THE RIDE TOGETHER
“An’ the shtar danced whin I was born--”
“That was because you were Santa Claus,” laughed the little maid.
“Faith, ’twas because I was mesilf--jest a slip av a babe that wud have
gladdened your eyes to see. ’Twas a happy shtar, an’ it came geekin’ in
at the windy,--An’ how are ye, me broth av a b’y?’ it seemed to say;
an’ I, not knowin’ the spache av the wurrld, jest shmiled back for an
answer. A shmile, or a laugh, is the best spache afther all, an’ don’t
ye fergit it. Why, even the brute dorgs know the differ betwixt glum
looks an’ cheerful ones. An’ the shtar wasn’t to be bate by a dorg, not
it! Iv’ry blessed wurrd that lay in me heart an’ cudn’t git to me
tongue’s end--the way bein’ thin unknown--was clear to it, an’ twinkle,
twinkle, hop, skip, jump it wint, a-twangin’ its little fiddle in chune
to its steps. Me mither’s mither--may the peace av hivin be her sowl’s
rist!--near dhropped me aff her knees wid amazemint, fer niver had she
beheld such divarshions; an’ by reason av the same she ran the pins into
me body, mishtakin’ it fer a cushion, but niver a whoop did I let forth,
bein’ all took up mesilf wid the joy av the shtar. Sure, she cud have
made a clove apple av me intoirely an’ I wudn’t have been none the
wiser. She rectified her mishtake did she, an’ if she’d been in doubts
that all the saylestial fandarago was in me honor, she saw the truth av
it thin. ‘Mavourneen,’ she sez to me mither, ‘there’s a little happy
shtar widout in the hivins doin’ a quick-shtep, an’ up an’ down the
middle, an’ ballings to corners all because av this new-born babe who’s
laughin’ wid the humor av it--’ ‘An’ why not?’ sez me mither, wid a
certain fierceness in the soft voice av her. ‘Why shudn’t the whole
firmymint be set into a commotion av gladness because av him? Faith, if
ye cud pennythrate to me heart,’ sez she, ‘ye’d see it dancin’ as niver
was. Bring him here to me arrms, alanna, that I may cuddle him clost,
so’s he can fale the bate av it.’ Thin the ould woman did as she was
bid, an’ me mither--now the saints bless her swate sowl!--held me till
her side an’ talked to me low, whilst the joy av her heart crept
insid’yus like into me own, an’ it’s lived there iver since.”
“What did she say? Did she call you Santa Claus?”
“Faith, she didn’t--not thin, nor aftherwards. She called me _Cushla
ma-chree_,--which manes Pulse av me Heart,--an’ Jool, an’ Precious, an’
Light av me Eyes--”
“But those are my own names, truly, all but the first one, and Heart’s
Content, and--”
“Ah, the mithers--bless thim! There does be but one langwidge they spake
the wurrld over. Don’t I know the truth av it? An’ the haythins as
well, that haven’t a wurrd av English to their names--God pity thim,
though he made thim an’ gave thim their gibberish, too--they say the
same thing in their outlandish tongue, an’ the little haythins
undershtand as well as you an’ me. Heart’s Contint, an’ Wurrld’s
Blessin’ an’--”
“‘Dear my little own,’--only muvver made that up speshilly for me; she
told me so--”
“Did she, now? Begorra, the familiarity av it sounds like music in me
ears. I remimber me own mither whisperin’ something akin to it wanst
whin I snuggled clost to her. Whist! ’tis out av their falin’s fer us
that they do be gettin’ the wurrds afther all, an’ that’s betther than
learnin’ thim from the books. Whin ye come to think av it, it ain’t to
be wondered at that there’s a sort av fam’ly raysimblince betwixt thim,
seein’ as their hearts are av the same complexion. Oh, there ain’t
annything annyw’eres like a mither’s love.”
For just a little minute the eyes blazing with fun took on a misty
twinkle, and something like a shadow crossed the old man’s face, making
it seem strangely grave; but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and
he was his merry self once more.
