thinking folks are not her kind o’ folks it takes a powerful bit o’
thinking to think them different.”
“Sure it does. We’ll leave ye to do the thinking while the three of us
go out to the woodshed and knock together them sign-posts the little lad
is wishing for.”
And Barney led the way, while a very happy boy and a man with an amused
twinkle in his eyes followed at his heels.
IX
ST. BRIDGET
The day before Christmas broke cold and clear; and almost before the sun
had crested the hill three fur-clad figures were abroad. Two were large
and one was small; each carried a post across his shoulders, while the
foremost swung an ax in his free hand. They first took the trail for the
trapper’s, and a dozen yards from the hut they planted one post,
knocking it firmly into the snow with the flat of the ax. There it stood
straight as could be and about the height of a little lad, with its
white sign pointing up the trail they had come and its bands of
Christmas green and red—painted by Mr. Peter at the top—warranted to
attract attention.
David cast a backward glance of admiration upon it as they turned to
cross-cut the ravine and climb the foot-hill that led to the
South-Americans’ cottage. Yes, it certainly did look fine! And how well
the black letters stood out against the white background! With a heart
almost bursting with the fullness of contentment David read the sign for
the hundredth time:
THIS WAY TO CHRISTMAS
SIX O’CLOCK TO-NIGHT. PLEASE COME.
DAVID
And the hand pointed straight to the hilltop and the lodge. Another sign
was planted by the cottage, and a third by the lumber-camp. Then the
trio climbed the hill again. At the lodge Barney picked up a fourth
post. He was going down to the village for some necessary supplies and
he had been appointed to leave the sign for the flagman.
“There’s just one thing that’s the matter,” said David, as he and Mr.
Peter started out with knives and bags to hunt for ground-pine and other
Christmas greens. “It’s the South-Americans. I don’t see how they could
possibly get here. Why, the sick boy has hardly enough strength to walk
across the room. And you couldn’t expect a lady to climb a mountain on
snow-shoes, just for Christmas.”
Mr. Peter laughed.
“You can never tell what’s going to happen Christmas Eve. Maybe the
fairy will loan them his wishing-cap. Or Santa, himself, may swing round
here on his way to the city and bring them along. I wouldn’t begin to
worry about who’s not coming until it’s too late for them to get here.”
All through that crisp winter morning David and Mr. Peter plowed back
and forth between the woods and the lodge, carrying green of every
description, with intervals spent beside the kitchen stove, warming up.
And early in the afternoon they started decorating the hall and
living-room, while Johanna and Barney concentrated their efforts in the
kitchen. Barney had succeeded in rooting out untold treasures from the
shelves of the “variety store” in the village; and he had brought home
several cans of silver paint and rolls of red tissue-paper, besides some
white and red candles.
With these Mr. Peter and David created miracles. They silvered bunches
of the pine-cones and hung them on their drooping green branches above
the doorways and windows. They trailed the ground-pine across the
ceiling from corner to corner, and about the mantel, hanging from it
innumerable tiny red bells fashioned from the red paper. They stood two
tall young spruces on either side of the window niche and these they
trimmed with strips of pop-corn, silvered nuts and pine-cones and red
and white candles. And every window had a hemlock wreath made gay with
cranberries.
And Barney and Johanna? They were likewise performing miracles. When
David and Mr. Peter had finished and given their work a last survey and
exchanged a final round of mutual congratulations they went into the
kitchen to behold the others’ handiwork.
There was the table lengthened out and covered with a snowy-white cloth.
In the center, surrounded by a wreath of green, stood the mammoth
Christmas cake; and at the four corners stood tall white candles in
crystal candlesticks. At one end was a cold baked ham resplendent with
its crust of sugar and cloves and its paper frill of red and white. At
the other was a red Japanese bowl filled with the vegetable salad that
had made Johanna famous; while dotted all about the table were
delectable dishes of all sorts—jams and jellies, nuts, raisins, savory
pickles, and a pyramid of maple-sugar cream. But it was from the stove
that the appetizing odors came: rolls baking, coffee steaming, and
chicken frying slowly in the great covered pan.
“It smells too good to be true,” cried Mr. Peter, clapping his hands.
“Never was there such a Christmas supper! Come, David, boy, we will have
to scramble into some festal raiment to do honor to Johanna’s cooking,
although I am not quite sure that I have anything to dress up in but a
pair of gold sleeve-links and a red necktie.”
