Chapter VIII: Part II: Stories to Read and Tell to Children (2)

“The God of Love is mightier than the God of thunder!” declared Saint Boniface with bowed head. “Christ hath conquered Thor.”

In deepest silence the tribes stood gazing at the ruined oak. By the side of one of the huge pieces stood a beautiful little fir tree, unharmed by the storm. Saint Boniface raised his voice and cried, “My friends of the forest, show your faith in the true God by building a chapel out of this fallen timber.” In a few moments he added: “And behold this little fir tree, with its green leaves and beautiful spire pointing to the stars. It is an emblem of joy and peace, and life-everlasting. Go no more into the dark forest to make sacrifices of blood; take this little tree into your homes and on Christ’s blessed birthday gather around it with joyous songs and loving gifts. Call it the tree of the Christ Child.”

They took up the little fir tree and carried it to the village. Once more, as they circled about the tree of the Christ Child, Saint Boniface in simple words told them the wonderful story of peace on earth, good will toward men.

COSETTE’S CHRISTMAS EVE

VICTOR HUGO

(Translated by Alma J. Foster)

I

A long time ago Montfermeil was a peaceful and charming little village in the woods, away from the main roads, and on the way to nowhere.

There the people lived frugally and happily their simple peasant life. Only water was hard to get, because the hill was high. It was necessary to go a long way for it. Indeed, it was hard for each family to get enough for use.

This was the terror of little Cosette.

Cosette was a little girl who had been left by her mother several years before in the care of an innkeeper and his wife named Thénardier. She had proved very useful to these people in two ways. They were regularly paid by the mother for her care, and they used her as a servant. Thus it was that it was Cosette’s task to fetch water when needed. As she was terribly afraid of going at night to the spring, she took good care to have plenty of water in the house at all times.

Christmas of the year 1823 had been particularly fine at Montfermeil. There had been neither hail nor snow.

This Christmas Eve several men were sitting around a table in the lower hall of the inn. Cosette was in her usual place on the crosspiece of the kitchen table near the chimney. She was in rags, she had wooden shoes on her little bare feet, and she was knitting stockings by the light of the fire. These stockings were to be worn by the innkeeper’s little daughters.

Cosette was dreaming sad dreams; although she was only eight years old she had suffered so much that she felt like an old woman. She was thinking that it was night, dark night, and that she had had to fill so many pitchers that day for the many guests in the inn, that the water tank was quite empty. She took comfort, however, when she remembered that people drank very little water at night. There were many thirsty ones, of course, but they wanted wine.

From time to time one of the guests would look out into the street and exclaim, “It’s as black as an oven! Only a cat could find its way to-night without a lantern.” Then Cosette trembled.

Suddenly a peddler who was staying at the inn entered, and said in a hard voice, “My horse has had no water to drink.”

Cosette came out from under the table.

“Oh, yes, sir,” she said, “the horse has had water, a whole pailful, for I gave it to him myself, and I talked to him, too.”

“Come, now,” said the peddler, “it can’t be true that my horse has had enough water.”

Cosette slipped back to her place under the table.

“Indeed, if that’s so,” said Madame Thénardier, “if the horse has not had enough water, he must drink.”

Then looking about the room, she said, “Well, where is Cosette?”

She stooped, and saw the child hidden at the other end of the table almost under the men’s feet.

“Are you going to come, or no?” cried she.

Cosette crept out of the little hole in which she had hidden herself.

“Now, get something for the horse to drink.”

“But there isn’t any water,” said Cosette feebly.

The woman opened wide the door leading to the street.

“Very well; go and get some.”

Then she fumbled in a drawer where were a few coins, and some peppers and onions.

“Here, you little toad,” added she, “on your way home get a loaf of bread. Here is the money.”

Cosette had a little side pocket in her apron. She took the piece of silver without a word, and put it into the pocket. Then she stood quite still, the pail in her hand, and the open door before her.

“Get along with you!” cried the woman.

Cosette went out. The door was closed behind her.

Cosette went along the crooked and deserted streets on that side of the town. As long as there were houses or even high walls on both sides of her, she walked bravely enough. From time to time she caught sight of a lighted candle through a crack in the shutters; there were light, and life, and people, and this comforted her. However, the farther she went the more slowly she walked. When she had passed the corner of the last house, Cosette stopped. To pass the last shop had been hard, but to pass the last house,--this was impossible. She turned firmly back. Scarcely had she walked a hundred steps when she stopped again. The thought of Madame Thénardier stopped her. Before her stood the picture of the angry woman; behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the wood. Suddenly she turned again to the path to the spring, and started to run. Even while running she felt like crying. The chill of the night and of the forest encompassed her.

There were only seven or eight minutes from the edge of the woods to the spring. Cosette knew the path only too well, having been over it many times every day. She dared not glance either right or left for fear of seeing things in the branches or the bushes. At last she reached the spring.

