, to Eben Lessing, as if he’d just happened to think of it:

“By-the-way, Eb, how would you like to take a course in a mechanical school? We’ve a good deal of room in our house, and now and then I need somebody to help me. You can come home with us and go to school, if you like.”

And would you believe it, Eb couldn’t say a word! He was like the others when he had flung open the door of the sitting-room and blinded them with the wonderful tree--he just sat there and blinked.

Nellie answered: “Of course, papa, Eb would like it. Wouldn’t you, Eb?”

And then, somehow, Eb nodded, and somehow said something that was taken for yes, and then everybody began talking at once about the things Eb had made, and what he would do by-and-by, while Tommy, who, just at that moment, found out what it all meant, broke out with a great rejoicing, “Whoop! Eb’s going home with us! Eb’s going home with us to live!”

And Nellie whispered, “Oh, Eb, didn’t I tell you it was lucky you were living with Uncle Bob when we came to visit him?”

[11] By permission of the author and Harper and Brothers.

A NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS[12]

_Temple Bailey_

It was the night before Christmas--and stormy.

“Sqush--sqush,” went the wheels of the carriage in the mud.

“Whew--ew--ew,” whistled the wind, and it blew Peter’s hat into the middle of the road.

“Whoa,” said Peter, and climbed down from his high seat.

The “Princess” poked her head out of the window. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“My hat blew off,” Peter told her, “and the wheel is stuck in the mud, Miss.”

“Oh, Peter, Peter,” the Princess chided, “you must get that wheel out of the mud at once.”

“Which is easier said than done,” Peter grumbled; “it’s that dark that I can’t see my hand before me.”

“There’s a light back there among the trees,” the Princess informed him; “perhaps you could get some one to help you.”

“I’ll go and see, Miss, if you ain’t afraid to stay alone,” and Peter, after some effort, succeeded in quieting the plunging horses.

“I am dreadfully afraid,” came shiveringly, “but I suppose you will have to go.”

Now in the middle of the pine grove was set a little cottage. Peter knocked at the door.

“Who’s there?” asked a childish voice, and a little girl poked her head out of the square window.

“Our wheel is stuck in the mud,” Peter answered, from the dark, “and I want to get a man to help me.”

“There isn’t any man here,” Jenny informed him. “There is only me and Jinny; and our mother has gone to nurse a sick neighbor, and she won’t be home until morning.”

So Peter went back to the carriage and reported to the Princess.

“I shall freeze out here,” said the Princess. “I will go up to the house and sit by the fire while you look for some one to help you with the carriage.”

She climbed out of the carriage, and with Peter in the lead, she plodded through the woods, and the wind blew her long coat this way and that, and at last, wet and panting, she came to the little house.

And once more Peter knocked, and once more Jenny came to the window. Then she flung the door wide open, and so tall was the Princess that she had to stoop to enter it. It was a dingy little room, and there was a dumpy black stove in the corner, with a bubbling iron pot that gave forth a most appetizing odor.

“Oh, oh, how nice and warm it is,” said the Princess, as she held out her hands to the fire.

In all their lives the little girls had never beheld such a wonderful person, for the Princess wore a long red coat and a black velvet hat with a waving plume, and her muff was big and round and soft, and she had a scarf of the same soft fur about her neck. Her hair was pale gold, and she had the bluest eyes and the reddest lips, and her smile was so sweet and tender, that Jenny ran right up to her and cried: “Oh, I am so glad you came!”

Jinny, from her little chair, echoed her sister’s words. But she did not run, for there was a tiny crutch beside Jinny’s chair in the square window.

“And I am glad to be here,” said the Princess, whose quick eyes were taking in the details of the shabby room. “It’s so nice and warm and cozy.”

“Isn’t it?” said Jenny, happily, “and we are getting ready for to-morrow.”

On a small round table beside Jinny’s chair was a tiny cedar bush, and Jinny’s fingers had been busy with bits of gold and blue and scarlet paper.

“We are going to pop some popcorn,” Jenny explained, “and string it, and hang it on the tree.”

“Oh, may I help?” the Princess asked. “I haven’t popped any corn since I was a little girl.”

Jinny clasped her thin little hands. “I think it would be the loveliest thing in the world,” she said, “if you would stay.”

“Peter is going to find some one to help with the carriage, and I will stay until he comes back.”

And when Peter had gone, the Princess slipped off the long red coat, and underneath it she wore a shining silken gown and around her neck was a collar of pearls.

“And now, if you could lend me an apron,” she said, “we will pop the corn.”

