STORIES TO READ AND TELL TO CHILDREN
SELECTION FROM THE BIBLE
LUKE II, 8-20
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field,
keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord
shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good
tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is
Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in
swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host
praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace,
Good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven,
the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem,
and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known
unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying
in a manger.
And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was
told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them
by the shepherds.
But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.
And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the
things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.
THE FINDING OF THE TREASURE[11]
MARY STEWART
A bright-faced boy stood in the center of a group of ragged children,
telling them a story. Behind them were the forlorn shacks of a mining
camp, built of odd boards of different colors with tar paper or bits of
tin for the roofs. A fluttering line of untidy wash was the only sign of
life about the place, for the men were away working in the mines and the
women--there were only ten of them in the camp of fifty men--were busy
indoors.
It was a desolate scene, but the children seemed to have forgotten it.
They were gazing spellbound at the lad in their midst, their minds so
full of the picture he was describing that the snowy fields before them
and the miserable camp behind them seemed miles away. Instead, they saw
what the boy saw as he looked straight before him, gazing into space
with a light upon his face as if he were beholding the radiant scene of
which he spoke.
“There were angels,” he was saying in a clear, thrilling voice,
“hundreds of them, all with glistening wings and faces as light as the
sunshine. They made the dark night as bright as day, and when the
shepherds saw them they were frightened. But the angels said, ‘Fear
not,’ and told them to go to a stable in the city near by, where, lying
in a manger, they would find a baby King. So the shepherds hurried up
the steep path to the city, carrying the lambs in their arms, and the
sky echoed with the angels’ song. It was the gladdest night in the whole
world.”
“But that is not all!” cried the children. “Tell us about the wonderful
star and the men on camels.”
“Listen,” said the story-teller, although every child was already
listening with all his might, “listen to what I am going to tell you
to-day. It is the most marvelous thing you have ever heard. In ten days
Christmas will be here, although the folks at the camp are so busy and
lonesome they have forgotten it. But when I asked my mother how we could
ever have a Christmas tree in this far-away place like we used to at
home, she said that _perhaps_”--here the lad, Carl, paused a moment, and
again he gazed into the distance, his face glowing, “perhaps,” he
continued mysteriously, “the glorious star would shine again _here_ to
guide, not the wise men on camels, but us--the children--to the
birthplace of a little baby!”
“Shall we see the angels too?” questioned a girl, her voice trembling
with excitement. “Will the dark sky be bright and full of singing like
you said?” demanded another, and “Will the shepherds be there? And the
camels? And the men with precious gifts?” asked others.
“Perhaps so,” answered Carl; he did not know, he only knew that they
must watch every night now for a new glorious star. Of course that would
be the beginning of it all, the beginning of the most wonderful
Christmas that had happened since the angels sang to the shepherds on
the plains of Bethlehem.
A shrill whistle blew, the call for supper, and the children ran back
over the snowy path to the big shack where the men met for meals. They
were all seated, talking angrily, when the children entered. One of the
men, a leader among them, had just read aloud a letter from the owner of
the mine. Such a small amount of gold had been found, the letter said,
that unless more was discovered within ten days, the mine would be
closed. Also, as the miners had been working on part shares, their wages
would be very small, barely enough to pay for their trips back to their
homes. A murmur of anger and ugly threats ran around the room. The men
had traveled to this desolate spot with the dream of going back rich for
life and now, after months of hard, dangerous labor, they would return
poorer than when they came. Before the eyes of many of them arose
pictures of bare homes where their families were struggling bravely
against illness and poverty, counting the days until the miners returned
with pockets full of gold.
“As beggars we will never go back!” cried one man. “Better blow up the
mine with us in it than see our children starve!” cried another, and
then the children, whose fathers were the few who had brought their
families with them, rushed into the room, their faces bright with the
great hope in their hearts. “Ten days from now will be Christmas!” cried
one little lad. “And something wonderful will happen then!” cried
another. The men turned upon them savagely. “If any child talks of
Christmas again, I’ll give him a licking that will make him forget the
day,” exclaimed one man, and another growled, “Ten days from now we’ll
all be beggars. Is that what you call ‘something wonderful’ happening?”
To the children, Carl’s story began to seem an idle dream. How could a
baby King, a glorious Christ Child, come to this miserable spot, or an
angel’s song ring through a camp where, as the night went on, the noise
of fighting and swearing echoed more and more wildly?
With a despairing hope of still finding the gold within ten days, the
miners went out to their work morning after morning before dawn, and
evening after evening they returned, utterly discouraged. It was small
wonder that their faces grew rough and fierce and the children crept
fearfully out of their way. Their own fathers were even more wretched
than the others, for the small wages would not pay the return trip of a
whole family and, after ten days were over, they could not live on with
no food in that desolate camp. Starvation stared them in the face, and
the coming of Christmas meant nothing to them.
Only Carl’s mother thought of it sometimes with a sad little smile, and
when Carl questioned her about the star and the baby of whose coming she
had spoken, she said softly, “When the Christ Child came His mother also
had no clothes in which to dress Him.” Then Carl saw tears shining in
her eyes and he dared not question her further, although the one thought
in his mind day and night was the coming of the young King.
Late every afternoon the children met beside a group of snow-laden fir
trees behind the shacks, and once there, the gloom and terror of the
camp slipped from them. The snow-covered mountains glittered in the
distance, and Carl told them again and again of the shepherds and the
angels.
Then late one evening, while the children watched in breathless
excitement, a radiant, glowing star shone forth in the evening sky. It
was the same star, they all firmly believed, which had led the wise men
so many years ago, and at first they thought with Carl that it had come
again to lead them to the cradle of the King. All that night they lay
awake on their hard cots, quivering with excitement as they listened for
the music of the angels’ song. But only the wrangling of the men echoed
through the darkness, and again the children’s bright dreams were
overshadowed by the gloom in the lives around them. Still each day they
had their hour of happiness beside the ice-hung fir trees, while the
star shone forth, and Carl told them of his hopes. Never for a moment
did he doubt that the star would lead them to the blessed birthplace,
and as the days went by he added other thoughts to his picture.
“When the wise men came they brought presents for Him,” he said one
afternoon, “bags of gold, the kind our fathers are looking for, and for
which they say they have risked and ruined their lives.
Perhaps--perhaps--” his voice was trembling now with the wonder of his
hope, “when the Christ Child comes, He may bring to the miners some of
the gold the wise men brought to Him!”
The thought was so marvelous that the children planned to tell the men
about it, but when they looked up into those grim, lowering faces their
hearts failed them and they went quietly to bed.
So nine days slipped by, and the afternoon before Christmas came. The
next day, if no gold had been found, the mine would be closed, and the
miners went to work that morning in deadly silence, hopeless despair
written upon their faces. The snow had fallen heavily all night, and
during the day a few flakes still drifted from the gray, leaden sky. The
shacks were cold and cheerless and the women, as depressed now as the
men, moved heavily about their tasks. Only Carl’s mother was not with
them, and deep in their own misery no one gave her a thought. The
children were huddled in one corner under a ragged bed quilt, while
Carl, by the magic of his faith and words, brought color to their
cheeks and light to their eyes.
“This is the day He will come,” the lad was whispering. “My mother went
out into the snow this morning and before she went she kissed me and
said, ‘The little baby is coming to-day, my son, and where is the home
ready to receive him?’ I don’t know just what she meant, for of course
the angels will be waiting to take care of the little King.”
