PART II

STORIES TO READ AND TELL TO CHILDREN

SELECTION FROM THE BIBLE

LUKE II, 8-20

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, Good will toward men.

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

THE FINDING OF THE TREASURE[11]

MARY STEWART

A bright-faced boy stood in the center of a group of ragged children, telling them a story. Behind them were the forlorn shacks of a mining camp, built of odd boards of different colors with tar paper or bits of tin for the roofs. A fluttering line of untidy wash was the only sign of life about the place, for the men were away working in the mines and the women--there were only ten of them in the camp of fifty men--were busy indoors.

It was a desolate scene, but the children seemed to have forgotten it. They were gazing spellbound at the lad in their midst, their minds so full of the picture he was describing that the snowy fields before them and the miserable camp behind them seemed miles away. Instead, they saw what the boy saw as he looked straight before him, gazing into space with a light upon his face as if he were beholding the radiant scene of which he spoke.

“There were angels,” he was saying in a clear, thrilling voice, “hundreds of them, all with glistening wings and faces as light as the sunshine. They made the dark night as bright as day, and when the shepherds saw them they were frightened. But the angels said, ‘Fear not,’ and told them to go to a stable in the city near by, where, lying in a manger, they would find a baby King. So the shepherds hurried up the steep path to the city, carrying the lambs in their arms, and the sky echoed with the angels’ song. It was the gladdest night in the whole world.”

“But that is not all!” cried the children. “Tell us about the wonderful star and the men on camels.”

“Listen,” said the story-teller, although every child was already listening with all his might, “listen to what I am going to tell you to-day. It is the most marvelous thing you have ever heard. In ten days Christmas will be here, although the folks at the camp are so busy and lonesome they have forgotten it. But when I asked my mother how we could ever have a Christmas tree in this far-away place like we used to at home, she said that _perhaps_”--here the lad, Carl, paused a moment, and again he gazed into the distance, his face glowing, “perhaps,” he continued mysteriously, “the glorious star would shine again _here_ to guide, not the wise men on camels, but us--the children--to the birthplace of a little baby!”

“Shall we see the angels too?” questioned a girl, her voice trembling with excitement. “Will the dark sky be bright and full of singing like you said?” demanded another, and “Will the shepherds be there? And the camels? And the men with precious gifts?” asked others.

“Perhaps so,” answered Carl; he did not know, he only knew that they must watch every night now for a new glorious star. Of course that would be the beginning of it all, the beginning of the most wonderful Christmas that had happened since the angels sang to the shepherds on the plains of Bethlehem.

A shrill whistle blew, the call for supper, and the children ran back over the snowy path to the big shack where the men met for meals. They were all seated, talking angrily, when the children entered. One of the men, a leader among them, had just read aloud a letter from the owner of the mine. Such a small amount of gold had been found, the letter said, that unless more was discovered within ten days, the mine would be closed. Also, as the miners had been working on part shares, their wages would be very small, barely enough to pay for their trips back to their homes. A murmur of anger and ugly threats ran around the room. The men had traveled to this desolate spot with the dream of going back rich for life and now, after months of hard, dangerous labor, they would return poorer than when they came. Before the eyes of many of them arose pictures of bare homes where their families were struggling bravely against illness and poverty, counting the days until the miners returned with pockets full of gold.

“As beggars we will never go back!” cried one man. “Better blow up the mine with us in it than see our children starve!” cried another, and then the children, whose fathers were the few who had brought their families with them, rushed into the room, their faces bright with the great hope in their hearts. “Ten days from now will be Christmas!” cried one little lad. “And something wonderful will happen then!” cried another. The men turned upon them savagely. “If any child talks of Christmas again, I’ll give him a licking that will make him forget the day,” exclaimed one man, and another growled, “Ten days from now we’ll all be beggars. Is that what you call ‘something wonderful’ happening?”

To the children, Carl’s story began to seem an idle dream. How could a baby King, a glorious Christ Child, come to this miserable spot, or an angel’s song ring through a camp where, as the night went on, the noise of fighting and swearing echoed more and more wildly?

With a despairing hope of still finding the gold within ten days, the miners went out to their work morning after morning before dawn, and evening after evening they returned, utterly discouraged. It was small wonder that their faces grew rough and fierce and the children crept fearfully out of their way. Their own fathers were even more wretched than the others, for the small wages would not pay the return trip of a whole family and, after ten days were over, they could not live on with no food in that desolate camp. Starvation stared them in the face, and the coming of Christmas meant nothing to them.

Only Carl’s mother thought of it sometimes with a sad little smile, and when Carl questioned her about the star and the baby of whose coming she had spoken, she said softly, “When the Christ Child came His mother also had no clothes in which to dress Him.” Then Carl saw tears shining in her eyes and he dared not question her further, although the one thought in his mind day and night was the coming of the young King.

Late every afternoon the children met beside a group of snow-laden fir trees behind the shacks, and once there, the gloom and terror of the camp slipped from them. The snow-covered mountains glittered in the distance, and Carl told them again and again of the shepherds and the angels.

Then late one evening, while the children watched in breathless excitement, a radiant, glowing star shone forth in the evening sky. It was the same star, they all firmly believed, which had led the wise men so many years ago, and at first they thought with Carl that it had come again to lead them to the cradle of the King. All that night they lay awake on their hard cots, quivering with excitement as they listened for the music of the angels’ song. But only the wrangling of the men echoed through the darkness, and again the children’s bright dreams were overshadowed by the gloom in the lives around them. Still each day they had their hour of happiness beside the ice-hung fir trees, while the star shone forth, and Carl told them of his hopes. Never for a moment did he doubt that the star would lead them to the blessed birthplace, and as the days went by he added other thoughts to his picture.

“When the wise men came they brought presents for Him,” he said one afternoon, “bags of gold, the kind our fathers are looking for, and for which they say they have risked and ruined their lives. Perhaps--perhaps--” his voice was trembling now with the wonder of his hope, “when the Christ Child comes, He may bring to the miners some of the gold the wise men brought to Him!”

The thought was so marvelous that the children planned to tell the men about it, but when they looked up into those grim, lowering faces their hearts failed them and they went quietly to bed.

So nine days slipped by, and the afternoon before Christmas came. The next day, if no gold had been found, the mine would be closed, and the miners went to work that morning in deadly silence, hopeless despair written upon their faces. The snow had fallen heavily all night, and during the day a few flakes still drifted from the gray, leaden sky. The shacks were cold and cheerless and the women, as depressed now as the men, moved heavily about their tasks. Only Carl’s mother was not with them, and deep in their own misery no one gave her a thought. The children were huddled in one corner under a ragged bed quilt, while Carl, by the magic of his faith and words, brought color to their cheeks and light to their eyes.

“This is the day He will come,” the lad was whispering. “My mother went out into the snow this morning and before she went she kissed me and said, ‘The little baby is coming to-day, my son, and where is the home ready to receive him?’ I don’t know just what she meant, for of course the angels will be waiting to take care of the little King.”

“But if it is snowing, how can we see the star?” asked the children, and as if in answer to their question the sun came out brilliantly. Like a fairyland of silver and powdered diamonds the world shone in its mantle of snow and ice, and into it rushed the children, flying over the fields, eager, joyous, expectant. Quickly the short afternoon passed, the sun set in a glory of rose and gold, and then again to the watching children appeared the splendid evening star upon which all their hopes and dreams were centered. It was bigger and brighter than ever before, but it didn’t move as the children had been sure it would, and for a moment a puzzled silence fell upon the group. Then Carl, who had been as bewildered as the others, laughed outright. “Look!” he exclaimed joyously, pointing to the old barn beyond the fir trees, where the few camp animals were kept. “It doesn’t move because it is here! See, there, right below the star, is the stable. We thought, just as the wise men did, that the star would take us to a palace, but perhaps again the little King is lying in a manger!”

For a moment it all seemed too wonderful to be true. Could the King be there already, lying in the old stable, waiting for them? Then suddenly to the children everything seemed possible. With the glorious star shining in the glowing sky above them, the glittering mountains behind them, and Carl’s triumphant voice calling them to follow, faith in the King’s coming seemed only natural. With hearts as full of joy as the shepherds’ on the Bethlehem plains, the children climbed up the snowy path to the little stable, through whose windows there already shone a golden light. Was it the light from the angels’ wings or was it--could it be--the glory which shone around the Christ Child Himself?

Very quietly and reverently the awestruck children opened the door and stepped inside. What did they see?

Nothing at first. Their eyes were blinded by the light of a great fire which burned in the rude stone fireplace, a fire kindled with evergreen branches so that the room was full of the fragrance of Christmas trees. “This is the odor of the frankincense and myrrh,” whispered one child. “He must have brought it with Him for us.” Then, as their eyes grew accustomed to the brilliant light, they saw in one dim corner the old donkey which drew heavy loads for the miners. Beside him stood one cow, a couple of sheep, and on the rafters over their heads perched a pair of blue pigeons. The children had seen them all before, often, but in the light of the fire, with the star shining above them, the simple animals, the same as those which had surrounded the Christ on the first Christmas, seemed as miraculous as a host of angels. And then, at last, they saw the One for whom they were seeking!

The cow’s manger had been pulled out beside the blazing fire and in it, warm and cozy and wrapped in swaddling bands, lay a tiny, beautiful baby. With a gasp of wonder the children knelt in the straw before him. Around his head was no circle of marvelous glory, but his sweet blue eyes opened, big and shining in his tiny face, and to the children he seemed indeed the baby King of whom they had dreamed. Beside him on the straw lay a woman wrapped in a dark cloak. Even Carl did not at first recognize her as his mother. She had crept off that morning to the one peaceful spot in the camp, where her husband had built the great fire for her, and there, with the peaceful animals around him, the little baby boy had been born.

“The Christ Child has come to us,” whispered one child blissfully. “The little King is here!” said others softly. “He has brought the fragrance the wise men gave Him,” murmured another. “And the joy of Christmas He has brought to us all to last forever,” said Carl in his sweet voice. Overwhelmed with the beauty and wonder of the scene, they had forgotten the longed-for gift of gold, and then the door swung open and the children saw Carl’s father enter and step across the room to the mother on the hay. His face shone with the glory in which the whole world seemed to be bathed. Was it only the light of the sunset and the blazing fire? Ah, no, his voice rang with gladness as he exclaimed, “Wife, they have found the gold; the mine will give treasure to us all!”

The children clasped their hands in blissful content. They had known it would come with the coming of the little King,--gold for the desperate men, peace for the tired women, happiness for them all,--and it had come true even more wonderfully than they had dreamed.

The star shone through the window in the loft, the last rays of the sunset turned the snow to gold, and within, in the light of the fire, the children knelt, gazing rapturously at the little newborn baby in the manger. So the miners found them. They were returning to the camp jubilant over the newly discovered gold; it would make them all rich, and they planned to celebrate by a night of riotous drinking. But on the way to the shacks they passed the stable. It was strange to see it lighted at this hour, and one man turned aside to see what was happening there. As he stood looking silently through the window another joined him, and another, until the whole crowd stood outside, gazing through the windows, silent and abashed. The kneeling children, the baby in the manger, the star above them, what did it all mean?

