Nicholas, and it ever helped and comforted his people to think that,
though they could no longer see him he would love and protect them
still.
Young maidens in need of help remembered the story of the golden bars
and felt sure the good saint would not let them want. Sailors tossing
on the stormy waves thought of that storm which had sunk to rest at
the prayer of Saint Nicholas. Poor prisoners with no one to take their
part were comforted by the thought of those other prisoners whom he
had saved. And little children perhaps have remembered him most of
all, for when the happy Christmas time draws near, who is so much in
their thoughts as Saint Nicholas, or Santa Claus, as they call him?
Perhaps they are a little inclined to think of him as some good
magician who comes to fill their stockings with gifts, but they should
never forget that he was the kind bishop who, in olden days, loved to
make the little ones happy. There are some who think that even now he
watches over and protects little children, and for that reason he is
called their patron saint.
CHRISTMAS BELLS
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
A NIGHT WITH SANTA CLAUS
Anna R. Annan
Not very long ago, and not far from here, lived a little boy named
Bobby Morgan. Now I must tell at once how Bobby looked, else how will
you know him if you meet him in the street? Blue-eyed was Rob, and
fair-haired, and pug-nosed--just the sweetest trifle, his mother said.
Well, the day before Christmas, Rob thought it would be a fine thing
to run down Main Street and see what was going on. After dinner his
mother put on his fur cap and bright scarf, and filled his pockets
with crackers and cookies. She told him to be very polite to Santa
Claus if he should happen to meet him.
Off he trotted, merry as a cricket, with now a skip and now a slide.
At every corner he held his breath, half expecting to run into Santa
himself. Nothing of the sort happened, however, and he soon found
himself before the gay windows of a toy shop.
There he saw a spring hobby-horse, as large as a Shetland pony, all
saddled and bridled, too,--lacking nothing but a rider. Rob pressed
his nose against the glass, and tried to imagine the feelings of a boy
in that saddle. He must have stood there all day, had not a ragged
little fellow pulled his coat. "Wouldn't you jist like that popgun?"
he piped.
"Catch me looking at popguns!" said Rob shortly. But when he saw how
tattered the boy's jacket was he said more softly, "P'r'raps you'd
like a cooky."
"Try me wunst!" said the shrill little voice.
There was a queer lump in Rob's throat as he emptied one pocket of its
cakes and thrust them into the dirty, eager hands. Then he marched
down the street without so much as glancing at that glorious steed
again.
Brighter and brighter grew the windows, more and more full of toys. At
last our boy stood, with open eyes and mouth, before a great store
lighted from top to bottom, for it was growing dark. Rob came near
taking off his cap and saying, "How do you do, sir?"
To whom, you ask. Why, to an image of Santa Claus, the size of life,
holding a Christmas tree filled with wonderful fruit.
Soon a happy thought struck Rob. "Surely this must be Santa Claus's
own store, where he comes to fill his basket with toys! What if I were
to hide there and wait for him?"
As I said, he was a brave little chap, and he walked straight into the
store with the stream of big people. Everybody was busy. No one had
time to look at our mite of a Rob. He tried in vain to find a quiet
corner, till he caught sight of some winding stairs that led up to the
next story. He crept up, scarcely daring to breathe.
What a fairyland! Toys everywhere! Oceans of toys! Nothing but toys,
excepting one happy little boy. Think of fifty great rocking-horses in
a pile; of whole flocks of woolly sheep and curly dogs with the real
bark in them; stacks of drums; regiments of soldiers armed to the
teeth; companies of firemen drawing their hose carts; no end of
wheelbarrows and velocipedes!
Rob screwed his knuckles into his eyes, as a gentle hint that they had
better not play him any tricks, and then stared with might and main.
Suddenly Rob thought he heard a footstep on the stairs. Fearing to be
caught, he hid behind a baby-wagon. No one came, however, and as he
felt rather hungry, he took out the remaining cakes and had a fine
supper.
Why didn't Santa Claus come?
Rob was really getting sleepy. He stretched out his tired legs, and,
turning one of the woolly sheep on its side, pillowed his curly head
upon it. It was so nice to lie there, looking up at the ceiling hung
with toys, and with the faint hum of voices in his ears. The blue eyes
grew more and more heavy. Rob was fast asleep.
