Part 3

“He strode down the path, soon to return carrying a leathern bag which clanked as he walked. At the feet of the Piper he shook out the golden circlets, which seemed bewitched as one after another rolled toward the empty spaces, where they spun round and round like so many golden tops, and finally settled into place. Those remaining piled themselves about the Piper’s feet.

“The onlookers gazed in astonishment till suddenly they heard heavenly music. At once they stood either side of the golden pathway, watching the Piper followed by the children.

“‘All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, Tripping and skipping ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.’

“On and on they went, their tiny feet treading silently the golden ribbon.

“The parents, with tears of joy streaming o’er their faces, followed, enraptured with the magic notes.

“Where the gleaming pathway ended the Piper paused, the parents embraced their little ones, then knelt at the feet of the Piper.

“‘Arise!’ he cried in beseeching tones. ‘I, too, am guilty. We have both made amends. Let us forget all wrongdoing and be happy. You have emptied your coffers but you are richer than ever.

“‘I do not want the gold. Let it lie a glittering pathway to the land of joy, where the children may dance and play to their hearts’ content.

“‘As long as we do right the Golden Portal will never close. Farewell.’

“With these words he turned and walked toward the mountain door. The parents hurried to their homes, to find the boys ordering out the wooden soldiers, and the dolls drowsily smiling into mother eyes and listening to the far-away lullaby of the dear Pied Piper.”

As the Story Elf finished she again vanished, and during the silence that followed the dolls thought they still heard the Piper’s far away lullaby.

As it died away Allspice cried:

“How lovely to bring the children home again. I’m glad she told us about it, for I always felt sorry for the parents and the dear little lame boy all alone.

“I hope we can have her come again.”

“Perhaps we may, but now we must go on with _our_ stories.

“You know an old poem tells us little girls are made of sugar and spice and all things nice. Therefore, since Sugar is classed so closely with Spice, we might let that sweet lady talk to us for a while.”

MRS. SUGAR DOLL’S TALE

The fat Sugar Lady now came forward, and with a quick jerk of her skirts, showing her slippered feet, made an old-fashioned courtesy.

“Isn’t she dear!” cried one and another, as they gazed admiringly at the quaint figure all dressed in white, which sparkled like frost on the window pane. Dainty bunches of rosebuds adorned her bonnet, and altogether she was a sweet picture.

“My dears,” she cried, well aware of the admiration she excited.

“I know I am sweet as well as you do, but lest I become over-proud I will show you my real self growing, which really isn’t anything to look at.”

As she talked she untied her bonnet strings and untwisted one of the curls that bobbed about her snowy neck. The audience was startled to hear a squeak like the dying gasp of a rubber balloon.

As the squeak lingeringly died away, Sugar grew thinner and taller, and presently there she was turned into a long yellow sugar cane.

A shout of laughter greeted this transformation, as Sugar Cane made an elaborate bow, beaming upon them as though delighted to see them.

“Allow me to make you acquainted with Mrs. Sugar’s better half,” he said.

“Butter half, you mean,” shouted Vinegar.

“Throw in a little flour and a few eggs and we’ll have a birthday cake.”

“Which I would be delighted to do had I those useful ingredients.”

“Ingredients?” said Cinnamon, thinking hard. “Will Little Salt, who is now peeping in the dictionary again, kindly let us know the meaning of that word?”

“It means a part of something,” replied Salt, much dismayed that she had again been caught studying the big book when she should have been listening.

“Yes, a part of something; sugar, eggs and flour are a part of the cake. Now let us hear about this queer tall yellow stick.”

“Very well, Sir. I come from a wild plant from India, Mexico, South America, and most tropical countries. They are here, and here, and here, and here,” and in the twinkling of an eye he had walked about the globe and left his footprint in each place.

“I am also found in the red beet and yellow carrot. Perhaps it will be hard to believe, but this yellow cane, which is as sweet as honey, is placed between two large hard rollers until all the juice is squeezed out.

“This juice is boiled down, and when thick is poured off.”

“Tut, tut, tut,” gurgled the Molasses Jug; “don’t step on my toes.”

“Don’t worry,” laughed Sugar Cane. “I’m not going to tell any more of your story. I had to tell that much to get at what settles to the bottom, which is my sweet wife.