“It is Christmas Eve,” murmured one man. “That must be the big Carl’s kid,” said another, “but even the blessed Lord Jesus Himself couldn’t have looked any sweeter.”

“Gifts of gold,” said the man who was the leader of the gang, and his clear voice reached every miner’s ears, “gifts of gold, if I remember rightly, were brought once to the Christ on His first birthday. It’s His birthday to-night, though none of us remembered it, and now the gifts of gold have come to us. Who knows whether they have not come from Him, the Lord whom we had forgotten?”

There was silence again, and then as night fell and the stars shone out over that peaceful scene, there entered into the heart of every man, woman, and child there the spirit of the Christ Child.

Later, when the children understood that the baby was Carl’s little brother, the wonder was none the less. Possibly they felt the great truth, that the Christ Child is born in every baby who comes into the world, or perhaps they simply felt the glory of His presence, as the men and women around them lost their harsh and gloomy ways and became joyful, tender, compassionate. For from that Christmas Eve until the mine had been worked, and the men had scattered happily to their homes, the camp was a different place. The drinking and fighting ceased, and the men played with the children, shyly at first and then merrily, thinking of “those other kids at home.” The women sang over their tasks, and if the music was not as heavenly as the angels’ song, it was full of cheer and peace and good will. And so to the children the camp became truly a place in which, on that marvelous Christmas Eve, the Christ Child had been born.

THE MEANING OF THE STAR[12]

EMMA G. SEBRING

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.... And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary, his mother, and fell down, and worshiped him; and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, frankincense, and myrrh.--_Matthew ii, 1-4; 9-11._

* * * * *

In every life there is need of a star, the star of an ideal, which shall go before, leading the way until it comes and stands where the Christ is. They who see such a star shall rejoice with exceeding great joy, as they who look upon a heavenly vision. They who follow such a star to the goal where it leads, shall there offer the precious gift of an ennobled and sanctified life.

WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT

MARGARET DELAND

Like small curled feathers, white and soft, The little clouds went by, Across the moon, and past the stars, And down the western sky: In upland pastures, where the grass With frosted dew was white, Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay The first best Christmas night.

The shepherds slept; and, glimmering faint, With twist of thin, blue smoke, Only their fire’s crackling flame The tender silence broke, Save when a young lamb raised his head, Or when the night wind blew A nestling bird would softly stir Where dusky olives grew.

With finger on her solemn lip, Night hushed the shadowy earth, And only stars and angels saw The little Saviour’s birth; Then came such flash of silver light Across the bending skies, The wondering shepherds woke and hid Their frightened, dazzled eyes!

And all their gentle sleepy flock Looked up, then slept again, Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars Brought endless peace to men, Nor even heard the gracious words That down the ages ring-- “The Christ is born! the Lord has come, Good will on earth to bring!”

Then o’er the moonlit misty fields, Dumb with the world’s great joy, The shepherds sought the white-walled town Where lay the Baby Boy-- And oh, the gladness of the world, The glory of the skies, Because the longed-for Christ looked up In Mary’s happy eyes!

THE GREAT WALLED COUNTRY[13]

RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN

Away at the northern end of the world, farther than men have ever gone with their ships or their sleds, and where most people suppose that there is nothing but ice and snow, is a land full of children, called The Great Walled Country. This name is given because all around the country is a great wall, hundreds of feet thick and hundreds of feet high. It is made of ice, and never melts, winter or summer, and of course it is for this reason that more people have not discovered the place.

The land, as I said, is filled with children, for nobody who lives there ever grows up. The king and the queen, the princes and the courtiers, may be as old as you please, but they are children for all that. They play a great deal of the time with dolls and tin soldiers, and every night at seven o’clock have a bowl of bread and milk and go to bed. But they make excellent rulers, and the other children are well pleased with the government.

There are all sorts of curious things about the way they live in The Great Walled Country, but this story is only of their Christmas season. One can imagine what a fine thing their Christmas must be, so near the North Pole, with ice and snow everywhere; but this is not all. Grandfather Christmas lives just on the north side of the country, so that his house leans against the great wall and would tip over if it were not for its support. Grandfather Christmas is his name in The Great Walled Country; no doubt we should call him Santa Claus here. At any rate, he is the same person, and, best of all the children in the world, he loves the children behind the great wall of ice.

One very pleasant thing about having Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor is that in The Great Walled Country they never have to buy their Christmas presents. Every year, on the day before Christmas, before he makes up his bundles for the rest of the world Grandfather Christmas goes into a great forest of Christmas trees, that grows just back of the palace of the king of The Great Walled Country, and fills the trees with candy and books and toys and all sorts of good things. So when night comes, all the children wrap up snugly, while the children in all other lands are waiting in their beds, and go to the forest to gather gifts for their friends. Each one goes by himself so that none of his friends can see what he has gathered; and no one ever thinks of such a thing as taking a present for himself. The forest is so big that there is room for every one to wander about without meeting the people from whom he has secrets, and there are always enough nice things to go around.

So Christmas time is a great holiday in that land, as it is in all the best places in the world. They have been celebrating it in this way for hundreds of years, and since Grandfather Christmas does not seem to grow old any faster than the children, they will probably do so for hundreds of years to come.

But there was once a time, so many years ago that they would have forgotten all about it if the story were not written in their Big Book and read to them every year, when the children in The Great Walled Country had a very strange Christmas. There came a visitor to the land. He was an old man, and was the first stranger for very many years that had succeeded in getting over the wall. He looked so wise, and was so much interested in what he saw and heard, that the king invited him to the palace, and he was treated with every possible honor.

When this old man had inquired about their Christmas celebration, and was told how they carried it on every year, he listened gravely and then, looking wiser than ever, he said to the king:

“That is all very well, but I should think that children who have Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor could find a better and easier way. You tell me that you all go out on Christmas Eve to gather presents to give to one another the next morning. Why take so much trouble, and act in such a roundabout way? Why not go out together, and every one get his own presents? That would save the trouble of dividing them again, and every one would be better satisfied, for he could pick out just what he wanted for himself. No one can tell what you want as well as you can.”

This seemed to the king a very wise saying, and he called all his courtiers and counselors about him to hear it. The wise stranger talked further about his plan, and when he had finished they all agreed that they had been very foolish never to have thought of this simple way of getting their Christmas gifts.

“If we do this,” they said, “no one can ever complain of what he has, or wish that some one had taken more pains to find what he wanted. We will make a proclamation, and always after this follow the new plan.”

So the proclamation was made, and the plan seemed as wise to the children of the country as it had to the king and the counselors. Every one had at some time been a little disappointed with his Christmas gifts; now there would be no danger of that.

On Christmas Eve they always had a meeting at the palace, and sang carols until the time for going to the forest. When the clock struck ten every one said, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!” to the person nearest him, and then they separated to go their ways to the forest. On this particular night it seemed to the king that the music was not quite so merry as usual, and that when the children spoke to one another their eyes did not shine as gladly as he had noticed them in other years; but there could be no good reason for this, since every one was expecting a better time than usual. So he thought no more of it.

There was only one person at the palace that night who was not pleased with the new proclamation about the Christmas gifts. This was a little boy named Inge, who lived not far from the palace with his sister. Now his sister was a cripple, and had to sit all day looking out of the window from her chair; and Inge took care of her, and tried to make her life happy from morning till night. He had always gone to the forest on Christmas Eve and returned with his arms and pockets loaded with pretty things for his sister, which would keep her amused all the coming year. And although she was not able to go after presents for her brother, he did not mind that at all, especially as he had other friends who never forgot to divide their good things with him.

But now, said Inge to himself, what would his sister do? For the king had ordered that no one should gather any presents except for himself, or any more than he could carry away at once. All of Inge’s friends were busy planning what they would pick for themselves, but the poor crippled child could not go a step toward the forest. After thinking about it a long time, Inge decided that it would not be wrong, if, instead of taking gifts for himself, he took them altogether for his sister. This he would be very glad to do; for what did a boy who could run about and play in the snow care for presents, compared with a little girl who could only sit still and watch others having a good time? Inge did not ask the advice of any one, for he was a little afraid others would tell him he must not do it; but he silently made up his mind not to obey the proclamation.

And now the chimes had struck ten, and the children were making their way toward the forest, in starlight that was so bright that it almost showed their shadows on the sparkling snow. As soon as they came to the edge of the forest, they separated, each one going by himself in the old way, though now there was really no reason why they should have secrets from one another.

Ten minutes later, if you had been in the forest, you might have seen the children standing in dismay, with tears on their faces, and exclaiming that there had never been such a Christmas Eve before. For as they looked eagerly about them to the low-bending branches of the evergreen trees, they saw nothing hanging from them that could not be seen every day in the year. High and low they searched, wandering farther into the forest than ever before, lest Grandfather Christmas might have chosen a new place this year for hanging his presents; but still no presents appeared. The king called his counselors about him, and asked them if they knew whether anything of this kind had happened before, but they could tell him nothing. So no one could guess whether Grandfather Christmas had forgotten them, or whether some dreadful accident had kept him away.

As the children were trooping out of the forest, after hours of weary searching, some of them came upon little Inge, who carried over his shoulder a bag that seemed to be full to overflowing. When he saw them looking at him, he cried:

“Are they not beautiful things? I think Grandfather Christmas was never so good to us before.”

“Why, what do you mean?” cried the children. “There are no presents in the forest!”

“No presents!” Inge said. “I have my bag full of them.” But he did not offer to show them, because he did not want the children to see that they were all for his little sister instead of for himself.

Then the children begged him to tell them in what part of the forest he had found his presents, and he turned back and pointed them to the place where he had been. “I left many more behind than I brought away,” he said. “There they are! I can see some of the things shining on the trees even from here.”

But when the children followed his footprints in the snow to the place where he had been, they still saw nothing on the trees, and thought that Inge must be walking in his sleep, and dreaming that he had found presents. Perhaps he had filled his bag with the cones from the evergreen trees.

On Christmas Day there was sadness all through The Great Walled Country. But those who came to the house of Inge and his sister saw plenty of books and dolls and beautiful toys piled up about the little cripple’s chair, and when they asked where these things came from, they were told, “Why, from the Christmas-tree forest.” And they shook their heads, not knowing what it could mean.

The king held a council in the palace, and appointed a committee of his most faithful courtiers to visit Grandfather Christmas, and see if they could find what was the matter. In a day or two more the committee set out on their journey.

They had very hard work to climb the great wall of ice that lay between their country and the place where Grandfather Christmas lived, but at last they reached the top. And when they came to the other side of the wall they were looking down into the top of his chimney. It was not hard to go down this chimney into the house, and when they reached the bottom of it they found themselves in the very room where Grandfather Christmas lay sound asleep.

