Chapter IX: Part 9

In a little while the noise in the kitchen ceased. The nuts were all finished and put in the waiting cake, and the room was quiet but for the crackling of the fire and the chatter of the servants.

“‘_Patience_’ is very hard,” said little Bebelle to Mother Jorgan. “I get along very well for a while, but just as I have almost finished, the letters seem to fly back again. It is very funny.

“Listen, Mother Jorgan! Some one is coming. It is Shreve of the Fields.” His face was lit up until it seemed almost pretty, and his hands trembled at his carving.

In a moment there was a low, mysterious bird-note. Some one drew back the bolts, and youth incarnate stood framed in the dark oaken doorway. Shreve of the Fields swayed there, his slim, vibrant figure outlined against the sparkling snow without. Pushed back from his thick dark curls he wore a bag-like cap of brilliant red. Over the shoulder of his tattered jacket was flung a brown sack, and in his hands he held a torn net. The lovely poise of his proud young head, the startling beauty of his face, the wonder of his gay, mysterious eyes, were all so intense that one looked again and again, awed, troubled, stupefied, unable to understand such glorious beauty. It was like some vague lovely dream that one had been forced by the very intensity of its sweetness to cast from his thoughts, now recurring to the mind. Even the servants felt it, and they looked again and again at the not unfamiliar sight of the radiant youth. And Shreve, unable, as always, to understand this blind desire to pierce the mystery of his beauty, crossed the room with swift, free steps and approached Bebelle.

“I have brought you this net to mend,” he said, and his voice was low and wonderfully sweet. “I use it to catch the poor starving hares; and then I feed them. I will wait if you are not too long.”

“Oh, I’ll do it gladly,” responded the child; “and I’ll try to hasten as much as I can.”

He put the unfinished scepter in his threadbare little blouse, and bent carefully over the net.

It had now grown dark, and one of the pages went about the room with a taper lighting the candles in the greater pewter sticks. One by one the butlers and footmen came in to eat their evening meal before they should serve the royal dinner. All was light, and laughter and good-natured raillery in the kitchen.

Shreve walked restlessly up and down the long room. Each time he passed the oven he would snatch a loaf and put it in his sack. “For my birds,” he would say with his dazzling smile to the baker. Each time he neared the soup-kettle he stopped and watched little Bebelle’s swift-moving fingers. Without looking up, the child would answer his unspoken question, “In a little while, Shreve, I shall have finished it.”

As the graceful, glowing figure moved about the room all the youths stared at him and the maidens glanced more shyly from under their long lashes. But Shreve’s thoughts were on the world outside and the mending of the net. However, when they spoke to him, he always answered sweetly in his lovely, winning voice.

“How are your friends, O Shreve?” said Mother Jorgan.

“They are well. Only it is cold in the mountains, and the beasts freeze; and the woods and fields are bare, so my birds want food. But wait, old woman; some day I shall know all of nature’s secrets, and then winter cannot harm my people.”

The servants now came up to the kettle to get their bowls of soup, and Shreve of the Fields stood in the corner and watched them silently.

At last Bebelle crept down from his stool, and slowly moved toward Shreve.

“Here is your net, Shreve,” he said.

The beautiful youth took the net and held it before him. He tugged at it, but the mended threads held as firmly as the others.

“This is nicely done, Bebelle. When I come at Christmas I will bring you some fairy moss. How is your scepter?” he asked a little shyly.

“Oh, it is almost finished. I am on ‘_Patience_’ now.”

Bebelle pulled the stick from his blouse, and as Shreve of the Fields bent over it, he saw that “_Patience_” was finished.

* * * * *

It was the eve of Christmas, and all the great castle was in a merry bustle and a wild confusion. From the little scullery-maid, who was giving the pots and pans a final scouring, to the queen herself, who was being fitted with a new crown, not a soul in the palace was idle.

The great hall was all green, and red, and white; pine, and holly, and mistletoe. The white pillars were twined with ivy and laurel; from the rafters hung great clusters of mistletoe; and the walls were banked with leaves and red berries. On each side of the royal dais stood a shining, glistening Christmas-tree; and the galleries were hung low with Christmas greens.

It was not long until the king and queen ascended their royal thrones, the queen happy because the new crown was very becoming, and the king that there was a grand feast in prospect.

The royal court assembled with laughter and gay words and smiling faces; and of them all the princess Faunia was the most admired. Tall and slim and beautiful, as the princess should be, with the dainty grace of a young fawn and the proud young way of one, she stood by the dais with a dark, handsome prince. Each time he spoke to her, although his words were laughing, she knew that he loved her; and each time he looked at her, his gay eyes said what his lips dared not speak. The princess, like every one else in the room, was very, very happy.

In the kitchen below sat Bebelle, carving the last word upon his gift for the king. His face was very pale; it looked even thinner than usual. His great black eyes burned feverishly, and his hands worked swiftly upon the word “_Love_.”

