Chapter III: Part 3

It happened on the day before Christmas that Doña Josefa had finished her work and sat, as usual, with the children about her.

“To-day you shall have a Christmas story,” she said, and then she told them of the three kings and the promise they had made the Christ-child.

“And is it so—do the kings bring presents to the children now?” Miguel asked.

Doña Josefa nodded her head.

“Yes.”

“Then why have they never left us one? The three kings never pass this street on Christmas Eve. Why is it, doña?”

“Perhaps it is because we have no shoes to hold their gifts,” said Angela.

And this is true. The poor children of Spain go barefooted, and often never have a pair of shoes till they grow up.

Manuel had listened silently to the others, but now he pulled the sleeve of Doña Josefa’s gown with coaxing fingers:

“I know why it is the kings bring no gifts to us. See, the street; it is too small; their camels could not pass between the door-steps here. The kings must ride where the streets are broad and smooth and clean, where their long mantles will not be soiled and torn and the camels will not stumble. It is the children in the great streets, the children of the rich, who find presents in their sapaticos on Christmas morning. Is it not so, Doña Josefa?”

And Miguel cried, “Does Manuel speak true—is it only the children of the rich?”

“Ah, chicito mio, it should not be so! When the promise was given to the Nene Jesu there in Bethlehem they said, ‘to every child.’ Yes, every little child.”

“But it is not strange they should forget us here,” Manuel insisted. “The little street is hidden in the shadow of the great ones.”

Then Rosita spoke, clasping her hands together with great eagerness:

“I know; it is because we have no shoes! That is why they never stop. Perhaps Enrique would lend us the shoes he is mending, just for one night. If we had shoes the kings would surely see that there are little children in the street, and leave a gift for each of us. Come, let us ask Enrique!”

“Madre de Dios, it is a blessed thought!” cried all. And like the flock of gray palomas they swept down the street to the farthest end, where Enrique hammered and stitched away all day on the shoes of the rich children.

Manuel stayed behind with Doña Josefa. When the last pair of little brown feet had disappeared inside the sapateria he said, softly:

“If some one could go out and meet the kings to tell them of this little street, and how the niños here have never had a Christmas gift, do you think they might ride hither to-night?”

Doña Josefa shook her head doubtfully.

“If that were possible—But never have I heard of any one who met the kings on Christmas Eve.”

All day in the city people hurried to and fro. In the great streets flags were waving from the housetops, and wreaths of laurel, or garlands of heliotrope and mariposa, hung above the open doorways and in the windows. Sweetmeat-sellers were crying their wares; and the Keeper-of-the-City lighted flaming torches to hang upon the gates and city walls. Everywhere was merrymaking and gladness, for not only was this Christmas Eve, but the King of Spain was coming to keep his holiday within the city. Some whispered that he was riding from the North, and with him rode his cousins, the kings of France and Lombardy, and with them were a great following of nobles, knights, and minstrels. Others said the kings rode all alone—it was their wish.

As the sun was turning the cathedral spires to shafts of gold, bands of children, hand in hand, marched out of the city. They took the road that led toward the setting sun, thinking it was the East, and said among themselves, “See, yonder is the way the kings will ride.”

“I have brought a basket of figs,” cried one.

“I have dates in a new panuela,” cried another.

“And I,” cried a third, “I have brought a sack of sweet limes, they are so cooling.”

Thus each in turn showed some small gift that he was bringing for the kings. And while they chatted together one child began to sing the sweet Nativity Hymn. In a moment others joined until the still night air rang with their happy voices.

“Unto us a Child is born,
Unto us a gift is given.
Hail with holiness the morn,
Kneel before the Prince of Heaven.
Blessed be this day of birth,
God hath given His Son to earth.
Jesu, Jesu, Nene Jesu,
Hallelujah!”

Behind the little hills the sun went down, leaving a million sparks of light upon the road.

“Yonder come the kings!” the children cried. “See the splendor of their shining crowns and how the jewels sparkle on their mantles! They may be angry if they find us out so late; come, let us run home before they see us.”

The children turned. Back to the city gates they ran, back to their homes, to the good madres watching for them and their own white beds ready for them.

But one they left behind them on the road: a little, bare-limbed boy whose name was Manuel. He watched until the children had disappeared within the gates, and then he turned again toward the setting sun.

“I have no gift for the kings,” he thought, “but there is fresh green grass beside the way that I can gather for the camels.”

He stopped, pulled his hands full, and stuffed it in the front of the little blue vestido that he wore. He followed the road for a long way until heavy sleep came to his eyes.

“How still it is upon the road! God has blown out His light and soon it will be dark. I wish I were with the others, safe within the city; for the dark is full of fearsome things when one is all alone.... Mamita will be coming home soon and bringing supper for Rosita and me. Perhaps to-night there will be an almond dulce or pan de gloria—perhaps.... I wonder will Rosita not forget the little prayer I told her to be always saying. My feet hurt with the many stones; the night wind blows cold; I am weary and my feet stumble with me.... Oh, Nene Jesu, listen! I also make the prayer: ‘Send the three kings before Manuel is too weary and afraid!’”

