beautiful eyes shone like stars, and his voice was like sweet music.
"What," he said, "you are the boy who stood in the doorway with a pan of
bread and milk,--part of your own supper,--and called the hungry kitten
to feast? You are the same who tossed a bone to the limping dog and made
him a bed in the stable? You stroked the noses of the ox and the ass and
said gentle things to them, because they were the first friends of the
little Jesus? You set the sheaf of wheat for the snowbirds, and they
lighted upon your hands and shoulders and kissed your lips in gratitude?
You are that boy, friend of God's friends. No wonder that my white dove
flew to you out of the storm. She knew, she knew!"
The Child bent near and kissed Pierre on the cheeks, so that they grew
rosy, and the warm blood went tingling through his little cold limbs.
Sitting up, he said: "Yes, I am that boy who last year was so happy
because he could do these pleasant things. But how do you know, little
Stranger? How did you see?"
"Oh, I know, I saw!" cried the Child, gleefully clapping his hands as a
child will. "I was there. I passed through the village last Christmas
Eve, and I saw it all. But tell me now, how do you come here, dear boy?
Why are you not in that happy home this stormy night, once more making
the Lord's creatures happy?"
Pierre told all to the Child: how his dear father and mother had died
and left him alone in the world; how the home had been sold, and now he
lived in the charity school kept by the good Abbe; how he had learned of
the chance to earn a few pennies by singing on Christmas Day in the
neighboring village church, which lacked a voice among the choir-boys;
how he was on his way thither when the storm had hidden the road, and he
had grown so cold, so cold!
"Then your dove came to me, little Stranger," Pierre concluded. "She
came, and I folded her in my jacket to keep her warm. But, do you know,
it must be that she has kept _me_ warm. Although I could walk no
further, I am not cold at all, nor frightened, and no longer hungry. Sit
close to me, little Stranger. You shall share my jacket, too, and we
will all three warm one another."
The Child laughed again, a low, soft, silvery laugh, like a happy brook
slipping over the pebbles. "I am not cold," he said. "I cannot stay with
you. I must go yonder." And he pointed through the snow.
[Illustration: UNTIL HELP COMES]
"Whither, oh, whither?" cried Pierre eagerly. "Let me go with you. I am
lost; but if you know the way we can go together, hand in hand."
The Child shook his head. "Not so," he said. "I do not follow the path,
and your feet would stumble. I shall find a way without sinking in the
snow. I must go alone. But there is a better way for you. I leave my
dove with you: she will keep you warm until help comes. Farewell, friend
of the Lord's friends." Stooping the Child kissed Pierre once more, upon
the forehead. Then, before the boy saw how he went, he had vanished from
the little nest of snow, without leaving a footprint behind.
Now the dove, clasped close to Pierre's heart, seemed to warm him like a
little fire within; and the Child's kiss on his forehead made him so
happy, but withal so drowsy, that he smiled as he closed his eyes once
more repeating, "'Until help comes.' 'There is a better way' for me."
II
On the side of the mountain, away from the village street, perched the
little hut of Grandfather Viaud. And here, on Christmas Eve, sat the old
man and his wife, looking very sad and lonely. For there was no sound of
childish laughter in the little hut, no patter of small feet, no
whispering of Christmas secrets. The little Viauds had long since grown
up and flown away to build nests of their own in far-off countries. Poor
Josef Viaud and old Bettine were quite alone this Christmas Eve, save
for the Saint Bernard dog who was stretched out before the fire,
covering half the floor with his huge bulk, like a furry rug. He was the
very Prince of dogs, as his name betokened, and he was very good to
Grandfather and Grandmother, who loved him dearly. But on Christmas Eve
even the littlest cottage, crowded with the biggest tenants, seems
lonely unless there are children in the corners.
The Viauds sat silently gazing into the fire, with scarcely a word for
each other, scarcely a caress for faithful Prince. Indeed, the great dog
himself seemed to know that something was lacking, and every once in a
while would lift his head and whine wistfully.
In each of the two small windows burned a row of candles, flickering in
the draught that blew down the great chimney and swept through the
little chamber. And these, with the crackling blaze upon the hearth,
sent queer shadows quivering up the smoky walls.
