HOW THE CAT KEPT CHRISTMAS.
And now the last evening of November was come; and Winter, stealing a
march on the departing Autumn, let loose, as if in a hurry to begin,
his first storm upon the world. Strong winds raged in the Forest,
driving the leaves in clouds before them, and snapping and rending the
patient, tortured trees. Ink-black clouds scared away the Moon, when
she tried to shine; sharp sleet struck the windows of the Woodman’s
hut, like a myriad of tiny fists; and the blast wailed and moaned about
the chimney, like the voice of one in pain.
Max and Thekla heard the uproar, and trembled, as they sat by the fire.
Often before had they listened to storms with a certain pleasurable
sense that home was rendered snugger by the contrast. But now they
shivered and clung together, and tears were in Thekla’s eyes as she
nestled her head upon her brother’s shoulder. The kitchen did not wear
its usual cheery look. And no wonder! There was sorrow in the cottage;
for dear old Grandfather, who had loved them both so fondly, and been
so loved in return, was gone away for ever!
[Illustration: “So the Cat told her story. ‘And for a wish,’ she said,
‘if your Saintship would only permit me to slip in under your furs, and
go along,’--‘Why, jump in at once,’ said St. Nicholas.”]
Only a week before he had died, quietly, painlessly, with a smile on
his lips, and blessing them at the last. The far-away neighbors had
assembled; and with pitying looks and kind words had taken the aged
form, and laid it to rest beside other graves where slept the friends
of his youth. But still, in spite of the lonely house and the vacant
chair, Thekla could not feel that Grandfather was far away; and every
hour she silently did this thing or that because it would once have
pleased him to have them done, and the thought that he still knew and
was pleased comforted her. And perhaps Thekla was right in her innocent
faith, for the friends we can no longer see may be nearer to us than we
think.
When an old tree is blown down, all the delicate grasses and sweet
herbs which cluster at its foot are uprooted by the shock. So it was
with these two little human flowers. The fall of their sheltering
friend tore them from their accustomed place. Already the neighbors had
talked over and settled what the children must do. Max was to be bound
apprentice to a clockmaker in the distant town, and Thekla to live with
a farmer’s dame who had offered to take and train her as a servant. The
thought of parting was dreadful to them; and they had begged so hard
and so tearfully to be allowed to stay together in the hut for a few
weeks longer,--just till a new Ranger should take possession,--that at
last, won by their distress, consent was given. There was wood and meal
and vegetables enough in the cellar to keep them without expense to
anybody. If the poor things liked to eat the stores themselves, instead
of selling them, why it was a good plan, people said. So there the two
sat on this stormy evening, alone in the lonely Forest, and expecting
the arrival of December, last of that wonderful company who had made
the year so strangely interesting.
They had not long to wait. There came a lull in the wind, and far off
in the distance a voice was heard raised in a commanding tone, and
gradually drawing nearer.
“There! there!” were the first words they caught: “that will do. Leave
the oaks alone, you rascals! Time enough for such pranks when I’m gone.
As for that hemlock,--winds will be winds, I know, and what’s done can
never be undone; but don’t let me catch you at another.” Here the voice
ceased; then there was a rattling at the latch, and next moment the
door opened, and in came a tall figure leaning on a staff, but moving
so lightly and easily that it suggested any thing rather than age or
infirmity.
This was December, a fine, stately man, dressed in white and green,
with a fur cloak flung about his shoulders and a hat decked with holly
sprigs. Age and youth seemed funnily contrasted in his face; for,
while hair and beard were white as hoar-frost, the cheeks were like
ripe winter-apples, and the blue eyes sparkled with fun and fire. He
entered with a sort of jolly rush; but, when he saw Thekla’s black
frock and the traces of tears upon her cheeks, his mood changed at
once. Closing the door gently, he sat down before the fire, and,
holding out his hand with an expression of indescribable kindness, said
in a tone full of sympathy, “My poor children!”
