Chapter II: Part 2

Then, seeing Susan rise, he took a middle course and stepped into the shadow of the little building. Susan did not give another glance at the beautiful tree with its out-stretched arms; she went across the yard, still crying, and into the house.

“She even forgot to lock the door,” said gran’pap, as he went into the shop.

He stood for a moment and looked at the tree.

“We can keep the door locked,” said he, mournfully. “I can give ’em the things another time. Perhaps she would let me give ’em each one thing this morning.”

Then gran’pap heard a stir, the sound of a footstep, the rustle of approaching skirts. He turned and faced the door.

“Susan!” said he.

It was Susan come back, Susan with a burden in her arms. She looked at her father with a start. Her face was different. It was suddenly clear that she had been a beautiful girl. She laid her burden upon the little bench.

“Here is a little rifle that was his father’s,” said she. “And here is a little chain and locket that was mine. You put them under the tree, gran’pap.”

“Oh, Susan!” said the old man.

But Susan was already at the door. There she turned and looked back. Again she was crying, but she was smiling, too. It was plain that for Susan the worst of grief was past.

“Merry Christmas, gran’pap!” said she. “You’d better go to bed.”

“Same to you!” faltered gran’pap.

Then he took the little rifle and the chain and locket in his hands and hugged them to his breast.

“Oh my! oh my! oh my!” said gran’pap. “What will those children do!”

[4] By permission of the author and the “Outlook.”

HOW OLD MR. LONG-TAIL BECAME A SANTA CLAUS[5]

_Harrison Cady_

“No, sir-ree, you don’t catch me giving anything to Christmas charity. No, sir-ree! It’s all nonsense anyway,” said old Mr. Long-Tail as he slammed his door shut with a great bang right in the face of a startled snowbird who had called to solicit a contribution for the Christmas fund for the poor and needy.

Then with a frown he turned, drawing his old padded dressing gown more closely about him, and hobbled over to his large easy-chair before the blazing fire. Seating himself among its cushions he proceeded to pour out a steaming bowl of broth from a copper pot and to help himself to a bit of toast from a trivet before the fire.

“Ha, ha!” he squeaked. “This is pretty snug,” and his lips curled into a satisfied smile as he glanced over to where the boisterous snowflakes were dashing against the window pane.

“Who-o-o! Who-o-o!” whistled the cold North Wind as it rattled the shutters.

“Crackety-crackety,” answered back the leaping flames in the grate with a merry shower of sparks.

Yes, Mr. Long-Tail was snug--very, very snug. His comfortable little house fairly glowed with warmth, and its pantry shelves sagged under their weight of good things. So, on this cold winter’s day, the Day-Before-Christmas, he of all the many forest folk could afford to scoff and shoo away unwelcome callers. For why should he worry about the needy and the cold? His shelves were full and his fire was warm. Besides, did he not have many storehouses filled to overflowing?

But many there were in the great world who were not as free from worry as Mr. Long-Tail. Many days of heavy storms and cruel winds had drifted the snow and covered fields and forests alike with a thick white mantle which, freezing, had made it almost impossible for many little creatures to reach their hidden stores or to find a stray berry.

For weeks past they had been watching and waiting in the hope of better weather. Christmas was drawing near, and they had planned a grand celebration around a great fir tree which grew on a lofty knoll at the very edge of the forest. They had planned to trim it from top to bottom with long garlands of holly, while myriads of blazing candles would glisten and sparkle as they shed their light upon boughs heavily laden with presents.

Then one day came Bad Weather, and with him a great blizzard which howled and shrieked and added huge drifts of snow. The little forest people looked out from their windows to see the blizzard imps dancing in glee, and as days went by they slowly gave up hope of the great Christmas celebration. Many tiny creatures watched their storehouses of provisions gradually disappear under the snow, and each day saw the list of the needy increase.

So the Day-Before-Christmas found every little eye carrying a look of worry and every little voice sobbed: “We can do but little for this Christmas, and that only for the very poor,” all but old Mr. Long-Tail. His eyes held no look of worry. He was in a class by himself, for, as sometimes happens, not any of his storehouses were buried and every snowflake that fell before his door seemed to be instantly whisked away by the North Wind.

And so he sat before his fire and drank his broth and wheezed in his most disagreeable voice: “Christmas! Bah! I’ll have none of it!”

For to explain: Old Mr. Long-Tail was a rat, and a very miserly one at that. In fact, he traced his pedigree directly back to the great family of Miser Rats, who had a habit of gathering hoards of curious things and tucking them away in funny little storehouses where one could find everything from an old button to a bit of brightly colored glass, along with queer dried roots and vegetables. Old Mr. Long-Tail had lived a long time and, as he had likewise inherited the family traits, his storehouses were many.

So he sat all alone the Day-Before-Christmas, buried in his great armchair, and thought only of how very comfortable he was--he, the very richest creature in the great forest. But old Mr. Long-Tail was not happy, for with all his great riches there was one thing more he longed for--that was a certain kind of yellow corn, and that corn was hidden away in a certain corn bin in a certain old barn a goodly distance away.

“Ah! If I only had a little of that fine corn for my Christmas dinner,” sighed old Mr. Long-Tail, for secretly he did intend to celebrate Christmas Day, but all by himself.

Finally he went to the window and peered out. “Whew! It’s a pretty rough day, but I believe I might make it,” he exclaimed as he drew on his big coat and wound his woolen scarf about his neck. Then he threw an empty sack over his shoulder and, buckling on a pair of snowshoes, headed straight for that distant barn.