Grandfather Viaud looked over his shoulder as a great gust blew the
ashes into the room. "Hey!" he cried. "I almost fancied the shadow of
one looking in at the window. Ha, ha! What foolishness! Eh! but it is a
fearsome storm. Pray the good Lord that there may be no poor creatures
wandering on the mountain this night."
"The Lord's birthday, too!" said Grandmother Bettine. "The dear little
Child has a cold way to come. Even He might become confused and be
driven to wander by such a whirl of snow. I am glad that we set the
tapers there, Josef, even though we be so far from the village street
down which they say He passes. How pleasant to think that one might give
light to His blessed feet if they were wandering from the way,--the dear
little Child's feet, so rosy and soft and tender!" And good Grandmother
Viaud dropped a tear upon her knitting; for she remembered many such
little feet that had once pattered about the cottage floor. Prince
lifted his head and seemed to listen, then whined as he had done before.
"You are lonely, old fellow, are you not?" quavered old Josef. "You are
waiting for the children to come back and make it merry, as it used to
be in the old days when you were a pup. Heigho! Those were pleasant
days, but they will never come again, Prince. We are all growing old, we
three together."
"Ah, peace, Josef, peace!" cried old Bettine, wiping her eyes again. "It
is lonely enough and sad enough, God knows, without speaking of it.
What use to sigh for that which cannot be? If the good Lord wished us to
have a comforter in our old age, doubtless He would send us one. He
knows how we have longed and prayed that a child's feet might echo
through our house once more: how we have hoped from year to year that
one of the grandchildren might return to bless us with his little
presence." At this moment Prince jumped to his feet with a low bark, and
stood trembling, with pointed ears.
"What dost thou hear, old dog?" asked the Grandfather carelessly. "There
is naught human abroad this night, I warrant you. All wise folk are
hugging the fire like us. Only those bad spirits of Christmas Eve are
howling about for mischief, they say. Best keep away from the door, old
Prince, lest they nip your toes or bite your nose for spite."
"Hush!" cried the Grandmother, laying her hand upon his arm. "You
forget: there is the Other One abroad. It may be that He--"
She was interrupted by Prince, who ran eagerly to the door and began
sniffing at the latch in great excitement. Then he gave a long, low
howl. At the same moment the latch rattled, and the Viauds distinctly
heard a little voice cry, "Open, open, good people!"
The old couple looked at each other; the cheeks of one flushed, and the
other's paled. At the same moment they rose stiffly from their chairs by
the fire. But Grandmother Bettine was first at the door. She lifted the
latch, the door blew open violently, and with a loud bark Prince dashed
out into the storm.
"What is it? Who is there?" cried Josef Viaud, peering over his wife's
shoulder. But no one answered save the rough storm, which fiercely blew
into the faces of the old couple, whirling and screaming about their
heads. "H'm! It was only a fancy," muttered the old man. "Come in,
Mother. Come, Prince!" and he whistled out into the storm. But the wind
whistled too, drowning his voice, and Prince did not return. "He is
gone!" cried Josef impatiently. "It is some evil spirit's work."
"Nay, Father!" and, as she spoke, the door banged violently in Josef's
face, as if to emphasize the good wife's rebuke. "It was a little child;
I heard it," insisted Bettine, as they staggered back to the fire and
sank weakly into their chairs. "Perhaps it was the Holy Child Himself,
who knows? But why would He not enter? Why, Josef? Oh, I fear we were
not good enough!"
"I only know that we have perhaps lost our good dog. Why did you open
the door, Bettine?" grumbled Josef sleepily.
"Prince is not lost. For what was he bred a snow-dog upon the mountains
if a storm like this be danger to him? He is of the race that rescues,
that finds and is never lost. Mayhap the Holy Child had work for him
this night. Ah, the Little One! If I could but have seen Him for one
moment!" And good Bettine's head nodded drowsily on her chair-back.
Presently the old couple were fast asleep.
Now when they had been dreaming strange things for some time, there came
a scratching at the door, and a loud bark which woke them suddenly.
"What was that?" exclaimed Grandfather, starting nervously. "Ho, Prince!
Are you without there?" and he ran to the door, while Grandmother was
still rubbing from her eyes the happy dream which had made them
moist,--the dream of a rosy, radiant Child who was to be the care and
comfort of a lonely cottage. And then, before she had fairly wakened
from the dream, Prince bounded into the room and laid before the fire at
her feet a soft, snow-wrapped bundle, from which hung a pale little face
with golden hair.