That was all: but in another moment Thekla’s arm was round his neck on
one side, and Max’s on the other;--he had drawn them on to his knees,
and they were sobbing out their griefs as if they had known him always.
They told how sorry they were to part, how lonely the cottage seemed,
how forlorn it was to be poor and at the mercy of others; and December
listened, his eyes glistening with pity and his kind arms hugging them
close. It was like having Grandfather back again, the children thought.
The new friend was wise. He did not interrupt or try to comfort till
they had got quite through. It was wonderful what relief came just from
telling all to somebody who cared to listen. By the time the story was
over the boy and girl felt happier than for days; and not till then did
December speak.
“Courage!” he said. “It’s always darkest just before day. Why, the
Lord takes care of birds and cats and squirrels, of a whole world
full of tiny winged creatures, and all the fishes of the sea. Do you
suppose he will forget just you two, out of all the little ones whom he
protects? Never! Why, I _could_ tell you,--but I must not, it is not
permitted,--only, even a Month may venture on a hint, and so I’ll just
say, wait, and see what’s ahead!” And December ended this mysterious
sentence with pursing up his lips very tight, winking hard with both
eyes, and nodding his head in a singular and provoking manner.
“Oh, what?” cried the children.
“I shan’t say another word,” replied December. “No! you needn’t
look at me with such big, imploring eyes: it’s no use. But just you
keep up brave hearts, and trust in God,--and you’ll see! As for the
Grandfather,” here his voice grew deep and solemn, like the sound of
bells, “I know you miss him sorely; but don’t cry for him any more. He
has gone where he is young again; and, when your turn comes to go too,
you will wonder that ever you shed a tear because he was made so very
happy.”
December’s face became beautiful as he spoke these last words, and
Thekla stole the other arm tenderly about his neck. A glittering
chain hung there, with pendants shaped like icicles. Touching it, she
started, it was so very cold.
“Is it made of ice?” she asked.
“Well, you can call it so, if you like,” responded December, smiling;
“but I say ‘crystallized gases.’ It sounds better, I think.
“I hope it won’t put you out,” he went on, “if I should ask leave to
_read_ my story, instead of telling it. I am so very, _very_ old, you
see,”--here his eyes twinkled with fun,--“that my memory is almost
gone; and, unless I write things down, I am always forgetting them.”
Whereupon he pulled a roll of paper from his pocket, and perching a
pair of spectacles with tortoise-shell rims on his nose, very high up,
looked from under them at the children in a comical manner. Thekla and
Max could not help laughing. In spite of his white hair, it seemed
somehow a great joke that December should call himself so very, very
old.
“It’s a cheerful kind of a story,” continued he. “I picked it out
on purpose, for I guessed I should find you moping; and I thought
something lively would be good for you.”
Thus speaking, December pushed the glasses up higher on his forehead,
so as to be able to see well from beneath them, and began to read,--
“HOW THE CAT KEPT CHRISTMAS.”
“What a queer name for a story!” said Thekla.
“Yes; and it was a queer Cat too,” replied December. “I knew her.
Tortoise-shell, with long whiskers, and rather a ragged tail.”
Then he went on.
“The ringers were practising the Christmas chimes in low, muffled
tones. High up, the steeple rocked in the wind, the clouds drifted
rapidly over the moon, and clear and sharp the frost-film glittered on
the roofs. The watchman on his round clapped and stamped to warm hands
and feet, as he called the hour, ‘Eight o’clock, and all’s well!’ But,
to the poor Cat crouched beneath the kitchen-window, all was _not_ well.
“‘Oh dear!’ she sighed to herself, ‘what a thing it is to have a
Step-mother! Once we were happy! The good Papa loved me, and I slept
in Gretchen’s arms. The fire was bright in those days. Porringers of
hot milk stood by it, and always a saucer full for me. Ah, dear days!