Midnight! The bells rang loud and clear, as if they had great news to
tell the world. What noise is that besides the bells? And look, oh,
look! Who is that striding up the room with a great basket on his
back? He has stolen his coat from a polar bear, and his cap, too, I
declare! His boots are of red leather and reach to his knees. His coat
and cap are trimmed with wreaths of holly, bright with scarlet
berries.
Good sir, let us see your face--why! that is the best part of him,--so
round, and so ruddy, such twinkling eyes, and such a merry look about
those dimples! But see his long white beard; can he be old?
Oh, very, very old. Over nineteen hundred years. Is that not a long
life, little ones? But he has a young heart, this dear old man, and a
kind one. Can you guess his name? "Hurrah for Santa Claus!" Right--the
very one.
He put his basket down near Robby, and with his back turned to him
shook the snow from his fur coat. Some of the flakes fell on Rob's
face and roused him from his sleep. Opening his eyes, he saw the white
figure, but did not stir nor cry out, lest the vision should vanish.
But bless his big heart! He had no idea of vanishing till his night's
work was done. He took a large book from his pocket, opened to the
first page, and looked at it very closely.
"Tommy Turner," was written at the top, and just below was a little
map--yes, there was Tommy's heart mapped out like a country. Part of
the land was marked good, part of it bad. Here and there were little
flags to point out places where battles had been fought during the
year. Some of them were black and some white; wherever a good feeling
had won the fight there was a white one.
"Tommy Turner," said Santa Claus aloud, "six white flags, three black
ones. That leaves only three presents for Tommy; but we must see what
can be done for him."
So he bustled among the toys, and soon had a ball, a horse, and a
Noah's ark tied up in a parcel, which he tossed into the basket.
Name after name was read off, some of them belonging to Rob's
playmates, and you may be sure that the little boy listened with his
heart in his mouth.
"Robby Morgan!" said Santa Claus.
In his excitement that small lad nearly upset the cart, but Santa did
not notice it.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven"--Rob's breath came very
short--"whites!"
He almost clapped his hands.
"One, two, three, blacks! Now I wonder what that little chap would
like--here's a drum, a box of tools, a knife, a menagerie. If he
hadn't run away from school that day and then told a lie about it I'd
give him a rocking-horse."
Rob groaned in anguish of spirit.
"But, bless him! he's a fine little fellow, and perhaps he will do
better next year if I give him the horse."
That was too much for our boy. With a "Hurrah!" he jumped up and
turned a somersault right at Santa Claus's feet.
"Stars and stripes!" cried Santa. "What's this?"
"Come along, I'll show you the one!" cried Rob.
Santa Claus allowed himself to be led off to the pile of horses. You
may believe that Rob's sharp eyes soon picked out the one with the
longest tail and the thickest mane.
"Well, he beats all the boys that ever I saw! What shall I do with the
little spy?"
"Oh, dear Santa Claus," cried Robby, hugging the red boots, "do just
take me along with you. I'll stick tight when you slide down the
chimney."
"Yes, I guess you will stick tight--in the chimney, my little man."
"I mean to your back," half sobbed Rob.
Santa Claus can't bear to see little folks in trouble, so he took the
boy into his arms, and asked where he wanted to go.
"To Tommy Turner's, and, oh, you know, that boy in the awful old
jacket that likes popguns," was the breathless reply.
Of course he knew him, for he knows every boy and girl in Christendom;
so a popgun was added to the medley of toys. Santa Claus then strapped
Rob and the basket on his back. He next crept through an open window
to a ladder he had placed there, down which he ran as nimbly as a
squirrel. The reindeer before the sledge were in a hurry to be off,
and tinkled their silver bells right merrily. An instant more and they
were snugly tucked up in the white robes; an instant more and they
were flying like the wind over the snow.
Ah! Tommy's home. Santa Claus sprang out, placed the light ladder
against the house, and before Rob could wink a good fair wink they
were on the roof, making for the chimney. Whether it swallowed him, or
he swallowed it, is still a puzzle to Robby.
Tommy lay sleeping in his little bed and dreaming of a merry
Christmas. His rosy mouth was puckered into something between a
whistle and a smile. Rob longed to give him a friendly punch, but
Santa Claus shook his head. They filled his stocking and hurried away,
for empty little stockings the world over were waiting for that
generous hand.
On they sped again, never stopping until they came to a wretched
little hovel. A black pipe instead of a chimney was sticking through
the roof.
