Chapter VIII: Part 8

“He wanted to go on that he might get what he needed. But the sheep lay so close together that he could not move forward. So he stepped on the animals’ backs, and walked across them to the fire. But not a single one moved or stirred.”

“Why didn’t they move, Grandmother?” I asked.

“You will find out in a little while,” answered Grandmother, and kept on with the story.

“When the man had almost reached the fire the shepherd looked up. He was a surly old man, cross and disagreeable to everybody. So when he saw the stranger, he caught up the long, pointed staff he carried in his hand while he was watching the flock, and hurled it at him. The stick flew straight at the man, but before it struck him, turned aside and whizzed far over the field.”

Here I interrupted again. “Grandmother, why didn’t the stick hit the man?” But she went on without answering.

“Then the man said to the shepherd, ‘Good friend, aid me by letting me have a little fire. My wife has an infant child and I need it to warm them both.’

“The shepherd would gladly have refused, but when he thought that his dogs had not been able to hurt the man, that the sheep had not run from him, and his staff would not strike him, he felt a little afraid, and did not dare to do so.

“‘Take as much as you need,’ he said.

“But the fire was almost out. There were no branches or brands, only a heap of glowing embers, and the stranger had nothing in which he could put the coals.

“The shepherd saw this and was glad because the man could get no fire. But the stranger stooped down, took the coals from the ashes with his hands, and put them in his cloak. And the coals neither scorched his hands nor singed his cloak. The man carried them away as if they were nuts or apples.”

Here I interrupted a third time, “Grandmother, why wouldn’t the coals burn the man?”

“You will soon hear,” she replied, and went on.

“When the shepherd, who was a sullen, bad-tempered man, saw all these things, he began to wonder: ‘What kind of night is this when the dogs do not bite, the sheep feel no fear, the lance does not kill, and fire does not burn?’ He called to the stranger, asking: ‘Why is it that all things show mercy upon you?’

“‘I cannot tell you if you do not see for yourself,’ said the man, and went away to light the fire for his wife and child.

“But the shepherd wanted to find out what all this meant, so he followed him and discovered that the man did not even have a hut to live in, only a sort of cavern with bare stone walls.

“The shepherd thought the poor little child might be chilled, and though he was a harsh man, he pitied and wanted to help it. So he gave the stranger a soft white sheepskin, and told him to put the child in it.

“But the very moment he showed that he, too, could be merciful, his eyes were opened and he saw and heard what he had neither seen nor heard before.

“He saw a dense circle of silver-winged angels, each with a harp in his hand, and all singing that on this night was born the Saviour, who would redeem the world from its sin.

“Then the shepherd understood why on this night all creatures were so happy that they did not desire to harm anything.

“The angels were not only around the shepherd, but he saw them everywhere. They were in the cave, on the mountains, and flying under the sky. They came in throngs along the way, and, as they passed, stopped and gazed at the child.

“There were joy and happiness and mirth and singing, and he saw all this amid the darkness of the night, where he had formerly seen and heard nothing. And he was so happy that his eyes were opened--that he fell on his knees and thanked God.”

Then Grandmother sighed, saying, “But what the shepherds saw, we could see, too, for the angels are flying over the earth every Christmas Eve, if we could only see them.”

And Grandmother laid her hand on my head, adding, “Remember this, for it is as true as that I see you and you see me. It does not depend upon candles and lamps, or on the moon and sun, but what we need is eyes to behold the glory of God.”

[22] By permission of “Good Housekeeping.” Translated expressly for this magazine from the Christ Legends of Selma Lagerlöf.

A QUEER CHRISTMAS[23]

_Marian Willard_

It was Christmas morning--the very day when twins should be having the merriest time in the world. But Betty and Bob were not merry at all; they sat and looked at each other and hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry.

“That letter is the best present we could have had, anyway,” said Betty as she looked again at the big special-delivery stamp. “It means that mother is out of danger and that we shall be at home in a month.”

A month before that when mother was first taken sick, the twins had been sent to Uncle Ben’s so that their own house should be very, very still. They had played on the big farm, had gone to school in the queer little old schoolhouse and watched for the rural delivery postman to bring them letters from home.

Christmas at home meant days of shopping, treats when Uncle Tom came home from college, parties at the church and at the schoolhouse, and Santa Claus, fat and jolly, ringing his little tinkling bells, ting-a-ling-aling! on the street corners. Besides that, Christmas at home meant planning for weeks ahead a gift that would bring Christmas cheer to some little child that was poor.

“Bobby, do you remember how pleased little Johnny Granger was when you gave him that pair of skates?”

“I guess I do! They were the first skates he had ever had! You gave his little sister a pair of rubber boots the same year. How happy she was with them! She wore them to school all winter whether it rained or not. I wish we could have some kind of a Christmas this year, just to keep from forgetting what day it is. There isn’t even snow,” and Bob looked with disgust at the bare, brown fields that stretched away in front of the little old farmhouse. “At home they’ve all been so worried over mother that probably no one has had time to buy us presents.”

“Well, Bobby, mother is better and that is the best present in all the world for us,” and Betty smiled bravely at her brother.

