Chapter 11

"Like as not--but did you ever slide down hill, Santa Claus? I don't mean such hills as they hev out here in this _new_ country, but one of them old-fashioned New England hills that was made 'specially for boys to slide down, full of bumpers an' thank-ye-marms, and about ten times longer comin' up than it is goin' down! The wind blew in our faces and almos' took our breath away. 'Merry Chris'mas to ye, little boys!' it seemed to say, and it untied our mufflers an' whirled the snow in our faces, just as if it was a boy, too, an' wanted to play with us. An ol' crow came flappin' over us from the corn field beyond the meadow. He said: 'Caw, caw,' when he saw my new sled--I s'pose he 'd never seen a red one before. Otis had a hard time with _his_ sled--the black one--an' he wondered why it would n't go as fast as mine would. 'Hev you scraped the paint off'n the runners?' asked Wralsey Goodnow. 'Course I hev,' said Otis; 'broke my own knife an' Lute Ingraham's a-doin' it, but it don't seem to make no dif'rence--the darned ol' thing won't go!' Then, what did Simon Buzzell say but that, like 's not, it was because Otis's sled's name was 'Snow Queen.' 'Never did see a girl sled that was worth a cent, anyway,' sez Simon. Well, now, that jest about broke Otis up in business. 'It ain't a girl sled,' sez he, 'and its name ain't "Snow Queen"! I'm a-goin' to call it "Dan'l Webster," or "Ol'ver Optic," or "Sheriff Robbins," or after some other big man!' An' the boys plagued him so much about that pesky girl sled that he scratched off the name, an', as I remember, it _did_ go better after that!

"About the only thing," continued Joel, "that marred the harmony of the occasion, as the editor of the 'Hampshire County Phoenix' used to say, was the ashes that Deacon Morris Frisbie sprinkled out in front of his house. He said he was n't going to have folks breakin' their necks jest on account of a lot of frivolous boys that was goin' to the gallows as fas' as they could! Oh, how we hated him! and we 'd have snowballed him, too, if we had n't been afraid of the constable that lived next door. But the ashes did n't bother us much, and every time we slid sidesaddle we 'd give the ashes a kick, and that sort of scattered 'em."

The bare thought of this made Santa Claus laugh.

"Goin' on about nine o'clock," said Joel, "the girls come along--Sister Elvira an' Thankful, Prudence Tucker, Belle Yocum, Sophrone Holbrook, Sis Hubbard, an' Marthy Sawyer. Marthy's brother Increase wanted her to ride on _his_ sled, but Marthy allowed that a red sled was her choice every time. 'I don't see how I 'm goin' to hold on,' said Marthy. 'Seems as if I would hev my hands full keepin' my things from blowin' away.' 'Don't worry about yourself, Marthy,' sez I, 'for if you'll look after your things, I kind o' calc'late I'll manage not to lose _you_ on the way.' Dear Marthy--seems as if I could see you now, with your tangled hair a-blowin' in the wind, your eyes all bright and sparklin', an' your cheeks as red as apples. Seems, too, as if I could hear you laughin' an' callin', jist as you did as I toiled up the old New England hill that Chris'mas mornin'--a callin': 'Joel, Joel, Joel--ain't ye ever comin', Joel?' But the hill is long and steep, Marthy, an' Joel ain't the boy he used to be; he 's old, an' gray, an' feeble, but there 's love an' faith in his heart, an' they kind o' keep him totterin' tow'rds the voice he hears a-callin': 'Joel, Joel, Joel!'"

"I know--I see it all," murmured Santa Claus, very softly.

"Oh, that was so long ago," sighed Joel; "so very long ago! And I've had no Chris'mas since--only once, when our little one--Marthy's an' mine--you remember him, Santa Claus?"

"Yes," said Santa Claus, "a toddling little boy with blue eyes--"

"Like his mother," interrupted Joel; "an' he was like her, too--so gentle an' lovin', only we called him Joel, for that was my father's name and it kind o' run in the fam'ly. He wa' n't more 'n three years old when you came with your Chris'mas presents for him, Santa Claus. We had told him about you, and he used to go to the chimney every night and make a little prayer about what he wanted you to bring him. And you brought 'em, too--a stick-horse, an' a picture-book, an' some blocks, an' a drum--they 're on the shelf in the closet there, and his little Chris'mas stockin' with 'em--I 've saved 'em all, an' I 've taken 'em down an' held 'em in my hands, oh, so many times!"

