Part 6

They had marveled much concerning the star until a runner had passed them from the South bringing them news that the star had marked the birth of a Child whom the wise men had hailed as “King of Israel” and “Prince of Peace.” This had made Herod of Judea both afraid and angry and he had sent soldiers secretly to kill the Child; but in the night they had miraculously disappeared—the Child with Mary and Joseph—and no one knew whither they had gone. Therefore Herod had sent runners all over the lands that bordered the Mediterranean with a message forbidding every one giving food or shelter or warmth to the Child, under penalty of death. For Herod’s anger was far-reaching and where his anger fell there fell his sword likewise. Having given his warning, the runner passed on, leaving the gipsies to marvel much over the tale they had heard and the meaning of the star.

Now on that day that marked the end of the twelve months since the star had shone the gipsies said among themselves: “Dost thou think that the star will shine again to-night? If it were true, what the runner said, that when it shone twelve months ago it marked the place where the Child lay it may even mark His hiding-place this night. Then Herod would know where to find Him, and send his soldiers again to slay Him. That would be a cruel thing to happen!”

The air was chill with the winter frost, even there in the southland, close to the Ægean; and the gipsies built high their fire and hung their kettle full of millet, fish, and bitter herbs for their supper. The king lay on his couch of tiger-skins and on his arms were amulets of heavy gold, while rings of gold were on his fingers and in his ears. His tunic was of heavy silk covered with a leopard cloak, and on his feet were shoes of goat-skin trimmed with fur. Now, as they feasted around the fire a voice came to them through the darkness, calling. It was a man’s voice, climbing the mountains from the south.

“Ohe! Ohe!” he shouted. And then nearer, “O—he!”

The gipsies were still disputing among themselves whence the voice came when there walked into the circle about the fire a tall, shaggy man, grizzled with age, and a sweet-faced young mother carrying a child.

“We are outcasts,” said the man, hoarsely. “Ye must know that whosoever succors us will bring Herod’s vengeance like a sword about his head. For a year we have wandered homeless and cursed over the world. Only the wild creatures have not feared to share their food and give us shelter in their lairs. But to-night we can go no farther; and we beg the warmth of your fire and food enough to stay us until the morrow.”

The king looked at them long before he made reply. He saw the weariness in their eyes and the famine in their cheeks; he saw, as well, the holy light that hung about the child, and he said at last to his men:

“It is the Child of Bethlehem, the one they call the ‘Prince of Peace.’ As yon man says, who shelters them shelters the wrath of Herod as well. Shall we let them tarry?”

One of their number sprang to his feet, crying: “It is a sin to turn strangers from the fire, a greater sin if they be poor and friendless. And what is a king’s wrath to us? I say bid them welcome. What say the rest?”

And with one accord the gipsies shouted, “Yea, let them tarry!”

They brought fresh skins and threw them down beside the fire for the man and woman to rest on. They brought them food and wine, and goat’s milk for the Child; and when they had seen that all was made comfortable for them they gathered round the Child—these black gipsy men—to touch His small white hands and feel His golden hair. They brought Him a chain of gold to play with and another for His neck and tiny arm.

“See, these shall be Thy gifts, little one,” said they, “the gifts for Thy first birthday.”

And long after all had fallen asleep the Child lay on His bed of skins beside the blazing fire and watched the light dance on the beads of gold. He laughed and clapped His hands together to see the pretty sight they made; and then a bird called out of the thicket close by.

“Little Child of Bethlehem,” it called, “I, too, have a birth gift for Thee. I will sing Thy cradle song this night.” And softly, like the tinkling of a silver bell and like clear water running over mossy places, the nightingale sang and sang, filling the air with melodies.

And then another voice called to him:

“Little Child of Bethlehem, I am only a tree with boughs all bare, for the winter has stolen my green cloak, but I also can give Thee a birth gift. I can give Thee shelter from the biting north wind that blows.” And the tree bent low its branches and twined a rooftree and a wall about the Child.

