plentiful an’ dey warn’t so perticular; an’ each one warn’t lookin’ fer
a whole shed full o’ toys jest fer hisself. No, sir, honey! He was
bustin’ wif tickle if he got one gif’ an’ some barley sugar. An’ what’s
more, dey wasn’t so pernicity ’bout what dey got. De dolls didn’t have
to walk an’ talk an’ act like real folks an’ de trains didn’t have to go
by demselves. An’ everything bein’ so comf’able an’ easy, ole Santy
could tote de pack o’ toys ’round hisself on his back an’ be home a good
two hour ’fo’ daylight, wif nothin’ to do de rest o’ de day but set
’round an’ think.
“Wall, in dose days, honey, de folks doan’t pester de critters wif
workin’ dem all de time. No, sir! Dey work dem when dey need dem, an’ de
balance o’ de time de critters trope ’round free an’ easy-like. Folks
wasn’t cotchin’ de cur’ous ones to put in de menageries an’ de circuses,
nor de furry ones to trim up de ladies wif. Times was pleasant an’
comf’able fer every one.
“Now it transmigrate one day when ole Santy was a-settin’ an’
rumminatin’ dat he fotch up his thoughts on de critters, an’ he says to
hisself, says he:
“‘’Pears like dey has a right to Chris’mus same as de folks. Dey minds
dere bus’ness, an’ dey works an’ dey plays de same, an’ dey had dere
share in dat fust Chris’mus when de li’l’ Lordie was born—same as de
folks. Didn’t de donkey carry Mary to Beflehem? Didn’t de mully-cow gib
her manger for de li’l’ Lordie to sleep in? Didn’t de cock crow de news
to St. Stephen? An’ how do yer reckon de Wise Men could ha’ toted dere
presents ’cross de sand if it hadn’t been fer dem cam’ls?’
“Yas, sir, honey! Ole Santy was right. De critters had as much right to
Chris’mus as de folks, an’ ole Santy poun’ his knee an’ swear he gwine
to gib dem one.
“So de ole saint he begun fer to study an’ to study what he gwine to do
fer de critters. He can’t come down dere chimbleys ’ca’se dey ’ain’t got
no houses; an’ he can’t fill dere stockin’s ’ca’se dey doan’t wear none;
an’ he can’t fotch dem barley candy ’ca’se dey doan’t eat it. Wall, he
set dere an’ study twell his brain ’mos’ bustin’ an’ bime-by he fotch up
wif an idea.
“‘I know what I’ll do,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘Dem critters is sure
to be like folks; dere’s certain to be a lot dat ain’t satisfied wif
dere pussonalities. Now I’m gwine to trim up a Chris’mus tree wif a lot
o’ odd tails, an’ ears, an’ wings, an’ legs, an’ sech-like, an’ any o’
de critters dat ain’t satisfied can choose jes’ what dey want. Dat’s
what I’m gwine to do,’ says ole Santy.
“Wall, thinkin’ was doin’. An’ by de time Chris’mus come along dat ole
saint had de mos’ cur’os, hetromologous collection o’ an’mal parts you
ever done hear tell about. He sent word by de birds all over de world
fer de critters to come to a Chris’mus celebration at de fust fir-tree
dis side o’ de North Pole. ’Fo’ dey git dere ole Santy had it all
trimmed up wif his presents; an’ when de critters trope up dey sure was
bustin’ wif s’prize when dey see all de tails an’ wings an’ legs hangin’
dere.
“An’ de an’mals! Bless your heart, honey, you never see such a
camp-meetin’! Dere was elephants an’ tigers an’ lions an’
yippopot’musses an’ rabbits an’ ’possums an’ mouses—every livin’ kind.
An’ all de birds dat clip de air an’ all de fish dat swum de sea. Dey
all come lopin’ up wif dere purtiest manners on; an’ dey scrape an’ dey
bow an’ ax after ole Missus Santy an’ de chilluns. When dey’d axed an’
scraped all ’round, ole Santy says, says he:
“‘Now any o’ you-all critters dat want fer to change yer pussonalities
can jes’ step right up an’ choose somethin’ new,’ says he.
