one week, during which time the carpenter was to make the Shoe as good
as new, even to polishing it with fine new polish. But the King did
not know, when he made that promise, that there was going to be more
trouble.
The trouble arose when the cobbler heard that the carpenter was going
to London to buy a rubber heel for the Old Woman’s Shoe.
“Shoes are a cobbler’s business,” he said, and with that he went in
great indignation to Old King Cole.
“What is this you are saying?” asked the King, who did not always
listen very carefully to what people said.
“I’m saying, sir,” repeated the cobbler, “that shoes are a cobbler’s
business.”
“I agree with you,” replied the King. “But why have you come here to
tell me what I already know?”
“Because, sir, you have put the carpenter to work mending a shoe here
in Pudding Lane,” said the cobbler.
“Nonsense, of course I haven’t,” began King Cole. “Oh, I see, you mean
the Old Woman’s Shoe?” he asked.
“That, and no other, sir,” said the cobbler.
The King looked embarrassed. “Oh--er--well, let’s call the carpenter
in,” he said, for he saw that the cobbler was determined to stay it out.
But when the carpenter came in, and old King Cole told him that the
cobbler had objected to their previous arrangement, then it was the
carpenter’s turn to be offended.
“But, sir,” said he, “the Shoe is the Old Woman’s house, isn’t it? Then
why isn’t it a carpenter’s business to make the necessary repairs?”
The King sighed. It was a problem. Whose business was it to mend the
Old Woman’s Shoe, the cobbler’s or the carpenter’s? It was a shoe, and
it was a house. He was frank to say he couldn’t settle it. He turned to
the queen, but she, as usual, was asleep, her crown on her nose. The
poor King didn’t know which way to turn.
There was nothing to do except send for the whole town to come up to
the palace to consider the weighty problem. So the Town Crier was sent
out in a great hurry to summon all the people to the palace. And for
once in his life the Town Crier managed to get through the job without
making a single mistake.
The people of Pudding Lane were indeed surprised that King Cole should
send for them in that hasty manner.
“It must be very serious,” they told each other.
“Maybe the Queen is sick,” suggested Mr. Horner.
“She might even be dead!” Mrs. Grundy added hopefully.
“Well, come along, let’s hurry,” urged the piper, and so they all
rushed into the street and hurried pell-mell to answer the summons of
the King.
The King shook hands with everybody and then tried to awaken the Queen,
but that lady must have been exceedingly tired and sleepy, for though
he shook her and shook her, she wouldn’t wake up at all.
“Let her sleep,” said the butcher in a kindly manner. “We all know what
it is to be sleepy.”
The King, looking relieved, cleared his throat and told them all
just what the trouble was. When he mentioned the Shoe the Old Woman
almost fell over with astonishment, for she had no idea that it was on
account of her that the meeting had been called. And when he related
how the cobbler and the carpenter were quarreling, the Old Woman felt
a terrible fear in her heart. Supposing the matter never could be
settled, and she would have to stay in The House-that-Jack-Built all
the rest of her life.
“And now,” the King ended, “I leave it to the people to decide.”
Everybody looked scared. It was such a knotty problem, and there was
so much to be said for the standpoint of both the cobbler and the
carpenter, that they just stood there and didn’t say anything.
“Come,” said King Cole. “What do you say, candlestick-maker?”
The candlestick-maker started and then tried to look wise. “Well, I
wouldn’t exactly know what to say, sir,” he said importantly.
“What about you, Mr. Horner?” The King turned to Jack Horner’s father.
“What advice have you to offer?”
Mr. Horner shook his head. “It’s too much for me, sir,” he admitted.
Then the Old Woman herself was asked for an opinion.
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know, King Cole!” she cried out. “But do
let’s settle it somehow. I feel as if I should die if I couldn’t go
back to live in the old Shoe once more.”
At this outburst of grief the King’s distress increased. He looked at
the cobbler and at the carpenter, but neither one of them would give in
an inch; he could tell that by the set look of their faces. King Cole
sighed loudly, and then opened his mouth to speak. He was going to tell
the Old Woman that, after all, she could not live in the Shoe again,
but would have to put up with the House-that-Jack-Built as best she
could.
And just at that moment Mother Goose was ushered in. She was on her way
for a visit to the Clauses, and she said she thought she’d just run in
to say hello to the King.
“But, mercy on us!” she exclaimed, looking around at the assembled
people. “What is it--a coronation?”
Old King Cole explained affairs to his friend. He told her how sad the
Old Woman was and pointed out the cobbler and the carpenter, who were
standing there, glaring at each other, the cause of the whole trouble.
