makes one o’ them think about ye and Christmas. Sure, there’s nothing
better in life to put by in your memory than rare thoughts and fine
letters. And, I’m mortial glad, myself, there’s something good coming to
ye, laddy, from over yonder, for many’s the time Barney and I have been
afeared ’twas a lonesome Christmas ye’d be finding up here.”
And to the great surprise of every one, David included, David answered
cheerfully:
“I don’t believe it’s half bad. Maybe there’s more Christmas round than
we know.”
The orange sun had paled to yellow and climbed half the length of the
tallest pine from the crest of the hill when David, bundled and furred,
adjusted his skees outside the lodge door. Carefully he pushed his way
over the level stretch of new snow, for one never knew with new snow
just how far one might go down before striking the crust of the old. A
few yards beyond the nearest clump of evergreen he stopped. From this
point the mountain sloped down on three sides; the fourth carried over
the ridge to the neighboring hill. Here David could look down on the
encircling valley; and though the snow lay unbroken everywhere save on
the road leading straight down to the “crossing” and the village beyond,
he could almost vision paths branching out from where he stood and
leading down to the three inhabited dwellings on the mountain’s side.
Which way should he go? Where would he first strike his trail for
Christmas? Would he follow the road or one of the invisible paths? He
asked this silently at first, and then aloud, as if there might be some
one near by to hear; and the answer came in the form of a little gray
furry coat, a pair of alert ears and a long, bushy tail. Yes, David knew
in a twinkling it was the locked-out fairy, come to keep his promise. He
did not come close enough for David to see the round, roguish face under
the squirrel cap; but he sat up and twitched his head in the direction
of the road as if he were saying:
“Come along, David, ye couldn’t be wishing for a braver day to go
Christmas-hunting. Have ye fetched along your holiday fowling-piece and
your ammunition? For ’tis rare sport, I promise ye, a hundred times
better than hunting your furred or feathered brothers. Come along!” And
away he hopped down the road toward the crossing.
David followed, as you or I would, and never stopped till the fairy led
him straight to the flagman’s hut and disappeared himself behind the
drifts beyond the track. Without a moment’s hesitation David turned the
knob of the door and walked in.
The hut was a small one-room affair, bare, but clean. The walls were
whitewashed and held an array of flags and lanterns, maps and
time-tables. An air-tight stove glowed red at one end of the room, and
beside it, with his feet on the hob, tilted back in his chair, sat the
flagman puffing away at an old meerschaum pipe. He was plainly surprised
to see his visitor. His feet came back to the floor with a bang, his
pipe came out of his mouth, and he stared at David incredulously for a
full minute. Then the ends of his grizzled mustache bristled upward, his
mouth opened and twisted the same way, while his eyes seemed to drop
downward to meet it, all the time growing bluer and more friendly. David
took the whole effect to be a smile of welcome and he responded with
outstretched mittened hand.
“Good morning, sir. It’s a—it’s a grand day!”
The knotted fist of the flagman accepted the mitten and shook it warmly.
“Vell—vell—it ees the knabelein from the hilltop come to see old Fritz
Grossman. A child again—it ees goot!”
He reached for a little stool, the only other piece of furniture in the
room, and pushed it toward David.
“Come—take off the greatcoat and seet down. It ees long since old Fritz
has had a child to see him. In summer they come sometime from the big
hotel, and from the veelage they used to many come. But now—ach! Now,
since the war, eet ees deefferent. Now I am the enemy—the German—and
here every one hate the German!”
David felt about for something to say and repeated something he had once
heard: “War makes enemies.”
“Ach, ja. But here there ees no war. Here we should all be Americans,
and not hate peebles for the country where they were born. Gott in
Himmel, can there not be one country kept clean of the hate!”
The blue eyes suddenly grew wet, and he blinked them hard and fast to
keep the wetness from spilling over into disgraceful tears.
“Tsa! Old Fritz grow more old woman every day! I not mind but for the
children not coming; and this time here and no little tongues to beg
tales of the Krist Kindlein and the Weihnachtsman from old Fritz.”
David drew closer and laid a friendly hand on the flagman’s knee.
“I’d like to hear one—I’d like bully well to hear one!”
The flagman croaked gleefully deep down in his throat.
“Zo—but first—I know—the knabelein has a stomach got. All have.”