“I must not be late! I must not be late!” he said over and over again.

Most of the servants had left the kitchen and were sitting in the gallery of the hall above, watching the royal pageant.

However, there was a little girl left in the room, who had to remain behind in order to keep the fire going in the great fireplace.

“When will you give the king his gift?” she asked Bebelle.

“When all the others have given theirs and Shreve of the Fields alone is left he will give the king his beautiful raven, and then he will say, ‘There is still another, O King, who has a gift for you.’ Mother Jorgan has promised to let me go with her up the stairs, and when Shreve says this, then I will walk into the room and give the king his scepter.”

“Shreve of the Fields may forget,” said the little girl, shrewdly; “he thinks only of his birds and beasts, of others he has no thought. Old Jason, the butler, says he has no soul.”

“Oh, yes, he has!” said Bebelle. “He is wild and timid like his animals, though, and is afraid to show it. He has told me how some nights he lies in his cave with his animals and longs for a human friend. But you know, Sana, he is so beautiful and so different from every one else that no one can be friends with him. But look what he gave me! It is fairy moss, and Shreve says that if I carry it, I shall be brave enough to walk through the great hall to the king and not be ashamed of my ugly face.

Bebelle held up a little patch of silvery moss, the drops of dew sparkling like diamonds upon it.

“Oh!” said the child, in awed wonder. “It is so beautiful! And do you think it really has such power?”

“Why, yes, of course; Shreve told me so.”

“Ah!” sighed little Sana, “if I only had a tiny bit, I would not be so afraid of the butler when he scolds me.”

Bebelle carefully tore the moss in half and gave Sana part of it.

“I must go back to my carving now,” he said, as the child tried to thank him.

“And I to my fire. Oh, Bebelle! Look! Look!” cried Sana. “The fire has gone out while I have been talking to you!”

“I will make you another.”

When Mother Jorgan came in, the fire was again burning brightly.

“Are you ready, Bebelle?” she asked, her voice trembling with excitement. “Shreve is giving the king his raven.”

“No, dear Mother Jorgan, I have mended the fire for Sana instead.”

“You foolish boy!” and she tore the stick from his hand. “Why, of course it is done! Is ‘_Love_’ not there as plainly as the other words? Come, we must make haste or we shall be too late.”

As the two reached the door of the hall Shreve of the Fields was standing before the royal dais, his proud lovely head thrown back and one graceful arm stretched forth toward the king. On the tip of his finger there perched a beautiful raven, all glossy black streaked with purple, and as quiet as if it were still in the forest. As these two of the woods stood there in their perfect, unaffected beauty everything else about the gay court seemed curiously dwarfed and cheapened.

“O King,” he said, in his sweet, thrilling voice, “here is a gift for you!”

As the raven flew from his hand to the king the courtiers crowded around the radiant youth; and Mother Jorgan, in the doorway outside, whispered to Bebelle: “Child, he has said nothing of you. If you still wish to do this dreadful thing, you must enter unannounced.”

And so, with his scepter held closely in one arm, the child bravely walked into the gay throng.

As he neared the throne the courtiers drew back on either side; and standing before the royal dais, Bebelle said simply, “My King, I have made you a new scepter for a Christmas gift.”

All about the throne lay precious and costly gifts; gold and tapestries, silver and precious stones. On the arm of the king’s chair perched the beautiful raven, and in the queen’s hand was a necklace of diamonds, and rare aquamarines. Before them stood a child, strange and grotesque, holding in his hand a rough piece of fire-wood.

“I have made you a new scepter,” he had said.

“Child,” said the king, and his voice was not unkind, “this is not the time for you to appear before us.” And he motioned a page to lead Bebelle from the room.

There was a painful silence as the child crept slowly from the bright hall, one hand still clasping the rejected gift. The queen signed for the fiddlers to begin their playing. The princess Faunia, who was standing with the noble prince under the balcony, remarked that such things were enough to spoil one’s Christmas. The prince comforted her, and said if he had his will, nothing should ever happen to mar a single moment of her entire life. The princess was even happier than before. The queen told the king, who looked a little worried, that such things naturally happen in such great households, and that, with the serving of the royal banquet, things would be restored to their former gaiety. This last suggestion comforted the king mightily; and, indeed, before the page had even announced the banquet everything was as gay and merry as it had been an hour before.

In the bright warm kitchen there was dance and song, and every one there was happy, too.

That is, all but little Bebelle. He lay beside the oven, still holding tightly to the scepter, saying nothing.

Mother Jorgan brought him a bowl of hot soup. He thanked her pitifully, but would not touch it. Now and then one of the servants would come to him and shyly, but kindly, ask him to come and have some of the wassail. Shreve came down from the feast above. The baker gave him thirteen loaves for his birds, and he stopped to speak to Bebelle.