“It must have been a most ’normous long while ago when you were a baby,”
the child said, inspecting him shyly.
“It was, me darlint; it was the beginnin’ av toime--fer me.”
“Somehow I never thought of you as a baby at all,” she went on, plainly
distressed. “Oh, what ever did the little children do then for Santa
Claus? There was never any other, was there?”
“Niver a wan, Swate Eyes. I’m the original, simon-pure Santa Claus, an’
no mishtake. Troth, they had to get on the best they cud widout me; an’
a sorry toime they had av it, wan an’ all. Thin I came, an’ the wurrld
was a different place iver afther--so me mither towld me.”
The child breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad I got born when I did. I shouldn’t have liked to be borned
before you came. I’m half-past six, you know. Who filled your stocking?”
she demanded the next moment, as the new idea occurred to her.
“Divil a wan I had to hang up whin I was a spalpeen; ’twas bare-futted
an’ bare-legged I wint.”
“But Christmas,”--the little maid’s lip trembled,--“what did you do at
Christmas?”
“’Twas like anny plain, ordinary iv’ry day to me, agra, an’ no differ;
except that wanst in jest so often me mither hid a plum in the bit cake
she was afther makin’ fer me, an’ I’d the joy av searchin’ it out
mesilf, same as ye’d seek out a naydle in a hayrick. An’ toimes it was
fat, an’ toimes ag’in ’twas like the shadder av itsilf; but glory be! I
niver missed it. An’ ’twas so good, fat or lane, that I used to drame
I’d give iv’ry child in the wurrld a cake all shtuffed wid plums whin I
growed up--”
“That was what put it into your head to be Santa Claus.”
The man cast a sidelong glance at his companion’s eager face.
“S’pose so,” he muttered.
“But the star knew all along, and that’s why it danced and couldn’t keep
still.” She stole her hand into the curve of his arm, and gave it a soft
little squeeze. “Tell me ’bout that first time,” she coaxed.
“What first toime?”
“When you went Santa Clausing. Were you very long growing up?”
“’Twas a terrible long spell from the b’y’s ind, an’ a terrible short
wan from the man’s,--all av which you’ll undershtand whin your hair is
me own color. But ’twas over an’ done wid sooner or late, an’ there I
was a man grown, though the heart av me has always been like a child’s
because av the shtar--”
“And ’cause you belong to us.”
“’Tis a Solymon King av Sheba ye are, alanna. Well, I wint about me
work, an’ I toiled up an’ down the wurrld; but the goin’ was joyful
like, ’count av the fun I left in me wake, an’ iv’rywheres folks seemed
powerful glad to see me.”
“I tried to keep awake last Christmas Eve,” she broke in shrilly, “after
muvver hanged up my stocking, but the sandman would come. I’d been awake
so long that when he crept in in his long gray cloak and with his bag
on his back, I thought it was truly you, and my heart went thumpety
thump. But he shook out the sand--sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle.
‘To-night of all nights you must sleep,’ he said; and I cried ‘No,’ and
closed my eyes quick, so’s the sand couldn’t get in; and when I opened
them the next minute it was quite morning--not yellow morning, you know,
but just the baby light that comes first. Then very soft, so’s not to
’sturb muvver, I crawled out of bed, ’cause it made me incontented to
lie still, and there was my stocking, full to the brim. I knew who’d
filled it--” She stopped in her recital to smile at him and to pat his
arm again. “Then I climbed up on a chair to take it down, and muvver
laughed out loud. ‘Come back to bed, dear my little own,’ she said;
‘bring the stocking, and cuddle down warm and snug in blanket land.’ So
I did; and she kissed me and I kissed her, and we both said ‘Merry
Christmas’ to each uver. She went fast asleep again, but cert’inly you
couldn’t expect a little girl could sleep. I felt all my presents;
muvver says us little folks have eyes in our finger tips; and every
minute the light grew brighter, and then--I really saw! Dear, dear Santa
Claus, how could you ’member just what I wanted?” She rubbed her
dimpling cheek ecstatically against the old sleeve. “But you didn’t put
anything in muvver’s stocking,” she added softly.