“Everybody was mighty bashful at fust. Dey all tried to hide behind dere
neighbors an’ look like dey was puffectly satisfied wif dere looks an’
dere habits. But bime-by a squeaky li’l’ voice calls out:
“‘If you please, Ole Man Santy, I’d like a pair o’ dem li’l’ brown
wings, an’ thank you mighty much.’
“Santy look down an’ see it was one o’ de li’l’ mouses speakin’; an’ he
reach up an’ take from de tree a cunnin’ pair o’ li’l’ wings an’
fastened dem on tight. An’ de next minute dat sassy li’l’ mouse went
flippin’ an’ floppin’ into de air same as if he’d been born wif wings.
An’ ever since, honey, he an’ his chilluns have been flyin’ ’stead o’
creepin’.”
“Did he turn into a bat, Uncle Joab?” David asked.
“Sure. What else you ’spec’ he could turn into? Wall, de nex’ to walk up
was Bre’r Rabbit. He had a lot to say ’bout his ears bein’ so short he
couldn’t hear ’nough, an’ his tail bein’ so long he couldn’t fetch up on
it com’fably in de brier patch. He’d be powerful pleased if Santy’d gib
him bigger ears an’ take away his tail. Dis made de ole saint chuckle;
an’ he fotch down de biggest pair he can find an’ put dem on, an’ den he
twist off de rabbit’s long, bushy tail. When de other critters see what
transmigrate dey like to bu’st dere sides wif laughin’; an’ dis scare
Bre’r Rabbit so dat he lay back his ears so he can’t hear so well, an’
he lope off to hide his confusi’n in de brier patch. An’ dere you’ll
find him hidin’ to dis yeah day, honey.”
David laughed.
“And were there any more who weren’t satisfied?”
“Didn’t I tell you de critters were like folks? Bre’r Rabbit hadn’t more
’n cleared de Chris’mus tree when de squirrel sings out:
“‘If you please, Mr. Santy, I’d like Brudder Rabbit’s tail. I’d like
Brudder Rabbit’s tail.’
“‘’Twon’t fit you,’ says de beaver. ‘It’s three sizes too big.’
“‘No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t! No, it ain’t!’ An’ de squirrel carry on so
scan’lously dat ole Santy ’bliged to gib him de tail to keep him quiet.
But, bless your heart, honey, you know as well as I do dat dat tail am
no fit for dat squirrel!
“By dis time de critters was nigh over dere bashfulness, an’ dey was
clamorin’ for what dey wanted. De leopard say his coat too yaller, an’
he’d like some nice, stylish black spots to tone it down. Den de zebra
say stripes was more stylish dis year den spots, an’ he’d ’low he’d like
stripes. De elephant say his feet too big to pick up things handy, an’
he’d like somethin’ extra to pick up things wif.
“Dis set de rest o’ de critters to ’sputin’ whar de elephant have room
on his pussonality fer anythin’ extra; an’ while dey ’sputin’ ole Santy
sit still an’ study. Bime-by he says, says he:
“‘De only spare room am on de end o’ your nose. If you want to have it
dere, say so!’
“De elephant he say so. So Santy take one o’ dese yeah suckers, left
over from a debilfish, an’ he stick it squar’ in de middle o’ de
elephant’s nose. He stick it so hard, an’ he stick it so fast, dat it
hasn’t come loose dese thousand o’ years.
“Wall, dat certainly was a busy Chris’mus fer de ole saint. He was
fixin’ tails an’ legs an’ ears an’ wings ’most all day. De beaver he
gets de sulks ’ca’se de squirrel’s got Bre’r Rabbit’s tail an’ he want
it. De rest o’ de critters try to coax him to take somethin’ else, but
’pears like he crazy fer somethin’ behind. He took to moanin’ an’
wailin’ ’ca’se he can’t get what he wants twell bime-by he nat’rally
gets ole Santy plumb wore out.
