strange indeed happened to him. In at the open window came the gay West
Wind with a laugh and a loud, loud puff!!! In a twinkling he whirled
the Little Brown Boy out of bed, twirled him out of the window, and
then blew him along through the air at such a pace that for a moment
the Little Brown Boy scarcely knew just who or where he was.
When at last he could look about him he found he was sitting on an
Autumn leaf, holding tight with both hands, and riding along through
the air so fast that the Wind whistled past his ears.
‘Where am I going?’ called the Little Brown Boy to the Wind. ‘Where am
I going? Tell me, do!’
[Illustration]
But the Wind only shouted ‘Whoo-oo-oo!’ and blew the little boy along
faster than ever before.
The big round Moon laughed down at the Little Brown Boy. The Stars
twinkled and gleamed as if they were laughing too.
On and on went the Autumn leaf, whirling and twirling and dancing along
until the Little Brown Boy spied a great snow-white Palace just ahead.
Straight to this Palace the Wind blew the Autumn leaf. Down, down, down
whirled the leaf until it rested on the Palace front steps. And then,
of course, there was nothing for the Little Brown Boy to do but to jump
off the leaf and look about him.
The ground was covered all roundabout with snow, smooth, hard, shining
snow, but, strangely enough, in spite of his bare toes, the Little
Brown Boy didn’t feel cold at all. Perhaps he was too excited. I don’t
know. He stared with wide-open eyes at the great snow-white Palace,
glittering in the moonlight. Then over to a half-open window, from
which streamed a rosy light, crept the Little Brown Boy, and, clinging
to the window-sill, he peeped into the room.
What the Little Brown Boy saw inside the room almost made him tumble
backward into the snow.
For, before his very eyes sat Santa Claus, the Santa Claus whose
picture the Little Brown Boy had seen many, many times, and who, for
as many years as the Little Brown Boy could remember, had crept down
his chimney on Christmas Eve and left him toys of all sorts and kinds.
Roundabout Santa Claus sat his Brownies, his gay little helpers and
toy-makers, and they were listening carefully to every word that Santa
Claus had to say. On a table, in front of the fire, there lay a great
open Book, and from that Book, so it seemed to the Little Brown Boy,
Santa Claus was reading children’s names.
‘Caroline Jones,’ read Santa Claus aloud.
‘A very good girl,’ he added. ‘She minds her mother and goes to bed
every night without crying.’
When they heard this the Brownies shouted, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ and
clapped their hands. They seemed as pleased as pleased could be to hear
this news of Caroline Jones.
Santa Claus bent over the Book again.
‘Tom Robinson,’ read Santa Claus aloud.
‘A better boy than he was a month ago,’ said he, looking round with
a smile. ‘He is polite to his grandmother, and runs errands without
grumbling, and cleans his finger nails, sometimes, without being told.’
‘Good! Good!’ shouted the Brownies. And again they clapped their tiny
hands.
At the next name Santa Claus looked sober and not a single Brownie
smiled.
‘Johnny Smith,’ read Santa Claus, and, with a shake of the head, he
dipped his pen into a bottle of black, black ink.
[Illustration]
‘He still worries the cat in spite of all that has been said to him,
and I hear he has been poking his mother’s canary bird with a stick.’
Santa Claus’s merry face was now very sober indeed. ‘His name must be
crossed out, though I don’t like to do it.’
And with his long pen Santa Claus slowly drew a heavy black line
through the name ‘Johnny Smith.’
‘Oh! Oh!’ sighed the Brownies, shaking their heads. ‘Too bad! Too bad!’
‘He will have nothing in his stocking next Christmas but a lump of
coal,’ said one Brownie in a low voice to his neighbor.
‘And an apple with a bite in it,’ added another Brownie, looking sad.
‘But if he is a good boy between now and Christmas, you will put his
name back in the Book of Good Children, won’t you, Santa Claus?’ asked
several Brownies, eager to be as hopeful as they could.
