Part 4

David hesitated, but only for an instant. There was something too lonely and appealing about the man to be denied. David was still not at all sure that he wanted to go, even while he was following the lumber cook round to the door.

It was surprisingly cozy and cheerful inside, perhaps because of the open fire, the strips of pine cones, husked corn, and bunches of colored berries that decorated the walls and rafters. Uncle Joab caught David’s wondering, curious gaze, and he chuckled.

“Yas, dat’s pop-corn, honey. An’ I reckon Uncle Joab’ll have some a-poppin’ for you over dese yeah coals in a jiffy.”

He mounted stiffly the hewn, polished stump that did service for a stool and pulled down two of the ears. From the corner of the fireplace he brought a corn-popper and, sitting down, he commenced to shell the corn by rubbing the ears together. David drew up a chair near by and watched him with growing interest. When the corn was shelled Uncle Joab raked away the unburned wood from the fire, leaving a bed of the red coals. Over this he held the corn, shaking the popper gently from side to side. In less time than it takes for the telling sounded the snap-snap-snap of the bursting kernels, and in a moment more Uncle Joab had turned the snowy contents into an earthen bowl and laid it on David’s knee with a small dish of salt and the invitation to “Go ahead.” Then he took up his fiddle again and played the promised music.

It was a jig, such a rollicking, care-free jig that before it was finished David found himself wondering how in the world he ever hesitated about coming in. Why, here was nothing but another boy like himself, a boy grown old before he had grown up.

“Like dat corn, honey? Wall, you come along yeah ’round Chris’mus an’ Uncle Joab’ll make you some m’lasses balls.”

A sigh escaped with the promise.

“Lordy—Chris’mus—yeah! Doan’t seem like I done hab any Chris’mus sence I left ole Virginy. Seems like it done froze stiff ’fo’ ever it got to dese yeah parts.”

David laughed at the old man’s humor. It had seemed just that way to him a few days ago.

“Couldn’t we thaw it out?” he asked.

“’Twould take a monstrous lot o’ warm feelin’s, honey, an’ kind folks, I reckon. An’ you’d not find ’em a-hangin’ ’round loose yeah in de wintah. Why, dere’s no more ’n a han’ful of us, all measured an’ mixted; an’ as fur as I know dere’s not one a-speakin’ to another.”

David shook his head solemnly.

“That’s not much like Christmas, is it, Uncle Joab? Not much ‘good-will’ when you don’t know your neighbors.”

The old darky grunted, then he chuckled.

“’Pears to me it’s de critters dat get on yeah more folksy den de real folks—an’ dat put me in mind of a story my mammy used to tell me when I was your size.”

David beamed.

“Will you tell it, Uncle Joab?”

“Co’se I’ll tell it, honey.” And putting the fiddle down beside his chair he began:

“I reckon you think dat de jolly ole saint wif de red nose an’ de dimple somewhas ’twixt his mouf an’ his ears only ’members de chillun at Chris’mus. An’ dat’s not de trouf. Dere was one Chris’mus long time ago, after Pharoe’s daughter found Moses in de bull-grass an’ ’fo’ Christoper Columbus went a-sailin’ ’round to find dis yeah country, dat ole man Santy gib a Chris’mus to de critters. An’ dis was de way of it.

“In dose days dere warn’t de chilluns dere is now. Dey warn’t so plentiful an’ dey warn’t so perticular; an’ each one warn’t lookin’ fer a whole shed full o’ toys jest fer hisself. No, sir, honey! He was bustin’ wif tickle if he got one gif’ an’ some barley sugar. An’ what’s more, dey wasn’t so pernicity ’bout what dey got. De dolls didn’t have to walk an’ talk an’ act like real folks an’ de trains didn’t have to go by demselves. An’ everything bein’ so comf’able an’ easy, ole Santy could tote de pack o’ toys ’round hisself on his back an’ be home a good two hour ’fo’ daylight, wif nothin’ to do de rest o’ de day but set ’round an’ think.

“Wall, in dose days, honey, de folks doan’t pester de critters wif workin’ dem all de time. No, sir! Dey work dem when dey need dem, an’ de balance o’ de time de critters trope ’round free an’ easy-like. Folks wasn’t cotchin’ de cur’ous ones to put in de menageries an’ de circuses, nor de furry ones to trim up de ladies wif. Times was pleasant an’ comf’able fer every one.

