Part 5

Often the shoe is filled with grass for the camels, and a plate of dates and figs is left beside it, for the children know the kings have far to go and may be hungry.

At day’s end bands of children march out of the city gates, going to meet the kings. But it always grows dark before they come. The children are afraid upon the lonely road and hurry back to their homes, where the good madres hear them say one prayer to the Nene Jesu, as they call the Christ-child, and then put them to bed to dream of the Christmas kings.

Long, long ago there lived in Spain, in the crowded part of a great city, an old woman called Doña Josefa. The street in which she lived was little and narrow, so narrow that if you leaned out of the window of Doña Josefa’s house you could touch with your finger-tips the house across the way, and when you looked above your head the sky seemed but a string of blue, tying the houses all together. The sun never found its way into this little street.

The people who lived here were very poor, as you may guess; Doña Josefa was poor, likewise. But in one thing she was very rich—she knew more stories than there were feast-days in the year, and that is a great many. Whenever there came a moment free from work, when Doña Josefa had no water to fetch from the public well, nor gold to stitch upon the altar cloth for the Church of Santa Maria del Rosario, then she would run out of her house into the street and call:

“Niños, niños, come quickly! Here is a story waiting for you.”

And the children would come flying like the gray palomas when corn is thrown for them in the Plaza. Ah, how many children there were in that little street! There were José and Miguel, and the niños of Enrique, the cobbler, Alfredito and Juana and Esperanza; and the little twin sisters of Pancho, the peddler; and Angela, Maria Teresa, Pedro, Edita, and many more. Last of all there were Manuel and Rosita. They had no father, and their mother was a lavandera who stood all day on the banks of the river outside the city, washing clothes.

When Doña Josefa had called the children from all the doorways and the dark corners she would sit down in the middle of the street and gather them about her. This was safe because the street was far too narrow to allow a horse or wagon to pass through. Sometimes a donkey would slowly pick its way along, or a stupid goat come searching for things to eat, but that was all.

It happened on the day before Christmas that Doña Josefa had finished her work and sat, as usual, with the children about her.

“To-day you shall have a Christmas story,” she said, and then she told them of the three kings and the promise they had made the Christ-child.

“And is it so—do the kings bring presents to the children now?” Miguel asked.

Doña Josefa nodded her head.

“Yes.”

“Then why have they never left us one? The three kings never pass this street on Christmas Eve. Why is it, doña?”

“Perhaps it is because we have no shoes to hold their gifts,” said Angela.

And this is true. The poor children of Spain go barefooted, and often never have a pair of shoes till they grow up.

Manuel had listened silently to the others, but now he pulled the sleeve of Doña Josefa’s gown with coaxing fingers:

“I know why it is the kings bring no gifts to us. See, the street; it is too small; their camels could not pass between the door-steps here. The kings must ride where the streets are broad and smooth and clean, where their long mantles will not be soiled and torn and the camels will not stumble. It is the children in the great streets, the children of the rich, who find presents in their sapaticos on Christmas morning. Is it not so, Doña Josefa?”

And Miguel cried, “Does Manuel speak true—is it only the children of the rich?”

“Ah, chicito mio, it should not be so! When the promise was given to the Nene Jesu there in Bethlehem they said, ‘to every child.’ Yes, every little child.”

“But it is not strange they should forget us here,” Manuel insisted. “The little street is hidden in the shadow of the great ones.”

Then Rosita spoke, clasping her hands together with great eagerness:

“I know; it is because we have no shoes! That is why they never stop. Perhaps Enrique would lend us the shoes he is mending, just for one night. If we had shoes the kings would surely see that there are little children in the street, and leave a gift for each of us. Come, let us ask Enrique!”

“Madre de Dios, it is a blessed thought!” cried all. And like the flock of gray palomas they swept down the street to the farthest end, where Enrique hammered and stitched away all day on the shoes of the rich children.

Manuel stayed behind with Doña Josefa. When the last pair of little brown feet had disappeared inside the sapateria he said, softly:

“If some one could go out and meet the kings to tell them of this little street, and how the niños here have never had a Christmas gift, do you think they might ride hither to-night?”