The Little Brown Boy did not hear Santa Claus’s answer. The Book of
Good Children! So that is what it was all about! The Little Brown Boy
held tightly to the window-sill and almost put his head into the room.
Of course he knew what the Book of Good Children was. We all do. The
Book in which Santa Claus keeps the names of all the Children whom he
is to visit on Christmas Eve. What surprised the Little Brown Boy was
that Santa Claus had actually crossed out a little boy’s name from his
Book. Though his mother had often warned him just before Christmas that
this might happen to him, he had never believed that Santa Claus would
do such a thing.
But now Santa Claus was reading again from his great thick Book. And at
what he heard the Little Brown Boy could scarcely believe his ears.
‘Dear! Dear!’ Santa Claus was saying. ‘Here is another name that must
be crossed out.’
And slowly and sadly Santa Claus read the name aloud.
‘The Little Brown Boy!’ read he.
‘Oh, no, Santa Claus!’ called out all the Brownies, their kind little
faces quite wrinkled with distress. ‘Don’t cross out his name to-night.
Give him another chance. Perhaps he will learn to pick up his toys.
Don’t cross off his name to-night.’
Before Santa Claus could answer or even lay down his pen, there was
a noise from the window that made Santa Claus and the Brownies jump
to their feet. Over the window-sill rose the head of a little boy.
His eyes were round as buttons with fright, his mouth was open to
call, ‘No! No! No!’ and every single hair stood straight on end with
excitement, which, as you may imagine, gave him a very strange look
indeed.
The next moment the little boy, who was dressed in his night-clothes,
came scrambling through the half-open window into the room. Straight to
Santa Claus he ran and clasped him round his great high boots.
‘No! No! No!’ called out the little boy again, squeezing Santa Claus’s
boots close in his arms. ‘Don’t cross out my name! I will be good! I
will put away my toys every night! Don’t leave a coal in my stocking at
Christmas! Don’t give me an apple with a bite! Oh! Oh! Oh!’
Here the little boy could say no more, for he hadn’t a speck of breath
left.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Santa Claus, sitting down and lifting the
little boy to his knee, ‘it is the Little Brown Boy himself, I do
declare.’
‘Yes,’ nodded the Little Brown Boy with a sniff, ‘and I am going to
put away my toys every night after this. I promise you, Santa Claus. I
promise I will.’
‘Good!’ answered Santa Claus heartily. ‘Good! Your name is still in the
Book. It isn’t crossed off yet. See for yourself.’
And there, in Santa Claus’s own Book of Good Children, the Little Brown
Boy, leaning from Santa Claus’s knee, saw his name written as plain as
plain could be.
‘Why don’t you take him up to see the toys?’ suggested Santa Claus
to his Brownies, who were now smiling and nodding at one another and
hopping about.
So upstairs they went to a great room filled to every corner with toys
very much like those the Little Brown Boy had at home.
At their first glimpse of the Little Brown Boy, the toys became
excited, so excited that the Little Brown Boy held fast to the
Brownies’ hands. For the toys began to call out and all talk at once
and tell the Little Brown Boy just how toys felt when they were left
lying on the floor at night.
‘We want to rest in our own stable and not lie out in the cold,’
whinnied the horses, stamping their feet and tossing their heads as
they spoke.
‘We like to be packed neatly in our box,’ said the tin soldiers, giving
the Little Brown Boy a fine salute. ‘It is so untidy and unlike a
soldier to lie about on the floor.’
‘We can’t drive straight and with speed to a fire,’ spoke out the
firemen, growing red in the face, ‘unless our fire-engines are placed
in a row on the shelf. You must understand how that is yourself.’
The Little Brown Boy nodded. He did begin to understand.
‘My legs grow stiff when I lie on the floor,’ complained the Jumping
Jack, with an injured look. ‘I can’t jump so well. Could you?’
‘No,’ murmured the Little Brown Boy, hanging his head and almost
putting his finger in his mouth, but not quite.