“Now it transmigrate one day when ole Santy was a-settin’ an’ rumminatin’ dat he fotch up his thoughts on de critters, an’ he says to hisself, says he:

“‘’Pears like dey has a right to Chris’mus same as de folks. Dey minds dere bus’ness, an’ dey works an’ dey plays de same, an’ dey had dere share in dat fust Chris’mus when de li’l’ Lordie was born—same as de folks. Didn’t de donkey carry Mary to Beflehem? Didn’t de mully-cow gib her manger for de li’l’ Lordie to sleep in? Didn’t de cock crow de news to St. Stephen? An’ how do yer reckon de Wise Men could ha’ toted dere presents ’cross de sand if it hadn’t been fer dem cam’ls?’

“Yas, sir, honey! Ole Santy was right. De critters had as much right to Chris’mus as de folks, an’ ole Santy poun’ his knee an’ swear he gwine to gib dem one.

“So de ole saint he begun fer to study an’ to study what he gwine to do fer de critters. He can’t come down dere chimbleys ’ca’se dey ’ain’t got no houses; an’ he can’t fill dere stockin’s ’ca’se dey doan’t wear none; an’ he can’t fotch dem barley candy ’ca’se dey doan’t eat it. Wall, he set dere an’ study twell his brain ’mos’ bustin’ an’ bime-by he fotch up wif an idea.

“‘I know what I’ll do,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘Dem critters is sure to be like folks; dere’s certain to be a lot dat ain’t satisfied wif dere pussonalities. Now I’m gwine to trim up a Chris’mus tree wif a lot o’ odd tails, an’ ears, an’ wings, an’ legs, an’ sech-like, an’ any o’ de critters dat ain’t satisfied can choose jes’ what dey want. Dat’s what I’m gwine to do,’ says ole Santy.

“Wall, thinkin’ was doin’. An’ by de time Chris’mus come along dat ole saint had de mos’ cur’os, hetromologous collection o’ an’mal parts you ever done hear tell about. He sent word by de birds all over de world fer de critters to come to a Chris’mus celebration at de fust fir-tree dis side o’ de North Pole. ’Fo’ dey git dere ole Santy had it all trimmed up wif his presents; an’ when de critters trope up dey sure was bustin’ wif s’prize when dey see all de tails an’ wings an’ legs hangin’ dere.

“An’ de an’mals! Bless your heart, honey, you never see such a camp-meetin’! Dere was elephants an’ tigers an’ lions an’ yippopot’musses an’ rabbits an’ ’possums an’ mouses—every livin’ kind. An’ all de birds dat clip de air an’ all de fish dat swum de sea. Dey all come lopin’ up wif dere purtiest manners on; an’ dey scrape an’ dey bow an’ ax after ole Missus Santy an’ de chilluns. When dey’d axed an’ scraped all ’round, ole Santy says, says he:

“‘Now any o’ you-all critters dat want fer to change yer pussonalities can jes’ step right up an’ choose somethin’ new,’ says he.

“Everybody was mighty bashful at fust. Dey all tried to hide behind dere neighbors an’ look like dey was puffectly satisfied wif dere looks an’ dere habits. But bime-by a squeaky li’l’ voice calls out:

“‘If you please, Ole Man Santy, I’d like a pair o’ dem li’l’ brown wings, an’ thank you mighty much.’

“Santy look down an’ see it was one o’ de li’l’ mouses speakin’; an’ he reach up an’ take from de tree a cunnin’ pair o’ li’l’ wings an’ fastened dem on tight. An’ de next minute dat sassy li’l’ mouse went flippin’ an’ floppin’ into de air same as if he’d been born wif wings. An’ ever since, honey, he an’ his chilluns have been flyin’ ’stead o’ creepin’.”

“Did he turn into a bat, Uncle Joab?” David asked.

“Sure. What else you ’spec’ he could turn into? Wall, de nex’ to walk up was Bre’r Rabbit. He had a lot to say ’bout his ears bein’ so short he couldn’t hear ’nough, an’ his tail bein’ so long he couldn’t fetch up on it com’fably in de brier patch. He’d be powerful pleased if Santy’d gib him bigger ears an’ take away his tail. Dis made de ole saint chuckle; an’ he fotch down de biggest pair he can find an’ put dem on, an’ den he twist off de rabbit’s long, bushy tail. When de other critters see what transmigrate dey like to bu’st dere sides wif laughin’; an’ dis scare Bre’r Rabbit so dat he lay back his ears so he can’t hear so well, an’ he lope off to hide his confusi’n in de brier patch. An’ dere you’ll find him hidin’ to dis yeah day, honey.”

David laughed.

“And were there any more who weren’t satisfied?”

