Part 17

The bed, left from the days of her housekeeping, had a high, slender white frame, meant to hold a canopy. From this down to the foot posts ran two cords carrying roses, and roses ran along the foot rail. Working slowly and quietly, she brought the tree from the other room to stand by his side. She had not yet had time to examine the ornaments--she and Tony could do that together. His stocking, the poor little disused stocking, with the big red apple and the orange, she tied to a bough reaching toward the little boy, like a friendly hand. The library books were spread open at pages of bright pictures. The chart of colored birds was pinned to the wall. The sprig of holly was fastened to the coverlet. At the last moment, from scraps of her green tissue, she had fashioned a semblance of holly wreath, with a bit of red paper twisted here and there for berries. She slipped behind the bed, and hung the wreath in the window. When, in the “little hours,” she crept to her own bed, she was without fatigue.

She woke at dawn, and was dressed and back in his room before he had opened his eyes. She lighted the gas, and then she kissed him.

“Merry Christmas, Tony!” she cried.

He struggled up, lovely with sleep. And in upon his dreams came the lines of the roses, and the soft greenness and beauty and brightness of the tree. He sat up, his head thrown back, an expression of almost angelic wonder in his believing face. And he was, with all his joy, a practical little Tony.

“W-w-where’d you get that?” he cried. “Oh, Mama! Mama! Mama!”

And there was something in his cry that opened Mother Margaret’s heart like a flower.

A child before its _first_ Christmas tree, that is an experience apart. Tony was mute. Tony was shouting. Tony was leaning forward to touch things. Tony was leaning far back to win the effect of the whole. Tony was absolutely and unutterably happy.

So was Mother Margaret--for a while. Then Tony said an unexpected thing.

“Think,” he said, “that little Jesus was born to-day. Really, truly to-day.”

Mother Margaret looked at him.

“They cannot tell surely, which day, you know, son,” she said uncertainly.

“Oh, it was to-day!” Tony told her positively. “I know it was to-day.”

Then, when he took in his hands the library picture book, there was the story of Bethlehem of Judea, and she must read it to him, and he listened as if he were hearing it for the first time.

“It was this morning!” he said over dreamily. “The Star in the East was this morning, Mother Margaret. It seems true, now I’ve seen my tree,” he added quaintly.

He seemed possessed with the idea of “to-dayness.”

“Think,” he said again, “all little boys is got a tree now. Right now. And me, too!”

It was a long, enchanted day; and she waited until the final possible moment to close it.

“Tonykins,” she said at last, “now the roses have to come down while Mama puts them into a box and takes them to their own family. And while she’s gone, you can lie here and look at the tree, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said Anthony, “an’--an’ it’ll talk to me!”

Unquestionably the tree talked to Tony. But the amazing thing was that it also talked to his mother, on her way down to the factory.

No sooner was she on the street from the happy holiday humor of their room than she was faced accusingly by the bustle and clamor of the streets on “the night before Christmas.” Everyone was intent on something outside himself. Everyone, Mother Margaret thought, would have known it was Christmas, if he had not been told.

_All save Tony._ Her heart smote her when she thought of that. For Tony in the little bed where he “lived,” all the blessedness and peace of tomorrow had descended to-day, and he had lived them faithfully. And on Christmas morning, on Star of Bethlehem morning for all the rest of the world, it would all be past for him; when for all the rest of the world it would be dawning....

Christmas dinner they ate together on Christmas Eve, there at Tony’s bedside, with a royal feast of one thing extra, spread on a little sewing table set in the shadow of the tree.

“Now, dear,” said Mother Margaret when they had finished, “the twenty-four hours is almost up, and the fairy is going to come for the tree. You’re sure you won’t mind--aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, Mother!” Tony’s eyes were fastened on the tree as if he feared it might vanish if he looked away.

“And you are going to feel more glad that you had it than sorry to see it go?”

“Oh, yes, Mother!”

Tony’s eyes were still on the tree.

“I wish,” he said, “I wish Christmas was to-morrow, too. I like to feel like I feel when it’s Christmas.”

