There was a very animated discussion going on, on the lower floor of the
house Number Ten "D" Street. House Number Ten was the middle one of a
row of more frames, which formed what was put down on the real estate
agent's list as a coloured neighbourhood. The inhabitants of the little
cottages were people so poor that they were constantly staggering on the
verge of the abyss, which they had been taught to dread and scorn, and
why, clearly. Life with them was no dream, but a hard, terrible reality,
which meant increasing struggle, and little wonder then that the
children of such parents should see the day before Christmas come
without hope of any holiday cheer.
Christmas; what did it mean to them? The pitiful little dark
rag-muffins, save that the happy, well-dressed people who passed the
shanties seemed further away from their life, save that mother toiled
later in the evening at her work, if there was work, and that father
drank more gin and prayed louder in consequence; save that, perhaps--and
there was always a donation--that there might be a little increase in
the amount of cold victuals that big sister brought home, and there
might be turkey-dressing in it.
But there was a warm discussion in Number Ten, and that is the principal
thing. The next in importance is that Miss Arabella Coe, reporter, who
had been down that way looking mainly for a Christmas story, heard the
sound of voices raised in debate, and paused to listen. It was not a
very polite thing for Miss Coe to do, but then Miss Coe was a reporter
and reporters are not scrupulous about being polite when there is
anything to hear. Besides, the pitch to which the lusty young voices
within were raised argued that the owners did not care if the outside
world shared in the conversation. So Arabella listened, and after a
while she passed through the gate and peeped into the room between the
broken slats of a shutter.
It was a mean little place, quite what might be expected from its
exterior. A cook stove sat in the middle of the floor with a smoky fire
in it, and about it were clustered four or five black children ranging
from a toddler of two to a boy of ten. They all showed differing degrees
of dirt and raggedness, but all were far and beyond the point of
respectability.
One of the group, the older boy, sat upon the bed and was holding forth
to his brothers and sisters not without many murmurs of doubt and
disbelief.
"No," he was saying, "I tell you dey hain't no such thing as a Santy
Claus. Dat's somep'n dat yo' folks jes' git up to make you be good long
'bout Christmas time. I know."
"But, Tom, you know what mammy said," said a dreamy-eyed little chap,
who sat on a broken stool with his chin on his hands.
"Aw, mammy," said the orator, "she's jes' a-stuffin' you. She don'
believe in no Santy Claus hersel', less'n why'nt he bring huh de dress
she prayed fu' last Christmas." He was very wise, this old man of ten
years, and he had sold papers on the avenue where many things are
learned, both good and bad.
"But what you got to say about pappy?" pursued the believer. "He say
dey's a Santy Claus, and dat he comes down de chimbly; and----"
"Whut's de mattah wid you; look at dat stove pipe; how you s'pose
anybody go'n' to git in hyeah th'oo de chimbly?"
They all looked up at the narrow, rusty stove pipe and the sigh of
hopelessness brought the tears to Arabella's eyes. The children seemed
utterly nonplussed, and Tom was swelling at his triumph. "How's any
Santy Claus go'n' to come down th'oo that, I want to know," he repeated.
But the faith of childhood is stronger than reason. Tom's little sister
piped up, "I don't know how, but he comes th'roo' that away anyhow. He
brung Mamie Davith a doll and it had thoot on it out o' the chimbly."
It was now Tom's turn to be stumped, but he wouldn't let it be known. He
only said, "Aw," contemptuously and coughed for more crushing arguments.
"I knows dey's a Santy Claus," said dreamy-eyed Sam.
"Ef dey is why'n't he never come here?" retorted Tom.
"I jes' been thinkin' maybe ouah house is so little he miss it in de
night; dey says he's a ol' man an' I 'low his sight ain' good."
Tom was stricken into silence for a moment by this entirely new view of
the matter, and then finding no answer to it, he said "Aw" again and
looked superior, but warningly so.
"Maybe Thanty's white an' don' go to see col'red people," said the
little girl.
"But I do know coloured people's houses he's been at," contended Sam.