A few more steps he took upon the road, and then, as a reed is blown down by the wind, Manuel swayed, unknowingly for a moment, and slowly sank upon the ground, fast asleep.

How long he slept I cannot tell you; but a hand on his shoulder wakened him. Quickly he opened his eyes, wondering, and saw—yes, he saw the three kings! Tall and splendid they looked in the starlight, their mantles shimmering with myriad gems. One stood above Manuel, asking what he did upon the road at that late hour.

Manuel rose to his feet, thrusting his hand inside the shirt for the grass he had gathered.

“It is for the camels, señor; I have no other gift. But you—you ride horses this Christmas Eve!”

“Yes, we ride horses. What is that to you?”

“Pardon, señores, nothing. The three kings can ride horses if they wish; only—we were told you rode on camels from the East.”

“What does the child want?” The voice was kind, but it sounded impatient, as though the one who spoke had work waiting to be done and was anxious to be about it.

Manuel heard and felt all this wondering. “What if there is not time for them to come, or gifts enough!” He laid an eager, pleading hand on one king’s mantle.

“I can hold the horses if you will come this once. It is a little street and hard to find, señores; I thought perhaps you would leave a present—just one little present for the children there. You told the Christ-child you would give to every child. Don’t you remember? There are many of us who have never had a gift—a Christmas gift.”

“Do you know who we are?”

Manuel answered, joyfully: “Oh yes, Excellencias, you are the Three Christmas Kings, riding from Bethlehem. Will you come with me?”

The kings spoke with one accord, “Verily, we will.”

One lifted Manuel on his horse; and silently they rode into the city. The Keeper slumbered at the gates; the streets were empty. On, past the houses that were garlanded they went unseen; and on through the great streets until they came to the little street at last. The kings dismounted. They gave their bridles into Manuel’s hand, and then, gathering up their precious mantles of silk and rich brocade, they passed down the little street. With eyes that scarce believed what they saw, Manuel watched them go from house to house, saw them stop and feel for the shoes between the gratings, the shoes loaned by Enrique, the cobbler, and saw them fill each one with shining gold pieces.

In the morning Manuel told the story to the children as they went to spend one golden doblon for toys and candy and sugared cakes. And a gift they brought for Doña Josefa, too; a little figure of the Holy Mother with the Christ-child in her arms.

And so the promise made in Bethlehem was made again, and to a little child; and it was kept. For many, many years, long after Manuel was grown and had niños of his own, the kings remembered the little street, and brought their gifts there every Christmas Eve.

There was a long silence after David had finished retelling the story to Barney and Johanna that night. The wind was howling outside and beating the snow in hard cakes against the windows.

“Sure, it’s up to some one to keep heart in those two till spring comes,” Johanna said at last. “Think o’ coming up here from one o’ them sizzling-hot places. Holy St. Patrick!”

“Aye, and a sick boy and a woman—the frail kind, I’m thinking, not used to lifting her hand to anything heavy.”

Barney got up and peered out.

“Well, if the snow’s not over our heads the morrow I can beat my way there and keep their fires going for another day.”

David got up and joined Barney, sliding a grateful hand through his.

“That would be bully! You know his mother said if they could only keep the big fire going on the open porch and get him out there again she was sure he’d begin to get better. It’s been the cold and the staying indoors that has put him back. Do you think, Barney, do you think—You know I could take my turn at it.”

“Sure and ye can, laddy. Wait till the morrow and we’ll see what we can do—the two of us.”

VII
THE TRAPPER’S TALE OF THE FIRST BIRTHDAY

The snow was still falling steadily next morning and David came down to breakfast with an anxious face.

“Now don’t be worrying, laddy,” was Barney’s reassuring greeting. “It takes a powerful lot o’ snow to keep a man housed on these hills when he has something fetching him out.”

And Johanna, coming in with her hands full of steaming griddle-cakes, brought more encouragement.

“Sure, it’s a storm, but not too fierce for a strong man like Barney to brave for them that’s in trouble. And I’ve a can of good soup jelly and a fresh-baked loaf of bread and some eggs for ye to fetch with ye.”

“Oh!” David dug his two hands down deep in his pockets and smiled ecstatically. “I suppose—it’s too bad going for me.” He appealed to Barney.

“Aye, it is that! Wait till afternoon. The storm may break by then and ye could get out for a bit. But there’s too much weather afoot for a little lad just now.”

So David watched Barney make ready alone. Johanna’s things were bundled and strapped on his back that his two arms might be free. Then he made fast his snow-shoes—it was no day for skees—and pulling his fur parka down to cover all but his eyes he started off. He looked like a man of the northland. David watched him out of sight, and then he and Johanna fell to the making of a mammoth Christmas cake. There were nuts to be cracked and fruits to be chopped; all good boy work, as Johanna said, and he was glad to be busy.

At noon Barney returned with great news. He had left the South-Americans comfortable and happy. Alfredo was back on his open porch with a monstrous fire roaring up the outside chimney and wood enough stacked within their reach for them to keep it going for a week. The mother had wept over Johanna’s gifts. They had lived for days on canned things and stale bread; and she had blessed them all in what Barney had termed “Spanish lingo.”