He rose stiffly and reached back of the stove to where hung his own
great bear-coat. From the pocket he brought out a large red apple and
handed it to David.
“There, eat. And you shall hear the tale of anodder apple, a Chreestmas
apple.”
The flagman tilted back in his chair again and replaced his feet upon
the hob. David sat with elbows on knees and ate slowly. There was no
sound but the occasional dropping of coals in the stove and the soft,
deep guttural of the flagman’s voice. And here is the story as he told
it to David—only the broken German accent and the dropping coals are
missing.
Once on a time there lived in Germany a little clock-maker by the name
of Hermann Joseph. He lived in one little room with a bench for his
work, and a chest for his wood, and his tools, and a cupboard for
dishes, and a trundle-bed under the bench. Besides these there was a
stool, and that was all—excepting the clocks. There were hundreds of
clocks: little and big, carved and plain, some with wooden faces and
some with porcelain ones—shelf clocks, cuckoo clocks, clocks with chimes
and clocks without; and they all hung on the walls, covering them quite
up. In front of his one little window there was a little shelf, and on
this Hermann put all his best clocks to show the passers-by. Often they
would stop and look and some one would cry:
“See, Hermann Joseph has made a new clock. It is finer than any of the
rest!”
Then if it happened that anybody was wanting a clock he would come in
and buy it.
I said Hermann was a little clock-maker. That was because his back was
bent and his legs were crooked, which made him very short and funny to
look at. But there was no kinder face than his in all the city, and the
children loved him. Whenever a toy was broken or a doll had lost an arm
or a leg or an eye its careless mütterchen would carry it straight to
Hermann’s little shop.
“The kindlein needs mending,” she would say. “Canst thou do it now for
me?”
And whatever work Hermann was doing he would always put it aside to mend
the broken toy or doll, and never a pfennig would he take for the
mending.
“Go spend it for sweetmeats, or, better still, put it by till
Christmas-time. ’Twill get thee some happiness then, maybe,” he would
always say.
Now it was the custom in that long ago for those who lived in the city
to bring gifts to the great cathedral on Christmas and lay them before
the Holy Mother and Child. People saved all through the year that they
might have something wonderful to bring on that day; and there was a
saying among them that when a gift was brought that pleased the
Christ-child more than any other He would reach down from Mary’s arms
and take it. This was but a saying, of course. The old Herr Graff, the
oldest man in the city, could not remember that it had ever really
happened; and many there were who laughed at the very idea. But children
often talked about it, and the poets made beautiful verses about it; and
often when a rich gift was placed beside the altar the watchers would
whisper among themselves, “Perhaps now we shall see the miracle.”
Those who had no gifts to bring went to the cathedral just the same on
Christmas Eve to see the gifts of the others and hear the carols and
watch the burning of the waxen tapers. The little clock-maker was one of
these. Often he was stopped and some one would ask, “How happens it that
you never bring a gift?” Once the bishop himself questioned him: “Poorer
than thou have brought offerings to the Child. Where is thy gift?”
Then it was that Hermann had answered: “Wait; some day you shall see. I,
too, shall bring a gift some day.”
The truth of it was that the little clock-maker was so busy giving away
all the year that there was never anything left at Christmas-time. But
he had a wonderful idea on which he was working every minute that he
could spare time from his clocks. It had taken him years and years; no
one knew anything about it but Trude, his neighbor’s child, and Trude
had grown from a baby into a little housemother, and still the gift was
not finished.
It was to be a clock, the most wonderful and beautiful clock ever made;
and every part of it had been fashioned with loving care. The case, the
works, the weights, the hands, and the face, all had taken years of
labor. He had spent years carving the case and hands, years perfecting
the works; and now Hermann saw that with a little more haste and time he
could finish it for the coming Christmas. He mended the children’s toys
as before, but he gave up making his regular clocks, so there were fewer
to sell, and often his cupboard was empty and he went supperless to bed.
But that only made him a little thinner and his face a little kinder;
and meantime the gift clock became more and more beautiful. It was
fashioned after a rude stable with rafters, stall, and crib. The Holy
Mother knelt beside the manger in which a tiny Christ-child lay, while
through the open door the hours came. Three were kings and three were
shepherds and three were soldiers and three were angels; and when the
hours struck, the figure knelt in adoration before the sleeping Child,
while the silver chimes played the “Magnificat.”