“‘Look yeah,’ says ole Santy, says he. ‘You’s so sot on havin’ somethin’
behind, ’pears like I’d hab to gib you somethin’ diff’rent an’
distinguishin’.’ An’ wif dat de ole saint claps on him one o’ dem
flappers dat he’d made fer de li’l’ seals to walk on. An’ it’s been
hangin’ to de back o’ de beaver ever since.
“At las’ all de critters were satisfied ’ceptin’ de dog an’ de horse an’
de reindeer.
“‘What you want?’ says ole Santy to de dog.
“‘I want faithfulness,’ says de dog; an’ Santy gib it to him.
“‘What you want?’ he says to de horse.
“‘I want wisdom,’ says de horse; an’ Santy whisper it into his ear.
“‘Now what you want?’ he says last of all to de reindeer.
“‘I want to be your servant an’ lib always wif you,’ says de reindeer.
An’ from dat minute to dis de reindeer an’ his chilluns have been totin’
fer ole Santy.
“An’ you listen yeah, honey. If you borrow Bre’r Rabbit’s ears to hear
wif dis Chris’mus p’raps you’ll cotch de tromp o’ de reindeer’s hoofs
an’ de jingle o’ his bells as he totes ole Santy through de night.”
David laughed happily.
“That’s a bully story, Uncle Joab, just a bully one!”
The old man chuckled appreciatively.
“Mebbe it’s good enough to fotch a li’l’ boy back some other day to see
dis ole nigger.”
Johanna and Barney had to hear the story over twice before David went to
bed that night. They seemed to like it as much as David had liked it.
“It must get pretty lonesome for the poor man, stormy days and long
winter nights with no company but that old fiddle,” mused Johanna at
last.
“Faith, I wouldn’t be minding a bit o’ that same company, myself, some
night,” laughed Barney. “’Tis a sorry time since I’ve heard any good
fiddling.”
But David did not say anything. He was looking deep into the fire and
thinking very hard.
VI
THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY AGAIN LEADS THE WAY AND DAVID HEARS OF A CHRISTMAS
PROMISE
David was already beginning to feel very rich in Christmas as he climbed
to the crest of the hill the next morning. Yes, the locked-out fairy was
right. Real Christmas lay in the hearts and memories of people, and he
was sure he was storing up some in his own to last for always.
It was still four days before Christmas, yet he felt all the warm glow
of excitement, all the eagerness, all the gladness, that usually
attended the very day itself. He was beginning to think that instead of
one Christmas he was finding a whole week of it, and for a little boy
who had had loneliness fastened to his heels like a shadow for so long
the feeling was very wonderful. Not that he did not miss father and
mother just the same, but they no longer seemed so far away. There were
minutes when he could think them quite close, when they seemed to have a
share in all he was doing and thinking, and when that happens with any
one we love loneliness vanishes like a shadow at midday.
There were but two paths left for him that morning to choose between—the
path leading to the trapper’s and the one to the “lunger’s.” It was not
a particularly cheery day. The sky was a leaden gray—a hue forecasting
snow before day’s end. The wind was biting and raw, and had there not
been a quest afoot David would have been glad to stay near home and
share Barney’s cheerful company. As it was, he had about made up his
mind that he should choose the trapper. He knew as little about him as
he had known of the others, and he pictured a big, gruff, hairy man
something like his old Grimm illustration of Bluebeard. But for all
that, he seemed more alluring on such a day than a “lunger.”
David very much hoped that the locked-out fairy would be there to take
him the way he had chosen to go. He wanted not only the guidance of the
fairy, but he wished to see him close again and talk with him. He was
looking about for signs when his eyes swept the snow at his feet and
there he found the trail laid for him. As far as eye could reach there
were the tiny sharp prints of a squirrel’s foot, and they led, not down
the hillside to the trapper’s hut, but, straight as a stone drops, to
the foot-hill beyond, where the “lunger’s” cottage stood.