“Sure, ye needn’t be fearing about them longer, laddy; they’ve the hearts back in them again, and, what’s more, they’ll stay there, I’m thinking.”

As Barney had prophesied, the snow stopped at noon; and after dinner David set forth on his last quest. Warnings from Johanna and Barney followed him out of the lodge: not to be going far—and to mind well his trail. All of which he promised. It was not so very far to the trapper’s and the trail was as plain as the hillside itself.

There was no sign of the locked-out fairy, and David expected none. There was but one path left to take. Why should any one come to show him the way? Although the trail lay down the hill David’s going was very slow. He sank deep at every step and where the drifts were high he had to make long detours, which nearly doubled the distance. When he reached the hut at last he met the trapper at his very door-sill. The pack on his back looked full, and David guessed he had just been down to the village for supplies. He eyed David with a grave concern through the opening in his parka; and David wondered whether the rest of the face would be grave, or kind, or forbidding.

“Nicholas Bassaraba has few visitors, but you are welcome.”

The voice was gruff but not unkindly, and the trapper pushed open the door of his hut and motioned David inside. They stood stamping the snow from their boots; and then the trapper lifted his hood and David saw that he was not at all like the Grimm picture of Bluebeard. He was dark and swarthy-skinned, to be sure, but he wore no beard—only a small mustache—and his eyebrows were not heavy and sinister-looking and his mouth was almost friendly. If the line of gravity should break into a smile David felt sure it would be a very friendly smile. The trapper proceeded to remove the rest of his outer garments and David did the same. When the operation was over they stood there facing each other solemnly—a very large, foreign-looking man and a small American boy.

“Come! This is a day to sit close to the fire and to smoke, if one is big. If one happens to be small, there is—let me see—I think there is chocolate.”

The trapper opened a small cupboard and drew out a tinfoiled package which he tossed over to David; then from his pocket he brought a pipe and a pouch. He held the pipe empty between his teeth, while he rebuilt the fire that was low on the hearth. When the fresh wood began to snap he drew up a chair for each of them, close, and proceeded to fill his pipe.

David gazed curiously about the room. It was large and it seemed to serve as kitchen, dining-room, sleeping and living quarters, all combined. The end where they sat by the open fireplace was for living and sleeping; the two comfortable chairs, the table with a reading-lamp, the small case with books, and the couch plainly told this. At the other end was a cookstove, the cupboard, water-pails, dish-rack, frying-pans and pots hanging against the wall, and a rough pine table with a straight chair. The walls were covered with skins and guns, cartridge-belts, and knives of all descriptions. Altogether David found it a very interesting place, almost as interesting as the man who lived there. His eyes came back to the trapper, who again was considering him gravely.

“It’s a bully good place for a man to live in,” was David’s enthusiastic comment.

“It is good enough for one who must live a stranger, in a strange land.”

For all his rough clothes and his calling, the man spoke more like a scholar than a backwoodsman; David had noticed that the first time he had spoken. He spoke with as educated a tongue as his own father; there was a slight foreign twist to it, that was the only difference.

“Where is your country?”

David asked it simply, not out of idle curiosity, but to place the man at home in his own mind.

“My country? Ah, what used to be my country is a little place, not so big as this one state of yours. It is somewhere near the blue Mediterranean, but it is nearer to Prussia. Bah! What does it matter? Nicholas Bassaraba knows no country now but the woods; no people but those.” He pointed to the skins on the walls.

“And you kill them!” The accusation was out before David realized it was even on his tongue.

“Ah, what would you have me do? I must live. Is that not so? And is it not better to live on the creatures of the woods than on one’s fellow-men? I kill only what I need for sustenance; for the rest I hurt not one.”

There was a hidden fierceness back of the soft voice and David felt immediately apologetic:

“Excuse me! Of course it’s all right. I only thought when you spoke of them as your people, and then pointed to their pelts hung around, it sounded sort of barbaric. Sort of like the Indians showing off their scalps, or the headhunters showing their skulls.”

The trapper smiled, and the smile was friendly.

“Youth is ever quick to accuse and as quick to forgive. I know. It is hard for you to understand how I can make them my friends through the long summer; and then, when winter comes and there is a price on their fur, trap them and kill them. But Nicholas Bassaraba kills only enough to bring him in the bare needs of life, and then only for one half the year. For the rest, I am a guide; I carry the packs for the gentlemen campers; I build their fires; I draw their water.”

The smile changed to a contemptuous curl of the lips. “Such it is to be a man locked out of his own country.”

David watched him uncomfortably for an instant. Then he laughed—he could not help it.

“You’re not the only one. There are two more of us; and I don’t know but what you’d call the flagman another, and Uncle Joab, and maybe the South-Americans, too. You see, I’m just sort of locked out, but the others are truly locked out.” And David launched into an account of himself and of what he knew of the others, all but the fairy.

“And is that all? I thought you said there was another person,” reminded the trapper.

