Chapter VII: Part 7

The street grew colder and darker as the child passed on. He went sadly forward, saying to himself, “Is there no one in all this great city who will share the Christmas with me?” Farther and farther down the street he wandered, to where the homes were not so large and beautiful. There seemed to be little children inside of nearly all the houses. They were dancing and frolicking about. Christmas trees could be seen in nearly every window, with beautiful dolls and trumpets and picture-books and balls and tops and other dainty toys hung upon them. In one window the child noticed a little lamb made of soft white wool. Around its neck was tied a red ribbon. It had evidently been hung on the tree for one of the children. The little stranger stopped before this window and looked long and earnestly at the beautiful things inside, but most of all was he drawn toward the white lamb. At last creeping up to the window-pane, he gently tapped upon it. A little girl came to the window and looked out into the dark street where the snow had begun to fall. She saw the child, but she only frowned and shook her head and said, “Go away and come some other time. We are too busy to take care of you now.” Back into the dark, cold streets he turned again. The wind was whirling past him and seemed to say, “Hurry on, hurry on, we have no time to stop. ’Tis Christmas Eve and everybody is in a hurry to-night.”

Again and again the little child rapped softly at door or window-pane. At each place he was refused admission. One mother feared he might have some ugly disease which her darlings would catch; another father said he had only enough for his own children and none to spare for beggars. Still another told him to go home where he belonged, and not to trouble other folks.

The hours passed; later grew the night, and colder grew the wind, and darker seemed the street. Farther and farther the little one wandered. There was scarcely any one left upon the street by this time, and the few who remained did not seem to see the child, when suddenly ahead of him there appeared a bright, single ray of light. It shone through the darkness into the child’s eyes. He looked up smilingly and said, “I will go where the small light beckons, perhaps they will share their Christmas with me.”

Hurrying past all the other houses, he soon reached the end of the street and went straight up to the window from which the light was streaming. It was a poor, little, low house, but the child cared not for that. The light seemed still to call him in. From what do you suppose the light came? Nothing but a tallow candle which had been placed in an old cup with a broken handle, in the window, as a glad token of Christmas Eve. There was neither curtain nor shade to the small, square window and as the little child looked in he saw standing upon a neat wooden table a branch of a Christmas tree. The room was plainly furnished but it was very clean. Near the fireplace sat a lovely faced mother with a little two-year-old on her knee and an older child beside her. The two children were looking into their mother’s face and listening to a story. She must have been telling them a Christmas story, I think. A few bright coals were burning in the fireplace, and all seemed light and warm within.

The little wanderer crept closer and closer to the window-pane. So sweet was the mother’s face, so loving seemed the little children, that at last he took courage and tapped gently, very gently on the door. The mother stopped talking, the little children looked up. “What was that, mother?” asked the little girl at her side. “I think it was some one tapping on the door,” replied the mother. “Run as quickly as you can and open it, dear, for it is a bitter cold night to keep any one waiting in this storm.” “Oh, mother, I think it was the bough of the tree tapping against the window-pane,” said the little girl. “Do please go on with our story.” Again the little wanderer tapped upon the door. “My child, my child,” exclaimed the mother, rising, “that certainly was a rap on the door. Run quickly and open it. No one must be left out in the cold on our beautiful Christmas Eve.”

The child ran to the door and threw it wide open. The mother saw the ragged stranger standing without, cold and shivering, with bare head and almost bare feet. She held out both hands and drew him into the warm, bright room. “You poor, dear child,” was all she said, and putting her arms around him, she drew him close to her breast. “He is very cold, my children,” she exclaimed. “We must warm him.” “And,” added the little girl, “we must love him and give him some of our Christmas, too.” “Yes,” said the mother, “but first let us warm him.”

The mother sat down by the fire with the little child on her lap, and her own little one warmed his half-frozen hands in theirs. The mother smoothed his tangled curls, and, bending low over his head, kissed the child’s face. She gathered the three little ones in her arms and the candle and the fire light shone over them. For a moment the room was very still. By and by the little girl said softly, to her mother, “May we not light the Christmas tree, and let him see how beautiful it looks?” “Yes,” said the mother. With that she seated the child on a low stool beside the fire, and went herself to fetch the few simple ornaments which from year to year she had saved for her children’s Christmas tree. They were soon so busy that they did not notice the room had filled with a strange and brilliant light. They turned and looked at the spot where the little wanderer sat. His ragged clothes had changed to garments white and beautiful; his tangled curls seemed like a halo of golden light about his head; but most glorious of all was his face, which shone with a light so dazzling that they could scarcely look upon it.

In silent wonder they gazed at the child. Their little room seemed to grow larger and larger, until it was as wide as the whole world, the roof of their low house seemed to expand and rise, until it reached the sky.

With a sweet and gentle smile the wonderful child looked upon them for a moment, and then slowly rose and floated through the air, above the tree-tops, beyond the church spire, higher even than the clouds themselves, until he appeared to them to be a shining star in the sky above. At last he disappeared from sight. The astonished children turned in hushed awe to their mother, and said in a whisper, “Oh, mother, it was the Christ-Child, was it not?” And the mother answered in a low tone, “Yes.”

