Part 18

As the two reached the door of the hall Shreve of the Fields was standing before the royal dais, his proud lovely head thrown back and one graceful arm stretched forth toward the king. On the tip of his finger there perched a beautiful raven, all glossy black streaked with purple, and as quiet as if it were still in the forest. As these two of the woods stood there in their perfect, unaffected beauty everything else about the gay court seemed curiously dwarfed and cheapened.

“O King,” he said, in his sweet, thrilling voice, “here is a gift for you!”

As the raven flew from his hand to the king the courtiers crowded around the radiant youth; and Mother Jorgan, in the doorway outside, whispered to Bebelle: “Child, he has said nothing of you. If you still wish to do this dreadful thing, you must enter unannounced.”

And so, with his scepter held closely in one arm, the child bravely walked into the gay throng.

As he neared the throne the courtiers drew back on either side; and standing before the royal dais, Bebelle said simply, “My King, I have made you a new scepter for a Christmas gift.”

All about the throne lay precious and costly gifts; gold and tapestries, silver and precious stones. On the arm of the king’s chair perched the beautiful raven, and in the queen’s hand was a necklace of diamonds, and rare aquamarines. Before them stood a child, strange and grotesque, holding in his hand a rough piece of fire-wood.

“I have made you a new scepter,” he had said.

“Child,” said the king, and his voice was not unkind, “this is not the time for you to appear before us.” And he motioned a page to lead Bebelle from the room.

There was a painful silence as the child crept slowly from the bright hall, one hand still clasping the rejected gift. The queen signed for the fiddlers to begin their playing. The princess Faunia, who was standing with the noble prince under the balcony, remarked that such things were enough to spoil one’s Christmas. The prince comforted her, and said if he had his will, nothing should ever happen to mar a single moment of her entire life. The princess was even happier than before. The queen told the king, who looked a little worried, that such things naturally happen in such great households, and that, with the serving of the royal banquet, things would be restored to their former gaiety. This last suggestion comforted the king mightily; and, indeed, before the page had even announced the banquet everything was as gay and merry as it had been an hour before.

In the bright warm kitchen there was dance and song, and every one there was happy, too.

That is, all but little Bebelle. He lay beside the oven, still holding tightly to the scepter, saying nothing.

Mother Jorgan brought him a bowl of hot soup. He thanked her pitifully, but would not touch it. Now and then one of the servants would come to him and shyly, but kindly, ask him to come and have some of the wassail. Shreve came down from the feast above. The baker gave him thirteen loaves for his birds, and he stopped to speak to Bebelle.

“I am sorry, Bebelle,” he said, in his timid, winning way. “But I had no chance to speak of you. It was a shame that the king refused your gift. But come, do not be sad. Every one is sorry, and things will not be made better by lying there.”

But Bebelle did not answer. The tears sprang to Shreve’s beautiful, mysterious eyes.

“Would you like to come and sleep in my cave to-night?”

Bebelle gave a little gasp.

“Oh, Shreve,” he said, “that is the greatest thing in the world that could happen to me! But somehow I feel as if that could not be--to-night.”

So Shreve of the Fields went a little sadly out into the starry night.

It grew later. Slowly and reluctantly the servants left the warm, friendly kitchen. Many stopped to speak kindly to the silent child, who lay huddled in his corner.

At last, though, they had all left but a little page, who put out the candles and skipped fearfully from the room. All was silent and dark.

The child lay there a long time.

Slowly and sweetly, through the still night a voice softly floated.

“Bebelle, little Bebelle!” it said; “come to the door.”

The child trembled, but did not get up.

Once again came the low, mellow voice: “Bebelle, I am waiting for you. Come, open the door.”

As if in a dream he crept across the floor. Slowly he slid back the great bolts and lifted the door latch.

There in the snowy dooryard was a glorious vision. A figure that glowed and glistened against the snow like the fire and light of a thousand diamonds. Over the head was a veil like lacy frost. From the scintillating robes stretched a beautiful white hand.

“Come with me,” said the voice, “and I will make you a great ruler.”

Bebelle shrank back against the heavy door.