"It is the Child of my dream!" cried Bettine. "The Holy One has come
back to us."
"Nay, this is no dream-child, mother. This is a little human fellow,
nearly frozen to death," exclaimed Josef Viaud, pulling the bundle
toward the fire. "Come, Bettine, let us take off his snow-stiff clothes
and get some little garments from the chests yonder. I will give him a
draught of something warm, and rub the life into his poor little hands
and feet. We have both been dreaming, it seems. But certainly this is no
dream!"
"Look! The dove!" cried Grandmother, taking the bird from the child's
bosom, where it still nestled, warm and warming. "Josef! I believe it is
indeed the Holy Child Himself," she whispered. "He bears a dove in his
bosom, like the image in the Church." But even as she spoke the dove
fluttered in her fingers, then, with a gentle "Coo-roo!" whirled once
about the little chamber and darted out at the door, which they had
forgotten quite to close. With that the child opened his eyes.
"The dove is gone!" he cried. "Yet I am warm. Why--has the little
Stranger come once more?" Then he saw the kind old faces bent over him,
and felt Prince's warm kisses on his hands and cheeks, with the fire
flickering pleasantly beyond.
"It is like coming home again!" he murmured, and with his head on
Bettine's shoulder dropped comfortably to sleep.
* * * * *
On the morrow all the village went to see the image of the Christ Child
lying in a manger near the high altar of the church. It was a sweet
little Child in a white shirt, clasping in his hands a dove. They
believed him to have come in the stormy night down the village street.
And they were glad that their pious candles in the windows had guided
Him safely on the road. But little Pierre, while he sang in the choir,
and his adopted parents, the Viauds, kneeling happily below, had sweet
thoughts of a dream which had brought them all together.
Who knows but that Prince at home happily guarding Pierre's snow-wet old
shoes--who knows but that Prince was dreaming the happiest dream of all?
For only Prince knew how and where and under what guidance he had found
the little friend of the Lord's friends sleeping in the snow, with but a
white dove in his bosom to keep him from becoming a boy of ice.
THE MERMAID'S CHILD
IN the rocks on the seashore, left bare by the tide, one often finds
tiny pools of water fringed with seaweed and padded with curious moss.
These are the cradles which the Mermaids have trimmed prettily for the
sea-babies, and where they leave the little ones when they have to go
away on other business, as Mermaids do. But one never spies the
sea-children in their cradles, for they are taught to tumble out and
slip away into the sea if a human step should approach. You see, the
fishes have told the Mer-folk cruel tales of the Land-people with their
nets and hooks and lines.
In the softest, prettiest little cradle of all a Sea-child lay one
afternoon crying to himself. He cried because he was lonesome. His
mother did not love him as a baby's mother should; for she was the
silliest and the vainest of all the Mermaids. Her best friend was her
looking-glass of polished pearl, and her only care was to remain young
and girlish. Indeed, she bore her thousand-odd years well, even for a
Mermaid. She liked the Sea-baby well enough, but she was ashamed to have
him follow her about as he loved to do, because she imagined it made her
seem old to be called "Mer-mother" by his lisping lips. She never had
time to caress or play with him; and finally she forbade him ever to
speak to her unless she spoke first. Sometimes she seemed to forget him
altogether, as she left him to take care of himself, while she sat on
the rocks combing her long green hair, or playing with the giddy Mermen
in the caves below the sea.
So while the other sea-people sported or slept and were happy, her poor
little Sea-child lay and cried in the green pool where the sea-anemones
tickled his cheek with their soft fingers, seeking to make him laugh,
and the sea-fringe curled about the scaly little tail which, like a
fish, he had in place of legs. On this particular afternoon he was
particularly lonesome.
"Ahoo!" he sobbed. "I am so unhappy! Ahoo! I want some one to love me
very much!"
Now a kind old Stork was sitting on a rock above the baby's head,
preening his feathers in a looking-glass pool. He heard the Sea-child's
words, and he spoke in his kind, gruff voice.
"What is the matter, little one?" he asked.
At first the Sea-child was surprised to be addressed by a land bird. But
he soon saw that this creature was friendly, and told him all his
trouble, as babies do. "Tut tut!" said the Stork, frowning. "Your
Mer-mother needs a lesson sadly."