“I am sorry, Bebelle,” he said, in his timid, winning way. “But I had no chance to speak of you. It was a shame that the king refused your gift. But come, do not be sad. Every one is sorry, and things will not be made better by lying there.”

But Bebelle did not answer. The tears sprang to Shreve’s beautiful, mysterious eyes.

“Would you like to come and sleep in my cave to-night?”

Bebelle gave a little gasp.

“Oh, Shreve,” he said, “that is the greatest thing in the world that could happen to me! But somehow I feel as if that could not be--to-night.”

So Shreve of the Fields went a little sadly out into the starry night.

It grew later. Slowly and reluctantly the servants left the warm, friendly kitchen. Many stopped to speak kindly to the silent child, who lay huddled in his corner.

At last, though, they had all left but a little page, who put out the candles and skipped fearfully from the room. All was silent and dark.

The child lay there a long time.

Slowly and sweetly, through the still night a voice softly floated.

“Bebelle, little Bebelle!” it said; “come to the door.”

The child trembled, but did not get up.

Once again came the low, mellow voice: “Bebelle, I am waiting for you. Come, open the door.”

As if in a dream he crept across the floor. Slowly he slid back the great bolts and lifted the door latch.

There in the snowy dooryard was a glorious vision. A figure that glowed and glistened against the snow like the fire and light of a thousand diamonds. Over the head was a veil like lacy frost. From the scintillating robes stretched a beautiful white hand.

“Come with me,” said the voice, “and I will make you a great ruler.”

Bebelle shrank back against the heavy door.

“Oh, no!” he cried, “I am not fit to be a ruler. I am ugly and poor, and of no use to any one in the world.”

The vision reached out and took the scepter which Bebelle still clasped to his breast.

As the firm white hand grasped it the rough wood turned to shining gold and the letters carved upon it were set with pearls, and rubies, and sapphires, and other precious stones.

“These words that you have carved upon the scepter,” said the high, thrilling voice, “_Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_--these are the attributes of a king. Only he who carves his own scepter, with these words upon it, only he is fit to wield it. Again I summon you to come with me and I will make you ruler of a great kingdom.”

And into the white night the child followed the steps of the vision.

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

THE STRANGE STORY OF MR. DOG AND MR. BEAR[26]

_Mabel Fuller Blodgett_

(For very little folk)

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

Mr. Bear was looking forward to the first real snowstorm because Mr. Dog had made a fine double-runner, and they were both planning for little housework, and a lot of coasting. Mr. Bear’s fur suit was just the thing for winter sports, but Mr. Dog had been obliged to go to the village and buy himself a sweater. It was bright crimson and was very becoming. Mr. Dog, who loved fine clothes, had also purchased a scarlet and white skating cap, with a tassel that hung down over one ear in a most engaging manner. So both Mr. Dog and Mr. Bear could hardly wait for cold weather to set in, and they spent a great deal of time running out to the porch and looking at the thermometer that hung there. When they were not doing that, they were reading the weather reports in the newspapers, or watching the clouds, and at last they were rewarded late one afternoon by the sight of large feathery flakes of snow lazily floating downward from a cold gray sky. But alas! there was to be no coasting for either of them, for many days to come.

Mr. Bear, who had not been feeling like himself for some time, came down with the mumps the very next morning, and Mr. Dog had his paws full with cooking, and nursing, and bedmaking, and carrying up trays to the invalid.

Now I suppose you never saw a bear with the mumps! It is a sorry sight, I assure you, and the cottage was a sad place now with only the doctor’s visits for company and Mr. Bear in the dreadfulest state with his poor neck so swollen that none of his collars would fit him--he had lately, to please Mr. Dog, taken to wearing them. For daily use a red bandana handkerchief became the only thing possible. Well, Mr. Dog was a pretty fair nurse, though he did bring Mr. Bear some lemonade the first day, and, if you’ve ever had mumps, you will know how Mr. Bear felt after he got a real good taste. But Mr. Dog was more careful after that and never so much as said “pickles” or brought Mr. Bear anything that was sour or puckery, so they got along quite nicely.

Still, there was a lot of time for thinking, and Mr. Bear, looking wistfully out on the snowy landscape, began to plan for Christmas. He decided that he would surprise Mr. Dog, and the surprise would take the form of a Christmas tree. There were plenty of dear little firs growing about near by, each one holding up its tiny branches as if begging for the honor of being chosen, and Mr. Bear knew Mr. Dog, who was something of a carpenter, was just dying to have a complete tool-chest, and he thought what a fine present that would be and how beautifully the awl and saws and other tools would glitter, hung from the branches in the light of the Christmas candles.