“It is first brown sugar. That is purified by filtration, and when clear white takes the various names of loaf sugar, lump sugar, and refined sugar, according to the degree of purification.

“Refined sugar is the pulverised confectioners’ sugar and is used in candies.

“Granulated sugar is made by stirring while the strong syrup crystallises and forms small grains or crystals.

“While I know I am not very pretty, yet the children in the warm countries love me dearly. They clamour for a piece of sugar cane to suck, just as the children here beg for candy sticks. Some of the poor little ones have nothing to eat all day long but a stick of sugar cane, and nowhere to sleep but on a door step. They run around in bare feet and with scarcely any clothes!”

“Here! Here!” came the smothered tones of Mrs. Sugar. “You have told the whole story. I think you shouldn’t wind up by making everybody weep. Blow yourself up and let me come forth once more, please.”

Then Sugar Cane began to dwindle as a gust of wind blew through his pipes. Shorter and fatter he grew, till behold, there was dear Mrs. Sugar, smiling down at them as she again tied her bonnet strings.

“I never did see such a man. So dismal as he grows sometimes. What if the children do only have sugar cane all day. It’s good and makes them fat, and a jollier lot I never saw. They love to go barefooted; and as for clothes, who wants any where the weather is boiling hot all the time?

“Don’t waste any tears on him any of you. Let’s hear from Molasses. She will send your tears flying as high as a kite.”

At this summons the Molasses Jug now appeared. Her gown was a beautiful shade of golden brown, with touches of sunshiny yellow here and there. She really wasn’t a jug, but looked like one from the fact that she kept her arm crooked up just like a jug handle.

TALE OF THE MOLASSES DOLL

“Well,” she said gaily. “Mr. Sugar pretty near told you my story, I stopped him just in time. I come in just where the juice from the sugar cane boils down thick. That was my own splendid self that was poured off.

“I love the time when I gurgle down into a barrel, and fairly hug myself when that barrel is in a grocery store waiting to be sold. I always wonder what kind of a home I am going to, and what will be done with me.

“I sit there in the dark, and presently the spigot in the barrel is turned, and the thick stream gurgles into jugs. The jugs are placed in a grocery wagon. The driver whistles a merry tune, and away we go into so many homes.

“I make so many good things, and it is such fun guessing what I’m going to be in each time. Sometimes it is gingerbread, or may be plump brown cookies. Again, it is pudding with fat plums swelling up inside.

“Once a grand thing happened. It was the day before Christmas. The driver was hurrying the horse along at the very edge of town.

“Suddenly something startled the horse, and he ran away. The wagon overturned. Everything was thrown about in the snow. My jug broke and I began to run out all over. I had good company though, for popcorn, cranberries, and all sorts of things were scattered about me.

“The grocery boy gathered up most of the stuff and away he went. I was hopeless, and thought what a miserable Christmas I was to have. No good to anybody. Suddenly I pricked up my ears. Children were crying, and I heard one say:

“‘Can’t have any Christmas at all. Not a speck of anything. No money to buy anything with!’

“A group of them were trudging through the snow from school. When they saw me one said: ‘What’s that?’

“Wasn’t I glad I was molasses. Most anything else would have been of no use at such a time. I could hardly keep still when I saw one after another poke a finger into the brown mass and taste.

“‘Molasses!’ they cried in one breath.

“With a whoop of delight they ran into a nearby home, and came back with a pail and cups. The snow had a glassy crust and I hadn’t sunken in at all. So all they had to do was to scoop, and there I was. They scooped and scraped till they had a good pail full.

“I saw a few ears of popcorn that had lodged down in a little hollow, so I let a small stream run after them. The children spied them, and such a shout went up as you never heard! Luckily the snow was fresh fallen and clean, so they really had made quite a find.

“We were hurried into the house, and when the mother and father came home from their work, looking sad enough because they could not give the children any Christmas, they were greeted with the cries of ‘Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!’

“It would have done your hearts good to have seen that candy pull, and the popcorn balls were the finest ever made. They had a perfectly good Christmas that didn’t cost a cent.

“So I think molasses is quite important in this world even if it is cheap.”

Molasses sat down amid a round of applause.