"But when I came again," said Santa Claus--

"His little bed was empty, an' I was alone. It killed his mother--Marthy was so tender-hearted; she kind o' drooped an' pined after that. So now they 've been asleep side by side in the buryin'-ground these thirty years.

"That's why I 'm so sad-like whenever Chris'mas comes," said Joel, after a pause. "The thinkin' of long ago makes me bitter almost. It's so different now from what it used to be."

"No, Joel, oh, no," said Santa Claus. "'T is the same world, and human nature is the same and always will be. But Christmas is for the little folks, and you, who are old and grizzled now, must know it and love it only through the gladness it brings the little ones."

"True," groaned Joel; "but how may I know and feel this gladness when I have no little stocking hanging in my chimney corner--no child to please me with his prattle? See, I am alone."

"No, you 're not alone, Joel," said Santa Claus. "There are children in this great city who would love and bless you for your goodness if you but touched their hearts. Make them happy, Joel; send by me this night some gift to the little boy in the old house yonder--he is poor and sick; a simple toy will fill his Christmas with gladness."

"His little sister, too--take _her_ some present," said Joel; "make them happy for me, Santa Claus--you are right--make them happy for me."

How sweetly Joel slept! When he awoke, the sunlight streamed in through the window and seemed to bid him a merry Christmas. How contented and happy Joel felt! It must have been the talk with Santa Claus that did it all; he had never known a sweeter sense of peace. A little girl came out of the house over the way. She had a new doll in her arms, and she sang a merry little song and she laughed with joy as she skipped along the street. Ay, and at the window sat the little sick boy, and the toy Santa Claus left him seemed to have brought him strength and health, for his eyes sparkled and his cheeks glowed, and it was plain to see his heart was full of happiness.

And, oh! how the chimes did ring out, and how joyfully they sang their Christmas carol that morning! They sang of Bethlehem and the manger and the Babe; they sang of love and charity, till all the Christmas air seemed full of angel voices.

Carol of the Christmas morn-- Carol of the Christ-child born-- Carol to the list'ning sky Till it echoes back again "Glory be to God on high, Peace on earth, good will tow'rd men!"

So all this music--the carol of the chimes, the sound of children's voices, the smile of the poor little boy over the way--all this sweet music crept into Joel's heart that Christmas morning; yes, and with these sweet, holy influences came others so subtile and divine that, in its silent communion with them, Joel's heart cried out amen and amen to the glory of the Christmas time.

THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE

The clock was in ill humor; so was the vase. It was all on account of the little shoe that had been placed on the mantel-piece that day, and had done nothing but sigh dolorously all the afternoon and evening.

"Look you here, neighbor," quoth the clock, in petulant tones, "you are sadly mistaken if you think you will be permitted to disturb our peace and harmony with your constant sighs and groans. If you are ill, pray let us know; otherwise, have done with your manifestations of distress."

"Possibly you do not know what befell the melancholy plaque that intruded his presence upon us last week," said the vase. "We pitched him off the mantelpiece, and he was shattered into a thousand bits."

The little shoe gave a dreadful shudder. It could not help thinking it had fallen among inhospitable neighbors. It began to cry. The brass candlestick took pity on the sobbing thing, and declared with some show of temper that the little shoe should not be imposed on.

"Now tell us why you are so full of sadness," said the brass candlestick.

"I do not know how to explain," whimpered the little shoe. "You see I am quite a young thing, albeit I have a rusty appearance and there is a hole in my toes and my heel is badly run over. I feel so lonesome and friendless and sort of neglected-like, that it seems as if there were nothing for me to do but sigh and grieve and weep all day long."

"Sighing and weeping do no good," remarked the vase, philosophically.

"I know that very well," replied the little shoe; "but once I was so happy that my present lonesome lot oppresses me all the more grievously."