“Oh, no!” he cried, “I am not fit to be a ruler. I am ugly and poor, and of no use to any one in the world.”

The vision reached out and took the scepter which Bebelle still clasped to his breast.

As the firm white hand grasped it the rough wood turned to shining gold and the letters carved upon it were set with pearls, and rubies, and sapphires, and other precious stones.

“These words that you have carved upon the scepter,” said the high, thrilling voice, “_Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_--these are the attributes of a king. Only he who carves his own scepter, with these words upon it, only he is fit to wield it. Again I summon you to come with me and I will make you ruler of a great kingdom.”

And into the white night the child followed the steps of the vision.

[25] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.

THE STRANGE STORY OF MR. DOG AND MR. BEAR[26]

_Mabel Fuller Blodgett_

(For very little folk)

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

Mr. Bear was looking forward to the first real snowstorm because Mr. Dog had made a fine double-runner, and they were both planning for little housework, and a lot of coasting. Mr. Bear’s fur suit was just the thing for winter sports, but Mr. Dog had been obliged to go to the village and buy himself a sweater. It was bright crimson and was very becoming. Mr. Dog, who loved fine clothes, had also purchased a scarlet and white skating cap, with a tassel that hung down over one ear in a most engaging manner. So both Mr. Dog and Mr. Bear could hardly wait for cold weather to set in, and they spent a great deal of time running out to the porch and looking at the thermometer that hung there. When they were not doing that, they were reading the weather reports in the newspapers, or watching the clouds, and at last they were rewarded late one afternoon by the sight of large feathery flakes of snow lazily floating downward from a cold gray sky. But alas! there was to be no coasting for either of them, for many days to come.

Mr. Bear, who had not been feeling like himself for some time, came down with the mumps the very next morning, and Mr. Dog had his paws full with cooking, and nursing, and bedmaking, and carrying up trays to the invalid.

Now I suppose you never saw a bear with the mumps! It is a sorry sight, I assure you, and the cottage was a sad place now with only the doctor’s visits for company and Mr. Bear in the dreadfulest state with his poor neck so swollen that none of his collars would fit him--he had lately, to please Mr. Dog, taken to wearing them. For daily use a red bandana handkerchief became the only thing possible. Well, Mr. Dog was a pretty fair nurse, though he did bring Mr. Bear some lemonade the first day, and, if you’ve ever had mumps, you will know how Mr. Bear felt after he got a real good taste. But Mr. Dog was more careful after that and never so much as said “pickles” or brought Mr. Bear anything that was sour or puckery, so they got along quite nicely.

Still, there was a lot of time for thinking, and Mr. Bear, looking wistfully out on the snowy landscape, began to plan for Christmas. He decided that he would surprise Mr. Dog, and the surprise would take the form of a Christmas tree. There were plenty of dear little firs growing about near by, each one holding up its tiny branches as if begging for the honor of being chosen, and Mr. Bear knew Mr. Dog, who was something of a carpenter, was just dying to have a complete tool-chest, and he thought what a fine present that would be and how beautifully the awl and saws and other tools would glitter, hung from the branches in the light of the Christmas candles.

Mr. Bear would also see that Mr. Dog had a wonderful big bone, the best in the market, and tied with scarlet ribbon and holly, and a bottle of perfumery, and oh, yes! a dozen handkerchiefs with colored borders. Mr. Bear had to get his notebook down and write the things as fast as he remembered them, and the best of it was Mr. Bear was determined, firmly determined, that Mr. Dog should know nothing whatever about the whole matter.

Now the funny part of it was that Mr. Dog had been thinking also, and the end of his reflections were pretty much what Mr. Bear’s had been. He would give Mr. Bear a Christmas tree and _Mr. Bear should know nothing whatever about it_.

Mr. Dog was so excited that one day he put salt instead of sugar into the pudding and never knew the difference till he and Mr. Bear sat down to dessert together. By this time Mr. Bear was better, and soon he was well enough to go coasting, which means that he was well enough to do anything at all that he wanted to.