David blushed consciously. Not that there was the slightest reason for blushing. He certainly felt no shame in his acquaintanceship with the locked-out fairy. It was rather the feeling of shyness in having to put it all into words, and there was always the uncertainty of how a stranger would take it. You never could tell how people were going to take fairies, anyhow. Besides, maybe there were no fairies in what had been this man’s country.

“The other is not exactly a person,” David began, slowly, “not exactly. Say, did you ever see a fairy?”

A look of amazement filled the face of the trapper. It seemed to well up from his eyes and burst forth from his mouth.

“You mean the little people?” he asked at last. “The nixies and the dwarfs and the kobolds, that live under the earth and play pranks on us unsuspecting mortals?”

David nodded.

“Sort of. Have you ever seen one?”

The trapper shook his head vehemently.

“Well, _I_ have!” And without in the least understanding why he was doing it David told the story of the locked-out fairy.

When he had finished, the trapper was smiling again.

“Ah, the poor manikin! And here there are three, five, seven of us, all locked out from our homelands; and here was I, Nicholas Bassaraba, thinking I was the only one to feel the homesickness. Bah! Sometimes a man is a fool!”

He thought a minute.

“And you say he wore the squirrel coat—the very one I missed from the shed door where it was drying? And all the time I think it was the African from the lumber-camp who takes it.”

He laughed aloud and stretched his arms out with a little cry of pleasure.

“Ah, it is good, very good, for one outcast to clothe another. To-night I must put out some bread and honey, as my people used to for the little spirits; the manikin may be hungry.”

“Tell me,” said David, suddenly, “do your people have any stories—stories of Christmas?”

“Christmas!”

The trapper repeated it—almost as if it were a strange word to him. “Wait a minute—keep very still. I will see can I think back a story of Christmas.”

David sat without stirring, almost without breathing, as the trapper puffed silently at his pipe. He puffed the bowl quite empty, then knocking the ashes clean out of his pipe he put it back in his pocket again and looked up at David with the old grave look.

“There is a people in our country who are called wanderers; some say they have been wanderers for two thousand years. You call them gipsies or Egyptians; we call them ‘Tzigan.’ Now, they are vagabonds, for the most part, dirty, thieving rascals, ready to tell a fortune or pick a pocket, as the fancy takes them; but—it was not always so. Some say that they have been cursed because they feared to give shelter to Mary and Joseph and the Child when the King of Judea forced them to flee into Egypt. But the gipsies themselves say that this is not true; and this is the story the Tzigan mothers tell their children on the night of Christmas, as they sit around the fire that is always burning in the heart of a Romany camp.”

It was winter—and twelve months since the gipsies had driven their flocks of mountain-sheep over the dark, gloomy Balkans, and had settled in the southlands near to the Ægean. It was twelve months since they had seen a wonderful star appear in the sky and heard the singing of angelic voices afar off.

They had marveled much concerning the star until a runner had passed them from the South bringing them news that the star had marked the birth of a Child whom the wise men had hailed as “King of Israel” and “Prince of Peace.” This had made Herod of Judea both afraid and angry and he had sent soldiers secretly to kill the Child; but in the night they had miraculously disappeared—the Child with Mary and Joseph—and no one knew whither they had gone. Therefore Herod had sent runners all over the lands that bordered the Mediterranean with a message forbidding every one giving food or shelter or warmth to the Child, under penalty of death. For Herod’s anger was far-reaching and where his anger fell there fell his sword likewise. Having given his warning, the runner passed on, leaving the gipsies to marvel much over the tale they had heard and the meaning of the star.

Now on that day that marked the end of the twelve months since the star had shone the gipsies said among themselves: “Dost thou think that the star will shine again to-night? If it were true, what the runner said, that when it shone twelve months ago it marked the place where the Child lay it may even mark His hiding-place this night. Then Herod would know where to find Him, and send his soldiers again to slay Him. That would be a cruel thing to happen!”

The air was chill with the winter frost, even there in the southland, close to the Ægean; and the gipsies built high their fire and hung their kettle full of millet, fish, and bitter herbs for their supper. The king lay on his couch of tiger-skins and on his arms were amulets of heavy gold, while rings of gold were on his fingers and in his ears. His tunic was of heavy silk covered with a leopard cloak, and on his feet were shoes of goat-skin trimmed with fur. Now, as they feasted around the fire a voice came to them through the darkness, calling. It was a man’s voice, climbing the mountains from the south.

“Ohe! Ohe!” he shouted. And then nearer, “O—he!”

The gipsies were still disputing among themselves whence the voice came when there walked into the circle about the fire a tall, shaggy man, grizzled with age, and a sweet-faced young mother carrying a child.

“We are outcasts,” said the man, hoarsely. “Ye must know that whosoever succors us will bring Herod’s vengeance like a sword about his head. For a year we have wandered homeless and cursed over the world. Only the wild creatures have not feared to share their food and give us shelter in their lairs. But to-night we can go no farther; and we beg the warmth of your fire and food enough to stay us until the morrow.”

