Chapter II: Part 2

“There’s nothing about coming home, but there’s something about Christmas.” David consulted the letter again. “Father says he’s been looking around for some time for just the right present to send for Christmas, and he’s just found it. He thinks I’ll like it about the best of anything, and it ought to get here—unless the steamers are awfully delayed—on Christmas day.”

“That’s grand!” Barney beamed his own delight over the news. “What do ye think it might be, now?”

David shook his head.

“I don’t know—don’t believe I could even guess. You see, father never bought me a Christmas present before—he always left mother to choose. He said she knew more about such things than he did.”

“Then ye can take my word for it, if it’s the first one he’s ever got ye ’twill be the best ye ever had.” Barney spoke with conviction, while Johanna leaned over David’s chair and put a loving arm about his shoulder.

“There’s some virtue in losing them ye love for a bit, after all, if it makes one o’ them think about ye and Christmas. Sure, there’s nothing better in life to put by in your memory than rare thoughts and fine letters. And, I’m mortial glad, myself, there’s something good coming to ye, laddy, from over yonder, for many’s the time Barney and I have been afeared ’twas a lonesome Christmas ye’d be finding up here.”

And to the great surprise of every one, David included, David answered cheerfully:

“I don’t believe it’s half bad. Maybe there’s more Christmas round than we know.”

The orange sun had paled to yellow and climbed half the length of the tallest pine from the crest of the hill when David, bundled and furred, adjusted his skees outside the lodge door. Carefully he pushed his way over the level stretch of new snow, for one never knew with new snow just how far one might go down before striking the crust of the old. A few yards beyond the nearest clump of evergreen he stopped. From this point the mountain sloped down on three sides; the fourth carried over the ridge to the neighboring hill. Here David could look down on the encircling valley; and though the snow lay unbroken everywhere save on the road leading straight down to the “crossing” and the village beyond, he could almost vision paths branching out from where he stood and leading down to the three inhabited dwellings on the mountain’s side.

Which way should he go? Where would he first strike his trail for Christmas? Would he follow the road or one of the invisible paths? He asked this silently at first, and then aloud, as if there might be some one near by to hear; and the answer came in the form of a little gray furry coat, a pair of alert ears and a long, bushy tail. Yes, David knew in a twinkling it was the locked-out fairy, come to keep his promise. He did not come close enough for David to see the round, roguish face under the squirrel cap; but he sat up and twitched his head in the direction of the road as if he were saying:

“Come along, David, ye couldn’t be wishing for a braver day to go Christmas-hunting. Have ye fetched along your holiday fowling-piece and your ammunition? For ’tis rare sport, I promise ye, a hundred times better than hunting your furred or feathered brothers. Come along!” And away he hopped down the road toward the crossing.

David followed, as you or I would, and never stopped till the fairy led him straight to the flagman’s hut and disappeared himself behind the drifts beyond the track. Without a moment’s hesitation David turned the knob of the door and walked in.

The hut was a small one-room affair, bare, but clean. The walls were whitewashed and held an array of flags and lanterns, maps and time-tables. An air-tight stove glowed red at one end of the room, and beside it, with his feet on the hob, tilted back in his chair, sat the flagman puffing away at an old meerschaum pipe. He was plainly surprised to see his visitor. His feet came back to the floor with a bang, his pipe came out of his mouth, and he stared at David incredulously for a full minute. Then the ends of his grizzled mustache bristled upward, his mouth opened and twisted the same way, while his eyes seemed to drop downward to meet it, all the time growing bluer and more friendly. David took the whole effect to be a smile of welcome and he responded with outstretched mittened hand.

“Good morning, sir. It’s a—it’s a grand day!”

The knotted fist of the flagman accepted the mitten and shook it warmly.

“Vell—vell—it ees the knabelein from the hilltop come to see old Fritz Grossman. A child again—it ees goot!”

He reached for a little stool, the only other piece of furniture in the room, and pushed it toward David.

“Come—take off the greatcoat and seet down. It ees long since old Fritz has had a child to see him. In summer they come sometime from the big hotel, and from the veelage they used to many come. But now—ach! Now, since the war, eet ees deefferent. Now I am the enemy—the German—and here every one hate the German!”

David felt about for something to say and repeated something he had once heard: “War makes enemies.”

“Ach, ja. But here there ees no war. Here we should all be Americans, and not hate peebles for the country where they were born. Gott in Himmel, can there not be one country kept clean of the hate!”

The blue eyes suddenly grew wet, and he blinked them hard and fast to keep the wetness from spilling over into disgraceful tears.

“Tsa! Old Fritz grow more old woman every day! I not mind but for the children not coming; and this time here and no little tongues to beg tales of the Krist Kindlein and the Weihnachtsman from old Fritz.”

David drew closer and laid a friendly hand on the flagman’s knee.

“I’d like to hear one—I’d like bully well to hear one!”

The flagman croaked gleefully deep down in his throat.

“Zo—but first—I know—the knabelein has a stomach got. All have.”

He rose stiffly and reached back of the stove to where hung his own great bear-coat. From the pocket he brought out a large red apple and handed it to David.

“There, eat. And you shall hear the tale of anodder apple, a Chreestmas apple.”

The flagman tilted back in his chair again and replaced his feet upon the hob. David sat with elbows on knees and ate slowly. There was no sound but the occasional dropping of coals in the stove and the soft, deep guttural of the flagman’s voice. And here is the story as he told it to David—only the broken German accent and the dropping coals are missing.