And it is said, dear children, that each Christmas Eve the little Christ-Child wanders through some town or village, and those who receive him and take him into their homes and hearts have given to them this marvellous vision which is denied to others.

[18] Reprinted by permission of Elizabeth Harrison and Francis M. Arnold.

SANDY’S CHRISTMAS[19]

_Thomas Travis_

There were three of them, plodding wearily through the snow, a man, a woman, and a boy about six years old. The man and the woman seemed gloomy, sad, and walked along silently till, with a deep sigh, the man spoke: “It’s too bad, too bad, Mother, the storm coming up like this. If it had only held off a couple of hours more, we’d have made town all right. But as it is--well, what’ll we do?” And he looked wearily at the snow-covered mountains and the trackless waste of snow. He shivered as his cold face brushed a laden bush that dabbed his bare neck with icy snow. “It’s bitter cold, isn’t it, Mother? And if I’m not mistaken, the storm’s only just beginning.”

The mother was too tired to answer. They had walked this way all day.

“If it had only held off a couple of hours,” the man repeated gloomily, “we’d have made the town all right. And there’s a job for me there. We’d have had a good Christmas, after all.”

“Oh well, Daddy,” said little Sandy, sturdily, “maybe the storm’ll stop soon and somebody come along and give us a ride. Wouldn’t it be fun if we could have a real sleigh-ride--at Christmas?”

But nobody came along the bleak waste, as they still plodded on. And the storm did not stop. It blew up stronger and stronger before a bitter northeast wind that sent whirling clouds of icy snow against their faces and sifted it down their necks, till they were wet and half frozen. It was only about four in the afternoon; but the wind had now risen to a howling storm that made the great trees rock and groan and scream in answer to the snoring of the white gale, and forced the three to bend almost double to force their way against it.

They were all three tired, miserably tired, and hungry and cold. The snow-laden swirls covered them till they looked like walking ghosts. Little Sandy’s feet ached dreadfully; but he was a sturdy lad, and as he walked, he kept chattering out all sorts of questions, just to keep his mind off his cold feet. He didn’t care whether his questions were answered or not--he just talked.

A big crow came swirling down the gale, veered in the shelter of a clump of pines, set his black wings, and, with a doleful caw, settled on one of the lower branches. Another did the same, and another, the three crows snuggling up to each other with a soft chuckle that said, just as plain as plain could be: “Boy, but it’s cold! And it’s going to be a cold night for old Jim Crow. Better be looking up a bed now, before it gets too dark. It’s a hummer, this gale is, a hummer!”

And the father felt just about the same. “We’d better look for some sort of a shelter, Mother,” he said; “we can’t make town to-night. We’ll be frozen stiff. Just my luck! Out of work since Thanksgiving; get a letter that there’s a good job here for me if I can make it by Christmas--and here’s this snow!” And he peered through the blinding storm to where the city lights showed once in a while deep down in the valley.

“But look, Dad!” Sandy shouted; “look! There’s just the place for us.” And he pointed down in a hollow, where a little log-cabin lay pushed into a thick clump of tall evergreens.

Snow was drifted over the roof and over the trail to the door, as they entered and looked around. In fact, it had no door, only the place for one. It had two windows, but only one had glass in it. And it had neither fireplace nor stove--only a square of logs filled in with sand, for the fire, and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out.

“Just my luck!” said the father; “just my luck!” And he shivered again as the bitter wind swirled a cloud of icy snow through the door and window.

But Sandy piped up: “Well, anyhow, it’s better than nothing. And besides, I think it’s just fine. We can camp here and be all right. Come on, let’s make a warm fire.” For his feet ached now so badly he could scarcely keep the tears back.

They hunted around, found an old lantern, and lit it, for it was now dark. And the gale had helped them somewhat, after all. For they found great dry branches of the fragrant pine, broken off by the wind, piled in heaps--some of it splintered to shreds under the twisting of the gale.

Soon a roaring fire was going. But the wind, howling through the doorway and the window, made it pretty hard to get warm.

“Just my kind of luck!” grumbled the father.

But Sandy said: “Supposin’ we get some of those little trees, those pine and spruce, and pack them in the door and window. That will keep the wind out, and make us snug as a bug in a rug. Come on.”

So they packed the window and the door with spruce-trees broken off and stuck in the deep drift. Father sighed a bit with satisfaction, and Mother sat down with a weary smile, thrusting her hands out to the blaze as she looked tenderly at the boy.

“Fine Christmas, isn’t it?” grunted the father, again; “fine Christmas! Look at the icicles hanging on that spruce. Look at the snow powdering the tree, and that right in the room with us. Fine Christmas!”

“Sure it’s fine,” said Sandy, sturdily. “I think it’s finer than a boughten tree. It’s a real Christmas tree, and it’s got real icicles, not glass ones. And it’s got real snow for powder. All we want is some birds and stars and things on it, and there wouldn’t be a better Christmas tree anywhere. Mother and Daddy, you rest. I’ll go out here and get a good stack of wood,--that’ll keep the fire going,--and then we’ll have something to eat and we’ll be fine.” So, stamping his cold feet, he squeezed through the blocked door and crept out under the great pines.