The moment I saw that nose of hers, I knew they were over! Such a nose!
so red, so long. Why did the Papa marry her? Men are _so_ foolish. I
hissed, I spit, I warned,--nobody listened, and here I am. The good
Papa dares not protect me. Gretchen weeps: the Step-dame bars the
door. Hew! what a wind! What a Christmas Eve! Poor Gretchen! Poor me!’
Overcome by her sorrows, the Cat gave a loud wail, which rang out into
the chilly night. Then the door opened softly.
“‘Puss! puss!’ said a small voice, ‘where are you?’
“Pussy ran forward into view, and jumped and leaped at her mistress.
“‘Oh, my Katchen,’ went on the little one, ‘how cold it is! You will
freeze! you will die. Oh, if I dared but let you in!’
“‘I’ll scratch her eyes out!’ muttered the Cat.
“‘Shall I throw my little red shawl to you from the window?’ continued
Gretchen. ‘My poor one! my Kitty!’
“‘Gretchen!’ screamed a voice, ‘if you let that good-for-nothing Cat
into the house, you taste the stick! Dost hear?’
“Gretchen turned pale. ‘O Kitty!’ was all she said. She gave a sob of
despair. Then the door was shut.
“‘This is a nice business,’ thought the Cat. ‘Oh, the witch! I hope the
mice will come down to-night, and steal the very teeth out of her head.
But I’ll have vengeance yet. There’s that big gray rat in the cellar:
I’ll strike a bargain with him,--life and liberty, provided he plagues
her to death, eats the linen, claws the jam, gnaws bung-holes in the
cask, and lets the beer out! We’ll see! Meantime, I shall freeze unless
something is done. Let me explore.’
“High and low did the Cat search,--over the fence, under the vine,--but
no shelter could be found. The vine was leafless, the fence gave no
hiding-place. At last she bethought herself of the roof, which it was
easy to mount by means of a long and sloping rain-trough. Perhaps there
might be a warm chimney there,--no bad pillow on a wintry night.
“There proved to be a warmish one; and, curling into a ball, Puss laid
herself to rest against it. Perhaps it was not warm enough, perhaps the
remembrance of wrong was too bitter within her; certain it is she could
not sleep. She wriggled, she twisted; she sent forth melancholy cries,
which rang strangely across the icy roofs as if some ghost afflicted
with toothache had gone there for an airing. Nine--ten--eleven--had
sounded before she fell into her first doze,--the clock was on the
stroke of twelve, when a scraping and scratching sound close by roused
her. Was it some other cat? or the big rat from the cellar, scaling
the wall? Raising herself cautiously, after the manner of cats, she
listened.
“No: it was neither rat nor cat. Light hoofs as of goats were climbing
the tiles, bells tinkled, a small sledge came in view. Swift as light
it flew along, paused at the next chimney, and a little old man jumped
out. His face shone in the moonlight like a jolly red apple, his fat
body was wrapped in fur, on his back was a bag. Puss had never seen
him before; but she knew him well. It was St. Nicholas, the patron
saint of Christmas.
“Down the chimney he went, with a motion like a bird’s; up again as
fast. Then advancing, he searched in his bag. His kind face looked
puzzled. The Cat saw his hesitation, and sprang forward.
“‘Well, Puss,’ said the Saint, ‘what cheer?’
“‘Bad,’ said the Cat, no ways abashed at finding herself in such
company. ‘But never mind me, if only you’ve something nice for
Gretchen. _Such_ a dear child, St. Nicholas, and _such_ a step-mother!
Do put your hand in the pouch, and fetch out something pretty for
her,--oh do! there’s a kind Saint!’ And she rubbed her soft fur
coaxingly against his legs.
“‘Ah! a dear child and a step-mother, eh?’ said St. Nicholas. ‘Let me
look again. Certainly! here’s something for Gretchen.--Wo-ho, reindeer!
quiet a moment!’ And down the chimney he whipped, a present in his
hand,--what, the Cat couldn’t see.
“Coming back, ‘Now about yourself?’ he asked, gathering up the reins.