Once on a time there lived in Germany a little clock-maker by the name of Hermann Joseph. He lived in one little room with a bench for his work, and a chest for his wood, and his tools, and a cupboard for dishes, and a trundle-bed under the bench. Besides these there was a stool, and that was all—excepting the clocks. There were hundreds of clocks: little and big, carved and plain, some with wooden faces and some with porcelain ones—shelf clocks, cuckoo clocks, clocks with chimes and clocks without; and they all hung on the walls, covering them quite up. In front of his one little window there was a little shelf, and on this Hermann put all his best clocks to show the passers-by. Often they would stop and look and some one would cry:

“See, Hermann Joseph has made a new clock. It is finer than any of the rest!”

Then if it happened that anybody was wanting a clock he would come in and buy it.

I said Hermann was a little clock-maker. That was because his back was bent and his legs were crooked, which made him very short and funny to look at. But there was no kinder face than his in all the city, and the children loved him. Whenever a toy was broken or a doll had lost an arm or a leg or an eye its careless mütterchen would carry it straight to Hermann’s little shop.

“The kindlein needs mending,” she would say. “Canst thou do it now for me?”

And whatever work Hermann was doing he would always put it aside to mend the broken toy or doll, and never a pfennig would he take for the mending.

“Go spend it for sweetmeats, or, better still, put it by till Christmas-time. ’Twill get thee some happiness then, maybe,” he would always say.

Now it was the custom in that long ago for those who lived in the city to bring gifts to the great cathedral on Christmas and lay them before the Holy Mother and Child. People saved all through the year that they might have something wonderful to bring on that day; and there was a saying among them that when a gift was brought that pleased the Christ-child more than any other He would reach down from Mary’s arms and take it. This was but a saying, of course. The old Herr Graff, the oldest man in the city, could not remember that it had ever really happened; and many there were who laughed at the very idea. But children often talked about it, and the poets made beautiful verses about it; and often when a rich gift was placed beside the altar the watchers would whisper among themselves, “Perhaps now we shall see the miracle.”

Those who had no gifts to bring went to the cathedral just the same on Christmas Eve to see the gifts of the others and hear the carols and watch the burning of the waxen tapers. The little clock-maker was one of these. Often he was stopped and some one would ask, “How happens it that you never bring a gift?” Once the bishop himself questioned him: “Poorer than thou have brought offerings to the Child. Where is thy gift?”

Then it was that Hermann had answered: “Wait; some day you shall see. I, too, shall bring a gift some day.”

The truth of it was that the little clock-maker was so busy giving away all the year that there was never anything left at Christmas-time. But he had a wonderful idea on which he was working every minute that he could spare time from his clocks. It had taken him years and years; no one knew anything about it but Trude, his neighbor’s child, and Trude had grown from a baby into a little housemother, and still the gift was not finished.

It was to be a clock, the most wonderful and beautiful clock ever made; and every part of it had been fashioned with loving care. The case, the works, the weights, the hands, and the face, all had taken years of labor. He had spent years carving the case and hands, years perfecting the works; and now Hermann saw that with a little more haste and time he could finish it for the coming Christmas. He mended the children’s toys as before, but he gave up making his regular clocks, so there were fewer to sell, and often his cupboard was empty and he went supperless to bed. But that only made him a little thinner and his face a little kinder; and meantime the gift clock became more and more beautiful. It was fashioned after a rude stable with rafters, stall, and crib. The Holy Mother knelt beside the manger in which a tiny Christ-child lay, while through the open door the hours came. Three were kings and three were shepherds and three were soldiers and three were angels; and when the hours struck, the figure knelt in adoration before the sleeping Child, while the silver chimes played the “Magnificat.”

“Thou seest,” said the clock-maker to Trude, “it is not just on Sundays and holidays that we should remember to worship the Krist Kindlein and bring Him gifts—but every day, every hour.”

The days went by like clouds scudding before a winter wind and the clock was finished at last. So happy was Hermann with his work that he put the gift clock on the shelf before the little window to show the passers-by. There were crowds looking at it all day long, and many would whisper, “Do you think this can be the gift Hermann has spoken of—his offering on Christmas Eve to the Church?”

The day before Christmas came. Hermann cleaned up his little shop, wound all his clocks, brushed his clothes, and then went over the gift clock again to be sure everything was perfect.

“It will not look meanly beside the other gifts,” he thought, happily. In fact he was so happy that he gave away all but one pfennig to the blind beggar who passed his door; and then, remembering that he had eaten nothing since breakfast, he spent that last pfennig for a Christmas apple to eat with a crust of bread he had. These he was putting by in the cupboard to eat after he was dressed, when the door opened and Trude was standing there crying softly.

“Kindlein—kindlein, what ails thee?” And he gathered her into his arms.

“’Tis the father. He is hurt, and all the money that was put by for the tree and sweets and toys has gone to the Herr Doctor. And now, how can I tell the children? Already they have lighted the candle at the window and are waiting for Kriss Kringle to come.”

The clock-maker laughed merrily.

“Come, come, little one, all will be well. Hermann will sell a clock for thee. Some house in the city must need a clock; and in a wink we shall have money enough for the tree and the toys. Go home and sing.”

