the Shoe, and if Mrs. Claus didn’t come falling in after him, and then,
right on their heels, if Jack Horner didn’t burst in on everybody.
“We want an ax!” shouted Mr. Claus. “Been all over the whole town and
not a soul was home.”
“An ax!” they all shouted back at him.
“But look here!” called out Little Jack Horner.
He was holding up a tiny something in his hand.
“What’s that?” they asked.
“I stuck in my thumb,” began Jack Horner.
“Oh, it’s only that old plum he’s always talking about,” said Mrs.
Grundy.
“No, ma’am,” Jack cried excitedly, “it’s not a plum. It’s a key. I
stuck in my thumb and pulled out a--key!”
Everybody gasped, Mrs. Claus gave a jump, and as for Mr. Claus, “Great
snakes!” he roared. “It’s it!”
And before anybody could say another word, he had snatched the key from
Jack Horner’s hands and was gone, leaving Mrs. Claus to explain the
whole thing, a feat she accomplished with much hemming and hawing.
For Mrs. Claus, you see, in her excitement had baked the key to the
cupboard in Jack Horner’s Christmas pie. Nobody knows how in the world
she could have done such a thing, and indeed, to this day she swears
she _couldn’t_ have done it, but she did do it, just the same, and
everybody knows it.
The people of Pudding Lane were very kind to her about this mistake.
“Never mind, Mrs. Claus,” said the Old Woman comfortingly, “it’s
all right now. Mr. Claus has gone home to get the things out of the
cupboard and Santa Claus will have his Christmas stocking just the
same, even if you did think the key was a plum.”
“I didn’t,” retorted Mrs. Claus. “Whoever could think a key was a
plum?”
“Well,” cackled the candlestick-maker, “you put the key into the plum
pie, Mrs. Claus.”
Mrs. Claus wrung her hands and could make no answer.
“Shame on you, candlestick-maker,” said Cross-Patch reprovingly. “Your
tails have made you cruel, sir. Cheer up, Mrs. Claus,” she went on,
“it’s just as the Old Woman said. Santa Claus will have his Christmas
stocking, after all, and there’s nothing to worry about now.”
“Well, then,” spoke the Old Woman, “we ought to go on with our party,
oughtn’t we?”
“We ought to, I suppose,” said Mrs. Dumpty, smoothing her ruffles,
“but--”
“But what, Mrs. Dumpty?” asked Mr. Flinders from among his litter of
pigs.
“But--” Mrs. Dumpty hesitated again, “well, the truth is, neighbors,
I’ve had about enough of party.”
The candlestick-maker stopped switching his coat-tails to give vent to
a great yawn.
“Wouldn’t mind going to bed myself,” he admitted.
“The baby’s asleep,” said Cross-Patch. “I guess I’ll go home.”
The Old Woman rubbed her eyes.
“Balls are all right,” she said, “but bed is the place for old women at
this time of the night.”
And that was the end of the lovely Christmas party. It was the end of
the pigs and the ruffles and the swallow-tail coat; it was the end
even of the butcher’s wife and Cross-Patch’s baby. They had had their
wishes, those grown-ups of Pudding Lane, every one of them, and they
had enjoyed that Christmas Eve as they had never enjoyed anything else
before. But now they were just their old selves again and wanted to go
to bed. Father Time had turned the clock up again, you see, and their
hour of youth was past.
But Santa Claus’s hour was not past, no indeed.
For the next morning, when he came clattering down the stairs to see
his brothers and sister open their Christmas stockings, what should he
see but his own red stocking hanging there, with a great sign on it,
saying, “Merry Christmas, little Santa, from all your loving friends!”
And what should he find in that stocking but Judy’s mittens, and Jack
and Jill’s orange tree (and it did have a tiny white blossom on it,
after all) and the whistle that Humpty-Dumpty had carved for him? And
what was there all around that stocking but piles and piles and piles
of gifts, the nicest things that could be bought in Banbury Cross?
Was he surprised? He nearly swooned, that fat little boy, so surprised
was he. Did he like his gifts? You should have heard him chuckle and
shout and exclaim. Was he touched at the thoughtfulness of his friends?
He thanked them and thanked and thanked them, until they stopped their
ears, and he told his mother that night that never in all the world
were there any such people as those in Pudding Lane. He was curious,
too, to know how they managed it all.
“Who brought the things down the chimney?” he wanted to know.
“King Cole,” Mrs. Claus told him.
“King Cole himself?”
“King Cole himself,” said Mrs. Claus, but she did not add that the King
had stuck in the chimney on the way down and had to be pulled through
by his feet, although that really happened.
So that’s the way it all came out.
Father Time turned back the clock so that the grown-ups could be young
again and have the wishes of their youth. Jack Horner, the glutton,
ate his Christmas pie too early, but, by doing so, saved the day. For
if he hadn’t, they wouldn’t have found the key, and Santa Claus might
not have had his wonderful Christmas stocking. Oh, yes, they would have
taken the ax to the cupboard, I suppose, but that’s no way to open a
cupboard, after all.
THE END
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.