‘What keeps you on the cold roof all night? Something must be done, you
know: matters can’t be left this way. Wish a wish, if you have one. I’m
in a humor for pleasing everybody while I’m about it.’
“So the Cat told her story. ‘And for a wish,’ she said, ‘if your
Saintship would only permit me to slip in under your furs, and
go along, I should be proud and happy. They look very warm and
comfortable. I should sleep; or, if not, it would be most interesting
to watch your Worship at work. And I take very little room,’ she added
piteously.
“‘Is that all? Why, jump in at once,’ said kind St. Nicholas: ‘there is
room for forty cats like you. My sledge is never full. Ho! ho! it would
be a pretty joke if it were!’ And he laughed a jolly laugh.
“So Pussy jumped in. ‘You must let me out in the morning early,’ said
she, ‘because Gretchen will be anxious.’
“‘Oh, yes!’ replied the Saint, smiling queerly, ‘I’ll let you out in
the morning. I’m like a bat, you know, and never fly except by night.’
“Off they went, the magic stillness of the flight broken only by the
tinkling bells. First one chimney, then another; bag after bag full of
toys and sweets; here a doll, there a diamond ring, here only a pair of
warm stockings. Everybody had something, except in a few houses over
whose roofs St. Nicholas paused a moment with a look half sad, half
angry, and left nothing. People lived there who knew him little, and
loved him less.
“Through the air,--more towns,--more villages. Now the sea was below
them, the cold, moon-lit sea. Then again land came in sight,--towers
and steeples, halls and hamlets; and the work began again. A wild
longing to explore seized the Cat. She begged the Saint to take her
down one specially wide chimney on his shoulder. He did so. The
nursery within looked strange and foreign; but the little sleeping
face in bed was like Gretchen’s, and Pussy felt at home. A whole bag
full of presents was left here. And then, hey! presto! they were off
again to countless homes,--to roofs so poor and low that only a Saint
would have thought of visiting them, to stately palaces, to cellars and
toll-gates and lonely attics; at last to a church, dim, and fragrant
with ivy-leaves and twisted evergreen, where their errand was to feed
a robin who had there found shelter, and was sleeping on the topmost
bough. How his beads of eyes sparkled as the Saint awoke him! and
how eagerly he pecked the store of good red berries which were _his_
Christmas present, though he had hung up no stocking, and evidently
expected nothing. To small, to great, to rich and poor alike, the good
Saint had an errand. Little ones smiled in their sleep as he moved by,
birds in hidden coverts twittered and chirped, bells faintly tinkled
and chimed as in dream, the air sent up incense of aromatic smells,
flying fairies made room for the sledge to pass; the world, unconscious
what it did, breathed benediction, and in turn received a blessing as
it slept,--a Christmas blessing.
“Off again. More sea, tumbling and tossed; then a great steamship,
down whose funnel St. Nicholas dropped a parcel or two. Then another
country, with atmosphere heavy with savory scents,--of doughnuts, of
pumpkin pies, of apple turnovers, all of which had been cooked the day
before. These dainties stay on earth, and are eaten; but their smell
goes up into the clouds, and the ghosts dine upon it. The Cat licked
her lips. Flying gives appetite. ‘When morning comes,’ she thought,
‘Gretchen will smuggle me a breakfast.’ But morning was long in coming,
and there were many little ones to serve in that wonderful new land.
“And now, another continent passed, another ocean came in view. Island
after island rose and sank; but the sledge did not stop. Then a shore
was seen, with groves of trees, fan-shaped and curious; with rivers
whose waters bore fleets of strange misshapen boats, in whose masts
hung many-colored lanterns; and cities of odd build, whose spires and
pinnacles were noisy with bells. But neither here did the sledge stop.
Once only it dipped, and deposited a package in a modest dwelling. ‘A
Missionary lives there,’ said the Saint. ‘This is China. Don’t you
smell the tea?’