She sat beside him, silent, when outside the door came the tread and tap which they were both expecting. And somewhat to her bewilderment Mother Margaret admitted four visitors. There was the kindly, practical woman; and the librarian with the pleasant eyes; and the maid with the Dear Child in her arms.

She set the Dear Child down, and the Dear Child ran to Tony’s bed, and in her hands was a box.

“Little boy!” she shouted. “See what! See what!”

She laid something beside him. And when, trembling a little with the wonder of it, Tony had unwound this, there lay his longed-for clay and some unbelievable modeling tools. Mother Margaret’s eyes flew to the librarian. And the look of the two women met and clung, with something living in the faces of them both. And so it came about that when the maid drew the little tree from the room, Tony hardly knew.

They went away with happy greetings, and waving hands, and promises to meet again.

“I--I--I--bring you my kitty and my fimbel!” shouted the Dear Child kissing her hand. “That other day,” she added importantly.

An hour later Tony opened his eyes sleepily.

“Make a great big racket, Mother Margaret!” he surprisingly demanded.

“Why, dear?” she asked.

“’Cause if I go to sleep, then it won’t be Christmas any more,” said Tony, and drifted off with his smile still on his face.

Christmas morning, the true Christmas morning, came with a white mantle and a bright face. Mother Margaret woke to hear the city one tumbling peal of early bells. She sprang up and threw on her dressing gown, with her pretty hair falling about her shoulders, and ran to Tony’s room. He was still asleep. Resolutely, and even joyously, she stooped and kissed him.

“Tony, dear!” she said--but there was something like a sob in her voice. “Wake up! It’s Christmas morning!”

His eyes flew open, and stared straight into her eyes.

“It’s Christmas morning,” she repeated tremulously.

A look of pain came to his face.

“Did I dream my tree?” he asked.

“No!” she cried, “no, dear. You did have your tree. Mother told you yesterday was Christmas because we could just have the tree that day--and she wanted you to have all the fun--_all_ of it, Tony--” She broke down, and buried her face in his warm neck.

Something of the solemnity and old wisdom born in a child when a grown person apologizes, or explains, or in any wise treats him as an equal, came growing in Tony’s face. But this was over-shadowed now, by a dawning joy.

“Mother!” he cried. “Truly? Truly, is it Christmas _again_?”

“Not again,” she said. “But it’s Christmas.”

He sat up, and threw his arms about her.

“Oh, I’m glad--I’m glad!” he cried. “Why, Mother. Then _it wasn’t just the tree that made us happy, was it_?”

She held him close. And as they sat in each other’s arms, in the bare room, with no tree, no roses, and even the clay for a moment forgotten, there came overwhelmingly to the woman, and dimly to the child, the precious understanding that Christmas is a spirit. And the spirit was with them, and made a third presence in their sudden, indefinable joyousness.

Tony drew a little away, and laughed up at her.

“Mother Margaret!” he cried. “It’s Christmas--it’s Christmas!”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, dear. Don’t you hear the bells?”

Tony shook his head. “We don’t need the bells, Mother,” he said. “Why, Mother Margaret!” he cried, “maybe now we can get the feeling every day!”

[24] Copyright by Crowell Publishing Company, 1915. Reprinted by special permission of the author.

THE UNWELCOME GIFT[25]

_Julia Burket_

Snyge, the woodsman, walked briskly through the gates of the park which surrounded the royal palace. On his arm hung a small basket covered with a white cloth. In the basket were some cranberry tarts which his wife was sending to her aunt, an old woman who stirred the royal soup-kettle.

As Snyge walked along the winding road the sun shone and sparkled brightly on the snow; and the roofs of the palace, which glistened through the tree-tops, did not seem nearly so awe-inspiring as they did on other days. On approaching the rear of the palace he heard a great deal of loud hammering, which sounded odd on the quiet of the winter afternoon. He hastened his steps and opened the door of the kitchen.

Along one side of the brick-floored room there stretched a long wooden table. Before the table was a settle, and on this were seated a scullery-maid, two butlers, four maids, and three small footmen; all dressed in the olive livery of the king’s household and all busily cracking nuts.

They made such a racket and commotion that Snyge was obliged to walk the entire length of the room before he could attract the attention of Mother Jorgan, who was stirring away at the soup with her back to the door.