David heaved a sigh of disappointment. He would so much rather have gone
the other way; but of what use is a fairy counselor and guide if one
does not follow his trail? So with something very near to a flagging
courage David pushed his way slowly after the tiny footprints.
He missed the exhilaration of the sunshine and air and excitement of the
previous days. Somehow he felt this time was going to be a failure and
he shrank from facing it; moreover, he thought of what he might have to
tell Johanna and Barney afterward, around the fire. A moment before he
had felt so rich in the feeling of Christmas. And now, was he going to
find an unpleasant memory to take away from the good ones?
There was no sign of life about the little cottage on the foot-hill. The
sleeping-porch was deserted, the windows were heavily curtained, the
snow was piled up high and unbroken about the door; even the roadway
beyond, which led down the other side to the village, was smooth and
crusted, showing that no one had come or gone from the house since the
last fall of snow.
“It looks awfully gloomy and deserted,” thought David. “The ‘lunger’
must have gone away or died!”
The last was a dreadfully dreary thought, and it almost turned David’s
feet on the very threshold, in spite of the fairy’s trail. But the
memory of the day before held him back. How nearly he had come to losing
a bit of Christmas just because an old white-haired negro had looked at
him suddenly through a window! He would mark himself as a quitter and a
“’fraid-cat” for all time if he ever let such a thing happen again. And
what would the boys on the block think of him?
With heroic boldness David pushed his skees up to the baseboard of the
door and hammered hard on the brass knocker. Once, twice, three times he
knocked. Then he heard soft feet inside and the turning of the key in
the lock. In another minute the door opened, letting in a generous fall
of snow and disclosing a tall, oldish woman in black, with very black
hair and big, sorrowful black eyes.
“Madre de Dios!” she exclaimed in a soft voice full of surprised wonder.
“A niño—here, in this freeze country!”
“If you please,” began David, politely, “I came—I came—”
But he did not finish. For the life of him he could not have told just
why he had come.
“Entre, come!” And the woman drew him in and closed the door behind him.
“A boy! It may be that it will put again the heart in Alfredo to see a
boy. Come, chico!”
She opened another door at the end of a hall and led him into a bare,
cold, cheerless room. Half a dozen black bentwood chairs stood with
backs against the walls; the two rockers of the same faced each other at
opposite sides of the fireplace; and between them stretched a cot
covered with heavy blankets. A half-hearted fire burned on the hearth,
and watching it listlessly from the cot lay a boy about twice his age,
David thought.
“See, Alfredo! See chicito mio, who come here,” the woman called. And
the sick youth turned his head slowly to look at them.
David saw a thin, colorless face with great, black eyes. They had the
same look that was in the woman’s eyes, only the woman did not look
sick, only sad. As the boy saw David he smiled in a pleased, surprised
way, and held out a thin, white hand in welcome. But the hand was so
thin David was almost ashamed to put out his own broad, brown little
fist to take it. He compromised by leaving on his mitten—and he shook it
very gently.
“Ah, it is good,” said the boy, simply. “I am glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” David beamed. He was glad he had come. For here there were
things that he could do, and first of all he’d tackle the fire.
“It’s this way,” he explained as he slipped out of his outside things.
“I’m spending the winter up on the hill, in the hotel lodge. It’s been
getting sort of lonesome there lately since winter set in, so I
thought—I—it seemed sort of nice to come around and look up some of the
neighbors.” David finished out of breath.
Alfredo and his mother exchanged glances.
“That is good,” said the boy at last. “You are the first one, and we,
too, have been what you call ‘lonesome.’”
“I’m awfully sorry.” And this time David held out the unmittened fist.
“Say, do you mind if I build up that fire a little? It looks sort
of—sick.”
“Ah!” The woman held up protesting hands. “Alfredo is too sick but to
lie still. And I—what do I know about building fires in open places with
wood? It is only the carbon I know, and the shut stove. And when our
servant leave us three—four day ago and no one ever comes near to us I
think then that we die of the cold before long time.”
Tears of utter despair showed in the woman’s eyes; and David found his
own growing sympathetically moist.