Doña Josefa shook her head doubtfully.

“If that were possible—But never have I heard of any one who met the kings on Christmas Eve.”

All day in the city people hurried to and fro. In the great streets flags were waving from the housetops, and wreaths of laurel, or garlands of heliotrope and mariposa, hung above the open doorways and in the windows. Sweetmeat-sellers were crying their wares; and the Keeper-of-the-City lighted flaming torches to hang upon the gates and city walls. Everywhere was merrymaking and gladness, for not only was this Christmas Eve, but the King of Spain was coming to keep his holiday within the city. Some whispered that he was riding from the North, and with him rode his cousins, the kings of France and Lombardy, and with them were a great following of nobles, knights, and minstrels. Others said the kings rode all alone—it was their wish.

As the sun was turning the cathedral spires to shafts of gold, bands of children, hand in hand, marched out of the city. They took the road that led toward the setting sun, thinking it was the East, and said among themselves, “See, yonder is the way the kings will ride.”

“I have brought a basket of figs,” cried one.

“I have dates in a new panuela,” cried another.

“And I,” cried a third, “I have brought a sack of sweet limes, they are so cooling.”

Thus each in turn showed some small gift that he was bringing for the kings. And while they chatted together one child began to sing the sweet Nativity Hymn. In a moment others joined until the still night air rang with their happy voices.

“Unto us a Child is born, Unto us a gift is given. Hail with holiness the morn, Kneel before the Prince of Heaven. Blessed be this day of birth, God hath given His Son to earth. Jesu, Jesu, Nene Jesu, Hallelujah!”

Behind the little hills the sun went down, leaving a million sparks of light upon the road.

“Yonder come the kings!” the children cried. “See the splendor of their shining crowns and how the jewels sparkle on their mantles! They may be angry if they find us out so late; come, let us run home before they see us.”

The children turned. Back to the city gates they ran, back to their homes, to the good madres watching for them and their own white beds ready for them.

But one they left behind them on the road: a little, bare-limbed boy whose name was Manuel. He watched until the children had disappeared within the gates, and then he turned again toward the setting sun.

“I have no gift for the kings,” he thought, “but there is fresh green grass beside the way that I can gather for the camels.”

He stopped, pulled his hands full, and stuffed it in the front of the little blue vestido that he wore. He followed the road for a long way until heavy sleep came to his eyes.

“How still it is upon the road! God has blown out His light and soon it will be dark. I wish I were with the others, safe within the city; for the dark is full of fearsome things when one is all alone.... Mamita will be coming home soon and bringing supper for Rosita and me. Perhaps to-night there will be an almond dulce or pan de gloria—perhaps.... I wonder will Rosita not forget the little prayer I told her to be always saying. My feet hurt with the many stones; the night wind blows cold; I am weary and my feet stumble with me.... Oh, Nene Jesu, listen! I also make the prayer: ‘Send the three kings before Manuel is too weary and afraid!’”

A few more steps he took upon the road, and then, as a reed is blown down by the wind, Manuel swayed, unknowingly for a moment, and slowly sank upon the ground, fast asleep.

How long he slept I cannot tell you; but a hand on his shoulder wakened him. Quickly he opened his eyes, wondering, and saw—yes, he saw the three kings! Tall and splendid they looked in the starlight, their mantles shimmering with myriad gems. One stood above Manuel, asking what he did upon the road at that late hour.

Manuel rose to his feet, thrusting his hand inside the shirt for the grass he had gathered.

“It is for the camels, señor; I have no other gift. But you—you ride horses this Christmas Eve!”

“Yes, we ride horses. What is that to you?”

“Pardon, señores, nothing. The three kings can ride horses if they wish; only—we were told you rode on camels from the East.”

“What does the child want?” The voice was kind, but it sounded impatient, as though the one who spoke had work waiting to be done and was anxious to be about it.