“But if it is snowing, how can we see the star?” asked the children, and
as if in answer to their question the sun came out brilliantly. Like a
fairyland of silver and powdered diamonds the world shone in its mantle
of snow and ice, and into it rushed the children, flying over the
fields, eager, joyous, expectant. Quickly the short afternoon passed,
the sun set in a glory of rose and gold, and then again to the watching
children appeared the splendid evening star upon which all their hopes
and dreams were centered. It was bigger and brighter than ever before,
but it didn’t move as the children had been sure it would, and for a
moment a puzzled silence fell upon the group. Then Carl, who had been as
bewildered as the others, laughed outright. “Look!” he exclaimed
joyously, pointing to the old barn beyond the fir trees, where the few
camp animals were kept. “It doesn’t move because it is here! See, there,
right below the star, is the stable. We thought, just as the wise men
did, that the star would take us to a palace, but perhaps again the
little King is lying in a manger!”
For a moment it all seemed too wonderful to be true. Could the King be
there already, lying in the old stable, waiting for them? Then suddenly
to the children everything seemed possible. With the glorious star
shining in the glowing sky above them, the glittering mountains behind
them, and Carl’s triumphant voice calling them to follow, faith in the
King’s coming seemed only natural. With hearts as full of joy as the
shepherds’ on the Bethlehem plains, the children climbed up the snowy
path to the little stable, through whose windows there already shone a
golden light. Was it the light from the angels’ wings or was it--could
it be--the glory which shone around the Christ Child Himself?
Very quietly and reverently the awestruck children opened the door and
stepped inside. What did they see?
Nothing at first. Their eyes were blinded by the light of a great fire
which burned in the rude stone fireplace, a fire kindled with evergreen
branches so that the room was full of the fragrance of Christmas trees.
“This is the odor of the frankincense and myrrh,” whispered one child.
“He must have brought it with Him for us.” Then, as their eyes grew
accustomed to the brilliant light, they saw in one dim corner the old
donkey which drew heavy loads for the miners. Beside him stood one cow,
a couple of sheep, and on the rafters over their heads perched a pair of
blue pigeons. The children had seen them all before, often, but in the
light of the fire, with the star shining above them, the simple animals,
the same as those which had surrounded the Christ on the first
Christmas, seemed as miraculous as a host of angels. And then, at last,
they saw the One for whom they were seeking!
The cow’s manger had been pulled out beside the blazing fire and in it,
warm and cozy and wrapped in swaddling bands, lay a tiny, beautiful
baby. With a gasp of wonder the children knelt in the straw before him.
Around his head was no circle of marvelous glory, but his sweet blue
eyes opened, big and shining in his tiny face, and to the children he
seemed indeed the baby King of whom they had dreamed. Beside him on the
straw lay a woman wrapped in a dark cloak. Even Carl did not at first
recognize her as his mother. She had crept off that morning to the one
peaceful spot in the camp, where her husband had built the great fire
for her, and there, with the peaceful animals around him, the little
baby boy had been born.
“The Christ Child has come to us,” whispered one child blissfully. “The
little King is here!” said others softly. “He has brought the fragrance
the wise men gave Him,” murmured another. “And the joy of Christmas He
has brought to us all to last forever,” said Carl in his sweet voice.
Overwhelmed with the beauty and wonder of the scene, they had forgotten
the longed-for gift of gold, and then the door swung open and the
children saw Carl’s father enter and step across the room to the mother
on the hay. His face shone with the glory in which the whole world
seemed to be bathed. Was it only the light of the sunset and the blazing
fire? Ah, no, his voice rang with gladness as he exclaimed, “Wife, they
have found the gold; the mine will give treasure to us all!”
The children clasped their hands in blissful content. They had known it
would come with the coming of the little King,--gold for the desperate
men, peace for the tired women, happiness for them all,--and it had come
true even more wonderfully than they had dreamed.
The star shone through the window in the loft, the last rays of the
sunset turned the snow to gold, and within, in the light of the fire,
the children knelt, gazing rapturously at the little newborn baby in the
manger. So the miners found them. They were returning to the camp
jubilant over the newly discovered gold; it would make them all rich,
and they planned to celebrate by a night of riotous drinking. But on the
way to the shacks they passed the stable. It was strange to see it
lighted at this hour, and one man turned aside to see what was happening
there. As he stood looking silently through the window another joined
him, and another, until the whole crowd stood outside, gazing through
the windows, silent and abashed. The kneeling children, the baby in the
manger, the star above them, what did it all mean?
“It is Christmas Eve,” murmured one man. “That must be the big Carl’s
kid,” said another, “but even the blessed Lord Jesus Himself couldn’t
have looked any sweeter.”
“Gifts of gold,” said the man who was the leader of the gang, and his
clear voice reached every miner’s ears, “gifts of gold, if I remember
rightly, were brought once to the Christ on His first birthday. It’s His
birthday to-night, though none of us remembered it, and now the gifts of
gold have come to us. Who knows whether they have not come from Him,
the Lord whom we had forgotten?”
There was silence again, and then as night fell and the stars shone out
over that peaceful scene, there entered into the heart of every man,
woman, and child there the spirit of the Christ Child.
Later, when the children understood that the baby was Carl’s little
brother, the wonder was none the less. Possibly they felt the great
truth, that the Christ Child is born in every baby who comes into the
world, or perhaps they simply felt the glory of His presence, as the men
and women around them lost their harsh and gloomy ways and became
joyful, tender, compassionate. For from that Christmas Eve until the
mine had been worked, and the men had scattered happily to their homes,
the camp was a different place. The drinking and fighting ceased, and
the men played with the children, shyly at first and then merrily,
thinking of “those other kids at home.” The women sang over their tasks,
and if the music was not as heavenly as the angels’ song, it was full of
cheer and peace and good will. And so to the children the camp became
truly a place in which, on that marvelous Christmas Eve, the Christ
Child had been born.
THE MEANING OF THE STAR[12]
EMMA G. SEBRING
Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the
king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying,
Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in
the east, and are come to worship him.... And, lo, the star, which they
saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the
young child was. When they saw the star they rejoiced with exceeding
great joy.
And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with
Mary, his mother, and fell down, and worshiped him; and when they had
opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold,
frankincense, and myrrh.--_Matthew ii, 1-4; 9-11._
* * * * *
In every life there is need of a star, the star of an ideal, which shall
go before, leading the way until it comes and stands where the Christ
is. They who see such a star shall rejoice with exceeding great joy, as
they who look upon a heavenly vision. They who follow such a star to
the goal where it leads, shall there offer the precious gift of an
ennobled and sanctified life.
WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT
MARGARET DELAND
Like small curled feathers, white and soft,
The little clouds went by,
Across the moon, and past the stars,
And down the western sky:
In upland pastures, where the grass
With frosted dew was white,
Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay
The first best Christmas night.
The shepherds slept; and, glimmering faint,
With twist of thin, blue smoke,
Only their fire’s crackling flame
The tender silence broke,
Save when a young lamb raised his head,
Or when the night wind blew
A nestling bird would softly stir
Where dusky olives grew.
With finger on her solemn lip,
Night hushed the shadowy earth,
And only stars and angels saw
The little Saviour’s birth;
Then came such flash of silver light
Across the bending skies,
The wondering shepherds woke and hid
Their frightened, dazzled eyes!
And all their gentle sleepy flock
Looked up, then slept again,
Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars
Brought endless peace to men,
Nor even heard the gracious words
That down the ages ring--
“The Christ is born! the Lord has come,
Good will on earth to bring!”