Reaching it after a very long and difficult trip, he removed his snowshoes and crawled under the old building until he came to a convenient crack in the floor, and raising himself carefully he crept noiselessly within. Everything was silent and deserted except for the groaning of the wind about the eaves. Mr. Long-Tail lost no time in getting across the floor to a large wooden bin beside the wall, and he sped quickly along its side until he came to an opening, and then, with a hurried look over his shoulder, he stepped inside--not inside the bin, but right into a large box trap, the cover of which dropped with a thunderous clap, and old Mr. Long-Tail found himself a prisoner.

It was all so sudden and unexpected that it quite took his breath away. He tried to find a way of escape, but there was no escape for old Mr. Long-Tail. Exhausted, he crouched down and moaned, “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I’m caught! I’m caught!” and his falling tears went splash as they fell on the floor of his prison.

Yes, he was caught, and caught so well that unless something unforeseen happened he was doomed to spend his Christmas Day in that box trap. Poor old Mr. Long-Tail, who had planned to celebrate all alone with a delicious feast!

One hour passed; then another; then many more followed, and Mr. Long-Tail commenced to feel cold and hungry--yes, hungry right in that terrible trap in that well-filled corn bin. He shivered and shivered until the old box trap fairly made the corn rattle.

“Hush! Hush! What’s that?” whispered one little snowbird to another as they huddled under the eaves of the old barn. “I hear sumfin.”

Just then old Mr. Long-Tail gave a low moan.

“Whew!--Someone is in distress,” cried the little snowbirds together as they cocked their heads to one side and listened.

Again came a moan.

“Whew! Some poor soul is in distress and we must help him.”

And those two little snowbirds spread their wings and went whirling down to a window sill, and finding a broken pane they poked their heads in and listened until they heard the sob again.

Then they both peeped loudly: “Who’s there?”

Faintly from the bin came a plaintive cry: “Help! Help! It’s me, poor Mr. Long-Tail.”

The two little snowbirds without hesitation flew right into the old barn and commenced to investigate.

“It’s old Mr. Long-Tail all right,” said one as he spied the tip of the rat’s tail protruding from the end of the box. “Oh! So you are the crabbed old fellow who shooed us away from your door this morning,” said the other upon recognizing Mr. Long-Tail’s voice.

Mr. Long-Tail sobbed: “Set me free, and anything I own is yours.”

“We are going to set you free all right,” cried the little birds, “but we don’t want anything of yours. No, sir. We only accept presents from willing givers, and just to show you, we are going to return good for evil.” And straightway they began to dig those yellow ears of corn from under the old box trap. Suddenly it fell on its side and the cover opened enough for Mr. Long-Tail to slip out. He didn’t stop, and he didn’t even thank those little snowbirds for saving his life. No. He only ran just as fast as his legs would carry him straight for his home.

“My! That was a narrow escape,” he puffed as he bolted his heavy door. “You don’t catch me leaving this snug little house again”; and he stirred the fire and dropped down into his big easy-chair.

For a long, long time he sat and looked into the crackling flames as they danced and leaped up the chimney. Then gradually old Mr. Long-Tail commenced to see strange shapes. Curious visions appeared--visions new and strange; and along with them came troubling thoughts, and, do all he could, he couldn’t shut them out.

As the flames danced they shaped themselves into weird pictures of huddled creatures bent with cold and hunger, as they drew their cloaks about them. He could hear the roar of the winter tempest; he saw lines of empty stockings and heard plaintive calls for food. Then he saw a score of rich storehouses filled to overflowing, with doors heavily barred, while before them walked a grotesque figure, and that figure was turning away groups of starving forest folk. And, last of all, he saw two tiny snowbirds helping someone out of a trap, someone who whined and whimpered and cried: “Help! Help! It’s me, poor Mr. Long-Tail.”

This was too much for him. He jumped suddenly to his feet and cried: “That’s me, a mean old miser, who does nothing for anyone but himself. The poor and needy I turn away, and I don’t even thank those who save my life--me, poor old Miser Long-Tail.”

Ashamed and humbled he sat down again and remained motionless for a long, long time. Then, with a sudden cry of joy, he jumped to his feet and looked at the clock.

“Hurrah! There’s yet time. There are still a few hours left,” he cried as he drew on his coat and, gathering a pile of empty bags together, he disappeared into the night.

The Night-Before-Christmas! That magic hour of all the year when Santa Claus, behind his team of reindeer steeds, rides hither and thither from one chimney top to another. But on this particular night the little creatures of the great forest had given up all hope of any Christmas visitor and were huddled in their beds for warmth. They were fast asleep, dreaming their troubled dreams of empty shelves and stockings. Outside the great world lay covered with ice and snow, for the blizzard had gone on its way and a cold winter moon shone on the hanging icicles.

Then suddenly there came, at the exact hour of twelve, the ringing of a bell. The little people awoke with a start and in excited voices cried: “It’s a Christmas bell! It’s a Christmas bell!”

In a flash they were out of their beds, and, hurriedly dressing, they scampered toward the echoing bell.

And what do you suppose they saw?

A smiling old rat, who, with the aid of his long tail, was ringing the bell! While before him on the ground was spread a wonderful collection of Christmas gifts, and above all was the sign:

PEACE ON EARTH
AND GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN
A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!
FROM MR. LONG-TAIL.

[5] Reprinted by permission of the author and the “Ladies’ Home Journal.”

