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THE NEW-YEAR’S BARGAIN.
[Illustration: “There was only one body there,--an old, old man with
snow-white hair; but there was a long row of clay figures in front of
him.”]
THE NEW-YEAR’S BARGAIN.
by
SUSAN COOLIDGE.
With Illustrations by Addie Ledyard.
[Illustration]
Boston:
Roberts Brothers.
1884.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
Roberts Brothers,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
A little golden head close to my knee,
Sweet eyes of tender, gentianella blue
Fixed upon mine, a little coaxing voice,--
Only we two.
“Tell it again!” Insatiate demand!
And like a toiling spider where I sat,
I wove and spun the many-colored webs
Of this and that.
Of Dotty Pringle sweeping out her hall;
Of Greedy Bear; of Santa Claus the good;
And how the little children met the Months
Within the wood.
“Tell it again!” and though the sand-man came,
Dropping his drowsy grains in each blue eye,
“Tell it again! oh, just once more!” was still
The sleepy cry.
My spring-time violet! early snatched away
To fairer gardens all unknown to me,--
Gardens of whose invisible, guarded gates
I have no key,--
I weave my fancies now for other ears,--
Thy sister-blossom’s, who beside me sits,
Rosy, imperative, and quick to mark
My lagging wits.
But still the stories bear thy name, are thine,
Part of the sunshine of thy brief, sweet day,
Though in _her_ little warm and living hands
This book I lay.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE BARGAIN WITH THE MONTHS 5
II. THE BEAR STORY 19
III. LITTLE TOT 32
IV. “MARIA” 44
V. MAY’S GARDEN 62
VI. THE LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS 80
VII. THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES 98
VIII. THE STORY OF A LITTLE SPARK 114
IX. THE DESERT ISLAND 129
X. NIPPIE NUTCRACKER 157
XI. “CHUSEY” 178
XII. HOW THE CAT KEPT CHRISTMAS 199
CONCLUSION.--WHAT WAS ON THE TREE 224
[Illustration: “This afternoon, in spite of the cold, they are out
gathering wood.”]
CHAPTER I.
THE BARGAIN WITH THE MONTHS.
It is a cold, wintry day. The Old Year is going to die to-night. All
the winds have come to his funeral, and, while waiting, are sky-larking
about the country. It is a very improper thing for mourners to do. Here
they are in the Black Forest, going on like a parcel of school-boys,
waltzing with leaves, singing in tree-tops, whooping, whistling, making
all sorts of odd noises. If the Old Year hears them, he must think he
has a very queer sort of “procession.”
Max and Thekla are used to the winds, and not afraid of them. They are
not afraid of the Forest either, though the country people avoid it,
and tell wonderful stories about things seen and heard there. The hut
in which they and their Grandfather live is in the heart of the wood.
No other house stands within miles of them. In summer-time the wild
lilies grow close to the door-step, and the fawns creep shyly out to
drink at the spring near by; and sometimes, when the wind blows hard
on winter nights, strange barkings can be heard in the distance, and
they know that the wolves are out. They do not tremble, though they are
but children. Max is eleven, very stout and strong for his age, and
able to chop and mark the wood for Grandfather, who for many years has
been Woodman. Thekla, who is nine, keeps the house in order, cooks,
mends clothes, and knits stockings like a little house-fairy. All
their lives they have lived here, and the lonely place is dear to them.
The squirrels in the wood are not more free and fearless than these
children, and they are so busy and healthy that the days fly fast.
This afternoon, in spite of the cold, they are out gathering wood,
of which the Ranger allows them all they need to use. There is a
pile at home already, almost as high as the cottage roof: but Thekla
is resolved that her fire shall always be bright when Max and the
Grandfather come in from out-doors, blue and cold; and she isn’t
satisfied yet. For hours they have been at work, and have tied ever so
many fagots. The merry winds have been helping in the task, tearing
boughs and twigs off overhead, and throwing them down upon the path, so
that the bundles have collected rapidly, and wise little Thekla says,
“This has been a good day.”
“I’m getting tired, though,” she goes on. “Let’s rest awhile, and take
a walk. We never came so far as this before, did we? I want to go up
that pretty path, and see where it comes out. Don’t you think we have
got wood enough, Max?”