He could not meet her reproachful glance.
“’Twas in a hurry I was,” he mumbled, “an’ me bastes shtampin’ widout in
the cowld--”
“Oh, she didn’t know,” the child interrupted, “’cause when she was tight
asleep I found her stocking, and I put that very rosy-cheeked apple
you’d put in mine quite far, far down in hers, and some nuts, too.
Cert’inly I couldn’t give her the little doll or the picture book,
’cause grown-ups don’t care for such things, really; but things to eat
are different. You don’t mind, do you?”
He did not answer. For the moment it almost seemed as if he had not
heard. His head was turned quite away.
“And she was s’prised--oh! you can’t think--and glad, too; so glad her
eyes got all shiny and bright. But you can’t guess what happened next.
She said, ‘Bless my Santa Claus.’ Wasn’t that funny? And then she kissed
me most ’s if she ’spected.”
Danny and Whitefoot felt a sudden queer twitch on the reins--a
compelling touch that made them both swerve out of the direction they
were taking. It was almost as if their driver meant them to turn around.
Much earlier in the day, when they first left Wistar’s, for instance,
such a command would not have appeared singular; but coming at a time
when the tavern lay so far behind as to be forgotten, when the world
seemed a blanket of drift and down and glistening silver, with no house
in sight, the action was at least puzzling to their equine minds. They
stopped instantly, however, the noise of their bells hushed into
silence. Whitefoot turned a wondering face upon his master, and almost
immediately Danny looked protestingly around. The man met their gaze
half guiltily. Beyond--oh, very far beyond--lay Merle, with its
Christmas fun,--Merle, where he must be that night, or his name would be
the jibe of the countryside; and back of them--a good twelve miles,
perhaps fifteen, they had jogged on at such a steady pace--was that
solitary house. If he turned round it must be good-by to Merle; it would
be impossible for Danny and Whitefoot to make the journey again without
rest. He shifted the reins from one hand to the other.
“Why are we stopping?” asked the child.
He looked at her in some perplexity, then his brow cleared.
“To give the bastes their feed; they’re perishin’ wid hunger, so they
are, the saints fergive me,” he answered, in a relieved tone, glad to
postpone his decision for a time.
He threw back the robes as he spoke, and sprang out on the ground. Where
they had stopped the narrow, lane-like road widened for a considerable
space into a plain again and a well, not far distant from the track, now
furnished water for the team, after which a bag at the back of the
sleigh poured forth grain into the pails; and when these were set before
the horses they fell to work as if Terry’s words were in danger of
coming true. The child watched the proceedings with wide eyes.
“They’re only just very woolly horses, after all,” she said, with a
tinge of disappointment in her voice, “in the books they’re reindeer.”
“Sure, the reindeers is at home savin’ up forninst this night. I cudn’t
be dhrivin’ thim in the broad daylight, alanna dear; folks wud think us
a thravellin’ circus widout the elefunt. Begorra, ’tis shtarvin’ I am
mesilf, an’ I’ll take my Alfred-Davy ye’re in the same boat. We’ll be
afther havin’ a snack oursilves an’ a dhrop av somethin’ warmin’. Tumble
back into the sleigh, mavourneen, an’ wrap yoursilf up clost till I
shpread the tablecloth ag’inst the bankquid.”
The tablecloth, as was speedily disclosed, was nothing more than a very
greasy newspaper, which was wrapped around a huge pile of sandwiches,
each with a rim of bacon showing darkly between its thick slices of
bread, a hunk of cheese, and some fat crackers; but the finest damask
under other circumstances would not have seemed half so beautiful in her
eyes. And she had no quarrel with the coarse fare. Hunger, after all, is
the best sauce for appetite that can be served with any meal, and it is
more apt to come in with the plain dishes than with the elaborate ones,
as Santa Claus and his little sweetheart proved.