Rob thought, "Now I guess he'll have to give it up." But no, he softly
pushed the door open and stepped in.
On a ragged cot lay the urchin to whom Robby had given the cookies.
One of them, half eaten, was still clutched in his hand. Santa Claus
gently opened the other little fist and put the popgun into it.
"Give him my drum," whispered Rob, and Santa Claus, without a word,
placed it near the rumpled head.
How swiftly they flew under the bright stars! How sweetly rang the
bells!
When Santa Claus reined up at Robby's door he found his little comrade
fast asleep. He laid him tenderly in his crib, and drew off a
stocking, which he filled with the smaller toys. The rocking-horse he
placed close to the crib, that Rob might mount him on Christmas
morning.
A kiss, and he was gone.
P.S.--Rob's mother says it was all a dream, but he declares that "It's
true as Fourth of July!" I prefer to take his word for it.
A CHILD'S THOUGHTS ABOUT SANTA CLAUS
What do you think my grandmother said,
Telling Christmas stories to me
To-night, when I went and coaxed and coaxed
With my head and arms upon her knee?
She thinks--she really told me so--
That good Mr. Santa Claus, long ago,
Was as old and grey as he is to-day,
Going around with his loaded sleigh.
She thinks he's driven through frost and snow
For a hundred, yes, a thousand times or so,
With jingling bells and a bag of toys--
Ho, ho! for good girls and boys,
With a carol gay,
Crying, "Clear the way,
For a rollicking, merry Christmas day!"
Grandmother knows almost everything--
All that I ask her she can tell;
Rivers and towns in geography,
And the hardest words she can always spell.
But the wisest ones, sometimes, they say,
Mistake--and even grandmother may.
If Santa Claus never had been a boy
How would he always know so well
What all the boys are longing for
On Christmas day? Can grandmother tell?
Why does he take the shiny rings,
The baby houses, the dolls with curls,
The little lockets and other such things
Never to boys, but always to girls?
Why does he take the skates and all
The bats and balls, and arrows and bows,
And trumpets and drums, and guns--hurrah!
To the boys? I wonder if grandmother knows?
But there's one thing that doesn't seem right--
If Santa Claus was a boy at play
And hung up his stocking on Christmas night,
Who filled it for him on Christmas day?
Sydney Dayre.
CHARITY IN A COTTAGE
Jean Ingelow
The charity of the rich is much to be commended; but how beautiful is
the charity of the poor!
Call to mind the coldest day you ever experienced. Think of the bitter
wind and driving snow; think how you shook and shivered--how the sharp
white particles were driven up against your face--how, within doors,
the carpets were lifted like billows along the floors, the wind howled
and moaned in the chimneys, windows cracked, doors rattled, and every
now and then heavy lumps of snow came thundering down with a dull
weight from the roof.
Now hear my story.
In one of the broad, open plains of Lincolnshire, there is a long
reedy sheet of water, a favourite resort of wild ducks. At its
northern extremity stand two mud cottages, old, and out of repair.
One bitter, bitter night, when the snow lay three feet deep on the
ground, and a cutting east wind was driving it about, and whistling in
the dry frozen reeds by the water's edge, and swinging the bare willow
trees till their branches swept the ice, an old woman sat spinning in
one of these cottages before a moderately cheerful fire. Her kettle
was singing on the coals, she had a reed candle, or home-made
rushlight, on her table, but the full moon shone in, and was the
brighter light of the two. These two cottages were far from any road,
or any other habitation; the old woman was, therefore, surprised, in
an old northern song, by a sudden knock at the door.
It was loud and impatient, not like the knock of her neighbours in the
other cottage; but the door was bolted, and the old woman rose, and
shuffling to the window, looked out and saw a shivering figure,
apparently that of a youth.
"Trampers!" said the old woman, sententiously, "tramping folks be not
wanted here." So saying she went back to the fire without deigning to
answer the door.
The youth upon this tried the door, and called to her to beg
admittance. She heard him rap the snow from his shoes against her
lintel, and again knock as if he thought she was deaf, and he should
surely gain admittance if he could make her hear.
The old woman, surprised at his audacity, went to the casement and
with all the pride of possession, opened it and inquired his business.
"Good woman," the stranger began, "I only want a seat at your fire."