‘Oh, what a crick I have in my neck!’ said the Jack-in-the-Box, making
a comical face, ‘unless I am put in my box with the cover fastened down
tight.’
And the Jack-in-the-Box crouched down and then gave a mighty spring
into the air as if to show that he had no crick in his neck at the
present time.
As for Mother Goose on the picture-book, she shook her finger at the
Little Brown Boy, but she forgave him with a smile, as did all the
toys, when he promised them solemnly, just as he had promised Santa
Claus, that he would put his toys neatly away every night.
‘I won’t forget,’ said the Little Brown Boy. ‘I promise.’
The Brownies were so happy when they heard this that they said, ‘Let’s
have a feast.’
So sitting round the fire, with Santa Claus looking on, they all
roasted chestnuts and popped corn, the Little Brown Boy too. And they
ate and they ate and they ate until they couldn’t eat any more.
Never before, so he thought, had the Little Brown Boy had such a good
time. But at last it was the Brownies’ bed-time, and the Little Brown
Boy on his leaf was whirled swiftly and safely home.
When he woke in the morning the first thing he did was to pick up all
his toys and put them neatly away. And once in their proper places, the
toys all gave a sigh of relief and fell fast asleep, they were so worn
out from lying on the floor.
Then the Little Brown Boy crept into his mother’s bed and told her all
that had happened to him the night before.
‘What do you think of that?’ asked the Little Brown Boy when he had
finished.
[Illustration]
He was much surprised to have his mother answer, ‘I think it was all a
dream.’
‘A dream?’ exclaimed the Little Brown Boy. ‘How can it be a dream? Look
here!’
From the pocket in his night-clothes he pulled a chestnut, a roasted
chestnut that the Brownies had given to him last night.
‘How can it be a dream?’ asked the Little Brown Boy again.
‘I don’t know,’ answered his mother. ‘Perhaps it did happen. At any
rate, I am glad that, after this, you are going to pick up your toys
every night.’
‘I am,’ said the Little Brown Boy with a nod. ‘I promised Santa Claus.’
And I don’t have to tell you that the Little Brown Boy kept his word.
THE BROWNIE WHO FOUND CHRISTMAS
THE BROWNIE WHO FOUND CHRISTMAS
Merrythought was tired of Christmas.
‘I can scarcely believe it,’ said Santa Claus. ‘I never heard of such a
thing before.’
‘Neither did I,’ answered Merrythought, shaking his head until the tip
of his scarlet cap wagged to and fro. ‘But it is true, Santa Claus. I
am tired of Christmas.’
Merrythought was a Brownie. He was not only a Brownie, he was Santa
Claus’s very best workman as well. It was Santa Claus himself who said
so, and surely he ought to know.
All the year round Merrythought sat in the Snow Palace, at the very
tip-top of the North Pole, making toys for Christmas--toys for boys,
toys for girls, toys for babies too, and no one but the most skillful
Brownie could have made such beautiful, shining Christmas toys. There
is not the slightest doubt in the world about that.
It was the week before Christmas and all the other Brownies who help
Santa Claus stood together in a corner of the work-room whispering
about Merrythought behind their hands.
‘To think that Merrythought is tired of Christmas!’ said Brownie
Kindheart, who was in charge of the smallest baby dolls because of
his gentle, friendly way. ‘Why, I think Merrythought’s dolls are the
most beautiful of all. Their eyes are the bluest, and their cheeks are
the rosiest, and their lips have the sweetest smiles. I don’t see how
Merrythought can be tired of Christmas.’
‘He says he doesn’t like toys any more,’ spoke up Nimbletoes, ‘but I
never saw such fine Jumping Jacks as he has made this year. They leap
and dance and fling their arms and legs about until I can scarcely
stand still.’
And Nimbletoes jumped up and down like a Jumping Jack till he lost his
breath and had to sit down in the corner to find it again.