It was hard enough to waken him, for he always slept one hundred days after his Christmas work was over, and it was only by turning the hands of the clock around two hundred times that the committee could do anything. When the clock had struck twelve times two hundred hours, Grandfather Christmas thought it was time for his nap to be over, and he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, sir!” cried the prince who was in charge of the committee, “we have come from the king of The Great Walled Country, who has sent us to ask why you forgot us this Christmas, and left no presents in the forest.”

“No presents!” said Grandfather Christmas. “I never forgot anything. The presents were there. You did not see them, that’s all.”

But the children told him that they had searched long and carefully, and in the whole forest there had not been found a thing that could be called a Christmas gift.

“Indeed!” said Grandfather Christmas. “And did little Inge, the boy with the crippled sister, find none?”

Then the committee was silent, for they had heard of the gifts at Inge’s house, and did not know what to say about them.

“You had better go home,” said Grandfather Christmas, who now began to realize that he had been awakened too soon, “and let me finish my nap. The presents were there, but they were never intended for children who were looking only for themselves. I am not surprised that you could not see them. Remember, that not everything that wise travelers tell you is wise.” And he turned over and went to sleep again.

The committee returned silently to The Great Walled Country, and told the king what they had heard. The king did not tell all the children of the land what Grandfather Christmas had said, but, when the next December came, he made another proclamation bidding every one to seek gifts for others, in the old way, in the Christmas-tree forest. So that is what they have been doing ever since; and in order that they may not forget what happened, in case any one should ever ask for another change they have read to them every year from their Big Book the story of the time when they had no Christmas gifts.

GOING TO MEET CHRISTMAS[14]

EDMUND VANCE COOKE

“Papa,” said the Man Mite, “can you hear Christmas?”

“Can you hear Christmas?” repeated his papa. “Why, I suppose so, in a sort of way. You can hear bells chiming and little boys drumming and little girls blowing horns and people laughing and everybody saying, ‘Merry Christmas!’ I suppose that’s hearing Christmas, isn’t it?”

“But I mean can you hear it before it’s here?” asked the Man Mite.

“No, I think not,” answered papa.

“Well, if you can’t hear it, how can you tell it’s coming? Can you see it coming?”

“Oh,” answered his papa, “I see what you mean now. Well, how can you tell to-morrow is coming? Can you smell it?”

The Man Mite laughed. “Such a silly papa! To-morrow _has_ to come so that to-day can be yesterday. You ’splained that to me once yourself.”

“Yes? Well, Christmas has to come so that next Christmas can be last Christmas.”

“Oh, papa,” cried the Man Mite, “you forgot about _this_ Christmas, but please don’t tell me when this Christmas is coming, because I want it to surprise me. I want it to sneak right up and get here when I don’t know it.”

“All right,” laughed papa, “I shan’t tell, and you can go to bed every night _for a week_ hoping that the next day will be Christmas.”

Which was exactly what the Man Mite did, and for a night or two it was very exciting, but toward the end of the week he began to grow tired of it. It was all very well to go to bed hoping that the next day would be Christmas, but to wake up every morning, and ask, “Where is Christmas?” only to be answered with “Christmas is coming!” was very disappointing.

One night his papa and mamma insisted that he go to bed earlier than usual, so he was very wide awake for a while, and lay there wondering how he could hurry up Christmas. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how Christmas looked dilly-dallying along the way, as (he remembered with shame) he himself did sometimes when he was sent upon an errand, instead of hastening, as Christmas and a little boy ought to do.

“Christmas is coming! Christmas is coming!” he repeated to himself, “and if it doesn’t hurry and hurry up--if it doesn’t hurry and hurry up, I’ll go to meet it!”

That was a new idea, and the Man Mite lingered on it lovingly. Go to meet it! Why not?

Just how he got himself dressed and out of the house he never distinctly remembered. He afterwards said that he was in such a hurry he didn’t have time to remember, but that doesn’t sound quite reasonable, does it?

He also says, however, that he remembers running for a long time as fast as he could go. When he stopped to take breath and to look around he found he was in a strange part of the city and there was nobody in the street in any direction. He was lost!

The Man Mite remembered that his papa told him that if ever he was lost he should ask a policeman, but there wasn’t a policeman or anybody else in sight. On the corner, though, was a patrol box, and the Man Mite had seen the policeman telephone to the station from the box, so he thought he would do the same thing. As he was trying to open the door he was startled to hear a voice inside exclaim, “Christmas is coming!”

“Which way is it coming, please?” asked the Man Mite, and off popped the top and up popped a Jack-in-the-box with his arms extended.

“Thank you,” said the Man Mite, and hastened away in the direction the Jack-in-the-box had pointed. Presently he saw a toy trolley car going in the same direction. “Hello!” he said, “where is that car going?”

“Going to meet Christmas,” answered the trolley car; “get inside.”

“Thank you,” answered the Man Mite, “you’re most too small for me to get inside of, but I can sit on top.”

He did so, and the car took him to the end of the line, and he was his own conductor and collected his own fare from himself. When the car stopped, it was at the end of a street which ran up against a steep bluff with no elevator or path to help a little boy to get to its top. The Man Mite wondered how he was ever going to get past that bluff, when he saw a climbing-monkey-on-a-string. One end of his string was attached to the top of the bluff and the other was fastened to the ground below.

“Hello,” said the monkey, “Christmas is coming, and if you want to go to meet it, you would better crawl up my string. I’ll show you how.”

“Oh, I can’t,” said the Man Mite.

“Can’t!” mocked the monkey. “I’m only a tin monkey and I can do it. It’s easy.”

He went up the string hand-over-hand and foot-over-foot, and the Man Mite followed. Much to his surprise, he reached the top without any difficulty, and there he found a toy train of cars, a toy automobile, and a wooden wagon.

“All aboard for the Christmas Limited!” said the little iron brakeman.

“Automobile Air-Line to Santaclausville!” said the tin chauffeur.

“Fast express going to meet Christmas!” cried the tongue of the wagon, and the Man Mite noticed that the wagon _did_ have “Express” printed on both its sides.

Now, although the Man Mite would have liked to go on the train or the auto, there was so much more room in the wooden wagon that he got into it, and was surprised that it soon left its companions far behind. It sped along merrily, and its tongue kept up a continuous running talk as well, until it came to the ocean, where a toy boat was floating.

“All aboard for Christmas!” said the captain.

“But your boat is too small, and besides there’s not a board in it; it’s tin,” answered the Man Mite.

“Well, throw us a line and we’ll tow you,” said the captain.

As the Man Mite had no line, he let him take the tongue of the wagon, and the captain stood at the stern of the boat and hung on.

Though the boat was so small, it pulled the Man Mite through the water in a surprising manner, and the wooden wagon floated and kept the Man Mite dry, but not a word could he get out of it, which was quite a contrast to its manner when on land.

The weather kept getting colder and colder; presently the boat was stuck fast in the ice. Of course the wagon was also frozen tight, and the captain let go of the “line” as he called it.

“There!” cried the wagon angrily. “I knew what you’d bring us into.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so if you knew so much?” said the captain.

“Say so! Could _you_ say so if somebody was pulling you along by the tongue?” demanded the wagon.

The captain replied and the wagon retorted, and the quarrel was becoming very unpleasant, when along came a pair of skates without anybody on them.

“Boat ahoy! Wagon ahoy! Boy ahoy!” cried the skates. “Christmas is coming!”

“Take me along to meet it, please?” asked the Man Mite, and in another moment he was on the skates and skating faster and easier than he had ever skated in his life before. He skated for a long time, and passed fields where plum puddings were growing like pumpkins, trees where candy boys hung like pears, and snowdrifts which upon closer acquaintance proved to be huge frosted cakes. Curiously enough, fields and trees and drifts were all moving and cried out, “We’re going to meet Christmas!”

After what seemed to him a long time, much to his surprise and joy he met a boy, seemingly of his own age. The Man Mite was almost sure he had seen his face before, and yet, when he came to look at him again, he was surer still that he hadn’t, for certainly he had never seen a boy with a fur cap, fur coat, fur boots, and fur trousers! He noticed, too, that while the boy’s face was round and chubby, his hair was white; not merely tow-headed, like Willie Perkins’s, and Pete Judson’s, but pure white.

“Hello!” said the stranger. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Man Mite. What’s yours?”

“Santy.”

“Santy? What a funny name. Santy what?”

“Santy Claus.”

“Santy Claus?” cried the Man Mite. “You can’t be Santy Claus. He’s a man, and you’re just a little boy like I am.”

“Ho! you’re thinkin’ of my father,” answered the boy.

“Your father!” cried the Man Mite, more astonished than ever. Somehow, he had never thought of the possibility of Santy Claus being a father.

“Have you got a mother, too?” he asked, after a moment.

“Yep. Had one ever since I was born. Ain’t you?”

“Of _course_,” answered the Man Mite, “but I never heard of Mrs. Santy Claus.”

“Never heard of your mother neither,” answered Santy, Jr.

“Say, now, ain’t you fooling me? Are you honestly Santy Claus’s little boy?”

“Say yourself,” answered the other, “doesn’t your father remember when he was little he had a Santy Claus?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t your father’s father have a Santy Claus?”

“I s’pose so.”

“Well, do you suppose it’s the same Santy Claus? Somebody’s got to keep the business goin’.”

“And will you be Santy Claus--the real Santy Claus--when you grow up?” asked the Man Mite.

“Oh, I s’pose so,” answered the other, carelessly.

“You s’pose so! Don’t you _want_ to be?”

“Naw; I want to be the conductor on a dog train. Say, they made the run this year in three months an’ two days. Wasn’t that flyin’?”

It really didn’t seem fast to the Man Mite, so he said: “How far is it?”

“From Arctic C. to Aurora B.”

“What do you mean by Arctic C. and Aurora B.?”

“Arctic Circle to Aurora Borealis, of course. That run was an excursion, too. We always go to the Aurora B. for the Fourth. Fine fireworks there.”

“The Fourth? Do you celebrate the Fourth?”

“O’ course.”

“But you’re not Americans, are you?”

“No; that’s the worst of it. We got to celebrate everything, holidays and saints days and kings’ and queens’ birthdays, and the whole bunch. That’s because we belong to all nations.”

“Christmas is the best, isn’t it?” smiled the Man Mite.

“Worst o’ the lot,” said Santy Jr., shortly.

“Why, what makes you think so?” cried the Man Mite.

“‘Cause dad’s always away on Christmas and we’ve cleared everything out of the house to the last ginger-snap to put in folks’ stockings and it’s the middle of the night and everybody’s tired, just like I am now, and wants to go to bed.”

“Middle of the night? What _do_ you mean?”

“Middle of the north-pole night. If it wasn’t for Christmas we could go to bed about half-past October and sleep until a quarter of May, but ma thinks we ought to help pa and then wait up till he comes home. My, but I’m sleepy! Ain’t you?”