“On and on for hundred of leagues. No stay, no errand. St. Nicholas
looked sad, for all his round face. ‘So many little children,’ he
muttered, ‘and none of them mine!’ And then he cheered again, as,
reining his deer upon a hut amid the frozen snows of Siberia, he left a
rude toy for an exile’s child. ‘Dear little thing!’ he said, ‘she will
smile in the morning when she wakes.’
“And now the air grew warm and soft. Great cities were below them, and
groves of flowering trees. Some balmy fragrance wrapped the land. A
vast building swept into sight, whose sides and roof and spires were
traced in glittering lines of fire. It was a church hung with lamps.
Odors sweet and heavy met their noses. St. Nicholas sneezed, and shook
his head impatiently. ‘Confound that incense!’ he said. ‘It’s the
loveliest country in the world, only a fellow can’t breathe in it!’ And
then he forgot his discomfort in his work.
“Another country, and more smells,--of burning twigs, pungent and
spicy; of candles just blown out. These set the Cat to coughing; but
St. Nicholas minded them not at all. ‘I like them,’ he declared: ‘I
like every thing about a Christmas-tree,--singed evergreen, smoking
tallow, and all. The sniff of it is like a bouquet of flowers to me.
And the children,--bless them!--how they do enjoy it! _They_ don’t
object to the smell!’ He ended with a chuckle.
“And now the dawn began. The moon grew pale and wan; the stars hid
themselves; dark things took form and shape, and were less dark;
yellow gleams crept up the sky; the world looked more alive. And, among
the roofs over which they were now driving, the Cat spied one which
seemed familiar. It was! There stood the well-known chimney, with the
thin, starved curl of smoke, telling of some one awake within. There
was the little window which was Gretchen’s own. With a mew of delight,
she leaped to the roof. The Saint laughed. ‘Good-by!’ he shouted, shook
his reins, and was off. Whither the Cat knew not, nor could guess; for
where St. Nicholas hides himself during the year is one of the secrets
which no man knows.
“Down the long spout ran Puss, with an airy bound. There was the door;
and close to it she stationed herself, impatient of the opening. She
had not long to wait. In a moment the latch was raised, and a face
peeped timidly out,--Gretchen’s face,--pale and swollen with crying.
When she saw the Cat, she gave a loud scream, and caught her in her
arms.
“‘O Katchen!’ she cried, hugging her close. ‘Where have you been all
this time? I thought you were dead! I did, I did, my Katchen!’
“Pussy stared, as well she might.
“‘All day yesterday,’ went on the little one, ‘and all night long.
I cried and cried,--_how_ I cried, my Kitty! It wasn’t a bit a nice
Christmas, though the Christ-child brought me _such_ a doll! I could
think of nothing but my Katchen, lost all day long.’
“Puss stood bewildered. Were her night’s adventures a dream? Had she
ever studied geography, she might have guessed that chasing morning
round the world is a sure way to lose your reckoning. As it was, she
could only venture on a plaintive, inquiring ‘Mew?’ Hunger was more
engrossing than curiosity. She devoured breakfast, dinner, supper, all
at once. The Stepmother had more reason than ever when she grumbled
at being ‘eaten out of house and home by a beast.’ But Gretchen’s
tears the day before had so moved her Father, that he took courage
to declare that Puss must be restored to her former privileges. Warm
corner, dainty mess, and the protecting arms of her little mistress
became hers again, and are hers to this day.
“And that was St. Nicholas’s Christmas present to the Cat.
“Well,” said December, rolling up the paper, “how do you like my story?”
“So much! oh, so much!” the children cried. “It was almost the nicest
of all.”
“As for my present,” he went on, “I am not going to give you that just
now. It shall come on the Christmas-tree. And mind you look bright, and
greet the Christ-child with a smile, or he will be grieved, and go away
sorrowful.”
“I don’t believe we shall have any tree this year,” said Thekla, sadly.