‘I like his Jack-in-the-Boxes immensely,’ said Brownie Mischief,
smiling at the very thought. ‘They shoot up in the air with so much
spirit and dash and they all wear such cheerful grins. Each one seems
to say, “Don’t you wish you were a Jack-in-the-Box?” And, I declare,
sometimes I almost do.’
‘Give me his rocking-horses,’ said Fleetfoot, whose specialty was
making roller skates and snow coasters and kites. ‘They prance and
gallop and champ at their bits as if they would like nothing better
than to take you for a ride to Banbury Cross and back again. I think
he is the best toy-maker of us all.’
‘Poor Merrythought!’ whispered gentle Silvertongue, pointing to the
corner where Merrythought sat alone. ‘How sober he looks! He used to
grow happier and happier as Christmas drew near. He would sing at his
work and smile to himself until the whole Snow Palace was in a good
humor no matter how busy we might be.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Kindheart. ‘He was as merry as his name. But he
says this year he has lost his feeling for Christmas. He used to love
it, the toys and the candy and the surprises. But he doesn’t feel so
now. He thinks children want too many toys. He has lost Christmas, he
says.’
‘Lost Christmas?’ exclaimed little Sharpeyes, the errand boy. He
was the Brownie who picked up pins and threaded needles and found
the scissors for every one else. ‘Perhaps I can find it for him. I
will begin to look this very minute. I would look for a week without
stopping rather than have Merrythought feel so sad.’
‘Ho! I know what to do!’ cried Sweet-Tooth, chief of the candy cooks.
‘I will make a new candy for Merrythought, a new chewy kind, that will
keep him so busy he will forget that he has lost Christmas. Now let me
tell you Brownies what I mean to put in it.’
Sweet-Tooth checked off the items on his fingers while the Brownies
crowded round to hear.
‘Molasses--and sugar--and hickory nuts--and cream----’
* * * * *
But Mischief slipped away and strolled over to the work-bench where
Merrythought sat, his head on his hand.
‘What is the matter, Merrythought?’ asked Mischief kindly. ‘You look as
if you had lost your best friend.’
‘I have,’ answered Merrythought, without raising his head, ‘or worse. I
have lost Christmas. I don’t like Christmas any more.’
‘What is the matter with Christmas?’ asked Mischief again. ‘You used to
like Christmas the best of us all.’
‘I know I did,’ answered Merrythought, ‘but I have had too much of
it. I am tired of toys and presents and Christmas Trees, and the very
thought of tinsel and silver and gold Tree ornaments makes me shudder
from head to foot.’
‘Dear me,’ said Mischief with a little frown, ‘that is too bad. What
you need is a change, Merrythought. I am sure you need a change. Why
don’t you ask Santa Claus to let you ride with him around the world on
Christmas Eve?’
‘He wouldn’t take me,’ answered Merrythought, slowly shaking his head.
‘You know he always says that if he took one Brownie he would have to
take all, and that if he took us all we would make so much noise that
we would wake the children in their beds. I don’t want to go, anyway.
It would be nothing but toys, toys, toys. That is all children think of
nowadays, at Christmas, how many toys they are going to get.’
‘I don’t believe all children have so many toys,’ said Mischief. ‘I
think if you went with Santa Claus you would see some children who had
very little Christmas indeed.’
‘Humph, I don’t,’ answered Merrythought. ‘Think of that sleigh full of
toys, enough for the whole world. And I am tired of toys, I tell you. I
have made only one toy this year that I really like, and that is Lady
Arabella.’
‘Oh, yes, Lady Arabella,’ said Mischief, and walked off without another
word.
* * * * *
Lady Arabella was a big little-girl doll, and Merrythought had made her
for little Princess Maud.
It happened this way. Early in December, Santa Claus had a letter from
Princess Maud’s grandmother in which she said that she would like
Princess Maud to have a big little-girl doll for Christmas this year.
Santa Claus took the letter to Merrythought, his best workman, and
Merrythought sat himself down and made Lady Arabella.