Manuel heard and felt all this wondering. “What if there is not time for them to come, or gifts enough!” He laid an eager, pleading hand on one king’s mantle.

“I can hold the horses if you will come this once. It is a little street and hard to find, señores; I thought perhaps you would leave a present—just one little present for the children there. You told the Christ-child you would give to every child. Don’t you remember? There are many of us who have never had a gift—a Christmas gift.”

“Do you know who we are?”

Manuel answered, joyfully: “Oh yes, Excellencias, you are the Three Christmas Kings, riding from Bethlehem. Will you come with me?”

The kings spoke with one accord, “Verily, we will.”

One lifted Manuel on his horse; and silently they rode into the city. The Keeper slumbered at the gates; the streets were empty. On, past the houses that were garlanded they went unseen; and on through the great streets until they came to the little street at last. The kings dismounted. They gave their bridles into Manuel’s hand, and then, gathering up their precious mantles of silk and rich brocade, they passed down the little street. With eyes that scarce believed what they saw, Manuel watched them go from house to house, saw them stop and feel for the shoes between the gratings, the shoes loaned by Enrique, the cobbler, and saw them fill each one with shining gold pieces.

In the morning Manuel told the story to the children as they went to spend one golden doblon for toys and candy and sugared cakes. And a gift they brought for Doña Josefa, too; a little figure of the Holy Mother with the Christ-child in her arms.

And so the promise made in Bethlehem was made again, and to a little child; and it was kept. For many, many years, long after Manuel was grown and had niños of his own, the kings remembered the little street, and brought their gifts there every Christmas Eve.

There was a long silence after David had finished retelling the story to Barney and Johanna that night. The wind was howling outside and beating the snow in hard cakes against the windows.

“Sure, it’s up to some one to keep heart in those two till spring comes,” Johanna said at last. “Think o’ coming up here from one o’ them sizzling-hot places. Holy St. Patrick!”

“Aye, and a sick boy and a woman—the frail kind, I’m thinking, not used to lifting her hand to anything heavy.”

Barney got up and peered out.

“Well, if the snow’s not over our heads the morrow I can beat my way there and keep their fires going for another day.”

David got up and joined Barney, sliding a grateful hand through his.

“That would be bully! You know his mother said if they could only keep the big fire going on the open porch and get him out there again she was sure he’d begin to get better. It’s been the cold and the staying indoors that has put him back. Do you think, Barney, do you think—You know I could take my turn at it.”

“Sure and ye can, laddy. Wait till the morrow and we’ll see what we can do—the two of us.”

VII THE TRAPPER’S TALE OF THE FIRST BIRTHDAY

The snow was still falling steadily next morning and David came down to breakfast with an anxious face.

“Now don’t be worrying, laddy,” was Barney’s reassuring greeting. “It takes a powerful lot o’ snow to keep a man housed on these hills when he has something fetching him out.”

And Johanna, coming in with her hands full of steaming griddle-cakes, brought more encouragement.

“Sure, it’s a storm, but not too fierce for a strong man like Barney to brave for them that’s in trouble. And I’ve a can of good soup jelly and a fresh-baked loaf of bread and some eggs for ye to fetch with ye.”

“Oh!” David dug his two hands down deep in his pockets and smiled ecstatically. “I suppose—it’s too bad going for me.” He appealed to Barney.

“Aye, it is that! Wait till afternoon. The storm may break by then and ye could get out for a bit. But there’s too much weather afoot for a little lad just now.”

So David watched Barney make ready alone. Johanna’s things were bundled and strapped on his back that his two arms might be free. Then he made fast his snow-shoes—it was no day for skees—and pulling his fur parka down to cover all but his eyes he started off. He looked like a man of the northland. David watched him out of sight, and then he and Johanna fell to the making of a mammoth Christmas cake. There were nuts to be cracked and fruits to be chopped; all good boy work, as Johanna said, and he was glad to be busy.

