Part 10

Then suddenly Mr. Claus did remember, and, oh, how chagrined he was then, how extravagantly he apologized for his rudeness to the company, and how he upbraided himself for being such a dunderhead, as he expressed it.

It was very late in the evening when Old King Cole, rising heavily to his feet, called for a summing-up of the evening’s business.

“Mr. Horner,” said he to Jack Horner’s father, “will you please to summarize the conclusions we have reached this night in regard to Santa Claus’s Christmas surprise?”

Mr. Horner, jumping up, bowed low to the King, cleared his throat, looked uncertainly around him, opened his mouth and began to speak.

“I--sir--I suggest--”

“Oh, no,” Old King Cole waved his hand. “No more suggestions, please. Just summarize, if you will, Mr. Horner, just summarize.”

Mr. Horner tried again.

“Your Majesty, I would remark--”

“Mr. Horner, if you please,” interrupted the merry old soul testily, “I don’t want you to remark. All that I ask of you is that you summarize. Surely a King may ask such a small favor of a loyal subject, Mr. Horner.”

“Your Majesty,” spoke Mr. Horner with dignity, “I’m afraid I must refuse to--to--sum--well, to do as you require.”

With that, Mr. Horner sat down, his face red and his hands shaking. For the trouble with Mr. Horner was that he didn’t know what “summarize” meant, but rather than admit it, he would have gone into a deep dungeon and stayed there the rest of his life, so proud a man was Mr. Horner.

When Mr. Horner refused the King and sat down as he did, everybody, including Mr. Horner himself, expected something calamitous to happen, for that’s what it means to be a King, to have people do as you tell them. They all shivered as they sat there. What would the King say to the disobedient Mr. Horner and what would he do? Only Mrs. Horner did not shiver, for she was too frightened even to shiver, but sat stone-still in her rocking chair, like a rigid, glass-eyed doll.

But what was everybody’s astonishment when Old King Cole began to chuckle, then laugh out loud, and finally so jolly did he become that he rocked and gasped and held his stomach in a perfect storm of merriment. Indeed, it began to look as if he would never recover. He did recover, however, due to the presence of mind of Mrs. Grundy, who fetched a pitcher of water, saying, as she did so, and very truly too, that there’s nothing like water to bring a man to his senses.

“Well, Mr. Horner,” said the King, as he wiped his eyes of their tears of laughter and his face of the deluge of water, “I admire your spirit, sir. But come now, it is growing late. Who _will_ summarize for me?”

Jack Spratt jumped up eagerly. He knew what “summarize” meant and was bursting to show off his knowledge. And here is the speech he made. You will agree, I am sure, that Jack Spratt was a masterly hand at speeches.

“Your Majesty, Your Gracious Beauty,” (this last was meant for the Queen of Hearts who now bowed her head in ill-concealed delight at such praise) “ladies, one and all, and gentlemen:

“We have decided here to-night on these things, namely, and to wit:

“That Santa Claus, being quite the kindest, most generous, most wonderful little boy in Pudding Lane” (you should have seen Mrs. Claus’s face at that) “in fact, the kindest, most generous, most wonderful little boy in the wide world” (look out, Mrs. Claus, you almost fell off your chair then), “that Santa Claus, therefore, shall be surprised on Christmas morning as he always surprises other children;

“We have decided further, sir, that all the children shall make with their own hands gifts for Santa Claus and that Mother Goose shall buy gifts for us in Banbury Cross, as well;

“That then these gifts shall be stored here in Mrs. Claus’s cupboard, shall be locked with a strong key and stay locked until Christmas Eve when, you, Your Majesty, are to get these things, go up to the roof, slide down the chimney, and fill little Santa’s stocking full as it will hold, yes, even fuller, for it is well known, comrades, that a Christmas stocking isn’t much of a stocking if it doesn’t overflow with gifts.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Old King Cole, as Jack Spratt, with one final flourish of a bow, took his seat again, flushed with success.

“Hurrah!” they all cried, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Long live Jack Spratt!”

But they had cried hurrah one time too many. For upon that last resounding cry, Santa Claus, in his little bed upstairs, had awakened. He did not know what this noise was, having no idea that Mr. and Mrs. Claus were entertaining company that night. And so, since he did not know what the sound was, he thought he would get up and find out. Which he did. He fumbled around in the dark for his slippers, groped for his dressing gown, and upon finding these, hurried into them and ran down the back stairs.