Mr. Bear would also see that Mr. Dog had a wonderful big bone, the best in the market, and tied with scarlet ribbon and holly, and a bottle of perfumery, and oh, yes! a dozen handkerchiefs with colored borders. Mr. Bear had to get his notebook down and write the things as fast as he remembered them, and the best of it was Mr. Bear was determined, firmly determined, that Mr. Dog should know nothing whatever about the whole matter.

Now the funny part of it was that Mr. Dog had been thinking also, and the end of his reflections were pretty much what Mr. Bear’s had been. He would give Mr. Bear a Christmas tree and _Mr. Bear should know nothing whatever about it_.

Mr. Dog was so excited that one day he put salt instead of sugar into the pudding and never knew the difference till he and Mr. Bear sat down to dessert together. By this time Mr. Bear was better, and soon he was well enough to go coasting, which means that he was well enough to do anything at all that he wanted to.

His actions began to puzzle Mr. Dog. In the first place, Mr. Bear began to make a lot of mysterious trips to the village, and then he was always getting a lot of catalogues, which he was careful to keep locked up. One day Mr. Dog found him measuring the height of the parlor ceiling, and he looked very much embarrassed when asked what he was doing; and yet Mr. Dog hadn’t the slightest idea of what was going on. You see, he was so full of his own plans to surprise Mr. Bear that it never crossed his mind that Mr. Bear might have secret holiday plans of his own. Mr. Dog was chiefly concerned that Mr. Bear shouldn’t find out what _he_ was doing, and, as he was much more careful than poor, dear, blundering Mr. Bear, he never gave his friend the slightest idea of what was in his mind.

After a lot of thinking, Mr. Dog decided to cut the prettiest little Christmas tree you ever saw, that he had found near by in the forest. He would trim it with popcorn and cranberries and little candles, and he would give Mr. Bear a half dozen jars of the finest honey, because Mr. Bear loved honey best of anything, and a big blueberry pie tied up with scarlet ribbon and holly, for Mr. Bear liked blueberry pie next best, and a muffler, a beautiful warm plaid muffler, because Mr. Bear wasn’t stylish but loved to be comfortable. Oh, yes, and a white and gold book for the parlor table. Mr. Dog didn’t care at all what was inside the book, but he wanted a very handsome cover. It would look awfully well under the best lamp, and as the only book in the house was a cook-book, Mr. Dog felt it would lend quite an air to the whole cottage, and was, in a way, really needed. To do all this would take every penny Mr. Dog had earned, but Mr. Dog did not grudge a single cent of his hoard.

Mr. Bear didn’t tell anybody of his plan, and Mr. Dog didn’t tell anybody either. They both gave very good reasons for refusing a number of invitations that they received for Christmas parties; Mr. Bear, looking very wise, said he felt rather old for romping about, just a quiet evening in slippers at home for him; and Mr. Dog said what with the mumps and all he was so behindhand with his work that he thought he would rather spend a quiet day at home, with slippers and a comfortable chair before the fire in the evening.

But what were they going to do about Christmas, their friends asked.

Mr. Bear looked up in the air and rubbed his head and finally said something about wreaths in the windows, and Mr. Dog answered briskly that he was going to make the finest plum pudding that day for dinner they ever saw and if that wasn’t celebrating Christmas, what was?

Still, it did seem as if the time would never arrive, for you know yourself how slow Christmas and birthdays and vacations are about getting around; and how very quickly school-days and trips to the dentist, and such things come. But at last it really was December twenty-fourth, and that very evening after sunset had been planned both by Mr. Dog and Mr. Bear for their grand surprise.

Mr. Dog had all his presents on the top shelf of his bedroom closet, and Mr. Bear had all his presents on the top shelf of _his_ bedroom closet: and both of them had their closets locked and the keys in their pockets.

Neither of the friends talked much at supper that night for both were too busy thinking. Mr. Bear wanted to get some good excuse for leaving Mr. Dog and getting into the forest where the Christmas tree was to be found. It was already cut, but it wanted trimming, and Mr. Bear decided to trim it right where it stood, or rather where it leaned against another fir-tree, and then manage some way to get it into the house without Mr. Dog’s knowing it. Mr. Bear’s pockets were full of tinsel and bells, gilt walnuts, golden and silver balls, and such like ornaments. He fairly tinkled when he walked; but Mr. Dog was so very busy thinking that he didn’t notice.

At last supper was over and the dishes neatly washed and put away. The two friends turned to each other, and both spoke at once and said just the same thing all in a breath without pausing:

“I was thinking of taking a little stroll this evening.”

“Why, that’s a good idea,” said Mr. Bear, putting on his cap and goloshes as he spoke. It was handy for him not having to bother with anything more on account of his fine fur coat, though he would rather have liked a muffler.

“I think so, too,” said Mr. Dog, hurriedly getting into his coasting togs--sweater, tasseled cap, and all.

