"Once upon a time there was a man who had to make a journey. He did
not want very much to make it; and, not knowing whether it was to be
a long journey or a short one, he did not feel a great deal of
interest in it. Still it had to be made, and at its end he was to
find out whether he had been a good traveler, or a bad one.
"For a long time he did not notice very closely the road he was on.
He had been so busy getting ready, first at school, where he studied
a great many books that he might be better prepared for traveling,
and then in business, where money must be made to give him comfort
and pleasure on the way, that he did not have time to look around
very much; but after a while he saw that the road was getting very
dull and dusty, that most of the flowers were faded and the fruits
were not sweet and the birds did not sing as they had sung when first
he started out.
"A great many people had been traveling the same way he had. Though
they seemed to be having a good time, he had soon seen that most of
it was make-believe, and that much of their energy was spent in
trying to find something to play with, that they might forget what
kind of journey they were on. He did not like these people very
specially. He did not know any others, however, and he had kept up
with them because they had started out together; but, little by
little, he had slipped away from them, and after a while he found
that he was walking most of the time by himself. At first he did not
mind. The things his friends cared for and talked about did not
greatly interest him, and then it was he began to remember that a
good many things he had been passing were ugly and cruel, and bitter
and unjust. He could not understand why some should travel in
luxurious ease while others could hardly get along, their burdens
were so great; why some rode in carriages, and others, sick and
hungry and tired and cold, could never stop lest they die upon the
road; and why some sang and others wept.
"In groups and pairs, and sometimes one by one, they passed him, and
as they went by he would look into their faces to see why they were
traveling; but, like him, they did not know, they only knew they must
keep on. And then one day he saw he had come back to where his
journey had begun. He had been on the road to Nowhere--the road that
wound round and round."
"Just like travelers in the desert." Dorothea's eyes made effort to
open, but sleepily they closed again. "Why didn't he ask somebody
the way?"
"He didn't think any one knew. He was much wiser than most of the
people who passed him. To many who seemed to be in need he had given
money; he was very generous, very kind, and he gave freely; but he
always turned his head away when he gave. He did not like to see
suffering and sorrow; and with sin of certain sorts he had no
sympathy, and so he would not look. But after a while he had to look.
"He was standing at the place from which he had started, and, to his
surprise, he saw what he had never seen before. Out from its center
led all sorts of roads that stretched beyond sight, and on each of
them people were traveling, all kinds of people, and he knew he could
no longer stand still. He must take one of these roads, but which
one he did not know. As he stood uncertain what to do, he felt some
one touch him; and, looking down, he saw a child; and into his strong
hand the child slipped his little one.
"'I have been waiting for you,' he said. 'I have been waiting a
long, long time.'
"'For me?' The man drew back. 'You can't have been waiting for me.
I do not know you, child!'
"He heard a little sigh, as soft as the stir of wings, and again the
boy smiled.
"'But I know you. There is much for you to do.'
"Again the man held back. 'There is nothing for me to do. I pay my
taxes and give my tithes, and let the world alone.'
"'You cannot let the world alone. It is your world.' The boy looked
up. 'Come, they are waiting.'
"'Who is waiting?'
"'Your people.'
"'I have no people. There is no one waiting for me.'
"The child shook his head. 'You do not know your people, and they
are waiting. We must hurry, the time is short. We will go on this
road first, and then on that, and then on that and that and that. On
each one they are waiting.'
"All through the night they traveled, uphill and down, and in and out
of narrow paths and hidden places, and everywhere he saw them, the
people he had never known. Into the darkness of pits and mines, into
the fires of foundries and furnaces, into the factories where wheels
turned night and day, and into the holds of the ships of the sea, the
child led him to show him the people who were his. In cellars and
garrets, in jails and prisons, in shops and stores, in hunger and
cold, in the silence of sickness, the noise of sin, they were waiting
for his coming; and in their faces was that which made him cover his,
and he begged the child to take him where breath could come again.
"But the child held his hand still tighter. 'You have traveled long
and you have not known,' he said. 'You helped to make things as they
are, and now you must see.'
"'I helped to make things as they are? I have not even dreamed such
things could be!'
"'I know. And that is why I came. They are your people; and you did
not know.'
"And then the child took him on another road, one that was smooth and
soft, and the air that blew over it was warm and fragrant. On it the
women wore jewels and laces and gorgeous gowns; and men threw gold
away to see it shine in the sunlight, threw it that others might see
them throw.
"'Why do we come here?' the man asked. 'They are not waiting. They
do not need.'
"The child looked up in his face. 'They, too, are waiting--for some
one to let them know. And they, too, need, for hearts hurt
everywhere. Sometimes the loneliest ones are here.'
"Before answer could be made, the main road was left, and in a tiny
by-path they heard the laughter of children's voices; and, looking
ahead, they saw a little house with wreaths in the windows through
which the glow of firelight sent threads of dancing light upon the
snow, and the door was open.
"'We will go in,' said the child, 'for there is welcome.'
"Inside, the mother and the father and all the children were hanging
holly on the walls and bringing bundles and boxes and queer-shaped
packages from the other rooms and hiding them under chairs and tables
and in out-of-the-way places; and presently a row of stockings was
hung from the chimneypiece, and the children clapped their hands and
danced round and round the room. And then they threw their arms
around their father and mother and kissed them good night and left
them that Kris Kringle might come in.
"'They have no money, but are very rich,' said the child. 'They love
much.'
"Over long roads and short ones, over some that were dark and some
that were bright, they went their way, and presently they came to a
shabby, snow-covered street where children were pressing their faces
against shop-windows, and men and women were hurrying in and out of
crowded stores; and the child loosened his hold upon the man's hand.
'I must go now,' he said.
"'Oh no, you must not go!' Quickly the man reached for him. 'You
must not go. I do not even know your name!'
"The child shook his head. 'I cannot stay. And some day you will
know my name.'
"'But why did you come? If you must leave me, why did you come?'
"'Why did I come?' In the crowd he was slipping away, but the light
in his face streamed through it. 'I came to bring Good-Will to men.
I came that Men might Know.'"