He buttoned on his greatcoat and, picking out the best of the old clocks, he went out. He went first to the rich merchants, but their houses were full of clocks; then to the journeymen, but they said his clock was old-fashioned. He even stood on the corners of the streets and in the square, crying, “A clock—a good clock for sale,” but no one paid any attention to him. At last he gathered up his courage and went to the Herr Graff himself.

“Will your Excellency buy a clock?” he said, trembling at his own boldness. “I would not ask, but it is Christmas and I am needing to buy happiness for some children.”

The Herr Graff smiled.

“Yes, I will buy a clock, but not that one. I will pay a thousand gulden for the clock thou hast had in thy window these four days past.”

“But, your Excellency, that is impossible!” And poor Hermann trembled harder than ever.

“Poof! Nothing is impossible. That clock or none. Get thee home and I will send for it in half an hour, and pay thee the gulden.”

The little clock-maker stumbled out.

“Anything but that—anything but that!” he kept mumbling over and over to himself on his way home. But as he passed the neighbor’s house he saw the children at the window with their lighted candle and he heard Trude singing.

And so it happened that the servant who came from the Herr Graff carried the gift clock away with him; but the clock-maker would take but five of the thousand gulden in payment. And as the servant disappeared up the street the chimes commenced to ring from the great cathedral, and the streets suddenly became noisy with the many people going thither, bearing their Christmas offerings.

“I have gone empty-handed before,” said the little clock-maker, sadly. “I can go empty-handed once again.” And again he buttoned up his greatcoat.

As he turned to shut his cupboard door behind him his eyes fell on the Christmas apple and an odd little smile crept into the corners of his mouth and lighted his eyes.

“It is all I have—my dinner for two days. I will carry that to the Christ-child. It is better, after all, than going empty-handed.”

How full of peace and beauty was the great cathedral when Hermann entered it! There were a thousand tapers burning and everywhere the sweet scent of the Christmas greens—and the laden altar before the Holy Mother and Child. There were richer gifts than had been brought for many years: marvelously wrought vessels from the greatest silversmiths; cloth of gold and cloth of silk brought from the East by the merchants; poets had brought their songs illuminated on rolls of heavy parchment; painters had brought their pictures of saints and the Holy Family; even the King himself had brought his crown and scepter to lay before the Child. And after all these offerings came the little clock-maker, walking slowly down the long, dim aisle, holding tight to his Christmas apple.

The people saw him and a murmur rose, hummed a moment indistinctly through the church and then grew clear and articulate:

“Shame! See, he is too mean to bring his clock! He hoards it as a miser hoards his gold. See what he brings! Shame!”

The words reached Hermann and he stumbled on blindly, his head dropped forward on his breast, his hands groping the way. The distance seemed interminable. Now he knew he was past the seats; now his feet touched the first step, and there were seven to climb to the altar. Would his feet never reach the top?

“One, two, three,” he counted to himself, then tripped and almost fell. “Four, five, six.” He was nearly there. There was but one more.

The murmur of shame died away and in its place rose one of wonder and awe. Soon the words became intelligible:

“The miracle! It is the miracle!”

The people knelt in the big cathedral; the bishop raised his hands in prayer. And the little clock-maker, stumbling to the last step, looked up through dim eyes and saw the Child leaning toward him, far down from Mary’s arms, with hands outstretched to take his gift.

That night, back in the kitchen of the lodge after supper, David told the story again to Johanna and Barney. And when he had finished he saw them looking strangely at each other.

“To think,” said Johanna, thoughtfully, “we’ve been living here for two years and we never got so much from the old man. And who’d have thought to find such a tale bundled up in an old bunch of heathen rags and language like him?”

“Maybe, now, he’s not a heathen at all,” laughed Barney.

And the others laughed with him.

V
THE PATHWAY TO UNCLE JOAB AND A NEW SANTA CLAUS

No fresh snow fell through the night, and when David slipped his feet into the skee straps at the lodge door next morning he was rejoiced to find that the snow had packed and crusted a little since the day before, which meant better going. Again he made for the crest of the hill beyond the first clump of evergreens and again he stood at the pinnacle of the ways and wondered which he would take.

“I might count,” he laughed aloud—“I might count them out.” And with that he fell into the school-boy doggerel, nearly as old as boyhood itself: “Eeny—meeny—miny—mo. Catch—a nigger—by the—”

He came to a sudden stop. In the direction of the lumber-camp, where the evergreens marked the beginning of the road, he had caught a glimpse of a gray squirrel. Was it a real squirrel this time, or was it the locked-out fairy again? There was not a minute to be lost. He must find out.

Over the unbroken snow he slid, balancing himself carefully when he came to the hummocks made by the wind or fallen trees, his eyes coming back constantly to the little gray figure before him. It was sitting erect now, under a green bough, apparently busy investigating the contents of a pine cone. But just as David had made up his mind that this time it was a real squirrel, up went the furry paw to an ear in unmistakable salute, just as the locked-out fairy had done when he hopped from the window-ledge of the lodge. Then, with ears set back and tail out straight behind, the squirrel flew down the hill. Away went David after him, the tassel of his toboggan-cap out as straight as the squirrel’s tail.

Never was there such a race. They dodged trees and fallen branches; they leaped drifts; they spun like tops around the curves. Sometimes David was so close upon the fairy’s heels that he could almost have touched him with the end of his steering-cane, but the next moment he generally lost his balance and slipped a skee, and head over heels he would go in the crusty snow. When he righted himself the fairy was always yards ahead, sitting with his shoulders all hunched up as if he were laughing silently at David’s tumble. So exciting was the whole race that David entirely forgot his destination until he suddenly found himself almost bumping a corner of one of the lumber cabins, and the fairy nowhere in sight.