The king looked at them long before he made reply. He saw the weariness in their eyes and the famine in their cheeks; he saw, as well, the holy light that hung about the child, and he said at last to his men:

“It is the Child of Bethlehem, the one they call the ‘Prince of Peace.’ As yon man says, who shelters them shelters the wrath of Herod as well. Shall we let them tarry?”

One of their number sprang to his feet, crying: “It is a sin to turn strangers from the fire, a greater sin if they be poor and friendless. And what is a king’s wrath to us? I say bid them welcome. What say the rest?”

And with one accord the gipsies shouted, “Yea, let them tarry!”

They brought fresh skins and threw them down beside the fire for the man and woman to rest on. They brought them food and wine, and goat’s milk for the Child; and when they had seen that all was made comfortable for them they gathered round the Child—these black gipsy men—to touch His small white hands and feel His golden hair. They brought Him a chain of gold to play with and another for His neck and tiny arm.

“See, these shall be Thy gifts, little one,” said they, “the gifts for Thy first birthday.”

And long after all had fallen asleep the Child lay on His bed of skins beside the blazing fire and watched the light dance on the beads of gold. He laughed and clapped His hands together to see the pretty sight they made; and then a bird called out of the thicket close by.

“Little Child of Bethlehem,” it called, “I, too, have a birth gift for Thee. I will sing Thy cradle song this night.” And softly, like the tinkling of a silver bell and like clear water running over mossy places, the nightingale sang and sang, filling the air with melodies.

And then another voice called to him:

“Little Child of Bethlehem, I am only a tree with boughs all bare, for the winter has stolen my green cloak, but I also can give Thee a birth gift. I can give Thee shelter from the biting north wind that blows.” And the tree bent low its branches and twined a rooftree and a wall about the Child.

Soon the Child was fast asleep, and while He slept a small brown bird hopped out of the thicket. Cocking his little head, he said:

“What can I be giving the Child of Bethlehem? I could fetch Him a fat worm to eat or catch Him the beetle that crawls on yonder bush, but He would not like that! And I could tell Him a story of the lands of the north, but He is asleep and would not hear.” And the brown bird shook its head quite sorrowfully. Then it saw that the wind was bringing the sparks from the fire nearer and nearer to the sleeping Child.

“I know what I can do,” said the bird, joyously. “I can catch the hot sparks on my breast, for if one should fall upon the Child it would burn Him grievously.”

So the small brown bird spread wide his wings and caught the sparks on his own brown breast. So many fell that the feathers were burned; and burned was the flesh beneath until the breast was no longer brown, but red.

Next morning, when the gipsies awoke, they found Mary and Joseph and the Child gone. For Herod had died, and an angel had come in the night and carried them back to the land of Judea. But the good God blessed those who had cared that night for the Child.

To the nightingale He said: “Your song shall be the sweetest in all the world, for ever and ever; and only you shall sing the long night through.”

To the tree He said: “Little fir-tree, never more shall your branches be bare. Winter and summer you and your seedlings shall stay green, ever green.”

Last of all He blessed the brown bird: “Faithful little watcher, from this night forth you and your children shall have red breasts, that the world may never forget your gift to the Child of Bethlehem.”

The trapper smiled gravely at David.

“And that, my friend, was the robin.”

“Yes, I know,” said David, simply.

He felt very still and quiet inside, almost as if he had dreamed himself into the Romany camp beside the fire, and seen with his own eyes the coming of the Child. It seemed too real, too close to talk about just then; he even forgot to tell the trapper that he liked it. And then the trapper’s next words brought him to his feet.

“You are not knowing, it may be, that the night has fallen and the snow is with it again. Come, I think Nicholas Bassaraba will guide you safely to your hilltop.”

One glance through the window told David the truth of the words. It was almost dark outside and snow was very thick in the air.

Silently they put on their garments and fastened their snow-shoes. Then with the command to keep close at his heels, the trapper led the way up the trail.

The first thing of which David was conscious was that his strength was going amazingly fast. It seemed but a moment since he had started, and the trapper was climbing very slowly; yet David began to find it unbelievably hard to pull one foot after the other. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled on a few yards farther. Then he fell, picked himself up, and fell again. The third time the trapper helped him to his feet, and, coming behind him, he put a strong hand at David’s back and pushed. They struggled on this way for another ten minutes until David fell again. This time it was the trapper’s strength alone which righted him, for David’s had entirely gone. He stood looking with dazed eyes into the trapper’s, ashamed and wholly spent.

“It is all right. It is nothing to be ashamed of.” The trapper’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “You have climbed many lengths farther than I expected. Now you shall see how Nicholas Bassaraba can pack a hundred pounds when he is guiding for a friend.”

He stooped and lifted David on his back, drawing the boy’s arms well over his shoulders, and slipping his own firmly under the boy’s feet.

That was the last David knew until he felt the ground under his feet again and blinked stupidly at the light Johanna was holding at the open door of the lodge.

“Laddy, laddy, wherever have ye been?”

He heard the distress in Johanna’s voice even through his own numbness, and tried to smile reassuringly.

“Barney’s been scouring the hill for ye this half-hour.”

“He has been to visit a friend, and the friend has brought him back safely,” said the trapper. And without another word he disappeared in the snow and the darkness.