“There isn’t any thing to put on it. And beside”--but her voice
faltered. Grandfather had always helped to dress the tree.
“Oh, but,” cried December, “this will never do. Why, you _must_
have a tree! Never mind if there isn’t any thing to put on it. The
Christ-child and I will see to that. Now I’ll tell you,--you just cut
a nice fir-bough, and set it here against the door, and I’ll pledge my
word, as an honest Month, that _something_ shall come from outside and
fall upon it. Do you give me your promise that you will?”
They promised,--half doubtful, half believing. And then December asked
for the can, and, turning it upside down, poured out the last particles
of sand.
“Dear! dear!” he said reflectively, “what a blessing that these are not
lost! How the babies would have cried at being forced to go to bed half
an hour sooner on Christmas night! And the Anthem would have been cut
short on the blessed morning too, and the bells been cheated of their
chime. It’s a great mercy I have got them safely back.”
“Good-by! good-by!” cried the children, following him to the door.
He stooped, and kissed both the round faces.
“Good-by!” he said. “Remember Christmas Eve.”
[Illustration: “‘O Katchen!’ she said, ‘where have you been?’”]
CONCLUSION.
WHAT WAS ON THE TREE.
It was with heavy hearts that Max and Thekla prepared on Christmas Eve
to fulfil their promise to the kind Month. Only six days lay between
them and the dreaded separation; for on the New Year the Ranger was to
come, and it was hard to be hopeful and patient while such sorrow drew
near. There was no laughter, no frolic, as they dragged in the great
fir-bough, and set it up against the door where December had directed.
When it was placed, they pulled their stools to the fire and remained
for a while quite silent. Both were thinking of the kind old hands
which last year had hung nuts and apples on the tree, and helped to
light the Christmas candles. There were no tapers now, no filberts, or
green and rosy fruits,--only the fir-bough with its damp, fresh smell,
and themselves sitting sadly beside the hearth.
[Illustration: “Late into the night did they all sit over the fire,
while Fritz told the story of his seven long years of absence.”]
“It is getting late,” said Thekla, at last, throwing on a fresh fagot.
“I suppose the Christ-child has a great, great deal to do.”
“Or perhaps he has forgotten all about us,” added Max, despondingly.
But at that moment, as if to contradict his words, a footstep sounded
at the door. The latch was raised and loudly rattled. “Hallo!” cried
a voice. “Where are you all? Grandfather, children,--show a light,
somebody!” And then the door opened, and plump into the middle of the
tree came a young man, head foremost, as if he had dropped from the
clouds.
For a moment he sat there, the green boughs framing in his ruddy face
and bright yellow hair. Then he picked himself up, and exclaimed,
“Well, there’s a welcome home! I didn’t expect to be made into a
Christmas Angel so soon.--Max!” (wonderingly). “Is it Max? Thekla!--can
it be little Thekla? Why don’t you speak? Don’t you know me? Have you
forgotten Fritz?”
“Fritz!” cried the little ones. “Not _our_ Fritz who went away so long
ago?”
“The very same bad shilling come again,” laughed the big brother,
catching Thekla in his arms and almost squeezing her to death with a
hug. “But why do you look so astonished? Didn’t Grandfather get my
letter? And where is the Grandfather?” beginning to collect himself.
But then he caught the look on Max’s face, and saying “Ah!” he suddenly
turned very pale, and releasing Thekla sat down in the nearest chair.
“When?” he asked at length, raising his face from the hands with which
he had hidden it.
“A month ago,” said Max; but Thekla, putting her arm round on the new
brother’s arm, added softly, in the very words of December, “Don’t be
so sorry, dear Fritz. He has gone where he is young again.”
Late into the night did they all sit over the fire, while Fritz told
the story of his seven long years of absence. It seemed to the children
very exciting; for Fritz had twice been shipwrecked, had seen a
buffalo, and only just escaped being killed by an Indian! He had been
very poor too, and suffered such hardships that he could not bear to
write home the tidings of his ill-luck. But now things were better.
