I
The little boy whose story is told here lived in the beautiful country
of "Once upon a Time." His name, as I heard it, was Tommy Trot; but I
think that, maybe, this was only a nick-name. When he was about your
age, he had, on Christmas Eve, the wonderful adventure of seeing Santa
Claus in his own country, where he lives and makes all the beautiful
things that boys and girls get at Christmas. In fact, he not only went
to see him in his own wonderful city away up toward the North Pole,
where the snow never melts and the Aurora lightens up the sky; but he
and his friend, Johnny Stout, went with dogs and guns to hunt the
great polar bear whose skin afterwards always lay in front of the big
library fireplace in Tommy's home.
This is the way it all happened.
Tommy lived in a big house on top of quite a high hill, not far from a
town which could be seen clearly from the front portico and windows.
Around the house was a large lawn with trees and shrubbery in it, and
at the back was a big lot, in one corner of which stood the stables
and barns, while on the other side sloped down a long steep hill to a
little stream bordered with willows and maples and with a tract of
woodland beyond. This lot was known as the "cow-pasture," and the
woodland was known as the "wood-lot," while yet beyond was a field
which Peake, the farmer, always spoke of as the "big field." On the
other side of the cow-lot, where the stables stood, was a road which
ran down the hill and across the stream and beyond the woods, and on
the other side of this road near the bottom of the hill was the little
house in which lived Johnny Stout and his mother. They had no fields
or lots, but only a backyard in which there were chickens and pigeons
and, in the Fall, just before Tommy's visit to Santa Claus, two white
goats, named "Billy" and "Carry," which Johnny had broken and used to
drive to a little rough wagon which he had made himself out of a box
set on four wheels.
Tommy had no brothers or sisters, and the only cousins he had in town
were little girls younger than himself, to whom he had to "give up"
when any one was around, so he was not as fond of them as he should
have been; and Sate, his dog, a terrier of temper and humours, was
about his only real playmate. He used to play by himself and he was
often very lonely, though he had more toys than any other boy he knew.
In fact, he had so many toys that he was unable to enjoy any one of
them very long, and after having them a little while he usually broke
them up. He used to enjoy the stories which his father read to him out
of Mother Goose and the fairy-books and the tales he told him of
travellers and hunters who had shot lions and bears and Bengal tigers;
but when he grew tired of this, he often wished he could go out in the
street and play all the time like Johnny Stout and some of the other
boys. Several times he slipped out into the road beyond the cow-lot to
try to get a chance to play with Johnny who was only about a year
older than he, but could do so many things which Tommy could not do
that he quite envied him. It was one of the proudest days of his life
when Johnny let him come over and drive his goats, and when he went
home that evening, although he was quite cold, he was so full of
having driven them that he could not think or talk of anything else,
and when Christmas drew near, one of the first things he wrote to ask
Santa Claus for, when he put the letter in the library fire, was a
wagon and a pair of goats. Even his father's statement that he feared
he was too small yet for Santa Claus to bring him such things, did not
wholly dampen his hope.
He even began to dream of being able to go out some time and join the
bigger boys in coasting down the long hill on the other side from
Johnny Stout's, for though his father and mother thought he was still
rather small to do this, his father had promised that he might do it
sometime, and Tommy thought "sometime" would be after his next
birthday. When the heavy snow fell just before Christmas he began to
be sorry that he had broken up the sled Santa Claus had given him the
Christmas before. In fact, Tommy had never wanted a sled so much as he
did the afternoon two days before Christmas, when he persuaded his
father to take him out again to the coasting hill to see the boys
coasting. There were all sorts of sleds: short sleds and long sleds,
bob-sleds and flexible fliers. They held one, two, three, and
sometimes even half a dozen boys and girls--for there were girls,
too--all shouting and laughing as they went flying down the hill, some
sitting and some lying down, but all flying and shouting, and none
taking the least notice of Tommy. Sate made them take notice of him;
for he would rush out after the sleds, barking just as if they had
been cats, and several times he got bowled over--once, indeed, he got
tangled up in the string of a sled and was dragged squealing with
fright down the hill. Suddenly, however, Tommy gave a jump. Among the
sleds flying by, most of them painted red, and very fine looking, was
a plain, unpainted one, and lying full length upon it, on his stomach,
with his heels high in the air, was Johnny Stout, with a red comforter
around his neck, and a big cap pulled down over his ears. Tommy knew
him at once.
"Look, father, look!" he cried, pointing; but Johnny's sled was far
down the hill before his father could see him. A few minutes later he
came trudging up the hill again and, seeing Tommy, ran across and
asked him if he would like to have a ride. Tommy's heart bounded, but
sank within him again when his father said, "I am afraid he is rather
little."
"Oh! I'll take care of him, sir," said Johnny, whose cheeks were
glowing. Tommy began to jump up and down.
"Please, father, please," he urged. His father only smiled.
"Why, you are not so very big yourself," he said to Johnny.
"Big enough to take care of him," said Johnny.
"Why, father, he's awful big," chimed in Tommy.
"Do you think so?" laughed his father. He turned to Johnny. "What is
your name?"
"Johnny, sir. I live down below your house." He pointed across toward
his own home.
"I know him," said Tommy proudly. "He has got goats and he let me
drive them."
"Yes, he can drive," said Johnny, condescendingly, with a nod, and
Tommy was proud of his praise. His father looked at him.
"Is your sled strong?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I made it myself," said Johnny, and he gave the sled a good
kick to show how strong it was.
"All right," said Tommy's father. They followed Johnny to the top of
the slide, and Tommy got on in front and his father tucked his coat
in.
"Hold on and don't be afraid," he said.
"Afraid!" said Tommy contemptuously. Just then Johnny, with a whoop
and a push which almost upset Tommy, flung himself on behind and away
they went down the hill, as Johnny said, "just ski-uting."
Tommy had had sledding in his own yard; but he had never before had
any real coasting like this, and he had never dreamed before of
anything like the thrill of dashing down that long hill, flying like
the wind, with Johnny on behind, yelling "Look out!" to every one, and
guiding so that the sled tore in and out among the others, and at the
foot of the hill actually turned around the curve and went far on down
the road.
"You're all right," said Johnny, and Tommy had never felt prouder. His
only regret was that the hill did not tilt up the other way so that
they could coast back instead of having to trudge back on foot.
[Illustration: Tommy had never before had any real coasting like this.]
When they got back again to the top of the hill, Tommy's father wanted
to know if they had had enough, but Tommy told him he never could have
enough. So they coasted down again and again, until at length his
father thought they had better be going home, and Johnny said he had
to go home, too, "to help his mother."
"How do you help?" asked Tommy's father, as they started off.
"Oh, just little ways," said Johnny. "I get wood--and split it up--and
go to Mr. Bucket's and get her things for her--draw water and feed the
cow, when we had a cow--we ain't got a cow now since our cow
died--and--oh--just a few little things like that."
Tommy's father made no reply, and Tommy, himself, was divided between
wonder that Johnny could call all that work "just a few little
things," and shame that he should say, "ain't got," which he, himself,
had been told he must never say.