He stopped a minute for breath and to wonder what he would do, when he heard the soft, silvery notes of a violin. The music was coming from inside that very cabin, and a voice was humming softly as well. David moved round to one of the windows, hoping he might be tall enough to look in, but the snow had drifted away from that side and he missed the ledge by several inches. It occurred to him, however, that if the snow had drifted from this end it had probably drifted toward the other. He would try it, at any rate. Round the cabin he went, and, sure enough, there the snow had piled up half-way to the window and David found he could look in comfortably.

There was a great fire blazing inside, and by it sat an old negro with the whitest hair and beard David had ever seen. A fiddle was tucked under his chin and slowly and lovingly he was bowing the melody from it, while one foot patted the time on the floor and a plaintive, mellow voice put words to the music. David listened for the words and caught them:

“Yeah come-a-No-ah—a-stumblin’ tru de dark,
Wif hammah an’ wif nails-to-a-build hisself an ark.
An’-a-yeah come de an’mals-two-a-by two,
De Yippo-ma-pot’mus—an’ de kick-kangaroo.”

The bowing suddenly stopped and David was conscious of a pair of very white eyeballs looking at him through the glass. For the space of a breath or more David was not at all sure that he wanted to get any nearer that strange, bent old figure. He was almost sure that he did not want to go inside. Not that he was afraid. Oh no, indeed! He was not in the least bit afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of. Even Johanna had not said anything harmful about the old cook at the lumber-camp. Nevertheless, there was something mysterious, something not altogether inviting about that inky-black face with the white hair and rolling eyeballs.

David was speedily withdrawing himself, having decided that there was great virtue in distance, when he heard the creak of the cabin door. In a trice the old negro, fiddle in hand, appeared around the corner.

“Wha you goin’, honey?” There was unmistakable regret over David’s retreating figure.

“Why—why, I’m just going back where I came from.”

“Wha you come from?”

David pointed upward and the old darky nodded comprehendingly.

“’Pears to me dat am a long way fer a li’l’ boy to come an’ den turn ’bout an’ go right home. Come in, honey, an’ Uncle Joab’ll play you somethin’ lively on de ole fiddle.”

David hesitated, but only for an instant. There was something too lonely and appealing about the man to be denied. David was still not at all sure that he wanted to go, even while he was following the lumber cook round to the door.

It was surprisingly cozy and cheerful inside, perhaps because of the open fire, the strips of pine cones, husked corn, and bunches of colored berries that decorated the walls and rafters. Uncle Joab caught David’s wondering, curious gaze, and he chuckled.

“Yas, dat’s pop-corn, honey. An’ I reckon Uncle Joab’ll have some a-poppin’ for you over dese yeah coals in a jiffy.”

He mounted stiffly the hewn, polished stump that did service for a stool and pulled down two of the ears. From the corner of the fireplace he brought a corn-popper and, sitting down, he commenced to shell the corn by rubbing the ears together. David drew up a chair near by and watched him with growing interest. When the corn was shelled Uncle Joab raked away the unburned wood from the fire, leaving a bed of the red coals. Over this he held the corn, shaking the popper gently from side to side. In less time than it takes for the telling sounded the snap-snap-snap of the bursting kernels, and in a moment more Uncle Joab had turned the snowy contents into an earthen bowl and laid it on David’s knee with a small dish of salt and the invitation to “Go ahead.” Then he took up his fiddle again and played the promised music.

It was a jig, such a rollicking, care-free jig that before it was finished David found himself wondering how in the world he ever hesitated about coming in. Why, here was nothing but another boy like himself, a boy grown old before he had grown up.

“Like dat corn, honey? Wall, you come along yeah ’round Chris’mus an’ Uncle Joab’ll make you some m’lasses balls.”

A sigh escaped with the promise.

“Lordy—Chris’mus—yeah! Doan’t seem like I done hab any Chris’mus sence I left ole Virginy. Seems like it done froze stiff ’fo’ ever it got to dese yeah parts.”

David laughed at the old man’s humor. It had seemed just that way to him a few days ago.

“Couldn’t we thaw it out?” he asked.

“’Twould take a monstrous lot o’ warm feelin’s, honey, an’ kind folks, I reckon. An’ you’d not find ’em a-hangin’ ’round loose yeah in de wintah. Why, dere’s no more ’n a han’ful of us, all measured an’ mixted; an’ as fur as I know dere’s not one a-speakin’ to another.”

David shook his head solemnly.

“That’s not much like Christmas, is it, Uncle Joab? Not much ‘good-will’ when you don’t know your neighbors.”

The old darky grunted, then he chuckled.

“’Pears to me it’s de critters dat get on yeah more folksy den de real folks—an’ dat put me in mind of a story my mammy used to tell me when I was your size.”

David beamed.

“Will you tell it, Uncle Joab?”

“Co’se I’ll tell it, honey.” And putting the fiddle down beside his chair he began:

“I reckon you think dat de jolly ole saint wif de red nose an’ de dimple somewhas ’twixt his mouf an’ his ears only ’members de chillun at Chris’mus. An’ dat’s not de trouf. Dere was one Chris’mus long time ago, after Pharoe’s daughter found Moses in de bull-grass an’ ’fo’ Christoper Columbus went a-sailin’ ’round to find dis yeah country, dat ole man Santy gib a Chris’mus to de critters. An’ dis was de way of it.