Now Merrythought was so tired of curly hair and lace dresses with satin
bows and pale blue kid shoes to match that he didn’t give Lady Arabella
any of these. He thought to himself, ‘Perhaps Princess Maud is tired
of fancy dresses, too; perhaps she would like a plain comfortable
doll whose clothes she could not spoil no matter how hard she played
with her.’ So he gave Lady Arabella pretty blue eyes and pink cheeks,
to be sure, and two long yellow braids tied with flyaway pink bows.
But he dressed her in neat brown shoes and stockings and in a plain,
though fine, white frock. And over the frock he put a pink-and-white
pinafore that covered her from top to toe, a good, sensible pinafore
that was not in the least like a lace dress with satin bows and pale
blue kid shoes to match. The pinafore had pockets and in one pocket was
a tiny handkerchief and in the other a purse just large enough to hold
a penny. Oh! Merrythought knew how to do things When it came to making
dolls.
Now you might think that Lady Arabella was too plain and sensible for
a Christmas doll. But there was something about her that every one
liked. The toys liked her, the Brownies liked her--you remember that
Merrythought liked her best of all the toys he had made that year--and
Santa Claus felt sure that Princess Maud and her grandmother would be
delighted with her, too.
Now when Mischief left Merrythought he went looking for Lady Arabella,
and he found her seated on the window-sill behind the curtain watching
the reindeer romping in the snow.
Mischief slipped behind the curtain too, and first of all he asked Lady
Arabella if she had heard him talking to Merrythought just now.
Yes, Lady Arabella had heard every single word.
Then Mischief asked a very strange question, indeed.
‘Do you know what a tantrum is, Lady Arabella?’ asked he.
‘No, I never heard of a tantrum,’ said Lady Arabella.
‘Well, a tantrum is this,’ explained Mischief, his face very sober but
his eyes twinkling with fun. ‘You want your own way, and you dance up
and down and scream and cry and sometimes you lie on the floor and
kick. Now, Lady Arabella, do you think you could have a tantrum?’ asked
he.
‘Yes,’ answered Lady Arabella promptly, ‘I am sure that I could.’
‘Then let me whisper in your ear,’ said Mischief.
And when he had finished whispering, he and Lady Arabella laughed and
nodded at one another and laughed again.
They had a secret, and presently you shall know what it was.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve--the busiest moment in the
whole year at Santa Claus’s Snow Palace on the very tip-top of the
North Pole.
[Illustration]
The great sleigh stood in front of the door, the eight tiny reindeer
harnessed and in place before it. In and out of the Palace scurried the
Brownies, packing the sleigh with the toys they had been at work upon
for a long, long year.
Out came the trains, the wagons, the sleds. Nimbletoes sped by with
his arms full of Teddy bears and Jumping Jacks. Sweet-Tooth staggered
along under his load of candy, fifty different kinds. Silvertongue
carried toy cats and dogs, elephants, sheep, and camels, too. Very
gently Kindheart brought out the dolls, tucking them carefully into
warm and comfortable nooks. Mischief dragged down the steps two
rocking-horses at a time, their manes and tails blowing in the frosty
air. Fleetfoot and Merrythought were everywhere at once, tying a
bicycle on the back of the sleigh, pushing in a stray Noah’s Ark,
squeezing a Jack-in-the-Box into place. Little by little the sleigh was
filled. Higher and higher grew the pile of toys. It was more and more
difficult to find a place for each toy now.
Sharpeyes ran about, picking up the last few toys that had been dropped
here and there.
Merrythought stood by the reindeer, rubbing Dasher’s head, patting
Dancer upon his furry nose.
Santa Claus drew on his gloves. It was almost time to start.
Suddenly Mischief, whose face had grown very red, called out, ‘Where is
Lady Arabella? We have forgotten Lady Arabella.’
Every one looked at every one else. It was true, quite true, they had
forgotten Lady Arabella.
Mischief, always as quick as a flash, darted into the Palace, to come
running out again, holding Lady Arabella by the hand.