“Didn’t I tell you de critters were like folks? Bre’r Rabbit hadn’t more ’n cleared de Chris’mus tree when de squirrel sings out:

“‘If you please, Mr. Santy, I’d like Brudder Rabbit’s tail. I’d like Brudder Rabbit’s tail.’

“‘’Twon’t fit you,’ says de beaver. ‘It’s three sizes too big.’

“‘No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t!’ An’ de squirrel carry on so scan’lously dat ole Santy ’bliged to gib him de tail to keep him quiet. But, bless your heart, honey, you know as well as I do dat dat tail am no fit for dat squirrel!

“By dis time de critters was nigh over dere bashfulness, an’ dey was clamorin’ for what dey wanted. De leopard say his coat too yaller, an’ he’d like some nice, stylish black spots to tone it down. Den de zebra say stripes was more stylish dis year den spots, an’ he’d ’low he’d like stripes. De elephant say his feet too big to pick up things handy, an’ he’d like somethin’ extra to pick up things wif.

“Dis set de rest o’ de critters to ’sputin’ whar de elephant have room on his pussonality fer anythin’ extra; an’ while dey ’sputin’ ole Santy sit still an’ study. Bime-by he says, says he:

“‘De only spare room am on de end o’ your nose. If you want to have it dere, say so!’

“De elephant he say so. So Santy take one o’ dese yeah suckers, left over from a debilfish, an’ he stick it squar’ in de middle o’ de elephant’s nose. He stick it so hard, an’ he stick it so fast, dat it hasn’t come loose dese thousand o’ years.

“Wall, dat certainly was a busy Chris’mus fer de ole saint. He was fixin’ tails an’ legs an’ ears an’ wings ’most all day. De beaver he gets de sulks ’ca’se de squirrel’s got Bre’r Rabbit’s tail an’ he want it. De rest o’ de critters try to coax him to take somethin’ else, but ’pears like he crazy fer somethin’ behind. He took to moanin’ an’ wailin’ ’ca’se he can’t get what he wants twell bime-by he nat’rally gets ole Santy plumb wore out.

“‘Look yeah,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘You’s so sot on havin’ somethin’ behind, ’pears like I’d hab to gib you somethin’ diff’rent an’ distinguishin’.’ An’ wif dat de ole saint claps on him one o’ dem flappers dat he’d made fer de li’l’ seals to walk on. An’ it’s been hangin’ to de back o’ de beaver ever since.

“At las’ all de critters were satisfied ’ceptin’ de dog an’ de horse an’ de reindeer.

“‘What you want?’ says ole Santy to de dog.

“‘I want faithfulness,’ says de dog; an’ Santy gib it to him.

“‘What you want?’ he says to de horse.

“‘I want wisdom,’ says de horse; an’ Santy whisper it into his ear.

“‘Now what you want?’ he says last of all to de reindeer.

“‘I want to be your servant an’ lib always wif you,’ says de reindeer. An’ from dat minute to dis de reindeer an’ his chilluns have been totin’ fer ole Santy.

“An’ you listen yeah, honey. If you borrow Bre’r Rabbit’s ears to hear wif dis Chris’mus p’raps you’ll cotch de tromp o’ de reindeer’s hoofs an’ de jingle o’ his bells as he totes ole Santy through de night.”

David laughed happily.

“That’s a bully story, Uncle Joab, just a bully one!”

The old man chuckled appreciatively.

“Mebbe it’s good enough to fotch a li’l’ boy back some other day to see dis ole nigger.”

Johanna and Barney had to hear the story over twice before David went to bed that night. They seemed to like it as much as David had liked it.

“It must get pretty lonesome for the poor man, stormy days and long winter nights with no company but that old fiddle,” mused Johanna at last.

“Faith, I wouldn’t be minding a bit o’ that same company, myself, some night,” laughed Barney. “’Tis a sorry time since I’ve heard any good fiddling.”

But David did not say anything. He was looking deep into the fire and thinking very hard.

VI THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY AGAIN LEADS THE WAY AND DAVID HEARS OF A CHRISTMAS PROMISE

David was already beginning to feel very rich in Christmas as he climbed to the crest of the hill the next morning. Yes, the locked-out fairy was right. Real Christmas lay in the hearts and memories of people, and he was sure he was storing up some in his own to last for always.

It was still four days before Christmas, yet he felt all the warm glow of excitement, all the eagerness, all the gladness, that usually attended the very day itself. He was beginning to think that instead of one Christmas he was finding a whole week of it, and for a little boy who had had loneliness fastened to his heels like a shadow for so long the feeling was very wonderful. Not that he did not miss father and mother just the same, but they no longer seemed so far away. There were minutes when he could think them quite close, when they seemed to have a share in all he was doing and thinking, and when that happens with any one we love loneliness vanishes like a shadow at midday.