Soon the Child was fast asleep, and while He slept a small brown bird hopped out of the thicket. Cocking his little head, he said:

“What can I be giving the Child of Bethlehem? I could fetch Him a fat worm to eat or catch Him the beetle that crawls on yonder bush, but He would not like that! And I could tell Him a story of the lands of the north, but He is asleep and would not hear.” And the brown bird shook its head quite sorrowfully. Then it saw that the wind was bringing the sparks from the fire nearer and nearer to the sleeping Child.

“I know what I can do,” said the bird, joyously. “I can catch the hot sparks on my breast, for if one should fall upon the Child it would burn Him grievously.”

So the small brown bird spread wide his wings and caught the sparks on his own brown breast. So many fell that the feathers were burned; and burned was the flesh beneath until the breast was no longer brown, but red.

Next morning, when the gipsies awoke, they found Mary and Joseph and the Child gone. For Herod had died, and an angel had come in the night and carried them back to the land of Judea. But the good God blessed those who had cared that night for the Child.

To the nightingale He said: “Your song shall be the sweetest in all the world, for ever and ever; and only you shall sing the long night through.”

To the tree He said: “Little fir-tree, never more shall your branches be bare. Winter and summer you and your seedlings shall stay green, ever green.”

Last of all He blessed the brown bird: “Faithful little watcher, from this night forth you and your children shall have red breasts, that the world may never forget your gift to the Child of Bethlehem.”

The trapper smiled gravely at David.

“And that, my friend, was the robin.”

“Yes, I know,” said David, simply.

He felt very still and quiet inside, almost as if he had dreamed himself into the Romany camp beside the fire, and seen with his own eyes the coming of the Child. It seemed too real, too close to talk about just then; he even forgot to tell the trapper that he liked it. And then the trapper’s next words brought him to his feet.

“You are not knowing, it may be, that the night has fallen and the snow is with it again. Come, I think Nicholas Bassaraba will guide you safely to your hilltop.”

One glance through the window told David the truth of the words. It was almost dark outside and snow was very thick in the air.

Silently they put on their garments and fastened their snow-shoes. Then with the command to keep close at his heels, the trapper led the way up the trail.

The first thing of which David was conscious was that his strength was going amazingly fast. It seemed but a moment since he had started, and the trapper was climbing very slowly; yet David began to find it unbelievably hard to pull one foot after the other. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled on a few yards farther. Then he fell, picked himself up, and fell again. The third time the trapper helped him to his feet, and, coming behind him, he put a strong hand at David’s back and pushed. They struggled on this way for another ten minutes until David fell again. This time it was the trapper’s strength alone which righted him, for David’s had entirely gone. He stood looking with dazed eyes into the trapper’s, ashamed and wholly spent.

“It is all right. It is nothing to be ashamed of.” The trapper’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “You have climbed many lengths farther than I expected. Now you shall see how Nicholas Bassaraba can pack a hundred pounds when he is guiding for a friend.”

He stooped and lifted David on his back, drawing the boy’s arms well over his shoulders, and slipping his own firmly under the boy’s feet.

That was the last David knew until he felt the ground under his feet again and blinked stupidly at the light Johanna was holding at the open door of the lodge.

“Laddy, laddy, wherever have ye been?”

He heard the distress in Johanna’s voice even through his own numbness, and tried to smile reassuringly.

“Barney’s been scouring the hill for ye this half-hour.”

“He has been to visit a friend, and the friend has brought him back safely,” said the trapper. And without another word he disappeared in the snow and the darkness.

VIII THE CHRISTMAS THAT WAS NEARLY LOST

It snowed hard all the next day, so hard that even Barney did not venture out; and David spent his time between the kitchen, where Johanna was frosting the Christmas cake, and the woodshed, where Barney was making the “woodpile look mortal weary.”

David’s mind was full of the happenings of the days that had passed, and of future plans. Everything had been as fine as a boy could wish, but he did not want it to stop. Here it was two days before Christmas, and he was quite sure there was still a lot to be found. The question was, where should he look for it now that the matter of neighbors had been exhausted?