“I wish we could make a Christmas for somebody else,” said Bobby slowly. “There aren’t any poor people like the Granger family up here. Besides, we couldn’t buy anything anyway, for there aren’t any stores. Isn’t this the strangest Christmas you ever saw?”

“Yes, Bob, it is. No place to spend money; woods full of Christmas trees and no presents to put on them; no one who needs help; no snow or skating or company. We are going to have a fine Christmas dinner, though. Uncle Ben killed a pair of fat chickens yesterday.”

“And I’m going to crack butternuts right now,” said Bobby, and he jumped up and left his twin sister to romp with Buddy, the collie, who ran up to her and thrust his soft nose into her hand, teasing for a game of tag.

“O Buddy, Buddy, I’ll give _you_ a Christmas present,” and Betty ran upstairs and came flying down again with a big blue ribbon in her hand.

“There, old fellow,” she said as she tied a huge bow on Buddy’s collar, “you are going to have a Christmas present.” As she spoke she clapped her hands and ran for Bobby. “O, Bob, hurry up and finish your butternuts. I think we can have a Christmas after all. Hurry! Hurry!” Betty ran to find Uncle Ben and whisper something in his ear. She began to do the queerest things. Up to the attic she ran and down again, her arms full of big boxes and little ones; then down to the cellar, and up with an armful of carrots and apples; then out to the barn, and back with a box of corn and oats.

By that time Bobby had cracked all the butternuts for dinner and stood with his hands in his pockets, watching his sister. “What in the world are you doing?” he said with a grin.

Betty grinned at him. “You take the axe and go over to the upland pasture and cut down a little Christmas tree; Uncle Ben said we could.”

“But we haven’t a thing to put on the tree.”

“We shall have something when you get back. Uncle Ben will take Mollie and meet you and haul the tree home.”

Bob went off, wondering, and Betty began to snip up pieces of an old gray flannel shirt of Uncle Ben’s and to rummage in the button box for old shoe buttons.

When Bob drove in with Uncle Ben and the little tree, Betty dangled in front of him seven gray mice by their tails of string. With shoe buttons for eyes and bodies made of gray flannel they looked so real that Uncle Ben jumped when he saw them.

“My land, child, those mice would fool any cat in the county!”

“Smell,” answered Betty, and she dangled her treasures under her uncle’s nose.

“Catnip mice,” he chuckled.

“I guess I know now who your poor folks will be this year. They haven’t a cent to their name, nor a shirt to their backs,” laughed Bobby, “but why the tree?”

Such a busy morning as the twins had after that! Bob set up the tree in the middle of the big barn. Betty made little bundles that were as mysterious as any Christmas package you ever saw. Then she hung them on the tree; a package of meat cut fine for Buddy, marked with his name in big letters; seven catnip mice hung by their string tails for the seven cats on the farm; four carrots tied in a bunch of hay for Mollie; four apples tied in hay for Duke, the old gray horse; lumps of sugar in little bundles for Buddy and Duke and Mollie.

Then Betty was puzzled. She ran to Uncle Ben. “What does a cow like best?” she asked.

“Well, my cows like cornstalks. There is a pile back of the old barn.”

So there were bundles of cornstalks at the base of the tree. Betty tied them in loose bunches for the cows. On the floor, too, stood a big bag of corn for the hens.

After dinner the fun began. Everyone put on a sweater and went to the barn, Buddy at Betty’s heels proud of his new bow. Not all the cats could be found, but five of them came in answer to Aunt Martha’s call. Buddy took his meat and without a single “thank you” ran to an empty stall to eat it. The horses nodded “thank you” as they ate the sugar and the carrots and the apples that the children held out to them. Cats and kittens played with their catnip mice and lapped up saucers of milk. Mother Bunch slapped the gray kitten because he tried to steal her catnip mouse. The cows crunched their cornstalks and looked with mild surprise at the queer antics of the kittens. Bob carried the heavy pail of corn out to the hen yard and Betty fed the chickens which crowded to her feet.

When the children went back to the barn with the empty pail, they themselves had a surprise. A wild gray squirrel had stolen in at the open door, and was sitting up on his hind legs under the Christmas tree, eating the corn that had been spilled; and he seemed as much at home as if he had been invited to the party.

“I guess he must be our poor family,” laughed Betty as she threw him another handful of corn.

“Twinnies,” suddenly called a man’s voice from the yard. Only father called like that. The twins turned, and there he stood in the door of the barn, smiling at them. They rushed to his arms. How happy they were to see him.

“So you youngsters had a tree for the penniless poor, did you?” he said with a laugh.

“Well, run into the house with your father and I’ll see what this tree will have for you,” said Uncle Tom, who stood just behind their father, his arms loaded with bundles.

In less time than you would have thought it could be done, Uncle Tom had the tree ready for Betty and Bob.

“We have to start for home by five o’clock, so you children had better open your bundles right now,” said father. The twins did not need to be told twice. Eagerly they opened the packages, gay with ribbons and seals. There were books, snowshoes, a red silk umbrella for Betty and a pair of skating boots for Bob; candy, a gold piece for each twin from Uncle Tom; and best of all, a little pencil note from mother to tell them that she was really better and to wish them a merry Christmas.

“Well,” said Bobby as the big car drove out of the yard with father and Uncle Tom, “this hasn’t been such a queer Christmas, after all.”