The noise had subsided now, however, and as Santa Claus tiptoed in toward the front parlor, he heard only the low murmur of voices. This surely was a strange thing, thought Santa Claus to himself--people to be talking in the Clauses’ front parlor in the middle of the night. He crept to the parlor door and listened. It sounded as if all Pudding Lane were there, he thought. Buzz, buzz, hum, hum, whisper, whisper! He could hear the deep voice of Old King Cole, rumbling. He could hear Mrs. Dumpty’s high little chirp. He could hear the cackle of the old candlestick-maker. Buzz, buzz, hum, hum, whisper, whisper!

And what do you think they were talking about? Were they still discussing the Christmas surprise? And would Santa Claus hear it all now? Oh, what a disaster that would be. Let us put our ears close to the door, as Santa was already doing. Hark! The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe is talking.

“Well,” she was saying, “I wish I were a child. I’d love to hang my stocking up Christmas Eve, I would.” Whew, that was a narrow squeak, all right. They might still have been talking about the surprise.

“You know,” said Mrs. Spratt, “I’ve often wished that myself. That’s the worst thing about growing up, that you don’t hang up your stocking on Christmas.”

“But we could,” exclaimed Mrs. Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater, “we could hang up our stockings on Christmas Eve if we wanted to.”

“Who’d fill ’em?” asked the candlestick-maker bluntly.

“Yes, who’d fill ’em?” demanded every one else. “There isn’t much use of hanging up your stocking, Mrs. Peter, if nobody fills it.”

Mrs. Peter, Peter looked a bit crestfallen. “No, I suppose there isn’t,” she answered. “Still, I think we might hang them up and just see whether they got filled or not.”

“Now, Mrs. Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater,” said Mr. Horner, “you surely don’t think that that little boy, Santa Claus, would fill our stockings if we hung them up, do you? Why, Santa’s got his hands full already, attending to the children’s stockings.”

“No, I’m not so foolish as to think that, Mr. Horner,” said Mrs. Peter, Peter, “but some one else might.”

“Who might?” they all asked her. “Whoever would fill our stockings, Mrs. Peter?”

“Mother Goose might or a fairy might,” burst out the little lady triumphantly.

And the grown-ups had to admit to themselves that in truth Mother Goose or a fairy _might_ fill their stockings on Christmas Eve. Mother Goose had been known to do stranger things than that in her day, and as for the fairies, well, nobody can ever tell what they’re going to do.

Supposing, then, that they all should hang up their stockings on Christmas Eve! Supposing somebody did fill them with the gifts of their hearts’ desire! Mrs. Dumpty’s heart fluttered wildly at the thought; the Old Woman had a new strange light in her eyes; and the candlestick-maker fidgeted excitedly in his chair. Foolish grown-ups, to sit there dreaming of impossible things. Or perhaps they were wise. Anyway, they were certainly happy, as they all forgot everything for a moment and pretended that it was Christmas Eve and that they were young again.

Old King Cole finally broke the silence.

“Old Woman,” he said gently, “what would you rather have than anything else in the world? What would you want in your Christmas stocking if you did hang it up, Old Woman?”

The Old Woman began to murmur as if to herself, “Once upon a time when I was a girl, there was a ball given in Banbury Cross, and I was invited. The Prince was to be there, Prince Charming himself, you know, and I had a red dress for it, and a pair of gold slippers. Then I got the measles and I couldn’t go. I’ve never been the same since.”

“Why, Old Woman,” said the King, “you mean to say you want a ball in your Christmas stocking?”

“That’s the only thing I do want,” replied the Old Woman. “Only it would have to be the same ball, you know. No other ball would do at all.”

“Of course not,” King Cole said gravely, “no other ball would ever do. I don’t care much for balls, Old Woman, but I can understand that perfectly.” He sighed heavily. It was sad to hear the Old Woman mourning for that lost joy of her youth, and sadder still, he thought to himself, that things like balls could never, never, never be put into old women’s Christmas stockings. He turned then to Mrs. Dumpty.

“And do you want a ball too, Mrs. Dumpty?”

Mrs. Dumpty looked up at His Majesty timidly.

“No, sir,” she replied, and then she hesitated.

“Well--?” said Old King Cole encouragingly.

“I’m afraid, sir, that you’ll think I’m rather a foolish woman to want what I want,” she told him.

“People aren’t foolish to want things, no matter what they want,” King Cole pronounced sagely. “What do you want in the whole world, Mrs. Dumpty?”