His actions began to puzzle Mr. Dog. In the first place, Mr. Bear began to make a lot of mysterious trips to the village, and then he was always getting a lot of catalogues, which he was careful to keep locked up. One day Mr. Dog found him measuring the height of the parlor ceiling, and he looked very much embarrassed when asked what he was doing; and yet Mr. Dog hadn’t the slightest idea of what was going on. You see, he was so full of his own plans to surprise Mr. Bear that it never crossed his mind that Mr. Bear might have secret holiday plans of his own. Mr. Dog was chiefly concerned that Mr. Bear shouldn’t find out what _he_ was doing, and, as he was much more careful than poor, dear, blundering Mr. Bear, he never gave his friend the slightest idea of what was in his mind.

After a lot of thinking, Mr. Dog decided to cut the prettiest little Christmas tree you ever saw, that he had found near by in the forest. He would trim it with popcorn and cranberries and little candles, and he would give Mr. Bear a half dozen jars of the finest honey, because Mr. Bear loved honey best of anything, and a big blueberry pie tied up with scarlet ribbon and holly, for Mr. Bear liked blueberry pie next best, and a muffler, a beautiful warm plaid muffler, because Mr. Bear wasn’t stylish but loved to be comfortable. Oh, yes, and a white and gold book for the parlor table. Mr. Dog didn’t care at all what was inside the book, but he wanted a very handsome cover. It would look awfully well under the best lamp, and as the only book in the house was a cook-book, Mr. Dog felt it would lend quite an air to the whole cottage, and was, in a way, really needed. To do all this would take every penny Mr. Dog had earned, but Mr. Dog did not grudge a single cent of his hoard.

Mr. Bear didn’t tell anybody of his plan, and Mr. Dog didn’t tell anybody either. They both gave very good reasons for refusing a number of invitations that they received for Christmas parties; Mr. Bear, looking very wise, said he felt rather old for romping about, just a quiet evening in slippers at home for him; and Mr. Dog said what with the mumps and all he was so behindhand with his work that he thought he would rather spend a quiet day at home, with slippers and a comfortable chair before the fire in the evening.

But what were they going to do about Christmas, their friends asked.

Mr. Bear looked up in the air and rubbed his head and finally said something about wreaths in the windows, and Mr. Dog answered briskly that he was going to make the finest plum pudding that day for dinner they ever saw and if that wasn’t celebrating Christmas, what was?

Still, it did seem as if the time would never arrive, for you know yourself how slow Christmas and birthdays and vacations are about getting around; and how very quickly school-days and trips to the dentist, and such things come. But at last it really was December twenty-fourth, and that very evening after sunset had been planned both by Mr. Dog and Mr. Bear for their grand surprise.

Mr. Dog had all his presents on the top shelf of his bedroom closet, and Mr. Bear had all his presents on the top shelf of _his_ bedroom closet: and both of them had their closets locked and the keys in their pockets.

Neither of the friends talked much at supper that night for both were too busy thinking. Mr. Bear wanted to get some good excuse for leaving Mr. Dog and getting into the forest where the Christmas tree was to be found. It was already cut, but it wanted trimming, and Mr. Bear decided to trim it right where it stood, or rather where it leaned against another fir-tree, and then manage some way to get it into the house without Mr. Dog’s knowing it. Mr. Bear’s pockets were full of tinsel and bells, gilt walnuts, golden and silver balls, and such like ornaments. He fairly tinkled when he walked; but Mr. Dog was so very busy thinking that he didn’t notice.

At last supper was over and the dishes neatly washed and put away. The two friends turned to each other, and both spoke at once and said just the same thing all in a breath without pausing:

“I was thinking of taking a little stroll this evening.”

“Why, that’s a good idea,” said Mr. Bear, putting on his cap and goloshes as he spoke. It was handy for him not having to bother with anything more on account of his fine fur coat, though he would rather have liked a muffler.

“I think so, too,” said Mr. Dog, hurriedly getting into his coasting togs--sweater, tasseled cap, and all.

“Which way were you going, Mr. Bear? I was thinking of going west--”

“I was thinking of going east,” said Mr. Bear, much relieved at the turn things were taking. And so the two friends parted.