“What is the meaning of all this noise?” he shouted in the old woman’s ear.

At the unexpected sound of his voice she gave a start, and would have dropped the pot-stick if a little boy, who was seated on a high stool behind the kettle, had not caught it.

After Mother Jorgan had recovered from her surprise she told the woodsman that they were cracking nuts for the Christmas feast. They should all have been done the day before, but the scullery-maid had forgotten and the baker was now mixing up the fruit-cake; so they had been forced to set every one to work who was not already busy, in order that the nuts should be ready in time.

While Mother Jorgan was muttering away in her shrill, cackling voice, Snyge had been staring ahead of him at the small boy on the stool. There was really no reason why any one should look at poor little Bebelle. He was by far the ugliest and most insignificant-looking person in the room. Hunched up on his stool in the dark shadows behind the kettle, he looked more like some odious goblin than a little boy. His thick black hair made a fitting frame for his pinched face. His nose was long and crooked; his eyes were very large and very black; and his pathetic little mouth, although tender and childish, made his face seem all the homelier by contrast. In his hand he held a stick upon which, with infinite labor, he was carving something.

However, Snyge, who said little, but saw a great deal, when Mother Jorgan had finished, pointed his finger at him and said, “Who is that?”

“I am Bebelle,” said the child in a thin, but rather sweet, voice.

“And what is that you have there in your hand?”

“That,” said the old woman, “is the scepter he is making for the king’s Christmas present.” And turning her back to the kettle, she looked significantly at Snyge and tapped her forehead. “Tell Snyge about your present, Bebelle, and perhaps he will give you a better stick of wood.”

But the child held the stick close and answered fearfully: “Oh, no, thank you, Mother Jorgan! No, thank you! this will do very well for what I want. But I will tell the man what I know of it.”

At these words one of the small footmen, who had stopped swinging his hammer for a moment in order to eat a walnut, nudged his neighbor, and they both picked up their bowls of nuts and squatted down on the floor in front of the kettle. And the maid who dusted the royal throne, and was just then going through the kitchen, saw the pages and joined the little group.

“We will now have some fun,” one of them whispered to her.

Bebelle, who was unaware of his audience on the other side of the kettle, turning towards Snyge, began his tale.

“You see,” he said, “although I am lame and stupid and of no use to any one, the good king allows me to stay here in his kitchen. I sit here all day behind the kettle; and when Mother Jorgan has something else she must do, she allows me to stir the soup. Each day I have a crust of bread and bowl of froth from the top of the soup, and at night the baker allows me to lie behind the great oven. You see, I should be happy, for I have done nothing to deserve this easy lot. But sometimes I am very discontented. I was feeling that way one evening, and, as I was alone in the kitchen, I climbed up there on the table to look out of the casement. It was a lovely night, with all the stars shining, and as I stood there thinking how ashamed I should be to be unhappy when so much splendor was about me, I saw before me a beautiful hand reaching up on the other side of the sill. It clasped a stick of wood and a piece of paper. The hand laid them on the window-ledge, and I heard a voice like music say, “These are for you, Bebelle.’”

Here there was a great nudging and giggling on the part of his unseen audience, and the little maid called out, “Where is the paper now?”

Bebelle leaned far out over the kettle, and, seeing the maid’s duster on the floor, turned again to Snyge and said: “They often come to hear me tell about it. The paper blew into the fire,” he explained, and went on: “I was very much frightened and wanted to climb down from the window and leave them there, but at last I found courage to look at the paper. On it were these words: _Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_. I stood there a long time, and at last I thought how fine it would be to make a new scepter for a Christmas present to the king, and to carve these words upon it. They are pretty words and have a pleasant sound. I have never heard the wonderful voice again, but I feel that this is what it would have me do.”

“Now tell about how the words come,” demanded one of the footmen.

But Bebelle would only say, “I am at the end of ‘_Patience_’ now, and, if you do not mind, I will start to carve again. You see, there is very little time left until Christmas.”

As Bebelle concluded, his small audience broke up. The maid returned to her dusting, the footmen took their bowls and hammers back to the table, and Mother Jorgan, giving the pot-stick to little Bebelle, went to the door with Snyge.