"What is a lesson?" lisped the Sea-child.
But the Stork was busy thinking and did not reply at once. "How would
you like a change?" he asked after a time.
"What is a change?" asked the baby, for he was very young and ignorant.
"You shall see," answered the Stork, "if you will take my advice; for I
am your friend. Now listen. When next you hear a step upon the rocks do
not stir from your cradle, but wait and see what will happen." Without
another word the Stork flapped away, leaving the baby to stare up at the
blue sky with the tears still wet upon his cheeks, wondering what the
Stork could have meant.
"I will not stir," he said to himself. "Whatever happens I will wait and
see."
It was the Stork's business to bring babies to the homes where babies
were needed; and sometimes it was very hard to find babies enough. Even
now he knew of a house upon the hill where a boy was longing for a
little brother to play with. Every night Gil mentioned the matter in his
prayers; every night he begged the Stork to bring him a playmate. But
though the Stork had hunted far and wide through all the land he could
not find a human baby to spare for the cottage on the hill. Now he had a
happy idea.
With his long legs dangling he flew swiftly up towards the hill; and
halfway there he met the boy wandering about sulkily all alone. The
Stork had never before spoken to this boy, because he well knew what Gil
wanted, and he hated to be teased for what he could not give. So,
though he had listened sadly to the boy's prayers, by day he had kept
carefully out of sight. But now he came close overhead, and settling
down stood upon one leg directly in Gil's path.
"Good-afternoon," he said. "I think I have heard you say that you wanted
a little brother."
Gil was surprised to have a Stork address him like this, but he was
still more pleased at the happy word. "I do! Oh, I do indeed!" he cried.
"Would you make a good brother to him?" asked the Stork.
"Oh yes!" answered the boy eagerly. "A very good brother I should be."
"H'm," said the Stork. "One never can tell about these boys. I think you
are selfish and jealous. But a little brother may be a good thing for
you. In any case, there is little for him to lose. Will you be so good
as to come with me?"
Without another word the Stork flew up and away toward the beach,
leaving Gil staring. This certainly was a most extraordinary bird! But
Gil soon decided to follow him and see what would happen, for who could
tell what the Stork's mysterious words might mean?
Presently, lying in his little cradle, the Sea-child heard the sound of
feet scrambling up the rocks,--the sound he had been taught to fear more
than anything in the world. It was his first thought to flop out of the
cradle, over into the sea below; and he half turned to do so. But in a
moment he remembered the Stork's last words, and although he was
trembling with fear he remained where he was.
Soon over the top of the rock peered the face of the boy, Gil of the
hill cottage, looking straight down into the pool where the Sea-baby lay
snugly on the seaweed.
"Oh!" cried the boy, with round black eyes fixed upon the baby's round
blue ones. "Oh!" cried the Sea-child. And it would be hard to say which
of the two was more astonished. For to a Sea-child the sight of a
clothed, two-legged land-boy is quite as strange as a naked little
fish-tailed infant is to a human. But after the first look neither felt
afraid, in spite of the terrible tales which each had heard of the
other's kind. They stared wistfully at each other, not knowing what to
do next, until the Stork came forward and spoke wise words.
"You, land-boy Gil," he said, "you want a little brother, do you not?"
Gil nodded. "And you, Sea-child, want some one to love you? I think I
can manage to please you both. But first you must kiss each other."
Gil hesitated. He was a big boy of five or six, too old for kissing.
Moreover the Sea-child looked cold and wet and somewhat fishy. But
already the red lips of the little fellow were pouted into a round O,
and the sad blue eyes were looking up at him so pleadingly that Gil bent
low over the watery cradle. Then two little soft arms went about his
neck, and Gil felt the heart of the Sea-child thump happily against his
own.
"Very good," said the Stork approvingly.
The Sea-child could not stand, on account of having no feet, but he lay
in his pool holding Gil's hand.
"Now the change is coming," went on the Stork, and as he spoke the baby
began to fall asleep. "In twelve hours," he said to Gil, "he will become
a tiny human child, and I shall carry him to the house on the hill,
where he will find a loving family awaiting him. Look! Already he is
losing the uniform of the sea," and he pointed at the Sea-child's fishy
tail. Sure enough, the scales were falling away one by one, and already
the shape of two little chubby legs could be seen under the skin, which
was shrinking as a tadpole's does before he becomes a frog. "When this
tail is wholly gone," declared the Stork, "he will forget what we have
said to-night. He will forget his sea-home and the caves of the
Mer-people. He will forget that he was once a Sea-child; and no one will
ever remind him. For only you, Gil, and I shall know the secret."