Now what with the dense evergreens and the log-cabin, it was comparatively quiet and calm there under the pines. And Sandy got his first glimpse of how the wild creatures live through a storm. The lower branches of the pines were crowded with crows, jays, and other feathered waifs of the storm. They were doing their best to keep warm, and having a hard time of it in that bitter gale.

You know, these wild birds must sleep out in all kinds of weather. You know, too, that most birds’ feet can cling to a bough even when they are asleep. Also, you know that feather coats are warmer even than fur. And these birds, huddled together for shelter, picking out the thickest parts of the low boughs, snuggled down in the roaring gale and tucked their heads under their wings, crouching down low so that their feather overcoats could cover them from head to feet.

But perhaps you may not know that there is one weak point about this feather overcoat. They can not entirely cover up in it. There is just one spot at the eye which they can not cover. That too, perhaps, is to shield them. They keep one eye out, literally, for the fox and the owl and the hawk. But on a bitter night like this, there is another trouble. If it gets too cold, that one spot, meant for a lookout, will freeze. And often after a bitter winter gale you will find crows and jays and snowbirds blinded by the cold. They have changed positions, put one eye, and then the other under, but been able to keep neither warm. That one bit, exposed, acts just as if you were all tucked in blankets, except one toe. You can keep changing the toe, but in bitter weather, very bitter, that toe will freeze. So with the birds that roost. They have no nest; they do not crawl into some hole. They roost in fear of their enemies, and sometimes pay the terrible penalty for that one hole in their feather blanket.

That’s why sometimes you hear a “thump” on your window on a very cold winter night, and the next morning, find a poor quail or grouse or jay or crow cold, freezing, half-blind already. He had seen the glow of your fire dimly and flown to it--for safety.

And that was what was happening when Sandy crept out to get more firewood. This was a record blizzard--a bitter, freezing, zero night. And the birds were doing their level best to keep their eyes warm. They did not even notice Sandy as he crept near and watched. Some meadow-larks and quail had crouched under the snow-covered bushes at the foot of the pines, and they were bunched together, all heads out and all trying to keep their eyes from freezing. Sandy saw it and felt sorry for them. He was trying to keep his own feet from freezing, and knew how it felt. But he could not help the birds.

He could see the glow of the fire through the spruce-blocked door and window. It shone cheerily through the one window with glass. And hastily Sandy gathered some wood and came back inside. Then they ate their supper, Sandy saving the crumbs for the birds.

The blizzard grew worse and worse. The great trees rocked and groaned and cracked till Sandy thought they would break off short and tumble on the shaking cabin. Some of them did split, with a boom like thunder, and fell with a muffled thud in the deep snow. Then came faint twitterings and dismayed caws. The birds were having a hard time out there.

There came a thud against the single pane, and Sandy lifted the sash to take in two quail that had flown against the glass in their attempt to come into the warm room. But the crows were wiser than the quail. They came farther down through the twigs and roosted on the branches. They showed the others the way to the warm room. Then came some snowbirds, their black-and-white feathers all fluffed out with frost; and meadow-larks, quail, and grouse, all perching on the tree in the window; all grateful for the warm refuge in that terrible blizzard. Even a couple of rabbits came hopping through the open door and crouched panting from the gale.

So Sandy and Father and Mother sat over the fire, trying hard to keep warm. Mother was so tired she soon fell asleep, her head resting on Sandy’s lap. They sat late, very late--almost to midnight. And then came a wonderful thing--the storm stopped almost suddenly. The stars came out; the northern lights began to glow and burn like melted opals, like soft fires, all colors, in the sky. It was Christmas eve, and the churchbells in the valley began to ring out Christmas carols--

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old.

Faintly the bells rang, faint and far across the snow.

So Sandy did not hear the approach of anybody till there came a hail at the door. Pulling away the spruce that blocked it, Sandy was surprised to see a great, burly man enter, with a sheep under one arm and half a dozen panting after him.

“Saw your firelight, neighbor,” he said. “Just out trying to save my sheep in the storm. Thought I’d never make it. But here we are.” And shepherd and sheep crowded into the room.

“Come right along,” said the father. “It’s a bitter night. Seems as if the cold grew worse since the wind dropped. Come on in and sit down by the fire. Fine Christmas, eh?”

The man with the sheep sat down, throwing off his pack and using it as a chair. Puffing and blowing, pulling icicles from his beard, he rumbled: “Fine Christmas, you say? Well now, I’m glad of a place to be in out of the cold. This looks fine enough to me. Thought I’d never make it.” And he continued combing the ice from his beard and mustache. “Fine Christmas when I thought it was going to be a case of freeze and lose all the sheep, and then get them safe into a nice snug place like this. This is fine Christmas luck!”

“Sure it’s fine,” laughed Sandy, whose feet were now warm again. “And just look! If that isn’t the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.” And he pointed to the tree in the window.

It really was wonderful. Back of the tree blazed a big star, just as if it hung on the topmost twig. Scores of others twinkled through the evergreen boughs. The northern lights crackled and shone mysteriously; and against the lit sky they could see the birds crouching--crows, iridescent, jays, gaudy blue, meadow-larks, with breasts dipped in gold, quail, grouse, and snowbirds in lovely markings and shadings, all perched on the tree, chuckling and crooning as though come there specially to decorate it. Great icicles hung down glittering in the low glow of the fire; and over all, the powdered snow glittered like diamonds.