“Ye might be making a prayer while ye’re dressing that somebody will
come to help eat it up. I’ve said to Barney a score o’ times since
dinner that there’s just as much likelihood that not a mortal soul will
show his face here this night.”
“Why, Johanna!” David protested.
“I know, laddy. But mind, ye’ve not seen one of them but once, yourself,
and I’m a stranger to them. Never matter; only if no one comes ye’ll all
be eating ham and fried chicken for the rest o’ the year.” And Johanna
ended with a good-humored laugh.
Before six they were gathered in the living-room with the candles
lighted and the fire blazing uproariously on the hearth.
“It’s all so fine and like mother used to have. I believe I shall be
wishing somebody ‘Merry Christmas’ before I know it,” shouted Mr. Peter.
Then he held up a warning finger. “Hush! What’s that?”
They all listened. There was certainly a noise outside; it sounded as if
some one was feeling for the knob. David was away like a flash to the
hall and had flung open the door wide. The next moment his voice came
back to the others, ringing with gladness:
“Uncle Joab! Oh, Uncle Joab! This is just bully!”
The bent figure of the old darky stumbled in out of the night. He
carried two bundles under his arm, each wrapped in layers of gunnysack;
and he blinked, open-mouthed, at the lights and the faces that gathered
about him.
“It sure is a befo’-de-war Chris’mus!” he ejaculated. Then he sniffed
the air like an old dog on a scent. “’Pon ma soul, dat’s fried chick’n
or Uncle Joab’s no sinner!”
They all laughed; and one by one they shook Uncle Joab’s hand as David
introduced them. Once divested of his outside things, the old man turned
his attention to his bundles and unwrapped them with great care. The
first turned out to be his fiddle and he patted it lovingly.
“When I fust cotch sight o’ dat yeah post dis mo’nin’ I wa’n’t sure dat
de sign was meant fo’ no ole nigger like Uncle Joab. Den I look ’round,
but dere doan’t ’pear to be nobody else. So I brings along de ole
fiddle, ’ca’se I reckon dat dey’ll be glad to see him if dey ’ain’t got
no welcome fer me.”
“Sure, we’re hearty glad to see the both o’ ye.” And Barney spoke out
for them all.
The old man beamed his gratitude as he unwrapped his second bundle. It
held a paper sack; and Uncle Joab viewed the contents with approval
before he handed it to David.
“M’lasses corn-balls; Chris’mus gif’ fo’ li’l’ boy,” he chuckled.
David’s thanks were cut short by the stamping of feet outside and a
clang of the knocker. Again he flew to the door and found the eyes of
the trapper looking down upon him with grave pleasure.
“Nicholas Bassaraba, my friend,” he said, proudly, and this was the way
he made the trapper known to the others.
The flagman came next, the icicles hanging to his scrubby mustache, his
little blue eyes dancing with anticipation. He was quite out of breath
and it was some minutes before he could respond properly to his warm
welcome.
“Zo, Fritz Grossman has some friends this Chreestmas; eet es goot!” And
his eyes danced harder than ever. He felt down in the pockets of his
greatcoat and brought out his hands full of red apples. Their glossy
skins bespoke much careful polishing. “Chreestmas apples for the
knabelein. He remembers the tale? Ja!”
The stillness outside was suddenly broken by the jingle of
bells—sleigh-bells coming nearer and nearer. This time it was Mr. Peter
who reached the door first; he had taken down the hall lantern and was
holding it high above his head as he peered out.
“Whoa, there!” came a voice from the dark. “That you, Mr. Peter? I
ca’late I wouldn’t ha’ broken through no road like this for no one else.
But here we be, all hunky-dory!”
“Well, I ca’late there isn’t another man who could have done it. You
bring in the lad and I’ll see to the lady.” And Mr. Peter went out into
the darkness, lantern in hand.
The next moment David knew his cup of happiness had filled to the brim;
for in strode the village stage-driver with Alfredo in his arms, while
behind them came Mr. Peter supporting the mother.
“It’s splendid! It’s perfectly splendid!” David said over and over
again, as he helped to unbundle the South-Americans and make the sick
boy comfortable in the great lounging-chair by the fire.
“It is wonderful,” said the mother, softly. “To have the aloneness and
heart-hunger and then to find the friend!” And her arm slipped about
David’s shoulders in a way his own mother had.
“Supper’s ready,” called Johanna from the kitchen. “And, Barney, suppose
ye and Mr. Peter fetch out the lad, just as he is in his big chair.”