At noon Barney returned with great news. He had left the South-Americans comfortable and happy. Alfredo was back on his open porch with a monstrous fire roaring up the outside chimney and wood enough stacked within their reach for them to keep it going for a week. The mother had wept over Johanna’s gifts. They had lived for days on canned things and stale bread; and she had blessed them all in what Barney had termed “Spanish lingo.”

“Sure, ye needn’t be fearing about them longer, laddy; they’ve the hearts back in them again, and, what’s more, they’ll stay there, I’m thinking.”

As Barney had prophesied, the snow stopped at noon; and after dinner David set forth on his last quest. Warnings from Johanna and Barney followed him out of the lodge: not to be going far—and to mind well his trail. All of which he promised. It was not so very far to the trapper’s and the trail was as plain as the hillside itself.

There was no sign of the locked-out fairy, and David expected none. There was but one path left to take. Why should any one come to show him the way? Although the trail lay down the hill David’s going was very slow. He sank deep at every step and where the drifts were high he had to make long detours, which nearly doubled the distance. When he reached the hut at last he met the trapper at his very door-sill. The pack on his back looked full, and David guessed he had just been down to the village for supplies. He eyed David with a grave concern through the opening in his parka; and David wondered whether the rest of the face would be grave, or kind, or forbidding.

“Nicholas Bassaraba has few visitors, but you are welcome.”

The voice was gruff but not unkindly, and the trapper pushed open the door of his hut and motioned David inside. They stood stamping the snow from their boots; and then the trapper lifted his hood and David saw that he was not at all like the Grimm picture of Bluebeard. He was dark and swarthy-skinned, to be sure, but he wore no beard—only a small mustache—and his eyebrows were not heavy and sinister-looking and his mouth was almost friendly. If the line of gravity should break into a smile David felt sure it would be a very friendly smile. The trapper proceeded to remove the rest of his outer garments and David did the same. When the operation was over they stood there facing each other solemnly—a very large, foreign-looking man and a small American boy.

“Come! This is a day to sit close to the fire and to smoke, if one is big. If one happens to be small, there is—let me see—I think there is chocolate.”

The trapper opened a small cupboard and drew out a tinfoiled package which he tossed over to David; then from his pocket he brought a pipe and a pouch. He held the pipe empty between his teeth, while he rebuilt the fire that was low on the hearth. When the fresh wood began to snap he drew up a chair for each of them, close, and proceeded to fill his pipe.

David gazed curiously about the room. It was large and it seemed to serve as kitchen, dining-room, sleeping and living quarters, all combined. The end where they sat by the open fireplace was for living and sleeping; the two comfortable chairs, the table with a reading-lamp, the small case with books, and the couch plainly told this. At the other end was a cookstove, the cupboard, water-pails, dish-rack, frying-pans and pots hanging against the wall, and a rough pine table with a straight chair. The walls were covered with skins and guns, cartridge-belts, and knives of all descriptions. Altogether David found it a very interesting place, almost as interesting as the man who lived there. His eyes came back to the trapper, who again was considering him gravely.

“It’s a bully good place for a man to live in,” was David’s enthusiastic comment.

“It is good enough for one who must live a stranger, in a strange land.”

For all his rough clothes and his calling, the man spoke more like a scholar than a backwoodsman; David had noticed that the first time he had spoken. He spoke with as educated a tongue as his own father; there was a slight foreign twist to it, that was the only difference.

“Where is your country?”

David asked it simply, not out of idle curiosity, but to place the man at home in his own mind.

“My country? Ah, what used to be my country is a little place, not so big as this one state of yours. It is somewhere near the blue Mediterranean, but it is nearer to Prussia. Bah! What does it matter? Nicholas Bassaraba knows no country now but the woods; no people but those.” He pointed to the skins on the walls.

“And you kill them!” The accusation was out before David realized it was even on his tongue.

“Ah, what would you have me do? I must live. Is that not so? And is it not better to live on the creatures of the woods than on one’s fellow-men? I kill only what I need for sustenance; for the rest I hurt not one.”