“Oh, no! Barney wouldn’t let that happen—not to any one.”
It really was dreadful to find a sick boy and a woman alone—strangers in
this country—with the cold and the loneliness to fight.
“Now you tell me where the wood is, and I’ll have a cracker-jack fire in
a minute. Barney’s showed me how. I can make ’em burn even when the
wood’s damp.” David did not finish without a tinge of pride in his tone.
He made several trips to the little back room beyond the kitchen which
served as woodshed, and in a few minutes he had a generous stack of logs
and kindlings beside the hearth and a roaring fire blazing up the big
chimney. The glow and warmth lit up Alfredo’s cheeks and kindled a new
life in the woman’s eyes. Such a little thing it takes sometimes to put
the hearts back in people.
“Now, if you want me to, I’ll just fill up the kitchen stove and the one
in the hall. It’s really too cold here for any one,” he ended,
apologetically.
The woman accepted his offer, mutely grateful; and when both stoves had
finally responded to his coaxings and were cheerfully crackling and
sending out the much-needed heat, David came back to the open fire and
drew up one of the rockers.
“It is a good niño, eh, Alfredito?” said the woman, softly.
David wriggled uncomfortably.
“Say—I’ll tell you about the flagman, and Uncle Joab at the lumber-camp.
Want me to?”
The offer was made as a cloak to his embarrassment; but the next moment,
as he launched into his narrative of the two previous days, he had
forgotten everything but the tales he had to tell and the interest of
his listeners.
When he had finished, David was surprised to see the change in the faces
of the two. For the first time they seemed really alive and warm, inside
and out. Moreover, they looked happy, strangely happy.
“We had almost forgot, chico mio,” the mother said, stroking one of the
thin, white hands, “that comes now the Natividad. Ah, who would think to
find it here in this freeze country!”
“We are South-Americans,” the boy explained. “And down there it is
summer now, with the oranges ripe, and the piña growing and the air full
of the sweetness from the coffee-fields in bloom and the jasmine and
mariposa. We did not know such cold could be—or so much snow. Eh,
madre?” And the boy smiled wanly.
“But how did you come way up here from your country? Was it the—” David
left the question unfinished.
The boy nodded.
“I came first, to be in one of your fine universities. Many
South-Americans come here for their education. But before many months I
take the cough, and it is then no use to go back to our country. We blow
out there like a candle in the wind.”
The mother went on.
“But the great American doctor say here there is a chance in the
mountains, if he can stand the winter. And oh, at first he grow much
better! We see the good health coming. But now, the great cold, the
heart-hunger, the alone being, it seem to take his strength. I fear—”
“Hush, madre! This is not good cheer for a guest.”
David felt his cheeks burn with the sudden tenderness in the boy’s look.
“Come, madre,” he went on, “have we not also a tale of Christmas, of the
Natividad, to give away?”
“There is that one I have told you a thousand times—the one my mother
told me when I was a niña, home in Spain. The tale of the Tres Reys and
the Christmas promise.”
The boy sighed happily.
“There is no better tale in all Spain. Tell it, madre, to our friend
here.”
And so this was how the third bit of Christmas came to David, by way of
a locked-out fairy, a rekindled fire, and a stranger from the far South.
When the Christ-child was born in Bethlehem of Judea, long years ago,
three kings rode out of the East on their camels, bearing gifts to Him.
They followed the star until at last they came to the manger where He
lay, a little, new-born baby. Kneeling down, they put their gifts beside
him: gold, frankincense, and myrrh; they kissed the hem of the little
white mantle that He wore, and blessed Him. Then the kings rode away to
the East again, but before ever they went they whispered a promise to
the Christ-child.
And the promise? You shall hear it as the kings gave it to the
Christ-child, long years ago.
“As long as there be children on the earth, on every Christmas Eve we
three kings shall ride on camels, even as we rode to Thee this night;
and even as we bore Thee gifts so shall we bear gifts to every child in
memory of Thee—thou holy Babe of Bethlehem!”