“Thou seest,” said the clock-maker to Trude, “it is not just on Sundays
and holidays that we should remember to worship the Krist Kindlein and
bring Him gifts—but every day, every hour.”
The days went by like clouds scudding before a winter wind and the clock
was finished at last. So happy was Hermann with his work that he put the
gift clock on the shelf before the little window to show the passers-by.
There were crowds looking at it all day long, and many would whisper,
“Do you think this can be the gift Hermann has spoken of—his offering on
Christmas Eve to the Church?”
The day before Christmas came. Hermann cleaned up his little shop, wound
all his clocks, brushed his clothes, and then went over the gift clock
again to be sure everything was perfect.
“It will not look meanly beside the other gifts,” he thought, happily.
In fact he was so happy that he gave away all but one pfennig to the
blind beggar who passed his door; and then, remembering that he had
eaten nothing since breakfast, he spent that last pfennig for a
Christmas apple to eat with a crust of bread he had. These he was
putting by in the cupboard to eat after he was dressed, when the door
opened and Trude was standing there crying softly.
“Kindlein—kindlein, what ails thee?” And he gathered her into his arms.
“’Tis the father. He is hurt, and all the money that was put by for the
tree and sweets and toys has gone to the Herr Doctor. And now, how can I
tell the children? Already they have lighted the candle at the window
and are waiting for Kriss Kringle to come.”
The clock-maker laughed merrily.
“Come, come, little one, all will be well. Hermann will sell a clock for
thee. Some house in the city must need a clock; and in a wink we shall
have money enough for the tree and the toys. Go home and sing.”
He buttoned on his greatcoat and, picking out the best of the old
clocks, he went out. He went first to the rich merchants, but their
houses were full of clocks; then to the journeymen, but they said his
clock was old-fashioned. He even stood on the corners of the streets and
in the square, crying, “A clock—a good clock for sale,” but no one paid
any attention to him. At last he gathered up his courage and went to the
Herr Graff himself.
“Will your Excellency buy a clock?” he said, trembling at his own
boldness. “I would not ask, but it is Christmas and I am needing to buy
happiness for some children.”
The Herr Graff smiled.
“Yes, I will buy a clock, but not that one. I will pay a thousand gulden
for the clock thou hast had in thy window these four days past.”
“But, your Excellency, that is impossible!” And poor Hermann trembled
harder than ever.
“Poof! Nothing is impossible. That clock or none. Get thee home and I
will send for it in half an hour, and pay thee the gulden.”
The little clock-maker stumbled out.
“Anything but that—anything but that!” he kept mumbling over and over to
himself on his way home. But as he passed the neighbor’s house he saw
the children at the window with their lighted candle and he heard Trude
singing.
And so it happened that the servant who came from the Herr Graff carried
the gift clock away with him; but the clock-maker would take but five of
the thousand gulden in payment. And as the servant disappeared up the
street the chimes commenced to ring from the great cathedral, and the
streets suddenly became noisy with the many people going thither,
bearing their Christmas offerings.
“I have gone empty-handed before,” said the little clock-maker, sadly.
“I can go empty-handed once again.” And again he buttoned up his
greatcoat.
As he turned to shut his cupboard door behind him his eyes fell on the
Christmas apple and an odd little smile crept into the corners of his
mouth and lighted his eyes.
“It is all I have—my dinner for two days. I will carry that to the
Christ-child. It is better, after all, than going empty-handed.”
How full of peace and beauty was the great cathedral when Hermann
entered it! There were a thousand tapers burning and everywhere the
sweet scent of the Christmas greens—and the laden altar before the Holy
Mother and Child. There were richer gifts than had been brought for many
years: marvelously wrought vessels from the greatest silversmiths; cloth
of gold and cloth of silk brought from the East by the merchants; poets
had brought their songs illuminated on rolls of heavy parchment;
painters had brought their pictures of saints and the Holy Family; even
the King himself had brought his crown and scepter to lay before the
Child. And after all these offerings came the little clock-maker,
walking slowly down the long, dim aisle, holding tight to his Christmas
apple.
The people saw him and a murmur rose, hummed a moment indistinctly
through the church and then grew clear and articulate:
“Shame! See, he is too mean to bring his clock! He hoards it as a miser
hoards his gold. See what he brings! Shame!”