There was a hidden fierceness back of the soft voice and David felt immediately apologetic:

“Excuse me! Of course it’s all right. I only thought when you spoke of them as your people, and then pointed to their pelts hung around, it sounded sort of barbaric. Sort of like the Indians showing off their scalps, or the headhunters showing their skulls.”

The trapper smiled, and the smile was friendly.

“Youth is ever quick to accuse and as quick to forgive. I know. It is hard for you to understand how I can make them my friends through the long summer; and then, when winter comes and there is a price on their fur, trap them and kill them. But Nicholas Bassaraba kills only enough to bring him in the bare needs of life, and then only for one half the year. For the rest, I am a guide; I carry the packs for the gentlemen campers; I build their fires; I draw their water.”

The smile changed to a contemptuous curl of the lips. “Such it is to be a man locked out of his own country.”

David watched him uncomfortably for an instant. Then he laughed—he could not help it.

“You’re not the only one. There are two more of us; and I don’t know but what you’d call the flagman another, and Uncle Joab, and maybe the South-Americans, too. You see, I’m just sort of locked out, but the others are truly locked out.” And David launched into an account of himself and of what he knew of the others, all but the fairy.

“And is that all? I thought you said there was another person,” reminded the trapper.

David blushed consciously. Not that there was the slightest reason for blushing. He certainly felt no shame in his acquaintanceship with the locked-out fairy. It was rather the feeling of shyness in having to put it all into words, and there was always the uncertainty of how a stranger would take it. You never could tell how people were going to take fairies, anyhow. Besides, maybe there were no fairies in what had been this man’s country.

“The other is not exactly a person,” David began, slowly, “not exactly. Say, did you ever see a fairy?”

A look of amazement filled the face of the trapper. It seemed to well up from his eyes and burst forth from his mouth.

“You mean the little people?” he asked at last. “The nixies and the dwarfs and the kobolds, that live under the earth and play pranks on us unsuspecting mortals?”

David nodded.

“Sort of. Have you ever seen one?”

The trapper shook his head vehemently.

“Well, _I_ have!” And without in the least understanding why he was doing it David told the story of the locked-out fairy.

When he had finished, the trapper was smiling again.

“Ah, the poor manikin! And here there are three, five, seven of us, all locked out from our homelands; and here was I, Nicholas Bassaraba, thinking I was the only one to feel the homesickness. Bah! Sometimes a man is a fool!”

He thought a minute.

“And you say he wore the squirrel coat—the very one I missed from the shed door where it was drying? And all the time I think it was the African from the lumber-camp who takes it.”

He laughed aloud and stretched his arms out with a little cry of pleasure.

“Ah, it is good, very good, for one outcast to clothe another. To-night I must put out some bread and honey, as my people used to for the little spirits; the manikin may be hungry.”

“Tell me,” said David, suddenly, “do your people have any stories—stories of Christmas?”

“Christmas!”

The trapper repeated it—almost as if it were a strange word to him. “Wait a minute—keep very still. I will see can I think back a story of Christmas.”

David sat without stirring, almost without breathing, as the trapper puffed silently at his pipe. He puffed the bowl quite empty, then knocking the ashes clean out of his pipe he put it back in his pocket again and looked up at David with the old grave look.

“There is a people in our country who are called wanderers; some say they have been wanderers for two thousand years. You call them gipsies or Egyptians; we call them ‘Tzigan.’ Now, they are vagabonds, for the most part, dirty, thieving rascals, ready to tell a fortune or pick a pocket, as the fancy takes them; but—it was not always so. Some say that they have been cursed because they feared to give shelter to Mary and Joseph and the Child when the King of Judea forced them to flee into Egypt. But the gipsies themselves say that this is not true; and this is the story the Tzigan mothers tell their children on the night of Christmas, as they sit around the fire that is always burning in the heart of a Romany camp.”

It was winter—and twelve months since the gipsies had driven their flocks of mountain-sheep over the dark, gloomy Balkans, and had settled in the southlands near to the Ægean. It was twelve months since they had seen a wonderful star appear in the sky and heard the singing of angelic voices afar off.