[23] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 14, 1922. Reprinted by permission of the author and “Youth’s Companion.”

A CHRISTMAS FOR TONY[24]

_Zona Gale_

Little Anthony punched his small, hard pillow, to make it as large as possible, so that his head would come well above the level of the window sill. Wonderful, thick, Christmas-looking snow was falling, though it wanted two days yet to Christmas.

“Mother!” he cried, “I wish all the snow in the world would come and fall in front of our window!”

“It looks as if it had come,” said Mother Margaret.

That was what he usually called her--Mother Margaret: “Because that’s your name!” he said. “Everybody calls you Margaret, in letters. Nobody but me says ‘Mother.’”

“You want your head to be higher, don’t you?” she said now, and put down the paper roses which, all day long, she made for a great factory.

She brought him her own pillow, and under that she folded a bed-comforter. The poor little room had not a single cushion.

“Now!” she cried, “you can see all the snow there is.”

At any rate, Anthony could see nothing but snow--snow, and the dim rectangle of the Window Across.

The Window Across was the back window of an apartment which faced the avenue. Anthony’s window faced the court, and was over a store. There were three floors of families over the store, because the rooms were too old and inconvenient to use for offices. The Window Across had thin rose silk curtains at the casement and often, in the evening, one could look straight through to the front window and see bright moving figures and an unbelievable dinner table, all made of bright things. And two or three times, for ecstatic minutes, a little girl had come and stood at the Window Across. Once, indeed, she had come right away out on the fire-escape and stood there, dancing and laughing in the cold, until a white-capped maid had run in a panic and carried her in. Anthony’s window had been open then, and he had heard the maid cry: “Dear Child!”

So he always called her Dear Child.

He lay now looking through the snow to the Window Across, and imagining that the snow lay so deep that they were at last obliged to make a tunnel from one window to another, so that anybody could get out at all. But it was always he and Mother Margaret who went down the tunnel to the Window Across--never the others who came up, because the little room was so bare and so shabby and so unlike the room he imagined beyond the rose silk curtains. And always he was well and strong instead of obliged to lie in bed, as he had lain now for almost a year, to give strength to the poor back, wrenched and threatened by a fall.

Suddenly, as he looked, a beautiful thing happened. The silk curtains parted in the Window Across, the white-capped maid stood there, and she hung in the window a great wreath of Christmas holly tied with a scarlet bow.

Anthony sat up, and cried out and waved his thin little arms.

“Mother Margaret, Mother Margaret!” he cried. “Look--oh, look-at!”

Mother Margaret came and looked, and she exclaimed too, with something of pleasure--but through the pleasure there went darting and stabbing a pain which had been coming again and again these past few days; and as Christmas Day drew nearer, it had been hurting her more and more. It had come that morning when she had first waked. And she had said to herself, for the hundredth time:

“What _is_ the use? You can buy him some fruit--a big orange and a red apple. You can manage a little something for Christmas dinner. But you can’t do anything else, and what _is_ the use in thinking about it?”

She put down her paper flowers now, and went over to Anthony’s bed.

“Tony, dear,” she said, “I _believe_ you’re thinking about Christmas.”

He looked up, bravely and brightly.

“No, Mother, truly,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking about it hardly at all.”

She sat down on the bedside and took his hand. “You do know, don’t you, love,” she said, “that Mother Margaret can’t--she sure-enough can’t--do anything for our Christmas this year! But another year--”

“Yes, yes!” Tony agreed eagerly, “another year!”

“This year things are bad enough,” she said; “but if Mother thought that--somewhere in his little heart, he wasn’t quite believing her, and was thinking that maybe, _maybe_ some kind of Christmas would come to him, why, then--”

Her voice stopped of its own will--stopped, and steadied itself bravely, and went on again:

“Why, then,” she said, “Mother just couldn’t bear it _at all_.”

“Truly, Mother, truly!” said Anthony. “I know we can’t--I do know. Oh, but--why, Mother Margaret! That’s what makes it so nice to see the wreath! It’s just as if we almost had a wreath in our window--isn’t it, though?”

“Almost, almost,” she said, and went back to her paper flowers. She had six dozen red roses to make before Christmas Eve.

“And then the snow,” Anthony was saying eagerly. “Why, Mother, it’s like all the Christmas pictures. It’s like the Christmas cards. And oh, Mother,--think! It’s just as nice and white for us as if we lived no matter where!”

“Yes,” said his mother bitterly, “the snow and the cold are about the only things that are the same for us as for everybody.”

Anthony half closed his eyes and lay watching happily. Mother Margaret went on with her roses. As she worked, her lips were moving. But she was not counting the petals, as one would have supposed. She was counting, as she almost always counted, what she had in her purse and what she _must_ spend. And when one counts like this, all day long, it begins to show in one’s face, in one’s voice, in all one’s ways. Anthony was seven. It was six years since his father had died. And every year of these six years she had been fighting to keep Anthony with her. But this meant that she counted all day long.

At five o’clock Mother Margaret went out with half her roses. At the factory she sent them in and asked, as she did each time, for more tissue paper. The manager looked doubtful. Had she enough to finish her order? Oh, yes, she said; but she carried a little back at each delivery. The man returned. She would have to wait--everyone was busy with the rush mail orders. They could give out no paper till Monday.