"You say you once were happy--pray tell us all about it," demanded the brass candlestick.

The vase was eager to hear the little shoe's story, and even the proud, haughty clock expressed a willingness to listen. The matchbox came from the other end of the mantel-piece, and the pen-wiper, the paper-cutter, and the cigar-case gathered around the little shoe, and urged it to proceed with its narrative.

"The first thing I can remember in my short life," said the little shoe, "was being taken from a large box in which there were many of my kind thrown together in great confusion. I found myself tied with a slender cord to a little mate, a shoe so very like me that you could not have told us apart. We two were taken and put in a large window in the midst of many grown-up shoes, and we had nothing to do but gaze out of the window all day long into the wide, busy street. That was a very pleasant life. Sometimes the sunbeams would dance through the window-panes and play at hide-and-seek all over me and my little mate; they would kiss and caress us, and we learned to love them very much--they were so warm and gentle and merrisome. Sometimes the raindrops would patter against the window-panes, singing wild songs to us, and clamoring to break through and destroy us with their eagerness. When night came, we could see stars away up in the dark sky winking at us, and very often the old mother moon stole out from behind a cloud to give us a kindly smile. The wind used to sing us lullabies, and in one corner of our window there was a little open space where the mice gave a grand ball every night to the music of the crickets and a blind frog. Altogether we had a merry time."

"I 'd have liked it all but the wind," said the brass candlestick. "I don't know why it is, but I 'm dreadfully put out by the horrid old wind!"

"Many people," continued the little shoe, "used to stop and look in at the window, and I believe my little mate and I were admired more than any of our larger and more pretentious companions. I can remember there was a pair of red-top boots that was exceedingly jealous of us. But that did not last long, for one day a very sweet lady came and peered in at the window and smiled very joyously when she saw me and my little mate. Then I remember we were taken from the window, and the lady held us in her hands and examined us very closely, and measured our various dimensions with a string, and finally, I remember, she said she would carry us home. We did not know what that meant, only we realized that we would never live in the shop window again, and we were loath to be separated from the sunbeams and the mice and the other friends that had been so kind to us."

"What a droll little shoe!" exclaimed the vase. Whereupon the clock frowned and ticked a warning to the vase not to interrupt the little shoe in the midst of its diverting narrative.

"It is not necessary for me to tell you how we were wrapped in paper and carried a weary distance," said the little shoe; "it is sufficient to my purpose to say that, after what seemed to us an interminable journey and a cruel banging around, we were taken from the paper and found ourselves in a quiet, cozy room--yes, in this very apartment where we all are now! The sweet lady held us in her lap, and at the sweet lady's side stood a little child, gazing at us with an expression of commingled astonishment, admiration, and glee. We knew the little child belonged to the sweet lady, and from the talk we heard we knew that henceforth the child was to be our little master."

As if some sudden anguish came upon it, hushing its speech, the little shoe paused in its narrative. The others said never a word. Perhaps it was because they were beginning to understand. The proud, haughty clock seemed to be less imperious for the moment, and its ticking was softer and more reverential.

"From that time," resumed the little shoe, "our little master and we were inseparable during all the happy day. We played and danced with him and wandered everywhere through the grass, over the carpets, down the yard, up the street--ay, everywhere our little master went, we went too, sharing his pretty antics and making music everywhere. Then, when evening came and little master was put to sleep, in yonder crib, we were set on the warm carpet near his bed where we could watch him while he slept, and bid him good-morrow when the morning came. Those were pleasant nights, too, for no sooner had little master fallen asleep than the fairies came trooping through the keyholes and fluttering down the chimney to dance over his eyes all night long, giving him happy dreams, and filling his baby ears with sweetest music."

"What a curious conceit!" said the pen-wiper.

"And is it true that fairies dance on children's eyelids at night?" asked the paper-cutter.

"Certainly," the clock chimed in, "and they sing very pretty lullabies and very cunning operettas, too. I myself have seen and heard them."

"I should like to hear a fairy operetta," suggested the pen-wiper.

"I remember one the fairies sang my little master as they danced over his eyelids," said the little shoe, "and I will repeat it if you wish."