“Now isn’t that a hard one?” he asked the old lady, looking at her
anxiously to see what she thought of the matter.
“Hard one, nothing!” replied Mother Goose, looking sharply at the
cobbler and the carpenter. “Give the business to Jack-of-All-Trades and
let those fellows go.”
What a happy solution that was. How glad they all were. The Old Woman
Who Lived in a Shoe was too overjoyed for words, but the rest of the
people just chattered and buzzed and fluttered around in their pleased
excitement.
And so it was decided that Jack-of-All-Trades should mend the shoe, and
the cobbler and the carpenter, feeling very cheap, were dismissed from
the presence of the King.
It was exactly one week later that the Old Woman took all her children
and moved back into the Shoe, which now stood up proudly on its rubber
heel, mended and polished until it looked like new. In fact, it looked
so fine that the Old Woman and her children hardly recognized it as the
same old Shoe and were almost afraid the King had fooled them and had
got a new shoe somewhere.
But, sure enough, when they climbed inside, there were the same old
spots and stains on the wall, the same old beds, and the same old pots
and pans. And then they all settled down and knew they would be happy
forever after, because they were back in their dear Shoe, never to
leave it again.
XII
SANTA CLAUS HANGS UP HIS STOCKING
1
Pudding Lane was creaking and cracking with snow. Snow, snow, snow!
It ground under the heel of Old Mother Hubbard as she went to the
butcher’s to buy an especially juicy bone for the poor dog; it crunched
under the tread of Mr. Horner as he walked to the baker’s to order
Jack’s Christmas pie; it squeaked under the tread of the Town Crier as
he trudged up and down Pudding Lane, calling, “Christmas is coming,
Christmas is coming, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!”
For Christmas was coming, and although such an announcement was not
exactly news to the people of Pudding Lane, still it was pleasant just
to hear the Town Crier say it. There’s something about the very word
“Christmas” that makes you feel happy and jolly.
And so, since Christmas was so close, everybody in Pudding Lane was as
busy as busy could be. The candlestick-maker sat day and night working
his copper and brass. The Clauses were up to their eyes in pies and
cakes. Even the children had no time for play, but spent all their
spare moments gathering holly and mistletoe to deck the windows and
fireplaces with. And as for little Santa Claus, nobody saw him these
days, for Christmas was his busy season, and many weeks before he had
retired to the woodshed and emerged now only for meals and bed.
But this Christmas there was something else going on in Pudding
Lane, something exciting and mysterious and very important. It was a
tremendous secret. And it was this: the people of Pudding Lane were
going to surprise Santa Claus himself; they were going to hang up his
stocking and put gifts in it, just as if he were not Santa Claus at
all, but a regular little boy like all the others.
It was strange that nobody had ever thought of this before, for Santa
Claus was just a regular little boy, after all, and surely all little
boys, even Santa Claus, should have a Christmas stocking. But somehow
nobody had thought of it, and although Santa Claus, all these years,
had been giving Christmas gifts to everybody else, he never had got
one himself. He had never hung up his stocking; he had never been
surprised on Christmas morning; he had never had any Christmas fun
except the fun of surprising other people. The funny part of it was,
too, that he had never even thought of such a thing.
But this year, although Santa Claus had not thought of such a thing,
the rest of Pudding Lane had, and so the secret had been hatched, and
the plans were going merrily on, the plans for surprising Santa Claus
on Christmas morning.
It was a good thing that Santa Claus was so occupied, or he surely
would have guessed that something unusual was going on. He would have
guessed it from the way Simple Simon sniggered every time he came near
Santa, or by the way Judy kept asking him over and over what he wanted
for Christmas, or by the way everybody nudged everybody else whenever
he appeared in public. But luckily for them, he paid no attention to
all these hints, being far too engrossed in his own Christmas affairs
to notice anything at all.
Indeed, he was so abstracted as to call forth a comment from that
plain-spoken woman, his mother.
“Dear me, Santa Claus,” she said one day at dinner, as he sat staring
at the wall, “I really think that if a bear should walk in on you,
you’d sit there staring just the same,--or indeed, if fifty bears
should walk in on you.”
This flight of imagination brought Santa to.
“I was thinking about that little red wagon,” he explained. “Simple
Simon wants a little red wagon for Christmas, you see, and it seems
like such a queer gift for him.”
“Queer gifts to queer people,” replied Mrs. Claus. “But eat your dinner
now, Santa Claus. I don’t intend to cook my life away and have my
children starve to death.”