“It’s a fine Christmas tree, and I’m going to hang my stockings on it when I go to bed.”

“Much good it’ll do you, Sandy,” grinned his father; “no Christmas, no Santa this time.” Then, turning to the shepherd, he explained grumpily, “Out of work; goin’ for a job; caught in this storm; stony broke--at Christmas time.”

“Hard lines,” said the shepherd, soberly; “but that’s a fine boy you have. Seems a bright youngster and just as chipper as can be.”

“Anyhow,” said Sandy, as he curled in his blanket before the fire, “I’ve hung up my stockings. Maybe good old Santa will remember me after all.”

He really didn’t expect anything, you know; but still he was a cheery soul. And as he slept, he dreamed--dreamed a big, strong, genial Santa came and filled his stockings with the nicest things--dreamed, and mumbled in his sleep, “Well, anyhow, it’s a good Christmas, after all.”

But the others just slept--Father and Mother too sad and tired even to dream, till they were roused in the early dawn of Christmas by a wild yell from Sandy. There he stood in his blanket, hauling out gift after gift from his stockings, from the twigs of the trees, and even some from beneath the tree.

He never knew how they got there. But Sandy’s father told me that the shepherd had them all in his pack, bringing them home for his own family Christmas tree. But the storm that stopped Sandy’s father, stopped him too. And seeing Sandy so sturdy and brave in the cold and night, he thought he would give the presents to him and then buy others, since he couldn’t get home in time for Christmas eve.

But Sandy never knew how they came. His eyes simply grew big and shining in his six-year-old face. His squeals of joy rang through the cabin, till even the sheep huddled together a little nervously and watched him with shy eyes. The birds of the tree chuckled and flew out into the new dawn of Christmas day. The shepherd’s sleigh came along and gave them all a lift to town. And Father got his new job!

As the party separated in town, the shepherd took little Sandy in his big strong arms as the boy said: “Well, we had a merry Christmas, didn’t we? I think it was fine.”

And the shepherd gave him an extra hug as he answered: “Sandy, you have the best Christmas gift of all. A Merry Christmas comes from inside a man, from his happy and live soul, from his brave spirit. The boy that has a gift like that doesn’t need anything else. He’ll have a Merry Christmas anywhere.”

Sandy didn’t entirely understand. He just shook hands cheerily with the shepherd, waved an arm to the sheep, now huddled cosily in the straw of the sled, picked up his bundle, and walked on with a grin of joy.

“And anyhow,” he said that night, as he heard his father telling about the terrible Christmas eve they had had, “anyhow, we had a real tree and real birds and real stars and real snow powder and real sheep and--a real shepherd! I think it was just the finest Christmas tree any boy ever had.”

[19] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.

THE LITTLE FIR-TREE[20]

_Carolyn Wells_

Longer ago than you ever heard of, and farther away than you ever dreamed, the great Tree-master went out to make the trees.

Now the making of trees was a most important matter, and the Tree-master put his whole mind to it. He made all sorts of trees to use for building houses and making things to furnish the houses. Oak, maple, elm, ash, mahogany, rosewood, and many more, as you well know.

Then he made all sorts of trees to bear food: fruits, nuts, olives, and queer things like breadfruit and cocoanuts.

And he made lovely trees just to look pretty. He made dogwood, magnolia, horse-chestnut, and holly.

Then the Tree-master gave each tree its orders about blooming blossoms and bearing fruit, and at last the Tree-master thought his work was about done, and he turned to go away.

“Oh, please, sir,” said an anxious little voice, “aren’t you going to give me anything nice to do?”

“Who is speaking?” growled the Tree-master, in a voice of thunder.

“It’s only I,” and a very trembly tone reached his ear. “I’m a little fir-tree, and I’m neither beautiful nor useful.”

“You’re good enough,” said the Tree-master, as he glanced at the poor little thing. “Behave yourself, and no one will notice you.”

But they did notice her. The springtime came, and all the fruit-trees put on their beautiful blossom-frocks, and they jeered at the forlorn little fir-tree.

“Ho!” said the apple-tree, “look at my pink and white garb. Is it not exquisite? Don’t you wish you could be dressed like this?”

The poor little fir-tree looked on with longing eyes, but she was too crushed to reply.

“And see mine!” vaunted the peach-tree. “Was there ever such a perfect shade of color as I wear? How it is set off by my green leaves!”

The little fir-tree, though tempted to envy them, had a generous heart, and she said, “Your clothes are indeed beautiful, O Apple-tree and Peach-tree! I never saw more delicate and lovely coloring. Indeed, I wish I might dress like that! I have my old dull needles!”

“And see me!” cried the cherry-tree; “after all, there’s nothing more beautiful than my pure white with touches of feathery green.”

“True, true,” agreed the little fir-tree. “The colors are all so lovely, I scarce know which to choose.”

The fruit-trees tossed their blossomy branches, and showers of dainty petals fell all around.