"Nay," said the old woman, giving effect to her words by her uncouth
dialect, "thou'll get no shelter here; I've nought to give to
beggars--a dirty, wet critter," she continued wrathfully, slamming to
the window. "It's a wonder where he found any water, too, seeing it
freeze so hard a body can get none for the kettle, saving what's
broken up with a hatchet."
The stranger turned very hastily from her door and waded through the
deep snow towards the other cottage. The bitter wind helped to drive
him towards it. It looked no less poor than the first; and when he had
tried the door and found it bolted and fast, his heart sank within
him. His hand was so numbed with cold that he had made scarcely any
noise; he tried again.
A rush candle was burning within and a matronly looking woman sat
before the fire. She held an infant in her arms and had dropped
asleep; but his third knock aroused her, and wrapping her apron round
the child, she opened the door a very little way, and demanded what he
wanted.
"Good woman," the youth began, "I have had the misfortune to fall in
the water this bitter night, and I am so numbed I can scarcely walk."
The woman gave him a sudden earnest look and then sighed.
"Come in," she said; "thou art so nigh the size of my Jem, I thought
at first it was him come home from sea."
The youth stepped across the threshold, trembling with cold and wet;
and no wonder, for his clothes were completely encased in wet mud,
and the water dripped from them with every step he took on the sanded
floor.
"Thou art in a sorry plight," said the woman, "and it be two miles to
the nighest house; come and kneel down afore the fire; thy teeth
chatter so pitifully I can scarce bear to hear them."
She looked at him more attentively and saw that he was a mere boy, not
more than sixteen years of age. Her motherly heart was touched for
him. "Art hungry?" she asked, turning to the table. "Thou art wet to
the skin. What hast been doing?"
"Shooting wild ducks," said the boy.
"Oh," said the hostess, "thou art one of the keeper's boys, then, I
reckon?"
He followed the direction of her eyes, and saw two portions of bread
set upon the table, with a small piece of bacon on each.
"My master be very late," she observed, for charity did not make her
use elegant language, and by her master she meant her husband; "but
thou art welcome to my bit and sup, for I was waiting for him. Maybe
it will put a little warmth in thee to eat and drink." So saying, she
placed before him her own share of the supper.
"Thank you," said the boy; "but I am so wet I am making quite a pool
before your fire with the drippings from my clothes."
"Aye, they are wet indeed," said the woman, and rising again she went
to an old box, in which she began to search, and presently came to the
fire with a perfectly clean check shirt in her hand and a tolerably
good suit of clothes.
"There," said she, showing them with no small pride, "these be my
master's Sunday clothes, and if thou wilt be very careful of them I'll
let thee wear them till thine be dry." She then explained that she was
going to put her "bairn" to bed, and proceeded up a ladder into the
room above, leaving the boy to array himself in these respectable
garments.
When she had come down her guest had dressed himself in the labourer's
clothes; he had had time to warm himself, and he was eating and
drinking with hungry relish. He had thrown his muddy clothes in a heap
upon the floor. As she looked at him she said:
"Ah, lad, lad, I doubt that head been under water: thy poor mother
would have been sorely frightened if she could have seen thee a while
ago."
"Yes," said the boy; and in imagination the cottage dame saw this same
mother, a careworn, hard-working creature like herself; while the
youthful guest saw in imagination a beautiful and courtly lady; and
both saw the same love, the same anxiety, the same terror, at sight of
a lonely boy struggling in the moonlight through breaking ice, with no
one to help him, catching at the frozen reeds, and then creeping up,
shivering and benumbed, to a cottage door.
But, even as she stooped, the woman forgot her imagination, for she
had taken a waistcoat into her hands, such as had never passed between
them before; a gold pencil-case dropped from the pocket; and on the
floor amidst a heap of mud that covered the outer garments, lay a
white shirt sleeve, so white, indeed, and so fine, that she thought it
could hardly be worn by a squire!
She glanced from the clothes to the owner. He had thrown down his
cap, and his fair curly hair and broad forehead convinced her that he
was of gentle birth; but while she hesitated to sit down, he placed a
chair for her, and said with boyish frankness:
"I say, what a lonely place this is! If you had not let me in, the
water would have frozen me before I reached home. Catch me
duck-shooting again by myself!"
"It's very cold sport that, sir," said the woman.
The young gentleman assented most readily, and asked if he might stir
the fire.