With the return of the footmen, the noise was even more deafening than before. The fruit-cake was all mixed but the nuts, and the baker stood over the small regiment of workers, every now and then rapping up some lagging one with a cuff on the ears. Mother Jorgan was obliged fairly to shriek the rest of the conversation; or rather her part of it, for Snyge said very little.

“Yes, it is true. Bebelle has been carving at the old stick for weeks. He is very happy. But he is a stupid dolt. The king does not even know that he lives here in the kitchen. If he did, it would all be at an end with little Bebelle.”

“And about the hand?” asked the woodsman.

“That? Oh, well, I don’t know. No one here believes it. But I couldn’t say. It may be. But I know this much: I have seen the words come. When he was at ‘_Mercy_,’ a few weeks ago, one of the huntsmen brought him a little half-dead squirrel for his supper. But the foolish child warmed it and set it free. When he went back to his carving, ‘Mercy’ was there on the stick. That has been the way with them all. I know, for I have seen it with my sharp old eyes.”

Snyge gave her the basket and went out into the dusk. He had stayed long past his time.

In a little while the noise in the kitchen ceased. The nuts were all finished and put in the waiting cake, and the room was quiet but for the crackling of the fire and the chatter of the servants.

“‘_Patience_’ is very hard,” said little Bebelle to Mother Jorgan. “I get along very well for a while, but just as I have almost finished, the letters seem to fly back again. It is very funny.

“Listen, Mother Jorgan! Some one is coming. It is Shreve of the Fields.” His face was lit up until it seemed almost pretty, and his hands trembled at his carving.

In a moment there was a low, mysterious bird-note. Some one drew back the bolts, and youth incarnate stood framed in the dark oaken doorway. Shreve of the Fields swayed there, his slim, vibrant figure outlined against the sparkling snow without. Pushed back from his thick dark curls he wore a bag-like cap of brilliant red. Over the shoulder of his tattered jacket was flung a brown sack, and in his hands he held a torn net. The lovely poise of his proud young head, the startling beauty of his face, the wonder of his gay, mysterious eyes, were all so intense that one looked again and again, awed, troubled, stupefied, unable to understand such glorious beauty. It was like some vague lovely dream that one had been forced by the very intensity of its sweetness to cast from his thoughts, now recurring to the mind. Even the servants felt it, and they looked again and again at the not unfamiliar sight of the radiant youth. And Shreve, unable, as always, to understand this blind desire to pierce the mystery of his beauty, crossed the room with swift, free steps and approached Bebelle.

“I have brought you this net to mend,” he said, and his voice was low and wonderfully sweet. “I use it to catch the poor starving hares; and then I feed them. I will wait if you are not too long.”

“Oh, I’ll do it gladly,” responded the child; “and I’ll try to hasten as much as I can.”

He put the unfinished scepter in his threadbare little blouse, and bent carefully over the net.

It had now grown dark, and one of the pages went about the room with a taper lighting the candles in the greater pewter sticks. One by one the butlers and footmen came in to eat their evening meal before they should serve the royal dinner. All was light, and laughter and good-natured raillery in the kitchen.

Shreve walked restlessly up and down the long room. Each time he passed the oven he would snatch a loaf and put it in his sack. “For my birds,” he would say with his dazzling smile to the baker. Each time he neared the soup-kettle he stopped and watched little Bebelle’s swift-moving fingers. Without looking up, the child would answer his unspoken question, “In a little while, Shreve, I shall have finished it.”

As the graceful, glowing figure moved about the room all the youths stared at him and the maidens glanced more shyly from under their long lashes. But Shreve’s thoughts were on the world outside and the mending of the net. However, when they spoke to him, he always answered sweetly in his lovely, winning voice.

“How are your friends, O Shreve?” said Mother Jorgan.

“They are well. Only it is cold in the mountains, and the beasts freeze; and the woods and fields are bare, so my birds want food. But wait, old woman; some day I shall know all of nature’s secrets, and then winter cannot harm my people.”

The servants now came up to the kettle to get their bowls of soup, and Shreve of the Fields stood in the corner and watched them silently.

