Part 6

“Suddenly the boy had an inspiration. He could sing like a bird. In fact he had been soloist of a boy choir in the town where they had lived before coming to the city.

“That work he loved, and was never so happy as, when clothed in his robes, walking up the aisle, singing while the great splendid organ pealed out its glorious music.

“One song, the Christmas Lullaby, was his special favourite. He always sang it at Christmas time. Why not sing it here on the street?

“It was sweeter than hand-organ music, and surely people ought to be willing to give a few pennies to hear it.

“No sooner thought than done, and Jack darted down the street a few blocks away from the hand-organ man.

“He chose the busiest corner where there was a wonderful toy store. In the window was a tree covered with gifts. The lights twinkled and danced as though cheering him on, and so there he paused and sang.

“He was a beautiful child. Indeed, in the fashionable church at home he had been called the Christ child, and now as he sang, many were attracted by his face and the clear sweet tones.

“They listened and passed on, leaving in the shabby cap many bits of silver.

“After a time the boy walked on, halting at various corners to sing, and presently found himself in front of a church.

“The music of the great organ pierced the air and as the door swung to and fro, he saw a large audience with many children gaily dressed, waiting expectantly.

“Jack was tired and cold. He longed to be enfolded in the light and warmth within and listen to the music, and he quietly crept inside up a stairway, then down to the front. No one was there and he leaned forward to see a wonderful tree. It sparkled with tinsel, while coloured lights gleamed here and there like shining jewels breathing a halo about the head of the Christmas Angel standing on the topmost branch.

“The outstretched arms seemed to pronounce a blessing on the fruit of this tree waiting to be showered on the many little ones, who stood admiring and exclaiming over this vision of beauty.

“It was an enormous tree. The top branches were fastened securely to a heavy pole which was thrown across the chancel and rested in the grooves on the hand-carved posts which stood either side of the entrance to this sacred place.

“Jack, fascinated by the scene, watched hungrily every detail, and as a thirsty flower holds up its dainty head for the first raindrops, so the boy eagerly drank in every note of the music which he knew so well.

“He longed to be a choir boy once more, but he was timid and bashful and feared to make any effort in this direction in a strange city.

“As he pondered on how to gain the coveted position, he watched the tree being stripped of its fruit and placed in many outstretched hands.

“He gazed wistfully on the joyous scene, but was suddenly startled by a flash of light, which, from his position, he saw was a thread of flame leaping upwards toward the Christmas Angel.

“There was but one thing to do, and he was the one to do it. Without a thought for himself he sprang for the pole, hung by his toes, and in an instant the flaming branch was broken from the tree and crushed in his hands.

“Below a quick cry of ‘Fire!’ rang out, then was heard the shriek of a child.

“Jack knew the impending panic must be averted instantly, and as he swung up on to the pole, he wound his limbs about it, and there perched in the topmost branches, a veritable Christ Child, he sang, as he never sang before, the Christmas Lullaby.

“The cries below ceased. The audience stared in amazement. Had he fallen from the blue skies painted on the ceiling by a master hand or had one of the Murillo angels, hovering amongst the billowy clouds, come to life?

“Those who heard never forgot the pathos of the plaintive melody.

“The choirmaster listened breathlessly, for here was the soloist he had for months been vainly seeking.

“The organist, wild with delight over the heavenly music, coming from he knew not where, followed gently with the organ accompaniment, the flute-like tones blending with the bird notes of the boy.

“Higher and higher soared the voice of the Christmas Angel, while the people gazed entranced. Such tender sweetness it had never been their privilege to hear.

“Surely the Baby Jesus was being lulled to sleep by the angelic music, which at last slowly and gently died away.

“A moment of tense silence was followed by a rustle; the tension was broken and Jack swung himself back to the gallery, to be greeted by many outstretched hands.

“He had many questions to answer and before the child realised it, he had told the story of limp stockings hanging by the chimneyside at home, and how hard he had tried to fill them.

“His pathetic tale, together with his daring efforts to quench the fire and avert a panic, moved many to tears.

“You all know what followed. How he was driven home in state in a grand sleigh drawn by a pair of prancing horses, and how his new-found friends not only filled the stockings, but then and there engaged him as soloist of the boy choir at such a salary that his mother need work no more, and they were all comfortable and happy for many a day.

“And now good-bye, and I wish you a very Merry Christmas.”

With that the Story Elf vanished, and her audience chorused:

“Wasn’t that lovely?”

“Indeed, it was,” declared Mr. Cinnamon Stick; “and now I believe we have heard from every one of this large family—”

TALE OF THE INTERROGATION POINT

“No, you haven’t! No, you haven’t!” cried a sprightly voice, and there appeared the queerest figure imaginable, coming apparently up from the floor like a Jack in the box.

He seemed to be a combination of every one of them, and before he had even spoken he seemed to be asking a question.