“What a nice story! I wish some one would tell another,” murmured little Allspice, whose earnest blue eyes and clasped hands showed how she had loved the story.

“A splendid idea! The night is slowly passing; perhaps some of us may think up some interesting stories; incidents we have seen in our various home lands.

TALE OF THE VINEGAR KING

“Now let’s hear from the Vinegar King. We have had much sweet, perhaps we would like a little sour for a change.”

His Majesty was tall and thin, dressed in velvet knee breeches and fancy coat with silver trimmings. His cockade hat looked as though he really did belong to royalty, but so sour an expression did he wear you could tell at once that he stood for nothing sweet.

“Ladies and Gentlemen: I am happy—”

“Happy—you?” queried the audience in gales of laughter.

“I didn’t mean to say I was happy. I started to say I am happy to inform you that in wine countries I come from fermented poor wines, elsewhere from malt or apple cider.”

With that he sat down.

“Here! Here! Is that all you have to tell us?” cried Cinnamon Stick.

“All! It is much more than Molasses had to say.”

“You have talked for twenty seconds. Molasses entertained us for many minutes!”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman, but if you simmer down what Molasses told you of her history, it will take three seconds by the clock to say it. It was this: ‘I am the juice from the sugar cane boiled down and gurgled into a barrel!’”

Vinegar tried so hard to imitate Molasses, even to the sweet expression, he sat down amid roars of laughter.

Molasses now hopped up in the greatest haste, crying:

“So I did gurgle into a barrel, and into a jug, too. It was all there was to tell. Sugar Cane had to tell the beginning of me because we came from the same thing. It was why I told the story, and dear knows it was a sweet story.”

“The gentleman with silver trimmed knee breeches will kindly tell us something further of himself,” said Cinnamon Stick in bland tones. “What are you good for?”

“I am used for soothing remedies in the pharmacies.”

“Soothing!” laughed Salt and Pepper. “I hope you have your picture on the outside of the bottles.”

“I do. They especially asked for it. I am good for many things besides medicine. Sour pickles could never be made without me, and as for peach pickles, you might have all the cloves and cinnamon in the world in them, would they be at all if it were not for me? As for my looks, I can’t help them. We all have to look like we are, and even though I look and seem sour, at heart I am sweet because really I have to have sugar to make the mother.”

“Mother!” cried bashful Allspice. “Have you really a dear mother?”

“Oh, my dear, not that kind of a mother. It is just some thick stringy stuff that grows in Vinegar as it ferments and makes it ferment quicker. It is just called mother.

“That is all I know about me. Thank you for your kind attention.”

“You are very welcome,” said Cinnamon Stick. “You really did very well after all.

TALE OF THE CITRON DOLL

“Now let’s hear from Miss Citron. She sounds very sweet and good.”

“And I am sweet and good, too,” said the doll with the large green head, gorgeously gowned in purple.

“I grow in Spain.” Here she sat down on the top of the globe and rolled over and over till she reached that spot where she was to be found, then rose and continued:

“My tree has an upright smooth trunk with a branchy head rising from five to fifteen feet, adorned with large oval spear-shaped leaves. See, my hat is made of one. Isn’t it _chic_?” and she placed the odd hat on her head and paraded about for a moment.

“Don’t mistake me for a Pathé Moving Picture fashion show, please, for I never aspired to anything higher than fruit cake and pastries.

“My fruit is different from the lemon in that it has no knob at the top and the rind is much thicker. My tree has purple blossoms that are white inside. The seeds of the fruit are bitter. After they are taken out I am cut in half and dried in sugar and make a delicious confection.

“I am sorry my story is short, but that is really all there is to tell.”

“Very good, indeed, and now we will hear from the ballet girls, Orange and Lemon, who seem in a flutter to tell their tales,” announced Mr. Cinnamon Stick.

The Orange and Lemon Dolls now came forward, and after a sweeping bow danced like fairies about the hearth, their orange and yellow skirts fluffing about their tiny feet.

“Opera glasses! Opera glasses!” shouted one.

“All music and words of the opera here,” sang another.

“Standing room only,” cried another.

TALES OF THE ORANGE AND LEMON DOLLS

Mr. Cinnamon Stick bade them be quiet, and Orange began her story.

“We come from about the same parts of the world; watch and you will see where.”