“Well, sir,” began Mrs. Dumpty, “I want--I want--well, I want a lace petticoat, King Cole, a lace petticoat with a thousand ruffles!”

“A thousand ruffles!” repeated King Cole, astonished. “Why, Mrs. Dumpty, I don’t believe there ever was a petticoat with a thousand lace ruffles on it!”

“Maybe there wasn’t, and maybe there isn’t,” answered Mrs. Dumpty doggedly, “but that’s what I want, King Cole. I never had enough ruffles in my whole life, sir. And somehow, there’s nothing quite like ruffles to make a woman happy.”

The women all murmured sympathetically at this, as King Cole nodded next to Old Mother Hubbard.

“Ruffles for you too, Mother Hubbard?” he asked. Women were queer, he was thinking to himself. What on earth did they want of ruffles?

“Ruffles are all very well,” responded Mother Hubbard, “but I know something better even than ruffles, sir.”

“And that is--” King Cole smiled reassuringly at her.

“And that is a--” Old Mother threw a reckless glance around the room, “that is a--hurdy-gurdy!”

A hurdy-gurdy! No wonder they all gasped. Who but Mother Hubbard would ever have thought of a hurdy-gurdy?

“Yes,” she repeated defiantly, “a hurdy-gurdy! You all may think it’s funny to live alone with a dog, with a bare cupboard yawning in your face, but I tell you it’s not a bit funny. No, not funny at all.” Poor Mother Hubbard’s voice choked a bit, but she swallowed hard and went on, “And if I had a hurdy-gurdy--oh, I’ve always longed for music, King Cole, but now more than ever. If I had a hurdy-gurdy--”

“If you had a hurdy-gurdy,” supplied Old King Cole eagerly, “you could play it--”

“And you could sing--” the Old Woman put in.

“And you could dance,” cried Mrs. Flinders.

“And the dog could dance too,” finished up Mrs. Claus.

“And see how jolly we’d all be,” said Mother Hubbard. “Now a hurdy-gurdy would be a good thing for me, wouldn’t it?”

So there they sat, those grown-ups, talking about what they wanted in their Christmas stockings just as Jack and Jill, just as Mistress Mary, just as Polly Flinders, and Simple Simon, and Little Boy Blue talked about what they wanted in their Christmas stockings every single year.

And these grown-ups did want the strangest things. The candlestick-maker, who was the dirtiest and shabbiest old man in Pudding Lane, confessed that he wanted a swallow-tail coat, “with pearl buttons on it,” he added, “and a silk hankersniff in the top pocket.” The candlestick-maker always said “hankersniff” for “handkerchief” and if you corrected him, he would declare emphatically that of course it was sniff--what else was a hanker for?--which seemed to settle the matter.

Mr. Flinders, that citified gentleman who had come to Pudding Lane from London, stated that he desired pigs. For in pigs, said he, he thought a man might find a deal of comfort and a relief from the complexities of this world. The butcher was frank to say that he wanted nothing in this world but a wife. And Old Cross-Patch, who hadn’t said a word all the evening, startled the company by grunting suddenly that she would like to have a baby.

What amazing things! A ball, a thousand ruffles, a hurdy-gurdy, a swallow-tailed coat, pigs, a wife, a baby! As Santa Claus stood there listening behind the door, he thought to himself that no little boy in the world had ever faced such a problem as this was. For, of course, if they wanted these things, it was Santa Claus’s duty to provide them, he thought. That was the kind of boy he was, you know. If anybody in the world wanted anything, he considered it his business to see that it was forthcoming.

Moreover, these grown-ups, Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, Mrs. Dumpty, the Old Woman, the candlestick-maker, Mr. Flinders, the butcher, Cross-Patch and all the others, had reached such a pitch now that they were actually going to hang up their stockings on Christmas Eve. They were going to do this just for fun, as they said, and yet Santa Claus could tell by the wistful tone of their voices, by the yearning hope in their voices, that they did halfway expect that somebody or other would, after all, make their Christmas wishes come true.

No wonder he didn’t sleep a wink that night, or at least many winks. For this was the greatest dilemma any boy ever was in. Here were people wanting things. Here were people about to hang up their Christmas stockings. And here was he, Santa Claus, without one thing to put in those stockings.