Then o’er the moonlit misty fields,
Dumb with the world’s great joy,
The shepherds sought the white-walled town
Where lay the Baby Boy--
And oh, the gladness of the world,
The glory of the skies,
Because the longed-for Christ looked up
In Mary’s happy eyes!
THE GREAT WALLED COUNTRY[13]
RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN
Away at the northern end of the world, farther than men have ever gone
with their ships or their sleds, and where most people suppose that
there is nothing but ice and snow, is a land full of children, called
The Great Walled Country. This name is given because all around the
country is a great wall, hundreds of feet thick and hundreds of feet
high. It is made of ice, and never melts, winter or summer, and of
course it is for this reason that more people have not discovered the
place.
The land, as I said, is filled with children, for nobody who lives there
ever grows up. The king and the queen, the princes and the courtiers,
may be as old as you please, but they are children for all that. They
play a great deal of the time with dolls and tin soldiers, and every
night at seven o’clock have a bowl of bread and milk and go to bed. But
they make excellent rulers, and the other children are well pleased with
the government.
There are all sorts of curious things about the way they live in The
Great Walled Country, but this story is only of their Christmas season.
One can imagine what a fine thing their Christmas must be, so near the
North Pole, with ice and snow everywhere; but this is not all.
Grandfather Christmas lives just on the north side of the country, so
that his house leans against the great wall and would tip over if it
were not for its support. Grandfather Christmas is his name in The Great
Walled Country; no doubt we should call him Santa Claus here. At any
rate, he is the same person, and, best of all the children in the world,
he loves the children behind the great wall of ice.
One very pleasant thing about having Grandfather Christmas for a
neighbor is that in The Great Walled Country they never have to buy
their Christmas presents. Every year, on the day before Christmas,
before he makes up his bundles for the rest of the world Grandfather
Christmas goes into a great forest of Christmas trees, that grows just
back of the palace of the king of The Great Walled Country, and fills
the trees with candy and books and toys and all sorts of good things. So
when night comes, all the children wrap up snugly, while the children in
all other lands are waiting in their beds, and go to the forest to
gather gifts for their friends. Each one goes by himself so that none
of his friends can see what he has gathered; and no one ever thinks of
such a thing as taking a present for himself. The forest is so big that
there is room for every one to wander about without meeting the people
from whom he has secrets, and there are always enough nice things to go
around.
So Christmas time is a great holiday in that land, as it is in all the
best places in the world. They have been celebrating it in this way for
hundreds of years, and since Grandfather Christmas does not seem to grow
old any faster than the children, they will probably do so for hundreds
of years to come.
But there was once a time, so many years ago that they would have
forgotten all about it if the story were not written in their Big Book
and read to them every year, when the children in The Great Walled
Country had a very strange Christmas. There came a visitor to the land.
He was an old man, and was the first stranger for very many years that
had succeeded in getting over the wall. He looked so wise, and was so
much interested in what he saw and heard, that the king invited him to
the palace, and he was treated with every possible honor.
When this old man had inquired about their Christmas celebration, and
was told how they carried it on every year, he listened gravely and
then, looking wiser than ever, he said to the king:
“That is all very well, but I should think that children who have
Grandfather Christmas for a neighbor could find a better and easier way.
You tell me that you all go out on Christmas Eve to gather presents to
give to one another the next morning. Why take so much trouble, and act
in such a roundabout way? Why not go out together, and every one get his
own presents? That would save the trouble of dividing them again, and
every one would be better satisfied, for he could pick out just what he
wanted for himself. No one can tell what you want as well as you can.”
This seemed to the king a very wise saying, and he called all his
courtiers and counselors about him to hear it. The wise stranger talked
further about his plan, and when he had finished they all agreed that
they had been very foolish never to have thought of this simple way of
getting their Christmas gifts.
“If we do this,” they said, “no one can ever complain of what he has, or
wish that some one had taken more pains to find what he wanted. We will
make a proclamation, and always after this follow the new plan.”
So the proclamation was made, and the plan seemed as wise to the
children of the country as it had to the king and the counselors. Every
one had at some time been a little disappointed with his Christmas
gifts; now there would be no danger of that.
On Christmas Eve they always had a meeting at the palace, and sang
carols until the time for going to the forest. When the clock struck ten
every one said, “I wish you a Merry Christmas!” to the person nearest
him, and then they separated to go their ways to the forest. On this
particular night it seemed to the king that the music was not quite so
merry as usual, and that when the children spoke to one another their
eyes did not shine as gladly as he had noticed them in other years; but
there could be no good reason for this, since every one was expecting a
better time than usual. So he thought no more of it.
There was only one person at the palace that night who was not pleased
with the new proclamation about the Christmas gifts. This was a little
boy named Inge, who lived not far from the palace with his sister. Now
his sister was a cripple, and had to sit all day looking out of the
window from her chair; and Inge took care of her, and tried to make her
life happy from morning till night. He had always gone to the forest on
Christmas Eve and returned with his arms and pockets loaded with pretty
things for his sister, which would keep her amused all the coming year.
And although she was not able to go after presents for her brother, he
did not mind that at all, especially as he had other friends who never
forgot to divide their good things with him.
But now, said Inge to himself, what would his sister do? For the king
had ordered that no one should gather any presents except for himself,
or any more than he could carry away at once. All of Inge’s friends were
busy planning what they would pick for themselves, but the poor crippled
child could not go a step toward the forest. After thinking about it a
long time, Inge decided that it would not be wrong, if, instead of
taking gifts for himself, he took them altogether for his sister. This
he would be very glad to do; for what did a boy who could run about and
play in the snow care for presents, compared with a little girl who
could only sit still and watch others having a good time? Inge did not
ask the advice of any one, for he was a little afraid others would tell
him he must not do it; but he silently made up his mind not to obey the
proclamation.
And now the chimes had struck ten, and the children were making their
way toward the forest, in starlight that was so bright that it almost
showed their shadows on the sparkling snow. As soon as they came to the
edge of the forest, they separated, each one going by himself in the old
way, though now there was really no reason why they should have secrets
from one another.
Ten minutes later, if you had been in the forest, you might have seen
the children standing in dismay, with tears on their faces, and
exclaiming that there had never been such a Christmas Eve before. For as
they looked eagerly about them to the low-bending branches of the
evergreen trees, they saw nothing hanging from them that could not be
seen every day in the year. High and low they searched, wandering
farther into the forest than ever before, lest Grandfather Christmas
might have chosen a new place this year for hanging his presents; but
still no presents appeared. The king called his counselors about him,
and asked them if they knew whether anything of this kind had happened
before, but they could tell him nothing. So no one could guess whether
Grandfather Christmas had forgotten them, or whether some dreadful
accident had kept him away.
As the children were trooping out of the forest, after hours of weary
searching, some of them came upon little Inge, who carried over his
shoulder a bag that seemed to be full to overflowing. When he saw them
looking at him, he cried:
“Are they not beautiful things? I think Grandfather Christmas was never
so good to us before.”
“Why, what do you mean?” cried the children. “There are no presents in
the forest!”
“No presents!” Inge said. “I have my bag full of them.” But he did not
offer to show them, because he did not want the children to see that
they were all for his little sister instead of for himself.
Then the children begged him to tell them in what part of the forest he
had found his presents, and he turned back and pointed them to the place
where he had been. “I left many more behind than I brought away,” he
said. “There they are! I can see some of the things shining on the trees
even from here.”