Yes, Max thought they had. So hand in hand the children went along the
path. Every thing was new and strange. Into this part of the forest
they had never wandered before. The trees were thick. Bushes grew
below. Only the little foot-track broke the way. Thekla crept closer to
her brother as the walk grew wilder. A great forest is an awful sort of
place; most of all in winter, when the birds and squirrels are hushed
and the trees can be heard talking to one another. Sweet, curious
smells come from you know not where. The wind roars, and the boughs
creak back sharply as if the giants and dwarfs were quarreling. All is
strange and wonderful.
And now the bushes grow thinner. They were coming upon a little open
space fringed about with trees, and suddenly Thekla exclaimed, in an
astonished voice,--
“Why, Max! Look! There are people in there. I can see them through the
bushes!”
“People?” cried Max. “Stealing wood, no doubt. Quiet, Thekla! don’t
make any noise: we’ll creep up, and catch them at it. They shall see
what the Ranger says to such doings.”
So, like mice, they crept forward, and peeped through the screen of
boughs. But there was no sound of chopping, and nobody was meddling
with the wood. In fact, there was only one body visible,--an old, old
man with snow-white hair. But there was a long row of clay figures
in front of him, men and women as large as life; and they looked so
natural, it was no wonder Thekla had made the mistake. Some were
half-finished; some but just begun: one only seemed perfect,--the
figure of a beautiful youth, with a crescent moon on his cap; and, even
as they looked, the old man took a pinch of something, molded it with
his hand, and stuck it on the side of the head, from which it hung like
a graceful plume. Then he seemed satisfied, and began to work on one
of the others.
“How lovely! but did you ever see any thing so queer?” whispered
Thekla. “If we only dared go nearer!”
“Dared!” cried Max: “this is _our_ wood, and we have a right to go
where we like in it. Come on!” and he took Thekla’s hand, and drew her
boldly forward.
There were two great jars standing there, which seemed to hold the
stuff out of which the figures were made. The children peeped in.
One was full of a marvelous kind of water, sparkling and golden
and bubbling like wine. The other held sand, or what seemed like
sand,--fine, glittering particles,--most beautiful to see. It was
wonderful to watch the old man work. His lean fingers would twist and
mold the sand and water for a second, and there would be a lovely head,
an arm, or a garland of flowers. The forms grew like magic; and the
children were so charmed with watching, that they forgot either to
speak or to go away.
At last, the old man turned, and saw them. He didn’t smile, nor did he
seem angry. He only stood, and fixed his eyes upon them in silence.
Thekla began to tremble, but Max bravely addressed him:--
“What curious work this is you are doing!” he said. “Is it very hard?”
“I’m used to it,” was the brief reply.
“You have been doing it a long time perhaps,” said Thekla, shyly.
“Seven thousand years or so,” answered the old man.
“Why, what a story!” cried Max. “That’s impossible, you know: the world
wasn’t made as long ago as that.”
“Oh, yes! it was. You were not there at the time, and I was. I got
there about as soon as _it_ did, or a little before.”
“He’s certainly crazy,” whispered Thekla; “let’s run away.”
“Run away,” replied her brother, “from that old fellow? Why, he’s ten
times as old as Grandfather, and I’ll bet he’s not one quarter so
strong. There’s something very queer about it all, though, and I’m
bound to find it out. Would you dislike to tell us your name, sir?” he
asked politely.
“Oh, no!” answered the old man: “I haven’t the least objection. Most
people, however, don’t remember to inquire till they’re about seeing
the last of me. They mistake me for my brother, Eternity, I suppose. My
name is Old Time. That’s my scythe hanging on the tree. Don’t you see
it?”
There it was sure enough, only they had not noticed it before. “And
what are these beautiful figures?” asked little Thekla.
“Those are the Months,” replied Time. “I come here every year to renew
them. They get quite worn out, and need building up. It’s a nice dry
place, and they can stand till they are wanted. This one is January.
He’s finished; but I’m a little behind hand with the others.” As he
spoke, he turned again to his task.
“And what is this stuff you are making them of?” inquired Max, dipping
his finger in the sparkling liquid.
The old man fixed upon him a fiery eye. “Don’t meddle with that, boy!”
said he, in a severe tone: “nobody can touch those drops safely but
myself. That is water from the stream of Time.”