They put Alfredo at one end of the table, while Johanna sat at the other
behind the great, steaming coffee-pot. Uncle Joab insisted on serving
every one, bustling back and forth from the stove to the kitchen, his
black face radiating his pleasure.
“Lordy gracious!” he would burst forth every few minutes. “Dis yeah
nigger hasn’t served a supper like dis not since he was back in ole
Virginy. Jes’ smell dat fried chicken! Humm!” And they could not
persuade him to take his place among them until every one else’s plate
was full.
What a supper it was! The men who had been shifting for themselves alone
in their cabins or huts, the South-Americans who had been living on food
put up in cans and tins, were quite sure they had never tasted such a
Christmas feast. And every one had stories to tell, memories of his own
homeland which brought a flush to his cheeks and a sparkling moisture to
his eyes. Only David was silent, his ears too full of what he was
hearing, his heart too full of what he was feeling, yes, and maybe his
mouth too full of Christmas cheer for him to talk.
It was not until the last crumb of the Christmas cake had been eaten and
the last drop of coffee been drained by Uncle Joab and they had gathered
about the fire once more, that David spoke.
“First, let’s have Uncle Joab play some of his jigs and sing with his
fiddle just as I heard him that day at the camp. Then let’s have Johanna
tell us a story. She’s the only one who hasn’t told a Christmas story.”
So of course David had his wish. Uncle Joab tuned up and played all the
rollicking airs he knew, following them with the old plantation songs so
dear to the hearts of even those who have only sojourned in the South.
And when he was tired and insisted that “de ole fiddle must rest”
Johanna drew her chair closer to the hearth and began the story of St.
Bridget.
In Ireland St. Bridget is sometimes called “St. Bridhe of the Mantle,”
and that is because the people of the hills would not be forgetting the
way she came to be at Bethlehem when Our Lord was born, or the rest of
the miracle.
It was to the little island of Iona that she came when she was naught
but a child, and her coming there was strange. Her father was Doughall
Donn, a prince of Ireland; but because of a sin, which he swore was not
his, he was banished from his Green Isle. He took the child and left at
night in a small boat; and the winds blew and the waves carried them
toward Alba. But when they were still a long way off the winds blew into
a storm and the waves reared themselves into a tempest and the boat was
dashed upon the rocks. It was the dawn of that day that Cathal, the
arch-druid of Iona, looked down from his holy hill where he had been
lighting the sacrificial fire to the Sun God, for in those days it was
before the Lord had walked the earth; and he saw below him on the beach
the figure of a man washed up by the storm and lying as if dead. He
hurried to the place and found not only the man, but a wee girl child,
and she beside him, playing with the shells and digging her pink toes
into the wet sand. The man was not dead, only stupid with the sea-water;
and Cathal brought them both to a herdsman’s hut and saw that they were
fed and cared for.
That night he had a strange vision concerning the child; he dreamed that
spirits from heaven descended to watch over her while she slept; and
when he was for knowing why they should guard her with celestial care
they made this answer:
“Know ye, she is holy and blest above all maidens. For some day it shall
come to pass that she shall cradle the King of Love upon her breast and
guard the Lord of Creation while He sleeps.”
And when the vision broke it was Cathal himself that came and watched
beside the herdsman’s hut where the child slept. So Doughall Donn was
made welcome in Iona for the sake of the child; and the druids gave him
a hut and herd of his own and saw to it that neither he nor the child
should want for anything.
It was midsummer and the day of Bridget’s birth, marking the
twenty-first year; and at ring o’ day while the dew still clung to the
grass Bridget left her father’s hut and climbed the holy hill. Of all
the dwellers on Iona she alone was let watch the lighting of the
sacrificial fire and she alone was let hear the chanting of the druid’s
hymn to the Sun God. This day she was clad in white with a wreath of the
rowan berries on her hair and a girdle of them about her waist; and she
looked fair as the flowers of the dawn.
As she climbed the hill the wild creatures came running to her for a
caress and the birds hovered above her head or perched on her shoulder.
She listened to the chanting of the hymn; she bided till the flames of
the fire met and mingled with the shafts of the sun. Then a white bird
called from the thicket and she followed. She followed him over the
crest of the hill; and behold! when she came out to the other slope,
’twas another country she was seeing!