But when the children followed his footprints in the snow to the place
where he had been, they still saw nothing on the trees, and thought
that Inge must be walking in his sleep, and dreaming that he had found
presents. Perhaps he had filled his bag with the cones from the
evergreen trees.
On Christmas Day there was sadness all through The Great Walled Country.
But those who came to the house of Inge and his sister saw plenty of
books and dolls and beautiful toys piled up about the little cripple’s
chair, and when they asked where these things came from, they were told,
“Why, from the Christmas-tree forest.” And they shook their heads, not
knowing what it could mean.
The king held a council in the palace, and appointed a committee of his
most faithful courtiers to visit Grandfather Christmas, and see if they
could find what was the matter. In a day or two more the committee set
out on their journey.
They had very hard work to climb the great wall of ice that lay between
their country and the place where Grandfather Christmas lived, but at
last they reached the top. And when they came to the other side of the
wall they were looking down into the top of his chimney. It was not hard
to go down this chimney into the house, and when they reached the
bottom of it they found themselves in the very room where Grandfather
Christmas lay sound asleep.
It was hard enough to waken him, for he always slept one hundred days
after his Christmas work was over, and it was only by turning the hands
of the clock around two hundred times that the committee could do
anything. When the clock had struck twelve times two hundred hours,
Grandfather Christmas thought it was time for his nap to be over, and he
sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh, sir!” cried the prince who was in charge of the committee, “we have
come from the king of The Great Walled Country, who has sent us to ask
why you forgot us this Christmas, and left no presents in the forest.”
“No presents!” said Grandfather Christmas. “I never forgot anything. The
presents were there. You did not see them, that’s all.”
But the children told him that they had searched long and carefully, and
in the whole forest there had not been found a thing that could be
called a Christmas gift.
“Indeed!” said Grandfather Christmas. “And did little Inge, the boy with
the crippled sister, find none?”
Then the committee was silent, for they had heard of the gifts at
Inge’s house, and did not know what to say about them.
“You had better go home,” said Grandfather Christmas, who now began to
realize that he had been awakened too soon, “and let me finish my nap.
The presents were there, but they were never intended for children who
were looking only for themselves. I am not surprised that you could not
see them. Remember, that not everything that wise travelers tell you is
wise.” And he turned over and went to sleep again.
The committee returned silently to The Great Walled Country, and told
the king what they had heard. The king did not tell all the children of
the land what Grandfather Christmas had said, but, when the next
December came, he made another proclamation bidding every one to seek
gifts for others, in the old way, in the Christmas-tree forest. So that
is what they have been doing ever since; and in order that they may not
forget what happened, in case any one should ever ask for another change
they have read to them every year from their Big Book the story of the
time when they had no Christmas gifts.
GOING TO MEET CHRISTMAS[14]
EDMUND VANCE COOKE
“Papa,” said the Man Mite, “can you hear Christmas?”
“Can you hear Christmas?” repeated his papa. “Why, I suppose so, in a
sort of way. You can hear bells chiming and little boys drumming and
little girls blowing horns and people laughing and everybody saying,
‘Merry Christmas!’ I suppose that’s hearing Christmas, isn’t it?”
“But I mean can you hear it before it’s here?” asked the Man Mite.
“No, I think not,” answered papa.
“Well, if you can’t hear it, how can you tell it’s coming? Can you see
it coming?”
“Oh,” answered his papa, “I see what you mean now. Well, how can you
tell to-morrow is coming? Can you smell it?”
The Man Mite laughed. “Such a silly papa! To-morrow _has_ to come so
that to-day can be yesterday. You ’splained that to me once yourself.”
“Yes? Well, Christmas has to come so that next Christmas can be last
Christmas.”
“Oh, papa,” cried the Man Mite, “you forgot about _this_ Christmas, but
please don’t tell me when this Christmas is coming, because I want it to
surprise me. I want it to sneak right up and get here when I don’t know
it.”
“All right,” laughed papa, “I shan’t tell, and you can go to bed every
night _for a week_ hoping that the next day will be Christmas.”
Which was exactly what the Man Mite did, and for a night or two it was
very exciting, but toward the end of the week he began to grow tired of
it. It was all very well to go to bed hoping that the next day would be
Christmas, but to wake up every morning, and ask, “Where is Christmas?”
only to be answered with “Christmas is coming!” was very disappointing.
One night his papa and mamma insisted that he go to bed earlier than
usual, so he was very wide awake for a while, and lay there wondering
how he could hurry up Christmas. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine
how Christmas looked dilly-dallying along the way, as (he remembered
with shame) he himself did sometimes when he was sent upon an errand,
instead of hastening, as Christmas and a little boy ought to do.
“Christmas is coming! Christmas is coming!” he repeated to himself, “and
if it doesn’t hurry and hurry up--if it doesn’t hurry and hurry up,
I’ll go to meet it!”
That was a new idea, and the Man Mite lingered on it lovingly. Go to
meet it! Why not?
Just how he got himself dressed and out of the house he never distinctly
remembered. He afterwards said that he was in such a hurry he didn’t
have time to remember, but that doesn’t sound quite reasonable, does it?
He also says, however, that he remembers running for a long time as fast
as he could go. When he stopped to take breath and to look around he
found he was in a strange part of the city and there was nobody in the
street in any direction. He was lost!
The Man Mite remembered that his papa told him that if ever he was lost
he should ask a policeman, but there wasn’t a policeman or anybody else
in sight. On the corner, though, was a patrol box, and the Man Mite had
seen the policeman telephone to the station from the box, so he thought
he would do the same thing. As he was trying to open the door he was
startled to hear a voice inside exclaim, “Christmas is coming!”
“Which way is it coming, please?” asked the Man Mite, and off popped the
top and up popped a Jack-in-the-box with his arms extended.
“Thank you,” said the Man Mite, and hastened away in the direction the
Jack-in-the-box had pointed. Presently he saw a toy trolley car going in
the same direction. “Hello!” he said, “where is that car going?”
“Going to meet Christmas,” answered the trolley car; “get inside.”
“Thank you,” answered the Man Mite, “you’re most too small for me to get
inside of, but I can sit on top.”
He did so, and the car took him to the end of the line, and he was his
own conductor and collected his own fare from himself. When the car
stopped, it was at the end of a street which ran up against a steep
bluff with no elevator or path to help a little boy to get to its top.
The Man Mite wondered how he was ever going to get past that bluff, when
he saw a climbing-monkey-on-a-string. One end of his string was attached
to the top of the bluff and the other was fastened to the ground below.
“Hello,” said the monkey, “Christmas is coming, and if you want to go to
meet it, you would better crawl up my string. I’ll show you how.”
“Oh, I can’t,” said the Man Mite.
“Can’t!” mocked the monkey. “I’m only a tin monkey and I can do it.
It’s easy.”
He went up the string hand-over-hand and foot-over-foot, and the Man
Mite followed. Much to his surprise, he reached the top without any
difficulty, and there he found a toy train of cars, a toy automobile,
and a wooden wagon.
“All aboard for the Christmas Limited!” said the little iron brakeman.
“Automobile Air-Line to Santaclausville!” said the tin chauffeur.
“Fast express going to meet Christmas!” cried the tongue of the wagon,
and the Man Mite noticed that the wagon _did_ have “Express” printed on
both its sides.