“Which way were you going, Mr. Bear? I was thinking of going west--”

“I was thinking of going east,” said Mr. Bear, much relieved at the turn things were taking. And so the two friends parted.

Mr. Bear called out over his shoulder, “No use, Mr. Dog, of being back before eight o’clock a fine night like this.”

“Oh, no!” said Mr. Dog, much pleased and inwardly planning to get his tree trimmed in the forest, and then to have it all set up in the cottage a few moments before that hour.

So both friends hurried off--Mr. Dog to the west, to hang on his tree as fast as ever he could the strings of cranberries and pop-corn with which his pockets were bulging, and Mr. Bear to decorate his tree in the most beautiful manner and as rapidly as possible. And my! weren’t they busy? You may not believe it, but each of them got through the very same moment, which was exactly seventeen and a half minutes to eight o’clock, and each of them was exactly one half mile from home. Mr. Bear put his tree on his shoulder and started; Mr. Dog put _his_ tree on _his_ shoulder and started. Mr. Bear’s tree was bigger and heavier than Mr. Dog’s tree, but then Mr. Bear was stronger than Mr. Dog, so they both covered the ground at the same rate of speed.

Now I suppose you have already guessed what happened. It was sure to, wasn’t it? And it just did.

Mr. Dog, stealthily coming up the back way, and Mr. Bear, stealthily coming up the front way, met right at the cottage door, and I wish you had been there to see them. I don’t suppose their eyes were ever wider opened in all their lives; and as for their mouths, they were open too, and both their tongues were hanging out.

Mr. Dog was the quickest, so he began to laugh first, but Mr. Bear was not long in following, and they both laughed so hard they had to lean their beautiful Christmas trees up against the side of the cottage while they rolled over and over in the snow and neither one could stop.

But at last Mr. Bear caught his breath and sat up, and Mr. Dog, still wiping away tears of merriment with his paw, sat up too, and then it all came out--their wonderful plans and all the doings.

Well, the end of it was, there were two Christmas trees set up in Mr. Bear’s house that night and two very happy people.

The presents were truly a surprise after all, and they were exactly right. Each said so to the other, I don’t know how many times. Mr. Bear put on his muffler at once, though the cottage was as hot as hot could be, and Mr. Dog had so much perfumery on his handkerchief that they had to open the front door to air off. Mr. Dog began to do things with his tools at once, while gnawing ever and anon at his wonderful bone, and Mr. Bear ate a piece of blueberry pie that was big enough to give him seven kinds of nightmare, but didn’t.

Then Mr. Bear drew up his big rocking-chair to the fire, while Mr. Dog threw himself down on the rug in front of it and stretched out to enjoy the blaze with his paws clasped under his head. And they both said there had never been such a Christmas and that it was the greatest fun having it that way, all alone. I suppose they meant not having the forest and the farm people there; and perhaps this is a good place and time for you and me to leave them, too.

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

A BURNT FORK SANTA CLAUS[27]

_Elinore Pruitt Stewart_

Mrs. Culberson stood in her cabin door, and looked out upon the sparkling beauty of a sunny winter morning. Beyond the valley rose the shining, snow-covered mountains. A mile below lay the white surface of Henry’s Fork, tree-bordered and ice-bound. She could see the exact spot in the stream where she and the children had caught the barrel of suckers that had been their chief food since the snow came.

When Henry Clay, her oldest child and only son, had come from the creek one day and told her that there were a great many fish at the bend, and that they were lying on the bottom almost too lazy to move, she had said, “We’ll go and catch a lot; we will salt them down in our water keg; they’ll come in handy.” That had been almost four months before.

“Pa” Culberson was one of those Micawber-like persons who are always expecting something to turn up. In more prosperous days, when the Culbersons had lived farther east, they had owned a good team of horses and a cow; but Pa’s waiting propensities had encouraged the man with the mortgage to “turn up,” and the family had been left without their horses and their cow.

Mrs. Culberson had urged her husband to sell their little plot of land and to use the proceeds to begin anew in another place. Pa had a “swapping” streak in him, and so it was not long before they had traded their land for a rickety wagon and a pair of small beasts that Mrs. Culberson called “dunkeys.” Then, with all they owned piled into the wagon, they set forth to make a fresh start in the world. Pa sat on the top of the load to drive the donkeys, and Mrs. Culberson and the children walked alongside.

One night they had camped by a stream in a fertile little valley. Mrs. Culberson liked the water and the view, and refused to go on. Weeks of wandering had worn out the children’s shoes, and winter would soon be upon them; so they unloaded their scanty belongings and set about building their cabin. It stood close to a hillside for shelter from the fierce winds, and it had no floor except the earth. A place had been left for a window in one end, but there was no glass in it. A piece of cheesecloth tacked over the opening let in light and a wooden shutter kept out the storm. The roof was made of poles laid carefully side by side and well covered with earth.