“Yes,” owned the Man Mite, “a little.”

“Well, come on and sleep with me. Your mother won’t mind. You can get up about a quarter past April and get home early.”

While they were speaking, Santy, Jr., was leading the way into the house and to his room. The two boys lay down together on a bed of bearskins, and the Man Mite said, sleepily: “Say, will you please tell me something?”

“Uh-huh,” said Santy.

“What makes your hair white?”

“What makes a polar bear’s hair white? What makes an arctic fox’s hair white? What makes an arctic hare’s hair white? Why, hello! there’s dad coming back!”

“Coming back from where?”

“Why, from Christmas, of course. You do ask the funniest questions. I believe you’re asleep. Your eyes are shut and you talk so stupid.”

The Mite Man rubbed his eyes with both hands and strove to open them. Then he heard a voice cry, “Papa! papa!” but instead of its being the voice of Santy, Jr., as he expected, it was the voice of his brother Ben. Then somebody kissed him and called “Merry Christmas!”

“Oh, papa,” said the Man Mite as he opened his eyes, “is it _this_ Christmas or _next_ Christmas?”

He did not stop for an answer to his question. With a shout of joy he sprang out of bed and darted upon a pair of skates, a toy steamboat, a wooden wagon marked “Express.” on both sides, and a toy trolley car which was big enough for him to sit upon the roof.

A LEGEND OF SAINT BONIFACE

ELEANOR L. SKINNER

On a wild winter night about twelve hundred years ago the great English missionary Saint Boniface and a score of faithful followers were traveling through the gloomy forest in a lonely region of Hesse, Germany. They made their way painfully and slowly, for they were obliged to cut a path through the tangled thicket and great twisted branches. The little band had come into the wilderness to share the message of the Prince of Peace with hordes of barbarous savages who believed in witches and werewolves, worshiped false idols, and made sacrifices to pagan gods. In their passionate joy to bring the glad tidings of the gospel, these apostles willingly endured blinding snowstorms and cruel hunger, courageously risked death from wild beasts and murderous savages.

Since noon these faithful Christians had fought their way through the forest. The morning they had spent at Geismar, where Saint Boniface took into Christ’s fold almost three hundred pagans. In simplest words the great apostle urged the rude barbarians to give up their false idols and bloody sacrifices. He told them the thrilling story of Christ’s birth, death, and resurrection, and the wonderful promise of the Kingdom of Peace. The savages stood listening in breathless silence. Slowly they caught a glimpse of the light of truth, came timidly forward, and knelt at the rude altar where Saint Boniface stood.

“Dost thou think the people of the wilderness will hold to the new faith, father?” asked one of the followers.

“I hope so, lad,” answered Saint Boniface. “We must try to keep watch over them. Again and again they must hear the wonderful story. It is hard, indeed, for these pagans to turn from their false idols and worship an all-loving, merciful Father. We must watch and pray.”

“When shall we come again to Geismar, father?” asked the youth.

“It will be a year before our band can return to this region. In the meantime, I hope to send other missionaries here,” answered the great apostle.

“Dost thou think we are near the monastery, father?” asked the footsore youth.

“I believe we are. If we do not reach it in another hour we must light a fire and lie down under the trees. Courage, lad! This has been a fruitful journey. May the converts hold fast to the glory of Christ!”

A year passed quickly. Saint Boniface and his helpers were again working among the wild children of the forest. Often the great apostle’s heart sank when he heard that some of the converts were worshiping their false idols again. A few remained stanch and true to the new faith; others hopelessly confused the old superstitious ideas with the gospel of love and service.

“Thou art not discouraged, father?” whispered the youth, who noticed that Saint Boniface was lost in thought.

“Discouraged? Never!” answered the apostle with flashing eyes. “I am deciding how to strike the next blow at their cruel superstitions.”

In a few moments Saint Boniface said: “Let us stop here for a little while. My plan is made. To-night is the pagan yuletide. Several tribes will gather around the thunder-oak of Geismar to offer sacrifices. The priests declare that nothing but human blood will appease the wrath of Thor. Many wavering converts will be there. Come, we will destroy once for all the sacred monarch of the forest. We will show the poor benighted people that the worship of Thor is nothing but a shadow. Our axes are sharp; our arms are strong. God is with us. Come!”

With new inspiration the Christian band pushed on. An hour’s hard struggle brought them to the thunder-oak, which stood on a broad low hill near Geismar. There they saw several hundred pagans standing in a semicircle around the gigantic oak. Near the sacred tree burned a dull red fire, and in the light of the flickering blaze the Christians saw an old priest and a little, fair-haired boy.

“It is as I feared,” whispered Saint Boniface. “They are ready to make human sacrifice. Forward!”

In a moment all eyes were fixed on the little band of Christians that advanced toward the priest. Some of the pagans recognized the apostle before whom they had knelt one year ago.

“Friends,” said Saint Boniface, holding up the cross, “again we come to bring the message of peace from the All-Father. Thor is dead! With our axes we will prove to you that the god of thunder is powerless before the God of Love.”

Saint Boniface and a helper, with their wood axes in their hands, stepped up to the great tree. With powerful blows they cut deep gashes into its sides. Suddenly a mighty whirling wind passed over the forest. Thor’s oak shuddered, swayed, and fell; it crashed to the ground, and split into four huge pieces.

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

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

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

COSETTE’S CHRISTMAS EVE

VICTOR HUGO

(Translated by Alma J. Foster)

I

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

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

This was the terror of little Cosette.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cosette came out from under the table.

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

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

Cosette slipped back to her place under the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman opened wide the door leading to the street.

“Very well; go and get some.”

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

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

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

“Get along with you!” cried the woman.

Cosette went out. The door was closed behind her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eight years, sir.”

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

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

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

“What is your name?” said he.

“Cosette.”

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

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

“At Montfermeil, if you know it?”

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

“It’s Madame Thénardier.”

“What does she do, your Madame Thénardier?”

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

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

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

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

Several minutes passed thus. Then the man began again.

“Hasn’t Madame Thénardier any servant?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you the only one?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was another pause. Then Cosette raised her voice.

“That is, there are two little girls.”

“What little girls?”

“Ponine and Zelma.”

“Who are Ponine and Zelma?”

“They are Madame Thénardier’s little girls.”

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

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

“And you?”

“I? I work.”

“All day long?”

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

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

“What do you play?”

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

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

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

“What is it, little one?”

“Here we are, very near the house.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is the gentleman?” said she.

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

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

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

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

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

“Two francs?”[15]

“Yes, two francs.”

“Very well.”

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

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

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

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

The stranger did not take his eyes away from Cosette.

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

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

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

“Madame, the baker shop was closed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, that is it,” said she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman looked at him with scorn.

“At least thirty sous,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turned to Cosette.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cosette!” repeated the woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She has touched it with her dirty hands!”

At this Cosette sobbed more than ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my dear,” said the woman.

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

“Play now, Cosette,” said the stranger.

“Yes, I am playing,” said the child.

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

Cosette went to bed, taking her Catherine with her.

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A WOOD SLED

WASHINGTON GLADDEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ch--h! Ch--h! ch--ch! Ch-h-h-h-h-!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, what is it?” they all asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“How long?” asked Grace, ruefully.

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

“Can’t you telegraph to father?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So am I,” said Phil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boys danced with merriment.

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

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

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

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

“Pretty good for sis,” laughed William.

“What’s the joke?” inquired Win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Merry Christmas!”

“The children! Bless their hearts!”

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

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

“It is Mr. Ross, father. He took us into his house on Washington Mountain last night and treated us like princes, and this morning he has brought us home, and helped us in the heartiest way to carry out our fun.”

“Mr. Ross, we are greatly your debtors,” said Mr. Burnham. “You have relieved us of a sore anxiety, and brought us a great pleasure.”

“Wall, I dunno,” said the farmer. “I didn’t like to think o’ these ’ere children bein’ kep’ away from hum on Christmas Day; ’n’ ef I’ve helped ’em any way to hev a good time, why,--God bless ’em!--I don’t think there’s any better thing an old man like me could be doin’ on sech a day as this!”

Just here Mr. Burnham’s coachman came round the corner in great haste.

“Well, Patrick, what is it?” said his master.

“The shafts uv that sleigh--bad look to ’em!--is bruk, yer honor; ’n’ I don’t see how I’ll iver get thim bashkits carried round at all!”

“Oh, those baskets!” cried Mr. Burnham in distress. “Our Christmas baskets haven’t been delivered yet, and it’s almost eleven o’clock. The storm and our worry about you kept us from delivering them last night, and we have hardly thought of them this morning. I’m afraid those poor people will have a late Christmas dinner.”

“Baskets o’ stuff for poor folks’s dinners?” said Farmer Ross. “Let me take ’em round.”

“Oh, yes, father!” shouted Win. “Let Phil and me go with him! The baskets are marked, aren’t they? It’ll be jolly fun to deliver them out of this sled.”

In a minute the baskets--half a dozen of them--were loaded in, and within half an hour they were all set down at the homes to which they were addressed. Poor old Uncle Ned and Aunt Dinah hobbled to the door and took in their basket with eyes full of wonder at the strange vehicle that was just driving from their doors; the Widow Blanchard’s children, playing outside, ran into the house when they saw the ponies coming, but speedily came out after their basket and carried it in, firm in the faith that they had had a sight of the veritable Santa Claus. To all the rest of the needy families the gifts, though late, were welcome; and the bright vision of the evergreen bower on runners brought gladness with it into all those lowly homes.

Farmer Ross went back with the boys to their home; his ponies were taken from the sled and given a good Christmas dinner in Mr. Burnham’s stable; he himself was constrained to remain and partake of the feast that would not have been eaten but for him, and that lost none of its merriment because of him; and at length, about three o’clock in the afternoon, the Christmas car, stripped of its bravery, but carrying some goodly gifts to Mrs. Ross, started on its return to Washington Mountain.

My little friends who read this story will be glad to know that the Christmas festival at the church had been deferred on account of the storm from Christmas Eve to Christmas evening; so that the Burnhams had a chance to assist at the unloading of the Christmas tree.

They will also guess that Farmer Ross’s house and his barn and his orchard and his pasture and his woods and his trout brook and his blackberry bushes and his dog and his ponies and his cows and his oxen and his hens and pretty nearly everything that was his had a chance to get very well acquainted with Win and Phil during the next summer vacation. It will be a long time, I am sure, before the Rosses and the Burnhams cease to be friends, and before any of them will forget The Strange Adventures of a Wood Sled.

KIDNAPPING SANTA CLAUS

L. FRANK BAUM

Santa Claus lives in the Laughing Valley, where stands the big, rambling castle in which his toys are manufactured. His workmen, selected from the Ryls, Knooks, Pixies, and Fairies, live with him, and every one is as busy as can be from one year’s end to another.