As she went out, she lingered and looked about her. She did not guess what a pretty picture she made in her old brown coat and hat which just matched her eyes. What about all these women, she was wondering. Some of them must have little children at home. And they must have to count almost as much as she counted. She wished that she knew how they meant to manage about Christmas. Was there anything that she could do, if she knew how to do it, for Anthony’s Christmas?

A middle-aged woman was packing boxes near her. Mother Margaret went shyly to her.

“I wonder,” she said, “could you tell me anything you know how to do for a child’s Christmas? Something that won’t--that doesn’t--”

The woman leaned on the box for a moment. She nodded comprehendingly.

“Why,” she said, “no. Everything costs now. Did you ever try using the flowers?”

“The flowers?” Mother Margaret questioned.

“They decorate grand,” said the woman. “You can get a lot made up ahead, and string them around the room. You can make a tree look lovely with ’em, and nothing else. And it don’t hurt ’em none. Take ’em down, and they’re like new.”

Why had she never thought of that! She thanked the woman joyfully.

Mother Margaret flew along the street for the mile which she walked to save car fare, her head filled with visions. The pink and white and green tissue paper was there in their room; it was not hers, and it had not occurred to her that she could use it. But, just for one evening to borrow the flowers before she sent them out--oh, nobody could mind that. She could make the room beautiful, she could make a tree beautiful! But she knew she could not afford a tree.

There was one thing, however, which Mother Margaret could do. She had brought her library card in expectation of it. She went into the little branch library near where she lived, and eagerly to the desk. In these days before the holidays there was almost no one in the room. The pleasant-faced young woman at the desk had time to greet her with unusual cordiality.

“Oh,” said Mother Margaret, her cheeks flushed from her long walk, “I want you to find me a book. A book that a little child will like. A book all pictures. A Christmas book, if you can.”

“That ought to be easy,” the pleasant-faced young woman said, and went with her to the shelves, asking questions.

At the first book which she found and offered, Mother Margaret shook her head.

“No,” she said, “it’s got to be--to be larger than that. Thicker, I mean--it’s got to last longer. You see,” she explained, flushing still more, “I want it to last my little boy all day long, on Christmas. It’s about the only Christmas he’s going to have.”

“I see,” said the woman quietly.

“And then,” Mother Margaret said, “if you had something about modeling. About modeling in clay--”

“Does your little boy model in clay?” the librarian asked.

Mother Margaret flushed again. “He never has had any clay or any tools,” she said; “but he loves to read about it.”

They found two books, one on clay modeling, and one with many pictures, and a story of somebody’s wonderful Christmas that came when none was expected. Then the librarian considered for a moment, looking at a colored sheet of birds on the bulletin-board; she took down the poster, rolled and tied it and, from the bowl on her desk, fastened a sprig of holly in the cord.

“Flowers and birds and a piece of holly!” Mother Margaret cried, and thanked her joyfully.

She bought her red apple and a great orange, looked longingly at a window of chocolates, and ran home with her treasures.

As she was leaving the things in the sitting-room, on her own bed, she heard Anthony calling her.

“Mother--oh, Mother! Come here!” he shouted excitedly. When she ran to him he was sitting up--his face as near to the window as he could get.

“Look at! _Look_ at!” he said. “They’ve brought home their Christmas tree! They’ve hid it on the fire-escape!”

And there, leaning against the wall of the fire-escape, outside the Window Across, was a beautiful, tapering evergreen tree, sent home for Christmas and hidden outside there, unquestionably to surprise the Dear Child.

Anthony and his mother sat on the bed and looked at this tree. And presently they began to plan. On the very tip-top would be the star--or would it be the angel? They decided on the star. Below would come the ornaments, the candles, the nuts wrapped in silver paper, the pink hanging bags of candy, the pop-corn strings. All this Mother Margaret arranged, because she had seen many Christmas trees, and Anthony never had seen any. But there was one thing that he could plan.

“And then,” he said, “right close under the tree, would be the box all full of clay and things to model with!”

“Yes,” Mother Margaret agreed, with a catch in her voice. “That should be there, without a doubt.” Then she whispered to him.

“Tony, dear,” she said. “I’ve no Christmas for you. But I have got a little surprise.”

Her heart ached at the leaping delight in his eyes as he looked up at her.

“Not a gift, dear,” she hastened to say. “Just a little something for us to look at--oh, Tony, it isn’t much at all!” she broke off.

“Why, Mother,” Tony said, “a little much is _almost_ as nice as a great big much, you know!”

The gayety with which she had come in was slipping away, now that she had seen the tree for the Dear Child. Presently she went in the other room and opened the box where she kept the tissue paper. But the flowers would be something, after all, in the dull little room on Christmas Day. She lifted out the sheets, and stood staring at them. There were not more than three dozen sheets, and she had three dozen of the roses yet to make. One rose required a sheet of paper. These must be delivered by Christmas Eve--to-morrow night! No more paper would be given out till Monday. She could not even have the flowers for Anthony on Christmas day....