THE STORY OF THE FIELD OF ANGELS[6]

_Florence Morse Kingsley_

In the deep valley below Bethlehem an undulating meadow stretches east and west, its grass starred thick with blossoms in the days after the autumn rains. The villagers call it the Field of Angels, though to some it is known as the Place of the Star. In the days of the Cæsars the turrets of Migdol Edar, the shepherds’ watch tower, still looked down upon the place, though shepherds had long ceased to watch their flocks there by night.

Six miles to the north, behind the scarred shoulders of the ravaged hills, lay shamed and desolate Jerusalem. There was no longer a temple therein whither the tribes of Israel could go up to praise and magnify the name of Jehovah. Of all that great and glorious Zion there remained only a place for wailing by a ruined wall.

But flowers bloomed again in the red tracks of the Roman armies, and again there were little children to whom the horrors of that time of death were only as a tale that is told between waking and sleeping. When the sun shines in unclouded heavens, and myriads of flowers wave in the sweet wind, and the lark floods his acres of sky with down-dropping melody, what young thing will lament ruined temples or yet vanished cities, be they never so glorious? And so, the children were plucking the first flowers in the Field of Angels with shouts and laughter.

In the dwarfed shadow of Migdol Edar sat an old man who talked with himself in the midst of his great silver beard, his blue eyes shining like twinkling pools amid the frosty sedge of a winter’s morning. “The young things crop the blossoms like lambs,” he muttered, and stretched his withered hand to gather a tuft of the white, starlike flowers. Then he smiled to see a troop of little ones running toward him fearless as the lambs to which he had likened them.

First came a tall girl of ten, her clear olive cheek shaded by a tangle of curls; she held a flower-crowned baby in each hand. Behind her lagged three or four smaller girls and half a score of boys, shyer and more suspicious than their sisters.

“Good sir, wilt thou gather flowers in the Angel Field?” demanded the tall girl fixing bright, questioning eyes upon the stranger.

“Thou hast said truth, maiden,” answered the old man.

“I have come from over seas to gather them. And I will also tell thee one thing. Seest thou how many blossoms grow in this low valley? There grows a shining thought for every flower; these also would I gather.”

The girl shook her head. “We have found no shining thoughts in this field, honorable stranger,” she said. “Here are star flowers, and blue lilies of Israel, and anemones purple and scarlet. There are no flowers like those of the Angel Field. But I would that we might see the shining things which thou hast gathered.”

“Sit ye down upon the grass, every child of you,” cried the old man, his blue eyes beaming with delight, “and I will show you my shining thoughts, for in truth they are fairer than the flowers which perish in the plucking. See, child, the blue lilies of Israel how they droop and wither, and the star flowers drop their petals like early snow; but I will show you that which can never perish. Look you, children, I was no taller than yon little lad--he with the scarlet tunic; and I wandered with the shepherds in this field--which in those days was known only as the valley of flocks--gathering flowers and minding the paschal lambs. They strayed not far from their mothers. Great Jerusalem was in its latter glory, and a marvelous bright star shone in the heavens. Wise men there were who declared that the star heralded the birth of Israel’s deliverer, He who should be King of kings and Lord even of the Romans. The shepherds talked of these things in the night watches, and I, folded in my father’s abba, listened between dreams.

“’Twas in this very spot we gathered on the night of which I will tell you. My father, the head shepherd, and very learned in the Psalms and Prophets, sat silent while the others talked softly of the flocks and of the weather, which was uncommon mild for the time of year, and of the pilgrims who had gathered out of all the provinces to pay tribute to the heathen emperor. The heavens were dark save for the great star which shamed all the rest into twinkling sparks. The young moon hung low in the west. I saw all this from the shelter of my father’s cloak, and was content even as the lambs which lay close to the warm hearts of their mothers in the soft, damp grass.

“Suddenly my father lifted up his great voice. ‘The Lord is in His holy temple: let all the earth keep silent before Him!’ So spake he, and the others, marveling, held their peace. My young eyes were just closing in a dream of peace, but they opened wide at sound of my father’s solemn voice: ‘Behold I will send My messenger, and he shall prepare the way before Me: and the Lord, whom ye seek, shall suddenly come to His temple. Behold, He shall come, saith the Lord of hosts!’

“Then did the earth swoon and tremble--or so it seemed to my young fancy--and the light of the star on a sudden blazed forth with myriads of sparkling rays, of all colors splendid and rare, and radiance presently took shape to itself and became the figure of a man clad in dazzling garments who stood over against the sleeping flocks. He spoke, and his voice was as the voice of Jordan when he rolleth his spring floods to the sea. Every man of the shepherds was fallen to the ground with fright; but I lay unafraid in the shelter of my father’s cloak and saw and heard all.

“‘Fear not,’ said the shining one, ‘for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’

“Then were the heavens and the silent valley and the heights of Bethlehem filled with shining ones, who lifted up their voices in songs the like of which never yet fell on mortal ears. ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!’ The anthem rose and fell in glorious waves of melody toward the star blazing in mid-heaven. The voices passed singing into the silence, and the shining forms, blent once more with the celestial rays of the star, wavered for an instant before our dazzled eyes, and were gone.

“My father was the first to recover himself from that trance of wonderment. ‘Let us now go even to Bethlehem,’ he said, ‘and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known to us.’