Cosette did not stop to take breath. It was fearfully dark, but she was used to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the darkness for a young oak that hung over it, by which she used to support herself, found the branch, caught hold of it, and plunged the pail into the water. While doing this, she could not see that her pocket had emptied itself into the spring. The silver coin had fallen into the water; Cosette did not notice it. She drew up the pail almost full, and rested it on the grass. She shut her eyes, then opened them again, not knowing why. Then she counted aloud, one, two, three, and up to ten, and when she had finished she began again. Then she felt the cold in her hands, which she had wet in dipping the water. Suddenly she saw the pail before her. She seized the handle with both hands. It was hard to lift. She had to stop many times to rest, then she walked on with her head bent forward. The weight of the pail stiffened her little arms. All this was taking place in the heart of a wood, at night, in winter, far from every human eye, and this was a child only eight years old. Now and then she would cry aloud, “Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!”

Suddenly she felt that the pail was no longer heavy. A hand which seemed immense had seized the handle and lifted it with power. She looked up. A large form, dark and straight, was walking beside her in the gloom. It was a man who had come behind her, whom she had not heard. This man, without a word, had taken hold of the pail she was carrying.

There are instincts for all the meetings of life. The child felt no fear.

The man spoke to her. His voice was grave and almost a whisper.

“Little one, it is very heavy for you, this thing you are carrying.”

Cosette looked up and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Give it to me,” replied the man. “I am going to carry it.”

Cosette let go of the pail. The man walked beside her.

“It is heavy indeed!” he said between his teeth. Then he asked, “Little one, how old are you?”

“Eight years, sir.”

The man waited a moment before speaking, then said quickly, “You haven’t then any mother?”

“I don’t know,” said the child. Before the man could say any more she added, “I don’t think so. The others have one; but I haven’t any.” After a silence, she said again, “I don’t believe I ever had one.”

The man stopped; he placed the pail on the ground, stooped over, and put his hands on the child’s shoulders, trying to see her face in the darkness.

“What is your name?” said he.

“Cosette.”

The man seemed to feel an electric shock. He looked at her again, then he took his hands from her shoulders, raised the pail, and began to walk again.

After a moment he asked, “Little one, where do you live?”

“At Montfermeil, if you know it?”

Again there was a pause, then he began again: “Who is it, then, who has sent you at this hour to bring water from this wood?”

“It’s Madame Thénardier.”

“What does she do, your Madame Thénardier?”

“She takes care of me,” said the child. “She keeps the inn.”

“The inn?” said the man. “Well, I am going to sleep there to-night. Show me the way.”

“We are going there now,” said the child.

The man was walking quite fast. Cosette followed him without any trouble. She wasn’t tired any more. Every now and then she looked up at this man with a wonderful peace and trust.

Several minutes passed thus. Then the man began again.

“Hasn’t Madame Thénardier any servant?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you the only one?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was another pause. Then Cosette raised her voice.

“That is, there are two little girls.”

“What little girls?”

“Ponine and Zelma.”

“Who are Ponine and Zelma?”

“They are Madame Thénardier’s little girls.”

“And what do they do, these little ones?”

“Oh,” said the child, “they have pretty dolls. They play and amuse themselves.”

“And you?”

“I? I work.”

“All day long?”

The child raised her large eyes full of tears, that were hidden by the night, and answered softly, “Yes, sir.”

Then she went on after a moment of silence, “Sometimes, when I have done my work, and they are willing, I play a little.”

“What do you play?”

“As I can. They leave me alone. But I have not many toys. I have only a little lead sword not larger than that.” The child showed her little finger.

They were now nearing the village; Cosette led the stranger through the street. They passed the baker’s, but Cosette never even thought of the bread that she was to buy.

As they came near the inn, Cosette touched his arm timidly.

“What is it, little one?”

“Here we are, very near the house.”

An instant later they were at the door of the inn.

Cosette could not resist one last look at a big doll standing in the window of the toy shop; then she knocked.

The door opened. Madame Thénardier stood there, a candle in her hand.

“Ah! it’s you! You have taken time enough! You must have been having a fine time.”

“Madame,” said Cosette trembling, “here is a gentleman who has come to stay.”

Madame Thénardier changed very quickly her cross looks for her pleasing grin, and looked eagerly at the newcomer.

“This is the gentleman?” said she.

“Yes, Madame,” answered the man as he touched his cap.

Rich travelers are not so polite. This gesture, and the view of the clothes and the bundle of the stranger, which the woman took in with a quick glance, made her change her pleasant grin for her cross looks again. Then she said dryly, “Come in, fellow.”

The “fellow” came in. The woman took another glance at him, looked carefully at his coat, which was very shabby, and at his hat, which was quite battered, then turned up her nose and winked her eyes at her husband, who was sitting with the other men. Then he answered with a movement of his finger on the lips which said as plainly as words, “Very poor.”

Then the woman cried at once: “Ah, my good fellow, I am very sorry, but I have no room for you.”

“Put me anywhere you like,” said the man, “in the barn or the stable. I will pay as if I had a room.”

“Two francs?”[15]

“Yes, two francs.”

“Very well.”

Meanwhile, the man, having left his bundle and stick on a bench, had taken his seat at a table, where Cosette had hurried to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The peddler who had asked for the water had gone himself to take it to the horse. Cosette had taken her place under the kitchen table with her knitting.

The stranger, who had hardly touched the wine that he had poured out, was looking at the child with strange attention.