Out on the Western frontier of the United States (here Max and Thekla
smiled at each other and thought of “Chusey”) he had found employment
and kind friends, and managed to save from his wages enough to buy a
little farm. He told of the oaks, the noble rivers, the plentiful food
and rich soil, the splendid colors of the autumn forest.
“And it is your home as well as mine,” continued Fritz. “I came back on
purpose to fetch you. Oh! if Grandfather had but lived to see the day!
Max shall work on the farm with me; and before he knows it he will have
earned one of his own. And you, my fairy, shall keep house for us both
in true German fashion; and we will all be so happy! What do you say,
Liebchen? Shall it be so? Will you and Max come with me?”
Ah! wouldn’t they? Here was a Christmas gift indeed,--a home, a
brother! Did ever mortal tree bear so fine a present before? They
embraced Fritz over and over again, Thekla promising between her kisses
to be _such_ a housewife,--so orderly, so busy! Sauer-kraut he should
never be without, nor cabbage soup, nor any thing else that was nice.
And just then something droll happened which Fritz did not see, but
the children did. The door opened gently a little way, and through the
crack appeared the head of December, nodding and winking above the
fallen fir-bough, and beaming with smiles. He pointed to Fritz’s back
and then to the tree, with an “I told you so” air, noiselessly clapped
his hands, and withdrew, just as Fritz shivered, and said, “Bless me,
the wind has blown the door open!”
One week later a large ship weighed anchor in a port, and upon her deck
stood our two children and their new brother. There was no one to see
them go. All their few farewells had been spoken in the distant village
and beside Grandfather’s grave. But as the heavy cables swung and
heaved, and the vessel, released from bondage, moved slowly from the
harbor, upon the slope of a snow-covered hill beneath which she passed,
amid the nodding pines which crowned the top, a group of figures
suddenly appeared. They were the twelve Months come to wave farewell to
the children. There was January, disdainful as ever; sweet, rosy June;
February, his honest nose reddened by the keen wind; May and April,
clasping each other’s waists like a pair of school-girls. When they saw
Max and Thekla on the deck, a little chorus of laughter, exclamation,
and “Good-bys” could be heard. Thekla caught the sound of March’s wild
“Ha! ha!” the rich voice of September; April’s gleeful laugh, as she
flung a handful of violets at the ship, and her sob when they fell,
as of course they did, into the water, and were borne out to sea. A
moment,--no more. The children had time for only one glad smile of
recognition, before the vision vanished and was gone. And no one else
on the deck observed any thing but the sun dancing on the snow, the
dark evergreens, and a few tossing leaves of bright color which still
clung to the bare boughs of an oak-tree.
“Dear, dear Months,--how good they have been to us!” whispered Thekla,
as the hill faded from view.
And the ship spread her white wings, and sailed away to the New World.
[Illustration: “One week later a large ship weighed anchor in a port,
and upon her deck stood our two children,” Max and Thekla.]
Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.
SUSAN COOLIDGE’S POPULAR BOOKS.
[Illustration: ENTERING PARADISE.--PAGE 23. So in they marched, Katy
and Cecy heading the procession, and Dorry, with his great trailing
bunch of boughs, bringing up the rear.]
WHAT KATY DID. With Illustrations by Addie Ledyard. One handsome,
square 16mo volume, bound in cloth, black and gilt lettered.
Price, $1.50.
ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.
SUSAN COOLIDGE’S POPULAR BOOKS.
[Illustration: NANNY’S SUBSTITUTE. Nanny at the Fair, taking orders
and carrying trays.--PAGE 171.]
MISCHIEF’S THANKSGIVING,
_AND OTHER STORIES._
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ADDIE LEDYARD.
_One handsome square 16mo volume, bound in cloth, black and gilt
lettered. Price $1.50._
ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Spelling and variations in hyphenation have been preserved as they
appear in the original publication. Punctuation has been standardised.