How could _he_ get a swallow-tail coat with pearl buttons and a silk hankersniff in the top pocket? How could he manage a ball for the Old Woman? And how on earth could anybody, even Mother Goose or a fairy, produce a wife for the butcher? Or a baby for Cross-Patch? Santa Claus’s heart was very heavy as he thought of these things and he almost wished, although not quite, of course, that he had never gone into the Christmas business.

But little did Pudding Lane guess what was going on in Santa Claus’s mind these days. They were all too busy attending to his surprise.

The children made presents for Santa Claus. Judy was knitting, with many grunts and sighs, a pair of red mittens, and although the poor little girl had made a mistake and knitted both mittens for the left hand, still they were extremely handsome mittens, red as a holly berry and warm as fur. Humpty-Dumpty carved a whistle for Santa, one that blew so shrill and loud that it sounded like the wind itself whistling around the corner. Jack and Jill had planted an orange seed in a geranium pot and now, bless you, there was growing up in that pot a lovely little orange tree, such as nobody in Pudding Lane had ever seen before. In fact, when they told Mrs. Claus about it, she didn’t believe it.

“Has it got oranges on it?” she wanted to know.

“No,” admitted Jill.

“Has it got orange blossoms on it?”

“No, ma’am,” Jill was constrained to admit. “No blossoms, Mrs. Claus.”

“Well, then,” said that lady, “how do you know it’s an orange tree?”

“Because it grew from an orange seed,” explained Jill; “nothing would grow from an orange seed but an orange tree, would it, Mrs. Claus?”

“That I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Claus, “but it looks to me as though an orange tree ought to have oranges on it.”

It was about this time that Mother Goose sent a big box of gifts from Banbury Cross for Santa Claus’s stocking. It was about this time, too, that Jack-of-All-Trades made a fine new key for Mrs. Claus’s cupboard, so that when the gifts were stored there they might be safely locked up against Santa Claus’s discovery.

But still Santa Claus himself was deeply troubled. He hammered and pounded as usual in the old woodshed, making the children’s gifts, but still he wondered and pondered about the grown-ups’ Christmas, and still he could see no way out of this overwhelming difficulty. The days flew by, Christmas was coming closer and closer, and he had done nothing toward getting the ruffled petticoat, the swallow-tail coat, the wife and the baby and all the other things.

And then, unannounced, Piggy-Peddler dropped in one day and something happened.

Of all the children in Pudding Lane, Santa Claus was Piggy-Peddler’s favorite, and so it was quite natural that Piggy-Peddler should notice how Santa’s little fat chops drooped and how melancholy were his blue eyes. He did notice these things, and he wasted no time in making inquiries, but took Santa Claus off into a corner and said, “Look here, old man, something’s up. Why don’t you tell Piggy-Peddler about it?”

Santa Claus, oh, so relieved now to have somebody to confide in, told Piggy-Peddler the whole story. He told Piggy-Peddler how he had heard the grown-ups talking that night about the things they wanted, how those grown-ups had planned to hang up their stockings just to see if something wouldn’t happen, and how he, Santa Claus, longed to find those things for the grown-ups and put them in their stockings, but couldn’t possibly do it.

Piggy-Peddler listened intently, and when Santa Claus had finished, he spoke softly.

“So that’s it,” he said. “Those dear, funny, grown-up people. They want the things they’ve never had. Of course they do.”

“And they’ve been wanting them ever since they were young,” added Santa Claus.

“Mrs. Dumpty and her ruffles,” said Piggy-Peddler.

“And Cross-Patch,” said Santa.

“And the candlestick-maker!” continued Piggy-Peddler. “Can’t you just see him, Santa Claus, switching those tails around, with a dirty shirt above them, and his rusty boots below?”

“Still, I think he’d look nice,” Santa Claus said.

“Nice! He’d look elegant!”

Santa Claus laughed aloud. It would be such fun, he was thinking, to see the candlestick-maker flourishing happily around in his tails.

“I wonder”--Piggy-Peddler was musing--“I wonder if he would do it, just this once, for these people of Pudding Lane.”

“Who?”

Piggy-Peddler was lost in thought.

“Who, Piggy-Peddler?” persisted Santa Claus. “You wonder if who would do what?”

“Oh!” Piggy-Peddler started and laughed. “Why, I was wondering, Santa Claus, if Father Time wouldn’t, just this one time, let these people have an hour of their youth again. If he would, you know, they could have all their desires. Their wishes would all come true.”