_If only Christmas were to-morrow!_

She went back into Anthony’s room and sat down beside his bed. She dreaded to tell him that even the poor “little much” of a surprise was not to be his. She put it off until they should have had their supper. After supper, in the dark, they could just see the tall shadow of the Christmas tree leaning against the opposite wall in the snow. Presently the Window Across flamed bright with the lighted globes within the room.

The tall Christmas tree there against the wall! Mother Margaret sat and stared at it. It seemed such a waste that it should be there all this time, with no one enjoying it. It seemed such a waste that it should stand there to-morrow, with no one enjoying it. It would be just as beautiful, decorated now, as it would be on Christmas Day....

And then Mother Margaret’s heart stood still at what it thought. But it thought about it once, it thought about it twice, and then it began to beat as Mother Margaret’s heart did not often beat any more. She sprang up and stood looking out the window, across the court to the tree. Could she possibly bring herself to do it? Would she dare? What would they think--what would they do--Oh, but she must try!

“Tony,” she said, “Mother must go out again now, for a few minutes.”

She slipped down to the street, and around the corner to the avenue. There was no difficulty in distinguishing the apartment building. She walked boldly in the door and to the elevator.

“Fourth,” she said with confidence.

The white-capped maid opened the door. She looked at Mother Margaret as a stranger, and Mother Margaret wanted to say: “Oh, but I know you very well!” Only, when she had seen her before, in the Window Across, she had looked quite small and like anybody; whereas she seemed now a person towering infinitely tall.

“I want,” said little Mother Margaret, quite loud and bold, “to see your mistress. At once.”

The maid looked at her perplexedly. Small and pretty persons in shabby brown with nice voices and the ways of a lady did not often come knocking at this door demanding to see the mistress, and not by name.

“I don’t think--” the maid began doubtfully.

“Tell her that I shall not keep her,” said Mother Margaret clearly. “But I must see her. Tell her that I do not know her, but that I am her neighbor, across the court.

Then the maid gave way. There is something about that word “neighbor” that is a talisman. With, “I’ll see,” the maid ushered her in. She stood weakly in the small and pretty reception-room while the maid went to call her mistress. Then there came a step, and a voice.

Mother Margaret hardly looked at this woman. She saw someone in gray, with a practical face of concern; then she saw nothing but direct and rather pleasant eyes looking into hers.

“Madam,” said Mother Margaret, simply, “you have out on your fire-escape a little Christmas tree. Christmas isn’t till day after to-morrow. To-morrow, for a little while, could you lend me that tree?”

“Lend you--” repeated the woman, uncertainly.

“I live just back of you,” Mother Margaret went on breathlessly. “I saw the tree. I thought--if you could lend it to me a little while to-morrow--oh, just as it is! and just till you get ready to trim it. I could bring it back quite promptly. Nothing should happen to it. And I could fix it up--just for a little while. My--my little boy never has seen a tree trimmed,” she added.

“My dear!” said the woman.

This, Mother Margaret thought, would be the exclamation at the impossibility of doing anything so wild. She looked miserably down at the floor. And so she did not see someone else come into the room, until a soft quick step was close beside her.

“Why,” this newcomer said, “Mother! This is a friend of mine!”

Then Mother Margaret looked up, straight into the eyes of the pleasant-faced woman of the library.

“Oh!” cried Mother Margaret. “Oh!” And for a moment said no more. “I never knew I was going to ask this of you--when you’ve done so much!” she cried at last.

She turned to the older woman in mute apology. And she was actually filled with wonder when she saw that the eyes of the older woman were shining with tears.

They went into the little living-room and talked it over, how it could be managed. The two women saw--because they looked with the heart--that there must be no thought of the gift of another tree. It must be just as Mother Margaret had suggested. The tree must be lent for a part of to-morrow and returned in time for them to trim it on Christmas Eve.

“For the Dear Child,” said Mother Margaret; and then blushed beautifully. “Tony and I call her that,” she said.

“With that, they called the Dear Child to the room. The white-capped maid was putting her to bed, and brought her in, partly undressed, with surprisingly fat legs and arms and surprisingly thick curls.

“Honey,” the older woman said, “a little boy lives across the court. This is his mama.”

The Dear Child opened wide eyes.

“I know that little bit o’ boy,” she announced. “He--he--he--lives in the bed!”

“Yes,” Mother Margaret said sorrowfully, “he lives in the bed.”

“Say him a kiss,” the Dear Child said sleepily, and was carried back to her undressing.

So then it was arranged that when the maid was free, she should come bringing the Christmas tree round to the door of Mother Margaret’s flat.

“I could carry it,” Mother Margaret insisted.

But no, it must be, it seemed, exactly as they said. Mother Margaret must be there to have left the outer door ajar, and to amuse the little boy and keep his attention while the tree was put into the other room. She must pin a handkerchief on the open door so that there should be no mistake. And then on no account must she leave the little boy when she heard the tree set in the other room, or else he would hear, and wonder. Would she do all this, exactly as they told her to?

There was no thanking them. Perhaps Mother Margaret’s broken words, though, were better thanks than any perfect utterance.

She ran home, through a maze of lights and windows which danced and nodded and all but held out their hands. It is strange and sorrowful, at Christmas time, how much more, if you are going to have Christmas joy, the lights and windows seem to mean Christmas than if you are going to have none.