As for the plans, they were growing every minute; but he had decided to say nothing about them to Johanna and Barney until the next day, when they were full-grown. Of one thing David felt certain: nothing could keep Christmas away this year. And so when Barney began to tease him on one of his trips to the woodshed and say that if this weather lasted he guessed the Christmas present from father would get there about Washington’s Birthday and that he guessed it would take a Santa Claus with seven-league boots to make the hilltop this year, David just smiled and looked very wise. Something was going to happen; he knew perfectly well that something was going to happen. And so, when it actually did happen, about half-way between dinner and supper time, he was not nearly as surprised as Johanna and Barney, who in a way might have expected it.

They were all three startled by a banging on the door and a stamping and pounding of feet outside. So loud did it sound in the midst of the silence that David thought there must be at least a dozen men. Great was his astonishment, therefore, when Barney swung open the door and a solitary figure stepped in, muffled in fur to the eyes.

“Burrrrrrrrrrr!” boomed the figure, and then he swept off his cap and made a laughing bow.

“Hello, Johanna! Hello, Barney! You never thought I would remind you right in the midst of a Christmas blizzard of that promise you made last summer. Come now, did you?”

“Holy St. Patrick!” gasped Johanna.

“Mr. Peter!” ejaculated Barney. “But how in the name of all the saints did ye ever make it in this storm?”

The man laughed again.

“Just the usual nerve of the tenderfoot. I left my painting-kit, bag, and canvases with the station-agent. He has promised to send them up if the storm ever stops. And I made a wager with him—a gallon can of next spring’s syrup against a box of cigars—that I’d be here by four o’clock. What’s the time?”

He had his things off by this time and was looking at his watch.

“Aha! Ten minutes to the good! If your wires are not down, Barney, I’ll call him up. He’ll be wanting to get ready to tap that maple-tree.”

The next moment they could hear his voice booming at the telephone.

“Yes, siree. Here I am, and not even my breath frozen. No, you needn’t be sending out that snow-plow after me just yet. Only get my things up here as soon as you can. All right!”

Another instant he was back in the room again, vigorously shaking Johanna’s and Barney’s hands.

“Yes, here I am, to paint those snow canvases I’ve been going to do so long, and to dodge Christmas.”

Then it was that for the first time he became conscious of David in the window recess.

“Bless my soul! Who’s this, Johanna?”

Johanna explained, and David came forward and held out an eager hand. He liked this Mr. Peter tremendously, in spite of his last remark, and he was no end glad he had come.

The man returned David’s greeting with equal cordiality, while he screwed up his face into a comical expression of mock disgust.

“And I came up here to dodge Christmas! Say, young man, do you think it’s possible for any person to get away from Christmas with a boy around?”

“I hope not,” laughed David.

“You don’t mean to tell me that Christmas hasn’t grown into a very tiresome, shabby affair that we would all escape from if we only had the courage? You don’t believe there is anything in it nowadays, do you, except the beastly grind of paying your friends back and thanking your lucky stars it doesn’t happen oftener than once a year?”

“I certainly do, sir.” David spoke as one with authority.

The man rubbed his hands together thoughtfully and his eyes twinkled.

“I see. Johanna and Barney have gone off to fix a bed for me somewhere, so suppose we discuss this matter thoroughly. I’ll tell you my personal feelings and you can tell me yours. In the end, maybe we’ll compromise!”

He led the way to the window-seat and spread himself out comfortably in one corner; David curled up in the one opposite.

“To begin with,” and the man pounded his knee emphatically, “Christmas is responsible for a very bad economic condition. Every one spends more money than he has; that’s very bad. Next, you generally put your money into articles that are neither useful nor beautiful; you give your maiden aunt handkerchiefs and she has ten dozen of them already put by in her closet, while you send a box of candy to the janitor’s little girl, who can’t go out because she hasn’t any shoes to wear. Now if I could borrow an invisible cloak and go around a week before Christmas, peeping in on all the folks that need things and finding out just what they need, and then come back on Christmas Eve and drop the gifts unseen beside their doors—well, that might make Christmas seem a little less shabby. But as it is, I’m not going to give away an inch of foolish Christmas this year. And I’m not going to say ‘Merry Christmas’ to a solitary soul.”