“Faith, I cud ate a nail wid relish if nothin’ else was handy,” he
laughed, as he made his first onslaught on the sandwich he was holding,
and lessened it by a third, “but this is a dish to set before a king, so
tinder an’ tasty as it is. Take a rale thry at it, me darlint; ye do be
nibblin’ sech little grand lady bites ye’ll niver be t’rough. ’Tis wan
sandwidge I’ve put away already, an’ ye but embarkin’ on the top roof av
yours. Here’s the second to kape ye comp’ny, Brown Eyes.” He took an
enormous mouthful, and smiled at her, while he was rendered speechless,
and she smiled back, mute, too, from a similar reason.
“Did ye iver taste betther?” he made out to ask.
“Never,” she answered promptly; and she really spoke the truth. Sawdust
eaten in such companionship would have seemed as palatable as sugar,
and the present food was like the ambrosia of the high gods. Even those
delicious sandwiches that her mother made for her sometimes, with the
little slice of ham blushing faintly between the dainty pieces of bread
where the butter lay like a filmy, glistening veil, had never seemed so
good and satisfying as these big grown-up ones eaten under the high blue
sky in that country of snow and ice.
As soon as the sandwiches had disappeared Santa Claus covered a cracker
with bits of cheese like nuggets of gold, and presented it to her with a
bow as if she were a queen. It seemed a fitting crown to the feast,
though apparently he had quite other ideas of a crown, as was soon
shown. When the crackers and cheese were all eaten, and even the last
crumb chased home and captured, he put his hand into the breast of his
coat and drew out a flat, dark bottle which he regarded with loving
eyes.
“Here’s me beauty,” he cried; “here’s what’s to top aff a faste a king
wudn’t disdain; here’s something he wudn’t give the go-by to, not he!”
“What is it?” the little maid asked curiously.
“What is it? Troth, ’twud take an hour by the clock to tell all the
names it has the wurrld over; an’ some is good, an’ some is bad--the
names, I’m manin’. Merry-go-down an’ Tangle-legs,--that’s shlander’us!
an’ Water av Health, an’ Odivvy, as the Frenchies say, which is the same
as Water av Life; but I’m not so much fer water in it mesilf, likin’ it
nate. Then there’s Oil av Gladness an’--Sure ye shall have the first
taste, mavourneen, as ’tis fit an’ proper--ladies always lead. Come,
shtand up an’ give us the toast--”
“The toast--” she looked around bewildered; “why, we’ve eaten all the
bread, and there isn’t any fire--”
“This is the fire an’ the bread too,” roared Santa Claus. “Bless your
innercent sowl, me dear, ’tis a propysition I’m afther askin’ ye fer.
Whist now, the fellies at the tavern sit ’round, an’ before they drink
wan will git up an’ say, a-wavin’ av his glass, ‘Here’s to him’--namin’
some wan prisint; or ‘Here’s to honist hearts an’ true;’ or ‘Here’s to
thim at home, God love thim!’ an’ we all drink to it. So now thin,
Swate Eyes, spake quickly, an’ drink long, an’ pass the bottle spadily
if ye love me, fer iv’ry minnit’s an hour till it quinches me thirst.”
She got to her feet quite gravely, her eyebrows drawn together in the
little pucker they always made when she was thinking very hard; and
first she looked up at the sky, and then around at the stretch of land
where the sparkles under the crusted snow flashed like so many
imprisoned diamonds, and then at the sky again as if for inspiration.
Finally her glance rested upon him, leaning forward, regarding her with
his merry smile.
“Why, here’s to you,” she cried, “our very own, ownest Santa Claus.”
She tipped the bottle against her lips as she finished speaking, gurgled
a little, choked, spluttered--
“Saints above! child, howld your hand stiddy,” Terry shouted. “’Tis your
hood-shtrings an’ your coat as is gettin’ all that precious elixir, an’
iv’ry dhrop av it a jool.”