VIII
THE CHRISTMAS THAT WAS NEARLY LOST

It snowed hard all the next day, so hard that even Barney did not venture out; and David spent his time between the kitchen, where Johanna was frosting the Christmas cake, and the woodshed, where Barney was making the “woodpile look mortal weary.”

David’s mind was full of the happenings of the days that had passed, and of future plans. Everything had been as fine as a boy could wish, but he did not want it to stop. Here it was two days before Christmas, and he was quite sure there was still a lot to be found. The question was, where should he look for it now that the matter of neighbors had been exhausted?

As for the plans, they were growing every minute; but he had decided to say nothing about them to Johanna and Barney until the next day, when they were full-grown. Of one thing David felt certain: nothing could keep Christmas away this year. And so when Barney began to tease him on one of his trips to the woodshed and say that if this weather lasted he guessed the Christmas present from father would get there about Washington’s Birthday and that he guessed it would take a Santa Claus with seven-league boots to make the hilltop this year, David just smiled and looked very wise. Something was going to happen; he knew perfectly well that something was going to happen. And so, when it actually did happen, about half-way between dinner and supper time, he was not nearly as surprised as Johanna and Barney, who in a way might have expected it.

They were all three startled by a banging on the door and a stamping and pounding of feet outside. So loud did it sound in the midst of the silence that David thought there must be at least a dozen men. Great was his astonishment, therefore, when Barney swung open the door and a solitary figure stepped in, muffled in fur to the eyes.

“Burrrrrrrrrrr!” boomed the figure, and then he swept off his cap and made a laughing bow.

“Hello, Johanna! Hello, Barney! You never thought I would remind you right in the midst of a Christmas blizzard of that promise you made last summer. Come now, did you?”

“Holy St. Patrick!” gasped Johanna.

“Mr. Peter!” ejaculated Barney. “But how in the name of all the saints did ye ever make it in this storm?”

The man laughed again.

“Just the usual nerve of the tenderfoot. I left my painting-kit, bag, and canvases with the station-agent. He has promised to send them up if the storm ever stops. And I made a wager with him—a gallon can of next spring’s syrup against a box of cigars—that I’d be here by four o’clock. What’s the time?”

He had his things off by this time and was looking at his watch.

“Aha! Ten minutes to the good! If your wires are not down, Barney, I’ll call him up. He’ll be wanting to get ready to tap that maple-tree.”

The next moment they could hear his voice booming at the telephone.

“Yes, siree. Here I am, and not even my breath frozen. No, you needn’t be sending out that snow-plow after me just yet. Only get my things up here as soon as you can. All right!”

Another instant he was back in the room again, vigorously shaking Johanna’s and Barney’s hands.

“Yes, here I am, to paint those snow canvases I’ve been going to do so long, and to dodge Christmas.”

Then it was that for the first time he became conscious of David in the window recess.

“Bless my soul! Who’s this, Johanna?”

Johanna explained, and David came forward and held out an eager hand. He liked this Mr. Peter tremendously, in spite of his last remark, and he was no end glad he had come.

The man returned David’s greeting with equal cordiality, while he screwed up his face into a comical expression of mock disgust.

“And I came up here to dodge Christmas! Say, young man, do you think it’s possible for any person to get away from Christmas with a boy around?”

“I hope not,” laughed David.

“You don’t mean to tell me that Christmas hasn’t grown into a very tiresome, shabby affair that we would all escape from if we only had the courage? You don’t believe there is anything in it nowadays, do you, except the beastly grind of paying your friends back and thanking your lucky stars it doesn’t happen oftener than once a year?”

“I certainly do, sir.” David spoke as one with authority.

The man rubbed his hands together thoughtfully and his eyes twinkled.

“I see. Johanna and Barney have gone off to fix a bed for me somewhere, so suppose we discuss this matter thoroughly. I’ll tell you my personal feelings and you can tell me yours. In the end, maybe we’ll compromise!”

He led the way to the window-seat and spread himself out comfortably in one corner; David curled up in the one opposite.

“To begin with,” and the man pounded his knee emphatically, “Christmas is responsible for a very bad economic condition. Every one spends more money than he has; that’s very bad. Next, you generally put your money into articles that are neither useful nor beautiful; you give your maiden aunt handkerchiefs and she has ten dozen of them already put by in her closet, while you send a box of candy to the janitor’s little girl, who can’t go out because she hasn’t any shoes to wear. Now if I could borrow an invisible cloak and go around a week before Christmas, peeping in on all the folks that need things and finding out just what they need, and then come back on Christmas Eve and drop the gifts unseen beside their doors—well, that might make Christmas seem a little less shabby. But as it is, I’m not going to give away an inch of foolish Christmas this year. And I’m not going to say ‘Merry Christmas’ to a solitary soul.”

“Maybe you’ll forget,” laughed David. “Now, is it my turn?”

Mr. Peter nodded.

“Well, I’ve found out, just lately, that Christmas isn’t things—it’s thoughts. And I’ve an idea how to make a bully Christmas this year out of nothing.”

He hunched up one knee and clasped his arms about it.