Now, although the Man Mite would have liked to go on the train or the
auto, there was so much more room in the wooden wagon that he got into
it, and was surprised that it soon left its companions far behind. It
sped along merrily, and its tongue kept up a continuous running talk as
well, until it came to the ocean, where a toy boat was floating.
“All aboard for Christmas!” said the captain.
“But your boat is too small, and besides there’s not a board in it; it’s
tin,” answered the Man Mite.
“Well, throw us a line and we’ll tow you,” said the captain.
As the Man Mite had no line, he let him take the tongue of the wagon,
and the captain stood at the stern of the boat and hung on.
Though the boat was so small, it pulled the Man Mite through the water
in a surprising manner, and the wooden wagon floated and kept the Man
Mite dry, but not a word could he get out of it, which was quite a
contrast to its manner when on land.
The weather kept getting colder and colder; presently the boat was stuck
fast in the ice. Of course the wagon was also frozen tight, and the
captain let go of the “line” as he called it.
“There!” cried the wagon angrily. “I knew what you’d bring us into.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so if you knew so much?” said the captain.
“Say so! Could _you_ say so if somebody was pulling you along by the
tongue?” demanded the wagon.
The captain replied and the wagon retorted, and the quarrel was becoming
very unpleasant, when along came a pair of skates without anybody on
them.
“Boat ahoy! Wagon ahoy! Boy ahoy!” cried the skates. “Christmas is
coming!”
“Take me along to meet it, please?” asked the Man Mite, and in another
moment he was on the skates and skating faster and easier than he had
ever skated in his life before. He skated for a long time, and passed
fields where plum puddings were growing like pumpkins, trees where candy
boys hung like pears, and snowdrifts which upon closer acquaintance
proved to be huge frosted cakes. Curiously enough, fields and trees and
drifts were all moving and cried out, “We’re going to meet Christmas!”
After what seemed to him a long time, much to his surprise and joy he
met a boy, seemingly of his own age. The Man Mite was almost sure he had
seen his face before, and yet, when he came to look at him again, he was
surer still that he hadn’t, for certainly he had never seen a boy with a
fur cap, fur coat, fur boots, and fur trousers! He noticed, too, that
while the boy’s face was round and chubby, his hair was white; not
merely tow-headed, like Willie Perkins’s, and Pete Judson’s, but pure
white.
“Hello!” said the stranger. “What’s your name?”
“They call me Man Mite. What’s yours?”
“Santy.”
“Santy? What a funny name. Santy what?”
“Santy Claus.”
“Santy Claus?” cried the Man Mite. “You can’t be Santy Claus. He’s a
man, and you’re just a little boy like I am.”
“Ho! you’re thinkin’ of my father,” answered the boy.
“Your father!” cried the Man Mite, more astonished than ever. Somehow,
he had never thought of the possibility of Santy Claus being a father.
“Have you got a mother, too?” he asked, after a moment.
“Yep. Had one ever since I was born. Ain’t you?”
“Of _course_,” answered the Man Mite, “but I never heard of Mrs. Santy
Claus.”
“Never heard of your mother neither,” answered Santy, Jr.
“Say, now, ain’t you fooling me? Are you honestly Santy Claus’s little
boy?”
“Say yourself,” answered the other, “doesn’t your father remember when
he was little he had a Santy Claus?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t your father’s father have a Santy Claus?”
“I s’pose so.”
“Well, do you suppose it’s the same Santy Claus? Somebody’s got to keep
the business goin’.”
“And will you be Santy Claus--the real Santy Claus--when you grow up?”
asked the Man Mite.
“Oh, I s’pose so,” answered the other, carelessly.
“You s’pose so! Don’t you _want_ to be?”
“Naw; I want to be the conductor on a dog train. Say, they made the run
this year in three months an’ two days. Wasn’t that flyin’?”
It really didn’t seem fast to the Man Mite, so he said: “How far is it?”
“From Arctic C. to Aurora B.”
“What do you mean by Arctic C. and Aurora B.?”
“Arctic Circle to Aurora Borealis, of course. That run was an excursion,
too. We always go to the Aurora B. for the Fourth. Fine fireworks
there.”
“The Fourth? Do you celebrate the Fourth?”
“O’ course.”
“But you’re not Americans, are you?”
“No; that’s the worst of it. We got to celebrate everything, holidays
and saints days and kings’ and queens’ birthdays, and the whole bunch.
That’s because we belong to all nations.”
“Christmas is the best, isn’t it?” smiled the Man Mite.
“Worst o’ the lot,” said Santy Jr., shortly.
“Why, what makes you think so?” cried the Man Mite.
“‘Cause dad’s always away on Christmas and we’ve cleared everything out
of the house to the last ginger-snap to put in folks’ stockings and it’s
the middle of the night and everybody’s tired, just like I am now, and
wants to go to bed.”
“Middle of the night? What _do_ you mean?”
“Middle of the north-pole night. If it wasn’t for Christmas we could go
to bed about half-past October and sleep until a quarter of May, but ma
thinks we ought to help pa and then wait up till he comes home. My, but
I’m sleepy! Ain’t you?”
“Yes,” owned the Man Mite, “a little.”
“Well, come on and sleep with me. Your mother won’t mind. You can get up
about a quarter past April and get home early.”
While they were speaking, Santy, Jr., was leading the way into the house
and to his room. The two boys lay down together on a bed of bearskins,
and the Man Mite said, sleepily: “Say, will you please tell me
something?”
“Uh-huh,” said Santy.
“What makes your hair white?”
“What makes a polar bear’s hair white? What makes an arctic fox’s hair
white? What makes an arctic hare’s hair white? Why, hello! there’s dad
coming back!”
“Coming back from where?”
“Why, from Christmas, of course. You do ask the funniest questions. I
believe you’re asleep. Your eyes are shut and you talk so stupid.”
The Mite Man rubbed his eyes with both hands and strove to open them.
Then he heard a voice cry, “Papa! papa!” but instead of its being the
voice of Santy, Jr., as he expected, it was the voice of his brother
Ben. Then somebody kissed him and called “Merry Christmas!”
“Oh, papa,” said the Man Mite as he opened his eyes, “is it _this_
Christmas or _next_ Christmas?”
He did not stop for an answer to his question. With a shout of joy he
sprang out of bed and darted upon a pair of skates, a toy steamboat, a
wooden wagon marked “Express.” on both sides, and a toy trolley car
which was big enough for him to sit upon the roof.
A LEGEND OF SAINT BONIFACE
ELEANOR L. SKINNER
On a wild winter night about twelve hundred years ago the great English
missionary Saint Boniface and a score of faithful followers were
traveling through the gloomy forest in a lonely region of Hesse,
Germany. They made their way painfully and slowly, for they were obliged
to cut a path through the tangled thicket and great twisted branches.
The little band had come into the wilderness to share the message of the
Prince of Peace with hordes of barbarous savages who believed in witches
and werewolves, worshiped false idols, and made sacrifices to pagan
gods. In their passionate joy to bring the glad tidings of the gospel,
these apostles willingly endured blinding snowstorms and cruel hunger,
courageously risked death from wild beasts and murderous savages.
Since noon these faithful Christians had fought their way through the
forest. The morning they had spent at Geismar, where Saint Boniface took
into Christ’s fold almost three hundred pagans. In simplest words the
great apostle urged the rude barbarians to give up their false idols
and bloody sacrifices. He told them the thrilling story of Christ’s
birth, death, and resurrection, and the wonderful promise of the Kingdom
of Peace. The savages stood listening in breathless silence. Slowly they
caught a glimpse of the light of truth, came timidly forward, and knelt
at the rude altar where Saint Boniface stood.