“In dose days dere warn’t de chilluns dere is now. Dey warn’t so plentiful an’ dey warn’t so perticular; an’ each one warn’t lookin’ fer a whole shed full o’ toys jest fer hisself. No, sir, honey! He was bustin’ wif tickle if he got one gif’ an’ some barley sugar. An’ what’s more, dey wasn’t so pernicity ’bout what dey got. De dolls didn’t have to walk an’ talk an’ act like real folks an’ de trains didn’t have to go by demselves. An’ everything bein’ so comf’able an’ easy, ole Santy could tote de pack o’ toys ’round hisself on his back an’ be home a good two hour ’fo’ daylight, wif nothin’ to do de rest o’ de day but set ’round an’ think.

“Wall, in dose days, honey, de folks doan’t pester de critters wif workin’ dem all de time. No, sir! Dey work dem when dey need dem, an’ de balance o’ de time de critters trope ’round free an’ easy-like. Folks wasn’t cotchin’ de cur’ous ones to put in de menageries an’ de circuses, nor de furry ones to trim up de ladies wif. Times was pleasant an’ comf’able fer every one.

“Now it transmigrate one day when ole Santy was a-settin’ an’ rumminatin’ dat he fotch up his thoughts on de critters, an’ he says to hisself, says he:

“‘’Pears like dey has a right to Chris’mus same as de folks. Dey minds dere bus’ness, an’ dey works an’ dey plays de same, an’ dey had dere share in dat fust Chris’mus when de li’l’ Lordie was born—same as de folks. Didn’t de donkey carry Mary to Beflehem? Didn’t de mully-cow gib her manger for de li’l’ Lordie to sleep in? Didn’t de cock crow de news to St. Stephen? An’ how do yer reckon de Wise Men could ha’ toted dere presents ’cross de sand if it hadn’t been fer dem cam’ls?’

“Yas, sir, honey! Ole Santy was right. De critters had as much right to Chris’mus as de folks, an’ ole Santy poun’ his knee an’ swear he gwine to gib dem one.

“So de ole saint he begun fer to study an’ to study what he gwine to do fer de critters. He can’t come down dere chimbleys ’ca’se dey ’ain’t got no houses; an’ he can’t fill dere stockin’s ’ca’se dey doan’t wear none; an’ he can’t fotch dem barley candy ’ca’se dey doan’t eat it. Wall, he set dere an’ study twell his brain ’mos’ bustin’ an’ bime-by he fotch up wif an idea.

“‘I know what I’ll do,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘Dem critters is sure to be like folks; dere’s certain to be a lot dat ain’t satisfied wif dere pussonalities. Now I’m gwine to trim up a Chris’mus tree wif a lot o’ odd tails, an’ ears, an’ wings, an’ legs, an’ sech-like, an’ any o’ de critters dat ain’t satisfied can choose jes’ what dey want. Dat’s what I’m gwine to do,’ says ole Santy.

“Wall, thinkin’ was doin’. An’ by de time Chris’mus come along dat ole saint had de mos’ cur’os, hetromologous collection o’ an’mal parts you ever done hear tell about. He sent word by de birds all over de world fer de critters to come to a Chris’mus celebration at de fust fir-tree dis side o’ de North Pole. ’Fo’ dey git dere ole Santy had it all trimmed up wif his presents; an’ when de critters trope up dey sure was bustin’ wif s’prize when dey see all de tails an’ wings an’ legs hangin’ dere.

“An’ de an’mals! Bless your heart, honey, you never see such a camp-meetin’! Dere was elephants an’ tigers an’ lions an’ yippopot’musses an’ rabbits an’ ’possums an’ mouses—every livin’ kind. An’ all de birds dat clip de air an’ all de fish dat swum de sea. Dey all come lopin’ up wif dere purtiest manners on; an’ dey scrape an’ dey bow an’ ax after ole Missus Santy an’ de chilluns. When dey’d axed an’ scraped all ’round, ole Santy says, says he:

“‘Now any o’ you-all critters dat want fer to change yer pussonalities can jes’ step right up an’ choose somethin’ new,’ says he.

“Everybody was mighty bashful at fust. Dey all tried to hide behind dere neighbors an’ look like dey was puffectly satisfied wif dere looks an’ dere habits. But bime-by a squeaky li’l’ voice calls out:

“‘If you please, Ole Man Santy, I’d like a pair o’ dem li’l’ brown wings, an’ thank you mighty much.’

“Santy look down an’ see it was one o’ de li’l’ mouses speakin’; an’ he reach up an’ take from de tree a cunnin’ pair o’ li’l’ wings an’ fastened dem on tight. An’ de next minute dat sassy li’l’ mouse went flippin’ an’ floppin’ into de air same as if he’d been born wif wings. An’ ever since, honey, he an’ his chilluns have been flyin’ ’stead o’ creepin’.”

“Did he turn into a bat, Uncle Joab?” David asked.