But Jinny and Jenny were gazing at her speechless.

“Oh, you must be a fairy Princess,” gasped little Jinny at last.

The beautiful lady laughed joyously. “Peter calls me the Princess,” she said; “he has lived with me ever since I was a little girl. But really I am just an every-day young woman, who is going to spend Christmas with some friends in the next town.”

She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand.

“And now to our popcorn,” she said.

Jenny brought a green gingham apron, and the Princess tied it on, making a big butterfly bow of the strings in the back, and then she danced over to the dumpy little stove and peeped into the bubbling pot.

“Did you ever smell anything so good?” she asked. “I am as hungry as hungry.”

The little girls laughed joyously. “It’s bean soup,” Jenny said, “and we are going to have it for supper with some little dumplings in it. I was afraid it wasn’t nice enough for you.”

“Nice enough?” the delightful lady demanded. “I think bean soup and little dumplings are--um--um!” and she flung out her hands expressively.

“I thought,” Jinny remarked quaintly, “that fairy princesses only ate honey and dew.”

“Which shows that I am not a true Princess,” said the beautiful lady, “for honey and dew would never satisfy me.”

Jenny got out three little blue bowls and set them on a table that was spread with a coarse but spotless cloth. There was a crusty loaf and clover-sweet butter, and last and best of all there was the bean soup and the bobbing little dumplings served together in an old mulberry tureen.

It was perfectly wonderful to see the Princess in her shining gown at the head of the table, and little lame Jinny said, “You were just sent to us for Christmas. Why, it’s just like

“The night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads--”

“But our stockings weren’t hung yet, and _we_ weren’t in bed!” said Jenny.

“It was too early for that,” said the Princess; “but let’s go on with the rhyme, just for fun. I see you know it all through, so you mustn’t mind my changing it a little:

“When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
Jenny sprang from her chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer--

“Oh, no, I forgot! I mean

“When what to her wondering eyes should appear
But a carriage stuck in the mud, right out here--
And a little old driver, so lively and quick,
You must have thought Peter was dear old St. Nick!”

The children laughed gleefully, and Jenny said: “We _would_ have thought that, only we aren’t going to hang up our stockings this Christmas at all. Jenny and I aren’t going to get any presents, for mother hasn’t been well, and she couldn’t get any sewing. But she said we could make our Christmas merry, and we were to pretend that we had been to the big stores in the city, and had bought things for the tree, and dolls and everything.”

“That’s a lovely way,” said the Princess gently, and she laid her flashing rings over Jinny’s thin one.

“And we are going to pretend,” Jenny contributed, “that our chicken is a turkey. But we won’t have to pretend about the mince pie, for mother has made a lovely one.”

“I wish I could help you eat the chicken,” said the Princess wistfully, “and I should like to meet your mother. I know she is home-y. And I haven’t any mother, you know.”

“Oh,” said the little girls, round-eyed with sympathy, and then the Princess told them that all her life she had lived in a big, lonely house, and she had always yearned for a cozy home and for a sister.

After supper they popped the corn, and just as they finished in came Peter.

“I can’t find any one to help, Miss,” he announced, “and it’s snowing. I’ll have to unhitch the horses and go back to town, and get something to take you over in.”

“No,” the Princess demurred, as she stood in the middle of the room with a heaped-up dish of snowy kernels in her hand. “No, Peter, I am going to stay here all night.”

Peter stared, and the little girls cried, “Oh, will you?”

And the Princess said, “I really will. And, Peter, you can bring up the steamer trunk and my bag.”

“Won’t your friends expect you, Miss?” Peter inquired, as if awaiting orders.

“I will send a note by you,” was the calm response, and as the man went out she followed him and shut the door behind her. “Oh, Peter, Peter,” she whispered confidentially, “I am going to give them such a Christmas!”

“The little girls, Miss?”

“Yes. They are so sweet and brave. And I have the presents in my trunk that I was going to carry to the other children. But they will have so much that they won’t miss them, and I shall spend my Christmas in a plain little house, but it will be a joyful house, Peter.”

“Yes, Miss,” Peter agreed, understandingly.

“I wish we had a big tree!” said the Princess, regretfully.

“Well, leave that to me, Miss,” Peter told her, eagerly; “you just get them little things to sleep early, and I’ll be here with a tree.”

“Oh, Peter, Peter Santa Claus!” exclaimed the Princess, gleefully, “it will be the nicest Christmas that I have had since I was a wee bit of a girl.”

So Peter went away, and the Princess, with her eyes shining like stars, danced back into the room and said, “Oh, let’s play ‘Mariners.’”