“Oh!” cried the little fir-tree, enraptured, “I never saw anything so wonderful! If only I had been made like that!”

But the fruit-trees paid little heed to the fir-tree’s lament, they were so busy admiring themselves and flaunting their glories to the breeze.

Then the wood trees broke into their soft spring greens.

“Look at me!” said a young maple, proudly; “is not my pale yellowy green as lovely as the pink and white of the fruit-trees?”

And gazing at the delicate shade of the tiny leaves, the little fir-tree admitted that it was.

“Oh,” she said, with a deep sigh, “if I could have that soft light green to wear, I wouldn’t ask for pink blossoms! But how I hate my old dull needles!”

The oaks and elms put out their young green also, and the feathery willows down by the brook waved young withes like fairy wands.

As every fresh beauty unfolded, the poor little fir-tree wept anew and wished the Tree-master had given her the like. But so engrossed were the trees in watching their own decorations that they paid small heed to the sad little fir-tree.

And then summer came. The fir-tree felt sure new beauties would come to the trees, and she almost hoped some wonderful change might come to her. But she watched and waited in vain.

The others, though! Ah, how they reveled in their happiness!

The fruit-trees fairly laughed aloud under their happiness of fruit! Saucy red cherries, crimson velvet peaches, mellow golden apples, dewy purple plums, everywhere a riot of color, fragrance, and sweetness!

How they boasted!

“Ah, little fir-tree,” they said: “what would you give for glories like these?”

And the poor, forlorn little fir-tree shook with sorrow to her very heart as she replied, “Ah, if I might be like that!”

“Too bad,” said the peaches, carelessly, and they went about their business, which was to hold their soft cheeks up toward the sun that he might kiss them till they blushed.

“Yes, too bad!” chattered the pears, not heeding what they were saying, as they swayed gently on their stems while they slowly ripened to a golden and rosy glow.

The poor little fir-tree shuddered at their cruel indifference, which was even harder to bear than their outright scorn.

And the shade-trees were just as bad.

And then autumn came. Oh, the triumphs of the trees then! The wonderful flaming banners of scarlet and gold that they flung out to dazzle all nature! The rich depths of bronze and crimson that lurked mysteriously in their thick foliage!

The little fir-tree marveled. “Is there no end to their magnificence?” she thought: “must I ever see more and more of these wonders that I may not share?”

And the poor little thing wept until her needles lay in a pool all around her feet. The willows down by the brook saw her and they wept in sympathy. The little fir-tree saw the weeping willows and she was grateful for their kind thought, but so saddened was she that she only wept more needles to the ground.

And the nut-trees! They shook their nuts in her very face, and taunted her afresh with her uselessness and her lack of beauty.

The little fir-tree thought she would die.

And then the Tree-master came walking around. “Hey, hey, what’s this?” he exclaimed, as he saw the sadness of the little fir-tree.

In a burst of woe, the fir-tree told him all her trials and sorrows.

“Oh, pooh, pooh,” said the old Tree-master, who was really most kind-hearted, “have you forgotten this? All through the winter the other trees will be shivering and shaking in bare boughs. They will have no beauty and they will be sad and forlorn. You will be green and handsome, and then you can ask them why they look so ugly and downcast.”

The fir-tree cheered up a little, for though not vindictive, she had been so scorned by the other trees that she was glad to look pretty in the winter when they were forlorn and bare.

And yet, somehow, she felt it was not enough. To be sure she was green and glossy and shapely, and all the other trees looked really ugly, but she had no gay-colored blossoms and no rich fruits or nuts.

The kind old Tree-master laughed when he heard this. He was not so busy now, and he could listen to the troubles of his little fir-tree.

“Ho! ho!” he said; “so you want fruit and flowers, do you? Well, I rather guess we can fix that! Hereafter you shall bear wonderful fruit and flowers and nuts every winter, when the other trees are impatiently waiting for spring. And the blossoms and fruits you show shall far, far excel anything they have ever flaunted in your face!”

The little fir-tree could scarcely believe this good news. But it was true.

The Tree-master ordered that she should be the Christmas Tree!

And so, every winter, the fir-tree blossoms out in marvelous blooms of color and gold! Her branches are hung with wondrous fruits such as never grew on a summer tree! Nuts are there, and more holly berries than the holly-tree herself ever showed! And high above, crowning the glorified little fir-tree, the Christmas star sheds its rays in a blessing never bestowed on any other tree!

[20] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”

SIR CLEGES[21]

_George Philip Krapp_

In the days of Uther, the father of King Arthur, there lived a knight in England who was a member of the famous Round Table, and his name was Sir Cleges. Of all his knights none was dearer to King Uther than Sir Cleges. There was nothing strange in this, for everybody loved Sir Cleges, both because he was brave and good and cheerful, and, above all, because he was so generous. No poor man ever came to Sir Cleges in vain. He was always ready to help those upon whom sickness or the waste of war or any other misfortune had fallen, and far and wide he was known as the poor man’s friend. And not only was Sir Cleges known for his charity to the poor, but he was famous also for his generosity toward those of his own rank and station in life. His hall and his chambers were always filled with guests, and his tables were always spread for those who were hungry. There was no lack of the very best food and drink in Sir Cleges’ house, and when good food and drink are to be found, you may be sure there will be plenty of friends to enjoy them.