“Sure. What else you ’spec’ he could turn into? Wall, de nex’ to walk up was Bre’r Rabbit. He had a lot to say ’bout his ears bein’ so short he couldn’t hear ’nough, an’ his tail bein’ so long he couldn’t fetch up on it com’fably in de brier patch. He’d be powerful pleased if Santy’d gib him bigger ears an’ take away his tail. Dis made de ole saint chuckle; an’ he fotch down de biggest pair he can find an’ put dem on, an’ den he twist off de rabbit’s long, bushy tail. When de other critters see what transmigrate dey like to bu’st dere sides wif laughin’; an’ dis scare Bre’r Rabbit so dat he lay back his ears so he can’t hear so well, an’ he lope off to hide his confusi’n in de brier patch. An’ dere you’ll find him hidin’ to dis yeah day, honey.”

David laughed.

“And were there any more who weren’t satisfied?”

“Didn’t I tell you de critters were like folks? Bre’r Rabbit hadn’t more ’n cleared de Chris’mus tree when de squirrel sings out:

“‘If you please, Mr. Santy, I’d like Brudder Rabbit’s tail. I’d like Brudder Rabbit’s tail.’

“‘’Twon’t fit you,’ says de beaver. ‘It’s three sizes too big.’

“‘No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t!’ An’ de squirrel carry on so scan’lously dat ole Santy ’bliged to gib him de tail to keep him quiet. But, bless your heart, honey, you know as well as I do dat dat tail am no fit for dat squirrel!

“By dis time de critters was nigh over dere bashfulness, an’ dey was clamorin’ for what dey wanted. De leopard say his coat too yaller, an’ he’d like some nice, stylish black spots to tone it down. Den de zebra say stripes was more stylish dis year den spots, an’ he’d ’low he’d like stripes. De elephant say his feet too big to pick up things handy, an’ he’d like somethin’ extra to pick up things wif.

“Dis set de rest o’ de critters to ’sputin’ whar de elephant have room on his pussonality fer anythin’ extra; an’ while dey ’sputin’ ole Santy sit still an’ study. Bime-by he says, says he:

“‘De only spare room am on de end o’ your nose. If you want to have it dere, say so!’

“De elephant he say so. So Santy take one o’ dese yeah suckers, left over from a debilfish, an’ he stick it squar’ in de middle o’ de elephant’s nose. He stick it so hard, an’ he stick it so fast, dat it hasn’t come loose dese thousand o’ years.

“Wall, dat certainly was a busy Chris’mus fer de ole saint. He was fixin’ tails an’ legs an’ ears an’ wings ’most all day. De beaver he gets de sulks ’ca’se de squirrel’s got Bre’r Rabbit’s tail an’ he want it. De rest o’ de critters try to coax him to take somethin’ else, but ’pears like he crazy fer somethin’ behind. He took to moanin’ an’ wailin’ ’ca’se he can’t get what he wants twell bime-by he nat’rally gets ole Santy plumb wore out.

“‘Look yeah,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘You’s so sot on havin’ somethin’ behind, ’pears like I’d hab to gib you somethin’ diff’rent an’ distinguishin’.’ An’ wif dat de ole saint claps on him one o’ dem flappers dat he’d made fer de li’l’ seals to walk on. An’ it’s been hangin’ to de back o’ de beaver ever since.

“At las’ all de critters were satisfied ’ceptin’ de dog an’ de horse an’ de reindeer.

“‘What you want?’ says ole Santy to de dog.

“‘I want faithfulness,’ says de dog; an’ Santy gib it to him.

“‘What you want?’ he says to de horse.

“‘I want wisdom,’ says de horse; an’ Santy whisper it into his ear.

“‘Now what you want?’ he says last of all to de reindeer.

“‘I want to be your servant an’ lib always wif you,’ says de reindeer. An’ from dat minute to dis de reindeer an’ his chilluns have been totin’ fer ole Santy.

“An’ you listen yeah, honey. If you borrow Bre’r Rabbit’s ears to hear wif dis Chris’mus p’raps you’ll cotch de tromp o’ de reindeer’s hoofs an’ de jingle o’ his bells as he totes ole Santy through de night.”

David laughed happily.

“That’s a bully story, Uncle Joab, just a bully one!”

The old man chuckled appreciatively.

“Mebbe it’s good enough to fotch a li’l’ boy back some other day to see dis ole nigger.”

Johanna and Barney had to hear the story over twice before David went to bed that night. They seemed to like it as much as David had liked it.

“It must get pretty lonesome for the poor man, stormy days and long winter nights with no company but that old fiddle,” mused Johanna at last.

“Faith, I wouldn’t be minding a bit o’ that same company, myself, some night,” laughed Barney. “’Tis a sorry time since I’ve heard any good fiddling.”

But David did not say anything. He was looking deep into the fire and thinking very hard.

VI
THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY AGAIN LEADS THE WAY AND DAVID HEARS OF A CHRISTMAS
PROMISE

David was already beginning to feel very rich in Christmas as he climbed to the crest of the hill the next morning. Yes, the locked-out fairy was right. Real Christmas lay in the hearts and memories of people, and he was sure he was storing up some in his own to last for always.

It was still four days before Christmas, yet he felt all the warm glow of excitement, all the eagerness, all the gladness, that usually attended the very day itself. He was beginning to think that instead of one Christmas he was finding a whole week of it, and for a little boy who had had loneliness fastened to his heels like a shadow for so long the feeling was very wonderful. Not that he did not miss father and mother just the same, but they no longer seemed so far away. There were minutes when he could think them quite close, when they seemed to have a share in all he was doing and thinking, and when that happens with any one we love loneliness vanishes like a shadow at midday.