“Oh, take it away very quick,” she gasped. “I’m sorry to spill it, but
it’s most dreffly horrid.”
“Aisy, me darlint, aisy! There’s no accountin’ fer tastes, as the ould
woman said when she kissed her cow. It’s a quare wurrld this is; but
sure, ’tis a most glorious dispinsation av Providince that we don’t all
be thinkin’ alike. See! I’ll have to take your share as well as me own.
An’ first, here’s me hand on me heart to your toast, an’ the honor av
it; ’tis proud I am at this minnit, an’ next, here’s to
ye--shtandin’--here’s to the best thing a man can have in this
wurrld,--the love av a little child.”
She stood up facing him, and bowed as he had done.
“Here’s me hand on me heart to your toast,” she echoed, “an’ the honor
of it, ’tis proud I am at this minute.”
Then she climbed back on the seat and watched him with round eyes as he
tilted his head very far back and took a deep draught. If his attack on
the sandwiches had astonished her, this new conduct awakened all her
wonder. As he took the bottle from his lips he uttered a sigh which
immediately slipped into a loud guffaw at sight of her expression.
“You can’t like it,” she shuddered.
“I’m not quarrellin’ wid the taste,” he answered, “an’ annyway, ’tis by
the docthor’s orders I do be takin’ a dhrop av the crayther, to kape the
cold out an’ the warm in. A nip once in jest so often, the wise ould man
sez, an’ don’t improve on the occasions, mind ye! But sure, there’s a
toast I haven’t yet given, an’ that’s to our next merry meetin’, an’ may
it come sooner than ’tis expected.”
He neither looked nor bowed her way; indeed, the words were addressed to
his familiar spirits, and his eyes were fixed solely upon what he held
in his hand. After a moment he put the bottle back in his breast, and
buttoned his coat securely across.
“An’ now to juty, swateheart,” he cried, springing out of the sleigh,
“the raypast is over, an’ the horses have gorged thimsilves like
magisthrates, the rapaycious gossoons! Come, be shpry, an’ lind a hand
wid the pails.”
She did not wait to be told twice, but bustled around delightedly,
helping him stow the buckets among the dingy bags and barrels which
formed the prosaic load this Santa Claus carried.
“Jest food forninst to-morry fer the shantymen,” he explained, as she
prodded the bulging sacks with inquisitive fingers. “They axed me to
fetch along their Christmas dinner. Oh, they knowed their man. An’ I,
that obligin’, cudn’t say no till thim. If I’d hardened me heart like
Phareyo we wudn’t be knowin’ aitch other this blessed minnit; so ’tis
glad I am that I’m mild as a mid-summer night by nature an’
dishposition. Let’s limber up a bit afore we shtart ag’in on our
thravels; ’tis shtiff I am in the fate av me. All hands down the middle,
sashy to corners. Gintlemin, take your pardners--gintlemin twirl your
gurrls! Ladies change!”
He roared out the calls, as he had so often done in the different
taverns when he sat with his fiddle beneath his chin and played such
enlivening strains that nobody who heard them could keep still. This
time, however, he was going to cut pigeon-wings himself, and do
wonderful double-shuffles; and he needed both hands to swing his little
thistledown of a partner, so the old fiddle lay undisturbed in the
bottom of the sleigh, while he whistled and sang the tunes with great
gusto.
It was a scene unlike any he had ever known. Instead of the long, low
rooms with the candles, set a-row in bottles, spluttering through the
haze of dust and giving out, besides their meagre light, a smell of
dripping tallow, where the air was noisy with the scraping and pounding
of many feet, and shouts and laughter rose on every side, was this wide,
beautiful place with its pure white carpet and the roof of blue far, far
above. Its remote walls were hung with white, where the low hills
climbed skyward. And nearer, where the woods began, tall snow-crowned
trees stood, their branches shining with frost. Clumps of bushes, with
here and there a stunted isolated tree, dressed in the same glittering
garments, took on fantastic shapes as if they were spectators; nor were
they the only ones,--the furtive little people of the forest in feathers
and fur peeped out from their shelter to watch with all their eyes, and
then to murmur under their breaths: “How mad these mortals be!”