Thus Sir Cleges and his fair wife, the Lady Clarys, kept open house with the most generous hospitality. Most of all at Christmas-time there were great feasting and merriment in Sir Cleges’ castle. From every corner of England the knights and their ladies gathered there, and so cheerful and kind were Sir Cleges and Lady Clarys, and so abundant was the fare provided for all comers, that you might have searched all through King Uther’s kingdom and not have found any Christmas feasting happier or more cheerful than that under Sir Cleges’ roof.

Thus for many years Sir Cleges lived in this generous fashion, and never thought of his money except as a means whereby he could help the needy or give pleasure to his friends. But there is always an end even to the longest purse, and, as time went on and as Sir Cleges’ friends grew more numerous, it took more and more to entertain them. All the money he had, Sir Cleges spent freely; and when his money was gone, he sold his cattle and other goods to keep up his household. But this was soon used, and after that Sir Cleges’ lands went the same way as his money and his cattle. As long as he had a penny left, said Sir Cleges, no friend should know the lack of it. But at last, when Sir Cleges had nothing more to sell and nothing in which the swarm of friends who had gathered about him could find their pleasure and profit, then straightway they heartlessly left him.

Thus the good Sir Cleges, who had never thought of his own welfare, but had spent all his substance in order that others might be comfortable and happy, now found himself deserted as soon as he had nothing more to give. He was no longer able to appear at King Uther’s court, and he who had been one of the merriest and best loved of the knights of the Round Table dropped quietly out of sight and soon was altogether forgotten. With his wife and his children, Sir Cleges went to live in the one poor house that was left to him, and there in poverty and obscurity he strove to forget the fickle friends who had so readily forsaken him.

Now it happened some years after this that King Uther decided to spend the Christmas-tide at the royal castle of Cardiff, which stood not far from Sir Cleges’ humble dwelling. Great preparations were made for the Christmas feasting, and invitations were sent out to all the brave knights of the kingdom. On Christmas eve all the knights and their ladies were come together at Cardiff, and then the feasting began in earnest. The cooks and the servers ran hither and thither, and all was excitement and bustle. In the great hall, there were tumblers and dancers and magicians to amuse the Christmas feasters with their tricks and gamboling. Singers and minstrels of all kinds had been summoned, and the music of the pipes and trumpets and bugles was heard far and wide. Nothing was spared that might help to make the time speed rapidly and joyously for all the assembled knights and their ladies.

In his little house not far away, Sir Cleges heard the sounds of rejoicing in the great hall of the castle, and it made him sad and bitter. He had not been invited to the feasting, for long since he had been forgotten and none of his old friends troubled to inquire whether he was dead or living. “Many a happy day,” said Sir Cleges, to the Lady Clarys, “have I given to those who reck not now of my sorrow.” But the Lady Clarys would not allow Sir Cleges to dwell on thoughts of unkindness, and bade him consider how much they still had to be grateful for, and thus little by little she comforted him and brought him again to contentment.

Thus the Christmas eve Sir Cleges and the Lady Clarys spent quietly in their humble cottage, and found such pleasure in the innocent joys and playfulness of their happy children that they had no longing for the noisy revelry of the courtiers in the castle of Cardiff.

The next day was Christmas day, and, with good will in their hearts for all men, Sir Cleges and the Lady Clarys went to the church to give thanks for their many blessings. Now after the church was over, Sir Cleges walked in his garden; and after a time he knelt down to pray beneath a cherry-tree that stood in the midst of the garden. As Sir Cleges knelt, praying, he suddenly felt a bough of the tree striking him on the head, and, seizing hold of it and springing to his feet, lo, what was his astonishment to see the bough covered with green leaves and full of cherries--red, ripe, and luscious! Picking one of the cherries, Sir Cleges put it into his mouth, and it seemed to him he had never tasted anything so delicious. Gathering more of the fruit, he ran into the house and cried out, “Behold, Dame Clarys, what a marvel is here!” And when the Lady Clarys had come she could hardly believe her eyes. “Cherries at Christmas-time!” she exclaimed. “How can such a thing be!” And when Sir Cleges had told her how he had been praying beneath the tree, how he had felt a bough striking him on the head, and how, when he took hold of it, he had found it filled with green leaves and ripe fruit, then the Lady Clarys believed that the cherries were real, and great was her wonder at the marvel which had happened in their little garden.

“Now hast thou indeed,” she said, “a present fit for a king! No longer grieve that thou hast no Christmas offering for the good King Uther, for cherries such as these I doubt he has ever seen.”

And then the Lady Clarys counseled Sir Cleges to gather the cherries and to put them in a basket and bear them straightway as a present to the king. And Sir Cleges, glad at heart that even in his poverty he could do something to add to the joy of the king’s Christmas feasting, readily consented so to do.

To Cardiff Castle Sir Cleges took his way, and on his arm he bore the basket of the wonderful fruit. It was just dinner-time when Sir Cleges reached the castle gate, and all the court were about to sit down to meat. But when the porter at the gate saw the poverty-stricken man with a basket on his arm approaching to enter, he drove him away with scorn and reviling.