‘I found her!’ called Mischief. ‘I found her! She was hiding behind the
curtain, on the window-sill. But, look, Santa Claus, she is crying!
Lady Arabella is crying!’
And so it was. Lady Arabella was crying. In spite of her tiny
handkerchief which she pulled from her pinafore pocket, the tears ran
down her pretty pink cheeks and the end of her little tip-tilted nose
was red.
The Brownies stared at Lady Arabella, and Santa Claus stared too. Such
a thing as a crying doll had never happened before. The toys were
always happy and excited on Christmas Eve, looking forward to their new
homes, wherever Santa Claus might leave them.
‘What is the matter, Lady Arabella?’ asked Santa Claus in his kindest
voice. ‘Have you a pain? Are you hungry? What is the matter with you?’
‘I am homesick,’ sobbed Lady Arabella. ‘I am homesick and lonely too. I
don’t want to go riding all aloney-loney-loney. I want Merrythought to
go with me. I do, I do, I do!’
‘But you will not be alone,’ said Santa Claus in surprise. ‘There is a
nice place for you beside Red Jumping Jack. Look and see! He will hold
one hand and the White Polar Bear will hold the other. I am sure you
will not be lonely if only you make up your mind not to cry.’
But Lady Arabella shook her head and danced up and down and cried
louder than before.
‘No, no!’ cried Lady Arabella, shaking her elbows as if she would
like to poke the Red Jumping Jack and the White Polar Bear. ‘I want
Merrythought! I want Merrythought to go with me or else I won’t go at
all.’
Here Lady Arabella threw herself on the ground and kicked with all her
might and main. You could scarcely see her brown shoes and stockings,
Lady Arabella kicked them to and fro so very fast.
A strange way, indeed, for Lady Arabella to act! It didn’t seem at all
like a doll who had been made to live with a little Princess. Surely
such a doll would be on her best behavior every moment of the time.
[Illustration]
But you would have thought it still more strange if you could have seen
Mischief hiding down behind the sleigh. All of the other Brownies were
so sorry for Lady Arabella that they looked quite troubled; one or two
of them looked quite shocked. But Mischief was not troubled at all.
He almost seemed trying not to laugh. He was muttering to himself as
well, and Silvertongue said afterward that he thought he heard him say,
‘Hurrah for you, Lady Arabella! That is a good tantrum. That is one of
the best tantrums I have ever seen.’
Now Santa Claus was like the Brownies. He was troubled to see Lady
Arabella so unhappy. It was growing late, too.
‘Dear me!’ said Santa Claus, rubbing his nose with his great fur glove.
‘Dear me! Little Princess Maud won’t want a doll who has been crying.
Perhaps you had better jump in, Merrythought, and go with us, after
all.’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Merrythought.
His breath was quite taken away at the idea of going round the world
with Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. But he managed to raise Lady
Arabella to her feet and together they quickly climbed into place in
the sleigh.
Mischief tucked the robe round Lady Arabella and patted her hand. Santa
Claus gathered up the reins, he cracked his whip, the Brownies gave
three loud cheers, and the sleigh was off.
Lady Arabella still behaved strangely. She wiped her eyes and smiled
round at Merrythought. She was not at all ashamed of having had a
tantrum, though the Red Jumping Jack and the White Polar Bear gave her
a scornful look. Then she hid her face on Merrythought’s shoulder and
laughed and laughed and laughed. And not until they were well out of
sight of the palace was she able to sit around straight and look about
her as she rode.
Now have you guessed the secret that Lady Arabella and Mischief had
between them? Just think a moment and I am sure you will.
* * * * *
On sped the sleigh over the snow, the moon and the stars glittering
cold and bright in the frosty sky. Snow, snow, still more snow. Then
the forests, dark and piney and sweet-smelling. Now and then a house.
Up, up, up to the roof would go the sleigh, down the chimney Santa
Claus would creep, then back again to his place and off, the reindeer
seeming fairly to fly over the snow. Now a village, now a town.