“And these?” asked Thekla, pointing to the second jar.
“Those are what you know as ‘moments,’” was the reply. “They are really
the dust of dead years, though somebody or other has given them the
name of ‘sands of Time.’ Pretty things they are, but they won’t keep.
Everybody in the world can have one at a time, but nobody can lay up a
stock for next day. I’m the only person to whom that is allowed.”
Just then a naughty idea entered into Max’s head. “We’ll see whether
that is true,” he muttered; and, watching till the old man’s back was
turned, he plunged his fingers into the jar, stole a double handful of
the sand, and hid it in the tin can which was slung to his side, and in
which his dinner and Thekla’s had been. Old Time was too busy to heed
him. Pretty soon after, Max took Thekla’s hand, and, without saying
“Good-by,” dragged her away down the narrow path towards home. It was
almost nightfall when at last they got there.
It was not till after supper when Grandfather had gone to bed that
Max confessed what he had done. Thekla felt dreadfully about it; but
he wouldn’t say he was sorry, and was sitting by the fire letting the
shining particles drift through his fingers, when suddenly voices were
heard out of doors as if a large company was approaching. He had just
time to hurry the can into a safe hiding-place when the latch rattled,
the door flew open, and in long procession streamed in the very figures
they had seen that afternoon in the wood.
No longer lifeless however, but angry, noisy, reproachful. “Ah, little
thief!” cried January. “Where are the stolen moments?”
“Yes,” shouted March, a blustering fellow with wild hair and eyes.
“Where’s the third finger of my left hand? Where are my Brother
February’s thumb-nail and right ear-tip?”
“And my roses,” wept June, a fair young woman. “See, I ought to have a
whole lap full, and there are only five. Oh, naughty, naughty boy!”
“And my holly sprig?” vociferated December. “Who’s to know which I am
without it? Not a child in the world will hang up his stocking at the
right time.”
“Didn’t you know,” sobbed April, “that the jar only held just enough to
make us complete, and no more? And here all of us but January are ugly,
maimed creatures, and the New Year will be so disgusted with us.”
It was too true. Every one lacked something. September had no
wheat-ears. May mourned over her want of violets. November raged up
and down, declaring that he _must_ have a turkey. “And what do you
think,” grumbled March, “the world is going to say, when we all come
in docked after this ridiculous fashion? The tides will be wrong and
the almanac-makers will tear their hair. The moon will go wandering
about like a lunatic. And all because a little boy in the Black Forest
couldn’t keep his hands out of what didn’t belong to him. Oh, fie! fie!
wait till my turn comes! won’t I blow you about!”
And the Months clustered about poor Max, scolding, threatening, crying,
till he didn’t know which way to look. He began to feel dreadfully
ashamed of himself, especially as Thekla was sobbing as loudly as
April, and imploring him to make amends. But he kept up a bold front.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think you’re very unreasonable.
Time belongs to us all. I never had so much to myself before, and I
mean to keep it unless you make it worth my while to give it up.”
“What shall we do?” cried July. “Shall we all make you a present? or
tell you a story?” said November.
“Or sing you a song?” chanted May.
“No music, thank you,” answered Max. “Little Thekla here sings to me,
and that is sweet enough. But if you each will make us a gift, and each
tell us a story, I will restore the sand you are making such a fuss
about. What do you say? Is it a bargain?”
“I won’t,” said January. “I’ll have nothing to do with it: I am
finished, and have no favors to ask of anybody.”
The others, however, all cried, “Yes!” And so the bargain was struck.
Each Month was to come in turn on the last night of the month before,
tell a story, bring a present, and get his missing moments. With this
agreement, they said good-by. April gave Thekla a kiss, and they went
away. For a time their voices could be heard growing more and more
distant in the forest, then all was silent again.
“Isn’t that splendid?” cried Max, exultingly.
“It’s very nice about the presents and stories,” answered Thekla; “but
I can’t help wishing you hadn’t taken the moments, Max. It’s dreadful
to think of your stealing any thing.”
“Pooh!” said Max: “it isn’t stealing to take _time_. Everybody does
that.”
[Illustration: “Where are the stolen moments?”]