“The shepherds girt themselves to depart, and I, creeping from the warm folds of the abba into the chill night, followed hard after them. Being low of stature--for I was no higher than yon little lad--I saw a thing which the others perceived not: the soft, damp grass was starred with snowy blossoms both far and near where the feet of the angels had trod. I lagged behind to gather of them a great handful.

“The dim light of the inn swung half-way up the rocky steep, and there we waited in the darkness, my young heart beating loud in my ears, whilst my father parleyed with the keeper of the gate. ‘There was no babe within,’ the porter said, and would have shut the door fast in our faces but that my father, being a man of authority and insisting that it was even as he had said, presently pushed by him into the khan. And indeed there was no babe in all the place, only pilgrims lying close to the sleeping-lofts and their beasts which crowded the courtyards.

“I pulled my father’s sleeve and whispered to him that the angel said we should find the Babe lying in a manger. And in truth, my children, when presently we were come to the place where the great oxen were housed from the winter’s cold, we found the young mother and the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. He, the Salvation of Israel--the Messiah--the Desire of Nations! These eyes gazed upon Him in His beauty. These hands touched Him as He lay asleep in the manger nestled in His soft garments on the yellow straw.”

The tremulous voice faltered--ceased. The old man bent forward smiling, as if once again he gazed upon the world’s Savior asleep in His manger cradle.

One of the girls laid a timid finger on the border of the pilgrim’s cloak. “And was He--like other babies?” she asked in a low voice.

“Like other babies?” smiled the old man. “Yea, verily, little one, He was fashioned in all points even as we are--thanks be unto Jehovah! Yet was He unlike--so wondrous fair, so heavenly beautiful was that Babe of Bethlehem as He lay even as an angel asleep in that humblest bed of all the earth. The milk-white blossoms I had gathered shone faint in the half darkness like tiny stars. I laid them at His feet and their fragrance filled all the place as incense.”

The aged shepherd looked down at the flowers in his withered hands, his slow tears falling upon them like holy dew. Also he murmured strange words to which the children listened with wonder, albeit they understood them not at all. “Behold He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the World knew him not. For by Him were all things created that are in Heaven, and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers. These things saith the Amen, the faithful and true witness.”

Then the children stole quietly away one by one, till presently they were again at play amid the myriad blossoms of the star flower. But the old man rested beneath the shepherds’ tower, while the shadows lengthened across the Field of Angels.

[6] Reprinted by permission of the author and the “Ladies’ Home Journal.”

SHOPPING WITH GRANDMOTHER MINTON[7]

_Daisy Crabbe Curtis_

“There!” said Grandmother Minton, standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, all unmindful of the fact that she was blocking the way of the hurrying Christmas shoppers. “That child has hurt himself! I can tell by the way he cries. Pick him up, Susan!”

“O grandmother!” protested Susan. “He’s dirty!”

“Bumps hurt a dirty boy just as much as a clean one,” said Grandmother Minton.

Susan sighed, and with the air of a martyr lifted the weeping urchin to his feet.

“It’s his forehead, poor child!” said Grandmother Minton, gently touching a red bump on the boy’s forehead. “Don’t cry, sonny; grandma’s got somethin’ in her little black bag that will stop the hurt. Here ’tis--arnica, and a nice clean handkerchief to bind it up with,” she went on soothingly as she worked. “Feels better already, eh? And here’s somethin’ more to help,” she added, popping a piece of white candy into his mouth. “That’s good for the cry. All right, now?”

“Grandmother, come!” whispered Susan with scarlet cheeks.

She was painfully embarrassed by the curious crowd that had collected about them.

“Wait till I see if he walks all right,” said the old lady, whose face was filled with motherly anxiety.

“Of course he walks all right! Do come!”

The bystanders made way respectfully for the little old lady and her stylishly dressed granddaughter. Susan carefully avoided their glances, but Grandmother Minton beamed impartially upon them all from behind her massive-rimmed spectacles.

Would grandmother ever learn not to make herself so conspicuous, Susan wondered. Mother might have known that something like this would happen. She ought not to have insisted upon Susan’s going with grandmother to the city, and on a shopping expedition, too! “Why,” thought Susan, glancing at her companion, “even if grandmother wasn’t always doing things that make people stop and look at her, they would look at her just the same because of her queer, old-fashioned clothes! Why will she insist upon making them herself, and all after the same old pattern, when father’s ready and willing to buy her the best the stores afford? Why can’t she be like Lillian Teller’s grandmother, always dressed in fashion and with her hair stylishly arranged? And why will grandmother persist in carrying that absurd old black velvet bag everywhere she goes? Hasn’t each of us, at some time or other, given her a new bag?”

“Why don’t you take one of your new bags?” Susan had asked grandmother that very morning when they started for the train.

“It seems like they’re too gorgeous,” grandmother had said, “to hold my peppermint drops and snacks of medicine and pennies for the children, not to mention my packet of court-plaster and spectacle case and bit of thread and needle. The bags you dear people gave me just go with ’broidered handkerchiefs and smellin’ salts and ten-dollar bills,” she added, with a twinkle in her eye.

“But your black bag is so--shabby.”

“Tut, child, it’s an old friend grown shabby in helpin’ me and others. Your grandfather gave it to me before he died and I came to live at your house. That bag’s seen good times and bad times. It’s taken medicine to the poor and the sick. It’s carried my clean handkerchief and collection money to church. It’s been to weddin’s and funerals, and even carried a set of infant’s clothes for a newborn babe of the Raffertys’ that hadn’t a stitch to its back. Why,” said Grandmother Minton, tenderly smoothing its rusty drawing-strings, “you don’t know how lonesome and homesick I’d feel without this bag!”