“You see, I used to think that you couldn’t have Christmas without all the store fixings and lots of presents, just as you do. And when I first came ’way up here I thought it was just naturally ‘good-by, Christmas.’ Then something happened.”

“Suppose you tell me what. We might make a better compromise if I understood just what did happen.”

David considered him thoughtfully. Johanna had said while he was out at the telephone that Mr. Peter was a painter, a bachelor chap with no one in particular belonging to him, and David wondered if he would really understand. As Johanna had often said, “There are some things you just can’t put through a body’s head.”

“Things happen ’way up here in the hills that would never happen in the city, never in a hundred years,” he began, slowly; and then, gaining courage from the painter’s nod of comprehension, he told all about everything. Of course he could not tell all the stories as they had been told to him—there was not time—but he told about them, and particularly about the “heathen.”

“And that isn’t all,” he finished, breathlessly. “I’ve a great plan for to-morrow night, if Johanna and Barney and you will help.”

“We might make that the compromise,” smiled Mr. Peter. “What is it?”

David told, and when he had quite finished, the man beside him nodded his head as if he approved.

“What does Johanna say?” he asked.

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“Well, we’ll ask Johanna and Barney to-night. Now let’s hunt them up and find out when supper is going to be ready. I’m as hungry as a bear.”

But before the plans were unfolded to Barney and Johanna that evening Mr. Peter told a story. He offered it himself as something he had picked up once upon a time, he could not remember just where. He said it was not the kind of a story he would ever make up in the wide world, but he thought it just the kind David might make up.

And here it is as the painter told it two nights before Christmas:

It was four o’clock on Christmas morning and Santa Claus was finishing his rounds just as the milkman was beginning his. Santa had been over to Holland and back again where he had filled millions of little Dutch shoes that stood outside of windows and doors; he had climbed millions of chimneys and filled millions of American stockings, not to mention the billions and trillions of Christmas trees that he had trimmed and the nurseries he had visited with toys too large for stockings. And now, just as the clock struck four, he had filled his last stocking and was crawling out of the last chimney onto the roof where the eight reindeer were pawing the snow and wagging their stumps of tails, eager to be off.

Santa Claus heaved a sigh of relief as he shook the creases out of the great magic bag that was always large enough to hold all the toys that were put into it. The bag was quite empty now, not even a gum-drop or a penny whistle was left; and Santa heaved another sigh as he tucked it under the seat of his sleigh and clambered wearily in.

“By the two horns on yonder pale-looking moon,” quoth he, “I’m a worn-out old saint and I am glad Christmas is over. Why, I passed my prime some thousand years ago and any other saint would have taken to his niche in heaven long before this.” And he heaved a third sigh.

As he took up the reins and whistled to his team he looked anything but the jolly old saint he was supposed to be; and if you had searched him from top to toe, inside and out, you couldn’t have found a chuckle or a laugh anywhere about him.

Away went the eight reindeer through the air, higher and higher, till houses looked like match-boxes and lakes like bowls of water; and it took them just ten minutes and ten seconds to carry Santa safely home to the North Pole. Most generally he sings a rollicking song on his homeward journey, a song about boys and toys and drums and plums, just to show how happy he is. But this year he spent the whole time grumbling all the grumbly thoughts he could think of.

“It’s a pretty state of affairs when a man can’t have a vacation in nearly five hundred years. Christmas every three hundred and sixty-five days and have to work three hundred and sixty-four of them to get things ready. What’s more, every year the work grows harder. Have to keep up with all the scientific inventions and all the new discoveries. Who’d have thought a hundred years ago that I should have to be building toy aeroplanes and electric motors? And the girls want dolls’ houses with lights and running water! I declare I’m fairly sick of the sight of a sled or a top, and dolls and drums make me shiver. I’d like to do nothing for a whole year, I tell you—nothing! It’s a pretty how d’ y’ do if the world can’t get along for one year without a Christmas. What’s to prevent my taking a vacation like any other man? Who’s to prevent me?”

The reindeer had stopped outside of Santa’s own home and he threw the reins down with a jerk while he tried his best to look very gruff and surly.

“Suppose I try it. By the Aurora Borealis, I _will_ try it!”

And then and there Santa Claus began his vacation.

He closed up his workshop, locked the door, and hung the key in the attic. He turned his reindeer loose and told them to go south where they could get fresh grass, for he would not need them for a year and a day. Then he made himself comfortable beside his fire, and brought out all the books and the papers he had been wanting to read for the last fifty years or more, and settled down to enjoy himself. He never gave one thought to the world or what it would do without him; therefore, it never occurred to him to wonder if the news would get in the papers. But you know and I know that in time everything that happens gets into the papers; so the news spread at last all over the world that Santa Claus was taking a vacation and that there would be no Christmas next year. And what do you think happened then?

First of all the Christmas trees stopped growing. “What’s the use?” they whispered one to another. “We sha’n’t be wanted this year, so we needn’t work to put out new shoots or keep especially green and smart-looking.” And the holly and the mistletoe heard them, and they said: “Well, why should we bother, either, to get our berries ready as long as we shall not be needed for decoration? Making berries takes a lot of time, and we might just as well spend it gossiping.”