“Look at me. Guess who I am.”

“An Interrogation Point,” announced the Vinegar Doll.

“Yes, but an Interrogation Point asks a question. Who can answer it?”

The dolls leaned forward curiously examining this figure.

His head seemed made of suet, and he wore a hat adorned with tiny beef croquettes about the edge of the brim. Sprays of raisins and currants wandered over the crown, and about his neck was a necklace of allspice with dangles of cloves, cinnamon and nutmegs.

Pepper and salt sprinkled his clothing, which seemed made from orange and lemon peel. About his waist was a queer girdle from which wee sugar bowls, molasses jugs and vinegar cruets jingled together, while he tossed gay coloured apples into the air, caught them skilfully and then disposed of them in various pockets.

With a gay nod he cried, “Can no one answer the question? Let me tell you a little about myself, and then perhaps you can.

“You have all told how necessary you are. Let me tell you there would never have been a mince pie without me, nor anything else worth while.

“Let me ask of you growing things, how did you happen to grow? How did any of you happen to be? Some one had to plant the seeds. Some one had to take care of the trees, vines and shrubs after they started to grow.

“Where there was no rain, water had to be carried. The trees and vines had to be tended, trimmed, and cultivated. When the fruit was finally ready, it had to be packed and shipped all over the world.

“Even after it found its way into that kitchen, what happened? Everybody was—what—what was everybody doing? Now do tell me what this interrogation point stands for? Think!” he pleaded.

Everybody thought. They screwed up their faces and thought some more. They took one foot out from under them and thought. They put the other foot under them and thought again.

What was everybody doing to get the pie ready—chopping, grinding, baking.

Suddenly everybody beamed and chorused: “Working! Everybody was working! You are called Work!”

“To be sure I am, and a lot of work it took to make this pie. All over the world many, many people had many busy days.

“Can’t you just see them picking the raisins; sugaring the citron; grinding spice; cutting the wheat; packing the oranges; taking care of the cow; gathering the apples, and crushing them in the mill for cider?

“Oh, my dears, there is always work. Johnny Appleseed did an endless amount of work, and see what came from it.

“The one who packed that box of tea and happened to drop a grain of wheat therein, did a wonderful thing. That tiny grain brought us a kind of wheat we might never have had. Can’t you just see them planting that tiny seed? They watched it grow, tending the little sprout till it finally came to maturity, and more grains were planted. At last there was a wonderful crop of wheat, all due to your humble servant Work.”

With a sunny nod he vanished, and they looked and listened, but not even a clank of his girdle charms did they hear.

“Well! Well!” cried Cinnamon. “Wasn’t he fine? Who would ever have thought of him as belonging to mince pie. I fear we were all forgetting that most important point, and glad I am he remembered to appear. And now, my dears, the dawn is breaking, we must return.”

“But the mouse!” cried timid Allspice. “What about the mouse?”

“Oh, yes, the mouse!” chorused the audience breathlessly. “What about the mouse?”

Cinnamon Stick said no word, but pointed a long thin finger toward the clock.

The clock struck one (which was really half-past five), the mouse ran down, and the chain clinkety clanked as he hopped to the floor and ran away to his hole, and was seen no more.

His disappearance seemed a signal, and at once was heard a joyful chorus. As the dolls sang they formed a procession, and two by two marched back to the clock and wound their way about the spiral columns.

The Pie Crust was at the head and settled down in the pan, its cover upheld as by an invisible hand. The dolls jumped into their places, the cover was slowly dropping, when suddenly up popped the head of the Vinegar Cruet.

“The Gifts!” he cried. “You forgot the Gifts!”

At that up popped every other head, crying in chorus:

“The Gifts! The Gifts! You forgot the Gifts!”

“No, I didn’t forget. They are on the way.”

As Mother and Jack watched, suddenly a red-coated, white, fur-trimmed figure appeared. On his back was a basket piled high with candy. He made his way to the clock, and as he stood over the pie he cried in the jolliest of tones:

“Open your mouths and shut your eyes, and I’ll give you something to make you wise.”

Open popped the dolls’ mouths, looking like a lot of birds, each waiting for a worm, and all were filled to the brim with sweets.

They then nestled down close together. The top crust settled in place. The flames flickered and died out; then all was still.

The next day was crisp and bright. Father came, and a joyous time they all had over their gifts.

The turkey dinner was delicious, and presently the mince pie appeared in all its glory.

Such a beautiful mince pie as it was!

Jack watched Mother cut it, and listened breathlessly for the “Ha! Ha! Ha’s,” and the “Ho! Ho! Ho’s,” but not a sound did he hear, till presently at the first mouthful Father cried:

“Best pie you ever made, my dear. For once you have it sweet enough!”

Jack and his mother merely nodded and smiled, but not a word said they!

THE END