It is called the Laughing Valley because everything there is happy and gay. The brook chuckles to itself as it leaps rollicking between its green banks; the wind whistles merrily in the trees; the sunbeams dance lightly over the soft grass, and the violets and wildflowers look smilingly up from their green nests. To laugh, one needs to be happy; to be happy, one needs to be content. And throughout the Laughing Valley of Santa Claus contentment reigns supreme.

On one side is the mighty forest of Burzee. At the other side stands the huge mountain that contains the caves of the Demons. And between them the valley lies smiling and peaceful.

One would think that our good old Santa Claus, who devotes his days to making children happy, would have no enemies on all the earth; and, as a matter of fact, for a long period of time he encountered nothing but love wherever he might go.

But the Demons who live in the mountain caves grew to hate Santa Claus very much, and all for the simple reason that he made children happy.

The caves of the Demons are five in number. A broad pathway leads up to the first cave, which is a finely arched cavern at the foot of the mountain, the entrance being beautifully carved and decorated. In it resides the Demon of Selfishness. Back of this is another cavern inhabited by the Demon of Envy. The cave of the Demon of Hatred is next in order, and through this one passes to the home of the Demon of Malice--situated in a dark and fearful cave in the very heart of the mountain. I do not know what lies beyond this. Some say there are terrible pitfalls leading to death and destruction, and this may very well be true. However, from each one of the four caves mentioned there is a small, narrow tunnel leading to the fifth cave--a cozy little room occupied by the Demon of Repentance. And as the rocky floors of these passages are well worn by the track of passing feet, I judge that many wanderers in the caves of the Demons have escaped through the tunnels to the abode of the Demon of Repentance, who is said to be a pleasant sort of fellow who gladly opens for one a little door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again.

Well, these Demons of the caves, thinking they had great cause to dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter.

“I’m really getting lonesome,” said the Demon of Selfishness. “For Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and keep away from my cave.”

“I am having the same trouble,” rejoined the Demon of Envy. “The little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few, indeed, that I can coax to become envious.”

“And that makes it bad for me!” declared the Demon of Hatred. “For if no children pass through the caves of Selfishness and Envy, none can get to my cavern.”

“Or to mine,” added the Demon of Malice.

“For my part,” said the Demon of Repentance, “it is easily seen that if children do not visit your caves they have no need to visit mine; so I am quite as neglected as you are.”

“And all because of this person they call Santa Claus!” exclaimed the Demon of Envy. “He is simply ruining our business, and something must be done at once.”

To this they readily agreed; but what to do was another and more difficult matter to settle. They knew that Santa Claus worked all through the year at his castle in the Laughing Valley, preparing the gifts he was to distribute on Christmas Eve; and at first they resolved to try to tempt him into their caves, that they might lead him on to the terrible pitfalls that ended in destruction.

So the very next day, while Santa Claus was busily at work, surrounded by his little band of assistants, the Demon of Selfishness came to him and said:

“These toys are wonderfully bright and pretty. Why do you not keep them for yourself? It’s a pity to give them to those noisy boys and fretful girls, who break and destroy them so quickly.”

“Nonsense!” cried the old graybeard, his bright eyes twinkling merrily as he turned toward the tempting Demon; “the boys and girls are never so noisy or fretful after receiving my presents, and if I can make them happy for one day in the year I am quite content.”

So the Demon went back to the others, who awaited him in their caves, and said:

“I have failed, for Santa Claus is not at all selfish.”

The following day the Demon of Envy visited Santa Claus. Said he: “The toy shops are full of playthings quite as pretty as these you are making. What a shame it is that they should interfere with your business! They make toys by machinery much quicker than you can make them by hand; and they sell them for money, while you get nothing at all for your work.”

But Santa Claus refused to be envious of the toy shops.

“I can supply the little ones but once a year--on Christmas Eve,” he answered; “for the children are many, and I am but one. And as my work is one of love and kindness I would be ashamed to receive money for my little gifts. But throughout all the year the children must be amused in some way, and so the toy shops are able to bring much happiness to my little friends. I like the toy shops, and am glad to see them prosper.”

In spite of this second rebuff, the Demon of Hatred thought he would try to influence Santa Claus. So the next day he entered the busy workshop and said:

“Good morning, Santa! I have bad news for you.”

“Then run away, like a good fellow,” answered Santa Claus. “Bad news is something that should be kept secret and never told.”

“You cannot escape this, however,” declared the Demon, “for in the world are a good many who do not believe in Santa Claus, and these you are bound to hate bitterly, since they have so wronged you.”

“Stuff and rubbish!” cried Santa.

“And there are others who resent your making children happy, and who sneer at you and call you a foolish old rattlepate! You are quite right to hate such base slanderers, and you ought to be revenged upon them for their evil words.”

“But I don’t hate ’em!” exclaimed Santa Claus, positively. “Such people do me no real harm, but merely render themselves and their children unhappy. Poor things! I’d much rather help them any day than injure them.”

Indeed, the Demons could not tempt old Santa Claus in any way. On the contrary, he was shrewd enough to see that their object in visiting him was to make mischief and trouble, and his cheery laughter disconcerted the evil ones and showed to them the folly of such an undertaking. So they abandoned honeyed words and determined to use force.

It is well known that no harm can come to Santa Claus while he is in the Laughing Valley, for the fairies, and ryls, and knooks all protect him. But on Christmas Eve he drives his reindeer out into the big world, carrying a sleigh load of toys and pretty gifts to the children; and this was the time and the occasion when his enemies had the best chance to injure him. So the Demons laid their plans and awaited the arrival of Christmas Eve.

The moon shone big and white in the sky, and the snow lay crisp and sparkling on the ground as Santa Claus cracked his whip and sped away out of the valley into the great world beyond. The roomy sleigh was packed full with huge sacks of toys, and as the reindeer dashed onward our jolly old Santa laughed and whistled and sang for very joy. For in all his merry life this was the one day in the year when he was happiest--the day he lovingly bestowed the treasures of his workshop upon the little children.

It would be a busy night for him, he well knew. As he whistled and shouted and cracked his whip again, he reviewed in mind all the towns and cities and farmhouses where he was expected, and figured that he had just enough presents to go around and make every child happy. The reindeer knew exactly what was expected of them, and dashed along so swiftly that their feet scarcely seemed to touch the snow-covered ground.

Suddenly a strange thing happened: a rope shot through the moonlight, and a big noose that was in the end of it settled over the arms and body of Santa Claus and drew tight. Before he could resist or even cry out he was jerked from the seat of the sleigh and tumbled headforemost into a snowbank, while the reindeer rushed onward with the load of toys and carried it quickly out of sight and sound.

Such a surprising experience confused old Santa for a moment, and when he had collected his senses he found that the wicked Demons had pulled him from the snowdrift and bound him tightly with many coils of the stout rope. And then they carried the kidnapped Santa Claus away to their mountain, where they thrust the prisoner into a secret cave and chained him to the rocky wall so that he could not escape.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Demons, rubbing their hands together with cruel glee. “What will the children do now? How they will cry and scold and storm when they find there are no toys in their stockings and no gifts on their Christmas trees! And what a lot of punishment they will receive from their parents, and how they will flock to our caves of Selfishness, and Envy, and Hatred, and Malice! We have done a mighty clever thing, we Demons of the Caves.”

Now, it so chanced that on this Christmas Eve the good Santa Claus had taken with him in his sleigh Nuter the Ryl, Peter the Knook, Kilter the Pixie, and a small fairy named Wisk--his four favorite assistants. These little people he had often found very useful in helping to distribute his gifts to the children, and when their master was so suddenly dragged from the sleigh they were all snugly tucked underneath the seat, where the sharp wind could not reach them.

The tiny immortals knew nothing of the capture of Santa Claus until some time after he had disappeared, but finally they missed his cheery voice, and as their master always sang or whistled on his journeys, the silence warned them that something was wrong.

Little Wisk stuck out his head from underneath the seat and found Santa Claus gone and no one to direct the flight of the reindeer.

“Whoa!” he called out, and the deer obediently slackened speed and came to a halt.

Peter and Nuter and Kilter all jumped upon the seat and looked back over the track made by the sleigh. But Santa Claus had been left miles and miles behind.

“What shall we do?” asked Wisk, anxiously, all the mirth and mischief banished from his wee face by this great calamity.

“We must go back at once and find our master,” said Nuter the Ryl, who thought and spoke with much deliberation.

“No, no!” exclaimed Peter the Knook, who, cross and crabbed though he was, might always be depended upon in an emergency. “If we delay, or go back, there will not be time to get the toys to the children before morning; and that would grieve Santa Claus more than anything else.”

“It is certain that some wicked creatures have captured him,” added Kilter, thoughtfully; “and their object must be to make the children unhappy. So our first duty is to get the toys distributed as carefully as if Santa Claus were himself present. Afterward we can search for our master and easily secure his freedom.”

This seemed such good and sensible advice that the others at once resolved to adopt it. So Peter the Knook called to the reindeer, and the faithful animals again sprang forward and dashed over hill and valley, through forest and plain, until they came to the houses wherein children lay sleeping and dreaming of the pretty gifts they would find on Christmas morning.

The little immortals had set themselves a difficult task; for although they had assisted Santa Claus on many of his journeys, their master had always directed and guided them and told them exactly what he wished them to do. But now they had to distribute the toys according to their own judgment, and they did not understand children as well as did old Santa. So it is no wonder they made some laughable errors.

Mamie Brown, who wanted a doll, got a drum instead; and a drum is of no use to a girl who loves dolls. And Charlie Smith, who delights to romp and play out of doors, and who wanted some new rubber boots to keep his feet dry, received a sewing box filled with colored worsted and threads and needles, which made him so provoked that he thoughtlessly called our dear Santa Claus a fraud.

Had there been many such mistakes the Demons would have accomplished their evil purpose and made the children unhappy. But the little friends of the absent Santa Claus labored faithfully and intelligently to carry out their master’s ideas, and they made fewer errors than might be expected under such unusual circumstances.

And, although they worked as swiftly as possible, day had begun to break before the toys and other presents were all distributed; so for the first time in many years the reindeer trotted into the Laughing Valley, on their return, in broad daylight, with the brilliant sun peeping over the edge of the forest to prove they were far behind their accustomed hour.

Having put the deer in the stable, the little folk began to wonder how they might rescue their master; and they realized they must discover, first of all, what had happened to him, and where he was.

So Wisk, the fairy, transported himself to the bower of the Fairy Queen, which was located deep in the heart of the forest of Burzee; and once there, it did not take him long to find out all about the naughty Demons and how they had kidnapped the good Santa Claus to prevent his making children happy. The Fairy Queen also promised her assistance, and then, fortified by this powerful support, Wisk flew back to where Nuter and Peter and Kilter awaited him, and the four counseled together and laid plans to rescue their master from his enemies.

It is possible that Santa Claus was not as merry as usual during the night that succeeded his capture. For although he had faith in the judgment of his little friends, he could not avoid a certain amount of worry, and an anxious look would creep at times into his kind old eyes as he thought of the disappointment that might await his dear little children. And the Demons, who guarded him by turns, one after another, did not neglect to taunt him with contemptuous words in his helpless condition.