“Maybe you’ll forget,” laughed David. “Now, is it my turn?”

Mr. Peter nodded.

“Well, I’ve found out, just lately, that Christmas isn’t things—it’s thoughts. And I’ve an idea how to make a bully Christmas this year out of nothing.”

He hunched up one knee and clasped his arms about it.

“You see, I used to think that you couldn’t have Christmas without all the store fixings and lots of presents, just as you do. And when I first came ’way up here I thought it was just naturally ‘good-by, Christmas.’ Then something happened.”

“Suppose you tell me what. We might make a better compromise if I understood just what did happen.”

David considered him thoughtfully. Johanna had said while he was out at the telephone that Mr. Peter was a painter, a bachelor chap with no one in particular belonging to him, and David wondered if he would really understand. As Johanna had often said, “There are some things you just can’t put through a body’s head.”

“Things happen ’way up here in the hills that would never happen in the city, never in a hundred years,” he began, slowly; and then, gaining courage from the painter’s nod of comprehension, he told all about everything. Of course he could not tell all the stories as they had been told to him—there was not time—but he told about them, and particularly about the “heathen.”

“And that isn’t all,” he finished, breathlessly. “I’ve a great plan for to-morrow night, if Johanna and Barney and you will help.”

“We might make that the compromise,” smiled Mr. Peter. “What is it?”

David told, and when he had quite finished, the man beside him nodded his head as if he approved.

“What does Johanna say?” he asked.

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“Well, we’ll ask Johanna and Barney to-night. Now let’s hunt them up and find out when supper is going to be ready. I’m as hungry as a bear.”

But before the plans were unfolded to Barney and Johanna that evening Mr. Peter told a story. He offered it himself as something he had picked up once upon a time, he could not remember just where. He said it was not the kind of a story he would ever make up in the wide world, but he thought it just the kind David might make up.

And here it is as the painter told it two nights before Christmas:

It was four o’clock on Christmas morning and Santa Claus was finishing his rounds just as the milkman was beginning his. Santa had been over to Holland and back again where he had filled millions of little Dutch shoes that stood outside of windows and doors; he had climbed millions of chimneys and filled millions of American stockings, not to mention the billions and trillions of Christmas trees that he had trimmed and the nurseries he had visited with toys too large for stockings. And now, just as the clock struck four, he had filled his last stocking and was crawling out of the last chimney onto the roof where the eight reindeer were pawing the snow and wagging their stumps of tails, eager to be off.

Santa Claus heaved a sigh of relief as he shook the creases out of the great magic bag that was always large enough to hold all the toys that were put into it. The bag was quite empty now, not even a gum-drop or a penny whistle was left; and Santa heaved another sigh as he tucked it under the seat of his sleigh and clambered wearily in.

“By the two horns on yonder pale-looking moon,” quoth he, “I’m a worn-out old saint and I am glad Christmas is over. Why, I passed my prime some thousand years ago and any other saint would have taken to his niche in heaven long before this.” And he heaved a third sigh.

As he took up the reins and whistled to his team he looked anything but the jolly old saint he was supposed to be; and if you had searched him from top to toe, inside and out, you couldn’t have found a chuckle or a laugh anywhere about him.

Away went the eight reindeer through the air, higher and higher, till houses looked like match-boxes and lakes like bowls of water; and it took them just ten minutes and ten seconds to carry Santa safely home to the North Pole. Most generally he sings a rollicking song on his homeward journey, a song about boys and toys and drums and plums, just to show how happy he is. But this year he spent the whole time grumbling all the grumbly thoughts he could think of.