There was a reason why Mrs. Claus wanted Santa Claus to hurry and
finish his dinner. The reason was that all the grown-ups of Pudding
Lane were coming to the Clauses’ that evening to discuss the final
plans for Santa Claus’s surprise. Consequently, Mrs. Claus had a great
deal of work to do, and she wanted Santa Claus well out of the way. It
was with a great sigh of relief, therefore, that she saw Santa finish
his dinner and depart again for the woodshed.
“Well,” said she to Mr. Claus and the twins, “he like to never went!”
“Yes, he did,” replied the baker, meaning, I suppose, that Santa Claus
did like to never went, whatever that meant. “Do you think, Nellie,
that he guesses the least tiny bit that we’re planning this Christmas
surprise?”
“No, he doesn’t guess a thing,” replied Mrs. Claus. “He’s thinking only
of little red wagons.”
“Won’t he be surprised, though?” Mr. Claus grinned at the prospect.
“No little boy was ever so surprised in the whole world as Santa Claus
will be this Christmas morning,” said Mrs. Claus with conviction. “But
look here, baker, this is no time to sit idly in the kitchen. What
about Jack Horner’s pie, sir? And the animal crackers. Mr. Claus, I am
surprised that you would neglect the animal crackers like this!”
Whereupon, Mr. Claus, much ashamed of himself, departed for the
bakeshop and Mrs. Claus began to tear things up in the front parlor for
the company that was coming that night.
Santa Claus and the twins and the baby were all in bed and sound asleep
that night when Mrs. Claus, attired in her best, and Mr. Claus, attired
in his best, sat awaiting their guests. But in spite of their fine
clothes, and in spite of the fact that the Clauses’ front parlor was
brilliantly lighted with as many as eight or ten candles, in spite of
the fact that this was perhaps the most important event that ever was
to take place in the humble home of the Clauses, the host and hostess
at that moment were a far from lively couple.
For as Mrs. Claus sat there stiffly, she kept opening and closing her
mouth in such tremendous yawns that it was a wonder she didn’t swallow
herself. And as Mr. Claus stood at attention by the door, he dozed and
came to with such lurches and pitches that it seemed as if he must
fall down on the floor just any moment, plunged into the deepest of
slumbers. Indeed, he would have, I do believe, if Mrs. Claus, between
yawns, hadn’t called out: “Look out there, Mr. Claus! Look out!” At
which he then would look out from his heavy, half-shut eyes and stop
lurching for the briefest while.
The truth was that the Clauses were already so terribly, fearfully,
awfully sleepy that it didn’t seem at all possible that they would get
through the evening, inasmuch as the evening hadn’t even started yet.
Night life in Pudding Lane was not what it might have been and late
hours were extremely rare.
Well, there they were, Mrs. Claus one great enormous yawn, and Mr.
Claus reeling like a sleepy wooden soldier, when thumpety, thump, came
a noise down Pudding Lane. Mrs. Claus heard the thumpety-thump first
and sat up straighter than ever.
“Look out there, Mr. Claus, look out!” she warned him, for Mr. Claus by
that time was swaying in a most terrifying fashion. Mr. Claus opened
his eyes.
“They’re coming!” she told him.
“Who’s coming?” asked Mr. Claus stupidly. He _was_ far gone, wasn’t he?
“They!” cried Mrs. Claus, exasperated. “The company!”
Just at that minute there came a great bang at the door. Mr. Claus
jumped a foot high.
“Who in the world can that be?” he cried. “Who are you?” he demanded
fiercely. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Claus,” screamed his wife frantically, “will you open that door or
won’t you? It’s the company come.”
But Mr. Claus, determined to be a hero at whatever cost, continued to
grow more and more heroic, as the banging at the door went on, and
striking a warlike pose he thundered, “Who are you, I say, coming to
disturb good honest people at such an hour of the night?”
“Oh!” yelled poor Mrs. Claus at this. “What a man!” She flew from the
sofa and flung open the door for the crowd of people that was waiting.
Mrs. Grundy, as usual, came strutting in first, ahead even of Old King
Cole, which was not exactly according to court procedure.
“Well, I must say, baker!” she said haughtily, though what she thought
she must say, she didn’t say, somehow.
“What’s this, Claus?” asked the butcher jovially. “Did you think we
were come to steal the silver?”
The Queen of Hearts gave Mr. Claus a playful dig with her elbow.
“Such a man as you are, baker,” she tittered, “to joke with us like
that.”