Terry stood at one side of the road some distance beyond the sleigh, and
opposite him, her face aglow with excitement, her eyes like twin stars,
the child waited. As he bowed with a great flourish, bringing his old
cap to rest over his heart, she swept him a curtsey so low that her
skirts stood stiffly out on the ground,--“a cheese” she would have
called it; then the next instant she sprang to her feet again and poised
on tip-toe, watching eagerly for his signal.
“Now,” he called, “now, thin, darlint, ready.”
She raised her right hand high in air, as if to meet the one he extended
toward her, and skimmed across the shimmering floor close, close to him;
their fingers met, clasped, parted--and she was in his place and he in
hers. Then dipping, bowing, swaying, they advanced, retreated, advanced
again; passed each other, now disdaining hands, each twisting and
turning alone as if the other did not exist; then repentant, meeting,
joining forces, and with hands crossed, setting off together--oh! happy
word--in swift sliding steps that scarcely touched the ground, so light
they seemed; and up the road and down the road they went, laughing,
shouting, singing. It was the maddest, merriest dance! The snow whirled
up from their flying feet in soft clouds, and lo! each tiniest particle
was a fairy; the air was full of graceful bending shapes fluttering here
and there, there and here, until at last, quite tired out, they dropped
to earth again to twinkle and sparkle, chattering softly to one another
of the fun they had had. Only an old man and a small child light of
heart and heels dancing out there in the wide country, do you say? Oh,
no! oh, no! Santa Claus and his little sweetheart; and, as if that were
not happiness enough, there were the others besides,--the snow fairies
(and no dancers are like them anywhere), and the spirits of the plains
sending back the gay music and laughter, and the spirits that dwell in
the woods in their soft shadowy robes winding between the trees in a
stately measure, and the spirits of the wind laughing softly among the
snow-laden, ice-gemmed branches, and the spirit of the high blue sky
smiling down on everything.
Hitherto the little maid had only danced by herself, or with her shadow,
or her dolls,--those rather unsatisfactory partners whose limp legs went
every which way; but she was happy at all times because she kept the
fairy, Content, in her breast. Now joy came to her in larger fashion.
She waved her hand to sparkling earth and smiling sky as she darted up
and down like some belated butterfly caught tenderly up into the heart
of winter, a bit of glowing color. She saw the dancers in the
clearing,--young eyes are sharp eyes, surely!--and I think she caught
glimpses, too, of the shy woodland creatures peering out in open-mouthed
amazement; she blew a kiss toward them, anyway. Tired? Not a bit. Tired?
She could dance forever. Faster, faster, faster, like the little red top
at home she spun, and then slower, slow-er, and more slowly. The little
top always did that just before it hummed off to sleep. Faster again,
slow--Two strong arms caught her and flung her up quite high toward the
sky; how blue it was! Then--how blue Santa Claus’ eyes were, and how
they twinkled, giving back the picture of herself! She laughed into them
gayly, and his deep merriment echoed her flute-like notes. Swiftly he
carried her to the sleigh, wrapped her close in the thick rug again,
then sprang to his place, and gathered up the reins.
“Och, ’tis the most thriminjious shtepper-out ye are,” he cried. “’Twas
the iligantest shport in the wurrld, bar none. Go on, me b’ys.”
Jingle, jangle went the bells; sober music surely, after what had gone
before. It was like the little tune when the dance is done and the
lights are burning low that, no matter how jolly it may be, still sounds
sad, because in and out of its lilt run the words: “Good-by, pleasure,
good-by.”
Jingle, jangle clashed the bells as Danny and Whitefoot settled very
gravely to their work. On and on they went, through the woods and over
the barren stretches, but always toward the north. There was no thought
of turning back.