“Dost thou think the people of the wilderness will hold to the new
faith, father?” asked one of the followers.
“I hope so, lad,” answered Saint Boniface. “We must try to keep watch
over them. Again and again they must hear the wonderful story. It is
hard, indeed, for these pagans to turn from their false idols and
worship an all-loving, merciful Father. We must watch and pray.”
“When shall we come again to Geismar, father?” asked the youth.
“It will be a year before our band can return to this region. In the
meantime, I hope to send other missionaries here,” answered the great
apostle.
“Dost thou think we are near the monastery, father?” asked the footsore
youth.
“I believe we are. If we do not reach it in another hour we must light a
fire and lie down under the trees. Courage, lad! This has been a
fruitful journey. May the converts hold fast to the glory of Christ!”
A year passed quickly. Saint Boniface and his helpers were again working
among the wild children of the forest. Often the great apostle’s heart
sank when he heard that some of the converts were worshiping their false
idols again. A few remained stanch and true to the new faith; others
hopelessly confused the old superstitious ideas with the gospel of love
and service.
“Thou art not discouraged, father?” whispered the youth, who noticed
that Saint Boniface was lost in thought.
“Discouraged? Never!” answered the apostle with flashing eyes. “I am
deciding how to strike the next blow at their cruel superstitions.”
In a few moments Saint Boniface said: “Let us stop here for a little
while. My plan is made. To-night is the pagan yuletide. Several tribes
will gather around the thunder-oak of Geismar to offer sacrifices. The
priests declare that nothing but human blood will appease the wrath of
Thor. Many wavering converts will be there. Come, we will destroy once
for all the sacred monarch of the forest. We will show the poor
benighted people that the worship of Thor is nothing but a shadow. Our
axes are sharp; our arms are strong. God is with us. Come!”
With new inspiration the Christian band pushed on. An hour’s hard
struggle brought them to the thunder-oak, which stood on a broad low
hill near Geismar. There they saw several hundred pagans standing in a
semicircle around the gigantic oak. Near the sacred tree burned a dull
red fire, and in the light of the flickering blaze the Christians saw an
old priest and a little, fair-haired boy.
“It is as I feared,” whispered Saint Boniface. “They are ready to make
human sacrifice. Forward!”
In a moment all eyes were fixed on the little band of Christians that
advanced toward the priest. Some of the pagans recognized the apostle
before whom they had knelt one year ago.
“Friends,” said Saint Boniface, holding up the cross, “again we come to
bring the message of peace from the All-Father. Thor is dead! With our
axes we will prove to you that the god of thunder is powerless before
the God of Love.”
Saint Boniface and a helper, with their wood axes in their hands,
stepped up to the great tree. With powerful blows they cut deep gashes
into its sides. Suddenly a mighty whirling wind passed over the forest.
Thor’s oak shuddered, swayed, and fell; it crashed to the ground, and
split into four huge pieces.
“The God of Love is mightier than the God of thunder!” declared Saint
Boniface with bowed head. “Christ hath conquered Thor.”
In deepest silence the tribes stood gazing at the ruined oak. By the
side of one of the huge pieces stood a beautiful little fir tree,
unharmed by the storm. Saint Boniface raised his voice and cried, “My
friends of the forest, show your faith in the true God by building a
chapel out of this fallen timber.” In a few moments he added: “And
behold this little fir tree, with its green leaves and beautiful spire
pointing to the stars. It is an emblem of joy and peace, and
life-everlasting. Go no more into the dark forest to make sacrifices of
blood; take this little tree into your homes and on Christ’s blessed
birthday gather around it with joyous songs and loving gifts. Call it
the tree of the Christ Child.”
They took up the little fir tree and carried it to the village. Once
more, as they circled about the tree of the Christ Child, Saint Boniface
in simple words told them the wonderful story of peace on earth, good
will toward men.
COSETTE’S CHRISTMAS EVE
VICTOR HUGO
(Translated by Alma J. Foster)
I
A long time ago Montfermeil was a peaceful and charming little village
in the woods, away from the main roads, and on the way to nowhere.
There the people lived frugally and happily their simple peasant life.
Only water was hard to get, because the hill was high. It was necessary
to go a long way for it. Indeed, it was hard for each family to get
enough for use.
This was the terror of little Cosette.
Cosette was a little girl who had been left by her mother several years
before in the care of an innkeeper and his wife named Thénardier. She
had proved very useful to these people in two ways. They were regularly
paid by the mother for her care, and they used her as a servant. Thus it
was that it was Cosette’s task to fetch water when needed. As she was
terribly afraid of going at night to the spring, she took good care to
have plenty of water in the house at all times.
Christmas of the year 1823 had been particularly fine at Montfermeil.
There had been neither hail nor snow.
This Christmas Eve several men were sitting around a table in the lower
hall of the inn. Cosette was in her usual place on the crosspiece of the
kitchen table near the chimney. She was in rags, she had wooden shoes on
her little bare feet, and she was knitting stockings by the light of the
fire. These stockings were to be worn by the innkeeper’s little
daughters.
Cosette was dreaming sad dreams; although she was only eight years old
she had suffered so much that she felt like an old woman. She was
thinking that it was night, dark night, and that she had had to fill so
many pitchers that day for the many guests in the inn, that the water
tank was quite empty. She took comfort, however, when she remembered
that people drank very little water at night. There were many thirsty
ones, of course, but they wanted wine.
From time to time one of the guests would look out into the street and
exclaim, “It’s as black as an oven! Only a cat could find its way
to-night without a lantern.” Then Cosette trembled.
Suddenly a peddler who was staying at the inn entered, and said in a
hard voice, “My horse has had no water to drink.”
Cosette came out from under the table.
“Oh, yes, sir,” she said, “the horse has had water, a whole pailful, for
I gave it to him myself, and I talked to him, too.”
“Come, now,” said the peddler, “it can’t be true that my horse has had
enough water.”
Cosette slipped back to her place under the table.
“Indeed, if that’s so,” said Madame Thénardier, “if the horse has not
had enough water, he must drink.”
Then looking about the room, she said, “Well, where is Cosette?”
She stooped, and saw the child hidden at the other end of the table
almost under the men’s feet.
“Are you going to come, or no?” cried she.
Cosette crept out of the little hole in which she had hidden herself.
“Now, get something for the horse to drink.”
“But there isn’t any water,” said Cosette feebly.
The woman opened wide the door leading to the street.
“Very well; go and get some.”
Then she fumbled in a drawer where were a few coins, and some peppers
and onions.
“Here, you little toad,” added she, “on your way home get a loaf of
bread. Here is the money.”
Cosette had a little side pocket in her apron. She took the piece of
silver without a word, and put it into the pocket. Then she stood quite
still, the pail in her hand, and the open door before her.
“Get along with you!” cried the woman.
Cosette went out. The door was closed behind her.
Cosette went along the crooked and deserted streets on that side of the
town. As long as there were houses or even high walls on both sides of
her, she walked bravely enough. From time to time she caught sight of a
lighted candle through a crack in the shutters; there were light, and
life, and people, and this comforted her. However, the farther she went
the more slowly she walked. When she had passed the corner of the last
house, Cosette stopped. To pass the last shop had been hard, but to pass
the last house,--this was impossible. She turned firmly back. Scarcely
had she walked a hundred steps when she stopped again. The thought of
Madame Thénardier stopped her. Before her stood the picture of the angry
woman; behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the wood.