When she went in she saw that Tony had fallen asleep. His little pillow was still bunched, hard and round, on her own and on the folded quilt. And his face was still turned toward the Window Across.

She sat down to wait. She would not wake him. Until after the maid had been there with the tree, she would not even risk lighting the gas and working at the flowers. She sat almost an hour in the dusk. The outer door of the other room was standing faithfully ajar, with a handkerchief pinned to a panel, and the light there burning low. She could have been sure that she would hear the lightest step in the next room; and then, since Anthony was asleep, she meant to disregard their injunctions and slip to the door for a word of gratitude for the maid. But when she fancied that she heard a sound, and caught a shadow, and when she had hurried to the door, she stood mute and hardly breathing in her wonderment. No one was there--save indeed a presence. And the presence was the tree, standing neatly erect in its small, green box--and hung from top to base with popcorn and tinsel and ornaments which, even in that dim light, glittered like angels and like stars.

Mother Margaret went in and sat down on her little bed, and looked at the wonder of it. And before she knew that it might possibly happen to her she had hidden her face in her hands and was sobbing.

A stir from Anthony sent her back to his room. He was moving in the little bed “where he lived,” and Mother Margaret wiped her eyes and lighted the gas, and wondered how she could keep the happy news.

She went to him to arrange his pillow. He opened his eyes and smiled--as all his life long he had never failed to smile when first he opened his eyes and saw her. Then, at some memory, the eyes flew wide.

“Is to-morrow Christmas, Mama?”

Without just the combination of events which had set her head whirling, Mother Margaret would never have answered as she did.

“Yes, darling. To-morrow is Christmas.”

His face lighted, “_Is_ it?” he cried. “Is it tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said again, “to-morrow.”

“Will the s’prise be when I wake up?”

“Yes,” she said, “the surprise will be when you wake up.”

He smiled again, and drifted off to sleep. As she smoothed the tumbled covers, the old grip and terror came to her at sight of the little wasted body. The momentary qualm which she had felt died away. Why should he not believe that it was Christmas Day? She knew the heart of a child, knew that the day makes all the difference. Tony should think that he had one Christmas, in any case!

It was past one o’clock when she finished the last of the roses. Tony was sleeping heavily. She turned down the gas and went to work.

The bed, left from the days of her housekeeping, had a high, slender white frame, meant to hold a canopy. From this down to the foot posts ran two cords carrying roses, and roses ran along the foot rail. Working slowly and quietly, she brought the tree from the other room to stand by his side. She had not yet had time to examine the ornaments--she and Tony could do that together. His stocking, the poor little disused stocking, with the big red apple and the orange, she tied to a bough reaching toward the little boy, like a friendly hand. The library books were spread open at pages of bright pictures. The chart of colored birds was pinned to the wall. The sprig of holly was fastened to the coverlet. At the last moment, from scraps of her green tissue, she had fashioned a semblance of holly wreath, with a bit of red paper twisted here and there for berries. She slipped behind the bed, and hung the wreath in the window. When, in the “little hours,” she crept to her own bed, she was without fatigue.

She woke at dawn, and was dressed and back in his room before he had opened his eyes. She lighted the gas, and then she kissed him.

“Merry Christmas, Tony!” she cried.

He struggled up, lovely with sleep. And in upon his dreams came the lines of the roses, and the soft greenness and beauty and brightness of the tree. He sat up, his head thrown back, an expression of almost angelic wonder in his believing face. And he was, with all his joy, a practical little Tony.

“W-w-where’d you get that?” he cried. “Oh, Mama! Mama! Mama!”

And there was something in his cry that opened Mother Margaret’s heart like a flower.

A child before its _first_ Christmas tree, that is an experience apart. Tony was mute. Tony was shouting. Tony was leaning forward to touch things. Tony was leaning far back to win the effect of the whole. Tony was absolutely and unutterably happy.

So was Mother Margaret--for a while. Then Tony said an unexpected thing.

“Think,” he said, “that little Jesus was born to-day. Really, truly to-day.”

Mother Margaret looked at him.

“They cannot tell surely, which day, you know, son,” she said uncertainly.

“Oh, it was to-day!” Tony told her positively. “I know it was to-day.”

Then, when he took in his hands the library picture book, there was the story of Bethlehem of Judea, and she must read it to him, and he listened as if he were hearing it for the first time.

“It was this morning!” he said over dreamily. “The Star in the East was this morning, Mother Margaret. It seems true, now I’ve seen my tree,” he added quaintly.

He seemed possessed with the idea of “to-dayness.”

“Think,” he said again, “all little boys is got a tree now. Right now. And me, too!”

It was a long, enchanted day; and she waited until the final possible moment to close it.

“Tonykins,” she said at last, “now the roses have to come down while Mama puts them into a box and takes them to their own family. And while she’s gone, you can lie here and look at the tree, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said Anthony, “an’--an’ it’ll talk to me!”

Unquestionably the tree talked to Tony. But the amazing thing was that it also talked to his mother, on her way down to the factory.

No sooner was she on the street from the happy holiday humor of their room than she was faced accusingly by the bustle and clamor of the streets on “the night before Christmas.” Everyone was intent on something outside himself. Everyone, Mother Margaret thought, would have known it was Christmas, if he had not been told.