Jinny and Jenny had never heard of such a game, but the Princess told them that she was a ship on the high seas, and they were to tell from her cargo what country she hailed from.

“I carry tea,” she began; “where do I hail from?”

“China,” guessed Jenny.

“No.”

“Japan,” cried Jinny, with her little face glowing.

“No.”

Then the little girls pondered. “It might be India,” ventured Jenny, but the Princess shook her head. Then Jinny cried: “It’s Ceylon!” and that was right.

And after that Jinny brought a cargo of oranges from Florida and Jenny brought a cargo of rugs from Persia, and there were cargoes of spices and of coal and of coffee and of fish and of grain and of lumber, and the Princess finished triumphantly by carrying a cargo of oysters from the Chesapeake Bay.

“One more,” begged Jinny.

“I carry a cargo of castles,” said the sparkling Princess; “where do I hail from?”

The little girls guessed and guessed, and at last the Princess said:

“That wasn’t a fair one, really, for my castles are castles in Spain.”

Then, with Jinny in her arms, she told them of her own castle-building, and when she had finished, she said: “And so your mother shall have all of my sewing, and that will keep her busy until Spring.”

“Oh, you are going to be married, and live happy ever after,” sighed Jinny, rapturously; “it’s just what a fairy Princess should do.”

“And what you should do,” said the Princess, looking at the clock, “is to go to bed, bed, bed, so that you can wake up early in the morning.”

She tucked them in, and came back later in a fascinating pink kimono with her hair in a thick yellow braid, and she kissed them both. But it was little lame Jinny that she kissed last. And then she went away, like a glorious vision, and the little girls sank into slumber.

In the next room the Princess opened the door cautiously, and there was Peter with snow all over him, and his arms were full of holly and mistletoe, and a great tree was propped against the door-post.

“Quietly, quietly, Peter,” warned the Princess. And Peter tiptoed in and set the tree up in the corner, and its top reached to the ceiling.

The Princess opened the steamer trunk and took out two white Teddy-bears, one with a flaring blue bow and the other with a flaring pink one, and then she took out a green and yellow and a red and a blue fairy book, and a beautiful square basket of candy, tied with holly ribbon, and then from the very bottom of the trunk she drew string after string of shining little silver bells, fastened on red and pale green ribbons.

“I was going to get up a cotillion figure for the children at the other house,” the Princess explained to Peter, “but these little folks need it so much more.”

The little bells went “tinkle, tinkle,” as Peter hung them, and Jinny, dreaming in her little bed, heard the sound and thought it a part of her dream.

And while Peter and the Princess trimmed and whispered and laughed, some one rattled the doorknob.

Peter opened the door, and there stood a white-faced, shivering little woman.

“Oh, what has happened to my little girls,” she panted. “I saw the light and it is so late--” then as she beheld the golden-haired vision in pink, and the gay tree, and Peter in his trim livery, she gasped, “Why, I believe it is fairies--” and she sat down very suddenly in Jinny’s chair.

“You are the little mother,” said the Princess, and she knelt beside her, and put her arms around her, and told her how she came to be there; and when she had finished, she said, simply, “and I have wanted my own mother so much this Christmas, and the little girls were so sweet, that I knew I should love you.”

“You poor little thing,” cried the little mother to the tall Princess; and the beautiful lady put her head down on the other’s shabby shoulder and wept, because in spite of her riches she had been very, very lonely in her big house.

And after Peter had gone, they talked until midnight of Jinny and Jenny; and then they concocted great plans about the pretty things that the little mother was to make for the Princess.

And in the morning, Jinny and Jenny, waking in the early dawn, saw, sitting on the foot-board of the bed, two Teddy-bears, one with a flaring pink bow and one with a flaring blue bow, and the Teddy-bears held out their arms saucily and gazed at the happy little girls with twinkling eyes.

“Oo-oh,” cried the little girls, who had never seen a Teddy-bear before; and that was the beginning of the most wonderful day of their lives, for all day the tree went “tinkle, tinkle” as they foraged in its branches for bon-bons, and the chicken dinner was a delicious success, and in the afternoon they all took a ride in the Princess’ sleigh, with Peter driving on the box, and when at last he set them down on their own humble door-step, and lifted little Jinny in his arms, the Princess smiled at them radiantly from under her plumy hat.

“Remember, Peter will come for you every Saturday, and you are to stay at my house all day,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Jenny sighed with rapture.

“And you are to come to my wedding in the spring--all of you!” said the Princess, gaily.