"Nothing would please me more," said the pen-wiper.

"Then you must know," said the little shoe, "that, as soon as my master fell asleep, the fairies would make their appearance, led by their queen, a most beautiful and amiable little lady no bigger than a cambric needle. Assembling on the pillow of the crib, they would order their minstrels and orchestra to seat themselves on little master's forehead. The minstrels invariably were the cricket, the flea, the katydid, and the gnat, while the orchestra consisted of mosquitos, bumblebees, and wasps. Once in a great while, on very important occasions, the fairies would bring the old blind hop-toad down the chimney and set him on the window-sill, where he would discourse droll ditties to the infinite delight of his hearers. But on ordinary occasions, the fairy queen, whose name was Taffie, would lead the performance in these pleasing words, sung to a very dulcet air:

AN INVITATION TO SLEEP

Little eyelids, cease your winking; Little orbs, forget to beam; Little soul, to slumber sinking, Let the fairies rule your dream. Breezes, through the lattice sweeping, Sing their lullabies the while-- And a star-ray, softly creeping To thy bedside, woos thy smile. But no song nor ray entrancing Can allure thee from the spell Of the tiny fairies dancing O'er the eyes they love so well. See, we come in countless number-- I, their queen, and all my court-- Haste, my precious one, to slumber Which invites our fairy sport.

"At the conclusion of this song Prince Whimwham, a tidy little gentleman fairy in pink silk small-clothes, approaching Queen Taffie and bowing graciously, would say:

Pray, lady, may I have the pleasure Of leading you this stately measure?

To which her majesty would reply with equal graciousness in the affirmative. Then Prince Whimwham and Queen Taffie would take their places on one of my master's eyelids, and the other gentleman fairies and lady fairies would follow their example, till at last my master's face would seem to be alive with these delightful little beings. The mosquitos would blow a shrill blast on their trumpets, the orchestra would strike up, and then the festivities would begin in earnest. How the bumblebees would drone, how the wasps would buzz, and how the mosquitos would blare! It was a delightful harmony of weird sounds. The strange little dancers floated hither and thither over my master's baby face, as light as thistledowns, and as graceful as the slender plumes they wore in their hats and bonnets. Presently they would weary of dancing, and then the minstrels would be commanded to entertain them. Invariably the flea, who was a rattle-headed fellow, would discourse some such incoherent song as this:

COQUETRY

Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-dee-- The spider courted the frisky flea; Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-doo-- The flea ran off with the bugaboo! "Oh, tiddle-de-dee!" Said the frisky flea-- For what cared she For the miseree The spider knew, When, tiddle-de-doo, The flea ran off with the bugaboo!

Rumpty-tumpty, pimplety-pan-- The flubdub courted a catamaran But timplety-topplety, timpity-tare-- The flubdub wedded the big blue bear! The fun began With a pimplety-pan When the catamaran, Tore up a man And streaked the air With his gore and hair Because the flubdub wedded the bear!

"I remember with what dignity the fairy queen used to reprove the flea for his inane levity:

Nay, futile flea; these verses you are making Disturb the child--for, see, he is awaking! Come, little cricket, sing your quaintest numbers, And they, perchance, shall lull him back to slumbers.

"Upon this invitation the cricket, who is justly one of the most famous songsters in the world, would get his pretty voice in tune and sing as follows:

THE CRICKET'S SONG

When all around from out the ground The little flowers are peeping, And from the hills the merry rills With vernal songs are leaping, I sing my song the whole day long In woodland, hedge, and thicket-- And sing it, too, the whole night through, For I 'm a merry cricket.

The children hear my chirrup clear As, in the woodland straying, They gather flow'rs through summer hours-- And then I hear them saying: "Sing, sing away the livelong day, Glad songster of the thicket-- With your shrill mirth you gladden earth, You merry little cricket!"

When summer goes, and Christmas snows Are from the north returning, I quit my lair and hasten where The old yule-log is burning. And where at night the ruddy light Of that old log is flinging A genial joy o'er girl and boy, There I resume my singing.

And, when they hear my chirrup clear, The children stop their playing-- With eager feet they haste to greet My welcome music, saying: "The little thing has come to sing Of woodland, hedge, and thicket-- Of summer day and lambs at play-- Oh, how we love the cricket!"