While Mrs. Culberson and the children were chinking and daubing the cracks in their cabin, Pa began to build the stable for the donkeys. The golden September days were slipping away, and the food supply was getting low; as soon as he had finished the tiny stable, Pa went off to get work with the sheepmen. The family were left alone in their new house; it might be months before they saw him again; in fact, it might be as long as that before they saw anyone except “Grandma” Clark, who lived in a cabin near the stream.

Every day little Mrs. Culberson worked with all her might; and in order that the children should not get lonely or afraid in the wilderness, she tried to keep them busy. First she set them hauling wood from the cedars near by; Pa had made a door for the cabin from the wagon box, but they could load the wood and poles on the running gear of their wagon. They could manage the donkeys easily, and they soon gathered a huge woodpile. Then the children dug a cellar in the side of the hill. Henry Clay and Lizzie Isabel, who were the oldest, did the digging. Jennie Lou and Jessie May helped by carrying out the dirt as fast as it was loosened. Mrs. Culberson and five-year-old baby C’listie did the encouraging. Each was proud of sharing in the work.

A few days after the cellar was finished, the children went on an exploring expedition to discover whether they had any neighbors. The first rancher they found laughed when he saw the eager, freckled children on their little donkeys. He was harvesting his vegetables, and he offered them all a chance to work for him. After that, the children and their mother were busy for almost a month, picking up potatoes and helping store winter vegetables for the ranchers who lived up and down the valley. In that way they had stocked their own cellar, and had become the proud owners of a few bags of grain, which they put by for their faithful donkeys.

As Mrs. Culberson stood in the door that winter morning, looking out over the snow-covered country, she was mentally giving thanks that she and the children had a warm cabin to shelter them. On a tall, dead pine she saw a great eagle sitting in the sun. A coyote dug a rabbit out of the snow, and trotted away with it. Far below on the creek, she could see the smoke curling upward from her nearest neighbor’s chimney.

“Poor old soul!” she said to herself. “There all alone while her grandson, Charley, is away herding sheep. It must be plumb bad to have only one child, and to be a widow, and old, too. Here it is just two days before Christmas. I believe I’ll go down and bring her up here for a spell.”

Her care-seamed face was thoughtful. “It’s more’n three months since Pa left, and not a word from him. I _do_ hope he hasn’t--”

But she was too loyal to put what she feared into words, even to herself. Closing the door, she put the breakfast of salt fish and potatoes on the table.

“Ma, can’t we have a little _tiny_ piece of bacon for breakfast?” asked Jennie Lou.

“It’s very near Christmas,” said Jessie May.

“I just hate suckers!” said Lizzie Isabel.

“Now you young uns eat what is put before you, and don’t be so choicey,” said Mrs. Culberson. “I declare, I’ll have to boil you up some sage tea to make your fish and potatoes taste good to you again. Then after we’re through, I have a _big_ secret to tell you.”

The wagon box had furnished enough lumber to make not only the door, but a bench, and a high shelf across one end of the cabin. When the children had finished breakfast, their mother put a box upon the bench. Mounting the box, she took from the shelf several small packages.

“Now, children,” she said, as she unrolled a square package, “here is all the meat we have--just enough for seven slices. We are going to have it for dinner Christmas Day, and _who_ do you guess is going to eat the extra slice? _That_ is my big secret.”

“I could eat _all_ of it now,” said Henry Clay. The children eyed the piece of bacon hungrily.

“Children, what on earth has come over you to make you so gluttonous? I am ashamed of you. Now, if you can behave yourselves, I will tell you something.”

They watched her with fascinated eyes as she measured two cupfuls of sugar into a small pail. Next she took four tablespoonfuls of rice, carefully tied the little heap of white grains in a cloth, and dropped it into the pail with the sugar. Putting the lid on the pail, she again mounted the box, and put the pail beside a small jar that contained a handful of coffee.

“There,” she said, with pride in her voice, “that is my sick corner. If any of you get sick, I have _some_ little things for you.”

“I’m sick, I’m awfully sick,” said C’listie.

“C’listie Culberson, no one would ever dream you were named for your own grandmother, C’listie Yancy. Your Grandma Yancy would _never_ act that way.”

The children watched her intently and silently as she measured the remaining sugar.

“There is enough for a cake, and we can have a carrot pie,” she said, “and perhaps some sugar syrup for breakfast, and there will be a little left in the bowl. Don’t one of you young uns dare to touch that bowl; the sugar in the bowl is for manners; now mind that. We’ll have a nice dish of rice, and enough grease will fry out of the bacon to season the potatoes and to make the pie crust, and we can have biscuit, too,” she ended triumphantly.

The children, catching her jubilant spirit, began to clap their hands and dance.