“And see the Prince!” said Jinny, over Peter’s shoulder.

“And you are going to let me share a third of your mother?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” from both of the little girls.

“Then you shall share a third of Peter,” the Princess called back, as the smiling coachman drove her away through the glistening snow.

[12] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”

DAME QUIMP’S QUEST[13]

_Ellen Manly_

Farmer Jones was standing at his front gate one bright December morning when a quaint figure came hurrying along the road--a bent old woman in a long blue cloak, with the ruffles of a big cap flopping about her wrinkled face.

“Good day!” said she, as soon as she was near enough to be heard. “You’re Farmer Jones, I believe. I think you will do nicely to head the procession--just step right behind me and we’ll move on!”

“And, pray, who are you and what should I be doing in a procession?” cried the astonished man. “I’m quite too busy to leave home to-day!”

“Never mind!” answered the old crone, “I know all about _you_, for I’ve heard you grumbling over the weather many a time. As I came down the hill just now you were complaining at the cold and wishing it were June--you’re a regular ‘weather fretter!’ I’m the Grumble Collector, and you’d better do just as you’re told or there’ll be trouble. My name is Dame Quimp, and my work is to hunt up grumblers and bring them to my old friend Santa Claus before Christmas. If there’s anything he hates, it is grumbling, and he says he is going to teach some folks a lesson this year.

“It’s no use to say a word--just follow me, and be quick about it, too!” So off started Dame Quimp with Farmer Jones behind her, grumbling as he went.

She soon stopped short before a little house by the roadside and listened a moment. There was a sound of violent stamping, and an angry voice cried out: “I hate that old dress and I won’t wear the ugly thing! I never have any pretty clothes!” and out on the porch rushed the milliner’s little daughter, in a fine temper.

“Hoity-toity!” cried the dame. “You’re a pleasant little girl, to be sure! Just the one I’m looking for! Never mind asking ‘Why?’ but stop scolding at once and fall in line behind Farmer Jones.”

The child looked crosser than ever and began to cry, but she couldn’t help herself, and away went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, and the milliner’s little daughter.

As they neared the first corner, loud voices were heard and angry tones, and there stood the baker’s boy and the grocer’s clerk having a hot discussion. “It’s too far!” cried the first. “I can’t tramp way over on the hill for _anybody_! I hate to be sent on errands from morning till night from one end of town to the other!”

“So do I!” exclaimed the grocer’s clerk. “I’m always being told to take something somewhere for somebody just when I want a little time to myself. The skating’s fine to-day and I ought to get off early, but I shan’t be allowed to. It’s a shame to have to carry bundles instead of being on the pond!”

“Very well, young men!” cried Dame Quimp, “you shall have a nice long walk. I’m very pleased to meet you! Just step next in line to the little girl and we’ll hurry along! No questions, please!”

So off went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, and the grocer’s clerk.

As they passed the doctor’s house, the cook, in her apron and cap, was standing at the gate grumbling to the ice-man. “Shure an’ ’tis nothin’ but cook, cook, cook, all day long, an’ meals havin’ to be kept hot fer a man that’s niver in the house when he ought to be! I’m that tired of wurruk that I’ve a foine mind to tell him he may cook fer himself fer a while!”

“All right, Bridget!” called Dame Quimp, sharply. “You step off right now! Just take your place next to the grocer’s clerk and we’ll move on!” And away again went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, and the doctor’s cook.

Pretty soon they came to little Tommy Brooks’s house, and there was Tommy at the front door fussing with his mother. “I don’t need any overcoat!” cried he, “and I can’t wear rubbers,--they hurt my feet,--and I left my mittens at school! I hate to be bundled up just like a girl, anyway, and I wish people would let little boys alone!”

“Thomas Brooks!” called out the dame, severely, “you put on that overcoat and those rubbers at once and get behind the doctor’s cook--you’re the boy for me! Step lively, now, all of you!” And off started Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, and little Tommy Brooks.

A little farther up the street the shoemaker’s wife was grumbling to a neighbor, as she shook out her duster on the porch. “I’ve no patience with housekeeping!” declared the sharp voice. “I don’t do anything but chase dirt from morning till night, and yet the place is never clean--and my work is never done. Yes, it _is_ a comfortable and pretty house, but I’m tired of the sight of it! I have to go and sweep the dining-room this very minute!”

“Oh no! not at all!” cried Dame Quimp. “That nice home of yours won’t get any more cleaning _this_ day! You can fall right in line behind Tommy Brooks, and no remarks, if you please!”

So off they went again--Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy Brooks, and the shoemaker’s wife.