When Christmas Day dawned the Demon of Malice was guarding the prisoner, and his tongue was sharper than that of any of the others.

“The children are waking up, Santa!” he cried. “They are waking up to find their stockings empty! Ho, ho! How they will quarrel, and wail, and stamp their feet in anger! Our caves will be full to-day, old Santa! Our caves are sure to be full!”

But to this, as to other like taunts, Santa Claus answered nothing. He was much grieved by his capture, it is true; but his courage did not forsake him. And, finding that the prisoner would not reply to his jeers, the Demon of Malice presently went away, and sent the Demon of Repentance to take his place.

This last personage was not so disagreeable as the others. He had gentle and refined features, and his voice was soft and pleasant in tone.

“My brother Demons do not trust me over-much,” said he, as he entered the cavern; “but it is morning, now, and the mischief is done. You cannot visit the children again for another year.”

“That is true,” answered Santa Claus, almost cheerfully; “Christmas Eve is past, and for the first time in centuries I have not visited my children.”

“The little ones will be greatly disappointed,” murmured the Demon of Repentance, almost regretfully; “but that cannot be helped now. Their grief is likely to make the children selfish and envious and hateful, and if they come to the caves of the Demons to-day I shall get a chance to lead some of them to my Cave of Repentance.”

“Do you never repent yourself?” asked Santa Claus, curiously.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” answered the Demon. “I am even now repenting that I assisted in your capture. Of course it is too late to remedy the evil that has been done; but repentance, you know, can come only after an evil thought or deed, for in the beginning there is nothing to repent of.”

“So I understand,” said Santa Claus. “Those who avoid evil need never visit your cave.”

“As a rule, that is true,” replied the Demon; “yet you, who have done no evil, are about to visit my cave at once; for to prove that I sincerely regret my share in your capture, I am going to permit you to escape.”

This speech greatly surprised the prisoner, until he reflected that it was just what might be expected of the Demon of Repentance. The fellow at once busied himself untying the knots that bound Santa Claus and unlocking the chains that fastened him to the wall. Then he led the way through a long tunnel until they both emerged in the Cave of Repentance.

“I hope you will forgive me,” said the Demon, pleadingly. “I am not really a bad person, you know; and I believe I accomplish a great deal of good in the world.”

With this he opened a back door that let in a flood of sunshine, and Santa Claus sniffed the fresh air gratefully.

“I bear no malice,” said he to the Demon in a gentle voice; “and I am sure the world would be a dreary place without you. So, good morning, and a Merry Christmas to you!”

With these words he stepped out to greet the bright morning, and a moment later he was trudging along, whistling softly to himself, on his way to his home in the Laughing Valley.

Marching over the snow toward the mountain was a vast army, made up of the most curious creatures imaginable. There were numberless Knooks from the forest, as rough and crooked in appearance as the gnarled branches of the trees they ministered to. And there were dainty Ryls from the fields, each one bearing the emblem of the flower or plant it guarded. Behind these were many ranks of Pixies, Gnomes, and Nymphs, and in the rear a thousand beautiful fairies floated along in gorgeous array.

This wonderful army was led by Wisk, Peter, Nuter, and Kilter, who had assembled it to rescue Santa Claus from captivity and to punish the Demons who had dared to take him away from his beloved children.

And, although they looked so bright and peaceful, the little immortals were armed with powers that would be very terrible to those who had incurred their anger. Woe to the Demons of the Caves if this army of vengeance ever met them!

But lo! coming to meet his loyal friends appeared the imposing form of Santa Claus, his white beard floating in the breeze and his bright eyes sparkling with pleasure at this proof of the love and veneration he had inspired in the hearts of the most powerful creatures in existence.

And while they clustered around him and danced with glee at his safe return, he gave them earnest thanks for their support. But Wisk, and Nuter, and Peter, and Kilter he embraced affectionately.

“It is useless to pursue the Demons,” said Santa Claus to the army. “They have their place in the world, and can never be destroyed. But that is a great pity, nevertheless,” he continued, musingly.

So the Fairies, and Knooks, and Pixies, and Ryls all escorted the good man to his castle, and there left him to talk over the events of the night with his little assistants.

Wisk had already rendered himself invisible and flown through the big world to see how the children were getting along on this bright Christmas morning; and by the time he returned Peter had finished telling Santa Claus of how they had distributed the toys.

“We really did very well,” cried the Fairy, in a pleased voice; “for I found little unhappiness among the children this morning. Still you must not get captured again, my dear master; for we might not be so fortunate another time in carrying out your ideas.”

He then related the mistakes that had been made, and which he had not discovered until his tour of inspection. And Santa Claus at once sent him with rubber boots for Charlie Smith, and a doll for Mamie Brown; so that even those two disappointed ones became happy.

As for the wicked Demons of the Caves, they were filled with anger and chagrin when they found that their clever capture of Santa Claus had come to naught. Indeed, no one on that Christmas Day appeared to be at all selfish, or envious, or hateful. And, realizing that while the children’s saint had so many powerful friends it was folly to oppose him, the Demons never again attempted to interfere with his journeys on Christmas Eve.

CHRISTMASLAND

HEINRICH SEIDEL

(Translated by Emma A. Schaub)

I. WERNER AND ANNA

In the last house of the village, just where the big forest begins, lived a poor widow with her two children, Werner and Anna. The little that grew in her garden and on her single acre of ground, the milk of the one goat she owned, and the small sum of money she was able to earn, were just enough to support the small family. Nor were the children allowed to be idle, but were obliged to help in every way possible. This they were glad to do, enjoying their work, which led them in all directions through the glorious forest. In early spring they gathered the yellow cowslips and the blue anemones to sell in the city, and later the fragrant lilies of the valley that grew in the beech wood. Then came the strawberries glistening red under the leaves, the blueberries and the coral-tinted bilberries growing in the moor, and beautiful mosses and lichens--all these the children cheerily gathered and sent to the city.

With the coming of the fall came new labor. Day after day the children went to the woods, picking up dry wood thrown down by the wind. This they carried home and stacked by the side of the hut. Nuts, too, were gathered, put in a bag, and hung in the chimney against Christmas time. Ah, Christmas! That was a magic word, and at its sound the eyes of the children sparkled. And yet the great day brought them very little. A wee little tree with a few candles, some apples and nuts, and two gingerbread men; under the tree for each one a warm article of clothing for the winter, and if times were very good, a cheap toy or a new slate--that was all. And yet from those little candles and the golden star at the top of the tree there came a glorious light that shed its rays throughout the year, a light that shone in the eyes of the children whenever the word Christmas was spoken.

Winter had now come, and one evening as they sat cozily about the stove, their mother told them a beautiful Christmas story. When she had finished, Werner, who had been looking very thoughtful, suddenly asked: “Mother, where does the Christmasman live?”

The mother answered, letting the fine thread slip through her fingers while her spinning wheel hummed a merry tune: “The Christmasman? Behind the forest in the mountains. But no one can find him. Who seeks him wanders about in vain, and the little birds in the trees hop from branch to branch and laugh at him. In the mountains the Christmasman has his gardens, his shops, and his mines. There his busy workmen labor day and night, making lovely Christmas things. In the gardens grow the silver and gold apples and nuts, and the most delicious fruits of marzipan, and in the shops are heaped up thousands and thousands of the most wonderful toys in the world. There are halls filled with beautiful dolls, clad in calico, in wool, in silk, and in velvet”--“Ah!” said little Anna, and her eyes shone--“and others again are filled with drums and swords and guns, cannon and toy soldiers”--“Oh!” cried little Werner, and his eyes sparkled.

This story impressed him greatly; he could not forget it, and he thought how happy he would be could he but find the way to this wonderland. Once he got as far as the mountains, and wandered about there a long time, but could see nothing but valleys and hills and trees. The brooks that ran by him murmured and babbled as brooks always do, but did not betray their secret; the wood-peckers hammered and pecked just as they did elsewhere in the woods and then flew away, and the squirrels that climbed nimbly up the trees were just like other squirrels that he had seen.

He longed for a glimpse of the wonderful Christmasland--if some one would only tell him how to find it, he would surely go. The people of whom he inquired the way laughed at him, and when he told his mother she too laughed, and bade him think no more about it; the story she had told him had been only a fairy tale.

But little Werner could not forget the story, though he did not speak of it again. Only to his little sister Anna did he at times confide his thoughts, and together they dreamed dreams and saw visions of that wondrous country--Christmasland.

II. THE LITTLE BIRD

One morning shortly before Christmas, Werner, with his ax on his shoulder, went alone into the forest, for the forester, who liked the well-behaved boy, had this year again permitted him to cut down a little pine tree for their Christmas Eve. The pretty, graceful little tree which the children had already selected, stood in rather a lonely spot, far out in the woods, sheltered by a kindly old beech. It was a beautiful mild winter day, and when Werner at last reached the spot he sat down on a tree-stump to rest.

Round about him all was still as in a lonely church; only a brooklet murmured softly, and from afar came the shrill cry of a jay. Again he dreamed of the wonderful Christmasland, and the longing to see its glories grew so strong that he cried aloud: “Oh, if only some one could show me the way to Christmasland!”

Then from the waves of the brook came clear sounds like rippling laughter, a wood mouse peeped from her house and laughed a wee little laugh, and from the top of the old beech tree came a stirring and a waving, as though she were shaking her head at such folly. But from the little pine tree which stood directly before him he suddenly heard a sweet, clear chirping; it was a blue titmouse, hopping gayly from branch to branch, incessantly crying: “I know! I know!”

“What do you know?” asked Werner.

The little bird threw herself backward from a branch, turning over in the air in the drollest way, then alighting again, cried: “I know the way! I know the way!”

“Then show me the way!” said Werner quickly.

Again the little bird began to chirp softly, but the boy understood everything. “You were good to me!” said she. “You protected my little children, my ten little children! I know the way! I’ll show you the way! Quick! Quick!”

And the little thing flew to the nearest bush, then farther, and Werner followed. At first he had comprehended but half of what the bird had said, but at last he remembered that it was a titmouse whose frightened cries had drawn him to the old beech tree last spring. There he saw a jay sitting before the hollow of the tree where the little bird had built her nest, about to seize the naked babies and devour them. The poor little mother was hovering about, trying to defend them, crying piteously. He picked up a stone and threw it so happily that the jay fell to the ground dead.

So now the little titmouse wished to show her gratitude. She kept flying before him from bush to bush toward the source of the brook, which came from the mountains. Soon the ground began to rise, and the brook at Werner’s feet babbled louder; then he came to an ascending valley which grew narrower and narrower, while the walls on both sides grew steeper, and at last, when the brook suddenly disappeared behind a projecting rock, Werner saw before him a smooth wall of stone, towering high and crowned with mighty pine trees. The little bird suddenly vanished, but away up in the distance her voice could be faintly heard, crying: “Soon! Soon!”