Cosette was homely. Happy, she might have been pretty. Now, she was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but one would have guessed her hardly six. The whole figure of this child--her manner, her way of moving, the sound of her voice, the stammering speech, her look, her silence, her least gesture--expressed one single idea, fear.

This fear was so great that on reaching the inn, wet as she was, Cosette had not dared to dry herself at the fire, but had gone quietly to work.

The stranger did not take his eyes away from Cosette.

Suddenly Madame Thénardier cried, “Well now, where is the bread?”

Cosette, as she always did when her mistress raised her voice, came quickly from under the table.

She had entirely forgotten the bread. She did, alas! what many children do when frightened; she lied.

“Madame, the baker shop was closed.”

“I will find out to-morrow if this is so,” said the woman, “and if you are lying I will make you pay for it. Meanwhile, give me the money.” Cosette put her hand into her apron pocket. The money was not there.

“Look here! Do you hear me?” said her mistress.

Cosette turned her pocket out. There was nothing there. What could have become of the money?

“Have you lost it, the money,” screamed the woman, “or do you want to steal it from me?”

Meanwhile the stranger had fumbled in his vest pocket without being noticed by any one. Cosette was crouching in the corner of the chimney.

“Pardon me, Madame,” said the man, “but just a moment ago I saw something bright roll on the floor. Perhaps it was the money.”

At the same time, he stooped down and seemed to be searching the floor.

“Exactly so; here it is,” said he, rising. And he handed the woman a piece of money.

“Yes, that is it,” said she.

It was not the money, for this coin was larger, but the woman thought it all the better for that. She put it into her pocket, and contented herself with a fierce look at the child, saying, “See that this does not happen again!”

Cosette went back again into what the woman called her “kennel.”

“By the way, do you wish supper?” said she to the stranger.

He did not reply. He seemed to be thinking deeply.

“What sort of man is this?” she said between her teeth. “He is humbly poor. He has not a cent for supper. I hope he will pay me for his lodging.”

Just then a door opened and Eponine and Azelma came in.

They were really two pretty and charming little girls, one with golden-brown curls, the other with long black braids falling down her back. When they entered, their mother said in a scolding tone which nevertheless was full of adoration: “Ah! here you are, you two!” Then drawing them on her lap one after the other, smoothing their hair, tying their ribbons, she at last gave each a little love pat, saying, “Aren’t they well dressed now?”

They went and sat down near the corner of the chimney. They had a doll which they turned and turned again on their knees with all sorts of happy prattling. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting and looked at them sadly.

The doll of the two sisters was very faded, and quite old and broken, but it did not seem any the less lovely to Cosette who, in all her life, had never owned a doll, _a real doll_, to use a term that all children will understand.

Suddenly the woman, who was passing back and forth in the room, noticed that Cosette was distracted and that instead of working she was interested in the little ones who were playing.

“Ah! I have caught you!” cried she. “That’s how you work!”

The stranger, without leaving his chair, turned to the woman. “Madame,” said he, smiling almost timidly, “let the little one play a bit.”

She replied sharply: “She must work if she wants to eat. I don’t feed her to do nothing.”

“What is she making then?” said the stranger, with the soft voice which was such a contrast to his shabby clothes, and his big, broad shoulders.

“Stockings, if you please, stockings for my little girls, who have none and who will soon be barefooted.”

The man looked at Cosette’s poor little red feet and went on: “When will she finish this pair of stockings?”

“She will take three or four days more, the idle thing.”

“And how much will they be worth when they are done?”

The woman looked at him with scorn.

“At least thirty sous,” she said.

“Would you sell them for five francs?” said the man.

“Mercy on us!” cried out, with a hoarse laugh, one of the guests who was listening. “Five francs? You bet your life! Five francs!”

Monsieur Thénardier thought it was time for him to say something.

“Yes, sir, if this is your fancy, you may have the stockings for five francs. We never refuse travelers anything.”

“You must pay it right down,” said the woman, in her short and commanding way.

“I buy this pair of stockings,” answered the man, as he drew five francs from his pocket and laid them on the table, “and I pay for them.”

Then he turned to Cosette.

“Now your work belongs to me. Play, my little one.”

Cosette now laid down her knitting, but she had not left her place. Cosette always moved as little as possible. She had taken from a box behind her a few old rags and a little lead sword, and Cosette had made herself a doll with the sword.

Meanwhile the guests at the table were singing their songs more and more loudly. Cosette, under the table, was looking at the fire which was shining in her fixed eyes; she had begun to rock the sort of doll she had made, and as she rocked it back and forth she sang.

All at once Cosette stopped. She had turned and caught sight of the doll that the children had left for the cat, and which was lying on the floor near the table.

Then she let fall her little sword-doll which only half pleased her, and turned her eyes slowly around the room. The woman was talking to her husband and counting money, the girls were playing with the cat, the travelers were eating and singing, and not one of them was looking at her. She did not have a moment to lose. She crawled out from under the table on her hands and knees, looked again to see that no one was watching, then slipped quickly over to the doll, and seized it. An instant later she was in her place, seated, quiet, and turned so that the doll was in shadow. This happiness of playing with a doll was so rare for her that she was wild with joy.

Not a soul had seen her except the stranger, who was now eating a simple supper. Her joy lasted almost a quarter of an hour.