_All save Tony._ Her heart smote her when she thought of that. For Tony in the little bed where he “lived,” all the blessedness and peace of tomorrow had descended to-day, and he had lived them faithfully. And on Christmas morning, on Star of Bethlehem morning for all the rest of the world, it would all be past for him; when for all the rest of the world it would be dawning....

Christmas dinner they ate together on Christmas Eve, there at Tony’s bedside, with a royal feast of one thing extra, spread on a little sewing table set in the shadow of the tree.

“Now, dear,” said Mother Margaret when they had finished, “the twenty-four hours is almost up, and the fairy is going to come for the tree. You’re sure you won’t mind--aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, Mother!” Tony’s eyes were fastened on the tree as if he feared it might vanish if he looked away.

“And you are going to feel more glad that you had it than sorry to see it go?”

“Oh, yes, Mother!”

Tony’s eyes were still on the tree.

“I wish,” he said, “I wish Christmas was to-morrow, too. I like to feel like I feel when it’s Christmas.”

She sat beside him, silent, when outside the door came the tread and tap which they were both expecting. And somewhat to her bewilderment Mother Margaret admitted four visitors. There was the kindly, practical woman; and the librarian with the pleasant eyes; and the maid with the Dear Child in her arms.

She set the Dear Child down, and the Dear Child ran to Tony’s bed, and in her hands was a box.

“Little boy!” she shouted. “See what! See what!”

She laid something beside him. And when, trembling a little with the wonder of it, Tony had unwound this, there lay his longed-for clay and some unbelievable modeling tools. Mother Margaret’s eyes flew to the librarian. And the look of the two women met and clung, with something living in the faces of them both. And so it came about that when the maid drew the little tree from the room, Tony hardly knew.

They went away with happy greetings, and waving hands, and promises to meet again.

“I--I--I--bring you my kitty and my fimbel!” shouted the Dear Child kissing her hand. “That other day,” she added importantly.

An hour later Tony opened his eyes sleepily.

“Make a great big racket, Mother Margaret!” he surprisingly demanded.

“Why, dear?” she asked.

“’Cause if I go to sleep, then it won’t be Christmas any more,” said Tony, and drifted off with his smile still on his face.

Christmas morning, the true Christmas morning, came with a white mantle and a bright face. Mother Margaret woke to hear the city one tumbling peal of early bells. She sprang up and threw on her dressing gown, with her pretty hair falling about her shoulders, and ran to Tony’s room. He was still asleep. Resolutely, and even joyously, she stooped and kissed him.

“Tony, dear!” she said--but there was something like a sob in her voice. “Wake up! It’s Christmas morning!”

His eyes flew open, and stared straight into her eyes.

“It’s Christmas morning,” she repeated tremulously.

A look of pain came to his face.

“Did I dream my tree?” he asked.

“No!” she cried, “no, dear. You did have your tree. Mother told you yesterday was Christmas because we could just have the tree that day--and she wanted you to have all the fun--_all_ of it, Tony--” She broke down, and buried her face in his warm neck.

Something of the solemnity and old wisdom born in a child when a grown person apologizes, or explains, or in any wise treats him as an equal, came growing in Tony’s face. But this was over-shadowed now, by a dawning joy.

“Mother!” he cried. “Truly? Truly, is it Christmas _again_?”

“Not again,” she said. “But it’s Christmas.”

He sat up, and threw his arms about her.

“Oh, I’m glad--I’m glad!” he cried. “Why, Mother. Then _it wasn’t just the tree that made us happy, was it_?”

She held him close. And as they sat in each other’s arms, in the bare room, with no tree, no roses, and even the clay for a moment forgotten, there came overwhelmingly to the woman, and dimly to the child, the precious understanding that Christmas is a spirit. And the spirit was with them, and made a third presence in their sudden, indefinable joyousness.

Tony drew a little away, and laughed up at her.

“Mother Margaret!” he cried. “It’s Christmas--it’s Christmas!”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, dear. Don’t you hear the bells?”

Tony shook his head. “We don’t need the bells, Mother,” he said. “Why, Mother Margaret!” he cried, “maybe now we can get the feeling every day!”

[24] Copyright by Crowell Publishing Company, 1915. Reprinted by special permission of the author.

THE UNWELCOME GIFT[25]

_Julia Burket_

Snyge, the woodsman, walked briskly through the gates of the park which surrounded the royal palace. On his arm hung a small basket covered with a white cloth. In the basket were some cranberry tarts which his wife was sending to her aunt, an old woman who stirred the royal soup-kettle.

As Snyge walked along the winding road the sun shone and sparkled brightly on the snow; and the roofs of the palace, which glistened through the tree-tops, did not seem nearly so awe-inspiring as they did on other days. On approaching the rear of the palace he heard a great deal of loud hammering, which sounded odd on the quiet of the winter afternoon. He hastened his steps and opened the door of the kitchen.

Along one side of the brick-floored room there stretched a long wooden table. Before the table was a settle, and on this were seated a scullery-maid, two butlers, four maids, and three small footmen; all dressed in the olive livery of the king’s household and all busily cracking nuts.

They made such a racket and commotion that Snyge was obliged to walk the entire length of the room before he could attract the attention of Mother Jorgan, who was stirring away at the soup with her back to the door.