“Here we are at Trasher & Brown’s,” said Susan as they approached a great store. “Now, what’s first on your list?” she asked briskly. “I’ll just hurry her along,” she thought, “and maybe we can catch the one-thirty train home.”

“Let’s see!” said Grandmother Minton, pulling a worn piece of paper from her bag. “You’ll have to read it for me, Susan. I left my readin’ specs at home.”

“Peppermint sticks,” read Susan. “Candy’s in the basement. Let’s take the elevator.”

“Department stores are funny,” said Grandmother Minton, with a chuckle. “Candy, calicoes and furniture all mixed up together.” They had reached the candy counter, and she addressed the clerk in a confidential tone. “Yes, I want peppermint sticks, red and white ones. They’re the tastiest for Christmas. What? Oh, two dozen, I should say! Let me see, they’re for the Raffertys and Bensons and Manders and-- Best make it three dozen. What’s that, Susan? A shopping card? You tell her how to make it out. I’m too old-fashioned for shopping cards, I guess. What next, Susan? Oh, yes, dolls! Nellie Rafferty wants a yellow-haired one. Can you tell me where the yellow-haired dolls are?” she asked the clerk. “Nellie Rafferty’s set her heart--”

“I know where the dolls are, grandmother,” said Susan hastily.

She did wish that grandmother would not always take the clerks into her confidence!

Grandmother Minton fairly reveled in the doll department. She went from one show case to another, exclaiming over the pretty curls and attractive dresses. Each doll brought for her inspection seemed more beautiful than the last, and she could not decide which one would best please ragged little Nellie Rafferty. Susan was in despair! It was after twelve o’clock and she had seen other items on grandmother’s list; a fire engine, a red cart, some brown yarn, a girl’s coat, infant’s underwear, shoes and stockings. She fairly gasped. Why, they would be lucky if they reached home on the three-eighteen!

“Grandmother,” she suggested, “how would it be if I bought some of the other things for you while you’re selecting the doll? Shall I,” consulting the list, “buy the girl’s coat and the infant’s underwear?”

“Why, you might, I suppose, though I’d counted on pickin’ them out myself.”

“It will save time if I do it.”

“Well,” agreed Grandmother Minton reluctantly, “I’ll try and tell you exactly what I want. The coat’s to be eight-year size, and mind, it must be durable. Like’s not, it will be handed down from one child to another in the Benson family, and they’re such husky young ones it’ll have to be good and stout to stand the strain. The infant’s underwear is to be one-year size and wool, Susan! Don’t let them give you anything but wool.”

“Yes, yes,” said Susan, impatient to be off. “Stay right here, grandmother, until I come for you.”

It took Susan much longer than she had expected to purchase the coat and underwear. She had to go to the third floor for the coat, and she found a sales clerk busy trying to please a most exacting customer, who seemed to want to examine every coat in stock before making a selection. When Susan’s turn came, she hurriedly purchased a dark blue chinchilla and then went in search of the underwear.

The afternoon shoppers were beginning to throng the floors when Susan finally made her way back to the toy department. That, thought Susan, must account for the fact that, although she had nearly reached the spot where the dolls were sold, she had not yet caught a glimpse of a little white-haired lady in an old-fashioned black dress and with a shabby black velvet bag in her hand.

“This is the very counter where I left her,” said Susan, with a puzzled frown. “She must be looking at some of the show cases near by, or perhaps she has walked a little way to look for me.”

She was beginning to feel anxious, for she knew that Grandmother Minton would not be likely to wander about the big store for herself.

Susan began to thread her way among the shoppers, scanning each one sharply. At first she was deliberate and polite, but after she had circled several times round the toy department and still had caught no glimpse of Grandmother Minton’s kind old face she became desperate and pushed her way rudely hither and thither. What had become of her grandmother? Was she wandering helplessly round with no one to pilot her? Would anyone notice that she was lost and try to help her?

Susan stopped short in her wanderings. A possibility that filled her with dread had flashed into her mind. Such things had happened to other people, she knew. Could it be that grandmother had been taken suddenly ill and been rushed to the hospital? What would father say? Was not Grandmother Minton his own mother? Had he not cautioned Susan that morning to take the best of care of her and bring her safe home to him again? Now, she would have to telephone and tell him--oh, she could not! And what would mother say? And all the Raffertys and Bensons and Manders? They worshipped Grandmother Minton!

Some one grasped Susan’s arm, and the polite voice of the floorwalker questioned her.

“What is it, miss? Have you lost your purse?”

Susan realized then that she had been wringing her hands and that tears were in her eyes.

“No!” she gasped. “I--I wish I had.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I’ve lost my grandmother,” explained Susan. “Have you seen her?”

The puzzled look upon the floorwalker’s face caused Susan to be more coherent. She told him what had happened, and he suggested that she go to the waiting-room and rest while he went to the office and made various inquiries. He was sure that they would be able to find her grandmother. And, Susan, because she was bewildered and felt faint and weary and knew nothing better to do, acted upon his suggestion.

The waiting-room was filled with the usual number of weary shoppers, some of whom were trying to soothe fretful children. Susan sat down in one of the vacant chairs. It had been more than an hour since she had missed her grandmother. Could it be only yesterday that she had gone to her to have her gloves mended at the very last minute, so that she might wear them to the concert? It seemed ages and ages ago. Grandmother had never been out of patience with Susan, not even during that week when she was taking her high-school examinations and was so snappy and cross to everyone.