But Mr. Claus, still blinking, did not in the least know what it was
all about, and as he looked from one to the other of that vast company
of his neighbors and friends, he showed such complete bewilderment and
perplexity that they all burst out laughing. All but Mrs. Claus, that
is. If looks could kill, Mr. Claus would have been dead on the spot.
For Mrs. Claus was a hospitable soul and to have her husband treat
company that way was more than she could bear.
It was the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe who finally took pity on him,
as the rest of the company just stood there and laughed at his funny
puzzled countenance.
“Wake up, Mr. Claus,” she said.
“Wake up and stay awake!” added Mrs. Claus, as the Old Woman continued,
“Wake up! We’ve come to talk about the Christmas surprise for Santa
Claus. Don’t you remember?”
Then suddenly Mr. Claus did remember, and, oh, how chagrined he was
then, how extravagantly he apologized for his rudeness to the company,
and how he upbraided himself for being such a dunderhead, as he
expressed it.
It was very late in the evening when Old King Cole, rising heavily to
his feet, called for a summing-up of the evening’s business.
“Mr. Horner,” said he to Jack Horner’s father, “will you please to
summarize the conclusions we have reached this night in regard to Santa
Claus’s Christmas surprise?”
Mr. Horner, jumping up, bowed low to the King, cleared his throat,
looked uncertainly around him, opened his mouth and began to speak.
“I--sir--I suggest--”
“Oh, no,” Old King Cole waved his hand. “No more suggestions, please.
Just summarize, if you will, Mr. Horner, just summarize.”
Mr. Horner tried again.
“Your Majesty, I would remark--”
“Mr. Horner, if you please,” interrupted the merry old soul testily, “I
don’t want you to remark. All that I ask of you is that you summarize.
Surely a King may ask such a small favor of a loyal subject, Mr.
Horner.”
“Your Majesty,” spoke Mr. Horner with dignity, “I’m afraid I must
refuse to--to--sum--well, to do as you require.”
With that, Mr. Horner sat down, his face red and his hands shaking. For
the trouble with Mr. Horner was that he didn’t know what “summarize”
meant, but rather than admit it, he would have gone into a deep dungeon
and stayed there the rest of his life, so proud a man was Mr. Horner.
When Mr. Horner refused the King and sat down as he did, everybody,
including Mr. Horner himself, expected something calamitous to happen,
for that’s what it means to be a King, to have people do as you tell
them. They all shivered as they sat there. What would the King say
to the disobedient Mr. Horner and what would he do? Only Mrs. Horner
did not shiver, for she was too frightened even to shiver, but sat
stone-still in her rocking chair, like a rigid, glass-eyed doll.
But what was everybody’s astonishment when Old King Cole began to
chuckle, then laugh out loud, and finally so jolly did he become
that he rocked and gasped and held his stomach in a perfect storm of
merriment. Indeed, it began to look as if he would never recover. He
did recover, however, due to the presence of mind of Mrs. Grundy, who
fetched a pitcher of water, saying, as she did so, and very truly too,
that there’s nothing like water to bring a man to his senses.
“Well, Mr. Horner,” said the King, as he wiped his eyes of their tears
of laughter and his face of the deluge of water, “I admire your spirit,
sir. But come now, it is growing late. Who _will_ summarize for me?”
Jack Spratt jumped up eagerly. He knew what “summarize” meant and was
bursting to show off his knowledge. And here is the speech he made.
You will agree, I am sure, that Jack Spratt was a masterly hand at
speeches.
“Your Majesty, Your Gracious Beauty,” (this last was meant for the
Queen of Hearts who now bowed her head in ill-concealed delight at such
praise) “ladies, one and all, and gentlemen:
“We have decided here to-night on these things, namely, and to wit:
“That Santa Claus, being quite the kindest, most generous, most
wonderful little boy in Pudding Lane” (you should have seen Mrs.
Claus’s face at that) “in fact, the kindest, most generous, most
wonderful little boy in the wide world” (look out, Mrs. Claus, you
almost fell off your chair then), “that Santa Claus, therefore, shall
be surprised on Christmas morning as he always surprises other children;
“We have decided further, sir, that all the children shall make with
their own hands gifts for Santa Claus and that Mother Goose shall buy
gifts for us in Banbury Cross, as well;
“That then these gifts shall be stored here in Mrs. Claus’s cupboard,
shall be locked with a strong key and stay locked until Christmas Eve
when, you, Your Majesty, are to get these things, go up to the roof,
slide down the chimney, and fill little Santa’s stocking full as it
will hold, yes, even fuller, for it is well known, comrades, that a
Christmas stocking isn’t much of a stocking if it doesn’t overflow with
gifts.”