There were but two paths left for him that morning to choose between—the path leading to the trapper’s and the one to the “lunger’s.” It was not a particularly cheery day. The sky was a leaden gray—a hue forecasting snow before day’s end. The wind was biting and raw, and had there not been a quest afoot David would have been glad to stay near home and share Barney’s cheerful company. As it was, he had about made up his mind that he should choose the trapper. He knew as little about him as he had known of the others, and he pictured a big, gruff, hairy man something like his old Grimm illustration of Bluebeard. But for all that, he seemed more alluring on such a day than a “lunger.”

David very much hoped that the locked-out fairy would be there to take him the way he had chosen to go. He wanted not only the guidance of the fairy, but he wished to see him close again and talk with him. He was looking about for signs when his eyes swept the snow at his feet and there he found the trail laid for him. As far as eye could reach there were the tiny sharp prints of a squirrel’s foot, and they led, not down the hillside to the trapper’s hut, but, straight as a stone drops, to the foot-hill beyond, where the “lunger’s” cottage stood.

David heaved a sigh of disappointment. He would so much rather have gone the other way; but of what use is a fairy counselor and guide if one does not follow his trail? So with something very near to a flagging courage David pushed his way slowly after the tiny footprints.

He missed the exhilaration of the sunshine and air and excitement of the previous days. Somehow he felt this time was going to be a failure and he shrank from facing it; moreover, he thought of what he might have to tell Johanna and Barney afterward, around the fire. A moment before he had felt so rich in the feeling of Christmas. And now, was he going to find an unpleasant memory to take away from the good ones?

There was no sign of life about the little cottage on the foot-hill. The sleeping-porch was deserted, the windows were heavily curtained, the snow was piled up high and unbroken about the door; even the roadway beyond, which led down the other side to the village, was smooth and crusted, showing that no one had come or gone from the house since the last fall of snow.

“It looks awfully gloomy and deserted,” thought David. “The ‘lunger’ must have gone away or died!”

The last was a dreadfully dreary thought, and it almost turned David’s feet on the very threshold, in spite of the fairy’s trail. But the memory of the day before held him back. How nearly he had come to losing a bit of Christmas just because an old white-haired negro had looked at him suddenly through a window! He would mark himself as a quitter and a “’fraid-cat” for all time if he ever let such a thing happen again. And what would the boys on the block think of him?

With heroic boldness David pushed his skees up to the baseboard of the door and hammered hard on the brass knocker. Once, twice, three times he knocked. Then he heard soft feet inside and the turning of the key in the lock. In another minute the door opened, letting in a generous fall of snow and disclosing a tall, oldish woman in black, with very black hair and big, sorrowful black eyes.

“Madre de Dios!” she exclaimed in a soft voice full of surprised wonder. “A niño—here, in this freeze country!”

“If you please,” began David, politely, “I came—I came—”

But he did not finish. For the life of him he could not have told just why he had come.

“Entre, come!” And the woman drew him in and closed the door behind him. “A boy! It may be that it will put again the heart in Alfredo to see a boy. Come, chico!”

She opened another door at the end of a hall and led him into a bare, cold, cheerless room. Half a dozen black bentwood chairs stood with backs against the walls; the two rockers of the same faced each other at opposite sides of the fireplace; and between them stretched a cot covered with heavy blankets. A half-hearted fire burned on the hearth, and watching it listlessly from the cot lay a boy about twice his age, David thought.

“See, Alfredo! See chicito mio, who come here,” the woman called. And the sick youth turned his head slowly to look at them.

David saw a thin, colorless face with great, black eyes. They had the same look that was in the woman’s eyes, only the woman did not look sick, only sad. As the boy saw David he smiled in a pleased, surprised way, and held out a thin, white hand in welcome. But the hand was so thin David was almost ashamed to put out his own broad, brown little fist to take it. He compromised by leaving on his mitten—and he shook it very gently.

“Ah, it is good,” said the boy, simply. “I am glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” David beamed. He was glad he had come. For here there were things that he could do, and first of all he’d tackle the fire.

“It’s this way,” he explained as he slipped out of his outside things. “I’m spending the winter up on the hill, in the hotel lodge. It’s been getting sort of lonesome there lately since winter set in, so I thought—I—it seemed sort of nice to come around and look up some of the neighbors.” David finished out of breath.

Alfredo and his mother exchanged glances.

“That is good,” said the boy at last. “You are the first one, and we, too, have been what you call ‘lonesome.’”