“Begone, old beggar,” he said, “with thy rags and thy tatters! What have such as thou to do entering kings’ castles? Let me see the last of thee, or thou shalt not soon forget where thou belongest.”

“Pray let me through the gate, good porter,” answered Sir Cleges, to this greeting. “I have here in this basket a Christmas present for the king.”

“Thou a Christmas present for the king! A likely story, in sooth! Show me what thou hast in thy basket that thou thinkest worthy a king.”

And then, when Sir Cleges lifted the cover of the basket and showed him the cherries, he was surprised almost beyond speech. “Heaven defend us!” he exclaimed; “cherries at Christmas-time! How can such a thing be? Certainly this is a present worthy a king. But listen, old man,” said he, greedily, “thou shalt not pass through this gate unless thou dost promise to give me a third of the reward which the king shall give for the present thou bringest.” And Sir Cleges, seeing no other way of passing the gate, promised the porter that one third of the reward should be his.

Now after Sir Cleges had passed by the porter, he thought all would be well; but no sooner had he reached the door of the hall than he was met by the usher, who forbade him to go in.

“Out with thee, old fellow!” he exclaimed. “How cam’st thou here? This is no place for beggars and basket-men such as thou.”

Then when Sir Cleges said he had a present in his basket for the king, the usher, like the porter, must see what the present could be.

“Holy Saint Peter!” he gasped, when Sir Cleges had lifted the cover of the basket. “Cherries at Christmas-time! How can such a thing be?”

But he soon recovered from his surprise and told Sir Cleges he might go in, but only if he promised that one third of the reward which the king gave him should come to him. And Sir Cleges, thinking how hard it was to do even a kindness to a king, must needs promise as he had done before.

When Sir Cleges entered the great hall all was bright and merry there. The knights and the ladies of King Uther’s court, all decked in their finest feathers and silks, were about to sit down to the banquet. The serving-men went scurrying back and forth from the kitchen, bearing platters of rich food for the king’s feasters and stumbling over each other in their excitement and hurry. The table was hardly able to carry everything they wanted to put upon it. There were great haunches of venison, and roast swans and geese and ducks and pheasants by the dozen. At each end, there stood a huge pasty almost as big around as a cart wheel. The king’s cooks had used all their art in concocting cakes and pies and puddings, to say nothing of the sweetmeats of marchpane molded into the forms of towers and castles, or of knights on horseback, or baskets of fruit and flowers, and various other fanciful and astonishing structures. Everybody’s mouth was watering, but the king was not yet ready to sit down to the feasting, and the courtiers and their ladies stood chatting and laughing merrily with one another. All were too busy to pay any heed to the shabby Sir Cleges, with the basket on his arm, until the watchful eye of the king’s haughty steward happened to fall upon him. Horrified to see such a melancholy figure in the midst of so gay a company, he hastened up to Sir Cleges and was hustling him out of the hall with short ceremony before Sir Cleges managed to say that he had a present for the king.

“Beggars are not givers,” said the steward; “but show me, what is the present thou dost bring?”

Then, when Sir Cleges had lifted the cover of the basket and had shown him the cherries, he was no less surprised than the others had been, nor was he less greedy.

“Cherries at Christmas!” he exclaimed. “Whoever heard of such a thing? But listen, sir,” said he, in a low voice, “thou speakest not with the king unless thou promise me one third of the reward he gives thee.”

When Sir Cleges heard these words he thought to himself: “Little enough am I to get out of this. If I have a dinner for my pains, it’s as much as I may look for.” But he said nothing until the steward prodded him again, and then, seeing that there was no other way of getting by this greedy officer, he promised him a third of his reward, as he already had done to the porter and the usher.

At last the way was free for Sir Cleges; and with his precious basket, he made his way through the throng of the courtiers to the place where the king was seated on a dais.

“Receive, O King,” said he, falling on his knees before King Uther, “this Christmas offering from one of thy most humble subjects.”

And when King Uther looked into the basket and saw that it was filled with luscious red cherries, he too, like the Lady Clarys, could hardly believe his eyes.

“Cherries at Christmas!” he cried. “Now certainly this is a marvel, and a right worthy gift thou has brought to us, good fellow.” Then when he had tasted one of the cherries he declared a better cherry he had never eaten. And then he gave some to each of the knights and ladies; and they all wondered greatly to see such fruit at that bleak season.

“The king’s thanks hast thou won,” said Uther to Sir Cleges, “for thou hast made this Christmas feasting forever memorable. But sit thou now at our table and have part in our dinner, and afterward thou shalt have whatever reward for thy gift that thou askest.”

Then he motioned to the haughty steward to make a place for Sir Cleges; and certainly a strange figure this shabby knight made among all the gay lords and their ladies. Little they thought that this humble stranger had once bestowed benefit upon many a one of them, and little heed they paid to one whom they took to be but a poor old gardener! But Sir Cleges said nothing, and sat quietly at the table, to his heart’s content enjoying all the good things the king had provided for his Christmas dinner. And though the best cooks of the land had shown there all their skill and cunning, nothing at that feast was so wonderful as the cherries which had been brought by the humble stranger.