At this Santa Claus could only stare.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Well, it’s just this, Santa Claus,” explained Piggy-Peddler. “Father Time, if he wanted to, could turn the clock back on Christmas Eve. He could let these people fly back to the time when they were young, and he could give them whatever they wanted.”

“He could?” Santa’s mouth was wide open at such news.

“He could,” replied Piggy-Peddler.

“Would they be children again?”

“No, you never can be a child again, quite, you know, after you’ve once grown up,” Piggy said. “But you can feel very young, oh, very young, even as young as sixteen.”

Santa Claus, thinking to himself that sixteen was not what he’d call young, spoke again.

“He could make their wishes come true, you say?”

“For an hour.”

“Only for an hour?”

“Oh, that’ll be long enough. It isn’t keeping things that’s fun, you know. Why, they wouldn’t want these things forever, Santa Claus. The Old Woman can’t jig around at a ball the rest of her life, can she? And that petticoat! Mrs. Dumpty would worry her life out washing the thing! You know what a fussy little lady she is.”

“But the baby for Cross-Patch?” pursued Santa Claus. He was thinking how badly he’d feel if his baby sister should have stayed with them only an hour.

“Well, that is a little different,” admitted Piggy. “But think of the poor baby living with old Cross-Patch. I’ll tell you, Santa, we’ll get her a parrot afterwards. They’re lots better for old cross-patches than babies. Also, the butcher doesn’t really want a wife, you know. He only thinks he does.”

“But they said they wanted these things more than anything else in the world,” said Santa Claus persistently.

“They do!” cried Piggy. “The things you’ve always wanted are the very things you want most. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep them forever. And think how happy they’d all be on Christmas. Why, this will make them happy the rest of their lives, and they’ll never get through talking about it.”

“And Father Time could do this?” asked Santa again.

“He could,” replied Piggy-Peddler. “He’s very powerful, you know. The only question is, would he? That’s what I am wondering.”

“Do you know him, Piggy-Peddler?”

“Very well,” answered Piggy.

“Could you ask him?”

“I could and I will,” came Piggy-Peddler’s reply. “He ought to do it for you, Santa Claus. Father Time thinks very highly of you, you know.”

“He doesn’t know me,” said Santa.

“Oh, yes, he does. He knows everybody. He may be old and his beard may be long and white, but he knows everybody in the world, Santa Claus, and don’t you forget that.”

“And you will go to him, Piggy-Peddler,” begged Santa Claus, “and ask him to turn the clock back?”

“I will,” replied Piggy-Peddler, “this very minute I’ll go, Santa Claus.”

And he did. He left Pudding Lane that very minute, and as Santa Claus went back to his work, his heart beat a little rat-a-tat-tat of joy, as he reflected that maybe, after all, The Old Woman could have her ball, Mrs. Dumpty her ruffles, and Cross-Patch her baby on Christmas morning.

2

Christmas Eve had come. Deeper than ever was the snow. The houses looked as if their mothers had put white hoods on them; the ground was spread as with white fur; and the trees held their burden of snow as lightly as if it were lace.

But nobody had time for scenery in Pudding Lane that night. In every house, lights were burning; in every house, the mothers were flying madly about, the fathers were jumping from room to room, and the children were hopping, shrieking, dancing, as children always do on this best night of the year.

At last, however, the stockings were all up at the fireplaces. At last the children were all in bed and sound asleep. At last it was time for Santa Claus, that fat little boy in a bright red suit, to take his pack, go to the roofs, slide down the chimneys and fill the stockings as he did every year.

But what about the surprise for Santa himself? Wait a bit. It wasn’t time for that yet. And what about the gifts for the grown-ups? Were they to get the things they wanted? Was Father Time really going to turn the clock back, as Piggy-Peddler and Santa Claus had so ardently hoped he would?

Well, whether Father Time was going to make the wishes come true or not, the grown-ups were certainly hanging up their stockings. For there was the old candlestick-maker in his shop, pawing through a drawerful of socks. First he pulled out a white sock, but that one, alas, had a hole in it. Then he found a brown one, but oh, my goodness, that one had two holes in it. Then he found a gray sock, a woolen one that Mrs. Claus, good soul, had knitted for him. But that one had shrunken in the wash, and nobody wants a shriveled-up sock to hang up for Christmas. At last he came upon a fine black affair that looked as if it had been made for a giant, so enormous it was. This was the very thing, and cackling and wheezing, the candlestick-maker hung it up beside Jack-Be-Nimble’s smaller stocking and went to bed.