“What is the meaning of all this noise?” he shouted in the old woman’s ear.

At the unexpected sound of his voice she gave a start, and would have dropped the pot-stick if a little boy, who was seated on a high stool behind the kettle, had not caught it.

After Mother Jorgan had recovered from her surprise she told the woodsman that they were cracking nuts for the Christmas feast. They should all have been done the day before, but the scullery-maid had forgotten and the baker was now mixing up the fruit-cake; so they had been forced to set every one to work who was not already busy, in order that the nuts should be ready in time.

While Mother Jorgan was muttering away in her shrill, cackling voice, Snyge had been staring ahead of him at the small boy on the stool. There was really no reason why any one should look at poor little Bebelle. He was by far the ugliest and most insignificant-looking person in the room. Hunched up on his stool in the dark shadows behind the kettle, he looked more like some odious goblin than a little boy. His thick black hair made a fitting frame for his pinched face. His nose was long and crooked; his eyes were very large and very black; and his pathetic little mouth, although tender and childish, made his face seem all the homelier by contrast. In his hand he held a stick upon which, with infinite labor, he was carving something.

However, Snyge, who said little, but saw a great deal, when Mother Jorgan had finished, pointed his finger at him and said, “Who is that?”

“I am Bebelle,” said the child in a thin, but rather sweet, voice.

“And what is that you have there in your hand?”

“That,” said the old woman, “is the scepter he is making for the king’s Christmas present.” And turning her back to the kettle, she looked significantly at Snyge and tapped her forehead. “Tell Snyge about your present, Bebelle, and perhaps he will give you a better stick of wood.”

But the child held the stick close and answered fearfully: “Oh, no, thank you, Mother Jorgan! No, thank you! this will do very well for what I want. But I will tell the man what I know of it.”

At these words one of the small footmen, who had stopped swinging his hammer for a moment in order to eat a walnut, nudged his neighbor, and they both picked up their bowls of nuts and squatted down on the floor in front of the kettle. And the maid who dusted the royal throne, and was just then going through the kitchen, saw the pages and joined the little group.

“We will now have some fun,” one of them whispered to her.

Bebelle, who was unaware of his audience on the other side of the kettle, turning towards Snyge, began his tale.

“You see,” he said, “although I am lame and stupid and of no use to any one, the good king allows me to stay here in his kitchen. I sit here all day behind the kettle; and when Mother Jorgan has something else she must do, she allows me to stir the soup. Each day I have a crust of bread and bowl of froth from the top of the soup, and at night the baker allows me to lie behind the great oven. You see, I should be happy, for I have done nothing to deserve this easy lot. But sometimes I am very discontented. I was feeling that way one evening, and, as I was alone in the kitchen, I climbed up there on the table to look out of the casement. It was a lovely night, with all the stars shining, and as I stood there thinking how ashamed I should be to be unhappy when so much splendor was about me, I saw before me a beautiful hand reaching up on the other side of the sill. It clasped a stick of wood and a piece of paper. The hand laid them on the window-ledge, and I heard a voice like music say, “These are for you, Bebelle.’”

Here there was a great nudging and giggling on the part of his unseen audience, and the little maid called out, “Where is the paper now?”

Bebelle leaned far out over the kettle, and, seeing the maid’s duster on the floor, turned again to Snyge and said: “They often come to hear me tell about it. The paper blew into the fire,” he explained, and went on: “I was very much frightened and wanted to climb down from the window and leave them there, but at last I found courage to look at the paper. On it were these words: _Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_. I stood there a long time, and at last I thought how fine it would be to make a new scepter for a Christmas present to the king, and to carve these words upon it. They are pretty words and have a pleasant sound. I have never heard the wonderful voice again, but I feel that this is what it would have me do.”

“Now tell about how the words come,” demanded one of the footmen.

But Bebelle would only say, “I am at the end of ‘_Patience_’ now, and, if you do not mind, I will start to carve again. You see, there is very little time left until Christmas.”

As Bebelle concluded, his small audience broke up. The maid returned to her dusting, the footmen took their bowls and hammers back to the table, and Mother Jorgan, giving the pot-stick to little Bebelle, went to the door with Snyge.

With the return of the footmen, the noise was even more deafening than before. The fruit-cake was all mixed but the nuts, and the baker stood over the small regiment of workers, every now and then rapping up some lagging one with a cuff on the ears. Mother Jorgan was obliged fairly to shriek the rest of the conversation; or rather her part of it, for Snyge said very little.

“Yes, it is true. Bebelle has been carving at the old stick for weeks. He is very happy. But he is a stupid dolt. The king does not even know that he lives here in the kitchen. If he did, it would all be at an end with little Bebelle.”

“And about the hand?” asked the woodsman.

“That? Oh, well, I don’t know. No one here believes it. But I couldn’t say. It may be. But I know this much: I have seen the words come. When he was at ‘_Mercy_,’ a few weeks ago, one of the huntsmen brought him a little half-dead squirrel for his supper. But the foolish child warmed it and set it free. When he went back to his carving, ‘Mercy’ was there on the stick. That has been the way with them all. I know, for I have seen it with my sharp old eyes.”

Snyge gave her the basket and went out into the dusk. He had stayed long past his time.