“Now, Lizzie Isabel, we will clean up the house and get everything ready. You girls can wear your gingham dresses, and Henry Clay can--well, he can wear his pa’s light shirt, and his trousers, too; they will be too long, of course, but he can roll them up, and we can girt them in at the waist. We’ll all dress up and go after Grandma Clark. She’s all alone. We couldn’t be so selfish as to sit down and eat all our good things alone.”

So they all worked with a will; but there was not much to do.

“You children don’t know how lucky you are to be poor,” said Mrs. Culberson. “If we’d been rich enough to have a floor, we would have to scrub; and if we had a glass window, we’d have that to wash. But as it is, we can get this room in order in a jiffy.”

Through all her ups and downs, Mrs. Culberson had kept her “settin’ out”; she had her feather bed, the ten beautiful patchwork quilts given her by different members of her family; the Yancy sheets and the lovely Culberson tablecloth, all homespun and woven.

It was a proud little group that later in the day left the freshly decked cabin and started for Grandma Clark’s. All the girls’ dresses were a year too small, their sleeves were too short and their waists too tight; but the children had pressed their worn ribbons, and their hair was neatly braided, and they were all so happy that only an unfeeling critic could have seen anything except beauty and sweetness about them. Henry Clay’s trousers were many sizes too large, but they were rolled up at the bottom and well “girt in” at the waist. His shirt was caught up and tacked and pinned in so many places that it had almost lost all resemblance to a shirt; but if his fourteen year old body _was_ too small to fill his father’s clothes, his pride overflowed, and made him seem large and important in his own eyes.

They had laid poles upon the running gear of the wagon and wired them firmly, in order to have a safe place for Grandma Clark to ride. Mrs. Culberson took a last satisfied look round the neat room, warned the children once more to mind their manners, and not to let the company see that they did not have bread every meal, and to remember how fortunate they were to have a good warm cabin, plenty of wood, and friends to share their comforts, “and them friends rale close neighbors, not more’n six miles away.”

So they clambered on their odd carryall and drove off, with the donkeys belly-deep in the soft snow.

* * * * *

Miles away, up in the mountains near Burnt Fork, lay the ranch of Jack Nevin. He was an “old-timer” without kith or kin, but he never lived alone, for he was always taking some one in to share his home. At that time he had living with him old John Enderby, who had a special fondness for making fun of others. Once a year Jack Nevin made a trip to Green River for supplies, but, oddly enough, he would never permit anyone to go with him.

No one who came to the ranch suspected that Jack’s heart was starved for home ties, and that he longed for some one to love and to work for. For years he had had an imaginary family. He took almost as much pleasure in the growth and development of his imaginary children as he would have taken had they been real. Of course he could not tell his friends about his pretense; but when he went to town he spoke to strangers of his “folks,” and talked about them just as if he had actually had a family.

This was the first time he had ever been in Green River when the holidays were so near. The windows of the stores were filled with toys and candies. As he drove up the street his heart was sad; there were so many things that he would have liked to buy if he had only had some one to give them to.

When he drove into the livery barn, the proprietor, to whom he had talked on his other visits, called out, “Hello, Nevin! How are you? How are the little girls and their ma? In town to interview Santa Claus, I suppose?”

Jack walked up the street, looking at the pretty things, and almost hating other men who had “folks” to buy for. Suddenly he remembered what Hall, the liveryman, had said. After all, why should he not do it? Whose business was it, anyway, if he chose to buy dolls, toys, and trinkets? As he thought over the idea his recklessness grew. The boys might laugh and joke, he realized, but the chance that they would find out seemed small.

That night he confided in his landlady; and his enthusiasm for his family was so contagious that she forgot the high price of meat.

“I suppose your little girls sent you loaded with a list?” she said.

Jack searched his pockets, but failed to find any list.

“Well, now, that’s too bad,” he said, with such evident concern that the landlady was entirely deceived.

“Now don’t you worry,” she said. “My Emma works at Little Pete’s. You can get more for your money in there than you can at any other store in town. And Emma will help you make a good selection.”

The next morning the whim was still upon Jack Nevin. He went to Little Pete’s, and passed there the happiest three hours of his life, choosing and buying the things that he would have liked to put into little stockings.

“I believe I’ll take that sweater for ma,” he said awkwardly. After a while his fancy became more practical, and he bought warm hoods, pieces of flannel, gingham, and calico.

At last all the bundles were wrapped and loaded on the wagon with the provisions that he had purchased for the winter. Jack was standing in a store entrance, trying to remember whether he had forgotten anything, when up the street rode half a dozen Burnt Fork boys, with their “chaps” flapping and their spurs jangling merrily. They shouted a greeting when they caught sight of Jack. Jack watched them canter up the street with foreboding in his heart.

It was already late in the afternoon, but he decided to start on the return trip to his ranch immediately for he did not enjoy the thought that the “boys” might discover how he had been spending his time in Green River.