At the turn of the road there was the sound of excited talking and high words, and there stood the minister’s twin grandchildren quarreling over a sled and a pair of skates.

“I don’t want the old sled!” cried the boy. “I do nothing but give you rides on it! You can just let me have the skates, and drag the sled, yourself, for a while!”

“Take the old skates!” answered the little girl, angrily. “I can’t stand up on them, anyway, and I’m tired of trying, and I don’t want the sled, either. I wish people would give us some _nice_ presents. What’s the use of being twins if you can’t have a good time?”

“Sure enough!” cried Dame Quimp. “Two nice little children who can’t be happy with a fine sled and a pair of new skates--I never heard of such a thing! Come right here and take places behind the shoemaker’s wife; and don’t cry about it, either, for there’s no time to lose!” And away hurried Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, and the minister’s twin grandchildren.

Before long they came to the beautiful big house where the banker lived, and there, just coming out of the gate, they met the governess, looking much distressed and almost in tears. “What can I do for you, my dear?” asked Dame Quimp, anxiously; “you seem to be in trouble. I’m the Grumble Collector, and perhaps I can help you.”

“Indeed you can,” said the governess, eagerly, “if you will only tell me what to do with the banker’s Dorothy. She has everything in the world to please and amuse her, and yet she’s always in a fret. As for clothes, she has so many pretty things that she can’t tell which she wants to wear. I ran away just now because I was quite worn out with her grumbling. I left her fussing over a pink, a blue, and a green frock, trying to decide which to put on, and in such a temper that she couldn’t look nice in anything.”

“I see! I see!” replied the dame; “a very bad case indeed! Just bring her to me at once and she shall report to Santa Claus-- Ah, here she is! Come right along, Dorothy; you’re just the kind of little girl needed in this procession! Stop fretting, directly, and step in line behind the minister’s twin grandchildren and we’ll move on!”

And away again went Dame Quimp, Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin grandchildren, and the banker’s Dorothy.

“Let me see,” said the dame, as they reached the end of the street; “I think I have heard that the barber’s grandmother was a terrible grumbler--I might try to find out.” So at a little house at the corner they all waited while she knocked vigorously at the door. It was opened quickly by a sharp-looking little old woman who held on her arm a big basket of mending.

“What do you want!” she said crossly. “I haven’t time to say a word to anybody, so I can’t ask you in. I’m just as fretted as I can be with all this mending to do! I do think that after darning socks for nearly fifty years I might be allowed to hold my hands for a bit; but every week here’s this great basket full and nobody but me to attend to it. It makes me so cross that I grumble over every pair of the old socks--I wish they were in Guinea!”

“Tut! Tut!” replied Dame Quimp, sternly. “I don’t know much about Guinea, but I do know where _you’re_ going! You’re the very one to finish my collection. Set down that basket at once and put on a warm cloak and hood and follow the banker’s Dorothy, and we’ll go straight to Santa Claus--he’ll be quite horrified to see such a string of grumblers!”

So off once more went Dame Quimp, with Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin grandchildren, the banker’s Dorothy, and the barber’s grandmother, all following behind her, one after another.

They walked and they walked,--over the bridge and past the mill; out beyond the golf-links; up one hill and down another; across ploughed fields, and through narrow woodland paths, till they were all very tired and cold, and the barber’s grandmother, being such an old woman, was quite worn out. Dame Quimp, however, would listen to no complaints, but kept them all strictly in line and hurried them on, until, in a couple of hours’ time, they reached Christmas Town.

They found Santa Claus in his shop busily engaged in tying up delightful-looking parcels in gay paper, with seals and labels, gold and silver cord, scarlet and green ribbons, and sprigs of holly scattered around him in every direction.

“Good day, old friend!” cried Dame Quimp as she entered. “I have done a good morning’s work, as you see--all these are fine, first-class grumblers, and not one of them deserves a Christmas gift. Let me introduce them--here are Farmer Jones, the milliner’s little daughter, the baker’s boy, the grocer’s clerk, the doctor’s cook, little Tommy Brooks, the shoemaker’s wife, the minister’s twin grandchildren, the banker’s Dorothy, and the barber’s grandmother. Take a good look at them so you will make no mistakes.”

“Oh dear, dear!” cried Santa Claus, in much distress. “Is it really as bad as that! I never should have thought you could find so many grumbly people in a town full of pleasant things, with so much to make them happy! I suppose I ought to give them a severe lesson to check this terrible habit, but I’m afraid, Dame, that I should quite spoil my own Christmas pleasure if I were to pass them all by!