“Hurrah!” shouted Old King Cole, as Jack Spratt, with one final
flourish of a bow, took his seat again, flushed with success.
“Hurrah!” they all cried, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Long live Jack
Spratt!”
But they had cried hurrah one time too many. For upon that last
resounding cry, Santa Claus, in his little bed upstairs, had awakened.
He did not know what this noise was, having no idea that Mr. and Mrs.
Claus were entertaining company that night. And so, since he did not
know what the sound was, he thought he would get up and find out. Which
he did. He fumbled around in the dark for his slippers, groped for his
dressing gown, and upon finding these, hurried into them and ran down
the back stairs.
The noise had subsided now, however, and as Santa Claus tiptoed in
toward the front parlor, he heard only the low murmur of voices. This
surely was a strange thing, thought Santa Claus to himself--people to
be talking in the Clauses’ front parlor in the middle of the night. He
crept to the parlor door and listened. It sounded as if all Pudding
Lane were there, he thought. Buzz, buzz, hum, hum, whisper, whisper!
He could hear the deep voice of Old King Cole, rumbling. He could hear
Mrs. Dumpty’s high little chirp. He could hear the cackle of the old
candlestick-maker. Buzz, buzz, hum, hum, whisper, whisper!
And what do you think they were talking about? Were they still
discussing the Christmas surprise? And would Santa Claus hear it all
now? Oh, what a disaster that would be. Let us put our ears close to
the door, as Santa was already doing. Hark! The Old Woman Who Lived in
a Shoe is talking.
“Well,” she was saying, “I wish I were a child. I’d love to hang my
stocking up Christmas Eve, I would.” Whew, that was a narrow squeak,
all right. They might still have been talking about the surprise.
“You know,” said Mrs. Spratt, “I’ve often wished that myself. That’s
the worst thing about growing up, that you don’t hang up your stocking
on Christmas.”
“But we could,” exclaimed Mrs. Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater, “we could
hang up our stockings on Christmas Eve if we wanted to.”
“Who’d fill ’em?” asked the candlestick-maker bluntly.
“Yes, who’d fill ’em?” demanded every one else. “There isn’t much use
of hanging up your stocking, Mrs. Peter, if nobody fills it.”
Mrs. Peter, Peter looked a bit crestfallen. “No, I suppose there
isn’t,” she answered. “Still, I think we might hang them up and just
see whether they got filled or not.”
“Now, Mrs. Peter, Peter Pumpkin-Eater,” said Mr. Horner, “you surely
don’t think that that little boy, Santa Claus, would fill our stockings
if we hung them up, do you? Why, Santa’s got his hands full already,
attending to the children’s stockings.”
“No, I’m not so foolish as to think that, Mr. Horner,” said Mrs. Peter,
Peter, “but some one else might.”
“Who might?” they all asked her. “Whoever would fill our stockings,
Mrs. Peter?”
“Mother Goose might or a fairy might,” burst out the little lady
triumphantly.
And the grown-ups had to admit to themselves that in truth Mother Goose
or a fairy _might_ fill their stockings on Christmas Eve. Mother Goose
had been known to do stranger things than that in her day, and as for
the fairies, well, nobody can ever tell what they’re going to do.
Supposing, then, that they all should hang up their stockings on
Christmas Eve! Supposing somebody did fill them with the gifts of
their hearts’ desire! Mrs. Dumpty’s heart fluttered wildly at the
thought; the Old Woman had a new strange light in her eyes; and the
candlestick-maker fidgeted excitedly in his chair. Foolish grown-ups,
to sit there dreaming of impossible things. Or perhaps they were wise.
Anyway, they were certainly happy, as they all forgot everything for a
moment and pretended that it was Christmas Eve and that they were young
again.
Old King Cole finally broke the silence.
“Old Woman,” he said gently, “what would you rather have than anything
else in the world? What would you want in your Christmas stocking if
you did hang it up, Old Woman?”
The Old Woman began to murmur as if to herself, “Once upon a time
when I was a girl, there was a ball given in Banbury Cross, and I was
invited. The Prince was to be there, Prince Charming himself, you know,
and I had a red dress for it, and a pair of gold slippers. Then I got
the measles and I couldn’t go. I’ve never been the same since.”
“Why, Old Woman,” said the King, “you mean to say you want a ball in
your Christmas stocking?”
“That’s the only thing I do want,” replied the Old Woman. “Only it
would have to be the same ball, you know. No other ball would do at
all.”