“Oh,” thought Susan remorsefully. “I’m just hateful to grandmother! It was wonderful of her to help that child this morning. I’m such a proud, stuck-up thing I’d have let him die, I suppose, rather than lift my hand to help him. Grandmother would help anyone who’s in need. She’d give her last cent to--”

“There,” said a cheery voice, “you look better! Wasn’t it lucky I was near by when you felt faint?”

Susan turned sharply and her eyes opened wide. There, bending solicitously over a woman who lay on the divan, was grandmother! She had in her hand one of the little bottles from her black bag and was bathing and rubbing the sick woman’s forehead. Susan held her breath and drew near. How infinitely dear grandmother was! She had taken off her coat and looked so quaint and grandmotherly in her fitted basque and softly shirred skirt. How suitably the close little bonnet framed the white hair, plump face and kind blue eyes!

Susan’s gaze wandered to the woman to whom her grandmother was ministering. She was so stylishly gowned that Susan was astonished when she saw her face. It was much wrinkled and, in spite of the faint touch of rouge on the cheeks, looked ghastly. “She’s old,” thought Susan, “in spite of her stylish, young-looking clothes. Why, she must be older than grandmother! Maybe she’s a grandmother, too, but she doesn’t look like a comfortable one. _She’d_ never go into the kitchen and make doughnuts for me and mince pie for Brother Jack. She’d never help a dirty child that had hurt himself!”

“Grandmother!” called Susan softly.

“Well, Sue, child,” said Grandmother Minton, with a welcoming smile, “so you’ve come for me! I aimed to get back to the doll counter before you came, but this lady was taken faint right near where I was, and of course, I came here with her. Lan’s sake child, you look pale yourself! Sit right down in this chair. I’ll have to rub your forehead, too.”

“I’m all right now that I’ve found you. Oh, grandmother, I thought you were lost!”

“Well, well, I was comin’ right back, Sue. Here’s my handkerchief. There! I guess,” said Grandmother Minton, with a smile, as she fumbled in her black bag, “if you are going to cry, I’ll have to give you a candy drop like I gave that little boy this mornin’.”

“Do,” said Susan, laughing through her tears, “and get it from the bottom of your little black bag, grandmother!”

[7] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 28, 1916. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”

A MISLAID UNCLE[8]

_E. Vinton Blake_

Five feet eleven of vigorous, well-fed, clean-shaven humanity, a little past the middle age, enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat, and carrying a handsome dress-suit case; this was John James Alston of New York, a hard-headed, hard-hearted old bachelor, with no kith or kin in the world, that he knew. There might be a few distant cousins or so, somewhere out Connecticut way; he didn’t know or care. He had worked his way in the world himself, and made a moderate fortune, and knew how to take care of it. What more did a man want?

The Pullman porters had eyed him respectfully, at intervals, all the way from New York: his air and apparel indicated wealth, and his manner commanded instant obedience. Nothing in his firm-set mouth, the poise of his head, his cool dignity, betrayed the fact that the habits of a lifetime were attacked and in danger of being carried by assault. And the besieger was a mite of a four-year-old girl, all daintiness and captivating ways, whose mother occupied a near-by chair in the Pullman car. The little miss persisted in hovering about the cold, quiet gentleman and attracting his attention. John James Alston rather liked children, when they were well-behaved; and when mama said, “No, no,” and drew the intruder away, the dainty red lips quivered. In dread of an outburst,--John James disliked crying children--he suddenly emerged from his shell.

“Pray let her come, madam; I shall enjoy it,” was what he said. And directly he found himself taken possession of in the most astonishing way, and made the recipient of all manner of Christmas confidences.

“You goin’ home for Kis’mus?” she said, cuddling into his lap. Finding he had no friends to visit, no little girls to play with, she said she was “drefful sorry.” Then she told him about the delights of “gwanpa’s” when all the uncles and aunts and cousins were assembled. When she got out at Stonington, he felt a great loss. And now, as he walked the platform at the Junction, waiting for another train, he was somehow conscious of a strange and unusual loneliness. It was two days before Christmas. All day he had seen jubilant family groups at stations welcoming their arriving relatives; all day he had heard talk of home-coming and Christmas gifts among children and grown-ups on the train. John James Alston, I am sorry to say, became decidedly cross. “I was stupid,” he told himself, “to start anywhere on business at this season. I might just as well have waited till next week, and avoided all this nonsense.” And he wished himself back again in his cozy bachelor apartments in New York.

His meditations had carried him thus far when somebody seized his hands. “Aren’t you Uncle John from the West?” cried a girl’s voice. And a boy’s chimed in: “Of course it’s Uncle John! How do you do, Uncle John?” Then childish accents uttered, “I know’d him by his picshur!” And hurrying across the platform, a stout, cheerful woman pushed the children aside, crying, “John Damon! And you wrote you didn’t think you could come!” Then she shook him by both hands and kissed him impulsively.

John James Alston caught his breath. The woman was so wholesome and hearty, though she _did_ wear a thick shawl and an unfashionable bonnet, that--well, he collected himself and managed to say, “Madam, there’s a mistake”; but she didn’t hear or pay the slightest attention to what he said.

“Billy, bring the horse around, quick,” she commanded. “It’s ten minutes before the other train comes. We’ll just have time to get away. Old Griggs’ll never get over being scared of the cars,” with a smile to John James. “Dolly, don’t hang on to your uncle so. Maidie, can’t you get her away?”