At last Bebelle crept down from his stool, and slowly moved toward Shreve.

“Here is your net, Shreve,” he said.

The beautiful youth took the net and held it before him. He tugged at it, but the mended threads held as firmly as the others.

“This is nicely done, Bebelle. When I come at Christmas I will bring you some fairy moss. How is your scepter?” he asked a little shyly.

“Oh, it is almost finished. I am on ‘_Patience_’ now.”

Bebelle pulled the stick from his blouse, and as Shreve of the Fields bent over it, he saw that “_Patience_” was finished.

* * * * *

It was the eve of Christmas, and all the great castle was in a merry bustle and a wild confusion. From the little scullery-maid, who was giving the pots and pans a final scouring, to the queen herself, who was being fitted with a new crown, not a soul in the palace was idle.

The great hall was all green, and red, and white; pine, and holly, and mistletoe. The white pillars were twined with ivy and laurel; from the rafters hung great clusters of mistletoe; and the walls were banked with leaves and red berries. On each side of the royal dais stood a shining, glistening Christmas-tree; and the galleries were hung low with Christmas greens.

It was not long until the king and queen ascended their royal thrones, the queen happy because the new crown was very becoming, and the king that there was a grand feast in prospect.

The royal court assembled with laughter and gay words and smiling faces; and of them all the princess Faunia was the most admired. Tall and slim and beautiful, as the princess should be, with the dainty grace of a young fawn and the proud young way of one, she stood by the dais with a dark, handsome prince. Each time he spoke to her, although his words were laughing, she knew that he loved her; and each time he looked at her, his gay eyes said what his lips dared not speak. The princess, like every one else in the room, was very, very happy.

In the kitchen below sat Bebelle, carving the last word upon his gift for the king. His face was very pale; it looked even thinner than usual. His great black eyes burned feverishly, and his hands worked swiftly upon the word “_Love_.”

“I must not be late! I must not be late!” he said over and over again.

Most of the servants had left the kitchen and were sitting in the gallery of the hall above, watching the royal pageant.

However, there was a little girl left in the room, who had to remain behind in order to keep the fire going in the great fireplace.

“When will you give the king his gift?” she asked Bebelle.

“When all the others have given theirs and Shreve of the Fields alone is left he will give the king his beautiful raven, and then he will say, ‘There is still another, O King, who has a gift for you.’ Mother Jorgan has promised to let me go with her up the stairs, and when Shreve says this, then I will walk into the room and give the king his scepter.”

“Shreve of the Fields may forget,” said the little girl, shrewdly; “he thinks only of his birds and beasts, of others he has no thought. Old Jason, the butler, says he has no soul.”

“Oh, yes, he has!” said Bebelle. “He is wild and timid like his animals, though, and is afraid to show it. He has told me how some nights he lies in his cave with his animals and longs for a human friend. But you know, Sana, he is so beautiful and so different from every one else that no one can be friends with him. But look what he gave me! It is fairy moss, and Shreve says that if I carry it, I shall be brave enough to walk through the great hall to the king and not be ashamed of my ugly face.

Bebelle held up a little patch of silvery moss, the drops of dew sparkling like diamonds upon it.

“Oh!” said the child, in awed wonder. “It is so beautiful! And do you think it really has such power?”

“Why, yes, of course; Shreve told me so.”

“Ah!” sighed little Sana, “if I only had a tiny bit, I would not be so afraid of the butler when he scolds me.”

Bebelle carefully tore the moss in half and gave Sana part of it.

“I must go back to my carving now,” he said, as the child tried to thank him.

“And I to my fire. Oh, Bebelle! Look! Look!” cried Sana. “The fire has gone out while I have been talking to you!”

“I will make you another.”

When Mother Jorgan came in, the fire was again burning brightly.

“Are you ready, Bebelle?” she asked, her voice trembling with excitement. “Shreve is giving the king his raven.”

“No, dear Mother Jorgan, I have mended the fire for Sana instead.”

“You foolish boy!” and she tore the stick from his hand. “Why, of course it is done! Is ‘_Love_’ not there as plainly as the other words? Come, we must make haste or we shall be too late.”