“It’s a pretty state of affairs when a man can’t have a vacation in nearly five hundred years. Christmas every three hundred and sixty-five days and have to work three hundred and sixty-four of them to get things ready. What’s more, every year the work grows harder. Have to keep up with all the scientific inventions and all the new discoveries. Who’d have thought a hundred years ago that I should have to be building toy aeroplanes and electric motors? And the girls want dolls’ houses with lights and running water! I declare I’m fairly sick of the sight of a sled or a top, and dolls and drums make me shiver. I’d like to do nothing for a whole year, I tell you—nothing! It’s a pretty how d’ y’ do if the world can’t get along for one year without a Christmas. What’s to prevent my taking a vacation like any other man? Who’s to prevent me?”

The reindeer had stopped outside of Santa’s own home and he threw the reins down with a jerk while he tried his best to look very gruff and surly.

“Suppose I try it. By the Aurora Borealis, I _will_ try it!”

And then and there Santa Claus began his vacation.

He closed up his workshop, locked the door, and hung the key in the attic. He turned his reindeer loose and told them to go south where they could get fresh grass, for he would not need them for a year and a day. Then he made himself comfortable beside his fire, and brought out all the books and the papers he had been wanting to read for the last fifty years or more, and settled down to enjoy himself. He never gave one thought to the world or what it would do without him; therefore, it never occurred to him to wonder if the news would get in the papers. But you know and I know that in time everything that happens gets into the papers; so the news spread at last all over the world that Santa Claus was taking a vacation and that there would be no Christmas next year. And what do you think happened then?

First of all the Christmas trees stopped growing. “What’s the use?” they whispered one to another. “We sha’n’t be wanted this year, so we needn’t work to put out new shoots or keep especially green and smart-looking.” And the holly and the mistletoe heard them, and they said: “Well, why should we bother, either, to get our berries ready as long as we shall not be needed for decoration? Making berries takes a lot of time, and we might just as well spend it gossiping.”

Next, the storekeepers began to grumble, and each said to himself, “Well, if Christmas isn’t coming this year why should I spend my time making my shop-windows gay with gifts and pretty things?” And the pastry cooks and the confectioners said they certainly would not bother making plum-puddings, Christmas pies, or candy canes.

Soon the children heard about it. For a long while they would not believe it, not until Christmas-time came round again. But when they saw the Christmas trees looking so short and shabby, and the Christmas greens without their berries, and the streets quiet and dull, and the shop-windows without the pretty things in them, they grew sober and quiet, too. And in less time than I can tell you the whole world grew stuffy and stupid and silent and unlovely. Yes, the whole world!

Now, in a very small house in a very small town that stands just midway between the North Pole and the equator and half-way between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans (you can find the town for yourself on any map if you look for it with these directions) there lived a small boy. He was sturdy and strong, and he had learned two great lessons—never to be afraid and never to give up. He saw what was happening all over the world, because everybody believed that Christmas had been lost, and he said one day to his mother:

“Mother, little mother, I’ve been thinking this long while if Santa Claus could see how things are going with every one down here he would bring Christmas back, after all. Let me go and tell him?”

“Boy, little boy,” said his mother, “tell me first how you will find your way there. Remember there are no sign-posts along the road that leads to Santa Claus.”

But the boy squared his shoulders and took a firm grip of his pockets and said he, “Why, that’s easy! I’ll ask the way and keep on till I get there.”

In the end his mother let him go. As he walked along slowly he questioned everything he passed—birds, grass, winds, rain, river, trees. All these he asked the fastest road to Santa Claus; and each in turn showed him the way as far as he knew it. The birds flew northward, singing for him to follow after; the grass swayed and bent and made a beaten path for him; the river carried him safely along its banks in the tiniest shell of a boat, while the winds blew it to make it go faster. Each horse or donkey that he met carried him as far as he could; and every house door was opened wide to him, and the children shared with him their bowls of bread-and-milk or soup. And wherever he passed, both the children and the grownups alike called after him, “You’ll tell him; you’ll make Santa Claus come and bring our Christmas back to us!”