There were but two paths left for him that morning to choose between—the path leading to the trapper’s and the one to the “lunger’s.” It was not a particularly cheery day. The sky was a leaden gray—a hue forecasting snow before day’s end. The wind was biting and raw, and had there not been a quest afoot David would have been glad to stay near home and share Barney’s cheerful company. As it was, he had about made up his mind that he should choose the trapper. He knew as little about him as he had known of the others, and he pictured a big, gruff, hairy man something like his old Grimm illustration of Bluebeard. But for all that, he seemed more alluring on such a day than a “lunger.”

David very much hoped that the locked-out fairy would be there to take him the way he had chosen to go. He wanted not only the guidance of the fairy, but he wished to see him close again and talk with him. He was looking about for signs when his eyes swept the snow at his feet and there he found the trail laid for him. As far as eye could reach there were the tiny sharp prints of a squirrel’s foot, and they led, not down the hillside to the trapper’s hut, but, straight as a stone drops, to the foot-hill beyond, where the “lunger’s” cottage stood.

David heaved a sigh of disappointment. He would so much rather have gone the other way; but of what use is a fairy counselor and guide if one does not follow his trail? So with something very near to a flagging courage David pushed his way slowly after the tiny footprints.

He missed the exhilaration of the sunshine and air and excitement of the previous days. Somehow he felt this time was going to be a failure and he shrank from facing it; moreover, he thought of what he might have to tell Johanna and Barney afterward, around the fire. A moment before he had felt so rich in the feeling of Christmas. And now, was he going to find an unpleasant memory to take away from the good ones?

There was no sign of life about the little cottage on the foot-hill. The sleeping-porch was deserted, the windows were heavily curtained, the snow was piled up high and unbroken about the door; even the roadway beyond, which led down the other side to the village, was smooth and crusted, showing that no one had come or gone from the house since the last fall of snow.

“It looks awfully gloomy and deserted,” thought David. “The ‘lunger’ must have gone away or died!”

The last was a dreadfully dreary thought, and it almost turned David’s feet on the very threshold, in spite of the fairy’s trail. But the memory of the day before held him back. How nearly he had come to losing a bit of Christmas just because an old white-haired negro had looked at him suddenly through a window! He would mark himself as a quitter and a “’fraid-cat” for all time if he ever let such a thing happen again. And what would the boys on the block think of him?

With heroic boldness David pushed his skees up to the baseboard of the door and hammered hard on the brass knocker. Once, twice, three times he knocked. Then he heard soft feet inside and the turning of the key in the lock. In another minute the door opened, letting in a generous fall of snow and disclosing a tall, oldish woman in black, with very black hair and big, sorrowful black eyes.

“Madre de Dios!” she exclaimed in a soft voice full of surprised wonder. “A niño—here, in this freeze country!”

“If you please,” began David, politely, “I came—I came—”

But he did not finish. For the life of him he could not have told just why he had come.

“Entre, come!” And the woman drew him in and closed the door behind him. “A boy! It may be that it will put again the heart in Alfredo to see a boy. Come, chico!”

She opened another door at the end of a hall and led him into a bare, cold, cheerless room. Half a dozen black bentwood chairs stood with backs against the walls; the two rockers of the same faced each other at opposite sides of the fireplace; and between them stretched a cot covered with heavy blankets. A half-hearted fire burned on the hearth, and watching it listlessly from the cot lay a boy about twice his age, David thought.

“See, Alfredo! See chicito mio, who come here,” the woman called. And the sick youth turned his head slowly to look at them.

David saw a thin, colorless face with great, black eyes. They had the same look that was in the woman’s eyes, only the woman did not look sick, only sad. As the boy saw David he smiled in a pleased, surprised way, and held out a thin, white hand in welcome. But the hand was so thin David was almost ashamed to put out his own broad, brown little fist to take it. He compromised by leaving on his mitten—and he shook it very gently.

“Ah, it is good,” said the boy, simply. “I am glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” David beamed. He was glad he had come. For here there were things that he could do, and first of all he’d tackle the fire.

“It’s this way,” he explained as he slipped out of his outside things. “I’m spending the winter up on the hill, in the hotel lodge. It’s been getting sort of lonesome there lately since winter set in, so I thought—I—it seemed sort of nice to come around and look up some of the neighbors.” David finished out of breath.

Alfredo and his mother exchanged glances.

“That is good,” said the boy at last. “You are the first one, and we, too, have been what you call ‘lonesome.’”

“I’m awfully sorry.” And this time David held out the unmittened fist. “Say, do you mind if I build up that fire a little? It looks sort of—sick.”

“Ah!” The woman held up protesting hands. “Alfredo is too sick but to lie still. And I—what do I know about building fires in open places with wood? It is only the carbon I know, and the shut stove. And when our servant leave us three—four day ago and no one ever comes near to us I think then that we die of the cold before long time.”

Tears of utter despair showed in the woman’s eyes; and David found his own growing sympathetically moist.

“Oh, no! Barney wouldn’t let that happen—not to any one.”

It really was dreadful to find a sick boy and a woman alone—strangers in this country—with the cold and the loneliness to fight.

“Now you tell me where the wood is, and I’ll have a cracker-jack fire in a minute. Barney’s showed me how. I can make ’em burn even when the wood’s damp.” David did not finish without a tinge of pride in his tone.

He made several trips to the little back room beyond the kitchen which served as woodshed, and in a few minutes he had a generous stack of logs and kindlings beside the hearth and a roaring fire blazing up the big chimney. The glow and warmth lit up Alfredo’s cheeks and kindled a new life in the woman’s eyes. Such a little thing it takes sometimes to put the hearts back in people.