But in spite of all her care, Cosette did not see that one leg of the doll was sticking out, and that the fire from the chimney lighted it brightly. This red and shining leg coming out of the shadow suddenly struck the eye of Azelma, who said to Eponine: “Look there, sister.”

The two little girls stopped, amazed. Cosette had dared take their doll!

Eponine got up, and without leaving the cat, ran over to her mother, and began to pull her skirt.

“Let me alone,” said the mother. “What do you want?”

“Mother,” said the child, “look there.” And she pointed her finger at Cosette.

The woman cried in a voice hoarse with anger, “Cosette!”

Cosette shivered as if the earth had trembled under her. She turned around.

“Cosette!” repeated the woman.

Cosette took the doll and laid it on the floor with a sort of reverence mingled with despair. Then, without taking her eyes away from it, she joined her hands and burst into tears.

In the meantime the stranger had risen. “What is the matter?” said he to the woman.

“Don’t you see?” said she, pointing with her finger at the proof of the crime outstretched at Cosette’s feet.

“Well, what of that?” replied the man.

“This little wretch has dared to lay her hands on the children’s doll!”

“All this noise about that?” said the man. “Why should she not play with this doll?”

“She has touched it with her dirty hands!”

At this Cosette sobbed more than ever.

“Keep still, won’t you!” cried the woman.

The man went straight to the street door, opened it, and went out. In a few minutes the door opened again and the man entered, carrying in his arms the wonderful doll of which we have spoken. He laid it down before Cosette, saying, “Take it, little one; this is for you.”

It seemed that during the hour he had been there, in the midst of his musing he had noticed the toy shop, so brilliantly lighted that it could be easily seen through the hall window.

Cosette raised her eyes. She had looked upon the man coming to her with this doll as she would have looked upon the sun; she heard the unusual words, “This is for you”; she looked at him; she looked at the doll; then she backed slowly away, and went and hid herself on the floor under the other table in the corner of the wall.

“Well, now, Cosette,” said the woman in a voice that she tried to make soft, “why don’t you take your doll?”

Cosette had not the courage to creep out of her hole.

“My little Cosette,” said the woman, in a caressing tone, “take it. It is yours.”

Cosette looked at the doll almost in terror. Her face was still wet with tears, but her eyes began to glow, like the skies at early dawn, with strange rays of joy. What she felt at that moment was a little like what she would have felt if some one had suddenly said to her: “Little one, you are queen of France.” It seemed to her that if she touched this doll, thunder would come out of it.

At last she came near it, and murmured timidly as she looked at the woman: “May I take it, then?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the woman; “it is yours. The gentleman has given it to you.”

“Is it true, sir? Is it really true, that this lovely lady is mine?”

Suddenly she turned and seized the doll with delight. “I’ll call you Catherine!” she cried.

That was a queer sight when the rags of little Cosette touched and covered up the doll’s pink ribbons and silk.

“Madame,” said she, “may I put her on a chair?”

“Yes, my dear,” said the woman.

She placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor in front of her, and kept perfectly quiet, without one word, in an attitude of devotion.

“Play now, Cosette,” said the stranger.

“Yes, I am playing,” said the child.

The woman now hastened to send her children to bed, then she begged permission to send Cosette, too.

Cosette went to bed, taking her Catherine with her.

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A WOOD SLED

WASHINGTON GLADDEN

“Keeps coming right down, don’t it, Bill?”

Bill could not deny it, and did not wish to admit it; therefore, he said nothing.

What was coming down was the snow. It had been falling, thicker and faster, since a little after daylight, and now it was nearly dark. Stumps of trees and gate posts were capped with great white masses of it; here and there a path, cleared up to the back door of a farmhouse, showed on either hand a high bank of it fluted with broom or shovel.

The boy, whose observation about its coming down I have just recorded, was Master Winfield Scott Burnham. He was a slender boy, with a pale face, dark eyes and brown hair, and he sat pressing his face against the pane of a car window, looking with rather a rueful countenance upon the fast-falling snow. The young gentleman sitting opposite to him, whom he made bold to address as Bill, was his big brother, a junior in college, who had long been Win’s hero; and he was worthy to be the hero of any small boy, for he was not only strong and swift and expert in all kinds of muscular sports, but he was too much of a man ever to treat small boys, even though they might be his own brothers, roughly or contemptuously.

Just across the aisle, on the other side of the car, sat Win’s eldest sister, Grace, who was a sophomore at Smith College; and fronting her on the reversed seat was Win’s younger brother, Philip Sheridan.

The reason why these Burnhams happened to be traveling together was this: The Christmas vacation had come, and William and Grace were on their way to their home in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. The two small boys, whose school at home had closed a week earlier than the colleges, had been visiting their cousins in Hartford for a few days; and it was arranged that William should come over from Amherst and join Grace at Northampton, and that the two should wait at Springfield for the little boys, who were to be put on the northern train at Hartford by their uncle. But the trains on all the roads had been greatly delayed by the snow, and it was four o’clock before the noon express, with the Burnhams on board, left Springfield for the west. The darkness was closing in, and the wind was rising, and William had already expressed some fear of a snow-blockade upon the mountain. This remark had made Win rather sober, and he had been watching the snow and listening to the wind with an anxious face.