Werner sat down on a rock and examined the stone wall. It was smooth, had no crevices, and was covered with mosses and gay lichens; he could see nothing more. So he sat and waited. At last he heard a gentle fluttering above him and a hazel nut fell at his feet. “Take! Take!” cried the little bird. “Crack! Crack!”

Werner took the nut and looked at it. He could discover nothing peculiar about it, but when he shook it, it rattled as though something hard were inside. He cracked it and found a dainty golden key. In the meantime the little bird had flown to the stone wall. Clinging to it with both delicate little feet, she began pecking away so busily among the lichens, that the pieces fairly flew. At last she cried: “Here! Here!”

Werner came near, and noticed a small, silver-bound keyhole. The golden key fitted exactly into it, and when Werner turned it, a strange, fine, ringing sound came from the stone wall, and a heavy door, that fitted as exactly into its frame as though it had been cut into the rock, swung slowly open. A warm bluish air came from the opening, and an odor of burning pine needles and of wax candles just blown out, was wafted toward him.

“Oh, how this smells of Christmas!” said little Werner.

But the little bird cried: “Go in! Go in! Quick! Quick!”

Scarcely had Werner, who was just a little frightened, taken a few steps into the gloomy passage, when he felt a draft behind him, and suddenly it grew quite dark, for the door had again silently closed. Now indeed he began to lose courage, for to return was impossible, yet he saw that a faint heart would avail him little--so on he went, groping his way resolutely along the black passage.

III. CHRISTMASLAND

Soon his path grew brighter and he stepped out into the strangest country he had ever seen. The air was warm, but not with the warmth of summer, but as it is in heated rooms, and fragrant with many sweet odors. No sun shone in the sky, yet everywhere was an even, tempered brightness. Of the country itself he saw but little, for behind him was the huge wall of rock through which he had entered, and round about him tall bushes bearing the queerest fruits obstructed the view. As he walked along, lost in wonder, he came to a broad avenue that led to a distant building. Bordering this avenue on both sides were great apple trees, on which grew golden and silver apples. Old men who looked like gnomes, with their long gray beards, and pretty little children were busily engaged picking these apples and heaping them up in large baskets, many of which stood already filled to the brim with their glittering load. No one paid any attention to little Werner, who, with growing astonishment, directed his steps toward the building in the background, which proved to be a large castle, with towering steeples and gilded domes and roofs. On either side of the avenue lay large fields on which grew low plants. Here, too, every one was busy gathering and harvesting, and in the different fields, distinguished by different colors according to the plants they bore, he could see gay, dainty figures diligently loading little two-wheeled carts, drawn by gold-colored, shaggy ponies.

As Werner approached the castle he noticed a fragrant odor of honey cake, growing stronger and stronger, and on looking more closely, he perceived that the entire castle was made of this delectable stuff. The foundation consisted of large blocks, the walls of smooth cakes ornamented in the most enticing way with citron and almonds. Everywhere were exquisite reliefs of marzipan, the balustrades and galleries and balconies of sugar, the beautiful statues of chocolate standing in gilded niches, and the glittering, gay windows made of transparent bon-bons--indeed, here was a castle good enough to eat! At the artistic entrance the handle of the doorbell was of transparent sugar. Werner took heart, and pulled with all his might. No bell rang, however, but a voice from within cried, “Kikeriki!” so loud and shrill that the frightened boy stepped hastily back. The cry was repeated again and again, like an echo growing fainter and fainter, losing itself in the interior of the building. Then there was silence. The door now opened softly and before him stood so strange a creature that had it not lived and moved, Werner would undoubtedly have taken it for a large jumping-jack.

“By leaf gold and honey cake!” said this merry person. “A visitor? Why, that is a most remarkable event!” And then, whether from pleasure or astonishment, he threw his limbs repeatedly up over his head, so that it was almost dreadful to see. Swinging his arms and legs back and forth, he asked: “Well, my boy, and what do you want?”

“Does the Christmasman live here?” asked little Werner.

“Certainly,” said the jumping-jack, “and his Honor is at home, but very busy, very busy.”

Then he asked the little fellow to follow him, moving along in a queer, sidelong manner, swinging his arms and legs incessantly. He led the way through an entrance hall whose walls were made of marzipan and whose ceiling was supported by pillars of polished chocolate, to a door, before which two gigantic nutcrackers in full uniform stood guard; told him to wait here, and disappeared. In the meantime the nutcrackers stared at Werner with their big eyes, then grinned at each other with an indescribable wooden grin, at which there was a funny sound as though they were laughing with their stomachs. Presently the jumping-jack returned, made a most beautiful sidelong bow, and said: “My gracious master begs you to enter.” Then the nutcrackers, drawing close together, suddenly presented their swords and with their teeth beat a roll that was most extraordinary.

When little Werner stepped into the room he was greatly astonished, for the Christmasman did not look at all as he had imagined him, nor did he resemble the pictures he had seen of him. True, he had a beautiful long white beard, as was proper, but on his head was a blue, gold-embroidered skullcap, and he wore a dressing gown of yellow silk, and sat before a large book and wrote. But this dressing gown was covered with such wonderful embroidery that it was like a picture book. On it you could see soldiers and dolls and clowns, and all the animals of Noah’s ark, drums and fifes, violins, trumpets, swords and guns, flowers and cakes, and sun and moon and stars.

The Christmasman laid down his pen and said: “How did you get here, my boy?”

Werner answered: “The little bird showed me the way.”

“‘T is a hundred years since any one has been here,” replied the Christmasman, “and now this little fellow succeeds in coming. Well, your reward shall be that you may see everything. I myself am too busy just now, but my daughter shall be your guide. Come, little Goldflame,” he cried, “we have a guest!”

Then in the next room there was a fluttering and a rustling, and in ran a beautiful little girl. She wore a dress of leaf-gold and she glittered and sparkled all over. On her head was a little crown of gold, and on its topmost tip was a gleaming flamelet.

“Why, how nice!” she said, and took little Werner by the hand, crying, “Come along, strange boy!” and ran with him from the room.

IV. THE CHRISTMAS WAREHOUSE

They came to a large corridor where long rows of wooden horses stood tied--there were gray horses and brown horses, chestnut horses and black horses.

“You may choose one,” said little Goldflame.

Werner selected a beautiful, shiny, dapple-gray and Goldflame mounted a coal-black steed. “Hoy!” she cried, and with a whir away rolled the little horses so fast that Werner’s hair flew, and the flame on the girl’s crown was wafted like a streamer in the air. When they came to the door at the end of the corridor, she cried, “Holla!” It opened and they rushed through into a big hall in the middle of which they halted. They dismounted and little Goldflame said: “This is the hall of lead.” Lining the walls to the ceiling were open cupboards filled with shelves on which stood, packed in boxes, countless armies of soldiers, hunters, shepherds, sleighing parties, menageries, and everything possible that could be made of lead. Little black-bearded dwarfs climbed busily up and down ladders, placing the boxes into carts which they rolled outside, where larger wagons waited to be loaded with the toys. As soon as the dwarfs saw Werner and Goldflame they brought them two gold-brocaded easy-chairs, and Goldflame said: “The big parade is coming very soon.”

They sat down, and had barely waited half a minute when from under one of the cupboards came a strange ringing music and the Prussian guard marched out, and filed by with martial strains. Here indeed were toy soldiers that delighted one’s heart! How the little fellows strutted and the dapper lieutenants saluted with their swords! Then came the white cuirassiers with their glittering armor, the red hussars of Potsdam, the lancers with their gleaming flags, the blue dragoons, and last of all the cannon. When these had passed, “Trari, trara!” sounded from under the cupboard, and deer, rabbits, and foxes burst forth, the yelping pack behind, and the hunters on horseback with huzza, crack of whip, and sounding of horns.

Then all at once something glistened in the air and fine snow began to fall. When the ground was white a sleighing party with merry bells ringing came out and rushed by. The fronts of the sleighs were in the form of swans, lions, tigers, and dragons, and in the sleighs sat ladies and gentlemen in beautiful furs. In passing, they threw snowballs at Werner and at little Goldflame. But if you looked closely at one of these snowballs, you found a tiny bonbon wrapped in tissue paper.

The snow disappeared, and now with sweet bells ringing came shepherds and shepherdesses with their flocks, then pretty peasants with fruits and flowers, then gypsies, musicians, tinkers, rope walkers, horseback riders, and such vagrant folk. Last came Mr. Hagenbeck of Hamburg with his African menagerie of giraffes, elephants, rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses, zebras, and antelopes. The lions and panthers followed in cages on little wagons, and roared mightily, as though insulted at the indignities put upon them.

At the close of this jolly parade both children again mounted their horses and rode on. What marvels were unfolded before little Werner’s eyes! The large hall filled with dolls, for which he did not particularly care and which he only wished Anna might see, the theater magazine where at Goldflame’s request a thousand theaters opened at the same time with a thousand different plays, making a terrible din, the tool-chest warehouse, the storeroom for the musical instruments, the wooden-animal magazine, the picture department, the paint-box warehouse, the hall of the wax candles, and so on, until he was quite tired out when at last they reached the great candy department.

“Now let us eat,” said little Goldflame. Immediately six little confectioner’s apprentices brought a table, set it, and served them with the most delicious dishes. Werner had never tasted such good things! There were Leipzig larks of marzipan filled with nut cream, sausages of quinces, ham made of rosy creamy sugar, pastry filled with strawberry jam, and all sorts of candied fruits. They had pineapple lemonade with vanilla cream to drink, and behind them stood the six little waiters, eager to serve, running to fill every order. For dessert they were to have, as Goldflame remarked, something quite superlatively fine--dry black bread and cheese. Such ordinary dishes were so rare in this country, and so difficult to obtain, that they were considered the greatest delicacies. When they had finished eating, the wooden horses were again brought out, and Goldflame said, “Now we will visit the mines.” So mounting their excellent steeds, away they rode.

V. THE MINES

They rode over fields on which grew the most exquisite fruits and vegetables, all of sugar or chocolate filled with cream; they galloped along stately avenues bordered with fruit trees, toward the mountains which lay before them. Some of these gleamed white as chalk; others looked dull and dark, almost black. But the tops of even the black mountains were as white as though snow-capped.

“Perhaps you think you see snow,” said little Goldflame. “But when it snows here, it only snows powdered sugar.”

Werner now saw before him a high, shining white rock on which hundreds of men were working. They rode quite close and dismounted. “This is the great sugar quarry,” said Goldflame. “This entire rock consists of the finest white colonial sugar.”

Quite near them they observed an entrance to a cave, and as they approached it several miners hurried toward them with torches and led the way. They penetrated deep into the mountain, whose walls shimmered and shone in the reflected torchlight. Presently they stepped into a magnificent chamber whose walls, covered with huge crystals of transparent rock candy, glittered and sparkled in the light of the torches.