The eyes of the audience followed the pair as they heeled and toed over the globe, touching daintily Italy, Spain, Portugal, Florida, and California.

“The California orange is liked best because it has no seeds. It is a deep orange colour with a thick skin.

“The Florida orange is a shade lighter and has a thinner skin.

“We also grow in Mexico—here—but the Mexican orange cannot be shipped because it will not keep. It is sweet and delicious, however, and much loved by the natives.

“One wonderful thing about the orange tree is that at the same time, on the same tree, you will find the buds, blossoms, the green and ripe fruit, because they grow slowly. Also the grape fruit is sometimes grafted on our trees. There are oranges that will hang on the trees for two years, so they can be picked at any time, which is most convenient.

“The trees stand about twenty-three feet apart and must not be chilled for it hurts the buds. When a cold snap comes, the owners build fires here and there in the orange groves and keep them all snug and warm. They must watch the weather reports very closely, as in a short time the cold might ruin the orange crop.

“One thousand oranges have been taken from one tree. When the tree is no longer fruitful, its hard, fine-grained, yellowish wood is valued for inlaid work.

“The orange was first found in India, then spread to Western Asia, Spain, Italy, and is now grown in all tropical lands.

“Now, Lemon may tell us about herself, as that is all I know.”

“I also am from Spain, and all those countries we touched,” said the Lemon Doll.

“I grew on a tree with three thousand in the family.

“We are picked green because then we keep better and the skins are thinner. If we are left in our tree house until grown to full size our skins are thick, and we are sent to England, where we are sugared and dried and named sugared lemon peel.

“We don’t sound like much, but when you see us in heaps and piles in the groceries, and see the lot of money we bring in to the owners, you find we are quite worth while, for we are shipped all over the world, and wherever you are you will usually find us on the table, if you find no other fruit.”

“Right you are, my dears. You are both a most important food, and we are glad we met up with you,” cried Cinnamon Stick.

“And now _I’m_ going to wish again for the Story Sprite. I want a Christmas story.”

“Oh, joy!” exclaimed the audience, rapturously beaming upon the Story Sprite, who sprang from the back log at the magic word “wish,” singing gaily:

“And a Christmas story you shall have. Here is my favourite one. It is called

ANNA BELLE’S CHRISTMAS EVE.

“Anna Belle had had a very exciting day, and now, curled up on the window seat, her head pillowed on downy cushions, she sat watching the sleighs flying by.

“It was a glorious night. The moon shed its silvery glow on the busy scene, and Anna Belle drowsily noted the people passing with arms filled and pockets bulging.

“‘I wish I could see what’s in those packages,’ she murmured. ‘I think Christmas is queer anyhow.’

“‘Why?’ came in tinkling tones to her ears.

“Anna Belle jumped, for there beside her was a beautiful fairy, holding on high a silver wand, on the end of which gleamed a star.

“‘Why?’ persisted the fairy creature, determined to have an explanation of such a statement.

“‘Well, I ask for a lot of things I never get, and I get a lot of things I don’t want.’

“‘You do?’ said the Fairy inquiringly.

“‘Yes, every year I do. In the attic are boxes and boxes of things I didn’t care at all for. Somehow I’m never very happy at Christmas time.’

“‘Are you _giving_ any presents this year?’

“‘Oh, yes, Papa always gives me money to buy them, but I didn’t spend it all. I’ve asked for a bracelet, and if I don’t get it I’m going to buy one with what I have left.’

“The fairy glanced about the beautiful room, where seemed to be everything to make one happy, then she gently asked:

“‘Are the gifts you bought gifts you feel sure are wanted by those who will receive them?’

“Anna Belle flushed as she tossed her curls and replied:

“‘Perhaps not. Papa always says, “You can’t get something for nothing,” and you see I didn’t want to spend all my money.’

“‘Did you have a happy time buying these gifts?’

“‘Well, no. Do you think any one is very happy at Christmas time?’

“‘That depends. Some are very, very happy.’

“‘Yes, I know. People with bushels of gifts are, especially if they are really what they want.’

“‘Oh,’ laughed the Fairy. ‘I know people who have scarcely any money to buy presents and yet are having a lovely Christmas with presents made out of nothing. People who are as poor as crows, and yet are bubbling over with joy this very night.’