“Now, if you want me to, I’ll just fill up the kitchen stove and the one in the hall. It’s really too cold here for any one,” he ended, apologetically.

The woman accepted his offer, mutely grateful; and when both stoves had finally responded to his coaxings and were cheerfully crackling and sending out the much-needed heat, David came back to the open fire and drew up one of the rockers.

“It is a good niño, eh, Alfredito?” said the woman, softly.

David wriggled uncomfortably.

“Say—I’ll tell you about the flagman, and Uncle Joab at the lumber-camp. Want me to?”

The offer was made as a cloak to his embarrassment; but the next moment, as he launched into his narrative of the two previous days, he had forgotten everything but the tales he had to tell and the interest of his listeners.

When he had finished, David was surprised to see the change in the faces of the two. For the first time they seemed really alive and warm, inside and out. Moreover, they looked happy, strangely happy.

“We had almost forgot, chico mio,” the mother said, stroking one of the thin, white hands, “that comes now the Natividad. Ah, who would think to find it here in this freeze country!”

“We are South-Americans,” the boy explained. “And down there it is summer now, with the oranges ripe, and the piña growing and the air full of the sweetness from the coffee-fields in bloom and the jasmine and mariposa. We did not know such cold could be—or so much snow. Eh, madre?” And the boy smiled wanly.

“But how did you come way up here from your country? Was it the—” David left the question unfinished.

The boy nodded.

“I came first, to be in one of your fine universities. Many South-Americans come here for their education. But before many months I take the cough, and it is then no use to go back to our country. We blow out there like a candle in the wind.”

The mother went on.

“But the great American doctor say here there is a chance in the mountains, if he can stand the winter. And oh, at first he grow much better! We see the good health coming. But now, the great cold, the heart-hunger, the alone being, it seem to take his strength. I fear—”

“Hush, madre! This is not good cheer for a guest.”

David felt his cheeks burn with the sudden tenderness in the boy’s look.

“Come, madre,” he went on, “have we not also a tale of Christmas, of the Natividad, to give away?”

“There is that one I have told you a thousand times—the one my mother told me when I was a niña, home in Spain. The tale of the Tres Reys and the Christmas promise.”

The boy sighed happily.

“There is no better tale in all Spain. Tell it, madre, to our friend here.”

And so this was how the third bit of Christmas came to David, by way of a locked-out fairy, a rekindled fire, and a stranger from the far South.

When the Christ-child was born in Bethlehem of Judea, long years ago, three kings rode out of the East on their camels, bearing gifts to Him. They followed the star until at last they came to the manger where He lay, a little, new-born baby. Kneeling down, they put their gifts beside him: gold, frankincense, and myrrh; they kissed the hem of the little white mantle that He wore, and blessed Him. Then the kings rode away to the East again, but before ever they went they whispered a promise to the Christ-child.

And the promise? You shall hear it as the kings gave it to the Christ-child, long years ago.

“As long as there be children on the earth, on every Christmas Eve we three kings shall ride on camels, even as we rode to Thee this night; and even as we bore Thee gifts so shall we bear gifts to every child in memory of Thee—thou holy Babe of Bethlehem!”

In Spain they have remembered what the Christmas kings promised, and when Christmas Eve comes each child puts his sapatico—his little shoe—between the gratings of the window that they may know a child is in that house and leave a gift.

Often the shoe is filled with grass for the camels, and a plate of dates and figs is left beside it, for the children know the kings have far to go and may be hungry.

At day’s end bands of children march out of the city gates, going to meet the kings. But it always grows dark before they come. The children are afraid upon the lonely road and hurry back to their homes, where the good madres hear them say one prayer to the Nene Jesu, as they call the Christ-child, and then put them to bed to dream of the Christmas kings.

Long, long ago there lived in Spain, in the crowded part of a great city, an old woman called Doña Josefa. The street in which she lived was little and narrow, so narrow that if you leaned out of the window of Doña Josefa’s house you could touch with your finger-tips the house across the way, and when you looked above your head the sky seemed but a string of blue, tying the houses all together. The sun never found its way into this little street.

The people who lived here were very poor, as you may guess; Doña Josefa was poor, likewise. But in one thing she was very rich—she knew more stories than there were feast-days in the year, and that is a great many. Whenever there came a moment free from work, when Doña Josefa had no water to fetch from the public well, nor gold to stitch upon the altar cloth for the Church of Santa Maria del Rosario, then she would run out of her house into the street and call:

“Niños, niños, come quickly! Here is a story waiting for you.”

And the children would come flying like the gray palomas when corn is thrown for them in the Plaza. Ah, how many children there were in that little street! There were José and Miguel, and the niños of Enrique, the cobbler, Alfredito and Juana and Esperanza; and the little twin sisters of Pancho, the peddler; and Angela, Maria Teresa, Pedro, Edita, and many more. Last of all there were Manuel and Rosita. They had no father, and their mother was a lavandera who stood all day on the banks of the river outside the city, washing clothes.

When Doña Josefa had called the children from all the doorways and the dark corners she would sit down in the middle of the street and gather them about her. This was safe because the street was far too narrow to allow a horse or wagon to pass through. Sometimes a donkey would slowly pick its way along, or a stupid goat come searching for things to eat, but that was all.