"This merry little song always seemed to please everybody except the gnat. The fairies appeared to regard the gnat as a pestiferous insect, but a contemptuous pity led them to call upon him for a recitation, which invariably was in the following strain:

THE FATE OF THE FLIMFLAM

A flimflam flopped from a fillamaloo, Where the pollywog pinkled so pale, And the pipkin piped a petulant "pooh" To the garrulous gawp of the gale. "Oh, woe to the swap of the sweeping swipe That booms on the hobbling bay!" Snickered the snark to the snoozing snipe That lurked where the lamprey lay.

The gluglug glinked in the glimmering gloam, Where the buzbuz bumbled his bee-- When the flimflam flitted, all flecked with foam, From the sozzling and succulent sea. "Oh, swither the swipe, with its sweltering sweep!" She swore as she swayed in a swoon, And a doleful dank dumped over the deep, To the lay of the limpid loon!

"This was simply horrid, as you all will allow. The queen and her fairy followers were much relieved when the honest katydid narrated a pleasant moral in the form of a ballad to this effect:

CONTENTMENT

Once on a time an old red hen Went strutting 'round with pompous clucks, For she had little babies ten, A part of which were tiny ducks. "'T is very rare that hens," said she, "Have baby ducks as well as chicks-- But I possess, as you can see, Of chickens four and ducklings six!"

A season later, this old hen Appeared, still cackling of her luck, For, though she boasted babies ten, Not one among them was a duck! "'T is well," she murmured, brooding o'er The little chicks of fleecy down-- "My babies now will stay ashore, And, consequently, cannot drown!"

The following spring the old red hen Clucked just as proudly as of yore-- But lo! her babes were ducklings ten, Instead of chickens, as before! "'T is better," said the old red hen, As she surveyed her waddling brood; "A little water now and then Will surely do my darlings good!"

But oh! alas, how very sad! When gentle spring rolled round again The eggs eventuated bad, And childless was the old red hen! Yet patiently she bore her woe, And still she wore a cheerful air, And said: "'T is best these things are so, For babies are a dreadful care!"

I half suspect that many men, And many, many women, too, Could learn a lesson from the hen With foliage of vermilion hue; She ne'er presumed to take offence At any fate that might befall, But meekly bowed to Providence-- She was contented--that was all!

"Then the fairies would resume their dancing. Each little gentleman fairy would bow to his lady fairy and sing in the most musical of voices:

Sweet little fairy, Tender and airy, Come, let us dance on the good baby-eyes; Merrily skipping, Cheerily tripping, Murmur we ever our soft lullabies.

"And then, as the rest danced, the fairy queen sang the following slumber-song, accompanied by the orchestra:

A FAIRY LULLABY

There are two stars in yonder steeps That watch the baby while he sleeps. But while the baby is awake And singing gayly all day long, The little stars their slumbers take Lulled by the music of his song. So sleep, dear tired baby, sleep While little stars their vigils keep.

Beside his loving mother-sheep A little lambkin is asleep; What does he know of midnight gloom--- He sleeps, and in his quiet dreams He thinks he plucks the clover bloom And drinks at cooling, purling streams. And those same stars the baby knows Sing softly to the lamb's repose.

Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child-- The stars are dim--the night is wild; But o'er the cot and o'er the lea A sleepless eye forever beams-- A shepherd watches over thee In all thy little baby dreams; The shepherd loves his tiny sheep-- Sleep, precious little lambkin, sleep!

"That is very pretty, indeed!" exclaimed the brass candlestick.

"So it is," replied the little shoe, "but you should hear it sung by the fairy queen!"

"Did the operetta end with that lullaby?" inquired the cigar-case.

"Oh, no," said the little shoe. "No sooner had the queen finished her lullaby than an old gran'ma fairy, wearing a quaint mob-cap and large spectacles, limped forward with her crutch and droned out a curious ballad, which seemed to be for the special benefit of the boy and girl fairies, very many of whom were of the company. This ballad was as follows:

BALLAD OF THE JELLY-CAKE