Mr. Bear called out over his shoulder, “No use, Mr. Dog, of being back before eight o’clock a fine night like this.”

“Oh, no!” said Mr. Dog, much pleased and inwardly planning to get his tree trimmed in the forest, and then to have it all set up in the cottage a few moments before that hour.

So both friends hurried off--Mr. Dog to the west, to hang on his tree as fast as ever he could the strings of cranberries and pop-corn with which his pockets were bulging, and Mr. Bear to decorate his tree in the most beautiful manner and as rapidly as possible. And my! weren’t they busy? You may not believe it, but each of them got through the very same moment, which was exactly seventeen and a half minutes to eight o’clock, and each of them was exactly one half mile from home. Mr. Bear put his tree on his shoulder and started; Mr. Dog put _his_ tree on _his_ shoulder and started. Mr. Bear’s tree was bigger and heavier than Mr. Dog’s tree, but then Mr. Bear was stronger than Mr. Dog, so they both covered the ground at the same rate of speed.

Now I suppose you have already guessed what happened. It was sure to, wasn’t it? And it just did.

Mr. Dog, stealthily coming up the back way, and Mr. Bear, stealthily coming up the front way, met right at the cottage door, and I wish you had been there to see them. I don’t suppose their eyes were ever wider opened in all their lives; and as for their mouths, they were open too, and both their tongues were hanging out.

Mr. Dog was the quickest, so he began to laugh first, but Mr. Bear was not long in following, and they both laughed so hard they had to lean their beautiful Christmas trees up against the side of the cottage while they rolled over and over in the snow and neither one could stop.

But at last Mr. Bear caught his breath and sat up, and Mr. Dog, still wiping away tears of merriment with his paw, sat up too, and then it all came out--their wonderful plans and all the doings.

Well, the end of it was, there were two Christmas trees set up in Mr. Bear’s house that night and two very happy people.

The presents were truly a surprise after all, and they were exactly right. Each said so to the other, I don’t know how many times. Mr. Bear put on his muffler at once, though the cottage was as hot as hot could be, and Mr. Dog had so much perfumery on his handkerchief that they had to open the front door to air off. Mr. Dog began to do things with his tools at once, while gnawing ever and anon at his wonderful bone, and Mr. Bear ate a piece of blueberry pie that was big enough to give him seven kinds of nightmare, but didn’t.

Then Mr. Bear drew up his big rocking-chair to the fire, while Mr. Dog threw himself down on the rug in front of it and stretched out to enjoy the blaze with his paws clasped under his head. And they both said there had never been such a Christmas and that it was the greatest fun having it that way, all alone. I suppose they meant not having the forest and the farm people there; and perhaps this is a good place and time for you and me to leave them, too.

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

A BURNT FORK SANTA CLAUS[27]

_Elinore Pruitt Stewart_

Mrs. Culberson stood in her cabin door, and looked out upon the sparkling beauty of a sunny winter morning. Beyond the valley rose the shining, snow-covered mountains. A mile below lay the white surface of Henry’s Fork, tree-bordered and ice-bound. She could see the exact spot in the stream where she and the children had caught the barrel of suckers that had been their chief food since the snow came.

When Henry Clay, her oldest child and only son, had come from the creek one day and told her that there were a great many fish at the bend, and that they were lying on the bottom almost too lazy to move, she had said, “We’ll go and catch a lot; we will salt them down in our water keg; they’ll come in handy.” That had been almost four months before.

“Pa” Culberson was one of those Micawber-like persons who are always expecting something to turn up. In more prosperous days, when the Culbersons had lived farther east, they had owned a good team of horses and a cow; but Pa’s waiting propensities had encouraged the man with the mortgage to “turn up,” and the family had been left without their horses and their cow.

Mrs. Culberson had urged her husband to sell their little plot of land and to use the proceeds to begin anew in another place. Pa had a “swapping” streak in him, and so it was not long before they had traded their land for a rickety wagon and a pair of small beasts that Mrs. Culberson called “dunkeys.” Then, with all they owned piled into the wagon, they set forth to make a fresh start in the world. Pa sat on the top of the load to drive the donkeys, and Mrs. Culberson and the children walked alongside.