“Want my nuncle to carry me,” declared Dolly, the smallest girl, clinging to John James’s immaculate glove. He looked down. The face that looked up was dimpling and sweet in its worsted hood, and golden curls peeped out all around it. He never was able to explain the impulse that moved him, and what followed was a wonderment to him all his life; but the protest died on his lips, and he picked up the smallest girl and hugged her. Then and there he shook off John James Alston as he left the dismal Junction platform, and, as “Uncle John” from the West, submitted to be led to the waiting carryall.

“Get right in on the back seat,” said the cheerful woman. “Maidie, you an’ Dolly can sit back there, too. I’ll drive. Or, no--Billy can drive.” Sarah’s grammar was not quite up to the mark but you can hear the like of it in the country any day.

They piled in jubilantly and pulled up the buffalo-robes. John James’s dress-suit case was in the way, and he told Billy to put his feet right on it and never mind!

“Won’t your brother Asher be glad to see you!” exclaimed the woman. “Le’ ’s see--it’s full ten years, if ’tis a day, sence you came East. How is everything in Cheyenne?”

John James assured her that Cheyenne was all right.

“You must ’a’ be’n lonesome sence Annie died. Pity you never had any children. Home wouldn’t be home to me without children.”

“That’s true,” said John James.

“I don’t s’pose you remember Maidie--she was a baby when you saw her last.” John said he hardly remembered Maidie. “An’ Billy--he’s ten; and Dolly, four--they’ve come sence you left us. They’re both mine.”

“And I’ve a little brother, Aunt Sarah,” put in Maidie.

“Yes, Asher an’ Mary’s had both sorrow an’ joy,” said the cheerful woman, more soberly. “They lost a little girl, but they have a little two-year-old boy. His name’s John, after you.”

“Oh, so I’ve a namesake,” said John James. He tried to get his bearings, and kept his ears open for names and facts. But reflection was also at work; he remembered that the day after to-morrow was Christmas, and the uncle from the West had not one Christmas gift for his namesake or the family. He realized with a sudden alarm that he had to do something, and do it quickly.

“By the way, is there a long-distance telephone round here?” he asked.

“Why, yes; down at the depot,” said Billy, pulling up. “Want I should drive back?”

“No; I’ll just run over there, myself,” said John James. “You keep old Griggs round the corner here. I’ll be right back.”

He made haste across the wide country square. Aunt Sarah, watching him, said, “He’s spry, ain’t he?” and then, “I guess he’s well off. That coat didn’t cost no small sum.”

John James found the telephone, and got connections with a Boston business man whom he knew well. Before he had talked three minutes, the business man’s hair began to rise on his head, and he interrupted to inquire if John James was really himself or another. With great irritation, John James replied in hasty language, and bade him confine his attention to the subject in hand. He talked for fully ten minutes. At the end he was assured that his order was received and would be duly honored.

“And rush it!” was John James’s parting injunction as he hung up the receiver.

The station-master eyed him queerly as he came out. “Le’ ’s see--you look like John Damon used to--not exactly, either--more cityfied! But you _be_ him, ain’t ye?”

“That’s what they call me,” replied John, and submitted to be greeted as an old friend in the jolliest way possible. He also acquired some new facts.

“Your father’s feeble--very feeble,” said the man. “I’m glad you were able to come home to spend Christmas with him.”

“I find it hard to leave my affairs,” soberly said John James.

“They said you wrote so. Wal, you’ll find Asher some grayer, but jolly still. He’s got the mor’gidge all paid off but five hundred or so. He was talkin’ of old times only t’other day, and how much you boys used to think of each other. D’ye rember how he once took the whippin’ ’twas meant for you, an’ never said nothin’?”

“I remember a good many things,” said John James as he left him, and in a few minutes again took his place in the carryall.

He was becoming more and more interested in the family history which “Aunt Sarah” continued to give him, when, at last, the carryall turned up a farm-house lane, and they saw a woman step uncertainly to the side door.

“There’s Mary,” said Aunt Sarah, and the children began to shout: “Here’s Uncle John!”

Asher Damon, the first to respond to the summons, stepped out of the door, a typical New England farmer, in his shirt-sleeves and overalls.

“By Jinks, this is great!” he exclaimed.

John James, descending, received and returned his vigorous hand-grip; kissed Mary, his sister-in-law; was rushed at and embraced by three strange women who addressed him as “Cousin John.” Then they all stood in a group and talked at once. “But come in!” said Asher suddenly--“come in and see father. He’ll be overjoyed. He’s insisted on Sarah goin’ to the depot every day for a week, on the chance of your comin’.” So John James went in to see his father.

He trembled a little under the keen and searching gaze of the old man, who got up and took him by both shoulders, turning his face to the light.

“You’re changed, boy, changed!” he said tremulously. “Seems like you’re steadier, graver. But you’ve lost your wife Annie. It’s natural, after all. It’s a good deal to me to see you to-day.”

And John James Alston suddenly shrank into himself and felt like the impostor he was.

“Yes, I think he’s changed--a little,” said Asher’s wife, surveying him closely. “But it’s ten years; and people and things don’t stand still. There’s the baby, your namesake, John.”

She ran into the bedroom at a child’s cry and brought out a round-faced, curly-haired two-year-old, whom she deposited on Uncle John’s knee. He said, “Great Scott!” and clutched the new burden awkwardly, conscious of extreme confusion of mind.