Suddenly she turned again to the path to the spring, and started to
run. Even while running she felt like crying. The chill of the night and
of the forest encompassed her.
There were only seven or eight minutes from the edge of the woods to the
spring. Cosette knew the path only too well, having been over it many
times every day. She dared not glance either right or left for fear of
seeing things in the branches or the bushes. At last she reached the
spring.
Cosette did not stop to take breath. It was fearfully dark, but she was
used to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the darkness for a
young oak that hung over it, by which she used to support herself, found
the branch, caught hold of it, and plunged the pail into the water.
While doing this, she could not see that her pocket had emptied itself
into the spring. The silver coin had fallen into the water; Cosette did
not notice it. She drew up the pail almost full, and rested it on the
grass. She shut her eyes, then opened them again, not knowing why. Then
she counted aloud, one, two, three, and up to ten, and when she had
finished she began again. Then she felt the cold in her hands, which she
had wet in dipping the water. Suddenly she saw the pail before her. She
seized the handle with both hands. It was hard to lift. She had to stop
many times to rest, then she walked on with her head bent forward. The
weight of the pail stiffened her little arms. All this was taking place
in the heart of a wood, at night, in winter, far from every human eye,
and this was a child only eight years old. Now and then she would cry
aloud, “Oh, dear me! Oh, dear me!”
Suddenly she felt that the pail was no longer heavy. A hand which seemed
immense had seized the handle and lifted it with power. She looked up. A
large form, dark and straight, was walking beside her in the gloom. It
was a man who had come behind her, whom she had not heard. This man,
without a word, had taken hold of the pail she was carrying.
There are instincts for all the meetings of life. The child felt no
fear.
The man spoke to her. His voice was grave and almost a whisper.
“Little one, it is very heavy for you, this thing you are carrying.”
Cosette looked up and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Give it to me,” replied the man. “I am going to carry it.”
Cosette let go of the pail. The man walked beside her.
“It is heavy indeed!” he said between his teeth. Then he asked, “Little
one, how old are you?”
“Eight years, sir.”
The man waited a moment before speaking, then said quickly, “You haven’t
then any mother?”
“I don’t know,” said the child. Before the man could say any more she
added, “I don’t think so. The others have one; but I haven’t any.” After
a silence, she said again, “I don’t believe I ever had one.”
The man stopped; he placed the pail on the ground, stooped over, and put
his hands on the child’s shoulders, trying to see her face in the
darkness.
“What is your name?” said he.
“Cosette.”
The man seemed to feel an electric shock. He looked at her again, then
he took his hands from her shoulders, raised the pail, and began to walk
again.
After a moment he asked, “Little one, where do you live?”
“At Montfermeil, if you know it?”
Again there was a pause, then he began again: “Who is it, then, who has
sent you at this hour to bring water from this wood?”
“It’s Madame Thénardier.”
“What does she do, your Madame Thénardier?”
“She takes care of me,” said the child. “She keeps the inn.”
“The inn?” said the man. “Well, I am going to sleep there to-night. Show
me the way.”
“We are going there now,” said the child.
The man was walking quite fast. Cosette followed him without any
trouble. She wasn’t tired any more. Every now and then she looked up at
this man with a wonderful peace and trust.
Several minutes passed thus. Then the man began again.
“Hasn’t Madame Thénardier any servant?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you the only one?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was another pause. Then Cosette raised her voice.
“That is, there are two little girls.”
“What little girls?”
“Ponine and Zelma.”
“Who are Ponine and Zelma?”
“They are Madame Thénardier’s little girls.”
“And what do they do, these little ones?”
“Oh,” said the child, “they have pretty dolls. They play and amuse
themselves.”
“And you?”
“I? I work.”
“All day long?”
The child raised her large eyes full of tears, that were hidden by the
night, and answered softly, “Yes, sir.”
Then she went on after a moment of silence, “Sometimes, when I have done
my work, and they are willing, I play a little.”
“What do you play?”
“As I can. They leave me alone. But I have not many toys. I have only a
little lead sword not larger than that.” The child showed her little
finger.
They were now nearing the village; Cosette led the stranger through the
street. They passed the baker’s, but Cosette never even thought of the
bread that she was to buy.
As they came near the inn, Cosette touched his arm timidly.
“What is it, little one?”
“Here we are, very near the house.”
An instant later they were at the door of the inn.
Cosette could not resist one last look at a big doll standing in the
window of the toy shop; then she knocked.
The door opened. Madame Thénardier stood there, a candle in her hand.
“Ah! it’s you! You have taken time enough! You must have been having a
fine time.”
“Madame,” said Cosette trembling, “here is a gentleman who has come to
stay.”
Madame Thénardier changed very quickly her cross looks for her pleasing
grin, and looked eagerly at the newcomer.
“This is the gentleman?” said she.
“Yes, Madame,” answered the man as he touched his cap.
Rich travelers are not so polite. This gesture, and the view of the
clothes and the bundle of the stranger, which the woman took in with a
quick glance, made her change her pleasant grin for her cross looks
again. Then she said dryly, “Come in, fellow.”
The “fellow” came in. The woman took another glance at him, looked
carefully at his coat, which was very shabby, and at his hat, which was
quite battered, then turned up her nose and winked her eyes at her
husband, who was sitting with the other men. Then he answered with a
movement of his finger on the lips which said as plainly as words, “Very
poor.”
Then the woman cried at once: “Ah, my good fellow, I am very sorry, but
I have no room for you.”
“Put me anywhere you like,” said the man, “in the barn or the stable. I
will pay as if I had a room.”
“Two francs?”[15]
“Yes, two francs.”
“Very well.”
Meanwhile, the man, having left his bundle and stick on a bench, had
taken his seat at a table, where Cosette had hurried to place a bottle
of wine and a glass. The peddler who had asked for the water had gone
himself to take it to the horse. Cosette had taken her place under the
kitchen table with her knitting.
The stranger, who had hardly touched the wine that he had poured out,
was looking at the child with strange attention.
Cosette was homely. Happy, she might have been pretty. Now, she was thin
and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but one would have guessed her
hardly six. The whole figure of this child--her manner, her way of
moving, the sound of her voice, the stammering speech, her look, her
silence, her least gesture--expressed one single idea, fear.
This fear was so great that on reaching the inn, wet as she was, Cosette
had not dared to dry herself at the fire, but had gone quietly to work.
The stranger did not take his eyes away from Cosette.
Suddenly Madame Thénardier cried, “Well now, where is the bread?”
Cosette, as she always did when her mistress raised her voice, came
quickly from under the table.
She had entirely forgotten the bread. She did, alas! what many children
do when frightened; she lied.
“Madame, the baker shop was closed.”
“I will find out to-morrow if this is so,” said the woman, “and if you
are lying I will make you pay for it. Meanwhile, give me the money.”
Cosette put her hand into her apron pocket. The money was not there.
“Look here! Do you hear me?” said her mistress.
Cosette turned her pocket out. There was nothing there. What could have
become of the money?
“Have you lost it, the money,” screamed the woman, “or do you want to
steal it from me?”
Meanwhile the stranger had fumbled in his vest pocket without being
noticed by any one. Cosette was crouching in the corner of the chimney.
“Pardon me, Madame,” said the man, “but just a moment ago I saw
something bright roll on the floor. Perhaps it was the money.”
At the same time, he stooped down and seemed to be searching the floor.
“Exactly so; here it is,” said he, rising. And he handed the woman a
piece of money.