“This is the large rock-candy cavern,” said little Goldflame. They went on and came to a place where the miners were knocking and hammering, and working new passages into the mountains.

“These men are looking for melted sugar, and when they find it, they scoop it out with huge spoons,” she said.

Suddenly, as they proceeded, they beheld mountains, no longer white and shining, but dull, dark brown, and smelling of vanilla. “We are now approaching the chocolate mines,” explained little Goldflame.

Here many people were at work tunneling into the mountains, for it was only in the interior that the best vanilla chocolate was found. They passed through great chambers supported here and there by single pillars left standing. When at last they again stepped into the open air, Werner noticed a roaring brook that came from a ravine in the mountains and rushed toward the valley, where it turned the mills that sawed the chocolate blocks into cakes.

“Would you like to have a drink?” said little Goldflame. “It tastes good; it is pure liqueur.” Little Werner was so very thirsty after all the sweets he had eaten and seen, and from the brook came so fresh and enticing an odor, that he seized the cup eagerly which an obliging miner handed him, and emptied it at a single draft. But scarcely had he finished when the world began to turn about him in the queerest way--he saw two Goldflames, four Goldflames, a hundred Goldflames, glittering and gleaming before him, then flowing together into a shining sea of light, carrying away his senses--and he knew nothing more.

VI. CONCLUSION

The first sound that Werner heard on awakening was the chirping of a titmouse. He was astonished to find himself sitting on a stump under the old beech tree with the little pine tree in front of him. The titmouse hopped from branch to branch and chirped, but Werner no longer understood what she said. It suddenly occurred to him that it must be very late, that his mother had surely been anxiously waiting for him. But looking up at the sun he was astonished to find that scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed since he had left this spot. He could not account for this mystery, but eager to relate his wonderful experiences to his mother and little Anna, he cut down the pine tree and hurried home with his burden as fast as he could. When with shining eyes and breathless haste he had told them his story, his mother grew quite angry and told him not to dare fall asleep again in the woods in winter--had the weather been colder it might have been his death. But afterwards she shook her head, saying to herself, “Where does the boy get all his strange fancies?”

Little Werner wept because his mother did not believe him, and went away, but Anna followed, eager to hear more. She never tired of hearing about Goldflame and the hall of dolls, and in the days that followed he had to tell her about them over and over again, until he was quite comforted. One day they went to the woods together to look for the entrance to that wonderful country. But though they followed the brooklet they never found a place resembling in the least the description Werner had given, and he was so ashamed and embarrassed, he knew not what to say.

And so Christmas drew near. A heavy snow had been falling for two whole days, and the world was beautiful, wrapped in its glistening, white Christmas robe. Night was falling, and the children sat in their dark chamber, eagerly waiting, whispering together and listening to their mother who was walking back and forth in the brightly lighted Christmas room, arranging their poor little gifts. Suddenly from afar they heard the jingling of sleighbells coming nearer and nearer, and a whip cracked merrily. Now the sleigh was quite close, now it stopped before the house; they could hear the horses stamping and the bells jingling softly when the animals turned their heads.

“The Christmasman! The Christmasman!” cried Werner. They heard doors opening and a man’s voice speaking--then their mother called to them, “Come in, children; your uncle is here.”

Wemer and Anna ran into the room and there stood a man in a great fur coat who held out his hands to them, saying, “Come to me, my dear children.” He kissed each one and said, “You shall come with me to the city and live with me in my large house. I will be a father to you and I will care for you.” In the meantime a gigantic coachman with a fur cap, a long white beard, and a cloak with seven collars was bringing many large packages into the room. When these were afterwards opened they contained so many beautiful gifts that the people in that little house had a Christmas such as they had never had before! Later, when Werner and Anna went to bed, he whispered to her very mysteriously, “Do you know who the coachman was with the fur cap, the long white beard, and the big cloak? That was the Christmasman. Indeed, I recognized him, and he looked at me and winked.”

But what had happened to the rich old uncle who lived alone, an unsociable miser, and who had never given his poor sister and her children a thought--what had happened to him to change him so? In the night following the day on which Werner had visited the Christmasman, the uncle had had a strange dream. A man with a blue velvet cap and a long white beard, wrapped in a golden robe, suddenly stood before him, looked at him with great, blue, penetrating eyes, then spoke slowly and impressively: “Konrad Borodin, have you a sister?” Thereupon fear overcame him so that he could not answer. Then the apparition gradually vanished, the eyes only gazing threateningly upon him. Three successive nights he had the same dream. In the meantime a restlessness beyond description drove him from room to room of his dreary, empty house, and ever in his ear there sounded that deep, reproachful voice of his dream, saying, “Have you a sister?” On the morning after the third night he could endure it no longer, but hurried to the city, where to the astonishment of all the people who had known him as a miser, he bought the loveliest things, ordered a sleigh, filled it with his purchases, and drove directly to his poor sister.

Little Werner received a good education, and grew to be a famous and highly respected man. He himself told me this story.

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND

(A Florentine Legend of the Nativity)

VERNON LEE

Beyond Bethlehem, which is a big village, walled and moated, lies a hilly country, exceeding wild and covered with dense woods of firs, pines, larches, beeches, and similar trees. At times the people of Bethlehem, going in bands, cut down these trees and burn them to charcoal which they pack on mules and sell in the valley. Sometimes they tie together whole tree trunks such as would serve for beams, rafters, and masts, and float them down the rivers, which are many and very rapid.

On these mountains in the thickest part of the forests a certain woodcutter bethought him to build a house wherein to live with his family, store the timber, and care for his beasts. For this purpose he employed certain pillars and pieces of masonry that stood in the forest, being remains of a temple of the heathen, which had long ceased to exist. He cleared the wood round about, leaving only tree stumps and bushes. Close by in a ravine between high fir trees ran a river of greenish waters, exceedingly cold and rapid. It was always full to the brim even in mid-summer, owing to the melting snows; and around up hill and down dale stretched the woods of firs, larches, pines, and other noble and useful trees, emitting a very pleasant and virtuous fragrance.

The man thought to enjoy his house and came with his family and servants. Also he brought his horses and mules and oxen which he had employed to carry down the timber and charcoal. But scarcely were they settled when an earthquake rent the place, tearing wall from wall, and pillar from pillar; and a voice was heard in the air crying, “Ecce domus domini dei,”[16] whereupon they fled, astonished and in terror, and returned to the town.

And no one of that man’s family ventured henceforth to return to that house or to that wood save one called Hilarion, a poor lad and a servant, but of upright heart and faith. He offered to go back and take up his abode there and cut down the trees and burn the charcoal for his master. So he went. He was but a poor lad clothed in leathern tunic and coarse serge hood.

And Hilarion took with him an ox and an ass to load with charcoal and drive down to Bethlehem to his master.

The first night on which Hilarion slept in that house, which had fallen to ruin, he heard voices, as of children--both boys and maidens--singing in the air. But he closed his eyes, repeated a Paternoster, turned over, and slept. Another night he heard voices which made him tremble, but being clean of heart he said two Aves and went to sleep. And once more did he hear the voices, and they were passing sweet. And with them came a fragrance as of crushed herbs and many kinds of flowers, frankincense, and orris root. Hilarion feared the voices were those of heathen gods, but he said his prayers and slept.

But at length one night as Hilarion heard these songs he opened his eyes, and behold, the place was light, and a great staircase of light like golden cobwebs stretched up to heaven and hosts of angels appeared, coming and going, with locks like honeycomb and robes of rose and green, azure and white, thickly embroidered with purest pearls. They had wings as of butterflies and peacock’s tails and a golden glory shone about their heads. They went to and fro carrying garlands and strewing flowers, so that, although midwinter, it was like a garden in June, sweet with roses and lilies and gilliflowers. And the angels sang and, when they had finished their work they said, “It is well,” and they departed, holding hands as they flew into the sky above the fir trees. And Hilarion was astonished and prayed fervently.

And the next day when he was cutting a fir tree in the wood he met among the rocks a man old and venerable with a long gray beard and a solemn air. He was clad in crimson, and under his arm he carried written books and a scourge. And Hilarion said, “Who art thou? The forest is haunted by spirits, and I would know whether thou be of them or of men.”

And the old man made answer, “I am a wise man and a king. I have spent all my days learning the secrets of things. I know how the trees grow, how the waters run, and where treasures be. I can teach thee what the stars sing, and in what manner the ruby and emerald gather their light in the heart of the earth. I can chain the wind and stop the sun, for I am wise above all men. But I seek one wiser than myself, and I go through the woods in search of him, my master.”

And Hilarion said, “Tarry thou here, and thou shalt see, if I mistake not, him whom thou seekest.”

So the old man tarried in the forest and built himself a hut of stones.

And the day after that as Hilarion went forth to catch fish in the river he met on the bank a lady, beautiful beyond compare. And Hilarion asked, “Who art thou? The forest is haunted by spirits; art thou one of them?”

And she answered, “I am a princess, the fairest of women. Kings and princes have brought gifts to me. They have hung wreaths on my palace and strewn flowers in my garden. I am beautiful beyond compare, but I seek one more beautiful than myself. Day by day I go searching my master by the lakes and rivers.”

And Hilarion made answer thus, “Tarry thou here and thou shalt see, if I mistake not, him whom thou seekest.”

And the lady tarried by the river and built herself a cabin of reeds and leaves.

That night was the coldest and longest winter night. Hilarion made for himself a bed of fern and hay in the stable of the ox and the ass and he lay close to them for warmth. And lo! in the middle of the night the ass brayed and the ox bellowed and Hilarion started up. He saw the heavens open with a great brightness as of beaten and fretted gold. Angels wreathed in roses were coming and going, and as they held each other’s hands they sang, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” And Hilarion wondered again and prayed fervently.

And that day toward noon there came through the wood one bearing a staff and leading a mule on which was seated a woman. They were poor folk, travel stained. And the man said to Hilarion, “My name is Joseph. I am a carpenter of the city of Nazareth. My wife is called Mary. Suffer thou us to rest and my wife to lie on this straw of the stables.”

And Hilarion said, “You are welcome.”

Hilarion laid down more fern and hay and gave provender to the mule.

And Mary brought forth her first-born son and Hilarion took it and laid it in the manger. And he went forth into the woods, where he found the wise man and the beautiful woman.

“Come with me to my stable,” he said, “where the fir trees were cleared above the river.”

And they went with him to the ruined house, and they saw the babe lying in the manger.

Then the wise man and the beautiful woman knelt down before the child.

“He is exceeding fair,” said the princess.

“He is wiser than I am,” said the king. “Surely this is He that is our Master.”

And the skies opened and there came forth angels such as Hilarion had seen before with the glory of radiant gold about their heads and garlands of roses around their necks. And they sang again, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

THE STAR IN THE EAST

Three Shepherds Three Kings: GASPAR, MELCHIOR, BALTHAZAR JOSEPH MARY