“I’m awfully sorry.” And this time David held out the unmittened fist. “Say, do you mind if I build up that fire a little? It looks sort of—sick.”

“Ah!” The woman held up protesting hands. “Alfredo is too sick but to lie still. And I—what do I know about building fires in open places with wood? It is only the carbon I know, and the shut stove. And when our servant leave us three—four day ago and no one ever comes near to us I think then that we die of the cold before long time.”

Tears of utter despair showed in the woman’s eyes; and David found his own growing sympathetically moist.

“Oh, no! Barney wouldn’t let that happen—not to any one.”

It really was dreadful to find a sick boy and a woman alone—strangers in this country—with the cold and the loneliness to fight.

“Now you tell me where the wood is, and I’ll have a cracker-jack fire in a minute. Barney’s showed me how. I can make ’em burn even when the wood’s damp.” David did not finish without a tinge of pride in his tone.

He made several trips to the little back room beyond the kitchen which served as woodshed, and in a few minutes he had a generous stack of logs and kindlings beside the hearth and a roaring fire blazing up the big chimney. The glow and warmth lit up Alfredo’s cheeks and kindled a new life in the woman’s eyes. Such a little thing it takes sometimes to put the hearts back in people.

“Now, if you want me to, I’ll just fill up the kitchen stove and the one in the hall. It’s really too cold here for any one,” he ended, apologetically.

The woman accepted his offer, mutely grateful; and when both stoves had finally responded to his coaxings and were cheerfully crackling and sending out the much-needed heat, David came back to the open fire and drew up one of the rockers.

“It is a good niño, eh, Alfredito?” said the woman, softly.

David wriggled uncomfortably.

“Say—I’ll tell you about the flagman, and Uncle Joab at the lumber-camp. Want me to?”

The offer was made as a cloak to his embarrassment; but the next moment, as he launched into his narrative of the two previous days, he had forgotten everything but the tales he had to tell and the interest of his listeners.

When he had finished, David was surprised to see the change in the faces of the two. For the first time they seemed really alive and warm, inside and out. Moreover, they looked happy, strangely happy.

“We had almost forgot, chico mio,” the mother said, stroking one of the thin, white hands, “that comes now the Natividad. Ah, who would think to find it here in this freeze country!”

“We are South-Americans,” the boy explained. “And down there it is summer now, with the oranges ripe, and the piña growing and the air full of the sweetness from the coffee-fields in bloom and the jasmine and mariposa. We did not know such cold could be—or so much snow. Eh, madre?” And the boy smiled wanly.

“But how did you come way up here from your country? Was it the—” David left the question unfinished.

The boy nodded.

“I came first, to be in one of your fine universities. Many South-Americans come here for their education. But before many months I take the cough, and it is then no use to go back to our country. We blow out there like a candle in the wind.”

The mother went on.

“But the great American doctor say here there is a chance in the mountains, if he can stand the winter. And oh, at first he grow much better! We see the good health coming. But now, the great cold, the heart-hunger, the alone being, it seem to take his strength. I fear—”

“Hush, madre! This is not good cheer for a guest.”

David felt his cheeks burn with the sudden tenderness in the boy’s look.

“Come, madre,” he went on, “have we not also a tale of Christmas, of the Natividad, to give away?”

“There is that one I have told you a thousand times—the one my mother told me when I was a niña, home in Spain. The tale of the Tres Reys and the Christmas promise.”

The boy sighed happily.

“There is no better tale in all Spain. Tell it, madre, to our friend here.”

And so this was how the third bit of Christmas came to David, by way of a locked-out fairy, a rekindled fire, and a stranger from the far South.

When the Christ-child was born in Bethlehem of Judea, long years ago, three kings rode out of the East on their camels, bearing gifts to Him. They followed the star until at last they came to the manger where He lay, a little, new-born baby. Kneeling down, they put their gifts beside him: gold, frankincense, and myrrh; they kissed the hem of the little white mantle that He wore, and blessed Him. Then the kings rode away to the East again, but before ever they went they whispered a promise to the Christ-child.

And the promise? You shall hear it as the kings gave it to the Christ-child, long years ago.

“As long as there be children on the earth, on every Christmas Eve we three kings shall ride on camels, even as we rode to Thee this night; and even as we bore Thee gifts so shall we bear gifts to every child in memory of Thee—thou holy Babe of Bethlehem!”

In Spain they have remembered what the Christmas kings promised, and when Christmas Eve comes each child puts his sapatico—his little shoe—between the gratings of the window that they may know a child is in that house and leave a gift.