“How long shall we be going to Pittsfield?” he asked his brother.

“There’s no telling,” answered Will. “We ought to get there in two hours, but at this rate it will be four, at the shortest.”

“That will make it eight o’clock,” sighed Win. “I’m afraid the Christmas tree will all be unloaded before that time.”

“Yes, my boy; I’m sorry, but you might as well make up your mind to that.”

Win started across the car. This disappointment was too big for one. He must share it with Phil.

“Hold on, General!” said William in a low tone. “What’s the good of telling him? Let him be easy in his mind as long as he can.”

Win sat down in silence. Phil was telling his sister great stories of the Hartford visit, and his gleeful tones resounded through the car. Grace was laughing at his big talk, and they seemed to be making a merry time of it. But the train had just stopped at Westfield, and there was difficulty in starting. The wind howled ominously, and great gusts of snow came flying down from the roof of the passenger house against the windows of the car. Presently, the two engines that were drawing the train backed up a little to get a good start, and then plunged into the snow.

“Ch--h! Ch--h! ch--ch! Ch-h-h-h-h-!”

The wheels were slipping upon the track, and the train suddenly came to a halt.

Back again they went, a little farther, for another start; and this time the two engines, like “two hearts that beat as one,” cleared the course, and the train went slowly on up the grade. Grace and Phil had stopped talking, and they now came across, and joined their brothers.

“Aren’t you afraid there may be trouble on the mountain, Will?” asked Grace.

“Shouldn’t wonder,” said that gentleman, shortly.

“But, Will, what in the world should we do if we should happen to be blockaded?”

“Sit still and wait till we were shoveled out, I suppose. You see, we couldn’t go on afoot very well.”

“Going to be snowed up! That’s tiptop!” cried Phil. The boy’s love of adventure had crowded out all thoughts of the festival to which they were hastening. “I read in the paper about a train that was snowed up three or four days on the Pacific road, and the passengers had jolly times; the station wasn’t very far off, and they got enough to eat and drink, and they had all sorts of shows on the train.”

“But I’d rather see the show at the Christmas tree to-night,” said Win, “than any show we’ll see on this old train. Wouldn’t you, Bill?”

“Perhaps so,” answered Bill. It was evident that he had reasons of his own for not wishing to be absent from the festival.

Meantime, the train was plowing along. Now and then it came to a halt in a cut which the snow had filled, but a small party of shovelers that had come on board at Westfield usually succeeded, after a short delay, in clearing the track. Still the progress was very slow. A full hour and a half was consumed between Springfield and Russell, and it was almost seven o’clock when the train stopped at Chester.

The boys were pretty hungry by this time, and the prospect of spending the night in a snowbank was much less attractive, even to Phil, than it had been two hours before. At Chester, where there was a long halt, the passengers--of whom there were not many--nearly all got out and refreshed themselves. A couple of sandwiches, a piece of custard pie, a big, round doughnut, and a glass of good milk considerably increased Phil’s courage and greatly comforted Win, so that they returned to the car ready to encounter with equal mind the perils of the night.

The snow had ceased to fall, but the wind was still blowing. Two or three more shovelers came on board, and, thus reënforced, the train pushed on. But it was slow work; the grade was getting heavier and the drifts were deeper every mile. But Middlefield was passed and Becket was left behind, and at nine o’clock the train was slowly toiling up toward the summit at Washington, when, suddenly, it came to a halt, and a long blast was blown by the whistles of both engines. Shortly, a brakeman came through the train, and, taking one of the red lanterns from the rear of the last car, hurried down the track with it.

“Where is he going with that lantern?” asked Phil.

“He is going back a little way,” said Will. “The lantern is a signal to keep other trains from running into us. That means that we are to stay here for some time. I’ll go out and see what’s up.”

Presently he returned with a sober face, and looking very cold.

“Well, what is it?” they all asked.

“Oh, nothing; there’s a freight train in the cut just ahead of us, with two of its cars off the track, and the cut’s about half full of snow. If our Christmas goose isn’t cooked already, there’ll be plenty of time to have it cooked before we get out of this.”

“Is it that deep cut just below the Washington station?” asked Grace.

“The same,” answered Will; “and it’s as likely a place to spend Christmas in as you could find anywhere in western Massachusetts.”

“Can’t they dig out the snow?” cried Win.

“Oh, yes,” said the big brother; “but it’s not an easy thing to do; it’s got to be done with shovels, and it will take a long time.”

“How long?” asked Grace, ruefully.

“Nobody knows. But we shall be obliged to wait for more shovelers and wreckers to come up from Springfield, and I shouldn’t wonder at all if we stayed here twenty-four hours.”

“Can’t you telegraph to father?”

“I’m sorry to say I cannot. I asked about that, but the station man says the lines are down. No; there’s nothing to do but bunk down for the night as well as we can, and wait till deliverance comes. We’re in a regular fix and no mistake, and we’ve just got to make the best of it,” replied Will.

Just then the rear door of the car opened and a figure appeared that had not been seen hitherto upon the train. It was that of a stalwart man, perhaps fifty-five years old, with long white hair and beard, ruddy cheeks, and bright gray eyes. He wore a gray fur cap and a long gray overcoat, and looked enough like--Somebody that we are all thinking of about Christmas time to have been that Somebody’s twin brother.