"Aw, dem col'red folks dat's got the money, dem's de only ones dat Santy
Claus fin's, you bet."
Arabella at the window shuddered at the tone of the sceptic; it reminded
her so much of the world she knew, and it was hard to believe that her
friends who prided themselves on their unbelief could have anything in
common with a little coloured newsboy down on "D" Street.
"Tell you what," said Sam again, "let's try an' see if dey is a Santy.
We'll put a light in the winder, so if he's ol' he can see us anyhow,
an' we'll pray right hard fu' him to come."
"Aw," said Tom.
"Ith been good all thish month," chirped the little girl.
The other children joined with enthusiasm in Sam's plan, though Tom sat
upon the bed and looked scornfully on.
Arabella escaped from the window just as Sam brought the smoky lamp and
set it on the sill, but she still stood outside the palings of the fence
and looked in. She saw four little forms get down on their knees and she
crept up near again to hear.
Following Sam's lead they began, "Oh, Santy," but Tom's voice broke in,
"Don't you know the Lord don't 'low you to pray to nobody but Him?"
Sam paused, puzzled for a minute, then he led on: "Please 'scuse, good
Lord, we started wrong, but won't you please, sir, send Santy Clause
around. Amen." And they got up from their knees satisfied.
"Aw," said Tom as Arabella was turning wet-eyed away.
It was a good thing the reporter left as soon as she did, for in a few
minutes a big woman pushed in at the gate and entered the house.
"Mammy, mammy," shrieked the children.
"Lawsy, me," said Martha, laughing, "who evah did see sich children?
Bless dey hearts, an' dey done sot dey lamp in de winder, too, so's dey
po' ol' mammy kin see to git in."
As she spoke she was taking the lamp away to set it on the table where
she had placed her basket, but the cry of the children stopped her. "Oh,
no, mammy, don't take it, don't take it, dat's to light Santy Claus in."
She paused a minute bewildered and then the light broke over her face.
She smiled and then a rush of tears quenched the smile. She gathered the
children into her arms and said, "I's feared, honey, ol' man Santy ain'
gwine fu' you to-night."
"Wah'd I tell you?" sneered Tom.
"You hush yo' mouf," said his mother, and she left the lamp where it
was.
As Arabella Coe wended her way home that night her brain was busy with
many thoughts. "I've got my story at last," she told herself, "and I'll
go on up and write it." But she did not go up to write it. She came to
the parting of the ways. One led home, the other to the newspaper office
where she worked. She laughed nervously, and took the former way. Once
in her room she went through her small store of savings. There was very
little there, then she looked down ruefully at her worn boots. She did
need a new pair. Then, holding her money in her hand, she sat down to
think.
"It's really a shame," she said to herself, "those children will have no
Christmas at all, and they'll never believe in Santa Claus again. They
will lose their faith forever and from this it will go to other things."
She sat there dreaming for a long while and the vision of a very
different childhood came before her eyes.
"Dear old place," she murmured softly, "I believed in Santa Claus until
I was thirteen, and that oldest boy is scarcely ten." Suddenly she
sprung to her feet. "Hooray," she cried, "I'll be defender of the
faith," and she went out into the lighted streets again.
The shopkeepers looked queerly at Arabella that night as she bought as
if she were the mother of a large and growing family, and she appeared
too young for that. Finally, there was a dress for mother.
She carried them down on "D" Street and placed them stealthily at the
door of Number Ten. She put a note among the things, which read: "I am
getting old and didn't see your house last year, also I am getting fat
and couldn't get down that little stove pipe of yours this year. You
must excuse me. Santa Claus." Then looking wilfully at her shoes, but
nevertheless with a glow on her face, she went up to the office to write
her story.
There were joyous times at Number Ten the next day. Mother was really
surprised, and the children saw it.
"Wha'd I tell you," said dreamy Sam.
Tom said nothing then, but when he went down to the avenue to sell the
morning papers, all resplendent in a new muffler, he strode up to a boy
and remarked belligerently, "Say, if you says de ain't no Santy Claus
again, I'll punch yo' head."
_Eight_