The words reached Hermann and he stumbled on blindly, his head dropped
forward on his breast, his hands groping the way. The distance seemed
interminable. Now he knew he was past the seats; now his feet touched
the first step, and there were seven to climb to the altar. Would his
feet never reach the top?
“One, two, three,” he counted to himself, then tripped and almost fell.
“Four, five, six.” He was nearly there. There was but one more.
The murmur of shame died away and in its place rose one of wonder and
awe. Soon the words became intelligible:
“The miracle! It is the miracle!”
The people knelt in the big cathedral; the bishop raised his hands in
prayer. And the little clock-maker, stumbling to the last step, looked
up through dim eyes and saw the Child leaning toward him, far down from
Mary’s arms, with hands outstretched to take his gift.
That night, back in the kitchen of the lodge after supper, David told
the story again to Johanna and Barney. And when he had finished he saw
them looking strangely at each other.
“To think,” said Johanna, thoughtfully, “we’ve been living here for two
years and we never got so much from the old man. And who’d have thought
to find such a tale bundled up in an old bunch of heathen rags and
language like him?”
“Maybe, now, he’s not a heathen at all,” laughed Barney.
And the others laughed with him.
V
THE PATHWAY TO UNCLE JOAB AND A NEW SANTA CLAUS
No fresh snow fell through the night, and when David slipped his feet
into the skee straps at the lodge door next morning he was rejoiced to
find that the snow had packed and crusted a little since the day before,
which meant better going. Again he made for the crest of the hill beyond
the first clump of evergreens and again he stood at the pinnacle of the
ways and wondered which he would take.
“I might count,” he laughed aloud—“I might count them out.” And with
that he fell into the school-boy doggerel, nearly as old as boyhood
itself: “Eeny—meeny—miny—mo. Catch—a nigger—by the—”
He came to a sudden stop. In the direction of the lumber-camp, where the
evergreens marked the beginning of the road, he had caught a glimpse of
a gray squirrel. Was it a real squirrel this time, or was it the
locked-out fairy again? There was not a minute to be lost. He must find
out.
Over the unbroken snow he slid, balancing himself carefully when he came
to the hummocks made by the wind or fallen trees, his eyes coming back
constantly to the little gray figure before him. It was sitting erect
now, under a green bough, apparently busy investigating the contents of
a pine cone. But just as David had made up his mind that this time it
was a real squirrel, up went the furry paw to an ear in unmistakable
salute, just as the locked-out fairy had done when he hopped from the
window-ledge of the lodge. Then, with ears set back and tail out
straight behind, the squirrel flew down the hill. Away went David after
him, the tassel of his toboggan-cap out as straight as the squirrel’s
tail.
Never was there such a race. They dodged trees and fallen branches; they
leaped drifts; they spun like tops around the curves. Sometimes David
was so close upon the fairy’s heels that he could almost have touched
him with the end of his steering-cane, but the next moment he generally
lost his balance and slipped a skee, and head over heels he would go in
the crusty snow. When he righted himself the fairy was always yards
ahead, sitting with his shoulders all hunched up as if he were laughing
silently at David’s tumble. So exciting was the whole race that David
entirely forgot his destination until he suddenly found himself almost
bumping a corner of one of the lumber cabins, and the fairy nowhere in
sight.
He stopped a minute for breath and to wonder what he would do, when he
heard the soft, silvery notes of a violin. The music was coming from
inside that very cabin, and a voice was humming softly as well. David
moved round to one of the windows, hoping he might be tall enough to
look in, but the snow had drifted away from that side and he missed the
ledge by several inches. It occurred to him, however, that if the snow
had drifted from this end it had probably drifted toward the other. He
would try it, at any rate. Round the cabin he went, and, sure enough,
there the snow had piled up half-way to the window and David found he
could look in comfortably.
There was a great fire blazing inside, and by it sat an old negro with
the whitest hair and beard David had ever seen. A fiddle was tucked
under his chin and slowly and lovingly he was bowing the melody from it,
while one foot patted the time on the floor and a plaintive, mellow
voice put words to the music. David listened for the words and caught
them:
“Yeah come-a-No-ah—a-stumblin’ tru de dark,
Wif hammah an’ wif nails-to-a-build hisself an ark.
An’-a-yeah come de an’mals-two-a-by two,
De Yippo-ma-pot’mus—an’ de kick-kangaroo.”