“Good evenin’, friends!” he said, in a very jolly tone, as he shut the car door behind him. “Pleased to receive a call from so many on ye. Merry Christmas to ye all! ’T ain’t often that I kin welcome such a big Christmas party as this to my place!”

The good nature of the farmer was irresistible. The passengers all laughed.

“I believe you,” said a traveling salesman in a sealskin cap; “and the sooner you bid us good riddance the better we shall like it.”

“And you needn’t mind about wishing us many happy returns either,” said a black-whiskered man in a plaid ulster. “If we ever get away from here, you won’t see us again soon!”

“What place is this?” inquired a gray-haired lady, who sat just in front of the Burnhams.

“Washin’ton’s what they call it,” said the jolly farmer. “Pop’lar name enough; but the place don’t seem to be over pop’lar jest now with some on ye.” And he laughed a big, jolly laugh.

“Is it, like our capital, a ‘city of magnificent distances’?” inquired the man in the ulster.

“I reckon it is. It’s consid’able of a distance from everywhere else on airth. But it’s nigher to heaven ’n any other place hereabouts.”

“What is raised on this hill?” inquired the traveling salesman.

“Wind, mostly. Is that article in your line?”

The laugh was on the salesman, but he enjoyed it as well as any of them. A bit of a girl about three years old, tugging a flaxen-haired doll under one arm, here came sidling down the aisle of the car.

“Ith oo Thanty Kauth?” she said, lifting her great, solemn black eyes to the farmer’s face. The laugh was on him now; and he joined in it uproariously.

“Not jest exackly, my little gal,” he said, as he lifted her up in his arms; “but you’ve come purty nigh it. Sandy Ross is what they call me.”

“Has oo dot a thleigh and a waindeer?” persisted the little maiden.

“No; but I’ve got a first-rate wood sled,--pair o’ bobs, with a wood rack on ’t--’n’ ez slick a span o’ Canadian ponies ez ever you see!”

The farmer stroked the dark hair of the little girl with his great, hard hand, and she snuggled down on his shoulder as if he had been her grandfather.

The Burnhams had been joining in the merriment, though they had taken no part in the conversation. But when the little girl climbed down from the arms of Sandy Ross, Will arose and beckoned him to a vacant seat.

“How far from here do you live, Mr. Ross?”

“Right up the bank thar. That’s my house, with a light in the winder.”

It was a comfortable looking white farmhouse, with a sloping roof in the rear and a big chimney in the middle.

“Now, Mr. Ross, I live in Pittsfield, and I want mightily to get there before noon to-morrow. I don’t believe this train will get there before to-morrow night. Could you take my sister and those two little chaps and me, and carry us all home early to-morrow morning on your wood sled, providing it isn’t too cold to undertake the journey?”

“Let’s see. Well, yes; I calc’late I could. I was a-thinkin’ ’bout goin’ over to Pittsfield t’morrer with a little jag o’ wood, ’n’ I reckon live critters like you won’t be no more trouble, ho! ho! The snow ain’t no gret depth; ’t ain’t nigh’s deep on t’ other side o’ the mountain ez ’t is on this side. There’ll be drifts now ’n’ then, but the fences is down, so that we kin turn inter the fields ’n’ go round ’em.”

“How long will it take you to drive over?”

“Let’s see. ’T ain’t over fifteen or sixteen mile. I reckon I can make it in three to four hours.”

“Well, sir, if you’ll get us over there safely before noon, I’ll give you five dollars.”

“All right; that’s enough; tew much, I guess. But see here, my friends; jest bring the young lady ’n’ the little chaps up to my house ’n’ spend the night there, all on ye. Then we can hev an airly breakfast, ’n’ start fair when we get good ’n’ ready.”

In less than five minutes the Burnhams, with bags and bundles, were following Sandy Ross to the door of the car.

This was the last that our travelers saw of their fellow passengers on the Western Express. Late the next afternoon the train rolled into Pittsfield station, but the Burnhams were busy elsewhere about that time.

It was but a few steps from the train to Sandy Ross’s house. William carried his sister through the deepest snow, and the boys trudged along with the bundles, highly pleased with the prospect of an adventure in a farmhouse. Good Mrs. Ross was as blithe and hearty as her husband, and she soon made the young folks feel quite at home.

To Miss Grace “the spar’ room,” as Mrs. Ross called it, was assigned, while Will and the two boys found a sleeping place in the attic. The dim tallow candle that lighted them to bed disclosed all sorts of curious things. In one comer, facing each other, were two old, tall clocks that had long ceased ticking, and now stood with folded hands and silent pendulums, resting from their labors. An old chest of drawers, that would have been a prize for hunters of the antique, was near the clocks; braids of yellow seed-corn hung from the rafters, and at one end of the great room stood the handloom on which the mother of Mrs. Ross had been wont to weave cloth for the garments of her household. It was an heirloom, in the literal sense. The boys thought that this garret would have been a grand place to ransack; but they were too well bred to go prying about, and contented themselves with admiring what was before their eyes. It was not long before they were sound asleep in their snug nest of feathers; and when they waked the next morning breakfast was ready, and Farmer Ross and brother Will had made all the preparations for the journey. To the excellent farmer’s breakfast of juicy ham and eggs, genuine country sausages, and delicious buckwheat cakes with maple sirup, they all did full justice.