Next, the storekeepers began to grumble, and each said to himself, “Well, if Christmas isn’t coming this year why should I spend my time making my shop-windows gay with gifts and pretty things?” And the pastry cooks and the confectioners said they certainly would not bother making plum-puddings, Christmas pies, or candy canes.

Soon the children heard about it. For a long while they would not believe it, not until Christmas-time came round again. But when they saw the Christmas trees looking so short and shabby, and the Christmas greens without their berries, and the streets quiet and dull, and the shop-windows without the pretty things in them, they grew sober and quiet, too. And in less time than I can tell you the whole world grew stuffy and stupid and silent and unlovely. Yes, the whole world!

Now, in a very small house in a very small town that stands just midway between the North Pole and the equator and half-way between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans (you can find the town for yourself on any map if you look for it with these directions) there lived a small boy. He was sturdy and strong, and he had learned two great lessons—never to be afraid and never to give up. He saw what was happening all over the world, because everybody believed that Christmas had been lost, and he said one day to his mother:

“Mother, little mother, I’ve been thinking this long while if Santa Claus could see how things are going with every one down here he would bring Christmas back, after all. Let me go and tell him?”

“Boy, little boy,” said his mother, “tell me first how you will find your way there. Remember there are no sign-posts along the road that leads to Santa Claus.”

But the boy squared his shoulders and took a firm grip of his pockets and said he, “Why, that’s easy! I’ll ask the way and keep on till I get there.”

In the end his mother let him go. As he walked along slowly he questioned everything he passed—birds, grass, winds, rain, river, trees. All these he asked the fastest road to Santa Claus; and each in turn showed him the way as far as he knew it. The birds flew northward, singing for him to follow after; the grass swayed and bent and made a beaten path for him; the river carried him safely along its banks in the tiniest shell of a boat, while the winds blew it to make it go faster. Each horse or donkey that he met carried him as far as he could; and every house door was opened wide to him, and the children shared with him their bowls of bread-and-milk or soup. And wherever he passed, both the children and the grownups alike called after him, “You’ll tell him; you’ll make Santa Claus come and bring our Christmas back to us!”

I cannot begin to tell you the wonderful things that happened to the boy. He traveled quickly and safely, for all that it was a long road with no sign-posts marking the way; and just three days before Christmas he reached the North Pole and knocked at Santa Claus’s front door. It was opened by Santa himself, who rubbed his eyes with wonder.

“Bless my red jacket and my fur boots!” he cried in astonishment. “If it isn’t a real, live boy! How did you get here, sirrah?”

The boy told him everything in just two sentences; and when he had finished he begged Santa to change his mind and keep Christmas for the children.

“Can’t do it. Don’t want to. Couldn’t if I did. Not a thing made. Nothing to make anything of. And you can’t have Christmas without toys and sweets. Go look in that window and see for yourself.” And the old saint finished quite out of breath.

The boy went over to the window Santa had pointed out and, standing on tiptoe, peered in. There was the workshop as empty as a barn in the spring. Spiders had built their webs across the corners and mice scampered over the floors, and that was all. The boy went slowly back to Santa and his face looked very sad.

“Listen to this,” he said, and he took a seashell from his pocket and held it close to old Santa’s ear. “Can you hear anything?”

Santa listened with his forehead all puckered up and a finger against his nose.

“Humph! It sounds like somebody crying away off.”

“It’s the children,” said the little boy, “as I heard them while I passed along the road that brought me here. And do you know why they were crying? Because there are no trees to light, no candles to burn, no stockings to hang, no carols to sing, no holly to make into wreaths—no gladness anywhere. And they are very frightened because Christmas has been lost.”

Then Santa did the funniest thing. He blew his nose so hard that he blew tears into his eyes and down his cheeks.

“Fee, fi, fo, fum—I’m a stupid old fool!” said he. “It’s too late to do Christmas alone this year; but I might—yes, I might—get help. The world is full of spirits who love the children as much as I do. If they will lend me a hand, this once, we might do it.”

Then he went into his house and brought out his wonderful magic whistle that calls the reindeer; and he blew it once, twice, three times; and the next instant the eight were bounding over the snow toward him.

“Go!” he commanded. “Go as quickly as ever you can to all the spirits of the earth, water, and air, and tell them Santa Claus needs their help this year to bring back Christmas to the children.”

Away flew the reindeer, and in less time than it takes a cloud to scud across the sky they were back again and with them the most wonderful gathering that has ever been seen since the world was made. There were giants from Norway and trolls from Sweden; there were dwarfs and elves from the mines of Cornwall and fairies from the hills of Ireland; there were brownies from Scotland and goblins from Germany; the Yule nisse and the skrattle from Denmark; and fairy godmothers from everywhere. And from the ocean came the mermaids and the mermen; and from the rivers and brooks came nixies and nymphs and swan maidens. And they all came eager to help. Santa Claus brought down from the attic the key of the workshop and soon everybody was busy at his own particular craft. Not a word was spoken, and for those three days not a soul rested or slept.