The bowing suddenly stopped and David was conscious of a pair of very
white eyeballs looking at him through the glass. For the space of a
breath or more David was not at all sure that he wanted to get any
nearer that strange, bent old figure. He was almost sure that he did not
want to go inside. Not that he was afraid. Oh no, indeed! He was not in
the least bit afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of. Even Johanna
had not said anything harmful about the old cook at the lumber-camp.
Nevertheless, there was something mysterious, something not altogether
inviting about that inky-black face with the white hair and rolling
eyeballs.
David was speedily withdrawing himself, having decided that there was
great virtue in distance, when he heard the creak of the cabin door. In
a trice the old negro, fiddle in hand, appeared around the corner.
“Wha you goin’, honey?” There was unmistakable regret over David’s
retreating figure.
“Why—why, I’m just going back where I came from.”
“Wha you come from?”
David pointed upward and the old darky nodded comprehendingly.
“’Pears to me dat am a long way fer a li’l’ boy to come an’ den turn
’bout an’ go right home. Come in, honey, an’ Uncle Joab’ll play you
somethin’ lively on de ole fiddle.”
David hesitated, but only for an instant. There was something too lonely
and appealing about the man to be denied. David was still not at all
sure that he wanted to go, even while he was following the lumber cook
round to the door.
It was surprisingly cozy and cheerful inside, perhaps because of the
open fire, the strips of pine cones, husked corn, and bunches of colored
berries that decorated the walls and rafters. Uncle Joab caught David’s
wondering, curious gaze, and he chuckled.
“Yas, dat’s pop-corn, honey. An’ I reckon Uncle Joab’ll have some
a-poppin’ for you over dese yeah coals in a jiffy.”
He mounted stiffly the hewn, polished stump that did service for a stool
and pulled down two of the ears. From the corner of the fireplace he
brought a corn-popper and, sitting down, he commenced to shell the corn
by rubbing the ears together. David drew up a chair near by and watched
him with growing interest. When the corn was shelled Uncle Joab raked
away the unburned wood from the fire, leaving a bed of the red coals.
Over this he held the corn, shaking the popper gently from side to side.
In less time than it takes for the telling sounded the snap-snap-snap of
the bursting kernels, and in a moment more Uncle Joab had turned the
snowy contents into an earthen bowl and laid it on David’s knee with a
small dish of salt and the invitation to “Go ahead.” Then he took up his
fiddle again and played the promised music.
It was a jig, such a rollicking, care-free jig that before it was
finished David found himself wondering how in the world he ever
hesitated about coming in. Why, here was nothing but another boy like
himself, a boy grown old before he had grown up.
“Like dat corn, honey? Wall, you come along yeah ’round Chris’mus an’
Uncle Joab’ll make you some m’lasses balls.”
A sigh escaped with the promise.
“Lordy—Chris’mus—yeah! Doan’t seem like I done hab any Chris’mus sence I
left ole Virginy. Seems like it done froze stiff ’fo’ ever it got to
dese yeah parts.”
David laughed at the old man’s humor. It had seemed just that way to him
a few days ago.
“Couldn’t we thaw it out?” he asked.
“’Twould take a monstrous lot o’ warm feelin’s, honey, an’ kind folks, I
reckon. An’ you’d not find ’em a-hangin’ ’round loose yeah in de wintah.
Why, dere’s no more ’n a han’ful of us, all measured an’ mixted; an’ as
fur as I know dere’s not one a-speakin’ to another.”
David shook his head solemnly.
“That’s not much like Christmas, is it, Uncle Joab? Not much ‘good-will’
when you don’t know your neighbors.”
The old darky grunted, then he chuckled.
“’Pears to me it’s de critters dat get on yeah more folksy den de real
folks—an’ dat put me in mind of a story my mammy used to tell me when I
was your size.”
David beamed.
“Will you tell it, Uncle Joab?”
“Co’se I’ll tell it, honey.” And putting the fiddle down beside his
chair he began:
“I reckon you think dat de jolly ole saint wif de red nose an’ de dimple
somewhas ’twixt his mouf an’ his ears only ’members de chillun at
Chris’mus. An’ dat’s not de trouf. Dere was one Chris’mus long time ago,
after Pharoe’s daughter found Moses in de bull-grass an’ ’fo’ Christoper
Columbus went a-sailin’ ’round to find dis yeah country, dat ole man
Santy gib a Chris’mus to de critters. An’ dis was de way of it.