“That comes of not being used to children,” cried Mrs. Sarah, merrily, catching at the child. “Here, Mary; he’s not safe. John’s got to have some lessons in baby-tending.” And all the women laughed.

If John James Alston ever fancied a country life lacking in variety, he changed his mind from that day. They took him out to see the cattle, and Asher dwelt on their strong points. He was made to take note of the rakish, upward curve in the noses of the Berkshire hogs, and saw the prize pullets and the Toulouse geese. He heard about the rotation of crops. And though he tried his best to say the right thing at the right moment, he saw one and another look at him sometimes in a puzzled way that made his blood run cold. And this was a queer sensation for the dignified, self-possessed John J. Alston of New York.

That night he was shown to the best upstairs bedroom; there was just enough space for the mountainous bed, the bureau, washstand, and one chair. He turned back the heavy coverlets and stood regarding the swelling height before him. “Great Scott!” he murmured. “I never slept in a feather-bed in my life. Wonder how far I shall sink down.”

When he was in, and the pillows heaped around him, he began to grow deliciously warm. “I don’t care--I’m a rank impostor, I know, but I’ll see this thing through, now I’ve begun. I feel uncommonly like a boy.” And he laughed outright.

The next day, to be safe, he devoted himself to the children, to the great relief of their busy mothers; and before night, Maidie, Billy, and Dolly were his devoted lovers. There were finger-marks on his shirt-front and wrinkles in his coat, due to his little namesake, who was quite ready to howl when separated from his Uncle John. Early in the day he took Asher aside and inquired about the express accommodations, intimating that he expected a Christmas shipment by express from Boston.

“Oh, all right!” said Asher. “We’ll send up at five o’clock; the last express gets in then.” And he felt a little curiosity, for the real John Damon was not wont to be over-generous.

More than once that day did John James wonder what had become of his other self, the city-man Alston, whom he had left on the station platform. John James was having the time of his life. Anybody who has ever enjoyed a country Christmas in a farm-house full of peace, good-will, and happy relatives will understand all about it. At dark Asher came in. “John!” said he. “You and Billy’ll jes’ have to go down to the depot--we’re hustlin’ to get the chores done.”

“Certainly,” said John James. “Billy, don’t you want to go?”

“Sure!” said Billy. “I’ll be through with these pigs in a jiffy, an’ I’ll be right along. You can be harnessing.”

John James went out to the barn. He had never harnessed a horse in his life. He led out old Griggs, who marched deliberately to the water-trough and plunged his nose in.

John James took down a headstall at random, and old Griggs understood in about two minutes that he had to deal with inexperience, and refusing the bit, led the city-man a dance all over the barn floor. Then Billy came in.

“Here--hello!” said he. “What you doing with that work-harness, Uncle John? Here’s the right one. An’ the collar goes on first, anyway. Why, you’ve forgotten how to harness! Hi, you old rascal, stand still!”

John James had the mortification of beholding the ten-year-old corner old Griggs and equip him with the necessary rigging in no time at all.

“I thought you had a good many horses in your business, uncle,” said Billy, fastening one of the traces, while his “uncle” tried the other.

“The men do a good deal of the harnessing,” desperately said John James at a venture.

The box was at the station. It was decidedly a big box. It took John James and the depot-man to get it into the wagon. When the wagon, much heavier now, slid upon the horse’s hocks, going down a steep incline on the return trip, there were prancings, suddenly uplifted iron heels, then a furious run.

Billy held on valiantly, and rebuked old Griggs in vociferous accents; while John James, acknowledging the master-hand, sat still and looked for a soft place to fall in. Having at last pulled up, Billy got out to investigate.

“Well, I vow, Uncle John, if you didn’t forget to buckle the britchen-strap on your side!” he exclaimed.

And John James, with a dreadful sense of mortification, blushed scarlet under cover of the dark.

By the time they got home the snow was falling quietly and steadily, and it increased as the night wore on.

Late at night, after the household were abed, John James and Asher opened the box. It was a surprise indeed--that box! The Boston man had fulfilled his commission admirably, and John James chuckled as he pulled out one article after another.

“We gener’ly have our presents on our plates or chairs at breakfast,” observed Asher. “The women-folks put ’em here, as you see,” indicating the table in the living-room with its modest gifts. “The children hang their stockings by the fireplace; they like the fun of pullin’ things out.”

“Well, here’s something for little John,” said John James, unwrapping a gorgeous drum and a stunning horse with “truly” hair all over him. “And here, just undo that long box, Asher. Here are some good books for the children.”

Asher opened the long pasteboard box. “Land o’ Goshen!” said he, “I never see sech a doll. Looks like an angel gone to sleep.”

“That’s for Dolly; won’t she squeal!” said John James. “Billy skates, doesn’t he? These will fit him, I hope--and here’s a pair for Maidie. This--what’s this? It’s labeled ‘for the girl.’” He tore a hole in the paper. “Oh, a dress. That’s for Maidie, too.”

“Here’s a white knitted shawl for--whom? You know best about the women-folks. I had to just guess at it. Here’s some fancy embroidered collars, and stuff of that sort.”

“Mary would like the shawl, and Sarah the collars,” said Asher, slowly.

“All right, put ’em there. Ah ha, now, this is the thing! Try on these rubber boots, Asher!”

“Hold on, John,” said Asher, resolutely; “you jest go slow! Be you made of gold, or what? These things must ’a’ cost a mint o’ money!”