In Spain they have remembered what the Christmas kings promised, and
when Christmas Eve comes each child puts his sapatico—his little
shoe—between the gratings of the window that they may know a child is in
that house and leave a gift.
Often the shoe is filled with grass for the camels, and a plate of dates
and figs is left beside it, for the children know the kings have far to
go and may be hungry.
At day’s end bands of children march out of the city gates, going to
meet the kings. But it always grows dark before they come. The children
are afraid upon the lonely road and hurry back to their homes, where the
good madres hear them say one prayer to the Nene Jesu, as they call the
Christ-child, and then put them to bed to dream of the Christmas kings.
Long, long ago there lived in Spain, in the crowded part of a great
city, an old woman called Doña Josefa. The street in which she lived was
little and narrow, so narrow that if you leaned out of the window of
Doña Josefa’s house you could touch with your finger-tips the house
across the way, and when you looked above your head the sky seemed but a
string of blue, tying the houses all together. The sun never found its
way into this little street.
The people who lived here were very poor, as you may guess; Doña Josefa
was poor, likewise. But in one thing she was very rich—she knew more
stories than there were feast-days in the year, and that is a great
many. Whenever there came a moment free from work, when Doña Josefa had
no water to fetch from the public well, nor gold to stitch upon the
altar cloth for the Church of Santa Maria del Rosario, then she would
run out of her house into the street and call:
“Niños, niños, come quickly! Here is a story waiting for you.”
And the children would come flying like the gray palomas when corn is
thrown for them in the Plaza. Ah, how many children there were in that
little street! There were José and Miguel, and the niños of Enrique, the
cobbler, Alfredito and Juana and Esperanza; and the little twin sisters
of Pancho, the peddler; and Angela, Maria Teresa, Pedro, Edita, and many
more. Last of all there were Manuel and Rosita. They had no father, and
their mother was a lavandera who stood all day on the banks of the river
outside the city, washing clothes.
When Doña Josefa had called the children from all the doorways and the
dark corners she would sit down in the middle of the street and gather
them about her. This was safe because the street was far too narrow to
allow a horse or wagon to pass through. Sometimes a donkey would slowly
pick its way along, or a stupid goat come searching for things to eat,
but that was all.
It happened on the day before Christmas that Doña Josefa had finished
her work and sat, as usual, with the children about her.
“To-day you shall have a Christmas story,” she said, and then she told
them of the three kings and the promise they had made the Christ-child.
“And is it so—do the kings bring presents to the children now?” Miguel
asked.
Doña Josefa nodded her head.
“Yes.”
“Then why have they never left us one? The three kings never pass this
street on Christmas Eve. Why is it, doña?”
“Perhaps it is because we have no shoes to hold their gifts,” said
Angela.
And this is true. The poor children of Spain go barefooted, and often
never have a pair of shoes till they grow up.
Manuel had listened silently to the others, but now he pulled the sleeve
of Doña Josefa’s gown with coaxing fingers:
“I know why it is the kings bring no gifts to us. See, the street; it is
too small; their camels could not pass between the door-steps here. The
kings must ride where the streets are broad and smooth and clean, where
their long mantles will not be soiled and torn and the camels will not
stumble. It is the children in the great streets, the children of the
rich, who find presents in their sapaticos on Christmas morning. Is it
not so, Doña Josefa?”
And Miguel cried, “Does Manuel speak true—is it only the children of the
rich?”
“Ah, chicito mio, it should not be so! When the promise was given to the
Nene Jesu there in Bethlehem they said, ‘to every child.’ Yes, every
little child.”
“But it is not strange they should forget us here,” Manuel insisted.
“The little street is hidden in the shadow of the great ones.”
Then Rosita spoke, clasping her hands together with great eagerness:
“I know; it is because we have no shoes! That is why they never stop.
Perhaps Enrique would lend us the shoes he is mending, just for one
night. If we had shoes the kings would surely see that there are little
children in the street, and leave a gift for each of us. Come, let us
ask Enrique!”