"And I shall never tell," declared Gil.
"No, surely you will never tell," answered the Stork gravely, "for if
you tell that will be the end of all. You will lose the little brother,
and you will be sorry all the rest of your life. Do not forget, Gil. Do
not forget."
"I shall not forget," said Gil.
Again they looked at the Sea-child, and he had fallen sound asleep,
still holding Gil's hand. Now there was scarcely anything of the fish
left about his little pink body; he was growing younger and younger,
smaller and smaller.
"You must go home now, Gil," said the Stork. "Go home and go to bed. And
to-morrow when you wake there will be a little brother in the house, and
you ought to be a very good boy because you have your wish."
Gil gently loosened the Sea-child's hand and ran home as the Stork bade
him, but said no word of all this to any one.
Now early in the morning the Stork came to the house on the hill,
bringing a rosy little new baby which he laid on the bed beside Gil's
mother, and then flew away. What a hullabaloo there was then, to be
sure! What a welcome for the little stranger! Gil was not the only one
who had longed for a new baby in the house, and this was the prettiest
little fellow ever seen. Loudest of all cheered Gil when he saw the
present which the Stork had brought. "Hurrah for my little new brother!"
he cried. "Now I shall have some one to play with." That was Gil's chief
thought: now he would have some one to play with.
They called the baby's name Jan. And from the first little Jan was very
happy in his new home. He was happy all day in his mother's arms; happy
when his foster-father came home at night and tossed him high to the
ceiling; happiest of all when Gil held him close and begged him to hurry
and grow up, so that they could play together.
Little Jan did hurry to grow up, as fast as health and strength and
happiness could make a baby grow. He grew bigger and bigger, handsomer
and handsomer, the finest baby in the village, and his family loved him
dearly. Every day he became more of a playmate for Gil, whom he admired
more than any one in the world. Gil petted and teased the little fellow,
who, as soon as he could walk, began to follow him about like a faithful
dog. Grand times the brothers had together then. They dug in the sand on
the seashore, and scrambled about the cliffs. They rowed out in the
harbor boats with hooks and lines, and played at being fishermen like
their father, who sailed away early and came home late. They grew bigger
and sturdier and handsomer, and their parents were very proud of them
both, the finest lads in all the country round.
The years went by, and during all this time Jan never dreamed the truth
which only Gil and the Stork knew about the bargain made at the sea-pool
cradle. To Jan, indeed, the sea was full of strange thoughts which were
not memories but were like them. He loved to look and listen alone upon
the water, or in the water, or by the water. Gil often caught him
staring down into the blue waves, and when he raised his head there
would be a puzzled look in the little fellow's blue eyes, as though he
were trying to solve a riddle. Then Gil would laugh; whereat the wrinkle
would smooth itself from Jan's forehead, and a smile would come about
his mouth. He would throw his arm about his brother's shoulder,
saying,--
"What strange thing is it, brother, that the old sea does to me? I think
sometimes that I am bewitched." But Gil would only laugh again, thinking
his own thoughts. It gave him a pleasant important feeling to know that
he was the keeper of Jan's secret.
Meantime what had become of the Sea-baby's forgotten mother? What was
the pretty Mermaid doing in her home under the waves? She was learning
the lesson which the Stork had meant to teach.
At first she had not greatly missed the Sea-baby, having other things to
interest her in the lovely world where she lived. But as the sea-days
went by she began to find the grotto which had been their pretty home a
very lonely place indeed. She missed the little fellow playing with the
shells and starfish on the floor of shining sand. She longed to see him
teasing the crabs in the crevices of the rocks, or tickling the
sea-anemones to make them draw in their waving fingers. She missed the
round blue eyes which used to look at her so admiringly, and the little
hands which had once wearied her with their caresses. She even missed
the mischievous tricks which the baby sometimes used to play upon his
mother, and she would have been glad once more to see him running away
with her pearly mirror, or with the golden comb with which she combed
her long green hair.