Here were no longer the green fields and the pastures filled with sheep,
or the sea lying beyond. It was a country of sand and hot sun; and the
trees and the houses about her were strange. She found herself standing
by a well with a strangely fashioned jug in her hand, and her father
beside her.
“Bridhe,” said he, “ye are a strange lass. Are ye not knowing that the
well has not held a drop of water for a fortnight, and did ye think to
fill your pitcher now?”
She smiled faintly.
“I was not remembering.”
Her father drew her away toward the village that lay beneath them, the
village of Bethlehem.
“Bridhe,” said he again, “the drouth has been upon us these many months.
The wells are empty, even the wine is failing, and the creatures are
dying on our hands. I shall leave the inn this night in your care while
I take the camels and the water-skins and ride for succor. There is a
well, they tell me, in a place they call the Mount of Olives which is
never dry; and ’tis a three days’ journey or more there and back.”
“And what is it that I should be doing, with ye away?” asked Bridget.
They had reached the door of the inn by now, and Doughall Donn opened it
for her to pass through.
“Ye are to stay here, birdeen, and keep the door barred against my
return. Not a soul is to pass over the threshold while I am gone. Ye are
not to open to the knock of man, woman, or child—mind that!”
“But, father, what if some one should come in mortal need—famished with
the hunger or faint with the thirst?”
He led her to the rude cupboard and pointed to the nearly empty shelves.
“There is a cruiskeen of ale and a cup o’ water, a handful o’ dry dates
and some oaten cake; that is all of food or drink left in the inn.
’Twill no more than last ye till I return, and if ye fed another ye
would starve. So mind the promise I put on ye this night. Ye are to
shelter no one in the inn while I am gone.”
Bridget watched her father drive the camels out of the courtyard; she
barred the door on his going and for two days no foot crossed the
threshold of the inn. But on the night of the third day, as Bridget was
making ready for bed, she heard the sound of knocking on the door.
“Who is it and what is it ye are wanting this night?” called Bridget
from within, keeping the door fast.
“God’s blessing on this house!” came in a man’s voice out of the dark.
“I am Joseph, a carpenter of Arimathea, and this is Mary who is after
needing a woman’s help this night. She is spent and can go no farther.
Will ye give us shelter?”
“That I cannot. The promise is laid on me to give neither food nor
shelter to living soul till my father comes hither. Were it not for that
’tis a glad welcome I’d be giving the both of ye.”
And then a woman’s voice came out of the darkness, a voice that set her
breasts to be trembling and her heart to be leaping with joy.
“Are ye forgetting me, Bridhe astore?” said the voice.
Bridget opened the grating in the door and looked out. There she saw a
great-shouldered giant of a man, covered with beard, and beside him was
a wee gray donkey, and on the donkey rode a woman, who turned her face
to Bridget and smiled. And the wonder of that smile drew Bridget’s hand
to the latch.
She opened the door wide and bade them enter. She laid before them what
ale and dates and oaten cake was left, and watched them eat in silence.
Then she beckoned them to the courtyard.
“Yonder is the byre clean with fresh straw; and the creatures are
gentle. Half the promise have I broken this night; I have given ye food.
But shelter ye must take outside the inn. Come!”
She led the way to the byre and left them there, hurrying back to bar
the door of the inn again. But as she was fastening the latch she heard
the sound of much travel abroad, and looking out she saw it was her
father’s camels returning. There was great gladness in her welcome—aye,
and there was sadness for the breaking of the promise.
“See,” said she, drawing her father in. “I gave them food—only food.
They are resting in the byre.” But when she went to gather up the dish
that had been empty, behold it was filled with dates and oaken cake! And
the cruiskeen was filled with ale!
“’Tis a miracle!” said Bridget, the breath leaving her; and even as she
spoke the strange thing happened.
Outside came the sound of falling rain, not gentle as a passing shower,
but the steady beat, beat, beat of the rainy season.
“The drouth is broken,” said Doughall Donn, adding, with wonder in his
voice: “What manner of folk are those yonder? Are ye not minding the
prophesy: ‘The King of Love, Ruler of the World and All Time, shall be
born on the first night of rain following the great drouth; and He shall
be born in a byre outside an inn.’ Come, let us see!”
He drew Bridget with him across the courtyard, but before ever they
entered the byre they saw the holy light and heard singing that was not
of this earth. And when they came inside there was Mary upon the hay,
and beside her lay a new-born child.