“It does me good to see boys eat,” said the kind farmer’s wife; “they do enjoy it so”; and tears were in her eyes as she thought of the hungry boys that used to sit around this table. Farmer Ross and his wife were alone in the world. Two of their sons were sleeping in unmarked graves at Chancellorsville; the other had died when he was a baby. But they were not selfish people; they had learned to bear sorrow, and therefore their sorrow had not made them morose and miserable; it had only made them more kind and tender hearted.

Breakfast over, the wood sled came round to the door, and Mr. Ross looked in a moment to say a last word to his wife.

“You’d better make two or three pailfuls o’ strong coffee, mother, ’n’ bile three or four dozen aigs, ’n’ heat up a big batch o’ them air mince pies. The folks down here on the train ’ll be mighty hungry this mornin’, ’n’ I’ve been down ’n’ told ’em to come up here in ’bout half an hour, ’n’ git what they want. Don’t charge ’em nothin’; let ’em pay what they’ve a min’ ter. P’raps some on ’em hain’t nothin’ to pay with, ’n’ they’ll need it jest as much as the rest. We mustn’t let folks starve that git storm-stayed right at our front door. And now, all aboard for Pittsfield!”

The hearty thanks and farewells to good Mrs. Ross were soon said, and the Burnhams bundled out of the kitchen into the wood sled. It was a long rack with upright stakes from a frame and held together by side rails, through which the ends of the stakes projected a few inches. A side board, about a foot in width, had been placed within the stakes on either side, and the space so inclosed had been filled with clean oat straw. Miss Grace wrapped Mrs. Ross’s heavy blanket shawl round her sealskin sack, each of the two little boys did himself up in a blanket, William robed himself in his traveling rug, and they all sat down in the straw, two fronting forward and two backward, and placed their feet against four hot flatirons, wound in thick woolen cloth, and laid together in a nest between them. Over their laps a big buffalo robe was thrown, and Farmer Ross heaped the straw against their backs.

Away they went, shouting a merry good-by to the farmer’s wife, secure against discomfort, and happy in the hope of reaching home in time for their Christmas dinner. Down in the railroad cut they saw the shovelers and the wreckers toiling at the disabled freight cars, but not much stir was visible about the express train that lay a little farther down the track. The snow did not appear to be very deep, and the ponies skipped briskly along with their light load. Here and there was a bare spot from which the snow had been blown, but not many drifts were found, and these were easily avoided, as Mr. Ross had said, by turning into the open fields.

Farmer Ross was as blithe as the morning. From his perch on a crossboard of the wood rack he kept up a brisk talk with the group in the straw behind him.

“Fire ’nough in the stove?” he asked. “‘T ain’t often that ye hev a stove like that to set ’round when ye go sleigh ridin’.”

“All right, sir; it’s warm as toast,” said Win. “Genuine base-burner, isn’t it?”

“I should think your feet would be cold, sitting up there,” said Grace.

“Oh, no; not in this weather. ‘Sides, if they do git cold I knock ’em together a little, or else git off ’n’ run afoot a spell, ’n’ they’re soon warm again.”

“Do you often go to Pittsfield?” asked William.

“Yes, every month or so. Gin’rally du my tradin’ thar. Tek along a little suthin’ to sell commonly,--a little jag o’ wood, or a little butter, or a quarter o’ beef, or suthin’. I meant to hev gone down last week, ’n’ I had a big pile o’ Christmas greens ’t I meant to tek along to sell, but I was hendered, ’n’ could n’t go. There’s the greens now--all piled up in the aidge o’ the wood; I’d got ’em all ready. ’Fraid they won’t be worth much next Christmas.”

“Oh, Mr. Ross,” cried Grace, “would it be very much trouble for you to put that nearest pile of them on the back part of the sled? I can find use for them at home, I know, and I should like to take them with me ever so much!”

“Sartainly; no trouble at all”; and in two or three great armfuls the pile of beautiful coral pine was heaped upon the sleigh.

The morning wore on toward nine o’clock, and as the sun rose higher the air grew warmer. The roads were steadily improving, and the ponies trotted along at a nimble pace. The boys began to be tired of sitting still.

“I’m not going to burrow up in this straw any longer,” said Win; “I’m going to get up and stir about a little.”

“So am I,” said Phil.

It was easy enough to stand on the sled while it was in motion. In rough places the boys could take hold of the rail of the wood rack; and even if they fell it did not hurt them. Pretty soon Win, who had an artist’s eye, began to pull out long vines of the evergreen and wind them round the stakes of the wood rack.

“I say, Phil,” he cried, “if we only had some string, we could fix this old frame so that it would look nobby!”

“Well, here’s your string,” said Will, producing a ball of twine from his overcoat pocket and tossing it to his brother. “I put that in my pocket by mistake when I tied up my last package yesterday morning, and have been wishing it in Amherst ever since.”

“Jolly!” shouted Win. “Now, Mr. Ross, you’ll see what we’ll make of your wood sled.”