“Anna Belle opened her eyes very wide at this statement.

“‘Making a Christmas out of nothing, and as poor as crows!’ she echoed. ‘Just how poor is that? I’d like to see them.’

“‘You would? Come with me then,’ and after a wave of the silvery wand Anna Belle found herself floating along in mid air like a bird.

“‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘What fun! I wish I could always be a fairy!’

“‘If you wish it hard enough you may be. Now follow me very closely for we aren’t the only fairies abroad Christmas Eve. The air is full of them.’

“Anna Belle looked about her, and sure enough, it was almost like June bug season. She felt them whizzing past her, and at times their whirring wings fairly brushed her cheeks.

“‘Oh, how lovely it is!’ she exclaimed. ‘How different it all looks from above!’

“‘Yes, dear, everything looks different from above. Do you see that wee brown house far over in that meadow, all alone?’

“‘Yes,’ replied Anna Belle; ‘are they poor as crows?’

“‘Poorer, they haven’t even any feathers,’ laughed the Fairy, as they gently floated down, down, till they could peer into a window of the little house.

“A mother sat by a table sewing. Anna Belle watched to see that she was making dolls from bottles.

“She fashioned heads by placing a wad of cotton in a piece of muslin. Giving the cloth a twist, she had a perfect round ball which she shaped and tied down over a cork. On this she skilfully painted a face, then tied a trim little bonnet about it, and behold, there was a smiling bit of a creature awaiting the next move.

“She then made petticoat, dress and coat, and stood it in a corner while she made another. As she worked she smiled so sweetly the whole room seemed aglow.

“‘Come and see who will have these gifts,’ whispered the Fairy.

“Anna Belle followed and peeped in another window. There she saw a number of little children all snuggled up fast asleep.

“‘Look!’ whispered the Fairy, and pointed to a stand where were a few gifts. A pin-cushion made of bits of ribbon from a scrap bag, and a workbox made from a cigar box. This was a work of art indeed. Pockets had been tacked inside, and on the bottom of the box lay a spool of thread.

“‘Looks lonesome, doesn’t it?’ whispered the Fairy.

“Anna Belle nodded as she thought of her own beautiful workbox of carved ivory with gold thimble and all sorts of beautiful fittings.

“Then she remembered another laid away in the attic, one of the things she didn’t want.

“These two crude gifts were marked in childish hand, ‘For Mother with much love.’

“‘Love is sticking out all over those things,’ said the Fairy. ‘Come down and see how she is getting on with her bottle family.’

“They went below, to find the dolls nearly finished, and a fine ready-made family it was.

“Father, mother, children, and even a weenty teenty pill bottle doll, dressed as a baby in long clothes, was pinned to the mother, the tiny head nestled close to the spot where her heart should be.

“‘They are lovely!’ declared Anna Belle.

“‘They are, indeed, and they can do what many of the finest dolls you buy cannot. They can stand and you can have great fun with them.’

“‘I’m going to make some,’ said Anna Belle. ‘I think they are cute. What is she doing now?’

“‘Why, don’t you see? Some one has given her a branch from a Christmas tree. She is fastening the dolls to it. Now she’s poking the coals, she’s going to pop corn and string it for the tree. That cost one penny. She’s also going to make molasses candy. See it bubbling in that kettle? Molasses is very cheap and it will be the only candy they will have, but they will be wild over it, just because only at Christmas time they have it.

“‘Now come and I’ll show you crow number two.’

“Anna Belle was loath to leave this interesting window, but she obediently followed on.

“‘Look in here,’ whispered the Fairy, as they paused by another humble home.

“Anna Belle looked, to see an empty stocking swinging from the mantel. On it was pinned a paper, and Anna Belle read the large printed words:

“Dear Santa Claus—If you have enough things to go round won’t you give my sister a music box and a readin’ buck. She’s lame and can’t play like me. You needn’t give me anything. I can hear the music and read her’s.

“JAMIE.”

“Anna Belle’s eyes filled as she read, and followed the Fairy to see two children fast asleep, dreaming of what they hoped they might find in the morning.

“‘They have no mother. The father isn’t much good, but does his best to feed them. In the morning those stockings will be as empty as they are now.’