“Yes, that is it,” said she.
It was not the money, for this coin was larger, but the woman thought it
all the better for that. She put it into her pocket, and contented
herself with a fierce look at the child, saying, “See that this does not
happen again!”
Cosette went back again into what the woman called her “kennel.”
“By the way, do you wish supper?” said she to the stranger.
He did not reply. He seemed to be thinking deeply.
“What sort of man is this?” she said between her teeth. “He is humbly
poor. He has not a cent for supper. I hope he will pay me for his
lodging.”
Just then a door opened and Eponine and Azelma came in.
They were really two pretty and charming little girls, one with
golden-brown curls, the other with long black braids falling down her
back. When they entered, their mother said in a scolding tone which
nevertheless was full of adoration: “Ah! here you are, you two!” Then
drawing them on her lap one after the other, smoothing their hair, tying
their ribbons, she at last gave each a little love pat, saying, “Aren’t
they well dressed now?”
They went and sat down near the corner of the chimney. They had a doll
which they turned and turned again on their knees with all sorts of
happy prattling. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes from her
knitting and looked at them sadly.
The doll of the two sisters was very faded, and quite old and broken,
but it did not seem any the less lovely to Cosette who, in all her life,
had never owned a doll, _a real doll_, to use a term that all children
will understand.
Suddenly the woman, who was passing back and forth in the room, noticed
that Cosette was distracted and that instead of working she was
interested in the little ones who were playing.
“Ah! I have caught you!” cried she. “That’s how you work!”
The stranger, without leaving his chair, turned to the woman. “Madame,”
said he, smiling almost timidly, “let the little one play a bit.”
She replied sharply: “She must work if she wants to eat. I don’t feed
her to do nothing.”
“What is she making then?” said the stranger, with the soft voice which
was such a contrast to his shabby clothes, and his big, broad shoulders.
“Stockings, if you please, stockings for my little girls, who have none
and who will soon be barefooted.”
The man looked at Cosette’s poor little red feet and went on: “When will
she finish this pair of stockings?”
“She will take three or four days more, the idle thing.”
“And how much will they be worth when they are done?”
The woman looked at him with scorn.
“At least thirty sous,” she said.
“Would you sell them for five francs?” said the man.
“Mercy on us!” cried out, with a hoarse laugh, one of the guests who was
listening. “Five francs? You bet your life! Five francs!”
Monsieur Thénardier thought it was time for him to say something.
“Yes, sir, if this is your fancy, you may have the stockings for five
francs. We never refuse travelers anything.”
“You must pay it right down,” said the woman, in her short and
commanding way.
“I buy this pair of stockings,” answered the man, as he drew five francs
from his pocket and laid them on the table, “and I pay for them.”
Then he turned to Cosette.
“Now your work belongs to me. Play, my little one.”
Cosette now laid down her knitting, but she had not left her place.
Cosette always moved as little as possible. She had taken from a box
behind her a few old rags and a little lead sword, and Cosette had made
herself a doll with the sword.
Meanwhile the guests at the table were singing their songs more and more
loudly. Cosette, under the table, was looking at the fire which was
shining in her fixed eyes; she had begun to rock the sort of doll she
had made, and as she rocked it back and forth she sang.
All at once Cosette stopped. She had turned and caught sight of the doll
that the children had left for the cat, and which was lying on the
floor near the table.
Then she let fall her little sword-doll which only half pleased her, and
turned her eyes slowly around the room. The woman was talking to her
husband and counting money, the girls were playing with the cat, the
travelers were eating and singing, and not one of them was looking at
her. She did not have a moment to lose. She crawled out from under the
table on her hands and knees, looked again to see that no one was
watching, then slipped quickly over to the doll, and seized it. An
instant later she was in her place, seated, quiet, and turned so that
the doll was in shadow. This happiness of playing with a doll was so
rare for her that she was wild with joy.
Not a soul had seen her except the stranger, who was now eating a simple
supper. Her joy lasted almost a quarter of an hour.
But in spite of all her care, Cosette did not see that one leg of the
doll was sticking out, and that the fire from the chimney lighted it
brightly. This red and shining leg coming out of the shadow suddenly
struck the eye of Azelma, who said to Eponine: “Look there, sister.”
The two little girls stopped, amazed. Cosette had dared take their
doll!
Eponine got up, and without leaving the cat, ran over to her mother, and
began to pull her skirt.
“Let me alone,” said the mother. “What do you want?”
“Mother,” said the child, “look there.” And she pointed her finger at
Cosette.
The woman cried in a voice hoarse with anger, “Cosette!”
Cosette shivered as if the earth had trembled under her. She turned
around.
“Cosette!” repeated the woman.
Cosette took the doll and laid it on the floor with a sort of reverence
mingled with despair. Then, without taking her eyes away from it, she
joined her hands and burst into tears.
In the meantime the stranger had risen. “What is the matter?” said he to
the woman.
“Don’t you see?” said she, pointing with her finger at the proof of the
crime outstretched at Cosette’s feet.
“Well, what of that?” replied the man.
“This little wretch has dared to lay her hands on the children’s doll!”
“All this noise about that?” said the man. “Why should she not play with
this doll?”
“She has touched it with her dirty hands!”
At this Cosette sobbed more than ever.
“Keep still, won’t you!” cried the woman.
The man went straight to the street door, opened it, and went out. In a
few minutes the door opened again and the man entered, carrying in his
arms the wonderful doll of which we have spoken. He laid it down before
Cosette, saying, “Take it, little one; this is for you.”
It seemed that during the hour he had been there, in the midst of his
musing he had noticed the toy shop, so brilliantly lighted that it could
be easily seen through the hall window.
Cosette raised her eyes. She had looked upon the man coming to her with
this doll as she would have looked upon the sun; she heard the unusual
words, “This is for you”; she looked at him; she looked at the doll;
then she backed slowly away, and went and hid herself on the floor under
the other table in the corner of the wall.
“Well, now, Cosette,” said the woman in a voice that she tried to make
soft, “why don’t you take your doll?”
Cosette had not the courage to creep out of her hole.
“My little Cosette,” said the woman, in a caressing tone, “take it. It
is yours.”
Cosette looked at the doll almost in terror. Her face was still wet
with tears, but her eyes began to glow, like the skies at early dawn,
with strange rays of joy. What she felt at that moment was a little like
what she would have felt if some one had suddenly said to her: “Little
one, you are queen of France.” It seemed to her that if she touched this
doll, thunder would come out of it.
At last she came near it, and murmured timidly as she looked at the
woman: “May I take it, then?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the woman; “it is yours. The gentleman has given it
to you.”
“Is it true, sir? Is it really true, that this lovely lady is mine?”
Suddenly she turned and seized the doll with delight. “I’ll call you
Catherine!” she cried.
That was a queer sight when the rags of little Cosette touched and
covered up the doll’s pink ribbons and silk.
“Madame,” said she, “may I put her on a chair?”
“Yes, my dear,” said the woman.
She placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor in
front of her, and kept perfectly quiet, without one word, in an attitude
of devotion.
“Play now, Cosette,” said the stranger.
“Yes, I am playing,” said the child.
The woman now hastened to send her children to bed, then she begged
permission to send Cosette, too.
Cosette went to bed, taking her Catherine with her.
THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A WOOD SLED
WASHINGTON GLADDEN
“Keeps coming right down, don’t it, Bill?”
Bill could not deny it, and did not wish to admit it; therefore, he said
nothing.