“Aigh! the blessed wee one!” whispered Bridget, kneeling down beside
them. “I am thinking ye had better rest, Mary astore; give me the
birdeen to nurse while ye sleep.” And with hunger-arms she reached out
for the Holy Child and wrapped it in the white mantle that she wore.
“Aye, take Him,” said Mary. “I would I might, in the years to come, give
my babe to every barren breast. But ye, Bridget, are alone blest.”
And through the long night Bridget cradled the Child while Mary slept
and the kine looked on, kneeling in their stalls. And when day broke,
Bridget closed her eyes and slept, too, for the weariness was upon her.
It was the call of a white bird that wakened her. She started up with a
cry of fear and her arms reached over her breast for the Child, but the
Child was gone. And when she looked about her she saw she was standing
on the crest of the holy hill, while beyond her lay green fields and
pastures full of sheep, and her father’s hut, and the blue bay of Iona
at her feet.
“’Tis all a dream,” she said, the wonder on her. And then she looked at
the mantle she wore. It was woven with golden threads into marvelous
pictures of birds and beasts and angels. And Bridget went slowly down
the holy hill, the mantle about her; and when she came to her father’s
hut she found she had been gone for a year and six months.
X
THE CHAPTER AFTER THE END
The last thing David remembered that night was hearing Mr. Peter’s voice
booming out a “Merry Christmas” to each of the departing guests.
Incredible and humiliating as it might seem, Johanna had had to help him
to bed! He was so worn out with the work and the joy of all that had
happened that day that his eyes would not stay open long enough for him
to make the proper going-to-bed arrangements for himself.
And the first thing David thought about when he woke Christmas morning
was the locked-out fairy. Yes, even before he thought about the gift
that was coming that day from father.
Where was the fairy? He had not seen him for two days, had not come upon
a single track that might have been his in all his tramping through the
woods for greens. He did not like to think it, but perhaps the fairy was
shivering and hungry in some hollow tree or deserted rabbit-burrow,
homesick and alone, while he, David, had almost, yes, had almost
unlocked the door that led back into his old world—almost found
opening-time.
It did not seem fair that now the fairy should be left out, when his own
happiness was the fairy’s doing, after all; when he would never have
found the way to Christmas or the way out of loneliness if the fairy had
not made the trail for him to follow. He made up his mind at once, even
before he was out of bed, that he would spend Christmas day hunting for
the fairy and seeing to it that he had all the comforts that mere
mortals could supply.
Then he remembered the Christmas gift that was coming. Perhaps it was
something he could share with the fairy. He had thought about it a good
many times in the days since father’s letter had come; and he had
speculated a good deal as to what it could be. It might be some strange
curiosity from the East—father was tremendously interested in
curiosities; or it might be books, as father was fond of books. Of one
thing he was certain, it would be something that father would like
himself; he could not imagine father choosing anything else.
Breakfast was late. They had seen Christmas day in before the last guest
had gone the night before; and when there are no stockings to empty, no
presents to unwrap, there is no need to hurry breakfast along or speed
the day. Everybody was in rare good humor. Mr. Peter swung David to his
shoulder and marched three times round the table, singing, “Good King
Wencelas.”
“Faith, ’tis the best keeping of Christmas I have seen since I came to
this country,” was Barney’s comment.
“I think ’tis the best I ever had,” said Johanna.
“I know what I’m going to do,” shouted Mr. Peter. “I’m going to steal
the chart and take it back with me to the city; and next year when the
notion begins to take me that I want to dodge Christmas again I’ll
unroll the chart, take a good look at it, and make straight for the
right road. And I tell you what!” He put two hands on David’s shoulders.
“I believe it would be just as well to have you along, young man. With
you there, and Barney and Johanna, I couldn’t go wrong, you know; and we
could take a lot of other poor, tired mortals on the road with us and
show them such a Christmas as would warm their hearts and keep their
memories green for the rest of their lives.”
“Aye, that’s true,” agreed Johanna. “But if ye don’t sit down and stop
talking, Mr. Peter, ye’ll be taking the road to a cold breakfast.”
They were not half through when a knocking came at the front door.
Barney answered it, and came back in a moment with a puzzled smile on
his face.
“’Tis your friend, the trapper,” he said to David. “He’ll not come in;
but he wants to be speaking with ye, laddy.”
Wondering much what it could mean, David slipped from his chair and went
into the hall. The trapper was standing just inside the door, and he was
holding something small and gray in his great fur mitten.