"And welcome, sir," said the woman.
She felt a curiosity to know who he was, and he partly satisfied her
by remarking that he was staying at Deen Hall, a house about five
miles off, adding that in the morning he had broken a hole in the ice
very near the decoy, but it iced over so fast, that in the dusk he had
missed it, and fallen in, for it would not bear him. He had made some
landmarks, and taken every proper precaution, but he supposed the
sport had excited him so much that in the moonlight he had passed them
by.
He then told her of his attempt to get shelter in the other cottage.
"Sir," said the woman, "if you had said you were a gentleman----"
The boy laughed. "I don't think I knew it, my good woman," he replied,
"my senses were so benumbed; for I was some time struggling at the
water's edge among the broken ice, and then I believe I was nearly an
hour creeping up to your cottage door. I remember it all rather
indistinctly, but as soon as I had felt the fire and eaten something I
was a different creature."
As they still talked, the husband came in; and while he was eating his
supper it was agreed that he should walk to Deen Hall, and let its
inmates know of the gentleman's safety. When he was gone the woman
made up the fire with all the coal that remained to the poor
household, and crept up to bed, leaving her guest to lie down and rest
before it.
In the grey dawn the labourer returned, with a servant leading a
horse, and bringing a fresh suit of clothes.
The young man took his leave with many thanks, slipping three
half-crowns into the woman's hand, probably all the money he had about
him. And I must not forget to mention that he kissed the baby; for
when she tells the story, the mother always adverts to that
circumstance with great pride, adding that her child, being as "clean
as wax, was quite fit to be kissed by anybody."
"Misses," said her husband, as they stood in the doorway looking after
their guest, "who dost think that be?"
"I don't know," answered the misses.
"Then I'll just tell thee; that be young Lord W----; so thou mayest be
a proud woman; thou sits and talks with lords, and then asks them to
supper--ha, ha!"
So saying, her master shouldered his spade and went his way, leaving
her clinking the three half-crowns in her hand, and considering what
she should do with them.
Her neighbour from the other cottage presently stepped in, and when
she heard the tale and saw the money her heart was ready to break with
envy and jealousy.
"Oh, to think that good luck should have come to her door, and she
should have been so foolish as to turn it away! Seven shillings and
sixpence for a morsel of food and a night's shelter--why it was nearly
a week's wages!"
So there, as they both supposed, the matter ended, and the next week
the frost was sharper than ever. Sheep were frozen in the fenny field
and poultry on their perches, but the good woman had walked to the
nearest town and bought a blanket. It was a welcome addition to their
bed covering, and it was many a long year since they had been so
comfortable.
But it chanced one day at noon that, looking out at her casement she
spied three young gentlemen skating along the ice towards her cottage.
They sprang on to the bank, took off their skates, and made for her
door. The young nobleman, for he was one of the three, informed her
that he had had such a severe cold he could not come to see her
before. "He spoke as free and pleasantly," she said, in telling the
story, "as if I had been a lady, and no less, and then he brought a
parcel out of his pocket, saying, 'I have been over to B---- and
brought you a book for a keepsake, and I hope you will accept it;' and
then they all talked as pretty as could be for a matter of ten
minutes, and went away. So I waited till my master came home, and we
opened the parcel, and there was a fine Bible inside, all over gold
and red morocco, and my name and his name written inside; and, bless
him, a ten-pound note doubled down over the names. I'm sure, when I
thought he was a poor forlorn creature, he was kindly welcome. So my
master laid out part of the money in tools, and we rented a garden;
and he goes over on market days to sell what we grow, so now, thank
God, we want for nothing."
This is how she generally concludes the little history, never failing
to add that the young lord kissed her baby.
But I have not yet told you what I thought the best part of the story.
When this poor Christian woman was asked what had induced her to take
in a perfect stranger and trust him with the best clothing her home
afforded, she answered simply, "Well, I saw him shivering and shaking,
so I thought, thou shalt come in here, for the sake of Him that had
not where to lay His head."
The old woman in the other cottage may open her door every night of
her future life to some forlorn beggar, but it is all but certain that
she will never open it to a nobleman in disguise!
Let us do good, not to receive more good in return, but as evidence of
gratitude for what has been already bestowed. In a few words, let it
be "all for love and nothing for reward."
"The most excellent gift is charity."
THE WAITS