Now when the dinner was over, the king had not forgotten the poor man who had brought him the unexpected present, and summoning Sir Cleges to him, he bade him ask whatever reward he would in return for his welcome present. Then Sir Cleges bethought himself of the promises he had made to the porter, the usher, and the steward, and he said:

“Lord, King, this is the reward I ask: twelve strokes of this good staff that I bear in my hand, to be delivered on whomsoever it may please me within this royal castle.”

“A strange fellow art thou!” answered the king, in astonishment at this; “and from thy looks, thou hadst done better to ask for something more worthy my giving. But, since it is thy request, thou shalt not find the king fail of his promise. Take thy strokes and deliver them as thou see’st fit.”

“Thanks for thy boon, King Uther,” answered Sir Cleges; “none other shall please me so well as this one.”

And then, turning to the steward in the hall, with his staff Sir Cleges gave him a blow on the shoulders that made him bend double. “Three more thou gettest,” he said, “for that is the full share coming to thee!”

And with a right good will Sir Cleges gave the three strokes, and left the proud steward groaning with pain and terror. Then to the hall door Sir Cleges made his way and delivered another four, no less hearty and stinging, on the shoulders of the astonished usher.

“There, thou hast thy share!” said Sir Cleges, as he hastened to the gateway.

The porter greeted him eagerly, but he little guessed what was coming. Four times Sir Cleges lifted his staff and let it fall with all his might on the back of the greedy porter. And this last third of Sir Cleges’ boon you can be sure was not less light than the others had been.

When Sir Cleges had thus delivered the three thirds of the reward for his present, he found at his elbow a messenger from the king, who bade him return to the great hall of the castle. All the courtiers and the king were still there and were listening to a song the minstrel was singing. Now this song, as it happened, was made about Sir Cleges himself, and the minstrel was telling how this generous knight had spent all his days making other people happy and now was altogether lost and forgotten.

“Poor Sir Cleges!” sighed the king, “I loved him well, but alas! I have no hope ever again to see him.”

Just then, however, Sir Cleges knelt down before the king and thanked him for the reward he had given him, and told him that the twelve strokes had been duly delivered.

“But I beseech thee, good fellow,” answered the king, “tell me what the meaning of this may be. Why were these strokes on the shoulders of my varlets more pleasing to thee than a reward of gold or silver?”

Then Sir Cleges told the king how the porter, the usher, and the steward had each demanded a third of his reward before they would permit him to make his present, and he added, “May they learn thus to be more free in giving and less greedy in demanding. Perchance the next poor man may not find it so hard to come into the king’s presence.”

When the king and his courtiers heard all this, they laughed, and were delighted with the story.

“Well done,” said the king, “thou wielder of the staff! Thou hast taught these knaves a good lesson. How now, master steward, how likest thou thy share of this fellow’s present?”

“May the fiends burn him in flames below!” muttered the steward, as he rubbed the bruises on his shoulders.

Now the king was so pleased with all these happenings that had made his Christmas feasting so merry that he turned again to Sir Cleges and asked him what his name was.

“My name, sire,” answered the poverty-stricken knight, “is one not unknown to thee in the days of old. My name is Sir Cleges.”

“What!” exclaimed the king, “art thou the long-lost Sir Cleges whom men to this day praise for his good deeds and his charity?” And so moved with joy was the good King Uther to find his old friend again that he came down from his high seat and took him by the hand and could not make enough of him. When the courtiers saw how things were going, they all flocked around Sir Cleges claiming his friendship and acquaintance.

But the king did not stop with kind words. He knew that a knight with a heart as true and loyal as the heart of Sir Cleges was not easily to be found, even among the knights of the Round Table, and now he was determined never again to lose him. So he gave to him the good castle of Cardiff to dwell in and other lands and fees wherewith he might live worthily.

Thus ended the king’s Christmas feasting in the castle of Cardiff, and a happy day it was for the knight Sir Cleges and the Lady Clarys. Many a long year they lived in the noble castle the king had given them, and you may be sure that no selfish porters or ushers or stewards stood at the gates and doorways to stop any poor man who would enter there.

[21] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”

CHRISTMAS NIGHT[22]

_Selma Lagerlöf_

“Once upon a time,” said my Grandmother, as we sat together one Christmas Day when all the others had gone to church, “there was a man who went out at night to borrow some fire. ‘Help me, kind people,’ he said. ‘My wife has a little baby, and I must light a fire to warm her and the child.’

“But it was very late, so everybody was asleep, and no one answered.

“The man walked farther and farther on. At last in the distance he saw the glimmer of flames, and, going in that direction, he perceived that the fire was burning in the open air. Around it lay sleeping a flock of white sheep, watched by an old shepherd.

“When the man came up he saw that three large dogs also rested asleep at the shepherd’s feet. Waking at his approach, they opened their wide jaws as if to bark, but no sound was heard. The man saw the hair rise on their backs and their sharp teeth glitter in the firelight as they rushed upon him. One snapped at his legs, one at his hand, and a third sprang at his throat. But neither jaws nor teeth would obey and the man did not feel the smallest hurt.