“Goin’ t’ make a kind o’ Cindereller coach on ’t, hey? Well, go ahead! I shan’t be ashamed on ’t, no matter how fine ye fix it.”

The boys’ fingers flew. This was fun! Before long all the stakes were trimmed, and a spiral wreath of the evergreen had been run all round the side rail of the rack. It really began to look quite fairy-like. William and Grace first laughed at the fancy of the boys, and then began to aid them with suggestions; and presently William was up himself, helping them in their work. Twine wound with the evergreen was run diagonally across from the top of each stake to the bottom of the nearest one; and the wood rack began to look very much like what the poets call a “wild-wood bower.” All it needed was a roof, and this was soon supplied. William borrowed Mr. Ross’s big jackknife, leaped from the sleigh, and cut eight willow rods, and they were speedily wound with the evergreen. Then the ends were made fast with twine to the railing of the rack on either side, and, arching overhead, they completed the transformation of the wood sled into a moving arbor of evergreens.

The boys danced with merriment.

“Isn’t it just gay?” cried Phil. “I never dreamed that we could make it look so pretty!”

“We couldn’t have done it, either,” said Win, “if Bill and Grace hadn’t helped us. But what will the fellows say when they see us ridin’ down the street?”

“What I am most curious to see,” said Will, “is the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Burnham and Baby Burnham when this gay chariot drives up to their door! They’re worrying about us powerfully by this time, and I reckon we’ve a jolly surprise in store for them.”

“I hope they will not be as badly frightened,” said Grace, “as Macbeth was when he saw ‘Birnam wood’ coming.”

“Pretty good for sis,” laughed William.

“What’s the joke?” inquired Win.

“Too classic for small boys; you’ll have to get up your Shakespeare before you can appreciate it,” answered the big brother.

“‘Pears to me,” now put in the charioteer from his perch, “that a rig ez fine ez this oughter have a leetle finer coachman. I ain’t ’shamed o’ the sled, ez I said; but I dew think I oughter be fixed up a leetle mite to match!”

“You shall be!” cried Grace. “Here, boys, help me wind a couple of wreaths.”

Very soon, two light, twisted wreaths of evergreen were ready, and Mr. Ross, with great laughter, threw them over each shoulder and under the opposite arm, so that they crossed before and behind, like the straps that support a soldier’s belt. Then his fur cap was quickly trimmed with sprays of the evergreen, that rose in a bell-crown all round his head.

Their journey was almost done. How quickly the time had passed! Every few rods they met sleigh loads of people, happy because Christmas and the sleighing had come together, and bent on making the most of both. These merry-makers all looked with wonder upon our travelers as they drew near, and answered their loud shouts of “Merry Christmas!” with laughter and cheers.

They had not gone far through the streets of the village before their kite had considerable tail. Just what it meant the small boys did not know; but if this driver was not Santa Claus, he was somebody equally good natured, for he bowed and laughed right and left, in the jolliest fashion, to the salutations of the boys, and as many of them as could get near hitched their hand sleds to his triumphal car.

Miss Grace was hidden from sight by the evergreens, and she enjoyed the sport of the boys almost as much as they did.

Meantime, the hours were passing slowly at Mr. Burnham’s. The father and mother had been too anxious about their children to sleep much during the night. They could get no word from the train after it left Chester, and the delay and uncertainty greatly distressed them. Mr. Burnham had just returned from the station with the news that the wires were up, and that the train had been heard from in the cut just beyond the summit, where it was likely to be kept the greater part of the day.

“Oh, dear!” cried the mother. “I cannot have it so! Can’t we get at them in some way? I’m afraid they will suffer with hunger. Then we had counted so much on this Christmas, and the children’s fun is all spoiled. Think of them sitting all this blessed holiday, cooped up in those dreadful cars, waiting to be shoveled out of a snowdrift! It seems as if I should fly. I wish I could!”

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Burnham, soberly, “I am sorry that the holiday is spoiled, but I see nothing that we can do. We can trust William to take good care of them and bring them all home safely; and we’ve got to be patient, and wait.”

Just then the heads of the ponies were turning in at the gate of the wide lawn in front of the house. The small boys who were following unhitched their hand sleds, and the escort remained outside the gate.

“Drive slowly!” said William. “Give them a good chance to see us coming!”

Baby Burnham was at the window. “Thanty Kauth!” she cried. “Look, papa! Look!”

“What does the child see?” said Mr. Burnham, going to the window. “Sure enough, baby. Do come here, my dear. What fantastical establishment is this coming up our driveway? It’s a bower of evergreens on runners, and an old man with a white beard and a white coat all trimmed up with greens sits up there driving. He seems to be shaking with laughter, too. What can it mean?”

Just then the wood sled came alongside the porch, and, suddenly, out from between the garlanded sled stakes four heads were quickly thrust and four voices shouted:

“Merry Christmas!”

“The children! Bless their hearts!”

In a minute more, father and mother and baby and the jolly travelers were all very much mixed up on the porch, and there was a deal of hugging and kissing and laughing and crying, while Farmer Ross on his own hook, or rather on his own wood sled, was laughing softly, and crying a little, too. What made him cry I wonder? Presently Mr. Burnham said:

“But, Will, you haven’t made us acquainted yet with your charioteer.”