One night they had camped by a stream in a fertile little valley. Mrs. Culberson liked the water and the view, and refused to go on. Weeks of wandering had worn out the children’s shoes, and winter would soon be upon them; so they unloaded their scanty belongings and set about building their cabin. It stood close to a hillside for shelter from the fierce winds, and it had no floor except the earth. A place had been left for a window in one end, but there was no glass in it. A piece of cheesecloth tacked over the opening let in light and a wooden shutter kept out the storm. The roof was made of poles laid carefully side by side and well covered with earth.

While Mrs. Culberson and the children were chinking and daubing the cracks in their cabin, Pa began to build the stable for the donkeys. The golden September days were slipping away, and the food supply was getting low; as soon as he had finished the tiny stable, Pa went off to get work with the sheepmen. The family were left alone in their new house; it might be months before they saw him again; in fact, it might be as long as that before they saw anyone except “Grandma” Clark, who lived in a cabin near the stream.

Every day little Mrs. Culberson worked with all her might; and in order that the children should not get lonely or afraid in the wilderness, she tried to keep them busy. First she set them hauling wood from the cedars near by; Pa had made a door for the cabin from the wagon box, but they could load the wood and poles on the running gear of their wagon. They could manage the donkeys easily, and they soon gathered a huge woodpile. Then the children dug a cellar in the side of the hill. Henry Clay and Lizzie Isabel, who were the oldest, did the digging. Jennie Lou and Jessie May helped by carrying out the dirt as fast as it was loosened. Mrs. Culberson and five-year-old baby C’listie did the encouraging. Each was proud of sharing in the work.

A few days after the cellar was finished, the children went on an exploring expedition to discover whether they had any neighbors. The first rancher they found laughed when he saw the eager, freckled children on their little donkeys. He was harvesting his vegetables, and he offered them all a chance to work for him. After that, the children and their mother were busy for almost a month, picking up potatoes and helping store winter vegetables for the ranchers who lived up and down the valley. In that way they had stocked their own cellar, and had become the proud owners of a few bags of grain, which they put by for their faithful donkeys.

As Mrs. Culberson stood in the door that winter morning, looking out over the snow-covered country, she was mentally giving thanks that she and the children had a warm cabin to shelter them. On a tall, dead pine she saw a great eagle sitting in the sun. A coyote dug a rabbit out of the snow, and trotted away with it. Far below on the creek, she could see the smoke curling upward from her nearest neighbor’s chimney.

“Poor old soul!” she said to herself. “There all alone while her grandson, Charley, is away herding sheep. It must be plumb bad to have only one child, and to be a widow, and old, too. Here it is just two days before Christmas. I believe I’ll go down and bring her up here for a spell.”

Her care-seamed face was thoughtful. “It’s more’n three months since Pa left, and not a word from him. I _do_ hope he hasn’t--”

But she was too loyal to put what she feared into words, even to herself. Closing the door, she put the breakfast of salt fish and potatoes on the table.

“Ma, can’t we have a little _tiny_ piece of bacon for breakfast?” asked Jennie Lou.

“It’s very near Christmas,” said Jessie May.

“I just hate suckers!” said Lizzie Isabel.

“Now you young uns eat what is put before you, and don’t be so choicey,” said Mrs. Culberson. “I declare, I’ll have to boil you up some sage tea to make your fish and potatoes taste good to you again. Then after we’re through, I have a _big_ secret to tell you.”

The wagon box had furnished enough lumber to make not only the door, but a bench, and a high shelf across one end of the cabin. When the children had finished breakfast, their mother put a box upon the bench. Mounting the box, she took from the shelf several small packages.

“Now, children,” she said, as she unrolled a square package, “here is all the meat we have--just enough for seven slices. We are going to have it for dinner Christmas Day, and _who_ do you guess is going to eat the extra slice? _That_ is my big secret.”

“I could eat _all_ of it now,” said Henry Clay. The children eyed the piece of bacon hungrily.

“Children, what on earth has come over you to make you so gluttonous? I am ashamed of you. Now, if you can behave yourselves, I will tell you something.”