Sunset of the following day saw him nearing home, but trouble had sat with him all the way. He could imagine what “fun” there would be at the ranch if those boys found out his poor secret. What could he do with all the things he had bought for his imaginary family? If he took them home, there was John Enderly to be reckoned with.

Finally a solution occurred to him--he would throw them into Henry’s Fork. He knew where he could find an air hole. By driving across the ice below the regular crossing, he hoped to avoid discovery, and so, leaving the road, he turned down the long cañon that led out on the plateau on which the Culberson cabin stood. When he came in sight of the little log building he gave a whistle of surprise, for he had not known that anyone lived there. As he approached the cabin he hallooed, and getting no answer, was about to drive on, when he noticed that smoke was coming from the stove-pipe.

He decided to go in and warm his feet; but when he entered the cabin, he found himself more interested in the evidences of poverty than in the stove. A box nailed to the wall served as a cupboard. He lifted the flour-sack curtain before it, and peeped within; he saw the bacon sliced for the Christmas dinner; he saw all the scanty preparations.

“Huh!” he grunted. “Cake with no eggs! I’ve made it; I know what it’s like!”

Dropping the curtain, he glanced about the room. “No chairs,” he commented. “Must be mighty poor. Kids in the bunch, too.” Then he noticed a cap hanging on a peg. “Boy among ’em. By heck, I guess I’m in time to beat Santy Claus, but I didn’t buy anything for a boy.”

For an hour Jack worked busily and happily. All that he had bought for his “family” he carried into the cabin; then, opening cases of his own supplies, he carried in canned goods, dried fruit, a ham, some sugar, coffee, and a package of tea. When he had finished, he gazed about the little room and smiled. “Mighty near filled the cabin,” he said. “Reckon some flour won’t be amiss, and I’ve a good notion to fill that new lamp and leave it on the table, lighted. They’re coming back soon, or they wouldn’t have left fire. There’s the coat and the lamp for the woman; candy, nuts and dolls for the kids; provisions for ’em all, but not a thing for that boy. I just can’t do him that way. He can have my new gun.”

Jack went out to the wagon and brought in the shotgun, and hanging the cap on the muzzle, leaned it against the wall. Then he put his boxes of ammunition on the floor beside it. Finally, he filled the stove full of wood, and closing it carefully, left the cabin.

The dusk was deepening when he mounted his wagon. Beyond Henry’s Fork, he met the Culbersons returning with their guest; he eyed them sharply as they passed. After he had crossed the bottoms and was out on the snow-covered flat, he laughed happily.

“It beat throwing them into the creek,” he said, “and the boy is just right for the gun!”

* * * * *

As soon as the family and their guest crossed the creek and reached the plateau they saw the light of the bright new lamp.

“Oh, Pa’s come, our Pa’s come home for Christmas!” shouted Henry Clay, joyously.

“Don’t be so excited, Henry Clay. You tend to driving them dunkeys, or you will have Mis’ Clark dumped off in the snow. That’d be a fine way to treat a neighbor, wouldn’t it? You children quit twisting round. If any of you fall off, you’ll have to walk to the house.”

Thus admonished, the children sat as still as they could. Henry Clay tried to get the donkeys to hurry, but donkeys have ways of their own. At last they drew up before the door of the cabin. The children would have rushed into the cabin, but their mother restrained them.

“My goodness, children, where are your manners? Pa’s made a fire; don’t you see the smoke? You just behave yourselves.”

Once inside, the little group stood amazed. The new lamp burned brightly; boxes, bundles and packages were scattered everywhere about the place. Grandma Clark, stiff with the cold, went at once to the stove. The fire burned merrily. She held her hands to the grateful warmth, and said, “Your man’s a right good provider, Mis’ Culberson.”

“But where’s Pa?” asked C’listie.

A thorough search revealed no Pa. On a new calendar, which lay on the table, were scribbled these words: “The gun is for the boy. The rest is for all of you. Yours truly, Santy Claus.”

An hour later supper was over; even hungry little C’listie could hold no more ham, and sat nodding and hugging a wonderful doll. Henry Clay and Lizzie Isabel had put the donkeys into the stable, and given them an extra allowance of grain and carrots. With shining eyes and heart too happy for words, Henry Clay sat examining his treasure, the bright, new gun. The girls were rapturously sorting their new ribbons, hoods, and books. Mrs. Culberson, busy storing yet unopened packages beneath the bed, said to the girls:

“I _did_ ’low for you girls to sleep under the blazin’-star quilt, being it’s Christmas time, but I ain’t going to let you. It ain’t never been used, and I’m going to keep that quilt for Santa Claus. I’ll see him some time.”

[27] This story was first printed in “Youth’s Companion,” December 10, 1914. Reprinted by special permission. All rights reserved by the author.

Transcriber's Notes:

Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

Perceived typographical errors have been changed.